Just Ask Jodes

The Fight Club

2011-06-08T19:17:00.001-07:00

When Shawna Pierno posted “Fuck Cancer” as her Facebook status I knew it was because her Mom, Pat had miraculously defied the Doctors and beat the Cancer she wasn’t supposed to survive. Thank you God! HOORAY! She quite literally, fucked Cancer. I cried with joy when I read the post. I cried for Pat, and cried for Shawna, Bob, Amelia, and for everyone else that loves her. It was a day to celebrate for their entire family.

I didn’t have one of the yellow LIVESTRONG bracelets you often see back when my cousin Keith Myers, or my friend David Morrison had to get in the ring to fight Cancer. I would have worn one. I know it doesn’t do anything to help them, but the blaring yellow color on my wrist reminds me all day long that there is someone, somewhere, with something life threatening going on, and I can be praying for them. Keeps my mind focused on the more important things in life.

The first time I saw those yellow bracelets I ordered an entire package, never in a million years thinking Cancer would ever get so close to me. Slowly, inch by inch, Cancer has crept closer and closer to my life. I wore one when the beautiful Reverend Gwen Ehrenborg got in the ring. I wore another one when David Callejas had to put on his gloves in the middle of Stage 4 Cancer and fight the fight. Another one when my darling Dad got in there. In fact, I put one on both of us when he got in there and throughout his treatments he’d never let anyone remove it. I made sure he wore it with him to Heaven so we could both still have that connection….so you’ll always see me with mine on.

Not long after Shawna’s famous Facebook post, on a cold and dreary afternoon in January 2010, I learned about another person who was going to have a “Throwdown” with Cancer. A beloved husband, cherished father, son, brother, uncle, nephew, son-in-law, brother-in-law, co-worker and friend to many. It was time to make sure the LIVESTRONG bracelet was in for another long haul.

In the past I’d thought, that rat bastard, the evil conniving Cancer had gotten too close. Stage 4 Throat Cancer gave David Callejas the scare of his life during a routine tonsillectomy. Then, Skin Cancer dared to nestle in next to my Daddy’s only good eye, downright cruel and unforgivable after he’d already triumphed over a heart transplant.

“All these tests look good” said the Nurse Practitioner as she examined my husband Ken. We were starting to breathe a little easier and relax a bit. This wasn’t anything to worry about. It was all smiles and laughter. Until the Doctor came in and brought the news that Ken has Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, also known as CLL.

“I … have…have… Leukemia?”…stammered my crushed, dearly beloved husband. There was no “I’m sorry,” there were no hugs, there was not any tenderness from Hematologist/Oncologist with Zero Feelings. Just a smile and a nod. I guess this is all in a days work for her.

Those first few days we could barely speak. We are both the same when it comes to the scary & sad stuff in life. It took a few weeks to come back to life and figure out our plan of attack. I immediately thought of Shawna; Fuck Cancer is right!

We are a team, Ken and I, married now for 24 years. This is quite a mountain we are going to climb together, a fight we will be fighting together every step of the way. We needed some private time to plan our course, and find the best treatment facility before sharing it with family and friends. We were blessed and so fortunate to find UCSD/Moore’s Cancer Center and become a patient of Dr. Kipps, one of a few highly regarded national specialists in the CLL field today. And God bless him, he has FEELINGS, and he HUGS Ken every time we go in for an office visit. We are in the hands of someone who really cares about people. It’s a scary and uncertain time for us, and those hugs say a lot. Thank you Dr. Kipps.

We’ve also been looking at our life to see what changes we can make to optimize Ken’s health and reduce his stress levels. It’s wonderful, especially now (!!) that I am a stay at home wife and mother and have supportive, self-sufficient adult-aged children so I can focus 100% of my attention on helping my husband stay healthy.

If it means staying home rather than attending events so we get more rest, or so Ken doesn’t have to do more stressful driving in traffic, that’s what we’ll do. I’m a trainer now. I have to keep my top athlete in fighting form. I have to be selfish for both of us and say no to a lot right now.

Ken is already in the ring; gloves on, bravely fighting back. He’s throwing punches and ready, like many of you who had to go in, so brave, before he did. My Auntie Ferris Bevins, David Callejas, The Rev. Gwen Ehrenborg, Keith Myers, David Morrison, Shawna’s mom Pat, and Pat, Brian & Emily Saia, and anyone else who is a member of The Fight Club. Just newly diagnosed, my dear friend Connie Herrick, my prayers are with you as you step into the ring. There is a dear friend who fights anonymously and wishes not to be listed; I do not forget you. There are so many I know I have not listed. So, I have a favor to ask.

Please use the comment section to tell me about how Cancer has touched your life, or a loved ones life. Tell me how you or your loved one “LIVESTRONG” and how you kicked Cancer when you got in the ring. Tell me so Ken and I can rejoice with you and be uplifted by your stories of strength, courage, resilience and perseverance.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

Ole Roy

2011-04-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

Roy is just another one of the many terms for the upcoming Jodes-isms Dictionary. The elusive Jodes-isms Dictionary I keep talking about posting and still haven’t finished. I had gone back to work on my Jodes-isms post and was working on the “Roy” definition when I realized it was one of those definitions that went out in so many different directions it left me scratching my head wondering where I’d even began. Potty (also in the Jodes-ism Dictionary) and I call that…What was the question?

It was years ago and there were a bunch of us gals riding out to Palm Springs for a girls weekend getaway. We were pretty wound up and had the radio blasting. We’ll call a friend we had along, “Mrs. Mom Gone Wild” because she was always the wild and crazy life of the party…forever the one to have us laughing hysterically. Mom Gone Wild was not letting us down either; she was bouncing around to the music and had even flashed a military convoy. This was obviously a Mom who needed a weekend getaway.

Mom Gone Wild, having so much fun, bounced so hard in her seat that when we hit a rut in the road, went crashing down between the seat and the door, landing on something sharp and obviously quite painful. Up she flew, screaming, a hand shoved into the crack in her fanny yelling, “MY ROY, MY ROY, Oh God, MY ROYYYYYYYYY!” Concerned about her screaming, and seeing her hand in her panties, we weren’t really sure what to do. We didn’t know what “My Roy” meant either.

It took a while for her to calm down (ish), and then we had to translate from her thick southern drawl while she was laughing, crying and stammering….. “Ah hay-yave a bee-yahg paaahl of hay-yam-a-royyyyds, a-yand ahh jus layn-ded on a bee-yahg ole paaaahl of em.” Shall I translate? Mom Gone Wild had car danced like a loon, fallen and landed on her Roy’s. Crack Prunes. Hemorrhoids. The Horror! The poor kid. No wonder she was screaming. If you haven’t ever had a visit from Ole Roy and a bunch of his wrinkled up and swollen cousins, you are so lucky. Even better if you haven’t been dancing around in a car and you unexpectedly fall on your pile of Roy’s and they all take a painful stab. It’s all bad. Men can just translate that into a painful fall onto their um, hmmm trouser…. soldiers.

I’ve had my own initiation with Ole Roy and The Gang so I had an idea of the kind of pain she was going through. The thought of car dancing and crashing onto some sharp car part and landing on Ole Roy and The Gang makes me hyperventilate, so I can outright respect Mom Gone Wild’s hysteria and tears that day.

My formal introduction to Ole Roy started with the birth of my first child Stephanie, and I didn’t even know who or what Roy was. Soon after the birth, a nurse came into my room carrying a frozen latex glove. Yes, The Frozen Hand, fingers and all. It kinda scared me. She said, "Honey, you need to use this." Terrified I shrieked, "Whaaaat? Whyy? I jjjjjjust had a baby! That’ll hurt! And where am I supposed to be putting all those frozen fingers?" The nurse was holding The Frozen Hand and rubbing her head in that way you know a person has a headache. I think they were honestly just tired of me; I’d already been there for 3 days due to pregnancy complications. When I had checked in I’d tried to be the first person to give birth without removing my panties or telling anyone my weight. Now I was being told to put The Frozen Hand, WHERE? I thought these people were a bunch of crazed lunatics.

When I’d checked in to the hospital, I was originally in a shared room and labored with quite a few gals before it was my turn to go to the birthing room. One gal was being checked in and being asked her weight. I’ll never forget wanting to jump off my bed, through the curtain and strangle her with my bare hands when she embarrassedly said, "Oh my gosh, I weigh 140 lbs, I am such a cow!!!!!" Yeah? What a total cow! Made a mental note to hate her forever. If you are out there cow person, MOO! 140 pounds on her delivery date? Poor cow person. I think one of my thighs weighed 140 pounds that day.

Anyway, Ole Roy. Sitting there looking at The Frozen Hand really had me scared and Nurse With The Obvious Headache did too. She said my “down there” was a big mess and had I noticed? Had I noticed? Only that sitting was a problem and honestly I was too afraid to look!! She explained I had hemorrhoids (ick!) and episiotomy stitches and lots of swelling and needed to sit on some ice. "So you mean I don't have to stick those frozen fingers……….” I asked in a moment of sheer panic. Suddenly, she wasn’t so grumpy. She started to laugh and said, "No dear, you just need to sit on The Hand.” Only slightly less creepy I decided.

So there we were. Me, my beautiful new baby Stephanie and The Frozen Hand cupping Roy and The Gang and the rest of my “down there’s.” It was weird to think about when people were coming in to visit me. But then, everything was bizarre then. I’d eventually been weighed and very unhappily liberated from my panties. It wasn’t long before another ice toting nurse came into my room (she had normal ice, YAY!). I thought Roy was getting a break from The Hand, but boy was I in for a new surprise. They had a lot of surprises there at Placentia-Linda Hospital, let me tell you. This was a Lactation Nurse and she brings ice to help with breastfeeding. I don’t want to explain where that ice goes. Let me just say OUCH again.

I just kept thinking (& wishing all sorts of bad stuff on) all the people I’d asked about having babies and about all the books I’d read and none of them had warned me properly!! Not a single word about being divested of my panties, nothing about mean Lactation Nurses rubbing ice on the most tender area of my breasts, absolute zero about having to sit on The Frozen Hand, and most definitely…..not one word about the appalling, despicable and agonizingly painful Roy Gang.

My Pink Dot

2011-03-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

Another post on Alex Blackwell’s The BridgeMaker was the question, “What is the kindest thing you have ever done?” Hmmmm. I definitely don’t like to toot my own horn. No, no and another helping of no. I find it so boring; listening to someone talk about how wonderful they are, or about the wonderful things they have done for others. My answer that day was, “Be humble.”

Sometimes not talking about the kind things you do, or have done is a kindness in itself. No one likes a self absorbed person whose only reason for doing kind things is so they can report them to a room full of people. In my mind I’m just thinking (unkindly, oops), “Watch out for your arm, you might hurt it patting yourself on the back!”

My style is talking about what we can do to spread kindness, giving people ideas to inspire them to want to go out into the world and “Be the Change You Want to See in The World,” as Gandhi so eloquently wrote. What does it mean to “Be the Change?” In group settings these days I often hear people talking about one of the same social problems; an overall lack of kindness, manners and respect out in the world today. Talking about it is one thing. If you want something to change, you have to be willing to “Be the Change” and decide you are going to fix it. “Fix it all…by myself,” you are wondering? I know, I know. Breathe. I turn into a dithering loon myself, so I know. How about starting with some thing? Or a few small things each day?

When I decided to make a conscious effort to “Be the Change” I knew I couldn’t do it all or fix it all. But, I hoped my small, independent actions would make a difference in the lives of who I came into contact with, hopefully causing a domino effect and spreading kindness further down the line. I started simply by making sure that every single person I came into contact with was treated with the utmost kindness, dignity and respect. I actually thought I was already doing that, but I decided to really pay attention to my behavior and those around me and “step it up a notch.”

You know, I tout humility and today I think I’m the antithesis of it because for the sake of the blog, I’ve got to go out on a limb and share some of my personal stories. When I’m done writing, I promise to be super extra triple humble again.

I’ve talked about being kind out in the world to those who serve you in my blog, but are you doing it? How are you doing it? What about seeing others being mistreated, the old schoolyard misdeed that you witness and standby without intervening or doing anything about? That’s a category of unkindness and it has to stop too. I’d finally had it with unkindness and decided no one was ever going to be mistreated on my watch again. I was in line at a local store and I could tell the woman in line ahead of me was obviously in a bad mood by the way she was huffing and puffing and shifting from one foot to another. It wasn’t even her turn before she started in on the cashier, spouting off her mouth and speaking unkindly to her. Ok, I was ready. I said, “How dare you. Stop talking to her like that, can’t you see she is trying her best?” Mrs. Snottypants looked at me aghast and said, “WELL! I’m in a hurry, it’s my lunch hour and I only have so much time!” I looked aghast back at Mrs. Snotts and told her, “WELL! You should go shopping when you have enough time to behave properly and treat people kindly!” She mumbled something incoherent and then shut up. Job done. It’s only an example of the kind of stuff we see all the time and we don’t respond. I’m ready now though. These Snottypants people better learn some manners.

Have you been in a group situation in a restaurant where one person in the group is being particularly rude, condescending or overly demanding of the Server? It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? I’ve been there. Friends and I have discussed this and wondered the best way to handle it. We’ve tried to be the Damage Control Group, be the overly-nice ones to make up for the rude friend in the group. Have you ever, at the end of the meal, slipped a Server extra money to make up for Customer Rudeness the Server had to put up with? I have. This is another situation that needs to stop. We need to politely stop this at the beginning of the meal so the Server doesn’t have to endure this. It’s another form of childish playground taunting that we are all sitting back and watching, doing nothing. We are adults, not on some playground, yet are being bullied, and watching bullying in action by an obnoxious, rude person because we are not standing up to a person and saying, “Hey, enough of your bullying, rude and overly demanding behavior!" The Server doesn’t deserve it, neither do we. Aren't those of us who are making an extra monetary contribution for Customer Rudeness tired of it?

Kindness can be helping to correct unkindness. Helping to correct condescending, rude, and inappropriately demanding behavior. So while you are out spreading kindness, you also need to be a troubadour and help others by correcting them when they are out of line. We need to be teachers. There aren’t enough of us out there. If you are making the commitment to build kindness, you also have to include correcting unkindness by doing something about it when you see it happening. Every single time.

What about when someone treats you poorly, what then? Aren’t you worth being treated like gold? Absolutely, all the time! I demand it in my home and I hope you do too. My circle of friends is small, but it’s that way for a reason. I don’t waste time with people unless they treat me really well. Sometimes family and friends can mistreat you and it’s your job to set the standard for what kind of behavior you will accept from them so they will understand how they are to treat you. As much as I love my family and friends, there have been times I’ve had to sit down and have serious discussions with some of them when they’ve treated me in a way I do not find acceptable. This is never easy, but doing the right thing is often very difficult and requires thought, prayer, patience and strength.

Rather than concentrating on the negative though, it’s much more fun to concentrate on the positive and the ways you can contribute to making the world a kinder, better place. One of my favorite programs which feels to me like the ultimate kind thing you can do while you are alive, is participating in the Organ Donor Program. By having the small pink dot affixed to my driver’s license, I’ve already put into motion a plan, which in the event of my passing donates all my organs to whoever needs them. I hope my organs will save the lives of many people, like the heart of Marcus Quarles whose heart gave my Dad 7 more wonderful years with us. Kindness can be donating your organs and saving lives after you pass away. What a beautiful and inspiring thought. This is the sort of “kind” that I’ll stand on a tabletop and shout it out for the world to hear and pat myself on the back until my arms are black and blue. Go Organ Donor Program. Get your Pink Dot.

So Alex, to answer your question, it’s my Pink Dot.

Kindness

2011-03-01T23:56:00.000-08:00

Recently I got stuck and all the stories I have saved in my blog folder just weren’t what I felt like posting. Nothing was hitting me right. I didn’t even feel like ranting or being funny, can you imagine? I have a whole blog post written about my Nappies coming up and I didn’t even want to post that one, and Nappies are one of my favorite things to wear in the whole world. If you don’t know what Nappies are, it’s just another reason my friend “Feen” says I need to post a Dictionary of Jodes-isms so people will know what the heck I am talking about when I speak. I say a lot of stuff people don’t understand and she thinks some of it deserves explaining. The Jodes-isms post is saved in there too and coming one of these days.

I’ve been sidetracked ever since I discovered a blog called The BridgeMaker, written by Alex Blackwell. He’s got an inspirational blog that has knocked my socks off. One Friday not so long ago he asked for responses on what people had going on that day. I’d finally had enough. He’s so awesome I just responded with something like, “You are so awesome I can’t even think of a thing to write on my own blog.”

It was a moment of being so utterly impressed I thought my blog served no purpose whatsoever and I should just suggest to anyone who reads my blog to read The BridgeMaker instead. That’s not even jealousy. It’s pure admiration. I wanted to tell everyone I knew to join me in the new wonderful and joyful thing I’d found. Isn’t it great when you come across something fantastic and amazing in your life and you can’t wait to share it with everyone you know?

It was just about that time The BridgeMaker announced his 31 Days of Kindness Project for the month of March 2011. I’ve shared this on Facebook but thought I’d take this opportunity to also share it on my blog as I have the opportunity to go into further detail here. I’ve written on the importance and need for more kindness in my blog but The BridgeMaker is taking it to a whole new level by asking us to make a commitment to perform an act of kindness every single day for the month of March 2011. Alex Blackwell’s hope is that these acts of kindness will become a habit after the 31 days of trying to think of ways to spread kindness each and every day for 31 days. Easy? Sure.

Early in the morning before you even leave your house, kindness can (and should) begin at home. Before you put on your best behavior for your boss, teachers, friends, etc., how about giving some of that at home for your family; the ones who actually deserve it? How about a note in a lunch box that says, “I Love You,” or one on the steering wheel of the car that says, “Drive safe, you are my world.” A lipstick heart in the shower, a post-it heart in a wallet, a funny note written on a piece of his/her fruit with a sharpie. My son especially liked the funny note I wrote on a banana to him. He showed everyone at work and they all said none of their Mom’s had ever written them a note on their banana before. Kindness can be fun.

When my husband gets home from work, I stand up, walk to the door and greet him along with the dogs. Sometimes I jump and pant like I’m a dog. It makes him laugh. I hug him hard, wrap my leg around him in this comical “barnacle” thing we do and make sure he knows how happy I am to see him so he knows he was missed. Kindness can be all sorts of silly stuff that makes you smile.

Am I old fashioned? Sure. I like it. He does too. In fact, he loves it. He loves that I buy all his favorite snacks so that when he comes home ready to chew one of his arms off, there are plenty of snacks to eat before dinner. Do I make his favorite dinners? You bet. The way to Ken’s heart is straight through his tummy, so kindness in his mind is right around the kitchen. I spend a lot of time there. Kindness is knowing what someone loves and always having it for them.

There are a million ways to show kindness. Thank goodness there are 31 days to talk about it since it’s one of my favorite things to talk about. Join me and The BridgeMaker, Alex Blackwell and friends and spend 31 beautiful days spreading kindness each and every day this month. Hopefully you’ll make it a habit too.

My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness. – Dalai Lama

Chosen

2011-01-23T01:43:00.000-08:00

“Spell it for me again Mommy,” I said. “A-D-O-P-T-E-D,” my Mom spelled out for about the hundredth time. I loved hearing that word. We had a book in my parent’s room about being adopted and it was one of my favorites.

My brother, sister and I were all adopted as infants. My parents said as soon as they adopted us, they would hold us, cuddle us, and say, “You are adopted, we love you, and you are special.” They wanted us to grow and flourish as adoptees feeling loved, cherished and wanted. We certainly have.

We were lavished with physical affection. The physical bonds they created allowed us to know we always had open arms and laps available to us. We still do. Even when my Dad was sick, I would still climb onto his lap, or tuck in next to him on his hospital bed. When I’ve been sick, my Mom has always been there 24/7, to comfort me, care for me, or just to rub my forehead. She knows just the right way.

Years ago I was at a Dr.’s appointment and he asked me about my family history. I said I didn’t have any available as I was adopted. He stopped, looked up at me and said, “Wow, who’d ever give you away?”

I’d never heard that before. My parents, in all their wisdom had raised the three of us to feel so cherished. No one had given me away, I’d been chosen.

Happy Birthday Mother. I love you and cherish you more deeply than simple words could ever begin to convey.

Box Seven

2010-12-13T09:03:00.000-08:00

When I started to unpack the holiday decorations this year and felt the usual terror/dread/panic set in I was reminded of the earlier blog I posted about how I suck at Christmas. Some of you might have read my earlier blog posting titled “Skipping Christmas,” but if not, I’m going to re-post it below so you’ll know what I’m talking about. I was on my mission to find Baby Jesus in my massive pile of my holiday decoration boxes. This year I did pretty well, He was in Box Seven. Whew and Yay!

The dogs were going beserk with all the craziness going on (me) and stuff flying and tissue and paper going everywhere in my quest for Baby Jesus. As soon as I set Baby Jesus on the fireplace, my puppy Ava decided she needed to start chewing on Him. AAAHHH! NO CHEWING ON BABY JESUS. Oh My God. At least Darcy had the good sense to go after Santa. Chewing on Santa, now that I can handle.

Now that the house is decorated I feel only sheer terror because there is “only” shopping, baking, Christmas cards, cleaning, cooking, wrapping, parties, and 1000+ other things left to do. How do I add all those tasks in on top of the regular stuff to do and get them all accomplished with a deadline in 2 weeks? I’ve done all this for over 25 years and I still don’t have it perfected! With any other job, if you’d done a massive project yearly for that many years, you probably would have perfected it long ago. Gong! Not Jodes. Still scrambling, still up wrapping or cooking until the wee hours of the night on Christmas Eve.

I hope the rest of you have perfected it and can teach me how it’s done….other than telling me to start before Thanksgiving. That, I won’t do. I’m with Nordstrom on that one. I’m going to celebrate each holiday in it’s entirety before moving on to the next one. So there won’t be a morsel of Christmas preparation or thought until the Thanksgiving holiday is complete.

One of the best things about the Christmas decorations being done is that they hide so much dust and dirt. “Woo Hoo,” I say. I’d like to leave them up all year just for that reason. Covers a multitude of sins. Less for me to clean is always a good thing… because cleaning is just not my thing.

I’m in the mood for cookies today, so I think some of the baking will get checked off the list of 1000+ things to get done. I think it’s the beginning of leftovers and scary dinners until Christmas.

Scroll down if you'd like to read Skipping Christmas

SKIPPING CHRISTMAS

I suck at Christmas. Most people wouldn’t believe it, but I do. I love Jesus, and the simple story of how he was born in a manger to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem. But I wish we could celebrate his birth every year without any of the ridiculous hoopla that is now called Christmas.

My favorite Christmas decoration is a ceramic Jesus in a worn manger we’ve always placed on the hearth. Jesus is chipped, missing the ends of a few fingers and is wearing a loincloth Stephanie made Him when she was a little girl. The children were always allowed to play with Jesus and the manger, so they are a little beat up. I wanted my kids to know Jesus like I do; most likely very approachable, extremely kind, and someone who adored children. “Of course you may play with Jesus,” I’d tell them.

Each year as I unpack the 30+ boxes of Christmas decorations, sometime after the Thanksgiving weekend, I can feel the familiar panic already starting to set in. I’m trying to find Jesus in all this, thinking, “Where is He…where did I pack Him last year?” If I find Jesus and put him on the hearth, I think I’ll be ok. He’ll be a blatant reminder of why I’m doing all this.

There was one year, 2008, with Jesus’ birthday quickly approaching I knew I was going to have to lead my family away from our traditional Christmas, and Skip Christmas completely. GASP! Could I do it? Would I be allowed? What would my family and others say? What would Jesus think? I had to close myself in a dark, quiet room so He could drown out all the “noise,” so I could hear.

I’ve decided spending 12 glorious, uninterrupted, carefree vacation days in the company of my husband and children was the holiest thing we’ve ever done. If home is where your heart is, I was home cruising the blue-green seas of the Caribbean, snorkeling, sailing, swimming, sleeping, reading, listening, resting, staring, sunning, and basking in the 24 hour attention of my family. We immediately opened the doors to our adjoining rooms, and shared long, luxurious meals that were prepared, served and cleaned up after by others.

Those 12 days did not come cheap. Christmas doesn’t either, so we had to choose one or the other. We are blessed to have families who love us unconditionally & who wished us all a wonderful trip, possibly having broken hearts and hurt feelings. That’s love though. Our families knew I needed those 12 days of vacation, and to Skip Christmas to survive.

It had been a long haul for me trying to help care for my ailing Dad. After we lost him, I gained many new responsibilities, so many of which I had no understanding. Thankfully, I got a lot of help from my dear Godfather, and one of my Dad’s best friends, Tony Pierno, an attorney in private practice.

Towards the end of 2008, I knew I needed to get in a quiet place and listen for a voice that would give me some direction. What I heard was that I was going to heal. I heard I needed to say the words out loud that my heart was broken and I missed my Dad, who was also one of my best friends. I needed to say the words I can’t do everything, all the time, for everyone. I needed to say I was exhausted, drained, stressed beyond my breaking point and I can’t do Christmas this year. Those are not easy things for me. I am half Merrill, half Joan. Complain? Wimp out? Me? It’s not what we do!

While I was raising my children, taking care of my husband, our home, various jobs, a sick Dad, and a variety of other tasks, I was always going at 100 mph and rarely ever sleeping. Why then, was I in my quiet place, sobbing, thinking I was a complete loser because I couldn’t face a simple go-round with Christmas?

If that were someone else, I’d probably cry for them. I’d tell them to Skip Christmas and have a wonderful, relaxing vacation, they’d earned it. It took me longer to be kinder to myself and to hear His comforting words. He was offering to carry me again, and I was fighting it, always wanting to drag myself farther. I’m honestly like a 3 year old that screams, “No! Me do!”

Thank you God, my forever Abba Patare for your unending patience with me. I always want to be in control. Thank you for helping me understand how the celebration of your birth lives within my heart wherever I go. I’m still learning to let go and let you lead. I’m 49, but still just your little child.

The Old Green Tent

2010-11-10T10:05:00.000-08:00

Ken was getting ready for his annual fall fishing trip to Bishop so I thought I’d set up the old green tent, get it cleaned and spiffed up, and see if there were any holes that needed to be sewn up. While I was working on the tent, and seeing it sitting empty outside most of the day, I had some time to think about the history of the tent and the memories we’d made over the many years we’ve had it. Sweet, cherished memories.

While it might sit with nothing inside, I walked inside the tent smelling years of campfire smoke, treasuring the stains of the Sierra Nevada, hearing years of family laughter, remembering the dreams, fishing stories, a love story and whole lot more. When Ken came home and said not to bother myself with hauling the tent upstairs to sew the torn pole pockets, I told him he was crazy. I can’t bear to part with stuff with sentimental attachments; a place where I fell in love, where one of our children first lived in the “garden” of my belly, and where our little family of 4 slept under the heavenly stars of the Sierra Nevada so many times. Just toss it in the trash? No, no and no!

I think I first met the old green tent when Ken and I were dating. He asked me if I’d like to go fishing for a long weekend and I quickly said yes. I had grown up camping; but then camping to me was in a camper and a campground, so I figured why not? Ken was a serious backpacker and fisherman so he didn’t think much about the need for a campground. It wasn’t until I had already said I was all fired up to go that he told me we’d be wilderness camping. Ok. So you mean no potties? No showers? Nope, sorry Jodes. Ok, breathe. In and out. Always the adventurer, always excited for anything new, this sounded like fun. I just had one problem.

For the next week before we left I sat wondering how long I could go without peeing or pooping. Then I decided I’d have to pee but wondered how long a person could hold their poo. I’m a person who can’t even poo in a public restroom so I was obsessed and worried. All Ken had was a shovel. Oh. My. Gosh. And he had packed a lot of good food!

We left in the evening after working all day at Hughes Aircraft and drove the 5 hours to the Eastern Sierras. The first night we were just going to sleep in the back of the truck since it was so late but we’d have to pull our things out of the back. When I came around the back of the truck there was a big present on the tail of the truck bed Ken was excited to give me. “Here, Jodes. Open it. It’s for you.” It was a huge awkward box, but inside was a flushing port-a-potty. It was love. I fell simply, madly and totally in love. In love over a flushing poo parlor under the stars in the Eastern Sierra.

Now when I walk inside the old green tent I still remember the night under the stars and falling in love over the flushing port-a-potty. The next night, and the rest of that trip we used the green tent and it saved our lives from what I remember about almost being killed from a herd of killer jackasses. Ken doesn’t think they would have killed us but when I was going to run screaming in the pitch dark for the truck, he’s the one who held me down and kept his hands very tightly clamped over my mouth so I couldn’t make a sound (or breathe). Wilderness camping! It’s a good thing he brought a lot of good wine. Whew. Killer jackasses. He hadn’t warned me about that.

When I’m standing inside that old tent it’s hard to imagine how all 4 of us and our gear all fit as our little family grew. Those are irreplaceable memories; darling, sweet, tender nights falling asleep under the stars with Daddy, Mommie, Sissy and Sam all snuggled so close. If you haven’t ever camped in a cramped tent with your family, you need to do it now; there is nothing more divine. Singing silly songs, Daddy dropping fish candies into everyone’s mouths, stargazing, reading by flashlight and being lulled to sleep by the beautiful sounds of the water and the wind in the trees.

There is a romantic element to the cramped tent too. To this day, Ken and I still zip our sleeping bags together. What could be dreamier than snuggling all night, warm under the crisp, cool Sierra skies with the man you love? There is no comparison to the feelings of being loved, safe and secure and then looking over and seeing your children sleeping peacefully next to you. Just a second…elevated sniffy goo moment.

Life is always hectic and full of work, school, sports and a variety of activities. Vacation has always been an occasion for us to reconnect. So, we zip ourselves up together and snuggle. It’s always been a time for our little family of four to be cocooned as one in a simple manner of togetherness. Tent camping has always fulfilled that need for us. It removes all the things in life that cause stress and takes us to where there is raw beauty, joy and peace.

Inside the empty green tent I thought about friends asking for advice about marriage and parenting. We didn’t give our children a lot of useless stuff; we gave them a lot of our time. Good parenting is exhausting; thus the need for vacations and the well used tent. Children are always watching and soaking up behavior. Close tent quarters were a perfect time to teach by example how to be a loving and tender couple.

We’ve spent a good deal of quality family time which has enriched our children, our family and our marriage. We’ve shown our children what a family is intended to be so they have a proper model as they go forth as young adults into families of their own one day. Sadly, a lot of children aren’t getting that education. Parents are forgetting this simple task. They are teachers and role models of what a wife and husband are, in addition to what a mother and father are. Are you mindful of the way you are living your marriage in the presence of your children (young or adult) every single day? If you have overlooked this in your quest pay the bills, remodel, carpool, cook, clean, and work, it’s not too late. A role models job is never over. You might need a tent after all. You are going to be exhausted, I promise.

Happy Camping.

When The Customer Wasn't King

2010-10-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

When Southern California met Nordstrom in the late 70’s we were instantly addicted. What started out as a small, successful shoe business in Seattle, Washington turned into large department stores with the Nordstrom family eventually meeting the Segerstrom family of Orange County and making a deal to bring their store to South Coast Plaza.

We were transfixed. They brought a whole new concept in customer service into the arena, unmatched by anyone at that time. I’ll admit, I am a huge fan of Nordstrom. I am a past employee of one of their stores and after going through their orientation and working in their store I am impressed.

What doesn’t impress me though, is what has happened to our nation because of what I like to call my King theory. Businesses and people are all suffering because of it.

Nordstrom was a pioneer in the customer service field and many businesses followed suit seeing their huge financial success. They had a radically lenient return policy unheard of at the time. During my orientation they addressed their theory. Nordstrom said research showed their profit margins continued to soar even while taking returns on anything and everything they sold in the store, no questions asked, no receipt required, no time deadline; no rules whatsoever. No manager had to be called to sign anything, no special keys required to open the register for doling out the cash you wanted back, you simply got whatever you asked for. It was heaven on earth, everyone’s dream store, and the place where you were always King.

Sadly, as this customer service concept swept the nation, it taught the customer that short of stealing, any behavior as the King was ok, even when it came to the way you treated employees. Wrong, isn’t it? We’ve all witnessed it. The obnoxious customer with the employee trying their best to cajole, right a situation, and the customer taking their King posture and demanding a higher authority. The supervisor or manager then responding and immediately looking to the Kings needs and wants and demanding the employee make the King leave happy. Usually followed up with the employee being reprimanded on how to better serve the King in the future; or else! It really is a disgusting display.

I love to read books written about the simpler times in American history, and small town life across America written by authors such as Doris Kearns Goodwin and Bill Bryson. Those were the days when the customer wasn’t King. If you walked down to the town department store you knew everyone. If you treated someone wrong, whoever owned the store would have probably told you to leave, behave or called your parents. Did adults treat sales associates, cashiers, receptionists or servers in the despicable manner they often are witnessed doing on a daily basis now?

People’s lives are more difficult and stressful as the years continue and the strain is beginning to show. Jobs are scarce. Real estate seems to be at a standstill in many areas. Money is tight. The list goes on. What happens? People who have lost jobs are hurting, stressed and scared. Responsible people are staying in unhappy job situations simply because they have to in this rough economy. People who overspent and lost their dream homes, trailers, boats and cars are now living within their means and not very happy about it.

I've worked in many service industries and watched and learned a lot from seeing Kings in action, the very good ones and the worst of the bunch. I didn't mind serving them because I knew they needed to feel some power, even for just a little while. My goal was to be humble and allow them that short period of time to be King. I was there to do a job, and I could suck it up. I used to call it "serving up some humble pie."

Many people who feel powerless in their lives, marriages, homes and jobs can walk into any situation as a customer and be the King. It probably feels good. They are craving a serving of humble pie because they aren't getting any in their own lives. Ministers I know tell me there is a church wide problem with volunteers getting on power trips because of basically wanting and needing to be the King. Powerless in life, they come into churches and run rampant trying to take over committees and wreak havoc on a church. That’s all we need when Christianity is needed more than ever and church attendance is down.

We sure don’t need the same power trippers who have been rude to our service personnel coming into our churches and ruining our experiences there either. Haven't we all volunteered in a variety of situations? I sure have. Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, PTA, churches, philanthropic organizations; the scary volunteers who need power are all there turning what could be a good experience into a circus and making you wish you'd never signed up. So, turn around scary power tripper. Go home powerless little person and pray, work on your marriage, family life, thank God you have a job (or get one), and start spreading kindness wherever you go.

We can all start by thanking every single person who serves us. Look them in the eye and thank them. How about putting our phones down and saying thank you, eyeball to eyeball? Taking 5 minutes to fill out the customer service form listing a persons name for good service. What about noticing someones name tag and thanking them by name? Quit complaining and say something nice. People inherently are trying to do their best.

So, you decide it’s time to go shopping, go to a restaurant, go to the doctor, dentist, buy some stamps or get your hair done. Grab your crown and your scepter, because suddenly you have been chosen King of your universe and you have the power to do good or to be King Henry the 8th. Choose wisely. And if someone else has decided to be King in your presence and they are an embarrassment to the crown it’s time to stand up and say something. We, the people need to take our power back from the power trippers who are abusing it. Put your crown on, pick up your scepter and get busy. You good Kings can take it from here.

Be the change you want to see in the world. -Ghandi

Their European Vacation

2010-09-28T16:07:00.000-07:00

I’ve been hearing the same type of comments over and over again. “I’m sorry you don’t get to go.” “How come you don’t get to go?” Stephanie said she’d been asked too, “Isn’t your Mom upset that she doesn’t get to go?” We just laughed.

As I write this, Stephanie and her Daddy are traveling through Europe and Spain to celebrate her college graduation and I couldn’t be happier. This is what love is all about, sharing in the joys of others and being able to truly revel in someone else’s happy times. Jealousy, resentment and scorekeeping have no place in our marriage or our family. We don’t allow those ugly fellows in, therefore peace and love can thrive.

There have been plenty of times when I have been the one to fly off somewhere on my own or with the children and Ken has had to stay home and work. He didn’t wave us off sulking; instead we were met with enthusiasm and demands that we have a wonderful and relaxing vacation.

Many years ago when money was tight, Ken was secretly stashing away my Diet Coke cans and taking them to a recycle center for cash. On the day I left for a Girls Weekend Getaway, he handed me a surprise $75.00 he’d managed to save from all my soda cans. That $75.00 was pure gold, money I wanted to frame rather than spend. It was a symbol of the love we share, how respected my feelings were and how he wanted my time away to be special for me.

When Ken and I got married, my darling friend Kay Morrison read from 1 Corinthians 13 at our wedding. We have tried to make this the motto for how we live our lives, conduct our marriage and raise our children. Here are a few of my favorite verses:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
1 Corinthians 13: 4-7

To be able to live by the principles of faith, you have to be able to wave off your spouse and family on a dream vacation without envy in your heart. You have to be truly happy from the bottom of your heart, without having a record of whose turn it is to get time off. Why does it matter anyway?

My focus, being on my family, is to love, serve, and protect, and to do that each day with love in my heart. Watching Ken and Stephanie planning, and then eventually leaving on their European vacation filled me with enough joy to last a lifetime. Ok, all of my favorite Sound of Music songs were getting turned into Oktoberfest & beer themed songs, but hey….we were all having fun and getting into the spirit of things.

My wise and adored Grandmother Mildred often told me the secret to a happy marriage was for each person to always be giving more to the other person than to themselves. In that way, each persons needs were always being met. Grandma always had good advice.

It’s not just about giving gifts and tangible things. Gifts can also be your attitude. When I left on my Girls Weekend Getaway all those years ago with the $75.00 Ken had worked so hard to save up for me, I knew I left with his blessing.

Ken and Stephanie also left with the best gift I could come up with. It was my enthusiasm for this time together as Father and Daughter, because I know how irreplaceable their European Vacation is for them. I hope they are having the time of their lives.

Steps

2010-08-16T13:20:00.000-07:00

Watching my first born child Stephanie graduate from college has left me longing to tell a story that began over 22 years ago. I find I am flooded with a sentimental passion I’ve found difficult to put into just a few words. My goal was to write a post about her graduation ceremony, yet there is a lifetime leading up to it and I’ve found it hard to only write about the actual ceremony.

First, I’ve had a lot of people ask me about her graduation announcements. We elected not to send the UC Davis ones out. Stephanie and I had talked earlier this year about her writing her own “announcement” to tell family and friends about her experience at college, including pictures. At this point, I think we’ll hold off and have her include her graduation trip in September to complete her entire college experience.

Next, I have a bone to pick with the OB/GYN who, when I was only 5 weeks pregnant with Stephanie told me I had a non-viable pregnancy and would need to immediately terminate my pregnancy. Having faith in God left me with no decision whatsoever. I would not consider terminating my pregnancy. I’ll spare you the details other than I’d like to send a faithless OB/GYN a picture of my beautiful, talented, vibrant, healthy college graduate! Non viable pregnancy? Faith is always must. In the words of the Rev. Dr. Randy Johnson just recently, faith requires waiting. Thank God we were patient and we waited. Stephanie has been a blessing and such a rare and special gift to our family from the moment she arrived safely into our arms.

UC Davis eventually won my daughter’s heart after agonizing and revisiting a number of universities she was choosing between. From the day Ken and I moved her into the dorms her freshman year, she knew she had made the right choice.

Did I? For the entirety of our children’s lives they were indoctrinated with the fact that they would go away to college. There wasn’t a choice; it would be the normal, next step after finishing high school. But when she chose UC Davis, over 8 hours away by car, I started to wonder what I had been thinking. I started to panic. I had to tell her that if Mommie threw herself in the street crying hysterically, begging her not to stay, to turn around and walk promptly away and have a blast; that Daddy would scrape up the mess of puddly Mommie Goo from the street and get me safely home.

As it turns out, lots of other Dads had similar plans for their puddles of Mommie Goo in Napa Valley to try to entice us into leaving our babies at the dorms. So off we drove, leaving Stephanie smiling from ear to ear and excited to begin her new adventure. It reminded me of Nursery School when she was 3. She just looked up from what she was coloring and said, “Bye, Bye Mommie.” No tears. Just “Bye.”

At a number of the wineries, we ran into lots of couples like us. Happy Dads and lots of puddly Mommie Goo crying over their wine. If you were crying and saw another one crying you asked if they’d just moved their child into college. That would get puddly Mom’s crying again and the Happy Dad’s laughing and saying to pour us more wine.

A startlingly quick four years later, watching Stephanie graduate, was the fulfillment of a dream for not only her, but for Ken and me too. We sat proud of ourselves, clutching hands, whispering to each other, “she did it…& …we did it!”

At the graduation ceremony, as Stephanie made her way forward and stepped up onto the podium to receive her diploma I started thinking about past steps in her life, and how there had been so many. I thought about how so many of her steps before were to Mommie and Daddy. Those cherished first baby steps, when she trusted us to catch her. And many more along the way were steps when we were there, right beside her, holding what I still love to call her “baby hands.”

Watching her take those excited steps up to the college podium was another joyous time for us to witness her taking steps, although these steps were very different. Now she was walking up as a grown woman, confidently, to receive the diploma she’d had to earn through hard work on her own.

Suddenly I felt fear rising in me and I wanted to go back to the beginning, before her first steps and hold my precious baby. I wanted to smell baby powder on her, hold her close and rock her to sleep. I’ll admit to the tears that fall down my cheeks as I write this. Remembering holding my babies is just something that turns me right back into a big mess of puddly Mommie Goo.

Watching my daughter walk up those podium steps was exciting and melancholy all at the same time. We’ve watched her take all her necessary steps to prepare for life, and now it’s time to let her fly. You can’t imagine how happy and excited she is as she looks to the future, wondering what to do next. Thankfully, the first stop was to come home for the summer before her graduation trip. I’m not so puddly and gooey anymore.

Stephanie has always been a strong person and doesn’t often cry. She obviously got that from her Daddy. I honestly don’t think she cried much during college until the day she packed up her car and had to drive away from UC Davis, as an Alumni.

I imagine after she hugged her roommate Corinne, drove away alone from her beloved Chi Omega home, away from Davis, the college town she’d fallen in love with… then the tears probably fell unabashedly down her face and onto Mr. Bear for many, many miles and hours to follow.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined. Henry David Thoreau

Going Postal

2010-06-03T08:52:00.000-07:00

My son Sam recently turned 20 and I went postal. Not because he turned 20, but because the United States Postal Service does not deliver overnight from Temecula to Chico, and it was a huge, epic Mommie crisis.

I got up early the morning before his birthday and made a special batch of his favorite cookies to ship to him with his birthday box. Admittedly, I was sad thinking about him celebrating his birthday away at school and wanted to make sure a piece of Mommie love arrived on his doorstep on his actual birthday.

Like the many years before, I wanted him home on his birthday. I’d grown to love waking the children up on their birthdays by singing them Happy Birthday and jumping on their beds and smothering them with kisses. They were always allowed to eat ice cream for breakfast on their birthday, a tradition they love. One year, I took the fruit and vegetables out of Sam’s lunchbox and replaced it with a bag of candy. He threw himself around me and said he loved me and I was the best Mommie in the world. I felt like it.

There is no replacement for the intensity of love that pours into my body, mind and soul when I get a dose of love from my children. It literally feeds me. My big, beautiful, 6 ft, 20 year old college student is growing up and growing away and it scares me. I used to be the only one who could feed him. He didn’t want to sleep in his crib; he wanted to be held all night by me, and would cry when I’d try to set him down. At Nursery School, they had to peel him off me, screaming. It’s been baby steps for both of us, because I had to hide in the hedges, wiping away my tears at the Nursery School, peeking in to see if he was going to be ok. There were many days they’d call and say I needed to come pick him up because he just wasn’t going to make it through the day. It was baby steps.

When I stood in the Post Office with Sam’s birthday box, complete with the fresh cookies and was told they didn’t do overnight to Chico for Saturday deliveries, I literally lost my mind. I was sure the Postal Service didn’t quite understand these were Sam’s fresh, hot birthday cookies and needed to be in Chico TOMORROW. My voice was rising and getting screechy and the people in the notoriously long line were getting annoyed. I wanted to jump over the counter, bang some heads and demand a helicopter to airlift my son’s birthday box.

Instead, the birthday box had to make its way to Chico at a snails pace, missing Sam’s birthday and giving me a complete and total Mommie crying meltdown and entertaining everyone in the post office.

One of my best friends, Lori Jagger, my mentor of living life on the “No-Mad Diet” insists the Diet does not exist if the situation has to do with your children. All bets are off and you are allowed to get mad, really, really mad. So, Lori, I just want you to know that my last few postal episodes all had to do with my children. And I think the US Postal Service not delivering Sam’s cookies on his birthday, Saturday, a working postal service day was cause for me to go off the Diet.

Butt Ugly

2010-05-06T08:09:00.000-07:00

One day when I was in my early teens, my Mother came into my room and found me crying hysterically. Always the lifesaver, she grabbed me up, and held me, trying to stop the crying and save me from my near death, pre-teen trauma. When the hysteria was over and my Mother got me calmed down enough to speak, she asked me what was wrong.

“Mother! I’m ugly! A boy told me I am butt ugly!” A dumb boy had to make it even worse by saying it was all a big joke that he even liked me and he wouldn’t go steady with me if someone paid him. Ohhhh, the pre-teen pain and agony. Ugly was a new one. I hadn’t been called ugly yet. Short, yes. Freckled yes. Butt ugly? Never. Ouch!

Now that I am a Mom, I understand feeling pain for your child. I bet my Mother was feeling it that day for me too. Mom, always at the ready with lots of tissues, got me spiffed back up and said I certainly wasn’t butt ugly. I cried more and said my friends were prettier, had better clothes, hair, could put on make-up like movie stars and could walk jiggling their hips like proper teenagers.

Me? I was behind! I wasn’t in “The Club.” I hadn’t crossed over the threshold into womanhood like most of my friends and really didn’t want to. I was far more interested in mastering the latest flip on the balance beam. When my Dad went to Russia, I was relentless begging him to bring me back an authentic Russian leotard like Olga Korbut had worn in the Olympics. I worked on mastering the splits in all three directions while folding the laundry. I was determined to look as much like Romanian Olympic Gold Medal Gymnast Nadia Comaneci as I possibly could. She was my hero. None of this translated into pretty for the boy of interest that particular day. He tossed me aside with one “butt ugly” swoop of his prepubescent face and went onto another girl with her supposed prettiness, great clothes, long hair, makeup, and jiggly hips.

All knowing Mother, with her great wisdom, did give me wonderful advice that day which I have carried with me throughout my life. She said, “Jodi dear, So-and-So isn’t all that particularly attractive. She doesn’t wear expensive clothing. She has ordinary hair. She has dime store cosmetics. She has probably practiced her walking skills by spending too much time adoring herself in the mirror. Furthermore, she shouldn’t be jiggling her hips like that, it’s completely inappropriate!”

“But Mother! Shhh Jodi. You are beautiful. You can pay more attention to your clothes. You can start by ironing them. Even the most humble clothes look 100 times better when ironed. You can periodically take your hair out of its ponytail, get out of your leotard and put on some of the darling clothes I buy you. I will help you mix and match so you will see how to stretch your wardrobe. We’ll visit the cosmetics counter at Bullocks and ask the saleswomen how to properly apply cosmetics for a girl of your age. We’ll find out how you can properly care for your skin. While we are at Bullocks, we’ll sign you up for Charm School. You’ll learn your basic etiquette skills, manners, how to properly get in and out of a car without showing your panties (GASP!), walk a runway and eat politely while on a date.”

A couple of weeks later, I was Miss Charming, Charm School graduate. I learned how to walk with a book on my head and can still get in and out of a car without showing my panties.

What my Mom did that day was give me some special gifts. Unconditional love, acceptance, and motivation. She also taught me the mix and match. Now she does the same thing with my daughter Stephanie. Besides being reminded that I was loved unconditionally, I was told I was beautiful. Beautiful? Mom’s always think that, don’t they? It’s great how they are always in your corner, rooting you on and thinking no one is better than you.

She also taught me something about self confidence. She taught me that you don’t have to be the tallest one in the room to feel the tallest. You don’t have to have the most expensive clothes to feel well dressed. You don’t have to spend a fortune on a haircut to feel like your hair looks amazing. You can apply dime store cosmetics with a skilled hand and it can turn out like a masterpiece.

My Mom’s best advice goes with me everywhere I go and it can’t be beat. Walk in with confidence, hold your head up high and wear a great smile; you’ll light up a room.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom. Thanks for always being in my corner and making me feel like the tallest, brightest and best thing in the world. I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

Pay It Forward

2010-04-21T07:23:00.001-07:00

In April 2008 I was invited to my parents alma mater, Whitter College, to be the guest speaker at their 50th Annual Scholarship Appreciation Luncheon. I'll be attending the 52nd Annual event today and thought I'd reprint my speech so I could share the history of the Marcus Quarles Scholarship Endowment and my passion for the Organ Donor Program. Thanks for reading.

I’m here today in memory of my father, Merrill Jessup, who graduated from Whittier College in 1953. He passed away December 29th, but his love of higher education, and fierce loyalty to his alma mater, will live on through The Marcus Quarles Scholarship.

Today, I am joined by members of my family; my husband Ken, my brother Greg, and my mother, Joan Jessup, also a Whittier College graduate. Although we grieve the loss of my Dad, today we come to celebrate with senior Chris Tarver, the inaugural Quarles Scholarship recipient.

I’d like to begin by telling you a little history about my Dad and why this scholarship was created.

My father was born here in Whittier, at the Burkett Maternity Home on May 19, 1931. His parents were Walter and Doris Landreth Jessup, both 1924 graduates of Whittier College.

My father, and his younger brother Al, were raised in Thousand Oaks, CA. My father worked many jobs trying to help supplement the family income and to save for college. One of his jobs was being a paperboy for the Los Angeles Times. In 1949, the year my Dad graduated from high school, he applied for, and won the LA Times Young Timers Scholarship. This scholarship paid full tuition to any college of his choice. His choice was Whittier College.

Although he could have chosen any college in the United States, Whittier College was a sentimental favorite since his parents and many of his relatives were alumni.

Whittier proved to be an excellent choice for my Dad, both academically and personally. This is where he met my mother, and where they created a lifetime of close friendships.

Throughout my life, I’ve enjoyed hearing my parents, and the majority of their friends reminiscing about their time here at Whittier. It’s been over 50 years but the stories still make them all laugh. As a child, it was fun hearing my parents talk about all the crazy things they did here on campus. We’d giggle and say, “You did what???” We heard about Wanberg Hall, the Sachsens, the pretty Palmer girls, the Campus Inn and the Rock.

To this day, they continue to be loyal Whittier College alumni, with some still sitting on various Boards of the college. My mother continues to meet monthly with Whittier gals to play bridge. Before he passed away, my Dad organized a new group called the Whittier Old Farts, also known as the WOF’s…so the men would have their own events to plan.

For the students who are here today, I envy you. You are fortunate to study at such a prestigious, private university so rich in history and traditions. I can assure you, you will graduate with more than a college degree. You will take with you cherished memories and relationships that will last a lifetime. I know my parents, and their friends have been thankful for their time at Whittier College. I’m sure you feel as they do, and will want to be generous and active alumni. By doing this, you will join those who like to “PAY IT FORWARD.”

We’ve all heard the term “PAY IT FORWARD,” right? It means doing something good for another person because someone has already helped you along the way. It was important to my Dad to PAY IT FORWARD. He felt he owed many. He was first inspired by the LA Times, for their generosity back in 1949 when they sent him to Whittier College on a 4 year, full ride scholarship. An opportunity he would not have had, without that gift.

Then, a life altering event in November 2000, cemented my fathers desire to PAY IT FORWARD. It began when my father’s heart stopped and he collapsed while boarding a plane in San Diego. He ended up in the care of Sharp Memorial Hospital. He was 68 years old, very sick and was told he needed a heart transplant to survive.

Typically, patients who are 68 years old are not accepted into heart transplant programs. At first, we were told he’d probably be referred to UCLA, where they might take older patients. In the end, the Sharp Hospital - Heart Transplant Program accepted my Dad.

The transplant team said his acceptance into their program was based on many factors, but these being the most influential: his positive attitude, having a supportive family, not being overweight, and that he didn’t smoke. These factors are all what contribute to a successful and long life, and ones we can all aspire to achieve!

My Dad waited 18 months for a transplant. In November 2000, he received the phone call that would save his life. A donor heart had just become available and he needed to get to Sharp Hospital immediately.

While we all made our way with excitement to Sharp Hospital, there was another family arriving to say goodbye to their first born child. His name was Marcus Quarles. Marcus was a young man from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. When he was 15 years old, he told his parents he wanted to be an organ donor.

In November 2000, Marcus was in his early 20’s, serving in the US Navy in San Diego. He had just returned from duty in the Pacific and was enjoying a night out with friends when he was in a car accident caused by a drunk driver.

When Marcus’ parents arrived in San Diego, they remembered his wishes, and when he was declared “brain dead,” they made sure to fulfill Marcus’ desire to be an organ donor. Seven individuals received organs donated by Marcus. My Dad received his heart.

The transplant team told us that six months after a transplant, they will allow correspondence between donor families and transplant patients to begin, if each party agrees. We told them we definitely wanted contact with the donor family. Seven months after the transplant, my Dad received a letter from Lawrence and Darlene Quarles, the parents of Marcus. My Dad asked the Quarles if our family could travel to Tuscaloosa on the 1st anniversary of Marcus’ death to express our gratitude for his decision to be an organ donor.

The meeting turned into something far more meaningful than any of us ever dreamed possible.

Marcus became a real person to us; a beloved son, grandson, older brother, cousin and friend. We sat for hours hearing stories, pouring through photo albums, and getting to know the person whose heart I watched that night thumping inside my Dad’s chest. Their generosity was astounding. We were at a large table in a restaurant and other patrons overheard what was going on at our table. A few came to tell us what an amazing story it was.

Later that night in our hotel, my Dad reflected on the whole experience and wanted to find a way to honor the memory of Marcus. That is when the idea for the Marcus Quarles Scholarship was born.

After meeting the family of Marcus Quarles, my Dad decided how HE was going to PAY IT FORWARD. His idea would combine the inspiration by his own LA Times Scholarship, his love of Whittier College, and belief in higher education. He wanted to honor the memory of a young man he never met, who taught him the importance of the organ donor program.

The first thing my Dad did to begin the process …was to pledge himself as an organ donor, and communicate that desire to his family. Then he established criteria for awarding the Marcus Quarles Scholarship. He decided the student would –

• Have to be a full time student at Whittier College
• Have the need for financial aid
• Be African American, to honor the heritage of Marcus Quarles
• Lastly, and most importantly, the student must have designated on his/her driver’s license their intent to be an organ donor, and make those wishes known to their family.

Two years ago, I sat here at this same luncheon with my Dad. He was excited as The Marcus Quarles Scholarship was introduced. He was looking forward to the luncheon this year, and having the opportunity to meet the first recipient. While it’s painful not having him here to celebrate, I keep reminding myself that his dreams will play out here at Whittier, and he lived 7 extra years because a 15 year old kid told his parents he wanted to be an organ donor.

My Dad taught us you have to practice what you preach. Many years ago, a Navy pilot came to my Dad seeking advice on leadership before leaving on a dangerous overseas mission. He told the pilot, “Do not ask of someone what YOU are not willing to do yourself, lead from the front and you will be followed, if your people trust your judgment.”

After his transplant, my Dad started asking everyone he knew if they were an organ donor. When he passed away on December 29th, it was only a few hours until he fulfilled his dreams of PAYING IT FORWARD, literally. He practiced what he preached. He did what he asked others to do, because he too became an organ donor.

One of my favorite sayings is, “The reward for a good deed is to have done it.” After you think awhile about the saying, “The reward for a good deed is to have done it,” you come away reminded that it’s not important to have flags waved about your good works. The reward comes from the simple act of doing it. Good deeds are still good whether or not they get recognized out loud. The good will always prevail.

It’s what I personally love about the organ donor program. It’s something you give to, and the reward will come after you are gone. It’s the ultimate in humility. If I’ve ever had a bad day and think my contributions to this world are meaningless or small, I take out my Drivers License and search for the small pink sticker at the bottom. That important little pink sticker says DONOR, and I’m instantly reminded that I’ve already laid the groundwork for something valuable. It will pay when I am gone with the greatest gift I can offer, the gift of life.

Ask a mother whose child would have died if it hadn’t received a donated organ.

Ask a child whose parent lived because he received a donated organ. You can ask me.

We’ll both tell you that seeing our child or parent survive with a donated organ was a miracle.

Marcus didn’t get any accolades for the good deeds he posthumously bestowed upon 7 individuals. But his gifts were far greater than the simple things we often try to do; hoping for tangible rewards, praise and recognition for things like donations of our time and money.

Marcus is a symbol to me, a reminder of PAYING IT FORWARD. He reminds me of how a REWARD comes from committing to do something, not from the recognition.

I urge all of you today to consider joining me, in the spirit of Marcus Quarles, and my father Merrill Jessup, to PAY IT FORWARD.

Reach back somehow, in some way, and help someone… anyone because we all sit here knowing we’ve received. Somebody paved the way for us, somebody made a sacrifice, somebody believed in us somewhere along the way. Was it a teacher? Your parents? A friend? With that person as your inspiration, go out into the world and do something that will benefit another human being.

The REWARD IS TO HAVE DONE IT.

Skipping Christmas

2010-04-06T22:11:00.000-07:00

I suck at Christmas. Most people wouldn’t believe that, but I do. I love Jesus, and the simple story of how he was born in a manger to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem. But I wish we could celebrate his birth every year without any of the ridiculous hoopla that is now called Christmas.

My favorite Christmas decoration is a ceramic Jesus in a worn manger we’ve always placed on the hearth. Jesus is chipped, missing the ends of a few fingers and is wearing a loincloth Stephanie made Him when she was a little girl. The children were always allowed to play with Jesus and the manger, so they are a little beat up. I wanted my kids to know Jesus like I do; most likely very approachable, extremely kind, and someone who adored children. “Of course you may play with Jesus,” I’d tell them.

Each year as I unpack the 30+ boxes of Christmas decorations, somewhere in the neighborhood of Thanksgiving weekend, I can feel the familiar panic already starting to set in. I’m trying to find Jesus in all this, thinking, “Where is He…where did I pack Him last year?" If I find Jesus and put him on the hearth, I think I’ll be ok. He’ll be a blatant reminder of why I’m doing all this.

There was one year, 2008, with Jesus’ birthday quickly approaching I knew I was going to have to lead my family away from our traditional Christmas, and Skip Christmas completely. Could I do it? Would I be allowed? What would my family and others say? What would Jesus think? I had to close myself in a dark, quiet room to drown out all the “noise,” so I could hear Him.

I’ve decided spending 12 glorious, uninterrupted, carefree vacation days in the company of my husband and children was the holiest thing we’ve ever done. If home is where your heart is, I was home cruising the blue-green seas of the Caribbean, snorkeling, sailing, swimming, sleeping, reading, listening, resting, sunning, and basking in the 24 hour attention of my family. We immediately opened the doors to our adjoining rooms, and shared long, luxurious meals that were prepared, served and cleaned up after by others.

Those 12 days did not come cheap. Christmas doesn’t either, so we had to choose one or the other. We are blessed to have families who love us unconditionally & who wished us all a wonderful trip, possibly having broken hearts and hurt feelings. That’s love though. Our families knew I needed those 12 days of vacation, and to Skip Christmas to survive.

It had been a long haul for me trying to help care for my ailing Dad. After we lost him, I gained many new responsibilities, so many of which I had no understanding. Thankfully, I got a lot of help from my dear Godfather, one of my Dad’s best friends, Tony Pierno, an attorney in private practice.

Towards the end of 2008, I knew I needed to get in a quiet place and listen for a special voice who would give me some direction. What I heard was that I was going to heal. I heard I needed to stop and allow myself to feel. I heard I needed to say the words out loud that my heart was broken and I missed my Dad, who was also one of my best friends. I needed to say the words I can’t do everything, all the time, for everyone. I needed to say I was exhausted, drained, stressed beyond my breaking point and I can’t do Christmas this year. Those are not easy things for me. I am half Merrill, half Joan. Complain? Wimp out? Me? It’s not what we do!

While I was raising my children, taking care of my husband, our home, various jobs, a sick Dad, and a variety of other tasks, I was always going at 100 mph and rarely ever sleeping. Why then, was I in my quiet place, sobbing, thinking I was a complete loser because I couldn’t face a simple go-round with Christmas?

If that were someone else, I’d probably cry for them. I’d tell them to Skip Christmas and have a wonderful, relaxing vacation, they’d earned it. It took me longer to be kinder to myself and to hear His comforting words. He was offering to carry me again, and I was fighting it, always wanting to drag myself farther. I’m honestly like a 3 year old that screams, “No! Me do!”

Thank you God, my forever Abba Patare for your unending patience with me. I always want to be in control. Thank you for helping me understand how the celebration of your birth lives within my heart wherever I go. I’m still learning to let go and let you lead. I’m 48, but still just your child.

The Jeanne Spa

2010-03-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

If you read my Acceptance Speech, you might have been wondering what got me so fired up. My sister. Many of you are probably surprised to hear I even have a sister. Jeanne has been living free for over 30 years. She laughs about it to my face. I’d like to hit her, but I don’t get in the ring with repeat convicted felons. Jeanne is on SSI, labeled by our Federal Government as Disabled. Disabled they say. WTF?

When she is out prostituting herself to support her drug habit, she seems to be able to work pretty darn hard, and eat almost nothing. When she is romping around Disneyland with free passes given to the poor, she moves around just fine, on her feet, for hours on end. If someone yelled, “FREE CIGARETTE BUTTS,” I bet she could jump 10 feet in the air off the couch.

Yet, she continues to get a free pass by the federal government for rent, food, clothing, medical care, cigarettes, liquor, and just about anything else she might want. She periodically gets tired of her living situations, and they just as quickly tire of her. That’s when she will typically check in at the local jail for a Jeanne Spa stay. She and her friendly jail mates laugh about that too.

Did you know we are all contributing to their little Spa visits? Did you know the prisoners laugh about how they get a warm place to sleep, a shower, clean clothes, TV, magazines, entertainment, classes and a store where they have a selection of toiletries, snacks and books? Yes, they laugh. And, to add insult to injury, they have a selection. Yes. You can send your favorite prisoner money and give them a credit line so they can walk down to the store for a little shopping trip. All the comforts of home for your murders, rapists, child molesters, burglars, drug lords, prostitutes and so on. Isn’t that special?

Jeanne claims she needs an open credit line when she’s in jail because “You’ve got to have Chex Mix when you are in the joint.” You’ve got to have Chex Mix? WTF? Chex Mix, a warm shower, television and a good night’s sleep isn’t punishment. Ken rarely gets 8 hours of sleep each night because he’s working too hard contributing to Jeanne’s Spa stays at the Santa Ana Women’s Correctional Facility. You are too. How does this make you feel? I’ll tell you more about how they are laughing at you and me because I want my sister and others like her, to get cut off from the gravy chain here in America.

Do you know anyone who has had to send a loved one to Rehab? I do. There are all kinds. Alcohol, Drug and Eating Disorders are a few. Most of the families involved were terrified, but didn’t blink and eye about spending their life savings to send someone to a Rehab facility. They are not always covered by insurance. Some have huge copayments. To the person who is saving a life, they don’t care. For my entire childhood, my parents invested a fortune in time and money trying to help save Jeanne. They too, were desperate to save their child. In the end, they both paid dearly.

I know a family who has their house mortgaged higher than what it is currently worth. They had to do this to save the life of their child who needed emergency treatment in an expensive Rehab facility. I’m telling you this because Jeanne was sent to Rehab recently for almost free. Seriously. I want more people, besides me, to see how wrong it is. And yes, Jeanne is still laughing about it.

Jeanne didn’t want to go to Rehab, but it was court ordered. It was Rehab or Prison. She enjoys her Spa treatments in the local Jail, but Chowchilla, and the other big Prisons are a different story. Don’t get me wrong, they still have all the wonderful accoutrements that the local Jails offer, but I think she is a Jail snob. So, off to fancy Rehab Jeanne went. At the time, her SSI income was $850 a month, so the Rehab gave her a sliding scale payment plan and told me her portion would be $320 a month. All inclusive. Just another Spa treatment on Uncle Sam, you and me. How do you feel about that? Especially when she laughs in my face? She is laughing at all of us. They are all laughing at us.

When the day came, and I knew it would, when Jeanne had had enough of that particular “scene,” she walked out of her hundredth (or more) stint in Rehab after only completing a few weeks. She said “Fuck that shit, I’d rather do Jail time,” which is precisely what she did. She went to a few of her favorite haunts, picked up some “customers,” earned a couple of dollars (ICK!!!), did some drugs, got picked up by the Police and was taken to Jail for a more comforting Spa stay. Her pattern remains unchanged after all these years.

When I saw her after the Jail stay for that particular offense, she laughed. She said the people at Rehab were stupid and how they wanted her to write down on a piece of paper that she was committed to her rehabilitation. She said she didn’t care about being clean, didn’t want to be clean and only went to Rehab to satisfy the judge so she wouldn’t have to go to Prison.

I’ll tell you a few more things if I don’t already have you convinced why we all need to be ranting about this. She also laughed and said I didn’t give her enough cigarette money. I don’t give her enough cigarette money? I told her I was managing her SSI payments for free; if an organization managed her money they would charge her a percentage and she would have less of the federal governments’ money “to smoke.” So yes, it is our money she needs to buy her cigarettes.

She told me she can go around to all the churches and food banks in the area for as much free food as she could eat. She can go to all the social welfare programs and get scrip for free toiletries, and other things she needs. They will also subsidize her rent payments. She said she just wanted to “smoke” her SSI money since she didn’t need to use it to pay for anything else, because she can get everything else for FREE. Then she laughed.

This crap has to stop!

I’m done with taking care of Jeanne. After the last post Rehab laugh-in-my-face-event, she did something so raunchy, vile and criminal, I threw in the towel and quit as her caretaker and Representative Payee. I’m also done with food banks. I’m done with social welfare programs. I told Jeanne’s Social Worker in a rant how I was going to give the Jeanne responsibility back to the educated professionals who get paid to handle this idiotic, pointless, worthless & mind numbing crap.

I have a beautiful, loving, hard working husband who has been waiting patiently for the children to be raised so he could be number one. I'm here sweetie. You will always be my number one. Thank you for getting up every day while it's still dark and going to work when you are exhausted. Thank you for never saying I quit when things were rough. Thanks for giving up all your paychecks and bonuses to raise a family and never spending a dime on yourself. Thank you for being the best Daddy any child could every ask for. You are our hero.

But You Don't Work

2010-03-18T10:21:00.000-07:00

What do you do all day? I’d be bored. Have you ever heard stuff like that? If you are a housewife, I bet you have.

I was a young girl growing up in the Cinderella Homes when I had dreams of being a housewife, just like my Mother. She was always home, well dressed, hairdo perfect, always had lipstick on, her clothes were ironed, her shoes & purse always matched, always had tissues, kept a clean home, threw fabulous parties for my Dad’s business associates, came to all my school and sporting events, had warm, homemade cookies when I walked in the door from school, taught me how to sew, and always let me have all my friends over to swim. I’m not good at cleaning, but that’s not my Mom’s fault; it’s just that I don’t enjoy it. I will always choose something I find fun to do over cleaning. Thus the continued state of my house, garage and the Pigmobile.

When our children were small, and I got to quit working, it was cause for celebration. When I sobered up, I decided if I was going to be a proper housewife, I was also going to be a really good housewife like my Mother. That doesn’t mean the stereotypical type housewife we saw portrayed in the sitcoms we saw in the 60’s, the Harriet Nelson and Donna Reed types. No, I had different ideas. I had my eye set on being the best wife, raising my children to be the best people they could be, learning how to cook, bake, open a bottle (or 3) of wine, and learning how to love and coexist with dogs like my darling Mother-in-law. Check, check, check, check, check and yes, check! Hooray!

But I don’t work!

My Mother never sat down, never watched TV, never went to a spa, never went to the mall, the movies or off for the weekend with her friends. My Dad had to beg her to shop for clothes if they had to go on a business trip. She also refused a housekeeper. Refused! She didn’t indulge in manicures, pedicures, waxing, plastic surgery or Botox. She saved up all the left over money my Dad gave her weekly for running the house to pay for stuff us kids needed, or we drove her crazy begging for. I was famous for wanting to go to every summer camp known to man. I also wanted her to buy me tons of books, because I was obsessed with reading. I would tell her it was all her fault from reading to me so much. Her response was to drop me off at the Placentia Library and let me stay there as long as I wanted.

My Mom made the dresses my sister and I wore and if she found a pattern that fit us well, she made the same dress in every color. When we traveled to Europe for 6 weeks in the summer of 1970 with The Turman family, my Mother packed for us five Jessup’s in 2 hard Samsonite suitcases. I was inspired.

The Cinderella homes on Cedarlawn Drive were meticulous. My Dad took great pride in his Dichondra lawn. He’d drive around and lament the lawns and curse the owners that weren’t maintained to his high standards. He once went around the corner and asked a widow whose house was seen as people approached ours, if he could maintain her yard since she wouldn’t, or couldn’t.

The homes were beautiful on the inside as well. My friend Scott still has the original brochures with the floor plans because his childhood home is also on Cedarlawn Drive. Our Mom’s raked the shag, vacuumed designs into the carpets, kept the pools pristine, polished the Formica countertops and somehow caught dust before it landed.

Most of the Dad’s worked in aerospace, for two local companies called Autonetics and Hughes Aircraft. I loved watching the Dad’s drive up in the evenings at 5:00 while us kids would be playing Kick the Can and Hide-N-Go-Seek. Most of the Mom’s were housewives, and at 5:00 p.m. were busy in the house making dinner or cleaning their Cinderella House. One of my friends had a Mom who worked and she went home to an empty house everyday. I always felt bad about that when I was going home to fresh baked cookies and a Mother who would always sit down and give me her undivided attention.

I don’t keep a clean house, garage or car like my parents did on Cedarlawn Drive. But, I take great pride in how I care for my husband, how I’ve given my children tons of undivided attention, bake them cookies, go to all their school and sporting events, and that I let them have all their friends over to swim & play. I’ve been Class Mom, Team Mom and a Carpool driver.

I’ve been teaching myself how to cook, to bake, and sometimes I clean (mostly I don’t). I love having parties. Sometimes I iron my clothes, but I usually just shake’em out and hang them to dry. I’ve learned how to quilt, and love to sew but I don’t mend much. The children were so afraid of my mending pile they would beg to have Grandma fix their clothes… so they’d get them back. I’m still working on the tissue in the purse thing; the kids know to go to Grandma if they need to wipe their noses on something other than Mommie’s sleeve. My hair is only perfect every other Friday when I have it colored by Carrie, colorist extraordinaire. Sometimes I put makeup on. Mostly, I like to wear my hair in a ponytail and cruise around HQ and the Downstairs Office in my Nappies sans Clinique. I never, ever go without perfume though, ever. My Mother had her lipstick thing. I have a perfume addiction. And my Dooney thing.

I take my job seriously, and so does my Boss. But, I have job security and scheduling flexibility to accommodate my husband and children so it’s the best job in the world. Yes, there are some parts of my job that are boring and tedious. Some aspects are stressful. I have great benefits. The pay? Did you say pay?

The pay comes in hugs and love. It came in the faces of my children each time they crossed the finish lines, made Honor Roll, and got acceptance letters to colleges. I got paid when I watched my children helping poor people when they worked in the hot sun for a week each summer repairing their homes. I got paid watching them run to greet their Daddy every night when he came home from work. I was paid every night when we sat down to the family dinner he demanded, no matter what time it came. Pay comes when your family needs you to find something in the refrigerator, a missing sock, or the permission slip. It comes with every Bandage applied and every goodnight kiss. It also comes when a bunch of smelly kids get into your car after practice and are all talking at once. That is my heaven.

I wouldn’t trade my work for anything.

“All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” -Abraham Lincoln

The Safety Zone

2010-03-15T23:36:00.000-07:00

After I wrote about Patsy Clairmont last week I was reminded about The Safety Zone. The Safety Zone is what I’ve always called our Home. It’s another place where we can start teaching our children about how to be the people we want to send out into the world. After my daughter Stephanie went through a rough week recently I wrote her a letter to try and help lift her spirits. I’ll share some of what I wrote to her with you.

My Dearest Stephanie,

What you experienced is quite sadly just a small taste of what is in store for you as you make your way into the real world and begin your adult life. There were days I often felt like a lonesome trailblazer and a minister of my own religion when I started preaching my personal message in our Home. You grew up in the Safety Zone, free from hate and cruelty. Do you remember? Those were family rules. Sadly, others have not. I’ve always told you how people are products of their environments and only have learned skills based upon their parental role models.

If others grew up in a house where they heard derogatory comments, gossip, racial slurs and opinions on beauty, weight and popularity, they grew up programmed to think those are standard and acceptable topics of conversation. You, however, grew up in a cruelty free, hate free zone. We did not indulge in gossip. We don't consider ourselves authorities on beauty, because how can it be measured? Weight, being something that is inside a person's clothes, would be considered a personal matter, and therefore not our business...much like a person's sexual preference. We don't discuss that kind of stuff. There are bigger and better things in the world like love, peace, acceptance and joy.

You and Sam were not allowed to indulge in unkindness towards each other, which others have laughed about. We didn't find it funny at all. Our home was a haven, The Safety Zone, a place to go from the cruelties of the world. Not everyone grew up like this. The people out in the world you are going to be spending your adult life with have come from a variety of homes. I've preached a lot about giving them grace because of our Biblical teachings and because not everyone has been blessed with an upbringing as wonderful and loving as yours.

I guess people can only be allowed a certain amount of grace. Because I, like you, have to actually blaze the trail and try to spread a message about how wrong meanness, gossip, cruelty, hate, racism and injustice are. You were a trailblazer last night. A witness to the faith and a preacher after my own heart. I am proud beyond words. You stand 10 feet tall for not sitting down. You inspire me.

I Love you with all my heart,
Mommie

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. Ephesians 4:31-32

Patsy Clairmont

2010-03-09T22:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve used Patsy Clairmont’s name as an instructional tool in my home for years. When I heard her speak for the first time at a Women of Faith conference years ago, I sat transfixed, completely and utterly speechless. That hardly ever happens if you know me.

Her speech at the WOF conference was about how people are walking around everyday in pain and we simply don’t know it. There are people with obvious markers/signs you can see. A cast, crutches, a wheelchair, white cane, or a handicap placard on their vehicle. Maybe someone has told you they recently had surgery, are in pain, undergoing chemotherapy, psychotherapy, or grieving for someone they’ve recently lost. Some people are good at communicating stuff like that.

There are also the Patsy Clairmont's, and a whole world of other people out there in pain who are crying on the inside and smiling on the outside. Those are the ones I have been talking to my family about all these years.

My Godfather, Tony Pierno once told me, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease Jodi.” He who screams loudest wins, right? Well, what if we are talking about broken wheels that make no sound. Those broken wheels aren’t giving us any warning. Scary thought, isn’t it?

Patsy Clairmont has a serious disease. She told the 50,000+ WOF attendees at the ARCO Arena in Sacramento, California about it. The arena was jam packed that day. It was rough navigating around to get to the snack bars and the restrooms. She was speaking before a break and wanted to warn people. She told us how she is in constant pain, and how simply being jostled in a crowd can cause her unbearable pain. She wanted us to know, so if she was trying to get to the Ladies Room during a break in the program, people would be careful. How many times have we all carelessly bumped into someone and simply said, “Excuse me.” That day, as I listened to Patsy, I sat and wondered if I’d ever run into anyone who was hurting, and I didn’t know it.

It’s been a goal of mine since hearing Patsy speak to pass along her message to my family and friends. People don’t necessarily come with markers or signs. Some people won’t tell you they are in pain, are grieving, are undergoing treatments, or have a serious illness. Pain comes in varying types; physical as well as emotional. Sometimes pain can be seen, other times it is well concealed.

I’ve asked my family to go out into the world and be careful with others. Treat each person with kindness, love and respect. You don’t know what is going on in that person’s life. It might only be 8:00 a.m., but you don’t know what has already happened in that person’s day. You don’t know what is going on in that person’s world. Their world might be filled with well concealed pain; they could be dodging emotional darts, possibly caring for a sick person, or what if they got some crushing news that morning? We have got to be more careful and gentle with everyone.

Patsy Clairmont has inspired me to be kinder. I want everyone else to try too. If you are the person at the market being unkind to a Cashier, yes, I am going to tell you stop being rude, and be nice. If you are the customer talking down to a server, yes, I am going to ask you to be more considerate to those who serve you. If you are the impatient driver behind me honking because I am not turning right, yes, I am going to turn around and tell you to stop honking because I am allowing someone to use the crosswalk. If I wonder what I can do to help you I am not going to say, “Call me if I can do anything to help.” I’m going to show up and do something. I promise.

Thanks Patsy.

Abba Patare

2010-03-07T19:58:00.000-08:00

After the celebration of Communion today, I wanted to share a bit about my feelings and theories on God, my eternal “Abba Patare.” Because God is such a complex entity for me to wrap my head around, it’s always been easier for me to think of him in the realm of a Father figure. Easy for me, because I had a Dad who loved me unconditionally.

Abba Patare is Greek in origin, meaning father. This isn’t a bunch of hogwash. I’ve discussed this at length with my Pastor, the Reverend Dr. Randy Johnson, and he says I am “right on” thinking of God as a father figure.

When you understand how I feel about God being a loving, kind and non-judgmental type of Father, you’ll also get that I don’t feel scared at the thought Him watching over me, watching me live my life. If you know me well, you’ll notice I’m ok with being well behaved and I’m ok when I’m really poorly behaved. My Dad always loved me either way too. He was always thoughtful and forgiving with me.

Just like my Dad, my Abba Patare always welcomes me into His home, His arms, and His place of worship. I think He loves me unconditionally whether I go into a church or not. He loves me when I act stupid; he loves me when I am good. He loves me when I am wrong, he loves me when I am holy and when I act completely unholy.

Just like my own Dad, I bet there are times when He aches watching me, wishing I hadn’t made a poor choice, when I’ve said the wrong thing, ran an extremely yellow light or went to a bar to watch football and drink martinis instead of going to church.

Just like my own Dad, I bet He cries when I’m hurting and wants to carry me when my feet hurt too much to walk. I bet He aches when I’m sitting in church praying “HELP, HELP, HELP ME” because I can’t think of any other eloquent words to send up to Him.

Just like my own Dad, I know my eternal Father rejoices in my joys, loves hearing me sing off key, doesn’t care that my house, garage and car are dirty, and that I wear the same wrinkled clothes over and over again.

I know my eternal Father, my Abba Patare loves me. Only He can see into my heart and soul. He is the only one I care about impressing, and only He gets to judge whether I am holy.

I love you Abba Patare. Thank you for your unconditional love. Thank you for bringing me parents who love me unconditionally, so I would learn how to love my children in that beautiful way too.

The Acceptance Speech

2010-03-04T13:54:00.000-08:00

I will confess, I am obsessed with Red Carpet & Award shows. It’s almost as exciting as Thursdays around here when my People Magazine arrives. I said almost. But I do prepare. I prepare like some of you guys prepare for the Superbowl or the World Series. It’s a calendar entry, and an alarm set on the Batphone. Work stops and I hunker down in a comfy pair of Nappies with whatever nibbles I happen to be obsessed with that particular week.

I love seeing all the movie stars arrive on the Red Carpet in their glamorous gowns, dripping in diamonds and being asked silly questions such as, “Who are you wearing?” I half-listen, but I what I really want them to do is get inside & get the show rolling so I can hear The Acceptance Speeches. That’s why I watch.

I’m always waiting for The Acceptance Speech to end all Acceptance Speeches. The one that is going to rock my world. The one that is going to convince me that Hollywood isn’t completely filled with a bunch of liberal, overindulged and conceited morons. There have been a few good speeches over the years. Mo’Nique was impressive at the Golden Globes this year. She is on the list of The Jodes favorites so far this award season. She may end up in the Top 10. We’ll see, the Big One is on this Sunday, the Academy Awards.

I think it would be fun to be a movie star for a day so I could have a gorgeous gown, be dressed in carats and carats of Tiffany jewels and carry a purse worth more than my current home. I want to have a staff for a day, be pampered, waxed, spa’d and ride in a limo drinking Veuve Clicquot to an awards show. Once there, I’d have to win. I already have my Acceptance Speech.

Recently, I jumped the gun a bit when my CPA said I was in the running for this year’s Client Accountant Award. In my excitement, I thought he said I’d won. So, I sent him off The Acceptance Speech and was sad to learn afterwards I was still in the running. You see, it still comes down to the cookies. So, while the cookies are being whisked by Fedex to Martin Grassi CPA, and while they taste and decide my fate, I’ll let you read The Acceptance Speech.

Let me know if you think if it should come down to a decision based upon the cookies.

Dear Scott Martin, CPA

Thank you for this award!

I would like to begin by thanking all the lazy Americans & illegal immigrants who don't pay their bills, the people who live beyond their means, those who declare bankruptcy when their extravagant lifestyles become too "hard" to pay for, people who suck off the system, get free college for their kids, go to churches & food banks for free food, live on food stamps, use federal funding to support their cigarette, alcohol and drug habits, those who get free medical care for all the exorbitantly expensive medical problems caused by their poor lifestyle habits and excessive pregnancies, and those who won't work a hard, honest job because they make more money on welfare.

I sure don't want to leave out thanking the richer-than-me-liberals (and celebrities who think I care about their uneducated opinions) who have dreamt up all the programs my exhausted, hard working husband is contributing to each day so all the irresponsible and lazy Americans and illegals can enjoy their free ride. They are teaching their spawn to also partake in these idiotic "benefits" and feel entitled to the luxuries of America, because dammit, it's the land of the free. FREE!

All the lazy Americans, illegals and people who feel entitled to "free everything" inspired me to just get the tax refund that is rightfully mine.

So, Scott, I accept the "Honorary 2009 Tax Season Client Accountant" award because I worked myself ragged for the past two months finding & researching every last penny we spent... actually paying our bills, paying for our family medical care, our mortgage, property taxes, fully paying for two children's college bills, charities we donated to, and for the food and other things we bought. Last but not least, for the insurance we paid for ...because we don't expect the federal government to come in and take care of us in the event of something catastrophic.

Love Jodes

The Slap-N-Tickle

2010-03-01T00:05:00.000-08:00

Every time we have dinner at Arigato we have to pass the “Slap-N-Tickle” and I just have to laugh. Well, I laugh now. When I was being slapped and tickled in the car wash, it wasn’t all that funny.

Life is like that. Time heals a lot. When we were in the trenches raising two small children, a lot wasn’t funny, it was just plain grueling. We were tired, stressed and overworked. As time has passed, we look back and find ourselves laughing, remembering the antics of Thing One and Thing Two. It’s probably the reason some of us will go through childbirth more than once. The ability of our bodies and minds to overcome, heal and forget. Brilliant, huh?

Now that the Rumputeers are off to college and living their own lives, we miss them dearly. Instead of reveling in the quiet, order and clean, we have The Replacements; two just as needy, and much messier Cockapoo puppies.

We are also so proud we can’t stop talking about them. Them, meaning...who? Both. The kids and the dogs. Nowadays, when we pull out the camera, we have more pictures of The Replacements than the children. When we go out to dinner, it’s the same as when the children were little. We talk about them; the children and The Replacements.

We are still new at being empty nesters. It’s hard to imagine a life not built completely around our children. For me, I don’t feel ready. I’m still tut-tutting, fluffing, nesting and gathering sticks and berries. I anxiously await each return flight of my baby birds to our nest.

Now, we look back and laugh at our lives when we were raising small children. Much like the Slap-N-Tickle car wash I got. I was in neutral, rolling into the self service car wash when my driver’s side window got stuck in the rolled down position. It doesn’t take you long to figure out when faced with this situation that you are going to get wet. Really, really wet. And slapped. A lot.

I was determined to get a good, self service car wash that day and went to the one with the slappy rags. There is not time to unbuckle your seat belt and dive into the back seat once you’ve put your coins in either. I tried. So, I endured. I came out wet, slapped and head-to-toe soapy. On the other side where others were busy pumping gas, I had to open the car door and let out a flood of water and soap suds. Then I had to climb out and shake myself off.

I have to do that a lot.

Barbie Dolls

2010-02-25T00:43:00.000-08:00

Have you heard the old saying, “I hate Barbie, that bitch has everything?” I have. I’ve been accused of being Barbie, which is funny because I am built more like Barney Rubble, I’m freckled head to toe and been told I resemble Rosie O’Donnell.

I could go off topic and tell you a story about how my sister and brother once held me down and played “connect the dots” on my freckles with a Sharpie, but that is a story for another day.

I had tons of Barbie’s when I was a child. They were my favorite toys. Lori (Fennel) Jagger and I played Barbie’s our entire childhood. We played them at home, and also had a Barbie hideaway in the back of my closet at our house in Lake Arrowhead. It was Barbie heaven; because we were allowed to leave our Barbie’s set up without dismantling them for weeks and months on end. Funny side note about the Barbie closet. It’s where my Dad used to hide the liquor when my Grandparents, strict Quakers, would visit the Lake Arrowhead house.

Back to Barbie’s, and gossip, because people sure love to gossip, don’t they? Even your friends, about you. My friends tell me gossip they’ve heard about me from my other people. I’ve heard I’m that bitch Barbie, with “everything.” I don’t even know what “having everything” means.

I’ve heard I don’t know anything about having difficult teenagers because my children are perfect. I’ve heard I don’t know anything about marriage because my husband is perfect. I’ve heard I’m holy and perfect because I take my kids to church every Sunday. I’ve been told I’m clueless about hard work because I’m a housewife. I am completely baffled. I wish I had video tapes of my everyday life, in my house, with my family, to show people. No one would see Barbie.

Those reported words of gossip are inflicted pain. Gossip is bad from beginning to end. It doesn’t need to be started, and it sure doesn’t need to be reported to the victim. I’m not better for knowing I’ve been a victim. Those words hurt. I bet anyone reading this has been the victim of a word inflicted, wound to the heart. Barbie doesn’t exist in reality. She is simply a precious toy for children. We all need to be kinder, don’t we? I’ll try harder.

Lori and I can vouch that our Barbie’s didn’t have “everything.” Our Mom’s gave us fabric remnants and taught us how to sew. We learned how to use a sewing machine, and a needle & thread so we could make Barbie blankets, sleeping bags and pillows. We also learned how to make Barbie clothes. We learned how to sew zippers, snaps, hooks & eyes on the garments, thus giving us lifelong skills. Our Dad’s gave us scraps of wood and other things from our yards so we could make Barbie furniture. We’d scour the nearby fields of Placentia for coins to save up if we wanted some special Barbie accessory.

Our Barbie’s were not allowed to cheat life by “jumping walls” and had to be well behaved, be completely dressed, have their hair combed & have pin head pierced earrings on. Our early play with Barbie’s was in fact a good analogy for who we are as women today.

Lori and I don’t have “everything.” We don’t try to cheat life by “jumping any walls.” We are usually well behaved and we work very hard.

For anyone to reduce my hard work and make thoughtless, flippant remarks that I have no understanding about something because my life, husband, children, family, etc., “are perfect” is downright cruel, plus horribly incorrect. If I have come by success in my life, my marriage, with my family and children, it is due to good old fashioned hard work and faith. I get up like the rest of the world, put on my big girl panties, and try to make the best of each day.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

2010-02-24T12:12:00.000-08:00

My Blog is almost up and running. I am so excited. Thank you LooLoo and Feen.