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.

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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

 

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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.

The Busiest Months of Our Lives

They say there are five major stresses in a person’s life:

1. Change in marital status
2. Moving
3. Changing jobs
4. Birth/addition of a child
5. Death of a loved one

In the spring of 1996 I had all but one of those stresses at the same time.  Within the span of six weeks I got married, moved across town, changed jobs and lost my grandmother.   I was a prime candidate for The Crazy House.  The only thing that kept me out of the loony bin was the fact that I was not pregnant at the time.  I’m sure we can all agree: that would have sealed the deal.

And yet 1996 had nothing on this summer that is now winding down.  Building, selling, making home repairs.  Call the builder; call the real estate office; call the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker… I forget who I am most days, and the sticky-notes and phone reminders that I set for myself are little help if I can’t even remember to look in the direction of said reminders.  I need reminders for my reminders for my reminders.  So it struck me as odd, as I stood in my kitchen one morning in July with my builder (yes, at the old house…long story that you can bore yourself with here) when I paused long enough to notice our family calendar on the refrigerator.  It was pretty bare during July, save the lone pen marks of my husband as he counted the days he has been smoke-free.

Dom quit smoking 219 days ago – right as we were gearing up to sell the house and dive head-first into building the new one.  Not the most desirable time to drop a vice cold-turkey, but then again I am of the mindset that NO TIME is a bad time to take control of your health for the better. I am soooooo proud of him!  I’ve wanted to shout it from the rooftops and sky-write congratulatory love notes, but he’s a pretty private person so I had to celebrate in silence.  And I was even tempted to leave the calendar alone and let it speak for itself. But…

Calendars are my diary.  Aside from my blogs, they are the only form of journaling or scrapbooking I do anymore.  I have kept wall calendars since my college days.  Even as I matriculated into electronic calendars (and yes, even as I chastise co-workers for using paper calendars) I always kept one hard copy calendar on the fridge at home.  This is where I mark the random stuff we do – the birthdays, the celebrations, the memories and the milestones.  The good, the bad and the ugly.  It’s all right there, and all I have to do is pull a calendar out of the box and flip through twelve simple pages to relive an entire year in my mind.

My favorite calendar now is Mom’s Family Calendar featuring the lovable critters of Sandra Boynton.  Each person has his or her own column in which to record activities.  Our family of four reserves the fifth column for the pups and any extended family birthdays.  It’s a 17-month calendar, starting in August for the new school year, which is really a great idea, even though I only remember to buy a new one in December when I’m Christmas shopping.  Plus, this calendar always comes with a ton of cute character stickers and a magnetized write-on/wipe-off board for important phone numbers, etc.  Oh, and an interior pocket “for loose $100 bills.”  I love that.  I keep looking in there hoping one or two bills have appeared.  No luck yet.

July and August wound up being perhaps the busiest months of our lives.  In the end, I decided if I didn’t mark it all down I would regret it later.  So I grabbed some Sharpies and a few stickers and “went to town” inscribing our activities for the summer and the milestones, stresses and successes 2012 has brought us so far.

I hope your summer was wonderful!

Maybe, Maybe Not

Note to my readers: This post has absolutely nothing to do with healthy eating or dangerous chemicals.  Just a little summer fun…

In between my two episodes of imbalance, I went shoe shopping.

I know what you’re thinking…but wait.  You’ll either totally love this or think I have completely flipped my lid.   If you don’t already.  Anyhoo…

I managed to escape to DSW one day, armed with my sling (no pun intended) and my Mothers’ Day giftcard.  The whole trip took me two and a half hours.  ‘Cause that’s how I shop with only one free arm.  I managed to find a rockin’ pair of desperately needed black heels, and some adorable strappy sandals, both at full price.  I hate paying full price for anything, but these were totally worth it.

Also totally worth it was the clearance section.  It was in the clearance aisle that I found them: the most unreasonable, memorable, outfit-specific, deadly shoes I have ever entertained the notion of buying.

“Deadly” because, as of late, I haven’t been the most balanced chick.  When Victoria saw them come out of the bag, her eyes grew oh-so-wide and she exclaimed, “MAMA!!!!! Are you SURRRRRE you can wear those?”

I confessed that I wasn’t entirely sure.

But they were on CLEEEEEEEARANCE!!!

Completely taken with my uncharacteristically bold purchase, Vic has been seen clomping through the kitchen in these shoes more than once.  I dunno…maybe I allow that because somewhere in the back of my mind there exists the remote possibility that this may be the only way they will ever get worn.

So…whatcha think?  Do I dare???

(Update since the writing of this post:  I decided to wear them today.  It’s lunchtime and I am so far surviving.  But, just to be on the safe side, say a prayer that I don’t break my leg!  Thanks!!!)

Helloooo, July! It’s Sooooooo Good to See You!

Greetings from the road to recovery!  We have actual, reportable progress on so many of my most stressful issues that I just gotta share…

First, I am finally healed from my first tumble.  The doc determined that I did not fracture my elbow and he downgraded me to a sprain, which made me very happy.  Unfortunately, that news was not even twelve hours old when I fell AGAIN right at three weeks ago.  Despite bruised ribs, a gashed up knee and a face that made me look like a volunteer punching bag, I am finally healing – again.  Only in the last week have I actually felt like myself.  I accomplished tasks at work (yay!), cooked dinner, and even did a little more packing.  Oh, and I managed to sneeze without feeling like my ribs would be blown to the four corners of the earth.  For the win, right?

Next, while I was laid up in bed whining over my wounds and snorting Lortab (not really…well, maybe…) we got an offer on our house.  Which, of course, we accepted.   Which means we sold our house.  Which means that we have to get ready to get the hell out of Dodge…for real now.  Aaaaaaaaand, we closed on our construction loan and broke ground on the new house.  Next we move in with my parents.  (And their world will never be the same…)

On the Food Front, I have to thank you all for your support and wonderful comments with regard to me changing our diets for Aaron’s benefit.  It has not been an easy change, and we have had several nights that tried everyone’s patience at the dinner table.  But Aaron is a trooper, and even though he abhorred many of the things we made him try he DID try them, and even found some new things that he likes.  I had to throw in one or two cheat days to keep everyone sane and chugging along with me, but that one night of sundaes and DQ Blizzards was worth the tummy aches we all had the next day, if for nothing more than strengthening our morale (as well as our resolve!)  We are tweaking Paleo to work for us, and in the end I think that we will each have a better ability to make proper decisions about our own nutrition.  The kids have really embraced all this change better than I imagined they would, and I am so grateful to have such earnest learners, even when they are begging me relentlessly for Southern Maid donuts.

Finally, I think the biggest change is once again happening within me.  I’ve learned that falling down is easy (too easy, thankyouverymuch!) but getting up is where you grow and learn.  I learned am learning to slow down – to not rush through these days of change and uncertainty, but rather to embrace them and try to appreciate something different about each day.  Last week as I walked across the parking lot, realizing that it feels so damn good to be “me” again, I found myself hurrying.  And then I realized that hurrying is exactly how I got injured in the first place.  I will make a conscious effort to slow down, physically and mentally.  Because as stressful as I know these days ahead may be, I don’t want to miss a single thing about these events and the opportunity to see my family through them safely.