Passwords

In this age of rampant access to everything under the sun, I admit to being a little perplexed. When we were young (and I use "we" collectively -- all of us over the age of 35) there were very few things you needed a code to access. Want to enter the house? Use the key. And probably, the door wasn't locked anyway.

I spent years with unlocked doors and open access.

I'm probably more terrified of my sinuses exploding, getting diagnosed with cancer, date rape or identity theft than I am of some random person walking into my home and causing harm.

The odds are in my favor.

The world of passwords is approaching insanity. Most people started out using a simple one like your date of birth, your SSN, your mother's maiden name, etc. Now, every website, every account, every access code to absolutely anything requires a random sequence, including letters, numbers and symbols. On top of that, we are all advised to not use the same one for everything.

I am still job searching and that involves a lot of websites that want me to establish my password. My two favorites don't always work because they don't have symbols.

When I'm feeling goofy, I like to mix it up. Like when they ask for your mother's maiden name as a fallback for resending you your super secret password, I mix it all up. My current favorite is listing my mother's maiden name as SmithEllisjones.

Of course, I no longer have the brain capacity to keep all of my passwords and secret codes in my head. I have a little notebook to keep things straight. I have no fear of someone stealing my identity;I have a great fear of someone stealing my notebook.

Bragging Rights

Do you get annoyed with people who send holiday newsletters telling you of their travels to Europe, peppered with the news of Jr. becoming a vice president and baby girl junior is president of the local Junior League? Grandchildren have all made the honor roll and at least one is certain to be the president of his or her fraternity/sorority. For that moment in time, their biggest problem might be grubs in the lawn.

One of my favorite traditions, and one I miss dearly, was when the girlfriends/workout group would gather in my kitchen and vote on the most obnoxious and braggy Christmas letter received. My friend Big Sal always won -- she knows a lot of important people who feel the need to brag about it. She could not be more down-to-earth and that's probably why people are drawn to her.

We all read between the lines when someone is bragging.

The bragging is often earned because something was survived. Maybe the children simply survived divorce. Maybe the unexpected pregnancy turns out to be the valedictorian. The grandchild with the learning disorder might be fueling his brain cells in a Bill Gates direction. Or helping the homeless. Or simply being a smart person who doesn't wear a hoodie and pack a gun. Or finds hope in a world that can sometimes seem hopeless.

Even though I make fun of it, I understand the need to say, "Look at our family -- look at this great thing that happened in our life."

I've had the honor and privilege to be a co-mamma, and a stepmother. And one of the issues brought to my attention during the divorce was my family/stepfamily/co-family did not always appreciate my thoughts going out there for the world to absorb. So, I have tried to comply but now I'm going to backslide for a quick second.

My stepdaughter eloped recently. I watched her through high school, college and law school. I cheered her a lot and we traded "what is wrong with you" conversations at times. I'm proud of her and this marriage she's chosen. I'm bragging.

My stepson was just accepted into the accelerated graduate program. He is starting his senior year in college and one year after that he will earn his master's degree. Not only will it save time but having those credit hours working double time will save a phenomenal amount of money. His parents have earned the bragging rights but I'm feeling the need to puff out my lungs and shout a bit too.

And Next ...

My father and I have a running debate about using the term, "Next." Imagine it's a Wednesday and you refer to plans on next Saturday. In my mind, this is not the Saturday that is three days away; it is the one that is 10 days away. I'm talking about this Saturday. He thinks I am crazy.

His analogy is standing in line at the bank. When the teller yells, "Next!" you don't turn around and look at the person behind you. I get the logic but he is still wrong.

I'm truly struggling with what is next for me. Is it right in front of me or is it the hypothetical ten days away? I had several job interviews last week and one of them is a job I really, really want. I've had five interviews for this job. Yep, five. Let me tell you again, FIVE!

I have friends going through awful things... cancer, childhood diseases, bankruptcy, estrangement from their families, etc. You name it, I can tell you about it.

My little simple life seems ... well, simple. And I'm tempted to call the prayer chain to put myself on the list. That seems lamer than lame.

But if I don't get this amazing good fit of a job, I might have to take a vacation and breathe differently for a while.

Why We Celebrate

Illusions, Delusions ...

I'm thinking about holidays and traditions. You know how I love those and you know that I have spent the last year and a half redefining them. I'm thinking about how quickly things change.

One of the hardest things for me going through this divorce has been figuring out traditions and holidays. I still am a little perplexed that I'm not going to my friends' lake cottage over Memorial Day to help open it for the season. And come Labor Day, I'll be equally confused that I'm not breaking my back to carry the furniture to the boat house.

At Halloween, I'm supposed to be coordinating (or at least helping) with the costume golf outing and the dinner/entertainment to follow.

Thanksgiving was at my house for about 18 years or so. And, what do all those people who used to pop by my house on Christmas Eve do now? When our mutual friends get together for New Years, do they celebrate the anniversary that is no more?

Part of the reason we are adaptable is we all love illusions and shun the delusions. The illusion lets us play the role of keeping it all together, putting up a good front. And yes, we delude ourselves.

That teenage girl we know is pregnant but thank God my child isn't having sex.
My son seems a little depressed but suicide doesn't run in our family.
My child isn't a bully.
I don't know anyone who does drugs.

And when we're lucky, smart and all the gooey things in between, we celebrate:

My son just got into the accelerated master's program.
Someone's daughter gets to choose between three schools and great scholarships.
A godchild just got the internship of his dreams.
An anniversary of a marriage that has navigated disaster.
A best friend's child is headed for the Peace Corps.

And that's why we celebrate. Maybe it's a minuscule child hitting his first ball at T-ball, maybe it's taking your mom and grandma to lunch on Mother's Day and realizing a whole bunch of your friends don't have moms or grandmas to celebrate with.

Maybe it's just acknowledging that tomorrow is on the horizon with miracles, disasters and whatever else may come. We celebrate. We love. We delude ourselves and we illuminate our lives. As we should.

The Pull of the South

My roots are in the South.

I can still see my Uncle Ken preaching.
I see my Aunt Wanda in her kitchen asking all the men, "Four eggs or five?"
I want to sit on that front porch where my in-laws lived.

I am a firmly-planted Midwestern girl. When I travel, I become a chameleon. I love Manhattan and I love Mexico and the Caribbean. If you gave me a ticket to Europe or the Mediterranean, I'd be packed in 10 minutes and on the next plane.

The South has my pulse. I'm drawn to it...favorite memories and lots of my favorite people still live there. I was in a bookstore recently and noticed I am magnetized by southern writers.

I'm pretty sure I will live out the rest of my life in Indiana. But, I am happily headed south in a few weeks to visit one of my dearest girlfriends. I would visit her anywhere...Gosh, I think I have.

The fact that she's pulling me south is a spectacular benefit.

If You Don't Know Me By Now

For someone who has spent her entire adult life making a living in communications, it occurs to me that I may not be a great communicator in my personal life.

I have a sassy mouth. I have spent many years learning to temper it. The tendency to (as my ex-husband used to say) "Ready, Fire, Aim!" has been somewhat stifled. I truly try to engage my brain before I open my mouth.

Yet, I am still me. I will continue to be an open book. I will tell you what I think if you ask me a question. If I love you, I will spend countless hours trying to craft a proper response in the kindest possible way. Or sometimes I will blurt out what I really think and apologize for the manner in which it was delivered.

I have a wacky sense of humor that I inherited honestly. My parents are two of the funniest people on the planet and even when we jab each other, it is done with a foundation of love, respect and a little bit of attitude. "You can't get rid of me!"

My family is my family. That sounds idiotic but it's important that I put it out there. I have cousins and distant relatives that I go years without seeing. But they are in my prayers and I would be there for them in a heartbeat if needed.

I have an abundance of friends and acquaintances. Most of my friends have been with me for decades. We have had the joy and the pain of watching each other experience every possible scenario. Occasionally my sassy mouth or distracted brain or wacky sense of humor gets me in trouble. I have total respect for anyone who calls me on it:

You hurt my feelings.
You shouldn't have done that.
I need you right now.
Why did you say that?

But lately, I'm copping a little attitude.

If I've been your friend (or family) for decades, shouldn't you know that my loyalty is with you? Shouldn't my best judgement count? Shouldn't you trust me that my intentions are pure?

I'm getting tired of explaining myself and my decisions. I am living with my parents because I need to do so. It is not just for financial reasons -- I could move out tomorrow and eke by for a while. I am looking for the right job, not just any job, because it is the right decision for me. I am not looking for a new husband. Having coffee or a drink with someone does not an affair make. But I also could have an affair with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and I'm pretty sure it is no one's business but mine. (and God's)

Live and learn. I lost some acquaintances in the divorce. Ok, I can live with that. But occasionally someone just blows me away with a comment or a question and I think,

Wow, you don't know me at all.

The House that Built Me

The wonderful thing about country music is the stories. Heartache, mischief, loves gone wrong, etc.

Miranda Lambert's latest, The House That Built Me, is my new fave. How does she know this much about me?

Here are some snippets:

I used to do my homework in that little room.
My favorite dog is buried in your back yard.

And the best part is the chorus:

If you'll just let me in, I swear I'll leave ... with nothing but a memory.

She needs to be in her childhood home. Touch the walls, feel the aura, put a hand on the concrete.

I'm in touch with this. My life fell apart and guess where I ran?

I'm long past the time that I should've moved on. Call it lazy or call it crazy ... I don't know.

I will move on. I will redefine the life I need for myself. But right now, I'm indulging a need. I put my head on a pillow, say my prayers and take great comfort in returning to the house that built me.