Hello!!
This past week my husband Ron, son Graham, and I went to New York City for a day. Graham, our Activities Director, had a day off from school on Thursday and declared that he “always” wanted to wave on the Today Show.
Graham has a habit of declaring where he would like to go on the spur of the moment and Ron and I somehow make it happen. We’ve been to Disney World with him and Cape Cod and The Great Escape Water Park and other places as well.
Since Ron and I wanted to make this adventure a spectacular one for Graham, we left Saratoga Springs on Wednesday night and spent the night at the Grand Hotel in Poughkeepsie. Our journey began in Poughkeepsie at 4:00 AM Thursday morning.
An early morning taxi ride to the train station was accompanied by wonderful classical music that even our blurry-eyed red-head commented on how beautiful the music was.
We arrived in NYC at 6:20 AM with ample time to grab a Starbucks and walk the few blocks to “The Rock.” We were early enough to get a place right at the Today Show railing and got to watch the cast and crew prep for the morning’s broadcast.
Soon our day was filled with meeting Al Roker and Ann Curry. We waved and got on the television three times which made Graham’s day. Along the way Ron and I met wonderful people from Boston, St. Louis, New Orleans and Rouen France. Since Ron is fluent in French it was great for him to get to speak it again.
After the Today Show there was the Nintendo Store, Lego Store, NYC Library, Empire State building and last but certainly not least Eatily. Let’s just say, my Italian DNA felt right at home amongst Eatily’s vast specialty selections. Grazie.
Reflecting upon our trip as we took the train out of the city later that day, Ron and I both commented on how wonderful it is to have the chance to spend a day in a place that is so international. To see faces and hear languages that we do not get the opportunity to see in Upstate New York is refreshing for us. It makes both of us feel connected to a bigger world community. It helps us to have a broader perspective on humanity and our role within our species.
While on the train, I checked my Blackberry for emails and received a lovely one from my cousin Kim. (Thank you Kim.) It moved me so much and followed the theme of our day so well that I am including it here for you to see. I hope you copy and paste this address onto your search engine and open it up. It is well worth the few minutes of play.
www.movebeyond.net/uploads/lighteninginajar.pps
We arrived home at 8 PM that night full of exciting stories to tell our other children as well as with numerous gifts. When we tucked Graham into bed a short while later we told him how glad we were that he asked to go wave at the Today Show. He was so happy and said it was his “best day ever.”
We kissed him good night and as we left his room we heard our Activities Director say, “Next summer I want to go to the London Olympics.”
Ron and I looked at each other and smiled...both of us trying to figure out in our heads, how we were going to make that wish come true.
Until next time,
Have hope,
Donna
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Bad Hairless Days
Hello!!
After two years my husband and I had enough hair to donate to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for children who lose their hair due to medical diagnosis'.
Back in the summer of 2009, Ron and I made a plan to donate hair to the organization that provided my son, Ben, with a wig when he faced his brain tumor.
Back in 1992, when my son was receiving cancer treatments to fight a malignant brain tumor I went to our local mall for a little change of scenery...an escape if you will. Upon returning I heard Ben laughing and giggling in another room of our home. Grateful for any light moment, I went to see what was so funny.
Entering the living room, my first glance at Ben revealed a mostly bald head. Seeing his pale and sparsely "haired" head was very traumatic...for me. Ben actually enjoyed pulling out hunks of hair from his head. I was shocked. The moment was profound...cancer moved in while I was out.
Shortly after this incident, I researched and found 'Locks of Love.' The organization worked diligently to match Ben's hair color and style from pictures I had of him. The wig looked terrific on him and I was glad to have it on hand. Ben, didn't mind being bald. He wore his baseball cap a lot. I was grateful for the wig.
Since then my daughters, Emmy and Lizzie have donated their hair to the organization many times. I admired their efforts and appreciated their desire to give back. Their selflessness inspired Ron and me to go for it.
Growing your hair to at least 10 inches can be a trying experience. The many stages of bad hair days lingered for months; using hair ties and headbands didn't compensate for a good hair style. Through it all though, we kept visualizing the day when we could put our ponytail into an envelope and mail it away.
Monday, August 15th our littlest son, Graham had his regular hair appointment. As with each appointment over recent months we asked our hair stylist, Michelle, "is it long enough yet?" This time she said, "It's time!"
Yesterday the 17th, I called our local paper and headed to the hair salon. Michelle eagerly cut of our manes of curly hair. She was smiling like a toddler approaching a chocolate ice-cream cone.
In a few short minutes Ron and I had our pony tails removed and packed in plastic bags. And we had new "do's" on our head. What an amazing experience!
Ron and I don't have a lot of extra material things in our lives yet what we don't have in our wallets we surely have in our hearts. Giving back is a tenet of our marriage and family life. Giving our hair back to the organization that gave hair to one of our children was easy and free. This was just one way we've gotten creative in "paying it forward."
I write this to you as a "seed of good will" hoping that you will look within and figure out a way you can bring a blessing to others in our world. There are so many ways to reach out and there are so many people who could use a little help. I hope you find your special way.
Lizzie is getting ready to donate again and we are hoping that Graham, with his flaming red hair, will someday join the wig brigade.
I plan to post pictures on my website soon....hope you will take a peek.
Have hope,
Donna
After two years my husband and I had enough hair to donate to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for children who lose their hair due to medical diagnosis'.
Back in the summer of 2009, Ron and I made a plan to donate hair to the organization that provided my son, Ben, with a wig when he faced his brain tumor.
Back in 1992, when my son was receiving cancer treatments to fight a malignant brain tumor I went to our local mall for a little change of scenery...an escape if you will. Upon returning I heard Ben laughing and giggling in another room of our home. Grateful for any light moment, I went to see what was so funny.
Entering the living room, my first glance at Ben revealed a mostly bald head. Seeing his pale and sparsely "haired" head was very traumatic...for me. Ben actually enjoyed pulling out hunks of hair from his head. I was shocked. The moment was profound...cancer moved in while I was out.
Shortly after this incident, I researched and found 'Locks of Love.' The organization worked diligently to match Ben's hair color and style from pictures I had of him. The wig looked terrific on him and I was glad to have it on hand. Ben, didn't mind being bald. He wore his baseball cap a lot. I was grateful for the wig.
Since then my daughters, Emmy and Lizzie have donated their hair to the organization many times. I admired their efforts and appreciated their desire to give back. Their selflessness inspired Ron and me to go for it.
Growing your hair to at least 10 inches can be a trying experience. The many stages of bad hair days lingered for months; using hair ties and headbands didn't compensate for a good hair style. Through it all though, we kept visualizing the day when we could put our ponytail into an envelope and mail it away.
Monday, August 15th our littlest son, Graham had his regular hair appointment. As with each appointment over recent months we asked our hair stylist, Michelle, "is it long enough yet?" This time she said, "It's time!"
Yesterday the 17th, I called our local paper and headed to the hair salon. Michelle eagerly cut of our manes of curly hair. She was smiling like a toddler approaching a chocolate ice-cream cone.
In a few short minutes Ron and I had our pony tails removed and packed in plastic bags. And we had new "do's" on our head. What an amazing experience!
Ron and I don't have a lot of extra material things in our lives yet what we don't have in our wallets we surely have in our hearts. Giving back is a tenet of our marriage and family life. Giving our hair back to the organization that gave hair to one of our children was easy and free. This was just one way we've gotten creative in "paying it forward."
I write this to you as a "seed of good will" hoping that you will look within and figure out a way you can bring a blessing to others in our world. There are so many ways to reach out and there are so many people who could use a little help. I hope you find your special way.
Lizzie is getting ready to donate again and we are hoping that Graham, with his flaming red hair, will someday join the wig brigade.
I plan to post pictures on my website soon....hope you will take a peek.
Have hope,
Donna
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Everyone Deserves a Birthday Party
Hello!
Well, it happened again. My son Ben taught me another humbling life lesson I am compelled to share with you.
Twenty-five years ago, on March second my son was born. The moment he was placed in my arms, I knew I was in for a life full of lessons. Motherhood was a difficult occupation for me to embrace. Early on in Ben’s and my time together my inner voice whispered bits and pieces of what our life was to be like. In time, each insight revealed itself and the lessons began.
Birthdays are difficult for me. It is not the aging that causes the grief inside of me; it is the celebration. My first celebration with Ben began on the day of his birth. He was born at 7:41 PM on a Sunday night in 1986. Four hours later I turned 25 years old. Since his birth, he has been called “my birthday present.” (If you are counting on your fingers, this year marks my fiftieth birthday.)
Over the years, since Ben’s birth, throwing birthday celebrations were a mixture of excitement and stress. At first, his parties involved family and making sure both sides of the family were included in the activities. As Ben grew and especially after his brain tumor’s appearance, Ben’s birthdays held a different level of stress and poignancy for me.
Pre-brain tumor, Ben had a large group of friends and he was invited to numerous birthday gatherings. After the diagnosis, over time, his friendships changed and for years he was not invited to any parties at all. Then after we moved to a new home, in a different school district, he was placed in a special education learning environment. Because of a combination of a new school and his isolated learning environment, it was sufficient to say, social outings of any kind were scarce.
It was so hard to know how to plan a birthday celebration for Ben. My family was always terrific, every year making the trek to our home to celebrate another year with Ben. Honesty, every year post-treatment was an occasion to celebrate. Through it all, Ben as always, celebrated his special day in genuine gratitude, excitedly thanking everyone for their gifts and spending the day with him.
So this year, on his 25th birthday, I felt very committed to giving him a happy day.
Ben lives in a group home with two other twenty-somethings. He is very happy living “on his own” and the people who supervise the house are very good with the guys. I however, being his mother felt an extra obligation to be certain that this year, his twenty-fifth, was a wonderful special day.
For this year’s birthday celebration, I did not want to ask my family to make the journey (for some a few hours journey) to his home. My sisters have children of their own who are busy with sports and weekends are times to catch up. I did not want to burden them with another responsibility. So I asked Ben what kind of party he wanted.
Ben, always the sweetest person I know, enthusiastically replied, “This year mom, I want a friend-party.” Smiling, I responded, “Okay sweetie,” all the while wondering who would he invite and how could I make this happen.
During our discussion, Ben decided to invite three boys from his day habilitation group and his two roommates. He invited Ken, a blind man in his forties, Chris and Geof, two twenty-somethings from his day hab and then Jonathan and Jeremy his house-mates.
Ben wanted Pizza Hut stuffed crust pizza, chips and salsa, and diet Dr. Pepper and Pepsi. He was determined to write out the invitations and hand-deliver them.
Already feeling my stress level rise, I put into action his desires. I bought party decorations and dropped them at his house. He was going to decorate. I bought his chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and orange trim and his party food, and brought it over the night before his party. I ordered the pizza, picked it up and delivered it to his house fifteen minutes before the party began.
Everything was under control, except for entertainment. I wracked my brain the entire week, trying to figure out what the boys were going to “do” at the party. I did not know how I was going to incorporate a blind forty-something and five disabled twenty-somethings in fun activities. I was unsure of how I was going to keep everyone talking and happy and entertained.
The night before the party, I still had not solved this dilemma and spent a good amount of time, talking with the house staff about what to do. Both Matt and Sarah did not think the entertainment issue was a big problem at all. They repeated to me, “It will be fine. Everything will work out.” Of course, I was certain that was not so.
The day of his party, I pulled into Ben’s driveway at 12:45 PM. I knocked on the door of his house and Ben excitedly let me in. Jeremy was full of joy as he proudly showed off his birthday decorating skills. Ben took me on a tour of streamers and balloons telling me how each decoration got to its rightful place. (Jonathon was away, so he did not attend the party.)
At 1:00 PM, Geof walked in the house holding a big red birthday bag for Ben. Jeremy excitedly placed it on the table next to his birthday card for Ben. Shortly after Geof’s arrival Chris came, dropped off by his father. Chris handed Ben a yellow birthday bag, Jeremy put it on the table and Chris began talking excitedly about coming to Ben’s party.
And so it began. (Ken did not come, much to Ben’s dismay.)
The boys sat at the table and ate the Pizza Hut pizza-all of them repeating how it was their favorite. While they were eating they got out their cameras and took pictures of each other, the pizza, the decorations and Ben. They talked non-stop, laughing and telling stories about day-hab and their lives.
I took a seat in the corner and watched.
About 45 minutes later, they wanted the cake. So, I put the cake on the table and they all proceeded to take pictures of the cake. Then they took pictures of Ben and me with the cake. And then they took pictures of Ben cutting the cake. (There are no candles allowed in the group home.) They ate the cake and laughed and did not stop talking the entire time.
I sat in my seat and listened.
After cake they wanted Ben to open his presents. Jeremy asked if he could deliver the presents to the table and Ben said yes. So off he went and proudly he handed the gifts to Ben.
Ben opened Jeremy’s gift first. Jeremy was so excited. Ben opened the card and since he can not read allowed me to read it to him. Jeremy could not wait to have the card read out loud. On the front of the card was a funny character. It was saying that the picture on the front was not the only reason Jeremy picked out this card for Ben’s birthday. Then you opened the card and the character said, he checked out the cost too.
Well, the boys roared with laughter. Jeremy gave Ben a gift card to Game Stop.
I laughed in my corner.
Then Ben opened the card from Chris. On the card front was a picture of a grassy hill and two characters. The first character was being pushed up the hill by the second character. The inside of the card read, “Here’s to being over the hill.”
The boys roared with laughter. Chris gave Ben money and cool hiking gadgets.
I smiled in my corner.
Lastly Geof excitedly handed Ben his gift. Ben opened the card. I read it, and noticed the proudly displayed handwritten signature. Then Ben opened the bag. He took out some tissue paper and there was nothing in it. Geof started to giggle. Then Ben took out more tissue paper with nothing in it and Geof giggled louder and Chris and Jeremy started to laugh. This repeated itself two more times. The boys, including Ben, were laughing and I was a little worried. At the bottom of the bag was a DVD of Johnny Depp’s version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The boys were agog with chatter about the movie. Geof was proud that he fooled Ben.
I admired the boys from my corner.
When the present-opening was finished the boys decided they wanted to play a board game. One of the house staff helped with the game. Seeing as I did not have to entertain the guys, I cleaned the kitchen and reflected on the lessons I had learned.
Lessons learned by Donna:
1. It was time for me to get off of my throne. I am not the center of running Ben’s life. Ben is capable and connected to a group of terrific fellas.
2. It does not matter the mental, physical, or cognitive state of these fellas. Friends are friends and within that context there are conversations, jokes and silliness.
3. It is more fun to sit in the corner and watch things unfold. I do not have to plan the menu, decorate the house or find fun activities to do.
4. Everyone deserves birthday parties.
And so the saga of Ben’s lessons continues in my life. And I humbly learn them once again as they are taught to me by my best birthday present of all, Ben.
Next party….mine!!
Have hope,
Donna
Well, it happened again. My son Ben taught me another humbling life lesson I am compelled to share with you.
Twenty-five years ago, on March second my son was born. The moment he was placed in my arms, I knew I was in for a life full of lessons. Motherhood was a difficult occupation for me to embrace. Early on in Ben’s and my time together my inner voice whispered bits and pieces of what our life was to be like. In time, each insight revealed itself and the lessons began.
Birthdays are difficult for me. It is not the aging that causes the grief inside of me; it is the celebration. My first celebration with Ben began on the day of his birth. He was born at 7:41 PM on a Sunday night in 1986. Four hours later I turned 25 years old. Since his birth, he has been called “my birthday present.” (If you are counting on your fingers, this year marks my fiftieth birthday.)
Over the years, since Ben’s birth, throwing birthday celebrations were a mixture of excitement and stress. At first, his parties involved family and making sure both sides of the family were included in the activities. As Ben grew and especially after his brain tumor’s appearance, Ben’s birthdays held a different level of stress and poignancy for me.
Pre-brain tumor, Ben had a large group of friends and he was invited to numerous birthday gatherings. After the diagnosis, over time, his friendships changed and for years he was not invited to any parties at all. Then after we moved to a new home, in a different school district, he was placed in a special education learning environment. Because of a combination of a new school and his isolated learning environment, it was sufficient to say, social outings of any kind were scarce.
It was so hard to know how to plan a birthday celebration for Ben. My family was always terrific, every year making the trek to our home to celebrate another year with Ben. Honesty, every year post-treatment was an occasion to celebrate. Through it all, Ben as always, celebrated his special day in genuine gratitude, excitedly thanking everyone for their gifts and spending the day with him.
So this year, on his 25th birthday, I felt very committed to giving him a happy day.
Ben lives in a group home with two other twenty-somethings. He is very happy living “on his own” and the people who supervise the house are very good with the guys. I however, being his mother felt an extra obligation to be certain that this year, his twenty-fifth, was a wonderful special day.
For this year’s birthday celebration, I did not want to ask my family to make the journey (for some a few hours journey) to his home. My sisters have children of their own who are busy with sports and weekends are times to catch up. I did not want to burden them with another responsibility. So I asked Ben what kind of party he wanted.
Ben, always the sweetest person I know, enthusiastically replied, “This year mom, I want a friend-party.” Smiling, I responded, “Okay sweetie,” all the while wondering who would he invite and how could I make this happen.
During our discussion, Ben decided to invite three boys from his day habilitation group and his two roommates. He invited Ken, a blind man in his forties, Chris and Geof, two twenty-somethings from his day hab and then Jonathan and Jeremy his house-mates.
Ben wanted Pizza Hut stuffed crust pizza, chips and salsa, and diet Dr. Pepper and Pepsi. He was determined to write out the invitations and hand-deliver them.
Already feeling my stress level rise, I put into action his desires. I bought party decorations and dropped them at his house. He was going to decorate. I bought his chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and orange trim and his party food, and brought it over the night before his party. I ordered the pizza, picked it up and delivered it to his house fifteen minutes before the party began.
Everything was under control, except for entertainment. I wracked my brain the entire week, trying to figure out what the boys were going to “do” at the party. I did not know how I was going to incorporate a blind forty-something and five disabled twenty-somethings in fun activities. I was unsure of how I was going to keep everyone talking and happy and entertained.
The night before the party, I still had not solved this dilemma and spent a good amount of time, talking with the house staff about what to do. Both Matt and Sarah did not think the entertainment issue was a big problem at all. They repeated to me, “It will be fine. Everything will work out.” Of course, I was certain that was not so.
The day of his party, I pulled into Ben’s driveway at 12:45 PM. I knocked on the door of his house and Ben excitedly let me in. Jeremy was full of joy as he proudly showed off his birthday decorating skills. Ben took me on a tour of streamers and balloons telling me how each decoration got to its rightful place. (Jonathon was away, so he did not attend the party.)
At 1:00 PM, Geof walked in the house holding a big red birthday bag for Ben. Jeremy excitedly placed it on the table next to his birthday card for Ben. Shortly after Geof’s arrival Chris came, dropped off by his father. Chris handed Ben a yellow birthday bag, Jeremy put it on the table and Chris began talking excitedly about coming to Ben’s party.
And so it began. (Ken did not come, much to Ben’s dismay.)
The boys sat at the table and ate the Pizza Hut pizza-all of them repeating how it was their favorite. While they were eating they got out their cameras and took pictures of each other, the pizza, the decorations and Ben. They talked non-stop, laughing and telling stories about day-hab and their lives.
I took a seat in the corner and watched.
About 45 minutes later, they wanted the cake. So, I put the cake on the table and they all proceeded to take pictures of the cake. Then they took pictures of Ben and me with the cake. And then they took pictures of Ben cutting the cake. (There are no candles allowed in the group home.) They ate the cake and laughed and did not stop talking the entire time.
I sat in my seat and listened.
After cake they wanted Ben to open his presents. Jeremy asked if he could deliver the presents to the table and Ben said yes. So off he went and proudly he handed the gifts to Ben.
Ben opened Jeremy’s gift first. Jeremy was so excited. Ben opened the card and since he can not read allowed me to read it to him. Jeremy could not wait to have the card read out loud. On the front of the card was a funny character. It was saying that the picture on the front was not the only reason Jeremy picked out this card for Ben’s birthday. Then you opened the card and the character said, he checked out the cost too.
Well, the boys roared with laughter. Jeremy gave Ben a gift card to Game Stop.
I laughed in my corner.
Then Ben opened the card from Chris. On the card front was a picture of a grassy hill and two characters. The first character was being pushed up the hill by the second character. The inside of the card read, “Here’s to being over the hill.”
The boys roared with laughter. Chris gave Ben money and cool hiking gadgets.
I smiled in my corner.
Lastly Geof excitedly handed Ben his gift. Ben opened the card. I read it, and noticed the proudly displayed handwritten signature. Then Ben opened the bag. He took out some tissue paper and there was nothing in it. Geof started to giggle. Then Ben took out more tissue paper with nothing in it and Geof giggled louder and Chris and Jeremy started to laugh. This repeated itself two more times. The boys, including Ben, were laughing and I was a little worried. At the bottom of the bag was a DVD of Johnny Depp’s version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The boys were agog with chatter about the movie. Geof was proud that he fooled Ben.
I admired the boys from my corner.
When the present-opening was finished the boys decided they wanted to play a board game. One of the house staff helped with the game. Seeing as I did not have to entertain the guys, I cleaned the kitchen and reflected on the lessons I had learned.
Lessons learned by Donna:
1. It was time for me to get off of my throne. I am not the center of running Ben’s life. Ben is capable and connected to a group of terrific fellas.
2. It does not matter the mental, physical, or cognitive state of these fellas. Friends are friends and within that context there are conversations, jokes and silliness.
3. It is more fun to sit in the corner and watch things unfold. I do not have to plan the menu, decorate the house or find fun activities to do.
4. Everyone deserves birthday parties.
And so the saga of Ben’s lessons continues in my life. And I humbly learn them once again as they are taught to me by my best birthday present of all, Ben.
Next party….mine!!
Have hope,
Donna
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Perfect People
Hello!
In June of 2009 my husband and I joined our local YMCA. We decided it was time to get in shape. Since then, every morning the two of us alternate our work-out times and go to the gym. Usually, he goes from 5 to 6 AM and I follow with 6 to 7 AM. This schedule works for us because of my husband's work schedule and the need for someone to be in the house while our nine-year old is sleeping. On weekends, my husband takes time off and I plod down to the Y. When either of us returns home from the Y, we chat about who was there and how busy the machines were and stuff like that.
Today was no different. After exercising, I walked in to our nice warm home and my husband inquired about the particulars. Knowing he was going to ask, I did a quick looksie around the gym prior to leaving to give him my report. Today, there were thirteen of us working out, three were women, and no one we knew.
After he left, I got to thinking about how much time and effort we put into taking care of our health. We really do! We are fifty-somethings and it is important. I also got thinking about a piece I wrote a few years back and it made me smile. The reason for the smile is that, even though we work our arses off in the gym, we are still "not perfect." Nor are the others in the gym, I believe. But we keep on plodding along.
So, after my husband left the house, I went through my computer files and found this piece about "Perfect People." And although it was written at the Christmas season, the message is appropriate for today. It made me smile again and thought maybe you might too.
So, here is my take on perfect people and I hope you enjoy.
Perfect People
Ready, set, go……..everyone starts at the same place, or so I thought.
We all come into this world naked and screaming. Someone takes hold of us, wraps us in a pink or blue blanket and passes us off, into the arms of someone we kind of, sort of, know. Along the way, we grow.
Growth and development is a very personal thing. Inside each of us are genes that unfold a myriad of mysteries. Some women get awesome thick, shiny hair while others get kinky, curly, unruly hair you want to pull out from the roots. The brain; some get one that produces fine thoughts and ideas while others…Well, does “clueless” mean anything to you? And then there are the ever important thighs; long lean shapely legs versus the short, squat and bubbly ones. Some non-choices are so unfair.
As for me, growth and development is reminiscent of the saying, “one step forward and two steps back.” Seems like I have spent the better part of my forty-five years figuring out which way is forward and how to get there. Along the way, I've managed to make a few beneficial moves but just when I think I've got the momentum going, something like Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party invitation shows up and well, all my progress takes another U-turn.
Amy is a woman I met a few years back. We met through a classified ad in the newspaper. (Sounds kinky, huh?) Actually, she recently moved to the area and was looking for a day care situation. She wanted to watch one child in her home and I had one child that needed watching. The arrangement worked great for my son and me in every aspect except one: Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party.
The invitation came a few months after my son was in her care. It was delivered to my mailbox. I decided to go to Amy's First Annual Women's Christmas party because I didn't want to offend her by not going, and I figured she probably didn't have many acquaintances yet, being new to the area and all, so I graced her with my presence. Boy, was that a huge step backwards for me. Now, every November, around Thanksgiving time, I make the long walk to my mailbox with fear and trepidation in my bones, knowing that one afternoon I will go to the black box and find the dreaded invitation written in lovely curlicue handwriting on a holiday envelope. (Sounds like a master-piece.) I'll reach in the box, grab the pile of mail and hear the mocking voice from beyond the adhesive flap whispering, “Here you are loser-women, come and get your yearly whoopin.” Can you guess how my “first time” went at Amy's Annual Women's Christmas Party?
At Amy's First Annual Women's Christmas party was when the realization hit me-the starting whistle blew a long time ago and everyone else in the room heard it and took off, running full steam ahead. They ran straight and strong towards goals I only dreamt about. (Fashion, finances and family) As I looked around, they appeared to have gotten them, while all I got was lost somewhere along the way. (Fat, frugal and fragmented family) Since that first year and the stark realization of my screwed up life, I have come to measure my personal growth and development along the plumb line of Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party.
While attending the first year's gala, I developed two important coping strategies. The first one called “the smile-the nod-the sip” developed instantaneously upon my initial introduction to the women. Moving to the center of the room, Amy introduced me to the ladies and they all smiled and said hello. I began to make small talk. I asked names and how they knew Amy and stuff like that. They politely answered my questions but never asked me anything back. So I stood there like some social misfit staring at the perfect ones staring at me. The silence. The stares. The knowing. It was immediate. I was not going to fit in no matter what I said or how I looked. Mid-life crisis, part-time career woman, frumpy fashion clad, children's book author wanna be was not making the grade with these perfect professionals. I realized that the builder's wife (skinny as a rail and impeccably dressed in Anne Taylor), the psychologist (trendy and well put together from her Ralph Lauren glasses to Donna Karan silk socks), Amy's interior decorator (whose exterior looked as gorgeous as Amy's interior did) and I had nothing in common other than Amy. So I decided I'd not embarrass myself among the perfect ones and kept to the “seen but not heard” mantra my mother taught me. Getting myself a glass of Pinot Grigio, I sauntered over to Amy's shelf of family pictures and stared nervously at them, feigning interest. Occasionally one of the perfect ones would come over and interject, “Isn't that a lovely picture of such and such and so forth.” I would smile and nod and sip and they would move on.
My second coping strategy was developed immediately after I went home from that first “Amy's Annual Women's Christmas Party.” Having endured the most uncomfortable two hours of my life (Yes, even labor was a picnic compared to this.) I looked my husband straight in the eye and said, “If I get invited to next year’s social event, you are going to call me after one hour and tell me I'm urgently needed at home,” a pre-emptive way out of my party hell.
Everything about Amy is perfect. She has a gorgeous million dollar house, four brilliant blond-haired, blue-eyed angelic children and a GQ husband that keeps her in the best. Amy plans her Christmas party perfectly too, beginning with perfectly designed party invitations. She has the perfect pastries and perfect party decorations. She invites just the right number of women to join her; not too many so it wouldn't feel intimate, not too few so as not to appear clique-y. Just the right number so as to not get lost in the crowd, something I desperately desired. The only person I know and really like at the party is Amy and she's busy being a hostess, so I get to linger in extreme discomfort much as I imagine hell to be like.
With Waterford crystal in hand, over at the family pictures, I sent psychic messages to my husband, my mother, the President, ANYONE to call my cell phone and rescue me. The perfect ones were chatting in various places around the Pottery Barn furnished living room. I listened to the woes of their lives as I casually tasted shrimp puffs and stuffed mushrooms. I stayed away from the cheese fondue thing, knowing that I did not possess the graceful movements necessary to reach, dip and not splatter all over my JC Penney sweater. After an hour of perfect unpleasantness and hors d'oeuvres, the invited guests were called to the living room for the “Opening of the Presents.”
“Opening of the Presents” at Amy's was something I never experienced before. Each person invited to the party was asked to bring one gift to exchange. A monetary limit was sent, which I quickly realized was ignored by the perfect women. As each woman arrived to the party they picked a number out of a Vera Wang silver-plated bowl which established the order of the “unwrapping.” All the festively wrapped gifts were displayed on a square coffee table in the middle of the room for the invitees to admire. The one perfectly positive thing about my attendance at the party was my perfectly wrapped present. I take great pride at my present wrapping abilities, having learned the technique of crisp, clean edges and fancy curlicue bows from my dad. I was perfectly proud to have my gift sitting on that festive coffee table.
At the chosen time, we all gathered around the festive table while “number one” chose her gift. The ooh's and aah's rose to the occasion and the gift was unveiled. At this point “number two” stood up and had to make a decision. Do I open a brand new gift or do I “steal” number one's gift? The rule, I learned, was that a gift could be stolen on three separate occasions; with the "last steal" being the final resting place of the coveted gift. Everyone got a turn to open or steal, and when the packages were gone you were the owner of whatever you had in your hands. Waiting for my appointed time to choose whether to pick or steal, was perfectly nerve-wracking. I sat squeezing my already tightly clasped hands. Although I would have loved the burgundy Lenox platter that was safely in stealer number three's hands, I decided I would not steal from anyone as I was taught well from my Catholic upbringing that stealing was never an option, and I figured the dogma extended to Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party as well. I, trying to look perfect, stood, gently picked up the present nearest to my seat and smiled and nodded. (I couldn't sip and open at the same time.) I imitated the elegant gift opening technique I observed from the perfect ones and when finished I sipped from my Waterford signaling the end of my turn. The opening ritual moved onto the next number.
I don't actually remember what I went home with that year but I do remember that the perfect person who opened my generic Barnes and Nobel leather journal and pen (ever the writer) never had it stolen from her.
After the unwrapping, my excitement rose as I anticipated the end of party hell, the time for my departure was within sight. I sipped the last of my Pinot Grigio, smiled and nodded to the perfect ones one more time and then worked my way to the door. Unbeknownst to me, there was more socializing to be done around the “treats” table. There was no way I was going to survive another five minutes at the perfect party eating more perfect treats. As I meandered towards the front door, I prayed my cell would ring bringing with it, glad tidings of great need at home, which would further expedite my not-so graceful exit. It didn't. So as efficiently as I could, without looking like a total cad, I put my Sears brand sock clad foot in my fifteen year old duck boot, said a gracious thank you for the invite to Amy, grabbed my Land's End parka and exited out the solid oak and lead glass front door.
I hit the cold December air and inhaled deeply, the stress of the afternoon leaving my body upon my exhale. I was almost back to the comfort of my four-year-old Volkswagen Jetta when the front door opened again. I heard my named called and I, smiling, turned around to see Amy standing there with my perfect grab bag gift in her hands. I hurried back towards her, smiling and nodding. (Not sipping this time but feeling the effects of the Pinot Grigio I had been sipping all afternoon.) I claimed my perfect grab bag gift, commented on my forgetfulness and bowed out once again.
Running to my car, determined to make a clean get away this time, I opened the door, sat in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. As I put the car in gear, I thought about how far I was from the finish line of those perfect people. I wondered if I'd ever figure out how to get there. I wondered if I even cared to get there.
The electronic sounding William Tell ring of my cell phone jarred me to the present. It was the familiar voice of a less than perfect-person, average-middle-aged man beckoning me to come home to a less than perfect, average-middle-class home because I was sorely missed. Accompanied by an imaginary angelic chorus humming in my head, the revelation fell upon me… being less than perfect was just perfect for me.
Have hope,
Donna :o)
In June of 2009 my husband and I joined our local YMCA. We decided it was time to get in shape. Since then, every morning the two of us alternate our work-out times and go to the gym. Usually, he goes from 5 to 6 AM and I follow with 6 to 7 AM. This schedule works for us because of my husband's work schedule and the need for someone to be in the house while our nine-year old is sleeping. On weekends, my husband takes time off and I plod down to the Y. When either of us returns home from the Y, we chat about who was there and how busy the machines were and stuff like that.
Today was no different. After exercising, I walked in to our nice warm home and my husband inquired about the particulars. Knowing he was going to ask, I did a quick looksie around the gym prior to leaving to give him my report. Today, there were thirteen of us working out, three were women, and no one we knew.
After he left, I got to thinking about how much time and effort we put into taking care of our health. We really do! We are fifty-somethings and it is important. I also got thinking about a piece I wrote a few years back and it made me smile. The reason for the smile is that, even though we work our arses off in the gym, we are still "not perfect." Nor are the others in the gym, I believe. But we keep on plodding along.
So, after my husband left the house, I went through my computer files and found this piece about "Perfect People." And although it was written at the Christmas season, the message is appropriate for today. It made me smile again and thought maybe you might too.
So, here is my take on perfect people and I hope you enjoy.
Perfect People
Ready, set, go……..everyone starts at the same place, or so I thought.
We all come into this world naked and screaming. Someone takes hold of us, wraps us in a pink or blue blanket and passes us off, into the arms of someone we kind of, sort of, know. Along the way, we grow.
Growth and development is a very personal thing. Inside each of us are genes that unfold a myriad of mysteries. Some women get awesome thick, shiny hair while others get kinky, curly, unruly hair you want to pull out from the roots. The brain; some get one that produces fine thoughts and ideas while others…Well, does “clueless” mean anything to you? And then there are the ever important thighs; long lean shapely legs versus the short, squat and bubbly ones. Some non-choices are so unfair.
As for me, growth and development is reminiscent of the saying, “one step forward and two steps back.” Seems like I have spent the better part of my forty-five years figuring out which way is forward and how to get there. Along the way, I've managed to make a few beneficial moves but just when I think I've got the momentum going, something like Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party invitation shows up and well, all my progress takes another U-turn.
Amy is a woman I met a few years back. We met through a classified ad in the newspaper. (Sounds kinky, huh?) Actually, she recently moved to the area and was looking for a day care situation. She wanted to watch one child in her home and I had one child that needed watching. The arrangement worked great for my son and me in every aspect except one: Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party.
The invitation came a few months after my son was in her care. It was delivered to my mailbox. I decided to go to Amy's First Annual Women's Christmas party because I didn't want to offend her by not going, and I figured she probably didn't have many acquaintances yet, being new to the area and all, so I graced her with my presence. Boy, was that a huge step backwards for me. Now, every November, around Thanksgiving time, I make the long walk to my mailbox with fear and trepidation in my bones, knowing that one afternoon I will go to the black box and find the dreaded invitation written in lovely curlicue handwriting on a holiday envelope. (Sounds like a master-piece.) I'll reach in the box, grab the pile of mail and hear the mocking voice from beyond the adhesive flap whispering, “Here you are loser-women, come and get your yearly whoopin.” Can you guess how my “first time” went at Amy's Annual Women's Christmas Party?
At Amy's First Annual Women's Christmas party was when the realization hit me-the starting whistle blew a long time ago and everyone else in the room heard it and took off, running full steam ahead. They ran straight and strong towards goals I only dreamt about. (Fashion, finances and family) As I looked around, they appeared to have gotten them, while all I got was lost somewhere along the way. (Fat, frugal and fragmented family) Since that first year and the stark realization of my screwed up life, I have come to measure my personal growth and development along the plumb line of Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party.
While attending the first year's gala, I developed two important coping strategies. The first one called “the smile-the nod-the sip” developed instantaneously upon my initial introduction to the women. Moving to the center of the room, Amy introduced me to the ladies and they all smiled and said hello. I began to make small talk. I asked names and how they knew Amy and stuff like that. They politely answered my questions but never asked me anything back. So I stood there like some social misfit staring at the perfect ones staring at me. The silence. The stares. The knowing. It was immediate. I was not going to fit in no matter what I said or how I looked. Mid-life crisis, part-time career woman, frumpy fashion clad, children's book author wanna be was not making the grade with these perfect professionals. I realized that the builder's wife (skinny as a rail and impeccably dressed in Anne Taylor), the psychologist (trendy and well put together from her Ralph Lauren glasses to Donna Karan silk socks), Amy's interior decorator (whose exterior looked as gorgeous as Amy's interior did) and I had nothing in common other than Amy. So I decided I'd not embarrass myself among the perfect ones and kept to the “seen but not heard” mantra my mother taught me. Getting myself a glass of Pinot Grigio, I sauntered over to Amy's shelf of family pictures and stared nervously at them, feigning interest. Occasionally one of the perfect ones would come over and interject, “Isn't that a lovely picture of such and such and so forth.” I would smile and nod and sip and they would move on.
My second coping strategy was developed immediately after I went home from that first “Amy's Annual Women's Christmas Party.” Having endured the most uncomfortable two hours of my life (Yes, even labor was a picnic compared to this.) I looked my husband straight in the eye and said, “If I get invited to next year’s social event, you are going to call me after one hour and tell me I'm urgently needed at home,” a pre-emptive way out of my party hell.
Everything about Amy is perfect. She has a gorgeous million dollar house, four brilliant blond-haired, blue-eyed angelic children and a GQ husband that keeps her in the best. Amy plans her Christmas party perfectly too, beginning with perfectly designed party invitations. She has the perfect pastries and perfect party decorations. She invites just the right number of women to join her; not too many so it wouldn't feel intimate, not too few so as not to appear clique-y. Just the right number so as to not get lost in the crowd, something I desperately desired. The only person I know and really like at the party is Amy and she's busy being a hostess, so I get to linger in extreme discomfort much as I imagine hell to be like.
With Waterford crystal in hand, over at the family pictures, I sent psychic messages to my husband, my mother, the President, ANYONE to call my cell phone and rescue me. The perfect ones were chatting in various places around the Pottery Barn furnished living room. I listened to the woes of their lives as I casually tasted shrimp puffs and stuffed mushrooms. I stayed away from the cheese fondue thing, knowing that I did not possess the graceful movements necessary to reach, dip and not splatter all over my JC Penney sweater. After an hour of perfect unpleasantness and hors d'oeuvres, the invited guests were called to the living room for the “Opening of the Presents.”
“Opening of the Presents” at Amy's was something I never experienced before. Each person invited to the party was asked to bring one gift to exchange. A monetary limit was sent, which I quickly realized was ignored by the perfect women. As each woman arrived to the party they picked a number out of a Vera Wang silver-plated bowl which established the order of the “unwrapping.” All the festively wrapped gifts were displayed on a square coffee table in the middle of the room for the invitees to admire. The one perfectly positive thing about my attendance at the party was my perfectly wrapped present. I take great pride at my present wrapping abilities, having learned the technique of crisp, clean edges and fancy curlicue bows from my dad. I was perfectly proud to have my gift sitting on that festive coffee table.
At the chosen time, we all gathered around the festive table while “number one” chose her gift. The ooh's and aah's rose to the occasion and the gift was unveiled. At this point “number two” stood up and had to make a decision. Do I open a brand new gift or do I “steal” number one's gift? The rule, I learned, was that a gift could be stolen on three separate occasions; with the "last steal" being the final resting place of the coveted gift. Everyone got a turn to open or steal, and when the packages were gone you were the owner of whatever you had in your hands. Waiting for my appointed time to choose whether to pick or steal, was perfectly nerve-wracking. I sat squeezing my already tightly clasped hands. Although I would have loved the burgundy Lenox platter that was safely in stealer number three's hands, I decided I would not steal from anyone as I was taught well from my Catholic upbringing that stealing was never an option, and I figured the dogma extended to Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party as well. I, trying to look perfect, stood, gently picked up the present nearest to my seat and smiled and nodded. (I couldn't sip and open at the same time.) I imitated the elegant gift opening technique I observed from the perfect ones and when finished I sipped from my Waterford signaling the end of my turn. The opening ritual moved onto the next number.
I don't actually remember what I went home with that year but I do remember that the perfect person who opened my generic Barnes and Nobel leather journal and pen (ever the writer) never had it stolen from her.
After the unwrapping, my excitement rose as I anticipated the end of party hell, the time for my departure was within sight. I sipped the last of my Pinot Grigio, smiled and nodded to the perfect ones one more time and then worked my way to the door. Unbeknownst to me, there was more socializing to be done around the “treats” table. There was no way I was going to survive another five minutes at the perfect party eating more perfect treats. As I meandered towards the front door, I prayed my cell would ring bringing with it, glad tidings of great need at home, which would further expedite my not-so graceful exit. It didn't. So as efficiently as I could, without looking like a total cad, I put my Sears brand sock clad foot in my fifteen year old duck boot, said a gracious thank you for the invite to Amy, grabbed my Land's End parka and exited out the solid oak and lead glass front door.
I hit the cold December air and inhaled deeply, the stress of the afternoon leaving my body upon my exhale. I was almost back to the comfort of my four-year-old Volkswagen Jetta when the front door opened again. I heard my named called and I, smiling, turned around to see Amy standing there with my perfect grab bag gift in her hands. I hurried back towards her, smiling and nodding. (Not sipping this time but feeling the effects of the Pinot Grigio I had been sipping all afternoon.) I claimed my perfect grab bag gift, commented on my forgetfulness and bowed out once again.
Running to my car, determined to make a clean get away this time, I opened the door, sat in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. As I put the car in gear, I thought about how far I was from the finish line of those perfect people. I wondered if I'd ever figure out how to get there. I wondered if I even cared to get there.
The electronic sounding William Tell ring of my cell phone jarred me to the present. It was the familiar voice of a less than perfect-person, average-middle-aged man beckoning me to come home to a less than perfect, average-middle-class home because I was sorely missed. Accompanied by an imaginary angelic chorus humming in my head, the revelation fell upon me… being less than perfect was just perfect for me.
Have hope,
Donna :o)
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