Taking This Advice Might Help Allergies But May Harm The Family Unit

So I'm reading through my regular morning news sources and find this report on allergies.  Living in a household filled with hacking, sneezing, and coughing, I decide to click on the link and see what this allergy doctor has to say since we are eating allergy pills like Chiclets around here, and I'm pretty sure that can't be good for you long term.

The allergist talks about all the things I already know, offering a little primer about springtime and flowers and pollen and the whole cycle of life filled with little tidbits of useful information.  See that cloud around the juniper bush?  That's pollen.  Don't walk through it.  Believe me, mud puddles hold far more allure than yellow clouds hanging over a juniper bush.

I read on.

1. Keep the windows closed, especially when windy.  I can do that.

2. Change air filters regularly. Hmmm.  Do they mean the one above the stove or the one in the garage vacuum system? Oh, maybe they mean the ones I bought for the kids to wear on their walk to school.  Yeah, that didn't work out so well.

3. Wash your hair after coming indoors.  Who's sponsoring this story, I wonder.  Procter and Gamble?  I picture my day following this little tidbit of advice.

6 AM: I walk out to get the paper.  I come inside and wash my hair instead of sitting down to read the paper with my first cup of coffee.  I make the kids late for school because I'm busy blow drying my hair instead of getting them out the door.

8 AM: I let the dog out to go to the bathroom and follow her to make sure she isn't helping to fertilize my fledgling garden plans.  I come back in and wash my hair.  I am late to a business appointment, but at least I don't have pollen in my hair.

11 AM: I get back from my business meeting.  I wash my hair.  I don't have time to put on a load of laundry but at least I still have time to get groceries.  Then I realize this means washing my hair, so I decide Cheerios and leftover meatloaf will make a fine dinner for the family.

2 PM: I pick up the kiddo at the bus stop.  I think about letting him walk home alone, but figure that if this is the day that some freak is out there at the bus stop, I'd better be out there to get my kid home safely.  He asks to play with a friend, but this means another trip to pick him up.  I tell him no, that he can just play violent video games instead.  While he plays Halo, I go wash my hair.  Again.

4 PM: I realize I haven't put an important business letter in the mail.  I hurry out to catch the mailman.  My hair is still wet.  Do I really have to wash it again?  I picture all that pollen landing on my wet hair and rush for the shower and my half-empty bottle of shampoo.

7 PM: My kid remembers that he needs to make a poster for school.  I try to talk him into using half of an empty computer box, but he thinks the teacher will give him a bad grade.  I weigh which is worse - waging war with a teacher to get a better grade or washing my hair yet again.  We head to the store and come home with a fancy poster board.  My kid works on his project while I go wash my hair, squeezing out the last drops of the shampoo bottle.

And then it hits me.  I cannot leave my house again.  I am out of shampoo.  


4. Do not bring clothing that has been outside into the bedroom.  I picture how this would work with our bedroom right off the kitchen.

"Excuse me, kids.  Don't look now but Mom is going to strip down naked right here in the hallway so I don't have itchy eyes tonight." 

Oh, yeah.  I'm thinking CYFD would be out here in no time to deal with that little situation.

I sigh and decide that as well-meaning as this allergist's advice might be, I think I'll pass.  It's better this way.  Really.

One Proud Mom

It's been a long, long while since I've posted to this blog. Between starting a new company and all that life throws at us ... well, time just gets away. But today I just had share these amazing videos of my daughter's drawings. I can't draw a stick-figure, and yet my child can create the most amazing artwork. I am one proud mom.

The drawings are created using the Facebook application Graffiti. One arrived on my Facebook profile this morning. What a lovely way to start the day.

And so enjoy the transformation from blank slate to completed project. And may your day be viewed through your own set of rose colored glasses. Mine are firmly in place today.

Fresh Towels, Anyone?

Photo credit: dmscs from morguefile.com

I belong to a Health Club. Translated that means I get towels at the front desk. Little hand towels to wipe my sweaty brow. Or big towels to make a soft bed in the locker room instead of getting sweaty at all.

I pay a LOT for the towels at the front desk. Let me repeat that: a LOT.

Oh, the Club says I get a lot more than just fresh towels. They say I get the best experience in the city. I get to somehow be elite because I go there.

They tell me I get state-of-the-art fitness equipment - but fail to mention that on any given day a good number of the machines are either broken or have sound equipment that fails to function. I have access to group classes, but for a good portion I also get to pay an extra fee. Did I mention they also have trainers ... who also charge a very pretty penny because they happen to work at such an elite establishment? And, of course, they have a pool. I don't even have to pay to use it. That is, I can use it when it's not shut down for repairs, cleaning, private classes, swimming lessons, ...

I can dump my kids in the daycare and go out to lunch, for an additional fee, of course. Too bad I can't still do that with my own kids, with them being teenagers and all. That might actually be worth the extra fee.

Because I belong to a Health Club instead of a Gym, I have extended hours to work on my health. Except on the weekends when they close early. And holidays. And the day before holidays. Oh, and sometimes the day after holidays. Or the two weeks out of the year when they completely close for maintenance. And, of course, besides the times when they close early for parties, private events or company functions which they fail to notify members of except for the tiny hand-written piece of paper in a plastic holder by the check-in desk.

I have a large locker-room at my Health Club. I can step around the toilet paper and towels on the floor, skip past the three bathroom stalls that are clogged or out of order, and not leave my valuables in the lockers since the sign says there have been a spate of thefts recently and the "Health Club" is not responsible for making sure the lockers actually work.

But at least I have my pride. I can be elite. I go to a Health Club, not a sweaty gym.

And a corporate letter in my mailbox just informed me that from "time to time"- as in "your next bill" - this elite experience will cost more every single month. No promise to actually fix the broken equipment, offer more classes at no additional fee, or extend the hours or slow down on the unexpected closures. Oh, no. That would be unreasonable. This increase in dues will simply ensure that I can still get fresh towels at the front desk.

Personally, I'm thinking of driving 11 miles to the closest Gym.

But those fresh towels... can I really do without them?

Time with Family or More Money? Family. Hands Down.

No, I'm not going to spout studies or reports or link to a news story. This is just pure old anectdotal evidence here. Happiness really is the key to being healthy.

About ten months ago when my husband's start-up tech company was in the middle of pulling together investment capital, I decided that it was time to put the freelance writing away and get a "real" job with steady pay to help out. I'd been a stay-at-home mom for 18 years, my youngest was 9 with two teenagers to help out with watching him, and it seemed quite self-centered to continue to watch my husband's stress level increase as the funding took longer and longer to put together.

I found a job as an events coordinator at a local museum. It was a perfect fit - most of the hours were on the weekends and at night when my husband would be home with the kids. It dealt with people and sales, two things I've always enjoyed. I'd once won a weekend trip to Las Vegas as a newlywed just for talking people into opening up department store credit accounts. How hard could it be to talk people into hosting their events at one of the most gorgeous facilities I'd seen in quite some time?

I took to the job. I liked the people I worked with, and I liked the work. I dove into it with great enthusiasm and went about proving to the staff that they couldn't live without me. In 10 months, event rentals increased 400% over the previous year. When I signed the museum up on Facebook and Twitter, the museum had bragging rights as the first city entity to get into social media. Within a month we had over 500 fans and within six months it was just a few shy of 1000. It felt good to know I could still sell, that I could make a difference in the work place.

The money was nice. In fact, after a few months, they more than doubled my pay. We paid for college books and tuition and trips and new clothes all from my income. But I was unhappy. Miserable, in fact. Not because I couldn't do the job.

I was missing out on so much at home. I missed a trip to watch my son and my oldest daughter compete in one of her last climbing competitions before graduating from high school. I missed out on potlucks and cookouts. And worst of all, I became "that mom" who sent her kid to school half sick because he couldn't stay home if I wasn't going to be there. You see, that 400% increase in rentals meant that the job required 400% more time than it had a year ago as well.

I grew to hate my job. Not because the job had changed, but because I understood the price I was paying for that extra money. Hearing my son tell me he'd tried to stay awake long enough for me to get home so I could tuck him in was the final straw. How long does a mom have to tuck in her kid when he's already 9 and won't kiss her goodbye in front of his friends? Not long, my friends. Not long enough.

And so I quit my job. Money is tighter. The new clothes budget is nonexistent. I don't care. I am home when my kiddo gets off the bus. I am home with him all day when he has a fever. I am there when my daughter gets home from her first semester of college classes. My days of interacting with her on a daily basis are truly numbered, but because I'm home she tells me about the things some of the professors are teaching, bouncing those ideas off me as a litmus test to see whether I buy what they're saying. My opinion still matters to her. I'm there with my teenage son when he gets home from high school. I can once again invite him to go with me to the grocery store where we end up talking about girls he kind of likes and classes and dreams for his future. I am there to greet my husband when he walks through the door, whether it's at 5 PM or 9 PM after a particularly long day at his company.

I am a part of their lives again.

I am happy.

Being happy really is the key to good health. Not more money. Not an easy time making the budget work. Being there, being a part of a family. It's so much better than recognition and kudos from a community, a boss, or even myself.

Someone else will do my job now that I'm gone.

I'd rather that than someone else become that important person in my kids' lives. No one, but no one should be able to do that job but me.

Oh, and things work out. I'm starting my own company I can run from home. No money yet. But that's ok. I had my husband's back when he started his, and he'll have my back now.

Google, Garage Door Mishaps, and Delivering Bad News Via iPhone

Ok, this is sad, but I have to confess it's also a little funny.

Did you know that more people visited my blog last year looking for information about garage door deaths, broken garage doors, and deaths by garage door springs than for any other search using Google, AOL, Search or Yahoo combined.

Seriously. More people than those looking for information about rose colored glasses ... the name of my blog.

And so it makes me wonder if there are that many people getting killed by garage doors or if there are that many people wondering if it would be a viable way to, you know, off that annoying mother-in-law. Who looks up information about death by garage door spring?

And so I've come to the conclusion that as a writer, I really need to give the masses more of what they want. With that in mind, I give you my latest adventure with a garage door, a Honda Pilot, and a very zealous (and worried) wife.

When my daughter - now in her first year in college - was still in a car seat, I distinctly remember the conversation one night around the table.

"Daddy, did you know Mommy drives into the garage before the garage door is up?"

Nevermind that this is an impossibility, the horror of it led to a very lengthy lecture from my beloved spouse about the dangers of driving into a garage without the garage door being up. (I'm thinking garage door springs, broken garage doors, death or maimed for life and a few other dramatizations came up in the memorable conversation.)

And so it was that I learned that I must wait for the garage door to actually go up before I could drive into the garage. Gee. Like that wasn't something I already knew.

Fast-forward to the present. I get in our trusty Honda Pilot, push the garage door opener, start the engine and wait for the garage door to go all the way up. As you can see, I'm a quick study.

I back up slowly only to hear a loud BANG on the top of the Pilot. I look up through the sun roof to see the garage door is now sitting on top of the rails on top of the Pilot. I push the garage door opener and hear a loud hum, but the door doesn't budge.

I consider my options. I can get out of the vehicle, leave it stranded halfway in the garage, and go back to bed. This seems like the best option, but I don't take it. Instead I decide to gun the engine and pull out faster than the garage door can go down.

Looking back on this, it was definitely a stupid option. But sometimes stupid and luck go hand-in-hand. I back out, put the vehicle in park, and get out to inspect the damage.

Honda knows how to make some tough rails. That's all I can say. Not a scratch in sight - which led the insane part of me to consider the option of a cover-up. I know. I missed my calling to go into politics, but such is life. And then I look at the garage door, suspended in air like a swinging halloween decoration with a large dent in the bottom panel. All I can think of is John Candy in Planes, Trains & Automobiles looking at the burnt-out, beat-up rental car and saying, "That'll buff right out of there."

I tried to buff. And bang. And hammer. To no avail. And so I did the next best thing.

I sent an email to my better half, complete with a snapshot of the damage via my iPhone. You see, I also learned back when my daughter was still in a car seat that bad news is best served hot. That way it has time to cool off before it's time to pay the piper. I wouldn't blame him if my poor husband spent the rest of the day looking up ways that someone could die by garage door spring mishaps, but he didn't share any of the research with me.