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I Guess This is Growing Up.

September 3, 2010 By David Scott Leave a Comment

I was talking to a friend the other day and we came to this realization—when you’re young, you don’t have any money. But when you’re older, you don’t have any time. I fought the result of this particular equation for quite some time, working at cheaper-paying jobs that actually let me out on time and let me leave work at work.

But in recent years I have reached some climactic point where this is changing quickly… I finished the Business Degree a couple of years back and have recently been promoted to a Real Grownup Job, with no overtime paid and weeks that run up to sixty hours.

This has had the result listed above. I got a nice raise (and am trying not to spend it all like a drunken sailor and instead pay off debt) but in return I work more hours. Many hours. And it’s hard, absorbing work that eats a lot of my brain and leaves me in a daze when I get home some days.

So that becomes the trick, right? Time dwindles away and then it’s hard to enjoy the good benefits you do get from work. I guess it happens to everyone – my parents certainly had a point where their previously bohemian lifestyle of self-employment and working from home became a corporate grind, and they were never around anymore.

That seems to be the thing with a lot of people I know – they work and they do parent stuff and it seems like that’s just about everything they do. Or maybe it’s all they talk about. I don’t know. I love being a dad, but at the same time I like having some fun, too. I’m not ready to completely turn over to the daily grind / breadwinner thing.

Maybe I should be… I’m not sure. I’ve met a few other people who agree with me, and they’re all about my age, so I wonder if it’s a generational thing. Maybe it’s the economy, and the fact that inter-job mobility seems not to exist (‘if I lose this job, it’ll be two years before I get a new one’, and all). Or maybe my parents just got more pressure from their peers and society to conform and fit into someone else’s paradigm.

All I know is it seems like a con to me, man. Or maybe I’m just being a whiny baby. Time will tell, I suppose.

Filed Under: Nostalgia

When I grow up

September 2, 2010 By Lauren Welsh 7 Comments

Growing up, a lot of people “know” what they want to be. When I was little, I wanted to be a lawyer and drive a Mercedes Benz. I had no idea what lawyers did, but my parents said I was good at arguing and that’s what I should be, so I went with it. I also thought “Benz” was a type of car Mercedes made. I didn’t know there were things like C and E Class. I just wanted the “Benz.”

In high school, I went back and forth. Marine Biologist. But then someone said “You are either going to spend years on a boat, or work at Sea World” and I buried that dream (no offense to any marine biologists out there. I’m sure your job calls for a lot more responsibilities, I’m just going with what I was told). One suggested computers, but I was not interested in the world of IT. As senior year grew close, and people thought of college and majors, I was still so unsure of my calling. So I decided Id just go to school and get my degree in business. Then I graduated, and bypassed college altogether and just threw myself into the job world. I worked data entry for a marketing company by day, and coffee shop barista by night. Then I moved onto office manager. Then I moved onto mortgage. Then I ran away from mortgage and moved back to office manager. Now I’m 30, wondering what the heck I want to be when I grow up.

I have to say, I’m kinda glad I didn’t spend gobs of money on tuition, only to get a degree in something that I probably would end up loathing. Sure, a business degree is great. And sure, I ended up sitting in an office everyday for work. But this just isn’t ME. Unfortunately, I’m still trying to figure out what ME wants to do.

Photography? Might be more of a hobby. Writer? I don’t know if I have what it takes. Nursing School? I may not have the attention span at this age for that much college work. I know Baz Luhrman once said:

“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.”

I definitely don’t feel guilty. I just don’t feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I work for a great, caring boss who lets me do whatever I want while I manage the office, including reading books and writing a blog (well, he doesn’t know about the blog. But I know he wouldn’t be opposed to it). I’m definitely not challenged here everyday, but its ok, I don’t need to be right now. This job is giving me the freedom to figure out what it is I’m supposed to be doing, for a career. I’m just waiting for the inspiration. Where are ya?

Maybe I’ll eventually become a stay at home mom, and realize that’s my calling. THAT just kind of freaked me out even saying that. Eh, who knows. I guess Ill just keep coming up with ideas until something sticks.

You can read more of Lauren’s writing here

Filed Under: Motivate Tagged With: Calling, Career, Growing Up

The new “mom jean”

September 1, 2010 By Kristen Howerton 19 Comments

I went shopping for jeans the other day, and I’m still reeling by some uncomfortable revelations.

My shopping quest started because I decided it was time to venture out from my hoodie-and-yoga-pants uniform that I wear pretty much every day. I decided it was time for a little self-care. I’m still young and hip, right? I need a young and hip outfit.

I started my adventure in Urban Outfitters, and then headed over to H&M. I can count on these stores to clue me in on the latest trends, I figure. But I am disturbed by the fact that each of these stores seem to carry only one shape of jean, in varying colors. The skinny jean.

Now, I know the skinny jean is cool. I’m not living under a rock. But I know my body type. And I know that a pear shape in a skinny jean is not a pretty thing. Why would I want to emphasize my midsection and thighs with jeans that sqeeze my legs into a small taper at the bottom? I have always been a fan of the Lowrise Bootcut. The lowrise makes my waist look longer, and the bootcut makes my leg look more proportioned. Hmm, I think in dismay. I guess I need to head over to the Gap for the old standby jeans.

I wander over to the Gap, which has always been dependable in making jeans that fit me. Actually, as I perused the back of the store, I noticed it was lined with jeans for all shapes, sizes, and generations. They even still carry their “classic” jean, which is the Mom Jean of my own mother’s generation. I begin to think that perhaps the Gap should not be my fashion compass.

I leave the Gap and wander the mall again. I start to take a mental note of what people around me are wearing. I noticed that everyone under 25 is wearing skinny jeans. And I mean everyone. Anyone who looked cute, hip, and trendy had on some version of this jean

I begin feeling the slow, sinking despair one feels when they finally crawl out of denial. Like the feeling of finding out a boyfriend is cheating. Or like reading the nutritional content of a Starbucks Frappucino.

“Oh my gosh,” I say out loud to no one in particular. “LOWRISE BOOTCUT IS THE NEW MOM JEAN!”

I take a minute for this to sink in. I have have been holding on to the lowrise bootcut for years. I’ve been clinging to this fashion like my grandma clung to polyester long after it’s time. Like my own mom clung to light denim with pleats and a 9″ zipper.

So now, I’m stuck with two options. 1) continue rocking the bootcut lowrise, the New Mom Jean, or 2) look like a stuffed sausage in a pair of skinny jeans.

Oi vay. Back to the yoga pants and hoodie for me.

You can read more from Kristen at her personal website here.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Parenting Tagged With: fashion, mom jeans, motherhood, Parenting

Just be.

August 31, 2010 By Lauren Welsh 5 Comments

I want stories. I’m one of those people who envisions me in my old age, sitting in a chaise lounge telling my grown up grandkids “stories.” Stories of my youth, why I have a Chinese tattoo on the back of my neck at the age of 65, where I met their grandfather and the day I fell in love with him, the day their mother/father was born. That crazy road trip I took or that time I decided to drop everything and go to Europe. Ok those last two are things I see in my future, but you catch my drift.

I’ll admit last year, I felt like I had nothing going on in my life and needed to step it up. I was getting close to 30 and needed to have something to show for my life. I felt like I had no stories to tell. No college days of drinking and blacking out, no high school first love. Just me, trucking along in life, making ends meet. So I decided to go back to school, make lots of plans with my friends, travel anywhere and everywhere I could. And when that year ended, I realized I was exhausted. From life. From trying to have a life. And then I realized where I was at this exact moment. I’ve got nothing on my plate right now. I love my job and don’t need to grow in it. I’m thinking taking a couple photography classes next semester but don’t feel the need to dive full time back into school right now. I love my boyfriend and the place we are in right now. I’m not getting married, having babies, going on vacations, stressing at my work place, avoiding family because they are crazy. I’m just be-ing. And I don’t think I’ve ever been more happy.

So looking back at my life so far, I realize that although it hasn’t been glamorous, I have stories of my own. Stories I’ve built from love and heartache, from good times and from bad. And I’ve got plenty more life to live to create small little memories that turn into stories I tell one day. Because the best part about hearing stories from my grownups isn’t necessarily how I relate, but the look they get on their face or the glimmer in their eye from reliving that moment all over again, for you. My favorite quote of the minute is “The harder the life, the sweeter the song.” Something I’ll tell my kids and grandkids when they freak out that life isn’t going according to plan. And like my grandma with “this too shall pass” I have a feeling this quote will be my new life motto.

You can read more of Lauren’s writing here .

Filed Under: Nostalgia Tagged With: Growing Old, Just Be, Stories

Sober

August 30, 2010 By Jo Ashline 17 Comments

We get the call Monday night.

Andrew, our eight year old son, has tested positive for Cystic Fibrosis.

What?

Already diagnosed with autism and epilepsy at the age of two, we are well versed in the “bad news” department.

But this was just supposed to be a formality; a shot in the dark among a growing list of potential reasons that our son is “failing to thrive.”

The words sting, even though his doctor oozes compassion as she reads the results over the phone, her Argentinean accent softly delivering this newest blow; and though I manage to keep my cool as I listen intently to her list of instructions and names of important specialists, my knees buckle beneath me as soon as I hang up the phone. The subsequent sobs shake me from the inside out and as I gasp for air, I feel nauseous, angry, vengeful; I am at once devastated and broken, hopeless and petrified. I feel the grief and unfairness wash over me in powerful and exhausting waves, increasingly aware of their intensity, bracing for their impact, knowing that this time around, I have to feel…….everything.

Because this time around, I am sober.

It’s been four years since my last drink.

Four years since I put down the booze, gave myself over to my higher power, and stopped getting drunk every time I felt…………………anything.

By the time I stopped drinking, it had been a long time since I used alcohol to celebrate; the only purpose it served me in those last few years was as an escape from anything remotely resembling reality. While suburban moms in my neighborhood were waiting until dinner time to pour themselves a respectable glass of mid-priced shiraz or cabernet, I was barely able to wait until Oprah came on to pull out my Two Buck Chuck from my underwear drawer and press the thick glass bottle against my lips, desperate for the cheap bitterness to wash away what I felt to be the unbearable side effects of a life that had gone straight to hell.

I would slur the words, to remind myself, and anyone dumb enough to stick around and listen, why I was entitled to such selfish debauchery: Autism. Epilepsy. Epilepsy. Autism. I had become a broken record, a predictable liability anytime I had the chance to get liquored up.

And then, on an unremarkable Friday night, I hit bottom.

And things have been looking up ever since.

So though I am brokenhearted as I let this newest piece of bad news sink deep into my bones, I welcome the pain and anguish of my son’s newest uphill battle and invite it to fill me up and swell inside of me until there is nowhere else for it to go but out, and I am startled as I realize the awful sounds I hear are coming from me, the wails eventually giving way to a barely audible moan, and I can feel my heartbeat in my head, and I can feel the sweat dripping down my neck, and I can feel my shaking hands reach for the phone and….

I can feel.

God.

I am so grateful that today I can feel.

I call my husband.

He is rushing home.

We will embrace

And hope

And endure

Together.

Because this time

Here.

This time,

Sober.

You can read more from Jo here.

Filed Under: MISC, Motivate, Parenting, Spirituality

A time to remember

August 28, 2010 By Charlene M. Ashendorf Leave a Comment

One by one the 30 passenger buses pull up to the curb and one by one the passengers disembark; the pale elderly man, a woman in a wheel chair with her head slumped, a bright eyed man in his sixties with spunk and a lightness to his step, a gal with a smile the size of New Jersey and a broken accent to boot.

Each visitor to this Interfaith Religious Service is greeted by a warm glow that surrounds the volunteers who support the Alzheimer’s Association on the Interfaith Committee. They are lovingly guided to a church where the tile floor has the appearance of a shimmering lake and pews surround the altar welcoming all to the table of the Lord. Searching eyes stare up at a cross exposing a crippled and pained Savior while melodious echoes of the organ beckon to the guests to rest and be comforted.

In a world where loved ones and professionals try desperately, and often times unsuccessfully to make contact with dementia sufferers, a religious setting or tradition makes a spiritual connection. Such was the case for many of those who attended the service at St. Vincent de Paul Catholic Church in Huntington Beach this glorious morning.

For those suffering from memory loss, and those of us who have a fondness for the traditional hymns, AMAZING GRACE filled the sanctuary. Truly, “ How sweet the sound” that stirred wonder and contentment among today’s guests. Mary rocked sweetly back and forth to a tune that provided comfort and joy to her failing memory.

As the priest appeared in the aisle, a long, red vestment trailing, the attendees were moved once again by the commanding organ to HOW GREAT THOU ART. Robert tapped in time as his loud voice carried on out of tune, “Then sings my soul, my savior God to me!”

The service continued with familiar readings from Romans, Psalms and Matthew. All eyes were on Father Jerome Karcher as he shared a message of faith, promise and love; reminding us that “whosoever shall humble himself as a little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” Heads nodded in complete contentment and understanding of a homily fit for this very special, chosen group.

Throughout the worship service Betty would rise whenever asked to do so by the celebrant. Resting on her walker, she would weaken after a time. When prompted to be seated, she would indignantly reply, “ I will stand as I am able until he tells me otherwise!” Yes, Betty was fully present in His house.

As The Lord’s Prayer began, Ruth walked in. Ever so slight, she stood tall and was trembling as she was led next to me. She looked deep into my soul with her opal eyes, as clear as the full moon on a quiet lake in June. Approvingly, I held her bony hand. We sat, huddled next to each other, sharing a blanket of love from the Lord as LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH was led by the organist. And Ruth cried. As I massaged her shoulder and sang, “Let peace begin with me Let this be the moment now” Ruth wept. Her tears streamed onto the song sheet. Her large drops stained my linen shirt with a lasting part of her life given ever so freely, innocently to me. By the time we came to the words, “To take each moment and live each moment in peace eternally” Ruth was singing with me.

When the recessional hymn began and the congregation rose, as they were able, Ruth wrapped her arms around me and became limp. I softly sang into her heart, “And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun… and hold you in the palm of His hand.”

Father Jerome stood at the entrance of the church to greet each visitor, lovingly, one by one. Lunch followed in the fellowship hall. Prepared and presented by gentle volunteers from the parish. Music played the old tunes of the thirties and forties. People wandered about, laughed and lingered forever. Or so it must have seemed.

Charles commented to me that he had hoped we would do this for him again tomorrow. Jerry said that although he has a terrible voice, it was such fun to sing with us yesterday and have not anyone make fun of him. I have never experienced such appreciation and gratitude, than by Judy who kissed and hugged the devil right out of me and said that surely God would bless me for spending time with the old folks. She couldn’t know how richly I had just been blessed by this day.

As the last guest boarded the last bus and drove away, I couldn’t help noticing that Mother Mary had come to each of us in an hour of darkness.

Filed Under: Spirituality

To respect is to be human

August 27, 2010 By Michelle Stillson 4 Comments

My daughter is 6. She’s not led a sheltered life, but I’ve done my best to make sure she is not exposed to things she’s not ready for. School smarts aside, she is your typical 6-year-old. Happy, imaginative, curious.

My mom’s younger brother was in town for a few days. As part of his visit to California, he and my mother went to visit their grandparents’ burial sites in Los Angeles. Since my mother is my daughter’s caretaker while I am at work, all three of them drove out to the cemetery. My mother explained that a cemetery is a place to go to remember the happy memories you have of people who’ve died and that the headstones showed who was buried under them. Other than being in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, my daughter has never been exposed to such a place, either in real life or in media.

My mother and my uncle stood on the grass reminiscing their grandparents and others who have left them. My daughter was respectful and quiet, wandering close by as they talked.

Sometime while my family was talking, my daughter found a dogwood tree that had dropped some blossoms and collected them as she does with any other flower she finds on the ground. She quietly walked to her great-great-grandparents’ plots and silently and gently placed one flower on each grave.

A little girl placed flowers on the graves of people she’d never met, not knowing that the placing of flowers is a common sign of respect.

It seems respect is not necessarily taught; it is proof that we are human and are capable of great emotion, regardless of age and experience.

You can visit Michelle’s personal blog here.

Filed Under: MISC, Motivate Tagged With: cemetery, child, dogwood, essay, innocence, respect, smartly

Lessons in tolerance

August 26, 2010 By Cole Harmonson 10 Comments

It must be said there are still a few things that make me scream. Okay, not scream out loud but scream in my brain. I cringe at reading a newspaper someone has already molested. I always pull the second copy from the stack and, yes, still believe in the paper. And when Ruth at McDonald’s hands me my medium Diet Coke and it has Diet Cokeness all over the side because she has too much on her Ruth mind that sort of really drives me batty. I like my clothes to stay Diet Coke Free whenever possible.

In the past, in my younger days, I would throw a newspaper huff and re-crease the worn pages. Or I’d hold the Diet Coke WAY off outside my car as if I was wearing Valentino (at the drive thru) and wait until they realized there were drippings to be undripped.

I’m not that person anymore. I’m less that person. I’m trying to be less that person. My tolerance level for things is getting better and I can stand things that I couldn’t stand before. I’d imagine by the time I’m ninety you’d be able to throw the Diet Coke right at me through the window and I’d be fine.

Well, that’s my goal anyway. I want to be calmer and kinder and more tolerant. If we step away from newspapers and Diet Cokes and furrow the brow towards more serious matters, there’s been a bit of hatred spewing lately. I’m weary of it. I’ve never found hate to accomplish more than adding wrinkles.

If I am not tolerant of your intolerance I am, in fact, intolerant. It’s a statement that has been sitting in my heart for some time now. I’ve drawn it up on a heart pulley when I hear you talk about your hate for Republicans or your hate for Democrats or your hate for Dr. Laura or your hate for the woman that phoned Dr. Laura on that final fateful call or your position on one side of Prop. 8 or the other side of Prop. 8. Oh and you really hate Christians. You’re great at hating Christians. I can see you opening the doors for the lions to come out now.

If I claim to be tolerant, which I do, I am required to be tolerant of your intolerance. I’m challenged to love you in spite of your lava hot hatred for me and for others wrapped in a costume of tolerance. It’s not. It’s not at all. If you hate those that don’t agree with you that’s simply still hate. It doesn’t make you better and it certainly doesn’t make you tolerant.

Will you even embrace the racist’s right to be racist? That’s tolerance. And if you won’t how weak are your beliefs that you can’t stand someone having an idea different than you? That scares me more than Diet Coke drippings on my Valentino.

Filed Under: Opinion Tagged With: hate, opinion, tolerance

You’re being watched

August 25, 2010 By SteveBush 3 Comments

So I love to hear people tell me how great I am. It’s not just an ego stroke. It’s more like tiny, little reasons to live. It’s not that I don’t think that I’m totally bitchen’, because I do… even when I spew colloquialisms from 30 years ago. I can pull it off, because I’m, well, completely self-unaware.

But this face-to-face adulation kind of irks me. Why, you ask, would confirmation of my coolness harsh my mellow? It’s because every time I run into someone I know who also is on Facebook, they tell me how they love my stuff. No comments, no “likes” and no posts of their own. They are simply voyeurs. They are watching us. Then it dawned on me. We are their entertainers. That makes me want to break into my Joe Pesci “do I amuse you?” bit from Good Fellas.

They know all about you. They knew that your Suzie had a birthday and that Joe saw ZZ Top at the Fair, but if not for their own self incrimination, you wouldn’t know they were even online. Don’t look now, but they’re probably fogging up the glass on your monitor as you read this. Creepy, huh? It’s like that scene in When a Stranger Calls where the cop tells the lady on the phone to “get out… the calls are coming from inside your house” only, it’s nothing like that at all.

Well, I have a plan to deal with these electronic deviants. A plan that will foil their peeping-Tom depravity. A plan so foolproof that even I can pull it off.

I’m only going post stupid crap like this from now on. That’ll show ‘em.

You can find more stupid crap from Steve at TheBushReport.com.

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: "like", Facebook, Funny Like a Clown, Good Fellas, Peeping Tom, Totally Bitchen', Voyeur, When a Stranger Calls

What are we fighting for?

August 24, 2010 By TaylorCast 2 Comments

What are we fighting for? In relationships, after the honeymoon period has faded and we begin to really know our partner there is a moment when we aren’t afraid to fight. Is it healthy, normal, and common? Is fighting a way of testing the strength of the relationship?

When I was in my first long term relationship we fought constantly. We fought about religion; trust, what we were going to do that night, whether or not the sky was blue. It didn’t matter, we were champion fighters, and you gave us an issue we’d find a way to disagree. We also fought passionately; some might even call it crazy. We called names, yelled and screamed, threw things; it was theatrical. It made the love we had seem more intense. Yet it was all for the sake of immature drama. We didn’t love each other more because we fought that way. We loved each other less because we fought that way. We didn’t respect one another.

In another long-term relationship I had we never fought, not even once. I know it’s unbelievable. However he always said this “What is there to fight about?” we didn’t really have a reason to fight, we got along, we had things in common and we had intelligent debates. It was a harmonious relationship. But in retrospect I find that issues I would have normally spoken up about I kept my mouth shut over. I didn’t want to make waves; I wanted to be happy. So I was a pushover of sorts, which if you know me it’s not something anyone has ever called me. I bottled it up and in the end I realized our relationship would have been much shorter had I spoken up. He was the sort that liked things the way he liked them and wasn’t willing to bend much on his opinions. We just agreed on a lot so it wasn’t a huge problem.

Come to present day, I find I am the leader in passive aggression. If there were a competition for passive aggression I would win. I make side remarks about what is bothering me. I don’t face the problem head on. I find it hard to say the words. It is easier for me to communicate my feelings through my writing. A problem I have never had. In my first long-term relationship I said everything I was thinking. I didn’t hold back, every feeling, every emotion, every insult, and every compliment. But my feelings got battered; I was deeply hurt by him. It sent me into a sort of emotional hiding. I built up huge barricades to keep my heart form getting hurt again. Now I still allow myself to fall but I don’t let anyone in enough to hurt me fully. I bounce back. Hence the passive aggressive fighting.

Somewhere there is the middle ground, the fight without fighting. Where we can say what we need to without hurting or being afraid of the consequences. I do not want to be a doormat but I do not want to proclaim every thought that pops into my head. In relationships there is a fine line we all should walk in order to make ourselves happy as well as our partner. Maintaining that balance is so incredibly difficult but it’s worth fighting for.

Visit Taylor Cast’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Opinion