tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46613167034772234902024-03-13T18:02:31.238-05:00You Know Neen...neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-66399255004496429762015-01-20T14:32:00.000-06:002015-01-20T15:15:51.941-06:0040 Days ~ final days<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(40 days is a series of posts that began on November 4th. If you are interested in reading them in order, scroll down - otherwise read on and check out all my other musings...)</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The last ten days of my 40 day journey from fear to faith became magical. This isn't to say I didn't continue to have days of faking it or days of not wanting to meditate. However, the desire to continue to move forward, to do what ought to be done, to strive relentlessly toward my best self, won out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We hear a lot of that phrase "be your best self." What does this mean? Is it a crazy catch phrase that sells magazines? Some woo woo in the stars, incense burning bullshit that if we play along with brings forth a unicorn and a million bucks on our doorstep? Nope. It's none of this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the end of the day, being your best self is finding that quiet place inside you, listening to it, feeling it, acting from it and knowing that you are loved - exactly as you are. It's knowing no matter what the outside circumstances, in the end, all is well. All is well in crisis, all is well in joy. Why? Because you have faith. You have every bit of everything you ever need inside you - that is the divinity within you, your grace, your soul, your true self.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When my consciousness started to shift toward this faith, this place of true self, I noticed my life changing. I noticed more calmness. I noticed less judgement. I noticed more loving kindness. I noticed more good things coming my way - not that good things hadn't come my way before, but now, I was noticing ALL the darn good that is constantly around me. Flowing toward me. Not only was it coming AT me, I was barreling toward IT!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In fact, while feeling this flow of abundance and goodness, I had courage to reach out and apply for a job. Something I've been wanting to do for a while, but kept putting it off. I interviewed, and received an offer for said job! Me! Stay at home mom, me!! The outcome is that I did not accept the final offer - HOWEVER, my point is that due to my shift in consciousness, my ability to take action and my openness to receiving all things good, this job came to me. It was proof to me that when we put our best selves out there, we get so very much in return.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My best self does things from a place of peace, not confusion. Even if the outcome isn't what I desired, that's alright. It's not about the outcome, but the journey that leads you to it. Sometimes the outcome is one you want, sometimes it isn't. It's in these cases the next journey begins. When our choices are made from a place of confidence and authenticity, we tend not to second guess, ask a thousand friends for their opinions or worry about the final outcome. We turn freely toward our decisions and rest in grace knowing we did good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the end of the day, at the end of the final days of my self proclaimed 'journey,' I feel lighter, calmer and grounded. I feel more whole, more quiet yet beyond energized. All is well. All is well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next post ~ my final thoughts on 40 days and what happens next...</span><br />
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neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-38025227974955523862015-01-13T07:50:00.000-06:002015-01-24T22:00:40.536-06:0040 days ~ weakened in week three<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(40 days is a series of posts that began on November 4th. If you are interested in reading them in order, scroll down - otherwise read on and check out all my other musings...)</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i>Sidenote to my loyal fans (all four of you :) ~ I finished my 40 days more than a month ago, but took copious notes and wrote draft posts while moving along the journey. Sorry I haven't posted - but here you go ~ if you are interested...frequent posts this week as they are written.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What I'm learning in this third week of my 40 day journey from fear to faith is a simple, yet for me, a difficult concept to grasp: change takes a while. Change takes time, patience (not a virtue I hold,) and a lot of good old compassion with one's self. HA. What a lesson. Not only am I trying to shift my consciousness, but I'm having to actually be patient and compassionate with myself? What. The. Hell? Clearly, all three are connected. Who knew? I did, sort of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When you live your life with anxiety, there has to be some sort of negative self talk alive and well inside you. I have always been self deprecating as a way to joke and make light. What I didn't realize was habitual negative talk can take root and latch on to you, causing you to pull further and further away from your true self. The longer you rip on yourself, joking or not, the more your consciousness believes its true. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For me, I realize this on days when I was in neutral, just kind of drifting. I woke up one morning this week, did my meditation and journaled "I'm not feeling it today. Do I really have all I need within me? Was I really created from abundance, to live abundantly? How do so many other gals out there walk around smiling and playing and living happily without having to do a stupid journey/quest/project to better themselves. You're kind of a pain in the ass Neen. NO. Not kind of, but a TRUE pain in the ass." After ranting a bit more, I ended my entry with "Regardless of these negative thoughts, I will move onward, feeling blessed, loved and intend today on giving what I need to someone else." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I went about my morning, making the breakfasts, the lunches, kissing goodbyes and exercising. I went to drop off a carload of donations I'd been hoarding for months (more on my new ability to take action in another post.) As I grabbed the first box and carried it to the drop off room, I was overcome with a moment of infinite gratitude. Gratitude that what I was giving away served me for as long as it did. Gratitude I was able to use and enjoy everything I was leaving for someone else. Gratitude and hope that the next person to use the items would enjoy them and be better off for it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I walked back out to my car to grab more, and saw a lady, mid-fifties, well groomed, average dress, standing near the trunk. She appeared from nowhere, so it seemed. I must have startled, as she said, "I'm just here to see if you need any help unloading?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Sure. I'd love it," I told her, still slightly surprised that I hadn't seen her milling around when I got there. Her name was Debbie and she liked to help the donors as her father helps run the donation room. She proceeded to chat with me about some of the books I had in my trunk and a few other items while I gladly begged her to take them - especially as she was helping me AND since I'd had my moment with gratitude a few minutes earlier. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On our third trip back to my car, she mentioned that this was the first she'd been back to the church since two weeks earlier, when she attended her 25 year old son's funeral mass. I stopped in my tracks and listened to her pain as she lovingly spoke of how much she missed him. When my eyes watered she asked me to please not cry as it took all her strength to wait to cry until she gets home. I had no clue what to say. Chatty Cathy speechless. So I hugged her. I hugged this stranger, this fellow human and fellow mother, so tight, and told her how sorry I was for her loss.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />After many thanks and many "I'll be okay, I'll be okays," from Debbie, we parted ways. I sat in my car for a bit, drained, yet filled with what at the time I couldn't describe. But now I know it was wholeness. I felt whole. Despite the sadness, I gave Debbie what I needed that day. I gave her an abundance of love, I gave her hope, I gave her the goodness in me. By giving Debbie what I couldn't find myself that morning, I got it back and then some. By being the light for Debbie, I found the light myself.</span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-50907350740209098622014-11-14T12:48:00.000-06:002015-01-15T15:04:54.712-06:0040 days week two - fear is a jealous fellow<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>(40 days is a series of posts that began on November 4th. If you are interested in reading them in order, start there, otherwise read on and check out all my other musings...)</i></span><br />
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I'm two weeks into my journey from fear to faith and let me tell you the highs and lows continue to astound and frustrate me. I had a few challenging days when I felt anxiety to the point of a panic attack and I really wanted to feel like a failure. It's not easy to break years and years of self deprecation - and when we fail, at least, when I fail, discouragement really gets the best of me. At the other end of the spectrum, I've had days so full of faith and security felt so deep in my bones, I felt like I could write a novel in one sitting. Pride bursting through me. Contentment, fulfillment, joy simply flowing.<br />
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By failure I mean allowing some trigger behaviors, people, situations get the best of me. By failure I mean allowing some anxious thoughts to spin out of control to the point of <i>almost</i> panic.<br />
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By learning to shift my consciousness to an 'all is well' mentality, to have faith that the universe is actually conspiring to help little old Neen succeed, I've been able to stop those thoughts somewhere between whoa nellie and a panic attack. I understand that my thoughts truly do create form and experience. I'm aware of the power I have within to stop my thought and dwell in the infinite strength the universe provides. I know for certain this works. For me. </div>
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So while there have been highs and lows, the undercurrent (the shift of consciousness from fear to faith) is there to catch me, to keep me moving onward, to encourage me to live my truth in the kindest way possible. I like the undercurrent. I like the feeling of abundance in all I hear, see and do. My days still begin with my Abundance Book, reciting a concept, meditating on it and journaling about it. I've also taken to writing my gratitude again. When you truly, truly think about and thank about, you BRING about. Focus on your teenager rolling his eyes, guess what, those eyes are rockin' and rollin' even more. Think about his sweet demeanor and energetic hugs, you get more of it in kind.</div>
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On the days that mediation becomes chore-like or situations arise that cause me to want to scoff at my journey and throw my hands in the air, I'm reminded of a quote from author Elizabeth Gilbert. She says, "When you can't see the light, be the light." Be the light. Be the light for others, for my family, for a stranger. For my dog. Be. The. Light. We've heard the saying the best way to be happy is to make others happy. Be the light. It feels good. So on my off days, my tired days, the days when all I want to do is sit with a Venti Soy Chai and a box of cookies, I try even harder to be the light. It works. It brings joy, it brings peace. </div>
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Next week, more on the journey, more on giving to others what you need the most and a story of my encounter with a stranger named Debbie.</div>
neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-24100197214723521642014-11-09T15:53:00.001-06:002015-01-15T15:05:06.243-06:0040 days week one...my oh my<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>(40 days is a series of posts that began on November 4th. If you are interested in reading them in order, start there, otherwise read on and check out all my other musings...)</i></span><br />
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It's been an interesting week. Seven plus days into my 40 day journey and I'm kind of impressed with my dedication to the process of this journey I'm calling "From fear to faith." My day began on days one through three like this:<br />
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<li>Snooze the alarm set for 5:10 and wake groggily at 5:30</li>
<li>Get out of bed with my journal, head downstairs, carefully not to trip on the dog</li>
<li>Set up in my favorite spot on the sofa, sit straight and begin reading from a book called "The Abundance Plan."</li>
<li>Meditate, write down my thoughts.</li>
<li>Work on a focus wheel (more on this later.)</li>
<li>Shoo my husband when he comes to say good morning.</li>
<li>Meditate more</li>
<li>Feel really good</li>
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Starting this out early in the morning really helped clear my head and start my day from a place of gratitude for my incredibly imperfect life. I felt lighter and noticed more gentle thoughts passing through my littered mind. Gentle. How I love the word gentle.<br />
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I vowed to begin my days with this active start instead of starting my days in neutral. Neutral is boring, nothing happens in neutral. Nothing comes out of neutral. You just sit, idle. Neutral no more, I wake with thoughts of gentleness, peace and gratitude.<br />
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By day four I was really tired and stayed in bed, snoozing until the last possible minute. I freaked out and got anxious about breaking my routine. Shit!! Now what?! Four days in and I'm screwing up already??? I was grumpy, the coffee tasted nasty and I literally needed to send my grumpy butt upstairs for a time out to calm my thoughts. I forgave myself and decided on a set time after the kids headed to school to read and meditate. I decided to now wake up when I care to and mentally voice three things I'm grateful for and make a statement for the day. One of my favorites is "My true nature is one of happiness."<br />
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I find that doing these exercises, no matter what time of day, is truly helping to shift my consciousness from fear to faith. Week one manifested a reduced bill for a dental procedure for my son and for me - no charge when I had three fillings - yes three - replaced. What? Why? Coincidence? I think not. I'm slowly shifting my consciousness from fear to faith. From lack to abundance and what happened? Abundance fell into my lap.<br />
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Author Marianne Williamson says "Dwell in that which is infinite." I am working on this. It's easier and habitual for me to dwell in worry or dwell on a problem. I'm noticing lately, when a problem or a negative thought pops into my head I don't dwell as long as I'm accustomed to (which is a long ass time.) I usually hang on to that fear, that issue, that worry - like that Wellenda guy on the tightrope holds onto his balance bar - I hang onto my fear with a vice like grip - but not lately. I recognize the fear, and let the thought go. That's been really, really cool. And freeing!<br />
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So there have been faithful days and days when I've had to fake it till I make it. I'm ok with faking it because I know I <i>will</i> make it. I have faith. More next week about my focus wheel, sleep patterns and the thought of "Being The Light."neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-40558458440444605942014-11-04T12:35:00.002-06:002014-11-09T19:24:14.682-06:00My 40 days<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About a month ago, I started to have mild panic attacks when thinking about anything stressful. I have certain triggers that send my anxiety into overload. Over the years, through therapy, reading spiritual texts, developing a meditation practice and surrounding myself with wonderful, like minded souls, I've learned to manage my anxiety with the end goal being 1. a healthier me and 2. to stop the cycle of anxiety that runs deep in my family history. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was really surprised when one day, when staring at a pile of bills with contempt and frustration, my heart started racing and my throat felt like it was about to close. Very strange, very scary and a little wake up call that something just wasn't right. I ignored it for a few weeks - until it happened again. And then again. After seeking help from my esteemed physician, whom I've seen for 17 years and truly adore, I was advised to take anti-anxiety meds and perhaps a blood pressure medicine for the acute moments of panic. Let me state loud and clear: I have NOTHING against medicine. After my second baby, I had postpartum and was on antidepressants for a while. I have taken Ativan and it works WONDERS (does anyone really enjoy flying?) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, this season of my life doesn't need medication. I truly believe with a goal and a plan, I can manage my anxiety on my own, without meds. When I sat and looked at my life I realized the last 18 months have been a mindless free fall. I love the following quote:</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">There is an Indian proverb or axiom that says that everyone is a house with four rooms, a physical, a mental, an emotional, and a spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time but, unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person. </span></b><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So if we are to assume the four room theory, I would say I visited every room, but just for a second or two. Flitting from here to there. Never really balancing my visits. Some weeks my physical room was visited like crazy and then wow did the dust pile up while I went to the Dairy Queen room. So what we can dub a free fall resulted in me not being my authentic self, reverting back to old anxiety triggers, and the best part? These little heart racing panic attacks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spoke with my meditation teacher at length about this and she advised me that circumstances do not cause our challenges. While circumstances can be sad, painful, trying - it is not these moments that cause anxiety - it is our lack of faith. A lack of faith. A lack of self. A LACK. Period. When we lose our faith, lose our Self, we forget that we have everything we need within us to get into our four rooms and manifest contentment in our life, regardless of what is going on in our outside world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So as a self proclaimed seeker of contentment, I am setting out on a 40 day spiritual path to strengthen my faith. Why 40 days? The universal appeal of 40 days reigns in several religions. How about being pregnant for 40 weeks? Moses? Noah? 40 days to change a habit? 40 days seems to be rooted in deep fulfillment and promises. So off I go. As the week goes on, I'll explain actually how I intend to move forward with this journey!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will report back after seven days and give you some insight on my findings. I'm faithful (ha!! look at me already!) that at the end of 40 days, I will discover something. I'm not sure what, but hang around for the ride and I'll keep you posted...</span></div>
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neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-56095726212417790912014-02-06T06:58:00.000-06:002014-02-08T14:54:28.689-06:00music - the ultimate time machine<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'll never forget the first time I realized I would die. The first time I learned my mom and </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">dad would die. I was seven years old sitting in the back seat of our chocolate brown 1976 Plymouth station wagon riding home from my grandparent's house on a hot summer Sunday. My legs stuck to the leather seats as the first notes of that God-awful song played on the radio. The haunting lyrics and strings and aching voice. Talking about how all we are is dust in the wind. On all that's holy I swear I can NOT hear that song without a shiver creeping up my spine, a fear trickling through my veins and a quick jerk of my hand turning off whatever offensive piece of technology the song blares from. Fear at it's finest.</span><br>
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Songs do this to us. They bring us joy, bring tears to our eyes and smiles to our faces. I can name dozens of songs that are linked directly to people, places and moments of my life that sometimes I want to remember and many I'd like to forget. Music is the ultimate time machine. It is a direct link to any moment in time - Dust in The Wind - death and the station wagon. Frank Sinatra - my mother dancing in our kitchen on Smith Lane. Rush - first concert, first time I smelled pot. Open Arms - first kiss in my friend's basement. Journey in general - Marijane. Yaz - Kathleen and our 8th grade poms routine. Michael Jackson - Andrea. U2, The Cure, The Call, Joy Division - nights at home listening to Triton College Radio as a teen. Prince - Diane and her awesome teenage bedroom. That's the Way Love Goes, Marvin Gaye, Counting Crows, The Replacements - my first apartment. Phil Collins - my brother. Asia - my brother. Countless songs remind me of first meeting and dating my hubs - too many to even conjure! Hundreds of songs happily clutter my brain allowing me to relive my life.</span><br>
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Songs are like an outburst of the soul shooting out feelings of love, lust, sadness and redemption. Music elevates us, pumps us up for our run, soothes our hectic days, turns our bad moods into cheerful ones, takes us from happy to somber or just plain gets us in the mood. As I type, Aretha Franklin is crooning Chain of Fools. My shoulders inadvertently move up and down. My son bops in the room and I see a hip shake. Joy in the early evening. I imagine when I hear this song again, years from now, I'll remember typing key strokes and smiling at my handsome boy and his awesome dance moves.</span><br>
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Last Sunday we ate lunch at Potbellies with the kiddos and LA Woman (The Doors) blared overhead. While carrying on our conversation, my hub's head starts bopping infinitesimally to the beat and I know he's thinking of a road trip he took with a childhood friend. I was remembering a college bar, falling for a base player while he strummed the song clumsily with a college cover band. Music takes us back in time and runs us through a plethora of emotion. When we listen to music, we feel alive. It's glorious, yes?</span><br>
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I challenge you - go get in your time machine. Grab a sheet of paper, grab your laptop, grab your phone - write or type 10 songs and their memory counterparts - go back in time and enjoy the ride. Let me know how it goes. Next time you go to turn on the TV, turn on your music instead - whatever floats your boat. Whether it's country, classical, rap or pop or alternative - go for the music. You are what you listen to. Listen well and let the music take you.</span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-2685802773460644942013-10-07T17:29:00.001-05:002013-10-07T17:46:31.229-05:00embrace the crazy fan girlAs part of my quest for more balance and presence, I am coming out of a closet. My name is Nina and I'm a crazy fan girl disguised as a suburban mom attending parent teacher conferences, cross country meets and little league baseball games.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sometimes CFG and myself at the Journey concert.</td></tr>
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My addiction began like many of the millions of fan girls peeking out behind their venti lattes and premium denim. I was nine when I sang my heart out to '<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vM072Y_zEPw" target="_blank">Hey Deenie</a>," a la Sean Cassidy. I wrote him a letter professing my unwavering love and devotion. At 12, I ripped out my first of many pages from <i>TigerBeat </i>magazine. A picture of <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://wac.450f.edgecastcdn.net/80450F/noisecreep.com/files/2013/01/steve-perry.jpg&imgrefurl=http://noisecreep.com/steve-perry-journey/&h=225&w=200&sz=12&tbnid=Dy-FnNiWYEIzZM:&tbnh=114&tbnw=101&zoom=1&usg=__8jlxAOOM4pOCqnJAcrX5PdwUpzU=&docid=T-CXdl8eP525FM&sa=X&ei=dC5TUsi_Gsu9qAGPx4EI&ved=0CD8Q9QEwBw" target="_blank">Steve Perry</a>, front man of Journey sporting long hair and his large nose captivated me like no other and he gazed at me from the walls of my tiny bedroom singing to me about open arms...<br />
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It continued on and on with Michael Jackson, Prince, <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/87/Angela_Chase_and_Jordan_Catalano.jpg&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_So-Called_Life&h=400&w=333&sz=62&tbnid=GKfpGY1Fsp_PZM:&tbnh=94&tbnw=78&zoom=1&usg=__mIBUZ79Lp6MQEo1LC34-IDdELqg=&docid=cbg8JUZpxv7MCM&sa=X&ei=tC5TUpStNZT9qAG4oYFg&ved=0CEkQ9QEwBA" target="_blank">Jordan Catalano</a> (fictional but not to me,) Eddie Vedder and Justin Timberlake. Young girls are fickle, you know. Somewhere along the line, as age crept in and I traded "wisdom for lines around my eyes," I had to snuff out my open musings of the object(s) of my affection. It didn't suit my blossoming professional image, not to mention my many (ha!) suitors, to drool over images of Eddie Vedder's long hair, flannel shirts and stage thrashing. This was before the days of smart phones and internet - everything was in print and I ran the risk of being discovered at Walgreens buying the latest issue of <i>Rolling Stone</i>, <i>People</i> or <i>Us Weekly</i> for fear of looking like the crazy star struck girl that I was (am.)<br />
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Fast forward a few decades and an i phone, and I have all my celebrity crushes at the swipe of my fingertips! I still love Justin and gladly added Adam, Robert and my darling Mikel Jollett. And as a seasoned fan girl, I recently decided to accept my inner creeper. It is quite wonderful to scroll down the screen, story after story about what role Justin is taking next or what town my favorite band is playing. And can we all shout out to Instagram for allowing us up close and personal pics of our favorite crushes? Yes, I do love a pic of my celebrity love shaving - what can I say? Crazy. Fan. Girl. (CFG) REPRESENT!<br />
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Now don't roll your eyes at me. No hating allowed ladies and gentlemen. You may sit there from your ivory "I don't do that kind of thing" tower, but admit it. You do. Whether you are a Real Housewives addict, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue obsessor or just cruise online skimming through what you claim is your "guilty pleasure," it. Is. The. Same. Thing. You are interested in something outside of real life that if your peers, your kids, gasp! your co-workers knew about you would turn a shade of red and feel the need to defend yourself. Step forward! Embrace the silly and the carefree! REPRESENT! Who says that? Me, CFG.</div>
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My CFG tendencies served me so well a few weeks ago while attending a show at The Vic. After an exceptionally loud and raucous performance, lead singer of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz1xIhq1Fh4&feature=player_embedded" target="_blank">Airborne Toxic Event</a>, Mikel Jollett, swoon... lept off stage to sign autographs and shake hands. And give hugs. I looked on longingly and happily, overjoyed for all the fans getting autographs and his sweat all over them. Can you imagine? His sweat? And then my husband, my darling, wonderful, all knowing husband said 'What are you waiting for? GO!"</div>
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Off I ran and muddled and shimmied my way through the crowd, all the way to Mikel who graciously grabbed my phone, took two selfies of us together, and hugged me. HUGGED ME. With his deliciously sweaty leather vest and inked arms, he hugged me. I smiled like the <i>Tiger Beat</i> reading teenie bopper I will always be at heart and summoned up the intelligence to say a heartfelt thank you and a cool girl version of "nice show man." I wordlessly swaggered back to my husband and friend, arms and iphone raised like a flag after battle. I jumped in hub's arms and raved like a lunatic showing him pictures and recanting my "nice show man" comment proud as a peacock.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My boyfriend, Mikel, and me at The Vic</td></tr>
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It is much easier to embrace your inner fan girl or guy when you are surrounded by others in a fan like environment. I know some of you boys out there were posting pictures all over social media of golfers. Golfers. GOLFERS! You remember that BMW classic just a month ago, yes? You followed them around the links and asked for autographs. Just because the clapping at golf events is quieter than at a Jay Z concert doesn't mean the creeping and picture taking is any less CFG. Gotchya! No judging here, just saying...<br />
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I highly recommend embracing your CFG tendencies. It's liberating. And so fun. You will be completely surprised at how many of us are out here lurking. Let's celebrate our random fandom together, out in the open! I'll be watching for you.<br />
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neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-3447063537409369162013-10-02T15:27:00.000-05:002013-10-02T15:27:10.712-05:00and.....she's off!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">babygirl age four</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am the mother of a high school student. I am the mother of a high school student. I am the mother of a high school student? Are you kidding me with this? In my mind, I AM the high school student. How is it possible this day has come? Better question: How is it possible I've accepted all the signs? Let's start with my wrinkles (you know I LOVE to speak of my wrinkles!), the fact that I finally started to color my hair and the best post 40 wake up call: it takes so long to lose weight and even longer to take it off and it takes Herculean discipline to stay fit - but one Oreo? ONE EFFIN Oreo? Right to my thighs. May as well rub those little cookies all over my backside because that's exactly where they land.</span><br />
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All the signs are present as I (kind of) gracefully pass through time, laughing at said signs and living the days go by. But the tangibility of my first born entering High School is sobering. Exciting. Terrifying. I feel like this is the start of something big, massive and lightning quick. Like a canon is ready to be shot and in four short years, my babygirl will be ready to leave me. She will leave me. She will leave me.</span><br />
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As a rational gal, I know I am raising her to do just that. To leave me and successfully live on her own. Making her own mistakes, her own successes independent of her Mama (sorry, I'm watching a lot of <i>Friday Night Lights</i> and I'm stuck with some Texan twang.) I know this, I pray for it and somedays I long for the solitude of an empty nest. </span><br />
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It's the beginnings and the endings that throw me. The ending of a life, the beginning of a career, the ending of a friendship. It seems like the doing, the living, with all it's ups and downs and laughs and grumbles goes on moment for moment. These transitions though always give me pause to reflect. </span><br />
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I watch as younger Mamas around me send their babies to Kindergarten or Middle School for the first time. I smile and tell them all will be well. Thank God they CAN reach these milestones. Don't mourn the past, be grateful for it and embrace the future. And some older Mamas look at me and say the same thing. I will say I mourn nothing in the past, but I am kinda frightened of the future. For the first time in a long time I feel like all my parenting skills will be put to the test. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and babygirl this summer</td></tr>
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Will she have friends? Will her grades be good enough? Will she get in a car with someone whose drinking? Will she smoke pot? I don't know any of these answers. Worse in not knowing? I have no control over the outcome. While I am certainly not done raising my kids, glimpses of real life are here and I hope and pray the kids will take the tools I've given them and use them in the best way they can to make good decisions. I know sometimes they won't. I pray most times they will. I hope that when they are about to make a choice that could lead to severe consequences, they'll hear my words and see my face. I hope they make choices knowing what could happen. And I pray when they make mistakes, I'll have the grace to guide them through, without anger and judgement. That's a big prayer, yes? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Somewhere in the back of my mind I know all will be well. I smile and look forward to hearing about the good and the nasty and all that comes with it. The kisses, the sneaking around, all of it. Come on, it's going to happen. I just hope and pray it happens as safely as possible. And I hope that the high schooler that lives in me will tell my wrinkled middle aged self to relax and have an Oreo. Or four...</span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-78658269786268625022013-09-24T13:03:00.002-05:002013-10-02T15:21:08.367-05:00365...Part II365 days. All I can think about is my father's death. He died just more than a year ago. And what a year it has been. I'm not missing him any more than I normally do nor I am I feeling overly sentimental. But something has been quite wrong. I've felt tightly wound, desperately running away from an overall feeling of....'yuck.' A feeling so odd, so foreign and disturbing I type and delete the words I long to use to describe it. All I can say is yuck. Discomfort. Death is yucky. It's final. It's disturbing. My father appeared uncomfortable during his last days. His body labored. It was horrible to witness. That's where my mind keeps leading me...<br />
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A year ago, after my Dad passed away, I was able to grieve and miss him and smile for him and cry for him. I wrote a eulogy that poured from my heart to the paper. I shared my love, my funny and my memories of my father with the wonderful, generous and loving friends and family that came to his funeral. I was in a spiritual place that kept me calm, grateful and present. This allowed me a quiet, cleansing, authentic grieving period. I felt the loss deeply, it sluiced through me and I felt closer to my dad during those first months after his death than I had previously during his illness when he was alive. I felt as if I could feel him with me, see him clearly smiling and laughing and driving me crazy with his obnoxious antics. I breathed him in.<br />
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365 days later. I have grown distant from authenticity, from presence, from calm. I lost my balance. My life rolled out of control collecting stress after stress. My husband's business had set backs, which caused our family some setbacks. My mother moved in with us and not long after her move in, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. My zen like spirituality wasn't strong enough to hold up to the new shit storm brewing around me. As I wrote this post, a few edits from publishing it, I stumbled upon this quote:<br />
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<span style="color: orange;">"There is a myth, sometimes widespread, that a person need only do inner work...that a man is entirely responsible for his own problems; and that to cure himself, he need only change himself...The fact is, a person is so formed by his surroundings, that his state of harmony depends entirely on his harmony with his surroundings." ~ Christopher Alexander, <i>The Timeless Way of Building</i></span><br />
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</span>Oh the inner work! The reading! The thought process! The discussions! The meditations! I did it all. Love it all. I do it daily. When I was in a better place, I prayed every day, exercised every day, read every day, meditated every day and focused on ways to improve my relationships around me. My daily goal was to live in a state of gratitude and wonder, even on the most challenging of days. Most days I achieved my goal, some days I did not.</div>
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365 days later. I'm looking back. I slowly stopped my consistency. Once again, some days were better than others, but many days were not. I stopped my meditation many days. Stopped my daily rituals, stopped living intentionally. And it was UNINTENTIONAL to stop my intentional living. It's so easy to fall into old patterns when life's circumstances take you down. I focused on making lunches, answering phone calls, doing the very best I could every day, but forgetting my intention. Exercise happened, but not with 100% focus. Meditation happened, but the distractions were high. Everything started to tilt sideways. Little by little. The scale tipped in favor of my ego, my racing mind, my anxious place.</div>
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I started losing my way due to my surroundings. I was tired. The degenerative disc in my neck flared up. I lost a lot of strength and flexibility. My anxious way of thinking decided to make a huge comeback and wouldn't you know my relationships got knocked around too. I got angry. I got frustrated. I got really fucking tired.</div>
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365 days later and all I can think of is my father's labored breathing, his suffering and the permanence of death. It just fucking sucks. Where has my peace gone?</div>
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I long for the moments last year when I was alive enough to see death as a another chapter, a continuation of our expansion to another realm. An opportunity for growth. An opportunity to realize that our loved ones are never ever gone. They are not gone. We just can't communicate with them via the same channels we are used to. We need quiet calm minds to hear them and to feel them. This is such a preferred way of being. I'm not saying we aren't sad that we can't feel their human touch or hear their distinctive voice. Of course we are sad, but when we are clear, when we are living presently and authentically, we can feel them. We accept and live on and live well.</div>
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I think it is the awareness of the yuck, the finality and measure of time that has brought me back to myself. 365 days to reflect, to see, to feel, to notice. I handled some days with grace. I lived some days with mindfulness. Had I not been on a great path 365 days ago, I would have been much more graceless, much more...mindless. And there's the gratitude. I can't and won't beat myself up for the days that flew by when I ignored my self and got brain-cluttered. I won't linger in the yuck any longer. I'm working through it one moment at a time. It's interesting how the yuck builds up in your heart, like plaque on your teeth. If you don't floss, if you forget to brush after a late night out or just swipe that toothbrush instead of properly cleaning those pearly whites - that 365 day check up is gonna be painful. A little bleeding, a little dental scolding, a promise to do better next check up.</div>
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I promise to strive for the balance. I'm spending intentional time doing what I know propels me forward. Intention. Balance. Presence. Awareness. Despite the yuck. Because of it.</div>
neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-58007938422506966812013-09-17T19:46:00.002-05:002013-10-02T15:16:06.902-05:00365<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;">365 days ago, my dear father passed away. I am posting the eulogy I wrote and read to share a little bit of my dad with you all. He was my biggest fan. I know this would make him smile. He loved being the center of attention after all. Thanks for reading. It's a long read, so get comfy, and thanks as always, for reading...</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Say not in grief 'he is no more', but live in thankfulness that he was.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember my father, Leo Kushner, as a story teller. His story began on July 13th, 1927 in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He loved living in Argentina, he loved saying “Argentina,” often talking of the busy city and the quiet countryside where he lived with my grandparents and my uncle. He loved to talk in detail about the colors of tucan birds and butterflies, while drifting into stories about his mother smacking him with a broom when got out of line. Which was often. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My dad could tell a story like no one else. Whether he narrated in a loud booming voice or his quiet whisper, his hand gestures, animated facial expressions and uniquely hilarious observations made every story compelling. Sometimes he would break into song mid-story, just to make sure you were listening. I wish I could do it now, but he always told me I couldn’t carry a tune and would say, ‘Nina, a singer, you’ll never be.” He was right.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At 14, He moved with his family to Chicago. Can you imagine not only moving at 14, leaving your friends, your family, your cousins, your school, but moving to another country where you didn’t know the language, the customs, the dress? While my father understood some yiddish, he did not speak it, as in Argentina, his family spoke Spanish. So even though they moved to a Jewish neighborhood on the West side of Chicago, my father was quite nervous at first. He told me during the first week he was here, his mother sent him to store. He was so nervous he might get lost on the way home, like the mover and shaker he was, he decided to memorize the street lights since he couldn’t read the English street signs. So he saw yellow light, green light, yellow light, red, and on and on. Simple, right? They didn’t have street lights in Argentina, so he assumed they would stay the same. He goes to the store, gets what his mother told him, and he sets out for home thinking yellow, green, yellow red.... To his horror, on the way back, what he’d memorized was ALL wrong, and he wandered for hours trying to find his way home. When he finally and God only knows how he made it back home, his mother smacked him with a broom. Now I didn’t do that story half the justice it should have gotten, because when he told it, he filled it with fake tears, and a frightened face and a terrified grimace when talking about his angry mom.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I could stand here and tell you hundreds of stories about him too. I could tell you about the time I told him I didn’t need a ride home from work from Baskin Robbins, and he stalked me in the parking lot across the street to make sure I didn’t get in a car with a boy. I could tell you about the time he took me back to school shoe shopping when I was 12 and we went to Spire shoes, at Watertower-very chichi for 1981. Watertower, with my Dad - I’ll never forget feeling so special. I could tell you about the time I came home with an awfully awful short haircut at 9 years old and he said, ‘Now, now you look like a Kushner!’ - and he made me feel like that was all in the world that mattered. And I remember vividly, when I couldn’t decide between two wedding dresses, his was the most important opinion I could gather. My maid of honor was there, my mom was there, but I knew for certain, Dad would be able to make the decision for me. I came out in the first dress and his eyes got wide and he said ‘no shit.’ Very Leo. I went and changed into option number two. Walked out again and he said “no shit.” And then he said, “I don’t know, what do you think?” Can you believe? My decision maker, my go to guy, THE guy - “what do you think?” I rendered my poor Dad useless in that moment - He hadn’t a clue. No mind, I got a dress, got married, it all worked out. I could tell you a thousand more stories, there are so many that I wake up with every day...</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember my father as my cheerleader. He gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me. He got a kick out of me. We enjoyed each other’s company SO MUCH. <i>MOST</i> of the time. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I lived in the city, he would come to meet me on Saturday mornings at the Bagel on Broadway for breakfast. No matter how late I was out the night before, I always met him for tunafish at the Bagel. We laughed. We had un-awkward silent moments, we fought - oh my gosh how I fought with my father. We drove each other bananas. I wouldn’t change a thing. He loved me unconditionally, the same way he loved my brothers, the same way he loved my mother.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember my father telling me he was a lucky guy. We grew up very modestly, in a small apartment, how was this lucky, I remember thinking, when he told me this. He said, “I never, never thought I’d be here, as long as I’ve been here, married to a woman who loves me, takes care of me; with three kids, a son who is a teacher, three kids who are ‘fantastico’ all the way around, grandkids- are you kidding me?” he said. “I never dreamt it. Not in a million years. I am a lucky guy.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think though, that we are the lucky ones. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The stories I share today, will never do him justice. But they are bursting from inside me. Since the day he passed, I’ve felt so much of him with me, each story just waiting for its turn to be let out, rehashed and cherished. I feel his arms around me, only he could hug me and make the rest of the world melt away. My Dad is a character, he is laughter, he is tears, he is hilarity and irreverence. He is my father, all of him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He loved us. All of us. So fiercely. So much. In HIS own way. And it was only, HIS way. And he loved my mother, so much, so fiercely, in his way. He called her La Rubia, the blonde. I remember him telling me she was one of the special ones, that there’s no one like her, and that he was so lucky she put up with him. The week before he died, while we all sat with him in his room, my mom was down the hall. She walked in the room, all smiles and beautiful and he whispered so softly, “there’s my girl.” And you are and always will be mom. You’ll always be his girl.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember my father laughing when he told us about my mom and their fun nights on Rush Street before they got married. He loved to tell us about how she and my Aunt Connie would come into Dino’s bar and all the guys would shout out a warning - “LEO, Florence is here...” He would laugh and wait for mom to either give him a shove or a wise crack or an eye roll. He new how lucky he was to have her. And I know she feels the same about him. He had nicknames for everyone - I told you, mom was La Rubia - I was ‘mi corazon,’ his heart. Dave is ‘The Big Guy.’ Jack is his ‘Class act.” Tom was always “My Man,” and Colleen is the “Irish Girl.” I have a lot of Irish Girl friends, and you know who you are, and you were something to him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He loved his grandchildren, so very very much. He had names for each of them. He called Sydney his little shiksa, Ashley, Princess Ashley, Sarah he called simply Sarah Kushner, because he was so proud it was his mother’s name. He called David ‘D’ or the ‘other Big Guy,” Michael was Miguel, or the ball player, and Olivia. Olivia was his Gypsy. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than spending time with his grandchildren. Simply sitting back, watching them live their life.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Life is for the Living. I remember my father saying this ALL. THE. TIME. Life is for the living. And here we are. All living. All feeling my Dad in these moments. Life is for the living. The past few weeks, as I’m doing laundry, or driving to the grocery store, or distracting myself online, I freeze and think, what am I doing, what am I doing? Shouldn’t I be grieving?. This isn’t to say that I haven’t had moments of pain or crushing tears. Those have come too. But during the other moments, I am living. I am living because I am alive, and because he taught me to do. Just that. To live. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will miss the father I remember. I will look for him everyday in everything I do. I am bursting with his love, and know his hugs and smiles and silly winks will carry me through the rough moments.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will close with this lovely poem</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Death is nothing at all;</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have only slipped away into the next room.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am I, and you are you;</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Call me by my old familiar name;</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Speak to me in the easy way you always used.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Put no difference into your tone,</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow,</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Laugh as we always laughed</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the little jokes we enjoyed.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Life means all that it ever meant -</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am but waiting for you, for an interval,</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just around the corner.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All is well.</span></i></span></div>
<br />neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-83765794705113059112012-11-28T15:16:00.000-06:002013-10-02T15:22:52.329-05:00Grateful for the Passing of TimeIt's been a busy, crazy, intense, sad and joyous 5 months since I last posted here. As a 'blogger,' one isn't supposed to draw reference to the fact that she hasn't posted in a while, but it's part of a larger theme, so roll with me.<br />
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On June 28th, my life was so different, yet still so much the same. My Dad was alive and I was beginning a new adventure in my life. I'm still enjoying my new adventure, I am nearing my 40somethingth birthday, preparing to register my daughter for high school, and my dear Dad passed away. Time keeps moving on. Some days she flies on by, and others she drags her pokey self through each and every hour.<br />
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There is such beauty in the passage of time, such grace, so much awe. We know life can change in an instant. We are aware of the intensity of that possibility - but what about the awareness of life changing moment by moment, breath by breath, day by day and so on? For years I've allowed myself the gift of enjoying the present moment and taking time for stillness. It's an ongoing process, as there are days when I'm so unenlightened and ready for the day to be over, I head up to bed as soon as the last dish from dinner is dried. For the most part though, I have a deep respect for the here and now.<br />
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The feeling of Now really seeped in to my consciousness right after my Dad died and the month that followed. While it was a time of deep sadness, it was also a time of reflection, wonder and dare I say joy. Joy because of the wonder that is life and death. Joy that I know my Dad is at rest, or in a better place or on a new journey, or whatever it may be called - I know, so deeply, that he is with me. Whenever I want him, he's here. And in that glorious month, I wanted him daily. I woke with him, saw him on and off throughout the day, and said goodnight before I settled in to watch The Daily Show. I think the reason I felt so close to him during that time is because I was allowed to be still - to shut off from the rest of the world to take care of only what really mattered at the moment: grieving, my husband, my kids, my mom, my brothers, getting dinner on the table and maybe doing some laundry. Society allows us this time to be flakey, not return phone calls, miss meetings and be still, if we choose.<br />
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I am so fortunate to have friends, family and a community that embraced me and allowed my stillness. I want it back. I want you all to have it too! And, no, I don't want you to have it at the expense of a loss or some other tragedy. I want the quiet and peace that comes with some sort of self imposed shut down of what really matters. I think there is a way to get this back, even though we have to load the dishwasher and go to work and go to parent/teacher conferences and deal with the crazy road rage guy in the Honda. It will take effort to find the peace and dwell in it - but I do know it's possible. It all comes down to balance, and I lack that most days...<br />
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The best way to move toward this place, this peace, is to embrace Now. Each moment, every moment. When you're typing, type! When you're stirring the risotto, stir and when you're listening to your son go on and on about the Bears, listen (challenge point for me!) This is the start to finding the space to be still. I am not a guru, I am not a preacher, I am not a religious gal. All I know is what works for me. Stillness works. It's hard to get there, but when I do it works. And if it works for me, I gotta share the love.<br />
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Gratitude works too. How many of us are talking about what we're grateful for this week? Everyone! Can gratitude jump the shark? Can we get sick of each other being grateful? I recently read the funniest blog about what we should be ungrateful for - HILARIOUS! I digress. You can never be grateful enough. There is always something - whether it's a new promotion at work, a windfall of cash, a positive diagnoses, a green vs. red light or even the fact that you have a fantastic pillow to sleep on at night - there is always a reason to be grateful. Again, there are days that I scoff at myself and think, really Pollyanna? But deep down, the stillness waits for me to come back.<br />
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Time passing is a wonder to feel. It shows us where we have been and what brought us to right now. It reveals what came before, what worked and what failed. And as it passes, we don't dwell in it. We let it pass, flow away so we can choose the moment we are in to embrace all that it is we have, right now. I miss my Dad every day, but feel him so strongly with each passing day, it's almost as if he's closer to me than he ever was.<br />
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My hope is to find the balance, find the awareness of the present moment and focus on what matters most, even when all I want to think about is what color wrapping paper should go under the tree this year. And there's a time for that too - as long as it doesn't take away the stillness, the quiet, that amazing pass of time that allows you to simply, be.neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-27049248842410228832012-06-28T05:19:00.000-05:002012-06-28T05:19:01.384-05:00summer obsessions 2012<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I love being obsessed. Whether it be a new song, a food, a product or an activity, I love the way a new obsession takes over my whole being, starting in my head and ending with my blathering on about it to my friends, family and anyone who will listen. My soon to be 13 year old let me know quite frankly, "Mom, you are ALWAYS (eye roll) obsessed with something." Before I could even deny it, I paused and said, you know, you're right! But this isn't a bad thing. Especially this summer, when I am obsessed with many things healthy, except for a few things on the naughty side. Below is my list - I encourage you to join my obsessive nature and give me a holler so we can go on and on and on about them....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.target.com/p/gilligan-omalley-womens-modal-thong-underwear-black/-/A-10803454#?lnk=sc_qi_detaillink" target="_blank">Gillian O'Malley Modal Thong Underwear</a> </span>for workouts</b>. I am obsessed. These panties are thin, lightweight and inexpensive. They fit well, and you can't feel them during your most grueling workouts. They are very plain jane, so I wouldn't recommend them for a night out on the town or with your guy, but for your yoga practice or barre workout, these are go to undies.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.zico.com/products/benefits?gclid=CIyx5_vI77ACFUMCQAodQ0gWvg" target="_blank">Zico Coconut Water</a></span></b>. DELICIOUS and delightful!! At 60 calories for a 14 oz bottle, this yummy drink refreshes and hydrates me immediately. I love to drink water, but sometimes I need a little more, and Zico does the trick. It has 569mg of potassium, 0 fat and is gluten free. While I drink the natural, they have other flavors like chocolate (<i>You Know Neen</i>'s daughter LOVES) and pomegranate. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>Avocados!</b></span> Yes, they deserve an exclamation point. I began my avocado obsession after I completed a juice cleanse and couldn't get enough of these creamy, filling little suckers. I eat them in the morning sliced with egg whites or for lunch sliced on an open faced turkey sandwich. YUM. I've even eaten them whole, right out of the skin. Gross? Maybe. I'm obsessed. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> While they are high in calories, the nutritional value is astounding. From avocado.org: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;"><i>Avocados provide nearly 20 essential nutrients, including fiber, potassium, Vitamin E, B-vitamins and folic acid. They also act as a "nutrient booster" by enabling the body to absorb more fat-soluble nutrients, such as alpha and beta-carotene and lutein, in foods that are eaten with the fruit. </i></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Chobani Yogurt</span></b> At 14 grams of protein per 6 oz container - you get a LOT of bang for your buck. I literally raid the grocery store when the raspberry flavor is in stock, as it seems to be missing way to often. Perfect mid afternoon snack when I get my sweet tooth attack!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.thedaileymethod.com/" target="_blank">The Dailey Method</a> </span></b> This is truly the best fitness program I've ever participated in. The 60 minute class is designed to help strengthen, tone and lengthen the entire body. The movements are controlled and focused and work each muscle group to fatigue. My favorite aspect of class is that alignment is the main focus, which allows you to really "master" the movement. Active stretching rounds out the work out and your body AND mind are in sync the entire class. I've been doing Dailey Method since January and have noticed significant results, including much better posture!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Motivational Quotes </span>I am obsessed with any motivational quotes I can get my hands on. One or two a day can really change my mood from negative to positive, discouraged to uplifting. I find them everywhere - from books, to Pinterest to blogs. My favorite this month : "Gratitude turns what we have into enough."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Grey Goose and Soda with a Lime</span></b> Plain and simple. Delicious and effective. No headaches to speak of, and if you have a few too many and spill - NO STAIN!!!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Adam Levine</span></b> Do I even need to explain why? I've loved this man since "This Love" and he's only grown more appealing as he's aged and gotten more ink. And now he golfs. I want to have him over for a beer and have him laugh at my jokes, and...Heavy sigh. Mr. <i>You Know Neen</i> won't appreciate this obsession...</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>Music Obsessions</b></span> These change weekly sometimes. The following have been hanging on for at least a month or so, and they are on repeat on my iPod....There is no common thread, either. Some are angsty, one is ridiculous in its pop craziness and the others are just plane fabulous. They all own me this summer:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6MubXLxMpQ" target="_blank">'New York' Snow Patrol</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">'<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zvCBSSwgtg4" target="_blank">Hey Ho' The Lumineers</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">'<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KRaWnd3LJfs" target="_blank">Payphone' Maroon Five</a> (the video is pretty goofy, but I can forgive Adam anything.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">'<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWNaR-rxAic" target="_blank">Call Me Maybe' Carly Rae Jepsen</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-1064620475562835862012-05-30T12:49:00.000-05:002012-05-30T12:49:54.596-05:00"Did You Love Anyone Before Daddy?"With head shaking clarity, I remember the questions my children would ask me as toddlers.<br />
"Why do we have to go to the grocery store?"<br />
"Because we need food to eat."<br />
"Why?"<br />
"Because we need to eat to grow and be healthy."<br />
"Why?"<br />
"Because if we don't eat and grow, we become unhealthy."<br />
"Why?"<br />
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And the 'why's?" went on and on and on. Or so it seemed. The questions have gotten more complex as the years have marched on and the 'whys' have become more detailed, accompanied with opinions. During toddler days, I longed for the time when I could really talk with my little people. Well my little people are on the cusp of adolescence and we are, in fact, really talking. And while I'm not cringing at the whys, I'm surely thinking about my answers more carefully because they are paying a LOT of attention to what I have to say.<br />
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At dinner last week I sat with my two kids, sans hubs and we noshed over homemade pizza and caesar salad. Don't ask me how or why my youngest started talking about love. But he did. And the questions began....."Mom, how many boyfriends have you had? Were you ever in love before Dad?"<br />
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OH COME ON. I pride myself on being so open with my kids. You ask, you'll get. I have one that is an information glutton, and one that only wants to hear the very important facts and that's it. So, I breathe in. And out. And again. And I regroup and ask back "Well, it depends on what you mean by boyfriend. Are we talking about dates or about longer relationships?"<br />
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"Both," child.<br />
"Hmm. Okay. Well, I went on lots of dates, which was a lot of fun. I had a high school boyfriend. And a college boyfriend, and then one after that. Then I dated a lot. Then I met Dad. And yes, I've been in love before your Dad," Me.<br />
"REALLY? Mom, you were a player!!!" Child.<br />
"WAIT. No. A player is someone who dates lots of people at the same time. I didn't do that," Me.<br />
"Okay, but how many of those boys did you love?" Child.<br />
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In the name of all that's holy, I really didn't think these conversations, these "real talks" with my children would happen so quickly, or be so personal. Those who know me know I love to talk. I do. It's a blessing and a curse. And here I sat with my lovelies, asking about me, me before them, before their Dad. Me, who they never knew. So I dove in carefully. Honestly. Shamelessly. And nervously.<br />
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I told them I loved all three of my 'serious' boyfriends as they looked at me wide eyed. I told them, looking back, high school love is so different than college love, or post college love. So, was it love? It was then, but it seems a bit silly to me now, it seemed silly to me when I was in my 20s. But it was real when it was happening. And college? Oh college and dorms, and frat parties and late nights studying and thoughts of the future.... That was a different love, a stronger love and a really fun love. And after college? Real life love but young love? All encompassing possibility love? It was great and powerful, laced again with hope and innocence.<br />
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"How can you love someone and then not anymore?" child asked.<br />
"That's such a good question," I answered. I struggle with this myself sometimes. When you spend years with a person and love them deeply, does that emotion ever fully leave you? I think the intensity leaves, and the memories of faded love always linger. And I think that's great. It gives us strength and perspective and moments of joy and sadness that shape us.<br />
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I explained to my kiddos that sometimes, people grow apart in love, and not together. And when you're smart, you know when it's time to say goodbye and hopefully, it's on good terms with your other half.<br />
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"So did you get dumped, or did you do the dumping?" Quiet child.<br />
"I dumped and I've been dumped. And before you ask, yes, I cried when I was the breaker upper and when I was broken up with."<br />
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They looked at me and giggled and of course wanted to know the who, what and when of each break up, before I was saved by the ringing telephone. On the other end, my truest love, their Dad. After hanging up the phone, I told them both that yes, I loved their Dad the most and that I'm a lucky person to have loved and lost and to have found someone so special, real and lasting and I never doubt that this love, will not end.<br />
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Both sets of big brown eyes seemed to relax and smile. They were done with me then, wanting to go off and watch American Ninja Warrior and talk about the latest YouTube videos they're watching. Proud of myself for answering their questions honestly, while hoping I introduced them to who I was before I became Mom, I lingered in my kitchen, clearing the dinner dishes, reflecting on my very lucky life, the wonderful boys I've loved and the one boy that loves me because of it all.<br />
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<br />neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-85023706896802036602012-04-04T15:30:00.000-05:002012-04-04T15:30:26.363-05:00Can I Let Go of the Fifty Shades of Guilt?I've always considered myself fairly liberal, morbidly curious, and caught somewhere between risk adverse and 'go big or go home.' However, when I decided to see what all the fuss was about <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i>, the first book of the naughty <i>New York Times</i> best selling book trilogy, I turned about fifty shades of red and felt seventy shades of guilt.<br />
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I read three books, via my best friend Kindle in three days time. Shirking my family, sneaking off between dropping kiddos off here and there and making dinner, I was bewitched by sultry Christian Grey and mousy, inexperienced Anastasia Steele.<br />
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Why the guilt? Was it the mention of the 'Playroom,' the flogger (OH sheesh) or the shower sex? No, it was none of this, although I learned a lot more about what caning is than I ever needed to know. The guilt didn't even stem from the BDSM, (again, lots o' info I could have gone without.) The guilt stemmed from the fact that I felt like I had to sneak away to read it! I am a grown, confident woman, aren't I?<br />
<br />
I told my husband what I was reading and he playfully shook his head at me and wagged his eyebrows. I've even recommended it to some who I think may enjoy the little fantasy ride. But my kids?! I couldn't even look them in the eyes when they asked me what I was reading. I am a mom. Not a secret middle of the day mommy-porn-reader. Am I? NO! Maybe? And you know what, who cares, right? If I can have sex, I can certainly read about it, can't I? So why the guilt? I'm not <i>just</i> a mom. I am a grown woman that enjoyed a naughty escapade of a book. Big deal. I'm a fairly well-read person. I enjoy 'challenging' books just as much as the next gal.<br />
<br />
Hmm. I need to reconcile this unnecessary and unwarranted guilt. Until I do, I won't flaunt my newly archived books around. But I vow I won't sneak around the next time something overtly provocative finds its way onto my Kindle. I'll just change my password so my kids can't find it...neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-58699490617771896682012-03-04T11:54:00.000-06:002012-03-04T11:54:33.637-06:00Tree of Diamonds<div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>I wrote this years ago, in honor of my grandfather's 100th birthday. He's on my mind today, so I'd like to share him with you. This is a long one. Find a comfy chair if you're interested...</i></b></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 12.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Papa’s would be 100</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7.3px/normal Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> year snuck up on me like my son does in the wee hours of the night. At first I was shocked and then comfort and warmth settled in as I realized I would live through a tree, four, ’07 of my own. March 3, 2007, that is.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">As the date drew nearer by the minute, he held front and center in my mind. Standing at 5’4 and weighing in at 180 pounds, my little Italian grandfather always stood larger than life in my eyes. He held my attention for hours as he sat with me, cards in one hand, Lucky Strike’s in the other teaching me the ins and outs of 7-card stud, 5 card draw and his favorite, in-between. I loved the rapid fire way he dealt the cards and the slow, careful way he told his stories. I loved the smoke swirling above his head and the privilege to be in his company. I loved the way he said the number three.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"> “Tree a diamonds to you darlin’,” is all it would take to make me giggle while I held the red card with the prety diamond. It was a quiet giggle, slowly released with respect, for fear he may think I was making fun of him. Each time I asked him why he said tree instead of three; he just looked at me and smiled. And he would then say “Tree, four, ’07, dat’s my birtday.” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">His kitchen table was home to the poker games, family feasts and family fights. A typical Sunday began with my mother, brother and I driving to Adison after a long, boring, meant to inspire church service. We drove up what seemed then to be a long driveway, and always looked for the loaf of Italian bread defrosting on the window ledge. We inhaled the sweet parade of scents; tomatoes, basil, oregano and garlic as we walked through the kitchen door. The taste of gravy and meatballs was always worth the drive. Upon arriving, we would be starving, and since the pot wasn’t “on yet” Nana would dole out some gravy and bread on a small dish and say “go ahead, but don’t getcherselves too full.” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">Nana stood, wooden spoon in hand, breaking up the tomatoes in the pot or breading chicken ready to be deep fried. My mother put on an old, green apron made from an out of date towel and helped Nana, my brother vanished into the backyard, and I sat down across from Papa at the small, round formica table. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Hiya Herman!” was his standard salutation to any and all of us. Rarely, he would stand to greet us with raised hands in mock fighting stance. Not today though.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"> “asdf jkl semi-colon,” rolled off his tongue as his sturdy, soft fingers glided across the imaginary typewriter keys. I was too little to know what he was doing, but later in life, in a crowded dorm at 4 am, I understood the value of knowing the keyboard and typing at a quick pace. “asdf jkl semicolon”. His nails were neat, clean and trimmed, although they looked long because of his long nail bed. My mother’s hands are the same, soft, yet heavy, tired but functional. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I reached for the jar on the microwave cart next to me, and grabbed as many pennies as I could for a round of penny poker. Today, the game was ‘in between’.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You remember dis one?” he asked.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Of course. We each put in 10 pennies and then bet on the number in between the two cards laid out.” I looked at him, confident, with a crooked smile.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Okay, here we go. King and…… a five ‘a spades.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’ll bet two pennies!” I yelped.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Only two pennies? Fer cryin’ out loud?” He flipped the middle card and it was the nine of hearts. “Dere ya go. Two pennies to you!”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I slid my pennies across the table, gathered them in my pile, then it was his turn, then mine and then his again. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Ace and……. A deuce! Woah Nina. Whaddaya tink I should do?”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Bet the pot Papa, bet the pot!” I anxiously screamed.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“And….it’s a…..tree! Dere we go, da pot goes to me!” he winked and I laughed and clapped and the game went on while we chatted easily. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> “You know darlin’, I always liked the short ones,” he said one Sunday in response to my complaint stemming from my 8</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7.3px/normal Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> grade physical. Dr. Ganchoff told my mother I would never grow past 5’3, (which, by the way, proved true). My Nana was only 4’8, so he smiled as he said this and she rolled her eyes at him.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"> “You know, when I would go to the dances at the Aragon , my dance card was always filled,” he said proudly, looking at the mock dance card in his hand, his mock pencil in the other. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I saw ‘em across da floor, and I raised my hand,” he demonstrated, pointing his index finger at an invisible girl, then three fingers indicating which dance that girl could have. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Then, I would write it on my card, and I was set for da night,” he put down the fictional card and pencil. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“But, I always liked the short ones Nina, always the short ones.” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">At this, he lit a cigarette, re-opened his newspaper, and I sat staring at the back of the paper feeling quite special, stunted growth and all. I caught him peering at me from his left and caught a quick, mischievous smile. His job completed. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You know, yer papa here was quite the man in my time,” he mentioned, as if answering a question. “I was president of the Holy Name Society at Holy Guardian Angel. Holy Guardian was the first Italian parish in Chicago ya know. All Italians, then some a’ da Irish came. But dey were all right.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“What did you do there?” I already knew the answer, I just couldn’t help my yearning to hear it over and over again.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“What didn’t I do? Dat’s da question. We held fundraisers to raise money forchurch, we held raffles and picnics and helped priests communicate wit all the parishioners. Lou, where is that picture?” he called to Nana.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Which one Pete?,” she answered, clearly annoyed by the interruption.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Da one wit me and the guys at the dance.” He sighed heavily, exasperated with her as always. Nana disappeared upstairs and just as quickly danced back down and handed him what he wanted.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Here, ya see.” He showed me, pointing out his friends. Now this, I had not seen. “Who are these ladies papa?” I asked him. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">At this he smirked and laughed his sarcastic ‘I know more than you’ laugh, and Nana howled and cackled, which made me jump as usual. He told me the names of the men in the picture. They were dressed like women. I have no recollection of their names now…</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I don’t get it, why is that funny?” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Ah kid, someday you’ll get it…” Someday I’d get it. He always said things like that with the same snide laugh. He knew this frustrated me. I remember once, when we discussed some of my mom’s teenage boyfriends, Papa told me he always thought she’d marry Mickey Brennan, the “mic” from across the street. “Ah, but then we wouldn’t have you now would we?” He said.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Well, you’d have part of me, the part that was mom,” I said. This made perfect sense to me.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“No,” he smiled. “No, no”. Oooh, that sly, almost arrogant smile really got me frustrated. I didn’t get it and I didn’t like the implication of being wrong. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Papa, I wouldn’t be exactly the same, but I would still be here, I would just have a different dad part,” I breathed out. I had to make him understand. Clearly it was me who didn’t understand - the birds and the bees had yet to descended upon my world.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“No, you wouldn’t Nina. Let’s just leave it at that.” He picked the paper up again and left me with the photo and a feeling I couldn’t quite figure out. He knew I’d forgive him quickly.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I examined the picture carefully. Those men were ugly women, I thought. But Papa was young and handsome and thin, and he had hair. Wow. His eyes were deep set, his suit fit him splendidly, he stood proud with the “women”. As if he knew what I was thinking, he said:</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Not a bad lookin guy eh Herman? I was a looker alright. I used to wear Florsheim shoes, bought all my suits at Turner Brothers, right Lou?” I wondered why he asked her, knowing he wouldn’t get any response. “Yeah, Florsheim. And all da furniture here, it’s all John M. Smyth. All good stuff Nina.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Papa, why didn’t you dress up like a girl?”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Dat wasn’t my ting. I ran it all, so I had to be somewhat respectable. Not a big education, but I did alright.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I knew he had to leave school as a freshman in high school to go to work and support his mother, two brothers and three sisters. They were poor, but respectable. And he went to work doing odd jobs like typing for the local newspapers, filling in as a deliver guy where he would literally run documents, letters and even lunch from office to office in the city. This lead him to his career path of truck driving. He only drove locally though, he liked his Chicago roots.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">He valued education and talked about its importance any chance he got. That’s why he enjoyed seeing my weekly stash of schoolwork every Sunday. “Gotta go to college kid. Ya get good grades, ya get a good job and a good Italian husband.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"> I remember looking forward to bragging about my school work all week long. One week, I wrote a perfect paper on the making of a sound government, and Mr. Miller presented it to my class as an example of neatness, story content and overall good writing. I handed the “4++ paper” to Papa and watched as he slowly pulled out his reading glasses from their case. He lifted them to his head, secured them over his ears and began to read. I waited, so excited about the forthcoming compliments, imagining the extra game of cards we would play, the stories he would tell about his school experience. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“What’s dis word?” he asked. I walked over, enthusiastically, ready to help him decipher my writing. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Government,” I said. “Government”.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You spelled it wrong. You forgot da n. It’s not goverment, it’s </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">g-o-v-e-r-n-m-e-n-t. How can you get an A+ if you don’t spell da words right.” He set the paper down, a bit carelessly for my taste, and I felt my cheeks turn tomato red.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Dad, it’s about the content, she got a 4+, come on,” my mother pleaded from the stove.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“A 4+ is a 4+, it means perfect. If you spell it wrong, it ain’t perfect,” he said. And with that, the newspaper opened again, and I sat there, unfazed by my mother’s pat on the shoulder. He was right. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t. I didn’t deserve the 4+.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">We didn’t talk much the rest of that visit. I sat next to him, as always, passed the gravy, the salad, and brought him coffee after dinner. I didn’t have anything to say. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">The next Sunday was Easter Sunday. A very big deal in our household, and not because we were celebrating our Lord and Savior rising from the ashes. It was an excuse to eat something other than macaroni and gravy on Sunday. My mother and Nana began cooking on Holy Saturday. We would have lamb (the only time during the year), calzone, ravioli (not macaroni!) and gravy, stuffed artichokes and a delicious little frosted cake shaped like a lamb.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">Still not too keen on seeing him, after my non-deserving 4+ was rebuked the week prior, I walked in, kissed him hello, got my “Hiya Herman” and got to work helping my self to some gravy and bread. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Sit down dere darlin’,” he said. I sat and he shuffled two steps to the refrigerator, opened it and looked for something. As I was on the other side of the fridge, I watched his hand grip the handle, fingers drumming against it while he looked for whatever it was he needed on the other side. The small Green Bay Packers magnet that today hangs on my fridge sat prominently at the top of the freezer. Once when I asked him why a Chicago man would favor the Packers, he looked at me like he didn’t understand why I didn’t know. “Vince Lombardi? He’s Italian and he was da greatest Coach in da game.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">He rummaged through a few pieces in the fridge and pulled out a clear plastic box that looked like a container for a leftover slice of pie you couldn’t finish from the restaurant. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Here, look here,” he said.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“What is it?” I looked at the box curiously and saw some sort of white flower. He sat at the table and said: “It’s an orchid. It’s the official flower of Easter. We used to give em to all the girls. Now, you can tell everyone you gotchyer first orchid from your grandpa.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I love it Papa, thank you!” I hugged him hard. “What do I do with it?” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“You wear it, geez,” he said, playfully exasperated. He gently pulled the orchid out of the plastic container. It smelled like fresh air and crisp water. It was white, surrounded with babies’ breath. He reached for my hand, slid the wristband of the corsage over my clumsy fingers and onto my wrist. It sat there perfectly. It didn’t dangle to one side. It belonged with me. I loved it. I loved him. I didn’t care about the 4+. No one has given me an orchid since. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">While nana and mom did the dishes and my brother fell asleep in the basement, I jumped rope on the driveway, keeping Papa company as he listened to the White Sox on the radio. The Sundays of my life are lovingly littered with memories such as these. The food, the smell of fresh cut grass and Papa drinking his coffee outside, sitting on a lawn chair in front of the garage.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">These Sundays continued, even through my college years. And slowly, they lessened, instead being filled with Sunday morning hangovers, needing to sleep in rather than visit. Brunches with friends and boyfriends took precedent, but I always made room for one Sunday a month. During this time, dementia took hold of him and slowly escalated to Alzheimers. How sad it was, when after a “Hiya Herman” he would ask my name and then ten minutes later start talking about how he wanted to visit his mother, who had died 40 years prior. Even when his mind betrayed him by withholding dates and time and names, the typing hands would still strum across the kitchen table. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">During one of his hospital stays, when I arrived on the third floor and entered his private room, he was sitting straight up in bed, near the window, talking with the nurse and watching television.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hiya Herman.” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hey Papa,” I kissed his bald forehead. “How is he today?” I asked the soft faced nurse.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He’s doin’ great today. He’s very alert! We’re laughin’, oh are we laughin’, right Pete?” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Ya see here,” he spoke to us both. “We’re just watchin the Bud Billikin parade.” He loved parades. Every November he called me to make sure I was watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. The same on Columbus Day, and even St. Patrick’s Day. I was surprised never to have heard of Bud.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“What’s the Bud Billikin parade?” I asked as I propped up this pillow and grabbed his hand.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“It’s for all the colored folks,” he said to my embarrassment, right in front of his “colored” nurse!</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Papa!” I reprimanded.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh, it’s ok, we’ve been talkin’ all mornin’ me and Pete. We understand each other, right Pete?” the kind nurse said.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Sheesh,” he looked at me. “It is what it is. It began when the Chicago Defender, the black newspaper, uh, the founder, Abbott - organized the paperboys to gather and then it eventually became the parade.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh, okay.” I said, relieved. “How are you feeling, you look good.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’m feelin’ good. I should be comin home soon.” He leaned his head back and continued to watch the parade. “How’s yer boyfriend? Is he Italian?” </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“He’s fine Pop, and no he’s not Italian. Does it really matter?” I knew it mattered to him.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">He did go home that August and the months went by and I visited on Sundays as usual. But the following May, he was readmitted because his blood pressure was very low. And then, I answered the phone at 1:53 a.m. on May 18, 1994. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Hello?” My mother came running into my room, “It’s Papa, it’s Papa?”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">At the same time, a stranger on the other end of the wire was saying “Hello, Mrs. Kushner, I’m calling about your father.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I’m his granddaughter.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh, is your mother there?”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I gave the phone to mom.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Hello? Yes, Oh…okay, yes. When? Yes.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Papa passed away honey.” She handed me the phone. My father joined her at my bedroom door.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">My heart sunk. I hugged my mom tight. No tears, yet. My dad, mom and I drove to the hospital as mom told us they checked on him at midnight and he was good, and when they went in at 1:30, he was gone. We drove the rest of the way in silence.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was nervous to see his body. I didn’t know what to expect. We parked the car, walked in and took the elevator up to the third floor. The inside of my head seemed to slowly plummet, inch by inch down the rest of my body, until all my body weight was in my feet. I don’t know how they kept moving me forward. They felt heavy as steel. We met the nurse who called us at the nursing station. There she sat, doing a crossword puzzle, but looked up with sympathetic eyes before kindly escorting us into Papa’s room. A small dim light was on over his bed. Quiet tears flowed from my mom and I. My father stayed on the other side of the room. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Oh Dad,” my mom said. “How am I going to tell mom?” “I’ll miss you.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">She walked away for a moment to busy herself with asking protocol questions of the nurse.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">I walked toward his body. His skin looked slightly yellow in the artificial light. He looked like he was sleeping, with a small smile on his face. And then I looked at his hands. Peacefully, they rested on his stomach. I reached out and glided the back of my fingers along his skin. He felt soft. I lingered there and memories whooshed through my head - his hands holding mine, his stories, his birtday, his warm and welcoming eyes. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Goodbye papa, I’ll miss you.” I kissed his forehead and took with me the grace of his peaceful smile and his beautiful, caring hands.</span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">Eighteen years have passed since his death. And yet. I can still see him before me at the kitchen table. His voice floods my mind as I drive the kids to school. I look for orchids in the flower section of the grocery store. I see his smile while I run to my car in the rain. I see him eating macaroni as I pay the bills. I see the twinkle in his eye when he winks at me. </span></span></div><div style="font: 11.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">And, always, I see his hands. They shuffle the cards, hold the cigarettes, strum the typewriter keys and wave ‘Hiya Herman’. 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</span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-30285011631647336312012-02-13T19:17:00.000-06:002012-02-13T19:17:22.299-06:00Love in the Time of AppreciationHappy Valentine's Day. I hope everyone is doing exactly what you want to be doing - whether you're shopping for chocolates, preparing a special dinner, buing sexy lingerie, or not acknowledging this "holiday" at all. I've gone back and forth with my feelings about this day for years. Some years, I'm all about enjoying it, other years, meh.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QEsSINQqlcU/TzlshWC9nhI/AAAAAAAAAB8/6MdqDZ3Me3Q/s1600/_valentine_card.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QEsSINQqlcU/TzlshWC9nhI/AAAAAAAAAB8/6MdqDZ3Me3Q/s1600/_valentine_card.gif" /></a><br />
<div>This year, I'm all in. I've purchased little tokens for the kids and the Hubs, am making heart shaped brownies and my husband's favorite meal for dinner. However, being me, I allowed my chaotic thoughts to take me down the path of why do I need a silly red and pink 'holiday' to bring a bit of extra effort to my relationship tables? Why aren't I doing these special extras more often?<br />
<br />
I'm not silly or idealistic (well...) enough to chastise myself for not doing the "little" things that make a big difference daily. I know some nights are Subway nights, some days, my Hubs drives me. absolutely. nuts. My kids irritate me, and I them. But.....<br />
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As midlife continues to swarm around and envelope many of us, I can't help but want to improve myself. Change the way I <i>look</i> at my marriage, my relationships with my kids and my friends. I want to be better. Not perfect, <i>better</i>. How easy is it to get lazy, check out of your marriage for a while because life is busy and let's face it, boring? It's so easy to forget old friends because life gets in the way. It shouldn't be (but can be) hard to 'work' on the very relationships that mean the most to us. So, I know, when I change the way I look at "working on it," it's actually quite simple.<br />
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How about changing "working on" my marriage to "nurturing" it. Change "making another damn dinner that no one will like" to making dinner to nourish the little people I love dearly. Change, "I would love to see her but I hate going out during the week," to "It'll be so nice to catch up with my girl." I think it makes a big difference and I know it's worth the challenge.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm no Pollyanna - it <i>is</i> a challenge to remain in a state of appreciation. Especially when it is so darn EASY to only think about the yuk stuff? You know, the stuff that you hate about your husband? That stupid noise he makes when he eats pizza? Or that face your wife makes when she applies her lipstick - gross? Or how about his passive aggressiveness or her ability to tell the same story EVERY time you go out to dinner with friends. Stop with the red wine already!<br />
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I am challenging myself to live with appreciation. Appreciate the fact my husband makes the coffee every. damn. morning. Appreciate him for picking up the kids from practice. Appreciate him for being constant. Appreciating him for forgiving me my many, many mistakes. <br />
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And appreciating my kid's 'streaks of independence.' Appreciate their silliness, their youth, their naiveté, their joy and their constant questions. And my friends! My dearest, kindest, most patient and enduring friends. I hope to appreciate their love, sincerity, candor, humor and presence in my life. They bring me joy, I want to give it back to them.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So maybe aside from the flowers, professions of love and candy hearts, maybe Valentine's Day can be set aside as a day for a relationship check in. Kind of like a mammogram or a colonoscopy? Sounds dire, but most things worthwhile require lots of care, diligence and effort - all of which require some rooting around. </div><div><br />
</div>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-34675394149542339492012-02-08T16:37:00.002-06:002012-02-08T16:38:48.686-06:00Remember to Remember<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember. I remember so much from 1982 it hurts. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember thinking I was in love. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember sneaking Judy Blume's <i>Forever</i> to and from school every day and reading about teenage sex. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember two classmates fighting in our classroom. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember my first dance, my first kiss in a basement dancing to Journey. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember being alone with a boy. I remember when he told everyone about it. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember riding on the back of my 'boyfriend's' brother's motorcycle. I was 12 and I was riding on the back of a motorcycle with a teenager. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember mean girl drama. I remember laughing. I remember crying. I remember healing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember getting straight A's.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember sleep overs and seances and talking on the phone. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember riding my bike all over River Grove, across busy streets, through the woods and over rail road tracks. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember loving my parents and loving/hating my little brother. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember feeling safe in my bed at night. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember talking to God while listening to Joan Jett on the radio. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I don't remember if I told my mother about any of these memories.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I remember all this, and shake my head back to the present moment, back to 2012, back to my 12 year old daughter. The challenge, now, is to remember all I remember, and let her live her life, have her own experiences, good and bad, so she can learn and grow from each success, failure and choice. I can only hope she'll share some of her 'remembers' with me.</span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-69655987015133482282012-02-06T21:02:00.002-06:002012-02-06T21:02:53.594-06:00Coyotes Make Me Ugly<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It’s official. The coyotes have driven me to madness. When the smarmy, (and might I add healthy looking) predators began sauntering across driveways and walkways with an air of entitlement, I became slightly alarmed, proceeding with caution by monitoring my dog closely while she sniffed around the backyard. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And then, like white on rice, they were everywhere. All I see are coyotes. All I hear are people talking about coyotes. IN FACT, just last week, a friend mentioned she went to a lecture,YES a lecture on Urban Coyotes. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It’s shocking really., what I’ve been reduced to. I used to loathe animals of all kind. I would smile politely at friends’ pets while cringing internally as they sniffed my boots. Since becoming a dog owner, that’s all changed. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Unintentionally, I became some sort of crazy lady coyote cop. That’s right, my normally pleasant demeanor turned demonic due to myriad coyote sightings. Call me Neen, the wild-eyed dog vigilante. “There she is,” you might say, ‘waiting, hoping to catch one on her land!” Land?</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I called neighbors informing them their dogs were spotted off-leash chasing down coyotes through yonder yards. I found others like me. Formerly calm, collected men and women are out there, watching, slingin’ baseball bats, wielding sticks and honking horns to protect themselves from our “Urban Coyotes.” I hear the coyotes howling at night behind my house across the creek and wonder when the madness will end. I’m losing sleep because of these villains. What the shit is going on?!</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After witnessing a nasty coyote/dog fight on Westleigh Avenue, I pulled my car over and started honking and screaming at the creatures hoping to separate them (utterly mortifying my middle schooler in the process.) I realized I finally snapped. The sneaky beasts got the best of me. Heavy breaths and a heavy dose of ‘you really need to get out more,’ I decided to be more productive.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Since these creatures are part of our urban habitat, we need to protect ourselves, civilly, as this is not the wild west, and I, am fortunately not Annie Oakley. While the idea of a pellet gun, a beer and a small wound to scare these critters off my property sounds DANDY, I do realize I need to at least <i>act</i> as though I am a dignified human being and handle this properly.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, I’ve done my research, and this is what we need to do:</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Especially while its coyote mating season in February - Keep your dogs on leash - don’t let them run free at the park or down the paths.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Keep an eye on your pets, even in your backyard.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">If you come across a coyote, DO NOT run from it. Educate him to be afraid of you. That’s right - educate him. Make loud noises, appear bigger (I wouldn’t use stilettos, but that’s just me) by raising your arms in the air and shouting loudly. I don’t see the dignity in this, but at least maiming isn’t involved.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So today, I say goodbye to Crazy Lady Coyote Cop. I will heed the aforementioned instructions and will mind my own business, my own dog and plan a girls night this week with the hopes of returning to my former self.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For more information about our new neighbors, go <a href="http://urbancoyoteresearch.com/"><span style="color: #0225a3; letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">to http://urbancoyoteresearch.com/</span></a></span></span></div>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-68493979015695006692011-07-05T17:26:00.000-05:002011-07-05T17:26:47.628-05:00underwear for under your sundress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PVfFvWKYpF0/ThONDx6U1nI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ETFod4WWbos/s1600/pDSP1-7362240p275w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PVfFvWKYpF0/ThONDx6U1nI/AAAAAAAAAB0/ETFod4WWbos/s200/pDSP1-7362240p275w.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>At lunch recently, my gals and I were discussing the best underwear to wear underneath a sundress. Yes, we talk about underwear. We recommend, we slash and burn, we throw our hands up in disgust. A thong? Nope, your butt looks sadly unprotected. Briefs? Nope, panty lines (God FORBID). Boy shorts?!! Nope, they ride up on your leg.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Neen to the rescue gal pals o'mine. I have two fabulous suggestions:</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.dickssportinggoods.com/product/index.jsp?productId=4043228">Under Armour Women's Mesh Boy shorts</a>. Hand to God girlies, these do not ride up, panty lines are non-existent and are extremely comfortable. And, if I do say so myself, they look pretty smokin' when they're on. In fact, while the product description doesn't claim it, I think these little darlings give my tush a smidge of a lift. Yep, I said it! Word of warning: They are low rise, so if you're jammin' on the Oreos, you may want to stay away from these for a day or two.</div><div><br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GWZshx8v_94/ThONzUWGnvI/AAAAAAAAAB4/uJ8UiPAZdvs/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GWZshx8v_94/ThONzUWGnvI/AAAAAAAAAB4/uJ8UiPAZdvs/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="http://www.spanx.com/family/index.jsp?categoryId=4033382&cp=2992553">Skinny Britches by Spanx</a>: These are not wintertime Spanx girls. The lightweight yet suck you in material is perfect for summer. They smooth you out under fitted dresses and are quite comfy. I wore a pair recently and truly forgot I had them on. I plan to buy them in bulk, as most of you know I love me some summah-time dresses.</div><div><br />
</div><div>You can find the Under Armour Boy Shorts at <a href="http://www.dickssportinggoods.com/">Dick's Sporting Goods</a> or at <a href="http://www.underarmour.com/">www.underarmour.com</a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Skinny Britches are available at <a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/">Neiman Marcus</a>, <a href="http://www.nordstrom.com/">Nordstrom</a> and <a href="http://www.saksfifthavenue.com/">Saks</a>. Or, if you're too busy sipping on Skinny Girl Margaritas, head on over to <a href="http://Spanx.com/">Spanx.com</a>.<br />
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</div>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-78533072410543340882011-06-29T20:20:00.001-05:002011-06-29T20:22:54.778-05:00Camp Get Me The Heck Outta Here<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">While driving my kiddos around town to various activities and camps, I wondered allowed, "Wouldn't it be great if there were a summer camp for moms?" I don't mean a girls weekend. I wanted to know if there were any</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> cool summer camps for ME. After a few clicks and Google searches, I discovered many options from Yoga Camp to Healthy Living Camp to Rock Star Camp to Baseball Fantasy Camp to Cowboy Camp to Space Camp.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Off I went to my gal pals, my peeps, my fellow moms who <i>need</i> to get the heck away. The consensus was the same: we would all love to vacate for two weeks, one week or one day to just be whomever we want away from everyone at home. While Healthy Living Camp is a great option, we decided to dream up our own ultimate camp ideas. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After lots of laughs (and a few margaritas) with my gal pals, we came up with the following ridiculous and dreamy suggestions for Mom Summer Camp. Please note all camps are of the Disney-esque/Hollywood variety: they are NOT based in reality. Just like kids don't break out into song and dance in High School and friends with benefits don't ever turn into long-term relationships, these camps are figments of our bizarro imaginations. Enjoy.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Camp with the Stars</b>: Spend the weekend with your favorite celebrity. Go for dinner, drinks, scuba, heck - drinks and scuba-whatever you want! Chat em up all day and night. The best part? They think you're fantastic, funny and they invite you to their house in the Hampton's for Labor Day! (I'm scheduled to hang at the pool bar at the Ritz in Kapalua with Chris Martin. Just sayin'.)</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Camp Funhouse:</b> Funhouse mirrors abound. Wherever you're at, be it the spa or practicing yoga, you look thinner, leaner and your wrinkles magically disappear under the lights and mirrors. Every day is a good hair day at Camp Funhouse! Enjoy special packages like the "What Could Be Suite." Walk in and see how you would look with red hair, green eyes, longer legs, smaller thighs, etc.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Gals and Grapes:</b> Camp at your favorite vineyard. Learning activities are optional, but hangovers are not. Wine taste and sample artisan cheese at your heart's content and wake up fresh as a daisy. Invigorated and raring to go, you can do it all over again the next day! Think of all the different wines you can bring back home.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Camp Perfection</b>: This camp has it all. Walk on site and you are instantly at your leanest and fittest without dieting or exercise. There is a new and perfectly fitted outfit in your closet everyday for any and all situations. When attending Camp Perfection, guests are taught how to never need to color their hair or tweeze an eyebrow ever again! Here, you are injected with the Camp's secret serum which removes all crabbiness and tiredness from your bones! And, for an extra fee, you gain admittance to the "What Would You Tell Your 25 year old Self" Hall of Wonder. Go in and give yourself advice about work, men, hair styles and fashion trends - this is your chance to impart the glorious wisdom of hindsight.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>The cost of all camps includes pre-camp services such as packing for you, coordinating your children's carpools and activities while you are away and preparing meals for your family until you return.</i></span></div>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-55821121886560830452011-06-06T22:40:00.000-05:002011-06-06T22:40:34.545-05:00stop. taking. pictures. now!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm just gonna throw something out there. How about we issue a cease and desist order on taking pictures with phones of private bits and sending them to other people. Period. No, don't send them to your boyfriend. No, don't send them to your girlfriend. Heck, stop sending them to your spouse - nothing is sacred anymore! The pictures </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i><u>will get posted online</u></i></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. For the world to see. Even if it is an accident. I don't know about you, but I don't want my former World Civ teacher to have access to me in a shirtless photo.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It has happened to others, it will happen to you. Can everyone knock it off already. What am I missing here? Am I that old at 41 (hurts every time I type it) that I cannot understand why on Earth anyone, yes, anyone, would take a naked photo of themselves and ELECTRONICALLY send it to another person?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6jXnS5KjDSU/Te1RYF8i_rI/AAAAAAAAABw/xP31EfF7dPk/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6jXnS5KjDSU/Te1RYF8i_rI/AAAAAAAAABw/xP31EfF7dPk/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And no, I am in no way a prude. Just ask....nevermind. I just don't like to take acknowledged risks when it comes to my privacy. I am not judging Rep. Weiner or Brett Favre or Kim Kardashian (well, maybe her....NO). It seems, however, by participating in naughty photo taking and sending, people are getting caught, and subsequently hurt. The indiscretions tear families apart and destroy careers. Well, wait a minute. In the case of Kim Kardashian, it actually created a career. I can't keep up. Please dear readers, enlighten me. Tell me why this is a seemingly unstoppable phenomenon. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It brings me to wonder if we as a culture lost the ability to express our love, like, lust in other ways besides virtually? How about letter writing? Whatever happened to long and luxurious phone calls? Oh, wait, how about a night out or even a romantic night in? Old school? Maybe. Safer? Absolutely. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Let's all try to follow the rule I keep preaching to my kids: If you don't want your parents or your principal to see the pictures, don't take them. Insert wife, family, boss, country wherever you like, the sentiment is still the same. Stop taking pictures. Now.</span></div>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-25261544630629479222011-06-06T21:08:00.000-05:002011-06-06T21:08:56.308-05:00Summer ParadoxIt's official. Sing it everyone: "Schools out for summer....." Phew. Another year passes, another summer begins and I'm simultaneously overjoyed and terrified. Overjoyed because summer marks the end of the nuisance of homework and tight schedules and playground nonsense. It marks the beginning of ice cream runs and beach days and my kids falling into who they really are. Terrified because I love solitude and I MISS IT SO MUCH DURING THE SUMMER. That's right, I like to be alone. I feel infringed upon when there is too much togetherness for too long.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Yes, I know there is a time in life for everything. This is my time as a mom who needs to be around for her kids. I love it. I do. And it's part of the package - the kids are my priority, and I take that seriously. I look forward to lazy pajama days and long days in the backyard. I love watching my son play baseball - all 16 games and three tournaments of it! I love to sneak peaks at them while they're running around the neighborhood in search of water gun compatriots. And I love trips to DQ at 9:00 on a hot summer night.<br />
<br />
And yet. I'll miss my quiet morning time with my coffee. And I'll miss exercising freely, without the worry of rushing home for pick ups or drop offs or sitter time limits. I'll miss the quiet of the afternoon before the dinner rush. And I'll miss being exempt from refereeing during the daytime hours. I'll miss my secret days I keep just for me; the one's when I do something scandalous like see a movie by myself or sneak to the city just to meander through a bookstore. Those I'll miss most, because on those days, those rare days just for me? I get lost in being just 'me' again. Me, not mom, not wife, just me. Those days keep me grounded, keep me fresh and keep me whole. I don't have nearly enough of those days.<br />
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And again, back on the other hand (good thing moms have so many hands) I revel in the question mark that is the summer. I indulge in the open afternoons and long evenings on our deck that sometimes morph into hilarity. I realize that summer is the best time for memory making. After a few weeks, all the kinks are out of being together again and the summer takes on the feeling of a gorgeous free fall into possibility. Most importantly, I keep reminding myself these days are fleeting. Sooner than I can fathom, my kids will prefer solitude and their friends over <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
So, I'll do my best to linger in the moments that create memories while trying not to cringe about my lack of aloneness. Maybe a babysitter is in order to sneak away from the moments; if only for a little while.</div><div><div><br />
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</div></div>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-45517996311522710322011-05-22T09:23:00.000-05:002011-05-22T09:23:29.659-05:00let's face it. facebook is fun.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Facebook is everywhere. From 10 year olds to grandmas, everyone is friending everyone. Unfortunately, the bullies have a new playground to trounce upon and the adulterers have easier access to fool around. Big Brother is tracking us even more efficiently. While this is true, sad, disturbing and in need of a voice - can't we also find the good in Facebook among all the bad and the ugly?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I think we can. Let's get real. How many of you have a Facebook account? That's what I thought. I know there are some of you arching your neck ready to say 'Oh I only have it because I like to check in with my kids." Mmmhmm. That <i>may</i> be true. And then there are the other Facebbookers, the voyeur-only types. Those of us that post pictures, but not too many. We hit 'like' occasionally, but resist posting comments. We kind of hide behind our screen, look around and judge the over-posters, but love peeking around their profiles. There are some of us that post pictures, comments, likes and follow 'public figures'. Some of us use Facebook as a way to market a business or cause. And some of us are the Facebookers that love to Facebook, and have no shame in using it in all its social networking glory. We invite mass amounts of friends to dinner, post about morning dental hygiene habits, have complete conversations about who knows what on each others walls....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So we're on Facebook. Why not embrace it? Why be ashamed? Let's enjoy it while we're there. See it for whatever it is (to you) and leave judgement out of the equation. So what if Friend 62 is going to another poetry reading. Who cares if Friend 129 is going to have a mole removed today. Shake your head and move on and get back to stalking your ex's pictures from his/her recent vacation to Italy. Admit it, you've done it - I know I have. And it's fun. Especially when an ex is balding....(OOOPs!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I love when people post funny links from television shows and post comments about their perfect or hellion kids. My favorite? Snarky commentary about anything - who knew there was so much wit behind a screen. How else would I know that a grammar school friend is now a 51 time marathoner and Ironman? I love her daily motivational posts. And another high school friend is so politically active, I enjoy reading his commentary more than reading some of the Op Ed pieces in the Tribune.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Where else can you get questions answered about people you haven't seen in forever without actually picking up the phone or sending an email? It's all as safe and harmless as we make it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have reconnected with people I knew eons ago and have gotten to know them better through Facebook. I didn't even realize how much I'd missed them. How cool is that? According to Drew Barrymore (am I really quoting Drew Barrymore?) "If I haven't talked to you in 20 years, there's probably a reason." I agree with this to an extent. I do. And the people I don't want to talk to I don't. In some cases I've tried, but remembered why we parted ways the first time and decided to leave well enough alone. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But the people in our lives who just slip away because of life, location and distance? Why not enjoy their online company from time to time? I had one of the biggest, loudest belly laughs recently while Facebook chatting with a college classmate I always liked, but never really got to know. As one of my favorite Facebook friends we chuckle often about our kids, life and Prince. Not William, just Prince.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I also enjoy getting to know acquaintances better through Facebook. I get an inside peek at people I normally wouldn't have the opportuntiy to chat with walking around town. It makes the 'hello' at Jewel mean a little more. I had no idea my neighbor's favorite dog has his very own Facebook page. Cracks. Me. Up.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong children of the 60s (and 70s, stinkers!) I prefer to talk with people live, see them in person and enjoy a glass of wine or two-together. Sometimes though, with middle age, children, spouses, responsibilities and a country dividing us, virtual friendships can be a nice pick me up.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's a new world for my generation. One I have tentatively embraced and am glad I did.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For another take on one of the perils of Facebook, check out the wonderful Marjie Killeen's piece at Make It Better: '</span></span><a href="http://www.makeitbetter.net/better-you/sex-and-the-suburbs/2808-the-dangers-of-facebook-friending-your-old-flame-"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Dangers of Facebook Friending Your Old Flame</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">.'</span></span>neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-7730645890362613882011-05-20T10:40:00.000-05:002011-05-20T10:40:20.540-05:00top five gotta have make-up products this summerMakeup. I love it. Sometimes, I love it even more than shoes and handbags. I don't wear a lot of it, but when I do, oh how I love to play!!!<br />
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Someone recently told me I had a glow to my face. My first thought was 'Am I sweating? It's only 40 degrees..." She proceeded to complement my skin and my eyes and I was so joyous I bought her a coffee. So ladies, (and gentlemen if you care for beauty products), I will share with you what I shared with my friend. This is what I'm using and loving today - hope these work for you too.<br />
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<a href="http://www.trishmcevoy.com/products/tabid/61/productid/177/catid/13/sename/24-hour-eye-shadow-and-liner/default.aspx">Trish McEvoy 24-hour shadow and liner in Topaz</a><br />
Best product ever! This is so easy to apply you could (and do) do it with your eyes closed. You can swipe it across your lash line lightly for a splash of color and sparkle - or blend it in with a thin pencil and create a smokey eye. The topaz color is dreamy and looks great on most skin tones - the charcoal is great too!<br />
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<a href="http://www.trishmcevoy.com/products/tabid/61/productid/29/catid/13/sename/eye-base-essentials/default.aspx">Trish McEvoy Eye Base Essentials</a><br />
One of my all time favorites and must haves! This creamy base is applied to your entire eyelid and evens out skin tone while creating a smooth surface for eyeshadow. On low maintenance days, I wear it alone and it brightens up the eye beautifully.<br />
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<a href="http://www.bobbibrowncosmetics.com/templates/products/mpp/index.tmpl?CATEGORY_ID=CATEGORY22758">Bobbie Brown Pot Rouge for lips and cheeks</a><br />
I use a smidge of this on top of a bronzer for an "Oh I just heard a naughty joke" kind of blush. It stays put all day and doubles as a quick lip gloss too. So many colors to choose.<br />
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<a href="http://www.kiehls.com/Scented-Lip-Balm-%231/696,default,pd.html?start=8&cgid=face-eye">Kiehls </a>Lip Balm #1 scented<br />
Throw this little tube in your car and use it all the time. My favorite scent is cranberry and I swear it lasts through summer and fall - you only need a smidge and your lips feel perfectly pouty. Hint - I've also used it on my cuticles in the winter - great results!<br />
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<a href="http://www.shuuemura-usa.com/_us/_en/accessories/eyelash-curlers.aspx?cm_mmc=labelium_SEM-_-google-_-Brand%20Eyelash%20Curler-_-NONE&gclid=CKr604bu9qgCFUMUKgod7hb5Tg">Shu Uemura eyelash curler</a><br />
The mother of all eyelash curlers - ladies this one takes the cake. Sadly, it is no longer available for purchase in the U.S. Thank goodness you can buy it online via their website. Definitely worth the shipping and high cost - nothing else helps open the eye like THIS eyelash curler. Trust me, I am eyelash challenged and this may be one of the items I'd choose on a desert island....<br />
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On one final note, I have to give a shout out to the wonderful ladies at <a href="http://Bluemercury Place page">Blue Mercury in Lake Forest</a>. No, I do not get any kickbacks (sadly.) Simply put: the staff are all so helpful, knowledgable and simply fun to be around. Everything but the almighty Shu Umera eye lash curler can be found over there. Check them out!neen95http://www.blogger.com/profile/03208560966614063321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4661316703477223490.post-59791837597428224762011-05-16T21:09:00.000-05:002011-05-16T21:09:01.224-05:00why do guilty pleasures make us feel guilty?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Chocolate milkshakes. Oreos. No, Double-stuffed Oreos! Sitting up in the middle of the night finding great bad movies on cable! Vampire Diaries! Tosh.O! Perez Hilton! Fashion websites! Facebook! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My list of guilty pleasures is longer than I care to admit. But here I am, admitting it. My name is Nina and I have many guilty pleasures. I am tired and sick of feeling guilty about them. They are pleasurable, after all. But then they aren't. They have layers of shame around them that are begging to be discarded like a Northface on a spring day. Said spring day in Florida, perhaps. I digress....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">How can all these 'activities' feel so good while simultaneously making me feel guilty? Easily - none of them are particularly good for me. None of them promote a healthy lifestyle. Especially eating double stuffed oreos at two in the morning while watching my recorded Vampire Diaries. OH MY!! My heart be still. But isn't it healthy to feed into our cravings every now and then? Yes. Sometimes it just feels good to act naughty.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I understand the guilt. Oreos undermine weight-loss and my workouts, as does staying up late. Bad movies and CW television do absolutely nothing for my aging mind but perhaps keep it stagnate - maybe watching Bravo actually kills brain cells. Who knows? Internet browsing and Facebooking certainly wastes my time and keeps my productivity at bay. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wear guilt like a second skin. I grew up a Catholic school girl with a Jewish father. Guilt and I are fantastic companions. But, I'm done. I'm breaking up with guilt when it comes to these said pleasures. Guilt can take a hike and look me up on Facebook in 20 years! I don't engage in the naughty all the time. Everything in moderation will be my mantra. I can indulge and buy expensive make up and skin care products from time to time. I can dance to 80s house music without embarrassing myself on occasion! I can listen to Gaga in the car and sing so loud I can't hear trains coming once in a while. Okay, maybe I shouldn't do the latter.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My point here is I am giving up the guilt and bringing on the pleasure - sometimes. I'm declaring a boycott to the phrase 'guilty pleasure' and encourage What Not To Wear marathons everywhere! I've earned the right to slack every now and then, trade in Newsweek for People and NPR for AltNation. Now, if you see me driving, singing and swerving while leaving a trail of cookies in my wake, I most certainly will feel shamed. And guilty.....</span><br />
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