Worse Than Texting While Driving. Really.

I did not write the following article. Not to worry, I've given the proper credit to the author. And seriously, once you read this, you will understand that there is NO WAY in the world that I could pass on sharing this exquisitely insane TRUE story. Enjoy. And then go to town with your comments. I can't wait.

Ladies, shaving and driving don't mix

Written by Celia Rivenbark

By now I'm sure that most of you have heard about the Florida woman who caused a two-vehicle wreck because she was shaving her bikini area while driving.

Guess that makes the time you drove with your elbows while eating a Whopper seem downright virtuous, doesn't it?

Florida Highway Patrol troopers said the car Megan Barnes was driving crashed into the back of a pickup truck at about 45 mph. Her reaction time was slowed down because she was too busy grooming her hoohah to pay attention to the road. Oh, like that's never happened to you?

Ms. Barnes told the investigating officer that she was on her way to a date and "wanted to be ready for the visit."

Yes, she wanted to look her best. All over. Except, well, we've seen Ms. Barnes' mug shot and she appears to have a face that would stop a clock and raise hell with small watches, bless her heart. To be blunt, I don't think a perfectly groomed love rug could possibly make that much difference.

It could've been worse, I suppose. Ms. Barnes could've been waxing her bikini area as she drove along in her T-bird (Yes, fun, fun, fun till the po-lice took her T-bird awaaaaaayy) on those scenic bridges. Imagine the horror if she'd tossed the used wax strips out the window. The manatees might have tried to adopt them.

Hons, I've driven on this particular stretch of highway between Miami and Key West and it's flat-out beautiful with crystal blue water, gorgeous mangroves and cloudless skies.

Not once have I been so bored that I decided I'd rather drag a sharp blade over my nether regions just to have something to do.

There are so many "You might be a redneck if" elements to the story of Megan Barnes, but my favorite is that, while performing this extremely personal grooming ritual, she asked her EX HUSBAND to steer the car so she could concentrate ("Help me out, Buford, I'm gonna make it look like a LIGHTNING BOLT!")

What a guy! Not only did he hold the steering wheel so she could concentrate on primping for her big date with ANOTHER MAN, but when the cops arrived, he tried to switch places and claim he'd been driving.

Trouble was, he had burns on his chest from the airbag that had deployed on THE PASSENGER SIDE ONLY. Oops.

To no one's particular surprise, the Highway Patrol quickly discovered that Ms. Barnes didn't have a valid driver's license. Oh, and, the day before, she'd been convicted of DUI and driving with a suspended license. Oh, and her car had been seized and had no insurance or registration. Oh, and she was on probation. Oh, and SHE'S A FLIPPIN' LUNATIC!

Albeit an impeccably groomed one.

Celia Rivenbark's newest book, "You Can't Drink All Day If You Don't Start in the Morning," is available nationwide. Visit www.celiarivenbark.com for details.

Originally published April 28, 2011 on Open Salon

Is It Over Yet? Part II

Part One can be found here.

When I was in the eighth grade, I was unbelievably shy. I blushed when anyone spoke to me and I had a devil of a time looking people in the eye. I tried to fly under the radar as much as possible. For reasons I’ve never quite understood, when the time came to sign up for electives for the next year of school, I chose Speech as one of my elective classes. The class description clearly outlined what would be required of students who signed up for the class and it was obviously geared toward people with a more outgoing nature than I possessed. But, I remember thinking that it would be a good way for me to overcome my shyness, so I took a deep breath and signed up for it.

The first time I had to stand in front of the class to give a speech, I was, of course, terrified. I had worked diligently preparing my speech, practicing in front of the mirror for hours on end to make sure I remembered every word, but also that I paced my speaking in a way so as to meet the required three-minute length. Standing in front of that mirror, practicing away, three minutes didn’t seem all that long. I’ve got this, I thought. I could not have been more wrong.

When it was my turn to get up on the stage, my heart was in my throat and I was sure that my classmates could see my pulse thumping wildly in my throat. I broke out in a cold sweat, focused my eyes on a spot in the back of the room just over the heads of my audience of peers, and took a deep breath in preparation for speaking. I then proceeded to spit out my entire three-minute speech in such rapid-fire prattle that I finished the whole speech in just under thirty seconds, which was, coincidentally, the exact same amount of time it took for me to run completely out of breath. So out of breath was I, that I literally bent forward at the waist, greedily gulping in huge mouthfuls of air with a great gasping, sucking noise that surprised not just me but the entire class and my wonderfully supportive teacher, Sue Patton.

Mortified though I was, I had to stand there, motionless, until the bell dinged to signal the end of my allotted three minutes. The room was deathly quiet as I walked back to my desk to take my seat. Then, mercifully, Mrs. Patton called upon the next victim… err, uhh… speaker and the world started to spin on its axis once again. Another very important part of Speech I was critiquing the work of our fellow students. When I received my stack of critiques at the end of class, I was shocked to find that there wasn’t a single unkind note among them. The one I remember best said simply, take a breath every once in a while.

Speech class became my favorite class and I even participated in debate exercises… and loved it.

All these years later, I still don’t know what part of me found the intestinal fortitude to face my shyness by signing up for that speech class, but I surmise that it is that very same sense of self-preservation that, at the age of 53, made me decide that cowering in a self-imposed corner for more than five years was quite enough and I should find a way out of it.

Reluctantly, I found a therapist and did the unthinkable. I asked for help. Against my better judgment, during our very first meeting, I poured out my sorry tale of woe in its entirety; even going so far as to tell her that I was sure my dad had been murdered by his wife. I was sure she would write me off as some crackpot with paranoid delusions or, worse yet, label me a certifiable nut job and send me on my merry way. Amazingly, she did neither. Instead, she listened to me and never once looked askance at me. She scheduled me for several more sessions during the next few weeks – two a week, at first, because, she said, I was clearly in crisis. She did not say that my imagination must have run away with me or yeah, sure your brother was innocent – ha, ha, wink, wink, or oh, yeah, right, the bank illegally foreclosed on your father’s business. And when I told her that I had always been a fairly successful person until the last five years when I became intimately acquainted with being a failure, she gently told me that my thinking was skewed and that I was not a failure. When I cried to her that I was angry with my dad because he had dumped this mess in my lap by not leaving a will, she reminded me that I had told her that he made a will and had told me where to find it. Remember, she said, you told me the will was not in his safe and you said you thought his wife had disposed of it?

Yes, that’s right, I said, how did I forget that? How did my thinking become so distorted? I can’t even keep my facts straight, I despaired. It was then that she carefully explained to me that some very horrific things had happened to me and my family and I had clearly done everything humanly possible to right those terrible wrongs. She told me I had not failed. It was simply an impossible task and one that was out of my hands. I’m not a failure, then? I didn’t fail?

No, she said. You’re not a failure. She let me sit with that knowledge for a while before she asked me the next crucial question. Perhaps, she said, this is not merely depression you have been fighting. These are very traumatic events you have been through. I think you need to consider the possibility that you have been experiencing PTSD.

A light bulb moment, if ever I have experienced one. A rush of emotions overtook me. I’m not crazy, I’m not a failure, traumatic things happened and I had no control over them. For the next week, I could think of nothing else. Finally, I began to understand. My therapist told me, just as depression is treatable, so is PTSD.

I realized I still had a life ahead of me. There was a reason for the black pit of despondency I had been living in and there was a way out of it. It would be impossible for me to overstate the significance of that revelation. As the weeks passed, I realized that I had stopped waiting for the next devastation and had begun taking steps back in to my life.

I feel as if I recently emerged from a long, dark tunnel. I’m still amazed at the ability of an excellent therapist to help me reframe thought patterns that had twisted and distorted into a veritable prison which had held me captive for five long years. As we are wont to say here in Texas, God bless her heart.

I know that I am still gleaning lessons from the ordeals of the last several years and that it will take me time to process everything that happened. I also know that I am finally standing on solid ground and I am once again looking forward to the future.

Five lost years was quite enough. I have time to make up.

Originally published March 2011 on Open Salon

Is It Over Yet?

I have always lived my life by the axiom That which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. I believed it, and often blithely made that comment to others when they related their latest trials or tribulations. Certainly, I had lived through enough life experiences that felt to me as if I should have died from them, and certainly, those experiences had indeed made me stronger. So, it wasn’t just a trite statement that I was mindlessly tossing out to my friends and family. I had lived it. I believed it.

Summer of 2010. My mantra for living no longer contained any sign of optimism or strength. My once cheerful, hopeful disposition had morphed into one of cynicism and despair. Although I had lived under the cloud of depression for all of my adult life, I had managed, through therapy and the prudent use of prescribed medications, to keep it in check, if not completely under control. Not anymore. By the time the summer of 2010 rolled around, I had become a glass half empty person, refusing to believe there might be brighter days ahead. I had convinced myself that the specter of gloom and despair that had been my constant companion for the previous five-and-one-half years was the norm, that I had somehow lucked out in having a long run with good fortune prior to that. Now, I routinely told myself, any good fortune was solidly planted in my rear view mirror. I had become the kind of negative person I had always avoided.

My naturally buoyant nature kept trying to reassert itself, but every time it did, my newfound cynicism firmly planted a boot atop it and pushed it back down. I doubted, I scoffed, I ridiculed, I disparaged. Pessimism settled into my bones like arthritis where it ached and throbbed, robbing me of any sense of peace – be it physical, mental or emotional. At my lowest point, I went to bed every night with one thought in my head: Is it over yet?

That one thing alone should have scared some sense into me, but it didn’t. After weeks of that single despairing thought tormenting me every night, I let go. I pitched myself into the blackest of pits, the deepest hole of despondency and I settled there. I waited to die.

I didn’t ask myself how I got to that place. I didn’t care. I just wanted to die.

But, how did I get there? What started me on that downward spiral? I was well-versed in the matter of dealing with depression. I had danced with that particular devil on numerous occasions and never before had I allowed myself to be hurled into the pit. I was a survivor. I made things happen; I didn’t just let life happen to me. I was a motivator, an encourager, a go-to girl who always had answers. That woman had disappeared and I hadn’t even noticed.

The erosion of my ebullient self began with the death of my father in February of 2005. His death set in motion a chain of events that would challenge even the most determined optimist. Still, I forged ahead, doing what had to be done, fighting the good fight, believing that good triumphs evil and that truth eventually wins out. Settling his estate involved lawsuits, the FBI, a number of mind-numbing betrayals and the discovery that evil in its purest form can and does touch our lives even when we think we have done everything possible to protect ourselves.

All of the deeply held beliefs that formed the foundation for my life crashed down around me during the next five years. Somehow, I managed to keep up the pretense of living my life, but my mind and heart slowly, inexorably crumbled into tiny pieces, leaving me completely broken on the inside. For the sake of brevity, allow me to present a short synopsis of the events of those five and one-half years.

My brother went to prison (framed by my dad’s wife and ex-business partner), the business partner and my dad’s bank then stole my dad’s business, a $300,000 life insurance policy that was held as collateral on the business, and I came to understand (through very bizarre circumstances) that my dad’s death came at the hands of his wife. No, I can’t prove it, not without exhuming his body, but I know it to be true. Arsenic poisoning. I suspect this is the same method she used on her two previous husbands, who also died mysterious deaths.

All of these things happened in the first two years after my dad’s death. Try as I might, I was not able to close the estate for another three and one-half years. During that time, my mother passed away, as did my grandmother, and I lost three jobs (no one wants to employ someone who is totally bat-shit crazy and can barely hold a rational thought.) Additionally, my sister and I embarked on a failed crusade to get my brother out of jail and prove the bank had illegally seized the business from my dad’s estate, my daughter suffered a miscarriage (during which time I was too far gone to be of any comfort to her), my son went to jail, then prison (drugs), and I lost my mind.

And that, dear reader, is the path which led me to the point where I let go and fell headlong, without resistance, into that blackest of pits.

Now, I know that horrible things happen to people all the time. Long chains of horrible events happen to people all the time. I have always considered myself a strong person, one who is able to withstand most any hardship. But, I have also always been someone who does not ask for help. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, call it what you will, but the simple act of asking for someone to help shoulder the load has always been anathema to me. Even my online moniker is a tell-tale sign of my unwillingness to admit any weakness or the need for help of any kind. Unbreakable.

Ah yes, Unbreakable: (adj) unable to be broken. And yet, I broke. My mind broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt like a failure (after all, I had failed to get my brother out of jail, I failed to get the business back, I failed my daughter, I failed my son… the list goes on.) To sum up: I was a failure, a broken failure.

I was at the bottom. Apparently determined to stay there. But, I’m not there today. What happened?

Continued…

Originally published March 2011 on Open Salon

Into The Light

_{photo source}

Well, whadya know? I find myself in a most curious state. As I left my office today and stepped out into the crisp air, a thought ambushed me. I am content, I thought. Then, immediately on the heels of that thought, Huh. I really am content.

After the longest happiness drought in the history of me, not only is my head above water, I have actually climbed onto the shore and am standing upright looking into the sun. Looking into the sun! For the last few weeks, I've been asking myself two questions:

Number 1: How in the world did I get to the place where I went to bed every night thinking, Is it over yet?

And, Number 2: How was I able to find my way out of that wretched place?

If you're expecting profound answers to either of those questions, I don't have that to offer. I can only tell my story in the simplest of terms and hope that, in doing so, I can offer even the slightest hope to anyone reading this who may be going through the same type of darkest hell.

Melancholy has been a familiar companion to me for the better part of my life. Depression is a condition I have wrestled with on more occasions than I care to count. My dark companion had dogged my steps so closely and so often that I began to understimate the power of the disease. I grew weary of the label and the stigma of depression and, maybe, somewhere in the back of my mind, I began to believe the lie that I could wish it away or power my way through it.

I never stopped taking the medications which had been prescribed to me, and when the clouds rolled too close, I would return to my doctor seeking a change of medication. This approach worked well enough, if not ideally, until February of 2005, when life began delivering a series of knock-out punches that just kept coming.

I won't go into detail about all the life-shattering events that took place over the last six years because my experiences are not unique or even all that unusual. Perhaps, had it not been for the convergence of so many traumas in a relatively short time period, I might have come through it, if not unscathed, at least on the friendly side of sanity. Possibly, there could have been a different outcome if I had more fully appreciated the insidiousness of a disease of which I had become too accepting. Finally, maybe it was a combination of all those things - a 'perfect storm,' if you will. I don't know.

What I do know is that I began to feel ever more powerless to fight the clouds of depression that surrounded me more often than not. As I sunk deeper and deeper into that dark pit, I did exactly what I knew I shouldn't do - I began to withdraw, incrementally, from my life until I eventually found myself on the outside looking in. Oh, I would rally somewhat on the odd occasion, but it never lasted long. And it never made much of a difference.

There came a point when I stopped being the "glass half-full" person I had always been. I made that choice. I remember making the decision that I had been wrong all my life; that I had been fooling myself all along with childish optimism. That was the turning point. From that moment forward, I no longer looked at life and saw possibilities or opportunities. I sat down and wallowed in my depression.

Make no mistake, I am not taking the simplistic approach that the control or lack of control of depression is a mind-over-matter situation. On the contrary, I know that the treatment of this disease is multi-faceted and a truly monumental task. But, I also believe that one's mindset is a powerful tool and can either help or hinder the process. I could no more will myself out of depression than I could wish it away; but, my willingness to be overtaken by it or to fight against it was, and still is, a major component in the degree to which it affects me.

For whatever reason, after nearly six years of spiraling downward, something snapped in me and made me reach for a lifeline. That lifeline came in the form of a wonderful therapist and a decision on my part to participate in my own life once again. I don't claim to understand the forces that were at work to push me out of the deepest, darkest pit I've ever experienced, nor can I even begin to identify the impetus for it. But I am grateful for it. Whatever it was.

The path from is it over yet? to I am content was a journey of both agony and joy - a mystery that I may never fully comprehend. One thing I do know, however, is that familiarity does lead to contempt. My familiar and cavalier acceptance of my disease was almost my undoing. I won't make that mistake again. Depression is a formidable foe. Understanding that is key to surviving it.

Someday I may write of the depths to which the darkness took me, but I think not. I choose to remain standing in the sunlight. I like it here.

I am content.

Originally published February 12, 2011 on Open Salon

Learning From the Negatives

Okay. Here’s what I’ve been thinking. I’m pretty sure that how I got so “off track” was that I was so busy trying to figure out who I needed to be, I forgot who I am. Despite what I tell myself when I’m in the depths of depression and self-loathing, I really do know who I am and what I believe, etc, etc. But I have a tendency to slip back into that people-pleasing mode from childhood (you know the one – you get it from growing up in a bat-shit crazy family with a bunch of alcoholics and drug addicts. Yep. That one.) And when I do that, the people-pleasing thing, there is no possible way I can be true to myself. That, of course, is crazy-making behavior. Voila!

When I start twisting myself around trying to make someone else comfortable, I’m the one who suffers. Now, I’m sure this isn’t a big revelation to a lot of you, at least, not to those of you who have all your shit together in a tight little bag, but to me, it’s HUGE. For whatever reason, I keep having to relearn this particular lesson. For pity’s sake, I wish it would stick already!

Count me a bit behind on the New Year’s resolution thing, we’ll just call it a new resolution. And here it is: I resolve to be ME – 100% unadulterated, unapologetic, and only slightly filtered (let’s face it – there are some things that just don’t need to be said.) I’m going back to my no-holds barred, shoot from the hip, take no prisoners style. No wonder I’ve felt like my skin didn’t fit right lately. IT DIDN’T! I don’t know whose skin I’ve been walking around in, but it sure wasn’t mine.

I feel better already just thinking about it. In fact, I may break a bone trying to pat myself on the back. Let’s think about this for a minute or two. How does one lose oneself (one’s self? – come on, all you editors out there, help a girl out here) so completely that one does not even recognize that one is lost? One does not know, but it surely happens. I’m sure I’ll be pondering this for a while trying to come up with some answers. Those of you who know me well know that I like for everything to fit into a neat little box with all kinds of reason and rhyme to back it up. It’s been so long since things (and when I say things, I mean LIFE) made any sense, that I can hardly remember what that felt like. But, I tell you, I’m about to find out again.

For one thing, I’ve walked through life tentatively for the last few years, not making decisions, just allowing the ebb and flow of circumstance to push me along. That is so NOT ME. Well, NO MORE. No more tentativeness, no more wishy-washy, no more on-the-fence.

Who was that masked woman??

The Vince Vaughn Train Has Left the Station

As I watched The Ellen DeGeneres Show today, it became apparent to me that I have not been paying enough attention for the last… oh, quite a while. Ellen’s first guest today was my favorite lust object, Vince Vaughn. ***Major sigh***

 

Vince was there to plug his new movie, which comes out today, but also to talk about his newest and most adventurous role to date – fatherhood! Wait, what? Vince Vaughn has a baby? Then that must mean… gasp! … I listened in shocked silence as he gushed about his wife!  His wife. He’s not only a daddy, he’s married. What hole have I been hiding in that I was not aware of this important bit of information?

As it turns out, this is very good news for my husband. I informed him today when he came home from work that he is no longer in danger of my leaving him to run off with Vince Vaughn. As you can imagine, he was hugely relieved. Now that Vince is out of the picture, I can safely say that I’ll be staying put. Vince is married and that’s that.

 

Of course, there is always Johnny Depp, but frankly, he’s just too bohemian for me. Yes, I do know that his bohemian bent is largely responsible for his incredible attractiveness, however, my primarily conservative nature would probably go on tilt with a full-time diet of Johnny Depp. I’m not saying that a short ride on the Depp train wouldn’t be a mighty nice diversion, but, well…

 

 

The Mystery of Grief

Grief is a sneaky thing.

On my way to a job interview two days ago, I was feeling particularly buoyed, having had the benefit of several almost back-to-back sessions with a new (and apparently very capable) therapist. As I drove, I reflected back on the conversations I’ve had with the new doctor, filling her in on the traumatic events of the past several years. In particular, we had concentrated on the events surrounding my dad’s sudden death: my very strong suspicion that my dad was poisoned, the horrific probate fight that drug on for years, the ex-business partner and my dad’s banker who framed my brother for bank fraud and sent him to prison for fifteen months (stealing Dad’s business in the process.) Yes, I know, I sound like a paranoid delusional crazy person, which is why I don’t talk about it much and that has apparently contributed greatly to my shaky emotional status of late.

All of this was in the mental stew that was boiling in my mind as I drove along heading for my job interview. I happened to notice a new business, a steel fabrication company. It just so happens that was the kind of business my dad owned. As I read the sign with the company’s name, I felt a little flutter of happy in the back of my mind. Pure reflex kicked in as a fully formed impulse presented itself in my consciousness. I reached for my cell phone, actually had it in my hand before reality yanked me back to the present. I was going to call my dad, anxious to tell him that I was taking control of my life again. It all happened in a split second – the jolt of happiness, the impulse to call, and then the clutch in my stomach as I remembered – he’s gone.

Suddenly, my mouth was agape, my eyes filled with tears and I felt the grip of grief. My dad has been gone for six years, not to mention the fact that I was consciously reviewing the circumstances of his death at the very moment that I had the impulse to give him a call. It was a surreal moment. I marvel at the capacity of the human brain to compartmentalize so completely that such an event can occur.

I wonder if the trauma of those events somehow stunted the natural process of grief. As I woodenly marched forward through all those months following his death, performing the necessary tasks by rote, somehow managing to do everything that had to be done, did I so successfully compartmentalize the events that I never fully experienced the grief? Or was it just some kind of “brain glitch” that allowed the two experiences to fully co-exist in my brain that day – the full realization and analysis of my dad’s death versus the complete momentary lapse of awareness that he is gone?

I don’t know the answer to that question. I only know that the stunned realization that I couldn’t call him that day, or any day, was so fresh, so intense, that it took my breath away. I miss my dad. Maybe the healing process has begun.

 

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Have You Seen My Missing Life?

 

 

It just goes to show you, it’s always something. I’ve never been one to ascribe to this line of thinking, but the tragedies falling like so many dominoes around me for the past six years have flipped a switch within me, turning me into the Roseanne Roseannadanna of the twenty-first century. Mimicking the attitude of the brash, explosive character played by the lovely and talented late Gilda Radner was certainly not something to which I aspired. For most of my life, I have considered myself an unapologetic optimist, a glass-half full kind of gal with a penchant for looking for the proverbial silver lining in every cloud.

I tell you, I thought I was gonna die! Another Roseanne Roseannadanna gem, this phrase has taken on a life of its own for me. Oh, joy! As if I always wanted to be a bitchy, 53-year-old woman with a healthy sense of impending doom. In my previous life - before I became an unrepentant pessimist – friends would have described me as happy, fun-loving, friendly, and (not to be forgotten) optimistic. My smile was perennially plastered on my face. Where the hell has that woman gone?

What are you trying to do, make me sick? I remember when I turned fifty, I was seeing a therapist (and in this case, I use that term very loosely, a more fitting title would be emotional terrorist) who glibly informed me that very often, when women turn fifty, they redefine their lives and emerge as a stronger version of themselves. This she told me as I sat in her office a blubbering, shuddering mass of exploding emotions. A year later, after extensive torturous mining of my shattered emotions, I made the decision to leave her office and never return; resolving instead to find my own way through the minefield that had become my life.

So, how did that work out for me, you may ask. Not so great. Not really great at all. Seems my therapeutic skills leave much to be desired. Hence, the pessimism, bitchiness, doom and gloom attitude, etc, etc.

Having grown weary of being the reincarnation of the brash, road-weary, explosive Ms. Roseannadanna, I jumped back into the pool and found another therapist. She is the polar opposite of my former emotional terrorist therapist. I’m actually starting to believe that the sun may very well rise again and someday I may start looking for those silver linings again.

Maybe I’ll even find my sense of humor again. What a bonus that would be!

The Only Way Out

 

_{photo by menchaca17}

LIFE IS ALWAYS MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD BE...

As we near the end of yet another year, so arrives the inevitable impulse to engage in reflection. We grade each passing year – assigning words like good, worst, best - as if the preceding twelve months have somehow earned a rating, a pass or fail on some celestial report card. We hand out wishes for a happy new year like so much confetti at a parade. We stack last year alongside previous years and compare, judge, rate; we reflect. We make lists chronicling the year: the best of, the worst of, my favorite, my least favorite. Again – reflection, grading, rating.

When we finish dissecting the year past, we start on the year to come. Now our reflection turns to speculation. We wonder at what the New Year holds, we set goals, strike bargains with ourselves, hope, wish, and dream. More confetti wishes sprinkle our conversations with each other. It’s not that our words aren’t sincere, for indeed they are. We certainly hope for better times, both for ourselves and for our loved ones. It’s the human condition to seek improvement, to long for more or better.

Given all this reflection and wishing and hoping, the question begs asking: do we stop there; or are we moved to action? There is a choice to be made on every level, be it personal, professional, relational, and even on a grander scale all the way to global. Do we make the choice or do we settle for wishing and hoping?

On a personal level, I am forced to admit that I have become a voyeur of my own life. I have allowed myself to become so overwhelmed by the capricious nature of life that I have settled for letting my life take its own course, instead of grabbing the reins myself. The state of malaise I have wallowed in has led me to a place of deep discontent. The bad news is that I’ve reached a dead-end. The good news is that the only way out is up.

All of my reflection has led me to understand that I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting for my life to take a turn for the better. I have graded the past six years and found them wanting. Yes, those years were filled with knock-out punches, but that is nothing novel. Who among us hasn’t faced some of the worst life has to offer and still come back swinging? I simply stopped swinging back. It’s as if I sat down in the rubble and refused to get back up. Then the tide of life easily carried me to that proverbial dead-end.

I don’t like this dank, dark dead-end I find myself in. I haven’t liked it for years, but it became familiar enough that I was willing to stay there. For whatever reason – providence, divine intervention, the encouragement of family and dear friends (yes, you, dear ones) – I finally remembered to look up. Yes, indeed, the only way out is up. I’m headed in that direction.

It’s a beginning…

 

Amy's Birthday by Kimberly Ashby

Amy's Birthday by Kimberly Ashby

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Flame Throwers – A Handy Household Item?

In keeping with my philosophy that one cannot be oh-so-serious about life all the time, I would like to have a discussion about flame throwers. Yes. You read that right. Flame throwers. Not a subject that comes up too often in daily conversation, you say? Well, that's all the more reason to talk about it now, wouldn't you think? Let us proceed.

In the words of the inimitable George Carlin (man! I miss that guy!) "The very existence of flame throwers is proof that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I'd really like to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done."

Here's a picture of your basic flame thrower, just in case you've never seen one:

I have occasionally encountered folks that I might like to throw a little fire onto. But purchasing a conventional flame thrower isn't as easy as just waltzing into Wal-Mart, plunking your money down on the counter and walking out with your brand-spankin'-new, state-of-the-art flame thrower. Believe me, I've looked, and there is no flame thrower section in Wal-Mart, Target or even Academy. What's an angry woman to do in this case?

Well, never underestimate the ingenuity/stupidity of your basic, bored, inebriated 20-something hardy partier.

"Fire breathers" turn their own bodies into flamethrowers by pouring fuel (typically kerosene) into their mouth and holding an ignition system (typically a torch) in front of them. When they spit out the kerosene, the torch ignites it, creating a dazzling stream of fire (only professionals should attempt this -- it is extremely dangerous). The technique is definitely low-tech, but the operating principle is exactly the same as in the most expensive military flamethrowers!

Courtesy of howstuffworks.com

Seems like problem solved, doesn't it? Should be, but experienced "Fire breathers" never seem to be around when you need them. Dammit.

HOPE

Kids grow up so fast. It seems as if my grandkids change almost overnight. I couldn't resist posting these adorable photos. Happy children doing what kids are supposed to do - just being kids - no worries, no fear, simply innocence. Watching these little ones grow up with their innocence intact in loving homes is the best feeling in the world. It makes me believe there is still hope for this crazy world we live in.

Planned Obsolescence

I was reading a friend's blog entry a few days ago, in which she discussed the issues she's having with her car and the difficulty of getting it repaired. As I read, something clicked in my memory and a phrase I first heard almost thirty years ago popped into my mind. Planned Obsolescence. Think about that for a minute.

Way back in 1980, I heard a very successful businessman from the local community lecture on an insidious trend in the American economy. He used the phrase "Planned Obsolescence" to describe an economy built on the foundation that every product we buy has a pre-determined "shelf life" of short duration. His premise was this: rather than using quality components to build everything from toasters to cars, manufacturers had begun a shift toward producing products of lesser quality and considerably less durability, believing that American consumers tended to prefer new and improved products over the tried and true. With this mind-set as a foundation, it was easy for manufacturers to push consumers toward the belief that "buying up" was preferable to repairing something broken. Accordingly, consumers performed true to those predictions and the result was a move toward a "throw-away society." Combining that shift in thinking with a marketing campaign that constantly touted "new and improved" products = a better, more satisfying life, consumers could conceivably be pushed toward making more purchases, more often. Consequently, instead of building a quality product that would not only last, but could also be repaired, thereby lengthening the "shelf life" of said product; there has indeed been a shift toward turning out "throw-away" products. The trend started with small household products - toasters, coffee makers, can openers, for example - and was so successful that it has now permeated every strata of the manufacturing industry, from electronics to furniture and even up to, and including, automobiles.

The American public, with its constant hunger for the newest, biggest, and best, has wholeheartedly embraced the concept of the "throw-away" society. If the toaster breaks, we don't repair it; We throw it out and go buy a new one. If a lamp quits working, it's time for new lamps. Two issues are at work here. Number one: the toaster and the lamp are designed and manufactured to wear out after a predetermined amount of time, having not been originally constructed to be durable or worth being repaired. And number two: have not small appliance repair shops met their demise, having been made obsolete by our obsession for newer and better "stuff" and by the impracticability of repairing a product that was manufactured to wear out in the first place?

Surely, there are still manufacturers that build a quality product with premium materials - products that are indeed made to last. But these products are in a class all their own now with a price tag that is inaccessible to the vast majority of the general public. As the concept of "throw-away" products has invaded the thinking of the American public, the phrase a quality product at a reasonable price has become as obsolete as have our two-year-old toasters and four-year-old computers.

In a society that assigns little value to the concept of permanence, newer is always better, old is obsolete and rampant consumerism is guaranteed, even in times of economic downturn. The throw-away society has created a vicious cycle that the American consumer is stuck in. We are caught inside a trap of our own making. If we were to even recognize the extent of our folly, how would we begin to turn the clock back? How does a country, a society, an economy turn back from the planned obsolescence train of thought and once again embrace the virtues of quality, craftsmanship and permanence? Is it even possible?

Before and After - the First Flip

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Blueberry Eyes

Is that not the cutest little face you ever saw? Little Isaiah with the big blue eyes that just melt your heart. Grandchildren have this amazing ability to turn the world right-side-up again.

I have four grandkids - three boys and a girl. Their energy is unbelievable. I often wonder how I managed when my kids were growing up. I had four at one time - two girls and two boys. When I went to the grocery store, invariably someone would ask me, "Are ALL those kids yours?" Then the next question would be, "Do they all have the same father?" I can't tell you how many times I got asked that question. I was always flabbergasted that anyone could be so crass. People are weird. They just open their mouths and say whatever pops into their minds. Can you imagine ever asking a complete stranger such a personal question? Sheesh!

And because I was young and always thought I had to be so polite, I would answer them. "Yes," I would say, with a shocked look on my face, "they all have the same father." Too bad I was so polite back then. Or maybe not. Probably wouldn't have been a good thing for my kids to see me acting all pissy to complete strangers.

And now they're all grown up. My mother used to say that the older you get, the faster time flies. I was a total smart-ass and I always said, "Mom, that's ridiculous. Time is time. It always goes the same speed. An hour is an hour, a day is 24 hours whether you're 9 or 90." She would just look at me with this placating smile on her face. Turns out she knew what she was talking about. Time really does go faster as you age. It's not a logical thing, it just IS.

And so it goes. Time marches on....

Beautiful Belgium

Brussels, Belgium - what an incredible place. Not only will I be digitally scrapbooking pictures from our trip there, I will be making scrapbook pages the old fashioned way. Pictures of place that beautiful deserve both. Here's one of the first digital pages.

Easter at Mimi's House

What can I say? I love to show off my grandchildren. Adorable, aren't they? This is a fun page - lots of colors, not too cluttered, a lot of emphasis on the pictures. I love it!

Warning: Word Purge Approaching

The writer in me is restless. I feel as if I have a huge jumble of words clogged up in my brain, twirling around and around like a tornado. I get this way when I have personal obligations pressing on me - you know, financial stuff, my husband's rapid-cycling moods of late, worry about any number of things. I think I would feel better if I could just open up my brain and take out the swirling word tornado. But it's not really the word tornado that is giving me grief. It's all the other "life stuff."

I'm the world's worst procrastinator. Seriously, the absolute worst. I will put things off until I have to break my neck to get them accomplished. When I was working, if I had something to do that I dreaded, I had to make myself get it done right away in the morning, because if I didn't, I would waste the entire day just finding inconsequential things to keep me busy to avoid doing the thing I didn't want to do. This whole procrastination thing is one issue I never explored when I was seeing a therapist. So, I don't know why I procrastinate so badly, but I do and it gets me in hot water sometimes. But, I'm still glad I never addressed it with my therapist. Jeez, I gave her enough mental bats to swing at me as it was.

That's the reason I quit going to her after a year. I always felt she was never satisfied unless I left her office crying. And I just started to feel beat up every time I went to see her. I just stopped going. I told the front desk to cancel all my appointments, but I never said anything to her directly. Mainly because I knew she would pick up one of those mental bats I had so freely armed her with and swing it at my head.

So, I guess it will always be a mystery why I am a procrastinator. Ah well, there are worse things than being a procrastinator. Although sometimes I'm pretty sure that my husband equates it right up there with being a serial killer. I can see the headlines now:

Serial killer strikes again, City terrified!

and then, right beside that headline:

Serial procrastinator still at it, husband felled by the stress of it all!

Okay, I can hear you all laughing, but it's not funny. Have you ever been awakened bright and early by a barrage of questions? "Did you remember to blah, blah, blah? And don't forget to blah, blah, blah. Don't tell me you haven't done ABC yet!" All of this while I'm attempting to swim up to consciousness and make sense of the words my husband is firing at me. It is not a pretty picture. I've learned now to just say yes, yes, yes, of course I did. Then he leaves the house, happy as a lark; and I kill myself that day getting everything done that I said yes, yes, yes to.

I work better under pressure. When I have a deadline to meet, I will meet it or die trying. And it doesn't count, apparently, if it is a deadline I have set for myself. It has to be imposed by a third party to light a fire under me. I don't know why that is. Go ask my therapist - but I warn you. Be careful, she has deadly aim with those mental bats.

I feel somewhat relieved at having spewed words onto the page. You, dear reader, on the other hand are probably asking yourself, What the heck just happened? Was that a tornado, or what? And the answer is: Yes. Yes it was--a word tornado and boy, oh boy, do I ever feel better!

Digital Scrapbooking

Have you ever done any digital scrapbookng? At first I wasn't too fond of it. I like the "hands-on" approach of traditional scrapbooking. But the more digital scrapbooking I've done, the more it's grown on me. I've even been designing my own background pages and that's really fun. Over the next few days, I'm going to post some pages that I'll do on my custom-designed background pages. Watch for it - I think you'll like it.

Oh, the Places You Will Go!

I had to find a new boyfriend in Dam Square, because my last one (see picture below in preceding blog) was nowhere to be found. I chose this guy because of his really white teeth and the fact that he's such a snappy dresser.

Amsterdam was great this time around. There was just the right amount of chill to the air, no rain, lots of sunshine - just perfect. The hotel was great, the food was waaaaayyyyy better than I remember it from the last three times we were there and we were able to do a lot more sightseeing together than we've done before, thanks to a lighter schedule for Hubby at his conference.

We went to a wooden shoe factory where we saw the automated process that is now used to make wooden shoes. Fascinating! There are two machines - one to carve the shoe out of a big block of wood and another to scoop out the inside of the shoe to make room for a foot. The machine that shapes the shoe works on the same principle as a key duplication machine. The "pattern" shoe is locked into place, then the block of wood is locked in next to it. The machine operator turns the machine on and presto-chango a few short minutes later, you have a wooden shoe. The new shoe then goes to the second machine, where the inside is scooped out by an automated drill. Then the shoe is buffed and sanded and placed in a storage place to "cure." The wood is very wet, so it has to dry out for quite a while, but once it dries and hardens, the shoe is virtually indestructible. Somehow I still can't imagine how wooden shoes could be very comfortable, but supposedly they are. I didn't feel the need to buy a pair to test the theory, so I'll just have to take the shoemaker's word for it.

We saw three of the last operational wooden windmills that still exist in Holland. At one time, there were hundreds of them, now there are only a handful left. We even got to go inside one of them and see the inner workings. It was amazing. As was the Cheese Farm, where we were treated to a demonstration of the process for making Edam cheese.

But the absolute best part of our trip was the side trip we took to Brussels, Belgium. We rode the train from Amsterdam - it was a two-and-a-half hour trip. Brussels was incredible. I fell in love with the Old-world charm of the city. I took picture after picture - the architecture there is stunning. We drank Belgian beer, ate genuine Belgian waffles and bought Belgian chocolates. Brussels is breathtaking in its beauty and the people were charming - very warm and friendly.

On the train ride back to Amsterdam, I found myself marveling at the fact that we were able to hop on a train and a few short hours later, step off the train in a whole other country! The train system in Europe is amazing. We want to go back and tour Europe by rail.

I'm still jet-lagged, so I hope this post makes sense. My brain feels quite mushy at the moment, truth be told. I'll write more about our trip on another day when I can gather my wits a little better.