With Good Friends, You Can Wear Your Pants Backwards!

So one day last week, I went to work feeling very comfortable and kind of cute in my outfit selection for the day. I was wearing a pair of black leggings with black flats and an oversized belted tunic – comfortable, casual, and oh-so-easy. Or at least it should have been. I realized halfway through the day that it wasn’t as easy as I thought – since I was actually wearing my pants backwards!

When I made this discovery, I literally laughed out loud at myself, quickly corrected the situation, and then sent a short message to a few of my nearest and dearest to share my humiliation. My dilemma got some laughs but I was also surprised to hear a flood of return stories that mirrored my own experience. One friend said she recently went to work wearing her shirt inside out, another said she wore her shirt backwards, and another told a story about going to work wearing two completely different shoes!

I was relieved to hear that there was no need to be embarrassed about my little “mis-hap” since I wasn’t alone and my friends had shared similar experiences. I was reminded once again that I’m not alone in the silly moments of my life, and I’m not alone in the moments that truly matter either. I’m fortunate to have people that I can reach out to share my stories with...and my occasional shame.  And in return, I have their support... and their laughter. I hope that you have friends like these too. Because when your clothes are on backwards, or inside out, or you are wearing two different shoes, your friends will help you to see the humor and to see the “human” in yourself. And somehow, that makes everything just a little more comfortable.

Theresa, The Centipede Warrior!

There’s something about curling up with a good book on a rainy Sunday morning -- when you know you have nowhere you have to be and nothing you have to do. It’s wonderfully relaxing and soothing to the soul and, yesterday, I found myself enjoying such a morning. As I was home alone, the house was completely quiet except for the sound of the wind outside. I’d been curled up on the living room couch for an hour or more, enjoying the quiet, the solitude, and the book I was reading. I was deeply relaxed and feeling very Sunday-Zen. It occurred to me to wonder about the time, and as I glanced up at the clock on the wall, something grabbed my attention and broke the calm of the day for me. Out of the corner of my eye, there right above my head on the ceiling, was a HUGE centipede!

Now for those of you who might not be aware, I have certain limits in regards to insects, rodents and reptiles. Though I’m not terribly bothered by your average house spider, I am completely freaked out by anything more unusual. Crickets frighten me (they jump really fast and high), mice completely give me the creeps and I honestly can’t even talk about snakes. But centipedes fall somewhere in the middle for me –they are slimy, and crawly, and unpredictable because you can’t tell which is their head and which is their tail. So, as I saw this large centipede perched just over my head, you might think my initial reaction may have been to run and hide. I was tempted. But I am proud to tell you that I overcame my fear in that moment of doubt...and saved the day.

I flew off the couch in immediate ninja mode.  I don’t think the centipede (who for purposes of identification, we will just call “Brutus” from here forward) was even aware that he had been spotted. Immediately, I conducted a status check to ensure my own safety as I frantically ran my fingers through my hair, hoping beyond all measure that Brutus was indeed a loner, and that he didn’t have a partner who had possibly fallen in my hair. Once I established that my hair was centipede free, I had to quickly strategize an attack. With stealthlike movements, I backed out of the living room in order to find myself an appropriate weapon. The mace I keep near my bed seemed like overkill so I went with a clean “paper towel” approach. Some might consider this to be a risky choice and accuse me of being over-confident, but I had made my decision and there would be no second-guessing.

I grabbed a stack of paper towels and then warily glanced back towards the living room. Was my opponent aware of his imminent demise? For I was certain, that only one of us would come out of this confrontation alive….and it wasn’t going to be Brutus. 

Stalking like a lioness protecting her cubs, I slowly approached Brutus realizing that my immediate challenge would be that I was seriously height-disadvantaged. I couldn’t risk the possibility of alerting Brutus to danger by rearranging furniture so I needed to make do by crawling on the couch arm and stretching to reach the ceiling. The Gods were in my favor as I discovered that I had the physical capacity to reach just far enough to complete the deed before me. As I adjusted my paper towel for the most effective kill, Brutus never left my field of view out of the corner of my eye. I was careful about how I brandished my weapon.  If I used too many layers, I would risk the loss of much needed manual dexterity. If I used too few layers, there was risk that I might actually feel Brutus (and that was an option I couldn’t consider). If I didn’t have the length of the fold just right, Brutus could prove himself to be a worthy opponent by clinging to a part of the towel that I hadn’t intended. So many things to consider.  When I felt like I had the paper towel positioned to be an effective extension of my own hand, I took a deep breath and moved in for the kill.

I’m not going to lie to you. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t courageous. I hesitated and wondered if I would have the ability to do what needed to be done. I questioned my own centipede knowledge. For example, how quickly can these things move? What if I go in for the kill, and Brutus makes a break for it? Or what if he goes completely offensive and leaps from the ceiling in a direct attack on my upturned face. I had to push these thoughts aside as they were distracting me from my purpose. There was a job to be done, there was nobody else to do it, it was him….or me.

Another deep breath and I made my move. I lunged for Brutus completely covering his entire 3” multi-legged slithery body with my Bounty 4X paper towel. If you had been in the room, you might have heard me actually scream just a bit as I did this but since you weren’t in the room, perhaps I made no sound? For just a second, I froze as I reassessed the situation. Did I have him covered under the paper towel? Was there any chance that he had escaped? Did he make the leap and land somewhere on my arm or in my hair where I had not yet discovered that I had been outwitted? As all these doubts raged through my mind, I completed the swipe and made a visual confirmation that Brutus was no more.

I leaped from the couch to dispose of the evidence. I gave myself a mental high five and heard the crowds cheer for my success! I was triumphant! Roused from a most peaceful moment, I had reacted quickly and with a vengeance. I was ‘Theresa, the Centipede Warrior”.

That’s how things are.  One moment, you can be sitting enjoying peace and the next moment, you might have to deal with something you hadn’t anticipated. What I’ve learned about how quickly moments can change is this. You have what you need to meet the moment. You do what has to be done. You may feel like you are lacking or not up to the challenge. But whatever you do, however you do it, it is the right thing and you are the champion of that moment. There are times we need strength to deal with our silly little fears and times we need more strength to deal with our very real fears. But believe that you do have the strength that you need, and if you ever need help dealing with a scary centipede, let me know – I'll bring the paper towels.

Hold On To This Moment

My grandson, Joey, is fussing a bit so I'm holding him as I walk through the house, gently rocking him to soothe him, and helping him to hold his nuk in his mouth. My focus is fully on him when I suddenly wonder what Sammy is doing as she is suspiciously quiet. I stop and turn to find her directly behind me, no more than one step away. She too is holding her "baby" and trying to put a nuk in its mouth as she gently rocks the baby back and forth. She is looking down at her baby in an exact mirror image of how I am holding Joey and was just gazing down at him. I realize that she has been following me, watching what I do, and imitating my every action. As I stop to turn at look at her, she stops as well and looks up at me with the most sincere questioning look like "what's up, why are we stopping?"  My heart pulls in every direction because she has these huge brown eyes that just swallow me up every time I look at her. I am overwhelmed once again this day with how much I love her. I'm so honored that she too seems to love me enough too to watch me and to copy me for just a moment. It's a moment that I couldn't capture in the way that I typically like to - with my camera - so I have to just hold the image in my mind and in my heart forever. 


That's the way some moments are. Actually, that's usually the way the best moments are. They sneak up on you when you aren't looking and you probably aren't ready. And then they hit with you such power. In fact, the simplest moments can hold the most immense power. And, it is worthwhile to stop to recognize them when they happen, take a deep breath and look around so you don't miss a detail. These are the moments that build our memories and make our lives so amazing. We can't always capture them with technology so we have to keep our hearts open to holding them. As I looked into my grand-daughter's eyes, I told myself, "This is it. This is what life is all about it. Hold on to this moment."


Of course, Sammy moves pretty quickly so she didn't really stay in the moment quite as long as I did. As soon as our moment was over, she got bored with her doll, dropped it on the floor, and ran off to find her Auntie to see if she might be doing something more entertaining. 


Oh well...it was a moment for me and...I will never forget.

OMG! I "heart" U! LOL!

I was in a meeting this morning when I noticed this message written on a flipchart in the corner of the room. (For those of you who may appreciate a translation...“Oh my God! I Love You! Laugh Out Loud!). I found myself coming back to this message several times throughout the meeting and wondering who had written it and why they had written it in this very sterile, corporate conference room, and why did they write it in text language. Is there an office romance brewing somewhere that I’m not aware of? Did someone do a really amazing job on a project and their boss was just “feeling the love”? Did someone put it there anonymously intended for anyone who happened to need a day brightener? As I wondered about the author and about the purpose of the message, and more specifically, the format of the message itself, I considered how much text messaging language has impacted our lives.

Now, since I consider myself to be so knowledgable about ancient communications methods (ok...not so much), I can share with you my theory that today's texting language shares some similarities with hieroglyphics of Egyptian times. Hieroglyphics were also a “formal writing system combining logographic and alphabetic elements”.  (Thank you, Wikipedia – I don’t actually just know that kind of information off the top of my head.)  This style of writing, which is remarkably similar to texting language,  essentially included three different kinds of characters – those that represented alphabetic letters, those that represented full words, and those that were sort of descriptors for the other characters.  As writing expanded, the system became even more simplified to accommodate a larger audience of people (sound familiar?). Further, according to Wikipedia, “Visually hieroglyphs are all more or less figurative: they represent real or illusional elements, sometimes stylized and simplified, but all generally perfectly recognizable in form." (Again, sounds like texting to me.)


Ok, enough of the textbook language – using big words trying to make a simple concept sound more complicated than it really is. Here is the most important similarity between the two languages, they both succeed at taking a larger concept and breaking it down to its simplest form in order to tell someone something.

So as I sat in this meeting contemplating office romances, random acts of kindness, and ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, I thought about how we frequently communicate in text language – beyond just the quick messages we key into our phones. “OMG’, “LOL”, and “WTF” have become part of our language – we speak those “words” to others so that they will immediately know, in a very quick fashion, what we are thinking or feeling. You may have read articles and studies about how writing, grammar, spelling and  punctuation are all suffering in the digital age as children no longer realize some words have full spellings. In fact, high school students are turning in term papers utilizing text language. While I would certainly never advocate that (I believe it is important that our children be able to communicate to the highest level possible as opposed to the lowest denominator), I have to admit that I also see some value in that kind of communication. Because it is quick, because it is easy, and because it is occasionally “cute”, it tends to feel less formal and maybe even a little less scary for those who are less confident about their writing. Therefore, maybe they are encouraged to communicate with those around them more frequently, in ways that before text language, they didn’t necessarily feel comfortable. And personally, I see that as a huge benefit to using text language. Anything that gets people talking – whatever form it takes – is good communication.

Texting will not be going away, at least not anytime that I can foresee in the near future. In fact, it will likely just continue to evolve meaning that someday many generations from now, some archaeologist may discover our cryptic text messages from 2012 and will wonder about who wrote them, who they were intended for, and what the message really meant. In the meantime, we continue to text and to incorporate text language into our daily lives and I’m OK with that.

After all, if someone wants to tell me that they love me, I don’t really care if they spell it out in layers of prose or if they simply text it with an “I 'heart' U”.  I get the message…and that’s what counts.

Pink Ponchos With White Fringe Mean "I Love You"

You might assume that, as the fifth of six children, I may not have always been the recipient of special attention from my parents. However, my experience was quite the opposite. My parents always did little things to make me feel special.  For example, they attended every single teachers conference, awards ceremony, choir concert, and piano recital that I ever participated in the entire time I was growing up. In fact, it wasn’t until I had children of my own and attended their special events, that I realized there were kids that didn’t have parents who attended. As a child, it never would have occurred to me that my parents wouldn’t be there for me. Somehow they managed to balance the needs of six children in such a way that I never felt like I came 2^nd, 3^rd, or 4^th . We were each equally important and they made the time to prove that. I have many memories of their support and their presence but I also possess actual, tangible evidence of their care tucked safely away inside a large box where my mother lovingly packed some of my favorite childhood dolls and the beautiful clothes that she made for them.

In particular, I had two dolls names Crissy and Velvet who were special to me. If you were a girl of the 70’s, I’m sure these dolls need no introduction. Crissy was a tall brunette with a ponytail that went all the way to the ground. With a knob on her back, you could wind her hair up into a cute little bob, or you could push her belly button, pull her ponytail, and her hair would be extended back to its full length.  Crissy also had a butterfly string in her back that you could pull and she would rotate back and forth at the waist. (I don’t know the specific purpose of this action but can share with you that it was the cause of a very serious nightmare for me one night when I was about 7 years old!)  Her younger sister, Velvet (at least I assumed they were sisters), was a short blonde but she possessed the same magical qualities of hair growth.  These were not baby dolls – Crissy and Velvet were “grown dolls” meaning they didn’t get swaddled in baby blankets, or come with baby bottles and rattles as accessories. They were intended to be my peers and I could comb their hair, curl it, and dress them in ways that I myself would have liked to dress. 


I can clearly remember sitting on the couch in our living room and pouring over the JC Penney’s Christmas Catalog - dreaming about these dolls. I would get out the measuring stick so I fully understood how tall they were. I would debate with myself whether or not Crissy or Velvet would be the better “Santa request”.  And I would wonder about all the amazing hairstyles and fashions I could create if I only had one of these dolls.  Whether I received them both at the same time or separate times, I don’t recall.  But I do remember two very important things….

1. It is simply not possible for a 7 year old to style a doll's hair in magnificent updos like they would show on the TV commercials or in the catalog, and,
2. My mother created a fashion wardrobe for Crissy and Velvet that nobody could ever rival.

My dolls came to me fully equipped with the most beautiful and exquisite clothes that were all hand-made by my mother. They had cotton “popcorn” pajama sets, floral flannel bathrobes with matching felt slippers, long sundresses, formal gowns, polyester leisure suits, and pink corduroy flare pants with a matching poncho and white fringe.  As a person who has attempted sewing and also failed at sewing, I can especially appreciate the love and care that went into making these clothes. It is one thing to create something of a “normal” size but to create an entire wardrobe of such miniscule proportion must have required much planning and much hard work. I don’t remember ever seeing my mom work on these clothes so I know that she must have done so either while I was at school, or at night after I had gone to bed. Keep in mind, that she had five other children for whom she was equally responsible and she was busy attending to their needs and creating things for them to treasure as well; whether it was making prom dresses for my older sisters or painting wooden giraffes and rocking horses for my little brother. She must have been tired at times and there must have been times when she wished she could do something for herself - but instead, she laid out the patterns, cut the cloth, and sewed wonderful doll clothes. When my mom made these clothes, it wasn't with the intention of providing evidence of her love for me. It was just something she did just as she did a million other little things for me every day.

Of course, as a child, I didn’t know to appreciate it. But I do now and I was reminded of her hard work every time I pulled out the box that still holds Crissy, Velvet and their fabulous clothes for my own children to play with. Someday soon, my grand-daughter may also want to play with them. She won't know...so I will have to tell her about the love that went into every stitch. Though these dolls may seem out of place today and their clothes are crafted in the styles of the 1970's, the craftsmanship and love they represent have certainly stood the test of time.

So my thanks and gratitude to my mom are quite seriously delayed, but I want to thank her now for allowing me to have both Crissy AND Velvet, for taking time to make them such wonderful clothes, and most importantly, for showing me through those actions, how much I was loved and cared for.

"Is O'eirinn Me" - I am of Ireland

For the past week, I have had the extreme good fortune to travel through Ireland. Because of my work, I have opportunity for travel to many wonderful and exotic places. However, Ireland has been at the top of my wish list for years so I was thrilled to have the chance to finally visit. While I do have Irish ancestors, I had never before closely aligned myself with my Irish heritage. However, after visiting this week, I have fallen in love with this country and its people. And from this point forward, I will now always say "Is O'eirinn Me" which is translated as... "I am of Ireland."


Ireland seemed to touch a place deep within me and I feel it resonating inside myself like the beat of the celtic drum. Like anyone who has newly fallen in love, I likely wouldn't be able to explain to you the beauty and the spirit of my new love. But I will try. As we traveled, everywhere I looked was a feast for the eyes. Whether it was the vibrancy and urban energy of the city of Dublin, or the quiet, fertile green fields and quaint villages of the Shannon countryside, I didn't want to even blink my eyes for fear of missing a sight. I've also come to love the sounds of Ireland -the lovely lilt of the Irish accent, the mournful sound of the Irish flute, and the joyful noise of many voices joined in song at the local pub. The food has been amazing, the Guinness has flowed freely, and the people have welcomed me as though I were one of their own. However, it is the spirit of Ireland that will now hold my heart forever. There is such rich history here, both real and imaginary folklore, that gives this country a character and passion for life like no other.


This Saturday will be St Patrick's Day. For those in Ireland, this celebration is much different than the US. For the Irish, this is a religious day and is spent very quietly attending church and spending the day with family and friends. I will have a new appreciation this year for St Patrick's Day and plan to celebrate my own Irish heritage and my newfound love. 


I am of Ireland.


Have a very safe and happy St. Patrick's Day!!

My Secret (Or Not So Secret) Obsession...

We all have obsessions. Those things that for whatever reason, known or unknown, simply resonate with us and make us happy. For me, that obsession is purses.


I have purses that represent every aspect of my life and my personality. I have the structured, black leather bag that came with its own name and its own protective cover, that represents my corporate work personality. Hanging on the crook of my elbow with my hand ever so slightly elevated at an angle, this purse gives me the confidence to fit into my own structured world. I also have the completely unstructured hippy bag that is not bound by organizer pockets and zippers, it has no form and no timeline, and represents the carefree spirit that I would like to have. I have the teeny tiny wristlet that tells the world that I don't need to carry anything when I leave the house except for my lipstick and my cell phone. And, of course, I have the Ginourmous MacGyver bag that is filled with anything I might need to meet any challenge that comes my way. Unexpected rainstorm? I have an umbrella! Broke the heel on my shoe? I have a spare pair of flats! Sudden famine? Don't worry, I have crackers! Each purse is unique with its own personality and each purse represents a little bit about who I am...or maybe who I would like to be.


Just as important as the purse, is what it holds inside. I'm not going to lie - there is no better nirvana for me than doing the "purse transfer". I LOVE taking everything out of one purse and organizing it into another purse (which is likely why I rarely carry any purse for longer than one week at a time).  This is my time to clean out my handbag, organizing my life into compartments that are easily accessible. I love knowing where everything is in my handbag. I clean out the old receipts from my wallet and organize the dollars (if there happen to be any!)  I re-evaluate the lipstick options, weighing whether or not this is a brown week, pink week, red week, or just clear gloss. I immediately place my cell phone in its protective pocket, reassured that at a moment's notice, I could whip it out like something from a Clint Eastwood" Dirty Harry" movie. I always carry an antique floral handkerchief. I guess I like the romanticism of being able to wipe away any sadness with something beautiful that has wiped away so many tears in its lifetime. I carry a small bag filled with good luck charms - little trinkets that have absolutely no value and no meaning to anyone else in this world, but to me, they are important enough to carry with my every single day. Though all my appointments, meetings and important reminders are held in my blackberry, I also carry a calendar because sometimes you just need to hold the paper and look at the bigger picture and take a moment to pencil in a future plan or dream - otherwise, they never seem to become reality. With all my essentials appropriately placed in my treasured vessel, I am ready to face whatever comes my way.


I don't remember the first purse that I ever had, but I am certain that my passion for purses began when I was very young. I have a photo of myselfas a little girl playing on our swingset in the backyard, with my bright yellow patent leather handbag hanging over my shoulder. In fact, when I think back to any age or any stage in my life, I can equate it to the purse I might have been carrying at the time. I remember the tiny white wicker basket bag that I had in kindergarten and so many of the wonderful hand-me-downs from my sisters through the years. And when I became of a certain age, I began accumulating purses on my own.


At one point, years ago, for some reason I decided that maybe there was something slightly shameful in my somewhat overwhelming purse collection so I decided to put myself on a strict diet and resolved to allow myself only one new purse each year. I nominated Mollie as the gatekeeper who would be the voice of reason when my resistance was low. Not an easy task for an 8- year old but Mollie has never been known to turn away from a challenge and she took her responsibility seriously. I cannot count how many times she must have said to me when I was contemplating a purse, "Really, Mom? This one? Then you will be done for the year - are you sure this is THE ONE?" I would chew the inside of my lip as I debated each purses' merits and eventually would slowly back away, shaking, but feeling the confidence of my resistance.


Mollie would be the only one who could say for certain, but I think I stuck to my resolution that year. However, at the beginning of the next year, I received a birthday card from my sister. On the front was a picture of a little girl who had no fewer than five purses on each of her arms, her face and her smile were full of joy, and the photo was captioned "You can never have too many purses".  And my sister wrote on the bottom, "And life is too short...to not have too many purses."


From that point, I released myself from the bondage of my resolution. Over the years, my purse inventory has occasionally grown and then diminished as I donate them to make room or because they no longer fit an aspect of who I am. But I refuse to feel shame about my love for purses and I will likely remain purse obsessed until the day I day. And I hope when that day comes, someone who reads this will remember and they will bury me with my purse. Because with my purse by my side, I can face whatever comes next.