So About That Training Thing...

Originally posted Tuesday, November 22, 2016

When I first started this blog, my intent was to track my successes and failures training for a 5K run. I would follow the trusty Couch to 5K training program and in no time at all I would be a runner! There was only one problem: my body. It didn't want to cooperate with my surefire plan. Like, at all.

I think I've attempted the Couch to 5K ramp-up three times. Each time, one of my body parts said: "uh-uh, fool." One time it was a foot. The other two times, a knee. And all three times, my brain fought me tooth-and-nail.

Apparently, I do not have the mentality to be a runner. Despite my romantic desire to be a runner.

So out the window went the original intent of Life In Training. That's not to say I gave up on my fitness...erm, goals (I use the term loosely) but just as we all must adapt to our physical limitations, so did this space.

I've belonged to the local YMCA for close to eight years now. Attendance was irregular, as the demands of work and home ebbed and flowed. Once I was no longer working outside of the home, I was able to get back in with some regularity.

I'm not sure who recommended it, or if I just stumbled upon it, but around Thanksgiving three years ago, I took a Circuit Training class. I'd been introduced to the concept of circuit training some years earlier, although in an open-gym environment, it was nearly impossible to execute. Inevitably some rando was on the next weight machine in my circuit, using it at his leisure. Plus, the bit about alternating between cardio and weight training exercises was never really a mental hurdle I could surmount (Yep, I'm totally going to run in place here for 45 seconds before moving on to the next station that's being eyeballed by that random dude over there. Totally.)

But this Circuit class blocks off the entire hour (I think at the time, it was more like 45 minutes) to use the area in the gym. So if you want to use the equipment in the area, you join the class or wait until it's over. If some rando is in the way, he gets the boot! And it forces the alternating issue because that's how we do! And it was in no way intimidating like some group fitness can be.

I became a devotee for awhile. After awhile, the trainer who spearheaded the Circuit class at the Y talked my into trying the Tabata/High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT) class, which was even shorter in duration and the first time I took it almost puked (so you know it had to be good!) But timing was an issue so it didn't stick.

Then a wave of introversion engulfed me, during which I didn't much feel like being in a group fitness setting. Because group = social and I was not feeling it. And then too much life happened and things just didn't work out (ultimately, yours truly) and before I knew it was 2016 and I spent the greater part of the late winter/early spring in a dark corner of my mind, but vowed to pull myself out after Easter. You know, like resurrect some dead part of me. You know, like, WWJD?

So April 4th was the day. I got myself to the Y and took what was formerly a bootcamp class, re-branded as Outside the Box (OTB), and earmarked as a track to Crossfit. And it was good. Really fucking hard, but good. Come the end of the month, I let another OTB'er talk me into another Crossfit track class: Body Conditioning.

"It's [trainer's] birthday. It'll be fun!" she said. It was not and she apologized for her naivety, but I survived and even came back to it on Fridays.

Life started interfering again, as it does, so I'm not able to show up as much as I would like. But throughout this process--this training, I have of course become physically stronger, as expected. What I didn't expect was how it would strengthen me from the inside. To have people I hardly knew cheering for me and at times running along side of me, long after their workout is complete, as I am routinely the last person finishing the most grueling of workouts. And it has built and strengthened a number of friendships as we slog through day after day, week after week.

So today, I am thankful for my YMCA. For the community that I have found there and the challenges that I have faced there. Even if I still haven't metamorphosed into that runner I always fantasized about.

Paradoxes: Hiding and Holding

I am participating in Tara-Nicholle Nelson's 30 Day Writing Challenge for Conscious Leaders. Today's prompt concerned fears, longings, anxieties, desires.

Back in the spring, shortly after saying goodbye to Kristy, I sat with a friend, his arm holding me together around my shoulders, my head on his. And I asked him for his help with something. I asked him to remind me to stop being afraid to live my life.

Which maybe sounds silly. I mean, you are alive, therefore you are living. You know, your life.

But so many of my decisions in life have been motivated by fear. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of missing out (my FOMO could easily have a life of its own!) Fear of being alone. Fear of being judged. Fear of being forgotten. I won’t go on.

I remember about six months before Fella and I were to be married, I had what might have appeared to be a cold-feet moment. I had been thinking about my adult life up to that point and realized that outside of college and grad school, I had never truly lived on my own. Not without either benefactors or financing to cover the costs of living.

The FOMO got the best of me and I started looking for short-term leases with a friend. When I told Fella about it, he asked if I wanted to postpone our plans. That scared me more than the FOMO on my Real Life Sex and the Suburbs experience.

One fear outweighed the other; fear triumphed over fear. The theme is recurring.

This year, I hid from making scary life decisions. I keep hoping that the Universe will make the decision for me, or at least easy for me. But when the paradox of choice is fueled by conflicting interests--when I don’t make it easy for the Universe--it is paralyzed, too.

Which fear feels lighter than the other? Which fear can these shoulders bear?

The reality is, though, I’m juggling many fears. Because I’m afraid of what will happen if I let even one of those fears drop. Will it shatter? Will it ricochet and cause collateral damage? Can I live a life where fear is not my main motivation? Will life just get scarier? Even worse: not at all scary?!

Exhale.

My Contracts professor would weave a story from his childhood into his lectures. A shy boy, on his way home one day, carrying his prized violin, some thugs--hoodlums--bullies, preying on low hanging fruit, gave him the choice: “my money or my life. MY MONEY or MY LIFE! Given these two options, I chose the third option: I RAN!”

While I’m certainly not in the proverbial gun-to-my-head situation, I am paralyzed to choose between the two options I see before me. So I wait. I wait for that Third Option to show itself. I wait for my I RAN moment.

That Motherhood Instinct

Motherhood.

The call to it came early for me. And I’m not entirely sure what the impetus was. Whether I wanted so badly to be a mother because at the time society still revered it? Or whether it was my intrinsic, innate survival instinct to procreate?

But I certainly had more than enough time to sufficiently set my fixation on it.

And when it came...boy howdy, babies are like way better than the best drug I ever tried (theoretically, of course, for my kids who may one day read this).

But now my kids aren’t babies anymore and my withdrawaling mind wanders to thoughts of how I got here, to my most coveted spot on the pedestal that I held in such high regard for so long?

I’ve written before about my struggles to even so much as like myself (update: the struggle endures). And now I have two genetic copies of me to face on the daily. How did I ever have the audacity to want to recreate myself, this person whom I still have difficulty not, you know, harboring a deep sense of loathing towards?

I’m confident that most some of it stemmed from an ego developed in my teens (of course) - that I could do it better. Give more, encourage more, allow more, say “yes” more (lol!). Let my kids become instead of forcing them into ill-fitting, society-approved, security-assured boxes.

But there were so many red flags along the way. And I assumed that because I had my doubts, or put conditions on when it was OK to have kids, that maybe it made me more qualified for the job. Because I was, you know, thoughtful about it.

And what I’ve found in practice is that I had zero actual concept of what it takes to be a mother.

Sure, sure. I’m not a bad mom. My kids are housed and clothed and fed and loved. And, sure, sure, that makes me a good mom.

So why do I still constantly feel like such an abject failure at motherhood?

Maybe it’s because there are these two externally viable pieces of me running around and, as much as I love them, I wonder if I fully do. Because they are me. And like some mad scientist, I made more of me to harbor a deep sense of loathing towards. And if I can’t fully love the me that’s contained in this one body I was given at birth how could I possibly begin to love those two little people as much as they deserve to be loved?

Perhaps that’s the answer: knowing that they deserve better love than I give myself. And someday, because I have loved them better, I will love myself better, too.

When October Goes

I was in Ulta earlier this week when I realized: it's October.

Not just October, but, you know, OCTOBER. The pink ribbon wearing, socially conscious and evolved, cause-marketing machine October.

I went about my business, stood in line, and towards the end of the transaction was asked: would you like to round up your total to donate to the BCRF? YES/NO.

You guys, I saw pink. And not just because the whole fucking store has been pinkwashed to mark the occasion.

It took all I had to not give my proverbial middle finger to the corporate machine by indignantly telling the poor girl just trying to work the cash wrap that I have given enough to breast cancer research this year when six months ago one of my best friends died from it, while choking back the tears wishing I could have done more, given more, anything more so she would still be alive.

Instead, I quietly picked up the stylus to respond to the touch screen in the negative, paid for my purchases, and went about my day, albeit a fuck-ton more aware of the void.

It used to be that I didn't mind Breast Cancer Awareness Month. In fact, I wanted all the pink NFL gear and pink ribbon leggings and someday I would do this run or that walk or some other thing that there was to offer to the cause.

You see, I am also the daughter of a Stage 3 breast cancer survivor. When my mom was going through her surgery, recovery, and treatments, I was back living at home, between bar exams, surfing various temp jobs, and making sure that she, the queen of overdoing it, didn't in fact overdo it. Because she absolutely would have.

I've been on the front lines of this breast cancer bullshit and I cannot quite get right about the commodification of curing it. It should have been enough already, but it didn't do enough to save my friend earlier this year.

So yeah. I apologize, October. It's not you, it's definitely me. We'll try this again next year, I'm sure. But until then, I will not be sad to see you and your bubblegum pink halo effect in the rear view this time around.

Two Truths and a Lie

Yesterday, I told my daughter a lie. She was acting up at bedtime and that's when it happened. I told her, “this is not how I want our time together to be after I've been away from you all day and I missed you.”

Truth #1: Not how I want to spend our time together

Miss Thing was exhausted. The day was spent with her grandparents (i.e., overindulged) and included a swim lesson. It's a lot for her little four year old self, no matter how sassy and independent she might be.

She was at critical mass--the point where all she could do was fight the sleep descending upon her, chasing the adrenaline dragon in hopes of stealing more awake time. Wiggly and nonsensical and babble-y and insensitive.

All I wanted was a calm, heartwarming bedtime snuggle. Clearly, I ask too much.

Truth #2: After I have been away from you all day

I had spent the day in wine country. Being a goddamned grown up, FFS. Not that I'm not being a grown up when I'm filling in for the role of Mom, but, y’know, doing grown-up only things. Drinking wine and eating a meal at my leisure. Going to the bathroom uninterrupted. Because suddenly, out of the clear blue nowhere, I turned 40 this week. The fuck all is this about?!

Lie: I missed you

I remember the early years of being a mom, when being near these excised little human pieces of me was the only way I could feel whole. Being apart from them was almost more than my heart could bear. It's a wonder I only got one speeding ticket while I was still working, seeing as I became possessed by some lead-pawed mama bear when it was time to slide down the dinosaur each day. Must. Get. Home. To. Babies. Like a freaking siren's call.

And now? Now they're always there. Two proverbial monkeys on my back (sometimes quite literally).

It's not as though I didn't think about my kids while I was reveling in my grown-up-ed-ness (and old agedness) over unoaked Chardonnay. But when I soberingly found my way back to them, I instead found I hadn't been away from them long enough.

To miss them, that is.

Of course the little voice in my head echoes the lamentations of all the “seasoned moms” you ever meet, warning: “Enjoy this time. They grow up so fast.”

But what about absence making the heart grow fonder? I mean, there's some absolute truth in that. At least from where I'm stranding.

Ramblin' Man

Hi.

Happy New Year.

How are you?

Me? I'm okay. I miss you. This. I've tried to sit down to write for no less than 5 times this week alone, but find myself unable to take (make?) the time.

Maybe it's because I've got a whole lot of things jumbled and swirling in my head. Maybe I'm a little concerned about what happens when I do get it out. I would imagine, though, the best solution for such a problem would be to, like, actually get it the fuck out of there and then cross that bridge, as they say.

I know this much to be true.

So I went to a meeting tonight and instead of going straight home I'm at Starbucks, getting, at the very least, this out.  In hopes that it will cause something resembling a spark.

I read something the other day about living like you only had three months left to live. Like, as a rule of thumb. I envy the people who can live like this. You know, the laid back people.

One of the funniest pieces of feedback I ever received in a performance review, back in the days when I was still working outside of the home, was that I was a laid back. It took all I had not to laugh in my boss' face.

Hilarious, right?

I mean, I can fake it pretty well. And let's be real here, "fake it 'til you make it" is my penultimate mantra. But I am FAR from laid back. Nor am I your textbook Type-A personality, although I have my moments. I definitely have a quiet confidence that things will get things handled (even if it is at the last fucking moment possible).

I believe on a previous occasion or two, I have called myself an over-achiever-perfectionist-slacker (emphasis on the slacker). At first I thought that, reduced down, this was driven by a fear of failing. Even though it manifests as a fear of succeeding. Thinking back to that time I had a bar exam tutor, maybe it's actually a fear of having no more excuses?!

IDFK. This is getting too deep for my atrophied mind.

So there. I've broken the seal. Let's hope there's a flood of words down the pike.

And high fives for sticking with me. Also, apologies.

I Gotta Have Faith

Earlier tonight, we went out for some family fun. I use the term "fun" loosely because (and I think I've mentioned this before) we really don't do fun things. We may attempt to have fun now and again, but ultimately our (my?) dreams of having fun come crashing down upon us.

For instance. Tonight we went to a tree lighting ceremony. Not in our city, but a neighboring town where the Mayor attends school. So it's kind of our community, but totally not our community. We went because of the former, not the latter.

I've been to (and performed in) many a tree lightings in my day, but this was the first time we've gone to this particular event. In fact, it was our first official tree lighting as a family (on account of not doing the fun things). So none of us knew what to expect or where to even be exactly. But thankfully the town is small and even if you happen to be in the wrong place, you're a stone's throw from the right place.

Nevertheless. The kids needed dinner. So after getting the lay of the land, we went to the pizza place in the center of town and got back to the park with time to spare (and eat pizza). Then some school kids (including my favorite Fourth grader who requests to have my cupcakes for her birthday) sang before the man, the mystery, the legend himself, Santa showed up!

Miss Thing could not even. By the end of the evening, I figured out that she is in-part shy/apprehensive about Santa and in-part confused about him even being there (I mean, doesn't he have a workshop to be attending to up in the North Pole?! And his sleigh shouldn't be down here, it belongs in the sky! AND WHERE IN THE EVERLOVING FUCK ARE HIS REINDEER?!)

So off the cuff comes the narrative of how at this time of year, Santa is an emissary of sorts, on his Christmas PR campaign/press tour, making visits at shopping malls and tree lightings and other special events. Shaking hands and kissing babies.

BUT WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE REINDEER?!?!?

Oh, well...they are, of course, stashed away somewhere...safe! And...secret! And grassy, so they can rest and refuel. But of course!

Crisis averted. But MT was--is still clearly agitated by the whole experience. And not having the fun.

Then there was the Mayor. Fun repudiated after there was a run on the donut holes before he could get any. The humanity! (Though, when pressed, he *might* have had a little fun despite being donutless).

And as my kids were finding anything they could criticize about our attempted funning, I'm looking around at other kids being kids and other parents being... unworried about their engagement  in shenanigans in complete darkness, not to mention in public! 

And I thought: this. This right here is my problem. Maybe if we just did more of these things, it wouldn't be so foreign to any of us. And we could actually enjoy doing them. Instead of dreading all of the potential hardships (tantrums, bedtime, lawsuits) that come with the trying to do fun things. Maybe if I just put a little more faith in my kids, maybe they would surprise me a little more and we might actually have the fun?

So...

Dear Santa,

For Christmas this year, I would like for you to show the door to my inner Nervous Nellie, Debbie Downer, and Negative Nancy. I need some time off from them.

Faithfully yours,
#FunMom

November Has Come When It's Gone Away

It's here! It's here! It's finally here!!!

Are most of us doing the same thing? Writing this celebratory post on today, the last day of NaBloPoMo?!

I've attempted this challenge at least three times, completing it just two of them (although last time there was one day that the post didn't quite make the posting deadline). Last time, I put a lot of mental pressure on myself to perform and I think that caused me to freeze up a few of the days. This year, I tried to keep things more organic as the crunchy types might say. I also didn't feel terrible when I was a little blocked/too busy and had to post content that was not something I wrote.

When the end came in 2014, the first time I crossed the finish line, I was SO relieved. But also SO worried about the rubber band effect. That pulling myself so taut for the month would cause the equal and opposite reaction. And it basically did. I tried to pull myself out of it a few months later, but the well was dry.

Many expert writers say: write everyday. Make it a habit. While you're at it, write no less than a set amout, even if it's repeating the same word to fill up that space. Some days all you will end up with is the same word repeated. Others, it will blossom into a groundswell of words. Words that, strung together, amount to something of consequence. Those are the best days.

So where does this last day of NaBloPoMo leave me? It leaves me 30 days into this daily habit (isn't the rule of thumb that it takes 21 days to form a habit?!) Which doesn't feel much like a habit when I think on it, but it also hasn't felt like perhaps I've felt in the past. And I don't feel

I won't promise a post every day from here on out. But I certainly want to promise myself to keep cultivating my craft (humor me here) and sometimes, you know, seeking your validation. I mean, sharing.

First It Giveth, Then It Taketh Away

All day I was thinking about how I was going to write today's post about Giving Tuesday and the importance of community service and voluntarism. Yet here I sit to finally write and I'm all out of love.

So here's the deal: the children took everything I had to give today. And maybe then some. I may have muttered things about my kids that I don't really mean, but are nevertheless true. Like, things you don't think moms have the capacity to think about their spawn because feelings and hormones and bonds.

But I thought them and felt them and meant them. And of course I harbor guilt about it because moms aren't supposed to be, you know, human when it comes to her children, right? They are supposed to be superhuman, right? Always showering her progeny with love despite their foibles, defects, and peculiarities.

All I seem to be able to deliver are my own foibles, defects, and peculiarities in spades. As lovingly as my yelling can get.

So I wonder if I feel as I do because I see these flaws reflected back at me in my kids. And I think, "omg, what have I done?!" But at the same time, I wonder in earnest: "who are you and where did you come from?!" Because there is so much that I also don't recognize as me.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think that raising kids would be so damned adversarial. Man vs. Man (or kid, whatever); Man vs. Self; Man vs. Nature. Man vs. Dinner and Laundry and Bedtime.

So tonight, I gave up a little. Because I had nothing left to give. Sometimes I even wonder if that's not at the heart of my problem: that I don't give up enough.

I guess I'll have to give it another go tomorrow.

Are Those Leftovers in Your Meatloaf or...?

If you're looking for things to do with your Thanksgiving leftovers, look no further, Well, you can probably look further, but here's something to add to your arsenal: Turkey Meatloaf.

Now that I say that out loud, it sounds really dull. Maybe a little unappetizing, even? It has never occurred to me to come up with something catchier. Even though I've been making this meatloaf for a few years now.  Here's the background:

One year, I'm guessing the very first Thanksgiving I ever hosted, I over-estimated the amount of stuffing I needed to serve. (An aside: what do you call it: stuffing or dressing?) But stuffing was always my favorite, so how could it go wrong? Well, a double batch of stuffing is, I am sad to admit, bordering on wrong.

We had conventional leftovers. I made (and froze) Stuffin' Muffins for days. Yet, there still seemed to be an endless supply of stuffing in my fridge. Then, brilliance struck:

Too Much Leftover Stuffing Turkey Meatloaf
(Am I getting catchier? Maybe the acronym: TMLSTM?)

1 lb ground turkey
1 1/2 cup stuffing, premade
3 Tbsp gravy
1 tsp poultry seasoning
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
1 egg
1 Tbsp brown mustard
For topping:
1/2 cup cranberry sauce
2 Tbsp brown mustard 

Preheat oven to 350*. Combine all ingredients. Form into a loaf and place in loaf pan. Top with cranberry mixture. Bake for an hour.

Ain't no Pyrex like vintage Pyrex...

'Cause vintage Pyrex don't stop!

Serve with traditional sides: the Thanksgiving kind (goodness knows we still have some left over) or the meatloaf kind, which may or may not have some overlap, right Mashed Potatoes?

Since the year that saw no end to stuffering, a single batch of stuffing has been more than enough for our leftover needs. Including this family favorite. Stuffing Meatloaf? Thanksgiving in a Meatloaf? Give Thanks for Leftovers Meatloaf?

No Future for You

I guess I was only 4 years old when Lady Diana took that long walk down the aisle of Westminster Abbey. So I'm not sure if my memories of it were from witnessing it on TV, or from seeing footage of it as I got older. But, like any redblooded girl spoonfed Disney fairytales, I was captivated by royalty. I mean, that dress, with that train and those jewels...oh mah gaw!

It should be no surprise that I am digging the Netflix series The Crown. It puts royalty in a different perspective for mere mortals (not to mention Americans). It sheds light on a lot of the poop-a-doop that those stuffy British folk hold dear.

I also enjoy seeing HRH portrayed as a human (even if her coronation imbues divinity to her position). With doubts and foibles and strengths and weaknesses. Ugh and the pressure!

It also acts as a mirror to our own American system. George Washington refused to take the title of King, for good reason. But is our federal government really much different than the British sans a monarchy?

Of course there are stark differences, but haven't we all heard the anecdote of the freshman senator/congressman learning things the hard way? Because that's not how things are done around here?

I'm all for tradition, but at what expense?

This went in a completely different direction than I thought it was going. Anyway, I couldn't help but thinking. And I suppose this calls for a rousing God save the Queen? If you're so inclined? Maybe just the Sex Pistols, then.

Just L-I-V-I-N

There is nothing better than recieving positive reinforcement directly from the object of a parent's toil.

Like today, after I returned from a breakfast date with friends. Miss Thing emerged from her room from what I thought was her nap (it wasn't) and says:

"Moooooom. What are you doing here?!"

Just L-I-V-I-N. No biggie.

Then at dinner, she composed this little Ode to her Parents:

You're nice to us
But you yell
And shout
And scream
But you're nice to us
But you yell
And shout
And scream.

So I've got that going for me. Which is nice?

Perhaps it's a sign of her prodigious sense if humor. Or the beginnings of a fruitful songwriting career. I mean, I can't even begin to imagine what else it could mean otherwise.

Same Auld Lang Syne

Today I am thankful the Thanksgiving is over. Not that we ought to forget the things we are thankful for, but all the pomp and circumstance that goes along with the Day. Despite how much I like doing it.

I'm also thankful it's over because it means we have clearance to come out of hiding and officially get our Christmas on! I've been listening to Christmas all day (Michael Bublé should be getting PLENTY of royalties this year, if Pandora is any indication). And wearing Christmas on my legs. And feeling all warm and nostalgically Christmas in my soul.

I mean...[shrugs shoulders] Christmas is cool, I guess.

It also means that the Fogelberg Alert System has officially been upgraded to SEVERE. As in, there is a severe risk that hearing Same Auld Lang Syne will render me unable to continue with my regularly scheduled program until I have sobbed uncontrollably over lost love and the anticipation of an illusory reunion.

No, I do not live vicariously through this song.

Ok, maybe a little.

The snow turns into rain, you guys. GAH!!!

ThanksGiving

Growing up, my mom (who was one of four kids) was the hostess for Thanksgiving. She hosted quite a crowd. When we moved to California, nothing changed in the hostess department, except the crowd dwindled to just us four.

The Thanksgiving after I was married, I offered to host. And this change in tradition has stuck (save for the year the Mayor was born, when we were so utterly racked by our perinatal complications that I couldn't even).

I think it was strange for my mom at first, but she cones bearing a pie and homemade dinner rolls and seems to have grown to enjoy the freedom from doing all of the holidays. Besides, she has a pretty big Christmas Eve smorgiebob to work up to in a few short weeks.

But I am thankful that I am able to take over from her, carrying on her tradition,  and have the opportunity to pass it on to my kids, as well.

Hey Sister, Go Sister, Soul Sister, Go Sister

Sisters, I'm told, have special bonds. Like many others, I was not lucky enough to be blessed with biological sisters, so I have spent my life seeking my sistren.

My first sistren are by circumstance of birth: my cousins. On my mom's side, I am one of two granddaughters. My cousin was the first grandchild, so the role of big sister was, well, her birthright. And she was the coolest big sister ever, giving me my first fake ID at the tender age of six, if memory serves. On my dad's side, I have two older cousins and I was always awed by their grace.

The next sisters-by-chance came into my life as a toddler: friends from the neighborhood. There were three of us, one just a few houses down from mine, another around the corner, and the third a few blocks away. These were the sisters were there for me starting from at least as early as my 2nd birthday party (maybe earlier) and on.

Unfortunately, our move to California took me away from these surrogate sisters.

After the move, it became more difficult for me to make these sisterly bonds. My friends seemed to change from grade-to-grade throughout elementary, middle, and most of high school, although there were a few constants.

Come time for college, I thought I was destined to forge that sisterly bond with my roommate. And while she is still very much like a sister to me, she had already been there, done that with the whole Freshman experience and was gone before the year was even half over.

So I did what any ship without a rudder would do, but participate in a formalized mutual selection of sisterhood otherwise known as Panhellenic Rush. And I found a group of sisters with whom I shared a lot of good times. They were one of the main reasons I stayed in school for as long as I did.

But once I was dropped out from college and back home, I hooked back up with a few sisters from high school, one of which became my main sister in crime (i.e., shenanigans, not actual crime). She and I grew our sisterhood by two more shenanigan-seeking sisters whom we met at a bar. And with their preexisting sisterhoods, grew it even further. Along the way, we even gained a sister through an ex-boyfriend.

And that's about where a sisterhood was gilded. The core five of us all have our satellite sisters, some who have been around awhile, others who come and go as life happens.

No matter how gold or silver my sisters may be, it is they whom I am thankful for today. I would not be the woman I am today without them.

New Friends and Old Friends

Make new friends, but keep the old,

Those are silver, these are gold.

New-made friendships, like new wine,

Age will mellow and refine.

Friendships that have stood the test

time and change are surely best;

Brow may wrinkle, hair grow gray,

Friendship never knows decay.

For 'mid old friends tried and true,

Once more we our youth renew.

But old friends, alas may die,

New friends must their place supply.

Cherish friendship in your breast

New is good, but old is best;

Make new friends, but keep the old;

Those are silver, these are gold.

~Joseph Parry

Mondays are my usual grocery shopping day. The Big Shop, as I commonly call it. Although depending on the completeness of the weekly menu, or forgetfulness of the Shopper in Chief, or just because reasons, you'll probably find me shopping Thursdays, as well. Perhaps an ocassional Friday or Saturday. Sunday if I'm desperate for dinner ideas that aren't takeout. Basically on an as-needed basis.

Over the years, I have become something of a Trader Joe's loyalist. And when we first moved to our house, I was hesitant to change stores. The extra half mile to go to my old store seemed like NBD versus having to deal with such a monumental life change!

I mean, new employees to have to get used to. I was, after all, a child brought up on Safety Town and Stranger Danger, I'll have you know. I wasn't BFF's with anyone at the old store, but the faces were familiar and that was OK by me.

Learning the lay of the land of a new store? No thanks. FFS, I can't hardly keep up with the constant changes in a familiar store, let alone a new one.

And then as luck would have it, a familiar face arrived at the new store. We hadn't talked in years and I couldn't exactly recall what sort of awkward terms we may or may not have been on. But inevitably, we reconnected and she became a driving force to embracing the new store.

And I could not be more thankful!

Yes. Silly as it sounds, I am thankful for my grocery store.

One slow Thursday morning, they greeted me like Norm walking into Cheers. And in the solitude of being a SAHM, that gesture was everything. The people there have become, dare I say, friends. I look forward to our banter and repartee, which on ocassion has continued after hours.

Among many, they have chosen to support my charitable efforts when they didn't have to. Which is not only a testament to their culture, but their dedication to the community and their customers.

The Mayor was just over a year when we moved. I did my last Big Shop between contractions before Miss Thing was born.  There was no judgment during the very lean times after I quit my job and we were juggling two mortgages. There was help when I look in my wallet and wonder where that twenty I thought I had went (in the the gas tank). We've been through a lot together now.

So my grocery store is more than just the neighborhood Trader Joe's; it is, to a degree, an extension of my village.

So thanks, Store 83. You're tops. Plus, you're a half mile closer to my house. Which, as it turns out, is a very big deal.

November Rain

It kinda feels like today was a banner day. Actually, it was kind of a banner weekend.

I got shit done!

My house is basically Thanksgiving ready.

The kids hardly batted an eye while I did it. Which also means they hardly lifted a finger to help, but that's neither here nor there. They were not too rowdy, not too suspiciously quiet and did not require my constant intervention.

I let them play in the rain. As long as they wanted to, which was until starvation and hypothermia started to set in.

I got to host a boutique and play dress-up with friends that stopped by! Friends who didn't give me the side eye for having painter's tape up everywhere, which has basically become the signature wall treatment in my hall, it's been there so long.

And don't tell, but there might have been Christmas music playing.

I got to save an unsuspecting mom from an unnecessary schlep to school in the morning. Because (and stop me if I've mentioned this before) the kids have NO school for the entire week.

My car is in the garage! No one can get in either it or the clothes dryer, but still.

So yeah. A good one indeed.

It's no secret that becoming a mother changes you. There are the obvious ways, both physical and emotional. Recently, a seasoned mom, whose kids have already dry aged for 18 years, remarked how once she became a mom, she never really sleep the same again. Which got me wondering: will I ever think the way I used to again? Or rather, no longer think the way I do now?

We all talk about Baby Brain when pregnant, the phenomenon where becoming host to another human renders the brain less effective. Which, of course, morphs into Mommy Brain, because the synapses still don't fire quite the same as before kids. It sucks constantly losing words you need mid-sentence.

But ever since the Mayor was a born, I've silently suffered what can best be described as the disturbing spawn of day dreams and nightmares. Day-mares? That makes it sound more innocuous than the reality playing out in my head.

For the first few months, the thoughts were constant. I thought of every conceivable awful scenario that could happen to my boy. If you've seen it dramatized on Law & Order SVU or Criminal Minds, I imaginied worse, and it actually happening to my child.

Over time, the thoughts became fewer and farther between. They rushed back a bit after Miss Thing was born, but were not quite as intense as they had been initially.

But during bath time earlier this evening, MT contorted herself at a strange angle and--WOOSH! There went my over-active  imagination thinking unspeakable thoughts again.

It wasn't like she was tap dancing on the edge of the slippery tub, an obvious ticket to splitting open one's head. She was just positioned in the tub oddly and all I could think was:

OMG what if the worst possible thing you could ever conceivably think of happened right now?!

So I left the room to shake off the heebie jeebies I had just involuntarily evoked and wondered if this is normal? Do all moms have such...dark thoughts, too? Will I ever stop having these disturbing flashes? Like my seasoned mom friend, will I ever get back to thinking only about puppy dogs and ice cream again? I mean, *if* that were my default state of thinking, which of course it's not, but...NEITHER IS THIS!

Of all the changes I thought motherhood would bring, this one never crossed my mind.

When I Was Your Age...

Remember when Thanksgiving Break meant two, maybe three days off from school (plus the weekend)?!

The Mayor has nine days off. Nine. (Imagining that in the voice of Principal Ed Rooney makes it marginally palatable). And if we're getting technical here, Miss Thing is off for 11 days, but, I mean, it's Preschool. So... WGAF. Except for me.

I assume this is pandemic, that our kids no longer have to agonize through those pre-holiday lame duck days?

I probably ought to be glad that I don't have to shuttle these little humans all over tarnation next week. I probably ought to actually be glad that I get more QT with those same humans for whom I have creative culpability. I ought to be glad that I'll get to do all the gym things next week. At some point next week, #FunMom ought to make an appearance.

But I'm tired AF tonight, so I'm going to sit in hiding and bemoan that their whole week off means I have to do all the stuff I have to do next week with two dead (but very much alive) weights around my neck. And wallow in that it's not just the normal stuff, but all the get-ready-to-host-people- for-a-holiday stuff! Lastly, I'm going go ahead and feel sorry for myself because the cherry on top is rain. All damn weekend.

I know, I know. There's a support group called everybody; meetings are at the bar. If only!

And You May Find Yourself In A Beautiful House

I sorta breezed over this point in yesterday's post, but I'm a little bit of a disorganized mess right now. Most of the time I blame it on having too little space. Or too little time.

Truth is I'm just plain overwhelmed.

Now don't misunderstand, I watch Hoarders and the like and realize my house is put together AF in comparison. But the bottom line is that the way I have always done things does not work anymore.

My name is Michelle and I'm a piler.

A little pile here, one over there, and neatly separated piles for each person in the dump zone because everybody puts there stuff here and it needs some semblance of order (and it is assumed to all belong to me otherwise). And if I need something from my piles, rest assured I know which pile it is filed among.

And here's where I probably ought to admit: I also have a paper problem.

It's no wonder I went into law. I mean, have you seen how much paper those people go through? And have to keep for a stipulated period of time if not in perpituity?! Swoon.

So piles worked when I lived alone or didn't have to commingle personalty. You know what it doesn't jive with?

Grown-up living spaces (and, you know, minimalist design aesthetics).

You know what else it really doesn't jive with?

Fucking kids.

They touch everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.

So one take away that I don't get from watching Hoarders is actual advice that translates to my (totally normal, not at all hoarding, I swear) situation. So a long time back I bought Peter Walsh's book: It's All Too Much.

The title is dead accurate because apparently it's too much to even read the damned thing, which I still haven't done.

But with everybody going and KonMari-ing the crap out of their, well, crap, I took the plunge and checked out her book from the library. And read it. Well, most of it, before my loan ended (but I am back on the wait list and determined to finish it). I have already started to use her clothes-folding method, which I thought was ridiculous in theory, but in practice it's kinda life-changing.

So I've gotten to the step where I can admit: I probably have too much stuff in general, let alone paper specifically.

I also attended a seminar with a local pro-organizer called De-Clutter to De-Stress.

I took away a few good points from her presentation:

1. Strive for excellence, rather than perfection. Sometimes I forget that the two are actually different standards. So instead of needing the perfect solution, I merely need an excellent one (or, let's face it, the one that works right now).

2. On a scale of 1 to 10, love your clothes between 7 and 10. This is a tricky one. I have clothes that definitely fall outside of this range, but because replacing them is not an option, I hold them. At least I don't have clothes I hold onto in hopes that they will fit me someday anymore.

3. Paper [insert dramatic music here] Most paper of mere mortals, such as myself, only needs to be retained for 3 years, including taxes. Hold if it pertains to a pending dispute. You guys, I just yesterday ditched some old medical records that were more than 3 years old. Boss!

4. Tips on how to sort and organize. Honestly, I'm looking at my notes and don't know exactly the context. I'll update if it come back to me.

5. More paper tips. Use three folders: a) To Do Now, within 30 days; b) To Pay, actionable items; and c) To Do, whenevs. I realize that last one is a slippery slope, but that's what my notes say. Regardless, this was a light bulb moment during which I could imagine all those papers and bills in the drop zone lining up and marching into their appropriate folders. This might be the next system that I implement.

So now that I have permission to lower my expectations of myself, perhaps I can figure out what the fuck sparks my joy and make some headway in this whole living like a grown-up business. And maybe, just maybe, my kids will follow suit. Because they certainly do now.