Adventures in Racing, Girl Scouts, Puppetry, and Bad Guys

After another rough night day week month, I was going to write about the insidious nature of depression. But that’s depressing. So I thought maybe I’d cheer myself up and get a laugh out of you by recapping my Saturday adventures.

It started with my first 5K. A "5K 2Care 4Kids," to be exact. My church was sponsoring the event to raise money for education for kids in Haiti and Liberia. I helped promote it from the pulpit, explaining that you didn’t have to run to participate because I, for one, only run when chased. So I showed up, dressed to run because the clothes are cute, but ready to walk. Rob was planning to run, and Abby was undecided until the last minute when she confidently announced that she was running with the intent to win. We got those cool little number bibs that make you feel like a real athlete, and off we went, Rob and Abby at the front of the pack, and me hanging back with the stroller brigade.

Those three miles were filled with lots of chatter, fellowship with friends, laughter, and tears. For a change the tears belonged to the little ones, not me. Abby finished with an impressive 10 minute mile (having never run a race in her life), and I finished. In less than an hour. Barely. But to be fair, I did double back a few times to catch up with friends and take my turn pushing little ones in strollers. I’m sure if it hadn’t been for those detours I’d have finished with a strong 17 minute mile. I should also note that yesterday my doctor told me that my iron levels are so low I’ll never run a marathon. So that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

With my runner’s “high” in full effect, I left the race and headed off to the day’s second activity: chaperoning Abby’s Girl Scout troop’s visit to the Children’s Festival in Philadelphia. I was in such a good mood I didn’t even mind being stuck with 19 eight-to-eleven year-old girls, usually my definition of hell on earth. We enjoyed an uneventful train ride into the city with a fresh but funny ticket guy, strolled through U Penn’s surprisingly gorgeous campus, made some arts and crafts, watched an interpretive hula hoop dance, listened to African drumming and then headed in to the theater for the performance of Basil Twist’s Petrushka, a Russian puppet show.

Floating Instruments

Now I like to consider myself a cultured person. I enjoy foreign films with subtitles, after all, but I have to admit I sat there thinking, “What the hell is this?” I shared baffled looks with my personal group of 4^th graders as we became hypnotized by floating instruments, airborne hens, balls of light and giant spinning wheels, until graced by the presence of a ballet dancer who flirted mercilessly with both a clown and a muscle-bound machete-carrying African dude. The whole thing was bizarre as hell incredibly abstract until the point where Mr. Muscles takes the ballerina lays her down and starts making out with her. I’m thinking “You go literal now?? With a bunch of kids at a children’s festival?” The show ends with Mr. Testosterone chasing Mr. Clown through a forest complete with an over-sized bear and killing him with a machete to the back. Children's entertainment at its finest.

The make-out puppets

The puppeteers came out after the show and conducted an illuminating Q&A with the audience. And thankfully one of the Girl Scouts asked what everyone else was thinking: “What was that about?” I later learned that one of the youngest girls with us took another leader aside and asked the really important question “Why was that dude on the ballerina? What was that all about?”

Having received our dose of artistry and culture for the day, and having earned our “freaky puppet show” Girl Scout badge, our gaggle of girls made its way back to the train station. And that’s when what little maternal instinct I possess was set to high alert by the presence of what I’m fairly sure was a predator with a shoe or foot fetish. An older gentleman, maybe in his 60s, nicely dressed in a Ralph Lauren sweater and khakis, was strolling about the platform with a slight grin on his face. He watched my girls with obvious pleasure, and repeatedly focused his beady little eyes on their shoes. Or perhaps he was trying to see through them to their little girl feet. But it wasn’t just the little girls he seemed enamored with. I also saw him checking out a couple of the other moms (and their feet). Let's just say I may not be able to run a 10-minute mile, but I was more than prepared to kick 100% of his creepy ass.

So that was my Saturday. An interesting day to say the least. And far more entertaining and blog-worthy than this pesky depression crap I'm dealing with. Writing is becoming more of a challenge these days, so bear with me till we get the meds straightened out :-).

Till next time...

Freakin' Angel Discovers Harmful Effects of Social Media

You know how sensitive I am. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've started at least one blog post with those very words. Maybe more than one. So for part 2 in a series of "Pity Party Posts" we're going to address the harmful effects of social media on self-esteem.

You probably know I've been obsessed immersed in this social media thing for a while now. I'd say I'm majoring in Facebook with a minor in blogging and a certificate in Twitter. No one, meaning me, was getting hurt in my foray into the big bad world of cyberspace. I hadn't even withheld intimate relations punished my husband for having a couple hundred more Facebook friends than me.

But as you've heard a few million times now, that darn social media marketing course came along and changed everything. When I learned you have to read others' blogs in order to find new readers for your own, I started reading this Scary Mommy blog. Scary mommies seem to fit my style. And that's when it hit me. Social media is just another way to feel badly about yourself.

I recently read one post Scary Mommy wrote about 80s sequels. It elicited 101 comments, 16 tweets, and 65 likes. She proudly notes on her site that she's been seen in Parenting, CNN, MSNBC, Redbook, Baltimore Magazine, The New York Times and Ms. Freakin' Angels, on the other hand, has been mentioned nowhere other than in front of my aunts at the diner for breakfast. On a good day I get three comments, 6 likes, and no tweets.  

Damn. It's high school all over again.Wondering if anyone will vote for you for homecoming queen, ask you to a movie, invite you to their party, or sign your yearbook. Waiting in the shadows for someone to friend you. Or like you. Or invite you to join their group.

Today we wait to be Friended or Liked (Facebook), Followed, Retweeted or Mentioned (Twitter), Invited (LinkedIn) and Followed or Commented on (blogs). There are entire sites dedicated to helping you find out how popular you are. You can check out SocialMention.com, co.mments.com, Google Alerts, Twilert, and Google Page Rank, or search bookmarking sites like digg, reddit, delicious and Technorati for mentions of your name. For the record, I show up nowhere.

I'm fairly certain there will be an entirely new branch of psychotherapy to deal with people traumatized by social media.

In an effort to protect me from the harmful effects of social media and the expensive therapy bills I foresee in my future, how about both of you you do the following for this post:

• Comment on it
• Like it
• Tweet it
• Bookmark it

And if you're not already, please join as a Freakin' Angel follower. And follow me on Twitter @freakinangel. And be my friend. And invite me to dinner. And your parties. And to the prom. Thanks a million.

Is More Ever Enough?

Warning: This post is being written in a weepy, tired, and frustrated state. The blogger will not be held responsible for the contents of this post. 

This is the first in a series of "Pity-Party Posts." 

Do you ever wonder if you could be more than you are? Or maybe you don't even wonder about it. Maybe you're pretty certain you could be more than you are. Maybe most days you don't think about it at all and you're completely satisfied with life as you know it. But perhaps once in a while it occurs to you that you're messing up if you're not maxing out on your potential. That's where I'm stuck right now.

I'm blaming the stupid social media marketing course I took last month. Actually, it has nothing to do with that particular course, which wasn't stupid at all. It's just that going back to school, even for one week, made me think about what I'm doing with my career and what I could be doing and probably should be doing. It's not that I want to change careers or even where I work (because my employer is actually a blessing in my life, seriously), but I think I could be doing more. More publicity. More sales. More social media. More promotions. I could be learning more by reading more in the trades, on twitter, in white papers, in newsletters, on websites. I could be setting trends, leading the way, displaying innovative marketing techniques for small non-profit publishers everywhere. I could be writing articles, speaking at conferences, being sought out as an expert.

Of course if I were able to do all that would I be able to teach Sunday school, or serve as president of the PTO, or volunteer at the animal shelter, or teach English as a second language? Oh, that's right. I'm not doing any of those things either.

It must be because I'm spending all my time playing with my kids, and cooking great meals, and decorating the house.

Um, no.

So I could be doing more, lots more, for my family and my community, too. 

I'm struck by the irony of feeling completely overwhelmed while feeling guilty for not doing more. Of not living up to my potential. And all these feelings are serving only to stymie any ability I may have to more forward. I think it's called the "paralysis of analysis."

And I wonder how we know when we're done doing more. Do we ever reach our potential? Do we ever feel there's nothing left to do, or will I be lying on my deathbed apologizing for not giving life my best effort?

And when I hit the button that says "Publish Post" I'm going to feel badly for not giving you something humorous which is what you really want and expect from me. And I'm going to wonder if you think I should have saved this kind of stream of consciousness bull crap for my personal journal not my public blog. And I'm pretty certain these kinds of posts will lose me readers, not get me more. And that's contrary to today's theme of "more."

But I'll take my chances. Count on the kindness of strangers and committed Freakin' Angels. And hope you'll stay tuned for my next Pity Party Post: "Technology Offers New Ways to Feel Bad About Yourself."

A Bitch and a Laugh

With apologies to poet T.S. Eliot, I would have to say that March is the cruelest month (Eliot bestowed that honor on April). In addition to the extremely crappy weather, in March I lost my dog, had sewage back up into my newly-finished basement, spent my children's college education on home expenses above and beyond expectations, and wrapped up the month with a sinus infection and bronchitis that left me bedridden for the better part of this past week. Still, I'm trying to keep it in perspective, count my blessings, yada, yada, yada. 

Since a real blog post isn't in the cards for me right now, I'm going to share this quite delightful bit from British writer, actor and self-described tall person, John Cleese. And if you need a movie to watch in between Phillies games this weekend, in tribute to Mr. Cleese, go rent "A Fish Called Wanda" and have a laugh for me (I'd do it myself but it still hurts too much).

ALERTS TO THREATS IN 2011 EUROPE : BY JOHN CLEESE
The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent events in Libya and have therefore raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.

The Scots have raised their threat level from "Pissed Off" to "Let's get the Bastards." They don't have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.

The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country's military capability.

Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing."  Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."

The Germans have increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels .

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Australia , meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to "She'll be alright, Mate." Two more escalation levels remain: "Crikey! I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend!" and "The barbie is canceled." So far no situation has ever warranted use of the final escalation level.

 -- John Cleese - British writer, actor and tall person

 

When It's Time for "The Talk"

There comes a point in every mother's life when it's time for the talk. The kids never want to hear it, and you never really think you'll have to "go there," but it happens. You heard it from your mom, she heard it from her mom, and so on. It usually goes something like this:

That's it. I quit. I resign. I give up. If you think you have it so bad here why don't you go live at Johnny's house?

The talk is usually preceded by one of these off-the-cuff comments from your childr(en):

• Mom, can you turn off the vacuum, I can't hear the TV.
• [with 5 minutes notice] Didn't I tell you I need brownies today (or my gym shirt washed, or a sheet of poster board, etc.)?
• Susie's mom never yells at her.
• I'm not eating that!

Last week I had the talk with my children. I'd been feeling like crap all day, but struggled to my feet to make them dinner, trying a new recipe in the hopes of breaking free from our Cinnamon Toast Crunch  hot dogs and mac & cheese chicken and broccoli routine. Both children took one look at what I was serving and announced "I'm not eating that!"

At this point, in my calmest mommy voice, I announced my resignation, told them they could make their own dinner, and stomped off to my bedroom and slammed the door. I crawled in bed and cried until my husband came home and made the mistake of asking what was wrong. I told him that I was terminating my (poorly negotiated) contract and stepping down from my position as mommy.

I am very mature.

Unfortunately, I am completely unable to stick with my resignations (this is not the first time I've handed in notice). Even while furious in bed that evening, I kept thinking, "How are they going to know there's rice in the microwave? It's going to dry out and have to be tossed." And after Rob wisely removed the children from the house before I could seriously consider eating my young, I actually went to the kitchen, fed myself the lousy meal with dried out rice, and then cleaned up the mess.

In addition to boycotting the role of chief cook and bottle washer, I've also been known to swear off cleaning and picking up after everyone, convinced there could be a dead body in the living room and everyone else would simply step around it. But alas, my staying power is no stronger there.

I know I'm not the first woman to retire/quit/resign from the role of mom, but I wonder if there's a better way to see it through, at least until it actually makes a difference in my family's behavior. I've learned that the positive results of my meltdowns generally have a staying power of less than 24-hours. If you've ever stepped down from your matriarchal position, please share what works for you. Your good advice could be just what all of womankind needs in order to not have a mommy-meltdown in vain.

Hairspray, Traffic Circles, and Diners (a.k.a. "How You Know You're in Jersey")

This has been a week of tributes to the fine state of New Jersey where I took my fast-paced and supercool social media marketing class at Rutgers University. On Monday I used a good amount of hair spray. On Tuesday I contemplated going to a movie (the nation's first drive-in theater was in Camden). Today is Wednesday and I am saluting diners.

If you live in New Jersey or have ever been there, you know that there is one diner for about every 10 people in the state. Okay, that's a slight exaggeration. But there are seriously a boatload of diners, and don't just take my word for it. According 50States.com, New Jersey has the most diners in the world and is sometimes glowingly referred to as the Diner Capital of the World. New Jersey is also home to the world's tallest water tower, however you can't eat there.

For some strange reason, I am a big fan of diners. Last week I went to two of them, one in Cinnaminson for dinner before my trek to Rutgers, the other in Piscataway for breakfast before my class. Truth be told, the food wasn't that great at either of them, and when I think about it, I'm not sure I've ever had a really good meal at any diner. This is probably why my high school friend Tom confessed, "I only ever end up at a diner after I've had too many drinks."

So what attracts me to diners if it's not the good food? I've narrowed it down to these three possibilities:

• The cool stainless steel exteriors with the neon lights
• The 27-page menus that offer everything except foie gras which I would never eat anyway
• The dessert cases you see when you first walk in the door

Who am I kidding? It's the dessert case. The interesting thing is I never rarely hardy ever get dessert. By the time I've loaded myself up with pancakes, hash browns, and bacon, or mashed potatoes and gravy, overcooked beef, rolls, and applesauce, there's just no room left for the good stuff. And for some strange reason I never rarely hardy ever buy something to take home with me.

So there you have it, my personal diner reflection. Perhaps tomorrow I'll dive into why so many of them are owned by Greek families (my new Rutgers friend Eva can possibly help with that one).

Now, please share with Freakin' Angel readers the best or worst diner experience you've had!

In Search of a Role Model?

Saturday was my dad's 70th birthday. With all the mental exertion I spent in class last week, I forgot to even buy him a card. In an effort to make it up to him, this post is dedicated to my dad.

First, for those of you who know him, you know my dad doesn't look like a 70-year-old man. I always enjoy shocking folks by revealing his age. If his hearing loss and increasingly slow driving didn't give him away, you'd never know he was older than his early 60's, tops. But good looks aside, my father has a laundry list of commendable qualities, including:

• A selfless desire to be there for his friends. Just ask them.
• Compassion for living things (with the exception of squirrels and skunks and game that he likes to eat) I will never forget the time he pulled the car off to the side of the road to pick up a turtle that sat in harm's way.
• A desire for knowledge. My father tends to feel badly about himself for his lack of a college education, but without question he is one of the smartest people I know. The engineering/architectural type things he can figure out with a paper and pencil would blow your mind. And he's not a bad writer either!
• Second to none craftsmanship. Need proof? Come see the beautiful wood work he did in my living room. He's got offers from my friends for projects that would keep him busy for years.
• A great protector. Whether it was bumps in the night at home as a kid, or in rough ocean waters with him on the boat, I have never felt more safe with anyone in my whole life.
• A great provider. How many people do you know who could put two kids through college and pay for two weddings without a penny of debt, all on a welder's salary? My dad still fights the urge to take care of my sister and me. (Dad, for the millionth time, we don't need an inheritance, we need you and mom to enjoy your retirement. Go spend your hard-earned money.)
• Unquestionable moral and ethical fiber. Whether he's returning a stranger's lost wallet or refusing to take a sick day, my dad's integrity, work ethic, and honor are second to none. Could a kid ask for a better role model?

Now, lest we proceed to have him anointed for sainthood, the reality is that my father isn't perfect. For instance, you wouldn't want to be with him when he's negotiating to buy a new car. And you probably don't want to engage him in a discussion of politics. And he can be maddeningly obsessive in his work. And sometimes he makes questionable decisions, like driving with a dead skunk tied to his truck hitch in order to dispose of it in the woods about a 1/2 mile away (should I mention it was rush hour and he passed bus stops,  traumatizing children in the process?) But all in all, my father is without question one of the people I love most in this world, and I couldn't be prouder to say he's mine.

Happy 70th birthday, dad!

Mom and Dad a couple years ago on a trip to Mexico (the last one I tagged along on...sigh)