Diva Script

Good Gravy!

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 21:15:00 +0000

It's been how long since I've posted?

I can't even remember all that's happened to me since August. I thought about spending time writing a wonderfully witty comeback post, but let's be real. It would be another six weeks before I got that post done. So I'm going kick off my return with the following list of updates:

1. Writing: Clearly, I haven't been writing as I should, but I did enter an essay contest for Real Simple. They announce the winner in January. Keep your fingers crossed!

2. Parenting: E is growing up to be quite the sassy young lady. After spending Halloween evening as an angel, complete with a Marabou halo and wings, she remarked: "I think I was the cutest little thing people saw tonight."

3. Marriage: Hubby and I are still going strong. And yes, we are still sharing one car. One day, though, it will get better.

4. Me: I actually had to write "relax" on my to do list last week. Sad, but true.

More soon!

Hazed

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 04:38:00 +0000

I can't count how many times I saw Revenge of the Nerds as a kid. Now that I think about it, I really didn't have any business watching that, but every now and then, my parents let something sneak through. The alcohol-induced antics of the Tri-Lambs and the Alpha Betas gave me a skewed sense of collegiate reality.

By the time I was old enough to go to college, I knew that 99% of that film was far-fetched. Still, a teeny part of me was nervous when I applied to join my sorority. I needn't have worried. A combination of university and sorority policies prohibited a good deal of nonsense, including riding a tricycle while guzzling cans of beer.

Even though there were no arm-wrestling and burping contests (Thank goodness!), we still had our share of good times. And one of my sorority sisters was there to document most of them with her camera. D would say the same thing every time she looked at pictures from our new-member phase:

"We hazed ourselves."

D's comment came to mind this weekend when my friends and I took our daughters for a girls day out. A local salon offers a "Princess Party," a spa experience for girls ages 6 and up. Our kids ate pizza, danced to Kid's Bop CDs, and got manis and pedis, all while wearing little pink robes, tiaras and feather boas. Meanwhile, we sat in a waiting room with bottles of water.

Oh, wait, I take that back. The salon was out of bottled water. We just sat there. Venting.

About how we need more hours in the day. And how hard it is to be a mom. And how sometimes we want to just pull the covers over our heads and sleep the day away. We could hear our girls singing along to Justin Bieber and Willow Smith.

We hazed ourselves.

There we were, four stressed out mamas, lamenting while our daughters were being pampered. We should have given ourselves a little love while we were treating our girls.

Mama's Day Out is in the works for September. A massage is definitely in order.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

First Day of School

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 02:32:00 +0000

I've known for weeks that school started today. GI Joe says that "knowing is half the battle," but I'm not sure how much good it did me this time.

The school sent a newsletter that I scanned, then promptly lost. "Meet the Teacher" night, I noted, was at a time when I couldn't attend. School supplies were the teacher's responsibility. My job was to send $20 and a donation of tissue and disinfecting wipes. Thanks to my coupon clipping, I have a stockpile of household supplies, so this was no problem.

E spent Sunday afternoon arranging outfits; I stuffed wipes, tissue, cash into her book bag. We were ready, or so I thought.

"Mom," my girl asked Tuesday night. "Who is my teacher?"

(Insert "Price Is Right" loser music here.)

I had no idea.

I spent all day Wednesday calling the school. No answer. I scanned the Web site for clues. Nothing.

I tried to make light of the situation. "It will be a surprise!" I declared. "You'll find out when you get there." My daughter was not convinced. While clearing out a stack of newspaper, I found the school newsletter.

"Class listings will be posted in the gym on Meet the Teacher Night."

"Meet the Teacher Night" was that very day, from 4 - 6. I looked at the clock. It was 6:05.

(Re-insert "Price Is Right" loser music.)

I woke up this am at 5:45, determined to find the elusive name. I called the school every 15 minutes to no avail. I got my kid dressed, handed her a Pop-Tart, and said we'd go to school early to find the identity of her teacher. I'd then have to take her to daycare, because the school didn't officially open for another hour.

We hurry to a the car, and I hit the garage door opener. No response. By the time Hubby got the door up, we had run out of time. I wouldn't be able go take her to school, then to daycare, and make it to work on time.

(You know what to do.)

I dropped the kid off at daycare, drove to school, and ran into the gym to read the school listings. I called daycare and asked the director to tell my kid to go to Mr. K's class.

I miraculously made it to work on time. And my kid had a great first day. What's not so great is all this homework. Her workload has tripled since kindergarten. Last year, we had a worksheet or two. Now there's reading, spelling, and math. Not to mention I had to fill out about 20 forms, all which seemed to ask for emergency contact information. Couldn't they just copy the one form and circulate it?

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Shoulders Down

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 02:27:00 +0000

I've started doing yoga every morning before I get ready for work.

Yeah, I've been here before.

I love yoga. I know it's hard to believe because I do it so infrequently. But there's something very calming about moving through a sun salutation. I feel more at peace, more ready to face the nonsense better known as "a day's work."

On Wednesdays, I attend a lunch-hour class sponsored by my company. As we move through postures, Steve, our yogi, walks by and places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Shoulders down," he reminds the class.

Even though I believe my shoulders are exactly where they should be, Steve always is able to move them by an inch or two. So this week, I started paying attention, and I learned something:

I hunch my shoulders. A lot. Stress, I've discovered, is a major cause of my shrugged shoulders.

I also learned it's a painful habit to break. I didn't know putting something back where it belongs could hurt so much. My shoulders have been aching for days.

Forcing me to put my shoulders down has also encouraged me to deal with my stress, instead of letting it build. Sort of like my "Jesus, be a fence" mantra.

I made it back to yoga last week, ready to see how my poses improved with lowered shoulders. Our substitute yogi, Becky, mentioned she was a "hands-on" teacher. She corrected my leg positions, adjusted my back's alignment, and encouraged me to stretch a little further while in cobbler's pose. Not once, did she touch my shoulders.

I thought I was home free as our hour came to an end. I happily stretched onto my mat for corpse pose, a position where you lie flat on your back. Becky came by and made one last adjustment. She pressed my shoulders away from my ears. Damn.

I guess I'm a work in progress.

Jesus, Be A Fence

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 03:06:00 +0000

I believe the last two months can best be described as insane.

I signed up to teach more night classes, but I didn't pay attention to the dates when I did so. The beginnings of some classes overlapped with ends of others, which meant there were a few weeks where I taught two to three classes on top of working a full time job.

During an eight-week stretch, I heard more "Can-you-cover-for-xyz-employee-my-grade's-not fair-because-I-was-sick-oh-we-know-you're-busy-but-would-you-take-this-project-my-last-instructor-was-nicer-than-you-can-you-squeeze-in-this-new-biz-thing-this-class-isn't-even-in-my-major-I'm-going-to-my-academic-advisors" than I ever wanted to hear in my lifetime.

Yep. Insanity is the perfect description.

A friend who often teaches dual classes said I would feel better after I saw my paycheck. She was right, but the the good feeling lasted for about two minutes.

Most of the time, I was overwhelmed and tired. Add to that the fact that we're once again a one-car family (a story for another day), and you've got a recipe for a nervous breakdown.

There was a phrase, however, that helped me whenever I was about to scream:

"Jesus, be a fence."

I don't think there's a gospel singer out there that hasn't done a rendition of this song. My favorite is by a group called the Meditation Singers. These ladies brought it.

The words were my battle cry. They populated my Facebook status and Twitter timeline whenever I felt frustration mounting. And on days when it was really rough, I took it farther:

"Jesus, could you throw in a moat?"

"How about an electric fence?"

"What about attack dogs?" (Not to be confused with guard dogs.) I'm certain Jesus wasn't on board with this request, but I felt better after saying it.

In the beginning, I said the words whenever I wanted a fence to keep people from angering me. But over time, I learned I needed a fence to keep my anger from them. The phrase went from battle cry to mantra, encouraging me to deal with my frustrations rather than waiting for the breaking point.

I realized this during my first night with a high-strung group of students. After arguing with me about the terms of the syllabus, a student stormed out of class to contact her "prayer warriors." Instead of telling the entire class to go to hell, I called for a break. When we returned, I asked them why they were so on edge. I listened, with fences down. I addressed their concerns calmly, and I didn't change a thing in the syllabus. At the end of our five-week session, the prayer warrior told me how much she enjoyed the class.

The Lord's standard-issue fence handled my nonsense without a spark of electricity or a snarling canine.

My "Jesus-be-a-fence" tweets are much less frequent now. Partly because I'm down to once class a month, but mostly because I'm learning day-by-day not to sweat the small stuff.

Extreme Couponing (or) How Do I Pay for the Cleaning Lady?

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Fri, 06 May 2011 03:21:00 +0000

It's been a busy few months, my friends.

Taking on different responsibilities at work required more time at the office and added travel. I think I spent the entire month of March on the road, but it all happened so fast that I'd have to check old boarding passes to be sure.

During that time, I made a very important decision: I need a cleaning person. Someone who can dust, vacuum, and mop -- In other words, someone who can keep my place looking decent so I don't have to. I figured once a month should do the trick.

Hubby didn't agree. Especially when my first hire was for two guys to clear out the garage.

"We don't need to spend the money," he reasoned. "I was going to do it."

We all know what this means. He was going to do it only after I raised hell, waited six months, and then raised hell again. But enough, I decided, was enough. The guys did a great job, and I drove my car into the garage without sideswiping a mound of junk for the first time in five years. My marriage, I believe, is better for it.

The garage guys were a one-time charge, so how was I to justify a monthly charge for a cleaning person? The boost to my sanity should be enough, but I wanted to be sure the expense was painless.

After hearing about people getting $481 of groceries for $3.19, I decided to give couponing a try. I knew that I wouldn't be able to rack up these types of savings on the first few tries, but I had no idea how much work this involves. People spend more time couponing than they do working full-time jobs.

It's been less than a month since I made my declaration to become an extreme couponer, and here's what I've learned so far:

1. I will NEVER get $481 worth of anything for $3.19. It takes way too much time. The most I've had is $89 on a $150 bill, and that was good enough for me.

2. I should leave my daughter at home. There's nothing like a six-year-old asking for candy and what-not while you are trying to calculate coupon savings. Now I see why the people on TV usually go alone.

3. Always smile at the cashier. Check-out already sucks; it only gets worse when you have 50 coupons and a clerk who thinks you're rude.

4. I will not stockpile. It seems like a good idea, but do I really need 65 bottles of mustard? Plus, I don't have the space.

The cleaning lady comes for the first time this Monday, and my coupon savings have covered her fees for the next couple of months. So, all in all, I guess it was worth it.

Stay tuned!

The Tea Party

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 02:45:00 +0000

Every year when the weather gets warm, I make myself promises.

I will go outside more this year. I will plant more flowers. I will take advantage of what the city has to offer.

I fail miserably every time. I proclaim it's too hot-humid-rainy-cloudy-or-you-name-it to go outside. The few flowers in the front yard shrivel from neglect and slug damage. And the city? I don't see any more of it than I did the year before.

This year, I decided to do better. I've made no promises other than I will honor the inspiration to enjoy the season when it comes. So far, that's meant a trip to the zoo, where I purchased a one-year membership, and a Sunday tea party in the park.

My cousin, who was on the event's planning committee, said this was a chance for little girls to put on frilly dresses and drink apple juice from tea cups. It was indoors, so that was right up my alley, and it was for a good cause. The proceeds were for the park's upkeep. This year's theme was Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

When E and I arrived, we followed a path of cardboard circles painted to look like lollypops and peppermints to a room swimming in polka-dotted balloons and multicolored tablecloths. There was candy as far as the eye could see.

E ate two candy rings, two chocolate-covered marshmallows, and three Hershey's kisses in the blink of an eye. Just as she was feeling the effects of her sugar intake, the hostess announced a scavenger hunt.

We went to the registration table for an instruction sheet. The woman explained that we were to find 20 golden tickets, read the question on the back of each ticket, and mark the answers on our sheet.

"There are 10 tickets in this building and 10 tickets outside," she said.

"Did you say outside?" I asked as I squinted at the yellow piece of paper. I looked out the window at a passerby in a tank top and shorts. It was 86 degrees.

"Oh yes," she smiled. "They are in the garden out back and in the front yard, but there won't be any across the street."

It took us an hour to find 19 tickets. We wandered the yard in circles, taking a brief detour to the parking lot so I could change out of my four inch heels, which kept sinking into the ground. I couldn't do anything about the wind blowing up my dress. I hope no one was offended.

I was sweaty and tired when we returned to the tea room to hear the winners. We took second place, which earned E a princess PEZ dispenser.

It was a good day, even though my daughter ate way too much candy and cried because I wouldn't let her have a cupcake. I convinced the wait staff to find a roll of paper towels so I could wrap one up and take it home. She ate it today.

I'm not sure if this is the end of my outdoor adventures or just the beginning. The only thing I do know is that if I plant anymore flowers, I'm putting out some Sluggo first.

Whatever Happened to Customer Service? (or, Pastor Craig, Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 03:16:00 +0000

In case you were wondering, I still haven't heard from Pastor Craig. Nevertheless, K's dinner is shaping up nicely. We're up to 12 people, which is a blow-out for someone once who cancelled her own surprise party.

When I checked in with a friend whom E-vite listed as "not-yet-replied," I learned that I mistyped her e-mail address.

It got me to thinking. What if I had the wrong address for Pastor Craig? I've embarrassed myself enough to invite him, so I would be peeved if a missed keystroke kept him from coming.

After confirming online I had the right Pastor Craig, I made another call.

I was greeted by Sally, the mechanical voice of all things automated.

I'm sorry, but the number you reached is no longer in service.

I tried 411 next.

This time, Sally seemed impatient.

What city?

Is this a business or residence?

Please state the name of the business.

I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Please restate the name of the business.

Please restate the name of the business. (By now, Sally was getting really pissed.)

Please hold while I transfer you to the next available operator.

The operator's voice was high-pitched and twangy.

"Do you have an address for this church?"

"Sure." I read her the address from online.

"Idonhavalistin."

"Say what?" My head was starting to hurt.

"I don't have a listing, ma'am." She sounded more annoyed with me than Sally was.

"Ok, thank you."

Instead of saying "thank you" in return, the operator transferred me back to Sally.

Thank you for using 411 connect.

Really? Are we so busy now that we can't say thank you anymore? We need an automated voice to do it for us?

And, I still didn't find Pastor Craig!

Pastor Craig

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 02:53:00 +0000

A friend of mine is leaving our shared place of employment to follow her passion. It's a move that's both gutsy and admirable, and during the company's peak period of 50-plus hour work weeks, I'd say it's a pretty smart move as well.

K's not big on parties and hoopla, but I figured an event like this deserved a celebration. After a well-crafted pitch and three weeks of begging for a guest list, I got K to agree to a simple dinner with those who know her best.

The list was short, and it was missing contact information for most of the guests, but one name stood out. Pastor Craig.

Next to his e-mail address was a short notation. "Highly unlikely that he could make it."

I didn't see the point in inviting someone who had little-to-no shot at coming. So I thought I'd increase the odds of an affirmative R.S.V.P. by calling the Pastor and getting the date on his calendar right away. A quick trip to Google was all I needed.

"Good afternoon, Pastor Craig's office."

This should have been a red flag right here. K mentioned he was the pastor of small ministry. Too small for an office, and way too small for a secretary.

"Is Pastor Craig available?"

"No, may I take a message?"

"Sure." I gave my name and phone number.

"What is this regarding?" Something in her tone of voice wasn't quite right.

"I'm calling to extend an invitation to an event."

"Are you friend of Pastor's?"

"Um, no, not exactly." This was going downhill fast. I dodged a few more questions and hung up the phone.

A few days went by, and I didn't get a return call. When I went back to the Web site, the Pastor's bio and photo popped up. This man was about 20 years older than I expected.

I called the wrong Pastor Craig.

So, somewhere in Chicago, there likely is a man who has to explain why some woman called to invite him to a dinner. I just pray his church isn't one that is full of drama.

Who am I kidding? That woman's tone of voice told me all I need to know.

Pastor Craig, I'm really really sorry.

Crocheting Divas

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 03:25:00 +0000

Happy New Year!

I know. I'm really, really late.

I won't bore you with a long list of whys and why nots. Let's just say that life got in the way again.

Tonight, though, I took a break from the craziness.

E and I tried crochet lessons weeks ago. I thought it would be nice if I could pass on the tradition from my great aunt, but the initial efforts didn't go so well. E's short on attention span, and I'm short on patience. That's not a good combination.

So I was surprised when E asked me about it tonight. After a few stops and starts, my little girl was able to make a foundation chain all by herself. Next stop: Potholders!

16 and 6

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 21:40:00 +0000

It's been a wonderful holiday season so far. And, true to form, I got so busy that I forgot to blog about it! Here's one of the highlights:

My husband's 16-year-old son came to visit us for the first time. Even though I knew of D's existence, I never thought of myself as a stepmom. I wanted my husband to spend more time with his son, and I wanted our daughter to know her brother, but I hadn't factored myself into the equation. Plus, the drama behind it all had gone on for so long that I thought D would be an adult by the time we finally met.

So when the prospect of blending our family became a reality rather than a theory, I was a nervous wreck. "Just be yourself," Hubby said. "It'll be great!"

I tried to share Hubby's optimism, but I couldn't shake the underlying fear that I'd somehow turn out to be the Wicked Stepmother. Could I ask him to do dishes without appearing to be a power-crazed meanie?

Turns out, I needn't have worried. D is a great kid, and he has the same kind and optimistic demeanor as his dad. Plus, his little sister wrapped him around her baby finger. He was playing Barbies and promising to bake cookies within 10 minutes of his arrival. That girl's got skills, I must admit.

After prying my daughter off of D's leg and putting her to bed, I had a chance to talk with him alone. Hubby went to bed early, exhausted from working late hours. D was eating some baked chicken he found in the fridge. (Note: Teenage boys eat A LOT. Plan on doubling your grocery bill.)

"Do you have any rules I should know about?" he asked.

"Don't drink my club soda," I said. "I can't really think of anything else right now."

D nodded, and he then proceeded to tell me how he had been looking forward to this visit.

"It was really bothering me that I have a sister, and I don't know her," he said. "It's been bothering me for a while." He licked his fingers. "This is good chicken, by the way."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm glad you're here. You're welcome anytime."

And that was it. All the nervousness melted away.

A few days later, I gave Hubby a hug as he was watching the kids put together a puzzle.

"You've got two kids," I said. "How does it feel?"

"Feels good," he said. "You know, you've got two kids too."

I nodded. "Yeah, I guess I do."

Reading and Crocheting

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 05:46:00 +0000

I've taken to listening to audiobooks on my way to and from work. I used to ride in silence; I thought it helped to clear my head. In reality, the silence put me more on edge. I spent the entire time white-knuckling the steering wheel and obsessing over the day's mishaps.

The audiobooks were a welcome distraction during my 30-minute commute. They almost worked too well. For a while, when I got to the thick of a plot and I just had to know what happened next, I ate lunch at my desk.

My latest obsessions, The Friday Night Knitting Club and Knit Two, had me engrossed for two weeks. The books were about a group of women who form an unlikely bond through the craft. It's also about love, forgiveness, and taking a chance.

What struck me most, though, was that these women KNITTED.

I know, weird, right? With all of the drama and plot twists, who cares about knitting?

The knitting was reminding me of something I had forgotten all about. Crocheting. My great-aunt taught me when I was four years old. I sat under her craft table twisting scraps of yarn around a fat green hook until they turned into potholders and scarves. As I got older, I crocheted less and less. I would return to it time to time, usually when someone was having a baby.

The last baby I crocheted for was my own. That was 6 years ago.

I found a half skein of blue yarn in the basement. The green hook from my childhood is long gone. I lost it in an airplane seat while making a blanket for a friend's newborn. The peach replacement doesn't feel quite the same.

But the yarn glides between my fingers as it always does. My hands work as if they have a mind of their own. It doesn't take long before I have a square of blue.

I'm not sure what it's going to be yet, but it was great to reconnect with an old friend.

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A Few Words on Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 06:08:00 +0000

I love Wordless Wednesday! I'm a writer, so you'd think I'd be against it, but the idea of a thoughtful post that's easy on the schedule is appealing.

I'm breaking the rules, I'm sure, with this intro, but my pic needs explanation. This is the basket of clean laundry I opted not to fold so that I could research publishing companies and literary agents.

I promise to have fewer words next time!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Dreaming Big

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 04:15:00 +0000

Life got in the way again. I haven't blogged in a month!

Being a wife, mother, and career women is a delicate balance. When one thing is out of sync, it sends me into a whirlwind of confusion. The latest whirlwind was thanks to my job, which had me traveling for nearly a month. My frequent flyer accounts were appreciative, but everything else fell apart. Two weeks ago, I walked into the junkiest house I'd ever seen. Turns out, it was mine.

After a week's vacation spent cleaning, sleeping, and spending time with family, I feel like I'm back on track.

But this latest off-course trek has got me thinking. Why do I give so much energy to things I don't want to do?

Don't get me wrong. I want a job. And most days, I like the job I have. There are, however, other things that are important to me, and I should make time for them too. Writing falls squarely into this category.

About two months ago, I wrote a children's story as a gift to celebrate a friend's one-year-old son. He had a heart transplant when he was 9 months old, and he's spent his entire life in a hospital or rehab facility. The story was as much a gift to me as it was to her. I've never written anything, not even my blogs, with such ease.

It's a story I love, and I believe it belongs in bookstores.

Normally, this is when I would talk myself out the idea, but I'm not going to do that this time. I'm just going to go for it. After all, I won't know if I don't try.

Steps 1 & 2: Edit the book and learn how to write a query letter.

I'll keep you posted, and I promise not to stop dreaming big.

Gout or a Sprained Toe?

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 17:44:00 +0000

It feels like I've spent more time on airplanes than on the ground lately. Two weeks ago, I flew to a new city four days out of the week, and each destination took two airplane rides.

And it's not over. I have three trips scheduled within the next two weeks.

Needless to say, I'm tired.

So it wasn't a surprise to me when my shoulder started to ache. Then my jaw locked. And later my foot hurt whenever I put on heels. I went to flats full-time. (Side note: I NEVER travel in heels, and neither should you. Trampling through airports in four-inch stilletos is a recipe for pain.)

Same-day visits to the chiropractor and podiatrist confirmed a sprained neck and toe.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I'm not kidding. I got two scripts for Naproxen and a Cortisone steroid plus a recommendation for a travel pillow.

While on my latest business trip, I met a Navy vet who was diagnosed with gout. He was my age!

He described excruciating pain that left him unable to stand. Fortunately, with diet and medication, he got back to life.

It made me realize a sprained toe isn't all that bad!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Good Day

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 05:21:00 +0000

I should be asleep, but instead, I'm up watching bad TV and wacky commercials. Exactly how many seasons did Walker, Texas Ranger stay on the air? It's on four different channels at this time of night.

And who in the heck needs a shoe that washes your foot while you're in the shower? Or a microwave pasta cooker? Or a combo hair brush and curling iron?

Anyway, I digress. Last week was brutal, and I think I'm suffering from work PTSD.

My daughter and I had a good night. After homework and spinach pizza, we made ourselves dizzy by recreating the routines from Dancing With The Stars. We're not perfect, but we are entertaining.

Just before bedtime, E pulled out a piece of paper from her bookbag. "Mommy, this is for you."

The paper was long and thin, like a ruler, and it was neatly colored pink and brown.

"It's brown like your skin on the back and your favorite color,
pink, on the front." (Side note: Pink is her favorite color, not mine, but it was the thought that counts.)

"Open it," she made a sweeping gesture with her arms as she said this.

The words inside were simple: "I LOVE YOU MOMMY"

It made my day.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Self Esteem

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 01:25:00 +0000

When my daughter and I walked into Kmart yesterday, I prayed she wouldn't notice the enormous Barbie display by the front door. But of course she did.

"Can we look at the Barbies? Pleeeeeeeeeease?" E jumped up and down with excitement.

I reminded myself to be patient as we walked to the display. I'm not sure what Kmart is gearing up for, but they don't have this much Barbie stuff at Christmas time.

E peered inside every box and proceeded to give me a list of what she wanted for her birthday. A mermaid. A horse. A new corvette.

I squinted at the display. Something was off about it, but I couldn't put my finger on it. When it finally came to me, I commented before I could catch myself.

"Where are the brown dolls?"

In a full aisle of merchandise, all I saw was blond Barbie.

"Isn't she brown?" E pointed to a mermaid on the top row.

I followed E's finger to the doll. She had dark hair, but her complexion was pale.

"No," I sighed. "She's not. Let's go."

"Mom, I need more white dolls." E declared this as we walked to our car.

"You do?" I asked. E has a diverse group of dolls at home. "Why?"

"The white ones are prettier."

"WHAT? Who told you that?" I didn't catch my anger in time. E was frowning.

"I don't know." She shrugged. "They just are."

"Don't you think brown people are pretty? What about me? You don't think I'm pretty?"

"Yeah, but you're light."

I was confused. "Do you think you're pretty?"

"No." E started to cry.

My heart broke.

There are more things wrong here than I have time to write about. My daughter and I are the exact same complexion, and she is absolutely beautiful. She has big brown eyes with lashes that women pay good money to replicate, a killer smile, and a personality that makes it all the better.

Who in the hell told my baby she wasn't pretty? And who told her that brown wasn't beautiful?

I started thinking about what she watches on TV. Dora the Explorer. Ni Hao Kai-Lan. Hannah Montana. Suite Life of Zach and Cody.

The characters of color are cartoons.

I pledged in that instant to do a better job of showing my daughter real-life beauty in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I'm renewing my subscription to Essence. I'm on the lookout for TV programs that showcase more diversity. Brandy on Dancing with the Stars was all I had that night, but it was a start.

Five minutes of...well, it was more like an hour

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 04:56:00 +0000

It's been a long day.

I woke up at 5:15 to catch a flight to Atlanta. That was a challenge in itself. I then had to be coherent and pleasant as I directed a local video crew to capture footage of my client's franchise.

After 4 hours of "Can we try that just one more time?" I went back to the airport to catch a flight home.

To say I was beat is an understatement. I wanted to pick up my daughter, put her to bed, and then quickly follow suit.

One snafu: She was with my mother, and they were 30 minutes away at Bible study.

"Don't drive all this way," Mom said. "We're almost done. We'll be gone before you get here."

I shouldn't have believed her. One thing I should know by now is that church service of any type never ends when you think it will.

It didn't make sense to go home, so I picked up my car from remote parking and headed to the rendezvous spot, which was about 10 minutes from my house.

I got home two hours later. First, they didn't leave until 45 minutes after we talked. Then, my mom's ride had to take another person home first. (Yes, it would have been nice for me to know that from the get-go). And then, Mom figured it was easier for me to take her home after we met up so that her ride could go home faster.

By the time I got home, I was ready to scream. I was tired, I was crabby, and I smelled like an airplane.

Instead of taking my usual shower, I ran a bath instead. I planned to stay in for just a few minutes, but an hour passed before I knew it. And so did all of the day's stress.

Calming down made it a lot easier to pack bags and lunches for tomorrow, which I did while making tea. Did you know it takes 5 minutes to brew a proper cup of Rooibos tea?

One hour and five minutes were definitely worth the investment in my sanity.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Bittersweet

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 05:55:00 +0000

It's late, and I know I should be in bed. But I'm enjoying the quiet that comes when hubby's at work and daughter's in bed. It's so quiet that I can hear every creak and groan of our old house.

I'm beat. I've been teaching classes as a second job for the past nine months. One evening a week for four hours, I left my full-time job and head to class. It's draining. Because my students are adults, I expected them to be self-sufficient. It was quite the opposite; many of them were starting second careers or had never been to college at all. It ended up taking more time that I thought.

I've had some adventures. There was the guy who paced the whole class, the group who routinely showed up late, and the woman who couldn't understand why she didn't get credit for an in-class project we did the day she was absent. She argued me down for those points. She didn't get them.

Tonight was my last class for the rest of the year. My full-time schedule is about to go into overdrive, and there is no way I can keep up both jobs.

I should be jumping for joy.

Instead, I'm surprised by my reaction. I will actually miss teaching. There was something about connecting with people and sharing knowledge that was fulfilling. I learned as much as they did.

But for now, I think I'll just appreciate the break.

It's My SITS Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Go Diva, it's your SITS Day!

And yes, I'm doing the cabbage patch as I sing this...

Welcome to my blog! It's my SITS Day, and I couldn't be more excited! For those who don't know, SITS is a support network for women who love to blog. If you haven't checked it out, make sure you do.

Here's me in a nutshell: I'm the wife of an absolute sweetie, mom to a sassy girl, and a career woman. Some days, though, I just feel like a mess. I started this blog to keep track of it all. Plus, I love to write, so this is a good way for me to keep in touch with me, if you know what I mean.

Here are a few of my favorite posts, but feel free to poke around. Enjoy!

The Best Hour of My Day

Mixed-Up Momma

Siblings

Back to Blogging Day 4 - Who Inspires Me?

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 04:47:00 +0000

It's seconds before the close of Day 4 of the SITS Back to Blogging Challenge. I taught class tonight, so I'm just getting home and settled.

Thanks to Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances.

Today, the challenge asked us to write about a woman who inspires us. I can barely keep my eyes open, so I'm going to relink a post I wrote about my mom I wrote while planning my wedding. My mom has been through a lot lately. She's battled a stoke and come back from a condition that most people wouldn't have been able to beat.

My Mother, Myself - The Sequel

Since Mike proposed, I have been in Brideville. Picking colors. Looking at flowers. Hunting for the perfect shoe. (Check 'em out above - Hot, I know!) And my mom has been at my side for the whole ride. Planning a wedding, I see, brings the mother-daughter dynamic right into the forefront. Because when are personalities more at odds than when standing amidst a sea of white tulle?

I wanted a simple dress. The big puffy styles with the six-foot trains are best left to women who are marrying royalty. Mike is a king, but only to Elyse and me. At the dress shop, Momma kept unearthing lacy contraptions with big skirts. I tried them on to please her.

“Oh, this is it!” she cried when she saw me in a lacy sheath with sequins detailing and a substantial train.

“It’s not me.”

“Are you sure?” She peered over her glasses. “Look at it again.”

I was sure. It took another 20 dresses before she begrudgingly admitted that the first dress I tried was more my speed. It was an ivory column with minimal detailing.

The salesperson came in with an armful of veils and tiaras. “I won’t be needing any of those.”

“Just try a few on.” The salesperson put on a veil and a tiara. “It’s not me.”

“You’re no fun!” Momma snatched off the veil and put on a different one. I frowned and slumped my shoulders. “I don’t like this one either.”

After Momma fussed for a month about my no-veil-no-tiara credo, my aunt helped her to see my point of view. “Remember how awful she used to look in Easter hats as a kid?”

Then there was the guest list. “75!” I announced. By the time my mother made her additions, the list count was up to 102. “I don’t see how you thought that you could have a wedding with just 75 people,” she said.

“Because that’s what I wanted.” My shoulders slumped again.

“Well, now you have 102. You will just have to deal with it.” I dealt with it by cutting 20 people from the guest list. My apologies go out to my co-workers. I’ll bring in pictures, I promise.

A few weeks later, Elyse and I were getting ready for church. It was chilly out, and I had a pink jacket for her to wear. She wasn’t interested.

“Come on Pumpkin, it was a gift.” Her braids hit her cheeks as she shook her head from side to side. “It’s Ralph Lauren!” I said this with a flourish, as if it would make a difference to a three-year-old. It didn’t.

I was finally able to bribe her with a bowl of grapes. Elyse took off the jacket as soon as we got into the car.

“You’re no fun!” I told her as I backed down the driveway.

So another mother-daughter relationship unfolds just as the one before it, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I could not imagine planning my wedding without Momma. She would follow me from here to Mozambique to find the perfect shade of purple paper for my wedding invitation. And all the while, she keeps me grounded, from going over the edge and pulling my hair out over party favors. It’s not a job for the faint of heart.

And sometimes, we do agree. She does love the purple shoe.

Back to Blogging Day 3 - Desperation Taco

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 01:14:00 +0000

It's Day 3 of the SITS Back to Blogging Challenge.

This is a post I wrote back in June when it was dinner time and our cupboards were nearly bare. The title, I thought, was pretty catchy.

Desperation Taco

Maybe I should be ashamed, but I'm not. I'm learning, little by little, to accept my strengths and work on my weaknesses when I can. As a mom, I know I should do better, but sometimes things just don't work that way. And I have a feeling that the story I'm about to share happens more often than people care to admit.

I HATE grocery shopping. I rarely have time, I hate lugging all that stuff to the car, and I have a five year old who wants me to buy everything in the store. So it's not uncommon for our cupboards to be bare, especially during the few days leading up to my bi-monthly trek to wherever has the best sale.

Last night, Hubby was kind enough to defrost a package of ground turkey with no plans on what to do with it. There was a half package of taco shells on the kitchen counter. The decision was made.

I looked for a pack of taco seasoning as I fried the meat. No go. I made due with cumin, salt, pepper, onion and garlic powder. I then checked the fridge for salsa and sour cream. All I found was a lime with a day of usable life left. I squeezed it into a can of fire-roasted diced tomatoes.

We had some lettuce, thank goodness. But when I opened our cheese drawer (Yes, we have a drawer for cheese. We love it that much.), I found we were out.

Game over. I could live without sour cream just this once, but no shredded cheese?!?!? I was about to call for an emergency run to Save-A-Lot when I saw a pack of Cheddar & Swiss string cheese.

Game on. I pulled it apart and stuffed it into to taco shells.

And what about a side dish? Then other day, I mistakenly opened a can of kidney beans when I was looking for chickpeas. Those made a respectable helping of refried beans.

This was by far not my best culinary showing, but I'm pretty sure it was the most incentive.

I went to the grocery store this morning. Cheese and sour cream were at the top of the list.

Back to Blogging - Day 2

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 03:30:00 +0000

The Ladies of SITS are encouraging their members to get back to the basics of blogging by asking us to remember what got us interested in the first place. Below is a post I wish more people had seen. Too often, moms stress themselves out trying to be perfect, when we should just be proud of the job we're doing.

As an added incentive, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances, are sponsoring a washer and dryer (affectionately called Thelma and Louise) giveaway. Enjoy!

WEDNESDAY, JULY 05, 2006

It's 2 a.m., and I've lost my principles

When I was pregnant, the slew of unsolicited advice that came my way was relentless. People had cure-alls for pregnancy ailments, gassy babies, fussy sleepers, and picky eaters.

"If you have a happy pregnancy, then you will have a happy baby." (That advice, by the way, is crap. If you have a happy pregnancy, then count your lucky stars and get ready for the fireworks. A happy baby is not guaranteed.)

"If your baby is full before she goes to bed, then she will sleep all night." (For me, this too was a load of hooey. E ate to her belly puffed up like a balloon, and she still woke up every two hours.

These are just examples, and I can't remember half of what I was told. Besides, I had my own ideas. There were some things that I was certain that I would do no matter what.

I would change E on the changing table. I didn't like the idea of dirty diapers all over the house.

I would not let my child get addicted to a pacifier. I was once with a friend, who, at midnight, was driving around the city looking for an open drugstore because her son couldn't sleep without his binky. And of course, this was a one-of-a-kind pacifier that was found only at select locations. I did not need that sort of hassle.

I would be Mrs. Clean, wiping mouths and noses faster than they could get dirty. And my kid's clothes would be sparkling. Hair would be neat, etc.

I would never, never, ever, let her sleep in my bed. My two-year-old cousin spent the night with me a couple of years ago, and she kicked me in the back all night.

Based on this list, some would say that I had never seen a child before. Some would say that I was setting the bar too high. And others would say that I was just plain old nuts. I think I was a little of all three.

What I didn't account for when I came up with these ideals is the sleep deprivation factor. At 2 a.m. when you are tired and confused, you will let just about anything slide.

I have changed diapers right in the middle of the bed, and woke up the next morning to see it on the floor. And of course, the baby was still in my arms, wearing a milk-stained T-shirt.

E isn't addicted to a pacifier; she sucks her thumb instead. That,as far as I am concerned, is worse. Her pediatrician says that she will stop on her own, but I'm not convinced. Everyone I know who sucked their thumb did so right up to their driver's license exam.

Oh, and the hair? Well that's a story in itself. I braid it once a week in the hopes that it will stay nice for seven days. E's babysitter generally has pity on me mid-week and recombs it. I still can't figure out how her braids last so much longer.

I realized how far that I had fallen from grace a couple of days ago when I gave E a little bowl of Cheerios. She spilled half of them on the floor, and I watched her pick them up one by one and pop them in her mouth. And when she offered me one, I ate it.

Most days, though, I think I do pretty well. E is a healthy, happy 18-month-old who carries a purse. I've got to be doing something right.

Back to Blogging - My First Post

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 02:01:00 +0000

The Ladies of SITS are encouraging their members to get back to the basics of blogging by asking us to remember what got us interested in the first place. Below is my first legitimate post. There was a short introductory paragraph I posted the same day, but I don't think that counts! If I had to write it again, I think I'd make it shorter, but I still love it!

As an added incentive, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances, are sponsoring a washer and dryer (affectionately called Thelma and Louise) giveaway. Enjoy!

My Mother, Myself

Originally Published April 7, 2005

When I came home from work today, I put on a pair of hot-pink satin pajama pants and an old Delta T-shirt. Anyone who has heard of my sorority knows that I look a mess - Delta's colors are crimson and cream. I tied an orange scarf on my head and slipped into a pair of worn Daniel Green house shoes; they're a low mule with a thick band across the top. I made a funny face for my four-month-old, E, and she laughed. When I saw myself in the full-length mirror, I had to laugh along with my daughter. I had turned into my mother.

Momma wears equally embarrassing ensembles around her house. Cheetah-print robes and stripped socks. Flowered housecoats over old plaid skirts. Faded green sweatshirts and purple pants, all while wearing her infamous Daniel Greens. When I was a kid, I swore that I would not wear such get-ups. But years later, here I was.

When this transformation occurred, I cannot say. It seems as though just yesterday I was a hip and happening single girl, ready to take on the world. But that must have been a long time ago, because I doubt that anyone uses the term “hip and happening” anymore. A friend of mine once said that she believes we resist our mothers' influence until we are about 27, and then we just give in. Why is that? What do we learn at that point that allows us to accept our fate?

As a little girl, I did everything I could to be like my mother. I even remember that I tore up my toy sewing machine in an attempt to make a fur coat like hers. We wore complimentary, but not matching, outfits on Easters and Mothers Days.

Complimentary, but not matching. Of course that all changed with I hit those defiant teenage years. I juggled being stubborn, high-strung, and moody with trying to define myself through fashion. My clothing choices waffled between the homely and the weird. One day I would be searching the racks at a junior's department, and the next day I would be riffling through Momma's closet. The results were interesting, to say the least. Every now and then, people would say that I had my mother's eyes. I tried not to notice.

I tried everything from track suits to business suits while in college, and I settled on a simple wardrobe once I hit my mid-20s. Tailored pants and shirts in solid colors (no prints), and I started to build a unique collection of shoes and purses. Meanwhile, my mother took jungle prints to a whole new level, matching cheetah-print accessories and separates with basic brown and black separates. In spite of my best efforts, people were starting to say that I looked more like Momma than ever. I claimed not to see it.

When I found out that I was going to have a baby last year, I started thinking a lot about motherhood in general, and I realized that some of Momma's characteristics had long-ago slipped into my personality. We have the same inflections in our voices, the same way of cutting our eyes around, and we both fold our hands across our chests in satisfaction when we know that we have the upper hand in an argument. And my determination and outspokenness are growing by the day. People say that we have the same walk, a confident gait that makes people notice you when you enter the room. I can kind of see that one.

Did I accept who I am out of a sense of defeat? No way. I think that practicality starts to set in when you get a bit older. You can't know someone your whole life and expect that person not to rub off on you. To think so is downright silly. And besides, a part of me is still like that little girl of yesteryear: I think that my mom is pretty cool.

There are still a few differences between us. My mother enjoys an occasional trip to the casino. I prefer an occasional trip to the spa. I love to try new wines. My mother loves to find new ways to mix a stiff strawberry daiquiri. And we still don't agree on the uses of cheetah-print in a wardrobe.

As soon as I finish posting this blog, I'm going online to look for some Daniel Greens. My pair is almost worn out. I think I'll get a pair for my mother, too. Complimentary, but not matching, of course.

It's All Coming Back to Me

noreply@blogger.com (Diva) — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 02:59:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about The Thing. For days, The Thing rested on the tip of my tongue, just far enough away from my brain that I couldn't recognize it.

The Thing kept me up at night, had me losing focus. After about a week and a half, I threw in the towel. There was much too much going on in my world for me to be worried about things I couldn't remember.

And then, just like that, The Thing revealed its identity.

I was at a book club meeting with some friends, discussing the August selection. The main character had the picture-perfect life -- handsome husband, smart children, gorgeous home. But after 15 years, she was farther away from achieving her goals than she had ever been. And to make matters worse, she wasn't even sure what her goals were.

A first-time attendee, who's newly engaged and in her mid 20's (Oh, to be young again!) asked "How do you keep from losing yourself in a marriage?"

I could have kissed that girl. She shined a big ole spotlight on my Thing.

Between working a full-time, teaching part-time, and being a wife and mom all the time, I felt as if I were slipping away. These past few months have been so busy that I've forgotten to take care of myself.

Girls' weekend in Chicago was a great start, and so was going to book club last week. This is a three-day weekend, and I'm determined to have some solo quality time. First thing on the list -- White Ayurvedic Chai (my favorite) and some must-see TV. I think I have a whole season of Burn Notice in my DVR.