My Greatest Strength is my Greatest Weakness

In general, I am flexible, I problem-solve, I'm friendly, I'm quick witted, and I like to do things. Those qualities and characteristics, which are my greatest strengths, also are my greatest weaknesses. I overextend myself. I get depleted and my soul gets tired. I "neglect" those I love or at least don't meet their needs in the way they would like me to meet them. I am a giant bundle of bad, good, and imperfect all wrapped up in one. I will never be enough for some.

I am a mess. This is who I am.

Illuminations at the Morton Arboretum

Ornament shopping at a Holiday Market.

A late night stop at Peet's Coffee in my winning Holiday Sweater.

Homemade noodles about to go into Ramen.

Making homemade, not Ho-Made, tamales.

I hope my children will some day understand and will some day forgive me.

Growing Up and Cable TV

According to Wikipedia, cable TV has been around since 1948. Unlike when we got a microwave, I don't specifically remember when we started getting cable at home. Whenever it was, it was basic cable. No subscriptions. No frills.

Living in Cook County, it wasn't necessary to have cable for my parents to feed their significant Bears and Bulls addiction. We could watch Payton, Hampton, Singletary, Dent, The Fridge, Pippen, Jordan, and Armstrong with ease. We would compare and contrast the different coaching styles of Ditka and Jackson. In the 80's and 90's, our world and TV, revolved around these two teams.

When Princess Diana died, in 1997, I am sure we had cable, as we watched CNN for days.

Now, as an adult and home-owner myself, I still do not have cable. Initially, it was because I had no money. I had no food. People at work would say, "Oh my gosh, you look great. You have lost weight." Little did they know, I was starving to death. I was surviving on a case of tuna and a bag of grapefruit.

During that time (my lean years) I did four things.

1) I joined the local public library.

I began reading and, for the first time, enjoyed it. Memoirs, written by authors or journalists, are my favorites. They are based on one's version of the truth, not necessarily fact-checked, but well-written nonetheless.

2) I had a house-warming party for myself.

I had many friends who wanted to come to see my new place. I knew I would wind up with plants and candles, whereas I needed staples for basic survival. I assigned everyone an inexpensive item to bring such as a can opener, corkscrew, wooden spoon, etc., and asked them to bring a canned or dry good. It was life-saving. I received all sorts of needed supplies, and boxes of cereal, tubs of peanut butter, bags of snacks, and packets of ramen.

3) I met the girl upstairs. She had just moved in and was looking for a phone to use. This being years before cell phones, I made her a deal, help me haul my laundry upstairs, I'll let you use my phone. 

We became fast friends. Many nights we would combine kitchens. I would bring what was in my pantry, she hers. We would make meals out of a can of black olives, artichokes, black beans, and frozen tortellini. Twenty-five years later, we are still friends. She is my physician, friend, and sounding board. We have shared stories of joys, heart-break, grant writing, and office fodder.

4) During this lean time, I started traveling one weekend a month. Out of all the things I've ever done in my life, it remains one of the dearest to me.

First Things First - going out of town

Shortly after getting engaged, my spouse and I bought a house and moved in. Four months later my sister and her betrothed bought the house next door. I married a public radio fan, triathlete, Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. My sister married someone tech-savvy and creative who can discuss film, make a mean pulled pork, and worships the Pittsburgh Steelers. Between the two of us, we had five children in four years. They have cable. We don't.

When we had a two-year-old and three infants, I would pick up my daughter after work from my sister's. We would nurse our babies and watch Trading Spaces on TLC. I would then go home and get something together for dinner, give a bath, perhaps work on a crossword puzzle or read, and then go to bed.

Trading Spaces was in its' infancy. It was Season 1 with a host named Alex. Sometime during our hormonal afternoons or sleep-interrupted nights, my sister wrote an application to TLC. Around Labor Day 2001, we got word that a scout was coming out to interview us and check out our spaces. It was time to tell my husband. Long story short, it was not my finest married moment.

The scout came out and interviewed all four of us, my sister, her husband, my spouse and me, and measured our rooms. Someone was to get back to us within the next couple of weeks. Well, on September 11, two planes crashed into the World Trade Center, another into the Pentagon and still another crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. Everything came to a halt and the world stood still. We never heard back.

Several weeks later, my sister called TLC to let them know that a courtesy call would have been nice. There was momentary silence on the other end before the person said, "No one called you? Everyone shows up at your house on Sunday." Thus begins my cable TV - 15 minutes of fame - story.

A decade after Trading Spaces went off the air, HGTV, the network that took over mid-way through its running, decided to air new episodes. In preparation for the revised show, they aired reruns from the original. On April 23, 2018, I was sitting around playing Trouble and Euchre with a friend from Madison and my kids, when my phone started beeping and lighting up. I was getting text messages, Facebook notices, calls and emails. HGTV had rerun the episode with my family filmed 17 years ago. 

Some people, who had known me for years, were finding out for the first time. It was a flurry of communications, questions, and kind ribbing. Now, once again, it has subsided. I brought it up today as I am clearing out old cell phone messages and texts.

The Faint Smell of Slightly Burnt Popcorn

I grew up in the 70s and 80s. My mom listened to Barry Manilow on the radio, drank Tab, which came in a tall glass bottle, and ate popcorn every day for lunch. Growing up she would make the popcorn in a pan with hot oil on the bottom. Then, air poppers became the rage, which is how I remember my mom most vividly. A bowl of air popped popcorn and a bottle of Tab. Poppers eventually gave way to microwaved popcorn. Once early on, mom over cooked a bag in the microwave. It smoked and burned and set off the smoke detectors in the house. For years the microwave smelled like burned popcorn. Barry, Tab and popcorn, all remind me of her.

Mom has since moved onto Michael Buble, Diet Pepsi and Smart Pop, but she is essentially the same girl. I look like her and my daughter looks like me. Although neither of us developed her love of soda, we both love popcorn and have an open and expansive taste in music.

I am partial to cheese popcorn, movie theater popcorn, and the half, partially opened, slightly burned “old maids” at the bottom of a bowl.

- Life Unexpected - 

It has been a rough few weeks and months. I started a new job, and “I have never felt so new in my life,” as one of my new colleagues so eloquently commented. At work, kids are in crisis, they can't communicate and I am falling behind on paperwork. I get bombarded with emails and others' priorities.

The last weekend in October, for the first time, I turned off my work email alerts and had a joyous weekend in DC with friends. 

I actually have ceased reading most emails altogether. I got my unread emails down from 1,700 to under 400, and now a week later, it’s back to 598. I’ve been unsubscribing to as many as I can, but it still takes time.

Also in October, a friend died suddenly and unexpectedly, leaving a family grieving a loss. A minister is resigning, leaving a beloved community in pain. Feelings have been hurt. A daughter has been to specialists for gastrointestinal and cardiac issues. Another daughter is applying to college and making life decisions. My grandma was not cared for, as she should have been, and lies in bed weeping, unable to wipe her nose, adjust her position or feed herself with two broken arms. A dear friend is struggling with major depression. Another shared a new breast cancer diagnosis and is afraid.

I tell my spouse I need help. He responds telling me to ask him, not tell him.

Still, life goes on. Birthdays. Kids in plays. Concerts. Classes. Dinners. Dogs. 

For work, I am trying to get my CDL so I can drive students to their community trips. It is a multi-layered, complicated process. I’ve gotten my fingerprints cleared by a federal database, had a physical, taken a school bus safety class on Labor Day weekend, and have checked out a bus three times to take the test. All three times, a student has been in crisis.

Yesterday, Halloween, I took my sheet of paper with the dates of all my screenings and tests that have been completed. I waited at the DMV to check in. I waited to get my picture taken. I waited until my number was called. It was a practice in patience. No cell phones are to be used at the DMV.

When my number was called and I approached the desk, the back of the form was incomplete. My employer hadn’t dated and signed the back of the form. The woman checked with her supervisor, no go. I returned the van. 

I also, the same Halloween, returned a heart rate monitor, sat while tears rolled down the face of a friend, and sat while my mom expressed frustration and disappointment, and grandma wept and repeated, “Can you believe what happened to me?”

Before heading home, to log into my work email, take notes, record minutes and let my teams know what my planned schedule is for the next two weeks, I stopped by a local foot rub place.

For one hour I laid on a low massage table bed. The place was sparsely populated, thanks to Halloween. It was quiet and dark. He started at my forehead, moved to my scalp and then covered my eyes with a small towel while he continued down my body. He smelled faintly of slightly burned popcorn. It was then I allowed myself to cry. 

Donut Mess With Me

Every Saturday from Spring - Fall, I stop by the Farmer's Market. I shop fruits, veggies, local honey, pesto, tamales, fresh cut flowers, and the best mini donuts in the world. I stop and chat with all the regular vendors. My donut guys are my favorites, a father/son team. I adore them. They treat me like Norm Peterson from Cheers. They are enthusiastic and happy to see me every time I show up. I feel like royalty around them.

Two years ago when I started this blog and was preparing to walk the Camino de Santiago, I carried a rock for myself to leave at the Iron Cross along the way. (https://50thingsinmy50s.blogspot.com/2016/07/a-rabbit-two-frogs-and-antelope-walk.html)
I set my intention and left it there at the base of the Cross, along with the thousands of other rocks that had been laid there over the years. I carried four rocks, one for me, a friend, a mentor, and Kevin, the donut guy.

Last summer, the son was going to miss a week. He was flying with his girlfriend to Iceland for a vacation and to propose. The regulars at the Farmer's Market were abuzz. This summer he got married. Understandably, there were no donuts that week, as father and son were busy celebrating a new life chapter. The following week the public was calling and donuts were needed. I subbed, while the son was on a honeymoon.

I got an official shirt, and only screwed up a couple of times.

I have subsequently filled in again. The son moved 250 miles away. His bride is in graduate school and he is teaching at a high school. He's been leaving work on Fridays, driving four hours, working with dad Saturday and Sunday, and driving back. Last weekend, I gave him a weekend off. He worked on the house and spent time with his bride, while I made donuts on Saturday and Sunday. It was a joy. I love hanging out with my dear friend and I enjoy seeing neighbors, friends, other vendors, the band directors, a chemistry teacher, and local kids with their grandparents.

Time to make the donuts, my friends.

A former life and a new life

I started my career as a school social worker. It looks like I will now be ending it that way as well. After spending 20 years working as a special education administrator, I have been, again, allowed the privilege of making career decisions that suit me - wherever I am - now.

The "me" I refer to keeps evolving and changing.

I loved being a social worker and I loved being a special education administrator. Now I get to fall in love all over again. I get to work with students who are already identified as having special needs. It's all special education, all the time.

I work with four classrooms of students with communication difficulties, behavior problems, intellectual disabilities, and sensory needs. We will be taking the students on monthly field trips. Next week I get my CDL - Commercial Driver License so I can drive a van load on these trips. I passed the safety test. Next, Rules of the Road and behind the wheel!

Tornado Tattoos

When I was growing up the only people I came across who had tattoos were people in the military and people who rode motorcycles. That remained my limited reality until “tramp stamps” (tattoos on the lower backs of young women - particularly evident in low-rise jeans and crop tops popular in the late 90's) started surfacing. Eventually, in 2003, Nick Lachey appeared on TV with his bride, Jessica Simpson, with a tattoo that banded around his bicep.

Now, tattoos are everywhere and on all sorts of body parts visible, and I'm sure hidden under clothing.

Two years ago I got my first and second tattoos. Since then I have gotten a third. Mine, as I’m sure are everyone’s, are meaningful to me. One I use as a labyrinth, and I trace it on my wrist with my finger to meditate and breathe. One is a word that reminds me to calm down and reflect on things I’m grateful for, especially when I'm feeling sorry for myself. My most recent is a park bench. I love a park bench. Park benches don’t randomly appear. They are placed with intention. When I see a bench, even if I’m driving by it reminds me to stop and slow down mentally, if not always physically. It reminds me to breathe and to be more gentle with myself.

Now so many of my friends and family members have tattoos. They include fish, honeybees, butterflies, dandelions blowing off the stem, semicolons, deltas, angels and hearts. This summer I got to see a friend I have not seen since my wedding in 1996. She had a tornado on the back of her neck.  We spent two days together, in a group of dear, long-time, friends. On my final morning in town, while stopped at a stoplight on our way to breakfast, I asked her about her tattoo.

She looked right at me and said, “Twenty-three years ago you said something to me.”

I stopped breathing, for a good three seconds, while horror and the word “what??!!” flashed through my mind.

She continued, “Twenty-three years ago you said, ‘You are the most intense person I have ever met.’ You said it as a statement without a hint of malice."

She went onto say, "Kansas is my home. We get tornadoes there. But, it also makes me remember that some people may find me intense and overwhelming. Also, it helps me prioritize because if a tornado actually came through my life, I would be able to let go of some of these little things that take up a lot of my time and focus on what is truly important in my life.”

Wow.

Mindfulness at the Korean Health Spa

At the end of this month I will be a certified yoga instructor. I have been taking a 200 hour class that has been specifically tailored to social workers, counselors, and health care clinicians. We have had wonderful instruction focused on Yoga and Mindfulness. Our instructor has brought in guest speakers, several women and one man, who are trained yoga instructors, yet who also work in a variety of settings with differing clientele. They work with the mentally ill, with those undergoing treatments for cancer, in correctional facilities, schools, with the geriatric population, with pregnant women, in the addiction field, as well as having backgrounds in chiropractic and Ayurveda medicines. I have, particularly, loved and learned so much from my classmates and colleagues. We are a group of average women who, together, have become extraordinary. I will forever be grateful to Dr. Kristen Brendel for her work, instruction and foresight to put this together in the first place. It has kicked my butt but has been a great experience.

While on a recent visit to San Francisco, I visited a Korean Spa. It is not the first time to this type of place, but for those of you who may not know the difference between "a spa" and "a Korean Spa", I will try to explain. In my experience, the difference between a spa and a Korean spa is the difference sitting in the lobby of a Four Seasons where everyone is speaking in hushed tones with indirect lighting, and sitting around with your entire extended family, in bathrobes, in your great-aunt's living room. There is just something different which, I love.

The Korean spa was, essentially, in a strip mall. It was next to a dry cleaner and bakery. There were about 8-12 parking spots that were full, with exception of one which had an orange cone sitting in it with "Spa" written on it. I hopped out and moved the cone out of the way so my friend and I would have a place to park.

We were given a robe each, sandals, a towel, and a lock. We promptly undressed, showered and headed to the hot tub. It didn't take long for me to get overheated and then jump into the cold plunge tub to cool off. It was refreshing, even if my skin did burn and tingle from the extreme change in temperature for the next few minutes.

My friend and I waited until we were called, by our assigned numbers, for our first treatment. We (numbers 9 and 14) headed upstairs, to a room that was riddled with eight white, vinyl, massage tables and as many women dressed in black bras and panties. We ditched our robes and the ladies proceeded of scrub off the outer layer of epidermis. In between scrubbing, my girl would pour pans of warm water over me. I was as smooth and slick as a greased pig. After my back side, she gruffly commanded, "turn over." I had to hang on, as I about slid off the table.

Afterwards, I waited until I heard #9 called again and I was lead into a private room and told to ditch the robe and lay face down again. I was entering my accupressure treatment. There were towels on the table, so I was no longer in fear of sliding off the table and suffering an injury. I should have paid closer attention.

Within minutes my new girl was performing some kind of circus trick from the parallel bars suspended over the table. She was walking up and down my back and driving her toes between my ribs and massaging my internal organs. It was during this massage that I started practicing what I'd been studying since early May - Mindfulness. I was breathing and focusing on the present moment. I attempted to quiet my internal dialogue from, "What the hell is going on?" and "How did I not notice the circus equipment?" and "Holy crap!" to a more Mindful, fully present dialogue of, "This is only temporary." and "Keep breathing." and "Don't worry, you have two kidneys."

Afterwards, while #14 and I laid on the floor of the salt cave and made plans for dinner, we practiced gratitude. We were grateful for a week of beer and fish tacos, unexpected and enjoyable time with new friends and old, and our time spent together in Oregon and California. Thanks for everything, #14.

Nose Rock!

An old dog gets a bone

I know myself well. There are very few things I could learn about myself which will shock me. I am an old dog.

I hate math. I hate science. I hate politics. Yet, I love a spreadsheet. I think people who don't believe in peer-reviewed science are idiots. And, I have found myself quite emotionally and passionately involved in how the leaders of our country treat their people. All of their people.

I had the pleasure of driving to Indianapolis, seeing old friends, getting a flat tire and staying overnight in West Lafayette, and paying a significant amount of money for charity to hear one of my idols speak. It was magical.

Gratitude Daily

I try to be intentional in demonstrating my appreciation of others. I am extremely lucky to be surrounded by a solid, loving, "will drop everything and go to bat for me" group of peers.

While I am grateful for so many things, there are days when I am down, depressed and hard on myself and others in my life. As part of my daily practice, or intention, I keep a mason jar on my desk with little strips of colored paper at the ready. Regularly, if not daily, I try to write down something I am grateful for and I stick it in the jar.

Naturally, not every day is perfect. As a matter of fact I could probably count on both hands the number of perfect days that I've had. Days you would think might be perfect such as a graduation, a wedding, a firstborn child, or a family vacation were smattered with an eye patch from a chlorine gas burn, exceedingly warm temperatures, vomiting blue freezy-pop into a dirty garden bucket in the car, and unexpected yet surprisingly frequent trips to the ER for stitches, poison ivy, broken bones, etc. Needless to say perfection is hard to come by thus, the Gratitude Jar.

My Gratitute Jar is a reminder to me to appreciate the life I have. I am healthy. I ate at my favorite restaurant for my birthday. Someone shared a cookie with me while I waited in line for 5 hours. I have had great neighbors growing up and currently. Someone made me laugh out loud.

It is especially important to take time to be grateful when all has gone to hell. At work I rarely have my door closed. On one particularly rough day at work I got up and shut my door to have two minutes of silence. My secretary walked in and reported that parents were here to talk to me, there were two phone calls for me, and... She looked at me and asked, "What are you doing? Are you doing art?"

"I am trying to think of one thing that I'm grateful for, then I'll be right out."

It's amazing how much better I feel when I remember how fortunate I truly am. For this, I am grateful.

Chicago

One of the best things about living in the Chicago area is its location. Chicago is a hub city. Friends fly or drive through frequently and I can get almost anywhere in the continental United States, fairly quickly

Of course, it's not the very best thing about living here. If you ask 100 people, you would get 100 different answers. The diversity. The food. The Lake. The transportation. The music. The festivals. The sports. The arts. The zoos. The gardens. The museums. The parks.

In one weekend I can go to a Mac & Cheese Fest, a Renegade Art Show, ice skating, and a concert. In November I saw the first Harry Potter movie with the score played by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It was amazing. It was seamless and fascinating to experience. I enjoyed it so much, I took my mom to see Singing in the Rain. Again, fabulous.

A Road of Possibilities

There's nothing quite as freeing as leaving a job. I have loved where I've worked, I have loved what I've done and, above all, I have loved the people. But, turning in that letter of resignation is frought with anxiety, uncertainness, and a big heavy boulder sitting in the pit of your stomach. All this is followed by a nice word, a sincere compliment, and a sadness producing tears. Then there is a lightness and road of possibilities.

In high school I spent summers lifeguarding, teaching swimming lessons, and water aerobics to the ladies. College lead me to volunteer at Planned Parenthood during the AIDS epidemic where I was teaching about safe practices and, what at the time was called, ARC - AIDS Related Conditions. My favorite gig during that time, however, was volunteering at The Ronald McDonald House. 

Ronald McDonald Houses, at least the one in Des Moines, have a host family that live there full time. My job was to stay at the Ronald McDonald House one weekend a month and let the host family go away for a weekend.

Families and patients check in and out of a Ronald McDonald House at all times, arriving after following an ambulance or helicopter containing a loved one. Families arrive after hours of travel and waiting at the hospital. Oftentimes, they are tired, distraught, and exhausted, as in the case of a very pregnant woman, who would sleep at the Ronald McDonald House, waiting to hear about the expected recovery of her husband who dove into a body of water and broke his neck on a picnic table submerged at the bottom.

One of my favorites was a 12 year old boy who didn't need to be hospitalized but who needed cancer treatments regularly so couldn't commute the hours from home. His parents worked so his grandma lived at the House with him. Grandma loved when I came because it gave hear a break from endless games of Rummy and watching music videos on MTV (it was the mid-80s after all). His face was swollen and misshapen from steroids and the other chemicals designed to extend his life.

I have made a career for myself in public education although, at times, I come home like I'm a guest at the Ronald McDonald House, tired, distraught, and exhausted. I love working. I am too young to retire, and even if I were old enough, I wouldn't do it anyway. I, instead, am open. I hope I have many more healthy, productive years on this earth, I just want to make sure I'm experiencing more of it.

I've got big plans. I've got big ideas.

There's No Such Thing As It Being Too Cold Outside

As my friend, Bob Rice, pointed out, "There is no such thing as it being too cold outside. There's only the matter of not having the right clothes."

I drug my friend Shelly to norther Wisconsin to go dog sledding. The day started bright, sunny and -8 degrees.

We drove half way between Cornucopia and Bayfield, WI along Lake Superior. One missed road closed sign would have been disastrous. We would have driven right into the frozen lake.

We arrived at Wolfsong and got geared up in proper musher wear. We greeted the dogs, fed the dogs and then wrestled them into harnesses. The puppies were last, as they quickly chew through the harnesses.

We had a quick lesson on how to ride a dog sled and hooked up the dogs. By the time we took off, I had a slight river of sweat running down my back and pooling in my long underwear. 

Two-thirds of the way through our forest trail, we tied up the sleds and the dogs and had lunch. It took about 35 minutes to get the dogs untangled and reattached to the sleds. Afterwards, we headed back to Wolfsong, unharnessed the dogs in reverse order, fed them, unlayered ourselves and went to Bayfield for Bloody Marys.

These are the only pictures of our trip, as at -8, the phone battery dies instantly.