What I Signed Up For

This is not what I signed up for.

Whenever a particularly onerous duty falls my way in the course of my day-to-day activities as a mom/wife/general all-around household troubleshooter, this thought sneaks its way into my brain. No matter the roadblocks I’ve put up—this is what a mom does or this isn’t as gross as it could be, at least—the thought creeps in.

Yesterday the thought became un un-ending mantra as I carefully (and while holding my gorge) extracted a—and this is where it gets truly gross and I apologize—large and painful poop from my dog’s rear end (using about 6 layers of paper towels of course!!). The poor dog—incredibly constipated. (My fault, I’m sure—I let her eat several left over pieces of filet the night before from the girls’ unfinished dinner plates.) After a day of straining to get “her business” over with, she just made it worse. So when she finally did go, it didn’t all come out and—well, you get the picture. The poor thing was whimpering in pain. So my brave daughter Nati (whose express goal is to be a veterinarian when she grows up) held up Daisy’s tail while I did what I had to do. Eeewwwww. The dog felt better instantly, and quickly returned to her normal, happy self. And while I washed my hands in ultra-hot water at the sink, sudsing up to my elbows, that thought circle around in my head.

This is not what I signed up for.

It occurred later this evening when said-same lovely girl Nati “accidentally” twisted the handle off the bathroom faucet and water started shooting up (she was trying, she explained later, to see what would happen if she took the handle off—and I still don’t really know how she managed that—it takes a lot of strength. She’s 7!) Anyway, amid heaps of towels and hysteria (Nati is terrified of floods—my fault; I let her watch “Deep Impact” when she was four, and she’s never looked at water the same way), I managed to screw the handle back in, all the while trying to calm my screaming, sobbing child and reassure her that there would be no flood. The rushing water stopped—stopping the tears took longer.

This is not what I signed up for.

But fortunately, those moments are far and few between. But when they do occur, it confirms a simple truth: being human, we're all susceptible to the idea that somehow, some way, life hasn't turned out the way we'd thought it would (or thought we deserved). I for one (and I doubt many of the people I know) would have imagined when they decided to "take the plunge" that part of that new role might include frantically yanking towels off their ranks to stem the upward rush of a spouting bathroom geyser.

It's a simple truth that we all give tacit acknowledgment to, yet seldom seem to think applies to ourselves: life is hard. For some it's hard in tragically life-altering ways--a loved one's sudden death, the loss of what was thought to be a secure job, the breakup of a marriage, the devastation of one's entire life savings in a Ponzi scheme (ala Bernie Madoff)--and for others, it's hard in little ways that build up, up and up until the cumulative effect makes each day less bearable than the one before: a spouse that, day after day, year after year, works 14 hours days, comes home, works some more, and shares no conversation with you more in-depth than "Did you get the mail?"; a car that breaks down again and again and again; a thoughtless neighbor who lets their dog poop on your lawn despite your requests that they stop it or has one loud, ear-thumping, end-at-3am party after another, knowing you have a baby in the house; a relative who has made it his or her personal mission to dominate every holiday with their own bitterness and frustration. Life is hard because of both huge things and little things.

But's its all just life--that's my point. And all of us being human, it's easy to fall into the "this is not what I signed up for" trap. Don't get me wrong; I'm no Polly Anna eager to tell you to put a smile on your face and just muddle through it. And I'm not particularity religious, either--I'm the last one who will tell you "It's all part of God's plan. We can't see it now, but someday we will." (Having heard this trite phrase from several well-meaning but clueless people at my dad's funeral, I can tell you from personal experience that those words are not comforting. Sorry.) But I will say that if we understand--as friends, spouses, neighbors, colleagues and people who share the same block/city/country/world--that we're not the only one out there having a rough day, I think we will all better for it.

So what did I sign up for then? In life? In marriage? In parenthood? I signed up for the good stuff: the successes, both large and small, that give me enough energy to move to the next level--be it planning a fundraiser that brought in gobs of cash or making a recipe that actually tasted like it was supposed to; the small moments, like the way Daisy leaps with excitement each and every time she sees me even after the briefest of absences; the warm, sleepy goodnight kisses from my girls just before they drift into dreamland. The friends I love, the people I admire, the places I've been fortunate enough to see in my life.

So yeah, yesterday, I spent my fair share of thought-energy thinking This isn't what I signed up for. But then, when I really gave my day the thought it deserved, I realized that it actually was what I signed up for-- I signed up for taking myself out of the "center" of it, and putting someone else there. That's why even though "helping" Daisy last night made my stomach do the long, lazy flip-flop that tell me I'm about to puke, I didn't hesitate to do it because I knew she needed me. Or stanching the bathroom flood (both of water and Nati's tears). I signed up for letting the guy in the car in front of me ease in, and for holding open the door for the harried mother with three little ones and only two hands. I signed up for listening when an ear is needed, for advising when an opinion is sought, and for holding when love is the only thing that will make it "all better." I signed up for doing my part to make the world (my small piece of it, anyway) a little better than I found it--a work in progress, always.

The Downside of Looking at the Upside...

One of the tritest phrases in the English language is “look for the silver lining.” As in “yes, the stock market wiped out our retirement savings, but the silver lining is that I still have my health so I can work until I’m 80.” Or, “True, my husband cheated on me, but the silver lining is that at least he didn’t cheat on my with someone like that woman from ‘Fatal Attraction.’” Or, a personal favorite that I actually heard with my own ears: “I know he stole the client from me and stabbed me in the back, but the silver lining is at least I’m assisting him on the account.” True story, from my days contracting at PR firms in San Diego. The girl who said it was a wide-eyed, sweet-souled junior account exec who by now has either saved her sanity (and that sweet soul) and abandoned the PR field altogether, or has in the intervening years shaken off the mantle of optimism and replaced it with clear-eyed, hard-edged realism (in other words, she has since thrown offending client-snatcher under the bus.)

Until very recently, I have been the master of looking for the silver lining. Always. In every single situation. When the walls crumbled around me, I’ve been the one to say, “Well, hey, yeah, I know life is caving in on us, but working together to rebuild it will bring us closer.” I’ve been that benighted-eyed optimist who refuses to let “stuff” get me down. The Annie of attitude. Perhaps even annoyingly so (one of my dearest friends, who loves me and knows me best, has said that on more than one occasion).

But over time. I’ve started to alter my perspective a bit. It’s been more than the economic meltdown (which to be fair, with the stock market nearing the 10,000 mark again, may be on the beginning of a recovery—of course, we’d sold much of our piddling remaining stock we had prior to the upswing, natch), or even my wild overindulgence in volunteering, which left me feeling slightly dizzy and almost hung-over with do-gooder-ness. It’s more been the dawning realization that my tendency to always look at the bright side of life was in part a way for me to hide my true feelings about a particular situation. I’ve realized that looking at the silver lining isn’t always the right thing to do. Sometimes seeing and acknowledging that a situation has gone awry is what you need to do.

By immediately jumping on the “let’s think positive” I’ve been denying myself the opportunity to feel the disappointment or frustration that was inside. I felt bad about being angry. As if anger was a nasty boil that needed to be lanced, less someone see me angry and –gasp!!—think bad of me.

I’m not advocating embracing anger and beating everyone over the head with it. That’s no way to solve any problem. That just alienates people and makes you look a little off-balance. But what I am saying is that it is okay to feel anger, or frustration, or disappointment, and not force yourself to gloss over your feelings, as if those emotions had no validity. Those emotions can give you clarity, whereas denying them will only give you ulcers.

I know of what I speak. The last month has been a trying one. In fact, the whole year has been—I can’t remember ever hoping so fervently that the year would just hurry up and end, as if by changing the calendar from 2009 to 2010 will magically change circumstances. I’ve told myself hundreds of times over the last months, “Look on the bright side!” and “Everything’ll work out.” And that ol’ chestnut, “Everything happens for a reason.” And of course the ever-wise “It’s all good.”

So if that was so “all good”, why did I end up one day collapsing on the kitchen floor, hugging my dog and crying hysterically, all because I broke a casserole dish? Obviously, my “out-of-the-blue” crying attack was more than the dish that had slipped from my hand. It was then I realized that faking it might fool some people—but not the people who knew me well. And I especially couldn’t fool myself, at least not for long. My poor dog. She’d probably thought I’d lost my mind.

I’m still the generally positive person I’ve always been, but I have been allowing myself to feel the emotions—disappointment, frustration—I’ve been holding at bay for so long. At least a little. I’ve found that these emotions have galvanized me to take the initiative to get myself into a better situation, rather than wait, look for the silver lining, and hope everything will get better. So I guess…I’m being positive about being …negative? Not really. But at least, at last, I’m being realistic.

Grow old gracefully? Nah....

Ahhhh, 40. I remember my mom turning 40. I was 18 at the time, and remember thinking that she looked pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. So when I turned 40 a few months ago, the memory of that smug evaluation of my mother hit me like a baseball bat--a baseball bat made of chagrin. Here I was, turning 40, and...looking pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. 

And of course, I'm obligated to say that 40 isn't "old." I'm compelled by self-preservation to drop such forced-perky lines as "40 is the new 30!" and "You're only as old as you feel." Well, I'll tell you--when I look at myself in the mirror when I wake up in the morning, I know 30 never looked like this...not even after a long night in Vegas. Yeah, 40 is the new 30 if 30 has bags under its eyes, boobs you can hide an Ipod under, and the beginning of neck waddles. Alright, maybe I'm not that bad in the morning...but you can hide an Ipod under my boob (I'm very entertaining at cocktail parties).

But the "old as you feel" line is pretty true--most of the time I really do feel like I did in my  20s. Sometimes it's a real shock when I look closely in the mirror. The mental image I have of myself is what I looked like at about 24 (sans the rock-hard, 7-day-a-week-at-the-gym-body, of course). I exercise 3 or 4 days a week, I make an effort to eat "right" (whatever that is, depending on which magazine you're reading), and I take my vitamins and my Move Free Advanced (glucosamine for the not-yet-feelin'-it-in-the-knees crowd). 

My mom, now 62, interestingly enough says the same thing--that she feels like she's 23. And then she looks in the mirror and says, "Who the hell is that??" And I have to laugh, rather rueflly I admit, because I know that someday I'll be saying the same thing. 

So! My dilemma--which really, shouldn't be a dilemma. I am thinking it's time for Botox. Yup. In fact, it may be past time. Yesterday at the beach my 10-year-old looked deeply in my eyes. I anticipated a compliment--you have pretty eyes, mommy! Something along those lines. So I smiled at her, waiting, and she said, very seriously, "Mom, you have alot of wrinkles around your eyes."

"Hey, it's sunny! I'm squinting!" I protested. 

"No," she replied, "They're always there."

Huh. 

The reason I've been hesitating is because I wonder if my motivation to "do the Botox" is merely vanity. Why can't I just grow old gracefully? Is there really anything wrong with wrinkles? If I start Botox, am I really eager to keep doing it, ad infinitum? Am I trying to look 20 again? Do I even want to be 20 again? And, the question that I've mused over most of all: what message will I give my two daughters if I do get Botox?

My husband, a corn-fed mid-westerner who looks a full decade younger than his 48 years, is neutral on the subject. (I suspect he'd rather I get a boob job--he's pretty tired of my hide-the-Ipod trick). My friends are terrific supporters--and too my surprise, when I bring up the subject many of them have told me they've taken the Botox plunge already. Who knew? I always thought they were just blessed (darn them!) with really great skin. 

So the conclusion I finally came to is...I'm gonna do it. And no, I don't want to look 20 again (an awful year anyway, between bad roommates, big breakups and crappy jobs). I just want to look as good as I possibly can for my age--40. After all, that's why I exercise regularly. That's why I avoid fast food and (usually) pass on dessert. And why the Estee Lauder anti-wrinkle line takes up the entire top shelf of my bathroom cabinet. 

That's not to say there isn't alot to be said for letting nature take its course--you should see my mom. She's a knock out in her 60s, and has never been near a needle. But she's told me that had a solution to her crows-feet been around when they first began to make an appearance on her face, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. In fact, she thinks I'm silly for even thinking about it at all. I just need to get my saggin' ass to the doctor!

Next dilemma so figure out...should I get a tattoo??

Too Close to Home

Two things happened over the weekend.

One is completely superficial. I had my hair colored on Thursday (gotta hide those crazy grays--they pop out of my head like live wires!!). Over the weekend I went swimming in our pool with my two little girls. Despite using this "amazing" spray on protectant which claims to be the enemy of all things salt, sun and water related (in other words, it promised my hair would be fine during swimming), my hair, upon later inspection, has subtly changed color. There's definitely an orang-y hue to my otherwise brown tresses (ahem--dyed brown tresses). So I need to call up my hair stylist and beg for help. And that means dipping into my cash reserves (if you read my post a couple back where I described my new "cash only" lifestyle). And that means I'll have to work my budget to accommodate an unexpected visit back to my hair dresser.

Okay, so how sorry do you feel for me now...?? 

The other thing that happened is that I got a life lesson that walloped the hell out of me.

So...you know how life has a way of giving you lessons in humility  when you least expect them? Well, in the midst of my annoyance about my unexpected Oompa Loompa hair, I got one of those lessons. 

There has been this beautiful house for sale around the corner from my house for about 18 months. It is simply a lovely home--spanish/Mediterranean style home with  professional landscaping and a 180 view of orange county. Nestled into the side of a hill, the house is three stories and tiered with decks that follow the lay of the slope. Over the course of the last 18 months there were several open houses, each with the accompanying flier--the pictures on the flier showed an interior that matched the exterior for loveliness. I'd never met--never even seen--the people who lived there. But I felt like I knew their house. 

Since the house was first put on the market in early 2008 (or perhaps late 2007) the price has dropped from 2.1 million to 1.9 to 1.5 to 1.2...and down, down, down. There was even a period of time when a big yellow sign outside the house proclaimed "Price will drop $50K a week until its sold!!" Still no sale. I thought I knew why--gorgeous house, with an amazing view...but for $2 million I'd probably buy a home in a gated community, maybe someplace a little more exclusive. Oh, don't get me wrong--the neighborhood is great. But only that house and four others on the same street were valued that high (except, of course, during the height of the now-defunct real estate market, when our regular two-story house was valued at the ridiculously high price of $950K.)

Every day as I walked the girls to school, we walked right past the house, always pausing to admire it and speculate about who might eventually buy it. Then, from time to time, I saw a car on the street next to it with lettering on the windows that read : "We Buy Houses." My heart ached a little every time I saw that car. "We Buy Houses." Obviously, the family in the house couldn't afford to wait for a buyer any longer. So this was how it ended for them...

After that, the familiar "For Sale" sign came down. The house was quiet for a long time. Then, this weekend, I was driving home. Like always, I passed the house. There was a hand-lettered sign that read "High Quality Furniture for Sale." Impulsively, I pulled over and stopped, letting curiosity get the better of me. I felt a little guilty as the gentleman of the house (a man not much older than me, as it turned out--maybe 45 or 47) approached me with such a friendly smile that I wondered if it was his house or if an auctioneer was helping them liquidate. 

I looked around, taking in the house. It was as gorgeous inside as the pictures on the open house fliers showed. I stood on one of the tiered balconies and took in the amazing view. I went from room to room, admiring the carefully decorated areas. 

Everything was just right--exactly how I would have liked to do had I the money or decorating savvy. The furniture was all super high-end--Henredon and Charles Fine Furniture and Treasures. On my budget, Pottery Barn is high end. I couldn't afford anything in the house (in the back of my mind I thought that I would finally get a new kitchen table if they had one that I liked and had a price tag less than $1000 bucks. But alas, while I liked the kitchen table, even at fire sale prices it was 4x the amount I could afford--and too fancy for the likes of me, anyway. Inlaid mahogany, gracefully curved  wrought iron legs, mother of pearl touches. And that was their kitchen table! Like I said, I'm a Pottery Barn kinda girl. 

Anyway I got to talking with the nice man who'd greeted me when I came in. Turned out it was his home. Perhaps he'd had a long day and was just waiting for a friendly face. Or maybe he was the kind of guy who shared personal information at a whim. Whatever it was; as we talked, he revealed to me that they had to sell the house and furniture--completely liquidate--at whatever price they could get because his wife had been very ill and had several surgeries. Their insurance didn't cover it. He didn't mention what the illness was and I didn't ask--all I needed to know was that whatever it was, it devastated them. Perhaps seeing my look of sympathy he said, no, no, it was okay--the only thing that mattered was that his wife was alive. They were going to start over.

You have no idea how much I wished I could buy that kitchen table now, no matter that it was way out of my budget and way too fancy for my little house. I shook his hand, wished him well, and left. 

The rest of the weekend I couldn't stop thinking about this family and their situation. It made my new orange 'do not seem like such a big deal. When I told my husband about it, I actually cried. I was incredibly touched by the man's words--the only thing that mattered was that his wife was alive. It made my heart ache for them to think that all they've built up, saved for, worked hard to achieve was being taken from them because of an illness. How would they start over in their mid-40s? I couldn't imagine how I would be in that situation. 

And then, I happened to read that over 60% of bankruptcies in the US are not--as so many like to sanctimoniously declare--due to "irresponsibility" and "lack of self-discipline."(see: http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/06/090604095123.htm or http://www.consumeraffairs.com/news04/2009/06/health_bankrupt.html) Over 60% are due to medical costs. People are losing their homes daily because they cannot pay their medical bills--and that is with insurance! It is ridiculous! People shouldn't have to choose between the roof over their heads and their health. 

I won't spend a ton of time on the politics of the dismal state of US health care. But I will say I think it's terrible that we are the only first-world country in the world that does not provide its citizens with health care. (see this interesting article on our politicians' great health care--the modern equivalent of Nero fiddling while Rome burns: http://public-healthcare-issues.suite101.com/article.cfm/health_care_for_the_us_congress) It's so short-sighted not to care for our citizens--we end up paying twice as much as other countries that do provide health care for substandard care in many cases. But just as bad is the "I got mine" attitude so many people seem to have. That seems to be changing--I truly hope it is. We will certainly see. 

For months I've been reading similar stories of people losing their homes because of a catastrophic illness. I venture to say that it truly could happen to anyone. In 2004 I spent a week in the hospital and nearly died (a story for another time). Our bill was over $35,000. One week!! My husband's insurance paid 80%, but we were still left with  thousands of dollars of bills. We managed it, but suppose my illness had required a month in the hospital? Two months? A year? We certainly would have lost our home had we been in that situation. Like this family. 

And so life has a way of giving us the lessons we need to be decent human beings. And that was a lesson I apparently needed. So yeah, I've got orange-y hair (at least until Jocelyn has room on her very full schedule) But I also have a roof over my head. And, God willing, my health.