I'm Going 'Round, 'Round, 'Round...

I'm picturing a hamster cage, sort of like the one here on the right. It's got a nice little hang out pad or dome on one end, which connects by a tube or passageway to the hamster wheel on the other side.

I believe I've become the hamster.

I've been here before; I think most of us have. It happens when we over-commit, forget how to say "no," and make promises we're not sure we want to keep. We find ourselves spinning madly out of control and getting nowhere fast.

Here's the situation. Everyday I go to work and do a job that I absolutely love. I know what needs to be done, I know how to do it, and I enjoy my responsibilities. I consider this the "hang out dome" part of my day. I am steady and content and sitting on my butt (at the computer) for hours on end. But around 3:30 or 4:00 p.m. as my day is about to end (hey, I start at 7:30 a.m., so don't judge me), I start to feel the slightest pang of anxiety. On my drive home, the traffic is much heavier than it should be, giving me entirely too much time to think. I spend 20-30 minutes considering what my options are once I reach my humble abode. For most people, heading home after eight-plus hours in the office is the best part of their day; the at home options are far better than whatever they've just left behind. For me, this transition time is the equivalent of the tube/passageway section of the hamster cage. As I pass through, my anxiety reaches a dangerous level, and before I know it, I'm on the hamster wheel.

As I spin, I know I have some decisions to make, namely, what should I do with my time? There's the gym, and I know I should go, but I don't want to go, even though I always feel better afterwards. Then there's my never-ending list of things to do. If I could handle just a few small things, I'd spend less of my weekend making myself (and my children) miserable with what needs to be done. One of my most stressful options responsibilities at home is making dinner. Like the gym, this is something I know I should do (if not for me, at least for the children), but don't want to do. Unlike the gym, however, I rarely feel better when I'm done. Mostly because my cooking stinks and I don't know what to make, and God forbid I try anything new (the picky eater being me).

If I survive those couple of hours before dinnertime, I now face a decision about what to do with my evening. That's assuming I don't have a meeting on the calendar for youth committee, church session, or book club, and that Abby doesn't have a sporting event that I'd like to attend (providing me with a very good excuse reason to not take care of other stuff). Do I clean? Maybe I should handle the laundry. Or put the dishes in the dishwasher, and wipe off the table, stove and kitchen counters. For some reason, the prospect of cleaning up after I've just tortured myself by making dinner (or serving bagel bites), is more than I can bear. And don't suggest that I have the kids clean up. No one else in the house can properly load a dishwasher. But I digress.

Because I am a completely insane individual, I recently decided that it would be fun to add a little something extra to my list of time-killing obligations. I committed to spending about 10 hours a week handling the social media for an organization I'm fond of. Normally this is the kind of work that I would thoroughly enjoy, but because 1) it's brand new, and 2) I'm spinning on a hamster wheel, the whole thing has me a little stressed out and wondering what I've gotten myself into.

You might be saying to yourself, "I wonder what Kim really wants to do with her time?" Well, it's nice of you to ask, and I'm not embarrassed to say that I want to catch up on American Idol (love that Harry Connick Jr.), watch last week's episode of Scandal, or binge watch some new series. If we want to pretend I'm more highbrow than that, then let's say I'd like to read, or at least play spider solitaire (I'm up to three suits!) or sudoku until my eyes glaze over and I can shut my brain down and go to sleep.

Ah, sleep. My happy place. The other night, Abby asked me why I go to bed so early. Without hesitation, I told her that some people do drugs to deal with stress; I go to bed. (Then I asked her to fill my weekly pill organizer; the irony wasn't lost on either of us). It's true. Sleep has always been a wonderful avoidance technique for me. I recall during college, if I felt the least bit tired, I could convince myself that sleep was more important than my school work. Worked then. Works now.

Not surprisingly, by going to sleep early, the morning comes more quickly. I love mornings. I realize this makes little sense, given the way I've just compared my life to a hamster cage, but for some reason everything dissolves away overnight and I wake up happy, even though I know what I'll face at the 4:00 hour. Makes me think of the movie Groundhog Day when every day is a repeat of the last. I'm detecting a rodent theme here. Of all the animals I could compare myself to...

The good news is that I think I may have found a solution. I've been asked to join the Sanctuary Choir at our church (I felt flattered at the invitation, but in reality 1) they will gladly take anybody and 2) they just want to use me to help bring the median age down closer to 60). Singing has always been a source of joy for me. In fact, it's one of my favorite memories of my Pop Pop: "When you're unhappy, Kim, just sing." So I might say yes to this choir opportunity. That will take care of Thursday nights, giving me one less evening to figure out on my own. Although it does add one more commitment to keep...

Hanging on by a thread...

Pieces of Home

Before I begin, I have to apologize to all my Southern friends and friends with Southern friends. Last week's post about my social awkwardness offended more people than anything else I've written, including thoughts about race, sexuality and religion. That's saying something! Those of you who know me best know that I was aiming for humor when I commented on the geographic differences between women. It should go without saying that there are millions of intelligent and accomplished women across the country. When it comes to a sense of humor, however, well, that's another story. KIDDING! Let us stand united in our awesomeness! And now, let us give thanks for Thanksgiving ...

I enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner last week the same way I have enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner for all but one of my past 40+ years -- at my parents' house. There was one year in which I temporarily lost my mind and decided to host the meal myself. Thankfully, I regained my senses and that never happened again.

My mom and dad have lived in the same house on Old Orchard Drive practically since the day I was born. There was something about being there this year that felt different, however. It wasn't just the newly refinished hardwood floor and a new look for the old coffee table. It wasn't the fact that my mom didn't make her traditional lettuce with bacon dressing (which I never liked anyway), or that I discovered there have always been onions in the filling (not to be confused with stuffing). No, this year was different in the way I saw my childhood home. It was as if I was looking at it from outside myself. Like I was seeing it through the many stages of my life and my parents' lives. Alright, I can't put it into words. Just work with me.

I'm sure the loss we experienced in 2013 was a major contributor to the "visions" I had on Thursday. Most of you know that two of my aunts, my mom's sisters and best friends, passed away within six months of each other. And other older relatives dealt with their share of health-related issues. These experiences were an unwelcome reminder of my parents' age, a fact of life that many of my friends are also facing. While I generally prefer to ignore all the signs that tell me they won't live forever, my parents are pretty matter of fact about their stage of life. For years, my dad has had a hand-written letter prepared with his "wishes," along with a "guest list" of names of those who are to be invited to his funeral (you better not piss him off if you want to make the cut). He's currently working on handcrafted wooden boxes for the cremated ashes of my mom's two living sisters, and I think my mom has put in a request for hers as well. Yes, it's definitely becoming harder to ignore.

In light of this new reality I'm being forced to acknowledge, everything at "home" came with layers of meaning and memories this year. I didn't just pull a glass from the cupboard. Instead I opened the cupboard and noticed the variety of glasses and recalled them being in those very same locations 30 years ago. It meant trying to remember if those Philadelphia Eagles glasses were a collector set from the supermarket or the gas station. It meant looking at the characters on those colorful kiddie cups and having no clue who they are. This year, there was more than a touch of nostalgia in the selection of serving dishes and trivets.

This year, playing Monopoly with Ian and my sister wasn't just about beating her as payback for more than a decade of Monopoly abuse. This year there was something sentimental about how worn the board and the money had become from years of use. There were memories of painting the little green houses and gluing them to a poster board for a school project. There was the annual reminder from my mom that she hates playing board games because I never gave her a break from them when I was a kid.

Though every room on the main floor of my parents' ranch home has been redecorated since I moved out
nearly 20 years ago, the basement is exactly as I left it. The same wood paneling and the bar that my dad built. The old fashioned ice cream table and chairs that had been my grandparents'. The same archery trophies on the shelves. The same muzzle loader and deer antlers on the wall, albeit with a couple new deer and fox skins. The same furniture, including the couch that Rob and I destroyed with a few years worth of premarital snuggling. The same gazillion-page Volume Library from 1977. It was like stepping back in time.

More than just the flashback of memories, I found myself wondering, "What will we do with all of this when the time comes?" My ever-prepared dad has given me directions for a number of things, but what about the rest of it? Will I ever be able to get rid of that dish, this game, those photos, that table, this bed, those records? I'm fairly confident that I'll be able to toss the plastic floor plant and that useless downstairs couch, but what about the hundreds of other little things that each hold some kind of meaning? I was both nostalgic and miserable just thinking about it.

Hopefully I'll have my parents for another 20 years and I won't have to deal with any of this for a very long time. For now, I'm just thankful to have a childhood home filled with countless good memories.

Grumpy Old Woman

A foreshadowing of things to come?

I turned 44 last month. One year closer to my mid-40s and middle age. I'm not often bothered by getting older, except for the gray hair and the hearing loss and my complete inability to read a pill bottle without glasses. The one real concern I have, however, is my potential for becoming a mean, grumpy, crotchety old woman. I'm already seeing signs:

1. The "fun" I have being snarky, sassy and sarcastic in my blog is slipping over into "real life." For example, during his last visit to PA, I scolded my 4-year-old nephew for eating some of the rice from my Chinese food. I wasn't serious, of course (though I really don't like sharing my rice), but he gave me the death stare and then burst into tears. Damn kids and their tears. They'll do whatever it takes to get what they want. 
   Same thing happened when I saw some kids with their dad in a Dunkin' Donuts when I was on my way to Dutch Wonderland. I casually mentioned I was going there and how lucky I was and what a shame that their dad wasn't taking them somewhere cool like that. Again, the death stare (from the dad) and the tears (from the kids). Whatever.
2. As I'm getting older, my confidence/attitude is leaning more toward "I don't give a damn." I feel like Kathy Bates in "Fried Green Tomatoes" when she goes a little nuts and tells those bitches in the parking lot at Winn-Dixie "Face it girls, I'm older and I have more insurance" (see video below).
3. I'm more easily angered. Anger was never a prevalent emotion for me, but lately, perhaps because of the uptick in bullsh*t in my life, I definitely have a greater tendency for getting ticked off. Where I used to have a "stay out of it, keep your mouth shut, what's the point of starting something" attitude, I now feel like calling out people who are arrogant, talk out of both sides of their mouth, and don't stand up for what is right.
4. I'm becoming defensive and starting to think that "don't go down without a fight" is a way of life that I've overlooked for too long.
5. My skin is thickening. Someday I'll resemble a reptile. I'm learning, rather late in life, that it I have to toughen up if I'm going to survive in this world. Yes, there are people who don't like me. There are those who think I'm too outspoken. Some who don't think I'm "nice." Not being loved and adored used to bother me (just a few months ago), but my corporate bitch of a sister gave me a good talking to and set me straight.
6. Finally, I need increasing amounts of alone/down time. I don't want to answer the phone, respond to texts, send emails, go to meetings, visit friends, cook dinner, run errands or even write blog posts. After a full day at work, all I want is to curl up with my iPad, and sometimes my cat, and fall asleep nice and early.

As evidence of this "change" (not the change, I hope), I'm finding the greatest enjoyment in spending time with my family (at least when I can't be alone). I actually like my kids' company, and that's saying something given that they're teenagers. Even better is a day on the boat with my parents (and the kids, too, assuming they're not whiny). And for a little slice of heaven give me a getaway with Rob and throw in a dear friend or two. 

As often happens when I put my issues/feelings/angst/funkapotomusness into writing, I'm blessed with some insight. The occasional "A Ha!" moment. Having put it all out there, it occurs to me that at least some of my personality disorder changes can be attributed to evolving family dynamics. I have two children who are torpedoing toward independence. I've also experienced entirely too much loss in the past nine months. In addition to the understandable haywire affect it's having on my emotions, this loss and change is calling me to re-prioritize. And shocker -- it looks like family really does come first, with friends and faith right up there as well. What's less important is the stress of a job, the need for a clean and tidy home, and social obligations with people I really don't want to spend my valuable time with. 

Today I leave for vacation -- Breckenridge, CO -- and it can't come soon enough. It's been a tough summer. It's been a tough year. I'm ready to get away from it all and focus on the stuff that matters. I may even refrain from checking my work email. 

Just one more thing. Before you think I've truly become an evil person, I didn't actually torture some stranger's kids at Dunkin' Donuts. You didn't really think I could actually be so heartless, did you?

You Can Go Home Again

You know how selfless moms are? They spend more money on their children than they do on themselves. They save the last piece of cake for the kids. They devote every waking minute to make sure the needs of their offspring are being met. Based on that description, I'm not actually a mom. I'm more of a mother (don't say it).

My mom, however, was, and is, that kind of mom.

Yesterday was mom's 70th birthday. You know what that means? It means I'm getting old. (Notice how I bring everything back to me?). Monday night I drove to my parent's house (about an hour away) to surprise my mom. She was certainly surprised given that I haven't been there in months. She was probably shocked that I remembered how to get there (but she was smart enough not to say it).

I love my parents dearly. I enjoy their company. I don't, however, feel the need to go home to their house. After all, I am a busy woman with a full-time professional career, a stupid number of volunteer responsibilities, and two children who can't drive. This means my free time is limited and, when I have any, I want to be home with my family and friends. This is another example of how not selfless (I suppose you could say "selfish") I am.

I also frequently point out (or would point out if I didn't think I would get in trouble for my "back talk") that they are retired and therefore have all the time in the world to come visit me at my house. In between soccer games, church stuff, school events, and social obligations, that is.

And that leads me to my "a ha" moment. I think my parents want me to visit them at their house because they get to have me all to themselves (and who wouldn't want that?). They don't compete with all the stuff going on in my life when I'm there. They don't have to listen to me yell at the kids (there's less to yell about at Nana's house). Of course they don't have to drive and spend the money on gas, either. (Where do you think I get my thriftiness?) And I think being together in my childhood home reminds them of when I was a little girl and they were the center of my world. As my children get older and I imagine them moving out and moving on, I have a sense for what that will feel like (though these days my children moving out sounds like nirvana).

Naturally my surprise visit for mom became a treat for me. Dad shared stories from when he was a young Navy sailor hitchhiking his way home from South Carolina. Mom passed along a small photo album from their wedding which had belonged to my grandmother. We ate out for every meal (I spent the night and much of Tuesday). I slept really well. And we laughed. A lot. I always forget what a respite going home can be.

Mom, Happy Birthday. I love you. And thanks for guilting me into coming home.

My party girl. Mom and I on St. Patty's Day 2011.

Time for the Talk, Part 2

We returned home from the Outer Banks late Saturday afternoon and after settling in a bit, Rob hugged me and sighed, "It's nice to be home." At which point I almost broke into tears. And not because his hug was squishing me, but rather because the moment I walked in the front door I felt overwhelmed by responsibilities.

Later that evening, while contemplating this unpleasant reaction to coming home, it occurred to me that depression, angst, frustration, and a general sense of being unable to keep up are not what home is supposed to be about. "Home" is supposed to be a place of refuge, a sanctuary away from the troubles of this world. I decided that if home is going to be "where my heart is" I needed to make some changes. So I sat the family down for "the talk." And not the talk where mommy resigns. That was last month. This talk was intended to keep mommy from resigning in the future.

In this talk I blamed everyone else for my unhealthy emotional and mental state calmly explained to my family that mommy needs more help, and not just from doctors and pharmaceuticals. I explained how, if everyone does their part in taking care of our home, mommy would be much less likely to run away and join the circus happier. I made a list of all the very basic ways they could help me, including:

• Cleaning up after they make a mess
• Wiping off the table after meals
• Putting dishes in the dishwasher instead of piling them in the sink
• Picking up their stuff
• Not leaving dishes, candy wrappers, empty food boxes, etc. in various places in the house

In addition, I told Ian that he owes me an hour a day for whatever help I need in order to earn his gaming time. And Abby will not be allowed to get together with friends until her clean clothes are put away and her dirty clothes find the hamper. As for Rob, I asked that every weekend we try to complete one item on the house to do list.

I confessed to the family that I can be neurotic, obsessed, controlling a bit over the top in my expectations, but that together we can make home a happier place for everyone. I also noted that, while in the past I failed miserably with follow-through (we all know it's sometimes way easier to do it yourself than to deal with the attitude), this time I was going to nag them incessantly stay on top of things so that their helpful behavior becomes habit.

Suffice it to say that by bedtime everyone hated me. Abby ended up in tears, asking why mommy "can't just relax and be happy," at which point I once again explained that that was the very goal of my new approach to home administration.

I'm happy to say that Sunday was more successful; productive even! We went to church where we prayed we wouldn't kill each other and afterward Rob mowed and swept, Ian did yard work, and Abby helped clean the bathroom.

And this morning before school, proving that my new approach is working just beautifully, Ian left bread crumbs next to the toaster, on the dining room table, and in the bathroom (??). He left dropped cereal on the kitchen floor and his bowl on the counter. Abby also left toast crumbs on the table, and her latest painting project in the middle of the kitchen floor. But the good news is that I'm drinking my way smiling through it, realizing this won't be an easy adjustment for them, but determined to stick to it or pay the price with my sanity. The cereal remains on the floor, the crumbs remain where they left them, and paint and newspapers still grace the center of my kitchen. When the kids get home from school I will very gently (so as not to upset them) remind them of the promises they made on Saturday night and put them directly to work. Should be a breeze.

Wish me luck. Say a prayer. And send bottles of pinot grigio.