Soup kitchen Thanksgiving

This year I enjoyed my Thanksgiving dinner at a soup kitchen.

I've spent holidays at soup kitchens before.  Being at a soup kitchen and serving those less fortunate than myself is a great way to stay grateful and to serve others.  I've had the blessing of serving, regularly, for the lunch serving at a soup kitchen in my neck of the woods.  Eventually, I came to know most of the folks that came there by their first names.  Some, I got to know better.  But there is nothing like serving a Thanksgiving meal at a soup kitchen.  People seem to come out of the woodwork to eat Thanksgiving dinner.  In fact, when I've worked a Thanksgiving soup kitchen, the time FLIES by.  Before you know it, it's done.  Then you can go home and eat your own Thanksgiving dinner.

This year, however, I did not serve at a soup kitchen.  This year I ate my Thanksgiving dinner at a soup kitchen.

This soup kitchen.  These folks put out this spread one time a year.  It's a school in Kankakee, IL.  This year three of their guests drove 810 miles to partake in the feast.

Servers rushed around and served us Family Style.  We sat with strangers around tables covered with white table clothes.  The family we sat with counted this Thanksgiving as their seventh at this soup kitchen.  They proudly told me how everything, except their underwear, had been purchased at thrift shops.  They couldn't understand why we had come so far to eat here.  I shared that this was something my mother and father wanted to do.  They had heard it was good and they didn't want the day to be too tiring for my mom.

I admit, I didn't go into this experience with the best attitude.  I was willing to cook and serve and clean-up at mom and dad's house.  I really didn't want to be served at a soup kitchen.  I tried very hard to be positive about this whole thing.  And then I ate the food.  It was not good.  Nothing was freshly prepared.  There were GFS boxes stacked around the room.  This was not what I considered a Thanksgiving dinner.

I have to admit, I'm a little ashamed of myself.  My father insisted that the meal was good.  He was happy there was no clean-up to do.  And, to assuage our reluctance to attend this Thanksgiving event, he planned to prepare a turkey breast just so we could have leftover turkey sandwiches.  And I complained about the pre-cooked; pre-sliced; and reheated in some kind of brownish salty liquid; turkey.  I tried to look around me at all the other guests and consider the situations they found themselves living in day after day.  Nope, couldn't do it.  I was too busy thinking about how bad the boxed mashed potatoes tasted and how bland the gravy was.  I tried to remind myself that Thanksgiving isn't about the meal, but about giving thanks for all our blessings.  It's about getting together with family.  It's a day to set aside a minute or two to be thankful.  But, I was too preoccupied with trying to figure out what that taste was in the stuffing, because it certainly wasn't sage.

So there I was, fully prepared to be thankful and enjoy some time with my parents and I failed.  I was completely in my flesh.  Thanksgiving dinner only comes around once a year.  I love the taste of my stuffing and my gravy is to DIE for.  I think it was Paul the Apostle who said, "I don't understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate."  Yep, that's me.  (I guess I should be a little happy.  I found something the Apostle Paul and I have in common.)

I planned to laugh at this situation and even laugh at my parents and their cheapness.  I mean, we could have gone to a restaurant and enjoyed a meal and had no clean-up, but my dad doesn't trust the servers in restaurants.  (Don't even let me go there)  My husband tried to hard to keep me on the straight and narrow.  He kept telling me to "stop talking" and "don't say anything else."  He was able to tell the lie with a poker face.  He just kept saying over and over, "everything is very good."  He's a great son-in-law.

By the way, I'm cooking a turkey this Saturday.  Why couldn't I just sit and chew and smile and think about that?

Thanks so much all you cooks and servers.  I know you gave up a good portion of your day to feed me.  God bless you all.

701.  I serve a God of second chances and Lord knows I need one today
702.  You can cook a turkey any day of the year
703.  A safe trip to and from my parents home
704.  The opportunity for my son to spend some time with his grandparents
705.  Time together for my family (even if it was being trapped in a car together for 14 hours)
706.  Mom's delicious home-made pumpkin pie
707.  I didn't gain any weight from that dinner
708.  The housekeeper from my building is well enough to go home from the hospital today.  AND, she is retiring from working here and moving to Florida to live with her sister.  God is certainly good.

Happy ThanksLiving

"Gratitude as a discipline involves a conscious choice. I can choose to be grateful even when my emotions and feelings are still steeped in hurt and resentment. It is amazing how many occasions present themselves in which I can choose gratitude instead of a complaint. I can choose to be grateful when I am criticized, even when my heart still responds in bitterness. I can choose to speak about goodness and beauty, even when my inner eye still looks for someone to accuse or something to call ugly." ~ Henri Nouwen - Dutch priest and author

It's hard to imagine this kind of gratitude, isn't it.  This quote from Henri Nouwen certainly reinforces the truth, gratitude is an attitude involving a conscious choice, it is not just a reaction.  Choose gratitude even when your feelings are less than joyful.  Choose to be grateful instead of complaining.  Choose to speak about goodness, even when you are longing to accuse.  This is the discipline of gratitude.  These are the exercises in the regime of a happy and joyful life.  Sure, life is tough and bad things happen, but you can decide how it is you respond.

"The careless soul receives the Father's gifts as if it were a way things had of dropping into his hand... yet he is ever complaining, as if someone were accountable for the problems which meet him at every turn. For the good that comes to him, he gives no thanks - who is there to thank? At the disappointments that befall him he grumbles - there must be someone to blame!" ~ George Macdonald

George Macdonald was considered by C.S. Lewis to be his master and was an inspiration to J.R.R. Tolkien.  Can you imagine being a fly on the wall during brandy and cigars in that parlor?  George calls it carelessness to accept God's gifts as if they are expected.  It is careless to complain and grumble, as if the problems we come to meet in this walk of life should be considered unexpected.  Choose your attitude in this time on Earth.  Will you have an attitude of gratitude for the generous gifts you have received?  Or will you be a complainer, grumbling at the disappointments that are common in life?  

(On the night he was robbed:) "I thank Thee first because I was never robbed before; second, because although they took my purse they did not take my life; third, although they took my all, it was not much; and fourth, because it was I who was robbed and not I who robbed." ~ Matthew Henry

Wow, you may think Matthew was a "Pollyanna" in his attitude of gratitude, but when you think about it carefully, you can see the benefit.  Finding the blessings in a terrible situation doesn't change the situation.  Finding the blessings and taking an attitude of being grateful for those blessings changes you.  Being robbed is a terrible thing.  It's unfair.  It's wrong.  It's a violation.  Yet, grumbling or anger or fear or bitterness after the fact is not something inflicted on you by the robber.  It's something you inflict upon yourself.  Finding the blessings in a terrible experience can be very healing.  I learned this after my house was broken in Hurricane Irene.

A thankful person tastes joy twice.  Once when something joyful happens and again when gratitude is expressed to God for the joy.

God wants us to be grateful and respond with thanks every day of our lives.  In I Thessalonians 5:18 Paul reminds us, "No matter what happens, always be thankful, for this is God's will for you who belong to Christ Jesus."

My wish is for everyone of my readers and those I love to experience ThanksLiving every day of their lives.  Can you imagine the changes we would see in this world?  Lord, let this change begin with me.

Happy ThanksLiving everyone!

  
Please continue to keep the housekeeper from my building in your prayers.  Evidently she is not improving, as hoped.  She is in critical condition and on a respirator.  This is very dangerous for anyone, but especially an elderly person.

I'm traveling for the holiday.  I hope to be able to share good news when I return.  I trust, no matter what the future holds, God is good.

691.  My warm comfortable bed
692.  The hot water in my shower
693.  A blow-dryer and big round brush
694.  The option to eat breakfast, if I want to 
695.  My parents (even though they are a little bit crazy)
696.  My brothers and their wives and children (we are a very blessed family)
697.  A reliable car to take us on a 900 mile trip to have Thanksgiving with my parents
698.  Having my son join us on this trip
699.  Readers covering a person they don't even know in prayer (I can feel your prayers, thank you)
700.  Finding out that the purpose of gratitude and thankfulness is to increase the joy in my life

It's always about my weight

I don't want to believe this, but I do.  No matter what success I find in my life.  No matter what accolade I receive in my job.  No matter if my witness of Jesus moves someone to accept the grace.  No matter what, it's all about my weight.  My size.  Always.

I have had an issue with my body ever since I can remember.  In fact, I'll tell you the first time I can remember just HATING my body.  I was eight years old.  I know!  How in the world can an eight year old hate her body?  I'll tell you.  I was at a rollerskating party for girl scouts.  I wasn't a great roller skater.  I wasn't great at any sports, but I really wasn't a good skater.  I was wearing a dress at this party.  I know!  But back in those days girls wore dresses to school and they wore dresses to parties.  I remember this dress very well.  This dress was a dress that buttoned up the front, from top to bottom.  It was horizontally striped with mostly red, but also gold, green and brown stripes.  The buttons were gold.  It was sleeveless, so I wore a white mock turtle neck underneath.  There was no definition of a waist in this dress.  It was straight up and down.  It matched my body.  No waist.  Just chubby, up and down.  I was skating with my friends and having a pretty good time.  Then, the worst thing happened.  I fell on the skating rink.  I fell and every button on this dress opened up and I was trying to get up and hold my dress shut, ON SKATES.  In my mind, EVERYBODY in the roller rink saw me standing there in my white mock turtle neck and underwear with my dress unbuttoned.  I wanted to die.

How is it that a 55 year old woman can remember an incident from when she was eight like it was yesterday?

When I was 14 years old I remember my mom making me stand on the scale and telling me I was fat.  I remember looking down on the numbers on the scale, 138.  I remember my mom telling me that I should have definition in my arms.  My arms were rounded and had no definition.  I had an hourglass figure.  I never had an athletic figure.  I could have dressed up as Marilyn Monroe every day, and pull it off.  I had boobs.  I had a butt.  Are you getting a picture?  I don't think my parents were happy with my shape.  I remember my dad encouraging me to run around the neighborhood and following me in his car to make sure I did it.  I know he wanted my chest and hips to shrink into a tomboyish 14 year old body.  It just wasn't going to happen. 

I was so confused about my body.  My best friend was tiny.  She was petite and thin and my parents told me I should look like her.  But they also told me I shouldn't be friends with her.  She was Catholic.  (my dad had some kind of issue with Catholics) 

My whole life has been one diet after another.  I lose the weight.  I gain the weight back.  It's been a constant struggle.  When I was 25 years old I weighed 150 lbs on my wedding day.  I wanted to weigh 130, but it didn't happen.  I think I look pretty in my wedding pictures.  But every time I look at one, I remember, I weighed 150 lbs.  Isn't this awful?  I wish I remembered how happy I was on that day.

The battle has continued every day since then.  The other day I was thinking to myself that it was a shame there aren't many pictures of me.  No one can avoid a camera the way I can avoid a camera.  I've been known to toss pictures of myself in the trash as soon as they come to the house.  Now, with digital photography, it's so much easier to delete.  And I delete A LOT.  I catch myself people watching sometimes.  While I watch them I try to compare my size to their size.  Are there more people out there larger than me or smaller than me?  The funny thing about this is that I can't really tell.  There must be something wrong with me or with my eyes.  It is difficult for me to see my actual size.  Sometimes I look at my reflection and think, "I'm huge!  I can't go outside and let anyone see me."  Other times I think I'm ok, but need to lose some weight.  If you lined up a group of women of different sizes in front of me, I'd be hard pressed to pick out the one closest to my size.  This must be some kind of mental disorder.

So, I'll try again to lose weight.

My blog-friend Emily has written a book that has just been released about her struggle with and success at conquering anorexia.  It is called Chasing Silhouettes.  I've got it on my kindle.

I know this is the opposite of my story, but I think all eating disorders, whether anorexia or overeating, have a similar root.  I don't want to define myself by a number on a scale.  I don't want any woman or girl to define herself by a number on a scale.  We women are much more than a number on a scale or a dress size.  We are fearfully and wonderfully made by the creator of the universe.  He knew everything about us before we were even born and LOVED us.  We need to love ourselves back.

596.  Choosing to focus on the positive today
597.  Being happy my husband is going out without me tonight instead of resenting it
598.  Sunshine streaming in my window
599.  Going to bed earlier and feeling better rested
600.  Enjoying the success of others

Making wishes in August

Can you believe it is August already?  The summer is flying by.  Before you know it the children (you remember I work at a college) will be back to school.  (with the extension of adolescence to 30-35 years of age, the undergrads that come here at the end of each August are acting more and more childish)  Again, I digress.

August is always a special month for me.  My mom and her mom's birthdays are on August 12th.  Happily, (or sadly, if you aren't a christian believer) Grandma is in heaven.  This year will mark my mom's 80th birthday.  Old.  I love her, but she is old.  There is just stuff about being old that is a little tough to take.  But, they say, it is better than the alternative.  (sometimes I'm not so sure about that)  And, again, I digress.

The point about August and it being my mom and grandma's birthday on the 12th is that every year, when I was young, we drove out to The Country to celebrate Grandma's birthday.  We lived in the suburbs of Chicago and The Country was a farm in Wichert, IL.  This was a tiny, tiny area outside of the tiny town of St. Anne, IL, which was a tiny town on the outskirts of Kankakee, IL.  Most people from Chicago did not know what or where Kankakee, IL was.  The cool thing about going to Grandma's house, besides seeing Grandma, was that on the way home from Grandma's house there would be TONS of shooting stars.

I could hardly see the stars at my house.  There was too much artificial lighting coming from the shopping center near my house and it made it hard to see a lot of the stars.  But when we drove home, at night, from Grandma's house, I could see MILLIONS of stars.  And, for some reason, unknown to me at this time, when we drove home from Grandma's house after celebrating her birthday I would see shooting stars.  I would make wish after wish after wish.  My mom used to tell me there were always shooting stars on her birthday.  She didn't tell me why, but she knew the stars were always falling on her birthday.

Now that I'm the sophisticated grown-up that I find myself today (and because of the internet), I know why there are always shooting stars on my mom's birthday.  Sure, she's special and deserves a celestial light show, but the fact remains on August 12th the earth passes through a debris field from the Swift-Tuttle comet.  The result is the Perseid meteor shower and the show is spectacular.

If you have the opportunity on August 12th to view the sky in a remote area where the stars can be seen clearly.  Do it and enjoy the show.  You could wish my mom a happy birthday, too.

476.  Taking time to remember my grandma
477.  Lunch out in town with my husband
478.  Watching olympic gymnasts doing their very best and winning GOLD
479.  Being inspired by olympic athletes (but still sitting on my couch)

photo by wikipedia

My normal is not... normal

I'm back from a week-long vacation with my family.  I use the term, vacation, loosely.  Seriously, are there actually people out there in the world that consider a visit with their families a vacation?  Anyway, I was with my family.  I was with my mom and dad, my three brothers and their respective wives, and all the grandchildren, plus one plus one great-grandson and one girlfriend.  The only person missing, from what we could call a family reunion, but we won't, because I was told in no uncertain terms that it wasn't, was my son.  (he says he feels bad about missing this, but I assured him he had a very good end of this stick)  I'm back and I'm back to work and I'm back to blogging and I'm hoping upon hope, I'm back to normal.

My plan was to live as if I was from a planet of goodness and light and to treat everyone as if they were from my planet.  This was a good plan, and for the most part, it worked.  You know what they say about trash talking and gossipping, you improve the situation 100% by saying nothing at all.  Saying something nice or giving a compliment is a bonus.  Let's just say, for the most part, there was 100% improvement in the way my family dealt with each other this week.  It had more than it's share of pregnant pauses, but this was much improvement over criticism and sarcasm.

I wasn't able to completely live as if I was from the planet of goodness and light.  I don't know how to do this.  What I did do was make Romans 12:3 the wallpaper of my iPhone.  "For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned."  Even when my brother teased me about smoking and lying about it to my mom and dad when I was in h.s.  (seriously, I quit 21 years ago)  Even when my brother teased me about playing with my phone.  (didn't he know I was reading the verse over and over again?)  Even when I feel like a fatso next to my slim sisters-in-law.  Even when I second guess myself over every move I make or comment I speak.  No mater what I did I never thought of myself more highly than I ought.  I tried, oh so hard, to think that no one was thinking of themselves more highly than they ought.

I saw people pitching in and helping make food and clean up after food was served.  I saw brothers bringing water toys for all to play with in the lake.  I saw sisters-in-law sharing clean-up help and offering help wherever needed.  I saw grandchildren playing games together and accepting each other and enjoying the games without fierce or demeaning competition.  It was a huge change for me to focus on the good and beautiful and not the flaws and ugly.  It felt good to do it.  It felt good, but it didn't feel normal.

There were so many times during this week that I reflected on the way it felt to look for the good and to overlook the mistakes.  I want this to be my normal.  I was proud of myself for letting the comment of my misspent youth roll off my back.  I forgave myself for dwelling on cake-balls that didn't turn out as pretty as was hoped.  (I got over it, but it took longer than it needed to take)  I want to be that "live and let live" kind of person.  My heart broke for my niece as her idol crush was criticized by her cousins and me.  Why do we do this?  I know my sisters-in-law saw how close she came to tears.  I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her to come back to the group when we promised to change the subject.  I saw her grapple with her feelings that night and then return the next morning with a smile on her face and embrace us without any bad feelings.

I could tell my niece and her mom of the awe I felt as I could see the change of heart my brother showed to his family and siblings.  Why couldn't I say it to him?  Instead, I only spoke to him about the moments he fell short.  I want a new normal that does the opposite.  I want to praise the progress and minimize that slips.  This is who I want to be.

I have a beautiful family.  As a family, we are abundantly blessed.  There was news of a new baby on the way.  There was positive cash flow in our corporation during tough economic times.  There was laughter and hugs and graduations and college plans and new jobs.  This is all good stuff.  This is a family that is richly blessed.  I want my normal to have the blessings be my focus.  I want my normal to let the critical comments go unheard.  We all grow at a different pace.  I want my normal to be the encourager of growth and the ignorer of missteps.  I had moments of feeling how this new normal would feel, and it feels good.  I want to give up competing with my brothers and compliment them.  I want to cover flaws with love.  My dad was very quiet this week.  I'm hoping he saw a glimpse of what the new normal can be for our family and decide it's the way he wants his normal to be, too.  I hope...

405.  Pleasant visit with family
406.  Safe travel for all of us
407.  My house didn't get hit by the giant limb (about the size of a small tree) that fell in the storm on Friday
408.  A break in the dreadfully hot weather
409.  Being welcomed home by my son
410.  I still have a job (they fired two long-time employees while I was gone, 25 and 37 years each.  this place is getting scary)

My perception can change my reality

There is no reality, there is only perception. 

I know I've blogged on this before, but perhaps because I'm such a thinker and my mind resides in the world of facts, I need to ponder this again.  There is a philosophical thought experiment that asks the question, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"  Every first-year student of philosophy will ponder this question.  We could go around and around debating the question with the principles of sound and the vibrations of air molecules bumping into one another and how this is a fact and it cannot be disputed.  Then someone else would counter with the anatomy of the human ear and it's ability to be stimulated by the bumping molecules and have those vibrations captured by the ear drum and stimulate the auditory nerves connecting to the brain.  The facts of how sound is captured are indisputable.  But are they?  If there are no ears can there be sound?  We could go around and around.

I perceive a tone of anger in my father's voice as he speaks to me on the phone.  Is it a reality?  Is it anger at me?  Maybe he is frustrated with my mother and her habit of repeating the same story over and over again or forgetting what she did 15 minutes ago.  Maybe he is scared at the thought of having all four of his children and their children and even a child of one of their children's children coming to visit at the same time.   (count 'em, 4 children + 4 spouses + 7 grandchildren + 1 grandchild-in-law + 1 great grandchild.  Yikes)  Then again, maybe he is talking loud and it's not anger and it has more to do with his hearing loss than emotion.  Or, there is the possibility it is anger and he woke up on the side of the bed that made him feel like having a fight that morning to get the juices flowing in his 83 year old body.  When all these possibilities (and I could probably come up with more) are considered, the possibility of my father actually being angry with me seems pretty egotistical.  Seriously, what makes me think it's all about me?

It's all perception, there is no reality.  If I perceive the situation as pleasant and beautiful, so it is.  If I perceive myself as being the least important of all in attendance, so it is.  If I perceive peace and love, so it is.  In the bible, Paul reminds us in Romans 12:3, "For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned."  Three things jump out at me from this verse.  The first is that I am not to think of myself too highly.  I am a person, just like everyone else.  The second is that I am to think with sober judgment.  Sober.  Not too many cocktails after dinner.  Not too many beers on the boat.  Sober.  And, third, I have been given the grace to do these things already.  I have the holy spirit inside of me.  I just need to get myself out of the way (for one week) and just be a person of no importance.  I am dying to know if I can do this. 

I read a facebook status from a woman grieving the loss of her child, allegedly at the hands of her husband.  She wrote about people telling her to withdraw from the public.  Telling her that people will try to hurt her.  There are mean people out there that just want to make her suffer further.  Her reply was that of surprise.  She said she must be from another planet because she expects people to open their doors to her and her other children.  She expects people to comfort her and give her rest and a place to stay and be with her daughters.  She said, this world of meanness isn't her world.  She is from a different world.  She realizes she is here, in this dry, cold world, but longs to return to the lush greenness of the planet she used to reside.

My goal, next week, is to be from the planet of goodness and kindness and expect hope for the same in return.  

401.  Observing a woman with faith so strong, it cannot be denied

402.  Shaking off the stress and fear

403.  Moving forward in faith and hope

404.  Taking a step to the right to change my perspective and (with grace) change my perception, therefore, changing my reality 

Linking with Em at Imperfect Prose on Thursdays.

A glimpse into retirement

Today I got a peek into my future.  I took the day off of work.  I call this a mental health day.  If I hadn't taken today off, I may, very well, have quit today.  Between the anticipation of a trip to visit my parents that has turned into a full-fledged family reunion and the extra work passed to me because of the retirement of a coworker, I started to feel a lot of stress.  If it was just the work or just the anticipation of the trip, I would be ok, but the combination of the two was giving me chest pains.  This makes me feel weak.  I'm not going to get into the details of either of the issues, but the trip isn't just a trip (I like to call a trip to visit family a "working" vacation) and the extra work isn't just more work (can you say more responsibility with no authority?).  I'm home from work and I'm not physically ill or going to a doctor appointment.  What I am doing is getting an opportunity to see what my newly retired husband does as a retired guy.

It looks awesome.  If today is an example of what retirement is like, SIGN ME UP!

Today I watched my husband sleep until 9 a.m.  Then he got up and shaved and brushed his teeth and made an espresso and turned on CNBC.  Good morning.  Today was considered a working day for him.  He's watching Apple and looking for a $3 pop today to sell a call and make some money.  So far Apple is is up $0.08, so no trade yet.  Fingers crossed.

Then lunch.  He had leftovers.  I think he ate the leftovers because he knows it makes me very very happy for my men to eat the leftovers from dinners I make for them after working all day long.  I makes me kind of mad to toss out the leftovers from dinners made by my exhausted hands.  Anyway, it made me happy to see him eat the leftovers.

Then, he told me I needed to do something with the lamb I have thawing in the refrigerator.  I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to be tasked to cook at 12:15 p.m.  Yeah, it was awesome.  I hope he wasn't hoping he could have dinner by 5 p.m.  I mean, I know he's retired, but we're not doing that early-bird dining thing just yet.

Next, I went up to the bedroom to turn the tv on to something other than CNBC and possibly take a nap (no dice on the nap).  A few minutes later, he came up to his office to work on his dissertation paper.  (the never ending dissertation...)  He popped his head in the door to ask me to turn the tv down (I think it was tuned to RHOOC, so I totally get the distraction.  those women bitch and whine like nobody's business).  I tuned the tv back to CNBC.  I guess I like watching (read listening) to this more than I thought I would.  Still watching to see what Apple is up to (down $1.57 bummer).

The plan, for me, is to make dinner and that is all.  My husband has a meeting to attend tonight, so I'll try to have dinner ready by 6 p.m. to allow him to leave on time.  This is going to be the extent of my activities for the day.  I completely get how lazy I am.  I'm surprising myself by writing a blog post.  I was thinking this may even be too much effort for me to expend today.  I'm still having waves of panic run through my body, but they aren't as severe as they were this weekend.  I hate the sick feeling I get in my stomach when I'm under stress.  That small knot of fear balled up in my stomach causing stomach acid to pour in to try to dissolve it.  Since there is nothing actually in my tummy, the acid just burns, burns, burns.  Ah, stress...

Husband just informed me he is going downstairs to run on the treadmill for an hour.  He is awesome.  He has such discipline.  He loves to run on the treadmill and watch CNBC.  I, on the other hand, am happy to sit in bed and type my blog.  I'm considering taking a few minutes to read more of my book.  I'm currently reading compendium one of The Walking Dead graphic novels.  LOVE IT.  I'm halfway through.  I know, I know I said I would exercise, but... I'm sick today.  (cough, cough)  Let's see how Apple is doing... (up $0.22, c'mon AAPL)

I had the opportunity to check my email and found a gem.  The International Space Station will be in the view of many US states.  The ISS is incredible to watch as it goes across the night sky. It is brighter than anything else, save the Moon, and really moves quickly.  This website gives you the times and coordinates for whatever location you want.  I found the viewing time and duration for my area.  It's tonight at 8:57 p.m. and be available for viewing for 2 minutes.  It will approach the viewing sky at 43 degrees above ESE and depart the viewing sky at 12 degrees above SE.  I don't know exactly what that means, but I'm going to the sighting help information on the website.

I was happy to have my glimpse into retirement today.  I learned a few things.  One thing I learned is that there is nothing on tv worth watching during the day.  Another is that reading tweets is considered news.  Seriously?  Reading tweets is news?  What is the world coming to?  On the positive side I learned that I'm going to LOVE retirement.  I cannot wait.  (just in case my boss ever reads my blog, I CANNOT wait, just sayin') 

396.  Paid sick days
397.  Prayer
398.  Tums
399.  More prayer
400.  A pretty day in June and time to enjoy it

FYI, APPL is up $0.23.  It doesn't look like we're going to get the $3 pop.  (not every day is a winning day)

I can't make someone happy

I can't, because, just like Abraham Lincoln (not the vampire hunter) once said, "Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be."

I can't because, just like (probably) Ben Franklin once said, "The Constitution only guarantees the American people the right to pursue happiness.  You have to catch it yourself."

I can't because, just like Doystoevsky once said, "Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys.  If he counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it."

I can't because, just like Euripides once said, "No one is happy all his life long."

I can't because, just like Ben Franklin once said, "Money never made a man happy yet, nor will it. There is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more a man has, the more he wants. Instead of filling a vacuum, it makes one."

I can't because, just like someone once said, "Being happy doesn't mean everything is perfect. It means you have decided to look beyond the imperfections."

I'm so far from perfect.  You can see most of my flaws just by looking at me.  If you know me a little better, you will see more of my flaws.  If you are my father, you can see every single one of my flaws.  I'm sorry, I'm so far from perfect.

390.  Every day is a new day with endless possibilities
391.  I am more than my mistakes
392.  I am lovable, just the way I am
393.  Sometimes intentions matter more than actions
394.  I have a perfect father who loves me, completely, in heaven
395.  I know the right words for every conversation.  All I have to do is use them ("You could be right.")  

Let's hear it for the dads

I hope everybody, who can, calls their dad and wishes him a Happy Father's Day.  Dads are great.  Dads are even greater when moms let them be dads and do dad kind of things.  I love to see dads out there playing and running and climbing and just plain doing stuff with their kids.  It's great to see kids outside, helping with chores like washing the car and yard work with their dad.  Somehow, the feminist movement may have empowered moms to go to work and take authority in the family, but dad (if he is in the picture) still gets stuck with the yard work.  I'm praying that all the sah moms I see on fb, letting their kids play video games and watch tv all day, will allow the dad of the family to play with the kids.  Dads teach kids things moms just can't.  They talk differently to their kids.  They come at life from a different angle.  There is no way mom can be the dad to a kid.  When I watch my husband teaching my son how to change the oil in the car or rotate the tires, I get a warm feeling in my heart.  I don't know if my son will ever take it upon himself to do these things, but my husband can sleep well at night knowing he put for the effort taught him how to do it.

I remember when our son left home and moved across the country (and then came back).  My husband got a bit misty, and what he said was, "I haven't prepared him well enough."  Since my son came home, my husband has gone above and beyond to prepare him for life.  My husband is my son's father and friend.  Dads can teach sons how men are with each other.  Dads can teach daughters how special they are.  Parenting is hard work.  It's so sad that the family structure is breaking so often in this country.  It's sad that our expectations of what a family should be is so unrealistic that people would rather throw it away than stay in the struggle.  Happy Father's Day to all the dads.  Keep it up dads!  Keep taking care of the kids and keep loving the moms (preferably the mom you had the kids with).  You are more than an open wallet.  You are the dad, and that's a very important job.

363.  My dad
364.  My husband
365.  My marriage
366.  The value my parents taught me to put on family
367.  Staying in the struggle of being married when it got hard ('cause sometimes marriage gets hard to do) and sticking it through to the good times ('cause the good times come when you keep loving and letting them know you do)

I have to share this new Coke commercial.  I know, I know, it's a commercial, but it's really well done.  It's very uplifting.  There is good in the world, and sometimes it gets caught on camera.  :)

A mother's prayer for her child, by Tina Fey

Thank you, Tina Fey, for putting into words the thing we moms secretly pray for our daughters.

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Tina Fey, Bossy Pants 

Continuing 1000 gratitudes
240.  My son (without whom I wouldn't be a mom)
241.  Ok, my husband, too (I needed him to make me a mom, too)
242.  Spf 50 waterproof suntan lotion
243.  Teaching my son to make pasta and sauce over the cell phone 
244.  Walking on the beach
245.  My mom (without her, I wouldn't be me) 

 

The right way to love

It's been a jam-packed past two weeks for me.  Crazy busy.  Work has been busy.  Home has been busy.  I was on 40 mg of prednisone every day for five days, so I wasn't able to sleep for ten days, craziness.  Today I feel like there has been a break in the urgency of the past two weeks.  I thought, great, I'll write my blog.  I sit down to write and nothing comes to mind.  Nothing.  I feel like laying down and taking a nap, but I'm having a tough time with a subject for this day.

Le sigh...

My husband is still in Tahoe, skiing.  Lucky guy.  I miss him.  I'm doing just fine at home with the dog and the kid, but I miss him.  This is a good thing, right?  It must mean that I love him if I miss him.  Right?  Yeah, I love him.  I used to wonder if I ever truly loved anyone when I was younger.  I used to think about my parents and wondered if the feelings I had toward them was love.  I wondered the same thing about my feelings toward my brothers.  My feelings never felt like I thought the "loving feelings" on tv shows or movies looked.  I never once felt the pang of homesickness when I went away to camp or sleepovers.  I remember looking at the kids that were crying and wondering what was going on with them.  Did they love their parents so much more than I loved mine that they couldn't bear to leave them?  And if this was so, why were they going to camp if they all loved each other so much?  Wouldn't it be better to stay together, at home?  I wondered about my ability to love with boyfriends in high school.  I dated a fair amount, but I wouldn't say I was "in love" with any of these boys.  In fact, the boy I was dating just before senior prom broke up with me and I didn't get to go to prom.  The reason he broke up with me was because he discovered the only reason I was dating him was to go to prom.  This was not very nice of me, so I deserved the break up.  I still wonder how he found this out.  Hmm?  Then I met my husband and we fell in love.  I still can't say what it was about my feelings for him that made it clear I was "in love" with him.  I liked him.  We had a long distance relationship.  He was in Jacksonville, FL and I was in Chicago, IL.  We laughingly say we had five dates and were married.  He went out to sea for nine months immediately after our honeymoon.  I missed him, but I was fine.  I certainly didn't cry every day and, sadly, I hardly wrote him any letters.  He, on the other hand, wrote to me almost every day.  There were more separations in our marriage because of his job with the navy, and I tolerated them quite well.  I guess the way I love doesn't depend on being next to the person I love at all times.  I never wished we could be together ALL the time.  I didn't need to talk to him on the phone while he was at work.  I handled time apart very well.  Yet, I wondered if this meant there was something "wrong" about the way I love people.  Did this ability to give my parents, my brothers, my boyfriends, my husband, my son and other people I love, their space and be completely ok with time apart and enjoy my independence, as well, mean I didn't love people well?  In fact, now that I think about it, any time I was in a relationship with someone a bit too clingy or if I have a friend that needs a little too much of my time I tend to distance myself from them.

I'm beginning to think I attract people who don't need to have me cling to them to feel loved.  My parents are not the most touchy-feely people.  In fact, when I tell my mother "I love you" on the phone, before I hang up, she often stumbles over the words, "I love you, too."  They just don't come naturally to her.  My brothers and me are close, but we don't talk to each other often.  I think we like each other, well enough, but we aren't the kind of siblings that will go on vacation together.  I think we could, but we just don't think of it.  In the case of my husband, it's funny, I think I like being with him more now than I did when we were younger.  I guess we've gotten used to each other.  Don't get me wrong, I'm sleeping just fine with him away.

If they made movies about the way I show love and need to be loved, the movie would be pretty boring.  Maybe that's why they use the crying, clinging, "I can't live without you" kind of love for the silver screen.  There's a chance I could be wrong about all this and I'm just a cold fish when it comes to love, but I don't think so.

One of my readers, Brandee, told me about love languages.  Evidently everyone feels loved by one or more of the five love languages.  Somehow, I had never heard of this.  The five languages are words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service and physical touch.  I'm fairly certain I'm not into the touch or the gifts.  There is a test one can take to determine your love language.  I think I'm going to take the test and discover which is my mother tongue.  I'm going to guess it is acts of service because I'm really missing the fact that my husband takes care of the dog and takes out the garbage.  I'll let you know how this turns out.

84.  Quieter day at work
85.  Readers with good information
86.  Hot coffee in the afternoon, sometimes
87.  This blog.  It explains why I am the way I am
88.  A great conversation with my son
89.  Another sunny spring day

You may be right... (I may be crazy)

This is what I should have said.  This is what I should always say.  This is how you deal with a "right-fighter."

My dad is a right-fighter.  He is always right.  No matter what the facts say.  He is always right.  I have just returned from visiting my mother and father.  It could have gone better.  I knew there was going to be trouble even before I set out on the visit.  Mom was very excited and happy I was coming for a visit, Dad was nonplussed.  Nothing.  No real reaction of gladness or dismay.  Nothing.  It didn't matter.  I was going to visit anyway.  I hadn't seen my parents in a year.  A year is a long time when you have aging parents.  I was going to visit.

I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived.  Both my mom and my dad acted happy to see me.  I brought my dad a small cooler full of salad greens and cooking greens.  I took my mom for a pampering visit at a local spa.  We visited.  We chatted.  We talked about their future, in a very limited way.  They don't like to discuss the "what we will do if... dad dies... or, mom dies."  That conversation was short and cut off abruptly.  In fact, it was dealt with, at least on my dad's part, with sarcasm and glib retorts.  Fine.  We won't talk about that.  Fine.

It looked as if it was going to be a completely pleasant weekend.  Thursday night was lovely.  Friday, all day, pleasant.  Saturday, half the day at the spa and the second half involved the arrival of my brother (not the feuding brother) and his daughter, fun filled.  Sunday was to be church and leaving for the airport.  It looked as if I would make it out of the weekend unscathed.  But, NO.  I had to have a cup of coffee before taking my shower and dressing for church Sunday morning.  Then it began.  A discussion of my shortcomings as a daughter.  How I am not doing what it takes to reconcile my brother (the feuding brother) and my father.  How I am siding with my brother and have NEVER asked my father about his side of the issue.  (even though I reminded him I had talked both he and my mom about this several times.  even though I reminded him, he had asked me not to speak to my brother about my mother or himself.)  I was at fault.  AND, now I was told, the feud between these two was going to effect my standing in the family.  I had not done all I could to repair this rift.  I needed to do what I could to force my brother to repent.  I needed to do what I could to force my brother to eat whatever worms were necessary.  And, I need to apply some kind of pressure to my brother this situation or I will find MYSELF on the outside of a relationship with my father.

It was fascinating  to watch my father "right-fight" me.  He would bring up an issue he was angry about.  He would explain how I didn't know anything about his point of view.  I only knew my brother's point of view.  If I reminded him of a conversation we HAD had about it, the conversation would immediately shift to another issue he was angry about.  This went around and around and around.  There was so much bobbing and weaving, I was getting dizzy.  Thank goodness I could remove myself from this fight with the need to take a shower and get dressed for church.  (btw, the sermon was about constructive and destructive criticism.  it stung a bit.  I had quite a few critical thoughts swimming around in my head.)

The only way for this three-year feud to end is for my brother and myself to apologize to my dad and agree that we have been completely at fault and my dad has been completely right.  My dad is right.  My dad needs to be right.  No matter what the facts say, my dad is right and I am wrong.  This is how you win at right-fighting.  It's so easy...  All you have to say is, "You may be right."

I hope, one day soon, my brother can say these words to my father because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, my father can NEVER say these words.  It's hard to imagine I am being asked to choose between my brother and my father, by my father.  It's not a choice I want to make.  It's not a choice I ever thought I'd be asked to make.  I feel like I've been sucker-punched.  Or, maybe I'm just crazy.

 

Christmas memory

Today I'm going to make an effort to retell a Christmas memory from my childhood.  As I've told you in my profile description, writing is not what I do.  Bear with me as a make an effort to tell a story and not make it sound as if Jack Webb forced it out of me.  :)

It was Christmas Eve in single family brick ranch style house in a southwestern suburb of Chicago, IL.  Christmas Eve was sort of a big deal in our family once we children grew old enough to stay up past 8:00 p.m. and interact with the adults in a polite and fairly interesting way.  In other words, the adults enjoyed our company and we no longer felt the need to be the center of attention in the room.  My mother would host a Christmas Eve cocktail party for our family and any neighbors lucky enough to be invited.  The party began when we returned home from our Christmas Eve church service.  This particular year I was 15 years old.  This would have made my younger twin brothers just ready to turn 14 on December 26th and my youngest brother on the brink of being 10 years old on December 27th.  Yep, Christmastime was a pretty festive time at my house.  We had Christmas dinner on Christmas Day.  Then TWO birthday cakes on December 26th.  Then ANOTHER birthday cake on December 27th.  There was no way anyone was going to be avoiding the Christmas calories at my house.  I digress.

On Christmas Eve my mother would host a Christmas Eve cocktail party with heavy hors d'oeuvres and cocktails.  Even though cocktails were not on the menu for my brothers and me, we were served our soft drinks in cocktail glasses and allowed to feel very grown up.  My mother was a creature of habit.  We had spicy sausage meatballs in sweet and tangy sauce, little mini pizzas on party rye toast, pigs in blankets, candy cane cookies, cheese straws, and more.  It was a 1960's cocktail party in 1972.  It was perfect.  My mom worked all day to get ready for this holiday event.  I'm sure she even let me help her prepare, but I don't remember for sure.

We dressed in our Christmas finest for church back in those days.  My dress was a black bodice with red skirting.  I believe, the bodice was some type of polyester velvet.  I'm sure I looked beautiful.  At 15 I considered myself an adult, although no one else in my family did.  Off to church we went.  It was a happy time.  I remember, it began to snow as we returned home from church.  It was so exciting.  Christmas Eve, a party, snow... what more could be wished for.

As we tumble out of the Country Squire Ford station wagon and walked up the small stairway into the family room of our home.  Low and behold, there in our tiny family room, next to the fireplace, kneeling at the base of our Christmas tree, was SANTA!  Seriously, SANTA! 

Now, I didn't believe in Santa anymore, did I?  I mean, I was 15 years old.  Of course, I wasn't sure if my little brothers believed, so I wasn't going to say anything to burst their bubbles.  But, if there was no Santa, who was in my family room?  I mean, I was giving this guy a hard look up and down.  Anyway, it all happened so fast.  We walked into the room, Santa stood up quickly, he wished us a Merry Christmas and scooted out the door as quick as you can say, "Bob's your uncle" and was gone.  It was magical.  We saw the footprints in the ashes in the fireplace.  There were cookie crumbs and half a glass of milk on the counter.  And then the doorbell rang and the neighbors began to trickle in for the party.  I was still wide eyed with a combination of disbelief and wonder at the events that had just occurred before my very eyes.  My brothers were feeling the same thing.  But, who was that bearded man?  We couldn't figure it out.  This was my most memorable Christmas.  And it happened to me long after the magic of Christmas has left most homes.  I love my mom and dad for plotting and planning this wonderful Christmas experience for my brothers and me.  Such love.  So magical.  It was such a Merry Christmas.

wikipedia

The key to success in whatever you do in life

I just heard a great quote about the key to success.  I decided to write a post about it (before I forget, 'cause that happens sometimes) because I hope EVERYONE gets an opportunity to hear it.  Today I was flipping through the channels looking for something to veg in front of for a few minutes.  (yeah, yeah I know I have a chore list to get around to)  I stopped on the image of John Leguizamo on HBO's The Latino List.  He was talking about his hit movies and work on Broadway.  He said something funny about getting a LOT of fan mail from prisons for his work on the movie To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.  He was talking about making a name for himself in Hollywood.  He was talking about how agents and others told him to down play his ethnicity.  He was encouraged to tell agents and producers he was Italian and to change his name and stay out of the sun.  He, of course, didn't do this.  He was proud of his Colombian heritage.  I wasn't listening to everything he said, but this one thing caught my attention.  He was talking about his children and the advice he was giving them regarding how to be successful in whatever they chose to do in their lives.  I wish I could replay exactly what he said, but this is the nearest I can recall.  He said, to his kids;

"If you spend 10,000 hours at anything, you can be successful at it."

This is such good advice.  I think every person should hear it and believe it.  Success is not instant.  Success is not being lucky.  Success comes from hard work and lots of it.

Dad

Since this Sunday is Father's Day I've been thinking a lot about my dad.  I love my dad.  I'm going to just start with these words.  I love my dad.  My dad is not the easiest guy in the world to love.  He's prickly.  He's opinionated.  He consistently sees the glass half empty.  Btw, the apple does not fall far from the tree.  Just sayin'.

My dad is a hard worker.  My dad believes in showing his love for us by working hard and giving us everything we need.  My dad is a proud man.  He is proud of the accomplishments he has made in his life.  He considers my brothers and me his greatest accomplishment, but you'll never get him to say it.  I think he tries to cover up for his lack of formal education.  My dad left school at age 15.  My dad had to go to work to help support his family.  I think my dad had a bit of a wild streak in him during his youth.  But you'd never get him to talk about it.  Let's just say, I was NEVER able to get away with anything while growing up.  My dad was two steps ahead of me all the time.  I don't think I could THINK of a caper he hadn't already pulled when he was young.  I met my dad's boyhood best friend at the 40th wedding anniversary party my brothers and I threw for our parents.  This guy was the antithesis of my dad.  He was jovial.  He was a talker.  He smiled and laughed and EVERYBODY was his friend.  And, he was a storyteller.  Needless to say, I asked him to sit by me.  I wanted to hear EVERYTHING.  So, the stories began.  There was one about girls.  My dad was a looker in his youth.  He had a James Dean quality to his looks.  Cigarette pack rolled in the t-shirt sleeve, hair slicked back with a few curls coming through at the forehead.  He looked like a bad boy.  Anyway, my dad would get the girl's attention, but he couldn't talk to them.  That's where his buddy came in.  From the stories I heard, this was the set-up these two used to meet girls until they each married.  I guess my dad got his heart broken once, before he met my mom.  I'm glad.  I like my mom.  I'm glad she's the one that got him.  Sexy.

The job my dad left school to do was the job of a telephone linesman.  My dad climbed telephone poles all day, every day.  He was tan, strong, agile, and fearless.  However, my dad was not good at sports.  He just wasn't coordinated with a ball.  He has no rhythm.  He can't walk and chew gum at the same time.  He can climb anything, but a flat playing field is lost on him.  Funny combination.  Therefore, he wanted all of us to be good at sports.  He REALLY wanted this.  And, the fact that coordination, or lack thereof, may be a genetically inherited trait, never occurred to him.  It was a source of great frustration between him and one of my brothers.  I think this has affected their relationship to this day.  Sad.

My mom and dad met through a mutual friend.  Their love affair was FAST.  I really never hear about it from my dad's side of the story.  My mom tells the story.  And it is not very romantic.  It goes like this.  My mom and dad go out on a blind date with another couple.  Mom and dad meet.  They like each other.  One month later dad asks mom to marry him.  Four months later they get married.  They move into my grandma and grandpa's basement apartment. (dad's folks)  Three years later, I am born.  This is not a romantic story.  And I wonder where I get my "just the facts, ma'm" storytelling ability.  Sigh.

My dad is a singer.  He has a wonderful tenor voice.  When I was a little girl he would take me with him to his singing gigs.  He did a lot of wedding and funerals and the like.  I'm told there was constantly a question of whether or not I had the ability to walk, since dad carried me everywhere.  I'm told my feet never touched the ground.  I am also told, I sat in the front row of every event my dad sang at and never moved.  I never made a sound or fidgeted.  I sat in my chair and listened to my dad sing and smiled and acted like a little angel.  Smirk.

My dad was a tough disciplinarian.  I've told you I never got away with anything.  And, dad was very much a "spare the rod, spoil the child" believer.  Yeah ..., he did.  The joke among my friends in high school was that I was grounded ALL through high school.  I'd get out one Friday night and be back in solitary for the next three weeks.  And sometimes I needed all three of them to recover.  Yeah, dad was tough.  He always told me I was too easy on my son.  If I was tougher, my son would do better.  I don't think he thinks this way anymore.  But, it was hard when my son was young and I was trying to be a good mom.  This makes me love my husband more.  Smile.

My dad taught me to work hard, be on time, tell the truth, go to church, save your money, take care of your things and they will last a long time, family is most important, friends come and go, read Proverbs, and working for yourself is better than working for somebody else.  I respect my dad.  He didn't have an easy life.  He worked hard to make sure my brothers and I had more than he had.  He encouraged us in our education.  He modeled a faithful and long marriage.  He bowed his head and thanked God for every meal he ate, no matter where he was.  He took his family on trips all around this country and showed us places and gave us experiences because he wanted us to experience more than he did in his youth.  Such a loving Father. 

I love you dad.  Happy Father's Day.

Stuff love

I've recently been surrounded by complaints, laments, praises, frustrations and the like regarding aging and ailing parents.  I'm a baby boomer and I've shared about the loss of my mother-in-law last month.  My parents are both alive and well, but aging and all that comes with aging.  And, a co-worker is sitting vigil for her mother this week.  There is no getting around it, this is tough stuff.  Our parents are children of the depression era.  I don't know if this is true for any of my readers out there, but I find these folks like their stuff.  I mean a lot of stuff.  And, they like their stuff.  And, they DON'T like you messing around with their stuff.  So, let me tell you a couple stories.

I'll begin with my parents and let me tell you, I love them.  I LOVE my parents, but I HATE their stuff.  Recently I posted about the strangely inflated price of silver.  Well, since I grew up with my parents I knew my dad had collected coins.  Lots of coins.  I usually don't talk to my dad about his stuff, because it's HIS stuff and he likes his stuff and he knows I DON'T.  Anyway, I called him and said, "Hey dad, silver is selling for an unusually high price these days and DH and I are selling some of our silver on eBay and getting some really good money for it.  Do you still have the coins you collected when we were kids?"  No answer.  He didn't want to talk about it.  He told me he didn't know and really wasn't interested in checking.  Hmmm.?.  To make a long story short (and I really have to do this because this is kind of a long story and I really am not a strong writer.  I like using fewer words than more, etc. etc.)  After three days of calling him in the morning and evening of each day and bringing the conversation back around to his coins EVERY SINGLE TIME, oh yeah, and I even had my DH speak to him at least once, but I think it may have been twice.  *sigh*

I really am like a dog beautiful princess with a bone.

He consented to look in his safe.  Finally.  Now, this was no easy task.  Evidently he had not opened this safe in over 20 years.  So, there was a lot of crap stuff piled in front of the safe.  I am grateful for his willingness, albeit nagged out of him by yours truly, to go through some of his stuff while he is still alive and able to do it.  He has agreed to let us sell the collection.  I am so happy.  I'm hoping he can make enough money to afford to have new carpet put in the first floor of their house.  I know my mom would really LOVE that.  We will see and fingers crossed.

Now, you have to TRUST me.  This is the Readers Digest condensed version.  Seriously, this was a TOUGH process.

Now, let me tell you about my mother-in-law.  This was a woman who knew how to let go of stuff.  She was organized and prepared and showed so much love for her children by paring down her stuff.  My mother-in-law, sweetly and lovingly was preparing for her death.  When her children went to her apartment they found a to-do list on her dresser with what needed to be done after she passed.  There were a few items crossed off.  I think she may have lived a little longer than she expected and was able to start working on the list.  I think this is precious.  Now, I have to give some credit for her culling process to Mother Nature.  She had recently gone through hurricane Wilma.  It made her previous apartment unlivable and she had to move.  I believe some major separation of mother-in-law and stuff happened at that time.

To make a long (and still very sad) story short, my DH and his sisters were able to empty their mom's apartment in two days.  Two Days.  This was such a blessing.  It is a very hard thing to go through a loved one's possessions and not become emotional over and over again.  It is very hard to toss, donate, sell possessions that seem to have been dear to your loved one.  I think the less there is to do, in this regard, the better.  The truth is, in fact, one man's treasure is another man's trash (yes, I know you usually hear it visa versa, but in this instance the reverse is truer).

As to my co-worker, she is overwhelmed with the thought of dealing with the stuff.  And, it is scaring her to death.  I know I don't want to do this to my child.  I never want my stuff to get in the way of my relationships.  But, this is just me.