It's OK to NOT be OK...

 Let me start off by saying, "I've not been OK."  That sentence wasn't said in hopes of outreach, concern or anything futher...this post has so much more purpose than that.  What I am hoping for is that if YOU are not OK, or you know someone who is not OK - that maybe my journey these last few weeks can help you; as I realized the next step for me being OK was to take to a healing space I know I'm good at and have silenced for far, far too long: my writing.

First, while it is OK to NOT be OK, it is NOT OK to wallow here, without trying to find your OK.  Easier said than done bc pulling yourself up by your bootstraps or climbing out of a dark hole w/o a ladder are simple in theory but rarely uncomplicated feats.  So, I'll start there.

I have insomnia.  Have dealt with it all my life.  It's manageable until it is not, which typically starts my spiral out of control.  So, I took off my FitBit.  I'm sleeping like shit, if I even sleep.  No need to constantly remind myself with actual numbers how abysmal it is.  My body is telling me how bad it is.  Also, having my heart race during the day so that it buzzes and tells me that I'm doing a great job working out, while having a panic attack probably wasn't optimal either.  Peace out...I'll put you back on, but not today...not even tomorrow.

I have the most amazing support sytem of ppl I've known for years.  Ppl who get me, even when I cannot tell them what is wrong.  And they showed up.  They held me while I cried.  They sat with me while I stared off into space.  They gave me meaningful conversation as I tried to work through my stressors.  ***TRUTH BOMB INCOMING***  What they did NOT do was tell me "You shouldn't be worrying about that.  You can't let this get to you."  And you know why they didn't say that?  Because we ALL knew the futility of that statement, and how UNHELPFUL it is.  You think I didn't know that my stress was being caused by something I had little to no control over, and that in the greater scheme of things it deep down was a silly reason to be stressed to the point of being detrimental to my health?  I sure knew it, but the mind is a fascinating thing that does what it does, and that is mostly beyond our control.  Stop telling ppl that the thing that is making them not OK is a nothing burger and to just let it go.  Thinking 100% of the population would just do that if they could.  

Read the room.  Ask someone who is not OK what they need.  And if you know, truly know they are not ok and they still don't tell you - they could be ashamed, or don't want to burden you (see comment that they KNOW their stressor might be seen as silly) or just are private...find a way to non-intrusively show up and throw the bread crumb that you care.  I got an ecard.  An offer to go get dinner when I felt up to it.  Numerous hugs.  Most importantly, I was given the space to find my way and heal while knowing I was not alone...I was seen.  That is so necessary for so many of us going through some shit.

When you're in the shit, and not OK...try to remember what makes you happy and do that.  I've crocheted.  Laid in a hammock.  Eaten bread. These little things on their own can't fix it, but they can mend some of the holes in your boat to help you start floating again, instead of drowning.  And today, right now; I'm patching a huge hole just by turning on my ancient laptop and typing all this.

Use what privilege you have.  I have the privilege of PTO.  I took numerous days off for mental health while I figured out how to get me back to OK. I'm lucky that when I want to splurge money on an assload of cookies, I can go to the store with someone and buy an entire basket full to share with the ppl who make me happy.  

Don't take sunlight for granted.  If you are in a dark place...sun can help chase the shadows, even briefly.  I walked among my flower garden and watched the bees.  It was cathartic to see nature carrying on around me, while I felt like I was falling apart - see the beauty in that...or help someone else see it.

Try to learn.  The signs and symptoms that lead up to falling into the well.  Pay attention sooner if you find yourself on that path again (or you're walking with someone heading there).  Maybe it can be prevented.  Maybe it can't...but being aware will help all that may follow.  And know that help is out there.  I'm lucky enough I just needed to unplug from "life" in order to sort mine out...but so so many need more.  There are doctors, helplines, programs through work, outreach centers.  Know them, and drag yourself there if you have to.  Whatever it takes.

Mental health struggles are not a small mater, no matter the issue.  We need to stop treating them like they are, or joking about it.  It is absolutely OK to not be OK.  And sometimes we need to not be OK for a short while in order to find our way through to the OK...but never ever live in the Not OK.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk, and maybe, once I'm back to OK and my sarcastic self, I'll be back to entertain you with something humorous, but for now I'm going to quietly continue to fully find my OK.

I Used to Eat That!

 Whew.  It's been a while.  There's been Covid.  And my return to working full time.  And kids becoming teenagers.  Life - it's wild.

In that wild ride, I've discovered recently that I'm pre-diabetic and insulin resistant.  Doc says that might explain why I've spent my entire life Oprah-ing through my weight.  The last thing any of us wants is to wind up with Type 2, I've jumped fully in to embrace the new lifestyle I'm being given, and thought it might be best to share with you all my journey.  Should be cathartic, right?!?

The journey begins here at a ridiculous weight (I'm gonna leave you all guessing) but my goal is to lose at least 45lbs.  And the doc says a healthy goal is not to really set a specific number but a weight I feel good at.  One I am motivated to maintain.  So, 45lbs [for now] it is. This non-diet, but moreover 'New Way of Eating' nonsense sees me doing something Keto-ish under a doc's watchful eye.  As I reach my maintenance area, I'll start adding back in gentle carbs and good grains.

Don't cry for me Argentina, though.  Truth be told, I'm not even mad about any of it.  I'm on day 3. Down 4.5lbs - which is 10% of my goal - and I eat so much I could puke.  And really, I'm eating like I used to...just an insanely reduced amount of carbs (50g per day to be exact) as with being insulin resistant those carbs were literally just going to my ass.  Fun times.

So, if you're interested in my journey, feel free to stick around for updates.  Product/food reviews.  Random angst.  Joys.  All of it.  Pray for me...bc I loved bread.

They Really Own More Than One Pair...

The casual observer may think "Those poor kids..." as they see my children in the same pair of shoes daily (or hell, the same five outfits).  I promise you this is not the case.  Each child has many, many pairs of shoes; and while even I only see them wear one pair...I *KNOW* they have more.  Here's how I know:

We have a rule that only one pair of shoes may be left by the front door.  I've come to discover that being a SAHM means my near full-time job is shouting, "PICK UP FOR YOUR SHOES FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST!"  Shoes.  Plural.  Many, maaaaaaany shoes.  Yet, they only seem to wear one pair. 

So, the greatest mystery has become - Why are there so many shoes strewn about my home?  And why do they appear to multiply on their own?  Every day, I wander, picking up shoes and chucking them into our front closet.  All while muttering to myself, "FFS, how many shoes can a kid have?!?"

Today was no exception, and included three pair of winter boots, two pair of sneakers, a pair of Crocs, dressy shoes and some slippers.  And I know you think I'm prone to exaggeration...but seriously:

So, in this moment I decided to call my mom, whom was on the pick up end of my countless teenaged shoes, I'm certain.  And I wonder if it is just a motherly rite of passage. 

Something I've Discovered as a Parent

Recently, I've come to realization as a parent, that there is a universal language - Parentese.  Parentese you ask?  Yes, Parentese...  Let me explain.

If you have kids, you can speak the language of any other parent regardless of race, religion, political views; you name it.  And it doesn't matter how old your kids are, or how old the children of the other parent - you still speak this language. 

You've been there: in a restaurant.  Your older kids are eating away just fine (after you made sure their food is no longer touching) and at the table over from you, sits a couple with an eighteen-month-old who is in the middle of a fit, has thrown their head back and banshee screams...all while arching their back akin to Reagan from The Exorcist.  You know *EXACTLY* what those parents are thinking as they quickly scan the room: OMG, did anyone else see that?!?  I'm mortified and just wish I could shush this child to stop the scene we're making.  You can respond in many ways that they'll understand; with a kind smile, nodding your head, or even mouthing, "It's ok.  Don't worry!" while gesturing to your own children.

I thought about this yesterday as I stood in line at a grocery check out.  In front of me was a clearly frazzled mother.  She had two young boys in the front seat of the cart (I'm guessing they were very close in age - maybe a year or so apart).  One child was minding his own business, but the one that was on my right was standing in the cart, shouting and pressing all the buttons on the card reader, OVER his brother.  She turned, looked at me [ooooh, I know that look well, it said "I'm SO terribly sorry!"].  She reached into her purse for her coupons and her son teetered.  I quickly reached out to help the little guy stay inside the cart.

At this point, things got interesting...  She thanked me and then proceeded to apologize to the cashier and me.

"I'm so sorry I'm taking so long.  Please, sweetie, just sit down.  I need to get this done.  I'm sorry.  [insert a look of defeat] I don't know if I'm even going to make it through today.  I just feel like I'm drowning..."

Here it comes.  My inability to keep to myself.  I had to reply to her in Parentese.

"I'm not in any hurry.  I've been in your shoes.  [I neglected to tell her that once upon a time I had THREE under the age of four, I didn't want to lessen her situation] He's fine.  They're perfect, and you're doing a fantastic job!  I *CAN* tell you there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  As long as you keep them alive, one day you too will shop childless and have all the time in the world to just breathe in line at the grocery store.  Don't apologize for kids being kids, and be kinder to yourself.  Take a deep breath and know you're not alone."

She sincerely thanked me and off she went.  The cashier told me I was incredibly kind.  Kind?  No, lady...I just speak her language.  I heard her silent prayer for sanity.  I used to say mine in five minute increments.  I can only hope I answered it for even just a brief moment.

I'm not sure who needs to hear this today, but somewhere, you'll encounter someone at the end of their rope.  With one nerve left.  On the brink of crying in public.  Be kind.  You speak their language.  You can use words.  You can use a look.  You can give the "It's ok" sign.  But know you DO speak their language, and they will hear what you say.

Clean Tiles with a Side of Anxiety

Recently, a neighborhood friend stopped by to give me a gift.  She wanted to see my home (as we're one of the newer additions to our 'hood, and she'd never been in our house), and I was happy to oblige.  That is, until I looked around and panic set in.  Not because I was worried about her judgement of me or my cleaning (or lack thereof) but because I was upset over MY judgement of myself.

We've had recent conversations with our children about mental illness and how to recognize depression in friends and family and things you can do to help.  But what about anxiety that manifests, not due to a disorder or larger mental illness classification but through learned experiences and life-event shaping?  I have anxiety.  Not over everything...but my home being spic & span is one thing that actually keeps me up at night.  Obsessing.  Judging myself and demeaning my ability to care for my family.

I was raised by an extremely religious mother who loved to state, "cleanliness is next to Godliness!" And then proceeded to clean our house with a toothbrush and bleach.  And deep down inside I know this is the manic flight of someone who is bi-polar, and not a standard by which 'normal' ppl should live their lives; none-the-less it's the type of clean I hold myself up to. 

As the friend lovingly reassured me that my home was "just fine and not messy," all I could do was look around in shame at the surfaces that I had neglected to scrub that week.  Not shame that someone else had seen my untidy home, but deep ingrained ignominy that I couldn't eat off of any surface I walked past.  I could hear my mother chiding, "We don't have much, so there is absolutely no excuse in life for it not to be its absolute best at all times.  You must care for everything you have to the best of your ability..." as she scrubbed away at our possessions.

As a mother of three children (four if you count my adorable man-child), who are all incredibly active between music and sports and academics; I'm on the go 24/7.  And I shouldn't care if there's a few tumbleweeds of dog hair floating around as long as things are put in their place at the end of the night; and yet...I do.  I've become pretty good at ignoring those niggling remembrances of unrealistic childhood expectations, but sometimes they get the best of me.

So, I apologized.  In every room.  On every floor.  Not because I was sorry that she was bearing witness to my picked-up-yet-dirty-in-my-eyes home, but because I felt my lack of ability to accomplish everything all at once.  I was sorry that I didn't view myself as enough. Which is just plain silly.  And 100% contrary because I outright know that most of the time I'm too much.  And I can normally shrug it off and laugh about it; but this day, it was overwhelming.

I bided my time until I actually had some free and then gave in to that sense of dread.  In a little way of course.  While Vern, my robot vacuum set about gobbling up dog hair babies around the main floor, I cleaned and scrubbed every surface in our entryway.  And while it's not the whole house, it's good enough for now.  You could eat off any surface in the space which is the first you come into upon entering.  I've made a plan to work on the rest of the rooms (straight down to cleaning the moulding and chair rails) that will appease my asinine compulsion to live up to ridiculous childhood expectations while still allowing me some semblance of daily normalcy.

I guess what I wanted to share is that not every time someone apologizes for the condition of their home that it has anything to do with you; but potentially its more of an internal dialogue that you have no clue about.  It could be a glimpse into their own baggage that they carry though life. And take solace in that for the next 17 minutes you could safely dine off of any surface in my entry.  I know I am.

A Year Without...

So, I did something crazy.  Shocker, right?  Anyways, there's this competition running for folks to go a year without their smartphone or tablet, and I've entered it.  Chances of my entries being chosen are less than me being run over by Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve, but still I hold a hope.

If chosen, the task is to go an entire year without a smartphone or tablet for a grand prize of $100K.  And many seem to think it would be easy to just cut it out, but for those of us who are addicted to the technology it is a daunting task.  I'm not addicted in the way that most are - I don't shun human interaction for the glaring screens.  I am addicted to the order it brings to my family's life.  We live and die by our shared digital calendar.  I'm a SAHM who is accessible to my husband and children with a text or an email, immediately.

So, I've done some soul searching on ways I could make it work, because well...$100K.  And with that $100K, I'd do some super sexy things. 

First, I'd put 40% away to cover taxes.  Hooray, NYS!  But with that $60K leftover, that is where the magic would happen.  Mentally, I've built a new deck onto our home.  I've replaced all our windows and purchased the expensive front door that I REALLY want.  I've drywalled our family room.  Bought the new couches for our living room that will take me 2-3 years to save for.  I've gotten Lennox (our piano) refinished back to pristine condition.  I've ripped out the bathroom in our basement and replaced everything so that it is actually usable and functional.  I've used all this money to benefit our family into making our home into our dream home.  You know, a smart investment.

Sure, there were moments of, "I could buy a pair of Louboutin's that I could never afford." But then I thought that the whole family is going to need to make concessions in how the year would play out, so the money, naturally, needs to go to things that we would all reap the benefits.

In any case, root for me (cross your fingers, say a prayer, offer a sacrifice or whatever it is you do for good luck) that I might beat the odds at the chance of a lifetime - whut?!? - to chuck my phone for a year.  And know a cool bonus is that without my phone, I think I'll have some extra time to get my blog posts back to running.  😂

This Dog Drives Me Crazy (but in a good way)...

So, yeah, it's been a while...but I've been busy.  See, we got a new rescue in May.  It's taken some adjustment.  Not because we were unsure about him; we weren't.  Not because we don't love him; we do...but because of his love of walks.  Walks?  Sure.  All dogs love walks.  But not this dog.  To say he loves walks is like saying I love chocolate cake...and that's just a silly understatement.  Let me tell you how our mornings pan out now that we have a schedule.

My two oldest get up at 6am.  I get up at 6:20, and send Sake down for them to let out.  Teeth are brushed and I'm dressed and sipping my coffee by 6:30.  He's back in.  A kid is by the front door getting ready to head out to the bus.  He begins his morning freak out.

He nudges the leash.  He starts baying.  He knocks a kid over while they're putting on their shoes. [mind you through all of this SoCo sits on the couch staring at him with a disgruntled look that says, "OMG...younger brothers.  How annoying."]  The kid tells him that she loves him but she doesn't walk him in the morning, like she tells him EVERY morning.  He will not be deterred though.

He comes into the kitchen.  He bays at me.  I tell him to hush and that we walk at 7:20.  Enter the third kid.  He paws his leash and bays at her as she comes down the stairs.  "Sake!  7:20!"  He follows her into the kitchen, all wags and bays.  We giggle.

The two oldest leave to catch their bus.  He stands on the couch, looking out the front window and bays at them until they get on the bus.  "Hey!  Hey you guys!  You forgot me!  WALKING!  You forgot to take me on a walk!"  This continues for the next five minutes.

The youngest goes back upstairs to finish getting ready.  He follows her to the stairs and bays at her until she comes back down.  If at any point, I get up to put my mug in the dishwasher, feed the dogs, do the dishes, exist...he is back at my side nipping [in the most gentle playful way] at my tush.  "MOMMY!  WALKING!"  We've learned to put our shoes on while sitting down as he will knock us over in a rush to get to his leash; all the while baying his brains out.  SoCo is unimpressed.

Finally we're out the door.  This dog.  Loves. His. Walks.  So much so, that he barely stops walking/trotting to even pee.  Neighbors must think we're ridiculous, not stopping to let our dog pee; but we try!  "Sake - STOP!  Just pee!"  Nope.  Gotta keep going.  GO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GO!  We trot, we sniff, we don't pay attention and fall into a storm grate.  [sigh] And we never, ever stop to poop.  Ever.  We also have no patience to wait while SoCo stops.  How dare she?!?  If she stops, we bay at her until she decides to start walking again.

We get back home and he HAS to go out now, to do all the things he can't be bothered with on his walk...bay at squirrels, poop and run around.  He'll come back inside where he'll sleep until someone goes near the door again and BOOM!  "HEY!  IS IT TIME FOR MY WALK?!?"

Enjoy this picture of him snoozing until his next walk, and know I've not been ignoring you...I've been walking this excited dog.  😆

This Is One of *THOSE* Posts

Normally, I don't blog or post about this stuff...bc well, funny for me to say: It's just too personal.  But today, I was feeling it.  So, know in advance - it's not humorous, it's touchy feely.

This morning's walk with SoCo turned into a walk-sorta jog.  Because I was feeling it.  It felt like I needed to jog in a few spots.  Like I wasn't pushing myself enough.  What?  Who in the f#ck was saying that in MY head?!?  And so I did.  And it felt great.  And my heart didn't explode.  And it wasn't hard.  All of these things were shocking to me.

And then I came home.  I figured, my mood was up, so if I tried on pants & shorts that I've been holding onto forever in the next size down and they still didn't fit, it wouldn't be crushing.  I dug them out of hiding.  I tried them on.  Every last pair.  And while some fit better than others which were still snug...THEY ALL FIT.

I did the next thing any ecstatic person would do - I purged my closet; and said goodbye to an era.  An era where I hid behind baggy clothes, hoping you wouldn't notice me in there.  I said goodbye to stretchy jeans that fit when nothing else would.  I said goodbye to the girl I was back in December before I started doing what I'm doing.  Most shockingly for me, it wasn't terrifying.  It was liberating.

With the fat pants out of the way and my spirit lifted, I realized I needed to thank three important people.  For what they've done for me.  For what they do.  For who they are.

First, I need to thank Connie-Jo.  For being my inspiration.  For telling me I COULD do this.  For believing in me when I didn't believe in myself.  We don't talk often, but when we do, it means the world to me.  You're amazing, and I can't tell you in words what your journey represented in my own life.

Then Ali.  Always, Ali.  Ali who is never far from my side, even though she's so far away.  Ali who never lets me do things by myself.  Ali who pushes me.  Who encourages me.  Who always makes me want to be a better person for fear of letting her down, even though I know nothing I could ever do would.  Thank you for always, always being there.  You are the best friend I never thought I deserved.

Last, but definitely not least - BJ.  Thank you for loving me at my smallest, my largest and every Oprah size in between these last TWENTY years.  Thank you for encouraging me to figure out who I am outside of the titles "Mommy" and "Wife".  Thank you for the freedom you give me to be me and do all my crazy searching on my own terms and never once questioning me. 

I wasn't prepared today for what 20lbs and 1-ish+ pant sizes would mean.  And I'm not done yet...I'm only getting started.

Guess What?!?

So, last night was like any Monday night.  SoCo and I were wrassling and had made a dogpile on the floor.  I decided it was high time for a game of 'Guess What'.


Me: SoCo, Guess what?!?
SoCo: I am dog, and I dunno.
Me: Seriously...guess!
SoCo: Is it that I can have a cookie?
Me: Better!
SoCo: I'm not sure what is better, but if I make one more guess can I have a cookie?
Me: Ugh - you suck at this game.
SoCo: So it's not about me having a cookie?
Me: No, It's that you're getting a brother.

SoCo: [smiling] Yay...can we both have cookies?
Me: [laughing] Yes, when he comes you can both have cookies.
SoCo: I love brothers who bring me cookies.
Me: You and me both, dog...you and me both.

FMS: A FitBit Mom's Constant Struggle

I'd like to take this moment to discuss my FMS (Forgetful Mom's Syndrome) or the limited capability of my beloved FitBit.  I mean, either way...it's the same thing.  I feel like my cries have fallen on FitBit's deaf ears.  Ugh.

See, I love my FitBit.  And when the weather is nice, I live and die by the thing - challenging everyone I know into competition to which I'm constantly trying to win, but let's be honest, I'm efficient...and therefore might not walk as much as my husband. EXCEEEEEEEEEPT when my FMS kicks in.  And here's where FitBit could be more friendly.  Let me challenge ppl to the number of flights I've mastered in a day!  You heard me right; I go up and down stairs more than anyone I know.  Here's why:

This morning, my feet were cold.  Of course I couldn't find my slippers.  I came downstairs and made coffee, while pacing the house.  I asked the oldest & youngest children if they'd seen them.  [sigh] I went down into the basement...maybe I left them by the back door when I let the dog out.  Nope.  Back up I go.  Creamer into the coffee, but my pigs are still frozen, sooooo - back to my quest.  I go upstairs.  Once I reach the summit, I look around.  What in the hell did I come up here for?  FMS kicked in bc my feet were buried in lush carpet at this point and slippers were the furthest thing from my mind.  Back down I go, vaguely disappointed in myself for some reason.

I begin to sip coffee.  Which is piping hot.  And reminds me that my feet are cold...and that I need my slippers.  Back up the stairs I go.  I look under my bed, thinking maybe Vern has pushed them under there.  Nope.  Back down.  Sensing a theme?  It's not even 7:00 yet.  Eventually, I find my slippers, flung into a remote corner of my room [which is not where I put them.  Ever. But, I did run the robot vacuum yesterday so I probably just wanted them out of my way...which leads me to marvel over my FMS and my non-recollection of ever even taking them off].  Anywho...

This is how my day continues.  All day.  Every. Day.  I go up stairs with a purpose in mind, forget what the hell I was doing [and subsequently get sucked into 17 tasks that I wasn't doing] only to go back down the stairs and back up again when I remember.

Most days, I rack up at minimum 22 flights of stairs.  Minimum.  22 flights.  And yet FitBit will not let me create a challenge for my friends based on this statistic...the only one I feel I could win, and satisfy my competitive streak. 

Sighing, I sit down and go to finish my now luke-warm coffee.  I look at my FitBit app.  I was going to message the creator's something.  I have no idea what though. It was feedback of some sort.  [shrugs]  I think to myself, "It must be that I left something upstairs again..."  I set my phone down and push my mug away.  I slip my feet back into my newly found slippers and go upstairs.  I reach the top, only to have the dim and flickering lightbulb appear over my head: I was going to suggest they let me create a flight competition.  Back down I go.

Snow-Co

Today was a glorious winter morning, like any other...until it wasn't.  The snow was falling softly and I let SoCo out to play as she loves the snow.  First thing she did was run around the tree at the end of her 50' run [don't judge, she's a scent-hound that can't be off leash and her breed is known to climb trees so fences are also out].  Then she began harmlessly eating snow...and thus why in winter the kids call her Snow-Co.

Snow-Co: Mommy, I am dog.  And I am done eating snow.  And I'm stuck.  Come get me.
Me: Dude!  Go around the tree. [now, she knows this command, but it appears we will revisit the training this summer]
Snow-Co:  But, I am dog and I cannot.  Wait.  I got it!  This way? [runs the wrong way around again]
Me: Come on you moron...go around the tree!
Snow-Co: YOU. WILL. COME. GET. ME. I will it so!
Me: Go around!

[this continues for about three minutes that felt like an hour; I go back inside to swap my slippers for BJ's sneakers inside the door and begin the long tromp out there]

Snow-Co: Haha!  You want to play!  I will run around the tree!  Twice, because you said so more than once.
Me: Jeeeee-Zus, are you kidding me?  These foot yachts are full of snow already!
Snow-Co: You want to play?  I'm coming for you!

She begins running for me completely untethered from the tree, at full bore.  She begins barking and running like a mad woman around me while I duck and pray I don't get taken out by the run/tie-out.

Snow-Co: Play!  You will play!  See?  I will run and you will run and we will run and PLAYING!
Me: Stop, God stop! [I duck down again, while putting an arm out bc she is now trying to jump ON me]
Snow-Co: Woooo-Hooooo!  Playing!  I love the snow and when you play and RUNNING MOMMY!
Me: ARGH!

At this moment I fall into the snow.  With men's sneakers on that are about six sizes too big for me - seriously, who in the hell has feet this big?!?  I feel like Ralphie's kid brother trying to get up.  I roll around like a marooned Yeti for a moment until I find my footing in these pontoons.  At this, the dog runs up and knocks me down again.

Me: DOG!  Quit. That.
Snow-Co:  I love to play with you Mommy!  Here, eat the snow too!  It is yummy! [at this she somehow flings up snow and covers me in a shower of it...only on my face]

More rolling ensues.  I get up to find she's casually strolled to the back door.

Snow-Co: Mommy, I am dog and I am done playing in the snow.  What are you doing?!?  Stop with your nonsense and come let me inside!

Ugh.

Oh What Fun!

There is nothing quite like a holiday party to put things in perspective.  And booooooy, do we love a good Holiday Party.  This year was no exception with over 40 men, women and children partaking in our festivities.

See, I'm a clean freak.  That's not to say my home is a sparkling gem - Noooooo.  Mainly, being a clean freak means that I walk around frustrated over doing the same chore 17 times in a row and muttering to myself as I make my rounds tidying up after my non-clean freak family.  Enter the Holiday Party.

Most people spend days cleaning prior to a party.  Not this girl, nope.  I let my joint go, barely cleaning anything outside of the essentials for about 2 weeks, because well - people.  Jammed into my house.  The real cleaning comes AFTER the last guest has gone home and I've recovered from drinking too much of my neighbor's moonshine eggnog [Thanks, Paige...I'm still recovering from THAT].

That's when I get to see that maybe my family isn't such a hot mess after all.  And over the years of us having this huge shindig, I think I've seen most everything...included but not limited to:

• Hot chocolate spilled in a kitchen drawer
• A booger wiped on a bathroom mirror (more like finger painted on)
• Fudge smooshed to the underside of a table
• Crayon marks on walls
• Soda drips down the side of the couch
• Remotes covered in cracker crumbs
• And I don't even want to know WHAT that is on my ceiling...

And I wouldn't trade any of it for the world!  However, when the yearly cleaning process starts, I'm sure you would hear the most fantastical things mumbled as I shift from room to room with my cleaning spray and a rag.

"Wow, that Eggnog...JESUS - how did that get there?  [wiping] And I don't even think we had fudge that color.  Hmmm, wonder where the OMG, [spraying] is that a booger?  [scrubbing] Why isn't there a vacuum that [bending over and inspecting large pieces of furniture] sprays and wipes too?!?  And then the - IS THAT SOUP?  WHO IN GOD'S NAME ATE SOUP IN...SoCo!  Don't eat that...whatever it is!"

Typically, I emerge from the cleaning frenzy about three days later to have my house back to the natural state of chaos that my family resides in.  And it feels good.  And I am content.  

Well, except for wondering what ADULT wiped a booger on my mirror; because no kid can reach that high...

Oh, I'm Sure I Can Find That...

I push my chair back and shakily come to my feet.
My eyes dart nervously about the room.
I clear my throat.

"Hi, I'm Cathy...and it's been 37 minutes and 18, no, 19 seconds since I've made a purchase online."

My dog, the only other living creature in the room sits up on the couch and gives me side eye.  And I think to myself, "Man, I've got a problem and I'm glad I was able to admit that to a room full of strangers!  It's like a weight has been lifted."

SoCo judges me, "I am dog.  And I can tell you, lady, that you are one french fry short of...Mmmm, I love french fries!"

And there it is, confirmed by my dog that I've officially crossed the line into a crazed online shopper.  It's not my fault, really.  I blame my kids.  Aaaaand my husband.  Taking them shopping was worse than having your eyes gouged out with rusty nails [ok, I IMAGINE it's worse than that].  So, I began with buying their clothes online.  No stores.  No whiny kids.  No anxiety.  #Winning.

It grew from there as I started price comparing and coupon coding.  It's gotten to the point where friends ask me to find things for them.  The seven times I interact with other humans a year, it's mainly to tell them that I was able to find this rare artifact [that they wished they found] for $5.00 after 17 hours of grueling and rampant surfing.

And I think I really realized the scope of my problem when I started searching for items, not because I wanted to purchase them; but moreover because I merely wanted to see if they existed.  And if indeed the unicorn was real, I had to ensure that I could find it available for purchase for 50% less than what it would or should be valued at.

Enter in my search for my own China set.  I mean, I don't NEED China.  In my cabinet sits a lovely antique set that belonged to my husband's paternal grandmother.  One day, it will belong to my son.  But...well...it doesn't really GO with my dining room.  So, I want a matchy-matchy set.  And I found a lovely set online that will ONLY cost me ABOUT $3,000.00  after I purchase all the pieces I would like to serve 16.  Challenge accepted.

Not that I expect to find the exact pattern.  Nooooo, no.  But something close.  And I'm not willing to pay more than $300.  That's firm.  I begin to scour online auctions and estate sales.  I watch the bidding.

I've even begun to involve others.

Me: Look at this!  It's amazing.  Aaaand the right price, but seriously, I can't find the rest of the pattern anywhere online.  It's like this China brand doesn't even exist.  And that's ridiculous.  How am I supposed to continue my life with the perfect set of China, if I can only find four teacups?!?
BFF: Are we really doing this?  Is this what's happening today?
Me: Oh, yes!  And every day until I find what I'm looking for at a price I'm willing to pay, including taxes and shipping...  Oooh, wow.  This set isn't me, but you might....
BFF: I totally just bid on that!  What are you doing to me?!?

I hang my head in shame.  It's terrible.  Well...it's terrible that is, until my husband comes home six days before Christmas and tells me that he hasn't purchased anything for his employees and has no idea what to do.

My eyes light up.  I crack my knuckles, and giggle.  "It's ok honey...I'm here for you.  You see, you have this problem with waiting until the last minute...It's a sickness, but I can help you find something..." 

Stop Humping The...Telephone?!?

So, saying, "Stop humping the telephone, Vern..." wasn't in my list of the top 10 things I might say during the course of my day today.  But, it was in fact, something I did say.  Oye!

See, my husband is kind of amazing.  And he likes to spoil me.  Enter Vern: my new robotic vacuum.  I *may* have mentioned that I wanted one.  Well, he thought to help eliminate some of my stress around the holidays and my compulsive need to vacuum every five hours or so, and thus - I became the proud owner of Vern, my automated vacuum.

I proudly plugged Vern in to charge last night and couldn't wait to unleash him this morning.  The directions say he'll vacuum for two hours for a total of about 2100 sq. ft.  Well...that's enough power to easily do my entire first floor!  Go Vern!  And because I'm mainly psychotic, I felt the need to follow him around for a large portion of my morning to discover what he would actually vacuum. 

Here is what I've discovered:

1. My cat, also likes to follow Vern around, with a 100% judgmental look on her face
2. My dog is unimpressed by Vern and refuses to get up, forcing Vern to vacuum around her
3. Vern has now vacuumed under my dining room table seven times. [Jesus, it must be REALLY dirty under there...]
4. Vern is a primadonna and refuses to brave the carpet lip into my living room and vacuum in there; yet - 
5. Vern enjoys going baja'ing and flipping over my throw rugs in the kitchen
6. Vern thinks charging cords are food and will stick around trying to eat them
7. Vern especially enjoys driving up on...  "Goddamnitall, Vern!  Stop humping the telephone!"

Vern drove right up on the house phone and dock that is on the floor next to the couch in my family room.  I shouted at him [like he was one of my unruly children] and ran over to move him off of my freaking phone.  "Vern, what's wrong with you?  Stay off the telephone!" I admonished.  

At this point I walked away to do some other chore.  Five minutes later, I hear a weird grinding noise coming from the...oh, you guessed it!  Vern was back humping the phone again.  His little wheels moving him back & forth, up & down on top of the phone and docking station.  Oh.  My.  Gawd.

I picked him up once more and set him back down close by.  I now realize that he's not merely lonely, but has a phone fetish.  Best to nip this in the bud.  I pick up the phone and rest it and the dock on the arm of the couch.  There.  That'll fix you...

Having the root of temptation removed, Vern was free to go about his business and finish sucking up life's little messes.  And while Vern won't replace my vacuuming totally, he's good at alleviating my psychotic need to tidy up all the time.  But a word of advice should you get your own Vern...don't let him hump your phone.

I Do What I Want

Admit it, you've had that dream too.  You know the one.  The one where you answer only to yourself.  The one where "the Man" doesn't tell YOU what to do.  The one where you set your own hours and do your own thing: working for yourself.

I've had that dream as long as I can remember.  I wanted to open my own cookie shop.  I mean, I make cookies.  And they're damned delicious.  But I've had every excuse in the book: I don't have the money.  I need to do research.  I need to test out shipping.  I have shin splints.  Whatever the reason, I fed it to myself as a reason to not go out and do....until now.

And, granted, it's not cookies.  But it's mine just the same.  When I stepped away from the working world in October for personal ethical reasons; or as my husband likes to call it, "Whoa!  Didn't they know you don't like people to play in your sandbox?"  I was sitting at home with my dog and crocheting. 

I had this brilliant idea that I could make baby blankets.  And why not?  I'm good at it.  I'm creative.  I have time on my hands, and it'll be mine.  All mine.  And I'll call him George, Baby George.  Wait, no...that was Bugs Bunny.  Whew, I've been watching WAY too much TV while I do this.  Anywho, I figured, I could do what I love in between the moments of life that weren't taking my breath away and sell these little suckers on Etsy and hopefully make back enough money to keep me in yarn.

I conned my bestest into making me a logo.  I mean, what's the good in having an Illustrator for a best friend if you can't poach her services?  And that's what she did.  She made me a logo.  See?

Then I set about working.  I've got seven blankets to show for my time out of the "working world" and I've got two more in the works.  I'm working on their write ups, as I have a specific vision.  I'm not sure if it'll get me places or sales, but a girl can try.  I figure I'll do those smart-assed write ups that I was so good at when I ran a social committee for years and years.  And then maybe they're not just buying a boring old baby blanket, but a sassy side piece as well.

The point of all this is: I'm scared.  It's a smaller-ish scared though.  If I fail, I'll only be out about $200 start up capital, but I'm more afraid my pride will be crushed because it's oh-so hard to believe in yourself and follow through.  But yesterday, when the cards were on the table and I'd promised enough people and I had run out of excuses - no one was falling for that shin splint thing again - I did it.  I opened my first shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/CathyCreatesStuff

Check me out.  Pass me along.  Let me know if you're ever in need of a baby blanket, or if you want an afghan, we can work something out.  And maybe pray for me, or send good vibes out there...or whatever it is that you do - I'll take any kind - because I feel like I'm going to throw up.  I mean, I have nothing to lose; and my seat belt is buckled, my chair is in its full & upright position and my tray table is stored and locked.  I'm off!

...But The Foodies

SoCo.  SoCo, SoCo, SoCo...  I'm lucky in that I don't think there is anyone who doesn't love my dog.  She's pretty awesome, and obviously I'm a huge fan.  ...except when I'm trying to cook.  ...especially when I'm trying to cook Thanksgiving dinner.

This year I took over the longstanding Thanksgiving dinner tradition from my mom.  In an effort to make her transition more bearable, she came to "assist" me with all the cooking.  And so did SoCo.  Every time we moved, she was underfoot, in the way, laying where I needed to walk, sniffing at the counter.

Me: UGH!  SoCo, you gotta move!
SoCo: I.  Am.  Dog...and there is foodies.  I can have foodies?
Me: NO!  It's Thanksgiving.  It's not for you, and you're not allowed people food.
SoCo: ...but you drop the things on the floor.  And I eats them.  I can have foodies?
My Mom: SoCo, honey...I'm not going to drop anything on the floor.  Shooo!
SoCo: But Granny; you love me and I love the foodies.  I can have your foodies?
Mom: No!  I'm not gonna drop anything.
Me: Dog!  Go bark at squirrels or something.
SoCo: But the sniffies...
Mom: GET!

At this point, she huffs at my mother, and dejectedly walks two feet away and throws herself on the floor in the doorway to the family room, with her head facing us.

Dips are made, snack trays are laid out, stuffing is prepped, mixed and our group effort begins to shove it up this bird's ass.  In our attempts a few gobs fall on the floor.  That dog is up like a rocket and that stuffing was gobbled faster than a turkey...well...fast.  OK?

SoCo: I am dog and that was delicious.
Me: Thanks, now get out.
SoCo: But the foodies.  I must help you.  You don't want to step on that in your slippers.  Yuck.
Me: IT'S GONE, YOU ATE IT!
Mom: GET!

Again with the huffing and throwing on the floor.

Fast forward to turkey carving.  Now, there are four grown adults in the kitchen.  Countless people milling about.  My husband attempts to use two forkey things to flip the turkey over for his first carving in our new home.

Me & Mom in unison: NOOOOOOO!  It's falling apart!  DOOOOOOON'T.



Once more, rocket dog is there, somehow in between my husband and the island in front of him and the pieces that drop don't even stand a chance.

SoCo: I am dog and I knew you loved me best.  Thank you Daddy, that was yummy!

I guess patience does have it's benefits.  From my family and fat dog to yours - Happy Thanksgiving!

When Not Enough Becomes Too Much

Lately, I've seen so many posts about 'Women who are too much' like this one, and have totally related.  I've been too loud.  Too outspoken.  Too vulgar.  Too intimidating.  Too opinionated.  Too smart for my own good.

But on the flip side, I lived a life in stark contrast to that and have also been deemed not enough.  Not pretty enough.  Not thin enough.  Not patient enough.  Not pleasant enough.  Didn't try enough.

Perplexing, is it not, to be too much yet not enough all at the same time?  Why is it that other people feel the need to create standards that I am supposed to feel that I should live up to?  What is it about the concepts of too much and not enough that have become such a standardized means of human value that many judge their own personal worth when weighed against?

See, here's the thing: I AM ENOUGH.  AND I CAN NEVER BE TOO MUCH.  I'm a human being...not a cheesecake.  [OK, maybe not the best analogy because, honestly, there really can never be enough cheesecake; but I'm fairly certain the point has been received]

As I've been teaching my children - you give your best all of the time.  It's never too much, because well, it's the best you've got and the world needs all the best anyone has to give.  And you're never not enough; as when you've given your best, it's all you've got and it will never fall short.  You can't just "try harder" if you've already given it the max you could.  And the thing that I feel that where the fault lies is the perception that a human should be the best at all they endeavor rather than focusing on the happiness in the perseverance.  Or conversely that you're become too much because you have risen to the best in a category.

For example:  I will never be known for my patience.  But what I do have is enough.  And it runs short.  Quickly.  But, I continue to try and I give it my all and bite my tongue and clench my hands when I'm frustrated.  And it's enough...  Always.  And I'm happy with my efforts, because if I weren't, it would mean that I'm not trying my hardest.  So: enough.

To address the too much: I've been accused of being too intimidating more times than I can count.  By men I can only assume don't appreciate women who are more intelligent than they are, and by women I once more assume do not value their own intellect enough and seek to flip it into my issue of being too much.  I'm smart.  Crazy smart.  Smart on a level most don't understand.  I've spent too much of my life not being normal enough and hiding it.  And when I let that flag fly in all it's glory it's way too much for most. 

No one forces you to be friends with those you have grown to think are too much or not enough.  If someone else's best efforts fall short for you or are over the top - walk away.  Be kind in the moment and find another group to surround yourself with.  And if you're constantly being told to tone it down or to step it up when putting forth your all, look for those that will appreciate you and the gifts you have to give.  They're out there.

In my entire life I've found one man who has never uttered the words 'too much' or 'not enough' when referring to me.  I've never been too smart for him.  I've never been too outspoken.  And my best has always been ample because he knows I'm trying.  He's never tried to make me feel inferior.  That's who I choose to be around.  So, I married him.

And of my female friends...well, there's not many.  And that's ok.  All of them are enough.  Enough to be great friends and all I need.  And they know who they are.  And they're special; each one.  And they make me feel special, and that is all that matters.

So when you feel like you relate to the posts that you are too much or not enough - ask yourself if you've given your all, change your perspective and realize that you're just right the way you already are.  Enough is enough and never too much.

I'll Filth Your Foul Filth...

Long ago, I thought my children became immune to swearing.  It's no secret that I have a blatant love affair with dirty words.  I just can't help myself.  They flow out of my mouth before I can even take the time to realize that I've even cussed seven ways to Sunday until it's already been uttered.  Well, f#ck me...

Anyways, I thought they were words that my kids knew as "Grown up words".  [words that grown ups can say when their mom isn't going to get called into the principal's office if they let leash upon the general population.  I mean, only I will get in trouble for my potty mouth.] Words that they scarcely paid attention to because they heard them soooo much up in here.

Boy, was I wrong.

Let's start with the most common offender other than myself: my father.  Hmmm, guess what they say about apples and trees and all that.  This man can hardly string together a sentence without invoking the Lord himself; at least three times.  And while I prefer to spread the love and use a litany of differing curses, good ole Dad prefers Goddamn and Son-of-a-bitch. 

And the kids have kept a tally!  We've had as many as four Goddamns in a hideously run-on sentence and a whopping 30+ vulgarities total dropped in a single visit [let it be known he's usually here for about 3 hours, averaging out to over 10 blasts an hour].  Whew, that's some $h!+ indeed!

But the most recent one was the most amusing to me.  See, my brother keeps a running commentary on my obscene vernacular.  And usually after I sling about three or so in general conversation he points it out.  [shrugs]  His pristine mouth is beyond reproach...that is; unless he's doing manual labor.  Specifically, in this instance - helping to remodel my powder room.

Imagine if you would a room that's 4'x4'.  A man's legs are hanging out the door into the hallway.  And for whatever reason I cannot even remember at the moment, the Hoover Dam broke open.

"F#ck this goddamned MFing piece of $h!+ cock-sucking MFing SOB..."

I laughed.  My husband looked at me and laughed.

My son however was concerned.  Very. Concerned.  He came running into the kitchen.  "Mommy, is he ok?  I think he needs help!  It's not funny!  He needs help!  WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!?" [...which incidentally made my laughing even more]  See, my son was terrified that something was wrong with his uncle who doesn't swear in his presence, to have caused something so alarming to happen.  I'm not sure what he feared - that a toilet somehow dropped on his head? I have no freaking clue.

Me: [shaking head]  No idea, baby.  He's frustrated.  Go play.  He's fine.

My brother: WHORE!  DIRTY FILTHY GODDAMNED...

My oldest runs in: Mommy?  He alright?  Should someone help him?

My brother comes out of the bathroom wiping his hands and glaring at us.  My husband and I lose it into a fit of laughter.

Brother: F#ck You.

Squirrel!

I have never shied away from the fact that I have the attention span of a gnat.  And never has it been more visible than since I've resumed my full-time responsibilities at FH Inc..

Every morning I make my daily To-Do List and attempt to get through it.  A To-Do List for a grown woman?  Every day?  Yes.  Because if I don't have this list...well, it's too terrifying to ponder.  Here is how the typical Friday runs down for me:

To-Do List:
Set Up This Month's Budget & Bill Pay
Change Bedding
Do Laundry
Get Stamps
Grocery Store
[this is about 1/2 my daily list...but if I can get through these items, I'll consider it a huge win]

Here is how my day actually goes:

I sit down at the computer to do budget & pay bills. I actually do set up the budget, but in my attempt to open a new tab to pay the bills, I'm sidetracked by The FB blinking that I have multiple alerts.  In the midst of checking the alerts the younger two children come downstairs bickering.

I get up, resolve their conflict and take stock of the kitchen.  I start wiping counters...which then morphs into picking up the items that don't belong in my kitchen and I complain to any living thing with ears about how crap gets left all over the place and I'm the only one picking it up, but yet strangely; none of the stuff is mine.

"I am dog.  It's not mine either, Mommy.  Can I have a cookie?"

I lean down to pet my dog.  Ugh.  She needs to be fed.  I open the pantry and scoop her food.  While in the pantry, I see nothing is put in it's 'Sleeping with the Enemy' perfect place.  I begin to shift items around and turn cans so that the label faces out.  Faces.  Gross!  I need to brush my teeth.

I head upstairs where, you guessed it, I do anything but brush my teeth.  Oh!  I'm supposed to change the bedding today!  Woohoo!  I strip my bed down.  Back down the stairs I go to put the sheets in the washer.  Great!  Something accomplished.  Man!  I forgot to bring down all the other laundry.  I go back upstairs and start in my room and see the hubs has things sitting on the hope chest.  I have to mend things.  I scoop up items and go down into the craft room.  There's mending to do!

I set his clothes that are in need of buttons replaced on the counter and stretch and turn around.  Whoa.  My yarn stash is looking a little off it's game.  I should put "Get some yarn" on my list.  Upstairs I go.  I sit down at the computer, where I left my list and write: Yarn?  Hmmm...let's see if I can remove anything off my list.  Bedding?  Nope...  Let's fix that.

I head back upstairs to put clean sheets on the bed.  Did I brush my teeth yet?

This continues all day long until the kids come home.  We sit down to get through homework and then I start dinner.  Usually about then, I'm recapping everything accomplished in a mental check and I realize that I've still not brushed my teeth.  But hey!  The house is insanely tidy and while I didn't check but one or two of the big ticket items off my list, I've done quite a bit...I've even...

I should go up and brush my teeth - "HEY!!!  Whose shoes are these piled up by the front door?!?!"

But...I Am Dog.

I have zero shame in that I love my dog more than I like most people.  My dog is arguably one of the most amazing dogs ever, and those that have met her would agree.  She's lovable, and snuggly, and lazy, and oddly the most intelligent moron ever.  She was a dream to train, having only ever had a single accident in the house as a puppy!  And to many's surprise, she's trained to use a bell.  A bell that hangs on our door which she rings when she'd like to go out.

A bell, you're thinking?!?  Yep.  A bell.  She's a coonhound, and when she was a teeny puppy I had visions of an 80lb beast with a deafening bay in my then small home with low ceilings and hardwood floors.  So, I trained her to ring a bell. 

Now then, she and I have conversations.  Glorious conversations.  And I am not weird/alone.  Many people who come into my home have conversations with her.  While she cannot actually talk, her face is terribly expressive and she has a voice.  It's low for a female, and dopey...yet confident and full of certainty.  And when I was working, I always found myself longing to be home to have conversations with her.  ...what was I thinking?

[bell rings, my son puts SoCo out, three minutes later she barks twice to come back in]
Me: Ugh, you wrapped yourself around the deck.
SoCo: I am dog, and there were sniffies.  I was sniffing them.

[we go back inside...aaaaand three minutes later the bell rings again]
Me: Seriously?!?  Dude...  I'm not in the mood for your shenanigans.
SoCo: I am dog and it was wet out.  I had to pee.  I didn't have to poop.  Now I do. 
Me: You're killin' me, Smalls...

[I let her out; aaaaand three minutes later she barks twice again to come back in]
Me: SoCo, we are NOT doing this, this morning!  Did you do your business?
SoCo: I am dog and I pooped, Mama.  It's wet out and I don't like how it feels on my paws and you're going to complain that I smell like wet dog in about five minutes.  Let me in.
Me: Right...[sighing] you're right.  Let's go.

[we go back inside...aaaaand three minutes later the bell rings again]
Me: No.  Absolutely not!  You've peed.  You've pooped.  You did all that, right?  You're not going back out!  No.  Enough.
SoCo: I am dog and I did do those things.  But.  There's sniffies.
Me: You're not going out to sniff.  No way.
SoCo: I am dog and there's a squirrel!
Me: OMG, NO!
SoCo: The neighbor's cat?
Me: NOOOOO!
SoCo: The mailman!  I know he's lurking about.  Don't worry, I'll protect you.
Me: Sweet Jesus.  It's 7:30am.  There's no mailman, and are you kidding me?!?  Eric the mailman doesn't lurk.
SoCo: I am dog, and he lurks!  I've seen it.  You're not always home.  He's sketchy and I'm trying to save you.  You're ungrateful.
Me: Ungrateful?!?  Over the mailman who is NOT sketchy?  You're ridiculous.  Go lay down.
SoCo: I am dog and I'm laying down under protest.  [she throws herself onto the floor right in front of the door]  PROTEST!

Thank God.  I start muttering to myself as I do the dishes and push the younger Fay children along in their morning routines.  We're almost out the door to catch the bus...

[bell rings]
SoCo: I am dog, and I'd like to bark at you while you stand at the bus stop. 
Me: OMG, NO!
SoCo: ...but the mailman!  He's out there, I know it!  I'm just protecting you and my kids.
Me: NO!
SoCo: A chipmunk?  A squirrel?  That neighbor boy who stands in the front window and makes me upset with his yelling and faces? 
Me: No!  Go watch the Smithsonian Channel I put on for you.
SoCo: THE SMITHSONIAN CHANNEL?!?  Deal.  I won't ring again for another hour.

[facepalm]