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Just...

In the words of John Wooden...

"It's what you learn after you know everything that counts."

Anger is an Ugly Thing

I am committed to living happy. To surviving the wish I made at seven of growing up to be happy. A simple wish. But life has a way to fuck you when you least expect it. I don’t know about you but I have a real hard time living with my feet in two different places. I just don’t function well, being of two minds. So when I work my version of the “the program” to be happy and someone commits an act so vile that it shakes you the core of your being- it’s hard to be happy.

Yes I have left a message for my therapist. Whose super secret personal line, the one it has taken me over ten years to finally get access to, has an out going message that says she will return the call “in a few days.” This is supposed to be my Bat-line. The one I call when I’m going down and going down fast- and her message to me and every other caller already has a disclaimer? Now I can add her to my list of wrongs. I’m angry and it’s ugly.

Sometimes a hoe is just a hoe

I’ve never had a garden. Sure I’ve bought potted plants and flowers, and organized them in some garden-like fashion, but I have never dug up dirt or put anything in it. I guess one could say I don’t like to get my hands dirty. I even eat chicken with a fork and knife, and to this day will not change a poopy diaper unless absolutely necessary.

Anyway, I was looking at the patch of grass we call a backyard and thought it was a good time to do something with it. So just like that I went to the Home Depot with the boys- because I thought it would be a good experience for them to learn that we have the ability to make something out of nothing (ain’t that the truth) or at least very little. They had no interest in the gardening department - picking seeds was a chore for us all. But when we got to the tools department, my goodness, it was like they had reached Valhalla. They knew instinctively what every thing could be used for… namely a weapon to inflict pain or death, or create a bigger vehicle for mass destruction. Somehow somewhere between picking seeds and flowers to plant and looking for a hoe my sweet innocent boys became ax wielding warmongers. Thank God their sister was not with us, as surely they would have “pretended” to torture her.

After strategically placing the shopping cart in the very center of the aisle where no five year old’s hand could reach makeshift machete, I stood there looking at all this stuff. Boy Stuff. How far we’ve come since sticks and stones. There are fancy things like electric screwdrivers because in the 21st century it’s just SO SO hard to “lefty loosie, rightie tightie”. It must be because of the all those Blackberry thumb injuries. But my favorite, and I admit I bought it, was the laser guided, self-sticking leveler. As Bob Vila is my witness, no picture in my house will ever be askew again! Sadly I get distracted easily, by shiny objects that promise to make my life simpler but require batteries…

Eventually I found the hoes. Did you know that there are almost a dozen types of hoes? The boys just wanted the biggest long one that could lay on the ground unnoticed then like a cartoon character on those retro networks, and someone could step on it and “BOING!” They all looked the same, and could pretty much do the same job just fine. But then if you liken them to the right pair of brown shoes, it’s a completely different story. To most men brown is brown and a high heeled shoe is a shoe with a high heel. But to us ladies, there is an entire world between chocolate brown and tawny café, and a high heel strappy sandal is not a high heel pump. This is why I stopped wearing any and all brown in 1998. Honest. Although I see color all around me I prefer to live in black and red. Simple.

Finally, the boys just wore me down, and I picked the one that was the same color of the gardening gloves and hat I had picked out, after all there was sowing to be done.

Can you guess the color?

Still Funny...

I have to say that this makes me laugh every time I see it. It's just wrong to video tape your kids on drugs and then put them up on youtube for people like to me to enjoy.

Food for Thought

Detox Day 6 (although I had a glass of wine last night... so really I am doing 5 over). But I came across this and thought I'd share. 

By the way Detox definitely sucks!

Food for Thought | Movies & TV | SPIKE.com

Buddha Schmuddha

I am reading “If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him!” by Sheldon B. Kopp, and it’s really speaking to me. It is about the pilgrimage a patient makes through psychotherapy. The grain of the book, which is told through classic epic stories, is that the answer lies within and that once the patient accepts disappointment, he will finally be free to live a life without the need to seek the word of the Guru. You see I’ve been in therapy since I was 15; without admitting my age I can tell you it’s been a long time.

In my lifetime I’ve had four therapists in three different cities. They each have had different approaches, but basically have all had the same message- at least from where I sit. Whatever is wrong with you, you can trace back to your mother. While this may be true for many people, myself included, it is incredibly alarming, because we all have mothers. Every one of us can actually blame and might get away with displacing any responsibility on what is wrong with us by pointing at our mother. It’s a “get out of jail free” card. What’s even more alarming is that a lot of us in therapy actually are mothers! I mean what were we thinking? Are we continuing the cycle? Of course we love our children and are doing the very best by them. But sooner or later a therapist or self-help book will come along and say “You could have had a better life… You could have won the Nobel Prize… You could have been happy… were it not for your mother.” Gasp!

So we may damn them, the mothers (who now turn out to be excellent grandmothers, by the way) and wonder… “Who is that person in those shoes? That can’t possibly ‘my’ mother? I mean my mother would never be caught dead playing in the sandbox letting a child bury her to her neck in public sand that’s been peed, pooped and spat on?” The horror. The mind reels.

I am a mother, and I try really hard to be the best I can be. And I know I don’t always succeed. But I try. Like I hope my mother did. I know that no matter how much I sacrifice and do on their behalf, one day or two, I will let them down in a way I cannot foresee today or predict tomorrow. But I still try. It is what we do- mothers. It is the most rewarding, painful and sometimes thankless job. But it is also the best job in the world. Because we get to craft these little people who hopefully will do more good than bad, and make the world a better place than they’ll find it. They carry in their little souls the hope that life sometimes extinguishes in adults. They imagine the possibilities and want to be heroes and princesses and knights and divas. They dream while we sleep. Along the way they figure out we don’t know it all and in fact sometimes we are making it up as we go. I pray my children have more patience with me than I had with my parents. I pray I am forgiven for all that I did and all I did not know to do. I pray I meet the Buddha on the way.

Love on Drugs?

Is love better intoxicated? A friend of mine said that she thought her husband was funnier today because she was Valium. She had just had a procedure and was enjoying the benefits of the relaxer for the first time. But it did bring the thought to mind- Are beer goggles necessary every once in a while to spice up a relationship? Granted there are times in our lives we enjoy the occasional drink to relax and then there are times when we need the drink to get through the day. But I must I admit that sometimes the occasional drink suddenly introduces a new facet of my spouse I had not seen before and that can be quite sexy.

Alcohol is a funny companion to sex as it’s really a depressant but then I’ve seen some people do some pretty bold things drunk they would never have never done sober. I remember one Mardi Gras in New Orleans where a friend I've known since I was five went absolutely bonkers for beads after chugging boilermakers. The pictures are out there… which is probably why she probably won’t audition to be a reality show contestant any time soon. She is now a respectable wife and mother but say boilermaker and she turns beet red. 

The question remains: Can one too many make you fall in love anew?

Happy is Hard

It’s hard to stay the course and true North when a Category 5 hurricane hits home! Let’s call it Mother. I’m bobbing and weaving, bobbing and weaving. Avoiding landmines in the living room and booby traps at the dinner table… And as if that weren’t hard enough, I started a whole body detox? Stupid stupid stupid! The first day was a brute. I am craving Mexican Coca Cola – you know the one with real sugar. I smell bread baking even at the gas station. Last night I dreamt I was stuck in a Cadbury Egg and had to eat my way out of the yummy creamy center and then karate kick the milk chocolate shell to escape. I am woozy, sluggish and foggy. I am told this will only last a couple of days and that I should not make any major decision during this time… Gee I wonder why? Also I am grouchy and grumpy and HUNGRY! I am drinking plenty so I am not actually hungry- but I want to bite into something. Thank God I’m not in Vegas near a hundred All-You-Can-Eat buffets. Right now I’m working in my office and smell bar-b-que ribs and feel the need to give up all my possessions and follow Shane Claiborne in The Simple Way. He lives in Philadelphia and is pretty awesome. The Simple Way is that the road to Happy? I would give up everything; except for my kids, by birds and my love, and my iPhone, and my “baby pillow”, oh and my clogs. But that’s it, everything else would go. Is that Surviving Happy?

Wait wait! No major decisions. These are the toxins talking. Lets circle back after the detox thing maybe it will actually clear my mind and I might actually see the world through rhinestone framed, rose colored glasses. Stranger things have happened- think of the Chupacabra… 

Shane's Short Intro from The Simple Way on Vimeo.

I Keep Score

I keep score. I hate math but keep count on things- nothing important like spending or God forbid a budget.  But things like how many good days vs. bad. How many times I have said I love you today vs. heard it. Ounces of water vs. ounces of Coke. How many times my daughter has referred to herself in third person as "the princess" vs. her brother calling her "the girl".  Sex vs. No Sex. You get it.  I have a running count daily until I get to 100 and then I figure out the percentages... Life is good if the count is in the 90's and not if less. It's stupid I know. And worst I can't remember when it started or why but these are the numbers by which I live. A barometer of sorts. OCD perhaps. Balance hopefully.

Sometimes this seemingly happy meter bites me in the ass, because I get so stressed out about making my numbers that it becomes an olympic sport and pisses all those around me- especially my beloved. So in taking my baby steps towards actually surviving happy- as of today I will no longer see it as a sign that my marriage is coming to an end because "someone" didn't put toothpaste on my toothbrush two nights in a row and fell asleep before I turned off the light for the third time this week.

It's not the end of the world, right? We have been through richer and poorer and sickness and health. I can do this. But if there is no toothpaste tomorrow we may have to have a chat.

Just Plain Wrong and Sick, but Funny... if you're twisted

I have to admit I laughed and then felt guilty, but then laughed again. Mr Happy strikes again.

Validation

A short film on what we need every day... thank you Hugh Newman.

Friends in High Places

Today is one of those days when the idea of Happy seems absolutely insane to conceive let alone survive. I think it's time to call Johnny, Jack, Jim and Jose! Top shelf all the way.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Lost Generation

Thank you Jalapeno for this suggestion.

Pathetic Apathy No More

If you think about it hate is as strong an emotion as love. Some say stronger and certainly more deadly. But, few speak of apathy with any fervor. And yet apathy is much more dangerous. Just think of how much of the world has stood apathetically by and done little if anything, on behalf of the people Somalia or the children of Appalachia. And think how long The Holocaust went on before major countries got involved to do something about it. I'd like to think that our own interests aren't always involved for us to do something just and right. As Michael Jackson said after Gandhi said it after he heard it through the grapevine: be the change you wish to see in world.  

So today… (Yes only today- as I have a problem committing to things without seeing any benefit to me) I will do something completely altruistic. I will do something that I can do all day long and not really have to put much effort into it yet have it benefit someone else. A stranger. No wait, many strangers. I will do something for strangers unknown to me yet needing something from me… but what is it? What am I qualified to do? Nothing really- but we are not focusing on me right now. Today is about The Others! Those who are not me… hmm this is more difficult than I thought. Perhaps I should have thought this out before I started writing in traffic, on the iPhone while driving my son to school…What can I do? What can one person do?  

I got it!  

Larry and Froggie

Six months after the Bandit incident. This picture was taken by the vet staff.

Old Bird New Tricks

I have this wonderful pocket parrot I rescued about ten years ago. He is tiny, and weighs less than an ounce- 28 grams to be exact. He’s smaller than a Lovebird, or parakeet. Smaller than a salt shaker but bigger than a hummingbird. I love birds. And anyone who knows me knows that if Barbara Walters ever asked me if I were a tree what tree would I be? I‘d answer “who gives a fig about a tree I want to be a bird.” I mean if I had to pick between a tree and a bird that is. I’ve read that book The Giving Tree and it doesn’t go so well for that tree. It gives and gives and at the end it gets chopped down. Still that’s not enough. The end of the book is that ungrateful kid as an old man sitting his tired selfish ass on that poor tree stump. No thank you I’d rather be bird and poop on that bastard.

I digress.

Larry has had a hard life. He came to me as a rescue after he was found half dead in the gutter of Santa Monica Blvd being attacked by two crows. Dr Lavac (our vet) worked on him but could only save one leg. When I first saw him he was the saddest looking bird I had ever seen. I named him Lucky Larry. You know because he was lucky to be alive. But he had no feathers except on his head and few on his tiny wings. Because of this he couldn’t regulate his temperature so we bought him a Ken doll sweater and cut the sleeves so it was more of a vest and a green beanie baby frog to sleep with. He adapted well to our family and slept within the arms of that frog in a fish tank (without water of course) for about a year. Until he finally grew enough down feathers where could live in a proper handicap accessible bird cage which we opened up so he could interact with our other pocket parrots Louie and Lola. All along that little bird was the most loving of our birds. He didn’t talk but when we called his name or asked where he was, he always chirped back. And he’d fly down on our shoulder and hide under our hair preening us as if we too were birds.

One day I got another call from the vet. They had a much larger wild conure that had been shot down while flying with his flock by some kids with a BB gun. He’d lost part of his skull and a wing so would never be able to be released into wild again. Bandit was his name. He moved in and immediately fancied Larry’s frog and every so often we’d see him hanging on the outside of Larry’s cage preening the frog through the bars on the cage. Until one afternoon I got home from work and the house was silent. I mean really silent. I went up to the loft, which was the birds’ den and lost my breath at the site. There was birdie blood everywhere on the wall, the carpet, and the loveseat. But the strangest thing of all was that although all the cages were open all the birds but Larry were in their cages… the green frog was on the floor with blood on its body and Larry next to it, bleeding. I picked him up immediately and wrapped him in towel and headed to the vet. I drove with him in my shirt making sure to keep him warm. At a red light I finally looked down at his face. He had no beak! I had been so worried about the blood and getting him help I hadn’t thought to find out what was actually making him bleed. Oh my god, I thought, there is a carnivorous bird in my home. Bandit must have bitten it off. My mind reeled. Bandit, a bird; a decedent of the dinosaurs; a little T-Rex alone right now in my house with two smaller pellet eating, seed loving, vegan pocket parrots right there in the wolf’s den, or in our case loft. 

Practice Practice Practice

I have this next door neighbor who is lovely during the day albeit a little odd. She takes her Russian tortoise for walks. She moved in a few months ago and two days after she arrived gave us large family size inflatable pool. What do you say to a gift like that from a stranger who is now your neighbor? “Thank you” of course. A week later she complained that our central air unit was too loud and it was keeping her up at night. The following day she came over with the turtle and confessed to having a tumor in her head. Now she didn’t say brain tumor. But again what does one say to that? “Sorry” of course. Our two houses are connected at the roof, and a six feet long stretch of brick wall. A week later a work crew arrives and begins to move our A/C unit from the roof down to my yard. This she neglected to talk to us about. The funny thing is that the equipment was placed under her living room window, which looks on to my yard. What does one say to that? “Ha!” of course.

But the really annoying thing about this woman is that she hammers ALL THE TIME. I mean in the morning, in the evening in the middle of the night. We have called patrol. They have given her warnings. One night when my mother was visiting from Miami she was sleeping downstairs on the pull-out and the neighbor started her hammering at 1am. The next thing I hear is, our front door open and my mother talking to herself in Spanish stomping next door. I don’t stop her I watch from the upstairs window. Finally I think my mother will take care of this. But there are no heads rolling, nothing explodes and it looks quite civil from where I stand. They talk for about five minutes and that’s it. However she didn’t hammer for a few days.

The months have passed and she still hammers. We call patrol and they tell her to stop and then she does. But two nights ago I took matters into my own hands. She began hammering at 1:45am and I had just had it. I put on my red crocs and stormed over there in my green robe and monkey pajamas and banged on her door with the fury of 100 sleepless nights. She called out “Lu? Is that you?” in a timid voice from behind the door. “Stop the hammering! What hell are you doing in there that you have to hammer all the freakin’ time?! Are you a giant woodpecker?” 

The Glass

It is half empty? Or half full? I have no freaking clue. I am staring at a glass of water right now (I’m trying to drink less soda). I go from “it’s half empty” to “no it’s half full.” Truth is that I am a “half empty” person who wants desperately to be a “half full” person. Sure I can decide (and I do sometimes) that it is half full and that’s that. Just like that. I have decided and therefore it will be so. But it’s not. Not deep inside. Deep in my dark places where truth reins, I know that I truly don’t believe it. I can put on that pink t-shirt and sunny disposition but it’s a lie. And therefore it’s impossible for me to live it. ARGH!

The waitress has come and filled my glass. Now it’s full because someone else has added to my half empty glass. Clearly if I were home I could have filled my own glass. But would I have done it? I guess if I was thirsty enough. Enough. But it does bring up an interesting thought: For us glass half empty people, are we only capable of feeling full if someone else has filled the rest of our glass?

I’m married to a glass half full person and it’s infuriating sometimes. But thank goodness it's so, because without that there would never be any water at my house. I do understand that for me to really be happy I have to do it for myself and that is a very scary thought. Don’t get me wrong- I love my life. Well now that just sounds trite as I sit here musing about happy. My life is not the problem. In fact I have a pretty charmed life. My family and I are healthy. I love and am well loved. So what the F do I have to complain about? Life is good. The problem is me. Crap.

Today I’m choosing to “look on the bright side of life.”

Inventory

I started thinking last night about my life inventory. And really it's all relative. The pros and cons of life's inventory. The good the bad and the ugly of what we have and what we don't. What we want and what we need are often two different things. Sometimes extreme ends of a spectrum. So the hope is that every day we bring these two ends closer together. Little by little, bit by bit. Until we make ends meet.

My best friend says "life is 10% what happens to you and 90% what you do about it." So today I'm choosing to do something about the proverbial "it."

Last week while taking my children to the mountains for some sledding I fell on my ass, hard. I slid about thirty feet down a bumpy icy slope on my tailbone without use of my hands, as I was protecting my two year old boy in my arms. The pain was excruciating, but he was fine, and we had driven two hours to have fun. So doggoneit we were going to have fun. Never you mind that the kids were miserable in their snow gear. Forget that they were hungry and nap time was approaching. There were cute pictures to take because we were "making memories."

The twins cried pretty much the entire time they were there, and I really wanted to cry from hearing their crying. I felt the stares of other mothers and read imaginary bubbles over their heads saying things like: "That is a bad mother." "Can't she tell those kids are miserable?" "Why is that little girl dressed like a pink Easter Peep. No wonder she's wailing." "And she's taking pictures?!"

At the end of a long miserable hour, we sat at the bottom of the slope exhausted from just being there. My big boy slid down on his new snow boogie only a couple of times and decided it was more fun to sword fight a defenseless melting snowman. My little boy stripped off his hat, mittens, boots and was working on his pants in revolt. Finally my little girl took my face in her snot filled mittens and demanded: "Mommy car NOW."

I fear more than memories I may have scarred my kids. What if they grow up fearing snow but not remembering why?We made our way slowly up the icy slope to the car and as we reached the top, my little boy literally threw his snow boot down the hill with a "take that you stupid hill" look on his face.

I seriously considered leaving the damn boot there. I thought about it all the way to the car. I thought about it some more as I changed diapers and stripped the kids down to dry comfy driving clothes. I talked myself through scenarios that included a littering citation while I gave them their lunch and sippy cups of milk. And then just as I was about to disrobe down to my comfy clothes... I could not do it. I could not leave that blue hand-me-down-from-cousins-in-Reno snow boot at the bottom of the hill all by itself. Alone. Without its mate. Left behind by some family who was just overwhelmed and way over their heads coming to the snow, when the mother is from Miami and shouldn't even be allowed to drive on mountain roads. So I left the kids in the warmth and safety of the car with the babysitter and set out to get that size 9 boot. Leaving it behind would've been almost like defeat. Almost.
 
I got back to the top of the hill and on my first step down my feet went out from under me and down I went again, but this time somehow dragging my right leg behind me. Until I hit a broken tree trunk with my shin. OUCH doesn't even begin to describe the pain. I suddenly felt queasy from the pain and started to feel faint when I was hit by an errant ice ball in the chest. A wake up call if you will. And I will. So I "cowgirled up," as my Reno brother-in-law would say, got the freaking boot and literally clawed my way up the freaking hill. By the time I got back to the car the kids were asleep in their seats looking so cute I wanted to wake them and hug them. Instead I took a mental picture.

Diagnosis: Fractured tailbone. Fractured tibia.


Lesson?

Learn to let go. Bought red-rubber-donut.

Resolution Evolution Revolution

It’s the first Monday of a new year and a new decade. So naturally it’s a fitting time to start anew. Or in my case finally live up to the mission I set out to complete on my seventh birthday when my grandfather asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Happy.

Simply and purely answered with the heart and innocence of a child who clearly had no idea.

So today I start this journey and hopefully you along with me. I have no idea where this is going or if like countless other resolutions I will leave it behind by lunchtime tomorrow. But I’ve gone so far as to register here so I’m committed… today. Needing a “map” so to know where I’m going and what I’m looking for - I looked in the dictionary and below is what I found:



ha•ppy –adjective, -pi⋅er, -pi⋅est.

1. Delighted, pleased, or glad as over a particular thing: to be happy to see a person.

2. Chareacterized by or indicative of pleasure, contentment, or joy: happy mood; a happy frame of mind.

3. Favored by fortune; fortunate or lucky: happy, fruitful land.

4. Apt or felicitous, as actions, utterances, or ideas.

5. Obsessed by or quick to use the item indicated (usually used in combination): a trigger-happy gangster. Everybody is gardget-happy these days.

Origin: 1300–50

Synonyms:

1. joyous, joyful, blithe, cheerful, merry, contented, gay, blissful, satisfied. 3. favorable, propitious; successful, prosperous. 4. appropriate, fitting, opportune, pertinent. 5. fortunate.

Antonyms:

1. sad.

Based on the Random House Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2009.


Hmmm.

This all sounds like a tall order. I better take inventory here at the beginning and see where I stand. [sigh]