I've always committed myself to letting people be who they are going to be and respecting them for that. I found early on that my husband was not that into the whole baby thing. He just wasn't interested and I was genuinely OK with that. The two of them (my husband and our son) would figure it out without my two cents worth. Didn't fathers and sons just sort of gravitate toward each other to do man things? I'm shrugging here, because I only know what I see and what I've been told. Most of it is what moms would like us to think about the father of their children.
I'm a little to blame here, but not for the reasons it might appear. I'm to blame for all the right reasons. My son is like me. He is wickedly awesome creative and an undeniable artist on guitar. He loves to draw and even went to gymnastics for a little while. Now that was cool. He excelled in his art classes in school. He pursued his loves and I didn't try to steer him in any direction for self pride or gain. I didn't buy him his first jersey when he was still in diapers or fit him for T-ball in pre-K because he wasn't interested. So now he is just as misunderstood as I am. The larger part of the world values sports and competition. They understand trophies and winning. Innings, periods and quarters. Goals, scores, touchdowns and the time clock. They understand lawnchairs, umbrellas and a steamy field on a Saturday afternoon. They don't understand the beauty and necessity of the arts, creativity and expressing oneself through something other than trash talk from a dugout. It frustrates me that people only want to be met where they are.
If it's not too late. I strongly suggest pulling back and studying your kids. What do they do when they think you aren't looking? What catches their fancy? Are they intellects when you really would've rather they were golf stars? Do they sing in the choir when you really hoped they'd try out for Varsity Cheerleading? Maybe they sense that and feel like failures. Maybe you fitted them for golf clubs or a dance skirt before they were old enough to make up their own minds. Perhaps you wanted so bad to be the parent on the sidelines cheering on that home run. Please, please, please step back let your kids be who and what they want to be. You will probably find it to be much less expensive. They will be so much happier and so will you.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Why Did I Go Back?
After 18 years as an aunt, 22 years being a mom, 23 years being a wife and almost 45 years as a dutiful daughter and sister, the decision to return to college was simple for me. I was ready for a change, a new chapter.
I don't know how well I masked it, but I was defensive the night I asked my husband if I could go back. I didn't want to ask his permission. If he'd said no, I probably would have gone anyway. Maybe he somehow sensed that that's the place I was in. I told him I'd been to the local community college to see what I needed to complete my A.A. I had a lot of junk credits, but at the same time, I had a good foundation. I needed three full-time semesters. At that point I would transfer to a four year university online or in a neighboring city.
We rode home from the Dairy Queen I'd insisted we talk at pretty much in silence. He hadn't asked me why. I wasn't surprised. He never asked for anything more than the surface. I wanted to go back to school. That was enough for him. I knew him well enough, so I never offered anything more. I finished my Blizzard and that was the end of the discussion until we were about five minutes from home, then he asked me why. I told him I was finished waiting for money to fall out of the sky. I became agitated. I told him I was looking for respect. I was tired of being disrespected.
That's what came out. I was looking for respect. Is that really what I was looking for? I don't know. On a good day, I still don't know. All I knew was that among many other strong feelings, I was angry. I was angry at him and angry at our situation. I was tired of taking junk jobs to "take up the slack". I was tired of scheduling my life around everyone else's. I felt misunderstood, undervalued and I'd had enough. Although I didn't say it, maybe that's what I was looking for. To be truly valued and understood.
He said a college degree would not give me respect and that was pretty much the end of that.
I don't know how well I masked it, but I was defensive the night I asked my husband if I could go back. I didn't want to ask his permission. If he'd said no, I probably would have gone anyway. Maybe he somehow sensed that that's the place I was in. I told him I'd been to the local community college to see what I needed to complete my A.A. I had a lot of junk credits, but at the same time, I had a good foundation. I needed three full-time semesters. At that point I would transfer to a four year university online or in a neighboring city.
We rode home from the Dairy Queen I'd insisted we talk at pretty much in silence. He hadn't asked me why. I wasn't surprised. He never asked for anything more than the surface. I wanted to go back to school. That was enough for him. I knew him well enough, so I never offered anything more. I finished my Blizzard and that was the end of the discussion until we were about five minutes from home, then he asked me why. I told him I was finished waiting for money to fall out of the sky. I became agitated. I told him I was looking for respect. I was tired of being disrespected.
That's what came out. I was looking for respect. Is that really what I was looking for? I don't know. On a good day, I still don't know. All I knew was that among many other strong feelings, I was angry. I was angry at him and angry at our situation. I was tired of taking junk jobs to "take up the slack". I was tired of scheduling my life around everyone else's. I felt misunderstood, undervalued and I'd had enough. Although I didn't say it, maybe that's what I was looking for. To be truly valued and understood.
He said a college degree would not give me respect and that was pretty much the end of that.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Studio
I've been bitten by the "my-own-studio" bug. I suppose it doesn't help that my friend has a lovely bungalow style poolside studio where she conducts card making classes. The pool is enclosed, so she opens those massive french doors right onto the deck of the pool. Who couldn't create beautiful cards in that environmnent?
For 20 years this passed October, I've taught private music lessons out of a room in whatever home we were living in at the time. I never could wrap my lips around the word studio. Somewhere in the two decades it became a "Teaching Room". Sounds like something a three year old might come up with. My third teaching room is a horribly stuffy room at the end of the house. I've never measured. I'm certain it is less than 10 X 10. With a piano, a desk, two bookshelves, sound equipment, music stands and piles and piles of music, it is hardly what I would have dreamed for myself had I ever actually made any money teaching music. I dreamed of colors like parchment, butterscotch, pewter and black.
But now, here I am, almost after the fact dreaming again of a studio and certain it is thanks to my lovely dear friend with the bungalow studio off her pool.
For 20 years this passed October, I've taught private music lessons out of a room in whatever home we were living in at the time. I never could wrap my lips around the word studio. Somewhere in the two decades it became a "Teaching Room". Sounds like something a three year old might come up with. My third teaching room is a horribly stuffy room at the end of the house. I've never measured. I'm certain it is less than 10 X 10. With a piano, a desk, two bookshelves, sound equipment, music stands and piles and piles of music, it is hardly what I would have dreamed for myself had I ever actually made any money teaching music. I dreamed of colors like parchment, butterscotch, pewter and black.
But now, here I am, almost after the fact dreaming again of a studio and certain it is thanks to my lovely dear friend with the bungalow studio off her pool.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent, Part 1: The Stars Align
Quite possibly one of the worst and best things that could have ever happened to me began and--in reflection--ended, with a simple invitation to breakfast. Since it involves breakfast, I assume you've figured out it isn't bungie jumping or sky diving. So yes, it involves a man.
I will spoil this for you Jerry Springer types and give away the ending. Nothing happened. Although he was not the perfect gentleman, he was gentleman enough to let me make the final decision and--since nothing happened--you know what I chose.
It is no personal challenge to decide that I will share no details to embarass or identify the other actor in this most despicable play. I will even take an author's priviledge of stretching and contracting time. But I assure you, what you will read in the coming weeks is true. For both actors knew well their role: predator and prey. As a critic reluctantly leaving the theatre, I am convinced that one actor's role was much more rehearsed to the point of appearing ad lib.
It is this easy going delivery of lines that begins our story.
We crossed paths on a purely professional level. In honesty, I more than likely met him before I knew I'd met him. So many social circles interlock in the world--even in a city. We were probably introduced many times before. But the circles grew smaller with a returned phone call, a missed appointment, a colleague and an agreement, "To see me". It was in the flurry of the post Christmas rush. That first brush with his abrasive bravado proved quite the deterrent for the next few encounters. I'm not so sure I even wanted to hear his voice again. He would take care of everything. I was in good hands. (Yeah, right.) I remember walking away thinking: "Who is this guy? I bet he was a total punk in high school." I hate this term, but in my mind, I literally blew him off. I would temporarily tolerate his behavior but that would be it.
Ah, but with a long sigh I look back and see even as I walked away from him, our circles were already small enough. My contempt for his over inflated ego and his curiosity at my contempt. The stars were already aligning.
I will spoil this for you Jerry Springer types and give away the ending. Nothing happened. Although he was not the perfect gentleman, he was gentleman enough to let me make the final decision and--since nothing happened--you know what I chose.
It is no personal challenge to decide that I will share no details to embarass or identify the other actor in this most despicable play. I will even take an author's priviledge of stretching and contracting time. But I assure you, what you will read in the coming weeks is true. For both actors knew well their role: predator and prey. As a critic reluctantly leaving the theatre, I am convinced that one actor's role was much more rehearsed to the point of appearing ad lib.
It is this easy going delivery of lines that begins our story.
We crossed paths on a purely professional level. In honesty, I more than likely met him before I knew I'd met him. So many social circles interlock in the world--even in a city. We were probably introduced many times before. But the circles grew smaller with a returned phone call, a missed appointment, a colleague and an agreement, "To see me". It was in the flurry of the post Christmas rush. That first brush with his abrasive bravado proved quite the deterrent for the next few encounters. I'm not so sure I even wanted to hear his voice again. He would take care of everything. I was in good hands. (Yeah, right.) I remember walking away thinking: "Who is this guy? I bet he was a total punk in high school." I hate this term, but in my mind, I literally blew him off. I would temporarily tolerate his behavior but that would be it.
Ah, but with a long sigh I look back and see even as I walked away from him, our circles were already small enough. My contempt for his over inflated ego and his curiosity at my contempt. The stars were already aligning.
Reason to Celebrate
I did the correct project. I finally broke down and looked up the #6 from the actual assignment and it's the one I did! That, my friends, is reason to celebrate. Somewhere along the way I wrote down #16 and it just became #16. The last half of the day moping around was a huge waste but at least I didn't waste three days. I believe I will sleep soundly on this new information.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
That 6 sure looked like 16
Well, for the past three days I've been intermittently working on a project. Project #16, to be exact. Except for a few tweaks and some questions, I was pretty happy with how it was going. I had a battery of questions ready for help and one of my classmates pipes in and wants to know why I keep talking about question #16. I look at the top of the page and there it is, plain as ink on paper. #6.
Back to School. If you want to feel old and vulnerable, try going back to school at any age older than 30. My first class back was College Algebra at our local community college. I'd withdrawn from and failed the class twice as a teenager. Now I was taking the steps to the second floor of the same school again, except the steps were a little harder to climb and the only person in the class that was older than me was the instructor and she'd retired from teaching and returned out of boredom.
I'd found an Annotated Instructor's Edition online for something like $40. That meant the answers to every question were in the margin in red. It ended up being a lifesaver as I worked through the problems. I could work them until I came up with the correct answer. She only gave us accumulative points on the homework, so it wasn't like I was cheating.
That first class was a nightmare. I was in new territory so I pretty much kept to myself. Being young had changed and--at the same time--it had stayed the same. The Geeks, the Jocks, the Loners and the old lady in the corner that never said anything. I eventually spoke to a petite girl to my right that always sat in a upright fetal position. She admitted she was not going to pass the class. It was over for her. I wondered if that was how I looked over 25 years ago when I realized that College Algebra would prove to be the better opponent. Probably not. At the time, I didn't care.
Back to School. If you want to feel old and vulnerable, try going back to school at any age older than 30. My first class back was College Algebra at our local community college. I'd withdrawn from and failed the class twice as a teenager. Now I was taking the steps to the second floor of the same school again, except the steps were a little harder to climb and the only person in the class that was older than me was the instructor and she'd retired from teaching and returned out of boredom.
I'd found an Annotated Instructor's Edition online for something like $40. That meant the answers to every question were in the margin in red. It ended up being a lifesaver as I worked through the problems. I could work them until I came up with the correct answer. She only gave us accumulative points on the homework, so it wasn't like I was cheating.
That first class was a nightmare. I was in new territory so I pretty much kept to myself. Being young had changed and--at the same time--it had stayed the same. The Geeks, the Jocks, the Loners and the old lady in the corner that never said anything. I eventually spoke to a petite girl to my right that always sat in a upright fetal position. She admitted she was not going to pass the class. It was over for her. I wondered if that was how I looked over 25 years ago when I realized that College Algebra would prove to be the better opponent. Probably not. At the time, I didn't care.
Mental Messages: Point A to Point B, Part 1
This is a tough one. I just finished my morning jog/run torture. I've been trying for about seven months to work up to jogging and hopefully running 4 miles. I admit to not being able to tell the difference between jogging and running. To me, jogging just sounds less uncomfortable. I'd rather run because that sounds like I've accomplished something. I'm beginning to wonder if my body has other plans. I actually only need to run 5k, but I'll get to that in another post. I'll fill you in a little on the last seven months.
August of last year, I received an invitation from one of my younger, thinner, hipper girl friends. She'd been running with a friend from work, did I want to join them? This is interesting. The 7th grade school girl in me was so excited, I immediately made sure she was serious and wasn't going to leave me in the woods and live feed my cries of terror back to YouTube. She assured me--with a facebook emoticon smile--she meant it. So I started training for an opportunity to run 3 miles and some change--pretty much a 5k--and in the process, maybe acquire some much needed coolness--to look less like a potato in spandex and more like Gabrielle Reece. I could already walk/jog 3 miles on the treadmill in a little over an hour, but I really had no idea what was what. At the time of her invitation, my young friend was down to a 12 minute mile. For several months I kept to this regime. It didn't feel like I was getting any faster or my stamina was improving very much. I was eventually able to get the 3 miles within the hour mark and a few days I even brought it to 55 minutes. Still, I was overweight, out of shape and wondering if I wasn't just getting old. I didn't know how to push myself passed those messages from my brain that I was going to die that instant if I didn't stop. I knew I needed a plan. This plan needed to be designed to literally and psychologically get me from point A to point B. Gabrielle would need to wait.
August of last year, I received an invitation from one of my younger, thinner, hipper girl friends. She'd been running with a friend from work, did I want to join them? This is interesting. The 7th grade school girl in me was so excited, I immediately made sure she was serious and wasn't going to leave me in the woods and live feed my cries of terror back to YouTube. She assured me--with a facebook emoticon smile--she meant it. So I started training for an opportunity to run 3 miles and some change--pretty much a 5k--and in the process, maybe acquire some much needed coolness--to look less like a potato in spandex and more like Gabrielle Reece. I could already walk/jog 3 miles on the treadmill in a little over an hour, but I really had no idea what was what. At the time of her invitation, my young friend was down to a 12 minute mile. For several months I kept to this regime. It didn't feel like I was getting any faster or my stamina was improving very much. I was eventually able to get the 3 miles within the hour mark and a few days I even brought it to 55 minutes. Still, I was overweight, out of shape and wondering if I wasn't just getting old. I didn't know how to push myself passed those messages from my brain that I was going to die that instant if I didn't stop. I knew I needed a plan. This plan needed to be designed to literally and psychologically get me from point A to point B. Gabrielle would need to wait.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I Got Nothin'
This afternoon while I was eating my hot dog with american cheese and peanut butter, drinking a diet Dr. Pepper and avoiding my homework--again. I perused other Google Blogs. After about an hour, I came to one quick conclusion: "I got nothin'."
I sat back in my chair and smiled warmly at a whimsical blog with lace, a fabulous font and great photographs that all seemed to have a consistent pinkish hue. Her last post was photos of the cutest little greeting card with flowers, ribbons, lace and a great quote spread asymmetrically across the bottom third corner. Something about friends, trust and loving. I have to admit it made me feel good.
The truth behind all this is the only one that thinks my cats are cute is me. They are overindulged, overweight strays with entitlement issues. My son no longer spouts irresistible "isms" from the breakfast table or carseat. He's 22 and will probably be moving out soon. My husband and I are in that strange place couples sometimes get in after 23 years of marriage. No one wants to mention the elephant in the room.
But I take comfort, because that is why I am here. I'm here because I'm not so sure I know who I am anymore and what better place to create than on a blank canvas? With a little resignation, I understand that I'm in the best position to be whoever and whatever I want because right now, "I Got Nothin'".
I sat back in my chair and smiled warmly at a whimsical blog with lace, a fabulous font and great photographs that all seemed to have a consistent pinkish hue. Her last post was photos of the cutest little greeting card with flowers, ribbons, lace and a great quote spread asymmetrically across the bottom third corner. Something about friends, trust and loving. I have to admit it made me feel good.
The truth behind all this is the only one that thinks my cats are cute is me. They are overindulged, overweight strays with entitlement issues. My son no longer spouts irresistible "isms" from the breakfast table or carseat. He's 22 and will probably be moving out soon. My husband and I are in that strange place couples sometimes get in after 23 years of marriage. No one wants to mention the elephant in the room.
But I take comfort, because that is why I am here. I'm here because I'm not so sure I know who I am anymore and what better place to create than on a blank canvas? With a little resignation, I understand that I'm in the best position to be whoever and whatever I want because right now, "I Got Nothin'".
It Feels Like We've Been Friends Forever
Last night I was supposed to be working on homework, instead I stayed up until 2:00 in the morning "tweaking" the appearance of my new blog. I signed up for adsense, edited my entry--again--and thought about what topics I could pursue on different days of the week.
I decided I wanted my blog to feel personal and real. I wanted readers to get to know me. The real me. The moody perfectionist with a dry sense of humor that never quite gets what she wants, so grows a little more cynical with each passing year. I wanted all that and to keep it short. I never wanted my readers to open up my blog on a busy Wednesday morning and think, "I don't have time to read all that." Kind of the way I know you've felt when you get an e-mail or text from that especially wordy friend, gaze at the first few lines and close it for later and later never comes.
So for now, I've chosen some daily topics to keep my creative juices flowing in the right direction. I imagine as I get into the rhythm of what I expect out of blogging, I'll adopt a schedule and topics that work for me. Besides, you already know me better than some people that have known me all my life.
I decided I wanted my blog to feel personal and real. I wanted readers to get to know me. The real me. The moody perfectionist with a dry sense of humor that never quite gets what she wants, so grows a little more cynical with each passing year. I wanted all that and to keep it short. I never wanted my readers to open up my blog on a busy Wednesday morning and think, "I don't have time to read all that." Kind of the way I know you've felt when you get an e-mail or text from that especially wordy friend, gaze at the first few lines and close it for later and later never comes.
So for now, I've chosen some daily topics to keep my creative juices flowing in the right direction. I imagine as I get into the rhythm of what I expect out of blogging, I'll adopt a schedule and topics that work for me. Besides, you already know me better than some people that have known me all my life.
Navel Gazing
The last thing I wanted this adventure to be was entry after entry of navel gazing. Besides, wasn't the whole world waiting to hear my wonderful pearls of wisdom? What had I learned in my last 45 years that I would take into my next? I will tell you I am a 45 year old woman married 23 years. I get sad, I get disappointed and I get lonely. I want more out of my life, but I have no idea where to begin. I decided to go back to college about a year and a half ago and now I'm convinced it was the dumbest and most expensive thing I've ever done but I continue because I'm too embarrassed to quit yet another venture. I have some of the best friends the world could offer. I'm in the middle of a ridiculous fitness regime in hopes of being comfortable wearing a sundress to my niece's graduation in June. I love to sew retro clothing, bead and cook using regional recipes. At the moment, my kitchen table is covered with junk from an overstuffed craft closet because six days ago I was going to clean it out, but school started back up and I have to finish a sewing project for the local high schoo. I would love to redo my almost galley style kitchen and an adjoining room to be one big gourmet kitchen. I own a catamaran, I have never sailed it, I'm so ashamed. I tell people online, "I love to sail." I have six rescued cats inside and three outside, my son's hedgehog and a very confused husband. I hope you'll join me again as the weeks unfold and I learn about myself and perhaps with just a little navel gazing I can figure out what to make for dinner tomorrow night.
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