Tag: sharing

Busy as a. . .

The other day, I had been talking about how I was doing my best to take things slow. I had found myself sitting at my desk with half a dozen different things spread out before me.  I end up doing a little of this, a little of that and a whole lot of nothing ever gets completed in it’s entirety.  Then I get frustrated that I haven’t made the best use of my time, create a new “to-do” list and vow to double down on the productivity the next day.  Guess what happens?  Same thing.  It’s like Groundhog Day for the Type A among us.  So, like I said, I’m trying to slow down. 

For instance, right now, I’ve just got my computer on and nothing else. Don’t know where the phone is (that’s good and bad, I guess), iPad is on the floor, my planner is closed (hallelujah!) and I’m just focusing on what is in front of me.  I’ve been considering why it is so difficult for me to just do one thing at a time.  Ironically, I find myself telling the children to do one thing at a time several times a day.  Or, I remind them that I can only do one thing at a time when I’m trying to put away groceries, make dinner, empty the dishwasher, change a poopie diaper, and braid some hair when they ask me to read them a story.  Times like those, I really should drop everythign and read the story — there’s going to be a day when they’ll stop asking.  That’s the reason why I will still pick up my 48 pound 8 year old when she asks me to hold her; one day, she might not let me.  But, I’m going off in an entirely different direction. 

I was talking about slowing down.  I fall prey to the Idol of Busyness far too often.  “‘The Idol of Busyness'” you ask? “Hilary with One L, what is that?”  Basically, in our tech filled, immediate gratification desirous lives, we have fallen down to worship at the Idol of Busyness. We take pride in how overcommitted, strung out, over worked, over shceuled, and over accomplished we are.  This notion of idolatry isn’t something that I came up with.  It was a concept I heard in church about six years ago that burrowed into my subconcious and took root.  When I am in the eye of the storm of commitments and responsibilites, the idea of the Idol of Busyness burbles up to the forefront of my mind, totally unbidden by my consciousness.  I’m convinced that when I’m in danger of spiraling into self-aggrandizement of how much I’ve done, the Idol pops up to remind me to come back to center.

Another spoke on this wheel is my (former) need to justify what I do because I am a mom who works from home.  Keeps your knickers on, Edith — this isn’t about to be a SAHM vs. Working Mom debate.  I’m just talking about me and MY OWN perceptions of myself.  I used to — thankfully, not so much anymore — spew forth every little detail of what I did over the course of a day when The Hubs would come home from work. It was like, “Ooh, ooh! Look what I did! And then look what I did! See, it’s good that I’m at home with the kids!”  It was like I had to prove to him that I hadn’t been sitting on the couch eating bon-bons all day — as if that’s even possible with kids underfoot.  As the girls got older, and B.V. (before Vivi), I would do the same thing when I would meet people whose eyes would glaze over upon learning I didn’t work outside of the home.  I would list my CV, my volunteer experience, my memberships in organizations, and where I saw myself in ten years.  All of these things were futile attempts to to impress and engage with people who I was probably never going see except for annual holiday functions.

I thought the more I filled up my day, the more things I did, the more I checked off my list and the busier I became, well, then I was a real person.  I was a person worth paying attention to.  I was just as busy as you, as him, as her because my time was SO busy, just like yours, his and hers.

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 The number of things I do in a given day doesn’t make me better or worse than anyone else. I’m not getting validation for that; I’m getting tired, and how tired I am isn’t something I’m going to be rewarded for.  There’s no prize for overflowing your waking hours with commitments and engagements that leave you worn out and run down.  As we enter into this holiday season, there will be a great temptation to out-Pinterest one another in holiday swag, gift giving for teachers and service providers, and meal preparation.  There will always be something that has to be done on our never ending to-do lists.  The best we can do is take each day, each activity as it comes and hope for the best. Of course, always have a plan B and a nice set of hand soaps pre-wrapped for an unexpected hostess gift. 

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IN: ON: November 19, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Just Cause


The other day, as I was ferrying groceries from the car to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the pantry and from the kitchen to the upstairs, I started thinking about the cycle I’ve found myself in. I don’t get political on my little piece of the blogosphere.  I don’t raunchy, get up on a soapbox, beat my chest or tear my clothes.  I keep things light and entertaining.

I have, in my possession, more than a little bit of useless information that will serve me well on Family Feud or Jeopardy one day.  I put the well-being of myself, my husband and children at the forefront, making sure that everyone is well fed, well-groomed and well mannered before setting them free into the world.  I find, though, that there’s a little flame sputtering inside of me, gasping for some air so it can blossom into something more.   That little flame is a desire to be fully invested in a cause, a campaign, something that is permanent and worthwhile. Something that has some weight behind it.

I can remember reading various magazines that profiled everyday people and celebs who, after being faced with a serious disease, become champions for awareness and eradication of said disease.  Call me a cynic, but if they never fell ill in the first place, would they have come to be such a supporter after all?  Through my membership in various organizations, I’ve given money, time, and energy to the March of Dimes, CASA, Heifer International, and Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure.  Thankfully, my family — nuclear and extended — has been healthy. The biggest challenge we’ve faced so far is a bout of contact dermatitis and while we’ve worked through it, I’m not called to be the face of prevention and care.

I do want to invest in something, though.  I want to roll up my sleeves and become fully immersed in a subject and the ways volunteers can spread the word about it.  Maybe because I recently re-wrote my will, I started thinking about my legacy and I want it to mean something. 

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I saw the above quote while trolling through tumblr one day and felt like the words reached through the screen, wrapped themselves around my heart and squeezed really, really hard.  I try to be a role  model for my children, for my friends children, for my friend even.  I don’t set out to do it every morning, mind you. I just do the best that I can with what I’ve been given. I’m fallible. I make mistakes. I snap at my kids, let my husband make is own dinner, and eat Cookie Butter right out of the jar with my fingers.  Yeah, really.  But I keep coming back to this flame flickering inside of me, this urge to want to do something, learn something, embrace something that gives me a sense of satisfaction that I’m not getting right now.  I know that I’m capable of great things. I do great things every day.  I also know that I’m capable of something more.  I just have to find out what it is.  I am desperate to know, because I truly want someone to look at me and say, “Because of you, I didn’t give up.”

There had been an article in Real Simple (my go-to mag) about how to ensure your charitable contributions are actually received and disseminated to their intended recipients.  When you see things about sending five cents for clean water, or 20 cents a day feeding a hungry child, how do you really know where your money goes? 

The real question is, what do I feel passionate about (clearly it’s not grammatical correctness)? The usual suspects when it comes to charity and volunteering boil down the these:

1. Environment
2. Arts & Culture
3. Hunger
4. Education
5. Children and Families
6. Grassroots Initiatives (which I had to look up because it was SO not what I thought it was)
7. Animals
8. Health
9. Water and Sanitation
10. Disaster Relief

They’re all important. I can tie to myself to any and all of them, no matter how thin the thread.  Which of them, though, is the one that speaks to me? Which of them is the one that will reach out and squeeze my heart so that I will give, participate,  and not give up?

If there is a cause that speaks to you, please share it in the comments.

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IN: ON: July 29, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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NYC 2013

Whew! Another whirlwind week-end in the books. I don’t even know where to begin.  I guess at the beginning.

We left for New York City early on Friday morning.  The weather in Richmond had been really fantastic as of late.  Blue skies, rising temperatures — even though I had checked the weather forecast in New York, I was hoping that we’d bring some of that spring goodness with us.  No such luck.  

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Rain, rain, rain and fifty degrees.  Ugh, my wardrobe plans were shot, but whatever. The Hubs, Mo, Co and I were in the city.  First stop? The American Girl Doll Store.

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You know you’re getting close to the flagship store because all up and down teh surrounding blocks, all you see are little girls clutching little dolls to their chests.  Big red bags emblazoned with “American Girl” hang off the shoulders of harried moms or the handles of well-used strollers.  The three of us pushed our way through the revolving doors into all things American Girl.  I have to admit, I think Co would have been content to just go around and around in the door like this:

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 But, we did get her out of the door and into the Pepto Pink carpeted grand foyer that was the store.  The girls didn’t know what to do first.  I think their brains had a moment of misfiring as they processed everything.  Literally stopped in their tracks, I could see them re-booting and then firing on all cylinders.  So, we walked around the first floor, looking at the dolls that you could design to look like you before Co was ready to get down to business.  Up to the second floor, where the historical dolls were kept.  To say free-for-all would be a gross exaggeration, but it was pretty close.  Mo had her doll safely tucked under her arm and proceeded to fill a bag full of outfits and accessories. Co, who had already said she was going to get Addy, flitted from display to display, making sure she was making the right choice.  It has actually taken me longer to write this than it did to have them in the store and then ready to go.

Once Addy became a member of the family and all of her accessories, as well as the ones for Mo’s doll,  had been purchased, we set out into the city.  The Hubs had been called away for work, so it was me and the girls, doing it ourselves.  Thankfully the rain had stopped, and so I marched them down the sidewalk. We slid into a pizza place for some lunch and then walked a few blocks to the subway station to grab the train to Dylan’s Candy Bar. 

My little country mice were in love with the subway. Sure, they’ve ridden the DC metro before, but the NYC subway is in a class by itself.  As we were swallowed up by the sea of people and ingested into one of the trains, Co kept remarking, “It’s so clean!’ Yes honey, and why don’t you hand my wallet to that nice man over there?

Anyway, onto Dylan’s Candy Bar, which is basically Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory owned and operated by Dylan Lauren, daughter of fashion designer Ralph Lauren.  We met up with my girlfriend @jnetty_ and then some of the family that had come to town for the performance, which was why we were in NYC in the first place, met us as well.  I lost track of how much time we spent in the store, but suffice it to say, the girls were sugared up for quite a long time. 

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 Miraculously, most of the candy survived the trip back to VA.  I’m pretty sure the girls consumed their weight in sugar several times over the course the week-end.  Friday evening (yes, this is all in the first day), the Hubs took the girls to see some family members for dinner, while I met up with a good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a few years.  We all reconvened somewhere around 9, and then @jnetty_ and I hit up the Shake Shack (yummy!) before calling it a night.

Saturday morning was another gray day, but thankfully, no more rain.  We had been invited to have breakfast at the Central Park Boathouse by another family friend.

 Breakfast was delicious and we took a stroll around the park, stopping to see the Alice in Wonderland statue and promising the girls a return visit to sail some boats when the weather got better.  By this point, we needed to boogie back to get the ladies ready as they were going to the matinee of Motown the Musical, where their uncle, Brandon Victor Dixon, was playing Berry Gordy.  I may just let Mo do a guest post on here to give you her exact words on the whole experience.  From what I understand, though, she and her sister practically upstaged their uncle with their manners and overall cuteness.  Typical.

That evening, we all went out to dinner with one of the Hubs fraternity brothers who is a true New Yorker. He always knows the best eateries, coolest out of the way places, and where to go for unique snackybites.  Sugar and Plumm was no exception.

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 I know what you’re thinking: more candy? I couldn’t believe it either.  The girls soldiered on, getting ice cream they could barely finish.  I have to respect that committment to sweets.  As for me, I was happy to break off a piece of the Hubs cookie and call it my own.  The sugar rush rose quickly and the crash that followed was epic. We were all out when the heads hit the pillows.

Sunday morning, the change in the temps and the late nights caught up with me. I felt like I was swallowing lightening.  My throat was killing me and all I could think was “NO! Not today!” Sunday was the premier of the show, the whole reason why we had come.  I couldn’t be sick.  So instead of accompanying the Hubs et. al on their morning run of activities, I crawled back into the bed with some Aleve and Dayquil, and slept myself well.  By the afternoon, I felt better, well enough to go grab a bite at the Todd English Food Hall at the Plaza (my absolute favorite), and then go on a hansom carriage ride with the girls through Central Park.

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The girls had spent the morning at the park sailing boats with the Hubs, and then had a huge family reunion style brunch with the in-laws and extended family.  I’m really bummed that I missed that, but not even the Hubs knew the brunch had been planned.  Still, I needed the rest because it was getting close to curtain.   Yes, I will talk about the show and all the celeb spotting I did, but I do have to show you what I wore, dahling! Oh, and the army candy that accompanied me, too!  Debonair, isn’t he?

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 Anyway,  we get to the theater and on the red carpet, I see Tracee Ellis Ross, Jesse Jackson and Evander Holyfield. Once inside, I see S. Epatha Merkerson, Gail King, Gladys Knight, Kathie Lee and Hoda, Debbie Allen, Spike Lee, and Clive Davis.  Seriously, it was amazing.  I mean, you see these people on TV and in movies and truly you don’t know them, but you want to run up to them and be like, “Hey! I know you!”  My mother-in-law finagled the tickets so that we ended up in the front row.  We certainly didn’t miss anything, let me tell you. 

A portion of the show involves some audience participation, and when that time came, the actress playing Diana Ross (whom we’d never met) came to our side of the stage.  She called to a man three rows behind us, but he flat out refused.  One of the ensemble perfomrers helping her pointed to a man behind the man with the glasses, but she said, “Oh no, he’s been undressing me with his eyes all night.  How about this piece of chocolate, right here?” And sure enough, she pulled the Hubs up on stage with her to sing a few bars of “Reach Out and Touch”.  I mean, seriously.  BVD and the Hubs, brothers, with practically the whole family in attendance, both performing on stage? Classic.

The show lasted three hours, but it flew by given the material and the music.  At the end, the ensemble took their bows, then the principals took their bows.  As I said, BVD was playing Berry Gordy, who wrote the book and produced the show.  They brought Mr. Gordy up on stage and as the emcee said, “Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Berry Gordy,” there was a kind of kerfluffle from the wings.  This woman with all this glorious black hair, dress in black and with a yellow feather boa, swooped on in.

“Ladies and gentleman, Diana Ross is in the building!”

And the crowd went nuts.

As if that wasn’t enough, other members of the Motown family started getting up on stage.  Smokey Robinson, cool as a fan, slid on up, followed by Suzanne DePasse, and Martha Reeves.  It took five people, but they got Stevie Wonder up there, too.  Incredible.  The curtain fell to them singing “Dancing in the Streets”.

People started filing out of the theatre at that point, but the Hubs and I stuck around with his cousin Sitota, trying to figure out what to do next.  At some point, Sitota and I noticed how empty the theatre was, the Hubs off talking to someone, and that, “Hey, isn’t that Smokey Robinson over there?”  Grabbing her hand, I pulled her after me, through some seats, up the aisles, where I just clapped my hand on his shoulder and said, “Hi Mr. Robinson, I’m a huge fan!” That earned me a hug and a photo op!

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 The truth is, it’s my mom who’s the huge fan.  I really wanted to get him to say “Hi” to her on my phone, but I hoped she’d be okay with the photo.  She told me not to wash the hand that touched his jacket.  Straight comedy.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Sadly, I didn’t get to meet Diana Ross, though I did pass her on our way into the afterparty.  That hair is a force unto itself.  We stayed at the party, congratulated BVD again and again, along with other cast members that we knew or met for the first time.  We bid our goodnights before turning into pumpkins and thoroughly crashed to catch a enough ZZZZs before we hit the road back to VA.

And so here we are.  The cold caught up with me for real, now that I’m back on my turf.  My throat is  tender, but my stomach is all kinds of knotted up. I even skipped the gym today, and cancelled a lunch appointment.  I feel that bad. The only reason I’m writing now is because my stomach hurts to much for me to sleep!

Ugh, it was worth it!

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IN: ON: April 16, 2013 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Gram El

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
–Mary Elizabeth Frye

It’s still not easy. 
I want to pick up the phone and hear your voice.
I want to tell you how the girls love it when, after their bath, I stand them, wrapped in a robe, atop the toilet seat and dry them off, just as you did for me at that age. 
I want to send you their drawings, and have you hear their adventures. 
I want you to call them “doll”, and promise to send them fudge.  
I want to see their faces light up when they get a “Just Because Card” in the mail from you and see two or three dollars flutter to the ground when they open it. 
I want to hear you tell Mom and Dad to “be loving.”
I want to say, “Broken-down,” when you ask me how my broken-down brother is. 
I want to sit on your couch, nursing the smallest can of ginger-ale I’ve never seen anywhere else but in your house, and have you tell me to look away when the daytime soap stars start doing the “hanky-panky”.
I want to make more memories with you. 
 
So, I choose to share my memories of you with others. And I celebrate your sunrise, instead of your sunset.  I love you so. 
 
Happy Birthday, Gram.
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IN: ON: April 11, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Help. Thanks. Wow.

I wake up everyday with the best of intentions.  In my heart, I know that I am impatient.  I know that I need to be better about having more patience with the girls, espceially because they’re young. I keep going back to that old adage about how the days and long, but the years are fast.  Soon, very soon, the things that make me want to gouge out my eyes with a spoon will be the very things that I want to come back to when I’m in my twilight years and a certified (and possibly certifiable) empty nester. Of course, I hope to be living in the south of France by then, so I might be all “C’est la vie!”

I kid.

I’ve been thinking about this, because it all goes from sugar to shit so quickly.   I suppose it’s all subjective;  I mean, my shit and your shit could be two totally different things.  My shit might be your sugar or your shit might be my sugar.  Or the whole thing could be one sugar covered shit or a shit covered sugar shake.

Sorry. . .I lost focus for a minute.  Got caught up in the sugary shitty sugar shit.

I like the word shit.

Sorry. .  I did it again.

In order to gain some perspective and to take a step back when things start bubbling to a boil,  I’ve started praying.  Yes, it’s come to that. Used to be that I would pray when faced with some kind of Herculean type challenge.  And I would wait until the end end of the day, right before I would go to bed to phone in my request.

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I guess I got it ingrained in me that the only time you could pray was on your knees at the bedside.
Somehow, over the course of this parenting journey, I’ve come to realize, any time is a good time for prayer. 

I picked up Ann Lamott’s book “Help, Thanks, Wow” a few weeks ago.  I’ll admit, I didn’t read the whole thing; life got in the way, but the chapter and a half that I did read? Well, now, I can tell you about that.  Lamott says that she prays many times a day, and my first thought was “How?”  I was still hung up on the whole “Now I lay me down to sleep,” type of prayer schedule.  As I continued to read, however,  my take away was that any time is the right time for prayer.  And it doesn’t have to be all elaborate and right out of the BCP (Book of Common Prayer), though sometimes, I find myself saying the prayer of Confession as easily as my own name.    No flowery language needed. No haths, thous, wilsts, and so forth.   Toss out a help me make it through this day. Help me my friends with the battles they’re fighting and keep their feet on the path. Help me to keep what is most important in the forefront.  Just cough up a thanks for another day. Thanks for that last breath.  And Wow.  Just wow at this world in which we live. Wow at my family, they’re amazing and they’re mine.  Wow, another day of life and health.

That’s it. Help. Thanks. Wow.

So, when things are going from sweet to sour, I’m trying to stop and offer up a seven second prayer of Help, Thanks and Wow.  Help me be a better friend, a better wife and a better mother.  Thanks for my kids, because even though I need Your help in keeping a cool head, I know that they’re a blessing.  Wow, at how amazing my kids are, because not only are they negotiating a later bedtime, they have some pretty compelling arguments.

And when I’m too proud to ask for help (and we all know that pride comes before the fall), when the last thing I want to do is give thanks, and when the only time I saw “Wow” is when it preceded, “I can’t believe this shit,”  I’m turning to this prayer by Thomas Merton (original post here).

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
I can admit, reading this poem left me in tears. When I try to read it aloud, I get choked up.  I’ve not once had an experience like that before.  I carry a copy of this prayer around with me in a notebook. I read a few lines at a stoplight.  I am far from having it memorized, but it gives me comfort when I don’t even realize I need it.  I was asking for help without knowing it. 
I got it in this prayer. 
Wow.
Thanks.
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IN: ON: April 4, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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With(hold) Your Compliments

I honestly don’t know what to make of this.  So, over the week-end, the Hubs and I took the girls to a birthday party.  We were greeted by the birthday girls’ mom and shown into the main part of the house where a number of the activities were going on. As we walked in, our hostess mentioned that a mutual friend of ours was here.  We hadn’t seen this person in a while and as we approached, she opened her arms to give me a hug.  As she did so, she exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, look at you! You’re so skinny, you whore!” and then she flashed me a giant mega-watt smile.

The Hubs had been waylaid into a conversation with the birthday girl’s grandfather and simulatneously trying to keep Vivi from gouging out the old man’s eyeballs.  He says given those circumstances, he didn’t hear our friend say that, even though he was standing right at my elbow.

I heard it for damn sure, and was thoroughly taken aback because, I’ve never been called “whore” before, in all seriousness or in jest.  I  was stunned that she said that, especially after having been called a “skinny bitch” just a few weeks ago.  I mean, I know I’ve been amping up my work-outs, but I didn’t think it warrants this kind of feedback! It was surprising and off-putting, coupled with the fact that she followed it up with a big ass smile.  The smile was the gesticular eqvuivalent of saying “Bless your heart”.   It’s a Southern mannerism, saying “bless your heart” whereby you can get away with saying some downright nasty things about someone so long as you add that key phrase somewhere in the mix (i.e. Oh, Mary Sue’s little girl looks like she hit every branch falling out of the ugly tree, bless her heart!).

I had done quite a bit of reading recently about Mommy Wars and the ways in which we as women pull eachother down, crabs in a bucket style.   Why do we think we’re doing eachother a favor by complimenting one another in such a backhanded fashion?  It’s so two-faced and back stabby.  Personally,  I’d rather you just keep it to yourself. I appreciate someone complimenting me on how I look; that’s nice, but let me have the compliment in it’s entirety.  Don’t tell me I look good, and then diffuse or downplay the good feeling I’m bound to get by calling me a whore as a followup.  The take away of the exchange is not that it’s good to see me, or even that I look skinny (thank you very much), but that I’m a whore (for looking skinny in comparison to you). 

Think of it from this perspective.  What if I was naturally a Rachel Zoe or Nicole Richie size?  Then, the next time you saw me, I was looking healthy, more Christina Hendricks-esque.  I don’t think anyone would say, “Oh my God! Look at you! You’re so curvy,  you whore!”

Sounds ridiculous, right? So don’t do it.

I guess it goes back to my expectations of other people.  I don’t behave in a certain way and I expect other people to behave the way I do.  It’s not that difficult.  I’m not Mother Teresa or Ghandi, so I think my behaviors are pretty attainable.  I mean, if you boil it down, it’s all about the golden rule.  If someone looks good, then I’ll tell them so and leave it at that.   I don’t need to undercut the positivity. I have a problem with using “bitch”, “whore”, “skank” or even “cunt in jest.   Whore is kind of strong, you know? And yes, I understand about reclaiming the word to take the explosiveness out of it, but I’m not buying that.   I’m hard pressed to think of an example where dudes do this to one another.  I mean you might know of some guy that is always calling someone a “douchebag” or  a “ball sack” or whatever guys call eachother, but it’s never in the context that women choose to express themselves.

I’ve never heard a guy compliment a guy on the way he looks, so maybe right there lies the difference.  But even still, imagine two male contestants on Top Chef complimenting eachother.

Hey Joel, that chilean sea bass with bacon foam was delicious, you douche-bag!
C’mon, Michael! Your roasted corn and saffron sea scallops were righteous, you f-cking nut sack!

I kind of laughed a little to myself just then because it sounds SO outrageous!

Going back to the mommy war part of it, I think it’s no longer the mothers who work outside of the home versus the mothers who work inside the home. It’s now the stay at home moms versus other stay at home mom’s.  It’s about the mom’s competing against one another about who’s taken the most Pilates and barre classes. Who spends the most time in the gym, who gives their kids the most unique, non-traditional, gender neutral name, and has the most pairs of Tory Burch shoes.  All of the things that make these women caricatures are being held up as some kind of brass ring to strive for and yet, I don’t remember signing up for that contest.  Hell, I didn’t even know there was a contest.  I’m not trying to be about that.  

It’s hard enough being a woman,
and a wife,
and a mother. 

It can be very lonely and isolating.  When I make friends, I don’ t want the kind that call me a whore because they think we’re in competition for some grand prize.   I’m not competing against you or anyone else. I’m just trying to get to the end of the day. . .

. . .and keep the top button of my pants buttoned. 

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IN: ON: March 27, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Facebook, Friends, and Feeling (Not So) Good

I was reading the latest issue of Real Simple magazine the other day. No, it wasn’t while I was snuggled under a plush cashmere throw with a piping hot cup of coffee while Mo, Co and Vivo frolicked in the snow.  It was while I was trying to slap together a PB&J for myself, while making “Meatless Monday” (how I loathe it) dinner for the kids and convince them that they were old enough to eat salmon.  Yes, that was their excuse, “We’re not old enough to eat this kind of fish.”  I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there were legal ramificaitons involved in the consumption of certain types of seafood among the elementary school set.

Anyway, I had the magazine propped open against the paper towel holder, and the page fell open to an article entitled “Feel Better Already”.  Saints be praised! The Universe has spoken loud and clear.  Eagerly, I flipped ahead with peanut buttery hands.  In short, the article was a list of 21 tips and small changes that you can follow to put an upswing in your well-being. 

A few suggestions, such as “Smile, even if you don’t feel like it” and “Snack on dark chocolate!”, I’d heard of and already put into practice (hello, sea salt and dark chocolate. I’ll see you this evening).  Some of the tips didn’t really apply to me, like using your daily commute as a mini break or getting rid of your dust-ruffle (you’ve got some freeloading dust mites just whooping up in that thing), since I’ve got neither of those.  And there were the tips that I could probably do if I remembered to put it on the to-do list. There was talk of vitamins and microexercise, taking a hike, using epsom salts.  The one tip that reached off the page and tweaked the end of my nose was number 9: “Get some perspective on Facebook.”

Do tell. . .

Basically, Facebook can make you feel like crap.  Most people have pretty large networks of friends.  Each time your newsfeed burbles up with photos said friends lounging on a white sandy beach, or your Zumba instructor knocking off numbers 1, 7 and 12 off of your bucket list,  it’s like a paper cut to your self-esteem.  Your brother’s exgirlfriend just got a job promotion? Paper cut. Your tenth grade lab partner moved to Paris?  Paper cut.

We spend time on Facebook, but the more we see others doing or having,  we then look at ourselves and  start tallying up what we’re not doing,  what we aren’t having.  Imagine the amount of time you spend on Facebook times the number of times your newsfeed coughs up another happily-ever-after status update.  I’m no math whiz, so I’ll just say paper cut. Paper cut. Paper cut.

Ironically, I got this image from a webpage about Facebook Statuses

I gave up Facebook for Lent.  I deactivated my account and deleted the app from my phone.  When I told the Hubs that was what I planned to give up, he was all, “Really?! For Lent? You know that’s like 40 days, right?” I knew that I was teetering on a Facebook addiction when even Mo expressed disbelief at my choice.  I had asked her what she was giving up for Lent or rahter, what best practice she would adopt, when she tried to put one over on me by asking what I planned to do.  “I gave up Facebook,” I told her.  “No way!” came her response.  “Like forever?!”

That’s problematic. 

I’ll admit it. I was wasting spending way too much time doing the voyeuristic thing. Sure, I was catching up with friends, admiring photos, but then I’d check my watch and realize, “Oof! I should get off this thing — -in like 10 more minutes.”  Dilney Goncalves, PhD., an assistant professor of marketing at IE Business School and the study leader quoted in the Real Simple article was saying:

“It’s natural to compare our lives with those of others, but people tend to post disproportionately positive updates and neglect the not-so-glamorous aspects of their lives on Facebook.”

Well sure, who wants to see the plain, ugly truth? When you see those drama filled Facebook updates like, “Wondering if it’s all worth it,” and “Gonna need more than prayers,” called vaguebooking, do you really want to know the unpleasant stuff that’s sure to follow? Do you want people to know you have unpleasant stuff?  There are drama updates sprinkled in the mix because we all have unpleasant stuff that come into our lives.  Some of us choose not to show it.  Some of us choose to hide it behind status updates and photos so ridiculously perfect they make a shimmering rainbows or a galloping unicorn seem like day old, stir fried doo-doo.

We use Facebook as an escape. It’s a time suck. It’s a way to pass some minutes waiting at the doctor’s office, for the movie to start or the light to change.  We’re looking for something to zip us away from what’s in front of us, if only for a few seconds.  The grass is always greener, right? But when it rains, it falls on both sides of the fence.

Easter is this coming Sunday and with it comes the end of Lent.  Throughout the last 40 days, I’ve learned that I can indeed survive without Facebook.  There are a crap-ton of other social media outlets on which to waste time and stay connected with people.  Will I get back on? I don’t know.  In order to spread the word about my writing and my photography, I may have to.  Facebook is everywhere, and if I want my name and my brand to be everywhere, well. . .

Check out this article by Dilney Goncalves about why you shouldn’t have more than 34 Facebook friends.  If you un-friend me after reading it, I’ll understand. 

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IN: ON: March 26, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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