Keeping it Simple for 2010

Three simple goals are on my list this year: Get enough sleep, moderate exercise, and staying the hell away from any self-help guru who has the answers to my problems. This is the year I stop the insanity(with apologies to Susan Powter, who by the way has disappeared off the radar screen, but maybe that's a good thing). This is the year I stop reading memoirs from tortured women who had the sheer good luck of having a publisher send them on a multi-nation journey of self discovery. This is the year I kiss Oprah goodbye. This is the year I never again spend my hard earned money on another stupid diet book.
I am done, done, DONE!
There isn't a freaking face or body lotion that will ever make me look like America's top model. I can run my ass off and I still won't be a size six again...or a ten, for that matter. But I can be a relatively healthy size 12, and that's okay, too.
I no longer have a desire to make friends or influence people (sorry, Mr. Carnegie) and now that I think about it, I don't think that was ever my goal. You don't like me...who the hell cares!
Your kid is on the honor roll? Big whoop. My kid could open a bottle of wine by the time she was ten (relax, she never drank any, just served mommy and daddy a glass with dinner).
I'm done with real housewives, the Kardashians, and any other group of idiots who decide to tell all on reality t.v. The Soup, with Mr. McHale, is pretty entertaining and its main goal is to make fun of stupid talk and reality shows, so I'll probably still watch it. But everything else...done, finito.
And with that, I'm taking my sagging, middle-aged butt off to bed. Sweet dreams

So Here We Go...Again, Sort Of...

When I started my blog, several months ago, it was an endeavor meant for only me. It was place where I could sort my thoughts and try to accomplish a bit of writing on a regular basis. Only one close friend was allowed access to it because I wanted some kind of feedback, but was hesitant to let the whole world in on it.
"That's the whole point of a blog," said my friend. "You write it, people read it."
"But most bloggers seem to have a reason or a point," I countered. "My blog seems to ramble about aimlessly."
"You'll figure it out," she said.
And that, in a nutshell, is the story of my life. I'm still trying to figure it all out, even at the age of fifty.
On a whim, I decided to see if any of the Powers That Be at Vibrant Nation had any interest in what I had to say. What's the worst that could happen, I figured? They'd send me a polite email thanking me for my participation in VN but there was no immediate need for any new bloggage (by the way, I have no idea if that's even a real word, just humor me).
As it turns out, they were interested and now I need to get busy!

I think It's Getting Clearer...

When I started this blog my intention was to dwell on what it is that makes me happy. This endeavor, I've discovered, is not always immediately evident. It's a process and as it unfolds, I'm learning what it is that makes others happy. Or unhappy. Let's face it, some people simply choose to be miserable. It's what keeps them going.They love to wear their unhappiness like a gold medal and hope it rubs off on those around them. But I've decided those particular vultures won't drag me down.
But as I keep posting on a regular basis (not nearly as often as I'd planned) I realize that there needs to be some point to why I keep blogging. Obviously, it's not to entertain the huge mass of humanity that has glommed onto my posts!
So...
Here's what I've decided. Starting with the new year, it's time to embark on new adventures. At the age of fifty, it's time to dive headfirst into activities that normally scare the heck out of me or at the very least, make me very, very uncomfortable.
On December 15th, I will audition for a speaking part in a local stage production. I've been in the media for years, but have never attempted anything like this. I'm going into the whole thing with no expectations whatsoever. At best, they'll  like me and give me a part, and at worst, it will be a great learning experience.
What comes afterwards is up for debate...

It Was Nothing Special, Apparenlty

Dear_______,

I will leave this as cryptic as possible because you've made it more than clear that you would prefer to not be associated with my online ramblings, be it blogs or Facebook, or whatever. Okay, that's fine...I understand.
However, I think you know that yesterday could have been a happy day, a day of celebration. Instead, it was day of nothing. No sadness, no hate, no love, no joy. Nothing.
And that's the most pathetic thing of all.

Winging It

Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than the things you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.  Mark Twain


I am not a "spur of the moment" kind of person. I like to have a gameplan, an outline on the events that will affect my life. Sure, there will always be the things that will be out of one's control, no matter how organized the plan, but for the most part, I enjoy playing it safe. But as I get older, I've been trying to change, trying to free myself up to new opportunities.
That's why I'm headed to Paris for the weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday. Yep, that Paris...the one in France. It never would have happened without "M". She's the catalyst for this impromptu voyage, and she's also my traveling companion, and the one who arranged the itinerary.
At some point, probably several years ago, I must have mentioned how I hoped to get back to Europe before hitting the half century mark. Did I really bother to take myself seriously, of course not. Life was crazy, there was a child to raise and a job to report to during the week.
But "M" didn't forget. She booked our flight, reserved a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, and then, knowing my unease with surprise, called me a couple of weeks ago to tell me and let the idea sink in. She understands my need to plan.
So we leave this afternoon, after my workday ends. It'll be a short trip, and we'll pack in as much of the excitement of Paris that we can in two full days. My family is more than capable of taking care of themselves, in fact I'm certain both hubby and child do the happy dance whenever I'm gone.
So Paris awaits me and M. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to give my guidebook a once over and recheck my suitcase.
Au revoir!

Giving One for the Team

Kudos to you moms who have more than one child, especially those with children involved in sports and other after school activities.  I don't know how you do it. One high school athlete is about all I can handle. 
I've been trying to update this blog for two days...so much for those plans to sit down and write every day. My life doesn't swing that way, apparently.
Work takes up about nine hours of the day, starting bright and early at five a.m. Teenzilla (she'd kill me if I used her real name...MOM, I can't believe you're talking about me on a blog...) takes up the other half. Believe me, I do it gladly because I love her, and because one day, she'll be choosing my assisted living facility. She's a great kid (okay, a little mouthy, but I'm sure it's passing phase) with a wicked sense of humor, but her volleyball schedule is killing me!
Let me get this out in the open, right here and now: I'm a bad sports mom. Oh sure, I show up at games and bring the Gatorade when asked, but if I had my way, I'd be at home taking a nap. It's not my fault, I was born without a competitive nature gene. The "good" sports moms know all of the girls on the team, their jersey numbers, their positions. I know to pay attention and act like I understand the game of volleyball when Teenzilla is at the net.
     When she made the JV team, I was thrilled. JV plays first which meant, I thought, only an hour of my time invested and then we could grab her gym bag and continue on with the rest of the afternoon. I would have about an hour to run errands (take a nap, who am I kidding?) before dealing with dinner. Yeah, right. Teenzilla volunteered to be the line girl for the varsity games. From what I can tell, the line girl holds a red flag and plays a role in determining whether the ball is in or out of bounds. Excuse me...isn't that the job of the referee?
     Now I sit in the stands for an extra hour or so and cheer on girls whose names I will hopefully learn before the end of the season. Why not just leave after the JV game, you ask? Take your nap, run to the grocery store and then pick up Teenzilla after the varsity game. Well, you see, it's those good moms again. They never fail to show up early and cheer on my daughter and the rest of the JV team. It would be rude to not do the same for their daughters.
     On the drive home from last night's game, as we went to pick up Chinese for dinner, my daughter made the offhand comment about how Mrs. "L" had the weekly schedules of all four of her children, and her husband, programmed into her Blackberry.
     "Do you want me to put your schedule into my phone?" I asked, hoping like heck she wouldn't because I can barely retrieve my voicemail messages or send texts. "Would that make you feel better?"
     "No, it's okay," she said. "Besides, Mrs. "L" is kind of of a Stepford wife, it's pretty scary."
     I made a mental note to retrieve the October school calender from the bowels of my oversized purse. It's crammed down there, somewhere, between bills that need to be paid, raffle tickets that need to be sold for the Mother's Club, and the empty order form for the school fundraiser that's due later this month.
     No one will ever hurl accusations of being a Stepford wife my way...at least I have that in my favor.
   

When Life Hands You Other Plans

     If you want to hear the most heartbreaking sound in the world, listen to your father cry. Fathers aren't supposed to cry, at least not when you're an adolescent and they're the rock that keeps the family in a solid place. When your mom is chronically ill, and in and out of the hospital, all you have is your dad. To hear him sobbing behind his locked bedroom door is, to say the least, bewildering.
     My mother isn't even forty and the doctors say her kidneys will fail within years and she'll eventually need a transplant if she wants to live. Three days a week she depends on dialysis and her hope is that a suitable donor will be found. Still, she refuses to even consider her doctor's insistence that one of her three children be tested to see if they can donate. My father's healthy kidneys are not a suitable match.

     Fourth of July, 1974, my mom is in the hospital yet again. I don't even know why this time. It's become so common place to not have her in the house, I don't even ask. I'm afraid to ask. My grandmother is over, giving my dad a hand. We've finished dinner and all I want is for the sun to go down so I can go outside and light firecrackers and sparklers with my friends. I want to have fun. I want life to be normal, but normal in our family ended several years ago.
     I go upstairs to ask dad if it's okay to venture across the street but mere inches from his door, I hear him on the other side, even though his sobs are low and muffled. His face must be buried in a pillow, maybe two. I press my ear to the door, yet I cannot knock, scared to disturb him. He would be so embarrassed, deny that he is crying.
     Is he envisioning my mother's possible early death like I have so many times in my worst nightmares, seeing himself as the young widower with three children to raise on his own?
     I can't think about it anymore, have already spent too many hours worrying about my life as a girl without a mother. I run down the stairs, pretend that all is well.
     My grandmother is in the family room watching television. Bob Barker is helping contestants with Truth or Consequences.
     "Where are you going?" she asks.
     "Across the street."
     "Did you tell your father?"
     "Yeah, he said it was fine," I lie.
     "Don't stay out too late," she says.

     As I run to join the other neighborhood kids, I notice dad's bedroom light has been turned off. Perhaps he's waiting for my mother to join him in his dreams.


(In loving memory of Alex G. Keurejian on this day, 9/22, his birthday. You should have been eighty-one years old, dad...but life had other plans)

    

I Need A Gameplan

Many of my friends and co-workers have blogs. It seems like the thing to do. I started mine on a whim and really had no clear plan on why I was doing it, or the topic of my blog. As with most things I've attempted in life, winging it seemed like the best idea.
     I know lots of writers, real writers, people who actually make a living and pay their bills with the money they earn putting words to paper. I admire them a great deal for their dedication and love of the craft. Some people who know me would call me a writer, albeit a mostly unpublished writer. The sum of money I've made as a writer totals a grand forty dollars. Apparently, I'm a mostly unmotivated writer.
     So the gameplan right now is to sit down at my laptop every day, be it morning or night, and get something down on this blog. It doesn't even matter if nobody reads it. This is for me, my very own personal, daily writing exercise. Maybe something brilliant will come out of this, maybe not.
     Maybe it will simply make me happy.
    

What Is It We Really Want?

The other day, my friend "M" and I were sitting on the deck, enjoying a beautiful afternoon. The weather was perfect, not too hot or humid. We were enjoying our diet Cokes in wine glasses (seems a bit more sophisticated for some reason) and basically taking it easy before we had to part company and start thinking about what to make for dinner or how many loads of laundry we'd finish before falling, exhausted, into bed.
"What do you need to be happy?" M asked me. "I've been racking my brain about this for days and I can't think of one thing that would make me happy."
"I think having more time to travel would make me happy," I said. "Or at least a little happier."
We've had many conversations the past several months about this topic. What does it really take to make a person happy? Make us happy, that is. We've both come to the conclusion that it certainly isn't material things, although we like material things. We're happy that our children are happy and seem to have their lives in order. We're excited for their futures and hope they make wiser choices than we did. We realize it's pointless to lament about the past but we're still trying to figure out how we should tackle our futures. We both know what we'd like to do but have not yet worked up the courage to do it.
Right now, right at this moment, I am happy. My Ravens beat San Diego tonight. My laundry is done, for the most part. My house is quiet and peaceful.
Perhaps that is enough for right now.

The Countdown Begins...

In less than a month I will turn fifty years old. It's still hard for me to physically form that particular F word and urge it to leave my mouth. Writing it down seems much easier, maybe because it will seem more like a story...like it's happening to someone else.
The nice thing about turning fifty is that if you're suddenly afflicted with amnesia and can't remember your age, there are so many nice people who will be more than happy to remind you. AARP has more than likely killed one adult tree simply with the amount of invitations they have sent me, asking me to please become a member. They've even thrown in the offer of a free travel bag. I'm touched.
My doctor loves to remind me that my body is falling apart. My daughter finds a certain joy in pointing out sags, lumps, veins, and wrinkles. I like to remind her that the twenty-five hours I spent pushing her out of my body and into the world were pretty much the death knell on my size six figure. Oh well. Some people said I was too skinny back then, anyway.
So what am I doing, you ask? Who the heck cares if I'm turning fifty, or nineteen, or eighty-nine? It all seems a bit self-absorbed, doesn't it? Just trying to get my house in order, so to speak. I've been busy the past several weeks trying to get my home, my literal home, organized; throwing out old paperwork, packing up and giving old clothes and books to charity, scrubbing floors and washing windows.
Perhaps it's also time to get my physical and emotional house in order.