When my kids were little I took my eyes off the road all the time.  I hated when seasoned moms reminded me to keep my eyes on the road.  Oh, they didn’t say it quite like that.  Rather, it was in the form of  ”enjoy this time, it will pass so quickly!”  “Are you kidding me?”  I thought.  Back then, I couldn’t make time go fast enough.  The road dragged on.  Play-dough and play dates were the entire agenda, at least besides feeding, toileting, and sleeping.  I woke up wondering how I was going to fill the day as well as keep my sanity (what little I had left).  It felt like driving through Kansas.  No matter how far you drive you don’t feel like you are getting anywhere.

By the time my eldest son went to high school life had kicked into high gear. It was nearly impossible to keep my eyes on the road.   Activities had overtaken our previously blank calendar, and I hit the floor every morning wondering how I was going to cram everything into the allotted 24 hours without a pit stop.    I wasn’t sure if I was coming or going, like a NASCAR driver in last place, unsure if I was at the head of the pack or being lapped by everyone else.

I needed something then and I still need it now: something to slow me down.  A pace car.  An emotional pace car.  My pace car comes in the form of gratitude and perspective.  (Ok, I need two pace cars.  I have a lead foot and tend to “go around”).  Gratitude and perspective slow me down enough to ”recalculate” and tank up so I can keep my way straight and steady for the long haul.

In parenthood, there really is no checkered flag (engine failure not withstanding) just a starting wave and a few caution flags along the way.  I’ve seen a lots of cars go off the road, a collision or two, and quite a few skid marks along the way (after all, I have three boys…). So the road can seem endless and meandering, and frustrating.

However, when I allow my pace cars to guide me, the ride takes on new meaning, not to mention a cargo load of  joy.  Instead of hurrying to the finish, I think about where I have gone, and where I am going. I delight in the passengers I have along with me, and how wonderful it is to be on the journey with them.  My eyes and my heart are fully on the road, wherever it may lead.  When I lose my way,  and rush for the sake of crossing a finish line, my pace cars remind me that the journey IS the finish line, and if I don’t slow down, I just might miss it.

What helps YOU keep your eyes on the road?

Before I could finish telling Mr. Sales Pitch  what I needed he told me he could not give me a price because Hubby was not there.  What? Are you kidding?  This is not 1950.   I am fully capable of writing a check without my husband looking over my shoulder.  A rigorous discussion ensued over why this was the case, and in the end, I booted Mr. No Good off my property and out of my checkbook forever.  His loss.

But was it really?

Furious, I started to dial up Hubby when I realized my pulse was rapid and my face was flushed.  The high pressure salesman had not only left my driveway without my money, he had also stolen something from me ~ my joy.

It wasn’t really his fault, I let it happen.

I had let indignation chip away at my greatest commodity.  In the same way, I have insidiously allowed people who don’t wave when I give them passage in traffic permission to pinch a little cheer out of my soul.  Absent manners and incompetent cashiers are both unknowing thieves  I’ve allowed to sneak into my most precious storehouse, the vault of peace within my mind. It’s subtle, but it happens every day, in some slight form or another, without fanfare or warning.  My solace is dispersed to the universe.

Within a few days, I will lose a dear and precious friend to the enemy we call cancer.  She is done with the days of dealing with sales pitches and road rage.  She is young.  It doesn’t seem fair that she would be done.   I wish she had more time.  It makes me think of my time, and what I am going to do with the rest of the days I have left here on earth until I see my friend in Heaven.

And I pick up the book I am reading “One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp, and the words hit me like a sales pitch to the heart: ”I gasp for more time, frantic for more time.  But I have to wonder: more time for more what?  The answer to that determines the road these so-short days take.”

So-short days.  More time for what?  A great question to greet each day with.

I am not always sure of the “what”, but I am sure of the “what not”.  I am not going to spend the rest of my so-short days letting my joy be robbed, and my peace be stolen by those who unintentionally (or intentionally) try to.  The road to the end is shorter than any of us realize, and the joy with which it is paved is up to me and no one else.  Today I choose to take back the keys of my peace from the circumstances and people I have loaned them to over the years.

Yes, that is a sales pitch that is truly “all good.”

Take last week for example: I wanted to get back to writing my book and making real headway towards the submission of my manuscript.  The week was open and my head plans were set, that is, until we received a call asking if we could take in a teenage boy in a crisis situation.  It was a short interruption, four days in length, but an interruption none the less.  I counted it all joy to be of help, but I also counted the moments until I could get back to writing.

The lawn continued to grow during that time, so mowing and weeding were necessary to avoid looking like the Clampetts, so there goes another half a day.  In addition,the mouths in the family zoo continued to open for feeding,  and the food doesn’t walk in by itself.  I want to provide nutritious food on a budget, but fast food isn’t healthy, and food high in nutrients isn’t cheap.  As I chopped and stirred at the stove, I saw my dreams of a completed manuscript vaporize like the steam off the vegetables.

Once the dishes were humming away in the dishwasher and the grass stains set soaking in the tub, the family beckoned me to sit down for a movie and spend time with them.  Tomorrow my sons will be one day closer to leaving the nest, and one of them is only home for a few days this summer as it is, so I acquiesce to their loving request.  On the screen I watch the show, but in my head I see a different screen waiting to be revised and submitted to the ever-waiting publisher.

At the end of the day, my husband asks how close I am to actually making money from the book which is sitting left unfinished.  Not one inch closer, and that is the truth.  And somehow I suspect tomorrow will be no different.

Someone will need me.  Someone will be unhappy if I am not there.  Someone will ask if I can help them do something that is not in alignment with my career goals and I will say yes to them, knowing that true ministry does not always come in the form of a manuscript, but is scripted moment by moment in the serving of others.   And at the end of the day, when someone asks me how much I earned, I will have to answer “a lot”, knowing that my currency and theirs are not always the same, and hoping they are okay with that.

What kind of double bind are you facing today?

For the past 22 years I have said repeatedly how much I love having boys.  Raising girls often involves drama, whining, expensive wardrobes and trips to the American Girl store, none of which enthrall me.  Raising boys typically implies mountains of laundry, groceries, toilet paper, and an endless  fascination with bodily noises.  I have no desire to endure those endlessly either, but in my mind it has been the lesser of two evils for almost two decades.

Until now.  I actually found myself wishing yesterday that I had a girl.  Why?

The boys are growing up.  They are becoming men, and that brings with it a measure of uncertainty, both with themselves and the world around them.  Finding their own way does not allow for the presence of a maternal figure, at least not in the same way it once did.   They are independent creatures, strong, and intelligent.  That is what I have intentionally raised them to become.  In the process, I have made myself obsolete, and I am not entirely sure how to deal with that.

I know the mother/daughter relationship has its own ups and downs.   It’s true, yours can be a tough path to navigate.  I’ve seen it many times, and to be honest, I’ve always thought I had the better end of the deal.

In the end, however, girls tend to come back.  A girl’s mother gets to unpack the dorm room.  Their mothers are allowed in on the wedding plans.  Girl’s mothers get to come after the baby is born, and are sometimes even allowed into the delivery room.  Perhaps I’m not facing those realities just yet, but I can see the writing on the wall.  It’s always been my impression that the presence of the mother of the groom is simply a formality.  No one even cares if she is  there, much less what her dress looks like.   And the delivery room?  Forget it.  I’ll be lucky to get a birth announcement like everyone else.

So what’s a mother of boys to do?  I guess I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done.  Cook, clean, love, advise, launder, Febreeze, and pray.  I pray that I can let go, and let them grow into the men they are meant to be.  I also pray (under my breath), that they will eventually come back… at least for an occasional hug and “I love you Mom.”  For right now, that will do.

Did you know that women who have a strong support group are more likely to recover from a life-threatening illness than those who don’t?  For example, Harvard Research has shown that breast cancer patients with no friendship network are four times more likely to die from the disease than those with ten or more close friends. 

Strongly entrenched women also do better following surgery than those who go it alone.  If women are well bonded, their immunity is better, and they are less likely to suffer from dementia and depression. 

There are a lot of variables involved, but one of the most outstanding outcomes of close friendship is that it produces a feeling of well-being, and that registers biochemically in the form of lower cortisol levels.  Lower cortisol promotes a healthy blood pressure, an important factor in longevity and overall health.

The list of benefits goes on and one, but if even one of  the those listed above is true, it is certainly worth pursuing in earnest!

Of course, I can’t help but think of my best friendships and the fact that laughter is a huge part of those relationships.  As a nurse and a comedian I’ve spent the last decade studying the overall health benefits of laughter.  The similarities between the healthy benefits of laughing and the health benefits from strong female relationships are amazing. 

Men fare better with strong friendships as well, but women are hardwired to thrive in community.  That being said, what are you doing to firmly plant yourself in a strong circle of support?  Do you have what it takes to survive and thrive as part of a network rather than an island? 

Next time, I’m going to talk about what it takes to foster that kind of network.  I’d love to hear from YOU about strong community, and what it takes to live within a circle of LIFE!

When I say to-do list, I am not simply talking about the organizational habit of ordering tasks.  I endorse that process wholeheartedly.  In fact, the older I get, the more necessary lists are. These days I can’t remember who I dialed by the time the other party picks up the phone.  It’s downright embarrassing. 

I’m talking about the amount of items on our list, and the extent to which we stretch our hours and minutes trying to accomplish, achieve, and attain.

If you’re like me, you pack your days in so tight that you return phone calls hoping to get a machine so you don’t actually have to talk to a live person.  Or, you leave a Facebook message in response to what you know is really a quest for heart to heart conversation.  There is simply no time for real interaction.  It’s hard to gauge how long it might take, and it’s just too risky to put the to-do list on hold (that only makes it longer tomorrow, right?). 

But what are you really putting at risk by NOT interacting?  A lot, and I’ll bet you’re not even aware of it.  Eventually, the to-do list in your hand might be shorter, but the one in your heart will be infinitely longer and much more important to check off. 

I love to do lists as much as the next guy (or gal) but they are killing us, literally.  There is science to back me up on this, so hang on for the next post… and in the meantime, ask yourself:  is this important enough to do or not to do?

For the last two years I have been speaking to women all over the country on this topic.  On a regular basis,  I meet women who are surrounded by family, coworkers, and even friends, but they are lonely.  In an age when we are so connected via Facebook, cell phones, and Skype, it appears that true connection isn’t secured through a cable. 

I tried to set my mom us with a Facebook account, something she welcomed at first, but eschewed as time went on.  She got friend requests from people she barely knew, didn’t like, and sometimes, knew all too well.  She asked to be de-Facebooked, citing reasons I couldn’t understand at the time.  I laughed, saying that people weren’t asking to be close bosom buddies, or wanting you to give them a house key for the summer.  Facebook just wasn’t for her, generation difference or not.   Real relationships were.

As much as I appreciate keeping up with old friends and fellow performers via Facebook, my mom has a point.  It isn’t real.  Facebook is to a microwave dinner what real conversation is to a freshly grilled steak and homemade pasta.  One leaves you somewhat satisfied, the other leaves you full and content.  A bag of potato chips can fill a moment of hunger, but leaves you bloated and falsely full.   A real baked potato is both filling, and full of real nutrients like fiber and minerals, something your body really craves.  I feel similarly full and nourished when I’ve had a laughter-filled, down deep and personal conversation with a true friend.  It makes everything else pale in comparison. 

Now, I’m not saying I’m ready to jump off the Facebook train.  I love social networking, and keeping up through posts is something I relish and would miss.  But I am not willing to miss “real” friendship and the deeply personal satisfaction it brings to my mind, heart, and soul. 

I am going to post more in the next weeks on why we forfeit meaningful friendship, how detrimental it is to us (especially women) and what we can do about it. 

How about you?  Are you connected…..to lonliness??

There was a time when women balked at the term housewife, protesting “ I am not married to my house!”  That was strictly semantics.  (Similarly, I have always been opposed to being called a Soccer Mom, as I have never actually played soccer in my entire life nor do I intend to.)  

Perhaps it’s just me, but I always thought of a housewife as a woman who tends to the affairs of her home, nurtures her family, and invests in the lives of those around her.   Whether by design or default, a housewife is primarily interested in the needs of her husband, children, and community.  It isn’t anything particularly glamorous or noble, but the connotation is positive for the most part.  Or at least it was.   

Even when women entered the work force in larger numbers, the desire to actually be a housewife may have changed, or the way in which they tailored their work/life balanced may have changed,  but the general definition stayed primarily the same. 

It was not the advent of Desperate Housewives that really turned the tide.  While initially controversial, DH, which drew gasps at first from conservative viewers (which sounds like an oxymoron, but I am conservative, and I am a viewer, judge away…) did not truly inspire the bitter aftertaste from the previously respectable H word.  Anyone who watches the show knows it is based on fictional women, and plays more like a tongue-in-cheek suburban who-done-it than a show about real life.  It’s the shows about real life who’ve really done it.

Reality shows like The Real Housewives of Everywhere aren’t shows based in reality at all.  They feature women who are as much a housewife as I am the Queen of England.  Where do they find these women?  And why do they insist on calling them housewives?    A two month recovery from surgery last year allowed me the unique opportunity to see more television that I ever cared to see in a lifetime, including the housewives of desperation.  The shows themselves occupied sufficient airwaves,  but endless interviews on shows like The View or Larry King gave more exposure to the housewives than even Snookie would feel comfortable with.  They are everywhere.  And they’re …well, they’re simply not what I think of as housewives in the least.  

Perhaps I’ve missed the episodes where the ladies exhibit concern over their children’s character, or tirelessly volunteer at school.  Maybe there are countless shows where the women are dedicated to bettering their communities, respecting their husbands, helping their friends through times of crisis, or caring for elderly parents, and I’ve just happened to miss those redeeming episodes.  Maybe all the good stuff, where the women decide to become more generous or love themselves, warts and all, have ended up on some Hollywood cutting room floor.  Darn those editors! 

 I’ve only caught a smattering, but the footage I’ve seen focuses primarily on surgically enhanced gossip gals who were never taught that “beauty is as beauty does,”  to “treat others how you would like to be treated,” or the conspicuously missing “if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all” adage.   The only nurturing I’ve witnessed in these “housewives” is of their egos.  The only investment is in their appearance, and the only affairs they are tending to are illicit and destructive.

So, if watching these shows is your ho-ho of the week, the guilty pleasure that gets you through, go for it, my grievance is not with you, but with semantics. I wish Hollywood would just call these ho-hos what they are leave the real housewives of America out of it.

I fall for products like teeny-boppers fall for Bieber.  I’ll buy compression garments, make-up, jewelry and rugs without so much as a shove.  Housewares, shoes, hair accessories and groceries practically jump in my cart and get very little argument from me. 

What I’m trying to say is that I’m a shopping sleaze, a consumer skank.  Show me something I want, and I’m basically a sure thing.  All I ask is one thing from the company who makes the product:  do not offend me as a consumer.  Offending my intelligence, my morals, or my values is a consumer death knell.  Like I said, wooing me isn’t hard, so don’t go and do something stupid like offend me. 

And Toyota has offended me. Their timing couldn’t be worse, because I am in the market for two new cars and I have fistfuls of dollars just waiting to hand out.  I really like a lot of what Toyota has to offer as far as their product is concerned, but gosh darn it, they’ve created an ad campaign that slaps me across the face and I refuse to give them a penny. 

I know I’ve ranted about the first round of Highlander ads and yes, the company has changed the ads.  No longer does that curly-haired little boy say disparaging remarks and directly call his parents names.  Well thank goodness.  That’s a great first step.  But the little boy still acts as though he feels sorry for other kids who have to be seen in a perfectly good car with their parents, since he has access to a video system which allows him to completely tune out everyone around him.

I wish our country could completely tune out voices like his, which tell us that what we have isn’t good enough, new enough, cool enough, and we need to spend more to be more.  Do we really need to buy vehicles to impress our children?  And if our children are embarrassed to be seen with us, is that such a bad thing?  I though that was a rite of passage. 

The bottom line is, unless the kid is paying, they are not deciding, period.  I’m offended Toyota thinks I am so weak-minded that I, the adult, will cave to peer pressure by my own child.  How can I possibly tell my kid not to care of what others think of them when I can’t even do it myself? 

Some might say, oh Sally, it’s just a company’s ad designed to sell cars.  That’s what they’re supposed to do.   Well I challenge them to do it without offending consumers and the values they hold dear.

I present Volkswagen as a shining example of just that.  Their new ad for the Jetta shows a young man who dreams of owning a VW and doing all kinds of odd jobs which garner him the cash to actually purchase the car.  Wow~ what a concept: an adult, who works hard at embarrassing jobs in order to pay for a car responsibly.  Now that is a marketing strategy that works for me as a consumer.   

I think I may have to go test drive some VW’s in the near future.  When my cars finally bite the dust there will be dollars to hand out to somebody.   They just won’t be going to Toyota.  I hope they’re not offended.

 ”I don’t doubt it! ” I thought while I mentally pointed a finger at the wanton population in general.  That’s one reason for the new and exhausting labyrinth of tax laws he has had to learn over the last year which will undeniably wreak havoc if they are ever enforced.  

This whole notion of underreporting got me to thinking (not a phrase of literary beauty, but one I use when having lunch with a friend, so there it is.)  I think Mr. Tax Man hit a nerve, but not just in terms of taxes (which I rarely think about unless I’m pulling out my receipts like I am today,) but about the human spirit in general.   It is simply easier to under report than to tell the truth. 

Think about it (or not, if you don’t want to ruin your day) and ask yourself as I have been doing:  do I under report things on a regular basis and not even recognize it?  For example, do you step on the scale and wonder why the numbers aren’t what you hoped they would be?  I’m quick to blame my metabolism or the time of the month rather than admit that I’ve underreported the number of trips a spoon has made it to my mouth laden with ice cream, especially when I’m alone. 

Or, when my spouse walks away feeling hurt or frustrated after a conversation with me I find it way easier to blame their personality or the situation rather than accurately tally the number of underreported critical words that came flying out of my mouth during the exchange.  Who’s counting anyways when I’m so busy racking up verbal damage? If no one counted, it doesn’t exist!  How many of us are emotional Enrons and we don’t even realize it? 

And what about money spent? A big ouch for me on this one.   I know for a fact that when the ledger doesn’t add up on paper I cerebrally under report spontaneous trips to Starbucks, or the extra tube of lipstick or People magazine I tucked into my purchase at Walgreens while “buying toiletries.”  If I reported myself to myself more accurately, I would have to face the music which is, quite frankly, that I have little self-control when it comes to my budget.    These may not sound like giant sins of omission, but if left underreported, they blur the truth and skew my version of reality.  Pretty soon I am OJ-ing it, believing my own version of the truth because I simply failed to call myself out to … myself. 

Hopefully, you decided NOT to think about this (and let it ruin your day like I warned it might) and have instead spent extra unaccounted for hours in front of the tv or on Facebook.  That way you won’t feel so bad when you forge the number of hours it will take you to blog about it later.  That’s probably what I’m going to do….. if I were honest with myself….

Here we go again.