Category Archives: Life Lessons

Praise for Patience. Gratitude Experiment: Day 79

Still traveling so this post is for yesterday…

Today I am grateful that sometimes taking the long view and having patience, despite how hard that is for me, can pay off.

Having the patience of a gnat (not so much), this is a good lesson for me. And I am going to work on developing more patience.

Some good things have come from this practice in patience as of late. And for that I am grateful.

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Mike Foxtrotter, this has to stop! Gratitude Experiment: Day 51

This morning I was running late for a meeting and getting ready far too late to comfortably make it in time.  And that’s usually when it starts.  Words that would make most people blush begin to fly out of my mouth as I fumble for my mascara and search for my iphone that invisible elves continue to misplace every morning when I need to leave the house.

This is all much to my husband’s amusement.  He often laughs quietly (for fear of his life), sometimes muttering that he thinks he would hear less cursing if he were suiting up in marine barracks each morning.

Today after my explosive rant while hurriedly applying makeup with one eye on the clock, searching for my phone  and changing clothes at the same time, he suggested that I might think about substituting my litany of four-letter words with military alphabet terminology:  “Foxtrot!  Where’s my mike foxtrotting phone?  Delta it.”

Yesterday after I broke a glass in the dishwasher and exclaimed a few niceties, he asked,”Is that how Honey Boo Boo would say it?”   This is getting serious.  I know I need to clean up my act.

At least I’m becoming more aware and I think I have some semblance of control.  I actually do know when to limit my Sierras, Foxtrots and Deltas in certain circumstances when it would be totally out of line.  So why am I unable to harness that kind of self control more often?  Maybe I need to be checked in somewhere.

This afternoon I asked my almost sixteen year old son if I cursed too much.  When he told me “Well, yes Mom, you do, but it’s sort of but it’s funny.”  I threw out a curse word before asking he was serious.  “Sierra… am I that bad?”  I didn’t even realize the irony.

In a fellow blogger’s recent post, Cursing: An Editorial Style Guide (http://imissyouwheniblink.com/2012/04/26/cursing-an-editorial-style-guide/), his guidelines for optimum profanity usage are explained.

Below is rule number one:

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1. Show some ingenuity.

Contrary to what you may have heard, using profanity isn’t necessarily a lazy way of speaking or writing. Using the wrong profanity is lazy. Choose all words with equal care, I say. My mother, who by the way is one of the classiest dames you’ll ever meet, has been known to brandish curse words in entirely unique ways, inventing whole new parts of speech. She always has the right expression for a situation. For example, walking into an unkempt room: “Holy shitstorm, it looks like the ass end of destruction in a typhoid whorehouse around here.” [Exit with flourish.] What does it even mean? I don’t know. But somehow I can picture it. She is a genius. Always be creative and specific.

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I can only hope that one day my boys will refer to the ingenuity of my profanity with the admiration that this blogger has for his mother’s.  I know my college roommates have that kind of admiration for me to this day. I had some doozies my freshman year. They still quote me on a couple of key phrases that broke records for profanity ingenuity.

Today I am grateful that at times I am self-aware enough to know when I need to work on improving my less than ideal habits.  And for my family’s patience while I do so.  Thanks for reading!

The long way home. Gratitude Experiment: Day 35

This post is from yesterday…  forgot to hit publish.

Once in a while I purposely take the long way home.  Usually it happens when a great song is playing and the car windows are rolled down or the top is down.  Overcast or misty days are the perfect settings for this.

There is a great winding road near my neighborhood that cuts through part of our state park.  It feels like it’s miles from nowhere yet it’s not at all.  It branches off from a much more direct route to its end, so there are usually few cars on it. And right when I reach my neighborhood entrance, it’s like my car sometimes knows when I need to recharge for a just a moment or two.  And when I need to keep going straight and follow this road, making an extra loop before returning home.

I’ve decided this little road is sort of like my own little spiritual retreat.  Like a drive through recharging station.  This is where I crank up whatever song that most likely inspired me to blow off my original turn.  Usually Janis Joplin is whaling about Bobby McGee, Rod Stewart about his sexiness or the Beatles about places they remember.  Any old song that makes me a little sentimental.

And as I make the wide bend of the road (the best part when I go a little too fast) and refocus, I almost always notice a flock of birds in formation.  I’m always in awe of how these birds can perform such a complex and scientific maneuver. Did you know that birds can fly 70% further with the same amount of energy when in formations like this?

I must admit that I have very little affection for birds.  I had a really bad Blue-Jay experience once when my dog found a baby bird, so I am pretty much terrified of most birds.   I’m not sure what kind of birds these are, but I would assume geese or ducks.  And they never cease to fascinate me when flying in formation.

I love that there always seems to be that one little guy at the end of the formation who can’t quite seem to figure it out, probably losing out on much of the drag reduction benefit of the whole exercise.  I always wonder if his cohorts are giving him a hard time for being a slacker and that just stresses him out even more.

And then at that moment I remember a reference in one of my favorite poems.  A poem that I have given to many dear friends in their times of sorrow.  It’s called “Do Not Stand” and the author is unknown from what I can tell.  It’s written from the perspective of someone who has passed on speaking to someone they’ve left behind in this world.  They urge the reader not to stand at their grave and weep, for they are not there. They are a thousand winds that blow, the diamond glints on the snow, the sunlight on ripened grain, the gentle autumn’s rain. And the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight.

I can feel my heart leap up as I watch the formation pass over me and I think of my sister. Maybe somehow I connect with that little guy at the end of the formation. Like it’s my sister reminding me that everything’s okay, even for the little guy trying so hard to keep up.  I think a therapist could have a heyday with the psychological theories that might explain this series of thoughts.  Probably many theories would be spot-on, or maybe I subconsciously want to be reincarnated as Janis Joplin’s uncoordinated pet bird?  I’m not sure, but I suspect there’s more to it than that. I’ll be sure to save up for that  session.

Then as I turn my car around at the traffic circle and head back home the opposite direction, through this same stretch of winding road, I breathe a sigh and I am renewed.

Today I am grateful for my long way home.

 

When I grow up. Gratitude Experiment: Day 26

I want to be like my neighbor when I grow up. He lives across the street from me. He and his wife raised all of their children in that house.  Their kids now live in various states, with children of their own.  I think he is very close to 90 years old.

He yells ‘Hi neighbor!’ to me from across the street every time he sees me. He calls me by the wrong name sometimes but that just makes me smile all the more. I have never seen him unhappy.

I have to speak  loudly when we chat because he is very hard of hearing and has Meniere’s disease, an inner ear disorder that affects balance and hearing. Many afternoons you can see him jogging or riding his bike around our neighborhood. He tells me that he thinks if he just keeps active maybe he can jiggle things around enough up there in his head enough that it will work itself out.  He also just quit skiing black runs about four years ago. For real. (I’m doing good to ski blue runs.)

When we have big snows, he uses his snow blower to remove snow from our entire cul-de-sac’s sidewalks. And sometimes he does all of our driveways too (we live in a small cul-de-sac thank goodness).

He has a killer old red sports car that he drives every clear day.  I can hear its engine rumble as he zooms off each morning with his hat on that reminds me of the one Gilligan wore on Gilligan’s island.

On trash pickup days if I’m gone after the truck as come, he returns my trashcan to the back of my driveway for me.  And he does this for all of us. He also brings us all a jar of home-made jelly from his church sale during the holidays.

He has a compliment for me every single time I talk with him.  And he calls me when he needs to know how to do something on his computer, always ever so thankful for my help.

Today I am grateful that I get to live by this great guy who provides me with a wonderful example of how to live life. I hope I can be like him when I grow up.

Debbie Downer or Reflective Rhonda? Gratitude Experiment: Day 20

My niece and I, as well as a few close friends of mine, often joke that we are a little too dark and twisted for most regular crowds.  So we have to be careful and somewhat regulated, depending on the crowd.  (Usually we are already around fellow dark and twisteds who we have selectively chosen to be around, so this is only in certain situations.)

Because I have lived through the deaths and sicknesses of various friends and loved ones, I have become quite comfortable with death and dying.   Yes, I said it.  Death. Death. Death.  It freaks a lot of people out. And Alzheimer’s.  Alzheimer’s, Alzheimer’s. NOT pronounced Oldtimers or Altzheimer’s for God’s sake.  No really, some actually pronounce it that way without the blink of an eye. I kid you not.

Given the choice, I’d rather be comfortable enough to talk about death and honor loved ones on a regular basis than the alternative.   Life would be damn boring and superficial otherwise.  And I really don’t think I’d be able to readily appreciate so much of life if I didn’t have first hand experience of how short it can be.  And remind myself often.

But I’ve learned that the majority of people don’t like to think that much about complicated things, especially death.  And I don’t blame them sometimes.

However, my kindred spirits and I all joke that we know the best way to end the festive vibe at a dinner party or bar scene gathering if we want to.  Sometimes conversations naturally can lead to questions about siblings or mothers or fathers. (Where do your folks live? How old are they? How many siblings do you have?  Are you close with your siblings?) It’s at that moment we have to decide whether to dodge that bullet or grab it honestly.

If we choose the latter, in comes awkward silence……..  Then often the subject changes more quickly than you can imagine.  The mood sometimes shifts to a strange awkwardness and if not revived properly by a party trick or something, this can throw a wrench into the social mechanics of an evening. Luckily I have many good party tricks.

But it’s really kind of sad.  Why does this have to instantly make someone a Debbie Downer (or Donald Downer)?  Thank goodness it doesn’t always, but it depends on the crowd.

I know there is a time and a place. But more often than not, I avoid the subjects unless I know who I am dealing with.  Seems a little unfair really and puts a little knot in my stomach. People get to talk about their shopping trips and manicures with their moms, or even bitch about their parents or siblings.  And rarely can I talk about my sister or mom without bringing the room down a notch.  And frankly, it’s on days like that when even walking by the sister card section in Hallmark just plain pisses me off.

Why as a society are we so uncomfortable with death and dying?  It’s part of the process.

I think many people feel that there is a certain time span after someone loses a loved one, and then they are over it.  Or maybe people just forget.  But the truth is that the grieving process has no magical end. It ebbs and flows and may change, but it never ends.  And thank goodness for that, for this is partly how we honor those we have lost and keep them with us.  By remembering them for what they gave us and the world during their time with us.

So if you know someone who has lost a loved one, ask them about that person sometime.  It certainly doesn’t have to be in the middle of a party Debbie Downer style, but it doesn’t have to be taboo either. And it’s actually a wonderful thing that a friend can do for another.  Examples you could ask:  What were they like?  Tell me what you remember most about them?  Were you close?  Can you tell me what happened?  What do you miss most about them?

Myself, I am no Debbie Downer. Not in the least.  And for those who might think so, it’s best I know upfront before any time is wasted getting to know each other. Life is too short to be around people who do anything but make you feel good.  That’s one of the best lessons I have ever learned.

I see myself as more of a Real and Reflective Rhonda and I know it helps people.  I’ve seen its magic.  Perhaps that’s why so many strangers tell me their life story.  This warms my heart.   And for that I am grateful.

Pantyhose and purple power suits

I think the color of pantyhose I used to wear was actually called “suntan.”  Did we think we were fooling anyone?  I guess tanning lotions and tanning salons on every corner came about long after panty hose became passe.

And my old pals still chuckle about my early nineties (or fashion ideas left over from the 80’s) brightly colored “power suits.”  This one was purple, yes purple.  I wore it as a full suit and actually thought I looked like a bad ass.  It had large shiny fake gold buttons that looked like earrings.  And I may have worn the earrings to match but I’ve blurred that out of my memory for good reason.

What’s even more hilarious is that I thought these suits made me look older so I could run with the big dogs in the ad biz as a junior account executive at age 23.  I so desperately wanted to be accepted and climb that ladder, fast.  I even drank Jack and Coke a few times and pretended that I liked it.  And I acted like the cigarette smoke filling the building didn’t bother me either.

Last week at a client meeting I was reminded of all of this.  My client’s young, chirpy, quick- to-answer-with-a-better-answer assistant was in the meeting, taking notes on every word I said (yikes). She’s freshly a year or two out of college and smart as a whip.  She really did have terrific ideas for our campaign brainstorming session — trying so hard to prove herself that I tried not to be annoyed.  Was I secretly a little jealous that she got to be the young perky one now?

Toward the end of the meeting I made some kind of old school reference and then realized she probably didn’t know what I meant. I corrected myself with the newer term and made a mention of her youth and how I was showing my age.  She quickly corrected me and told me that she wasn’t that young.

I immediately recalled that feeling of irritation she was experiencing and I tried to explain. My client and I giggled as we recalled just how much we missed being the young one in the room and being the target of those “you’re too young to know” comments.  And I really do.  Especially now that no one checks my ID no matter how desperately I try to signal to them that they should.  She just looked at us and smiled, letting us think we were funny.

She’ll probably be in a modern day, corporate casual version of my purple power suit at the next meeting when I see her, sans the suntan hose.  Maybe a purple cardigan and tangerine skinny jeans.  But I bet she won’t have my fancy, shiny earring buttons.

Cheerleading tryouts not required

I was a cheerleader in 5th grade.  And that’s because tryouts weren’t required that year.  Oh, and my friend’s mom was in charge.  Sad, but true.

My mother tried to help me understand before I tried out the next year (when there actually were tryouts and it was school-organized) that perhaps it wasn’t the sport for me. My sister and I always joked that it was amazing we turned out as positive, able and accomplished as we did despite our mother’s ability to pop a hole in any balloon filled with aspirations of challenging new heights we hoped to achieve.  Now I know she was just trying to protect us from getting our hopes up, but I have to slap myself when I catch  myself doing the same thing with my boys. Because most of the time I proved her wrong.

Nevertheless, she had a point. And I didn’t make cheerleader that year. At that point my legs were longer and skinnier than a baby giraffe and I had the grace of newborn foal.  And I couldn’t even pull off a cartwheel which was a beginner move for my agile, better proportioned cheering peers.

But perhaps that cheerleading experience from 5th grade, fictitious as it was, gave me good experience for adulthood as a woman.  Honestly I think cheerleading should be part of the job description to be a mom and a wife.  Even a sister, a friend and a daughter.

Today I was a cheerleader for my husband regarding his career. And a cheerleader for my son regarding his ability to make better choices.  Last week I was a cheerleader for my niece after a humiliating day as a second year med student new to hospital rotations. And yesterday for my friend who was applying for a job after a long professional hiatus.  And on many days I cheer my step dad on after his long days caring for my mother and her Alzheimer’s-addled brain.

I’m actually pretty good at cheerleading afterall.  My mother would be proud.