I F-ING hate sympathy cards

Yep, that's right, you heard me.

I F-ING HATE sympathy cards.

I hate what they stand for, I hate that they have to exist, and I hate the big, over feminine cursive and intimate poems with soft words written by someone who has no idea who you are.

Have you heard anyone ever say, 'You know what healed my grief? The pretty cursive, the picture of a sunset, and that poem that took up two of the three tri-folds of the card, well, that did for me.'

No. No one has ever been healed by obnoxious cursive.

I know, I know, it's the thought that counts. It's the words inside from your friends and family that count. But on that note, if it's really the thought that counts, then someone could just give you their thoughts in a paper bag, no?

Anyways, I don't usually have such passionate 'hates' in life. I hate being in tight jeans on a hot day, I hate being separated from my daughter most days (toddler hood has a way of easing this opinion for me :), and I hate to see people (especially the little ones) being abused, neglected or mistreated.

But, that's about it for hate.

I don't like to hate, I don't think many things are worthy of being 'hated'. There are a couple thousand for me that are worth being disliked, but very few are worth being hated.

However, with the amount of sympathy cards I've had to send out lately, I have to say I absolutely hate it.

I hate that one of my friends has to go through this sort of unbearable pain alone, that they have to re-navigate their lives again without their dad, mom, child...I just hate it.

I hate the thought of them feeling so alone, I hate the thought of them feeling that depressed sort of feeling-where they don't know what they are feeling, they just know that it is barely keeping them from sinking to the bottom of the ocean most days.

And I hate that I have to send out sympathy cards to them; I know that to everything there is a beginning and an end, but in my ideal world, no one would die.

No one would have to go through this grief that hangs around for sometimes years, and makes children that lose their parents instantly wiser and mature, having to now be the one that carries the weight of the previous generations.

I was really hoping to wrap this up on a happier note, but sometimes this is life.
Sometimes, things just suck and we have to learn how to maneuver through them.

Be Me

So, it's been a while.
Sigh. No explanations here except, well, life and vacations and what not.

Life. Man does it get in the way of writing.

So, we just came back from what I'm hilariously calling The Great Grandmother Tour...because, well, it was pointless for me & Mr. Husband to be there (beyond chaperoning, of course) because it wasn't about us. At all. It was about the child.
We, we are merely bodyguards who have to accompany the child everywhere.
Hilarious, in my opinion.

So, writing? Not so much.
Living? A whole bunch of it, but my living is further enriched when I'm able to get some writing in. And lately-there has been none of the latter, but tons of the former...as you could tell by this blog.

So, onto another mid-year resolution that I can hopefully get accomplished by 2012.

Now to abrupty change gears (the sign of excellent writing, FYI), the one thing I have been sort of thinking about on our trip, and just lately in general, is being me.

And how incredibly hard that is.

During our visits, I was in awe of how unlike my family I am; and how just wonderful and perfect some of them are...perfectly turned out houses, kept up houses, sparkling clean; compassionate and kind people; organized, funny...the list goes on and on.

Though I do have to say that the 'organized and well kept house' is the one that I am fluxomed by; I am so jealous of people that can do that.

Me? Not so much. Don't know if it's just not one of my gifts, or if I haven't practiced enough, but I know at this stage in my life, this area still needs ALOT of help.

So, of course, when I am with these sort of people in these sort of houses, I am immediately off put and relaxed (how lovely! why isn't my house like this?) and then in that weird, middle-schooly emotional place where I wonder about my worth and am instantly worried that I, like Linus, am leaving a trail of dust and dirt behind me wherever I go.

Some days it feels like I got the wrong chip inserted- I received 'verbal diraherra' instead of 'knows how to keep house' and I'm just wondering around, muttering to myself, trying to figure out how to work a broom.

So, jealously. It strikes so suddenly, and lately, it seems often.

And that's when I have to tell myself (612 times a day, if necessary), 'be me'.

I can't be anyone else but me.
I'd love to be cooler (and thinner! And wittier! And also, would like to host dinner parties with ease), but I'm not. I'm just me.

And all I can be, is the best me.

And that's ok.

Even if it takes me 613 times to remember this.