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Can You Hear Me Now?

I was speaking to an older gentleman on the phone. That’s all I do all day long, by the way. Talk on the phone, with people, about their money. Anyway-this particular gentleman was a little confused by some information he had gathered on his account. I was doing my best to figure out where this information had come from and I made the erroneous determination that he was currently looking at said information.

“Are you online?” I asked.

“No,” he responded in a confused voice, “I’m on the telephone.” Like I was the confused person. Like how was it unclear that he was currently talking to someone on the phone? How would he be talking to me if he was on the internet?

Way to make me feel like a moron in 2.8 seconds flat. Sigh.

I experience this a lot. Older people, who maybe shouldn’t be managing their own money anymore, calling about something very simple that is super confusing to them. “Why am I getting charged this fee?” That has always been charged and listed on the statements. “Why is my money moving around?” Because you enrolled in a managed account service years ago.

I feel bad for these people, they’re confused, and it’s not really their fault. They’re old, their memories are going, they live alone and no one has had the guts to tell them “You really shouldn’t do this anymore, let me take care of it for you.”

It used to be that you didn’t grow old alone. Generations of the same family lived in the same house. Younger people watched every day and noticed when you started forgetting to put on your pants and took care of you. Now days, people live alone. Often times there’s no one around to notice when they’re not doing so well all by their lonesome. So why, exactly, is it better to be “independent” into your old age? To live alone? To have no one to look after you.

So – is this new way, the “independence” that older people now have really better? Is it better that sons and daughters don’t see their parents every day as they age, and therefore don’t really have a clear picture of their health, mental or physical? Are nursing homes really the solution? And if sons and daughters aren’t paying attention, whose job is it to notice when things begin to go downhill? The person on the phone?

Sorry – this one turned out to be a little dark and depressing folks, I’ll try for some levity tomorrow, I promise. Today, I’m just in one of those moods.

Dolly Parton Would Be Proud

You thought this post was about boobies, didn’t you? It is national Love Boobies month after all, (Breast Cancer Awareness). But alas – I have tricked you again. This post is not about boobies.

It’s about work. Work in America, specifically. When, exactly, did a 9-5, 40 hour a week job turn into 9-6 with an unpaid lunch and mandatory overtime? And why, exactly, is this ok?

And please, let me specify at this time, that in this post I am specifically speaking about jobs at large corporations. The mom and pop stores, and small businesses that I love to support are not included in this tirade, they have their own weaknesses and strengths and maybe I’ll address those in a future post.

Now, back to the issue at hand. It used to be, back in the day (I don’t know when, exactly, my family has always been overachievers) that the standard work week was 40 hours. That meant you spent 40 hours at work, not 40 hours working. The most common hours were 9 am to 5 pm. Most people had an hour off for lunch. An hour they got paid for. They had two weeks of vacation to take with their families and paid sick days. If people weren’t exactly happy in these jobs, at least they could pay their bills, had paid benefits, didn’t feel they had to come to work sick to make ends meet, and didn’t have to spend a huge amount of time in an office they didn’t like. Then they reached the required age and years of service and they retired and got a gold watch and a pension. A ‘thank you’, if you will, for years of loyal service to the same company. Many people spent their whole lives, from right out of college, with the same company. And there was nothing wrong with that.

These days it seems like just the opposite is true. Most people my age have had a plethora of jobs over their short lives, myself included. My full job history includes 10 different companies and over 15 different positions at those companies. People are working longer and longer hours just to pay the bills. It’s not uncommon in this day and age to be a two income family, and not by choice. In many families both adults have to work just to make ends meet, especially if you have children. Many people have Vacation/Sick days, meaning if they take a day off work when they don’t feel well it takes hours away from their vacation time. This means many people come to work with a cold so as not to “give up” any time. (On a side note, isn’t it funny how the human brain works? I remember right when I started my last job they still had separate “vacation” and “sick” days. I remember people were much more likely to stay home when they were ill because those days didn’t roll over. That January the company changed to combine the vacation and sick days. The number of days given to any one employee didn’t change, they just all because usable for any reason. Way more people started coming to work sick, because they were reluctant to stay home and “waste” vacation days on being sick). And if you do stay home when you’re ill, then some “hardcore” employees look at you like “Suck it up, I do.” I really prefer not to make other people ill when at all possible. Share your scissors, not your germs.

Please don’t get me wrong, I am hugely grateful for my current job. It pays well, I have a lot of time off to take advantage of, and the health benefits are decent. But I feel I’ve paid my dues. I’ve had a job of one sort or another since I was 12. I worked five jobs all through college (RA and Work-study during the school year, busser, swim instructor and drama teacher in the summers). I have frequently worked more than one job at a time (for a year I was the resident stage manager at a local theatre as well as working full time as a theatre technician for a Union house here in Denver). Even in my current position I am frequently called upon to put in mandatory overtime or volunteer for ten hour days. I’m in my 30’s for goodness sake. Not old, per say, but not young anymore either. When is working class America going to stand up and say enough is enough? Everyone should be able to have a steady job, with benefits, vacation and decent pay. Why are we allowing corporations to work us longer and longer hours? Why is it ok? The original Union motto was 8 hours work, 8 hours play, 8 hours sleep. When did that change to 16 hours work at two different jobs with no benefits, 4 hours play and 4 hours sleep? Or no play and 8 hours sleep?

I’m ready to introduce the Latin tradition of the siesta into the American workplace-who’s with me?

A Woman in Her Natural Habitat

I am amazed in this day and age every time I’m reminded of how connected we still are to nature.

Most humans, these days, do everything they can to remove themselves from the wild, from nature. Our houses are climate controlled, food is processed, our methods of travel are fast and involve machinery instead of animals or our own feet.

And yet, I can always tell two things with 100% accuracy.

When a full moon is approaching.

And when the weather will change.

The full moon is most often brought to my attention by my job. I should clarify at this point that I work as a telephone service representative in the financial industry. I talk to people all day long about their money; my days are usually very good, or very bad. I used to think there was no way people in this day and age were still connected to the lunar cycle (besides, you know, the female stuff that’s unavoidable). I was wrong. I remember my first couple of months as a TSR, there were a few days where I thought to myself “The whole world has gone crazy.” People would yell at me for no reason (literally no reason-they’d dialed the wrong number and yelled because I didn’t know the number for where they had intended to call). I finally said something one day to a co-worker and with blinking they replied, “Of course people are crazy, it’s a full moon.”

What?!? Oh yes, it’s true, people get cranky and crazy around a full moon. It is something that I don’t even think about anymore, three crazy phone call in a row, and I know we’re on the verge of a full moon either that night or the next. I kid you not. Ask anyone who works in the customer service industry and they’ll agree. People are crazy on a full moon.

Now – the weather. It’s about how I sleep. Once again, this had to be pointed out to me by someone else. One day I was lightly complaining about my lack of sleep and my friend responded, “Oh yeah, I never sleep well when the barometer changes.”

Again – What?!? But it‘s true. Even ensconced in my climate controlled house, I feel the weather change in my bones. In Colorado this can turn into quite the week. 80’s Monday, 60’s Tuesday, 50’s and rainy and… Well, you get the picture.

It makes me wonder, what else affects us that we don’t pay attention to until its right under our noses. What wild thing drives you?

The Glamourous Life

I am a historic failure at journaling. I always wrote when life was bad and hardly ever when life was good. My journals have huge gaps in them when life was rolling merrily along with no drama or dilemmas. I’m talking years where I just forgot to write. You know, because life was normal. Came home, made dinner, read until midnight. Normal life. I go back and read my journals from middle and high school and think “My god, did I ever have a good time? Or is it all about the pain and suffering and drama? Where was the good in my life?!?”

Sometimes I think I’m just the kind of person who has to talk the bad stuff out. My hubs would probably agree with this. I have noticed recently that mostly when I talk things out with him I’m complaining about something. Or not even complaining, just expressing something I’m not happy with. Once I express it out loud, then I can deal with figuring out what to do about it. But until I say it out loud it just festers in my brain… The good stuff doesn’t require any contemplative problem solving, maybe that’s why it’s so sparse, I didn’t need to say it to figure out what to do – because it was good, nice, simple. There was no choice around it – just happiness, joy, contentment.

Anyway-despite this lack of journalistic excellence (Dad – that was for you), apparently I must look like the kind of person who journals with much more enthusiasm because I have received tons of journals as gifts. I have received journals for Christmas, birthdays and graduations. I have probably received 5-10 journals since high school. If you are the giver of any of these journals, rest assured, your gift was appreciated. Every time I received one I’d think “Journaling, I should totally do more of that, this will be awesome!”

Then, it would go the same old route. “I’ll use the new one when I’m done with this one, that’ll be soon now that I’m dedicated.” I’d think. And then the current volume would start to collect dust, get piled under stuff and I’d forget. Again.

Maybe this is because my friends think my life is more interesting than I do? Maybe my life IS more interesting than I think it is. Maybe I should write more and see.

Or maybe, I’ll just find that sometimes the mundane is nice. Sometimes it’s nice to acknowledge that nothing dramatic happened. That there was a normal day in my life with no catastrophes, or life changing dilemmas. Or even that something good happened. Maybe then, when I look back at my journals I won’t think “What I whiny b!tch I was!” But “What an amazing life I’ve had.”

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

I woke up one morning this week fat. No other word for it. Not as fat as I used to be, but fat, none the less. I started my most recent weight loss journey in April of this year. To date I have lost 44 lbs. Well, 39 lbs as of the morning I’m referring to (isn’t being a woman AWESOME?) When I stood on the scale that morning I got pissed. And depressed. And sad. But mostly pissed. How dare my body betray me this way? Didn’t it know I wasn’t happy getting bigger? That getting small was the goal here? Ugh. Stupid body. (Yes – I know the weight gain was in direct coloration to my diet habits over the last few days, the large salt content of the previous day’s diet and the current time of the month, but just go with me here, ok?)

So what did I do to defeat my Eeorye mood? I put on my new, never-worn, size 10 (yeah!) skirt. The skirt, although more snug that I usually like my skirts to be, was not uncomfortably tight despite my 4 lb overnight weight gain. That was encouraging. Then I also put on my new, never-worn, size Medium (yeah again!) shirt. I added some high heels and excellent accessories. And when I looked in the mirror I realized I looked great*!

And suddenly I felt great. Even at 171 lbs and change. I looked amazing. I remembered that I am 4 sizes and 39 lbs smaller than I was in January. That there were several inches missing from around my body. And that I felt better, healthier, more fit, than I had in years. I remembered the positives, and forgot about that annoying 171 on the scale. I remembered that I am more than a number on the scale. I am even more that the inches I’ve lost, or the fat girl I’ve been. I am a talented actor. I am an entertaining writer (at least I always entertain myself – if others don’t find me funny it’s none of my business. See Warrior(s)). I am a loyal friend. I am a great daughter. I have great taste in clothes. And none of that has anything to do with how much I weigh or what size I wear. And with a smile on my face I ventured out into the world.

How different might my day have been if I had just sighed and put on schlubby clothes? If had surrendered to the fat? As it was, even though my day was filled with the usual challenges, I still felt good about at least one part of myself. I took control and decided that a stupid number on the scale wasn’t going to ruin my day. I am more than that, much more.

What are you more than?

*This realization might have been a little due to my amazing mirror – those of you who have seen it know what I’m talking about! My coach rules!

I See London, I See France…

I’ve had a couple of serious blogs in a row, so let’s shoot for something more lighthearted today, shall we?

Do you ever put your underwear on wrong in the morning?

Those of you who live alone, and therefore dress alone, and have done so your whole life may not understand. Those of you in a relationship where you usually get up last may not understand. I am hoping that someone out there understands. Because it would be too sad for me if I was the only person to sometimes do this.

In the fumbling adventure that is dressing in the dark* I have, on perhaps more than one occasion, put my underwear on incorrectly. I have put it on inside out (especially easy to do if it’s tag-less – and most of mine is) and even the wrong way around (back in front, front in back – this mistake is sadly more common for me to make – don’t ask). I have, in rare instances, done both these things on the same day. The style of underwear does not matter (you may feel free to use your imagination here). I have accomplished this feat with all makes and models.

The worst thing about all this is that I sometimes don’t notice right away. Sometimes not for hours. Often not until I go to the restroom and actually see my mistake.

Sure, I may have random thoughts of my drawers not fitting quite right (am I retaining that much water?!?); however, somehow it never occurs to me that something might be drastically wrong.

And this morning I found myself wondering why that was. (For the record, my underwear was correct from the get-go today, I was just bored). I do this action every day, put on underwear and wear it. Why do I not feel it immediately when something isn’t kosher? It should be so apparent when something is out of whack that I am immediately able to recognize and correct it. Or – is it just the opposite? Is it something I do so often that I don’t even think about it anymore? Like when you go out for groceries on a Saturday morning and five minutes later you realize you’re not dressed to be going to work.

Granted, the only consequence for abnormal panties is a couple of uncomfortable hours and the challenge of acrobatics necessary to correct it in a stall in the restroom at work. (Coworker’s have eyed me rather suspiciously after one of these adventures, it’s difficult to do quietly). But the key to that realization and correction is often the tag. I’ll see that tag where it shouldn’t be and think “Something is not right here.” The issue on my mind right now is that not everything in life has a tag. What if there’s more that I’m missing? What if there are things I don’t pay attention to that don’t have a tag to bring me back to reality? What am I missing by dressing in the dark?

Life is too short. It’s time to pay attention.

*Done so as not to wake the significant other in the room who does not have to be up yet.

Warrior(s)

Have you seen it? Warrior? If not then go. Go. Right. Now.

Have you seen it now? Because I’m serious – you need to. Immediately. Come to think of it, if you have seen it already, go again! Seriously. It’s amazing. Even if you’re not a fan of MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) you will love this movie. Even if you’re a woman (or any sex of person, actually) who’s not a proponent of violence, you will love this movie. It will make you laugh, it will make you cry. It’s awesome.

It is one of those amazingly rare balanced films, where you’re not sure who to root for. Sometimes in films you’re not sure who to root for because you don’t like anyone. Not in this film. In this film you’re not sure who to root for because you love everyone – you want everyone to win. And you know there is no way for everyone to win. Someone has to lose. I love those kind of movies.

Then there are the performances. My god, the performances. They are exquisite. Just heartbreaking. Touching. Heartwarming. All at the same time. My hubs fights MMA and Jennifer Morrison exactly portrays how I feel when he fights. Cheering when he’s winning and closing my eyes when he’s struggling. The agony when I think he’s injured and the joy when he wins. The tension when you’re not able to watch (for whatever reason). Not watching is definitely harder than watching. She’s perfect. And she’s not the only one. They’re all perfect. Bit parts, main roles. Their struggle and humanity are clearly on their faces every step of the way.

And now I’m wondering – why isn’t everyone screaming from the rooftops about this movie?!? It debuted to high hopes, great reviews, and then had an opening weekend of just $5.6 million. Sad stuff. I’m terribly afraid that this spectacular movie will fade into the shadows, overlooked for Oscars, moving to the dollar movie theaters and DVD’s with barely a whisper.

And that would be a travesty. Not only for the reasons mentioned above, but also because of the lessons that came clear to me as I watched it. One of the major themes that I loved in this movie is that we are all Warriors. We are all fighting either for or against something. We’re fighting against a memory, an experience, an action we took, a decision we made. We’re fighting for family, country, ourselves or our loved ones. And sometimes you’re doing both at the same time. You’re fighting against the experience of a childhood with an alcoholic father and for your own family and children. You’re fighting against the memory of a dying mother, or your own dishonorable actions, and for a brother-in-arms. And in the end, it’s way easier to fight for something, than against something.

For a long time I fought against myself. I fought against the experience of a lonely childhood. The memory of being the least popular person in school. Every time I met someone new my first thought would be “I wonder if they’ll like me.” I believed myself to be unlikable, and fought against that belief every day. Or maybe with it. I was surprised every time someone I deemed interesting was interested in me in return. I constantly worried: was I smart enough, funny enough, happy enough, would they see through my facade? Working all the time to be exactly what they needed in a friend, hoping I could fool them so that they would never want to do without me. Hoping I could be perfect.

It’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to fight against yourself. It wore me out day after day. It got harder and harder to smile. I got more and more brittle inside. It was a terrible catch 22. As I got more tired, I became more afraid that the “truth” would show through, that my facade would fail me. So I worked harder on covering things up, and because more tired, and more afraid. And again, and again, and again. I didn’t even know I was doing it. I didn’t even realize how tired I was, stretched thin over my “faults” hoping they wouldn’t show through to the surface. Until someone asked me, “Isn’t it exhausting to put on a happy face for everyone else, every day?”

“It is none of your business what others think of you.” (I love Eleanor Roosevelt). I’d heard that quote before, many times. I’d thought I embraced it, understood it. I was wrong. I finally understand. It’s not my job to be happy for anyone else. I have to be happy for myself. I have had several amazing experiences this year that have finally driven me to fully embrace this concept. It is none of my business what other people think of me. They’re going to think it, regardless. What’s important is what I think of me. Do I think I’m likable, a good person, honest and in integrity with my word? Am I worthy of respect, love, admiration and trust? I can finally stop fighting against a scared little girl, and start fighting for an amazing woman. I can fight for my joy. I can fight for win-win solutions. I can fight for my liberty. I can fight for myself.

I am a Warrior.

What do you fight for?

Team Auntie

My friend who also writes a blog recently meditated on motherhood. Not strange for her since she has two monkeys herself. Then there was an article on http://www.blisstree.com about doctors refusing to perform tubal ligation. Apparently it’s a week for discussing babies. So here we go.

I started babysitting when I was 12, I loved kids. I loved playing with them, spending time with them, even changing their diapers. There was no doubt in my mind that one day I would be a mother. Then I got older, and older. I stopped babysitting (it was not nearly as lucrative as I needed it to be in college, sadly). And the older I got – the less sure I became. Until one day, I was in my mid-20’s and a friend stated to me that she was too selfish to have kids. And it struck me. So was I. So am I.

Being a parent requires a selflessness that I do not currently possess. Everything about your life turns into children. Do we have a babysitter for Friday night? When is the next play date? Diapers for the rug rat or a pair of shoes for me? What preschool is the midget going to? No thank you. I do not want to have to contemplate any of those questions. I can barely stand to plan ahead for my dog who has terrible separation anxiety. And boarding a dog overnight is WAY cheaper than an overnight babysitter.

I’ve even come to the conclusion that I have no desire to be pregnant. My mother would be horrified-she LOVED being pregnant. Glowed the whole freaking time. Having just released 47 lbs back into the wild the thought of not being able to see my feet has absolutely no appeal to me. The only part that sounds interesting is the thought of eating for two. And even then, if I wanted to maintain my girlish figure after the birth I probably wouldn’t be able to eat with the abandon I imagine. Plus with my luck I’d probably be one of those people who has morning/afternoon/evening sickness all the way through the pregnancy. So I probably wouldn’t even want to eat.

I am an awesome Auntie. I love my friend’s kids. For about an hour, two at the most. I love that I can fill them full of sugar, run them until they’re too tired to sleep, generally spoil them and then give them back. I do not have the patience required to be a parent. I’m generally right at the end of my rope and seriously considering all possible options to have a moment to myself when the parents come to rescue me. I am looking forward to their older years when I will gladly take on the more intimidating discussions and events that should still come from an adult such as sex, learning to drive, drinking (obviously not at the same time as the driving-unless I rope them into being DD) and their first tattoo. An Auntie is practically required for these events.

I sometimes get pushback from people (especially women) when I say I don’t have kids. “Soon?” or “Why not?” are the usual questions. “Nope. Don’t want them,” I reply. And suddenly I’m a leper. Women who have children, or want children look at me like I’ve grown male appendages. And then, when they realize I’m serious, they get that “How sad, you’ll never know the love of a child,” look on their face. I really, really hate that look. I do not want your pity. In our society we currently believe that women should want children. They should want them so desperately that they will pay hundreds of thousands of dollars, take hormones that are terrible for their body and put themselves though painful procedures for in vitro fertilization. They should be willing to pay enormous amount of money for surrogate mothers, and fly halfway around the world to adopt. Somehow, even in today’s overpopulated world, the primary goal of a woman should be to put more people on the planet. And I just don’t buy it.

I love my life the way it is. I feel no need to add teacup sized humans to my family unit. Our unit is all full up with just me, my hubby and our teenager-sized dog. How is it wrong of me to realize that what I want to do with my life, and babies, just don’t go together? Not even considering that the monetary commitment is totally out of my reach? I can barely afford the massive amounts of food my dog seems to go through!

So here I am, 31, childless and likely to remain that way. My husband and I both reserve the right to change our mind about children in the future. And if that should happen then the other party is required to at least be open to discussion. If my child bearing years are over then we’ll adopt. To tell the truth though, every time I look after a friends kid, or find myself exposed to a red-faced child in public my resolve actually goes the other way. Even holding a well behaved, good-looking, angel of a child (and I’ve had plenty to pick through lately, I’m currently knitting baby hat’s 5 and 6 for the year) leaves me with no desire to create my own.

And after this very enlightening reflection on my beliefs, I’m left wondering if I’m alone in the world. Is it more common than I think to have this point of view? Or am I mostly alone out there?

Anyone else out there want to be on Team Auntie?