Live like the Pope, and other resolutions for 2014

Yes, this is a little behind. I have been happily jumping into 2014 and not thinking much about resolving to do anything other than embrace it with both arms. But since I have thought a lot about this post already, might as well crack on with it.

Historically my resolutions focus less on “stop” and more on “do.” In the past I’ve resolved to read all the Pulitzer Prize winners, in which I learned I loathe the works of William Faulkner with a passion. I vowed to write more fiction, write more on this blog (yeah about that..), I volunteered, learned to salsa, took a burlesque class, aerial acrobatics class, ran a 5k and found a fond joy for running. You get the gist.

The past year was full of some amazing emotional ups and downs. I went into December with little desire to write any resolutions. Then I saw this little list of the Pope Francis's New Year’s resolutions.

I am not Catholic, but I have to admit that I dig this Pope like crazy. He is what I imagined Jesus meant for his followers: a kind, considerate, loving human being. He doesn’t position himself as infallible. But a man who embraces his fallacies and looks for ways to be a better human being to all the other fucked up human beings who live on this planet.

Since I read that list, I’ve also seen his comments on breastfeeding babies in public. I’ve been to the Sistine Chapel. I would applaud a few more lactating mommies in that beautiful room.

  

Then there are his thoughts on gays and women in the church. There still much, much more room for progress, but rock on.

So this year I resolved to adopt the Pope’s resolutions. Less malice, more love. Less things, more thought. Less anxiety, more thankful. And above all more happy. Those seem like damn good resolutions to me.

I’m happy to say the year ended on such a high note, it still takes my breath away. But more about that later. Until then, Live Like the Pope (LLP) is a pretty good mantra for 2014. 

The Princess and the Pee

Once upon a time, a mother who shall remain namless, told her son that if he wanted to some day own a dog, he should start with a fish. So begins our tale.

This has not been the year of pets.

The fish made it three months, as did the bearded lizard. Last fall, we welcomed Owl, aka Princess Fuzzy Butt, into our home. I felt confident in this adoption. I had owned a cat before so I knew the care and feeding that was involved. And for a while, things were great.

Until she climbed a screen in the window which promptly fell out, two stories to the ground. It is true, by the way, cats always land on their feet. But was that the omen I should have seen?

Yesterday I dropped PFB at the vet for routine kitten maintenance without a care. Two hours later, Dr. Warren informed me that PFB -- despite her kittenish enthusaism, vim and vigor -- was actually in renal failure for reasons unknown. He had run some routine blood work and the numbers were grim. Her kidneys were not up to the task. He was running some more tests and would let me know the results.

So began my downward spiral of mommy guilt. Obviously, losing three pets in one year is no way to raise a kid. Obviously I should have gotten him another fish and called it good. Obviously he would become a serial killer because every pet he ever had died. Obviously. Worst. Mother. Ever.

I shed tears. I vacuumed. I wondered if we could take her home to live her remaining days/weeks at home instead of the cold vet's office. Mostly I stewed.

Four hours later. Dr. Warren called again.

DW: "So I had the lab run her blood work and she's fine."

Me: "Uh, what? What? She's fine? But renal failure.... that's bad ... and you said... and she was not well... and..."

DW: "Well, it seems my machine is not working properly."

Me: "You realize I spent the whole afternoon grappling with how to tell my son we had to put his cat down. You REALIZE that don't you?"

DW: "Yeah. I did think about that. But it's all good. I feel bad for the people who sold me that machine. They are about to have a very uncomfortable conversation."

Me: "All afternoon, stewing, Dr. Warren. Stewing."

DW: "Hey, she's fine. Stop stewing now. We'll see you tomorrow when you pick her up."

Me: "I know how to find you, Dr. Warren. I'm just saying."

DW: silence "Yeah, so see you tomorrow then!"

Conversations to make the brain bleed

It is one of my fatal flaws that I assume people know the same basic things I know. It’s irrelevant how I jumped to this conclusion (probably because I have no idea) but it is firmly ingrained and will require lobotomy-level surgery to remove. In other words, I still assume you know what I know.


Case in point, an actual texting conversation between myself and a dear friend:


She: Did you watch that video of Christina Aguilera and that stuff dripping down her leg. I wanna watch but am afraid to.

Me: Uh, do you think I did? You know me and potty-type issues.

She: She said it was self-tanner.

Me: Running down her leg? Was she performing at the time?

She: Yes, at her idol’s funeral

Me: Who is her idol? Mr. Tinkles?

She: Some singer. Died this week. Gretta or something.

Me: Etta James? Please tell me you know who Etta James is…

She: No comment on gretta.

Me: Etta. Google Etta James, At Last, on youtube. And then say you have at least heard one of the songs that made her famous. And we WILL have to talk about this later.

She: I’ve heard that song. Like I can be responsible for knowing who sings every cheesy wedding song?!?

Me: Etta James is to jazz and blues as Aretha Franklin is to soul. Similar to what BB King is to blues as Jimmie Hendrix is to rock. I.E. a big deal!

She: Who? Oh Aretha. She sang that get outta my car, get into my dreams song?

Me: I love you… now be quiet.

Oh balls

I have long lived the philosophy of "have fun, don't fall down." Until this summer.

I decided that because I have a kid who plays soccer, maybe I should kick the ball around now and again. So I joined an adult co-ed team.

Oh. Good. God

Adult soccer is much quicker, more physical. The field is bigger and the summer sun intensifies at a rate of about 1 million times hotter than for those lowely few fans on the sidelines. I had no clue what I was doing, but I like to run so I simply followed the ball. I had fun, I fell down alot. I sucked, but I'm happy to be included. Up until the point I was not.

A major difference between adults and kids is that kids are constantly reminded to be nice. At some point, we forget those lessons as adults. You may think I stink, but do you really need to tell me? Probably not.

As this was a fun, all-skill-level league, I didn't do much prep work. Fail on my part. I know I'm not the best, fastest or most aggressive. I get that I don't know all the rules. But make me feel like a bit of an ass about it, and I won't stick around.

I love to try new things. Just ask my salsa teacher, my burlesque teacher, my aerial arts teacher or my urban pilates teacher.

This experience reminded me that not all things will be my favorite. I've found LOTS of great classes, met new people and generally expanded my life beautifully.

As for soccer, I'll keep that at the 8-year old level, which suits me just fine.

The Year of the Aha Switch

When does it happen? When do you flip that switch? You know the one I mean -- the one where you stop worrying about how skinny you are and instead find ways to keep your body healthy and strong. That little clicker that moves from caring about what model of car you drive, to what types of snacks are in your glove box for the rider in the little seat in the back. It’s the shiny moment when you realize that sitting on the back porch watching the sun set in the summer shimmer while the boys in your life play in the backyard is one of the best moments you will ever have. It’s when you realize that growing a little garden, watching the tender shoots bloom and offer their very best fruits because you loved them just right is a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

When does that happen? 32? 40? 55?

Some people never get there. For me, it was 36 -- the past year. After everything in my life changed, completely and irrevocably. Divorce, my concept of family, my safe haven of home, financial stability -- all rewritten. And what is left is the peace of knowing that all those things come and go in different forms.

To be loved is to love first.

Good is sitting on the porch in the sun watching my son play in the yard … of a rental house, or the park, or finally, backyard of our house.

It’s being there, switch on.

Broken, but securely bandaged

Seems like the topic of love has come up alot lately -- friends, family, even casual aquaintences. Is there such a thing as that all-consuming passion? That mad love?

I was, what I thought, madly in love once. In retrospect, I don't know if it was so much love, but it was certainly mad.

When you are consumed by someone, they literally eat you alive, twist you in knots, pull your strings, wrangle your emotions. I was oblivious of anyone else, job, family, nothing else competed.

The irony was that while I was mad, he was not. He eventually ended it. I was broken-hearted but survived. I was convinced I woulld never be that passionate again and for the most part I was right.

While it was the emotionally trying time of my life, it was a great learning experience. I learned that true, enduring love is respectful, kind, willing to compromise, attentive but not smoothering, but most importantly, it knows it's place. One relationship has two people, and never the twain are divided.

Unfortunately that wide-eyed, bated-breath version of love has been perptuated through years and years of ridiculous teen romances. It seeps into a young girls skin until you believe that Ferris Bueller is really looking at you when he looks directly at the camera -- or whatever.

Even love that begins with that passion eventually settles into embers. Nice warm, snuggly, ugly pajamas and morning breath embers. And that is worth it.

Give a little bit

We pause from our usual diatribe of sarcasm, mocking self-loathing, jest and sexual innuendo to bring this message. I apologize if it's a bit off the mushy radar.

I had one of "those" moments in church today: self-awareness. I try to avoid them whenever possible. No one should be too self-aware, as you will suddenly realize how ridiculous you are. However, while singing, a particular line stuck in my head: live a life more abundant.

To me, abundance always means love. You can never have too much. In fact, most of us are in a deficit. But it also means forgiveness, kindness, affection, gentleness, encouragement, color, music, art, dance, sunshine... Abundance.

The ball of fire was sitting on the floor, playing in the seat next to me during this moment, so of course I had to apply my abundant revelation to my parenting. Do I give enough? Do I tell him I love him enough? Hug enough? Encourage enough?

One of my most important jobs as a parent is to raise a man who is kind, gentle, loving, affectionate and generally a good person. No one is without selfishness, anxiety, some level of hate or even meanness. But if all those negatives are tempered by the good things in adundance, then maybe humanity will survive a little longer.

Viola! My message of hope for mother's day.

I should note that while I was having this life-changing moment, my zipper on my jeans was gaping and I had drank so much cappuccino beforehand that I was vibrating in my chair.

Abundance does not equate to perfection.

And I'm the one in therapy

Before I jump into this post, a disclaimer. I like therapy. I enjoy talking about things with a professional who has no emotionally vested interest in me whatsoever. I need that perspective.

With that said, I read an amazing article on New Yorker today about the origins of marriage therapy. This particular article highlights something that I think is overlooked often, "experts" with hidden agendas. In this case, the so-called Father of the Modern Marriage had a racial agenda to build the perfect race.

For Popenoe, marriage counselling was the flip side of compulsory vasectomy and tubal ligation: sterilize the unfit; urge the fit to marry. But what if the fit got divorced? “I began to realize that if we were to promote a sound population,” he wrote, “we would not only have to get the right kind of people married, but we would have to keep them married.” Popenoe opened the clinic in 1930, in order “to bring all the resources of science to bear on the promotion of successful family life”—that science being eugenics. He didn’t much mind if the marriages of people of inferior stock fell apart: “Divorcees are on the whole biologically inferior to the happily married.” By saving the marriages of the biologically superior, though, Popenoe hoped to save the race.

This is a phenomenom that is not uncommon in our country. Sometimes the well-respected, well-voiced professional has neither the credentials or the business suggesting as they do. But the mass acceptance of their opinion is tantamount to professional validation.

At the same time this article was uncovering the history of marriage counseling, it also highlights a common theme with Americans that I personally have seen again and again. Americans want everything to be IT. The perfect thing. The amazing self-fulfilling, life-long dream of IT. And marraige is no exception.

"..the rise of couples counselling has both coincided with and contributed to a larger shift in American life: heightened expectations for marriage as a means of self-expression and personal fulfillment."

With that much pressure, it's amazing any marriage can survive.

Femme Fate-all

I've been thinking alot about fate lately. Blame it on Billy Joel, I have "Only the Good Die Young" on repeat, but it's always been a topic that I find interesting. (Come on Virgina, don't make me wait...)

Why does one person seem to do so well, while those around him struggle and flail? Why does one person fall in love and the other does not?

Of course, as a Christian I struggle with fate versus divine planning. I believe in divine planning but so many things seem to be fated.

Take for example my shoe fetish. I'm pretty sure I'm fated to get this pair... I won't be able to help myself!

I have been soo good since we bought the house. Spared every dime for curtains and pretty little knick knacks. I haven't bought a single pair. It's about time, don't you think?

Verbal is Keyser Soze

I love a good surprise ending, especially in a movie. Surprise endings rarely happen in life, however. There are few honest true surprises.

However, meeting someone you love for the first time is one of them. Welcome baby girl. I promise to give you lots of kisses and always have gum.

This and thats

I've lost things. Lots of things. Not vital things yet things I am now looking for on a daily basis. When does this part end? When does all the stuff find the appropriate spot where it belongs and can be found at the tip of fingers when the need arises?

In the meantime, concert season is upon us. We already have tickets for the Killers in May. Franz Ferdinand? Maybe. U2 is only getting as close as Chicago.

I think one my "sources" is hooking me up with the new Yeah Yeah Yeah's album. And I'm kinda hooked on the new song by Pink.

In the meantime, the this and thats remain MIA.

A rose by any other name

I'm a known link hopper. Anytime I'm online, if I see a link to something that interests me, I hit it. It's compulsory. I cannot stop myself. It's my (other) sickness. It's often led to hitting something inapprorpriate -- which I will later research at home.

To see a link with the title, "Behold the Power of Michelle," well, that's just a no brainer! This quick story on Slate is about the powerful Michelles in D.C., of which Michelle Obama is set to join.

What I don't get is why is this an article? I know it's interesting. I personally find it amusing. But newsworthy? Again, the pitfall of 24-7 media. When you have nothing left to write, you make it up!

When meeting another Michelle, Bernard always asks whether it's two L's or one. Over the years, she has noticed that Michelles tend to be taller, like herself and Obama, while Micheles tend to be shorter.

My Match and Me

Someone has signed me up for Match.com. Ok, so someone didn’t sign me up, per se. Rather a lovely girl with the screen name cajunbaby12 signed up and mistakenly used my e-mail address.

Today I had my first round of potential mates appear as if by magic in my in-box. I was tempted to hit delete and return to my usual e-mail – Borders.com, BabyCenter.com, New York & Company, Nordstrom’s, the New Yorker and Rolling Stone. But, I could not pull my eyes away from Chopperjay -- 5’8 with sandy hair, a smart goatee, visible tattoos and a passion for all things music and motorcycles. Nice!

In turn, he likes girls with long hair (shoulder-length?), bold personalities (smartass?) and who likes public displays of affection (tongues?) and to go skinny dipping (on a moonless night when the stretch marks are less visible?).

I was lucky to find the hubby when I was young and in college. I don’t have to date as a 30-something mom who has lots of baggage – most of it under my eyes.

I have single friends who use these services and have little or no luck. It makes me wonder, what are these guys really looking for? A long-term relationship or a rocking good time with a tattooed freak who likes to hump and strip in public? Which really begs the question: Do men ever grow up?

Eh tu, one thinger?

Last week, I misplaced one of the handsets for our phone. It was the one from the bedroom, which I'm sure I grabbed quickly while making the bed/folding laundry/looking at naked pictures of Angelina Jolie, whatever. I grabbed and walked somewhere in the house and set it down. I could not find it any where.

I looked high and low. I looked all the usual places that the one thinger likes to hide things, but still no handset. This particular phone was set on quiet since it is for our bedroom so paging it was worthless.

Finally I gave up. I told the hubby it was time for a new phone group anyway, so why not investigate some of the finer models at our local Sam's Club bulk-till-you-puke extravaganza.

Friday, when I was chatting yet again while doing random tasks, I pulled open my panty drawer to find the perfect pair and low and behold, that fucking handset.

I have become a one thinger. I have no words for my shame...

Lovely lady lumps

Some friends and I went out on the town last night to attend the last hurrah -- for now! -- for a good friend who loves to act. He's taking some time off to go back to school and work on his Master's. He's moving away and we're heartbroken about it, although we expect him to visit.

Still, it just won't be the same without him right up the road, sending me e-mails that speak of illicit rendevouz at the local Blue Koi. Messages that include twisted promises of china moon, chicken in black bean sauce and gossip.

I will miss you my friend, especially when you're dressed like a woman...

Appropriate word choice

I never imagined myself as one of those moms who has a backyard full of neighbor kids, who are running pell mell from one end of the yard to the other, yelling like fools. However, that's exactly what I had this week -- yard apes.

In true neighborhood-mom fashion, I made a sugary sweet beverage to fuel the mad adrenaline that propelled them around the yard in the first place. Strawberry lemonade, loaded with refined white sugar, high fructose corn syrup and red dye number 5 (which has been linked to attention deficit disorder, but still it's on the market...)

Most of these kids were raised on pretty lean diets like mine so they aren't used to that level of sugar in a drink. I even watered it down and yet the sugar high was amazing.

My friend KW's little boy drank his in one glug and promptly asked for more.

"Just Shel," he said... (He calls me that because he had a hard time with Michele. So I told him he could call me just shel. He has, ever since.)

"Just Shel, this drink is shameless!"

I looked at KW. "What did he say?"

"This drink is shameless!"

I started to giggle. "Is that a good thing?"

"Oh yeah," he nodded happily. "It's so good, it's shameless!"

And here I've been using that word in some many other contexts.

Marbled

Today while I was purposely avoiding my latest assignment on girls gone geek, I was reading this clever little article in the New Yorker about Katie Couric. I'm an old fan of Katie's. We go way back to the days when Matt first joined the crew at "The Today Show" and of course, I was in love with him until he married a swimsuit model and buzzed his hair. But whatever.

So I was reading this little article and stumbled across a new word: marmoreal. [mahr-mawr-ee-uhl] –adjective -- of or like marble: skin of marmoreal smoothness.

What the hell? Who comes up with this stuff?

This fun little adjective was used in conjunction with the David Brinkley and Dan Rather.

Bob Schieffer, with his bobblehead-doll proportions and reservoir of tempered consternation—“How in the world could something like this happen?”—was an unexpected success as CBS’s interim replacement for Dan Rather, because he resembled the big-headed titans of yore, the David Brink-leys and John Chancellors and Eric Sevareids, whose marmoreal sternness was leavened only by the occasional half smile at an offbeat story—Tiny Tim and his ukulele, say.

Wow, if I were Dan, I'd be pissed to seem so impassive and unresponsive as to be likened to marble. But then again, Dan Rather.. marble ... Dan Rather ... Ok, yeah, I'm there.

Shifty eyed

I was reading an article in Oprah magazine recently about a mid-wife crisis. And before you ask, not the kind of mid-wifery that involves afterbirth.

It's that period in your married life where you are past the newlywed stage, well into family, home and career and you wake up to find this really annoying ass of a man in bed next to you. And you might think, "Huh, I could go back to being single again."

For the longest time, I thought maybe I wasn't one of those people cut out for life in suburbia. I never really wanted kids. The ball of fire was an act of God ... and a slight miscalculation on the particular day of the month. I'm never going to drive a minivan or join the local Mothers of Preschoolers group. I will go to very loud rock concerts until they won't let me in with my walker. I teach my kid the proper names of his body parts. I believe in free speech, a woman's right to govern her own body and the right to love and marry whom you choose. How did I end up in the 'burbs?

It was a pleasant surprise to read this article. I'm not the only 30-something woman who wakes up to life, unsure of how I got here. Actually, I've never gotten past that intial thought about being single. I honestly cannot imagine a life when the hubby is not in it. Who would snuggle me at night? That is important!

But it is refreshing to know that I'm not the only woman who might struggle from time to time with the strictures of middle class in the Midwest.

The key is having good hobbies -- and good porn. Definently good porn.

Imagination goes green

The following conversation took place while one of us was naked. I won't divulge which one.

Me: Are you making a giant mess on the floor?

Ball of fire: Not giant!

Me: I'm coming in to see! Son, what is that on the edge of the tub?

Ball of fire: A raindrop.

Me: Well it looks like you smeared a giant green booger on the edge of my clean tub.

Ball of fire: It's a raindrop!

Me: It doesn't rain in the house and raindrops are not green!

Ball of fire: (sigh) Can you use your imagination?

Me: Not with boogers.

Ball of fire: Fine, you can wipe it off. I can get another one if I need it.

Seriously. They just get more disgusting as they get older...

Resignation

I have the joy of working with a lot of women. I have some great co-workers who are funny, interesting, intelligent and insightful. And I'm not just saying that because today I accused them of kicking me around. It is a fact.

A second fact, women talk about everything. If you've ever thought for a moment that we don't, you are deluded. If we do it, we'll talk about it: sex, marriage, child birth -- all up for grabs.

Today one of my co-workers was talking to another employee about health, mammograms and breast cancer. She was recommending a mammogram every year to everyone, especially to her daughters who were in their 50s.

We were startled by that. Her children were in their 50s. I've known this lovely lady for 12 years, but it never dawns on me that she is so much older. She has such an engaging and winsome personality.

"You'll never guess how long I've been married," she said.

"How long?," we dutifully replied.

"55 years to the same man. Isn't that disgusting!?"

We howled with laughter, because yes, it is kinda disgusting!