The Entrepreneur's Wife

Race Across AMerica – RAAM and 3000 Miles to a Cure

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 14:43:00 +0000

Race Across AMerica – RAAM and 3000 Miles to a Cure

Maria is not giving up - she continues cycling on in her quest to raise money for research to find a cure for brain cancer. She's almost halfway through her 3000 mile journey in spite the fact her crew's support van was rear-ended by a driver who was TEXTING.

Remember this photo?

And the heartbreaking video, where she's sobbing after the wreck happened?

She KEPT GOING...

and she needs your help!

Please donate to this worthy, noble cause - you'll be glad you did.

Courage in the face of challenges

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 17:09:00 +0000

The audacity of hope is alive and well within record-holding recumbent cyclist Maria Parker. She has committed herself to cycle the RAAM - 3000 miles - that's THREE THOUSAND miles - across the United States.

Why would anyone want to do that?

Let me ask you another question: What would you do if your sister, brother, father, son, wife, mother, daughter, child... got that horrible news. You have brain cancer and there's really nothing we can do about it. I have a lump in my throat just thinking about it.

That's what happened to Maria. The frustration and anger and lack of ways to help - led Maria to this decision, to battle grueling temperature changes, extreme road conditions and push her body to the ultimate limit. For her, it was a no-brainer - she is compelled to do something, anything to help her sister, Jenny. Her sister is dying - because there is no cure - of brain cancer. The shocking, earth-shattering, life-altering diagnosis came to Jenny's family in October - Maria committed to the ride soon after that.

The race started Tuesday - and through it all - she's been seen singing on her bike

Enjoying a snack

Feeling exhausted

They put together a highlights reel on YouTube - where everything seemed to be going according to plan - people were happy, Maria was zooming along...

And now they're dealing with this:

Can you believe it? After all the training, fund-raising, hard work, blood, sweat, tears - someone plows into the back of their support van - crushing the end and destroying some back up bikes. Thank goodness no one was seriously hurt, but their ride is in danger of being sidelined.

Heartbreaking doesn't begin to describe it.

But they're trying to find a way to continue - because this team, the 3000 miles to a cure team, doesn't really know the meaning of quit.

They are looking for ways to push on, but they need your support. Reach into your wallet and pull out a ten dollar bill - what does that ten dollars buy? Not much on its own - but your ten and my ten and his ten and her ten - multiplied over and over - can make a difference. Text "RACE" to 20222 to make that ten dollar donation.

Please, please, please, please, with a cherry on top.

Help.

http://www.3000milestoacure.com/

Look! We're looking at looks.

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Thu, 09 May 2013 18:01:00 +0000

Back from another two month hiatus. It seems I go into my writer cave and create all these great thoughts in my head and never share them. Writer's discipline - I lack it.

What is prompting me this time to emerge and spout my musings for the world (AKA, my mom = most faithful blog follower) to read?

Its the whole "looks" thing.

Abercrombie & Fitch is shamelessly and publicly admitting they don't want fat people to wear their brand - and people are mad. People (I assume Lord of the Rings fans) are comparing him to an "albino orc" or saying he looks like "Gary Busey went bobbing for apples in a tub of bees". Funny stuff, but mean and a little "pot calling the kettle black" if you ask me.

Not too long ago I got into a VERY heated - not angry - more like intense discussion about a Dove commercial, ad, PSA for self esteem booster disguised in clever - love the you inside as long as its pretty - wrapping paper. It went viral - but if you haven't seen it here it is...

I must say that I GET IT - Dove is a company hawking skin care products - they HAVE to focus on the outside... whatev... in the clip, several women were asked to describe their appearance. The sketch artist interpreted that. Resulting pic? It varied - but wasn't supermodel-y or anything like that or even the extreme opposite. Then someone else who saw that same person gave their interpretation of how their face looked. Resulting pic? It varied, but in a side-by-side comparison, we're led to believe - the sketch inspired by the stranger's view was "better looking".

Shown the two - the participants were all like - hey, I'm not so bad looking after all! This random person who I just met thinks my protruding chin doesn't protrude all that much and so wow hey, I'm crying happy tears over here.

There are many positive aspects of the video, don't be so hard on yourself, we are our own worst critics - but my resounding feeling after watching it - and I'm being totally honest - was Blech.

Never mind that the ad lacks diversity, focusing on mostly white young-ish women and that the implied positives (as Jazz put it so eloquently at her blog little drops) are resoundingly thin = good. Ignore for a moment that the basis of the happy tears is that the person got peer approval - reversing, in one woman's case, something negative her own mother told her about her jaw.

Please tell me what is WRONG with a protruding chin, fat face, freckles, big forehead... these are things determined by genetics, not your inner moral fiber or whether you like kittens and puppies or whatever really matters in your SOUL. Can a person change the shape of their chin, forehead, mouth, etc... without the help of a surgeon? No. Hello? Serenity prayer? That's your cue!

Now I'm going to share that I don't like my chin. If I were to describe myself to someone sketching me, I would probably say "double chin" - guilty!

me and my chin at age 21, 18 and 31

No matter how old I am, how much I weigh (pregnant or not), when I smile - I seem to have a double chin. I try to position my face in photos so it is minimized, I work on accepting it - usually failing at both. Some days I'm better at knowing in my heart of hearts it doesn't define me, other days I stink at it.

Lately I've come to know that my daughter doesn't like her ears. She avoids pulling her hair back so that she can hide them. She actually lets me put it up before school - braids and all - and then taking it down soon after arriving at school. Turns out a schoolmate once poked fun at them, the jerk, and now she takes effort to hide her perfectly good ears because of what someone said to her to be mean.

Here's the thing, I'm her mother and I love her and I know moms have a specific view of their children, but I'm being honest - her ears, they do stick out. But so-freaking-what?

an honor roll report card and happiness is all I see

What else stands out is the ear-to-ear SMILE, the happy face, the sweet disposition and so on and so on...

I guess the fact remains that she'll struggle with that "your ears stick out" comment the way I struggle with my double chin. But I know one thing - I won't show her the Dove ad to help her cope. I will teach her the Serenity prayer and remind her that her value, her definition is not present in the size of her ears, the color of her eyes, the shape of her chin.

Real beauty lies not in some trendy store that openly says they don't want your money if you aren't thin. Not in a beauty bar that claims to focus on real beauty by focusing on exterior beauty.

It is elsewhere, within.

What a pain in the...

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 17:57:00 +0000

Foot.

For a runner - foot pain goes with the territory - blisters are common. I'm no wimp, I can deal with a blister. Luckily - my last few training runs have been blister free. However, I have been dealing with a foot issue that doesn't seem to want to go away.

This... this is no blister.

I know, yuck.

I've been training this whole time with only minor discomfort - I told you, I'm no wimp. But no more. Today I go to a doctor to check it out, because I can't put pressure on it and this morning when the bar of soap fell into it - my eyes immediately teared up and I shrieked with pain. Wimpy, party of one?

I think it started as a shard of glass I stepped on and couldn't remove successfully - it has gone downhill from there - including many failed attempts to remove it.

I'm now doubtful I'll be able to run this weekend's make up race.

*sigh*

Update 5:30 PM

Diagnosis - Plantar's Wart. Yuck factor - 11 out of 10. Treatment options included surgery via laser, liquid nitrogen and knife - OR - Compound W. I opted for the slower version of treatment, the daily application of medicine since surgical removal would definitely mean no running for a while. Using the medicine, I can still run - albeit more slowly - and keep some of my cardiovascular fitness.

No wimps or warts allowed... from here on out.

A first for everything

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 14:18:00 +0000

Today is a big day for us. Not because it's the official Valentine's Day and there will be chocolate and extra kisses given out.

Today, this happened.

I've never been happier to see a short bus

My mother in law's first day of day care.

We have enrolled our family in a respite care program with an Adult Day Care Center near our home on her behalf. Thanks to state provided assistance, she is eligible to visit for a subsidized fee - it gives her something to do, a reason to get up, social stimulation and we hope it will lift her from the depression of being alone for so many hours.

We tried something like this once before and it didn't go well - so we're preparing for some resistance. It's possible she may hate it and refuse to go again. That would be bad. The social worker we consulted with several times before today warned us of some of the classic roadblocks senior citizens put up. She might feel as though we're pushing her off on other people or that she's one step away from being put in a home. That would be awful.But I'm hopeful that the center will just envelop her in busy-ness so that she has no time to think those sad things.

An activities calendar - just like preschool

I do not for one second doubt the center's capacity to entertain the elderly. The director so kindly made us aware of the activities planned for this month that part of me wishes I could go watch.

On this, Valentine's Day, I'm hoping she feels loved and cared for - that this is the best thing we can do for her to improve her quality of life.

And I'm hoping she has a happy day, Valentine's Day or not.

Happiness is...

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 16:17:00 +0000

On this February 13th, Huz and my Valentine's Day - I present a list of things I find happiness from - it is not entirely inclusive and it is presented in no particular order.

A dog who welcomes you home with a wagging tail and a toy even if you left just a moment ago to take garbage out

A cat who sleeps on whatever article of clothing you leave on the bed because she can be near your scent

The smell of homemade bread, when it becomes french toast

Snow days, sledding and best friends

Valentine's Day cards that match - in their appearance and their words - I wish I had a photo from the one year we actually got the same card for each other.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I will run, weather, or not

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 15:14:00 +0000

I threw myself back onto the fitness train several months ago - and I have to admit, I've been enjoying the ride. Running used to be something that I loathed. It was a challenge. I used to get migraines after exertion from running.

That was in high school and college - but now I have a new relationship with running, thanks to adult onset athleticism (AOA), as a sister of mine calls it. She can be credited in part with my AOA. Her invitation to complete a sprint distance triathlon in 2006 rebooted my exercise regimen.

I was no gym rat, but I was an almost daily step aerobics and body sculpt devotee. An hour of aerobics would prove no challenge - but I couldn't run for a mile without stopping, let alone swim 25 yards without gasping for air or ride a bike up a hill. Weird, huh?

PWTM - Phenomenal Woman, That's Me

We completed a sprint tri in 2006 together and again in 2007 with a larger crowd.

I kept up with the tri lifestyle for a little while - long enough to learn that I really don't enjoy cycling, going swimming was okay, but running? Running, I enjoyed. Weird, huh?

I ~~fell off~~ ~~ignored~~ ~~avoided~~ missed the fitness train for a long time - which necessitated the most recent "throwing myself back on" it. I have spent months getting back into the groove with running, even training for a 5K over the past 6 weeks.

I nearly ran a hole in my sneakers.

I see too many miles on one pair of sneakers

I have replaced the beat up kicks.

they are as comfy as they look

I have a wonderfully compliant running buddy.

He's ok with any place and any pace we run

I finally got the nerve to sign up for a 5K race. It is scheduled for this Saturday. So is the tail end of a lovely weather event known as a Nor'easter.

I live in the blue area, the race is in the white

the race is supposed to start at 10am on Saturday, right in the 6-12" swath

Which is threatening to cancel, postpone or otherwise mess up my plans.

Drat.

But I think I'll run the distance anyway - somewhere, somehow, I'm going to manage to start running and keep going until I've covered a 3.1 mile distance on February 9th. Because I said I would.

Weird, huh?

Speak softly and serve up a nice taco

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 21:43:00 +0000

OK, taking huge liberty with the famous Theodore Roosevelt line - but it fits my situation and its my blog so if you don't like it, tough tacos.

It's been chilly here and I don't mean outside. The cold shoulder from upstairs would freeze the wart off a witch's chin. I'm only slightly exaggerating.

It is said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, that music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak - so can soft tacos with homemade guacamole warm the icy breeze that has been in the air since Sunday?

That's when my mother and law and I had an argument. Calling it a slight blowout - would make about as much sense as "jumbo shrimp" - but it happened. There was shouting and absolutely no communication.

That would explain why my two apologies went unnoticed - I apologized for losing my temper. But to no avail. She wouldn't come downstairs to eat with us and asked that we send up a plate. We obliged.

But tonight I'm not playing fair. I'm relatively known for making delicious tacos. My sister says what my dad does for pizza - I do for this menu item. It doesn't travel well - since I put all the fixin's out and its up to the diner to put it all together. She has to come downstairs to eat or make her own dinner. She can choose to forgive me, let bygones be bygones and wash it down with some scrumptious southwestern snacks.

Or not. More for us.

I see my shadow, it's a little jerk

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 14:56:00 +0000

Groundhog day. A silly tradition that has no basis in factual weather prediction and borders on the insane. It provided comedic material for a quirky movie that is one of my faves because I happen to love Bill Murray.

The premise of this movie makes Phil Connors, a snarky, self-important, arrogant and selfish meteorologist - live the same day over and over and over again.

Living with an in-law provides comedic material for this blog on an almost daily basis. Its a little like the movie plot I mentioned. Yet I don't write about all of it.

Sure, respect of privacy has something to do with it - but for the most part I want to share nearly every wild and crazy thing that my mother in law utters - because lately, they're in the "you can't make this shit up" category.

But I feel badly about it.

Not for the obvious reasons. Mind you, I get that slips of the tongue and nonsensical statements are signs she is losing touch and perhaps becoming more senile. That's not funny. Not funny-ha-ha. More like funny-you-have-to-laugh-or-you'll-cry.

I don't want to appear to make fun of aging, because there but for the grace of God go I (and all of us, for that matter, if we're lucky).

Last night during a relatively jolly meal; out of the blue she declared - "when I die, you will just throw me in a bag". The Spanish verbatim has a slightly harder edge if you can believe it, but I can't recall the exact words.

I think I actually winced at the sentence. My jaw dropped and hung there - cartoon like, chin on the tabletop style. After what seemed like forever, I said the obvious - "why? why? why would you say such a thing?" Huz tried to get to the bottom of it, pointing out how that statement makes it sound as if we do nothing for her. As if we treat her poorly - an ironic idea this particular day on which we were pursuing getting her additional help and activities arranged through a state program. Something she could never arrange on her own, without our help. Strange for her to say such a thing mere hours after, in tears, she'd professed her awareness of how lucky she is to have her son to take care of her.

We never got an answer - and she left the dinner table in tears, again. For a moment during our efforts to figure out from where such a hurt and hurtful sentiment came - I seriously considered that she didn't remember saying it mere moments after the words left her mouth.

So I feel badly for her. She has anger, resentment, perhaps that her life has become small. The winter cold has isolated her. Her heart condition and hearing issues and poor vision have robbed her of her independence of driving here and there on random errands. She's stuck upstairs. All day. She has little contact with anyone unless they call her and if they call, we hope she remembered to wear her hearing aids so she can communicate.

But I feel badly most of all because it dawned on me that when she behaves this way - I feel somehow - (brace yourself) glad. It's "oh poor Mary" fodder. I'm ashamed to admit it is as if the fact she is so out of it, or loopy, or able to be mean - that makes my position as the helpful daughter in law, who she has in the past been less than favorable of - more valid, more sympathetic. That by complaining, by giving my "batty old lady" stories public vent - I'm making myself sound more awesome - because I put up with it.

So I don't share it.

Well, I know that I am sharing it now, but I'm also sharing the part of me that I see as a little bit ugly. A little bit selfish. A lot human.

Phil Connors starts out the movie as well, basically a jerk. He selfishly takes advantage of the "immortality" he has been given - as he's stuck in an eternal February 2nd. He tries to get away with things, get into bed with women, steal money. As the movie progresses - he becomes desperate - killing himself again and again to escape from it. It isn't until he uses that opportunity to live the same day every day, for good, becomes everyone's friend, help a homeless man that he finds love and breaks out of it.

So as I live this somewhat repetitive life - bringing my mother in law her medicine, hearing her complain about aches and pains, withstanding the occasional biting comment and feeling the presence of that Phil Connors-y - jerky part of me -I'm going to try and remember that there's also a very human, not so jerky part of me that gave me the strength to care for her with tenderness when she was so ill a couple of months ago. That I'll try to put on "repeat".

Don't watch me run, unless you want to

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 00:08:00 +0000

When I run, I sweat. I breathe heavily. My face gets beet red - and - if I'm listening to music, I sometimes mouth the words or play air drums. Trust me, it ain't always pretty.

During a triathlon, the run was the best part.

Despite my drop in photo readiness during the act of running - I do like to tell people that I have been on a run. I like to get the encouragement. Sometimes I am even deluded enough to think that I somehow inspire them to be active.

That's why I actually DO the workouts.

Yes. You guessed it: I'm one of those people who post my physical accomplisments on social media profiles for the world to see.

It has come to my attention that there are some people who think this is annoying social media behavior.

Well, I say - don't look. Find a way to filter out all posts by the app I'm using. If you don't know how, I can show you - because I've done it. There's only so much FarmVille a girl can stand. Another option? Hide me. Move me to "Aquaintances" or un-friend me altogether. Take your pick.

Really. Do us both a favor - because I'm allowed to post whatever I want on my social media profile - and guess what, I don't have to ask your permission before I do it. If it bothers you, it is too damn bad.

The Event of a Thread

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 17:34:00 +0000

How eventful can a thread be - really? Well I'll tell ya.

It can inspire people to line an entire city block - wait in chilly January air - to go inside and swing. Yes, you read that right - to swing. The swings were hooked, via a series of pulleys and cables to a large swath of fabric, suspended in the middle of a huge room - and what the swinging did to the fabric was sensual, spiritual, meditative. The New York Times reviewed it here.

Think back among your childhood memories and I'll take a bet that somewhere in there, you rode a swing. On a playground, at the school yard, in the park - somewhere you held on with each hand, asked for a push or pumped your legs and began the journey back and forth, up and down - a freeing and grounding sensation rolled into one. I, for one, LOVED going on swings as a child. It was joyous to lean back, feel the wind in my face, have the sensation of gravity and force pull on me as I made the swing go higher and higher.

Perhaps the best part was lying underneath the swath of fabric, to watch how it moved above you, lowered down to you almost so you could touch it. Old and young alike could not resist.

Swinging links you to instant youth. I can prove it by showing you clips from our visit to the Event of a Thread at the Park Avenue Armory in NYC on January 5th.

Now that things aren't spinning (part two)

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 16:26:00 +0000

My hiatus is over - and it is fitting that it began and will end with a post about my mother in law. As I try to recall all the moments that happened throughout it - I get stuck. It is a blur. Over this month and a half - that felt like a year - my husband and I felt as though we were strapped into a roller coaster ride that zoomed through so many ups and downs, plummets and valleys and trials and stresses that it is difficult for me to even put it in chronological order, let alone recall every moment.

don't stare too hard

Phase one included wild weather and vertigo. Not for me, but for my dad. The steadiest figure in my life was off-balance, unable to know up from down. This made me unsteady to say the least. I didn't like the knowledge that he wasn't feeling well - especially since I don't live around the corner. That's why after the wine festival at Great Adventure I made sure I went to see him.

I kid you not, that exact same night, about six hours later, I'd guess - my mother in law had a very violent attack of vertigo. Let's just say I'm not a fan of this coincidence. We were watching a quirky foreign film when the phone rang. Any phone call after 9:30 is cause for alarm. It was about 11. Huz answered, but I could clearly hear that my mother in law was screaming.

We raced upstairs. I silently thanked heaven we had made the decision six years ago to buy a two family house, grateful for mere proximity.

We found her in bed. She was completely disoriented, and like I said, screaming. How we didn't hear her through the walls, I to this day have no idea. We have since equipped ourselves with a baby monitor. Even though she was just one tiny woman she somehow managed to create the sensation of mass hysteria. It was palpable.

To be honest, I do not blame her for her hysterics. She couldn't tell if she was sitting on her bed, or falling to the floor. At one point, I sat directly behind her and threw both arms around her shoulders tightly in some vain attempt to give her a sense of where she was in the world - yet it did nothing to reassure her that she wasn't going to fall off the bed. It made no difference

It had to be a horrible feeling. Her eyes were bugging out. She was retching. Vomiting. Inconsolable. Frighteningly so. More than once she begged to die. I must admit, I thought it was going to happen.

How long did this go on? An accurate measurement is beyond my memory and hampered by the fact it seemed as though time was accelerated and slowed down at the same time. At one point, I remember becoming aware of how fast my heart was beating and then I was fearful hers - so much less capable of extra activity - was doing the same. I knew it was time to call 9-1-1.

The ambulance came, the dog freaked out, my daughter slept through the whole thing.

With the arrival of the ambulance the blur began in earnest. We were caught up in a whirlwind of urgency. Part of the reason we called for help was because we had zero clue how to get her to the hospital. Just putting clothes on her before they came was a struggle. Imagine a person in a free fall, arms and legs flailing, screaming, crying. Now imagine trying to put socks on that person. They ended up strapping her to a gurney and carrying her downstairs.

I breathed another wordless prayer of thanks for EMTs, their strength, their "there-ness" when you need them.

Huz spent the night in the emergency room with her. She was admitted and with her always saying her head was spinning, the tests began. There was a parade of very sweet nurses, friendly hospital staff, catheters, MRIs, ultrasounds, EKGs, hospital food, waiting rooms, my attempts at translating medical information into Spanish, my failure at that, blood tests, medicine and doctors who did not seem to know what to do.

They did everything short of literally opening up her skull to look at her brain to see what was going on. Yet at the end of four days with no diagnosis and some lingering dizziness, for which we had some anti-nausea and motion sickness pills, she returned home.

It was a relief to have her back under our roof, because Huz and I had been tag-teaming hospital visitation. One of us was always trying to be there in case a doctor would come by with a question, a piece of advice, a diagnosis - since my mother in law's inability to process and retain complicated information has become more severe. Meanwhile, because I had to let my maid and nanny and dog walker and personal assistant go, the demands of our regular life needed handling. To say it was exhausting would be like saying the Grand Canyon is a pretty place to visit and root canals are uncomfortable - not that I've experienced either one.

Eventually she recovered and even was well enough to attend Thanksgiving dinner at a relative's home, but the day after Thanksgiving, that all changed. See the vertigo was never cured. Its symptoms were merely being dulled by medications. The relapse was inevitable.

So we went back to the blur - but this time, it included daily, multiple trips upstairs to do any number of things - feed her every meal, give her medicine, help her dress. Help her get to the bathroom - at all hours, mind you, carry out all manner of personal hygiene - (yes, what you're thinking, yes. it happened.) We spent the better part of our ninth wedding anniversary dealing with a rather messy side-effect of some of her medication.

for better or worse, you ain't kiddin'

It was not romantic, there were no cards, no flowers, no champagne or fancy dinner, we did not watch our wedding video, we barely had the energy to hold hands - but there was one tearful moment that I'm pretty sure we both realized we'd entered a new phase in our marriage - the one where we know we can get through anything because we were getting through this.

There was a new level of exhaustion too. I mean exhaustion to the point that I now know I was foolish to think I ever knew the meaning of exhaustion - even though I've lived through those bleary-eyed newborn days.

It must be stated that this whole thing could have been resolved much sooner if the hospital had administered vestibular therapy. I say this with complete confidence - because we were blessed to have such a therapist make a house call. He CURED HER VERTIGO in less than twenty minutes, without using any sophisticated machines. When it happened - I remember being so relieved, I called my mother in tears.

The good news is we've recovered, she has recovered, we were able to celebrate Christmas and New Year's Eve with some sense of normal.

no spinning and lots of smiling

But we have a new normal now. Those lines I drew in the sand between what I'd agree to do and what I ended up doing are way behind me. And as lines in sand are want to do - they've disappeared - and drawing any new ones seems silly.

here's to crossing more thresholds together

Now that things aren't spinning

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 21:16:00 +0000

Wow. I haven't written since November 4th?

The reason why is eerily related to the fact that my last entry was about my mother in law's birthday.

Where to begin? A lot can happen in a month and a half - and if they happen to be the last month and a half in my life - make that "A LOT". So this is a two parter.

A week after celebrating 88 years of my mother in law, I attended the Grape Adventure Wine Festival at Great Adventure Theme Park in Jackson, NJ. Going to this event has become an annual tradition for me. I've gone every year since they started it.

Year one, 2010, among the giraffes

The first year, my best friend from high school and I used it as a way to reconnect - the second year a whole mess of us went and had a blast. It really is fun.

he's whispering sweet nothings, of course... the giraffe was female.

You get to taste wines made right here in New Jersey, get a little silly, pretend you know something about wine but really just go by whatever tastes good to you, walk around, spend money, and if you spend a little extra, you get to ride a safari bus to where they've reserved special wines just for you in among the giraffes. Of course, I pay extra - how often in life will you be presented with the opportunity to drink wine next to such amazingly unique and docile creatures? They are awesome to behold in photos, but up close, with a little buzz on - even more so.

Trust me, so worth the extra cash.

My last will and testament stipluates this picture be blown up and put on display at my funeral

This year, Mother Nature had designs on my giraffe encounter. And all it took was an early snowfall. Giraffes don't do snow. So in the interest of safety for the animals and their inherent clumsiness with slippery, wet snow, all up-close sipping of sweet reds and dry whites among long-necked, grey-tongued creatures was canceled. Was I bummed? Oh yes. But I couldn't be mad - there were people's homes completely wrecked, boardwalks were destroyed, basements were flooded and our fellow New Jerseyans were hurting.

No giraffes? No biggie.

OK maybe it was a little biggie. Look how much FUN I'm having!

But seriously, I was a big girl about it. I never even checked if they actually refunded my "extra" - I would have been fine if they had just put it towards Hurricane Sandy relief efforts.

After my wine tasting and spending and enjoying ended, I went to visit my parents who live a tolerable drive from Jackson. Now before you scold me about drinking and driving - understand this: my dad had had a bout with vertigo a few days before and it freaked us all out. So I was a good girl - holding back on tastings and planning to leave early so that I wouldn't have to let an opportunity to see in person how he was fairing pass me by. I said it then and I'll repeat it now, that it was a no-brainer to skip tipsy-toe-ing with giraffes and/or the other festival-ers any day to see that he was doing well.

Little did I know, it would not be my only contact with vertigo that day.
(to be continued...)

A Very Merry Un-Birthday!

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 01:58:00 +0000

It is a weird day for us. Today is un-officially my mother in law's birthday - the 89th, to be exact. For as long as I've known her she's celebrated her birthday on November 4th - even though she came into this world on November 7th.

I'll use any excuse to publish this picture.

We don't always get along, because of a generation-language gap combo that doesn't come with fries. But it is sometimes super-sized. I'm talking canyon-wide gaps about parenting, religion, spousal roles and responsibilities, religion. Yes, I know I wrote religion twice. We have had our blow ups – where we both end up shouting and in tears.

We've also had our more tender moments where we both feel genuine caring for one another and really just laugh until a different kind of tears come.

The happy kind.

But what happens more often than not is a struggle to really connect with her. Her geraniums helped us to transcend that a few years ago. She“keeps” them. By this I mean she’s had the same geranium plants for longer than the years I have known her. Every fall, before the first frost, she carefully puts them down in the basement to hibernate until spring when she awakens them. Caring for them in this way, she never has to buy new plants and has some of the best geranium blooms on our block.

Some of the geraniums she has had for more than a decade

I have taken over the process for the past three years. Now that her arthritic hands cannot handle digging in the cold earth and since she has developed a heart condition that makes her very sleepy, very weak and very loopy - I am in charge of the process. So this year, as instructed, I carefully coaxed the roots up from the soil without damaging them. I didn't use a shovel or trowel to assist me, because it might hurt the plants. I hand dug them out. Every year it seems my fingernails are just starting to grow back when I take on the task.

Hey Irony, I see what you did there.

However there was no irony in that today, her un-birthday, I chose to put the geraniums "to bed". As I did, I fondly remembered the first time we worked together, how she taught me everything I'd need to know. Like how many plants should reside in each paper bag and how many air holes to poke in them. But I also remembered how she talked to the plants. She told them how beautiful they were all season and thanked them for growing so lovely. The plants became almost human to her, when she said now it was time for them to dream until spring. I know it didn't matter if I were there or not - but I was glad I witnessed it.

So a very merry un-birthday to my mother in law. She gives me a headache-agita-heartburn-pain-in-the-neck sometimes, but other times, she teaches me something.

The Sunny Side of Crazy Street

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 15:17:00 +0000

This seems a fitting nickname for our street since Monday, October 30th.

Our tree couldn't stand up to the 80 mph winds

While I admitted to being very frightened by the Superstorm Sandy at one point, I now look back and feel a little silly. Hindsight - how humbling it is.

Larger, older tree, same story less than a block away

What we saw and experienced was nothing compared to others in our home state of New Jersey or neighboring New York. We emerged relatively unscathed. We never lost power, we had minimal damage to the house and yard. Others have not been so lucky.

Even our next door neighbors fared worse, with their porch awning caving in on their back door.

Ours might have blown away too, had Huz not thought to reinforce it with bungee cords. Within our own city limits, entire neighborhoods are still unable to turn on lights. Trees fell onto houses and cars. We were very lucky.

These days I think a lot about Seaside Heights. It is a staple of New Jersey living. Whatever MTV reality shows have done to give outsiders an impression of it, cannot damage the way I think about it. I'm sure other New Jerseyans will agree. It is an adopted summer home to many of us. We hold it dear.

If this doesn't belong under the definition for "happiness" what does?

I have mah bukket :)

I LOVED this bikini

Some of my earliest childhood memories are from those two summer weeks of soft-serve, sandy, sunburned bliss spent with my Uncle Tom and Aunt Dolly.

Modern day Seaside Heights is also important to me. From an economic standpoint, our family business- PatriaPet- relies on an annual Italian Festival every fall to finish out our outdoor expo/festival/street fair season.

Every year it is a hit, we leave happy, with money in our pockets, new friends made - this year was no exception.

Now we're coping with the fact that the area in which we enjoy - that supports us, gives us a last taste of summer (in October, mind you) - is no longer the same.

We were JUST there. Now it is changed forever, some say. It will live on in our memories, and in photographs.

The impact of Sandy's storm path is so far-reaching and so severe, at times it still seems unreal. A luxury of thought I enjoy, because of my personal lack of damage. So we cry. We feel guilty. We pray. Then we take a deep breath, wipe the tears, push our shoulders back and switch to action. so we are doing what we can for areas near our home. I hope, if you are able, you do the same.

Bring food to the local food bank. Donate blood. Bring hot coffee and snacks to the fire house, the police station, the rescue squad. Visit this link to get a list of charities helping the cause. The Red Cross is helping too and they are my charity of choice, but by all means, pick one you trust. Or reach out to people you know who live closer and give direct help.

Thank you.

Apple Picking 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Tue, 16 Oct 2012 20:05:00 +0000

The pictures don't lie, we did have fun apple picking - but remember, we didn't photograph every single moment!

at least the dog didn't complain

In fact, I have some irritating memories of the trip that have nothing to do with my family's antics. The winery at the orchard where we visit every year we do this trip was particularly non-customer-service oriented to me or to my step daughter.

The details of that silliness are for another post. Suffice it to say, this was definitely a photo opportunity and a chance to be outside for several hours on a glorious fall day. Sure there was traffic getting there, my bladder nearly burst before I had a chance to run to the PORTAPOTTIES (which I loathe) and there weren't too many apples to pick.

the fish that can climb a tree

However, whether I make applesauce or get sauced on wine that I was unable to buy - has zero effect on the way my child remembers the trip. She looks forward to it, even though by now she's old enough to realize the hassle it can present at times.

she's arguing about something, even her older sister looks annoyted

Still I agree with Justin of Daddy Knows Less - apple picking is a form of torture - fun at times, but torture.

Click here to view these pictures larger

Keep your cravings, your sexual innuendo and your pink to yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 15:01:00 +0000

I thought last year would be the last year for that nonsense. But yesterday in my inbox on Facebook, I was invited to play the secret message game in the name of "awareness".

Enough already. Ladies, it really is beneath you to fall for all that "secret message" crap. So quit it with the pink, the tatas, the save the boobies campaigns. Sure you might be saying, but it's for a good cause! Even so, I've had it. So have plenty of other bloggers, like Toddler Planet, C.G. Ward Photography, Tales from the Mamaside, Not from Lapland

Maybe I'm PMS-ing, but I'm mad. First of all, these games have no business being even remotely connected to something as serious as breast cancer. There's nothing funny about it.

There's strength in action, do your self exam!

In spite of what you might be lead to believe, the "awareness" campaign has done its job. We all know it is out there. We know the risks and chances of getting it. Have done with that crusade and focus on what really matters - what will have the greatest impact on life expectancy and survival.

Prevention.

Treatment.

Early detection.

There is such a thing as "pink-washing". Believe it. Look at recent campaigns, the 2008 Yoplait pink lid campaign. They'd donate money to fund research as long as you ate their yogurt, which at the time was made with rBGH - a hormone linked to breast cancer. Then there was the ree-donk-ulous idea of eating FRIED CHICKEN to help the cause of breast cancer, courtesy of our friends at KFC in 2010.

They're breasts, Elmo, and they won't hurt you.

It is obvious that breasts are important to a lot of people. I've defended them before. It happens to be one of my all time most-read posts on this blog, which has a pretty regular readership of my family, friends and my mom. I happen to like my own breasts, I check them once a month. And in case you're wondering, I've had thermography to detect any abnormalities because you will never ever get me to submit to a mammogram, ever.

If you want some straight talk about how to help and ways to evaluate organizations that claim to care about this crisis of women's health (which men can get too, by the way) by slapping a pink ribbon on their product, click here, and here.

My mother's mother

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 13:29:00 +0000

It was a Friday. I was well into a morning of "assistant to the controller/receptionist" work at Whitman Studio in Clifton, NJ when my then husband (now ex) walked through the lobby doors. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. Grandma Jansen was gone.

Gram holding her first great grandchild

My mother and father had chosen to tell him over the phone and asked him to come tell me in person. She'd been very sick, battling cancer for more than a decade, a fight I had never to that point allowed myself to comprehend her losing.

My parents made the right call that day - because I dissolved into a puddle of weeping and sorrow that the very "out in the open" placement of my desk - the reception area - did not diminish. I didn't care who saw me, or how loudly I protested her departure. Even now, sixteen years later, tears are coming to my eyes as I recall the day it happened.

celebrating my second birthday

She was supremely special to me. The two of us would spend time together, often just talking, oblivious to any generation gap. Once when I was first learning to put makeup on myself, she actually let me put makeup on her, patiently sitting at the kitchen table as I clumsily smeared eyeliner (which she never wore) and blush onto her eyes and cheeks. I'd confide in her and she counseled me through the girl drama that goes with high school territory - many times reflecting on her own relationships to give me insight into why it is never a good idea to compromise who you are to please another. That I took a while to learn that lesson - says more about the lesson itself and my ability to implement it than the way she taught it.

Her death was not the first after which I got mad at God, instantly. At mortality. At the injustice of her having to be so sick near the end. If anyone deserved a peaceful passing over to the other side, the hereafter, heaven - it was she. When I finally made it home, Lord knows how I drove, if I drove - I called the house and spoke to my aunt - who had come with my uncle to stay and be with her mom in her final days.

I'm fuzzy on much of the conversation and I'm not sure she was the only person who came to the phone, but I remember we both cried a lot. I was upset that I didn't get to "say goodbye" - she comforted me and gave me a sense of peace for which I don't think I have ever properly thanked her. She told me that the night before - Gram had eaten pizza and drank a beer. The morning she died, she was calm. There was no resistance or fear. She was ready. It was time. My uncle was actually with her, she wasn't alone.

seeing me off on my high school senior trip to Florida

This was a woman of dignity and poise. For her, diction was just as important a trait to foster in her grandchildren as was the practice of keeping your hair out of your eyes. Every October 4th since, I think of her. I smile at memories of the stories she'd tell me of the fun she had as a young girl. How she loved it that I scooped ice cream at Great Adventure for a summer job, because she worked at a soda shop at one point. Her delicious potato salad and summer visits to play and swim in the backyard pool. Christmas morning waiting on the steps of her to see if Santa figured out we weren't in Virginia that year and came to her house with our gifts. The year we lived with her when we moved back here and how my hair dryer would blow the fuse and she'd calmly explain that the air would dry it. The way she joked "first one on the paddy wagon gets the best seat!" and how she never compromised who she was.

Sure, I smile through tears - but I always smile.

A real role-model takes on a troll

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 12:23:00 +0000

WKBT's morning anchor, Jennifer Livingston has become my heroine of the day.

If you haven't seen this news clip - watch it now - invite your children to watch along with you, you won't be sorry.

Visit NBCNews.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

In what I'm guessing was a speech of about three to five minutes, Livingston takes on a hateful and mean email from a viewer who claimed her weight made her unsuitable for an on-air position. The author of the email goes a step further to say that Livingston is setting a bad example - "especially for girls".

With class, composure and an admirable sense of self, she embraces the truth and turns it back onto the hater that shared those views with her.

I know nothing of Livingston as a broadcaster or journalist,. What I do know is that she is more of a role model now than ever before. My kudos to her news director and staff who supported her in making this stand against someone judging her by her appearance alone.

The full clip of her response is here

Huz for a day

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 02:01:00 +0000

The alarm goes off. The voice of Bruno Mars rings out - why did I let my daughter convince me to choose that for her alarm ringtone? It is still dark.

The bed feels so cozy, but the light from the hallway is hitting my face from the wrong side. What gives?

The sleeping form next to me - my companion for the past ten years has not stirred. I doze off again. Bruno Mars wakes me just nine minutes later. Damn snooze.

Wait, why is she on THAT side? And why is she a she? I'm a she! At least I thought I was.

Muffled sounds come from the bathroom, the kitchen. The dog is let out to pee, the cat starts pleading her case for an early breakfast. How does something so small make so much noise?

Why am I still horizontal, I wonder... I'm the mommy - I do the morning routine.

It is then that I scratch my chin and feel stubble. Uh-oh. Something's very weird. But now that I'm awake, I really need to pee. So I stand up. The next thing I notice is that my back hurts.

So THAT's the pain he has all the time, wow, that sucks. Could be the reason behind the random crabby papi that makes surprise appearances at the breakfast table.

It finally makes sense, I'm Huz. His thoughts AND mine in my head - or is it OUR head? I shuffle out to the kitchen where my wife (?) and daughter (at least that hasn't changed). So in addition to the pain in my back of which I was previously unaware, I start to hear the internal dialog that I never hear out loud.

I have so much work to do. There's an economics test on Thursday and I haven't read the chapter. Did my daughter get a good grade on her math test? I went over the algebraic expressions with her, she seemed to get it. I have to get in touch with my son and make sure he replaces the headlight on the car. He also needs to pay that traffic ticket. Next Tuesday is my mother's court date. Why did that officer ticket her for parking in a handicap spot. She has a placard. I need to go check on her. Oh there's coffee, thank goodness my wife made some. The festival this past weekend wiped me out. And we have another one starting Friday. I have to get those flag pages done on the website. Then there's the ethnic newspaper pitch to finalize. When is my other daughter going to call me? I haven't heard from her in days. I really want to see that new movie. We have to move more product this weekend, the basement is getting full again. I have to finish that splash page edit for my client and then follow up with the other potential client. My daughter has some real potential in the pool this year, I have to work with her on flexibility, maybe on weekends we can get up early - but not this weekend because we have that festival. Will my mom be well enough to go with us? What will happen at the cardiologist appointment tomorrow? I hope she's going to be alright.

I shake my head. Go to the sink. Get a glass of water and start chugging. I've been vertical for less than five minutes and my head is spinning. I realize I am getting a taste of what he lives everyday. Sure, he gets an extra hour of sleep in the morning, but being the guy in the relationship, having the stress and worry of an elderly mother, a fledgling business, pursuing a degree, worrying about twenty-something children - I want no part of it. Or, I'd rather just take care of the part I already have.

I walk over to my where my wife is diligently filling out yet another form from our daughter's school and writing a check for yet another fee, paid for by the money she earns - and I'm grateful. I'm grateful for him and I'm grateful for me and our shared roles.

I grab her by the shoulders, look into her eyes and kiss her.

The spell is broken. Thank God. I'm not Huz. Thank God he is.

The dangers of dog (and cat) ownership

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 18:26:00 +0000

Brace yourself. This is one hell of a mother in law story. When I heard it, Huz and I were about to go to sleep and it made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed myself.

Brianna gave Blossom her "worst" but to this day has never been scratched

Child, you are safe because the humans who know where the food is, seem to love you.

Remember my precious puppy, whose birthday inspired yesterday's post? Well, he has another fur buddy, the cat - who also is six years old now. We got them the same summer. We REALLY are touched in the head. She was a rescue - from a feral cat colony, by the sweet cat-loving souls at Here, Kitty, Kitty. The story of her arrival to our home is one for another blog post. I'll get to it, I promise.

But I mention her, because her presence means we have achieved maximum pet hair toxicity.

You see, Huz developed a bad cough a few days ago. It was bad enough he became a "sofa surfer" for three days - not wanting to infect me. We could have skipped this considerate protocol - according to the most recent observation by the one and only, all-knowing, mother in law who lives upstairs and happens to have medical deduction skills on the level of one Dr. Gregory House.

I'm going to stare at you with these piercing blue eyes until you no longer care about being sick

She, in all her 88 years of life, has acquired quite an array of knowledge about the world and how things work. It is a collection of beliefs and thoughts - well-steeped in superstition and old wive's tales with a dash of religious fervor and Hispanic news broadcasting thrown in for good measure, like a thrice-used tea bag. [read: she has hotly debated with us about the existence of a chupacabra]

Anyway - she deduced with this scientific reasoning that the cause of Huz's cough can be traced to none other than the animal fur which covers our pets and floors and beds and sometimes clothing. Put simply - the diagnosis? Huz's throat was coated, if you will, with a layer of Bongo and Blossom hair - which caused him to cough.

Oh yeah, that's the spot....

The pets must "move outdoors" and we are never to touch them again. Never mind the runny nose or watery eyes he had during this brief illness. Forget about the fact that he lives in a world with germs, he goes to a community college every day in pursuit of a degree or that SHE HERSELF was ill and he was tending to her. To her, those were totally unrelated symptoms that did little to undermine the validity of her claim.

Oh and she added that this fur is toxic. It will one day cause him to have cancer.

Ya hear that scientists spending millions trying to pinpoint the cause of cancer? WE HAVE IT!

Cat and dog hair!

The gift that keeps on giving

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Thu, 27 Sep 2012 01:33:00 +0000

My dog, Bongo, is a huge part of my life. I probably take as many pictures of him as I do of my daughter.

Wanna play?

I don't go to the extreme of calling him my "baby" or anything, because that just doesn't sit right with me. But I do love this tail-wagging, drooling, sometimes stinky, rolling in dead things and poop, squirrel-chasing, always accepting of my faults, ready for anything four-legged ball of fur-covered love with all my heart.

Until this moment, no dog was allowed NEAR my face

Bongo was a gift from Huz to me and from me to Huz for our third wedding anniversary. We had talked about getting a dog for a long time. We studied breed pages. Analyzed what type of lifestyle we had. Pictured taking the dog with us on camping trips. Envisioned the happy outings to the park. We even took that interactive quiz on the Animal Planet website that helps match the perfect dog to you and your family. Still, no breed stuck out. Until we put the right search terms into that all-knowing search engine field. "Dog + good with children".

At six years old, he is still the best running buddy. EVAR.

It was then we discovered the English Shepherd breed.

Handsome AND smart.

We had never heard of that type of dog before in our lives, so we were anxious to learn all about it. As soon as we saw they are called "A farmer's helper, a loyal companion, a child's shadow" we were intrigued. Not because we are farmers, but we wanted a dog that would behave well around a feisty five year old. We drove to OHIO from New Jersey to get him. Yes, you read that correctly. Ten long hours. In the car. With a five year old. And back again with a puppy. We probably should have had our heads examined.

This was before he peed on me. Twice.

Now I know, we could have adopted a dog - from much closer. I know that there are thousands upon thousands of homeless animals and we should have gone that route, but we didn't and we can't change the past, so don't start in hating on me. I often wonder how we would have fared getting a dog that was not bred for the purpose of becoming a family pet. Should'a, would'a, could'a. OK? But Bongo has fit so perfectly in our lives, we cannot regret a single moment of his being with us.

This one, file under "precious"

Was it really six years ago when we made that trip to have the pick of the litter, literally, from the du Prairie Farm in West Jefferson, Ohio? That's where Bill and Terri Knox hand raise a couple of litters a year on their working farm.

Love at first sniff

Hard to believe that much time has flown by. He's a gift that we gave to each other, but he gives to us every day. Unconditional love. A reason to go outside. Something warm and furry to hug on a cold night or when you feel sad. An ear to listen when you want to say that thing about your spouse, your mom, your boss - knowing he'll never betray you.

Happy sixth birthday, Bongo, aka "Bongitohead"

The crooked blaze between those brown eyes will get you every time.

The return of fourthmeal

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Wed, 26 Sep 2012 14:18:00 +0000

OK, I'll admit, that's a made up word and part of a short-lived fast food chain restaurant's campaign to get people to eat more than they should. I don't eat Taco Bell anymore, the last time I did, I think we had a different president. Both left me with heartburn.

How's that burrito workin' out for ya?

But in the home of a swim team member, fourthmeal happens. It is a nightly reality.

There is no danger of fourthmeal having a negative impact on the swimmer's physique. I'm not worried about her gaining weight. Far from it. This child covers miles in the pool, sometimes immediately followed by some additional cardiovascular training and strengthening exercises. She burns hundreds of calories every night and even if she doesn't swim for some reason, her metabolism is so revved up, it's as if she had.

hey mom! I'm hungry!

During her two week break over the summer, I kid you not, she ate every two hours. That hadn't happened on a regular basis since I was nursing her, mkay?

Fourthmeal is hazardous for the parent. Well, maybe I should say, THIS parent.

The day revolves around feeding the swimmer, what to feed the swimmer, how much to feed the swimmer, knowing the last time the swimmer was fed and getting ready to feed the swimmer. And this is not a new thing, she's been swimming for five years now... so you would think I have a defense mechanism all worked out. Not so much. Just take a gander at the bod from five years ago, compared to now.

Me in 2007

Me in 2012

As the primary chef in our home, when the swimmer is hungry, I have to be ready. I cook. A LOT. Mind you, it is usually all good stuff, organic, unprocessed... so empty calories aren't a problem. What is my problem is I am around food, good food, homemade food throughout the a day. This in turn means, mama's jeans don't fit like they used to.

I try to behave, really, but let me tell you it is H-to the-A-R-D, hard to keep from joining her in "a little taste".

I know what you're thinking, have willpower, drink water, eat rice cakes (kiss my butt on that last one, by the way) I try, I really do. I don't eat rice cakes, but I try to skip fourthmeal, usually I fail.

Plus, the good part of me does exercise while my swimmer daughter trains - I run/slog/walk, weather and workload permitting - which, get ready for the irony - makes me HUNGRY after practice is over. Vicious cycle, party of one? At least my workouts cancel out any fourthmeal offenses. I hope.

It happened again

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Tue, 25 Sep 2012 16:04:00 +0000

Believe it or not, I make mistakes. YES, I know! ME! A human!

I WISH my office looked this nice

While trying to help our fledgling business - I screwed up. Royally.

Sparing the gory details, I will sum it up to say I pretty much destroyed the "super user" in our shopping cart - and all it took was li'l ol' me trying to be helpful.

rhymes with...

The damage was not permanent, thank the LORD, but in all honesty - THIS is what keeps me from self-starting to get things done around our company's website. Oh sure, I'm all hands-on with the Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest pages. We even have a flickr page. I'm all over those, well, maybe not the flickr, does anyone still use flickr anymore? But ask me to enter a phone order and mass hysteria ensues.

Everything's okay now. As you were.

Family Traditions

noreply@blogger.com (Maryogim) — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 23:10:00 +0000

Ask any person about family traditions and they’ll tell you about their importance, how they build family bonds, give children a shared history. Traditions last because they teach us something. They give meaning to simple routines or even the most mundane aspect of life. They can also help us be better people.

Maybe calling it a "tradition" is a bit of a stretch, but how clever was my mother to decide the battle between six children over who got to sit "up front" in the car on the way to wherever we were going, by using the days of the week. You simply had to wait for your day. It’s not in the Bible, but it is said “Patience is a virtue”. Lesson taught, lesson learned.

it had to be a passenger van

But there are six kids and seven days, you must be musing to yourself… no problem, I say. Each child got assigned a day. Not your day? To the back please. On Sundays, both parents were in the car as a rule, but it was a day off anyway - like the Lord's day. Co-inky-dink? I think not. It’s genius.

Whenever she cut birthday cake, obviously the first piece always went to the birthday boy or girl - but other slices were passed around in order of the next birthday in line. Even as a youngster the poetic justice of “the last shall be first" thing was not lost on me. Again, it was genius in its simplicity.

wait your turn for a slice

Birthdays also meant you picked your favorite meal. No matter what it was, mom would make it. “Ask and you shall receive” was the subtle lesson there, hate peas and dread your older sister’s birthday as one of my sisters would say.

I may have been addicted to these

On Christmas morning, we weren't allowed to go downstairs until my father had gone first to check to make sure Santa came. No matter how early we rose, we sat on our butts on the wooden stairs, waiting. Quietly for a bit, then growing gradually noisier as the morning wore on. My younger brother would try to sneak a peak, but we’d yank him back, terrified Santa’s magical powers would somehow make the presents vanish because he had no self control.

Of course I now know this was a ploy to give them both a little extra shuteye... but that tradition lives on in the homes of my siblings. Where’s the religious tie-in? Duh, “Honor thy father and mother”.

I think you get my point; my parents took advantage of a situation to create order from chaos AND teach a lesson.

But my favorite tradition of all taught me that gifts of self were the most valuable. How did my parents teach that? We weren’t wealthy monetarily, but were abundantly rich, if you will, with numerous relatives. (Ahem, be fruitful and multiply – yes, my extended family got that message too)

Still, how could we ever afford to show them how much we cared for them during the holidays? My parents got creative, literally.

Every year, at Christmas, we’d put on a play, sing carols, create artwork. Sometimes we were original, other times we used existing material. We even went high tech and made a movie. The first one I remember capturing on film was, appropriately enough, the Nativity. My youngest sister played baby Jesus, laying on the coffee table with her full head of brown hair and even though she was probably four or five years old, and a female, she nailed it; capturing the essence of the newborn king.

As the wise men brought the gifts, nearly tripping over their sleeves, it was obvious our wardrobe mistress had misjudged the length of our arms. When the inn keeper appeared stirring an empty salad bowl at the same place where Joseph led his brother, I mean donkey, carrying his pregnant wife – it was clear our set designer and props manager left a lot to the imagination, since every scene was filmed in our living room.

Even so, we brought the house down every year.

Another year we acted out Rudolph. This was silent film, mind you, so my mother would narrate – no easy task, since she had to remember which scene came next and match her voice to the action on film.

Rankin & Bass specials were our inspiration

The over the top acting job I did as Mrs. Claus upon learning the weather threatened to cancel Christmas was Oscar worthy – in the comedy category. Not to mention, my father’s special effects job of rigging a doorbell to a light bulb wrapped in red tissue paper and somehow attached to my brother’s nose and triggered by his hand as he walked on all fours in his role as the most famous reindeer of all, should have caught the attention of Hollywood.

That “gift of self” tradition lasted until getting everyone together at the same time became an impossibility because of college schedules. There were times after we upgraded to a Vhs camcorder when we were rushing to get the show recorded mere hours before going to Christmas Eve dinner where we’d always debuted our performance.

To this day, I am not a materialistic person. Simple things mean more to me than fancy shoes, clothes or outings. I'm as happy with beer and pizza on paper plates as I am with champagne and fine cuisine on china.

Did my family traditions have something to do with that? Absolutely.