Welcome to the New Digs!

Hi Readers! Welcome to the new page and thank you for making your way over. This is going to be my new home, I hope that you pull up a chair and join me.
I started this journey nine months ago on a recommendation by friends. It was outside of my comfort zone but firmly at the top of my Bucket List.  I was totally unprepared for the life it would take on and the inspiration I'd find by being a writer on a regular basis, and by having the love and support of you guys, my audience.
Over these months, I have grown, I have learned and I have found my True North. I have found every day magic and inspiration and I have you to thank.
Thank you a million times over. I hope that I can give back to you a fraction of what you have given to me by your support, your following of this blog and your recommendations of my blog to other people. I am humbled.
XOXO,
M

My Parenting Style Decoded: Im French! Who Knew?

Parenting these days is a complicated matter. At least, it seems to be, judging by the way so many parents live their lives.  Constantly frazzled, alternating between hollering at their kids and smothering them with attention, parents have become victims of their own best intentions. Parenting makes up so much of people's identity these days, that you wonder what happens when these kids fly the coop?

Trust me, I’m not criticizing. I was there. I put so much effort into distracting the kids from seeing the failing family unit during my marriage that the day after I got separated, I had more than one moment of bewilderment.  My parenting style has shifted since then, but my love for my kids hasn’t.  I decided that I wanted the kids to see who I was as a person and  I wanted to know them as people, not just kids. I wanted them to learn independence. These became our basics:

1)      I gave them more responsibility, we all need to chip in around here. Kids have virtually no responsibility anymore. If we look back at how much kids USED to do back in the day, it’s much more and they turned out well because of working hard.  This is, however, the most difficult of the basics to get the kids on board with, as it involved cleaning.

2)      I didn’t hang up with friends or family because the kids were doing the “mommy, mommy, mommy…” deal in the background.  If we visit friends, they are not allowed to interrupt. They can politely wait for a break in a conversation, and say “excuse me”, but I want them to learn respect and see Mom nurturing relationships. I, in turn, do not interrupt them just because I’m the mom and I can.

3)      They make their own decisions (outside of the household rules/chores/schoolwork) and deal with the repercussions.  We talk through the options, the pluses and minuses of each, and they make the choice. So when my son decided to make a huge Hummer for his derby car recently, versus a sleek race car, he understood that it was bulky and may not come in first. Still, he chose the Hummer. When it didn't win, he was okay with it. He was proud of his different truck, and his hard work on it. But it was his choice.

4)      I don’t dumb anything down. I use adult words and explain them. I don’t shy away from difficult talks, and I don’t hide emotions from my kids. I explain my behavior. It keeps our lines of communication open, especially when explaining why I’m “making” them do something like school work or not jumping off the top bunk.

When I stumbled upon this article yesterday, I realized this is very much my parenting method. I still have weird “American” idiosyncrasies about safety; I won’t let my kids walk with a lollipop in their mouth because I’m afraid they’re going to trip and impale themselves. How often does that EVER happen?!
The original article can be found in full here. This is compiled by an American mom who raised her children in France for some time, and she’s outlining the differences between American and French moms. It’s pretty enlightening, especially if you tend to lean towards this method of parenting and are feeling like the minority in present day, American parenting system.


What Druckerman found -- and what most expatriates discover -- is that where childhood trumps adulthood in the States, the opposite is largely true in France. Kids are not king in France -- and if you treat them as such, they quickly become tyrants with a sense of entitlement that sticks around well into adulthood. Though they love their kids passionately like everyone else, the French generally don't subvert their identities to the lives of their children.


Boundaries, in other words, are good, particularly in protecting the sanctity of parents' private life. (No, Marie-Louise, you may not sleep in mommy and daddy's bed. And yes, Jean-Pierre, you must sit at the table every night for family dinner and eat correctly.) Kids are essentially expected to adapt to the grown-up world and not the other way around.


And most impressive, perhaps, as Druckerman discovered, "French women certainly don't suffer the same guilt about everything." No, they certainly don't. Guilt seems to be the American mother's evil stepsister.


Somehow in the last decade or so, trophy wives were replaced with trophy kids in the States, parenting became a verb, and an already sizeable how-to industry catering to fretful parents became colossal. (Amy Chua's "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" is the latest manifesto to sand-blast fear and doubt into every parent's heart.) Meanwhile, the French kept doing what they'd done for centuries, parenting with an iron fist in a velvet glove without forsaking pleasure in life. As Druckerman notes:
"While I kind of assumed that when I had a baby, my marriage and my body was going to suffer, and I wouldn't have any time for myself, the French just don't assume that. They don't have any illusions, but won't subjugate themselves entirely to the will of the child."

It certainly helps that the French government actually underwrites family values rather than paying lip service to them. French parents enjoy an infrastructure of social benefits that we can only dream of, including four to six weeks of paid vacation and excellent free education that starts with nursery schools and extends all the way to universities. Though the French and their system are far from perfect, when it comes to parenting their culture by and large nurtures common sense and autonomy.

On that latter point, Druckerman states:
"The French are absolutely not draconian about their own rules. They actually believe that children are more capable, in some ways, and believe in their autonomy. They just give a clear framework in which they can learn and see it's a process -- you don't suddenly arrive at being a brilliant parent."
Food for thought! French food. Mmmm....croissants....wait. What was I talking about?

Humanity, Empathy and the One Sentence by Elizabeth Edwards That MadeMe Cry

Empathy, by definition, means the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another. It’s a word that I’ve used or been called many times over past years. Sometimes I have a very difficult time deciphering if being overly empathetic is a blessing or a curse.

I thought of this tonight because of one small sentence in the forward of the book I’m reading, which triggered my tears. Not a flood, but enough that my friend who was present asked if I ever wonder if I’m “overly empathetic”. Yes, a million times. And no, I don’t consider myself “overly” anything.

The woman writing it was Elizabeth Edwards. I may disagree and differ from her in many ways, but I admire the strength that she demonstrated during her last years. She had lost a child, she had a cowardly wayward husband and had subsequently lost a great love during the darkest days of her life.  And through this, she held fast to her children and her dignity, determined to spend her remaining time with the people that she KNEW deserved it most. She did it with grace.


I have, over the years, given an ample amount of thought to this trait of mine. I had always thought that everyone was as sensitive as I was when it came to “putting yourself in someone else’s shoes”. That wasn’t the case, which I recognized when I grew up, physically and mentally. I know this had much to do with my upbringing. My parents made it a point to show us all sides of the spectrum, to make sure we weren’t some suburban, sheltered kids. I know it’s just what it should be.  Humanity.

hu·man·i·ty

1) all human beings collectively; the human race; humankind. 2) the quality or condition of being human; human nature.  3) the quality of being humane; kindness; benevolence.

I think there was a time when people cared for others that way, a general attitude of caring, taking care of your neighbor, being a collective community. I know as well as the next person that there are people who simply don’t deserve my care.  I know there are annoying in-laws, horrid ex's, generally unkind people. And while I don't have to include them in my everyday thoughts and being, I do throw them a shout out when I'm tossing around some good vibes. Because being caring and empathetic makes you a more loving and happy person. You do get what you give, of this I am absolutely certain.

I'll continue on this hippy, happy way of loving the world I live in and the people I exist with. I hope you do as well. I hope that everyone remembers to check on their neighbors, to help a stranger, to let yourself feel other people's joy and their pain.  You're probably wondering what the heck this sentence was that reminded me of what a "feeler" I am.  It is sad, but it is love and life, it is worth remembering every day whether it applies to your own life or you are feeling on behalf of someone else.  This is what Elizabeth Edwards wrote about the author of the book I'm reading, "Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart" by Gordon Livingston:

"And most of all, I'm grateful for the chance to repeat to Gordon the words of his son Lucas, who at six was awaiting death as the bone marrow Gordon had donated failed to work the medical magic they both deserved: "I love your voice."

There will be a time when you depend upon someone else, whether it's those annoying in-laws who suddenly are lifesavers or a total stranger, hopefully it’s someone who is a believer that kindness and empathy shouldn’t be a rare trait.  Someday we will get back to that being a way of life, versus it being something that gets remarked about because it’s different.  It has to become a movement, and it has to begin with me and with you. And it has to start now.

I found the Fountain of Youth! But There's Some Teenage Guilt Involved.

Looking for a way to feel like a promiscuous, pill popping, suicidal drug addict? No? Well, I’ll tell you how to feel that way anyway.

On Tuesday, I had a medical “incident”. I knew instantly that something was very wrong; I’d never experienced something like that before. The room started spinning, I started to sweat (I’m consistently freezing, so that’s not normal for me!), I got dizzy and started to feel nauseous. I didn’t feel quite bad enough to call 911, so I opted for my personal 911 service: my dad.  Thats him, doing an unpaid ad for French's Dry Onions.



The ER was overly crowded, making me instantly itchy and a total nose breather. As not to inhale those germs, you see. I always think that those little hairs in your nose act as instant germ catchers. Logical, I know.

It took a couple of hours to get seen, so my dad hung out with me on my gurney while I waited.

“Heeeey dad. Whatcha doin? Nothing? Want to hang out on my gurney while we breathe sick people's air? Yes?”

The last time we got to chat one-on-one was when his motorcycle broke down a couple of months ago, and I sat with him while we waited to be rescued. Odd moments hold opportunity, too.

When the woman wielding needles and vials came around, it got uncomfortable. I am terrified of needles. It drives me bonkers that almost every time that I need to have blood drawn and subsequently freak out, the person taking the blood points out that I have several large tattoos.  Really? I DO? HOW did THAT happen?! But when the sarcasm drops, I point out that a tattoo needle and a “needle needle” look nothing alike. Or else my body would still be a clean canvas and my mother would be happy.

For some reason, my moment of sweaty anxiety seemed opportune to the hospital record keeper.  She decided at that moment to “fill in some gaps” on my paperwork. Ummm….okay. I was under duress but answered anyway.  And then I was transported back to 1990.

A litany of questions followed. Well, not a litany but it felt like it went on for an eternity.

“Do you now, or have you in the past, felt suicidal?” No. I don’t think so. No. Absolutely not.

“When did you have your last period?” Ummm…I don’t know. I know I should, but I don’t.

“Do you take any prescription drugs?” No. Thank God, an easy one.

“Do you drink alcohol?” Yes. But not a lot.  Really. I felt the need to elaborate.

“Do you smoke cigarettes?” No, no. Well, yes. But only, like three in a quarter. I did use the word quarterly, by the way. Don’t know where that came from.

Then I expanded upon that by explaining, “Only when I drink.” Typical over-sharer.

“Do you take any street drugs?” What the heck? I’m already a sweaty mess from this nurse drawing blood!  I’m clearly not an IV drug user, that’s for sure.

The funny thing is that despite the fact that I answered honestly to all of these questions, and I even elaborated, I felt guilty. Then it dawned on me why. It was because my dad was there! That would explain why I was also speaking in a freakishly loud, squeaky voice. I recognized it from my teen years.



See, I found the instant Fountain of Youth. All you have to do is have a “medical incident”, make a parent drive you and sit and keep you company, and answer various drug/alcohol/tobacco related questions. And POOF- right back to your teens.  The guilt lingers, even when you have nothing to be guilty about.  I can only hope that my skills to make my children feel that guilty while innocent is as flawless.

Oh and by the way…thanks, Dad. For being my EMT, my support and my unknowing inquisitor.

Finding Your True North

Recently, I was asked to describe my style. My first thought? Easy! No problem! Errrr…or not. It should be easy, after all, it’s MY style. I figured it would help me if I looked around my house. This is what I got: buffalo skulls, tiki men, cowboy memorabilia, year round Halloween decor, year round Christmas lights, farm tables, wooden crates, shabby chic buffets, lace, leather, boots, heels, repurposed antique cribs. Needless to say, that didn’t help at all except to point me to the fact that I have no style. At least no indescribable style. And therein lies my style. Did that make sense? Probably not. But I did find a great picture of my very tough Pit Bull/Lab mix. He is my style.

So in order to describe my style to this person, I created a Pinterest Board. In case you live under a rock or are technically challenged (I’m honored that you found me!),  Pinterest is just pictures of interest that people from every walk of life post when something catches their eye. You can select a picture that you like and post it to your own portfolio, which is made up of Boards that you name. I went online, I scrolled away and searched, and tagged anything that I felt described my style. What a mess that board is. But it’s accurate and quite beautiful to me.

Then it happened. I found one picture that I could not ignore and fell instantly and madly in love with. The Magnolia Pearl Airstream (below). I can picture myself living in it. This woman GETS it, and has a life of inspiration to show for it. That sealed the deal. What deal, you wonder?

I have mentioned before that I’ve always thought that I would have lived my life on the road. I have an insatiable quest for knowledge. Usually the odd and irrelevant kind, but not always. I love to learn about people, cultures and nature from the source directly. My “Ford Pick Up Across The US” plan got changed up when I got preggers. Now I drag them along while I criss cross my way across this beautiful land. And I LOVE that. Eventually, however, they won’t want to do that with me (insert ridiculously sad face here). I’m going to have to have a plan that goes beyond my kids, my next year and my planned dinners for the week. I need to look on the horizon. So I did. And I saw myself on that horizon, in an Airstream, seeing the land that I love.


I instantly thought back to a conversation that I had months ago with my darling friend Chandra of The Earthfood Experiment fame. She mentioned that she had been assembling pictures, quotes, anything at all that she felt represented her future life, her dreams. And she knows without a doubt they will happen. She wrote a beautiful blog post about it, which you can find here.

I took some inspiration away from this talk that we had months ago, and I started my own on Pinterest. I assembled pictures as a “home base”. When I get annoyed with the recent budget plans I’ve put into place, I will look at these. I put this budget in place so that I can, in six months, live without debt. I’ve been in some sort of debt since I turned 18, which is almost 20 years ago. Not counting debt to my parents, monetary and otherwise, which is way too much to ever calculate. When I get impatient, I will look and remember that everything worth doing is worth waiting for. When I want some ridiculous, unneeded impulse buy, I will look. And what will I see…

I will see me in a vintage truck hauling a funky, personalized Airstream.  I will see myself pulling off in some town in some state, setting my laptop on the old linoleum countertop, drinking crappy diner coffee and writing another chapter of my book.  Reading emails from my kids, who will be forging their own paths by then.  At least after I drag them along with me for the next few years.  But I will see myself SMILING.


I can’t tell you how clear things have become for me since I started this. It’s keeping me on my money track, it’s fueling my fire to keep writing so that I can become a traveling author. I know it sounds a bit ridiculous, I mean, they’re only pictures, right?


No. They’re more than that. They’re my goals, in print and in color.  I SEE myself living that life, and I’m insanely happy right now to continue forging my path right where I am.  Because now, it feels right. My compass has been set on True North.  

What’s your True North? I encourage you to find a way to put it on paper. Something tangible that you can hold in your hands. Put it into a book as Chandra has done, put it on Pinterest like I have, print it out and put something in your purse or pocket and open and unfold it during moments of crisis, because we’ll all have them.  We will all have moments of doubt, of despair and of challenges.  Redirect your thoughts and your negative energy. Put it into something worthwhile and channel that energy into something positive: down from your brain and your heart, down your arm and right into that picture you’re holding. And there you have it. Your Compass to your True North.

When Doing Nothing Is Really Something, and Eating Frito Chili WhileYou're At It.

I had two plans for this weekend. Well, one of them was more like a “high level overview”, I’ll get to that in a second. My two plans were to attend a “ball” with my sister for charity, and the other was to do nothing. That’s the high level overview part. By nothing, I meant exactly what I’m doing right now as I write this post.  I’m sitting buried under dryer warmed blankets on my sofa, in plaid flannel pj bottoms and a sweatshirt, with huge fuzzy slippers on. I’m committed to doing nothing tonight and tomorrow but eating this kick ass chili I made, writing my blog and my book, and hanging with my kiddies. Maybe I will tune in to see what people are wearing on the Golden Globes, just in case I start to care in between now and then. Though it's not likely.
Last night my sister and I, along with a friend, attended the Hair O the Dog Ball in the city. I may have mentioned how different my sister and I are…about a million times. Our humor is very similar though, which makes for a laugh when we’re together. But she is girly, sparkly and ruffley. That’s a new word, by the way. She is the stiletto heel to my cowboy boot. The diamond to my turquoise. The Tiffany’s to my vintage shop. The blonde to my redhead.  Getting that difference? And I love that we’re different yet so similar in our personalities because it makes for an interesting dynamic when we meet people and they seem to take a moment to ponder that we’re blood relatives. I assume most people think that her brother married me after a questionable night in Vegas and that she’s stuck with me through some unfortunate family accident.  But nope, we’re related for real. I have years of matching clothing to prove it and pictures to back it up.  Plus a scar on my face from her dagger like nails after a particularly nasty cat fight we had when we were younger.  See Exhibit A below.

When she asked me to go to a big party in the city, I immediately started to think of a thousand excuses of why I couldn’t go.  I do this every time someone mentions going into the city to me, it's a reflex.  I did this with her until I realized that I always have a great time with her, despite my general discomfort with the city, dressing up and mingling. However, part of the proceeds went to the Garden of Refection, which is Bucks County’s memorial to 9-11, and my sister has done a considerable amount of work fundraising for the Garden. So between those two things, I was in.
I had a great time. We danced, we mingled (she did, I stood by awkwardly) we laughed at some unfortunate fashion choices. Despite the fact that I took my heels off halfway through the night and walked around barefoot in a fancy, schmancy party, I don’t think I embarrassed her too badly. Thank God SHE doesn’t write a blog, or it could be all about how her sister embarrassed her last night.

And today, since my feet are overly sore from overly high heels last night and for some reason, I thought I could dance, I am wearing these ridiculous slippers.

I’m enjoying the surreal moment in life when my kids are not fighting, not bored and are seemingly happy to be here with me.  I realized that my "doing nothing" is really doing some of my favorite things. Spending time with my kids, cooking, writing. That means that my doing nothing is really doing something. And that is something great.
On top of all of this peacefulness, I made this ridiculously good chili.  Although the downside is that I cannot stop thinking about it and eating it. It’s quite embarrassing, really. But since my mind is too full of chili-themed thoughts, I don’t have enough space to worry about that.  Here's the link, not surprisingly posted by my we're-best-friends-in-my-mind-but-she-doesnt-know-it favorite blogger, Ree Drummond of Pioneer Woman fame.  Make it, you will thank me..errr...her, I mean.  This is her pic.  My chili is almost gone, except for what's left on my face and shirt, and I'm not posting a picture of that.

Signed,
Your fuzzy footed, flannel wearing, doing "nothing that's really something" Blogger:)

Blog Recommendation! I LOVE these chicks!

Yesterday on my Pinterest, I pinned an awesome necklace pendant that I had just bought for my daughter and I. Being that we spend our summers wandering as much as possible (in an RV, no less), and that this quote is what I consider the motto for my life, I thought it was perfect. This is it:



Do ya love it? I do!  You should hustle over to Gypsyville.com and get one.  I would like to order one of everything from the store, love the clothes and the accessories. It suits my style perfectly, and everything that Dust and Wanderlust stands for. A bit romantic, a bit rough, a dreamer, funky, pretty fierce and a gypsy wanderer at heart.

And, I didn't even get to the other part yet.  They LOVE junk! They're Junk Gypsies, I dig it! They have a great blog. You should check it out. I suspect that as a reader of mine, you'll fit in just fine.  They're just some people who followed their vision and their hearts and ended up on the right side of their dreams.  Inspiring!

Here's the blog, check it out.

http://www.gypsyville.com/our_story.asp

Tuning Out in Order to Tune In: Select Ignorance and Bliss

I'm going to start off with that my eventual point is. Bliss. Here's some inspiration to keep in mind as you read. Also, I haven't said THANK YOU lately, for sticking with me and being a partner in my crazy ride. So...THANKS!  I heart you.  And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.



We hear a lot lately about how busy our kids are, how they’re overbooked and over stimulated.  How they’re involved in too many sports, too many instruments, too many school projects and buried under homework. I would tend to agree. Most parents spend their time chauffeuring, working while they wait for their child in the parking lots of schools and activities.  

What about the grownups? I use that term loosely, by the way. What about our distracted lives? My one and only resolution I made this year was to finally make sizable progress on my book. And when I reflected over this year, which is a favorite New Years Day activity, I wondered why I hadn’t made more progress already. It dawned on me finally: I’ve been simply “getting by” this year.  And frankly, I’ve been just getting by since I became a single mom.

I don’t feel any shame admitting that. To the contrary, actually. It’s somewhat liberating to admit that you’ve not been your best self, you’ve been a working version of you instead of the creative you. Those two things don’t always run side by side.  But without one or the other, you are keenly aware that you’re missing something. When I’m not at my creative best, I’m dissatisfied and disgruntled. These past few years have been pivotal for self discovery but not self improvement. Again, two things that aren’t always together.

So after a few years of getting by, I’m ready to jump back into making myself whole again and that self improvement part. Buuuuutt…my short list of duties includes working full time and then some, helping my daughter navigate the treacherous teens and school, helping my 7 year old boy grow into a great man and a good student, supporting and running a household, spending time with family and friends, cooking, cleaning, finding a new house, packing…you get the picture. And in 24 short hours, writing and creative endeavors get pushed back to….sometime next year if I’m lucky. Maybe 2015?

And then it occurred to me that I’m the Queen of Distractions. I get online to write, begin to research and then my ADD kicks in and somehow I’m looking at real estate listings in Montana. Or I’ve stumbling into Pinterest. Or I start paying bills (though I recognize this is crucial!). And of course, there’s the dreaded Facebook black hole.



I sat down and had a long internal talk with myself. I committed to a budget, and to setting aside SCHEDULED time to pay bills. I don’t touch them otherwise. I cleaned my house. After the holidays, it was a cluttered disaster, and I frequently spent time sitting around looking at it helplessly, my only decision being to cry or not. I figure I was probably spending a half an hour a day just navigating over Christmas boxes, dogs and tinsel in order to make myself lunch. And I was unhappy with the mess and clutter. So I threw a ton away, I’ve given a ton away. I don’t miss one single thing, either. I probably couldn’t even tell you what’s gone. This has helped dramatically in my 100 Item Challenge. Although I’ve now lost count of how much is gone. That’s okay.

I turned off the TV and turned on music. I discovered I can lip sync and dance while doing practically anything. Note I didn’t say I danced well, but while vacuuming, anything helps. I turned to my kids for help. They looked panicky, because on this day of reckoning, I probably looked manic with all of my “good ideas”. But they’re old enough to be pulling way more weight than they do, and I’m not making them contributing members of this household. I’m not doing them (or their future roommates/spouses) any favors either by allowing them to be sloppy slackers.

What I've learned? Cut out the crap. Limit your online time. Use all of your tools, including kids. Tie the vacuum to your dog and make him earn his keep. I tried that, but my dog is too lazy and doesn’t mind having a vacuum tied to him apparently, so it was a bust. Establish a routine and a schedule. It doesn’t have to be rigid; after all, creative and passionate people usually do poorly without some degree of spontaneity. But turn off the phone, stop texting for a few hours, turn off the TV because it sucks you in before you notice it. This isn’t just to clear time; it’s to clear your head as well.

If you sit for a quiet five minutes, all by yourself, you will notice you already have a ton of information swirling around in your head. You have everywhere you need to be, that present to buy, the kids’ homework, the work deadlines, the question if you remembered to shower that morning? Do you really need to add in there all the days’ bad news, the market crash, that someone changed their FB status to single (wonder what happened there…)?  Probably not, at least not right now. But you could spend that time working towards your bliss, picturing what makes you happy (I've provided blissful pictures in case you need help) and working to get there in some small way or another. It doesn’t have to be a life overhaul, just baby steps for now.



I feel better already.  I’ve started to get up an hour earlier, I’ve tuned out considerably on my phone, and I watch a few choice shows a week. I’m not letting the media convince me that I should give a shit what any Housewife is doing to the other. Because I really don’t care.  My kids both have one activity to focus on, in addition to their chores and school work. We sit down together for dinner, not me eating in front of my laptop while my daughter texts and my son tries every disastrous attempt to get some attention from someone. 

Select ignorance really is bliss. Here’s to people who can only afford to “get by” sometimes, those of us who are fighting to get our whole self back, and those who aspire to greatness when we can squeeze it in!

“There are many things of which a wise man might wish to be ignorant”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Notorious Women: Lessons Learned from a Pirate. Anne Bonney and Mary Read

I love to learn about unconventional women and how they made their mark in their day. We’ve all heard about the notorious ones like Cleopatra and Joan of Arc. But the more I’ve been reading lately, the more I’ve realized that I’ve been missing out on some of the underappreciated ones and that I’ve been misinformed (as have most of us) about the better known ones. In order to showcase some women that I find interesting and fairly badass, I’m going to share some of what I’ve learned. And with that, I only have one thing to say. “Ahoy Mate”! (Yes, I know it’s corny, but how often do YOU get to talk like a pirate?!)

I’m starting this first Notorious Women blog off with a pair of friends and kindred spirits: Female Pirates!! Anne Bonney and Mary Read.

I had never even HEARD of any female pirates so when I stumbled upon their story, I was excited to dig in. Here I thought I always wanted to be a writer, or occasionally an astronaut, but a PIRATE?! I never even knew that was an option. I’m rethinking my vocation now.

Anne Bonney hailed from County Cork, Ireland, as the illegitimate daughter of a lawyer and his maid. The lawyers wife didn’t take kindly to hubby impregnating the maid (imagine that!) so she apparently scared him so badly that he left Ireland altogether and came to America, specifically South Carolina.  The family settled there without scandal, at least without scandal until Anne was old enough to create it by herself. She had a wicked temper and small town life bored her. She decided to create some fun and ran off with a novice pirate, James Bonney. The two promptly took off for New Providence (Nassau) in the Bahamas.  But Anne was a woman who needed to respect her husband, not think he was a wuss. This is where James dropped the ball. He turned informant and sold out quite a few of the better known pirates when a bond was put on their head. She was disgusted, and turned her sights on someone with more swagger. Enter her own personal Captain Jack. He was also known as Calico Jack, due to his flamboyant fashion. I wonder if this is where someone got the idea for Captain Jack of Pirates fame? Anne took up on Jack’s ship with some resistance by the crew, many of whom thought it was bad luck to have a woman on board. It’s rumored that one loudmouth pushed the issue a bit too far and she stabbed him through the heart. I assume no one said too much about it after that.

Anne took a break from piracy to have Jack’s baby, and when she returned to the ship, she found another woman on board. She instantly took to her, so much so that there are rumors that they were lovers. But who knows. Mary Read was the new addition, and the two proved that together they would be many people’s worst nightmare. But they were having fun!

Mary herself was the daughter of a seafarer, though no one is too sure if he was a pirate or a sailor. She had a rough upbringing and decided as she got older that life disguised as a male was easier.  You weren’t subject to the laws of society or dependant on another for every aspect of your life. Her life in costume took her from being a footboy, working on a man-o-war and finally to the Army. While in the Army, she fell for her future husband and the two left the Army and opened an Inn. Sadly, her happiness was short lived and he passed away leaving her on her own, yet again. She returned to the life she knew best, one of independence. She signed up on a ship that was soon overthrown by Captain Jack, forcing all aboard to become pirates. Mary was in heaven. Fun fact...Captain Jack's ship was the first to don the Skull and Crossbones that became a long standing symbol of the pirate life.



Together, the two women dressed as ladies when they weren’t fighting but the second a fight broke out, they were in men’s clothing, wielding a gun and a knife. And they were fierce. They not only chose to fight like men against other ships, but they behaved like men on board as well. If their shipmates crossed them, they fought duels with them and won.

Some things haven’t changed since 1715 when they were alive. One thing being that some men still found a degree of discomfort in strong women and took the opportunity to have their women do their dirty work. Both Anne and Mary eventually found themselves defending their men before long.

Mary had fallen in love again, with a crewman, and when he found himself in between a rock and a hard place (that hard place being a duel), Mary herself challenged the man to a dual and killed him before her lover would ever fight him, as she knew he’d lose.

Captain Jack’s ship was attacked by the Navy while anchored in 1720. The crew, with the exception of Anne and Mary, were partying to celebrate a recent ship they had taken over. And by partying, I mean drunk as skunks. This left the two women to defend a ship full of men, who had all turned yellow and retreated down to the lower level of the ship.  Mary was so ticked off that they were such spineless jerks, she herself opened fire on them (including on her husband, Captain Jack) killing one man, injuring many others.

They were all taken to stand trial, and all were sentenced to hang with the exception of Mary and Anne, as they were both pregnant. This was the end of the line for our pirates. But not before Anne had the last laugh while visiting Captain Jack for the last time before he was hanged. He had requested a visit with her as his last wish; I assume hoping for a sympathetic ear and comfort. Instead, she told him exactly what she thought of him and his cowardice, stating “I’m sorry to see you here, but had you fought like a man, you need not have been hanged like a dog.”  So much for sympathy.



Mary died in prison of a fever or perhaps childbirth, no one knows for sure. Anne’s fate is murkier. Some speculate that her wealthy father paid someone off and bought her freedom. Some say she retired quietly to a Caribbean island to raise her and Jack’s second baby.

Despite their methods, these hellcats made their mark on the world. Their trial was sensational, with all of the details to interest every audience. They didn’t mind. They were both of the mindset that they would rather live their lives adventurously and by their own rules than to live one of dependence and boredom.  And who could blame them? They did end up being the only women depicted in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney, after all. Talk about legacy.

These two women were fast friends who worked, fought, and loved side by side. They were a seafaring Thelma and Louise. Their tactics notwithstanding, they lived unapologetically and on their own terms and never let others walk all over them, whether that person was a shipmate or lover.

Don’t you think we could use more of that these days, fewer people who are content to live by society’s every rule and don’t ever live authentically because of it?  And luckily, it doesn’t require wearing a bandana and wielding a machete. Though that does seem fun when dealing with certain people!  You can start by telling some select people to walk the plank. (Corny strikes again!)

How’s that for a New Year’s resolution? In case you don’t have one, it’s not too late. How cool would that be when someone asks what your resolution this year is?

I resolve to be more of a pirate.

Being Retarded (repost): The Importance of Teaching Your Kids, Yourself and Everyone Else About Unkind Words

I was raised in a household that didn’t use unkind words. In fact, I can’t recall my parents ever cursing in front of us when we were kids. So imagine their horror when my sister and I began working for the Navy, and she began (I say she did, but I probably did too) cursing like a sailor. I’m fairly certain their ears started to bleed somewhere in there, especially during the fights between her and I. Then what we learned at work REALLY became apparent.

I’ve noticed that I am equally strict in my parenting with my kids when it comes to the spoken word. I am that annoying parent who corrects your speech. I actually can’t help it; it’s like a physical obnoxiousness that I can’t stop from tumbling out of my mouth.  And because of it, my kids use overly adult words that probably alienate them from their peers. Job well done, mom.

But unkind words REALLY get to me. They aren’t allowed to say hate. Or ugly (as in name calling). Or dumb. These are words that STICK. And the biggest offending word? Retarded. Nothing makes me sadder when someone uses it than this word. And because it’s been watered down (to people who don’t have a disabled person in their life) over time, it’s become socially acceptable.  It is still not acceptable to me, and I surely don’t want my kids being the ones to promote its use.

I am constantly trying to drive points home with my kids, real life examples to make them understand the lessons I’m trying to teach them. For instance, there was a horrible accident in Philly yesterday where the three fatalities were all 20 and under, the youngest being a 15 year old girl. Excessive speed was the cause, and the car was literally flattened, tires were knocked off and the battery dislodged. Two of three weren’t wearing their seatbelts and the passengers didn’t speak up to make the driver slow down. And in turn, all three lost their lives. A horrible domino effect. But I had my daughter read it, and talk to me about it. Because we’ve all been that girl in the car with two older boys, too quiet to say anything to him about slowing down. Trying to seem cool by not buckling up. I want her to understand that in any situation, she can relate and determine the correct way to react should she be in that position.  

So when I speak to them about casually using the word retarded, I want them to understand. But that’s a difficult message to get across to a kid that’s in school with 26 other students acting like its okay.  The other day, a friend of mine posted this blog to his Facebook. I was so glad that I clicked on it, and I’ve read it to everyone who will listen in the meantime.

Please do me and you a favor and read it. To yourself, to your kids, your spouse and anyone else who will listen.  Here’s the link to the original post…Phoebe (the mom/writer) is funny and refreshing. If you’re a blog reader, you should sign up.

BEING RETARDED, by phoebeholmes.com

All around me, people use the word retarded without a second thought.  Sometimes, I’ll say “Um, dude, really?” and they’ll say “Oops, my bad!  But really!  I was being so retarded!”

Sometimes, I let it slide.  I realize that it’s a word that’s ingrained in our society’s vocabulary and people use it without a second thought to its meaning.

But what does it mean to be retarded?  Well, I know what it doesn’t mean.

It doesn’t mean not being able to choose something for lunch despite 100 choices in front of you.

It doesn’t mean not being able to find your car keys.

It doesn’t mean saying the wrong thing to a person.

It doesn’t mean forgetting your best friend’s birthday.

It’s not something to describe yourself as when you’ve spilled your coffee, or tripped on a crack in the sidewalk.

It’s not something to describe your computer, car or phone.

According to  Merriam-Webster Dictionary  the word “retarded” means -

: slow or limited in intellectual or emotional development or academic progress

For me, it’s not just any old word – it’s my daughter.  My beautiful, bright, happy, loving, amazing daughter who is slow or limited in intellectual development and academic progress.

In our household, being retarded means something different.

It means not being able to fully care for yourself.

It means not understanding what the doctor is going to do to you.

It means not being able to explain what hurts when something hurts.

It means not being able to ride a two wheeler.  Or read.  Or ever be able to live on your own.

But ever the optimist, I also know that retarded means…

…never realizing the negativity behind the word retarded.

…never knowing the insensitivity surrounded the word’s usage.

…never realizing the ignorance of people.

…never knowing how other people view you.

Being retarded also means…

…loving unconditionally.

…finding joy in the smallest of things.

…being self-confident.

…not realizing that there are limitations.

…innocence.

 

This is Maura.  Her diagnosis?  Cognitively disabled.  Which means retarded.  When you call yourself retarded, you’re also calling my child stupid.  Because you use the word as just that – another form of stupid.

Let’s get something straight here.

My daughter may have cognitive issues.  She may have delays.  She may never live on her own.  Scratch that.  She will never live on her own.

But Maura is not stupid.

In her own way, Maura is very smart.  Maybe smarter than us at times.  She has more self-confidence than anyone I know who’s called themselves “retarded”.  She is the best judge of a person’s character than anyone else I’ve ever known.

Yes, she is slow to learn things.  But she is not stupid.

I know that most people don’t use the word “retarded” maliciously.  Most people I know use it in a self-depreciating way.  And when I point it out, they go “Oh wow!  I’m sorry!” and they truly feel like a heel. But the thing is, you’re still using it in the way that people who do use it maliciously use it as – to describe stupidity.

So why not just use the word “stupid” instead?  Because I know what “retarded” is.  I live with it in the form of my daughter.  And in our world “retarded” doesn’t equate to “stupid”.

Goodbye 2011 Self...Hello Beautiful 2012 YOU.

Blogging is an oddly “big brother” type of deal. When someone visits my page, they get counted. When someone searches Google for something and ends up smack dab on my page, I get a note about how they got there. I like to think of it as a request box.  It gives me an idea of what people need to hear about. And if I’ve got some insight, I let it loose. I’m sorry for that. Kind of. But hey, they asked for it.

So when I mentioned to my sister that a lot of people over the New Year were searching for “saying goodbye to someone you love”, which I’ve written about before, she had a totally different take on it. Im a die hard romantic, so to me, every goodbye to a loved one is some overly dramatic, Mr. Darcy type of goodbye. The British novel goodbyes, specifically Austen, are the best. It’s always raining and there’s a beautiful dress being worn.  But my sister offered up a new perspective. She suggested saying goodbye to the 2011 “you”?  Huh, you might ask? I’ll explain.  But first I will explain that this is Mr. Darcy. And Mr Darcy Part Two, as in remake.  Pick your favorite.





Who made a Resolution this year? You? I did. But just one, and it didn’t have anything to do with my body, as they have been proven losers over the last, say, ten years. I decided writing an entire BOOK was easier than resolving work on me. Yikes.

So for those of you looking to shed last years “you”…what does that look like? Is it shedding some weight, a lot of weight or that last ten pounds? Is it becoming a different person in one way or another? Perhaps being more authentic (my favorite)? Or maybe it's that you’re resolved to trying something new this year. Say…zip lining? If it is zip lining, would you write a blog about it for me? Thanks. I don’t have the guts to do it myself.

Most people who do make resolutions make it as a step to becoming the person they want to be. I have a different outlook. I look at it as becoming the person you were always MEANT to be. That’s a big difference. I say this because one is optional (wanting to become) and one is expected and written in stone (MEANT to be). Perhaps the “you” that you were meant to be is one who would tell their mother in law that they find her disrespectful, unkind and overbearing, and afterwards will forge a strong bond with the woman they dared to stand up to. Or the “meant to be” you is 30 pounds thinner. Or perhaps she is one who dreams of writing a book one day (cough, cough). Or maybe the next you just wants to shake off some of what you did when you were younger and move on. The good news? This is all absolutely attainable.  The bad news? You need to be able to see the existing you for who you REALLY are.

That’s a scary proposition, I know. But trust me when I say that the “you” that you are now is an integral part of who you are. Whether you like her/him now or not, that person is important. And I am of the belief that once you decide who you will be and actually draw yourself a picture or take a snapshot in your mind, the path will become clear. People stress out so much about the path itself that they never take a second to look at the person they plan on becoming. What if you get there and decide that person is an ass? Then what? You start another path? No thanks. I’d rather decide who I am before I start that trek up Mount Everest, thank you very much.



My sister mentioned that some people may not be able/willing to shed their weight, their past, their preconceived notions due to what she and I refer to as a “woobie” I’ve mentioned the dreaded woobie before. It always has to do with leaving something behind as far as I can tell.  But it is, after all things, shaking off the old. Bringing in the new. What good has that old woobie done for you? It’s probably got holes you can fit your arm through by now, and an odd smell you can’t identify. Let it go. Ooh..I've used this picture before...not good. Means I've written about woobies A LOT!



Because, to steal an Oprah line, this is what I know. I know that the you that you envision is gorgeous. That person is gutsy, that person is sparkly and that person is authentic.

Your 2012 YOU is BEAUTIFUL!

Odd Parenting Techniques Using Daphne Guinness, New York and Fear. Whatever Works!

I have come to dislike winter immensely. I know that’s not a positive statement to begin the New Years blogs with.  I used to love it and detested summer. But as I get closer and closer to eventually becoming a Golden Girl (Blanche, thank you very much) I realized that baking in the sun is just where I want to be. But in my “off months”, I try to make the most of my time. So a few weeks ago while I was planning our winter break (the kids and I all had off between Christmas and New Years) I decided to throw a trip to New York City in there. This was not without an ulterior motive, however.



My teenage daughter is struggling this year in school. I’m not entirely sure, but I suspect the distractions are tall, of the opposite sex, smell questionably and have long hair and a guitar. I’m no fool, I am keenly aware that very little can be done to pull her attention back from these hooligans, so I decided my best tactic would be to show her what could be her two paths with schoolwork (both were in NYC). The first path was fun…an exhibit at the Fashion Institute of Technology. She has always wanted to be a designer; it’s where her focus has been for several years. The second path was one of those people living on virtually every corner of New York. Wicked harsh? Probably. But it was New York; you’re supposed to be overly theatrical. I was trying to prove a point.



We had a fantastic day in the city. I really took a good look at my kids and realized they are exactly what I raised them to be: roadies. I thought back to this summer when we trekked across the country in an RV all the way to Colorado, we went to the beach many times, we travelled to Philly, ate every week in New Hope. They worked in the garden with me, they hiked the Rockies, they kicked around dirt roads in Nebraska, rode the quads to the lake. And here they were, bundled up, happy and totally comfortable in one of the biggest cities in the world.  I spent the rest of the day very contented, knowing I had been doing something right by exposing them to so many different places and cultures.



We had a few places to hit in the city, and ended up walking about 130 city blocks. Lots of old lady pains by that night, I’ll tell you. But we shopped on Canal Street, hit Mario Batali’s Eatily, the museum exhibit at FIT, Times Square (the day before NYE. YIKES!) and finally ended up stopping by Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree and grab a bite before the train ride back. But the main destination really was the FIT museum, because I wanted to show my daughter the exhibit on Daphne Guinness.



As a longtime reader of Vanity Fair and Harpers Bazaar, plus some NY rags, I’m pretty familiar with Daphne Guinness.  I think she's funky and fun, the original to Lady Gaga's copy.  She is a study in extremes, and everyone who knows me knows that I appreciate that. She is loved and hated, feminine and masculine, a bold personality but a softspoken person.  And despite my own lack of fashion brilliance, I think DG is genius. I admire her style, and can say with certainty that if I had the money, I’d probably wear most of her outrageous wardrobe (heavy on Alexander McQueen. LOVE!).



Being an eccentric chick living in the Burbs is no big thing, if you have your own style and don’t wear the standard suburban mom uniform you’re considered unique. But living in NYC and still being eccentric and making a statement takes a considerable amount of fearlessness and taste. I thought that along with the regular fashion exhibit at FIT, this was one for my daughter to see. And given DG’s love of chainmail, armor, feathers and all things shiny, my 7 year old son was equally enthralled. That’s a win-win in my book.



We spoke at length about the collection and about the fact that even though designers rely upon their creativity, they also need knowledge of fabrics, techniques, merchandising. So the point is that they need schooling. And to get into a school, you need good grades. In order to live in the city that she loves, she needs to go to school and make enough money to do so. The days of a starving artist are far from being glamorous now.  I know that merely talking to my daughter won’t get me far, she’s very advanced in the art of blocking out moms voice. But I took her to the city, picked up some fashionable cheap finds on Canal Street, took her into the stores she loves, took her to Bryant Park which she sees on Project Runway. And I NAILED it! I got my point across. I hope. We’ll see. Maybe. Ask again later.



Sometimes being a mom takes creativity that they don’t exhibit in a museum. Can you imagine what a mess that museum would be? They’d have an entire room devoted to how to cook vegetables into normal meals without your kid detecting it. Or how to make bath time fun so that your boy doesn’t shriek and run away the second water hits his skin. Perhaps the “Hall of Hell Hath No Fury Like a Pissed Off Mommy”? This exhibit would be where they pay homage to mothers who HAVEN’T strangled their kids when they decided to draw the “Circle of Friends” in red Sharpie on their newly painted walls (that was me, by the way). Or when their kid decides to tell total strangers on the train to NY that one time, his mom cried over losing a boyfriend and he then went on to demonstrate what she looked like while crying (Oh, that’s me too)?

We spent New Year’s with friends and family, with a warm fire, good food, and snuggled up watching those crazy people standing where we had been the previous day. 



I spent my last night of 2011 knowing that my greatest works of art were sitting next to me.  Nothing at any museum could possibly compare.

Here's to you in 2012.  Make the most of it!