Do You Mind If I Pass?

January 15, 2013 by 10 Comments

The girls are in a production about the Civil Rights Movement.  I learned what ‘passing’ was.  It’s when a light-skinned African-American person used ‘white-only’ facilities.  Quietly, respectfully.  Not drawing attention.  Hoping just to sit on a train, for example, if they could.

Oh.

Like me?

I heard my mother and grandmother discussing an event that happened a generation or two ago.  In the process of breaking up housekeeping of one of my great-great-grandparents, a photo was found.  It was a photo of a black woman.  On the back, it said one word…

“Mama.”

At the time, I said nothing.  Sometime later, I referred to that event.  Mother just stared. It was anger and “I-don’t-know-what-you-mean?” at the same time.  Had she forgotten?  Was it a secret?

Nevertheless.

Whose mother? The answer is lost. Only Mother is alive to know it and, she isn’t talking.  There were the great-greats who both died, leaving the little girl who’d be my great grandmother, an orphan.  There is also the great-great who smoked cigars and only changed underwear twice a year–when she put on the winter underwear and when she took them off.  Her son would live 76 years, only to decide to take his own life.

Someone kept a photo labeled, ‘Mama’.

My mother was born in the 40s.  My grandmother in the 20s. My great-grandmother died in 2005 at age 93.  If she was still alive, she’d be 101.  Even given forty years for the two previous generations, that would place her grandmother’s birth in the year 1867.  Five years after the issue of the Emancipation Proclamation.  If by some chance my forebears in both those generations were older than 20 when my great-great was born, ‘Mama’ could have been born a slave.

It’s possible that the woman in the photo isn’t actually a relative at all, but a nanny.  Someone may have found a photo labeled ‘Mama’, and just never disposed of it.

Neither of those seem terribly likely, as this de-cluttering would have taken place before my grandmother was born.  Would it have been extremely likely that a white person, living in the 1920s in America, would keep a portrait of a black woman labeled ‘Mama”, if it held no personal meaning?

The photo, if kept, wasn’t kept by my branch of the family.  Of whom I am the only descendent.

May I pass?

Feel free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: acceptable level of racism, Extended Family, Imagination, life lessons, Loving, searching, where I'm from Tagged With: , , , , ,

Gritty By Grace

September 10, 2012 by 6 Comments

When I was little, we moved off the farm and into the city and mom made me wear dresses all the time.  Short ones.  Remember Cindy Brady?  That short.

I wanted jeans.  The cousin, who supplied all my clothes, passed down a pair of embroidered jeans.  I wore them until they disappeared.  When I was in 6th grade, my mom bought me a pair of ‘straight leg’ jeans. In seventh, Hazel took me shopping to dress me like I belonged to someone. I came home with Calvin Klein Jeans.  Shortly, I’m not exactly sure when, Levi’s Shrink-to-Fit 501s came in style.

And stayed awhile.

Through the years, my mom did a lot of things to give me a better education than she’d had.  We lived in better neighborhoods with better schools.  She kept me in church; finally finding the Episcopalians, with alcohol in church and being cool with divorce and incredible networking.  I sang in their whizbang choir and my fellow singers were from the best neighborhoods and attended the best private schools.  We attended the arts festival for the egg rolls.  We went to the ballet.  We ate at the Magic Pan and shopped (without buying) at high fashion shops.

It was bread and meat to a girl who couldn’t have extra-curriculars because working moms couldn’t pick kids up from practices and needed to spend their money on nachos and vodka (that’s her story and she’s sticking to it).

When I was about 11, this guy decided he was going to get to her by spoiling me (WRONG TREE!!! WRONG TREE!!!).  He profiled me– reader, straight As, wearing rags but knows where Balliet’s is.  And sent me subscriptions to Smithsonian and W.

When I began to dress myself I was strictly tailored.

My soul wears navy blue and pearls. It believes the rules are there to help us live like civilized human beings. Manners are to help others feel comfortable; not to manipulate them into pretending you aren’t being ungracious (Target Line Cutter Lady, I am talking to you). Education doesn’t stop at the 3 Rs, but extends to the arts and culture.

When I was in high school, I heard stories of wild parties.  I never was invited to one.

I dated a college guy at the end of my senior year.  On the outside, he was all conservative Republican, Son of a Fundamentalist Preacher.  On the inside, he was a monster.

Navy blue and pearls girl may have gotten a little damaged.

Lesson learned: The outside is for your mama, the preacher, and the person who watches rated R movies but condemns people who curse. The inside is what you are.  It’s what monsters want to destroy.

One day when I was wearing my navy blue and pearls, my jeans got a little rip.  I liked the little rip. Eventually, I’d find a best friend whose jeans had a little rip, too.

When I was in college, I wore my Rockies or my Wranglers when I was feeling like flying my freak flag. Which good girls aren’t supposed to have. But I do.

Jesus knows about the freak flag.

He made it, so I would not have to carry my own books.

I lavishly adore buttoned down; it goes so well with barefoot, ripped jeans, and hair loose.

Because grace is sometimes gritty and perfect love sometimes sees you in your lucky pants.

 

 

I am linking this post with PYHO @ Things I Can’t Say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: before and after, humor, life lessons, my childhood, where I'm from

My Politics

September 7, 2012 by 5 Comments

The presidential election is bearing down on us in less than eight weeks.  Everyone’s on TV acting like the Republicans have a chance.  Like it’s a race.

I don’t know anyone who’s excited about Romney.  I kinda feel sorry for him.  To be running when we all kinda know.  It’s not gonna happen.

That’s just my feelings.  My politics are different.

AN ACCIDENTAL GUIDE TO GETTING OVER MYSELF IN AN ELECTION YEAR

1) No one runs for President thinking, “I’ll be friendly til I get in, and then I’ll destroy it and go down in history as ‘that guy’.”

2) Ultimately, we all want the same things. To live life now, plan for the future and have a little something left to enjoy ourselves a little.  My friends who are philosophically at the other end of the continuum, think the order of priorities is different than I do. That’s all.

3) My life is largely determined by what I do with what I have.  Time, money, health, and education.  Who has been president hasn’t made a lot of difference in that.  He can’t make me be wise with what I have.  He can’t prevent me from being irresponsible.

4) When Bill Clinton was elected the first time, I was teaching in a private Christian school.  On Wednesday morning, I had first graders coming into the classroom crying because it was the end of America (If every guy, who did his job pretty well and had time leftover to get up to no good was the anti-Christ, we’d need an internet database to keep up with them all).

Really, Mom and Dad? Really?

Is that what Jesus would do?

No.

(for extra credit: guess why I don’t teach in a private Christian school)

5) A president is more than his stance on my pet issue.  I want the adoption tax credit to be extended.  Some people have sons in Afghanistan.  Some have children who have medical needs that are no longer covered by  insurance.  Some have children with special learning needs and their district doesn’t have enough resources in special education.

What I need more than a president who agrees with me, is a president who displays character and consistency.

I think either political party would be happy for me to vote, based solely on my pet issue as long as I vote for them.

6) It’s not worth it to me to break relationships.  In the end, whomever we elect is not coming over for Thanksgiving and we don’t have to see them every week.

7) I wouldn’t want to be president.  The secrets they have to know.  The burden of making decisions that will change the course of history, right or wrong.  I respect anyone who is willing to take it on.

8) I have only one vote.   You have only one vote.   I respect your right to decide based on lots of study, his or her position on your issue, or his or her membership in your party.  It’s your vote.

9) We live in a privileged country.  With privilege comes responsibility.  My privilege. My responsibility.  We live in a country with a dream named after it.  It’s the dream of freedom to work to become what you want.  And to help others do the same.

10) We are not each other’s enemies.

 

Filed Under: current events, horrible job, life lessons

That Summer We Lived with Grandma

September 3, 2012 by 1 Comment

She lived 25 miles from where my mom worked, and gasoline was up to $.60.

Shut up.

It was the Bi-centennial.

Grandpa had retired from the oil field and they’d expanded the garden.  Because there were more people there to help work it.

They had these two old apricot trees.  They’d been there for twenty years. Never blossomed.  Never put on fruit.  Until this year. They made up for all the years of disappointment.

For their anniversary, grandpa had made Grandma a swing.  Like a porch swing, only it sat out in the back under the mimosa tree.

The days were long and hot. In Oklahoma, the wind blows continually, not in gusts, but relentlessly.  My hair was continually blowing everywhere.  So mom kept it short.

She would leave for work early in the morning.  And I would take all Grandma’s berry baskets (collected since the great depression) and go drop on the ground beneath the apricot trees.  I would fill the baskets and take them in.  Grandma washed the apricots and returned the baskets to me.  At the peak of the crop, I could fill them up to six times per day.  Grandma added this to her full time work with the garden.

They also grew zucchini bigger than my leg from the knee down.  And green beans.  There were, of course, tomatoes and peppers.  These grandparents didn’t grow corn(the others fought the good fight for ‘roasting ears’.).  But that’s about all they didn’t grow.  I was never thorough enough to suit anybody as a green bean harvester.  Which was just as well, as my work made it possible to add apricots to the harvest.

It was not without a good deal of noise, that I did my work.  I cried at the injustice and mistreatment. And my wishing for rain gave me the opportunity to wish for the sun to come out.  It was more pleasant to pick up the apricots from the dry ground than to kneel in the mud.

Grandma didn’t love to turn the air conditioner on.  She saw it as needless waste.  Not one living person supported her in this.  Oh, in April, we all agreed.  You shouldn’t need it in April.  But in mid-July?  There were no prizes for being the last one to close the windows and turn it on.

She had her swing.  She worked like a maniac in the blazing sun or the stifling kitchen all day.  When the dinner dishes were back in the cabinet, she’d get a cold drink and her cigarettes, and go outside and sit in the swing with the sun at her back. Under the mimosas, she’d smoke and watch the hummingbirds come to the mimosa blossoms.  Mom would sit with her, too.  She’d put in a day at the medical office, come home and change and join Grandma in harvesting and canning the green beans.

By the time the weather cooled in the fall, I couldn’t eat apricots anymore.  I wasn’t filing it in the ‘great moments of my life’ file. But now, I think about my equal role in the work.  I didn’t sit around nagging about the two activities I was willing to think of as fun.  A lot of hard work made me grateful as a Pilgrim for time to read or write or play or watch tv.

I think I’ll move that summer from the “Argh” file to the “Good stuff” file.

 

 

 

Filed Under: food, Gratittude, life lessons, my childhood, Uncategorized, where I'm from

Music Shapes Minds and Hearts

August 25, 2012 by Leave a Comment

,A week month or so ago, Jennifer @ Momma Made It Look Easy asked a question on Facebook:

“Let’s talk song lyrics. What do you do about sexually suggestive song lyrics when they come on the radio? For example, Flo Rida’s new song Whistle, Katy Perry’s Peacock, DEV’s Dancing in the Dark. Do you change the station? Tell your kids they can’t listen because it is inappropriate? Does that open up the door for more questions? How do you explain it is inappropriate? Or do you just hope that they don’t figure out the meaning or start singing it in the produce aisle at the grocery store?“

I started by trying to listen to the link to a video that Jennifer had provided.  Oops.  That’s not one I would even listen to with the kids in the room. By the time I scrambled to stop it, 24 seconds had passed.  Plenty of time.

Whistle, indeed.  It was an oral sex tutorial.

My simple answer: I turn it off.

Is anything that simple?  When your children are small, maybe you can turn it off and if they protest, say,”What?  Oh.  I wasn’t paying attention to the song. I’m just trying to find a station with the weather on.”

Not here.  Not anymore.

When I was a kid, we listened to the radio, a lot.  My husband’s favorite freakish gift of mine is that I have a nearly complete catalog of 1970s pop lyrics in my head, accessible at any time.  Off the top of my head, I can list several that are about  intercourse, oral sex, or masturbation–all hits on the Adult Contemprary Top 40 before 1985.

 I went around singing whatever was on. I wonder what boys thought.  I wonder what random men in public places thought.  I don’t wonder much.  Neither, do I wonder, now that I am an adult, familiar with idiom and euphemism, what men think, when my daughters sing along to the greatest hits of their time.

Periodically, I take the lyric of a song and parce it out for my daughters. They hate this.

Yet, I’ve noticed, if they are listening to the AC station regularly, they become even more oppositional, even more self-centered, and begin to dress with less regard to fashion or self-respect.

Some songs have to do with suicide, stalking, infidelity or one night stands. The middle ground is selfish, self-centeredness and inflated ego, mixed with tales of co-dependency and a search for meaning in mediocrity.

We become what our hearts meditate on.

It’s a parent’s privilege, not only to guard their children from too much information too soon, but also to grow those people’s hearts into unselfish, hard-working, imaginative, healthy adults.

Trouble is, the radio station is marketing to young adults aged 18-24, and they like it dirty.

The strategy that works best in our home is a full toolbox:

–Ask them to turn it off.

–If it’s my option, I turn it off.

–If it’s somewhere that the radio doesn’t belong to us– a)distract,  b)re-direct, or c)leave the area.

– “Please don’t sing that song. I know it’s just a catchy tune, but it says two things and one of them is not nice.”

“What, Mommy?”

“You don’t need to know.  You just have to trust me.”

Just like God says to me, when He asks me to relinquish something mediocre for an excellent promise I will not receive until much later.

Filed Under: contemporary music, current events, life lessons, movies, my childhood, parenting small children, Parenting Teens, radio, Talking about Sex

Let’s Salsa!

August 22, 2012 by 2 Comments

Thursday, last week, we had to be across town and our route took us past the roadside stand where I like to get peaches as often as possible.  Yay.

In addition to peaches, she had a basket of “salsa tomatoes”, meaning tomatoes that were a little too ripe for slicing or salads.

We picked up some of each and on Saturday, while Mickey was at his volleyball tournament, we waded into a totally new experience.  We canned our own homemade salsa.  I used this recipe. And used the links in the post to get the canning information.

First, I threw dinner in the slow cooker. Swiss Chicken.

This photo is a nosehole bad friend and won’t stay right side up.

Then I made some sun tea with a raspberry herbal bag thrown in.

As if I do anything all natural anymore.

To peel, dip tomato in boiling water for 15 seconds.

Then into ice water.

The skin will pull right off. This is fun.

Everyone wants to help.

We chopped onions and green & jalapeno peppers.

Mixed spices.

This child feels that, if she stirred; she is is the one who claims the glory.

Looks like a fiesta already.

And she stirs…. cook for 20 minutes after it reaches a boil.

2 quarts, 4 pints.

 

We’ve never canned before, but we used only jars, rings and lids we had around the house.  That’s why it was economical for Grandma.

It came out good, but spicier than I was expecting.  About half the tomatoes were orange, causing the color to be exactly the color of a tomato sauce stain on your new white Ann Taylor t-shirt.  I substituted lime juice for the vinegar in the recipe and added cilantro.

There are no pics of the canning portion because my help clocked out.  There was porch-sitting to be attended to.

Have you ever canned?  I was surprised how easy it was.  What are your favorite things to save for winter by canning, freezing or drying?

I am linking this post to Wordful Wednesday at Parenting by Dummies.

Filed Under: Cooking, food, Gratittude, life lessons, Story, tea, Uncategorized, where I'm from

Flying Surrender

August 18, 2012 by 2 Comments

In previous posts, I’ve alluded to my opposition to using medicine to numb an unspecified pain to the neutralization of pleasure.

Week before last I gave up.  In a haze of pain, a clouded mind, I  got the appointment.  By the time the appointment came around, I delivered myself bawling to the doc.  She shares my faith and respects my feelings about drugs.

Mid-week they called me with results and asked it I just wanted to go ahead and start the anti-depressants.

I said, give me until the follow-up appointment next week to decide.

Thursday, I read this post by Diana.  I asked a question.  Got a couple of answers.

Yesterday, I felt better than I have in years. I’ve slept all night every night since Wednesday last week.  My focus is 100% better.  I have a high powered anti-inflammatory and am not yet pain free. Three visits into PT (One of the girls has a crush on the PT’s intern. suh-pri-ize.).

I’m ready to stop being smarter than the meds, the doctors, science and God.  I wrote all that the other day about coffee, sugar and exercise, and the deal is– part of the reason I feel bad is that when things are falling apart I add to the plates I want to keep spinning.

The achilles heel of the good girl.

It’s been nearly a quarter century since I took the medicine.  Science has had time to work on it.  Science, like it or not, produces things that God uses to care for his kingdom.

Friday morning,looking at logistics for next week, I realize it’s not going to happen without moving things around.  So I call and explain my situation and ask if I can have my follow-up visit TO-day.  They said, yes.

I determined to ask all my questions.  And go with what the doc said.

Bend my neck. Humble myself.

Surrender.

The doctor said that based on the results so far, I don’t need them at this time.

(She said she couldn’t believe the difference between the person she saw in office 9 days ago.)

It seems it’s never the insomnia or fear or stressful events.

Maybe it’s only ever opening my hand.

Letting go of what I’m holding onto that I think is keeping me safe.

Handrails, steering wheels, reins, joysticks.  The control.

I used to call it letting go.  Now, I call it surrender.

Surrender.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Gratittude, life lessons, surrender Tagged With: ,

Enough is Enough?

August 9, 2012 by 4 Comments

This will be the post that gets an ugly anonymous comment. (All real bloggers get them.) I can feel it.  I have to write it.  It is not about a blog or  bloggers who link to a couple of memes I am aware of that have to do with what I am about to say.  I think the internet has room for all different beliefs.  I think they are on trend rather than responsible for the basis of the trend in thinking.

What I have to share today is fueled by my real life experience.

Women  tend to get hung up in the idea of not being adequate to the task before them.  Tasks.  We have to do like the cologne ad from the 70s…”bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never let him forget he’s a man.”

Actually, the ad was based on a remake of a song (the writer’s grandchildren will probably emerge and sue me. They can have all the money I’ve made off the blog. I’ll dig through the bottom of my purse.)

I digress.

We get hung up.

When we’re small, the only expectations we have to deal with are those of our parents; we don’t have any for ourselves, yet.  As we grow, we add those of teachers and peers.  At some point, we begin to feel expectations for ourselves, but they’re freighted with what others expect of us.  As we become adults, we hope to be productive citizens, adding the expectations of employers, employees, a spouse and the culture to the load we bear.

I’ve been seeing and hearing a whisper on the wind of something I believe will become a movement.  It’s on coffee mugs and tote bags.  Blogs and Devotional books…

YOU ARE ENOUGH.

I think what this is attempting to say is, “Do what you can and don’t worry about the rest”.

Maybe, “Don’t carry around others’ expectations,”…which are both good things.  If that’s what you’re trying to say, say it.

If I’m enough, I wouldn’t need anyone else.  Isolation makes people lose perspective.  We’ve seen it in a lot of different ways, from our crazy uncle to people who shoot guns into crowds.

This kind of thinking is arrogant.  “I am all I need.”  Bit of a slap in the face to those who support you and take up your slack.

We need others.  Husband or wife, kids, faith community, neighbors (ever locked yourself out of your own house? At night?).

It’s difficult to reconcile self-sufficiency with scripture.  Jesus Christ, Himself, had helpers.

What would we do without each other?  I don’t know what I would’ve done without my blog friends over the last three years.  I don’t know what I’d do without my IRL friend, CMK; she’s like an older sister who felt like mom spoiled me too much.  Sometimes, that’s just what I need.

Today,  I need a physical therapist, a grocer and a curriculum publisher.  Yesterday, I needed a doctor, a pharmacist, and the gal hanging out the drive-thru at the Taco Bell.  Tomorrow, I will go out of the house at 9:30 p.m. with the gals, to help decorate for a wedding for a gal who doesn’t have family to help her.  Last week, we shopped the thrift store that benefits the battered women’s shelter.  A dress we donated was in the display, while my daughter located Hilfiger khakis for $8.

If I’m enough, how come It Takes A Village?

I’m not enough.  If I was, I wouldn’t need Jesus.  I wouldn’t need to go out for girl’s night out.  Or to go to a blog conference or to church or homeschool co-op.

I am so terribly grateful to be less than I need.

 

Filed Under: blogging, Gratittude, life lessons

Grounded. Together.

August 6, 2012 by 2 Comments

If you’re new here, and I hope at least 50 or more of you are, my blog is to record things I want my children to know.  Now that my face is actually blue, I need a transcript, so when they say, “WHY DIDN”T YOU TELL ME!!!”  I can say, “See, Honey, I tried.

Another function of the blog is to give a gentle heads-up to the parent of young children.  A significantly filtered look into the future.  An opportunity to prepare, but not enough information to scare.

Or whatever.

This is the first time the girls are completely grounded.  There have been times we’ve removed certain privileges, but never an across the board “cultural lockdown.”

Here is why.

There’s this wise-sounding piece of parenting advice that reminds parents not to punish themselves.

That is wrong and deceptive.

First, that ship sailed when the pee hit the stick.

Second, If you aren’t willing to be inconvenienced to make an impression on your child’s heart and mind, you will visit judgement upon your future self in the form of the kind of sludge I am shoveling now.  It shows what is most important…the child’s character or getting to girls’ night.

–leave Target and take her “I’ll-by-gosh-have-this-Barbie-or-know-the-reason-why” tantrum throwing butt to the car.  Text your husband to bring you a magazine and a hot black coffee and whatever was on your list.

–cancel the play date, skip the birthday party: tell the mom, “Sorry.”  If she asks why, she’s rude.  You can’t make it.

–call the coach and tell him you are missing practice.  Yeah, I said it.  Another day, I’ll climb on my soapbox about young athletes thinking they’re above the law.  Not today.

I count on the above activities as a break from being the organ grinder’s monkey who has to perform if they drop a penny in my cup.  Maybe because it’s summer, I hear an endless, “CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?” (Recently, I told them to stop asking coming to me for permission to do things(that call for a ruling) and look around for things they already know they have permission to do.)  They’re hip-deep in pre-qualified, socio-cognitively rich, entertainment options.

I digress.

I was on inconveniencing yourself.

Do it, now.  Just a few startled looks from now, that child will believe you when you talk.

Don’t be like me.

They are just wrapping up week one of a 35 day “cultural lockdown” (it’s the new grounding [Not really, I made it up and hope it catches on]).  I COULD NOT BE MORE GRATEFUL THAT THE ISSUE IS WHAT IT IS. While I am not glad to have “Flaming-Trousered Prevaricators”, I could be dealing with worse.

Currently, I haven’t been alone except to bathe (and then only 77% of the time) in a week.  We started school this week. I did it because if we had more to do we would not have had so much time to come up with stupid ideas (or join our sister on the crew of the SS ‘Ignorificance’).

They are ‘killing me softly’.

Being grounded when you’re a kid, you’re not observing yourself.  I’m watching them, and can tell they don’t get that they took the risk and, by extension, chose whatever happened when they got caught.  They don’t see “this hurts me more than it hurts them” and may cause my death if I don’t get some time away from them.  They don’t see the whole point is that they’re missing things they’d like to do.  And I don’t care.

But I do.

No, I don’t.

It all depends on when you want to put in the time.  You can do it early.  Or later on.

Most things in life are like that.

So we’re all just…grounded.  Together.

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: blogging, Gratittude, humor, life lessons, Parenting Teens

Yesterday’s Music, Tomorrow’s Dance

July 20, 2012 by 10 Comments

If you’ve been following along, SOMEBODY hates a cliche.  That same somebody, is one.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Maggie is having a mid-life crisis.

As we left our heroine, she was apologizing to the mother of a grown man for the accuracy of her remaining vision-the simple ability to discern an attractive adult male from a troll in the visual field.  Having forgotten almost entirely that the man in question is 10 months older than someone she’s been shooing away from her daughter for a year. She joined her 15 year-olds watching interviews on You Tube.*

Finally registering the distant sound of tires screeching and horns blaring.

HEY MAGGIE.  IT’S GONE.  THERE IS NO GOING BACK.  Step back and look, Darling.  No one will ever sing to you again about your flipping hair.  You worry about being that mom who is acting like her teen.  This is her.  She thought she’d take a break in the fun to raise some kids and then go back to charging around being spontaneous and irresistible.  Now her kids are approaching that time in their lives, she’s thinking she’ll just dust off her dance moves and join the fun.

Then she takes a new picture.

And. Sees. Her….  Jowls.

No, that wasn’t her, that was me.

Let’s tally up the score.

1) Face it.  You aren’t getting around like you used to.

2) You are old enough to be the ‘cool aunt’ for people who own their own homes.

3) You are appalled by little kids singing, “we-broke-up-but-Imma-stalk-you-or-you-stalk-me-K?” songs.

4) You keep thinking you’ll get back down to the weight you were in college.  No, Girl. You need that last ten pounds to fill in the loose skin.

5) Barring accident or injury, you are halfway to death.

6) Go quietly.

Back in my time, we had a saying,…

“Like hell.”

ACCIDENTAL MANIFESTO FOR THE SECOND ACT

Grow up. Stop thinking magic works like that.  Magic happens when the callouses on your work-hardened hands click together and make sparks.

You can’t be the cool grandma, when the time comes, if the baby gets scratched on your navel ring**.

Nothing is as sexy as dignity.

 

By the time you were your daughters’ age, you were managing your life.

Stop complaining about them expecting to be waited on, if you won’t let them do the job.

All your “reasons” are legit.  If you don’t move on, they become “excuses”.

Do NOT pass that on to your kids.

Quit being vain.  Take care of your appearance.

If you won’t exercise because you’re embarrassed, the arthritis will come for you.

If you won’t take care of your skin and hair because of money or time or “those products don’t really work”,

the mirror will not pull any punches. Don’t complain about the lighting.

Get over your boobs.  No one cares.

There’s no promise you’ll get to keep them.  Appreciate them.

Keep them under control, but don’t apologize.

Dance.

Work.

Feel Beautiful.

Love.

This second act, unlike the first, which was largely written by others, must be entered on purpose.

Head up, eyes open.  Because you learned in the first act what you can trip over.

Enter strong.

This is when the reviews are written.

 

* If you are dancing in the 100th row, with a phone you just fished out of Chelsea’s Sprite, the video sucks; be ashamed to upload it.

**This is not to say I’ve ruled out the navel ring, but there will be no ink and a granny must categorically never sport a bare midriff.

***photos have been removed because I can’t

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Accidental Guide, body image, current events, humor, life lessons, my age, Niall Horan's Mom, Parenting Teens
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