tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36254131741639073242023-11-15T10:47:44.152-06:00I am sahm...sahm I am?Simple thoughts from a simple work-at-home mom with a stay-at-home-mom complex.Semi simple thoughts.Reasonably simple...ok, not really all that simple.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-34979755750750531392013-10-04T10:16:00.002-05:002013-10-04T10:21:22.467-05:00I'm movingHave you ever heard someone say some version of, "Don't wait for tomorrow if you can do it today"?<br />
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I'm doing that.</div>
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There was no big life lesson involved, just felt like the right time. I had told myself, "once I get to THIS level I will grab my domain and start a new website."</div>
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But I didn't get to that level, not yet anyway, but I got to a level that I never could have predicted: I don't see myself only as a mom. </div>
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This site dealt with life as a mom. First as a SAHM then as a WAHM and now as an I HAVE NO IDEA WHO I AM. I'm still, first and foremost, a mom...but I'm more. I'm rounded (insert butt joke here)- I have more dimensions more interests and more passions than I did 5 years ago when I started this site. I have outgrown this, my starter blog, and am moving.</div>
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I don't know if I will post here again, but I don't want to take it down. It's where I grew up...ish. To me it's a scrapbook of the last few years and I don't want to forget them, even the hard ones.</div>
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If you are interested in following me to my new home....here is the link <a href="http://susanvollenweider.com/" target="_blank">Susan's New Home</a></div>
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Thank you for reading, I usually make posts that I think only I will read so anytime I see others have, it makes me happy. And I like being happy.</div>
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Don't wait for tomorrow if you can do it today.<br />
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<a href="http://susanvollenweider.com/" target="_blank">One more link to new site because I can</a></div>
Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-31200436709065770002013-08-19T11:30:00.001-05:002013-08-19T19:26:01.438-05:00Mixed Message in a Lunchbox"Mom," Noah told me last week as he rummaged around in a cabinet, "when you give me blueberries in my lunch, you should put them in this." He held out a plastic container with a lid. "It would be perfect, just the right size and they won't get smooshed in my lunchbox."<br />
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"I think you're right," I told him while cooking dinner and writing a grocery list at the same time. "Good thing I saved that. I thought it was cute, good for saving small amounts of gravy or sauce or something."<br />
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"It IS cute," he agreed, put the container back and left the room.<br />
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Flash forward a few days. This morning I was making his lunch and rinsed off a few blueberries. I remembered what he had said last week and thought he would be happy to open his lunchbox and see that I had remembered his suggestion.<br />
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Container.<br />
Blueberries.<br />
Lid.<br />
Lunchbox.<br />
Done.<br />
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But then I took it out again. I had doubts. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. But the image of his delight at having been heard, something that the youngest child in the family struggles with, overwhelmed me. If those blueberries were in any other container he would be sad and disappointed that I didn't remember what he had suggested just a few days ago. An idea that I had agreed was a good one.<br />
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So I got out a black Sharpie and did a little artwork on the container. I covered up anything that I thought might have raised eyebrows, proudly put it back in his lunchbox and sent him off to his first full week of third grade.<br />
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A few hours, and several cups of coffee later, I had a bold jolt of OHMYGOSHWHATDIDIDO?!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I grabbed this out of the fridge in it's pre-repurposed form. He's still at school and I'm expecting a call from his teacher any minute.</td></tr>
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I guess any mom can write a note, but it takes a special breed of mom to send a message.<br />
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Yeah. Sigh. Big sigh.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-14731432362896053852013-08-16T10:25:00.001-05:002013-08-16T14:47:43.852-05:00A very short post about a very long summer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This summer was long.</div>
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This summer was hard.</div>
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This summer had some fun in it, but mostly it was a struggle to get through.</div>
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Then this happened:</div>
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Summer was, for all intents and purposes, over. The kids went back to school and I get to go back to doing the things that I love to do when they are not home.</div>
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Which is really, really, really, really, really, really great because I had a really, really, really, really, really hard time doing it while they were here this summer. If I had to summarize why: interruptions from them and guilt from me.</div>
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I tried to focus on the good, file away the bad and enjoy the time with them. </div>
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I may have succeeded.</div>
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But now summer is over, I have plans...really big plans...and am going to get on them right now.</div>
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Yes, I am.</div>
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Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-50373561494313524402013-07-07T15:03:00.002-05:002013-07-07T15:03:56.806-05:00What am I? (Not G-rated) <br />
"Mom! Dad says you have to put sunblock on me."<br />
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I was outside with the lad for an hour, a full hour so he could play and have fun. I didn't want to be out there-I wanted to be alone and write, work on the novel that I have been struggling to find time to finish this whole summer. Instead, I talked with my son, watched him throw a tennis ball up- bright yellow contrasted against deep blue then skillfully landing in a worn, black baseball mitt. I talked with him and watched while rocking in a chair and glancing at a book that someone else got the time to write. I did what I have done all summer and am grateful that I get to do but am feeling a bit resentful that I have to do it- I spent time with my kids instead of getting lost in the words that are screaming for attention from inside my own head.<br />
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"You were outside with him," he said when I confronted him, "you couldn't put sunblock on in that time? I thought you had."<br />
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So it's my punishment to be hauled away from what I was doing to do something he could have easily done, I don't say.<br />
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Not even ten minutes to write before I got interrupted by something that, apparently, only I can do despite the fact that there is another fully capable adult in the house.<br />
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I give up.<br />
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I don't want to give up. But who am I? This is what I am struggling with right now.<br />
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I don't get paid to do this, so it's a hobby, I hear.<br />
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But it doesn't feel like a hobby.<br />
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It's an itch. A desire that needs to be fulfilled.<br />
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I'm mostly venting and it's hard to relate to. But maybe think of it like sex. Being a housewife- while I'm ironing and cleaning and cooking, and driving kids everywhere, taking care of all the pre-business and getting and things in place? Foreplay. It's required and necessary and the main event wouldn't feel right, wouldn't work right without it. I tease myself and imagine what I will do when I get alone. The words that will be spoken, the emotions that will be felt, the different paced actions that will occur- fast, slow, build-up, and up and... I lustily dream about it and whip myself into a frenzy of anticipation.<br />
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But too much foreplay isn't wholly satisfying and at some point you have to get down to business or the moment has past and it's forced and not at all as good as it could be.<br />
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Being told to put sunblock on a kid ten minutes after getting down to business killed the moment.<br />
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And I have no reason to get back to it.<br />
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So I'm going to iron.<br />
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Because I'm a housewife.<br />
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Which, technically, I don't get paid to do either.<br />
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My whole life is a hobby.<br />
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I should feel more grateful.<br />
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<br />Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-85113338494027198712013-05-22T11:58:00.002-05:002013-05-22T17:01:09.655-05:00The Uniform of Our PeopleBekah stood in front of me. Her hair was pulled back in two ponytails and she was wearing minimal makeup. "Does this necklace work?" she asked me.<br />
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I gave her a once over. "Sure. It only adds to the look."<br />
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"What's that look?"<br />
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"It's the uniform of your people."<br />
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She seemed happy with the assessment and headed out the door to school.<br />
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"Mom, I am wearing sandals because I can." Luke was digging into the show orgy by our front door.<br />
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"Sandals? You own sandals?" I watched him shove his white sock clad feet into soccer slides, pop-in ear-buds and finish getting ready for school<br />
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"Mom? Does this match?" I turned from Luke to Noah who was holding two blue shirts: a t-shirt and a button down.<br />
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"Yes."<br />
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"Oh, good, I thought they looked nice together," he said as he slipped them on, and partially buttoned the outer shirt.<br />
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It occurred to me that all three were in uniform.<br />
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Kids try on a lot of different identities as they grow up, although it seems (based on my minimal research) they settle into the one that is most comfortable for them at some teenage point. This is their look, and the look of most of their closest friends.<br />
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Bekah likes to have a spark of individuality and tell people through her look that she is a Library Rat. Her favorite classes are centered around books, and she really likes marching band. Those are her people and she is her best, most comfortable self when she is around them.<br />
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Luke is a jock. He's also got a bit of Theater Kid in him, but he identifies primarily with his footballbaseballbasketball teammates. He doesn't mind attracting attention, and thrives when it finds him- but sports rule his life.<br />
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Noah wishes he could spend his entire summer on Martha's Vineyard, he wears ties to school frequently and likes to look sharp. He's only 8 so who he will be most comfortable as when he is in high school is anyone's guess. But now? Sharp Dressed Little Preppy Man.<br />
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That day they all were dressed in the uniforms of their people. After they had gone to school, I saw that my Googleplus friend Angela had shared this picture.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vF7r4LnX1qo/UZz2nxrIPII/AAAAAAAAHaI/4RplHWkdydE/s1600/ready+in+five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vF7r4LnX1qo/UZz2nxrIPII/AAAAAAAAHaI/4RplHWkdydE/s320/ready+in+five.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">via Angela Mia Googleplus</td></tr>
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She commented that her days of primping were replaced by hustling kids and all their gear to and fro- her own grooming going by the wayside.<br />
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And I related. Ho-boy did I get it. Minimalist is the uniform of my people. In that moment I was inspired to take a selfie. Here it is.<br />
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My eyes are crinkled and sport some bags; my skin is blotchy and all I did this morning was wash my hair- no product means Frizz-City. I'm even wearing the same t-shirt I had on in the previous post- it must have been clean and on the top of the stack.<br />
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But I'm smiling.<br />
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A real smile.<br />
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I am content; I am happy.<br />
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I've been out and about in town today looking like this, and I didn't care. I was just as confident as I was years ago when I had the luxury of spending time (and money) on my appearance. Actually, I know I am more confident now.<br />
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More content.<br />
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Happier.<br />
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Sure, I would like the time to pamper and primp once in awhile and judge a good outfit day by more than simply putting on cute shoes. Maybe some day I will have a high maintenance day and when I do you bet your Aunt Fanny I will take a picture. But for now, I know that this look- the oft seen shirt, the wrinkles and the blotches and what-style-is-that 'do? is the uniform of my people. And I am most comfortable in it.<br />
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To the casual observer I may look like the picture above and the more critical in that bunch might see flaws but I don't. I don't see things on my face as imperfections because I don't even see them. They disappear when I look in the mirror. Maybe they are obscured by all the blessings that I do have in my life.<br />
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Blinded by blessings. Not a bad way to look in the mirror.<br />
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Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-44899884527206705962013-05-12T12:02:00.003-05:002013-05-12T13:26:19.104-05:00Happy Mother's DayRight now- this very minute- I am hiding from the kids and man who made me a mom.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moms- They're better than Dads</td></tr>
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Horrible, right? Yeah, it is. I had this burning desire for solitude and a keyboard. I spent the morning with them and will...oops, one just found me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Middle child, teenage boy...and just back from a run</td></tr>
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Dang, teenage boys after a run smell like...umm, smells. It's easy to remember when his smell intoxicated me. That newborn, fresh from a bath smell? I still can get happy-dizzy thinking about it. I would take his tiny foot and pretend to eat it, or nibble his toes until he giggled. Now I tend to stay as far away from his feet as humanly possible...<br />
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...another one found me. This kid is the oldest and, unfortunately for her, the one who had to endure our steep parental learning curve. This child was the recipient of some of my worst parenting theories, but despite those errors in judgement she is also the one to set the bar for how all three kids are going to develop into adults. She is setting that bar high. I know she looks young, she is young, only 16, but she is morphing before my eyes into this creative adult who...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Hugs-A-lot</td></tr>
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..and hello, Little Guy. My snuggler. He promises to never stop snuggling me, but I won't hold him to it. If he doles out a hug once in awhile during his teenage years, I'll be content. I know he loves me.<br />
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I have completely lost my train of thought.<br />
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It's gone.<br />
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I sat down at my desk to write something sweet and deeply felt about Mother's Day. I had a glimmer of an idea (<i>Love On All The Moms</i>)based on 24-hours of thought about my post yesterday. I thought I had the rest of a post, or that the rest would magically fall from my fingertips as it sometimes does.<br />
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But it's gone.<br />
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And that is what motherhood is all about. Every kind of motherhood- whatever your definition. You have this idea of how it's going to work out, then actual humans get involved and mess up the plans.<br />
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But, when you look back, the way that it did happen is far better than you ever could have imagined.<br />
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<i><b>Happy Mother's Day!!</b></i></div>
Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-69703881512981467812013-05-11T20:06:00.001-05:002013-05-11T20:29:48.043-05:00Even when we have been there, we don't know the answers <br />
I've seen the tweets, facebook and G+ posts. I see them every year. A quick google brought up a bunch of blogs about it. The hot topic? Being sensitive to women with infertility issues on Mother's Day.<br />
<br />
Every time that I read a post I have the same question but have been to chicken to ask it of anyone that I know.<br />
<br />
How?<br />
<br />
How are we mothers supposed to react? How do we simultaneously celebrate this huge thing in our lives- for better or worse- while respecting those feelings? What, exactly, are we supposed to do?<br />
<br />
I had fertility issues for years (didn't have my first kid until I was 33) and I remember Mother's Day stinging that open wound. Going to church for a service that celebrated motherhood made me sad. Why couldn't I be celebrated for that? It's what I wanted. Why wasn't it happening? How could ALL those women have kids and I couldn't? I longed to wear a cheesy corsage and get a handful of flowers plucked from my own garden. It finally happened, obviously, but it took a long time and pain to get there. Likewise, it's taken a great deal of time and pain to raise kids and they are not done- not by a long shot. We are in the trenches.<br />
<br />
One of my best friends never was able to have children. My heart broke for her because, honestly, she would be one kick-ass mom, and her husband? Super Dad. It just wasn't in the plans for them no matter what they did; no matter how hard those of us who love them prayed and wished and hoped. I always tried to be considerate of her feelings but went way overboard one year and this is what she told me:<br />
<br />
She loved me. She loved my kids. She loved my life FOR me, and loved being a part of it but it hurt her when I kept quiet about things that were important to me because I was trying to spare her feelings. I should be able to vent to her about what I was going through just like she could vent to me about anything in her life. If I started keeping stuff from her, it would lessen our friendship and she didn't want that.<br />
<br />
(This is why she is one of my best friends.)<br />
<br />
But let me ask you, woman who is posting about your feelings on your blog, while I am posting about mine over here: What do you hope people (I'm assuming like me) do to make today and tomorrow more comfortable for you? Because, I'm going to be honest here, for a lot of Moms this is a very big deal. We have gone through pain and loss and hard work to get here, and we wouldn't change a moment of it because it's not only what we wanted but more than we could ever have imagined. Some days it also sucks a big one. Sometimes that Suck a Big One Day falls on Mother's Day.<br />
<br />
Mother's Day is different for all of us. Some love having a special breakfast and handmade cards. Others plan activities with their kids and have a fun and frolickey day. Some escape for time that they don't usually take for themselves. Some just want Dad to do what Mom always does: take charge and plan something, anything. Some set super high expectations and are let down; some set no expectations and are still let down. Some don't do anything. My own mother is of the, "Every day should be Mother's Day" school of thought and pooh-pooh'd any celebration.<br />
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Me? I'm of the Grab The Gusto When It's Presented and will do whatever I can get away with. If they want to celebrate me, I'm certainly not going to stop them.<br />
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Tomorrow a lot of us moms will be tweeting and posting pictures and commentary about Mother's Day. We aren't bragging (well, really MOST of us aren't) and we aren't (ok, maybe we are) whining when it's a Suck The Big One Day. But, simply put, we are sharing our day with people who we think would be interested.<br />
<br />
And I suspect you are not the interested sort.<br />
<br />
And that's cool.<br />
<br />
But you keep asking us to be considerate of your feelings. and a lot of us shared those feelings at one point but we still don't know so I'll ask.<br />
<br />
What, exactly, are we supposed to do to help you on this one day?<br />
<br />
This one day that is set aside to celebrate motherhood.<br />
<br />
How?<br />
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<br />Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-14949423216227844792013-04-17T12:27:00.003-05:002013-04-17T12:27:53.443-05:00I started this thing...You know how people liken life to a rollercoaster? You've got your ups, and you've got your downs. You've got your thrills, and you've got those days when you want to crawl under the seat and roll into a fetal ball and cry your eyes out but you can't because the safety bar is holding you in one position and you are so stuck you can barely breath but now that you think about it, getting off the ride would be optimal...but you can't. So you sit there and wait for the happy gleeful wheeeeee part?<div>
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Well the last few months have been like that. It's like I'm on a supersonic speedy rollercoaster that never ends and the icky sicky pukey wailey parts far outweigh the gleeful ones. In my head I know that this is just a phase, just a season and the wheeee parts will outweigh the ugh ones in the big picture. It's just that some days, it doesn't quite feel like it and my head has a hard time believing.</div>
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I thought I would capture some good. Some glee. Some wheeeee. Even if just a little bit. Not knowing how else to do it, I started a page on here called Something Good Happened To Me Today. Most days I'll just write a little bit, one good thing that happened. Maybe a picture, or just a couple of words- something.</div>
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Most days.</div>
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Although I have only been documenting for a few days now, It's safe to say I like it. I like having to concentrate on the good; I like putting effort (however minimal) into capturing a happy moment into words and pictures. I like that I have to look for and track the good things throughout the day and pick the best one.</div>
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I might end up making a tumblr or something less awkward but lemme get through the month of uuugh, wheeeee, nooo, seriously?,wheeeuugh first. But for now, I started this thing and the link is on the right hand side of my homepage.</div>
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Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-27828749561423141392013-04-07T14:42:00.000-05:002013-04-08T09:58:52.628-05:00Knock, Knock...Who's there?<br />
<br />
Bad blogger.<br />
<br />
Bad blogger, who?<br />
<br />
Bad blogger...me! Goodness! It's been awhile since I blogged on here! Forgive me?<br />
<br />
No? Ok, I'll accept that. But maybe if I tell you what I've been up to you might understand.<br />
<br />
I've been writing. A lot. Unfortunately at this point in my career no one cares. I can prattle on about the novel that I finished and am now submitting to try and get an agent. If you have done this, you know what I'm going through and my talking about it won't enhance your life at all. You know that it has nothing to do with the writing (although it feels like it) and you know that I simply need to be patient and persistent until I find someone who has enough of a connection with my work to want to champion it. Maybe not this project, but maybe they will connect with the next one.<br />
<br />
If you haven't been through this I can explain it, but I lack credibility. I don't actually have an agent yet, haven't sold a book yet- you will point out to yourself- the novel must suck because if it didn't, it would have been scooped up by now.<br />
<br />
It doesn't suck, ok?<br />
<br />
It doesn't.<br />
<br />
And the one I am halfway through rewriting doesn't suck either.<br />
<br />
And the one that is written but waiting to be rewritten doesn't suck.<br />
<br />
And the one I have outlined and character sketches for won't suck when I write it. Well, it will then I'll fix it up to non-sucky. I will. I've trunk filed novels for being sucky. Sometimes I start a column from scratch hours before it is due because what I wrote the first time did suck. I didn't take a freelance assignment because the samples I wrote to see if I could do it sucked. I think I know when I suck.<br />
<br />
For the last couple of months I have taken the advice of others and have reformatted my life so that I am sitting and writing for at least six hours a day. Writing and reading and researching and rewriting and learning as much as I can from that seat. (And standing up and stretching every hour or so because I know how painful a wacked-out pelvis or back can be.)<br />
<br />
I love it.<br />
<br />
I hate it.<br />
<br />
It's easy except when it's excruciatingly difficult.<br />
<br />
It's what I want to do, what I have wanted to do and I am sitting my ass in a chair and doing it (with limited external reward, I might add).<br />
<br />
Which totally sucks.<br />
<br />
But hey, that's the ride I got on, pulled down the safety bar and it's pulled away from the launch pad. I have to try, I'll always regret it if I don't and I might be rewarded if I do.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, upstairs...<br />
<br />
A couple months ago my husband got reorganized out of a job. For the same six hours that I am yabba-dabba-dooing at my desk, he is working his business at his. Networking, visiting company websites creating profiles and applying for as many positions as possible. He has a nice career as a Customer Service and HR Manager to fuel him, a very impressive work history, an inimitable work ethic and more common sense smarts than any other person I have ever met.<br />
<br />
What he doesn't have is a degree. And that is where he often gets spit out in the application process. See, when he ran out of money while going to college, he took a break to earn it...and landed with a company that offered him one job after another that he loved. He never went back to college. When the graduating class that he should have been with were pomp and circumstancing, he was managing a staff of college grads across a couple time zones and several states for a multinational company.<br />
<br />
While his classmates were working through entry level management jobs, he was being promoted to a hard-earned Director level position.<br />
<br />
It's not our first time doing the Restructure Lay-off Boogie. That great company had to do it back in the mid '90's. The company he landed at here in Kansas City had to do it again six years later. He restructured himself out a position 10 years after that, and this one? He was there for less than two years before we heard the same line.<br />
<br />
He doesn't suck, ok?<br />
<br />
He doesn't. Although he is sitting at his desk with limited external rewards feeling like he does- he knows it's a matter of time. He knows that he has to be patient and persistent and work at it to find that job that he wants and can do better than anyone.<br />
<br />
Maybe it won't be the job he hears about today.<br />
<br />
And maybe not the job he hears about tomorrow.<br />
<br />
But he'll get there.<br />
<br />
And so will I.<br />
<br />
Somehow.<br />
<br />
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<br />Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-22570652301459160412013-02-25T13:48:00.001-06:002013-02-25T14:21:13.414-06:00The Orange Story<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Last week in my Kansas City Star column I wrote about a short story that was intended to cheer up a friend, but also helped me ignore that I had the flu and helped me to stop whining about it (if only for a little bit). In the column I had posted a small portion of the story, but here it is in its entirety. It really was a facebook conversation, and yes, I did plump it up a bit and made it more of a short story than it had originally been. Several people- including some Star readers which really tickled me to bits!- have asked to read it, so here it is. All the names have been changed, the characters really aren't even close to what my friend is like and she never did tell me the details about her strange date. <br /><br />Enjoy!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I opened the
door and there was Clark. I had expected odd- I did know the man and had been
discouraging such an evening for months. But I hadn’t expected this level of extraordinarily
odd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He was
dressed from head-to-toe in orange. Hat to shoes. I’m not sure where he found
an orange belt, I never got the nerve to ask. He looked like an OOmpah Loompah
in a fun house mirror – the natural odd shape becoming a normal man shape. But
that was Clark- even what appeared normal was not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Didn’t I
tell you to wear orange?” he asked looking convincingly shocked. “I thought I
made it clear,” his expression changing to sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I’m sorry,
Clark. I thought you were kidding with all the ‘orange you going to wear yellow
and red together’ comments.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">His faced
changed again to a look of hopefulness as handing me a bouquet of orange
carnations. I really hate carnations. Ok, I’m snobby but they are a cheap
flower and only get their color from dye so they are fake and cheap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Thank you,
I’ll just get these in water and we can get going.” I reluctantly let him into
the foyer as I hurried to the kitchen feverishly texting my friend Tammi:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b>TEXT
ME AN EMERGENCY IN AN HOUR DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS JUST DO IT</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I came
back into the living room Clark was sniffing my bookcase. Not the books – the
wood, well, the composite wood. As I put the fake flowers on the fake wood I
accepted not only that I was a hypocrite, but that I had to go through this
date- if only for an hour. He was nice enough, right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark was
looking rather squiffy as he took one more hit off the top shelf and turned to
face me. “Do you have an orange sweater or something Maybe a shrug?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Clark, no
one…I mean I look horrible in orange. I don’t have anything. Why is this so important?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Orange is
the color of joy and friendship in Lithuania,” he sure sounded convincing. “We
would match and have a great inside joke forever if we were both wearing
orange. Then, on our honeymoon, we could go to Lithuania. Only then we would
wear green because that is the color of love.” He paused and made a face that
probably was supposed to make him look sexy, only it really made him look
pained. “Or puce which is the color of fertility.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I should
have made up something right then and there, or told him the truth: I wasn’t
interested in him and only agreed to this date to show him how incompatible we
really are- but I didn’t. Instead I grabbed my blue coat- hoping that it wasn’t
the color for Ravish Me and lead him out the door.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Little did I
know that this was the least strange thing that would happen that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> #<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I haven’t
seen one of these in years,” I told him as he opened the door to the old white
car with wood-esque paneling on the exterior, “I thought they all died out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He began to
sing, “Chevy Chevette it will drive you happy…” and silenced himself as he
closed me into his car, seeming to whistle as he rounded the hood. Strapping
myself in, I glanced in the back seat and took a big sniff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What is
that smell, it’s so familiar.” I asked as he whistled himself behind the wheel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Lavender
and vanilla. I mix the potpourri myself, grew the lavender, too. Is it too
much? I just put a new sachet in the backseat yesterday.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“No, it’s
nice. And this car is so clean, did you have it detailed, too?” I wondered how
out of his way he had gone for this date that was only going to last one hour. <i>One hour, Nikki, ONE HOUR</i>, I told
myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Oh, no. I
keep Chelly in mint condition. I love her and she loves me back. Lovin’ each
other since 1981.” He caressed the dash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dear God, he
named his car. I have a theory about guys who name their cars and it isn’t a
good one. Tammi could not text me fast enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Where are
we headed, or did I miss that in our conversation, too?” I asked as he checked
his rearview from all angles times and finally pulled out into the deserted
street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“No, I
didn’t say. It’s a surprise, you’ll love it.” He pushed an 8-track into the
player, “I hope you like ELO,” he said as he started to sing along with the
music, looking over at me and karaoke-ing from the driver seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“The visions
dancing in my mind, the early dawn the shades of time…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I have never
heard this song in my life,” I told him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Really?
ELO? Twilight?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Nope. “ I
answered as he turned down one side street after another. I had lived in this
town for ten years and he had me lost in less than two minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Where were
you in 1981?” He asked it like it was a very important question, like what
religion I am or if I ate meat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Middle
school.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Ahh,” he
nodded and sang along with the chorus. I stared at him waiting for him to
finish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Ahh?” I
finally asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Ahh,
Chelly. She wasn’t there with us,” he leaned in and spoke into the steering
wheel. Names his car and talks to her…er, it. I glanced at the clock on the
dash. 45 minutes until Tammi got me out of this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He continued
to sing along with ELO for two more, stopping only to ask me random questions:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What my first concert? (Corey Hart, but I lied
and told him Cyndi Lauper which was a close second, sorta)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What would
have been the major I would have least chosen in college? (Engineering. I suck
at math.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What color
is my bathroom? (Purple, but I told him it was none of his business. Which it
isn’t.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Finally he
pulled behind a strip mall that I thought I recognized and parked the car in a
lot that was surprisingly full. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Where are
we? This isn’t a strip club or something is it?” I grabbed my purse tightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“No, of
course not. I don’t just talk the talk at church, you know.” He looked hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I’m sorry.
Where are we?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He hopped
out of the car, indicating with his finger to wait a moment, “All will be
revealed. You’ll love it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“It’s not some
weirdo hookah lounge is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hush. I won’t
spoil the surprise,” he answered as he closed his door and ran, no, he skipped-
as he skipped around to open my door and help me out. With a flourish he bowed
and offered his arm, which I reluctantly took because I figured if this was
some sort of trap I could use him as a shield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We walked to
a door that was blackened from the inside and he pulled it open. The wave of
warm air that washed over me smelled like exotic spices, soft jazz played in
the background.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“After you,”
he bowed again. I wished he would stop with the stupid bowing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I took a few
hesitant steps in, letting my eyes adjust to the low light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A voice from
beside me asked, “Hello, do you have a reservation?” I turned and saw a middle
aged woman wearing a white peasant blouse and black slacks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Several,” I
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Kenneth,
Clark Kenneth.” Came the answer from behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“CLARK!” And
then something that sounded like, “Labas vakaras!” I spun to see a round and
tall man barreling our way. I stepped out of his line of fire and behind Clark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Mike!” And
then something that sounded like “Labas! Malonu tave matyti!” The two hugged.
But not Bro-hugs of the guys I know, and not romantic hugs, either- but hugs of
two people who have been through a lot and love each other because of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m sort of
an expert on hugs. Don’t judge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Who is this
lovely woman?” The man asked. His voice had some sort of accent that I couldn’t
place, maybe Eastern European, maybe Greek?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark put
his hand on the small of my back and pushed me forward, “This is Nikki. Nikki I
would like you to meet my good friend, Mykolas, he is the owner of this place-
Little Lithuania!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The very
large man with a grey handlebar moustache stuck out his beefy hand, “Call me
Mike, everyone does. Welcome.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He turned to
talk to the women who had greeted us only it was more rapid fire words in a
language that I didn’t understand. Clark leaned in, “He’s getting us the best
table.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“How do you
know him, this place?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark
winked, “Oh, I get around.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mike smiled
big at us, “Follow Rasa, she will take good care of you. I must go put a fire
out in the kitchen.” he smiled and continued with his heavy accent, “Not real
fire.” And then he laughed a laugh as big as he was as he walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
restaurant was nicer than I would have imagined based on the location. Yes, ok,
I’m a snob. There I said it, are you happy? Tastefully decorated in what I
could best describe as Scandanavian modern- polished woods with complex grains,
sleek lines and a lot of white- lighting, tablecloths, candles, walls, artwork-
it was very pretty. Rasa seated us on a dais that held three small, square
tables. The table was set with three square vases that held tight bunches of
orange carnations. I made a mental note to do this with the ones that Clark had
brought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark held
my chair for me, then settled into his own across the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Rasa, might
we have two Svyturys?” Rasa nodded and headed off towards the large bar on the
far side of the restaurant. “I hope you like beer, this one is my favorite.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I do. Hey,
Clark, orange carnations. They must want us to be joyful and friendly,” I said
as I put my linen napkin in my lap and settled my cellphone next to the water
glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark’s
smile faded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What? Isn’t
that what you told me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Yes,” he
lowered his head, “but I made it up. I knew they put orange on the tables on
Saturdays and I wanted you to match. I thought it would be a nice surprise for
Mike.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I figured
that </span></span><span style="line-height: 17px;">wasn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> as odd as anything else he had done tonight so I let it pass.
Besides, I was waiting for a fake emergency text. I may be a snob, but I had already learned that night not to be a hypocrite. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Rasa brought
our beers, while Clark told me about the heritage of beer brewing in Lithuania,
and some other things about the country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Are you Lithuanian?”
I finally asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Oh, no, I’m
a mutt. But I have been there, it is a beautiful country. I met Mike there,
helped him come here and open this place. He loves America and Rasa is his wife
that he met once he came here- they have three kids- natural US citizens. He
loves it here- but he loves his homeland, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As he
prattled on about the places he had been on his several trips, my phone buzzed
with a text from Tammi:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where R U? Emergency.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I picked it up and made a decision as Clark
stopped talking and gave me a saddened and worried look.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I held up a
pointer finger, “It’s nothing, just let me tell her I’m busy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Little Lithuania. No help.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I quickly
typed and put my phone back into my purse. At that point I figured that one
meal, one evening with Clark wasn’t going to kill me. I might get a decent dinner
out of it, learn something and then at the end I could tell him we had no
sparks. Clark was a nice guy, a little odd but he had a big heart. Maybe going out
with me would give him the confidence to ask other women out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Over the
course of the next hour, I would drink another beer, discover that pink borscht
isn’t as Pepto tasting as it looks. I learned about Gira -a surprisingly
refreshing drink that hides a little wallop of alcohol-is made from rye bread,
and that my new favorite food is Bulviniai blynai- basically a potato pancake
with a name that despite all the liquor, I couldn’t pronounce. It was a dinner
full of dark bread, potatoes, mushrooms and cheeses…and it was amazing. I tried
not to think about how many miles I would have to run to work it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Near the end
of our dinner, a band set up at the rear of the small dance floor. The tables
closest were moved back, and the wait staff reconfigured that part of the
dining area to create more dance space. Two women took out and tuned violins,
or maybe they were fiddles. One man strapped on a small accordion, one set a
table of percussion instruments and the final member uncased his bass fiddle. The
jazz that had been playing through dinner was turned off as the band began with
what Clark told me are traditional folk songs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“But they
can play anything, I’m sure as soon as things get hopping in here, we’ll hear
Free Bird.” He told me sipping his coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Are you
making that up, too?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He blushed, “No,
they will.” He turned toward the kitchen and the smile returned to his face. “Here
comes part of the show!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Three
waiters came out of the kitchen carrying trays that held cakes that looked like
pine trees covered in snow. Everyone in the restaurant turned to watch the
spectacle and applauded when they were placed on a long table near the band.
Following them out of the kitchen were several more wait staff and Mike
carrying trays of pastries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What is
that?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Lithuanian
tree cake. It’s a tradition, usually at weddings, but the cake is hollow and
made on a spit in the oven. Layer by layer the batter is dripped over and
cooked. It takes hours and Mike serves them every Saturday night on the dessert
bar. He says it’s a good way to get people out of their seats and onto the
dance floor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I was
admiring the dessert spread, a burst of activity by the hostess stand caught my
eye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tammi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She spotted
me, pushed Rasa aside and ran over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Are you
okay?” She asked as she got to our table, eyeing Clark suspiciously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What are
you doing here?” I asked. Tammi looked really scared, but ready for a fight.
Which is one of the things I love most about her- she’s scrappy and tough, and
really a loyal friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark stood
up, “Hi?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Tammi cocked
an eye at me, “Who is this? </span></span><span style="line-height: 17px;">Didn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> you get my texts?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">“I did. I
answered you,” I </span></span><span style="line-height: 17px;">didn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> want to have to say anymore out loud and hurt Clark’s
feelings, “I’m fine. There isn’t anything I needed.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tammi was
having none of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“You said.
Help.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I said ‘no
help.’” I corrected her. I wanted to whisper but the music was too loud, she
never would have heard me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tammi dug
her phone out, “No, you said to make an emergency and then I did and you told
me where you were- which, hello? I have never been here or even heard of it before
and it was hard to find although it’s kinda cool- then you said…” she scrolled
through her texts and read aloud, “Little Lithuania. No help. Shit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Shit.” I
agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">“I’m so
sorry!” She dropped her fighting face, “I guess I </span></span><span style="line-height: 17px;">didn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> read it right.” Then
she stuck her hand out towards Clark, “Hi. I’m Tammi. I thought I was saving
Nikki from a bad date, but instead I am totally embarrassed.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The other
thing about Tammi? No filter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clark shook
her hand then dragged an empty chair to the table and smooshed it on a corner, “Well,
you are here now. Sit down, the fun is about to start.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I just
looked at him, “That’s it? I’m so sorry Clark…” I began but he put his hand up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">“It’s okay.
You are not the first woman to fake an emergency to get out of a date with me.
I know you didn’t want to come and I realized about three minutes in at your
house that this </span></span><span style="line-height: 17px;">wasn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> going to be romance for us, but I thought it would be
fun. And it has been. If I spend the rest of my evening with two beautiful
women eating pastries and dancing then I will consider my evening a success.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hey!” Said
Tammi pointing back and forth between her and Clark. “We match! And we match
the flowers on the table. I put this dress on- even though I know that Nikki
says no one looks good in orange because it makes me happy. Joyful. It makes me
feel like dancing! What is this music? I love it!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In that
moment I realized three things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One: Some people
do look good in orange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Two: I judge
people based on the most ridiculous, superficial reasons. That night I learned not to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Three: That
someday I would be standing here, giving quite possible the longest wedding
toast in the history of Maid of Honors and toasting the two most wonderful and
amazing people that I have had the pleasure to love and who love me back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To Clark and
Tammi- God bless your marriage, all of us here today wish you many long years! Buk sveika!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[endif]--></span>Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-254405912987091932013-01-04T14:25:00.000-06:002013-01-04T15:41:07.889-06:00A Very Peculiar Birthday Party <br />
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There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who think all birthdays should be celebrated, and those who ignore birthdays.</div>
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The former get a flash of childhood glee as they approach the anniversary of their own birth. They countdown to the day, awake excited to greet a new year.</div>
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The other might enjoy some birthday attention but if no one remembered that would be okay, too. They think that birthday celebrations are for children or perhaps an occasional, milestone party would be ok but keep it low-key.</div>
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The former are walking around in a cloud of party glitter on their birthdays; the latter are walking around pretty much the way they always do.</div>
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I am a former.</div>
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My husband is a latter.</div>
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Several years ago I decided that I had reached a point in life when waiting for people (my husband) to throw me a birthday party simply wasn't the right strategy. The family members who were picking up the celebratory slack needed to be given a reprieve. It was time for me to take charge.</div>
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So I threw my own party. Well, sort of. I planned a meetup of members of a local message board on the weekend of my birthday.</div>
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And it was awesome.</div>
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To be fair, "threw" is a bit of an exaggeration. Everyone picked up their own tab at a restaurant that was kind enough to let us hang out there for several hours.</div>
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It was so much fun, we did it again the next year and it sort of became a thing- Susan's Birthday Party Lunch.</div>
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But we missed a year, last year I was visiting my family in Connecticut. I got to spend it with the guy who followed me out the door- so to speak- my twin brother, and my parents. I did things that I had never imagined doing. It was a very, special birthday.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I got to give myself a double chin on the ferry to Martha's Vineyard in late January</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I got to shovel the snow off the decks of my parent's boat</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EJw7zcmo_2w/UOco1udduGI/AAAAAAAAC7s/SSqkq4G941k/s1600/DSC06298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EJw7zcmo_2w/UOco1udduGI/AAAAAAAAC7s/SSqkq4G941k/s400/DSC06298.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">And I got to blow out my candle on a shared cake. We hadn't done that since we were kids.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">This year, for this milestone birthday, I want to have a day that exemplifies how I feel about turning 50. I want to share the feeling that my collective body of life experiences and attitude earned is something to be celebrated. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> I want a day that shows how I feel: perfectly seasoned, not aged; wise not weak; fresh and sassy not stale.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I have been thinking about what this year means and how best to celebrate it for a long time. I want to stage dive into 50. I want to slap on a Hello, I'm Having a Mid-Life Crisis name tag as an excuse to get away with some particularly hair-brained schemes. But mostly I want my friends to get rid of the over-the-hill, washed-up, too-old-for-that-mentality and join me if only for an hour.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Because if you want to stage dive, you should. And when you do stage dive, someone has to be there to catch you. That's what makes the leap worthwhile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So my inner control-freak is taking charge. I'm planning a day where I can go to the places in my city that I have always wanted to, but lacked time. I want to look into the eyes of people that I don't see nearly enough and those whose face I have never set eyes on but have longed to. I want memories with the people I care about- that's the best birthday gift I can imagine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">On that day, I will travel North, South, East and West in our city. I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but if you are in Kansas City on my birthday, I will be near you. And if you are reading this, I want to meet you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">It's a little weird, divaish and peculiar to plan your own birthday party- but I like to think that I am a little weird, divaish and peculiar so I suppose it's very fitting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">You who has made it this far in this highly self-indulgent post, are most cordially invited to share the day with me- <b><i>Susan's Peculiar Mid-life Diva Stage Dive Tour</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">RSVP in the comments, or send me a private message via facebook, twitter or G+.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"> If you don't know my birthday, I'll give you a hint: my mother got a 2 'fer1 when she gave birth to twins. Yes, it's a school day, but the schedule goes early and late. And, because my husband may be out of work by then, I'm afraid we have to go dutch. I know, peculiar. </span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">PS: Not posting any RSVP comments for this post to keep your participation choice private- so feel free to not use your public voice. </span></i></div>
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Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-15261921667447337722012-12-11T15:28:00.000-06:002012-12-11T15:28:11.168-06:00Joseph on the ShelfWhen we hauled the Christmas decor upstairs, Joseph lost his head.<br />
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Again.<br />
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For several years, part of our holiday traditions include re-gluing Joseph's head back on. My brother gave us this manger scene the first year that we were married, and it has had a place of honor every year since. The scene depicted is, after all, what our family holiday centers around.<br />
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But, like Mary and Joseph, we had some kids. And like all but one of theirs, our kids are not perfect. One of ours knocked Joseph to the ground and he lost his head. My first line of repair is always the hot glue gun. It seemed to work for this project,too.<br />
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Every time. Enter that tradition.<br />
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But this year, now almost two weeks since the arrival of Joseph to the living room, I was a little slow on the repair. The fact that it didn't horrify the kids was my chief excuse.<br />
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"I see Joseph still has no head," they would say. It was as if they thought, "Don't all manger scenes depict a headless patriarch?"<br />
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But I should fix it.<br />
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Yesterday I hauled the glue gun upstairs (yes, it's soooo heavy). Then I located ammo sticks.<br />
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And that's as far as I got in the process that day.<br />
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Today I passed by Joseph and grabbed his head with the full intention of reuniting it with his body. But then I thought about the Elf on the Shelf (EOTS).<br />
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I can't say anything that hasn't already been said about this Elf creature. If he's your thing, I'm sure it's a very charming family tradition. Much sweeter than my headless Nazarene.<br />
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I'm not a fan. It seems like more work than I want to add to my plate at this time of year. If I have to make excuses for the Tooth Fairy not arriving, then I'm pretty sure I won't be able to keep up with EOTS. And I have used so many excuses for why the Tooth Fairy didn't come through, that I created a TOS for her several years ago.<br />
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<i><b>Tooth Fairy Terms Of Service:</b></i><br />
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<i>You must notify a parent when a tooth falls out. A parent MUST call the Tooth Fairy Hotline (TFH) and set an appointment. The secret number of the TFH is only given when an adult becomes a parent, a ndif the number is given to a child, all services to that household will cease. If a scheduling call is made past normal office hours, the Tooth Fairy MAY choose to postpone the visit by a night; if the child attempts to trick the Tooth Fairy in any way, she will also postpone for an additional day. If the child complains, the parent may call to postpone another day. The Tooth Fairy is a very busy woman, works by appointment only, and sometimes misses appointments due to unforeseen emergencies, or inclement weather in other parts of the world. If this occurs, a representative of the TFH may call a parent after the child is asleep and reschedule.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>ACCEPT</i><br />
<i>DECLINE</i><br />
<i>THERE IS NO BUT</i><br />
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Inspired by several PinterUberBloggingBSMoms overly saccharine EOTS posts- I decided to let Joseph play Elf on the Shelf. I figured that if the elf could narc on kids to Santa, Joseph certainly had a direct line to Jesus.<br />
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Am I right?<br />
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At first I thought it might be offensive- this is, afterall, a statuette of the human father of Jesus. But then I figured it was just a statuette. If someone worships a statuette I think that falls under worshipping false idols and God would have more issue with them, leaving me free to scoot around that person, and badda bing- heaven.<br />
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Besides, if you think that this Anglo inspired fella looks anything like the real Joseph, you might need some geography and history lessons.<br />
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File Joseph's Head on a Shelf under: That's Not Creepy At All.<br />
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Right next to Elf on the Shelf.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He seas you.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actually ON a shelf</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This probably smells a lot better than the stable</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheese Head or Head Cheese- you pick</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suh-WEEET!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4-4q6EQ1i4k/UMeM1fTlVBI/AAAAAAAACjw/i_dbNps-yn8/s1600/033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4-4q6EQ1i4k/UMeM1fTlVBI/AAAAAAAACjw/i_dbNps-yn8/s320/033.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I seriously might keep this here</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y9p-HqOSLGI/UMeNQiVpYbI/AAAAAAAACj8/RZJqIbWpSvQ/s1600/034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y9p-HqOSLGI/UMeNQiVpYbI/AAAAAAAACj8/RZJqIbWpSvQ/s320/034.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This would totally freak out my husband</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P7fucALSRTI/UMeNtzljdLI/AAAAAAAACkI/-7UdCxARsrs/s1600/035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P7fucALSRTI/UMeNtzljdLI/AAAAAAAACkI/-7UdCxARsrs/s320/035.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet dreams, Joseph</td></tr>
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<br />Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-43867142499481209582012-11-23T16:15:00.000-06:002012-11-23T16:27:58.420-06:00Picking A Side: Black Friday Shopping<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
This is not a shocking revelation. It's not a thought unique to me, I'm simply picking a side to stand on.<br />
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I've been debating Black Friday shopping in my head the last couple of days. I've read cute posts on facebook and twitter about waiting in line and the comradery of being with loved ones and friends. I've seen the sales ads with the great deals, and yes, if you can score one of those limited quantities, and it's something that is on your list and in your budget- that would be something. The thrill of the hunt and all.<br />
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I've seen the pictures, the video of the worst of the mayhem. I can only assume that most scenarios aren't quite that greedily horrific, most shopping experiences don't have the level of ugly consumerism that are in those images. They can't can they?<br />
<br />
But the potential is there.<br />
<br />
While I won't piss on anyone's fun- everyone has their things and if Black Friday shopping is one of yours- you go for it! Have fun! Enjoy! Share the cost of all your hard won deals and get all your Christmas shopping done before I even finish off the pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving.<br />
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Score those discounted items and have that special time with your people! That really would be the only appeal for me because, honestly, I don't think I have the stomach for it. The worry and wonder alone of possibly having to witness one of those worst case scenarios would suck any joy out of the outing.<br />
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Like I said, it's not shocking or earth shattering or even all that important...but Black Friday shopping is not my thing. I spent the day helping my kids clean out closets and toy chests full of their own former materialistic dreams.<br />
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I also ate pumpkin pie.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-53769887893849631612012-11-07T14:51:00.001-06:002012-11-07T14:51:09.954-06:00Part of my planting...As part of my planting season, as in the past couple of years, during November I am participating in NaNoWriMo.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh great, another wanna be novelist talking about how awesome NaNoWriMo is...</i><br />
<br />
Sorta.<br />
<br />
But not really.<br />
<br />
I firmly believe that the best way to grow is to push yourself. See what you are made of. Challenge yourself as you have never challenged yourself before. Do this in WHATEVER your thing is and you will learn a lot about YOUR THING, but also heaps about YOURSELF.<br />
<br />
(I'll stop yelling now.)<br />
<br />
Last year I finished NaNo in 19 days. I loved my story. I loved it so much that I went back and started to rewrite it...then I found another story that I loved, so I wrote that. And I loved that so much that I started NaNo.<br />
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Yeah, <i>so</i> logical. I know.<br />
<br />
Today, Day 7 of the NaNo challenge to write a 50K novel in 30 days, I hit word number 25K.<br /><br />Week one, half done.<br />
<br />
But being ahead of my pace isn't all that I am challenging myself with this NaNo. I also am collaborating on the story with my 16 year-old daughter. Her 16K and my 50K is a nice sized story, and we thought that it would be fun to take the solitary activity of writing and make a parent/kids activity out of it.<br /><br />Our novel is a mother-daughter tale about life, loss, love, and learning to accept, embrace and polish what you are given into a unique and wonderfully gleaming gem of a life.<br /><br />It's also a love story about mothers and daughters...and there is a mermaid, because both my daughter and I kinda love mermaids.<br />
<br />
It might suck in the end, but I don't think it does. My gut tells me otherwise.<br />
<br />
See, one of the lessons that I have learned since doing my first NaNo was HOW to listen to my gut. And, I don't know if this is universal, but when my gut talks, it's actually IN MY GUT. It's this weird glowy feeling warming up my belly and radiating to my heart.<br />
<br />
Once this challenge is complete, then I will leap with joy into the next challenge unlike last year.<br /><br />I am going to stop writing novels.<br /><br />Well, I'm going to stop STARTING them and stopping before they are rewritten. I'm going to accept, embrace and polish them. I'm going to listen to my gut and not start another until the two that I have done this year- and the one that I did last year -are polished bright and shiny into unique and wonderfully gleaming gems.<br />
<br />A lot of bloggers post chapters or excerpts from their NaNo's- but I'm not one of them. I'm not comfortable doing that right now.<br /><br />But I will share the goofy cover that my daughter and I made for this project.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bb6SRYB7ZYc/UJrHdfjp4VI/AAAAAAAAB7M/TmpKxSZQlz4/s1600/OS+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bb6SRYB7ZYc/UJrHdfjp4VI/AAAAAAAAB7M/TmpKxSZQlz4/s320/OS+cover.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-34199414764623009252012-10-19T10:59:00.001-05:002012-10-19T14:04:59.334-05:00I suckI don't really think I suck. Not now, anyway. I have a fairly healthy level of self-worth that outweighs my level of self-loathing by a pretty high margin. But I suck at following through on my promise to this blog. Last post I promised that I would be,"back in a sec" and I'm only just doing that now. Gonna claim Mom Time (that abstract and highly subjective measurement system) on this.<br />
<br />
So, where have I been? What's up with this epiphany I had? Here it is:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0Cnq0cCnbLs/UIFtkZImzvI/AAAAAAAABt8/_qYnUf2IhEI/s1600/facebooktimelinetime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0Cnq0cCnbLs/UIFtkZImzvI/AAAAAAAABt8/_qYnUf2IhEI/s400/facebooktimelinetime.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I made these stones years ago for my garden. Then my whole self-worth was tied to being a good mom- which is not a bad thing, but being a good mom isn't the only thing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
At the beginning of this year I was poised for change. The year previously had been full of exciting changes as I morphed from full-time SAHM to some pretty exciting roles. It was fun and I wanted more!<br />
<br />
That year I began to write a weekly newspaper column and- most importantly- began to be paid for my writing which did a hell of a lot in justifying the time and energy I put into it. It also gave me a sense of validity and purpose.<br />
<br />
And mail.<br />
<br />
Have you ever gotten, oh this sounds pretentious- fan mail? I never did, why would I? OK, the " Worlds Greatest Mom" notes my kids have given me through the years are pretty much the most fabulous fan mail ever and very, very valuable.<br />
<br />
But from strangers?To know that someone who has no reason to read what you write, hear what you say... to listen, is listening? It's heady. And flattering. And humbling. And I hope that I never get used to it and take it for granted, but I also hope that I never let it be the only voice that tells me I'm doing a good job. I need to know that internally. But not excessively. That's a pretty fancy dance and I hope that I learn it with the grace an important dance like this requires.<br />
<br />
But that wasn't the only change that year- I also began to co-host the podcast at the same time. Also life altering for the amount of work that it requires, and the people that I have met because of it- but the most amazing part for me was being asked to participate. I was a SAHM, a blogger- not a historian. But the prospect of the challenges and personal growth was overwhelming. I had to do it. Had to. Just like I had to have kids, and I had to marry the man that I did- I can't really explain it more than that.<br />
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2011 was a crazy busy and changing year and I was ready for it to continue into 2012. I was excited to see where life would take me and what windows of opportunity would allow me to leap through them. I was open for change and convinced that change would happen.<br />
<br />
So, what happened?<br />
<br />
Nothing. Changed<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
Standing at the open door and screaming, "Come on change! Show me my destiny!" did nothing.<br />
<br />
(That was figurative, by the way.)<br />
<br />
I worked editing one of the novels I had written the year before; I started a new one. I studied and wrote and wrote some more- but nothing changed. A couple things did cross my desk- one I tried and failed, one I decided wasn't worth the time that I would have had to devote to it and never leaped at it.<br />
<br />
I felt like I was working hard and had nothing new to show for it. It was wheel-spinning at it's worst. I was frustrated. And disappointed. And really did feel like I sucked. My marriage suffered, some other personal relationships suffered- I didn't even want to be around me.<br />
<br />
But then I had an epiphany when I stepped outside and saw those stones in my garden:<br />
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Not all years are meant for big, visable change. Some years you plant, and some years you harvest and both are of equal importance. Both create change.The harvesting years are more exciting, more visably rewarding for sure. You have something to show for the work.<br />
<br />
But the planting years? No appreciative mail for planting, no visable ( or financial) reward for it either. But without it, you have nothing to harvest.<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
So I am still happily planting. Change will come. It may not be loud and flashy- it may just sneak up on me like it had always been there. I don't know. But until it does, I'm focusing on planting.<br />
<br />
<br />Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-63316415239452505712012-09-14T11:15:00.005-05:002012-09-14T14:57:59.692-05:00I'll be back in a sec...but take a moment to think about your joyYes, I know it's been a long time. And I'm sorry. And I'll post about why soon. BUT I wanted to slap this down here because it made me smile.<br />
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I write. I love to write. I get high writing. It is not my end all and be all, but it is one of the greatest joys in my life<br />
<br />
A parental optimal scenario is when our kids find our life joys for themselves and you both get to splash around and play in that joy together.<br />
<br />
Brian has Luke and sports.<br />
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I have Bekah and writing.<br />
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And then there is Noah.<br />
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He is only in second grade. He's fairly athletic but there isn't one particular sport that he seems to find his joy in. He is smart but I don't see him as being drawn to one pursuit. It will happen, Noah will find a joy. Luke found joy like that, slowly over time through grade school. I found joy like that and it took me even longer. I'm simply thrilled to be a part of his personal search and discovery journey.<br />
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In the past year or so he has been writing. School assignments, a journal, simple one page, one paragraph essays...he seems to be able to put his moods onto paper. I want to save them all, even the ones with all the spelling mistakes and anger and cross outs. But he is very prolific.<br />
<br />
Yesterday he brought home this. He seemed very proud of it, told me that his teacher always smiles when she reads his papers and that he likes making her smile. Maybe she smiles at every paper from every kid, I don't know. But when I read this answer on a test about a book that they read in class it made me smile, too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyYBuXX_DV4/UFNWfLz0ViI/AAAAAAAABqg/UkkiobCMfcw/s1600/IMG_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EyYBuXX_DV4/UFNWfLz0ViI/AAAAAAAABqg/UkkiobCMfcw/s400/IMG_NEW.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"<i>Real frogs don't spend there hole day raking leves. real frogs swim all day and eat bugs so they are way different from each other. Thank you and good night."</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>He may still be on a journey to find his joy, but reading my kid's voice in an essay question on a test is another one of mine.<br />
<br />
Thank you and good night!<br />
<br />
Susan<br />
<br />
<br />
Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-18982734839812340012012-07-08T15:12:00.001-05:002012-07-08T15:18:08.288-05:00Nothing dies on the internetWe all know (or we should) that anything that is posted online is going to live forever. OK, it might not, but we should <i>treat </i>everything that we post online as if it were to live forever. We should also assume that the person we would least want to see it, will. Remembering those two things will ensure that online life stays fairly drama free.<br />
<br />
If we wanted to add on another thought- we should remember Rule 34: if it exists, there is porn of it. I'm not into that, but I twist the rule around a bit to remind myself that whatever I put on here, this blog that gets only nominal hits, can be used for gross and perverse acts. I do put some pictures of my children here, because I use this space to keep far flung family and friends caught up on their antics. And some of those pictures are funny. And this is sort of a family memory space.<br />
<br />
So I try to think of any possible outcome of my words, and I weigh the pros and cons before posting things on here. Obviously, I can't think of every outcome, but live with my choices to post.<br />
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Sometimes I look at my stats (they are on the rise, thanks for reading!) and today I found this way down the list of searched words that landed people here:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4WVQpJ3VYLE/T_nmwsvx2UI/AAAAAAAABgg/0YwIJiqYxJM/s1600/whoyoucallingold.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="50" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4WVQpJ3VYLE/T_nmwsvx2UI/AAAAAAAABgg/0YwIJiqYxJM/s640/whoyoucallingold.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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The post that linked to this one was<a href="http://sahmiam43.blogspot.com/2009/08/old-lady-and-sea.html" target="_blank"> a tale I recounted </a>back in 2009 of a sweet older woman who helped get me into some icy Maine water. But the only picture on that post was this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1xmjSBaions/SnnTGk0QBRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/uc77VWS3pa0/s1600/old+lady+and+sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1xmjSBaions/SnnTGk0QBRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/uc77VWS3pa0/s320/old+lady+and+sea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Not the older woman who got me into the water, but me in my (arguably) old lady swimsuit and sarong sitting on the beach in Maine.<br />
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Sigh.<br />
<br />
Now I have to wonder if that is the old lady on the beach image that someone was looking for....and if there is an application of Rule 34 of it floating around the webs.<br />
<br />
On the flip side, when I AM an old woman I will have this to look back on as me in my younger years. Maybe I won't cringe.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-4132209368930585052012-07-05T17:16:00.004-05:002012-07-06T16:20:41.921-05:00We're Just the GirlsToday Bekah and I went shopping. It was a rare trip for the two of us, usually one, or both, of the boys come along. But today, it was just us girls traipsing through Walmart, Target, a resale shop and two grocery stores. (What? I like to spread my retail expenditures all around.)<br />
<br />
The first two stores are necessary evils as far as I am concerned. When the highlight of the trip is a new shower curtain, you know it's low on the thrill scale. Also, the music was so horrid, I won't even comment on it.<br />
<br />
As we shopped in the first grocery store, it was disco music that got us. This store plays 70 and 80's music loudly, which tells me that they know me. OK, it tells me that they know their demographic and I am it. My teenage daughter knows some of this music, mostly because she hangs around with me. And because she hangs around with me, she has learned to not be embarrassed. Embarrassment is futile. It won't stop me, and probably will encourage me.<br />
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Her motto: What the hell, do as Mom does.<br />
<br />
We did our best disco moves in the bread aisle. Although, my Tony Manero saunter to the check out lines probably will appear on the Shoppers- Cam Blooper Reel at the next store employee party.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>At the second grocery store they like to play more recent (last ten years) pop music. As we were leaving, pushing the final cart out of the final store into the incinerator disguised as a parking lot, we both started head banging at the same moment. And not in a subtle mature way either. Hair flying head banging. Hang onto the cart, Mama or you will fall over head banging. At the end of the chorus my daughter turned to me, laughed and said, "I love us." Heart melted like ice cream in that parking lot. Heart melt. I love us, too.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/PHzOOQfhPFg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-10857073834831791842012-07-02T10:49:00.000-05:002012-07-02T10:49:25.668-05:00What the heck?June 4th? That's the last time I posted?<br />
<br />
Am I blog fading? Taking a long, slow spiral to non-postland?<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Have I been hospitalized or have I experienced a painful demise of key electronics?<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Have I been working on some really exciting new project that I'm just waiting for the right time to reveal?<br />
<br />
No, not really. Sadly. That would have been a great excuse, but no, the reason I haven't posted isn't as exciting. It's my kids. They are fine, but active. And loud. And home.<br />
<br />
We are planning a special vacation later this summer, one of those when personal history meets new adventures meets a really beautiful location with a lot of people who are dear to us. But this vacation is sucking up all our fun money (not that we had a lot of that to begin with), and we can't really afford many fun jaunts in the meantime. So the kids and I have been home. Together. Doesn't that sound like fun? (It can be, but usually it's not. And, before you ask, it doesn't equal a really clean house either)<br />
<br />
So I have been home and distracted by three very different children- one of them likes to watch reality shows with me (Oddities is our newest one);one likes to make videos of him playing video games; and one likes to read, and if I sit down to read my books at the same time, she smiles. To her, this is spending quality time together.<br />
<br />
<br />
We have been hanging out at home. except when the boys played baseball. The long, hot and painful (to me) season just ended. Luke didn't have his greatest year playing wise, and Noah is starting to figure out how to play well and hates to lose. Luke was a great sport who didn't have a good season; Noah was a poor sport who had a pretty good season that ended with a heartbreaking nail-biting final game.<br />
<br />
Luke has moved on to football, Noah has moved on to memorizing everything about Indiana Jones. And me/ I'm opening up the projects that have sat dormant for a couple of months. Re-reading them, re-editing them and maybe one of these days one of them will morph into one of those exciting new projects that I can share.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-65482642075642833692012-06-04T09:35:00.001-05:002012-06-04T09:36:49.804-05:00That's a "Duh"The other day I was wondering why I am having such a hard time getting work done this summer. I carried on about it in a post: I feel like I am chasing my tail, getting nothing done but being exhausted from the actions.<br />
<br />
Then I saw the forest through the trees.<br />
<br />
OK, THEN I mixed metaphors- which is pretty much how I have been feeling this summer, so it works. But I came to see if there are any comments (you like to read, not write, I get it) and my eyes fell to the blog header.<br />
<br />
The name of this blog. The tagline of this blog. THAT is why I am having such troubles. If the kids are home, then I am a SAHM. That is the job that needs so much of my energy. The kids questions, wants, and presence are the top and middle of my To Do List. That's what my head is telling me, anyway. (And my wallet, too, since a lot of what I do isn't exactly a huge revenue creator)<br />
<br />
Duh.<br />
<br />
Now...how to fix it?<br />
<br />
All I'm seeing is trees and tail.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-68746031018736129082012-06-03T14:04:00.000-05:002012-06-03T14:04:50.906-05:00Got some 'splaining to do...Can someone explain this to me: My kids are now older- 15, 13 and 7. They don't require a great deal of supervision, and the older two are more than capable of taking care of the younger one for long stretches of time. They can be given complicated lists of chores and will complete them with minimal nagging.<br />
<br />
None of them need me to entertain them, constantly keep an eye on where they are or scan the room for dangerous objects. If I provide ingredients they can create a meal and feed themselves and- on a good day- clean up their own messes. I never vacuum, and rarely do the laundry on my own any more. It's that sweet spot of time when they are still home, still look to me for guidance, still enjoy being with me but don't have to.<br />
<br />
Yes, they make dumb choices sometimes. Rare is the day when Luke and Noah aren't sopping wet from the hose or water-ammo'd firearms by noon. They squabble and need a referee. They want an ear to share a tale of teen <strike>drama </strike> woe. But, for the most part, they are pretty self sufficient. At least more-so than they have been for their entire lives thus far.<br />
<br />
So, how come I don't have more free time this summer? In theory I should have almost as much Susan Scheduled Work Time as I had when they were in school. I should be editing that thing I wrote a few months ago. I should be writing more posts on here. I should have ample time to research podcast topics. I should be ...I should be... I should be.<br />
<br />
But no.<br />
<br />
It has been a non-stop activity fest around here. Door slamming, "MOOOOOM" screaming, "Can I.." filled days. Some fun, some filled with projects, some not much more than a whole lot of taxiing kids hither and yon. Busy. And not at all what I thought this summer would be like.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I just don't get it.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-47660055972889157632012-05-19T12:46:00.000-05:002012-05-19T12:46:37.055-05:00Chchchchanges...Last week I took what felt like a big step. I wrote my final regular post on the site that has been very kind to me for the past couple-plus years, <a href="http://www.mom2momkc.com/index.php?a=profile&t=blog&u=466" target="_blank">M2MKC</a> ( That link will take you to my final post). I had thought about it for a very long time, weighed everything that I have going on in my life and made the decision.<br />
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When I found out that one of my friends would be taking the spot, I was so thrilled for her. It wasn't that long ago that I was in her (writing) shoes and the exposure a spot like that gets is invaluable in so many ways. And her name is Susan! It's still Susan Saturday!<br />
<br />
But I wasn't sure how I would feel when I saw someone in "my" spot. I do have a touch of competitiveness, would I feel that way toward someone I am supportive of?I would hate myself if I did so I was worried about hating myself.<br />
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Friday, after recording a podcast, and taxiing kid to baseball I had a moment of panic that I was missing a deadline. But no, I wasn't. I used the extra time to work on another project that I have mid-completion.<br />
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Saturday morning I sat down at my computer, took a deep breath and clicked. And felt.....happy. Happy for the other Susan. Happy for the mutually beneficial arrangement she and this site that I feel loyal to now have. I feared ugly emotions, and got beautiful ones.<br />
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This past week I have gotten some notes from people asking what my plans are. I was touched, but not ready to share because I don't have anything to share. Nothing concrete anyway. But I know this: I am in need of something substantial and am willing to do the work to make it happen.<br />
<br />
Whatever "it" is.<br />
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Change is in the air, but still off in the distance. I'm ready for it, though.<br />
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Go check out the other <a href="http://www.mom2momkc.com/?a=profile&u=7415&t=blog&blog_id=4625" target="_blank">Susan's blog!</a>Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-31759835231782560362012-05-08T10:20:00.007-05:002012-05-08T11:52:22.305-05:00"...and it was still hot."So...I gave in to curiosity and read 50 Shades of Grey. (More on that another time) (maybe)<br />
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ANYWAY...I read it, now I see it everywhere. Which is, mostly, not terrible- usually it's kind of giggle inducing (the most wonderful sound on earth, right? Yeah, you read it, too, I can tell).<br />
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Every time I take a sip of wine, I think,"it's crisp and sweet".<br />
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If I have to kneel on the floor for something (like to clean out under the sofa), I stop, put my hands on my thighs, lower my head and then I giggle because I am alone and look like an idiot.<br />
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When I'm doing the laundry, and get to my delicates, I almost hurl thinking of someone sniffing them. On purpose. Gigglehurl.<br />
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I giggle because I am immature like that.<br />
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Today, with the passing of Maurice Sendak, I took out my copy of Where the Wild Things Are.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Onn-13LV5X4/T6k45ovTIQI/AAAAAAAABSE/tkGCxo0TR1o/s1600/wildthings460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Onn-13LV5X4/T6k45ovTIQI/AAAAAAAABSE/tkGCxo0TR1o/s320/wildthings460.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The copy that I own was the copy that my mother read to my brothers and me as kids. When I moved out of my folks house as an adult, I swiped it along with a couple of other beloved children's book - Trumpet of the Swan, Charlotte's Web, Peter Pan, Jonathan Livingston Seagull (don't judge). When I had children of my own many years later, these are the copies that I shared with them (and will lock up when they move out of the house- Nuts. Tree. Fall.)<br />
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I took out the thin book with the sleeping Beast and the tiny sailboat on the cover, and marveled that it had survived all these years. It may be a first edition, I can't tell, but it was written the year I was born and Mom was really into books. I could see her getting it as soon as she heard about it. The edges are a little worn, but no pages are ripped. It's a miracle, really. Six childhoods, almost 50 years and no ripped pages?<br />
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I sat down to read it, thinking about what a gift this story was. How Max getting into trouble, being sent to his room for being naughty,and escaping via his imagination mirrored many a night in my own early life.<br />
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How Mom still loved him when he returned.<br />
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I read the book this morning and got misty imagining Mr. Sendak writing the story. I looked at the illustration detail of the Wild Things, and smiled at the innovation for the times.<br />
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And then I read the last sentence and cursed myself for reading 50 Shades of Grey. There are so many good books out there, and this is what I chose to spend my reading time on? I chose to put the details of 50 Shades into my brain along with such cherished memories like the ones surrounding all my childhood favorite literary memories?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
I really am an idiot.<br />
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So today I am filling it with good things that have already been written, spoken, filmed. And then I will let my brain speak to me through my fingers and see what happens. My only hope is that there is more good in there than not.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/U68bZbMM7q8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-10593331824833057982012-05-03T12:34:00.000-05:002012-05-03T12:34:17.800-05:00..and now a word from KloutI have said it before: I don't get Klout. <div><br />
</div><div>Sure, I sort of understand it, I just don't see a purpose for it in my life. I have a profile and sometimes I will check it, but honestly, I don't play the Klout game. I don't give +K to other people, mostly because I am never on there. I never invite friends, rarely play around with the tools and understand about half of what the stats show.<br />
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I also am not as prolific a social media poster as some, so my score and reach will always be limited. I'm fine with that, not competitive about it and really I only am on there for one main reason.<div><br />
</div><div>Sometimes the stuff Klout tells me that I am influential in makes my freaking day. Today I saw this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ps9U4izNqpY/T6K9MLYItwI/AAAAAAAABRI/gEYn9-p5JoY/s1600/cats+what.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="81" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ps9U4izNqpY/T6K9MLYItwI/AAAAAAAABRI/gEYn9-p5JoY/s400/cats+what.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div>Nice guess, Klout. If I am on the internet, I MUST be influential in cats. It's a requirement. And not even, cats...but with a capital C- Cats. All formal like.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I don't have a cat. I am highly allergic to cats, so much so that I can't even go to some people's very clean houses because of one cat. (And, FYI, putting the cat in the bathroom/bedroom/basement makes no difference to cat allergy sufferers. The stuff is in the air, no matter how often you vacuum. There isn't anything you can do. But thank you for trying.)<br />
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When we have home shopped, and the place is vacant, I had to lay on the carpet to see if I had a reaction before we would sign on the dotted line.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Cats crap in my flowerbeds and dig up my bulbs attempting to hide said crap.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I can't stand cats.<br />
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So, saying I am influential in cats cracks me up.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Although not as much as the second thing I am most influential in (according to Klout): </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BBCmDHtsngI/T6K9L0LDUYI/AAAAAAAABRA/j_I0Ke38btg/s1600/5+3+klout.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BBCmDHtsngI/T6K9L0LDUYI/AAAAAAAABRA/j_I0Ke38btg/s320/5+3+klout.JPG" width="280" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>I laughed about that one a while back. Ok, yeah, I sort of have a little pride in that one.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But the list is 11 items long! What's on the list? After those three:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u3EoPDP7pXA/T6K_FZnzMHI/AAAAAAAABRY/vG4LqYfXEik/s1600/more+of+list.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u3EoPDP7pXA/T6K_FZnzMHI/AAAAAAAABRY/vG4LqYfXEik/s320/more+of+list.JPG" width="218" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Football? I can't stand football! If I was influential in it at all, there would be NO football. And Texas teams? Huh what? I have never lived in Texas and if I had to pick a favorite team, it would be the Patriots- who are not on the list because I never talk football. Ever. OK, sometimes I do...to say I don't like it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I have to say, the end of the list kinda stings:</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xeCYSw2289Q/T6K_vJa5T_I/AAAAAAAABRg/mx5cPPx1KEQ/s1600/end+of+the+list.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xeCYSw2289Q/T6K_vJa5T_I/AAAAAAAABRg/mx5cPPx1KEQ/s320/end+of+the+list.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
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After football, which I can't stand, comes family and blogging. The two things that if asked, I would like to think that I knew a little about.<br />
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Sigh.<br />
</div><div>Giggle.</div><div><br />
</div><div>After vodka, cats and football Klout thinks I am influential in things that I actually care about.</div><div><br />
</div><div>That makes me laugh at Klout.</div><div><br />
</div><div>(And at the smartasses who +K me in stuff. Thank you for the laugh! You are my people!)</div></div>Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3625413174163907324.post-14377915118879715622012-04-27T10:57:00.003-05:002012-04-28T09:47:25.170-05:00Dreading 40? Read this.When I turned 40 almost 10 years ago I was excited. Leaving my 30's behind me meant re-evaluating my life and gave me a great opportunity for change. It was a fresh, blank journal of time, just waiting for me to fill it with direction and accomplishments.<br />
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The How of Change was a big mystery to me. I still had a child at home, although he was in preschool, but I knew that his going to kindergarten the following year would alter my days and give me some space to figure out the changes.<br />
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My 20's had been about meeting the grown-up me, and finding someone to share her with. My 30's had been about babies and toddlers and children. The challenges of having them, the challenges once they arrived, and the challenges of raising them.<br />
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My 20's and 30's had been spent learning, I was always a newbie at something. New at self-reliance and career, new at being a wife, new at motherhood, new at babydome. In the 10 years of 30, we moved several times and I always felt like the new guy. This newness brought certain anxieties. The new was a hurdle and only in retrospect can I say that I didn't feel comfortable with all these hurdles.<br />
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</div>While I wasn't looking forward to leaving the springiness of youth behind, I wanted to not be unsure and new any longer. I was ready for the changes of 40 even if I didn't know what they were.<br />
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If you have been following along in this blog you know: the big change was another child. Days before turning 42, I gave birth to Noah. The year prior, I had a miscarriage late in my first trimester. So the beginning of my 40's looked an awful lot like my 30's.<br />
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But, sometime after I turned 40-even while it still looked like my 30's- I realized something: I didn't sound new anymore. The words that would tumble with a power beyond my control from my mouth and fingers sounded wise. (OK, wise with a dose of wise-guy.) Apparently along the way I learned something. It continues to shock me each time it happens.<br />
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My 40's ended up being about using that acquired knowledge to learn MORE. Ask more questions, develop new interests, meet new people. Being new to things wasn't a stumbling block any more, it was a stepping stone. I was no longer worried about looking like the new mom, the new woman, who didn't know much and had to prove herself. I was the experienced person who had a base of knowledge and an eagerness to learn more.<br />
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I had wonderful experiences all through my 40's- even when it was bad and hard, life was developing me to be something. To do something. And I did what I could when it was presented to me. I didn't hesitate, I leaped.<br />
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Because of those leaps, I have landed where I am today. It may not be any grand, highly visible stage, but I am happy with where I am. Internally, it feels great and that is all that matters to me. I feel like I am, again, at the precipice of some changes, and I am looking for the next path. The path that will lead me to 50 and beyond.<br />
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You see, in less than a year I enter my 50's. Right now I have no idea what path to follow next. I am trying to look ahead, see which steps will be the most rewarding- which are right for me. I know that I am on that journey even though on any specific day it might not feel like it. Change is slow and best viewed farther down the path. I try to make changes as I see fit: some little, some big, but I change while still holding tight to all that is dear to me.<br />
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I may have stepped into my 40's but because of what has happened in my life in the last 10 years, I don't plan to step into my 50's.<br />
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I plan to stage dive.Susan Vollenweiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018715289604118370noreply@blogger.com3