Author Archives: twistingsuburbia

Time is a four-letter word

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image courtesy of forevergeek.com

I was late to work this morning. It was 7:08 as I started up the onramp. When I pulled up in front of my office ten minutes later, it was 7AM. Evidently I drove through a wormhole on the freeway; either that, or my car is powered by a flux capacitor.

 

 

Sir Isaac Newton told us that time was linear, while Einstein argued that time is relative.

The doctor tells us that, “it’s more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly…time-y wimey..stuff.”

I say tempus fugits. Yes, I am quite aware that I’m saying it wrong. For some reason (the length of time since my last English class, perhaps?) I always say “Tempus Fugits”. I’m sure it irritates people no end. I know it makes me crazy when people abuse the English language (My husband’s insistence on saying  “6am in the morning” makes me cringe every time) – but there you have it. My own personal …what? malapropism? made up word? faux pas? issue? What the heck would it be?

But I digress. I wanted to remind you that Time is an asshole. He speeds up when he should slow down, races when he should crawl and generally doesn’t do what we want him to. Time flies.  Not that we need a reminder. Or I don’t, at least. We’re halfway through November, and I still have a stack of last year’s Christmas cards waiting to be mailed.* They say that time flies when you’re having fun but I disagree. I agree with Mary Engelbreit.

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I spent last weekend with old long time friends. At one point my daughter asked us “How long have you known each other?” As it turns out, we have been friends since before any of the “forever 27” friends were born.

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I didn’t need a visit with friends to remind me that time is flying by. My daughter, who is only 8 years old in Mommy Years, is getting ready to graduate high school. It’s weird. I can clearly remember my senior year of high school (yesterday, on the other hand, is another matter). I remember dances, and high school crushes, being Done With High School (on the first day of my senior year) and fighting with my mother. I don’t know why we fought. I’m sure my friends and family members would tell you it’s because I was a Horrible Teen. I’d like to think I was a Typical Teen, but (seeing that I gave my mother grey hair and shingles) maybe they were right. Or maybe fighting with your mother is a rite of passage. My daughter and I fought last night, because we were ______.

I thought she had lost her mind, and I have no doubt that she thought I was insane. It’s entirely possible that I am, but I wasn’t crazy Before Parenthood (no comments from the peanut gallery). It’s a chicken and the egg thing – which came first, the crazy parent or the crazy-making teen?

She might want to pick up this book:

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Because I’m the mommy, Michael J. Bradley’s other book is at the top of my reading list:

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I’m the mommy. That’s weird.  I don’t think anyone expected to ever hear those words coming from me. I know I didn’t. It’s not that I dislike children, it’s just that I prefer being The Fun Aunt to the Rules and Responsibility of parenthood. Parenting is a four letter word (yes, I’m aware that “parenting” is a nine letter word, but it’s work, which IS a four letter word).  Parenting is not for the weak or faint of heart, trust me on this. And there’s no preparing for it, nobody what anyone tells you. You can read all the Parenting for Dummies books you’d like, and listen to hours of advice from well meaning friends and family members. No matter what anyone says, PARENTING IS LIKE NOTHING YOU’VE EVER EXPERIENCED.

Unless, of course, you’re a rock star:

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I have no doubt that I’ve made mistakes (evidently using sarcasm as a parenting tool is a Bad Thing), but I’ve tried to avoid making the same mistakes my mother made. Not that she was a bad mother (because she was AWESOME, as all my friends would tell you), but I decided to make new mistakes in an effort to raise my daughter to be Different Than Me and an attempt to avoid becoming my mother.

I failed. I have become my mother, despite the best of intentions. The good news is that I’m not alone and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. This paragraph from F Diane Barth LCSW’s post resonated with me:

For example, when I was young and my family teased me about being like my mother (who I did not resemble physically), I felt criticized and resentful. I wanted to be different from her, to have my own personality, separate from hers, and besides, I did not like the things they were commenting on (for example, my bossiness!). But today I am grateful to her for having passed onto me numerous characteristics, including her love of books and her interest in writing, her empathy for others, and her incredible stores of energy.

Of course, there is also plenty to be learned when you don’t become your mother. You can read an excerpt here but don’t come looking to me for tissues. My box is empty.

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I’m sad that my mother wasn’t here when my daughter was born – I have no doubt that she would have had some great parenting advice (not that I would have listened), as well as tips for my daughter on how to drive her parents crazy (not that she needs any tips). I wish she were here to watch her granddaughter/grandchildren grow into amazing young women and men. I know she’d love the fact that my Saturdays for the past three months were spent on the soccer field, volunteering wherever they have a need, and that she’d been thrilled to know that the granddaughter of one of her best friends was on my daughter’s team. If nothing else, I know she’d get a kick out of the fact that her mother’s curse  worked, and that I have a daughter just like me. I hope that one day, my daughter will be proud when someone tells her that she’s just like me.

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Mostly I am happy that my “forever an 8 year old” still tries to climb into my lap at the end of the day. She’s 4″ taller than I am, and doesn’t fit very well, but she tries.  One day, when/if she becomes a mother, I will give her the advice my mother couldn’t give me

Tempus fugits (sic) – whatever you do, don’t blink

(and not just because there are Weeping Angels)

I think Kenny Chesney says it bests.

*Note to friends and family – the printer gave me a discount on my Holiday Cards when I pointed out that they were dated 2016.

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Atten-SHUN!!

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courtesy of paradisekittymodeling.BlogSpot.com

For some reason, I thought today’s prompt was “attention” (evidently I wasn’t paying attention, or perhaps today’s post just didn’t hold my interest).  I’m too broke to pay attention. I’m not sure how it happened. I used to be able to pay attention (I have a foggy memory of being a good student). Did I spend it when I was younger? Did I waste too much time paying attention to useless and trival details/watching reality tv and listening to idle gossip?

 

I could blame Starbucks – I can barely stop vibrating enough to focus on my driving, let alone my daily tasks! According to caffeineinformer.com, Starbucks has some of the highest caffeine amounts of any coffee chain (who here is brave enough to try Deathwish coffee?)

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image courtesy of thrilllist.com

I could blame video games, if I played them. Yes, I know, video games DON’T CAUSE ADD and can actually be used to treat it, but I believe that the constant barrage of images/action makes everything else dull in comparison.

I could blame Michael Bay – the quick edits he picked up directing music videos have had a huge impact on modern movie making. A negative one, IMHO.

Or I could blame menopause  and its raging hormones. I didn’t have ADD as a child, but (as my brother will testify) I’ve developed it as a

It really doesn’t matter who I blame or why I can’t pay attention – the only thing that matters that I’m not alone. We are a nation whose attention span has been reduced to 140 characters and 30 second sound bites. We have lost the ability to focus for extended periods of time as well as the patience to wait for a pot of coffee to brew (and thus, the popularity of single serve coffeemakers such as Keurig).

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I came across a great post by The Redhead Riter. She came up with a great list of reasons why we don’t pay attention:

  • Too comfortable in our surroundings and take it for granted.
  • Overconfident in our abilities.
  • Thinking too much about the big picture.
  • Fear that we will not get it all done.
  • Filling our lives with too many activities.
  • Not living in the moment.
  • Having too much clutter around us.
  • Believing that true multitasking is a reality. (Can you eat a sandwich, whistle and chew gum at the same time? No, you can’t.)
  • Not having a place for everything to reside when not in use.
  • Not putting back things into their proper place after use.
  • Boredom.
  • There’s not a lot of emotion tied in with the experience.
  • Being too tired.
  • We are not at optimal health.
  • Believing that looking and seeing are the same thing.

Again, it doesn’t matter WHY we don’t pay attention. I think we need to stop making excuses for our inattention, slow down, and focus on life as it happens. Not only because, as Mehdi Ordikhani Seyedler tells us, fantastic things happen in our brain when we do, but because we can develop the “Sherlock Holmes” intuition by paying minute attention to detail….and who doesn’t want to be Sherlock Holmes?

Besides, as Ferris Bueller said, Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

OMG! I almost forgot – which are you, Team Benedict or Team Robert-Downey Jr?

The P-word

Most-popular-e1449500390948The song Popular has been running non-stop since I saw today’s prompt . Thanks for the earworm Daily Post!

I started writing about the tree, but realized mid-post that the correct spelling is “poplar”  (scientific name populus) not “popUlar”. According to Wikipedia, populus is “a genus of 25-35 speciies of deciduous flowering plants…(which) include poplar, aspen and cottonwood.”

It’s a good thing it’s a poplar tree and NOT a popUlar tree (although it might be popular with certain dendrologists), because I don’t know anything about trees. I mean, I know that I like the sound of the wind whispering through the trees, that willow switches leave welts* and that I am too old to climb them. After all, as my daughter so kindly reminded me, “Old people fall a lot” and I’d rather not fall out of a tree.

I considered writing a review of the TV series “Popular“, but, seeing that the show ended in 2001 and I never watched it (evidently I was not part of it’s demographic, as it never hit my radar as “must see tv”) I decided against it. I turned to Miriam-Webster for help.

Popular

[pop-yuh’ler]

  1. of or relating to the general public
  2. frequently encountered or widely acceptd
  3. commonly liked or approved

Ah. Popular. My earworm has turned the volume up to 10. For those of you not familiar with Wicked (where have you been?) Glinda tells Elphaba (and the audience) that “It’s all about popular! It’s not about aptitude. It’s the way you’re viewed. So it’s very shrewd to be popular.”

We all want to be popular (or at least to fit in). Can anyone forget Sally Fields’ shriek of delight that “You like me! You really, really like me!” when she gave her acceptance speech?

I had a great group of friends in high school – a dozen or so jocks, nerds and thespians with whom I’ve remained friends to this day. I have no doubt that some of them secretly (several of them not so secretly) longed to be part of the Popular Crowd. Every school has them – the group of girls who are stylishly dressed, with perfectly applied makeup and neatly combed hair. The girls that are mocked and tormented in movies like Mean Girls and Heathers (Is it just me, or did you get the feeling that these moves were penned by someone who was snubbed by the popular clique?)

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When the teen started high school, I hoped that she would succeed where I’d failed – that her weekends would be a whirlwind of slumber parties and dances, football games and romances – and maybe, just maybe, an invitation to Homecoming or Prom. Instead, my daughter has a great BFF, and a handful of super close thespian friends. She belongs to several high school clubs, and knows kids from every “clique”.

OMG. My daughter has become me. I suppose that means it’s time for me to become my mother – a woman who never knew how popular she was in high school

The problem, IMHO, is that popularity is a matter of perspective (the most popular chess champion is unknown to the football team) and that fame is fleeting. Some people try to rely on popularity to get through life, never realizing that there are more important things than learning (as Glinda tells us) “The proper poise when you talk to boys, little ways to flirt and flounce…what shoes to wear (and) how to fix your hair.” These, then, are the people who spend their lives in the past, reliving their glory days.

I hope my daughter listens to my favorite bit of advice:

Whatever you do, be true to you.

Which is really just reinterpretation of Shakespeare:

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* Please note – No need to call CPS I was not “switched” by my parents as a child. My friends and I used to whip each other when we were pretending to be horses

What a Coinkydink!

Coincidence[1]

image courtesy of the poisonedpencil.com

My response to yesterday’s The Daily Post’s daily prompt was a cheat – I changed “focused” to “focus“. Humans cheat. I’m human (disappointing, I know). Today’s daily prompt is a little easier. Or would be, if I could get the words out of my head and onto the paper page. It’s not as easy as Neil Gaiman makes it look (bastard).

 

Have you ever had a friend answer the phone with “OMG I was just thinking of you?” or attempted to  kill an earworm by turning on the radio only to find the song playing over your speakers? These are just a few of the fairly common occurrences most people chalk up to “coincidence” or synchronicity.

My life has been littered with a string of coincidences. I was working in an office when I decided that I wanted to be a massage therapist instead. Shortly after I made the decision, our office downsized, and I was offered a “buy-out package”. The plan paid for my school and  included medical benefits which covered me until the week after I married the man I never would have met if not for a strange series of coincidences which threw us together.

There are those who don’t believe in coincidences.

 

Some people prefer to believe that our lives are preordained, or that a coincidence is merely The Law of Attraction in action.

Others believe that our lives are happenstance – a meaningless string of circumstances directed by the Fickle Finger of Fate (Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In, anyone?)

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Call them coincidences, call it synchronicity or simply Fate (tomato, tomahto) – it doesn’t matter much to me. I am grateful for whatever brought my little trio together, and for so many other “incidents of happenstance” that Life throws my way.

Mostly I am happy that my series of coincidences aren’t as freaky as the ones found here, and that today’s internet search on all things coincidental led me to this image:

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image courtesy of quotesgram.com

 I think it’s pretty timely, considering all the hatred and divisiveness we’ve seen lately.

 

 

 

Yet another F-word

howtofocusimg[1]Once again, The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt has me stumped. I have no idea who he/she is, or how he/she comes up with the word of the day, but I’m pretty sure it involves a couple shots of tequila, a dictionary and a blindfold (sounds like a party to me).

So I’m going to cheat. It’s ok, I’ve done it before. Cheated on my diet, cheated while playing Monopoly with the girl (c’mon, if you don’t cheat, the game is ENDLESS).

I’ve talked about the F-word once or twice. Hell, I’ve blogged about the F-word so many times that today’s original title (The OTHER Other F-word) was already taken.

Today’s F-word (as defined by Oxford Dictionaries) is focus

[ˈfōkəs]

VERB

focused (past tense) · focused (past participle)

    1. (of a person or their eyes) adapt to the prevailing level of light and become able to see clearly:

“try to focus on a stationary object”

      • cause (one’s eyes) to focus:

“trying to focus his bleary eyes on Corbett”

      • adjust the focus of (a telescope, camera, or other instrument):

“they were focusing a telescope on a star”

synonyms: bring into focus · aim · point · turn

      • (of rays or waves) meet at a single point.
      • (of a lens) make (rays or waves) meet at a single point.
      • (of light, radio waves, or other energy) become concentrated into a sharp beam of light or energy.
      • (of a lens) concentrate (light, radio waves, or energy) into a sharp beam.

I find the word ironic, because I can’t seem to focus lately. I could blame my new prescription. I’ve always been extremely nearsighted (can’t see to find my glasses unless I’m wearing my contacts), but now that I’m “a certain age” my vision needs an additional adjustment if I want to read a menu or the display on my cell phone.

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I could also blame menopause – evidently hormones are the culprit for my adult onset of ADHD.

But I don’t feel like blaming anyone or anything today. Instead, I’m going to use this blog to talk about the importance of changing focus.

This year has been a hard one. Too much loss. Too much death, illness, sadness and hate. I found myself being dragged into the pit of despair by the black dog of depression. This morning’s prompt reminded me of the importance of focus. As Sandy Henson Corso says in her 2013 Huffingtonpost piece “Whatever you focus on, expands is such a simple, easy and truthful idea.”

I know for a fact that this is true. I know it both from personal experience, and from a Google search for “What you focus on changes your life.” I found dozens and dozens of links to articles on the internet, and everything you read on the internet is true.

So I am choosing to change my focus – to focus on the miracles and gifts that surround us – to find something to be grateful for every day. Who knows, I might even start a gratitude journal. Probably not, but I AM going to pick up a copy of Rapt, by Winifred Gallagher. I  loved the excerpt I read on Utne.com this morning.

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I also love this video on battling the black dog of depression:

 

 

Leaf Me Alone

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photo courtesy of Hypnogeniablogspot.com

When I saw today’s daily prompt, my first thought was “Leaf? LEAF? WTH? Who the &%*! comes up with these prompts anyway?” (evidently my pre-coffee brain is a foul mouthed Bitch).

 

Then a quiet voice spoke up (yes, I hear voices – don’t you?) “You’re a writer. Stop resisting. See where it takes you.”

Good morning, and welcome to Leaf – the stream of consciousness experience.

Leaf like the car?

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I’m not a big fan of electric cars, and yesterday’s articles on the Nissan’s new Leaf didn’t do much to change my mind. If anything, the Time’s article freaked me out. Supposedly a new feature allows you to drive without ever touching your brakes. That doesn’t sound safe to me. Does it brake for you? Will it brake suddenly as you’re driving down the freeway, drinking your coffee, eating your breakfast sandwich, changing your shirt and putting on your makeup? (not that I’ve EVER done any of those things)

Or did it mean a leaf from a tree? Leaf…leaves..leaving. Too many people have “shuffled off their mortal coil” this year. Too much loss. Too much sadness. Too much change. Let’s leave that train of thought, shall we?

Leaf – leaves falling. Falling leaves is much better than falling people. I tripped on an uneven bit of sidewalk last week. Bailed big time. Hit my knee, twisted my ankle, bruised my arm and my ego. The teen responded with “I guess it’s starting.” “What’s starting?” “Old people fall all the time.” She was “just teasing.” I responded by putting up a “Free to good home – slightly used teen” flyer. JK. Maybe.

Fall is almost upon us (where the hell did this year go? I must have done something to piss off Time because it’s WHIZZING by) – days are getting colder, leaves are falling from the trees. I love the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. I tried jumping in a pile of leaves once, just to see what I’d I missed as a kid…TBH I’m not really sure that I missed out on anything at all (maybe I just needed a bigger pile of leaves, or a dog to show me how it’s done).

I love Fall – love the cool crisp nights that mean roaring fires and soft cozy sweaters. Of course, it also means the start of everything pumpkin, and I am so over that trend (pretty sure someone’s going to come out with a pumpkin flavored tampon next). Mostly I love Fall because it means that my favorite holiday is on its way. Could it be Thanksgiving? Mmmmm. Turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing and family and friends and football and food…but no. Christmas? Cards and caroling and friends and family and turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing and PRESENTS…wrong again.

My favorite holiday is HALLOWEEN. Little kids dressed up as their favorite superhero/popstar and jack o’lanterns, candy and SCARY STORIES and things that go bump in the night and jumping out to say “BOO” just as the cute little kids come to the door (well, maybe not the littlest kids…that’s just mean). For the past few years my daughter and I have been part of the best Haunt ever – Deadzone805. Great group of people who put on a great event. Unfortunately they’re taking a year off and we will have to find our victims elsewhere…

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the little scaractor

 

Or did the prompt refer to a newly budded leaf? A symbol of Spring, of love, and Hope.

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photo courtesy of Georgraph.org.uk

 

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because today is the Autumn Equinox.

Huh. Guess it wasn’t such a weird prompt after all. Happy Fall Y’all!

 

The S-Word

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image courtesy of whatsyourgrief.com

 

Today’s post is in response to today’s Daily Prompt

Sympathy, as defined by thefreedictionary.com:

sym·pa·thy

   (sĭm′pə-thē)

pl. sym·pa·this

1. A feeling of pity or sorrow for the distress of another; commiseration. See Synonyms at pity.

2. often sympathies An expression of such feeling: offered her sympathies to the mourning family.

[Latin sympathīa, natural affinity, fellow feeling, from Greek sumpatheia, from sumpathēs, affected by like feelings : sun-, syn- + pathos, emotion; see kwent(h)- in Indo-European roots.]

Sympathy, as defined by my mother:

“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’ll find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis”

My mother was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She had a huge soft heart which was full of love and laughter, so when she told me to “look it up in the dictionary”, I was surprised.

In retrospect, I’m sure I deserved the snarky response. I have no doubt that I tested my mother’s patience on a daily basis, and my brother will be quick to tell you that I managed to give her shingles. I was a bit of a teen age drama queen. Not that I’d ever admit to it. (dammit, I just did, didn’t I?).

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – my mother was an amazing woman. Not perfect (is anyone?) but pretty darn close. She was my hero. She taught me a lot. She taught me that strangers are simply friends you haven’t yet met. She taught me the importance of “please” and “thank you” and the difference between “y’all” and “all y’all”*. Mostly she taught me that kindness costs nothing – that sympathy and compassion are not a sign of weakness.

As strange as it sounds, I’m glad that my mother’s not here. She would be heartbroken by the bigotry and hatred that are so prevalent lately. Other than offering sympathy at a time of loss, we seem to have lost the ability to sympathize for anyone who is different from ourselves. The wealthy have no sympathy for the poor, the homeowners turn away from the homeless, and race relations seem to be a thing of the past (Literally. Race relations seem to have returned to those from the 50’s).

We need to remember that being sympathetic to another’s plight doesn’t mean that you are releasing them from accountability for their situation. I have a friend who is always complaining about her health/weight, yet refuses to change her diet or exercise plan. As someone who used to eat ice cream for breakfast (hey, I was ahead of my time, as this study shows) I sympathize with her, even while I hold her responsible for her actions. I have another friend who is always complaining that she’s overwhelmed and sleep deprived, and yet, she’s the first to raise her hand when they call for volunteers, Oh, wait. That’s me. I’m perfectly aware that I need to learn the “n-word” and yet, I refuse to do so (Will you sympathize with me, or should I pick up my dictionary?)

We need to get off our current path of violence and hatred. To do that, we need to learn to sympathize with people we might not agree with – to communicate compassionately.

In a perfect moment of synchronicity, this article from sonima.com on communication dropped into my newsfeed this morning. In it, Sonima’s psychologist and meditation teacher John Rettger offers a 3-step plan and guided meditation for compassionate communication. He instructs that we should do this from a place of empathy, compassion, and authenticity. You can connect to these qualities by taking space to remember what nearly all humans are seeking: To be loved, held with kindness, and accepted.”

Perhaps then, sympathy is not enough. We need to empathize with one another – to support without judgement.

 

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image courtesy of lifehack.org

Or, as Steve Martin says:

“Before you criticize a man, walk a mile in his shoes. That way, when you do criticize him, you’ll be a mile away and have his shoes.”

I know we can do this – if we can offer Sympathy for the Devil we can sympathize with ANYONE

*For those of you who are not Southerners, “ya’ll” is singular.  and “all y’all” is plural.

So – tell me – what is your definition of sympathy, and who do you have a hard time sympathizing with?

 

 

 

Like a Virgin

th[3]Please note – This following post is meant as entertainment only. I am not a mental health practitioner, nor do I play one on TV. If you or someone you love is battling perfectionism, depression or any other serious condition, please seek help or contact the suicide prevention hotline

I’m a virgin (stop laughing! It’s true!). No, wait – I am THE virgin (no, not that one). My birthday is August 27th, which makes me Virgo the Virgin (If you keep rolling your eyes like that, they’re going to fall out of your head).

I don’t know about you, but I take Horoscopes with a grain of salt. Then again, I take a lot of things with a grain of salt (and a shot of tequila). I subscribed to Tarot.com for grins and giggles (it beats the heck out of the doom and gloom that’s been pouring into my newsfeed lately). Yesterday’s horoscope included a message that resonated with me. Dr. Harriet Braiker wrote “Striving for excellence motivates you; striving for perfection is demoralizing.”

There it was – the P word. The word that has plagued me all my adult life. How do I know I’m a perfectionist? I failed the online test, but recognized the signs listed on wholelifechallenge.com

  • You feel like things should always be done a certain way
  • You beat yourself up for making mistakes
  • You believe if it’s not perfect, it’s a complete failure
  • You procrastinate until circumstances are just right
  • You worry others will see a flaw and judge you
  • You think asking for help is a sign of weakness
  • You feel the need to be in control
  • You’re afraid of starting something new in case you’re not the best
  • You attach self-worth to achievements, i.e. “I failed therefore I’m a failure”
  • You think you should be doing things better, and rarely give yourself credit
  • You tend to abandon goals if you make a mistake or fall off the wagon

The Whole Life Challenge also listed these uplifting responses to “What is your life really like?”

  • “If I’m not the best, then I’m a failure.”
  • “I can’t ask for help, people will think I’m not good enough.”
  • “I’m exhausted but I can’t relax — I always have to stay one step ahead.”
  • “I never feel satisfied and nothing I do is enough.”
  • “If I make a mistake it proves I’m worthless.”
  • “I feel hollow, like I can never be happy.”

Virgos are known for being perfectionists, so I could blame my Sun Sign. Evidently Virgo traits include perfectionism, cleanliness and highly analytical behavior.

Then again, according to The Birth Order Book: Why You Are the Way You Are first born children have a strong streak of perfectionism, so I could blame the P word on being the first-born.

Of course, per the National Association for Gifted Children “It’s not uncommon for high-ability children to also be perfectionists” – so maybe I should blame my big brain (yes, I iz a smartie pants).

But I blame this woman.

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No, not Julie Andrews. Mary Poppins. I loooooved the movie when I was growing up (still do). Mary Poppins was beautiful, never had a hair out of place, was extremely well dressed, sang birds out of the trees, and could ride carousel horses off the carousel. 

(bonus – she rescued the poor little fox). While other girls dreamed of being Wonder Woman or Batgirl (completely off topic – why wasn’t she Batwoman?) I dreamt of flying through the air with my talking umbrella and magic bag. I had no doubt that when I grew up I would be just like my idol – practically perfect in every way.

practically perfect[1]

I’m older now, and closer to being Peter Pan than Mary Poppins (I may grow older, but I refuse to grow up!) – but my Mary Poppins Syndrome (MPS) remains. It has proven to be more of a curse than a blessing. It stops me from trying new things (what if I fail/can’t do it perfectly?) and from finishing things I’ve started (my bathroom cabinets, which refused to strip perfectly, remain door-less, and I’ve been working on a book since my 17-year-old was a toddler).

I know that I’m not alone in my battle with the dreaded P word. Googling “The Perils of Perfectionism”* brings up dozens of articles. Knowing that I’m not alone isn’t comforting. If anything, it makes me feel worse.

A quick glance at The Alarming New Research on Perfectionism from nymag.com let me know that I may be at risk for suicide. “But real perfectionism can be devastatingly destructive, leading to crippling anxiety or depression, and it may even be an overlooked risk factor for suicide, argues a new paper in Review of General Psychology, a journal of the American Psychological Association.” It also advised me that I’ve probably cursed my daughter with the syndrome. “If you’re a perfectionist who also happens to be a parent, it’s even more important to get your inner Tracy Flick under control, because research suggests that perfectionism is a trait that you can pass down to your kids.” Not the Mother’s curse I was looking for.

Hey, that’s great.

But there’s always hope. I found several articles promising to help me cure perfectionism “In Six (or 5, or 11) easy steps.” Unfortunately, every article lists “don’t be afraid to make mistakes or ask for help” as one of the steps…and help is a four letter word.

I think I’ll start a 12 step program.

Hello, my name is Tracey and I have MPS.

*The Perils of Perfectionism isn’t anywhere close to being as much fun as the Perils of Penelope Pitstop

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bullying and the F Word

th[1]When The Girl was in 8th grade, she was targeted by Mean Girls. She was lucky. Not because she was bullied. There is nothing lucky about it*. According to nobullying.com/causes-of-suicide/ “Teenage bullying is one of the leading causes of teenage suicide, and suicide is the third leading cause of death in young children.” My daughter was lucky because she was targeted by a handful of Former Friends, and the bullying consisted of them telling her “We’ve never been your friend” and running away when she approached. While the loss of a BFF can be devastating (at any age) it does not compare with the stories that make the rounds via social media or breaking news.

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Image courtesy of keyword-suggestions.com

I had no idea. I mean, I knew something was wrong – my usually cheerful, gregarious tween became curiously quiet – but, when pressed, she would only say that she was “tired”. Her mysterious fatigue (which we blamed on a growth spurt and hormones) only lasted a week. It wasn’t until one of the other mothers greeted me with “I’m so sorry that Lauren’s having problems in school” and suggested I pick up Queen Bees and Wannabes that I knew there had been a Serious Problem. When I confronted discussed the situation with her that night, she shrugged “It’s no big deal. I’m not going to be friends with them in high school, so why should I care if we’re not friends now?”

“But why didn’t you tell me? I’m your mom! You’re supposed to come to me when you have problems.”

She gave a slow “no comment” blink.

“Because I would have gone to school to kick a** and chew bubble gum….”

She smiled. “…and you are all out of bubblegum.”

Seeing that 8th grade is far behind us, you might be wondering why I’m bringing this up now. Contrary to what the EIC says, it’s NOT because I’ve been unable to come up with a topic for a post for days weeks months. My daughter went to camp last week.

I know what you’re thinking (I do! I’m psychic! No, wait – I’m psychotic. I always get those confused) What does camp have to do with bullying? Did she go to a special anti-bullying camp? No. I don’t know if they have anti-bullying camps, but if they do, they should include karate or self-defense classes (please note, WE DON’T HIT!) Was she bullied at camp? No. Did she flip to the dark side and bully kids at camp? Also no. Did she have horrible flashbacks and wake up screaming in the middle of the night? Not that I’m aware of, although when she was little she did have night terrors. Did she run through camp wearing a plastic mask and screaming “Welcome to Camp Crystal Lake – run, bullies run!” While that would have been really, really funny, again, the answer is no.

According to the youth leaders, my daughter epitomized this year’s lesson on forgiveness. She stood up in front of hundreds of young men and women and spoke about the different types of bullying, and the importance of forgiveness. She warned the campers that “If you don’t forgive fully, memories and emotions will pop up when you least expect it.” She told them that she had reached out to the girls who had bullied her to tell them she forgave them and shared their responses.

“I told them ‘I don’t mean to make you feel guilty, but I want to let you know that I forgive you for what you did to me.’” The Meanest girl (the one who wanted to replace Lauren as BFF to the Queen Bee) responded with “You have nothing to apologize for. We are the ones who owe you an apology.” A second girl responded with a lengthy text message, thanking her for reaching out because “I have always felt guilty about what happened, but never knew how to approach you/how to bring this up. I knew it was wrong, but, as an incredibly insecure tween, I didn’t have the strength to stand up to the others to stop it.” Not all the girls have grown up. A third girl responded with “I think you have the wrong number.” Which would be possible except for the fact that my daughter had JUST gotten her phone number from another friend.

I am so proud of my daughter. I think it’s amazing that she was mature enough to handle the situation on her own (although I’m still butthurt she didn’t come to me). I am in awe of the fact that she was willing to share her story with hundreds of strangers, and I think it’s incredible that she was willing to reach out to her bullies to tell them she forgave them. I’m also proud of the girls who showed remorse for their actions. The F-word has allowed all of them to heal.

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image courtesy of discovryproject.wordpress.com

Mostly, I’m impressed that my daughter has a heart that’s willing to forgive, because she comes from a long line of stubborn strong-willed women who hold a grudge. I’ve spoken before about the importance of forgiveness, but the lesson isn’t sticking. Evidently I have a lot to learn, because I still want to punch the little B’s** in the neck.

*The statistic (courtesy of bullyingstatistics.com) on bullying and suicide are alarming:

  • Suicide is the third leading cause of death among young people, resulting in about 4,400 deaths/year according to the CDC. For every suicide among young people, there are at least 100 suicide attempts. Over 14% of high school students have considered suicide, and almost 7% have attempted it
  • Bully victims are between 2-9 times more likely to consider suicide than non-victims, according to studies by Yale University
  •  A study in Britain found that at least half of suicides amount young people are related to bullying.
  • 10-14 year old girls may be at even higher risk for suicide, according to the study above
  • According to statistics reported by ABC News, nearly 30% of students are either bullies or victims of bullying, and 1600,000 kids stay home from school every day because of fear of bullying

If you are a victim of or witness to bullying, you can report it here.

If you or a friend are fighting thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please call. Someone is always willing to listen.

**Bullies! That’s the B word I meant – could I have meant anything else? 😉

And, lastly, a song that never fails to make me cry

: the great debate :

Aaaaaand this is just one reason that I haven’t written in a month….”poof” skittery birds!

the whirly girl

Coming up with ideas is a crap shoot. I’ve no clue where they come from or where to look when I need one. Ideas have a mind all their own and follow their own sneaky, backstairs schedule. Sometimes they drop by, but more often they don’t.

You can’t force them, either; I’ve tried. It scares them off.  Ideas, I’ve decided, are like birds, very, very skittery. Attempt a sudden grab and, fwip, away it goes. Gah, so frustrating and so typical. The better plan is to ignore how desperately you need a spark, a notion, any sign of brain activity whatsoever and go on about your day. Which, for me, means sitting on my keister and obsessing over stuff I can’t control.

Which I was doing when, shazam!, two ideas landed in my brainpan at the very same time. Lucky, lucky me — two bona fide possibilities.

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