Good Riddance: The 2020 Farewell

Well, this has been a year none of us wants to repeat.  Illness, loss, suffering, isolation, confusion and death have forever marred this year in our hearts and minds.  We have grieved missed events, neglected milestones, and suspended family gatherings.  We have gone months without seeing people we care about – family members, church members, friends.  Some, we will never see again and our hearts break when we think of the year that took them from us. 

The scariest thing is that it’s not over yet.  One virus decimates our bodies while another decimates our nation.  One is thus far incurable; the other completely preventable.  I will say only one thing on the political front: Can we all please act our age and recognize that our personal opinions are not the only ones that exist?  I mean, really.  Don’t make me use my mom voice.   

But this post is not about the crap we’ve all experienced this year and the hardship that may still be to come.  This is about a look back on the weird and the wonky, the mysterious and the mundane, the little moments that I will want to remember when I am old and drooling into my jello.   

So, in keeping with tradition, although this one is several days late, I present the 9^th annual year in pictorial review.  Here’s how 2020 looked from the inside of my heart and home. 

January

This is the year I’ve tried to learn to paint instead of just winging it.  However, this picture is totally winged.  For over a year I had been mulling an image over in my head, trying to illustrate a combination of my Texas roots and my Louisiana upbringing.  This is the end result. It’s the first time something I’ve created has looked as good in reality as it did in my head.   

February

Continuing the painting theme, and because there are so few other pics to choose from this month, I finally filled my living room wall with something Dom likes.  The center tree pic is currently being re-created so that it will no longer look like a Kindergartener drew it.  Wish me luck. 

March

Dom and I were each sent from our respective employers to work at home during the state stay-at-home orders.  Dom took the home office for his workspace and I converted my craft room into my “office.”  I may have gotten the printer, but I dare say he got the nicer digs. 

April

Because when you’ve been quarantined for a month together, every day should end with a pristine Irish Coffee. 

May

The month Vic would have graduated (the actual ceremony was postponed until August).  She and Bella executed her Senior pictures instead. 

June

Just what everyone needs… a technological gadget harassing us into exercising.  I learned that Siri does not understand the reply, “Bite me.”

July

Here it is: the annual weirdo picture. I was slicing tomatoes to roast and this slice ended up looking like lips. Ha!

August

One evening on the way to dinner Dom said, “I want to stop into this dealership and look at a truck real quick.  It won’t take long.  I just want to look.”  Three hours later, we finally made it to dinner.  In his new truck. 

September

A rare picture of Max and Mabel together, sitting still and generally looking toward the camera.  Sweet puppies.   

October

Max is not supposed to beg at my table, but he does it anyway. Who can really resist that face?

November

A much scaled-down Thanksgiving gathering, just us and John and Kasie’s crew.  It was not the same without the usual crowd, but we made the best of it.  If you notice a new face in the pics, that’s Aaron’s girlfriend, Annie.  If you notice a new hairstyle, that’s Aaron.  Feel free to hum the theme song to Welcome Back Kotter.  We do it every time he comes home. 

December

Meet Boo, Victoria’s new kitten.  She got him in October, specifically wanting an orange kitten for free and VOILA! The Ruston dog shelter had two such kittens that they just HAD to get rid of (because, dogs…).  Halloween Kitty was not without his issues, and a sinus infection caused his forehead to burst, so he had to seek refuge with us and care from our regular vet.  By the way, Boo is no longer considered “free,” as evidenced by the “medicare” collection jar with his name on it that now has permanent residence on our kitchen counter. 

Looking back on all that this year has dealt us, I’d still like to raise a glass to the hardship we’ve faced, the strength we’ve discovered, and the promise of tomorrow.  I’m having a dry January, so my glass only has decaf tea in it.  I hope that doesn’t jinx anything. 

Happy New Year, everyone.  May 2021 be infinitely more palatable. 

Not All Who Wander…

I said some day I would write this down.  Figure it all out. Make the story make sense.  Because I am a figurer… and a planner… and a puzzle solver.  It’s what I do.  I may do it on a small scale, but I do it whole-heartedly.  And often.

It was 2014 when I said to Dom, “What if I went back to school? What if I wanted a master’s degree? Would you be cool with that?”

I wasn’t asking permission to expand my horizons, mind you; Dom would never hold me back from what I felt called to do with my time. But we are a team, and I needed to know if he could sacrifice some dinners or pitch in with the housework while I studied for the next two years. I knew this would not be easy on any of us.   I would publicly state two years later, “If I ever say that I want to go back to school for a  third time, someone hit me in the head with a rock.” It was an adequate statement, and I sensed it before I even began.

So there I was, rocking along toward an MBA.  Dinners were still relatively on schedule.  Dom was becoming a laundry KING. I was stressed out and stretched too thin, but I was killing it, or so I thought. And then the bottom fell out.

October 2015.  I’d been in school for a year. One down, one to go.  Mid-way through Halloween decorations and smack in the middle of terms, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer.  We live right next door to her, and of the six of us “kids” (her three sons and their wives) I had the most flexible work schedule.  So I rose to the occasion.  I managed to balance school and work and doctors’ appointments.  Against all odds, Mom lived.  Hell, she was outright cured.  I fell to my knees in gratitude and when I rose I danced and cried and danced some more.  I had plenty to be thankful for and I was ready to shout it from the rooftops.

Six months after the doctors looked at my mother-in-law in astonishment and I thanked God and every saint I could name, I finished that dang program and got my MBA.  The trials were over; the dust had settled.  There was light at the end of our tunnel.

I thought the achievement of the degree would satisfy me, but a desire to do more started murmuring in my head and wouldn’t shut up.  What good was that degree if I wasn’t going to use it? What had all the struggle been for if nothing was going to change? Why did I pay that tuition if my family would never see some return on the investment?

So I said to Dom one morning, standing at our bathroom sinks, “Among those companies that your company works with, if you hear of any job opening that I might be good at, let me know, okay?”

I don’t know how much time passed between that statement and a certain phone call.  “Hey, remember when you said for me to keep an ear open for jobs?” he asked.  “OIB is looking for a credit analyst.”

“A what?”

Seriously.  That’s how this journey unfolds.  The next thing I knew, I had an interview.  I’ll never forget it – March 30, 2017.  My father-in-law had a doctor’s appointment that morning at the same time as my interview.  After two years of my accompanying them to every appointment and my helpful ability to recall dates and details so that I was almost a walking medical file on my mother-in-law, Pop wanted me there at his appointment.  “That’s alright,” I remember him saying. “They’re just going to look at my esophagus and figure out why I can’t swallow. It’s no big deal.”  That wasn’t self-pitying sarcasm; he genuinely meant it and I believed him.

I had my interview and came back to my office at the Catholic Center to tell my co-workers, “Y’all, I bombed that thing! There is no way I’m getting that job.”

Within an hour my phone was ringing.  Remember that light at the end of my tunnel? Turns out, it was another train.  Dom told me that Pop’s appointment that morning had taken a morbid turn. Esophageal tumor.  A biopsy had been scheduled, but it was most likely cancer.  No. Just, no.

Sometime in the next three weeks, Pop’s diagnosis and treatment were confirmed, and I got the job.  It was bittersweet, to say the least.  In a new work environment with entry-level vacation time, there was no way I could attend all of Pop’s appointments as I had attended Mom’s.  Everything felt upside down and I felt guilty for so many things –  for being happy about new opportunity when those I loved were so distraught, and also for not being available to my extended family when they needed me.

I cannot imagine that I was much good those first six months of my employment at the bank.  My family was going through some tough stuff – scary, and yet too familiar all at the same time – and I did not have my same confidantes and supporters in my day-to-day world.  I had new people. Wonderful people, but not those onto whom I thought I could dump all my crazy and still keep my job.  I held it in, for the most part.  I only let out the little bits that I thought wouldn’t send my new coworkers running for the hills or searching for the nearest straightjacket.  I know now that I did not give them nearly enough credit.

As 2017 drew to a close I experienced my first series of working holidays. Switching careers from the Catholic Church to banking is culture shock, to say the least.  We work on Christmas Eve?? Are you kidding me?? Perhaps I would not have been as selfish with my holidays if I were not watching Pop dwindle in strength and spirit with each passing day.  I managed to take some time off after Christmas that year, and I vividly recall taking a phone call from my new friend and supervisor as I stood in the backyard on a partly cloudy, cold December day.  She was informing me that our community bank was being bought by a larger bank. Our merger would be complete in February.

I spent that last week of December mentally willing myself to see the silver lining in our merger.  Maybe I would start to grow into my position and gain some confidence. I had not been with the community bank long enough to feel credibility in how I did my job; maybe that would change.  I don’t know if I was tricking myself, but I managed to feel hopeful about the whole thing.  Maybe this was why God led me into banking. Perhaps I would find my footing after all.

Three days into 2018 Pop succumbed to the cancer we could not beat.  I don’t have to tell you how badly that hurt.  I started comparing the timelines and sizing up his cancer journey and my OIB journey.  Both began on the same day. Both ended within just a few weeks of each other. Both turned my world upside down.  Both were beautiful and painful. Both would leave permanent marks on my heart.

The following month I spent my birthday in training for the new bank.  My heart was still heavy, my body was still tired, and my head hurt with too much new information. While I had only six months of procedures to re-learn, my co-workers had years’ worth. I was quite surprised (and somewhat ashamed) at the relief I felt as more and more people joined me in my unsteady little boat of The Unknown.  I finally felt like we were all on the same ground, rather than me being in a pit while everyone else stood far above me. To be fair, some days we were all above the pit, and some days we were all down in it, but at least we were together.  Misery does indeed love company.

It was somewhat similar at home.  Some days we were all smiles and some days we were just weepy messes. Oh, I could talk a good game – God’s plan for our lives, waiting patiently on the Lord, no need to worry about tomorrow, blah blah blah.  I was saying it, but I wasn’t instantly buying into it even as the words were passing my lips.  Okay, yes, my heart knew the truth.  But it was like my brain had just been through a war-zone video game that it couldn’t shake even though the game was over.  There were no winners in that game, by the way; it was all just destruction and shambles – programmed blood and pixelated gore that I couldn’t unsee.  There was real loss that I couldn’t unfeel.

I recall one particular Spring day when I was feeling especially down and I was complaining to Dom that making new friends at work had not been easy, that I missed terribly the sisterhood I left behind at the Catholic Center, and that I didn’t know if I’d ever have that level of emotional camaraderie again.  His response gutted me. “I know how you feel,” he said. “Think of who I hung out with, who I shared everything with when I wasn’t with you. Daddy was my best friend; we did everything together. If I wasn’t with you or at work, I was with him. I don’t have that anymore.”

The realization stung as it sunk in.  I had been so laser-focused on what I was missing that I failed to see the innumerable layers to Dom’s loss.  My selfishness had known no bounds.

I wasn’t willing to ignore our feelings at home, and fortunately neither was Dom.  We began to set aside time every night just to be together and talk about our day with no distractions. We tried to make sense of where we were, both personally and professionally.  Did we want what we had? Did we like who we were? Were we simply too scared to change? The answers varied, depending on the day’s events, but ultimately we realized that we had been changed by our experiences, not ruined by them.  The question that remained was simply, “What now?”

In the midst of our grief-filled year, we had some pretty significant events – Aaron graduated from high school and we dropped him off at college. I managed to distract myself from the additional changes in our home by focusing on travel, crafts and holiday party plans.  But December found me at my lowest point. For the first time in memory, my favorite season of all was not filled with hope and wonder and peace. I had no spare vacation time and was working through Christmas. I came home one night in tears and vowed to Dom, “I will not do this to another Christmas season. I have to have a different job before this time next year.”

As 2018 became dust and shadows I realized that we had been to Mass approximately four times during the year, not counting Pop’s funeral.  How had I been such an idiot?  No wonder the year had been so hard.  I prayed still, but my prayers were more akin to venting sessions with the hopes of a magic eraser.  They lacked gratitude.  I began to see that as a general rule, I lacked gratitude.  This had to change.

“We gotta go to Mass,” I finally told Dom after the year anniversary of Pop’s death.  “We gotta get our butts back in a pew or we are never going to recover from this.”

He nodded.  “I feel it too.  We need a major change, though.  Maybe a different church.”

I could be on board with this.  I understood the sentiment.  We needed a drastic enough change that we could see and feel a fresh, new start. “Okay,” I said. “But, can I ask one thing?  When we change churches, can we still be Catholic?”

“I’m not gonna quit being Catholic!” he exclaimed, and then we both laughed – he with amusement and I with relief.

There were so many issues with changing churches that my stomach soured at the thought of addressing them all.  Victoria was in the middle of her Confirmation year; I served on the church finance council; our church had a new pastor whom I deeply respected and whose feelings I did not want to hurt; we had grown to love so many of the congregation members, and all of those people had supported us and loved us through the highs and lows of the previous twelve years. There was no way leaving wasn’t going to be awkward.

I decided to start with the pastor of the church we would attend: the church where it all started – where I fell in love with Midnight Mass, where I became Catholic, where we were married, where our children first learned how to sit still in a pew. In other words, home.  I called Father Tim, whom I know from my days at the Catholic Center, and said, “I need confession and consultation.”  He came to my office and we talked about all my issues. There wasn’t a single problem I brought up for which he didn’t have a reassuring answer. It was not official, sacramental “confession,” though I did share with him all the ways I had gone wrong in the past year and my general state of discontent.

“You need to come back and work for the church,” he said.  I laughed.  He didn’t.  “Why not?”

It was the question that would start the healing I needed.  The next time I saw him, he outlined a job description for a new position he was creating. I didn’t tell him right away, but that description was exactly what I had decided I wanted to do – a little HR, a little insurance, budgeting, facility management – basically, managing a small business.  I just never thought that business would be a church.  But, if I’m qualified for anything, it’s a church job. We touched base with each other several times over the next two months while he fine-tuned the position and took applications and I prayed for direction.

“You still interested?” he’d ask.

“Yep.” I handed him my resume. “You still hiring?”

“Yep.”

It became official on April 17, 2019, just a few weeks past the two-year anniversary of the kick-off of my journey. I got the job.  I’m back in the fold.  I’m going home.

In The Lord of the Rings epic, Tolkien wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost.” It feels like I have wandered for two solid years, and I frequently felt lost. Hindsight is 20/20, and only now I can look back and see that I may have lost myself but God never lost me.  Even when I let go of his hand, he still had my back.  He blessed me with new, dear friends and a bank “family” who consoled me in my loss and lifted me with their daily presence for two years. Perhaps he blessed me with a little darkness so that I could appreciate the light. And he blessed me with opportunity – to sacrifice, to grow and to love.  My mental image is of me as a child, toddling away toward something shiny while God gently reaches out and holds a belt loop to keep me steady. The toddler, oblivious to everything in the periphery, is only aiming for what’s ahead, and what’s ahead is always going to be unknown to us.  But we learn when we wander.  We learn so much.

 

** Since this post contains Dom’s feelings as well as mine, I had him read it to be sure he was okay with my sharing and required no edits before this was published.  He said he had only one edit from my original draft: that I share my mental image of God as Henry Blake from M*A*S*H. It’s true.  From the time I was little, I envisioned God with Colonel Blake’s quirky hat and fishing vest, complete the the pinned lures. I have no idea why I made that association at such a young age, but there it is.  Since Henry Blake was always smiling and happy, yet still Large-and-In-Charge, I suppose it’s fitting in its own way.  I can definitely picture him corralling a toddler by the belt loop.  And that’s good enough for me.

2018: A Year of Love

As I reflect on the year that began with so much pain, I realize that love has been our constant companion both inside and outside of that pain. Love came to us in friends, and in the form of hugs and texts. It took the form of cards and covered casseroles, potted daisies and even a few corked bottles. It saw us through a year that was simultaneously sad, hard, maddening, bittersweet and joyful.

To paraphrase a few lines from a book I just finished reading, we are never entirely healed. We will be “a patchwork of love and grief, of gains and losses”.**  Even though it was an emotionally draining year, we saw through each other our ability to laugh and be happy. Lennon was right. Love really is all you need.

With a full heart I present the sixth annual pictorial recap of a year that was ultimately filled with love beyond measure.

January
After Pop died, we all needed a place to direct our grief. Tearing down his oldest and most decrepit shed provided our catharsis. This is the only pic I have of the day, taken after the shed had been razed to the ground. I wish I had a picture of the tug-of-war team that pulled it down. It truly felt like Family Olympics.

February
Goofing around at my parents’ house one weekend, my dad and Vic played Heart and Soul together on the organ. (Go on, sing a measure. For the entire rest of the day. You’re welcome.)

March
Baby Girl turned 16 and got her license. We haven’t seen her since. (Kidding…sort of).

April
A pic of my favorite men just before Aaron headed out to the Senior Prom.

May
This. Just… this.

June
Three days after we watched A Dog’s Purpose, a stray German Shepherd showed up at our house and wouldn’t leave. He looked neglected so we fed him, bathed him and named him Bailey. He’s a genuine sweetheart who lives with Charolette now, and Kasie and I believe he was sent by Pop. I just love big dogs with big paws.

July
My kiddos altar served at our church for nearly six years. As Aaron prepared to leave for college, Vic announced she didn’t want to serve without him. This was the last time they served at Mass.

August
Here’s the one WTH? picture. There’s always one. Breakfast time and one of our eggs had two yolks. Was this really the most exciting picture I took in August, you ask? Why, yes. Yes it was.

September
Labor Day weekend found us driving to Ruston to leave a huge part of our hearts at college. I cried the whole way home. Max didn’t take it too well, either, and spent the next ten days sulking in Aaron’s room.

October
Part of our first-ever trip to New York to see Harry Potter on Broadway (which deserves its own full-length post) was the fun I had making t-shirts for our Hogwarts-loving travel companions, customized with each person’s favorite quote. And of course, experiencing the magic of Broadway and the Big Apple with my favorite wizard.

November
Nothing like a wedding to remind us all that life is good, family is precious and true love is eternal. My oldest nephew, Jacob, and my newest niece, Cassidy:

December
Remember that family I told you about in my most recent post? The ones who make Christmas entirely magical? This is them.  I love these people to the moon and back!

Well, there it goes, folks. The credits are rolling on 2018. May your 2019 be blessed and may you find peace, love and joy in every single moment it holds for you.

Bonus pic from the NYC trip: I couldn’t resist. So long, 2018. See ya in the funny papers.

 

** Clare, Cassandra. Queen of Air and Darkness. New York: Margaret K. McElderry Books. 2018. Print.

The Vaulted Files: A Letter to Youth

I was cleaning up my laptop files today and found this letter I had completely forgotten that I wrote back in 2015.  I do not recall if I ever sent it, nor do I think I could even retrace my steps to find the person for whom it was originally written.  But when I read it today, it struck a chord, as I’m sure the writings of the young girl for whom it was intended originally struck me. I still feel the sentiments expressed here quite powerfully, so they belong in this forum.  I hope it helps somebody.

---

Hi there.  Let me introduce myself by saying that I am a mom.  I sing horribly, embarrass my kids with unbridled car-dancing, and say cliché things like, ‘I am old enough to be your mother,’ mostly because I am.  I have two teenagers, and one has turned me on to the Gorillaz.  So there I was, surfing around for the backstory on the characters so I could know more about why this real band had these interesting cartoon images, when I stumbled upon your blog.  And for the life of me, I cannot get your personal comments out of my head.  So, that is essentially why I’m writing to you…because I’ve read your blog, comments others have made and comments you have made back in reply.  And they touched me.

Let me also say that I do not make a habit of getting in the business of other people’s families.  I have never suffered from anxiety or depression or gender fluidity, so I am puzzled by my own need to reach out to you, for I know I have little to offer you in the way of support.  Except that I am a Christian.  I hope that confession does not instantly conjure negative images or emotions for you, because I believe that as a Christian it is my mission to love.  And with that in mind, I want to give you hope.

I want to tell you that your life has value, that you ARE important and dignified and worthy of love beyond measure.  I want to tell you to never, ever, ever give up on who you are, because you are an inspiration to people and can be even more of one if you just allow yourself the time and space to grow.  What you have done with your blog, in my opinion, is given people a chance to let their thoughts be heard without judgment or repercussion.  You have allowed people to be free to express themselves in a way that we stuffy adults don’t seem to understand.

Honestly, we do understand it.  I think sometimes we’re so jealous of youth that we would rather hold it in oppression than let it blossom into something new and beautiful. I, for instance, still feel 25, newly initiated into adulthood, swinging the world on a string.  I look in the mirror and that is not a vibrant 25-year old staring back at me.  It’s a little unsettling sometimes. 😉

YOU are strong and brave and amazing for your honesty and strength of spirit.  And I know that not every day is sunshine and roses, but I want you to recognize the days or even the moments that are, and believe that in your future those days and moments will become more numerous than they are now.

I am not the sort that goes around spewing scripture at people, and I am certainly not going to preach to you.  In fact, the only people I want to hit over the head with a Bible are the ones who are using it to spread hate.  But I heard a verse today and it made me think of you, so I want to share it, in the hope that it will give you some peace:

“Everyone will sit under their own vine, and under their own fig tree, and no one will make them afraid…” (Now, why that is not grammatically correct is beyond me and it drives me crazy, but I digress.)

That made me think of you because I think that sitting under our own vine means we are each different, living our own ways of life, enjoying the customs and lifestyles that fit each of us.  The part that I hope you find comfort in is the second part: ‘and no one will make them afraid.’

Some day, some day we will get it. Some day we will stop trying to change people because we disagree with them.  Some day we will stop trying to control others because we want them to be just like us. Some day there will be no reason to worry or fear.  That day, I know, has not yet come. But as long as you breathe you have hope within you.  I will pray that sustains you in the hard times.  Please, please remember that even when you think this party we call life is not worth the cover charge, there is a middle-aged lady in Louisiana who thinks you’re pretty cool.

Peace for your beautiful soul,

Lori

 

The Vaulted Files: Christmas Wreath Storage Solution

Tags

Christmas decorations, holiday clutter, wreath storage

I originally wrote this in early 2014 before my unintended sabbatical from blogging here.  Back to work, now…

So, there I was, packing away all the Christmas décor after Epiphany this year when it dawned on me that I now had sixteen – no, make that seventeen – Christmas wreaths hung in and on my home. I have to admit, I choked a little on the thought of buying enough boxes in which to store them. Where were all the boxes going to go?

One of the things we lucked into when we built our house is a closet in the garage, where Dom decided all of our holiday décor could live. And it just so happens that there is a lot of tall wall space in this closet. I wanted hooks for my wreaths. But, really – seventeen of them?

And that’s when this idea sprang to life. Home Depot, or any home store, has the brackets that hold closet shelves and rods, right? You know – these things…

They cost under $4 each.  And voila! They also hold about three wreaths (four, if you don’t mind smushing them on there.) The hook part that would hold the rod holds one of the wreaths so you can make sure the others don’t come sliding off of the bracket. I bought about six of these and placed them strategically on my wall so the wreaths can hang in the closet and I never have to worry about their bows getting all wonky from storage.

Now, go… be free and hang your wreaths! 😉

 

The Vaulted Files: The Fine Line

 

(I am finding a lot of crazy stuff in the vault, which duly represents the crazy in my head.  Much like the saying goes for blowing your nose: “Better out than in.” LOL.  Enjoy…)

I am an absolutist.  (Is that a word?  I should have looked that up first…sorry.)  I would normally say I’m an extremist, but my understanding of extremism is that it breeds intolerance for other people’s decisions, and that just doesn’t sound like something I want to be.  For instance, I believe that certified artificial food colorings are absolutely bad for us.  So I spend three times as much money on Unjunked m&m’s for my kids’ candy treats.  That’s my absolutism.  If I were an extremist, I imagine I would storm the middle school and demand that they stop selling Skittles to innocent kids.  And then my son would die of embarrassment because his mom is the crazy lady who attacked the concession table.  So I just prefer to work in absolutes.  And here’s how I came to this conclusion:

I was thinking about this the other day, feeling like I was sitting far-out on a hippie limb all by myself, wondering why we as a society even allow poisons in our foods, much less voluntarily consume them.  One thought led to another and the next thing I knew, I had planned out the next two decades.  The odds of my children finding and falling in love with others who had been raised on grass-fed beef, organic veggies and homemade bread are slim to none.  And then I started thinking that my poor grandchildren (God willing I ever have any) will face all the health problems that I’ve tried to prevent in my own children, simply because my daughter- or son-in-law would have contributed the wonky chromosomes tainted by Big-Ag and corporate America, all because his or her mother didn’t give two hoots about Roundup-resistant wheat and soybeans.  And then I’m quite technically back where I started.

So then I thought how nice it would be to have a huge commune for those of us who want to live away from the oppression of our corporate food supply. We could farm together, raise happy chickens and cows, and control everything we consumed.  We would be untainted by the outside world.

There are just two problems with this idea:  1) I’m not, and have no desire to be, Amish; and 2) no matter how good our intentions at the beginning, eventually we would all find some Kool-Aid to share.

So, no, this idea of segregating ourselves from modern society will never work.  And I wouldn’t want it to, really.  My rules can really only be imposed on me (and my kids for the time being), and that’s okay.  So I’ll just hang on to my absolutes and do what I can to make the world a better place in my little corner of it.

Unjunked candy, anyone?

The Minimum

While driving to work a while ago I noticed a new billboard.  It has a smiling man on it with five simple words: “Do the minimum.  (I do.)”  Way to instill confidence, SafeAuto.  I can see how “good neighbors” and “good hands” would be a turn-off.  Your marketing reps must be proud.

Despite that this ad was for auto insurance and had the polar opposite of its intended effect on me, it made me think about all that we do and wonder why we would ever want to promote doing the minimum.  Isn’t that kind of what’s wrong with us?  Everybody wants to get more and give less?  Avoid all the cost and still benefit with all the gain?  Don’t we already spend too much energy trying to claim more while actually doing less?

It reminds me of a former co-worker.  I was new on the job, fresh out of college and eager to learn.  I’ve always been motivated at work – in a behind-the-scenes kind of way.  A wallflower in public, I’m not too big on taking in all the attention, even for a job well done.  But I truly believe any job I do has my name on it and my reputation behind it.  So that makes it worth giving my all.    Anyway, about a month or so into the job a problem arose and I volunteered a solution.  No one really understood how to implement the solution even though it sounded good to them, so I also volunteered my own energy to make it happen.  I viewed it as a chance to sink my teeth into something creative, and they viewed it as an opportunity for an issue to be corrected without taking their time from other duties.  Everyone walked away happy.  Win-Win.

As soon as the directors were out of earshot, my co-worker tsk–tsk-ed me, warning, “You’d better be careful.  Don’t let them know what all you can do, because then they will expect you to do it.  It’s best to keep quiet and let them do the work.  You’ll see.”

I was dumbfounded, completely blown away that someone with that attitude could actually draw a paycheck.  While I picked my jaw up off the ground, she rolled her eyes and turned back toward her computer, leaving a lasting impression on me.

I suppose that was a lesson that naïve little Lori needed to learn.  No matter how I expect people to behave, many of them will only ever do the minimum.  Some of them will expect me to follow suit.

I won’t.

Not in life. Not in relationships.  Not in my work.

And for the record, I won’t change my expectations of other people, either.  And I fully intend to teach my children the value of exceeding the minimum.  Take THAT, smiling billboard man.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Tags

3-Free, Butter London, mother-daughter time, nail polish, summer fun

Victoria and I did a novel thing Friday night.  At least, it was novel for us.  No one else in a three hundred mile radius would have blinked an eye, but we established a new mother-daughter bonding activity: Trampoline Manicures.  You must realize that the novelty of this is that I actually, in fact, enjoyed it.

This hen party spontaneously combusted simply because Vic wanted to jump on the trampoline and I wanted to paint my nails.  Don’t all wise women just assume those two activities are compatible?  Duhhh…

So, out to the trampoline we marched…into the 90+ degree early evening (I don’t know what the thermostat actually registered because, quite honestly, some days I’m too chicken to look.)  This particular evening was not nearly as scorching as I expected it to be, though, and I found myself enjoying the gentle breeze blowing through the tree branches high above us while we buffed and filed and painted each other’s nails – all in the middle of our net-walled trampoline.

And then we squealed and laughed and bounced each other through the air as if we had not a care in the world for our freshly decorated fingers and toes.  And here is yet another shameless plug for a product I have fallen in love with:  Butter London nail lacquer.  Lisa over at Simple Beauty Minerals (formerly Style Essentials, my fave beauty supplier) suggested it to me because it is “3-Free,” meaning it is manufactured without the three toxic chemicals commonly found in nail polish: DBP, formaldehyde and toluene.  It smells like regular nail polish – it is paint, after all.  But it also has the staying power of regular nail polish, a feature we had begun to miss in our more “natural” polishes.  And Butter London magically causes me to speak with a British accent, which makes Victoria giggle endlessly.

This spiffy polish also comes with a hefty price tag, but I’m sold, nonetheless.  $15/bottle.  Yesirree, you read that right.  Still, it beats the $20 bottles I had tried in the beginning.   And, up until midnight tonight you can get 30% off your entire order on Butter London’s website.  (Sorry to be so late bringing this news to you, but it’s still worth sharing.)  Basically, if you put four bottles in your cart, one of them is free plus you get free shipping.  Don’t ask me how I know that little detail.  😉  If you’re reading this too late for the sale, go on over there and sign up for the newsletter so you won’t miss the next one.   If you happen to go looking for Butter London locally, I can tell you that most ULTA stores carry it, but don’t expect to use any coupons on it.  Also, there is an extensive list of American retail shops on Butter London’s website.  God Save the Queen!

The only downside of our trampoline manicure was that both dogs had gone outside with us.  While Mabel, our four-year-old Labrador Retriever, tried (unsuccessfully, thankGOD) to get on the trampoline with us, Mason, our 13-year old Lab rested in the grass nearby, but had such difficulty in the humidity that he could not walk himself 20 yards back to the house.   He had 30 minutes of labored breathing outside, during which I managed to lay him on a blanket and drag all 80 pounds of him back to the patio.  Five minutes after that, I was hovering above him and supporting his torso while he ambled across the patio to the back door.  I was absolutely beside myself, fraught with guilt for having let him venture outside with us for longer than he could withstand.  But he did eventually cool down – 30 minutes later – in the kitchen, where Victoria lay across him, crying and begging him not to die.  (We don’t mince too many words in our house, you see.)  He happily obliged, coming around to his old self within another half hour, wagging his tail and slobbering kisses on us, and inspecting our fingernails, which were not marred in the least for all the doggy drama they had endured.   Ahhh, Mason…Carry on, old chap!!

(I believe it is proper blog etiquette to note that I get no rewards, kudos or even nods for recommending these products with my lopsided, drooling reviews.  Seriously.  I wish.)

My Eternal Instant

Some ticks of the clock have the power to take our breath away. I think those moments exist to remind us who we are and why we’re here. They come from out of nowhere, flooding our souls with either joy or melancholy or simply reason to reflect. I experienced one of these moments just the other night.

The four of us had just finished watching a movie together in the darkness of our family room. The fireplace roared with hearty flames to warm us as we relaxed together for an impromptu movie night. As the final scenes flashed on the large screen above us, Aaron and Victoria stood and stretched. Aaron, my quietly-growing 7th grader, approached me as I stood, preparing to share our traditional good-night hug before asking if I would come tuck him in. A new song of the soundtrack cranked up as the final credits rolled upward, and I reached to hug Aaron, only I didn’t let go. He looked confused for a minute until I took one of his hands in my palm, in traditional dance posture, and began to sway with him in front of the fireplace, my cheek resting on top of his head. We danced through the end of the song surrounded by light from only the television screen and the flames that danced with us. I glanced toward Dom and saw the sweetest smile on his face. And I never wanted that moment to end.

My favorite inspirational author, Max Lucado, describes what he calls an Eternal Instant as “A moment that reminds you of the treasures surrounding you. Your home. Your peace of mind. Your health. A moment that tenderly rebukes you for spending so much time on temporal preoccupations such as savings accounts, houses, and punctuality. A moment that can bring a mist to the manliest of eyes and perspective to the darkest life.”

This moment, this eternal instant, did just that for me. And so very much more.

Like Riding a Bike

Exactly six weeks ago I was driving my car and talking to my kids about their falling grades and sagging attitudes.  I had to admit that I, too, was not quite myself in the home-stretch of waiting for our home to be built.  My kiddos, who are usually good students, were seeing their second-quarter grades drop into oblivion.  They both admitted that they could do better, and they just hadn’t been putting forth the effort like they used to.  I in turn admitted that I hadn’t been doing all my “mom duties” like I used to either.  I let stress wear me down, almost to the point of illness again.  My purpose-driven-ness got put on autopilot, and many of my own “Oh-no-I-WON’Ts” morphed into “Oh-what-the-hells.” It was a rough autumn, to say the least.

My own parents are Super-Heroes for taking us all in.  For four solid months I did not cook, clean, wash laundry or make a bed.  I think I only fed my dogs twice in all that time.  Knowing how hard it was for all of us to be without permanent residence, my mom made good-and-sure that we were spoiled like last week’s fruit.  I vocalized only once, but secretly feared for at least two months, that I would completely forget how to maintain a household.  (I love you, Mom!)

We moved in to our new house on December 7, and though we were so glad to have our own place, I wondered if I would actually find my feet again in my new kitchen and utility room.  I am pleased to say that I have.

Baby Girl was sick the entire first week after our move, and while I felt I really needed to be at work, the cosmos and my husband felt otherwise and set me straight pretty quickly.  As the Hubster pointed out, “She is sick.  She needs to stay home and rest.  And, you have more sick time than I do.”  Point taken.  So in between reading to Vic and checking for fever, I unpacked a box or two and then decided we were going to need to eat, and if I had anything to say about it, we were NOT eating more fast food.  (Yes – I had regressed THAT far!)  I pulled out the dutch oven, washed off the summer’s storage dust, and proceeded to make Red Beans and Sausage.  Then I whipped up some olive mix, made muffalettas and baked a whole chicken in my sparkly new-fangled oven.  I’m sharing all this to express my surprise that my domestic abilities have not faded with the season.

I bet I could still ride a bike if I tried!  But it’s rainy and cold, and I’m a weather wimp, so that experiment will have to wait.