Lessons from Mr. T

When people ask me what kind of dog I have, I usually answer "brown." Sometimes, I show them a picture of my dog and their comment can often give clues about that person's personality. Some people will try to figure out what kind of dog he is, because his pedigree matters to them. His pedigree doesn't really matter to me. Perhaps, that is indicative of my personality.

Mr. T, a brown dog

I have heard that pets tend to reflect the personality of their owners. I am not sure if this is true, as the pet we have owned for several years is a hateful borderline obese cat who enjoys drinking from the toilet and destroying our possessions. If this is a reflection of my personality, it might at least explain my difficulty in the dating world. However, I prefer the term guarded to hateful, and the few (dozen) nursing school pounds hanging around may not be attractive, but obesity is still a few cookies away.
But, in the few months we have owned him, I have come to notice that Mr. T-the dog- might, in fact, reflect my personality much more than first I realized. We adopted Mr. T from a no-kill shelter during my last semester of nursing school; a time when I was possibly so exhausted I was easily coerced by a son who had always wanted a pet besides the spiteful cat which had never appreciated his energy. I really thought there was a discussion about a hedgehog, but somehow we came home with a rather large dog. Nursing school is hard.
Mr. T is not a young dog. I did not want a puppy. I am not at a point in my life where I have interest in training a puppy. He doesn't chew up our stuff, pee in my house, or bark incessantly. He doesn't jump up on people or things, try to run away, or dig holes in yards. For the most part, Mr. T is pretty relaxed and easy going. I attribute much of this to the fact that Mr. T is an older dog, so he's been around long enough to have moved past the stage where everything in life must be announced and reacted to. Maturity is an attractive quality in both people and pets, I have decided.
At the same time, Mr. T had been at the shelter a long time. He had probably been to several adoption events prior to the one where he found us. I wonder if this was, in fact, a reflection of his age. He doesn't have the cute, cuddly energy of a puppy. He isn't a purebred, sleek dog. Mr. T has a bit of middle-aged chub. Once we took him home, we noticed Mr. T is far from the perfect dog; he has a history and some habits that have developed because of it. Walking Mr. T can be an adventure, he does not always react well to other dogs. There was a period of adjustment with the aforementioned cat. Sometimes Mr. T likes to eat foods that don't agree with his rather delicate digestive system. Sadly, Mr. T is a dog that has seen violence. His reaction to people and events can be unpredictable, so he isn't one of those dogs who wears a cute bandanna and attends Cider Days.

Doesn't play well with others

Yet, Mr. T waits patiently for each of us to return home and then sits happily in the living room gazing at his family and wagging his tail. He sleeps in the bedroom with you, or lies on the rug watching television with you, because he loves his home and his people. He isn't perfect, but he is grateful, loyal, active, and loving.
Seeing the potential in a pet sometimes means looking beyond picture perfect pet food ads or calendar shots of cute young puppies or well groomed purebreds. Sometimes the friendly eyes, warm snuggles or loyalty of a loving animal who is happy to see you at the end of a long day is its own reward and that is enough.
Pets and people have relationships, you see, Like people and people have relationships. They say pets reflect their owners. Perhaps it is true. Mr. T gave my son and I a hopeful, friendly look at Pet Smart and captured our hearts, perhaps there is still hope that will happen in my life. Perhaps he and I are a lot alike. Perhaps it is time I reflect less of the "guarded" cat in my home, and gaze at the dating world with the optimistic eyes of Mr. T, who only needed someone to see his potential.

365....And Counting

It has been barely little more than a year since the first clinicals for my BSN-A classmates and I; just over 365 days since we first hit the floor in our (super attractive) green scrubs and (so very uncomfortable) snowy white shoes. For some of us, like me, it was our first hospital experience, our first time taking blood pressures on real (not classmate) people or answering call lights. If you had told me my first day on the floor some of the things I would do within the next 365 days, I might have nervously whispered to my professor, "I am concerned this patient is experiencing a decreased level of consciousness with increasing delusions, maybe you should come and help me assess them."

 I whispered everything nervously my first day on the floor, I think. Sometimes I wonder if my professor wasn't considering slipping me a Xanax just to help me get through the day. The mere fact that she was able to keep a straight face as I carefully took my patient's apical pulses before dispensing all blood pressure medicines speaks to both her kindness and professionalism. 

Cox College Selfie....

Back in those days I was very proud of my Cox College scrubs, I thought everything in the hospital was exciting, including the menu choices in the cafeteria. I've learned a few things since then..beginning with how unflattering those Cox College scrubs are. I was once asked when my baby was due while wearing them.  Also, not everything at the hospital is exciting. Not everything at the hospital should be exciting. A colonoscopy, for example, is not exciting at all. And I am pretty sure that is reassuring news to the patient, a calm colon is much better than an overly excited and busy one. 

I secretly envied my confident nursing school friends who seemed so at home and sure of themselves in the early days of class and clinical. Just making friends had been hard for me, I felt shy in this world of adults after years of working with adolescents. I felt clumsy and awkward in patient rooms handling medical equipment and trying to memorize a whole new language. I was sure I was the dumbest person in my class and my professors and patients were sighing and feeling sorry for me. It was in my nature to try and make myself small and disappear but our professors had stressed that getting involved in clinical was one of the keys to landing a job so I lurked around the nurses' station and tagged along with any nurse who would let me, using sheer dumb luck and the patience of good nurses to gain experiences. Enthusiasm and eagerness can open a lot of doors for you, even doctors will explain and invite you along if you appear willing to learn. Before you know it you might find yourself strapped into the medical helicopter with the flight crew if you can tag along often enough.

Eager Ride Along Fun

Our first week of nursing school we had to introduce ourselves and state where we wanted to work, I remembered hating this moment because I had no idea and it seemed everyone else had some sort of plan. Also they all had normal names not hillbilly names from 1942 that made them sound 80. I think I muttered something about "nursing education" a job I doubt if I even knew existed, but education was what I had always done. Barely 6 months later I would job shadow in the Emergency Department. Life changes fast in accelerated nursing school. My favorite professor had told us, you will know when you are "home" and after one 12 hour job shadowing shift, I knew I was "home." Unlike my surgery experience, where I kept sneaking peaks at the exit wondering if I could escape....She knows everything, that professor, she really does. 

Me...If I was much cooler....

I didn't come to nursing school thinking I would be Nurse Hathaway. I didn't come to nursing school expecting Peds clinical to be my favorite (yes I said it) or thinking I would care for a 3 lb baby. I didn't expect to see a C-section, I had no idea I would ever calmly put in a IV. If you had told me I would see someone intubated I might not have known exactly what you meant. I didn't come to nursing school to be peed on, thrown up on, clean up body fluids or be exposed to MRSA or pertussis.What I learned once I was here is how much every experience in nursing school teaches you and shapes you into the nurse you become; the one who is caring for all of those patients who are throwing up or needing the IV or are the parent of the sick baby. What I learned is that the friends who you make in nursing school, the ones exposed to the MRSA with you, who then go home and write 12 pages of paperwork and a care plan about it, are really like none other. Because they understand and are the best friends... and the best nurses.  

 I came to nursing school pretty clueless, and as I enter Capstone next week and prepare to graduate in May, I am still overwhelmed by all I need to learn before I start my job in the ER in June. But when I think of who I am now compared to who I was a mere 365 days ago...well, at least I don't think I'll need that apical pulse for your morning meds. 

 

Accelerated Blogging

I don't have time for this blog. I don't have time to clean my house, get my oil changed, or make crafts. (Technically time is not the reason I don't make crafts-absolute lack of talent, interest, or craft supplies are a few of the many, many reasons I am not crafting; but time sounds better and doesn't offend your Pinterest loving friends). I certainly don't have time to feed and raise my children, list making and grocery shopping are much too time consuming. I've resorted to flying through the Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market randomly grabbing the first five things I see and then flinging them on the counter at home while shouting "okay, I'm going to the library."
 Among the many things I have learned in my first semester of (Accelerated) nursing school: I can manage nursing school as long as I allow everything else in my life to fall down around my ears. And by everything, I mean the dirty house, the empty refrigerator, the less than perfect meals. And by everything I also mean the friends I haven't seen or talked to in 3 months, the job I gave up on, the 8 (okay now 13) pounds I need to lose, the dark scowls when I miss family events, the dates I've turned down (imaginary ones, in my mind, proving I am willing, in my mind), and the NBA playoffs. My house is dirty, my pants are tight, my roots are terrible, and I forgot to pay the cell phone bill (again); but, I finished my last Final today and I couldn't be happier.
It's hard to believe how much I have learned since January, when I sat in my first nursing class overwhelmed with the amount of knowledge all the professors seemed to have. I felt like I should write down everything they were saying-they just spewed nursing knowledge and I knew nothing. Sometimes they would stop mid-sentence to ask us if we knew what a word meant and I would sneak peaks around the room to see if anyone else was as clueless as I was about diaphoresis was. I would read and highlight and take notes busily, but I felt like everyone else knew so much more than I did...which led me to the next big nursing school lesson.
I am not as smart as I thought I was, and I never thought I was that smart. But by about my third test in nursing school, I was trying really hard not to cry-every day. When you are a teacher it is easy to be the smartest person in the room, you design your class and your tests and engineer the class discussions and if kids have questions YOU always have the answers (even if you're making it up, which I was most of the time). But in Accelerated nursing school, surrounded by Type A personalities driven to succeed my Type B raft was rapidly sinking under multiple multiple answers and assessments I couldn't keep straight; and while my classmates bonded and struggled through the stress together, my shyness and insecurity kept me alone in my shell.
Which leads me to another nursing school lesson (and also possibly a song from an era I don't remember, despite how tired and old I look these days) we get by with a little help from our friends. I have always been a person who HATES asking for help; the ultimate sign of weakness for Ms. Independent. However, nursing school taught me real quick: ask, beg, cry for help. I asked teachers, because I didn't want to kill someone, for help with skills; I asked other students, because they all seemed to know more than I did; I asked my friends, because my kids still had lives which didn't change just because I had reading, and assignments, and tests. My son rode home from practice so many nights with one of the other wrestling families they probably should have gotten to claim him on taxes. I began to look up from the ground once in a while and talk to my classmates; I found them to be much less intimidating once I spoke with them. I found out some of them were frustrated, even struggling at times, too.
We survived competencies, when we had to demonstrate skills in front of our clinical teacher. I, a woman who faced down angry administrators, held the hands of grieving teenagers, and gave birth to two children, almost threw up with nerves over demonstrating that I could take a blood pressure on one of my classmates in front of my professor. Somehow I passed without heaving. What's more, my professor did that awesome thing I have seen so many wonderful teachers do-she looked at me and saw something I couldn't see in myself. And I saw myself through her eyes.
The first time I walked into the hospital on a clinical Friday, I just wanted to stop in front and announce "this is my life now, I belong here." Until I realized in my bright green student scrubs with my huge book-stuffed backpack, I was probably the last thing the actual nurses, doctors, PCA's, even the nice volunteer ladies at the front desk, wanted to see. Nothing screams eager, but clueless, like a full backpack of nursing school books on the floor. A hospital can be a very intimidating place to a sick patient, it can also be a very intimidating place to a new nursing school student entering a patient room for the first time about to perform-or attempt-a skill. Again, years of standing in front of a classroom went out the window and nerves almost paralyzed me; and again, we get by with a little help from our friends, and we become what our teachers believe us to be.
A few weeks of clinical can teach you a lot; experience is a great teacher, and a great humbler. You see how far you've come and you also see the reality of life in the hospital, of life for sick patients. Nursing is not like Grey's Anatomy day in day out on a hospital floor. But the lives of each patient are just as important. When I started nursing school, I was there to get a BSN, now I understand the importance of both the BSN and the RN I will have once I pass my NCLEX. I want to work in a hospital and I want to be one of the nurses caring for the sick, or injured, patients.
Today was my last final, the end of a stressful two weeks of measuring what we have crammed into our heads in this first semester of nursing school. I hate to break it to my professors, but the tests didn't even scratch the surface of all I've learned (some of which I feel like I forget and relearn every few days). The tests (even the choose all that apply) can't measure the values, the friendship, and the confidence. They can't measure the stress on my kids, the sacrifice of time, energy and exhaustion. They can't measure the sheer determination it's going to take for all of us to survive the next 12 months of Accelerated nursing school-it only gets more difficult. Even knowing that, though, I know-for me-nursing school is the best decision I have probably ever made. Unfortunately I don't have any more time to explain why (or to add fun pictures).

Now

I wear a lot of pink. Not the brand necessarily, although given my discount and love of yoga pants (they improve my butt faster than squats and are more affordable than William Rasts) it is not unusual for me to be advertising PINK somewhere on my body, or on the bag I am carrying, or the hoodie I am about to put on...you get the idea. Sometimes, actually often, I even wear pink PINK. Ask me my favourite colour and I will tell you it's yellow, although when I wear it people often ask when I was diagnosed with jaundice. So I don't wear yellow, I wear pink. I don't know when I started accumulating so much pink in my wardrobe, my trainers (those are sneakers, I am also rereading Harry Potter, so be prepared most of this blog will be written in the minimal British slang I know) all I know is now it is my favourite colour to wear.

Always remember...

Two years ago I wrote a blog, one of my first, about teaching our children about 9/11 (it's called Our Job if you want to read it) because many of our kids are too young to remember the tragedy vividly-or at all. I don't know that I have much more to add or say, my feelings about our roles as parents certainly haven't changed in the two years that have passed. But, as a person, I am a much different person now. And much like our country is much different now than it was before that terrible terrorist attack, I think tragedy is what has changed me.
If you are a regular reader of this blog (and you know you are, Mom. Bless you) then you have read my entries about Steeler Seaburn, who was probably my favourite student I ever had, and how shattered I was by his death 17 months ago. As I prepare to work at the second annual Steefest-the large fundraiser for the scholarship fund founded in his memory- on Saturday, I am still sometimes dumbfounded that this is real. That he is really gone. I still feel that way when I take him Arnie Palmers-like I used to at school-at the cemetery and see his headstone. How can this be real? Yet it is. And so much has changed in those 17 short months, and so much of it is connected with Steeler.

Now, I consider his mom, Genny, one of my best friends. I talk to her often, not just a few times a year. And not just for scholarship events, but as a friend-for parenting advice, funny stories or just those times you need a friend. She's probably the strongest person I've ever met, and one of the funniest and most generous. Her son was very much like her, I see that now. His aunts are friends of mine. Now, I have all these friends when I go to football games, or other Willard events, and I don't sit alone or duck my head any more. There are all of these wonderful people in my life Steeler left me with.
Now my son is a wrestler like Steeler was. He loves wrestling, and it has meant a lot of learning for me in a short amount of time. At times, it has brought that grief back to the surface because my wrestling connection was always Steeler. The day of Aaron's first wrestling match I cried all the way there, I cried for the questions I had with no Steeler to answer, and I cried because I knew I needed to make this wrestling season about the son I had, not the boy who I lost. And I did, helped by this community of other wrestling parents (Genny among them) who answered my questions, cheered for my son, and pitched in when this single mom needed an extra hand. But there are still moments when I see my son in his pink socks and hear his hilarious comments, movie quotes, or Daniel Tosh jokes and that hole in my heart both fills a little and hurts a little.
Now I am back in the classroom, somewhere I swore I would never be. I am substitute teaching while waiting to hear my nursing school fate. And I am enjoying it, although I have already met kids who I know I could easily love. As a teacher, that was what motivated me-I loved kids and I wanted to help them. I am different now. I have seen kids devastated and been powerless to help, I have lost one and been shattered. I don't want to experience that again, so I like my distance now. It is why I am glad I am only the substitute. It is one of the reasons why I will make a good nurse, but why my teaching days are probably best behind me.
Now, after work I hurry home to my kids instead of making plans with my friends. I am a better mother now. Now, I squeeze our tight budget a little tighter instead of taking the shift that means I have to miss the band competition, the wrestling tournament, or even not be able to keep an eye on the homework. Now I am rereading Harry Potter in my spare time, turning off the tv and ignoring Twitter or Facebook. Now I understand that life is short and precious. Now, I have this wrestling community of family and friends who I am not afraid to ask for help if we need it.
Tragedy does not define us-just as 9/11 did not define us as a country of victims. Tragedy does change us, it makes us stronger sometimes. It makes us see our priorities, it can teach us lessons and bring us closer. So now, as I put on another pink outfit (pink was Steeler's colour, he wore it well) and say a prayer for 9/11, I am thankful for the strength and change I see in my life.

Dear Dwight

Dear Dwight,
You don't know me (yet) but I am a big fan. Okay, let's be honest-with the media blasting you've taken this last year, and the team uncertainty and the slightly unfilled expectations in LA-I may be your last fan. Me and your mom. But that's okay, I have the dedication of at least 10 fans, so statistically I should count as...I am not sure, there's probably a formula. Involving Greek letters and at least one square root, I am struggling in Statistics. Hopefully it's not on the test. But the point is, I love you, Dwight.  I support you, Dwight. I will cheer for whatever team you end up on, even if Dirk also plays on it. And you know how I feel about Dirk (You don't? Read more blogs. Tell your famous friends to read it too.)
I am dedicated, Dwight. I loved you through the media bashing last year when you went to the Lakers, who are my less than favourite team. (I don't like Kobe's smile, it creeps me out) I loved you when you were injured, when you didn't play well, when you wore that headband (we have all made poor accessory choices, it's okay. I once had blonde hair). And I love you now, while you are carefully choosing which team to play for in the future. The future is important, Dwight. I know, I am a (tiny) bit older than you. I have wisdom. And wisdom, they say, is the new sexy. Or maybe that's funny, funny is the new sexy. Or maybe it's short moms over 30 who like cupcakes are the new sexy. Yes, that's it.
I understand that sometimes what you think you want-or what everyone else wants for you, just doesn't work out. I know you care about your fan(s) and want to keep us (me) happy, but we just want you to be happy. And by we, I mean me. Most everyone else just wants you to bring them a championship and be fodder for their criticism (I see you, Jalen Rose)
The media says you have a lot of options for your future. I have heard (and by heard, I mean some guys from Twitter, who are generally well informed, told me) that even staying in LA is an option. Sometimes that is for the best, stay with what you know and make it work. Sometimes, though, you have to reinvent yourself. Maybe it's your time for reinvention, to try something new. Are you willing to work hard, Dwight? Because being something new takes hard work, harder than you have ever worked. It takes time and commitment and the dedication to a goal that may seem very far away. But if you are, even the hard work will feel right and worth it. The hard work will only make you want to keep working harder and be more successful. Trust me on this, I have some experience with reinvention.
Remember when you were in that Queen Latifah movie? The one about the NBA player (cough, cough) who ditches the skinny, super attractive model for the health care worker, technically Queen Latifah-who is gorgeous-who was playing the health care worker. (like say, a nurse) Acting was new for you, but your 2 minutes of screen time really made the whole movie. Trust me, I've seen it like 3 times. You sit on that couch like you were born to do it. It's never too late to learn something new, to improve on who you are. You know what would have made that movie even better? Let's say Queen Latifah had two kids....and I really believe she was a (tiny) bit older than that NBA player...

Don't be afraid, Dwight. Sometimes change can be scary, but we have to do what scares us a little if we really want something new. It's like free throws...Bad example. Repetition may be safe, but it doesn't always make you better and if LA isn't working for you, then move on. Of course some people will criticize you. Some people criticise everyone, they have a million ideas in their head-and they apply them to everyone, regardless of any differences. Don't let those people (haters, I believe they are called) bother you, they will be already judging and improving the next person before they even notice you are gone. Be your own person, find the best fit for you. Even if it's outside of what everyone expects, say a single mom instead of a NBA dancer, or beautiful actress. Wouldn't it be fun if that single mom is fascinated by tall people, and has a few questions (Do you have to special order pants? Is everything in your house giant sized, like in Alice in Wonderland, Would you please drive a smart car just so I can laugh?)  Maybe you could take her to a Justin Timberlake concert.
Sometimes we all miss what we are aiming for (I promise I am not bringing up free throws again. It was a general metaphor. Using the backboard is generally a good idea, just saying), but you are a strong rebounder. It's one of your best skills. I have faith in you that you will be a huge success wherever you go. I believe your new fans will love you-how could they not, I mean look at you...and your basketball skills. I believe some wise person has hidden the headbands, so you can start fresh. I think a great future lies ahead of you, Dwight. I think a great future lies ahead for both of us.

Mirrors

If there's one thing that annoys me, it's radio overplay. I'm sure it's a problem everywhere, but in Springfield Missouri, it seems local radio has a play list consisting of Bruno Mars, Pitbull, Niki Minaj, and Thrift Shop. Perhaps it only seems like radio is overplaying Niki and Pitbull because they keep showing up in everyone else's songs-or is it the other way around, is everyone else collaborating with Pitbull?-but it seems like I can't escape either. Like a toddler that follows you into the bathroom, there's Niki Minaj and the same rap on every station, in every song...there's Pitbull reminding you of his area code.

Overplay this guy

The only time overplay doesn't bother me is when local radio overplays a song I really like. Every so often a song comes along I just can't get enough of, and currently Justin Timberlake's Mirrors is one of them. Although really, if you know me, you already know that when it comes to Justin Timberlake, enough is not a word in my vocabulary. I am a loud, proud Justin Timberlake disciple. Justin the recording artist? Love him....my Ipod features a ridiculous amount of both Justin as well as N'Sync. Justin the actor? Oh yes, I've seen his movies...Justin the designer? William Rast is the only brand of jeans I will wear, even though you can't even buy them in Springfield.

This past year has been one of great change for me, even my daughter commented to me the other day "you're so different now than you were a year ago." She made her offhand comment the day before her birthday, and she is right. Months of job searching-and months of grief- had left me feeling frantic, exhausted and disheartened. No matter where I looked, even teaching-something I felt I had been good at-seemed to hold any hope of a better future. Quite frankly, I felt like a loser. I could see why people just give up and buy lottery tickets.
It was just about then, a job fair discussion about nursing school ignited something inside me I hadn't felt in a long time. Hope. My favourite Bible verses are about hope because hope changes everything. Hope is something real. I swallowed my fear and sat in the admissions office at Cox College of Nursing -tears streaming down my face-and asked simply, "is there a way I can do this?" And someone said yes. And hope grew.
So now I have hope...and fear...and a future. I start school again in a week. And if all goes well, when my daughter graduates from high school, I will graduate too. And my BSN will support my both my daughter and son through college. It's a long way off, its a long hard road....but I have a plan and  hope.
I think that-hope-is what I hear when Justin Timberlake sings. Something about his voice...I saw him on television once, performing What Goes Around (one of my favourite songs, because I want it to be true. We all want it to be true) and he was playing the piano. I remember thinking "wow, the kid can really play the piano, he's got some talent..." I saw him in the Omletteville skit on Saturday Night Live (YouTube it. Trust me, just YouTube it. And prepare to laugh) and thought "this kid is funny, he can actually act. He's hilarious. He's got some talent." Mostly, there was that moment a few years ago when I tried on my first pair of William Rast jeans and looked in the mirror. I looked at those jeans, and thought-these look good. My butt looks good. No other voices, not Ed's, just mine. It was one of my first moments of complete freedom in Recovery. It was a moment of hope-of more to come- and victory of a hard fought battle.

Sings, dances, acts....

I think of those jeans, of that mirror, of that moment when I wonder if I can handle going back to school. I know it's going to be hard, but I know I've seen harder-and survived. I over play that song-Mirrors- in my head while I run to calm my anxiety about that scary road ahead.  And even though "tomorrow's a mystery"...I feel ready. 

Runners

I used to be a cardio queen, I was pretty much addicted to those EFX or Arc Trainers at the gym. You know those machines that are like hamster wheels-you "run" around but never go anywhere- I probably logged thousands of miles on those in my relentless pursuit of "being skinny." And while I was cardioing (go ahead, check the dictionary, there's probably a picture of me, on a machine, in there) I would read a book, or watch one of the numerous tv's dangling from the ceiling for the enjoyment of myself and the rest of the cardio crew. These days I rarely spend time in the cardio room, unless my running injury is bothering me, or I am using the row machine (I like to pretend I am on a crew team, possibly at Harvard or some other school which would never accept me). These days I prefer to run (and by run, I mean jog slowly), box on the heavy bag (with my pink boxing gloves and terrible form, I'm like Sugar Ray Leonard..if he was a woman with poor boxing skills), jump rope, run stairs, or even lift weights. I like variety, I like challenging myself, I like sweating-a lot-I like acting like I care about fitness crazes like INSANITY (read that in a loud, screaming motivational voice)or CrossFit (use same voice). I like the kickboxing class I take on days when my schedule permits it. Some days I like leaving my stuff in the locker, leaving the gym, and running through the neighbourhood, enjoying the flowering trees and looking at the houses. These days, my exercise time is my time to relieve stress; my time to remind myself my body is better strong than skinny; my time with just me (and the music stylings of whoever I choose to accompany me). These days, I am not in charge of my own fitness, and my recovery thanks me every day.

When it comes to making fitness decisions for me, one of the last strong holds of Ed in my life, I finally decided to hire out. Like my daily decisions about food, I must learn to manage exercise. Unlike an alcoholic, with Ed recovery, we must learn to manage what tempts us every day; we don't have the ability to just cut it out of our lives. I must eat healthy, I must exercise...just like I must sleep, I must read good books. A healthy life includes all of these, probably along with other things like shelter, love, having a dog instead of a cat, but those are subjects of another blog. As strong as I may feel in recovery one day, crisis and stress can bring a backslide at approximately the speed of a race car. So, when I felt myself backsliding as I faced grief, financial stress, and just the regular single mom struggles....I found professional help. I hired a trainer.
Turning my fitness plan over to someone else is an element of trust for me like those other people have in healthy marriages. It's a question of control...and Ed likes to hang onto any piece of your life he can control. Fitness was mine. I always felt I wasn't "doing" enough, not running far enough, not working with weights enough, not working on my abs enough. Now someone else decides how much I will lift, what activity I will do, how many ab exercises I need. Now, when I exercise on my own time, it truly is just that. My time to do what I like, which many times is run.
The first time I met the man who would become my trainer, he said "you look like a runner." I was surprised by his comment. Yes, I like to run. Yes, I run almost daily. Yes, I run an occasional 5K. But I'm not a "runner"...Those would be those lean people in the short shorts (in January) with the crazy gleam in their eye. I've seen them...I am just someone who runs..sometimes. Most every day. I used to run ridiculous amounts, like 10 miles at a time, but I can't anymore.
I started running because, quite frankly, I was bored. I was taking kickboxing class, but I was bored by the cardio machines. So I tried alternating a few laps of running and walking at the indoor track at my gym. Then my brother mentioned a 5K, so I signed up. I think the grand total I had run at that time was a bout a mile and a half, and I had about 3 weeks to prepare. I prepared, and discovered, I liked running. I liked it because I felt like I was accomplishing something every time I ran, I liked it because I had to eat well to run well, I liked it because it was just me and my headphones. About a year into my running career, I had already overdone it though. I was running 10-11 miles at a time, when I started having pain down my left leg. Constant pain. I was literally limping and not able to sleep by the time I gave in and went to the doctor (yet I was still running...an obvious conflict of logic).
The doctor called me a runner. He sighed dramatically and mentioned that runners are notoriously hard to treat, then assigned me to a physical therapist. He called me a runner too, sighed dramatically and mentioned that runners are notoriously hard to treat. I have no idea where this came from, although by the time physical therapy was over, during which I had run most of the days he told me not to, I wondered if perhaps I was hard to treat. Physical therapy helped, but the bottom line is I have tendinitis in my ITB, I have something called Piriformis Syndrome, and these are over use injuries. As long as I use my legs, I will probably have problems ....
 I work on my feet on a tile floor for 7-8 hour shifts. I like to look vaguely stylish, so I don't have orthopedic shoes. My leg hurts a lot. I average 4-6 miles per run now, and the 4 miles are more common than the 6. I don't use a mile counter when I run outside, so many days I have no idea how far I ran, I just run further if my leg feels good, less if it doesn't. And if it is hurting badly, then I use the EFX machine or the row machine. I try to listen to my body...even when I don't like what I hear.
Every year in October I run the 10K Sunshine Run, the last two I ran with my friend Carmen. Neither of us really prepare, we just run. My leg usually hurts during the Sunshine Run, but I keep going. I have to finish, I have to run it all, no matter how slowly. I'll crawl before I walk, it's just the way I am. I am not a runner though, those people are crazy. I always wear the same things when I run, I always wear the same socks, I always listen to my Ipod. I have to do those things, or it bothers me. I bought new socks recently, I can't decide if I like them. When I run, I can feel that they are different, and it bothers me. But I am not a runner, those people are regimented and crazy. I don't own any spandex running pants, nor do I own appropriate cold weather running clothes. I run in an Under Armour sweatshirt I "borrowed" from my son (found on his floor) if it is cold. See, I am not a runner-those people are crazy, out there dressed inappropriately for the weather.
I simply enjoy running, so don't confuse me with a runner. Now, pardon me while I put on these expensive running shoes, and plug in my ear buds. It's time for a run....

Good Ol Boys

The other night I was in the kitchen studying cookbooks (and by studying cookbooks, I mean eating snacks) when I found myself rather fascinated by what I was hearing on television. My son was watching one of his shows; he has a lot of shows, mostly on A&E usually about people making money by either buying, selling, or scavenging what I call useless crap. He enjoys watching Storage Wars, Pawn Stars, and other televised celebrations of what I consider hoarder behaviour.
This night, he was watching another favourite Duck Dynasty. Although I had never watched it, I know about the show, it seems many people I know watch it. Many people I see at the mall wear clothing advertising it and many men I see through out Springfield seemed to have adopted the facial hair as some sort of a trend I would title Ways To Make Yourself REALLY Unattractive with the Addition of Facial Hair.This particular Duck Dynasty adventure had two men (I don't know their names, but they had beards) searching for donuts and then staging a contest to eat the donuts. I stood there, fascinated, slowly shaking my head like there might be something I was missing in the appeal of this as television. However, at the same time as I heard the men commentate their adventure, I got it. I got it, because as a kid there was a little shop my parents used to take us to where we ate donuts, and washed them down with Mr. Pibb. Yes, Mr. Pibb, and kids-it doesn't get much more redneck than Mr. Pibb.
These days, I desire neither a Mr. Pibb nor a donut, there's nothing about the taste of either that I really like. I have many of the same feelings about most of the food I grew up eating (heavy country cooking); music I grew up listening to (country); or hobbies my parents enjoyed (camping & floating, I'm a hotel person. I like beds and showers.) My children sometimes seem a bit surprised when I say or do something that reminds them I am from a very small town in rural Missouri. Although Springfield, or Willard (where they attend school) is hardly a cutting edge metropolis, both of them are more progressive than Ava-the county seat of Douglas County, Missouri. My mother was raised there, and my father was raised on a farm, outside of Mansfield and Hartville, both towns smaller even than Ava. And although both of my kids lived in Ava for a while when I taught there, neither of them are old enough to remember living in a town without a mall, multiple fast food options, and  a high school of 1000 students.
Perhaps this is why Duck Dynasty has never appealed to me, I know what rednecks do; I don't need to watch it. And redneck is a term I tend to use with scorn these days, tossing it out in frustration at small minded thinking, rebel flags, or screaming conservatives fighting all forms of civil rights or social progression. But as I watched (and watched again, my son convinced me to watch two whole episodes) I kept thinking "I know these guys." Because I do. They are good ol' boys, and I grew up around dozens of guys just like them.
When I say good ol' boys, I don't mean those strutting kings of small town politics, because I know those guys too, and I detest them. I have had plenty of interactions with these good ol' boys in my days since leaving Ava, and the less of those I meet the better off my life will be. These sorts of good ol' boys are the reason I am glad my son wrestles instead of plays basketball, the reason I am continually frustrated by some of policies or decisions my children's school district makes, and the reason why I was happy to wash my hands of public education. Anyone can be a big fish in a small pond, and these guys are whales in mud puddles.
The kind of good ol' boys I am talking about are people like my dad, who was raised working on a farm and has maintained those values and work ethic his whole life. He still believes in the ideals and morals of a small town: you put your family first, and I don't mean by tweeting Team FOE or rapping about them, I mean by working and saving your money to provide for your family, and always coming through when they need you. I don't ever remember a crisis or emergency in my family that my dad didn't handle. He's the first person you call, the first person who shows up. He worked more than 40 years in public education and paid for the college education of all three of his children. And when he remarried, my stepmom's children became family too. These kind of good ol' boys live by the rules I saw played out on Duck Dynasty:
If you sink something, haul it up- Or in other words, clean up your messes. Take responsibility. You break something, fix it (even if its with duct tape). You lose a job, find another one; someone will always pay a hard worker, no matter what the work. Sometimes you may need to call another guy (or someone with a truck, or a trailer, or both) but you can always solve a problem.
Too many large men sink a boat- Or in other words, everything has its limit. Too many hours of work will kill you; too many drinks will leave you with bruises and a hangover; and too much ego will provide someone a reason to properly kick your ass. Know your limits, know your family's limits, know your friends' limits and live within them. If you don't, you may find yourself up a creek without a paddle, or at the bottom of the creek, looking for your boat.
A deer won't fit in a sports car- Common sense goes a long way to good ol' boys. And we all know you can't haul a deer in a Toyota. My dad, and most of his friends, hunt. I grew up eating wild game, he often fills our freezer with deer meat. Many good ol' boys hunt, and eat what they kill. Many of them fish and eat what they catch, its common sense. These are not men hunting Bengal Tigers, these are men hunting food they will actually eat. They need guns, they use them. And they need big sturdy trucks, that probably guzzle gas, but that's that's their lifestyle and they are entitled to it.
You don't get rid of something just cause its a little rusty-I don't know if the Duck Dynasty boys ever found that barbecue that fell outta the truck, (sometimes I need more snacks) but I understand their desire to fix/return it. My dad always knew a guy who could fix something, if Daddy couldn't fix it himself. My dad saves everything, it used to delight him when his cars would be over 150,000 miles. My stepmom always keeps leftover, or wraps your plate if you don't finish it. They don't waste, people who grew up on farms usually don't. Either they worked too hard to get it, or they aren't sure when another is coming, so you take care of what you have. This barbecue metaphor can also be translated into a relationship one, but no one likes an overly long sermon when supper is waiting.
NASCAR is a sport-Okay it's not. But its fast cars, and that's fun. And it's really, really loud. 'Merica!
Banjos belong in bluegrass bands-This has nothing to do with the show really, I just threw it in for all the hipsters at Starbucks feeling meaningful while they listen to Mumford and Sons. You're not. You're not any more unique, deep, intelligent or reflective than those listening to a good Bluegrass band on Friday night on the Ava square. You're following a trend (multiple trends with your Pumpkin latte, fashionable scarf and Toms shoes) just the same as the wanna be rappers and mini gangstas. Be genuine, be yourself.
Those two episodes may be all the Duck Dynasty I ever watch, but at least I understand why everyone is talking about it. And it was a good reminder of my roots, or as Jay-Z says "never forget where you came from."(Technically Denzel says it in a Jay-Z song). My dad and I don't always agree on everything; I doubt we have ever voted for the same man for President. I probably won't ever take a date to a family function because awkward is not my favourite feeling. I drive a Toyota, he would never buy a "foreign" car. But I respect who he is, and where he came from. Because it's who I am, and where I came from too.

Wrestling with Pineterest

I think I may be the last person in America who doesn't use Pineterest, I really don't understand what it is. I know my daughter loves Pineterest, but she also loves One Direction, so her endorsement isn't always a guarantee I will be enthralled with a product. (The Boy Band will never be done better than N'Sync. Appreciate the classics). I often see Facebook postings about Pineterest, many times from my daughter, making me wonder if this is the initiative her school was looking for when they provided her with a laptop.She says she finds inspiration there for art projects, makeup, hairstyles; but I sometimes wish she was working on more chores and less inspiring. I've heard people talk about cute little crafts they made with ideas from Pineterest, but I don't craft. I think there might be recipes on Pineterest, but I imagine them to be like those"busy mom" recipes that require you to crush your own garlic. Here's a shocking secret: busy moms don't crush garlic. If we are feeling gourmet we have time for the crock pot. Actual busy moms microwave corn dogs, because that is life and your worth as a mother is not determined by the elaborate spread you put on the table, but the support you give to your children.

Not happening at my house...

 I have enough ways to waste my time on the Internet. For instance I have this blog, which allows me to waste my time, and yours with my random thoughts, usually about men I find attractive. I have word games like Words With Friends or Ruzzle, which I have heard help prevent Alzheimers by keeping your mind sharp, except I immediately forget all words I know, and I then worry maybe I am getting Alzheimers. I have Twitter, where I post every thought in my head, creep on NBA players, read inspirational quotes and make friends with other KU fans. Twitter is very demanding.
Perhaps I need better hobbies, but between work, my kids and searching for a career where I can use my useless Education degree and still afford food, I am pretty busy. In my free time, I work out, or read a book. And I attend wrestling practice, wrestling tournaments, wrestling scholarship fund meetings. I watch sports on tv, and sometimes attempt to have a social life (Does Pineterest have tips for practicing cougars?). Sometimes I feel like I should be one of those people who watch A&E and try to improve or redecorate my home, but usually just keeping the demon spawn cat from destroying our belongings is about all I can do. I live with a 13 year old boy, and both of my kids have to manage on their own while I work, my house is usually in chaos, so cleaning takes up what might be home improvement time. (And removing the used forks from the couch is an improvement, I think). I try to bake sometimes, but I don't really like following directions(which might explain a great many things in my life) so the outcomes are a bit like the Lakers defense, usually disappointing. As my daughter tells me I'm not like other moms.

Isn't this every mom's favorite series?

She has a point. I dance in the kitchen when I should be cleaning. I make inappropriate Daniel Tosh style comments and jokes. I listen to unedited rap music with my kids. I read teen literature. I quote Harry Potter, the books, not just the movies. I don't put Honor Roll bumperstickers on my car(my children's achievements belong to them, not me). The only television channels I watch are ESPN, BETand TNT (only on NBA nights). I drive too fast and get mouthy with police men. (Willard cops only). Much like 2 Chainz, I'm Different, yeah I'm Different.

Inspiration...

But I guess we need all moms in the world, the busy ones, the baking ones, the Pineterest crafting ones, the ones with boxing gloves and running shoes. My children have been dragged on this journey with me through recovery as I figure out what to do with my life, and it hasn't been easy for them. We are poor, my hours are long, sometimes I am frustrated. My son, who played basketball since he was 4, decided to go out for wrestling this year.  I have watched him improve and learn, and get knocked down so many times in this unbelievably grueling sport. This is real wrestling, not the WWF kind, where you face constant physical battle to gut out a win; there is no one to pass the ball to in traffic, no hail Mary to win. I have seen a transformation in my son from a kid who wrestles to a wrestler and I'd like to believe some of his adaptability and determination he learned from his mother. That maybe in this crazy, busy, unsure life I am making for our little family my children are learning something from me, besides Jay-Z songs. Perhaps my holiday crafts may fail miserably (craptastic Christmas display, 20 pound caramel apples, the gingerbread train fiasco) my drive to succeed will not. Inspiration can come from many places, hopefully they are finding it when they look around our messy house and see Mom making this life work.

Mariah and the Meaning of Christmas

Mariah's best feature...

I am not a Mariah Carey fan, as a matter a fact I detest everything about her. To me, Mariah is the epitome of everything that is wrong with women's perception of ourselves-everything about the woman screams insecurity. Her skirts always seem a little too short, her makeup a little too overdone,her boobs a little too on display. I just want to slap her, remind her she is a beautiful woman with a ridiculous amount of talent and tell her to settle down. Her songs seem the same way to me. Why scream when you have a beautiful voice? We know you can travel through multiple octaves, it's not necessary to do it on every note. In short, Mariah, calm your spandex-encased ass down and just sing. Enjoy your smoking hot husband and stop traipsing about needing everybodys attention, Mariah-you are the original attention whore.
Which is why I wonder if it's a sign of the impending end of the world that I find myself enjoying Mariah's Christmas melodies. That's right, now playing on my Pandora- All I Want For Christmas Is You....and Christmas music by The Jackson 5. And a lot of Christmas Music that would best be described as Chamber Music, as in Hark The Herald Angels Sing by Felix Mendelsshon (who's name I probably misspelled, but that's okay, you probably haven't heard of him anyway). Felix would be playing on the Classical Christmas Station, which I listened to on a two hour drive the other night. Many hymns were sung and much of the music was instrumental on the Classical Christmas Station, there were several offerings from the music of The Nutcracker. This might not seem like a strange choice of driving music unless you know me very well and know that my other Pandora stations are things like Gucci Mane radio, Eminem radio, Jay-Z radio, and for light listening-Kanye radio. When I am feeling whimsical, I have Beyonce radio. It may not seem odd I listened to two hours of Christmas music except that I work in retail, where Christmas music is piped in my ears 8 hours a day, much of it Mariah. And I mostly detest Christmas music.

 I eat these, I don't make them

It might not seem odd except that I am an extremely anti-tradition person. I shop in Pink, not Coldwater Creek; I'd rather watch ESPN than HGTV; I don't do marriage; I live in Missouri and cheer for Kansas. And when it comes to Christmas, I'm not exactly decorating sugar cookies and gingerbread houses. But tradition and meaning are not the same thing. When you work retail, Christmas can quickly lose any meaning. Hours a day assisting people with their gift lists can reduce the holiday season to more cranky customers spending money they don't really have on people they don't really like. A few extra dollars in your paycheck can come at an exhausting price, as anyone who has ever worked Black Friday will tell you. If you want your Christmas Spirit crushed like a roach under someones shoe, try "helping" that customer who is in hour 4 of sleepless Black Friday shopping, they are not exactly merry. They aren't jolly. They are an angry elf and the little voice in the back of your head might be reminding you how little you get paid.
When you are a single mom, it's easy to be stressed out in the holiday season. Those long hours don't produce very large paychecks, and bills don't take holiday vacations. Stretching them to find a way to put anything under the tree isn't easy. Holidays can bring depression and stress and can morph into a nightmare when life seems like a struggle anyway. It's a time of questioning if you're actually doing the best you can when you can't even give your kids a nice Christmas, a time for feeling lonely because while having children is fulfilling, you are also reminded of your aloneness. Christmas can be a wonderfully romantic time with all of the lights, and gifts, and parties  to attend together. Unless you are single, when you admire Christmas lights ALONE, attend parties ALONE, and awkwardly tell your family (again) that you are ALONE because No, you're still not dating anyone. Which is why you are ALONE.
But, for all the stress and exhaustion, I still love Christmas. I still find meaning in Christmas. Even though I work in retail, I know the meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with anything I'm selling. The meaning of Christmas is why I listen to songs like Joy To The World instead of White Christmas. I find the meaning of Christmas when I go to midnight Mass, or if I'm exhausted after working Christmas Eve, Christmas Day Mass. I find meaning in Christmas when I watch the movie The Polar Express, because I still believe in the magic of believing. I find meaning in Christmas when I watch It's a Wonderful Life because "each man's life touches so many others, and when he's gone it leaves an awful hole." & "no man is a failure who has friends."

All I want for Christmas

The meaning of Christmas isn't about all the stuff that magazines and shows tell us we are supposed to do, unless we enjoy doing them and they bring us closer to our family and our God. Baking, shopping, parties, even family get togethers shouldn't be stressful. If they are, then somewhere, the meaning has been lost and you are becoming the Mariah of Christmas-and not the one who actually does a good job on O Holy Night. The one who looks like she should be paid by the hour in that stupid Santa getup. Don't turn Christmas into an attention whore holiday, find your priorities.
As for me, it will be a meaningful-and for us, traditional- Christmas, at my house. There will be no big turkey dinner (I don't enjoy cooking), and anything that is baked will probably be burned because I will be distracted when Dwight and the Lakers are on. There will be gifts because retail hours are good during the holidays. There will be Mass, where we will celebrate the real gift of the season. There will be basketball, because Aaron and I always watch the NBA on Christmas. And there will be Elf,  because it is my favourite movie. Buddy the Elf is everything Christmas should be-genuine, happy, and excited. And not afraid to believe, and believing is the true meaning of the season.
The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear. Obviously, Mariah listened to this advice.

April not Katey

When my daughter was born I decided to name her after my oldest childhood friend. I picked the name out when I found out I was having a little girl-April after my friend, Kathryn after my grandmother. All of the daughters in my family are named either Mary or Kathryn (or in my sister's case, both) which is ironic since I am the only Catholic in my family and my sister Mary Kathryn is Jewish, but that's our own special Douglas County diversity I guess. I wanted to call my baby Katey, I liked spelling it a little different, I liked the cute name for my adorable baby girl and Katey she was.
When Katey was about five, she met the mother and sister of the girl she is named after; my friend April died when I was 19. I had chosen the name because I remembered April as a happy child, I wanted to name my daughter after someone I only had good memories of. My happiest childhood memories, some of my few memories of my parents when they were together, are of times spent with April's family. I hoped the name would bring good karma (or whatever) to my little girl. Although Katey was always called Katey, I still knew the significance of her name. She was a happy baby, and a seemingly happy little girl, with a beautiful smile and an artistic dreamy side.
Like most parents, I never wanted anything bad to happen to my child, I wanted to protect her from the pain and suffering of the world. I wanted her life to be perfect. It wasn't. When she was two and half, I had to explain why her daddy wasn't coming home, and Katey and I had to learn a new way to live as just the two of us. That night after she went to bed, I calmly went and laid out her clothes for the next day, because life goes on when you are a mom and have a child to take care of and one on the way. That winter her brother was born and now our two was three. I remember that first night home with my new baby, and my daughter, needing to feed him and make her dinner and wondering what I would do...My daughter was patient in a way many two year olds would not have been, she learned that two outnumber one and this new life was how we are.
When Katey was in preschool I picked her up one day and turned the tv on to the continuing coverage of 9/11. She asked about it, and I remember how frightened I was that I had brought my children into a world that was no longer safe. I felt it was the first bad thing I ever had to tell my daughter, I hoped it would be the worst.
It wasn't. Last spring I stumbled into the house trying to get control of my emotions after I found out about the death of Steeler Seaburn. My daughter was a freshman, she knew Steeler, she talked about him often. She had heard about him for years from me and went to school with him. I knew I needed to wake her up and tell her. I knew I needed to be the adult, I needed to be strong for her. I needed to find that place that had laid out her clothes after her dad left, that had assured her we were safe after planes crashed into buildings, that had recovered and stood up to Ed so I could see her grow up. I didn't find it. My daughter took care of me for a couple of days, reminding me to eat; asking me if I was okay, cleaning the house and telling me about my new niece. I saw a side of her I didn't know she had, a strength that made me proud, and also makes me realise how grown up she is.
When Katey moved from elementary to middle school she decided she wanted to be called her first name instead of Katey. Her friends and teachers call her April now, but to me she is still Katey. I'm stubborn, and I'm sure it annoys her. I'm fortunate that I feel like I have a good relationship with my amazing daughter, we laugh and joke like friends and I genuinely enjoy being around her. She confides in me, we share interests; and despite the difficulties of being a teenager (and yes, they are there) I am blessed with a good kid. Sometimes a dramatic and moody kid, but a good one who takes on more responsibility than most because I work long hours for little money-it's not an easy life being the child of a single mother. It hasn't been an easy thing to share your mother with grief over a child that wasn't hers, but Katey doesn't complain. Her brother and I steal the tv for sports, but Katey doesn't complain. She doesn't have the spending money other kids have, but Katey doesn't complain.
I'm more protective than I used to be, letting go and watching her grow up is harder than I expected. Putting her in a car with other kids, the idea of her driving a car, those are things that terrify me now. But I know she must grow into this person who she is....and that person is April. I need to start calling her by the name she chooses to go by, start recognizing that she is no longer the little girl with the bow in her hair. She is growing into a young woman, she is her own person and is free to make her own choices. I can't protect her from the pain of the world. Keeping her "little" doesn't keep her safe. Recognizing her strength prepares her to keep herself safe. And that, really, is the best I can do for my little girl. For my April.

Cheerio

When I was a little girl, if you had asked me who the most beautiful woman in the world was, or who I wanted to be like when I grew up, I would have given you one of two answers. Both were about equally delusional, and at completely opposite ends of the spectrum of sophistication. One was a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. I used to practice cheerleading for hours, I loved pom-pons, I wanted gymnastic lessons more than anything. Then someone broke the news that Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders weren't short and chubby, and my dream died (and Ed lived). But the person I admired most in the world, who I thought was even more beautiful and classy than a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader (if that's possible) was Princess Diana. In a time before mass marketing of Disney princesses, she was a real live, beautiful princess splashed across magazines and headlines everywhere for me to see. My friends may have been admiring the cast of 90210 or Alyssa Milano, but I wanted to be Princess Diana.Other girls read Seventeen magazine, I read books about the Royal Family.
When Princess Diana died in 1997, I cried for days. I got up at 3am to watch her funeral and sat with my baby in my lap bawling my eyes out. I wasn't a little girl anymore, I was a mother-like Diana-and by then I knew the things about her I hadn't seen in the pictures as a little girl. Her life was far from perfect, she was living proof that money, fame, and beauty are not always keys to happiness. I loved her as a Princess, but grew to admire her as a real person, a mother, and someone who's struggles I could identify with even if her life was very far removed from mine.

Single mom, like me

My love of Princess Diana meant as a kid, and even now as an adult, I was obsessed with the United Kingdom. I still am. My phone is set to the UK keyboard & settings-as is my Facebook-; my bedroom decorated with pictures of London; and my speech is littered with British slang (probably incorrectly, but just try and correct me, you pratt). Many of my favourite authors and books are British-I find British writers funnier. I follow the British Prime Minister, and Clarence House, as well as several UK authors (like the hilarious Jenny Colgan) on Twitter.
 I applied to teach there a few years ago, but emigration laws and my financial status are not exactly in line right now-or ever. I have a fit for British accents..Once or twice I might have told people I was from England and therefore I don't celebrate the 4th of July. (stop judging, I really dislike fireworks and potato salad, okay?) Prince Harry is one of the only white guys on the planet that I find attractive. Obviously, then, I am more than a little excited about the Olympics in London. Its going to be like a two-week British binge and I am all for it.

The man who taught my son what the word "bong" means...

There's something about the Olympics that brings out that part of me that buys all that questionable music on Itunes completely takes over. "Is gymnastics on?"-excited, Nickelback loving Jean Ann will ask. "I love gymnastics!!" Because sadly, I do-I'll watch every event, every tumble, every sappy story. Keri Shrug and her ankle-I was on that like a teenybopper on Bieber. Give me an Olympic feel good story and I am like an American Idol fan (do those still exist?), glued to my television cheering. Phelps fans? You better believe it, my whole house was. We watched every swimming event in the 2008 games. Some people criticise Michael Phelps for smoking weed, I say -"Thank you, I had to have the Just Say No talk with my kids sometime....why not when they were still only in elementary school." Its just one more special family moment Michael shared with us.

Each ring symbolizes...I have no idea. 

You better believe I will be watching track-and- field. It's like all the action of NASCAR, only quieter and with trained athletes. In honor of the Olympians, I will not snarl and grimace when my new trainers tell me to "sprint!"-I will be motivated by Olympic greatness and achieve greatness myself, or at least run faster and not curse at them under my breath. I'll watch sports I know nothing about just because its the Olympics, perhaps I will become interested in archery again (or never). And it's the Olympics from London-LONDON. There will be such media saturation of the country I love so much...err I mean I will cheer for the USA again and again.
How about that new Dream Team? I sure hope they defeat Spain in the finals and bring home the gold (read: I hope I get to see more of Serge Ibaka on tv-- go Spain, go...oops did I type that outloud?) Maybe for the love of my country I will finally embrace that muppet-looking kid from Kentucky and forgive him for beating Kansas. (That's not required, though, right? I can still support Team USA and carry my grudge like an Olympic Torch, right?)

More TV time, Team Spain

Anyway, because I love all things British, and Olympic, tomorrow night I am hoping to watch the Opening Ceremonies with my family and I will be asking myself many important Olympic questions. Is it too late for me to learn a back handspring? ...How are my flip turns these days? Would I drop the baton? (yes) How heavy is a gold medal to wear? ...Why did all the really hot members of Team USA get hurt? Is Lebron hot or not? .Will they focus the camera more on Serge Ibaka, less on Kobe?..What sport is this? What are the damn rules to this sport? Is that water ballet, is that really an Olympic sport? Would the kids laugh if I bought some of these rhythmic gymnastic ribbons? ....How many days in London would I need to see things properly? How much would like two weeks in the UK cost? .... Is it wrong to be attracted to Prince Harry? Why isn't there more Olympic coverage of Prince Harry?....  Will my trainers know how many biscuits (that's cookies in the States) I ate while watching this Olympic coverage? How old is Bob Costas? His work looks good...how do you find out who his Botox guy is? ..... Oh, the Olympics are over? Is the BBC running a program about Prince Harry?

Big Cats

I don't really know what a cougar is. I'm good with lions (King of the Jungle, Disney cash cow, sketchy brothers) and tigers (overused school mascot, loses easily to midmajors in NCAA Tournament play, really should have just eaten Mike Tyson in that movie as a public service); I know leopards and cheetahs have spots, but maybe not because a black leopard might not so I'm confused again. My son, who has a vast storehouse of animal fact knowledge was trying to explain the Big Cat question (mountain lion? panther?  puma? cougar?) to us the other day, when he finally said "If you want to see a cougar look on the couch."

One of the problems with dating (or attempting to date...or talk...maybe make eye contact) as a single woman over the age of about 25 (ok, 30) is you earn a label "out there." Pretty women who date older men become "arm candy" or gold diggers (Kanye didn't write a song about it because it's a compliment). Any woman who has children and who has maintained her appearance an figure is a MILF, and to me that's not a compliment. I'd like to personally punch in the face whoever wrote the song Stacy's Mom a few years ago, or maybe I could just beat the crap out of Stifler's mom instead because a generation of now twentysomething males have grown up with MILF fantasies that are-quite frankly-a little creepy. I don't care if I'm a MILF, I see too many women pushing expensive strollers with well-dressed but screaming or whining exhausted children every day because their MILF status is more important to them than their child's nap. I don't need attention that badly anymore. And if you are too busy shopping for cute clothes, new lingerie, or high heels, let me take your baby to the park. I was awfully busy when mine were growing up-I understand what you are missing.

The truth is, my children are partly grown and I don't want to raise someone else's. I've done an okay job by myself. I don't need someone to pay my bills, fix my car, or buy me gifts. I am a child of parents from a generation in which women were taught to find men to take care of them, and I won't teach my daughter what was taught to me. So if I want someone in my life it's because I like talking to them, spending time with them, or sharing common interests. I don't know a lot of 50 year old guys who went to Wiz Khalifa. I quit my own generation (see previous blog) so I rarely have much in common with men my own age, much less someone older. I'm just not at the same place in my life many women in my age range or age group are -I wasted much of my life in a relationship with Ed, I'm not ready to settle for stability and comfort while I'm still figuring my life out

I asked my doctor the other day if I could still have children. Not that I want another baby, but the truth is I don't know that I don't want another baby-look at im there in this random picture I found, maybe I want one of those...or not. I don't know exactly what my job will be in a year. I'd like to sell my house, so I don't know where I will be living in a year. I'm at a jw place in my life. (just wondering, maybe I will name  that baby JW..not really) It is easy for me to talk to people who are are still wondering about their lives too, who don't have it all figured out yet. Most of my friends are younger, they are still wondering, so we have great times together-sometimes those are at night clubs (night club might be a stretch for Downtown Springfield, but still you get the idea). We go to concerts together, read popular books, try new workout programs and talk about celebrity gossip sometimes. I watch sports, mostly the NBA, and college basketball. I like people who share those interests, therefore I usually talk to or date younger men. Which brings me to, the previous Big Cat reference. Much like the poor confused panther, I am not really sure if I am a cougar or not. Technically (and by technically, I mean according to the definition I found on Urban Dictionary) I don't think I am really old enough to be a cougar yet. But there is usually a pretty healthy age gap between me and any given man (I think the term is cub) I am talking to.

(Cougar Cub...actual)

If I am, in fact, a true cougar. I am a pretty weak one. I am the runt (do cougars have litters?). In the cougar pack (do cougars travel in packs? or is that only on singles cruises?), I would be the omega...I think that's more of a wolf reference but wild animals, hunting prey-it's like trying to find someone to date in Springfield-so same difference. According to Urban Dictionary as a cougar I think I am supposed to be aggressive, straight forward, possibly even domineering. I think I am supposed to have a lot of money-and spend much of it on self improvement-and also on my cubs. Cougars should probably dress in very high heels, possibly a lot of leopard or cheetah print and a high percentage of spandex in their clothes. I think they are supposed to take charge or relationships and call the shots, being all impressive with their cougar selves.

(Cougar Cub...delusional)

I read Harry Potter books. When I go out with my friends, I try to stand as near the wall as possible and make myself look small. If I see someone I find attractive, I look at the ground. I am poor, really really poor.The only leopard print I own stays hidden under my clothes, but includes underwear with actual leopards on them because I thought they were funny -I'm hoping for underwear of all styles-maybe bras too-that celebrate the Big Cats. I own many pairs of high heels, but don't wear them very often because I have a running injury. My idea of self improvement is a morning at the gym boxing, not a day at the spa. I don't even have big blonde hair, and I've never been able to save up enough for Botox. 

My most recent attempt at stalking prey almost killed my cat. And I really didn't do a very bang up job of stalking since the cub in question never even took me on a real date, and almost killed my cat. I may be new to this dating idea but I think the ultimate goal is dates (and not dead pets) so I believe the score would be Cougar Jean Ann 0, Playa Cubs 1. This is not how we win championships, Team Cougar. I know that some of you might be reading this and thinking-maybe you aren't a cougar or a MILF, but just a nice active mom who would like to meet someone who shares your interest.....that would be a too simple thought, my friends. Without labels, stereotypes and terrible communication, really what is this nightmare we call dating? (oh, yeah-a relationship, like the kind that might actually work)

With my children in Florida this week on that hard earned (read grandma treat) vacation, I figure it would be an excellent time to brush up on my cougar skills. So I've decided to call Joan Rivers. That was a cougar joke, disguised as a puma joke so it probably only seemed funny in certain parts of the country. I'll probably check my Twitter, since that seems to be the only place I can actually interact with males since in their actual presence I lose the ability to speak to anything except the ground. I think we are getting in some new underwear with tigers on them to add to my jungle collection.  I have a really fantastic plan to reread Harry Potter books 1-7 because that's.....well, that's who I am. I read Harry Potter. I watch the NBA. I listen to Ice Cream Paint Job Remix. Call me a cougar-or better yet, just call me Jean Ann.

TBH II

You know that excitement you feel when you find out your favorite artist is releasing a new album or your favorite author is writing a new book? Well, friends I am sure you are all feeling that same excitement with the triumphant return of my blog from its little hiatus....Feel free to organise JK Rowling-new book release type parties.
You know that disappointment you feel when you find out that "new" music is just a different version of the same songs, or the same book with slightly different characters? Prepare the angry mumbles now, my loyal readers (and by loyal readers, I mean my mom) as I proudly present TBH II. After all we all know if anything is good (or marginally passable) in true Hollywood style a sequel is a no-brainer. And by no brainer, I mean ADD-fueled trip through previous blogs, and slightly whinier excuses as to why I can't come up with original material. The blog equivalent of another Godfather (or more realistically, Scary Movie 5)
(Friends don't let friends wear these)

To be honest, I'm kind of glad Rock of Ages has been reported to be a flop. Not that I have anything against musicals, I enjoyed 8 Mile. What? That wasn't a musical; well, you know what I mean... But, I spotted actual acid washed jeans for sale in the Battlefield Mall the other day, and the neon colors splashed everywhere are burning my retinas. I tried to warn you people, yet here it is invading every pore of our being-nothing is safe. Our fashion, our movies, and soon saxophone and big guitar laden songs will be pouring from the radio. This must be stopped before it is accepted again, have you people learned nothing from terrible yearbook photos and Prom pictures of the days gone by? 1987 needs to stay where it was....in the ugly, ugly past. I can see why Tom Cruise would be all about a movie glorifying the '80's, but Tom- you are not Maverick anymore and big hair and terrible bands are not welcome in this new millennium. 

Not Dirk, or a Celtic...unrelated OKC player not mentioned in blog, included for your, okay my,viewing pleasure

To be honest, I hate grass. No, not the kind Kid Cudi writes songs about. The kind which grows in my yard, forcing me to cut it. The kind birds-which I also dislike for no real reason- use to make elaborate nests in my BBQ and bring forth other birds which then either die in said BBQ or around the yard only to be chopped up in the previously mentioned lawn mower. I also hate rain, because it makes the grass grow. And while I am on the subject, I might add I also have an irrational dislike of the Boston Celtics, Dirk Nowitzki, frozen custard, and saxophones.And while I can't relate any of these to how fast my grass is growing, I might or might not be enjoying an evil fantasy about forcing Dirk to mow my lawn right now.

Durantula-an awesome nickname, that I probably misspelled

To be honest, my son and I enjoy watching many sports playoffs together and one of my favorite memories in his short life is that we were watching together in October when the Cardinals won the Series, but I am really enjoying the NBA playoffs. If you're not okay with your kid looking  up to Kevin Durant, then I am not sure what I can say. They don't come much more clean cut in the world of sports, or much more enjoyable to watch. And watching the Oklahoma City fans reminds me of the glory years of Willard basketball when the gym was small and people were so packed in you couldn't move. Much like my life with my dad has been timelined by the sports events we watched, so has my son's with me. And I'm okay with this. All families have their traditions, this is ours. I can't really make up my mind as to who to cheer for in these playoffs, but watching with my boy is really more important to me than who wins.

To be honest, it is the son of someone else that my last blog was about that has kept me from blogging for the past two and a half months. I wrote my last blog the day that Steeler Seaburn died and in the time since then, although life has gone on, in so many ways it has not. I wrote that blog before I saw the peacock feathers at his funeral, before I watched his friends mourn for him, before I sat in a cemetery on my knees crying the kind of heaving sobs I didn't even know I had. Before I realised the number of memories, stories, songs on my Ipod, movies I like, tv shows I watch and even little sayings I have that Steeler was a part of. How I took for granted that sometimes I just asked him questions that I knew he would know the answers to, or checked Facebook just to see how he was doing.  Before I watched his class graduate without him, watching his friends walk to the stage-not needing their names called because I recognised them by the way they stood or walked and knowing that somehow-deep down- I was looking for Steeler even though I knew he wouldn't be there. I was in shock, I think, still when I wrote that. I was not yet accepting that he was really gone and that I would mourn him in a way I had never mourned or grieved for anyone or anything in my life. It is a grief I am not sure I have a right to, but there are days when the reality hits me like a punch in the face and I am sometimes almost doubled over again with crying that this person who was so alive, and so dynamic and so very good for the world is gone. I have seen Steeler's mother, Genny, a few times since his death, and often times I feel angry afterwards. Angry and confused because I want to know why....why Genny's child? and these are answers I don't have....
So tonight I will watch the game with my son, and to be honest, tomorrow (maybe even tonight) I will probably yell at him for something. I will think, as I do every day, about this son of another mother who is gone and I will pray for her, for him, and for my son. And to be honest, I will wait for the world to be normal again, and know it will not be.