It’s All About Me.

I am not a ME person.  I don’t like talking about me.  I don’t like people looking at me.  I don’t like people touching me.  All of that makes me really, really nervous…and twitchy.

If you have spent any time around me, you know “It’s all about me,” is something I say.  In conversations with friends, I say it.  My family jokes about it.  At my jobs, present and past, I have been known to wail,  “Come on you guys! Don’t you get it?  It’s all about me!”  When I worked at Job Corps it  was my slogan, “Look at me. Listen to me. Hang out with me.  IT’S ALL ABOUT ME.”

Obviously the reality is/was NONE of it is really about me.  It was really all about the stories, the work, the people, and the effort to make progress, take action, touch lives.

I am not a ME person.  I don’t like talking about me.  I don’t like people looking at me.  I don’t like people touching me.  All of that makes me really, really nervous…and twitchy.

Ohhh I know some of you might be thinking,  “Bull! I know Denise and she is the loudest, most talkative person in the room! Any room!”  And that’s true, too.  I can be that person. Sometimes I am that person. I mean, get me talking and I will probably tell you anything.  Take a road trip with me and you will know my life story. But having a big mouth and wanting to be the center of attention are two different things.

The real me, the one whom only my closest friends knows, recognize that even the thought of people looking at me freaks me out.  My clothes, my hair, my makeup?  That sh*t’s about anxiety.  If people HAVE to look at me at least I want to feel good about myself while they do it.

Once I found out a guy from another department thought I was pretty.  I should have thought that a nice compliment and moved on with my life.  Instead, it freaked me out.  I went out of my way to avoid that guy AT ALL COSTS.  If I had to walk by him, I may have mumbled a hello, but that’s it.  I never had a conversation with the guy.  I was too damn freaked out.

dont look
You can look at my Etsy shop from here though… Wordsmithstudios on www.etsy.com/shop/wordsmithstudios

When the subject of my Etsy shop comes up I get all twitchy.  Yes, I paint.  I sell those paintings on Etsy.  No, I do not want to talk to you about it and please don’t tell me you love my “work.”  And please, whatever you do, don’t open the gift I made for you (probably agonized over giving you) in front of me or the crowd of people here at your party. ugh.

If I have a medical scare or issue, I am not telling you. Or anyone.  Oh, hell no.  I might say something about it later in casual conversation, cause that’s Big Mouth Denise. “Yeah, I had a melanoma scare once, too” But I am not going to call a family meeting to make a health statement. Or call my mom to specifically tell her about it.  I just can’t do it.

I don’t really even want to share the little things.  My first brand new car on social media? Probably not.  Probably not the pics of the first time I run into something with my new ride either.  Or the 2nd time. Or the 3rd…Ok, there might even have been a 4th, but I’m not going to announce it.

All of those things drive my mother crazy.  She feels like she’s always the last to know everything.  She isn’t always and it isn’t personal. The only other people who know are those I run into at the grocery store or the halls at work, but do they even count?  I know, I know,  she IS my mom and feels like I should tell her stuff.  Or I should at least tell her before I tell anyone else.  I get that.  I just don’t tell people stuff in an intentional way.

I guess for me sharing  happens organically.  You know, stuff just comes out in its own way and time.  Or it gets puked out by my big mouth.  Yeahhhh, organically is a good way to describe it.

P.S. Mom, I also use curbside pick-up at the grocery store WAY more often now so no need to worry about the grocery store people at least 😉 

Four Areas of Focus

After my layoff for the first time in a long time I felt defeated.  It wasn’t just the layoff.  It was years in a toxic, unsupportive environment.  So when I walked away (or was pushed),  I felt like I was leaving pieces of myself behind me.  I was this broken hull of a shell and the pieces were falling away bit by bit all the way home.  Like Hansel and Gretel except I was walking away from the scary monster instead of toward it.

The problem was, what I was walking toward was also scary.  It was a form with no shape, and I was a shape with no form.

I didn’t know it at the time, but Restorative Justice helped me bring my life back into focus.  (See A Rebuilding Year or restorativejustice.org for more info) A restorative plan is broken into 4 parts that address Community,  Family,  Self,  and Victim (those who have been harmed.)  Those were the 4 areas that brought me back to life.

Family  

It started with my family.  It was the perfect time of year for that–smack in the middle of the holidays– and I was completely immersed.  I could keep busy with holiday planning and all the cheer and chaos that comes with the holidays.

In my last post I said I would be talking about dinner again and here it is.  Dinner, as much as I hated it when I was working became my grounding force.  No matter what else had gone on during the day, no matter how sh*tty I may have felt, I knew I had to pull it together and make something for dinner.  Everyone was thankful to be eating and that feedback filled me up.  Seems like a simple thing now, but at the time, it was huge.

I am also so thankful for how supportive my family was throughout my layoff.  Even when it was approaching 6 months, my husband never complained to me about money and my kids always reinforced how glad they were I was home.  My parents and extended family never implied I was being lazy; they all just supported the idea I would find something when I was ready.

Self

I didn’t lay around feeling sorry for myself.  I got to work doing things I wanted to do.  I really wanted to blog, so one of the first things I did was start my blog back up.  In the beginning, it helped me to process my situation in ways I wouldn’t otherwise have been able.  I look back at my posts now and I can see my healing pattern.

I revamped my Etsy site and painted like crazy.  Then I started reorganizing my house and cleaning things out.  I blogged about cleaning out my closets.  When I got to my own closet, I was horrified to realize I had so many clothes!  Some things I hadn’t even worn more than once and not because I didn’t want to, but because of the sheer VOLUME of things I had. (The money and time spent on all those clothes is another blog post in itself.)

Some research led me to a selling app called PoshMark.  I literally just started selling off my clothes. (You can get $5 of free credit on PoshMark if you use WORDSMITHSHOP when you sign up).  I can’t communicate the sense of relief I felt from purging my closet. It was like shedding another layer of stress every time I sold an article of clothing. I am still selling and the feeling hasn’t stopped.

Victim

In Restorative Justice, the victim is the one who was harmed and the work focuses on how to repair the harm that has been done.

I never saw myself as a victim during the time I was employed or unemployed.  I would have described myself as angry, defeated, bitter, or hurt, but never as a victim.

God Friended Me
We watch God Friended Me on CBS and Miles the main character, summed up my life during one of his podcasts.

However, when I look back objectively, I can see that I was “victimized.”  I realize that’s a strong word, but it’s also accurate. There was a significant amount of workplace manipulation and intimidation that happened in the company that I had to manage personally. My unemployment was just the grand finale.

I also accept that I made many mistakes as an employee.  Those mistakes were offset by many more highlights.  I learned more than I could ever write about in any blog and I gained more than I ever lost.  That is my truth.

However, my experiences left me scared and my fear snowballed.  The fear made me question everything and the more I questioned, the more fearful I became.  I put pressure on myself.  What if I couldn’t find a job?  Or worse, what if I couldn’t find a job I liked or that didn’t make a difference?  (I can feel my chest tightening even as I write this and relive those thoughts).   If I found a job opportunity or was approached with a job opportunity,  I would panic.  I was afraid of ending up in a situation like I had just left.

Finally, a part-time position opened at a local university that looked interesting. I did my research, applied, interviewed, and got the job.  It turned out to be just what I needed.

A bonus benefit for working there is free education. While I am part-time, I can take classes for free and if I decide to go full-time, my family can go for free.  10 years ago I started my graduate degree, but life got in the way and I never finished.  It has been something I have always wanted to complete.  The timing was perfect.

The part-time hours would also allow me to continue focusing on the Restorative Justice cases which were coming in consistently.  It was becoming clear to me that my passion for meaningful work would be found there.

Community 

Perhaps the single most important lesson I learned in the past year is that I can make a difference no matter where I am or where I work.  I don’t have to sit on boards or gain national attention or even strategize ridiculous office politics to make an impact.

I’ve made important connections in the local community on behalf of Restorative Justice and youth involved in the juvenile justice system. The work is meaningful, interesting, and fulfilling and I enjoy it more than I ever expected.  It really is magic. Magic that I accomplish in only 10 or 12 hours a week.  And I make my own schedule.

It’s All About Me.

The place I am in now is one of balance.  I honestly don’t feel stressed or anxious on most days. I don’t feel overwhelmed or guilty and I am not dropping balls or ceaselessly apologizing to people for missing something.   I am meeting my needs and the needs of my family.  Not only that, I have time for friends.  FRIENDS!

Bit by bit, I have chipped away at the raw, hard, shapeless form I started with a year ago and am starting to relax into this new life I created.

It’s not perfect.  I still question myself and my choices every day.  I question if I deserve to be here, to be happy, to be balanced, to be in control of my choices.  I question my ability to do my job. I question my skills, my qualifications, my potential…But I remind myself to stay in the moment and embrace it.

And I do things to remind myself to stay true.  Like, I got a tattoo with my friend Aleigh.  Something I NEVER thought I would do- the tattoo, I mean.  It was a great day.

Until next time…

ReStart

That’s kind of what my life is right now. A restart. I am about 8 weeks into life without a job.

RestartThat’s kind of what my life is right now. A restart. I am about 8 weeks into life without a job.

So, I am going to assume, reader, that you haven’t read any of my posts before today.  Not many have, you see.  And that’s ok.  Because part of why I write is for  me.

I will fill you in.  I was laid off from my awesome non-profit gig managing a program that served underprivileged youth.   I did that job for almost 10 years.  I really liked it and those I worked with, but it was demanding and the environment was sometimes hostile.

The work, the program, my team and the participants of the program made what I did worth all the demands of the job and the hostility of the environment.

However, my family often took a backseat.   So when I was abruptly laid-off, my family saw it as a good thing.  They were tired of of being in the backseat.

I think the The Universe decided to step in for all of us.  It pulled me from my vortex of running  and RAGING and just decided to

STOP

everything for me to take a breath.  So I could

ReSTART.

And surprisingly, unemployment has been going great. I am being a mother.  I am being a wife. My family comes first.  I haven’t been late for almost every appointment because I was rushing from the office.  I have cooked meals that don’t come out of the microwave–I actually cut up vegetables.  My family wants to eat what I cook.

My family is happy and even more surprisingly, I am happy, too. I like being a mother and a wife.  I think everyone was a little nervous at first, including me.  They were afraid I would get bored.

But I am not. Because I am getting my ReStart.

I am pursuing my love of writing and creating art.

I have an Etsy shop.  I started in 2013 and it has been a hobby for me for the last 5 years.  This restart became an opportunity.  An opportunity I embraced with both arms.

Well, I have created all of my social media accounts.  I am pinning on Pinterest like a mad woman.  I am blogging every week.

Painting.  Writing.  Restarting.

And things seem to be moving!  My Instagram followers have doubled.  My presence  and impressions on Pinterest continue to increase.   My stats and views on Etsy keep growing as I add pieces.  1000 people read my first blog post.

And 50 read my second.  WAHHHHH.

And no one is buying.  I haven’t had an Etsy sale in over a month.

And now the mortgage is due and the cell phone bill is due and the credit card bill is due and I am beginning to wonder if this whole restart thing was a good idea after all.

Now I just feel fear.  Now I am beginning to see my restart as more like  restrain.  Repress.  Reduce.

RETIRE.

Do I Really Have an 18 Year Old??

Stories of love, laughter, and inspiration. Read about what moves me, frustrates me, and most importantly EMPOWERs me as I learn how to rewrite the script of life by blending art and words.

My daughter turned 18 Sunday.  18.  There are so, so many things that run through my head that correspond to that sentence.  I mean-  The first is, She is 18; she is an adult!  But then  my mind goes a little crazy, ya know? Like:

  • She is 18. I can kick her out anytime I want with no consequences.
  • I just blinked and she is 18!
  • She is FINALLY 18.
  • She is damn lucky she made it to 18.
  • My baby is 18???
  • I am old enough to have an 18-year-old?
  • Really? I am really old enough to have an 18-year-old?

And that is where I sit. Obviously, 18 has been coming.  I know how to count.  We have been preparing for this for the last 18 years.

It really sunk in a few weeks ago, when she and I went to a doctor’s appointment.  Lately, she has been going into the appointments by herself.  It’s new, but no big deal.  Less for me to worry about and more independence for her.   This time when she returned to me in the waiting room she had one of those sh*t-eating grins on her face and proudly announced she had gotten her tetanus booster during her appointment.  While I was in the waiting room. And I hadn’t heard any screams or cries.

She had gotten a shot allbyherself.  This child…oh man…this child has helled me over the years with shots.  She has been DEATHLY afraid of needles and has gotten herself so worked up and hysterical that half the time I had to  BEG the doctor/nurse/C.N.A/ whomever had the needle in hand,  to perform the procedure and get it over with because said  doctor/nurse/C.N.A/ whomever had the needle in hand was so freaked out by her reaction THEY didn’t dare administer the injection.

And that was  barely 3 months ago when she had her wisdom teeth out.

McKenna after breaking her wrist at age 2

When McKenna  was 2 she fell off the jungle gym and broke her wrist.  At the ER, they tried to give her a shot for the pain and she was so strong she shoved two nurses off of her. One was just starting the injection and wasn’t prepared to be hefted aside so easily.  The nurse dragged the needle down the side of McKenna’s thigh as she was pushed by that angry 2-year-old.   She still has a scar!

Back to present day injection completed.  Sh*t eating grin meets WTF? face.

“How the hell did you manage that?” I asked incredulously.   She shrugged and said, “Well, I told myself I couldn’t be 18 and still need my mom to hold my hand while I got a shot.”

That was when it hit me that I have an 18-year-old.  This child…this child whom I can still feel inside me, rolling around kicking, all the time kicking, and whom I always imagined was always just bursting to GET OUT into the world and start – This child who was almost literally pooped out in the toilet just yesterday, is 18.

1 week old & not looking at all like a toilet baby. 🙂

Ahem.  Pooped out in a toilet?  Yup.  She was born almost 2 weeks early and almost in the toilet. I didn’t know what childbirth felt like.  I just knew I felt like I needed to poop.  So by the time I got to the hospital, I couldn’t imagine why I needed to poop SO BAD and WHY wouldn’t it just come out already!!??  Then imagine how upset I was to learn my carefully written birth plan, which included an epidural, was null and void because my baby was already crowning!

And I had been trying to poop her out.  Nobody tells you that stuff!  Am I right?  Except now I do.  If you are pregnant and I halfway know you, I will tell you.  Because no one told me and look what happened.  I almost had my baby in the toilet.

Then I think.  Holy sh*t.  She is almost 18.  She is leaving for college in New Hampshire in 7 months. and counting.

Hallelujah!

Did I say that out loud? Now I feel guilty again. *sigh* You just don’t understand.  Let me explain.   McKenna has been a little challenging.  We joke about it now.  She and I.  Corey and I and just about anyone who sits beside us at an athletic event.   Or at any event.  Or in line at the grocery store.  Or anywhere really. Sorry strangers.  We aren’t really crazy.  Or bad parents.  I don’t think…We just TALK about it.  It’s like our therapy.

There was this time when she was about 3 or 4 and she broke down a wooden door when because we put her in time out.  Yeah, she kicked it.  It cracked right down the middle.  She had temper tantrums like that.  Really bad ones and the only way to get past them was to wait it out with her in time out, in her room, with us holding the door closed.  Really tight.  Sometimes for a REALLY long time.

When she got older she would stay in her room for time-out, but she would scream bloody murder at the top of her lungs.  Sometimes she would throw stuff at the door or the wall.  Really big stuff cause she was always really strong.  It’s a good thing we live in the boonies because people would have called the cops.  They would have thought we were killing her.  Sometimes I felt like killing her, but I never tried.  Really.  Corey and I would walk to the end of our driveway and wait.  Sometimes for a really long time.

She has always been very persistent.

Our biggest challenge came elementary school. It was a different kind of challenge, though.  McKenna began struggling with crippling anxiety.  There were days she wouldn’t go to school or get on the bus because of the noise.  There were MANY days she would call me with headaches because the anxiety would manifest itself into a migraine.  She didn’t want to leave me at all. (And frankly, some of the school staff were a**holes.  That didn’t help!)  Ultimately, we had to go through tons of testing to make sure she was experiencing anxiety and didn’t have a brain tumor or something else medically wrong.

It was a terrible, horrible time for all of us. And I am thankful I had an understanding employer and a wonderful psychologist friend who snuck us to the top of her therapy list.  Through individual therapy and family therapy, we got through it.

And we learned that McKenna struggles with anxiety.  Once we knew that, we knew how to get through it and life got a little easier.  We had strategies and support.

Over the years, I have viewed that experience as a defining family moment and probably McKenna looks back to see it as helpful as well.  I think she has learned to adapt in her life to see that despite feeling anxious, if she does [whatever she is concerned about] she will get through it and be ok.

She continues to manage the anxiety.  It has bubbled up in pockets.  The fact remains that she is still a teenager and a pretty high-strung one at that.  I haven’t fantasized about kicking her out because life has been perfect.  I mean, she is perfect on the outside.  And sometimes I will share some of our challenges with people who know McKenna and they will be shocked.  She saves her ugly for us because we are the safe space for her. That’s a good thing.

Doesn’t make it any easier for us when the ugly comes out.

After winning the conference softball title

But the fact remains.  For all intents and purposes, my kid is perfect.  It cannot be denied.  She is a gifted athlete—Softball is her sport and last year she won every award in her conference Pitcher of the Year and  Player of the Year.  Then  she was chosen as the top softball player in the state.  Her team won their state championship trophy for the second year in a row.  She is going to college and will play softball at the Division II level and plans to be a Dermatologist.  She plays other sports and excels in those.  She is also an excellent student who ranks 4th in her class.   She has a 4.0 GPA.  She is in National Honor Society.  She volunteers.  She holds down a part-time job and pays for her own gas for her car, all of her own extras like food or fun.  She has never gone to a party.  In fact, her kind of party is to have her friends over HERE to have a fire and play Manhunt on the back lawn.  She has never had a speeding ticket.  Or a detention.

One of her many beautiful senior photos

Oh, and she is beautiful.

And we argue like crazy.  I am the task master.  I make her do her chores, hold her accountable, ask her questions.  And what teenager likes that??  I can’t help it.  I’m the mom and that’s my damn job.  But why is it when I ask her a question she can’t just tell me the answer?   Why do I get snapped at when I ask innocent questions?  Why can’t she just do her chores without me having to nag?  Why can’t she turn off the lights or put away her clothes or pick up her trash?!  Why does it feel like she is only nice to me when she wants something?

Why? Well, she is a teenager for one.  And she is just.like.me.

There.  I said it.

She is just like me.  She looks like me, she acts like me, she gets stressed out like me.  Her baseline disposition is like mine.

Twinsies!

Why is that a problem?  Because most days I have to convince MYSELF to like myself.

So, when she walks in the door demanding someone go outside and plow the driveway cause, hello? It’s snowing!  I look at her and think, “who the hell do you think you are?”

Or when she is doing her homework at the dining room table and she insists the entire house be quiet because SHE is trying to concentrate, I look at her and think, “who the hell do you think you are?”

Ohhhh, I know.  Me.  I remember being that teenager, the strong-minded, verbal, everything revolves around me personality full of emotion and ready to fight.  I remember  expecting everyone to adapt everything they were doing to make my life work.  HELL, I kind of do that now.

When she walks out of the softball dugout, dirty, sunburnt, and pi*sed off because she knows she could have played better and she is crying even though they won the game, I look at her and think, “who the hell do you think you are?”

Oh, I know.  ME.   Every missed shot or attempt and competitive bone in her body.  I can have experienced it.  It’s why I yell so loudly on the sideline.  Because it’s the only thing I can do now to contribute.  I feel the grit, the sand, the anger when she misses.  I want to kick the dirt, the bag, the chair.  I want to cry with her because I have been there.  I want to yell, “CRY! Go ahead! Jump up and down and scream.  I completely get it.  Kick that glove across the field.  That girl should have totally caught that ball!”

But I can’t, because I am her mother, and being a team player is more important.  Losing with grace is more important.

When she tells me how she spots drivers texting and driving on the highway and purposely drives past them and calls them out  by making the universal sign for “shame on you” with her fingers or how she “mothers” her friends by scolding them on their poor choices.

I know.  Every time I know.  I am there in every moment she is speaking and demanding and mothering everyone.  It is me.   She only got it from me.  I want to say, “You are so right.  They are making poor choices and let’s call their mother.”  Or “Honey, you aren’t their mother and they are going to resent you for trying to be.”

But I can’t, because I am her mother and she needs to learn how to communicate and navigate her relationships.

18-year McKenna doesn’t yet have the life experience of 45-year-old Denise.  Her edges are a little bit sharper. Her tone a little bit tougher.  But that’s ok.  When I was 18, my edges were also sharp.  I learned as she will learn and I grew as she will grow.  All those edges and hard lines will soften. Because one thing she has learned is she can do anything she puts her mind to.  That’s not something I taught her.  That’s a lesson she learned all on her own.

What she doesn’t know is that SHE has been my gift.  Watching her struggle and learn and conquer and become the adult that she is now and will be has been the ride of a lifetime.  Oh, I know I crab and I bitch and I cry about all the things that make me CRAZY, but that’s in the moment.  In the moment, things are different.  In the moment, every edge is sharper.  It is in the moments of reflection that I really appreciate the complexity of McKenna.

from WorDSMITHstudios on Etsy.com

Those who truly love her also appreciate her complexity.

McKenna is perfection.  McKenna wouldn’t be the same if she wasn’t all of herself packed into her great big personality.  McKenna is beautiful.  Inside and out.

Yup, I have an 18-year-old.

Why I love the Super Bowl & Surprise! I am not an awesome wife.

Oh the Super Bowl.  So much hype!  I like football. Kinda. My husband, he LOVES football.  Well, aside from softball, but that will be another blog closer to softball season and will be chock FULL of sarcasm and taunting comments about watching reruns of games posted online from 2005. (Rolling eyes now.)  In fact, as I type this I hear an announcer on TV welcome him to the Australian Softball Championship!

Back to business.

My husband LOVES football.  He is a Pats fan.  Probably not a surprise.  We live in Maine…they are the best…Tom Brady is the GOAT…Belichick is someone we love to hate…They have 5 Super Bowl Championships.  What’s not to love? 

During football season, everything is scheduled around football. Every year it takes me awhile to get used to it.  I’ll plan something on Sunday and go about my business while my husband just gets grumpier and grumpier.  What the hell? 

Oh yeahhhh.  It’s football season and the game is on at 1.  Well, why didntcha tell me ya fool?  Ya Could have saved yourself a bunch of grumpycells.  So we adjust.  Kobe wants to use the Playstation?  Nope, it’s Sunday.  Dad’s watching football.  McKenna wants to watch Riverdale?  No (thank God), Dad’s got the TV. And Corey spends the rest of the day almost giddy, yelling and screaming at the television. 

That’s just how football season works around here. 

Super Bowl Selfie

I watch if I am not doing anything better.  I know all the player names and numbers.  As you read earlier, I know Brady is the GOAT.  I know who was traded and Gronk is on the injured list.  Not just because I follow them on Twitter or Instagram (I do) but because my husband just likes to share the information with me. 

I like to believe he cares that it’s me with whom he shares his precious football intel.  Being the awesome wife I am, I step up and nod my head at the right times and ask the appropriate questions.  Some of it just stays with me. 

Especially the info about Amendola and Edelman.  Cause they are hot.  Right ladies?

In reality, Corey just does everything out loud and often times, loudly.  He never stops talking.  Ever.  He walks around the house having conversations with himself.  He talks to the TV.  Talks to FB. He talks to his phone.  If I am in the kitchen, I can hear him down the hall in the bathroom yakking away. I don’t even want to think about who…or what…he is talking to in there. If he watches a funny video on his phone (he does this all.the.time) he laughs long and loud.  I am forever saying “are you talking to me?”   Probably half the time he is not.  Half the time! 

And it doesn’t stop there.  He is constantly asking questions. Which he directs at me, mind you, like I have the answers.   Out of the blue he will ask me things like, “What’s so weird about prime numbers?” “What’s the world’s population at now?” “What is the glacial melt rate?”

20 years ago, I probably would have humored him, engaged in these conversations.  “Jeez, I don’t know. Blah, blah, blah, I read somewhere, heard somewhere…”  Now my answer is more like a look.  An incredulous look that says, “Really, you’re asking me?  Because I know the answer to that?” If anything comes out of my mouth it is usually. “Google it.” or “I bought you an Alexa for that shit.”

He could also just want to share some amazing fact with me.  He’s a really smart guy.  The smart phone has opened up his spongey-fact hungry brain. He is always learning new things and impressed by the information that comes across the amazing machine in his hot little hands. 

I am not as smart or as impressed by my smart phone.  I like shoes and pretty things.  So when he does his impressive intake of breath, ready to impart the impressive fact he just learned–I know it’s coming. I can stop that shit right there– I don’t even have to look up when I say, “NOPE.  I don’t care.”   

So, full disclosure, I am definitely NOT the awesome wife stated earlier. That sentence was all about me feeling good in the moment.   

But I digress.  This is not about me or my man.  We are talking about the Super Bowl here.  The game of games!  

I only kinda like football, but I love the Super Bowl. 

There are actually many things NOT to like about the Super Bowl.  The commercialism.  The obscene amount of money invested in making it happen and keeping people safe and advertising.  All of that money could probably feed several third world countries. 

But, put that aside and look at your FB feed, Instagram, Twitter.  Look at the news, pictures on your phone, the selfies you might have taken with your families.  Then take your magic wand and delete the rioting Philly fans from after the game. They don’t count in this scenario. 

I bet what you see are lots of smiling faces, food, beer, comradery.  Perhaps some of those friends haven’t seen each other in awhile, haven’t watched anything together in awhile, haven’t gone out in awhile and the Super Bowl was an excuse to do all of those things.  I think that’s what makes it special. 

Superbowl Party 2017

It is for us. We usually do something for the Super Bowl.  The past couple of years we have had people over to our house.  Do you know how often we do that?  I think I can count the number of times we have people here on one hand.  We live in the boonies on a private road in the woods.  We don’t even really know HOW to entertain!  We have people over and it’s like the sky is falling.  Corey is running around talking to anything in his vicinity and I am a cleaning maniac.  We don’t know what to do with ourselves. But we do it for the Super Bowl, it’s fun, and it takes us a year to recover.  

And this year’s broadcast was weird.  All of it.  I don’t think it was in the cards for the Pats to win anyway.  The commentary was bad.  Chris Collinsworth and Al Michaels?  Annoying.  Not to mention they got every call WRONG.  If they said the call should be one way, it would undoubtedly be ruled the opposite. Then they would spend the next five minutes trying to justify their bad judgement. 

And the commercials…there were a few funny ones; however, there were a few which left me  scratching my head.  How exactly does driving a Dodge Ram compare you to Martin Luther King, Jr?  Our friend drives a Dodge Ram and he couldn’t tell us either.  Sooo newsflash!  Buying one won’t enlighten you. Or earn you a special day. You have to ACTUALLY be awesome for that. 

Brady didn’t catch that pass.  Then the Eagles ran the exact play perfectly.  I don’t know…seemed like an omen.  And Malcom Butler didn’t play?  Man, that was a conversation we got to have every time the camera flashed to him standing on the sideline. 

And hey, the Pats didn’t win, but they’ve already won 5 times. 
A piece from WorDSMITHstudios
on Etsy.com

Their loss was our gain, because we got to see our friends and we had so much fun talking and laughing about all those weird things.  Oh, how we laughed!  And that’s all that matters to us in the end.  

The laughs and the smiles and the food and the fun. 

Because in the end, we were together.  I forget the rest.