A big 'ole Nerd, I applied to college, again. What will you tackle?

I just applied to college. 

Not just regular college.  Nope, I applied to a really fancy college for a chance to be a "fellow" and study stuff not for grades but because I want to. If they pick me, send prayers and vibes my way, they'll pay me to think big thoughts about journalism and maybe learn how to sculpt and eat some really good clam chaw-dah

In my current job in a ever-shrinking newsroom I sometimes don't have time for thoughts at all.

The idea of the fellowship makes me giddy. Because, here it is, I'm a big ole Nerd.

Yep, I get excited at USB drive filled with documents because I figure there is something in there that is exactly what I am looking for. I learned recently of a mythical creature called a data concierge who can help me find specific healthcare statistics and it almost took my breath away.  I found a research paper on wildly varying outcomes among Medicare patient depending on not on the benefit they received but how the state where they lived decided to allot it. It made me audibly go "ohhhhh."

I never particularly thought of myself as nerdy but I never thought it was a bad thing. Honestly, because of particular quirks of my nature, I don't want to seem too invested in anything. Maybe that's why I have a job where I learn a lot about a lot of things. But now at 50 I suddenly want to go deep.

On Thursday I spent eight hours listening to health policy discussion as it relates to the Affordable Care Act. Did you know Wal-Mart is going in to the doctoring business in a big way? Yep, thousands full scale doctor's offices are going into Wal-Mart. Employees can go for $4. You can go for $40. They'll only take cash. If you watch House of Cards you may join me in wondering if Sam Walton is the reason we have the Affordable Care Act at all. (If you don't you should watch House of Cards)

Anyway, I suppose the bigger point is this. I was shaking when I pushed the submit button on my application. Honestly, I had tears in my eyes.

I haven't worked as hard on something for myself if a very long time. It involved all kinds of things I find uncomfortable. Promoting myself. Asking people for help. Asking people to say nice things about me via recommendations.

But it was a really good process for me and whether or not I'll be having "chaw-da" I'm glad I did it. It helped me see I've done some really good work. I've made a difference in some lives.  Over the years I've actually learned a lot.

So here is my challenge to you, my Menopausal Friends, find something to do just for yourself, something that makes you a little bit afraid. Whatever it is. It might be learning how to paint or driving a race care or taking up belly dancing or applying for college. Just do it. And let me know when you do.

Shout Out! Yeah to our one  reader in the Bahamas! A Menopausal Mon?

I can't win if I don't play: Selling myself

I am applying for a really fancy fellowship. I won't jinx it right now but believe me when I tell you it's one of the best gigs in journalism and I really want to get it.
I'm a writer. I do that all the time. This kind of blogging is a bit weird for me because I've always been careful to, except for very rare occasions, keep myself out of my stories.
But I'm growing bolder with each post so, thanks for that.
But this application is kicking my butt. First I had to admit to myself then to other people....like my bosses....that I thought I had a chance at competing among what appears to be a very accomplished group of people. You know grown up people like an Amal Clooney you might run into at Wal-Mart.
Then, not only do I have to sell myself and sell myself hard in 1,000 words, I have to ask other professionals who I respect to help me sell myself. It doesn't help that someone helping me might have told me that one of the people making the decision on this particular fellowship may lean towards thinking that of Kentucky, Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee as the same place. (Honestly, I can kind of see that if you aren't from somewhere there.)
So I have spent about 24 hours out of the last 72 working on an essay. I don't even remember what I wrote for a college essay. ( I got a couple scholarships so I guess it was OK.)
First I was breezy and bright which has worked for previous far less intense fellowship applications. Second, after reading five years worth of bios of previous recipients, I went dark and serious and pulled out some of the saddest stories I have ever told.
It did make me sound like a Serious Journalist. And, honestly, I have lots of stories that do that. I'm sure my Serious Journalist competitors have lots of those too.
On my drive home tonight, I started thinking about what really makes me different maybe special. Yes, I am good at my job. That's true. Yes, I've had great help in producing some terrific work.
But there are lots of pepole who can say that.
I'm rounding the corner into thinking that maybe what will bring me out of the impressive stack of applicants is the things I've done that not too many people I know have done that didn't seem all that special at the time.
Some of that is my Uber-Nerd devotion to journalism at a very young age. As a high school journalist I interviewed 300 kids about the impact of the recession on the youth of the day. Yes. I. Did. I surveyed 300 kids. Not surprisingly my middle class, mostly white peers did not suffer much from the recession in the early 80s. Or, if they did, they didn't want to admit it to the cute girl in the cafeteria who kept insisting that they help her fill out a survey.
But I also decided at some point, after falling forward through three lay offs in five years in the early 90s that I was not going to take a fourth job even though the money was good. There were two reasons. I thought the company was growing too fast and I didn't want to get stuck in Miami. Plus a friend of mine's Uncle Joe told me following a family funeral that no one should ever take a job just for the money. He said this with a New York Italian accent that made it sound especially profound. I didn't' take that job.  Six months later, the department I was going to work in was eliminated.
Instead, I focused on being the mistress of my own fate and made freelancing work until after my daughter was born and did fine.
Better than fine.
My daughter calls in my hippie phase. I tried to pretend she was wrong. But hand-dyed, tie-dyed overalls, check.
Birkenstocks, check.
Long wild hair most often in a basball cap or held up by a pencil, check.
Bartering photography and pottery classes by mixing glazes and mopping floors at an art school, check and check.
So, in my hippie phase, I made sometimes beautiful things just because and read brainy books for no good reason. If I hadn't had that break between Uber-Nerd and Serious Journalist I would have cracked under newsroom pressure a long time ago. (OK I may have cracked, I think I would have broken.)
So, I'm going to hit "post" on this and send it out into the ether and go onto what could literally be the 50th draft application if you count each time I 've closed and open the file.  I'm hoping to win because I have the courage to play the game and tell the truth about some messy choices in my life that ended up with good results.
If you pray, say a prayer for me. I you send up good vibes, vibe away. If you think good thoughts, I could use the positive energy.
I'll keep you posted.

Elf on the Shelf Moms: You Win.

I hate Elf on the Shelf.

I know I am not alone.   

The Elf itself is kind of retro-50s era Connecticut-Christmas cute. I'm not mad about that. I'm not even opposed to hiding the Elf around the house. I do think it's adding a layer of work to a holiday already filled with work. 

But, if it makes a kiddo happy, well OK.

No, I hate it because this new "holiday tradition" has become a a blunt object used in the ongoing Mommy Wars by a certain segment of mothers, some Menopausal some not, who feel compelled to show the rest of us, the majority of us, how fabulous and thoughtful they are because THEY really, really love their children so no extra step is too extreme. 

Their zealous tending and sharing, and sharing and tending, make me feel like I am just not trying hard enough.

 Not trying enough because I have a demanding 40-hour a week plus full time job.

Not trying hard enough because I am trying to do somethings for myself after 16 very kid-focused years. 

Not trying hard enough because I don't create flour "snowball" fights in my kitchen with a doll just so I can clean it up. 

The source of my hatred is two fold. 

One: Elf mission creep.

 There is the Elf ($30)

 An ever-growing assortment of Elf on the Shelf accessories. 

A push to have multiple elves especially if you have multiple children. 

You might need two because your Elf is lonely and needs a companion. 

Elf on the Shelf is now for birthdays.

I'm not sure what that Elf is counting down, or who Elf is reporting back to unless Santa is also engaged in mission creep and is taking over birthdays. 

Reason Two for Hating Elf  On the Shelf:
The elaborate scenarios that people, and by people I mean Moms.
 create for Elf.

Although the real moms I know who have drank the Elf Kool Aid generally seem to remember the need for a new location at 3 a.m. just before packing lunches and have only the engery to throw the Elf in the fridge where he will be found in the later morning clinging to a bottle of orange juice or fling him onto a high shelf in the den.

Other Moms, the Professional Internet Moms, go all out. They make lists and post them. They have a plan. They are having fun, damn it, and seem to say "look at all the thought I put into this lighthearted venture. Read my list! I rock being a mother and you, well, where is your list??"

But even Moms With A Plan don't grate on my nerves as much as Moms Who Make a Mess. I don't understand at all the Moms who throw flour all over their kitchen to show their Elf had a food fight. Or, below, bring in what looks like 10 pounds of sand to their entry way so they can clean it up later. 

I completely don't understand anyone who would shave their husband's head just to inspire a little extra Christmas magic.  And I hope it is someone's husband because if it isn't it is strange that the  Elf is witness to a crime and we all might be complicit in a felony.

To me it all screams of highly educated, highly creative women who got on the Mommy Track and now focus every bit of themselves --- Every Bit Of Themselves --- into making every moment of childhood magical and managed and fulfilling and, maybe there isn't even anything wrong with that, but they must tell EVERYONE that they are doing it. Better, apparently, than anyone else ever.

I come from the school of thought that sometimes, seriously, kids need to wonder about an imaginary friend and dream of Santa all on their own. My daughter's favorite thing when she was little was to make potions in the bathtub. I bought her bottles and bubbles and bath Crayons but I didn't digitize every wondrous thing that she did. (And some things were wondrous.)

It was the only time on most days that she was ever alone with her own thoughts and when she could do whatever she wanted.

So I will say this, Elf on the Shelf Moms, you win.

I don't have the time or inclination or the extra toilet paper to post a picture about how my Elf, who I imagine would be named Marvin Moonpants, wrapped my entire Christmas tree in Charmin.

But, please, this Menopausal Mom asks that the mission creep stops at birthdays. Let's not see the Elf on the Shelf Fourth of July Count Down Calendar.

Facebook posts say a lot about the poster

At my age, you will not see me posting pictures of myself all over Facebook, or talking about all of the exercise I am getting.  Nope, what you will see on my page is predominately stories about my dogs, or the happenings of my family…and every now and then, pictures I have taken of other people or places I visit.  I love photography.  Am I boring?  ...Possibly.

To give you an idea of my exciting life, the post I made this year that has earned the most “Likes” would be waking up to a knife sticking out of my kitchen floor.  Not boring, but spooky and bizarre.  That could be a description of me!

But, I have to say I find Facebook entertaining to look at.  I almost always know what I will read based on the person who posts the information.  If I were a psychiatrist, I would have a field-day interpreting the individual posts.

“Words have a magical power. They can bring either the greatest happiness or deepest despair; they can transfer knowledge from teacher to student; words enable the orator to sway his audience and dictate its decisions. Words are capable of arousing the strongest emotions and prompting all men's actions.”

SIGMUND FREUD, The Educator's Book of Quotes

Are our posts a direct reflection of who we are, or what we want others to see?  Hmmm.

When I take a selfie to post, and this is rare, I may take 10 before I get one that seems to mask my imperfections.   You know you are guilty of this too…right? I hate pictures of myself…I have always enjoyed being on the other side of the camera!

However, I have friends who are fascinated with pictures of themselves.  They post new pictures every day in their new outfits or new hair styles.  They seem to love the “You look beautiful” comments they receive.  Is this narcissistic or do they have low self-esteem and need reassurance?  And, in all sincerity, would anyone ever reply to such a posting with “You look hideous!?” 

Then there are those who are always sick and feel the need to tell everyone about their newest ailment.

“Oh Lord, my big toe is inflamed, it could be an ingrown toe-nail.  Here is a picture of it.  Do any of my Facebook friends know what this could be?”

Stock Photo...NOT MY TOE!

 I have looked at some gross pictures! 

Is this the need for sympathy, or are they hypochondriacs? 

 Another thing I have noticed is that age does play a factor in this.

The “youngsters,” as I call them, the 13-24 age group, use Facebook as a tool of battle, especially between girls.  Girls love to call other girls out when they think they have been “disrespected.”  Guys just jump in to the posts to add drama.  These are the posts where you see the words “baby mama” and “baby daddy” as much as you see the Vince Gill and Carrie Underwood’s “How Great Thou Art” video posted.  (And, I do love that video, by the way.)

The 25-39 age group, the “young adults,” love to post about their favorite hobbies and past-times.  You may see posts about sports, or things they have pinned on Pinterest.  You may also see the likes and dislikes of things happening on their favorite TV shows.  #WeMissYouSamiBrady!

The “young adults” also post pictures of their children’s birth, and pictures of their babies doing things like sneezing, smiling and crawling.  Entertainment at its finest!   

Then there is my age group, the elders, 40 and above!  We like to bore people.  We share recipes…don’t deny it elders…I saw the 3,000 posts of the same Pumpkin-Spice Cheesecake recipe last week! 

 We also talk about our vacations to the exciting beaches of Florida in the winter-time.  And, yes, we like to post funny videos.  At our age, we need something to laugh at!   

We also wish our spouses “Happy Anniversary” on Facebook.  And, we get really sappy when we wish our children a “Happy Birthday.”  (You know they love it when we post naked pictures of them when they were infants!)  

And we love to brag and talk about our grown children; we post everything they do.  We want everyone out in Facebook world to know how proud we are of their accomplishments…and to understand it is because we were such amazing parents that it happened. 

All in all, Facebook is about reaching out to others and sharing.  No matter our motives. 

It's OK. Go Gray!

I started to go gray in my 20s
I went gray in my 50th year.
I kind of laughed when I found my first gray hair in college, looking in the bathroom mirror at my dorm. I thought it was funny. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because I had always pretty fabulous hair. Not that I knew it at the time. I always felt no matter what I did it kind of looked the same. Pony tail. Farrah Facuett waves. Tousled natural..not really in vogue....it all felt the same to me.
I felt the same way about make up. No matter what I did...to me I always looked like the fat kid from third grade.
But in truth my hair was thick and healthy and a naturally highlighted combination of brown, blonde and little bit of red. I wish I could lay some claim to it but ...you know, thanks Mom and Dad, Mamaw and Papaw. Grandma and Grandpa.  It is purely the hand God dealt me. (So, God, Kudos to you.)

I told one of my professors at WKU, James Ausenbaugh, about that first gray hair and he called me a "smart ass old kid" which stuck for awhile between us. It was the one of the few times anybody gave me a nickname to my face. (The other was M&M before Eminem. (Thank you, Love You. Robert Perez)
I was also "reporter Mary" for awhile.(Another story for another day.)
I abused my hair, frankly. I wasn't much for fancy shampoos. I'd let it grow until I couldn't take it anymore and cut it all off. There was that one illconcieved perm.

The hair dye started in my 20s. Usually what was on sale. Never on a regular basis in the way you are suppose to. Because my hair was thick it help cover up mistakes in the dye distribution.
That worked pretty well through my 30s but then the onslaught began in earnest and the gray made a permanent and prominent appearance.

I'd like to think I'm not vain but I was prickly about people assuming my daughter, now 15, was my grand daughter. Two people made that mistake when she was around three or four.

I did not respond well.

Once, when we went to a restaurant to celebrate her first library card, the waitress said "Oh, isn't that nice for your Granny to do that."

"I'm her mother," I said aggressively.

"Oh, of course, you know, Grannies are so young these days, I mean, you look YOUNG. I'm a granny...just, well..." she was talking loud and fast.

"If you stop talking now you will still get a tip," I said.

She stopped.

So why give up and go gray?

First, I really am old enough to be her grandmother. Especially in my small town where it seems like a lot of families have children early and often. Her first serious boyfriend's grandma was almost exactly my age.

Second, it was pretty much all white so...well...how much time and effort did I want to spend in the hair war  that was surely going to lose. (None and, well, none.)

So early this year, I did it. First I went to a salon and got blonde "lowlights" then I was too poor to go back to create a regular transition so nature just took it's course.

Guess what?

It's healthier.

It's beautiful.

It stands out.

I have gotten dozens of compliments on it.

More people I have told me looked nice with my all white hair in the last six months than in the last six years.

I've even caught myself looking in the mirror thinking "not bad". (A rare occurrence, I can assure you.) And even sometimes...."nice"! A rarer occurrence.

I think it is really a combination of things. I've embraced the hair God gave me, I am working out. I've lost 34 pounds. My asthma is under control.

I feel better white-haired and 50 than I have in a long, long time.

I may even have a little swagger.

I have come to the conclusion that I am going to embrace it because I have spent most of my life worrying that I wasn't as pretty as I was in the decade before when I worried all the time that I wasn't pretty enough. And, proof above, I look a lot like my daughter who I think is beautiful but I never saw myself that way.

This may be as good as it's going to get folks....so I might as well make the most of it.

Plus, here is a bonus. (Bonus!)

From a distance or from behind, I could be a senior citizen of any age.

I was car dancing in traffic the other day. To One Direction. (Don't judge my jam) I was in that traffic for 45 minutes, enthusiastically singing and seat dancing. (Breathing equals the ability to sing which can lead to singing.)

I had a fabulous time. So did the people in the minivan behind me. I don't care if they were laughing at me or with me, but they were having fun. At one point we got separated but 15 minutes later they were back behind me. When the teen boy in the passenger seat saw me again, still dancing, he almost did a spit take with his Starbucks, pointed and broke out in a big smile like he was happy to see me back.

It occurred to me later that from their vantage, all they saw was the white hair over the top of the seat. I could have been 80 which made my exuberance more unexpected.

My Honda Fit was even rocking a bit.

God willing, I'll get there to 80 and beyond. My Mom has beautiful hair. She keeps it cut short. She looks like a winsome elf. She's been known to car dance.

And I'll take that, someday. For now if someone asks if I'm Bailey's grandma I'll just smile and say yes and, maybe, ask if they know of an available Grandpa who enjoys the odes of One D.