Rekindling Old Facebook Friendships

The other day I was sent a friend request on Facebook by a woman with whom I went to high school. She fondly remembered me from a class we both were in and even had some lovely photos of my very 80s self, which she happily shared. I found it utterly fascinating that this woman had such recollection of my high school days for which I did not. I actually felt badly that I had left an impression on her and even after a cow-poke to my brain, I failed to form a single cohesive memory of her.

And then I had to remind an old friend on Facebook of all our junior high school antics. Missy lived across the street from me and we spent much of our junior high school years palling around. She didn't remember the Jordache jeans we wore so tightly that it required a hanger through the zipper to close the fly. I was stunned that she didn't recall sneaking my mother's cigarettes and teaching ourselves how to inhale. We did these things together....yet I remembered it and she did not. Maybe I didn't make such a strong impression on my friend either.

The funny thing about Facebook is that all the reconnections we make there remind us not only of how many friends have come and gone in lives, but also that there was probably a good reason we let so many of these friendships lapse.

At first I attempted to rekindle some of the previously important friendships. I felt strongly that the core people I cared about would still have relevancy to me now, even if our friendship existed a dozen or more years ago. But those efforts proved to be fruitless endeavors. Some friendships just died off because of distance or circumstance. Some faded because we went off in different directions. And others were just not people I want to be friends with anymore. It was a sad realization for me.

If Facebook has been “good” for anything, it is for the few strong connections I’ve resparked again and that was worth it. When we’re young, it was all about quantity. Now, it’s all about quality. Every now and then, we’re lucky to find a friend we somehow lost our way with and reconnect in a meaningful way. The rest of them on Facebook are just Web 2.0, social networking cotton-candy. Light and fluffy and not much substance.

I-Pod Playlists for Life

Recently, I attended a book signing for one of my favorite authors. After reading from his newest novel, the author explained it had an accompanying soundtrack that the author "scored" to his book, chapter by chapter. It would enable readers to "see" his vision by hearing, and therefore feeling, whatever emotion he was trying to convey through his writing. I thought that was the coolest idea.

So, if a CD score of a book can add pleasure to the reading experience, I wonder how much more pleasure I could derive in life by just adding the right soundtrack. I decided that night, that my new project is to create more playlists for my I-pod.

l already have a playlist for running. The “Get Your Ass Moving” playlist includes twenty songs of dancing and bump-and-grind hip-hop. It keeps me motivated and running faster.

Then I have the "This House is a Freaking Disaster" playlist that includes stadium-thumping, hair band alterna-rockers. It's the kind of collection that inspires me to throw my hair up in an Aunt Jemima-red bandanna, toss in a load of laundry and wield my Windex bottle all over the house. I can rock out while I straighten bedrooms, organize closets and put away sixteen pairs of shoes in three sizes.

I also have a great "I Work Hard and Deserve to Chillax" playlist for when I allow myself a very lazy afternoon in the pool…floating on my favorite metallic-gold raft with a vat of guacamole and chips and something chilly to drink. That playlist is comprised of mostly classic rock.

There are some other “event-driven” playlists that need to be created, such as the “Mommy’s Cranky So Stay Away While I Take My Frustration Out on This Pillow”. I imagine that will be filled with hard-core heavy metal. Then, I’ll need one for the “I’m Crying At Everything Because I’m PMSing” playlist that will probably include sappy love songs. Of course I’ll need the “Never Let Go Of My Youth Even Though It Was More Than Half My Lifetime Ago”, which will be filled with one-hit wonders from the 80s.

Finally there’s the “OK Kids, I’ll Connect With You Over Songs That are Performed by Singers Who Are Young Enough to be My Own Children.” Yes, you guessed it….Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. That’s for my girls, of course, when we dance around the house and I get to pretend I’m 6 again.

What about you? What playlists would you like to add to your I-Pod to help get through your day?

(Sarah +Palin) + (Mother + VP)= Yes

I cannot believe all of the conversations going on in the news media and in the blogsphere regarding Sarah Palin. People are not just questioning her experience and readiness to become the future VP of the United States. They are questioning whether a mother of five can possibly have the time to be VP. Personally, I'm offended, irritated and aggravated by this entire line of thought. I surely haven't heard anyone on the radio, on TV nor on the Internet questioning whether Barack Obama or John McCain is capable of leading this country because they are fathers. The question is truly inane. And any American who asks it is a schmuck.

Of course, Sarah Palin can be the second in command and be a mother. For Christ's sake, us women do that sort of multitasking all day long. It's in our DNA. As a working mother of two, I'm so disgusted that I even have to waste my finger energy typing this post. No one questions me at my job if I can perform my job functions just because I also happen to have children. As a matter of fact, my hiring manager was not even legally allowed to ask whether or not I had kids when I was interviewed. Know why? IT'S AGAINST THE LAW!

I realize that when it comes to selecting a President or other high-level position, Americans want more information on their candidate than just their resume. I get that. But it really pisses me off when I see the double standard against women. Like we're not capable of doing what we always do and be just the same as men. Especially when I consider that as a generality, women ARE better at a variety of skills that would probably help this country recover from the mess we're in:

--Multi-tasking. Being the President requires the ability to juggle many decisions at once. Our male president, Bushwacker, proves my point that men cannot multitask like women. He's taken more vacation days than any other president. If he were my employee, I'd fire him for poor attendance.

--Communication. Women are made for communicating. Plus throw in our ability to see both sides; clearly communicate our feelings; express empathy and concern; and we can talk without sticking out our peacock feathers like men. Can anyone tell me these skills would not be most helpful to resolve the Israel/Palestine conflict?

--Organized. Our great country is such a hodgepodge of people, policies, bureaucracies, etc. Imagine a women at its helm. The first thing she'd probably do is spring clean and toss out the crap.

--Education. Our educational system is in shambles. Women care about education. We'd make a difference because we realize spending money on education is probably a more worthy en devour than lots of this country's other pork-belly spending.

I'm not saying I plan to vote for McCain/Palin. I still am undecided. but I am thrilled to see a competent women on the ticket. I just wish the country would start focusing on the issues and the candidates would truly speak about what's important and tell us where they stand. Because I'm sick of hearing about the damn glass ceiling that Sarah's trying to break.

Vacation packing hell

I’m taking a ten-day vacation to an island far, far away. Maverick and I are going to celebrate our ten year anniversary (no, we didn’t intentionally plan the 10 years/10 day thing but I like that romantic idea.)

I can't wait to go. The only thing holding back my enthusiasm is all the planning that goes into packing my suitcase. Why, women, why do we complicate such things?

When Maverick packs, it's a last minute affair. For men, it's never more complicated than brown shoes, black shoes, sneakers, flip flops...I realize as I write this that Maverick may care more about his shoes than the typical man...shorts, t-shirts, dress shirts, jeans, boxers, done. It takes him about 15 minutes and half of the stuff comes right out of the dry cleaning bags into his suitcase. He's become such an expert packer that over the years, I've watched him downsize his suitcase so that any trip he goes on for almost any length of time, all his clothes can fit into one tiny 21" suitcase.

For me, I need at least a 26", plus a shoe bag, plus a carry-on. And this is for a weekend excursion. How the hell will I manage 10 days with such little luggage? I mean, could I possibly not take every coordinating pair of shoes that goes with each carefully selected outfit? Should I try to downsize the "extra" outfits, bikinis, undies, bras, work out clothes, cover ups, shorts, tanks, socks, books, lotions and magazines that I originally planned to pack as back-ups in the event that I decide not to wear any of my planned outfits?

Consider the fact that I have to pack the outfits for many different occasions while on vacation such as what wear to breakfast. Then I need beach wear, sightseeing wear, lounge wear for between the beach and sightseeing, work out clothes, and dinner wear, and after-dinner ware ;) That's six outfits per day times eight full days. Not to mention the two days of traveling to Hawaii and back, which require the proper airplane wear--you know, something that travels well, is comfortable yet stylish, keeps me warm but isn't too hot and makes me look fabulous when I hop off the jet, spritz my face with Evian (I'm dying to do that like the Hollywood stars!) and saunter on over to the Four Seasons. Really. I just can't walk into the Four Seasons looking jet-lagged and puffy.

Which reminds me that I also have to consider what to carry on the plane. I'll need an overnight bag for which to stow my books (both novel and Sudoku puzzles); two magazines (one frivolous fashion rag and one "serious" reading of Time or Fast Company); lip glosses in several shades (because I never know what sort of lip-gloss color mood I'm in until the moment strikes me); tic tacs & gum (again, one can never be sure what the momentary preference will be); pen & pencil (can't journal in pencil and can't Suduko in pen), journal; laptop; camera; makeup bag; snacks; water; socks; hoodie; neck roll; travel guides; sunglasses; I-pod...ugh, my shoulder is hurting just thinking of all the stuff I have to carry!

So I started a packing list that will never get quite done. Instead, I'll stand in my closet for hours the night before the flight agonizing over what to bring and what not to bring. I'll wish I could just Fed Ex my closet. I'll try on several combinations and drive Maverick nuts asking "which do you like better?" then I'll get aggrevated when he doesn't chose the one I was secretly hoping he'd chose. My bedroom will be in total chaos as I painstakingly pack. My bathroom and jewelry drawers will look as if they've been ransacked by a burglar. (Because of course, aside of all the coordinating shoes, I'll need six pairs of practically identical but ever-so-slightly-different earrings and necklaces to go with the outfits.)

By the time I go to bed, I'll be totally exhausted and irritable. As I close my eyes and try to rest, I'll remember that I had forgotten to buy something I desperately wanted for the trip.

Then I'll wake up early to recheck whatever decisions I made the night before. I'll unpack a few things and if there's an inch of space left in the suitcase, I'll shove in another tank, another bikini, another pair of earrings.

If you're exhausted reading this, then you can imagine how I feel after this process. By the time I zip and lock the last bag and get into the car to make our way to the airport, I'll be completely ready for a vacation. I can't wait. I just wish going on a vacation didn't require so much work.

Carefree thrill-seekers

I fancy myself a bit of a thrill-seeker. I fantasize about jumping out of an airplane...driving a Lamborghini at 140 miles per hour…surfing a killer wave…cruising on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet…moving to Europe on a whim…or just packing up our stuff and moving to another state.

Being a working mother of two doesn't often allow the opportunity to indulge in my inner fantasies. Not to mention, the thought of actually hurting myself! But these were the dreams of a young woman. Living my life to the fullest! Testing my limits!

Somehow, as we get older, and more responsible and dependable, we let go some of our young-and-careless wishes. I don’t think it’s a conscious decision; it’s just a fact of life when reality sets in that we have to prepare lunches, commute to work, and get the groceries. We put aside what we’d like to do for what we have to do. But once in a while, wouldn’t it be nice to go back to being a carefree teenager again?

When was the last time you and your girlfriends drove around with no particular destination in mind? Remember those days in high school when you'd have a whole afternoon to do absolutely nothing but whatever felt right at the moment?

Hit the beach, maybe a game of volleyball, grab a bite to eat, visit a friend, get some ice cream, listen to your favorite song and just cruise. My friends and I would put tons of miles on my Fiero. No place was too far to drive…nothing was off-limits because we had a vehicle to take us wherever we wanted to go.

The most important item of the day was whether we had good tunes for the joyride to nowhere. Life was as simple as a sunny day, the right mix-tape and a full tank of gas. Perhaps a Diet Coke, Doritos and a pack of cigarettes too. (Because remember, this was high school...)

Thrilling back then was doing donuts in the bank park lot in your mother's car. Or spending the whole night at the beach when you were supposed to be sleeping at your friend’s house. Or having a giant slumber party at the Embassy Suites after homecoming. Or caravanning with a dozen of your best friends to Spring Break. Or sneaking out of your house at night like a CIA agent to meet your boyfriend. Or getting into a nightclub with your fake ID. And who didn’t try “dine and dash” at Denny’s at 3am at least once?

I’d even went as far as to help a friend spray paint (or “tag”) a highway sign over I-75 that read “J loves Jeff”. That was so very thrilling…not to mention dangerous and illegal. But when we were caught up in the moment, both with red, flushed cheeks of excitement, we felt very much alive and happy—no, thrilled—with living life. It was a rush, a high, that lasted several weeks, especially every time we drove underneath that sign on the overpass.

The scales of “thrilling” has changed for me over the years. Now, I’m thrilled when my first grader gets her first “A” on her spelling test. I’m thrilled when I get away once a year with my best girlfriends. I’m thrilled when the Friday night traffic on my way home is light. I’m thrilled when I score a new pair of shoes on sale.

The thrills may be a whole lot less adventurous than they used to be, but the thrills of daily life, love and family are just as much fun. I guess that’s what they call “with age comes wisdom.” The acceptance and understanding that I may not ever get to bungee jump off a bridge but I still can find excitement in my life. It’s just a matter of changing one’s perspective. Of course, though, when I’m vacationing in Hawaii later this month, you can be sure that I’ll be looking for a hand gliding adventure over a volcano or something like that. Because the glass-bottomed helicopter tour probably won’t be thrilling enough.

Growing old ungracefully

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how as we grow up, we don't even realize we're growing up. We don't wake up day after day, week after week, and notice small changes within ourselves. Rather, one day we all face this big, monumental sort of rude awakening; and that’s the day you want to pull the covers back over your eyes and snooze a little longer.

One minute, we’re just chugging along in life and then it just sort of "happens" that one day we take a critical look in the mirror and think, "Hummm….I didn't notice that tiny crinkle in my eye last time I looked." Or "Was that brownish patch on my neck always there?”

Not too long ago, I had my own freak-out moment when I noticed the skin on my hands had changed. At first, I thought I needed some seriously strong cream on them. They looked dry and scale-y and not as young and taut as I had remembered. After moisturizing and not noticing an improvement, I used my pointer finger to push around the skin on the back of my hand. With disgust, I could see the veins in my hands more prominently now and when I pinched the skin on top, it didn't lay back down as quickly as it used to. I realized that day my collagen was getting old and, therefore, so was I.

And that fact just snuck up on me, without any warning. One day: feeling youngish. Next day: feeling ancient. I wondered, where else was this getting old crap happening that I hadn't closely inspected?

I ran to my make-up mirror and stared at my reflection. This time I turned the mirror over to use the industrial-strength magnification side that is typically deemed useless I’m plucking a stray eyebrow hair or squeezing a blackhead. You know the side of the mirror that shows every bump and crater on your face? The side no one ever looks good in…

So there I was..staring, and noticing, and crying, and pinching and prodding and cursing. What happened to my 20-year-old self? I grew up being told I looked so incredibly young for my age and one day I would love that fact. Now approaching 40, it would be a great time to cash in my youth chip, but instead I’m faced with my old face and body. The claim window must have closed while I wasn’t paying attention. No fair!

After the make-up mirror, I had to inflict more self-loathing upon myself by making my way over to the full-length mirror. Because when it comes to self-loathing, I can’t just be satisfied with a facial inspection. No, I must find all of my flaws to criticize at once. Why dose out the contempt in manageable chunks when I can jump right into a big bucket of self-pity?

Standing semi-naked in my closet while inspecting my body like a prison guard is not for the faint-of-heart. If you haven’t yet done this yourself, I suggest a rather large glass of Merlot to temper the experience.

Slumping shoulders? Check! Droopy boobs even with breast lift? Semi-check! Pot belly? Check! Saggy ass, thighs and kneecaps? Check, check, check!

It was not pretty. However, now I’m completely up to speed with the patchwork of fine lines and wrinkles that mask my body (I’m not even talking about the stretch marks and puckers!) I’m now oh-so-familiar with every saggy patch of skin, like the gobbler that’s making its way under my neck, to my Sahara-dry elbows of a ninety year old woman.

By the time I got to my feet, which grew a size with kids but ultimately have maintained their girlish shape, I was emotionally drained as was the bottle of Merlot. Looking at my feet, I was thankful to end on a positive note when I observed that my pedicure still looked fresh. Whew….let me at least get my priorities straight.

But I still wonder: If 40 is the new 30 then why the hell didn’t someone care enough to let my body know?