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My Own Private Christmas

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This is the day I’ve been waiting for. Two days before Christmas. Christmas Eve Eve if you will. Today I sleep until the Lord wakes me (instead of the alarm clock) then curl up with a nice, warm, artery-clogging breakfast, a good cup of joe and a cheesy Christmas movie… and Stanley, the cat. Naturally.

In my pajamas, wrapped in a soft blanket, the tree is twinkling and all of the presents beneath are wrapped in pretty paper, each topped off with a nice red bow. There is no more shopping to do. No more worrying about what to get and for whom. If they don’t like it… well… it’s too late now.

There are no parties to rush to or concerts and services to attend, therefore the Spanx, control top panty hose and tall leather boots are quietly stashed away in their respective closets and drawers. There is no fuss about a pair of flannel pants and old, college sweatshirt. There is no need for makeup. No one needs me today. And it is a thing of beauty.

Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve—when the family gatherings and church services begin—well, that will be another story. Today is what I like to call “My Own Private Christmas” with my own sacred practices and traditions. It is the gift that I give to myself… a chance to take a deep breath… and an opportunity to reflect on all of the beautiful people and things that make my life so full.

Were it not for all of them filling up the other 364 days of the year… there would be no need for a day like today.

Elf on the Shelf

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For as long as I can remember I have been afraid of clowns, puppets, marionettes, ventriloquist dummies and even claymation. I’m not sure why. Nothing traumatic happened when I was a child that caused this unusual phobia (that I know of). But nevertheless it is there. If I see any of those things on TV or out in the world… I freak out, avert my eyes or flee the scene as soon as possible. I am also unreasonably fearful of nutcrackers. I think they are the creepiest things on the planet next to spiders and Donald Trump. So as one might imagine, Christmas can be a little unsettling for me what with all those larger-than-life wooden figurines standing around the stores, people’s homes and showing up unannounced in Target commercials, etc, etc. just waiting to spring to life when everyone is asleep.

Enter “Elf on the Shelf”… created for parents to use as a “fun” tool to curb the naughty behavior of their offspring this time of year when the kiddos are running rampant all hopped up on candy canes and such.

To see the official “Elf on the Shelf” commercial, click here. 

The idea is that Santa has sent his very special, magical elf to the child’s house to watch their every move and report back each night when the children are asleep (you know, with the visions of the sugar plums and all that crap) to the North Pole whether the child has been naughty or nice. And every night the parents “move” the Elf to another location in the house so that the notion of him being real persists in the child’s imagination.

Is it just me (and my unnatural fear of inanimate-objects-come-to-life projected onto this “toy elf” sitting on a shelf in the house… watching your every move) or does this totally creep the hell out of anyone else? I mean, I shudder even as I type these words.

My friend Jan is using the “Elf” and has been kind enough to send me some pictures of him in her house. I will let you judge the creepiness-factor for yourself…

The "Elf" warming his little frostbitten buns on the toaster.

And while I happen to think that any toy of this nature could be considered cruel and unusual punishment for a child, apparently the kids don’t seem to mind it too much. Some of them actually enjoy it… like Brady, Jan’s son.

There is another breed of the “Elf on the Shelf” idea in a cuter, cuddlier character named Christopher Pop-in-kins. I learned of him when our marketing director, Gina, talked about her and her husband’s nightly adventures placing Christopher around the house. And yet, for every story she shared about the creative places Christopher had “popped up”… there was a hilarious story to match of her children, Dominick and Giavonna, being more than a little freaked about him and his magic, come-to-life abilities.

Christopher Pop-in-kins

To each his own, I suppose. I just know that had the “Elf on the Shelf” existed during my childhood years… I’d probably be on a therapy couch somewhere, muttering about magical elves… and obsessing over whether or not I’d been naughty or nice.

C'mon... this IS creepy, right?

Second Chances

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The year was 1985. It was the start of a new school year at Mary Irene Day Elementary School in Minerva, OH. And this was no ordinary year. At M.I. Day, the start of the 5th grade not only ushered in a new school year but a whole new brood of students from the tri-county area as well.

This was the year that all of the other kids from the smaller, more rural, K-4 schools joined the “townies” at the larger, local elementary. And let’s face it… Who likes outsiders anyway, right? This concept was particularly difficult for a bunch of bratty, pre-pubescent, middle-schoolers-in-training to deal with in a graceful manner.

But there I was, a little blonde girl who probably thought she was “all that” sporting a sassy new 80s get-up while unpacking my sharp #2 pencils, fresh notebooks and admiring the front of my new Trapper-Keeper. And there he was—reeking of new-kid-ness—a sheepish, chestnut-haired boy with kind brown eyes, turned backwards in his chair and staring right at me.

“Why don’t you take a picture. It will last longer!” I snapped at him in the nastiest pre-teen tone I could muster, trying to make my friends laugh and ease the heat that I felt rapidly spreading toward my face. He quickly ducked his head and turned away. I had obviously hurt his feelings by acting like such a little bitch.

Little did I know that 26 years later that same sheepish boy with the kind brown eyes—now a grown man with an even kinder spirit—would escort me to that same spot, kneel down in front of me and say: “A picture would have been nice, but I want something that lasts forever.”

It wasn’t easy for him to pin-point the exact spot where I’d hurled those hurtful words at him so many years before… but somehow he’d managed to pull it off. You see, our school had recently been torn down and a new one built in it’s place. But with an uncanny sense of direction and the assistance of Google Earth, Bing and Yahoo Maps… he found it. THE very spot where our 5th-grade classroom used to be was now the new playground.

The school as it looked in 1985.

A clever story about his role on the Building Leadership Team at the school where he teaches convinced me to go with him to the playground to do a little “research” for his district. Feeling like a kid again, I teased him about the brat I’d been back then and took a trip down the slide. He was waiting for me at the bottom poised to ask this life-altering question.

After a lot of tears and shouting “Yes, a million times yes!” we couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer amazement of how life works sometimes.

By the time we were in high school we had become great friends. Kindred spirits some might say. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I liked him. He was one of the good ones and we could talk about anything. We shared a taste in music, books, movies and deep conversation. We tried “dating” for awhile but I did not yet understand the importance of dating someone who was also a friend… so we parted as friends.

Off to college and separate adventures that would take us in completely opposite directions… To him, I was “the one that got away” when he read of my wedding announcement 4 years after graduation. And to me, years into a destructive and abusive marriage… he was “the good friend that I desperately wished I hadn’t taken for granted.”

By the time we met again at the age of 34, you could say that our lives—much like that old school building—had, over time, been completely torn down and reconstructed. We were different, and yet somehow exactly the same. And we realized that we’d been given the very rare gift of a second chance.

Since we first laid eyes on one another two years ago—after half our current lifetime had passed by—we have not looked back. Perhaps 26 years ago he saw something in that bratty little blonde, and thankfully he didn’t give up on me right then. Thankfully he stuck around and waited. Waited for something that would last longer than a picture. Something that would ultimately last forever.

When to Hold, When to Fold

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In this game we call Life, knowing when to hold’ em and knowing when to fold’ em is the million-dollar question. Just ask Kenny Rogers since he liked to sing about it so much.

From a very early age we are taught to never give up. Ever. No matter how hard things get, how rough the road, how choppy the sea, how sick you become at the thought of continuing on with… <insert your own perceived challenge here>, we must NEVER, EVER GIVE UP.

I can understand this logic as it applies to many things. When your child is struggling with Math and they just need to hang in there and give it some more time and effort. Or when a relationship hits a rocky patch (as inevitably happens) and both parties need to try a bit harder.

But sometimes I think this “NEVER GIVE UP” black and white thinking can cause us a lot of unnecessary anguish and trouble. Especially when something threatens our very wellbeing — mentally, physically or otherwise. Perhaps staying in a toxic or abusive environment for too long… or wasting precious years and energy on people incapable of change… investing heavily in endeavors that are seemingly bound for nowhere.

I think there are times when “folding”—as unpopular as it may sound in our highly-driven-claw-our-way-to-the-top society—is the healthiest choice we can make… regardless of what others think of us as a result. Times when tearing a page from Life’s Playbook, lighting it on fire and watching it burn is the best thing we can possibly do.

How do we know when that time has come? Well, your gut will have to tell you that. Everyone’s journey is different. But I can tell you from personal experience that when you’re miserable more than you are happy or you awaken daily beneath heavy blankets of depression, anxiety or fear… When the people who love you the most are the ones being consistently hurt by your inability to function as a loving, caring and giving human being… When you’ve completely forgotten the sound of your own laughter…

Maybe it’s time to fold.

Maybe it’s time to walk away, pick up a completely different deck of cards and start up a whole new game.

Through Green Eyes

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I’ll never forget the day one of my closest, sweetest friends lost it. It was during college and she had been going through a particularly rough break up.

It was evening and I was sitting next to Marcy on a couch in the lounge area of our dorm listening as she talked about her deep heartbreak at the ending of this valued relationship.

All of the sudden Tina, a mutual friend of ours from down the hall, burst through the double doors shrieking with excitement. Her boyfriend had just popped the question.

Normally, this sort of thing is of course… in Girl World… kind of a BIG deal. Something to be excited about and to join your newly-engaged friend by jumping up and down along side of her. Except that this time I was literally stuck in the middle. Happy for Tina’s wonderful news but sad for Marcy’s personal devastation.

I remember standing silently between them awkwardly looking from one to the other back and forth, back and forth like it was all happening in slow motion. Seriously. Could the timing of this thing have been ANY worse?

What happened next is burned in my brain. The memory of it is as fresh as though it had happened yesterday. Calm, cool-headed, mellow Marcy sprang from the couch and screamed with rage at the top of her voice. She had been holding a glass of water in her hand, and she threw it as hard as she could, smashing it on the opposite wall. I can still see the bits of shattered glass and water running slowly down the wall with startling clarity.

Tina, oblivious and shocked at what had just transpired, looked to me, her mouth gaping open… searching for an answer. When Marcy stormed off, I quickly told Tina what had happened while swiftly and half-heartedly congratulating her… then went running after the friend I felt needed me most.

More years than I care to acknowledge have since passed and Marcy and Tina are both happily married with beautiful families. But as I said before, the image of that night has stuck with me. You see, that was my first real confrontation with what some people like to call the “Green-Eyed Monster” of jealousy. A creature so vile, it can turn even the Meekest Marcy into a screaming, crying, glass-throwing banshee.

I’m ashamed to admit this but even though it was my first encounter, it most certainly hasn’t been my last. I have looked in the mirror many times only to find those same, wild, searing green eyes peering back at me. And I am not proud. Times when I should have been celebrating with my friends at their good fortune have been marred by my inability to see through that emerald shield.

What an ugly person I am when these eyes turn green. Two nights ago it happened when I learned that one of my dearest friends was expecting her second child. I thought I was over all of that childish jealousy crap, but apparently not. Obviously the green-eyed monster still has the ability to grab ahold of me and not let go until I’m sufficiently miserable.

Jealousy is an extremely dangerous emotion. Perhaps the most destructive of all. If we’re not careful how we handle it, all that will be left of us and our relationships will be bits of shattered lives… and tears silently running down the hallways of our hearts.

Jealousy… is a mental cancer. ~ B.C. Forbes

A Postcard from the Other Side

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So I said I’d see everyone on the “other side” when I signed off a little over a week ago to take my teensy blogcation. But you may be wondering… the other side of what? I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say it wasn’t a very good place.

It was ugly, dark, miserable and lonely. And worst of all, I put myself in this horrible place. I didn’t exactly go there willingly, but once I found myself stuck in the proverbial deep, dark forest… I didn’t really try very hard to get out.

Hence, the little vacation.

As most of you already know, creativity is a must when you’re writing and it’s REALLY hard to be creative when you feel imprisoned. As my mother said: Creativity comes from a place of freedom… and a bit ago I felt anything but free.

Nothing has changed. My life looks exactly the same today as it did then. But my mindset has changed. And that, my friends… changes everything.

Will I stay on this healthier side forever? Will I continue to tread the soil of this better, happier and safer side? Probably not. I’m sure I’ll occasionally wander back into the forest or at the very least skirt dangerously and precariously around the edge of it.

But I hope that from my self-imposed time-out, I will remember a few very important things…

~ I hold the pen that is writing the story of my life.

~ I choose the thoughts that play like recordings in my mind.

~ My very best will never be good enough for some. But that cannot mean that it isn’t still good enough for me.

Easier Than Nuclear Fission?

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It is with great hesitation, reservation, fear and trepidation that I put this out there for the world to see but I am just going to go for it. I need to make some changes. Some personal changes. Because let me tell you, the status quo is just not cutting it.

Einstein is credited with saying that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. In my mind, the genius of this quote is akin to splitting the atom.

The funny thing is that ALL of the stuff I struggle with could probably ALL be resolved by changing three simple things. They are… in exactly this order: going to bed on time, getting up earlier and exercising.

The fallout from these three actions—not unlike the dropping of an atomic device—has the potential to be far-reaching and long-lasting. One doesn’t have to be a nuclear physicist to understand that going to bed ON TIME would make GETTING UP EARLIER EASIER, hence having more early morning time to EXERCISE! Duh.

But still I fight it tooth and nail. There’s always a really good episode of Friends or Seinfeld or The New Adventures of Old Christine or the King of Queens or Chelsea Lately or… I KNOW… I WATCH A LOT OF DAMN TV. I GET IT.

Anyway, there’s that… or I want to read just ONE more chapter in my book… or paint my toenails some fabulous shade of purple that I just found at the local drug store… or I get a rare surge of energy and decide to organize my linen closet by color, shade and texture.

So… as you can see… I seem to have a lot of potential roadblocks on this journey toward self-improvement. And yet, as good old Al so clearly implied with his definition of insanity: If nothing changes, nothing changes. Detonating these three explosively-effective measures would inevitably begin a chain reaction that would knock down all sorts of barriers in my life.

I would look, feel and BE healthier for getting more sleep. I wouldn’t owe near as much money to my therapist or pharmacist for all the mental health rewards I’d be reaping as a result of my incredible self-discipline. I’d be able to comfortably wear those cute little tiny things in my closet that fit me once upon a time. My productivity on the job would sky rocket leading to promotions and bonuses and salary increases…

I’d be unstoppable.

So what then, is holding me back? With my finger planted ever-so-firmly on the button, why can’t I press down? Well, you see… tonight there’s this really good episode of Friends / Seinfeld / The New Adventures of Old Christine / King of Queens / Chelsea Lately and I’m almost done with my book… I’m behind on reading my magazines (which are really piling up)… the summer clothes need to be put away… and…

Dethroned

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This is Wrigley. Otherwise known as Wriggles, Wrigleyville or Mr. Wriggles. And this is his story.

Not long after my friend Jan got married and bought a house, she and her hubby—like many young couples—began to feel a growing void. As is typical with most newlyweds who put down roots and establish a home together, the need for “something more” takes a hold of them and they, in turn, take a trip to the local pet store.

Many sleepless nights, soiled and tattered towels, destroyed shoes, half-chewed squeaky toys and bottles of carpet cleaner later… they settle in with their newest addition and deem their squirmy little puppy the King of the Castle… Lord of the Manor… and Love of Their Lives.

They honestly don’t know how they ever got along without this furry bundle of joy and he becomes the center of their world… their baby. He is regularly walked, obscenely spoiled with designer toys and gourmet treats and taken to “Doggie Daycare” or the grandparents’ homes when mummy and daddy are away.

Fast-forward a couple of years. Biology has worked its magic and now there is a new sheriff in town. That’s right, folks. Procreation has occurred. You know the good ol’ perpetuation of the species and all that crap. A tiny new bundle has entered the home and nothing is ever the same. This one is hairless and cries constantly and unlike the furry variety, it seems to demand much, MUCH more attention.

And suddenly, without warning, the former King of the Castle is literally cast aside in order to make room. Chew toys, tug-of-war ropes and tennis balls are shoved into dark, dusty corners to make way for pack-n-plays, bouncy-chairs and activity mats.

Excuse me... Where are all of MY toys?

Zero sleep and constant feedings and changings have made mummy and daddy rather cranky and impatient and rendered the notion of a daily walk or a game of catch virtually impossible. Life feels as though it will never return to normal.

UGH. I personally don't see what all the fuss is about. I'm WAY cuter than she is. Aren't I?

I’ve seen Wrigley’s story play out time and time again as my friends have done their reproductive duty and multiplied. The animal—once so adored—has now become an object of scorn and frustration. During a recent visit to meet the newest human addition to my friend’s family, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Wrigley (I personally like to call him Mr. Wriggles). Me being a perplexed, non-parent, I asked my friend how it was possible for them “hate” their once-cherished pet.

“He’s annoying. He jumps too much, barks too loud and begs mercilessly for attention. We worry constantly that he’s going to wake the baby. He is just one more thing for us to deal with. Now that we have 2 kids, it feels like we actually have 3.” She answered.

At least she was honest.

They admitted to giving some consideration to the thought of handing Wrigley over to a neighboring family who could offer him more attention—but being the sometimes-optimist that I am—I see their oldest, Brady, approaching 3 and I believe that perhaps Mr. Wriggles will soon get back his throne. Maybe he will become King … (OK that’s reaching) make that Prince of Brady’s world. And before long, there will be someone to take walks and play catch with once again.

Um... Are you old enough to take me for a walk yet?

10 Signs You Might Be Spending Too Much Time on Facebook

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Are your family and friends using words like “intervention” or “excessive” or threatening to take your computer or smartphone away? Have you begun to neglect daily functions like bathing, eating and caring for your schoolwork, work/work, friends or family? If you answered yes to any of the previous questions… You MIGHT be spending too much time on Facebook…

1. You feel the need to update your status when you wake up, again after going to the bathroom, again after eating breakfast, on your phone while you drive to work, from your office or cube once you’ve arrived at work… etc. etc. etc.

2. You start each new sentence with the words: “I saw on Facebook that…”

3. Friends and family are FORCED to join FB just to know what’s going on with you.

4. Dinnertime conversation is pointless because your children-husband-wife-girlfriend-boyfriend-siblings and parents are now on FB and already know the minutia of the events of your entire day.

5. If away from your computer/phone for any length of time you feel compelled to run up to random people on the street and shout your status at them.

6. Dishes and laundry are piling up, your filthy kids are screaming to be fed, the dog has officially started using the living room rug for his personal toilet, you haven’t showered yet and it is almost time for dinner.

7. You have so many FB friends that you see someone on the street who looks kind of familiar… and you aren’t sure… but you think maaaaybe they are on your friend list???

8. Strangers approach you in Wal-Mart and ask how your colonoscopy went.

9. You feel led to post the pictures OF your colon as soon as you can scan them in.

10. IDK… U R 2 tired from FB-ing all nite 2 C 2 txt! LOL! OMG! Now LMAO! BTW… WTF? TTYL …

If U understood the above sentence, U R definitely spending 2 much time on FB!

Kicking Up the Leaves

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In a little red raincoat, jeans and sneakers her blonde hair bounced as she ran. The sun was glistening on her golden locks and there was a look of pure joy on her face when she plopped down in a pile of crispy, brown leaves. With both arms outstretched she gathered as many leaves as she could and scooped them toward her lap. She then proceeded in kicking her legs back and forth and back and forth watching and listening as the dried leaves flew about and crunched while she did this.

Total abandon. Total happiness. Totally in the moment.

I both delighted in and envied her. Why couldn’t I feel that way anymore? Why couldn’t I be free from worry and concern as she was? I wanted so badly to be able to flop right down beside her on the ground and mimic her actions. To me, this precious child who couldn’t have been more than 4 or 5 years old, looked like she was having the time of her life! And all I could do was sit by and watch and worry about my bills or my deadlines, my laundry or my dirty house, my weight, my relationships, my health or the orange flashing light on my dashboard indicating the car’s dangerously-low level of windshield-wiper fluid.

So many worries… so little time. It seemed like only yesterday I was playing in the leaves like her. Watching her I remembered a photo in our family album of me at just about the same age, jumping in a pile of freshly raked leaves and tossing them in the air without a care in the world. And I wondered: Where did all that time go? And more importantly… Where did all these worries come from? Then I couldn’t help but consider, if the woman I am today could meet the little girl that I once was… what would they say to one another? Would the older me warn the younger me of the pitfalls that lie ahead and how to avoid them? Would the older me counsel the younger me about future mistakes or poor decisions?

Of course not.

How could I burden that little one, so full of hope and promise and zest for life, with the concerns of adulthood? That wouldn’t be fair to say the least. But I also gave some thought as to what the younger me would say to the older me… and that, my friends, was an entirely different story. With her inability to even relate to the future and such things as “mistakes” or “poor decisions,” she would tell me that today… right now was all that mattered. That right now the weather is nice and there is a big pile of leaves just calling my name. That right now she has everything she needs to get from this moment to the next. That right now there is nothing more important than running at full speed and diving head first into the heap before its all gone for the winter.

There is a favorite verse of mine that reads: Who of us, by worrying, can add a single hour to our life? So I ask myself then: What am I sitting around here worrying for? Why am I NOT out there gathering and kicking up the leaves?