Mental-Pause

A group of American White pelicans soaring over our house. LOVE them.

Hi all,

Just a note to let you know my life is chaos right now, and I will be on and off the grid for a few weeks. I am traveling to Boston this week (work, not play), I have a colonoscopy scheduled for the next week, we are still struggling with our lawn, I have been to three funerals in as many weeks, I’m slammed at work, and mentally I’m just not on top of my game. Something has to give.

So, I’m taking a page from our retreat, and I’m going to concentrate on taking care of me for a few weeks until things settle down a bit. This means I may or may not be blogging or reading blogs.

I’m calling this little hiatus a “Mental-Pause” – because I just need to hit the pause button in my life and slow down a bit.  Take stock and weed out the things that interfere with just “being”.  I’m tired of rushing around each day trying to fit it all in.

So, to quote a lovely blogging friend – Gemma at Dear Bliary– “I’ll get to it when I get to it.” Oh yeah, and “BREATHE!”.

Shipping off to Boston,

Sue

Bell Choir Reject

I don’t know if I told you guys this, but I joined the bell choir at church.  If you are unfamiliar with the term “bell choir”, it’s a choir made up of people ringing hand bells to play a musical score.  Each person has 2-4 bells which they ring when their notes come up in the piece.

Dropping these in the middle of a piece is frowned upon. Do not ask me how I know this.

I can hear you now.  “Sue?  The bell choir?  You do know you can’t use colorful metaphors when you play the wrong notes, right?  What were you thinking?”  It was a weak moment. I was tired and emotional (long story but the majority can be blamed on hormones) when the ring leader approached me (“ring leader”…get it? Hahahahaaaaa! I kill me.) one morning after church. She had an opening in the choir and remembered that I had played a few years ago as a mentor in the confirmation class and thought I would be a good fit.

A lot of factors played into my “yes” answer, besides hormones.  First of all, this was the second time she asked me – the first time being about a year ago and at that time I felt too committed (or maybe just needed TO BE committed.  You know, to the looney bin) to other things so I said no.  Plus I figured this would give her a chance to come to her senses and find someone who might actually know what they were doing.  Apparently, “coming to her senses” wore off after a year.  Or maybe she was desperate.  People will do a lot of unreasonable things when they are desperate.  Like asking nonmusical people to play in the bell choir.  Or accepting said bell choir offer.

Second, I kinda felt it was something God wanted me to do.  This has been a rough year for a lot of reasons (sadly, not all to be blamed on hormones), and my mind likes to play the Circle Game.  This is not a fun game.  It’s exhausting and frustrating and sometimes it makes me cry.  And yet, every time my mind suggests it, I’m all “Sure!  That sounds like fun!  What issue are we going to obsess about nonstop today?  My Life Is Going Nowhere?  Great!  We haven’t done that one since yesterday!”  Playing in the bell choir gave me something to concentrate on that I actually had control over.  Plus God was shoving me (rather firmly) from behind.

And finally – I love being the center of attention.  Shocking, I know.  I have always wished I had a choir appropriate voice. I have spent many a lost youthful hour belting out John Denver and Tony DeFranco songs in my trusty tape recorder, only to play them back in abject horror.

Still, I practice in the car every once in a while, to see if anything has improved. Sadly, it has not.  Dave still cranks up the radio to drown me out and my kids yell, “Oh my God, Mom. Stop.  STOP!  STAAAAHP.”

Playing in the bell choir allows me to live the dream.  I get to say things now like, “I’m sorry, I can’t attend.  I have choir practice.”  “Oh sure, I’ll come over, right after choir practice.”  “I have to be careful with my voice hands.  I’m in the choir, you know.” So now I get to be part of a choir, practice is only once a week and I get to create pretty music with a bunch of really nice (and patient) folks.  Everyone’s a winner.

Except, of course, for anyone listening, because Hello! – I can’t read music. When I played with the confirmation group, she had all of our notes color coded so it wasn’t very difficult for us to follow. When I saw a pink or green highlighted note, I rang my bell. Easy Peasy, Lemon Squeesy.

There is no color coding in the adult bell choir.  No conductor counting the measures out loud and pointing briskly at me when it’s my turn. I have to learn to read music, people.  REAL MUSIC.  And it’s seriously cutting into my obsessing time.  My own kids don’t recognize me.  “Who’s that lady over there humming at the kitchen table?”  “I dunno.  Mom?” “It’s not mom, you dork.  If it was mom, our ears would be bleeding.”  “I’m not a dork.  You’re a dork.” “No, you’re a dork.”  “No, YOU’RE a dork!”  “DORK!” “DOUBLE DORK!!”

So far, I have had about 5 practices and played in 4 services.  And I screwed up in every single one, without a single colorful metaphor escaping my lips.  Now that’s progress, people.  The rest of you will just have to worry about the world going to hell in a handbasket without me.  I’ll be over here, highlighting my notes.

Until next time,

Sue

PS.  Cake was not involved in any of the bell choir practices or services.  I have a note in to management.

 

35 Reasons Why Perimenopausal Women Are Late

A few weeks ago, a fellow blogger and author, Jenny Hansen over at Cowbell, You Need More of It posted links of blogs that left her laughing.  One of them was titled “35 Reasons Moms Are Late” from The Suburban Jungle.

As an empty nester, her post brought back many horrific fond memories of trying to dash out the door with small children in tow.  (Long tangent:  One of those memories involves trying to get my stubborn, crabby son out the door to run some errand that we no longer remember.  This particular power struggle had me reduced to writing his name on one of my wooden spoons with a black Sharpie, and then threatening him to within an inch of his life with it.  I am amazed to this day that I a) didn’t actually use the spoon, b) took time from fighting with him to write his name on the spoon and c) most amazing of all, actually finding a black Sharpie on hand.  Usually those are gone within 20 seconds of package removal.  Thankfully, both kids now laugh about the spoon thing.)

I commented that my kids are now grown but I’m still late for everything, and that maybe I should write “35 Reasons Perimenopausal Women Are Late”, which Jenny then challenged me to write.  You all know I have a tiny bit of competitiveness in me, so of course I picked that gauntlet right up…several weeks later….because, well, I forgot.

Better late than never, here are my 35 Reasons Perimenopausal Women Are Late.

1 – 4.  We can’t find our keys, purse, glasses, or phone.  Or a combination of some or all of them.  Technically, this should count for a lot more than 4 reasons, but figuring it out involves algebra or some sort of torturous math, which I have vowed never to voluntarily do again since my children graduated from high school.

5 – 7.  We found our keys, but forgot our glasses, purse and/or phone, and had to go back for them.  What woman can properly function without her purse?  No woman, that’s who.  Even Wonder Woman has a fanny pack.   And even though we all grew up when cell phones weren’t even a twinkle in Motorola’s eye, we no longer can be separated from our social media addictions longer than 5 minutes.  And we need our glasses to read our phone.  Duh.

 

 

8 – 9.  We either forgot to put the event on our calendar or we did, but we forgot to set a notification alarm, or we did that but our phone was on silent and buried in our purse, or we saw/heard the alarm and even turned off the notification, went to get dressed, and then completely forgot what we were doing by the time we got to our bedroom and figured we might as well take a nap as long as we were in there.

10.  We didn’t really want to go in the first place.  At our age, by the time we get home from work, our brains are pretty much done for the night, and a cozy couch trumps over squeezing into heels and trying to remember someone’s name at a social event (“Nice to see you again…um…is it Diane?  Debbie?  Gosh, I’m so bad with names!  Haha!”  “It’s Jim.”  Well, HE left in a huff.  Obviously has no sense of humor, that one.  What was his name again?  Bill?  Ken?  Whatever.  These shoes are KILLING me.)

11.  Hot flashes.  And not from seeing Hugh Jackman shirtless, either.  No, I’m talking about back on fire, make up running off your face, shirt sticking to your tummy roll, sweat-inducing heat, for no real reason at all, other than your hormones are now certifiably insane.

12.  Random Crying Part 1.  Okay, so you’re getting ready to go, and run across a picture of your kids when they were 2 and 5, wearing those adorable matching outfits and the 5-year-old is missing her front tooth and the 2-year-old is clutching a monster truck and Oh My God they are just so sweet – where did the time go?

My babies, back in the day

13.  Random Crying Part 2.  Where did this these flappy teacher arms come from?  And why are my boobs down around my navel?  Is that seriously a hair growing out of a MOLE?  ON MY FACE?

14.  Random Crying Part 3.  Why can’t I have a donut?  Dave gets to eat donuts all the time.  And cookies.  And ice cream.  WTF – he’s not even affected.  I eat a donut and I gain 50 pounds.  So not fair.  I’m totally not speaking to him for the rest of the day.  Jerk-Donut-Eating-Face.  *sniff*  And they were chocolate with white cream filling too.  *sob*

15 – 20.  Dealing With Pets.  Small dogs in particular.  You see, when your kids grow up and leave the nest, you tend to replace them with small, needy animals.    I see you snickering, but you just wait.  That darling yorkie-bichon-poodle-chihuahua-pomeranian-minpin-dachsund is going to melt your heart with his giant chocolate drop eyes and tiny paws, his little pink tongue licking your nose.  You will do anything for him.  ANYTHING.

LOOK AT THE CUTENESS! LOOK AT IT!

Little dogs are like perpetual toddlers. They demand constant attention, are only marginally potty trained, and can’t be left alone without the danger of household destruction.  And you will never be on time for another event in your life, because all of that unused guilt that has been building up since your children left home is now unleashed on the dog.  You can’t walk out the door until you make sure they go potty, are comfy in their kennels, have all their toys, get a treat, and Oh look at them shivering in there – how am I supposed to leave them – poor things!

21.  Random Crying Part 4.  (see above)

22.  You ate the stupid donut and now your pants don’t fit.

23.  Random Crying Part 5

24.  You popped a button on your blouse in the chest-al region.

25.  You can’t find your sewing kit to fix said blouse

26.  It’s the only shirt that matches the pants you were going to wear, so now you have to pick out new pants AND a new shirt

27.  You finally decide on a new outfit but you have to iron the pants.  Yes, some of us do still iron.

28.  You can’t find the shoes that go with this outfit because Dave cleaned the house and put all your stuff away.

29.  You pick out new shoes but they require painted toenails.  Your toenails are not painted.

30.  You find another pair of shoes that don’t require painted nails, but they gave you blisters last time you wore them (they fit fine in the store – what’s up with that?) so now you have to find band aids to bring along.

31.  You found the band aids but with all this running around, now you have to pee.

32.  Before you get to the bathroom, you trip over one of the Toddler Dogs (because did I mention they follow you everywhere?  Including the bathroom?) and you almost fall over, causing your bladder to twitch just enough…

33.  You have to change your underwear.

34.  You will be smart this time and put in a panty liner because no way are you changing again.  Where are those?  Oh yeah, in the other bathroom.

35.  You decide to just grab a quick coffee from the drive thru on your way because Lord knows you deserve a latte by now.  As you drive down the road, finally on your way, not realizing your lip must have a hole in it and by the time you get to your destination, you have a latte trail down the front of your blouse.

At this point, nobody would blame you if you went home.  But you won’t.  You’ll march in, apologize for being late, borrow someone’s Tide pen, and sit quietly while trying not to pee your pants as the latte kicks in.

And that my friends, are the 35 Reasons Perimenopausal Women Are Late – give or take a few.

Until next time-

You’re perpetually late friend,

Sue