My Pick-Me-Up (in honor of Father's Day)

My dad is odd.  Yes, I know I mentioned how goofy my mom is in my blog about her last month, but really, in comparison, my dad wins the prize.

But he’s also cool. He was a pilot in the Air Force, has some very interesting stories about those years, and he even briefly drove a limo for the building tenants where Dear Abby lived, as one of his side jobs.  (We won't get into who got a ride to school in that limo, but it was the same sibling of mine mentioned in my blog about mom, who was nursed and not bottle-fed, like me.)​

  

​And he was a good-looking dad—something my high school girlfriends reminded me of, often.

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There were times dad worked three jobs so mom could stay home with us kids, and we were told to go to mom for things.  And she did all the disciplining.​

​Except the one and only time I got grounded, right before my 16th birthday.  How convenient—I spent the night of my 16th birthday in my room! As the only daughter, I was supposed to be my dad's "princess."  Unfortunately for dad, mom delegated the grounding job to him.  I remember dad coming into my bedroom to tell me I was grounded.  He looked so miserable, I know he felt worse than I did!  And I felt like I'd let him down.

Years later, when I called my mom to break the news my husband and I were separating, something I braced myself for as my parents are strict Catholics, I sobbed uncontrollably, feeling like I'd not only failed my marriage, but failed my parents as well.  When my mom and I were done talking, with reassurances from her that she was supportive of me, and things would be okay, I remember saying, “Please don't tell dad. He's going to be so disappointed in me."

Mom replied, "Jill, he knows.  He's been on the phone in the basement the whole time listening."  That was it, I cried so hard I couldn’t talk (a rarity for me,) feeling I'd disappointed him again, until he said, "It’s okay, Jill, we love you."  And although my mom had said the same thing, hearing it from my dad—a man who rarely talked of his feelings at that time—helped mend my grieving heart.

  

When my daughters were growing up, they compared some of my dad’s behavior to “Rain Man.”  No, he’d be no help to us in Vegas, but one of their reasons for comparison was his odd habit of walking laps around their ping-pong table as a source of exercise during the winter.  He knew how many laps made a mile​.  A lot.

He's got a great sense of humor, and is a people-person, just like my mom.  He'll ask you a million questions when he meets you, but it is only because he is genuinely interested in what you're saying.  And he'll remember what you said!  At almost 81 years old, his memory is like a steel trap.

Dad is smart, and loves technology—embracing it, when most run the other way at his age. And like my mom, he's a volunteer-aholic and has received awards for his work.  His main focus is Hospice, something that might surprise people who know him from his younger years. As an only child, dad was raised riding the world-revolves around-me horse.

​When dad retired, mom sat him down.  “Listen.  You aren't changing my daily routine so you might want to volunteer with me or find your own things to do because I won't be here to make your lunch every day."  (Or something rather frank like that.)  Dad got the message.  The world was not revolving around him.

So dad also turned to volunteering.  He is very giving and caring, and focuses on making other people's lives better.  One of his volunteer jobs over the years has been to help senior citizens pay their bills and balance their checkbooks (and make sure they aren't getting scammed). What is funny about that is most of the people he helps are younger than he is!

He'd do anything for anybody, you don’t have to be his little princess (sorry, I’m not giving out his phone number!)  And although he is a clean-freak, car-tire-and-motor-oil hoarder, my dad is exactly what I wanted in a dad—a man who is always there when I fall down, to help pick me back up.  And love me, no matter what.

What If?

A teenage girl showed up at our house unexpectedly a few days ago. And I mean unexpected.  I hadn't heard from her in over eight years.  That might not seem like a big deal, but this was no ordinary child.  No ordinary situation.

I had connected with this girl we'll call "G", when she was seven.  I volunteered on my lunch breaks at our local school, reading with children who needed help.  Although she wasn’t one of my reading partners, G and I started a friendship, a Big Sister of sorts.  G’s life was different, and G was different.  And I wondered if I’d be of any help.

I told myself I could get through to this girl, who seemed to live in her own little make-believe world. She was living with her mom and dad at the time. And I soon realized why she retreated to her fairy-tale world.

Call me clueless at age 47. G's life was one I'd never witnessed, and I couldn't grasp why nobody was helping her.   

This girl fell through the system's cracks.  If I wouldn't have seen her lifestyle with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it.  And although the time we spent together every week was important, I felt she was living in quicksand, and I didn’t have the strength to pull her out.  Her family life was a mess, and slowly, this child who had so little already, lost everything.

That she hadn't lost her mind is a miracle.  It all came to a head one night when I was at the police department, waiting to speak with a detective with G and another family member—at 10:30 on a school night.  It was just another night for G.

When we were finished, the detective took me aside.  "You are being sucked into a mess.  I think you're over your head, and you might want to get out."  Oh boy, did I want to get out!  But I'd have just been another person in a long line, abandoning G.

The situation was eventually taken out of my hands.  G was moved out of our area, getting bounced from one place to another.  Our relationship was cut.  And over the years I’ve wondered what happened to her.  And what kind of life she had.

On Sunday, a strange truck pulled up to our house.  And out stepped G.

She'll be a senior in high school next fall.  My jaw would've dropped hearing how her life has gone these past eight years, but it didn’t, because unfortunately, her life continued to be as awful as I’d feared it would.  But as I hugged G, I knew.  She's a fighter, a survivor, and yes, she might have some emotional battle scars that make her unique, but if any of us had lived her life, we would too.

I have her phone number, I know where she lives now, and I'll be in touch. I want to know she'll be okay in (yet another) new school, having to deal with yet another new set of students.

When I was in school, my parents instilled in me to treat others as I'd want to be treated.  I might not have ever bullied anyone, or picked on them, but you know what else I didn't do?  I didn't reach out to those children that faded into the school walls, who walked silently down the hallways, hoping to blend in so nobody would notice they were "different."

I didn't take the time to know or understand them.  And now I ask myself this:  If I was going to be a senior at G's school this fall, how would I treat her?  I’m afraid I know the answer. 

And because of that, I want to stand with G on the gymnasium stage and tell her fellow students "This girl is a survivor.  She may seem different from you, but please do not tease or ridicule her, and please don't ignore her.  She is stronger than you'll likely ever be.  And she deserves much more respect than she'll probably ever get.”

Because none of us want to look back on our life and ask ourselves "What if that was me?"

Life with Momma Buns

My mom's slippers in the photo should give you a glimpse into what my mom, Bunny, is like. She has never fit into the cookie-cutter mold of moms, which has suited her fine and made our life interesting.  Those slippers of hers would've come in handy when we moved to Minnesota and she'd walk outside barefoot in the snow.

Mom thought everything was funny when I was growing up (no doubt fueled by the endless Erma Bombeck clippings plastered on our fridge.)  She'd chase me around the house with my younger brother's wet diapers, telling me they'd soften my skin.  She'd purposely send Amy, our slobbery bulldog, into the living room if I was sitting on the couch with a boyfriend, knowing full well Amy's gassy fumes would fuel any boy to leave the room within a minute of Amy's entrance.

She filled our home with music and laughter... and I had no idea every child wasn’t as lucky.  Of course I thought her rules were constricting, her concern for my safety, overbearing (as their only daughter, my parents now agree they went overboard.)  After graduation, on the day I turned eighteen, I moved out.  My parents had given me a suitcase for my birthday—I thought they were happy with my decision. Years later, mom said she was crushed by my decision.

Once I moved out, I thought their influence on my life was over, my need for them, history. Oh, how clueless I was! If anything, I needed my mom even more as an adult.  There have been times in my life I’d call my mom, crying so hard I couldn't talk.  In-between my sobs, she'd ask how she could help me.  And she did.  Every single time.

Mom could lead Do-gooders Anonymous; she’s been a constant volunteer for years, always doing for others and asking for very little in return from her family.  Nothing materialistic—just our time and respect.  And she’s about the most down-to-earth person you’ll meet.  Trusting, honest, and funny when she doesn’t mean to be.

Recently, I mentioned to my mom that my older brother, who is a genius (a constant surprise to me!) defied the statistics that babies who are nursed are smarter than bottle-fed babies.  “Oh, I nursed Chris,” mom said. 

“I thought you said you didn’t nurse us kids.”  

“I just didn’t nurse you, Jill.”  

Well, that explains why I’m not a genius.

My parents recently put their home up for sale.  While my dad was out of state, some strange man knocked on their door, asking mom about their house.  Even though they had it listed with a realtor, a sign clearly posted in their yard, my mom welcomed in this potential murderer-thief and showed him all around their home.  I didn’t waste my breath scolding her for being too-trusting.  It’s mom—that’s how she rolls.

  

Years ago, I worked in the loan department for a bank that got taken over by the government.  In all the stressful chaos, our secretary/receptionist quit.  So my extrovert mom volunteered to fill in until they could hire someone, thinking she could just visit with customers.  During that time, they brought in a new bank president.  One day he asked my mom to do some typing for him.

My mom informed him, “Oh, I don’t do typing!” 

Clueless, he came to me.  “What’s up with our receptionist?  That lady told me she doesn’t do typing.”  

Embarrassed, I told him that “that lady” was my mom, and to just give me the typing.

It wasn’t the first time my mom embarrassed me.  It won’t be the last.  I’m good with that—that’s how Momma Buns rolls. 

Remembering Erma

The woman who could make us laugh until we wet our pants, died eighteen years ago on April 22^nd, and life for most of us has been a little less hilarious since then.

​If you're under the age of oh, maybe forty, you might not recognize the name Erma Bombeck (and who could forget a name like that?) ​If you aren’t familiar with her writing, do yourself a favor, go pick up a copy of her book, Forever Erma.  It will make you laugh, cry, think, relate, and look at the world in a whole new way.  It is a perfect collection of her many newspaper columns spanning more than thirty years.

​I grew up with our fridge plastered with cutout articles from Erma's weekly newspaper columns.  She kept my mother somewhat sane, along with most of the other mothers in the world.  And she died way too young, at sixty-nine.

Erma was an imperfect mother—something every mother is; only Erma was brave enough to admit it to the world in her witty, relatable way. Erma was your typical “housewife” in the late 1950’s, starting a family, relinquishing her career as a journalist, and focusing all her time and energy on her three young children and husband. 

When she reentered the writing world, Erma’s weekly columns were eventually published by 900 newspapers in the U.S. and Canada.  And her books were as touching (I Want to Grow Hair… a book about children with cancer), as they were humorous (The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.)

She was an inspiration to so many, for so many different reasons.  For me, reading that Erma failed most of her literary assignments and was rejected for her college newspaper, I realized if she’d have let that be the end of her writing career—the world would’ve enjoyed a lot less laughter.

I could list so many great Erma quotes, but I’ll end with one of her weekly columns that has graced my parent’s fridge for more than thirty years. 

The column is titled “The Listener” from February 26, 1977, and is about an elderly woman trying to strike up a conversation with Erma while waiting to board a flight to Chicago.  Erma writes how exhausted she was---all she wanted was to relax and just read her book.  But the woman kept talking, Erma kept mindlessly nodding… until the elderly woman says “My husband’s body is on this plane.  We were married fifty-three years…”   

Erma writes:  “I don’t think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment.  Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than the real-life drama at her elbow.  All she needed was a listener.  No advice, wisdom… just a minute or two for someone to listen.  It seems rather incongruous that in a society of super-sophisticated communication (this was in 1977!) we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.”

So, in honor of Erma, let’s all put our phones down, spend a little less time on social networking, and LISTEN to the person next to us – whether it is our spouse, our child, a neighbor, a stranger. 

Erma would be so proud of us. 

   

Do you have a favorite Erma quote or column?  What is it?

  

Unforgettable... that's what I'm not!

My husband has a poor memory, and is well-known for it. I used to think it was just things I told him that he’d forget.  Then I learned he's been this way since he was young; probably from one-too-many hits to the head during his football playing years.  As frustrated as I get when he doesn’t remember something I said, I'm glad of one thing:  he doesn't remember the exact details of every single thing I’ve said and done.  I'd never win an argument if he did!

I recently watched a program about the very few people who are "gifted" with Hyperthymesia—a condition where the person possesses an extremely detailed autobiographical memory of everything—whether they want to remember it or not.

I’m thankful I don't know anyone with that "gift".  I don't want the cold hard facts of my words or actions played back to me.  Those times when a throbbing headache might have made me a crazy woman over some random little thing, or a time when I thought I was saying something witty or clever and instead it sounded nasty.  My glaring “bad days” would flash like a strobe light in my loved ones brains.  Think about it… who of us is so perfect that we want every single thing in our life remembered?

My children are now in their early thirties, but I can still look back at their younger years and wish I’d have said and done a few things different.  What if they could remember, in great detail, all those mom-flubs of mine?  Would they readily forgive them even if they couldn’t ever forget?

In the TV program featuring people with Hyperthymesia, one was a boy about twelve years old.  It showed a conversation with his father, talking about his son.  “When he woke up the other day, he said ‘dad, this is a sad day.’  I asked him why, and my son said ‘we had a fight on this day last year and you yelled at me.’”  How sad! I felt awful for both the father and the son.  I definitely do not want anyone who knows me to have a steel-trap memory like that.

Imagine having an argument wreck a certain date for you each year, like a festering boil that never goes away.  Yes, I realize the pendulum can also swing the other way, and wonderful events can bring rainbows and sunshine to that particular date too.  But, because I’m a worry-wart, I choose to focus on the bad “what-if’s?”

So far, I have many wonderful memories from my life.  Am I remembering the events the way they really happened?  Probably not.  I’m sure the words are skewed, the pictures in my head, a little off.  But because they are my memories, I can remember as I want—without the “facts” getting in the way.

How are your memories?  Sharp and splendid?  Vague?  However they are, I hope they've become sprinkled with glitter, a little distorted and softened around the edges... memories that bring warm fuzzies ~ and unforgettable happiness. 

Moving On

I watched their faces, looking for any chink in their armor as my parents led my husband and I through what will likely be their new home at a retirement center.  I observed their quiet movements, listened to what they said.  And what they didn’t say. 

My brother’s and I have been “strongly suggesting” our parents move out of the home they’ve live in for nearly forty years, while they’re both still in decent health and of sound mind. I’m lucky—most people in their mid-50’s have already lost one or both parents.  I’m also a worrier.  Their current home with slippery steps leading to a cement floor basement has caused my overactive imagination to run wild every time I can’t get ahold of them, certain they’re lying in great pain on the basement floor while I’m hours away.

So they’ve agreed to take this step, and being the optimists they are, I knew they’d have a “Gee, this will be great!” attitude.  And they did.  Yes, the retirement home will mean no more mowing grass, no more shoveling snow, no more worrying if their pipes will freeze if they’re gone for a few weeks in winter. 

Yet they, like the rest of us, love their home.  We all have experienced that aaahhh feeling when we walk into our home after being gone awhile.  Everything is familiar and comfortable, because we’ve built that nest over the years, layer by layer.  It smells, feels, sounds, and is a reflection of us. 

It won’t be easy for them as they carefully sort through their accumulation of nearly sixty years of marriage, determining what to keep, and what to give away.

Back at their house, my mom and I go through a few things.  “If you see anything you want, take it.”  She says.  My husband and I don’t have room for “extras” as our family is growing every year with more (fantastic) grand-children.  The last thing we need is some small family heirloom too tempting for them to not touch.

Every family treasure mom shows me has a short story, and I see a look of sadness in her eyes as she is well aware they can’t keep it all.  I take a few small things, items I’ll cherish every day, even though I don’t need the family possessions.  What I really need is to know my parents will be happy and safe, so I don’t worry about them so much.  Somehow, our roles have been reversed.

We all have different chapters in our lives, times where we feel like we’re closing one door and opening another—with no guarantees for our future.  As my parents weed through their possessions to start the last chapter of their lives, I’m happy to know they’ll be able to bring with them the one thing that’s most important:  each other.

My trip to the Oscars

Sunday night, many of you will sit in front of your TV, eager to watch movie stars walk the red carpet, dressed to the nines, while they celebrate like its prom night.  And some will walk up on that stage and accept an Oscar for a performance that would likely dim in comparison to any outstanding performance you’ve given over the past year.

For years we’ve all lived vicariously through movie stars.  That’s about to change.  I’m not just watching—I’m joining in.  They already get paid wild amounts of money for the roles they’ve played.  Yes, they’ve done a great job. So have we.

Think about it.  If I was asked to dance with Bradley Cooper (Silver Linings Playbook), I wouldn’t expect any money… much less an Oscar.  Seriously, that’s a dream, not a job.

Same goes for canoodling with George Clooney in the space shuttle, (Gravity). Believe me, I’d do it for free... with no award required to live out a fantasy of mine. 

Look at your life.  All the times you’ve had to “grin and bear it.”  You probably deserved an Oscar for hiding your true feelings.  The time you kept your silence as your boss patted himself on the back for something you did.

Or when you gave birth.  Suffering through all that pain and anguish and acting like you never thought once about strangling your husband.

The time you pretended you absolutely loved your best friend’s boyfriend, even though he made your skin crawl.

Or the time your feelings were hurt by someone important to you who forgot your birthday, and you managed to act like you barely remembered it yourself.

The time your child stood on stage during his first grade school play and did nothing but pick his nose, yet you sat in the crowd with a smile pasted on your face as if you’d never been more proud.

All the disappointments.  Time’s you’ve been passed over for a promotion, not getting picked for a team, a committee… whatever your yearning might be.

Think of your children, or grandchildren.  I can vouch that every single grandchild of ours is worthy of an Oscar.  They can go from giggles and gut-busting laughter to full-body-drenching waterworks in the time it takes you to turn around.  And they can evoke such strong emotions from us (love, frustration, happiness...) just by "playing" themselves.  Clearly they’re doing a great job to bring that kind of emotional response from us to the surface.

Haven't we all given performances worthy of an Oscar?  I’m going to the Academy Awards and strutting down the red carpet—one way or another.  I’ve earned it—I bet you have too.

Remember to rehearse your acceptance speech, and keep it short.  You don’t want the orchestra to play you off the stage.  You want to be invited back next year.  I know I’m counting on it.

Olympic-size Dreams

As the Olympics draw near, I’m reminded of an old Glen Campbell song (stay with me, you'll see the comparison.)

In Glen's song, “Dreams of the Everyday Housewife”, the lyrics from the 1968 hit, “Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife, you see everywhere any time of the day, an everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me,” make me think of all the dreams and goals women have given up over the years.

We all grow up with dreams for our future.  They might be as simple as having a certain number of children, a dream job, living in endless sunshine, becoming a professional athlete... something, somewhere along the line, becomes a dream of what your life will be like when you "grow up."

Then “life” gets in the way.  Yes, some dreams are achieved, but many fall by the wayside. And even if we are able to pursue our dreams without a hundred obstacles getting in the way, one little thing can derail us in a second.  A heartless comment.  A bad day.  The gnawing feeling of failure.  It can all make us second-guess why we think we can succeed where others have failed.

Now, think of the athletes from every country competing at the Olympics.  The elite.  The best.  And all but one in each event could easily perceive themselves as a “loser.”  It’s hard to believe they’d think that way, yet many do.

In a study, Olympic silver medalists are generally less happy than Bronze medalists. Crazy, right?  It's the way they look at the results – the silver medalist just missed first place, while the bronze medalist is happy because they received a medal at all.

How can someone who has worked so hard, given up years of their life to hone their athletic skill, feel that way?  These are people who don’t give up.  “Quit” is not in their vocabulary. And they’ve done everything possible to reach for their dream.

That in itself is success. We also have people who’ve fought for the future even though they themselves won’t benefit.  Look at the upcoming Olympics.  There wouldn’t (finally!) be a women’s ski jumping event if it wasn't for the women before this, fighting for equal rights in sports. Canada's Katie Willis is one of the many women who fought for the sport to become an Olympic event.  And although she has retired from the sport (at the ripe old age of twenty-two) she’ll be cheering for the women who will make history this year in the event.

In life, we all feel down at times.  We have a bad day, things look like they’ll never be “up” for us again, and it’s easy to throw your hands up and say “I give up.”  Or, we do succeed at something, and then we keep setting the bar higher until our expectations are unrealistic.  When do we look at ourselves as a "success"???

And at what point do we give up on our dreams?  Have you given up on yours?

What is YOUR "ski jump"?  Mine is writing.  I can't stop—nor do I want to. What about you? Have you given up on something you wish you wouldn't have?  What stopped you from achieving your dream?  And is it too late?

 

Losing a best friend ~ in honor of mine

My best friend, Donna, passed away two years ago tomorrow, and her struggle with life in her last few years is what inspired me to start writing my first novel, THE TO-HELL-AND-BACK CLUB.

If Donna was alive today, she’d have been well-qualified to join that fictitious club!  Below is a condensed version of what I read at her funeral.  I’d like to share the kind of person Donna was—the person I was lucky enough to call my best friend.

I met Donna thirty years ago when our husbands played on the local men’s softball team.  We were both new to our small town, and instantly connected.  We shared the joys of motherhood, the sadness of leaving our girlfriends behind from where we’d moved, and our feeling overwhelmed at times in our mid-twenties with businesses to run and young kids to raise.  Donna became the sister I never had.

I remember when she first got Leukemia, twenty-five years ago.  I got a call at work, telling me Donna would likely not survive the day.  Hah, those Doctors didn’t know Donna!  As bleak as her outcome looked for a long time after that, what pulled her through were their young sons.  She didn’t want anyone else raising them and fought like crazy to get better.

Donna had many good years after that and we had a lot of good times.  Not only did we take trips as couples, going fishing, snowmobiling and even to the Cayman Islands, but Donna and I went on well over two dozen trips with our friends Sandy and Sharon.  Those trips cemented a bond between us four like nothing else could. 

Donnas’ determination and strong will could be frustrating at times, especially these last years when she was suffering physically and emotionally.  Many of us felt upset that we couldn’t help her—she wasn’t admitting she needed help and sure wasn't allowing us to help.  That determination of hers showed through right to the end though when her husband was trying to feed her the night before she passed away.  Even though Donna could no longer open her eyes, had trouble moving, and was fading in and out… big surprise, she insisted on feeding herself.  I watched her husband put the spoon in her hand and hold the bowl up to her, allowing Donna the little bit of control she had left of her life.

That same night, when I walked in the bedroom to visit her, she said weakly, “Well, Jill, I have some good news and some bad news.” 

I laughed through my tears and said, “Really, Donna, what possible good news could you have at this point?” 

“I’m still alive.”  She replied.  Positive to the very end.

When I think of what drew me to Donna the list is short but important:  She had a good sense of humor, was nice, thoughtful, a very loyal friend and a great listener. And she was a great cheerleader, always encouraging me to do things even if she couldn’t make herself do them.  Friendships usually have their ebb and flow times, but in the end, I always think of a particular situation I had with Donna years ago when three of us couples went to the Cayman Islands.

There was a storm brewing one day, and the beach was clearing out quickly.  The dark waves got bigger and bigger, and although just about everyone else had the common sense to leave the beach, the six of us were young and foolish.  I’m pretty sure it was the men’s idea to try swimming into the gigantic waves.  So we did.  The men went out as far as they could, Donna, our friend Denise, and me stayed closer to shore. 

It didn’t matter.  Those rolling waves and undercurrent knocked us down time and time again as we tried holding hands and standing up.  We had sand packed into every crevice of our body from the strong force of the storm but it didn’t bother us, we were having fun.  I was a little nervous since both Denise and Donna confessed they weren’t exactly strong swimmers. I can’t tell you how many times our legs got knocked out from underneath us, and I had one of them on each side as I tried to drag their laughing, sorry, bodies closer to safety. 

Just as I was thinking we’ve got to stop this before someone gets hurt, a fierce wave knocked me down, sucked under and away from Denise and Donna as the undercurrent pulled me out. I was sure that was it for me! Suddenly I felt arms fumbling around me, reaching for me and dragging me to safety.  Donna and Denise, the not-so-strong swimmers, had managed to get to me and pull me in.  Just like friends do, reaching for each other when they're down, when waves of life threaten to destroy us, girlfriends have a strength that rivals the ocean to reach out and keep us from drowning, lifting us back up when we need it most. I’ll always wish I could have done that more for Donna.

  

Resolutions - Horton's Way

     When I think of making New Year’s resolutions, I can’t help but think of Horton the elephant, from the children’s book “Horton Hatches the Egg.” 

      For those of you who’ve never read the book, Horton is tricked into sitting on a bird nest by the lazy mother (who ditches Horton and her egg and flies to Palm Beach.)  Horton sticks it out, despite many obstacles, often chanting “I meant what I said, and I said what I meant” (an elephant’s faithful one-hundred percent.) And when the egg hatches, the creature emerges as an “elephant-bird” and goes to live happily with Horton in the jungle—Horton’s reward for sticking to his word—while the lazy bird ends up with nothing. 

      Which is what happens with our resolutions.  If we put nothing into them, we'll end up like the bird with nothing to show from our lack of effort.  Statistics show that only 40% of Americans even bother with a New Year’s resolution.  And of those, only 8% succeed.  For Pete's sake, people, an elephant has more determination than we do!

      So are we better off saying “eh” to the whole idea of making resolutions?  Psychologists warn that making—then breaking—a resolution will damage your sense of self-worth.  And who in the world wants to have that happen?  I’m already well aware I have no self-control when it comes to snacking.  Why make myself feel worse?

      Years ago I made a resolution to not eat chocolate before 10 a.m. So guess who was shoveling chocolate in with a pitchfork at 10:01?  Likely eating more than if I’d allowed myself that first morsel at, say, 8:00 a.m.

      Researchers tell us it's better to bite off a little less when it comes to making our resolutions.  Why write a laundry list of ten things knowing full well it'll take a small miracle for you to achieve even one?  We also need to be very specific in those goals (which, in my defense, I was—10:00 a.m. and not a second before.)  But apparently it would’ve made more sense if I worded my resolution as "I'll keep my daily chocolate intake to under four candy bars."

      What I find most shocking in these studies is they state the success rate higher for people under age fifty, than those of us over fifty.  I was sure the older we got, the more resolute we were—especially when one of the other top resolutions is to spend less money—something I thought we’d have figured out by the time we hit fifty.

       As a "good Catholic" high school girl, my list every year usually involved giving up swearing and eating junk food.  Right.  A teenager who doesn’t eat junk food (or ever swear.)

      After losing weight, self-improvement is next on resolution lists.  We all know what we should do… volunteer more, drink less, spend more time with our family, complain less, make someone happy every day… in my case I need to work on my patience.  Or lack thereof.  Really, it’s true.  Just ask my husband.  It needs a little tweeking... or hatching.

    So if in the near future, you can't find me, I'm likely sitting on my nest, developing my patience-egg.  Because I meant what I said and I said what I meant… my patience needs working on one-hundred percent!

       Happy 2014 to all of you! 
And if you make a resolution – keep Horton in mind!