Undomestic Diva

Skeletons in the closet

I only deep-clean when I'm angry. And I was angry. Rather than be spending time cleaning out a closet and re-organizing purses, wallets, clothes, shoes and every accessory I own by color, style and length I would have preferred to be seeking revenge. That kind of angry.

It's a damn good thing I chose the closet.

Or so I thought.

Inside that closet I didn't just come face to face with bad fashion choices and ill-fated purchases; I ended up confronting my past. Notes from a marital counseling session found in an old purse. God. My wedding ring which no longer fits. Fitting. The Hawaiian carving from our Maui trip that was supposed to bring us good luck. Right. An entire box of momentos from that trip. We were already having trouble. 

I was only trying to clean out the closet.

See? THIS is why I don't clean.

Perched up on one of the shelves sat my old jewelry box which, in reality, became more of a keepsake box, having never been one to wear jewelry, even my wedding ring. I got it down, curious what memories might lie in it. Definitely handmade macaroni bracelets and necklaces from the boys, that much I could count on. 

I wasn't prepared for what I saw.

The bracelet my Dad gave me at my eighth grade graduation. The purple bow I wore at Maddie's service. The visitor badges I saved from Big T's plastic surgery. The cigar my Dad and I were supposed to smoke together on his 50th birthday and never got around to it.

And then that tongue depressor my sister made me that night in the ER. Dated and everything.

I started crying. Hard. There, on the floor in my closet I cried out loud, for no one to hear, mascara burning my eyes, letting go of I don't know what.

Everything.

Something.

Anything.

All of it.

So much has been welling up in me the last few weeks and I've complained and joked and rationalized and refused to stop and feel any of it. My past has been haunting me more than usual and in more ways than one and in my typical keep-my-head-up-high demeanor, I've carried on with a la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you-life! attitude.

It catches up with you.

It caught up with me.

People ask why I'm doing this 30 day challenge Operation Eleanor. Some have even suggested I seem so 'fearless' they are curious what my fears could possibly be. The truth is? I'm afraid of everything. Everything. And it's exhausting. It's exhausting to be constantly afraid and it's exhausting to not live the life you want to live because you're too afraid.

It's time for me to get rid of the skeletons in my closet. Or at least face them. And it's harder than I could have ever imagined.

Lucky 7

You. I don't even know how to tell you just how proud I am of you. How much I love you. How much you rock.

You are the best kind of friend a person could ask for, the defender of the playground, Mr. Do-Good, an amazing chef, the best assistant, the peacekeeper, happy-go-lucky, gracious and kind, a brilliant artist, a hard worker and so easy to love. 

Your smile - the one you were born with and has seemingly never left your face - is infectious and cathartic and it has brought me so much happiness.

You have brought us all so much happiness. 

Today is your 7th birthday. I can't believe it. Just yesterday you were all chunky legs and round cheeks and dimples. I hope you never lose those dimples.

You have grown up so much lately and I'm very proud of the little man you've become. While I hate to see the baby version of you disappear so quickly, I love watching you come into your own.

You're an amazing kid who is going to do amazing things. You already have. 

Happy birthday dude!

I love you.

{Mom}

Operation Eleanor: Here. We. Go.

Are you ready? It's time to start our little big challenge! Operation Eleanor starts today.

If you're joining me on this adventure, you can already account for one of your 30 things: This. Doing this. Check today off on the calendar.

Be sure to link up below if you're participating and add your twitter handle in the comments. Use and follow the #OpEleanor hashtag on Twitter and Instagram too. 

Wishing you a very memorable November.

-Megan

Operation Eleanor: 30 Day Challenge

Clearly I'm not one to be motivating anyone else to take this trek if I'm in need of taking it myself, but Mark Twain is. I think. I don't actually know if he's inspiring to you but this quote was like oh-so-fitting so let's just roll with it, ok? Ok! *brisk hand clap*

A lot of people had questions about how the "Do one thing every day that scares you for 30 days" challenge [which we will call Operation Eleanor and hashtag #OpEleanor] works so I thought I'd elaborate.

Here's the thing: there are no rules, no wrong or right ways of doing it so, basically, it's up to you to take the idea and run with it in your own big way.

The things that 'scare' you don't have to be huge things. They can be small moments like saying something to someone you when you would have normally held your tongue. It could be trying a new food you've always crinkled your nose at. It could be having a conversation or introducing yourself to that person you always see at Starbucks every morning. But you can conquer your bigger fears if you're so inclined. Flying? Skydiving? Snowboarding? Whatever.

These 30 things can be moments you consider very much random and blog-worthy or extremely personal and private. They can be serious, gut-wrenching moments or completely silly and irreverent or even better: a mix of the two. Most importantly, they don't need to be planned out. I have no idea what 30 things I will attempt to face in the month of November. Some will require some thought, yes. Others will find me by chance.

I know the mere idea of a whopping *30* things has got a few people shying away from the challenge. Here's the thing: this is YOUR thing. So, while 30 things is the challenge, even if you only overcome one fear, you've made progress. That's one thing you wouldn't have done before so you win.

Whether you decide to blog about it is completely up to you. Maybe it will be too personal, maybe you don't blog, maybe you will want every one of those 30 things accounted for on this here internet... Your call. You can blog as you go or when the month ends. If you do decide to tweet, Instagram, whatever, hashtag your accomplishments with #OpEleanor. Someone asked me about one of those linky-dinky-doo widgets on this blog so I can link everyone who is doing the challenge together. Yeah, let me figure that out. I'd love that.

I'm going to keep a composition notebook for daily notes and I hope to take photos whenever relevant and possible. I plan on coming back to you in the beginning of December and telling you as much I can -- what I learned, what I did, what the experience taught me, whether I fell short of my goal, etc. and I'd love to hear what you're willing to share too.

For the next 30 days, "...throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor" as Twain said. Or if Twain isn't your style, this one may suite you better:

For me, this is so very true.

Let's take life by the balls, shall we? Look out, November.

Already and just now

Some anniversaries aren't meant to be celebrated yet you remember that day so vividly you see it returning in rapid speed and spend it in slow motion, unable to escape the emotion of it.

Veterans of broken marriages promised me it would be a year - a full year - until my life regained any semblance of normalcy again but I shook off the idea, pledging to myself that I wouldn't allow it to take another year from me. No, I would be the exception to this rule. I would find a new normal quicker than that.

Yet here I am. Already and just now. Exactly one year later from that fog of a day I remember so clearly. And there is nothing normal about my life. Everything is new with a touch of old, bittersweet and unexpected. The highs are euphoric and the lows are devastating. It's an uncomfortable mix of trying to learn from my past and give hope to my future and the whiplash from looking back and going forward is exhausting. It's unsettling mix of lonely and liberating, facing fears I always hid from and finding courage I didn't know I had.

I can't tell you how I got here; from that day to this one. I don't know how I survived a year of spinning circles without falling over. Because the truth is, I've fallen down a lot more than I've stood on my own two feet.

Thank god for good friends who continue to help me back on my feet.

There is no futuristic road map or emotional GPS for this sort of journey - that much I've learned. And for someone who always needs to know who, how, what and when, this has been quite a trip. Who knows where this road will take me. All I know is I just have to keep going.

Do one thing every day... for 30 days challenge

If it's the thought that counts then I owe quite a few people apologies and others owe me restraining orders. I'm also in great shape on account of how often I 'think' about going back to yoga, will have a book published any day now based on the words swimming in my head and should have millions - if not billions - in my bank account with all my brilliant ideas come-to-fruition. (I should check my balances.)

The difficulty is in the discipline; going from thinking about the things I know I can do to actually doing them. There's certainly plenty of motivation: Yoga = amazing body? Yes, please. Published memoir = bucket list item complete? Huge sense of accomplishment. And so on. But when comes to focusing my efforts on making these things happen? Well, I'm the queen of imagining the happy ending without even beginning with Once Upon A Time...

So I'm challenging myself. Actually, Eleanor Roosevelt is challenging me to "Do one thing every day that scares you." For 30 days I'm going to see what happens when I bully myself into bravery and document the details to see what happens when I stop being imaginative and start making life happen.

Since 30 days has November, there is no better timing to take life by the balls. I'm pretty sure that's what Eleanor meant.

And you? What are you waiting for? I'm challenging you to do the same.

Ready. Set. Go.

Come around

I met her within a few days of her family moving into the house four doors down and across the street. It was socked-in foggy, typical for October in our town, the day I put one sneaker in front of the other and shyly introduced myself with a piqued curiosity at the idea of another girl my age on the street with no other children. We instantly adhered to each other - at first based on the childhood friendship rules of geography - and quickly thereafter because it was obvious we were meant to be friends.

Of all the things we had in common - and there were an uncanny number of them - our physical appearances were the most prevalent to strangers wherever we ventured. "Are you twins?" No. "Yeah right!" And we laughed. This was always funny to us in a way that it would never be funny to actual sisters. We even dabbled in dressing alike, dying our hair the same colors - every color - and driving our parents crazy as partners-in-crime, acting as each other's alibi, wingman, excuse and beggar when necessary.

Before the freedom of four wheels and the trouble of boys, we were inseparable and passed the time in this boring town with nothing to do by lying on the warm sidewalk singing Mariah Carey songs carelessly and out of tune, prank calling our classmates incessantly, trading in all our change and maybe even some of our parents' for candy at the Grocery Connection, scouring the neighborhood for trouble, ordering 12 CDs for 1 cent via mail and attending sleepovers arm-in-arm; never sleeping a wink. Over time, our friendship eroding the sidewalk between our houses with our constant back-and-forth.

High school wedged between us; she went her way and I went mine though never on bad terms, just different crowds - drill team versus newspaper staff, curly highlights versus pixie cuts - our lives never failing to intersect both in small hallways and at major crossroads.

It would be many years after school ended that we would find each other again and pick up where we left off, somewhat more grown up and yet still so similar: divorced, with sons, in the same town, the same neighborhood even, taking to the town at night only to have people ask if we were sisters. We'd laugh. No. They still didn't believe us.

Two weeks ago she got married, myself as the Maid of Honor. As I stood beside my oldest friend I couldn't help but think about how perfect it all was. It wasn't about the the venue, the outfits, the details... it was the moment. It was her. And it was him. Of course. But it was also me... getting to stand beside her, right where I was supposed to be 17 years - almost to the day - since we first met. Funny how things in life come back around.

Cockfighting for kids

Randomly, as conversations frequently happen with my boys, my 6 year old dropped an interesting oh-by-the-way-this-happened-at-school-two-days-ago bomb on the way to soccer Saturday morning.

"My friend was getting beat up by this kid and I asked him if he was getting hurt and he said yes and I said what does the kid look like and I went and found the kid."

I turned down the radio the rest of the way.

Shit.

All three of my boys are trained in MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) a full three years; the six year old a first degree green belt. He's also Mr. Peacekeeper of the bunch but when he spars? I hold my breath. The kid is a powerhouse. 

"You went and found him? Then what?"

"I found him and his friends hiding behind a wall. They started punching me."

I was clutching the steering wheel, scared to ask what happened next. We have made it very clear to the boys that they are not allowed to use their MMA training unless they need to defend themselves and - well - here we are, a situation where he had every right to defend himself.

"I blocked the punches."

"Did you punch them back?"

"No. Just used my MMA blocks."

Relief.

"So you didn't have to punch anyone?"

"Nah. Their punches weren't very good so I just blocked them until they got tired and then I got a teacher."

I sat back in my seat. I was impressed. At six years old, he had a) stuck up for someone getting hurt, b) utilized his MMA skills while maintaining the right amount of composure and restraint and c) made sure a teacher took control from there.

This is where I make my case for MMA. When I mention my boys (ages 5, 6 and 8) are MMA trained as well as nationally recognized and awarded, I hear everything from "Geez, what is that? Cockfighting for kids?" to "Oh you're raising little fighters, huh?"

No, actually.

I'm raising boys. Boys who participate, play and train in a number of sports - soccer, baseball, basketball and yes, MMA. Boys who are strictly disciplined at home and whose discipline continues at the MMA studio. Who are not allowed to abuse their training in any way. If they do use their skills in a way they shouldn't, they won't just answer to school officials and us as parents but to their sifus and senseis. They will lose their ranks and belts. They are taught respect and self control before they learn to throw a single punch and they're taught that throwing that punch is only done when it's necessary.

And sometimes, it is necessary.

My oldest spent three years being bullied to the point of complete misery and anxiety at his last school. So much so that it ended in both police and school board involvement at the end of last year and us moving schools. This, mind you, with the school having a supposed "zero tolerance" bullying stance.

Yet he never threw a single punch. He never defended himself.

I'll be honest. I wish he had. When your kid cries himself to sleep at night because the kids won't leave him alone and the school officials whose job it is to keep him safe refuse to, don't tell me you wouldn't want your son to fight back too.

This is the irony of the schools' no-bullying campaigns. Even when the schools enforce and provide consequences to the kids who are bullying (which his school didn't), rarely do they go beyond the write-ups and suspensions to actually get to the root of the problem and resolve why the event(s) even happened in the first place.

Maybe this is why the bullying never ends? Why it's being called an epidemic?

The schools have kids - even at the Kindergarten level - so scared about coming face-to-face with the principal over an altercation of any kind with another student that kids will let other kids bully them until they can't take it anymore.

If they tell on the kid? They're told not to be a tattletale.

If they stick up for themselves? They're given the same exact punishment as the kid who threw the first punch.

And the moment the bully's friends find out their buddy got "ratted out" well, forget it.

Don't get me started on the parents who refuse to believe their precious child could have ever done such a thing.

We will never encourage our kids to fight. Ever. But we will always make sure they know that they have the right to defend themselves if they have to. Because in all the anti-bullying campaigning, the school's are failing to teach our kids that they do not deserve to be pushed over, punched, jabbed, tripped, bitten, spit on and harassed by anyone. And if the schools won't remind my boys that they deserve to be treated better than that by other human beings, I will.

Do a little dance

Photo by the one & only Lotus Carroll aka SarcasticMomLC

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

I know. Trust me, I know.

It's not like I haven't sat down here in this hard wooden chair, stared at the glaring light of my Macbook a hundred times and let my fingers dance furiously along the keyboard - out of rhythm from sitting far too long on the sidelines, unfortunately - composing complete jibberish that once made sense in my head mid-steamy shower and then refused to hit publish. I've definitely been here. Just... a bit two-left-footed, I suppose.

I can't say it hasn't been frustrating; I've always been the girl to dance - not walk - her way onto the parkay floor, soaking up the spastic neon lights like energy, never needing to find the beat because it was always already in me. Then, there I was, watching everyone else with their shoulders bouncing, hips a-swaying, hair sashaying while I silently sipped my drink in a dark corner only to be enveloped with envy, seemingly unable to do the dance.

But guess what, assholes? Gloria was right. At some point, the rhythm does get you. Maybe it starts with a toe tap or a bop-and-weave of the neck. Perhaps it completely engulfs you and suddenly your entire body is shaking in maddened delight and there you are: you. You're back.

Or maybe it starts with a poorly written little post with shitty analogies.

Either way, I'm ready to get back out on the dance floor.

Being somebody else

Today, I don't want to me. I want to be somebody else.

Just for today.

(OK, fine. Maybe there are some other days when this idea appeals too.)

But especially today.

If you could be somebody else - past or present - just for a day, who would you be? Why?