The death of the Perfect Parent Plan

Watching my friend help her daughter with her homework takes me back to my own days as a young parent. What an eye-opener that was! I found that my knowledge of parenting was far greater before I had a child. Something about childbirth shook the Etch-a-Sketch on which I had drawn my Perfect Parent Plan.

Yes, I had a Perfect Parent Plan. Doesn’t everyone? I didn’t take it lightly, either. I spent much of my young life observing – no, experiencing – my own parents and making copious mental notes about what I would and wouldn’t do to my children. I conferred with my friends and swapped horror stories of parenting gone awry, adding to my list of pitfalls to avoid. We all agreed that if we could just manage to not do the stupid, mean, insensitive, clueless things our parents did to us, we should be in great shape, raising perfect, happy kids, and sailing into the sunset of parental bliss.

Of course, what we didn’t know at that point is that while we may avoid the major mistakes of our parents (and they really did make some lulus), we would counter with our own original blunders. We could not predict in our teens that in our 20’s or 30’s we would be blindsided by moments of incomprehensible thickheadedness which we would stubbornly insist were the result of our progeny’s shortcomings. We would confer with the same friends we consulted a decade before and reach the same conclusions – it’s not our fault.

My daughter, now 27, is constantly editing and revising her own Perfect Parent Plan. She’s been working on it for at least as long as she could speak. I know this because she’s been telling me about it all along. Unlike some children, my beautiful girlchild was never one to suffer in silence. She made sure I knew what I was doing wrong at every turn. One of her favorite pretend games was the one about having been mysteriously separated from her real parents, the good ones, from upstate New York, and adopted by these misfits from Tennessee. On particularly bad days, she would dramatically rock back and forth, her arms folded protectively (almost psychotically) around her, chanting, “My real parents will come…my real parents will come.” Her friends’ parents fell under her scrutiny, too, and it affords me some small comfort that I was, in general, considered by herself to be somewhat less clueless than most....but not enough to brag about.

Nowadays, she’s in a serious relationship and the noises she makes about having children of her own have taken slightly more serious tones. And as I anticipate becoming a grandparent, I am resisting the urge to create a Perfect Grandparent Plan. It’s liberating to realize that there’s no such thing as a perfect parent or grandparent.. My daughter hasn’t come to that conclusion yet, and the entertainment value of the days ahead is promising. It still stings a bit when she tells me, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!” but not so much that I can’t smile and bide my time, sure in the knowledge that her children will eventually sting her with their own clever catch phrases. When they do, I’ll have the tea ready, speak a comforting word or two, and try hard not to gloat.

Time to pay the piper...

...and it's a bill I'm more than happy to pay!

Thanks to everyone who took me up on my money-for-comments challenge. I've gotten about 15 new comments (some of which were my own replies but I'm counting them anyway!) and will be making a donation to the food pantry of at least $15. Thank you for participating with me!

If you liked anything you read, please come back often. If you didn't like something, come back and tell me about it. The best conversations have a nice balance of, "Yes!" and, "Yes, but...", with a dash of, "You've got to be kidding!" and a sprinkle of, "What? Are you nuts?" Bring it on!

Finally, I leave you today with something beautiful. From Maine to Tennessee, Autumn's showing her colors beautifully. Thanks to my friend Cathy Wardwell for the photo from Maine; the Tennessee shot is from my back yard yesterday morning.

Blessings to all!

Autumn Reflections in Maine


Autumn Morning in Tennessee

Money, Meet Mouth

In honor of Blog Action Day and in the spirit of putting my money where my mouth is, I've got a proposition for you. I'll donate $1 to a local food bank (one where I know personally the people running it and the important work they do) for every person who comments on this blog today. Bring it...I've got my checkbook ready. Make me smile!

I am so rich - are you?

Good morning! I don't have a lot of time to write this morning. It's 6:47 am and I'm running behind, trying to get ready for work. You know the drill...get up in the morning, bathe, dress, find all your stuff, grab some breakfast, commute for 45 minutes to an hour, work at least eight hours, maybe through lunch, commute back, look at all the stuff you didn't do before you left that morning, push it aside, start dinner... Yeah, you know the drill.

Wow! I am SO rich!

There are so many people who don't have a reason to set a clock in the morning, no job to go to...or maybe they have a job that's mind-numbingly dull or back-breaking hard...or one where no one appreciates them...or that doesn't pay them enough. There are parents who work sick and who can't afford to buy medicine...children who go to school hungry...people without health insurance who just don't go to the doctor because there's no way they can afford to pay for it. And there are people for whom all of this is a foreign language because they can't even imagine a world where everyone's work isn't back breaking and where the best you can hope for is enough to eat today...maybe.

Yes, I am rich...so rich I can't count it all. And I feel like a schmuck when I think of all the times I complain about something I don't have. Because let's face it...I don't need anything I don't already have. I'm clothed, sheltered, fed, employed, medicated as needed, and loved. Wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, I tell you, and grateful beyond words.

I registered my blog with Blog Action Day and the topic is poverty. I know poverty intimately; I've been there...not so much financial poverty (although I've seen my share of days with less-than-abundant resources), but poverty of the spirit, the kind that keeps you poor, destitute, and broken no matter how much money you have. And I know that, as odd as it may seem, one of the best ways to break the cycle of spiritual poverty is to act rich...to give away what you think you don't have. Tired? No energy? Do something for someone. No money? Give some away...even a nickle in someone's expired parking meter. Running low on food? Invite a friend to share your sandwich at lunch. For those of us who have so much - and that's just about everyone reading this blog - we have opportunities every day to enrich the lives of others while feeding our own sense of wealth, of gratitude, of enough.

I'm going to hustle my butt up from here and go to work now. We're having a food drive at work and I'm going to take some canned goods to work with me. As I pack each can into the box, I'll add a little blessing. "May you be blessed with riches beyond your wildest dreams."

Just like me.

All is right with the world

As I type the title of this post, I'm aware that all is so not right with the world. There's so much suffering, so much uncertainty, so much pain. How could I possibly say all is right with this world?

And yet...

When I step onto my deck...walk down the steps...feel the dew-wet grass under my bare feet...step into the yard bathed in the glow of an all but full moon shining like a silver coin...when I close my eyes and lift my head and can almost feel the cool, silvery light on my face...when I kiss my hand three times to the Lady and she smiles at me...when I breathe in the night sounds and the darkness and know...know without doubt or hesitation...that I am part of it all...an integral part no less important or perfect than the moon or the stars or the dew under my feet...doing my part as best I can...feeling gratitude bubbling up from my heart to form a lump in my throat...so happy to be alive and awake and aware and at peace...every cell of my body crying, "Yes!"

In this moment...for now...all is truly right with the world.

Filling my days to overflowing...

...and no one to blame (or thank) but me!

Once again, weekend plans are already shaping up to encompass the entire weekend. Dear friends are getting married on Saturday so there's wedding gift wrapping, dressing up, the ceremony to attend, and the reception to enjoy. Sunday, we're hosting another dear friend - maybe two if we're lucky - for early afternoon socializing and dinner. That means spiffying up the house, shopping, cooking...all the good stuff.

And I'm not complaining...really. I guess I'm just ruing the lack of additional hours each week to leave unplanned. Ah, but who am I kidding? There's no shortage of plans waiting for good hours to call their own. More time would just mean more to do.

I suppose the only answer is to consider unplanned time a "thing" in its own right and start planning for it. Sounds a bit convoluted, but I think it just might work. Scheduling some unstructured time every now and then goes on my list of things to do.

I'll have to look into that next weekend. This one's full.

Sufi saying - transforming pain

Sufi saying

Overcome any bitterness that may have come because you were not up to the magnitude of the pain that was entrusted to you.

Like the mother of the world who carries the pain of the world in her heart, each of us is part of her heart and is, therefore, endowed with a certain measure of cosmic pain.

You are sharing in the totality of that pain. You are called upon to meet it in joy instead of self-pity. The secret: offer your heart as a vehicle to transform cosmic suffering into joy.

I saw this on Luminous Inspirations, a great blog I stumbled on today. I love the last line, "...offer your heart as a vehicle to transform cosmic suffering into joy.

What a great concept - offering your heart to transformation. If you believe, as I do, that we are all connected...not just connected, really part of the same whole...then the work I do toward transforming pain into joy affects more than just me. As part of the whole, I affect everyone and everything with my actions. And to offer my heart is an act of will and intent, a conscious choice, and an invitation to the Universe to use me, to take my heart and make it more than what it has been, for the good of All.

I like that.

Waiting for the Happiness Bus

A cross posted bloggerie from Happy By Nature:

Are you waiting for the bus?

Seems there are a lot of folks waiting for the happiness bus to pull up and let them on, for the driver to slow to a stop, open the door, lower the step, waive the fare, and show them to a prime seat. That stop is always crowded with people just waiting for the happiness bus.

Attention, Bus Stop People: Happiness is not a bus. It's a walking trail and it goes uphill, and the only way to get to the top is one step at a time, one after another. Oh, but once you get there the view is unbe-freakin-lieveable! Even better, make the climb all the way to the top and you'll realize that the only thing you left behind is unhappiness...that all you really need is still with you...only it's lighter, easier to carry, great tasting, less filling, 52% more free, and all natural with no unpleasant aftertaste. Drink it up!

I'm happy. I wasn't always, and I remember that misery all too well. I also remember how I got here and I want to share the map with you. If there's a Churh of Holy Happiness, I'm a loud, proud, evangelical member and I can't wait to share this joy I've found!

Am I frightening you? It's ok. Apparently that's normal. I've noticed that among the folks waiting at the bus stop, there's this strange notion that making the decision to be happy means giving up their intelligence, their air of cynical sophistication, their awareness of the crap floating in the world bowl. Some people seem to believe that happiness is just a sweet little euphemism for clueless, that happy people are annoyingly out of touch with reality and anyone who walks comfortably and at peace with this world is obviously unstable.

If you decide to walk this path with me, some of your friends back at the bus stop will talk about you...and they may stop talking to you.

It takes courage to be happy.

You have to find that courage on your own, but I can tell you this: I've never met a truly happy person who was out of touch. They're not always the most educated, but they are the most aware people I've even known. They know themselves, they're aware of what's happening around them, and they're aware that they always have choices - choices in action, in attitude, in belief. They are more in control of themselves and their own walk through the world because they accept responsibility and take control, not of other people or events outside their reach, but of the things and events that are theirs to determine.

I was having this same conversation with one of my brothers last night when he reminded me of "The Serenity Prayer" (actually a shortened version of the original). Remember that little gem?

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

In spite of showing up on countless bad greeting cards, that little triad remains one of the most valuable tools in life's utility belt. I'm going to be talking in more detail about the tools that help us make the climb to happiness, and this one is the big-daddy-if-you-don't-have-anything-else-reach-for-this-one super tool, the one that does it all.

Throw away the bus pass. Get up off the bench. Take the first steps toward a happy life. Walk with me and let's talk along the way. You're going to love the view!

Mr. Bill as Spiritual Guru

A series of commercials airing on TV here in the States has brought one of my favorite characters from the old Saturday Night Live series back into the spotlight. Mr. Bill, a hapless pile of clay with a talent for getting himself tossed about, is once again flying out of windows and onto windshields, his trademark, "Oh, noooooooo!" ringing across the airwaves.

The thing about Mr. Bill that kept us all laughing (besides the sheer slapstick genius of throwing a humanoid blog of playdough off a 30 story building, into a blender, under a bus...) is that, no matter how dire his situation, he always had a positive spin on it. No one is more cheerful, hopeful, and pragmatic than Mr. Bill! In the recent TV ads, Mr. Bill flies out a window and is splatted against a bus windshield. Does he cry? scream? rant? Nope! His "Oh, nooooooooooo!" is followed quickly by, "Hey, the bus is right on time!"

And that, my friends, is why I'm making Mr. Bill one of my personal spiritual gurus. You see, Mr. Bill has figured out that one of the keys to happiness is assessing your situation and making the most of it...and sometimes that means just being happy that the bus is on time.

S*it happens to all of us, and if personal crappy events aren't enough, there's plenty of global crap to go around. Happiness doesn't mean you aren't aware of the puddle of yuck we're all wading through. Mr. Bill is well aware he's flying out a window and more than aware he's just hit the windshield of a moving bus. But he keeps finding ways to be happy.

Bill knows that the key is not just knowing what's happening, but knowing what you can do about it and what you can't. More importantly, he knows that he has choices - not necessarily about what's happening around or to him, but always about how he chooses to react. So you're face down on the windshield? That sucks. What can you do about it? Not much...except decide how you will react. Cry, moan, declare it unfair... or check the time and be glad the bus is on schedule.

Yes, I know life is not an SNL skit (though, gads, sometimes the skits are truer than life)...and I know that the windshields we hit as we fly through this life are bigger, badder, and bloodier than Mr. Bill's moving bus...and I still stand by the principle. Whatever is happening to me, my course of action is clear:
1. Assess the situation - face what's happening full-on, no denial allowed;
2. Assess my options - what can I do about what's happening? No shirking and no fantasy...just the facts.
3. ACT! If there is something I can do to make my situation better, get the lead out (or the fear, the stubborness, or anything else that's holding me back) and do it.
4. Choose my reaction - Decide if I want to wallow in self-pity, writhe in agony, burn with resentment, poison myself with anger...or choose to focus on what is actually good for me, not because I don't know bad s*it has happened, but because I don't want to wallow, writhe, burn, or die a slow death from toxic rage.

It's that simple. Like Mr. Bill, I choose to be happy. There's more to happiness, of course...but Mr. Bill is an excellent guide to one of the key components of a happy life. Am I going to waste a lesson like that? Oh, noooooooooooo!

Yes, Mark Morford...Yes!

My favorite sarcastic, funny, run-on-sentence-of-death journalist, Mark Morford, has done it again and this time, he's done it beautifully!

On the heels of the viral proliferation on YouTube of Sarah Palin being annointed as a witch hunter by Kenyan priest Thomas Muthee, Mark's latest includes a fond recollection of being scared poo-less as a child by stories of witches. More importantly, his article reveals how his life now is enriched by the real witches he knows and loves. And even though he's no fan of Sarah Palin (or John McCain, but let's not digress), he manages to feel true empathy - maybe even sympathy - that she has now been protected from and annointed to fight this beautiful path and thus will probably never know the true joys thereof.

I'm always amazed at the number of people who, on learning what witches really are and what they most certainly are not, prefer to cling to their childhood fantasies of evil old hags and wicked, baby-roasting, orgy-wallowing, depraved madness. Why, when faced with, A) a true depiction of normal people pursuing timeless knowledge on a spiritual path of personal accountability and responsibility, or B) a false but miserable, scary something that gives you the creeps just to think about, would anyone want to believe option B? That's kind of creepy in itself, don't you think?

So...check out Mark's article. If you're a witch, read it with glee and do a happy dance. If you're not a witch but you know and love one (or more), send them the article and a, "Go, you!" note. If witches scare you or piss you off, read it and learn something.

I'm going back to my happy dancing now.

On holy ground...

All my life's a circle;
Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls thru the nighttime;
Till the daybreak comes around.

All my life's a circle;
But I can't tell you why;
Season's spinning round again;
The years keep rollin' by.

I heard this Harry Chapin song tonight. It's always been one of my favorites of his, but tonight it struck me differently than it has before. I started thinking about faith and magic and ritual and circles...about how I cast a circle as an act of faith, in celebration or in need or in remembrance...and how I sometimes forget that all my life is a circle.

The world is a holy place, a sacred space, and every thought, every word, and every deed is a magical act. What I do every day...at work, in the grocery store, in my kitchen...is no less an act of will and intent than the most elaborate ritual, no less cabable of changing the world for good or ill.

I am change.
I am power.
I am always creating magic.

I must pay attention.

Another song came to mind, from Gaia Consort...

I will call the four directions,
I will cast a circle here;
I will put my feet upon this holy ground.

Let me start and end each day...
...consciously cultivating the strengths of the elements in my life;
...deliberately working everyday, ordinary magic in the circle of the Mother's spinning, blue-green body;
... gratefully recognizing that my feet are always on holy ground.

Swimmingly good service...

...and another opportunity to rave!

I bought a new bathing suit recently from Cyberswim, an online retailer specializing in...you guessed it...swimwear. They carry a brand called The Miracle Suit that promised all kinds of happiness for those of us whose curves run toward the abundant side. Having lost weight recently, I needed a new suit before I headed to southwest Florida for some R&R. I found just what I wanted, forked over the (for me) ginormous sum for the suit and an extra twenty bucks for expedited shipping...and waited.

Nothing happened. I thought the suit was coming via the postal service so I checked diligently, even though getting to the post office isn't the easiest task (another post on that topic sometime). Alas...departure day came and I had no suit.

Here's where the really good stuff starts. I called Cyberswim. They checked and found that the suit had, indeed, been delivered and was left at the "side door of my house" without a signature (by my request). I calmly explained that I had no side door and that I had already checked every neighbor's side doors, porches, and patios and there really was no suit.

The representative handling my call contacted UPS, tracked down the problem and determined that it was a UPS issue (package sent to a non-existant address in a city two hours west of me). I explained my vacation plans and asked if they could reship to my brother's address in Florida. Not only did they honor the request, they overnighted the package so it was there by 9:30 the next morning. Happy girl.

The icing on the cake? The suit just ROCKS! It fits well, shapes beautifully, supports the girls in all their glory, and looks really good. Seriously...check out the Miracle Suit line on Cyberswim. They're great!

Bottom line? Mistakes happen; how a company responds when they happen is the make-or-break factor. Cyberswim's response was perfect - another happy service experience in a world where they're few and far between. I'm happy to give a shout out when I get the chance.

Happy Wednesday!

Seventy-five is a beautiful number...

...and Weight Watchers is my friend!

I finally hit the 75-pound loss mark today...75.4 to be exact...and I'm ecstatic! I'm not at my ultimate goal weight by a long shot, but ding-dang-and-double-doggone-it, 75 pounds is worth celebrating! Yesiree, cel-e-freakin'-bra-tion! Yeah!

Weight Watchers has been such a positive experience for me. Yes, there have been rough spots, and I've had a meltdown or two along the way (for the survival of which my long suffering husband should be given a medal). And no, it's not a miracle-diet-never-go-hungry-eat-all-the-food-you-want-and-lose-weight kind of program. It's a healthy approach to eating and an opportunity to share the journey with people who are on the same path, who help each other, succeed together, fall off the wagon together and, by golly, get back on...together.

I am blessed with a meeting leader who gets it. Of course, all WW meeting leaders have been successful on the program, but our leader lost a lot of weight and knows the long road personally. And while I'm not in any way minimizing the struggle of the person who wants to lose 10 or 15 pounds, that's different than aiming to lose 100 - 150 pounds. And my buddies in the group - a couple of guys who, like me, have big weight loss goals - are astounding! They're funny, smart, and totally comitted to losing weight and to helping others in the group do the same. I love 'em!

So today I'm doing a happy dance...a 75-pounds lighter happy dance...and looking forward to hitting that century mark. And to mark the occasion, pictures of progress to date:



Seventy-five pounds ago...



...and now (that's my Mom on the left).

Stay tuned...more to come!

The tale of the nail...

...and the lessons we learn about ourselves.

Back in April, I fulfilled a dream of sorts. I had my fingernails professionally done. Not just done...artificially enhanced with acrylics, longer-than-life, stronger-than-strong, fashionably shaped and colored and shined. I did this to A) celebrate having lost 60 pounds; and B) because my boss and fellow managers all do it.

Actually, reason B is the real reason...and begs the question: WHAT WAS I THINKING?

For as long as I've been associated with my current employer, I've envied the beautiful nails of my fashionable peers. They looked so polished, so perfect, while my own stubby nubs looked remarkably stubby and nubby. Nevermind that my hands do all kinds of things that don't lend themselves to long nails. Nevermind that I earn my living at a keyboard and never really learned to type with long nails and that I've never been a change-the-polish-shape-and-file kind of girl, preferring my trusty buck-ninety-eight clippers to fancier things like buffing boards and cuticle pushers. Nope...I would not be satisfied until I, too, had long, shiny, fake fingernails to drum on the conference table during meetings.

Well, I got 'em...and I HATED 'em! Holy cow! How does anyone ever get anything done with those things? I couldn't pick anything up, and everything I touched left a little bit of itself under a nail somewhere. Yuck!

Worse yet, they began to look really awful as my natural nails started growing out. Removing them required soaking in pure acetone for a very long time, and then the thumbnails wouldn't come off anyway. It was another two weeks...two weeks...before I got those babies off my thumbs!

My natural nails paid a heavy toll for my little experiment. They were brittle, thin, and kept a layer of acrylic na-na-na-na-boo-boo to remind me of how I let my vanity overrule my common sense. It's mid-August and the remains of my temporary insanity are only now all but completely gone.


That was then...

This is now.

So now my nails are stubby and nubby again. I can pick up what I drop and I don't have to scrape goo out from under them all day long. I sit in meetings and look around at all the long, perfect acrylic nails and then at my own nubbins and realize they don't look as pretty, but they can do what hands are made for and they don't require my constant attention.

That's beautiful.

Those Visa commercials...

...the ones that show busy retail and service establishments humming along nicely until someone starts to pay with cash, causing everything to grind to a halt...shocking customers and employees into stunned, then irritated silence as the poor, out-of-touch cash-user sheepishly forks over the coin of the realm...yeah, those commercials.

Well, they're true. Totally accurate. I'm traveling with my 81-year-old mother. She likes to pay her own way and she insists on using cash. She never learned to use a debit card, refuses to use her credit card, and doesn't believe for one moment that anyone outside her immediate home area would ever accept her check (she may be right about that one)...AND she always...ALWAYS wants to use correct change. I work hard to not display irritation or impatience, and most service personnel are genuinely polite and patient with her, but it's a marked interruption in the usual flow. Customers behind us are usually polite, but I have occasionally heard loud, long-suffering sighs and an occasional young person with no home training says something out loud. Fortunately, Mom is usually too engrossed in counting out the 47 cents for her purchase to notice, though her hearing is sharp enough.

The Visa commercials probably don't help the situation much. They paint the cash user as out of touch and the root of all evil in the race to get-and-go. Maybe a commercial that shows an old person frustrated by technology they don't understand just trying to buy some milk and bread, one that zooms in on trembling fingers and a mind that doesn't always click like it used to, would be better.

Patience, people...patience.

The most intimate story I've ever read...

...can be found here. "Days With My Father" is published by a brilliant photographer named Phillip Toledano. Mr. Toledano's father is 98 (at the time of writing...not sure how current that is) and while he doesn't have Alzheimer's, he has no short term memory. The picture he paints with his word and his lens is sweet, sad, loving, heartwarming, heartbreaking, and achingly intimate.

The elder Mr. Toledano wants to die. He's tired and frustrated and achingly alone, imprisoned in a mind that no longer works correctly and a body too strong to die. My mother feels the same way. Her short term memory isn't as far gone as Mr. Toledano's, but it's going. She isn't as old; at 81 she's physically strong and nowhere near death. People she loves have died. She's lonely. She's frustrated. She's immeasurably sad.

I was moved to tears when I read "Days With My Father". Some were from sadness for an old man's pain and a son's grief. Some were from joy at being allowed such an intimate peek into so much love. Most were from knowing that a woman I have always struggled to know and understand and to have understand and love me, and still loved with all my heart is living in her own hell and I can't fix it.

Please...let me be patient...kind...loving...compassionate...for whatever days are left...days with my mother.

Can I just tell you...

...how cool it is that I just found something I wrote being used as an email signature?

Yeah...I know...intellectual property and all that...and yes, the person is using my words without attribution or permission...but...

How cool is that? I'm sitting at my desk typing but I'm doing a happy dance on the inside and grinning like a possum! (That's an old expression from here in the southeastern United States, though I've never actually seen a possum grinning.)

The specific words are those of a little chant/song I wrote a couple of years ago. I've sung it at a few campfires and shared it with just a few others (by request after having sung it around one of those campfires) via an email group, but it's otherwise quite unknown. I suspect that the person who is using it on email saw them through a Yahoo Group that I belong to.

How she found it is really unimportant. That she wanted to put it on her email is the important thing. My words...mine...meant enough to someone that she attaches them to her messages, right under her name, for all the world to see.

That makes me all kinds of inexplicably large amounts of happy!

Deep breath...

Ok...back to work for me...blog time over...but I'm still smiling.

Dancing the Jitterbug...

...and happy to report that I have a GREAT customer service experience to share.

A little preface: I am SICK TO DEATH of lousy customer service, disappointing buying experiences, and apathetic encounters with retailers, service personnel, and business partners. Over it. Completely. So much so that I've almost stopped even ranting about it when it happens.

Once in a while, I'll have an experience that restores a bit of my faith, and I love to rave about those rare events. Buying my Mom's cell phone last week gave me a great opportunity to rave like a drunken sailor.

Have you heard of Jitterbug? They're a cell phone company that specializes in simple, easy to use phones that are great for old people, technophobes, and kids. Their plans start at just $10 a month for pay as you go (at .35 per minute), and their phones are beautifully simple - no cameras, no organizers, no text messaging. Big, easy-to-see buttons and a screen you can actually read make it easy for failing eyesight and shaky hands. Quick-dial numbers are entered via a secure website, allowing Jitterbug operators to have access to all the stored numbers on the phone - very helpful when the phone owner can't dial for his/herself. Just press zero and tell the operator to call a named person on the list and, bam! You're connected.

I called Jitterbug to order my Mom a phone and a very nice man walked me through the process. He answered every question, resolved every quirky request I made, and managed the entire process to a beautiful, blip-free conclusion. And he was pleasant, spoke real English that I could understand, and completed the whole transaction without ever once sounding anything but happy to be talking to me. The phone arrived in three days, exactly as ordered. After an overnight charge, we turned it on and found that it was already programmed with the first four quick dial numbers, given to the rep during the initial call.

It's not a great commentary on the state of service in our culture that I'm writing a blog about a routine transaction. It's a shame that calls this smooth are the exception rather than the rule. All that aside, I'm happy to sing the praises of Jitterbug. They've got a good product, clearly advertised, with excellent service to back it up.

That's worthy of a happy dance.

I said I wanted to write...

...and along came a friend who wanted to start a writers' group. She brought a friend who wanted us to come up with three monthly goals for ourselves to further/better/support our writing.

Be careful what you ask for.

I'm excited and happy and scared to death. The scared part is rooted completely in the fear of failure, of not being good enough, not doing enough, letting someone down (myself or others), looking foolish, being foolish, sucking wind...you get the idea. And the weird part is that I know I can write...that I have something to say and can say it well...that there are people who will enjoy and benefit from reading what I have to say. And still I find myself wondering what authority I have to say anything of import...who am I to think I have anything anyone else needs...the same questions I've always asked.

Self-doubt sucks.

Arrogance sucks, too.

Where's the happy medium?

I'm looking for it...honest...and I think I've hooked up with the right group of writing friends to help me find it.

Yay, friends. Yay, me.

So here goes...my three monthly goals, subject to revision in future months...

• Write at least fifteen minutes every day.
• Start compiling writing samples from my current collection of work.
• Start a list of article, essay, and workshop topics; add to it as new thoughts come to mind.

Three goals...done.

Now comes the hard part.

Making Volkswagens in Chattanooga...

...and making dreams come true.

Humbling, awe-inspiring moments of pure gratitude come at the oddest times and from the least likely sources.

I was shopping in a local Goodwill store today when the news broke that Chattanooga had been chosen as the site for a new Volkswagen plant. The facility is expected to provide about 2,000 new jobs between now and when the first sedans roll out sometime in 2011. All the employees of the store cheered - loud, happy, "Praise Jesus!" cheers - at the news. One woman was literally running toward the back to tell other employees, her face lit up like Christmas. You could feel the energy in the room change almost immediately. The whole place was suddenly full of potential, of possibilities, of hope.

I have a good job, one that pays me well and offers me all kinds of opportunities for personal and professional fulfillment. I forget just how wonderful that is sometimes. Seeing the excitement on those folks' faces and feeling the fresh hope wash over them humbled me, inspired me, and filled me with gratitude for my work and the opportunities I've had.

Chattanooga offers lots of jobs in information-based industries, call centers, insurance companies, hospitals, and the like. If you have those skills you can usually work and, while the salary may not be the greatest, you'll likely have access to decent benefits. But if you lack the education and skills for those opportunities, your choices are pretty limited. Hotels, restaurants, tourist attractions, and retail offer limited hours at incredibly low wages, usually with few, if any, benefits. When benefits are offered, they often end up being out of reach for some of the people who need them most. Could you support yourself and your family on seven dollars an hour? What if you had to pay a health insurance premium out of that? The prospect of 2,000 good paying jobs with decent benefits is a shining beacon of hope for those whose skills aren't likely to land them jobs at Unum or Cigna.

I'm glad Chattanooga got the Volkswagen contract. I'm glad that a couple thousand Chattanoogans will have a chance at a better life. I'm happy that some of those who remain in low-paying jobs in the service, retail, and hospitality sectors will benefit from the overall economic boost all those new jobs will bring. Most of all, I'm grateful for the reminder of just how good I have it.

Thanks. A lot. Again.