5 things I used to be...and one I still am

Because of various opportunities presented to me in the past few weeks, I find myself again and again promoting the notion that I'm qualified for this or that because of things I used to do, things I used to be. More and more I feel like I'm singing an off-key version of Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, trying to convince the world I once was great...back in the day.

Despite no longer being things I tout, I keep telling myself it's okay to utilize them when appropriate, that the sum of my parts, my past, make me who I am today.

The one I've been utilizing of late is that I used to be the special sections editor at the newspaper. Although a writer long before that, it's the "editor" title that seems to make people take notice. Little do most realize that the "editor" title was just that: a title. No powerful abilities, no magical results. Except, of course, when it comes to impressing folks who might open a door for a writer. So for that thing I used to be, I am truly thankful (but mostly thankful it's no longer something I'm required to be).

There are plenty of others things I used to be.

I used to be shy. Achingly shy. Turn-my-stomach-into-knots-and-render-my-voice-mute-in-the-face-of-strangers-and-authority shy. Until I had children to protect and support in the face of teachers, doctors, coaches, bad boyfriends and more. Being crowned editor helped, too, as with that title came the obligation to speak up and protect my people and publications, my writers and our writings in the face of the newspaper and advertising gods that be...or were.

I used to be one to work with numbers, not words. I worked for mortgage companies, for a major auto finance company. I learned to hate numbers. But I also learned to pay attention to them—and to be a formidable force when it comes to securing a mortgage, even tougher when buying a car.

I used to be a licensed nail tech. Am I now someone with a penchant for perfectly polished fingers and toes? Far from it. But it made me less ashamed of my hands. The hands I used to hide at all awkward costs because of hateful comments made by a sister. Not because my hands became beautifully manicured, but because it's impossible to work on someone else's while hiding your own. So I stopped hiding them. And stopped worrying about things my sister said. And stopped thinking such things mattered at all.

I used to be a Girl Scout Leader. Did it leave me craftier and wiser than the average mama bear? No. But it did give me three life principles I regularly fall back on: 1) Make new friends, but keep the old; 2) Be prepared; and 3) Right over left, left over right, makes a knot neat and tidy and tight.

As the post title says, those are five things I used to be. Five things I am no more.

And the one I still am? Simple: I am a mother and wife, the one thing I've been longer than any other thing.

But that's two, you say? No. Having been pregnant when Jim and I married, the mom-and-wife things go hand-in hand, are one. And it's that one that I've been for the majority of my life and above all else. Fortunately that one thing expanded to become many. The mother of babies, then toddlers, adolescents and teens became a mother of adults. All very different things, but very much the same. The mother of adults become a mother-in-law. Then, of course, that mother expanded (as did her heart) when she became a grandmother...partner to a grandfather. Still a mother and wife.

All the things I once was made a difference, but it's the one I still am that truly defines me, that matters the most. The one that always will matter most. The one I always will be.

Photo: That's my peeps. That's what matters.

Today's question:

What did you used to be? What will you always be?

A little of this, a little of that ... not!

Where I'm least likely to exercise moderation. (Can you blame me?)Yesterday's post and question was about cupcakes, and Grandma Kc mentioned in her comment that although she loves sugar, she's pretty good about "moderation."

Well, I'm not good about moderation. At least when it comes to some things. Here are a few of those things:

Accumulating books. I plea for free ones for review, I download free ones, I buy as many as I can afford from Amazon.com and the bargain shelves at Barnes & Noble. I have a serious book addiction — even when I'm physically unable to read them all. Crazy, I know.

Doritos. Yes, they're horrible for you, which is why I do my best to not purchase any because regardless of how horrible they are for you, if they're in the house, I eat them. But Jim loves them, so I occasionally acquiesce — then eat them until my TMJ acts up and my jaw pops ... or locks up completely.

Recipes. I've got an out-of-control recipe and cookbook obsession, despite using only a few of my many recipes on a regular basis. They just all look so darn good that I tell myself that I will definitely make them ... one day.

Pictures of loved ones. I can't take just one ... or one hundred. More, more, more is my motto. Now if only I had the money to print them all, my obsession might be satisfied.

Bubby. Moderation is not even a consideration here. I truly cannot get enough of him, yet I keep trying. And he feeds into the one just prior to this: pictures. I'll never have enough pictures of him, either. It's a vicious cycle.

Socks. I love socks, especially unusual ones, cool ones, non-black-or-white ones. It used to be standard when the girls would ask, "What do you want for Christmas?" (or Mother's Day or my birthday) that I'd respond with "socks." They satisfied my sock cravings for a while, then simply groaned every time I asked for more. So I don't get socks anymore. At least not from them.

Candles. Replace "socks" in the paragraph above with "candles" and you'll get the idea.

There is certainly more that proves moderation is not my middle name, but that's a start. A moderate start, I admit.

Hey, maybe I'm on to something here: proof that I can do moderation.

At least to a moderate degree.

Today's question:

In what are you least likely to exercise moderation?

Label me loony

Last week I told you about all the press releases I get in my mail box and how I delete them all. At least most of them. I must admit there are a few product pitches I fall for, and most recently it was labels.

I'm a sucker for labels. Not labels marking a person part of this clique or that stereotype or a renegade marching to his or her own beat. No, I mean the labels marking a thing mine. Mine alone. Per the label with my name — and only my name — clearly printed for one and all to see.

I'm not sure exactly how my label obsession began but I think it had something to do with one of my favorite gifts ever received as a child: a book of labels all marked LISA, given to me by a well-intentioned relative. Stickers in the shapes of circles, stars, squares, hearts, rectangles bearing my name in block, cursive and wingy-dingly fonts of varied colors. They were lovely, and they were mine. Only mine, an uncommon affair in a family of seven kids. I marked anything and everything ... at least anything and everything that was mine.

The fixation on labeling all things LISA increased when I started babysitting and used my hard-earned cash to buy my own goodies — everything from books and records to socks, shirts, and snacks purchased just for nibbling on with my friends or by myself — and needed to protect such goods from some especially sticky-fingered siblings.

Label it or lose it became my motto. (Of course, the tactic wasn't always fool-proof.)

Then Jim and I first entered into twitterpated-ness, he fed into my labeling obsession right away in especially cutesy-coy fashion. Using an old hand-held Dymo label maker, he fashioned our first love note: a label reading "Iay Ovely Ouyay."

Labels continued to be the name the game from that moment forward. I labeled record albums, books, dishes and utensils shared during potlucks. I labeled the girls' clothes with their initials so they'd know what belonged to whom. And when they became old enough to steal my socks wear the same size footwear as me, I labeled the bottoms of my sports socks with MOM so they'd steer clear of mine. (Although as MOM upside-down is merely WOW, that tactic wasn't always foolproof either.)

Now that Jim and I are the only ones with socks in the laundry, it's pretty obvious the size 13 men's socks are his, the size 7 ladies socks are mine. No need for labels anymore. For the most part.

That didn't stop my heart from twittering a tad when I recently received an e-mail offering the opportunity to try out Name Bubbles, newfangled waterproof labels that stick to anything. Best of all, the PR company asked me to simply supply the name I wanted on my review labels and they'd be on their way to me. It was an offer I couldn't refuse.

And I didn't refuse it.

I gotta admit, though, that despite having no need whatsoever for waterproof labels fit for camp clothes, water bottles, and school totes, it sure was tough to not offer up LISA as what I wanted on the Name Bubbles headed my way. I seriously considered it.

What stopped me was knowing that if I had done that and Jim started seeing new evidence of my seemingly silenced labeling obsession, my dear husband would surely offer up his own label for me — that of LOSER.

So I caved ... and am soon expecting some shiny new Name Bubbles personalized with Bubby's real name.

I'm wondering if his future wife will one day rue a seemingly innocuous gift once given him by his well-intentioned grandma.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Which of your possessions do you label? And how?

Grandma grumbles

This past week wasn't as bad as this particular week, but there were still a few things that got my briefs in a bunch and caused this grandma to grumble:

1. Rejection. As many of you know, I have an agent. For my picture books. And as many of you may know, the picture book market has gone down the toilet. But after reading (and rejecting) my first book, an editor requested that I write another on a topic she wanted covered. I did, she loved it, and for two months it's been under consideration with her peers (they buy books by committee at some places). Then the house hired a new head who brought authors with him/her, one of whom had a book quite similar to mine. That author and that book get to be published. My book is dead in the water. Decision by the new publisher. My agent apologized, cited the cuss market, said she's no longer even representing picture books because of the dismal forecast for them, and suggested I submit my manuscripts to children's magazines. Which stinks. I want a book published, not a story in a magazine. But I shouldn't complain: At least the picture book manuscripts scored me an agent and we have other things in the works.

2. Tornado coverage. The devastation of the deadly tornadoes has broken my heart and I wanted to check out news coverage Thursday morning. But because we recently canceled cable, I had to rely on network morning news, no CNN. Well, every freakin' network morning news show went on and on and on about the cussing royal wedding. I don't care about the wedding, I care about our folks here at home, wanted to know about folks here at home. Sure, there were brief — shamefully brief — updates on the devastation, but for the most part, I heard only about dresses, and guests, and vows, and wacky people from all over the globe camping out for a prime spot to view the spectacle. But I shouldn't complain: At least I could find all the news I could take online. And at least I'm blessed to not be in the stricken areas or have lost loved ones.

3. Car rental woes. I, along with my immediate family living in Colorado, will be headed to the desert when Mac (ha! first time using that!) is born and Bubby celebrates his third birthday. We'll be there a week, thus needing a rental car. So I reserved the rental car ... and about died when the cussing taxes and fees and miscellaneous charges doubled the price. Honest: The original rental fee was exactly doubled when all that cuss was added. Crazy. I'm paying more for the car than I am for my airfare. But I shouldn't complain: At least we're all able to go visit the newborn and celebrate yet another birthday with our Bubby.

4. Dyslexia assistance. I'm a site coordinator for the local Children's Literacy Center. I manage the tutors, tutors who are not trained to diagnose nor work with dyslexic children. That's understandable, fine, and good, because in the public schools there are special programs for diagnosing and aiding students when dyslexia is suspected and/or confirmed. Right? Wrong! That's not the case, at least not the public school system in which one of my students is enrolled. So a lovely mother struggling to do what's right for her kid and struggling with finances and thus unable to pay the exhorbitant cost of private testing and programs is left flailing and worried sick about her struggling daughter. Said daughter can no longer be in our tutoring program because of resrictions related to IEPs and dyslexia, yet the cussing school system has nothing to offer her, I'm told. I see a child slipping through the cracks right before my eyes and I see her mother's heart breaking and I can't do anything about it. Which breaks my heart. But I shouldn't complain: BS! We all should be complaining about such things. There is no "at least" in this instance, is nothing that reverses this travesty. Which just plain sucks.

Shew! I'm done. Thank you for letting me get that all off my chest.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What do you need to get off your chest?

One week

Taxes are due. Despite knowing such things happen when making use of a stash meant for tomorrow, it still stings.

We procrastinated, not wanting to know, not wanting to let go.

Of money.

It's just money, I tell myself as I crunch numbers.

Then an e-mail: Please pray. She's in a coma.

I pray. I crunch numbers.

Hours later, a text: "She's dead." That's all it said.

I pray.

And consider that it truly is just money.

An e-mail: My cell phone's on hold; can't afford it.

Cancellations. No subs. No plan. Times three.

A phone call: She could die, Mom. Please pray.

I pray.

And $30 for half a tank of gas?

It's just money.

A voice mail: He's in the hospital. Can't figure it out.

A text: "I can't do funerals."

Another text: She's in ICU. Broken bones, sternum, neck. ATV.

I pray.

A conversation: The former rental, now residence? Red dust. Brown residue. Taped plumbing. Rusted hinges.

Neighbors ... and Google: It's drugs. It's meth. It's $40,000 average to clean up.

Really?

Really?

Low-blood sugar. Comas. Reverse mortgages. Fears of homelessness. Death. Funerals. A mother binds her toddler with tape and leaves her in the shower. Another drives her babies into the water.

And the ever-present wind.

One week.

The center cannot hold.

Really.

Hope springs eternal. Or so I'm told.

Which buoys a heavy heart. Tethered to hope, it's kept from sinking.

A phone call: There's a new plan. They want more info. We're moving forward. This could work.

A text: "Thanks for today! I'm super excited now! I can really see it all coming together."

A plea: We need you. Can you come? We'll pay.

And 69 days become 22.

Hope springs eternal.

The center can hold.

The center did hold.

This one week.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

How was your week?