Happy Birthday, Mitzi!

Mitzi turned two yesterday.  Mitzi is my Mitsubishi Outlander.  Although she's only two, she already has 42,000 miles.  Once I bought Mitzi, life shifted into the fast lane.  I wrote a little story about test driving Mitzi and Peter Frampton playing on the radio.  A man named Robbie made a comment about my story in a grief forum.  A couple of weeks later he messaged me.  Now that I know Robbie, I am surprised he ever sent that message!  The story that I shared  with the world ended where Robbie and I got engaged.  The truth is that the engagement started a whirlwind of activity that has only just started to slow down a bit!

Planning a wedding wasn't easy, even as small of an event as we had.  There were only thirty family and close friends invited and the wedding was held at a beautiful nine-bedroom house in Destin, Florida.  It could not have happened without the help of said family and friends and for that we are forever grateful.  The only regret was that both of our fathers were unable to be there.  We loved our ceremony and the fact that both families were able to remember and honor those that we lost while still celebrating with us in our new found happiness. 

We decided, not long after, that moving to the Mississippi Coast would be our goal.  We were still sending wedding thank-yous  as I began filling out job applications.  Once interviews were scheduled, preliminary plans for selling the Texas house began.  Once I got a job, searching for a place to live (with six pets!!!) was difficult.  It began as wanting to rent a house for a year to figure out what we wanted, but soon changed to going ahead and buying a house.  Buying takes a little time, so we had to also find a furnished apartment to rent so that I could start the new job.  I kept a calendar over the summer, using code letters for which house we actually slept in that evening.  There was only one occasion where we spent more than seven nights in one place.  A triangle was carved on the highways from Houston to Jackson to Biloxi.  And Mitzi was the champ that traveled those miles.  She was relieved upon occasion by a Penske truck or two, but she also took her turn pulling "Dino", the 12-foot Uhaul trailer.  Mitzi has taken us on uncertain rides, heard us complain and cry and voice our fears; but Mitzi has also heard our laughter, our hopes, our wonder at the beautiful sunsets and rainbows.  And yes, Mitzi has seen our hugs and kisses along the way.  Just this past Christmas, she traveled, full of presents and wearing reindeer antlers, to bring family - and three dogs - together for the holiday.   

Mitzi turned two yesterday.  She has two dents, but don't we all?  I took her for a full wash and cleaning at Classy Chassis.  She deserved it.

Buying a Car, Church, and Peter Frampton 1/22/14

 I wrote about doing things alone back in August, when I bought my youngest, Maddy, her car.  I told about having to make big decisions alone and how difficult that is, but also how I think I have made the right decisions and been wise and smart and all that I expect myself to be, based on what Scott and I used to be together.  I bought Mallory a car in November, and did more research, was very prepared, and had Meiling go with me.  Safety in numbers, and she's a great negotiator.  Plus, she can always make me laugh when the stress starts attacking.  Now, it was my turn for a car.  I traded 'my' GMC in on Mallory's car.  I've been driving that little, eleven-year-old BMW for a few months now.  I also had a Jetta in the garage, since Mallory brought it home from Lubbock and took her new one back.  Unfortunately, the Jetta wouldn't start. I changed the battery, it still wouldn't start.  I had my mechanic (great guy, ask me if you need one..) come to the house to check it - he thought it was the fuel pump, and it had to be towed.  I was trying to wait for it to be fixed so I could purchase my new one and trade both in.....but the Jetta had other ideas.  Its computer is broken, so it had to be towed from my mechanic's to the VW dealership, where I will spend a load of money on the computer, only to turn around and sell it later.  That is why none of the new cars are VWs.

I decided I wanted a Mitsubishi Outlander for several reasons:  good safety rating, great mileage, seven seats and price.  I took last Tuesday off of work to do several things (besides the fact that Scott and I had our first date ever on January 14th...and I didn't want to be at work!) including actually test-driving the car my mind had chosen.  Meiling went with me and we headed to the closest dealership, Hub Mitsubishi.  We walked around a couple of minutes, just looking at the one in the showroom (the super-duper model that I couldn't afford), and finally, a salesman came over to speak to us.  His name was George, and he had a quite heavy accent of some type.  He was friendly, though, and showed me exactly what I asked for, a 2011 Outlander.  In taking a look before driving, I discovered that the third row seat (in Meiling's words) was like a bad lawn chair.  I drove the car, and only thought it was okay.  Then he pulled the typical trick - "What about a new one?"  The new model had an upgraded third seat, and some other nice options, and was only a bit more, he said.  I drove a new one and was suitably impressed.  (I had looked at the new ones online, so it wasn't as if I was being coerced, it was an underlying idea of mine anyway.)  We went back in and told him what kinds of cars I had to trade.  They came back with some lower-than-made-me-happy numbers, but they hadn't seen them, either. (This is when I thought the Jetta would be fixed in a day.) So I waited to see what the price on the car was, then what deals were available. Around this time, a Peter Frampton song came on the radio.  I told Meilng "It's a sign!" (Peter Frampton being my number one favorite artist of all time...) We laughed about that.  Somewhere along the way, my question "what does the car cost?" got lost in translation.  After about 45 minutes of hard-to-understand conversation, George got the point that I didn't know the original price of the car.  He then wrote a price down, saying that was the deal I could have.  We left, and wiped our foreheads with exhaustion.  It was hard to understand!  He didn't hear what I was asking!  One reason after another that it had been a very tiring afternoon.

Between Tuesday and Saturday, I found out that the Jetta was not cooperating on getting repaired, so I decided: I would get it fixed and not trade it.  I would trade the BMW only and go to a different dealership where hopefully I would get more on my trade-in and understand the salesperson.  As it turns out, four hours of our Saturday were wasted at Gillman Mitsubishi.  I ended up sending a letter to all the executives listed on their website, as well as the national office.  It describes how they treated us on that Saturday. The transcript is below, in italics, if you're really bored or want to see how to shame a company.  That letter is the start of the story - here is the rest of the story.

We ran away from Gillman and went to Cracker Barrel for some comfort food.  Knowing the number that George had given me last Tuesday, I called him.  "George, I like the price you gave me.  If you can give me at least xxxx dollars on my trade, the deal is yours."  Of course, he said he'd have to see the trade, but please, come right in, we're open until 9.  We drove straight there before I could lose my nerve.

Hub Mitsubishi welcomed us with open arms and big smiles.  George was so happy we came back, and for some reason,easier to understand.  He put me in the computer, and told a joke. He got the information on my trade, and told a joke.  I was nervous!  Would they meet my demand?  When he came back with the amount, he acted like a ringmaster flourishing a new act.  No wonder he was proud!  They offered two hundred dollars over my demand!  Who does that?  (Not Gillman, that's for sure!)  In all the time it took to pull the color car I wanted from inventory and fill out paperwork, George told a few more jokes and entertained Riley with some drawing puzzles.  I looked at him and said "You should be a teacher, George, you're so good with little ones!"  He looked back at all of us and said "You want to know my real story?  I am a dentist.  I come to USA from Syria many years ago, I am dentist, my wife is pharmacist. I had to take more training to be dentist here.  I passed all training perfectly.  When time came for my written test, I looked at it and it looked like nothing I could understand.  I could not read it.  My memory disappeared.  I tried several times, I got medical care, MRIs, big medical bills, I could never pass test.  I finally stay at home four years.  Four years I sit on couch and watch TV.  They never find out what is wrong.  My memory sometimes is gone, sometimes is OK.  Finally after four years, I decide I will do something.   I start to sell cars.  Here, I show you, I am top Mitsubishi salesman the last two months.  They shook my hand and gave me one hundred dollars.  Hmph."

Talk about church falling right in our laps.....I was willing to overlook this man earlier in the week just because he had a strong accent.  He turned out to have more schooling than I do, and has overcome unknown challenges that nobody can understand.  His entire nature and demeanor is positive and fun-loving. I felt as if I were picked up by invisible hands and carried back to buy my car from George. His challenges? Met, head on.  His attitude?  Fun.  Just fun.  As the author of the Momastery blog would say:  Church, y'all.

We took a drive in the actual car with George - just to make sure and to fill it with gas for me.  Peter Frampton came on the radio.

Dear Gillman Companies,

I would like to take this opportunity to describe to you my personal situation and my recent experience at one of your dealerships: Gillman Mitsubishi.  As business owners, I would think that you would appreciate some honest feedback from a neutral source. 

I am a fifty-one year old widow.  My husband passed away in May, 2013. He left me and our two daughters well provided for, and for that I am very grateful, but I am also faced with the challenge of being wise with my expenditures and investments.  I am a school teacher in Cypress Fairbanks ISD, and my daughters both attend Texas Tech University in Lubbock, TX.  My late husband was a hydrographic surveyor, but was also quite handy at repairing vehicles.  For that reason, we all drove vehicles that were around ten years old.  Once he died, I knew that I needed to upgrade all of our vehicles to newer models for safety and the peace of mind that comes with a warranty.  I bought my youngest a 2012 Nissan in August 2013, my oldest a 2012 Honda in November 2013, and was finally looking for a vehicle for myself last week. 

I was looking for a seven-seat SUV, and started researching online.  The Mitsubishi Outlander kept popping up in surveys and safety ratings.  I was going to look for a 2012 model, same as my daughters, and within my remaining budget.  I took the day off work on Tuesday, January 14, to go look and test drive that vehicle at Hub Mitsubishi.  I discovered that the third row seat on the older models was similar to a bad lawn chair, but upgraded on the new 2014 models.  I was just on a discovery visit, but figured that I could possibly afford the SE model in a 2014 Outlander.  I was a little frustrated, though, by the heavy accent of the salesperson.  Although very friendly and polite, I didn’t feel obligated to purchase from them, but I did leave with a definite quote, in writing, on the model I was eying.

I decided to visit Gillman Mitsubishi on Saturday, January 18, in hopes of an easier and possibly better experience.  Here is my honest account of my four hours at your dealership.  I brought along my friend and her ten-year-old daughter for support.  We were approached soon after getting out of my car by a salesman named Youssef. He seemed a polite, well-spoken older gentleman.  I told him what I was looking for, and asked the difference (which I did not know at the time) between the SE and ES trim models.  He then took us inside while he tried to find the answer, telling us that he was brand new with Mitsubishis, and please bear with him.  I kept trying to explain that I was hoping to price an SE model with the sunroof, leather seats and premium sound, but did not know if that made it an ES model.  He had to check with a manager named Walter, who introduced himself, and, I believe, helped Youssef locate a car for me to test drive.  It had none of the options I had mentioned, and nobody had explained to me yet whether an SE could come with those options.  The vehicle they brought around for me to drive had a sticker price of around $24,000.  I knew about the $1500 rebate until the end of January, and it had a big red tag hanging from the mirror that said “Red Tag Special” (printed) followed by “After all discounts and rebates” (hand written) then “3600 off”.  Knowing that this would bring it into my budget range, I finally agreed to give up on asking for the sunroof, etc. model and test drive this one.  Youssef told me flat out to stay on the feeder road, make the U-turn and come back on the feeder.  There was no chance to drive it on the highway itself.  When we finished driving, we did walk the lot to see the sunroof model, but by that time I had talked myself out of splurging on that cost, an easier decision to make once I saw the leather was the sporty type with the holes, and no elegant smooth leather was available.  That being decided, we went inside to check my trade-in and price the new car.  Two hours had now passed. 

Youssef started asking me questions for a form he had about where I was going to drive the car, how many miles a year I thought I would drive….ridiculous-type questions that he said were on a company survey, even if I were paying cash. (We thought they were the questions for leasing a vehicle.)  In the meantime, the ten-year-old was starting to get hungry.  She had not had lunch, as it was a weekend and she had a late breakfast.  My friend went to look for the vending machine.  They both came and sat down dejectedly a few minutes later.  The vending machine was empty.

We finally got to the point where I said “Let’s see what you will offer for my trade-in, and I’ll consider a purchase.” Between Youssef taking my answers to fill out yet another form, him going into the manager’s window and standing at the counter, walking back to ask ‘one more question’ about the trade vehicle, another hour passed.  During that hour, someone came in the front of the showroom with bags and bags of Whataburger – your staff’s lunch.  I would not deny any working person their lunch, but surely there must be a back door, or a workroom where such things can be accomplished.  Even the service people were coming up to the glass room at the front of the showroom to get their lunches. With the Whataburger smell egging on the little one’s hunger, my friend ended up walking to the dealership next door and purchasing some snacks from their vending machine. 

When I got the final offer on my trade-in, I was insulted.  However, that is not my complaint in this letter.  I will tell you that I received $1200 more for that vehicle from the dealership where I finally made my purchase.  With that final offer at Gillman, Youssef put the numbers on paper.  The sticker price PLUS 1495 for etching. I said I didn’t want that.  He said Gillman adds that to all of its vehicles before they go on the lot.  He then subtracted the $3600 on the tag.  I asked where the $1500 rebate was.  He said that it was included in the $3600.  I claimed that the tag said the $3600 was taken off after all rebates and incentives.  He went and spent another twenty minutes in the glass manager’s office.  Finally, the rudest man of all, a manager named Cesar, came and sat down with the sticker from the vehicle and the red tag. He confronted me with an arrogant manner, not polite at all.  He showed me on the price sticker the price – and on the next line the $1495 etching fee.  No total was shown.  He said it was fairly represented and asked if Youssef had told me about it. I said no, and that I didn’t want that option.  He simply said that was too bad because it’s impossible, all the vehicles have it.  Then he laid the red tag on the table. A picture of the tag is enclosed for your reference.  The tag clearly stated that the $3600 would come off the price after all rebates and incentives.  Cesar reacted as if I were stupid and could not read the tag.  I must admit at that point I told him he needed to go back to school.  I stood my ground, and asked for them to also take the rebate off the price.  Youssef went and stood in the glass window for another session, after which he came and handed me my insurance card and the key to my trade-in and said “I’m sorry we can’t help you” thus ended my four-hour ordeal at Gillman Mitsubishi. 

In all, I would have to rank my experience at Gillman at the top of the worst business dealings that I have had to endure since being widowed eight months ago. I sat for 3 1/2 hours without being offered water, encountered person after person that either could not answer my questions or made no effort to concede or apologize that perhaps they could have gotten something wrong or that I ‘caught’ them in trying to trick me into spending too much money.  Your upper management may have won all sorts of awards, but if you don’t sell a product with politeness and precision, your reputation will soon sink you.  I believe this holds even truer when a widow is looking to spend cash of that amount out of her husband’s life insurance.  Thank you for listening to my experience.  I hope you can find a way to take my words into account and make things more polite and fair for future customers – which will never include me.

Sincerely,

Diane McCarty

I'm cornbread - Who are you? 12/30/13

Have you ever had a piece of really fine, Southern-cooked cornbread?  Bacon grease, buttermilk, and an iron skillet are all involved in creating the delectable treat.  Its rich, flavorful, crunchy-soft texture makes it perfect as a bread or a "sopper" - a side dish designed to mop up grave or juices so nothing of a delicious meal is wasted.

It's obvious, is it not, that I am a fan of cornbread.  But this story has nothing to do with actually eating cornbread.  There was no cornbread in either of the Christmas meals in which I participated.  Ham was the main dish at both sides of the family's gatherings. The breads of choice were potato rolls and yeast rolls.  No, cornbread just popped into my mind one day.  The sixth day of our holiday trip, I was sitting in the living room with many beloved family members, and the thought just occurred - "I feel like a piece of cornbread.".  I was in the overwhelming emotional state of love, grief, exhaustion, recovery from illness, desire to help, desire to sleep - and I pictured myself as a triangle of cornbread.  I don't mean that I had been stirred and baked at a high heat.  I mean that the consistency and purposes of the piece of cornbread as it sits on the dinner plate seemed to perfectly portray my perception of how I react to all overtures and approaches to me.

First things first - I feel loved. I feel loved by friends.  I feel loved at work.  I especially felt loved when visiting the families this past week.  It's so good to get to see the family.  I love seeing and spending time with everyone.  We're all different, yet all a part of the same group.  I think of it as a meal on a plate - all your different items, and I'm the piece of cornbread.  Nobody would not want the cornbread there - I belong.

I feel covered.  I feel as if everyone wants to spread a layer of protection over me like so much butter!  Thank you, by the way.  I have needed a lot of protection this year.   Sometimes, without that layer of people to step up to others and say "Do you know who this is?" or "Let me tell you what you're dealing with here...", I would have dried up and crumbled away.  Many family, friends, and even social media acquaintances have spread a layer of protection over me by coming to my defense in some matter or sympathizing with their own experience stories that make me laugh and feel as if I'm not alone.

A good cornbread is a little crumbly.  It's a coarse bread, so those pieces sometimes just crumble away. I can identify with the crumbly nature of cornbread.  Innocent things - tv commercials, e-mails, greeting cards, comments, questions, advice - all of those can crumble me in a second.  Just as the fork doesn't mean to hit the cornbread on its way to the vegetables, the world doesn't mean to stab me. My consistency right now makes it easy for little things to just stick in and knock a piece of me away.  If anyone can actually give me a real, factual system for not being too sensitive, I will listen and try it.  How do you change the way you are emotionally made?  The important part, though, is that even though I may get a bit crumbled, so many others are there for me to hold me together.

To know I'm not alone is such an advantage.  There are big chunks of time when I am now physically alone.  (There will be another post someday on the advantages of dogs and cats.)  But I am not alone in any way other than that. Just as all the servings of food on a plate bump into each other, and the juices roll around to be soaked up by the cornbread, I am surrounded, in spirit, with so many of you that drop everything to be there if I call, text,  make a comment, or cry out through a status.  You reach out and I soak it up.  Thank you.  Just as cornbread is made richer by soaking in some juice (I'm thinking good old-fashioned beans and cornbread, a little sausage with it....), I am made richer and stronger by your support.  I am trying to take steps on the road to recovery.  When I stop still and stare, it may be your simple smile or pat on the arm that gives me strength to pick up my foot and take another step.

So, here's to the new year. I can make an honest toast that says "May it be better than 2013."  Even thinking that hurts, though, because 2013 contained my last months of my "old" life.  The life I thought I'd live forever. Thank goodness for the love and ideas and wisdom out there that this little ol' piece of cornbread can soak up. I might sit and stare and act a little bland, but please know I gather in your wishes, hugs and love and convert them to the strength to go on.  Happy New Year.

My (burned out) light bulb moment 12/1/13

I have been shoring up the defenses.  "The holidays are hard...".  Every friend that has recent experience with loss, everyone with one ounce of common sense even, will share that information with me.  Not to be mean, just a way of saying they understand, they commiserate, they're there for me.  So I prepared.  I have stayed busy.  I had company.  I had the kids around.  I cooked.  We shopped.  Busy, busy, busy.  The holiday, Thanksgiving day itself, was great.  We had fun.  It wasn't until today, with everybody gone again, that the reality, and the realization of what "The holidays are hard" really means. 

Dropping nephew Zach at the airport on Saturday was bittersweet.  We love that kid. (Not really a kid, but a kid to me!)  We'll see him at Christmas, so we said goodbye, and headed on to more busy-ness.  The girls crammed in last minute shopping and nails, then spent the last night with their respective friends.  The quiet was relaxing.  I watched a little TV with kitten Isis on my lap, then went to sleep knowing it was the last night of a full house.  Still, I thought I was prepared.  The holiday was past, I made it, no breakdowns.  I had answered everyone that checked on me.  I held my head up, I held grief at bay. 

Unfortunately, all my shields can't stop the slow tide of sadness that creeps around the edges and invades my mind and my heart.  I noticed the feeling before the girls even woke up.  I did the usual, and hid it away.  Even my own mom says "she hides it very well....".  I can't help it, it's natural.  We got the girls fed, packed and ready.  Little Isis got in the car, and they were off down the road.  One or two tears rolled, but I found things to do. 

After I finished a few regular chores, I decided I could at least put up the Christmas tree.  We didn't get to that.  No decorating, just put together the three pieces of the pre-lit tree.  Easy, and a start.  I love this tree.  I've only had it two years, it's ten feet tall, pre-lit and beautiful.  I brought it in, got started, and when I got to the top, the third piece, one whole section of lights was burned out.  I unplugged and re-plugged.  I changed the fuse.  I changed three bulbs and said forget it - I'm going to get a new string of lights and just put it on top of those. 

I threw on a decent shirt, put on my shoes and drove to Walgreen's.  Two strings of clear lights were left, and one of them was mine.  I paid, got in the car and wham - it hit me.  I sobbed so hard on the way home I'm surprised I could drive.  I kept thinking "This is what everybody told me - the holidays are hard!"  It wasn't putting up the tree, it wasn't even the burned-out lights. He would not have fixed the lights - the tree was my domain. The big sadness was having to face and deal with the problem in silence.  I would have been able to complain to him.  Those burned-out lights actually gave me a bright "light bulb moment" of my own.  A huge part of our married life and any family life is that we can complain to each other.  And, being married, or being family, you support that other person.  I miss the person I could "bitch to".  I miss him making fun of me when I complained about silly things.  That's why I think the holidays are hard - there are more very happy and very stressful moments than at other times.  And sharing those moments is a habit.  I had to have a good cry about missing my sounding board.  The expected holiday breakdown had arrived, uninvited and unwelcome.  It passed when my super-friend made me get up and walk, as we do most nights.

After the walk, I put the new lights around the dark area of the tree.  It looks perfect now.  What's dark can be made light again.  The burned-out bulbs are still underneath the new ones, though.  Hopefully they "hide them very well".  Bring on Christmas.  I'm carrying my tissues.

Treasure Box Day 11/16/13

There he sat, at the front of his row.  A little five-year-old boy.  Blond hair, cute as a button.  Because he was at the front, the other kids couldn't see what he was doing.  His eyes shut tightly, his lips mouthing unintelligible words and his hands clasped together with only knuckles showing.......he was praying.  My heart melted at the same time I laughed out loud with delight.  I didn't tell everyone, I simply enjoyed the moment.  You see, it was Friday;  time for me, the teacher, to select the treasure box winners.  Little boy only wanted a toy truck or a plastic bug.  And yes, he was praying HARD for it!

You see, as the 'ruler' of my classroom, I employ some 'tricks of the trade'.  I had told the same little boy on Wednesday that he was having a WONDERFUL week, and that I could tell he was trying to get the treasure on Friday.  The power of suggestion and dollar store goodies goes a long way in my little kingdom.  I must clarify one thing:  little boy is not a troublesome kid.  He is also not perfect.  He is a regular little boy.  He knows that he talks when he shouldn't sometimes, and that he stuck his tongue out at a friend once.  He is.....normal. And once in awhile, normal wins.

I love the hope that was expressed by this happening.  I love the balance in this world.  On the same Wednesday that I praised little boy, I had a horrible morning.  I needed a regular blood test, the kind where you have to not eat after midnight.  No problem in the evening.  BIG problem in the morning.  If I don't get my coffee and Cocoa Krispies, I don't function well.  Yes, every day, without fail, coffee and a bowl of Cocoa Krispies.  Since I was ten. (Well, not the coffee...) So I grouchily skipped breakfast and headed out early Wednesday morning for the lab, knowing there were loads of drive-thrus between the lab and work.  About halfway there - BOOM!!  Someone ran into the back of my car.  No coffee, no cereal, and now, rear-ended.  We pulled over, took a look - not bad at all - he gave me all his info, there was a baby in his car.....he was nice, I was nice, and I left and headed to the lab.  Offering my arm was easy compared to skipping breakfast and getting hit!  As I left the lab and headed for the drive-thru, I got a message on my phone.  A message from a dear, far-away friend.  It just said "Good Morning! You've been on my mind this morning...hope you have a great day! love and hugs!"  I cried.  I knew I needed to head straight to work, no down time to 'shake off' the events of the morning before teaching my large groups of darlings.  And with that message, I was reminded that so many people out there are thinking about me and praying for me.  It's the other thing, besides the precious little children, that give me the hope and the balance. 

When we pray for, think about and encourage each other, we are storing up treasure in a much more important treasure box than the one in my classroom. I have been more aware, since my tragedy, of the sending of a card, or the sharing of some words of comfort.  I'm not perfectly batting .1000, but I'm trying to reach out more.  You see, little boy actually earned his treasure (yes, he got picked!) through the whole week.  His 'prayer' was adorable, but his constancy of behavior won me over.  I appreciate the constancy of encouragement that I get right now.  Whether it's in the form of notes, words, smiles, conversations.....or prayer; I love you and thank you for balancing my days.  And, along with little treasure boy, every now and then I can raise my fist and say "YES!" .  Because I'm going to make it.

Practicing What I Preach or How to Act Like a Grown-Up 11/10/13

"He hit me!"  "I did not!" "Yes, you did, your elbow hit me when you sat down!"  Mrs. McCarty then intervenes:  "If I accidentally stepped on your hand, would I say 'sorry' so, so quickly?"  Elbow child; "Yes...."  "Then say 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that' to her."  Elbow child, mumbling, head down; "I'm sorry."  Mrs. McCarty; "You didn't mean to do that, you're just saying you're sorry that it happened!  That's how we are nice to each other!"  Elbow child; nothing.

This happens at least once a week.  In elementary school, little accidental bumps and jostles can be interpreted by the 'victim' as a crime against themselves and all of humanity.  I always use myself as the example 'bad guy', because they know what my reaction would be. I'm so, so sweet and nice, and I would feel terrible if I stepped on their little hand (which does happen but only a couple times a year, so I have a great safety average!  And no serious injuries ever, thank goodness.)  By telling them to apologize for the fact that the mistake happened, I hope I'm teaching manners, maturity, responsibility, you name it.  The thing is.....can I practice what I preach with adults?

In the process of walking through my grief, I present what I consider a very 'normal' outside.  I work, laugh, joke, complain, suggest....all different from how I feel on the inside.  I hide the sadness by instinct.  It's not because of you that I hide it - it's because of me.  Sometimes I go a little further than I want in the 'normal'.  Evidently, one day, a while ago, I made a comment at lunch (based on a happening conversation, mind you...) that 'maybe there's someone out there for me'.  I didn't mean now.  I might not mean ever.  It was an offhand comment, in context of the conversation.  There was someone there, though, that took my words to heart.

This particular someone is on a totally different path, having been divorced for a long while, and recently seeing someone. A couple of weeks after my comment, this person seriously encouraged me to 'Go online, honey. Match.com, it worked for me.'  I kind of said "Oh really!" and turned the conversation back to my people at my table.  Later, I complained to friends.  That bothered me.  I was approaching only six months without him, how dare this person suggest such a thing right now?  After I complained, and got the sufficient amount of pity from my net  (what's a net?  read this and find out:  http://momastery.com/blog/2013/11/07/idea-title-im-even-sure-read-nets-well-call-nets/

I'm not on drugs, or bulimic, or getting arrested....and I have a net.  I am more fortunate than young Glennon.  I am also thankful that she has found her way in life and for her ability to inspire others.  So...I complained to my net about that 'insensitive remark', got my assurances that I was right, that person was wrong, and was done with it.  I mean, we love to complain to our friends and be assured that our view is the correct one, right?  It's a national sport! 

Well, it happened a second time.  The person had reached a milestone in their new relationship, and was obviously (and rightly) elated.  And once again, they took the chance to look at me and say 'Match.com, I'm tellin' ya, Ms. McCarty'.  OH!!!  I packed up what was left of my chips and yogurt and walked out.  I found some net people.  I told them, incensed.  I got pity and confirmation (Thank you net!)  And then, I realized.....for some reason, that person thinks that's OK, and this is going to keep happening unless I say something.  Boy, did that let the air out of my balloon.  I was going to have to address it, instead of complaining about it!  I knew that as soon as I asked the person to stop, they would totally apologize, maybe even feel badly about having done it, but I DIDN'T WANT to talk to the person.  I had turned into elbow kid!

It took two days.  I knew I had to, and I knew I wanted to do it privately.  I am the grown-up.  When by chance I finally said...."You know, I'm just not ready to hear that, the match.com thing.  Congratulations, so happy for you, but not me, not yet."  The person apologized, said 'of course'.....and brought up the time I said 'maybe there's someone out there for me'.  The person had taken me at my word.  My 'trying to be normal' conversation turned on me, said 'Oh, this is what you want, eh?' and then I had to be a grown-up and say "Sorry, but please don't..." because of my mistake of being fake.  I did it. I was the grown-up.  My net applauded me.  I, on the other hand, did not applaud myself, because I realized that my offhand comment had fed the whole situation. 


Where do I go from here?  If I am the grown-up I think I am, I guess I need to mix a little of my inner sadness in with my outer 'normal'.  The icy covering needs to break and mix with the deep dark cold water of sorrow, and form a slush that can create a completely different attitude from either 'fake' or 'hidden'.  I'm going to work on that.  It's the grown-up thing to do.


A little addendum:

What if I had gone to the person accusingly?  What if I had done it publicly?  Too many people these days don't understand the good manners of taking turns to talk things over, and listening to the other side.  Prime example: any 'political' news show where both parties or pundits that side with both parties are represented.  They all end up yelling and interrupting, guests and hosts alike.  I shudder to think that America bases its actions on what we see on the television.  One of my main problem with politics in any forum is the lack of manners.  How many families have talks about issues?  How many do it the grown-up way?  Do you listen and consider before you yell your defense?  I have news for everyone - you're not always right.  You're also sometimes only partially right.  If you don't listen to what the other side says, you're compounding, not solving the problem.

I've Had Enough. (The one you have to look to find because I tell the truth) 11/5/13

I've had enough of some people.  Stop.  Just stop.  Don't tell me how to find a man.  It will be six months in a couple of days, and my heart still thinks he'll walk through the door.  There are so many things for him to do.  How am I supposed to know how to contact his Norwegian accountant, much less pay Norwegian taxes?  I can see it now - little Norway police arriving at my school, asking for me and arresting me, even though I don't have a dragon tattoo!  How much is 629 in Norwegian, anyway?

Work gets in the way.  Yes, I've said in other posts that it's my salvation, but sometimes, it feels as it I'm back in the music building.  You know, posing as a music major.  I always felt that way, because I didn't have that "Ahhhhh!" attitude about all the classical music stuff.  I would rather be out eating pizza or kissing on my boyfriend than practicing until 1 a.m.  For that I was weird?  These days, there are the 1 a.m. people in elementary school.  Okay, maybe 7 p.m.  But I don't share that desire.  That building gets me - all of me - wholeheartedly - (well, I fake that occasionally) - from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.  After that, I'm not the music teacher anymore.  I'm back to being me.  The widow.  The single mom.  The caretaker of the house/pets/accounts/vehicles/pool/you-name-it-I'm-in-charge-of-it.  When I need to locate four particular papers for the accountant, two more for the lawyer, and do a couple of hours of homework for the financial planner, I really feel as if work needs to go away.  Is there such thing as widow's leave?  There needs to be, and it needs to be the type of  leave that can be spread out for when you need it most. 

I rant here, and I want attention here.  I write because I want people to read this and understand (which you do) and give me an encouraging comment (which you do).  I am an attention hog with a blog.  Please don't hate me.  Let me down gently.  At six months of grief, that will be the only gentle thing that happens.  Life moves on, and I'm expected to move with it.  And I have.  At a limp.  If you know me, you see it.  If you don't know me, I look "so strong".  Hell, what else am I supposed to do, stay under the covers for days on end?  I wish.  I wish my personality allowed me to be a bit more of a delicate flower.  Unfortunately, I am not. I would control everything if I could.  Only if I physically can't or get absolutely shut down do I not exercise control over a situation.  Man, oh man, did death laugh at me.  I shouted at it, cried to it, and have sulked behind it for all these months.  I don't like you, death. 

I don't like a lot of things right now, and one of those things is people that "do it wrong".  Thank goodness, there are only a few of those around me, probably because I keep my shield up almost all the time.  There I go again, being positive behind a negative, because I can't group punish!  Not everybody is bad!  I just want to say, bad ones: just shut up.  I'm done with you.  I will leave the room or I will say "Not talking about that right now, thanks".  Or just: (my favorite from England) "Can't".  It must be said with a British accent, though.  And if I do that, some American might not even know what I'm saying, or might think it's naughty.

If you found this post, know that I'm done. This is hard.  I've had to learn a new way of defending myself.  Until the insensitive idiots out there can stop, maybe learn, maybe change their demeanor; or at least until they shut up......my armor is on, but I'm now armed, and I might stick it to you a time or two.  Someone should.

Way To Go, Audience Guy. 10/29/13

I had a wonderful birthday and a great weekend of fun to celebrate.  It is humbling how many people took time to look out for me and make sure that it was a special day.  I said on the social media page that the love and care created a bubble that insulated me from too much sorrow.  It was true, what I said.  Until the weekend, and the one thing I saw. 

We attended the Texas Renaissance Festival, sort of a tradition for the past five years or so, and had several adults and two little ones.  Wearing costumes and makeup has always been an escape of mine.  I can paint and dress how I want to feel and usually, the feeling follows.  If I share a song or two in the meantime, don't be surprised.  I can always conjure up an imaginary audience to applaud my effort.  Kind of spooky, right?  Like I'm a modern-day Norma Desmond!  Anyway, it was fun to dress up and go be amongst others that enjoy the same sort of thing.  With that many adults, a few of us were able to sneak away and see the "not for kids" show.  Entitled "Sound and Fury", they use Shakespeare as a framework for double entendre and some downright naughty comedy.  The show was enjoyable, albeit a little lengthy.  But it was what happened as it started that threw my day of make-believe for a loop. 

The actors started out by explaining that they perform some improv with audience members.  They then searched for a guy and a girl to go on stage.  One of the actors would start some dialogue, stop abruptly in the middle and touch the guy or girl's shoulder to finish the phrase.  I am doing my best to recall the sentiment from this past weekend, if not the precise words:  Actor "I have found that I cannot live without....." (touches guy's shoulder)  Audience guy turns to audience girl and says "You".  Entire audience "awwwwwww".  Actor "And so, this being the situation, I have found that I need to say......."(touches guy's shoulder).  Audience guy turns to audience girl, kneels, opens a ring box and says "I can't live without you, I love you very much, will you marry me?"  Audience is on feet, cheering.

I cheered - for a moment until the brick hit me.  Love is out there, all around. But mine is gone.  I managed to hold back actual sobbing and just leak a few tears, raise my glass and whisper "I wish you more years than we had."  I do not wish to deny anybody of their joy and happiness.  Joy and happiness are the balancing weight to sorrow and despair.  Although I am sad and feel often alone, I wish the very best for those that are at the opposite end of the road.  Well done, audience guy.  I hope the two of you have many years, much love and don't have to say goodbye too soon.

The Next Section of Road 9/29/13

The weather is changing.  October will be here in a couple of days.  The kids at school will get to sing "October, Rocktober"!  The choir will scurry to learn all the holiday songs that they must know for concerts at the beginning of November.  Another group of second graders will do the cutie-pie Turkey Follies show.  The fourth graders will start work on their Holiday show.  I'll be busy.  But I'm scared that busy won't be enough.

I used to be so excited when October first arrived.  It meant my birthday was only twenty-three days away, then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas!!  Zoom, the holiday season started rolling on October first and never stopped.  That's why I'm scared.  The beginning of Autumn through the chill of Christmas and the New Year is one long holiday.  Yes, certain dates are on the calendar for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's day....but all of us, commercial entities and families, take this season to celebrate.  Non-stop. Food. Decorations.  Parties.  Cards. Gifts.  Travel. Family. Costumes.  Even pet costumes, if you are in my family.  I'm scared that every single day between October first and the back-to-school time in January is going to be a very difficult section of the journey. 

The few cooler days that suggest Autumn in the deep South are invigorating.  "The high today is only going to be eighty-eight!!" You hear it all around.  Everyone switches from cool clothes in summer colors to cool clothes in Fall colors.  Any Autumn weekend where people wake up to cooler temps for a few hours of the day finds them running off to the farmer's market or an Oktoberfest in some community.  We grab at any hint of a break from the heat and call it Autumn.  Never mind how much you're going to sweat at that festival or game.  Fall has arrived!  I always felt the excitement just like everyone else.  But I'm starting to understand why holidays are huge mountains to be scaled on the road of grief.

I'm trying to prepare my mind and emotions.  That's what I do, that's how I've been handling things.  I remind myself that certain days/occasions/tasks are going to be more difficult.  I then carry on through those things by allowing the memories and thoughts, giving them a minute and trying to move on.  I carry tissues in case I don't move on too quickly.  I surround myself with people.  I go different places.  I have started to do different things when home alone.   He used to have the television on during every waking hour.  I choose music.  I'm kind of tweaking life to sidestep sadness.  I don't think it's a cop out, because the sadness still gets in there a lot of the time.

I also have a lot of help in handling things. My beloved girls will be home for the holidays, and they are the best medicine for anything, as well as the ones that share my feelings.  Besides being a good friend, Meiling is the one that checks on me daily and watches for any sign that I need time, an ear, a shoulder, or Mexican food.  Thank you my friend for being such a good "keeper" to me and my zoo, that's why my mom won't let you move away.  Other friends, at work and far away, call and message all the time.  That is still important.  I love it.  Family is forever there.  Mom is always there.  Thank you.  And how precious is it that nephew Zach is flying in for Thanksgiving week?  Just the right tweak can make anticipation not completely sad.

In spite of all the help, I still must travel the holiday season part of the road.  I have read suggestions "just skip Christmas", "celebrate at a hotel", "light a candle for memory".....many ways that people in the same situation have chosen to travel their difficult stretch of the road.  But will any of that change my feelings and memories?  How will I not think, on my birthday, of him giving me the beautiful diamond band last year, and saying "Well, you are fifty, after all."?  How will I not think of him not being here most Thanksgivings, but always getting the turkey leg when he was?  How will I not remember how proud he was of the custom-sized nylon straps he made at the office and brought home to hold the Christmas tree box closed?  We had a life together for twenty-eight years.  It's impossible not to think! 

I will allow the memories.  I will try to move on.  If I can't, I will cry for a while, then move on.  I will appreciate all the family and friends that are there for me.  After the holidays are over, I'll probably go on that site and write my own suggestions for 'surviving the first holiday season without a loved one'.  But I will know that every road has different obstacles.  I'm just preparing for mine.  Since October arrives in two days, I have to put on my helmet and hold on to the rails. Walk with me, cheer me on, give me a cup of water.....the trek has begun.

Adam Levine is pretty - but just let me look at the sky occasionally 9/21/13

*to Ramona, Christina, Tricia, Meiling and mostly Cathi - thanks for the fun!!

It was a beautiful Thursday night for an outdoor concert.  The rain had cleared and brought the temperature down!  The crowd was immense.  I think every woman and half the men in Houston came out to breathe the same air as Adam Levine.  Maroon 5 is a good band.  But their front man - he sells more than music. Those magazine covers, shirtless.  The always-stylish hair, tattoos, tight clothes. He plays the part of "rock god" to the hilt.  Oh yeah, and he can sing.

I got invited by a very sweet friend to go along with a few other ladies.  I love concerts, and just by inviting me, she gave me a "thing" to look forward to that could take the place of the other wanderings my mind does these days.  Kelly Clarkson and Maroon 5!  Big talent!  Fun friends!  Laughing!  Oh yeah - I laugh a lot.  Sad people can laugh, too.  Things don't stop being funny just because you're sad about something. Sometimes I lead with laughter.  Other times, I simply smile because no laughter is inside me.  I try to do what looks "normal", even though I'm not normal....yet. 

Kelly Clarkson sings a lot of songs about losing boyfriends. I never realized how songs about losing a boyfriend could have so many lyrics that closely mirrored losing a spouse.  Never mind "What Doesn't Kill You".... I was still getting my dinner (nachos, yum.....we bluffed our way into the VIP line so we didn't have to wait as long), so that one didn't really reach me.  But then there was "Because of You", and  "My Life Would Suck Without You".  (Of course, my mind changed the second title to "My Life Does Suck Without You.") I sat, listened, and just looked up at the sky when the waves of sadness came.  The clouds were beautiful.  The moon was to our left.  Only two or three stars were visible, sometimes even those ducking behind the clouds.  I looked for a bit, then it would pass.  Silly songs, silly lyrics, silly middle-aged lady taking them to heart.

After Kelly, the headliners were on stage.  I had personally forgotten how many hits they've had over the years - songs that passed through my eardrums into my brain during the time that daughters ruled the car radio. (In my humble opinion, there is still good music being written and recorded today.  You just need to look a little harder for it.  The fun part about a blog is that it can be my soapbox if I want, it's my blog!)  So, back to Adam Levine. I got the general impression that about 80% of the women in the audience would have left the place with him - as well as about 10% of the men.  Even all the happily married women would have at least wanted to.....introduce the husband? Have coffee?  Show him pics of the kids?  He's very magnetic, and a huge cross-section of America wants to adopt him, for one reason or another. The other percentage of the audience were huge fans of the music - like the short, chubby dancing man in front of us.  I appreciate and understand the craze about Mr. Levine.....but I felt as if everyone was in a museum with me, going crazy over the impressionists.  While I thought they were pretty, I wanted to wander down the hall and look at the Old Masters. I texted my girls at college: "Good concert. Adam Levine is pretty".  (Adam, if you read this, Maddy says she's single.) 

I am actually writing about this to work through why I feel that I would rather meet Jagger than "Moves Like Jagger".   Is it my age?  I'm sure that's a big part.  But most of all,  I just know that I'm still having to look at the sky way too often. I probably don't want to meet Jagger, either.  I try to hide it still.   On any day, if I seem together and happy and secure - I've probably gotten more bad news.  Anymore when bad news comes my way, I seem to deflect it as if I'm wearing some sort of armor. 

Is the fact that I don't react immediately, sadly, uncontrollably, falling-apart-to-broken due to strength?  No.  I've heard that one a lot - "You are so strong."  Meant as a compliment, I hope, to tell me that you admire the fact that I'm not in a fetal position on the floor, screaming.  But it's not strength that keeps me going. There's nothing strong about sighing while I get ready for work, because the house is so empty.  There's nothing strong about hiding behind my smart board to wipe away tears because my choir just broke into "Keep Your Head Up".   There's nothing strong about going to an awesome concert with friends and laughing a lot about family, work and life.  That's just living.  Others may or may not notice when I look at the sky - I don't do it to be noticed, so it's ok if you don't.  I just know that it's a measure of how often I have to re-gather myself to continue being normal.  So I listen to Kelly Clarkson's amazing voice, appreciate her songs and the honest, funny way she talks to the audience, and I just stop and look at the sky when I have to.  And I watch and listen to Adam Levine and Maroon 5, and look at the sky when I have to.  After a few thoughts, a few breaths, I look back at the stage, or if I really need to cheer up, the short chubby dancing man.  It was a good night, friends.  Thank you.

A Twist of the Knife 9/8/13

I feel numb.  Maria, the girl I lived with in the dorm for four years - lost HER husband last night.  Her text to me started with "I've joined your club."  Ouch. This is not a sought-out membership.  I don't even know yet what happened.  Everyone is curious.  When someone dies, and they're in their fifties, and haven't been sick, everyone wants to know what happened.  I do too, I just have other feelings that are right up there with the curiosity.  I feel the same numbness, the same feeling of the world stopping, the same lost feeling that followed me home from the hospital on that night four months ago.  When death happens, those of us that always have an answer, that always figure out a way to fix things, that always try to make things work better; we are struck dumb.  There is no way to make it better.  There is no magic word, pill, book, way of talking, exercise, food.....nothing can change death.

Maria is a smart woman.  She is the kind of person I like to associate myself with; sensible, knowledgeable about tools, engines, minor repairs, fun, kind, with a strong devotion to family and friends.  She's not a weak person.  I like to think that the above description fits me, also.  (Maybe I'm just flattering myself, too.)  But this is why I hate to see her "join the club".  It doesn't really fit that well on us, 'widowhood'.  We were little girls that dreamed of wedding dresses, teenage girls that saw our parents stick with it, college girls with a plan to find a man.  We envisioned marriage with houses, pets, children....and we both got it. When we met, I was seventeen, she was already eighteen.  We were kids just thrown together by some random roommate fairy.  It worked.  We got along.  When we graduated, she was twenty-two and headed back to Atlanta for a job, I was twenty-one and headed to the altar with Scott. 

Maria wore the lovely shiny lavender bridesmaid's dress in my wedding.  I wore the absolutely beautiful black bridesmaid's dress at her wedding.  (To this day, the prettiest wedding photos I have ever seen.)  She came to visit after Mallory was born, to see our first baby girl.  Not long after, she had baby girls of her own. Even when we lived in England, Maria would come see us when we visited Scott's parents. The kids were growing fast, and all of us worked and were busy with life.  It didn't matter how much time passed, though; Maria is a forever friend. Whenever we did get the chance to talk, we didn't hold back.  And, being a forever friend, she was there this past June when we said goodbye to Scott with a service in Florida.  Maria and Tamre'  - the other best college friend - drove in the night before the service and had dinner with the family.  Then we went back to Tamre's room.  Within minutes, it was just as if we were in the dorm room together.  Only the discussions were about husbands, the loss of mine, nearly-grown children, aging parents, taking care of ourselves and the need for reading glasses.  I appreciate them being there for me so much.  Maria was there at the start of my journey with Scott and she was there to mourn/celebrate the end.

Then, that text.  Almost four months to the day of not being able to wake my husband from his nap due to a heart attack, Maria's husband falls over while mowing the grass, due to a heart attack.  My Scott was fifty-two.  Doug was fifty-three.  Maria and I are both moms left with two girls.  What a club.  I told her that if she wanted me at his services, just say the word.  She said let's get together later, she knows I've traveled too much lately.  I can't wait to plan a weekend outside Atlanta.  Let's call it a club meeting.  I don't want to invite anybody else.  Here's hoping that the rest of you little girls that dreamed happily-ever-after are continuing to live it.  When part of it is gone, the bad part is that it's still ever-after, just not so happily.

There's Me, then there's (me) - a Squirrel-Fur Story 8/31/13

The first week of school is over.  The routine has set in.  The big kids have already learned some stuff (ha ha, gotcha!), and more and more of the babies are opening their mouths and singing with me every day.  Here we go.  That's Me.  I will forever, though, equate this first week with the things I've had to do concerning probate, real estate, life insurance, and being the single parent.  That is (me).  There are barriers there.  I'm not going to share that information with everybody out there.  Yes, it may seem that I tell you a detail or two, but none of it chips the surface of the reality I'm living.

There is squirrel fur on the bedroom floor right now.  Just a couple clumps, but that's enough to make me think that some squirrel left it behind on someone's paw as it ran and HID in my bedroom somewhere. I found a dead squirrel out back on Thursday morning - very possible that one animal or another brought the dead one's brother in the house!  This is the kind of thing I do share.  Amusing anecdotes.  Enjoyable escapades. Hilarious happenings.  (Alliteration kick courtesy of my favorite fifth grader, Riley!)  I shall probably search for above-mentioned squirrel before I finish writing this today.  That's my 'story of the day'.  Unfortunately, there's a LOT more that goes untold. 

Almost every day this week, there was an untold story, deed, issue.  I can share a few of them here, but some I just only tell certain people. Me is an open house, but (me) is a locked closet.  I know, everyone is that way, it just seems magnified to me now that I'm dealing with the aftermath of death.

College girl's laptop broke right before she headed off to school.  Less than a year old, I knew it was still under warranty.  I had to deal with having tech support help me on the phone, then reporting to them that it still didn't work, getting an RMA number, shipping it off, etc.  Not that difficult, but computers were his department.  I think every married couple, especially parents, have certain "departments".  Laundry, paying bills, house décor, children and animal health - those were some of my departments.  Computers, TVs, pool chemicals, cars, yard, insurance - those were some of his.  Having to step in and run the other department is sometimes difficult because it is new territory, but always difficult because I'm only doing this because he's gone.  I'm proud to say the freshly-repaired-under-warranty laptop arrived yesterday.  Success in one new territory.

If only every little task that dealt with the aftermath felt like success.  Who is really worried whether or not I remember to take the right paperwork to school with me so that I can stop by the lawyer's office after a long day and let them make copies of the appropriate papers for probate court?  Who really cares that I answer the personal e-mails that still arrive in his inbox, giving them the sad news and telling them I will tie up all the loose ends and keep in touch?  With each thing I do, however, I share my accomplishment with one of the people that get to know (me).  My family, my best friends, sometimes a special friend at work.....but not everyone.  Even the examples in this writing are not the ones that I consider the "big issues", - the ones that send me to my car or my chair at home sobbing.

So it's not for everyone to know every piece of business.  I'd rather talk to you about how good the kids are this week (general consensus - they're tired!), or what was for dinner last night, or how cold it is in my classroom, and why can't I remember to bring my sweater to school?.....all of that is Me.  What you might not realize is that (me) is sitting there eating lunch, and because of the cold room and the soap from just washing my hands, I was able to slip off the wedding band for the first time in many years.  My finger was a size 6 in 1984.  It's not anymore.  Nevertheless, I worked it off. I didn't tell anyone, just put it on my pinky.  It's not that I'm ready to be without it - I still have the diamonds on.  I'm just scared if I put it back on, it would have to be cut off one of these days.  Or maybe I am trying to give myself reminders that all departments belong to me now, and I can do it!  I'm not ready to look unmarried, I'm just trying to do a good job at being the only one that takes care of everything. Talk about a sad story, a forlorn fable, a depressing drama.  That's why I only let most people see Me, not (me). I can do this with help - special friends that give me pens, dinner, chocolate cake, anonymous cards - these gestures let me know there are others that understand (me), and even have a (me) themselves.

Me can finish out this part of the story for you:  I called my friend to come over and help hunt the squirrel.  My friend took one look at the fur and said "That looks like your hair, are you sure none of the pets got hold of a hairbrush or something?"  I said no, and kept looking. After about five minutes of looking and talking, the answer dawned on me.  "There is no squirrel!"  I exclaimed.  I knew the answer.  I took a phone pic of silly Roxy-cat sitting on top of the wardrobe.  The vacuum was in the corner in the pic.  I moved the vacuum and took another pic, then put it back.  (Lord knows we can't have a vacuum in our picture, it just wouldn't look proper, would it?)  The last time I vacuumed, it was when my girls and I got our hair cut at the house.  Sure enough, that multi-colored clump of hair that I thought was straight from a squirrel's tail was actually a mix of our reddish-brown, brown and caramel highlights hair scraps, freeing themselves from the evil beater brush of the Shark.  I'm not hiding anything about the squirrel-fur story. That made me laugh today.  I will choose to focus on those types of things. Here's hoping the laughter will at least help (me) keep my balance.  Love, Me.

The First Day Blues 8/19/13

First day blues.....I got 'em.  I prepared myself to go back to work, I did.  I wrote another piece to tell people how I feel, but please treat me normally - and they did!  I love them!  I went in with dear friends last week who helped do some of the not-fun work in the classroom!  I'm ahead of my usual game! (So I thought....)  Then, it happened.

I was up until midnight, having caught a flight back to Houston from instilling dear daughters in their college apartment.  I told them goodbye, hugged them, told them I loved them and walked away.  It took until after I got through security for it to hit me - I'm alone.  I can do what I want right now, as long as I make my plane.  And that won't change.  After I get home tonight, I can do what I want, and nobody will even have a clue.  Whether I watch TV, eat a snack, play the piano, read a book, do some sewing, clean house, play computer games, blog.......it's my time and nobody is there to interrupt it.  The very thought that used to sound idyllic is now nothing but sad. 

In truth, the reality was a couple of games of that candy game, then sleep.  Alarm ringing far too early, and going about the morning routine that I've followed for years.  Monday morning kicking me..."keep moving!"  it says.  Realizing as I leave the house that I can turn off the coffee and all the lights, nobody else is there to wake up later.  Getting to work and seeing my good friends, and all the other precious people.  They have chik-fil-a breakfast biscuits!!  Woo-hoo!  All good, healthy intentions go out the window as I get a biscuit to go with my coffee.  I sit in my assigned place, take two bites of breakfast deliciousness (in-between talking) and then the announcement begins.  "Time for our ice-breaker!"  With all the veracity in the world, and no sarcasm (although I know that my faithful readers always imagine my sarcasm, because they know me), it was not a bad ice-breaker. Clever idea.  Comment or contact me somehow if you weren't there and want to know the details.  But was my mind on the game?  NO!  There was a chicken biscuit sitting there getting cold, doesn't anyone see how dire the situation is?  Alas, it was not warm at all by the time the ice-breaker was over.  That was a real shame, as for the next twenty-three minutes, I had to watch an inspirational speaker on video.  Great ideas, of course.  They wouldn't pay for/use these things if they weren't good.  But did they know my biscuit was cold and the cafeteria seat was only three-quarters the size of my personal seating area?

The meetings weren't too bad.  It's as if someone even heard some of my suggestions.  Yes, there was some reading of papers (not even a powerpoint - just a paper under an Elmo document viewer, as if anyone in the room could read it.) , but there were also a lot of portions where just the new and important information was given.  Not great, but not bad. 

The hard part was a simple thing.  Every year we fill out an emergency contact sheet.  You know, who to contact in case of emergency.  I saw everyone around me putting their husband's/wife's name on the first line, and the "I'm so weird!" brick hit me again.  The tears were just behind my eyes the rest of the day. Almost.  Lunch with my team was good and fun.  But being in the classroom just feels different now.  All afternoon to work in the classroom, too!  But the core of me knows I'm alone, even if I'm surrounded by friends.  Oh, I also found out that another car needs a $400 repair and the dogs escaped today.  They were back home by the time I saw the text, I'm thankful for that and for dear friend that hunts down my dogs.

The point is....there's no point.  I am alone.  But not totally.  Pouring these words onto the computer helps.  I actually think the day might've felt different, though, if I would have gotten to finish that biscuit before it got cold.  Maybe tomorrow.

The Voice of Authority 7/30/13

It comes naturally to most teachers; that take-charge voice that can command a crowd.  If you're a very good teacher, it will simply sound authoritative and never sound like yelling.  There is an art to it!  As with any art form, some are more talented than others.  I want to make clear from the start of this post that I do not equate an authoritative voice with actual intelligence, necessarily.  (Except in my case, of course!)  Just because someone can speak as if they know what they are doing and know what is best for you, it "ain't necessarily so".

I speak loudly when necessary.  My sisters and I yelled a lot at growing up.  Not in a bad way, just.....LOUD!  We weren't obnoxiously loud in public (usually), but the house.....that was another story.  With three girls, there was a good bit of yelling that happened in the house.  It wasn't a large house, either.  We just got in a habit of yelling to each other across the house and it stuck.  Mama, the drama teacher, never had to tell us to project! So, I have to ability to speak very strongly. It's truly different from yelling, mind you, but still quite strong. (and a bit loud ;)  Using a strong speaking voice is an effective tool in the classroom, especially since I moved to Texas and teach anywhere from twenty to fifty children at a time! Here's a clarification for the rest of the story, however: speaking with authority does not have to involve a loud volume.  You can speak softly and project a quiet confidence that draws others to listen.  So don't think "loud", think "authority"!

The voice of authority has other uses besides the classroom.  Have you ever tried to return anything at a store?  I knew someone once that had to make up a complete story about why the item didn't work.  How ridiculous!  If you are within the return policy, I told that friend, you simply say "I'd like to return this, please.".  If you sound like you know what you're doing, 95% of the battle is already won.

I feel a little sorry for people that don't have the authority-voice. I have a former boss that has a real fear of microphones.  I also have several friends that think they can't speak in front of a crowd.  One, recently, just HAD to make the crowd laugh with her.  I think she made a joke about picturing all of them in their underwear, or naked....OK, maybe that works.  If the crowd laughs, they are with you - they are listening.  That's the point, right?  I believe everyone should have an authority-voice that they can use when necessary.

The voice of authority can make people behave - if used properly.  Once, at a gathering, one attendee had imbibed (!) a couple of glasses of wine, and was not listening to anyone.  I used my quiet voice of authority and said:  "Put your glass down, now."  Immediate compliance.  I won't lie - we gave several more commands to watch to whom the person would listen....turned out to be only me!  You can use the voice creatively and as entertainment.

Sometimes the voice of authority can save lives.  I heard a story from my children a few nights ago.  They went to a concert at which they had general admission "lawn seats".  The lawn at this venue is quite large, but was sold out for this particular event, therefore quite crowded.  A group of younger students was in front of my children and their friends.  One of the younger girls passed out.  Her friends phoned her mom, but just left her lying there until such time that the mom would arrive. My children, and all their friends, spoke up with the voice of authority and said "You need to get her to the paramedics, she is in danger!"  The younger group did not agree.  But my children and their friends stepped up to the occasion, carried the girl to the paramedics, by which time she obviously needed help and was taken in an ambulance.  My children and their friends did not know this girl, but they prevailed against her extremely immature friends and helped the young lady to medical attention.  In my mind's eye, I can hear my daughter using her authority-voice to tell those kids off.  (This has another moral, too - parents, please tell your children that their safety and well-being will always come before any "punishment".  Safety first, discussions about behavior later, because you love them!)

The most important use of an authoritative voice, however, is to advance you in school or career.  This is one of the main lessons I teach when students perform "programs" and receive a "speaking part".  If I can encourage a second-grader to speak clearly into a microphone, and then have that same child add emotion or comic timing by the time they are in fourth grade, I am giving them a valuable skill that will last a lifetime. I'm lucky enough to have seen many of them succeed as adults.  Only occasionally do they realize that Mrs. McCarty helped start them on their path to success, but that's all right, I still know where it all began!

I encourage you, when you know what you're talking about, speak out! Don't over-use the skill, find the balance.  Make sure you speak for fairness and good. Speak with authority! Only do so, though, if you are sure that you are correct. Be confident! When it comes the time to speak up for what is right against those that would do the wrong thing, be glad that you can use your authority for right to prevail.


"There is no index of character so sure as the voice."    Benjamin Disraeli

Posts I Reconsidered.....

Blog Posts I Reconsidered

1.        An Ode to Diet Ginger Ale

2.       Why I Like the Music on Candy Crush

3.       Reasons why Peter Frampton isn’t right for me ( :()

4.       That Time I Scrubbed Shadows on the Pool Wall

5.       Prancing Unicorns and Slegs

6.       How My Mom Went From Pac-Man to Farmville

7.       In Defense of Reality TV

8.       A List of all the Places I Keep My Reading Glasses

9.       Pandora Charms You Should Buy For Me

10.   A Compilation of My Tripadvisor Reviews

11.   A Full Description of My Cat’s Bladder Issues

12.    My Crusade against Mexican Lavender

13.   If You Can Maintain a Pool, You Should CLEP Chemistry

14.   Blogging Is Another Form Of Begging For Attention

15.   Quit Mapping Your Ride, I Feel Guilty!!

16.   Why Is Sag Harbor a Brand Name For Clothes Worn By Older Ladies?

17.   Revealed:  The Name of the Person That Teased Me So Badly I Never Wore Pointy-Toed Shoes Again

18.   The Real Story Behind Those Vacation Pics

19.   Why Phrases Like “A Pile of Men” and “He’s So Slippery!” Should Land Me a Football Announcer Gig

20.   An Elementary Teacher’s Guide to Fake Curse Words (Oh, Boogers!)

The thing about Keswick...

 

Dedicated to the friends and teachers from my time at Keswick Christian School, and especially to the class of 1980, all 31 of us!

I went to a private school.  That always elicits responses – “I went to Catholic school, too!”  No, I went to a private school.  “Oh, you mean like a rich boarding school or something?”  Time to expound.  No, I went to a private, Christian, non-denominational school.  Silence.  Not a church-based school, no one denomination, I explain.  Just a private, Christian school.  And the thing is…..it was a special place.

This school was not large.  There were thirty-one in my graduating class.  But we acted large.  We stepped out with faith and had soccer, volleyball, basketball, swimming, track, baseball, softball, band, chorus, drama, clubs, student council, banquets, class trips, you name it.  (Conspicuously absent from that list: football.  They have it now, though.) 

At a school that small, you get to know each other.  I mean KNOW each other.  I’m not saying that level of comfort lasted through to adult life – it dissipates after graduation.  Jobs and college cause new circles of friends to finally happen.  Also – having acquaintances finally happens.  Nobody was just an acquaintance at Keswick.  If they weren’t a good friend, they were “in your class”.  “In your class” at Keswick was just another way of saying you spent every day together, listening, learning, praying, laughing, creating, practicing, traveling, eating and trying to be big kids, just like public school.

It goes without saying, then, that Keswick students don’t forget each other.  They move on, marry other type people (most of the time), move away, claim their college or university over their high school (a normal progression), have families, most of their children go to different (even public!) schools; but bring up a Keswick name, and they immediately know who it is and how they used to act.  Bring up a Keswick teacher’s name, and the stories and memories come flooding back.  And most of all: let some sort of difficulty, even tragedy, befall a Keswick person, and support is automatically there from the other Keswick people.

It’s funny – I asked Facebook friends to share a favorite Keswick memory, and most of what was shared involved small details or equipment/activities that set us apart from other schools.  I thought I would get a response about the friendships formed; the kind of friendships where you can just pick up talking again after thirty years.  That was what my “thing” about Keswick is:  the people.  I recently saw three Keswick friends – from my class of thirty-one – at my husband’s memorial service.  They drove almost three hours to be there for me. Many others contacted me in various ways. That, to me, is what has lasted – the friendships.  True, some of my Facebook people mentioned “good friends”.  Evidently, though, there are many other strong memories and lasting effects of having attended Keswick.

Some of the contributions:  Four-square in the morning before school!  (Unsupervised, mind you – unheard of today.)  Never wanting to wear plaid again!  Getting paddled!  Sitting out on the log!  Unique P.E. subjects – swimming, trampoline, and archery!  Unique playground equipment – the witches hat! Teachers with trademark sayings – “semi, semi, semi, space”  “There’s allllllllways the two percent!”  Then there was the very fact that we had to wear a uniform skirt and HAD to wear socks and closed- toe shoes. This led to many interesting fashion choices, albeit on feet only. (Mine?  Yellow penny loafers and gold suede Adidas.)  The campus was so spread out that they used a school bus to take us to the cafeteria on rainy days.  Great memories!  Honestly?  Not all memories were perfect.  There were times when I was treated very unfairly.  (And I'm not talking about never making the cheerleading squad!)  I think every former "Keswickian" can recall a time when the need to follow all the rules left innocent individuals in undeserved trouble.  The way I see it now, it just makes a great story to tell every now and then.  To me, the privileges available, the fun, our senses of humor and the close-knit setting outweighed those "other" moments.

 But last, and probably greatest of the memories that were shared (said by another, but also said by myself so many times over the past thirty years) “John 10:10 burned into my head permanently”.  What?  John 10:10? The Bible verse?  Yes, but only three words of it.  The condensed version.  It looked like this:  Life………..more abundantly. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said John 10:10, in case you forgot, week after week.  This verse-portion was on the front wall of our chapel, where we attended service once a week.  I’m sure that back in the 1970s, I knew exactly how many dots were between ‘Life’ and ‘more’. 

I did say Keswick was a Christian school, right?  We prayed before every class, every ball game, every concert and play.  Many families gave unselfishly to causes or the school itself.  We could find ourselves discussing spiritual truths in Algebra, Science, English, you-name-it.  Our teachers were not only teachers of their subject, but they were charged with caring for our growth into fine young Christian adults.  (I don’t think they got paid enough!!)  One that I know personally has always lived what she preached.  I think almost all the faculty at that school felt and acted the same.  This might all sound a little over the top to today’s people.  But in our case, it worked.  The atmosphere, the unique-ness, the guidance received, and the rules (sorry, everyone) but mostly the care of a group of teachers that were actually our teen-life shepherds, turned us, for the most part, into the people we are today.

It’s very sad that a death in my immediate family made me realize what I’ve known inside all along: Keswick friends are forever friends. Denomination still doesn't matter.   If you are truly hurting or in need, those people will reach out to you.  At Keswick, we were prepared to be servants and to live “New Life” to the fullest.  These habits are ingrained and minister to the world today many years later, through many individuals.  The thing about Keswick is...it really did teach us, in spite of any present heartache, to live

“Life………more abundantly.”

                                                                                                                                John 10:10


*Ok, maybe I'm a little bitter about not being a cheerleader.....:)  I welcome comments and memories from all!