I'm not a person who really ever has many moments when I'm just plain grumpy. I'm not really even that way in the morning. (Of course, being single, maybe I don't honestly know. My dogs might say otherwise.)
No, generally I'm upbeat. However, for the last couple of days, I've been what has felt like truly grumpy. I don't think outwardly I've shown it, but I sure have felt it myself, and it's bothered me because I'm just not used to wandering around that way.
At first I wasn't sure what it was, I couldn't put my finger on it. Then it started to come into focus. I recalled when my Mom would say something about Dad being grumpy because he had been forced to realize he was wrong about something and it didn't sit well with him, so he was quietly grumpy. (Mom was usually snickering when she said that.)
It hit me that in all likelihood, that's what was going on with me.
I won't get into the gory details, because the lesson to be learned from what I'm writing doesn't actually have anything to do with the specifics but rather what I realized from the outcome.
I don't know why the timing was such that this happened over the weekend, but in that time, I started to consider that my gut feeling about something had maybe been wrong, and it's something that I don't want to believe, but I think I have to.
I believe there's power in having a positive outlook, never giving up hope, being optimistic, visualizing what you want and thinking if you believe in it hard enough and follow what your gut is telling you, you'll be on the right track.
But the realization hit me over the weekend that, in my old age, I've now come to believe there's a very fine line that separates being hopeful and optimistic, and just being plain stupid.
Optimism and hope are fine to a point, even when others look at you and shake their heads with skepticism and you say, "NO! I'm right. Just you wait and see. I can feel it in my gut. Everything is telling me I'm right."
I think that's been the problem: My gut instinct has now reached the point of conflict. My gut told me I was right to begin with, but now my gut is telling me maybe I was terribly wrong. How can I have that conflict? Which gut instinct am I supposed to believe?! They're both fighting each other.
I laugh about that conflict as it reminds me of when one of my friends had his Dad put together this whole in depth study of my astrological profile. He had commented that Astrology was his Dad's hobby, and that he would be happy to do the full report for me. This was one of those where they need more than just the date and year of your birth, but also the exact minute you were born, where the hospital was located, etc.
When my report came back my friend said to me, "My Dad says he HAS to meet you because he has never seen anybody with a profile that is so full of things that contradict other things. He says this is the wildest one he has ever done. But hey, he says it makes you really fascinating!"
Oh great: The stars are in all-out war in my life. Niiiiiiiice. But hey, it makes me fascinating. Yay me!
So, yeah, it probably only makes sense that my gut instincts like to argue with each other.
It hit me that all of my belief, hope, and optimism has boiled down to me now thinking that I feel pretty stupid. You see, while I'm an optimistic, hopeful person, I'm equally a realist. I have an extremely realistic, logical, practical approach to things. (Refer back to that previous astrology report.)
So while I can wax poetic about hopefulness and optimism, I can also be saying at the same time, "Okay, let's look at this logically."
Just call me Yin and Yang.
I think what it boils down to is I had this cringing realization and I suddenly thought, "You know, girl, I think you may have been really wrong about this. Your optimism and faith have now taken you over the border into Stupid Land."
As I said: That border is a very fine line.
And now cue grumpiness.
I'm not one to give up hope, but I'm also not digging this feeling of thinking that I've been really stupid. I'm not sure what side of that fine line I'm going to end up on in this case.
In the meantime, me, Dopey, Sneezy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, and Doc are going to hang out for awhile.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Inspiration From the Wizard
"Write" the Wizard says. "Write even when you don't feel like it. Especially when you don't feel like it."
The aforementioned "Wizard" is actually a very talented guy by the name of Tim Miles. He's a Senior Partner in a strategic planning and communications group called Wizard of Ads. Yesterday I was lucky enough to be treated to over 3 hours of hearing him talk about advertising in America and what a business needs to do to be successful at it.
I couldn't wait to get to the presentation because I actually had just discovered Tim and became a huge fan only a week earlier.
As I was looking up the details about the seminar offered by the Portland Area Radio Council, I saw a link to Tim's blog on PARC's website. That particular link took me to one of his installments where he was writing about a radio campaign for a local roofing company which, in and of itself, was great, but it got me to clicking on other industry pieces he had written, and the next thing I knew I had made it to his blog website, www.thedailyblur.com
That's when it happened.
By "it" I mean I found the section of Tim's blog where he talks about life in general. His wife, his children, his sister, his routine, his observations, his nerdliness, things he's learned about life, you name it, he touches on it. I couldn't stop reading. One blog installment after another I was reading, and reading, and reading.
Then I hit upon this particular piece entitled, "A Certain Conceit." In it, he starts out apologizing for not writing, then points out that all of the so-called "smart" bloggers tell you never to point out that you haven't been writing, and he's breaking that rule. But he says the smart bloggers have what he doesn't have: The conceit, or maybe just plain confidence, to write publicly all the time.
From there, he explains that he had a revelation and knows he just has to follow his love of writing and simply write, and not worry about thinking who is out there wanting to read it, that he'll write about what interests him and hope that others will come along for the ride.
I read those words and thought, "That's it!" I've had those same exact self-doubts. Does anyone really give a rusty-rip about what I have to say?
Speaking of "Rusty-Rip"...Tim would say it's okay for me to use the dorky phrases and words I say in my writing. He also jokes about how he makes up words and knows he shouldn't end a sentence in a preposition but he doesn't care, he'll do it anyway.
That's also plagued me. I always envision my AP English Teacher, Mr. Pease, waiting to haunt me. Mr. Pease knew I was headed off for a career in radio when I walked out the door of his classroom on the last day of my Senior year in high school, because I was already working at a station each day after school. He was standing at the door to give a handshake to each of us as we departed and when he got to me, he said in his stern voice, "Miss DuPre', you have a gift with words. Don't squander it."
Those words have been ringing in my ears for years. Many times I've wondered if Mr. Pease would think I've squandered everything.
Each time I've written an installment for my blog, I picture Mr. Pease shaking his head in disappointment because I left a participle danging, or committed some other writing offense.
Like saying "Rusty-rip."
And starting out a sentence with "like"....or "and."
But here was Tim saying it was okay to let things dangle. It was okay to write "wanna" and "kinda" because you just kinda wanna do it!
I felt liberated. Free at last!!
I then found another piece Tim wrote in answer to people who tell him, "I want to do what you do." That's the one that really did it for me. He got to a part where he talked about writing and he just said, "Write. Write even when you don't feel like it. Especially when you don't feel like it."
There it is again, that simple statement. "Write." In another place he says, "You want to write? Write. That's really it."
You wanna write, Lisa? Then write.
Write.
Alright, I'll write!
The funny, surreal thing about all this is I didn't think I was going to be able to even go to the seminar. When my calendar cleared and I realized I could, it was already full, so I put my name on the waiting list, and figured my fate was in the hands of somebody else canceling and that didn't seem likely.
Then I heard from Melissa at PARC that she had found a seat for me. By this time, I had read so much of what Tim had written, that I could not wait to get there to hear his presentation. Afterwards, Melissa said, "I want to introduce you to Tim, because I told him how successful your fair was this last year and how you had changed your marketing approach."
In my head I was going, "Okay, Lisa, don't be your nerdly self and geek-out." I didn't want to gush like a groupie, but what he had to say and what he wrote really inspired and encouraged me, at a time when I wondered if anything could get me excited anymore.
After we talked "business" I said, "You know, I love your blog, and not just the industry-related pieces, but I really love what you write about life, in general." I told him he had given me the nudge to get back into writing my blog, and he said, "Oh, I want to read it! Email me the link to it."
I tried to act cool about it, but I had an internal "Gulp!" thinking, "Oh, no! Now I HAVE to write!"
But, that's what the Wizard said to do.
Write.
Just write.
Even when you don't give a rusty-rip and kinda don't wanna do it.
Just write.
The aforementioned "Wizard" is actually a very talented guy by the name of Tim Miles. He's a Senior Partner in a strategic planning and communications group called Wizard of Ads. Yesterday I was lucky enough to be treated to over 3 hours of hearing him talk about advertising in America and what a business needs to do to be successful at it.
I couldn't wait to get to the presentation because I actually had just discovered Tim and became a huge fan only a week earlier.
As I was looking up the details about the seminar offered by the Portland Area Radio Council, I saw a link to Tim's blog on PARC's website. That particular link took me to one of his installments where he was writing about a radio campaign for a local roofing company which, in and of itself, was great, but it got me to clicking on other industry pieces he had written, and the next thing I knew I had made it to his blog website, www.thedailyblur.com
That's when it happened.
By "it" I mean I found the section of Tim's blog where he talks about life in general. His wife, his children, his sister, his routine, his observations, his nerdliness, things he's learned about life, you name it, he touches on it. I couldn't stop reading. One blog installment after another I was reading, and reading, and reading.
Then I hit upon this particular piece entitled, "A Certain Conceit." In it, he starts out apologizing for not writing, then points out that all of the so-called "smart" bloggers tell you never to point out that you haven't been writing, and he's breaking that rule. But he says the smart bloggers have what he doesn't have: The conceit, or maybe just plain confidence, to write publicly all the time.
From there, he explains that he had a revelation and knows he just has to follow his love of writing and simply write, and not worry about thinking who is out there wanting to read it, that he'll write about what interests him and hope that others will come along for the ride.
I read those words and thought, "That's it!" I've had those same exact self-doubts. Does anyone really give a rusty-rip about what I have to say?
Speaking of "Rusty-Rip"...Tim would say it's okay for me to use the dorky phrases and words I say in my writing. He also jokes about how he makes up words and knows he shouldn't end a sentence in a preposition but he doesn't care, he'll do it anyway.
That's also plagued me. I always envision my AP English Teacher, Mr. Pease, waiting to haunt me. Mr. Pease knew I was headed off for a career in radio when I walked out the door of his classroom on the last day of my Senior year in high school, because I was already working at a station each day after school. He was standing at the door to give a handshake to each of us as we departed and when he got to me, he said in his stern voice, "Miss DuPre', you have a gift with words. Don't squander it."
Those words have been ringing in my ears for years. Many times I've wondered if Mr. Pease would think I've squandered everything.
Each time I've written an installment for my blog, I picture Mr. Pease shaking his head in disappointment because I left a participle danging, or committed some other writing offense.
Like saying "Rusty-rip."
And starting out a sentence with "like"....or "and."
But here was Tim saying it was okay to let things dangle. It was okay to write "wanna" and "kinda" because you just kinda wanna do it!
I felt liberated. Free at last!!
I then found another piece Tim wrote in answer to people who tell him, "I want to do what you do." That's the one that really did it for me. He got to a part where he talked about writing and he just said, "Write. Write even when you don't feel like it. Especially when you don't feel like it."
There it is again, that simple statement. "Write." In another place he says, "You want to write? Write. That's really it."
You wanna write, Lisa? Then write.
Write.
Alright, I'll write!
The funny, surreal thing about all this is I didn't think I was going to be able to even go to the seminar. When my calendar cleared and I realized I could, it was already full, so I put my name on the waiting list, and figured my fate was in the hands of somebody else canceling and that didn't seem likely.
Then I heard from Melissa at PARC that she had found a seat for me. By this time, I had read so much of what Tim had written, that I could not wait to get there to hear his presentation. Afterwards, Melissa said, "I want to introduce you to Tim, because I told him how successful your fair was this last year and how you had changed your marketing approach."
In my head I was going, "Okay, Lisa, don't be your nerdly self and geek-out." I didn't want to gush like a groupie, but what he had to say and what he wrote really inspired and encouraged me, at a time when I wondered if anything could get me excited anymore.
After we talked "business" I said, "You know, I love your blog, and not just the industry-related pieces, but I really love what you write about life, in general." I told him he had given me the nudge to get back into writing my blog, and he said, "Oh, I want to read it! Email me the link to it."
I tried to act cool about it, but I had an internal "Gulp!" thinking, "Oh, no! Now I HAVE to write!"
But, that's what the Wizard said to do.
Write.
Just write.
Even when you don't give a rusty-rip and kinda don't wanna do it.
Just write.
Friday, September 9, 2011
I Can Handle The Snoring All Night....IF He's Cute!
While my last installment took a very serious tone, that's not normally how I am, nor how my writing usually is. So in getting back to the crazy stuff I deal with day-in and day-out, it's time I introduce the new male in my life, who is snoring next to me at this very moment on the love seat, just as loud as he snores all night.
(At this point, some of my friends who worry about me and my single status are going, "What?! Hallelujah! What's his name??!! When can we meet him? Oh, we told you there was one out there for you!!")
Hold your horses, people. Yes, his snoring keeps me up at night, and I adore him to no end, but he walks on 4 legs, not 2.
The new male in my life is Obi, the Pug:
Come on, this can't be a surprise. You know I always say I can trust giving my heart to the 4 legged guys much easier than overcoming the caution I have with the 2-legged ones. You never have to wonder how the 4 legged ones feel about you. They just come up and slobber all over your face, and that's much easier to figure out.
I've actually carried a torch for Obi from the moment I first met him 6 years ago. I found him for my nephew, Cody, who was 12 years old at the time. My friend, Kay, happens to breed and show fabulous Pugs, and Obi is the son of one of her dogs.
We didn't know it at the time, but Cody soon developed an allergy to dogs with coats like a Pug's. The Norwegian Elkhound coat doesn't bother him at all, but it's a very different type of coat. While Obi loved Cody, he equally loved Cody's Mom, my sister Tami, so the fact that Cody couldn't nuzzle and wrestle with him, didn't really bother him that much.
As Cody grew up, his desire to have his own Elkhound grew as well, and a year and a half ago, the opportunity presented itself for me to buy a very nice male Elkhound puppy to show. It ended up that Cody and I decided to co-own the dog, now known as Espen, and that he would live with Cody and be his dog, and then I would show him.
Cody and Espen have this amazing bond.....a bond that did NOT sit well with Obi. He did a, "What is THIS?!! What am I?--Chopped liver?!"
It was actually quite cute when Espen first arrived, because for a very small period of time, he was actually a bit shorter than Obi, and during that period, all was well. Obi did the old, "Here kid, I'll show you the ropes" and Espen willingly followed along, all wide-eyed puppy. But in no time, he was taller than Obi, and Espen has this very confident, arrogant swagger about him (no doubt taught to him BY Obi) that you just knew would likely not mix well, if Obi countered with his own arrogant swagger. Espen meant well, and genuinely loved to play with Obi, but by now, Obi had a jealous chip on his shoulder and was ready to lash out.
In recent months, his jealously of Espen was getting more intense, and Espen would put up with a lot from Obi, literally turning the other cheek to ignore Obi, but at times Obi would get nasty enough to where Espen would have enough and lash out. Our fear was that something could happen and we knew the one who would come out on the short end was Obi.
Oddly enough, Obi has no issues with my Elkhounds, but then again, it's nothing like the scenario he had where Espen came in to compete for the attention of Cody. When I saw what was happening, I gave it a lot of thought, and finally said, "Why don't we see how Obi would do at my place with my dogs."
So, about a month ago, Obi packed his crate, his "blankies", and this toys, and joined my crew. Thankfully, he fit in beautifully from day one. Now, don't get me wrong, he still believes he's a bad-ass, but no one else does. Saber, who is almost 10, and the "Lead Dog," gives Obi a look that says, "Really??! Are you serious? Please!" and turns his back on him, and Obi has truly figured it out, and basically gives Saber a wide path. He's much the same with Paige, and with old Miniature Poodle, Savannah, he actually likes to sleep beside her on the couch. The one he does push around, and the one who lets him...for now...is 1 year old, Aksel. He does a, "Sure, whatever you say, Obi!" As long as Aksel can swallow his pride and keep doing that, they'll get along just fine. Time will tell, and I'm sure I'll have to keep my eye on the two of them, but they're getting along fine now.
Me? I love, love, LOVE the dog. I almost feel guilty about it. Like I said, I've always adored him, so I was truly giddy when I got to bring him home, and in all honesty, I think he's happier. The situation with Cody having a new dog in his life really was a hard thing for Obi to handle with how obsessed he was with Cody, and he doesn't have to struggle with anything like that now. He knows his place in the gang at my house.
That place is usually next to me each evening, snoring....LOUDLY.
Rest assured, everybody: There's still room for a 2-legged male to loudly snore next to me.
I think Obi will move over and make room.
(At this point, some of my friends who worry about me and my single status are going, "What?! Hallelujah! What's his name??!! When can we meet him? Oh, we told you there was one out there for you!!")
Hold your horses, people. Yes, his snoring keeps me up at night, and I adore him to no end, but he walks on 4 legs, not 2.
The new male in my life is Obi, the Pug:
Come on, this can't be a surprise. You know I always say I can trust giving my heart to the 4 legged guys much easier than overcoming the caution I have with the 2-legged ones. You never have to wonder how the 4 legged ones feel about you. They just come up and slobber all over your face, and that's much easier to figure out.
I've actually carried a torch for Obi from the moment I first met him 6 years ago. I found him for my nephew, Cody, who was 12 years old at the time. My friend, Kay, happens to breed and show fabulous Pugs, and Obi is the son of one of her dogs.
We didn't know it at the time, but Cody soon developed an allergy to dogs with coats like a Pug's. The Norwegian Elkhound coat doesn't bother him at all, but it's a very different type of coat. While Obi loved Cody, he equally loved Cody's Mom, my sister Tami, so the fact that Cody couldn't nuzzle and wrestle with him, didn't really bother him that much.
As Cody grew up, his desire to have his own Elkhound grew as well, and a year and a half ago, the opportunity presented itself for me to buy a very nice male Elkhound puppy to show. It ended up that Cody and I decided to co-own the dog, now known as Espen, and that he would live with Cody and be his dog, and then I would show him.
Cody and Espen have this amazing bond.....a bond that did NOT sit well with Obi. He did a, "What is THIS?!! What am I?--Chopped liver?!"
It was actually quite cute when Espen first arrived, because for a very small period of time, he was actually a bit shorter than Obi, and during that period, all was well. Obi did the old, "Here kid, I'll show you the ropes" and Espen willingly followed along, all wide-eyed puppy. But in no time, he was taller than Obi, and Espen has this very confident, arrogant swagger about him (no doubt taught to him BY Obi) that you just knew would likely not mix well, if Obi countered with his own arrogant swagger. Espen meant well, and genuinely loved to play with Obi, but by now, Obi had a jealous chip on his shoulder and was ready to lash out.
In recent months, his jealously of Espen was getting more intense, and Espen would put up with a lot from Obi, literally turning the other cheek to ignore Obi, but at times Obi would get nasty enough to where Espen would have enough and lash out. Our fear was that something could happen and we knew the one who would come out on the short end was Obi.
Oddly enough, Obi has no issues with my Elkhounds, but then again, it's nothing like the scenario he had where Espen came in to compete for the attention of Cody. When I saw what was happening, I gave it a lot of thought, and finally said, "Why don't we see how Obi would do at my place with my dogs."
So, about a month ago, Obi packed his crate, his "blankies", and this toys, and joined my crew. Thankfully, he fit in beautifully from day one. Now, don't get me wrong, he still believes he's a bad-ass, but no one else does. Saber, who is almost 10, and the "Lead Dog," gives Obi a look that says, "Really??! Are you serious? Please!" and turns his back on him, and Obi has truly figured it out, and basically gives Saber a wide path. He's much the same with Paige, and with old Miniature Poodle, Savannah, he actually likes to sleep beside her on the couch. The one he does push around, and the one who lets him...for now...is 1 year old, Aksel. He does a, "Sure, whatever you say, Obi!" As long as Aksel can swallow his pride and keep doing that, they'll get along just fine. Time will tell, and I'm sure I'll have to keep my eye on the two of them, but they're getting along fine now.
Me? I love, love, LOVE the dog. I almost feel guilty about it. Like I said, I've always adored him, so I was truly giddy when I got to bring him home, and in all honesty, I think he's happier. The situation with Cody having a new dog in his life really was a hard thing for Obi to handle with how obsessed he was with Cody, and he doesn't have to struggle with anything like that now. He knows his place in the gang at my house.
That place is usually next to me each evening, snoring....LOUDLY.
Rest assured, everybody: There's still room for a 2-legged male to loudly snore next to me.
I think Obi will move over and make room.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Eat the Burger When You Have the Chance
Supposedly, the more days you walk this earth, the more wisdom you acquire. So far in my life, I would say that's true. You start to see things, patterns, etc., to where you go, "Oh, I know how this is going to go down." You try to warn and protect those who are younger, hoping you're going to save them, but then you see that youthful look of doubt, and you just grin to yourself, and realize it's not something you can tell them, but something they're just going to have to learn for themselves.
Yet, at the same time that think I'm becoming a wise old broad, there are still those things that happen that drive a point home, yet again, and I think, "Dang, when will I get to where I remember this? When will I learn?" That moment hit me last night.
I found out yesterday that the husband of one of my sister's friends drowned on Sunday. My Mom called me and asked if I had heard the story on the news and realized who it was. I told her no, I hadn't heard. When she told me, there was that moment where everything just paused, and I thought, "No...that can't be. That's just not right."
Michael was 45 years old, and in top shape. He even taught a fitness class at a nearby health club in his spare time. He had his boat anchored off-shore and was swimming out to it. His friends said he took off, and the next thing they knew he was floating motionless in the water, between the shore and the boat. They got to him, administered CPR, as did the rescue crew that arrived shortly, but they couldn't revive him.
My first question was whether his wife, Amy, and their daughter, Stevie, who I think is about 12 years old, were there when it happened. At that point my Mom said my sister didn't know and we both said we certainly hoped they weren't. That was just too horrible to think about.
I had to deal with work, so I didn't dwell on it at that moment, I had to file it away for the time being, but it gnawed at me all day long.
I had a dog club meeting I had to be at last evening and it wasn't until the drive home, when I was by myself in the car in the dark, without the radio on, that I really started to think about it. It was a long drive home.
I hadn't been around Michael a lot, but I remembered that when I had been, I really liked him. I clearly remembered when I first met him. Stevie was very young and he had taken her to this great toy store on Main Street. She was named after Michael and Amy's favorite singer, Stevie Nicks, and she has this head of wild blonde naturally curly hair, kind of like how Stevie Nicks' hair used to look. I don't remember how it all went down, if I was with my sister or my Mom, but I just remember we suddenly realized the cute little girl with the curly hair playing with the toys was Stevie, then we spotted Michael and I was introduced to him. He was really friendly and outgoing and I recall genuinely liking him immediately. He worked for a business at the airport next to the studios of the radio station where I was working, and we talked about some people we both knew around the airport as a result of that.
I chuckled recalling how Michael used to sneak Stevie out to eat fast-food burgers because, for a time, Amy decided she wanted to be a vegetarian, but Michael would say he didn't want Stevie to miss out on the joys of a burger. Amy is a Physical Therapist, and she worked odd hours now and then, which gave Michael lots of time with Stevie, so that's when he would sneak her out for their burger runs without Mom knowing.
The more I thought about those things, the more I thought about Stevie and Amy last night on my drive home, trying to imagine what they were going through, losing Michael so suddenly, and hoping above everything, that Stevie wasn't standing on that beach Sunday afternoon.
My Mom told me today that Amy had finally talked to my sister. Thankfully, she and Stevie weren't there when it happened. In another of those cruel twists of fate in life, Michael had just finished writing his thesis for his degree in Psychology and Saturday he had taken it to be bound. She said he was so excited to have it done that they had a little celebration with friends Saturday night. On Sunday, it was such a warm day, that Michael wanted to take the boat out, but Amy said she didn't want to go, and that she and Stevie had other things to do to get ready for school. As a result, Michael said he would go teach his class at the health club, and then he and some friends were going to take the boat to the island.
Amy said the friends all told her when Michael took off swimming, it was with good, strong strokes, headed right for the boat, and the next thing they knew, he was floating in the water. The medical examiner told Amy he had a large abrasion on his head, and upon seeing that, they looked up the time the tide changed on Sunday. Sure enough, the tide had changed at the time he was swimming out to the boat. Their conclusion is that when the tide shifted, it kicked up some form of debris, a tree limb or something even bigger, that hit Michael in the head. It was either the blow that killed him, or it knocked him unconscious, resulting in him drowning, which explains why it happened so suddenly.
When I heard that today, and then hung up the phone, I had this moment where I just paused to absorb it. One minute Michael was there and perfectly fine. The next minute, he was gone. Yet another cruel twist of fate and timing. Had he went in a tad bit earlier, or a tad bit later, the outcome might have been very different and he would have made it to the boat just fine. But it didn't happen that way. Just like that, it was over.
It struck me as being something so fast, that it equated to somebody just walking out of the house into the garage, and yet they never walk back in a few minutes later like you thought they would. Instantly, they're gone.
The profound sadness of this has just really hit me. I can't stop thinking of Stevie and Amy. I wonder if it's really hit them. But more than anything, referring to what I said earlier about wondering when I would learn certain lessons and have more wisdom on some things, it drives home the point to me, yet again, that you can't waste time, and you can't put off things. I keep thinking about how much of the time I spend thinking of what's ahead down the road, planning and preparing, or how many times I say, or I hear somebody else say, "I can't take time for that in my life now. I have to get these other things taken care of and all in order, THEN, I can do that." Yeah, well, maybe......but maybe not.
My sister said that Amy told her Stevie has been taking a Tai Kwon Do class and she's scheduled to take her test for her next belt on Friday. Her instructor came to the house yesterday to see her and told her it was up to her to decide what she wanted to do, but it was understandable if she didn't want to try for it. But Stevie said, "No Mom. I'm going to class this week and then I'm taking my test Friday." Amy said she thought, "More power to you, Girl!" and was very proud of her.
She's clearly a tough kid. Maybe it's all those burgers she ate on those clandestine burger runs with her Dad.
Lesson learned: Sometimes the best thing you can do is just eat the burger when you have the chance.
Yet, at the same time that think I'm becoming a wise old broad, there are still those things that happen that drive a point home, yet again, and I think, "Dang, when will I get to where I remember this? When will I learn?" That moment hit me last night.
I found out yesterday that the husband of one of my sister's friends drowned on Sunday. My Mom called me and asked if I had heard the story on the news and realized who it was. I told her no, I hadn't heard. When she told me, there was that moment where everything just paused, and I thought, "No...that can't be. That's just not right."
Michael was 45 years old, and in top shape. He even taught a fitness class at a nearby health club in his spare time. He had his boat anchored off-shore and was swimming out to it. His friends said he took off, and the next thing they knew he was floating motionless in the water, between the shore and the boat. They got to him, administered CPR, as did the rescue crew that arrived shortly, but they couldn't revive him.
My first question was whether his wife, Amy, and their daughter, Stevie, who I think is about 12 years old, were there when it happened. At that point my Mom said my sister didn't know and we both said we certainly hoped they weren't. That was just too horrible to think about.
I had to deal with work, so I didn't dwell on it at that moment, I had to file it away for the time being, but it gnawed at me all day long.
I had a dog club meeting I had to be at last evening and it wasn't until the drive home, when I was by myself in the car in the dark, without the radio on, that I really started to think about it. It was a long drive home.
I hadn't been around Michael a lot, but I remembered that when I had been, I really liked him. I clearly remembered when I first met him. Stevie was very young and he had taken her to this great toy store on Main Street. She was named after Michael and Amy's favorite singer, Stevie Nicks, and she has this head of wild blonde naturally curly hair, kind of like how Stevie Nicks' hair used to look. I don't remember how it all went down, if I was with my sister or my Mom, but I just remember we suddenly realized the cute little girl with the curly hair playing with the toys was Stevie, then we spotted Michael and I was introduced to him. He was really friendly and outgoing and I recall genuinely liking him immediately. He worked for a business at the airport next to the studios of the radio station where I was working, and we talked about some people we both knew around the airport as a result of that.
I chuckled recalling how Michael used to sneak Stevie out to eat fast-food burgers because, for a time, Amy decided she wanted to be a vegetarian, but Michael would say he didn't want Stevie to miss out on the joys of a burger. Amy is a Physical Therapist, and she worked odd hours now and then, which gave Michael lots of time with Stevie, so that's when he would sneak her out for their burger runs without Mom knowing.
The more I thought about those things, the more I thought about Stevie and Amy last night on my drive home, trying to imagine what they were going through, losing Michael so suddenly, and hoping above everything, that Stevie wasn't standing on that beach Sunday afternoon.
My Mom told me today that Amy had finally talked to my sister. Thankfully, she and Stevie weren't there when it happened. In another of those cruel twists of fate in life, Michael had just finished writing his thesis for his degree in Psychology and Saturday he had taken it to be bound. She said he was so excited to have it done that they had a little celebration with friends Saturday night. On Sunday, it was such a warm day, that Michael wanted to take the boat out, but Amy said she didn't want to go, and that she and Stevie had other things to do to get ready for school. As a result, Michael said he would go teach his class at the health club, and then he and some friends were going to take the boat to the island.
Amy said the friends all told her when Michael took off swimming, it was with good, strong strokes, headed right for the boat, and the next thing they knew, he was floating in the water. The medical examiner told Amy he had a large abrasion on his head, and upon seeing that, they looked up the time the tide changed on Sunday. Sure enough, the tide had changed at the time he was swimming out to the boat. Their conclusion is that when the tide shifted, it kicked up some form of debris, a tree limb or something even bigger, that hit Michael in the head. It was either the blow that killed him, or it knocked him unconscious, resulting in him drowning, which explains why it happened so suddenly.
When I heard that today, and then hung up the phone, I had this moment where I just paused to absorb it. One minute Michael was there and perfectly fine. The next minute, he was gone. Yet another cruel twist of fate and timing. Had he went in a tad bit earlier, or a tad bit later, the outcome might have been very different and he would have made it to the boat just fine. But it didn't happen that way. Just like that, it was over.
It struck me as being something so fast, that it equated to somebody just walking out of the house into the garage, and yet they never walk back in a few minutes later like you thought they would. Instantly, they're gone.
The profound sadness of this has just really hit me. I can't stop thinking of Stevie and Amy. I wonder if it's really hit them. But more than anything, referring to what I said earlier about wondering when I would learn certain lessons and have more wisdom on some things, it drives home the point to me, yet again, that you can't waste time, and you can't put off things. I keep thinking about how much of the time I spend thinking of what's ahead down the road, planning and preparing, or how many times I say, or I hear somebody else say, "I can't take time for that in my life now. I have to get these other things taken care of and all in order, THEN, I can do that." Yeah, well, maybe......but maybe not.
My sister said that Amy told her Stevie has been taking a Tai Kwon Do class and she's scheduled to take her test for her next belt on Friday. Her instructor came to the house yesterday to see her and told her it was up to her to decide what she wanted to do, but it was understandable if she didn't want to try for it. But Stevie said, "No Mom. I'm going to class this week and then I'm taking my test Friday." Amy said she thought, "More power to you, Girl!" and was very proud of her.
She's clearly a tough kid. Maybe it's all those burgers she ate on those clandestine burger runs with her Dad.
Lesson learned: Sometimes the best thing you can do is just eat the burger when you have the chance.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Happy New Year! Really....I'm Serious
In the final hours of September 5, I'm realizing I'm 5 days behind on my New Year's resolution to write my blog more frequently. "New Year's Resolution?" you say, with a question in your voice (you ARE saying it with a question in your voice, aren't you?)
Yes, in the "World According To Lisa," I look at your birthday as being your REAL "new" year and my birthday is in mid-August, so it always gets me thinking about what I'm going to do differently in the next year. Add to that the fact that I've never really moved past the idea of September being the start of a new year, going back to my school days, and you end up with me always with the feeling that things have a fresh start in September.
My friend, Chloe, has to write a blog as part of her job, and her latest installment talks about how she's really good at procrastinating in 3 areas: Calling her Mother, cleaning her house, and writing her blog. When I read that, I laughed out loud as I'm right there with her on two of those. Now me, I talk to my Mom nearly every day, so I can't join her on that one, but absolutely, I procrastinate on cleaning the house, and well, when you consider that I last wrote on May 31, you know I also have "Blog Commitment" issues as well. Wouldn't you think that if we're not cleaning the house we should then clearly have time to write? Wouldn't those go hand-in-hand? You would think so, but I've not found that to be the case.
So, Chloe has made the same vow I have and that is to write frequently enough so that when we DO write, it's not about how long it's been since we last wrote.
Oh yeah, and I've also resolved to not put off the house-cleaning either. Imagine that: I have a fully cleaned house AND I'm writing regularly. That's a hard concept to grasp. Maybe I'll just end up writing about what part of the house I just cleaned. Riveting, huh?
I've also made a resolution to fold and put away the laundry, to stop saving so many boxes all in the theory that one might be the "perfect" box for something next week (fell off the wagon on that one awhile ago,) and it seems like I made some other resolutions but they escape me at the moment.
See, if I had been writing about them, I would probably remember them!
Yes, in the "World According To Lisa," I look at your birthday as being your REAL "new" year and my birthday is in mid-August, so it always gets me thinking about what I'm going to do differently in the next year. Add to that the fact that I've never really moved past the idea of September being the start of a new year, going back to my school days, and you end up with me always with the feeling that things have a fresh start in September.
My friend, Chloe, has to write a blog as part of her job, and her latest installment talks about how she's really good at procrastinating in 3 areas: Calling her Mother, cleaning her house, and writing her blog. When I read that, I laughed out loud as I'm right there with her on two of those. Now me, I talk to my Mom nearly every day, so I can't join her on that one, but absolutely, I procrastinate on cleaning the house, and well, when you consider that I last wrote on May 31, you know I also have "Blog Commitment" issues as well. Wouldn't you think that if we're not cleaning the house we should then clearly have time to write? Wouldn't those go hand-in-hand? You would think so, but I've not found that to be the case.
So, Chloe has made the same vow I have and that is to write frequently enough so that when we DO write, it's not about how long it's been since we last wrote.
Oh yeah, and I've also resolved to not put off the house-cleaning either. Imagine that: I have a fully cleaned house AND I'm writing regularly. That's a hard concept to grasp. Maybe I'll just end up writing about what part of the house I just cleaned. Riveting, huh?
I've also made a resolution to fold and put away the laundry, to stop saving so many boxes all in the theory that one might be the "perfect" box for something next week (fell off the wagon on that one awhile ago,) and it seems like I made some other resolutions but they escape me at the moment.
See, if I had been writing about them, I would probably remember them!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
When I Say "Pass the Hanger" I Really Mean "PASS" It!
I love dogs. I love all dogs, but, of course, I love mine in particular. However, there are those days when I consider that maybe there was something to that whole Pet Rock thing.
For example, your pet rock wouldn't bark, wouldn't leave you a deposit where and when it shouldn't (be it a deposit from the front end or the back end,) wouldn't run through your house with your bra in its' mouth, wouldn't steal underwear off the top of the dryer (is it just my dogs with the undergarment obsession?) and wouldn't eat strange things.
First-off it was young Aksel who recently decided to tear into and attempt to gut the big dog cushion. For years the only dog allowed to sleep in the bedroom at night has been Saber. He's a dog who doesn't like to sleep on the bed so he's no issue in the bedroom. The only time he will even consider getting on the bed is when you're trying to sleep-in on the weekend and he thinks it's high-time you got up. Then he jumps up and puts his face within a half-inch of your face, so that he's not touching you, but so that you get the full effect of his heavy breathing. At about the same time, you start to feel the bed slightly shaking and that's from his tail wagging at full speed. If you even slightly crack your eyes to look, it's all over. You're getting up whether you want to or not. That's because his next move is to slap you in the face with his paw if you don't get up. Of course, on a weekday when you NEED to get up early and don't want to oversleep, he snores on the floor. He's a weekend-only alarm system.
All of the other dogs sleep in their own crates, however when Miss Paige had her pups last summer, I took pity on her afterwards and in a moment of spoiling-weakness, I asked her one night if she wanted to sleep on the bed, and she didn't need to be asked twice. Up she came, and when I put the big dog cushion on the bed, she just curled up on it and never moved. It was great. You don't even know she's there, and it made her happy so, yes, I spoiled her and let her sleep there most nights.
While she's off now having her puppies elsewhere, I got the crazy idea to see if young Aksel would want to sleep on the bed. Mainly I was just curious to see what the goofy 9-month old would do, but I was surprised that he handled himself pretty well. Of course, he takes no cue from his parents. He sleeps ON the bed, unlike his father, and basically on ME, unlike his mother. No, not the most comfortable for me, but darn cute, so I let him get away with it for a few nights.
Of course, he had his moments of stepping on me, dropping the big beef bone on me, rolling on his back playing with his binky Kong toy in his mouth at 2 AM, and various other antics, but I continued to put up with it, knowing that when his mom returns, I would put him back in the crate, and he won't be a puppy forever, so what could it hurt, right?
Meanwhile, my Mom said, "You do realize, you're creating a monster." No matter how old I get, Mom still always has those moments when I KNOW she's right, and yet I'm thinking, "Oh yeah? I'll show you Mom!"
Mom is still always right.
Friday morning I heard the clock radio go off, and I took a moment to consider getting up. While I was still groggy, I was awake enough to kind of notice Aksel moving around. Then I noticed this sound: RIP.....RIP.....RIP.
Still in a waking-up-fog, I thought, "What's that......" then I bolted upright in bed. It looked like I was in the middle of a white puffy cloud. White stuffing was all around me. My first immediate panic was that he had ripped up the comforter on the bed. I checked but, no, that was all intact. Where was the stuffing coming from? The dog cushion appeared to be okay. Then I moved a corner of it, and sure enough, he had torn into the underside and ripped a huge hole in it, and then pulled the stuffing out from there.
Aksel has these markings over his eyes that make him look like he's always very alert and almost surprised, so when I asked, "WHAT IS THIS??!!" he gave me this goofy look and grin that said, "Look what I did! Isn't this great?!" I couldn't help but laugh, and say, "You not pose to do dat. Dis is a veddy bad seng you doooo!" (Yes, I confess: I have this weird, hybrid, nondescript accent that I often use on the dogs. I have no explanation for it. If you want to hear me do it sometime when you're with me, just ask.) My mother was right, yet again, and Aksel is back sleeping in his crate at night, before his own mother returns. Of course, Aksel has an excuse: He's 9 months old. He's a puppy. They eat many stupid things.
I don't know what excuse his father, Saber has for what he just did last night, however.
It was late in the evening and often times, when I'm not ready to go to bed, but Saber has gone outside one final time for the night and is ready to call it a day, he will go stand by the bedroom door, wanting me to let him in there. He stretches out, falls asleep, and is out like a light by the time I go in there.
We followed that same routine last night. When I went in the bedroom, however, he kind of nervously jumped up from around the other side of the bed with this odd look on his face, kind of like the look a kid gives you when they've been caught doing something they shouldn't be doing, or they've just broken something, etc. He was all smiling, wagging his tail, and I knew something was up, but I had no idea what it could be.
I had washed the bedding so I was getting ready to make the bed, and I glanced down on the floor and there was a lone metal hook on the floor. "What's that from?" I wondered. It looked like a metal hook that belongs to a hanger. You know, the kind of hanger they use in stores with the metal hook and then the rest of it's plastic.
But why was this lone hook on the floor all by itself? Upon closer examination, I saw what looked like...hmmm......kind of jagged plastic at the base of the hook. Then I looked closer at the floor. There was some bits of plastic.
No way. He couldn't have. Wait, oh yes he could have.....
HE ATE THE ENTIRE HANGER!!!! I turned to him with the lone hook in my hand, and this time NOT using my special dog hybrid accent, I asked, "DID YOU DO THIS??!! DID YOU EAT AN ENTIRE HANGER???!!"
I kid you not: If he could have been able to whistle, he would have been, as he sheepishly looked away and tried to focus elsewhere, acting all nonchalant, periodically glancing back at me with a look that said, "Oh damn, I think she's mad!"
I'm holding the lone hook in my hand, waving it around kind of like a pirate, saying, "How could you eat an entire hanger? What were you thinking? You're an old dog! You have a Dental Dinosaur here on the floor, along with a giant beef bone, yet you ate a hanger!!!"
I don't know where he got it, either off the bed or he jumped up and stole it off the dresser where I had some stacked. I shouldn't be surprised, though, as this wasn't his first time to devour plastic products. When he was younger he ate an entire plastic crate cup right off the door of the crate where it was fastened. Then he's eaten at least 2 of the plastic snap-on handles that come with the collapsible wire crates. I'm reminded of that every time I'm heaving a wire crate up the stairs in a hotel, with it pinching my fingers, thinking, "Damn you Saber, I could have had it easier if you hadn't eaten the handle!" He's also downed his share of my nephew's Legos.
Having been around enough dogs that have eaten plastic items over the years, I wasn't too concerned that this hanger was going to cause him any problems. From the few bits of plastic left that I found chewed on the floor, he had chewed it down to small, soft, rubbery bits, so I was pretty sure this, too, shall pass.
And it did. I know this because, of course, I followed him around outside tonight, and when he left a deposit, like any good forensics expert, I investigated. "Houston, we have found the plastic hanger....or at least remnants of it."
I'll keep checking over the next several days, but I'm thinking we're in good shape. I can't say the same for the hanger, however.
So while a Pet Rock wouldn't steal underwear, tear up cushions, and eat hangers, there's a reason why they never caught on as "Man's Best Friend."
I mean how much fun would it be to talk to a rock in your own very special unique accent? And you would never get to try out your investigative forensics skills!
For example, your pet rock wouldn't bark, wouldn't leave you a deposit where and when it shouldn't (be it a deposit from the front end or the back end,) wouldn't run through your house with your bra in its' mouth, wouldn't steal underwear off the top of the dryer (is it just my dogs with the undergarment obsession?) and wouldn't eat strange things.
First-off it was young Aksel who recently decided to tear into and attempt to gut the big dog cushion. For years the only dog allowed to sleep in the bedroom at night has been Saber. He's a dog who doesn't like to sleep on the bed so he's no issue in the bedroom. The only time he will even consider getting on the bed is when you're trying to sleep-in on the weekend and he thinks it's high-time you got up. Then he jumps up and puts his face within a half-inch of your face, so that he's not touching you, but so that you get the full effect of his heavy breathing. At about the same time, you start to feel the bed slightly shaking and that's from his tail wagging at full speed. If you even slightly crack your eyes to look, it's all over. You're getting up whether you want to or not. That's because his next move is to slap you in the face with his paw if you don't get up. Of course, on a weekday when you NEED to get up early and don't want to oversleep, he snores on the floor. He's a weekend-only alarm system.
All of the other dogs sleep in their own crates, however when Miss Paige had her pups last summer, I took pity on her afterwards and in a moment of spoiling-weakness, I asked her one night if she wanted to sleep on the bed, and she didn't need to be asked twice. Up she came, and when I put the big dog cushion on the bed, she just curled up on it and never moved. It was great. You don't even know she's there, and it made her happy so, yes, I spoiled her and let her sleep there most nights.
While she's off now having her puppies elsewhere, I got the crazy idea to see if young Aksel would want to sleep on the bed. Mainly I was just curious to see what the goofy 9-month old would do, but I was surprised that he handled himself pretty well. Of course, he takes no cue from his parents. He sleeps ON the bed, unlike his father, and basically on ME, unlike his mother. No, not the most comfortable for me, but darn cute, so I let him get away with it for a few nights.
Of course, he had his moments of stepping on me, dropping the big beef bone on me, rolling on his back playing with his binky Kong toy in his mouth at 2 AM, and various other antics, but I continued to put up with it, knowing that when his mom returns, I would put him back in the crate, and he won't be a puppy forever, so what could it hurt, right?
Meanwhile, my Mom said, "You do realize, you're creating a monster." No matter how old I get, Mom still always has those moments when I KNOW she's right, and yet I'm thinking, "Oh yeah? I'll show you Mom!"
Mom is still always right.
Friday morning I heard the clock radio go off, and I took a moment to consider getting up. While I was still groggy, I was awake enough to kind of notice Aksel moving around. Then I noticed this sound: RIP.....RIP.....RIP.
Still in a waking-up-fog, I thought, "What's that......" then I bolted upright in bed. It looked like I was in the middle of a white puffy cloud. White stuffing was all around me. My first immediate panic was that he had ripped up the comforter on the bed. I checked but, no, that was all intact. Where was the stuffing coming from? The dog cushion appeared to be okay. Then I moved a corner of it, and sure enough, he had torn into the underside and ripped a huge hole in it, and then pulled the stuffing out from there.
Aksel has these markings over his eyes that make him look like he's always very alert and almost surprised, so when I asked, "WHAT IS THIS??!!" he gave me this goofy look and grin that said, "Look what I did! Isn't this great?!" I couldn't help but laugh, and say, "You not pose to do dat. Dis is a veddy bad seng you doooo!" (Yes, I confess: I have this weird, hybrid, nondescript accent that I often use on the dogs. I have no explanation for it. If you want to hear me do it sometime when you're with me, just ask.) My mother was right, yet again, and Aksel is back sleeping in his crate at night, before his own mother returns. Of course, Aksel has an excuse: He's 9 months old. He's a puppy. They eat many stupid things.
I don't know what excuse his father, Saber has for what he just did last night, however.
It was late in the evening and often times, when I'm not ready to go to bed, but Saber has gone outside one final time for the night and is ready to call it a day, he will go stand by the bedroom door, wanting me to let him in there. He stretches out, falls asleep, and is out like a light by the time I go in there.
We followed that same routine last night. When I went in the bedroom, however, he kind of nervously jumped up from around the other side of the bed with this odd look on his face, kind of like the look a kid gives you when they've been caught doing something they shouldn't be doing, or they've just broken something, etc. He was all smiling, wagging his tail, and I knew something was up, but I had no idea what it could be.
I had washed the bedding so I was getting ready to make the bed, and I glanced down on the floor and there was a lone metal hook on the floor. "What's that from?" I wondered. It looked like a metal hook that belongs to a hanger. You know, the kind of hanger they use in stores with the metal hook and then the rest of it's plastic.
But why was this lone hook on the floor all by itself? Upon closer examination, I saw what looked like...hmmm......kind of jagged plastic at the base of the hook. Then I looked closer at the floor. There was some bits of plastic.
No way. He couldn't have. Wait, oh yes he could have.....
HE ATE THE ENTIRE HANGER!!!! I turned to him with the lone hook in my hand, and this time NOT using my special dog hybrid accent, I asked, "DID YOU DO THIS??!! DID YOU EAT AN ENTIRE HANGER???!!"
I kid you not: If he could have been able to whistle, he would have been, as he sheepishly looked away and tried to focus elsewhere, acting all nonchalant, periodically glancing back at me with a look that said, "Oh damn, I think she's mad!"
I'm holding the lone hook in my hand, waving it around kind of like a pirate, saying, "How could you eat an entire hanger? What were you thinking? You're an old dog! You have a Dental Dinosaur here on the floor, along with a giant beef bone, yet you ate a hanger!!!"
I don't know where he got it, either off the bed or he jumped up and stole it off the dresser where I had some stacked. I shouldn't be surprised, though, as this wasn't his first time to devour plastic products. When he was younger he ate an entire plastic crate cup right off the door of the crate where it was fastened. Then he's eaten at least 2 of the plastic snap-on handles that come with the collapsible wire crates. I'm reminded of that every time I'm heaving a wire crate up the stairs in a hotel, with it pinching my fingers, thinking, "Damn you Saber, I could have had it easier if you hadn't eaten the handle!" He's also downed his share of my nephew's Legos.
Having been around enough dogs that have eaten plastic items over the years, I wasn't too concerned that this hanger was going to cause him any problems. From the few bits of plastic left that I found chewed on the floor, he had chewed it down to small, soft, rubbery bits, so I was pretty sure this, too, shall pass.
And it did. I know this because, of course, I followed him around outside tonight, and when he left a deposit, like any good forensics expert, I investigated. "Houston, we have found the plastic hanger....or at least remnants of it."
I'll keep checking over the next several days, but I'm thinking we're in good shape. I can't say the same for the hanger, however.
So while a Pet Rock wouldn't steal underwear, tear up cushions, and eat hangers, there's a reason why they never caught on as "Man's Best Friend."
I mean how much fun would it be to talk to a rock in your own very special unique accent? And you would never get to try out your investigative forensics skills!
Monday, May 23, 2011
"Take Your Time With That Door! I Have No Plans!"
Normally after not writing for 4 months, I would spend one entire installment talking about not writing for 4 months, then I wouldn't post for another 4 or 5 months only to return and talk, again, about how I haven't written. Riveting, huh?
Well, I'm breaking that cycle this time. Okay, who am I kidding? Let's put it this way: I won't talk about not writing for very long. I truly started the year out with every intention of sticking with it, then, as usual, my schedule showing the dogs, planning a dog show, working, life, you name, got so crazy that writing took a backseat to everything else. I recently made a comment to someone about how overwhelmed I've felt in recent months with everything I'm trying to keep going and how I wish writing didn't have to be what I sacrificed. Their response was, "When your life is so busy and all of this crazy stuff is going on, that's precisely the time you SHOULD be writing about everything because you have plenty of great material.
I laughed about how accurate that truly was, and it kept ringing in my head in the days that followed. At about the same time I attended another in a long line of workshops and training seminars I've went to for work on social networking, blogging, etc., and somebody asked about how frequently a blog should be written, and the answer was to shoot for 3 installments a week.
3 huh? I don't know why, but that number didn't seem overly intimidating. We'll see what happens.
Today was another of the type of days I've had in the last few months where I easily could have a panic attack thinking of everything I have to try and juggle and accomplish. For those who know me, that's saying a great deal because I can handle a lot and generally not get frazzled over it. But of late, it's been tough. Part of it is my own fault. I'm not good at saying "No" when somebody asks me to do something or take on a project. It's always been a knee-jerk response of "Sure! No problem!"
But I've found it sometimes really IS a problem. In recent months I've felt at times like I'm being pulled in every direction and everybody wants a piece of me. I started getting frustrated and resentful about it, and then that voice in my head said, "Wait a minute: YOU caused this. You couldn't say 'No' and that's why they all DO want a piece of you. You told them it was okay! You're going to have to make this work, but learn from it, idiot!"
Why does that voice always have to be right? It's true. I made the commitments and now I have to follow through. However, "No" is now in my vocabulary for anything new. Bit by bit, I'm going to finish up things I'm committed to, and then I'm going to be more selective about how many plates I want to keep spinning in the future, and you know what I've figured out? Sometimes it's okay to have no plates spinning or to only spin the ones YOU want to spin!! (Gasp!!) Who knew??!!
I know part of what causes the potential panic attack is I look at everything I have to get done way out into the future. It's kind of the nature of the beast. The ability to keep so much going is that ability to be organized, look out ahead, and plan everything. It's probably why I can do what I do for a living and I've been this way since I was a kid. I have a really good memory and things just stockpile in my head. For example, right now, I can pretty much tell you how the month of August is going to go for me, both at work and personally. I know what days I have free, what days I have stuff going on, the dog showing schedule is already calculated, you name it.
But at the same time, always looking out ahead, always planning how much I can get done and when, it CAN cause things to seem overwhelming at times. I know it's best to not fixate on the whole picture, and just chip away at it. It's not easy though, and a character flaw, I suppose. On a serious note, the wisdom that comes with old age has taught me you can get so swept up in living 3 months down the road, that you fail to enjoy the little things in the here-and-now, and you might not GET that tomorrow or that 3 months down the road you're so fixated on. Even though I KNOW that, sometimes I will be the first to admit that I DO need to be reminded....or kidnapped for a day and forced to just wing it once in awhile.
A prime example of getting MY mapped-out plans thrown out of whack came today when the contractor came to measure for a new patio door. I had to take 2 hours off from work to wait for him, and at this time of year, losing 2 hours is huge, so while I'm waiting for him, I'm thinking....and planning....."Okay, the door I want they told me is in stock, so that should mean a fast turnaround. He's measuring today. It would work great if the install could be done Friday as that works better with my work schedule." Oh, I thought I had it all figured out.
Well, I did in "Lisa's World."
The contractor had different ideas, or maybe more accurately, my old 1970's patio door had different ideas. He measured and went, "Oh!" (It's never good when a contractor utters that.) Apparently, unlike the general belief that everything was bigger and better in the old days, that theory doesn't apply to patio doors. They were smaller back then. He said, "We're going to have to order this one. It's no big deal. They can size it exactly, but it's going to take 2-1/2 weeks to get it here."
Wait..Is he not aware that 2-1/2 weeks doesn't fit my schedule?
I asked, "When will the install be?" to which he replied, "Well, 2-1/2 weeks to get the door in, then probably two weeks to schedule the install. Sooooooooo, I would say sometime within the next month?"
Ending "sometime-in-the-next-month" with a question mark? Uh, hmmm...that's not QUITE the accuracy I was hoping for, because, after all, I have a game-plan and a theory for how the month of June should go! Apparently he didn't know that.
(Deep breath) Oooooh-kay. Guess I'll wing it. Go with the flow. Take it as it comes...the door that is..whenever it comes.
There is a bright spot in all of this: For the first time EVER, I got a contractor who fits what we gals envision a contractor to be. How often does that happen?--NEVER! But it did this time: About 6' 3", big broad shoulders, arms to go with the shoulders, I'm betting money that a six-pack is there under that tight t-shirt, and then there were the jeans that went WITH the t-shirt. I actually caught myself doing what was probably an overly enthusiastic "Hi!" when I opened the door, and get this: We had a whole conversation about the dogs because his parents have Akitas.
So maybe it IS okay if it takes awhile to put in this door. Like, maybe if he could drag the job out over a week or so. Or maybe I just need to have more construction projects done on my house.
What was I saying my plans were for August? I may need to revisit that.
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