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.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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).
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).
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
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.
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.
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