Consumerist addiction

If I'm going to quit the whole consumer hamster wheel, it makes sense to examine the insane ways my money disappears from my wallet.

Let's examine.

Not too bad. Two filled compacts, one of Mary Kay products, one of Arbonne products. Total at this point: 9 eye shadows, 3 blushes.

Skin care. All Mary Kay. Daytime, nighttime, and exfoliant. I'm not horrified or embarassed yet.

Oops. Here's where we see something a little scary. 14 eyeshadows, 4 blushes, 3 eyeliners, 7 lipsticks/glosses, one foundation, one eyebrow wax. Yikes.

One bronzer, one powder, another foundation, a couple of concealers/highlighters, and another ten or so lipsticks. And a homemade lip balm in a tea container. Hey, at least I'm recycling!

Under the bathroom sink. Lots of products. Hair, body, face, etc.




And more products. 90% of them are lotions. Two hair conditioners, and some fantastic ducks!

Here it is. My shame. 14, yes FOURTEEN hair products. 7 of them are curl enhancers. Are they truly different from each other? Not really.

If I added up the cost of these products, even if I only added up what they're worth now (that they're half gone, 25% gone, etc.), I think I could feed my family for a month or more.

Do these products make me look or feel better? Do I use them

Honestly? No, no, and mostly, no. My hair responds best to a weekly shampoo, every-other-day conditioning, and a little massage oil. My skin prefers the soap I make out of chamomile flowers, sage, rosemary, lavender, and unscented Dove soap. I wear makeup MAYBE once a week (but I wore it daily when I worked outside the home).

Which means I obviously have a bit of a problem when it comes to acquisition of products. Part of my year of non-acquisition will be dedicated to not only not purchasing, but also using what I already have. It's clear that I have no business buying any kind of hair or skincare product for myself for quite a long time

I know I'm not alone here. What's your poison? Where do you spend money that doesn't make any kind of sense? What would make you change that pattern?

New adventures await

Merry Christmas!

We're celebrating the holiday with my husband's family, and all has gone very well. No drama, no strife. And everyone seems to like their gifts, which makes things even better.

My mother-in-law found a fantastic book for me, and I'm looking forward to embarking on a creative journey. The book's exercises are intended to last a month or a year, and I'm opting for the year option.

I will use this space to share my progress, and I'd love to have some of you join me. It's certainly a good time for me to embrace such a project. Definitely a good time.

Rocks

I started having nightmares after I lost my job in April. I dreamed about returning to work and having ugly confrontations with various people. I dreamed about being at work but not wearing pants. I dreamed about running into former colleagues and screaming at them. It's safe to say I was a little angry about the situation.

One of my character flaws is that I hold grudges. For a long, long time. The boy in high school who broke my heart? I still think ugly thoughts about him. (Keep in mind that I've been with my husband for 21 years now...married almost 17 years.) The girl who made me miserable in fifth grade? Let's just say that when I heard that she had been checked into a mental institution in college, my first reaction was of delight.

I know it's not nice, and probably not very healthy, but that's part of who I am.

So, the nightmares. I was waking up, sweating, heart pounding, in the middle of almost every night. Sometimes I fell back asleep, but usually not. I spent many anxious pre-dawn hours in the living room, watching "Big Brother After Dark" or reading mysteries or playing spider solitaire.

And then, one Sunday, my friend Laura was the worship associate in church, which meant she led all the liturgy when we had a guest speaker for the sermon. I don't remember exactly what she said in her prayer, but something changed. Immediately, and, so far, permanently.

Like I said, I don't remember her words, but an image came into my mind as she spoke. An image of a stone in the water, being smoothed by the current. I imagined the jagged edges gradually wearing away, leaving a shiny surface. There is a bowl of river rocks in my bathroom, and I thought of those stones, so different from the various rocks I've dug from my garden soil this summer.

And I though of myself as one of those rough rocks, and how I could let the current smooth out my rough edges if I just let it.

A feeling of peace washed over me. Immediately. Deeply. Something had changed. I felt something unfamiliar: forgiveness. I was refreshed, calmed, different.

The nightmares stopped, mostly. I can't say that I've completely forgiven the wrongs I've experienced in my life, but I definitely am not dwelling on them like before. I'm sleeping better. And I look at those two collections of rocks - those rough rocks in the back yard, and the smooth river rocks in my bathroom - and know that that beautiful, shiny, smooth surface came from years of currents wearing away the jagged edges.

September day 1

With the option of participating in National Blog Posting Month any month, I've chosen September. The theme is "Beautiful," which should help me keep a positive attitude. It's a little hard to be cheerful when I just spent the better part of an hour writing an article for Examiner.com, only to click a button and delete the whole thing, thereby forcing myself to rewrite the whole darn thing. Hopefully the unintended rewrite was a good thing.

So, what's beautiful? Last night, it was football practice. My son, who has no prior football experience, is one of the bigger boys on the team, and was assigned to be a defense tackle. Despite that nagging maternal fear, what I saw yesterday evening was truly beautiful. My son was double-teamed, and he kept the other guys back. He didn't cede even a yard. Seeing this slender, gentle, quiet boy being physically tough was stunning to me. His goofy grin as he loped across the street from the park to the house was mirrored by my own. He enthused, "That was the best practice ever!" as we hustled him off to the shower and encouraged him to eat his dinner before bedtime.

Watching him grow into this new person is breathtaking.

Reinvention

My son started fifth grade at a new school this month. He knew a couple of kids at the school, so the transition was easier than it could have been. He is, however, my sensitive child. While I won't call him shy, I do acknowledge that he takes longer than his very outgoing sister to jump into social situations.

Which is why I was stunned when, while watching the elementary boys practicing football in the park across from our house, he told me he'd like to join that football team.

But I shouldn't really be surprised. This is the same boy who decided to take hip-hop dance as his afterschool activity in third grade. So what if he was the only boy in the class? So what if he was the only white kid in the class? He wanted to dance, and he did!

Perhaps the football is a way to fit in. Perhaps he's simply looking for something physical to do.

****************************

I colored my hair a lot this summer. I used temporary pink for streaks. I did highlights. I bleached the whole thing as pale as it would go, then switched to medium brown. (Yes, I know I'm lucky that I still have any hair at this point.) I bought "new to me" clothes at Goodwill, since staying home does not require the same wardrobe choices as did working at the hospital.

I also started choosing books at the library based on nothing but titles that seemed interesting. As a result, I've read everything written by a few novelists (I tend to get obsessive once I find an author I like, especially mystery writers) and learned a lot about herb gardening. I learned that butter and coffee were much more expensive in Memphis during the Civil War than they are now (and that's not even changing the value of dollars throughout the years).

I've settled into a routine of sorts, since the kids started school. I get up early to get them to school, then bring my coffee to the computer and apply for jobs, read my feed reader, then write. With my new job writing at Examiner.com, I try to find out if anything new is going on downtown, or if I need to revise and publish one of my drafts. Once I'm done with that, I do housework, maybe start dinner, depending on what we're having, then read or run errands. We're selling some stuff on eBay, so the post office is a frequent stop, as is the library, and, of course, the grocery store. Then pick up the kids, homework, dinner, and whatever activities are planned for the evening (football, music, etc.)

Maybe one of the things that was missing from my former job was a routine. Every day was an exercise in crisis management - who had called out sick? who was in the weeds? where was the drama? what food would not be at the correct temperature when it was time to serve it? - and I function much better with a routine. Having learned that about myself, I can make better decisions about which jobs to take, or even which promotions to decline.

From under my rock

Absentee blogger here. I feel like a deadbeat dad, except I do take care of my kids and I'm female.

Despite my long absence from the world of blogging, I'll skip the update part, because there isn't much to tell. I went to work, I came home, I hung out with the family, I slept, lather, rinse, repeat. Nothing greatly amazing or exciting or even amusing has happened since I last regaled the internet with meme after meme after meme.

Small things that did happen:

My mom joined Facebook.
So did my kids.
My daughter got a cool haircut.
We changed the dog's name to just Klaus.
I gave one of my employees a nickname.
None of my favorite patients died.
One of them grew hair and I didn't recognize her at first, which was funny.
I got to give a kid a bike and have pictures taken.
Our neighborhood started a community garden.
Rock Band: World Tour is the most fun game I've ever played.
My Wii Fit age is several years younger than my actual age.
I cut the grass with a lawnmower for the first time.
I coordinated the remodeling of my parents' new house.
I lost a few pounds.

And that's what's happened here.

There were a few other things, but they don't really bear discussion, or I'm not ready to discuss them, or whatever. We'll leave it at this: I had a rough patch and it's better now. The first quarter of 2009 kicked my ass. But I'm planning to kick the rest of 2009's ass even harder. Because that's how I roll.

So, I'm back. At least for tonight.

Promoted!

More later, but I just got a big promotion at work! And I wasn't expecting it! At all! Totally took me by surprise, in fact! Holy cow! Exclamation point!

The BlogHer Blues

As the sporadic nature of my posting might suggest, I've been mostly absent in the blogging community lately. Work's been busy, life's been busy, and it seems like I've lost my flair for snark. I don't remember the last time I participated in an open thread at MamaPopTalk, and I've been guilty of opening my feed reader, seeing a three-digit number in the unread posts, and marking all read.

I attended BlogHer last year, when it was held in Chicago, mainly because Chicago is an attainable trip for me. My brother and his wife live there, it's an easy train ride away, and it fit very nicely into my family's summer travel plans.

This year, however, it's in California. I can't drive to California, and I don't have the money to fly.

And now I see that a lot of the people I wanted to meet last year, but who didn't attend for varying reasons, are going to be there. And that ugly little paranoid voice inside my head tells me that they're coming this year because I'm not. (To which my mother would sensibly reply, "Um, sweetie, you're not that powerful." Which I'm not. But it does bum me out just a little that this year's conference looks to be better-attended than last year's. And that I'm going to miss it.

Anyway.

So I'm two for two in my NaBloPoMo efforts in food blogging. You can read my whiny rant about my daughter's public diss on my baking skills over here.

Eleven years, three days

So here's the thing.

My baby isn't a baby.

Eleven years ago, Craig and I brought a baby home from the hospital. I would be lying if I said she was a tiny baby - she wasn't, at a round eight pounds, five ounces, nineteen inches long - but she was the smallest one I'd ever held. And also the first one that I'd made. It was kind of a big deal, at least to us.

Eleven years and three days have passed quickly. We've watched her learn to crawl, then walk, then run. We've tracked her vocabulary until her words were to numerous to count. We witnessed as she learned her ABCs and numbers and colors. We helped her learn to write her name and admired her scribbled pictures.

And we've helped her with book reports and science projects. We've attended piano recitals and choir concerts. We've experimented with hair colors and hosted sleepovers and read book after book at her bedside, and sung "Puff the Magic Dragon" too many times to count.

And now she's become this gorgeous young woman, almost as tall as I, wearing shoes bigger than mine, with blossoming curves and more and more glimpses of the woman she's becoming.

I find myself alternating between sadness and infatuation with her new beauty.

When I use the word sadness, it's only because I don't know a better word. I'm not sad that she's growing up. No, quite the contrary. I enjoy the present Susie so much - and I wouldn't trade her for her toddler, or preschooler, or early elementary self. The sadness is more that this, the wonder that is her maidenhood, will end all too soon.

And when I mention beauty, I feel a need to justify it. Because I don't really mean, at least not entirely, physical beauty. Sure, as her mother, I think she's the prettiest girl ever to walk this earth, and I'd be happy to fight you if you say otherwise, but that's not really what has me so ensnared.

No, what has me so smitten is deeper. She has a beauty that shines through her eyes. She's so very alive. So vital. So funny. So alert. So confident. So graceful. So willing, and able, to negotiate the confusing maze that is tween-ness.

The girl has skills. She's good at the social thing. She's good at music. She's a great student. She's got the entire church wrapped around her finger, and has since she was a toddler. She's healthy, smart, and funny. She's the perfect sister, and the perfect daughter.

And she's reaching the age where it's becoming hard to write about her. She knows I'm writing, and she hasn't protested. But I feel a greater need to give her some privacy. Potty training stories are cute and funny, but her life is now hers, much more than it's mine.

I also, more than I ever have, feel that I need to protect her from the world. She's entering rocky territory. Sure, she'll handle it fine. She handles rocky territory like a mountain goat. But I don't want her to ever tell me that I made her life more difficult by writing about her on the internet.

So Susie will no longer be a major character in this blog. I can't say she won't be around, even in photos. She's too funny, too engaging, too amazing, for me to never mention. And she's too photogenic to leave out.

But she's growing up. And I respect who she's becoming. I have a feeling she'll be one of my favorite women, one day. All too soon.

Day Zero

My new employees and I just spent two weeks training in preparation for my new store's opening. It was a good process, with lots of team-building opportunities built into the process. Since all but one of my new staff members are under 20, and all are female, it was not a difficult process to see these people draw together.

Tuesday is day one. While I'm sure it will be a very, very busy day, we're probably lucky that it's a holiday week, because that will keep us from being as busy as we would have been if we'd opened in, say, mid-November.

Each manager in my department is included in a weekend and holiday rotation: our department works every day. Since my store opens Tuesday, I had volunteered to work Memorial Day. Realistically, I'd probably go in anyway, if only to open up the store so the new employees could have a little more practice time (which all of them want), and to do some prep work so Tuesday morning would go more smoothly. Of course, I'll probably regret that decision come 4:00 Monday morning, when the alarm sounds and I have to get to work before 5:00.

It's been a hard two months. I've worked more twelve-plus hour days in the past month than I had, combined, in my life. Arriving at work around 6:30 to get the old store ready to open, working in the store until training started, attending training, checking on the old store, back to training, catching up on the "desk" part of my job (which has been sorely neglected), then checking on the old store before I go home (and usually sticking around to clean it better than it was left by the person who's been helping out), getting home between 5:30-7:00. It's tiring.

My saving grace has been Craig. Not only has he worked (as a temp) in my old store for two weeks (and done as much cleaning as he could, given that he still had to pick up the kids from school at the same time the store closed), he's also planned and cooked every meal served in our house for at least the past two weeks, kept the laundry in check, and been very patient with my obsessive behavior and conversation. He's letting me eat, sleep, and breathe coffee and staffing and retail and shift planning, and even tolerated my going out for drinks with colleagues more than once this week (if I can't see them in the office, I at least get some face time on hotel rooftops and discos).

Here's the thing. It's going very well. Eyes are on me right now, professionally. I took on a failing venture and turned it around. And now I have the opportunity to not just "not fail" but to succeed, quite visibly. This store will be the social center of the hospital. Its success will be credited to me. Its failure will be on my shoulders. I don't have any doubt that the next few months will make or break my career, or at least this portion of it. And given the past few months' successes (33% increase in sales from March to April, and May looks to be at least as good, if not better), I feel like I'm up to the challenge. I've created some good partnerships in other departments (this is me waving to the directors of security and design and construction), and I think that's going to be crucial to my continued success.

I can't help but think back a few years, when my professional life, if you could even call it that, was absolutely the least of my priorities. I worked because I had to, for money and insurance, and I watched the clock all day. All I wanted was to collect my paycheck and go home.

Even though this month has been hard, it's been great. I'm having a fantastic time. I wake up excited about the upcoming day. I go to bed bone-tired. But it's stimulating and challenging and feels like exactly what I was born to do.

A Letter to my Body

Over at BlogHer, Suzanne started an interesting conversation. And, being the consummate joiner, I'm playing along.

Dear Body,

We've been through a lot together. Things seem to be better these days. Maybe because of that radioactive pill I took a few summers ago. It felt strange, conspiring with the medical establishment to kill part of myself, but that part was malfunctioning so much, fighting against the rest of me, that it had to be done.

That summer was hard on us, body. We suffered through high doses of steroids and still sport the changes it caused in our face and belly. Sometimes my face still surprises me when I look in the mirror or at photographs. I don't think of my face as being as round as it is, has been since the summer of 2004.

Up to and including that summer, a lot of my adult decisions were influenced by that pesky thyroid gland. I was afraid to exercise more than walking and a little yoga, because my heart was already working itself into a frenzy, just sitting still. I approached my first pregnancy with more than a little fear: fear that I wouldn't get pregnant, fear that the physical stress of pregnancy would cause my thyroid to spin even farther out of control.

But you worked it out, didn't you? You had no problem getting, and staying, pregnant. You kept me safe, kept the baby safe, even through a car accident. You built two healthy and strong babies and more than enough milk to nourish them beyond a year.

The changes my body experienced during pregnancy were exciting while they were happening, and I was delighted with my new curves. I even let art students share the joy. But after the babies were born, I looked at my rapidly-deflated belly and didn't know what to think of it. The art teachers called and I didn't want to model anymore. I was happy to share my pregnant body, but my postpartum body wanted privacy.

But all that is behind us, at least for now. And I started taking you to the gym. After all, we're not getting any younger, and I want to keep us around for a while. It seemed fair enough that with all you've done to take care of me and my kids, I could spend some time taking care of you. Working out with you feels much better than I expected.

And I'm reveling again. No, we're not 22 anymore. Some of those soft places will stay soft. But we feel stronger, and we're looking pretty good. Craig appreciates and enjoys you.

So thanks, body, for a pretty good 36 years. We've been through a lot together, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

Love,
Kaleigh

Job security

My new area of supervision at work got a surprise visit from the health inspector today.

Our score? 99/100.

Very nice.

Plus, that means that my madd supervision skillz must be working.

Housekeeping

I realize that I've been quite absent of late, and I apologize. Apparently the deviation from my routine that was my past three weeks had blog-related repercussions. I'll try to do better.


I also realize that, in being a bit circumspect, I've confused a few of you. In the interest of being less confusing, I'll give a bit more information about my professional life than I usually do. (And, in all honesty, I'll likely delete this entry quickly, as I don't want it to haunt me later.)


I work for a children's hospital. It's a very prestigious place to work, and I have no interest or intention of ever leaving, barring retirement. I live ridiculously close to this place (I can see the hospital from all the rooms on the second floor of my house) and love everything about it.


Until December, my job was a little bit more interesting than an administrative assistant. When I was hired, the job was newly-created, and I did a lot with it that had not been imagined. My first boss did not utilize my skills terrifically well, but my second boss immediately saw that I was being horrendously underutilized and spent several months trying to find a new place for me. A place that made more money and had a true impact on our department.


So, in undergoing barista training, I've crossed a hurdle toward my new job. (The new job has been titled, described, and pay-classed already...retroactive to the day I began said training.) BUT...that doesn't mean that my job is barista. In fact, I anticipate that the number of coffees I'll make in a typical week will be closer to five than a hundred.


For those of you keeping score: I have not changed employers, nor departments. My work phone number has not changed. My title, pay grade, and number of direct reports have changed.


The direct reports? That's the most interesting part. And I won't go there on my blog. Because those are people who have their own lives and did not ask, nor consent, to have their careers discussed on the Intarwebs. But yes, I have direct reports, and yes, their lives are fixin' to change.


Because basically? I'm a fixer. We have a broken thing in my department, and I'm going to fix it.


But I also want to tell you about the marvelous people I spent the last two weeks with, in Birmingham. I attended training with them, only because they were kind enough to let me crash their party. They were 100% welcoming, 100% kind, and 100% hard to leave. I may have even slipped one or two or five of them a business card and told them to call me if they ever wanted to move to Memphis.

And then, when it was time for me to drive home? They gave me presents and a card and one of them even gave me a company-specific recognition thing that really, really melted my heart.

Those ladies, folks, are fantastic. The store they're opening will be awesome. I wish I could be there for their grand opening tomorrow, because YES, it will be GRAND.

So, yes, new job. No, new employer. Yes, more money and responsibility. Yes, direct reports.

And, yes, a little nervous about Tuesday. And more than a little happy that tomorrow is a holiday.

Certified

Over the past couple of years, I've gotten some career-related certifications. Certifications so unrelated to my college major that my freshly-out-of-college self would have had a big laugh to even consider them to be part of my life.

I got another one today. And got an almost-perfect score on the exam.

And what I can tell you is this: I smell, at this moment, like a combination of espresso, hazelnut syrup, and whipped cream. It's not a bad smell. But I may not sleep for the rest of the month.

I'm pretty sure my parents didn't have this in mind when they sent me to college, but I'll tell you: I'm really excited about my new job.

Being better, part two

A few weeks ago, I started off with a post called Being better, part one. Any of us is clever enough to think that it would, at some point, be followed with a part two, and maybe even a part three. Heck, I've done multi-part posts before. Multiple times.

Somehow tackling part two was difficult. Probably because I wasn't "being better". My name is Kaleigh and I didn't go to the gym for two weeks.

I have a good excuse for the first week: I was sick! Probably with the flu! And it made my joints hurt so bad that I thought I maybe had Lyme Disease! (Turns out that sneezing is most definitely NOT a symptom of Lyme Disease, at least not according to the Internet, and I make most of my medical decisions based on the Internet, don't you?)

But last week, well, that whole excuse runs out of steam. I could have gone to the gym Thursday night but my calendar said I had book club but then nobody showed up so I could have gone RIGHT THEN but I already had a glass of wine poured and might have even taken a sip from it and ER was about to be on television and blah blah blah.

But Saturday I walked a 5K in just under an hour (with two children), and last night I went back to the gym (and the guy at the front desk still recognized me) and did another 5K on the treadmill, this time in 45 minutes. Did I run? No. But it's still an improvement. My eventual goal (and I don't see it coming to fruition this year, but maybe next year) is to do a 5K in under 30 minutes. Once I accomplish that one, I'll start looking at 10K races. And if I can do one of those in under an hour, I'll entertain the notion of a half-marathon. I've wanted to do a half-marathon for years but never set a date and began training.

Here's the thing. I'm 36. I'll be 37 in May. The Memphis Marathon takes place in December. Along with the marathon, there is also a half-marathon and a 5K.

I'd like to run the marathon when I'm 40. It seems like a good thing to do when one is 40.

I'm going to do the 5K, in some manner, this year. Might not be pretty, might not be running, but I'm going to cross the finish line less than an hour after crossing the start. And next year I'll run that 5K in under 30 minutes. Easily. The following year I'll run the half marathon.

And then, holy cow, I'll turn 40 and run the full marathon. In just 3 years.

Want to join me? Locally? Or virtually? No? Well, at least keep me honest. Hold me to my word. Don't let me slack off.

Miscellaneous

In lieu of a real post, here's a recap of recent happenings.

Susie and I dyed our hair pink on Friday night in preparation for Race for the Cure. Hers looks the same as when we did it before, and mine doesn't look pink. Just brighter red than usual. Nobody even seemed to notice it, which means (a) it's extremely subtle or (b) everyone thinks it looks horrible and they're too nice (or stunned) to say anything.

My extremely impromptu costume for our church's auction fundraiser/Halloween party wound up winning in the "Best Monster" category. And I even got a trophy! Which is an awesome turnaround from the past few years. I was a zombie roller derby girl (but I substituted Doc Martins for rollerskates, because I didn't want to die for real).

But alas, the trophy I truly coveted remains out of my grasp. In the second annual chili smackdown, the chili I worked so hard to perfect (and yes, it was amazing) didn't even place. And the winner? Was the same woman who won last year. My kids, however, won their age division for the pumpkin they decorated. I'll try to get some pictures up later.

There's probably a life lesson in there somewhere about trying too hard and being spontaneous and "in the moment" but I'm mostly slightly bummed that I forgot to take pictures of important stuff this weekend: Race for the Cure, which had tons of great photo moments, the auction, and the prep of the chili, because it would have been great on my other blog. Maybe next year.

And possibly the most (or least) noteworthy event of the weekend: I found my first gray hair yesterday. And the kids laughed.

Three of five

Slouching Mom's third question, in a series of five.

Susie is on the cusp of adolescence. Are you ready? Is she ready?

Slouching Mom's got adolescence on her mind, I think. Her son, who is right between my children, is just starting to seem a little less like a little boy and more like a little man. I've been dealing with this situation a little longer (maybe a lot longer, because girls truly do start growing up before boys) and no longer find it shocking.

To be honest, I'm loving the beginning of adolescence, from my vantage point, anyway. Susie is a very sensible, down-to-earth girl who doesn't generate much drama. The physical changes of puberty have been explained to her (in our church's sexuality education program, but also by me, and in a fantastic book that every girl should get when she turns nine, The Care & Keeping of You: The Body Book for Girls) and she seems to embrace those changes. When she noticed that her body was changing, she asked me if it was possible for us to go bra shopping. In the same tone she would use if she needed new shoes.

We've also talked about the emotional changes. We started that conversation when she was just a tiny little girl, when she caught me crying as I read Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls. She asked me why I was crying and I told her that it made me sad to think that one day she would be so grouchy and mean and wouldn't like me very much, but that those things are pretty normal when girls get to be that age. She sweetly hugged me and looked into my eyes and told me, "I'll try not to be like that." And I knew that she, in her four-going-on-forty wisdom, indeed would try.

That being said, she has definitely become more sensitive as she's approached puberty. It's easier to rub her the wrong way. It's easier to make her cry. It's easier to get on her nerves. Fortunately for me, it's easy for me to bring her back to the sun.

She's always been my golden child. As a tot, her skin would develop a beautiful golden tan in the summer, while her hair was highlighted from playing outside. She looked like she was made of gold to me. Her disposition was sunny, her laughter infectious.

As she's grown, she's retained that sunny disposition and delightful laugh. Her skin still tans, but it no longer stretches over chubby baby skin. Long, strong limbs have grown from those chubby arms and legs I remember so well, only ten years before. Her hair no longer bleaches blonde from the summer sun, probably because of the purple, blue, or pink streaks we've applied. A few little bumps have scattered on her face, reminding me of my own face, years ago, but also of that newborn acne she had only a few weeks after her birth. (I remember reading in one of the many baby books I read that newborn acne is a protective rash because it keeps parents from taking their baby all around and showing them off. I wonder if adolescent acne isn't protective in a similar way...keeping those fragile tweens from being too perfect too soon.)

Her brain is different, too. Keener in ways. Understanding jokes better. Making jokes better. Making connections. Even understanding the difference in how I explain a math problem and how her teacher explains a math problem (and knowing that if she has a problem with math, that she should ask me for help because she understands my explanations). She understands social obligations better, and has taken it upon herself (she and another girl at school) to help the two boys in the class who have learning problems.

She's also started noticing cars and has some strong feelings about BMW convertibles. Don't even ask me where this comes from. A strange recessive gene is the best I can imagine.

It's interesting territory. I wouldn't trade these years for anything.

And in a stunning moment of irony

The hot librarian just gave me a prize.

Wait for it. It's awesome.

And because I'm so very surprised to have received this award, I'm going to have to wait a minute and maybe breathe into a paper bag before I can award it to anyone else. (Plus, hello! I read snark! Not nice!)

Okay, I'm feeling better, not quite so lightheaded. And maybe I'm ready to give some prizes.

First, I'd like to give this award to Sarah and Izzy because they were both so welcoming and nice to me at BlogHer. Nobody forced them to hang out with me but they did anyway, and that made me feel so happy and accepted.

I met Katherine at BlogHer for about 30 seconds, but I've been blogstalking her ever since, and I think it would be great fun to live in her house. Except I'd weigh about 30,000 pounds in a month because her cooking looks very delicious.

So there it is....me spreading the love. Or whatever. Please don't start singing or holding hands. Please.

Finally

Last night, as my family sat on the lawn of the Pink Palace museum, watching Napoleon Dynamite on a really cool screen with awesome sound, surrounded by other Memphians who wanted to enjoy a nice evening's free entertainment, it came to me.

If you haven't seen the movie, you still may know the scene. Near the end of the movie, Napoleon's big dance (which, by the way, I have every intention of learning so I can join in every time the movie is on). Remember (if you've seen it) how the audience of high schoolers is silent for a moment, then erupts into thunderous applause? Applauding this sort of bizarre but also triumphant moment of total spazziness from this really awkward but dear adolescent boy?

That's how BlogHer felt.

As I've gotten sucked into the whole blogging thing, I've occasionally read posts that really resonated with me. Posts from all kinds of women with all kinds of writing talent, sharing tales of woe (of varying degrees) during high school. Of feeling excluded. Of being marginalized. Of watching, wistfully or sneeringly, those seemingly-well-adjusted popular kids who made being a teenager look easy.

And as we who were registered for BlogHer got more and more excited (and anxious) about the big event, more confessions of social anxiety, shyness, fear of not being accepted were sent out into the blogosphere. I read them and felt relief.

Each of those posts felt like Napoleon's dance. Put out there with a courageous spirit, beyond caring what anyone thought, just doing it for himself and the good of Pedro.

And the crowd went wild.

Why?

Maybe because that willingness to be a dork, to be a spaz, resonates with most people. Maybe most people felt the same way in high school: uncomfortable, misunderstood, awkward. Those who were viewed as popular, like the film's Trisha and Summer, still have moments of self-consciousness. But the lucky ones had friends like Pedro and Deb. Quirky, yes, but true and kind.

Blogging is like Napoleon dancing. I put words onto a screen and hit "publish," not knowing who's going to read those words. I don't know if the audience will applaud. And while the applause is great, it's not why I'm writing. I don't know that I'm writing for any "Pedro" in particular, or if it's more about stretching my proverbial limbs and moving with the music.

And at BlogHer we got to applaud each other, vote for Pedro, and dance together.

I emailed the following to a fellow Memphis blogger, the factual story of my BlogHer experience.

I arrived in Chicago Friday morning, via Amtrak. My brother met me at the station and whisked me onto a bus that took us to Navy Pier, and he walked me to the Grand Ballroom. I was a few minutes late and had missed the breakfast but was registered quickly enough to make it to most of the "Speed Dating for Bloggers" session. About 750 women (and a few men) were in two big circles, talking one-on-one for about a minute, then one of the circles would move. Business cards were exchanged, commonalities were noted, and online friends were recognized. I met Kvetch and Dirt to Dish and A Baby Boomer and a bunch more ladies whose faces have mostly turned into a blur of pretty. To my amazement, local blogger Lizarita was immediately to my right (she immediately recognized me from my pictures...her name tag threw me off as I thought of her as Liz but she was listed as Elizabeth). She's much prettier in real life, by the way.

Liz convinced me to attend a different session than I had intended, and I'm so glad she did. "Naked Bloggers" was not about nudity (well, a little, but not much) so much as about online identity and honesty in blogging. Heather B. spoke eloquently and well about her blogging activities, some of which almost got her evicted from an apartment. All the sessions were participatory, which gave the participants many opportunities to put faces with online handles (Sarcastic Journalist, MochaMomma, and Sarah and the Goon Squad were some that I was delighted to see).

After the session I had a chance to chat with Sarah, with whom I've corresponded online for months. We checked out the swag in the vendor area (I had brought my backpack, and was soon burdened with about 20-30 lbs. of miscellany, including five t-shirts, a bath set, flavorings for medicine, chocolate, a laptop bag, pens, a manicure kit, and about 8000 business cards) then sat down with a bunch of mamas from Maya's Mom for lunch. We found two seats at a table and I realized that I was sitting next to GingaJoy (and yes, as promised to my MamaPop ladies, I kissed her)!

After lunch, Sarah and I decided that the beer garden was a more appealing option than the next session. We downed a couple of beers, got to "officially" know each other, got a tourist to take our picture, and hurried back to the Grand Ballroom. Where I met Izzy. The three of us decided to attend a techie session on building traffic. The presentations are available online and were useful and technical. But not particularly heated or all that interesting for non-techie people.

We took a bathroom break and hightailed it to the next session: "The State of the Momosphere." I wasn't at BlogHer last year, but I've gleaned from other blogs that there was some contention between the "Mommy Bloggers" and the non-mommy bloggers. That wasn't the case this year, but the politics of monetization of blogs certainly caused a heated discussion. Catherine and Lena were fantastic panelists, and I really felt for all the panelists who had to speak after Catherine, who is astonishingly articulate. There were a few discussion threads that I never managed to comment on, like this comment that was in my head for a long time: "Most mommy bloggers are mothers of small kids, generally preschoolers. Perhaps that's a function of these moms being more likely to be home with the kids. Since nobody in my house calls me "Mommy" anymore, does that make me a "Mom-blogger" instead?" It wasn't a particularly deep or interesting comment, and by the time someone brought a microphone to my side of the room, the conversation had moved on. Other bloggers have discussed this session a great deal and I have little to add at this point.

My brother met me at Navy Pier for the cocktail party on the rooftop. Since I was staying at his apartment across town, I didn't have a chance to drop off my swag bags anywhere, but he did help me consolidate them into his backpack so neither of us was carrying 80 tons of stuff. At the party I met Lena and Mom 101 and Disorderly Conduct. And I learned this: even the highest-ranked, most-visited bloggers? They're all geeky girls, just like me. It was wonderful to be surrounded by brainy, witty women, even if it was just for a day (I only attended the first day of the conference). I can't wait until next year.

Pumping iron

I worked out with a personal trainer on Wednesday.

Take your time. That sentence was unexpected and out of character. Breathe.

Really. I did.

See, here's the thing. From age 17 to age 33, I was sick enough with thyroid disease that aerobic exercise was forbidden by my doctor. He told me that walking and yoga were quite sufficient and that getting my already-hummingbird-like heart rate any higher could end badly, like in a coffin. Not having a death wish, I complied. One of the "fortunate" symptoms of hyperthyroidism is weight loss, so it really didn't have a big impact on my figure.

Which means, for all of my adult life, I've been thin (or close to thin) but not very fit.

Now that my thyroid gland is, well, gone, and my pulse is down below 100, it's okay for me to exercise, which I've done, in fits and starts. Yes, I walk every day. And there have been a few instances of jogging. And riding bikes. But it's become increasingly obvious that I needed to do more. Add to the situation my husband and his recent and impressive weight loss (he's down 8 inches in waist size! since October!) that is entirely a result of an exercise program, and it had to happen. I had to take it seriously, which is why we joined the gym. (Learning that my employer had negotiated an amazingly cheap rate with this gym didn't hurt, though.)

(It's worth noting that I really don't like sweating. Just thought I'd put that piece of information out there.)

But the trainer and I met for my fitness assessment. The first few minutes of that assessment included a health history, getting weighed and measured, and talking about fitness goals. That was all completed before he started teaching me how to make those medieval torture instruments work. A few excerpts from our conversation:

Him: How old are you?
Me: 36.
Him: No way! I guessed you to be in your early 20's!
Me: Yeah, that's what you say to all the old ladies.

Him: What is your main goal for this fitness program?
Me: Well, I'm not getting any younger, and I need to stay healthy if I want to stay around.
Him: Okay, I'm going to write down, "To feel and look young." Does that sound right?
Me: .....

After he has me do twelve reps of some rather hideous exercise...

Him: Did you feel that? Do you feel a burn?
Me: .....
Him: Where do you feel it?
Me: points vaguely to an area near my arm
Him: You didn't feel that. :::adds weight to the machine::: Do another twelve.
Me: .... (silent sobbing)

All in all, it went well. Nothing was too painful, and even when he measured my hips it wasn't too embarrassing. My weight was perfectly respectable (even though I did some stress eating before my appointment...I was really nervous about it), and I was able to lift more than the minimum amount of weight on each machine. It was maybe, just maybe, even a little bit fun.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I expected to be in pain. I wasn't. And that concerned me a little. Maybe he'd been too easy on me. Because, honestly, I did more than my share of eyelash batting when the going got tough. And a couple of times I really thought it worked, and he reduced the weight on the machine or reduced the number of reps. Craig and I talked about it, and we agreed that a female trainer might be what I need because she would be less likely to take it easy on me. (And yes, this made me a little sad. Because this trainer is definitely in the eye candy category.)

As the day went on, however, I started feeling it. That soreness. Which is a feeling I don't often experience, but I remember from being younger. It's not exactly painful, or even uncomfortable. But it gets my attention. And it tells me that maybe this guy didn't take it quite as easy on me as I had thought. (Which is good news. Remember, he's cute! And compliments me! Tells me I don't have wrinkles! Yes, really. He said that. Love.)

We're going back today, and this time I'm on my own. I have a little anxiety still about the machines. Will I remember which machine is which? Will I look stupid carrying around my little "cheat sheet"? What if I lose my "cheat sheet"? Will I still be sore enough that the exercises are much more difficult today? Will I eat ten pounds of pasta afterward, negating all my hard work? Can I really keep this up after the kids come back home?

But I'm not going to let those anxieties win. I need to do this, and I like how I feel afterward. I really, really hope that I can like how I feel during. And soon.