I have NOT forgotten that I promised more chapters in my story of Honey Boo Boo and our cruise. I have lots of stuff to tell you about her floatings in Belize.
I wanted to pause a moment and reflect on what 25 years with the same awesome guy--the Hubs--has wrought in my life. Over the past 25 years, the Hubs and I have together:
Lived in four cities, three apartments, two townhomes, and three houses.
Driven seven cars.
Had five surgeries (all mine, but the Hubs had to deal with the recovery).
Owned two pools.
Taken approximately 20 vacations.
Had one pet.
Gained and lost countless amounts of weight.
Had one brush with death.
Owned two lawnmowers (sore subject for the Hubs).
Learned how to scuba dive and probably used 80 tanks of air.
Joined one church and visited many.
Held seven jobs.
Hired two real estate agents.
Lost four grandmothers, one grandfather, one aunt, and three uncles.
Gained two nieces and a sister-in-law (not in that order).
Graduated from pina coladas with a nice dinner to wine.
Earned two, post-graduate degrees (a masters and a doctorate).
Had four wedding rings.
Been estranged from two family members.
Cried (mostly me) and been loved through it (mostly by the Hubs)
Laughed at least once every day.
Purged and donated enough clothes, furniture, and housing goods to possibly provide for an entire, small country.
Tithed.
Started saving our money.
Got movie channels on our TV.
Sold a car to pay rent (thanks Mom and Dad for letting us keep the money from selling the car even though you bought it for me before I was married).
Gone to make dinner, seen one box of macaroni and cheese in the pantry, and knew we were out of money to buy anything else.
Owned nine TVs.
Started with huge cell phones, got down to tiny cell phones (some even had a retractable antenna), and then back to big cell phones.
Accidentally threw away my mother's wedding ring (OK that was just me, no Hubs, but I still feel awful).
Can quote the majority of "Fletch," "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles," "Coming to America," and "Christmas Vacation" from memory.
Had two beautiful daughters.
Cleaned poo from many surfaces (related to previous entry).
Learned how to fold a fitted sheet.
Learned lice hate tea tree oil.
Been each other's greatest fan.
Had two pediatricians (see daughter and poo entry).
Traveled by plane (all sizes), train, car, shuttle, subway, cable car, bus, limo, moped, and boat.
Suffered through food poisoning together (thankfully that townhome had two bathrooms).
Killed two aloe vera plants.
Made 25 (mostly unsuccessful) New Years' resolutions.
Expanded our food horizons.
Sat through countless games, recitals, programs, musicals, performances to watch our daughters.
Gone to the national championship football game (thanks Keith and Heather Behrens).
Saw Chris Webber's "time out" in the national championship BB game.
Saw the first Cowboys game at the "new" Cowboys stadium (thanks David and Carolyn Hennessee)
Saw baseball games at Yankee Stadium and Wrigley Field.
Seen three Broadway shows on actual Broadway.
Fell in love with Chicago.
Had two wedding ceremonies (one 25 years ago in Dallas and one 15 years ago in Vegas, which could be another blog entry all on its own).
Even with all of this, there is so much more I want to do with the Hubs. Europe, grandkids, a tricked out back yard, more laughter (he's one of the funniest people I know), more diving, more movies, more parties, more wine, fewer "have tos" and more "want tos." This is gonna be good.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Cruisin & Divin Fun: Part One
I realize my blog posts have been too much of a downer lately. Thank you for indulging me as I wallow in my mess. To switch things up, I have decided to regale you with the many entertaining stories I gathered while on my recent wedding anniversary cruise with the Hubs.
Yes, it's been 25 wonderful years with the Hubs. Can't believe it's been that long. Dear Hubs booked us on a seven-night cruise to Honduras, Belize, and Cozumel out of New Orleans as a surprise. What a guy! In our former lives as married, no-kids people, we used to go scuba diving at least twice a year. And we rocked it. We were awesome divers. We've been to Cozumel, Hawaii, Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, the Bahamas, and on, and on. We've seen rays, sharks, octopi, lobster, sea horses, eels, whales, dolphins, turtles, and more fish than you can shake a stick at. But once we had kids, our days of diving came to a screeching halt. In the last 15 years, we have gone diving about 3 times. Pitiful. Dear Hubs knows how much I love diving and swore we would dive our buns off.
After an awesome day in New Orleans (bloodies, anybody?), we boarded the ship ready for fun and scuba! Now, we cruise Carnival. It's a down-ballot cruise line but that's what I like about it. I can slump out to the pool in my Gap bathing suit and no-name flips and be right at home in the hot tub with all my peeps. Like Bobby the electrician and Susie the farmer. These are my peeps. You'll never hear better stories in a hot tub than those from these salt of the earth people. I'll tell you more about them in a later installment.
Today is about our dive buddies. Let me tell you about myself. I am what they call "well preserved." I am a woman of a "certain age" who has fought like hell to keep everything from going South. I work out 3 to 4 days a week and generally try to keep things well tended. I don't go overboard but I try. So, I figured I would be OK in my bikini on a dive boat. No lingering looks, but no sniggering either.
First dive: Honduras. We meet the dive master. A little uptight but no big deal. There's no talking under there anyway and I know what I'm doing. Then I look around at who will be diving with me from our ship. Well. First, I see Honey Boo Boo all growed up. I mean, imagine that deep South baby beauty queen at about 32. Weighing in at a buck 80 in a teeny weenie yellow bikini. She's in full make-up (to go diving, mind you) and has a 'Merican flag belly button piercing (it was July 4th, y'all). She's got her momma (who has a weird burp reflex that won't stop and sounds like she's about to urp that squirrel she had for lunch), her fiance (they are getting married on the ship in two days), and some other dude that doesn't seem to fit but LOVES to wear teeny running shorts as a bathing suit. And they are EXPERTS in diving, people. They will tell you EVERYTHING you are doing wrong. That's another installment as well.
But that's not all. There were two of the most gorgeous women I have EVER seen diving together. I'll call them Blonde and Brown. It's their hair color, people. That's it on our dive boat. Pageant hillbillies, me and the Hubs, and the professional hotties. Now by "professional" I DO NOT mean what you dirty-minded people are thinking. Blonde recently placed nationally in some sort of body competition and she's training Brown to do the same thing. I saw pictures. So did the Hubs. Blonde is even a personal trainer. My Gap bikini looked worse by the minute. They were the nicest, most fun people I have met in a long time. We became a foursome, and the Hubs was the envy of EVERYONE.
So I get ready to hit the water for the first time in a long time. Now, I do NOT put my own equipment together. I haven't done that since I got my certification. I mean, if I'm paying out the nose for a dive, I expect my dive master (who will expect a tip later) to hook me up. Well, Honey Boo Boo elbowed me right out of the way so she could hit the water first. For you non-divers, this is a rookie mistake. If you're the first one in, you have to struggle to stay up top until the entire dive party is off the boat and you can all start to go down. But whatever. But once she hits the water, her hillbilly running of the mouth still won't stop. She's screaming about, "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" This chick really wants to see some puffer fish. Whatever, we all get in and we start going down. Well, it was just as I feared, the Hillbillies talked a big game but they were horrible divers. By this I mean, they are all arms down there. That's bad in the dive biz because a flailing arm will take your regulator out of your mouth (that means no more oxygen for you) and knock your mask off your face (hello, salt water in the eyes). Yikes! Honey Boo Boo's fiance (I'll call him Lurch) decided wherever I was was the perfect place to try to dive. Sigh. On our first tank. He ripped my regulator out; got on top of me, grabbed my tank, and yanked me to his right; grabbed my fins to try to get me out of his way (he was BEHIND me); and was a general pain in my ass.
BTW, it was Blonde's first dive after getting her certification and she was diving like a BOSS. She was great. Brown was great. The Hillbillies . . . well . . . Honey Boo and her mother (Burpie) held hands the entire dive. I know that sounds sweet. It's not. When you are down there, you don't want a four-person wide object that wants to be FIRST TO SEE EVERYTHING. At one point they cut the Hubs off, still holding hands, to see a crab. Honey Boo Boo's bikini bottom had been eaten (if you get my drift). It was right in front of his mask. I laughed so hard I sucked in about a quart of sea water. It was worth it.
Surface interval. Honey Boo Boo proceeded to regale us with stories of everything she had seen and how everything was "so cute, I just want to take it hooooooome." Uh, HBB, we were on your exact same dive. Anywho, uptight dive master said we could snorkel during our surface interval. You would have thought he said we would all get a $1,000 check the way Honey Boo Boo wet herself: "What?! Oh my God!!! This is incredible!! Best surface interval EVER!!!!!!!" Burpie just urped. Uh, HBB, you could snorkel on ANY surface interval if you wanted to. You've got a mask, snorkel, and fins and you are floating on water. Have at it. Anywho, she jumps in and starts screaming "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" Well, hell, I've got to see this. It must be puffer soup out there. So I jump in. Nope. Starfish.
Second dive. Uptight dive master tells us there is an eel that hangs out here and she might come and check us out. She does. And for some reason, she digs my vibe. She slithers up my arm and pokes her face right in my mask to say "hello." Pretty cool. Until I remember that the Hillbillies will insist on being RIGHT IN THE FRONT TO SEE ANYTHING. I quickly put my hands up to my regulator and my mask and here comes Lurch and Honey Boo Boo. They are holding hands on this dive and they really want to see that eel. Well, their arm gestures freak poor Miss Eel out and she slithers down my front to get the heck out of Dodge. Wish I could.
Once we get back on the boat, Lurch proceeds to tell me everything I did wrong on both dives: Hey, you were in my way and I had to pull you out of my way. (Yes, I know. My ears popped because you threw me down about ten feet. Plus, I was below you and couldn't see you.) You kicked me with your fins. (I don't have a rearview mirror) You hit the eel with your fin. (Um, she was trying to get away from you and you hit me backwards into her). All I said was, "Oops, Bra. Gotta hang back from the volcano." I have no idea what that means. It was better than what I wanted to say, which was "Get your hillbilly arms away from my area and quit diving like you are in a performance of Chicago on Broadway, Jazz Hands!"
Anywho, nothing a few visits to the bar didn't cure. We hung with Blonde and Brown and some people on the other dive boat at a resort until it was time to head back to the ship. It was lovely. But when it was time to leave, we had to wait for Honey Boo Boo and the other hillbillies because they had ordered hamburgers (a hamburger in Honduras!!!!!!!!) that hadn't been served yet. Are you kidding me? We are going to miss our cruise ship so you can get a hamburger?! When they finally got on the shuttle with their stinky burgers, Brown said, "You owe us a beer." They didn't even acknowledge her or even say sorry to us. It was all the fault of "those people" at the resort. And they didn't even tip the dive master. THAT'S a crappy diver. And we got to hear Burpie urp her way back to the ship while eating a burger. Yum.
So, the next day is Belize diving. Gotta be better, right? Stay tuned.
Yes, it's been 25 wonderful years with the Hubs. Can't believe it's been that long. Dear Hubs booked us on a seven-night cruise to Honduras, Belize, and Cozumel out of New Orleans as a surprise. What a guy! In our former lives as married, no-kids people, we used to go scuba diving at least twice a year. And we rocked it. We were awesome divers. We've been to Cozumel, Hawaii, Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, the Bahamas, and on, and on. We've seen rays, sharks, octopi, lobster, sea horses, eels, whales, dolphins, turtles, and more fish than you can shake a stick at. But once we had kids, our days of diving came to a screeching halt. In the last 15 years, we have gone diving about 3 times. Pitiful. Dear Hubs knows how much I love diving and swore we would dive our buns off.
After an awesome day in New Orleans (bloodies, anybody?), we boarded the ship ready for fun and scuba! Now, we cruise Carnival. It's a down-ballot cruise line but that's what I like about it. I can slump out to the pool in my Gap bathing suit and no-name flips and be right at home in the hot tub with all my peeps. Like Bobby the electrician and Susie the farmer. These are my peeps. You'll never hear better stories in a hot tub than those from these salt of the earth people. I'll tell you more about them in a later installment.
Today is about our dive buddies. Let me tell you about myself. I am what they call "well preserved." I am a woman of a "certain age" who has fought like hell to keep everything from going South. I work out 3 to 4 days a week and generally try to keep things well tended. I don't go overboard but I try. So, I figured I would be OK in my bikini on a dive boat. No lingering looks, but no sniggering either.
First dive: Honduras. We meet the dive master. A little uptight but no big deal. There's no talking under there anyway and I know what I'm doing. Then I look around at who will be diving with me from our ship. Well. First, I see Honey Boo Boo all growed up. I mean, imagine that deep South baby beauty queen at about 32. Weighing in at a buck 80 in a teeny weenie yellow bikini. She's in full make-up (to go diving, mind you) and has a 'Merican flag belly button piercing (it was July 4th, y'all). She's got her momma (who has a weird burp reflex that won't stop and sounds like she's about to urp that squirrel she had for lunch), her fiance (they are getting married on the ship in two days), and some other dude that doesn't seem to fit but LOVES to wear teeny running shorts as a bathing suit. And they are EXPERTS in diving, people. They will tell you EVERYTHING you are doing wrong. That's another installment as well.
But that's not all. There were two of the most gorgeous women I have EVER seen diving together. I'll call them Blonde and Brown. It's their hair color, people. That's it on our dive boat. Pageant hillbillies, me and the Hubs, and the professional hotties. Now by "professional" I DO NOT mean what you dirty-minded people are thinking. Blonde recently placed nationally in some sort of body competition and she's training Brown to do the same thing. I saw pictures. So did the Hubs. Blonde is even a personal trainer. My Gap bikini looked worse by the minute. They were the nicest, most fun people I have met in a long time. We became a foursome, and the Hubs was the envy of EVERYONE.
So I get ready to hit the water for the first time in a long time. Now, I do NOT put my own equipment together. I haven't done that since I got my certification. I mean, if I'm paying out the nose for a dive, I expect my dive master (who will expect a tip later) to hook me up. Well, Honey Boo Boo elbowed me right out of the way so she could hit the water first. For you non-divers, this is a rookie mistake. If you're the first one in, you have to struggle to stay up top until the entire dive party is off the boat and you can all start to go down. But whatever. But once she hits the water, her hillbilly running of the mouth still won't stop. She's screaming about, "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" This chick really wants to see some puffer fish. Whatever, we all get in and we start going down. Well, it was just as I feared, the Hillbillies talked a big game but they were horrible divers. By this I mean, they are all arms down there. That's bad in the dive biz because a flailing arm will take your regulator out of your mouth (that means no more oxygen for you) and knock your mask off your face (hello, salt water in the eyes). Yikes! Honey Boo Boo's fiance (I'll call him Lurch) decided wherever I was was the perfect place to try to dive. Sigh. On our first tank. He ripped my regulator out; got on top of me, grabbed my tank, and yanked me to his right; grabbed my fins to try to get me out of his way (he was BEHIND me); and was a general pain in my ass.
BTW, it was Blonde's first dive after getting her certification and she was diving like a BOSS. She was great. Brown was great. The Hillbillies . . . well . . . Honey Boo and her mother (Burpie) held hands the entire dive. I know that sounds sweet. It's not. When you are down there, you don't want a four-person wide object that wants to be FIRST TO SEE EVERYTHING. At one point they cut the Hubs off, still holding hands, to see a crab. Honey Boo Boo's bikini bottom had been eaten (if you get my drift). It was right in front of his mask. I laughed so hard I sucked in about a quart of sea water. It was worth it.
Surface interval. Honey Boo Boo proceeded to regale us with stories of everything she had seen and how everything was "so cute, I just want to take it hooooooome." Uh, HBB, we were on your exact same dive. Anywho, uptight dive master said we could snorkel during our surface interval. You would have thought he said we would all get a $1,000 check the way Honey Boo Boo wet herself: "What?! Oh my God!!! This is incredible!! Best surface interval EVER!!!!!!!" Burpie just urped. Uh, HBB, you could snorkel on ANY surface interval if you wanted to. You've got a mask, snorkel, and fins and you are floating on water. Have at it. Anywho, she jumps in and starts screaming "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" Well, hell, I've got to see this. It must be puffer soup out there. So I jump in. Nope. Starfish.
Second dive. Uptight dive master tells us there is an eel that hangs out here and she might come and check us out. She does. And for some reason, she digs my vibe. She slithers up my arm and pokes her face right in my mask to say "hello." Pretty cool. Until I remember that the Hillbillies will insist on being RIGHT IN THE FRONT TO SEE ANYTHING. I quickly put my hands up to my regulator and my mask and here comes Lurch and Honey Boo Boo. They are holding hands on this dive and they really want to see that eel. Well, their arm gestures freak poor Miss Eel out and she slithers down my front to get the heck out of Dodge. Wish I could.
Once we get back on the boat, Lurch proceeds to tell me everything I did wrong on both dives: Hey, you were in my way and I had to pull you out of my way. (Yes, I know. My ears popped because you threw me down about ten feet. Plus, I was below you and couldn't see you.) You kicked me with your fins. (I don't have a rearview mirror) You hit the eel with your fin. (Um, she was trying to get away from you and you hit me backwards into her). All I said was, "Oops, Bra. Gotta hang back from the volcano." I have no idea what that means. It was better than what I wanted to say, which was "Get your hillbilly arms away from my area and quit diving like you are in a performance of Chicago on Broadway, Jazz Hands!"
Anywho, nothing a few visits to the bar didn't cure. We hung with Blonde and Brown and some people on the other dive boat at a resort until it was time to head back to the ship. It was lovely. But when it was time to leave, we had to wait for Honey Boo Boo and the other hillbillies because they had ordered hamburgers (a hamburger in Honduras!!!!!!!!) that hadn't been served yet. Are you kidding me? We are going to miss our cruise ship so you can get a hamburger?! When they finally got on the shuttle with their stinky burgers, Brown said, "You owe us a beer." They didn't even acknowledge her or even say sorry to us. It was all the fault of "those people" at the resort. And they didn't even tip the dive master. THAT'S a crappy diver. And we got to hear Burpie urp her way back to the ship while eating a burger. Yum.
So, the next day is Belize diving. Gotta be better, right? Stay tuned.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
It's not just you
I must begin with a disclaimer to this post: I am NOT looking for you to tell me that you like me, or that everyone else is a dummy, or that I am Batman. All I want to do is vent a little, save some therapist money, and let you know that crap happens to me too. It's not just you.
Do you ever volunteer to do something because it's the right thing to do? Do you spend a lot of time on this extracurricular, not-for-remuneration, volunteer activity? Are you then told your input is not welcome even though they begged you to volunteer and even though you are doing this in your free time? Well, it has happened to me.
I am now officially not in the cool kids club at my chosen place of volunteering. Let's call it the CPV. Yes, I am being intentionally vague. Protecting the innocent and all that. The CPV is governed by three, bull headed people. I'll call them Kool and the Gang. I was asked to volunteer at CPV in an area I have experience and significant expertise. So, I think, "Hey, Amy, this is something you are good at. Your CPV needs help in this area. You can help them and get good-people points in the process." I'm a firm believer in good-people points. You may call it karma. Or the Golden Rule. Or your heavenly reward. You get the idea. But then I think, "But, Amy, you hate volunteering. In fact, you really dislike sticking your neck out around people you have a modicum of respect for like Kool and the Gang, for example." The good-people points part of me piped in with, "But maybe this is God's way of saying you NEED to do this. You need to share your giftedness with Kool and the Gang and with CPV. They will appreciate you stepping in when they asked for your help." Humph, OK.
So I toodle off to CPV like it's the first day of school and sit down at the table with other, like-minded good-people-point humans and wait for all those good-people points to flow in. Well, reader, it was a $%&# storm of epic proportions. Month after month (and so far it's been 28 of em), Kool and the Gang shaded facts, misled, and generally treated me like something they found on the bottom of their shoe after visiting a public restroom in a prison. One member of the Gang will have no conversation with me without telling me how much he cannot get along with me. Seriously. It goes like this: "Listen, Amy, I know we don't get along and I think you know I cannot work with you. But I love you, man." I usually meet these pronouncements with silence. What do you say to someone who says I hate you, but I probably need to say that I love you or I won't get any good-people points? They were mean. They were dismissive. They turned their backs or doodled on their phones while I talked. They acted like they didn't see me in the halls of CPV. They were rude. But were they right? Was I doing the wrong thing telling them what they didn't want to hear? Was my straining for information too strident? Should I hold my tongue, bobble my head in a "yes" motion when they speak, and go along to get along? I think I should have.
See, my giftedness is seeing through the bull crap and getting to a nice, neat answer. But to do that, I need all the unvarnished facts in all their goopy, stinky glory. I don't judge the facts -- I only gotta know them to get to the solution. Unfortunately, my mining for facts made Kool and the Gang think I was attacking them and waiting for them to fail. I unfortunately could never get them to understand that I was like Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men": You want me on that wall; you need me on that wall. I want to protect. I want to immunize. I want to wrap up Kool and the Gang and CPV in bubble wrap and make sure nothing bad happens to them. Ever. They didn't know that the bubble wrap comes with a price. You gotta show me the warts. I wish I could have somehow conveyed to them that I know showing me the warts hurts but that my deep love for them means I can see the warts and love them even more. Bubble wrap is my giftedness. But obviously, telling them about the bubble wrap is not.
It all came to a head today when I was told that my current volunteering role will most likely be my last at CPV. It wasn't said directly. And it was said to a group of, I assume, similarly non-cool volunteers at CPV. And it's OK. Did it hurt? You bet. Did I rage against the machine? To be sure. But they are right. I am not cut out for this. I should have listened to the Grumpy dwarf inside and not volunteered to begin with. Even though Kool and the Gang CONSTANTLY talk about how to solve the case of the vanishing volunteer.
So, Kool and the Gang have prevailed. They were right in so many ways. I am not a good volunteer. I do not play well with others. I cannot go along to get along. I have no idea what I am gifted to do at CPV but it obviously is not what I have been doing. Maybe I need a new CPV. Maybe I need to be a pure consumer at CPV and let others do the heavy lifting. This doesn't feel right to me. But volunteering didn't feel right to me, and that was the correct solution. Don't do it. I won't ever get those years back of letting them make me feel less than. Less smart. Less good. Less valuable. Less valued. But I can step away when they ask me to in their kind, passive-aggressive, oh-so-quiet way. I can step back, let go, and not worry that they have no bubble wrap. In fact, I see lots of bumps coming that my bubble wrap would have prevented. But I can't impose on Kool and the Gang any longer. I'm sure God will send another good-people-points person to them who is more gifted than I to tell them what they need to hear. Good luck to you.
Now, really, I am not looking for atta girls. I don't need to be lifted up. I think me listening to Kool and the Gang and getting out of their milieu will help tremendously. I have 8 more months to serve at CPV and I will try my hardest to keep it eyes down and head nodding. It's hard for me, though. I'm not good at much except for passing out bubble wrap. I need to understand that Kool and the Gang and perhaps CPV don't care for my bubble wrap or me. And that's OK. What bothers me is that the number of people who think I'm one of the cool kids is getting smaller by the second. And I'm afraid it was never as many as I thought. And now I have no idea how to get good-people points. Hopefully, this post will help at least one person to feel not so alone when someone yucks their yum. And that can be my good-people point.
Do you ever volunteer to do something because it's the right thing to do? Do you spend a lot of time on this extracurricular, not-for-remuneration, volunteer activity? Are you then told your input is not welcome even though they begged you to volunteer and even though you are doing this in your free time? Well, it has happened to me.
I am now officially not in the cool kids club at my chosen place of volunteering. Let's call it the CPV. Yes, I am being intentionally vague. Protecting the innocent and all that. The CPV is governed by three, bull headed people. I'll call them Kool and the Gang. I was asked to volunteer at CPV in an area I have experience and significant expertise. So, I think, "Hey, Amy, this is something you are good at. Your CPV needs help in this area. You can help them and get good-people points in the process." I'm a firm believer in good-people points. You may call it karma. Or the Golden Rule. Or your heavenly reward. You get the idea. But then I think, "But, Amy, you hate volunteering. In fact, you really dislike sticking your neck out around people you have a modicum of respect for like Kool and the Gang, for example." The good-people points part of me piped in with, "But maybe this is God's way of saying you NEED to do this. You need to share your giftedness with Kool and the Gang and with CPV. They will appreciate you stepping in when they asked for your help." Humph, OK.
So I toodle off to CPV like it's the first day of school and sit down at the table with other, like-minded good-people-point humans and wait for all those good-people points to flow in. Well, reader, it was a $%&# storm of epic proportions. Month after month (and so far it's been 28 of em), Kool and the Gang shaded facts, misled, and generally treated me like something they found on the bottom of their shoe after visiting a public restroom in a prison. One member of the Gang will have no conversation with me without telling me how much he cannot get along with me. Seriously. It goes like this: "Listen, Amy, I know we don't get along and I think you know I cannot work with you. But I love you, man." I usually meet these pronouncements with silence. What do you say to someone who says I hate you, but I probably need to say that I love you or I won't get any good-people points? They were mean. They were dismissive. They turned their backs or doodled on their phones while I talked. They acted like they didn't see me in the halls of CPV. They were rude. But were they right? Was I doing the wrong thing telling them what they didn't want to hear? Was my straining for information too strident? Should I hold my tongue, bobble my head in a "yes" motion when they speak, and go along to get along? I think I should have.
See, my giftedness is seeing through the bull crap and getting to a nice, neat answer. But to do that, I need all the unvarnished facts in all their goopy, stinky glory. I don't judge the facts -- I only gotta know them to get to the solution. Unfortunately, my mining for facts made Kool and the Gang think I was attacking them and waiting for them to fail. I unfortunately could never get them to understand that I was like Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men": You want me on that wall; you need me on that wall. I want to protect. I want to immunize. I want to wrap up Kool and the Gang and CPV in bubble wrap and make sure nothing bad happens to them. Ever. They didn't know that the bubble wrap comes with a price. You gotta show me the warts. I wish I could have somehow conveyed to them that I know showing me the warts hurts but that my deep love for them means I can see the warts and love them even more. Bubble wrap is my giftedness. But obviously, telling them about the bubble wrap is not.
It all came to a head today when I was told that my current volunteering role will most likely be my last at CPV. It wasn't said directly. And it was said to a group of, I assume, similarly non-cool volunteers at CPV. And it's OK. Did it hurt? You bet. Did I rage against the machine? To be sure. But they are right. I am not cut out for this. I should have listened to the Grumpy dwarf inside and not volunteered to begin with. Even though Kool and the Gang CONSTANTLY talk about how to solve the case of the vanishing volunteer.
So, Kool and the Gang have prevailed. They were right in so many ways. I am not a good volunteer. I do not play well with others. I cannot go along to get along. I have no idea what I am gifted to do at CPV but it obviously is not what I have been doing. Maybe I need a new CPV. Maybe I need to be a pure consumer at CPV and let others do the heavy lifting. This doesn't feel right to me. But volunteering didn't feel right to me, and that was the correct solution. Don't do it. I won't ever get those years back of letting them make me feel less than. Less smart. Less good. Less valuable. Less valued. But I can step away when they ask me to in their kind, passive-aggressive, oh-so-quiet way. I can step back, let go, and not worry that they have no bubble wrap. In fact, I see lots of bumps coming that my bubble wrap would have prevented. But I can't impose on Kool and the Gang any longer. I'm sure God will send another good-people-points person to them who is more gifted than I to tell them what they need to hear. Good luck to you.
Now, really, I am not looking for atta girls. I don't need to be lifted up. I think me listening to Kool and the Gang and getting out of their milieu will help tremendously. I have 8 more months to serve at CPV and I will try my hardest to keep it eyes down and head nodding. It's hard for me, though. I'm not good at much except for passing out bubble wrap. I need to understand that Kool and the Gang and perhaps CPV don't care for my bubble wrap or me. And that's OK. What bothers me is that the number of people who think I'm one of the cool kids is getting smaller by the second. And I'm afraid it was never as many as I thought. And now I have no idea how to get good-people points. Hopefully, this post will help at least one person to feel not so alone when someone yucks their yum. And that can be my good-people point.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Long time, no nothing
It's been a long time since I last made any kind of entry here and my FB presence has been spotty at best. I still love you blog and FB peeps, it's just been a [insert adjective for crappy here] year. That's right, no breathless updates about my overachieving, award winning children or my perfection-on-a-cracker hubs. Each month has unfolded with its own exquisite torture that makes me feel hopeless and petty all at the same time.
It all started with a Bible study. Doesn't it always? I'm not even going to tell you the name of this study because, frankly, I'm still not sure if this is something I would wish on anyone I know or ever may know in the future. Suffice it to say that this study really pounds away on the reader and points out the sinfulness of acquisition, greed, gorging on stuff. Well, I looked around and thought, "Yuck." My closets, my garage, my unused game room, my unused small kitchen upstairs, my entry that was oodles of square feet of height and nothingness. Frankly, it made me sick. The hubs and I had been talking about downsizing for a while. Our 5,000+ square foot house was becoming an albatross. Financially, time wise, and it was becoming a sort of idol for me. Let me be clear --- I adored that house. If I could have taken it with me everywhere I went, I would have. It was my sun and my moon. It was my happy place. I could walk through the doors of my McMansion and just feel the happiness with a Grinch-y smile spreading to every part of my body and soul. Dangerous territory, my friend. So, I finished this Bible study and marched home and announced to the hubs that I was ready to lay down my idol, downsize, and begin living my life and stop living for my house. The hubs had been gently pushing for this for a while because he could see the day when my beloved house, which was too big for the four of us, would be just the two of us rattling around. And I think he knew how I was inappropriately attached to a thing. He could see the writing on the wall. He's smarter than me. He doesn't need a Bible study to feel what God is telling him. Me, I need a banner . . . with a loud speaker . . . and a parade . . . with a personally addressed invitation to said parade. You get it -- I'm fairly deaf.
Anywho, the hubs and I got the house ready and put it on the market Memorial Day weekend of 2014. The Friday of that weekend, the hubs and I went with our realtor and looked at some houses just to see what was on the market. Once again, the hubs was smart. He knew it would be harder for me to let go without some idea of what was waiting for me. The entire day I kept saying to the hubs, "What if it doesn't sell? What if I went through all of this and God makes me wait and I have to sit in what I love day after day, knowing that I have to leave?" The hubs just patted my back and said, "You wouldn't be you if you didn't throw a little worry at every issue." Humph. I found the cutest house that day. It was 3,400 square feet, still a significant down size, but it had a view of the lake and en suite bathrooms for the girls. If you have teenage girls, you know what a huge feature this is. But even that made me sad because I knew it wouldn't be there by the time we finally sold my dear house. You can probably guess that my dear McMansion sold in 36 hours on the market to the first buyer that looked at it. For our full asking price. It was scary but dang if that wasn't God saying, "You're doing the right thing. And I'm making it easy for you."
So was put an offer in on the house on the lake. There was some back and forth gamesmanship, which I hated, that resulted in a pretty big price reduction, which I loved. The hubs and I were able to basically pay cash for the new house. What a feeling to go from our McMansion mortgage to a teeny little mortgage that is about the same as a car payment. We were feeling on top of the world and on the right path. I had hired a decorator who put us in contact with a contractor. I'll call him Mr. No Hello. See the lake house, while well laid out, needed a little TLC and after the price reduction, we were ready to make her nice and pretty. Mr. No Hello as you can guess by his name was less than friendly. He was fine with the hubs but I could walk in and say "hello" directly to his face and get nothing. Not even one of those chin-up head bobs that dudes do to each other. But I didn't care. The hubs had shared our story with Mr. No Hello and had told him that we believed he was part of God's plan for us. He responded that he had started his business in faith and really listened to where God was leading. What suckers we were.
At this point, we were living in one Holiday Inn after another. We had moved out of the McMansion in late June and were waiting for Mr. No Hello to get our lake house habitable. It drug on and on. In early August, I was getting restless and wondered why the floors were not even started yet. It was still a concrete slab after they had removed the tile and carpet the first week we got the keys in mid-June. Mr. No Hello was pretty grumpy about the floors we wanted to have laid (a vinyl plank that looks like wood) and kept pushing us to put in tile. We told him it was no problem, we'd just have the place where we discovered the flooring product install the floors. He said that we either used his guy or he would walk off the job. Yikes! We were stranded in a Holiday Inn and we didn't have any options. He had us right where he wanted us. So we caved. We bought the product from the place he insisted on so he could (I presume) get a little kick back and we used his guy. Long story short: it's awful and we have hired a lawyer to get him to either come fix it or give us our money back. That's right, he won't even come and fix it. Granted, any "fix" would be a complete removal of everything they laid and laying something else down. Mr. No Hello won't budge. His response is always "tough $%^#@!"
So now I'm in a house with warped floors that have missing planks and we have only unpacked the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. That's right. We're still in 75% moving boxes after a year. It's awful. It's messy. It's gross. And it's embarrassing. Even my lawyer asked me if I ever thought Mr. No Hello was a bad contractor. Of course I did! But when you're living in a Holiday Inn and you've been wearing the same five outfits to work for six weeks, you start to not care that Mr. No Hello is a douche bag of epic proportions. You just want to get in your house.
All this has made me question why God made be feel so convicted about moving. Why was it so easy to sell my McMansion and find a horrible money pit? Why was it so easy to find a decorator who just happened to have a contractor who had a miraculous gap in his schedule for July? Why take me to a house where I can't see my kids because there's no family space for us to be in? Why does it now feel like I did the exact wrong thing? Did I totally read this wrong? Did I once again zig when God was telling me to zag? Why in the heck does God keep whispering when I need a good shout with a shove? Doesn't he know I one of his . . . well, let's just call it "less smart" creations?
One year later, I have no answers. I am more sad, more hopeless, more directionless, and more pissed than I have ever been before. The last years I will have my daughters living with me have been marred by this. I hate that. And I hate Mr. No Hello for doing that to us. He took away Thanksgiving and Christmas in my new home. He took away all our family time. How can he walk away fully paid and I am stuck in this hell hole? I finally understand when the Bible says "gnashing their teeth." That's exactly what I do when I think of Mr. No Hello and every time I enter my house.
So, my peeps, that's why I have been MIA in sharing anything about me, the hubs, Moo, and Gibby. We are wounded. And I am dealing with committees and other groups that seem to want me anywhere but around them. For example, I counseled one of my committees about the legal aspect of a decision and one member came back at me later with: "You know, I googled that and here's what it said." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don't know a lot about many things, but I can assure you that 23 years of being a lawyer has taught me a few things that maybe, just maybe, means a little more than Google. I mean, does Google give two craps what happens to you, Mr. I Googled That? Nope. But for some dumb reason, I still do. Granted, I am a tad on edge these days, but it would be nice if just once I felt my presence was not just required, but welcomed. Is that too much? Being welcomed at least one place on earth. Because it ain't my house any more that's welcoming. But my sweet family welcomes me, and that is usually enough.
In closing, don't give up on me. I'll be back. Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 10 months. Hopefully, I will finally rank my top most quotable movies.
It all started with a Bible study. Doesn't it always? I'm not even going to tell you the name of this study because, frankly, I'm still not sure if this is something I would wish on anyone I know or ever may know in the future. Suffice it to say that this study really pounds away on the reader and points out the sinfulness of acquisition, greed, gorging on stuff. Well, I looked around and thought, "Yuck." My closets, my garage, my unused game room, my unused small kitchen upstairs, my entry that was oodles of square feet of height and nothingness. Frankly, it made me sick. The hubs and I had been talking about downsizing for a while. Our 5,000+ square foot house was becoming an albatross. Financially, time wise, and it was becoming a sort of idol for me. Let me be clear --- I adored that house. If I could have taken it with me everywhere I went, I would have. It was my sun and my moon. It was my happy place. I could walk through the doors of my McMansion and just feel the happiness with a Grinch-y smile spreading to every part of my body and soul. Dangerous territory, my friend. So, I finished this Bible study and marched home and announced to the hubs that I was ready to lay down my idol, downsize, and begin living my life and stop living for my house. The hubs had been gently pushing for this for a while because he could see the day when my beloved house, which was too big for the four of us, would be just the two of us rattling around. And I think he knew how I was inappropriately attached to a thing. He could see the writing on the wall. He's smarter than me. He doesn't need a Bible study to feel what God is telling him. Me, I need a banner . . . with a loud speaker . . . and a parade . . . with a personally addressed invitation to said parade. You get it -- I'm fairly deaf.
Anywho, the hubs and I got the house ready and put it on the market Memorial Day weekend of 2014. The Friday of that weekend, the hubs and I went with our realtor and looked at some houses just to see what was on the market. Once again, the hubs was smart. He knew it would be harder for me to let go without some idea of what was waiting for me. The entire day I kept saying to the hubs, "What if it doesn't sell? What if I went through all of this and God makes me wait and I have to sit in what I love day after day, knowing that I have to leave?" The hubs just patted my back and said, "You wouldn't be you if you didn't throw a little worry at every issue." Humph. I found the cutest house that day. It was 3,400 square feet, still a significant down size, but it had a view of the lake and en suite bathrooms for the girls. If you have teenage girls, you know what a huge feature this is. But even that made me sad because I knew it wouldn't be there by the time we finally sold my dear house. You can probably guess that my dear McMansion sold in 36 hours on the market to the first buyer that looked at it. For our full asking price. It was scary but dang if that wasn't God saying, "You're doing the right thing. And I'm making it easy for you."
So was put an offer in on the house on the lake. There was some back and forth gamesmanship, which I hated, that resulted in a pretty big price reduction, which I loved. The hubs and I were able to basically pay cash for the new house. What a feeling to go from our McMansion mortgage to a teeny little mortgage that is about the same as a car payment. We were feeling on top of the world and on the right path. I had hired a decorator who put us in contact with a contractor. I'll call him Mr. No Hello. See the lake house, while well laid out, needed a little TLC and after the price reduction, we were ready to make her nice and pretty. Mr. No Hello as you can guess by his name was less than friendly. He was fine with the hubs but I could walk in and say "hello" directly to his face and get nothing. Not even one of those chin-up head bobs that dudes do to each other. But I didn't care. The hubs had shared our story with Mr. No Hello and had told him that we believed he was part of God's plan for us. He responded that he had started his business in faith and really listened to where God was leading. What suckers we were.
At this point, we were living in one Holiday Inn after another. We had moved out of the McMansion in late June and were waiting for Mr. No Hello to get our lake house habitable. It drug on and on. In early August, I was getting restless and wondered why the floors were not even started yet. It was still a concrete slab after they had removed the tile and carpet the first week we got the keys in mid-June. Mr. No Hello was pretty grumpy about the floors we wanted to have laid (a vinyl plank that looks like wood) and kept pushing us to put in tile. We told him it was no problem, we'd just have the place where we discovered the flooring product install the floors. He said that we either used his guy or he would walk off the job. Yikes! We were stranded in a Holiday Inn and we didn't have any options. He had us right where he wanted us. So we caved. We bought the product from the place he insisted on so he could (I presume) get a little kick back and we used his guy. Long story short: it's awful and we have hired a lawyer to get him to either come fix it or give us our money back. That's right, he won't even come and fix it. Granted, any "fix" would be a complete removal of everything they laid and laying something else down. Mr. No Hello won't budge. His response is always "tough $%^#@!"
So now I'm in a house with warped floors that have missing planks and we have only unpacked the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. That's right. We're still in 75% moving boxes after a year. It's awful. It's messy. It's gross. And it's embarrassing. Even my lawyer asked me if I ever thought Mr. No Hello was a bad contractor. Of course I did! But when you're living in a Holiday Inn and you've been wearing the same five outfits to work for six weeks, you start to not care that Mr. No Hello is a douche bag of epic proportions. You just want to get in your house.
All this has made me question why God made be feel so convicted about moving. Why was it so easy to sell my McMansion and find a horrible money pit? Why was it so easy to find a decorator who just happened to have a contractor who had a miraculous gap in his schedule for July? Why take me to a house where I can't see my kids because there's no family space for us to be in? Why does it now feel like I did the exact wrong thing? Did I totally read this wrong? Did I once again zig when God was telling me to zag? Why in the heck does God keep whispering when I need a good shout with a shove? Doesn't he know I one of his . . . well, let's just call it "less smart" creations?
One year later, I have no answers. I am more sad, more hopeless, more directionless, and more pissed than I have ever been before. The last years I will have my daughters living with me have been marred by this. I hate that. And I hate Mr. No Hello for doing that to us. He took away Thanksgiving and Christmas in my new home. He took away all our family time. How can he walk away fully paid and I am stuck in this hell hole? I finally understand when the Bible says "gnashing their teeth." That's exactly what I do when I think of Mr. No Hello and every time I enter my house.
So, my peeps, that's why I have been MIA in sharing anything about me, the hubs, Moo, and Gibby. We are wounded. And I am dealing with committees and other groups that seem to want me anywhere but around them. For example, I counseled one of my committees about the legal aspect of a decision and one member came back at me later with: "You know, I googled that and here's what it said." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don't know a lot about many things, but I can assure you that 23 years of being a lawyer has taught me a few things that maybe, just maybe, means a little more than Google. I mean, does Google give two craps what happens to you, Mr. I Googled That? Nope. But for some dumb reason, I still do. Granted, I am a tad on edge these days, but it would be nice if just once I felt my presence was not just required, but welcomed. Is that too much? Being welcomed at least one place on earth. Because it ain't my house any more that's welcoming. But my sweet family welcomes me, and that is usually enough.
In closing, don't give up on me. I'll be back. Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 10 months. Hopefully, I will finally rank my top most quotable movies.
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