You're Never Too Old to Forget Something New

(Mewcifer, helping me study)

Recently, I've been studying for an exam that my employer wants me to take for my job.  Passing it is entirely optional unless I prefer to remain employed.

So I gathered my five remaining brain cells together - you know, the ones not busy keeping track of kids, pets, and car keys - and began studying.

 

Reading the information was fine, even with the subject matter being a bit on the tedious side.  Still, I put in the required number of reading hours and thought all was well.

My problems began when I attempted to actually recall what I'd read.  As I finished each chapter and took the practice quizzes at the end, it became clear exactly how much of what I'd read just wasn't sticking in my brain.

 

Funny thing - remembering stuff is pretty critical to passing an exam.

Considering I'm as old the invention of the ZIP code, my learning-stuff-to-pass-an-exam days are far behind me.  Combine that with the fact that you lose a quarter of your brain cells in childbirth*and it's easy to see why I'm struggling.  I've had three kids, so doing the math tells me there's very little left in the way of brain capacity to work with.

 

Yet here I am, trying to make the same demands on my brain that I did when I was twenty.  No wonder it laughs at me:  "You want me to juggle your life AND learn something new?  At the same time?  NOT GONNA HAPPEN." 

This is the same insolent brain that allows me to walk into a room without actually clueing me in as to  why I felt compelled to walk in there in the first place.  My mind can be a real jerk at times.

To have any hope of passing this exam, I knew I needed some new strategies - ones that don't rely on memorization.

I decided to increase the number of hours I sleep each night.  I figure it can't hurt, and maybe my brain will be a little more accommodating if it's not always sleep-deprived.

 

Next, I'm trying to read more carefully.  In this age of information overload, it's easy to fall into the habit of skimming content instead of reading it.  It's kind of like how you listen to every word your spouse says for the first five years of marriage, and then after that, you're lucky if you catch the fourth or fifth sentence.

My youngest son suggested that I highlight the critical words in each question (such as "is NOT correct," "is true EXCEPT") so that I don't miss them.  Looking over my incorrect answers on the quizzes revealed that skipping over those words is indeed something I've been doing.

What really seems to be making a difference is that I've also begun relating each concept I'm studying to something I already know.  I didn't make it this far in life without experiencing a ton of things, so why not put that hard-earned wisdom to work?

 

Can't remember the elements of a contract?  I'll just think back to that rock climbing participation agreement  I had to sign so Evan could go with his class.  Not sure I can recall how loss assessment coverage works?  Thinking about the Hurricane Sandy damage at my mom's condominium will certainly jog my memory.

 

My five brain cells and I are going to rock this thing.  We may not be twenty anymore, but we are wise, mighty, and determined.  And that's even better.

*OK, I totally made up that childbirth thing, but it sure feels that way!

The Early Bird Catches the Teenager

(Yes, there is a kid under there.)

Recently, our family took a break from our responsibilities and headed to the shore for the day.  Having to wake up teenagers reminded me of how I'd rather do just about anything else.  Getting five people up, showered, and out the door by a certain time is no easy feat.

Actually, only four of us have trouble waking up.  My husband is a morning person, though technically he wakes up so early that it would still be considered night by the sane among us.  By the time I stumble downstairs, eager to plant my face in a hot cup of coffee, he is already well-caffeinated and ridiculously perky.   

I don't handle "perky" well on a good day, let alone first thing in the morning while I'm still trying to unglue my eyelids.  The only reason I haven't stabbed him yet is because he moves faster than I do.  One of these days, I'm going to switch all the coffee in the house to decaf so that I have a chance of catching him.

It wouldn't be so bad if he kept quiet and stayed out of my way for, say, three or four hours while I wake up.  Instead, he hits me with questions the moment I come downstairs.  Have I seen his shoes/camera/keys?  How much money is in the bank account?  Did I remind (insert child of choice here) about (insert forgotten chore here)?  I don't know why he can't just write this stuff down on a note so that I can properly ignore it until I've had a chance to wake up.

The kids, on the other hand, are not perky at all.  On the Perky/Dead continuum, they are somewhere around Comatose.  They sleep so soundly that I'm tempted to stick spoons under their noses to see if they're still breathing.  If I can manage to rouse them at all, they will lie and tell me whatever is most likely to make me go away.  Thirty minutes later, I realize that the child who promised he was getting up and in the shower is still in his bed, sound asleep.  Believe me, no one feels more homicidal than a mom who has to start the wake-up routine all over again.

While getting ready for our shore trip, I realized that I've been doing this waking-up business all wrong.  Why should I be the one to wake up the kids when Mr. Perkypants has been up and fully conscious for hours?

 

My kids think that I'm annoying when I wake them up.  Muahahaha!  They have no idea how annoying their well-rested and super-caffeinated father can be.

I can't wait to see how this goes.  It may actually be worth getting up for.

Going Off-Duty

I am what could best be described as a crier.  Not the kind from the old days, riding through the streets, delivering news, but the weepy, snotty, need-to-bring-tissues-wherever-I-go kind.

I cry if I'm sad.  I cry if I witness something beautiful.  I cry if someone is kind to me.  I cry at movies, weddings, and funerals.  Mostly, though, I cry at the endings of things.

In the span of a week, two of my kids have graduated from something:  my middle son from high school  and my youngest from eighth grade.  Both have successfully ended one part of their lives and are moving on to a new part.  Although I am happy for them, it was inevitable:  tears were going to flow.

I worried about these graduations all year.  I hate crying in front  of other people; it's embarrassing and makes me feel overly sentimental.  What's worse is that I suffer the after-effects of crying for the rest of the day.  After a  crying spell, my eyes remain red, dry, and itchy, and  I have trouble seeing properly.  My nose and cheeks turn red and splotchy.  Definitely not my best look.

In an effort to prevent the tears, or at least minimize them, I began researching ways to prevent crying.  The "solutions" ranged from harmless but ineffective (pinch the bridge of your nose) to the odd and outrageous (open your eyes as wide as you can.)  Right.  Try not to attract attention with that one.

Out of desperation, I tried them anyway, and still ended up leaving the graduations looking as if I'd just been to a funeral. 

Since there doesn't appear to be any way of preventing my tears, I decided to find out why tears happen in the first place.  Surely they're not there just to make us miserable and self-conscious.

From what I've read, tears do everything from washing away toxins to healing our corneas to enlisting comfort and support from those around us.  But one explanation I read in an article by Jay Efran and Mitchell Greene really hit home with me:

"Physiologically speaking, emotional tears are elicited when a person’s system shifts rapidly from sympathetic to parasympathetic activity—from a state of high tension to a period of recalibration and recovery.  Depending on the circumstances, individuals typically describe such shifts as 'letting go,' [or] 'going off duty'...” 

The authors explain:  "The shift from arousal to recovery is almost always triggered by a psychologically meaningful event, such as when lost children finally spot their parents and realize that they’re safe. Typically, children don’t cry when they first realize that their parents are gone; instead, they become hyper vigilant and start searching for their missing caretakers. It’s only when the parents reappear—perhaps rounding the corner of the supermarket aisle—that their child “goes off duty,” and tears begin to flow."

To me, that process seems pretty typical of parenting.  When you're there in the trenches, taking action and  just trying to get through something (the school year, the teen years, Algebra), you're too involved to have an emotional response.  You're doing what needs to be done to survive.  It's only when you're on the other side of whatever it is that you break down and cry, releasing all of that built-up stress and tension in the process.

Considering that my two boys are about to embark on exciting new chapters of their lives, crying at their graduations was an appropriate response.  All of that preparation and guidance to get them to this point required massive amounts of both action and patience.  Going forward, I'm not going to be needed quite as much.  Instead of parenting from the front line, I'll be more on the periphery - allowing them to experience new things but ready to re-direct them if necessary.

Then again, maybe it's a simpler reason.  Maybe it's seeing these people you love so much, these people you've nurtured and guided and kept safe, achieve something so wonderful that it's more than the heart or mind can hold.  The pride and potential of the moment can't help but spill over in the form of tears.

Whatever it is, I can't wait to see what the future holds for them.

For more about why we cry:  http://www.alternet.org/story/155447/why_we_cry%3A_the_fascinating_psychology_of_emotional_release

A Cautionary Tale About Debit Cards and the Awful People Who Steal Them

Recently, I had my debit card stolen.  Well, not physically stolen, as I still had the actual card in my wallet, but its numbers were stolen.  A person in Oregon made (or bought) a fake card with my information and then used it to purchase prescription drugs in Canada.  Someone must have compromised a local card machine with one of those card scanner things that grab all of your information when you swipe your card to pay for something.

Needless to say, I wasn't happy about this.  I was even less happy when it happened again the next day with my husband's debit card.

 

Both cards were tied to a PayPal account that we have.  I reported each theft as soon as I discovered it, which was almost immediately since I get an email notification of every purchase made.

 

PayPal was great to deal with.  I called and was able to speak to a human being, and the money was returned to my account within a few days.  Waiting a few days for the cash to be returned wasn't a huge problem since I still had the debit card to my checking account.

Two weeks later, though, it happened again - this time to the debit card linked to our bank account.  The thief spent over $200 at a Food Lion in Delaware, enough to overdraw the account and cause serious financial turmoil if we didn't get some money in that account fast.

 

At first, I felt compassion toward the thief.  He didn't buy drugs from a French Canadian pharmacy; he used the card at Food Lion.  I imagined him similar to us, living paycheck to paycheck, and struggling to make do with income that's never enough.  The thief probably doesn't want to steal but is forced to in order to feed his family. 

My oldest son straightened me out.  "He probably bought liquor, Mom.  Something he can re-sell for cash.  That's what those people do." 

So much for compassion.  If I could, I would've hunted him down and given him a stern lecture about how despicable it is to steal.  Then I would have kicked him in the groin - HARD - so he remembers.

I called my bank who told me that they wouldn't be able to return the money for ten days to two weeks.  Apparently debit cards work differently from credit cards.  With a credit card, the card is killed and you're not responsible for any charges.  A stolen credit card also doesn't tie up funds in your bank account while the fraud is being investigated.  With a debit card, you could be held responsible for a portion of the charges if you don't discover them right away, plus you're without the money that was stolen.

 

Fortunately, I discovered the fraud right away.  I'm always so broke that I check my account every day to make sure nothing surprising came out that would topple our financial house of cards.  This loss of over $200 definitely qualified as a surprise!

Thanks to this terrible person who stole from us, we had to borrow the funds to cover the amount that our bank account was in the hole so that nothing would bounce, and then not spend any money until pay day.  No food, no gas, nothing.

Apparently, this type of theft is becoming increasingly more common, even in tiny towns such as mine.  Our technology is so outdated that nearly anyone with criminal intent can steal our credit and debit card information by compromising the card swipe machines.  Until technology improves, we are all vulnerable.

In our situation, the thefts likely happened a local grocery store.  We're now using checks when we food shop and cash at gas stations to prevent this from happening again.  Any place with unattended credit card machines, such as food stores or gas pumps, is a prime target for thieves to insert their number skimming devices.  Since ATM machines are also frequently compromised, it's best to get cash directly from the teller at the bank.

One good thing in all of this is that the less we rely on the plastic in our wallets, the more money our local merchants get to keep.  They won't have to pay the surcharges imposed on each transaction, whether debit or credit, by the credit card companies.  Each time we swipe our cards, that merchant pays approximately 3% of the purchase amount to the credit card companies - a significant amount, especially for small businesses.  By paying cash or using a check, the merchant won't have that expense, which will help to boost our local economy even more.

For more information about unauthorized use of credit or debit cards: 

http://www.nolo.com/legal-encyclopedia/unauthorized-credit-debit-card-charges-29654.html

http://www.usa.gov/topics/money/banking/atm-debit.shtml

What could possibly go wrong?

The other night, I sent my oldest son to the drugstore for what some might consider to be an "uncomfortable" item.  Ryan doesn't usually embarrass easily.  He's the kid who still allowed me to hug him in front of his friends when he was in high school, so I didn't think anything of asking him to pick up a package of hemorrhoid wipes for me.  (Oh grow up - they're for hygiene purposes.)  Besides, it wasn't as if I'd asked him to pick up something really embarrassing like tampons, right?

                "Are you going to be OK getting these?" I asked him through the window of his car.

                "Sure," he replied playfully.  "As long as I don't run into a girl I'd like to date."

The rest of the story, as relayed by Ryan, went something like this:

When he arrived, there weren't many people in the store, but a cute young girl was working the checkout area.  Knowing he'd have to encounter this girl as he paid for the wipes, he came up with what he thought was a brilliant idea.

                "Excuse me," he said to the girl.  "I was sent here for something and I'm not sure where to find it.  Can you help me?"

                "Sure," she said.  What are you looking for?"

                "Well, it's these wipes that are supposed to be for hemorrhoids?"  He made the statement into a question, pretending he'd never heard of such a thing before.

                "Oh yes, those are in Aisle 9, at the end."

Ryan thanked her and headed over to Aisle 9, very pleased that he was able to think up such a convincing story.

Somehow, in the time that it took him to walk to the back of the store and then up to the front again, the store had filled with people and they were all standing in the lone checkout line.  The cute girl was still there, ringing up everyone's purchases.   Ryan was glad he'd already explained to her that the wipes were for someone else.  Now he won't have to feel awkward when it's his turn at the register.

 

The line was moving slowly and Ryan was at the end of it.  He had to stand there, holding the hemorrhoid wipes, for what seemed like an eternity.  A man with seventeen bottles of soda was insisting that they were all on sale and it took a while to get all of that sorted out.

Ryan thought he was home free until two young girls "even cuter than the first girl" got in line behind him.  Only it wasn't exactly behind him.  Because the line was so long, it formed horizontally along the front of the store, forcing the girls to stand next to him.  Now he was really feeling uneasy.  He tried his best to hide the wipes from view.

At last, it was his turn to check out.  He smiled at the girl behind the counter, relieved that this whole embarrassing ordeal was almost over.  She took the package from him to ring it up and announced brightly, "So I see you found the hemorrhoid wipes!"

And that was the very last time Ryan would ever agree to go to the store for his mother.

A Dog Park for Introverts

My dog Bailey has never met anyone - of either the two-legged or the four-legged variety - that she doesn't

like. When we're out for a walk, she eagerly pulls toward anyone that she sees, her tail wagging in happy anticipation. 

Once, a woman walking toward us stopped and asked of Bailey, "Is that dog smiling?" I'm sure she was.  I have no doubt that if dogs are capable of smiling, Bailey would be just the dog to figure it out.

When I'm out for a walk, I'm not nearly as keen as my dog about meeting other people.  Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts and the occasional birdsong.  Other times I'm not interested in sharing small talk with strangers.  Still other times, the reason I am out walking with my dog in the first place is because I need to get away from people for awhile so that I can avoid the urge to strangle some of them. 

Sadly, Bailey's encounters with other people and dogs do not always go the way she'd hoped. Occasionally, she will be much more excited about meeting someone than they are about meeting her.  Of course, to Bailey, their rejection merely means that she has to try harder to win them over.  I can imagine her canine brain reasoning, "maybe if I sit adorably and offer my paw, they will love me."  She doesn't realize that the only hope of that person loving her would be if she ceased to be a dog.  Ever the optimist, Bailey continues on her walk, certain that the next person will find her agreeable.

A few times, encounters at the dog park have gone horribly wrong.  Once, a woman with a small white dog insisted that I allow her dog to meet Bailey.  Before I could object, her dog went all Cujo and nearly bit Bailey's face off.  Another time, Bailey nearly crushed a tiny dog in her enthusiasm to play with it.  A fifty-five pound dog is not usually a suitable playmate for a fifteen pound dog in spite of numerous pocket-sized dog owners suggesting otherwise.

These experiences convince me that a trip to the dog park would be much more enjoyable if there weren't any other people or dogs around to spoil it.  My introverted nature, which tends to present itself as crabby, anti-social behavior, would do best if I could just walk the dog already and then go home.  Move along folks; there's absolutely nothing to see here, and I certainly don't want to socialize.

Thus my idea for Lisa's Anti-Social Dog Park:  a place where people and dogs keep to themselves and do their best to avoid one another.  No eye contact, no small talk, and certainly none of that let's-get-acquainted butt-sniffing dogs are so fond of.  Plus, everyone - human and dog alike - would be safer thanks to the park's mandatory fifty-feet personal space requirement.  No chance for dog bites if you're no closer than a nod-and-wave distance. 

Everyone moves along the walking path and then goes home.  The end.  Wouldn't that solve so many problems?

Just don't tell Bailey about it.  I don't think she'd quite understand the concept.

Family Traditions, Take Two

Our family recently celebrated Easter, but no one dyed any eggs.  No one even asked about them.  I didn't hide colorful plastic eggs filled with coins in the back yard, either, and no one even mentioned it.

This took me by surprise because we have done these things every single year for the past 20 years, ever since my oldest son was small.  As his brothers grew, they joined the fun, too.  It's how our family celebrated Easter.  It was predictable and comforting.

My boys are older now, and traditions that used to define our family holidays now feel outdated.  The last time we did the egg hunt, for example, I had to wait for all of them to wake up.  Since when did sleep become more alluring than an Easter egg hunt?

 

Sleeping late on Easter Sunday was unheard of when my kids were younger.  Each one would bounce down the stairs before I'd even had a chance to finish my morning coffee, eager to see who could find the most eggs.  Afterward, they'd crack open their haul on the living room floor and count the treasure inside, amid a sea of colorful eggs.

I wish I'd known that the last time we colored eggs together or had an egg hunt that it was truly going to be the last time.  I would have paid more attention.  I would have taken more pictures.  I would have recorded their laughter.

I would have been fully present. 

Instead of enjoying time with my children, I was no doubt thinking about what was next:  making brunch, straightening the house, or visiting with family.  Activities were always something to get through, to tick off the To-Do list, so that we could all move on to the Next Thing.  So much of life slips by while waiting for the Next Thing.  We realize too late that it was really the first thing, that ordinary morsel of life, that mattered most.

I can't rewind and bring back the days of laughing kids collecting colored eggs on the lawn, but I can resolve to be a more active participant in my own life going forward.  When I'm with my kids, I want to truly be with them: awake, aware, and involved.  I want to feel the messy parts as well as the happy ones.

As for those family traditions, one thing is certain:  there will always be Easter baskets.  Some things endure no matter how old you are.

(photo by Lisa Kern)