(My February Column for EG Magazine and The NK Villager)
Shortly after the last note of “Jingle Bells” had faintly drifted away from my favorite 24/7 holiday radio station, it dawned on me that the number of holiday greetings we received this year were down considerably and worse yet, most of the cards we opened did not include those highly anticipated “Holiday Letters”.
You know the ones—always written on festive computer stationery laced with poinsettias or jolly old snowmen wearing cozy wool scarves—sets the tone beautifully for what’s to come next—a lot of hot air touting how fabulous the individual or family had just sailed through the past year. (Ok, most of them.)
A typical one reads “Morton received his third MBA from Harvard as well as his pilot’s license while I received the broker of the year award from my real estate firm for the fifth year in a row, despite this challenging economy. It was a struggle, but our teenaged twins, Bart and Bella were able to graduate with high honors from high school a year early. Sven, our Major Domo for the past 15 years had to really kick it up a notch by serving extra high-protein hot breakfasts for them every morning so they could excel in both their studies and polo team duties. How we lived through it, I’ll never know!” You’ve seen versions similar, I’m sure.
But that’s ok—once a year I think we all deserve to blow our family’s horn a little bit. As long as we don’t blow out anyone’s ear drums in the process, what’s the harm? With the written holiday cheer way down, it leads me to believe that either our soft economy is to blame or………or is our infatuation with the internet these days the real culprit?
It all started quite innocently when the computer world was rocked with one of the savviest means of communication ever—e-mail. What a high it was to log on to your computer and hear those three zippy words “You’ve Got Mail”. (Remember the movie?) After we were hooked, there was no turning back and the journey into the cyber world continued to grow faster than dandelions on a dank summer’s day.
But it didn’t end there. Socializing on the internet was turned into a multi-million dollar industry with companies like My Space, Twitter and the most popular network worldwide—Facebook. Facebook is a social networking website that is operated and privately owned. Users can add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves. For those who are privacy conscious, this type of social hoopla is probably not for you. I admit, at first, I was skeptical myself, but my how that has changed.
Little by little I started to reconnect with friends from high school, college, my dental days, and with family members that live all across the country, and in the process I’ve met new friends that I absolutely adore. For those unfamiliar with how it all works, there is a place on your profile page that allows you to post photos and your status (what’s on your mind)—as frequently or as little as you like. Let me give you some examples:
There is your “random” status facebooker that will post things as simple as “Tired”, “Indigestion”, “More snow!”, “In laws!”, “Mocha Cappuccino” and anything else that sums up in one or two words what is on their mind at that particular moment.
Moving right along we also have the “Play By Play” status facebooker that will log on the moment he awakens and will list everything he’s done, in specific order, from brushing his teeth, to finding a hair in his oatmeal to what time he will be leaving the house to buy anti-fungal cream (and where the itch is), shop for yesterday’s bake and then back home again to drain the puss out of his three-legged cat’s infected ear. As my kids love to say “TMI”—too much information!
Next up is the “Woe is Me” facebooker, who will post just how dreadful her life is going to which anyone with a conscience and a beating heart will comment back that things aren’t really that bad and the world really is a better place because she is in it.
One of my favorite status types are the “inspiring” ones. They will usually post an upbeat or thought provoking quote such as “Don’t ask what your mother can do for you, ask what you can do for your mother!” (Or something on those lines) Those types of status remarks leave me wanting to be a better individual.
And lastly, there are the “life’s a bowl of cherries” facebookers, which I believe yours truly would fall under. It took me a few months to get the hang of regularly posting my status, but I soon realized it was pretty neat to share what was going on in my world, as long as I could make it fun. Though I’m private by nature, there is something very refreshing about sharing the comical trials and tribulations of real family life—no one lives in a perfect world, but why not live in one where we can laugh a little each day.
Greeting cards may be down but that doesn’t mean our friends and family aren’t thinking about us and wondering how we are doing. Whether you facebook or not, why not be prepared. The next time someone asks “What’s your status?” what will you say but more importantly how will you say it?
As my wonderful husband loves to say around here......."Every Day is Good....Some are Better!" Follow my life as the adoring, yet sometimes harried mother of eight----proud owner of the wonder girdle and chia bra!
Friday, January 29, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Living with PPS--Post Purging Syndrome
(My column from the NK Villager/EG Magazine)
So, here we are, the end of the holiday season is still lingering in the air and 2010 is officially on our calendars. No matter how we managed to either celebrate or just barely survive the past few weeks, ready or not a brand new year awaits!
I’m not going to kid you, by the time I’ve hauled the last box of shiny ornaments back up those attic stairs, I’m more than ready to change gears and get back to basics like figuring out what kind of hair accessories I can still carry off as a 40-something mother so as not to embarrass my teenage daughters (or myself) when we’re out in public. Good news, though, that shouldn’t be a problem this year because now that I’ve been diagnosed with PPS—Post Purging Syndrome, if in fact I do choose to grab a cheesy pony tail holder for my tresses, I will know exactly where to locate it.
PPS is a real shock to the system. While PMS is a much laughed at (or feared!) topic of many, PPS is fairly new on the radar screen in the medical community. In fact, it’s so rare that those inflicted with it are facing an uncertain future for themselves and their families. I mean I know we can’t be the only household in town that has way too many broken pencils, expired coupons, empty gum packages and useless C and D batteries stuffed into several gadget drawers in the kitchen. And that’s only one room in the house! Go ahead, you can admit it, your secret is safe with me.
I’ll try to make this brief so I don’t scare you away too quickly. This past November, I started showing peculiar symptoms that I just couldn’t put my finger on. When my children left for school each morning I would scurry about the house scavenging coins for milk money from so many drawers, purses and black holes in the house that I asked for a metal detector for Christmas to turn it into a sport. When the bus rolled out of our neighborhood and I had actually beat the clock by getting them on it each day I would then go inside and take care of my daily business and I’m not referring to a few moments in the bathroom. I’m talking about cramming our freshly folded laundry into drawers that were already bulging with clothing that either no longer fit, was no longer decent enough to be wearing or in my own case was severely outdated—like all my jeans embedded with jewels and such from my best Ronco purchase ever, the BeDazzler.
As if feeling harried after scrounging for loose milk change or nearly spraining my wrists by wrestling with the laundry each day wasn’t enough to get my heart pounding, I knew my symptoms were becoming worse when I’d reach for something in my spice cabinet and find my trusty hot glue gun with a dust bunny attached or my 4-year old’s headless Barbies rather than the nutmeg or garlic powder. Little by little, I saw what was happening to me—I had gone from a super-organized (and dare I admit stylish) 25-year old bride whose biggest challenge each day was deciding which step aerobics class to take at the gym to a 40-plus married (and sadly a bit frumpy) “Little old Lady Who Lived in A Shoe and had so many kids she didn’t have a place to put anything” matron without even realizing it. Clutter had conquered my life and was now leaving me physically drained. If I recall, my doctor called it “Clutterbugitus” and the prognosis wasn’t good. The treatment plan called for either getting rid of all the extra stuff in each and every room, or prepare for many more years ahead of drowning in it. Side effects for years to come may include shortness of breath, uncontrollable perspiration and full blown panic attacks when the simple search for my wonder girdle or brass hair clips is challenged by a condition I have the power to control—without medication (unless wine counts!).
Once I was diagnosed, I set right to work sorting, chucking, straightening and de-cluttering every inch of the house. Room by room, drawer by drawer, closet by closet, hole by hole and yes that would include all my purses and every last tote bag innocently hanging in the mud room were tackled and reorganized.
Warning “Do” try this at home! A painful process, yes, but after I removed that first hunk of year-old Swiss cheese from behind the steak knives, got rid of all the mismatched Tupperware, put the Band Aids in the medicine chest instead of in my daughter’s dollhouse I started seeing that there is indeed something to that phrase—a place for everything and everything in its place—and my symptoms began to slowly disappear. I’m even starting to feel like that 25-year old carefree bride again (Ok, that’s going a bit far, I know!).
Though I’ve temporarily managed to skillfully kick my clutter habit, professionals have placed me in a high-risk category for slipping back into my harmful old ways—having eight kids could do that to a person. But if I take each day in 2010 with a “less is more” stride and don’t go through severe withdrawal symptoms the next time I reach for a pair of those gem-studded jeans I used to own, chances are I’ll be able to enjoy PPS for many years to come.
So, here we are, the end of the holiday season is still lingering in the air and 2010 is officially on our calendars. No matter how we managed to either celebrate or just barely survive the past few weeks, ready or not a brand new year awaits!
I’m not going to kid you, by the time I’ve hauled the last box of shiny ornaments back up those attic stairs, I’m more than ready to change gears and get back to basics like figuring out what kind of hair accessories I can still carry off as a 40-something mother so as not to embarrass my teenage daughters (or myself) when we’re out in public. Good news, though, that shouldn’t be a problem this year because now that I’ve been diagnosed with PPS—Post Purging Syndrome, if in fact I do choose to grab a cheesy pony tail holder for my tresses, I will know exactly where to locate it.
PPS is a real shock to the system. While PMS is a much laughed at (or feared!) topic of many, PPS is fairly new on the radar screen in the medical community. In fact, it’s so rare that those inflicted with it are facing an uncertain future for themselves and their families. I mean I know we can’t be the only household in town that has way too many broken pencils, expired coupons, empty gum packages and useless C and D batteries stuffed into several gadget drawers in the kitchen. And that’s only one room in the house! Go ahead, you can admit it, your secret is safe with me.
I’ll try to make this brief so I don’t scare you away too quickly. This past November, I started showing peculiar symptoms that I just couldn’t put my finger on. When my children left for school each morning I would scurry about the house scavenging coins for milk money from so many drawers, purses and black holes in the house that I asked for a metal detector for Christmas to turn it into a sport. When the bus rolled out of our neighborhood and I had actually beat the clock by getting them on it each day I would then go inside and take care of my daily business and I’m not referring to a few moments in the bathroom. I’m talking about cramming our freshly folded laundry into drawers that were already bulging with clothing that either no longer fit, was no longer decent enough to be wearing or in my own case was severely outdated—like all my jeans embedded with jewels and such from my best Ronco purchase ever, the BeDazzler.
As if feeling harried after scrounging for loose milk change or nearly spraining my wrists by wrestling with the laundry each day wasn’t enough to get my heart pounding, I knew my symptoms were becoming worse when I’d reach for something in my spice cabinet and find my trusty hot glue gun with a dust bunny attached or my 4-year old’s headless Barbies rather than the nutmeg or garlic powder. Little by little, I saw what was happening to me—I had gone from a super-organized (and dare I admit stylish) 25-year old bride whose biggest challenge each day was deciding which step aerobics class to take at the gym to a 40-plus married (and sadly a bit frumpy) “Little old Lady Who Lived in A Shoe and had so many kids she didn’t have a place to put anything” matron without even realizing it. Clutter had conquered my life and was now leaving me physically drained. If I recall, my doctor called it “Clutterbugitus” and the prognosis wasn’t good. The treatment plan called for either getting rid of all the extra stuff in each and every room, or prepare for many more years ahead of drowning in it. Side effects for years to come may include shortness of breath, uncontrollable perspiration and full blown panic attacks when the simple search for my wonder girdle or brass hair clips is challenged by a condition I have the power to control—without medication (unless wine counts!).
Once I was diagnosed, I set right to work sorting, chucking, straightening and de-cluttering every inch of the house. Room by room, drawer by drawer, closet by closet, hole by hole and yes that would include all my purses and every last tote bag innocently hanging in the mud room were tackled and reorganized.
Warning “Do” try this at home! A painful process, yes, but after I removed that first hunk of year-old Swiss cheese from behind the steak knives, got rid of all the mismatched Tupperware, put the Band Aids in the medicine chest instead of in my daughter’s dollhouse I started seeing that there is indeed something to that phrase—a place for everything and everything in its place—and my symptoms began to slowly disappear. I’m even starting to feel like that 25-year old carefree bride again (Ok, that’s going a bit far, I know!).
Though I’ve temporarily managed to skillfully kick my clutter habit, professionals have placed me in a high-risk category for slipping back into my harmful old ways—having eight kids could do that to a person. But if I take each day in 2010 with a “less is more” stride and don’t go through severe withdrawal symptoms the next time I reach for a pair of those gem-studded jeans I used to own, chances are I’ll be able to enjoy PPS for many years to come.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Happy New Year Stranger!
(My Column from the NK Villager/EG Magazine)
Her visit during the holidays took me completely by surprise. My husband, trying to help preserve the last remnants of my sanity, took the kids to visit his parents where the eight of them would carefully and patiently (ha ha) help to decorate their Christmas tree. Not able to recognize the sound of peaceful stillness, my body started to twitch a bit each time I tried to snuggle up on the empty couch with my book. That’s when my unexpected guest arrived, precisely as I was flipping pages and nodding off simultaneously.
I invited her into my home and she smiled as her cashmere sweater gently brushed against the fresh pine wreath that hung on my front door. “Ahhh, smells great in here…………did you just bake a pie,” she asks? “Be careful on that terrazzo tile, I’ve just washed and waxed,” I caution. “Tell me, how do you keep your entry way so pristine looking and so darn organized--I mean, I could just live right here in this room?” she gushed.
Before I can answer, she’s wandered straight into my living room and is stroking my extra plump chenille pillows. Her eyes dart straight to my mantle where I’ve artfully displayed several paintings--the soft glow of candlelight framing them perfectly. Next, she looks me over from head to toe and gleefully gives me a tight squeeze. We used to be inseparable, but haven’t seen one another in nearly 15 years right about the time I became a mother.
With so much to catch up on we head straight to the kitchen where I debate between offering her a mug of hot steaming tea or pouring us each a large glass of Merlot. The Merlot wins hands down, so we pull up a stool to my sleek, clean island that has nothing but a delightfully decorated miniature Christmas tree on it and we then toast our reunion.
“You still look the same,” she smiled. “Oh stop! We both know I’ve put on a few pounds during the past decade and surely you’ve noticed a few more laugh lines on this here face of mine,” I replied. “But you on the other hand are timeless. Your smile is still as carefree as ever and it’s obvious that you’ve kept up with your exercise routine all these years,” I sing back. With our pleasantries now exchanged, she slowly enjoys the fine wine we are sharing and asks, “Remember how we would sit on the beach and plan our futures—our careers, who we would marry, how many kids we would have, what our dream homes would look like,” she asked? I sigh and nod. “However did we become such strangers so quickly? “ asks my long-lost friend.
I sit and just stare at her. Her presence is very calming and I wonder, too, where she has disappeared to for all these years and what has prompted her return right before the New Year?
I begin to look back on the past 15 years and smile and say nothing--instead I direct her to the family portrait we have hanging outside our Living Room taken nearly three year’s ago before our eighth child was born. Even though I’ve kept a long-distance relationship with her over time, I thought she’d like to see with her lovely brown eyes what I spend most of my time doing—raising a family. The handsome guy in that portrait is my husband of 20 years, and no, not the guy I thought I’d marry when we would sit on the beach and throw Cheetos to the seagulls and discuss such dreamy matters. I met him on my 21st birthday when he had his teeth cleaned in the dental practice I worked in for 15 years, another change in course from the career I had planned for myself in the hot summer sun—that of a school teacher. Funny enough, with eight kids (my plans called for three!) I guess I got my own classroom after all.
She gives me a swift elbow to the ribs and begins to laugh. As she does I look over at my kitchen island and realize I can barely see the top of it because it’s piled high with family stuff and the box of that fine vino we were drinking is right in the center. I sense she wants to ask me something else but she’s now poking around by the mantle and straightening my collection of broken nutcrackers that are hiding the crookedly framed school photos that desperately need to be updated. And why are those plump chenille pillows now looking a bit frayed and tired? The prodding continues until my neck jerks upright and I see my 5-year old staring at me and yelling, “Mom, we’re home!”
I search the room for my friend but she’s gone again. Instead, my husband has returned with our brood and they are all anxious to tell me about their visit to Grandma’s. My book has since dropped to the floor and somehow made it’s way down the stairs into that stunning entryway of mine that is laden with shoes, mismatched socks and even somebody’s toothbrush. I am now completely awake in my dream house—the home I share with my family, and realize that I will never see that girl again, the person I was before I had kids, but I am not sad. A part of me will still always be her no matter where I’m at in life, and I can think of no better time than the start of a new year to reminisce on my leisurely past but to stay focused on the here and now with great anticipation of all the new experiences my friend and I will reflect on in another 15 years.
Her visit during the holidays took me completely by surprise. My husband, trying to help preserve the last remnants of my sanity, took the kids to visit his parents where the eight of them would carefully and patiently (ha ha) help to decorate their Christmas tree. Not able to recognize the sound of peaceful stillness, my body started to twitch a bit each time I tried to snuggle up on the empty couch with my book. That’s when my unexpected guest arrived, precisely as I was flipping pages and nodding off simultaneously.
I invited her into my home and she smiled as her cashmere sweater gently brushed against the fresh pine wreath that hung on my front door. “Ahhh, smells great in here…………did you just bake a pie,” she asks? “Be careful on that terrazzo tile, I’ve just washed and waxed,” I caution. “Tell me, how do you keep your entry way so pristine looking and so darn organized--I mean, I could just live right here in this room?” she gushed.
Before I can answer, she’s wandered straight into my living room and is stroking my extra plump chenille pillows. Her eyes dart straight to my mantle where I’ve artfully displayed several paintings--the soft glow of candlelight framing them perfectly. Next, she looks me over from head to toe and gleefully gives me a tight squeeze. We used to be inseparable, but haven’t seen one another in nearly 15 years right about the time I became a mother.
With so much to catch up on we head straight to the kitchen where I debate between offering her a mug of hot steaming tea or pouring us each a large glass of Merlot. The Merlot wins hands down, so we pull up a stool to my sleek, clean island that has nothing but a delightfully decorated miniature Christmas tree on it and we then toast our reunion.
“You still look the same,” she smiled. “Oh stop! We both know I’ve put on a few pounds during the past decade and surely you’ve noticed a few more laugh lines on this here face of mine,” I replied. “But you on the other hand are timeless. Your smile is still as carefree as ever and it’s obvious that you’ve kept up with your exercise routine all these years,” I sing back. With our pleasantries now exchanged, she slowly enjoys the fine wine we are sharing and asks, “Remember how we would sit on the beach and plan our futures—our careers, who we would marry, how many kids we would have, what our dream homes would look like,” she asked? I sigh and nod. “However did we become such strangers so quickly? “ asks my long-lost friend.
I sit and just stare at her. Her presence is very calming and I wonder, too, where she has disappeared to for all these years and what has prompted her return right before the New Year?
I begin to look back on the past 15 years and smile and say nothing--instead I direct her to the family portrait we have hanging outside our Living Room taken nearly three year’s ago before our eighth child was born. Even though I’ve kept a long-distance relationship with her over time, I thought she’d like to see with her lovely brown eyes what I spend most of my time doing—raising a family. The handsome guy in that portrait is my husband of 20 years, and no, not the guy I thought I’d marry when we would sit on the beach and throw Cheetos to the seagulls and discuss such dreamy matters. I met him on my 21st birthday when he had his teeth cleaned in the dental practice I worked in for 15 years, another change in course from the career I had planned for myself in the hot summer sun—that of a school teacher. Funny enough, with eight kids (my plans called for three!) I guess I got my own classroom after all.
She gives me a swift elbow to the ribs and begins to laugh. As she does I look over at my kitchen island and realize I can barely see the top of it because it’s piled high with family stuff and the box of that fine vino we were drinking is right in the center. I sense she wants to ask me something else but she’s now poking around by the mantle and straightening my collection of broken nutcrackers that are hiding the crookedly framed school photos that desperately need to be updated. And why are those plump chenille pillows now looking a bit frayed and tired? The prodding continues until my neck jerks upright and I see my 5-year old staring at me and yelling, “Mom, we’re home!”
I search the room for my friend but she’s gone again. Instead, my husband has returned with our brood and they are all anxious to tell me about their visit to Grandma’s. My book has since dropped to the floor and somehow made it’s way down the stairs into that stunning entryway of mine that is laden with shoes, mismatched socks and even somebody’s toothbrush. I am now completely awake in my dream house—the home I share with my family, and realize that I will never see that girl again, the person I was before I had kids, but I am not sad. A part of me will still always be her no matter where I’m at in life, and I can think of no better time than the start of a new year to reminisce on my leisurely past but to stay focused on the here and now with great anticipation of all the new experiences my friend and I will reflect on in another 15 years.
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