tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14994657994216500432020-04-16T20:04:47.987-04:00Straight Up, On The Rocks, Or With A TwistStraight Up, On The Rocks, Or With A TwistLanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-41966995135546070352018-08-11T15:43:00.000-04:002018-08-11T15:50:06.646-04:00 Save the Tatas, Free the Nipple, and Shut Up About Breastfeeding! <span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">How sad that breastfeeding is a controversial conversation in 2018 America. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H9u2Q_ltxiQ/W287IrpTIVI/AAAAAAAACRI/F2IndR31aug9vp4FWNWdA1WjUDyhBDj2wCLcBGAs/s1600/shut%2Bup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H9u2Q_ltxiQ/W287IrpTIVI/AAAAAAAACRI/F2IndR31aug9vp4FWNWdA1WjUDyhBDj2wCLcBGAs/s320/shut%2Bup.jpg" width="281" /></span></a><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We live in a country where freedom of religion and freedom of speech are both woven into the fabric of our society. Recently peppered with the freedom to love anyone, with the legalization of gay marriage. We're so progressive in our thinking, but we are still so archaic in the mindset that women should cover up their bodies when feeding their babies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We pride ourselves on being “the western world” we say. We claim to celebrate women and their bodies. We pride ourselves on not making women feel like they need to cover up, for religious reasons or any other reason. However, when it comes to nursing, we want to banish women to closets, bathrooms and the backseat of their car. Because when it’s convenient for society to say so, breasts are offensive? Because when it’s not benefiting adult aesthetics and instead it’s benefitting a babies nutrients, we can back-peddle, saying we’re offended, and shame women?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Funny though, no one's asking women to cover up on sexy advertisements. Even "bralettes" are a new fashion phenomenon, making the bra beautiful enough to hang out for everyone to see. No one shames women for getting tattoos on or around their breasts. No one shames women for wearing skimpy bikinis that accentuate their breasts, or wearing revealing dress’ or tops that focus on the ever popular “side boob” or “great cleavage.” Nope. These are all A-okay.</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XaaEETx8fTA/W286e_evwNI/AAAAAAAACQ0/LJ3tp1nJIBAqKgqK2W1L5KCZW7bdC8OdwCLcBGAs/s1600/bra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XaaEETx8fTA/W286e_evwNI/AAAAAAAACQ0/LJ3tp1nJIBAqKgqK2W1L5KCZW7bdC8OdwCLcBGAs/s200/bra.jpg" width="133" /></span></a><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And do you know why? Because men and women benefit from the aesthetics of the female body or the sexual arousal associated with it. Because it's socially acceptable for women to be, sexualized, and being maternal isn't "sexy" so it's not supported. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And that’s a shame.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">What I have to say to that... grow up society.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">You see, I'm a new mom. My daughter is 11 weeks old and I have kept her alive solely by breastfeeding. When I was pregnant, just a few months ago, people often asked me if I was going to breastfeed. "I'm going to try" I'd respond. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When she was born the hospital gave us the "miracle hour" where we were encouraged to do "skin-to-skin." During that hour, my little genius babe, scooted her way over to my breast and with little help, latched herself on and started eating. I always tell people, she knew what she was doing, I just cooperated. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Breastfeeding was something I always wanted to do, but also didn't want to pressure myself into. I knew people who had health issues and other <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>setbacks which prevented them from breastfeeding. So, I was just hoping for the best. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So many people felt comfortable talking about breastfeeding when I was pregnant, that I was mystified to see the adverse reaction when I performed the actual act of breastfeeding. It was totally different.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have encountered people, even my own family members, who leave the room when I nurse. Who feel compelled to look away, not just while she's latching, but during the entire feeding. Who pack up to go home when I have to pull my boob out to feed my daughter. Who straight-up avoid visiting, just because I'm breastfeeding. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And these are the obstacles I face before I take my baby and breastfeeding self out into public! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bUfGDpIL_m0/W288DVvaegI/AAAAAAAACRY/hX0vP_H-6nQM02lQc9KFINjJ3mbdQaOqgCLcBGAs/s1600/boob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bUfGDpIL_m0/W288DVvaegI/AAAAAAAACRY/hX0vP_H-6nQM02lQc9KFINjJ3mbdQaOqgCLcBGAs/s200/boob.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It baffles me that in July of this year, we JUST made Breastfeeding in Public, legal in every state. While I am celebrating this milestone, I am also sadden, that in a country which has legalized guns (a deadly weapon), via the second amendment, since its inception, how pathetic that it’s taken all this time to legalize feeding our young in public?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In so many articles and posts about breastfeeding in public, the naysayers logic is often that <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they, "don’t want to have to explain" to their children what’s going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Why? Don’t you explain to your child that they have to push their poppy out on the potty during potty training. Don’t you explain to them when they feel sick that sometimes their belly hurts and it’s okay, the pain won’t last forever? Don't you explain that when they’re tired they have to lay down to rest to feel better? These are all natural functions of our body. Yet we shame breasts because society has sexualized them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Children are innocent. They are not influence by popular culture’s views on sexualizing women. They see adults and children. It’s black and white for them. Things are only “weird” for them, if we make them “weird” for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Since my own experience breastfeeding, my two nephews (9 and 5) and my niece (4) have been curious, asking questions about my nipple shield, why my daughter doesn’t have a baby bottle and what I’m doing under my Boppy nursing scarf in public. All of which I’ve met with one simple answer...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"This is how some Mommy’s feed their babies. It’s where the milk comes out.” And that’s it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Children accept that for its face value. Because its honest and easy to understand. It’s cut and dry. It's logical. It's true. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And after that answer; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>feeding my 11 week old daughter is truly of no more interest to them. It’s back to the discussion of Minecaft, guitars, coloring, Disney and “watch me” as they tumble across the living room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s the adults who overcomplicate things, and what’s infuriating is we’re using the kids as scapegoats... when truly, they don’t care. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">They don’t turn their head in horror when they see a woman breastfeeding, ...the adults do. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">They don’t “feel funny” or “feel compelled to look away”...adults do. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Adults make it weird. Adults create the shame. So stop blaming the kids for your own uncomfortable feelings about mixing sexualization and natural nurturing<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_J5PFnMvrtU/W2861bdFieI/AAAAAAAACQ8/05TpuNIMzoAS9SL87qh8SD05w-svZwgyACLcBGAs/s1600/Save%2Bthe%2BTatas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="600" height="100" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_J5PFnMvrtU/W2861bdFieI/AAAAAAAACQ8/05TpuNIMzoAS9SL87qh8SD05w-svZwgyACLcBGAs/s200/Save%2Bthe%2BTatas.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Ironically, we live in a world that openly accepts breasts in the context of breast cancer awareness. "Save the Tatas” has been a popular bumper sticker, slogan, and movement; sparking a Mother’s Day walk that proudly paints my city of Philadelphia pink each May. In that context Tatas are something to be celebrated. No one's “offended” about explaining Tatas to their children when their waking for a cause. Yet when a Mommy is giving nutrients and life through those same Tatas, she is shamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In a society where neon lights advertising strip clubs is a norm and staple of every American city, why then are we so embarrassed of the nature purpose of these breasts?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Meanwhile, we openly accept feminine hygiene products, Viagara, lube, condoms, and Plan B all advertised on TV, magazines, pop up ads on social media and billboards across main stream America. But we’re shaming, “how Mommy’s feed their babies?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We take our children to the Zoo or the Pet Store and marvel at the Mommy’s animals feeding the baby animals, but we scowl and shame women when we see them breastfeeding. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It all makes zero sense to me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m1WI5W6A_uU/W287CPLdMjI/AAAAAAAACRA/24hrml609DE705T1gjtATjp3g3DbtSm9ACLcBGAs/s1600/society.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="745" height="179" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m1WI5W6A_uU/W287CPLdMjI/AAAAAAAACRA/24hrml609DE705T1gjtATjp3g3DbtSm9ACLcBGAs/s320/society.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><o:p></o:p><br /></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And while writing this blog and "calling out" the naysayers should feel vindicating, it's not. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the shaming of women breastfeeding, has life; and it’s bleed over onto how we women see ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">While it’s true, many women can’t breastfeed, because of a health reasons, supply issues or because of their jobs or lifestyle (hell, it’s a full time job). Many women also don't do it because they themselves say, "it makes me feel weird" or "I don't like it." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And whenever I hear that, I feel like we’re letting society win. Letting them pollute our thoughts and how we view our own bodies. How we ourselves have viewed feeding our own children. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s not supposed to feel “weird.” Don’t let them win. Don’t let them change how you and your baby bond and how you give your baby nutrients.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In a world where awful things like terrorism and addiction, are epidemics that we will have to explain to our children, far sooner than we’d like...we need to stop acting like breastfeeding is something shameful we have to shield our children from too. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Get a Grip. It’s 2018. We live in a country where we can’t even agree on whether global warming is an issue or what do with the 2nd amendment. So, as far as I’m concerned, we’ve got bigger "fish to fry." Leave the Mammas and the little babies alone!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cN8yIvJnqLE/W285_VnvFRI/AAAAAAAACQw/gR0pEx_ty0Q5O-xXJ9FpwdowsfUNkZiHwCEwYBhgL/s1600/breastfeeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="345" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cN8yIvJnqLE/W285_VnvFRI/AAAAAAAACQw/gR0pEx_ty0Q5O-xXJ9FpwdowsfUNkZiHwCEwYBhgL/s320/breastfeeding.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><o:p></o:p><br /></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Judgment begets judgment. Negativity begets negativity. Shame begets shame. So change the way you think. Change the norm, and change the stigma. Save the Tatas, Free the Nipple, and shut up about breastfeeding. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Marie-Antoinette was rumored to have said, "let them eat cake." In this case, the “them” is the babies, and the "cake" is the breastmilk! So Let them drink <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>milk! Hey, it does a body good. ;)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">xoxo<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Lana</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><br /></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">#letthemdrinkmilk<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">#shutupaboutbreastfeeding<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PRh5cUgoNSw/W287zbzO8yI/AAAAAAAACRU/bIuIBV-418AHjeJfpx-YEeopW5xvR-uIwCLcBGAs/s1600/feeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: #fff2cc; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PRh5cUgoNSw/W287zbzO8yI/AAAAAAAACRU/bIuIBV-418AHjeJfpx-YEeopW5xvR-uIwCLcBGAs/s320/feeding.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-3735967967732251302015-06-22T12:00:00.000-04:002015-06-22T12:00:23.651-04:00 Life is Short but Sweet for Certain <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y-td9MDRdjM/VYguvKswE_I/AAAAAAAABjI/HqJ3j-sAZ1M/s1600/turning-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y-td9MDRdjM/VYguvKswE_I/AAAAAAAABjI/HqJ3j-sAZ1M/s200/turning-30.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>30 things you need to know when you turn 30</b>... I can start a whole list of silly, quirky and applicable information. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, not to apply for a credit card at a concert. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I filled out an application for a Discover card once in my early 20’s; I think it got me a free t-shirt, and I still get Discover promotional mail almost 10 years later. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And never charge a trip to your credit card and think its fine to pay it off later. Why? Because the truth is, if you wait to pay for it after the trip, it never feels worth it and you have serious vacation-guilt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or not to take shots after midnight. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can do this all through your 20’s, but, by the time you turn 30, you know that a shot after midnight guarantees spinning in your bed and a hangover that won’t quit. </span> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have a ton of these tips and I wanted to write them all down and make a “thirty and flirty” fun list. But two days before I turned 30, I got a phone call that my friend Chris had a brain aneurysm and he died. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The hospital was keeping him on life support though, because he was an organ donor.<i> “He’ll help a lot of people”</i> they said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like that was somehow supposed to make his loved ones feel better. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He was in his <b>30’s</b>. Not old by any standards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In great health, just started a new job, happily married, and even more happily a new dad to his 18 month old baby boy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The news shook me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t drive when I got the call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to pull over. I kept thinking about his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were married for 5 years and only in the first few chapters of their story together. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about his son and his family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about what a hard worker he was and what a good person he was. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about how every time I saw him, he always had a smile on his face and a joke to tell. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about how life got busy and we always hugged goodbye and promised we’d catch up soon… but we hadn’t made it happen yet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about how life seemed so unfair. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have dealt with death. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no grandparents left and lost two uncles. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m 30 for God’s sake. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of us have made it this far unscathed by death. But when it is the death of a peer, I have come to accept, and sometimes expect, the culprit to be a car accident or a drug overdose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those things that are God awful in their own right; but not unusual for my generation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a freak health incident?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A brain aneurysm? That’s’ not supposed to happen to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re still young. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we work out and eat healthy, those things don’t apply to us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re still in control. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re still invincible. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Or so we thought. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I went to his house the day I found out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to do something for his wife—my friend too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hugged me when I came in the house and she congratulated me on my engagement. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">C</span>an you imagine? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A woman who in her own personal hell, minding her manners and giving proper salutations. Or maybe she was just trying to feel normal for a second?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either way, I respected it and admired her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no “right way” to deal with death. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She hugged me and told me how happy she was for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made me feel awful, and yet I knew she really meant it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she looked at me and her eyes welled up, <i>“Even though I know…” </i>then her voice trailed off, <i>“It’s like, I’m just waiting for him to come home from work.” </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I hugged her knowing that nothing I could do or say could ease her pain. Life was unfair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is how the cookie crumbled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the hand she was dealt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is what it is. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We use lots clichés and old adages, but it doesn’t help. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t ease our pain or make us accepting of his death. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing she could do. And yet rather than fall apart, she pulled it together, just in time for her perfect little son to toddle into the kitchen. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Then I saw strength. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kind that only exists in the strongest of women and the toughest of mothers… she held her tears in and smiled at her son.<i> “Do you want a drink buddy?”</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if she wasn’t crying. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She switched into “Mommy-Mode” and she was utterly selfless. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I watched her graciously navigate through the kitchen, past all the food trays people had brought over and around the flowers and fruit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Simple offerings that we as people give when we don’t know what to do or say, but want to help. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Selfishly I was happy the baby had come in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t feel like I was even strong enough to think about what had happened to Chris, and he was only my friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was her husband. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I thought about how Chris had made this woman a<b> wife</b> and a<b> widow </b>and a <b>warrior</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cK6xGbywN2s/VYguxzDKPZI/AAAAAAAABjY/fn6y5tIf_UE/s1600/alone-forest-girl-hair-Favim.com-354499_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cK6xGbywN2s/VYguxzDKPZI/AAAAAAAABjY/fn6y5tIf_UE/s1600/alone-forest-girl-hair-Favim.com-354499_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cK6xGbywN2s/VYguxzDKPZI/AAAAAAAABjY/fn6y5tIf_UE/s320/alone-forest-girl-hair-Favim.com-354499_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As the baby made his way out of the kitchen she looked back to me. <b><i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If I have one piece of advice for you in marriage, it’s not to sweat the small stuff. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because life is short and you never know…”</i></b> she shrugged and began to well up again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve heard that cliché a ton of times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sang my heart out to the Dave Matthew’s line and posted it to my facebook profile and AIM away message all through my youth, <u>“Life is short but sweet for certain.” </u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had written it hundreds of times on notebooks, reading it over and over again; but this was the first time it struck me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the context of my friend’s kitchen, who was now a widow in her 30’s, I truly understood. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her words hung in the air and they stuck to my heart.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I didn’t respond. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just hugged her again, except this time it felt like she was comforting me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Death does that though, it makes everything feel backwards. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So screw the list of silly adages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least for today<i> (maybe I’ll write that another time.)</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now, I think the most important thing we have to know by the time we turn 30 is, <b>“not to sweat the small stuff, because life is short.” </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Perspective on that one sentence can change how you respond to a cranky child, a barking pet, a traffic jam, and a problem at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the difference between a quick hug, a bear hug and a good squeeze. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The difference between hanging up the phone and taking a moment to say “I love you.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what reminds us that life is truly a gift, death doesn’t discriminate or care about age, and we have to seize our happy moments. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, I will start this decade, not only with a heavy heart for the loss of a friend (because my heart is heavy), but I will also start it with gratitude in my soul and perspective on my side… thanks to Chris. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">*And Chris is surely laughing that he finally made it into one of my blogs <span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“<u><i>Life is short but sweet for certain.</i></u>” Read it again. “<u><i>Life is short but sweet for certain</i></u>.” Take it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breathe it in and out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hold onto it and live it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">xoxo</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lana</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5s82NPZtNnQ/VYguwnvyRNI/AAAAAAAABjQ/bndBV93xMAA/s1600/0a32b93719520e75b0898c9cffdefcc7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5s82NPZtNnQ/VYguwnvyRNI/AAAAAAAABjQ/bndBV93xMAA/s400/0a32b93719520e75b0898c9cffdefcc7.jpg" width="387" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-15438635439745269732015-06-05T09:00:00.000-04:002015-06-05T13:10:08.680-04:00 Not Your Typical Love Letter <enter><br /></enter><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m9wH9gFTD8g/VXDA_HeWS_I/AAAAAAAABgY/S97h7HGcjWs/s1600/love%2Bletter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m9wH9gFTD8g/VXDA_HeWS_I/AAAAAAAABgY/S97h7HGcjWs/s320/love%2Bletter.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have been blogging since 2009. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost 7 years of dating sagas, war stories and soap operas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has certainly given me some great inspiration and content. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the terrible dates I went on gave me insight and afflatus to write. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, with time, comes change… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am ecstatic to report (for my own sake) that you will no longer reading any posts about dating –Well, not about MY dating experiences anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have quite a few friends who are sharing their stories and willing to act as my muse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the dating content will no longer be in first person. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I’m trying to say is I have said “YES” to my handsome fiancé.</span><br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, since all of my readers have ridden the roller coaster of 20something dating with me, I wanted to share a personal piece that will explain why I am “off the market.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here it is, a letter to my fiancé… </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LKoJH9ftztc/VXDA23VzSSI/AAAAAAAABgQ/I4FM2P7rnBU/s1600/022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LKoJH9ftztc/VXDA23VzSSI/AAAAAAAABgQ/I4FM2P7rnBU/s320/022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Dear Eric,</span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kFXHdsKUYWE/VXDAk9oHS-I/AAAAAAAABgI/iuqgSEF8SyI/s1600/028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kFXHdsKUYWE/VXDAk9oHS-I/AAAAAAAABgI/iuqgSEF8SyI/s200/028.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thank you for asking me to marry you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been my favorite question thus far on our journey. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said yes, because I love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I want to share how I feel… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">You do not complete me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You never could. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I could never complete you either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wish for us is that we never feel “complete.” Because that means we get to keep having adventures, making memories, growing, loving, learning and living together. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Completeness was never something I looked for in our relationship. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a whole person, and I love you because you are a whole person. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not feel incomplete with you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I did feel lonely. And when we met, we had an instant connection. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like we had our first date and then we were officially a couple. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No dating games, no break up and make up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both knew how rare it was for everything to “feel” right. It was never about filling a void, instead it was about recognizing a feeling. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And in these four years, we have grown. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we are continuing to work to be better versions of ourselves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You push me and I push you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we have is harmony, for you compliment me, and I you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lift each other up and bring out the best versions of ourselves. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But please, know that I do not think you are the perfect man. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I truly hope that you do not think I am the perfect woman. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, perfection is an exhausting, unattainable ruse; filled with false expectations and many disappointments. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I want you to know that you are my counterpart. We are contrarian. We know that both “completeness” and “perfection” are not real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we have never wasted time on those. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Instead, we paid more attention to what was real; which is how we feel, how we think and how we love.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> And what we found on our journey is that we fit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So for that, we are “perfect” for each other.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I never liked fairytales; the idea of being helpless and needing to be saved. But you already know that about me. As you say, I came out of the womb with a burnt bra in my hand. <span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> But I guess I never liked the fairytale story because the author doesn't reveal the truth about being “saved.” And the truth is, that saving has to be egalitarian. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In a successful relationship, we both have moments where we’re the vulnerable one who needs to be saved, and conversely, we both have moments where we step up (on the cliché white horse) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and do the saving. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Choosing to be together means knowing and trusting, when to be humble enough to ask for saving…and when to be strong enough to do it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>It’s not mutually exclusive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both need it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will both provide it at different points and at different times. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Besides, the idea of a fairytale is so singular. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is so much more complex. It’s a myriad of stories; comedies, fairytales, tragedies and dramas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to have them all with you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will be the wind beneath each others wings and we will face life, holding hands, side by side. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And, I want you to know that I will not be marrying my best friend as many of the sappy sayings go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I already have best friends, great woman who I am lucky enough to have by my side. Besides, "</span>Best friend” is only a small piece of what we are. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re so much more than that…you are my partner, my sounding board, my rock, my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We do not need each other, we choose each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that I am so dependent that I feel compelled to say, <i>“I couldn’t live without out.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just don’t ever want to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having you in my life has shown me joy that I didn’t know existed and I don’t ever want to be without that. </span> <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span> </div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, I choose you and I want to be with you, every day, for the rest of our days.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> For I have found the one whom my soul loves. </span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6bYfO_RLDwA/VXDCzIrBzYI/AAAAAAAABgs/Z-FYtNPQx9E/s1600/075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6bYfO_RLDwA/VXDCzIrBzYI/AAAAAAAABgs/Z-FYtNPQx9E/s320/075.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">With all of my love,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">xoxo </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lana <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">SHORT AND SWEET...AKA...MORAL OF THE BLOG</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"I do" :)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lAqO5cvvBaM/VXDDIwCjmbI/AAAAAAAABg8/n617AmA6K0M/s1600/EVERY_LOVE_STORY_IS_BEAUTIFUL_BUT_OURS_IS_MY_FAVORITE__001.jpg%253D450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lAqO5cvvBaM/VXDDIwCjmbI/AAAAAAAABg8/n617AmA6K0M/s320/EVERY_LOVE_STORY_IS_BEAUTIFUL_BUT_OURS_IS_MY_FAVORITE__001.jpg%253D450.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZHb_nkbCh8/VXDC28NCuUI/AAAAAAAABg0/Hzu7fkcbWEQ/s1600/129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZHb_nkbCh8/VXDC28NCuUI/AAAAAAAABg0/Hzu7fkcbWEQ/s320/129.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-4690255297286560582015-05-05T12:54:00.000-04:002015-05-05T12:54:29.514-04:00 Bereavement Notice & Birth Announcement<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eui-4v7J9MU/VUjxT99Sy6I/AAAAAAAABWc/8LYrmvHLQ2U/s1600/30-something-girl15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eui-4v7J9MU/VUjxT99Sy6I/AAAAAAAABWc/8LYrmvHLQ2U/s1600/30-something-girl15.jpeg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Bereavement Notice:</b> Mourning the loss of the Lana’s beloved 20something years<i> (June 19, 2005-June 19, 2015). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s was a wild 10 years. College and graduate school were completed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Took some left turns, but found a career she loves. Found a wonderful man. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maintained friendships with friends, siblings and even became friends with parents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Traveled the world but never overcame the fear to fly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had a lot of fun, on some occasions one too many cocktails and every summer spent plenty of nights in Gull Point and Dewey Beach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 20something years were a blast, but they are now peacefully laid to rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No time to repeat, only happily moving forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 20something years are survived by all the great memories, photos and social media documentation, as well as the 30something years and the infinite future. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Donations and gifts of good will and positive energy are asked to be sent to the party welcoming the official birth of the 30something years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RIP 20’s </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As you can gather from the obituary above, in a little over a month, I am turning <span style="color: #c27ba0;"><u><b>30</b></u></span>. It is the end of an era for “20something; Straight Up, On The Rocks, or With a Twist.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is NOT the end of an era for my writing. So stay with me, and keep this URL listed in your favorites. </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I never liked those women, who lied about their age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always think it’s odd that they’re so caught up by a number and ultimately refuse to age gracefully. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I admire the women who are not defined by age and proudly take it as it comes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I will be “taking it as it comes” and making the graceful transition to 30something. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, the web address will stay the same, (<a href="http://www.lanamorelli.com/">www.lanamorelli.com</a>) but the title will be moving into the next decade as <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“30something—Straight Up, On The Rocks, or With a Twist.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But before we forge into the 30something future, we have to have a formal send off to the 20’s… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I think about all the changes that happened in my 20something years. Such a short amount of time, in the grand scheme of life, but riddled with change and self discovery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Changes that are prevalent in this formidable decade; Style changes, education changes, location changes, relationship changes, career changes, family changes, friend changes, even tolerance changes. Almost everything has shifted, yet, something’s have stayed exactly the same—which is a either a breath of fresh air or a colossal disappointment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It depends on where you stand. </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Turning 20 seems like a distant memory of a young naive girl, who thought she knew it all. At 20 I was facing my final year in college. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I knew that I wanted to be a lawyer when I graduated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I knew exactly what kind of man I wanted to marry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even thought that my student loans didn’t matter too much, because lawyers make great money, and down the road it wouldn’t be an issue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I knew exactly where my life would be by 25. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I was sure of everything… </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Turning 25, I accepted that many of my expectations were false and that many of my goals were not what I wanted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had changed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want the same things my 20year old self did. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggled with that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guilted myself for that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 25 I hated the idea of practicing law. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was unhappy with every cookie-cutter man I dated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure where I was going to be in 5 years, let alone how I would pay off my student loan debt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure of much, but I was sure about writing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I wrote. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote this blog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote for newspapers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote essays in graduate school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even wrote for glossy magazines. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through that writing, I started to find myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the pretentious person I thought I was “supposed” to be at 20. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I found (what I believe) was the first sights of my real self. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one I really liked. The one that I accepted; even though she hated law school. </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="textexposedshow">By 29, I like to think of myself as a more refined, tough chick, who accepts that I have a lot to learn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows that sometimes listening is more important than talking, but that writing still trumps them both. </span><span class="textexposedshow"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span class="textexposedshow"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am now a woman who can wear the “hat” of a professional, but still needs the shoes of a girl who knows how to party. I can be silly and cut lose as easily as I can be serious and practical. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My writing outlet turned to a career of published work, journalism, and a professorship… so I can show all those “know it all” 20 year olds how to write. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it will save them too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not, at least their mothers will be able to appreciate a properly formatted sentence in her Mother’s Day card this weekend. </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the past decade, I have battled heavy legal books and filled empty computer screens with lovely words. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been a punching bag, a shoulder to lean on and an ear to bend—just as often as I’ve needed the bag, the shoulder and the ear. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been absolutely certain and I have been utterly lost. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have felt the praise of highest honors and the desperation of not making the cut. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have welcomed nephews and a niece and I have said goodbye to all of my grandparents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have learned to hate hospitals as much as I am grateful for them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have learned to hug the people I love a little tighter and a little longer. </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have neatly folded loss, disappointment, “what could have beens,” uncertainty and fear into piles, and gingerly packed them into the personal baggage of my life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I wouldn’t change a thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to be faced with real life decisions, lose some sleep, and pick a route to charge down. You need bad dates, mistakes and heartache. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to be startled and feel off center, so you know how to ground yourself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need scares and prayers and hands to hold in the dark. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In fact, I truly believe it’s the disappointments, the harsh realities, the failures, and the unexpected events that shape us into who we are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also believe that 20something is the first time when life really gives you a good smack in the face. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always liked a quote that said, “A woman is like a teabag, you never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think this is true for all 20somethings. We’re all out there, newly testing the hot waters, discovering our strengths.</span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As my 20something years come to a close, what I’ve learned is that there is no magic formula or definitive path to follow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no resolution or ending. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a learning process. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>School’s out and life is on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need to be reminded to reflect and slow down, but ultimately the goal is that of self-discovery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to be happy and you have to live a life you’re proud of. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are the only one staring back at yourself in the mirror each morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve learned that we have to take the time to understand ourselves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We cannot be frightened by the sounds of our own silence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have to love being with others as much as we love alone time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have to like ourselves, and be good to ourselves, because if we’re not, no one else will be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we do that, we can begin to achieve our own personal peace. </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It will be different for all of the 20somethings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For we are all struggling to find our place and prepare for our future. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are facing unbearable truths that as we get older, so do our parents, aunts and uncles. And as excited as we are about the future, that truth makes us long for the comfort of the past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We forge ahead anyway. We try to push the truths of age and ending childhood into the backs of our minds and strive to make memories—hopefully even a difference. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We attempt to overcome the stereotypes of the “supposed to’s” laden on our generation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We try to take new paths, but hold onto the past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We seek adventure, but also comfort and familiarity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We try to avoid failure, but know that we have to take big risks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a giant contradiction…we’re old enough to know that, but we’re still young enough to hope that we will do it differently…so we try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ironically, just as we start to feel confident about our place and purpose as a 20something, we remember that change is the only constant thing in life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before we know it we’re 29 and we realize 30something is just around the corner. </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="textexposedshow">So, I can honestly look back at the changes in the past decade and appreciate my 20’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finished school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found a career I love, where I honestly feel tired and fulfilled at the end of the day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found a man who loves me, who I genuinely and infinitely love in return. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have travelled the country and even the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have understood the joy of adding to a family and the loss of losing a family member. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have experienced true friendship; real/middle of the night/panicked phone call/on my way to help even if you insist not to/friendship. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have experienced the change when dinner with my parents isn’t what I do when I don’t have plans. Now, its special time I have to plan to have. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have morphed from “guardian” to “friend” but always remained “parents.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(It’s an odd shift we only begin to understand as 20somethings.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And just as important as relationships with others; I learned to accept myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pride myself in the piece of me that is “not like everyone else.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s something I struggled with at the start of my 20’s. However, it is now what defines me as a person, and is what I’m most proud of at the end of my 20’s. </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="textexposedshow">So to my dear 20something years, I want to thank you for being good to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For being honest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For teaching me lessons I wasn’t ready to learn and for teaching me lessons that I needed to learn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For dragging me through the dumps so I could appreciate the view from the top. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For making me scared, for pushing me outside of my comfort zone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For making me stand in awe of people, places, views, and life itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all of those reasons, I can appreciate where I’m at now and how far I’ve come. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel grateful for all the people that are important to me and helped me along this wild 10 year roller coaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t expect the next 10 years to be smooth sailing, but maybe knowing that piece of reality will make the bumps more tolerable? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess we’ll just have to see how it plays out. E</span>ither way, I’m excited to see what lies ahead. So bring it on 30something! </span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Farewell 20’s and Helloooooo 30’s <span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span> </div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">XOXO</span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lana</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5tDwXTfa9Wo/VUjyOdw9iDI/AAAAAAAABWo/YQSSbheAN3Y/s1600/quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5tDwXTfa9Wo/VUjyOdw9iDI/AAAAAAAABWo/YQSSbheAN3Y/s1600/quote.jpg" height="499" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]-->Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-2885050973197802062015-01-26T13:27:00.000-05:002015-01-26T13:27:55.394-05:00 Pop-Pop Passed Away Last Night In honor of Anthony Carl Morelli Jr. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /><style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aviebhYHmN8/VMaCvphQnyI/AAAAAAAABQI/qMMjJ89Zzjs/s1600/hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aviebhYHmN8/VMaCvphQnyI/AAAAAAAABQI/qMMjJ89Zzjs/s1600/hands.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I was in 1<sup>st</sup> grade when I remember losing my first grandparent. My “Grandma Leik,” my mother’s mom. A tiny lady, no taller than 5 foot (with shoes on) who had a thick Brooklyn Accent, ate yogurt, read the newspaper, loved lady bugs and always took my side.<i> “She doesn’t have to finish her dinner, she has a tiny stomach like me, leave her be..but there is enough room for dessert.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i> </i> </span>She was the only person who my mother retreated from. She was small, soft, but incredibly strong. She passed away from end-stage renal failure and I do remember she also has stroke. A "TIA" they called it. She said not to worry, it was just for a moment. <i>“My tongue got twisted around my eye and I couldn’t see what I was saying.”</i> She had the ability to make everything seem light and approachable. Even the scary parts of life. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her husband, my grandfather, passed away when I was an infant. I don’t remember him. So when it was just her in the house, she moved from New York to Pennsylvania. It wasn’t longer after that she got sick, less than a year after her move. Maybe she knew she was going to get sick, maybe it was God’s plan. It was perfectly imperfect timing though. She was never alone while she was ill, I just wish we had her healthy for longer. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When she passed, my mother was distraught. She had lost her father and brother less than four years prior; and now her mother too. I can’t image the emptiness she felt. Like a piece of her family, her childhood, all gone so quickly. The funeral was in Long Island New York, at my mother’s childhood parish. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My grandmother’s viewing was the first time I remember ever seeing my mother cry. As a first grader seeing your strong stoic parents have a vulnerable moment sticks with you. I wanted to comfort my mom. I wanted her to go back to being the one who comforted everyone else. It felt backwards and that made me feel frantic. I sat next to her and said<i> “Don’t worry Mom, Grandma will be a baby in someone else’s house now, we just have to figure out where she lives.” </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I don’t know why I said it, or where the idea came from. 7 year olds, particularly Catholic 7 year olds, aren’t generally exposed to ideas or theories of reincarnation. The internet didn’t exits then, so it wasn’t a product of Google. We only ever watched Disney Channel and Nickelodeon, so it wasn’t the premise of something I saw on Television. It just came from somewhere inside of me. It was something, which I truly believed. Maybe children are closer to heaven so they have a better understanding of the circle of life. Either way, my comment, stopped my Mom in her tracks. She didn’t cry and she didn’t speak. She just looked at me and then hugged me. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Years later, she reminds me of that story and tells me of how much peace it brought her in that tumultuous time. The wise words of a 7years old. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Fast Forward, 22 years. My grandfather has been diagnosed with Liver Cancer. This time it is my father’s father. I have since lost my Father’s mother and this is my only living grandparent. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It happened right before Christmas. He had some curious test results and needed to go back to the Doctor. <i>“Make sure he doesn’t come in alone, we’d like someone to be with him</i>” the receptionist told my father—and that’s never a sign of good news. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">By New Years Eve the cancer was also found in his Colon, Rectum and spread to his Lungs. All stage 4. He woke up less than 10 days ago feeling like he couldn’t breath. He was taken to the hospital by ambulance. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He never came home. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">They kept him in the Intensive Care Unit for a little under a week and then moved him to the hospice floor. He knew he wasn’t going home and we knew he wasn’t going home; but I never talked about it to him. <i>“Make sure your Aunt throws away my milk, it expired yesterday. And tell her to bring me my glasses and cell phone.</i>” It was a last exercise of control over his life and made him feel better to get just a few things in order. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My grandfather deteriorated fast. It was hard to watch, but also a blessing. He was too proud and refractory to allow us all to watch him slowly shrivel up and fade away. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He was the type of man that did everything his way. He never wanted to depend on other people and loved his independence. Hell, he worked full time up until his diagnosis. He was a mover and a shaker and he never seemed “old” to me because he never retired to a life of sitting on the couch watching sitcom re-runs. Instead, when his job required him to learn the computer he took a computer training class. <i>“I’m the oldest one in the class Lana,</i>” he said to me proudly. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-21Jt24lmj1U/VMaA_g2od0I/AAAAAAAABPs/RzmdCIJw3Fc/s1600/pop%2Bglasses%2Bpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-21Jt24lmj1U/VMaA_g2od0I/AAAAAAAABPs/RzmdCIJw3Fc/s1600/pop%2Bglasses%2Bpic.jpg" height="320" width="296" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He didn’t get lost in the tides of change, he keep swimming and always stayed in front of it. He got a cell phone when the trend started and even knew how to operate the voicemail, although he refused to leave his own voice on the prompt for a personal message. My message says<i> “Hi, you’ve reached Lana, I’m unavailable to come to the phone…</i>” So he would leave all his messages saying, <i>“Unavailable Lana, it’s available grandpop, make yourself available and call me.</i>” It made me smile every time. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He was a man who always did things his way. He was painfully and refreshingly pertinacious. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was famous for these one liners; that were part persnickety and part fun. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Pop did you get your hair cut? It looks nice.”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“No, I got them all cut.” He’d say with a devious smile. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Hey Pop, that’s a good idea.”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Ya know Lana, I was so bright my mother called me SUN.” </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Pop what did you say? What?”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Don’t you call me a whop, Eye-talians don’t like it.”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He was an original jokester and a text book wise guy. I loved that playful side of him. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Five years ago, when his wife, my grandmother passed away, he didn’t want to be <i>“that old guy who moved in with someone”</i> <<span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">-</span>those are his words. So he sold his house, rented an apartment, got a new car and even got a girlfriend Wanda. A family friend who was also in her 80’s and they rekindled a romance. He was like a teenager again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pop are you coming over for the BBQ?”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No I can’t, I ‘m going to Wanda’s house.” </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-squ-W8O4Nb4/VMaBS4GYo0I/AAAAAAAABP8/3vdBnH-9UFE/s1600/Pop%2Band%2BWanda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-squ-W8O4Nb4/VMaBS4GYo0I/AAAAAAAABP8/3vdBnH-9UFE/s1600/Pop%2Band%2BWanda.jpg" height="240" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And he’d hop in his new car, with a Teddy Bear on the dashboard (given to him by his girlfriend Wanda) and drive up to take her out to dinner. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He didn’t follow any rules and did what he wanted. I always admired him for that. He’d call me in the summers at 7:00am </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> “Why aren’t you awake yet?” he'd bellow into the phone. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Pop I’m on break from teaching, I’m sleeping in,” I’d moan into the phone. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“You can sleep in when you’re dead” he’d say. And even in my sleepy fog I’d smile. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I visited him almost every night while he was at the hospital. I had to miss seeing him on Saturday, because I had plans to go away for the weekend. Friday night I asked him if I should stay home, he shook his head no and pursed his lips.<i> “Live your life, don’t be a jackass.” </i>I told him I’d see him Sunday and he shook his head okay and closed his eyes to go to sleep. Even in his final days he stayed true to himself. So I went to the beach for my annual girl’s weekend with my friends. And Sunday night, (last night) when I got home, I went to see him. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was late, just me and my dad. They had classical music playing in my Pop’s room. It was nice, I know he enjoyed it, but it made the air extra heavy for me. My Pop was in an unconscious state...shallow breathing, sinking into the bed a bit, certainly smaller than when he arrived less than two weeks ago. Yet, he looked comfortable. I talked to him the whole time and although his eyes were closed, he occasionally moved his eye brows like he was listening.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I talked to him anyway. About the traffic, the weather. I told him about each one of my girlfriends; “The Nurse,” “The Ballerina,” “The one who eats the Pizza Bagels.” I’ve been friends with these women for almost 20 years but Pop had his only little playful names for them. At the end, I told him I wouldn't come up tomorrow because we are getting a snowstorm. I took a deep breath and I said to him that it was okay for him to take a long rest and go to sleep. <i>“You can finally sleep in Pop.” </i></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I knew he knew what I meant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He absolved me of my guilt to the go to the beach that weekend and if he had any feelings of guilt, I wanted to offer him the same piece of absolution. I told him I loved him and he moved his eyebrows like he heard me again.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we walked out, my dad asked me why I talked to him. "<i>He can't hear you, you know"</i> he said. But I told my dad that two years ago, when he himself was in a comma in the ICU, I talked to him on every visit. I told my father that I saw Pop move his eyebrows like he heard me; just how my dad lightly squeezed my hand when he was in the coma. <i>"He does hear me dad”</i> I said. I wasn't sure of much, but I was sure of that.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I noticed my dad was timid to touch Pop. They’d always had a strained relationship. A lot of history, I’ll never fully or never need to fully understand. So maybe my dad was hesitate because they were never really affectionate anyway, or maybe because the beeping and the smells of the hospital scared him like it used to scare me. It's just... I learned to block the hospital out and focus on something that reminded me my Pop was still there. I stared at his forehead and thought about how his white hair was still thick and beautiful at 87. I kissed Pops forehead and told him I loved him. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was the saddest visit thus far and for some reason it felt like something was different. We were the last two visitors he had last night and we got news that he passed in his sleep at 3am. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I like to think that my conversation with Pop gave him peaceful vibes. But I yearn for the 7 year old version of myself who was so sure that he would come back a baby in someone else’s house. A version of myself that didn’t make death feel so hollow and definitive. That didn’t make death, in someway, about myself. But as we become adults and grown it’s almost human nature to equate things with ourselves. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, I can’t help but think of the Lyrics from a John Mayer Song… </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">One generation's length away<br />From fighting life out on my own’</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I am adult, not a child. My Pop is gone. I have no grandparents left. It’s like we’re all moving up on this infinite timeline whether we like it or not. It’s scary and ironic that death is the aspect of life that makes life feel real and precious and brief. It makes you want to stop the clock and just be in the moment. But time ticks and children grow older and adults do too. We transition from phase to phase in life effortlessly without convocation. Which is why sometimes I think we don’t notice that time just happens and life just happens. And death is part of life, no matter how much effort we put into ignoring it.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And if my grandfather were reading this right now, he’d remind me that sometimes in life there is nothing you can do but keep moving forward. <i>“We’re all getting older, so what can you do? You get mad or sad you’ll get happy again. So live your life and stop being a jackass.”</i> Besides, he never slept in, so now he gets his chance. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yuLyB0YQW7w/VMaBLxbvGqI/AAAAAAAABP0/fNe9-lHEBqg/s1600/pop%2Bpop%2Band%2BI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yuLyB0YQW7w/VMaBLxbvGqI/AAAAAAAABP0/fNe9-lHEBqg/s1600/pop%2Bpop%2Band%2BI.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In Loving Memory of Anthony Carl Morelli Jr. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Short and Sweet…AKA…Moral of the Blog</b></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hug your family tight. Tell people you love them. People get mad, but they get happy again...so don't worry about it. Try, even when you think you can’t. Don’t be a statistic, be an exception. Always work and work hard dammit. But only do what makes you happy and screw em, if they don't like it. Take a hold of life’s opportunities, don’t be a victim of lifes circumstances. Most importantly, find the humor, always channel your inner wise guy. Life's too short not to laugh a little. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>I love you Pop-Pop</b></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">XOXO</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lana </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>“Can the child within my heart rise above?<br />Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?<br />Can I handle the seasons of my life?</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><br />But time makes you bolder<br />Even children get older<br />And I'm getting older too” –Fleetwood Mac </i></span></div></blockquote>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-30100888787612925082014-03-21T17:38:00.002-04:002014-03-21T17:38:51.606-04:00 It’s Walt’s Fault <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /><style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YtSH1s8wxrM/UyyvHDv6cjI/AAAAAAAABF0/5lZ02yp49mc/s1600/walt_disney__mickey_mouse_wings-dr.sijuvijayan-ayushmithra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YtSH1s8wxrM/UyyvHDv6cjI/AAAAAAAABF0/5lZ02yp49mc/s1600/walt_disney__mickey_mouse_wings-dr.sijuvijayan-ayushmithra.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And by Walt, I mean Walt Disney. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, the one and only. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The creator of “Happily Ever After,” “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” and the same guy rumored to be frozen in a capsule somewhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blame him, not entirely, but to a certain extent for the unrealistic expectations of what “love” is supposed to be. </span><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week I was asked to sit on a panel in Philadelphia called the “<a href="http://www.greatlovedebate.com/">Great Love Debate</a>” where myself and some very talented and experienced dating gurus try to answer the question <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/603831513024204/">“Why is everyone still single?” </a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I ponder this question, in anticipation of our debate, I couldn’t help but think about a former theory of mine, which I coined; “The Disney Dilemma.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Disney Dilemma developed after a debate with a very strong-minded 4 year old. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was babysitting in college, one of my many side-jobs at the time, and I took the kids outside to play. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this particular day, the little girl I was babysitting, 4 years old, asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had just changed my major from Communications to Political Science with a minor in Pre Law. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had my sights set on law school, but how do you explain uncertainties, majors, minors and the possibility of law to a child?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I used the age-old tactic of “reverse and avoid.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I don’t know yet, what do you want to be?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She smiled and looked up at me with big blue eyes, “I want to be a pwin-cess” she proclaimed.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I instinctually wince whenever a little girl gives me that answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugh,</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Walt Strikes again</i>, I think. </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Um okay, but every girl is already a princess, we’re born that way. What do you really want to be?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“A Pwin-cess!” she insisted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“But they’re not real, honey, don’t you want to do something important?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Become an artist, teacher, a dancer maybe?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>She now appeared to be growing annoyed with me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a pwin-cess!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She crossed her arms and scowled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That was it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t ask her again. Can you blame her though?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After watching a few of those Disney Princess Classics, who doesn’t want to become a pwin-cess?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s almost contagious… Cinderella, Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, The Little Mermaid, Pocahontas… all their stories were very different, but then again, they all are very similar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see in each story the “damsel in despair” is saved by some form of “Prince Charming.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yXPBiQqkn0U/UyyvxhO6saI/AAAAAAAABF4/BidZhVIyEVw/s1600/Disney-Princesses-classic-disney-6411734-1024-768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yXPBiQqkn0U/UyyvxhO6saI/AAAAAAAABF4/BidZhVIyEVw/s1600/Disney-Princesses-classic-disney-6411734-1024-768.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sure, in some cases the damsel is a house maid, the only woman with a bunch of dwarfs, Arab royalty or a mermaid. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And their despair ranges from oppressive step-mother, father forcing a suitor or the stifling life under the sea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what remains in each story, no matter how vast the differences, is that each and every one of these “pwin-cess’s” is saved by Prince Charming. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s really the story line isn’t it? Watching the girl be saved by the man, who turns out to be a Prince! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As children, we sat wide eyed in front of our TV sets waiting for that faithful embrace and finally the kiss. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We dressed up like princesses at Halloween. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We idolized these characters and bought the pink and purple paraphernalia. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because of this; deep rooted inside each of our adult selves—no matter how independent, driven, or self-assured—a little part of us hoped that we could find Prince Charming… or at least run into the real-deal British Royalty; Prince William and Harry before they got hitched. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t get me wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think there is anything wrong with wanting to find the man of your dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I hope we all do. But the problem is that these movies, these story lines, have told us time and again, that no matter how hard the struggle, the poverty, the coma, the work or the displacement—Prince Charming can save you!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So I can’t help but believe that these movies tainted the way we view love. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I racked my brain trying to think of one Disney Princess movie where the story line was about girls who were friends that found love while they were independently establishing themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not until the 2000’s did Walt’s team start to think past the idea of Prince Charming swooping in to save it all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And only recently can we look to movies like Brave and Frozen to change the stigmas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although it’s almost too late for the 20somethings, 30somethings, 40somethings and so on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The younger generations may have a shot at viewing “love” differently, but for anyone over the age of 20, it’s already tainted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Disney overlooks the importance of friendship and self development or empowerment for girls… and why not? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heart of the story (pun intended) lies with Prince Charming swooping in to save the day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The problem remains that we’re NOT Princesses and the guys we date are NOT Prince Charmings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But before everyone gets all “she’s a cynic” I want to forewarn you that I do not find this disappointing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t want to be a maid trapped in a house or helplessly laying in a glass coffin waiting for some man to make it all better.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’d rather make my own way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Find my own self. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pursue my own passions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does this make me selfish or a feminist? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it makes me honest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men have been doing this for eons?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why can’t the women jump in too?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And the male readers should be thanking me for my honesty… because, you know what guys?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn Disney Princesses have put WAY too much pressure on you too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only do you have to be handsome and charming, but you also have to be able to fix almost EVERYTHING!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter the situation; mean step-sisters, coma in a glass coffin, fins from a sea witch, quicksand in a desert or a bunch of Indians and English settlers all trying to fight one another!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter what; you have to be ready to save the day! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NO PRESSUE, right? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Do you see why I call this the Disney Dilemma?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So, is it so wrong <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to admit that <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to see a movie where the princess is just a girl who<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pursue what she loves, fights some of life’s battles on her own and learns through experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she goes along doing what she loves, what makes her happy and what gives her purpose, she meets a wonderful guy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He may not be a prince after all, but he<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is charming in his own right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has flaws just like her, (maybe a tattoo or two) and sometimes he saves her but sometimes she saves him too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re relationship is egalitarian not authoritarian. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t live happily ever after, because that’s all bullshit, but they live as happily as they can. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They take what life throws them and despite it all, they work hard to make it work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Is that really such a terrible truth? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think so. In fact, I think that’s why <i>Frozen</i> is such a hit. It really does follow close to the above plot, without the tattoo’s of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a movie about sisters, who risk their lives because they love each other. The younger sister started to feed into the “Disney Dilemma” when she declares she fell in love in one day and wanted to be engaged. Kind of a double entendre in its own right, and I respect Disney for mocking its own one dimensional plot structure. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TmfMjQQzi7U/UyywWOwq-OI/AAAAAAAABGA/P-vtDhpaDUY/s1600/0a1dd45820d4d0122335ee90311a02a4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TmfMjQQzi7U/UyywWOwq-OI/AAAAAAAABGA/P-vtDhpaDUY/s1600/0a1dd45820d4d0122335ee90311a02a4.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But in the end, although she finds love on her journey (not from the 24 hour engagement), the crux of the story is about finding her own happiness and embracing the love she has for her family. She had the choice to run to her true love or to save her sister. She chose her sister. She did this because love IS all we need. But it’s not always romantic love. It’s the love for our family too. The bonds we share with all people should be celebrated just as much as romantic love. The fact is, she loved her sister, long before she ever loved either of the men in the movie. And in the end it was her sister’s love that thawed her, not the kiss of man. Proving that all relationships where love is involved should be celebrated; The love for our parents, siblings, friends and significant others. They are all important pieces that make up our whole being. It’s not one person that completes us (Sorry Jerry McGuire) but I believe it’s all these facets of love that make people whole. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Making the whole premise of Classic Disney Princess the antithesis of what an independent woman represents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s sad to admit, but I have friends who will be upset with this post because they themselves sacrificed what they want for relationships. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dropped out of school, left jobs, left family and moved away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have done all this in good-faith because they believed that those relationships would make other problems better and make their lives complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They believed that the relationship would fix all their other issues. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They believed that some guy could swoop in and make it all better. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It may have worked for a little while for some, but it didn’t and wouldn’t work indefinitely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not fair to expect any one person, especially a significant other, to carry the weight of your world and be responsible for your own happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One person, one man, cannot not fix everything, or be everything, or make everything exactly what you always dreamed of. That’s your job. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So although, many people may be offended by my anti-Princess school of thought, I am speaking from a truthful, realistic perspective. Because life is hard. It’s hard to find yourself, it’s hard to be true to yourself. It’s hard to find people to love, who love you back (platonic and romantic). And when life gets hard, from illness or loss, you realize that a romantic kiss can’t save the day. Sometimes you need more than that. You need a hug from your sister/brother or a phone call to your best friend. You need a little bit from all the pieces; all the people you love, who love you, so you can stay whole. I’m glad Disney is starting to catch on… ;)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">xoxo</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lana </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">SHORT AND SWEET… AKA… MORAL OF THE BLOG</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt;">Love is all you need. But you don’t’ get all that love from one person. It’s from all the people who love you in your life, giving a little bit of themselves to make you whole. Celebrate all the love, not just the romantic love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m glad Disney has jumped into the 21<sup>st</sup> century with Brave and Frozen; finally movies that express that loving yourself and your family is just as important as romantic love…We 20somethings just need to recognize that and leave the Classic Princess mentality in the past. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-InXXcTVgY_8/UyywqLtCR6I/AAAAAAAABGI/1c_NOymXVAA/s1600/how-to-love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-InXXcTVgY_8/UyywqLtCR6I/AAAAAAAABGI/1c_NOymXVAA/s1600/how-to-love.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br /></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. ~Veronica A. Shoffstall, "After a While," 1971</span></div></blockquote>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-56971477384910848902014-01-29T15:08:00.000-05:002014-01-29T15:20:43.047-05:00 The Best Things In Life Are Free… <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /><style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I wish I could sit home with my dog curled up in my lap and get paid to write whatever brilliant thought creeps into my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, this is not the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write for myself, as it is my passion; however, I also write to make a living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of that “living” is being the Delaware Valley Reporter for a legal magazine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in my daily travels for my full-time job, I found myself in Norristown, a city I frequent three times a week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always try and park as close to the courthouse entrance as possible; in hopes of having a short walk, so I can view my cases, and hit the road home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are three spots next to the courthouse that I frequently park at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They take quarters at the “old school” meters, not the credit card, app scanning types that litter the rest of the block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These particular spots are not only adjacent to the courthouse, but also directly in front of a church, that doubles as a soup kitchen every weekday at noon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7oJmkXDMf20/Uulc5vJha5I/AAAAAAAABEg/ogaP81iJoDM/s1600/parking_meter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7oJmkXDMf20/Uulc5vJha5I/AAAAAAAABEg/ogaP81iJoDM/s1600/parking_meter.jpg" height="200" width="167" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Usually, I am able to avoid the line of homeless people waiting out front of the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I was putting my car in park at precisely 11:50am and the line in front of the church was long; probably due to the very frigid temperature that failed to warm us past the teens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s always humbling to look at the line; men, women, young, old, black, white, Hispanic, Asian; the depths of despair, when a person finds themselves without a job or a home or help, doesn’t discriminate. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">People stand in line clutched to their loved one, a small child holding the hand of an adult or a person shaking, not just from the cold but from the grip of an addiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wear layered, tattered clothing; some without coats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their shoes are mismatched, and I find myself wondering if one of them could be wearing something I tossed into a “Good Will” bag months prior. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EiIjAiuPGAk/UuldBWhdB_I/AAAAAAAABEo/WqpjJSz2Us8/s1600/soup-kitchen-line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EiIjAiuPGAk/UuldBWhdB_I/AAAAAAAABEo/WqpjJSz2Us8/s1600/soup-kitchen-line.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yet, I don’t allow myself to gawk and think too long about this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We, as people, don’t allow ourselves to look too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s sad and reminds us of the struggles in the world, in our own communities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s something we like to forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned my car off, grabbed my briefcase and walked the opposite direction toward the parking meter to drop in some quarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As my boot hit the brick pavement, I slipped forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not falling, but just gliding, without control and only a hope I wouldn’t land face first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then suddenly, I was steadied by an arm that reached out and stopped me from sliding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arm belonged to a man, that looked like Santa Claus’s emaciated brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Same long white beard, same jolly smile, same sweet eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only difference was the size. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nwuAGXCsQFc/UuleYcUtomI/AAAAAAAABFA/6TzC4iKyjDs/s1600/Ian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nwuAGXCsQFc/UuleYcUtomI/AAAAAAAABFA/6TzC4iKyjDs/s1600/Ian.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you alright little lady?” The man asked. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, thank you very much.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I frantically replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I steadied myself I noticed his clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tattered and mismatched, some of the teeth missing in his smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was walking to the end of the line for the soup kitchen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You better be careful, it’s bitter cold and very icy out here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, thank you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took my wallet out to offer him a couple dollars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small token, to thank him, for saving me from falling on the ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was reaching into my wallet, the man gently placed his hand on my forearm. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t have to do that, little lady, kindness is free.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that, Skinny Santa walked off toward the soup kitchen line. </div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I stood there for a moment stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His words playing over in my head, <u><b>“Kindness is free.” </b></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So often we forget the little things in life. The sayings and truths that provide us with perspective and slap us back into reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The things we learned in Kindergarten… as adults, seem trivial, but in reality are pivotal. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I truly believe that God can send us messages, often through the form of experiences and in the vessel of a guardian angel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just have to have the wherewithal to recognize them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This Skinny Santa, was delivering a message to me; maybe to reflect or maybe just to write this blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either way it was a powerful reminder.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ironically, I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately; relationships with parents, siblings, significant others and friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these relationships require work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes you’re the one griping, sometimes you’re the bent ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We take turns; it’s an ebb and flow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sometimes when the balance is off, we have to regroup, speak kindly and get back on the same page. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nKwFP5gb66k/UuleLvh-mYI/AAAAAAAABE4/d0f0Xm5FVOA/s1600/kindness_beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nKwFP5gb66k/UuleLvh-mYI/AAAAAAAABE4/d0f0Xm5FVOA/s1600/kindness_beach.jpg" height="125" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Regardless of the type of relationship, they could all benefit from a reminder that “Kindness is Free.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we need to communicate to one another, do it kindly. When we act toward one another, do it kindly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In 2014 we get too wrapped up in “things.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Using gifts to show someone appreciation and love for a birthday or anniversary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We do it all the time.<i> “What did he get you? What did she get you?”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a sad equivalent that the more extravagant the gift, the more they care for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Birthdays should be at fancy restaurants and Christmas should be a showering of gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s part of our society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are blinded by the ideology of affluence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We don’t need to fix a hole in a t-shirt; we’ll just buy another one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t have to invest too much money into an old vehicle; we will get a newer model.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have grown comfortable with the idea that we don’t have to fix, mend, or work on anything. The world is full of “stuff” and we can get a newer or difference version.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the mentality with our ever changing technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trade your phone in every 2 years, sell your computer or tablet back for a newer version. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But, this cannot be the mentality for how we view relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t throw people away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t trade them in for a new model, we don’t forget about the old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead we need to remember to hold onto people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To cherish the people who have made a special mark in our life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We forget that the most appreciated actions are not those bought in a store, but those done with a kind heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The most cherished relationships are not those that we newly develop, but those that we have worked on and worked out and cherished for many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So be kind, for kindness is contagious. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SHORT AND SWEET...AKA...MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">When you hold the door for a stranger, they will most likely be prompted to smile and say “Thank you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a domino effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And why not partake? Kindness is Free ya know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And maybe we all need a little reminder of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Random acts of kindness… Priceless! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">XOXO</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lana </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">"The art of being kind is all the world needs." -Ella Wheele Wilcox </div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EG83kUouqB0/Uuld-gu1HKI/AAAAAAAABEw/BLuWgVnrnnw/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EG83kUouqB0/Uuld-gu1HKI/AAAAAAAABEw/BLuWgVnrnnw/s1600/images.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></div><br />Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-62798465708984533022013-10-31T09:10:00.000-04:002013-10-31T09:10:43.779-04:00 Costumes and Changing Faces <div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I always thought Halloween was a peculiar holiday. As a kid you dress up and go door to door, taking hand outs from strangers—something that certainly defies all “stranger danger” rules. Nevertheless, the distraction of sugary treats can be enough validation to forget how weird the concept really is. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jLdenPTuwS8/UnJTsKjewjI/AAAAAAAAA9o/7aWhHt-F_QE/s1600/Did-You-Dress-Up-for-Halloween.blog.pic1-300x225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jLdenPTuwS8/UnJTsKjewjI/AAAAAAAAA9o/7aWhHt-F_QE/s200/Did-You-Dress-Up-for-Halloween.blog.pic1-300x225.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">However, as an adult, I find Halloween even more mystifying. Not because of the creepy music or spooky undertones. I really just find it odd that people make such a fuss about dressing up. Spending exorbitant amounts of money perfecting a costume. Making sure everything<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is “just right,” because “it’s only one day a year you get to dress up.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or is it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Aren’t we all “dressing up” everyday as adults? Wearing our “costumes” to work and in our personal lives. People call it “changing hats” or a “different face.” Whatever the cliché, the truth is that we’re all acting a certain way for our certain role. Employee, Professional, Child, Parent, Student…the particular role dictates a particular “costume.” A certain way to dress, to behave, to talk. You wouldn’t dare curse at work or wear pajamas to a meeting. There are certain “supposed to’s” that we all adhere to. Certain aspects of the costume that we accept. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ih51bqJoKak/UnJTwsnkgXI/AAAAAAAAA9w/9oOgfufKRcY/s1600/30188-36-295x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ih51bqJoKak/UnJTwsnkgXI/AAAAAAAAA9w/9oOgfufKRcY/s200/30188-36-295x300.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So to me, Halloween isn’t all that special. It’s just another day to dress us. You see, what I think is worth celebrating is the instances when you DON’T have to be anything other than yourself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the few times when we’re not wearing a costume to fit a “supposed to” is with friends. People who you can be your true-self around. People you don’t have to censor yourself, your dress or your behavior around. People that have seen you at your worst and your best, but loved you the same in either scenario. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When my dad was sick earlier this year, it was a true eye-opener.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At a desperate time, when life feels like it was crashing down, we forget to arm ourselves with our costume du jour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life was hard, emotions were raw, sadness hovered over every new day and uncertainty over ever quiet night. There was no energy left to make sure I was filling a role. It was hard enough just to get through the days. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wjtf2q0b9eU/UnJT3k-tQUI/AAAAAAAAA94/3VYRLXmixOA/s1600/grace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wjtf2q0b9eU/UnJT3k-tQUI/AAAAAAAAA94/3VYRLXmixOA/s200/grace.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I recently ran into an old friend Meredith in the grocery store. She asked how my family was doing since my father’s stint in the hospital. I told her were all still trying to get back to “normal,” and she said something to me that shocked me. </div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“You know I want to tell you that your family handled the whole situation with such grace.” </div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was shocked at her statement. It was the most chaotic time of my life. I feel like I had unraveled in a way that can only be caused by immense stress and desperation. “Grace” was certainly not a way in which I would have described those 6 months. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to have her explain. “What do you mean?” I asked inquisitively. </div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“I mean, you never had anything on facebook or social media that blasted your family’s private issues, you all quietly stuck together and put one foot in front of the other, like a united front.”</div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">I smiled at her. “I’m glad it was perceived that way.” </div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">To an outsider looking in, we had “grace.” To those of us inside, we were a wreck. </div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Worried, sleep deprived, anxious, waiting, anticipating death, anticipating a miracle, waiting, waiting, hurting, crying, and more waiting. </i></div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">This is how I would describe that time in my life. When your parent is lying unconscious in an ICU room for almost 9 weeks, I wouldn’t dare say anything I did was “graceful.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></blockquote><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">But maybe that’s because I was living it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nfz1Sw19VOk/UnJUE18cyNI/AAAAAAAAA-A/RGGCvyBKFgU/s1600/1494_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nfz1Sw19VOk/UnJUE18cyNI/AAAAAAAAA-A/RGGCvyBKFgU/s200/1494_large.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And every time one of us fell apart and “melted down” another family member pieced us back together. But after a while, it got too hard. And on those particularly hard days, the days that felt hopeless, the days when each one of us was too tired to keep ourselves together, let alone piece another together, we leaned on our friends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The day my father was put in a comma, my friends (my boyfriend included) showed up at my house. I didn’t ask them to come. I didn’t have to. I don’t know what they were doing when I told them or what they have to adjust in their own lives to be here, but they were. Within hours they were literally by my side. That day they physically showed up, but they stayed by my side through everything. They didn’t let me fall completely apart. They wouldn’t allow me to crumble. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know that my mother, brother, sister-in-law, sister and brother-in-law, all had a similar experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all tried to turn into ourselves, to submit to despair and negativity. But we wouldn’t let each other and neither would our friends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They were people who knew the true weight we were carrying and who tried to carry a piece of it for us—even though it wasn’t their father. Whether it was letting us bend their ear, sob on the phone, scream in an angry fit of rage or just show up to “check” on us…they were there. And when they physically couldn’t be, they send cards, texts and emails. On the nights we forgot to cook dinner, they send home-made food and hoagie trays. These small gestures weren’t just the “glue” it was the “grace.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They were the reason we appeared to be “together.” They were our sanity at times, our punching bag, and our hard-truths. What came from that experience is only appreciated in retrospect. That we realize quite quickly who was there to support us, who was there to gawk or gossip and who was there to witness our despondency only because it made them feel better about themselves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We were blessed to have such an incredible support system and to have people working behind the scenes to help us hold onto our “grace.” Our friends are people who love us, not because they have to, but because they want to. People who know us, unmasked and uncensored. People who help us to be better versions of ourselves. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve always believe that God doesn’t give you what you can’t handle…but I do believe that if often feels like it more than we can bear. When that happens, God send us Angels, to keep us intact…we just call them friends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">XOXO</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lana </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SHORT AND SWEET...AKA...MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">We should celebrate time with our friends. A time when we don't have to "dress up" and be anything but ourselves. With all the supposed to's in life, it happens less frequently than it should.<span class="bqQuoteLink"> For they are the "glue" and the "grace" when we need it the most. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.” ―Jane Austen</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” </i><br /><i>― Henri J.M. Nouwen,</i></div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4J1fx44vuAw/UnJWAr9k6_I/AAAAAAAAA-M/3VhAK83KfDY/s1600/friendship-31a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4J1fx44vuAw/UnJWAr9k6_I/AAAAAAAAA-M/3VhAK83KfDY/s200/friendship-31a.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/p/pam_brown.html" title="view author">Pam Brown</a></span><br />Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/save.html#YyK1u18JJOgrJiHs.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/save.html#YyK1u18JJOgrJiHs.99</a></div><div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/p/pambrown100737.html" title="view quote">A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely.</a></span><br /><span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/p/pam_brown.html" title="view author">Pam Brown</a></span><br />Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/save.html#YyK1u18JJOgrJiHs.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/save.html#YyK1u18JJOgrJiHs.99</a><br /><div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/p/pambrown100737.html" title="view quote">A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely.</a></span><br /><span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/p/pam_brown.html" title="view author">Pam Brown</a></span><br />Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/save.html#YyK1u18JJOgrJiHs.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/save.html#YyK1u18JJOgrJiHs.99</a></div></div></blockquote>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-74136342169969839232013-09-10T11:57:00.002-04:002013-09-11T09:25:20.688-04:00 The ICU (Squeeze, Squeeze, Squeeze) <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></b></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjy50WBZAkA/Ui8_irsKc4I/AAAAAAAAA7Y/b3TYivCrhk4/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjy50WBZAkA/Ui8_irsKc4I/AAAAAAAAA7Y/b3TYivCrhk4/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="line-height: 115%;">“I (squeeze), Love (squeeze), You (squeeze).” Hands have always held a bit of importance in our family. We have a code of “Three Squeezes” something we routinely do as we kissed each other goodbye. Something I did as I ran out the door with friends or my boyfriend. <i>“See you later,” (Squeeze, Squeeze Squeeze).</i> Something that I never paid much attention to. It was just a tradition, a habit, a routine for us. One of the many quirks that families have. But everything turned upside down when my father was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) fighting for his life. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">When change is anticipated, we welcome it—A graduation, an engagement, a new house, a new car, an arrival of a baby or a new job. In those instances we celebrate change. But when change comes abruptly and unexpected, we want to hide from it, only to find out there is no where to hide. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">That’s how I felt anyway when my father was hospitalized and put into a coma. I wanted to hide. I wanted to sink into myself, like a turtle gently tucking into a protective shell. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">You see, my father was always a heavy breather. He smoked like a chimney and suffered from sleep apnea for as long as I remember. But in early January his breathing was worse. He seemed confused and couldn’t walk more than a few steps. He was finally too weak to resist our insistence that he go to the doctor. Our family (with coaxing and friendly “encouragement” from my 6 foot 3inch brother, and instruction for me to drive directly to the hospital) was able to get my dad evaluated. </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It was just my dad and I in the ER waiting room. I was anxious and scared. I knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what. I knew that if he had the strength he would have walked out, but he was too weak. That was both a relief and an encumbrance. I waiting for the arrival of my mom, after my brother called and told her we were finally able to get dad to the hospital. She arrived within minutes; a few hours later, after much evaluation, they intubated my father, put him on a ventilator and diagnosed him with ARDS.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 1in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) occurs when fluid builds up in the tiny, elastic air sacs (alveoli) in your lungs. More fluid in your lungs means less oxygen can reach your bloodstream. This deprives your organs of the oxygen they need to function. Many people who develop ARDS don't survive. The risk of death increases with age and severity of illness. (The Mayo Clinic)</i></span></span></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UArqjXvo1SM/Ui9BFn-QRSI/AAAAAAAAA7k/M6P3PG_1U5w/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UArqjXvo1SM/Ui9BFn-QRSI/AAAAAAAAA7k/M6P3PG_1U5w/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I went home and looked up his diagnosis. Something the doctors, and my friends in the medical field, encouraged me not to do. I did it anyway. I couldn’t help myself. The thought that more information was out there for me to read, lured me in. Within minutes I was “Googling” away. I read the above passage from the Mayo Clinic. My heart sunk and the lump in my throat grew larger. Then I read, <b>“ARDS has a 70% mortality rate</b>.” The sentence registered in my brain in slow motion—each word taking a moment to sink in. That meant my father only had a 30% chance of waking up. I then noticed that my hands were wet. Tears were streaming down my face onto my hands, onto my computer. I closed the screen, put my head in my hands and wept. That was the first time I felt the feeling of wanting to sink into myself. When I realized that I had no way of helping my father. All I could do was wait. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The next 9 weeks, were agonizing. My family always went to the hospital together<i>. Safety in numbers</i>, although no one said it, was the reason. We needed someone else there in case something was revealed and we needed to hold each other up. My sister had given birth to my nephew via C-section only 2 weeks prior, and she wasn’t cleared to go to the ICU. She, her husband and my perfect new nephew stayed away from the ICU. I was always accompanied by my brother, mom or my sister-in-law. Only immediate family was allowed in the ICU and we were allowed only two at a time. But whomever I went with, we held hands; to give each other strength and to remind each other NOT to sink into ourselves because the person holding our hand needed us too. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we walked down the hallways, the smell of rubbing alcohol burned your nostrils and the air was cold. The hospitals efforts to keep the unit sanitary, but really made it feel like “death” was hanging in the air. Maybe because it was. “Everyone leaves ICU” one nurse told us. “It just depends on what doors, they go through.” The front door was to the “Step Down Unit,” the unit for recovery. The other door was in the back, to the morgue. There were no doors in the ICU rooms themselves. They didn’t want to waste time pushing thru a door, time was of the essence, so each patient was only separated by a piece of glass and a muted blue curtain. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Even when the curtains were open to other patient’s rooms, I didn’t feel comfortable even glancing in. Everyone in ICU was fighting for their lives, hooked up to machines and ventilators, mostly unconscious. In some weird way it felt disrespectful to that patient’s family for me to look in and see their loved one in their most vulnerable state. So I kept my head forward, eyes to the ground, tried my best to hold tears back, and held onto the hand of my family member. The funny thing was, no matter who accompanied me, as we neared my father’s room number, just before we could look into see him, we squeezed each other’s hand. (Squeeze, Squeeze Squeeze…I LOVE YOU). Reminding each other that together we could face what ever was on the other side.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We had to wear gloves, a mask and a plastic gown to enter his room. He was so critically ill, we couldn’t risk compromising him with outside germs. Everything about this ritual felt foreign. To “gear up” just to see my dad…</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Seeing a loved one, hooked up to a heart monitor, a ventilator, a feeding tube, IV bags, a cooling blanket and machines you can’t even identify, WAS NOT the hardest part of that day. It was the noise. The beeps, the alarms, the codes, the cooling blanket (an ice blanket hooked up to a generator that sounded like a lawn mower) a desperate attempt to bring his fevers down. Meanwhile, the doctors and nurses were talking at us; giving us reports in what sounded like a different language. I didn’t know what any of the noises meant. The beeping and buzzing was low in volume, but somehow deafening. You couldn’t ignore it. I tried though. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I tried to focus on my dad’s face; but his color was gray and his had a tube coming out of his nose and anther tapped to the side of his mouth. I couldn’t “see” him with all of that hospital paraphernalia. Meanwhile the beeping felt like it kept getting louder. It gave me anxiety. <i>Should it be this loud? Should everything be making so much noise? </i></span></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AH70APDVMZo/Ui8_c6cPBkI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/bZncMkwuC1o/s1600/1238826_663552630335540_1270829097_n_192qfg8-192qfgd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AH70APDVMZo/Ui8_c6cPBkI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/bZncMkwuC1o/s200/1238826_663552630335540_1270829097_n_192qfg8-192qfgd.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I looked down to his chest. It moved in an unnatural rhythm forced by the ventilator. He was on a bed that continuously moved him and provided percussion to his back in an attempt to stimulate his lungs. I knew he was in a coma, but the bed and the ventilator kept moving him and that kind of thing plays tricks on your mind. I made me uncomfortable. I looked away. The beeping continued.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I looked down now to him hands. They too were marred by the effects of the ICU; the hospital bracelet and the IV sticking out. It felt almost hopeless. Like the person in room 3304 wasn’t my father, it felt like he was already gone—unrecognizable from the effects of the hospital. But then the bed moved him and his hand turned over. His palm face-up and this time, it looked familiar. Unscathed by the illness of ARDS. It was his hand. His big “bear-paw” that always dwarfed my hand; His same hand that reached out for mine when we crossed the street when I was a kid; The hand that gave me a high-five after a dance competition; The hand that picked me up, helped me with homework, and grabbed me for a hug. The hand that I knew. Suddenly I was able to block out the noise, the beeps and the alarms. I found a piece of familiarity. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Without thinking I grabbed his hand. I squeezed it three times. (Squeeze, Squeeze Squeeze…I LOVE YOU). </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But he didn’t move. It was the first time in my life that he didn’t squeeze back. The moment of solitude was over; I noticed the noise of the room again. The machines, the tubes, the IV’s, the monitors. It was louder this time, and I couldn’t take it to stand in that room any longer. All I wanted was to sink into a safe shell and hide, and yet, all that was happening was my father was sinking away, and he looked like a shell of his former self. I ripped off the plastic gown, threw it in the trash, and stood outside the room. It was overwhelming. It was awful. It is indescribable to stand physically next to someone, whom you love with all of your heart, and not be able to do SOMETHING. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Each visit went very similar to the one before. Everyday, was the same exhausting experience. Until about the 4<sup>th</sup> week of the coma. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">They were trying to ween my dad from the ventilator he was on, to a less intense version. His color seems to be better, or maybe I just told myself that. There was no tube coming from his mouth or nose anymore. The tube to his nose was now something they called a PEG tube that allowed tubal feedings to be done through his stomach. They also removed the tube taped to his mouth by performing a tracheostomy; the placement of a semi-permanent tube into his neck to create an opening in his windpipe, so the ventilator could work more efficiently. At least now I could look at his face and “see” him. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The nurses told us they had brought his sedation down a bit and suggested that we talk to him. They thought it would be good for him to hear us, even if it was subconscious. I didn’t know what to say. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> “<i>Hi Daddy, it’s me.</i>” I squeaked out. My voice cracked and I knew that with the next words would be a flood of tears. I chose to say nothing more. Instead I took off my glove, pushing up the sleeve of the plastic gown I have to wear, and I grabbed his hand. (Squeeze, Squeeze, Squeeze). I didn’t expect him to react. I have been doing this for weeks, and there was nothing. It really felt like he wasn’t even in there. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But then I felt the faintest pressure. I thought it was just the movement of the bed or the percussion on his lungs. So I did it again. (Squeeze, Squeeze, Squeeze). And again, I felt three small twitching/faint bits of pressure in a succession of three.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> “<i>Dad, you’re there, you can feel me</i>.” I literally said through tears and squeezed his hand. He didn’t wake up or answer or move again. He was back in the paralytic coma. But in that moment, he fought through, to remind me he was there. He was fighting. He was getting better. The doctors and nurses told me that it may have been just a reflex. “Don’t be overly optimistic. We have to talk about the real odds and outcomes.” They were preparing us for death, so it wouldn’t be blow. They warned us not interpret this as anything but a fluke, but I knew better. I knew it was my dad’s way of telling me he was going to pull through. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It took a long time for my father to wake up. But he did. He defied the odds, he was part of the 30%. When he was awake, he had months of recovery and rehab in three different hospitals. It was the hardest time for my family, but through every visit we held hands. We reminded each other with three Squeezes that we loved one another and that we would hold one another up. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Over the past few months, my family has had consultations, appointments, meetings and conversations with a slew of doctors and nurses. Experts in their field who know even detail about their niche of medicine, biology and patience care; but they didn’t know The Morelli’s and the importance of our (Squeeze, Squeeze, Squeeze). In our darkest hour, we stood together, we held hands and we reminded each other that we were there. </span></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DH5KGzJITzM/Ui8_U8jlJBI/AAAAAAAAA7I/Au2_6DXrcYM/s1600/holdinghands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DH5KGzJITzM/Ui8_U8jlJBI/AAAAAAAAA7I/Au2_6DXrcYM/s200/holdinghands.jpg" width="179" /></a></b></div><br />Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-87525452233559399752012-12-31T13:30:00.000-05:002012-12-31T13:41:08.763-05:00 NYE…New Years Eve aka, Not Your Expectations <br /><br />New Years Eve…the holiday we love to hate, and hate to love.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T_5izhMkY-M/Tv3-QF_pE4I/AAAAAAAAApI/wQU-s9U1v8Y/s1600/573027_f260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T_5izhMkY-M/Tv3-QF_pE4I/AAAAAAAAApI/wQU-s9U1v8Y/s200/573027_f260.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><br />It’s interesting though that it gets that much attention, considering it is such a low-maintenance holiday. Like Thanksgiving or Fourth of July it requires no gift-giving or card buying. Most people don’t have a signature New Years Eve dish or cookie. The only effort this holiday requires is showing up and celebrating…yet we still complain?! <br /><br />Although we don’t have a tangible obligation of something to; buy, bring, make or bake, there is an intangible stress that hovers around NYE. <br /><br />I remember when I turned 21, I had some innate need to go out every Friday and Saturday night. I had waited my whole life to be “legal” and go to the bar/club, so I made it my duty to get dressed up and hit the town every weekend. I felt that if I staying in I was acting ungrateful for the fact that I now had nothing holding me back. I built up the big 2-1 in my head for so long, that I had to make the most of it. <br /><br />At first, it wasn’t a problem. But, as that 21st year marched on, I found a sense of guilt come over me when I wanted to stay home and watch a romantic comedy in PJ’s on a Friday night. As my phone would flash and the Sex-In-City ring tone filled the air, I found it incredibly more difficult to tell my friends I wouldn’t be heading out that night. It was “Party-Guilt” and I allowed it to motivate me to get into the shower and get dressed to face another night out.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7lLhceR3tMM/Tv38O9ZclKI/AAAAAAAAAoU/VXcNWyhq3JE/s1600/guilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7lLhceR3tMM/Tv38O9ZclKI/AAAAAAAAAoU/VXcNWyhq3JE/s200/guilt.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />Thinking back to that year, there were a few nights when I did find myself, drink in hand, surrounded by friends, on the center of a dance floor somewhere, dancing like I’d never danced before—those nights I’m happy the “Party Guilt” got me out there. But that was a rare occasion. <br /><br />For the most part, when I went against my gut instinct to lay-low and spend the night in, I found myself yawning at bar, stuck talking to some D-list, guy who thought HE was the most interesting person HE’D ever come across. While my friend (whom guilted me to come out) talked to his equally disappointing wingman. <br /><br />Needless to say, those nights, did NOT make it into a facebook photo album. No great memories to stash away, just a filler-night—One of the many “other” bar nights in between all the great times. <br /><br />And that is the same risk we run with New Years Eve. It could be a night to remember for all time, or it could be a night where you just wished you were home in PJ’s in front of the TV. <br /><br />However, New Years Eve, has an extra component of stress. The involute decision of choosing the right way to ring in the New Year; A black-tie fancy party in the city, a low key shin-dig at a friends home, or a night in. Then we have to commit to a certain group of people to surround ourselves with; friends, family, all of New York City in Times Square. There is an endless list of options to commit to.<br /><br />And that’s what I think the problem is…not the options but the commitment. We don’t stay committed to what we really want to do. We have “Party-Guilt” to do something wild and make this year like no other. Then once we’re half-way into the night, if we find ourselves not having fun, we are stuck. <i>These are the plans we made, so we stick it out until midnight.</i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5IoAYeBil7w/Tv3-gfp5q2I/AAAAAAAAApU/bS0joJCNfD8/s1600/new-years-eve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5IoAYeBil7w/Tv3-gfp5q2I/AAAAAAAAApU/bS0joJCNfD8/s200/new-years-eve.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br />I remember a New Years Eve when I was in law school. I went out to dinner with family earlier in the night, a tradition we’ve had for many years. I remember, that year at dinner we had a fabulous time—a couple martinis, great food and laughing with my family. Sometimes it doesn’t get better than that. As the last plate was cleared from the table, I remember thinking that this great dinner was a foreshadowing of what was to come for the rest of the night. That this was just the beginning of a great New Years Eve. <br /><br />As, I buttoned my jacket, kissed my parents goodbye, and left the restaurant, I had high hopes for the evening. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. The party was a dud. As the ball dropped and I counting backwards from 10, I wished that I was back my family. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gCYb5Gaadmg/Tv39N_xNFMI/AAAAAAAAAok/A98yP9Btd48/s1600/bigstockphotoSadPartyGirl187660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gCYb5Gaadmg/Tv39N_xNFMI/AAAAAAAAAok/A98yP9Btd48/s200/bigstockphotoSadPartyGirl187660.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>But I didn’t leave. I decided on going to that party and I was committed. Mentally, I committed and would have felt bad leaving. Physically, it was New Years Eve and everyone I knew was drunk, so I was out of options for a ride home. <br /><br />Nevertheless, as I sat trapped in the awful party, I made a promise to myself. I promised that if I ever found myself in a situation where the thought of watching reality TV on DVR, while snuggled in my PJ’s sounded more fun, than I would cut and run—No matter what the date! <br /><br />So maybe that’s the key to a fabulous New Years Eve. Maybe we need to let go of all cliché “Supposed To’s.” Forget about the “Party-Guilt” and be honest with ourselves about what we think we want to do. But we have to remember that we’re human, and we’re fickle and we change our minds. Therefore, if we find ourselves in a situation, where we thought we’d have fun and it turns out a dud, it’s okay to cut and run. Plans are not set in concrete. Things come up, feelings permutate, and it’s okay to be flexible and change your mind. <br /><br />You see, despite all the New Years Eve stress and pressure, the day is actually about personal reflection and hope. It’s a time to look back and pat yourself on the back for surviving the past year. To take a moment and appreciate all you endured. To cerebrate and hold strong to the lessons you learned in the past year. To congratulate yourself on how far you’ve come in a years time. To think about the things you want to fix in your life. This is where the hope comes in…<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YYFNTzAgpn0/Tv39XRm97dI/AAAAAAAAAow/UlcL8CtvF5U/s1600/hope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YYFNTzAgpn0/Tv39XRm97dI/AAAAAAAAAow/UlcL8CtvF5U/s200/hope.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br />Despite your feelings about the past year, on this night, it is over. There is a hope. Hope for a new year, for better things to come. Hope for the opportunity to be a better person, live a better life. Hope to take new risks and open yourself up. Hope to make changes, take chances, and find adventure in the unknown of the 365 days that lay ahead of you. <br /><br />No matter what kind of year you’ve had, on New Year’s Eve you can reflect and celebrate the past year, or you can hope and celebrate a new beginning. <br /><br />The key is to not feed into the “Party Guilt.” Do what you WANT to do and if midstream it’s not what you thought it would be, cut and run to change the scenery. It’s not about where you physically are at midnight; it’s about where you are mentally. So get to a good place, do what will make you happy, and welcome the New Year with open arms. <br /><br /><b>SHORT AND SWEET…aka…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b><br />The point of New Years Eve is to celebrate. Sift through the “Party Guilt” and forget about clichés. Do what you want and when, or if, it’s not fun anymore, do something else. There are no rules and no “supposed to’s.” But don’t lose the real meaning of the night—<b>REFLECT, HOPE</b> and <b>CELEBRATE</b>! <br /><br /><i><b>Happy New Year!</b></i><br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OiGyx5ddSvI/Tv39jVVQSaI/AAAAAAAAAo8/2WirbsM5GVE/s1600/New-Years-Eve-Times-Square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OiGyx5ddSvI/Tv39jVVQSaI/AAAAAAAAAo8/2WirbsM5GVE/s200/New-Years-Eve-Times-Square.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">“If you always do what interests you, at least one person is pleased.” Katherine Hepburn </blockquote>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-78333247368629661332012-10-18T15:56:00.000-04:002012-10-18T15:56:55.099-04:00 Bullying…The New Epidemic…NOT<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l7Pio-7YF5E/UIBcrG-hpQI/AAAAAAAAAz8/m0scdd1E2Iw/s1600/stop-bully-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Another person falls victim to bullying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This tragic and horrible epidemic is newly taking over the teen and tween population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spreading like wildfire amongst the most impressionable generation all because of the bastard internet. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not true. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKmMBUBH0Bo/UIBc1AiUddI/AAAAAAAAA0E/bEG06BqRB3s/s1600/portrait_of_girl_making_fist_bld017545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKmMBUBH0Bo/UIBc1AiUddI/AAAAAAAAA0E/bEG06BqRB3s/s200/portrait_of_girl_making_fist_bld017545.jpg" width="200" /></a>In fact, bullying has been around forever. I remember sitting with my grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A 5’ foot tall, Irish woman, who had the sweetest face, and the sharpest tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was cute as a button, but that was only a façade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have been only 5 or 6 years old and I remember her teaching me a little song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat on her floral couch, wide-eyed and singing along. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s my pinkie…</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s my thumb…</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s my fist you better run! </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a silly little song, and with each line, we performed the corresponding movements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We showed our pinkie, then our thumb, and finally raised our fist with a very serious look on our face (crinkled nose and all).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the song we would laugh and laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she would become very serious and looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. </div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“<i>You listen to me honey; this is just a silly song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I want you to know that you never throw the first punch… ladies don’t act like tha</i>t.” </div></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">I shook my head in affirmation. “<i>Okay Grandma.</i>” I said. </div></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">She continued on, “<i>But if someone does start pushing you around, then you raise that fist and defend yourself like the feisty Irish girl that you are.</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I smiled up at her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was the picture of class, with her pearl necklace and long pink skirt, but those who knew her, knew better than to cross her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could hold her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I held onto the talk with my grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drawing on it time and again, as the tween and teen years approached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never did have to recite the rhyme and throw a fist, but I used my words to fire back quite a few times; stood up for myself when no one else would. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mcsRl927GUQ/UIBdIXVK1qI/AAAAAAAAA0M/URE5O3RbQYI/s1600/149198520_c37a40aa32_z.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mcsRl927GUQ/UIBdIXVK1qI/AAAAAAAAA0M/URE5O3RbQYI/s200/149198520_c37a40aa32_z.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I distinctly remember 7<sup>th</sup> grade, riding the bus home from middle school. An 8<sup>th</sup> grade girl, who, for whatever reason, decided to pick on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made small comments about how she wanted to cut my hair, rip my pink backpack off my back and beat me up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After about a week of this, I told my mom I didn’t want to take the bus anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through sobs I explained each humiliating moment to my mother. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She sat stoic, listening and offered me a comforting hug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, </div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“<i>I am not picking you up from school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are going to take that bus and your going to tell that girl to pick on someone one else.”</i> </div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal">I remember panic washing over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t my mother know that that was the LAST thing I was going to do? I wanted to avoid her and that bus… forever. </div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“<i>Lana, girls like this are all bark and no bite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You stand up for yourself and she won’t know what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a bully and she’s used to pushing people around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let her push you</i>.”</div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal">My mother continued on with this inspiration “Rocky Speech” to get me pumped up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throwing in that my grandmother would have never let anyone push her around, and I had to carry that legend on. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day, after school, I boarded the bus, sat in my seat and took a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to collect my thoughts as the bus pulled away and she began to taunt me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i>Nice side pony tail!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sike!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re such a loser.</i>”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When we reached the first stop, I stood up and cut her lewd remarks off. </div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“<i>You know what Rachael, if you want to beat me up so bad, then get off the bus and do it.</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She fell silent, so did the whole bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>Come on, you hot shot, you want to yell at me every day then back it up</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took my back pack off and walked to the front of the bus and got off. </div></blockquote><br /><div class="MsoNormal">The driver looked at me while I stood waiting and gave me a wink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus sat at that stop for three full minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing happened inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I stepped back on, Rachael was sitting quietly in her seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I walked back to my seat, I shouted one more thing to her. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>“If you don’t have the guts to back it up, stop flapping your mouth!”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I sat back at my seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus didn’t erupt into applause or anything like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was real-life, not some Lifetime movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that girl never bothered me again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact she never bothered anyone again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was so embarrassed that someone called her bluff, she never made another peep. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So why can’t people just “handle it” in modern day, like I did in the 90’s? Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because there is no shame, or embarrassment or ownership in a typed comment that is posted to a public wall or profile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The opportunity to say it in person is lost in the incessant comments and postings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JlvW8sTqDaU/UIBdqZnKJzI/AAAAAAAAA0U/VrP5iFxjMVg/s1600/Kid-Computer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JlvW8sTqDaU/UIBdqZnKJzI/AAAAAAAAA0U/VrP5iFxjMVg/s200/Kid-Computer.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Bullying is old hat, but it’s only recently that the internet has thrown it into the spotlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before the digital era, kids could only bully each other at school or at an after school event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now with the internet, the bullying can follow them home and onto their social media pages. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s sad really; that the drama of the day, can’t fall idle when the hallways become quiet in the after-school hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It used to be that whatever kid was bullied or humiliated that day would most likely be out of the spotlight the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, the 24 hour window of after-school time was enough for the adolescent brain to move onto the next oh-so-dramatic event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaving the kid that was Thursday’s sacrificial lamb, to be old news by Friday—If not, definitely by Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In current day however, there is no quiet time for the humiliation to sizzle out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, the fire is fueled, kept alive and well, on facebook, twitter and other new media. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But it’s not solely the internet’s fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still think the onus lies on the parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why are theses kids, ages 11-17 even allowed to have facebook pages, webcams, YouTube or twitter accounts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If posting pictures could be considered child-pornography, because you’re underage, then you shouldn’t have Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Facebook was created for college aged students in the early 2000’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It then grew to be inclusive to older populations who could join the city they lived in as their network to create a page. Somewhere along the line, the idea of having to be “part of a network” died and Facebook was available to everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So parents allow their tweens and teens to create digital identities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I say to you parents…what the hell did you expect to happen?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve all been bullied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve all been picked on, teased and embarrassed at some point in our adolescence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you haven’t, well then you’re lying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what I don’t remember are kids that were “cutters” or “emo.” (Which by the way, stands for EMOtional?) This whole generation of hyper sensitive, fragile paper-thin tween and teens need their parents to pay attention to them and teach them coping skills. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So why expose your children to an adult forum that you know will only encourage the taunting?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you honestly think will happen to a middle or high school aged child who has Facebook?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you think they will post life experiences, perspective and respectfully comment on friend’s posts and pictures?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get your heads out of your asses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be neotenous, and remember the soap opera of your teenage years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same stuff is going on. Remember how hard it is for your kids and do them a favor by telling them to get off the computers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t need social media; they need to learn social skills in real life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Set them up for success <b><u>NOT</u></b> failure. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">XOXO</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lana </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG </b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Talk to your children! Teach your children to communicate and speak about their emotions from an early age… then as they get older it won’t be difficult to speak with others if they are being bullied, harassed or threatened<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in any area of life… Standing up for yourself is what each and every one of us needs to be comfortable with. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“Stand up for what you believe in, even if you’re standing alone.” –Anonymous </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></blockquote><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal">“Bullies are always cowards at heart and may be credited with a pretty safe instinct in scenting their prey.” –Anna Cooper</div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l7Pio-7YF5E/UIBcrG-hpQI/AAAAAAAAAz8/m0scdd1E2Iw/s1600/stop-bully-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l7Pio-7YF5E/UIBcrG-hpQI/AAAAAAAAAz8/m0scdd1E2Iw/s200/stop-bully-logo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-68432742010375325722011-10-21T12:04:00.000-04:002011-10-21T12:04:49.637-04:00 Follow your Heart <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <br /> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6a3IS2O6NiM/TqGU24jDmKI/AAAAAAAAAk8/23pRW88t3mk/s1600/sparco-pink-ruled-jr.legal-pad-pic1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6a3IS2O6NiM/TqGU24jDmKI/AAAAAAAAAk8/23pRW88t3mk/s200/sparco-pink-ruled-jr.legal-pad-pic1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had just completed my first year of law school and I was clerking for a judge during my “Summer 1” <i>(as the law students call it)</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have been enjoying my time off from class but I didn’t feel happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At lunchtime, I should have been rubbing elbows with the higher ups, networking and learning the politics of the courthouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I sat in the giant window in the Judges Chambers with my salad, scribbling away furiously in a pink legal pad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I knew at Christmas of that year that I wasn’t happy in law school, but I kept pushing to make it fit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of gloating about the coveted clerkship I was privileged to obtain, I was writing, trying to organize my feelings on returning to law school for a second year. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LdOKp06HCnk/TqGU5qbA9TI/AAAAAAAAAlE/B6X2KGgyM38/s1600/jiminyCricket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LdOKp06HCnk/TqGU5qbA9TI/AAAAAAAAAlE/B6X2KGgyM38/s200/jiminyCricket.jpg" width="166" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Whenever I come to a crossroads in my life, I like to make a list of pro’s and con’s. Sounds kind of silly, that a list could help me make decisions, but my gut seemed to be confused and as hard as I looked for Jiminy Cricket, he didn’t appear to be anywhere in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was just me and my pink legal pad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I restored to the list. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The list was comprised of pro’s and con’s of topics like; time, starting over, staying on a set track and finances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Things that were logical and concrete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, in the column marked “Pro,” <i>(the upside for leaving law school) </i>I drew a <3 symbol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t write anything by it, I didn’t need to explain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my pencil drew the lines of the heart, I heard my mother’s voice in the back of my head, echoing, “If your hearts not in it, it’s nothing worth pursuing, you have to follow your heart.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RnDdUKHtxo8/TqGVrgkBCII/AAAAAAAAAl0/j96Ltqn0epI/s1600/stock-vector-draw-heart-on-white-paper-with-pencil-69107092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RnDdUKHtxo8/TqGVrgkBCII/AAAAAAAAAl0/j96Ltqn0epI/s1600/stock-vector-draw-heart-on-white-paper-with-pencil-69107092.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">That day, I stopped the incessant list and put down the pencil and pink legal pad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made my way over to my desk in the corner of the Judges Chamber and started Googling graduate programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like asking a child what they wanted to be when they grew up. I didn’t know, I hadn’t ever considered anything besides law, but this felt like the first day, in a long time, when I asked myself what would really make me happy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember not knowing exactly what I was looking for, but I knew it wasn’t law. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You see, the fountain of youth may be a myth but the secret to happiness is said to be found when you “follow your heart.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem however, is that your “heart” is merely an organ in your chest that beats and pumps blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This heart cannot be the one they are talking about.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Thv90nuYj5g/TqGVpoK7PsI/AAAAAAAAAlk/wQe94FMqw_k/s1600/doodles-grass-heart-hearts-love-notebook-Favim.com-73581_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Thv90nuYj5g/TqGVpoK7PsI/AAAAAAAAAlk/wQe94FMqw_k/s200/doodles-grass-heart-hearts-love-notebook-Favim.com-73581_large.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The heart we should follow must be the theoretical heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one that you draw on notebooks in elementary school when referencing your first crush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heart that accompanies your signature on the bottom of greeting cards at birthdays and holidays. The heart that, as you get into your teenage years, you’re warned <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NOT</b> to wear on your sleeve!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same heart people are referencing when they advise you to think with your head before your heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A thinking heart?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, this is where things get complicated… You see, the older we get the more we’re cautioned to handle our hearts with care. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">BUT WAIT</b>... How are we supposed to use caution with our heart and simultaneously be thinking with it and following it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There are just too may contradictions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should our hearts be cautioned or should they be followed like a beacon pointing us toward happiness? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">No wonder everyone is confused and many of us, including myself, end up a little lost. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You see, there seems to be two options…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We use caution with our heart, think first and think of others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing what makes others happy because were happy when our loved ones are happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget caution and follow your heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doing what makes ourselves happy even though it may disappoint or hurt the people that we so dearly want to make happy?</div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Neither sounds like a “<i>happily ever after</i>” to me…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The crux is that not everyone is going to be happy, despite the simple formula to “follow your heart.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us get lost and we forget about our heart so we stay lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people look at their lives and prefer to see the negative, dark things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They focus on what needs work rather than what needs credit and appreciation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They actively chose not to be happy with themselves and thus, they struggle to be happy for others. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lvDZt35clJ0/TqGVc3owc6I/AAAAAAAAAlc/XtpBFtNqTmM/s1600/happiness_by_superkeci.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lvDZt35clJ0/TqGVc3owc6I/AAAAAAAAAlc/XtpBFtNqTmM/s200/happiness_by_superkeci.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">You see, these people think that happiness will find them, so they fail to look for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The secret is that happiness is not something that spontaneously comes upon us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although at times it may pop out of the blue, I think it’s safe to say that happiness falls in line with almost every other aspect of life… in order to have it; you have to work at it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know, definitely <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NOT</b> something we wanted to hear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We wanted happiness to follow a fairy tale story line… that it just happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It comes knocking on your door and we embrace it and skip through the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like winning the lottery without ever having to buy the ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It should just strike our lives and everything falls into place. But that is the stuff Disney movies are made of, not life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Come on, we’re all adults here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now we know that fairy tale princesses, leprechauns and constant euphoria is not real. In life we have to work towards what we want and we have to embrace it and take it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, like most good things, happiness does exist without sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order to let in the good we have to let in the bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no path of least resistance to finding happiness. To obtain happiness it must be earned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Whether it is a goal, a career, a relationship with family, friends, or yourself… true happiness is only found when we consciously and consistently make the choice to be happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--NFKgif39LA/TqGVJeFZo-I/AAAAAAAAAlU/-w57fsXoxBQ/s1600/happiness.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--NFKgif39LA/TqGVJeFZo-I/AAAAAAAAAlU/-w57fsXoxBQ/s200/happiness.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The cliché “Follow your heart” reminds us to do what's right for ourselves, because happiness comes from within.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reminds us that trying to please everyone results in jumping through hoops and running in circles ultimately running the risk of ending up back at square one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">To “Follow your heart,” the first step is to find the gumption to ask yourself, what makes you happy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then you need to find the courage and endurance to go get it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Although the age old advice to “Follow your heart” may be an effective expression that reminds us to be our own leader. … It is a guide to advocate for ourselves, follow our own way and our own passion. However, it can be vague, and sometimes despite the simple formula, we would all rather just ask for directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When we really think about it, the expression enables us to avoid all of the confusion of leading and following or jumping through life’s hoops, circles, and squares. “Following your heart,” seems to sometimes place us exactly where we need or are supposed to be. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">xoxo</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lana</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be."~Abraham Lincoln</div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b-egZIAbHIA/TqGVq-fIByI/AAAAAAAAAls/nGeEClalcGQ/s1600/happiness-hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b-egZIAbHIA/TqGVq-fIByI/AAAAAAAAAls/nGeEClalcGQ/s200/happiness-hands.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-27356106444062736872011-09-16T12:02:00.002-04:002011-09-19T09:00:06.291-04:00 Show, Don’t Tell <div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-izv_uDnLvt8/TnNws9ckglI/AAAAAAAAAkY/l8EYHkVFgMs/s1600/work.4564890.5.flat%252C550x550%252C075%252Cf.cant-see-the-forest-for-the-trees%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-izv_uDnLvt8/TnNws9ckglI/AAAAAAAAAkY/l8EYHkVFgMs/s200/work.4564890.5.flat%252C550x550%252C075%252Cf.cant-see-the-forest-for-the-trees%255B1%255D.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>“A frail grasp on the big picture…” </b></div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now what the hell does that mean?? First time I heard this particular group of words strung together was in song by the band, The Eagles. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The song talks about the local bar…</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Good ol' boys down at the bar<br />Peanuts and politics<br />They think they know it all</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">About relationships…</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You don't have the slightest notion what long-term love is all about<br />All your romantic liaisons don't deal with eternal questions like:<br />"Who left the cap off the” freaking” toothpaste?" "Whose turn to take the garbage out?"</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And about morals….</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All our troubles will be resolved<br />We hold faith above all<br />Unless there's money or sex involved</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This song is brutally honest and makes complete sense. I’ll tell you why…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am currently teaching writing to college students at the local Community College. It’s English 100 and English 112. I found that in the past few weeks I’ve been stressing to my students a very old adage in writing; one, I think, is the secret to good writing. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Show, Don’t Tell.” </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I stand in the front of the room, dry erase masker in one hand, gesturing with the other hand saying…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t just tell me your character is nervous; show me her palms sweating, or her foot tapping, her heart beating out of her chest, or her finger mindlessly twirling her hair.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I explain that in writing, we have to remember that the reader is intelligent. The reader will draw the correct conclusions if the writer does a good job of leading them there. You don’t have to “spell things out” for the readers. (NO PUN INTENDED.) Telling a reader is much less effective than showing and allowing them to visualize the picture you’ve painted. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I explain, I can tell my 8:00AM lecture is resonating with some students. I can also tell that in many of the sleepy eyed college students; it’s going in one ear and out the other. They’re just not getting <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IT</b>!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which brings me to my next point…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">“UGH, why don’t you get <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">it</b>?” </div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It</b> is one of the standard “fighting words” appropriate to fire off in almost any situation. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It</b> blames the other person, “YOU” and the obscure, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“IT.”</b> Choosing <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“IT”</b> allows the blamer to accuse someone while simultaneously dancing around what’s really going on. When the infamous <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“IT”</b> is launched, it usually is code for, “There’s something bigger going on here; but I just don’t feel comfortable revealing the truth.” So <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“IT”</b> weasels its way into the equation. And that little word <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“IT”</b> can morph into an enormous wedge. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So what do song lyrics, writing, and fighting have in common? Well students, (that’s my teacher voice) they are all examples of a “frail grasp on the big picture.” The inability to get the infamous <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“IT.”</b> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You see in life, unlike in writing, you can’t always assume that dropping a hint or an inference is enough to lead someone to grasp a certain conclusion. In life, friendships and relationships; sometimes we have to let go, stop guiding or showing, and allow someone to sink or swim. Allow them to come to their own conclusions. Allow them to see the bigger picture, or not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AlGLBke63_U/TnNx-JZWprI/AAAAAAAAAko/kx25lHvb5dE/s1600/bgr2ja%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AlGLBke63_U/TnNx-JZWprI/AAAAAAAAAko/kx25lHvb5dE/s200/bgr2ja%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Perspective is a funny thing. It’s something that has to hit someone on its own. It cannot be forced upon them or taught in a 90 minute lesson. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But “Show, Don’t Tell,” isn’t lost completely in the real world. If someone claims to have miraculously obtained a new found “Perspective.” They want to make a change, be a better person, find another job, or embody a new attitude….Well, these are all groundbreaking revelations. But, if the revelation is all talk and no action…then it’s plain and simple Bullshit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So how can you tell if it’s really a new perspective? Whether it’s a game-changer or just plain games? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Show, Don’t Tell.” Just like in writing, to make the character believable, you have to show the reader. In life, to prove your own character, you have to show it. You have to live it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s like those people who diligently attend Sunday Mass each and every weekend. Rain or shine, on vacation or not. They find a church and they go. They think this makes them better people just because they showed up. Yet, upon leaving the church they can’t even hold the door for an elderly person walking behind them. As the door flops into grandma’s face—it’s clear they have a frail grasp on the big picture. They claim to be good Christians, but they don’t live it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Living it, showing it…that’s the hard part. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vu6gCqDrr4M/TnNxjj490aI/AAAAAAAAAkg/kUxQVDC6PMc/s1600/First_Love_2_by_MsCrys%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vu6gCqDrr4M/TnNxjj490aI/AAAAAAAAAkg/kUxQVDC6PMc/s200/First_Love_2_by_MsCrys%255B1%255D.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, a frail grasp on the big picture means that people tend to get so consumed with the small details; the minutia of life, that they have a weak hold on what’s truly important. What’s really going on; i.e. the big picture. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The sad part is that if you let the little stuff run your life, you miss out on the real lessons. The real perspective. The real things that you should be grateful for. So next time you feel upset, pissed off, annoyed, frustrated, fed up… think about the big picture. Think about how you hold onto it. Think about perspective. Are you showing and not telling? Maybe you need to reel yourself in and slap yourself back into check… </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">xoxo</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lana</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s easy to lose perspective. It’s easy to talk the talk. But life isn’t supposed to be easy, it’s supposed to be effort and gratification and lessons. So open up your mind and your eyes… look at the bigger picture and if you see it, hold on with both hands. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">“You can’t see the Forest through the Trees” –Unknown. </div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3fMw5eO5i2g/TnNxvu6t34I/AAAAAAAAAkk/-LuCyiFq4G4/s1600/Cannot-see-the-Forest-for-its-Trees-2-4394%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3fMw5eO5i2g/TnNxvu6t34I/AAAAAAAAAkk/-LuCyiFq4G4/s320/Cannot-see-the-Forest-for-its-Trees-2-4394%255B1%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-64088462431503250252011-02-18T12:08:00.001-05:002011-02-18T14:30:44.992-05:00Hallmark Has A Point?<br><br /><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3EQMijwr92U/TV6mFnBIJxI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/yKndqCseI3M/s1600/im_sorry_for_your_loss_card-p137097097005873254qt1t_400%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3EQMijwr92U/TV6mFnBIJxI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/yKndqCseI3M/s200/im_sorry_for_your_loss_card-p137097097005873254qt1t_400%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>“I’m sorry for your loss…” <o:p></o:p></em></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s what you’re supposed to say. But even as the words left my lips and resonated in my brain, I thought about how empty, generic and half hearted they seemed. As I listened to his voice on the voicemail I rehearsed saying it, but each time it sounded wrong. I wanted a Hallmark zinger; something short, sweet and powerful. <o:p></o:p></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At this point even if it rhymed and skimmed the surface of cheesy, I thought that it would have been better than “<em>I’m sorry for your loss.”</em></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This was a person I spent my childhood summers beside. He was someone I’ve known for almost two decades and I felt like the words “I’m sorry for your loss” were desensitizing<br />his situation. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This is when I really needed Hallmark, but instead was left to my own devices. Suddenly the voicemail beeped indicating for me to speak... </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1></p$1></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“<em>Hey… it’s me</em>.” I sounded too chipper; I tried to adjust my tone. “<em>I heard about your dad</em>…” Shit, now I sounded too depressing, I need to fix that {Long Pause} </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“<em>I know you don’t have a sister, so I guess that makes me the closest thing… so, I had to call you. I’m so sorry</em>.” {Another Long Pause} </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“<em>If you need to talk or you need a drink or you need a ride because you’ve already had too many drinks… just call me. Love you</em>.” </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1></p$1></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I hung up.</span></p$1></p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1></p$1></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It didn’t rhyme, it didn’t flow, there was no unearthing the meaning of life… but it did the job. Hallmark however, would have had an elegant way for me to state that, so I didn’t have to stumble over myself. Like I feel I just did.</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s moments like this that remind me why, even writers like myself, pay $6.99 for pre-packaged words beautiful organized into a harmonious greeting card. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s not because I couldn’t do it myself. I’m a writer; of course I could have put something to together… for someone else. But this situation was different, he’s my friend and I knew his dad and... </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s just when emotions cloud the logical and productive side of our brain, it’s difficult to pull the feelings out and stick them onto a page. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Maybe this is why the cards seem to stick for me? </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XohHCfE8MK0/TV6mRjmiXGI/AAAAAAAAAgU/7xVyQOcnjt0/s1600/IMG_1873%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XohHCfE8MK0/TV6mRjmiXGI/AAAAAAAAAgU/7xVyQOcnjt0/s200/IMG_1873%255B1%255D.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You see, Valentine’s Day is over, the flowers have wilted, the stuffed animals settled into their home a top of a bookshelf. The chocolates have been picked through and eaten; what are left are the undesired flavors marred by tiny nibbles, taken from the corner, to differentiate caramels from peanuts. The champagne has been popped, the surprises over and most of the red and pink mayhem has been marked yellow with a “<strong><span style="color: #bf9000;">Clearance</span></strong>” sign. Things have swiftly gone back to normal.</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the aftermath of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to admit, it’s a whole lot of fluff for what I call, one silly “Hallmark Holiday.” I’m down on Valentines, not because I’m bitter and single <em>(that’s only half true ha-ha) </em>mostly though because if you love someone, don’t save your money to buy overpriced roses on February 14<sup>th</sup>. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead buy a single rose from the drug store on a random Tuesday. To me, little private reminders, casually scattered throughout the year mean more than some showy gesture on V-day that is motivated sometimes just to “<em>keep up with the Jones</em>.”</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With that being said, there is one aspect to the debacle that does have sticking power. For me, what stands the test of time is ironically enough, the cards. The cards, which are the foundation of Hallmark. The words strung together on some half-folded piece of overpriced laminated paper. <o:p></o:p></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I mean who the hell decided we should pay $6.99 for a greeting card? But we do. And it’s usually<br />includes some cheesy catch phrase or rhyming idiom that are supposed to explain the meaning of life, but really just act as a cryptogram. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So, yeah, these cards are obnoxiously “Hallmark,” but we buy them anyway. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In fact we feel out of place giving a gift for any occasion without them. With each passing Holiday we continue to perform the ritual of card shopping. The ritual of dumping money to buy words written by someone else, in hopes that it can accurately express how we feel about the recipient. We buy the cards to personalize the day, gift, occasion. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S0Oxdfn0ZzE/TV6mzdMdzjI/AAAAAAAAAgc/TMXnF1AO_o0/s1600/greeting-cards%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S0Oxdfn0ZzE/TV6mzdMdzjI/AAAAAAAAAgc/TMXnF1AO_o0/s200/greeting-cards%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Whether it’s a need to express sorrow and a condolence, or a chance to express elation and love… we look to greeting cards. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The words, the message, the feelings they evoke come alive with each and every read. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since I was a child I always saved my cards. The wrapping paper, boxes, ribbons, bows were all quickly cleaned up into the garbage. Eventually the gift became outdated, broken, old… Somehow touched by time. But the cards remain. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I used to put them in the top drawer of my dresser after every Birthday, Christmas, Communion, etc. But by the time I was a tween, the drawer became full and now they sit in an egg crate in the back of my closet. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve considered throwing them all out and making room for more shoe racks, but as much as I love Shoes…I can’t do it. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m not really sure what I’m saving them for. I mean, what the hell, am I going to do with a huge stack of old cards? But I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. As I continued to get older, I’ve added graduation cards; welcome home cards, good luck cards, and romantic cards to the bin. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They are like a timeline of my life. Some were encouraging for</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">scary beginnings, some were congratulatory for confident middles, and some were sympathetic for bittersweet endings. </span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The cards tend to hold more clout than the “stuff.” The flowers, candy, even an embrace… all have a shelf life. The cards, however, memorialize our feelings. They don’t expire, they don’t wilt away, and they don’t just live in the moment. So next time you buy a card, think about the power it has and choose carefully…</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">xoxo<br />Lana<o:p></o:p></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><b><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</span></b></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>QUIZ:</em></span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Is Valentine’s Day an overpriced marketing ploy?</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Is it ridiculous that we pay over $6.99 for a disposable card that may only be read once?</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Do we need that sappy “Hallmark” shit every now and then?</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1></p$1></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">The answer to all of these is “<strong>YES</strong>.”</span></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1></p$1></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p$1></p$1></p$1><blockquote><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><p$1>"Life is a special occasion so celebrate” –Hallmark</p$1></span></blockquote></div><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uZAJbOKVWAs/TV6mYzbBr6I/AAAAAAAAAgY/4I8k7UTtzKY/s1600/SuperStock_1566-361710%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uZAJbOKVWAs/TV6mYzbBr6I/AAAAAAAAAgY/4I8k7UTtzKY/s200/SuperStock_1566-361710%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-19300155190507430572011-02-04T11:01:00.013-05:002011-02-06T16:45:14.333-05:00Forget “It” & The Ground Hog & Try To Balance<br><br /><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhBdNfyGI/AAAAAAAAAfg/PcAZfXswrv0/s1600/imagesCA2CHO43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhBdNfyGI/AAAAAAAAAfg/PcAZfXswrv0/s1600/imagesCA2CHO43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhBdNfyGI/AAAAAAAAAfg/PcAZfXswrv0/s200/imagesCA2CHO43.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p$1><blockquote><p$1><p$1>“<b>I want it all</b>!”</p$1></p$1></blockquote><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>Those four words are engrained in the foundation of the American Dream. Anyone can have it (whatever “it” is) as long as their willing to work for it. So, we 20somethings, trudge through school in hopes of finding “it”. We secure a job in able to work at achieving “it.” We focus on “it” and we make it our goal, our passion, our dream. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>The irony is, that those people who seem most “together,” the ones that are certain they’re going to find “it”, can end up the most lost. Those people who appear to know the program, the ones that are “on the right track” from the start… they are the ones who risk being farthest from “it.”</p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1> </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>I can make this general statement with confidence because I was one of those people. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>Smart, driven, confident and determined—all of which sounds good on paper, but can actually be a lethal combination. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>When you have these qualities and you chose to focus on the wrong thing; or if you find yourself pursuing the wrong “it”, well then you end up making quite a mess for yourself. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>In our (my) defense, the trouble is that you never really know your pursuing the wrong “it,” until you’ve lost all perspective. All that damn determination, confidence and wit has you convincing yourself that you’re doing the right thing. Heading you in the right direction and surrounding yourself with the right people. I mean come on… you’re so smart, how could you not know exactly what you’re doing? </p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><i>(Note the sarcasm)</i></p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><em></em></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhN1g3KOI/AAAAAAAAAfk/XFDwfq08O3Y/s1600/imagesCATNJDC5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhN1g3KOI/AAAAAAAAAfk/XFDwfq08O3Y/s1600/imagesCATNJDC5.jpg" /></a></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>Once you convince yourself that “it” is the one and only; goal, school, career, car, person, place—whatever it is… once you hone in on “it” and drive full speed toward it, you put on blinders. Not just any blinders, either, it’s the big dark leather blinders, the kind they put on horses, the kind that blocks out everything in your peripheral. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>Which would be fine if you’re going in the right direction… but what if you’re not? What if you need a moment to look away or a chance to see the bigger picture? What if you need a second to assess your whole picture... you can’t do it. You can’t do it because you’ve put so much pressure on yourself to keep chasing this one “it,” that you can’t give up now. You’re so close… </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>In fact, you’re so savvy that you’ve even convinced the people around you that this is your “thing,” your “it,” and you find them cheering you on from the sidelines. You’ve tricked the bystanders and worse, you’ve tricked yourself. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>So you get deeper into the commitment, the schooling, the contract, the job or the relationship. So deep that before you know it… that thing is your “it.” That schooling is your degree, that job your career, that relationship your life, and now you suddenly feel pigeon holed by life. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhTfrpwSI/AAAAAAAAAfo/vtGiWfvSNas/s1600/deflated_balloon%255B1%255D.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhTfrpwSI/AAAAAAAAAfo/vtGiWfvSNas/s200/deflated_balloon%255B1%255D.gif" width="200" /></a></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>It’s the “<i>This is it</i>?” feeling. It’s<span style="line-height: 115%;"> disheartening, like finding out Santa isn’t real, or letting the air out of a balloon painfully slow, until it lays limp on the floor, an unrecognized shriveled version of its former self.</span></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><span style="line-height: 115%;">You spent all of that time and effort pursuing this? You put blinders on for this? But, b</span>y the time you realize “this isn’t for me,” you’re so far in; it feels as if you’ll never be able to get out. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>But don’t worry… it only feels that way. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>The truth is that, the second you start to look outside of the blinders you’re able to get a good grasp on the real picture.</p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>And the real picture is that finding fulfillment from “it” (<i>job, place, goal, relationship, accomplishment</i>) doesn’t actually exist. Pursuing one thing head-on is a fruitless battle because that one thing won’t ever be truly enough. We’re programmed to want it all, remember? </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>That’s the frustration because we can’t ever really have it all. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>No matter how good you are at one thing, whatever “it” is… the bottom line is that it’s only ONE thing. Just because you have the job, now you want the promotion, the career, the relationship, the real estate, the bank account… you just keep adding things to your “Want” list. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhbJfDwVI/AAAAAAAAAfs/cizWrnUCQ08/s1600/groundhog_day%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhbJfDwVI/AAAAAAAAAfs/cizWrnUCQ08/s200/groundhog_day%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>Maybe this is why people have always been so fond of that Groundhog Day movie. Where the same day that plays over and over again. People like this movie because they identify with it. The silly comedy hits a heartstring because it portrays the real fear that life will be end up being one mundane routine that plays over and over again. Day in and day out. We fear we will never feel fulfilled and we will continually chase one goal after another in a tired cyclical fashion. </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>I think the solution to that movie… to the conundrum that is Ground Hogs Day, is to remember that life is about ebb and flow. It’s not about <b>ONE</b> thing. It’s about <b>TONS</b> of things and the hush-hush secret to a contented life is - balance. You have to have a little focus on success, mixed with a hint of competition, peppered with a desire to find love and acceptance, and finished with a dash of whatever “it” is that you love. The real key is to know when we have enough… </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>xoxo</p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>Lana </p$1></p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1></p$1> </p$1></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></p$1><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><b>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1><b><br /></b></p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="MsoNormal"><p$1><p$1>The best recipes are made with tons of ingredients; the best movies <i>(with the exception of Ground Hogs Day)</i> are created with a variety of scenes and vignettes… so why should life be any different? Forget <b>ONE</b> thing… Forget “it”. Life shouldn’t be singular; it’s supposed to be a complex plural, so strive for a hearty plethora of spice and pizzazz and leave the Ground Hog out of it… what does he know anyway?</p$1></p$1></div><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p$1><p$1><p$1><p$1><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhnmZnxEI/AAAAAAAAAf0/vMt1NizpjvA/s1600/300_55260%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TUwhnmZnxEI/AAAAAAAAAf0/vMt1NizpjvA/s200/300_55260%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p$1><blockquote><p$1><p$1> "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">That's the key to having it all: stop expecting it to look like what you thought it was going to look like" ~Quote from Sex and the City</span></p$1></p$1></blockquote><p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-48261116838731031862011-01-07T13:34:00.003-05:002011-01-08T12:46:58.802-05:00 Tech-No-kidology <br><br />Holy Hiatus! With Christmas and New Years falling on the weekend this year, I just couldn’t get my life together enough to sit down and blog… which I think is okay, because you readers probably couldn’t get your lives together to sit down and read either… We’re even!<br /><br />So during this hiatus, winter decided to rear its ugly head. Here in the Northeast we didn’t have a white Christmas, we had a white day-after Christmas. Whether you like snow or not, many Holiday/Christmas songs of a “<i>White Christmas,</i>” end up making most people long for it, even if they don’t particularly like snow. In short, had the storm arrived just 12 hours earlier, it could have arrived to open arms… but truthfully, instead, it was greeted with a groan. <br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZCDG8k0I/AAAAAAAAAcE/DjoNLme7Qas/s1600/4329869383_8704de4599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZCDG8k0I/AAAAAAAAAcE/DjoNLme7Qas/s200/4329869383_8704de4599.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />I guess at some point, snowstorms have had to stop being personally offended by the adult – hatred toward them.<br /><br /><ul><li>“We have to get to work” </li><li>“We have to reschedule everything now” </li><li>“I don’t want to shovel” </li><li>“Oh No, Look at the roads!” </li></ul><br />Whether we like it or not, all of those miserable expressions come seeping out of our mouths the second the snow starts sticking to the ground.<br /><br />Once you graduate high school, snow morphs from “<b>YEAH, DAY OFF</b>!” to “<b>UGH, I HATE SNOW!</b>” It’s a big, white, fluffy (sometimes mushy) inconvenience. <br /><br />If snowstorms had feelings, they would have to be offended. But while we bitch and moan, our gripes are countered with adolescent screams of joy! They pray for snow in school. They wear their PJ’s inside out in hopes of snow magically appearing. They close their eyes at night and dream about their back yards morphing into a winter sledding amusement park. <br /><br /><br /><ul><li>We see piles of snow, they see igloos and snowball forts.</li><li>We see a covered driveway and think about all that has to be shoveled and they see a clean palate for Snow Angels.</li></ul><br /><br />Kids put a happy spin on the snow. So even if a snowstorm did have feelings—which isn’t that far off, I mean, come on, we name Hurricane’s, why not give snowstorms a human quality too? So EVEN IF, they were offended by the adults, the adolescent elation and love for snow, far out ways our bitch-fest’s.<br /><br /><b>Or at least it used to…</b><br /><br />I’m not sure what happened in the last 10 years since I left grade school… okay so maybe it’s more like 15 years but who’s counting—I’m 20SOMETHING—remember?! ;)<br /><br />So, in that “window” of time, the kids of America have changed. They are technologically savvy. They get leapfrog laptops as toddlers and carry Playskool cell phones. When they become the age to go to school they listen to music on the school bus that blares through their ear buds courtesy of an iPod touch. They keep growing up and manage their homework on a palm pilot or smart phone, they Skype their friends after school and in 8th grade the stay current on who’s going out with whom, by watching the relationship status of their friends change on Facebook!<br /><br />The kids today are advanced. They are Techno/ digital and thus just too damn busy texting, skyping, downloading and Facebooking to make time for Snow! <br /><br />One of my best friends has a little brother in middle school. She called me during that last snowstorm pissed off. The conversation went something like this…<br /><br /><blockquote>“Lan, I have to talk to you.” She sounded upset, so I lowered the volume on my reality-show dujour.</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“There is something seriously wrong with my little brother…”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“Oh My God, is he okay?” My chest tightened, I was afraid what she would say next.</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“Yeah, he’s fine, it’s nothing like that” Whew, sigh of relief. “I asked my brother if he was going to hang out with his friends since it’s a snow day. He said “Yes” and went into his bedroom.”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“OK, so what’s the problem?”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“The problem is, he never came out.”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“Maybe you should check on him?” I was starting to wonder about my friend…</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“Exactly, so I went in to see if he was okay—maybe needed help doubling up on gloves or zipping up his snow boots. I open up his door and find him still in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, his TV blaring and he’s holding neon controllers in his hands jumping around his room.”</blockquote><br />Let me interject here. I do not have younger siblings, I have a nephew, but he’s 1, so I have no idea what in God’s name my friend is getting at. To me, it sounded like her brother had a bad case of cabin fever and maybe an adolescent nervous breakdown complimented by neon glow sticks? So I had to ask...<br /><br /><blockquote>“What the hell was he doing and where did he find glow sticks?”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“What? I didn’t say glow sticks, I said neon controllers, ya know for X-Box Kinect.”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><blockquote>“X-Box what?”</blockquote><blockquote><br /></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZ3qTFNzI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/s-p4qocLgDM/s1600/Move_Kinect%252520copy_w500%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZ3qTFNzI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/s-p4qocLgDM/s200/Move_Kinect%252520copy_w500%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><blockquote>“X-Box Kinect, it’s a new game!” I was instantly relieved there was a logical explanation for the glow sticks, I’d hate to think her middle school brother was already attending raves.</blockquote><br /><blockquote>“So anyhow, I asked him what he was doing and he said he was playing with his friends. Apparently they can all log-on and play these games together. I asked him if he was going to play in the snow and he said, ‘<u>No, its cold out!</u>’ What is wrong with these kids today?”</blockquote><br />And there is was, the age old, official statement... <b><i>“What is wrong with these kids today?!”</i></b> The second you find yourself saying that in normal conversation, it’s a red flag you’re officially an adult! My friend continued to rant for a few more minutes about how watching your friend on a computer or logging on and playing a game doesn’t count as “playing with friends” or “hanging out.” <br /><br />She was right though. Not only are these kids isolating themselves with technology, but because they all log on to chat on the computer, play on X-Box or skype from a video, these poor kids actually think they are still “hanging out” with one another. <br /><br />It’s funny though; we spend our childhood, trying to act like a grown-up. Thinking about what we’ll be when we grow up, trying to learn as much as we can so we can act and be grown up. Then one day, we find ourselves, all grown up.<br /><br />At that point, we realize that we will now forever spend tons of energy and time, saving money so we can take vacations and act like a kid again. We yearn to travel so we can marvel at something the same way we marveled at snow as a child. We wait in baited breath for Friday night, for the weekend to get here, so we can be care-free for 48 hours, just like we were as a kid, before its back to the grind of adulthood on Monday. We even drive our cars with bumper stickers that say, "I<i>t’s never too late to enjoy your childhood!"</i><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZmElkpzI/AAAAAAAAAcM/ltjJdNtbwGg/s1600/snowball-fight%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZmElkpzI/AAAAAAAAAcM/ltjJdNtbwGg/s200/snowball-fight%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Maybe these kids need a little reminder. You have to soak up your youth while you still have the chance. Put those Ziplock bags over your socks and stick them inside snow boots to keep the snow out, because you’re going to go out there for hours.<br /><br /> And who cares if you get sick, because you’ll just stay home from school. The teacher can’t email you homework, you’ll just have wait till the next day when you get there.<br /><br />See, there really were some perks about not being digitally connected! ;)<br /><br /><b><br /></b><br /><b>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</b><br /><b><br /></b><br />These kids (and us, because the adults are setting the example) don’t need to log on to achieve being connected. We have to log<b> OFF</b> and get <b>OUTSIDE</b> into the world. Build a snowman, have a snowball fight, build a fort, make snow angels, be the first steps in the snow-covered wonderland of life outside after a snowstorm… there’s no age limit!<br /><br />Half the fun of a snow day was meeting friends, “half way” and trudging through the snow together. The streets are empty, the snow is still, and the only thing you can hear is the echo of your own giggles as you and your friends pummel each other with snowballs. <br /><br />We have to remind the younger generation of this… That you don’t have to hook something up to your TV, have Internet connection or download something to have fun. Let’s all help these little techi’s, so that they don’t DVR and fast-forward right through their own childhoods.<br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>“Too many people grow up. That's the real trouble with the world; they grow up and they forget. They don't remember what it's like to be 12 years old.”- Walt Disney</blockquote><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #003399; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><u><br /></u></span></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZaaMw11I/AAAAAAAAAcI/KEPvUZIaOwo/s1600/snow-angel%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TSdZaaMw11I/AAAAAAAAAcI/KEPvUZIaOwo/s320/snow-angel%255B1%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-17397944842219572592010-12-10T16:07:00.000-05:002010-12-10T16:07:40.087-05:00Damn Old People vs. Neotony<br><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKVrnyLnsI/AAAAAAAAAX4/x_kon1HOwqo/s1600/9780061549236_0_Cover%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKVrnyLnsI/AAAAAAAAAX4/x_kon1HOwqo/s200/9780061549236_0_Cover%255B1%255D.jpg" width="157" /></a></div>I have always loved “colorful” words. When I was a child, I called big words or rare words “foo-foo” words. You see, my love affair with words started very early on. I was the youngest in my family and running after my brother and sister, screaming, “wait for me” in every aspect possible. So as I struggled to keep up and be taken seriously, I looked to language to help me. I knew that words and correct phrases could aid me in communicating and getting my point across; but even more, these “foo-foo” words made me sound like a “real big kid.” <br /><br />So here is a true “big-kid” “foo-foo” word: <br /><br /><blockquote><strong><u>Neotony—Pronounced (<em>Knee-ot-Knee</em>)</u></strong> </blockquote><br />It is a 50-cent adjective for describing someone. Literally defined as “the retention of childlike attributes in adulthood.” <strong>Decoded: it means to be youthful-minded</strong>. <br /><br />Now, neotony is a funny thing. It needs to be balanced. For some people the idea of neotony is laid on too thick. They have retained too many childlike attributes and carried only those attributes to their adulthood. For that we cannot call these people neotenous, instead we call them Immature Idiots <em>(yes, that is a technical term).</em> <br /><br />The opposite is true for people without any traces of neotony. For those people who have not retained any childlike attributes in adulthood, we affectionately call them Grouchy, Crotchety or Uptight.<br /><br />Moral is, you can’t have too much and you can’t have too little. The amount is different for everyone. Some need just a dash and some need a heavy-handed spoonful. <br /><br />The problem is that even when you know how much you need, it’s difficult to maintain this easy-going, understanding, childlike mentality. <br /><br />I think a lot of times the elderly people get this bad reputation. They logically seem like the ones who would have the most difficult time being neotenous. They are the furthest from youth right? So, it would be easy to blame it on the older generation. However, I just can’t stake the claims there, because I have a grandpop who is the definition of neotony.<br /><br />“<em>Hi, I’m not available to take your call leave me a message</em>,” It was my Grandpop’s answering machine. I didn’t leave a message; I decided to call his cell phone. (That’s right, my 83-year-old grandfather has a cell phone). He answered. <br /><br /><blockquote>“Hello Lan.” <br /><br />“Hi Pop, I was going to stop by, where are you?” I could hear the wind through the phone and I knew he was in the car headed somewhere. <br /><br />“I’m going to Coatesville to see Wanda.” Wanda is his new girlfriend who he drives 45 minutes to see, about three times a week. <br /><br />“Oh, OK Pop, no big deal. I was just stopping by to talk, I had some trouble at work today—<strong>BEEP BEEP</strong>,” I was cut off by the sounds of his horn. <br /><br />“God damn old people, get off the road if you’re afraid to drive,” my grandfather yells at the passing car. <br /><br />I laugh out loud into the phone. “Damn old people driving too slow again Pop?”<br /><br />“ Yeah! It’s a disgrace. I’m no spring chicken, but I don’t act like an old person and I sure as hell don’t drive like one.”</blockquote><br /><br />My grandpop is right. Regardless of age, if you act too old or too young, then you live your life like you’re too old or too young. You see neotony doesn’t have an age. It’s a state of mind. <br /><br />Generally, this trait of remembering and identifying with youth is scarce among adults. We have too many responsibilities, bills and obligations from the <strong>REAL WORLD</strong> to take the time to be youthful again. We’re always moving forward, not backwards.<br /><br />So, for people to be neotenous all through the year, it is rare. I think it’s something that has to be worked on every day, so it can become a way of life. <em>(I think my grandfather has mastered this).</em><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKWB7Pq-VI/AAAAAAAAAYE/eJTSAFmmM8Q/s1600/2007display1%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" n4="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKWB7Pq-VI/AAAAAAAAAYE/eJTSAFmmM8Q/s200/2007display1%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>But at Christmas time, <em>(or whatever holiday you celebrate)</em> the joy of the season releases magic into the air that intoxicates all who allow it. Even the most rigid of adults can be found standing in awe at a Holiday light display. We are overcome with the wonder of the season. So, we struggle to wrap and hide gifts to keep the façade of Santa Claus alive for the next generation of believers. We smile at the sound of sleigh bells on the radio station as it tracks Santa Claus, and we curl up on the couch to partake in the yearly showing of Frosty the Snowman. <br /><br />We do this because at the holiday’s it’s easy to remember just how damn wonderful it was to be a kid.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKV1noKeuI/AAAAAAAAAX8/m68kBx33EfE/s1600/ONTHEFLIPSIDE_LO_FF%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKV1noKeuI/AAAAAAAAAX8/m68kBx33EfE/s200/ONTHEFLIPSIDE_LO_FF%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Then there is the <strong>FLIP SIDE:</strong><br /><br />Although the holidays bring out the kid in many of us… the holidays also brings out the true Grinch’s that walk among us. Everyone is always recognizing the happiness, joy and good tidings of the season. But what about all the people whose miserable attitudes are extra apparent, as they shed a dark cloud over the holiday cheer. We all have those “<em>token people</em>” in our families or groups of friends. Those people who just seem to suck the joy right out of the neotenous moments in life.<br /><br />My mother has a sign that reads:<br /><br /><blockquote><strong>“You pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family”</strong></blockquote><br />At Christmas time, those people we wouldn’t necessarily “pick,” sit beside us at the dinner table. They are people that we are related to and we can’t, for the life of us, figure out how we were cut from the same cloth. People we wouldn’t necessarily be friends with; but whom we are forced to celebrate the season with. <br /><br />So as you deflect these “Lemon Relative’s” <em>(See previous blog about Lemons </em>) remember that neotony doesn’t have an age. As you master the art of deflecting a grumpy, uptight relative, keep in mind that just because someone looks “old,” they may not be driving through life like an “old person”. Neotony doesn’t discriminate and those of us who are successful in our “mature, responsible, outlook; coupled with a side of neotony,” need to stick together! <br /><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br />Christmas is a time to be joyous… but with the extra joy surrounding us, it is easier to point out the old-minded-stick-in-the-mud relatives. Their un-neotenous ways are glaringly obvious. So just like we do with the Lemon People… <strong>AVOID, AVOID, AVOID</strong>! <br /><br />Remember… if you don’t want to drive through life like an “<em>old person</em>,” don’t act like one! To stay young minded, you need to remember being young. So, enjoy the season and take the opportunities to act like a kid again! <br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKV8ppiJtI/AAAAAAAAAYA/tycA9QDORxY/s1600/Young%252520at%252520Heart%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TQKV8ppiJtI/AAAAAAAAAYA/tycA9QDORxY/s320/Young%252520at%252520Heart%255B1%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-40424013582095230352010-11-19T13:34:00.000-05:002010-11-19T13:34:14.198-05:00Thanks-Christmas? What about Thanksgiving?<br><br />If you read last week’s blog, you understand that it wasn’t an easy week for me. If you didn’t read last week’s blog, I’m not going to re-hash it, but what I will say is this—losing a pet is hard.<br /><br /><div> </div>So, when life dishes out something that is difficult, depressing or tiresome, I think we are entitled to a break. We are allowed to reward ourselves for surviving and getting through a particularly hard time. The problem is that life isn’t always fair. Just because you’ve made it through something hard doesn’t mean it will be offset by something wonderful. The Yin and Yang of the universe are not in perfect harmony. There is the “unknown” that we must factor in. <br /><br /><div> </div>Dare I say it, but sometimes when things are hard, it only means more “hard” is right behind it. This is why I believe that when life offers a “break in the action,” even if it’s just a few hours, we should grab onto it with both hands. During this proverbial “break,” I think we are entitled to something nice. <br /><br /><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObCksnohtI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/xJOxlC2SbSU/s1600/retail-therapy%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObCksnohtI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/xJOxlC2SbSU/s200/retail-therapy%255B1%255D.jpg" width="136" /></a></div>In 2010, during a time when consumerism makes the world go round, what better way to indulge in your break than participating in what I call “<strong>Retail Therapy</strong>.” <br /><br /><div> </div>I would define this as the action of going out to a store and buying something to make yourself feel better. I’m sure some would argue that buying a material “thing” is not a good coping skill. Maybe, those people are right. You probably shouldn’t be out shopping for a new boat or a house just because you endured a rough day. However, what I’m suggesting is indulging in something small and cheap. An easy quick fix to change your mood, but won’t infringe upon your life savings. <br /><br /><div> </div>As much as I love designer clothes and shoes, expensive jewelry and booking trips to exotic destinations—these are NOT what fall into my category of retail therapy. Instead, last week, when I needed a little “pick me up” I headed over to the drug store. <br /><br /><div> </div>As I walked into the entrance of my local CVS pharmacy, I squinted my eyes in an attempt to shield them from the fluorescent light beaming through the threshold. It was a stark contrast to the dark sky <em>(which sadly occurs around 5:30 these days—damn daylight savings).</em> While my eye’s adjusted, I grabbed a cart and leaned onto it, as if the cart could temporarily carry the weight of my day. I walked slow, dragging my feet behind the car and can feel the stresses of the day dissipate as I roamed from aisle to aisle.<br /><br /><div> </div>I am usually in a hurry, crunched for time, under a deadline; but in this moment, with the tacky love songs blaring through the store speakers I let go of those constraints for a few minutes and wandered aimlessly through the store. I wasn’t there to purchase anything that required the assistance of a cart; but I pushed it anyway. After about 5 minutes of wandering, I ditched the cart and walked to the back where the stacked shelves house my glossy, beloved “trash magazines”. Most commonly known as celebrity gossip magazines—In Touch, US Weekly and STAR. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObCrPO1jaI/AAAAAAAAAXU/Iw9QXtNFQr4/s1600/svLIES-420x0%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObCrPO1jaI/AAAAAAAAAXU/Iw9QXtNFQr4/s200/svLIES-420x0%255B1%255D.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>These are my more common purchases when indulging in retail therapy. I call them “trash magazines” because they serve no intellectual purpose, are poorly written/put together, and once read end up right in the trash. People rarely keep them to read twice. Yet, despite their lack of academic, intellectual or accurate content, these “trash magazines” are my guilty pleasure. They are my “break in the action.” <br /><br /><div> </div>They allow me to indulge in the good ole’ past time of mindless boredom. They provide an opportunity to clear your head of all “heavy” thoughts, give your brain a moment to rest and escape the annoyances and commitments of every-day life. <br /><div> </div>Usually this works, but this week, as I roamed through the CVS I couldn’t help but get ticked off. I should have been thinking...<br /><br /><div> </div>Yummy food, pumpkin pie, counting blessings and lying, on the couch watching football. Instead, it was jungle bells, snowmen and red and green mayhem. The Holiday pushing was out in full force! <br /><br /><div> </div>Thanksgiving is in a few days, but sadly you wouldn’t really know it… The Christmas season has pushed its way in and overshadowed the feast that is Thanksgiving. You would think Christmas could be gracious—giving that it has all the religious adaptations: Kwanzaa, Chanukah and Ramadan. It even gets an <em>“eve”</em> and a <em>“day.”</em> Even more, it is referred to as a “<em>season”</em> not just a <em>“holiday”. </em><br /><br /><div> </div>It’s definitely the holiday with preferential treatment and it seems to be socially allocated enough time… but NO! Christmas has to go and step on the toes of poor Thanksgiving. Well Bah-Hum-Bug! How am I supposed to distress during my retail therapy outing when that smiling reindeer is staring at me and seems to be mocking me with his red nose—reminding me of all of the shopping I haven’t started yet. <br /><br /><div> </div>I am a huge Christmas fan, although from my preceding paragraphs you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true.<br /><br /><div> </div>I love Christmas; drinking hot cocoa while watching "<em>The Polar Express"</em> and watching “<em>A Christmas Story</em>” on repeat for the 24 hours leading up to Christmas Day. Wrapping presents, decorating the tree, and baking cookies. Listening to the radio as it tracks Santa’s sleigh and plays endless Christmas tunes. <br /><br />I am confident that for another consecutive year I will overplay—no that’s not strong enough—I will absolutely kill the Mariah Carey song “<em>All I Want For Christmas Is You</em>”, so much that anyone who steps foot near my car will roll their eyes in disgust wondering how I could be content listening to it over and over. I’m telling you, I love Christmas… I just don’t love it before it’s scheduled to arrive. <br /><br /><div> </div>I want to ignore it, I want to look away and just enjoy the Thanksgiving holiday, but it’s virtually impossible when the stores fronts, drug stores and supermarkets are bursting with red and green just hours after Halloween has passed.<br /><br /><div> </div>Maybe, in a society of consumerism, the problem is that there isn’t much to “market” by way of retailers for poor Thanksgiving. <br /><br /><div> </div><ul><li><strong>Halloween</strong> = overpriced costumes</li><li><strong>Valentine ’s Day</strong> = overpriced greeting cards and giant overpriced stuffed hearts with creepy adorning arms or 4 foot teddy bears (all of which you donate to toys-for-tots a few weeks later. I mean who has a place for a 4-foot bear?) </li><li><strong>Fourth of July/Memorial Day/Labor Day </strong>= we drop loads of money on red, white and blue EVERYTHING along with smuggling fireworks and all the dressings for a BBQ. </li></ul><br /><div> </div>But Thanksgiving is really only about food and giving thanks. No trinkets to buy, gifts to wrap, costumes to wear or fireworks to set off. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObC6VVzDeI/AAAAAAAAAXY/aqMxrgP93JY/s1600/black-friday%252520target%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObC6VVzDeI/AAAAAAAAAXY/aqMxrgP93JY/s200/black-friday%252520target%255B1%255D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><strong>Maybe this is where “<em>Black Friday</em>” came from?</strong> <br /><br />Just maybe the big business’s realized there wasn’t any money to be made off of people getting together and being grateful for their blessings. There was nothing motivating these grateful people to buy/shop at Thanksgiving. So, instead of allowing society to take a moment and give thanks for the abundant blessings, retailers distract us with the ding of cash registers and signs luring us in to “<em>BIGGEST SAVINGS OF THE YEAR</em>.” <br /><br /><div> </div>This should work. But, for someone like me who whole heartedly believes in the benefits of relaxing retail therapy and mindless trash magazines, you would think I would be on the Holiday-Pushing, Early-Christmas-Shopping, Black-Friday-Bandwagon. But I’m not… To be honest, I think all you Black Friday shoppers are crazy to be up that early and ballsy to face those massive crowds. I’ve never had the draw. <br /><br /><div> </div>As I said last week, I <strong>HATE</strong> the pushing. I truly believe we all need to slow down and stop the rushing. I am a huge fan of taking things in stride, allowing the natural domino effect of life to take its course, including appreciating the beauty of each and every holiday—particularly Thanksgiving— since it’s one of the rare holidays that isn’t driven by consumerism; but is still rooted in the origins of being thankful for life’s real blessings.<br /><br /><div> </div><strong>SHORT AND SWEET… AKA… MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br /><div> We are too busy to hold doors and say thank you. We don’t write out thank-you notes, instead we shoot an email with the subject line reading “<em>Thanx.”</em> There are many instances when we are more productive and less appreciative. We expect instant gratification and forget how lucky we are to get it.</div><br /><div> </div>Although, I think we should continue to participate in personal retail therapy sessions, during Thanksgiving, I think we should give the credit cards a break and <strong>FORGET</strong> about Christmas shopping for a moment—at the very least until Black Friday. Don’t worry Christmas is coming, but it’s not here yet! Before you surrender to full blown Christmas shopping madness, take a moment, and in the spirit of Thanksgiving… just be thankful.<br /><br /><div> </div>xoxo<br />Lana <br /><br /><div><blockquote>We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder <br /><br />I have strong doubts that the first Thanksgiving even remotely resembled the "history" I was told in second grade. But considering that (when it comes to holidays) mainstream America's traditions tend to be over-eating, shopping, or getting drunk, I suppose it's a miracle that the concept of giving thanks even surfaces at all. ~Ellen Orleans</blockquote></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObC_NILulI/AAAAAAAAAXc/k5cjAQNFans/s1600/happy-thanksgiving%2525202010%255B2%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TObC_NILulI/AAAAAAAAAXc/k5cjAQNFans/s320/happy-thanksgiving%2525202010%255B2%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div> </div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-65456483923902383082010-11-05T14:18:00.002-04:002010-11-05T20:42:30.424-04:00Whether the Weather Whispers a Reminder<br><br />It was time. As long as I tried to put it off, as much as I pretended it wasn’t happening, as much as I hoped to ignore it… It was time. <br /><br />This week, in Northeastern America, those of us holding tight to grips of summer had to let go. We were forced to do the dreaded “switch.” <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TNRHq_C_OyI/AAAAAAAAAWc/mFX4lbfWCp8/s1600/how-to-organize-seasonal-clothes-1%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TNRHq_C_OyI/AAAAAAAAAWc/mFX4lbfWCp8/s200/how-to-organize-seasonal-clothes-1%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div>Packing up beloved sun dresses made of paper thin material that sways in the wind and replaced them with warm, fuzzy sweaters that will attempt to keep our body heat <strong>IN</strong> and the frigid cold <strong>OUT</strong>. We swapped open toed sandals for stark heavy boots. The last days of Indian summer ended and officially fall is here. </div><br /><div></div>Every year at this time of year, I gripe about the change in season, temperature and weather, but this year I noticed something different. No I’m not talking global warming or anything like that, the difference I noticed this year was not environmental, it was perspective provided, through care of my 15-month-old nephew. <br /><br />Isn’t it weird that we say months for the first few years of life, maybe it’s because babies are changing so much that we need to differentiate the exact age to mark the milestones of first step, first food, first dessert, first word etc. Years just aren’t exact enough. <br /><br /><div> </div>Fall is like that too. Each day is so different that lumping all the spectacular changes into one seasonal category “Fall” just doesn’t seem accurate enough. There are …<br /><br /><ul><li><strong>End of Summer-Fall</strong> (<em>commonly called Indian Summer</em>), </li><li><strong>Warm-Fall </strong>(<em>where we still fake the appropriateness of flip-flops</em>) </li><li><strong>Cool-Fall</strong> (<em>where we pretend a light jacket is appropriate but we are really freezing our ass off</em>)</li><li><strong>Blustery-Fall </strong>(<em>thank you Winnie the Pooh, enough said</em>) and finally</li><li><strong>Oh-Shit-It's-Almost-Winter-Fall</strong> (<em>which induces the seasonal “switch</em>”) </li></ul>The variety is vast because of the temperature, but the variety is also visible in the aesthetics. The colors seem to pop, as if polished by the cool air and finally able to vibrantly show off their best assets. But you have to pay attention, because the colors and temperature changes quickly. Like trying to take a picture of a setting sun; each shot is different because every minute the sky is changing—the sun is sinking and the colors are reflecting differently. <br /><br /><div></div>The same is true of fall. Every day “outside” is different.<br /><br />At this point in my life, I’ve lived through 25 “Falls”—well this being my 25th. So although I have a fair share of Fall experiences, it wasn’t until this year that I really took in the magic of the season. You see I’m a summer girl, so I never paid Fall much attention. Yet, all of a sudden, because of my 15 month old nephew I am seeing the beauty of the season in a whole new light.<br /><br /><div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TNRHyW4YgvI/AAAAAAAAAWg/Ry7W2Y5-IkY/s1600/kampanjbild_hb%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TNRHyW4YgvI/AAAAAAAAAWg/Ry7W2Y5-IkY/s200/kampanjbild_hb%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a>It was a few weeks ago, when it was still “Newborn Fall” or Summer-Fall, and I took my nephew for a walk. I placed him in his stroller and bent down to buckle him in. As I did, a big gust of wind whipped by our faces and my nephew smiled as the wind danced across his face. I fastened his belt and he pointed up to the tree’s “Ohh,” he said. I followed the direction of his chubby little finger and noticed he was pointing at the tops of tree’s swaying in the wind. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><blockquote>“Tree’s” I said.<br />“See” he repeated and kept pointing<br />“Yes, I see the tree’s buddy…” </blockquote>I went around to the back of the stroller and pushed him along to a park by his house. When we got to the park I freed him from the constraints of his stroller and put him down in the grass. He started walking, towards the swing-set (his favorite) when another big gust of wind whipped by. He turned and looked at me, and then pointed to the trees,<br /><br /><blockquote> “See,” he said. </blockquote>I looked up at the tree’s bending with the wind and realized now that he wasn’t pointing at the tree’s at all, in fact he was pointing out the wind. <br /><br /><div></div><blockquote>“Wind,” I said to him. </blockquote>He looked at me and smiled, as if happy that I finally understood him. As we played and the wind blew I would stop him. <em>“Listen Angelo</em>,” I said as the wind whooshed by. He would stop in his tracks and stay still… letting it brush over him.<br /><br />As people, it seems common practice to hear the wind, we even have a word for it’s sound. Cows say <em>“Moo,”</em> Pigs say <em>“Oink”,</em> and the Wind says, <em>“Whoosh.” </em>Even though I already knew how to identify wind, I never really noticed it anymore. I was too busy rushing to work, too busy getting to an appointment, attending a meeting or reaching a deadline. Too busy to hear it whispering it’s presence. I needed my nephew to reassure me of its wonderment.<br /><br />In 2010, it is inherent to want to be productive and efficiently use the time we have. So we plan, we micro manage our lives with day-timers, Blackberry’s, planners, and calendars. We try to fill up every moment so that we can be productive in a fruitless attempt to do it all and be everything to everyone. All the while we are forgetting the little things.<br /><br />I remember last year, at this exact time of year I felt such freedom being out of law school, but I also felt lost. I had no job, no direction, no prospects for a job, and the only thing that kept me going was to attend graduate classes two nights a week. Despite my most diligent, organized and best efforts to execute my plans, life had different plans in store for me. <br /><br /><div></div>So what’s the point of making a plan if we never really stick to it anyway? I guess we make them because they help us put our dreams into action. They provide us with to-do lists and schedules to follow that keep up on track. Yes, we know we will fall off track… that’s the whole point… but we have to do something, so we plan, we dream, we find something to work towards—even if it starts out as the wrong plan. <br /><br /><div></div>We do it because we can’t just sit around waiting for our lives to start and working toward what we think is right in that moment, is the only thing we know to do. But we have to be open to stopping in out tracks, taking an inventory of where we are, soak in the small moments and sometimes revaluate the plan. <br /><br /><div></div>You see, I thought that when you had a plan and you work hard, then things work out. They don’t fall into place. They end up the way they do, because you put the plan in motion. But when I stopped to reevaluate, I decided to pick the brains of some successful people whom I hoped to emulate, <br /><br /><em>"So, how did you end in your position?”</em> Many would respond… <em>“Ya know, I don’t know, it just kinda found me or it all fell into place I guess.”</em> <br /><br />This answer used to torque me. I never understood how things could just fall into place. <br /><br /><div></div>It wasn’t until recently that I realized, sometimes, we need to stop our plan and just let the wind blow us where we’re supposed to be.<br /><br /><div></div>Maybe this is why I’m so reluctant to let go of summer, because in the summer, every week I plan to go to the beach—and that’s it. I never know what I’ll do when I get there; I just plan to get there. Maybe that’s the secret… <strong>To plan a general idea and leave the rest open to adventure, opportunity and fate. </strong><br /><br /><div></div>To stay up with the daily to-do lists, but leave time for error, relaxing, adventure. Leave time to stop and notice the small stuff, like the sounds and feel of the wind. Allow yourself to move with the changing breeze of life. Be open to new opportunity and when fate comes knocking at your door—open it, if it doesn’t go according to your original silly plan, another breeze will blow. <br /><br />We only live once, so we have to make the most of it and we have to soak up as much as we can of it. The ever-changing seasons remind us of this. The seasons...and my innocent little nephew, who is wise enough to notice the power, pleasure and purpose of the wind blowing around us… <br /><br /><div></div><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br /><div></div>Life and weather are both unpredictable—the twists and turns are endless and you’re never really quite ready for them. They don’t ever fit in our original plan; in fact they throw a wrench in it. So ditch the rigid plan. Make one so you have some motivation but stop to see/feel the wind and when you do, let it blow you in whatever direction it pleases. <br /><br /><div></div>xoxo<br />Lana<br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>“I don't mind the wait, it's fine, as long as you know, it's the wait that could be the something…So, Let the wind blow us to wherever it says we are supposed to go.” ~ Joshua Radin<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TNRIO_DrUUI/AAAAAAAAAWk/yKPkPSeUkkw/s1600/060870_8a76ab36%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TNRIO_DrUUI/AAAAAAAAAWk/yKPkPSeUkkw/s320/060870_8a76ab36%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-27219947261956927602010-10-29T14:25:00.003-04:002010-10-29T14:34:57.570-04:00Once a year…Tricks, Treats and Slut-ification<br><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TMsQjFf-6LI/AAAAAAAAAWM/o6mdj2suxSE/s1600/halloween2-main_Full%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" nx="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TMsQjFf-6LI/AAAAAAAAAWM/o6mdj2suxSE/s200/halloween2-main_Full%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Pumpkins, candy, ghosts goblins, ghouls and witches. Halloween is on Sunday—but the most defining characteristic of course is Trick-or Treating. It is when children dress up in a costume and go door-to-door filling bags and pillowcases with chocolates and candies. <br /><br />Normally, as per the political correct gender roles, it seems that only girls continue to play dress up past Kindergarten. Sure little boys have that “stage” around 3 years old where they refuse to take off their Batman or Superman costume, but once they hit first grade that routine is over. <br /><br />Yet, Halloween seems to be the exception, so much that parents are spending tons of money on costumes encouraging their children to strut though the neighborhood. It’s something that we American’s are accustomed to. We grew up doing it and we don’t think twice about it<br /><br />Historically, it is claimed that Trick-or-Treating resembles the late medieval practice of souling, when poor people would go door to door on Hallowmas <em>(November 1),</em> to beg for food from the wealthy in exchange for prayers for the dead on All Souls Day <em>(November 2).</em> Maybe back then prayers from the poor were more effective than from the wealthy… who knows?<br /><br />The point is that this modern practice of trick or treating does resemble this “souling” business, but it doesn’t seem to fit modern day ideals. In 2010, a time when you’re not supposed to talk to strangers or trust anyone you don’t know, it seems odds that kids are still going door to door. <br /><br />Despite the oddities, they do it. The kids come out in droves dragging their bucket or bag around to fill it up with as much candy as they can carry, from anyone and everyone willing to contribute to their self induced sugar coma. I doubt these kids will be praying for any of the people giving those goodies, <em>(all historic roots are left behind)</em> instead, today we adults just get good-old satisfaction for continuing a tradition. <br /><br />Doesn’t it make you feel good to spend $6 on a half-full bag of candy just to give it all away to some bratty kid who forgets to say thank you? Real feel good stuff…<strong>RIGHT</strong>?<br /><br />Well when we put it like that…. <br /><br />I’m just kidding… kind of… <em>(Although the lack of manners in today’s society will be in an upcoming blog called “Bring out the paddles, chivalry’s not dead yet!”)</em><br /><em><br /></em><br />Anyhow, all other 364 days of the year we try to teach our children to be cautious, beware of strangers. The textbook example is don’t take candy from someone you don’t know, but on Halloween, all bets are off. On Halloween, we make an exception and practice indulgence. <br /><br />Indulgence, this seems to be a logical explanation for why we find it normal for children to dress up like silly characters and roam the neighborhoods collecting candy from strangers. Children indulge in make believe and fantasy when they dress up and indulge in gluttony as they tear through the bag of candy. <br /><br />Lets then apply the <u>“no rules… just indulgence</u>” theory to adults, us 20somethings. For us, Halloween is all about partying, and specifically for women, it tends to be about the slutty costume. It’s true… The radio calls it “<em>the one day a year where women are allowed and encouraged to be slutty.” </em><br /><br />Now I would like to get on my high horse and say that I have NEVER partaken in these slutty festivities, that women are equal and should not have to degrade themselves by dressing a certain way, yadda, yadda, yadda. Although that is all true, if you’re my friend on facebook, and you click back through the years, I’m guilty as Halloween slutty-charged. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TMsRJvKpbTI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/MI3xWxjNw1I/s1600/77fdfd42-c5a4-11de-8cb7-001cc4c03286.image%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" nx="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TMsRJvKpbTI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/MI3xWxjNw1I/s320/77fdfd42-c5a4-11de-8cb7-001cc4c03286.image%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It’s a societal pressure, as we women get older, we leave the cute and fun costumes behind and we move on and progress to the “adult” aisle of the Halloween store. Now, it’s truly nothing like an adult bookstore or movie store, however, it’s definitely not a place where you find a costume to be the girly green M& M or Tinkerbelle. <br /><br />I recently was finishing an assignment for a magazine I freelance for and was sitting at my kitchen table typing away on my laptop when my sister and her fiancé came barreling through the front door. My sister’s fiancé had a picture in his hand. <br /><br /><blockquote>“Check this out,” he said, while handing me the paper. It was a picture of a man in a brown costume with angel wings and a halo. <br /><br />“I don’t get it…” I say staring at the sad looking angel costume. Do you want to be a chocolate fairy or something? <br /><br />“No.” he laughed. “Look again, the costume is called “Holy Shit!” Pam doesn’t think I should spend the $60 on it, but don’t you think it’s hilarious?” </blockquote><br /><br />I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. It really was ridiculous and hilarious. Truth be told, I was relived he wasn’t trying to be some chocolate fairy from the Candy Land game. <br /><br />In reflection though, it doesn’t seem fair that guys get the trick part of Halloween, the funny/joking aspect. They get the “trick” and we ladies are stuck with the “treat.” I use the term <strong>STUCK</strong> because in costume/clothing terms, this means that while the guys bask in the silliness and fun of the holiday; we concede to the “one day a year rule”. <br /><br />We ladies, head down the “adult” aisle to find the most flattering, microscopic, slutter-ific costume we can get our hands on. We are the “treat” because these costumes make us the eye candy of Halloween. <br /><br />As I said before, I followed suit and did my dutiful march down that aisle. My father had cringed as he looked at my newly purchased costume hanging in the cheap plastic bag. Despite his look of horror, I wore it out on Halloween anyway—hey it was “the one day a year.” <br /><br />During one of my slutty years I was Little Red Riding Hood, and I distinctly remember some drunken guy who approached me, spilled some of his beer on my skirt because of his inability to stand still and while swaying, slurred, <em>“Can I be your wolf?”</em> So maybe, at 25 we remember the feeling of disgust as we attempt to dodge the cheesy costume pick-up lines. <br /><br />Maybe by 25, we had our few years of indulging in the freedom of anything-goes-Halloween-sluttyness and we remember why it only happened once a year—because being oogled by drunks at a house party or bar isn’t really that fun anyway. Maybe we realize that we’d rather spend $60 to $100 on a nice pair of high heels rather than some microscopic costume that we will inevitably freeze our ass off in and end up in the trash anyway.<br /><br />At 25, I’ll admit that my drive to fulfill the slutty Halloween duty is over. Been there, done that, don’t want to do it again. Maybe by mid twenties, we acknowledge that it’s the end of October and you can only bypass the temperature for so many years. Maybe we are just old enough to understand the fine line between classy and trashy—and we know that classy will get us much further. Maybe it’s a combination of all of these. <br /><br />So, if this year you find yourself feeling like you just don’t want to participate in the annual Halloween Slutification, then don’t. If you haven’t done it yet, then for <em>“life experience sake,”</em> I think everyone should partake in the skank festivities once—just to see what all the hype is about. Trust me, you’ll quickly realize you’re not missing out on anything, because it really is just hype and you really will be freezing your ass off! <br /><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE STORY </strong><br /><br />I guess feeling this way, is an indicator that I’m getting old, but thank goodness… Nobody wants to be the old head still clinging tight to the slut card. Truth is, when you really think about it, the herd of children marching though the neighborhood dressed up in costumes is just as weird as the herd of slutty-look alikes marching through the bars… But at least the kids are leaving with candy… they definitely have the better deal. <br /><br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana<br /><br /><blockquote>Halloween was confusing. All my life my parents said, "Never take candy from strangers." And then they dressed me up and said, "Go beg for it." -Rita Rudner<br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">“I'll bet living in a nudist colony takes all the fun out of Halloween!” - Anonymous</div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TMsRSx2jgmI/AAAAAAAAAWU/LDHRqjX-VF0/s1600/halloween%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" nx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TMsRSx2jgmI/AAAAAAAAAWU/LDHRqjX-VF0/s200/halloween%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-40653843512313811152010-10-15T13:33:00.003-04:002010-10-24T14:25:14.437-04:00My Oh Miners…. Thanks For The Reminder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TLiPX5b1vAI/AAAAAAAAAVs/aD7xSG_TKEU/s1600/icetv_wideweb__470x313,0%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TLiPX5b1vAI/AAAAAAAAAVs/aD7xSG_TKEU/s200/icetv_wideweb__470x313,0%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>When the entire world tunes in to watch the same news on television, their computers, and even cell phones, it almost always means a tragedy. That something catastrophic has happened… like a terrorist attack, 9/11, The Haiti Earthquake, a volcano eruption, hurricane damage, wars or bombing. We all sit wide-eyed in front of the screens silenced with disbelief as our eyes watch the unthinkable unfold. <br /><br />This week however, was different. This week the world watched as the exception to the rule occurred. This week people across the country and around the world watched in relief and disbelief as 33 miners were pulled from ½ a mile underground where they were trapped for 69 days. Each and every one of them was successfully pulled to the surface and saved. <br /><br />In a time where the slumped economy, debt, unemployment, terrorism, war and depression plagues our daily headlines; and we are so used to expecting the worst, watching this rescue unfold seemed surreal. As it streamed lives across the screens of our television, laptops, ipads and cell phones… it was so refreshing it seemed magical. <br /><br />All odds were against these 33 men, statistically and logically things were not in their favor, yet, they survived anyway. <br /><br />Over the past 2 days, I have heard people saying <em><strong>“that is stuff movies are made of”</strong></em> and I laugh to myself thinking that 10 years down the road, when Hollywood undoubtedly makes a movie about this event, our children will look up at us and ask, <br /><br /><blockquote>“Did that really happen? Did they all really make it? ” </blockquote>And they probably won’t believe us when we nod in positive reassurance. They will ponder in disbelief because what happened this week is only truly believable when seen with your own eyes. <br /><br />If it were a movie we would mock the ending as cheesy, predictable, sing-songy. And as critics exited the theatre they would whisper to each other, <br /><br /><blockquote>“They all can’t make it out, that’s so cliché.” </blockquote>So this week, as the world held their breath waiting for all 33 men to surface, it was comforting to know that those “movie moments”— <strong>when hope defies logic and life defeats death</strong>— really do exist. <br /><br />As the footage streamed through my TV I didn’t watch the red ticker tape that ran across the bottom of CNN giving me other updates. I didn’t listen to the reporter commentating on the size of the capsule, the age of each man or how long each had been a miner. <br /><br />Instead, I tuned all of that out, and found myself all consumed with the survivor’s faces. <br /><br />I watched as each man shielded his face from the bright lights, squinting their eyes as the sunlight drenched their face. I watched as they got their bearings and the medics on site removed the medical monitoring devices. Each man seems overwhelmed, but also stoic. They did not come out of the capsule cheering, clapping or overly excited. In fact, their initial reaction was quite anti-climatic… that is until they made eye contact with a loved one. This was my favorite part. <br /><br />Even though these men were armed with dark sunglasses, it was as if you could pinpoint the moment their eyes adjusted to the sun and fell onto a familiar face. In that millisecond, the stoic exterior melted away and the corners of their mouths turned up into a small smile. What they did next is what surprised me. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TLiPp5msIeI/AAAAAAAAAVw/eqgyjW8tKxo/s1600/world007pix%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="134" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TLiPp5msIeI/AAAAAAAAAVw/eqgyjW8tKxo/s200/world007pix%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>They didn’t run to their loved ones right away. It was not at all like a scene plucked from a romantic movie where the two lovers run full blast at one another. Instead, almost all of the men stood still for just a moment, before they closed the gap between themselves and their loved one. It was as if their lack of movement allowed them to really soak their loved one in before they embraced.<br /><br />When they finally did reach one another there was no passionate kiss between husbands and wives or girlfriends and boyfriends. Instead the initial reaction was a hug. Not just a quick embrace but a real good hug. One where you completely fill your arms up with that other person and really just hang on for a moment.<br /><br />They all hugged their loved ones like this, their wives, girlfriends, children, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and friends. The news is calling it the “hugs felt around the world” and I have to agree to this hallmark-coined phrase, because it’s true. <br /><br />The 9th man to be pulled up, and oldest of the group, Mario Gomez 63 years old, immediately upon surfacing acted slightly different than the rest. Instead of staying still, he dropped to the ground in prayer before he embraced his wife. I don’t think he did this to make a religious statement or stance. Instead, because we have the gift, the luxury of watching, this man inadvertently shared a personal moment with the world. <br /><br />I don’t know one any of the 33 miners. I don’t have a friend whose former neighbors co-worker married one of those men. They are not in any way associated with me, yet when I watched them finally get to hug their loved ones or drop to their knees thanking something greater than themselves that they survived, I couldn’t help but feel moved and emotionally overwhelmed. <br /><br />It’s moments like that when you can watch tears of joy fall from someone’s eyes and you can’t help but be moved. You know, tears of joy don’t’ make a cameo appearance very often? They are reserved for moments, when we are truly in awe of life. This week was one of those moments and we don’t realize how lucky we are to be able to watch and be a part of it. <br /><br />As much as I rag on technology for acting as an isolator, deconstructing social skills and human interaction, this week I was thankful for globalization and all the gadgets that allowed me to witness the rescue. <br /><br />Luis Urzua, the 55 year old foreman and last man to be lifted to safety, more than 22 hours after the rescue efforts was quoted saying this…<br /><br /><blockquote>“We had the courage and the spirit to fight, to fight for our lives and our families and that is what is most magnificent.” </blockquote>Luis is right. What is most significant is the ability to hold tight to hope; a hope to have another chance to soak in and see the people that matter the most to you. That’s what it’s really all about isn’t it? I ’m thankful these 33 men reminded us of that. <br /><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br />In 2010, with packed schedules, the drive to multi-task and over- achieve, to stay current on paying bills, to stay up on responsibilities and to make our daily failed attempts to “do it all,” we need a little perspective. We need to be reminded to NOT allow ourselves to be all consumed with the messy-ness of life and instead remember what really matters. The people… So next time you see a loved one, take a moment and soak them in. <br /><br /><br />Xoxo<br />Lana<br /><blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">“To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else” Emily Dickinson</div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TLiP3Gug_WI/AAAAAAAAAV4/d2U35CtMRPA/s1600/chile-hug%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="190" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TLiP3Gug_WI/AAAAAAAAAV4/d2U35CtMRPA/s200/chile-hug%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-41199101466416523092010-08-27T14:26:00.005-04:002010-11-05T20:48:39.783-04:00“Seeing the Good” just might screw you<br><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/THgCImAaqlI/AAAAAAAAATk/Az2gHEioib8/s1600/Elin-Nordegren-People-Magazine-Cover-Photo%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/THgCImAaqlI/AAAAAAAAATk/Az2gHEioib8/s200/Elin-Nordegren-People-Magazine-Cover-Photo%5B1%5D.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />This week, People magazine featured Elin Nordegren (Tiger Wood’s Ex-Wife) as its cover story. It is the first time she has spoken out since the ordeal of her husband publically slutting himself around with umpteen women behind her back. Her personal marital problem is only a feature story because her husband is the highest paid athlete in the world and his list of indiscretions became public. <br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>At the core, it’s just a run-of-the mill story of a slime-ball and his and laundry list of infidelities. To me this isn’t really “breaking news,” but as I paged through the article I noticed a quote Elin gave which People Magazine highlighted in a sidebar. This quote caught my attention. Elin says….<br /><br /><blockquote>“I always believe the best of people, and when you do that, you’re going to be really screwed sometimes.”</blockquote><br />I loved this quote, it’s raw and honest, but most of all, it’s true. <br /><br />We find ourselves reciting the homage “See the good in people,” but what we forget is that sometimes...even when we see the good... people suck and that strategy gets us screwed.<br /><br />I applaud Elin for her reminding the world of this. Mostly though, I thank her for reminding all women of this.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/THgCla8sdXI/AAAAAAAAATs/P_KslERU5SM/s1600/pc_mars%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/THgCla8sdXI/AAAAAAAAATs/P_KslERU5SM/s200/pc_mars%5B1%5D.jpg" width="135" /></a></div>I wish I would have been told this when I started dating. At 15, after I had my first date; I.E, Going to the movies with a boy, without 10 other people (<em>girls do travel in packs</em>). I remember stealing the book “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” off of my mom’s bookshelf. For some reason I thought that now that I went on a date, I needed to read this book. As if it housed a secret or would explain to me some unspoken rules of the dating world.<br /><br />Unfortunately, at 15 years old, that book didn’t really provide me with too much information. I remember I stopped reading when the author was explaining “The Man Cave” and the “Rubber Band Theory.” Definitely over my head as a tween. <br /><br />Ten years later, as I have grown oh so “wise,” since 15 ;) I have heard some shorter explanations about the differences in men and women regarding dating. No longer are we from different planets, but now we have different brains. Hmmm… <br /><br />It’s often said that men are concrete thinkers. They see the world in black and white. To men something <strong>IS</strong>, or it <strong>IS NOT</strong>. Women on the other hand are over-analyzing. Women look<strong> INTO</strong> things more often than they look <strong>AT </strong>them. To women something <strong>COULD BE</strong> or something <strong>MAY NOT</strong> be.<br /><br />Elin’s article motivated me to revisit the socially acceptable explanations for the differences between men, women and relationships. Another common adage for dating is this…<br /><br /><blockquote>Women go into a relationship hoping things will change, while men go into a relationship hoping nothing will ever change.</blockquote><br />I don’t know if I completely agree with this one (<em>It is a generalization, which usually pisses people off, but let’s go with it.)</em><br /><br />Let’s look at it like this… Women go into a relationship seeing the potential that this man has and hopes that he will reach it. Like seeing a diamond in the rough, so to speak. While a man goes into a relationship because he genuinely likes the women for what she is, not who she could be, and hopes she stays the same. <br /><br />I feel like that may happen more often than not. That women, “hope for the best” and men already see her for her best. Is this because the man is a concrete thinker from Mars? Maybe, or maybe men just make less of a mess by honestly seeing things and people for what they truly are. <br /><br />As much as I would like to blame the men for not living up to some potential, they didn’t know we set for them, (notice the sarcasm) the real problem is, us ladies. The problem is that sometimes “Seeing the good in people” backfires. Sometimes, as Elin would say, it leaves us screwed. <br /><br />So we are faulted for being hopeful? No, that’s not what I’m saying; I guess the bottom line is that we need to set boundaries with ourselves on the extent of “seeing good in people.” I also think it may be safe to say that we should not be going into a relationship hoping a man reaches the potential or goals we set for him. <br /><br />Truth is, no matter how flowery we word it, if we’re hoping he changes and if we go into a relationship with that hope… well, at this point, we know that we’ve set ourselves up for disappointment. We’re 20something here; we’ve all seen that fail at least a time or two.<br /><br />We need to “reel in” the “See the good,” it should be an application to things that also involve looking on the bright side, like why you’re stuck in traffic, or missed an appointment, or why you grind your teeth and bear with an annoying co-worker. That’s when we should be applying the “see the good” homage. Not to romantic relationships. <br /><br />I think there is a time and place for the positive affirmations. “<em>Dance like no one’s watching</em>,” “<em>Live Laugh Love</em>,” “<em>Believe</em>” etc. etc. etc… Truth is, life is hard and the world can be cold and we need those sayings to warm our hearts and keep us chugging along. <br /><br />Fair enough right? <br /><br />But let’s not forget the reality of the situation. The reality is this;<strong> we should “See the Good” 50% of the time and remember that the other 50% “People Sometimes Suck.” </strong><br /><br />The trick is to have a healthy balance on these factors of the reality; when to see the good and when to concede that people sometimes suck. <br /><br />Sadly, no book about planets or quotes about brains can whisper us the answer. Instead, we practice trial and error with our personal attempts at balance. <br /><br />But just as “People Sometimes Suck” can leave us jaded, well, “See the Good” may force us to stay naïve to the truth. Sometimes “See the Good” forces us to put blinders on our gut instincts and that’s never a good thing. <br /><br />This I do know, seeing the good may backfire, but following your gut never does. Regardless of how many affirmations you say and how much good you see in people, if your gut tells you that you’re getting screwed, you probably are... and if you have the proverbial blinders on, there may not be anyone to blame but yourself. <br /><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA...MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br />No matter how smart, nice, pretty, successful or kind you may be. Even if you’re beautiful and married to the world’s richest athlete, the laws of balance still apply and sometimes people do suck. So always remember that, and, use Elin’s words of wisdom, just as we use those motivating affirmations to arm yourself against that harsh realities of the all too “real world.”<br /><br />Oh, also, if you find yourself in a relationship hoping that someday this man will change, someday he will reach his potential and then you’ll be happy in the relationship…well ladies… the harsh reality is that in that scenario, <strong>YOU </strong>Suck. I’m sorry, I had to say it, but sometimes, the truth hurts. <br /><br />So if that’s you, <strong>REEL IT IN</strong> and date people who you actually like, not someone you’re motivating/pressuring/waiting to change. Date someone who you just plain like in that moment in time, you know, like guys do. I think it really does make things less of a mess in the long run. Ya know?<br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>“Don't spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.” ~Coco-Chanel<br /><br />“The basic discovery about any people is the discovery of the relationship between men and women” ~Pearl Buck<br /><br />“Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.” ~Katherine Hepburn </blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/THgCq-0NuoI/AAAAAAAAAT0/xoaF7ksZGBg/s1600/relationship-status%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/THgCq-0NuoI/AAAAAAAAAT0/xoaF7ksZGBg/s200/relationship-status%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-56193095302900538752010-08-06T09:44:00.003-04:002010-08-06T10:06:31.591-04:00Fearless? No Fear-More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwPsm_qMUI/AAAAAAAAASE/G8txuAn3uRo/s1600/Mickey-Mouse_l%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwPsm_qMUI/AAAAAAAAASE/G8txuAn3uRo/s200/Mickey-Mouse_l%5B1%5D.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>My nephew turned one last week; my brother and sister-in-law taught him how to say <strong><em>“UN”</em></strong> so it sounds like one. It’s adorable! It’s also unbelievable that in just a year’s time he is already starting to walk and talk. Last year we hadn’t even met him and now his bubbly little personality rules the roost in our family. <br /><br />At his first birthday party, I looked at him surrounded by Mickey Mouse balloons, noisemakers, streamers, figurines and even a Club House Mickey Cake and I couldn’t help but be in awe of him. It truly gave me perspective on how vastly things can change in a year’s time. <br /><br />I remember last year around that time tapping my foot in the Charles De Gaul Airport in Paris, France waiting to board our plane. I am always nervous about flying, but this flight was unusually nerve racking. My sister-in-law was due to have the baby any day and we were still on vacation. My sister Pam called home to tell my family we were boarding the plane and to get a baby-status update. <br /><br />As she hung up the phone her face looked relieved. <br /><br /><blockquote>“They went to the hospital last night, but it was false labor. Their home now, no baby yet!”</blockquote><br /><br />My sister, mom and I had planned our trip to Paris months in advance not thinking that the due date and our vacation would coincide. <em>(Not that there was anything we could have done had we been home, but we just didn’t want to miss being there the day he was born.)</em><br /><br />Luckily, my little nephew waited for us, he arrived just three days after we landed in the Philadelphia airport and he changed our family forever. In fact, change seemed to be the theme of last summer. Three weeks after his birth, I received my acceptance to graduate school and officially withdrew from law school. It was a lot of change at one time. We had a new addition to our family and I was getting ready to head down a new path. <br /><br />When I think about just one year ago, my whole life was different. Last year my life was filled with stress, uncertainty, unhappiness and fear. But as I think back, I am grateful for the fear. The fear is what turned everything around though. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwQ1UHISaI/AAAAAAAAASc/_rJDpP33lCQ/s1600/fear-record%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="198" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwQ1UHISaI/AAAAAAAAASc/_rJDpP33lCQ/s200/fear-record%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Now, I’m not talking Freddy Krueger-Halloween- horror movie fear, I’m talking about the good kind. Good kind? You ask…maybe that was a typo? Nope, I’m talking about the fear that settles into the pit of your stomach and makes you feel antsy inside. The kind that makes you second guess yourself and rethink your decisions. It all sounds <em>“bad”</em> and not <em>“good”</em> but stay with me…<br /><br />My theory is that without that pit-of-your-stomach-fear we would never develop the gumption to try new things and accomplish great successes. Luckily, the thing about fear is it usually doesn’t stick around for too long. While we are 20something it sometimes feels as if fear is a constant because we have so many new choices thrown at us all at once. Our decisions about schools, career, relationships and overall purpose have lasting effects on our lives and the fear of making those choices can be overwhelming.<br /><br />So with all of this closing in on us at one time, it feels like fear could be unvarying. But we should find comfort in knowing that fear is actually a fading feeling and once faced head on, can be conquered. <br /><br /><strong><em>Doubt, Guilt, Sadness…. now those have sticking power…. but fear is really all bark and no bite. </em></strong><br /><br />Think of it this way, without fear we wouldn’t take that first step into the unknown and we sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate how far we have come once we get there. It’s the fear that makes it good. <br /><br />When I studied abroad in Italy I went cliff diving. I remember climbing all the way to the top and looking down into the aqua blue water of the Mediterranean Sea. I took in a deep breath of the salty air and looked down, only to think…<br /><br /><em>“What the hell am I doing? This cliff is high, only an idiot would jump off this.”</em> <br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwQan4KCnI/AAAAAAAAASM/OyE2wOMWIgw/s1600/gavi_latina%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwQan4KCnI/AAAAAAAAASM/OyE2wOMWIgw/s200/gavi_latina%5B1%5D.jpg" width="145" /></a>Some call this a rational thought, <em>(it partially was, okay probably more than partially)</em> but some aspect of that thought was also motivated by fear. Yes, fear for my life <em>(I was on a cliff in a foreign country)</em> but it was also fear of a risk. </div><br />I would like to tell you that I was practical/rational/responsible and snapped a couple pictures before making a safe descent down the cliff, however I was only 19 years old and practicality didn’t really fit into my five months abroad. Instead, I took a few steps back to get a running start and I jumped. <br /><br />I was sacred, but I did it anyway. I pushed the fear back to wherever it came from and leaped. As soon as I hit that water and swam to the surface I looked up at that cliff and felt a feeling of accomplishment. A satisfaction that, yes, I survived, but also that I was ballsy enough to jump. I think I told everyone on the beach that day that I jumped from the top of that cliff. <br /><br />That’s the <strong><em>“good”</em></strong> fear. The fear that challenges you and without the challenge, there would be no reward. Without the fear there wouldn’t be the sense of accomplishment at the end. It is one of the strongest catalysts in life.<br /><br />I know that my sister-in-law felt fear as she pulled up to the hospital a year ago to have a baby. I know that I felt fear when I signed the “Official” paperwork to withdraw from law school. I can even see the fear that drives my precious little nephew as he steadies himself on his feet and grips onto the nearest table or chair while he gets his balance. His face grows serious with a look of determination as he lets his hands fall to his side and he stands on his own, and then a rush of excitement crosses his face as he begins to take quick tiny steps forward in his wobbly attempt to walk. <br /><br /><strong>Determination, Fear, Courage and Accomplishment. (In that order)</strong><br /><br />So even though we are all scared to let go of the comfort and stability, we continue to conquer fear and in essence take on new challenges. We do it because sometimes we have to, or we need to, or we want to. We do it because fear is what adds the spice and excitement to life. It is the motivator that pushes us to take a minute, evaluate, and gather the guts to go forward, head up, putting one foot in front of the other and take that crazy leap.<br /><br />So as we stand at the brink of something new… a new relationship, a new job, a new path or endeavor, don’t let fear deter you. Just soak it in for a minute and remind yourself that those butterflies, in the pit of your stomach, are there because you’re pushing yourself and doing something new and exciting; changing direction, changing your life and at the very least making great memories. <br /><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br />It isn’t until we feel fear and decide to move beyond it that we can really comprehend the stuff we’re made of and get a real taste for life. We have the rest of our lives to be settled, comfortable, and predictable. So be happy when you feel that pit-of-your-stomach fear because it means you’re standing on the edge of something new! <br /><br />When that “good fear” happens things are supposed to be scary, things are supposed to change and things are supposed to be exciting. So take a step back, get a running start, don’t punk out, be courageous and take the leap. That’s what being 20something is all about. <br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana<br /><br /><blockquote><br />“The only constant thing in life is change…”-Unknown</blockquote><blockquote>"Do one thing everyday that scares you" -Eleanor Roosevelt</blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwQpWmnyDI/AAAAAAAAASU/CdWFi5-SYrU/s1600/healing+leap%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TFwQpWmnyDI/AAAAAAAAASU/CdWFi5-SYrU/s200/healing+leap%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-10338198247033603092010-07-23T11:03:00.001-04:002010-07-23T11:03:58.072-04:00Let’s Talk About Sex Baby!<br><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TEmuHBELprI/AAAAAAAAARs/mRNu9Uuu5FA/s1600/pd_sex_070731_ms%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" hw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TEmuHBELprI/AAAAAAAAARs/mRNu9Uuu5FA/s200/pd_sex_070731_ms%5B1%5D.jpg" width="170" /></a></div>I love to read and a few weeks ago a friend of mine gave me a bag of books to look through. <br /><br /><blockquote>“I read them all, so you can keep what you want,” she said. </blockquote><br />Honestly, it was like Christmas morning! The start of the summer and a whole new bag of books to read. I could hear the beach calling my name. Among the mystery murder novels and cheesy romance books was one by comedian Steve Harvey called <em>“Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man.”</em> I laughed out loud at the title and began to page through the book. It looked like an “easy-read” so I started scanning the chapters. <br /><br />The book started out with “What Drives Men” a section where Harvey explains, first things first… immediately upon meeting women, almost all men, are plotting on how to get in your pants! “They can’t help it,” he says, because they naturally think about sex way too many times in one day.<br /><br />Now, I’m usually cautious to make generalizations about gender… that stuff pisses people off. But, as you can imagine, I was intrigued and kept reading. Another section that jumped out at me was called “The 90 Day Rule,” where he compares sex in relationships to medical benefits. This is what spurred this blog…<br /><br />You see, I started a new job in May and it wasn’t until July that I became privy to the paperwork of the oh-so coveted medical benefits. That first month and a half was the probationary period. The time frame where the company takes time to figure out if I’m a good fit for them. They aren’t going to extend me the ultimate benefits of the job until they are sure I’m the right person for the job.<br /><br />Steve Harvey says that we women should practice the "90 Day Rule." Hold off on the “benefits” and make sure they are the right person. While all you men reading this are groaning at this suggestion, let’s face it, it’s an interesting and logical concept. <br /><br />You see, people always get jumpy when you talk about <strong>S-E-X.</strong> Its private, its personal and so it’s best to shhhh and keep it to ourselves. Right? <strong>WRONG!</strong> I think that this topic is something that should be talked about whether you’re having “it” or not, especially for our 20something generation. <br /><br />Now I’m not talking any intimate details here. I’m not one to kiss and tell, so keep all that stuff to yourselves. <em>(Sorry if this disappoints you).</em> What I think needs to be talked is the answer to that age old question, <u>“When do we have ‘it’?” </u><br /><br />Any girl who has asked this question to a friend, sister, parent, cousin, aunt or co-worker <em>(after the shpeal on babies, responsibility and safety)</em> get’s the same cryptic answer <u>“When you’re ready.”</u><br /><br />This is where the confusion comes in! The “READY” feeling is the piece of the puzzle that is easily swayed, even in our 20something years. <br /><br />A very good friend of mine, whom I hope is not upset that I’m using this story in a blog, <em>(remember this is for a greater good),</em> met someone who she believed was a “great guy.” They exchanged numbers, talked for a while and he asked her to “hang out” one night at his place to watch a movie. It was date #1, she went over and they ignored whatever was happening on the television screen. One thing quickly lead to another and she slept with him on the first date. <em>Whoops!</em><br /><br />Okay so not the ideal romantic situation, but there are no rules to dating. Unfortunately, the “dating” only lasted four more encounters. After that night he called her again later that week and they had a repeat performance. I think dinner may have been involved in date #2, but I don’t recall. Anyhow, after the 3rd date he stopped calling her completely.<br /><br />This is when she started calling me! “Do you think it was too soon?” “Should I call him?” yadda, yadda, yadda. You know that stream of questions that your friends sound off when they are in a quasi-desperate frantic state. <strong>*Side note, its usually best to listen and try you’re hardest not to judge… people don’t like to be kicked when their down</strong>. <br /><br />Anyhow I suggested that if it would make her feel better, she could try calling him. She text him instead, <em>(not anything that was “stage 5 clinger” status),</em> but just made some effort to reach out to him. He ignored her text. Her frantic state returned and so did all the calls to my cell phone where she proceeded to question herself and her choices. <br /><br />After about a month of this, right when she was starting to get over it… he called her and asked her to go out. Sometimes I swear you men have a supersonic sense, you can feel it in the air when we are about to be officially over you and you swoop back in. That’s what this guy did anyway. He gave her some bullshit line about him being busy with work, yadda yadda yadda.<br /><br />Now my friend is a smart cookie, so she didn’t believe for an entire month he was too busy to respond to a text. <em>(DUH) </em>What did he think she was an idiot? <br /><br />Well he probably didn’t think that, but he knew minimal effort with a minimal excuse would work. Why wouldn’t it? It’s the only effort he’s put into their “relationship” thus far and she’s accepted it before. Case-in-point… he was right and against my best “<em>you can do better</em>” pep talk, she agreed to meet him for dinner anyway. <br /><br />She called me the following week crying. She informed me that after that dinner—date #4—she had sex with him again and he stayed the night at her apartment. Now, it had been a week and he hasn’t called. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TEmuZw69pkI/AAAAAAAAAR0/TymU8VqvJVk/s1600/012_booty_call%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" hw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TEmuZw69pkI/AAAAAAAAAR0/TymU8VqvJVk/s200/012_booty_call%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Well, I hate to say that my friend was a booty call… That word is so unorthodox and crass. We’re not 18 anymore. We are 20somethings, sophisticated <em>(so we think)</em> mature<em> (so we think)</em> and way too old to be throwing around phrases like that… but if the shoe fits right? <strong>*Side note if you think that maybe you’re friend is “The Booty Call” tread lightly when breaking this news!</strong><br /><br />I gently asked my friend why she decided to sleep with him again, knowing that he was being so flaky before. <br />She claimed, <br /><br /><blockquote>“I don’t know, I just thought… {long pause}” she said nothing. </blockquote><br />Now, I didn’t want to scold her, I’m not her mother or a relationship authority (that’s for damn sure) so I sat quiet and waited for her to continue.<br /><br /><blockquote>“Well I don’t’ care, it’s not the sex that matters, I don’t regret it, I have needs too,” she said in the most convincing tone she could conjure up.</blockquote><br />Maybe my friend has watched too many <em>Sex and the City</em> episodes, but her Samatha-esk no-strings-attached attitude didn’t fool me for a second. I truly believe that my friend was trying to convince herself that her decision was okay, even though she herself was not okay with it. She’s trying to be casual when she was seriously hurting. <br /><br />I am not going to try and put a timeline on <strong>WHEN </strong>it’s “okay” to have sex in a relationship. But this I do know—brace yourselves now… I’m going to follow Steve Harvey’s lead and make a generalization here, which almost always pisses people off, but here goes anyway…<br /><br /><ul><li><strong>Women TEND to equate sex with love, commitment and attachment. Whereas, Men TEND to equate sex with sex</strong>. <em>(</em>For men sometimes it’s possibly will be more; commitment, attachment, companionship, but I don’t believe they are thinking about their relationship status as they are removing their clothing.)</li></ul><br />So, maybe my friend can have sex and have it be just sex. But I saw how hurt she was. I saw the sadness in her eyes and heard the heaviness of her tone. She was extremely disappointed, discouraged, let down and rejected. I acknowledge that she may have felt this way, sex or not, but I can’t help but wonder… Was her “ready feeling” to go ahead and have sex with him a desperate attempt to push the relationship along? Give him what he wants <strong>(SEX),</strong> so she can get what she wants<strong> (RELATIONSHIP)?</strong> <br /><br />I think my friend tried to cover-up her feelings of attachment by saying she didn’t care, but she did. She said she didn’t want strings attached, or a commitment, and yet she moped around her apartment after he failed to contact her. <br /><br />So the next question presents itself—<em>Why do we women feel like we have to pretend that we are “okay” with a casual relationship, if we’re not?</em> More importantly why are women consenting to having sex when really they are only using sex to convince the man they should be in relationship?<br /><br />This I do know. I f a man is not ready to be in a relationship, then that’s that! There is no swaying or convincing. They are not ready, end of story. <br /><br />If a guy tells you this up front, appreciate his honesty, because he's a rare gem ladies! Sadly though, most guys will not tell you this. Not because they are bad people, but because they are not thinking long term relationship or bringing you home to meet their mom during sex… Believe it or not, during sex, they are thinking about one thing… <strong>S-E-X! </strong><br /><br />Hey, I’m not Dr. Phil… but I believe that women should stop trying to pretend they are “okay” with casual sex if they’re not. Newsflash…if you’re going to be attached, disappointed or feel rejected afterward… you’re <strong>NOT CAUSAL</strong>, so stop pretending! You’re not fooling anyone—Not even yourself.<br /><br />Finally, instead of looking to use sex as a catalyst for a relationship, try being honest with yourself and evaluating why you make the choices you do. If you’re casual and you just want to be casual—then that’s your business. But don’t try to “trick” guys into a relationship by giving them the benefits right away and then expecting a commitment. <br /><br />Sorry to break it to you, but guys are too smart for that! Plus, I think it takes guys much longer to get attached… and I really don’t think one great night will do it. <br /><br />Besides, I don’t think there should be any swaying or tricking in a relationship. If you feel like you need to use sex to push things along… stop pushing. Do you really want to be with someone you have to “convince”? That is not the stuff romance is made of! <br /><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br />It is common knowledge that when a man asks a woman out on a date, no matter how much that date costs, the women does <strong>NOT</strong> owe him anything in respect to sex. It’s just dinner and a movie for goodness sake! So why is it so hard for people to comprehend that sex does NOT equal a relationship? Women don’t owe sex after a date and Men don’t owe a relationship after sex either! So tread lightly. <br /><br />Hey, maybe try out the probationary period idea and stop giving it up right away! Most respectable jobs make you wait for health care benefits… So if you want to remain respectable in his eyes…try waiting it out, give it time, decide if you even like each other enough to invest. <br /><br />xoxo<br />Lana<br /><blockquote><br />“Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions”-Woody Allen <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Lust is easy. Love is hard. Like is most important. -Carl Reiner</blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TEmuzqljk8I/AAAAAAAAAR8/pklA-lflddM/s1600/love-vs-sex%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TEmuzqljk8I/AAAAAAAAAR8/pklA-lflddM/s320/love-vs-sex%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1499465799421650043.post-44795487783944474352010-07-16T14:54:00.002-04:002010-07-16T14:57:11.809-04:00The Price of Freedom & Wicked Loneliness<br><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Last week I blogged about freedom and independence…but I left something out. I left out a very important aspect; one that we usually try to ignore when thinking about the exhilarating benefits of freedom and independence; one that doesn’t have a place in a flowery reflection. It’s the dark reality that hides on the sidelines.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TECqlTmqY_I/AAAAAAAAARk/1t_kXFcPkHY/s1600/price%2520tag%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" hw="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TECqlTmqY_I/AAAAAAAAARk/1t_kXFcPkHY/s200/price%2520tag%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What I left out was considering, the price, we pay for freedom and independence. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Everything has a price and at this point in life, we know that. A ying and a yang, a give and a take. It can’t all be great because we would never appreciate it and it can’t all be terrible because we would never yearn to attain it. Instead, the truth is that we have to give something up to gain something. <em>(I hate that part sometimes.)</em></div><br /><div>All of us in our 20soemthing years are yearning for independence on some level. Almost all of us are working toward it. Intellectual independence is why we sit through college classes to gain knowledge, because whether we like to admit it or not, that cheesy slogan <em>“knowledge is power”</em> has some truth to it. Or maybe you’re working your butt off at a job because you want financial independence. The days of asking Mom and Dad for money ended a long time ago and we want to be able to get out there in the world and do for ourselves. </div><br />Sounds great right? But, then I have to go and rain all over the parade and bring in that pesky <u>“price”</u> idea again. To gain freedom we have to take risks, big risks, expensive risks, the what-the-hell-were-we-thinking risks.<br /><br />A very dear friend of mine recently took one of those risks. She was offered a job in a different state. The job required her to move. She had no qualms about this. She lived away in college; she studied abroad halfway around the world <em>(literally, in Australia).</em> Two hours from home was nothing. She was adaptable and confident. So, she took the job.<br /><br />She got her <strong>OWN </strong>apartment—No college roommates to slop the place up. No roommate’s boyfriend staying for free and mooching off all her food. No nagging parents, or annoying siblings. This place was in her name and it was hers.<br /><br />So, she moved in and enjoyed the quiet… Well at least in the beginning. But before long, the silence was overwhelming, thundering. She quickly realized that <strong>YES</strong>, she was independent and free, but the price for that was that she was also lonely. No matter how confident, secure and independent you think you are… <strong>NONE</strong> of us are immune to the feeling of loneliness.<br /><br /><div>I, personally, think one of the highest prices of freedom is loneliness. Being <strong>LONELY</strong>, just typing that word makes me feel like I’m whining. No one likes to admit it. I hate it, but it’s true. They say, stand up for what you believe in, even if you’re standing alone. “They” <em>(whoever they are)</em> weren’t kidding. When were 20something, we’re all striving to find that place and find what it is we’re supposed to be standing up for and when we get the gumption to stand up, sometimes we find that we really are standing alone.</div><br /><div>Sometimes that feeling of loneliness can be overwhelming! It can engulf our mood and be a catalyst for a whoa-is-me pity party that we all tend to throw occasionally for ourselves. </div><br /><div>But isn’t that what we want? Isn’t <u>“being on our own”</u> the goal? </div><br />Well yes, but we didn’t want to feel <strong>ALONE</strong> while we’re out enjoying being independent and free. We fought for our intellectual, financial and personal independence… so why are we whining about it? <br /><br /><div>I’ll tell you, because while we forged forward we forget the price and the bottom line… loneliness <strong>SUCKS</strong>! So when that feeling hit us, do we sit down? Do we retreat home, back to the comfort zone? </div><br /><strong>HELL NO!</strong> We work thorough it and we keep going forward. <br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TECqHX3HNpI/AAAAAAAAARc/e-G_cSYgCY0/s1600/wicked0606%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" hw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sgXasZSwc6o/TECqHX3HNpI/AAAAAAAAARc/e-G_cSYgCY0/s200/wicked0606%5B1%5D.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>My parents got me tickets to see the Broadway Musical “Wicked” for my 25th birthday. As a child, “The Wizard of Oz” was my all-time favorite movie. I watched it so many times I wore the VHS out. <em>(I know the youngins today will never understand the true magnitude of that statement, because they never watched tapes, they only understand DVR or DVD, but for us 20soemthings and above, I know you can appreciate that)</em> <br /><br />I loved that movie. <em>(I also attribute my fear of thunderstorms and tornados to that movie.)</em> Anyhow, to see “Wicked” for my birthday was amazing. I sat wide-eyed in the theatre soaking in every moment. <br /><br /><div>Wicked explained a lot of the “<strong>why</strong>” questions that arose for me as a child while watching the Wizard of Oz. Why is the witch so mean, why is the lion a coward, why is the scarecrow a fool? Ya know all that stuff. It explained the back-story of the characters and the “price” they paid to get to where they are. </div><br /><div>There is a breaking point for the Wicked Witch, <em>(who P.S is NOT so wicked)</em> and she decides to take the road less traveled. In this scene, her character is depicted as a 20something and I thought the lyrics were very apropos. </div><br /><div></div><blockquote>“Too late for second-guessing, too late to go back to sleep, it's time to trust my instincts, close my eyes: and leap…and if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free…” </blockquote><br /><div>I loved those lyrics. I ran out and bought the soundtrack at intermission <em>(which was insanely overpriced and I could have bought on eBay for ½ the price.)</em> However, I bought it because that song spoke to our generation and where we are in our lives. It leaves out any visions of grandeur of yellow brick roads and gets right to the truth- that…there comes a point when we break away, from family, friends, old habits, old routines and stand on the brink of our lives and are faced with a decision—we either leap or not. </div><br />Before we take the plunge, we think about the price, we think about the ramifications of our actions. <br /><ul><li>Could we fail? </li><li>Could we get our hearts broken? </li><li>Can we get our spirit broken? </li><li>Will we lose faith in our dreams, or worse, ourselves? </li><li>Will we lose touch with friends or an old love? </li><li>Will we regret it? </li><li>Will we end up alone?</li></ul><br /><div>We run a million questions through our head, we think about the price of freedom and independence, the things we have been avoiding while we worked to get to this point. But now we’re here on the edge, so what do you do? Run back to what you know or close your eyes and leap?</div><br /><div>We have survived high school, in some cases college and now we are adults. We have made tons of mistakes at this point in our lives. But from mistakes comes wisdom and experience. We have to mess up to keep figuring it all out. But, the only way to move forward is to close your eyes and leap onto the next. <br /><br />Leave the questions, the past mistakes and the doubts behind. Hold onto the reality that it won’t be all rainbows and sunshine. That sometimes… you’re flying solo, fighting off the feeling of loneliness, but remember; at least you’re flying. </div><br /><strong>SHORT AND SWEET…AKA…MORAL OF THE BLOG</strong><br /><br />Loneliness is a funny thing… you can sit in an apartment 2 hours from home and feel it, but it can also follow you to a crowded bar and still make you feel like you’re on your own. <br /><br /><div>But shake it off! That crappy “alone” feeling will pass and when it does, we will be happy that we didn’t sacrifice our fight for intellectual, financial and personal independence. </div><br /><div>xoxo</div>Lana<br /><br /><blockquote>“Nothing in this life that is worth anything comes easy.” –Unknown<br /><br /><div>“If it was easy… everyone would be doing it!” – My parents</div></blockquote><br /><div></div>Lanahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09302688881898811034noreply@blogger.com0