Good to be back!

I have taken some time away from the blogosphere for the past 6 months.  I admit that I hope I was missed.... at least a little.  I certainly missed writing.  Here's the scoop.  I spilled a few drops of water on my computer keyboard.  bummer.  Took it to apple store and was told our laptop was "vintage".  There first time this term didn't make me feel hip in the least bit.  So, yadda, yadda, time, money...finally glad to be back tapping on the keyboard and reconnecting here.
I am writing from the mountains of Montana.  We have been blessed to have some awesome friends, who run an awesome theater company, in an astoundingly beautiful part of the country.  This is our third summer here. Last summer here was equally awesome, but ended with some sadness.  We were surprised to learn I was pregnant, but at about 8 weeks I had a miscarriage.  I am not gonna lie.  I was nervous to return here.  Scared that the reminder and grief would be overwhelming.
Last July when I returned home, a dear and generous friend gifted me with 2 months of unlimited yoga to work out my grief on the mat.  She doesn't realize she gifted me with so much more. Free yoga, of course is fabulous to a penny-pinching mom who doesn't make enough time for herself.  But she gave me permission to be sad, angry, and to take the time to "work it out".  I hadn't give myself that kind of permission.  Fast forward beyond 2 months, and I was still practicing yoga, still crying, considering pregnancy again, and began yoga teacher training.  Yep.  Who knew that such deep sadness would lead me to a realization of a new love of teaching yoga and helping others?  Was it suppose to happen this way?  Who knows? And frankly, I don't even care about all that.  I began a journey of even deeper self-study and that's what I care about.  As our luggage and dog-filled car trekked closer to Montana last week, I could feel my anxiety increasing.  I have been reading "A Return to Love" by Marianne Williamson and was reminded that my past, no matter how heartbreaking, does not have to decide my present.  This week has been filled with reconnecting with favorite people, spending just about every minute with Peanut, supporting talented Husband, inspiration from amazing theater, spying deer at dinner time, picnics, and many moments of gratitude. I have been buoyed by so much support this past year.  I literally felt loving hands holding me up when I felt I was sinking.  That's why I share all of this very personal stuff. I am giving you permission to work it out...what ever it might be.
It's good to be back.

The Last Day

Today is the final day of my 30's.  I wonder if I should wear black to mourn this passing.  My life is not at all what I envisioned it would be on this day.  My 30's were really good to me.  Full.  Adventurous.  Dreams realized, fulfilled, and even crushed.  Travel. Good sessions of therapy.  So many laughs and tears with friends and cast mates.  Heartache.  Losing people I truly adored.  I grew up in my 30's.  Turning 40, I thought I'd still be in NYC, being one of those amazing women who juggle motherhood and an acting career. Or we'd have stayed in Nashville and I'd be writing hits for Reba and having dinner with Faith and Tim.  But alas, I live in Oklahoma City, a landlocked state that my home state of Texas  makes fun of (not that I ever cared about stuff like that).  I haven't been on a stage or sung outside of my shower in over a year.  The news sucks here. I never feel like I know what's going on in the world unless I watch CNN.  I work a 9 to 5 job that has me in front of a computer for most of those hours. My dress size is creeping closer and closer to a size that I am less than thrilled about. Yet, these are not the reasons, my life isn't what I imagined.  My life is better than I'd imagined.  What I take with me from my 30's, what I really only grasped this year, is that my circumstances do not determine my happiness. In the past, if this had been my life, I would've been depressed, sinking into the abyss of self-pity that I wallowed in for too many years. Waah, f-ing , waaah!!!  Yep!!  I mean that.  I have so much to be grateful for. I have a new job for a non-profit arts organization that is teaching me so much. I get to spend more time with my parents. I have a kid that keeps my laughing, but also makes me really think about my choices. I love watching her grow. I feel the love from my network of friends across the country almost daily.  Husband makes me feel like I am still 25, wink, wink.  So, I say, "Ta ta!" to my 30's.  Thank you. I raise a glass to you and welcome the wisdom, risks, new adventures and dreams realized, fulfilled, maybe even crushed that this next decade will bring.

Three Little Words

The title of this post could be misleading.  While I believe that hearing the words "I Love You" and hearing them often is crucial, that' s not where I am heading today.  Some nights "Red Wine Now" could be the three most important words I say.  But I am not talking about soothing my stressful soul with an alcoholic libation either.  Here's the story...( of a lovely lady, just kidding)...
It's a Friday evening.  It's hot. 90 degrees. Our AC isn't working.  Husband has been working more hours than any person should. He is choreographing the musical at the university where he teaches, on top of his already crazy heavy load as a professor.  So his time at home has been limited.  Like only home for dinner for maybe 2 hours and then it's back to school. He couldn't be a more attentive father and husband. I adore this man.  One of the reasons I adore him is because he is so great at playing with our daughter.  She has a vast imagination and he happily pretends to be Gaston, Lefou, Ursula and King Triton all in one story.  Back to the Friday.  Did I say it was hot?  They were outside playing, in the middle of a very tense moment for Ariel, I assume.  I am preparing dinner, as much in the  microwave as possible so I don't raise the temp of our already sun baked kitchen. I asked Peanut if she would please feed the dog.  "No, I am playing with my dad." Ok.  I get it.  Choosing battles.  She has had a few meltdowns over missing him. To husband. "Could you please feed the dog?"  I get a little grumbling about spending time with Peanut, but he does in fact, feed the dog.  I stew for a moment. I have stewing down to an art some days. I begin to recall the plate from breakfast that gets left on the table as he rushes out the door .  I count every pair of shoes in the middle of the floor, just from where I am standing.  Okay, I admit, a couple are mine. Then I stop myself and resolve to speak up at dinner to say three very important and powerful little words.
Here goes : I need help.
I didn't raise my voice, shed a tear, or get all defensive and list all the many times I wasn't helped. I just made the statement.  They listened and said, "OK."  The rest of our dinner that followed was lovely.

This was a huge lesson for me.  There are so many things in life I can't control. I can't even control on what level Husband and Peanut will actually help, which has been superb, by the way.  However, I can control how I react.  I can control how I proceed when faced with something that could very easily piss tick me off.  (That's for my mom,  She hates the "p" word). I can either simply and undramatically state what  I need or I can brood over it for the next 5 hours and verbally attack Husband when he comes through the door late after a grueling rehearsal.  That's so not fun or pretty and really puts a damper on any possibility of either of us getting lucky later. Plus,  I am teaching Peanut by example how to ask for what you need without manipulation and I am including her in the tasks of being a family. It felt so good not to be the martyr.
I began to think about this lesson further beyond being a mom and/or wife.  How many times in my life have I needed to say these words to a friend, to a family member, a boss?  I need help.  My life is overwhelming. I need validation, etc. Just state it simply with no defenses. Not mull it over in my mind a million times and play a strong hand of guilt or slip so comfortably into my victim costume.  Let me confess that costume is worn out.
It's time to don our Wonder Woman costumes, do our best Lynda Carter spin and enlist the help of our fellow super heros.

The Power of Good Hair

I am a bit hair obsessed.  You wouldn't know it if you just met me in the past 4 years, as my hair has spent most of it's time in a pony tail or under a ball cap, or both.  However, pre-Peanut, I treated myself to follicle pampering quite often.  And I was a risk taker.  In the past 15 years, my hair has been a bright red Caesar cut, strawberry blonde layered bob, strawberry blonde perm, long rocker blonde (which someone actually called a mullet to my face), blonde layers with pink highlights (Hugh Jackman's wife complemented me on that look), long straight auburn/brunette, short asymmetrical brunette (looked too much like my mom, nothing personal mom : / ), and finally long straight blonde with obvious natural blonde roots. I took risks because I trusted the people who's hands were transforming me.  For the past four years or so, I have received maybe 6 haircuts and many box colors. It's because I have become afraid to trust anyone again.  My hair/heart had been broken by a burly heterosexual hairstylist in NYC. When I would get out of his chair, I felt gorgeous, powerful and strong.  He left me, and the rest of his NYC clientele, to be with his kids in Omaha.  OMAHA?  Seriously.  This happened back in 2004, maybe even earlier.  I haven't been in love, with my hair, since. I have not felt the same way about my hairstylists since.  Not that they weren't talented people who did great work.  But just like the ex-boyfriend that you can't get over, I kept comparing everyone to him and couldn't move on.

I recently realized this had to change.  I finally made an appointment to cut and color my hair last week.  I had at least 5 inches of ashy, mousey blonde roots that were hideous.  The rest of my hair  was an almost platinum color that I received from a hair-color disaster this summer.  While playing Crissy in "Hair", I gladly colored my hair red at the director's request.  The next show, the director wanted me to be blonde again.  By the way, the second director was Husband.  Gentlemen do prefer blondes, in his case. The kind and hard working stylist did her best to strip all red without stripping hair from my scalp and the result, 12 hours later, was brassy platinum blonde.  So, here I am ready for a good hair experience.  I come home from my appointment and Husband says, "Whaddya think?"  I vacillate with my semi-positive response. He accuses  illuminates me that I never like my hair cuts and colors anymore.  WHAT?  I am that hard to please?  I thought about it for a minute.  Husband is right.  I haven't LOVED my hair since my burly Edward Scissorhands left to be a Nebraskan.  Time for a change in attitude. I called my recent stylist, who said I could come back in if I did not like it.  She was great!!! She made my color a little less brassy, even calling someone for advice.  Resourceful. I like that. Then she let me tell her what I really wanted with my cut, understood and did it. You see, when one only cuts their hair twice a year, once can lose touch with the proper vocabulary to even convey what they want.   She had done exactly what I asked the first visit, like all of the others before her.  It was me who couldn't get over my Cornhusker Stylist.  I finally let him and go and embraced a new possibility.  I walked out of that salon feeling like a million bucks.  That's the power of good hair.  It can change us.  I was long overdue. "Because I'm worth it!!!"

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar!

Not long after I gave birth to Peanut, I found myself frustrated that I was so unprepared for just how hard motherhood was.  Now that 4 1/2 years have passed, I realize this sounds so naive.  But I was genuinely appalled that in the midst of conversations about soft pink blankets, birthing plans, breast feeding, and nipple cream no one mentioned crazy hormones that make you think you have lost your mind, sleep deprivation that impairs so many, many things, and just a general sense of madness that I might/would feel. Not friends, family, or doctors. Not even the numerous books I read.  I guess they assumed I knew it already, or they had already forgotten what it was like, right along with the horrific birthing pain.
About  a year and a half ago, I has a miscarriage... another topic no one discusses. We were devastated. I had dear friends that I had known forever share their same experience with me, after the fact. I had no idea. I get it.  It is a touchy, very personal and painful subject. I got the sense, though, that there was an air of shame surrounding such a loss, from so many. I continued to ask myself, "Why doesn't anyone talk about it?"
Well, here I am again.  Only now I am showing signs of perimenopause.  My hormones have been absolutely ridiculous and have lead to irrational thinking, self-loathing, fatigue and a fluctuating libido.  It feels a bit like post-pregnant life.  But it has taken me by surprise.  You see I am 39 years old, but I still feel 28.  And I was still trying to get pregnant. I am less appalled because I am on the younger end of these symptoms and many of my friends may not yet be there at all.  I also come from a very conservative, discreet family that doesn't talk about such subjects often.  But I have been in many female dressing rooms and not heard much on the subject, except maybe an occasional hot flash complaint. I have made a Dr.'s appointment to check things out and get more info.  To me, knowledge is most definitely power when it comes to my health.
The challenge is to get us talking now. (Cue Helen Reddy music) We are a sisterhood.  We are also a family of brothers and sisters who will inevitably have some woman in our lives going through any one of these feminine phases sooner or later.  I want to take away any shame and encourage frank discussions about being a woman, and understanding the women in our lives, especially ourselves.