Lower your expectations accordingly...

I need a cause. Apparently, supporting a cause will make you like me. Eighty percent of my content should add value to your life. The notion that I can add value to your life just because you click on my musings leads me to believe that your expectation of me might be a bit too high. Lower them accordingly.

Social currency is not my strong point. Like Howard Roark, I lack a basic understanding of the give and take in social situations, so this past week, I’ve researched social media and read blogs to discover methods to connect with readers. Everyone has a cause, even the Purple Spotted Hairless Platypus. I actually searched for purple platypus just to see if it returned any hits and I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that it did.

So what is my cause? It is supposed to be something that relates to my book or to me personally. Since I use my writing to vent about my husband and children, perhaps I could choose domestic abuse. No one actually supports domestic abuse, right? Even when we occasionally consider stringing our spouse up by his toenails and plucking each hair on his feet individually. But I digress… (Sorry if you’re reading this, sweetie – I didn’t mean you. Really.)

I could champion the environment. Everyone loves to be green. And it would expose a personal tidbit about myself – that I love interpreting regulations in an attempt to keep companies profitable while complying with environmental laws. But I also love my big screen TV and the chemicals that keep my pool crystal clear. Yes, I recycle. I also love Ziploc bags. They’re handy.

Down with the medical establishment! Wait, no. I endorse better living through medication. Why take something holistic if your insurance will reimburse you for something quality controlled and clinically trialed? Do you really think that bottle of ma huang had any trials other than something quantified as “Oops, screwed up that batch”? Not to mention, if I need surgery, I prefer anesthesia.

The list goes on and on. Emotional abuse. Emotional eaters. Codependency. Sexual addiction. There is nothing I can do to help these people. I refuse to increase your “awareness” for anything. Except perhaps for fungi. You should be aware of them. You’re surrounded by them and those suckers are dangerous. Everyone else has irrational fears about global war or an electromagnetic pulse. Not me. The book Spiral by Paul McEuen made me tremble for days.

My search for over-exercising didn’t turn up much. It only appears when linked to anorexia and bulimia, but I really love to eat so I don’t qualify. Maybe I need to start a support group for those of us who over-exercise just so we can eat three Drumsticks after dinner and still fit in our jeans? It did unearth an article to “Help Yourself Over Exercise Hurdles”. Over Exercise – get it? 

Is there a support group for people who exist inside their own head instead of reality?

So what do I like? I like eclectic furniture that doesn’t match. I love Lever 2000 soap (and no, for the three of you still reading this, they don’t pay me to plug it). I love margaritas. I hate protein powder, but I make myself drink it every morning anyway and I force down concentrated liquid fish oil. That has to be its own type of disorder that requires some therapy and support. And I like fluffy animals. Everyone likes a fluffy animal, right?

My cause. I found it. Fluffy animals. I like them, at least in theory. Except for one exceptionally pissy (and I mean that both literally and as a personality trait) Persian cat. She pees on my daughter’s carpet the minute we let her out of the basement without fail. My cause is to re-litterbox-train my cat. I can even pander to you with annoying fluffy kitty pictures.

So to add value to your life, dear reader, I will attempt to entertain you as I attempt to retrain my cat. Cat #1 on the left, Sylvia, is happy, easy to get along with, and litter box trained. Cat #2 on the right, Lillian, is Satan reincarnated. You suggest the method, I’ll try it out and report back.

Are we there yet?

“Are we there yet?” My son asked the question before we turned off our street. “Can we start the movie?”

  

“A good rule of thumb,” I told him, “is that if you can still see our house, you can probably safely assume we have not arrived at our destination.”

Our destination, a state park we planned to spend the day hiking through, was not all that I imagined. Visions of skipping children and flowing waterfalls disintegrated into a stark reality of skinned knees, dry creek beds, and perilous trails.

Our youngest daughter perched on a rock with tears in her eyes since she could not keep up with our older kids and wailed, “I want to be bigger.”

We are all longing to arrive somewhere other than here. “Are we there yet?” “I want to be bigger.” The words of children mirror those of my adult friends. A college graduate trapped in the purgatory between school and adulthood waits for her life to start. A young man eagerly anticipates a future with a career that is more rewarding than his current job and provides more appreciation and fulfillment. A young couple yearn for a stable family and home. And those are just conversations I’ve had this week.

Once we achieve those things, we pile on more expectations, expanding our conditions for contentment. We will be happy when… When my boyfriend commits to me. When I buy a house. When we have kids. When we save enough money. When the bills are paid. When my new job comes through. When our children are out of diapers. When this project is finished. When the children are out of school.

Is contentment possible to reach? Is it found in the attainment of our goals or in the process of achievement in itself? Is it possible to actually appreciate something in the moment it happens or can it only be appreciated through the distance and filter of time? Is this the direction my life was meant to travel? Am I there yet? Or do I simply entertain myself, turn on the movie like my son in the car, and assume that someone will transport me to my destination?

I’ve spent the past year exploring myself outside of my family. I’ve been defined by my children and husband for so long that at times I’ve lost myself altogether. This year has validated me; it reminded me that I do have talent and worth outside of laundry and grocery shopping. Now I strive for balance, to maintain my sense of self, to support my children without living through them, and to love my husband without leaning on him.

Every day I struggle to appreciate what I have – my complaining children, my pile of bills, my overworked husband – while reinforcing and prioritizing myself. But today, for right now, I’m appreciative. I may not be there yet, but I’m within sight of my home. No one transported me to this location; I traveled a dark, solitary road to arrive here. But, I no longer yearn to visit elsewhere. I finally know where I belong.

Patience is not my virtue.

How many times have I been told patience is a virtue? It is obviously one I don’t possess. Persistence, yes. Persistence I can do. But not patience. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time organizing my kitchen supplies to just-in-time production standards or optimizing the process to transport my children to their various activities while simultaneously ensuring that their homework is correct and they consume a healthy dinner. I am obnoxiously over analytical.

This fault can be skewed as beneficial, especially in a job interview when asked for your greatest weakness. Many people value money, kindness, or empathy. I value efficiency. I want everything done correctly in the least possible time. Why? Because it is only then that the tiny voice in my head quiets down. I am not externally driven – it is completely internal.

Many of my friends have asked how I managed to write a book and I can’t answer the question. When the words congeal in my mind, I can not shut them down and vice versa, if they are not present there is no forcing them. My husband can attest to this because there are random note pads and pens everywhere from my gym bag to the shower. Sometimes ideas arrive at inconvenient moments.

But this process is not contained to my writing. Every large decision in my life is made this way. Sometimes I wonder if I’m a control freak, but the truth is I’m not in control at all. I prepare the path, throw in all of my effort to the best of my ability, and wait for my answer, generally impatiently. And when I know my answer, I know it. I grab my decision with both hands. 

This past week I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time at my computer, assembling a video trailer to accompany my manuscript. Since I know nothing about creating videos, it was a daunting task. But once I started working, there was no turning off my mind, not even to sleep or eat. It fell together of its own accord; I am simply the overexcited facilitator. Honestly, like the manuscript itself, I can’t believe that I produced it. After using a few of my friends as a focus group, I’m confident that anyone who chooses to watch it will not consider their two minutes wasted. But now I am forced to be patient. I anxiously await an email which I hope will bring permission to use the background music that I chose. 

Patience with other people is difficult for me. The voice in my head will not shut up because this decision is not internal. It prods me to be persistent, to fire off an email every hour, to push for closure, but my rational mind knows that doing so will only reduce my probability for success. So I will spend my Labor Day anxiously not laboring and attempt to relax.