It Sucks to Be 12

I was watching the other night as my daughter was dropped off after soccer practice. It was dusk, nearly dark. The light in the car stood out bold against the encroaching blackness of night and, inside, as my little girl extricated herself from the back seat full of soccer pals, you could see and feel the energy of 12-year-old girls. It was palpable…it was laughter and insecurity and pure silliness all rolled into one. And, it belied, for just a moment, how tough it is to be a tween-aged girl.

I could go on and on about the unbelievable level of sass and awkwardness that this age brings to anyone, particularly girls. The levels in my home have amped up to levels I thought I’d prepared myself for but clearly was sadly mistaken about.  Just the other night, during a homework session that was somewhat challenging, my daughter asked for some help.  “What do you need?” I innocently asked.  “I don’t get this,’” she said, rolling her eyes, shoving a blank worksheet in front of me and throwing up her hands.  “Okay…I say… “Let’s see. It looks like you haven’t even tried to figure this out yet,” I gently push.  “Well…no…I don’t get it…so I can’t do it,” she replies with a tone that implies that I’m truly the stupidest being on earth not to understand what she needs.

Within about 3.2 seconds, this exchange went from implied looks and nuances of sass to her being just plain nasty. The world has wronged her. No one explained anything and she can’t try…she’ll just scribble on paper and then maybe I’ll help her…and on and on and on…only because I won’t just give her the answers, but instead, want to have her try, and then I’ll guide her. She’s barking and stomping and yelling and when she’s told to stop, all bets are off…because she’s my child and she’s stubborn. Before I know it, I’m doling out punishments and she’s being sent to her room and the night is a shambles.  But, is it?

Not when you’re 12. The name of the game at age 12, it seems, is fast recovery, inconsistent actions and crazy turn around times.  How do I know…well, that very night, after 15-20 minutes in her room…she emerged with the worksheet done 100% correctly, a smile on her face and a request to cuddle with me and watch a TV show for the next half hour. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room when all the other stuff had happened.

Now, I know that hormones will make a person wild and hard to deal with. And, I know, she’s got them raging all throughout her body and can’t control it. And, I’ve even lived it myself and truly remember feeling that way. But, it’s a sight to behold.  It really is.

It’s so easy, even as a clear-minded adult, to get sucked into the drama and find yourself spinning into an argument about nothingness. But, then, I remember watching her with those girls in that car and taking in that moment for what it was…a bunch of children caught in the middle, trying to make their way, and, for the most part, doing it right.

That same sassy kid of mine went out of her way the other day at a school dance to invite a girl who has special needs and tends to be an outsider to partner with her in a game. She had seen that girl hanging against the wall and talking to only teachers. She knows it is the pits to be left out and feel like you don’t fit in…and her good side took over. When she told me about it, I nearly cried. Yes…she has to learn to control the bad stuff and we’ll help her with that, but, like all other 12 year olds, like all other people, she’s got so many sides and the majority of them…the ones at the core of her being are good. I once heard Tim Russert speak and remember him saying that there was a quiet goodness in America.  I thought it was so profound and honest and true at the time. Little did I know my daughter would be the person who actually brought it to life for me in a way I never expected…while at her 7th grade dance right here in my little community.

Recently, someone asked me for parenting advice.  His 10-year-old granddaughter is being sassy and hard to manage as a whole at home and in school.  He said, “We all think you’re such a great family, and you don’t have any issues with your kids.  What do you do? How can we do the same?”

Seriously? He clearly doesn’t read this blog for one…but, honestly, I told him the truth. We have issues…big ones, small ones, crazy ones…let me tell you what my kid did just last week and why she hasn’t had cell phone privileges for two days. She told me to, and I quote, “Settle down dude!” when I asked her to get herself ready more quickly since we were going to be late for an outing. ME…the Mom…the parent you’re supposed to respect.  “Dude!”

That aside…sure…we are a great family…but we are a real family and anyone who doesn’t buy that needs to watch more closely and know that no one…no one out there doesn’t have something going on behind closed doors. Meanwhile, in the name of being not just a “real” family but also a close family, I recently signed my daughter up for a 5K at her school.  I wanted to run it with her because we’d been running together recently.  She told me in no uncertain terms that it would be completely uncool for me to run with her at a middle school event… “No one else will be there with parents, Mom. God…that’s embarrassing.”  So, I signed her up by herself, and got up early…before it was light… on a Saturday to get her there.  What did we find?  A group of kids and their parents ready to run together.

“Hmmm…” I laughed. “Seems like there are other parents running,” I said.

“Mom, I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” she replied.

“I understand, sweetie. I’m just proud of you for wanting to do this run…you pushed yourself to give up a Saturday morning and do it. What made you so dedicated to it?” I asked.

“It’s to raise money for cancer research,” she said. “That’s important.”

“I noticed that none of your friends are here. I thought there would be at least some of them,” I noted.

“Nope…I told you, Mom,” total exasperation in her voice at this point. “No one else does this stuff. I just think it’s important.”

“Sweetie, I’m so proud of you for doing this because you want to and not worrying about ‘who’ will be here,” I said and hugged her tightly to my side.

“Oh…I worried about who would be here. I thought about it non-stop,” she smiled.

“It sucks to be 12, doesn’t it?”  I laughed.

Her eyes rolled and she pulled away from me making sure no one saw the hug. “Yes it does…and stop trying to use kid lingo Mom, geez!”

Yes…it does suck to be 12…yes it does indeed.

Breaking Habits

I opened my bag and dug all around…starting slowly and getting more frantic.  Where were my pictures?  They’re always here. I need them. The plane was starting to taxi now and the flight attendant came by to ask me to please stow my bag under the seat.  “Just a sec…almost done,” I stammered and smiled. And, then I remembered.  The pictures weren’t in there.  They were in a different bag, one that came on my last trip with me and was now safely tucked away at my home office.  I put the bag away and quietly, without changing my expression so no one around me could know, panicked beyond belief.

You see…I hate flying…hate isn’t the right word…I feel terrified of flying. But, I have to do it often to do my job. Regular quiet stress-filled panic attacks aren’t healthy and making a living is crucial so I needed a plan. I talked to a therapist. She suggested visualization. So, I worked on visualizing myself getting to my destination safely…the only problem was that, in my vision, I never made it there because I blew up somewhere along the way. Next, I tried valerian root, a natural supplement that relaxes you. It relaxed me enough to open my mind to other possibilities…not just blowing up but a long descent where I could consider the horror.  Time to move on…wine worked fairly well but doesn’t mix well with morning flights after which you are due at a meeting and, when you can drink it on evening flights, it gives you a headache.  So…eventually, after years of terror, I came up with my pictures.

It is a collection of pictures of those I love. I use them as a focal point.  I take them out as we taxi toward takeoff and flip through them so fast that I can barely see them all, stopping to touch or smile at one or another that in the moment catches my attention. It’s like when you’re having a baby…find something to focus on to help you get your mind off the pain. I hold those pictures for as long as I need to during the flight.  If it’s a good one, I put them back in my bag when we reach cruising altitude. When it’s a bad one, I clutch them throughout. Good or bad isn’t based on turbulence or bad weather or anything tangible though…it’s just whatever my wild brain and nervous system feels like presenting me with that day. It’s all in my head. It’s all self perpetuated and the only way I can stop it is by looking like a crazy person flipping wildly through pictures. Yet, it works…so I’ve done it for 10 years at least.  I never, ever forget my pictures. But, today I did.

Today, the first of a 4-leg trip over the next 5 days…Atlanta to New Jersey, New Jersey to Memphis, Memphis to LA and LA back to Atlanta.  Four long flights ahead of me without my crutch.  You would think I would want to cry.  I didn’t. I wanted to get my affairs in order…seriously, because, for superstitious me, it was a sign of the apocolypse…it was a sign that I would not survive this trip.  Yet, I did.

I survived just fine…without my pictures. It reminds me of those baseball superstitions…the ones where players don’t wash their socks for weeks for fear of breaking a winning streak. Stupid, not reasonable, but perfectly acceptable in my opinion. Funny thing is that, while I survived physically, I did have some pretty intense emotional experiences along the way.

On this particular trip, wild and strange and almost monumental things happened all around me…things that don’t normally happen. Was it my lack of pictures that caused it? Was it an effort for the world to re-align itself, re-adjust to right the wrong of my not remembering to change my pictures from one bag to another?  I’d love to make it all about me and my crazy habits…to make the world spin on its axis because of a simple act of personal negligence, but…hard to believe…I know…I’m not that crazy.  So, I’ll make it about what it really was about…the people around me.

You see..on the first leg of the trip, I watched a woman reach her breaking point. She was not enjoying a particularly important and challenging meeting nor the feedback she was getting from those around her during it. So, she…very dramatically I might add…fled the scene. Seriously, she threw up her hands, yelled “I can’t, I can’t” and ran out of the room, disappearing for nearly 45 minutes.  It was quite spectacular.  It was also quite sad. I’ve known many people, including myself, who have dreamed of doing just that at various times in their career…my exit would, of course, be filled with expletives to give it extra umpphh…ahhh…to dream.  Yet, she stopped dreaming…she did it…for real. And, can I be honest? It was pretty ugly. While it felt very “Real Housewives of Corporate America,” it did not portray her well. I wished to help and did try to talk to her afterward, but she was too far gone then.  If only she had some mental focal point to get her through the terror of a tough meeting…maybe not a very visible set of pictures, but a mental game to play…that would have helped, I believe, but way too late now.

And, as always for me, there was no time to dwell because I was off to my next flight. There, in the very, very, very early morning dawn at the nearly empty airport, I went through security with Andrew Shue…the Andrew Shue of Melrose Place fame, but more importantly of Do Something! fame.  I have followed that man’s work for years and have been in awe of how he parlayed a short-lived acting career into doing great philanthropic work all over the country and using the platform to encourage others to do the same. I have even considered trying to knock on their door and beg to work for them. And, there he was, right in front of me. Alone. So, did I do it? Did I say, “Wow.  I have always really respected you and would love to work with you some day. Actually, I work for an organization that could partner with you.”?  Nope…I walked right up to him and as I got close, I passed right by. I chickened out.  Why?  I have no idea. But, I did. The worst part…at my age I understand wasted opportunity. When things present themselves, you HAVE to take advantage of them because it happens rarely. I know this…I preach it often..and I didn’t do it.  I was off my game…really off my game…and it all started with forgetting those damn pictures.

Next, I found myself at a conference…an unusal conference with interesting people who were all there to meet, connect and find ways to make a difference together. It wasn’t a professional development session, but rather, an action meeting.  It made me stretch myself and do very uncomfortable things like Speed Networking…just what you think…Speed Dating set up, but professional introductions followed by “My mission here is…” conversation with total strangers for four minutes. I found some really, really amazing thinkers there and I worked hard to connect. But, the weekend was also peppered with some other odd experiences like Laugh Yoga…seriously, standing in a room with 100 other people in business attire, stretching and forcing yourself to laugh…uncomfortable, bizarre, funny, but, again…interesting.  There were also personal sharing sessions and bongo drum beating.  It was like no other meeting I’ve ever been to…ever…in a 20+ year career.  And, people came to play. They participated. They didn’t walk when asked to stare at a stranger and laugh for 3 minutes. They committed themselves and did it all.

The jury is out for me on this particular meeting. I’m glad I did it, if nothing else but for the people I encountered and the ideas it started brewing in my head. But, here’s my question…would it have played out this way…those whacky 5 days of unusual happenings if I had started it the same as always…sitting quietly, looking down at my pictures instead of forcing myself to look out, ahead and forward? Hmmm….looking ahead and experiencing the sad, the bizarre and the interesting…I’ll leave that one to you to ponder.

People are Funny

People are funny. Spend a day at any large public gathering place and you’ll see it. Spend a day at a major theme park in Florida and the rest of the weekend visiting family and you’ll live it.

We did just that over the weekend…my family and me. It was Fall Break for the kids and, because we have family in Florida, it makes an easy, yet somewhat spectacular vacation to drive down there in less than a day’s time and hit a park or the beach for a day or two. No rooming costs, little food costs, just family and fun with lots of options. Not everyone has it that simple though. Most people at those theme parks are spending a fortune to buy tickets, eat out the whole week and pay for lodging in one of America’s most expensive vacation capitals. That makes the stakes pretty high. And, while they want it to be the “best, most magical vacation ever,” they try to pack a lot in and make the investment pay off. Add to that heat and long days on your feet crammed into line after line of similar tourists as you await these amazing experiences, and you get more frazzled nerves than smiles.

We saw it…well actually heard it firsthand while at lunch. We waited our turn to go and order at the specially-themed restaurant that had a particularly complex ordering and delivery system. It was crowded and kind of confusing; people were hungry and, if they are like me, they were doling out enough cash for a fast food meal that it made them ache a bit. And, then we heard a shriek…a loud, womanly shriek which made our heads whip around to the source of the noise. There, we saw a young boy in the middle of a crowd, somewhat hunched on the ground…in mid-fall or climb up from a fall. His mother had him by the elbow and was yanking him up while following up on her shriek with the standard “I’ve had it with you. Completely had it.” His brother was nearby …I could tell because the family was decked out in the same color shirts so we’d all know they were together and so they could spot each other well in the crowd. Ironically, it made their family meltdown moment much more vivid and easy to follow…probably not what that Mom had in mind when she planned the day and the photos it would create…all of them in torquiose beaming with happiness.

There was not torquoise-haloed happiness in this moment. In this moment, at 1:45 p.m. on a Thursday, likely after 4 days of non-stop theme park fun, there was exhaustion and anger. She was not kidding when she said she was done. She finished awaiting her food delivery with her back to both of her boys and with two, at times three, theme park associates assisting her. She was done…she truly had had it, and no one was doubting it. Because she announced it loud and clear. I watched wondering, “How does one recover from that moment?” All the planning, the saving, the excitement built to that ugliness. My guess is that they had their lunch, rested for a bit, maybe set new rules for the kids or reminded them of the standing rules they’d clearly forgotten as the highly anticipated week unfolded, and then they’d gone back about their day and likely enjoyed most of it.

We’re resilient us humans. And families need to be more so. I spent time with my highly modern blended family before and after our theme park day. What does that mean, a blended family? It means my parents divorced when I was an adult, after 26 years of marriage. They, later, found new partners and married them. Those new partners have brought them much happiness but they have also brought their own issues, their own baggage, their own stuff. And, because I love my parents and want them to be happy, I have had to accept that stuff and set new boundaries with these new people…thereby making them part of the family. This weekend’s visit was no different. We had lovely times, we had strange moments and we had tensions. All families do.

I noted to my husband when my stepfather acted gruff with us because he was likely done with the noise, the crazy kids, the mess…just like that lady at Universal…that I don’t really like when he acts that way but it’s just a trade off. If my parents were still married, we’d be annoyed at some way they behaved…so, instead, today, we’re annoyed at something my Mom’s husband did and how it made her feel. That’s not to say we don’t deal with it. I don’t like to see my Mom unhappy about something. I don’t like to see her husband act gruff. So, I talked to them about it. And, then I went on my way because it’s their relationship to handle and it’s a family…at least it’s not the kind of family that screams at each other in public places, landing at least one member on the floor and causing a huge scene. That’s something, right?!

And, at least amidst it all, my Mom and I had some really, really good laughs at how funny people are. There was one woman at the park who haunted us all weekend…causing us to think and, often giggle. She was old…too old to be on her feet all day at a hot theme park getting people onto rides, especially people who are having to yank at and yell at their families to “have fun dammit!”

So, this lovely park associate joined right in…she barked at us that we weren’t standing in the right place and she barked at our kids for trying to sit together alone on a ride…how dare them at age 12 and 7! And, then, she seemed to follow us. We went to another ride and, magically, she was there again. My kids were scared of her…even more so than the lunch lady at school they are sure is the meanest person alive…that’s saying something. So, we joked about it everywhere we went later in the weekend…would she be there? It was funny. Yet, my kids kept asking, “Why is she so mean?” My answer: “If I had to do that job at that age, I’d be pretty grouchy too.”

She probably has to do it…that woman. She probably doesn’t have a choice. She’s got to work her tail off at a tough, fairly physical job later in life. I don’t like to think about it. It scares me. It makes me grateful for what my parents have built and how they don’t have to do those things, not to mention how they instilled in me the importance of an education and a work ethic and a plan for the future.

It also gives me hope that there was not a moment of public yelling or crazy ugliness for any of us all weekend. There were some quiet, “You better straighten out” conversations for ALL of us at one point or another, but I can honestly stand tall and proud and say that not one of them was done in matching outfits. Because we can’t escape that people are funny, and not in a laughing way…and families are difficult… but we can have our limits even if it just comes down to not creating the fashion faux paux of looking like a family in uniform!

Lessons From Paris

So, it turns out that being whisked away for a long weekend in Paris completely unexpectedly is everything it’s cracked up to be.  I mean, who knew?!  I sure didn’t, but, in the end, I learned. Yes, me…one normal harried, over-scheduled suburban American woman, got to find out what happens when her husband plans and pays for a trip to Paris and gives it to her 6 days before it’s time to leave.

You see…he knows me better than I thought.  He knew if he gave me time, I’d find a million reasons why I was too busy to take a trip like that or a million more why I shouldn’t be spending money on something so frivolous. So, he didn’t.  He just bought it, wrapped it and said, “We’re going.”  And, surprise of all surprises, I went along with it.

I can’t lie. When I opened the gift, I had a moment.  It was a moment when time sort of stopped. I’d been talking about taking this trip for some time and I had put it off for some time for very, very valid reasons. But, there it was. In front of me.  And, in all honesty. I needed it…well…maybe not exactly a grand trip to Paris…but I definitely needed a break, something to knock me out of the rut of the hectic lifestyle I’d created…just anything really. So, in that moment, I made a choice…just go with it. Accept it. See what it brings. What’s the worst that can happen? And, I kept that attitude for the next 6 days and then for the next 5, when I actually did it…actually spent all those days in a city I had dreamed of visiting for some time.

When we landed and boarded the train into the city and then the Metro to our hotel, it was a bit surreal still.  I mean, as little as a week ago, I had no idea I’d be anywhere other than home at that point in time. When we reached our Metro stop, we grabbed our suitcases and bags and headed out of the station.  It was underground and closed in. We walked up the steps and entered a small park with beautiful trees canopying the stairwell exit. My husband said, “Look. There it is.” And, I turned my gaze from my feet, to him and, then, around to see, directly in front of me, towering over all the building tops, the Eiffel Tower. To be honest, I cried. Right there. And, then I kissed my husband.  We needed this. We really needed this.

The Tower was our main view for the rest of the trip. We saw it from our hotel room every morning and every night. And, each time I looked upon it, I heard the song “One Day I’ll Fly Away” from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack in my head. “One day I’ll fly away. Leave it all behind like yesterday.”  It looped through my mind, over and over. Cliche? Maybe. I don’t care. It played there, in my mind, because it was true. We needed to fly away…just for a bit. And, crazy thing, we actually did.  I never do that. I never give in. But, I did. And..IT…WAS…FABULOUS.

We spent the next 4 days exploring and beginning to love this amazing city and all it has to offer. For me, it offered a few lessons. So, here they are for you.  Take them, enjoy them…recognize that many are not profound because I am, after all, just plain ol’ me. And, above all else, fly away yourself if you can and learn some lessons of your own.

1. Want Something To Last? Build It In Stone
First of all, the architecture in Paris is incredible…as you’ll find throughout Europe. Bridges that were built hundreds of years ago stand in perfect condition…because they were built with stone. Then, visit the museums and cathedrals.  Sainte Chapelle for example…the first seat of Royal Power in France and its cathedral. It stands in beautiful form with stained glass like nothing you’ll see elsewhere, telling long Biblical tales through colored glass and pictures.  Meanwhile, at the Louvre, you see sculpture and art from Greek times, Hammurabi’s code — the first known set of laws carved in stone — and more, all still pristine. Just wander these places…take it in…and it becomes abundantly clear that people since the dawn of time have been driven to create beauty, to celebrate and to reconcile tragedy through art, sculpture, architecture, music, dance and words.  It awes me and, all at once, worries me for those who don’t have an artistic outlet of some sort.

So, I leave Paris with a reminder in my head to keep creating, which leads me to Shakespeare & Company books…one of the oldest book stores in Paris, where many of the greatest writers have studied and worked and still do. I could have spent hours there, but I spent only one. During that time, I stumbled upon a small room upstairs that had a writing workshop underway. I listened in.  I heard an American woman reading her poetry, her voice shaking, her nerves coming through, but reading anyway. And, it was beautiful. It was a moving poem about a night with a lover and her fear that he’d see her true feelings. It may never make it anywhere beyond that room…that poem…but it will live with me, a stranger she never even saw lurking in the doorway, for a long time.

2. Drink Wine Throughout The Day…Every day
These people know what they are doing. Don’t get me wrong…don’t be drunk all day, everyday, but a glass of champagne with your luncheon salad and a bottle of wine with dinner or an apertif or digestive before and after your meal make life a little nicer.  Not once, did I feel tipsy, but I did feel relaxed, satiated and like I sat and enjoyed every meal to its fullest, which kept me from snacking or trolling around for junk the rest of the day. And, while I’m at it…forget just the relaxation of a nice drink now and again during the day, how about a kiss from your love or just holding hands in public? The French do it often. My husband and I did it often throughout the trip. And, it was nice.  Was it because we drank all day, probably not, but that sure didn’t hurt. I mean it did tend to make my husband more “French” somehow.  You see, the first day he was using French words here or there with waiters, storekeepers, etc. It was going well and we were making strides with our new French friends, but he was being very careful.  He asked me to watch out for him…”Don’t let me make an ass of myself,” he said at lunch the first day when he practiced asking for the check in French.  He chickened out in the end and just said the word for check rather than the whole sentence. It worked well.  Fast forward 7 hours later to dinner, after a bottle of wine and a digestif. He practiced the sentence again, determined to do it. Yet, this time, it had a lot more syllables and flair.  “You get much more French with wine,” I said.  And then we laughed and soon thereafter we kissed. C’est Magnifique!

3. Heed the Advice of Others
People loved our story. Our friends and families embraced the romance, the element of surprise and, like us, clearly fell in love with Paris when, they too, had visited.  So, they descended upon us with advice…must dos, and French etiquette lessons. It was a lot to take in, and I had held my own picture of this trip in my head for at least 5 years, so it would have been easy to just smile and nod and then go on our way. But, we didn’t.  We listened. We read. And, we appreciated their support. When you have 3 1/2 days to do a huge city you’ve wanted to take in forever, there’s not room for error. The advice of others matters. It helps. Paris isn’t cheap, and it’s large, and they speak a different language than we do. You could easily find yourself flailing, but our friends and the books written by others who have gone before us, kept us on track. Our pilot friend who flies there often and typically only has a few hours to see something, told us to get the interactive audio player for the Louvre if we couldn’t spend more than several hours there. We did. He was right. There was a “Masterpiece tour” and easy directions for seeing key exhibits. It saved us time and allowed us to do what we wanted. Meanwhile, my parents’ friends took time to write up their thoughts and ramblings on Paris. They are wine lovers and foodies. Their notes made us laugh AND helped us make great eating choices. Life is good when you learn from others who have gone before you.

4. Americans May be Ugly, but Europeans are Line Cutters
Seriously…they are. In the airport, waiting for train tickets, we got cut. At the Louvre, waiting to get in, we got cut. Several other places, very nonchalantly, people of all different European nationalities inserted themselves in front of us or others nearby as if they’d earned their spots.  So, when I stood awaiting an elevator ride down from atop the Eiffel Tower and heard a really drunk guy from Brooklyn talking way too loudly and abrasively about his ENTIRE trip and his life back home, I cringed, but not as much as I would have before. And, when I sat in a Metro station awaiting a train a day later and an older woman from the U.S. called to a man across the tracks “OHIO….OHIO” because he was wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt, I just smiled. It was a bit jarring, but at least she wasn’t moving him out of the way to get one or two people ahead of him while entering the train. It seems every culture has their issues. And, while I try hard not to be ugly or loud or distasteful, I will not be a line cutter. Ever.

5. I Love My Education
My public education in a Florida school and then, later, a state college has done me right. 11th grade Art History cultivated my love of art and has carried me through museums all around the world now.  And, my 9th grade English class, set the stage for me to go on for a Bachelor’s degree in English and nearly complete a writing and English Literature Master’s degree…my first born stopped me six credits short of it (someday).  Even better, Mrs. Gwynn, that lovely 9th grade English teacher, brought me A Tale of Two Cities. There is no way to visit Paris and take in its history without remembering key parts of that novel. Unless, of course, you’re my husband, who admitted he’d never read it while we were on this trip.  My husband with his private school education and a large part of his childhood spent in Europe while his father worked there.  I’ve rectified that…bought a copy for him in Shakespeare & Company books…and he will be reading it…and discussing it (I’m sure he’s really thrilled he treated me to this trip now). But, truly, your education is what you make it and I realized while walking through Paris, as I do with many new life experiences, that mine ain’t half bad.  That said, I have a theory.  There’s a shocker…me, with a theory!  But, I do…you see, I think I’m dumbing down in adulthood. There was a time when I watched smart documentaries and art house films and read literature. As life takes over, I’m lucky to get through chick lit, a comedy or a magazine. Paris reminded me that I’ve still got it…I just have to work it a little.

6. Forget Sexy, I’m Bring Paris Back
Not only have I felt like I’ve been dumbing down, but I also feel like I’m just piecing it together in the looks arena as an over-worked, middle-aged Mom.  French women did not make me feel much better in that area.  They are effortless and elegant and beautiful…all differnt shapes, sizes, ages and styles, of course, but, regardless, they have something about them.  There’s not a ton of makeup or, even plastic surgery from what I could tell (and I’m a master at calling that). Yet, they are always put together. We picnicked in the park on Sunday and saw many families out for a day of the same — biking, walking, playing badminton, etc.  Were the Moms wearing sweats or shorts and t-shirts? No. They were dressed nicely…not over-dressed, just pressed khakis or a pretty cotton skirt and t-shirt w/a scarf or nice jacket. It was the television show “What Not to Wear” come to life in front of my eyes.  My husband said, “Their attire for a day in the park with their kids is like what you and your friends wear for a girls night.  Around town, it’s like date night come to life for these women.”  And, he was right. And, I’m going to do it.  I’ll likely look ridiculous in our local park or around town dressed for what we find to be the equivalent of date night, but I don’t care. And, don’t even get me started on the food.  How hard is it to add fresh green beans or cubed, cooked potatoes to a garden salad? Not hard at all…and it makes it so much nicer.  So, dress, food, wine, whatever…I’m bringing Paris back here in my little suburban American life.

7. A Man Dancing Alone in Public Places Is Creepy No Matter Where You Are
Not a whole lot to say here. It seems to happen in crowded places in Paris a lot…markets, parks, tourist spots…men, standing with their backs to the crowd, headsets on and dancing, not ballroom dancing or ballet dancing. I’m talking techno-type dancing.  It doesn’t seem they are doing it for money. More like, just because. And, that makes them creepy. So, the life lesson here is avoid strange men dancing alone in public…in all cities and all countries. Period.

8. Bread is Good
I have a thing about stereotypes.  I think I’ve mentioned that in this blog before. I don’t like the lumping of a group into one description. It doesn’t leave room for growth or differences. And, I get really peeved when someone perpetuates a stereotype…except for this time.  Because, I found it’s true…the French do just wander the streets of Paris carrying and gnawing on baguettes.  It’s charming, actually. And, it brought to life every book I’d read or movie I’d seen where I thought it was just playing up a character. Not to mention, bread, especially fresh French bread, is unbelievably good. So, can you blame them?!

9. Two Things “Rate” In France for Sure
(1) Makeup Shopping…I love me a little make up and skin care shopping. Doing it on the Champs Elysees…well, that’s just heaven.  A girl could lose herself there and I almost did.  I entered the store and just took it in. Smelled and touched lightly a few things. Then, I picked up one item…just a gift for a friend, I thought. Next I moved on to another area…the bath products, a few more small gifts. Before I knew it, I had a basket in my hand and my husband stepped outside to find a seat. I was giddy. Those French women don’t get to go without makeup and look great for nothing. It’s their skincare regimen, right? “Oui, oui…it is”, said the nice storekeeper. “Would you like this hand lotion too, Madame?”

(2) Being mistaken for a local…I was on a busy cross street in an area awaiting the light to turn when a lovely French woman came over and said, “Bonjour.”  “Bonjour,” I replied in a sing-songy way as all our friends and books told us to do.  And, then she launched into a load of French with question in her eyes and voice and pointing in her gestures. And, I realized, she thought I belonged here. I smiled, said “Sorry,” in English and walked away feeling I’d conquered the day. Someone mistook me for one of those elegant, effortless French women. That one will stick for awhile!

10. Be Sure to Desecrate the Amazing Gift Your Husband Gave You with a Trip to the Seediest Part of Town for Your Anniversary
Because the trip was a gift from my husband that fell on the weekend of our wedding anniversary, I insisted I plan our anniversary dinner.  I researched and toiled to find a moderately priced (I AM still me, after all), yet romantic Parisian hideaway for dinner.  I found Chez Toinette in Montmartre.  It’s high atop Paris and requires climbing steep, San Francisco-type hills.  It was billed as one of the most romantic restaurants in town in a picturesque location. I was in. Reservations were made, and we planned to get there an hour or two before dinner to explore the area.

We arrived and found the climbs to be steep for sure, but the town was worth it and the Sacre Couer stood at the top. We walked up to it and took in the view below of our newfound friend, Paris. We walked back down to the restaurant.  Yet, we still had a bit of time.  It was on a sidestreet that was lined with bars for locals and artists. They were blue collar types hanging out in the streets outside the bars, smoking, drinking and carrying on loudly.  I had seen on the map that the Moulin Rouge was just down the hill and to the right of this street.  “We should at least see it since we’re here,” I said to my husband.  “The hill is too steep for your old beaten up knees though, let me run down there on my own and snap a picture.”  He looked learily down the street to the groups of drunk men.  “Nope, I’m coming with you.”

So down we trudged, hurting his knees and pushing our way through drunks and seedier and seedier buildings.  We get to the cross-street below and take a right hand turn and we were in the middle of the red light district…big time.  Of course, the root of the Cabaret in Paris would be in the red light district, it makes sense.  As we walked past strip clubs and prostitutes to snap our picture, I had to laugh.  “Thanks for bringing me to the city of my dreams, dear,” I said to my husband. “To celebrate our anniversary, I’ve decided to plop you into the grossest, dirtiest part of town.”  We took our picture of the Moulin Rouge and trudged back up the hill.  Entering the restaurant after that didn’t seem so romantic, just a little concerning since it was so close to the seediness. But, we settled in. We were the first couple in there. The menu was unusual and I’m not sure they see a ton of Americans. But, they treated us well. Before we knew it, the lights were dim and there was some amazing music crooning in the background. Then, the meal was served and it was unbelievable. Before long, other couples streamed in and the evening went on amongst murmurs from other tables, perfect music and great food.  When we left, my husband thanked me for the best meal of the trip. And, I was ready to kiss the lovely hostess at the restaurant who made our night so perfect.

11. Appreciate
My husband was a young pre-teen boy when he lived in Europe.  His parents constantly took him and his sisters on day and weekend trips to amazing locales barking at him to get his head out of his comic books and “appreciate!”  I learned on this journey that he really did. He seemed comfortable there. He had memories of that place. Connecting to that was wonderful.  Yet, it helped me appreciate too.  I took the time to appreciate that life can be tough. Really, really tough.  And, you can buckle or you can do all you can to get through it and, then, out of nowhere a surprise can come, and it can make you appreciate all that you have.  I also learned something that I could have learned anywhere. Spend time alone with your spouse. We have not been on a real vacation for just the two of us in more than 10 years. My husband came with me on a few work weekends or overnights, but I worked while he explored…not the same. It seems trivial, it seems obvious, but, for us, it wasn’t. I let that working Mom guilt wreak havoc with me and convinced myself I should never be away for pleasure without my kids. Yet, my husband needed me to be away with him and, it turns out, I needed that right back. Having Paris as the background for that was just icing on the cake.

A Lesson in Ebbing & Flowing As Taught By M. Beck

“We live in an up-and-down, ebb-and-flow  universe, yet we’d much rather flow than ebb. When we find ourselves in the troughs between the peaks of life, some of us…become resistant.  The rest of us…panic.”

— Martha Beck

I’m writing today while I enjoy a ridiculously lazy afternoon.  It’s overcast and drizzly outside and I am watching stupid Lifetime TV movies and laying around reading magazines, all compliments of a great friend who has taken my kids for the day because…I believe… she fears I may break at any moment based on the week, the month, the year I’ve had. She doesn’t say that…she just smiles and tells me how much she really wants to add two more young maniacs to her house on a rainy afternoon, but we both know it. She’s worried.

She’s wrong. I’m not ready to break, but I’m sure enjoying the rest, the chocolate and (don’t tell anyone) even the trashy movies!  I don’t blame her for worrying though. The past two weeks were a doozy…the first full week of school for the kids, full of new projects and challenging reviews, Open House meetings, parent volunteer jobs and last minute needs mixed with piles of forms to be completed in time to meet unwavering deadlines.  It gets better when you add to that budget planning at work, the crisis du jour to be dealt with for my most high maintenance team member and …what I will for some time refer to as the money bloodletting of this week’s home ownership and mid-life responsibilities…a $200 garage door repair, a completely shot mini-van transmission which led to the need to purchase a new car (and fast!), a large tree branch needing to be removed from our roof and a compressor gone bad in our air conditioning unit to the tune of $600.  I’ll say it again….it was a doozy.

Call it what you want…Murphy’s Law,  the ol’ standby…”when it rains it pours” or any other anecdote that points to lots going wrong at once…it happens…to all of us…regularly. It’s life.  My friend who saved me today knows better than anyone else. She too has a husband out of work (just like me), two high maintenance kids and even a parent needing help with medical care.  We did laugh this week when everyone we knew kept commenting on the crazy week I was having. We laughed because I admitted to her that I didn’t really feel anything about it.  I threw up my hands a few times…yea…but it didn’t ruffle me or my husband that much. I think we’ve just learned to roll with the punches a bit better. It does feel odd that I didn’t get more upset or cry or yell (okay…there may have been a few harsh words during the new car decision making…all budget related though).  Yet, I never felt that ruffled…never felt that “my life is shit” or overly dramatic “life will never change for us” dismay I did when I was younger and these things happened. I don’t think my husband did either. We just shrugged, got through the bewilderment and took the next logical step.

In a few weeks, I’ll turn 41. My 40^th year has held some big stuff.  First, there was turning 40 and the fact that I did not do it gracefully.  I don’t like getting older…for any reason…whatsoever.  I don’t like that I look older, that I have to run now to barely maintain a higher weight than ever before when I used to be able to walk fast and stay thin. I don’t like the new wrinkles or the few gray hairs I’m getting.  I don’t like that I’m the oldest at the table at most work meetings or that society loves young, beautiful skinny women. I could go on and on…but you get the drift. But, that part was nothing.  Within months of turning 40, we were dealing with my step-father growing a 15-pound cancerous tumor near his kidney out of nowhere and in a matter of weeks.  It was incredible and scary and crazy. But we faced it, and he’s recovered and he’s actually doing great.  Then, we began dealing with my niece in her early 20s who is, sadly, facing some mental health issues that are keeping her from living a normal, stable life on her own.  I say we…but, really, my Mom has taken the brunt of that. My sister is helping, but that’s a story all on its own….for another day. Next, came my father…seriously, no joke the healthiest, most vibrant person I know in his 70s.  He wasn’t feeling right and got checked out. Turns out, his carotid artery was blocked.  So, he underwent surgery for that. Again, we got in, we got out, he recovered and life was good again.  Meanwhile, he spent the next few months still feeling poorly. After much pushing with his doctors, he was tested more and more until…low and behold…they uncovered 4 blocked arteries around his heart which led to a quadruple bypass and a ridiculously long recovery that is still going on.  These incidents reunited me with said sister from above who has not been part of my life for many years. Good…meaningful…but…wow…a lot!

All of this was going on as I held down a fairly all-encompassing executive corporate job and raised (with my husband, of course) two great children.  That’s said with a bit of laughter because anyone who has raised children knows they can be the most amazing creatures on earth and you can love them more than life itself, but they are hard work, and mine are no different. They have big meaty needs…my youngest is bright, creative and a child who marches to the beat of a different drummer. We love him for it. He doesn’t love himself so much for it. He feels different and he beats himself up for it…all…the…time. I worry so much for him that I could easily do nothing but be his mother 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and I still fear it wouldn’t be enough. Except that’s not okay…that’s not reasonable. Because it’s not possible. And because I have other responsibilities. Like my silly, smart, amazing daughter who managed to conquer her first year of middle school during my 40^th year of life. And, while she had crazy hormone moments, and sass-filled Saturdays stuck in her room, she still made it through that first year with more finesse and pure cool-ness than I’ve been able to muster for even a minute in my whole life.

They bring me so much joy…those two little beings who hold pieces of my husband and me in their genes.  They are so resilient and bounce from thing to thing, interest to hobby to interest, crying tantrum to grinning, toothy smile.  They seem to know that the ebb and flow of life is okay. And, I’m with them.  All the way. Because my Dad is going to be fine.  My step-father is going to be fine.  My friend who helped me today is going to be fine.  My kids are going to be fine. And, I, who will never be younger than I am right now, am going to embrace this 41^st year with all my might, ride the ups and downs it will bring and thank out loud whatever it is the 40s Gods do that graces us with the ability to embark on the ride with excitement.  If that’s not something…me thinking there’s some merit to being in my 40s…I don’t know what is!

The Things We Do in the Name of Love

My genuinely fear-filled scream reverberated through the house, surprising even me.  It’s just that I was caught so off guard. You see, I was walking through the foyer to run upstairs for something when I noticed the area rug in front of the door was all bunched up. That’s normal…I do live in a house with two kids, a cat, a dog and a fairly messy husband.  So, annoyed, I bent down to fix it.

I straightened the rug but there was still something bulky and wrinkled underneath.  Realizing it was the slip guard we had underneath, I picked up the whole rug and started straightening that, mumbling to myself about no one taking care of our things – normal Mom stuff.  But wait, there was something odd under the mesh guard. Something black and gray. Hmmm…what could that be? I stooped really low, me and my middle-aged self, hair all askew, hands full of mesh guard and the rug. I got all the way down to find I was nose-to-nose with half of a dead lizard.

As I’ve said, I live with a cat.  This particular cat happens to be the most visceral animal I’ve ever had as a pet.  He loves to hunt. He kills for a living. So, finding a dead lizard is not unusual. It’s just that he usually brings it to me, presents me with it…outside the basement door or on the back porch. He usually meows in some way that lets me know “I’m bringing you a gift. It’s dead. Prepare yourself.” And, I usually take pride in the fact most times…not all times…but most times I take it pretty well. This was not one of those times. I screamed a real, “I’m freaked out and there is a part of a dead amphibian in my home” scream. My kids found it hilarious and rushed to ohhh and ahhh over the dead thing. My husband, who had his headphones and iPod on upstairs while he was cleaning, didn’t hear it at all.  I spent the next few minutes alternating between laughing at myself, shaking it off and screaming “Where’s Daddy?” while my kids laughed and I got more grossed out and progressively more annoyed that I couldn’t find my husband. This was, after all, a Daddy job.

My daughter eventually found him. He, too, found this all very hilarious. I even saw a bit of the humor but I have to admit the parade of dead things is getting to be a bit much, especially now as they seem to have made the crossover to the interior of my house.  You see, every Spring, our wiry, king hunter of a cat, starts trolling the yard for anything he can bring me. He decimates the chipmunk population, enjoys quite a few lizards, has even taken out a few birds and, my own personal Fatal Attraction experience, a baby bunny. He loves me the most, so he wants me to have these things.

My most favorite recent dead-thing story happened on the last week of the school year.  I was working away…on conference calls and the computer…when I heard our beloved pet outside with his deep meow that signals me he’s brought me one of his conquests.  I did not have time for it and my husband wasn’t home to clean it up. So, I opened the office door to…sure enough…find him out there holding a dead chipmunk for me.  I thanked him…I’ve found that he just wants to be recognized for his good work, like we all do…and got down on his level to say “It’s lovely, but I don’t want it. Please don’t leave it here.”  Much to my delight, he looked right at me and then turned to carry the chipmunk away. Very pleased with myself, I got back on calls until it was time for me to get to my son’s end-of-year class picnic. I went straight out to the car and drove the 5 minutes to the school where I met my husband and we enjoyed a wonderful celebration with my son.

Good stuff, right?  I’m in total control and life seems almost idyllic, depending on how you feel about dead things as gifts.  It’s just that, after the picnic, when my husband walked me back to my car and opened the passenger side door to put away the things we were carrying, he got a look of terror on his face, said “Oh my God. Don’t look in here” and slammed the car door quickly.  “What, WHAT?!” I demanded.  Slowly, he opened the door again…a look of pure confusion and dismay on his face. And, there it was…that damn chipmunk, laid out on the passenger-side floorboard, where I usually am in the car. He had no idea what had happened or how the animal had gotten there. I did. Immediately. My office is in our basement.  Our home has a drive-under garage, so the basement door, my office door, opens out to that garage where our cars are parked.  The car is a van. It was in the garage with the sliding side door open.  My lovely rejection of my cat’s gift didn’t go over as well as I thought earlier that morning.  He brought me that gift and I WOULD have it. So, he made sure I did.

It slowly dawned on me that I was so hurried to get from one task to another that I had driven all the way to school with a dead thing in my car. I felt ill. But, more importantly, I felt over it…totally over it.  I sat the family down that night (sans cat…I’m not THAT crazy) to explain that I love our pets and they are part of our family, but, the day I find a dead thing in my bedroom, is the day we give them away.  I mean a woman has her limits, right?! And, really, mine are pretty loose at this point.

The whole thing got me thinking about the crazy stuff we all put up with in the name of love. I could go on and on about our pets. Seriously, we’ve got a dog that my husband and I did not want to take on and, while he’s cute and his relationship with our children is even cuter, it’s a lot of work…a lot of walking and care taking and money and poop shoveling. And, we do it because we love our kids and this is something they really, really wanted.

We all do a lot of things we wouldn’t normally do because of our love of others. My Mom recently sent me an itinerary for the upcoming trip to Vancouver and, then, the Pacific Northwest in the U.S. she and her husband were taking. They had all these great stops planned along the way, a mixture of resorts and Bed and Breakfasts, but there was one stay-over planned for Portland, Oregon that seemed a bit out of place. It was a former brothel turned hotel, in which they would have to share a bathroom with another guest.  I know I’m sounding very American and conservative and that this sort of thing is done all the time throughout Europe. But, my snooty Mom (I say it out of love, Mom…you know I’m there with you) and her husband who likes things a particular way haven’t stayed in places like that for 40 years.

So, I asked…um…what’s with the brothel?  You guessed it…it was a recommendation from a friend of her husband’s…one of his buddies from his wine-tasting group.  So, her hubby was hot to book it, even though it wasn’t rated on any of the travel sites and, being a former brothel, was likely not in the best area, my Mom didn’t want to hurt his feelings…she loves him and all…so she booked it.  This is my Mom who has been known to walk into back woods truck stops while on road trips and complain loudly that they don’t carry Perrier, by the way.

It kind of cracked me up picturing them there, but I let the voice of reason win out over the opportunity to hear a great story come out of it. I asked if maybe they could just visit the place for a drink at their bar instead of staying there overnight.  Ahhh…now there’s an idea!  Mom had to approach it carefully with her husband, but reason did win out.  I’m still awaiting the results of the cocktail hour…it’s happening in a few days. I’m sure it will hold stories of its own though.

We’ll do a lot for love…lots of silly, uncomfortable things.  Some people will even do dangerous or scary things and stay with those they shouldn’t way too long. Finding the boundary between funny and fear-instilling is the trick, I guess.  But, one thing does hold true, as the great Beatles put it… “All you need is love,” so, when you get it, keep it as long as it’s healthy, happy and gives you a good story every now and again.

The Hussy Who Walks Among Us

It happened. I met a real hussy!  It turns out women working all kinds of angles with men live among us all, even at our neighborhood pools and soccer parties. 

I mean, I knew it.  I really did. I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking that my nice, upscale suburban development and neighbors didn’t house a few interesting personalities.  I just hadn’t seen it in action with my own eyes. And, truth be told. I still haven’t.  I’ve just heard about it and then watched …fully anticipating her to make a bold, public move right in front of my eyes, only left with disappointment when she didn’t.

Why was I so sure?  Well… a very credible source had told me about her behavior at a recent community-based organization’s family camp out night.  She openly hit on one of the fathers there who happened to be attending without his wife.  He, apparently, told her clearly, in front of everyone, he was not interested. My understanding is that she was a little tipsy from taking too many sips from the sterling engraved flasks all southern men carry — they are tangible memories from the string of weddings where they served as groomsman or their frat party days.  Anyhow, they were so busy sharing and re-living their youth that they likely didn’t notice how much she had imbibed and, then, in the end, wrote off her behavior as a bit too much in the alchohol department.  But, it didn’t explain away the next time months later at a neighborhood block party where, again, drunk and seemingly unaware, she hit on men with their wives within earshot. 

Did it make for great neighborhood gossip? Absolutely.  Did it make the men she hit on uncomfortable yet feeling like they’ve still got “it” on some level. You betcha.  Did it give me a great story to watch unfold and later write about?  Yep.  But, you know what it also gave me?  A sense of a woman whose life is in shambles.  And a bit of sorrow for her child who has been in tow for all of this.  She’s clearly lonely, desperate and …let’s face it…a lush.  She seems to be a mess.  And, I had to wonder.  Doesn’t she have the network?  Or, is the network she’s a part of made up of like women…ones who support her behavior because they find it completely acceptable.

If you’re a woman, you know of the network of which I speak.  That group of women who look out for you.  Who take the time to call you out when you act like an ass, laugh the hardest with you when you do something funny and hold your hand when you need some support.  The network doesn’t even need to be someone you know well.  It’s just a “thing” among women.  A quiet thing, one we don’t speak about much. But, it exists.

It has existed for me in many, many forms.  My strongest network is the one I formed in the fourth grade. I made a group of friends who are still my best female friends today. None of us live near each other or talk daily or even weekly or monthly, but we know…we know we’re there for each other.  When we do see each other or talk, it’s as if no time has passed.  And, because we’ve known each other since our youth, we don’t have to put on airs…we know where we’ve come from. We remember the awkward middle school years and the stupid things we all did; the mistakes we made with other girls in the name of popularity; the awkward crushes we had on exceedingly adolescent boys; and the dysfunction we faced with our families as they divorced, faced drug addictions and, in the more atypical case, grew stronger together. And, for that reason, we have nothing left to hide with each other. It’s refreshing and comforting all at once.

I’ve had great adult friendships as well…an amazing colleague turned business partner who felt more like a sister than a friend many times; neighbors who have nurtured each other through career and child-rearing concerns, successes and woes; and female work teams who have taught me a lot.   And, then, there’s been the strangers who just know…it’s their duty to be part of the network.

Just a few weeks ago, I experienced one of the “network strangers.”  I was putting my daughter on a plane…by herself…at age 11…to visit my Mom.  If you’ve read this blog for awhile, you know I despise and fear flying. I despise and fear even more putting my children on a plane.  Putting one on by herself is too much for me.  But, I was pressured.  She and my Mom worked me…they pushed their relationship and their need to bond and my daughter’s need for freedom and, before I knew it, I was at the airport waiting for a plane to take her…without me…and fly her at 25,000 feet or higher above the earth with a bunch of strangers for more than an hour until she was deposited with my Mother. I thought I was being very cool while we sat in the terminal and waited for her to board the plane.  We were sipping our Starbuck’s and laughing about the normal daily stuff we chat about.  Yet, I was reminding her where to keep her ID and when to text me (the second she stepped on the plane, the second she sat in her seat, the second they told her to turn off her phone, the second she turned it back on, the second she saw my Mom coming to meet her, the second she actually was with my Mom, the second they got in her car, etc, etc.).  So…maybe not as cool as I thought.  It became abundantly clear that I wasn’t exactly sending off laid back vibes, when the woman sitting next to us leaned over and said, “We’re about to board. She’ll be fine.  Now, look outside.  You see the fog? That means we’ll be a little late. Don’t worry though. She’s going to do great.”  For a moment, I had a flash of embarrassment…I was clearly a nervous Mom who publicly displayed it.  The flash was gone quickly though because I realized that this woman had no reason to try to make me feel okay, except that she’s female and likely part of her own network…and…more likely…just innately driven to help other women in need.

She was just what I needed in that moment. It broke the tension and made my daughter laugh…as soon as the woman walked away, she said, “Mom…aren’t you embarrassed?  A total stranger had to calm you.”

My answer:  “No. I’m not embarrassed. I’m pleased.  What a nice woman.” 

Truly…what a nice woman.  In that moment, she became part of my network. An important part.  Who knows what her true network is…she may be part of the hussy network that supports those women like the one I experienced at our block party or the other ones in my close community that aren’t to be trusted because they don’t respect normal social mores. They do things like only speak to other women’s husbands and talk amongst themselves (never greeting the other wives)…but that’s a whole other blog.  So…regardless of what the airport woman’s “home network” entailed, she came through for me…in the moment…when I needed it. 

You just have to love women and the feminine mystique.  It’s almost inexplicable yet totally able to be described.  How cool is that?!

That Guy

I have this thing about stereotypes.  I know they exist for a reason, but it really, really peeves me when I come across someone responsible for perpetuating them by living them out. Take for example, the guy who sat at the table next to us when we went out to dinner last night. He was “that guy.” There with his family, sitting at an outside table at dusk, eyes shielded by rainbow-colored Oakleys circa 1987. There was no glaring sun at 7 p.m. on this shaded deck but he needed the glasses as he sat there with a woman and three young children (all under age 5) who I presumed to be his wife and kids.

From the moment I saw him, I could tell he was trying to be the “big man.” Yet, I thought to myself, “Don’t judge. He’s probably just a nice guy treating his family to a lovely dinner on a Saturday night.” Unfortunately, that sentiment didn’t last long. It was the way he commanded the waiter and talked too loudly and had uncomfortable, stilted “I’m a Dad” conversations with the oldest of the three children that kept pushing me there.  “Here it goes,” I thought.  “The Dad who works 90 hours a week and barely knows his kids putting on a big show at the local Italian restaurant.”  You see…”that guy” always acts the same.  He always chooses a public place to talk loudly with his kids about how he woo-ed their mother or teach them some life lesson, or laugh too loudly at some normal, young child thing the kids have just done while looking around at everyone to make sure they notice him bonding with the children.

This time was no different. As he sipped Pellegrino and downed a bottle of red wine, he advised his children on the “right” music to enjoy — some 80s hair band I believe — reminisced even more loudly, likely due to the third glass of wine, about how, when he met their mother, he told her he could only commit to loving her on Tuesdays…the rest of the week was up to her to figure out. That one left the poor children baffled and asking questions, but he just kept talking over them…”Nope…just Tuesdays…that’s all I could give…ahhh..haa…haaa…haah!”  And, then, just as we were on our way out, he did it.

I wondered how long it would take or if it would happen at all, and it did.  He started in on their house, I think…or maybe his house…I still have hope that this was single Mom out on a bad date with a new guy and her family, and she ditched him right after the debacle.  I don’t really believe that, but it did help me get over the ickiness of this guy and his family for the night.  Anyway…I digress.  He started in on where he lives.  “You know…I can’t have it the same way I did my bachelor pad, you know?” he said.  The woman, mind you, had been sitting there most of the time, nodding, smiling (maybe smirking) and trying to juggle the kids. This time she said, “ummm…hmmm” tentatively.  He went on and, in that moment, I knew I’d hit the jackpot of stereotype perpetuators.  “I mean, it’s only worth as much as I make in a year…the house…really, it could be much better,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear…I was outside the patio at that point and heard it clearly. It wasn’t a surprise…”that guy” always goes there. He needed everyone to know he made money, clearly what he believes is lots of money.

We’ve all met “that guy” or versions of him. It’s a stereotype, right?  It exists for a reason.  And, the reason is him and the thousands of others like him.  He couldn’t just be a hard-working Dad spending time with his family.  He had to make sure everyone knew he was the provider and he was doing well.  It’s as if he needed to prove something to himself and his kids.  It’s as if he has no idea he’s a walking, talking bearer of shallowness who can be summed up in a few brief paragraphs on some woman’s blog.

Not long ago, I encountered another one of those guys, a bit of a lesser version of last night’s, at our neighborhood pool.  My kids and husband were swimming while I awaited a pizza delivery for our dinner that evening.  The man and his wife at the lounge chairs near me struck up a conversation about how cold the water was so early in the season. I explained that, in my family, swimming in that cold of water with the kids equates to a “Daddy job.”  They laughed and the wife moved on to check on the kids. Before she was even 10 steps away, he turned to me and said. “I don’t have a choice, you know. I have to swim tonight. I travel for a living.”  I looked a little befuddled and said, “Oh, you do.”  “Yep,” he responded. “Was away this week on a business trip.”  I didn’t say what I was thinking which was..”Well…give yourself an award, buddy. You traveled for work this week. So did I.”  I smiled and said, “I’m sure it’s hard to be gone a lot.”  He bowed up.  “Yes…it really is, but, you know, it’s my job.” He said it dismissively like I couldn’t possibly understand the importance of it and I should pat him on the back and say, “Good job. You traveled AND you swam in a cold pool with your kids. You get a gold star.”

I had a boss once years ago. She was near the end of her career.  We had just hired a young new graphic designer onto the team. He was in his late 20s and had just become a father. He needed a ton of attention. I saw him as a bit of a narcissist. She, a mother and long-time manager of people, saw something different.  She saw the young boy in him who just needed praise.  He probably didn’t get much at home with his young, harried stay-at-home wife and several small children.  She likened it to potty-training her son 20 years before.  She’d say, “He just needs a reward. No different than my son showing me his poop in the potty when he was two. I’d clap and praise him and give him an M&M and he’d walk away willing to do it every day to get that M&M.  It’s the same with our designer. I just look at his graphic design work and ohh and ahh and he goes back with a big smile and does it again.”  At the time, I was young and thought maybe they were both a bit crazy, but now I know…it’s true.

It’s not true about all people…or all men…but for “those guys”…you know the ones…it’s that easy.  So, when you see someone perpetuating the “big man” stereotype, just pat him on the back, tell him how great he is and move on.  It won’t help those kids with the self-centered, egoist, absent father. It won’t change it. And, that’s why I hate when I see someone live a stereotype…because it balks in the face of self-improvement, personal growth. It holds people right where they are and it doesn’t let them change. It does, though, allow us a really good laugh every now and then and make us wonder what stereotypes we might perpetuate ourselves…I mean I couldn’t possibly be the observing, slightly judgemental writer? Could I? Never!

The Root of Evil

My heart broke yesterday.  I heard on the news that the last four miners  trapped in a recent coal mine accident in West Virginia were found dead.  It’s a sad story no matter how you slice it.  More than 25 people lost their lives in the accident, and, as more news stories are filed, there seems to be suspicion that corporate greed, cost and corner cutting may be at the root of the problem.

While that’s even more tragic, what really broke my heart was the sister of the supervisor found among those last four.  I saw her on the news a few days ago — when they were still searching for her brother and the last of the miners. She was on a mission. She wanted the world to know her brother, an experienced miner, a good man, a solid person, was down there with his crew tucked away in the safety space set up for these types of emergencies.  Her conviction was unwavering, clear and direct.  It had an almost hostile edge but never pushed over fully to that emotion.  She just NEEDED the world to know he was fine and was down there awaiting the all-clear to leave the safe spot. There was not a doubt for her, or was there?  I couldn’t decide.  I spent some time pondering it…is she just crazy with grief or does she really know something? She even referenced her other brother..the miner’s twin…she said he felt something and knew his twin was still alive. Either way… I’ll tell you what…I heard her loud and clear.  It is not over until it’s over. Never give up hope.

Matt Lauer, who was doing the interview, heard her too.  He seemed a little shaken by the experience when the camera returned to angle itself upon him, sitting at his pristine Today Show desk with happy Spring Breakers holding signs behind the frosted window at his back. Had he expected that this woman who revered her brother would break upon questioning and admit she really feared he was gone?  If so, he was very mistaken.  Did he pity her for holding onto the unlikely, the nearly impossible?  Again, hard to tell but one thing was for sure..she got to him too, if only for a second. You could see it in his eyes. Even a cynical newsman crumbled a little while talking to this strong, sure of herself woman.

I know I prayed for that family that day because that was her one and only plea.  I wouldn’t be surprised if ol’ Matt did too.

I have also thought a lot about what it was that pushed her to dig her heels in so determinedly…love for her brother, being the matriarchal figure or family leader she clearly seemed to be, or fear?  I’m betting if you peel back the bravado and strong emotions, you’ll find it was fear — fear of the rescue mission not going the way she believed it should, fear of losing control of the situation and, at the core, fear of losing forever the brother she loved. She was not ready to go quietly into that dark night and she wanted the world on her side keeping her firmly planted on safe ground.

Later that morning, still thinking about that family, I arrived at a dental appointment. A new hygenist came for me. Before I knew it, she was talking…and talking…and talking…non-stop talking. In the first 10 minutes, she had filled me full of her opinions on my weight, her weight, kids’ eating habits, my teeth, her teeth, all her patients’ teeth, and people’s ability to commit or not to their goals in life, not just dentistry. It was a whirlwind of righteousness and verbal ADD all thrown at me while I laid there unable to respond — my mouth full of her hands and dental instruments.

If I’m being honest, all I was thinking was that the dentist is one sucky place to be…I loathe going to the dentist…and this woman was making it way, way worse.  The upside was that she worked as fast as she talked. So, it was going quickly.  We had to wait a minute or two for the dentist to arrive for his part and during that time, she…you guessed it…talked some more…something about TV, maybe movies…I don’t know…just lots of opinions. As things like that often progress, topics came and went meandering around to many things.  And, then, just after the dentist had finished his work with me, she went too far.  Within 40 minutes of meeting me, she made a veiled reference to her negative thoughts about gay men, noting how I need to watch out for some sensitive caring boys at our school since I have a son. “You know…” she said slyly, “They may be interested in your son one day,” followed by raucous laughter.

It took a minute to process.  It all happened so fast.  I was actually getting ready to gather my things when she said it and I had so many emotions at once.  Yet, my head whipped around and I just stared at her long enough with disgust to let her know to stop whatever path she was on…long enough to actually quiet her for the first time all morning. I looked at the dentist and said, “Time to go.” And, then it passed.

You see, she doesn’t know that I have an extremely sensitive young son…one who relates heavily to things that are traditionally considered “girly.” She doesn’t know that I cherish him for who he is and that her one flippant comment goes against everything I believe and all my values…MY values, not hers. She assumed her one-sided diatribe while I couldn’t speak served as a conversation and that we were in agreement, aligned, simpatico. She was wrong.

I left there feeling a level of hatred for that person. I was angry I didn’t say or do more and I was incensed that she spews that crap daily to anyone who will listen…or has to because they are held captive in the dental chair…and, then, I remembered the miner’s sister. And, I realized the hygenist wasn’t so different. She was just scared…of what I don’t know for sure but I think a lot of righteous opinions are born out of a need to box up and put away the things that we fear.  Maybe SHE has a sensitive son and she fears what that may mean for him, or maybe she had a bad encounter with someone like that in her past. Who knows. Does that maker her ignorant, close-minded behavior okay? Not at all…I haven’t forgiven her and won’t go back to her again, but it may explain her a little….just a little.

We all encounter these people in our lives, right?  People walk around trying to be normal even when they might be suffering unspeakable tragedies or just carrying small axes they feel the need to grind. But fears are there for a reason, and, sadly are too often realized. As for the miner’s sister…her fear was clear and distinct…losing her brother. As I learned yesterday, she did. And, my heart still breaks for her.

They Say The Truth Shall Set You Free

“We all rejoiced that a good, hardworking woman was finally getting her due, and swooned as she constantly lavished acceptance-speech praise on her seemingly smitten husband — her Prince Charming in this picture-perfect scenario. That’s what makes the reports that Bullock’s five-year marraige is in jeopardy so surprising, so sad….And the worst part– for us, people who, admittedly have no stake in this — is that it blows up the story line we had worked out. We wanted her to have a happy ending — a revived career, an Oscar, a great man — to prove to us it was possible for someone.”

That’s Entertainment Weekly‘s take on the Sandra Bullock debacle. For those of you who don’t know…she recently had a 12 month run of success, awards, accolades and hit a career high with an Oscar win — all the while praising those who supported her and helped her become a stable, smart, together person who could handle such success as well as accept a strong man and a strong marriage that, in turn, made her who she was. After all that…her husband was outed for allegedly cheating on her with a tattoo-ed and pierced pin up “model.”  All the better, the affair has apparently been going on for 10 months.

While I completely agree with Entertainment Weekly…this is what we all want to believe is reality — the Cinderella story — what IS reality to most people across this world is exactly what happened.  I mean…after the Oscar win and kind acknowlegement of her husband in the acceptance speech, I began counting down. Wondering when the other shoe would drop. Call me a cynic. Call me whatever you’d like, but I was right.

It’s not an unheard of story, right?  Woman finds success. Man, strong man with his own reputation, isn’t so sure he likes it but doesn’t speak up…it would be wrong to admit it threatens him. So, instead, he plays around a little seeing what it feels like when he’s with someone who makes him look important, feel like the bigger person.  That scene has played out numerous times in my personal life…starting with boys in Junior High and moving on to my own Father and Mother in my young adult years.

Don’t get me wrong though…I’m not a man-hater. I don’t think it only works one way. The male ego is one thing that drives these types of cheating relationships, but I’ve seen plenty of wrongdoing on the female side too.

Actually not too long ago, a good friend called and said, “My husband left me.” I hestitated. Did I hear that right?  I mean not many people react perfectly to that type of phone call.  You hear the news, you process it and then…take my word on this one…the word of experience…whether it’s you, a loved one or a friend saying it, it smashes itself down in the middle of your world.  So, you go into “friend” mode.  “What? Why? Wait…I’m so sorry.  Are you okay?”

Interesting thing about this scenario….he had real reason to leave.  He was wronged. Almost immediately in our conversation, she quickly admitted she had a connection with someone else that led to conversations and what else?  I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell.  But her husband found out and he left and she was left to clean up the mess – a big, sloppy, dark stain on the life they’d built together – one that she wholly admits to creating.

Even more interesting to me….I took her side. I despise cheating.    It ruined our already-feeble family when I was younger…delivered the final blow.  It was more than 20 years ago and I’m still not over it.  I’ve had other friends who’ve done it or had it done to them and I cut off the cheater…never looking back.  Done.  Don’t even care to know the details. Yet, this time when the woman – my friend – may have wronged, I found empathy inside myself.  Was it that this time it was a woman and not a man doing the cheating?  Was it that I’d watched her try to keep her marriage together for years and I knew this was the act of a desperately lonely woman trapped in a bad marriage versus that of a malicious person?  Or, was it just that she owned it so openly?

I’ve always been one who loves it when a person takes responsibility for their actions.  And, let’s face it.  Most cheaters have a million excuses and rarely admit what they really did.  The perfect example is another close friend whose husband cheated. She never received closure either. She had lots of evidence of some type of relationship but it stopped short of proving any consummation of the relationship beyond a reasonable doubt.  He continues to cling to that doubt every day as his life raft.  I’m exhausted just watching.  Seriously, how deafeningly tiring must it be to hang on to that last bit of dishonesty until your knuckles are white, your joints are locked and your fingers no longer feel sensation?

They say the truth shall set you free.  For me, with my friend and her open, flat-out, call a spade a spade honestly, it did just that.  The thing I thought I hated the most was a cheater.  Really, though, it’s the deceit.

In this world of imperfection, things get messy and go awry, but everybody wants to sweep it under the rug or pretty it up.  I can name five couples who are facing these types of issues right this second….make that six…no seven…You get the picture.  It’s common.  It happens often, but bold-faced honesty, accepting one’s actions and consequences, dealing with it head on…so far, only one person comes to mind there.  So, I responded to that phone call and I continued to stand by her.  I told her no matter how mad you are at yourself, you have someone on your side.  And, then I looked and found myself there…that person on her side…just as surprised as she was.

Who knew?  The woman who occasionally still dreams at night about physically harming the tramp who helped break up her childhood family is standing by a cheater and is damn proud of it.  Amazing what each day brings!