More Specifics on the Hacking Thing

Now that I've recovered from some of the panic from earlier today, I thought I'd try to distill down as much as I know about what happened to my account(s) so that anyone reading this can be on the lookout for similar problems in their own e-mail accounts.

This was NOT, as I originally thought, a virus. The problem was never on my computer (at least as far as I know so far - and thanks to my awesome brother-in-law for helping me diagnose that). What happened to me today was online identity theft, and my hope is that it was more a huge hassle than any actual destruction.

That said, the hassle DID take up my whole day, and I'm still concerned that someone may have lost money because of this garbage, or that some personal information of mine might've been compromised. Anyway, enough people have been thoroughly shocked at the depth and cunning of what seemed like a simple virus at first, that I thought a more thorough warning might be helpful.

So, here's what happened:

• Early this morning, someone hacked into my gmail account. I've never given out my password, and I didn't fall for a phishing scam. There was some kind of security breach with my gmail password.
  [I should point out here that I made the careless mistake of keeping the same password for a very long time, and that I do use the same password for lots of non-financial accounts, like gmail.
  Someone more knowledgeable than I in this arena has pointed out that since this "London Scam" has been around (I've seen accounts of it as early as last May) some technorati fingers have been pointing at Facebook for the security breach, which Facebook apparently denies. According to my internet-wise friend, the theory is that the scam artists stole a whole bunch of passwords from somewhere, and have been holding onto them and slowly meting out this lovely lesson ever since. So, if you are reading this and haven't changed your e-mail password in a month or so, go do it now. Go ahead. We'll wait. Done? Good.]
  
• Once the hackers were in my gmail account, they changed my password to lock me out. Then they sent out an e-mail to many of my contacts, claiming to be me, and claiming that I'd been robbed at gunpoint in London and needed money. I've noticed as the day wears on that they mostly contacted people who are not on my "most frequent contacts" list, the ones who I e-mail daily and would obviously know I'm not in London.
• While in gmail, they also used my gmail-based Instant Messenger to contact friends of mine who were online, still pretending to be me and claiming to be in a library in London with only a passport. I find this especially creepy.
• The hackers then created a fake e-mail address using my name at "OperaMail.com" and put it in my gmail account as the 'alternate' e-mail. They set my account to forward any incoming e-mails (like those of concerned friends wanting to help, for example) to this fake account and to delete them from my gmail. So, when I used google's account recovery system to get into my gmail account, it almost looked like nothing had happened - they deleted all the sent e-mails and any incoming e-mails were being automatically forwarded.
• They also changed my security settings and put in a Nigerian cell phone number as my "password recovery option" - so when they locked me out of my gmail and I tried to use the automated system to reset the password, they received a text message notification so that they could jump in and beat me to the punch. I don't know about you, but these aren't things I immediately knew to look for when I got back into my e-mail the first time (instead, I started trying to send out warning e-mails to my contacts).
• In addition to trolling through my gmail contacts, they also found all the other e-mail addresses I have connected to that account and tried to hack into those as well. I got a notification from yahoo asking me to confirm that I'd added a new e-mail address (which I hadn't), and fortunately I was quick enough to get in and fix that before they did too much damage on that account. They did, however, manage to change my contact information!
  
• In the meantime, they used their access to my gmail account to get to my facebook page. I use a completely different password for facebook, but since they had access to my e-mail, all they had to do was go to facebook, click to reset the password, and then change it to their own.
• They also created another e-mail account in my name, this one just like my yahoo account, but with one extra letter before the @. They added this fake account to my facebook page; and then deleted the e-mail that facebook automatically generates letting you know that changes have been made to your account. If I hadn't trolled through my gmail trash later, I never would've known that they did this. As it was, I was locked out of Facebook all day until I found that e-mail (and of course they were not only e-mailing my FB friends but also instant messaging with those who were online --- asking for money).

That's what happened. I've put it all in, step by step, so that my dear readers can get a sense for how clever (and thorough) these folks were in trying to extort money from my friends and colleagues. Not only did they hack in, they created two brand new e-mail addresses designed to mimic my own and spent lots of time tracking down my friends. They also had to be attentive to when I was attempting to recover and reset passwords. This was not just a random phishing scam, these folks really made an effort to steal my identity and represent themselves as me.

So, here's what I did:

• I used Google's account recovery form to get back into my account (twice) via my yahoo account, and the second time, I waited for the first possible chance to get in and then quickly: changed my password to one much harder to duplicate, deleted all alternate e-mails from my profile, and deleted the Nigerian cell phone number from my password recovery options.
• I changed the passwords on all my often-used social/e-mail sites, and on the sites for my financial institutions
• I updated my friends and family via social networking, blogging, phone calls and (when possible) e-mail
• Did a "deep scan" on my computer (again, thanks to my brother-in-law) to make sure I am virus-free
  

And here's what I am still working on:

• Going through my e-mail accounts looking for passwords and/or login information that might have been vulnerable while the hackers had access to my email account. Deleting those e-mails once I've updated the information elsewhere.
• Exporting my seldom-used contacts to a spreadsheet so that I can delete them from my e-mail account but still have them if I need them again.
  
• I'm considering decentralizing some of my e-mail functions - while it's convenient having everything in one place, it also makes me pretty vulnerable
• Credit freezes: since I don't know how far this "identity theft" actually goes, and I've seen how determined these bad guys are, we're calling the credit bureaus to have them freeze our credit. Clark Howard says it's a good idea anyway, and this little incident is just a good reminder....
• Counting my blessings. I have to say I felt pretty violated today, but watching the news reports about the devastation in Haiti reminds me to keep even major annoyances like this one in perspective.
  

Some changes I'm hoping to make in the future:

• Changing passwords more often
• Deleting more e-mails (instead of just archiving), especially those with any kind of login information
  
• Creating an offline, protected list of login names and passwords that I can maintain and update frequently
• Stop using the same or similar passwords when I register for new websites or shop online. I've always done this because it makes it easier to remember, but I'll just have to go with a different system instead.
  

And.... what else? I'd love to hear suggestions from those more expert than I.

Be careful out there!

Hacking Scam (I Just Wasn't Myself Today)

Well, I guess the Universe noticed my hubris in my last blog entry this morning and decided to take me down a notch... Right after I posted, someone hacked into my gmail, yahoo and facebook accounts. Someone claiming to me and claiming to be stuck in London needing money just spammed my entire address book and changed all my passwords for me (wasn't that nice?). They also not only put in a fake backup e-mail that looks like mine (at OperaMail.com), but they changed my security settings to alert a Nigerian cell phone whenever I tried to reset my password, so they could beat me to the punch.

The first time I thought I had gotten in and fixed the problem I was able to e-mail some of my contacts to let them know about the problem, but then the hackers reset my password again, kicking me out and taking over my e-mail. The only way to fix it (I think) was to use google's account recovery form and a secondary e-mail address, then IMMEDIATELY get into the account, delete the phony e-mail address & cell phone and change my password to something much more difficult to hack.

[I was relieved and annoyed to find that I'm not the only person this has happened to; you can read here how this happened to a business, as well. ]

I'm still sorting through the wreckage these unholy bastards have created in my techno-life. I can't get into my facebook account, for example. In the meantime, if you follow this blog or we've corresponded by e-mail, please go and update your e-mail security settings immediately. If your e-mail password is outdated or easy to figure out, change it. If you get an e-mail saying that a new address has been added to your account, change your password immediately and delete any e-mail address you don't recognize; you should also check your address & phone number to make sure they have been fiddled with.

And, if it's not obvious, please don't send money to me in London. I'm not there, I haven't been mugged, and if you really want to give me money, please come do it in person so I can thank you properly. ;)

When the hackers had control of my IM, my friend Rob also had a brilliant way of figuring out something was up - he just typed, "How is _____?" with a made-up name of someone we don't know, and the hackers of course responded that _______ was fine -- demonstrating that they weren't me! I thought it was pretty clever for a Monday morning and I'm glad he (and others) know me well enough to sense when I'm not myself.

I'm writing all this so that everyone else can be on guard for these horrible, pathetic excuses for human beings and their miscreant behavior. If only we could harness the intelligence and cunning of these jerks (not the word I want to use, but you get the idea) for something productive and useful in the world. Sigh.

On the flip side, I can't say how touched I am that some people actually were willing to help me when they thought I had an emergency in the U.K. I also got lots of phone calls and e-mails from people who figured out something was wrong and wanted to make sure I had a heads up. It is really nice to know that we're all looking out for each other.

So, that's my silver lining. And if you'll excuse me, I need to go make sure I've closed all the loopholes and then let off some steam. URRRGH!

I'm on a Roll, Baby!

Today I am Superwoman. I'm feeling totally empowered, focused, and ready to take on the world. For some reason, I've been up since 5 a.m. (Hint: think 16 pounds of drool and happiness); and in those three hours my mind has somehow landed in a random groove of productivity. I think it's that "in the zone" feeling I always hear people talk about. Either that or it's the third cup of coffee!!

Either way, I have been planning like a maniac, not just for the week but for the whole dang year.

Last week was a little overwhelming for me, especially in my professional world; but I am totally going to rock this week! I can feel it!! Happy Monday!

What I Would Say if I Could

If my mom were alive, she'd be 62 today. Anyone who's lost someone close to them knows that birthdays and holidays take on extra significance when you are missing someone important in your life. Days like this I often imagine what things might be like if she had lived.... and I always come to the conclusion that we'd still be driving each other nuts.

It seems we never really appreciate people until they're no longer around. I guess that's because all the friction of actually being in a relationship with another human being is taken away and we are left to enjoy and long for the relationship itself.

So sometimes instead of imagining what it would be like if she were still alive, I imagine what I would say to her if the gap between our two planes of existence (whatever that means) were temporarily bridged... if I could talk to her again from right here and now, or even send a letter to the proverbial Other Side. That letter changes daily, of course. Here's what it looks like today.


Dear Mom,
It sounds obvious to say that I think about you all the time, but I do. I miss you. I have always missed you, even when you were still alive but unable to be really present with me. But now that I am a mom myself, I long for you in a way that makes my heart ache with loss and missed opportunities.

You must know, from wherever you are, that we have a little boy now. He's named after your dad and has a funny, laid-back spirit just like his namesake. I imagine that you look in on him from time to time; and sometimes, when he laughs in his sleep, I think I can almost see you there, hovering around the edge of my reality, holding him in a way that only the two of you can know.

I know you are laughing when you watch me struggling with my new role -- especially at those frequent moments when I realize I haven't the foggiest idea what to do next. You'll be glad to know that the little guy has humbled me -- I've come to appreciate all you did for us in ways that I never did before.

So today, instead of just saying "I miss you," I'd also like to say "thank you." For loving me and making sure that I knew it, regardless of how hard life was for you. For singing to me with your beautiful voice (I try to sing to your grandson daily, but I didn't inherit your talent -- it won't be long before he's begging me to stop). For teaching me to be a part of something greater than myself. For doing everything you could to make me feel incredibly special and valuable. I didn't realize until long after you were gone what a tremendous gift that was, and what joy you took in giving it.

Thanks, Mom, for teaching me about love and inspiring me to share it. Happy Birthday.

A Decade in the Life: Part Three

Yep, Just Like on 'Sex in the City'

When I left Austin, I closed an important and treasured chapter of my life. My experiences there changed me forever; and frankly, I didn’t know what to expect on returning to Atlanta. As it turned out, a whole new era was about to begin.

Looking back, I know I met the man who is the love of my life once before I even moved back to Atlanta. I’d come home for a visit and to do some work for my friend’s company, where he happened to be working. I remember we had a nice conversation about New Orleans and I thought he was really cute, but that was about it.

Once I did move home, however, and we began working in the same place and hanging out with the same group of friends, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that the cute boy in the lab was a really incredible person himself. I could go on for a while about what makes him so special to me (and lots of other people), but that would embarrass him and bore everyone else.

As we began spending more time together, the primary tension in our relationship was that MD-future-H had always envisioned himself marrying someone Jewish. Someone born Jewish, actually. And so he only dated Jewish women, which obviously I was not. So we oscillated for a few months between dating and not dating [I think he broke up with me three times during this period]. And in the meantime, I found myself reading “Judaism for Dummies,” among other things.

I’d been on a path of spiritual searching for years (far longer than this blog covers), and my close-up experience with Catholicism in Austin had piqued my interest in ancient and ritual-focused religion. So as a relationship with a nice boy spurred me to learn more, I found myself drawn to Judaism at the deepest levels of my being. After further education and mutual soul-searching, MD-future-H and I decided that someone willing to consider conversion and someone willing to consider marrying a convert could make a go of a relationship.

From there, we just followed the path that seemed to be appearing at our feet with each step. We took a Derech Torah class as a precursor to my conversion, where we met lots of great people – some of whom were in the same situation we were, and many who have been our friends ever since. Soon I began studying with Rabbi Analia, one of the most wonderful and wise women I’ve known. She and her husband Mario lead the congregation where we’ve found our spiritual home.

We got engaged in February 2006; MDH knew how much I love Jane Austen, so he took me to see “Pride and Prejudice” at the Alliance Theater, and proposed at a quaint little Italian restaurant before the show. His wonderful family accepted me warmly, and they have never treated me any differently than they would a born Jew.

In May, Rabbi Analia decided I was ready. The Bet Din (conversion panel) and my submersion in the Mikvah (ritual bath) were incredible experiences that marked a whole new era in my life as a Jew-by-Choice. I’m honored to be part of the Jewish community. I am still learning, day by day, what it means to be Jewish, and particularly how to help lead a Jewish household. It will be a lifelong journey and I’m cherishing every moment.

In September 2006, our beloved Rabbis Mario and Analia presided over our beautiful garden wedding. When Analia talked about how my mom and Sam’s dad (who had also died suddenly in April 2002) were both with us in spirit, a sudden breeze blew the white tulle walls of our chuppah high in the otherwise calm air. It was chilling and lovely.

The last three years of my decade have been decidedly different from the first. There have been more losses – both grandmothers, my brother’s best friend, my first boss at the Catholic school (who was always really kind to me). But there have also been tremendous joys, achievements, new friendships and the deepening of old ones. I went back to grad school, completed my Master’s in Counseling and am enjoying the challenges of a new career, one that constantly drives me to reflect and question myself.

For me, the impulsive choices and perpetual newness of the early 2000’s have been replaced by a whole new kind of adventure. In June 2009, we expanded our family with the long-sought addition of our beautiful baby boy. He's an amazing little kid with a funny personality that is already beginning to emerge. Difficulty getting pregnant and the experience of undergoing fertility treatments has helped us -- if at all possible -- to treasure him even more.

I no longer characterize myself as a world traveler – though we did take a fantastic trip to Ireland when I got my counseling degree – but being a mother to our six-month-old son takes me to new places every day. And while no marriage is fail-proof, MDH and I work hard to secure ours to something larger than ourselves, so that we’re not left alone during those inevitable hard times.

And Two the cat is still hanging around, letting us know when the kiddo is crying (as though we can't hear him). She's a decade older than when she came into my life, but not too much worse for the wear. Our family has lots of big plans for the coming months and years; but if 2010-2019 is anything like this past decade, we'll mostly just be holding on tight and trying to enjoy the ride.

A Decade in the Life: Part Two

Neither of us had so much as set foot in Austin before we pulled into town with a U-haul in mid-2000. We got a crappy apartment and I landed another temp job -- this time in the resource development department at the Red Cross, where I was pretty much guaranteed to perform better than the previous temp -- who had been mysteriously (and quite unexpectedly) taken out of the office by the SWAT team one afternoon. A few days with no sign of law enforcement, and I was hired. Thus began my career in fundraising.

For the next year or so, I learned the ropes in development – grant-writing, special events, schmoozing. Meanwhile, our close friendship (usually a good thing) and mutual stubbornness prevented MDexH and I from noticing the cracks in the foundation of our marriage. So we did what married people do – we bought a house, adopted two dogs, and added a kitten (who I found wounded and scared in the drive-thru of a Jack in the Box and brought home in a French-fry box). The music and culture in Austin was everything we’d heard it would be. Life chugged forward.

Until June of 2001, when a devastating event I’d been semi-anticipating most of my life came to fruition. I went home to Atlanta for a friend’s wedding; and made plans to see both my parents along with some of my lifelong friends at home. We’d arranged to pick up my mom – who’d had chronic physical and mental health issues nearly all my life – for lunch a couple days after the wedding.

As I called her to confirm in the days and hours before we were supposed to meet and continually got the machine, I began to have a sinking feeling that all was not right. We’d had a minor spat on the phone right after I arrived in town, and after years of struggling with her through mental illness and its accompanying behaviors, I was worried. When we arrived to pick her up and she didn’t answer the door, I finally called the police to help us get into her apartment and confirm what I’d feared: after years of suffering, the woman who created and nurtured my life and my brother’s had taken her own.

I won’t dwell on this part of my life for long – it could be a book unto itself, one that I’m not ready to write. But I will say that in the days and months following that horrible moment, I learned the depth and capacity of true friendship. Even though much of it is blurry at best, I remember distinctly that every time there was a decision to be made or pain to be faced, there was always the loving and helpful shoulder of a friend nearby to help hold me up.

There are particular friends and family who held my hand through the funeral arrangements, the funeral itself, and cleaning out Mom’s apartment – I haven’t forgotten how much that meant to me. And however strained our relationship might have been before or since, MDexH stood by me from the moment policemen opened the door with the news, and he quite literally kept me from hitting the floor. People sometimes ask how I manage to stay friends with an ex-husband, and I guess times like that are the answer.

A few months later, my personal grief was compounded by our national tragedy on September 11,2001. Again, I could write for hours about my own personal experience during that time. Instead, I’ll speed things up and just say that some typical career stressors at the Red Cross were compounded in the months that followed. So I left my job in 2002 and did another short stint as a freelancer before realizing that I still didn’t quite have the resources and discipline needed to make that career viable.

I ended up back into the world of development at a private Catholic high school. This put me on a new path in a number of ways: career-wise, I was catapulted into far more responsibility than I’d had in the past; socially, I found a group of colleagues who also became amazing friends; and spiritually, I got exposure to a religious culture with which I’d never been very familiar. Things were going swimmingly in my professional life. But by 2003, the strain in our marriage had become palpable, and was beginning to wear down MDexH and me both. Being really great friends was no longer cutting it for either of us, and we separated.

So in June 2003, I moved into my first apartment EVER that was just mine – no family, no roommates, just me. It was 480 square feet, just two rooms with a motel-style air conditioner cooling both, but it was my own little space and I treasured it. There was something amazing about being alone in an apartment, a thousand miles from my hometown, family and friends – it was a little scary and occasionally lonely, but I had an independence there that still makes me proud today.

I was lucky that summer (and beyond) to have the influence and support of many new close friends, in particular a good friend from the school where I worked. She was a wonderful, independent spirit herself and would’ve been an inspiration to me under any circumstances. As it was, she had learned just months after we met that she had a brain tumor, and was faced with invasive treatments as well as the possibility of her own mortality all at once. Never one to take anything lying down, she was determined to continue living life with gusto, and was constantly calling me to go out and explore new activities with her – from swing dancing to karaoke to late-night bowling.

If I’d had any inclination that I was going to sit home and mope about the divorce, she shattered it by saying “I have a brain tumor – what’s your excuse?” And so I went wherever she wanted me to go, made loads of new friends, and learned a lot about myself in the process.

One summer week she purchased from a garage sale the ugliest crocheted duck I’ve ever seen [I say that as though I’ve seen so many… and some of them tasteful!]. She stopped by my apartment while out for a bike ride, claiming she needed the restroom, and left the hideous little duck on my loofah sponge – quite a surprise for me the next morning. It became a game with a group of us: we would secretly try to pass the duck around from friend to friend by sneaking it into one another’s homes. Since then, I’ve learned that many families have a similar tradition with an old fruitcake or summer sausage. I prefer the duck!

For the next year and a half, I lived a life that was truly my own. I kept in touch with friends from Atlanta, of course, but I had the challenge and excitement of forming new friendships and relationships by myself. Since I had no family nearby, I was responsible for filling my own time, taking care of my own needs. It could be hard sometimes, but it was also thrilling to have so much freedom.

I experimented with online dating a little – actually just long enough that I can relate when people talk about the awkwardness of online dating. I developed a couple of relationships that never really had long-term potential, but I learned something valuable from each. One taught me that even an intelligent, strong, self-aware woman can end up in an unhealthy relationship with someone who is emotionally abusive; and the other helped me to see my own worth more clearly and expect the best from myself. Both prepared me in their own way for what was to come.

As 2004 drew to a close, I realized I was ready for another change. I loved my life in Austin in so many ways, but I began to feel rootless there, and missed my friends and family in Atlanta. When I went home to visit over the winter holidays, I realized it was time to find my way back. An old friend came to the rescue, and helped find me a job with his family’s business; while my best friend and her family opened their home to me (are you picking up on a theme yet?).

So in January 2005, I began taking my leave of the city I’d come to adore and the friends who had made it home for me. In that same month, the increasing hardship of the brain tumor’s effects and dwindling hope for recovery cost my dear friend her independence; and she decided to forgo further treatment and move in with her parents in another state. When I saw her that January, she was having trouble finding words, particularly to express her complex emotions. I knew, though, when she hugged me and handed me that horrible little crocheted duck, that she was saying goodbye. She died peacefully two months later surrounded by her family.

By mid-February, I was on my way to Atlanta: music blaring, hot tears rolling down my face, the crocheted duck in the center console, and Two the cat howling in the passenger seat for the entire 15-hour drive.

A Decade in the Life

In the last couple of weeks I've been seeing and hearing lots of retrospectives highlighting the key moments of the past decade -- from our fears about Y2K and September 11th, all the way to the economic collapse and 2008 election, and everything in between. It got me thinking about my own life over the last ten years and the amazing journey it's been. I decided to write my own little retrospective.

Normally I have a “slice of life” writing style; but a decade is more like a “whopping hunk” of life, and I’m a little nervous about putting it out there. It could either turn out to be enlightening and entertaining, or a lot like looking at someone else's vacation photos. Or colonoscopy video. So read at your own risk.
____________________________________

Part One: A Wild, Drizzly Start

When the clock struck midnight on December 31, 1999 and we all held our breath that the essential structure of our country would continue to function, I was living in Portland, Oregon in a 1920's quadruplex with my new husband. I had just turned 24, and we'd gotten married and moved cross-country four months earlier after a whirlwind Philadelphia-to-Atlanta romance. We had been friends for a while, but had never even lived in the same city before we got married. [If you're thinking that you can see from here what a huge mistake that was, you're not alone. But try telling that to me at 23. In fact, several people did try to tell me that, but sometimes we have to learn our own lessons firsthand.]

So by New Year's Eve we'd been living in Portland in theory for 4 months, but in reality we'd lived half that time in San Francisco because of MDexH's work; so basically I started the year 2000 as a person without a home. Despite being a recent MBA grad, I was also willfully unemployed thanks to another relationship that neither party was mature enough for - this time between me and a little start-up web design firm.

I'd been cashiering at Target to help make ends meet, which was painful to both the pocketbook and my pride. We'd been robbed during our absence in San Francisco, and though we had nothing of real value, the thief made off with some personal mementos of mine from college and my treasured 1996/1998 passport -- complete with border entry stamps from over 20 countries. So the decade was off to a less than auspicious start.

The social scene was challenging, too. Northwesterners, in my experience, are a kind, loving and generous folk; but compared to the bombastic Southern style to which I’m accustomed, they were pretty reserved. It was hard for an outsider with no connections to make friends in the drizzly Portland weather. Meanwhile my best friend in Atlanta had to call me up from three time zones away to tell me that her first daughter was born – a joyful moment laced with the tiny sadness of distance.

Still, I was in love with the Rose City -- the bike paths, the gardens, 6 miles of books at Powell's -- and optimistic for what was to come. I worked a few temp jobs, put up fliers as an ESL tutor. I took a creative writing class at the Portland State continuing ed annex, which turned into a small coffee-shop writers' group: lovingly but sardonically called, "Happy Animal Stories." When I branched out and took an acting class, I made even more friends and finally started to feel like I knew enough people to throw a respectable dinner party. I even landed a couple of freelance writing jobs.

I was finally settling into my new life in Portland. Cue the Internet bubble. MDexH's company (one of those crazy bad examples from that era -- the ones with kegs of beer in the breakroom and incomprehensible titles for all its executives) went bankrupt and our 1.25-income household was suddenly about to be broke. Given that Portland had the nation's highest unemployment at the time -- nothing compared to today, btw -- we packed our bags and a cat named "Two" who'd come from the mean streets of North Portland, and headed for the bright lights of Austin, Texas.

Obviously, at this rate, there's no way I could fit the whole decade in one blog. I'm just not that talented. So I'm publishing this in pieces, and the three of you who are still interested can read on in the next entry....

Resolution Road

2010 is just one day away, and it's time to take stock and resolve to make changes in our lives for the coming year. Even though we all know, deep down, that New Year's Resolutions rarely work, somehow the blank slate of a whole new year is irresistible. It's like a fresh, white canvas crying out for paint. So some years I resolve to exercise more, eat less, eliminate fast food from my diet, etc. Other years I resolve to stop talking on my cell phone while driving (or at least stop simultaneously flipping off other drivers while talking), stick to a budget, or to get up early every morning to write that novel that's been brewing in my mind for the last 15 years.... I could go on and on.

In any case, it seldom works out for very long. I think it might because our New Year's Resolutions often lack the authenticity it takes to make real changes in our lives. I know from my professional life that human beings making fundamental changes is a slippery, inconsistent process at best -- and that's when you are really ready to change. Ready to change like, deep down in those dark caverns of your soul ready; and motivated, too.

So often what we call "motivation to change" is really just a repackaged self-loathing that happens to be targeted at a tangible goal. I can't believe I gained 15 pounds this year, and just look at all I ate over the holidays. No wonder my jeans don't fit. I hate myself this way, I have to do something! I'm going to resolve to stick to a diet, go to the gym four times a week, etc.

Sound familiar? I can tell you it took me about 10 seconds to write that because it's so familiar to me. And sometimes, this tactic works... At least for a while. Shame can be a powerful short-term motivator. But without something deeper to buttress it, shame ceases to be effective after a while -- just like that horrible gym teacher we all had a one time or another who thought humiliation was the best way to motivate kids in unflattering gym shorts.

With the old gym teacher or a drill sergeant or boss, we don't have a choice about motivation (not completely, anyway) -- compliance is to some extent mandatory. But with ourselves, when it comes to resisting the french fries, dragging ourselves to the gym, or putting 10% in a savings account... well, it's really just down to how much we like and respect the person giving the orders. And that would be...... me.

So, that's why the negative messages only get us so far. I can tell myself all day long how fat or lazy or broke I am; but at the end of the day, who wants to listen to someone who is constantly telling them they're fat, lazy and broke? Even if it is myself, I'm going to do my best to get out of that relationship -- in this case by rebelling. So I end up ordering the extra-large french fries or charging up the credit card just to prove to myself who's boss. I'll show me!

Not only is this self-destructive, it's totally confusing. I'd rather just team up with myself instead -- it's more effective, and it saves time by cutting out all the arguments [not to mention the me-to-me cell phone minutes]. My theory is that the best way to get on my own side is the same way I would try to get someone else on my side... to be more positive and encouraging instead of browbeating and shaming.


I believe that when we come from a perspective of self-care, our goals are more authentic and useful than when we are working to meet the expectations of other people, or even society at large. So in 2010, I am going to try to care for myself better in lots of different ways.

Instead of resolving to lose the 15 pounds of baby weight I just can't seem to shake, or to get into my old jeans, I'm just going to try to focus on enjoying being healthy. There are so many happy reasons to make healthier choices: because I enjoy being active, because I feel better when I'm healthy, because my son needs a positive role model... And none of those need to involve counting calories or monitoring the scale.

This year, I am going to be more focused on the little details of life, not just because I'm annoyed that I bounced a couple of checks this year, paid some late fees on bills, and just got a ticket for an expired tag (although I am annoyed about that!). But I'm realizing that by focusing more on the details, which is -- obviously -- not my strong suit, I'll be helping myself to be a more well-rounded person and freeing up energy and money for other things.

I'm also resolving to make the most of my relationships this year - by investing time and energy where I've been negligent, and by creating better boundaries with people who don't always give me back as much as I put in. I want to try to continue what I started last year by saying "no" when I'm over-committed and by not filling in every single white space on the calendar. This is the year to accept me for who I am and where I am, and not to judge myself by others' standards (or what I think others' standards might be!)

As I write this, I'm realizing that my goals for 2010 have a couple of themes: calm and focused. And that's exactly what my life has been missing! How much easier it will be to remind myself in late January and February to "create calm" and "stay focused;" instead of checking my progress on the scale or the bank account.

I'd love to know what other people are planning for 2010... How will you take care of yourself this year??

[Facebook friends, if you feel comfortable, I'd love for you to also copy your comments to the original post at http://dollhairdoesntgrowback.blogspot.com].

Happy New Year, Everyone!!

Lesson #68 and 'Mother of the Year' Nominee: Don't Breastfeed in a Sports Bra

Any of my female readers who are like me and, well... (ahem) generously endowed, already know that sports bras can be tricky business. I've always thought it was ironic that those of us who need support the most seem to be furthest from the minds and intentions of sports bra designers.

First of all, it's all but impossible to find a plus-size sports bra that will stand up to more impact than a gentle stroll [the rationale being, I assume, that we're pretty much just walking from the car to the Krispy Kreme counter anyway]. My working theory is that whoever is advising clothing manufacturers about the fitness habits of larger women is the same person who thinks we all want to wear animal prints and fuchsia fringe. Size 10? Soft navy in a subdued, classy fabric. Size 16? How about LEOPARD PRINT WITH SEQUINS?!?

And once you do find a sports bra that will actually keep "the girls" restrained, it's so hard to put on that it's a workout in itself. In college - and I am not even kidding with this - I actually pulled a muscle in my shoulder trying to get out of a sports bra! And I didn't even mind the painful muscle strain, because in the moments before it, I'd been mildly concerned that we were going to have a "Pooh stuck in Rabbit's door" kind of situation on our hands. Now that would've been an embarrassing call to the paramedics.

Up until now, my sports bra injuries have been primarily self-inflicted. Yesterday, however, the sports bra claimed a new victim: my six-month old son. I had to feed him immediately after Jazzercise class; so he was lying across my lap after nursing. I reached up to try to wrangle the sports bra/torture instrument back into place, my hand slipped and.... WHAP! I smacked my unsuspecting baby right in the face with my knuckles.

Now, as you can imagine, this was more than a little surprising to him, and absolutely horrifying to me. A smack in the face is such a painful, disrespectful thing to do to another person; and even though this particular smack in the face was completely accidental, it's hard to explain that to a six-month old infant whose relaxing lunch just had a terrible ending.

We both cried it out, and of course he's fine now. But I actually rescheduled getting his picture taken yesterday afternoon because of the red spot above his eye -- no one else would've noticed it, probably, but for me it would've been a permanent reminder of that unhappy moment.

So, I will be feeding MLM post-post-workout-shower from now on; and if anyone knows someone in the design arena of women's athletic wear, tell them I'd like to set up a meeting!

The Art of Conversation: Infant Version

Man, time flies.... My Little Monkey is now five months old, and all the books and websites tell me that his language development is at a critical point. So I'm supposed to be talking to him often, labeling things, and using lots of vocabulary words. As much as I love to talk, I have found that it's difficult to keep up conversation with such a little person. Sometimes, if I don't force myself to chatter on, I will get lost in my own thoughts and stop interacting entirely.

So, I have found my days are now filled with a stream of narration that ranges from sweet and sentimental, to exhausted and utterly senseless. The constant commentary becomes intensified when I am trying to get MLM to calm down, stop crying, or (every once in a while) stay awake in the car. [Have you ever tried to keep a sleepy infant awake in a car? Crazy.] So I invariably end up sounding sappy, ridiculous, desperate, or some combination of the three.

There are the ever-futile imperative statements: "Hold still so I can cut your nails," and "Stop moving! You're spreading poop EVERYWHERE."

The simple observations: "We're going up the hill. We're going around the curve. We're going down the hill." "Look at you, kicking your feet!"

The painfully obvious. "You're facing the back of the car, and I'm facing the front of the car. That's good because I'm driving."

The cryptic: "We'll talk more about Winona Ryder later."

The unfortunate alteration of pop lyrics: "If you like it then you oughtta put a diaper on it..." and "It's getting hot in here, so take off both your shoes..."

The educational: "These are bananas. They're yellow. These are onions. They are purple, but for some reason we call them red onions. These are avocados. They're green...."

The overly enthusiastic: "That's your ball! Yes, it is!!!"

The completely incoherent: "This is how we, because, um....huh?"

All this is not to mention the painful butchering of countless songs, poems and jokes; or the steady stream of funny noises I emit in hopes of getting just one more toothless laugh. It's like I've become the world's worst stand-up comedian, with the world's smallest audience... A pretty far cry from the pretentious intellectual I tried so hard to be a decade or so ago.

I'm sleep-deprived, I'm inarticulate, and -- sometimes -- just plain silly. But somehow, it's still the best I've ever been.

Trying to Keep my Commitment to Break my Commitment

A few months ago, I signed on as a contract writer for one of those content-engine websites [the ones that hire freelancers to generate as much keyword-driven web content as possible, in hopes of driving traffic to Internet ads]. The contract requirements are pretty simple: just 10 short articles in three months; with pay based on the number of people who read your articles and then click on related ads.

I knew from the start that the pay would be pretty abysmal, as is the case with most entry-level freelance gigs; but it seemed a nice way to use my time while I was up at 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning anyway with Little Man. I've done this type of writing before and, though it can be tedious, it's not usually too taxing. Plus, any writer will tell you there's always something a bit thrilling about getting paid to write (however little).

After signing on, however, I found that the "however little" was really little -- effectively about 50 cents an hour so far. Either I am getting more persnickety as I get older, and feeling more ownership over what I write; or my abilities to churn out decent writing quickly are waning. Either way, I found myself taking far longer than I'd budgeted to write each article and getting far more frustrated than usual at the banality of writing quantity over quality. I began to dread staring at the blank document screen the same way I dread writing a research paper in school. Ick. I would much prefer to write for you, dear blog readers; or for my own fantasies of one day publishing a novel.

Meanwhile, LM started sleeping better, allowing me to go right back to sleep most early mornings. I also began focusing, sooner than expected, on my life as a part-time psychotherapy clinician -- in addition to being a full-time mommy. So spare time is once again at a premium, and when I do have time to write, I want to write for my own enjoyment or to connect with others -- not to lure someone into clicking on an ad for free credit reports or a belly diet.

So last week, when I got an editorial e-mail reminding me that my three-month deadline was looming, it was pretty easy to do the cost-benefit analysis. 50 cents an hour, sometimes less, weighed against the countless other things that I need or want to do with my time -- building my therapy practice, cleaning my house, spending time with my precious little boy, SLEEPING.... The decision to stop right where I was at seven articles and let my contract lapse was pretty darn simple.

Until today. Today is the official deadline, the last window of opportunity to change my mind. It's not too late to e-mail the editor and ask for an extension. Or, if I felt really industrious, I could churn out the remaining three articles today and put off the decision to quit for another three months.

Today those doubting little voices in my head have begun emerging, fueled by the perilous attraction of possibility. What if I'm just in a bit of a writing slump right now, and next week these articles seem anything but tedious? What if I start seeing more income, or even client leads, from my current articles and regret the decision to close the door on this opportunity? What if.....?

Once again, the deceptive appeal of what I could do is being pitted against the value I place on my time, and even against common sense. No sane person with two Master's degrees and an infant should be working for 50 cents an hour; especially when I don't spend as much time as I'd like doing other things that matter to me.

So what is feeding that nagging voice? Why is it so hard to just let the door close? Maybe it's about not giving up -- trying to redeem the time I spent on the first seven articles by making the whole venture worthwhile. Or, maybe it's something more primitive.

I once heard about monkeys in some distant and lush part of the world who would get trapped in a ridiculous but conveniently metaphoric way. Hunters would hollow out a coconut through a hole just large enough for a monkey's hand, and place food inside. The monkey would reach inside the coconut and grab the food, but with his hand balled into a fist, it would no longer fit through the hole to escape. Since the survival instinct will not allow the monkey to let go of a potential meal, the story goes that monkeys would often stay trapped with their hands in the coconut for hours (apparently sometimes even long enough to starve to death if the hunters did not return in time).

However true or exaggerated these stories are, they're certainly a beautiful and useful analogy for lessons in greed, priorities, obsession, opportunity cost.... and maybe a partial, primal explanation for why it can be so hard to let go of something, even when it's in your best interest to do so.

So, now that I've churned out a free but fulfilling blog entry, instead of a cheap piece of "content" for someone else's website, it's time to take my hand out of the coconut and move on with my day. There's a little monkey who needs looking after!

You say "infestation;" I say, "thousands of new friends"

Okay, so maybe not everything has a positive reframe....

As the title indicates, we had an invasion in our kitchen this weekend -- ANTS. It was actually the third or fourth time we've had a major visit from the ants this season (rain and cold, I guess); but this was the first time the little buggers have actually infiltrated our pantry. I woke up yesterday morning to find an army swarming down from the ceiling (go figure, since we'd treated all the other entry points) and teeming in all our vulnerable snacks and pre-packaged foods.

Needless to say, clearing out the pantry while battling thousands of happy, hungry ants was NOT the way we wanted to spend our Sunday morning. Still, it's ultimately a fairly minor inconvenience and an opportunity to clean out the pantry of stuff like those oh-so-healthy sweet potato chips that we tried so hard to like. Turns out, they were better as ant food than a replacement for the plain old fatty Salt 'N' Vinegar ones we really love.

It was also a little unnerving, watching the massive numbers of insects take over our cabinets overnight. I found myself wondering how quickly the insect world would take over our condo and everything in it if we were somehow to disappear for a long period, or even forever. It's kind of morbid, but I couldn't help but imagine what would become of all the trappings of our life if we were no longer in it.

Without our constant vigilance, spraying with Veggie Wash (an awesome ant killer, btw), and expensive pest control, how long would it take before our home was completely overrun, and then unrecognizable? It was like my own little mental version of "Life After People." Just one of those "human life is fleeting" moments.

Fortunately, we had a fun afternoon planned with friends on Sunday, to get me out of my insecticide-scented kitchen and, perhaps more importantly, my brooding existential thoughts. It was a beautiful day, perfect for enjoying a fleeting, barely controlled life!

One of those Father-Son Moments

So I was in the kitchen yesterday and I heard MDH in the living room, entertaining the baby. In the middle of a stream of coos and squeals, I overheard this: "We like blankets. And that is a blanket statement."

Mommy and the New Frontier

Infancy, especially early infancy, is chock full of milestones. It seems that every week that passes brings some new fascinating behavior or endearing social interaction with our "new roommate." For the past sixteen weeks, I've enjoyed so much watching and learning as our little guy teaches me all about babyhood, personhood, with each tiny new thing he does.

But this week, it's Mommy who is doing the growing: this is my week of Learning to Let Go. A little.

Next week, I'm starting a new part-time schedule that will have me working outside the home on Tuesday afternoons/evenings (yay, go me!). It's a good thing for our family financially, and a good thing for my little guy (and me) emotionally & developmentally. He gets some un-distracted playtime with a nice new person, who also has training in early childhood development; and I get to get out of the house and play grown-up for several hours in a row. It's good for both of us (did I say that already?) and at almost 4 months old, it's the perfect time for my little guy to start learning to trust others and make new friends.

Easily said. Less easily done. Today is the "dry run," which means while he is at home getting acquainted with our fabulous new nanny, I've been out running errands and doing some work at my favorite local coffee shop. It's the first time I've left him at home with someone other than MDH or one of his loving grandparents, so I wanted to be nearby just in case. [In case of what, exactly? In case of measles? Tornado? In case the experienced, mature professional suddenly folds under the pressure of sitting with one very sweet baby?]

No, let's be honest: I'm nearby for my own sake and no one else's. Being less than a mile away from my child makes me comforted in some way that I can't explain... but I will say that I am proud of myself that I'm not, as my Dad predicted, "hovering right outside the front door." Not quite, anyway.

But it doesn't mean that my palms aren't a little sweatier than usual today as I try to focus on all those things that are so hard to do with a baby in one arm. Since we're being honest, I'm still pretty nervous.

And if I'm even more honest, I'm not sure which is making me more nervous: the idea that my baby boy will have a major meltdown in my absence, or the idea that he won't miss me at all. I want him to be his own independent person and develop his own relationships. At the same time I selfishly want him to need me always, the way he did the first moment he was born -- when the delivery nurse put him on my chest, slimy but open-eyed, and he gave me a look that said "Mom, what the hell just happened to me?"

Of course, the sensible person in me knows that the healthy reality is somewhere in between: a combination of attachment and independence, unconditional love and personal freedom. I have a feeling that these mixed feelings and cross-purposes are only going to intensify as motherhood goes on.

Guess I'd better get used to it.

Right as Rain

Yesterday, about halfway through my morning walk (just when turning around and going back would do me no good), it started to rain. At first I was a little freaked out by this, since I was pushing my little guy in the stroller in front of me -- I had visions of a wet and screaming 3-month old keeping me company for the next mile and a half, only to catch pneumonia by the time we got to the car. I was relieved, however, that our investment in an awesome outdoor stroller had really paid off, and I was able to keep the little one warm, dry and sleeping the whole way back.

Once my motherly worries subsided, and I'd successfully stowed my iPod, phone and keys in a waterproof pouch, I got to focus on myself and the trail. As the rain steadily fell, I gave up the fruitless exercise of dodging beneath the occasional tree to stay slightly drier; and after about five minutes, I let go of the hope that any part of me would not return home drenched and muddy.

After that, I settled into the dreary day and actually began to enjoy my watery walk. All around the trail, my favorite fall flowers are in bloom -- the hardy, rough-looking ones that don't appear in florist's shops but are startlingly beautiful in their own unique way. Though I'm sure they are stunning on a sunny day, their beauty was enhanced against the gray world around them. The cat's tails stood out clearer, and even the tiniest, spindly little plants became sparkling chains of light as the raindrops formed diamonds on their tips.

There were fewer people at the trail than usual, but those who were there became friendlier once the rain started. It was as though we were part of a secret society of people who -- yes, perhaps -- are too stupid to check the weather before going out to the trail; but who also get to see that beautiful place in a state that few people get the chance to appreciate.

It all took me back about a decade (or more... sigh), when getting caught in a rainstorm far from shelter was part of my daily reality. Hiking with friends in the English Lake District...riding a borrowed bike through the wilderness near a remote Hungarian town...ducking dripping wet into a coffee shop in Krakow for a respite from the downpour....finding shelter in museums and churches all over Europe while waiting for the rain to stop, the hostel to open, or the train to arrive. And more recently, navigating with MDH through the sideways rain at Ireland's breathtaking Cliffs of Moher before warming up with a well-deserved Guinness and shepherd's pie.

These memories, this rain, brought back a part of myself that seems to be getting lost the more I work my way into responsible, sensible adulthood. But it's still there. It's the part of me in love with the world, thirsty for adventure, and ready to take life's challenges as they come. This part of me can just let the rain roll on, hike peacefully through the mud, and admire the flowers.

Maybe forgetting to check the weather before hitting the trail isn't the worst thing in the world.

Oh, sweet shower...

Yesterday was one of those days. My little man was so exhausted that he couldn't sleep -- and it was driving us both crazy. I tried everything - his crib, the pack-n-play, the swing, the bouncer... every contraption known to man designed to make babies comfortable and sleepy. I tried a ride in the car and walking around the house in the Maya Wrap (sling). No dice. He just kept crying himself into short bouts of fitful sleep, then jerking awake to scream with renewed energy and volume.

He was miserable, I was miserable; he cried, I cried. There's nothing worse than your child being inconsolable and feeling like there's nothing you can do about it. And even though - logically - you KNOW it can't go on forever, it feels like, well.... forever. I felt completely inadequate as a mom, and totally frustrated as a person. There were a couple of moments when I thought I might just go for a walk and leave little man to cry it out in his crib.

I didn't do that, of course. And of course he did calm down eventually. And when MDH came home from work, he took over parenting duties and let me have 30 very sweet minutes all to myself to take a long, scalding-hot shower. It was amazing the difference I felt... 6 hours of frustration washed away by a half hour of hot running water.

It really made me appreciate the little things (like a hot shower) that that make us feel human. I thought about all the methods of torture that involve taking those little things away - like time and sleep deprivation. They don't sound all that awful from the comforts of your living room, but (as every new parent can attest) losing those little freedoms that we normally take for granted can really wear away at your internal resources and sense of self...

I spend so much time, in my line of work, exploring the complex and unknowable depths of the psyche and all the intricate neural systems that make people tick (or not). But it occurs to me how simple things like uninterrupted sleep, basic hygiene, or the freedom to just sit and gather my thoughts for a few minutes are so fundamental to my basic sense of well-being. Maybe I'm not such a complex creature after all.

Do We Like Speaking in the First Person Plural? Do We?

Yesterday, MDH and I went to lunch at what I would like to call a "Suburbistro" [This is a new term I'm officially coining -- you heard it here first! It refers to all those chain restaurants that crop up near strip malls and try way too hard to be quaint, but are really just fatty, mediocre, mass-processed food.]

In this case, it was a place called "California Dreaming," and if I were writing a restaurant review, I'd say it would more appropriately be called "Iowa Waiting," just because there was nothing California-esque, dreamy or even interesting about it. I might also mention that it tasted just slightly better than Nacho Day at a public school cafeteria.

But this isn't a restaurant review. It's an opportunity to vent about one of my pet peeves. Call me a grammar geek, but I hate, hate, HATE it when a server in a restaurant refers to the dining party as "we." As in, "Do we want something to drink besides water?" or "Did we leave room for dessert?" I mean, if you're going to pull up a chair and join us, feel free -- but otherwise....

Yesterday's experience was beyond the pale because not only did the waitress use "we" to the point of complete absurdity [at one point she actually said, "Do we have any questions for me?" My head almost exploded], but she also ramped up the perkiness when she noticed that we weren't all that responsive to her cloying questions. Instead of a simple, courteous "How is everything?" she said, "Does everything look wonderful? And does it taste even better?" Considering that we hadn't even tasted our food at that point, it was hard to do anything but nod and mumble. And when I later mentioned that the nachos were just "okay," she looked at me like there was a festering sore growing out of my forehead and flitted away without another word.

That, I think is the problem. She didn't actually care if we were enjoying our food, or our experience -- she just wanted to keep the tone so artificially positive that we'd have to be real jerks to either complain about the food or (more importantly) skimp on the tip.

Okay, I know, I've been a waitress myself. I know what it's like to live and die by your tips, and I understand that anything you can do to improve the percentages is a definite plus. I remember learning that if you touch someone during the dining experience, they will leave on average a 40% higher tip. So I learned unobtrusive and (hopefully) inoffensive ways of casually touching my customers -- like placing a hand lightly on their shoulders when they would joke around with me. Hey, it can't hurt, right?

But when I waited tables, I really did enjoy the interaction with my customers. I liked the group of three couples who came in every Wednesday night for pitchers of amber beer and who always told me terrible jokes. I really did care (at least a little) if people liked the food I recommended. I like making people happy; that's my thing -- and while there are different levels of superficiality and depth to that, it was never total BS....

It's the sugary insincerity of this type of linguistic ass-kissing that bothers me, more so than the ridiculous grammar. To presume that "you," who don't know me from Adam's housecat, can become part of "we" just by saying the word... it feels not only false, but even a little intrusive.

My annoyance, however, has made me stop and think about how I talk to my clients -- as well as my colleagues, friends... even my little boy. [I caught myself saying that "we" had a dirty diaper the other day, and I'm pretty sure my pants were clean!]

The little polite phrases and niceties that make life easier and conversations smoother can become second-hand to us (me) over time; and maybe after a while we (I) stop noticing them and their effect on other people. Maybe what seems natural and comfortable to me sounds like nails on a chalkboard to someone else. Perhaps my quirky turns of phrase or conversation "fillers" are making other people feel like I felt at the restaurant yesterday. I guess it's worth paying closer attention.

I don't know. What do we think?

It's All About the Bounce

A childhood friend of mine, Kenneth, was in a terrible accident several years ago -- he slipped while rappelling off a bridge with a bunch of friends, and fell some 80 feet to the ground. He broke lots of important bones and was confined to a wheelchair for several months... All in all, he was really lucky to have survived. According to the word in our neighborhood (I don't know how true this is), one of the first things he said to friends when he awoke in the hospital was, "Did I bounce?"

I saw Kenneth recently at a memorial service for a mutual friend's father, and I was so glad to learn that he is not only up and about, but happily married and -- maybe somewhat astonishingly -- still rock-climbing. I'm sure that the wisdom of the mid-thirties (whatever that means) probably has him taking fewer blatant risks than he did a decade ago; but he still hasn't let that major setback keep him from doing what he loves.

Many of us spend our lives focused on making things happen: going to school, working, striving toward our goals. But I think an often-overlooked and absolutely critical quality of successful people is how they respond when things happen to them. It's how we respond in those moments when nothing is going as planned that reflects the flexibility and resiliency of our characters. And when those moments are high-stakes or very public, the pressure is even greater.

I'm thinking, for example, of professional ballplayers who blow a big game in front of millions of angry fans, or this unfortunate moment in the life of 2007 Miss Teen South Carolina. Of course that video leaves most educated folks shaking our heads (myself included!), but just think for a moment how nervous some of us get when we only have to make a short presentation to a conference room full of coworkers.

It's humiliating and scary moments like these that keep most of us away from the spotlight and from taking risks in general. But moments like these also define us. Big accidents, colossal failures, huge losses -- these are the stuff of life. They invite us to become stronger, smarter, braver, humbler, more gracious.... just generally better.

To bounce back well, we have to be flexible; and sometimes willing to let go of our old ideas and perspectives to adjust to a new reality. It's all about learning from failure, laughing after you fall down, allowing others to see you vulnerable and surviving it. Anyone can be a fortress, but it takes real courage to let others see you crumble and rebuild.

Miss Teen SC, incidentally, found the courage and good grace to poke fun at herself on another TV show not long after the "such as" fiasco, which in my mind is the best possible response after humiliating yourself on national television. She may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but at least she demonstrated the ability to bounce back smiling. Now somebody get that girl an atlas!

Good, toothless fun

My little guy is almost 2 months old now, growing like a weed, and - lately - smiling and laughing. The "social smile," as it is called in developmental terms, is just about the best thing ever. Better than chocolate, ice cream, or sex. Or even sex in chocolate ice cream!!

Just when I was pushed to the point of exhaustion, rolling with the chaos that is the newborn's world, ready to pay someone to come to my house and hold the little guy for about 3 days so that I could just SLEEP the whole time... he started giving us these big, gurgly grins. And suddenly the sun is shining again and somehow I can face another late-night feeding or half-hour "cry for no reason" fest. This must be an evolutionary protection babies have developed... just when you are so tired that you're about to consider leaving them with a pack of wolves to be raised, they become so intensely adorable that you decide to keep them for just a little longer.

But it gets more fun: the smile starts to develop its own little characteristics, which we watch in bemusement and amazement, wondering if they are clues to the person he'll become in the coming years. There's the Elvis smile, where one side of his lip curls up as he looks at you, like he's trying to decide if whatever you're doing or saying is really funny enough to merit a full smile. Then there's the shy smile, where he shrugs he shoulders and looks modestly to the side before hitting you with the big, toothless grin.

And the goofy laugh -- who knew someone 8 weeks old could have a goofy laugh? Well, my son DOES. He laughs at me once in a while, and MDH a little more often... but his favorite comedic inspiration is the hot air balloon mobile we bought for him at IKEA, which hangs high above his changing table. It has 3 little animals leaning over the side of the basket, looking down on him while his diaper's being changed, and apparently those 3 guys are the funniest characters ever to be sewn out of a polyester blend. Little man just looks up at them, transfixed, and if we bat the balloon a little so that they move for him, we are often rewarded with a series of smiles and then: "Heh, heh, heh."

The books don't say much about laughter at this age, so maybe he's not supposed to be able to laugh yet. "They" also say that babies can only see well to about 12 inches at this point, and the balloon is a good 3 feet above his head when he's on the table. But don't tell him that, because that goofy little laugh makes my whole damn day worthwhile.

You Could, But Will You?

Years ago, when I lived in Portland, Oregon, one of my favorite weekend activities was to stroll through the Saturday Market -- a lively collection of artists' booths, street performers and food vendors downtown by the Willamette River. I'd get a chai tea or some greasy ethnic food from one of the booths and then wander around for a couple of hours, daydreaming, shopping, people-watching... it was one of those activities that is both inspiring and relaxing.

Like many such outdoor festivals, the Saturday Market was full of both works of art far beyond the talents of the average person, as well as some things that were technically simple, but cute and clever. Those simple innovations or creative pieces often leave me asking myself, "Why didn't I think of that?" And sometimes that thought is followed with, "I could totally do that myself."

And why not? I have (or could obtain) acrylic paints, mismatched spoons, wooden frames, shellac, old magazines, lone barstools, fake flowers, a typewriter.... whatever the ingredients of this particular creative project might be. Why can't I go home right now and do [whatever it is] myself, for far less money?

I guess this is a common reaction, because at one such booth, the artist had posted a sign to spur sales from hesitant customers: "Yes, you could do this at home. But will you?" The honest answer: no, I won't.

The words on that sign have come to my mind again recently, as I've found myself with a little more time on my hands (well, time to think, anyway, while cradling a fussy infant in the wee hours.... not so much time to do). I've been trying to decide how I want to channel my energies in the coming months and I've found, discouragingly, that the possibilities are almost endless. There are loads of things I could do, but the question is, what will I do?

For example, I recently finished reading an astonishingly mediocre historical novel; and about halfway through, I began thinking -- "This is terrible. How am I not a published author already? I could write a better novel than this with my eyes closed. Maybe I should." Okay... certainly I'm capable of doing the research for such a novel. And perhaps there's some kernel of truth to the idea that I could be better than some at writing historical fiction. I would probably even enjoy it, if that's how I decided to spend my time.

But that's the thing... writing even a mediocre novel takes time and persistence. So in order to write a better novel (eyes open or otherwise), I would have to decide to spend my time that way. I would have to commit the time and discipline to doing the research, writing, editing, marketing, etc. at the expense of all the other ways I could spend those few precious moments while the little one is napping. I would have to choose to do that instead of doing just about anything else.

Now we've hit my problem. And, I suspect, the problem of talented procrastinators and underachievers everywhere. In order to do something, you have to commit to that and forgo other things, even if only in the short term. And committing like that means taking a risk -- hitching your wagon to one identity or pursuit, and casting off the safety net of the many other ways you could demonstrate your true talents. There is a built-in excuse for any shortcomings in your work when you're not pursuing your "true" passion. In that sense, I guess you could say it's easier to be a frustrated waiter than a failed actor.

I mean, let's face it, the reason Lady Mediocre is a published author and I am not, is that she wrote a damn novel! Meanwhile, I have lots of ideas and notes and half-finished paragraphs all strewn about in a black hole of a file folder called "Writing." Once in a while I invest some time and effort into that folder; but more often, I think of it longingly while I'm doing other things. And in many ways, it's safer that way.

But the reality is, life does not judge us on our aptitude (despite all the hype around the SAT in high school). No one cares what I could do if I [wanted to], [had time], [could find the energy], [got paid in advance], etc. I can only be judged on what I have done, am doing. That's where real greatness emerges, and it's up to me to do the work to bring it out in myself.

For me, the first step is letting go of some of the things I could do. Paring down my ambitions might feel like a loss in some ways, and it's certainly risky. But by closing a couple of those distracting side doors, maybe I can channel my energy to create definite direction, and build passion toward one or two pursuits at a time until I actually have something resembling a finished product. Then someone else can play the critic!

An Ordinary, Everyday Miracle

It seems that every time I take a hiatus from blogging, I feel the need to explain why in my return entry (we can talk about the uselessness of that later). This time is no different, but those who know me personally can guess -- it's the arrival of my precious little boy, just over a month ago, keeping me away.

Of course, any parent can tell you that the sleepless nights, constant feedings and general lack of mental acuity is enough to sideline any blogger with a newborn. All these things are certainly contributing factors. But on top of that, it's hard as a new parent to look outside your own little world to find things that would be of interest to everyone else.

A good writer feels compelled not just to entertain, but to connect. When I write a blog, an article, or the sketches for a book, I am always searching for what is simultaneously universal and unique. The idea is that those taking the time to read what I've written will be rewarded with something that is both different enough to be interesting and relevant to their own lives. Sometimes I'm successful at this, and sometimes people read a few lines and click away to see what's happening on Facebook instead.

Usually this involves channeling the natural stimulation I find in the world into some sort of weird, thought-provoking synthesis. But I have to be honest, right now I mostly just want to sit around and stare at my kid. Lately I'm focused on counting and re-counting his fingers and toes, decoding the mysterious rhythm of his cries, watching in awe as he explores the world. It's all beautiful, miraculous, and.... well, somewhat mundane.

Babies are born and suckled and raised every day -- and the people who understand and relate are the ones who have their own, far more poignant experiences of late-night toe-counting. so the center of my world these days is not exactly fascinating fodder f0r a blog. Well, maybe just this one.

And now, the waiting...

So there are just under two weeks left until the official due date for our first child, which I have learned is a fairly arbitrary date determined by a German guy in the late 1800's who decided that a pregnancy should be "10 moon months." So, according to the obstetric wisdom that follows, sometime between tomorrow and three weeks from now, we can expect our little boy to make his appearance.

It's an exciting, magical, and physically uncomfortable time... these last few days of our long journey toward parenthood. From the first conversations MDH & I had about children while we were dating, to our struggles with infertility, through the joys and anxieties of the pregnancy.... we are now on the cusp of a whole new chapter of our lives.

I chose to take maternity leave a little early from my jobs, for both health and sanity reasons, and it's been a wonderful decision so far. Not only have I had enough time to rest and relax, so that I feel a little more prepared for labor and delivery; but I have also given myself the gift of time to think. It's such an indulgence, I'm realizing, to have time to focus completely on myself for a few weeks.... I have enjoyed spending time at the pool, taking long walks, working around the house at an easy pace, running errands on my own schedule, reading long-neglected books, seeing movies with MDH, etc., etc.

There are also some challenges presented with this decadent downtime. I don't work all that well without a bit of structure, so I often feel I get less done in 8 open hours than I would in 2 rushed ones. It's hard for me not to measure myself at the end of each day by what I've accomplished, and the value of relaxation can be less than tangible. And even though I planned this time in order to rest, I couldn't resist making a list of "projects" for myself, which of course I haven't completed. So I alternate between luxurious relaxation and thinly veiled guilt.

The other blessing and curse of all this free time is the ability to slow down and look at where I am career-wise. As I contemplate my next moves, post-maternity leave, I'm realizing that I really want to be a "Sunday player" (gotta love a football analogy). In other words, I want to work hard enough, and with a sufficient level of passion at something, to be truly great at it. A real pro. I'd like to channel my working energies into purpose, direction and even expertise.

This has been tough lately given what I affectionately refer to as my "Career ADD," this sort of spastic dance I've been doing for the past few years. I'm interested in so many things, and competent enough at several of them, that I often find myself following whatever is most pressing, fascinating, or available at the moment. And no sooner do I start wandering down one road, than I find myself missing aspects of the road not taken. It's a perpetual case of the grass is always greener, I guess.... one of the pitfalls of having a wide range of interests and a flexible spirit. It's hard to specialize when choosing one area means giving little or no attention to the others. Manda of All Trades, Master of None?

In the middle of all this, I'm about to embark on the hardest, most important job I'll ever have... being a parent. Some days it doesn't even seem real yet (despite the little person kicking me in the ribs). It's hard to imagine, sitting here staring at the lump in my belly, what parenthood will be like, or how I will be at it. It's one of life's biggest and most miraculous mysteries, and it seems to put all my career musings in perspective.

I'm sure my perspective will only continue to evolve once the baby arrives, and I'm swimming sleep-deprived in feedings and crying and diaper changes. Who knows what I will learn about myself and my purpose in life when this new person comes to live with us? Part of me is hoping for insight. Part of me is just hoping to survive!

So, right now my life is all about waiting. Watching for signs of true labor. Ruminating about the future. Planning (or attempting to plan) for the uncontrollable. Hoping... that the baby is healthy, that my parenting skills will be enough, and that at some point on this journey I can reconnect to an internal passion for life and work. And maybe if I can find that passion and really live it, it will someday be inspiring to this little person I'm carrying around, as he looks for his own path.

I Want Happiness Insurance

Since we are now expectant parents, MDH and I decided recently it was time to grow up and get life insurance. I have to say, there's something a little morbid and scary about the concept of life insurance, and it's not easy to talk about the life of yourself, and especially the one you love most, in terms of dollars and cents. Still, it's good to know that if anything happens to me, our offspring at least won't be saddled with my ridiculous student loan debts.

I think most people would agree that life insurance is generally sensible. Homeowner's, health insurance... I can get on board with those. But I've noticed lately that there are more and more opportunities to "insure" yourself against life's ups and downs, and some of them are pushing the boundaries of reasonable behavior.

When we took a childbirth class recently, we spent the lunch hour listening to a representative from a company that "banks" infant cord blood, on the off chance that your child comes down with a serious disease that might be helped with stem cells harvested from his or her umbilical cord. Now I don't think there's anything wrong with these advances in technology, nor do I judge anyone who decides that banking cord blood is the best thing for his/her family. And frankly, if banking cord blood were more affordable (considering the likelihood that you'll actually use it), we would definitely consider it. As it is, we are planning to donate ours for free -- to be used for research or by others in need.

What bothered me about the guy's speech wasn't the concept of banking cord blood, or even the price that the other expectant parents in the room seemed happy to pay. It was the scary approach the representative took -- claiming that "most people who declare bankruptcy do so because of health care costs" (what? where did this statistic come from?), and implying that those who did not bank their child's cord blood would regret it when someone in the family develops leukemia... etc., etc. It just seemed like the industry is trying to profit from the fears of new parents in a way that seems, well, a little disgusting.

On the other hand, I think that the cord blood industry is just taking advantage of a general trend in our culture towards wanting (and expecting) lives that are completely sanitized from dangers, dirt and risk. With all our wonderful technological advances and modern conveniences, it seems that many of us have developed the idea that we shouldn't have to deal with anything unpleasant or unexpected at all. We want someone to fix things for us when they go wrong, and we go to great lengths to attempt to control our lives -- bringing out the worst of our anxieties and, frankly, hubris.

I have a theory that we live our lives at such a hectic pace that there is no room for uncertainty, so when the unexpected happens, there is no energy left to take things in stride. I was at the car dealership a few weeks ago getting my windows tinted (which, btw, I didn't want - but the dealer talked me into it, glancing at my pregnant belly and telling me that my new baby would be uncomfortably hot in the Georgia weather without the tinting.... sigh). Looking around the waiting room, I noticed that there were a number of signs offering various types of "insurance" available for car owners.

You can buy wheel and tire insurance to avoid the "unexpected expense" of a flat tire. So I guess that means I would prefer the expected expense of the wheel and tire insurance? Just think, while you're standing on the side of the road in the rain, canceling appointments via cell phone, you could be comforted knowing that you have already paid for that new tire three or four times over via tire insurance -- and thank goodness you won't have to pull out the plastic today.

But if that's not reassuring enough for you, you can also purchase the "appearance protection" plan for your new car. With this plan, you'll also pay some monthly fee for a while, and then when you accidentally stain or burn your car's upholstery, the dealer will repair or replace it for you. It will be like new again -- just as though human beings never sang songs or spilled soda or made memories in your vehicle at all. Whew.

Now part of this is just car dealers being car dealers; but they wouldn't offer these programs if someone weren't buying them. Dealers (and insurance companies, and retailers...) know how much we hate ugly surprises and imperfections. We hate them so much, we will sacrifice the joy and money and optimism we have in the moment in order to assure ourselves that some pain might be spared us in the future. We love extended warranties, hand sanitizer, and money-back guarantees.

But how reality-proof do we need our worlds to be? What is this pressing need we have to prevent "tragedies" that are really just the normal ebbs and flows of life? I would argue that the emotion and money we spend on the front end trying to avoid everything uncomfortable is not only fruitless (life will always find a way to surprise us); but the pain and effort of avoidance outweighs whatever expense or discomfort we would naturally incur later.

We are robbing ourselves of the opportunity to enjoy what we have when we have it, because we are so focused on what could happen to take it away. And when something unpleasant does happen (like the burning smell emanating from our dishwasher last night, indicating that we will soon be shopping for a new one), we have a hard time accepting the reality because of our frustration.... "I put all this work into making sure things would go smoothly and now this??"

It just seems to me that with the economy at a shaky point and many of us struggling with both our finances and fears, one thing we can definitely afford to give up is the expensive and unending search for perfection. It's easier said than done, so I'm reminding myself as much as anyone else: Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the ride.

The Nest and Beyond

For the second time in 3 years, we have wrens nesting in the planter just outside our front door. This means that I had to scrap my early spring plans of putting ivy in the shady planter, but it's totally worth it.

Two years ago, we called our feathered visitor "Gertie the Birdie," (we're sort of into names that rhyme with what they are -- hence our unborn child's unfortunate moniker "Cletus the Fetus.") Gertie laid 5 eggs during her time in residence on our front porch, and we watched them hatch and grow with unbridled fascination. Sadly, only four of them survived to leave the nest, and MDH had the unpleasant job of removing the poor little straggler after his family had moved on.

The planter is just below eye level - it hangs on the wall outside our door - so having a bird's nest there gives us a little taste of the discovery channel every day. MDH has affectionately named this year's mamma bird "Wrenita," and ever since she took up residence I've felt a kind of kinship with her... one expectant mom to another sort of thing. Of course, I'm a touch jealous of how quick the gestation period is for birds - they went from an empty nest, to tiny brown eggs, to babies with huge closed eyes in just a matter of weeks.

We've had fun in the past week or so, stopping by the nest and making kissy noises at them to see their hungry little mouths reach out in instinct, waiting for us to barf up something delicious (I know it's a little cruel, but it's irresistible). And now when we peer into the nest, the little birds peering out are slightly smaller replicas of Wrenita herself, already looking wise and grown.

Add to this progression of life the soap opera-like element of our cat -- who watches the birds with intensity through the front window. And this morning she was particularly frantic, running from window to window, chirping (like a cat, not like a bird) insistently to let me know there was something hunt-able and tasty-looking just outside.

When I went out myself, I found Wrenita and another bird making an incredible racket -- they were both flitting from bush to tree to stairway railing, chirping loudly and nonstop. Even though Wrenita typically makes a hasty and quiet exit whenever we enter or leave the condo, this morning she made little effort to hide from me, and the constant chirping didn't stop despite several repeated trips in and out the door.

Both adult birds kept up their noisy dance for some time, and I finally decided that they were trying to coax the little ones to leave the nest and attempt flying for the first time. I don't know if that's really what was happening -- bird expert, I am not. But I thought it was pretty cool anyway. Mamma bird (and her friend? Daddy bird? Auntie bird?) didn't climb into the nest and push the babies out. They don't carry the babies out and fly for them. But they also don't abandon them to their fates... they consistently, patiently encourage them with lots of verbal reassurance and wait for the little guys to figure it out for themselves.

It's a great reminder of what good parenting should be... and perfect timing since I am entering that neurotic phase of pregnancy that has me worrying about every little thing, doubting my parental abilities, and fighting off the urge to buy the little guy everything in the store. Which store? Doesn't matter. Every store.

Somehow watching Wrenita encourage her little ones this morning gave me a little (maybe temporary) feeling of confidence and relief. Nature has away of working it out, and I know that somehow even my imperfect instincts will help this little one find his way in the world.

I have nothing to write and I am writing it....

with apologies to John Cage*

So, the light at the end of the tunnel is growing brighter for me and my crazy schedule. The stressful (and expensive) chaos I talked about in the last entry has mostly subsided, and one-by-one I'm checking things off my list. So, in between things, I'm delighted to return to the world of blogging.

I think.

If only I had something to say.

So this is a miniature version of the typical writer's curse I've experienced for years: when one is too busy to write, confined by the unpleasant constraints of practical life, the ideas and inspirations seem to come in literal waves. On the way home from work, or dashing between one meeting and the next, I am struck with a list of great ideas I could write IF I just had time! There are future article ideas, plans for maternity leave, and even a couple of little seeds that could one day become terrible novels...

Sometimes I find time and energy to scribble these ideas down as I go, and occasionally they even make sense when I look at them down the road. But for the most part, they are lost to oblivion, filed in that mental vortex called "Later" (which, it turns out, contains only a lonely, hungry goat and an empty desk where the office temp seems to be constantly "on break.")

So of course, by the time I need to retrieve these fabulous ideas, they are either completely missing or just a shell of their former selves -- with none of their original energy and spark. So I sit staring at the blank screen, looking out the window, flipping through the channels.... And it all somehow seems to evaporate.

I suspect I'm not alone in this -- I'm sure there is a wide group of frustrated writers, artists, photographers, scrapbookers, etc., complaining that their demanding lives don't allow them to do what they love, and then coming home every evening to melt unproductively in front of the boob tube.

And I also suspect that we all know the answer to the dilemma, the old Nike slogan that pervades the consciousness of anyone who lived through the 1990's. Just do it.

Just start writing, filming, blogging, snapping pictures, making friends, dancing, bowling, gardening.... whatever it is. You have to start and hope that the creative energies and success will eventually follow. The temp will return to her desk, and maybe the old goat will regurgitate something delicious from the "Later" file that can become "Now, Now, Now."

There are no guarantees that what will emerge will be genius or anything close to it (and if you've made it through the blog to this point you may be nodding vigorously in agreement). But the only absolute guarantee is this: if you don't start, the results will speak for themselves.

____________________________________________________

"I have nothing to say, and I am saying it."
-- John Cage

The Hidden Costs of Spreading Yourself Too Thin

So it's a little embarrassing to look back at my blog history and realize that I've only put up one tiny post in nearly two months...

And it's even more embarrassing to have to confess that -- even though I am constantly preaching balance and stress management to my clients and friends -- the main reason I haven't been able to write is because I completely over-committed myself in the last couple of months. For some reason I'd like to chalk up to temporary insanity, I thought it was a good idea to take 3 classes this semester, continue full-force with my 2 part-time jobs, accept a couple of random freelance opportunities, organize a silent auction and attend a 3-day training out of town... all essentially culminating in February and March, and all during my second trimester of pregnancy.

I think the "what the hell were you thinking?" goes without saying. But don't worry, several caring individuals have been kind enough to say it anyway.

Of course I recognize that this type of overloaded lifestyle has consequences, as I think most of us do when we're slowly, half-voluntarily getting in over our heads. But one interesting thing I noticed, somewhere in the fervor, is that there are also financial consequences. Maybe it's our heightened collective attention on the economy right now that tuned me in to this issue; but once I started noticing, the financial fallout of my voluntary chaos seemed to be everywhere.

For starters, there's parking: Theoretically, there is free parking available for GSU students at Turner Field, and you can take a shuttle from there to campus (or walk the 1.5 miles or so on a nice day and get in your exercise at the same time). I used to take advantage of this option at least once a week to save money and to allow myself a few minutes of zone-out time or brisk walking. But I can count on one hand the number of times I've been able to swing it in the last three months.... I get too busy before or after class to add the extra time to my commute; so I suck it up and pay for downtown campus parking, promising myself each time that I'll be more disciplined next week.

Of course, that's on the days when I'm on time, or close to it. Some days I am so rushed before class -- finishing up one commitment or another -- that even my regular parking spot downtown is unrealistic; and instead of $5 or $3, I have to pay $8 for the premium lot that is just a couple of blocks closer to the classroom building. Two blocks closer means 4 minutes less late to class!

So I'm guessing I've blown at least $70 in unnecessary parking charges this year so far. If I could work at a slower pace, give myself more time to plan ahead, I could have pocketed that $70 for the kid's college fund and probably been a little more sane each time I entered the classroom to boot.

Parking is an easy example. But wait, there's more!

There's paying absurd ATM fees to get cash from Not My Bank when I suddenly realize I need it, despite the fact that I probably passed four of my own bank's ATMs on the way to wherever I was going.

There were a couple of bounced check fees in January (in my opinion the most ridiculous and inexcusable expense a person can have) because I was too hurried to notice that I accidentally made a PayPal transaction from the wrong account.

There are the countless times we've eaten out or ordered pizza because I didn't have time to plan meals for the week or make a thorough trip to the grocery store. (This one is expensive AND unhealthy).

My housekeeping, never what I'd consider overly tidy to begin with, has definitely suffered from my busy schedule... so one day in frustration I thought I'd quickly vacuum the main parts of the carpet in the 30 minutes I had between obligations. Just a quick job, so why take the time to move everything off the floor, right? I'll just vacuum AROUND the phone charger cords.... Turns out, when one of those gets sucked up into the vacuum cleaner, the cord itself will wrap around the axle until it hits the base, which is when it will snap unceremoniously, leaving you with inexplicable black marks on the carpet and $30 less in your wallet for the replacement.

It seems that cutting corners (or being too busy to avoid cutting corners) has taken quite a bite out of my wallet in the last few weeks. And since I think money is often a symptom-bearer for other issues, I'll say that this is probably a reflection of some of the non-monetary costs I've been sacrificing to stress and hurry as well: quality time with family and friends, healthy eating, time to exercise as much as I need...

It's too bad there's no budget program that will show us this stuff on one of those handy pie charts. "If you would slow down and quit taking on so much, you would save 5% of your expenses, be in 8% better health, and have 25% better relationships."

Too bad indeed. Guess I'm going to have to slow down and pay attention instead!