2010

I read A LOT. And my reading list is probably a bit different from yours. I'm just guessing that you don't read upwards of seven to ten blogs a day with subject matter ranging from self-help to marketing to spirituality to brain research to ridiculous nonsense.

The list of books I've read over the last year alone looks like that of someone with a severe, hybrid case of ADHD/Schizophrenia. The only thing that all of my reading materials have in common is the fact that they are all non-fiction (with the exception of the fluff I'm forced to read for Book Club and that endeavor is SO on life support).

The reason I give you all this background information on what my daily reading habits entail (as if any of you could possibly care in the least little bit) is because recently several different sources have touched on the same theme. The theme, in and of itself, isn't particularly surprising given that we are about to end one decade and begin another. What is a bit surprising is how all of what I just so happen to read has come together to form a rather interesting concept that I'd like to share with you.

Ok, so first there's Christine Kane. She just might be my long-lost twin sister. She too has a penchant for "focusing" on a variety of different areas. She's a singer-songwriter/life coach/writer/public speaker/creativity consultant (I'm not making that up). In other words, she's my hero.

She developed an exercise to replace the dreaded New Year's resolution on account of New Year's resolutions are passe and, oh yeah, THEY DON'T WORK. She suggests that you pick one word to set your intention for the coming year and she has a tool that you can use to choose yours at the link above.

What's my word? Hold your horses! We're getting there but first, a bit more background information. (Did I just hear a collective groan from the crowd?)

On to Seth Godin. Seth Godin is a best-selling author/marketing guru/business-trend predictor/etc. He wrote the book TRIBES which was instrumental in helping me find Ning, which in turn helped me start my online women's group All in the Same Boat. The Boat is now sunk (for all intents and purposes) but that experience has been invaluable and it gave me the knowledge to create a website for the Dongoskis in a fairly short amount of time after their life-altering, punch to the gut in early November.

So a couple of weeks ago, I received a link to an ebook that Seth Godin put together designed to get people thinking in a new and different way in this very new and different time that we have all entered. Over seventy people contributed to the ebook which consists of one page, mini-essays with one word titles. Are you seeing a theme developing here? Ok, stay with me...

The ebook is called WHAT MATTERS NOW and it's fanfreekingtastic! I love it. There's enough blog fodder in it to keep me rambling through 2010 and beyond. (Good news, huh?)

One of my favorite essays contained in this work of pure genius was written by a guy named Hugh Macleod, another hybrid, hyperactive schizo. Get this. He's a cartoonist/author/blogger/entrepreneur. Again, another one of my People. Oh, and by the way, this dude has a sick, twisted sense of humor which has further endeared him to me for life.

So his essay, entitled Meaning, isn't really an essay at all but rather a seemingly random collection of sentences compiled and formed into the shape of a block (see picture above). I could spend the rest of 2010 taking a sentence a week from Macleod's block of inspirational brilliance and use it by expanding upon and waxing poetic here, ad nauseum. (If that doesn't get you fired up about frequenting Rambling Shmee in 2010, nothing will.)

Ok, so one of the sentences in the block is "Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb."

Boom.

What? No boom for you? You don't think this is a meaning-of-life statement of the highest magnitude? Well I beg to differ. I read the ebook (in its entirety) for the first time on December 15th and that one statement rattled around in my brain, knocking bottles off of shelves and inciting mini-riots all over the place for the better part of two weeks. I kept asking myself, "If I were put on this earth to overcome one thing, then what in the hell is it?" I saw it as my mission in life to determine exactly what my own private Mount Everest is.

In the meantime, Christine Kane and her band of groupies were posting daily pieces discussing their One Word selections for 2009 and how the exercise had worked out for them. All of this thought provocation was driving me a little nuts (I know, short trip) until I added the holidays into the mix.

As I mentioned in some previous posts, I had made it my mission in life to not stress and freak out and make myself and everyone I love miserable this holiday season. And I did it. I succeeded in holding off the full Shmee meltdown until December 29th (a new World record, by the way). But it wasn't easy and when the lid finally did blow off the pot, I noticed something: those things that finally got to me all fell under the heading of Perfection.

Eureka! That was it! Suddenly all the pieces fit. I finally heard the click as the tumblers of my brain slide into place and the secret door swung open exposing my own private Mount Everest. (Insert awe-inspiring, angelic chorus here.) Just like that I saw what stood behind my life-long, bone-crushing craving for everything to be perfect.

It's my old friend Fear.

I thought he was dead. I had a funeral and everything. It was lovely.

Turns out that much like a cat, Fear has nine lives. He's a resilient sucker and he's not above laying low (like Voldemort) until you're warm and snugly and thinking you've got this whole life thing figured out. Then he worms his way back in, little by little, so slowly that you barely notice that he's back. Until you wake up in the middle of the night and realize that your thoughts are focusing on THE MENU FOR NEW YEAR'S DAY and WHETHER YOUR PARENTS WILL PROPERLY ENTERTAIN YOUR CHILDREN ON NEW YEAR'S EVE!!!!!

What? This is what's keeping you awake at night?

Yeah, it is. That and every other ridiculous shit-nugget that I'm worried about and afraid of.

So that's it. My own private Mount Everest to climb is Fear (actually I ultimately think this is all of our Mount Everest's) and my One Word for 2010 is... (drum roll please)... Fearless. It's appropriate on so many levels but none more so than the fact that it's New Years and it's a fresh start and in a lot of ways, I'm back to square one and ready to try again.

This time, I'm going about it a little differently. The permanent eradication of Fear is no longer my goal. I think I've learned enough to know that he's indestructible. You can't really destroy him. You can only hope to contain him. Containment comes from exposing him for what he is and minimizing his effect on your life. It's kind of like saying, "Oh look, there's Fear everybody! Say hello to Fear. Now, go sit in the corner while I enjoy and make the best of my life. That's a good boy. Here's a biscuit."

My posts for the next couple of weeks are going to be dedicated to exposing Fear and then politely asking him to shut the hell up. I hope you'll join me in living a life with a little less fear in it. (Get it? Less fear. Fear less. Nice play on words, huh?) Whatever.

Happy New Year, friends. Thanks for indulging this very lengthy ramble!

Tradition

Well, I did it! I managed to pull off Christmas without having a full Shmee meltdown. There were a few close calls - like when my dad started being very vocal about getting the rules of our first annual Dirty Santa gift exchange set in stone - but for the most part, it truly was the best Christmas ever. By the way, Dad's insistence on very strictly enforced rules did not save him from receiving the quirkiest gift in the lot: a set of mustache-shaped salt and pepper shakers (shown above).

Anyway, I actually took a nap on Christmas Eve! Wait. Stop. Go back and read that sentence again. I TOOK A NAP ON CHRISTMAS EVE! This is unprecedented. Of course it may have had something to do with having had a multitude of different kinds of cocktails and being up past 3:00 am the night before but that's a story for another day. For now, I'm chalking the nap up to my being completely calm and zen-like.

I should probably mention, lest they think I'm not giving them their just due, that my brothers were BOTH on time to our house this year. This in and of itself qualifies as a legitimate Christmas miracle. And, just to really freak me out, all their gifts were wrapped when they arrived. Granted, Donald's wrapping included some festive Hanukkah prints and newspaper-stuffed gift bags, but HE WAS ON TIME AND ALL HIS GIFTS WERE WRAPPED!

Tuck and I were in bed on Christmas Eve by 11:00. Again, this is unprecedented. Typically we're up way past midnight assembling life-sized GI Joe helicopters or washing dirty glass number 327 or trying to coax one of my over-served brothers to bed. Not this year. Nope, this year by 11:00, not a creature was stirring, not even a Mee. It was a slice of Christmas heaven.

And now it's over.

Yesterday I hit the wall. Perhaps it was inevitable. Maybe Shmee meltdowns are as unavoidable as bad weather. You can have a whole bunch of sunny days in a row but eventually it's going to rain. Yesterday was stormy. Yesterday was really stormy. Yesterday was tornado-stormy.

Actually, in retrospect the writing was on the wall. All the warning signs were there but I ignored them. First there was the mound of gifts that covered every square inch of our second floor. New Terminator Salvation toys were commingled with broken Buzz Lightyears and damaged Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; boxes, packaging and discarded wrapping paper was scattered everywhere; and extremely expensive articles of clothing lay in tangled heaps around my children's rooms. This alone was enough to send my blood pressure skyrocketing. But that's not the end of it. No, there's more.

Prior to Christmas, while I lay in bed with round two of the flu, my mother had graciously decorated every square inch of our house with Christmas decorations that I'd forgotten I had. It was lovely. It was picturesque...right up to the point that she scurried off to Chicago for three days leaving me to wonder how in the hell I'd ever get it all taken down and put away.

Then there was the laundry. I've written before about the obscene amount of laundry that this family produces. Well, let's just say we set a new record. I'm pretty sure Guinness has been notified.

And finally, there were the gift returns that needed to be made. Let me ask you a question. How is it that there are no standards in sizing kids' clothing? How can a size 10 vary to the degree that a pair of pants from one store is six full inches longer than a pair from another store? Additionally, how can an eleven year-old boy be more attuned to how clothes fit than a judge on Top Design? "Um. Yeah. This sweatshirt is just a tad too small and these sweatpants bind in the crotch." Huh? You don't even have a crotch!

Fours hours and over a dozen exchanges and returns later, I returned home. I won't go into the details of my rant but Tuck has just now started speaking to me again and the kids have taken to offering me snacks and cocktails at regular intervals.

Do I get any credit for waiting until after Christmas to implode?

Joy

Christmas is not my favorite holiday. I used to like it a bit more before I had kids and before the weight of turning a seemingly ordinary day into a dream come true for half the known free world became mine to bear. Year after year, I’ve struggled to deliver the quintessential Christmas extravaganza. And year after year I’ve fallen short, managing to deliver little more than a broken, depleted and petulant Shmee complete with temper tantrums, pouting and general ill-will. By the time Christmas rolled around each year, I wasn’t fit for public consumption and no amount of Martha Stewart-quality accoutrements could camouflage that.

Last year I drew my line in the sand. I made the pronouncement that something had to give before I took the Christmas fund and made a run for the border. I had tried to scale back and simplify to no avail. I had stopped hosting my annual girls’ night in. I had stopped hosting our annual Christmas Eve open house. I had stopped decorating every square inch of our house. I had stopped making four different kinds of soup. I had stopped just about everything I could think to stop short of Christmas itself – and that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

This year has been different. It’s still early (we still have plenty of time for a full Shmee meltdown) but so far, all indications point to the best Christmas ever. What have I done differently?

Well first of all, the Mees made the decision to draw names and only buy one gift per person instead of everybody buying multiple gifts for everybody else. This was not my brainchild although I wish it were. Somehow it never dawned on me that running around from store to store to find The Perfect Gift for six grown adults and then hauling them all home and wrapping them was such a big time-suck. Duh. This one thing has been such an effort saver that I’ve found myself with so much extra time I keep wondering if I’m forgetting to do something.

Secondly, I ordered almost every single gift that we did buy online. This is such a no-brainer that I may never see the inside of a mall again. What little actual shopping I did do was: 1) very early; and 2) in small doses. Brilliant!

Thirdly, when I’ve started to consider doing something ridiculous like making homemade coffee cakes for several friends or whipping up chicken stock for the traditional soup, I’ve asked myself a few questions…Is this really necessary? Is there something else I can do that won’t take as much time? Are you out of your mind? These questions led me to better choices like canned chicken broth and store-bought gifts (ordered online and delivered to my door, of course). Since it’s the thought that counts I decided to try thinking a little. Weird.

Lastly, I’ve kept my eyes on the prize. What’s the prize? Well, that’s a good question and one I had to answer early on in order to get and stay focused. The prize is joy. Remember that part? A couple of weeks ago, my wise seven year-old gave me a Christmas sound bite to play in my head whenever I start to wander down Stress and Strain Lane. We were actually in the middle of decorating the tree and I was not a happy elf. I was tired and irritated and not at all basking in the glow of the twinkling lights. The whole thing had been reduced to an item on my to-do list and I was eager to check it off and move on. Charlie, in true Charlie fashion, was picking up on my disdain and displeasure. He climbed into my lap, looked me in the eye and said, “Christmas is supposed to be fun and we never have any fun.”

This was hard to hear. It was also completely true. From that moment on, I vowed to try harder at finding the joy and to stop trying so hard at making things perfect. My kids will never remember all the tiny, little micro-managed details that I worried about every year. They’ll only remember that I worried.

Once again, wisdom has come from the mouth of one of my kids and I think Charlie’s message is one for all of us to carry throughout the holiday season: Christmas is supposed to be fun!

Happy Holidays Everyone!

Dusting Myself Off

I'm getting there. It's been a long road and I really thought I might not ever find my way back. But it would appear I was wrong. What was perhaps my longest lapse of creativity and motivation and general enthusiasm for life itself is coming to a close.

Thank God.

I don't know exactly when it started. It might have been when Dirty fell out of the tree and lost the use of his legs. That kind of thing isn't something for which you can prepare yourself. And you also can't change the baseline fact that the whole thing is one gigantic shit sandwich, no matter how many hours you dedicate to raising funds and supporting and volunteering. All that helps, don't get me wrong, but it does not change the fact that he is in a wheelchair. I cannot bear the burden of that for him or his family.

Or perhaps it was when I realized that no matter how much I want things to change, sometimes things are unchangeable. I have spent the better part of my life trying to better my life. I have introspected and dissected and paradigm-shifted every aspect of every detail of my existence, ad nauseum. And yes, I have made improvements. I am a kinder and gentler Shmee. But (and here's the crux of the issue) I want more.

I want more and the fact that I don't have what I want and can see no logical, realistic way of getting that which I desire is what I hold up in front of myself everyday as my excuse for being miserable. "This", I scream. "Is exactly why there can not be any peace for me or anyone I love! Because, this is what I want and there is no earthly way for me to get this so I have no choice but to be angry and venomous and yes, miserable! You've left me no choice!"

What is it that I want so desperately? Now that's a question! It might be The Question to End All Questions actually. Here's what I want (drum roll, please)....

I want to be happy.

Hmmm. Don't we all.

So, since Happy is a bit of a moving target for me (gross understatement) and since some of the things on Shmee's If-I-Had-These-Things-I'd-be-Happy list cost money and since I've made MULTIPLE mistakes in the past that have put us in the category of not really having any money, I've been of the mindset that Happy just ain't in the cards for me. I had devolved to a point where I thought that someone (God) was withholding Happy from me and clearly my lot in life was just to suffer and be miserable. End of discussion.

I was done trying. I was done writing and creating. I was done looking for inspiration. I was done trying to be positive and trying to find the silver lining. I was done masking my frustration and irritation for all the frustrating and irritating things in my life. I was done with gratitude and my self-help/life coaching gurus and vision boards. And yes, I was done with books. I didn't want to be motivated or inspired or made to feel hopeful. I wanted to wallow in my anger and my self-pity. And I did.

But now I'm snapping out of it. And I don't know exactly why I'm snapping out of it. Maybe it's all those years of self-help. Perhaps my very thick, impermeable brain actually has soaked up little bits of the psychobabble that I've been exposing it to for about a million years. Could it be that I'm simply no longer capable of maintaining a funk? Say it ain't so! Who would I be without my depressive spells?

Truth is I just can't help it. I can't help but to pick myself up and dust myself off. That trait is in my DNA. I've been doing it all my life. No matter how bad things get, I eventually come to the conclusion that I can make them better, that I have no choice but to try. I think they call that perserverence. I'm not too free with the self praise but if there's one thing I'll admit to being good at, it's pushing forward.

It doesn't hurt that I've got good things swirling all around me in the form of my ever-patient, ever-positive, ever-tolerant husband. That man just won't stop loving me. It's highly annoying. And those damn kids with their sweet faces and their blue eyes. How am I supposed to stay all negative and pessimistic with them around? I can't. No, scratch that. I choose not too.

That's really what it boils down to, choices. Everyday I have a choice to appreciate what I have or not; to work on what I can change or to be pissed about what I can't; to focus on all the ways in which I'm lucky and blessed or to pay more attention to my disadvantages; to love or to be afraid; to read those things that inspire and motivate me or to ignore them all together; to write and create and otherwise use my gifts to encourage, entertain and enthuse others or not;

These are my choices and I'm lucky to have them.

Without a Net

It's that time of the month again. No, not THAT time of that month. I'm not going to sink so low as to discuss that particular hell, no matter how desperate for blog topics I get. No, the time of the month to which I'm referring is the one that rolls around at least once every three or four weeks when I seriously contemplate quitting my job. Again. Before I get another one.

I can't take it anymore. And this time the not being able to take it anymore has morphed into a form I don't remember having ever experienced. I'm actually, for the first time in my life, apathetic. I don't care. In fact I couldn't care less. I'm not angry (my most commonly felt emotion) or exasperated (second most commonly felt emotion). I'm indifferent.

This new emotional phase that I've entered should not be confused with boredom (third most commonly felt emotion). I'm not bored. Boredom requires some level of interest in what one is being asked or ordered to do. I'm so far past disinterested that boredom is just a sweet, charming memory. I'd welcome boredom right about now.

No, this is different. What has typically pissed me off to the point of eye rolls and audible sighs in the past, has literally zero affect on me now. When before I'd shake my head and practically jump out of my chair in protest, now I just zone out, doodle on my legal pad and visualize the future when I'm no longer a part of the idiocy that is my current employment.

I'm practically already gone.

It's just a matter of making it official. And I have to do it. There's really no other choice. Nothing is going to happen until I quit. That much I know. I'm not going to find another job or take the next step until I'm free to do it. You see, despite the image that I've been trying to portray of myself as the all-powerful, unlimited energy-having SuperMom, I don't possess the ability to produce time. And there aren't enough hours in the day to commute for two hours, work six, take care of all of my other responsibilities AND look for another job. It ain't gonna happen.

If it were going to happen, it would have by now.

No, I'm going to have to jump without a net. And I don't want to jump without a net. I want a real, grownup exit strategy. I've done the jumping thing before and the results were less than ideal. And I'm tired of less than ideal. I want ideal, damn it!

But I KNOW (when I write KNOW in all caps it means there's no doubt) that I have to jump. I'm stuck and have been for quite some time and I'm not going to move one single inch forward until I take a deep breath and close my eyes and step off the edge. It's called being bold and brazen and it's what I need to be in order to light the fire under my ass that apparently needs lit.

Once I quit, fear of poverty and cheap red wine (cheaper than my usual cheap red wine) will force me to find something else. It's the way it's got to be. So, here I go. I'm going to do it.....Ok, maybe not until after the holidays. Nothing ruins Christmas like poverty and really cheap red wine.