Beauty In The Breakdown

September 11th is my mom's birthday.

For many years of her life (by which I mean 29), my mom's birthday was never a problem. In fact, having "911" for your birthday was kind of her bit. She used to joke that no one ever had an excuse for forgetting her birthday, because it was on every fire truck. Lucky people! Not to mention the fact that people had a chance to remember her every time they saw a cute firefighter. It was a cute little joke (told by an obvious fan of fire fighters) and even though I heard it a million times growing up, it always got my mom a laugh.

But on September 11, 2001 the joke stopped being cute and everyone stopped laughing.

September 11th. It's my generation's "Where were you when?" moment. We ask "Where were you when you heard about 9/11" much like our parent's generation asked "Where were you when you heard that JFK was shot?' I, like most people, remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and that strange, aimless, disoriented feeling that, days later, no one could quite shake. I remember every surreal minute of it.

That morning, like most mornings of days that go horribly wrong, began perfectly normally. I had gone into my mom's room to wish her a happy birthday, worried about how she was handling it (I'll just say it was a milestone birthday and leave it at that). I sat down on her bed mentally preparing my pep talk, as my mom turned on the news. For as long as I can remember, my mom has always watched the local news in the morning (I come by my news anchor obsession honestly). Our local news anchor was talking about something innocuous when she suddenly fell silent and turned a few shades lighter. The local news immediately cut to National, and my mom and I abandoned our talk to watch. At first, the reports were nothing but chaos. No one knew what had happened exactly, but they were guessing there was some kind of explosion in the tower and the building was on fire (I would remember this exact moment the day of the Boston Bombings, when everyone knew that something had happened and it was bad, but we couldn't fathom just how bad yet). As we watched, the second plane crashed into the tower. I remember that whoever was reporting at the time started screaming and that was when I realized that this was huge. I was in a journalism and communications class at the time and as (weird, crazy, ironic) luck would have it, that morning I was still trying to cram for a quiz that day on journalistic integrity, objectivity, and how important it is to maintain your cool at all times, particularly during a live broadcast. I had no way of knowing at the time but I shouldn't have wasted my time studying; We never wound up taking that quiz. Instead, my shell-shocked, rather shaky-looking teacher (a first year, he was only five years older than me and no doubt monumentally freaked out, maybe even more so than all of us) sent us home. I remember getting gas later that night and instead of the usual, noisy gas station bustle, everyone was silent, just listening to the news on their radios. Dan Rather's voice was echoing off the pumps as everyone listened in stunned silence, gas pumps hanging limply from their hands. It was like a scene from a movie, that eerie silence right before the storm hits or the world ends. I'll never forget that feeling.

It was twelve years ago, but the memory is so clear, so vivid that it could have happened yesterday. It was all so violent, so tragic, so unnecessary, so unfathomable. I was only seventeen, but 9/11 was my wake up call to the fact that a big, scary world lay beyond my sheltered existence. 

But I believe that there's a silver lining.

I remember the days right after 9/11, before the conspiracy theories, the Patriot Acts, the finger-pointing or blaming started to pour in, when the atmosphere was indescribable. Everyone was paying attention to everything going on around them, everyone was engaged. People were hanging up flags and talking to strangers. We were all united in sorrow; We were grieving but we were doing it together, and we buzzed with our mutual sympathy and comradery. It felt like taking a glimpse at what the world would look like if everyone dropped their agendas, politics, prejudices, ill-conceived perceptions and down-right snobbishness and just focused on acting like decent human beings. And you know what? That world was awesome. For a moment, our values synched up and we gained a whole new appreciation for strong, brave people. We appreciated things like the will and steel nerves of the first responders who went rushing into hell trying to save people. We stopped taking police, firefighters, and the military for granted and appreciated what they all go through to protect and serve. No one cared who they voted for in the 2000 election, where they stood on abortion, or how much money they made. We cared about the content of people's characters instead of just surface-level facts and sound bytes of their opinions. "United We Stand" became our motto not just because it sounded nice and patriotic, but because everyone actually felt that way. I can honestly say that in the midst of so much sadness and chaos, I've never been prouder to a part of this country, that we were all in this fight together.  The United States became one big family bonded in grief and for one fleeting moment, it made us all a little better. As I sit here now, a dozen years later, I'm reminded of an article I read once, about how calamity and tragedy helps people focus, realize what's important to them and to try, however briefly, to be a better version of themselves. The world was bursting with those people in the days after 9/11, people who wanted to do anything they could to help, from passing out fliers to giving blood. It was humanity at its best. It was the beauty in the breakdown.

Every year, I think that we should honor the victims and families of 9/11. But I've never been able to figure out how. Whenever I think about it, I always come back to that post 9/11 feeling of being a united front, feeling like we were all in this mess together, and I wish we could figure out a way to get back to feeling that way. I realize that the world is not meant to be perfect, there will always be adversity, violence, war, and a million other terrible things. But honestly, we can do a little better than this. Those days right after 9/11 gave me hope. Maybe someday the good in the world will outweigh the bad, or at the very least, we'll appreciate the little but important things in life instead of taking them for granted. Maybe if we want to really honor the people who lost their lives, we could try being kinder, more patient, more tolerant people without needing a gut-wrenching tragedy to be our motivator. Maybe it's just the left wing, tree-huger in me, but I think we could all get the point eventually where no one cares what wing I am or what I hug, because at the end of the day, none of that stuff really matters. We're all in this together. Solidarity! Call me unrealistic or naive, but I'm not going to give up hope that it could happen.

We really could be the change we want to see in the world. We have the potential.

"On September 11, 2001 there was one American in space. This is the photo he took from the International Space Station" VIA Twitter.com/SciencePorn.

Hurricane Freak Out

Hey guys. I'm back. And I'm freaking out.

It all started last Friday, when Layla and I went to go meet her first grade teacher. Up until that point, the fact that Layla was getting ready to go into the first grade hadn't really bothered me much. She loves her school, I love her school and, despite another year of sweaty panic as I tried to remember everyone's name (which is obviously my problem and not theirs), I was actually looking forward to the upcoming year. Thanks to volunteering in her Kindergarten class, I was  familiar with the faculty and comfortable with the school. And for some (crazy) reason, I figured my familiarity with the school would afford me some kind of freak out immunity when it came to transitioning to the first grade.

Well, I figured wrong.

And here's why: I didn't realize it until the minute that I stepped into Layla's new classroom, but I was expecting the first grade to basically be Kindergarten 2.0. Blocks, art tables, kitchen sets and little grouped tables. Sweet and safe. Okay, so maybe those things had freaked me out about Kindergarten a year ago, but I could handle all of them now. Not to mention the fact that when I reached far back to my own Kindergarten and first grade years, my mind stubbornly insisted that they were practically indistinguishable. So I could totally handle Layla starting the first grade, no problem. But what I apparently could not handle was reality in the form of legit school paraphernalia, the chapter books, the white boards, the little desks (which, despite being in the throes of a nervous breakdown, struck me as the cutest things I'd ever seen in my life). It was so different from Kindergarten because it looked like, well, school.  After the classroom had been explored and teacher had been met, we milled around awhile and saw some friends and their moms from last year. I was struck by the fact that all of the moms seemed to be walking around in a daze. We tried to catch up and talk about our summers, but all we could manage to do was shake our heads in disbelief and mutter "The first grade. Can you believe it?" to each other. Or maybe we were all just muttering it to ourselves, now that I think about it. Either way, I shook my head and muttered just like everyone else, but I otherwise managed to power through. I felt victorious for overcoming my natural instinct to freak out (for a change), which is probably why I didn't see my "victory" for what it was: The calm before Hurricane Freak Out.

We had been home for about an hour when it hit me. I was in the kitchen and I happened to glance out the window to see a woman walking along, pushing a baby in a stroller. Truth be told, I probably look out that window and see moms with babies a hundred times a day and never notice, but you can bet that I noticed today. That was all it took for me to (for lack of a more eloquent way to say it) completely lose my shit, in the form of a hiccup-y, teary panic attack. I just kept shaking my head and muttering "The first grade. Can you believe it?" even though there were no other moms around to even pretend to be muttering to. Suddenly, every memory from my own first grade experience came rushing back. I remembered my first grade teacher, Mrs. Hyrne, who smiled a lot and had red hair which fascinated me (It's important to note that the year that I was in the first grade, "The Little Mermaid" came out, and because Mrs. Hyrne reminded me of Ariel, I was in awe of her and subsequently the biggest, brown-nosing, little teacher's pet ever.) I remember desks, and reading, and addition and subtraction, and the subtle loss of nap time. The point of all of this (random) reminiscing is that I finally realized that I was wrong, wrong, wrong about the first grade being Kindergarten 2.0 and that my memory had betrayed me entirely (which just goes to show that you probably shouldn't trust the memory of an almost-30-year old.) They were nothing alike. They couldn't have been more different and I suddenly remembered the first grade like it was yesterday. Wait, wasn't I actually just in the first grade yesterday? It certainly feels like it. And furthermore, if my wobbly memory can at least still manage to conjure up the name of my first grade teacher, how is it physically possible that I'm the parent of a first grader now? How??

I don't know. It just doesn't seem right.

Sometimes I feel like my like is accelerating out of control, that it's a life lived in perpetual fast-forward. But as much as that freaks me out, it's nothing compared to the feeling I get when I realize that my kid's lives are in fast-forward too. When my kids were babies, days seemed like years sometimes (particularly when those days involved projectile vomit), but now years feel like days. I look at them and wonder when and how they became actual people. It's thrilling and challenging and terrifying, all rolled into one. I know that kids grow up, that's the way that life works, it's supposed to happen. It's all just happens so fast. I swear, I am this close (THIS! CLOSE!) to turning into one of those crazy people who hover in the grocery store aisles telling anyone with a baby to enjoy it because it goes too fast, completely forgetting both the fact that you only realize how fast it goes in retrospect and people who do this are really annoying. At some point I'll probably incorporate pinching random cheeks and getting the stank eye from parents who (rightfully, probably) don't want me anywhere near their baby's cheeks, into my unsolicited "Enjoy it while you can" rant/routine. Great. Like I need to be any crazier than I already am.

Fast-forward to today, the first day of school. I did what I knew I needed to do: I pulled myself together and took my extremely excited kid (who had absolutely no idea how weepy and freaked out her mother actually was) to school. I took pictures, said hello to people, and told her she was going to have a great day, all while my fingers felt numb and my voice sounded detached from my body. I didn't cry or hover for too long (though Layla was ready for me to leave at least ten minutes before I actually left). Instead I came home, wrote this blog, freaked out in the privacy of my own home, and didn't even cry.

Well, okay. Maybe I cried a little bit.

I know that ultimately dragging my feet isn't going to do anything. My kids get older every day and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I just wish I had listened to those people who hovered in the aisles at the grocery store who told me to enjoy it all while it lasted because it goes by too fast.

Because it really does.

Day 31: A Supposedly Fun Thing That I'll Never Do Again

 
Well friends, the date today is July 31st which means that my 31 days are up, all blogged on and accounted for. The challenge is over. I did it. 

To celebrate the end of the first short-term goal I've ever successfully achieved, I compiled a brief, statistical look back on my (sometimes excruciating) 31 Days of Diva challenge:

• I wrote 27 blogs total with four guest blogs from my extremely talented guest bloggers (Thank you Adam, Tescha, Emilee and John! Knowing that I had a break once a week did more to keep me sane than you will ever know. You guys rock).
• Between me and my guest bloggers, we wrote 29,347 words (including this blog), which roughly translates into 59 single-spaced pages. I suddenly find the idea of writing a book significantly less daunting. 
• Total blog page views for the month of July (Not including this blog): 2,921 (but more on that later)
• Number of times I wanted to quit the Challenge: 31 (I'm dramatic)
• Number of times I actually, seriously considered quitting: 2 
• Number of Facebook friends I lost: 3 (you can't win 'em all)
• Number of Twitter followers I gained: 11 
• Number of Twitter-verified rappers who followed me because they liked my Trayvon Martin blog: 1 
• Number of people who told me they would never be able to look at Martha Stewart the same way because of me: 13 (sorry guys)
• Number of panic attacks I had because I couldn't think of a single thing to write about: 4 (not bad, actually)
• Number of hoaxes I believed: 1 (almost 2, but I Googled him and Jackie Chan is still alive)
• Number of blogs I wrote that I hated and wished I could take back: 3 
• Number of days I felt overwhelmed with gratitude and love for everyone who was reading Triple D on the daily: 31

It's important to note that none of these lovely (and sometimes strange) statistics would have been possible without all of you. Thank you.

Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to read my blogs every day. I really can't tell you how much the support has meant to me. I was terrified at the beginning of this challenge that I was going to alienate myself from everyone I know by bombarding them daily with every thought that entered my nutty little brain. I saw a lot of begging people to read my blog (even more so than usual) and feeling like I was working my booty off for no reason in my future, and it was intimidating. And while I did have a few of those days (and I did manage to alienate myself from at least a couple of people), the majority of my 31 days were a blur of pleasant surprises. You guys were reading, sharing, commenting and coming back for more. When I saw my page view numbers for the month, I did a cartoon-worthy double-take. This number (2,921) means that my little blog got about a hundred hits a day, every day, for the entire month. That number blows my mind and exceeds my wildest, most optimistic expectations. I can't thank you guys enough for all of your support.

And thanks for being there on the rough days too, the days that I couldn't stop critiquing myself, my mind echoing the harsh ways that the celebrity chef panel on "The Next Food Network Star" (my latest and most pressing obsession) critiques its potential chefs. You're making a bold statement, but not connecting with the audience. You're not getting out of your comfort zone, be braver. Pack up your knives and go home, you suck. Well, you get the idea. Thanks for being there to tell me that I don't suck. There's probably a much more eloquent way to say that, but there's nothing more redeeming than being told that you don't suck when you feel like you do. In other words, thanks for being my little army of anti-Bobby Flays, guys. It meant a lot to me.

I went into this challenge hoping to find the motivation and self-discipline to write every day and I'm proud to say that I did. Actually, what I really discovered is that those qualities have probably been here all along, but were lying dormant, waiting to be woken up. I may come out of this whole experience with a desire to write more than my usual 2 blogs a month. While I'm not sure that aimlessly writing about nothing everyday is my "thing", I think I may finally be ready to turn all of my nothing into something.

Well, eventually. Right now I need a break. Right now, in the immortal words of Popeye, I've had all I can stands and I can't stands no more.

But don't worry. The world is a shocking place filled with interesting characters that are sure to either inspire or piss me off, not to mention the fact that I have the kind of kids that are always doing funny, blog-worthy things.

I'll be back.

Day 30: Christmas In July

About this time every year, I start thinking about the months to come. The best months of the year. The holiday months.

For us, the holiday months kick off in October with the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta and Ben's birthday and go through New Year's Day. Holiday months are synonymous with pumpkin flavored coffee, pumpkin patches, football, warm socks, dusting off my pregnancy pants for Thanksgiving dinner (don't judge me), the smell of fires, the smell of snow, school holiday performances, the River of Lights, decorating, baking, laughing at tipsy relatives, telling stories about previous holidays...I could go on and on.

The kids at McCall's Pumpkin Patch, a true New Mexican treasure. If you're here, you know it's Fall.

Every holiday during the holiday months is great, but the hands-down winner for the best, most fun holiday is definitely Christmas. It is, as they say, the most wonderful time of the year. I absolutely love Christmas. I feel like it's the time of the year when we see the best in people and makes everyone feel a little bit like a kid again, if only temporarily.

This is what pure, unbridled Snow Day joy looks like. This is also what Mitten Monsters look like.

Christmas is, without a doubt, one of the best times of year to be a parent. When they were babies, both of my kids loved to lie under the Christmas tree and stare up at the lights. As they get older, they're able to participate in the fun more and more, helping to decorate the tree, baking cookies, and assembling gingerbread houses. They are enamored with Christmas, wrapped up in the magic, the celebration, and electric awareness of life and love that is Christmas. They remind me of what it feels like to be a carefree kid, anxiously waiting for Christmas day to finally come. They remind me of happy childhood memories, which is a surprisingly and amazing gift. Prior to my kids, I spent many years in retail and a side effect of that particular career path was a general sense of desensitization towards holidays, particularly Christmas. I saw the bad side, the demanding customers, the long hours which led to missing out on Christmas-y activities, the relentless sound of "Jingle Bells" on repeat. I didn't realize until much later how dark that time in my life was, how much I had turned on my favorite childhood holidays. I learned how to re-appreciate them through the eyes of my kids.  My children shed light on my dark little world which, as luck would have it, is the point of celebrating Christmas in the first place.

That, and singing Christmas carols at the top of your lungs, unabashedly and unashamed, no matter where you are or what you're doing.

It's important to note that as far as Christmas music is concerned, my usual inner, guarded, hipster, music snob keels over and dies for the entire month (okay fine, the entire month of November too). I do things I wouldn't normally do, like listen to Mariah Carey willingly while singing happily along. It's the wonderful time of the year where I don't care if you're a country singer, a member of the Rat Pack, or an annoyingly perky bubblegum pop star, I will happily listen to your rendition of "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" over and over. I don't judge any musician if he/or she has made a Christmas album, not even Snoop Dogg/Lion . I don't care that I basically spend months listening to slightly different variations of the same fifteen songs, in fact, I love absolutely every minute of it. I pretend to be relieved when January hits and regular music returns, but in actuality I miss the fuzzy-feeling-inducing tunes immediately. They're an irrefutable necessity in the Christmas Spirit equation.

Ben trying to slyly lick a lollipop on my Mom's tree that, unfortunately for him, turned out to be an ornament.

This is also the time of the year where my inner culinary genius finally gets to shine. I'm not what you would call a great cook, generally speaking. It's probably because I'm a picky eater, but I typically spend an inordinate amount of time staring into my refrigerator, helplessly wondering how I could possibly turn this stuff into something edible, before giving up and popping a frozen pizza in. But Christmas is different. Much like my temporary Yuletide love of Mariah Carey, my love of baking Christmas goodies is unbridled. The fact that artichokes make me uncomfortable is no longer relevant at Christmastime. My picky eating habits dissolve instantly. I bake cookies, pies, cakes, you name it as long as it's sugary, buttery, and can be shared with friends or family. One year we made some truffles that we were pretty proud of (incidentally, Josh has been known to channel his inner Julia Child at Christmastime too). And the fact that all of this goody-eating coincides so nicely with sweater-weather? Well that's just the icing on the fruitcake

I also love the traditions of Christmas, from the more traditional traditions of waking up and opening presents to the fun traditions that stem from holiday-related "you had to be there" moments. One of our traditions is celebrating Christmas Eve with my mom, brother, sister-in-law and their kiddos at my mom's house. The night always ends with a game I can only describe as "Attack Uncle Mike" where all of the kids well... attack my brother, their Uncle Mike. I have no idea how or why this tradition started, but it usually ends with my brother lifting my mom's (extremely temperamental) Schnauzer up in the air threatening to make him walk on the ceiling, as he swiftly dodges fact that the dog is trying to bite his hands off. It cracks me up every year.

Anyone up for a round of "Attack Uncle Mike"?

You can tell by the look in his eyes that my brother was one of those kids who tried to burn ants with a magnifying glass.

No matter how excited they are, getting my kids to sleep on Christmas Eve is never a problem. They're always exhausted from my mom's house. They wake up Christmas morning, tear into presents and then immediately beg to go to Nana and Poppy (AKA Josh's parents)'s house. The day flies by in a flurry of family, fires in the fireplace, football, and amazing food. Before we know what happened it's all over, always way too soon. Not just for the kids, but for the grown-ups too.

Baby Layla, enjoying some Christmas goodness and a roaring fire at Nana and Poppy's

I'm daydreaming about Christmas today because school is starting in a couple of weeks and while that might signify the end of happiness to most kids, to me it's the starting point for all of the happiness and good stuff to come. It means that the arrival of the holiday season just around the corner. And despite the fact that I'm sitting in the air-conditioning on a hot July day, beyond the new school year and the arrival of Fall, I can almost smell the cookies and cinnamon candles and Christmas tree lingering in the not-so-distant future.

I can't wait.

Patiently waiting for Christmas.

Day 29: Remembering My Unorthodox First Crush

Today started out the same way as many before it, with me stepping on a Lego. 

Stepping on small, plastic,virtually invisible toy is merely a side effect of parenting on a good day, but on a less patient days, it's the bane of my existence. Since today fell squarely into the latter category, after I stepped on the offending Lego, I calmly suggested (read: demanded with my voice just teetering on the edge of a shriek) that my kids pick up their rooms a bit. The request was followed by a brief flurry of activity, and then full-on silence. Anyone who has children knows that silence is actually the worst sound in the world when it comes to kids. When they're loud, you know exactly what they're doing and that no one is choking on anything. Silence usually equals some kind of trouble. 

Naturally, this silence needed to be further investigated. I went down the hall to Ben's room to find it still looked as though it had been devastated by some kind of natural disaster (a Thomas the Train hurricane by the looks of it) and completely Ben-less. I continued down the hall to Layla's room, where I found a closed door. I opened it to discover Ben, rapidly moving around Layla's room gathering her toys, books, and loose shoes and putting them back in their places while Layla perched on her bed like a Princess, reading a book. As you might expect, I asked Layla what was going on. She waved her hand dismissively in the general direction of Ben, her eyes never leaving the pages of her Fancy Nancy book. "I gave Ben a dollar to clean my room for me" she said casually, as if paying her brother for his manual labor was nothing unusual. For a second, I just stood there, blinking at her. I knew that I probably should have been mad, but I wasn't. I probably should have lectured her about responsibilities and not trying to pawn them off on her brother, but it's hard to lecture someone when you feel like you're on the brink of a full-on belly laugh. Not to mention the fact that I actually kind of admired her for thinking it up. Ben was doing the work willingly (because one dollar for a kid equals a million dollars for an adult in terms of awesomeness) and she was compensating him for said work. Everybody wins. Six-year-old: 1, World: 0.

I've continued through the day amused by Layla's antics, but a thought has nagged at me. I keep thinking that it's an indescribably weird experience when you begin to see parts of your personality in your kid's personality. It manages to be both the coolest thing ever and most terrifying thing you could ever imagine. You discover qualities you never knew you had, both good and less than flattering. As she gets older, Layla turns into me more and more. Sometimes Josh just looks back and forth between the two of us, shaking his head, probably imagining what it's going to be like when she's seventeen and I'm threatening to rip my hair out. And while I'm not exactly looking forward to that bleak but inevitable day myself, I'm more freaked out by day-to-day changes and the fact that in many ways I feel like I'm watching my life play out all over again; I'm just playing a slightly different role this time.

It's funny that the day I realized my daughter is officially turning into me happens to be the same day as Peter Jenning's 75 birthday. The connection to those two things may not be obvious, but bear with me.

Last year, I accidentally wrote my favorite blog. I had been on a rather rant-y streak (try to contain your shock) and was starting to worry that constantly being up on my soap box was going to start giving me nose bleeds. I was looking to lighten up a heavy mood by encouraging the world to laugh at me, much more than I was concerned with hitting one out of the park, writing wise. And in a lot of ways, the blog wasn't a home run. It didn't have a billion views (we all know how obsessed with statistics I suddenly am) nor did it afford me sudden blog fame and fortune. But I didn't care because I loved it and I loved writing it. It was the most fun, stress-free writing experience I've ever had. I was Layla's age in this story and like her, I was a curious blend of gutsy and reserved, ready to take on the world and all that came with it. I was also completely enamored with my very first crush:

Many of you may not consider Peter Jennings crush-worthy, and many of you are terribly wrong.

Above all, I loved sharing a story from my personal history that contributes to who I am as a person today. And maybe it was because I was recounting a time when I was braver and less intimidated by the world around me, but writing it made me feel recharged and brave, with the glorious mind-set of a six-year-old. Which is probably why I decided to send the blog to my current favorite news man, who trilled me by actually taking the time to respond, letting me know that he was also a Jennings fan and thanking me for the mention. He also very graciously side-stepped the fact my blog alludes to the fact that I have a huge crush on him (a fact that I didn't realize myself until I woke with a start at 4 AM in a cold sweat, mentally kicking myself and wondering why some brilliant computer person hasn't created an "unsend" button yet). But if he noticed, he was kind enough not to say so. Which just proves that you can't go wrong with the men of the news.

My childhood crush and all-time favorite Newsie passed away several years ago, but if he was alive today he would be 75, and I would probably be on Twitter right now, embarrassing myself by telling him that he's smokin' hot for someone who is 3/4 of a century old. So while it's sad that he won't be surfing his social media accounts soaking up all of his birthday well-wishes, I obviously dodged a bullet because he'll never have to endure mine. Nor will he have to read the story of how someone young enough to be his granddaughter refers to him as her unorthodox first crush when she tells her own daughter all about him.

Which will probably save us both quite a lot of embarrassment. 

Day 28: Guest Blogger #4 John Wilcox

Back by popular demand, my forth and final guest blogger John Wilcox who, as it turns out, is the world's worst life coach. Take his advice at your own risk. Enjoy!

How To Survive The Dark Decade Between 20 and 30: A Definitive Guide to Getting Through the Next Ten Years by Someone Who Made it With Flying Colors

By John R. Wilcox, PhD, MD, MFA, LPN, CD, ESPN, GQ

In any advice column, you first must question the expertise of the source giving the advice.  Look at my name up there in the byline.  See all those letters after it?  They are from a very prestigious school of higher learning located on a secret island off the coast of Panama.  Don’t ask for documentation.  Sometimes you just have to learn to trust people.

[Note from the Legal Department: this man is completely unqualified to give advice.  Don’t listen to any of it.  Stop reading now.  It’s the only smart thing to do.]

I have noticed a profusion of “articles” on aging on a number of websites.  Any popular “list” type site is flooded with articles and lists of how it feels to turn 30, or why everything sucks when you get older, or how things now are quantifiably worse than they were before.  If you have no idea what kind of website I’m referring to, congratulations, you obviously spend a healthier amount of time on the internet than I do.  Keep up the good work, Doctor’s orders.

All of these articles are bullshit.  Why?  Because I didn’t write them.  Again, look at the qualifications up there, and trust me that I’m not lying about anything, ever.

Those articles are also useless to a young person looking for good solid advice on how to make it to thirty without dying or going to jail.  And that’s where I come in!  I have survived the treacherous decade that separates thirty years old from twenty, and to my knowledge, I didn’t die.  So listen to me, youngsters, because I am ten years older than you and that, along with all of the qualifications, makes me qualified to give you life advice that must be followed exactly to work.

Rule #1 On Taking Advice:
 

Always follow every piece of advice that a person at least ten years oldergives you.  Even if that person is now homeless and shouting his advice at you because you refused to let him shine your sneakers, he has seen things you haven’t only because he has been on this planet longer.  Learn to follow advice, even if it seems impossible.  Maybe that homeless man telling you to “stick your head up your own ass, buddy” is trying to teach you something about perspective.  Have you ever thought of that?  Or maybe he was once a trained medical and psychiatric professional, like me, and is only posing as a homeless man to expand the consciousness of his fellow humans, and also shine shoes.  Have you ever thought of THAT?

[Note from the Legal Department: if you are still reading, you should be questioning yourself by now.  This guy is obviously insane.]

Rule #2 On Relationships and Feelings and Stuff:

During my long years studying the human psyche at the prestigious university on the secret island off the coast of Panama, a few essential human truths suddenly became apparent to me.  I don’t want to use too much medical jargon and psychological mumbo-jumbo here because no one likes a show off, so I will just say this—bad feelings always suck.  No matter how old you get.  Nothing will make you feel like a teenager again like a wee bit of hurt feelings.  You know how you think it probably gets easier to deal with stuff when you get older?  It doesn’t.  You just get better at keeping a poker face.  And lying.  You get better at lying.
There are rumors that “marriage” and “children” dramatically change people, or that even finding a satisfying profession in which you excel and find happiness is a way to achieve something that trained medical professionals (like me) call “emotional maturity.”  These are unsubstantiated rumors and should not be trusted.
 

“But that’s not really advice!” you might be yelling ineffectually at your computer screen right now.  And I know this, but you are impatient, so stop yelling.  This is the advice: always “bottle” your feelings.  Swallow them down deep inside and put them in a little bottle you imagine and never let any of them out. (The bottle can be of your own design.)  When you start feeling like you just can’t keep all those feelings inside anymore, seek professional help and only share those feelings with a trained professional, like me!  This ensures a stable emotional life which will bring with it many friends and lovers.

[Note from the Legal Department: this man is not a trained professional in anything.  He never even finished the class at the beginning of his orientation for his first job in telemarketing when he was fifteen.  Don’t take any of his advice.]

Rule #3 On Jobs, Careers, and Professionalism:

Young people!  Let this piece of advice also serve as a history lesson.  Because of us, we people in our late twenties to mid-thirties, the entire cultural definitions of “jobs” “careers” and “professionalism” have been forever changed!  Rejoice!
 

You see, we felt the pressure of being told to pick a job and stick with it, but we rebelled against our former baby-boomer overlords.  Now, it is common to drift from job to job to college to job to “career.”  Or maybe from college to job to career to college to career to job… etc. into infinity.  We are not forced into the mines at fourteen as our parents were.  We are smart enough to sustain a lifestyle while looking for things that will make us happy in all aspects of our lives.  If this means racking up insurmountable personal debt, all the better!  You may thank us for this at your will, young people. 
 

But again, the advice is slow in getting here, so here it is: professionalism doesn’t matter in any stage of your development, so just keep doing “you” as long as you want. Workplace etiquette has changed.  Call your boss by his or her first name and offer a high five upon first meeting.  Wear whatever clothing you want.  Show up to work with last night’s beer on your breath, it doesn’t matter.  Heck, even sleep at your desk in both college and at your job.  Nobody really cares anymore.  Don’t worry about all those old standards of a past age!  If you get fired, you can always get unemployment and find another job.  

Although some may accuse me of giving bad advice here just to make sure that I can coast longer and not worry about the younger generation taking the jobs I’m not taking, (all of my professional schooling takes time) I disagree!  Those are baseless accusations!

[Note from the Legal Department: Really, we’re just here to make sure you know this guy is not actually qualified at anything, just to cover our own asses on the legal front.  And the advice there at the end is obviously that of a man with some kind of instability.  We’re surprised the editor let this thing through.  Direct all complaints to the editorial department.]

And that’s really it!  THREE simple rules to follow and you are guaranteed success at everything you do!  (I kept that whole “Three Simple Rules” thing secret just to blow your mind at the end.  It’s like a secret hidden title.)  You can forward all success stories through my wonderful institution of higher learning located on a secret island off the coast of Panama.  Unfortunately, the address is as secret as the island.

Day 27: Mummy Tummy

Over the course of this challenge, I promised myself two things: 1) I would leave any and all body issue blogs to my gloriously talented guest blogger Tescha Orio and 2) I would limit myself to only one Royal family related blog. Typically, I excel in keeping promises, even the silly little ones that no one knows that I've made. But then I saw the following picture accompanied by the following comment (which I'm sorry to report, is an real, unedited comment) and I knew I'd have to go back on my word:

"Is Kate Middleton still preggo or what?" asked an anonymous internet commenter, who is obviously both a sensitive human being and not at all someone with too much time on their hands. "She looks bloated and disgusting. William should have shown off the baby by himself or they could have waited until she didn't look like such a cow."

Wow. Just...wow. There are so many things wrong with this comment that I don't know where to start

I remember the days, weeks, and months following the birth of my first child. There were the things that I was expecting (sleepless nights, a vague, but constant feeling of terror, and overwhelming amount of love) but there were things that I wasn't expecting, most of which were body-related. I had assumed (wrongly, blindly, stupidly, even) that the moment I gave birth my body would go back to the way it was before. I had seen enough "(Insert random celebrity here)'s Rockin' Post-Baby Bikini Bod" headlines to assume that the human body just sort of bounced back. Maybe I was just completely ignorant or I was believing what society wanted me to believe, but it was a shock to me to find that this is absolutely not the case.

I remember three months after Layla was born (while my stomach still looked like a deflated tire and all of my pants remained elastic-waisted) wondering what I was doing wrong. I had an extremely healthy pregnancy and an extremely healthy baby as a result, but I didn't deny myself  my cravings (I remember one time I had a craving for brownies. I baked a pan and wound up eating the entire thing. Rather than admitting it to my husband that I had eaten the whole pan, I baked another tray and shared them with him when he got home, as if the first ones had never existed. I'm a winner). Layla was one of those awesome babies who loved to be outside in her stroller, so we walked constantly, but eating for two is a difficult habit to break. I lost the weight eventually (please note my use of the word eventually. As in, not immediately, certainly not by US Weekly standards). By my next pregnancy, I knew what a post-baby body really looked like and I managed my expectations accordingly. Eventually (again, note the word) I learned to accept the fact that my body's not perfect. It wasn't perfect before I was pregnant and it certainly isn't now, despite being years out from my most recent pregnancy. But it doesn't bother me because perfect is a lie. I'm healthy and I'm active, and the way my body looks to other people isn't what defines me as a person. I have long accepted the fact that the human body doesn't bounce back (at least not with out a MASSIVE amount of effort) and that basically, celebrities aren't human. Having a six pack two months after you deliver is not natural and it certainly shouldn't be the standard that we all hold ourselves to. We just grew a human being. Cut us a little slack.

But enough about me. Back to Kate.

For what it's worth, I personally love (love, love, love, LOVE) the fact that she looked the way she did when she presented her new son. She looked great actually, certainly much better than I did the day after I gave birth (vaguely like I had been run over by a train). She didn't try to hide her body or disappear from the media until she was "bikini-ready" (whatever the hell that's supposed to mean). She didn't succumb to our standards of beauty, and instead of being praised for being so normal and human, she was called fat and disgusting, and magazines immediately began to speculate about her diet plans, all vying for the first interview with her personal trainer. Fox News (gag) even dared to name her "condition": Mummy Tummy.

Really? Mummy Tummy? Bitch, please.

Things like this make me feel like my head is going to explode. I'm just so sick and tired of both men and women being so hard on women, particularly women's bodies. I long for the day when people realize that we weren't all created on an assembly line, we all look and think differently, and that's okay. I wish we lived in a world where our outer appearance wasn't the most important thing about a person, but until then I will take living in a world where people understand the calling someone fat the day after they give birth is nothing short of preposterous. I would say that I wished we didn't live in a world where people wouldn't make rude comments about people they don't know but talk about like they do know, but I'm smart enough to know when I'm asking for too much.

Sometimes it's just hard for a girl to catch a break, even when you're the Duchess of Bloody Cambridge.