Don't Rue the Day! Delete It!

I wish I could turn back time.  Not so I can kill historical evil doers, or be the first person on the moon, or any overblown junk like that.  I'd like to turn the clocks and calendars back to the first day I ever thought it was a good idea to check the box that said,

"Yes! Please Email Me Daily Your Most Helpful Insights and Stuff!"

I'd like to go back to that day, and maybe put out my own eyeballs. Or cut off some fingers, or something.

As I ponder my life, and current state of affairs, I'm coming to the conclusion that email newsletters are, in substantial part, to blame for most of my messes.  My email is the gateway to everything in my life.  Everything that I have to do, everyone I'd like to be in touch with; everyone I'd prefer to avoid; events I hope to attend; appointments I wish I didn't have to attend; events I really wanted to attend, but which I forgot about until I found the email three months after the fact; reminders of items to buy; bills for items I wish I never bought.

My professional life, as it does for many of us I assume, has revolved around email.  I believe, that for many of us - regardless of our job, trade, calling, or profession - receiving, reading, looking for, and responding to emails is probably the most pressing thing we do during the day.  And we spend all day doing it, regardless of whatever other pesky tasks we have on our list, such as "working," "supervising," "managing," "creating," "implementing," "caring," or what have you.

To the extent that many of us have become veritable slaves to our own bloated inboxes. we can thank those helpful daily reminders and informative newsletters for ensuring that we will never be on time for anything.  There was a time when I would literally do a "spit take" if someone told me that he or she had four-digits-worth of emails in his or her inbox.  A recent informal survey I conducted (meaning I just asked some people I know), revealed that having literally thousands of unread - UNREAD - emails in one's box is no longer unusual.  That's in addition to the many more thousands of read (or at least opened) emails that we can't get to immediately, and therefore we've saved them for that ubiquitous opportunity, succinctly known as "later," for when we will summarily handle all the email at once.  Now that I think about it, I'm wondering where "later" fits in with the other great benchmarks of future time including, "The Rapture," "The End of Days," and "my retirement party." It's important, because, depending on the exact day of these things, respectively, I may never actually need to process my email, and won't care to waste my time on it. But I digress.

Most of my email (I think) is comprised of these auto-generated things I so nonchalantly agreed to receive at some point in the past.  When I was arrogant, and thought I could actually handle things. And there it began - the descent into email-centered chaos - where my entire life's work, professional standing, all my relationship statuses, and my general worth as a human being came down to the answers to these questions:

1) Did I get the email?
2) Did I reply to the email?
3) Do have any recollection whatsoever of what the email said, or how I replied?

Well, long story short, I don't know if I got the email.  I can't find it.  But I really like these shoes that are 20% off!  Unfortunately, today is my LAST CHANCE ever to own these shoes (or any shoes - looks like they'll be discontinuing shoes after 11:59 p.m. EST), and today is not my day to buy shoes; at least not in this time zone  - later it might be different; I have to wait for the email with my verification code.

The bottom line is that email is a tremendous source of stress, pressure, work, and failure - unfortunately - for so many of us.  Simply because there is far too much of it.  This, of course, is not a new story.  Efficiency experts, tech people, business analysts, random people have been expressing this for years.  And I imagine that some people have gotten very good at managing their email, while many, perhaps, have abandoned it altogether for other forms of communication (if that's even possible). I'm one of those saps who abandoned email addresses, most that I never even used but once or three times perhaps, in an attempt to get a foothold on the slippery slope.  I've probably won several Nigerian lotteries, and don't even know just how rich I am, on account of the fact that I don't even remember some email accounts I've set up over the years, and never used.  So I can't find the boxes to check them or discontinue them.  You can't discontinue something you have no idea you ever started.

But today is a new day.  A day for bulk deletion of things.  Newsletters I never really wanted, and about which I will finally admit: "I will never read this thing!"

Because I still believe in email.  And I'm still arrogant enough to believe I can handle things - including, but not limited to, email.  So I shall reclaim email as a viable and effective method of interpersonal communication.  But I need to tidy my boxes a bit, first.

In honor of this new day, I'd like to share this little chuckle.  This I captured directly from a filtered list of a particular newsletter (the title is not important - I'm not trying to pick on any persons here). I've been saving these emails for later forever.  But I'd never actually read any of the subject lines before.

What would an I.Q. of 500 or 1000 look like? I wonder! I'm guessing the answer to that compelling question is not reflected in the subject lines that follow it.  I could be wrong.  In any event, now that I have read a few of these, I am feeling much better about bulk deletion as a way of life.

I will be, however, saving one of the newsletters.  I want to know more about Gordon Ramsey's true personality.  I've often wondered about it.  Is he as testy as he seems? Does he hate the contestants on his show? Would I enjoy working for Mr. Ramsey? Maybe as a low-level sous chopper to the Lead Sous Chef and Vice President of Creative Crudités, on account of that's probably all I'd be qualified to do in the kitchen of a chef of Mr. Ramsey's stature.

You see, I think I would enjoy working with Chef Ramsey.  Because I think he's actually a super nice guy.  I believe that he gets all yelly in the kitchen of his show because he loves food and cares about chefs making good food for the people who will eat it; and so he gets a little passionate when people in whom he has faith can't seem to rise up to where he thinks they can be.  And I'll bet it's hard on him, and sometimes he ends a day shoving pasta in his face while drinking red wine and crying to the resonating sounds of Placido Domingo, just because his soul hurts. That's just what I imagine, anyway. I think chefs love people.  Because you can't care that much about the quality of life-sustaining food that you're preparing for other people's enjoyment, as your life's passion, unless you love people enough to want to bring enjoyment to them - people who you may never meet.  That's a good guy, I think.

But anyway, as you know, I digress.  So, carry on - and I hope you all enjoy a deliriously delightful day of wild deletions!

That's Punny, Jew Don't Look Finnish

Hey, Guys. I'm back.  I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long.  I had some things I had to take care of.

So, awhile back, I wrote this post in which I promised a later post on why I embraced a Protestant faith after I had been raised as a Jew.  Although I knew why, it's taken me a couple, two, tree, four years to articulate my reasoning.  So, here it is, in as tight of a nutshell as this squirrel chaser can muster.

In all my years of Jewish education, my teachers, though well meaning as they were, were unable to help me to understand what it is to be a Jew - what it means to "believe in One God."  And I was never one who could successfully accomplish something without understanding why I was doing it.

• What I did learn, with my young-child's mind, however, was that we "did not believe in Jesus." 
• We were supposed to "remember when we were slaves in Egypt," although I had never even been to Egypt.  (Though, I watched The Ten Commandments every year - best movie ever!)
• We were taught to remember the destruction of the Second Temple.  The only temple I knew as a child was the brick building in my home town.  It looked pretty solid to me.  So I didn't know what they were talking about.
• Our Holy Days were somber, and scary to me as a child.  My Christian friends enjoyed and looked forward to their holidays.
• We prayed in Hebrew.  I loved the chanting - the music - but I didn't understand the words.  I can still remember them, but only recently - four decades later - did I learn anything about their meaning.

When I was older - in college - Jews spoke of the Holocaust.  Now this was something I could relate to, as my father was a Holocaust survivor.  He wanted to me be Jewish, have Jewish friends, marry a Jewish man.  I wanted all those things because I wanted to make my father happy.

As it turned out, I couldn't succeed in those ways, exactly.  I tried to be Jewish.  But Jewish students who were full-blood, born, and raised as Jews, said I wasn't really Jewish.  Though my blood was was the same blood that flowed into the Danube at the hand of the Nazi's, it wasn't Jewish enough for the Jews who worshiped freely and obliviously near the shore of Lake Erie.

I was told time and time again, that I didn't look Jewish.  I don't, granted. Not in the stereotypical sense.  But having it pointed out, with a scrunchy eye, hurt my feelings.  Because I was always able to see the Jew in the faces of those who didn't even know their families had Jewish origins.

Conversations around the Hillel House I visited a few times centered on trips to Israel (which I'd never gotten to experience), the great shopping "back home" in New Year, a place I'd never been, the lack of any decent Chinese food (an opinion with which I begged to differ, but was ignored),

When I tried to talk with fellow students about God, they talked over and around my head.  The punch line tended to involve me not being Jewish enough.

Once, I tried to strike up a conversation with the rabbi, in my typical introverted awkward way; apparently, I said the wrong thing, and he abruptly waved me off and said to come see him on another day.

I didn't bother.  I didn't know why I should. I still hadn't gotten an answer to my question of  what Jews believe.  And he was kind of mean to me.

Years later, after my father passed away, I sought out God again.  I read the New Testament for the first time, scratching my head as to why I wouldn't want to believe in Jesus.  Jesus seemed to have a pretty good head on his shoulders.  Plus he was Jewish.

I remembered the very first time I'd ever been in a church - with my very first best friend - and I remembered how pleasant it was.  The Sunday School teacher was nice to me and praised my picture of God (I drew a rainbow).  It was the first time I ever had graham crackers and milk.  It was awesome. And I thought of my friend and her family - Christians who always accepted and loved me and my family.  So I decided to seek out a church like theirs, and found my way to the United Church of Christ.

In my UCC congregation, we read the Bible in English. We sang hymns that I remembered as Jewish prayers.  My pastors spoke lovingly about the Jewish Jesus and the Jewish history and culture of Jesus's time, which helped to put the Bible into context for me so that it made excellent sense.  We didn't read the Bible "literally," but for truth.  And my church sisters and brother take the poetic interpretation of the Bible very seriously.  They live it.  They welcomed me.  They were interested in hearing about Judaism.  And most had never been to Israel or thought anything of the fact that I hadn't either.  They didn't say I didn't look Jewish. They didn't seem to care what I looked like. They just took me at my word.  And I regret deeply that my word wasn't very good.  But I still believe in their words: that God's love is endless, and that to believe in God means to love and care for one another, and to forgive.  So that's what I've been busy doing: learning to love and care and forgive - myself and others.

Ironically, it is in becoming a Christian that I have felt more proudly Jewish than ever before.  It's why I'm a Jewdi for Jesus.

Oy, once again I went longer than I planned to.  Sorry about that. I guess this is about the smallest nutshell a big nut like myself can manage.

ADHD Physics and the Art of Vacationing

I work a lot.  I have a full time job. I'm a wife and a mom to two very high-spirited boys who demand a lot of attention. I do housework--not very well--but I do it. I volunteer. I look after an elderly mother (my own, yes; and she's quite a handful). And lately, I've been writing web copy for quarters for a popular crowdsourcing site.  I don't sleep much.  And when I'm not doing any of the worky thingies or sleeping, I perseverate. 

Some might call me a workaholic.  I like to think of myself as dedicated. Engaged. Energetic. My chart says I'm hyperactive.  A psychologist might have referred to me once or twice as "avoidant." 

As it turns out, however, everybody's wrong.  Now, I'm used to being wrong.  I've become quite comfortable with it over the past couple of years, since I've been on medication for ADHD, because I am blessed to now have some clarity about how a "normal" mind works, which is virtually nothing at all like my mind works au natural.  My mind, it seems, is a bit like a helium balloon:  if no one's holding onto it to keep it near the Earth, it will most likely float away, sail hither and thither, until it eventually pops from excessive pressure, and makes a child cry. 

But now I have this other perspective, the one I attribute to the particular alter ego of mine that I refer to as Lucan. Yes, Lucan, the Wolf Boy.  Lucan needs her besties to explain to her things like coupons; how to buy things in a store; how to get across town; the dynamics of child birthday-party invitations; cooking in a crock pot.  Most recently, IPG/Lucan sat across from a dear friend, furrowed and confused, feeling like the world was crashing.  Physically and spiritually, I was a wreck, and in typical fashion, Balloon Brain wanted to float higher and higher for the great metaphysical answer to all my questions of being, which of course, once answered would help me attain fulfillment.  But no.  My friend was there to work with Lucan.  So she did what any good friend would do under those circumstances:  she pulled out a pin and popped Balloon Brain.  "You need a vacation.  You need to take a week off from work.  Then you'll be fine." 

Oh!! Lucan take off!! Like aiirrrplane?!  Lucan fly!   "No," my friend insisted.  "Like sit on your butt drinking coffee, and take naps.  Do fun things with the kids." 

I thought, "Now who's talking gibberish! I don't even know what you're saying."  But Lucan is a faithful student, if nothing else.  So I went to my boss and said, "Yeah, so I'm thinking I might take a few days off next week."  Well if she didn't just light up like a Christmas tree.  I'd be exaggerating if I said she looked like she might just push me out the second story window to help me on my way; but it was a tad disconcerting how eager she was to have me take that vacation.  And in that moment I came to terms with the fact that I had run myself useless. 

How in the hell did this happen? Well, I think I figured it out.  It's basic physics.  I'm inert. 

Inertia, in physics, refers to a property of matter by which something that is not moving remains still and something that is moving goes at the same speed and in the same direction until another thing or force affects it. 

 





Medical professionals with expertise in ADHD might refer to this as an internal-regulation deficit.  In other words, I'm basically like an old muscle car with a bad ignition and even worse breaks.  It takes  some work to get me going; and then God help me, because the only way I'm going to stop is if I run out of gas or crash into something.  And sometimes I'm apt to run out of gas while I'm crashing. 

The upshot of all this is that I really suck at vacationing.  Vacationing requires one to stop and go at the same time.  To be good at vacationing, you have to be able to plan things, schedule things, buy things.  Even staying on your butt drinking coffee is hardly any fun if you can't remember to buy coffee, until your caffeine addicted 84-year-old mother starts in.  She survived scarlet fever, diptheria, the Nazis, the Russians, Disco, and the Bush Administration.  But if she doesn't get a good cup of coffee NOW (100% Arabica), it's all over-she's done.  With that surrounding me, I don't really need to do anything on my own.  I've got plenty of help getting batted around in lieu of deciding my next move.

So this "vacation" business is tricky.  I'm doing it now, actually.  Vacationing, that is.  Still in my clothes from yesterday (because I didn't actually go to bed), intermittently cleaning, blogging, "tying up loose ends" remotely for my job (that's not "working," because I'm not supposed to be doing that.)  And of course, trying to figure out how to vacation, because if my life is anything at all, it's a giant quest for useless knowledge.  I've got four more days, plus a weekend to figure it out.  Thank goodness my mother made me buy that coffee. . .

I'll check in.  Let you all know how it's going.  I'm truly hoping to glean some knowledge from all this - some tips that perhaps I can impart to you, on how to be less like a runaway freight train, or a boulder, or a crazy balloon, or a wild-animal-child.  And more like a regular person who vacations.  I'll let you know if I come up with anything. 

A Work in Progress, and Then Some

So, as I was saying. . .

Yes, yes, I know, it's been a while since IPG's posted.  You see, sometime around 2012, I was about to post something. . .I can't remember what.  I'm sure whatever it was, it was insightful and hilarious.  Well, just as I was about to finish writing and save my post, the phone rang, so I answered it.  Had to politely explain that we were not interested in hiring a lawn care service, which reminded me of foliage, which reminded me of salad, which reminded me that I hadn't eaten breakfast.  So I got up to get a snack, and then. . .it's 2014.  I'm sure I don't need to tell you know how that goes. 

Sorry I kept you waiting. 

In all seriousness, I've been a chaotic mess.  Not in a bad way.  I know, I know.  What exactly is a "good" chaotic mess?  Well, let's just say that since the early days of my late diagnosis and ADHD treatment, the pendulum has sort of swung to the other side of the productivity spectrum.  While I spent most of my life in a state of frustrated, anxious action-paralysis, I've morphed into somewhat of a workaholic.

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not unhappy about that.  When I was a little girl, I dreamed of becoming a workaholic when I grew up.  I didn't carry little-girl purses around as a kid.  I carried a little toy doctor bag that I repurposed as "my briefcase." I filled it with crayons and papers and glue, so that I could do "my paperwork."  I'm not kidding.  While many kids played dolls, I played "paperwork."

It's interesting, now that I think back on that time so long ago, that there must have been something in me that recognized a disconnect between who I felt I was, and how I would manifest it.  After all, real-life princesses probably don't pretend to be princesses.  Ordinary non-royal little girls play "princess."  I guess for me, being focused and driven and productive felt like the stuff of fantasy. 

And for too long, it was.  But then I got help, which. . .um . . .helped.  The problem that I've discovered, is that I haven't really yet learned the behavioral side of ADHD management.  I'm still very much beholden to my chemistry.  These days motivating is a much, much easier thing to do than slowing down, taking stock, and choosing one path at a time instead of "all" the paths at once.  In the process, I've neglected some things just because there were just so many things. 

Being IPG  - or IPG-in-Overdrive - is a process.  It's a journey of learning, and luckily, I love journeys of learning.  So, in honor of not having fallen off the face of the earth, and of learning, and of possibly getting to work on time today (because it's nearly 5:00am and I'm still up so I can't oversleep), I'll share with you a post from IPGs Face Book page.

It was supposed to be just a quick status update around the New Year, with a nod to the Arch Frenemy of the ADHD-afflicted: the New Year's Resolution.  But alas, it didn't really stop before it became a full-blown post on one of life's lessons that I still have yet to learn:  how to pack a purse like a normal human being.  From December. . .: 

Okay, so I made it to work, earlier than yesterday, but with more "ish" than I would have liked. When I got to work, I needed my reading glasses and a pen.  For these items, I went into my purse, otherwise known as "A Giant Sack of Shit." This photo shows what I pulled out of my purse. Unfortunately, the cute bunny rabbit wouldn't sit still and ran away before I could snap the pic. For the love of all that is good and holy, WTF, IPG!?!? I have *one* set of *two* eyes. That's it! There is next to no likelihood that I will sprout 3 more pairs of eyes today to necessitate all those reading glasses. This isn't ADHD. This is a real sickness I'm dealing with!

 

But on the bright side, I have the checkbooks. Checkbooks are useful! Whoo-hoo - let's go shopping! Except here's the thing: only two of those books have checks in them. The other two have only ancient carbons and a couple of raggedy deposit slips. The books with the checks are for the same account that has almost no money in it! Certainly not enough money to enable a frenzied check-writing shopping spree that would require 8 pens, a Sharpie, and a tablet stylus! But thank goodness I have 3 little palettes of pink eye shadow and a mascara, just in case I would need, for any reason, to spontaneously put on a dramatic reenactment of getting dressed for senior prom. Do you think there might be a quarter in this Sack of Shit somewhere in case I get thirsty testing all the pens to find one that writes?? One would think, but No! Of course not! Why would I devote any space to coins when I can reserve all that valuable real estate for 17 more pairs of reading glasses! But no worries, because lo-and-behold, there was a can of Diet Squirt in my SoS. Whew! That hit the spot! With all that, I was now ready to get down to business! I would never let a giant sack of shit get in the way of me being "The World's Best Boss," as evidenced by the mug on my desk - the mug that is full of more magic markers than anyone should require for their grown-up job. But the markers come in very handy for color-coding a filing system for a purse, and drawing a map of eyeglass locations. . .never mind the circular problem created by trying to read a map without one's glasses. And this, Folks, is what's wrong with my life. Oy.

She Gets Me

I've always been exceptionally good at exercising humility; so if I may brag just a teensy bit, I'll share a link to a blog article on ADHD and social media. It's kinda cool, I think.  And in true IPG fashion, I discovered the piece completely by accident while goofing around instead of working, or sleeping, or something dumb like that - two whole months after it was published.  Medical author Madeline Vann offers good tips for maximizing your social media experience when you have ADHD. 
http://www.everydayhealth.com/adhd/social-media-success-with-adhd.aspx

Greetings, Friends!  Long time no post! No, IPG has not fallen off the face of the Earth. (I almost did, which I suppose is what I get for trying to hike and text at the same time.)  I've just been sharing my ADDerific musings on my Facebook page because it's just faster, and more conducive to randomness, or let's call it, the documentation of creative and innovative synaptic activity. 

I'd tweet, but IPG and character limits don't really get along.  So I thought I'd share some of my "ADHD Moments" here, gathered from recent FB status updates.  Enjoy! 

And feel free to share some of your own, either here, or Like me on Facebook! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the Love of Maddox

Hey, there.  [Sheepish grin] Yeah, I'm still alive.  Sorry, I know it's been ages since I've written.  I should have called.  I meant to.  I got a new phone and couldn't transfer my contacts. . .or something.  Actually, I can give you a million reasons for being MIA for so long, and some of them are even valid.  But I won't.  Not today, at least.  I'll save them for another day.  I'll be around. 

The only excuse I'll offer right now is that I've struggled for topics.  No, I wouldn't say I've had writer's block; or that I didn't have anything I wanted to say.  If you know me personally, or have read my posts, you know I always have something to say.  Usually too many somethings. 

And that's been part of the problem.  I've got a lot on my plate these days (I'll spare you the details for the present); and have needed to take a break from posting to attend to other parts of my life, at least until I came across an idea or topic that I could not not write about. 

Sadly, I have found such a topic. 

I've lost a lot of sleep this past week over the loss of a little boy named Maddox.  A little boy I've never met.  A little boy who is not a relative or anyone connected to me.  Maddox Derkosh was an adorable little 2-year-old who lived with his mother and father in Pennsylvania, and who died in a horrific and profoundly tragic accident while visiting the zoo last weekend.  His mother, Elizabeth, had placed him on a railing overlooking a wild-dog exhibit so he could get a better view of the animals.  Somehow, Maddox lost his balance, and fell into the exhibit, where he was attacked by the dogs, and died.  The entire incident spanned only a handful of minutes.  In those minutes, a rapid series of events, that in any other context would have been inconsequential, perhaps, in and of themselves, were woven together in a way such that the resulting consequences were the violent end of Baby Maddox's life, and the shattering of the world as they knew it for all of Maddox's loved ones. 

And I've lost a lot of sleep over this.  I've been walking around with a dull, twisting, ache in my stomach because my challenged mind that insists on bouncing all over the place - including to places where it has no personal business being - conjures images of an innocent child lost in a moment that must have been joyful for him only a second before; and images of a mother who is suffering now more than I can possibly even begin to imagine.  And for some reason, it feels very close to home.  Too close to home than there is any logical reason for.  Kids die in accidents all over the country every day.  Admittedly, I don't lose sleep over most of them.  But there's something about this situation. . .

To make my own pain worse (which I don't claim is anything of any significance compared to the pain that Maddox's loved ones), is that I have an annoying impulse-resistance problem when in comes to reading forum comments on news sites.  I shouldn't read them.  No one should read them.  No one should post on them.  They are a place where cowards go to freely vent hatred, and where well-meaning folks share pithy remarks and pearls of wisdom that fade into nothingness because people really aren't all that interested.  I think most of us who venture into the underbelly of the comment forum do so out of morbid curiosity and because on some level, we want to get riled up.  We certainly don't go there because we want to get schooled by other sad people just like ourselves, all of us hiding out in the comment forum.

So despite knowing that I should never read them because it's just emotionally unhealthy for me to do so, I do.  And sometimes I even post, when I'm bored.  Or when I feel strongly enough about something. 
For some reason, I've felt very strongly about what happened to Maddox and his mom.  Strongly sick and sleepless, and compelled to make sense of it all, including why I care so much.

I think I've figured it out.  This horror of this situation invokes my very deepest fears:  my fears of harm coming to my children; my fears of the thought of ever losing my children; my fear of having something horrific happening to my children . . . and of it being somehow my fault. 

There's no question here about the cause and effect relationship of what happened to Maddox.  A loving mom took her only child out for what was supposed to be a fun trip to the zoo.  She took him around the various exhibits to see all the cute and interesting animals, and eventually, they came to the African painted-dog exhibit.  Aesthetically, these dogs are beautiful - definitely interesting to look at.  Little boys like to see dogs - I know my little guys both love cute doggies.  Mom wanted her little guy to have a good view, so she positioned him where she thought he could better take it all in.  And here we reach the threshold between joy and unimaginable sorrow. 

I don't know why Maddox's mom thought it would be okay to have him on the ledge.  But she loved Maddox and for whatever reason, she thought it would be okay and fun for him. But as we know, it was from this ledge that Maddox fell - in an instant - into the expanse of Time, Time that would bear no resemblance ever again - for him or his family - to that final moment of innocence that preceded it. 

So, now I read - against all my better judgement - the comments on the news forums.  Comments dripping with vitriol and judgement.  Comments that proclaim Maddox's mother to be a criminal, stupid, someone so vile and unworthy that she should never have been permitted to have children.  Someone who deserves her pain and then some, for killing her own child. 

As heinously ugly as such comments are, they do not reflect the worst I read.  People have even more hateful things to say that I can't bring my fingers to type here.  Trust me, you don't want to see them anyway. 

Then I think about Maddox's mom, and know in my heart, that the words of these commenters are probably not nearly as damning and hurtful as those she would use on herself.  As a mom who can put myself in her shoes to only the most tiny degree, I can't imagine how the guilt she must be feeling doesn't just kill her.  I imagine that if it were me, my heart would just stop with my child's.  I wouldn't be able to go on.  I'd die with the dogs too.

As much as all mom's fear our kids being harmed, I'll throw a little ADHD into the mix.  For my entire life, I've been challenged by distractability, difficulty keeping track of small details, challenges with foreseeing potential outcomes to impulsive actions that seem like "no big deal."  Yes, I can see myself doing exactly what Maddox's mom did, or something along those lines.  In fact, I'm certain that at some point, I did do what Maddox's mom did - make a little judgment call that unbeknownst to me, carried the risk of unimaginably awful consequences. Yet by grace or chance, we were spared from a tragedy, without me ever seeing it come or go.  My feeling is that we all have such moments in our lives. 

My father often said to me that the greatest blessing in life is that we cannot know the alternative destinies of our lives,  because to see the might-have-beens would be far too painful for us to be able to stand.  Because however bad we think we have it in any given moment, there is a worse alternative.  I don't think I ever really understood what he meant by that until now, now that I've gotten a glimpse of what might have been that time - all those many times - I momentarily took my eye off my baby when I probably shouldn't have. 

In the end I couldn't help but post my feelings to that seedy comment forum.  By now, my comment has probably been mocked.  Haters have probably upped the ante to say even more awful things about Elizabeth Derkosh.  Other readers/posters will have read my comment and quietly agreed with me, and moved on.  I'm okay with that.  I'm not going to go back in and look.  But, for the love of little Maddox and his mom, I will share my post here, on my own blog, in my own "house," remembering that there but for the grace of God, go I.

"There is not a human being alive who has not at some point, in a momentary lapse of judgement, or second of distraction, contributed to a consequence that we did not expect or want. Perhaps 99.9% of the time, we don't ever even see the bullet we dodged; or we survive and move on from the results of our actions that could have been much worse. But then there is that rare occasion when the unthinkable happens. Would I have put my little boy up on that ledge? I don't know. Perhaps not. But I have - and every mother and father out there who is honest would say the same - have turned my head for just a second when I should have been paying attention. I have allowed my child to do something that seemed harmless without thinking it through carefully enough. I have made what I thought was a good decision with the information I had available to me at the time, but it turned out to be the wrong decision. Maddox's mother is not a criminal. She is a mother, who in the blink of an eye, didn't realize the enormity of a risk. But her fate was cruel, and a blink of an eye was too long, and she was afforded no chance to fix it. Most of us cannot even begin to imagine the guilt and suffering of this grieving mom. Yet each one of us could find ourselves grieving at some point over something that happens in the blink of an eye, despite all our best efforts to control ourselves and the world around us. Trashing this mother, stoning her, calling her a criminal in a public comment forum is a dog attack more vicious than the one that took little Maddox. Comment forums are a great place to vent cruel unwarranted hatred without having to show your face. Please, please, please, let's not do this here, to this family. We can be sure that however stupid or criminal we might feel this lady's actions were, we've done something in our own lives - whether we realize it or not - that was at least as criminal or stupid. We were just luckier."

When Life imitates. . .Cranberries!

Recently, I ran a search for Ryan Higa videos, and I came across this little gem.  As much as I love to laugh, rarely do I laugh to the point of tears; but I did when I watched this at least twenty times.  It's probably not that funny, really. 

But for this mom of a boy with ADHD, this portrayal of an ADHD-affected Harry Potter just hits so close to home that about all we're missing at my house is a skeleton.  I have no doubt that within a couple of years, I will receive a phone call from a troubled biology teacher wanting to speak with me about a disconcerting incident involving a classroom skeleton.  In fact, I will bet on it.  I'll let you know when it happens. 

Basically, I think whoever made this video has been peeping through my windows at night.

And I'm grateful to them for doing it! 

As a mother raising her own hyperactive wizard while struggling with ADHD herself, daily life can be filled with so much frustration.  Trying to remind myself that "kids will be kids" isn't always helpful when tempers are flaring and I'm frustrated, tired, scattered, and just yearning to complete a little househould business before my head explodes.  In that moment, I don't want to "look at [you]" or "pull [your] finger;'' and a child's insistance that I do so, is less than amusing.

But then I see this video.  I take a step back and see a tiny slice of my life against a backdrop of parody and realize that, indeed, this child - my child - is amazing.  Funny, light, creative, whimsical, interesting, and challenging in wonderful ways. 

Based on the viewer comment feed, I suppose some folks might be offended by this video.  I hope you won't be.  If you've spent any time on my blog, you know that I DO believe ADHD is a laughing matter.  Otherwise, I'd be crying all the time, and that's just no fun at all.

If you're offended because you believe this little comic depiction is a gross and unfair exaggeration or hyperbolic mockery, I invite you to peer in my windows some evening.  You'll change your mind.  

Is that Ritalin in your pocket, or are you just too oblivious to see me?

Happy New Year!  It's not too late to say that, right?  It's still January.  Well, I'm finally getting back into the mental groove of normal life after the holidays.  My Christmas lights are still up, but I don't plug them in anymore.  Progress!  Despite the fact that I've been doing it for years now, celebrating Christmas - with all of its complicated logistics- still requires some getting used to.  You see, I'm Jewish.

You'd probably never guess that based on my stellar church-attendance record, or periodic blog references to my Protestant faith, or by a lot of other superficial criteria about me.  My father was a Hungarian Jew, born and raised in Budapest.  He was a Holocaust survivor, in fact. I was raised Jewish and spent much of my young life in the synagogue and Hebrew school. I studied Judaism in college. Some of by best friends are Jewish. Although my faith has taken me on a different path spiritually (maybe a topic for a different day), I self-identify, ethnically, at least, as quite Jewish.

You wouldn't know it by my English surname. My maiden name, on the other hand, would reveal my ethnicity quite obviously . . . if you happen to be a genealogist with special expertise in 19th century Jewish communities that resided along the Hungarian-Ukraine border. Otherwise, you'd probably have no idea.

My first name, on the other hand, is about as Jewish a name as a woman can have, as one translation of the Hebrew means "Female Judean," or "Jewess," as it were. But in post-Biblical times, it's a reasonably common name across the Western Hemisphere. At least it was in 1950.  When I was born nearly 20 years later, my immigrant parents apparently hadn't gotten the memo that "Jennifer" was now the "J" name of choice.

My name was also sort of popular in the 1980's, during my teen years, when virtually every teen-age-coming-of-age-sex-romp movie featured a hot girl (usually named "Jennifer") whose best friend, sidekick, and "wing woman" was a fat, nerdy, ill-complected, sarcastic girl with my first name. As it turns out, my immigrant parents were not only old-fashioned, but also prophetic. But, as you know, I digress . . .

My fair skin and blue-green eyes probably wouldn't clue you in. The photos from my children's baptisms would throw you off the trail entirely. If you happened to be around at the right time, you might overhear me utter some rather obscure Yiddish expressions. And you might then accuse me of being some sort of Judeophilic ironic hipster. Okay, maybe not.  No one says that.

More likely than not, you don't actually lose any sleep at all over whether or not I'm Jewish.

That is, unless you are also Jewish. From experience, I can tell you that Jews in my little patch of America enjoy playing a game I'll call, "Is S/He Jewish??" For full effect, when you utter the name of this game, you have to tilt your head to one side, scrunch up your face, and sound incredulous.

Several years ago, Saturday Night Live featured a skit depicting a game show parody entitled "Jew, Not a Jew," of which the object, as you might guess, was to correctly identify pictured celebrities as Jewish or not. The skit was hilarious; and to one in the know, it was easy to see the affectionate ribbing of an ethnic tradition.

The real-life game starts something like this.  You see someone on TV or meet someone who, for some subtle reason or another, leads you to think s/he might be Jewish.  But the observable facts would suggest otherwise.  Or vice versa, you meet someone who you would swear was Jewish by every standard you can think of . . .but for the fact that he's a Catholic priest.  And you grow curious.

The game, I believe, is an inevitable byproduct of being part of a minority group that "blends." There is a very basic truth about human beings, and that is, we find comfort in connections between ourselves and others who are like us in some meaningful way. Especially when we feel alone. So when you grow up Jewish in a mid-sized factory town on Lake Erie, as I did, with one small synagogue that serves an entire county, you want to know who the other Jews are . . . in case you have to borrow some gefilte fish . . . or not feel like a weirdo.

Like any game, this one has some rules, or more like traditions. You probably won't ever play, for example, while seated in a New York City synagogue on Yom Kippur. There's no sport in that. Unless you notice that the Torah scrolls are being carried by an Asian-looking man wearing a sombrero. And then you grow a little curious.

The real fun is when, some Friday evening, you meet a blond-haired football player from South Dakota named "Chris Goldsteen" who bothers to point out that "it's 'Steen' with a double 'e.'" He tells you about his recent fishing trip, which reminds him of a story from his childhood. You've got a lot on your mind, so while he shares his story, you drift off and start thinking about nail polish remover and calling in your Concerta prescription refill. But you suddenly snap back into the moment when you hear Chris say something that you swear sounded like "Grandma danced the hora at my bar mitzvah reception." You have a hard time believing this guy had a grandma, much less a bar mitzvah; so you quickly decide that you heard wrong, and what he really said was, "Damn that whore's wine-bar mitts and pass interception!" Now, that makes sense to you because Chris follows football. . . and you don't.  Abruptly, Chris looks at his watch and announces that he's sorry, but he has to run.  He has to get to the bakery before it closes and be home before sundown.  You follow his gaze as he glances over to his car that you notice has broken headlights.  You nod sympathetically, and mutter that you understand; you have to get your car fixed too.  You part company.  Chris jumps in his car and drives off. . . as he flips on his fully functioning headlights.  "Sweet Home Alabama" blares from the car stereo.  You wonder why this guy - who looks like someone who should be headed for a frat party or a strip club - would be racing off to a bakery on Friday night, like a Jewish housewife in search of a challah for the Sabbath.  Wait. . . could . . . he. . . ?  Broken headlights, the Sabbath, sundown, Dancing Grandma, wine-swilling whores, a guy named in honor of The Man from Nazareth . . . called to the Torah on his 13th birthday. . .in South Dakota. Your overstimulated brain is trying to make sense of all this paradoxical information in order to understand who it is that you just talked to; and, without thinking about it, you feel your head tilting to one side, your vocal chords tighten, and your face scrunches up. You ask out loud to no one, "Is he Jewish???

And with that, the game is in full swing. You ask your friends what they know about him. You take informal opinion polls from your Jewish friends and from your really observant Secular-Humanist-with-Goddess-Worshipper-Leanings friend who's married to a Jewish guy. You look him up on Facebook in hopes that his page is public and that you'll find there a picture of his dancing grandma or, perhaps, a picture of a whore in a football helmet, wearing wine-bar mitts. You ask your friend, the Jewish guy's wife, what the hell "wine-bar mitts" are because, if such a thing exists, she owns a pair.

You hope you'll see something that helps you answer that all-important question. And soon too, because your face is starting to hurt from all the scrunching.

It's kind of an odd thing that we do, when I think about it. I mean, really, who cares? We're not supposed to care what people are. It's not really PC to care. It's sort of unamerican. When we're that curious about whether or not someone is Jewish, and we eventually learn the answer, we are inevitably like the dog who caught the bus: Great! So . . . what? After all, there aren't too many legitimate contexts in which one must know the ethnic/religious background of a total stranger. So why do we do it?

Let me say here that I think we ALL do it; it's not a habit peculiar to those of a particular ethnic or religious group.  Regardless of how we define ourselves, we all meet people at times and wonder, is this person like me?  As I mentioned, I think connection is one reason. But in the bigger picture, I believe, identifying other members of "our group," however that group is defined, helps us to understand who we are, where we stand, and how we might look to the world.  The dirty little secret in this, is that sometimes it's not connection we seek, but rather distance. When we meet someone we admire, like, look up to, we are delighted to learn that we a share a common background. When we meet someone we fear, dislike, or don't understand, we would perhaps prefer to learn that we have nothing in common with them.  To learn that this person with whom we don't identify is actually more like us than we'd care to recognize, forces us to reconsider our definitions of ourselves and others. 

So what does all this have to do with ADHD, you ask?  Well, because ADHDers do it too, and since I have been diagnosed with ADHD, I have almost a reflexive urge to mentally run through the diagnostic criteria anytime I run into someone who seems a little too chatty, scattered, jumpy, wistful, impulsive, tardy, forgetful, messy. . .I could go on and on.  Literally, I could.  But I'll try not to.

When I scrunch up my face for a round of "Does S/He have ADHD," sometimes I want the answer to be "Yes!"  I want Steve Jobs to have had ADHD.  I like the idea that my brain might have had something in common with his brain.  On the flip side, some people really annoy me.  I might think about someone I have found very annoying and run that person through my mental screening test.  I will sometimes conclude that yes, this person has ADHD, or something like it.  And then I'll mentally give them a "pass" for being annoying.  In fact, once I conclude that someone has ADHD, I might come to admire that person's spontaneity and energy and decide that he isn't annoying at all. 

Unless I don't like that person, in which case, I might prefer to continue thinking of that person as an inconsiderate idiot.

Is this nice or fair or how I want to be treated or how I want to treat others?  Definitely not.  But it is - as am I - woefully human.

Much like it's possible to be a Jew who loves Jesus, I suppose it's entirely possible for someone to have ADHD and also be an inconsiderate idiot. But I don't want to ponder that one too hard.  The potential ramifications of this possibility are just too awful to contemplate . . . when the end goal of the identification game is to fit everyone into a neat and tidy box. 

Recently, my son was watching a video on YouTube that made him belly laugh harder than I've ever heard him laugh before; the boy has never been much of a laugher, so I had to inquire.  My son explained that it's a video by Ryan Higa, who I learned later is a young video producer, film student, and Internet sensation.  I'd never heard of this guy before, but I was definitely curious to know what my son found so funny.    Mr. Higa's video and all the others that I've viewed since then, reflect a modern style of comedy - fast-paced, disjointed, ironic, pointed, and sometimes just plain silly, that I just didn't know what to make of.  My son knew what to make of it - just watch and laugh hysterically.  But I'm a little old school, and although I enjoy irreverent comedy more than just about anything, my first thought about Mr. Higa's work was Well, this is just stupid.  This nonsense is everything that's wrong with kids and America today!  And by the way, you kids get off my lawn . . . and take that crazy Higa boy with you!!! 

But my little guy insisted that I keep watching, so I did.  This was my chance to have mom-and-son time that didn't require me to do anything hard.  He showed me video after video, and before not too long, I was laughing my head off.  This guy is so stupid. . . but hilarious! 

As I continued to watch his videos, something happened.  Whenever we take a step back from our own assumptions and prejudices, interesting things happen.   I began to appreciate how not stupid Mr. Higa's work is.  In his videos, I saw a quick and agile mind--the ability to humorously connect things that have no obvious connection; to mentally be in many places at once; to physically perform many characters at once; to turn a simple phrase in such a way that it elicits delight from word nerds like me and my boy; to poke rather sophisticated fun at some ridiculous stuff.  Hmmm. . . this is all starting to look rather familiar. I found myself now watching the high-energy, fast-talking Mr. Higa through diagnostic eyes:  Does he have ADHD??

So I did a little checking.  I learned that the rumor, at least, is that he does.  Higa has a series of videos entitled "Off the Pill," which, allegedly, are videos that he creates when taking a break from his Ritalin prescription.  Having seen several of the "Off the Pill" videos, I'd say it's quite plausible.

On the other hand, I have not seen Ryan Higa's medical files.  I know nothing about him other than what is written in his online bio, that he seems like a super smart young man, that he makes some really entertaining videos. . .and that he makes my son laugh really, really hard, which is a joy to any mother's ears.  I like him.  I think he makes a nice role model for my boy, an aspiring filmmaker himself.  Now I've got these two boxes in front of me, one labeled "Attention-Deficit Hyperactive Creative Genius!" and the other, "Stupid Anti-Intellectual Foul-Mouthed Slacker Youngster."  I choose not to force Mr. Higa into either one.  Maybe, instead, I'll use the boxes to finally put away my Christmas lights.

Speaking of Christmas lights that still need to be boxed up, this holiday season marked an anniversary for me.  New Year's Day 2012 was exactly ten years since my father passed away.  I've been thinking about him a lot.  Like now. My father was a very charming, and very short man - only 5' 2".  But what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in opinionatedness. 

One of his most passionate opinions was about Gene Simmons.  Yes, that Gene Simmons.  Gene Simmons, the famous and infamous, founder of and front man for the legendary rock band, KISS.  The painted-faced, tongue-wagging Demon, who wore crazy platform boots and had young ladies tossing at him more panties than can be found in a Victoria's Secret warehouse.

My father hated that guy.  I'm not just speculating or exaggerating.  My father would say, "I hate that guy!"  My dad was a very compassionate and open-minded man, generally speaking.  He wasn't a hater.  I know he hated Hitler - that went without saying.  And he hated a couple of talk-radio personalities.  But that was about it.  And then Gene Simmons.  I'm not sure exactly why Gene Simmons ended up on Dad's Top Five to Despise, but anytime KISS came on TV when I was a kid, I dreaded the upcoming hour because I knew I would have to listen to a diatribe about how "That Guy" was stupid and ignorant, and how his nonsense reflected everything that was wrong with kids and America today.  If we had had a lawn, surely Gene Simmons would have been ordered off of it.  My dad had nothing whatsoever in common with that obviously drug-addled, tone deaf, narcissistic moral degenerate now shoving his freakishly long tongue into his band mate's ear.  Or did he . . . .

A guilty little "secret" about me is that I love "reality" TV.  A couple of years ago, I discovered "Gene Simmons Family Jewels," a show that follows the home and business life of Gene Simmons and his family.  Now, I'd never really been up on my "KISS," so when I first sat down to watch "Family Jewels," I knew next to nothing about that guy.  But the show amused me.  And surprised me.  Mr. Simmons looks like a "grown up" now, more or less.  He's a successful entrepreneur and loving family man, more or less.  His long-time partner, now wife, Shannon Tweed, is witty, charming, bright, and interesting.  The Simmons children are every bit as charming and bright.  The show doesn't portray a chaotic life of an out-of-control rock maniac, but rather the life of a successful man with a sharp mind and quick wit, deep affections, vulnerabilities, and yes, some "issues."  Who knew!

As I watched multiple episodes of this show, something started to nag a me.  There was something familiar about that guy.  His facial expressions. The way he carried himself.  The style of his humor.  The tone of his voice and the way he teased his lady and talked to his beloved children.  It really bugged me.  Who does he remind me of??  OMG, he reminds me of Dad!  And then I felt the muscles in my neck flex.  My face got all scrunchy.  Is Gene Simmons Jewish?!?!

Well, it may be common knowledge to people who are up on this sort of thing, that the answer is "yes."  But I did not know this, and when I finally watched an episode that confirmed my suspicions, I nearly hit the floor.  Not only is Mr. Simmons Jewish, but he was born in Israel--as Chaim Witz--the only son of his . . .wait for it. . . Hungarian mother, who was herself a Holocaust survivor.  Mr. Simmons is college educated with a degree in education and has been employed as a school teacher among other very respectable, nonrockstar-like occupations.  He abhors alcohol and speaks with great affection, in Hungarian, with his precious mom. 

My dad would have LOVED that guy!!  But for an astronomical disparity in size between their respective bank accounts, along with a few other minor distinguishing details, my dad could have been that guy!  If I could find a way to travel to The Beyond, then back, I would . . .just so I could tell my dad all this and watch him plotz.  Because even the most loving and respectful child enjoys informing her parents, once in a while, that they had it wrong.

Whenever we shove people into boxes, we usually get it wrong.  Maybe not all of it, but at least some of it.  What we assume we know about people based on their origins; affiliations; appearances; physical, psychological, or neurological conditions, tells only a tiny fraction of anyone's story, including our own, and out of context to boot,  When we shove people into boxes, we certainly do them a disservice; but we limit ourselves almost more than anyone else.  We restrict ourselves from experiencing the richness that comes from knowledge, understanding, and communion with people who are like us, sort of like us, or not at all like us.  We shut our eyes to self-reflection.

When the time comes for Mr. Simmons to pass from this world, I hope he and my dad run into each other in the Afterlife.  I'll bet they would share some great laughs over heavenly chicken paprikás and pastry.

I just hope, that whatever they talk about, they steer the conversation far from politics.  If my dad knew some of Simmons's politics, he would absolutely hate that guy.

I'm On to You, Claus. . .

So, tomorrow's the big night - you ready?  Well, you should be, you lucky bastard!  You've had all year to get ready!  Heh, heh. . . If you don't mind me saying so, that's a pretty sweet gig you got there; how'd you manage to land a job where you only have to work one night a year? 

I don't mean to minimize.  I know it's a big job; and it's not really "just one night a year" what will all that you must have to do ahead of time.  Supervising all those annoying elves, taking orders, managing your inventory, coaching the reindeer games - making sure the team's in good shape for the big game.  I get it, it's a lot of work.

But, c'mon, Santa, (Is it okay that I call you "Santa"?) you have to admit, it's not exactly a real job.  At least not to those of us who have to work for a living pretty much every day. 

Don't get me wrong.  I love what you do, really.  I could never do it myself.  It takes special people to do special things, and. . .well. . .to say that what you do is "special" doesn't even begin to do it justice.  You're huge!  A real rock star!

So, if you don't mind my asking, how much do they pay you?  Nah, never mind.  It's none o' my beeswax. 

Tell me somethin' though, how did you get into your line of work?  Oh. . . I see . . .you sorta just fell into it?  I can appreciate that.  Trust me.  I know.  It's tough to find a career that fits when you're someone who's. . .well. . .a little hard to fit.  Oh, no, no. . .that wasn't a "fat" joke.  Not at all.  I mean, look at me.  I don't have much room to talk.  But I've always got room for cheesecake! Ha! Ba-dum-ccchhh. . . . Sorry, I crack myself up sometimes.

Well, anywhooo. . .like I was saying, I know how tough it is finding work that works for you when you work. . .oh. . .a little. . .I don't know. . .differently.  What do mean I by that?

Well, for one thing, the way you dress.  You've obviously got your own style, and I'm not saying it doesn't completely work for you.  It's awesome; you're your own guy.  But, for example, you could never wear furry red velvet pants and a matching hat with a puffy ball at the end of it at my office.  I suppose you might be able to pull it off on Casual Day.  But it would be a stretch. 

And like I was saying, a lot of people have to work all the time.  I mean really work.  Seems like you get to take it pretty easy doin' whatever, and then BAM! You have all this energy all of a sudden and you go nuts!  Flying around the whole freakin' world in one night taking toys to like a couple billion kids.  And you don't even bother to use doors because you're so busy racing around, and stuffing cookies and milk in your face!  Wow. . .talk about hyperact. . .!  What?  Oh, nothing. . .I didn't say anything. 

Just seems like you've got an unusual amount of energy once in awhile for someone who . . .I don't know. . .what is it again that you do from December 26 through December 23?  What's that?  You don't pay much attention to dates?  Oh, true, someone does have to test out the video games before the kiddos get them.  I guess that's another thing that would make it pretty tough for you work in my world.  The Man is all about the schedule.  I'll bet your not paying attention much to dates goes over really well with Mrs. Claus on her birthday!  Haha! 

They make calendars that are pretty good, if you're interested.  I'll bet your phone might even have one.  Huh?  Oh. . .naw, I haven't seen your phone.  Sorry.  When was the last time you remember having it?  I'll let you know if I come across it, though. 

So, hey, you should probably hit the sack.  Big day tomorrow.  Oh. . .not tired?  Me neither.  I should have figured you for a night owl.  Most people would probably choose to deliver toys all over the world during first shift.  But, no. . .not you, I guess.  Yeah, I like to stay up late, too.  I guess we have some things in common, you and me.  I like to work at night.  But sometimes I just play dumb games on the Internet.  Other times, I just talk to myself. . .and pretend I'm having meaningful conversation with mythical characters. 

Oh, no. . .I didn't mean you.  Did I say you?  No, I did not.  I didn't say YOU were mythical.  Methinks "somebody" might be getting just a tad oversensitive.  I'd never say that about you.  I was talking about someone else.  You wouldn't know him. 

So. . um . . . not to change the subject, but do you really know whether everyone's been naughty or nice?  Seriously?  That's a pretty crazy talent you've got there.  How do you do that?  It's like you'd have to be paying attention to everybody all at once. . .all the time!  Seriously? You do? And no one ever taught you how to do that? Your brain just picks up on it, whether you want it to or not. That's pretty hilarious.  Your school teachers must have "loved" you! Heh!

Okay, quick! Close your eyes!  What color is the shirt I'm wearing?  Ha ha! Nope, it's green.  No, seriously, it's green.  You can look now.  How did you not know that?  I'm standing right in front of you.  Yeah, okay. . .I guess you've got your mind on other things.  What?  Oh, my god!  I WAS totally naughty that day!  But that was like 35 years ago!  Man, that is just creepy.  How do you even know that, much less remember it 35 years later?  But I'm standing right in front of you, and you have no idea my shirt is green. 

And they actually gave you a license to fly a reindeer-driven magic sleigh, did they?  Well, I'll be sure to stay out of the clouds tomorrow night.  No offense.  Oh, I'm just kidding around with you.  Lighten up.  You're awesome at what you do.  Like I said, I could never do it.  I have all the respect in the world for you.

But now really.  HOW do you manage to pull it off.  Even if it's only one night of actual work (no offense).  That's a pretty intense night. 

Aaaahhhh!  The List!  I forgot about the List.  And you check it not once, but twice!  Right. I remember.  Five times?  Ha!  You really check it five times?  That's hilarious!  I check mine at least that many too. . . But why lie about - why not tell people you check it five times?  Oh. . .it doesn't fit the rhyme scheme of the song.  Sure, I get that.  Naw, don't worry about it.  I won't tell anyone.  Your secret's safe with me. 

Wow, I'm starting to feel a little tired now finally.  We really ought to wrap this up so you can get some rest and get ready to share all those gifts of yours with the world.  The world needs them.

Yeah, thanks,  it was nice talking to you also. 

Backatcha, Santa--you have yourself a happy Christmas, too.  And a good night.

This is Not Your Typical Holiday Greeting

My cat is a metabolic marvel.  My sweet kitty is nearly 13 years old.  Still playful and young at heart, the old gal is skinnier than she used to be.  She enjoys a healthy appetite, and her domesticated life pretty much revolves around Her Bowl, centered atop a rubber mat that proudly declares "Cats Rule!"  But she doesn't eat excessively.  I feed her no more than recommended for her petite frame, as indicated on the cans and bags.  And this is why I'm amazed by her metabolism.  I simply can't believe how much this cat poops. 

My cat is, in fact, named after her poop.  It wasn't intentional; it just worked out that way.  My precious feline companion was my first real pet.  She was a gift from my husband for my birthday in the first year of our marriage.  When we brought the little kitty home, I had no idea what to call her.  I had a friend who was a Wiccan priestess, and I remembered her telling me once that pets should name themselves.  So I decided that I would let the kitty name herself.  I didn't exactly how or when that would happen; but I figured that since she was the only cat in the house, there should be no basis for identity confusion, and therefore no reason to rush on calling her anything other than "Kitty."

Kitty spent the first 3 days in her new home under my bed.  She was terrified.  I was able to coax her out for short periods of time with one of those feather-on-a-stick toys.  But as soon as she tired of trying to catch the feather, she'd head back under the bed and remain there for hours.  I was worried about her.  Her Bowl was full of food, but she wouldn't touch it.  I had set up for her a brand new litter box, filled with delightfully scented fresh litter.  But she didn't go near it.  As far as I could tell, for the first several days after she moved in, she didn't go at all. 

Like a nervous young mother of a newborn, I became mildly obsessed with her litterbox.  I'd check it hourly to see if she'd used it.  And hour after hour, nothing.  I worried that she had a blockage.  That she was constipated.  That her tummy hurt.  That she would injure herself mortally in a passive-aggressive, anal-retentive act of rebellion over having been adopted by this couple of losers whom she clearly despised. 

My husband assured me that she was just fine - just needing some time to get used to her surroundings.  And of course, as he usually is about things like this, he was right.  By around Day Four, Kitty emerged from her Under-Bed sanctuary, and started exploring our apartment, which included sampling the fare in Her Bowl.  I continued to check her box for deposits, and for another day or so, I continued to walk away disappointed.

Finally, one morning, I checked her box, and to my joy, I discovered one tiny little poop ball.  As I scooped it out, Kitty stood by and watched me.  I wanted to encourage her good excretory behavior, so I praised her enthusiastically, saying in an annoying baby-talkie voice, "What a good little girl you are, Kitty!  You finally left Mama a little nugget!"  Meow.  "Yes! My sweet girl finally dropped us a little nugget!"  Meow, meow.  "You're talking to me!  You must be happy too!  I'll bet your tummy feels better now!  Eat some more so you can give us another nugget."  Meow. 

I was finally starting to relax and have fun with my new kitty friend.  As I prattled on excitedly about her poop nugget, Kitty rubbed her head on me, and meowed.  ". . .nugget."  Meow.  "nugget?"  Meow, meow.  "Oh, I get it!  Nugget!  Your name is Nugget!"  Meow, meow, meowww. . .

And that is how Miss Nugget P. Nuggbert, a.k.a. "Nuggie" came to name herself after feces.  And from that day forward, Nuggie was the productive little metabolizer that she continues to be today. 

In her senior years, Nuggie has become rather curmudgeonly, with lots of opinions, including critical opinions regarding the state of her litter box.  So to prevent her from taking it upon herself to find more appealing facilities among the stored items in the basement, I scoop Nuggie's box multiple times a day, whenever I can.  There is always poop to scoop.

Today, I had an Inattentive Poster Girl morning, the likes of which I had not experienced for months.  It started when my alarm when off, and I didn't know where I was.  Then, I couldn't figure out how to turn off my alarm - the same alarm that blares at me every single morning just before I turn it off.  Somehow I managed to get my kids ready for the school bus in time.  But moments after they left, I wondered why the house was so quiet, and I looked around for my little boy.  Oh, riiiight.  He just got on the school bus. 

It was at that point that I decided to head to the basement for the morning ritual of scooping out the litter boxes, which were no doubt needing some attention by now. (As a good operations manager, I've recently brought in a second box to handle heavy production demands).  I walked down the steps carefully so as not to fall, as I was still feeling a bit out of sorts.  Once at the bottom of the steps, I grabbed a plastic poop bag, glanced around, and . . .

...Ooooh, christmas lights!!

I grabbed the lights from on top of the box sitting next to the steps, and turned to head back upstairs.  As I climbed the steps, I considered options for where I could hang them.  I still had to get my shower in before work, so I was going to have to move quickly on these lights.  For some weird reason, I had a plastic bag in my hand, so I dropped that to free my hands for light hanging, which I would do just as soon as I took a few big gulps of coffee. 

"Look what I found!  Where should I hang them?"  I asked my husband.  "Wherever you want," he replied agreeably.  "You can put them up over here, or up there, or up there across the cabinets."

Like a woman possessed by a low-budget Martha Stewart, I grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it over to the cupboards so I could stand on it and festoon the cabinets with the long string of pretty twinkly lights.  I couldn't quite reach, even standing on the chair. (FYI, IPG is super short; not as short as Snookie - but short.)  I struggled to reach the top of the cupboards and drape the lights up there.  As soon as I managed to land the lights on the end of the row of cupboards and try to start draping them across, the lights would fall down.  And then I would try again. . .and again, failing to achieve my goal each time.  I saw no reason to. . .oh, I don't know. . .try a different method.  This one was perfect.  I just needed to try. . .ugh. . .ugh. . harder. . .one. . .more. . .time.  Shit. 

With every failed attempt, I became more and more determined.  These lights HAD to go up.  Now.  Before my shower.  Before I could go to work.  I wanted my house to be pretty and festive and illuminated.  I wanted my children to come home from school and experience a joyous surprise of beautiful lights.  I just wanted. . .nope, needed. . .these lights to happen.

In my house, we refer to this sort of thing as my "buffoonery."  I was Lucy and Ethel all rolled into one.  Any casual observer could have pointed out that there was no way in hell those lights were getting up there like that unless I suddenly acquired the wingspan of a California Condor.  Luckily, Inattentive Poster Girl is smart, and she would figure this out. . .eventually.

"Honey! Come help me put these lights up here!" I called to my husband.  He walked into the kitchen chuckling.  He mumbled something about "buffoonery."  I don't know what he was talking about.  In any event, my White Knight - much taller, handier, and more coordinated than me - graciously took the tangled lights from my sweaty tense hands, and like a competent foreman, took over the job, instructing me on my part.  As he reached up and placed the lights, my husband commented, "You know, this really isn't the time to be doing this."  Low-Budget-Martha-Bot turned to him slowly, and replied in monotone, "This is exactly the time to be doing this."

Thanks to my adept husband of normal height, the job was completed within a minute or two after that.  I stood back to admire the lights.  I smiled and started breathing again, inhaling deeply.  Along with much needed oxygen, composure began to flow through me once again. 

It was then that I realized what had just happened.  Inattentive Poster Girl, joined by her identical twin, Hyperactive Poster Girl, and their mutual best friends, Hyperfocusing Chick and Impulsive Lady, just had a raucous party in my head.  A raucous decorating party, to be exact.  And now. . . poof. . .it was over. 

"Jeez," I said, looking at the clock.  "I have to get ready to go to work.  I'm late."  I explained to my husband that I was having a super duper IPG morning.  Now reading news on the Internet, my hubby replied without looking up, "No kidding.  You'd better take your pill."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I chuckled as I started to head for the upstairs to get ready.  What should I wear?  Oh, I know!  I'll wear. . .

. . . POOOOP!!

The poop!  I forgot all about the poop!  I hurried down to the basement to scoop poop.  Whew!  I'm not too late - the poop is still there. Not only was the poop still there, patiently waiting to be scooped, but my little girl was standing by, waiting for me to get out of the way so she could replace what I just removed.  Good girl.  As my dad used to say, "Everyone needs to have a profession."

By the time I made it into my car to drive to work, I was grinning from ear to ear.  What started off as a horrible morning turned out to be a happy one.  My home became a little brighter; I enjoyed a few laughs, some companionship, and a little sense of accomplishment; and I knew that my joy would pass to my children - even if only for a brief moment - when they saw the beautiful new lights.  I felt refreshed and hopeful, ready to take on the day.

As I drove down the highway, I tried to make sense of my morning.  While I pondered, a verse from the Gospel of Matthew came to mind:  So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. (Mathew 6:34).  I love this passage.  It's one of the few I know and invoke often because it is so relevant to the human experience, in all its facets.

Like now, it kinda reminds me of poop.  As distasteful and unpleasant as it can be, poop is an inevitable byproduct of life.  There's not much point in getting all twisted up about poop. You can scoop and scoop like crazy; but tomorrow will bring its own poop anyway.  And if you have a cat like Nugget, tomorrow is always just a couple of hours away. 

So, why knock yourself out?  Drop the plastic baggie for a little while and put up some Christmas lights.

And, as I continued down the Interstate toward my office, I was further reminded of Advent, the days of waiting and anticipation before Christmas that began a few days ago.  (I'm reminded of lots of random stuff while I drive.) 

In case you haven't noticed, I love a metaphor.  I decided that my morning buffoonery would be my personal metaphor for what the season of Advent is about - focusing our hearts and minds on the Light to come.  Setting aside the darkness of tedium and fear to make room for joy and hope.  To prepare a Manger in which Love is born. 

To all of you, I wish you an abundance of Light this season and always.  I hope your worries and poop will be small and managable.  I hope the Spirit moves you to hang your lights, kindle your menorahs, and share your light with others.  Most of all, I wish you. . .

Peace and Blessings