Why is the positive person in your life your dumping ground?

I'm a positive girl.  Go figure, right? If you're reading this you're probably my friend as opposed to someone who actually thought there was a cheese product out there called Dixie Cheese and found me randomly because you hoped it was smoked over hardwoods made in the backwoods of Georgia.

You probably know me on Facebook or Twitter.  We're friends on Instagram or a colleague I trust enough to know my inner ramblings and dreams of being a real writer someday.  So you know I'm a "what you see is what you get" kinda girl.  I don't fake my happiness. It's just who I am. Glass half full or glass half empty?

My answer is that the glass is always full -- halfway with the liquid in it and the other half with the air I breathe.

I had someone tell me once I was trite in my writing and opinions because he thought it was all fake until he realized it really wasn't and I was actually real and apologized.  (That, honestly, was the worst insult I've ever received until I realized I didn't really give two poops about his opinion anyway.)  But, yeah.  I am that happy. I am that positive. I'd like to think I'd have a very blue aura if I believed in that shit. Anyway....

It brings me to this dilemma: people dump on me. All. The. Time. And most of the time it doesn't bother me at all. If I'm in a good place and you're not, that's what friends are for, right? To hear your problems, be a sounding board, help you look at things from another perspective or just to be there as a comforting ear.  And I love that I can do that for friends. I do. But sometimes I wonder if those of us who are the "glass always full" types sometimes are the ones of whose advantages are often taken.

(that was an awkward sentance, right? didn't want to end in a preposition. onward!)

Because lately, I'm feeling it.  I walk into every day with a smile, my head held high, feeling good.  And then a friend or two will tell me their (legitimate) problems and it sinks me a little, knowing they're so sad. So I want to help. I want to do something! Take them out, talk on the phone, do something to get them out of their funk. Whatever I can do.  But what's happening instead is that they dump....and then go away.  Tell me their problems and then say they want to be alone. Or don't want to talk about it.  Or whatever.

I get that. I really, really do.  In a way.

But. 

But then I don't get why you would tell someone who is over-the-moon enjoying life your issues and then just go away!  If you're my friend, I take that to heart and I'm actually brought down a notch or two over what you said because I want to make you feel better and pump you up. Get you out of that funk; share my love of life. I walk into every day happy but when a friend says she's hurting, it hurts me too. So I sink a bit...hoping I'll rise again in helping with her problems. That's the point in having a positive friend, right?

And if you don't want that positive friend to help you? Why put it on them?

On me?

Are you wanting me to be just as miserable as you?

I'm starting to -- no. Not starting. I realize completely that it's now becoming unfair.  These people who do this to me feel so much better just for "venting" and can sleep at night because they got it out.  They vented and released their stress. Good on them! Sleep soundly then!  I am truly happy they can.

But because I love them, when they do that to me? I can't.  I worry over what I'm told. I pray. I try to figure out ways to make them feel better because that's what I want to do: I want everyone to approach every day the way I do. Your situation may suck. But there's always a solution.   I truly believe that.

So, back to the scenario. My friend got it out -- but put it on me. I can't help but feel that (s)he put it out there for someone else to absorb. Maybe it should be a compliment that they think I CAN absorb that so (s)he didn't have to deal so much...but it's not. It's not a compliment because I feel I'm a vessel now. A dumping ground.

Why is the positive person in your life your dumping ground?

Because, surprise! That positive person also has issues of his or her own to deal with.

We may be happy. We may be teachers and friends and colleagues and strangers with smiles on our faces and a true "glass is full" attitude.  But we still don't deserve to be your dumping ground.

The three songs that should be played at my funeral.

Lord willing, it won't happen anytime soon. But when it does (because there are only three certain things in life, right?), it will. And a friend challenged me a couple days ago to come up with three songs I could put to paper (or, er, what passes as "paper" in internet blogs these days) so the ones I left would know how to define me and what to play at my wake.

A bit ago (wow! two years ago even: just looked it up - did I really write that in 2011?! I thought I did it more recently than that!) I posted about songs that have certain memories for me.  Whether it was the one playing when I got my first real kiss, the one I heard repeatedly on my Confirmation retreat or for any other time. If you love music, there are certain songs that will always stick in your head because of who you were, where you were at the time, right?l

Yeah, this entry is not about that.

This one is entirely self-serving --but, as I said, a friend challenged me to find three songs that I would consider "my theme songs." Not because of memories or situations, but more about who I AM.

I don't find it morbid at all, by the way.  If you've ever lost a loved one -- a parent, a child, a sibling, a spouse -- it's not morbid. It's just reality. So my mom and I have even talked about what would happen if I got run over by  a bus tomorrow.  We live almost a thousand miles apart. She knows my life and family and friends are here even if at the same time my heart is up there with her.

[My answer: do whatever you want with my cold dead body, but with the life insurance I have, pay my bills, buy yourself some cute new shoes and then throw a big party for my friends. Kegs and kegs of beer. Oh, and boxes of wine of course!]

So if people are having some drinks (in red solo cups, of course) and just celebrating my life?  Where I'm hopefully looking down on them (or haunting them -- you know who you are!) these are the three songs I'd ask y'all to play.

Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman"  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zkfkJCyqCBc
[note: he's also from my Mom's hometown area too!]

She Daisy's "I Will" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9MxKFMP_08

And good ol' Blue Eyes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6E2hYDIFDIU 

If you are reading this and I DO get run over by a bus tomorrow? Please let my mama know. She doesn't have internet access to read this afterall. ;-) 

The Joy of Hashing

 The Joy of Hashing.

As in the Hash House Harriers type of hashing.

Nine out of ten of you reading this understand what I meant already by "hashing." Assuming I have more than ten readers (and I don't), I can't explain it better than Wikipedia does. It's a running/walking group that likes to drink and be social.  I'll send y'all there now.

I'll wait.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers

Take your time.

It's a lot to take in.

I'll wait.

You ready?

On the most simplest level? It's a group of people who have a commonality. Just like you do with your friends.  Some do it with photography. Or travel. Or scrapbooking. You name it.  Gardening.  Shopping. Artwork.  You find a common place with amazing folks who have the same hobbies. And that's what we do here. We do it with a bit of exercise and then with some cold frosty beverages at the end. Ceremony and personal jokes even.

Hashing started in Malaysia back at the turn of the century and now exists in every state, every country in the world.  It's just a means to get out and run (or walk), meet new people and have some fun.

(but you know that already. you checked out the link, right?)

Today I was reminded how fun it actually is.

I started hashing in September of 2002. A friend had heard about it from a colleague of his and said to me: "Hey! It's a great way to meet people, have a little fun."  I was skeptical, but I went.  Did a 3 mile run (er, walk) that day and hurt for three days after.  But the people I met there were so nice, so kind and so inviting that I decided to keep going back even when he didn't.

So now it's 11 years later and I've been a part of the "hash" on and off all those years. Some years I did it weekly.  I traveled to hashes.  I hosted them. Did camping trips.  You name it.

And then I stopped. 

Whether it was work, or a boyfriend at the time or any other reason, I stopped.  Went back now and again, then stopped now and again too.

 But the nice thing about those people you meet there? That are so nice and so kind and inviting? They become your real friends. Whether you see them every week or once a year or so. They never stop being that.

So when a newer hasher friend of mine asked me a couple of weeks ago to help her lay the trail today, I jumped on it.  A little nervously, I admit. I hadn't laid a trail in a year and hadn't been to one since then.  But one of the biggest reasons I wanted to do it with her has nothing to do with hashing at all really.

People say that after you get out of high school or college, it's hard to make friends: it's hard to get out of your social circle you already have or the people you know at work.  I knew the hash kinda debunks that theory though. We have all types there.  And it occurred to me that this woman I had met a few times only and who asked me to do this with her? Was not in my "typical" social circle. Not in my work environment.  And for Pete's Sake, she's a MICHIGAN girl (the Badger in me shudders even writing that). But we somehow connected because of the hash.

So we volunteered to lay trail today. A damn fine trail, I'd say.  Long, yes.  But well-marked and with treats and fun. And having done this for over 10 years now and haven't been out for a while? I was tickled beyond belief to see who all came out to it.  Was it because they recognized my name on it? Nah... I'm not that conceited. I think most folks came because it was in their neighborhood. Or needed some exercise. Or whatever.  But no matter why they came, it made me happy they did and re-realize why I love this group so much.

Because it's group you can go years without seeing and when you do again they give  you a big hug.  Often invite you to another outing even.  Ask how your job or kids are doing.  Exclaim (as it happened to me today) "wow! your hair got long!"  And as silly as that seems, it's a familiarity that makes you feel comfortable: the woman who said it knew me when I wore my hair really short.  She knew me then and still knows me now. And that makes you feel part of a community in a way.

And the Hash House Harriers does that. Once a hasher, always a hasher.  The only thing I can compare it to for non-hashers are for

folks who are in sororities or fraternities.  But that's done in college. And this is done in "real life" so to speak. And today when I went out to the hash again and I saw folks I hadn't seen in ages and met others for the first time? I felt part of something bigger than ME. And that's a very wonderful thing indeed.
 

Bedtime is Movie Time for me

I can sympathize but not empathize with those who have insomnia.

I'm one of those English girls who knows the difference between the words. Sympathize means you have my sympathy and support but I've never been there myself. Empathizing means I actually truly understand on that level because I've been there.

And I haven't.

Thank God, the gods, the world, mother nature or whatever that I aven't.
I can fall asleep on a dime.  And dance circles on it even.

When I go off to bed each night I do it with a smile. I never have a problem falling asleep. I can do it in a car. On a plane. Comfortably on a friend's couch I had never been on before.  In a meeting even (shhh! don't tell my boss!). Or in the subway, the bus, the cab. Name it: I can fall asleep anywhere.

Sleep does not elude me. She's actually my friend.

Because I wake up from her with a smile on my face.

--------------------

So I actually crawl into my big comfy bed every night knowing that I will A) fall asleep in about 10 minutes tops and B) have a free movie waiting for me.

Because my dreams are movies. I may not remember them when the alarm clock goes off.
 Guess I'm lucky in that. Thinking about it? I'm surprised I ever get out of bed.

Text Conversation with Mama After a Surprise Gift

I got home from work yesterday to see a package down the hall, leaning up against the mailboxes in my place.  Since I rarely if ever buy things these days and didn't recall a moment (probably drunk) when I purchased something online, I didn't think it was for me. But I still had to check my mail, so I walked toward the boxes, assuming there were only bills there for me, but still mega-focused on that darn package, hoping beyond reason that ooh! A package might actually be for me anyway.

As I stepped closer and closer, I saw big Sharpie marker writing on the front and thought: hey! I recognize that handwriting. Wishful thinking at that point, for sure.  But when I finally got up to it, I saw that it WAS actually addressed to me! I was right! It was Mama's handwriting afterall.  (I KNEW IT!)

It came with a card that said:  "Hi Stacy! Found this and with you in mind I thought I would send it out-- while we are having extremely hot summer days! Hope you like it - Something cool to lounge about with after showering or at the poolside.  Misplaced receipt but you shouldn't have any problems returning it if you don't like it -- or for the fit or color, etc. Enjoy your summer -- as we are surely are up here -- once the rains and thunderstorms subside. Thankfully No Tornadoes. Love Mom"

Of course, I had to try it on right away. And, bless her heart, as always? Somehow at 1000 miles away she always manages to pick out better things for me than I do myself! Absolutely adorable.  And so I told her so, and our text messages (Mom's a textin' fool!) were thus:

Me: (sending pic) I love it!!! And it looks adorable, thank you! What a lovely surprise.

Mom: Glad you like it! I could visualize you wearing it. You're welcome!

Me: Tried it on for Hilary and she said, and I quote, "your Mom has amazing style! My Mom would never do that!"

Mom: Well thank her for me! I guess when you have it, you HAVE IT! Haven't lost it...YET. lol XOXOXO

[editor's note: yep. Mom does the whole "lol" thing. She knows it means "laugh out loud" but she likes to say it actually means "lots of love."  Aww. Love that.]

Me: Wish you would have passed that gene onto me! You dress me better than I do myself!

Mom: What can I say! I'm the last of 12...& with 6 sisters older...my brother sized it up...MaryJo's dad [my Godmother], said I had to teach my older sisters...style & how to dress..hairdos, etc. 
P.S. Notice not only a good color on you, but stripes going the right way. Elongating you. You probably look 5'6" wearing it. Haha!

[And here, I giggled. Mom's tall. Dad was too. Sister is tall. My brothers are both 6' or taller. Not me. I'm 5'3-3/4"...yep, I claim that 3/4!]

Me (pretending indignance): Hey! I like being short, thankyouverymuch! Notice you didn't pass THAT gene onto me either, Amazon?

Did I mention this woman -- this amazing woman who sends amazing random gifts and texts messages oh-so-naturally  is *71 years old?!*  And those texts were word for word.

Yeah. I have an amazing Mama.

My nemesis, my hair: conquered!

I always wanted to be a girl with a swingy ponytail. You know: the kind on those women you see running and it swings back and forth behind their heads as if they really were independent tails with movement all their own?  I was always jealous of that.

Growing up, I always had short hair. My Mom says that it's because my hair was so thick and tangled easily so I would scream and cry whenever she tried to comb out my hair. So she always kept it short to avoid the drama.  Granted, she did give me some cute styles. But I didn't have the little ponytails or braids that Julie or Kristin did in the neighborhood.  I wanted those.   And Mom was very fond of the home permanents back then too (it was the 70s afterall) and every other year I had a head of not only short hair, but short messy curls of hair. One of the stories she likes to tell me is that once when I was young and in Philadelphia with some relatives a stranger mentioned I looked like a little Shirley Temple. Apparently he even asked me if I could sing and dance or something like her.  I don't have a memory of this.  I had no idea who Shirley Temple was but I'm sure if I did remember that, I would have felt a kindred with her, sure that she must have wanted to have long ponytails too instead of the mess we apparently shared.

As I grew older and Mom was no longer making my hair style decisions, I was in the unfortunate timeline of being a high school girl in the Midwest in the 80s.  When it took almost a full quarter can of Aqua Net each day to maintain one's winged-out and banged-up hair each morning, nothing was going to swing and bounce.  I had the high-teased claw of a bang and weird wingy-things sprayed to an inch of their fabricated lives around my ears (to show off the 5 different pierced earrings I wore each day, of course - three in the right and two in the left).  And though I tried to grow it,  it all still never got longer than about shoulder length.  How could it with all that teasing and breaking and chemicals afterall?

By my Junior year in high school, some of my friends started abandoning that (now) crazy look for something more natural.  Kelly cut hers into a cute soft little cut, Vani was the first to grow out her bangs for an all-one-length look I coveted, and Laura had that thick long hair that actually *moved* behind her on her shoulders even if her bangs rivaled mine some days.

Looking back now, it's entirely too amazing how much my hair defined me and how much it affected my self-esteem.  I sent away for those crackass useless solutions found in the back of catalogs that promised longer, stronger hair if you only combed this liquid into it daily.  And I did, religiously, to no avail.  Remembering the texture of that solution now, I'm pretty sure it was just scented water or something. I also tried deep conditioning masks on my hair and wondered why they weren't working when I was still continuing to tease the crap out of it all with the White Rain and hairdryer on the hottest setting each morning.  It was unfair.  If only Mom would have let me have long hair when I was younger, I would have never gotten to this place!  I'd have that long, bouncy tail by now!

When I got to college it changed a little, but I still never had that hair.  Thankfully, the Midwest caught up with the rest of the country by then and the age of the big teased hair went away with the 80s hair bands that inspired and glorified it.   But to get over all the damage I'd previously done to my poor head, my hair was cut off  and growing out.  I could barely make little pigtails, let alone the swingy pony I wanted.  The ones that Jenna and Jody and Ona had?  Unfair.  Who knew a ponytail was so difficult anyway?

The irony came by the end of college: I finally managed to grow my hair long and healthy again, but it *hurt* to do anything with it.  It was so full and thick --something I know is not a curse, but sure felt like it; still does to this day sometimes-- that I'd break barrettes putting them in and if I wore a rubber band, it would have to be at the base of my neck because if  I did it up high, my head would start to ache in about 20 minutes.  And ponies at the base of your neck? Totally don't bounce and swing.  I was beginning to think I was destined to be doomed forever.

When I became a "real" adult with a "real" job, I then fell back into Mom's philosophy that adult, working women didn't have long hair, so I cut it all off again on her advice. Regretting it, I spent years growing it back.  Fortunately for me this time (as opposed to back in the 80s), there were visions of many successful professional women with long hair too and I began to realize it was OK to have long hair even after you were a schoolchild (even if Mom did ask me, every time I came to visit, "when are you going to cut your hair?"). I had cute cuts. I rocked "The Rachel" just as well as she did; had other women tell me they loved my styles over the years.  But I still never got to have my swingy ponytail.  I daresay I went overboard at times trying to make up for it. I had just as many horribly messy styles as I did good ones.  Sometimes I still think that a woman my age probably should not have hair as long as I do, but I still can't bear to cut it because I know I'm still compensating somehow.  Today it's longer than I've probably ever had it in my life (and I'm going to bet right now Mom will absolutely hate it when she sees it again!) but I just can't bear to cut it.

This past Tuesday it was storming quite badly so I decided to hit the gym instead of walking around the park as my usual plan is on Tuesdays.  Thankfully I've gotten into a healthy pattern of having a well-packed gym bag in my car should this ever happen.  I hit the locker room, tied my hair up high for a change (we have better rubber bands and barrettes that don't break now for girls with thicker hair than back then) and grabbed me a treadmill with one of those little TV screens on it. I tuned that into the news that I watched on closed caption while I listened to my iTunes with my headphones and just started walking my heart out at a crazy fast speed.  And I couldn't have been more surprised or filled with more glee when the TV screen faded to black between commercials and I saw a darkened reflection of myself on there:  my ponytail on the back of my head? Was swinging away, back and forth behind my head as if it really was an independent tail with a life of its own.

I'm her now! Finally, I'm THAT girl with that swingy, healthy bouncy tail: the one I always wanted to be.  It's entirely irrational how happy that makes me. And most likely means one thing.

I'll probably cut it all off soon.  :-)

The Power of Journaling: Me + 20 years

Whenever I'm walking, and that's often lately, I compose blogs in my head.  I know exactly what I want to write and almost exactly how I want to write it.  But when I get home, I don't sit down quickly enough to do it and then, somehow, I just never do.  I get distracted. Log into work. Flip on the TV or sit down to pay my bills.  We all know how that happens.

I was just talking with my friend Sara about this tonight. Being of about the same age, we have memories, both mental and physical, of the years we kept journals or diaries or "blogs on paper" - whatever you want to call them.  The same age is important in that when we did it, it was before the age of the internet and the 140 character limit or the quick Facebook mind dump where we actually took pen to paper and really WROTE. I absolutely adore that I have those old journals now: so much that I should just pick up one and do it again. But I never do. And I get angry with myself that I don't.

For years as I moved from apartment to apartment, those journals lived with most of my other belongings in a storage unit.  It wasn't until I moved to my place now, when I got to dump that unit and have all my personal things around me again, did I rediscover them. And I realized that I hadn't opened a single one of them for 20 years.

Imagine my glee then, when I decided to sit down and page through them just a bit ago:  written journals from years gone by. I recognize my own handwriting, of course: that actually hasn't changed much (that fact amuses me a bit, actually).  And I recognize the young woman who wrote them....sort of.  I can see myself in her, but then, also not. I can read of her joy and her pain and her confusion, her fun with friends, her confusion over family, her heartache over early lost loves; but it's hard to believe that was me in a way.  I don't feel the emotions that young (er) woman did then.  I often want to shake her and say: what are you thinking, girl? Or: it gets so much better than that. You deserve more than that! Or: yeah. That's your first of a line of heartbreaks, honey.  Some will be easier; some will be worse.  I want to tell her she has no clue what she's talking about most of the time.  Or: ohhh just wait, child. Your life is going to go places you haven't even dreamed about yet.  But, obviously, I can't tell HER anything, so I just kept reading.

And then I opened up to this entry; dated January 24, 1993:

"Wow. This is kind of strange. Knowing that someone will someday be reading these entries. Maybe not so strange as much as awkward...or unusual.  I do have an audience in mind when I write, which I guess is weird for a personal journal. Usually I guess it's just myself + 20 years."

Myself + 20 years. 1993 was just that! How did this girl -- this me -- who was so naive and young and green -- somehow come right out and write something that was so dead on true like that?  Trust me: it gave me chills. I checked the calendar quite a few times before I let it register the truth on me that yep: she wrote that 20 years ago and I read it for the first time since she/I did, exactly 20 years later. 

I mean, honestly? How cool is that?

I actually really don't want to go back and tell that old young me those things I mentioned earlier.  That girl would never have understood them (and what 20-year-old listens to a 40-something anyway?). And I certainly don't want to go back and BE her again.  But what I do want  is to recapture that spirit and joy she/I had in just picking up a pen and putting words on paper -- however mundane they may seem at the time -- because it IS apparent now that they really can mean something later. Somehow she knew that then and I forgot it along the way when she and I decided to stop keeping journals.  Huh. Imagine that.  Sometimes you really CAN learn from the younger generation.

And how crazy more to learn from "the younger generation" that was actually your own self.

Going to start doing this again.  It's past time to start this again. :)  And, almost serendipitously, I just realized I actually have a completely blank paper journal among the full ones on my shelf.  (It apparently lived, saddened, amongst its full brethren in that storage unit, too.)  And the very first entry will naturally have to be how I hope I'm lucky enough to have an audience in mind as I write.

Me plus another 20 years.


*journals pictured actual journals  :)  The asparagus one is the blank one. Why a journal with *asparagus* on it appealed to me in the day is beyond me.  But she must have known something; it makes me grin now.