Slap Me Before I Volunteer Again

I'm one of The Seven.

That sounds appealing, doesn't it? You don't even know what it is, but since there's a select number it must be special or elite or chosen. You want to be one of the seven too, don't you?

No you don't. Trust me. I desperately want out of The Seven. The Seven is not a super cool secret organization with jackets and a butlered clubhouse with a full bar and secret wall of gadgets. The Seven is the same group of fools in any organization who volunteer to organize or participate in things.

The impetus to join the seven seems pure enough, like most initial impetuses. It springs from two fonts: curiosity and empathy.

Curiosity, that ever-vigilant cat-killer, grabs hold when that charismatic authority figure lays out the plan for that cool-new-partially-conceived-project which needs a few good folks to kick in just a little bit of extra time to help it along its way. Your hand is up before you know it and suddenly you find yourself on the most dreaded ill conceived and inefficient of social constructs, the committee. Next thing you know you are in charge of bringing breakfast pastries, both glutenous and non, to 7:30 am meetings so committee members can hear themselves talk and don the cape of Devil's Advocate in order to delay any fruitful action, which would, inevitably put a halt to the self-perpetuating, self-validating meetings and rob all of the glory of the procrastinator's panic of having to do everything at the last minute.

Empathy is a most admirable troublemaker. A genuine desire to help is a beautiful thing, in moderation. It can build bridges, move mountains and turn tides. And it can, if unchecked, cause unbridled burn out and rampant bringing to the brink. Once your kind nature is revealed well-intentioned Do-gooders, like ravenous philanthropic eagles, will swoop down on you, clutch you in their talons and carry you away to their time-sucking aerie. And you will fall under their spell as they speak of your natural leadership skills and how they just need you to send a few emails, pick up a few hoagie trays, and organize the bi-monthly bake-sale complete with separate nut-free, wheat-free, dairy free and taste-free tables. Then the unthinkable happens; time passes, seniority is achieved and you have become what you have beheld as you find yourself swooping down on unsuspecting empathetic prairie dogs below.

And let's be honest, the reason behind the impetus to "help" is not without its ulterior motives. For when we volunteer there is always a selfish purpose lingering in the shadows. We want to be noticed by that boss, elevated in the eyes of those parents, stay involved so it improves our children's chances, or simply improve our odds of getting into heaven. So, we members of The Seven volunteer again and again until our addiction spirals into resentment and righteousness and we find ourselves volunteering for the corrupt pleasure of holding it over everyone else's heads. And then one day we look in the mirror only to discover we have become withered Gollums clutching to the precious ring of our perceived altruism.

And no, the answer is not to stop volunteering altogether. The world is a better place because of the collective generosity of people willing to lend a hand. I propose you simply adopt the Airline Oxygen Mask rule of thumb: put your own oxygen mask on first then assist your child. Take care of yourself first so that you are capable of caring for those around you. It is not a selfish approach, it is practical. My theory is, if you take care of yourself you might actually get to know yourself; and if you know yourself you might actually realize what you care about which will channel your volunteering. Occasionally saying "no" creates space for you to say yes and have time to make that yes count on a more comprehensive level. Allow your cupcakes to have impact

This has "physician heal thyself" written all over it by the way as I am low on this particular evolutionary scale. With a little backbone, however,  I will soon be turning in my membership card to The Seven and graduate to the Panel of Naggy Know-it-Alls. A girl's gotta dream.

The 12 Best Ways to Get People to Read Your Blog

Here it is! You're welcome! The best ways to get people to read your blog! Ready? Cause this may be your ticket to success & glory.

1. Title your Post "The 12 Best ways to get People to Read your Blog.
2. Put your Post in the form of a list, but keep it to a palatable number of options. Most people will only read up until 15, though they prefer 10 and under.
3. Put a swear word in the title. "Fuck" is your best bet, especially if you're a woman since it still seems charmingly shocking for a woman to use the word.
4. Claim to have "The Best Ways to...." something, because we all want shortcuts and guarantees.
5. Mention wine, cheese and chocolate as viable coping techniques.
6. If you're a man talk about your adorable incompetence with your children, which isn't really incompetence since it still seems charmingly shocking for a man to take care of his children.
7. Get on the Huffington Post. And if you figure out how, let me know.
8. Use a charming stick figure pictorial, because it takes less time to read, and who really has time to read. (Plus there is the potential for t-shirts)
9. Be genuinely talented and original. And if you figure out how, let me know.
10. Spend 95% of your time promoting your blog, by reading and commenting on other people's sites, posting and reposting on any and all social media, trying to get published on other sites, promoting your submissions on other people's sites, finding free and cheap ways to advertise your blog; and spend the other 5% of your time writing.
11. Be lucky.

I've never been good at the business side of being creative. I've always accredited it to the firm belief that I am lazy. And while that is still a viable contender, after many years I realize it stems more from the firm belief that I do not believe in myself. I lack the conviction of my confidence. Ironically, though I still hang on to enough confidence to continue pursuing creativity as a profession. There is a part of me that knows I am good but does not believe I am good.

I blame my family. That's convenient and also ragingly adolescent. Let me explain. I come from a large family with a huge range in ages. We rarely occupy the same space for much longer than it takes to talk about the traffic or which route we took from the airport; holidays or weddings for a couple of days at a time. Our parents, to their credit, raised us to be independent; mostly by example as they were both competent and independent to a fault. So, these intermittent gatherings never lasted long because people had to get back to their jobs and lives in San Francisco and Michigan and Chicago and Iowa and Boston and everywhere else. But whenever we parted whether in person or at the end of a phone call, we would always exchange I love you's. And we meant it. But, my theory is that it all happened so fast and so routinely that I found myself somewhere in my thirties realizing that I knew I was loved, but I never felt loved. That, of course is not their fault, so let me amend my thesis statement, I blame myself.

So, my armchair therapeutic conclusion is that if I never felt fully loved, how on earth would I believe that anything I created was fully worthy? And there lies the self-sabatoge. To feel fully loved, I would have to make myself fully vulnerable, I would have to take a closer look at all the not-so-glib and not-so-pretty nooks and crannies of me and wonder if after the fantastic voyage I would emerge and still like myself. Or, more dangerously, let other people like me and be ok with it.

 I guess it is now time to loop this back around to my professional stasis. I know I am good, or that  I can be good enough. I fear I am no more than that, and so I rely on good enough. I need to climb into my submarine and take a fantastic voyage and search all the nooks and crannies and not so pretty parts that lie in the pool of potential, and not fear what I emerge with. It might be new and undiscovered and great, or it might be that the waters did not run deep, and good is good.

After I convince myself, perhaps it will be easier for me to convince others with the conviction of the new found confidence that "warts and all" is not just a punch line, it is a gateway to rediscovering the root of why creativity is vital. It is a true examination of how we are human, how we connect and stand apart and how our warts are worthy. And now we have reached reason #12

       12. Go all in. And know that fucking chocolate, cheese and wine is the best list to get you through anything.

What If I Fucked It All Up?

It is quite possible that I have fucked it all up.

Parenting, marriage, career; there’s pretty strong odds that all I’ve touched has gone horribly awry. I know you think I’m overreacting, or this theory is a ploy to get you to continue to read because I have a poignant and resonant message as a return on your investment. 

Nope. No Ploy. Not yet. As a matter of fact, here is some data:

·       I am unhappy in my job

·       My marriage is surviving but not thriving

·       My sons are not taking Honors classes

·       One of them has smoked pot

·       We just found two ticks on my dog

·       My house is a mess

·       We are in uncomfortable debt

·       I have achieved very few of my childhood dreams

·       My second manicure that I have ever received started chipping on the second day

These facts are hard to argue with. I’m pretty sure a jury of my peers would judge me for fucking it all up and then gossip about my failures to make themselves feel better on the way to their clean cars that have no stray french fries under the mats.

It feels like an indelible-Sharpie-esque mark of conclusion from which there is no reform. And the sheer volume of my failures (the above list is but a short list summary) is as paralyzing, pervasive and persistent as poison ivy. I just keep scratching in search of immediate relief, which is quickly replaced by a deeper more complex understanding of the web of my fuck ups. So, I stop all together and wallow in an oozy puss-filled mass of resignation and pity.

I do not deserve pity or reassurance at this time. I would, however, welcome any and all disgust and disdain. Admitting I fucked it all up is not brave or edgy or revolutionary. It does, however, imply two truths.

1. Accepting failure can be a convenient cop-out

2. I think I have actual control over the universe

The indelible seeming permanence of failure and its siren song of “Just Give Up,” is such a tempting dish of denial. It is so easy to give up; to leave that job instead of doing it better, to shove the mess in the closet rather than actually sort it into those helpful “to keep” “to store” and “to give away” piles, to buy that $10 cardigan because you only have brick red and not tomato red yet. Plus, giving up implies starting over again; the opportunity to erase all that went before and start from scratch, and get it right this time.

What’s harder is collaborating with failure. To really listen to your failures and let them tell you a little something about yourself; the general gist of which is “You’re not perfect, but your life is not impossible.” And then, hopefully, you breathe and find the bravery in doing the small tasks that chip away at the bigger ones that are far too hard to swallow in one bite.

And now onto the arrogance of control. Donning the mantle of “I fucked it all up” assumes control; because if I fucked it up, well than I can obviously fix it, and if I fix it, everything will be okay and perfect and happily ever after is a lock. Right?

Nope.

The thing about “fixing it” is that every time something is fixed, it is not “like new.” (We all know that from purchasing anything on Ebay.) It is, however, more interesting and unique than when it was new. Flaws are never erased, they are incorporated. They can be apologized for or embraced. They are gifts of discovery and growth. They are the freckles, scars and stains that make a memorable story and, if we let them, reveal a deeper truth of who we are.

Failure and Flaws; words to live by, or Taylor Swift’s next hit?

It is still quite possible that I have fucked much up, and that there is more hard than easy in my horoscope. But hard is not impossible. So, I’m going to breathe, get my ass off the couch, change out of my pajamas and try something different at work, sort through at least one closet and buy that tomato red cardigan; because if I am going to fuck up, I’m at least going to wear the right shade of red.

Forgive Me Father for I Have Sinned

Forgive me father for I have sinned, I lied on the absentee hotline. My reasons were pure of heart. I wasn't trying to play hooky with my son and road trip to Vegas to give him a quirky indie-film experience that defines his life and becomes his college essay. My son was, indeed, ill; but his true malady, I feared, would not be accepted by the administration as a cause for missing school. I just did not feel I could say "my son is absent with depression."

So I said he had a sore throat.

Unfortunately depression does not come with convenient symptoms and physical evidence. An abundance of mucous, vomit or a good old rash would make legitimizing depression so much easier, not just for us parents and the absentee hotline police, but, quite possibly, for the world at large. Disgusting symptoms would also galvanize the germ-o-phobes into some kind of action to get depression more actively treated since gooey excretions suggest the threat of contagion. Sadly, no pun intended, this is not the case. Depression has invisible symptoms like exhaustion, self-loathing, loss of interest in anything; and these can often be mistaken for typical teenage behavior.

So I lied.

I do not regret keeping him home.

He rested, watched a little TV, we talked and he even did some homework. We did the same things we would have done had snot been pouring out of his nose

And my guilt actually has nothing to do with my latent catholicism. I feel guilty because I should have had the balls to say he was out due to depression. I should have taken this harmless baby step towards normalizing an illness that walks through the halls of life with its head down burdened by the weight of shame. I should have risked the mess the fallout was bound to create. The phone calls, the unexcused absence, the drop in points of all late homework, the revoking of his parking pass because his absence was unexcused. I contributed to the devaluing of my son's suffering by not standing up and confidently stating that this was the reason he was home. That is my sin.

For penance I could speak out and speak up, but therein lies another sin; a sin against my son. For this is his not mine to brandish and rage against the machine. His privacy, his daily battle, his reckoning with confusion, anger, shame and acceptance that he drew this straw. My penance is to forever remember his load and his strength; to care for him and teach him how to care for himself. To go out in my pajamas at 9:30 at night to pick up a Wendy's Baconator because that what he needs; and if there happens to be a Dunkin Donuts on the way, a coping donut for myself might be called for as well.

So, forgive me father for my sin. I will reflect and try to mend my ways. Oh, and, by the way, It's been about 33 years since my last confession.

The Two Things I am Thankful for this Thanksgiving

I've always wanted to do that thing where you go around the table on Thanksgiving and everyone says something they are thankful for. But the eye rolling and clearly translatable sighs deter me year after year. But you, dear reader, I cannot see your eyerolls or hear your "ughs!" So here is what I am thankful for this year:

The Mess
Homemade chocolate chip cookies

That's it. That's right, just two things.

I could list walks on the beach, reruns of Castle, cereal, my family, finding five dollars in my winter coat when I put it on for the first time, blah-dity, blah-dity, blah. The truth is though, they all belong to The Mess, or, more accurately they are all the balance to The Mess. And to be clear, when I refer to The Mess, I am not speaking of kitchen duties in the Armed Services, I am speaking of the glorious Mess that is my, and, everybody's life. It is capitalized because it deserves honor and respect.

What??????

Yes, honor and respect. Many would say that mess is there to be cleaned up, that is creates a sense of chaos, unease and judgement from visiting relatives this weekend. Yes, it can do that. Mess can be feared and swept under the carpet and stuffed in the closet and crammed under the bed. It can be the hidden secret of shame you carry with you all weekend as you smile and answer "Things are good, thanks for asking." Eventually, though, someone is going to go looking for their coat and when they open the closet the Mess will reveal itself.

Mess will always be there no matter how many baskets you buy from Pottery Barn or drawer organizers you pick up at Bed Bath & Beyond or pictures of idyllic familial bliss you post on Facebook. So, here is the thing I love about the Mess: all the cool stuff I find when I sift through it. I love the feeling of relief when I throw things away I really don't need but was convinced I had to hang onto. I love finding things I completely forgot about that make me squeal with joy and surprise. And I love the new stuff that has found a way into my world. I would never experience all of these things if the Mess did not exist.

Yes, the Mess can be ominous and the anticipation of dealing with it is often unbearable, but there are so many interesting things to be found there; wonderful things, hard things, confusing things, things that create more mess. At the end of the Mess though lies a delicious sense of clarity, accomplishment and pride. It is that moment when you know where everything is, where everything goes. And then the mail comes and the Mess starts anew.

The Mess will always be there, and it is not there to be conquered, it is there to remind us of what living is. Life reveals itself most vividly in the midst of the Mess. So I am thankful for the Mess.

And as for homemade chocolate chip cookies, that's self-explanatory.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Epiphany at the Wawa

I have spent the majority of my life assuming I am in the way.

To illustrate I will go to the font of all life lessons, at least in the tri-state area, the Wawa. (For those of you unfamiliar with the treasure that is the Wawa, you may substitute, anemically, the 7-Eleven).

The first sign that I am in the way occurs upon entering the parking lot, the most dangerous place to drive in the world. Forget the autobahn, driving in a Wawa parking lot may be the bravest or most foolish thing you will ever do. Everyone is in a hurry to get something, or, once gotten, to leave. They are most likely driving with one hand, or just their knees, while they sip coffee or cram biscuit breakfast sandwiches down their starving and time-crunched throats. And though I see my spot inviting me in the distance, I cannot get there with any efficiency as someone will always be just pulling out, and turning the wrong way while issuing me a look of condescending disgust that not only have I not reversed out of their way, but that I, in fact, exist at all.

Once parking is secured and I have recovered from the blow to my self esteem, I make my way into the Wawa itself, usually to order a meal for one of my ravenous offspring because I ran out of, well, you name it, and could not make them a socially acceptable meal, because, apparently, a bag of multigrain wheat thins and a recyclable container of cinnamon life are not considered a square meal anymore. Once inside, no matter where I stand, whether it is to pick something to drink out of one of the refrigerated cases or to wait for a specially ordered breakfast sandwich(because, of course, they only like one kind, and if it's not on a bagel or if it has turkey sausage rather than mystery sausage it is inedible and how could I not know that), no matter where I stand, I am in someone's way. I'm in the way of the array of coffee urns. Once that is sidestepped I am in the way of the creamer/sugar island. After I dodge that, I am in the way of the trash. Once that is cleared I try to position myself where no one goes in the Wawa, in front of the "healthy snack" rack, but I seem to be there during the one and only three minutes when the transplant from Northern California is jonesing for a Clif bar, and am, of course, in his way. Even when I make it through the check out, the mere act of me putting my change away in my wallet and my wallet back in my purse, puts me directly in the way of the next customer who also seems dismayed at the fact of my existence.

Then back out to the parking lot where my only goal is to get out of people's way, but the inexcusable act of exiting my parking space puts me directly in the way of others exiting, and still others entering quickly with little regard for human life, to occupy the spot which was just vacated, but not by me, because I am in the way by being there and by trying to leave.

The Wawa is not at fault here; nor are her mighty patrons. And I am not at fault either, though I am faulty. The faultiness is not because I am in the way, it is because I assume I am in the way. It's probably because I was raised catholic, or I'm the youngest of six, or I'm a woman, or, more likely it is my own unique ME-ness that walks into any situation convinced that I am an inconvenience. This has caused me to spend an inordinate amount of my life apologizing for my inconvenience by trying to provide others with what they need before they know they need it and have a chance to question my relevance for not having known it in the first place (see bagel parable above). And I've been so busy doing all that, that I never took time to think about what I want at the Wawa.

Now I'm not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed to be having a self-awareness epiphany based on the Wawa. I'm going to choose proud, because at least it didn't happen in a 7-Eleven(did I just lose some of you there?). Ok, back to the regularly scheduled epiphany. Since I've spent so much time apologizing for, or proving the worth of my existence, I have rarely pondered the possibility that my existence is simply a fact, and my presence is not an automatic nuisance (though 7-Eleven is filing an injunction right now). My presence has the potential to alter the universe, for better or for worse, for large or for small, even if it means someone has to manage a few extra steps on the way to the French vanilla coffee dispenser.

There are two phrases gifted to me by two fabulous people that come to mind in the midst of this decidedly un-Aristotelean epiphany:

The first from a friend who learned when an Italian gentleman, baffled by the frequency with which the words "I'm sorry" crossed her lips, offered a simple alternative, say "I'm sexy" instead.

The second from my father. When bombarded by perceived and concocted doom and gloom he issues this warning: "You must be prepared for the possibility that things could go well."

So tomorrow I will venture forth assuming things will go well, because I'm bringing sexy back to the Wawa. You're welcome Justin Timberlake.

The Last Thing I Want to Use my Phone For

I used to love it when the phone rang. The surge of excitement was palpable. My reactions to the trill of the bell tone were:

• Who's calling me? 
• Is it him? 
• Did I get the job? 
• Am I invited to that party? 
• Who finds me interesting enough to want to talk to me? 

When Husband and I started dating the delight of the phone call intensified.

• Is it him?
• Will there be a second date?
• I love the sound of his voice.
• I can't believe he finds me interesting enough to call in the middle of a busy day.
• Does he love me? I think he loves me? If he keeps calling he must love me, right?

Honestly the ring of the phone made my heart leap; I had to catch my breath, I sped to answer it, it was even a little arousing. It signaled the unexpected in the routine of a day, and with that came the sonorous hope and promise of dreams fulfilled, prayers answered and existence validated.

Now when the phone rings, or vibrates as the times dictate, my reactions are as follows:

• Fuck.
• Who wants something from me?
• Who's in trouble?
• Who's dead?
• Who do I have to pick up now because of that emergency at work?

The romance of the ringing phone is gone, and its interruption in the course of a day feels much more akin to a harbinger of doom.

The weird thing is, I love my fancy phone. I love it for all of its purposes save it's main one. When my Soda Candy Crush game is stalled because of an incoming call, I make sure the person on the other end knows by the tone of my "Hello" that this call is unwanted. Instead of rushing to answer a call, I pause over the caller ID to assess if I have the strength to go through with it. And, ironically, the caller I dread the most is Husband. 

My dread has nothing to do with my affection for him; the simple truth is 99.9% of the time he is not calling to profess his love, he's calling because something needs to be taken care of. And the same is true of my calls to him. We are no longer explorers on the brink of all that is possible and exciting, we are laboring in the midst of the particulars of possible. We found what was possible and are desperately trying to maintain it; maybe in an attempt to prove why we strove for it in the first place or maybe because the dream of what is possible doesn't always include detailed instructions of the how of possible. So, the poor phone call has become the victim of my resentment of all the unexpected hurdles of all those expectations I originally loved about its signature ting-a-ling. 

Yet fear not poor phone call, my hostility is fleeting since the circle of life is not yet complete. There will come a time when I catch my breath again at your tinkling song; when I look forward to the sound of my children's' voices calling from the brink of their possibles, or the obliging voice of my grandchildren thanking me for the $5 on Valentines day, or the friendly voice of the Telemarketer asking for a moment of my time.

Just kidding Telemarketer, my hostility for you will never waiver.