There's no crying in baseball!

Ever since I had my first baby in 1997, I've always worked outside the home. I took my three month maternity leave and was back to work while I was still wearing elastic band waistlines. Whether it was the need for insurance benefits, my added salary or my own sanity, I never seriously considered staying home with the kids. I admit it, I love to work. Not every day and not all the time, but I do for the most part love it. Whenever a new study comes out warning of the long term ramifications of children in daycare, I naturally second guess my decisions.
One time I confided to a girlfriend of mine (a stay at home mom): "You know, I have these images of you with your kids, laying on the grass and making shapes out of the clouds, and crafting homemade macaroni necklaces together."
She laughed. "Hell no. My house is always messy, I feel like I'm always snapping at the kids and it seems like we're always broke. I imagine you in a fancy office wearing cute outfits and drinking gourmet coffee."
That made ME laugh. "Not quite," I told her. "I sit in a tiny cubicle all day, trying to schedule personal appointments like mammograms on the phone without a co-worker hearing. Then I go home to a messy house and my kids have turned into little monkeys as soon as I walk through the door, demanding to know when dinner is."
Somehow we both felt better after we confided our truths.
Throughout my many jobs at the many companies I've worked at, I've had the opportunity to work for both male and female managers. I have found that some people have fierce loyalties to a particular gender. Some of my best friends will swear up and down that "female managers are the WORST." While others claim just the opposite.
I've been pretty lucky... for the most part I've had some pretty great managers, regardless of their sex. I have noticed a few distinct differences: Male managers tend to just say it like it is, and female managers tend to be a little more touchy-feely. Not all, but most of mine have been this way. And both styles have their benefits and drawbacks.
One time when I was a regular old customer service rep, I found myself in a precarious situation. I had a one-year old daughter, I was pregnant, and I was "fired" from my daycare. I was stressed beyond belief. I'm a firm believer that nothing stresses out a working mother more than a bad daycare situation. At the time I felt like I had to rush in my decision to find a new daycare... it was busy at work, tax season, and I felt like I was having to hurry through one of the most important decisions a working parent could make. I vowed to myself that if I was ever in a management position I would never make a mother feel that amount of stress.
Throughout my career I have had several opportunities to manage teams. I've found that a happy mother = a happy worker. I've only had one or two employees take advantage of that.
Now I work as a project manager without any direct reports. It's been heavenly. No refereeing drama between two employees, no trying to cover vacation shortages, no doing annual performance reviews... But as a result of not having to BE a manager, I get to HAVE a manager. And we're different, my manager and I. He's more of a detail-oriented type of boss while I'm much more hands off. He's a good manager, just has a different style than I do.
Today was just the pinnacle of a stressful, busy month for me at work. I've been under a lot of pressure to finish almost three times my normal monthly workload, with clients that have been somewhat challenging. And in a terse i.m. exchange with my manager, he laid out exactly what he thought I was doing wrong and I what I needed to do differently.
I stared at the message, completely incensed. The NERVE of him...
Then I marched into a bathroom stall and professionally bawled my eyes out.
I stayed in there for awhile, not wanting any evidence that I resembled a 12 year old who missed a Justin Bieber concert. And I know what would have happened if he had any inkling of my reaction. I would have walked out of the bathroom, he would have seen my red, puffy face and he would have been completely befuddled. He'd only been trying to "help."
He would have turned into Tom Hanks from "A League of Their Own."
"Are you crying?" he would have asked me. "There's no crying in baseball!"
So I dried my eyes and went back to my desk. I called my oldest daughter and told her I'd be at work late.
She told me, "That's ok, Mom. I'm already making dinner for everyone."
Ahhh... music to my ears.
That makes me love my little monkeys even more.

Friendships, Drama and Duran Duran

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

I think parents of middle-school students, especially daughters, should get some type of merit badge. Something along the lines of a patch with a cell phone, lap top and the saying "I Survived Middle School Drama And Only Developed 2 Facial Tics in the Process."
I love my daughters, I really do, but I admittedly struggle when they're going on and on about the latest friendship dispute and/or boyfriend trouble.
"...and then oh my god, I am totally not even kidding when I tell you this..."
"...seriously, she just thinks she can tell all my friends that I can't keep a secret, when MOM - you KNOW I CAN..."
"...and now he's sending me messages on Facebook because he likes me again, but he is a total player..."
What? Huh? He's 12.
It's so different from when my young son comes to me with drama.
"He wasn't throwing the football back to me so I just came home."
Oh. Ok. Easy enough to understand.
I struggle with when to tell my daughters to work it out with their friends, and when I feel they should just move on. My own middle-school years seem really far away, but I am still friends with women I met before I even picked up my first Judy Blume book.
One time a friend of mine told me: "You know what, Vanessa? You never burn any bridges."
I wasn't exactly sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, so I just mumbled a quick "thanks." Now I know my life has been made infinitely richer because of all the friends I have acquired, from the early 70's on.
I'm grateful to them for so many different reasons.
I have a friend that thought I was a boy when we first met at the age of 5 because my hair was so short. Years later she introduced me to Bad Boys Who Drove Trucks and Lived in Ellsworth.
I have friends I met in elementary school  ~ we bonded through our love of Charlie's Angels and Duran Duran. Now we Skype with each other and swap recipes.
I have friends I met at college  ~ we trudged through snow to get to class (or stay in the dorms and smoke, um, stuff...). Now we compare photos of our kids and complain about wrinkles.
I have friends that I've met at the (probably too many) jobs I've had since college ~ we've gone to happy hours and weddings and even followed each other to new jobs.
I have friends I met through pure chance and circumstance, like Girl Scout meetings and school concerts.
I don't think it matters how we meet our friends or at what stage of life they enter ours. Sometimes it's just meant to be. Fate has a way of bringing into your life people that you need at just the right time.
I am blessed to call all of them my friends. They've been there for me in the highlights of my life ~ my great achievements and happiest of moments. They've been there when things just suck ass, too ~ losing my job, then my house, and my impending divorce.
Regardless of the time between visits or calls, it's like sliding on a pair of your favorite jeans. Everything fits where it's supposed to.
Friends like that are rare... they know where all the bodies are buried.
So when I think about these lifelong friendships I've been blessed with, maybe I should be a little more patient with my girls and their "drama."
I'm sure the girls from Prescott Middle School and I used to fight all the time in the early 80's about who was cuter: John Taylor or Simon Lebon. I probably pestered my mother relentlessly: "Like, ohmigod Mom, John Taylor is fersure the cuter one. AS IF anyone would pick Simon..."
And as she undoubtedly would feign interest, she was probably thinking to herself: "Oh for crying out loud... why is this even being debated? Who cares? Now Paul and Ringo... THERE'S a couple of boys worth fighting over."

My Dad, My Friend

I found this quote online today:
"They say that from the instant he lays eyes on her, a father adores his daughter. Whoever she grows up to be, she is always to him that little girl in pigtails. She makes him feel like Christmas. In exchange, he makes a secret promise not to see the awkwardness of her teenage years, the mistakes she makes or the secrets she keeps." - Author Unknown

It's almost Father's Day. I remember when I was little and I used to struggle with what to get my dad on this holiday.
"Dad, what do you want for Father's Day?"
He'd lower his newspaper and say "Just your love and respect. That's all I need."
Talk about a frustrating answer. "No, seriously. What do you want that I can WRAP?"
He'd just shake his head. That's probably how he ended up with a lifelong collection of Old Spice products.
I love both of my parents very much, and I've always had a special relationship with my dad. My parents were only 20 when they got married, and hadn't even turned 21 before I was born. One time I figured out the math and asked my dad, "Hey, how come I was only born 6 months after you and Mom got married?" He looked at me straight in the eye and said, "Pretty sure you were a preemie."
Nice try, Dad.
I'm sure a young man barely out of his teens (complete with hippie hair and a love of beer) was a little overwhelmed when his wife presented him with a newborn daughter. What was he supposed to do with THAT? I'm proud to say he figured it all out quickly.
When I was around 4, my dad would watch me while my mom worked afternoons and evenings. One night I begged him to put pin curls in my hair like my mom did. I'm sure he was clueless as to what was expected. But he gave it a valiant effort. Several hours after my hair was pinned, curled and set, he carefully removed all the bobby pins and combed it out.
My hair had been curled and teased to astronomical proportions.
He sat quietly and awaited my reaction.
"Oh my gosh, Dad," I said slowly as I admired it in a hand mirror. "It looks like a MOUNTAIN! I love it!"
And hence, my irrational and life-long love of big hair had begun.
A year later I got my first report card sent home from kindergarten. My dad read the comments from the teacher out loud: "Cannot skip and talks incessantly."
He sighed. "I can't do anything about the talking part... that's your mother's fault. But I'll be damned if a kid of mine can't skip." He set the report card down and instructed me to follow him. He skipped around the living room, with me right behind him, while we sang "Shoe Fly, Don't Bother Me..." together.
I've been a star skipper ever since.
One time in elementary school my dad brought all of us to a fishing contest sponsored by his employer. Every one's names were entered in a raffle. I was thrilled when they called my name. My dad was even more thrilled when he saw what I had won: a beautiful rod and reel. Around the same time that I was collecting my prize I noticed someone else collecting their prize: an orange boat cushion. Immediately I turned to my dad. "Dad I don't want the fishing pole, I want that boat cushion. It's so much prettier. Please?" He tried to convince me how valuable my prize was compared to the boat cushion. I didn't care. What was I going to do with a fishing pole? A boat cushion, on the other hand, had infinite possibilities. I could sleep with it, use it to make forts with my brother, prop my stuffed animals up on it...
Once he realized that the rod and reel weren't going to make me happy, he walked over to the man with cushion and asked if he wanted to trade prizes.
"Are you serious?" the man asked incredulously. "Sure!"
When I recalled that memory years later to my dad, he was surprised I even remembered it. "Weren't you mad, Dad... that I made you switch it?"
He smiled. "Nah, it's worth it just because you remembered it. That guy thought I was nuts."
My dad also taught me plenty of dice games. He played Yahtzee with me for hours on end. I was playing 6-5-4 before I could write in cursive. He also taught me a life lesson I still adhere to: "Never pick up another player's dice. In Vegas they can cut your hands off for that." He also started teaching my kids poker before they even had their training wheels off their bikes. It probably explains why they're such excellent little liars.
When I was around 15, my dad started teaching me how to drive. He drove a big commuter van and he would pick me up from my friends' houses in the summer and make me drive home. I was always a little nervous driving that big of a vehicle. One time after I drove home we were in the driveway, and I began to slow down so I could park the van. Then I made a pretty big mistake: I accidentally hit the gas pedal instead of the brake.
Talk about consequences...
Within seconds I had smashed into my mom's car, then bounced off my grandparents RV, and finally collided with the retaining wall, knocking it out of formation.
We sat there in stunned silence, the only sound coming from the ticking of the engine. I was terrified to even look at him. Finally I found the courage to ask: "Is the van totalled?"
He stepped out of the passenger side, took a look at the front of the van, then wearily sat back down.
"Nope, but it's pretty well f**ked up. Driving lesson is OVER."
Didn't have to tell me twice. I think I ran into the house faster than I ever moved in my life. 
Years later he and my mom were helping me move into the dorms at St Cloud State University. I was so excited, I could barely take it. Meanwhile, my dad is driving us in absolute gridlock surrounding the dorms, trying to find a parking spot. I was looking around, taking in all the sights. Right next to us was a white fraternity house, with several men sitting around, drinking beer and watching the chaos. They held up a huge sign that read: "Show Us Your Tits."
"Oh my gosh," I excitedly told my parents, "I'm going to LOVE it up here!"
My poor dad almost had a heart attack. He just kept his mouth shut, though, and continued to white-knuckle grip the steering wheel.
Years later I proudly graduated from college. Shortly after I received my final transcripts in the mail, my dad studied them. He looked confused. "How in the world did you graduate from college without taking any math?"
"I did too take math," I informed him. "It was a class called Theory of Mathematics. We didn't really do any problem solving, but we sat around and talked about it if we ever WERE to do it." Poor guy... he probably did a quick mental calculation of what he had just shelled out for my tuition and shuddered.
But for as different as the two of us may seem to be, we are unbelievably similar in many ways.
We both have long, skinny monkey toes and flat feet.
We both order our DQ Blizzards the same way: 1/2 Heath and 1/2 Butterfinger.
We both abhor the idea of others knowing too much of our personal business. Unlike my mother's side of the family, who will nonchalantly ask you how your latest pap smear went while you're at a picnic during a family reunion.
My dad taught me to be gracious and humble. (Well, he tried with the humble part.)
He taught me how to parallel park and how to skip.
He explained long division and how to drive a manual transmission.
He showed me, throughout his life, the importance of "if you're going to do something, do it right."
He taught me that life is a lot more fun with some crazy thrown in. Doing an ice jump on New Years and the Polar Plunge is now something I include MY kids in.
He may shake his head at my shoe choices, and roll his eyes at some of my political beliefs, but I know he loves me fiercely.
I love you too, Dad.
Happy Father's Day!

Work it, baby

This last weekend I was lucky enough to witness something amazing.
After years of hard work and extremely close calls, my brother won a bodybuilding competition and was the overall winner for Mr Minnesota. I don't know if I've ever been so happy for him as the moment I heard his name announced as the winner. I was literally hunched over in my seat, rocking back and forth like Rainman, saying over and over "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodpleaselethimwinpleaseohplease..." When they said his name, the audience erupted into cheers. Our group was hugging, high-fiving and a few of us were wiping away some very happy tears.
We knew how bad he wanted it. How hard he had trained for it. How much he had sacrificed to look the way he did. I've never known anyone so disciplined, even if I secretly thinks it sometimes borders on lunacy. Three days before the event I met him by my work. He was eating some nutritionally engineered perfect meal. As he was setting down the food container, some piece of his food (an egg? a potato? I have no idea what it was except it looked bland and boring) fell out and landed on the parking lot. I laughed and said, "Well there's something for the birds to eat." He admonished me with a look, picked up the food, popped it in his mouth and said, "Vanessa, every single one of my calories are calculated at this point."
Really? Because I'm quite certain the only food I would pick up from the dirt and dust off before eating would be a Twix bar.
My brother's decades-long fitness journey has sometimes even inspired me to get off the couch and head into the gym. Last spring during my unemployment stint I had another bout of inspiration. Apparently watching hours of Maury and consuming entire pints of Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch became less appealing.
I had heard about the co-owner of our local Anytime Fitness, who also offered personal training. He was supposed to be demanding, but got great results for his clients. After my regular lunch of chips, dip and a Diet Mountain Dew, I sauntered into the gym and signed up.
My training started with him the very next day. The only way I can describe it is gut-wrenchingly brutal. Within minutes I was out of breath, in pain, and swearing profusing. There is something about being in his presence that makes my complaining and whining go on full tilt. After the first 30 minutes I was ready to throw up. "I think I'm going to puke," I told him. "I need air."
He guided me outside so I could sit on the front curb and catch my breath. A few minutes later he followed me outside and sat down next to me.
"You ate breakfast like I told you?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yes, a sausage burrito from McDonalds and a Diet Coke."
He shook his head and handed me a Muscle Milk. "Here,drink this."
I reached over with a shaky arm and took it from him. "I'd run away from you and this gym right now but I don't think I have control over the lower half of my body."
He rolled his eyes and said, "You wouldn't be too hard to catch."
After my workout, I drove home....using nothing but my elbows and sheer will. I vowed to myself I would never go back.
But I did. Six days a week for four months in a row. I trained with him religiously and always showed up. Our sessions consisted of me whining, him yelling, both of us using profanity, but I began to grudgingly respect him. I thought he was too hard on me, so I started referring to him as The Tin Man, because I thought he had no heart. There would be days I felt like I was going to die, and I would have tears in my eyes because I was so exhausted and I couldn't believe that stupid jerk was going to make me do another set. I distinctly remember looking at him while I was doing some type of weight training and thinking to myself, "God he thinks he's so cool with his big muscles, and his shiny black head and his expensive shoes. I hate him."
But the Tin Man is the only one, besides my brother, who continuously told me I could reach my fitness goals. It felt good to be believed in and encouraged.
One day in the gym I excitedly grabbed his hand and placed it near my waist. "Do you feel that? That, my friend, is a hipbone. Something I have not felt since Clinton was in office."
Once I started back to work I was unable to work out with him as much as I did before. After awhile I had lost 60 pounds. I still have a ways to go, and the Tin Man has promised to help me get there.
I look at everything my brother has accomplished and how much he has given up to reach his goals... why do I struggle so much with giving up a mushroom & swiss and heading into the gym? How can my brother have the strongest willpower ever, and my determination vanishes as quick as Charlie Sheen supporters.

I think that's why I was so happy and blown away that he won. I know how crazy, ridiculously wonderful it was that he stuck with it all.