Not feeling it

Tags

acceptance, authenticity, Book Club, books, love, self improvement, self-awareness, self-discovery, women, Women's Issues, writing

There are moments in life that define us. Moments of transition that take us to new heights, new dreams, new destinies. In these watershed moments, we know, deep in our souls, that we are becoming who we were always meant to be.

And those moments are great. But what the gods of inspiration don’t tell you is this:

That shit only happens in the movies.

I’m reading a book right now for book club. I won’t name it here. I’ll just say that I’m already judging it. I was judging it before I even picked it up. The nature of this book is quasi-self-help with a dash of inspirationalism and some cliché, white-girl humor sprinkled on top for good measure.

Part of me finds books like this relevant to the overworked, underappreciated females that I know. That I am. But another, more dominating part of me, finds them exhausting.

The premise of these types of books is to basically tell you that you’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and doggone it people like you. You just have to believe in yourself, yadda, yadda, yadda. Learn to say “no” to things that don’t benefit you, yadda, yadda, yadda. Drink more water, yadda, yadda, yadda. Follow your bliss, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Look, all of this is true. But I’ve spent a lot of time and a lot of dollars trying to figure out who I really am, how I turned into a neurotic bag of anxiety, and what to do to fix my broken parts. And I think, somewhere in my journey, I developed a low tolerance for one-size-fits-all-buy-my-book-so-I-can-become-a-celebrity-and-develop-a-brand-that-will-sell-you-cute-bumper-stickers-to-put-on-your-minivan advice givers.

There is no magic formula.

There is no one right answer.

We’re all just doing the best we fucking can.

What works for you, may not work for me. Yes, there are universal truths that can apply to how one becomes a better version of themselves. But sometimes, sometimes I just want to scream when I read advice that is tied up in a Pinterest-esque package and sold to me as wholesome, good-for-the-soul literature.

I realize this all sounds harsh. And I don’t make it a habit of being harsh on other writers very often. Especially if their intentions were probably good.

But I did say I was judging it. So I’m not going to apologize.

Instead, I’m going to give you the quick version of what I have finally taken away from my life experience, at 36 years old, hundreds of dollars unnecessarily poorer from the purchase of books like the one I just mentioned…

Are you ready? Here’s what you need to know:

Love yourself. As you are.

See, I didn’t even charge you to read that little nugget of truth.

I’m not going to write a book about it and sell it.

I’m not going to go on a speaking tour and sell it.

I’m going to live it.

We make our lives so damn complicated with expectations. Social media has ruined us and deceived us and continues to feed the notion that we aren’t somebody, we aren’t “worthy” unless our lives appear to be perfect.

People, I’m going to take an opportunity here to break something to you: Nobody’s life has been a bed of roses.

Even the queens who write bullshit books about how to get your life together. They have struggled, I’m sure.

The author of our book may get to that. In fact, I’m sure she will. In her own way. In her own time. I may have judged this whole book too early. Everybody writes to “their” audience. I am not her audience. This genre doesn’t excite me. It doesn’t feel “real” to me. It feels like the same thing I’ve read before, just between a different book jacket. And I’m at an age where I really just don’t need anyone else telling me what I need to do, because, at the end of the day……

the only person that I ever listen to

really

is me.

That’s true for most of us. But we read other people’s advice because it’s so much easier than dealing with our own selves and the hoarded emotions and issues that we leave unresolved while we try the newest fad to fix our broken parts.

And it keeps us from being accountable to ourselves. Because we were just following someone else’s plan.

The author of this book does talk about personal accountability, so I’ll give her that. And I’m sure there are a lot of other truths buried in this month’s selection that I’ll appreciate. But overall, you understand, I just don’t care for the genre of “girlfriend self-help”. Because the very implication is that we should want what other people have and be dissatisfied with ourselves until we reach society’s version of success.

I don’t begrudge the women who have their lives together. Women who have surmounted their personal obstacles and really do live Instagram-worthy lives that are interesting and fulfilled and lacking in cellulite and fights with their spouses and worries over whether their kids will end up in bad relationships or on meth.

I don’t begrudge the ones who actually HAVE pulled themselves up by their own designer bootstraps and made a brand out of telling the rest of us the shit we already know and really don’t need another white girl telling us.

I don’t begrudge their success and I don’t begrudge their attempts to profit from help others.

I just don’t really want to read their books.

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Two reviews and one in the works

Tags

Book Club, book club selections, book reviews, books, daughters, film, movie review, movies, opinions, parenting, summer

I had so many plans to see different films and read different books this summer. Yet, here we are, in August, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I wanted to see and read in these past few months.

Still, it hasn’t been a total bust.

Last weekend, I watched Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind, a documentary by HBO on the life and career of one of the greatest entertainers of all time.

I have always been a fan, from watching Mork and Mindy when I was a small child, to appreciating his dramatic roles as I got older. It has always amazed me at the range of those actors we generally associate with comedic antics to delve into some truly heart-wrenching performances on the big screen.

For example, I saw a preview yesterday of a new drama with Steve Carell. He, too, has the range that Williams had in his capacity to completely transform from goofball to serious, dramatic actor, and make you believe it.

The documentary on Williams included many interviews from close friends, family, and costars, and gave an in-depth look into his brilliant mind.

I highly recommend it. It’s available for streaming on HBO until August 16th.

Yesterday, at my daughter’s prodding, we saw Eighth Grade, a painful, funny, and awkward look into the life of a teenager about to enter her high school years.

Bo Burnham’s directorial debut was surprisingly full of heart, and a lot of truth. Having seen some of his comedy, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. It was definitely a cringeworthy movie, but only because the subject matter is so. The performances are genuine, and smart, and resounded with both me and my daughter on many levels.

It’s definitely a great discussion film for parents and teens to view together, even if your child, as mine did, keeps their face hidden behind their hands in second-hand embarrassment throughout much of the film.

The social media storm that surrounds our offspring these days puts us, as parents, in a world unlike anything our own authority figures ever had to endure.

The thought of all the capabilities out there for photos, recordings, and words that cannot be unsaid, documented for all time on the world wide web is often an overwhelming challenge to help a young person navigate. But navigate it we must, because it is our reality.

In one scene, the main character burns a time capsule from the 6th grade, believing that nothing in it has value. It was a poignant moment for many reasons. For one, many of the things a kid in today’s world would like to burn and forget cannot be destroyed so easily. Even if the physical reminders can be burned away, the virtual and emotional scars can remain for a lifetime.

Secondly, her father’s desire for her to see herself as he sees her, and his monologue about it, is where my tear ducts gave out during the viewing.

That’s all we want, isn’t it? For our children to see all of the goodness within themselves, all of the potential and already existing positive attributes they possess?

It is definitely an emotional ride for parent and teen, and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by the film’s ability to show both sides of the coin with equal heart.

Moving on….

Book club resumes the end of this month, and our selection for the summer break is A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

A New York Times best-seller, set in Afghanistan, this novel already has me hooked, and I just started it in the waiting room of an appointment I had yesterday.

I’m not going to write an official review yet. I might just share the one that I feel sure the book club member that selected it will write, as she has a blog of her own. I will just say, I love it when our club reads something as honestly different as Suns is turning out to be.

I think a great discussion will be had when we resume our meetings in a few weeks and I definitely look forward to hearing everyone’s perspectives on the story.

If you’ve seen any great movies or read any great books this summer, share them with me in the comments. I’m always looking for new ones!

An Unlikely Superhero

Tags

art, children, film, kindness, love, movie review, Therapy

I grew up watching PBS. The shows I watched as a child were about learning, fun, and kindness: Sesame Street, Reading Rainbow, The Joy of Painting, and, of course Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.

Last night, I had the privilege of seeing a film that I’ve been excited about since I learned of it’s making: “Wont You Be My Neighbor?”.

My sister said that the first person one was most likely to see, after Jesus, upon entering heaven would probably be Mr. Rogers. Reagan stated that the holy trinity of planet Earth was Mr. Rogers, Jim Henson and Bob Ross.

These men were not flashy, in-your-face artists. They didn’t wear capes. Had no “super powers”. But they were definitely heroes of mine.

When Fred Rogers first invited us to be his neighbor, the world was not so kind. War, segregation, and politics divided America. And kids had long been told that feelings were not something to be discussed or explored.

In therapy, the patient is given a “safe space” to feel and speak and explore the things that we fear.

So, I’ve been getting therapy since childhood. I just didn’t realize it when I was a young girl, tuning in and being told, every day, that I was liked, just the way I was.

I often tell my daughter that I’m proud of her. And she’ll almost always ask, “For what?” My response is, and has always been, “For being you.”

Everyone, everyone, longs to be loved for who they are. And the lessons of acceptance I learned from Mr. Rogers sank deep into my psyche. Last night’s viewing of this intimate and fascinating look at Fred Rogers: the man, brought a rush of nostalgia and happiness to me and everyone with whom I attending the showing.

People have a way of creating their own truths about public figures. I’ve heard many “urban myths” about Mr. Rogers over the last 30 years, but the reality is, he was just a simple guy with a kind heart – a heart that wanted to show children that they were important, that they were heard, and that they mattered.

With some simple music and lyrics, a bare-bones set, and some hand puppets, Mr. Roger’s Neighboorhood transformed the lives of millions. He was an anointed messenger of love, ahead of his time with lessons on acceptance and tolerance.

What struck me the most in some of the old footage I saw throughout the documentary, was the looks on the faces of the children that he met, in person. They gazed at him with such awe, and trust, and yet they, we, related to him as “one of us”. His inner child was alive and well, and able to help us navigate a scary and uncertain world.

Most people lose touch with their own inner child as they age. A few years ago, in therapy, I began to recognize my own, and give her room to heal from some things that had long ago damaged her innermost workings.

I wish I could say that our world was kinder now, 50 years after the regular airings of the original Neighborhood episodes.

But it definitely wouldn’t seem so, would it?

We still live in a world that is very much divided along the same lines that it was back then – our differences – even with all of the progress that has been made.

What gives me hope, is those lessons that those millions of children learned about kindness, that I know are buried deep within the ones who watched and absorbed Mr. Roger’s show.

We now have to tune in, not to a children’s television program, but to ourselves. Dig into the recesses of our minds and tap into the seeds of goodness that were planted there, so many years ago.

Mr. Rogers was just a man, yes. But a good man. A kind man. A unique and a revolutionary soul.

I urge you to see the film, especially if you grew up watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. But even if you didn’t. Because lessons of kindness and acceptance, especially of, to, and for ourselves, can still be learned as adults.

And even grown-ups need superheroes.

Two Epidemics

Tags

authenticity, contentment, empathy, friendship, happiness, hope, humanity, inspiration, love, mental health, observations, people, reflection, relationships, time, wellness

It’s rare for me to be awake at this hour, watching one day turn into the next. A second ticks by and, just like that, a new day begins. In the blink of an eye.

Moments like these are engulfed in meaning to me.

Each day is filled with tiny fractions of time. Some more significant than others. We all want them to be meaningful. Easy. Filled with that which makes us happy. And we, each of us, sometimes struggle with making the most of our moments.

But we are a fast-paced society. Busy filling those moments with time-killers that may or may not bring us what our souls truly desire.

I sat with my grandmother a while yesterday. I haven’t had an extended visit in a good while. The conversations can be admittedly tiresome. Her opinions are readily shared aloud, just so she can speak them.

So I just sit, try to be a captive audience, and let her make her moments count the way she chooses. Today, she was in a bit of a storytelling mood, which is always interesting. Her stories may or may not be true, after all. Truly God only knows.

The point is, even in her most trying moments of knowitallness, she is only doing what all of us do. Either consciously or subconsciously, we all long to know that our moments count. That we count. That we matter.

I see it on social media all the time. And have become so much more aware of it since my departure from Facebook. That need to matter. To have significance. Validation. Attention. And, I think, it all comes down to connection.

We aren’t designed to be loners. Even the most introverted among us longs for connection to something, even if it’s *just* nature. The world itself. A higher power. Art. Something. But mostly, that need to really be seen. Heard. Valued.

The sad thing is, we are often so absorbed in our own searches for connection, that we ignore the other souls that are also in need of it. Souls that are hurting, and, in fact, lonely.

My grandmother? I can talk to her. Tell her about my problems. I have. Sometimes I still do. But today, today she needed to talk. To just ramble. I was chatting online with a friend at 6 a.m. yesterday morning because I picked up on cues that they weren’t okay. We “talked” for an hour.

These were just two instances in a relatively short period of time where I stopped and was simply present with someone else in a moment where they each needed a different kind, but they both needed connection.

And I suppose we could blame technology and social media and the “me generation” and all of that for the lack of meaningful connections we both offer and receive these days, but I think it goes deeper.

If there’s a true plague besieging humanity at present, it’s not technology. It’s not social media. These things can be used for good and ill.

The real threat, in this humble writer’s opinion, is apathy. It’s well-masked behind “thoughts and prayers” and emoji responses, but it’s most definitely abundant across society. I’m guilty of it, too.

So how does one not succumb to indifference?

I think the answer lies somewhere in the recognition of the fragility of this life. These moments. How precious they are. How meaningful we can make them, if we choose to.

Perhaps I’m nostalgic. My mind has been preoccupied with the child that I seem to have left to her toys a moment ago, only to come back and find she’d nearly grown up when I wasn’t looking.

Thoughts of coming of age and seeing the transformation of my own flesh and blood have definitely given me a lot of pause lately.

But whatever the reason for the introspection, I cherish it. These are the secret treasures of parenthood. The depth and insight it can give you, if you’re open to it.

Moments pass, more swiftly with every passing day. Technology continues to thrive and bring us into new territory, places that can challenge what it means to authentically connect with other people. But we have a choice in those places. To either join the apathetic herd, or be present in each moment, both in person AND across an internet connection.

Because if apathy is a plague that threatens humanity, so also is one that’s just as alarming – loneliness. Many months ago, I listened to a broadcast about The Loneliness Epidemic that is rampant, not just in the U.S , but across the world. This article sort of sums it up.

So what we have are two different types of epidemics that, when poured into society, mix like oil and water. The lonely ones making slight overtures, hoping for someone to reach out and connect, and, on the other side, the apathetic, scrolling past, walking past, tuning out.

My daughter just returned from her last camp for the summer. It’s hot. Humid. She was not entirely excited about going off to nature and un-air-conditioned cabins. But she talked non-stop when I picked her up yesterday. And once she had a nap and some time for reflection, she took to social media and did something she hardly ever does: she posted pictures of herself with the people she had hung out with all week and wrote an emotionally-charged epistle, detailing her appreciation for them and the connections she had made over this last week.

If there was ever a creature of habit, a loner content with limited human interaction, it would be my teenager. But yesterday just proves what I’m saying here: even the most independent, introverted, strong-willed among us needs and craves human interaction more than even we, ourselves, realize.

I used to write these posts in the hopes that I might, eventually, reach some level of success with my writing. Until I redefined what “success” meant. Because, in the days since I left that goal behind, I’ve forged valuable and meaningful connections with other writers, and also the people who used to read the blog via Facebook who took the initiative to actually follow this blog via email or WordPress and began to interact. I went from “likes” to actual comments. People truly connecting.

So the challenge, it would seem, is not in the method of connection, but the substance. Because my virtual connections with people I may never meet in person can mean and have meant just as much to me as the most intimate heart-to-hearts I’ve had with close friends.

If you fall within the lonely bracket, as I often have, OR the apathetic bracket, as I often have, the challenge is the same: to step outside of one’s comfort zone, and be vulnerable. Open one’s heart. Give and receive the moments of connection that are universally craved and needed for life to have meaning and purpose.

Those actions, I believe, are the keys to healing a divided and hurting society, weary with image, and hungry for hope and authenticity.

Show love today, in whatever format you find yourself. And receive it. Reach out for it. I can guarantee – someone else needs it, too.

All the Ass

Tags

adventure, anxiety, body image, humor, introvert, people, personal, stress

(*a disclaimer. I use many instances of the word “ass” in this post. And I enjoyed it. Because some expletives make me laugh. Because I’m immature, apparently. But if that kind of thing offends you, just stay off the crazy train today and catch the next post.)

Now that I’ve been home and had no time whatsoever to catch my breath from the busy week in San Diego, I feel the need to pause and tell you about the ugly underbelly from my travels, or, more specifically, the things that only I, with my warped sense of humor and idiosyncricity, found….amusing, annoying, and/or disturbing on my trip to California, and in the days following my return home. (Longest run-on sentence in the history of this blog.)

One of the first meals we ate in California was at a bar that doubled as a Mexican restaurant. Their tagline is, “Bad Ass Mexican”. And, I mean, that was certainly cause for some interest in the place because I LOVE Mexican food and if there was a possibility that I could try “bad ass” Mexican food, I would not require persuasion. And I didn’t. So that’s how I found myself sipping a margarita, enjoying the best guacamole of my 36 years…. and staring at ass.

Yup. The waitress, that I didn’t notice until we had ordered and she turned around, had on a leotard. A thong leotard.

Pieces of a mental puzzle began to come together as I began to realize THAT is what was meant by “bad ass” Mexican. The other servers had on booty shorts with lots of exposed cheekage, but ours was the only one in a thong.

I am all about self-expression and since she is a consenting adult, I just sipped my margarita and marveled at her boldness to bare and thought, “You do you, chick.”

And that was that.

Until Friday. When Hubs and I visited Mission Beach. We saw more ass.

As we strolled the boardwalk, several women proudly walked around in their thong bikinis. I saw lots of ass that day. Inspirational ass. I really need to get back into my pilates routine and start doing some squats. I’ll never bare my own ass in a public setting unless I’m in another country and 100% certain that I don’t know anyone IN said country, but I can still strive for California level assage.

And, see, “ass” can be used in so many different ways. So my title will continue to make sense, even though I’m not talking about literal be-hinds from this point in the post, forward.

Examples of correct uses of the word “ass”:

“Nice ass!”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“You smell like ass.”

So keep these variations in mind as you read ahead, if you’ve stuck it out this far.

I wrote last week about my struggles with anxiety during this trip. I talked about dealing with strangers and an unfamiliar setting, but I want to mention specifically a couple of situations that were sort of a mental obstacle course for me.

My fellow introverts will feel me on this. The rest of you? Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve either accepted my….uniqueness by now or you just think I’m crazy. Either way, I don’t expect you to understand, only accept or overlook.

On Monday and Tuesday of my conference, I selected a seat on the 3rd row of 4, at the end of a table. It was a good vantage point to hear and see the speaker, and it was a good place to be in case I needed to step out for any reason, and cause minimal disruption.

On Wednesday morning, I was running a bit later than usual, and when I walked into the conference room, these two Latina ladies had stolen “my seat”. I say “stolen” because they had been there for the other two days as well, and why they felt the need to suddenly change seats was both frustrating and unsettling for me.

I like claiming my space. And, when I’m alone in an unfamiliar setting, I like making my nest and keeping it…..uncluttered. Of other people. I took it as the personal affront that it was so obviously meant to be. I promptly returned to my room and retrieved my pepper spray in order to avenge myself.

Unfortunately, the last sentence only happened in my head and I defeatedly took a seat on the front damn row, and tried not to allow bitterness to destroy my concentration.

What DID hurt my concentration somewhat was the woman beside me.

This lady, while nice, was a bit…..uncouth. You can always tell, at these types of events, who is there to work and who is there to play and who can do both in a balanced way.

The lady who took up residence beside me all week was there to play. But it was her personal habits for which I judged her.

Like the fact that she stayed on her phone THE WHOLE TIME the speaker was speaking. Every. Day.

And the fact that she would LOAD her plate with breakfast food and eat MAYBE 20% of it.

And the fact that she was swiping ranch dressing off her plate with her fingers and licking it off during our last full day of class.

I realize not everyone was raised with some semblance of etiquette or manners, and she was very nice to me, but some people’s behaviors are just…..offputting. And I’m not entirely convinced she and her husband weren’t swingers, so I’m always a little wary of strange couples that are JUUUUUST a little too friendly.

She kept inquiring about my evening plans every day and I had to very much restrain from yelling, “NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!”. Not because I mind talking about the fun experiences I was having and planning, but I don’t like for people to invite themselves into my space. And she already had and I wasn’t interested in double dating the rest of the week, even if the intentions were innocent.

I don’t want this to turn into a full on bitchfest, and since I’ve droned on and on for several paragraphs now, I’ll just mention briefly the other things that, in one way or another, made some small dents in the smoothness of our travels last week….

First, the guy almost going into a full on panic attack on the plane from Houston to San Diego. The poor guy was rocking back and forth and looked like he just wanted to scream. I felt really awful for him because I knew there was nothing I could do to help him. But I did say some silent prayers for him. I hope he can get him some Xanax or something similar before he has to fly again.

There were the two, yes TWO screaming children on the return flight to Houston. I had been watching TV on my phone up until about the last hour of the flight. From the time I took out my earbuds to the time we landed, these two kids continued to cry and throw down. I felt truly sorry for the passengers that were close to them, as well as the kids’ parents. I mean, sometimes there’s just nothing you can do. These kids were on opposite ends of the plane. We were in the middle. So we got the benefit of both! Yay us! Seriously, I’m so glad I never had to fly with a small child. That HAS to mostly suck for a large variety of reasons.

Finally, my last complaint involves nothing from my travels and just the local b.s. that causes my blood pressure to spike. Namely, the DMV.

After all these years of people needing licenses to operate motor vehicles. After all of the technological progress of the last 4 decades. After ALL OF the tax dollars that have been spent in this country and this state. I have yet to figure out WHY it still takes HOURS to achieve anything at the DMV.

I am currently sitting in one, waiting on Reagan to get an opportunity to take her written driver’s examination. We tried yesterday afternoon, but our number didn’t get called before they stopped testing for the day.

So we came to a different DMV today. And there are a limited number within reasonable driving distance. We are currently 60 miles from home. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

These offices are neither fully staffed, nor ADEQUATELY staffed, if you get my meaning. The lack of efficiency in these places is frickin baffling. And the school! The school where Reagan took driver’s education! Why couldn’t they have some type of damn checklist for us to show us EXACTLY what would be needed before we show up to test?!?! Instead, the instructor throws a bunch of papers at the kids and they are somewhat left to figure it out on their own. And, surprise, TEENAGERS KNOW NOTHING! Ask one a question. I’ll bet you $100 they’ll either nonchalantly, OR while rolling their eyes OR while giggling sillily, will say, “I don’t know.” Or they’ll shrug.

But I digress. Because if not, I couldn’t tell you about the freaky people at the DMV. It’s like….a rural Walmart on steroids. There’s the southern mamas with their perfect hair and Michael Kors bags bringing their teenage sons and daughters for testing (that ain’t me. My hair is a hot mess and my bag was a hand-me-down from my sister and I’m pretty sure it’s a “Tarjeyyy” original.

There’s people snacking. People letting their kids run wild. People in tank tops, and people in work clothes and teenagers in pajama pants.

It’s a damn zoo is what it is.

So, there you have it. An inside look at my judgment of and disdain for much of the human population.

I keep much of it to myself, meaning, I don’t write about it much. But perhaps I should.

Especially since it appears we are hostages of the DMV and may never see the outside world again.

Asses.

*update – she passed! Dobby is freeeeeee!

All the Things

Tags

books, food, life update, music, personal, podcasts, pride month, Travel

With the arrival of June comes the beginning of a summer heavy with activity. The hubs and I took an opportunity on Friday and crashed in a little shack known as the Beau Rivage on the MS Gulf Coast. We met dear people for a fantastic, oyster-rich dinner at the Half Shell Oyster House before watching a live performance by Jim Gaffigan back at the Hotel/Casino.

We attended the late show which didn’t wrap up until 11:30, but since we only go to the coast about every 3 years, we decided to stay up JUST a little later past our bedtime. I tried a couple of slots and didn’t have any luck, quickly blowing through the cash I had set aside to throw away. While sitting at the penny slot, a waitress promised me a margarita so the hubs handed me a $10 bill which I successfully turned into $100. I got my margarita, cashed out, and we went back to our room to rest up for the day of shopping we had planned for Saturday.

All in all, I’d say I sweated about 5 gallons of perspiration between 4:00 p.m. Friday and 9:00 p.m. Saturday. It is approximately 5,000 degrees already and the summer humidity has arrived in all of her bitchy glory.

However, I will soon escape her wrath. Later this month, Shey and I are traveling to San Diego so I can attend a work conference. It’s not a destination that we would have just chosen at random, thus the reason for our excitement. I’ve never been that far west and Hubs has only been as far as Vegas. We are stoked, to say the least; spending countless hours on the interwebs looking at all of the places we want to try and see while in the area.

Hubs sent me this link last week, and he laughed because I made the biggest deal out of the donut shop in the video. But come on?! At least HALF the fun of traveling is exploring the food options, right?! I am a southern girl through and through: I’m going to judge towns and cities that are foreign to me on their culinary offerings and whether or not they live up to their own hype. In fact, whether or not the food is good in a given destination is going to account for about 85% of my opinion of said destination.

In addition to the donut shop, however, there are many actual places I want to see and experience and I’m looking so very forward to seeing Southern California for the first (and hopefully not last) time.

I got the kiddo off this week to her first of two summer camps. She is getting her artistry on for this one – writing and drawing and painting and whatnot. Since we decided to homeschool this year, I gave permission for my 14 year old to dye her hair blue. It is currently heavily highlighted with mermaid and teal and sapphire tones and really quite pretty. She is embracing the new found freedom of not being beholden to a dress code. I am embracing that the most brazen thing my teenage girl wants to do is dye her hair a bold color and that has me feeling very good (in the present moment) about the adventure that is raising an adolescent.

I am currently on a podcast kicker, having read an article recently about top 12 podcasts or somethingorother. But the one I’m listening to right now is one that is truly dark and disturbing and yet, like some train wreck I can’t look away from, I find myself listening to it all the more. It’s called “My Favorite Murder” and, sick as it sounds, it’s a true crime discussion podcast with two women who just basically sound like the two awkward souls that they are, discussing things they’ve read about and researched and seen in documentaries about true crime events – namely, murders.

I can just imagine what people must be thinking as they read that last paragraph. What a horrible subject matter to discuss, right? No! For one, as a child of the 80’s, this subject is one that I’ve been intrigued by all of my life. In the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s, kids were disappearing left and right and serial killers abounded. It was a thing I remember seeing on the news a LOT when I was a kid, and I wouldn’t be surprised if those fears I had back then about being snatched out of my own home were not deeply rooted in some of the shit I used to see on the news. I would also not be surprised if that is where much of my own anxiety originated. So, listening to these two fools discuss these past cases on the podcast (1) made me realize that I was not the only one living in utter fear during my childhood and (2) other people are as fascinated by true crime as myself. Crime is horrible, horrible. Murder especially. But the human psyche is and always will be fascinating to me. In fact, Abnormal Psychology was one of my FAVORITE classes I took while pursuing my Psych degree, so I feed my obsession for learning about crazy people through this most recent podcast adventure. And if you, like me, are also an individual with a penchant for truly awkward and dark humor, check out My Favorite Murder on Stitcher or iTunes. It’s like being dropped in a conversation with two friends who will say all the things you have already thought, but probably would be too afraid to say out loud yourself.

My latest music obsession is with Mary Lambert. Her Heart On My Sleeve album is full of the feels. From ballads to spoken word poetry, it’s an eclectic mix of beautiful vocals and haunting lyrics. It’s very much a female-empowering album and pro-gay, as Lambert is very honest in her lyrics regarding her own sexuality. Great Pride month album to check out!

Books? Ahhh, books. I’m not going to lie. I’m not reading nearly as much as I’d hoped I would by June, but with 12 hours of plane rides/layovers stretching out before me in the very near future, I will soon be delving deeply into my reading list. I am currently reading The Lost Prayers of Ricky Graves: A Novel by James Han Mattson. I think it was one recommended to me by Kindle. It is a first novel and, in many places, reads like one. But it is interesting and relevant subject matter and another good pick for Pride month.

Pride month is one that I know a lot of people in my geographic location don’t support. But I have many gay friends. I also know how it feels to feel like you can’t be yourself. So I celebrate alongside the very special people in my life who have shown me what real love looks like in the way they love others, and they way they love me.

The week ahead is filled with activity from meetings to doctor’s appointments to meals with friends I haven’t seen in too long. Beyond that, the month of June will probably cause me to collapse sometime in mid-July when the busyness of the next few weeks finally catches up with me.

If I don’t melt before then.

More

Tags

acceptance, change, growth, music, strength, transformation

I sent this link to a friend this week who is facing an enormous amount of change in her life right now. Change can be so scary, but it can also be so healthy and valuable. But it’s almost impossible to see that until we’re on the other side of the painful parts of the transformation.

How we approach the concept of change, and how we navigate change itself, is a huge and defining part of our lives. Nothing stays the same. Circumstances are almost always evolving.

I believe that learning to successfully work with our circumstances is the key to life satisfaction. And sometimes that means making a change. And some people don’t like any sort of change, even if they are the ones implementing it, and they will push off the necessity of it as long as possible to avoid the discomfort.

I’ve been one of those people before. Still struggle with it at times. But, being the control freak that I am, I always prefer the discomfort of changes I chose over the ones that chose me.

When I first heard the song above, it resonated with me on a deep level. If you aren’t into playing the audio, here are the lyrics:

This is my skin that I’ve never fit in
I was born the queen of nowhere
Well, this is how it begins
I wonder is this your life
Were you raised in deep water
Are they pushing you down
Are you gonna push harder

I want to know who ever broke you
I want to know how you can grow bigger
Don’t go looking for some kind of rescue
You are the only one who can save you

We are, who we are more than our scars
We are, who we are more than the sum of our parts

We are, who we are more than our scars
We are, who we are more than the sum of our parts

I didn’t know I was a phoenix
Till I learned how to speak
Even with ashes in my mouth
I was still born to breath
I wonder are you like me
Were you left in the fire
Are you raising yourself
Above your father’s empire

I want to know who ever broke you
I want to know how you can grow bigger
Don’t go looking for some kind of rescue
You are the only one who can save you

We are, who we are more than our scars
We are, who we are more than the sum of our parts

We are, who we are more than our scars
We are, who we are more than the sum of our parts

More than the sum of our parts

Look how bright we are
Look at all the things we have come from
Sometimes it hurts when you become them
Sometimes I bury myself in my own wreckage and
Don’t want to come out
Which part of you is still in the wreckage?
Which part of you clipped your own wings?
Which part of you will begin at your own end?
Which part of you will you let live again?

We are, who we are more than our scars
We are, who we are more than the sum of our parts

We are, who we are more than our scars
We are, who we are more than the sum of our parts

More than our scars
More than the sum of our parts

More than our scars
More than the sum of our parts

It is so easy to focus on those things that hurt us throughout our lives. To let them define us. But in doing so, we forget the bigger picture of who we are, who we’re becoming, because we’re too stuck on who we’ve been. Who we were. And in that way, we let the circumstances of our lives define us, not the other way ’round.

Sometime last week, I looked in the mirror. I do that every day, fixing makeup, hair, etc. But I just sort of stood there a moment, because, honestly, I don’t remember the last time I did that. Not for vanity’s sake, but just to look at the woman reflected there.

She’s changed SO MUCH in the last 36 years. Grown. Evolved. And she continues to become.

Some years ago, she made up her mind to stop letting circumstances and past decisions define her. She made the changes necessary to start creating a life she chose. A life that wasn’t bound by rules of “ought to” and expectations of anyone except herself.

She is more than her scars. All of her scars. She is more than the sum of her parts. So much more.

Size Doesn’t Matter

Tags

adventure, film, growth, humanity, journey, life, movie review, movies, Opinion, people, purpose, review, stories

I picked up a movie rental this weekend. An actual DVD. Out of a Redbox.

I had a coupon.

The movie was Downsizing, starring Matt Damon.

The previews had intrigued me when the movie was released, but I was actually quite surprised at the content, because it wasn’t at all what I expected.

I think my overall expectation was something akin to Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. But this was not that. It was something entirely different, unexpected, and…..deep.

Paul Safranek (Matt Damon) just wants a different life – a better life – and he has an underlying air of regret….”what if”, that seems to surround his character.

He doesn’t seem particularly happy, or unhappy, just one of the masses, doing the same things, day in and day out, for years.

When the prospect of “Downsizing” comes along, he seems ready to be convinced that this is his answer to an internal longing.

I won’t spoil any of the movie for you, I will only say that nothing turns out as Paul expects, proving that “small” life, is still just “life”.

The movie is long, and if you are easily distracted and very judgmental about film and its purpose as entertainment, you will not enjoy any more than maybe the first 30 minutes of this 2+ hour experience. After that, one is required to use their brain, and the film takes some introspective turns while also maintaining a level of quirkiness and humor that break up the solemnity of some of the subject matter.

Basically, what happened is this: I expected a movie about a guy who has himself shrunk so he can enjoy the rich life but he’ll end up having some type of epiphany about how life is more than “stuff”, yadda yadda yadda, bravo, Matt Damon.

And in that way, that’s exactly what I got. But it took a lot of unexpected turns along the way and was not at all what it appeared to be on the surface. Much like life.

I love movies that make me think about possibility. Obviously, “Downsizing” is science fiction, but the concept of there being more to this life than being on a treadmill of work, sleep, rinse, repeat, is a real and relatable idea that people struggle with all the time.

In the last few weeks, I have been thinking deeply about the value of life, and how often I feel trapped on the aforementioned treadmill.

I’ve been thinking about the innate desire that I’ve always had for more. Not more things so much as more meaning. More fullfillment. More depth.

And the truth is, the only thing that keeps me from obtaining those things is……myself. My choices. My decisions.

Herd mentality is hard to beat sometimes. It’s very easy to get caught in a cycle of materialism, concerned with whatever social media, political media, and advertisers think should concern us. But there are other ways, dare I say smarter ways to live.

I’m not jumping up and down about the excitement factor of this movie, but I was pleasantly surprised at where it took me intellectually.

I love that Paul went from a very “this is how it has to be” way of thinking to a “this is how is could be” mentality. He learned to roll with what life threw at him, and discovered how to treat every day as an adventure. Because it is. When you really stop to think about all of the possibilities that lie within even the seemingly (tongue in cheek) smallest experiences, life becomes richer, more unique and beautiful and exquisite than we often remember it to be.

And young or old, rich or poor, big or small, it can be that way for all of us. We just have to be willing to see the possibilities.

Random thoughts from a medicated mind

Tags

Book Club, books, comic books, creativity, depression, growing up, opinions, perspective, Random thoughts, reading, religion, sickness, spirituality, writing

So, I’m taking Benadryl like candy. Because there is some foul weed making my life a living hell. I took the fam to see the new Avengers movie last night and when we got home, I started sneezing and couldn’t stop. Today, my eyes are like sandpaper and I have dizziness from all the fluid still in my head.

This too will pass, of course, but I really hate having the crud. It makes me even less productive than I usually feel anyway. But it was only a couple of weeks ago that I said, right ‘chere on this blog that I would listen to my body and be kinder to it. So I am. I stayed home today and, while I am returning phone calls and texts, I am doing little else. Should probably start on that book club book though……

Speaking of books, I recently finished Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson. This book goes hand in hand with gods in Alabama and I really, really loved how Jackson intertwined the two stories. I didn’t know the books were related to one another when I bought either of them, but it was a brilliant way to show different perspectives of the same characters depending on the point of view. I gobbled the books up like candy and am now reading a book by a local author. The Magnolia Triangle is written by Mississippi author, Joe Lee, and is set in our native state. His writing style reminds me a bit of John Grisham and the characters in the book, while sometimes over-dramatized, are still not unlike people I know and have known. What I don’t like is when an author seems to be trying too hard to make me like or not like a character. I’d rather decide for myself. It makes the story that much more intriguing. That aside, the book is definitely an engaging story and I hope Lee continues to evolve as an author because I think he will get better and better.

Speaking of writing, I’m not doing much of it. One of the lovely side effects from being on an antidepressant (for me) is squashed creativity. That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy writing as much as I always have, but I have to work harder at it when my brain is medicated. It’s a double-edged sword, this mental health treatment business. But I have to be as healthy as possible for my family. So, while it might be easier to get creative and introspective with my words when I am off the meds, I don’t miss the deep, looming pit of depression and hopeless attitude toward all things.

Speaking of dark, looming pits and hopeless attitudes, the new Avengers movie leaves audiences on one hell of a cliffhanger. I do so love the Marvel Universe. And DC as well. Reagan has become SUCH a fangirl of the movies and characters in them. I’m so glad she finds entertainment in them instead of the Kardashians and Seventeen magazine. There are a lot of very strong female role models in the comic stories and it really makes me happy that those are the examples that my daughter and future generations of girls have for some kick-ass examples of equality and leadership.

Speaking of leadership, I attended a baccalaureate service for my niece on Sunday. I have 3 “nieces” (some are actually cousins, but titles schmitles) graduating from high school this year. I love my niece but was reminded in an instant of why I left the Baptist church as soon as the preacher opened his mouth. The advice he gave was not at all like what I’d give. He encouraged the graduates to find “like-minded people” with whom to associate at college. I understand the dangers that exist out there in terms of drug and alcohol temptations for college students and younger. But I think, just as damaging, is only surrounding oneself with people who look, act, and believe just like ourselves. Where is the growth in that? It is this type of close-mindedness that makes me often feel like I escaped a cult when I left the Southern Baptist church. I still know some really wonderful people within it, but the doctrine, I see more and more, did more to screw me up than lead me into closer fellowship with God. Jesus was friends with the biggest outcasts in society. Teaching young people to first and foremost hang out with like-minded people in no way challenges their capacity to really and truly love people as God intended. It is in being around people NOT like ourselves that we can slowly begin to grasp just how much bigger God is than the box most churches try to keep Him in for the sake of their own need to be “right”.

Speaking of being “right”, we have some elections coming up in the near future and, can I just say, the decision to leave Facebook could not have been made at a more perfect time. My meds are good, but I still struggle with the concept of patience. And I have none when it comes to politics anymore. So I stay away from it. You can’t fix stupid, so I put up my toolbelt.

I guess that’s all the randomness I have in my Benadryl-drenched thoughts for right now. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to blow my nose. 🤧

A New Approach

Tags

acceptance, aging, autonomy, confidence, Crossroads, daughters, decisions, happiness, self care, self-awareness, self-discovery, shoes, words

It feels like I’ve come to a crossroad in my life.

Following my most recent battle with depression and now realizing that I have a chronic autoimmune illness that I have to contend with, I’m giving fewer and fewer rats asses about things. Like the fact that I just used the expression “rats asses”. Here. On my blog. In my daily life, I tend to use profanity like sprinkles on a cupcake:it doesn’t really enhance the flavor, but, often times, it just seems like a necessary addition.

Words are important, and they mean things, but they are also just words. And people who get their knickers in a wad about profanity make me risk spraining an eye socket from heaving rolling. The people I refer to use Bible verses talking about unwholesome speech, yet they don’t have a problem wagging their tongues with all manner of unwholesome speech. Like gossip. Or insincerity. Or judgmentalism. I find all of that much more repulsive than a well timed expletive.

But that’s just me.

All I’m saying is, you might find more “sprinkles” dropped on this cupcake in the future and you can consider yourself warned. If that causes you to stop reading, well, me and my other 2 followers will miss you, but we totally get it.

I suppose this crossroads has a lot to do with my recent birthday as well. 36 means I’m now closer to 40 than 30 and I’m gaining ground toward true middle age.

I work with women younger than myself. I have a young daughter. Nieces. Younger cousins. Some of them are watching me. (Dare I say, look up to me?) My daughter, especially, keeps me ever-aware of the example I’m setting. Which is why I recently bought a pair of orthotic shoes.

Please understand that my daughter is almost halfway to her 15th birthday. She recently discovered that she had eyebrows to manage and hair to care for and somehow, out of the clear blue, she is now eyeing me like a true teenager. I hollered out the window at one of her friends at school yesterday and my daughter ducked down in the seat beside me, embarrassed at my display of what? Volume?

I don’t even know anymore. I just know it doesn’t take much to make my earbud-wearing offspring feel completely repulsed by my existence.

Last week, we meandered into a shoe store and I, tired of dealing with sore feet and an aching body, decided to try on and seriously look at purchasing some orthotic shoes. I tried on several pair, and with each selection, my daughter would state an emphatic “Ew. No.” (Not unlike Jimmy Fallon’s Sara-with-no-h-cause-h’s-are-Ew!)

She even went so far as to poll her Instagram followers about it. The next day she reported that I had lost the “Are these shoes ugly?” poll. Only 2 other people had sided with me. One was a grandmother, the other was a girl at school who gets made fun of for her shoe choices.

Still, I am the person who loves the Croc brand like it’s still cool so even though I left the pair I tried on at the store, I did return home and buy a pair, online.

I’m going to say something here that, 10 years ago, I’d have never said before:

I love my ugly-ass shoes.

And the thing is, they aren’t ugly to me. Even my daughter has conceded that the ones I chose aren’t too terribly disgusting. But they aren’t the cute little wedges or heeled sandals I could have and would have worn in my 20’s. And I officially don’t care.

I love my ugly-ass shoes like a little girl loves the tacky, unmatching outfit she picked out her very own, big girl self.

We are expecting bad weather this morning in Mississippi and if Mother Nature spins out a tornado and I have to take refuge, I’m taking those damned shoes with me. That’s how much I love them.

I haven’t hurt all over these last few days like I was when I was wearing shoes with 0 arch support. And best of all, my feet themselves don’t hurt. No blisters.

Did you hear what I said? I bought a new pair of dress shoes this week. I wore them ALL DAY the first day I got them and I have ZERO BLISTERS. What I’m saying is, I didn’t have to break them in.

All of this is entirely new territory to me and if I had several hundred dollars to blow, I’d be on that shoe website ordering all kinds of treats and slapping open a garbage bag into which I would rake every other shoe I own.

The point of this post is simply to tell you, my reader, that I spent 35 years of my life constantly evaluating the choices I made while heavily considering what other people would think about those choices.

I am all for being considerate and kind and all of that, but some things are just our own for the deciding. Like buying the shoes that make us feel like we’re walking on little clouds or dropping a handful of “sprinkles” into a light-hearted yet completely serious blog post about crossroads and aging and orthotic shoes.

And those who don’t understand the necessity for those things will either understand eventually, or they never will. But either way, it ain’t my problem.

I used to fret so much about the crossroads in life. The pressure of making the wrong decision could drive me quite bonkers.

But now, I just surge ahead, confident that, even if I made a bad decision, there’s always another crossroads up ahead to get it right. And I’ve got just the pair of shoes to get me there.