Guest Blog from GirlChild

THIS IS VERY LONG, BUT VERY IMPORTANT FOR ME TO GET OUT:


Two years ago today, I was sitting at my laptop playing league of legends when I got a call from my aunt around 10pm on a Sunday.


I thought it was a butt dial, since she was usually in bed before that. But then I saw a voicemail. So I called her back.


"Your mother has had a heart attack, come to CSM Ozaukee."


I hung up, screamed bloody fucking murder, and sped to the hospital. To this day, I don't remember the drive there. I just remember getting there and flying thru the hospital, into her room. Everyone was reassuring me she was okay, but they still needed to take her to surgery.


It didn't matter. That was my mom. That was my lifeline. As an only child (biologically) and a female... she was my first best friend. I was sobbing. I was losing my mind. I'm sobbing writing this now. I hugged her and told her I loved her before they sent her to surgery.


One of the last things she said before going under was "Someone needs to make sure Rebecca makes it to her dentist appointment tomorrow." This woman... whose heart was ready to give up... was more concerned about my goddamn dentist appointment. (Yes, that still bothers me.)


My stepbrother and I left the hospital and went for a long walk and long drive to get my mind off of it.


My family sat in the waiting room for hours overnight. I don't think anyone slept.


Around 6am, we were able to go in and see her. My stepfather went first, and when he came out, my aunt and I went in. I was sobbing again... those tubes and machines, hair matted to her face, breathing tube down her throat... I couldn't handle it. I held her hand, but it was limp. I was still scared. Yeah we made it thru the toughest part, but what if the woman that woke up was not the same woman that I grew up with and loved?


I squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. Then they kicked us out. My stepdad wasn't too happy that I got a response out of her when he got nothing, but hey man, that's my mom. She knows it's me.
When we were able to go back in, she was more awake, but still had a breathing tube. And even she will tell you... thank god i was there.


My mom taught me sign language growing up, and while for the most part I don't remember it, I remember enough. To communicate with the nurses while in her room she was supposed to use her oxygen monitor to hit the railings on the bed to get their attention. With me standing right there, she signed to me, and I took care of her. I was the only person she could communicate with for a bit.


I spent all week at that hospital. I didn't want to be away from my mom. When she got out and needed to be walking, we would walk around grocery stores or targets so she could stay in the AC where she could breathe. I'd leave one job and drive 20 minutes just to go walk around a store with her.


I was lucky to still have my mom.


And I'm still lucky to still have my mom.


Hug your family a little tighter, today.


You never know what could happen while you're busy playing a video game.


I love you mom.




(You can find GirlChild here: https://www.instagram.com/rebeccablazeofficial/)

Why Do You Write?

“Why do you write?”


This question has been asked many times in writers groups and my answer is always the same: I have a story inside that needs to be told.


For as long as I can remember, I said I would be an author. Every book report ever written or presented in school asked why I selected the book I did. My answer was always the same. “I selected this book because I will write one like it someday.”

I would see things in everyday life and make up stories to explain them. I’d give people names and personalities. They would have conversations. (A stroll down the Vegas Strip is full of inspiration.) My brain and my notebooks are filled with scenes, stories, and characters.


As with many people, life got in the way of this childhood dream. There was a spouse, a child, a mortgage, and a string of energy-sapping jobs.


That spouse discouraged me so I got rid of him. The child and jobs did not leave much time for anything else. A new spouse entered the picture – one who encouraged my creativity and my silliness. Eventually, the child grew up, moved to New York, and became a writer. Still, I wasn’t writing. I can do that any time, right?


Two years ago today everything changed. I suffered a heart attack and had emergency heart surgery - either of which could have easily ended my life. It took almost a year to for me to finally understand how fortunate I am to be granted this additional time. It’s a gift many people don’t receive. I owe it to myself to fulfill the promises that schoolgirl made 30 years ago.


And THAT is why I write.

Each Day is a Bonus

Have you ever pondered the meaning of life? The meaning of your life? I find myself doing this often.

My pondering comes from survivor's guilt. Survivors guilt occurs when a person believes they have done something wrong by surviving a trauma. I survived a heart attack and emergency heart surgery at a younger than normal age. It's an unsettling feeling to know you're losing consciousness AS it's happening.

A month before my heart attack, a high school classmate suffered a fatal heart attack. At the time, I was shocked. She was young. Like me. For several months after my surgery, I wondered why I survived and she did not. If I was a religious person, I might think a supreme being has a bigger plan for me.

This question intensified a few months after I returned to work. A surgeon I worked with spent two weeks providing needed medical care in a poor, South American country. On his way home, he suffered a fatal heart attack at the airport in Chicago. He spent his career improving others' lives. He was a very kind and giving man. I tend to be selfish. If I was a religious person, I would question the supreme being's judgment on this.

A few months ago, GirlChild's friend and classmate suffered either a fatal heart attack or an arrhythmia. He was 24-years-old and just beginning his adult life. He should have had many years of life and happiness stretched out before him. If I was a religious person, I would be pissed at the supreme being.

So why am I here? I have no answers to this question but I've come to understand that I have been given an incredible gift and I plan to use it. I travel more. I experience life. I promised myself in eighth grade that I would write a book. I'm doing that now. Each day is a bonus and I'm making the most of them.

Catcalling

Do you know what it’s like to be a woman? The catcalls and the public groping are out of control. This problem occurs everywhere but I think it’s more prevalent in large cities where most of the population utilizes public transportation.

For this writing, I will define catcalling as any comment or whistle of a sexual nature made to a woman passing by. This definition makes it clear that a catcall is very different than a compliment.

GirlChild experiences this every day in New York City. When she ignored a catcall, she has been followed and called vile names. When she responded with a New York, “Fuck off!” she has been followed and called vile names.

I’ve been catcalled in the Midwest. I would wait for my bus and men would drive past yelling all sorts of repulsive things. You know who responds to that? Hookers. I am not a hooker but this behavior sure made me feel like one.

One woman likened catcalling to a war zone. Catcalls were like incoming bombs – each one causing a chink in your armor. A war zone. Let that sink in for a minute.

Two women recently shared stories involving their daughters. One was twelve-years-old and out for a walk in the sunshine with her mom when two different passing cars catcalled them. The daughter was wearing a flower crown. Nothing says "child" quite like a flower crown. The other was a 14-year-old who was catcalled and followed home when she was attempting to cross the street to buy some candy. Candy. These two innocent girls are quickly learning to be ashamed of their bodies.

Recently I asked a friend to post some questions on Facebook. She has a large, eclectic group of followers and the responses received using this completely unscientific method would be an accurate representation from society. The questions were:

1.       Why do some men do this?

2.       Why does it make most women cringe?

3.       If a woman takes it as a compliment, does it say something about her?

I learned from the responses that some women DO think this is a compliment. And some middle-aged women would give anything to receive catcalls on the street again. I wonder if these ladies would have a different response if they were younger and regularly on the receiving end of this harassment. In both cases, I worry about the lack of self-esteem exhibited by this desire for validation from a crass stranger.

I learned some people think catcalling is done only by groups of men – each trying to prove to their friends they are manlier than the last guy who hollered. I know from personal experience and by anecdotal evidence shared by GirlChild that this is not the case. As a woman on the street, I find the lone man catcalling to be the most intimidating. In most cases, the group of men will not follow you but the single man does not have his friends checking his behavior.

I learned that none of the men who responded to this Facebook discussion thought catcalling was acceptable. It was denounced with comments like “Real men don’t do this” or “My mom would have throttled me if she heard I acted like this.”

If most women don’t like it and most men find the behavior reprehensible, why does this boorish behavior still occur? Several reasons were mentioned.

We already mentioned the women who need this validation from a stranger. Because they need this validation, catcalling may have worked in the past. Perhaps they smiled at, said thank you to, or even flashed the catcaller. Also, remember how I said it made me feel like a hooker? If it works with a hooker, the less evolved male members of the species will try it with any female.

It was also mentioned that groups of men do this to prove their manliness. Testosterone fueled pissing contests. Are we lucky girls, or what?

My own research indicates this can be done for power. In an article published on Thought Catalog, titled “11 People Who Cat Call Women On The Street Explain Why They Do It” mentions the most terrifying reason of all – power. One man said, “A catcall or a car horn beep gives me a momentary feeling of power over them because I can see their discomfort.” That sentence should give you the creeps.

I firmly believe allowing catcalling to continue unchecked emboldens the men who are unstable or entitled. If they can degrade women verbally, how long will it take before they are the men groping women in the subway?

Our unofficial Facebook dialogue indicates catcalling should end. But how?

Several countries – including our neighbor to the north – have laws that make this type of behavior illegal. That may work for them but it will never work in the United States. We value our freedoms. We believe in the freedom of speech guaranteed by the first amendment. Any laws against catcalling would infringe on this right.

If a law is not feasible, what next?

As a society, we need a culture change. A lot of things used to be acceptable in the US in our past. Drunk driving, treating others as second-class citizens because of race or gender, even owning people. I know. Catcalling is not as extreme as owning people but the principle for change is the same.

If Rosa Parks had simply given up her bus seat, who knows where the civil rights movement would have gone. If Susan B. Anthony and company has accepted that women were less than men, what would have happened in the political realm? If Candace Lightner had quietly mourned the death of her teenage daughter, would we have the drunk driving laws that have saved countless lives in the past 36 years?

These three examples have one thing in common. Someone spoke up with words or actions. They banded together with like-minded individuals and they created the spark that ignited the flames of social change.

How can you speak up? One woman in the Facebook discussion mentioned she worked for a construction company. Her employer had a policy stating employees engaging in the behavior would be terminated. There were no second chances. As a business owner, why would you not have a policy like this? Anything less gives your employees permission to sexually harass and intimidate strangers while they are representing your company. Is that really the image you want for your business?

You can also speak up by speaking up. If you are in a group of men when this boorish behavior begins, you can refuse to participate. You can enlighten your friends.

If you are just a witness, that should not prevent you from standing up for women. You can tell a catcaller how offensive their behavior is. And if you see a catcaller escalating his bad behavior by following the woman, your moral code should require that you step in.

The women who endure this every day are somebody’s daughter, wife, mother, or sister. She could be yours.

Marketing 101

I've seen them. You've seen them. We've both asked "Why?" Or, "Who would buy THAT?"


That is any one of a number of products released recently. It could be the women's jeans with the clear vinyl where the knees should be. It could be the men's jeans designed to look mud stained. It could be the one-piece women's swimming suit printed to look like a hairy chest.


I know who buys these. Nobody. Nobody does. If nobody buys these absurdities, why are they produced? That, my readers, is sheer genius.


They are designed to be talked about - among your friends and on radio and television. They are designed to be shared on social media.


I can tell you that both of the jeans I described were carried by Nordstrom's. I know that because I heard about them on the radio and the local news. I saw them all over Facebook and Twitter. The small investment to produce these products that nobody will purchase pays off untold times. We're  doing all the work to provide this free advertising to them.


Brilliant!

The Adventures of GirlChild

A guest blog by GirlChild. Like what you read? Follow her on Instagram.
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Do you think I asked for this? Do you think I asked for ANY of this?

Okay, for those of you that know me and know what I’m on about, it probably does seem like something I asked for. For those that don’t know me; what you’re about to see, you may not believe, but I promise you with every ounce of my being that it is.


I am Girl Child. My mom has written about me before, but never to the extent that I am about to go into myself. It’s not her story to tell, it’s mine. I’m in my 20s, Wisconsin born and raised. I lived in Florida for two years, moved back to Wisconsin for almost two years, and then one day at the end of summer 2016, everything changed.


You see, I’m a huge KISS fan, and if you know anything about non-casual KISS fans—you know, the ones you see depicted in movies or TV—we will do almost anything for those boys short of murder. Actually, come to think of it, some KISS fans might commit murder if doing so gave them the opportunity to rub shoulders with Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons, Tommy Thayer, and Eric Singer for the night. Either way, not the point. The point is we will do a hell of a lot for the opportunity to be so close to greatness.


One night last summer, I was at a KISS concert… not a surprise. I was hanging out with someone I’m proud to call a friend afterwards (if you’re reading this, love you dude), and decided I was going to fly to New York City for another KISS show the following month. Remember when I said we’ll do a hell of a lot to be so close to greatness? This is just one example. I did as planned, and it was a great time. But here’s the kicker:

I never went back to Wisconsin from that trip.

I just said screw it and stayed in New York. A week and a half after arriving, I got a job at a restaurant in Brooklyn. A week and a half after that, I got a phone call from another friend. You see, when I moved out here, I started a blog about what it was like leaving Wisconsin with a couple hundred dollars, no job, and no house. This friend had seen it, and thought I was a fantastic writer. She then expressed to me that she does concert photography for a music website, and was wondering if I would be interested in her passing my information on to the editor of that site so I could possibly do CD reviews, concert reviews, and artist interviews. Of course, I said yes. Why wouldn’t I, right?


The editor contacted me and everything was quickly squared away. I told him there was a concert I’d planned on attending anyway, since they were going to be on the KISS Kruise, and asked if I could do a review on the show. He promptly said yes and that right there was the beginning of the end.
Since that night, I’ve become friends with that band, started working for that band, and my god… are they ever picking up steam! I’ve rubbed shoulders with some of the greatest in rock n’ roll. I even just got back from KISS’ European/United Kingdom tour, where the boys I work for were the supporting act.


It is truly amazing how quickly you find your life running in an entirely different direction than ever planned. It is even more amazing how quickly that different direction can snowball you into a lifestyle you never imagined yourself legitimately living, despite wanting to.
If you told me a year ago today all the things I would accomplish by this time the following year, I would’ve laughed in your face and told you I needed to get back to work. But it’s real, and I own it.

My life is not for the faint of heart.

The Isolation of Poverty

Poverty leads to a lonely existence. You're constantly working just to stay afloat. Even if you have the time, you don't have to money to go out to dinner with friends. In my case, even inviting people over for dinner was not an option. If I could overcome the cost, I was embarrassed by my threadbare carpet and the hand-me-down furniture which was only passed to us because it was so worn my in-laws were buying new furniture.

As I was clawing my way out of dark abyss that is poverty, I set rules for myself. If a friend invited me out, I always said I had to check with my assistant Frank first. (Frank was the name of the day planner/time management system provided by my employer.) I used this time to find the restaurant's website and check their menu. Sometimes I could afford the cheapest entrée. Other times my budget only allowed the purchase of an appetizer. If everything was out of my budget, I got back to the invitee and told him or her I had a previous commitment.



It was a great plan that should have worked. Unfortunately, nothing is fool proof.



Many nights while enjoying the company of my friends, I would watch some of them throw back drink after drink while I sipped my water or soda. There was no room in my budget for alcohol. When the check came, someone invariably suggested splitting it evenly because, "It's easier." Often the person making the suggestion was the one who drank the most.



Each time I was forced to pay for others' meals or drinks, I would do a web search for advice regarding how to handle this situation. Nearly everything I found suggested I should just suck it up and pay or not accept invites to dinners. I can understand why. You are in a no-win situation. Speaking out about the unfairness of this could not end well for me. If I refused this split based on general principle, I would look cheap. If I explained my budget situation, I would be mortified. But if I just sucked it up and paid more, I would blow my meager budget.

One evening we were celebrating a friend's birthday. I had planned my spending for the evening. I was splurging on a margarita and a nacho appetizer and I would pitch in for the birthday boy's dinner.
I arrived early so I ordered and paid for my drink at the bar. We were eventually seated and three of us decided to split the nachos because the waitress said the order was huge. After dinner, one woman grabbed the check and told us everyone's share was $34.50. There is no way I was paying that for 1/3 of our $9.99 nachos!



Empowered by the presence of two others who were also being asked to pay more than ten times the cost of their food, I spoke up. I pointed out what we ordered. I said I was willing to pitch in for the birthday meal but there was no way I was subsidizing other people's drinks when I couldn't afford my own.



Today I am financially secure but I haven't forgotten my 19 years in poverty. I see the signs in some of our friends because I've lived them. When a friend panics about social gatherings or cancels at the last minute, I notice. When a friend drinks only water or sips the same soda all night, I notice. When a friend consistently orders the cheapest thing on the menu, I notice.



Struggling financially is no reason to be socially isolated or embarrassed. When I plan outings for our friends, I do my best not to put people in positions I have been put in. I select restaurants that are a good value. I ask for separate checks so nobody is uncomfortable when the bill arrives. I look for free or inexpensive activities. I host dinners in our home. I will not be the one to exclude others or make them uncomfortable about their current situation.

Safe Harbors (A blog about GirlChild)

GirlChild is fearless. She went to New York City for a rock concert and stayed. She had no job, no plan, no savings, and only two paychecks remaining from the job she left at home. She also travels all over the world - often alone. She has flown into, out of, and through many of the world's busiest airports on her journeys. See? Fearless!

Her most recent trip was to the United Kingdom. She spent the largest portion of that trip in London but she also visited Birmingham, Manchester, and Stonehenge.

Unfortunately, her vacation was tainted by terrorism. She arrived at the Manchester airport days after the bombing at the Ariana Grande concert at the Manchester Arena. GirlChild was planning to attend a KISS concert at this same venue one week later but it was cancelled for obvious reasons.

When GirlChild first heard about the bombing, she was concerned I would pressure her to cancel her trip. I assured her I would not. The UK was on high alert after the attack and terrorists don't usually attack in the same country twice in a row - or that close together - so I felt she would be safe.

Boy was I wrong!

She was in London for the attack on London Bridge. As if that's not bad enough, she was AT the bridge! GirlChild was not harmed and she did not see this unfold. That doesn't matter to a mom. Just knowing she was there was bad enough.

I considered asking her to move back to the relative safety of the Midwest. That was a fleeting thought. She might be safer here but I didn't raise her to run. I raised her to fly. You can get hurt anywhere so I will not clip her wings.

That Day I Almost Died

Did you ever survive something traumatic? I did and this is my story.

In July 2015 my husband and I were camping in the Black Hills in South Dakota. The elevation was more than one mile high. We weren’t used to that and we both struggled to breathe while we were hiking. I will admit that I struggled more than he did.

After our return home, we took one day to relax before heading off for a weekend trip within our state. On the first day, we stopped for lunch. I was full after just a few bites and I was sick to my stomach. I felt better within the hour and we continued our adventure. We took a ferry to an island where we attended an outdoor festival and climbed a lookout tour. The day was passing quickly so we canceled our plans for a second ferry to an isolated island.

Several hours later, the sickness returned. We stopped at a local drug store for antacids. I quickly chewed a couple and felt better until the wee hours of the morning. I chewed a couple more and went back to sleep.

I was awakened in the morning by the light coming through the space where the curtains didn’t quite meet. I played on my phone because the light was not bothering my husband and he was snoring softly beside me.

At one point, the room darkened like a cloud went over the sun and things became burry. I blinked my eyes a few times to clear the blur. A few moments later, I woke up from what my husband described as a seizure. I’ve never had one before and I felt fine immediately after so I promised my husband I would call my doctor when I returned to work the next morning and we continued with our plans for the day.

I also described to him the way the room darkened before I lost consciousness. I explained how peaceful that was. I even wondered aloud if that is what it is like to die.

Although I assured my husband I was fine, I knew something was wrong. I was in denial.  I knew I needed medical care but I called a friend instead of an ambulance. I described what had happened and said I was starting to think I was having a heart attack. We were both confused about the seizure though. I promised her I would pay attention to my body and seek medical attention if I felt any worse.

Driving home in the late afternoon, I noticed I could not stop yawning. My fingertips and my lips were numb like I had been drinking but no alcohol had crossed my lips for weeks. My father had complained about numb fingers a few days before his bypass surgery. Heart attack was becoming a very real thought hanging out in the forefront of my mind instead of the back.

I told my husband I needed a hospital. He drove me to the one nearest our home and dropped me off at the Emergency Room doors while he parked. Things move pretty fast when you walk into a hospital and say "heart attack." I was seated in a wheelchair and ready to be taken to a room in the few minutes it took him to park. I refused to be taken back without him. As soon as he joined me, we were off to an exam room.

The EKG leads were quickly connected and all hell broke loose! I had suffered a minor heart attack so I was admitted. I required emergency bypass surgery. I spent five days in the hospital and returned to work at the four-week mark.

My heart attack symptoms were non-typical – even for a woman. Even the seizure is rare. For the inquiring minds, that is caused by an arrhythmia. I consider myself very lucky I still recognized what was going on and sought help.

That is my only advice to others – know your body. Know when something isn’t right. It’s better to be sent home with heartburn today than to not wake up tomorrow morning.

Memorial Day, Marines, and My Sixth Sense

Memorial Day seems like a wonderful day for the topic of the sixth sense. Especially when it involves our United States Marines.

BoyChild #1 is a Marine who has done two tours in Iraq while serving in the reserves. When he received the orders for his first tour, we were not worried for his safety. We knew he would return fine. We were, however, saddened by the milestones he would miss. His first daughter was just a few weeks old when he shipped out.

His unit suffered heavy casualties on this tour. Five men were carried off planes in flag draped coffins. Each time one of those lives was lost, I KNEW. I knew as soon as I woke up in the morning - before watching TV or checking my email. As expected, BoyChild #1 returned from his tour unscathed. He celebrated his daughter’s first birthday, purchased a home, and settled back into civilian life.

A few years later, BoyChild #1 received orders for his second tour. When he told me about it, I immediately felt a dark presence. I knew harm would come to him but I could not describe exactly WHAT that harm would be. However, I could describe the location of this darkness. It was not in my head but rather, was a point just behind my right ear and shoulder. As strange as it sounds, I sometimes waved my hand in the air back there trying to clear the presence.

I could not share this dark feeling with anyone. I had to endure them on my own. I WOULD NOT trouble others with my fears and I COULD NOT share them with my husband. There was no need for both of us to worry about a feeling.

In April 2008, we received notice about a pair of casualties. The unit was in a convoy when the lead vehicle hit an improvised explosive device (IED). Two young men in that vehicle made the ultimate sacrifice and a third was injured. BoyChild #1 was driving the second armored vehicle. According to his email update, he was about 30 yards behind the lead vehicle. His vehicle was totaled but he claimed to be uninjured.

Both causalities were his friends. One was his roommate, bunkmate, or whatever the correct term is. That man was from my husband’s tiny hometown – a town which suffered heavy losses in the War on Terror. The father of this young man and my husband shared much in common and this loss was devastating to my husband. In addition to mourning the loss of a promising young life, he also seemed to experience some guilt about his son’s survival while another man with a very similar life would bury his own son.

Although BoyChild #1 initially claimed to be unharmed in the explosion, a letter arrived in the mail shortly after. In his tiny printing, he mentioned headaches, dizziness, and a constant ringing in his ears. Around the same time I received this letter, I also realized that the dark presence which had haunted me for months was finally gone. I knew BoyChild #1 would be ok.

Having a sixth sense can be helpful. If you can interpret what this sense is telling you, you may be able to prevent harm to yourself or to your loved ones. Unfortunately, my message is not usually clear and this causes stress. It’s like chronic pain – always present and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it

I am the parent who left the concert early

Recently a high school classmate who is now a high school teacher vented on social media about parents leaving concerts as soon as their kids were done but before it was over. She felt this was unacceptable and rude to the students and other spectators. She called these parents selfish and said they were modeling poor behavior for their children.
I am one of the parents who leaves early.


We have five adult kids and three grandchildren. Two of the kids and my husband play organized sports. The grandchildren go to different schools and play in different sports leagues. They are also involved in music. Although they are nearby, the schools and leagues do not coordinate schedules and they shouldn't have to do this.


Our children and grandchildren are very important to us. We show them they are important by attending the things that matter to them. We are busiest from the start of baseball and softball season in May until the end of basketball season in late January or early February.


Elementary school choir  and beginning band concerts are boring. There. I said it. Boring. And painful. Everybody thinks their little Johnny or Suzy is the most talented angel on the stage but very few of those parents are correct. The singing is out of tune. The kid in the second row is picking his or her nose. The reed instruments squeak. The string instruments shriek. 


I'm not biased against the arts. Beginning sports is just as bad. We've all seen the kid get a hit and run towards third base. We've seen the kid sitting in right field with his glove on his head. We've seen the soccer player score in the wrong goal.


But the collective we of parenthood attends all these things. It's possible we go for the same reason we watch NASCAR - the crashes. Or we go because our children like to be a part of the group or team. They like to perform. They like to be on stage. And we love our children.


I was a kid once. I remember those feelings. And I remember how important it was for my mom to attend everything I participated in. Because I remember this, we will sit through every painful second. If we have the time. It's important to be there for everybody and that is something we want to model for our children and grandchildren.


Unfortunately we don't always have the time. Sometimes we have no choice but to divide and conquer. My husband attends one event and I attend another. Our children and grandchildren notice the absence of one of us and they always ask about it. We prefer when we can both attend everything and we do whatever is necessary to make that happen. It might mean leaving a concert early to arrive at a game late. Or leaving a game early to arrive at a concert late. 


It is my job to make sure our children and grandchildren know they can count on us for the little things and for the big things in life. I don't think your child's self-esteem is dependent upon my watching their performance. If it is, you and I need to talk.


Nobody displays displeasure when you enter or leave a sporting event sporting event in progress. Do we place more value on concerts? Is it just easier to leave loud sporting events? What if I told you that you can minimize the distraction during the concert by being courteous. Sit in the back row or stand near the door. Enter or leave during applause or - even better - as groups are trading places on stage.


Schools could make this easier on parents. We're busier than our parents were. We have blended families. An understanding from the school that many children are part of blended families and may have siblings in different school districts could go a long way. Perhaps the school could hold concerts with intermission. K4 through 3rd grade perform before intermission and higher grades preform after. Intermission would allow parents who have to leave the ability to go and parents who have to arrive late the ability to come in without disruption. 


Contrary to my former classmate's assertion, I am neither selfish nor rude. I am very giving but also very busy. I am not modeling poor behavior. I am showing our offspring and their offspring that they are our priority when we have to make choices. What better behavior could I show them?

The Healing Powers of Air Travel

Writers are usually people watchers and I am no exception.






On my last four flights, I've observed my fellow travelers. Invariably, there are several people in wheelchairs waiting to board. They are boarded first because they need extra time and assistance. And they are the last people off the plane - again because of the additional time and assistance needed.






My observations have taught me that there are miracles preformed during flight. I say this because the number of people needing assistance OFF the plane for each flight was always less than the number needing assistance ON the plane.






I would never accuse anyone of faking the need for assistance just so they can board first, get comfortable, and snag premium room in the overhead compartments. There must be something in those complimentary beverages causing these miracles. I'd be a millionaire if I could bottle that for use on the ground.

Holey Jeans

A pair of jeans was causing a hubbub on social media recently. These men's jeans can be purchased from a luxury department store. They are made to look as if they are caked with mud. I have no doubt people will buy them – even with their $400+ price tag. Urban people. In the country, you earn your mud and your mud stains.

GirlChild is an urban girl. She was born and raised in a large, Midwestern city. She loves metropolitan areas – the bigger, the better.


I was unable to attend a family wedding so I sent 16-year-old GirlChild in my place. She attended with my siblings and my mother. She was a responsible teenager who planned her wardrobe for the trip. She wrote a packing list, packed her clothes, and forgot nothing. Outfits for the drive each way, black jeans with strategically placed holes, dressy green tank top, and heels for the rehearsal dinner, and her favorite red dress for the wedding. It was a very urban wardrobe straight from the pages of the most current fashion magazines.

The wedding was in a Great Plains state. Although my daughter's jeans were very chic and very expensive, they were not understood by everyone in the area. In the Great Plains, holey jeans are barn clothes. At the rehearsal dinner, my uncle's sister-in-law approached GirlChild and said, "We're taking up a collection so you can buy pants without holes in them!"


Fortunately, my mother's sister immediately jumped to GirlChild's defense. This other woman had never met GirlChild. She is old enough to have grandchildren my daughter's age. GirlChild attended this dinner with five adult relatives. There is no reason for a grown woman to bully a teenager in this snarky manner. She could have spoken with an adult in the group but she should have remained silent.


We each have a belief system that tells us how to live life. These beliefs were created from our values, our cultures, and our experiences. GirlChild was not wrong in her clothing choice. My uncle's sister-in-law was not wrong in her thoughts that holey jeans belong in the barn. This was just a cultural difference.  One culture spends $200 for distressed jeans from a boutique store. The other culture spends $20 for jeans from a low-end department store - which also sells agricultural and automotive supplies - and retires them to the barn when they become distressed.


Before we laugh about the "mud caked" jeans from the luxury department store, we should ask ourselves if we've tried to understand how others live or if we're using our belief system to judge that which we do not understand. Either way, we should ignore it. In the grand scheme of our lives, if how others dress is a big concern for us, we should be thankful because we are living a wonderful life.

Cliques

We moved from a medium size city to a small college town across the state the summer between first and second grade. It was a beautiful Wisconsin town. The historic sandstone buildings built by the lumber barons of the 1800s were nestled among the bluffs and overlooking the waterways of the area.

Summers were spent biking to the beach and fishing from an old railroad bridge turned biking trail. We played hide and seek or kick the can with the neighborhood children until the street lights came on indicating it was time to go home. The civic band played concerts in the park on summer Tuesday evenings while an ice cream social raised money for a church or social group. Winters were spent ice skating on rinks at several area parks and elementary schools. We went sledding on nearby hills and tobogganed on the chute the city maintained at the local fairgrounds. It was a wonderful place to grow up in the 1970s.

We had a lot of fun in our charming little town. Even so, I always felt like an outsider. Friendships were formed long before we arrived. Children had their friends before they ever set foot in school for kindergarten. When I arrived, I was automatically an outsider but I still had a few friends.

After two years in my neighborhood school, my mom made the decision to enroll me in the Catholic school four blocks away. None of those children lived in the neighborhood. Or even the city. The only time we could play after school or during the summer was if one of our moms was willing to drive to the other’s house. That rarely happened. Often, we would go for a sleepover on Friday after school and be returned to the respective parent at church services on Saturday night or Sunday morning.

By third grade, my mom thought it was a great time for me to join 4-H. She found a very large club with many activities for the members. I lived and went to school in the city but the club was in the country and many of the members went to the same school outside of the city. I participated in everything I could but I was still an outsider. I did make one friend in 4-H and we remained friends through high school.

Being an outsider felt even more obvious by junior high. I did everything right. I played sports, played in band, and participated in the school play. I had many friends across all these groups but I still felt like an outsider. We were poor and I was embarrassed by this.

My friends had the latest clothes. I'd have them next year when my mom shopped at their mom’s rummage sales over the summer. I was the only person with a brown bag lunch on school or 4-H field trips. Other parents just gave their kids $10 to eat and buy souvenirs. I stopped eating lunch on those trips and started making my own clothes so I wasn't dressed in the latest garage sale chic.

When I entered high school, I was a cheerleader, an honor student, and involved in every club I thought was interesting. I was still an outsider and it felt like my mom was intent on keeping me that way.

Cheerleading camp was held in my hometown my first year on the high school squad. My mom couldn't afford it so I worked during the summer to pay for my share of camp and my uniforms. I was so grateful when one girl's mom suggested we all sleep over at her house during camp. We could bond as a squad without having to pay for a hotel. The cost savings to me was tremendous. Unfortunately, my mom said no. I was only 14 and she wasn't sure how well we would be supervised for that week. It was humiliating to ride my bike to camp the first morning knowing I'd have to tell the other girls I had to go home that night. I was thankful for being stung by a bee the first day. I became sick had to miss the rest of the week so I never had to face the humiliation of telling the other girls I would not have been able to stay the night with them.

I didn't like being judged. I learned how to hide our family's poverty from my friends. And I learned not to judge others. I wasn't popular. I was the cheerleader who marched with the band. I was the only girl in the industrial arts class and I was elected foreman of that class. I was an athlete who dated the farmers. I was the girl lifting weights with the wrestling team. I didn't belong to any of the cliques but I had friends in all of them.

I spent so much time feeling like an outsider that I vowed to do my best so I don’t make anyone else feel like that. Nobody is beneath me. I talk to housekeeping when we stay in hotels. I buy Christmas gifts for the lady who cleans my office at work. When a retail employee says hello or good-bye, I make sure I acknowledge them. It doesn’t take anything from me to be nice and it can mean a lot to someone else.

prompt: cliques

Speak with Passion

My mom grew up in a very small town. Many of the residents were born there, spent their lives farming there, and died there.

My uncle, her youngest brother, wasn't having any of that. He never wanted to work hard so he knew farming wasn't for him. He viewed the Marine Corps as his way out. I'm not sure how he decided this was less work than farming and I've never asked. He enlisted in the Marines because his older brothers and one sister had served in the Army and the Air Force. He also did not want to be on a boat so the Navy was out.

I was quite young when my uncle left for boot camp so I have no memory of it.  I learned later that he was an embassy guard. He'll tell you he was selected for that assignment because he looked good in the uniform. (My family is very modest.) During his four-year commitment, he mailed us letters and gifts from all over the world. I still have the wooden shoes he sent me from his trip to Holland.

Girl-child owns a beer stein he sent to his mother from Germany. After Grandma passed away, the stein was returned to him. He gifted it to girl-child because she had also been to Germany, speaks the language, and loves the country.

When I was nine or ten, this uncle came to stay with us for a visit. I don't remember if he was still in the service but - if forced to answer the question - I would say his commitment was up.

He was sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room. I was always an early riser so I'm sure I was warned against waking him up in the morning when my mom sent me to bed the night before. I'm also sure I forgot that by morning when I crept downstairs in my pajamas. I didn't wake him though. I asked if he was awake and he replied that he was.

I crawled onto the couch with him and we talked for a long time. He talked to me like I was an adult. He told me he was thinking of asking his girlfriend to marry him. And he shared details of his recent trip to the former Soviet Union.

He described Red Square in such vivid detail that I could see colorful St. Basil's Cathedral. He also told me about waiting in line to visit Lenin's tomb. I learned Lenin’s body has been on display since his death in the 1920s. My uncle described the glass case the body was in, the lighting, and how Lenin's body seemed to glow like it was gilded.

He painted such vivid pictures of these far-away lands that - even as a young child - I knew I wanted to travel. I needed to travel. To see things. To live life.

Almost 30 years later, this same uncle made a passing comment in an email that he doesn't share his stories because nobody listens and nobody cares. I had to respond and tell him how his stories inspired me. He doesn't remember our early morning conversation but he was impressed with all the details I could recall - including the name of that long-ago girlfriend.

What I've learned from this is that we should all tell our tales and share our stories. You never know who is listening and how it might change their life.

prompt: Soviet

Busy, busy, busy

You’ll find few people in life who are busier than I am. I work full time and I’m enrolled in 13 college credits. I’m an accelerated student. The simple definition of being an accelerated student is that most of my education comes from self-study. I spend one hour in class and four hours outside class for each credit in which I’m enrolled. Let’s do the math on this.

There are 168 hours available in a week. I spend 42.5 of those at work and 65 with school activities. That leaves 60.5 hours per week for other activities. This equates to less than nine hours per day for sleeping, eating, showering, my 40-minute, one-way commute, and time with family and friends – many times by entertaining them in our home. Additionally, in the last semester, my mother-in-law was hospitalized for two weeks in a city more than an hour away. I managed to visit her five times during those 14 days.

We also have five adult children and three grandchildren. We try to attend every activity they are involved in and support them in their work. There are birthday dinners, softball games, choir and band concerts, basketball games, and church and school plays and programs.

My life requires balance and strict scheduling to accomplish everything. I’ve traveled in the passenger seat of our car on trips with my open laptop on my lap writing papers. I’ve had textbooks in my lap while camping with family and friends.

Some things are overlooked because they are low on the priority list. Our cars go too long between oil changes. Our Christmas tree had lights but no ornaments this past year. And you could write your name in the dust on our bookshelves if it wasn’t for our awesome cleaning person.

If anyone can claim the label of “too busy,” it is me. I am not sharing this to complain about my life. Or to brag about it. It is not a badge of honor. I don’t share this to show I’m in demand. My hectic schedule is just life. My life until I graduate in five months.

I share this because I have a pet peeve and I need to address it. It is the phrase “too busy.”

I’ve invited a good friend to dinner at least three times over the past year. Each time my invite has been met with a response telling me how busy she is. She is a single mom who works part time and shares custody of her kids with their father. How busy can she possibly be? This response did not make me feel valued as a friend or as a person.

I believe this line is a cop-out used to protect peoples’ feelings. If someone invites you to do something and you really don’t want to it, it’s easier to say “I’m busy” that is it to say “I’d rather not do that” or “I’d rather not spend time with you.” It's possible it is also used to protect the person saying it. It's easier on the ego to say "I'm busy" that to admit the suggested activity isn't in your budget.

Either way, when I hear this phrase repeatedly from the same person, I feel like I am being blown off in the nicest way the speaker knows how to blow people off.

In contrast, we were invited to a friend’s lake home last summer. We were busy on the date she suggested but we wanted to spend time with this couple. My response to her invite was, “I’m so sorry. We’re busy on that date. Can we look at another time? I know we’re available on…”

I gave her three dates over the next two months when we could visit with them at their home. I believe my choice to offer other dates let her know they are important to us, we value their friendship, and we wanted to spend time with them.

I was on my way home from work tonight when another friend posted on Facebook that he was going out to dinner. He asked if anyone wanted to join him. I've been trying to connect with him for months. I really should have stopped at the eye doctor to pick up my contacts and gone home to study but I didn't. I turned my car around and headed in the direction of the restaurant he suggested. We spent a wonderful evening catching up.

I don’t usually make New Year’s Resolutions. I believe that every day is a good day to make positive changes in life. We each have the same 168 hours in our week. We choose how to spend those hours. From this point forward, I will never tell our family and friends we are too busy. I will find the way. I will find a reason. I will make an effort so every important person in our life feels important to us. I challenge you to do the same. Well, unless you need help moving. Then I'm busy.

prompt: busy

How Travel Taught Me to Relax

As a child and teenager, I traveled frequently with my family. We were poor so these trips were mostly camping. We hooked our pop-up camper up to the car and off we went.
As a young adult, travel was out of the question. Instead of going to college after high school, I moved across the state, bought a duplex, became a landlord, met a man who didn’t work and married him. All these responsibilities before I was old enough to drink!

We were very poor. By poor, I mean poverty that most people cannot imagine. Poor people don’t own cars. I had to save to buy a pair of blue jeans that didn't dome from Goodwill.  When both of the hot water heaters in our duplex failed within two days, we could only afford to replace one and we knew the tenants would not pay their rent if we didn't provide them with hot water. We needed their rent to pay the mortgage and replace the other water heater so we went without hot water for nearly a month.
This life was glamorous so we decided it was a great idea to have a child. No, it wasn't an accident. We actually planned this! What were we thinking?
Pregnancy complications put me on bed rest at 26 weeks. I went from two jobs that barely paid our bills to short term disability income from my employer. $116 per week. I will remember that amount for the rest of my life because I was so grateful for the help. That $116 provided heat and groceries but nothing else.
Five and one half months later I returned to my two jobs, being a landlord, and having a mortgage that was now 5 months behind. I also owed my employer because they paid my portion of my health insurance premiums while I was on disability. Add motherhood to my life. I’m now responsible for this tiny little person and I’m in charge of keeping her alive.
There is only one way to survive and escape extreme poverty. Extreme planning.
I planned everything. Menus were based on the weekly sale flyers. And I loved when whole chickens were on sale. Roasted one day. Leftovers in chicken salad the next. And those bones? Most people would just throw those out but there was no waste at my house. Those bones became chicken soup on day three.
Our budget was projected out for a couple years. I spent hours with my 3-ring binder. Page one listed all the bills and how much I was paying that month. Page two was the next month. It listed the new balance and what I planned to pay that month. These pages went on for about three years. 
You're familiar with Murphy's Law, right? Anytime Murphy came to visit and throw a monkey wrench in my budget, I tore out the following months and started over. Many months I was only able to pay $1 on past due balances. That was it. It was all I had but everyone got something. My first priorities were my mortgage and repaying my employer. Both of those were caught up within seven months of returning to work.
I also planned my day to the minute. Get up at this time. This many minutes to get ready. This many to bike to work. Work until this time. Bike ride to my second job takes exactly this long. Yes, bike. Even public transportation was a strain on our budget.
Unless you’ve lived like this, it's hard to imagine the stress.
I used the planning skills I developed to plan a way out. I found a job in which the hours worked for me to go back to school. Even better, it offered tuition reimbursement! It took me five years to earn that two year degree. And money was even tighter because I had to give up my second job.
Once school was over, I was able to get a better job. The next step was cutting the dead weight. I know. I know. I shouldn’t refer to my daughter’s father like that but she didn’t hear me so it’s ok, right? Without sharing the ugly details, I filed for divorce and moved out of my duplex.
This was terrifying. I knew from experience I could fall behind on my mortgage and not get kicked out. I could dodge the collection calls while reworking my cash flow in my ring binder. As a landlord, I knew this would not be tolerated from a tenant.
Before I signed the lease, I made sure I knew the electric costs the last tenant paid. I set a goal to cut that by 1/3. Electricity vampires like the TV and microwave were plugged into power strips that were only on when that appliance was in use. My daughter – still alive and now 12 – developed a wasteful habit of falling asleep with her lamp on. You know I put that on a timer!
Laundry was hung to dry. No need to waste money on something the sun and air would do for free. I also put night lights in the bathroom because you don't really need the overhead light to find the toilet. It’s not like it moves. And it’s relaxing to shower by night light. Pro tip: a white shower curtain is better for this than a plum colored one. Trust me.
I feared running out of groceries. My planner kicked in. I created a menu for an entire month that would feed us for about $60. It wasn’t the most healthy menu but it was comforting to have the security. We never went hungry and we never used that menu.
Things got much better over the next year. Soon it was time for my daughter’s 8^th grade trip to Washington DC. I scrimped and saved and she hit up all of her family with fundraisers. My sister took her to Disney every other year and her grandfather took her wherever he was going so this was not the first time she traveled. But it was her first time without family and she loved it.
Fast forward a few more years. I had tucked away enough for us to take our first vacation for her 16^th birthday. I let her choose our destination and she thought I should see Washington DC.
I started planning. And planning. And planning. I set up an itinerary listing what we would do when. We could stay with my best gay, Rob, so we didn’t have to pay for a hotel room.
Rob picked us up at the airport. When we arrived at his condo, I showed him my itinerary. He looked it over carefully and threw it out! He said we would wing it. I knew we'd be fine with a local as our tour guide.
The next morning we got on the subway to start our adventure. Eventually, he surprised me by saying he was going to work. He instructed us to go three more stops then get off and explore.
Here I am in a strange city with no map, no plan, and an almost-16-year-old human I am still responsible for keeping alive.
I should have been terrified by this but I wasn’t. It was exhilarating. We had freedom! Sweet freedom. There was no place we needed to be and nothing we needed to do.
In our four days we saw the typical sights but we also experienced things that were not on my original list. We wandered through China Town,

ate at a very busy dive looking restaurant that turned out to be a local landmark,

and enjoyed burgers at 5 Guys Burgers and Fries before they moved to Wisconsin. We had so much fun that I made a vow that this is how I would always travel.
Now I pick a destination and we find things to do while we’re there. When I remarried, our honeymoon was like this. On our wedding day, family and friends kept asking where we were going. And they were all shocked when we responded that we had no idea.
When it was time to leave, we loaded our camping gear and picked a direction. We headed south. When we reached Kentucky, we decided to stay. We spent a week touring the area, learning about horse racing, visiting museums, and sampling bourbon from every distillery along the way.
There are drawbacks to this type of travel. In Nashville we wanted to see an art museum inside their reproduction of Greece’s Parthenon. Unfortunately, it was closed on Monday. So are most of the tourist locations on Madeline Island.
If we planned our trips, we would not have pulled off the main route to see the covered bridges in Madison County Iowa on our way back from a family wedding. Yes, THOSE bridges.

We would not have experienced the roaring sound of the ice volcanoes in Door County, Wisconsin a few years ago.

Or the Field of Dreams movie site when the hot air balloon festival we were planning to attend in nearby Galena, IL was cancelled due to rain.

Or this actual hole in the wall somewhere in South Dakota.

On a recent trip out west, we visited Devil’s Tower in Wyoming. When we realized we were 30 miles from Montana, we knew we had to go. It didn’t matter that there was no road. The construction company had a pilot car that led the way over…I’m not sure. A road bed? An old train track route? It didn’t matter. We made it to Montana, found a biker bar, and enjoyed a piece of pie. Just because we were close.

On our return trip to Wisconsin, we had dinner at this rest stop in Colorado for the same reason we had the pie in Montana. It was close.

This type of travel has caused my daughter to be fearless. She has traveled through some of the world’s busiest airports on her own – and many before she turned 18. She recently moved to New York with no job and no savings, but she had a few friends who would let her couch surf. She's 23 now and responsible for keeping herself alive and she’s making it work.
It has taught me how to relax and enjoy myself more. I still budget but I no longer panic when the electric bill is too high. OK. I confess. I still shower by night light. It is very relaxing. Try it.
I believe everyone should get in their car, pick a direction, and just go. You’ll be surprised what you learn about where you end up and what you learn about yourself in the process.
With that in mind, I’m going to leave you with this quote from Mark Twain.

prompt: travel