jennethink

BECAUSE I SAID SO

My sister and I are different. I've posted about those differences before. It's amazing we came from the same parents and grew up under roughly the same conditions. It's like planting 2 seeds in a pot, covering them with the same dirt, setting them in the same window sill, watering them the same amount, fertilizing them with the same poo and one grows into a tomato plant and the other grows into a giraffe.

I'm the giraffe, by the way.

I'm glad we're different. I need us to be different. There have been many, many times when I've relied on what my sister has because I just don't have it. She's strong where I am weak. She's together where I am scattered. She's like the lady at the grocery with the list divided up into sections that correspond to the aisles and I'm the lady who tries to fit 2 cases of diet coke into the plastic hand basket on top of the hamburger buns and oh could you hand me those doggie treats … just put them here under my arm with the ice cream.

I know my sister isn't perfect. And there have been many times in my life when she's driven me right crazy. From the time we were teenagers and she told me I wasn't throwing away my sanitary napkins the "right" way (Really? They're in the trash can, aren't they?) to the times while growing up when I didn't sort the socks the "right" way to the time we worked together and I didn't sharpen my pencil (you guessed it) the "right" way. Still, I wouldn't change it – or her. She is who she is and I think she's pretty great.

There's only one area, one thing, one aspect of my sister's personality I really wish I could change. One thing about myself I wish I could somehow push into herself. One characteristic of mine I wish I could clone, chop up into bite-sized pieces and feed to her. I wish she liked herself more.

And here is where I'm going to reveal a deep truth about myself. Are you ready? despite my short comings (and I have a lot of them), despite the fact that I've made some pretty questionable decisions in my life, despite my physical 4s, 5s, and even 3s on a scale of 1 to 100, I can't help but think I'm the bomb-diggity.

I know … I know! I know how that sounds. I know I sound all cocky and whatnot. I know I sound like I'm tooting my horn and I know it isn't attractive at all – but that's part of it – even though I know all of that, I STILL think I'm pretty cool. I STILL like me. I STILL would choose to be my friend and I'd pick me first on Red Rover. The truth is, I'm quite enamored with myself.

And maybe that's where my sister and I differ. I've never had to be convinced that I deserve a lot out of life. I've never had to be talked into wanting the best for me. I've never once thought my life was ruin-able. I've always known, somewhere deep down that I'll pull through … even if I make a bad decision, even if it all goes to hell … I'll pull out of it. somehow. Someway. And more likely than not, I'll look damn fine doing it. The bottom line is, even though I know I've got a long way to go in my personal development, even though I know I frustrate people (including myself), even though I know I probably shouldn't think so highly of myself, even though even though even though … I'm pretty easy on myself.

Once I was having a discussion with my sister and she was trying to figure out if she should do something or not (this is a big deal with her … the "shoulds"). I said, Well, do you want to? and she looked at me like a tomato plant looking at a giraffe. And mumbled something like 'well that hardly matters in the decision, does it?" and I was floored. Because to me, that's maybe the MOST important question. When I'm making decisions about well, anything, I first ask myself "will this move me closer to becoming the woman I am meant to be?" then in nearly the same breath I ask, "and do I want to do it?" and basically if it do want to do it and there isn't some big issue of conflict between doing it and becoming the woman I'm meant to be then …. I do it. If I don't want to do it …. I don't do it.

I guess I just believe there aren't really that may have to's in life. Oooh .. I bet I can make a grid out of this … let's see

	Want to	Don't Want to
Moves me closer	Do it – no hesitation. Next question is what are the obstacles and how will I overcome them? Example: Running with Bulls in Pamplona. Many obstacles to overcome (most of them drunk) but never entered my mind I wouldn't do it just how I would do it	Will do it – eventually. Next question becomes how will I manage my emotional reactions and what can I do to turn this into a "want to". Usually involves keeping my eyes focused on the end result. Example: Chemo. No way no how did I want to do this. However, I didn't want the consequences of NOT doing it and it definitely moved me toward the woman I was meant to be (i.e. alive). So I did it. And each day I would try to do something that reminded me this was temporary. This is the hardest quadrant, by the way, and many people I know spend a lot of time here. I guess I think a lot can be done with the quadrant by adjusting your attitude.
Doesn't move me closer/neutral	You know, I might still do it. As long as it doesn't move me FARTHER FROM becoming the woman I'm meant to be, I'll probably still figure out a way to do what I want to do. Example: um. Lots of stuff.	Duh. Just not going to happen. The only thing to do now is to communicate with others in a loving and straightforward way. This box usually fills up with stuff other people want me to do. This is where the loving straightforward part come in. Example: Organizing a block party for the neighborhood. "There's just no way at this point in my life I could give this the kind of attention it deserves and needs. And on top of that, if I agree to do this, I'm going to become frustrated and angry since it really isn't a strength of mine … do you think we can find someone else who would be excited about it?"

What does this have to do with liking myself and wishing my sister liked herself more? I guess I think the reason I'm able to do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do is because I'm willing to suffer the consequences – even if it means someone isn't going to like me. Do I want people to like me? Yes. I do. I really really do. And it hurts my feelings when people don't like me. I've often said I would be a terrible sales rep because when someone said No I would say "that's fine, you don't have to buy it but do you still like ME?" But the bottom line is, I guess, that my own vote carries a lot of weight. The Hub's vote does too. And a handful of other people. And those are all people I don't have to perform for. I just have to be.

So, when my sister asked me how it is that I can just do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do and I guess I should have said she was partly to blame. I do what I want to do because I know, deep down she loves me no matter what. I do it because when push comes to shove, I'd be friends with me. And I don't do what I don't want to do because in the secret recesses of my heart I know a love from others that is unconditional. And I don't say that lightly and I certainly don't take it for granted. In fact, I'm in awe of it.

And I wish she felt it too.

TRACTION

I think a lot of life comes down to traction.

 

Think, for example, of a truck stuck in the mud or a car slipping on ice. It's not a lack of power that's keeping the vehicle from moving forward, it's a lack of traction. So it goes with life. It's not a lack of ability that keeps me from accomplishing what I set out to do or even a lack of intent, desire, fight or passion. Many times, it's a lack of traction.

 

I don't ever get the basement completely organized because in order to organize it, I have to make it messy – no traction.

It's hard to drop the lbs I put on over the holidays because it takes so long to see any improvement – no traction.

The car stays dirty because every time I go somewhere I take 2 things out but bring 3 things in – no traction.

 

I guess the trick here is to figure out how to get some traction. I don't have to be better, do it better, see it better or perform better. This is not about applying more power – it's about tossing some kitty litter under the slipping tire. Once the traction is there, the rest is easy. And so the question as I'm setting out to achieve my goal (large or small) is: What small thing do I need to do or accomplish in order for this goal to catch and grab hold? What mini-goal or accomplishment do I need to achieve in order to see progress? What small success is necessary to seed the pot for other successes? In short, what's my kitty litter?

 

The answer is, clearly, I don't know. But I'm working on finding out.

 

 

The rest of life, of course, comes down to wardrobe.

SOME PEOPLE NEVER LEARN

One of my favorite places to go in the whole ding dang state of Florida is the Sugar Mill pancake house in DeLand.  First, any pancake house would be a good place to go as far as I’m concerned but this one … this one takes the griddle cake.  There is just too much good about it.  For one, it is inside a state park.  Actually I’m not sure why that makes it good except that there just aren’t ANY other restaurants around … in fact the only other thing around is well, water.  And trees. Spanish moss.  You know, that type of thing.  Oh oh, and the water that is around is a hot springs so sometimes, in the winter when it is very, very cold in Florida (read: 70 degrees), some manatees will come up to the dock because the water is so warm. And frankly if I could figure out someway to make a deal with the manatees to keep them warm if only they would come see me at every chance, I would spend nearly all my off hours knitting giant manatee scarves.

Okay so that’s two good things – the park and the manatees.  Another is that it is all atmospherey and what not.  The restaurant looks like an old sugar mill and is made like a log cabin and has a big fireplace in one room. And they cram you into this place.  Often you are sitting at a table with another group of people so it feels very homey.

And it has the craziest gift shop you’ve ever seen shoved into one teeny tiny corner of the restaurant.  Crazy because it is the most hodgepodge grouping of items I’ve ever encountered.  Where else can you buy a clay pitcher made by disabled adults AND a stuffed possum – that unzips to become a purse?  And clogs.  See what I’m saying?   

But the best reason to love this place is … YOU MAKE YOUR OWN PANCAKES!

WHAT???!

I KNOW!!!

Once you get there and are seated (and believe me, this is a chore.  Sometimes the wait is THREE HOURS!) the waitress comes and hands you authentic tin plates and turns on your table.  Meaning she flips a switch ... not that she does a naughty dance or something.  Once she does, the middle of your table … WHICH IS A GIANT GRIDDLE … becomes hot hot hot.  Then she brings you a couple of pitchers filled with pancake batter and then, well, you can probably figure out the rest.

I’m not sure exactly, now that I’ve typed it out, why this is so delightful.  Clearly this whole “make your own pancakes” is something that can be done at home but somehow … maybe it’s the size of the griddle, maybe it’s all the delightful “add-ins” you can put in your pancakes, or maybe it’s just that you can flip a flapjack while sitting down… it’s just magical.

And I love it.

Last weekend HOLLIE and I were in Florida for our annual “It’s a technology convention at Jelly Rolls thing, you wouldn’t understand” trip.  We, of course, visited the pancake place and were in the middle of what turned out to be nothing short of a gluttonous breakfast when a man came in with his two boys.

I tend to always notice men with children.  Maybe it’s because The Hub did the father thing by himself for a few years I don’t know but I’m keenly aware of men in public with kids.  I don’t give the same attention to women with children because it seems to be more common but men … well you just don’t see guys out alone with their kids as much.  So I noticed this guy.  I noticed his long mulletous hair.  I noticed his bushy mustache,  I noticed his faded jeans and chain on his wallet and oversized Coors Light t-shirt.  He sat down. The boys – probably 5 and 9 – sat down.  Their breakfast started.  They poured out 3 large pancakes onto the hot plate to cook and about 2 minutes later, I wasn’t the only one noticing them.

The younger of the two boys spilled his water right onto the griddle.  And in an instant, the whole room filled with steam.  The usual hub-bub ensued … the waiter brought some napkins, the cup was turned upright, the steam dissipated, and I waited for what was next.

I’ve known people who have stepped in when a child was getting overly disciplined.  I watched my father take issue with a man one time.  I’ve seen people in malls and at football games get out of hand.  When that water spilled, I immediately began prepping myself for what I was sure this redneck was going to do to his son.  I didn’t know exactly what I would do but I knew I would somehow make that man feel ashamed.  Just as ashamed as I was sure he was getting ready to make his little one feel.

I used to spend the summers with my grandmother in West Virginia.  Often we would walk from her house to the little downtown to window shop.  Occasionally we would go into the small grocery and pick up a few things.  Any trip was fun because Grammy would make it fun.  We’d talk along the way.  We’d run into people.  She’d always introduce me.  I loved the way she introduced me, like I was more than her granddaughter … like I was someone.  It was neat.  Every so often she’d get caught up in a conversation and I’d wander off.  It was a small mountain town, no worries, when I got bored, I’d come back.  One time as she was chatting with some old lady inside the Five and Dime, I wandered off to see what was going on outside.  I didn’t stay gone long. There was a crazy man outside.  He was dressed in all kinds of clothes in the middle of summer.  Most of them were dirty.  He had long hair and a ratty beard.  And he was singing.  Loudly.  And sort of dancing … I guess.  Every so often he would fall completely silent and still and then in a couple of seconds, he’d be at it again.  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew this guy was weird.  And that’s what I said when I ran back in the store and found Grammy. “There’s a really weird guy outside!” I said gleefully, “You should SEE him! He’s SO WEIRD!!!”  and nearly dragged her out onto the sidewalk.

The instant we were out and she saw him her whole demeanor changed.  She stiffened.  She grabbed my hand and we turned for home.  I wasn’t sure what happened.  Maybe she was scared of the man.  Maybe the man was dangerous.  Maybe she was trying to protect me from the dangerous weird man.  We walked home silently.  When we got to the house, Grammy started dinner and I was told to set the table.  Which is Grammy for “get lost”.  Later that night as we were washing and drying the plates my grandmother changed me with a few simple words.

“That man you saw,” I knew instantly what she was talking about, “he was in the war, child.  That man has a family.”

It wasn’t much.  It didn’t need to be.  I learned my lesson – don’t judge a book by its cover.

At least I thought I learned it.

The moment the steam dissipated in the pancake house that long-haired, boot-wearing, chain-on-his-wallet dad took over mopping up the spilled water and as he blotted the griddle in short quick pats he looked down, smiled at his little boy and said brightly, “Well, at least we know the pancakes won’t be dry!” Then he leaned over and kissed his son on top of the head.

I’m amazed at how far I have to go
to be right back where I started.

EMPATHY

I don't often send you away to read something else.  I guess I feel like once I have you here, I want to keep you all to my little ole self. 

I'm greedy that way.

But today, I'd really like you to read this article.  Not just because it talks about cancer patients (although I will admit, that's what drew me to it) but because I think it has a lot of wisdom in it about expressing empathy.  Any of you who know me, know this is a hot button of mine and how much it means to me.

At least you act like you do.

I found this paragraph especially thought provoking:

Even so, oncologists sometimes miss signs of distress, particularly if those signs are indirect, she said. For example, a patient may ask how big the tumors are, and the doctor may answer in millimeters — when the patient really wants to know: “Is the cancer getting worse? Am I dying?”

I think in many ways, we are all occasionally guilty of this ...of not asking for what we need or want.  Instead we hope the other person will answer our unasked questions, sense our unspoken needs, give us our silent desires.

I think we women are perhaps more guilty of this than men.  Not that I don't know some very direct women as well as some hemming and hawing men for that matter, but all in all I think woman have a more difficult time just putting it out there and being okay with it. Maybe it's the old "you can't be disappointed if you don't get your hopes up" scenario.  Maybe we think it is more significant if someone "just knows".  I don't know.  But I do know it works better when you don't pout or complain but instead ask for what you want.

At the same time, I think most of us are also guilty of not really hearing people when they do ask or ask in their own way.  People rarely ask what they want to know straight out of the shoot.  There is almost always a question behind the question.  Just like in the paragraph above - the real question wasn't about the potential cancerous mass, it was about potential Catholic mass.  People, for some reason, hardly ever lead with the question they actually want an answer to.  Just like when you want to go to lunch with someone and you call them up and say, "Hi.  What are you doing?"  You don't actually want to know what they're doing.  So the next time someone asks you a question, maybe follow up with another question or try to find out what they really want or need.  It helps.

Now I'm just rambling when what I really want is for you to read the article.  So go on now ... read it.

   

THE START OF A JOURNEY

When I was 16 we went on a vacation to Mackinac Island in Michigan.  Cool place.  It really is an island – it’s not just a cute name – and to get there, we had to take a boat.  Uh… I guess that makes sense.  What I’m saying is that there are no cars are on the island – you get there by boat and then you can only get around by horse, by bike or by whining until someone carries you piggyback.  That’s just the way it is.  It’s quaint.  It’s neat.  I liked it.  I liked it very much.  I vowed to go back to Mackinac again and again.  That could be because every third store is a fudge shop. 

At some point during the vacation, my sister and I decided to rent a couple of bikes for the day.  This is pretty common on the island and we were excited to have some other mode of transportation other than our feets.  After getting the bikes and peddling up and down main street a couple of times we decided to ride around the island – like completely around it.  How far do you think it is?  I asked.  A couple of miles I think, she said.  That’s all I knew.  We took off.

You know how it is when you ride a bike or run a race or watch American Idol?  How you start and you think it is going to wiz right by but it ends up lasting so much longer than you thought?  Or is that just me?  Anyway, that’s how this was.  It seemed like a good idea at first but about 30 feet into the ride, I was wishing I was back at the fudge shop.  Or the one next to it.  Or the one next to that one.  I’m not picky.

But I kept riding.  Because that’s what you do when you’ve set off to ride around the island.  You keep going. 

I think it is more than a couple of miles, I huffed out at one point.  Yah, my sister called back over her shoulder, it does seem to be taking a little longer than I thought.

And we peddled

And we peddled

And peddled.

Eventually we came across a sign.  Restroom – 1 mile, it said.  Jeepers! We said.  Town is STILL a mile away!  And we rode on.  And rode on and on and on. 

1 mile later, we came to a Port-a-Potty -not town – and a sad realization.  We weren’t even halfway around the island.

Turns out that sucker is like 9 miles around.  Not a lot, I know. But when you are expecting 2, it’s a big difference.  The moment my sister and I realized we had miles and miles to go was painful.  We stopped for a while.  We talked to some other bikers whizzing by.  We confirmed the size of the island and the length of our trip.  We walked to the water and grumbled.  We berated ourselves for not checking first.  We skipped a couple of rocks.  We rubbed our sore fannys and then we got back on the bikes.  And we kept going.  Because after a certain point, going back is senseless. 

A friend of mine is starting chemo this week.

It will be longer than you think.

You may need to take a couple of breaks – skip some rocks, rub your fanny, grumble.

But you can do it.

Going back is senseless.

SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR STEPMOTHERS ON MOTHER’S DAY

Remember when you were a little girl and you’d take your mom to Mother’s Day brunch?  Remember painstakingly creating a card with your handprint and misspelled, scrawled words?  Remember suffering over the stove trying to scramble eggs and flip pancakes to present the perfect breakfast in bed to your mom? 

Me too.  And I remember thinking, Someday this will be me.

Growing up I kept a scrapbook of sorts.  It was called “School Days” and it had a page for each grade.  Along with a place to glue that year’s school picture there were questions to answer:

My name is
I am ___ years old
My teacher’s name is
My favorite subjects are
My best friend is

And, my favorite, When I grow up I want to be ___________________.

I still have that little book.  Sometimes I flip thorough it.  Some things are disturbing – my handwriting hasn’t gotten much better since 3rd grade –but mostly …it’s really cute.  You can imagine how things change year to year.  Someone who was my very very very very best friend (I added all the verys in crayon) in 2nd grade was not even listed as an “other friends” by 3rd grade.  My favorite subject never stayed the same and of course, the hobbies and interests changed radically from year to year.  But one thing stayed the same all through grade school – the When I Grow Up I Want to Be line. 

It always said “A mommy”

Sometimes I added other things – a ballerina, a doctor, a famous horseback rider – but always I listed “A mommy” as the thing I most wanted to be when I grow up.

Fast forward …
I’ve had 5 miscarriages and (due to my cancer diagnosis) a failed adoption

Some things don’t work out the way we think.

Painful.  Disappointing.  Crushing.  Those are understatements.

At the same time …AT THE SAME TIME … I have to acknowledge the unbelievable joy that my stepdaughter has brought into my life.  I cannot describe adequately the love I feel for her.  I cannot put into words what goes on inside my chest when she runs across the room to me or when she reaches for my hand or when she snuggles in my lap.  And every day of the year I’m grateful to her father and to her mother for bringing her into the world.  Every day I am grateful.  Every day I am happy.  Every day I am okay.

And then comes Mother’s Day.

I can’t lie to you.  Mother’s Day is a toughie.

I have a cousin who is also a Stepmom – she’s awesome and she gets it and once she told me that a friend of hers who also carries the Stepmom title refuses to go to church on Mother’s Day – know why?  Because they always ask the Mothers to stand … and she doesn’t know what to do.

Another Stepmom friend tells me her stepdaughter bounds into the kitchen on Mother’s Day mornings and says “Happy … Day” to her.  Carefully leaving out any reference to her as her mother.

And still another friend confides that she feels abandoned on this day when her phone stays silent and there is no one to take her to brunch – after all, they are busy taking their real mom to breakfast.

If you aren’t a Stepmom, I’m sorry but you really don’t understand.  And that’s okay because this post isn’t for you.  This post is for those of us who live it, who get it, who will awaken Sunday morning with a little bit of dread, a little bit of pain and a lot of choices.  I’ve blundered Mother’s Day in the past.  I’ve had some downright awful ones.  But I’ve had some really great ones too and I’ve learned a few things in my short tenure as a Stepmom. 

Here they are …

JENNE’S SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR STEPMOTHERS ON MOTHER’S DAY

Focus on your stepchild, not on you. 
Well, here is a big life lesson.  If you want to feel better, about anything, quit thinking about how badly you have it.  Instead, focus on what you do have – you have a stepchild.  You have an enormous opportunity to make a difference in a child’s life.  You have a chance to reinforce in that child what is good and pure about them.  Focus on them.  Not on you.  Here's an idea - give your stepkid a card.  A "thanks for giving me a chance to be a mom" card.  You might have to make one yourself, this isn't a big money-maker for Hallmark. 

Do something nice for your stepchild’s mother.
This one is easy for me.  The Kid has a great mom and we all get along famously.  But even if we didn’t I think Mother’s Day would be a great time to let her know i’m grateful.  It doesn’t have to be much - a card, a call, maybe some flowers.  Even the smallest of gestures will be noticed by your stepchild and will communicate a powerful message.


Take cues from your stepchild but don’t assume. 
I used to introduce The Kid to people as my daughter.  I did this because I didn’t want her to think I thought less of her.  When she was seven I actually thought to ask her, Do you want me to introduce you as my daughter or step-daughter?  I was shocked when she answered, Step-daughter!  I was a little hurt but I asked her why.  And she said this, Because being a step-kid is really cool!  Well, there you go.  If your stepchild acknowledges the day – go with it.  But if they don’t, don’t assume it is because they have something against you.  They’re kids. It might not have dawned on them to include you.  After all, they still haven’t figured out where the laundry basket is.

Be grateful.
Look at how much you’ve grown since this kid came into your life.  Yes, I know it is hard sometimes and yes I know you get taken for granted and yes, it WOULD be nice if someone would notice but really, you don’t have it so bad.  And if it weren’t for that kid (or kids) you’d still be the same flakey 30-something you were all those years ago. 

Don’t expect your husband to buy you a gift, a card or even acknowledge the day for you. 
He might.  And if he does – good for him, I’m really proud of him.  But he might not.  And that’s nothing against you.  And it doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate you.  It’s just that he’s not used to thinking of you this way and really, come to think of it, you aren’t his mother … right?  You are his wife.  So give him a break.  After all, he still hasn’t figured out where the laundry basket is.

And finally, if you do go to church and they do ask mothers to stand, go ahead and stand proudly.  You deserve to.  You wipe the snotty noses and drive the minivans and stock the fridge full of chocolate milk and do every other thing a mother does.  And being a mother is so much more than pushing a baby out your hoo-ha … it’s the everything that comes after.  And you do that.  You do it so well.

Happy Mother’s Day – to you.

CHILDLESS STEPMOMS

I'm bugged.

I told you recently I sometimes check to see what keywords bring people to my blog.  Always interesting, but recently a certain set of search words really set me off

Childless Stepmom

At first I didn’t understand – it read like an oxymoron to me.  How can you be childless AND be a stepmom?  And then it hit me … Ohhh.  Childless as in “I don’t have my OWN kid”.  It hit like a locomotive – a locomotive full of poop.

So then I did my own search.  I keyed in childless stepmom and childless stepmother into my google and what do you know?   It’s pretty common.  There are chat rooms and books and message boards and blogs and articles and entire websites dedicated to this topic.  Some of them were using the label simply as a designation – a way to identify a circumstance or choice.  Others – most in fact – used it as a lament.  And man oh man did that stick in my craw.

Now I know I’m dangerously close to sounding un-empathetic here … not to mention dangerously close to being named the A-numero-uno hypocrite since I’ve posted my own struggles with being a stepmom here and here.  But honestly, the whole thing just frosted me. 

I just think it is such a perfect example of how your perspective can have a major impact on your attitude.

Poor me
I have no child of my own
And I have to parent this child that isn’t mine
See how terrible my life is?

Vs.

If it weren’t for this man
And the child he brought into this world
I wouldn’t have the joy of parenting at all

And maybe because I technically fall into this category I feel okay being somewhat bitchy.  So here are a few things I would like to say to childless stepmoms.

• In most cases you knew what we were getting into – most men don’t lean over on the wedding day and say, oh hey, by the way, I have a kid – or three. 
• While being a stepmom presents unique challenges, you do have the opportunity to share in the crazy wonders of raising a kid – there are oceans of women who never will get to do this in any capacity – ever.
• I understand you are hoping that the “childless” part of your label changes, but maybe you really should consider not ever having children with your husband.  It could be that’s the best thing for his current child(ren). 
• To follow that up – when you get into a marriage with a man who has children you no longer get to be your number one concern.  There is a whole human being that needs you to be the bigger person and think about what’s best for them, not what you want.
• You aren't childless.  So knock it off.

I just can’t ever imagine labeling myself as a childless anything.  Especially since I cannot imagine ever looking into that Kid’s eyes and saying, You’re my step-daughter, but you don’t count. I am childless. 

You couldn’t pay me enough to do such a thing.

Rant over.

SELF-AWARENESS AND SANJAYA

Sometimes people ask me what it means to be self-aware.  When I teach about Emotional Intelligence, I often start with self-awareness.  I often say that if you are not self-aware, there is not much growth that can take place in your life.  Self-awareness is the foundation of all growth.  But how does someone know if they are self-aware?

I’m really in love with this whole Sanjaya phenomenon.  If you haven’t been keeping up, you can read about it here or here.  Side note:  upon looking up Sanjaya in Wikipedia, I noticed this:

Is that pronunciation seriously helpful for anyone?

Basically, Sanjaya is a contestant in American Idol.  He’s not the best singer in the group.  And since my mom and Cowboy Bob taught me if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all, that’s all I’m going to say about his talent  (see how nice I am? I didn’t even put quote marks around the word talent). Even though he has questionable skills, he is still in the competition.  Which means someone – a lot of someones actually – vote for him every week.  They pick up their peanut-sized phones and punch in just the right numbers to say, Hey, that Sanjaya is one cool kid and YES! I’d like to see him back next week.

America is so freakin’ awesome.

Vote for the Worst has rallied their readers to vote for Little S.  Howard Stern is in on the gig.  Also, I suspect every pre-pubescent girl with a cell phone and a severe lack of pitch watches each week screeching and nearly fainting dead away because ohmygahejustlookedatthecameraandsmiledblaaaaaaaaaahh! It’s clear to me that this is his target audience.  Girls just old enough to know they are supposed to like boys but not old enough to really like boys yet and so they pick a boy to like that in many ways looks and acts just like they do.  Boys like this seem safe.  With just a hint of sexy – or at least what they think is sexy.  It sort of comes off to me as pitiful or confused.  Like that one time The Hub tried to lean coyishly against the door frame with his hands in his pockets but missed the wall and unable to catch himself fell like an elephant seal into the hallway.  But it works for the little girls watching.  They fall for Sanjaya.  Not because of his voice or his ponyhawk, but because it’s safe and a little dangerous all at once.  Not too much.  Just a little.  It’s like a trial-sized obsession.  A sample-sized crush.  They are trying it out.  Seeing how it works.  It’s not quite the real thing – it’s a pre-teen version of the real thing.  Sanjaya is the Love’s Baby Soft Perfume of music.

This is not the first time something like this has happened – where questionable talent makes it big because of the power of the pre-teen.  And Sanjaya really does have all the makings of the next Menudo.  Except for he’s one guy – not five and, of course, he’s not Puerto-Rican.  I don’t think.  But really, if you watch just once, you’ll see he’s too-tight pants and a headband waiting to happen.  Mark my words.  Then, if you have daughters in the 9 to 12 range, turn the channel or every stray dog within a 10 mile radius will show up on your porch.

Oh, my point.  Self-awareness.  Is he or isn’t he?  For this poor sap it all comes down to this, is Sanjaya in on the joke?  Does he know he’s not so good and is just riding it for all it is worth or does he really think he’s got this sucker in the B.A.G.?  Not sure.  All I know is that a couple weeks ago when a disgusted Simon sarcastically said, Okay, let’s change tactics ... you were incredible.  Sanjaya piped up enormously, WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSE OF SANJAYA!  And that frightens me.  Frightens me big and bad.  And not just because I began to think about if The Universe of Sanjaya had an beauty pageant or not.  But because I just think anytime anyone is uttering the words, Welcome to the Universe of <insert name here>, self-awareness just may be the least of their worries.

And that’s all I have to say about that.  For now.  From the Universe of Jenné.

IT'S ALL 101001010011'd UP

I angered the computer gods. 

Today I spent more than 12 hours trying to coax my computer back from the dead.  I consulted all the manuals I ever shoved into The Drawer I Never Open and when that failed I performed every unholy ritual I could think of.  I even butchered the English language once or twice trying to appease the electronic deities.  This was after spending from noon yesterday until 1 a.m. this morning trying to convince my near-death companion to stop moving toward that bright glowing light at the end of the electronic tunnel.   I was unsuccessful in both endeavors and finally had to put my computer out of our misery.  I figuratively and literally pulled the plug by doing a system um … <insert something here that the computer tech said>.  It sounded like “Bangkok” but I’m just sure that’s not what we did.   

Did we?

It was an interesting process, Bangkoking my own computer.  Interesting because there came a point when total calm came over me.  When I no longer worried if I had every image, email and keystroke I’ve ever composed saved. Instead I became resolved to that fact that I would lose some things.  They were, in fact, already gone.  It was a grief process. A good grief process – more Charlie Brown-ish like than I’d like to admit.  The moment before I hit the required magic combination of keys dictated to me by someone named “Sam” to wipe my computer’s soul clean I stopped … I hovered, my fingers were shaking.  Even Charlie Brown knows that Lucy will yank the football away at the last minute and he’ll end up flat on his softwares.  But what can you do?   I accepted it.  I charged ahead, got my foot ready for the inevitable and my back(up) ready for the splat.  And then I took a deep breath and said, much too loudly, Here I go “Sam”!  Half expecting him to stop me.  And he said, Okay very good, because really, what does he care if my entire history is erased?  He does this all the time.  He’s the Kevorkian of hard drives, that “Sam”. 

I’m teaching two or three different groups this week about emotional intelligence.  There are lots of aspects to emotional intelligence.  All of those aspects center around identifying, applying and managing your emotions.  One specific component of EI that I’ll be talking about is regulating your emotional responses.  I do find it ironic I would be teaching such a thing since five hours ago if Bill Gates had walked through my office door I would have quickly and in quite an emotionless way punched that bastard as hard as I possibly could in the glasses.  And then I would applied my knee quite regularly to his crotch.

Bangkok indeed.

PLAYGROUND LESSONS

As a child I hated playing Follow the Leader. I could stand it a little longer if I WAS the leader but most often I became tired and bored. Simply doing what the leader did, stepping where they stepped, moving the way they moved and waving my arms like the leader did nothing for me. I’d often break off and go watch the boys play tag.

Marco Polo, however, would keep me busy all recess long. Simple concept –a “lost” someone calls MARCO...the “hidden” someone shouts POLO until the two parties find each other. When they do, one heads off again – leading the way, making it a little harder this time. MARCO searches and then calls out. POLO returns the shout and again, they find each other. It’s a good game.

That little element of discovery made all the difference.

Being a leader doesn’t mean forcing people to follow in your footsteps. Sometimes people need to discover their path on their own ...with just a little guidance along the way.

Any Marcos shouting for you?

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Taken from the latest installment of 60-Second Insights, an occasional newsletter of JennéInk.  I’ll be back to posting about important stuff – like my hair – next time.