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.