Confessions of a Real Thirtysomething

Cub Scout Confessions, Episode 2

2006-01-26T22:49:00.000-06:00

I think I'm a failure as a den leader. Or maybe just as a mother. Tonight was the Cub Scout den meeting from hell. At least for me it was.

Mind you, this meeting didn't start out awful. For a change, I had actually prepared multiple fun activities for our Scouts so that they would enjoy the meeting--in contrast to the dry, educational, "lots of talking" meetings we've had many times before (in our efforts to complete the badge requirements). In fact, I had planned that tonight, our boys would do absolutely NOTHING that fulfilled a requirement for that oh-so-important Wolf badge. I vowed that we would focus only on electives. I bought the necessary toys and game materials. I was all set.

Our den meetings last for an hour each week. One precious hour to shape the impressionable minds of Tomorrow's Leaders. Just for tonight, I wasn't worried about building character--I figured we could just HAVE FUN. Little did I know how my terrific, brilliant, masterful plan would unravel before the hour was done.

Oh, the first 45 minutes went great. Like clockwork. Two of our five Scouts didn't show up, but the three who did (including my older son, R) were quite enthusiastic about the prospect of a "fun only" meeting. We got into a nice groove fairly quickly. First on the schedule: Write a message to a friend in invisible ink (or milk or lemon juice, whichever is more convenient). I came armed with a bottle of lemon juice and a stash of cotton swabs, plus plenty of printer paper for composing the Top Secret Messages. I brilliantly planned for us to write the messages at the start of the meeting, so the "invisible ink" would have sufficient time to dry before the boys toted their Top Secret letters home. Well, I picked a great way for us to begin the meeting. The boys thought it was a cool (and fun) activity. So there I was: one activity down, three to go.

Activity #2 was a game, our own slightly tweaked version of the "marble sharpshooter" game depicted in the Wolf Cub Manual. Instead of the glass bottles recommended by the manual, I set up three cylindrical plastic soft drink mix containers as targets (safety first, right). And I used hard rubber high-bouncing balls instead of the marbles (hey, I was in a pinch, and there weren't any marbles available at the nearest discount store I could find in those last 10 minutes before the meeting). But they worked just fine. Our three Scouts were a little competitive, but easygoing and enthusiastic. Hurray! This game was a hit.

On to the third activity: the boys had to spell their names with the American Sign Language alphabet. We happily practiced all of the letters, and then each Scout signed his own first name. Mission Accomplished. Time for Activity #4, "Pie-tin washer toss." Sort of a cheap den leader's variation on a game of horseshoes. Each boy would toss five washers (or, in our case, quarters) and try to get them to land in a pie tin. For each washer/quarter that landed in the pie tin, the tosser would score one point. Simple enough rules, right? No sweat!

Of course, I was not content with having the Scouts aim for just one pie tin: I decided it would be even more challenging (and more FUN!) to set out a line of three tins, with the closest being worth 1 point, the middle one worth 2 points, and the farthest worth 3. In theory, at least, this enhanced Pie-Tin Washer Toss game was golden, practically foolproof, virtually a guaranteed winner among our second grade Scouts. As the game began, I allowed a subtle (but smug) grin to creep across my face as I silently praised myself for my impressive and ingenious den meeting plan. Snidely Whiplash had nothing on this savvy den mama! BWAAAHAAHAA!

And just as Murphy's Law would dictate, here's where our blissfully cruising Titanic of a den meeting smacked the iceberg. My Number One Son--my sole reason for deciding to take on the den leader gig in the first place--tossed his first five quarters, scored only 1 point, and proceeded to throw one of the most vile tantrums of his eight-year-old life. My attempts to act like a calm, mature Leader-With-A-Capital-L did nothing to quell R's fury. R's two fellow Den 5 Scouts stood there in stunned silence. Talk about a mood-breaker.

I could rant for a solid six paragraphs about the way my normally genteel--almost precociously genteel--offspring did his best Problem Child imitation. But I'll spare you the misery--not because I'm trying to be stingy with this posting (which, yes, I know, is my first in nearly two months), but because if I force myself to regurgitate the grim details even one more time, I'll wind up stressed out all over again. It's just not worth that kind of agony.

Suffice it to say, by the time tonight's den meeting ended, I was seething. And, despite his oh-so-penitent "please don't ground me please please please I'll clean the living room and I'll be really good from now on please please please" post-meeting litany of apologies...despite his torrent of tears...R is now grounded from Xbox for a solid month. This punishment, a sentence solemnly handed down by the Supreme Court of Mommy and Daddy, presents a particulary painful consequence because on Saturday, R's two best friends, B and T, will be coming over for our younger son's birthday party. In keeping with our sons' birthday party tradition, B and T will spend the night. And thanks to R's den meeting tirade, there will be no Xbox gaming that night. None at all.

Yep, that's my Number One Son. Perennial straight-A student, always honor roll-bound, favorite of teachers, beloved by classmates...Cub Scout From Hell.

P.S. Exactly seven years ago tonight, our younger son, O, was born. Happy Birthday, my little Sugar Bean!

Confessions of a Pooped Professional

2005-12-03T00:19:00.000-06:00

I'm exhausted. The work week that just ended was one of the busiest I've experienced in a very long time. I was literally busy almost nonstop every day. And on top of my intense work schedule, I had to cope with sleep deprivation because of my younger son's unusual amount of bedtime energy--Tuesday and Wednesday nights, it took "O" until almost 1 A.M. to go to sleep. In the immortal words of Charlie Brown, AAARRRGGGHHH! I was not pleased about being forced to stay up so late because O took so long to wind down. Anyway, now I am extremely tired. So tired that I'm having a tough time keeping my eyes open while I write this--but I'll push onward, since I'm almost done with this posting.

I've learned a few important lessons this week:

Lesson #1: Limit late-evening TV, in order to reduce the environmental factors that could keep O cranked up long past his normal bedtime.

Lesson #2: Consider giving O his bath at night, rather than in the morning--it might help him relax and calm down enough to fall asleep sooner.

Lesson #3: Instead of always staying up to goof around online after the boys are in bed, try going to sleep when they do--at least sometimes.

Lesson #4 (the most important one): I absolutely must STOP overscheduling myself at work! My busy-ness on the job this week was largely self-inflicted. Fact is, I don't have to see as many clients per day as I did this week, and I am entitled to a 30-minute lunch break each day, as well as two 15-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon--I didn't take any of my rightful 15-minute breaks at all this week, and I skipped my lunch breaks on Thursday and Friday. Bad. Very very bad.

And that's it. I'm done writing for now. I'm going to bed!

Confessions from a Four-Day Weekend

2005-11-25T23:40:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving was yesterday, but I'm still giving thanks. All in all, it's been a decent week and a pretty good year. I've had some extra stress at work over the last couple of weeks, but that seems to be easing up a bit. I've been enjoying the long holiday weekend, savoring my two PAID days off, and celebrating some of the things that are most important in my life: family, friends, food, football, and films (just couldn't resist slipping in a little alliteration there).

For the big turkey-day feast, my husband and I decided to try something different this time, and we ended up going to a nice downtown hotel for its Thanksgiving buffet. We took our sons, who both sported dress shirts and adorable little clip-on neckties, and our dear friend "E" joined us. It was a wonderful dining experience. The decor was elegant, the food was beautifully presented, and everything was delicious. Best of all, we didn't have to cook anything, and when we were finished, we were able to go home and leave the cleanup to the pros. That made our Thanksgiving day especially relaxing. Hubby and E and I agreed that we will return to the hotel for next year's Thanksgiving feast.

When we arrived home from the hotel, hubby and the boys and I "comfied up" by slipping into t-shirts, lounge pants, and/or pajamas, and we savored a perfectly leisurely afternoon and evening. Hubby and I plopped on the bed with the TV tuned to the Broncos-Cowboys game, and I indulged in one of my favorite pastimes: dozing in front of a football game. Maybe that sounds silly, since I also love to actually watch football, but from time to time, I really do enjoy the experience of lying there and just snoozing a bit with the game sounds in the background. It's something I've enjoyed for more than 15 years. After the game was over and I woke up from my little nap, we ate hubby's homemade pumpkin pie (cooked on Wednesday) as a substitute for an evening meal, then proceeded to watch a couple of first-season episodes of "Lost" (on a rented DVD). After that, more laziness, then a late bedtime for all four of us.

Today I had the great fortune of being able to spend a couple of hours hanging out at a funky cafe with my longtime friend, "D," who moved out of state earlier this year. It was great just talking to her--I hadn't seen her in more than a year--and we agreed that we don't want to wait so long before we get together again. I had done something horrible: I took our friendship for granted and got lazy about keeping in touch. Note to self: be a better friend from now on!

For dinner tonight, hubby and I took our boys and met hubby's parents at a local pizzeria for (yet another) buffet meal. I love the food at that place, but I managed to stick to my silent plan--I didn't stuff myself. As a result, when hubby and the kids and I went to see the latest Harry Potter film after dinner, I had some room in my belly for candy (yes, candy--I've fallen WAY off the candy abstinence wagon, but that's fodder for another posting somewhere down the road).

We all loved the Harry Potter movie. It's definitely the darkest--and most adult--Potter film yet. There are a few scenes that might not be the best for young children (like mine) to watch, but, well, what the heck. We also stopped at the video store tonight, and we rented a couple of flicks for hubby and me to watch, as well as a kid-oriented animated film for the boys.

So there you have it: my holiday celebration of family, friends, food, football, and films. It's been a great way to spend a few days, and I'm grateful.

Culver's Confessions

2005-11-16T22:30:00.000-06:00

Today I visited milkshake heaven. I was in a hurry to grab lunch on my way out of town, in transit from my office to a doctor appointment about 40 miles away. One reason I was in such a hurry was that I had to stop at my bank first, to cash my paycheck. Well, I went to the drive-up window at the bank, but it took an unusually long time to get my check cashed. So I decided that I would stop at the nearest restaurant drive-thru to pick up something to eat. The nearest drive-thru was at Culver's. For those of you who have never heard of Culver's, it is a chain that has become pretty popular here in the Midwest, and it is nicer than a typical fast-food restaurant (the dining room is carpeted, and although you place your order at the front counter, an employee actually brings your food to your table), but not quite as upscale as the typical "sit-down" eatery. Its two specialties--as noted on the Culver's sign itself--are frozen custard and "ButterBurgers." Frozen custard is very similiar to ice cream, but smoother and creamier. As for ButterBurgers, well...the first time I ever drove past a Culver's, I wondered what the heck a ButterBurger was. My first guess was that it was a beef patty fried in butter--which sounded really gross. Happily, I was very wrong about that. A ButterBurger is a beef burger cooked on a griddle, but it's not cooked in butter; the bun itself is buttered (on the flat sides--the part that touches the burger). And the ButterBurgers are delicious. My favorite Culver's sandwich, though, is the Grilled Reuben.

Anyway, I stopped at the Culver's drive-thru and ordered a Bacon ButterBurger Deluxe (hold the onion) and a seasonal specialty, the pumpkin milkshake. Last week, when my husband and I took the boys to Culver's for dinner, hubby ordered the pumpkin shake and let all of us have a taste. I was hooked instantly and vowed that someday soon, I would return to Culver's to buy a pumpkin shake for myself.

Today was the day. As soon as the drive-thru cashier handed me that milkshake, I knew I had arrived at milkshake heaven. The pumpkin shake came with cinnamon sprinkled on the top, and, as Culver's shakes tend to be, it was nice and thick, very smooth and creamy. I practically tore the straw in half as I raced to unwrap it so that I could take my first decadent sip. MMMMM. If you love pumpkin pie and you love ice cream, you'd probably adore the Culver's pumpkin milkshake, because it tastes like someone took a piece of pumpkin pie (minus the crust) and a big scoop of premium vanilla ice cream, and whipped it up nice and smooth in a blender. The shake is flavored with pumpkin pie spices, and whoever devised the recipe, really got it right. The combination of the pumpkin pie flavor and the custard creaminess makes the shake much more of a dessert than a beverage. It totally ROCKS! I absolutely LOVE the pumpkin milkshake at Culvers. LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT. In fact, I could easily develop a Culver's pumpkin shake addiction--especially since our local Culver's is just a two-minute drive from my office. I'll be sad when pumpkin pie season ends and Culver's stops selling this wonderful concoction. I guess when that time comes, I'll have to revert to ordering my second-favorite Culver's shake: red raspberry (complete with seeds!).

Confessions of a Disgruntled Employee, Episode 2

2005-11-14T23:40:00.000-06:00

The Boss topped himself. Just when I thought he had maxed out his a**hole capacity, he proved me wrong. This morning, he begrudgingly "allowed" one of my colleagues to reserve a basement conference room for a monthly bingo activity that our program's clients engage in. The reason we needed that space is that in our new building, the group rooms assigned to our program are not large enough to hold all of our clients. Well, The Boss told one of his administrative assistants that she could reserve that basement room for our program's bingo activity, but he couldn't just leave it at that: he had to open his bigoted mouth and tell her that he was really reluctant to let our clients (people with--gasp!--severe mental illnesses) use that room, because THOSE PEOPLE might PEE on "his" chairs. Gee, am I grateful that such a compassionate, nonjudgmental person is running the agency where I work!

Apparently I missed the part where The Boss paid for our entire $2 million new building AND all its new furnishings with his own money. I also missed the part where scientists and medical experts revealed that 100% of people with mental illnesses also go around urinating on themselves all the time. And since that dreaded "mentally ill" label also applies to ME, perhaps I'd better invest in some Depends to wear to the office. Because apparently at any given moment, I could start wetting my pants. And I wouldn't want to soil any of "HIS" chairs. Yep, The Boss has earned himself the title of Pr**k of the Year. Congratulations, Boss. What cruel and asinine bullsh** is going to come out of your mouth tomorrow? Why don't you just grow a spine and come right out and tell the public that you despise people with severe mental illnesses and that you want them as far away from you as possible? At least THAT would be honest.

Confessions of a Disgruntled Employee

2005-11-13T23:55:00.000-06:00

Last week was my worst ever at my current job. My agency built a brand-new facility. Last week we moved in and began seeing our clients in the new building. And last week was the week I nearly snapped.

You see, now my program is located in the same building as The Boss's office, and I am forced to see him much more frequently than before. And that's not a good thing. I've known for nearly two years that this guy is a narcissist with a serious anger control problem, and that he rakes our managerial staff over the coals on a regular basis. Once he even had a screaming, cursing tantrum. Unfortunately, one of our residential clients, a man with mental retardation and a psychotic disorder, overheard this tantrum (which was not all that surprising--people living 10 miles away probably could have heard it!). The client became very agitated and distraught--he believed that the man who was ranting and raving was yelling at HIM.

That story is a good example of The Boss's behavior. He likes to order all of us underlings to "look professional" and "act professional"--but apparently HIS standards of professionalism demand that he act like a tyrant.

I've become accustomed to the unfortunate reality about The Boss's method of dealing with us staff--his "underlings"--but last week, I learned some brutal truths about how this guy treats our clientele. And when I refer to "our clientele," I am talking about the clients in the treatment program I work in, which is a program for adults with severe and persistent mental illnesses, including major depression, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia.

Before we moved into this new facility, The Boss never seemed to pay much attention to the staff or clients in my program. But now that all of us are thrown together in this brand-spanking-new building, The Boss apparently feels compelled to patrol the entire facility in order to protect it from even the tiniest bit of damage. He has loudly and repeatedly announced that we must take care of "our" new building, and accordingly, we must be very careful not to spill anything on the floors, scratch the woodwork, or deface the walls. In fact, it seems to be this guy's mission in life to guard the facility from even the most subtle wear and tear. Accordingly, The Boss has been prowling around all of the offices, including the part of the facility where our program is located. That in itself wouldn't be so bad, but in his over-the-top effort to achieve a perfectly clean and unscathed building, he has made some flagrantly discriminatory remarks and decisions--comments and edicts that send an unmistakable message of utter contempt, loathing, and hostility toward people with chronic mental illnesses.

I care about our clients. In fact, I genuinely like them, and I have respect and appreciation for the difficulties they have had to face--and continue to deal with. I also don't believe I'm better than they are, and I strive to treat them as equal human beings, while still maintaining professional boundaries. One reason I have compassion for our clients--and aim to treat them with decency and dignity--is that I myself have struggled with my own mental illness ever since my childhood. In fact, I can honestly say that I suffered from mental illness without any diagnosis or treatment for more than 15 years. Thankfully, 10 years ago I finally began receiving treatment for my psychiatric problems, and these days I'm happier, more stable, and more confident than ever before. But I've had more "dark days" than I could even count. I've done numerous stints in psychiatric hospital units, some of which were not much better than the one depicted in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." There were times in the past where I was unable to work because of my mental health difficulties. I can recall many periods in my life in which I seldom got out of bed and rarely bathed or even changed clothes.

Yes, nowadays I finally feel victorious in the long war I've waged against my own psychiatric illness. But many of the clients in our program are still battling in the trenches of their own mental health wars. They might not yet be as healthy and stable as I am, but I believe they, too, can recover. And I don't look down on them because of the things they struggle with--especially since I've struggled with many of the same issues.

Granted, it was only within the last year that I finally felt confident enough about my own recovery, to finally "come out of the closet" and share my personal mental health recovery journey with the clients in our program. But now that I've done that, my career has become even more meaningful for me, and I have become even more committed to quality treatment--in both a clinical and a social sense--for people (like me!) with mental illnesses.

Basically, now more than ever before, I consider folks with mental illnesses to be "my people." Which is why I have been particularly offended by the blatant bigotry of The Boss. Every time he says or does something insulting and degrading to my program's clients, by extension he is insulting and degrading me.

Because of his obnoxious and demeaning behavior, The Boss has created a workplace environment that I find very hostile and demoralizing. That's why last week was such a rotten workweek for me. These days, I have a much stronger sense of injustice than I used to, and I feel much more passionate about the rights and dignity of people with mental illnesses (including myself). The behavior of The Boss has disturbed, outraged, and physically sickened me. Last week I did my best to use some of the relaxation techniques I've taught our clients, but to no avail--and thus I trudged around my workplace with a boiling cauldron of rage in my gut. For the entire workweek I was so tense that my muscles literally ached. Last Tuesday night, I went home from the office and spent at least 30 minutes just crying on my husband's shoulders. That's how awful it had felt to be at work.

That night, I managed to relax--a little--after taking a long bubble bath by candlelight, with Diana Krall's soothing vocals in the background. But the next morning, I had to get up and suffer through another unnerving day in the empire of The Boss. And I had to do that last Thursday and Friday, as well. By noon on Friday, my entire body felt if it had been pounded dozens of times with a sledgehammer. Fortunately, my immediate supervisor shares my disgust with The Boss, and late Friday afternoon, I was able to vent my concerns and frustrations to her. She had some good ideas about how we might bring about some changes in the tyrant's behavior toward our clients--and by extension, toward our personnel. I won't go into details about those ideas, but suffice it to say, I consider her to be a trusted ally and advocate.

We'll see how this week goes. Maybe the King of the Building will not change, but I have become determined to exact my revenge the best way I know how: to work even harder to provide the best possible treatment for the clients in our program. Since The Boss apparently doesn't believe that folks with severe mental illnesses deserve the best of ANYTHING, I can triumph over his bigotry by giving our folks the best of my skills, knowledge, compassion, and recovery experience. He may think he can rob us of our dignity, but he'll never be able to rob us of our RECOVERY. Mental health miracles can and do happen, and they will continue happening in our program, regardless of the a**hole with the big fancy "throne room" of an office.

Confessions of a Mediocre Gamer

2005-11-12T22:40:00.000-06:00

I'm not a big fan of video games. Mostly because I'm just not that good at them. There are things in life that I do enjoy despite the fact that I don't do them well. For instance, I love goofing around on my guitar, even though I'd probably make the list of Top Ten Worst Guitarists Ever. Video games, however, fall into my "don't enjoy them because I stink" category.

There is one type of video game that I can play fairly well: sports games. I'm also not bad at that old arcade classic, Centipede. As for the rest--which these days mainly seem to involve killing stuff in one way or another--I am mediocre, at best. I know my reflexes and coordination are not too sharp. And in recent years I have developed a physical malady that interferes with my gaming ability: arthritis in my hands and fingers. Frankly, I'm physically unable to spend much time playing video games, because after about 30 minute of trying to shoot zombies, knock someone's head off, or save the world from alien ships, my joints start to hurt.

Yep, I'm reaching that point in life where I'm saying more and more (to quote that old Garth Brooks song), "I'm much too young to feel this damn old." And feeling this damn old is what keeps me from making any effort to improve my video game skills.

Well, so what? Maybe I don't play many video games, but to tell you the truth, I don't feel as if I'm missing out on much. No offense to any of you readers who are avid gamers, but I just don't feel the need to spend my leisure time (which is in short supply these days) trying to "get to the next level" or "beat my high score" on a video game. I can think of at least twenty different activities that I would prefer to engage in. For instance, I have a library book that is due to be returned on Monday, and I'm only about halfway through it. Reading library books...yep, that's more my speed. Video game fans, I can appreciate your skill, your energy, and your passion for gaming. Enjoy yourselves! As for me, I'm off to my bedroom to curl up with that library book. It's a mystery novel--now that's the kind of action and excitement that won't make my aging joints hurt.

Cub Scout Confessions

2005-11-01T20:00:00.000-06:00

I could be the worst den leader ever. Or one of the best. At this point, it's still too early to tell. A little over a month ago, when my older son R's Cub Scout pack was having its back-to-school informational meeting, I did something that might fall under the category of "temporarily insane" (and as a mental health counselor as well as a survivor of my own mental health struggles, I don't use that term lightly). I agreed to be the den leader for R's Wolf Cub den. Den leader. It seemed simple enough at the time. Leading a small group of second-grade boys and their nice, caring parents? How tough could that be?

I soon discovered that I knew very little about what a Cub Scout den leader actually does--probably because I was never a Cub Scout myself. Around this fairly conservative Midwestern community, folks tend to expect Cub Scouts to be boys--which meant I was relegated to the world of Brownies and Girl Scouts instead. Thirty years after my first efforts at hawking grossly overpriced cookies in my little green jumper, I now feel courageous enough to confess that I used to wish I could be a Cub Scout instead. Don't get me wrong, I had a fabulous time in Brownies and Girl Scouts--in fact, my Girl Scout camping trips were some of my favorite childhood experiences. But still I envied the way that the Cub Scouts in our neighborhood had their own softball league, and what's more, they got to do the Pinewood Derby every year. Besides, I thought their uniforms were cooler.

I've since overcome my disappointment over not being able to join Cub Scouts, and I've moved on to being the mother of a Cub Scout. R and I did Cub Scouts together--Tiger Cubs, to be specific--last year, and we had a great time together. This year, it seemed natural for me to participate in Scouts with R again. And so we went to the back-to-school informational meeting, and declared our intentions to join a Wolf den. The only potential glitch was that when we met with the other boys and parents who wanted to meet on Thursday nights (our preferred night), none of the other parents volunteered to be den leader. Sure, I could have kept my mouth shut. Nobody said I HAD to step up and agree to be den leader. And yet I did, anyway, despite the fact that I had no idea what a den leader would have to do! See? Temporarily insane.

Now, I'm basically a leader type. I didn't used to be, but in my thirties I've really grown into that role. All those hours in therapy, and my years of professional success, have helped me become confident in my leadership abilities. I have no qualms about doing presentations in front of large groups of people. I am skilled at counseling individuals and conducting therapy groups. I don't mean to brag, but I tend to breeze through my job on most days. But hey, in my workplace, I'm only dealing with adults who have severe mental illnesses and dysfunctional relationships. It's not as if I'm in charge of a group of five second-grade boys!

My first den meeting as leader, I had no clue what I was doing. But I was secure enough to admit to the boys--and to the other parents--that I had no clue what to do. Fortunately, they were all quite forgiving and patient. By the time our second meeting rolled around, I had done the kind of thing that I typically do in my job: I had taken steps to be more prepared. I had bought the Cub Scout leader manual and the Wolf Cub handbook, and had studied them at length. I had developed a meeting agenda and some ideas for den activities. That second meeting went a lot better. Last week was our third meeting, and it was even better than the first two. We even have a den outing planned for this weekend: picnicking and disc golfing at a nearby park.

Yes, I have to admit, I seem to be getting the hang of this den leader gig. I'm not quite comfortable with it yet, and it could take another few weeks of den meetings before I can actually say that I enjoy being den leader, but I'm making progress. And hey, I now know the Cub Scout handshake. Now there's something to brag about!

Confessions of a Slacking Blogger

2005-10-10T18:15:00.000-05:00

I tried to keep up. I really did. But for the last couple of weeks--yikes, almost THREE weeks now--I haven't added any new posts to this blog. I know I must have TONS of loyal readers out there in blogland, and to those of you who fit into my "loyal reader" category, I do apologize. I don't really have a valid excuse, other than the fact that over the last few weeks, I have been much busier than usual. Still, I hate to think I have been disappointing the many folks who have probably lost sleep, wondering when my next post would appear.

And so, here is another post. In my last entry, I promised to tell you about my visit from my awesome aunt S. Well, here's the scoop on that: it ROCKED. My aunt was as cool as ever, as was my uncle L. They were only able to stay for a couple of hours before proceeding onward to California, but it was a thrill just to have them in my house and to talk with them in person. We spent most of their visit looking through old family photographs and keepsakes, and reminiscing.

Having my aunt S around made me feel closer to my Mom. After all, S is my closest remaining connection to Mom. If my Dad hadn't remarried less than a year after Mom's death, then I might feel closer to him. But the sad truth is, when Dad dealt with my mother's passing by starting to date someone new (an "old friend of the family"), and then when he became engaged only 3 months after Mom's death, the bond between Dad and me started to weaken. I don't have anything personal against my new stepmother, other than my belief that Dad should have allowed my mother's ashes to cool before jumping right into another marriage. But it's not my stepmother's fault that Dad chose to cope with his grief that way. And maybe it's unfair for me to judge my father for making the choices he has made since Mom died.

In any case, I don't feel the connection to Dad that I once did. Maybe that's because he seems to have moved on to a new role in his life, and in the process, his role in my life has changed, as well. In the span of a few short months, Dad went from mourning the loss of his wife of 40 years, to becoming a newlywed. These days Dad seems to be completely absorbed in the role of new husband, and his fatherly role has taken a back seat (actually, many times it feels as if his fatherly role is stuffed in the trunk). I guess that's not such a huge problem, really, since all of Dad's offspring (myself included) are adults now. In most ways that really matter, Dad's job as father is done. Finished. Over.

Still, it would be nice if I could feel comfortable talking with Dad about my mother. But these days, that topic just feels, well...AWKWARD. In fact, my father and I seldom talk to each other anymore. He's moved on with his life, and I've moved on with mine. Honestly, I miss my Dad. And I wish he were more involved in the lives of my sons. I've considered telling Dad that my boys and I miss spending time with him, but each time I think I've gathered the nerve to do that, I end up wimping out. Maybe I ought to just give up on the idea that my father will have a close relationship with my sons, but it seems a shame to let that grandfather-grandson connection fizzle. For that matter, it seems a shame to let our father-daughter connection fizzle. Hmmm.

Anyway, at least I have my aunt S. And although she lives in California, she still manages to do thoughtful things for my boys, and for me. Truly, she's the coolest aunt ever.

Confessions of an Excited Niece

2005-09-21T23:00:00.000-05:00

My aunt is coming, my aunt is coming! My awesome aunt "S" is coming to visit me tomorrow! This is no small feat, considering she lives in the San Francisco Bay area, and I live in central Illinois. I can hardly wait to see her.

S is the coolest aunt ever. We have been very close for a solid 10 years now, but since my mom's death last year, my bond with S has become especially tight. My mother was S's big sister, and the two of them were incredibly close, despite the many miles that separated them. I'll freely admit that S has become a surrogate mother to me in the last year and a half, and I'm pretty sure that our relationship has become more meaningful to S, as well.

The funny thing is, for the last decade I have been keenly aware that I have much more in common with S than with my own mom. And in a lot of ways, my relationship with S is more fun for me than my relationship with my mother was. Not to slight Mom at all, but...S and I have very similar sociopolitical leanings and appreciate the same kinds of humor. Also, S is very artistic, and I've always followed in her footsteps in that respect. Besides, my connection with S is not encumbered by any of the dysfunctional mother-daughter baggage that Mom and I always had to deal with.

Anyway, I haven't seen S since Mom's memorial service, January 10, 2004. I've missed her so much. And I hate to think about how I might be handling my grief over Mom's death, if I didn't have such a strong relationship with S. I've learned some lessons from losing my mother, and one of them is that I need to make more of an effort to openly express my love, affection, admiration and respect for the people who are important in my life. As a result, I've become more diligent about reaching out to S with affectionate gestures. I only wish I had done that with Mom when I had the chance.

I'm sure my time with S tomorrow is going to be wonderful. You can bet that I'll be blogging about it, probably tomorrow evening. But meanwhile...I am going to need to wrap up this posting and go to bed. I have some serious housecleaning to do before S and my uncle "L" arrive, and I'll be waking up before dawn to get it done. The things we do for love...

Confessions of a Caring Counselor

2005-09-19T23:55:00.000-05:00

One of my agency's clients died. I went to her visitation last week. And not because I felt it was my "professional duty" to attend. This woman was not someone I had ever counseled individually; I knew her because she had lived in one of my agency's residential facilities for quite a while, and she had participated in my groups at the day treatment program where I work. I certainly didn't know her as well as many of my colleagues did. Yet I felt I needed to go to her visitation. I went because I truly liked and cared about this person, and I was tremendously saddened by her death. This woman, "T," had a truly loving, gentle spirit. Like her many friends and the other staff within my agency, I was able to see beyond the symptoms of T's mental illness, to appreciate the beautiful person she really was.

In addition to paying my respects to T, I attended the visitation because I wanted the opportunity to finally meet T's eldest daughter, a woman about my age, who had repeatedly impressed my colleagues with her tireless devotion to her mother. Well, after standing in front of T's casket for several minutes with tears streaming down my cheeks, I did meet daughter #1, "V." She approached me and introduced herself. Immediately I was able to understand why my colleagues had raved about this kindhearted young woman. In the midst of her grief, she sought to comfort me. I silently struggled with a dilemma: how to maintain a professional demeanor while still allowing myself a sincere expression of my grief. Ultimately, I let my most human instincts--rather than my clinical expertise--be my guide.

I shared with V my strongest memories and impressions of her mother: the gentle, loving spirit; the beautiful smile that graced T's face so much of the time; the steadfast Christian faith that seemed to bring T such peace and comfort even after she was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year. I also told V about how her mother so frequently bragged about what a good daughter she was, and I described the way T's face would just light up when she talked about her children, especially V. It was these comments, finally, that caused V to get choked up. When her eyes--and mine--began welling up with tears, I hugged her, wished her well, and told her that I, like so many people I knew, would truly miss her mother. When I said goodbye to V, she was weeping. So was I.

Shortly before I left the funeral home that evening, I noticed that one of the clients I counsel--a woman who had been a close friend of T's for many years--had stopped by to express her condolences. I was not surprised to see my client at the visitation; in fact, I had been the one who had called her, the day before, to inform her of T's death. But I didn't stop to chat with my client; she was there for her own purposes, and I had already fulfilled mine. I did acknowledge her presence by quickly meeting her gaze and nodding slightly, but to say anything further to her would have been a breach of client confidentiality rules--technically, I couldn't even admit publicly that I knew her.

Two days after the visitation, I met with that client for our regular weekly session. One of the first things she mentioned was: "I was surprised to see you at T's visitation." I asked her why. She explained that she just would never have expected to see "staff" at the funeral home. I told my client that I was saddened by T's death, that I wanted to honor her memory and say goodbye, and that I felt compelled to express my sympathies to her family. My client's response: "Hmm."

I guess I really threw my client for a loop. She really threw me for a loop, too. I admit, I was surprised that she seemed so stunned by my appearance at her longtime friend's visitation. In the days since my session with that client, I have spent quite a bit of time pondering the mysterious aura that surrounds counselors and therapists--including myself. When I am in session with a client, or when I am facilitating a group, it doesn't occur to me that I am doing something awe-inspiring (basically, I'm just following my clinical instincts and applying principles I've learned from my professional training and experiences). And yet, I know--because they've told me!--that many of my clients feel some sense of awe toward me, because of my role as their counselor and the mystical power that our therapeutic relationship holds. Heck, even with my professional knowledge, I've felt a similar sense of awe toward my own therapist.

Sometimes the responsibility that comes with being a counselor seems pretty daunting. My clients tend to assume that I have a lot of wisdom--and sometimes I don't think I merit that kind of trust! Every now and then, my usual confidence is rattled a bit and I am gripped by a sudden, tiny wave of panic: will the next thing I say be the thing that shoves this person over the edge? Will my next comment drive this person to suicide? But that occasional twinge of panic never lasts long. Most of the time, I feel reasonably sure that I'm saying something therapeutic, or at least something that probably won't do any significant damage.

As weighty as my professional responsibility sometimes feels, this recent mourning experience has taught me that being an authentic human being--living in a manner that is true to my core personal values--is an even greater responsibility. I didn't completely abandon my professional role when I paid my visit to that funeral home last week, but when I opened my mouth, it was the inner person--not the counselor--who was doing most of the talking. Yeah, I gotta say, I'm pretty confident about the way I perform my clinical duties. But at the end of the workday, I leave that counselor role at the office, and I'm left with...ordinary ol' me. No matter how well I handle my therapeutic tasks, ultimately that stuff means nothing if I'm not a decent person underneath. And I guess that lesson is something that I can share with my clients. My professional assessment of this issue is: it might actually benefit the folks I counsel, to know that I care about living my life--not just doing my job--with integrity.

I'm a counselor, but more importantly, I'm a person. "T" was not the first client whose death I have mourned, and unfortunately, I'm sure she won't be the last. Four and a half years ago, a former client of mine committed suicide at the age of 30. Now that was a difficult visitation to attend. I think my experience as a counselor helped me cope with that situation, but the ordinary person inside me still harbors grief for that young life that ended so violently. Maybe it would be easier for me to handle such awful events if the human being inside me didn't genuinely care about my clients. If I didn't feel a human connection to the people I counsel, I probably wouldn't feel such pain when their lives end, whether from the horrific tragedy of suicide or a more "natural" cause such as cancer. Yes, it would definitely be less complicated for me, if I could completely detach myself from human emotions for the sake of doing my job.

But God help me if I ever reach that point.

Confessions of a Restless Blogger

2005-09-17T01:05:00.002-05:00

I was getting restless. I wanted a change. Changing my blog template seemed like a good idea at the time. And I think I like the new look of my blog. But obviously some stuff got "lost in translation" when I switched templates. And I haven't had a chance to make this new version of my blog exactly what I want it to be...

But I will get there...in the meantime, please be patient with me.

Confessions of a Real Mom, Episode 2

2005-09-14T23:15:00.000-05:00

I have two terrific sons. Last week, I gushed about my older son, R, and his many wonderful qualities. This time, I want to introduce you to my younger boy, "O." He'll be 7 in January. When O and his older brother stand side-by-side, it's hard to tell they are brothers. R has my dark brown hair and his daddy's chocolate-colored eyes and olive complexion. O, on the other hand, is blond, with grayish-blue eyes and fair skin. Sometimes strangers ask if our sons are twins--although they were born 15 months apart and don't look much alike, they are almost exactly the same size. In fact, they share their wardrobe. Oddly, O, the "little" brother, is 4 pounds heavier than R and wears shoes one size larger.

Both of our sons are incredible, but O has been officially designated as "special." You see, he has autism. His condition was diagnosed shortly after he turned 3, and he has been a "special education" student ever since. During the 2004-2005 school year, we were able (by diligently asserting ourselves with the school district) to obtain a full-time one-on-one aide for O, and his school began integrating him from the autistic classroom into a regular-division kindergarten class. At first, O struggled to adjust, but by the end of the school year, he was following the class routine and was beginning to do some of the academic work.

This fall, O is repeating kindergarten--but that's fine with us. O is attending the same regular-division kindergarten class, full-time. We're thankful that his teacher, Ms. K, has welcomed O back into her class. We also feel blessed that his aide from last year, Mrs. D, has returned. She is so wonderful with O--just the right blend of love and discipline. With the support of Ms. K and Mrs. D, O is participating in class and has been keeping up with the work. O continues to receive weekly speech therapy and occupational therapy, and we are very hopeful that he will ultimately catch up with the other kids his age.

The majority (roughly 70-75%) of kids with autism also have some degree of mental retardation. The staff who work with O believe that he does not have mental retardation. Rather, they think he is very bright, but because of his speech and social delays, he is not able to adequately communicate his intelligence. O also does not fit many of the usual autistic stereotypes--we believe his autism is a mild case. And so, we look forward to the day when O "finds his voice" and is able to fully express himself. In the meantime, our precious blond boy remains somewhat of a mystery.

There are many things about O that are perfectly clear, despite his speech limitations. O is a passionate little kid--he's not "lukewarm" about anything. He either loves something or he detests it. He definitely has his favorites. There is no doubt about which foods he likes most: pizza, macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, chicken strips, and chicken noodle soup. O is a big Star Wars fan but has a distinct preference for the first trilogy of films, made decades before he was born. He loves to play with flying vehicles of all sorts: planes, helicopters, and spaceships, and he is intensely fascinated with bridges. O loves the typical kids' TV shows but also likes many networks that are not exactly geared toward kids: Food Network, Travel Channel, History Channel, Science Channel, and the Military Channel. O can rattle off the names of all of Rachael Ray's programs on the Food Network. Like his older brother, O also enjoys watching sports. He also is a terrific natural athlete. O happens to be the strongest, most agile little kid we've ever seen. He can climb all over the place like a chimp. And he has an enormous passion for music.

O is certainly an intriguing, entertaining little character. One of my favorite things about O is that he has such enthusiasm for life. He really enjoys each day. He's rarely in a bad mood--usually he only gets grumpy if he's very tired or hungry. O is full of mischief and enjoys joking around. He manages to find humor even in the simplest things, but he also grasps humor that is too sophisticated for most six-year-olds, and he laughs a lot. Best of all, O is a very cuddly, affectionate boy, and he loves to smother all of us--even our cats--with hugs and kisses. When I get home from work every evening, O is the one who runs to wrap me in a bear hug as soon as I get in the door. And each night when I tuck him into bed, O insists on holding my hand while he falls asleep.

Basically, O is just as amazing as his big brother R. Do we wish that he didn't have to struggle in school? Sure. Do we wish he could socialize in the same way that his peers do? Definitely. But O is so beautiful just the way he is. His personality wins people over as soon as they meet him. He won our hearts right from the start.

Confessions of a Happy Wife, Episode 2

2005-09-12T23:55:00.000-05:00

Nine years ago today. September 12, 1996. That was the day my beloved hubby and I exchanged our marriage vows. Granted, today is Monday, and we both had to go to work today, plus it's a school night for our sons...which means, for today at least, no major anniversary celebration. Nonetheless, this day has been cause for happy reflection on my part. In particular, I'm remembering the circumstances of our lives during that time period. Hubby and I eloped. We got married at the county courthouse, in front of a judge and a bailiff and just one other witness--our best man/man of honor, our lifelong friend, E. The marriage license cost $25, while the fee for the judge's services was a relative bargain at just $10. No tux for hubby--he wore a simple suit and tie. No fancy gown for me--I wore a skirt outfit that I had owned for a while. No veil, either. My bouquet was a handful of white daisies with a couple of red roses thrown in for good measure--not an expensive bundle of flowers, but they were chosen for special sentimental reasons that I might explain in some future posting. We hadn't even bought wedding bands yet. Basically, we got married "on the cheap."

We had solid reasons for getting married in such a frugal fashion. Both hubby and I were unemployed at the time. You might be thinking, What a couple of fools! Well, I suppose maybe we were foolish for getting married when we barely had enough money to feed the parking meters downtown near the courthouse where we had our ceremony. Certainly, our families thought we were making a mistake. We knew our parents wouldn't approve--even though I was 29 and hubby was 28 at the time--and that's one reason we chose to elope.

There were dozens of good reasons for us to postpone marriage...and only one really good reason for us to go ahead and tie the knot: we were head over heels in love. From our perspective back then, our financial situation couldn't really get much worse, and it seemed as if being flat broke would be easier for both of us to handle if we were handling it together. Above all, we felt we were taking a giant leap of faith by making a lifetime commitment to each other, and we strongly believed that our faith would be rewarded.

Lo and behold, less than a month after our simple courthouse wedding, I received a job offer. Just a couple of weeks after that, hubby was offered a similar position with the same employer. Now here we are, nine years later, and our bond is stronger than ever. We have so much to be grateful for, so much to celebrate. And we will celebrate: we plan to go out to dinner on Friday night--just the two of us--when our sons are out of town, visiting my in-laws.

One promise hubby and I made to each other when we vowed lifelong fidelity on that September morning all those years ago: someday, when our financial situation was better, we would renew our vows and have a "real" wedding--a more formal event, with the tuxes and the fancy bridal gown, plus a reception with our family and friends, not to mention an actual honeymoon trip. Well, we still plan to do that--someday. Right now, there are more pressing concerns in our life. The bottom line is, our wedding might not have been fancy or expensive, but it was definitely real. The ceremony may have been brief, without any specifically religious language, but it was something very sacred to the two of us. Nine years later, we are every bit as married as our counterparts who spent more money on their weddings than some folks spend on a new car. Well, heck, let's be honest: probably a lot of the people who had elaborate wedding shindigs in 1996 are now divorced, or at least miserable in their relationships. Hubby and I may have been "fools for love" when we took our vows in front of that judge, but as these years have gone by, I've been so glad that we were that "foolish" when we had the chance--I would do it all over again. I also have come to realize that what ultimately matters is not the trappings of the wedding ceremony and reception, but the marriage itself. Even the fanciest wedding reception has to come to an end--but a good marriage lasts. Truly, our marriage is priceless.

So...happy anniversary, my big teddy bear. I love you with all my heart--now and always.

Confessions of a Real Mom, Episode 1(b)

2005-09-12T18:05:00.000-05:00

In response to reader comments re: my previous post... I would like to thank you for your kind words about my older son. I also feel compelled to share a little about my parenting philosophy. Here are the basics. My husband and I tell both of our sons how amazing they are, how proud of them we are, and how very much we love them. We always make it a point to praise and celebrate their specific accomplishments on any given day. We express our gratitude for the ways in which they have helped us, or each other, or people outside our little family. We also cuddle with them, share laughs with them, and shower them with loads of hugs and kisses. We do all of these things on a daily basis. Truly, my husband and I lavish love and affection upon our boys. We also hold them to certain standards of civilized behavior, because we love them enough to raise them to be respectful and decent people--we care enough not to allow them to become brats. Certainly, there are many times when it would be easier and faster to just let our sons run wild and do whatever they want. But as a parent--and as a mental health counselor--I have learned that the EASY thing to do and the RIGHT thing to do are often two very different things! In the great scheme of things, my husband and I have been given precious little time to shape our sons into the kind of men we want them to be. We intend to make the most of it. Sure, we make mistakes--and we will continue to make mistakes, because becoming a parent seems to magnify, rather than diminish, one's flaws--but one thing is for sure: our boys will grow up knowing they are well-loved.

Confessions of a Real Mom, Episode 1

2005-09-07T00:35:00.000-05:00

I love my kids. I have two sons, one 6 years old and the other almost 8. And let me tell you, they're awesome. My boys have so many qualities that make them supremely special and likable--not just lovable, but truly likable. And despite anything I write in this blog about any other topics, my sons are really the center of my universe. So hey, I'm gonna brag about them. I'll start with the firstborn.

Our older boy, "R", just started 2nd grade, and we're pretty confident he'll breeze through this school year just as he did kindergarten and 1st grade. Because he's that smart. "Scary smart," as I like to call it. Even when R was a toddler, hubby and I could tell he was exceptionally bright. And not just because he was our kid and we really hoped he would be brilliant. These days, we aren't the only ones who notice and appreciate the power of R's intellect. At our first conference with his 1st grade teacher last fall, she gushed about his reading and writing skills, showed off his journal, and declared that he was one of the smartest kids she has ever encountered in her 15 years of teaching.

R has many passions. Reading is one of them. He begs for books. Any time we get in the car--even if it's just for a 10-minute drive to the nearest grocery store--he wants to take along something to read. He's already graduated from "baby books" to novels. When he reads aloud, his fluency is amazing (frankly, he does better than most adults I know). R also loves scientific subjects, especially space travel and animals. His current favorite animal is a badger--for some mysterious reason, he has become a huge fan of the state of Wisconsin in general, and the University of Wisconsin Badgers in particular. Go figure--we live in University of Illinois territory. Aside from the badger, R is totally in love with cats, especially our two. He has said many times that he loves our cats, Xev and Starbuck, as much as he loves the rest of us--and he can't understand it when Daddy and I tell him that we love him and his brother MORE than we love the cats. To R, our kitties are absolutely equal members of our family.

In the last year or so, R has discovered that Legos are one of the absolute coolest toys ever invented. He also includes the six Star Wars films in his list of the absolute coolest movies ever. So naturally, at the top of his birthday wish list is virtually everything in the Lego Star Wars line. He also longs for the Star Wars Lego game for Xbox. Like his Daddy, R has decided that he prefers the villains in the Star Wars universe, particularly Darth Vader (a timeless classic) and General Grievous from the newest film.

One passion that R has inherited solely from Mommy (me) is his love of sports, especially football and baseball (my hubby is living proof that not every red-blooded American male likes sports). We haven't managed to get R signed up to play any sports yet--our work schedules make that sort of thing difficult at this point--but R has watched many games with me already, including the World Series, Super Bowls, NBA championships, NCAA football and basketball championships, and the Stanley Cup finals (way "back in the day" before the NHL lockout wiped out an entire season). I tell you, the boy LOVES to watch sports. And he's already become quite knowledgeable about them. Already, he can rattle off all the NFL and MLB teams, including what conference or league they are in. What can I say? I'm raising him right!

About 3 years ago, at the tender age of 5, when he first fell in love with football, R decided that his favorite NFL team was the Green Bay Packers (that was actually the beginning of his Wisconsin obsession). Now, I don't know exactly where his interest in the Pack came from. There aren't any other Green Bay fans in our family. I had been a Dolphins fan since 1974 (who knows why? I had never been anywhere near Florida), and a Bears fan since 1985 (yeah, I was a "bandwagon" fan who managed to stay on the wagon long after the Monsters of the Midway became monstrously mediocre). When I discovered Da Bears during their magical Super Bowl season, I couldn't bear the idea of abandoning Shula, Marino & Co.--my sense of loyalty just wouldn't allow it. As a result, for nearly 20 years I had TWO favorite NFL teams--Miami in the AFC, and Chicago in the NFC. To me, it made sense. But then out of the blue, here was my beautiful little firstborn son, telling me HIS team was the Packers, and what could I do?

I will always maintain a special fondness for the 'Phins, the team I chose for MY own when I was the age R is now. But when R declared his love for the guys from Lambeau, I decided, to heck with the Bears. The idea that I could share the Packer passion with my boy was much more important to me than my collegiate memories of those many Sundays spent watching Payton and Singletary. And as anybody who knows ANYTHING about the NFL surely knows, you CAN'T be both a Bears fan AND a Packers fan. That's nothing short of pigskin heresy, as absurd as rooting for both the Yankees AND the Red Sox, or the St. Louis Cardinals AND the Chicago Cubs (speaking of which, I also have TWO favorite baseball teams, the Red Sox and the Cardinals...but that's another story). Anyway, R's sweet, innocent, pure love for the Packers has changed the way I celebrate the football season. My amazing son has made me a Green Bay convert. So much so, that when hubby and I took the boys on a vacation to Wisconsin three months ago, I insisted that we put Green Bay on our itinerary so I could take our sons to see Lambeau Field and the Packer Hall of Fame & Museum (both of them are well worth the visit, by the way). R loved it, of course. I admit, I was stunned when he proclaimed that the coolest part of the Lambeau Field visit was seeing the giant bronze statues of Vince Lombardi and Curly Lambeau that grace the main entrance. But hey, that's R...quirky enough to keep things interesting.

Yes, I'm overflowing with pride over this scrawny little genius who looks like a virtual clone of myself at that age (except he's a boy, of course). He's a terrific kid. Even if he weren't related to me, he's the kind of kid I'd really enjoy hanging out with. The fact that he is my son means that I get to enjoy hanging out with him on a very frequent basis. R's younger brother, O, is equally amazing. But alas, it's getting really late, and it's a "school night"--which means that I'm going to be getting up early to make sure my boys don't miss the school bus. So I'll sing my praises of my second son another time. Don't miss Confessions of a Real Mom, Episode 2...

Oh, by the way...in case you're wondering about the photo I've included on this posting, R's favorite beverage in the whole world is Starbucks coffee. Yep, that's Mommy's influence. Hey, it could be worse, right?

Confessions from Chapter 7

2005-09-04T14:30:00.000-05:00

I'm bankrupt. Again. To put it more accurately, my husband and I are bankrupt. We filed for Chapter 7 in mid-July, and last Wednesday, we had to appear for our "meeting of creditors" hearing. In a few short months, our case will be discharged. So much for my grand ambitions of becoming "financially comfortable" by the age of 40. I'll be 40 in two years...enough time to become financially comfortable? Somehow, I doubt it.

Hubby and I filed bankruptcy in October 1997, just a few short weeks after our first baby was born. When we did, we swore that we'd never be forced into that desperate position again. And here it is, a mere 8 years later, and we're back in bankruptcy court. The more things change, the more they stay the same?

Well, yes...and no. Our debts in 1997 consisted almost entirely of unpaid medical bills, most of them accumulated during a period of about a year and a half, when I was disabled and could not work (but was rejected for Social Security disability benefits) and did not have any health insurance coverage. This time around in our bankruptcy world, our debts again consist almost entirely of unpaid medical bills. And, as in 1997, those health care creditors have been breathing down our necks, on the verge of filing suit against us (so much for that quaint assumption that medical providers are generous about making payment arrangements). But this time, most of our debt stems from one single 8-day hospitalization, a hospital stay that our health insurance carrier pre-certified but then refused to pay for, on the grounds that the treated malady somehow fit into the murky (but, as our attorney regretfully informed us, legal) category of "pre-existing condition." @#&%?!!! So...we have health insurance now, but we are bankrupt again, and that reality has been frustrating and stressful. Things are different than in 1997. But not different enough. Hubby and I still exist paycheck to paycheck, with no financial cushion for emergencies. And even a minor medical crisis will put us at risk for further debt problems.

We're hoping that changes, and we're doing our part to make sure it does. We acknowledge that in 1997--and more recently--we weren't as frugal as we could have been. But over the last few months, we've implemented a dramatic reform of our spending habits. No more "impulse" purchases, no more eating at restaurants just because we're too lazy to cook a meal. No more buying books or magazines that we could get at the public library instead. No more going out to a movie just because we're bored--nowadays we're not willing to pay for a trip to the cinema unless there is a film we both really want to see (and when we do go out to a movie, we smuggle our own snacks into the theater). No more letting leftover food just get stale or rotten in our fridge...these days, we plan our cooking much more carefully, so that we end up using leftovers for additional meals. And we're even trying to build some financial security for our future--and for the future of our two precious sons: along with spending our take-home pay more cautiously, both my husband and I are having some of our wages diverted into retirement accounts.

Interestingly, our bankruptcy hearing last week took place just as news of the extent of Hurricane Katrina's damage was reaching the rest of the U.S. And that catastrophic event, with its immediate devastation and traumatic aftermath, has helped me to put my little family's money woes in perspective. So instead of feeling discouraged and wallowing in self-pity, I've been busy pondering my blessings, which I've realized are far too numerous to count. Hey, we may be bankrupt (again!), but unlike so many of those folks in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, we are safe, comfortable, and healthy, and we're able to keep living in this humble but sturdy little house that was built by my great-grandparents nearly 70 years ago. Our sons' school is intact, and they will be able to return to their classrooms the day after Labor Day, just as they do every Tuesday during the school year. Our modest but well-maintained neighborhood is quiet and its crime rate is low. My hubby and I can take our children for late-evening walks around the block without fear. The little family-owned grocery store two blocks from our house is much the same as it was when it opened more than 40 years ago, with no looters in sight. Most importantly, all of our beloved family members and friends are safe and sound. These are not small details, by any means. Indeed, they are the stuff that makes life worth the struggles--even those struggles that lead some of us to bankruptcy court.

And so, I thank God for taking care of my family and me, and as I go on about the business of my life, I am hopeful that our situation will improve--and grateful that we're already in such good shape. Because, you see, we really are.

Confessions of Yet Another Spam-Hater, Episode 2

2005-09-04T00:05:00.000-05:00

I think I might have figured something out. I finally realized, by reading other Blogger blogs, that I could restrict comments to Registered Users. So...from this point on, only Registered Users will be able to post comments on this blog. This formerly naive blogger now knows enough to realize that I still may have to suffer the inconvenience and indignity of blogspam thinly disguised as "comments." But hey, I'm hopeful that the amount of blogspam will be reduced significantly.

Confessions of Yet Another Spam-Hater

2005-09-03T23:40:00.000-05:00

I hate spam I hate spam I HATE SPAM! No, I'm not referring to the canned brick of salty, gelatinous pink mystery meat that somehow manages to find its way into the grocery carts of people who have been fooled into thinking that they are actually purchasing something edible. What I'm ranting about is internet spam.

Mind you, I'm still a novice in the blogging world. When I created this blog, I naively assumed that since I believe blogging is a relatively intellectual activity (compared to, say, hunting for free porn sites), my blog would never be tainted by that selfish cybervillain commonly known as spam. Well, gee whiz, was I wrong! After lamenting that it seemed as if nobody was reading my blog, I finally received a bunch of comments on one of my postings, and lo and behold, almost all of them are BLOGSPAM! (Hmmm...is "blogspam" even an officially recognized slang term yet? If not, it freaking SHOULD be!)

Nestled among the many blogspam postings, there were a few legitimate comments. To those of you who wrote them, I thank you. I appreciate sincere feedback--even if you just write to tell me my blog is a turd brownie. As for those of you who so disrespectfully managed to implant your vulgar BLOGSPAM into my humble but well-intended blog, well...DON'T DO IT ANYMORE! Quit spreading your cybersewage and get a real job, rather than making a career out of victimizing innocent cybercitizens. There...that's as rude as I'm willing to be. I refuse to stoop to your level, you vile parasites.

Well, I guess I'll go ahead and publish this post. I may be kicking myself when I am deluged with a bunch of blogspam as revenge for this post, but hey...I just had to get this gripe off my chest.

Confessions of a Lonely Blogger

2005-08-05T20:42:00.000-05:00

This blogger is lonely because it appears that NOBODY has been reading my blog! Hey, you! Yeah, I mean YOU--the person who is reading this posting right now! If you have a moment, would you please be so kind as to do me a favor? Would you please write at least a brief comment, just so I will know that SOMEONE has read this blog? Even if you think this blog totally sucks, I would be grateful that you read it and took the time to leave your remarks. Hey, now, don't worry...it's not as if I'm sitting here with one hand on the keyboard and the other gripping a razor blade. I'll survive if NOBODY reads this blog after you do. It's just, well...I actually work hard on most of my posts, and I like to think that at least a few folks out there in cyberspace will eventually read some of what I write. Anyway, your readership is appreciated. And if you agree to return to this blog now and then, I will make more of an effort to update it frequently, rather than my recent sorry pace of, oh, about once or twice per month. Okay? Okay.

Cruising Confessions

2005-07-06T22:04:00.000-05:00

I cruised tonight. Meaning, quite simply: I drove about 40 miles westward on Interstate 74, with the windows rolled down and the stereo cranking. It has been a gorgeous evening in Central Illinois: in the low 70s, with a soothing breeze. While I was cruising, the sunset painted the western sky with broad pink and orange stripes on a lavender canvas. I took advantage of the beautiful weather and brilliant scenery by savoring my drive home from the free therapy/support group meeting I attend most Wednesday evenings.

For tonight's cruising music, I popped in an Indigo Girls CD. It didn't take long for me to start singing along. Of course, my humble vocal efforts don't do justice to the smooth harmonizing that is practically an Indigo Girls trademark. I decided, as my '85 Chevy rolled toward home, that I love the Indigo Girls' music. It's not just the clear vocals with their sweet harmonies, it's the lyrics, crafted in a way that somehow manages to capture, chronicle and even celebrate my own life experiences. In particular, I identify with the song, "Closer to Fine."

What music do you love? What do you listen to when you are cruising?

Concession Confessions

2005-07-06T00:08:00.000-05:00

I cheated. Big time. I'm hanging my head in shame as I write this (which, by the way, makes it a little tough to see exactly what I'm writing). I had sworn off candy. In my "Confection Confessions" post, I had admitted to some "minor" cheating incidents. Last night, though, I did some serious candy munching. How ironic that as our nation celebrated its Independence Day, I was busy declaring my dependence on candy.

It happened at a movie theater. Since it rained here (for the first time in a couple of weeks--how about that for luck!), hubby and I were unable to take our sons swimming--the July 4th activity we had planned long ago--and instead had to settle for a different entertainment option. A movie sounded like a fun way to spend a few hours indoors. We even gave the boys the privilege of choosing the flick, and lo and behold: they picked "Rebound."

Maybe I should have anticipated when we entered the cinema, that I was at risk of falling off the candy-abstinence wagon. Our chosen movie was, after all, a Martin Lawrence film, and I've always found him a bit, well, annoying. But I quickly dismissed any doubts: Hey, we're basically going to be watching yet another take on the 30-year-old Bad News Bears story, so this movie should be pretty harmless. At least my sons will enjoy it, right?

We paid for our tickets without incident...I mentally shrugged when hubby plunked down twenty-four bucks for the four of us to see a film that would be, most likely, mediocre at best. What the heck, right? We're doing this for our kids!

But by the time we arrived at the concession counter, my candy cravings had begun. I tried to fix my vision on the popcorn machine, then on the soda fountain, but ultimately my eyes drifted downward, and I stole a quick glance at the candy display under the glass counter. The glance became a steady gaze and then a lecherous stare. My drooling reflex kicked in, and I had to take a big gulp to prevent the saliva from pouring out of my mouth. I was like a horny guy in a giant brothel full of gorgeous women. Everything looked delicious, even the candy that I normally wouldn't consider eating, like Raisinettes (sorry, raisin fans--I think those shriveled, chewy little things are disgusting, and Raisinettes only marginally qualify as "candy" in my book, strictly by virtue of their chocolate coating).

Hubby ordered us a large bucket of popcorn and two large beverages, and then he asked the three of us, "Do you want any candy?" Do we want any candy? I bit my lip, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then another deep breath, and then...I heard my older son, age 7, request a box of Reese's Pieces. Hubby agreed, placed the order, then added his own request, for a package of Twizzlers. It was settled. We would be getting candy. I would have to just deal with it, somehow.

How did I deal with it? I ate candy!

I won't try to deflect responsibility for my cheating. I can't blame my son and husband for buying the candy. After all, just because an alcoholic enters a bar doesn't mean he/she has the right to tell every other patron not to drink. When we found our seats and got settled in, just as the commercials/previews started rolling, I was still determined not to eat any candy, despite the fact that I was sitting between my Reese's Pieces son and my Twizzlers husband. As the scenes from upcoming movies flashed before my eyes, I silently vowed to focus my appetite on the popcorn and avoid the other goodies we had schlepped from the concession stand. And for a few minutes, I did eat only the popcorn (actually, it was more like I inhaled it). By the time Martin Lawrence appeared onscreen, though, I had broken my vow. I snagged half the box of Reese's Pieces and about half of the Twizzlers. I gobbled that sugar as if I hadn't had a meal in weeks (when in reality, I had just devoured most of a large bucket of popcorn). To tell you the truth, I ate that candy so quickly that I barely even tasted any of it. And when I was done, I didn't feel content. I felt lousy. Along with a sudden spike in my blood sugar level, I was afflicted with a stinging, stabbing pang of guilt.

Yes, I blew it. But every fallen addict deserves a new chance to become clean and sober. So here I go. My journey toward a candy-abstinent life begins anew, today.

Confection Confessions

2005-06-27T23:20:00.000-05:00

I'm a candy addict. I came to this tragic realization on Tuesday, May 24, at about 2:00 in the afternoon. It was the sort of epiphany that you wish you could "return to sender"--being in denial was far more fun than dealing with the truth. I was at my job when this particular truth smacked me upside the head--sort of a cosmic joke, really, since I work for an agency that provides treatment for substance abuse problems as well as mental health issues.

This recent revelation about my addiction to candy was ironic. In the past, I'd never had much of a craving for sweets of any sort (aside from periodic Ben & Jerry's binges--and what's wrong with those? hmmm, maybe that's fodder for another posting, some other time...). For years, one of my closest friends has described herself as a "chocoholic." Her affinity for Hershey's, M&Ms, etc. has become legendary among her family members and friends. It's something we laugh about--definitely not anything that has ever provoked any serious worries. Heck, once I even bought her a bumper sticker that said, "Will Work For Chocolate." Funny, right?

But that fateful Tuesday afternoon, I was forced to face the bitter reality about my eating habits of recent weeks. Although I had lost 19 pounds since February 7, by eating a mostly low-fat diet (and exercising occasionally--not nearly enough!), the reading on my digital scale hadn't dropped in at least 3 weeks. I hadn't gained back any of those pounds I had shed, but I wasn't losing any more weight, either. In dieters' lingo, I apparently had "hit a plateau." The concept of a plateau sounds benign, downright innocent, but I knew the ugly truth: my snacking had begun to sabotage my slim-down efforts. Specifically, my candy consumption had skyrocketed since the beginning of May.

Like drug addicts who can pinpoint their "gateway drug," I can trace the surge in my candy eating to one culprit, one fiendishly delectable confection: the Limited Edition Almond Joy bar, which has been available in this area only a few months. Mind you, I've loved the "ordinary" Almond Joy since I was a kid; I even knew (and still know) the "sometimes you feel like a nut" jingle by heart. You know the one...

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. Almond Joy's got nuts, Mounds don't. Almond Joy's got real milk chocolate, coconut and munchy nuts too, Mounds got deep dark chocolate and chewy coconut, ooh...

Yes, I've been a loyal fan of the classic Almond Joy bar for nearly 30 years. But this latest version of Almond Joy is my personal candy nirvana: it combines the coconut and almonds I've always adored, with the dark chocolate coating that has often enticed me into buying Almond Joy's nut-free sibling, Mounds, instead. In August 2004, when my aforementioned chocoholic friend and I were discussing our favorite candy bars, I revealed my longtime ultimate candy fantasy: an Almond Joy bar covered with dark chocolate. Who could have known that such a wondrous combination would emerge on the retail scene less than a year later? It represents the answer to my most fervent candy bar prayers! What's more: the Limited Edition Almond Joy takes its deliciousness to a whole new level by using chocolate-flavored coconut instead of the usual plain white stuff. And thus, it achieves the closest thing to perfection that I've ever experienced in any candy.

As if the taste of Limited Edition Almond Joy were not tempting enough, geographic and economic factors conspired to make it nothing short of irresistible. You see, right across the street from the behavioral health clinic where I work, there is a gas station/convenience store that has been selling the LEAJ bars at the bargain introductory price of 2 for $1 (not 50 cents apiece--you have to buy two in order to get the bargain price). Two for a buck?! How could I pass up a bargain like that? I couldn't, of course (more accurately: I could have, but I didn't want to). And I didn't stop at just two--I bought four and planned to return for more when I had more cash at my disposal. After all, I rationalized, I'd better stock up--since this special new candy bar was a "limited edition," surely it wouldn't be available much longer, right?

And so it began: I took my first step down the sordid back-alley leading to a horrific destination: full-blown candy dependency. I had figured those first four Limited Edition Almond Joy bars would last me at least a week, maybe even two. But once I took my first bite of the first bar, I was hooked, headed for LEAJ addiction before I had even tossed the empty wrapper in the wastebasket. Within 24 hours, I consumed two more of that first batch I had purchased. Then, the day after that, I polished off LEAJ #4 and headed back over to the gas station to replenish my supply. This time, I didn't limit myself to "just" four bars--I bought six. Oh, sure, I could see I was on the verge of developing a potentially devastating Almond Joy habit, but I worked hard at convincing myself that I could control my consumption. I vowed to eat only one LEAJ per week. At the time I made that vow, I meant it. I really did. But those six new bars disappeared within three days. And I bought more. And ate them. And then bought more...

My candy addiction hit fast and hard. Less than two weeks after I plunked down the two bucks plus tax for those first four Limited Edition Almond Joy bars, my urge for sweets had expanded--exploded, really--far beyond the alluring combo of dark chocolate, chocolaty coconut, and almonds. I began craving sugary creations of all sorts, not just chocolate bars, but mints and fruity-tasting stuff like Sweet Tarts, gummy bears, and LifeSavers. Heck, I even started munching my way through an old tin of Cinnamon Altoids that had spend months buried under a stack of papers in one of my desk drawers at work.

My hubby and I had accumulated a stash of Sno-Caps in our kitchen cupboards--relics from movie theater outings in which we were able to get a $1 box of candy free with a "Combo #1" (large popcorn and two large drinks) as part of a "limited-time only" promotion that has been going on for several months. We could have chosen Sour Squigglies, a pucker-inducing version of gummy worms, but we always picked the Sno-Caps, though we seldom ate them at the theater and instead ended up toting them home. Mind you, while I like Sno-Caps, they are a type of candy that I had never craved, a candy that I had never even purchased in a store--I'd only snagged them as part of the Combo #1 deal at that cinema. But since when has addiction been a rational thing?

Once my candy urge struck full-force, I began smuggling those boxes of Sno-Caps out of the kitchen and into my bedroom. I would nibble them secretly, while hubby and kids were otherwise occupied. If you've ever tried Sno-Caps, then you know: they're small. Basically they're just semisweet chocolate chips coated with tiny white spheres of sugar, similar to those little sprinkles used to decorate Christmas cookies. It's not hard to conceal them if you have some in your hand and someone enters the room. Heck, even if someone IS in the room with you, it's easy to eat one Sno-Cap at a time and not be noticed, provided you chew discreetly. And there are so many packed in one box, you can eat a dozen or two without anyone noticing that the box is lighter.

Why, you might ask, would I feel compelled to hide my Sno-Cap consumption from my family? Well, when it came to my kids, the sad truth was this: I didn't want to share! If my kids had seen me eating the Sno-Caps, they would have begged for some, and I wanted to hoard all those little chocolate morsels for myself. As far as my husband went, well...he and I had been partners in this latest weight-loss endeavor, and I feared that he would scrutinize my newly-acquired sugar habit, perhaps even confront me about it.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I started needing something more than Sno-Caps to satisfy my home-front candy cravings. Late at night, when my husband was at his third-shift job and our boys were asleep, I would raid the kitchen in search of some of the holiday sweets (from Halloween bags, Christmas stockings, Valentine's Day school parties, Easter baskets) that we had spirited away from the kids and hidden out of their reach. Our sons are still young and innocent enough that they haven't yet figured out that their Daddy and I do this, and they end up forgetting about the goodies they had received, so it's an effective way to limit their candy intake. Hubby and I ultimately just throw the stuff away without the boys' knowledge--but those holiday treats typically remain concealed in the kitchen cupboards for at least a year before they are discarded, so I figured I could find some of those forgotten yummies by rummaging through the cabinets.

Sure enough...my excavation efforts yielded such artifacts as dusty heart-shaped cherry lollipops, rolls of crumbling Smarties, and Hershey's Kisses that had melted slightly and then hardened, thereby fusing the Christmas-colored foil to the chocolates and rendering it difficult (but not impossible) to unwrap them. The fact that I had to work a bit to make my newfound treasures edible just made it that much more gratifying when I finally popped them in my mouth.

And then, late one Monday night, it occurred to me: what the he** was wrong with me? Here I was, a college-educated adult, pawing through the darkest recesses of our kitchen cupboards and pilfering my kids' holiday candy, just to get a sugar fix?! I hung my head in shame as I realized my urge for candy had reached absurd proportions.

But just like so many other addicts before me, I denied that I had a serious problem. I thought to myself: "No big deal, I can quit anytime I want." The next day, May 24, I went to work determined to stop eating so much candy. I was all set to limit my sugar munching to once, maybe twice per week. But just like an alcoholic who goes on "one last" bender right before entering rehab, I decided I "deserved" a final taste of the hard stuff before I gave up my drug of choice. So that morning, during a break between client counseling sessions, I ventured over to the gas station, the same place where I had purchased those first four Limited Edition Almond Joy bars, with the intent to buy just one more. Lo and behold, those dark chocolate beauties were still on sale, 2 for $1. So I caved. I left the store with not one LEAJ, but four. Like so many addicts in denial, I rationalized my purchase and made a bargain with the universe: I was going to eat just one Almond Joy per week. Those four bars I had just bought were going to last me a month. Yeah, right.

At lunchtime, I ate an Almond Joy for my dessert. I nibbled it slowly and savored each scrumptious bite. Then I stared at the three remaining bars and sighed, as I contemplated waiting an entire week before eating the next one. I carefully arranged the Almond Joys on a shelf in the bookcase next to my desk and made a mental note: next LEAJ, Tuesday, May 31. I considered noting that in my day planner book, but then decided I'd remember my plan (and adhere to it) without writing it down. Then I got back to work.

I was busy after lunch: two therapy groups. After my final group, though, the hunger struck. Not a rational hunger--it had been less than three hours since lunch. No, this hunger was worse, a nagging, buzzing itch in my brain that kept prodding me: eat an Almond Joy eat an Almond Joy eat an Almond Joy! Within seconds, my mouth was awash in saliva. Eat an Almond Joy eat an Almond Joy eat an Almond Joy candy candy candy candy candy! Those remaining LEAJ bars were sitting in the bookcase. Out of the corner of my eye, I stole a glance at them. Told myself: No no no no no. And then...I ate Almond Joy #2. I didn't savor this one, though. I gobbled it. Gulped it. Barely came up for air between bites. When I swallowed the last bit of chocolatey coconut and stopped to take a breath, the wave of guilt hit me. Two candy bars in one day?! Ashamed, I took stock of my sugar consumption of the previous few weeks. It was not long before I realized the ugly truth: I had been wolfing down candy several times per day. No wonder I had stopped losing weight.

When I took those few moments to be brutally honest with myself, that fateful Tuesday afternoon, I was forced to admit that I had a serious candy addiction, and if I continued on that path, I would doom myself to a plus-size, confection-dependent hell. I decided I had to stop eating candy. I couldn't just cut back on my sugar consumption--I had to stop completely. I admitted I had become powerless to resist my candy urges--especially my cravings for Limited Edition Almond Joy bars--and if I wanted to be healthy and, yes, slim, I was going to have to give up candy in all of its forms. I had to quit cold turkey.

But of course, I still had those last two LEAJs in my bookcase. I couldn't bear to just throw them in the trash or give them away (more rationalization: I DID spend good money--a whole dollar!--on them, so it would be wasteful for me not to eat them, right?). So that afternoon, before I left the office, I wolfed down those last two Almond Joy bars. And then I swore to myself and to the cosmos at large, "This is IT! NO MORE CANDY!"

I took some additional steps to ensure I would be held accountable for my decision to break my candy addiction. First, I wrote (in large black letters, in permanent marker) on the pages of my wall calendar: No more candy! Then when my co-workers asked me why I had written that, I explained the situation to them and informed them that they could feel free to stage an "intervention" (a.k.a. butt-chewing) if they caught me eating any type of candy. When I went home that evening, I also confessed my candy dependency to my hubby and notified him of my intention to get candy-sober.

Well, it has been five weeks since that fateful day, and I'm well on my way to a complete recovery from my candy addiction. I haven't touched a Limited Edition Almond Joy since May 24. However, I've had a few "slips." I have eaten a few pieces of Snickers "Popables" and a couple of Sour Apple Altoids, not to mention several peppermint Tic-Tacs and couple dozen of those darned Sno-Caps. But for the most part, I have managed to avoid eating candy. I'm doing some things similar to what recovering alcoholics and drug addicts do. For instance, I'm trying to stay out of gas stations (unless I actually have to buy fuel), and when I do have to venture into a place that sells candy, I carefully limit the amount of cash I have on hand.

I won't lie: my quest to be candy-free is not an easy one. But I often remind myself of the potential consequences of falling off the wagon and succumbing to my candy cravings, namely: more weight gain, and the host of health problems that often accompany obesity, including heart disease, stroke, and diabetes. Oh, and if I am heavier, I'm also likely to have more problems with arthritis than I already have, which would really suck.

While I did write this posting in a rather lighthearted tone, rest assured that I do take my health seriously. Giving up candy is a step that I think is very important in the "big picture" of my overall health. And I believe I can conquer my candy addiction permanently. But it will be a struggle. You can bet I'll be posting updates on this blog. Oh, wait, I shouldn't be encouraging you to bet...after all, gambling is another kind of addiction...so DON'T bet. Just trust me.

Session Confessions, Episode 2

2005-05-23T22:40:00.000-05:00

Another Monday, another therapy session. This morning, two weeks since my last appointment, I returned to the serene security of C's office. My dilemma of the hour? The issue of feeling "fragmented." As I explained to C, for the last few months I have been feeling fragmented--split, splintered, pulled in a dozen different directions, even fraudulent--because there are only two people on Planet Earth who know the "real" me. Take a wild guess who those two people are. Give up? Well, I'm married to one of them, and I suppose it should comfort me to know that my devoted spouse chooses to remain married to me despite the fact that he knows just about everything there is to know about me--including almost all of my very darkest secrets. The one other person who knows the "real" me is, of course, C herself, my $110/hour confidante (truthfully, C knows even more about me than my spouse does, but that's partly because she knew me before he did). To everyone else in my life, I only reveal certain carefully selected aspects of myself. To make a long story short, I tend to play whatever role I think a particular individual is counting on me to play. As much as I've wanted to believe that I have ditched my former "people-pleaser" personality, I must admit, I still make it a point to pursue the approval of each person I consider a "friend."

I don't like the fact that I work so hard to avoid creating any significant controversy among those people I choose as friends. What is so awful about my authentic self? Is my relentless "pleasing" some sort of indicator of wavering self-esteem or, even worse, actual self-loathing? I posed these profound questions to C this morning.

C's answer? DRUMROLL PLEASE...We all tend to reveal certain aspects of ourselves to some people in our lives but not to others. And that's fine, because no single person can be everything to us, and so why should we feel compelled to reveal everything about ourselves to any single person? (...well, okay, that's not an exact quote; C worded her response far more eloquently...)

That made a heck of a lot of sense to me. Granted, it seemed much more comforting hearing it from C's mouth this morning than it is writing about it now, but hey...the bottom line is, we can be true to ourselves without telling the truth about every single little detail about ourselves.

So...what secrets about yourself are YOU hiding from each of your closest friends and/or family members?

Confessions of a Happy Wife

2005-05-18T22:40:00.000-05:00

Last week marked the anniversary of the day my husband proposed. It's tough to believe it has been nine years since that day. I've been thinking of a certain saying. You know the one. "Time flies when you're having fun." Well, that saying applies to our marriage. Sort of.

I can say quite honestly that my husband and I have fun, and that our marriage is a happy one. But we haven't always enjoyed our marriage. We haven't always been a happy couple. In fact, we have struggled through numerous bitter, agonizing conflicts, and at times divorce has seemed like an attractive option (are there many married people who couldn't say the same?).

What, then, has kept us together? What has been the secret to our marital survival? I wish I could rattle off some kind of magic formula, a brilliant recipe for nuptial bliss. But honestly, our marriage has lasted--and is now stronger than ever before--because of three crucial elements.

Element #1: Devotion to our little nuclear family. My husband and I cherish our two young sons, and our life together as a family, above everything else. I do mean EVERYTHING else. My husband and I have vowed that we will do whatever it takes to hold our little family together and to provide a loving, peaceful, secure home environment for our boys. We do not want this family to be divided, physically or emotionally. It's not that my husband and I judge others for choosing divorce, it's that we have decided that we will do everything in our power to keep our two-parent, one-home household intact. Even when our marital conflicts have been at their worst, my hubby and I have cherished our family life. Even during those periods when he and I seemed to be a terrible twosome, we knew that with our sons, we had a fabulous foursome, and we didn't want to give that up. So all those times my husband and I have busted our butts to keep our marriage together, ultimately we've been fighting for the life of our family of four.

Element #2: Appreciation for the beauty in each other. And I'm not referring only to physical appearance, though we do make concerted efforts to express and celebrate our attraction to each other. The beauty that my husband and I cherish most in each other is the kind that goes beyond what can be reflected in any mirror. Sense of humor, kindness, passion, faithfulness, thoughtfulness...those are some of the qualities that make my husband a beautiful person (by the way, he also has an adorable smile). Until about three years ago, however, I took my husband's inner (as well as outer) beauty for granted. I generally avoid that mistake nowadays. Of course, my other (often BETTER) half seldom has failed to shower me with appreciation and affection. I'm still not quite as generous with compliments (or kisses) as he is, but I am working on it.

Element #3: Playfulness. I'm sure you've heard that "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," right? Well, marriages that are all work and no play are dull, too. Hubby and I realized more than a year ago that our relationship had become rather stagnant and boring. But we still enjoyed reminiscing about those long-ago months when we were dating, that time period when we had so few responsibilities or worries compared to the burdens we've been shouldering in recent years. We figured out that a crucial ingredient had been missing from our marriage: FUN. Hubby and I resolved to spend more time being playful (not just in the bedroom, either, so get your mind out of the gutter!). We have made it a priority to have fun together. Bottom line: we've worked hard at playing. And that may sound like a paradox, but it has helped us enjoy each other again. It's a lot more rewarding to stay married to a person if you are truly enjoying that person's company.

Cancer Confessions

2005-05-15T04:00:00.001-05:00

I am a cancerphobe. I'm not sure if that's the official clinical term for someone with an intense but rather irrational fear of cancer. But it's the label that I've chosen for myself, for now. I can pinpoint the exact beginning of my cancerphobia. January 5, 2004. 7:35 PM. My mother had drawn her final breath a few moments before, and the hospital personnel declared her deceased. In hospital lingo, "Time of death: 19:35."

This happened less than three weeks after Mom's initial diagnosis of colon cancer, which was followed less than 24 hours later by surgery that revealed armies of cancer cells attacking nearly every organ in her midsection. Stage 4 cancer. Just about as bad as it gets, I suppose. After all, what stage tends to follow Stage 4? Stage D: D as in Death. Mom's surgeon was as kind as he could have been, under the circumstances, but he offered no hope for recovery, aside from a miracle. Sure, they would try chemotherapy, but that was likely to merely extend her life a bit, not save it.

Mom didn't talk much about her fears of the cancer treatments or the likelihood of her death. Ever the pragmatist, she prepared for the chemo by having her stylist cut her hair from a bob into a shorter style, apparently with the goal of making the expected hair loss less traumatic. But Mom's body was weakened by the surgery, and she never even made it to her first scheduled outpatient appointment with the oncologist. In the end, Mom left this world with her hair closely cropped, but still intact. Perhaps that was a blessing. At least her suffering--physical AND emotional--was brief.

My suffering, on the other hand, seems to keep gaining steam. In some ways, it feels as if it has just begun. When she was alive, my relationship with my mother always seemed complicated. More often than not, there was anger, resentment, disappointment, and confusion simmering beneath the surface of my love for Mom. In the months since her death, though, my feelings about her have been streamlined, stripped down to what seems most important and necessary at this point. I no longer have much use for that old bitterness. Instead, I am left with profound sadness and regret. Sometimes, I am able to summon memories of the many good times with my mother, and those give me reason enough to trade some of my tears for smiles. But mostly, I find myself missing Mom and wishing we had been given more time together. Especially, I wish she could be around to share the lives of my two sons. I do believe that her spirit is never far away, but sometimes that feels like a very inadequate consolation prize.

Mom's gone, and I've suffered my deepest emotional wound yet. And cancer is the reason. Now, I realize that cancer isn't always deadly. In fact, I know numerous people who have survived cancer. But my mother didn't, and I know the primary reason she didn't: by the time the cancer was discovered, it was so widespread that there wasn't much that could be done to get rid of it. And therein lies the source of my cancerphobia. Because of my mother's death, I worry more about developing cancer (and not being diagnosed until it's too late) than I worry about any other possible reason why I might die at a young age.

My cancerphobia reached a sort of fever pitch last week, when I had to have my very first mammogram. I'm "only" thirty-seven, so when I went for a regular checkup on May 4, my physician didn't automatically order me to get a routine screening mammogram; those are recommended for women who are 40 and older. No, this mammogram was scheduled for a more ominous purpose: diagnosis. You see, my doc found some "fibrocystic changes" when he was performing my exam.

For those six days between my doctor visit and my Very First Mammogram Ever, I was freaked out. I tried not to be freaked out. I kept telling myself all sorts of logical reasons why I shouldn't freak out. But still, I couldn't quite squelch my nagging anxiety. At times my vivid imagination is a curse; this was one of those times. The "worst case scenario" kept running through my mind: Cancer in both breasts, metastasized throughout my body, death within months...my kids would be left motherless, my husband widowed. I kept visualizing myself having to say goodbye to my husband and our sons. I made silent plans to film myself with our camcorder so that the boys would have video footage of their Mommy, in lieu of a live, flesh-and-blood mother to guide them to adulthood. It seemed as if my second-worst fear was about to be realized: the fear of dying while my sons are still children (my #1 worst fear is losing either or both of my sons).

Last Tuesday, the day of my Very First Mammogram Ever finally arrived. It turned out to be a more time-consuming experience than I had envisioned. Unlike some women, I didn't find the breast-smashing procedures too uncomfortable; it was the waiting that was painful. Just when I'd think I was finished, the radiologist would request more views, and the mammography tech would come fetch me for more shots, from different angles. I think she took a total of about 16 pictures. I became so nervous that I was sure I was going to vomit at any moment. The process seemed to drag on for hours, but it couldn't have lasted more than forty-five minutes or so. Ultimately, the tech delivered me the best possible announcement: "The doctor says everything looks fine; you do have some fibrocystic areas, but those are nothing to worry about. You can get dressed and go home now!"

I've had a great week since then. It sounds corny, but I literally feel as if I have been given a new chance at life. I've celebrated by savoring my time with my husband, sons, and friends. In yesterday's mail, I received the official report from the mammography lab: No cancer. No cancer! I feel as if I've dodged a bullet (though the reality is, the cancer gun probably was never even aimed at me in the first place). Of course, I'm still awaiting the results from the Pap smear my physician took during my May 4 appointment. But somehow, my cancerphobia seems to be taking a vacation for now.

I don't expect my fear of cancer to stay away forever, though. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. I think I can use my cancerphobia for good, not evil. I'm going to be vigilant about getting regular checkups, and when my first "routine" mammogram comes due in 2007, you can bet I'll schedule that appointment before my 40th birthday cake leftovers get stale. I'll never again let more than a year lapse between Pap smears. I'm also determined to do everything in my power to avoid falling victim to colorectal cancer, the disease that stole my mother from us. Life truly IS beautiful, and I intend to make mine last as long as possible.

Session Confessions

2005-05-10T16:30:00.000-05:00

I'm back in therapy. I had been on a hiatus for more than four months, mostly because of financial issues. Now that the monetary concerns have been resolved, at least for now, I am free to resume my long-running quest for self-improvement. Yesterday I had my first session of 2005. It felt good to be back. Recently my mental health has needed a little, well, tweaking--no major crises to navigate, just a few little wrinkles in need of some gentle but purposeful ironing.

My therapist, whom I'll just call "C," is terrific. I've worked my way through four other therapists in my lifetime, but C has helped me more than those other four combined (granted, she has known me much longer than any of them did, but still...). The best thing I can say about C is that she seems to be a genuinely nice person. But if you've had any experience with therapy, then you'll understand when I tell you that it's not enough for a therapist to be nice. And C is not merely nice. She's smart, compassionate, and nonjudgmental (qualities I value highly among people in general, not just therapists). She also does a heck of a lot more than just sit there, nod her head, and mutter, "That's interesting. Tell me more about that." C has a broad repertoire of questions that probe far beyond the realm of "So how does that make you feel?" (Now there's a question that has been used so much that it has become a cliche among therapy patients like me.) Asking the appropriate questions is important. After all, a therapist who never challenges her patient, never attempts to dig below the surface, never risks incurring her patient's wrath, is what I call a useless therapist. Sometimes the most therapeutic approach is to nudge (or, if necessary, knock) the patient off-balance a bit. But as crucial as it is for a therapist to know what to say and what to ask, it is equally vital to know how--and when--to listen.

C is a seasoned pro. She seldom makes the mistake of commenting or questioning during those moments when it would be more worthwhile for her to just listen to me. Sometimes we even sit in her office in utter silence, while I take a brief time-out to sort through my thoughts and compose my next statement. Amazingly, those silences rarely feel awkward. Instead, I find peace in the stillness, peace that comes from knowing that no matter what I say next, my words won't be met with disapproval, disgust, or (worst of all) condemnation. You see, C and I have been nurturing our "therapeutic alliance" for the better part of a decade, and she has established a safe haven for me. Her office is what I like to call a "sacred space"--a sanctuary for my soul, a protected refuge from the judgments and threats of the outside world.

I realize that there are many self-described "educated" members of society who view therapy with a certain measure of skepticism, scorn, or even contempt. That's fine with me. I don't need the approval or understanding of any outsider to keep me motivated to continue on this mysterious mind-trip that began so many years ago (September 2005 will mark the 10-year anniversary of my first session with C). And hey, I know that therapy does not help everyone who tries it, so I won't waste my time attempting to "convert" you. The bottom line for me is, I know that my therapy works. Frankly, if it weren't for the hundreds of hours I've spent "in session," I probably would be dead. At best, I would be a much more miserable version of me. So here's a heartfelt thanks, C, for helping me save myself from myself and, in the process, figure out that I really do love myself.

Confessions of a Lazy Jew

2005-05-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

I've been a Jew for nearly four years, almost to the day. It was May 21, 2001, when my husband and I (and, by extension, our two young sons) officially converted to Judaism. Our simple conversion ceremony represented the conclusion of several months of diligent study and eager anticipation. In addition to our conversion classes, hubby and I had attended weekly Hebrew and Torah study group sessions. We were excited about becoming official participants in the customs and rituals of Reform Judaism. Becoming Jewish was, in fact, one of the most thrilling experiences of our lives.

And now here we are, four years later, and I feel as if I am barely a Jew anymore. Certainly not a very good Jew. Reform Jew? Ha. More like Lazy Jew. Hey, now, here's an idea. Perhaps I could start my own movement within Judaism. So much for Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, or even Progressive Judaism. Here comes MY new version of the Jewish experience: Lazy Judaism. Not exactly a form of Judaism to be proud of, but for me, a realistic reflection of just how lackadaisical my spiritual efforts have become.

Yes, if I even dare to call myself a Jew at all, the best I can say about my Jewishness is that I'm damn lazy about it. And I'm not even counting the fact that I don't follow the traditional Jewish dietary laws, because let's face it, very few of the people in our particular Reform synagogue keep kosher. It really wouldn't be so much of an issue if I ONLY violated the kosher food regulations. But, alas, I'm much lazier about my Jewish practices than that. My dereliction of Jewish duty extends to my attendance (or should I say NON-attendance) at synagogue services of virtually every sort.

Not only have I been skipping the regular Friday night Shabbat services, I've played hooky from the Passover celebrations and even the High Holy Day services. It has been at least two years since I last attended a seder at the synagogue, and I cannot even remember the last time I was present for the ritual blowing of the shofar. Yes, I did light Chanukah candles with my sons last December, and hubby and I lavished eight days' worth of gifts upon the boys, but those festive Chanukah moments were the extent of our Jewish holiday observances.

So you see, I am most definitely a Lazy Jew. Frankly, it scarcely seems fair to refer to myself as a Jew--I don't even feel deserving of inclusion in the Jewish community--but I can quite accurately label myself a Lazy Jew. Then again, is a Lazy Jew truly a Jew at all? Now THERE'S a question to ponder. Let's save that pondering for another time, though...I'm feeling too lazy to do it right now.

Procession Confession

2005-05-04T15:54:00.000-05:00

I have many pet peeves. One of them reared its ugly head yesterday morning. While I was driving around town on work-related errands, I spotted a hearse and limo leading a trail of vehicles, all of them with headlights blazing. Every car bore one of those little orange flags that you only see in funeral processions. There could have been no doubt whatsoever that this long line of autos was on its way to a cemetery. And yet, when I braked and pulled over to the curb, numerous drivers behind me honked. Some of them whipped over into the other lane and surged past me. A few of those motorists even gave me the middle-finger salute. I gotta tell you, I was aggravated. I mean, heaven forbid any of those drivers should arrive at their destination one minute later than planned. Where's the respect in our society today? Where's the decency?

Kansas Confessions

2005-05-03T00:57:00.000-05:00

I have a confession. I'm a former Kansan. To be specific, I lived in Topeka for 6 years. I also attended KU for two years. And here's another confession: I LOVED Kansas. The forces that brought me back from the Sunflower State to the Land of Lincoln--state of my birth--were personal, private, and not worth writing about at this point. If I were currently unmarried, childless, and working at a job I disliked (or perhaps not working, period), I'd move back to Kansas in a heartbeat. But hey, this REAL THIRTYSOMETHING does happen to be married--with kids--and enjoying a meaningful career. So for now, my back-to-Kansas fantasy remains just that: fantasy. Nonetheless, here is my current list of my FAVORITE STUFF IN KANSAS. (First, a disclaimer: I haven't visited the Jayhawk State in a few years, so some of these places and things may be--I can hardly bear to think of it, sigh!--extinct.) If you visit northeast Kansas, I encourage you to seek out some of these treasures. For those of you who've never been to Kansas and are assuming that it's nothing but desolate flatlands...keep an open mind, and you may be in for a treat!

The REAL THIRTYSOMETHING'S List of
Favorite Stuff in Kansas:

Sunflowers! Seriously. It's not just some goofy nickname or lame marketing ploy. Kansas truly does boast some incredible, huge fields of sunflowers. Try driving an hour or so west of Topeka, into the Flint Hills, and you'll see what I mean.
Guy & Mae's BBQ ribs, served at Guy & Mae's Tavern in Williamsburg, KS. This popular local establishment is in Kansas, so the ribs are BEEF, of course...and they're so tasty that you won't even care that you're eating them in a dim, no-frills little neighborhood bar. K.C. MasterWHO?
Gage Park, Topeka. There's the Reinisch Rose Garden, a miniature train that carries passengers on a little sightseeing journey, and the awesome Carousel in the Park. Not to mention, a few softball fields. What's not to love?
The "World Famous" Topeka Zoo, Topeka (duh!). Another of Gage Park's gems. I don't really care whether this zoo actually does live up to its "world famous" claim--its dome-covered rainforest exhibit ROCKS! Especially in winter--step inside, stomp the snow off your boots, and suddenly, you're in a tropical paradise.
The University of Kansas, Lawrence. Simply the most beautiful college campus I've ever seen, especially in April and October (although it IS situated around a large hill fondly known as Mount Oread, and in winter, those winds whipping around Mt. O are KILLER)...Sorry, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign!
Free State Brewing Company, Lawrence. Not just another cool microbrewery--this is a great place to get some tasty eats.
Yello Sub, Lawrence. I was savoring the numerous delicious varieties of foil-wrapped oven-toasted subs at Yello Sub long before Subway crawled up on the hot sub bandwagon. My favorite Yello Sub location is the one right on the edge of campus, just up the hill from the football stadium...a great place to go if you like being served by a ponytailed guy in a tie-dyed shirt.
The Renaissance Festival, Bonner Springs. Munch on a roasted turkey leg, buy an amulet from a genuine witch (no green-skinned, warty fairy-tale sorceresses here), enjoy the tunes of strolling minstrels, or watch burly kilt-clad guys try to toss a caber end-over-end. It's what you might call...FUN for the whole family!
Rosa's Mexican Restaurant, Topeka. Around T-Town, Rosa's has been famous for its authentic Mexican offerings. Including some dishes featuring potatoes! Surprising? Yes. Tasty? Mmm-mmm-hmmm.
P.T.'s Caffe, Topeka. I'll always have fond memories of P.T.'s because I had my very first iced latte EVER at the P.T.'s location in the Gage Shopping Center. Ask for a shot of caramel syrup in your latte--you won't be sorry!
Glory Days Pizza, Topeka. Locally owned and operated by the Hughes brothers, a couple of really cool guys who never seemed to mind all those times when my pals and I would hang out there. The "baby" pizzas were my favorite Glory Days bargain. Awesome thin crust!
Fiesta Mexicana, Topeka. Always held during the summer, in the Oakland area on the north side of the capital city. Technically, the Fiesta is a fundraiser for the Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Parish, but it holds citywide appeal among folks of all religions. If you want REALLY authentic Mexican food, made by authentic Mexican-Topekans, this festival is the place to get it. And hey, it's for a good cause, too.

So there you have it. I'm sure that as time passes and my Kansas memories continue bubbling to the surface, I'll have more Kansas treasures to add to my list. And I'll probably do a little research to see which items on my List need to be marked "extinct." But in the meantime, ROCK CHALK, JAYHAWK! (What does THAT mean? Well, if you have to ask, you'd never get it, anyway, so...what can I say? It's a Kansas thang...)