A moment like this...

Yes - I am sentimental. In fact, I'm about as sensitive and sentimental as they come. I was born that way. As a little kid, I was referred by the neighborhood mothers as "an old soul" or "an adult in a child's body". So, while for those who really know me, this is no shock, the others who only know me socially or by osmosis, this post may be a little uncomfortable.

My sentimental heartstrings have been hanging out there for anything or anyone to grab on to over the last year. The smallest thing can set me off and leave me in a puddle of tears. Last night was no exception when I watched, of all things, American Idol. Let me preface this by saying, I have watched about 3 entire episodes of Idol this entire season. Quite frankly, it interfered with my Biggest Loser TV watching and Darius and the gang won out on that one. But a few weeks back, while flipping the channel back and forth during a commercial, I caught Lee Dewyze sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah and I fell in love. Not just with cutie Lee but with the moment when Lee finished that song, looked out into the crowd and sighed. It was the most serene sigh; the kind few people really ever experience but many of us spend a life time searching for. A sigh that represents total peace and centeredness; a feeling I have experienced only a handful of times in my life. 

I remember having that feeling the day I graduated from college. I was the first person in my immediate family to ever do so and I did it in spite of a lack of understanding and support from my family. I don't mean that in a bad way; my family simply did not understand how many hoops I had jumped through to get there. But I remember a very distinct moment that day, when I walked across the stage to get my diploma when everything felt right in the world. When all of that hard work finally meant something tangible and other people could understand and celebrate it. I recall telling someone that I felt "centered". And I did. All was right in the universe.

So last night, when I watched that 23 year old boy find his center in a way that other people could understand and celebrate, I felt like I could have birthed him myself. Everyone should have a moment like that in their life. Everyone deserves that moment. And after the year that I have had, I couldn't help but wonderif my brother had ever been so lucky to have that moment. I hope he did. Because, if anyone deserved it, it was him.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNs4Ayjo4jw

I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

This is my truth. I have food issues. I never realized I had food issues until I was about 31 and was forced to quit smoking by a little thing called pregnancy.

I love food. I was never a dieter. I was fortunate enough through my 20's to be blessed with a combination of a decent metabolism and not really caring enough to worry about the things I put in my body and the effects they had on me. I could gain and lose 15 pounds without much thought so that's what I did.

I have alot of happy memories revolving around food. Family meals were a daily occurrence and we followed the strict weekly menu of any Italian family - pasta two nights a week, Tuna casserole on Fridays (no meat!), steak one night, etc, etc. This is where we sat and ate and laughed and things were good (I'm sure much of this is my perception of reality but its how I remember it). This changed after my father died. Sit down meals became fewer and farther in between but food became a celebratory thing. It was more than a way to fuel my body; it fueled my soul.

As I became older and started working in the restaurant business, food became my pasttime. The restaurant industry breeds its own subculture, with its own ideology, rules and hours. Dining becomes an art for many of us and we spent much of our free time in search of a great food experience. I still miss those days.

So imagine my surprise when at 31, I find out I'm pregnant and unexpectedly have to quit smoking. All of that oral pacification and metabolic fire ripped from my arsenal of coping tools. What to do? I'll tell you what I did - I ate. Alot. I'll admit it - I was not a good pregnant person. In fact - I can do a whole blog on that subject. I was hormonal, stressed and carrying a big baby. It was the 2nd hottest summer on record with multiple 10 day stretches in the upper 90's. I was swollen and adjusting to the fact that I was going to be a mother. I was scared. So I ate. On a side note - I don't get the idea that people eat less in the summer. For me, it's the opposite. Any chance to eat bbq food, ice cream and drink wine coolers is a chance I'm taking.

Motherhood. Another food challenge. Exhausted to the point of nearly losing my mind, I ate to stay awake, comfort myself in moments of colicky despair and to fill the void that cigarettes had left. I found myself eating in front of the refrigerator in the dark. It was not a happy time (not referencing Max here - we all know how I feel about him).

Fast forward 8 years and I can no longer call my excess weight baby fat. I had a revelation this past year after my brother passed away that life is too short to pretend not to see what is looking back at you in the mirror. I had lost any connection between what I put into my body and how it made me feel. I didn't even know what hunger felt like anymore.

I will say that while I am truly thankful that I never had the body image issues that so many young girls have faced, it puts me a little behind the eight ball. When you have spent little time in your life thinking about how you look or how much you are eating, learning that skill at nearly 40 is difficult. But I'm doing it and it's working. And we'll just leave it at that. Fingers crossed.

Another Series: Snapshot from Long Ago

When my younger sister and I were in our late teens, we did not get along. At all. Not even a little bit. I thought she was a spoiled brat who felt entitled and I'm guess she just thought I was a bitch. In actuality, she was a spoiled brat and I could occasionally be a bitch (but only occasionally).

Crissy had lots of clothes. Lots. It was the whole spoiled thing. I, on the other hand, was more practical and just bought what I needed. Plus, I often rationalized, why would I buy a bunch of clothes when she had more than enough. And she didn't seem to notice or care when I did wear her stuff. People like my sister place little  value on actual things, thinking anything is replaceable. If she can't find her yellow shirt, she just goes and buys another one. On the opposite end of the spectrum is me; I will hold on to an item until I can justify getting rid of it. I need to feel like I got the most out of an item. I could be a hoarder but I don't have enough stuff. I'm guessing I was one in another life.

Anyway, while Crissy appeared to be unfazed by my use of her clothes, I could not stand walking in to find her wearing my things. It was enough to send me to another place entirely. My rationale was simple - she had more than enough stuff. Why in the hell would she feel the need to wear my things? And she always picked my favorite items; specifically my batik shirts that were only available at the beach or at Grateful Dead shows!!

One afternoon I came into the house to find my sister sitting on the couch with our neighbor hanging out. On her body was my all time favorite batik shirt. It was a mustard yellow with burgundy accents and went perfectly with my hair. It made me appear mellow and laid back. It made Crissy look trendy. I kinda lost my mind.

When I say I lost my mind, it wasn't in my usual yelling and screaming way. That had little effect to date on her wearing my cool shirts. Instead, I stood quietly, weighing my options. What to do? I could yell and scream, maybe hit her this time. A possibility, but in my mind's eye, I would be perceived as a legitimate bully and I wasn't going to go there. I could tell on her to my mother but quite frankly as the 5th and 6th kids, my mother was plain old tired. No - I decided this time, I would take matters into my own hands.

Calmly, like a psychiatric patient, I went to the drawer and found the scissors. While my sister tossed her head back in a carefree laugh, I walked over and touched her on the arm. She didn't seem to notice or care but as I put the scissors to the sleeve of my favorite shirt, she turned her head and looked at me in horror. As I closed the scissors and listened to the fabric shred, I looked at her and said,  "I'd rather not have this shirt than have you wear it."

Crissy and the neighbor stood there staring at me like I was the craziest person they had ever seen and it's quite possible they were right. But I didn't care. Because guess what? SHE TOOK OFF MY SHIRT!! And never wore it again. I, on the other hand, wore that shirt, with the scissor sliced sleeve for another 3 or 4 years. And I loved every minute of it.

Why the Mortgage Crisis Sucks

All I want to do is buy a house. Not even a big house. In fact, it could very well be smaller than my existing apartment. But the lure of the buyers credit caught my eye and I jumped through hoops for a month before I finally went to contract with 24 hours left on the credit. Of course, I had gone to contract on one place only to break the contract because the seller smokes crack but that's a story for another day. Finally, on April 29th, I went to contract on the place 4 doors down from the 1st contract and again, began the mortgage application process.

I have owned homes before. Back when the banks were bundling bad loans and blah, blah, blah. I still don't even know exactly what it is they did. But I do know, they royally screwed up and have lost all kinds of money, people are losing their houses and somehow bank executives still feel entitled to million dollar bonuses.

I have recollections of the stress of buying a house. All the documentation. The empty threats of underwriters followed by the approval of a loan you may or may not be able to afford. Well, apparently all of that has changed.

Back in 2003 when Stephen and I bought the house in Kennett, the mortgage company was more than willing to let me take on a mortgage in only my name, while Stephen provided the down payment accompanied by a short letter saying he was "gifting" me the money. Then, it was no big deal to put both of our names on the deed and go about our business. Times were good; the banks were riding high.

Seven years later, all of this is a problem. Stephen can't gift me money, even though the money is actually part out of the agreed upon buyout. This is because we were never married, therefore we were never considered blood relatives, even though we have Max. Technically, he could gift me the money but only if I go FHA and then I am required to pay 5 years of  PMI, even though I'll have put 20% down. My brother can gift me the money but they want to see his bank statements to prove to them that he has money to give me. I am pretty sure my brother doesn't want me or Bank of America to get a look inside his check book but they feel this is perfectly acceptable.

My brother does not believe me when I tell him all of this. He swears I need to just explain the situation to them and they will say "oh, okay, we misunderstood." This is not the case. So here I am still waiting to figure out what the hell I'm going to do even though I have all the money I need to buy the house. The mortgage company just wants me to have it in the way they want me to have it. Which is a problem. Because I have the money the way I have the money. I can't make me have it any other way. Does any of that make sense? If it does, can you explain it to me?

Birds vs. Spiedi

Earlier this week, I asked for suggestions for a blog topic on my Facebook profile. Here are the results:

1. Porn
2. Spiedi
3. Reality TV in general
4. Facebook
5. The BK King
6. Birds
7. The fact that people don't know what it means to yield or merge when driving
8. Gus - the 2nd most famous groundhog in Pennsylvania
9. Clowns

Then, of course, I had a particularly bad day and added assholes to the list.

When I analyzed the list, there was alot of "creep" factor, so then I had to ask myself which of these topics is the creepiest. There are good arguments for many of them and I welcome any input from others. But for me, it really is a toss up between Spiedi and birds. I will lay out my argument for both and then you can decide.

Spiedi

Once upon a time there was a fresh faced, small chested girl from Crested Butte, Colorado named Heidi Montag. She moved to California to pursue a career in fashion and ended up making guest appearances on the unscripted reality tv show "Laguna Beach". For the record, I loved Laguna Beach. I loved that there were young adults out there so out of touch with reality that they felt compelled to hold a trucker cap fashion show to benefit victims of the tragic Laguna Beach mudslides a few years back. They even had their own slogan for the event; Fight the Slide, 2005.

Anyway, somehow Heidi ended up infiltrating her way into this world of trucker hat fashion shows, expensive cars, and infinity pools. The following year she turned up on the Laguna Beach spin-off show (another unscripted reality television show), The Hills. At this point, Heidi was still fresh faced, small chested and even a little mousy. She quit fashion school and convinced some party promoter (who was probably paid a small fortune by MTV) to let her work for his company. It was clear, Heidi was starstruck.

Season 2; Enter Spencer Pratt. Spencer was billed as Brody Jenner's best bud, but really he was just a dick. From the first moment he came on screen, he creeped me (and the rest of America) out. Now, for some reason, this was not the case for Heidi. I'm not sure if it was written into her unscripted contract that she had to date him, or maybe she was smoking crack. The impetus is still unclear. But Heidi was smitten. And all of America was forced to watch a long, slow train wreck right before our very eyes.

We have watched him alienate her friends.We have watched him alienate her family (how well would you handle it if your husband called your mother "the vagina" on national television).We have watched him alienate all of the celebrities on "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!".

We have watched Heidi go from a fresh faced, small chested, mousy but cute girl, to a girl who really doesn't look human. I'm still unclear as to how plastic surgeons can sell a patient on the fact that what they are doing is making them look like an actual real person. In Heidi's defense, maybe she didn't want to look real. Maybe her goal was to look like actual plastic. If so, she succeeded. But in the process, she has lost her friends, family and fans. According to a report on msn, she and Spencer only have each other and spend their days staring at magazine covers of themselves. And they are now referred to as Spiedi. CREEPY!!!

Birds

I have long had a thing about birds. No - I have never seen the movie. But birds freak me out. At one point, I seriously considered starting a group on FB called "Birds Freak Me Out" but was afraid there would be backlash from the many bird lovers out there. But I will not be silenced any longer. Birds freak me out and creep me out.

I don't really know why I have an aversion to birds. When I was in 1st or 2nd grade, I was at a friends house where they raised chickens. The chickens chased me across the yard. I felt like I was going to die. I think I thought I would get pecked to death. 

A few years later, while I sat on a swing in my neighbors back yard wearing the mail order shirt I received after saving Golden Grahams boxtops (It said "I'm a Golden Child), a bird flew overhead and shit on my shirt. My mother tried to convince me that it was good luck to be shit on by a bird but I wasn't buying it.

When I was in high school, I went on a class trip to England, where we were fortunate enough to visit the Tower of London. While we stood waiting to enter the Tower, a huge flock of birds flew overhead and shit all over the crowd. I was wearing a white wool coat and was again, lucky enough to be shit on. The woman next to me was wearing a kerchief around her head and as she turned to look at me, I was lucky enough to see bird shit running down the side of her kerchief. 

It's not that I can't appreciate the beauty of a bird. Some of them are pretty. But many of them are not. They really are just like little prehistoric creatures and who wants to see that. Recently, I was walking through the woods in Anson B. Nixon Park and turned just in time to see what I was sure was an actual prehistoric bird. How this bird could have gone undetected in Anson B. Nixon park for millions of years is unclear to me. But I was freaked out by the shear size of this bird. And the length of its legs. I swear the bird may have been as tall as me. And it took off and all I saw were these bamboo like legs and I thought I may die. Then I found out 2 days ago, from my bird loving friend Chrissy that I probably saw a blue heron. But does it really matter? It was just plain old CREEPY!!

After putting both arguments on paper (symbolically speaking), the birds win. At least you can turn off your TV. You can't hide from birds. CREEPY!!

Was learning cursive really necessary?

I have a really hard time taking credit for ideas that aren't mine so I'll again preface this by saying I got the idea for this entry from that chain email I received last week. I've gotta be honest with you - I'm not sending it to any of you because it has way too much awesome material I can use in my blog. So you'll just have to settle for getting it in dribs and drabs. Only the title is in the email; the rest of the material is pure me.

So - was learning cursive really necessary? I just don't know the answer to this one. My handwriting over the last 39 years has kinda gone full circle so maybe cursive did serve a purpose. I recently found my diary from high school and I was shocked at how childish my handwriting (all cursive, mind you) was. Lots of loop-de-loops, heavy handed and a few embellishments here and there. Nothing like my half print - half cursive scrawl of today.

I think the philosophical question regarding cursive really speaks to a larger issue of what is really important in schools these days. It is true that I benefited from many subjects I swore were a waste of my time. Remember wondering why in the hell you would ever need to know what a rhombus is? I'll tell you why....Your kindergartner will one day come home and show you what a rhombus is and you better know what he's talking about or you will appear to be an ass. A dumbass, at that.

Reading - a must. Although, books on tape and 24 hour a day news are cutting into that market. Writing - important also but your kid may qualify for an IEP that states that he needs to use a computer instead of a pencil or have a scribe for test taking. Math - we've got calculators now. And kids are allowed to use them after they learn the basics. Plus - there's this thing called the "new math" and none of us know how to do it anyway so helping them with that homework is kind of a waste of time.

I still haven't figured out how they are working Social Studies into the curriculum these days and I honestly believe this is the biggest crime of all. When I was in kindergarten, it was the year of the bicentennial. Of course, this was all very exciting, especially since my elementary school sat on an actual Revolutionary War battlefield. I can still remember sitting in class telling my teacher that my mother had graduated from high school with Martha Washington (true story). Now, for some reason, Mrs. Christensen did not believe me but I insisted she call my mother and ask her herself. Which she did. And that is how I learned the very important history lesson that my mother is not nearly as old as I thought she was.

Back to the subject at hand. I don't have an answer. Did I benefit from learning cursive? Maybe. Probably not as much as my older sisters who went to Catholic school, where they all learned the exact same way to write cursive, which came in very handy when forging notes after skipping school.

Will Max benefit from learning cursive? Who knows? I'm just hoping he learns how to write on the actual line, not an inch above it.

Why Motherhood is the hardest thing I have ever done.

I love my child. I love him more than I thought was ever possible. But motherhood is hard. It is, by far, the hardest thing, I have ever done. Unless you are a mother, it is impossible to comprehend what it means when someone says its the hardest thing. I can attest to this because there was a time when I was not a mother and now I am. So I have lived both ways. And its hard.

When you are a mother, you are responsible for another person's life. You are responsible for whether or not that little person will grow up to appreciate others, be empathetic, find humor in life's hardship, etc. And you will be blamed if they end up less than perfect. They will blame you. I recently had the pleasure of my only child say to me "Unlike you, I don't have brothers and sisters to play with." Someone shoot me now.

You may never sleep through the night again. You may wonder "is he breathing?", "is he going to throw up again?", or "have I ruined him for life?" Long after your child has learned to sleep through the night, you may find yourself up, watching Law and Order reruns wondering how you will ever sleep through the night again.

Your own needs will ultimately by tempered by the needs of your child. You will do whatever it takes to make sure your child is happy, and well adjusted, even if you have to break their heart in the process. And even if you have to put off your own happiness for a while.

You will suffer through shows you hate, books you've read a thousand times and freezing cold temperatures to make sure your child gets to hit a ball once every 30 minutes. And you will pretend you love it all. Unless, you've hit the wall and actually tell them you can't possibly watch that same episode of  iCarly one more time. You might even yell at them. You may actually hear things come out of your mouth that you swore you would never say. You may look in the mirror and see your own mother and think "Oh, now I get it."

You may question yourself every day. Did I do the right thing? Is he going to turn out okay? Am I going to turn out okay? Am I ever going to sleep again? (Or did I already say that?)And you may have days when you feel like the world's worst parent and spend hours trying to make sure your child knows you love him.

But you will laugh every day. Laugh at how simple life can be for a child. And your heart will melt every day. And you will wonder how you ever lived without your child. Even if it is the hardest thing you've ever done.