Open Mouth, Insert Both Feet

I am officially a dumb ass. Okay, maybe I'm being a little too hard on myself. You be the judge...

My what-I-like-to-think-of-as-ADD-related-impulsivity-but-may-just-be-plain-boneheadedness tendency to blurt things out finally got the best of me. Long story, but my husband Lance's grandfather turned 95 last month and he flew to Savannah, GA for his birthday party/family reunion. He flew out for the weekend, but his brother and wife (who I'll call "Lynn" and "Rob") opted to drive there with my mother-in-law (insert scary, Psycho-shower-scene music here). For anyone not familiar with the rocky relationship we have had, you can read my blog entitled "A Partner in Patriotism" (aka, "Making Lemonade Out of Lemons").

Lynn and Rob should be sainted, let me tell you. There is no way I could be sober and handle being cooped up in a car with my mother-in-law for a 2-day drive. Apparently realizing the gravity of her situation, Lynn posted a tongue-in-cheek Facebook status report asking for her FB buddies' prayers right before they left. After she returned, Lynn sent me a message on Facebook telling me (at least I thought it was only me) that she had posted photos of the reunion. Being the smart ass that I am (when I'm not being a dumb ass, mind you) , I replied, "I guess you survived the drive with Mona (not her real name). I would have loved to have been a fly on THAT wall." Hit "reply all."

WHAT??!! Reply ALL? Who sends personal messages to multiple people? Yep, Lynn had ALSO sent the message to my father-in-law's family, her kids, sister-in-law, etc., none of whom I know all that well. Of course, I had to send the obligatory, "Oops! Didn't mean to reply to ALL of you"/egg on my face message. What else can you do at that point? Lynn thought it was funny.....hopefully my husband will. Not that I'M gonna be the one to tell him. I just hope there's not another reunion any time soon.

Time heals all wounds or at least obliterates them, right?

Up, Up, and Away

Most people who know me are aware of the fact that I hate flying. You can spew countless statistics at me about how the chances of getting in a car accident are far fewer than being in a plane crash, etc., etc. Ad nauseum. I'm not buying it. The butterflies don't usually start until the night before when I begin to talk myself out of traveling. I don't REALLY need a vacation. I don't REALLY need to see my family. Maybe they can just get their happy *#&$ (censored) on a plane and visit me. I try to watch mindless television to calm my nerves. In a sadistically warped twist of fate, an ad for the upcoming special "Why Planes Crash" comes on. The heck with this. My heart rate continues to rise steadily until it's time to go to sleep. Only I can't sleep.

I pop a couple Tylenol PM (and chase it down with a Benadryl for good measure) and I'm good to go....until I lie down. My heart starts pounding and visions of mid-air horrors flash in front of my fluttering eyelids. I eventually fall asleep but wake up to the sound of my heart pounding out of my chest. It's beating so hard I think it's going to wake my entire family. Oh well, sleep is over-rated anyway.


I can't eat breakfast because I'm too stressed out about getting into a car accident on the way to the airport. After all, I've heard that the chances of getting into a car accident are far greater than being in a plane crash. Not that I'm in a hurry to get to the airport. My kids are bubbling over with excitement, chattering away about how much fun it is to fly in an airplane. Not to be a mood killer or anything, but their chatter is making me a nervous wreck. It's way too much system overload for my neurotic, ADHD, OCD mind. But I try to hold it together....for their sake, of course.


We reach the airport in record time, unscathed. We check our bags and make our way to the gate. I toy with the idea of slipping unnoticed into the airport bar for a quick sedative, but I don't want my kids to think that I'm a TOTAL loser.


Now I'm on the plane. I've turned off my cell phone and iPod and have gone to the bathroom for the third time since I checked my bags. The plane starts moving toward the runway, which takes forever (DFW is a huge airport). I look around. Everyone looks calm. That's a good sign. I've said several prayers already and I pull my notebook out of my purse to chronicle this panic-inducing nightmare (which will soon become my latest blog) in an effort to distract myself from the horror yet to come (taking off).


The plane stops. And sits on the runway. My breathing becomes labored and I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. I get a hold of myself and realize it's only a panic attack. Why are we just sitting here, dammit? Let's get this over with! Man, it's like sitting on Death Row, waiting to walk the Green Mile. I glance to my right and see the woman next to me calmly reading her magazine. I glance to my left and see my daughter paging through a Sky Mall Magazine. I'm writing this blog fast and furiously - my hand is shaking so badly that I can barely read my own handwriting. My husband and son are across the aisle laughing and joking, looking out the window. What the hell is wrong with them?!


Oh God help me, the engine starts whirring again and we slowly begin to move forward, then to the right. I feel the floor shaking. Then we stop again. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The engine is groaning and vibrating (or is that my head?) I feel my daughter grab my arm, looking a little nervous. Don't look to me for comfort right now, little girl. I love you more than life itself, but I'm having a moment. And not a good one at that. (Insert guilt for being such a terrible mother).


My ears are going to pop. We start shimmying and shaking down the runway....faster, faster. Holy crap, we're in the air now. The wheels have just pulled up and I have left my sanity on the ground beneath us. Why are we shaking to and fro like this? Now the engine is making a new sound. I've never heard THAT sound before. I look around....my fellow inmates, I mean passengers, are calmly looking out the windows or taking a nap. What the hell are they thinking? Why is my daughter trying to get me to look out the window?


My head is light, I feel dizzy now that we're tilting to the right. I can't see any flight attendants, but I hear the clicking of overhead compartments (or is it the beverage cart already?) Now I hear the dinging sound that always precedes an announcement. But about what? That someone attached a bomb to the bottom of our plane? That the air marshal got stuck in traffic and missed his flight? That there's an engine malfunction? That we just encountered a flock of Canadian geese? What? For the love of God and all that is holy, what is it? Oh? It's now safe to turn on all electronic devices except our cell phones? We're okay? Granted, we haven't safely reached our cruising altitude yet, but that's okay. I have Stevie Wonder and Wilco to calm my fears.....not to mention that beverage cart.

An Unlikely Partner in Patriotism

It's no great secret. Anyone that knows me well is aware of the rocky relationship I have had with my mother-in-law. She: native Texan with a capital T:  pig-headed stubborn, authoritative, and uber-opinionated. Me: independent, overly sensitive, stubbornly reluctant to bow down to her dictates, and determined to maintain my "Yankee" identity. We've had many falling-outs throughout the years and a huge family scandal involving the paternity of my eldest brother-in-law almost tore the family apart. Conversations mainly consisted of her lecturing me, but occasionally led to her reminiscing about her life in the military.


She was in the Air Force from 1952 to 1958 and met my father-in-law as he was entering the Air Force and as she was leaving. I knew that they were married on July 4; hence, this has always been her favorite holiday. She proudly displays the flag 365 days a year by her garage and decorates the outside and inside of her house patriotically every July 4.


We took the kids to visit her today, July 4. When we arrived, she met us at the door dressed in a bright, red shirt and and blue pants. We retired to the living room after dinner and I noticed the old photo albums on the hearth. My curious nature got the best of me and I asked my mother-in-law if I could look through them. It turned into a lovely, sentimental trip down memory lane for her and into one of the most touching moments she and I have ever shared. We looked at old black and white photos of her flight school class and Air Force promotional photos taken of her (she was quite a looker back in the day). I listened captively as she told me stories of seeing Bing Crosby while she was in flight school in Palm Beach and of the time she met Henry Ford II, a faraway look in her eyes as if these events had happened just yesterday.


That one moment created and sealed a permanent bond between us. Here she was, a true patriot that gave six years of service to our country, and countless more as she raised three sons, sometimes on her own, as her husband traveled around the world on various missions. I was sitting next to someone who knows what it means to be a patriot.


We wrapped up our trip to my husband's home town with a visit to his father's grave. I had known for years that my mother-in-law puts a flag and a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers on my father-in-law's grave every July 4, but we hadn't visited his grave since his death in 2000. After we paid our respects, my son and daughter wandered around the cemetery, looking at the other graves. It is a very small cemetery, but we found countless graves of American heroes...veterans of WWI, WWII, the Vietnam and Korean Wars, and sadly, the current war in Iraq. I discussed with my kids the indescribable sacrifice these men made in order for us to live in the greatest country in the world.


Fascinated by my father-in-law's world travels, I once asked him what his favorite country was. His reply: the United States of America.

The Disappearing Dinner Act

I think that the American family dinner has gotten lost in the wake of dual income families, parents who "over activity" their kids and themselves to death, and just plain laziness. I'm a working mom and I strongly believe that one of the best things I can give my kids is a home-cooked meal. That's not to say that I never stop by Chicken Express or Taco Casa on the way home from work, but home-cooked meals definitely outnumber fast food meals in our house. A lot of parents are so busy keeping up with their kids' extracurricular activities, homework, their own jobs, church activities, etc. that they don't feel that they have the time or the energy to cook a homemade meal.


It all boils down to giving your kids the basics...stability, healthy food, and love. I spend every Sunday afternoon preparing meals for the week and more often than not, the kids will pitch in and help. It becomes a creative thing and amounts to quality time together that provides a great result. Yes, it's time-consuming, but it's cheaper and healthier than the alternatives. Growing up in a Slovenian home (my parents are first-generation Americans) meant lots of fresh vegetables from the garden and simple, healthy dishes. My parents carried on many of the food traditions that their parents brought from the Old Country and taught them to us. Not only did we eat well, but we established meaningful traditions that we have passed on to our own kids.


Cooking a homemade meal doesn't have to be anything extravagant or time-consuming. Slather a whole chicken with olive oil and rosemary and pop it in the oven and serve it with steamed broccoli, for example. Involve your kids while they're young and make it fun for them. They'll learn healthy eating habits early and will learn a valuable skill. I tease my son and tell him that the ability to cook is a definite chick magnet.


My daughter brought home a Mothers Day questionnaire that she had filled out at school. One of the questions was, "What does your mom do for you that you like the most?" She answered, "She cooks great food for me." That said it all.

Self-Esteem in the Hands of a 9-Year-Old

I could see the skepticism in my daughter's eyes as we entered the dressing room at TJ Maxx. She glanced at the swimsuits in my hand and then at me, focusing on my torso. She cocked her head, studying me, and sighed as I closed the dressing room door. I had barely tried on the first swimsuit when she shook her head and said, "Mom, your stomach looks chubby." I tried the second suit on. She shook her head again and said, "That one makes your legs look fat." I donned the third suit in a last-ditch effort, but to no avail. "Maybe you should just wear shorts and a tee-shirt to the pool this year." I was crushed. I didn't think my 42-year-old, 5 foot 9, barely 140-pound body looked THAT bad. After all, I had been doing squats and lunges in the office when my ADD got the best of me.


My 11-year-old son was of no help when he actually gave me a tee-shirt to wear over my swimsuit before our first trip to the pool this summer. It's a good thing that my self-esteem isn't completely dependent upon my kids' opinions.....or you might never see me at the pool. Well, maybe never is a strong word. I'll be the one wearing the tee-shirt and shorts.

The Perils of Thinking Too Much

I think too much. In fact, I terrorize myself. I can talk myself into and out of anything. I can recite the pros and cons of virtually any situation. Seriously....give me a situation. Don't ask me to take sides because I can't - I don't know how. Perhaps it's because of the Catholic school girl diplomacy ingrained in me or maybe it's because I'm just too darn diplomatic. I fault my counselor training for that one.


You know, I really want to think that I'm a laid-back person, but I'm not. I may look like I'm calm and living in the moment, but it's all an unfortunate, unintentional facade. And it kills me. I'm so in tune with the Bohemian vibe, but there's too much noise going on inside my head to relax and really feel it. No, I'm not schizophrenic (but I have explored that possibility).


I'm the only person I know that can completely and utterly exhaust herself just by sitting in an empty, quiet room. Once I come out of my daydream or obsession-of-the-moment, I'm almost out of breath because of all the conversations and comments from the peanut gallery going on inside my head. No, I don't hear voices....I create them. That's why I have to listen to music while I'm at work. If I don't, I'll talk myself in and out of a job, reciting the pros and cons of being a working mom, all the while picturing horrible things happening to my kids while I'm cooped up in an office, imagining horrible things happening to them.


I give up. I surrender to the noise. What's going on inside YOUR head?

ADD It Up

My parents should have known when I came home with my first grade report card that read, "Amy is a really smart girl, but she just can't sit still" and later, "Is everything all right at home? Amy seems really distracted." I remember getting put in the corner in kindergarten because I thought that it was more fun to spin in circles on the shiny linoleum floor (tan with brown specks) than it was to "participate" in story time. My 10th grade chemistry teacher would squirt me and my fellow ADD comrades with a water bottle when we got out of hand. Mind you, I wasn't a troublemaker or rebellious in any way (well, maybe only a little). (By the way, Shriekback just came on Sirius - I totally forgot about them!) To this day, my parents still deny that I have ADD.


Never mind that...
- I am always reading 3 or 4 books at any given time and can tell you exactly what's going on where I left off...
OR
- My right leg starts shaking uncontrollably when I'm majorly bored and stuck somewhere I can't leave (like when I'm summarizing deposition testimony of a traffic light engineer in my cubicle at work)...
OR
- I can't focus on anything boring like math or physics, but can spend hours absorbed in a good book or writing project...
OR
-If you take too long to tell me a story, I'll stop listening after 30 seconds (but you'll never know it).


Nah, I don't have ADD. The silver lining is that studies have shown that creative and intelligent people are most frequently plagued by this affliction (I prefer to call it multi-tasking).


Yeah, that's what I'll keep telling myself.

Supervise Your Kids Or I Will

There is an epidemic in my neighborhood. No, it's not the swine flu, but it has the potential to be just as, if not more, deadly. It is that of the unsupervised child. Typically, these families also have unsupervised pets, but that's a whole different blog. I don't understand the frightening trend of parents letting their small child (I'm talking under 4 years old in some cases) play in the street unsupervised.

I almost ran over my neighbor's barely 4-year-old son the other day while I was pulling into my driveway. Earlier in the year, I literally saved his 5-year-old brother's life by pulling him out of the way of a speeding car on our street. When I told him that he could have gotten killed by not looking before he ran across the street, he laughed at me and said, "Well, I did it, didn't I?" Flabbergasted is the only word to describe my reaction to that defiantly bold statement. Where his parents? I can tell you one place they weren't.

One of the more terrifying episodes was when my husband pulled his SUV into our driveway after a family outing. The kids and I got out and found another neighbor's 5-year-old son lying underneath the vehicle. If my husband had proceeded to pull the vehicle into the garage as he usually does, he would have most certainly run him over, possibly killing him. We held a "come to Jesus" meeting right then and there with the little bugger and then my husband took him across the street and had a similar meeting with his parents. The next day he was playing in the street, alone, again.

Another not-quite-so-frightening but nonetheless annoying occurrence was the time that a kid was going around the neighborhood pool shooting everyone in the eyes with a water gun (and not the wimpy 4-inch pistols you and I grew up with). Granted, I have 2 boys and I know that they need to let loose and run around like maniacs every now and then, but come on. The mom was sitting on the side of the pool with me, completely oblivious to what her son was doing. I told him very nicely (several times) that he needed to stop shooting above the neck, but he persisted. Still, no reaction or correction from the mom. I repeated myself in a more serious, grown-up tone of voice, which got the attention of his mom, who succinctly told me that I had no business telling her son what to do.

All I can say is.....supervise your kid or I will.

The Christian Bohemian Movement

Never heard of it? Good. I'm starting it. As a former Catholic turned non-demoninational Christian living in the heart of the Bible Belt, I've grown tired of the "either or" attitude.


* Either you're a Christian and you use the word "blessing" in every other sentence OR you're a pagan that never utters the name of Christ.


* You either listen solely to Christian music OR you listen to "secular" rock 'n roll.


* You either dress in ankle-length denim skirts and polo shirts as good Christian women should (reminiscent of the Duggers) OR you dress "immodestly" in tank tops and cut offs.


* You either abstain completely from alcohol OR you're a lush that enjoys an occasional glass of wine.


This, unfortunately, is the attitude I have come up against quite often here in Texas. Mind you, only one person has ever suggested to me that I am an alcoholic because one of my hobbies happens to be wine, but I have become accustomed to the pursed lips and uncomfortable looks in the other direction. No, I don't throw Christian lingo a lot, but I like to think that my actions show who I am. I am proud to be a former punk rocker and yes, I still listen to the Sex Pistols. I am passionate about any artistic endeavor, but my TRUE passion is tolerance for diversity (how fun is it to only surround yourself with people like you?) and freedom of creative expression. The point is, life isn't black and white. Just because you're one thing doesn't mean you're not the other. Moderation is key.


It's okay to feel comfortable with the creative, hippie vibe and seek out other like-minded friends, Christian or not. It's okay to think, dress, or speak unconventionally. It's okay to have a glass of wine and listen to Neil Young or Radiohead. It's okay to be different. Be true to yourself, Christian Bohemian, and rest assured, you are in good company.

Put Your Passion Into Action

I finally got off my arse and am blogging. I've been passionate about writing since I was a kid. My first writing project was a Christmas play that I put on with my brothers and sisters (I won't tell anyone that you were the Christmas Angel, Mark). I was hooked after that and continued to write throughout high school and college....nothing earth shattering, but I was writing.


My writing took on the form of journaling during those tumultuous teenage and young adult years, but who cares? I wasn't writing to be published (although Judy Blume might have been proud of some of my material) - I was writing for me. My favorite class in college was a creative writing class and I was quite encouraged when my professor told me that I had talent worth cultivating. Unfortunately, my perfectionism and lack of self-confidence paralyzed me and I didn't write for years, other than case notes when I worked as a counselor.


I started mulling over a novel when I was a stay-at-home mom mainly for sanity's sake, but also to release the creative beast. It felt GREAT, but again, my lack of confidence got in the way, plus I went back to work full time and didn't have (or make) the time to write.


All of this procrastination led to self-defeating feelings and a creative depression. I finally realized what was wrong (with the help of my son's piano teacher) - I wasn't putting my passion into action. Creative people must create. So guess what? I'm blogging and I'm doing it! You can do it, too! Figure out what you are passionate about, get off your booty, and DO IT!