What me worry

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Panic Room

What was that?

Count yourself fortunate if you've never experienced a frightening moment in your home. Hearing a noise in the middle of the night or wondering why the dog, hackles raised, is growling at the back door, are anxiety producing events. Even family members can produce a startle response, appearing suddenly, rounding a hallway corner or barreling into a room unannounced. When home alone, oh my - anxiety is fiercely intensified.

Home Alone - not a fan of.

Being the youngest of four, I was not often home alone. Perhaps that's why I avoided it when I eventually reached the age I was expected to stay alone. Walking home from elementary school I dreaded the moment I reached the front door of our empty house. If not invited to a friends house, I waited on the steps for my older brother or sisters to arrive.

I'll pass.

A traumatic baby-sitting experience when I was 13-years old didn't help. The three children under my charge were tucked carefully in bed, sleeping peacefully. At approximately midnight the phone rang. It was my employer, the mother of the children. She was screaming hysterically "Get out of the house!" She refused to say why. She just kept screaming "Get out of the house - NOW!" Terrified a "killer" was lurking in the house, I ran to the neighbors for help. We collected the children and soon the police arrived. It was a shaking, traumatized, 13-year old girl the police drove home that night. I later learned her dramatic phone call was precipitated by a threat from her ex-husband. He claimed he was going to blow up the house that evening. I never accepted a babysitting offer from that family again.

Get'em all.

Maybe this particularly traumatic experience is why the fear of being home alone lingered on into my early adulthood. Cell phones did not exist in the early to mid 80's. Cordless phone sets in multiple rooms was the latest technology. The downside was if one phone was inadvertently (or purposely - I imagined) de-activated, all other phones in the house were useless. Nervously contemplating a rare, upcoming night alone, (except for my first born Adam - a pre-schooler at the time) a question zipped through my head: In an emergency, how would one call from the bedroom phone if the basement phone was de-activated? (Who thinks about this stuff?)

Knowing my "home alone" fears were groundless, I bravely refused offers of lodging from my parents. I could do this I assured myself, I just needed a game plan. Laundry basket in hand, I strode purposefully from room to room, unplugging and gathering each cordless phone set. I hauled all phones upstairs into my bedroom: AKA the Panic Room.

As night-time approached, I took one last bathroom break and double-checked my supplies: juice, toys, water bottles, snacks, VHS movies. I snuggled Adam into my arms, shut and locked the bedroom door and hunkered down for the night.

Safely ensconced in the Panic Room, the door would not be opened until morning. Like a bank vault - it was sealed. Completing one last safety precaution, I dragged the bed nite stand in front of the bedroom door. (I hope you are laughing - I know I am.) FYI: I survived.

Years have since passed. Kevin's 2 per-year, 12 day international trips provide me ample opportunity to be on my own - minus the Panic Room. Thankfully, I've grown to enjoy and appreciate the quiet solitude of my home. Occasionally a random house noise in the middle of the night sparks a sensation of fear, but it quickly passes. (I have a Louisville Slugger under my bed just in case.) Fear overcome, my home is now a safe haven - not a Panic Room. I am good-naturedly teased when I recount the Panic Room story. Taking it all in stride, I laugh at myself and shake my head thinking: "I've come a long way baby".

Just in case. ;)

Home = <3

Friday, April 22, 2016

Second Chance Brings Peace

As I listened to the message on our answering machine, I felt a cocktail of exploding emotions: disbelief, joy, excitement, anxiety, panic. A voice in my head silently mocked me: "Be careful what you wish for Diane."

Not to mislead, the words coming from the answering machine delivered an all out, 100%, wonderful message. I had thought about this moment for years - hoped for it. Did the message surprise me? Absolutely. Did the message make me happy? Very much. Did I feel anxious? To. The. Core.

The message was from my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Westerhaus.

Mr. Westerhaus 1972-73 St. Joseph Lab School

The precipitating event was a story published two days earlier in the local newspaper, The St. Joseph Newsleader. The story was my recollection of an incident that occurred during the 1972-73 school year. While minor and well beyond the sight of my life experiences rear-view mirror, it left me with feelings of regret ever since. Unbeknownst to me, the story had been forwarded to Mr. Westerhaus.

Click here to read the full blog story “1972 - Sorry Mr. Westerhaus”. The following is an excerpt from the published St. Joseph Newsleader story:

“I started sixth grade as a 10-year old. Our second-story classroom was located on the southeast corner of the school. The only windows in our classroom faced east, toward the church. One cold and particularly blue and clear winter morning, Mr. Westerhaus instructed us to stand near the windows. He was ready to start some music, and he requested we be silent and reflective while watching the sun rise over the church.

The class became silent, and the music, Cat Stevens’ Morning has Broken, began. It was sure to be a special moment for both class and teacher. We would experience the wonder and beauty of the rising sun. Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long. I started giggling and soon the entire class became distracted, some joining me in my antics. I was duly reprimanded and sent to the principal’s office.”

Pretty minor. So why the anxiety? My 54-year old logical, adult brain told me to calm down, be cool and pick up the phone. My 11-year old immature, child brain told me to run and hide in a closet and never come out. It was a head-on collision between 54-year old me and 11-year old me.

11-year old Diane.

I sat down, stared out the window and asked myself: Where was my anxiety coming from? Acknowledging wrongs and offering apologies is not always easy. Was that it? Or, was it an unknown, unexamined insecurity I harbored? Wondering (and worrying) if Mr. Westerhaus' impression of the 54-year old me would be favorable? This later hypothesis struck a nerve. Don't we all (on varying levels) want approval and affirmation from the adults and mentors who shaped our lives as children? Parents, teachers, coaches, etc. I was okay with both explanations.

Sufficient courage gathered, 44 years later, I FINALLY spoke (and apologized) to my sixth grade teacher, Mr Westerhaus. (Not sure when his name "Tom" will feel comfortable.) It wasn't awkward like I had imagined. He was cheerful and kind - just how I remembered him. He did indeed remember the "incident." Much to my relief he assured me no apology was necessary.

The 44 year gap soon disappeared. We talked and laughed as we reminisced about that school year, remembering former classmates and colleagues.

I learned that our sixth grade class was the beginning of his 41 year career in education. He eventually became a superintendent ending his career in River Falls, Wisconsin. He is now retired. He is married with four adult children and lives in Hudson, Wisconsin. He is the grandfather of seven beautiful children. (Who he clearly adores as evidenced by his involvement in their lives.) Viewing the picture he sent, I smiled to myself, happy to see a red-head in the bunch.

Mr. Westerhaus - Pictured with wife Betsy and 5 of his 7 grandchildren.

After a delightful, 36 minute conversation, we said our good-byes. We promised to meet sometime this summer during one of his regular visits to the area.

Often in life we don't get second chances. I have never been more grateful for this one.

Note: Thank you to Dennis Dahlman, editor of the St. Joseph Newsleader. Without publishing my Guest Writer story, none of this would have been possible.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Lip Service - Enough Already

Hmmm...to moisturize, color, plump or shimmer?

How dry can lips get? Desert dry if you were to look inside the zipper compartment of my purse. I humorously admit that I have 4 varieties of lip products stuffed in that compartment. I have convinced myself that I need each one. For me, finding just the right lip product "is a journey, not a destination."

Still going strong.

Many people happily traverse life with nothing more than a tube of basic, standard, no-nonsense chap-stick. Much like salt and pepper, white, unflavored chap-stick is a staple lip product. It’s been around for as long as I can remember. Used by men and women alike, it has rightfully earned a spot in every bed night stand, purse, jeans pocket, fanny-pack or sock. Yes, I've tucked lipstick in my socks. Where else when you need to go purse-less? Some, like my husband Kevin, journey through life lip balm naked. Good for them.

Venturing beyond basic chap-stick is where the "journey" gets tricky. Some high-end (and higher priced) makeup counters offer dedicated lip service. (Chortle, chortle) That's fine if you have the time, money and desire. The last time I tried a premium lip service I suffered from a cold sore from the constant "trial and error" removal of each shade.

And this is just one aisle.

I typically stroll the makeup aisles, wondering if spinning in circles and throwing a dart would be easier. Searching for just the right lip product is overwhelming: Ultra-Rich, Super Lustrous, Ultra Matte, Velvet Matte, Melted Matte.

Lip Primer, Lip Pumper, Lip Color, Lip Gloss, Lip Liner, Lip Stain. Shoot me now. It's no wonder my purse and makeup drawers fill with unused lipstick sticks, tubes and applicators.

An upside to lipstick shopping is being amused by some of the clever and brazenly named products: Be Legendary, Full Throttle, Pump it Up. Other shoppers glance my way as I laugh out-loud at the more risqué names: Ecstasy Express, Big and Sexy, Studded Beloved and Wildly Whipped. My loudest guffaw erupting from this doozie: Chubby Stick. (Did I stumble into the wrong store?)

Full Throttle

Little did I know that those early days of simple, no-nonsense, chap-stick use would become a lifetime quest to find the holy grail of lip protection. A “journey" I'm not sure I'll ever fully enjoy.

Chubby Stick

Studded Beloved

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

The Possibilities Are Endless. Part 2

Searching the internet for suitable fairy/gnome home material, I stumbled across the product ShapeCrete. Not carried in-stock at Home Depot, I placed an on-line order through their store. Days later it was delivered for pick up - no shipping costs. I was eager to learn about my discovery.

Humble Beginnings.

Fairy/Gnome Form

My initial excitement however was tempered when I busted the first "gnome home" form out of its container. There was nothing exciting about the hunk of concrete in front of me. I'd been here before: the beginning of a new project. I was familiar with the twinge of anxiety I felt: "Can any good come of this?" I wondered. (See blog post: Fear Gets You Nowhere.) Determined to answer "YES", I rolled up my sleeves.

Can any good come of this?

Seeing is believing...more pictures, less words.

Click on pics to enlarge.

The base was not level - that'd need fixing.

Tracing the door (and windows) for Sculpey molds.

Shaping Sculpey to match the traced pattern.

To the oven.

Molding and cutting Sculpey to an exact fit was challenging. I hoped aluminum foil would stabilize the door and window molds, as they needed to stay curved to fit flush on the house. I am not sure if the molds were jostled in the transfer, but they baked flatter then intended. Another issue to tend to later.