Resolving Not to Make a Resolution This Year

Ugh, it’s here.

New Year’s Eve.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised. It arrives each and every year and forces me to look back and reflect on the year that was lived.

And each and every year (usually while I’m watching some “Year in Review” program) I inevitably think to myself, “Where does the time go?”

And right on cue, the panic sets in.

I start to count through a mental inventory of all the things I did not “achieve” -- loosing those extra 5 pounds, saving that extra $100, climbing the Mt. Everest (not that I ever planned to do that—but I do know friends who have…which makes me feel guilty that I haven’t even tried…)

This year, however, I had an epiphany (actually, it wasn’t as much an epiphany as it was a second glass of wine). I came to the conclusion that New Year’s Eve is simply one big guilt trip that we all just have to contend with each and every year.

Resolving Not to Make a Resolution

So this year, I’ve decided not to make another useless guilt-infested New Year’s Resolution. Yes, one could say I resolve not to make a resolution.

In fact, I’m not going to change my life at all—I’m simply going to start living it—the good, the bad and the ugly. After all, wasn’t it John Lennon who famously said, “Life is What Happens When You Are Busy Making Plans.”

Yup, it's time to stop all the "planning" and start working with what I got. And that’s what I intend to do.

No more guilt.

No more lofty unattainable resolutions.

It’s time to simply embrace whatever life throws at you and try to make the most out of it. So that’s what I intend to do.

We’ll see where I end up next year.

Braving Black Friday

Did you brave Black Friday this year?

I’m not a big Black Friday shopper. Honestly, I shop enough the rest of the year that I’m not about to wake up at 3:00 a.m. to run to Target. In fact, not a whole lot can get me up at 3:00 a.m. to go anywhere.

Backing Away from Black Friday

I just don’t get it.

Why would anyone want to shorten their Thanksgiving to camp outside a store just to get a good “deal”? The only deal that could ever make me camp out anywhere would be a "free" deal… on Jimmy Choo’s (which we all know will never happen, so thankfully I won’t be loosing any sleep anytime soon. Phew!)

Normally I stay home on Black Friday. I don’t brave the traffic, the crowds or the sales. But this year, I happened to be driving past my Old Navy and saw throngs of people coming out with bags and bags of… stuff.

I was curious.

I thought to myself, "If I get a parking spot in the next two minutes, I’ll just run in and see what they have on sale." Needless to say, I got the parking spot, so I went inside.

Big mistake.

I could not believe the crowds. The line for the dressing rooms wrapped all the way around the store and intersected with the check out line somewhere in the back of the boys’ department.

Really, People? Really?

What could possibly drive you to lose at least two hours of your life waiting on line? Five dollar t-shirts that are normally $7.50 any other day of the week? Fifteen dollar cargo pants that you probably have hanging in your closet?

I couldn’t believe it. And to think unemployment still hovers around an unprecedented 9% in this country.

At the end of the day, is it really worth it? Worth the stress? The frustration?

Not for me.

You know what I did on this Black Friday? I went home and did laundry. And it didn’t cost me a thing.

Taking a Breather This Thanksgiving

I caught a glimpse of a Martha Stewart Thanksgiving Special the other day and she was drilling (yes, drilling…) holes in acorn squashes to make the “perfect holiday center piece.” She was actually having trouble holding those suckers down while trying to make it look “So Easy!”

I just can’t picture myself trying to DRILL a hole in the center of a squash so that I could have the “perfect” holiday centerpiece this Thanksgiving. Whatever happened to simply putting some candle holders out in the center of the table and hoping your 10-year old niece doesn’t knock them over reaching for the gravy?

The Holidays Are Here … Again

Yes, folks, the holidays are here … again. Which of course means more running around, more shopping, more eating, more stress, more debt … more of everything we don’t need. When you think about it, the Holidays should be a time when we strip our lives down to the bare essentials: Good Food, Close Family and Fun Friends.
But as a society we don’t. We run around cooking, cleaning, bitching, buying, stressing…and now drilling?

Don’t Buy into the Hype

When you sit back and actually watch some of these shows (or even segments on the local news) you really have to remind yourself that everyone of the hosts are trying to sell you something in the wrapper of a “Perfect Holiday”--when there is no such thing.

Actually, let me take that back: The perfect holiday is not what some marketing guru on Fifth Avenue wants you to believe. It’s not serving the perfect tasting turkey in the perfectly ironed outfit with perfectly behaved children sitting around the table waiting patiently to be served.

The Perfect Thanksgiving is Possible

The perfect Thanksgiving is one where you are able to afford the turkey, put your healthy kids in a timeout because they are over-tired and one in which you are able to actually sit down for five minutes and enjoy the taste of the meal you have been planning and cooking for days.

So this Thanksgiving, try not to stress. Be mindful (and truly Thankful) for what you have, the people around you and the meal you cooked. If you can sit back and smile at the meal before you and laugh with the company around you—it has been the “Perfect” Thanksgiving.

Why the Federal Government Shouldn’t Make Promises They Can’t Keep

Have you ever had to get an answer out of the Federal Government?

When I’m forced to deal with the Federal Government, I don’t expect much. As an American citizen—you just can’t get your hopes up.

For example, when I go to the DMV, I expect to be there for most of the day; anytime I go to the Post Office, I expect to wait (only to be told to go to the back of the line since I didn’t have the correct size envelope). I could go on and on but I’m sure you get the gist.

Surprise, Surprise: Government Accountability!

So last week, I was pleasantly surprised to get a voicemail that said:

“Hi, you have reached the voicemail of (name/department). Your call is very important to me and I will return your call within the next 24 hours or the next business day. Thank you very much—and have a great day—I insist!”

Ok, the message was a little condescending. But hey—if she calls me back within 24 hours and provides the information I need—it will in fact, be a great day for me! And frankly, I couldn’t believe it that someone in the Government was actually doing their job and making themselves accountable!

Who would’ve ‘thunk’ it?

So, last week, I left a very nice voicemail with this woman, explaining my situation and hoping she could help me.

That was last Wednesday.

Being ‘Punk’d’ By the Feds is No Fun

So I call again on Friday afternoon, and leave a nice message. “Who knows?” I thought to myself, “I’m sure she’s very busy.” (And honestly, I don’t expect anything to get done on a Friday, in Washington, D.C.—I’ve lived in this area far too long and simply know better.)

Now that it’s Tuesday, and I’ve left three voicemails, I’m starting to feel l like I’ve been “Punk’d” by my government.

And now, I’m just pissed.

So this morning, I left the following voicemail:

“Hi (name). This is Lauren Tivnan … Again. As you know, I called you Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and yesterday. Your voicemail says that you’ll return my call within 24 hours or the next business day. Please don’t make promises to your constituents that you can’t keep. I would appreciate a call back…today…so that I can, indeed, have a good day…especially after you “insist” that I have one.”

I know I’ll never hear back from this woman. And she can take her “insistence” and her condescending voicemail (which she apparently never listens to)—and shove it up her a**. For those of you who want to hear the voicemail first hand—shoot me an email and I’ll give you the number.

I’m almost tempted to post it right here…and on Twitter, Facebook, other blogs… just inundate her with voicemails “insisting” that she have a good day—and more importantly, that she do her job.

Sanity is Expensive

I’ve had a lot on my plate lately and each and every day it seems my patience (and anxiety level) is tested ...again. Since I seem to forever be at an impasse in this thing called “life” I thought it might be a good idea to give my therapist a call and have another session with her.

Me and “Dr. A”

I first contacted “Dr. A” while my mother was dying more than two years ago. Not only did I have to deal with my mother dying, I was worried about my elderly (and seriously hearing impaired father) taking care of her more than seven hours away from where I live. Mix in a very stressful job in one of the worst economies this country has seen since the Great Depression and the fact that I was single and worried that I’d be single for the rest of my life, meeting “Dr. A” really helped me make sense of it all. She helped me through the death or my mother and my father and helped me well, attempt to stay sane.

What to Do When Dr. A Goes Away

Fast forward to the present day, and I find myself needing to talk to her again to sort some things out (I won’t go into personal things now but I’ll just say that I really need to speak to an objective third party before I go postal…).

So I call her and there’s no answer. I email her, only to get a bounce back reply saying she closed up shop.

Just like that.

No notice.

No referral.

No more prescription refills.

I couldn’t believe it. The woman just shut down her practice without letting her patients know. What was I supposed to do now?

Shopping Around for Sanity

After I come to terms with the fact that “Dr. A” has gone away, I decide to take action. I called my cut-rate insurance to see what type of mental health counseling they cover, figuring they have to cover something, right?

Wrong.

The nice lady on the phone referred me to a few therapists-- all of whom are “out-of-network” which translates to: out-of-pocket. Not exactly what you are looking for when you are stressed to the max and looking for a new job. Regardless, I still call around to see who was accepting new patients and how much each visit will cost me.

Sanity is Expensive

Boy, was I in for a shocker.

Every therapist I called wanted $300+ for the initial consultation and $150+ for follow-up visits. Honestly, when I was done making my calls, I almost started to cry. I don’t think my surgeon charges that! And frankly, he deserves every cent he can get out of me!

I just can’t bring myself to pay that much for someone to listen to my problems. I think I would become even more stressed out and just plain pissed off that I was walking out of an office where it cost more than $300 just to get to know me and my problems (I may have problems and maybe stressed out at the moment, but I am by no means, functionally retarded. Anyone who pays that much to have a stranger listen to them must be...)

Identifying with the Criminally Insane

I can now see why people drink too much and shoot up offices. And you know what? I might just go buy a gun and join them.

Ok, I'm not really a violent person and I don’t necessarily agree with murdering random individuals at a former place of employment, but ... I can definitely identify where they are coming from. I’m pretty sure these folks didn’t have the out-of-pocket $300 to cover therapy either.

And it makes me sick (pardon the really bad play on words here) that our government is screwing around with health care. They can sit there and debate it for years to come ... and I’m sure they will.

After all, it doesn’t matter to them—-they can afford to.

Having Your Cake... And Eating It Too

October is a big birthday month for several friends and family members. “Several” meaning like 20 people I know are celebrating their birthdays. From friends to family, it seems everyone’s parents got in the groove while ringing in the New Year. What strikes me about celebrating a birthday is that as you get older, the more they begin to well, inevitably suck.

Baby Birthdays are Simply The Best

For example, I know a baby that just turned 1—a great age for a birthday in my opinion. You’re fed cake, you’re dressed in your finest and people think it’s cute when the cake gets all over your face. At the age of 1 you are just happy that someone cared enough to change your diaper. Life is pretty good.

Fast forward to the age of say, 11, and it’s not cool to admit you have a birthday coming up but you think about it, remind your mom about it and learn how to plan a party. Gone are the days of diapers and cake replaced with the angst of learning how to send out e-vites (no kid gets paper invites anymore apparently) and trying to persuade your mother into having 14 of your “closest” friends over for a sleep over and of course, cake. Details don’t matter—as in who will actually be invited—just invite all the girls in your class and see who makes it through the night without wanting to go home. Oh—and the birthday invite is an equal-opportunity invite: you have to invite all the girls whether you like everyone or not. Because that’s what you just do.

Pre-Adolescent Party Planning Starts

When you get to the age of 15 you just want to hang with the buddies you see each and every day. That usually totals a pack of say, 4-6 pre-adolescents who frankly are just looking to get into some kind of trouble. Cutting the cake is usually relegated to after a family dinner as the parents worry about what type of birthday to throw for their 15 year-old who just wants to learn how to drive already. He/She starts hinting at getting a car—like “so-and-so” who’s a Junior at their school and who frankly, isn’t responsible enough to drive one. Parents start to get anxious about properly teaching their children to drive wondering if everyone else thinks the same thing about their child (quietly admitting to themselves that the extra driver would help with the endless amount of car pooling they currently have to do…).

Twenty-One …or Bust

When you approach the age of twenty one, the birthday celebration peaks. The anxiety of having to get into those college bars with your older brother/sister’s fake I.D. is finally over and finally you can let loose and drink all you want…any time you want.

In fact, you actually revert to the age of 1 during the big night out—wear that funny hat, dirty-up your face with either cake (if your friends had the foresight to buy you one) or more likely, the whipped topping of your 10th shot as you attempt to make it to 21. Wearing a diaper during these exploits may not be a bad idea because inevitably, after 10 or 12 shots (no matter who you are) at one point in the night, you’ll lose all control of your bowels.

After the big 2-1, birthday celebrations start to spiral downhill. Planning takes on a whole new level of significance and may take weeks. Long gone are the days where you can have 14 of your closest friends over for a sleep over, or party like a rock star at the age of 21, because in fact in your mind, you are one.

Here Comes the Reality Check

As you get older (post-twenty-five or so), birthdays take on a whole different significance. In fact, no matter who you talk to, they begin to well … suck.
Organizing the event becomes a logistical nightmare as you try to plan a night out at a restaurant no one has tried only to find out that their menu does not comply with the plethora of dietary restrictions your group of friends may (or frankly, may not…) have.

You worry how many people can even swing by for a drink to help you celebrate. Half the time they do for an hour or so, and the other half they want to “re-schedule” for next week (like that you really want to celebrate your birthday on their schedule instead of, you know, the day you were born). And without fail, you start to take stock in your life: You worry about getting married if your single, having kids if you don’t have them and how badly that Botox shot could possibly hurt and more importantly, why you’ve waited so long to make the appointment.

Bring On the Diaper

Yes, my friends, from here on out—birthdays go downhill in a death-like spiral until about the age of say, eighty. That’s when you’re just happy to be alive. I hope by the ripe old age of eighty, I’ve learned how to appreciate the life God has given me and more importantly, how to have my cake and it too (regardless of whether I’m sitting in a diaper or not).

Appearances are Deceiving

From the outside looking in, the development where my parents lived in North Carolina is a near utopia for those who rode the Wall Street highs of the ‘90’s and got out while the getting was still good. Dream houses sit back on wooded lots, manicured lawns decorated with artsy statues of the family’s little white dogs sit neatly next to the front door welcoming Friday night dinner clubs or saying good bye to their owners as they rush out for early morning tee-times.

I’ve driven through the club gates and passed Teddy’s house countless times. I love this house. In my own future utopia, I hope to have an exact replica. In fact, when I see Teddy sitting out on the front lawn, I usually pull over and make it a point to say “Hi!” to him and his owner, Cathy.

I’ve known Cathy for as long as my parents have lived down here. She walks Teddy (her 6-year old Bichon) past my parent’s house at exactly 5:30 every night and more often than not, Teddy runs up to our door and peaks in the window hoping to see the face of my pup staring back waiting to play. More often than not, I open the door and let the pups romp around the living room before chasing each other down the driveway to where Cathy is usually waiting at a respectful distance.

Everyone Has a Story ...

Cathy is the town gossip. She knows who’s coming, who’s going and what they did in-between. So, after my parents died, I’d get the local scoop from Cathy (and Teddy) each night while standing at the bottom of the driveway. Usually it’s petty retired stuff about people I’ve never met—which daughter is pregnant again. Whose son lost their job. Who’s moving to the street and where they are from, etc. etc. Honestly, I could care less—and I always knew she is just waiting to get the scoop on me, but there’s no more gossip here. (Two parents dead within a year, and no—we haven’t put the house on the market yet so don’t bother asking us what we plan to list it for...)

Needless to say, I’ve driven past Cathy’s house countless times, so when a different neighbor the other night asked me if I’ve ever noticed her son staring out the window in the upstairs room, I looked at them like they were crazy. After all of these years, I had never noticed him. In fact, I never knew Cathy had any kids except for Teddy.

… And a Cross to Bear

As it turns out, Cathy does have a son. He’s my age. He had a girlfriend. He had a good job selling real estate. When the market tanked, so did his job and bye-bye went the girlfriend.

But that’s not the story. We’ve all lost jobs and girlfriends/boyfriends. Life goes on right? Maybe for us. The story here is that he took a shot gun, aimed it at his face and pulled the trigger…

… and lived.

At first the doctor’s wouldn’t do the reconstruction surgery. They asked him point blank if he wanted to live and said that he needed to undergo months of therapy before they would even rebuild his face. This sounded harsh to me at first, but after you realize it wouldn’t just be one surgery, but a succession of surgeries that will test his pain threshold for years (and his will to live) it’s a question that had to be asked and taken seriously. He said “yes,” agreed to the surgeries and now lives with Cathy and Teddy in the beautiful yellow house overlooking the manicured lawn on Wexford Way.

Appearances are Deceiving

I keep thinking about Cathy’s son. The guilt he must live with each day. The depression he must overcome just to get out of bed. And I think about Cathy—the bubbly town gossip who seems to live vicariously through other people’s lives—because her own must be unbearable.

As I passed Cathy’s house for the last time this summer, I couldn’t help but look around and wonder what other incredibly sad stories are lived out each and every day on this street—a perfect little street—from the outside looking in.

Going the Distance--Or Not...

I went exploring yesterday.

I’m not quite sure what I was looking for, but wanted to see something new. So I packed up the pup and hit the road—no map, no GPS, no plan. Just drive “and go” as I like to call it.

I do like to spend my Saturdays driving and not knowing where I’m headed until I get “there.” I think more people should spend some time driving to nowhere and seeing where they end up. It’s quasi-therapeutic. That is—if there’s no traffic, no thunderstorms … and if you don’t get lost.

Yesterday, I had an end goal: Roosevelt Island, located right in the middle of the Potomac River. It’s full of trails, nature and even a Memorial that I had never seen before (which is a shocker when you live in Washington, D.C.).

However, my problem is, I can’t simply go from point A to Point B in a direct line.
Nope. Not me. It’s just not in my genes. I may plan on going to Roosevelt Island, but in all actuality, I may never arrive at Roosevelt Island.

A Three-Hour Tour (At Minimum)

I like to call my weekend excursions, “three hour tours” during which I usually find myself cranking up the music, rolling down the windows and discussing the day’s adventure with the pup as we cruise down the road at full speed—usually missing our exit to the final destination. Yesterday afternoon was no different.

There we were—cruising down the George Washington Parkway, listening to Muse when I could have sworn I saw what I thought was Roosevelt Island in my peripheral vision.

Shit.

Determined not to let my minor miscalculation deter my day’s outing, I decided to take the next exit and simply turn around and head north on the GW Parkway. That’s right, simply turn around and go the other direction. That’s what we always did in New Jersey. Get off at the next exit and simply turn around. However, I forgot that I no longer live in New Jersey—but here in the Nation’s Capital–which by the way, is not the friendliest city for those, ahem, navigationally retarded, such as myself.

Not so much.

The Directionally Challenged Should Really Stop and Ask for Directions…

So I decide to turn around and get off the next exit. And where do I end up? In the militarized zone of the Pentagon. “Lovely,” I thought to myself.

Now, if you’re not familiar with the Pentagon, they don’t just have one parking lot—they have more than 16 inter-connected parking lots filled with road blocks, bomb barriers and guards with guns—not exactly the tranquil setting of Roosevelt Island on a Saturday afternoon I had hoped for.

Needless to say, the pup started to get a little anxious. After all, I had promised her an afternoon of squirrel chasing and duck harassing—not one filled with barricades and check points. Even she could tell that we were not in the right place by simply standing up and looking out the window.

Maybe I should let her drive next time…

I wonder what the guard must’ve thought when he asked where I was going. Honestly, I wasn’t sure…I just knew the Pentagon was not my final destination. He shook his head as he gave us directions to “Wherever we’re going” obviously thinking we’re tourists. So, after more additional confusion, I finally navigate through the barricades and leave the bastion of the Pentagon behind me only to come to the realization that I was now completely lost.

Yet again.

Tourists, Tourists Everywhere

When the Washington Monument loomed ahead of me and swarms of summer tourists were seen hoarding the cross walks of the Smithsonian, the pup and I both knew we were in trouble.

Tourists were everywhere—with their fanny packs, visors, mom jeans and maps (apparently they all came prepared and knew where they were going and what they wanted to see today…)

I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but it actually crossed my mind: Do I stop and ask a tourist for directions? I can’t. I couldn’t.

I just could not bring myself to ask a tourist for directions out of the city I’ve lived in for close to 13 years. I found myself morphing into my Dad (bless his soul) when he would get lost. I found myself turning off the radio, sitting up in the driver’s seat, setting my hands firmly at 10-and-2 on the steering wheel and slowing down at every intersection so I could see what road I was on (sound familiar anyone?). After about the third intersection, he would inevitably start to mutter to himself: “God Damn it!” while everyone else in the car sat in silence.

And there I was: Getting more and more annoyed at the tourists’ jay walking in front of me, finding myself pissed off at the traffic holding me up from making it through the next intersection, and finally fuming at the fact that I am navigationally retarded.

Right on cue, I turned to the dog and muttered “God Damn It.”

John McLeod famously quoted, “It’s the Journey that’s Important. Not the Getting There.”

He never navigated the streets of Washington D.C.

Forget The Joneses'--I Can't Even Keep Up With My Own Life

Have you ever had a day where you just can’t keep up?

Or maybe … say, weeks?

I've come to the conclusion that I can’t keep up with my life anymore.

And it’s not even that great of a life. It’s a status-quo life, really. Nothing too spectacular. And yet, it’s getting harder and harder for me to keep up with it.
I can’t keep up with the laundry, the cleaning (strangely enough it seems to get worse on the weekends when I’m home…hmmm…) my friend’s lives, their kids lives, not to mention any semblance of a dating life.

Monday through Friday, I’m lucky if I can make it in the shower on time to race to the metro to take me downtown so that I can keep up with the hundreds of emails that I know are waiting for me when I get in the office. Not to mention my overbooked schedule to meet with my overbooked colleagues in an overbooked conference room that I forgot to reserve the week before.

My day ends as I run to the metro (apparently I can’t keep up with the correct metro schedule) to race home, wake up the dog who sleeps all day, walk her, and then attempt to walk myself around a track three times so that I can keep up with my goal of losing weight (not to mention keep up with my running group who make it look a hell of a lost easier than it looks…).

I then come home, make dinner and realize I forgot to keep up with the expiration dates of most of the food I bought last week. By the time I plop myself down on my couch turn on the TV and watch the national news, I’ve come to the realization I can’t keep up with the world either. I don’t know if it depresses me, or if I just feel overwhelmingly helpless when I see headlines about the oil spill in the gulf, the stock market plummeting (again) and record unemployment statistics.

I can’t even keep up with how many times Lindsay Lohan has gone to court this week. Now I know I’m in trouble… Have I shut myself off from society completely??

I now have stacks of my favorite magazines waiting for me to read them. They are now layered in dust. Apparently, I can’t keep up with my subscriptions that guarantee to help me:

“Shed 9lbs”

“Stress Less and Enjoy Life More!”

“Have it Your Way in Bed!”


My car needs oil, my bills need to get paid, my laundry needs to get washed, my gray hairs need to get dyed and here I sit—because my blog needs to get written—a promise made to myself that apparently, I have not been keeping up with.

I even forgot to buy wet dog food for the pup who hasn’t touched her dry dog food in over 24 hours now. She goes to her bowl—paws at it—and looks at me like, “You expect me to eat this?” I then overcompensate by giving her the last piece of cheese that I was going to use to make my grill cheese.

Hey, at least she won’t starve (I will—but the dog won’t).

I recently got a voice mail from one of my good friends that simply said, “I know I haven’t called in weeks—don’t be mad, I just can’t keep up with anything anymore.”

Boy, do I know the feeling.

Ode to Moms Everywhere

This weekend I spent some time with friends who are moms. And I have to say, I don’t know how they do it. I really don’t. I can barely walk my dog and get myself dressed in the morning in order to make it to work by nine. Half the time, I make her poop out back (which she does not appreciate, let me tell you…)

I’ve asked them all simply, “How do you do it?” And they just laugh. They say you "adjust."

No, seriously. This is no laughing matter. I need to know. I need to take notes.

I know a lot of working moms, stay-at-home moms, moms who are retired but helping raise grandkids (I call them “moms” because in today’s world, the old image of “Grand Ma” has been replaced by women who have done it all…and will continue to do so as long as they are needed) and still wonder: How do you do it all?

In today’s society of economic collapses, high unemployment, cost of living expenses that never seem to equal this year's "cost of living" raise, I have to give a major nod to all the moms out there who sacrifice each and every day to make sure their kids (and husbands) are clothed, fed, safe and at the end of the day, happy.

From an outsider who forgets to feed her dog occasionally this is no small accomplishment.

So, today, I hope moms everywhere have a chance to take a moment to themselves, a quiet moment to reflect on their kids and more importantly reflect on their life and their accomplishments and maybe give themselves a hug (or maybe pour themselves a glass of wine) because in today's world it’s not easy being a mom.

From what I can tell, you are doing a fantastic job.

Confessions of a New Commuter

I just started a new job in “downtown” Washington, D.C. which is approximately 45 minutes from where I live out in the Maryland ‘burbs. This means I, like thousands of other of my working comrades, turn to the metro to which us downtown on one of five color-coded rail lines each and every morning.

Over these past weeks, I’ve discovered that being a full-fledged commuter involves taking on a whole new personality from 7:45 to 8:30 each morning, Monday through Friday. I wake up early (well, earlier than I’m used to…) brew my coffee in my travel mug, walk the dog, hop in the shower, get dressed, kiss the dog goodbye and attempt to drive to the metro in less than 15 minutes (I’ve now timed it…if I leave my parking lot and not get caught in the school bus traffic on my street, I can make it to the metro in a solid 15 minutes—baring that I don’t run over an unsuspecting eight grader getting off the bus at the elementary school around the corner and that I am able to run a red light or two without getting sideswiped.) This is all the while listening to the radio to get caught up on local and national events (no domestic train bombings—that’s a good sign) and drinking said coffee that I took the time to make half an hour prior to “departure”. As I cut off the local commuter bus just before it turns into the metro entrance (if I don’t, that adds another three minutes to my drive time which then adds five-ten minutes to my commute if I don’t make my 8:05 train). I enjoy the fact that I can cruise through the metro parking gates without having to pay (well, on the way in at least…). It reminds me when I first got my license in New Jersey and the toll takers went on strike…and let everyone cruise through their tolls on the Garden State Parkway without paying. The trick was how fast you could get through the toll without flipping your car…I feel the same way when those metro parking uprights are raised in the air!

I’ve tested out parking spots—which ones are the closest to the entrance metro—and which ones are close enough without getting your car door dinged by other commuters you may have cut off on the way to the metro this morning.

I’ve timed the walk to the metro platform (four minutes) and have even timed it when I hear an oncoming train approach (three minutes in a full sprint if I don’t get caught in the metro turn style). I, like so many others, usually dive onto the moving car as the doors close and frantically look for a seat—all the while not making eye contact with any of the other commuters who are reading “The Express” , reading or sleeping.

Since I’ve joined the ranks of metro commuter, I’ve come to realize, the car is one. No one looks up. No one makes conversation. Everyone abides by the unspoken commuter rule: It’s time to get to work…and ride in silence. In fact, the only time you may actually hear any grumbling is when the metro jerks to a stop for no apparent reason. When this happens, we all partake in a car-wide collective sigh, a dramatic look at the watches (like there was anything any of us could do to make the train continue and maybe miss a stop or two to make up the time). Once the train jerks to a start, we all attempt to regain our footing, focus on staring straight ahead at nothing in particular and wonder what the 5:00 p.m. commute holds for all of us.

Are You Inundated by Useless Information?

Do you spend more time cleaning out your email than you used to?

The other morning I found myself clicking “delete” for more than an hour. My right hand was killing me. My brand new wireless mouse is worn out. Delete… delete… delete… I am now down to 500 remaining emails that I no longer have the energy to delete. They’ll have to sit there in my in-box for awhile longer I suppose.

And to think that I consider 500 emails “manageable.”

When I first started working I only had office email and the “World Wide Web” was only available on one computer which no one used, because management would think you were slacking off and should be sitting at your cube... looking busy. I remember being told by an IT guy that I was sending too many interoffice emails—and the inference was I wasn’t doing my job!

At the time, I may be sent 100 emails in a week. Who would’ve thought more than a decade later, that society would be using iphones, blackberries, laptops the size of books so that we could all keep up with the vast amounts of needless information that we all think will change our lives?

I can promise you I wouldn’t have believed it if you had told me one day I’d be cleaning out more than 1,000 emails on my Yahoo account. I would’ve told you that you were crazy.

As it turns out, I’m the one who’s crazy. Why? Because I’m cleaning out my email when I could be out enjoying that day or actually “talking” to a friend I haven’t talked to in awhile …you know ... on the phone!

Need to Know vs. Nice to Know

I remember when cleaning out my email meant mostly deleting old jokes passed along from friends that provided a good laugh at the time. Now I find myself deleting email, links, coupons I’ll never use and Facebook updates from friends of friends that I’ve never even met.

I’ll admit I may have given my email address to a store for coupons, or signed up for a particular blog or listserv hoping to “better” my life only to find myself inundated with useless information that will have no affect on my life, my family, my dog... or my dog’s happiness. (Example: Dog.com sent me an email last month suggesting I send her a “Valentine” Really? All she wants is the occasional belly rub and the chance to chase a squirrel once in a while.)

So I delete and delete and delete, thinking once I hit delete I’m done with it. Or, so I thought…

Subscribing to Unsubscribe

Have you ever tried to unsubscribe to a email message/list? Seriously, it's like you have to have to had a perfect SAT score to get off some of these lists! Not only do you have to scroll down to the bottom of the message, you then have to read the 2-point type in order to figure out where to find the “unsubscribe” button.

Once you click—-they send you ANOTHER email hoping that you’ve changed your mind! And if you don’t confirm that you do want to unsubscribe in that email, guess what? You’ll immediately get another email from "Company X" telling you to buy "Product X" that guaranteed to make you beautiful, successful and happy…if you buy it before Midnight tonight.

Who am I, Cinderella?

When I take a step back and look at my life, I’m amazed at how inundated I am with absolutely useless information. It’s everywhere. Radio… TV… Internet. I’m getting to the point where, if you consider yourself a good friend, family member, or colleague and need to get my attention about something important (like life or death) do not email me. Call me.

Maybe I’ll answer.

Dancing for Dough?

So the big news this news cycle isn’t the earthquakes in Haiti or Chile. It isn’t about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The headlines are about Kate Gosselin joining the cast of Dancing with the Stars.

Really, people?

I was talking to a friend of mine about it tonight and I instantly got “Kate” (as her single moniker is now known) confused with the “Octomom.” I guess I just can’t keep my reality TV stars straight (ummm... my bad… I guess).

A Big Brood… So What?

Now, I grew up surrounded around Irish Catholic families and they were breeders, let me tell you. We were surrounded by multiple “Mc’s…” and “Murphy’s” and “O’[insert remaining name here—]. Kids were literally coming out of the woodwork (and apparently their mother’s vaginas every 11 months or so).

There was no reality TV show. There were no book tours. There were no gossip newsstand headlines. There were just a lot of kids. Tons of them. In every grade. On every playground.

So, I don’t understand how these shows like ”Jon & Kate Plus Eight,” “19 Kids and Counting” (what are they up to by the way now…20? 21?) are so popular? When did watching these kids run around, learn to eat, poop and cry become rating bonanzas?
I’m sorry, but if I had 18 Kids … I would go AWOL just to save my sanity. I'm pretty sure my mother would’ve headed for the hills too—just to save her sanity. The woman was barely sane raising three kids—especially with what we put her through!

Dancing for Dough?

Now I understand “Kate” needs to put all those kids through college. I understand if she wanted her own reality show. Ok, at least she’d around her kids while they would be filming. But she went on TV and said she would be “commuting” from eastern Pennsylvania to LA in order to compete on the show.

That’s not commuting. That’s insanity.

She made the decision to leave her kids to build her ego. To cash in on her reality fame. She says she wants to be a role model for her kids. Seriously? Then why don't you try staying home and raising them?

But then I thought, if “Jon” were to do it, would there be as much of a backlash? Absolutely not.

Maybe “Jon” will actually stay home to raise his kids alone. Now that would be a reality TV show I’d watch.

Did Tiger Show His Real Stripes?

I’m not a golf fan.

I can’t even name the top five golfers in the U.S. or even in the world. See, watching men and women hit a little white ball multiple times with the end goal of trying to land it in a tin cup just doesn’t have the same appeal of watching say … a hockey game. Personally, I rather watch guys slam each other into the Plexiglas than high five their overpaid caddy on the neatly trimmed fairways of Augusta.

So as I found myself watching Tiger Woods’ “apology/statement” this morning on TV, I found myself wondering what all the hype is about. So the guy cheated on his wife with strippers, or more specifically, stripper wannabees (Have you seen some of those women? Half of them look like the cast of MTV’s Jersey Shore!)

Then I got sucked in.

In the Eye of the Tiger

I even felt myself “throwing up a little in my mouth” (to use a great quote from the movie “Dodgeball”) when he spoke of his wife’s great poise throughout this ordeal. What is she supposed to do? Swing at him with a golf club as parodied on Saturday Night Live (here’s the clip---very funny). All the woman is trying to do is hide from the media storm caused by her husband who apparently can’t keep his junk zipped up until he got home from the country club.

His overblown ego still came oozing through my T.V. I’m wondering how his MOTHER is sitting in the front row listening to all this. What did he tell her when all of these women were coming out of the wood work? Now that would be some good reality TV…

Back to Reality

I don’t care about Tiger Woods.

The man does not live in a normal, everyday reality like his fans who pay good money to watch him swing at a little white ball. He’s never had to deal with losing a job. Ok, so he lost some endorsements. But it hasn’t affected him at all. (In fact, he just bought a new yacht, the “Privacy II”). He doesn't live on the same playing field as the rest of us who have to worry about paying the bills, or say, taking care of a family member who is sick. He hires people to do that.

Maybe if he had to "man up" and take care of his family he’d recognize the blessings in his life and be grateful for being "Tiger Woods".

So, did Tiger show his true stripes this morning like his handlers had hoped? Absolutely not. His ego is still overinflated. I just hope Elin peels them off one by one in divorce court.

Whatever Happened to Professionalism in the Workplace?

As I write this I am staring at my email astounded at some of the responses I've gotten from simply posting my resume on Monster.com.

Hooters wants to hire me. (Now that's a whole new take on being a "Senior Communications Professional" don't you think?)

Several recruiters have emailed me with what they consider "... the perfect job for you!" which usually means one of three things:

1) They are trying to meet their month-end quota
2) They are trying to fill a job in telemarketing or claims processing

-or-

3) It's just one big scam.

Case-in-Point

Last week, I was emailed by a recuiter from Aflac (you know--the duck people...) telling me that they are very interested in what I have to offer their company and to please call them to set up an interview.

Ok, I thought to myself. What do I have to lose? So I did.

I called this recruiter (who, by the way, didn't have an Aflac email address but a Gmail one, hmm...I thought to myself...). She in turn wanted to set up an interview for 9:00 a.m. the next morning in Glen Burnie, MD (which is about an hour away from where I live). I was kind of taken a back that she wanted to set up the interview so quickly when in fact, she hadn't yet told me what the position entailed. I had absolutelty no information regarding a job title, job description and salary information. I wasn't even sure where the position would be located.

Sketchy at best, I thought to myself.

When I asked her point-blank which position I would be interviewing for, she replied with the fact that Aflac is a Fortune 200 Company and I should be for lack of a better term, "honored" that they were interested in my resume in the first place.

Ummm, ok? I thought.

She then continues to give me the sales pitch (yes, we've moved on to on red flag #2 now ...) and I was thinking to myself, "Why the hell not, I'll check it out..." and set up a time to interview. I had a persons name, but had no job title or knew what in fact they did for Aflac--I could've been meeting with "Big Foot" for all I know and, to top it off, the "only" time this mysterious person could see me was 6:00 p.m. on a Monday night (yes, we are now at red flag #3).

After we hung up, it bothered me that I still didn't have a job description (ok, maybe I'm not that fast on the uptake). I had no idea what position I was interviewing for, so I thought it would be a good idea to follow up and email her to ask for clarification of the job description. I stated that I was not in sales and that my background is in communications and marketing.

Rude Response #1

Her response: "They are a combination of big ticket marketing, account servicing and claims processing. Our marketing is directed at business owners only. This is probably the only chance you will have to work with a top fortune 200 company."

Ouch, I thought. (Not to nit-pick, but anyone else see the disparity in the voice? They/We...are we a little schizophrenic? Anyone?)

Still, I planned on going to the interview to check them out.

Rude Response #2

So Monday rolls around and it starts to snow in the afternoon. I email her and let her know, that due to the inclement weather, I'm not going to be able to make it to the interview. I emailed her in the afternoon, so she would have plenty of time to contact the appropriate people before 6:00 p.m. A cop-out on my part?

Sure, I'll call it that.

(Please note that I never cancel interviews. I think it does show poor taste and looking back, I should have never accepted the "interview" on the phone in the first place. After all, I've never even met this woman. I didn't go through a pre-screening process. I didn't have a one-on-one interview with her. All which are the usual mandatories when working with respectable recruiters.) Hindsight is 20/20 so they say and whoever "they" are...they're right!

That being said, here is her response:

"There is barely half an inch of snow falling. Would you like to reschedule, or is this your way of saying you are not interested?"

I'm laughing out loud now...

Now, if someone cancels an interview the employer might think that...but you don't email it in your response! I've had people cancel interviews on me directly (not even going through a recruiter) and all I've responded with is:

"If you'd like to reschedule a time, call me and we'll reschedule."

If you don't hear from them, obviosuly, they bailed. On to the next prospective applicant, right?

So at this point, I emailed her back a bitchy response:

"Excuse me? I don't want to reschedule now."

Rude Response #3

She instantly responds:

"I wasn't trying to be rude. I was asking your intentions. I am a professional who has been doing this for quite a long time. My question I asked was professional as I was trying to see what your intentions were as we have many, many, many applicants and I wanted to make sure that an applicant like yourself gets time with the boss. Due to the rude nature of your response, you will be removed from our direct marketing lists."

Damn!

Like I said, I've had job applicants just not show up for an interview. I gave her plenty of notification and at this point, am wondering, why is she so invested in her email responses? Really, time to let it go, right?

So I email her back, "Thank you. No further correspondence is required."

She instantly "corresponds" back to me: "I have already blocked you from all Aflac job-related corresponce."

At this point, I wanted to thank her for her time ... but I thought I'd better let it go! Part of me was afraid to see what she would say!

My Bad

Now, I did bail. My bad. But the reason I'm posting this is because I'm wondering whatever happened to professionalism in the workplace? Even if you have a difficult employee or co-worker that you have to deal with everyday, you would never antagonize them over email. Or would you? Is this standard protocal these days?

And to think I've never even met this woman. Nor do I ever want to...

By the way, a friend of mine sent me this website about working for Aflac:

http://www.indeed.com/forum/cmp/AFLAC/Aflac-is-SCAM-you-pay-them-work/t13238

http://www.scam.com/showthread.php?t=21396

So much for profesionalism in the workplace.

My Sober Snowpocolypse

Over the past few days I have been forced to eat my words… and I gladly will.

I think I deserve to.

You may have remembered me mocking all of the D.C. yuppies closing down the downtown Whole Foods after the first report of the impending snow last week. Looking back over the past few days, I should have joined them!

Hey, hindsight is 20/20 people.

Not only has the D.C. region almost surpassed the snow fall totals of the frigid tundra of Syracuse, NY,this Winter (ummm...where is global warming when you need it?) I found myself snowed in and without power for two days (or to be more precise, as one of my neighbors reminded me, 41 hours to be exact).

As the temperature in my home quickly dropped down to an incredibly frigid 42 degrees, I was cursing myself for not running to Whole Foods the day before to stock up on what I now consider snowbound necessities: White wine, anything chocolate covered and of course, dog food.

As the snow kept falling and falling (along with the temperature inside) I found myself to be uncharacteristically... sober. And that’s just wrong.

When it’s 42 degrees in your condo you really need a shot of something to warm you up! Yes, the dog was well-fed but her Mommy was going a little stir-crazy especially when the liquor store behind her building was closed for days! Yes, I said days!

Oi vey, people!

Note to self: Next time the weather casters even hint at a 36” snow fall…stock up at Whole Foods… before they shut the doors!

Snow-Apocalypse!

A friend of mine sent me the funniest (yet very true) email yesterday titled, “Snow-Apocalypse.” You open the email and all it said in 18-point red type is:

“P-A-N-I-C!!!”

And that’s what most people in the D.C.-area have been doing over the past 48 hours. Stores are packed (even a local Whole Foods had to shut its doors last night because of the crowds. What? They ran out of farm-raised Salmon and fair-traded mangoes? So much for a run on TP and milk...). Roads are packed, even my TV is packed with endless irrelevant updates on the impending storm.

It’s just snow people. Little white flurries that eventually melt.

Here’s a news flash for you: In other parts of the country, this happens all Winter long! Schools remain open, employees remain at work and … life goes on. Now, this area has been hit with a lot of snow this year. But there were no storm-related deaths. No one starved.

Sure, we all had to get out and shovel a few inches.But guess what? That’s a common occurrence for most of the country. Those folks shovel out before they go to work…and they still get there on time! No delays, schools closings or snow-related “Apocalypse.”

Now where did I put my shovel??

Saint Nick Meets Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I finally got around to taking down my Christmas decorations today. I have to admit, this year I was quite the minimalist; I only hung up a wreath and my Christmas cards, so needless to say the “take-down” took all of five minutes.

I like to read my Christmas cards as I take them down and remind myself of who sent them and how nice it was of the person to think of me during the holiday season in the first place. (And yes, there’s always that twinge of guilt for the person who sent me a card and I forgot to reciprocate—oops, maybe next year, well, that’s what I keep telling myself anyway.)

So I’m flipping through my Christmas cards and there he was: A Black Santa.

Yup, a black jolly old Saint Nick smiling up at me and wishing me a “Very Merry Christmas!”

I stopped and shook my head. Why hadn’t I noticed that I had a black Santa hanging up in my living room for the past month?

I was trying to think back to when I opened the card. Did I, in fact, notice that the traditional image of Santa got … umm… much, much … darker?

I usually have a lot of people over and I know many of them read my Christmas cards. Did they notice? No one said anything to me about the black Santa hanging up in my living room.

Then I thought to myself: Is that a good … or a bad thing?

If I didn’t notice, does that make me a racist? Or am I just color blind?

It’s a hard question to answer. All I know is that “life” or the “universe” (or whatever you want to call it) has a not-so-subtle way of making you take a moment to stop and reflect. Maybe it’s not so ironic that I stopped to stare at my little black Santa on this Martin Luther King Day and be forced to reflect on my own racial awareness.

Today, let’s all take a moment to remember how far this country has come in the historic fight for racial equality and acknowledge all the work that still needs to be done.

I also want to thank the couple who sent me my little black Saint Nick...I’m going to keep him up all year long!

Where Do You Go When There's Nothing Left?

It’s hard to wrap my head around the devastation in Haiti. The gruesome videos … the heart breaking images … the overwhelming personal loss.

I simply can’t wrap my head around it and I know I’m not alone. A good friend of mine today posted that one of her patients is missing not 1… not 2… not 3 … but 11 family members in the rubble. Imagine wondering what’s its like not to know if 11 of your family members are alive… or not.

How do you even start to survive something like this? There are no roads, no running water, no electricity, no shelter.

Where do you go when there’s simply nothing left?

The numbers are just absolutely staggering to me. Seven point zero on the Richter scale. Rising death toll climbing upwards of 100,000 people. Think about that: More than 100,000 people. To put this in perspective: The deadliest earthquake in the United States was in San Francisco in 1906. The death toll at that time was close to 3,000 people. My hometown of Rockville, MD (a relatively large suburb outside of Washington, D.C.) has an approximate 67,000 people. In a little more than 4 seconds, Haiti lost more than 100,000 of its country men and women. In a little more than 4 seconds, my entire town (and then some) would no longer exist.

I then thought to myself, “What would happen in this country if we were hit by an earthquake or other natural disaster of this magnitude?”

So I started looking up some stats. The largest natural disaster in the United States was Hurricane Katrina in back in August, 2005. Preliminary damage estimates were well in excess of $100 billion. Reported death toll: 1,863 (not to belittle the loss of 1,863 people… but that’s a little more than 1% of the total death toll in Haiti). It took us years to recover from the devastation of Katrina. Honestly, I think that some of the worst hit parts of New Orleans and rural parts of Mississippi will never be rebuilt. You can easily find reports of empty lots and empty FEMA trailers doting the landscape close to 5 years later.

If an earthquake of this magnitude were to hit LA, New York or DC and we lost more than 100,000 Americans, would we ever be able to recover? Could you go days, weeks or even months without electricity, running water or not knowing if 11 of your relatives survived?

It’s hard to wrap my mind around it. I suppose all we can do is hope, pray and donate whatever we can. Please visit the American Red Cross today--because one day, it could us and I won't have to try to wrap my head around the devastation from the comfort of my living room...that is, if I survived.

Could I Delete My "So-Called" Online Life?

NPR posted an article this weekend entitled: “Web 2.0 Suicide Machine: Erase Your Virtual Life” which caught my eye.

The article talks to the founders of suicidemachine.org—a group of artists, designers and programmers based out of the Netherlands (of course…) who want to help people destroy their social networking accounts. The organization claims that social networking sites like Facebook, MySpace and Linkedin exist primarily to make users think that they are missing out on something (like a life for instance).

And I quote, “[Sites like these] make you more stupid.”

Hmmm. More stupid?

The article goes on to state: “Bye-bye former friends and followers. So long profile pictures and passwords. Hello real life 2.0.”As I read the article I thought to myself, could I do it? Could I erase my online footprint and happily enter a life of social network solitude?”

No FaceBook... no Twitter... no Digg?

And what was I supposed to do all day long?

I’d be forced to revert back to the same person I was more than a year and a half ago when I had to be shamed into creating a Facebook account.

Yes, I was “shamed” into it.

The story goes like this: I was having lunch with a good friend one afternoon when I rolled my eyes at her as she talked about an old college friend she had reconnected with on Facebook. She caught the unintended eye roll and proceeded to tell me that even her 85-year old grandmother has a profile on Facebook.

And there it was.

Even her 85-year old grandmother had a profile. The woman apparently had more online street cred than I did! I started to feel left out, left behind, and dare I say, embarrassed that I didn’t have a Facebook profile.

The shame became palpable. That afternoon I went straight home and here I am. I’ll admit it, I like Facebook. I like to see what everyone is doing, thinking, and talking about. I partake in my fair share of quizzes to make sure that my parents named me correctly, or to prove that my hunch was right: I was Cleopatra in a former life! Half the time, I get my news from Facebook. Remember Balloon Boy? I had no idea what was going on until everyone started posting about it!

Needless to say, Facebook has become an integral part of my “so-called” online life. But the question still remains: Has it improved my life? Or do I actually need to get one?


To read more, visit “Web 2.0 Suicide Machine: Erase Your Virtual Life” on NPR's website.

Embracing the Stone Age

Last night I went out with a friend and we started talking about how our parents are completely technologically inept.

Seriously inept.

Like won’t even attempt to turn on a computer.

Doesn’t even want to touch one.

For all of these years, I thought it was just me and my parents who, stood firmly in what I like to call the stone age: They read the paper. In fact, every morning my father would drive to the store in town for his morning coffee, buy half a dozen doughnuts and the local paper.

Every single morning.

Me, on the other hand, I haven’t read a newspaper since 1996—when I lived at home and would swipe Parade on my way out the door on a Sunday morning—and was only allowed to—after my father had read it. So when my Father retired and started to get hard of hearing (that’s being nice…the man became completely deaf) his dutiful children wanted to bring him up to speed by buying them a small laptop.

You know, for basic communication. To let us know he’s um, still alive??

Now, I don’t claim to be all that technologically savvy—I have my moments where I can’t even figure out how to post something, save something, or in most cases, delete something I’ve written. But technology today has gotten to the point where it is so easy, there comes a time where you just have to bite the bullet and embrace it to make your life easier.

Sounds logical, right? So we thought...

We took my Father to Best Buy to show him laptops with basic, basic, basic email functions so that he could stay in contact with his children living all across the country. Seriously, the computer had one application: email. You click, write in the “white space” (as I have described to him many times) and hit “send.”

That’s all we asked the man to do!

As it turned out, my Father never touched “that thing” by the phone (he dusted it once in awhile, but that was about it).

Now, at this point, my father became really hard of hearing and being his dutiful children, we bought him one of those hearing impaired phones—one that literally shook the house when someone called. In fact, the ring was so obnoxious the dog would get up and bark at it. Unfortunately, on many occasions, my Dad couldn’t get to the phone in time to answer it and we’d have to call back (multiple times) making the dog—and my Father—CRAZED. It was so loud—the neighbors started to complain about the phone and the traumatized dog.

Basic communication with my Father became null and void until one day, he decided he wanted a fax machine.

You heard me right. A fax machine.

He went out and bought himself a fax machine, not realizing that in order to actually communicate with someone, that person also needed to have a fax machine. Take a wild guess what his dutiful children got for Christmas that year? He was so proud of himself that he had solved this "little communication problem" as he called it.

So there we all were…faxing my Dad and trying to stay in contact with him daily up until the day he died.

Seriously, when you talk to your sister on the phone and ask, “Have you faxed Dad today? What’s up with him?” you have officially embraced the stone age.

Needless to say, my Father welcomed us with open arms.

My Sermon from the Mount of Clothes Piled High at Old Navy

One of my resolutions is to go to church more this year. As a lapsed Catholic who thinks she’s as close to sainthood as she’s ever going to get, I figure it’s time to show up to “class” more (so to speak). Needless to say, I usually hate the whole experience. Not the mass—but definitely the people.

Every week, it usually goes like this: I walk in, spirits high, expecting holy redemption for my sins, only to be shoved over in the pew, coughed on my a kid who should’ve stayed home and then forced to endure a rambling sermon by an octogenarian who can passionately recount life in 6 A.D. down to the smallest detail…. because I’m pretty sure he was there.

At this point in the mass, I’m usually more than annoyed than when I first got there and start to gripe all about it to God (the poor guy).

This week it was a little different.

Have you ever sat in an auditorium and felt like the person was speaking directly at you causing you to slide down in your pew (ahem…seat) more? That was me yesterday. We had a new priest who gave a simple sermon all the while staring right at me shoved in the middle of the last pew in the church.

He spoke to three simple points (or maybe I just didn’t remember the rest of the sermon, who knows) but it went more or less like this:

1) Be patient (like I have the time…)

2) Don’t gossip (apparently it dims the light in your soul…oops…didn’t know that.)

3) Don’t buy what you don’t need (ouch!)

At this point, I really wanted to sneak out of the back of the church but was encased in the middle of the pew with no way out. Damn it!

So what do I do after the final “Peace Be with You” is shared? Embrace my ADD and hit up Target and Old Navy on my way home.

And this is where it got interesting.

As I walked into Old Navy, I was awe struck by the copious amounts of colorful hoodies, sweat shop t-shirts, and mismatched sweats thrown in heaps on the floor which were now overflowing into the aisles. The store looked like a consumer tornado had just ripped it apart. It was so bad, I had to take a picture:




I think God was giving me a not-so-subtle hint, don’t you think?

I’m not one to preach, but really, do we all need another $5.00 hoodie? At a time when unemployment is in the double digits and people are losing their homes, is another cheap T-shirt going to make all of us feel better about our lives?

(To be completely honest, the little ADD voice inside my head says “yes!” until the rational side of my brain recognizes that I’ll only shove it in my overflowing closet only to forget about it until I find it months later after never even wearing it.)

As I left the store and ran to my car in the -5 degree weather, it occurred to me that maybe if we all bought a hoodie for the homeless (or more appropriately a coat) we would help clear the clutter in the stores, in our closets and in our own hearts.

So I’m going to put this out there: Next time you see a great sale and can’t wait to buy, buy, buy… remember to buy for those who would actually wear the item every day—not your niece or nephew, son or daughter—but the stranger on the street who could use a brand new hoodie.

Ringing in the New Year Flat on My Back

Happy New Year everyone (not than anyone is really following this blog; to be honest, I haven't really invited anyone to join...yet). I have to say, I couldn't wait to make 2009 a faded, distant memory--my mother's death, my father's death, the economy, my own personal loss of focus, quitting my job...yeah, in my view, 2009 was quite the "bitch."

In fact, I couldn't wait for it to be over. And needless to say, the forces that be (God, Jesus, Mother Nature whatever you want to think of them as...) have a funny--albeit painful--way of making a mere mortal slow down and take a moment to reflect. And that's what I was forced to do as I was returning home to get ready to go out... I just happened to do it flat on my back as I skidded out on ice and found myseld doing a unintentional back flip which landed my head on the cold, hard cement curb.

Yup, I lied there for awhile, counting the stars and thinking that my Karma must really need to be cleansed. As I peeled myself off of the pavement and tried to remember how to skate across ice, I made it to my condo, collapsed on the couch and sat there for more than a moment and counted my blessings:

1) I didn't break my back.

2) The stars (finally) went away.

3) I'm alive--and healthy (wipe out not withstanding).

4) I have wonderful friends.

5) My family is finally starting to heal.

6) (I hate ending lists on odd numbers...so let me tack on another one here...ummm...my dog is awesome.)

I still went out that night (the pain wouldn't set in until today) and while I still think NYE is compleetly over-rated, I realized that I was out with good friends and family that helped me make it through one of the worst years of my life.

So this first post of the 2010 is dedicated to all the people that helped me survive 2009... hopefully when life lands them on their back I'll be there to help them up.

Happy New Year.