tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61996938685930242182024-03-13T07:29:03.695-07:00Desperately seeking ZenThe meaning of life may be closer than we thinkC.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-20544906827064728772023-04-23T14:33:00.006-07:002023-04-27T13:29:13.138-07:00Take three deep breaths <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mKJRfBwKJPqmXoJUJsN9-dU6kzJanb_18jAGAhACzlnbhfwQgEh2EZF51a7ubwOwn8JCH5LIiX4dluLNVWTeE7ozRQjeVp4yE-93t4-2rS36zFeQxtgh4n49un0B-23Wh_upUHiBErxNk17Ul-HvqU4Fa8wf5_E6BlA5FM2PobpmzUtgvia6Cn9IBQ/s3024/IMG_5776.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2892" data-original-width="3024" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mKJRfBwKJPqmXoJUJsN9-dU6kzJanb_18jAGAhACzlnbhfwQgEh2EZF51a7ubwOwn8JCH5LIiX4dluLNVWTeE7ozRQjeVp4yE-93t4-2rS36zFeQxtgh4n49un0B-23Wh_upUHiBErxNk17Ul-HvqU4Fa8wf5_E6BlA5FM2PobpmzUtgvia6Cn9IBQ/w200-h191/IMG_5776.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Confession: I first started writing this post in January 2020. It was my last entry on this blog. The irony is not lost on me that it was the same month coronvirus was first announced in Seattle, or that two months later we'd all be quarantined to our homes for an unspecified amount of time. We know what happened next: nearly 7 million deaths worldwide from COVID-19; masks, masks and more masks; homeschool and home offices, devisiveness and hatred that split apart our country; vaccinated vs. unvaccinated status tearing apart families and so on. We don't need to rehash it more than that except to say our world will never be the same, especially around mental health. </span></div></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So was it just the calm before the storm that made me write the following words before all hell broke loose in the world via the pandemic, politics, transphobia, gun violence, racism, and the like? Was I steeling myself for what was just around the corner? </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Over the last few weeks I have had a series of physical and mental setbacks that have made me realize that being "OK" is not all it's cracked up to be. </i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Take the title of this blog, for example. What the hell does "zen" even look like? The definition sounds noble and worthwhile: "<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">a state of calm attentiveness in which one's actions are guided by intuition rather than by conscious effort." Yet so many of us, myself included, interpret it to mean being happy all the time; finding your purpose and devoting your life to it; or taking drugs -- legal or illegal -- to help you find that state of calm. </span></span></i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">I wish I could have a nice little chat with myself from back then. What had happened that sparked these words of unrest? I went back and scrolled through photos on my phone to see if I could connect the dots. There was my hip replacement in October 2019 which I was proably still in pain from, and it was a stressful time at work with a school levy campaign in full swing, but nothing major. Reflecting on my up and down mood swings and struggle with depression, anxiety, ADD, and addiction, I realize it was probably a mash up of everything. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">Things have definitely been even more challenging the last three years, my father's decade-long struggle and recent death caused by Parkinson's; a replacement of my original hip replacement; menopause (finally diagnosed); and so on, and so on. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">Yet there's a noted difference. I now know it is "ok not to be ok." There are days, in fact, when things are particularly shitty, and I’m really sad for no reason. Or times when maybe I was the cause of distress so I acknowledge my role, apologize if necessary, and move on. I'm learning to be softer with myself and recognize emotions when they bubble up and over the top. I know it's not the end of world even when my hormones beg to differ. New approach: “</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">Hello anxiety-guilt-anger-sadness-resentment-fear. I see you there, but I don't have any room for you to take over my behaviors and actions. You can hang for a little while, but not long. I'm going to go for a walk, watch an episode of </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">The Mindy Project</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px;">, call a friend, eat a cookie, or take a bath. See ya!" </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;">When I was little, teachers always described me as "intense" on my report cards. True, I was a perfectionist, wanting to win the mile run, get the best grades, or be president of whatever club. It was exhausting. So when I'd get really upset, my dear mother would always tell me to "take three deep breaths." It used to drive me crazy, and I'd whine, but eventually, with her present, I would do it. I hated admitting it helped. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;">Today, I may not do daily meditation, but taking three deep breaths does help me chill the hell out. I</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> also remember that everybody has their stuff, including me, but it doesn't have to control us. With support through therapy, medication, and recovery. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I'm learning how to feel the feelings and be more comfortable in the uncomfortable. I'm learning that I am not responsible for making everyone around me happy and certainly I don't have to desperately seek - or find - zen. And neither do you. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Author's note: This is my last entry on this blog. Thanks to faithful readers and friends. I stopped doing posts on it during COVID when I joined a small writers group and wrote my first middle-age novel, Superfreak. Still working on getting it published. Stay tuned! </i></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><i><br /></i></span>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-8751891266869036042020-05-09T09:31:00.003-07:002023-04-23T14:36:20.794-07:00Staying at home ain't so bad <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At first it was interesting, but as he came what I considered more "obsessed," I began to worry. What if he was right? What if this was going to be another pandemic like the Spanish flu in 1918. People at my work and some friends were not taking it as seriously. Before our "Stay Home" order from the Governor, I was an outlier in sharing my husband's knowledge. My requests at work to socially distance early on were met with reserve. I pushed it, sometimes in anger. "It's no worse than the flu," people said. </div>
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Boy were they wrong! </div>
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My respect for my COVID-19 sponge of a husband grew. While I didn't go down the rabbit hole with him, I learned from him and an occasional <i>New York Times </i>article just how serious this was. My son, who lives in Brooklyn, was in the epicenter and we worried about him. Sure he was a children's librarian who got sent home (with a paycheck), but as we saw the body bags on TV and more young people contracting the virus, we offered him a plane ticket back to Washington (he declined) where, ironically, this all began. Or so we think. </div>
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One day I put it out there, "What if I already had it?" My husband, who had taken me to the urgent care clinic back in November when I spiked an unexplainable 103 fever knew what I was talking about. "But then why didn't I get it?" I shrugged. The flu test I had was negative at the time, but the doctor gave me Tami Flu anyway. There was no cough or no loss of smell or taste. So I kept wearing my mask and staying home. </div>
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I'll admit, the idea of having antibodies was appealing, especially six weeks into the "Stay Home" order. I thought of all the things I could do if "set free" including visiting my aging parents in Texas. Then again, even if I could miraculously and safely travel, they were on lockdown at the assisted living apartment. My sister could visit once a week to do their medications but she had to go through a temperature check and screening before she could go upstairs. They spend most their days watching Netflix movies about horses or Blue Bloods. Sometimes they venture out for socially distanced BINGO! Dad likes that and often wins. Their meals are delivered to their rooms with "too much styrofoam trash." My Dad (and Mom) fall down more frequently as their muscles weaken. We talk daily and sometimes Facetime (which often means seeing half of my Mom's face or her thumb on the screen). But it's not the same. I can't hug them or do things to help them or my sister who has become their primary caregiver. It weighs on me every day. </div>
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Still there are silver linings to all this:</div>
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<li>I have learned I am much more productive working from home. And while I miss my colleagues and going out to schools (my job is in school public relations) we Zoom and chat and still get the work done. </li>
<li>I can still see my daughter who came home from college recently to "borrow" our dog to help her through the isolation of being an almost 21 year old on a closed college campus. Yes, she has been strictly isolating. </li>
<li>My husband and I have grown in our love and appreciation for each other. We order takeout once a week to support local businesses, but mostly we cook every night. Meet up for microwave lunches and walks at noon. And walk, lots of walks. We recently even broke out Yahtzee as a diversion to Netflix and the anxiety that is Stranger Things. </li>
<li>I realized how little I really need. Our spending has gone way down. I get anxious when I do have to go to a store on occasion and yes I am one of those people who resent others who refuse to wear masks. But at least I'm doing my part! </li>
<li>Having a pet is a saving grace. He doesn't know why we are home all the time but he is undeniably happier. And he makes us laugh. We also got to experience DIY grooming and nail clipping which my husband swears "Never Again!"</li>
<li>I joined a writing group with two amazing women who inspire me and give me confidence that maybe, maybe someday I will finish that book. </li>
<li>I've learned who my real friends are. I can count on one hand the people I am in contact with regularly. This is my tribe and I will be there from them when this is over. </li>
<li>I discovered Marco Polo video app (think Snap Chat for grown ups) and the fact that finally I can make my sister -- the funny one -- belly laugh with the "macho" voice effects. </li>
<li>I learned I can make a mean batch of fudge with four simple ingredients in the microwave. </li>
<li>I can stay sober during a pandemic. Blessed to have my recovery family and Zoom meetings. And keep praying that everything's gonna be alright. </li>
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So that's it. My take on the pandemic. Not profound. Not lifesaving. Just what it is during a time we all will never forget. </div>
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Be well, be safe and be kind. This pandemic should not be about politics and it saddens me that it has become that. I pray the 2020 election will progress as planned. And I pray for a vaccine. And I pray for love to trump (sorry) hate and fear. </div>
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#peaceout </div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-85390996203121215942019-12-01T17:04:00.001-08:002019-12-01T17:24:50.657-08:00Bah! Humbug! A Christmas story <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="color: #5c5e62;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”</span></i></div>
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<i style="color: #5c5e62;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> -- Ebenezer Scrooge </span></i><br />
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So maybe that's a little harsh but if I'm being honest, I have never really been a Christmas girl.<br />
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I like seeing my family who live elsewhere, getting a tree, and listening to Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas" for the 1,245th time. And when the kids were little I enjoyed participating in the Santa myth, watching their little faces light up Christmas morning when they saw their letters to "Santa" materialized of toys and books under the tree. </div>
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But in terms of stocking stuffers, gorgeous gift wrapping, maddening crowds, and Black Friday deals? No thanks. But I don't necessarily think that makes me a Scrooge or a Grinch. I have just come to realize in the past few years that mortality is very real, life is fragile, and too many people find meaning in materialism and Facebook likes instead of experiences or other people. Plus if I really need something I will buy it! </div>
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So this year I have made a resolution: aside from immediate family members who expect the gift exchange, I'm going to donate children's books to my local Reading Foundation instead. I'm not sure how this will go over with some of my Christmas-loving friends, but shopping for that "perfect gift" for my besties, colleagues and relatives is just not my idea of fun anymore. It goes against my values and frankly stresses me out. </div>
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So, if someone gives me a gift (I don't feel I have the right to buzz kill people who like this tradition) <br />
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I will thank them and kindly ask them the name of their favorite children's book and buy it and donate<br />
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it. Maybe that seems cheesy and righteous, but that's my plan. Why books? Reading has always been one of my passions. Working at the <a href="https://www.southsoundreading.org/">South Sound Reading Foundation</a> was one of my favorite jobs ever, partly because I got to witness the results. Giving away books to kids and spreading the "Read to your Child 20 Minutes a day!" message was priceless to me. It also holds a special place because my mentor Shirlee, who hired me for that job, passed away 12 years ago. </div>
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So while I may put the Scrooge on some folks' Christmas spirit, I hope they know how we each celebrate the holiday season is personal AND will help spread the love of literacy to more kids in our community. </div>
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Frankly, I don't think even the Grinch -- after "his heart grew 3 sizes that day"-- would object! </div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-38185956363255273162019-11-29T10:26:00.000-08:002019-11-30T08:58:24.655-08:00Giving thanks for my race?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As we say good-bye to another Thanksgiving holiday, it's a good time to reflect on all for which I am truly grateful.<br />
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While historically a religious-based and gratitude-for-the-harvest celebration long before our white ancestors invaded this country, Thanksgiving is generally a time to gather with friends and family, eat way too much food (if you have that kind of privilege) and watch the National Dog Show (if you are me). And that's OK. I think.<br />
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What it is NOT is a time to decorate your house with pilgrim salt and pepper shakers or perpetuate the myth that the holiday symbolized the coming together dinner of Native Americans and colonists. What it SHOULD ALSO BE is a time to recognize that the land we all live on is traditional land of indigenous peoples that was stolen from them. Not something until recently we have begun teaching our children in the history books. I can't tell you how many school-based activities I recall making paper "Indian" headbands with feathers, or seeing some play with Pilgrims and Native Americans holding hands and singing. I was also in a little troop called Indian princesses and somewhere there is a little picture of white little me with pigtails and a little headdress. Did I get a badge for that (cringe)?!<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now before you get all defensive white people, think about it. Native Americans were here thousands of years before white colonists invaded this country (and others) with our "we know best and have guns" attitude. I'm pleased in my <a href="https://www.nthurston.k12.wa.us//site/default.aspx?PageType=3&DomainID=1&ModuleInstanceID=39563&ViewID=6446EE88-D30C-497E-9316-3F8874B3E108&RenderLoc=0&FlexDataID=86970&PageID=1">school district </a>and many other public organizations we are now recognizing this fact through land acknowledgements. What is that you say? It's the simple and solemn practice of o<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">pening meetings and events with a statement recognizing the indigenous inhabitants of the land.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">Learning about the Native American culture has again reminded me about my own white privilege and the many challenges faced by all people of color. It makes me ask: <i>Am I grateful to be white? </i>That's a tough one. It has certainly given me access to power and privilege and other things that many of us think of as basic. It's not something I can change, but I can become more aware of how I use that privilege to make my world a better place. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">We have been reading a lot about equity in my district, and the land acknowledgement piece is just part of that. I am hopeful someone will read this article and challenge my white privilege yet again. We cannot just say "well my intention was good" or "I don't see color when I see people." I just need to keep reading, learning and listening. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">So back to that intro question: What am I thankful for? </span></span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">My family</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">My health</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">My sobriety</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">My friends</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">My dog (sorry that may seem trivial but he's really quite awesome and fun)</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">My home</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">Clean water and plumbing </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">A house I own</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2b2c;">Blankets and heat and a roof </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Food</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">A good-paying job that serves others</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">A hot bath or shower</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Health insurance</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Access to vote </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">My access to good schools and a college education </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Paid leave so I can have hip surgery and take 4 weeks off</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Parents who had access to higher education </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Walking down the street and not having people cross it to avoid me </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><span style="background-color: white;">Having a reliable car to drive </span></span></li>
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<span style="color: #2a2b2c;">I could go on but one thing is very clear to me as I scan this list. Being white has a lot to do with all of these things (except maybe the dog) for which I am grateful. That said, I am also ashamed of my race and how white people take advantage of their privilege and take their privilege for granted. Still, I gotta own this. I can't change my race but I can recognize the privilege and advantage that comes with it. I can use it to help others and maybe, just maybe, make the world a better place. And I'm probably saying this all wrong and hope others will correct me where I'm wrong, or racist or off. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #2a2b2c;">But here is my question: Should I suck it up and add race as number 20? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #2a2b2c;"><i>*To learn more in a much more eloquent and researched article click this <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/27/opinion/thanksgiving-history-racism.html">NYTimes article</a> on Thanksgiving myth. Hope you can access! </i></span></div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-53525846863317665592019-10-31T12:27:00.004-07:002019-10-31T12:27:40.055-07:00Flat candy and other obsessions <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z_lyjBEObWc/XbszE-WhSeI/AAAAAAAABmM/o1AI2w5lx3Mor_vqSVwc3JqKJRzqxU3xACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_0472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z_lyjBEObWc/XbszE-WhSeI/AAAAAAAABmM/o1AI2w5lx3Mor_vqSVwc3JqKJRzqxU3xACEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_0472.jpg" width="150" /></a>It started out simply like it often does. The desire to do something nice for someone, or simply feel that rewarding sense of accomplishment. A box checked. An overdue phone call. A post it note recycled. A sock drawer cleaned out because, why not?<br />
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In this case, on the brink of Halloween, it was a quest to find flat candy.<br />
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"What the hell is flat candy?" you might ask (and did if you are my husband). Well get comfortable because this is a tall tale to tell and possibly one you can relate to if you are a) an overachiever, b) a little OCD, or c) just like "the hunt."<br />
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A little background: Many moons ago I had the privilege of traveling on a group study exchange to India with some other -- at the time -- young people (all Canadians) and our leader, a Rotarian and American named Dan. We were there five weeks and it was both grueling and unforgettable. I got girardia which stayed with me for a year. I jogged around cows. Living on the go with different Indian families and going to countless presentations was exhausting, but during that time my team and I became incredibly close. Jen worked with at risk youth. Terry, since passed, worked in fisheries. I especially hit if off with Caroline, a French and culinary teacher from Victoria, B.C. She was about 10 years younger than me. We bonded while sharing ear buds during a very bumpy and long bus ride to the Taj Mahal and formed a lasting friendship.<br />
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Fast forward past her wedding, many cross border visits, and the birth of her two beautiful children William and Sabrina. They started calling me "Auntie Courtney" which of course I adored as my kids were now teens and less huggy. We talked on the phone, I brought them gifts and read books when I visited. Enter "flat candy."<br />
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I love to send cards and buy gifts. It's just a thing I enjoy. Halloween was no exception. I still could not resist sending cards and a $5 bill to my adult children, now 20 and 23 (sad but true). But for the real live Canadian KIDS I could do even more! I had learned the hard way that sending international mail through USPS could be extremely expensive. Like $30 for $5 worth of candy. So I hatched a plan to send cards, stickers and...flat candy. Plus some cute little animal pins.<br />
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"Are you sure those are safe for the kids," my cautious husband warned. Such a buzz kill!<br />
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"I"ll wrap them in tissue they will be fine," I snapped. "Caroline can pin them on their jackets or something." I just had to find some flat candy and get to the post office.<br />
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So, despite just having hip replacement only a couple weeks before. I hatched a plan on the first day I got the OK to drive. I would go to physical therapy, go to Target and find the mysterious flat candy, and then go mail the two envelopes with USPS none the wiser, saving myself a lot of money and making my little maple leaf wee ones to the North very happy!<br />
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Of course this is not what happened.<br />
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I did my physical therapy which include some serious ouch massaging on my scar tissue. Then I sat in the car for a nanosecond and thought, "Is going to Target really a good idea?" I brushed that aside. I had been cooped up in my house for nearly two weeks. Icing my leg every hour, hobbling with a cane, relying on my husband for everything including putting on my damn socks, and I was determined then and there to FIND FLAT CANDY!<br />
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So off I went with my cane and prayers that I would not see anyone I know because I wore no make up, was sporting two-day old sweats and was on a mission I did not need interrupted with chit chat.<br />
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As we all know, seasonal stuff is in the far friggin' corner of Target so I got my steps in one at a time. I reached the picked through candy section filled with monster-sized bags of candy but did not see the flat little individual pumpkin or ghosts I had imagined existed. Settling on some lame Dove chocolates with pumpkin wrappers, I started to slouch back to the checkout when I saw it (see photo) -- Flat Candy! Yes, Ghiradelli Squares. And what's more, Milk Chocolate PUMPKIN SPICE caramel flavor. I knew now the pumpkin and boo spirits were aligned with me on this one.<br />
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Making my way through check out I was like that playing piece making its way to the Candy Castle square in Candyland! I could feel their little fingers opening the orange envelopes after school. I could hear the shouts of glee as they unwrapped the little pins (and did NOT poke themselves), and squealed at the special shiny chocolate squares and puffy ghost stickers that all fit in the envelope. I was obviously hallucinating.<br />
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I got the envelopes ready in the car as I sat at my final destination outside the post office. I shoved as many flat candies as I could into each orange envelope and licked them shut. I marched passed the homeless couple hanging outside -- catch you later -- and up to the counter. I always smile at postal workers and some smile back. This guy gave me a flat grin. Then he started feeling up my envelopes. If I was someone who broke out in a sweat I would have. Instead I just grinned bigger.<br />
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"What's in here?" he asked.<br />
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I paused, not losing eye contact. "Candy," I replied. "For some kids." Why I left out the oh-so-previously-important "FLAT" adjective I didn't know.<br />
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He furrowed his eyebrows. "Sorry. You will have to fill out a customs form. This becomes a package when you put stuff in it," he told me.<br />
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DAMN IT ALL!<br />
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"Really?" I pleaded with my smile and eyes, even though I knew no amount of flat candy crap was going to change the rules of the USPS. "How much?" I asked with a gulp.<br />
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"Fifteen dollars at least," he said, a little sympathy in his voice.<br />
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Now, I have a good job and could have bought a box and paid the $15 but for whatever reason - -exhaustion, frustration or frugality -- I did not. Instead I peeled open the envelopes, removed the pins and precious candy and sighed as the kind postman taped them back up for me as I secretly prayed he would at least let the puffy ghost stickers through (he did!).<br />
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When I got to the car I greedily ate one of the coveted flat candies. It did not disappoint even though Auntie Courtney did.<br />
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Moral of the stories my pretties? Mail order, mellow out and listen to your husband even though you don't want to. And don't forget to laugh at yourself or you will go insane. <br />
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Oh and after Halloween go find some 50 percent off Ghiardelli Milk Chocolate Pumpkin Spice Caramels. They'll be in the flat candy section.<br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-57432777989496609852019-10-26T16:28:00.002-07:002019-10-26T16:28:59.160-07:00Getting hip at 50 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When I turned 50 I knew I had a lot of things to look forward to: menopause (complete with hot flashes); insomnia; thinning hair; Clarks comfort loafers; and yes, neck wrinkles! All that glory aside, I never envisioned that a hip replacement would be part of my 5th decade.<br />
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I had been having some groin pain off and on for about six months. It was worse when I took long walks. Physical therapy and treatment for "lazy gluts" (aka my butt muscles) helped a little but then the pain got worse. Maybe I was just getting old!? Just in case I requested an X-ray just to see what was up.<br />
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So as I sat in the surgeon's office one June day and heard the words "bone on bone" and "hip replacement" I was a bit flabbergasted. How did this happen? For exercise, I walk and do yoga. I ride my bike a few times a year to feel the wind in my hair and sun on my face (and appease my bike fanatic husband who thinks nothing of a 30-mile trail ride). Hip replacements were for little old ladies...or were they? Only a few months before one of my best friends had a hip replacement at 57, but I blamed hers on her "take-no-prisoners" attitude on the tennis courts. Were my gentle jogs around the lake responsible?<br />
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No, the doc informed me, my left hip deterioration was simply "congenital." Meaning, don't kid <span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Between 2000 and 2010, the number of hip replacements in people age 45 to 54 more than tripled, according to the National Center for Health Statistics. And that was almost a decade ago!</span><br />
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yourself that this was from too much exercise or a heroic athletic injury. Yes, it appears I was destined to have hip replacement from the day I was born! And I'm not alone in the growing group of limping lame Generation Xers today.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-size: 16px;">So why the growing number of hipsters? Plain and simple -- technology. Instead of cement, hip </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-size: 16px;">replacements today are made of more durable materials such as ceramic or plastic. Instead of a shelf life of 10 years, hip replacements today can last up to 30 years or more. Additionally there are several types of hip replacement surgeries -- posterior (traditional, from the back), Superpath (the newest and least invasive hip surgery which avoids cutting any tendons or dislocation), and anterior (from the front, less muscle cutting). I had already scheduled my anterior surgery by the time I learned about Superpath, which is a specialized field to date and not performed by many surgeons - yet! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">That said, once I knew it was coming up I researched a little more. Perhaps I should have not. I learned they would not only dislocate my hip but also saw off the top of my femur to attached a new ball and socket made of ceramic and plastic. Essentially I could now not just pretend to be "The Bionic Woman," I WAS the Bionic Woman (if not a little older than my 70s idol, Jaime Sommers, aka Lyndsay Wanger, aka The original Bionic Woman!). </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Of course it was not a cake walk to be bionic. After my surgery I woke up thirsty and groggy. My lovely nurse gave me pudding and lots of juice, but my always low blood pressure was really low. So low that I fainted twice when they tried to get me up and moving which is the norm after inpatient hip surgery. By days end, my medical team determined that I would not be going home but instead would need to take an ambulance <b>across the street </b>to the hospital so they could monitor my blood pressure and potentially give me a blood transfusion (yup, that happened).</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The next two weeks were a blur of meds, my walker, washcloth baths, lots of pillows, terrible sleep, compression socks that beeped at you in the middle of the night when the charge died, a high protein diet with enough meat to feed a high school football team and some cavemen, and a lot of ICE. I loved my ice packs so much that even when I started running a fever and got the chills and put on my winter coat and hat I would not part with my ice packs.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">All that aside, the best memory I will have from my hip surgery is the kindness of my friends, coworkers and family. Flowers arrived daily either at the door or in the hands of loving visitors. My friend who has breast cancer walked my dog. Meals were prepared and delivered so my husband would not have to be caregiver and cook. I was showered with more candles, chocolate, soaps and teas than an English Princess. And I learned what it was like -- even for a short while -- to be disabled. Simple things like getting in and out of a car or even into bed were painful and required assistance, which thank God I had! I thought a lot during all this about how privileged I am to have a job which offers sick leave; a spouse and friends who can take care of me; health insurance. What about all those people out there in our own country who do not have that!? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">I plan to use this new hip if not to change the world then to remind myself daily all I have to be grateful for and to take care of my health and body during whatever time I have left on earth. Also to stop by and do something for those who have surgery or illness and not just quip, "Let me know if you need anything!" </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">I am lucky. I am blessed. And you betcha I am HIP at 50! </span><br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-73448985896200406342019-10-07T06:09:00.004-07:002019-10-31T15:02:09.206-07:00The power of procrastination <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As a working journalist, deadlines were my savior. You had a good 8 hours to research, report and write an 8 inch story - no excuses. If you didn't meet them there would be a big hole on the front page and your ass was grass.<br />
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Fast forward nearly 30 years and deadlines are no longer my friend because generally I set them myself. Or I have too many. Or I put them off. Or they are impossible to meet. See -- excuses!<br />
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Same for being on time. I am the queen (ask my coworkers and friends) of being 5 minutes (or more) late because I am always trying to get "one more thing" done before I go off to another meeting or appointment. One time I was late to get home so my kindergartner had to ride the bus back to the bus barn where I had to pick her up in shame. Still, I kept putting things off.<br />
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Awhile back I just sort of gave myself an "out" and said, "You know what, I'm pretty good at everything else. The world won't stop if I'm a little late to everything. Exactly! The world doesn't stop and other people are waiting on me and in the words of my always on time engineer husband "That's just rude."<br />
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So today, October 7, 2019, I am going to be on time. I am going to prioritize my deadlines and not go down the rabbit hole that is Facebook or spend precious time unsubscribing from Crate and Barrel emails. I know I will never "get everything done" no matter how much I color code my tasks or make lists. I just need to focus on the HAVE TOS!<br />
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Oops gotta run! Deadline to walk my dog is coming up and he's not a patient pup when it comes to going out.<br />
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Time CAN be on my side if I make it! <br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-86066186195234308882019-10-02T20:04:00.003-07:002019-10-02T20:04:48.742-07:00Shrugging off the stigma of depression <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When you hear the word depression what do you think of? Maybe someone who sleeps all day and stops eating and showering. Or perhaps someone who only thinks about themselves and chooses not to be in a good mood. Worst case, someone who thinks about ending their life. <div>
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Or maybe someone like me. <div>
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According to Mayo Clinic, depression is a mood disorder that causes <i>a persistent feeling of sadness and loss of interest. </i>Now you might think, "well everyone feels sad once in awhile and you just need to snap out of it." Folks I'm here to say on behalf of those of us who suffer from depression -- mild or severe -- it's just not that easy. Depression can be part of your being, caused by biology, brain chemistry, genetics or hormones. It can be triggered by an incident such as a death in the family or other loss or trauma. For me it's a little bit of everything. </div>
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There is no typical candidate for depression. I have suffered from it my whole life and only sought pharmaceutical treatment after my children were born. I noticed I was becoming very angry about everything -- other drivers, a missed goal at a children's soccer game, my dog scratching a door. It was like the Incredible Hulk was lurking inside of me and busting out at the smallest of incidents. </div>
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A mild dose of anti-depressant medication helped...for awhile. I also took hormone replacement therapy well into my 40s which also "took the edge" off and helped balance things out. During this time I was also self-medicating with alcohol which is probably one of the worst things you can do because both alcohol and drugs can make your depression worse. So I stopped drinking and that helped, even though now I had to deal with my feelings head on. No numbness allowed. I saw a therapist for awhile but never went to a psychotherapist or psychiatrist. I just kind of flew under the radar. </div>
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Then the big one hit. My aging parents were struggling with health issues at the same time: Mom needing major back surgery and Dad trying to live on his own in their apartment with Parkinson's in her absence. Thankfully my younger sister lived near them and did most of the heavy lifting of coordinating care, stopping by after work and just being a good dutiful daughter. I flew down to Texas a couple times to help them. There is nothing more sobering and depressing than seeing your parents lose control of their bodies. Walkers, shower assists and catheters became common during 12 hour hospital visits. It was exhausting and emotionally taxing on everyone. Not having control of your loved ones in pain just frankly sucks. </div>
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It was somewhere during that second visit when I felt my old pal depression sinking in around my shoulders like a heavy cloak. My urge to drink again became quite strong. I lashed out at my bed-bound mother for not "trying harder!" And I started having thoughts of ending my life and how I would do it. Running my car into a pole or off a bridge was a popular one. As was an overdose. But I knew deep down I didn't WANT to do it nor would it. Still the thoughts were there. </div>
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Not wanting to freak my sister out, I did what we had told kids to do in my school district where I worked to do: call a helpline. So I did. I texted the national crisis line and within seconds I was paired up with someone who started calling me "brave" and "courageous" for reaching out. Those are words I have NEVER associated with my being, but it was nice to hear. We texted for awhile and I assured her while there was some suicide ideation going on, I did not have a plan to take my own life. I loved my life and my family, but regardless I was having these thoughts. I told her I would find a psychiatrist or therapist when I got home (Note: Working on this. It's hard to find folks who are taking new patients). </div>
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Within a couple weeks of getting home, the cloud lifted. Maybe it was seeing my parents so helpless and closer to death; maybe it was menopause or a chemical imbalance brought on by exhaustion, stress and pain (during this time I was also facing a full hip replacement). Maybe it was repressed trauma from sexual abuse as a child and in college. Whatever the case, I was grateful to be free of the "dark thoughts," but still worry they will come back. </div>
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I urge anyone who reads this to not keep your depression a secret. It's not your fault and it can be treated. I've come to realize it's just part of me and in some ways makes me who I am: a caring mom, wife and friend who is ultra sensitive to unhappiness around me; a successful professional who values relationships and is in recovery; and a person who suffers from depression but does not let it define her or keep her down. </div>
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<i>In a crisis or thinking about suicide: Text HOME to 741741 or call The National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255. </i></div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-24043037426834133092019-09-29T09:42:00.003-07:002019-09-29T09:42:48.791-07:00Role reversal: Caring for Aging Parents <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When my mom first started discussing back surgery I didn’t think much about the risks involved. This was, after all, a woman who had undergone many recent surgeries, including a broken femur and a triple bypass, and come out a champion! She is one tough cookie for a woman in her late 70s who doesn’t complain much in the healing process. She makes friends with all the nurses and doctors and aides. Of course, my mom has always held people in the medical profession - especially doctors -- in high regard, probably since her beloved grandfather was a doctor. At one time she even dreamed of being a doctor herself, but gave it up after she didn’t get into the one med school she applied to after college. All this to say, her family had a lot of hope that her scoliosis, degenerative discs and osteoporosis could be relieved by a back surgery supposedly by one of the best surgeons in the medical profession. Alas that has not been the case so far, and I hurt for my mom as she hurts with every step she tries to take with her walker just to go to the bathroom.<br />
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The quest for the miracle back surgery began about a year ago as my sister and I began to realize something had to give. My dad has Parkinson's and had quit driving some time ago. His trips and falls were becoming a more regular occurrence. Mom was supposed to be his primary caregiver but she was nearly crippled. My parents lived in my Mom's historic family home, a three-story house with steep stairs and many fall risks. Not to mention a huge yard and two large dogs who needed exercise. So began the discussion of an inevitable move closer to one of their daughters and the need for a back surgery for mom. After much research, we landed on a Dallas-area spine specialist whose practice was credited with helping Tiger Woods (one of my Mom's heroes even though she's never golfed in her life). This would be two back-to-back (no pun intended) surgeries instead of one, which would involve the moving over of her organs and the installation of some cages, followed by more work with fusion and rods and pins. For the first time we had hope that things could maybe go back to normal.<br />
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Before we could do that however we needed to move my folks to Dallas, Texas. Suffice to say that is a whole other post in itself as downsizing ones parents from a four bedroom home with a full basement of antiques, books and photos was no small feat. There was yelling, crying and sneaking out multiple trash bags of stuff to the dump and Goodwill, but somehow we survived it and got my parents moved to a nice independent living community and two bedroom apartment. There is add-on home health care, their meals are served each day in a nice dining room and many activities from book club to water aerobics are offered each day for the 75+ community members. Like my parents, many of the residents have walkers or the motorized scooters and wheelchairs. It's pleasant but I still see the sadness in my parents eyes that it is not "home."<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But back to the surgery. After the first surgery, we had to wait and delay the second surgery multiple times due to Mom's sodium level. We learned about something called <span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">Hyponatremia, which occurs when the concentration of sodium in your blood is abnormally low. Sodium is an electrolyte, and it helps regulate the amount of water that's in and around your cells. So fluid restriction and a small fortune in Gatorade was invested to help her recover what can be a life threatening condition (hence surgery delay). Five weeks later we were back on track, waiting for my Mom who spirits were still perky (see photo), to come out of surgery number two at last! Alas, when Energizer Bunny-Super Doc wheeled in on his own scooter due to recent foot surgery, the news was not great. He said, that Mom's first surgery had not worked. The cages they had put in had collapsed due to her brittle bones and they did what they could to rebuild it with tiny rods and pins. Only time and how hard she was willing to work on recovery would tell if she was better off or not in terms of less pain and a straighter back. He also said, and I quote, "If she doesn't work hard and move more she'll end up in a wheelchair and get pneumonia and be dead in a year." Thanks Doc! Of course Mom took the news like a champ, but the rest of us were worried, and frankly sort of depressed. It's hard when you can't control bad things happening to people you love. </span></span><br />
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My mom and I have had some typical mother-daughter issues over the years, I truly do admire her spunk and fire and strength. Well I am not a Texas fan I do wish I lived closer at times like these. My sister has taken on the brunt of the caregiving for my parents which at times has pushed her to point of a mental breakdown. She works full time in a high-powered, demanding new job, is single and adopted my parents' previously mentioned two large, hairy dogs (she has one of her own already). This visit gave me a taste of being selfless and exhausted from 12 hours days in the hospital and their apartment. But this is nothing compared to the loss of independence and memory my folks have experienced since moving to Texas with the hope of a bright new mobile tomorrow. I am learning patience and remind myself to let go of things I can’t control. Sometimes I lose my temper and lash out at my bedbound Mom when she is moaning or seemingly "giving up." I say things, "Mom you are not trying hard enough! If you don't try you will die!" Nice, Courtney.<br />
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I don’t know how much longer they will be on this planet. So I savor the small moments of my mom and her beautiful smile as her beloved Oklahoma Sooners make a touchdown on the hospital TV. Or singing along with '50s songs on the radio with my Dad as he shares his vast knowledge of the artists tucked away in his deteriorating brain. And there’s nothing like ailing parents to bring siblings closer together. My sister and I couldn’t be more different but she truly is my hero when it comes to staying calm most of the time and taking care of details that for me might end up on a lost Post It in my purse.<br />
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I love my parents and I’m grateful for all they did for me and my sister. Now I only hope that I can do some of that for them. It truly is the circle of life.<br />
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<i>Update: After we finally got Mom's meds adjusted she seems to have turned a corner. It will be a long road ahead, including hours of physical and occupational therapy and possible weeks in skilled nursing away from Dad, but we are hopeful! This lady has more life to live and I am going to be there cheering her on and letting go of the bullshit that clutters our lives when we let it. And giving a lot of miles to Southwest Airlines! </i></div>
C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-18772658263647142142019-09-08T21:45:00.001-07:002019-09-08T21:45:30.958-07:00All in the Family <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YMMyAjZq4Sk/XXXWeg1vhZI/AAAAAAAABf0/cF_ENw09rtsiBHoowfw8CFsW8FGntZ6nACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YMMyAjZq4Sk/XXXWeg1vhZI/AAAAAAAABf0/cF_ENw09rtsiBHoowfw8CFsW8FGntZ6nACLcBGAs/s200/IMG_0112.jpg" width="149" /></a>When I was younger my definition of an alcoholic was my grandfather.<br />
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Back in the day, Papo, as we grandkids knew him, looked a little like Frank Sinatra, with piercing blue eyes and a cigarette between his long fingers. He could have been a movie star except he was from Oklahoma. Sadly, I never knew that version of him except for the photo I keep on the shelf as you walk in my home.<br />
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My version of Papo was one of an older, slightly slumped, quiet guy whose clothes were always a bit stained and a size too big. He also had what I called the "bionic" arm (being a child of the 70s, I was fascinated by "The Six Million Dollar Man"). On visits to his nursing home as a kid I remember being afraid to hold his "fake" hand in case he got me in a vice grip of some kind. Looking back I don't think he could even bend the fingers. My Mom always called him "Daddy" and brought him a box of chocolate-covered cherries. In return he always had a peacock feather for me and my sister which he said he plucked from the random peacocks who stroll around the nursing home grounds. Later I wised up and realized he just collected shed feathers. <br />
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I'm not sure when I learned Papo was an alcoholic but I knew that's why he and my grandmother were no longer married and why he was not able to live on his own. Still, I don't remember seeing my grandfather ever drunk. By the time I was born he had already lost his job, his marriage and his health. As I got older I heard stories of him being dumped on the lawn of his home at night after someone brought him home from the bar. I'm sure this was humiliating for my mom and her family because they lived in a small town where everyone knew everybody and everything that went on with each other. One time my Mom told me a story of how she and my uncle went to work with their Dad and made a game of counting up how many bottles he had hidden around his office. When people talk about him now though, it's usually just really good memories, with tales of his bountiful garden, wild Irish Setters, wicked sense of humor, or brilliance in the courtroom. <br />
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I wish I could talk to him now and ask him about his life and his drinking. The latter particularly because at age 48 I realized I had inherited the alcoholic gene. Like my grandpa in the early days of his drinking, you probably wouldn't look at me on the outside and think "Now there's an alcoholic!" Far from it. I held a high level job in a school district, I volunteered, had a solid marriage and two beautiful children. People who knew me might think of me as "someone who can't hold her liquor." At social functions I always made a beeline for the bar -- especially if it was an open "all you can drink" bar. Weddings were the worst. One time my husband literally had to find me because I had snuck off while we were leaving to get "one more drink." My binge drinking days had started in high school and got worse in college at fraternity parties. I was in an emotionally toxic relationship, got pregnant, had an abortion, and drank to escape and cloak my insecurities. I thought about killing myself a couple times. It was during this period, however, that I met my future husband during a summer internship. A golden California boy who played guitar, biked around campus and studied chemistry, he liked me just as I was which back then was chubby, insecure and frankly a hot mess of a girl on the rebound. He instead saw me as smart, driven, pretty and silly. His faith and love for me tempered my drinking for awhile and we got married right after I graduated.<br />
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I come from the belief that alcoholics are born not made. I don't blame my family history or genetics but it helps me explain why I could never really stop at one drink; why I drank a lot at social functions to feel like I could fit in; why a security guard had to drive me home after a work party as I stumbled down the hall; why I drove my car into a fence one time less than a mile from my home; why I threw up all over my friends bathroom during a girls reunion; why after my kids both left for college, I started sneaking more drinks at the end of the day when my husband was out of the room; why I justified that drinking nearly a bottle of wine each night after work was "normal" because I had a stressful life after all; and finally why, after blacking out in my own basement when my husband was out of town I finally said, "Enough!" and called a friend who had recently started going to Alcoholics Anonymous. As they say in the First Step, "I was powerless over alcohol." It had become the thing I most thought about and looked forward to at the end of the day. And I was finally done.<br />
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Luckily, I stopped before I went to jail or had to go to rehab. Unlike my grandpa, I didn't lose my marriage, my job or my home. I am happier, healthier and more honest about how I live my life now. My friendships are fewer but richer. And I've become better at letting go of things. Sure there are still some days -- usually the stressful ones -- where a chilled glass of Chardonnay sounds good, but less so every day I am sober. Because of the family history with alcohol, I do worry more about my kids and maybe knowing what I went through they will be more aware of their substance use and drinking. I can't control that.<br />
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I wonder when it got of control with my grandpa? Or how old he was when he had his first drink? Was he ever socially awkward? Did he ever try to quit? I guess I will never know. And I'm okay with that. He was my grandpa with the peacock feathers, and we shared a disease called alcoholism.<br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-59331872645661577172016-06-29T06:56:00.000-07:002016-06-29T06:56:42.785-07:00Blessings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's been almost 2 months since my last post. A reminder of how busy life can can get sometimes. During this period some life-changing things have occurred. First, my oldest child graduated (with honors and a history degree) from college. His journey through life -- especially adolescence -- has been bumpy at times so this day was a grand celebration even if he now has great trepidation of his next steps. Luckily he has a sweet boyfriend to walk with him in the streets of New York City so that puts Mama at ease.<br />
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Other big life changes include my boss of 7 years retiring. Some may think this is not such a big deal but when you work closely with someone for that long it is. He was a mentor and friend and even though his expectations were sometimes way too high, I managed to meet them and grew in my own confidence. That said, here comes the new Sheriff and I am anxious about if I will measure up to her standards or get a long with her. Work has defined who I am for so long and for once I would just like to work, go home and rest...for about a year!<br />
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I am looking forward to one big thing...moving to a new home. My husband and I are one of those couples who have looked at lots and open houses for years. We love our little home that we added on to and raised our two kids in but it's like giving birth to a new kid through the design and construction of this house. Pangs of guilt hit me sometimes when terrible things happen in the world or a friend gets cancer and I am finding joy in picking out colors and hardwood floors. But then I am reminded what I have learned from two years of therapy -- I deserve to want, and be happy and find joy. My life's mission is not to make sure everyone else is happy (ok it sort of is, but that's just how I'm wired).<br />
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Until then I'm hoping to enjoy a little summertime visiting friends, family and trying to be grateful for every minute of every day. Even when it's crappy. Even when crazy people are shouting at each other on TV and blowing up airports. Even when protesters take over a parade and say mean, awful things (that's another blog).<br />
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I just realized I don't have a title for this blog. But I feel better after writing. Now go out there and love yourself people. I'm gonna try. After I dry my hair, eat breakfast and all that morning stuff those in the animal kingdom do not have to worry about. Although maybe they do I guess...grooming, killing their next meal, etc.<br />
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OK that's enough rambling voices in my head. STOP! Humans think way too much. </div>
C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-42346825508139374782016-05-02T06:12:00.000-07:002016-05-02T06:12:00.463-07:00No means....YES?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Well I have to admit the first week of intentionally trying to say "No" more has been a mixed bust.<br />
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No is a slippery slope because if you get in the habit you may say No to things you enjoy or that make you feel better, like a morning run or a walk with a friend.<br />
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Yesterday I took my foreign exchange daughter to a glass blowing class with some other kids from her group. It was a beautiful day outside -- where I had hoped to be -- but it ended up being quite interesting. Who knew making a glass could be such a process and art? I also enjoyed talking to kids from all over the world -- Belgium, Ukraine..and my girl from Kazakhstan. The thing they like least about American schools? Kids making out in the halls and grinding at dances. The thing they like best? The people and...wait for it...WALMART!<br />
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Today I'm going to have to find that balance of Yes and NO because it's Monday. I know exercise needs to be a YES even though I want to often say NO. Beyond that...we'll see how it goes.<br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-84897040234395150012016-04-26T07:06:00.002-07:002023-04-23T14:39:39.773-07:00Just Say No <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-c8MmtkGBAoMxUZEc85UuGaY0mwnp6SR29MEANVquAGFiwcFzdFZmjSfCQRJxwzaxpisNL62y0lnEkP91CAuSUDq04QK_e6jFX6_mn1_VmQw0kBbSpOoHmCheu4dvjL2yQGSNrHSnMOnR6i-JEYnRjtK6XIxNbQwVEUKyP6Cqi4xx1ZxdDumviFE5g/s800/5580127313_e8436f8756_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="800" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-c8MmtkGBAoMxUZEc85UuGaY0mwnp6SR29MEANVquAGFiwcFzdFZmjSfCQRJxwzaxpisNL62y0lnEkP91CAuSUDq04QK_e6jFX6_mn1_VmQw0kBbSpOoHmCheu4dvjL2yQGSNrHSnMOnR6i-JEYnRjtK6XIxNbQwVEUKyP6Cqi4xx1ZxdDumviFE5g/w200-h133/5580127313_e8436f8756_c.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I recently read an article in Oprah about an affirmation book called <i>The Year of Yes</i>. I had to smile as I've lived that life and what I found was professionally or personally it wore me out. Maybe it's because my own Mom was on a zillion committees and always volunteering (for the most part that was her job, along with raising us). Or maybe it's just in my nature as a "pleaser" to try to make sure everyone else's needs were met before my own. Whatever the reason, I've decided that next year will be a year of non-commitments. My own <i>The Year of No</i>.<br />
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This is really hard for me because in general I'm a very positive person, but over the last couple years I have become more negative. Ironically, I think it's because I forgot to do things that made me happy. As women we are raised to be nurturers. From babysitting to baking to breastfeeding, our society at least in the last century has done it's best to try and convince women that their place is in the home. And if a women wants to work outside the home, power to her but she'd better still give 100% at home. And while you're at it don't forget to be the Facebook perfect friend who volunteers and gets 1,000 likes and "atta girls" from friends and friends of friends and strangers.<br />
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So we'll see how this goes for me. It's not like I can drop out of life. I'm getting a new boss in a couple months and I'm pretty sure me saying "no" to every request would not sit well with her or my longevity at the office. But I am going to be more selective of what I do. My parents are getting older and I want to spend more time with them. My kids are getting older and soon we will have an empty nest. And I'm getting older and realizing life really is short. So many people I know -- of all ages -- are battling cancer and other diseases and I need to take better care of myself.<br />
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So here goes...nothing! </div>
C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-15839403006751357802016-03-30T20:28:00.000-07:002016-06-29T06:58:19.748-07:00Mommy needs a Makeover<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few months ago I colored and cut my hair. It was darker, flippier and made people look at me twice.<br />
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"Did you darken your hair? You look so different."<br />
"I didn't recognize you!"<br />
"Love your new look (winky, winky. OK I made that up. Nobody but a weirdo or my Mom winks at me anymore. I'm 47 for God's sake!)<br />
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Anyway, in my world, change is welcome - no matter how small. All this "live in the moment" and "being present" talk exhausts me sometimes because frankly, I'm bored with the moment. I've been working at the same job for 10 years. Married to the same (wonderful) man for 25 years and living in the same house for 22 years. At 32 I must have been going through something like this because I got a tattoo. An astrological and now graying tattoo that to this day I forget is there until I see my drooping backside in the mirror and think, "What the hell was I thinking getting a tramp stamp?"<br />
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My Dad has this awesome saying, "You change, to learn to grow." I can't remember the last time I tried anything new unless you count getting a Snapchat account because I was amused by the funny apps my foreign exchange daughter kept showing me and making me laugh harder than I have in a long time. Suddenly I could be a bunny, or a goth, or Golem (I do a mean "My Precious!" given the chance and voiceover). It was stupid but fun. Until of course my own biological daughter berated and unfriended me because apparently Snapchat belonged to her and her alone.<br />
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So, I'm kind of stewing in my stable little world waiting for something to happen. I have always believed in fate and signs and such, but realize that Hugh Grant is not going to walk into my office and ask me to dash off to Britain, and I do not have the patience for knitting or talent for starting my own band. My husband once bought me the ukulele I just<i> had</i> to have one Christmas. I played it all of four times.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, I am so so grateful for my life and health and friends and family. I admire people who work at the same job for 30+ years (shout out to Dad), and eat the same thing for breakfast and are confined to a very small world due to circumstances beyond their control and never complain. But I am not that person.<br />
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I need more than a haircut. I need a life makeover.<br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-31644937839058621392016-03-09T00:26:00.003-08:002016-03-09T00:32:54.779-08:00Young love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xH9OIbDe4z8/Vt_c9ywKP-I/AAAAAAAAA-o/lfmjzgiTlk0/s1600/1f46b.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xH9OIbDe4z8/Vt_c9ywKP-I/AAAAAAAAA-o/lfmjzgiTlk0/s1600/1f46b.png" /></a></div>
<br />
A couple weeks ago my 16-year-old daughter proposed her birthday present to me: to have <i>her</i> boyfriend over for dinner.<br />
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Now, you may scoff "what a self-centered teenage thing to do," but consider the backstory....I had been encouraging her for months to have this fella over more. They had been dating for at least five months (though there was some passionate first love drama a couple years back) and she was always going to <i>his</i> house to hang with <i>his</i> family and watch movies. They were obviously the chosen ones. I was the stepmother.<br />
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Seriously though, I had myself believing "doesn't every teenager want to have their significant other over all the time to hang out with their parents?"<br />
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HellaNO!<br />
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But for whatever reason, this she did. This was the second time the young man with the deep voice and swagger had been to our house (at least that I know of), and while a boyfriend of few words, he was polite and treated my daughter with respect and answered my allowed three questions:<br />
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<i>Are you planning on going back to school? </i><br />
<i>What are you interested in studying? </i><br />
<i>Do you still think about playing baseball? </i><br />
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<b>"Yes." </b><br />
<b>"I have no idea really."</b><br />
<b>"Actually maybe..."</b><br />
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He was obliging. She was highly annoyed.<br />
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Still, they ate the pizza I had picked up along with the salad her Dad had made. We made small talk and then they went back to her room (yes we even let her close the door now though she doesn't see the point since her bedroom is off the kitchen and we can "hear everything." Reverse psychology? Perhaps).<br />
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Still, it was a lovely birthday present for me, the Mom who just wants to be loved. To be cool. The Mom with the house where all the kids like to hang out and watch movies and eat popcorn; the one they want to share their problems with and cry with when their home life isn't working out...or not.<br />
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I have recently come to the conclusion that I have to let my kids live their own lives. Now almost 20 and 17, I'm happy my kids are independent. If I embarrass them, score for me! My job is not to have them like me but to provide them with direction and self-sufficiency skills -- right? Right?<br />
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My wish for my kids used to be "if they are happy and can support themselves that is all I wish for."<br />
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Today a friend told me his cousin once told him, "If my kids don't go to prison then I will have succeeded as a parent."<br />
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I'd like to think my bar is a little higher than that, but if my birthday present is to hang out with my kid and the boy she loves so be it.<br />
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Maybe next year they'll take me bowling! <br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-7931841457520656582016-02-16T16:10:00.000-08:002016-02-17T21:12:00.768-08:00Courage is contagious <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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What do you do when you realize life is just a blip in the Milky Way? Do you a) pull the covers over your head and refuse to get out of bed? b) take chances in all you do and say "yes" often because we're all gonna die anyway or c) sit back, take a breath and be grateful for all you have?<br />
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I have been in stages of life where all these choices have made sense at the time. The trick is to keep rotating and not go to one extreme or another. I try to err on the grateful side as lately there are so many people I know who have come upon hard times due to illness or circumstance beyond their control. This doesn't make my own sufferings or conflicts any less important but it helps put it in perspective that as humans, we all suffer. Then we help each other up and keep moving forward. Or at least moving!</div>
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Let's examine: </div>
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<li>In the last month I have learned of a baby cousin with RSV in intensive care, a student hit by a car in a crosswalk, one colleague with a brain tumor and another with ovarian cancer, a friend who lost her job and is facing surgery, a friend whose Dad has congestive heart failure, and a beautiful young woman with stubborn cancer that keeps coming back despite countless bouts of chemo. </li>
<li>A friend who struggles with addiction has decided to get clean and I know it's going to be really really hard for her. </li>
<li>A shy young woman who moved to town after her dad died. She wants new friends and is so brave, putting herself out there on Facebook trying to make new friends. </li>
<li>My Dad, who was diagnosed last year with Parkinson's. He is frustrated and confused at times, but he doesn't complain, and my Mom is learning how to be a patient caregiver. Their marriage and devotion still astounds me. No surprise this year is their 50th anniversary! </li>
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I am in awe of all these amazing individuals and their courage. They give me hope and a deepening faith in humanity -- and gratefulness for a tomorrow that may or may not come.<br />
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Be brave! </div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-72990502000105538132016-01-03T08:24:00.002-08:002016-01-03T10:19:47.083-08:00This one's for the girls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P9oC1EGkfLY/VoiyJypoKVI/AAAAAAAAA8M/DijtBAkbLoE/s1600/413544_3463538959741_436748894_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P9oC1EGkfLY/VoiyJypoKVI/AAAAAAAAA8M/DijtBAkbLoE/s200/413544_3463538959741_436748894_o.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
There are several things I hold sacred: my family, Saturday morning yoga and my girlfriends.<br />
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I have different circles of girlfriends. One friend, Nikki, I have known since I was five years old. She taught me to ride a bike and how margarine in a tub is so completely amazing on white bread toast. Another, Louise, has remained steadfast since our daughters started 1st grade together. She is a devoted mother of three, speaks with a British accent (which I sometimes unknowingly adopt when I am with her or talking about her) and has the uncanny ability to remember every accessory gift I ever gave her <i>and </i>wear it when we are getting together. I have friends from high school, college, summer camps, book clubs and past jobs. They all hold a special place in my heart and life for different reasons.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iCsYrt1j9iU/VoiyXXM96tI/AAAAAAAAA8c/X1pGbaoDWiY/s1600/1010472_10151756647645699_764639600_n.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/-iCsYrt1j9iU/VoiyXXM96tI/AAAAAAAAA8c/X1pGbaoDWiY/s200/1010472_10151756647645699_764639600_n.jpg" width="196" /></a>Then there are "the girls." Formally known as the "Mandeville girls," for the town where I moved my senior year of high school. While I had no trouble being the new kid, I was not quite prepared for small town, southern Louisiana culture into which I was dropped from suburban Kansas. A land of drive-thru daiquiri shops, Po'Boys and big hair. The first day I went to my classes, acting confident and smart. Back home I had been editor of my newspaper, a 4.0 student and boy band groupie. At lunch that day people gathered in "the pit" -- literally a hole in the ground with stairs. Like a sunken auditorium. If the bottom had fallen out the school would lose all it's popular people and then what would happen to the social hierarchy that is high school? I wasn't sure what to do. Did I just go up to someone and say "Hey ya'll!" or wait for someone to approach me and invite me to sit with them. I didn't have to decide thanks to Betty. She was a no-nonsense, short blonde girl who was wicked smart and a cheerleader. Apparently she had been impressed with something snarky I had said to one of the teachers earlier in the day and invited me to be her friend. This is significant because I am not really that funny. Which is why I probably don't have a million followers on my blog like my idol Jenny Lawson. Anyway, it was the start of what would become a nearly three decade friendship for me and Betty and "the girls."<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q7qjaRr8ZUY/VoiyJxSI36I/AAAAAAAAA8Q/bOVHOrO8-bA/s1600/11203093_10153255933430699_1027252240643825725_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q7qjaRr8ZUY/VoiyJxSI36I/AAAAAAAAA8Q/bOVHOrO8-bA/s200/11203093_10153255933430699_1027252240643825725_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>She introduced me around to Tara, Nicole, Denece, Erin and Bridgett. I think at least half of them were cheerleaders. Keep in mind I was the uncoordinated drama dork who the Kansas girls had invited to try out for cheerleading as their partner to make them look extra good. I could not do the splits and my half-ass cartwheel would probably kick the petite cheer captain in the face. I dressed like a tomboy and colored my own hair to a slight orange tint. My mother still shopped for me. But still these girls welcomed me into their tribe. Call it Southern hospitality or maybe they just saw in me something I had yet to see in myself. Fun? Kindness? Or just that kindred girlfriend spirit no one can explain. It's like girlfriend magic. You either click or you don't. And that magic leads to reveal more magic and powers you didn't even know you had -- like dancing on tables given enough Jungle Juice, or singing hours of bad karaoke in someone's living room (yes people actually own these amazing things)...but I am getting ahead of myself.<br />
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We eventually all graduated, went to college, got married and settled down to be grown ups. At this point I would like to apologize profusely for missing all but one of their weddings since I was a poor married girl myself at the time living in far flung Washington state on a part-time reporter's salary. I'm sure they were the most awesome of weddings, but after that I vowed to take every opportunity I could to see this fun loving chicks despite my geography and income bracket.<br />
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So came the high school reunions (where we were still the coolest chicks around( and annual girlfriend gatherings usually in Texas and sometimes in Mexico (OK, I missed those too). The husbands started tagging along because as you would expect we married cool guys and they all liked each other. Alas, my hubbie is kind of a loner and has NEVER come to these frickin' awesome reunions. But I know in time he will meet these amazing Republican Southerners and be impressed by their wit, humor and ability to welcome any nature California liberal to their man cave of fun. Ok. That sounds kind of kinky but "the girls" know what I mean. I also know when I went through a very trying time with my family in which I thought they would not understand, these guys handed me a hug and a beer and said, "we get it...it's ok!" I love you "boys."<br />
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So I am seeing how long this blog entry is and realize I may need another chapter. Or entry. Hence, here's to girlfriends and friends of all sorts. Facebook friends, high school friends, old friends, new friends. People who love you for you. Even when you are mess. Even when you only see each other every couple years. Here's to "my girls."<br />
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"Cheers!"<br />
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<i>Note; And sorry for the thong thing. </i><br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-12978109264556702472015-12-29T08:26:00.000-08:002015-12-29T08:26:00.468-08:00It's called co-dependency<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UCPCQtXuKpc/VoKyFJYdA5I/AAAAAAAAA7g/PW8PkFBpaEE/s1600/IMG_4357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UCPCQtXuKpc/VoKyFJYdA5I/AAAAAAAAA7g/PW8PkFBpaEE/s200/IMG_4357.JPG" width="150" /></a>Yesterday was a good day. I read my new Jenny Lawson book in bed and chuckled out loud, I went to yoga. I watched reruns with my daughter. I took pleasure in organizing piles of paper into more -- though smaller -- piles of paper. Pictures my children had drawn for me. Pictures other people's kids had drawn for me when I babysat them 25 years ago. One of these kids, Mairead Case, is now a Ph.D candidate in English and Creative Writing with her own first novel, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/See-You-In-The-Morning/dp/0983186359">See You in the Morning</a></i>. I am very impressed and hopeful that maybe in some small way I contributed to this genius (or not). Either way, I now have her brilliant signed novel and original childhood art and writing to match. Maybe when she wins the National Book Award some day it will be worth something on Sotheby's.<br />
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Speaking of art, I recently resolved to try more new things and take chances in 2016. I've been in slow motion most of the past year, doing yoga and reading books about co-dependency at the advice of my therapist. You see I am a pleaser and worrier. I care more about how others are doing and how I might be able to "fix things" for them than letting the universe just unfold and taking better care of myself. Not that compassion and caring for others is bad, but I can let my entire day be ruined if I think someone is mad at me or they are sad. The result is I've retreated, had more quiet time and started writing more. Lately though -- and maybe it's because I just saw the new <i>Star Wars</i> movie -- I've been thinking I need to have more adventure. If Yoda was real and my Jedi I think he would say, "Think less, do more." My real therapist would probably disagree and watching her and Yoda duke it out with light sabers or mind control would be a trip but alas, don't think that's gonna happen.<br />
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Bottomline, I am a codependent, with a history of alcoholism in my family and sexual abuse as a child. I've spent much of my life trying to make up for what I perceived was false inadequacy by being an "intense overachiever," "pleaser," and self-described "anxious mess." I can never stop caring about the ones I love, but I've resolved to start taking more chances, trying new things that may or may not make me happy, and in the words of Tim McGraw, "live like you were dying." Me, not you. At least I hope you are not dying. Is there anything I can do? Did I make you mad?...ugh. This is gonna take some time. </div>
C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-2039365118391735782015-08-31T07:16:00.000-07:002015-08-31T07:16:09.627-07:00And then there were three....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It started with an email.<br />
We were all minding our own business watching some TV and having chill family time while multitasking on our phones (of course) and I saw an email from my daughter's tennis coach (paraphrase privilege here):<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BgiVhDX5av0/VeRhilyu9II/AAAAAAAAA3I/T0lUmO0auBY/s1600/11898566_10153528402470699_6242664366054230129_n.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/-BgiVhDX5av0/VeRhilyu9II/AAAAAAAAA3I/T0lUmO0auBY/s200/11898566_10153528402470699_6242664366054230129_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><i><b>WANTED:</b> Host family for a Muslim female student from Kazakhstan. Her original host family didn't work out as they have six cats and this student has a cat phobia. </i></div>
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<i>She plays tennis and will attend our high school next year. Arrives next week! </i></div>
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We went on to read her sweet bio about how much she has always dreamed of coming to America and has a brother and sister and loves hanging out with her friends...and we were hooked. Convincing my husband was another matter. </div>
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You see I have this habit of wanting something very badly, wearing him down until I get it, then flitting off to the next thing. I admit this freely but this time I knew I had to carry my part of the bargain. For three days we negotiated. It wasn't that he didn't want her or like the idea of a foreign exchange student. Far from it! We have traveled around the world with our kids since they were young and thought this would always be something we would do but the timing was never right. It still wasn't but that didn't stop me from trying: </div>
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<i>HIM: You have to commit to getting her places and not calling me last minute that you have some work meeting.</i></div>
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<i>ME: OK! (this was gonna be hard but I committed) </i></div>
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<i>HIM: Where is she gonna sleep (we have two bedrooms and an office and two teens of our own until child A goes off to college in a month).</i></div>
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<i>ME: Oh I'll figure it out. </i></div>
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<i>HIM: No, you will have it worked out before she comes.</i></div>
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<i>ME: Hmmmmm....</i></div>
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Meanwhile the clock was ticking. I convinced the kids to switch rooms, promised I would be more available, husband agreed, and we started Operation Diana (her name). The next few days were a whirlwind of emails with the agency, a home visit (we passed) and making room for this stranger. We need not have worried. When she got out of the van in our driveway she shyly smiled and without hesitation gave me the first hug. </div>
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So far it's been a smooth transition. Sure we ask her a million questions a day about her home country. She complies patiently. I tell her things she already knows (her English is amazing). Really, she is just like any other teenager in that she has an iPhone (6.0 my own daughter pointed out right away) and likes talking to her friends back home. She sleeps in and has quirky eating habits like my teens. She loves our dog who jumps and licks. The main difference so far is that she is a killer cleaner, a great cook, and helps with chores and even vacuumed my couch! </div>
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As Joy our foreign exchange liaison reminds us: "Treat her like family, not a guest."</div>
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No problem. She's in! </div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-36051652534136845382015-07-12T21:55:00.001-07:002015-07-12T21:56:33.111-07:00Cisgender privilege: Whatcha gonna do about it? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've noticed the last few blogs I've written have been about someone very special...ME! As in, my struggles, my victories, my sadness, my loss, my love as a working Mom of two who lost her own identity somewhere along the way (but am trying to get it back). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today though, I'm getting out of my little "me box" and talk about gender identity. I've been a member of PFLAG for several years since my son came out as a transgender man. In short, we raised him until 14 as a girl, when he really identified with being a guy. Once we realized this -- and it was not an easy road -- and helped him transition, he is much happier. But he's not out of the woods in terms of living like every other man. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to share a few things I learned from transgender folks and what is known as Cisgender Privilege. "What is cisgender" you might ask? In simplest terms it is identifying with the gender you were "assigned" at birth. This assignment is given by doctors and/or parents based on a baby's sex. That said, we must remember that gender identity and sexual orientation are different entirely -- one is based on who you are, and the other one who you love. At least that's the version I like best! Like cisgender folks, transgender people can be homosexual or heterosexual or pansexual, which essentially means they love who they love regardless of sexuality or gender identity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So what does cisgender privilege mean exactly? Well here are a few examples from <a href="http://itspronouncedmetrosexual.com/2011/11/list-of-cisgender-privileges/">itspronouncedmetrosexual</a>;</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">using public facilities without stares, fear or anxiety</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">not being asked what your genitals look like </span></li>
<li>not having to validate your gender based on if you took hormones or had surgery</li>
<li>not having your gender identity impeded you in getting a job, medical care, an apartment or loan </li>
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Until I had a transgender son I took these things for granted. I laughed or smirked at jokes in the media or arts about drag queens or men wearing dresses. I never thought twice about using the bathroom.</div>
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That's different now. </div>
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I could go on and tell you about my beautiful friend Anais, or Pride organizer Luke or former police officer Erika, but instead I encourage you -- no beg is more like it -- to take a moment to be grateful for your privilege. To understand a little better what it means to be transgender, whether you are a homeless teen on the street or <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2015/06/caitlyn-jenner-bruce-cover-annie-leibovitz">Caitlyn Jenner</a>. It ain't easy. And we need to not just celebrate these amazing people as being "brave" but support them in their struggle to demand equal rights. Human rights. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmoAX9f6MOc">John Oliver</a>, a brilliant comedian, said recently on a segment about transgender rights: "This is a civil rights issue...we've been through this before. We know how this thing ends. If you take the anti-civil rights side and deny people to access something they are entitled to, history is not going to be kind to you." </span></div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-89276202515328443052015-06-27T16:37:00.002-07:002015-07-13T07:46:10.131-07:00"Feelings...nothing more than Feelings!"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Recently my therapist advised me to get in touch with and honor my feelings. I sort of knew what she meant because my most popular feelings as a working mother are guilt, guilt...and guilt. Lately sadness has been popping up too with early menopause. If worrying about others was a feeling that would be my most popular feeling but it's not, it's a verb.<br />
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Anyway, I vowed this weekend to follow her advice and what better, more mature, introspective way to do that than going to see a Pixar movie with my teenage daughter. Before I reveal which movie and the outcome, let me reveal that my kids -- and most people for that matter -- do not really relish seeing movies with me because, well, I like to chat. I like to openly (but quietly) share my thoughts and questions about the film and just assume my seatmate does too. "Who is that guy and what historical relationship did he have with her and what did she just say?"Is a common movie question for yours truly. You get the point.<br />
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So the movie is about feelings. It's called, appropriately <i>Inside Out </i>and was actually suggested by my counselor and received stellar critical reviews. No matter that the characters are colorful animated feelings who live inside an 11-year-old girl's head and battle her confused state and each other after she moves from Minnesota to San Francisco and is, in short, miserable.<br />
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Big names and comedic actors including including Amy Poehler ("Joy"), Mindy Kahling ("Disgust") and some SNL actor I had never heard of named Bill Hader ("Fear") make the movie a comedy for all ages, except for this surreal "abstract thought" scene I'm sure would confuse even the most gifted 5-year-old. The show-stealer ironically is "Sadness" played by <i>The Office</i> alumnae Phyllis Smith. She is blue (of course) and hilariously mopey as a modern-day Eeyore. She truly wants to help but every thing she touches turns blue (=sad) so Joy wants her to just read manuals and try to stay out of the way. That's it on the spoilers.<br />
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It was about three-quarters through the movie in between laughter and tears I was wiping on my sweater (because gosh Dang-it I'd left my tiny Kleenex packet in the car!) when I finally GOT what my therapist was talking about. <u>It's okay to be sad!</u> Now some of you emotionally intelligent dim-wits may be saying, "Duh, we all have feelings...sad, happy...get over it!" But the thing is for many of us whatever gender, we are encouraged to suppress our feelings and act happy. Be satisfied with your lot and all that. Smile when your heart is breaking. All that crap.<br />
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Well, thanks to a little blue darling I'm gonna embrace my own little feelings. Jealousy? Bring it. Anger? I am woman! Of course, I'm hoping my feelings choose to cooperate most of the time because I can't always SHARE what I'm feeling or I might get fired, murdered, divorced or shunned. But I can feel my feelings. Honor them with a little salute, give them an inner hug, then let them mush around for awhile until it's time for me to eat, sleep or act like I am the professional, mature woman I am most often not.<br />
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This is gonna be fun....<br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-85568847407331823692015-06-25T21:15:00.000-07:002015-07-13T07:48:13.510-07:00The Gig is UP!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tomorrow is a big day in our family. My youngest is getting her driver's license! Granted she turned 16 a month ago but got caught in a little lie which led to this unfortunate delay. She and her friends literally texted me, "Don't call the house because my grandma is sleeping!" What was worse is when I tracked them down at the pizza place and busted them for planning to sneak off to a bonfire I dramatically raised my finger and pointed at them like a witch and cried gleefully, "The gig is up!" Sadly this will haunt my daughter for the rest of her high school career.<br />
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The last year has not been easy for me or my babies. I call them that with all due respect but it has been hard. I remember when they reached for me to pick them up, when I nursed them to sleep singing and they didn't roll their eyes, or when they wanted me to play games with them (God I wish I could get those times back!). Those were the days. </div>
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Now they think they know everything, but can't return library books in time, pick up their clothes or put down their GD phones! In retaliation, I continue to treat them like they are far younger than their "wise" 16 and 18 year old selves. I nag, they push back. I pry, they shut down. It's not to say there aren't moments of love and a hug here and there but I would not define us as "buddies" and what I've come to realize in the last few weeks is....that's OK! </div>
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The job of a Mama lion or bear or bird is to push her kids away. Find their own pride or gang. To learn how to succeed or fail on their own and hope and pray we have taught or demonstrated the skills to survive. I hate the idea of predators, Or freak accidents. Or broken hearts. But it's not my job anymore to put them in a bubble. </div>
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This is a hard lesson for me. I'm trying...really I am. I follow them stealthily on Twitter but don't know their Tumblr blogs. I get the most results when I'm not asking questions but lying on the couch reading or driving with them in the car. </div>
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For now, I am lonely for a little hand. A squeal. Bathtime. In fact, I think I'll go text my youngest now or look up where she is on Find My Phone. </div>
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-5895690574127025252015-06-24T07:11:00.002-07:002015-06-24T07:12:26.781-07:00Just do it! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As I embark on a new push for self-care and healthy living, I am struck by the fact that I am capable of follow through but often don't. What's that about? Why is it so hard to stick to a routine? Why can't we pick up our clothes (daughter not me), put away coffee cup or write daily on my book like I committed to doing two months ago? I dunno. What I do know is that success and results do not come naturally or through laziness.<br />
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For awhile now I've been using stress as an excuse. Yes I work a high pressure job -- so do millions of other people. Yes we recently had a family health emergency. Dealt with it. Yes my teenage children think I'm a dork and we often test each other's patience. Welcome to parenting. Yes a couple drinks (or more) a night can relax you and make you seemingly fun, but it also plays havoc on emotions, liver and health.<br />
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My boss who is 67 recently ran a half marathon with his doctor son. Reportedly it was a little easier for dear old Dad. I have another friend who seemingly runs a marathon every month (good luck with those knees dear amazing one). I admire these people not so much for their running but their determination to accomplish a goal. Whatever that goal may be.<br />
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Over the past five years with several family transitions and crisis I have learned that "everybody has their stuff (nicer way of saying something else)." I respect that. I have compassion for that and need to more for myself. But I can also do something about it.<br />
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So here goes nothing....</div>
C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-35768397619638339402015-03-02T23:10:00.002-08:002015-03-02T23:10:40.877-08:00Baby steps are scary <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
About five years ago (or maybe more) I wrote a children's book about a little girl named Pearl who was a picky eater. She goes to visit her grandma on a farm and eventually overcomes her limiting habit, returning home to a surprised but grateful mother.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e_u7oqRNZM8/VPVdywoqO-I/AAAAAAAAAvI/XTbZMPdS3OA/s1600/200px-RamonaThePest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e_u7oqRNZM8/VPVdywoqO-I/AAAAAAAAAvI/XTbZMPdS3OA/s1600/200px-RamonaThePest.jpg" /></a>Truth: I was very proud of this book.<br />
Fact: I shared it with a few people including published authors but did not send to a publisher or agent.<br />
Truth: It's a pretty good book.<br />
Fact: I was afraid of rejection.<br />
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Recently I've been going through therapy which has been both terrifying and empowering. The reasons I started are not the reasons I keep going. But because I kept going and listened to some people I admire and care about, I recently took the bold step to pull out the book and register for a regional writer's conference in April. I am both thrilled and frightened.<br />
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What if they think my book is silly and tell me to rewrite it a million different ways. What if I just wasted a bunch of money by hanging my hopes on meeting the right person who will love my book at first sight and cry, "Courtney where have you been all my life? You are the next Judy Blume AND Beverly Cleary!" What if...what if...what if?<br />
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That is not something I want to think about in 2, 5 or 20 years. I've been given this day to make a difference and live my dreams. Through journalism and telling other people's stories I have made an impact of good for many people. It's funny...we tell our youth to do that every day but somehow as most of us get older and have kids and get mortgages we forget how to live and take risks. It's just easier not to do that.<br />
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Well, I just did. And whatever happens I'm going to keep on writing. </div>
C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6199693868593024218.post-11414698414914002092015-01-18T09:56:00.002-08:002015-01-18T09:56:39.579-08:00Choosing fun and love <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I recently had the fortunate opportunity to accompany my corporate sister on a trip she won to Beaver Creek, CO. The funny part is she is not a skiier. So while she was off doing photo shoots in the snow with other winners for this contest, I was off zipping down the slopes after a five year hiatus from skiing.<br />
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This is not a blog about skiing, however. It's about my rediscovery of how to have fun. The last few years have been personally challenging for myself and my family, both mentally and physically. I'm not sure if I forgot how to have fun or just denied myself the pleasure or made other things a priority. Whatever the case, during those two days on the mountain in the crisp air surrounded by mountains and snowcapped trees and brightly-garbed children getting their ski legs, I found fun.<br />
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It wasn't like a hammer on the head or a burst of light...it just happened. I made a decision to "have more fun." This was what a little angel I read about, Jesse Lewis (see photo), told his brother J.T. in a note discovered after he died in the Sandy Hook shooting tragedy. This little boy who had a short time on earth is changing more lives through a foundation his mother Scarlett started called the Jesse Lewis Choose Love Foundation (<a href="http://www.jesselewischooselove.org/">http://www.jesselewischooselove.org</a>/). The idea is given the choice to have an angry thought or a loving thought choose love. The foundation is developing curriculum and programs to help prevent violence in schools and hopefully the world.<br />
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I will never be as brave as Jesse was that day he stood up to the shooter and saved the lives of 9 of his classmates by telling them to "run" when Adam Lanza stopped to adjust his gun. I will not have the chance to undo hateful or petty things I may have done to hurt others even if unintentionally. But I do have the chance this moment and any time I have left on earth to have fun and choose love. It may not be the easier run, but it's the one I want to be on while I still have the chance.<br />
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C.E. Schrievehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08326867399101311566noreply@blogger.com0