Keep it Real, Bethenny!
In a time when admitting I do this is so passé, I must be real and confess–I love to watch TV. And, mass quantities of it too. Not just a show here or there, but hours of it on a regular daily basis. I spend the day doing housework and taking care of my daughter, but after 4:00 the television is pretty much mine unless I want to go tool around on Facebook, play some games or blog. Even the husband has to schedule his viewing time with me especially if he wants to watch UFC. I can’t hang with that show. It makes no sense and the blood makes me nauseous.
I watch all kinds of television but my guilty pleasure is reality TV and I run the gamete on this stuff. I like 19 Kids and Counting, The Little Couple, Table for Twelve, Jon & Kate plus 8 and I did happen to watch some of Kate Plus Eight but Raising Sextuplets is my newest multiples show. There’s also Teen Mom, True Life, If You Really Knew Me, The Hills (it was the marathon though) and a couple of episodes of The City ‘cause I think Whitney is the sweetest. Many moons ago I watched the Real World, the first three seasons, but not anymore. And I literally cannot understand anyone on Jersey Shore to even watch it. That’s no lie. Between the Jerseyese and the bleeping I can’t figure out what’s going on.
I also watch Gene Simmons Family Jewels and Growing up Twisted which I am really starting to find myself looking forward to. Then there’s Intervention, Hoarders, and Obsessed. But the mother of them all are the Housewives chronicles. I watch Orange County, New York, New Jersey and the newest members D.C. but not Atlanta. I tried but I found nothing appealing about the “characters.” Which leads me to Bethenny Frankel Hoppy! I watched the season finale and it was bittersweet. I’m not sure if the Real Housewives of D.C. can fill her shoes.
Of all the shows I watch Bethenny and Intervention are my must sees. My child must be bathed and ready for bed prior to these shows coming on. As much as I indulge myself in all the voyeuristic pleasure of reality TV, none inspire me like Bethenny and Intervention. Now these shows depict my kind of real life. Granted they are two totally different shows considering Bethenney is not an addict and the addicts are hardly writing books and launching their own brand of product, but hear me out.
What they have in common is strength of spirit. Considering Bethenny’s past (from what she has shared) it is a miracle she did not end up on skid row, blowing out veins, and chain smoking to survive. She has by all accounts endured the perils of life including an abusive mother, a father who abandoned her, a series of let downs and breakups only to find herself standing on the top of fortune’s mountain peak with the Ward Cleaver of the millennium for a husband, a darling, healthy, well-loved little girl, and a life built around her silhouette. I couldn’t be more happy for her.
She faced her demons head on and kicked the crap out of them all. She’s what real is all about. She has a wit that makes her likeable because she is never snarky. She’s the kind of person that can insult you and make you laugh at the same time. She doesn’t run from how she is feeling, but she doesn’t take the other person down with her either. Of all the “housewives” Bethenny deserves the award for most real. All the others want to appear real, but with Bethenny you get what you get. Like her or leave her. I am sure last night was just the season finale of Bethenny Getting Married? and not the last I will see of her.
Until we meet again, stay real girlfriend!
Shot Through The Heart And You’re To Blame
I am fairly new to this whole blogging thing and even newer to WordPress. I have always liked to write. I find it very cathartic. It seems when I put my feelings onto paper I actually get a clearer understanding. Oddly enough I am able to purge what’s leftover. I also like to pen my ideas about life, success, religion, personal experiences and what’s been happening in my world. Since getting a laptop this past Christmas I have been enjoying Facebook and blogging on various social circles and I even attempted to start my own blog on another site. That didn’t go so well. I learned that blogging sites are set up much like neighborhoods. Sometimes you end up making a wrong turn and realize you have stumbled upon an area where you think to yourself “I should probably lock the doors.” Yah, my first pick was not the right neighborhood.
In my quest to find the right fit I came across WordPress which seemed pretty upscale. People are having intelligent conversation or at least they are saying things that actually interest me and I want to spend my time reading what they have to say. Some of the blogs were really well written and I was impressed with the caliber of the site so I joined. After spending a brainbusting inordinate amount of time coming up with a smart username, I finally settled on habakkuk24.wordpress.com. At first it all seemed very innocent. I just wanted to start a blog and talk about me.
I start tooling around my account and exploring my “Dashboard” in an effort to understand how this all works. There’s much to learn, by the way. I should have known when I struggled to come up with a username that this was not just a blog where I write about me. This was serious business. Sometimes I do things first and ask questions later. So now I am registered and fumbling through all the various options like picking a theme. A theme is the background of your homepage. Sounds simple enough right? WRONG! The theme is just as personal as the username. I can’t just pick any theme I need to know my options.
So, I start scouring through the hundreds of themes and checking out the different designs and set ups. There is so much to consider like the graphics, the color scheme and whether I want to include a calendar or not. Some themes have the comment box at the top of the post, some at the bottom, and much to my horror some actually show the number of comments received directly next to the post. When you are someone who hasn’t had a comment yet this can be very traumatizing. For as much as I am on a quest for individualism I am starting to be influenced by the most popular themes. Now I am beginning to question the innocence of blogging. Is it really all about me or is this cyber high school where I am desperate to fit in? At this point I am feeling like a misfit but I endure and post a few stories.
The first post gets three viewings and I figure that’s not bad considering I have no subscribers. By the way at this point I am still fresh to WordPress so I have yet to publicize on Facebook. I go ahead and post the second story feeling a little more secure in my endeavor. I eagerly check back the next day to find I have not received a single view. Ouch! That hurts. After three days of no traffic I am beginning to question how people are supposed to find me and read this blog that’s supposed to be for my benefit. This is when I learn about being “Freshly Pressed” and going public with my posts. Yah, that’s also about the time this whole thing goes from being fun and games to propelling my OCD into overdrive. I have now become obsessed with being Freshly Pressed.
My first thought is to do some homework and find out what exactly it takes to make the Freshly Pressed junket. I click the “Help” option and search for answers. I find an article that describes the five ways one can be published on the main page of WordPress.com, and they are fairly simple to follow. I figure I can do this. So I start to plot and plan what I want to write about that would be so worthy of the coveted Freshly Pressed spot. I spend several painstaking days pouring myself into this next blog while keeping in mind the five failsafe steps. I need an interesting topic. I need a catchy title. Add some pictures. Proofread my work. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am…or sir?
I settle on a subject and commence to writing. I read it and re-read it and read it one more time before I give it to the husband to read and edit. He’s impressed, he approves and I go back to the laptop for one more revision. The content is acceptable, but now I need a catchy title. I’ve noticed in my short affair with WordPress that the powers-to-be like titles that play on words, how to’s, ten things bloggers hate, five ways to do this or that. They pick stories about job angst, parental pitfalls, consumerism, and even a blog from a preacher confessing to be an ardent fan of the Harry Potter series. This seemed like good company to keep and their titles were not so difficult to conjure up. Again, my attitude started out as one of “no problem” and quickly turned into a three day obsession to come up with an award-winning title. At this point I have utterly surpassed my obsessive compulsive disorder and entered into this visceral UFC death match with WordPress where I am about to put this Freshly Pressed idea in to submission! TAP OUT WordPress! TAP OUT!
I also decide to go public with my latest blog which I realize requires a little more blogging savvy than I currently possess. Apparently I needed to read yet another blog on how to synchronize my Facebook account with my WordPress one. Hey, I told you I was a Greenhorn blogger. My decision to go public was purely for the traffic. I figured what better way to get readers than to have my “friends” read my entries. I post my first public blog on a day I knew I had to go shopping so I would not sit by and obsess over how many people stopped in or check my account at nauseam. It worked, but only until I got home. The minute I put my daughter down for a nap I scurried to my laptop and feverishly logged onto my Facebook account. I was anticipating the flood of notifications. Much to my horror I had not a single red number. Not even one from an earlier post I had commented on. Oh, cruel world! Just leave me to bleed out! 
I shake off the initial shot to the heart and convince myself it’s no big deal since these friends of mine can comment directly on my home page. So, off I went to WordPress to log into my account. I imagined seeing a spike in my stats. I wondered how much time I would need to read through the many comments. I envisioned my friends (which at this point are about to be demoted) saying things like “What a great article!”, “I am so impressed with your writing ability!”, “Wow, I totally identify with what you’re saying!”, or even “Thanks! You really made me think.” But oh no, that bubble was quickly burst when I saw the flat line on my Stats window. Not a single viewing. And they call themselves friends! Huh!
The reality of the past week hits me square in the face and now I am wondering if I am nothing more than a narcissist. Am I experiencing the deflation of arrogance or the total shattering of my confidence? In all honesty WordPress sifts through hundreds of thousands of posts per day. That’s right, per day. Being Freshly Pressed is nothing to take lightly, at least from my perspective. Daily entries were upwards of 275,000 posts and only 11 hit the front page. And here I sit with little more than two weeks under my belt and I have this inexplicable desire to hang out with the jocks, cheerleaders and class presidents of WordPress. Do all WordPress bloggers feel this way? Who are WordPress bloggers writing to or for? Are they also looking to be “freshly pressed,” accumulate a stellar following or have a coven of subscribers?
Even this blog is a feeble attempt to get published. Don’t think I don’t know that. I am walking a thin line of doing practically anything to prove to myself that I am worthy to be in the same company as the popular people. Yet I can’t even get my so called friends to be interested in what I have to say. They can’t even be bothered to read my blog. Heck, they probably don’t even know I have one! And still I come back for more. It’s not in my nature to give up so I expect to keep posting and believing that one day I will be noticed. And when that day comes some people are going to wish they read my self-important blog. LOL!
What’s Wrong With Being Successful?
How would you define success? Is it just the acquisition of money? Success is such a subjective concept with so many variables that it hardly seems fair to simplify it as money. Maybe it’s notoriety? A successful person is some one of influence and importance whose very name causes people to act and react. Or, perhaps success is more ethereal as in chance, luck, or happenstance. Some would probably even say that success comes with age. The more time one is willing to invest in an endeavor the more success that person will achieve. It just seems that these synonyms for success are so matter-of-fact when the actual accomplishment requires such fortitude, commitment, sacrifice, and most importantly something worth doing.
To say that success is defined by money or fame is so vulgar and crude. It cheapens the actual road that leads to it. Yet, too often success is reduced to either an accumulation of wealth or an elevated social status. I have a hard time accepting these definitions without asking some more in-depth questions. And, as far as age is concerned I take issue with that as well. A young person can have a great idea and turn that into a successful endeavor. Look at Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook. He has been dubbed the youngest billionaire in the world. Is Zuckerberg just lucky?
To say he’s lucky would essentially rob success of its need to be attained and compare it to nothing more than a common cold. It’s something that is caught rather than achieved. The person just happened to be there at the time success was being spread. Success through luck is all about being at the right place at the right time. It hardly seems fair to diminish Zuckerberg’s accomplishment just because he didn’t sacrifice time with the wife and kids, annual vacations, dance recitals, football games or family reunions in an effort to climb the proverbial ladder of success. Besides who hasn’t heard the story of the lottery winner who goes bankrupt, or the one hit wonder that’s currently waiting tables, or the child star turned addict? Not to mention the reality “stars” and all their dirty deeds caught on film. If they look successful America needs its “reality” checked. Luck fades; not true success.
But the coup de grâce is the belief that success is all about living the simple life. And what exactly is the simple life? It is a life without trials, tribulations, problems, disappointments, or irritations? I would think that the more a person has the more trouble that would come with it. I mean the mansion needs to be cleaned and maintained by someone. The cars need shelter, gas, and repairs. The wife needs spa days, manis and pedis, shopping excursions, lavish vacations, and swanky parties. The kids need their Super Sweet Sixteen parties, brand new wheels, trips abroad, and personal credit cards. So when exactly does one live this simple life? Who’s paying for all of this? Or, does this simple life piggyback the notion that success is a chance happening?
So, this leads me to ask the question again—what is success really or better yet, how would I define success? I believe success is a lifestyle; a whole way of living. A truly successful person achieves success in both the public and private sectors of life. Jim Rohn said it best when he said “Success is not to be pursued; it is to be attracted by the person we become.” What I glean from this is that who I am on the way to becoming successful says more about my level of success than my bank account, social status, or age ever could.
Success is not an end, it’s a beginning. Once a person has achieved what they believe to be success it will have to be maintained somehow. Attitude is a main ingredient for success. One’s outlook on life is critical. If I strive to achieve success by overreaching others, becoming apathetic to the needs of those around me, and disregarding the tenderness of my personal relationships how can I declare victory over success? Zig Ziglar once said “What you get by reaching your destination is not nearly as important as what you become by reaching your destination.” (Emphasis added) What good is it to have an empire if there is no one to share it with? Who wants a life of me, me, me?
We should never pursue money, but always pursue purpose. Accomplishing one’s purpose in life is true success. Becoming all that I was intended to be ushers in success far greater than the world would lead me to believe is possible. Money and fame are such small concepts when I think about how gratifying it is to be a successful wife, mother, daughter, sibling, friend and employee. I may not have a big house, live in a fancy neighborhood, drive a brand new car, wear designer clothes, or even own a cell phone, but I am successful. I love my life and I wouldn’t want anyone else’s. I am at peace with who I am and because of that I feel a tremendous amount of success. I leave you with these parting words from Suze Orman “People first, then money, then things.” God bless!
I Pledge Allegiance
Most people have an inner voice, or intuition if you will, which they call “something.” It’s the “something” that warns us with a feeling of being uneasy or weary. Or, that “something” that assures us what we are doing is the right thing. It’s the feeling that rises in us and we aren’t quite sure where it is coming from but we know for sure that “something” is speaking. There are folks who are very sensitive to it and use it as a guide through life. Others feel it only at very profound times in life and act upon it. Sadly though there are those who feel this “something” yet ignore it and end up living with the haunting regret of not listening.
I remember the day very clearly. It was mid September 2006. My daughter was about six months old and I had been weathering the trials and tribulations of first-time motherhood and an infant that barely slept. I remember the complete and utter exhaustion I felt each day as I struggled to get her to eat and sleep properly. Naptime was a nightmare because it would take me literally 30-40 minutes to get her to sleep. I knew this would eventually change, but at that point in time I was beginning to crack under pressure. This day was what I would consider a fairly normal one. My daughter was getting tired and starting to fuss so I warmed up a bottle and took her to her room to feed her in the glider. She was fighting the bottle, fighting to relax, and fighting all my efforts to console her. So once again I grabbed the pacifier, put it in her mouth, laid her in bed and left the room. I felt the battle coming on and I was in no mood. I resolved to let her cry it out and went about doing some housework.
Earlier that week the local newspaper had dropped us a copy of the Sunday edition as a promotional. I don’t read the paper but since it was there I decided to go through it for the ads and coupons. They are usually bundled in the funny pages. It had been awhile since I saw the funnies so I looked through them to see what was different. To my surprise not much. I noticed the cartoon strip Family Circus. I used to read that one when I was younger which is what made me stop and read. It began with the baby in one room and Mom in another. Then it showed the baby eyeing a toy on the bookshelf and heading toward it. In the next frame the baby starts to climb the bookshelf in an effort to reach the toy. Then the cartoon goes back to Mom and shows her standing in the kitchen with her guardian angel tapping her on the shoulder. She acknowledges it and instinctively knows to check on the baby. In the final frame Mom comes into the room just as the baby is about to pull the whole shelf on top of him.
On this particular September day I too was standing in my kitchen when I heard my daughter cry. Even though I had resolved to let her cry herself to sleep my “something” felt this was no ordinary cry. I immediately sprang into action and headed to the nursery to see what was the matter. As I entered the room I saw my daughter’s head underneath the bumper. I figured she was just scared and unable to get out from underneath it, so I grabbed ahold of her to pull her out. What happened next became a defining moment in my life.
As I pulled my baby to me she felt “stuck.” I heard this chilling grunt come out of her followed by a gasping for air. At first I was not sure what was happening so I pulled her again this time a little harder only the noise she made now was a gag. I couldn’t see her face because her head was behind the bumper, so I ran my hand under and started to feel around. It was at that moment that I realized the string from the bumper was wrapped around her neck. Panic set in as I tried to remove the string but couldn’t. In fact, I couldn’t even get my finger in between her neck and the string. Now I was in full crisis mode! With a little more strength I pulled my daughter out from under the bumper pad and flipped her over onto her back. Her face was cherry red and a blue vein was popping out of her forehead. I tried desperately to break the string but I couldn’t get a good grip on it. Fear began to consume me and I felt like I couldn’t even process a thought. Suddenly I heard myself crying out “Oh God! Oh God! Please help me!” What I heard next would save her life.
I clearly felt the Lord speak to me and say in a very calm and soothing voice “Roll the baby. She rolled herself into it, so you have to roll her out of it.” I quickly began rolling her out of this noose around her neck. As soon as she was free I picked her up, held her tightly to my chest, and began to cry hysterically. I took her downstairs and gave her the once over to make sure she was not injured. She had a deep red wring around her neck which only further solidified the feeling that she was in a crisis situation. During the whole incident she was very upset, crying and gasping for air, but once we were downstairs she was eerily calm. I couldn’t believe what had just happened and it took me some time to wrap my mind around it all.
After recuperating from the trauma, that comic strip immediately came to mind. I felt as though it was no accident that I happened to be reading it that day. In fact, I remember when I first heard my baby cry that comic strip came to mind. I firmly believe that recalling that comic strip is what saved my daughter from being seriously injured or worse yet dead. If I had ignored that cry she would have eventually passed out and stopped breathing altogether. I would have thought she finally fell asleep and probably not even checked on her. Could you imagine the horror of entering her room and seeing her laying there blue and lifeless? I realized that the “something” that warned me to go check on my daughter was clearly the Spirit of the Lord within me. He assisted me in saving my daughter’s life that day. Since that day I have never again questioned the audible voice of the Lord. I have resolved to pledge my allegiance to Him.
SIDEBAR: As for the loose string on the bumper, consumers beware. My daughter has one of those convertible cribs and the back board of the crib, which would be the headboard of the full-size bed, is one solid piece therefore the bumper pad cannot be attached. At first this did not seem like a problem, but once she became mobile I definitely should have removed the bumper or cut the strings. I am blessed that she and I lived to tell the story!
Diff’rent Strokes
I can’t claim to know much about God and His Word, but I can say that it is different for everyone. There are so many believers of all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds. Each religion claims to be the “One True Religion” and each faction claims to have a better understanding than another. There are hundreds of religions in the world, so which one do you choose? Do you choose Catholic, Methodist, Orthodox, Protestant, Baptist, Apostolic or Evangelic? Do you believe in the Bible, the Koran, or the Torah? Do you believe in God, Muhammad, or Alah? Do you accept or reject the existence of Jesus Christ? Do you prefer the Old Testament or the New Testament? You have heard and seen as much of the debate as I have. So, who has it right?
In my chicken yard I was raised a Catholic. I attended Catholic school until I was 13 and after that I attended Catechism until I was seventeen. My family and I attended church on a regular basis, but we only prayed in church or at supper time. I was baptized at birth, received my First Communion in second grade and was Confirmed my junior year of high school. I was taught the Trinity, Jesus’ parables and the Stations of the Cross. By all accounts we were a good Catholic family. But I was also exposed to a different religion outside the Catholic faith.
My father’s parents were Protestant or Nazarene. To this day I still don’t know the difference but I am sure that there is one. Whatever the case, they certainly were not Catholic. Everything they did at my grandparents’ church was different. The Catholic mass had a rhythm to it; a familiarity. You knew what was going to happen, when it was going to happen, and how it was going to end. You arrived at church, picked your pew and sat there in silence until the mass began.
The church that my grandparents attended only had one thing in common with the Catholic church and that was God. Everything else about the church was drastically different. When you walked in the door of their church people were greeting one another, shaking hands, hugging, and looking genuinely pleased to see everybody. We didn’t go to their church that often but when we did the whole parish seemed to make a big deal out of it. I remember they called me and my sister the “Gordon girls.” As a child I remember liking the attention and how good it felt to see their smiling faces beaming back at me.
Not only was the meeting and greeting different, but the service at Grandma and Grandpa Gordon’s church was a culture shock. I can’t exactly recall when I noticed the difference, but I do remember the initial, knee-jerk reaction to feel uncomfortable. See, Grandma and Grandpa attended one of those churches that were real vocal. It was very acceptable to shout things out during service like “Amen!”, “Thank ya Lord!”, “Praise Jesus!”, or “Hallelujah.” They would encourage the preacher too with shouts of “Yes, sir!”, “Uh-huh!” or “That’s right!” Some would just lift their arms in the air as if they were a small child wanting to be picked up.
To my young eyes this was a monumental and wondrous contrast to my sense of familiarity. They also had what they called Children’s Church. I never knew when it was going to be but someone always announced the dismissal of the children and Grandma would signal us to follow the others to the basement. When I got older and began to discern these experiences I realized that we children were sent away to learn our bible stories while the adults discussed the Scriptures and how it applied to everyday life. In my young mind all I knew was at Grandma and Grandpa’s church I didn’t have to sit through the boring mass but instead I got to make crafts and eat a snack. What kid would question or complain about that?
Both my parents were raised with religion. My mother was raised a Catholic and my father was raised a Protestant. Each church had its way of preaching and teaching. As a child I can recall wondering about the differences and being concerned whether I had to choose. Was one better than the other? That’s the way children think, right? Who’s right and who’s wrong. What’s good and what’s bad. I guess at some point I just forfeited the argument and went about living life until one day I decided to ask a different question.
Instead of wondering who was right and who was wrong I started asking what all of that meant in my life. Up until that point, I had been living a fruitless life. I all but rejected religion. I knew of God and that was it for me. If some one were to ask me what religion I was I would simply say I was raised a Catholic, but I did not identify with it. I was not connected to any church and I was certainly not practicing. I had no idea that I was supposed to do something with all of this religion. I didn’t even know I was supposed to have a personal relationship with God. Why didn’t anyone tell me? In my quest to understand the significance of my religious upbringing I learned that all of it was just a foundation. I only knew the basics which was just the beginning of journey and not the full package. I now know that there is much more to God than church, bible stories, amens and hallelujahs.
I had to be willing to challenge the principles and precepts that were taught to me. Not because they were wrong, but rather so that I could determine how they fit into my life now. There are many standardized forms of religion and each one has its purpose on this plant, but what it means to each individual believer is between that person and God. Although I will admit that there is definitely a right way and a wrong way to live, I am no longer looking to others to decide that for me. I now look to God to help me discern the Truth.
