I recently laid my head on my pillow after an exhausting summer day, and jumped when I heard a monotone voice recite, 'Accept life's imperfections.' The next day, Laddie admitted to planting my stress ball under my pillow in hopes of surprising me. Sneak attack - successful!
Does the stress ball need explanation? This silly squishy ball came into my life while running the garage sale at the kids' Catholic School a few years ago. There was always a souvenir that I took home to remember the sale by (in case the blood, sweat, and tears and thankless volunteer hours weren't enough). Each sale took on its own personality. The first year I confiscated a hideous, homemade sun dress. The navy polyester fabric featured a repeating printed phrase in red letters, 'Have a nice day, have a nice day.' It made me chuckle, and the other volunteers chuckled even more when I modeled it over my clothes during a moment of slap happiness. Today the 'have a nice day' dress holds a cherished place in my closet, although I haven't worn it since. The stress ball, another year's trophy, shares various phrases when squeezed, or thrown with great vigor at the wall - not that I speak from experience. The favorite 'ball' wisdom of our family is the phrase: 'Relax, relax, relax,' which is spoken in a sickly soothing tone. Laddie admitted that he squeezed the ball once too many, thereby passing up the 'relax' phrase and landing on the 'Accept Life's Imperfections.'
After my jolt from the creepy-voiced stress ball, which surfaces occasionally after spending months in hiding because unlike its ugly dress counterpart the ball does not occupy a stationary spot, it took me a few minutes to settle into sleep mode. Coach was already asleep when I went to bed, and he only vaguely remembers the commotion. I thought about the advice that radiated so sweetly from the black sphere before I drifted off. What choice do I have other than to accept life's imperfections?
Ironically (actually it isn't that ironic because my children are often imperfect) that day I discovered a few of the imperfections of my darling children. Laddie was told to empty the garbage baskets in the three bathrooms in the house. I discovered later that he removed the trash from the basket, but he failed to replace the bag with a new one. I stopped him in his tracks and explained that the job was not complete. (One of my pet peeves is not doing something right the first time - I mean really, why bother?) I instructed him to 1. get new bags, 2. dump the garbage that is now at the bottom of an unlined trash can into the new bag, and finally 3. line the trash can with this partially filled bag. Imagine my shock when I realized hours after he was in bed that he had simply taken a new bag and fastened it to the top of the trash basket - ON TOP of the garbage that had not been emptied. Did he really think I wouldn't notice?
While Mini is younger than her predictably inept-garbage-emptying-flop of a brother, she has always been considered a young, and intelligent child. By sweeping a pile of food bits, paper scraps, and other kitchen odds and ends directly into the pantry itself, she proves that imperfection knows no boundaries. Rather than utilizing the dustpan to properly dispose of the able-to-solve-world-hunger-sized pile she created, she thought no one would notice the additional land fill overflow that now joined the oops-I-missed-the-garbage-can-but-I-won't-bother-to-pick-it-up pile already laying claim to the pantry floor. She underestimated both my awareness of how much 'missing-the-can' pile lingers in front of the trash receptacle, along with my presence in the kitchen while she was conducting the job. It doesn't take a CSI agent to realize that something is amiss if I heard no struggle to utilize the dust pan. Additionally, there were no loud bursts calling a sibling to hold the awkward dust pan. My peripheral vision caught Mini simply sweeping away one minute, and upstairs the next. The timeline didn't add up.
I suppose these examples support the laziness flaw of my offspring verses the imperfection element, but remember we are focusing on the thoughts prompted by the irritating stress ball just as I was about to drift off to sleep. I don't own a stress ball that offers a prerecorded lazy-kid-negative-energy release, so I am forced to work with the 'imperfect' stress ball that bounced into my life during a period of over commitment. Of course, I don't over commit now that the ball has instructed me: 'It's OK to say no.'
March 28, 2014
March 27, 2014
Play or not to play
I've found myself reflecting on my own illustrious basketball career thanks to the March Madness Tournament. Neither of my older sisters ever exhibited any interest in sports. Their sole display of athleticism was their Irish dancing abilities, but let's face it there's no defense in dancing. Perhaps my mom viewed me as her last chance at producing a girl jock. Whatever the reasoning, she suggested I give basketball a try. Summer before 7th grade I was enrolled in basketball camp at St. Mary's College, Notre Dame (my future alma matre). Growing up in the '70's/'80's meant sports programs did not start as soon as you could walk. Girls under ten didn't start playing on YMCA teams, attending camps, and practicing drills on the driveway . . . at least not as far as I knew (perhaps therein lies the issue).
There were tryouts to make the 7th grade team at my Catholic grade school. Not many tried out. Most made it. Its safe to assume that my height factored in to my placement on the team. So for 7th and 8th grade I geared up for practices and games by securing my glasses with a protective black, elastic band. My ankles sported stretchy ankle braces, and my feet were laced into my regular 'ole sneakers. I wasn't winning any beauty contests in the Kelly green, polyester uniform with my fluffy, short, 'Dorothy-Hamel-run-amuck' hair do either. OK, so the Dorothy Hamel was what we called the cut when I was in kindergarten. I'm not sure how to label it almost ten years later . . . besides gross. Although my butt warmed the bench, my mom referred to me as the '6th' man, so I saw more playing time than some teammates. Again, my time on the court can be attributed to height, not skill. Coaches probably kept hoping to cash in on my height. Let down city. I often treated the ball as a hot potato, which meant I rarely contributed to the score.
My Uncle Pat became our team's biggest fan. He attended home and away games. He encouraged me, and enjoyed cheering for the talented Dana, Alice, and Monica. Our three stars. The triple threat. Being the quiet, nerdy, sensitive type, the team gave a handful of my classmates an opportunity to get to know me a bit better. Once when driving Dana home from a game in my mom's car, the radio mentioned a 'Motown' hit. I admitted that I didn't know what 'Motown' was. Dana's laughter outdid the volume on the radio. My new nickname was born: 'Motown.' News of the moniker spread throughout the team. Thankfully, it was a term of endearment, so I didn't mind that my teammates called me 'Motown' or 'Mo' occasionally. Ah, the glory days.
My family moved to a Northern suburb 45 minutes away from my grammar school the day before I began high school. The only person I knew in the high school building was my sister, who was a senior. Once again Mom encouraged me to try out for the basketball team. I was unsure. This was high school. Everything was bigger. No one would call me by my familiar 'Motown'. To my brothers' dismay, Mom promised to purchase me a pair of Air Jordan's if I made the team. It was 1985. Air Jordan's were huge. My brothers didn't own a pair between them. Of course they elbowed each other. What a joke. They knew I wouldn't make the team anyway. I agreed to try out. I doubted I could measure up to the high school standards.
The day of tryouts arrived and some where deep within me awoke basketball skills I didn't even know I had. I played the most amazing afternoon of basketball I've ever played. Ever. Rebounding, running, shooting, free throws, defense, and dribbling. That was easily the most shocking part of it all. I dominated at dribbling. I'm tall. Dribbling wasn't my thing. The tall girl as the last one handling a ball during the dribbling knock out drill? Counter intuitive. But there I was when they blew the whistle. About 50 girls - sophomores and freshmen, some point guards no less, gathered around the fringes of the court in clusters after being knocked out. Freakish. I recall looking around, but there wasn't anyone there that knew me from my 'Motown' days. They would have been scratching their heads. I felt as if I was floating above the gym watching this happen to someone else. Dreamlike.
I remember calling Mom from a payphone in the school hallway. "Looks like we are going to go shopping for Air Jordan's." My brothers weren't laughing anymore . . . certain they were living in an unjust world.
One night before practice Mom decided to cut my hair. While I was eating. Her technique involved the use of a plain straight edge razor blade. This tool helped her achieve the feathered look - at least that's what she claimed. On this particular night, I leaned over my plate and tried to eat as fast as I could because #1. I was late for practice, and #2. I wanted to ingest the dinner before tufts of hair drifted into my food. No joke. Blame the lighting or the odd angle my munching head protruded at over the table, but the next day I attended high school with a border line buzz cut. Awful. The basketball teams were introduced to the entire school that afternoon during the fall pep rally. Our school building was divided into a side for girls and the other side for boys. I imagine some fans suspected that I had wandered over from the boy side. . . I digress.
The bummer about displaying raw talent at tryouts was the disappointment that followed. Not my disappointment - my embarrassment. Embarrassed that I was disappointing coach. I felt like I pulled a fast one on the coach. Perhaps I should have requested a private audience with her in order to share the truth about my crappy basketball skills before the final cuts were made.
The test of a true athlete vs. an accidental athlete: leaning forward off of the bench hoping to remind the coach to toss you in the game so you can light it up vs. feeling relieved at not being chosen to go in the game because you don't want to mess up the game for your team. My avoidance approach to the game departed from the major jock persona I presented at tryouts.
Eventually I felt the pressure. Scoring pressure. One night we creamed our opponent. I received more playing time than I deserved. After the game, congratulations shot across the bus directed at the bench warmers who scored. Despite my additional time on the court, I still failed to sink one. The season was slipping away and I still hadn't made a basket. I broke down and cried on the bus ride home. Now my secret - that my lack of scoring pressure was bugging me - became obvious to the entire team. Damn that awesome tryout day. Easier to suck 365 days a year rather than suck 364 days a year.
My brothers eventually got their laughs in. They came to games strictly for the comic relief. Everything I did was scrutinized from my inability to get open, to the goofy stance that coach taught us to use when boxing out after free throws. Mom chuckled right along with them at the box out thing. I swear I was following coach's directions. Of course I was wearing Jordan's and my brothers weren't.
It was high school. Insecurity reigned. I was a freshman. Self consciousness consumed. Self doubt surrounded life in general, not necessarily performance on the team. It was cool to be on JV getting to know other freshmen and sophomores, but each giggle and snicker that rose up from conversations across the room caused me to wonder. 'Were my failing abilities on the court the butt of a joke?' I worried that the sophomores disliked me. The whole group rallied around me on that tearful bus ride. My defense was appreciated, I ran the offense well, I made good passes, etc. Nice, heartfelt sentiments. I choked down their camouflaged pity like the air I was desperate for after sprints in practice. Air always helped, but it didn't eliminate the ache in my whole body. What I really longed for was the ability to excel at the sport like so many of them did.
I was fouled in one of our final games. My first free throw shot swooshed. Finally. Before I knew it, the entire bench jumped up, rushed the court, and celebrated with high fives and hugs at the top of the key. The baffled ref gave a confused look with the whistle dangling from the corner of his mouth. "Sorry, it's my first basket of the season," I explained as he handed me the ball for my next shot. I missed.
I can't say when my basketball career ended that year that it was due to an injury. Unless you count my wounded self esteem. Why continue on and give my brothers anymore material in the 'let's make fun of Ernie' scenario? Of course the stars aligned, and they both walked onto the Notre Dame basketball team in college. My Air Jordan's offered great support when I landed a job at Burger King that spring and worked long shifts. I know: a horrible hair cut, little athletic ability, and a Burger King job - I had it all!
There were tryouts to make the 7th grade team at my Catholic grade school. Not many tried out. Most made it. Its safe to assume that my height factored in to my placement on the team. So for 7th and 8th grade I geared up for practices and games by securing my glasses with a protective black, elastic band. My ankles sported stretchy ankle braces, and my feet were laced into my regular 'ole sneakers. I wasn't winning any beauty contests in the Kelly green, polyester uniform with my fluffy, short, 'Dorothy-Hamel-run-amuck' hair do either. OK, so the Dorothy Hamel was what we called the cut when I was in kindergarten. I'm not sure how to label it almost ten years later . . . besides gross. Although my butt warmed the bench, my mom referred to me as the '6th' man, so I saw more playing time than some teammates. Again, my time on the court can be attributed to height, not skill. Coaches probably kept hoping to cash in on my height. Let down city. I often treated the ball as a hot potato, which meant I rarely contributed to the score.My Uncle Pat became our team's biggest fan. He attended home and away games. He encouraged me, and enjoyed cheering for the talented Dana, Alice, and Monica. Our three stars. The triple threat. Being the quiet, nerdy, sensitive type, the team gave a handful of my classmates an opportunity to get to know me a bit better. Once when driving Dana home from a game in my mom's car, the radio mentioned a 'Motown' hit. I admitted that I didn't know what 'Motown' was. Dana's laughter outdid the volume on the radio. My new nickname was born: 'Motown.' News of the moniker spread throughout the team. Thankfully, it was a term of endearment, so I didn't mind that my teammates called me 'Motown' or 'Mo' occasionally. Ah, the glory days.
My family moved to a Northern suburb 45 minutes away from my grammar school the day before I began high school. The only person I knew in the high school building was my sister, who was a senior. Once again Mom encouraged me to try out for the basketball team. I was unsure. This was high school. Everything was bigger. No one would call me by my familiar 'Motown'. To my brothers' dismay, Mom promised to purchase me a pair of Air Jordan's if I made the team. It was 1985. Air Jordan's were huge. My brothers didn't own a pair between them. Of course they elbowed each other. What a joke. They knew I wouldn't make the team anyway. I agreed to try out. I doubted I could measure up to the high school standards.
The day of tryouts arrived and some where deep within me awoke basketball skills I didn't even know I had. I played the most amazing afternoon of basketball I've ever played. Ever. Rebounding, running, shooting, free throws, defense, and dribbling. That was easily the most shocking part of it all. I dominated at dribbling. I'm tall. Dribbling wasn't my thing. The tall girl as the last one handling a ball during the dribbling knock out drill? Counter intuitive. But there I was when they blew the whistle. About 50 girls - sophomores and freshmen, some point guards no less, gathered around the fringes of the court in clusters after being knocked out. Freakish. I recall looking around, but there wasn't anyone there that knew me from my 'Motown' days. They would have been scratching their heads. I felt as if I was floating above the gym watching this happen to someone else. Dreamlike.
I remember calling Mom from a payphone in the school hallway. "Looks like we are going to go shopping for Air Jordan's." My brothers weren't laughing anymore . . . certain they were living in an unjust world.
One night before practice Mom decided to cut my hair. While I was eating. Her technique involved the use of a plain straight edge razor blade. This tool helped her achieve the feathered look - at least that's what she claimed. On this particular night, I leaned over my plate and tried to eat as fast as I could because #1. I was late for practice, and #2. I wanted to ingest the dinner before tufts of hair drifted into my food. No joke. Blame the lighting or the odd angle my munching head protruded at over the table, but the next day I attended high school with a border line buzz cut. Awful. The basketball teams were introduced to the entire school that afternoon during the fall pep rally. Our school building was divided into a side for girls and the other side for boys. I imagine some fans suspected that I had wandered over from the boy side. . . I digress.
The bummer about displaying raw talent at tryouts was the disappointment that followed. Not my disappointment - my embarrassment. Embarrassed that I was disappointing coach. I felt like I pulled a fast one on the coach. Perhaps I should have requested a private audience with her in order to share the truth about my crappy basketball skills before the final cuts were made.
The test of a true athlete vs. an accidental athlete: leaning forward off of the bench hoping to remind the coach to toss you in the game so you can light it up vs. feeling relieved at not being chosen to go in the game because you don't want to mess up the game for your team. My avoidance approach to the game departed from the major jock persona I presented at tryouts.
Eventually I felt the pressure. Scoring pressure. One night we creamed our opponent. I received more playing time than I deserved. After the game, congratulations shot across the bus directed at the bench warmers who scored. Despite my additional time on the court, I still failed to sink one. The season was slipping away and I still hadn't made a basket. I broke down and cried on the bus ride home. Now my secret - that my lack of scoring pressure was bugging me - became obvious to the entire team. Damn that awesome tryout day. Easier to suck 365 days a year rather than suck 364 days a year.
My brothers eventually got their laughs in. They came to games strictly for the comic relief. Everything I did was scrutinized from my inability to get open, to the goofy stance that coach taught us to use when boxing out after free throws. Mom chuckled right along with them at the box out thing. I swear I was following coach's directions. Of course I was wearing Jordan's and my brothers weren't.
It was high school. Insecurity reigned. I was a freshman. Self consciousness consumed. Self doubt surrounded life in general, not necessarily performance on the team. It was cool to be on JV getting to know other freshmen and sophomores, but each giggle and snicker that rose up from conversations across the room caused me to wonder. 'Were my failing abilities on the court the butt of a joke?' I worried that the sophomores disliked me. The whole group rallied around me on that tearful bus ride. My defense was appreciated, I ran the offense well, I made good passes, etc. Nice, heartfelt sentiments. I choked down their camouflaged pity like the air I was desperate for after sprints in practice. Air always helped, but it didn't eliminate the ache in my whole body. What I really longed for was the ability to excel at the sport like so many of them did.
I was fouled in one of our final games. My first free throw shot swooshed. Finally. Before I knew it, the entire bench jumped up, rushed the court, and celebrated with high fives and hugs at the top of the key. The baffled ref gave a confused look with the whistle dangling from the corner of his mouth. "Sorry, it's my first basket of the season," I explained as he handed me the ball for my next shot. I missed.
I can't say when my basketball career ended that year that it was due to an injury. Unless you count my wounded self esteem. Why continue on and give my brothers anymore material in the 'let's make fun of Ernie' scenario? Of course the stars aligned, and they both walked onto the Notre Dame basketball team in college. My Air Jordan's offered great support when I landed a job at Burger King that spring and worked long shifts. I know: a horrible hair cut, little athletic ability, and a Burger King job - I had it all!
March 22, 2014
Let them eat cake
I'm not a teacher, but I work in a school. Today Rick, a junior high teacher, celebrated his birthday. My office is on the other side of the school, but I was in the teachers' lounge dropping something in one of the teacher's mailboxes when Rick was offering people the remaining pieces of his birthday cake. Ice cream cake. Thanks. I helped myself to a sliver. Awesome timing. Even better cake. I learned against the counter and chatted with some teachers while I ate. It appeared everyone had already enjoyed their cake. Rick got up and left the lounge. Melting ice cream cake. It called to me. I swear. Not wanting to see it go to waste, I cut myself another sliver. One full, lone piece remained. As I repositioned myself against the counter, Rick reentered the lounge. Another staff member following him in. Expecting cake. I heard her ask what the occasion was. He admitted it was his birthday. One of the teachers who just witnessed my gluttony, informed Rick that only a single serving remained. I swallowed another bite. Rick whispered something about two people being in the office, and how he had to offer dessert to both of them. I wished I could disappear. Someone suggested one plate, 2 spoons. Freezer brain happens to all the wrong people at all the wrong times. I longed for such an intense case of freezer brain that I would collapse and inadvertently redirect the focus off of who is eating a treat in the teachers' lounge and who might need medical attention in the teachers' lounge. Slivers of ice cream cake don't stricken people with freezer brain, even if necessary to save face. Although I'm usually quick with a joke, I failed to say something to transform this awkward situation into a humorous one. After all, who can hold a plate of half eaten ice cream and make a joke while other people have none? Not me. Perhaps I take dessert too seriously, but I couldn't make this into a joke while I was licking the ice cream off my lips. Wait, what was that? Were the teachers whispering? Did I sense a look? A nod? Too much ice cream in a mouth can interfere with the ability to form comical remarks, so can guilt and self consciousness. I refrained from licking my paper bowl in front of the co worker who now carried the soft pile of ice cream to her office - perhaps to share with the woman who had no cake.
I've only worked at this school a year and a half. I don't have the teacher bond. We're friendly. Some of them are getting to know me, which is hard since I sit far away from the school portion of the building. My job doesn't require me to interact with them too often. Gail, who is one of my favorites, and did share a laugh last week when the gym teacher, Dott, refused to eat her lunch because Gail had unknowingly sat in Dott's favorite chair in the lounge. I caught myself mid chortle, and wondered whether or not I should be laughing as hard as I was. What was worse: the fact that Dott cared what seat she parked her caboose in or that she was admitting to her toddler like frustration to other adults? Or was it worse that I had more cake when other people were denied? To be honest, I'm sure it didn't help matters that most of the teachers are dieting and competing in a 'Biggest Loser' competition while I am blessed with a crazy high metabolism. To the naked eye, or shall we call it the starved eye, it appeared that a thin woman wandered into the lounge and helped herself to two pieces of birthday treat. It reality, it was just 2 slivers but I'm guessing dieting women don't see it that way. In my defense, the teacher crowd was enjoying a healthy sized portion of cake when my 2 slivers barely equaled one piece.
Yesterday I struggled all afternoon because the lunch I packed was insufficient for my hearty appetite. Didn't have that issue today though. Two tiny pieces of cake plus one dose of guilt and my preoccupation with food disappeared.
Probably should cut my blogging time down for tonight, since I need some time to update my resume. Although . . . if I quit my job, I'll always fear that every birthday celebration at that school will have a reference to my ice cream cake pig-out. Simple math though. Two slivers = 1 whole, or less really. You'd think teachers would get that.
I've only worked at this school a year and a half. I don't have the teacher bond. We're friendly. Some of them are getting to know me, which is hard since I sit far away from the school portion of the building. My job doesn't require me to interact with them too often. Gail, who is one of my favorites, and did share a laugh last week when the gym teacher, Dott, refused to eat her lunch because Gail had unknowingly sat in Dott's favorite chair in the lounge. I caught myself mid chortle, and wondered whether or not I should be laughing as hard as I was. What was worse: the fact that Dott cared what seat she parked her caboose in or that she was admitting to her toddler like frustration to other adults? Or was it worse that I had more cake when other people were denied? To be honest, I'm sure it didn't help matters that most of the teachers are dieting and competing in a 'Biggest Loser' competition while I am blessed with a crazy high metabolism. To the naked eye, or shall we call it the starved eye, it appeared that a thin woman wandered into the lounge and helped herself to two pieces of birthday treat. It reality, it was just 2 slivers but I'm guessing dieting women don't see it that way. In my defense, the teacher crowd was enjoying a healthy sized portion of cake when my 2 slivers barely equaled one piece.
Yesterday I struggled all afternoon because the lunch I packed was insufficient for my hearty appetite. Didn't have that issue today though. Two tiny pieces of cake plus one dose of guilt and my preoccupation with food disappeared.
Probably should cut my blogging time down for tonight, since I need some time to update my resume. Although . . . if I quit my job, I'll always fear that every birthday celebration at that school will have a reference to my ice cream cake pig-out. Simple math though. Two slivers = 1 whole, or less really. You'd think teachers would get that.
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