It's October, so I've come to expect that when I enter a grocery store (or any store) I will see tons of products with pink packaging, bearing a pink ribbon, or even sporting a pink reinvention of themselves. It's almost become a sort of retail holiday and, as such, it's a little more than sad seeing all that pink merchandise in the clearance bins at the beginning of November.
Even the web is filled with tons of ads, links and sites devoted to this pink merchandise, and I halfway expected to see the two "o"s in October's Google Doodle turned into...well...you can picture it, I'm sure.
As a living beneficiary of one of the most exciting breakthroughs in breast cancer research, I'm all for raising research dollars and building awareness of this devastating disease. I've said on several occasions that if I had to get breast cancer, I sure lucked out on the timing. So many advances have been made in just the past few years, and five-year survival rates continue to rise. This is great news! But I also look around and wonder..."Is all this pink doing anything? How much of each dollar spent on these products actually goes to research, and by seeing pink everywhere are women (and men) inspired to take better care of themselves?" I have no clue. I did find a site however that seems to take these questions to heart.
But there's another part of this explosion of pink that bothers me. Cancer is cancer. It all sucks. Since my own diagnosis, I've watched several of my brothers and sisters succumb with quiet bravery, and leave this earth way before they should. It's heartbreaking. Why can't pink be their color too? ALL cancers need funding for research.
I guess if I ruled the world, I'd dedicate the month of October to (Not Just Breast) Cancer Awareness ... and the color I'd use? This one. (But yellow is OK too, Lance.)
Until then, I'll continue to encourage every woman out there to get regular screenings and to get very familiar with her ~ ( . ) ( . ) ~. And if you think something is wrong, don't take no for an answer. As much as I love pink M&Ms, it was a mammogram that saved my life.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
I am America(n)
Taking liberties, Mr. Stephen Colbert, but givin' you credit. Thank you.
Lately, I've been hearing about myself on the news just about every night. It all started when they covered my layoff in August. Around the same time, they headlined the story of my foreclosed home (make that three foreclosed homes), and everyone is now very up to date on why our real estate business has taken such a devastating blow in the past 13 months - our tenant's credit dried up, as did their jobs on Main Street. Missed payments, no cash outs, empty houses, no cash flow, and staff layoffs of our own equaled a perfect storm. Nothing is sacred with these intrepid reporters, and our dirty laundry has been exposed - our substantial credit card debt has made national headlines, as has our weakness for having bought a house that was probably more than we could afford.
Now every single newscaster is broadcasting the terrible state of my 401k. And they're even telling me (some even yelling at me) to tighten up my belt, get my finances back in order, live within my means, and start saving. They're letting me know that the next president really cares about me and wants to make sure that my preexisting condition is covered, that I can continue to get loans for my son's college education, and that should we continue along the path of small business, we'll be encouraged to do so - because that's about as American as it gets.
I see no evidence that my phone has been tapped or that I'm being followed, so I have absolutely no idea how they found out so much private, personal information about me. But in the end, the one story about me they haven't yet shared with the nation is that, in spite of all these challenges, I still have it better than about 98% of the people on this earth, and that I know I will get beyond it all by just prodding ahead and doing my best.
And so can you.
Lately, I've been hearing about myself on the news just about every night. It all started when they covered my layoff in August. Around the same time, they headlined the story of my foreclosed home (make that three foreclosed homes), and everyone is now very up to date on why our real estate business has taken such a devastating blow in the past 13 months - our tenant's credit dried up, as did their jobs on Main Street. Missed payments, no cash outs, empty houses, no cash flow, and staff layoffs of our own equaled a perfect storm. Nothing is sacred with these intrepid reporters, and our dirty laundry has been exposed - our substantial credit card debt has made national headlines, as has our weakness for having bought a house that was probably more than we could afford.
Now every single newscaster is broadcasting the terrible state of my 401k. And they're even telling me (some even yelling at me) to tighten up my belt, get my finances back in order, live within my means, and start saving. They're letting me know that the next president really cares about me and wants to make sure that my preexisting condition is covered, that I can continue to get loans for my son's college education, and that should we continue along the path of small business, we'll be encouraged to do so - because that's about as American as it gets.
I see no evidence that my phone has been tapped or that I'm being followed, so I have absolutely no idea how they found out so much private, personal information about me. But in the end, the one story about me they haven't yet shared with the nation is that, in spite of all these challenges, I still have it better than about 98% of the people on this earth, and that I know I will get beyond it all by just prodding ahead and doing my best.
And so can you.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Carol Jean the Cleanin' Machine
When I think about my childhood, and how I spent my time as a young girl, I have bittersweet memories about weekends - especially Saturdays. The huge plus was that there was no school, but there was a huge minus as well - my mom's penchant for weekend cleaning. Carol Jean seemed to love everything about it. And she attacked it with the determination of a bull fighter - putting on her cleaning dress, scrubbing the floors, cleaning out the closets, wiping down the insides of the cupboards, fridge and stove, washing the windows, sweeping out the garage, porch and sidewalk. No dust bunny was safe in her path. I, in contrast, was happy to be their friend.
Each Saturday it was my job to dust and vacuum the whole house, and being an only child, there was no room for chore negotiation.
My mom would give me a gold dust cloth that somehow magically attracted and held the dust. I vividly remember gliding it rather nonchalantly over every inch of our piano, the kidney shaped walnut and glass coffee table (if only I still had that...my mom was a 60s hipster and didn't even know it), the really, really ugly round dark Mediterranean end table with a door that held all sorts of crap (no one was hip with their 70s stuff actually in the 70s - 70s stuff only looked hip from the next century), wooden window shutters, stereo receiver, turntable, tape player, speakers, guest bed and dresser, my mom's bed, vanity and chest of drawers (her bedroom had leftover Chinese red walls with black wrought iron light fixtures, and when she finally got her way it was painted mint green), dining room table, china hutch and of course my bedroom set with its corner desk, dresser and hutch filled with collectible dolls from different countries and points of time in American history, horse figurines, bright yellow Peanuts garbage can, and other assorted important girl treasures. The frame holding my giant print of Man o' War (the horse, not the band - who even knew there was a band?) also required dusting according to Carol Jean. And that was before I even made it to the basement with the "Make Love not War" and "Tomorrow is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life" and "What If They Gave a War and Nobody Came?" wall hangings.
I hated cleaning. Hated it. And I made it known. I cannot tell you how inventive I became at trying to delay the inevitable - to no avail. To me there was just so much more to do on a weekend. Like lay around, watch TV, relax, draw, hang out with friends, think, stare into the mirror and try on all manner of outfits to prepare for the next week of school. I think my mom thought that if I just got enough practice I would come to appreciate the simple satisfaction of seeing a room, a home, transformed from disorder to order, from dusty tops to gleaming, sparkling shiny clean surfaces.
I did appreciate it, but not the subtle changes that came with weekly cleaning. It hardly seemed worth it. I preferred waiting for as long as possible until the cleaning REALLY made a difference. I could definitely appreciate that. "Wow! Doesn't that window sill look better without the pile of dead bugs?" "Hey, I found Pugsley (our pug)." "Bummer. I can't draw Snoopy in the dust anymore." "Mom, what's the big deal? Who cares how the house looks. It's only us!"
Fast forward about 35 years.
Carol Jean is still a cleanin' machine in spirit, but her body isn't cooperating. She just can't quite get at the corners like she used to, or see the layers of grease accumulating on the cabinet doors and drawers. She can't really get down on her hands and knees and scrub floors and baseboards or move the furniture, lamps, and rugs necessary to get a real deep clean. She can't reach high overhead, so a disproportionate number of stored items only make it up to the eye level shelf...and precariously sit there.
But here's where it all comes around. I find her dirty house to be a challenge...and for the past two weekends, I have cleaned it with the determination of a bull fighter. I have scrubbed her floors on my hands and knees, vacuumed every inch of her carpets, area and throw rugs, wiped down the baseboards, rearranged her furniture, tidied up her closets, wiped down her kitchen cabinets, and dusted all of her furniture - including that piano. And when I was done, I felt good. Real good. I was able to offer my mom something that I was never quite able to give her some years ago - enthusiastic, no holds barred cleaning. She sure had to wait long enough.
As I reflect on this, I'm wondering a few things myself.
Like...will my son ever tire of seeing his room littered with mounds of dirty clothes, soda cans, open bags of Fritos, Cheetos, and Doritos, empty cigar box wrappers and other assorted important guy treasures? Will he ever get the same satisfaction that I do from throwing it all in the trash, scrubbing down the surfaces and reveling in a day's worth of transformational physical work? I'm guessin' not so much.
And when he's 46, what in particular will he remember of the houses he's lived in, and what will comprise his bittersweet memories? What will come around between him and me? And what if they did give a war....
Each Saturday it was my job to dust and vacuum the whole house, and being an only child, there was no room for chore negotiation.
My mom would give me a gold dust cloth that somehow magically attracted and held the dust. I vividly remember gliding it rather nonchalantly over every inch of our piano, the kidney shaped walnut and glass coffee table (if only I still had that...my mom was a 60s hipster and didn't even know it), the really, really ugly round dark Mediterranean end table with a door that held all sorts of crap (no one was hip with their 70s stuff actually in the 70s - 70s stuff only looked hip from the next century), wooden window shutters, stereo receiver, turntable, tape player, speakers, guest bed and dresser, my mom's bed, vanity and chest of drawers (her bedroom had leftover Chinese red walls with black wrought iron light fixtures, and when she finally got her way it was painted mint green), dining room table, china hutch and of course my bedroom set with its corner desk, dresser and hutch filled with collectible dolls from different countries and points of time in American history, horse figurines, bright yellow Peanuts garbage can, and other assorted important girl treasures. The frame holding my giant print of Man o' War (the horse, not the band - who even knew there was a band?) also required dusting according to Carol Jean. And that was before I even made it to the basement with the "Make Love not War" and "Tomorrow is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life" and "What If They Gave a War and Nobody Came?" wall hangings.
I hated cleaning. Hated it. And I made it known. I cannot tell you how inventive I became at trying to delay the inevitable - to no avail. To me there was just so much more to do on a weekend. Like lay around, watch TV, relax, draw, hang out with friends, think, stare into the mirror and try on all manner of outfits to prepare for the next week of school. I think my mom thought that if I just got enough practice I would come to appreciate the simple satisfaction of seeing a room, a home, transformed from disorder to order, from dusty tops to gleaming, sparkling shiny clean surfaces.
I did appreciate it, but not the subtle changes that came with weekly cleaning. It hardly seemed worth it. I preferred waiting for as long as possible until the cleaning REALLY made a difference. I could definitely appreciate that. "Wow! Doesn't that window sill look better without the pile of dead bugs?" "Hey, I found Pugsley (our pug)." "Bummer. I can't draw Snoopy in the dust anymore." "Mom, what's the big deal? Who cares how the house looks. It's only us!"
Fast forward about 35 years.
Carol Jean is still a cleanin' machine in spirit, but her body isn't cooperating. She just can't quite get at the corners like she used to, or see the layers of grease accumulating on the cabinet doors and drawers. She can't really get down on her hands and knees and scrub floors and baseboards or move the furniture, lamps, and rugs necessary to get a real deep clean. She can't reach high overhead, so a disproportionate number of stored items only make it up to the eye level shelf...and precariously sit there.
But here's where it all comes around. I find her dirty house to be a challenge...and for the past two weekends, I have cleaned it with the determination of a bull fighter. I have scrubbed her floors on my hands and knees, vacuumed every inch of her carpets, area and throw rugs, wiped down the baseboards, rearranged her furniture, tidied up her closets, wiped down her kitchen cabinets, and dusted all of her furniture - including that piano. And when I was done, I felt good. Real good. I was able to offer my mom something that I was never quite able to give her some years ago - enthusiastic, no holds barred cleaning. She sure had to wait long enough.
As I reflect on this, I'm wondering a few things myself.
Like...will my son ever tire of seeing his room littered with mounds of dirty clothes, soda cans, open bags of Fritos, Cheetos, and Doritos, empty cigar box wrappers and other assorted important guy treasures? Will he ever get the same satisfaction that I do from throwing it all in the trash, scrubbing down the surfaces and reveling in a day's worth of transformational physical work? I'm guessin' not so much.
And when he's 46, what in particular will he remember of the houses he's lived in, and what will comprise his bittersweet memories? What will come around between him and me? And what if they did give a war....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
