How to be as High on Yourself as I am: a Self-Esteem Primer

An amazing self-portrait, I know.


I drew this myself on my new tablet-mousy-thingy. They call this particular type a "Bamboo," but I honestly don't know why. It's not green or long or a renewable resource. I see no pandas attaching themselves to it. But whatever. Call it what you like, but it's fun to draw my feelings instead of just typing them all the time.

I need the kids to go back to school, like, last Thursday.

This is why I'm at work 90 minutes early today. It's not because I'm trying to get ahead on my to-do list. It's not because I was attempting to beat traffic. It's not because I'm trying to look good to my boss (my boss is my Facebook friend and follows me on Twitter - there's no way I can hide my crazy from her). It's because I get an extra 90 minutes to sit - get this - quietly and uninterrupted while I drink my coffee and write a blog post.

And, for that, you are most welcome.

Last week, I blogged about how being fat and miserable keeps us fat and miserable. And what I mean by that is simple: love your fatty self, because taking care of the body you love is a lot easier than hurting the body you hate by stupid shit like fad dieting. This post, of course, meant my inbox filled up with questions about how someone learns to love themselves as much as I love myself.

To be honest, I likely suffer from a deep-seated narcissism. So you probably don't want to love yourself quite as much as The Maven does. When you start to refer to yourself in the third person and not even question it, you know you have a problem. But I digress...

As I've explained many a time, The Maven wasn't always a big fan of The Maven. (See what I'm talking about?) I am a never-ending work in progress, much like the construction site down the road from you that never seems to produce much of anything despite all the guys standing around there each and every day. One day, they say, there will be condos there. And every once in a while you see a bit of digging, a bit of framing, and think to yourself that they better damn well put a Starbucks on the main floor to make up for all the noise you've endured.

Well, I will also have a Starbucks on my main level when I'm done, and I will make the most delicious lattes. But I'm not quite there yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I have a lot of work to do. But here's what I do know: There are concrete things I've done - and still do - that have helped me get this far. So I'm going to share them with you, what with me being such a self-help expert and all. (Please stop laughing.)

1. Let's look at this rationally.
We have one life to live. One. (Unless you believe in reincarnation. But then you might be born a toad or or a mushroom or something, so that doesn't really count anyway.) Do you really want to waste it feeling like shit all the time? What purpose is that serving? And believe me: It is serving some kind of purpose, so you need to figure out what that is.

Are you keeping yourself down because you're afraid of taking any steps to fix it? Is it comfortable doing what you're doing, even if it's not pleasant? Do you get some kind of attention from it? (AKA, having other people feed your ego by saying "Don't say that about yourself! It's not true!" That's not self-esteem, and it's not going to make you feel better about yourself. Like a junkie, you'll always be looking for the next compliment fix. Been there, done that.) Are you afraid of succeeding? Are you afraid of becoming ridiculously arrogant if you're not meek and mild all the time?

News flash: Being ridiculously arrogant is my job, not yours. You can't have it, so you'll have to settle for feeling confident. I know that sucks, but that's how it's gonna go down.

Anyway, figure out what's keeping you down. If it's fear, work through it. If it's depression, open up and talk to someone. If it's traumatic childhood issues, watch a few episodes of Hoarders and realize that pretty much everyone has traumatic childhood issues, but we need to work on letting them go and live for today, or face a lifetime of garbage collection and dead, buried cats.

2. Get over yourself, you big, whiny baby.
Having figured out what's keeping you down, it's time to let that go. Have a good cry if you need to. Say goodbye to the pity party, eat your last self-hatred sandwich. You are not a victim today. You are awesome. You are stuffed full of amazing (and maybe that self-hatred sandwich you just ate. But don't worry, you'll digest it soon). You are capable of great things if you'll just let yourself do them.

3. Come up with something you like about yourself every day. Yes, EVERY DAY.
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, or whatever. That sounded like a good spot to throw in a Chinese proverb (my apologies to the Chinese if this saying doesn't belong to you. It just sounds like something your wise people would say. It's a compliment, ok?).

Anyway, the thing is, we all have stuff we don't particularly like about ourselves - even me. And now I'm asking you to compliment yourself every day. But start small: if your problem is that you don't like your weight, don't look in the mirror and say "My inner thighs look great today" because you'll probably just start crying while you say it, and that just defeats the whole purpose. Likewise, if your problem is that you're missing an arm from an unfortunate zoo accident, don't say "The lion left a really nice nub at the end of my shoulder" because that will likely have the same result. You can't start with the big stuff. If you could, you'd already have good self-esteem and not need to read this stupid primer.

My issue has mostly been my weight and how ugly I thought I looked because of it. I did not start with that. I started with non-physical things I appreciate in myself. I would look in the mirror and say - out loud, like a crazy woman - "I'm a pretty good writer" or "I'm very involved in my kids' lives and that makes me a good mom" or "I can arrange a beautiful wild flower bouquet." Anything at all that is positive about me. One thing each day, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. No exceptions. 

Why do I do this? Because I'm slowly building up my army of good to defend against the army of darkness (not the movie) that is occupying my head. Every time I plant a positive thought in my brain, it's like planting one troop in a hot zone. Every day the army grows. If it helps you to envision some yummy, sweaty, young infantry guy, go for it. I won't judge. Just do it.

4. Now come up with something harder you like about yourself - every day.
This step comes when you're ready. Step 3 can be done for a very long time or a very short time before implementing step 4. You'll know when it's time. You'll know because you'll test the waters by saying something like "I have very beautiful eyes" and you won't burst into fits of laughter or roll those very beautiful eyes after you say it. You'll believe it. 

Since physical appearance has been my Achilles heel when it comes to self-esteem, being able to slip in some compliments about the way I look was a good indicator that my army of light was growing in numbers. It took me a long time to really like my hair (I know, right? As if! I have great hair.) It took me a long time to like my smile. It took a very, very long time to be able to tell myself I looked pretty in what I was wearing, or to find myself worthy of - and rather stunning in - a beautiful dress in a size 18.

But I got there, slowly.

If you're frustrated by how long it takes to get good at step 4, just remember: At least you're making progress, which is a hell of a lot better than when you were crying into a bag of Oreos before step 1. Progress, not perfection. Baby steps. Enjoy the process, because, when you think about it, we never really reach a destination. We just travel more happily, and the scenery gets a lot nicer.

5. Beat negativity to death with a stick.
Steps 3, 4 and 5 can and should be done daily - when you get there. The thing about our society is that it thrives on negativity. We're fed all these messages every day through the media that we're not good enough unless we look a certain way, reach a certain income level, and own certain things. We're expected to be fountains of youth with fat bank accounts and huge, eerily white smiles plastered on our faces. That's how selling stuff works. Marketing 101; I didn't even have to get a degree to understand that basic concept.

The army of darkness (not the movie) will always be present and waiting for your forces to weaken. You need to replenish your troops regularly with compliments and recognition, surround yourself with positive, loving people, and shun the negative.  It is so easy to pick ourselves apart when we're bombarded with messages telling us to do exactly that. Make your world as safe and healthy as possible.

Despite my best efforts, I find that I sometimes still put myself down. I might have had a bad day, or I'm hormonal, or there's another area of my life not going the way I wish it would and I'm in full-on attack mode on myself. The difference is that I recognize when it's happening now and I fight back against it. If I think to myself "Look at those fat rolls. I'm digusting!" I quickly follow that up with "Maven. you've had a bad day, but you're still beautiful no matter what size you are. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's going to be okay." Blammo! Troops are parachuting into enemy territory. It really works - especially if you do this regularly.

And if you're struggling, just come on down and sit in my Starbucks for a bit. I'll make you a latte and tell you how awesome you are. Promise.

Why Being Fat and Miserable keeps us Fat and Miserable

What a scary scale. Please never buy me one of these.


This was my status on Facebook this evening: "Day 1 of sugar/simple carb detox. I feel like poop. My body hates me, but it will thank me in the long run. That is all."

Yep, I'm doing a sugar cleanse. And people probably think I'm nuts. But I'm hoping this will do my body some good - and maybe take off a few pounds, too.


I have pretty good self-esteem for a fat chick. Actually, I think I have pretty good self-esteem for any chick.  This has taken a tremendous amount of work on my part to talk my psyche down from the ledge on a daily basis as it's continuously bombarded by messages telling me I shouldn't like myself very much at all.

Nothing bothers me more than when a woman is down on herself for not looking like an airbrushed, boobatronic supermodel. I want to slap her, and shake her, and tell her she's beautiful. But then I remember that slapping and shaking a woman doesn't help her self-esteem, either. Well, unless she's into that kind of thing. (And then I would charge. Hey, don't judge: inside this meek and mild exterior is an entrepreneurial spirit.)

I am fat, and generally I am okay with that. It's not that I love being overweight, it's just that the adoration I have for myself does not hang in the balance of what dress size I wear. Like most other humpty-dumpties I know, I do dream of fitting into lawn chairs more comfortably (those cheap plastic sides can really dig in - especially when one is wearing shorts), but I don't lie awake at night wondering if I'll ever be pretty. I'm already pretty, thanks. And I don't walk the streets with my head down, feeling inferior to my smaller-sized counterparts. I'm a worthy biatch who smiles wider than her hips, makes plenty of eye contact, has a firm handshake and expects the same level of respect and kindness that everyone else gets.

Okay, fine: I expect a higher level of respect and kindness because I am The Maven and thus somewhat goddess-like. But I digress. 

Nearly everyone I know is trying to lose weight, or talking about losing weight, or at the very least thinking about losing weight. And many people I know - women, especially - are doing it because they "hate" their bodies. Like, cry-in-the-bathroom-mirror-after-a-shower type of hate. This is how I used to feel not too long ago, too.  I figured that accepting myself in my current situation would mean I'd be giving in to being a chubby checker, and I would just get bigger and bigger until I had to sew tablecloths together to make summertime patio party moomoos.

But here's what I learned about trying to do something good for yourself when you're busily self-deprecating:

It. 

Doesn't. 

Work.

Here's an example of my previous way of thinking: I wake up in a good mood and have a shower. When I'm toweling off I have a quick glance in the mirror.

Disgust sets in.

Suddenly I'm thinking about how much I despise the way I look, and why can't I stop being such a slob, and look at my fat ass, and how could anyone find me attractive, and why does Tommy's mom look like she's a size 4 and yet has a fatty latte and a muffin in her hand every time I see her, and why can't I just find the time to exercise, and I suck for being this lazy, and I just totally hate myself and my stupid body and it's not fair.

And then I slap on whatever clothes will cover the parts of me I find the grossest and tell myself that'll do until I have a nice body and can buy nice clothes for it, and I sort of do my hair and I sort of do my makeup, but I don't put a lot of effort in because I'm not going to look good anyway because I'm fat. Belugas with lipstick on are still belugas, right?

By the time I arrive where I'm going, I'm not just fat. I'm fat, un-kept and have a serious case of bitch face because I'm so miserable in my own skin. I've beaten myself up enough that I've made the problem a lot worse.

And yet, in that horrible head space, I will decide I need to eat better and exercise so I can be skinny and happy (note that the two of them are synonymous at this point; more on that later). Here's a newsflash:

That doesn't fucking work, either.

The minute I try to do anything out of negativity it goes awry. If I eat a bunch of carrot sticks I just get angry that I have to eat a bunch of carrot sticks to feed my stupid, sluggish metabolism. I feel deprived. And if I exercise, all I can focus on is how my fat is all jiggly and I probably look like a total idiot in these yoga pants. And when I weigh myself and see I haven't lost, or haven't lost as much as I think I have, it completely negates all the hard work I've been doing and gives my hopes of ever being skinny and happy (See? Those two words again) the beating of a lifetime. Before long, I'm elbow deep in a bag of chips, berating myself for it the next morning, and giving up on exercise because I'm a big, huge failure.

In short, I am my own worst enemy and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If I don't like myself then I'm not going to want to do good things for myself. Period. Why would you do something for someone you don't like? And if I try to do it for my kids, or my spouse, or whoever else it might be for, I'm going to run out of steam pretty damn quick.

I'm old hat at this. I've played the same games with myself over and over again for years: Either I "don't have time to take care of myself right now" or "I'm so ugly/fat/disgusting/whatever that I have to do something drastic RIGHT NOW." There was very little in-between in my world for many years.

One day, I woke up and I just got really tired of feeling so down all the time. I realized that it wasn't about my weight, it was about my attitude.

Like any good structure, one needs to start from the ground up. A solid foundation is crucial to any success plan. Not too long ago, I started laying that foundation for myself. I stopped doing any exercise I didn't enjoy. I stopped chastising myself for every "unhealthy" thing I put in my mouth. I picked out clothing that compliment the body shape I have today instead of waiting for that magic number on the scale or dress size that would make it okay to look fabulous. I worked hard to remind myself that I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can't--

Oops. That last part is someone else's mantra. But suffice to say that I tell myself I'm beautiful every day. Having done it for awhile now, I'm starting to believe it. Those old messages can take years to erase, and my worry has always been that if I don't love myself today - for who I am right now - then I'm never going to love myself no matter what size I am. And I refuse to go my entire life disliking the wonderful person I am. That is a life wasted, and I simply won't do it another day.

This has taken a lot of effort and a great deal of time. I've had moments - especially PMS moments - where I feel depleted, tearful, disgusting. But like any kind of cognitive work, I'm slowly reshaping the landscape of my scary little brain; I'm teaching it to filter out all those negative media and social messages so I can focus on one thing: unconditionally loving myself.

Now that I know how much I rock, it's easier to make good choices. I don't like my body feeling sick, so I took out gluten and feel much better. A pleasant side effect is that I dropped a couple of dress sizes, have more energy, less anxiety, far better nails and skin, and my digestive system loves me again.

I didn't like my body feeling sore, so I had my incisional hernia repaired. And now that things are improving - no more hematoma, no more bleeding, staples out - I'll soon be able to exercise again. I'm looking forward to getting my body back into shape so I have more energy. And, of course, the happy side effect to that might be that I lose some weight. And that would be great, but it's no longer an absolute when it comes to feeling good about myself.

Today was my first day cutting out all refined sugar and simple carbs. Why did I decide to do this? For the same reason: health. There's a very good chance that I'll lose weight in the process, and I'm sure this pudgezilla will look ravishing with more of a waistline, but even if I don't lose a pound I'm sure I'll feel better and add years to my life. These seemingly drastic steps are so easy to do when I put myself in a place of honour and respect the hell out of me. I might even slaughter a few goats on my shrine of awesome while I'm at it (goat burgers, anyone?)

Anyway, I guess I just want to see more people think they're as great as I think I am. It's lonely up here with only a handful of celebrities and narcissists to keep me company most of the time. So do me a favour and work on loving you if you don't already, ok? You deserve it. You are deliciously gorgeous right now, just as you are. There is so much more to you than your fat genes - or fat jeans, for that matter. And if a girl like me can look in the mirror and feel great, you can, too. Please don't make me slap you.

Well, at least not until we work out a price. And I might need to go find me a leather outfit or two to really get into the roll. Mistress Maven; I kind of like the sound of that.

Buckets of Joyfulness, and other crap I've realized.



Epiphanies suck because they happen just when you're all busy crying and feeling sorry for yourself and shit. 

So we all know it's been nearly a month since I've blogged. Did I mention the giant hematoma in my stomach? The constant bleeding for four weeks? The multiple trips to the hospital to see the surgeon, the ultrasound, the constant changing of sterile pads and gauze that now make my period look like a pleasant walk in the park? "Have a happy period"? Oh, I will. I will because a period in no way resembles the bleeding that might occur when one is stabbed in the stomach - which is pretty much what I lived with for several weeks.

Then there's the fact that all three gremlins are home for the summer, my family was wound up to the point of busting a spring or twelve, the house looked like it had been hit with a weapon of mass destruction by the time I could start cleaning it again, and I have a part-time job to go to; we can see where a serious lack of creativity may have occurred.

Have I been a little depressed? Anxious? Unhappy? Downright fucking miserable? Perhaps. Not only does this lend poorly to writing, but to living in general. It is really hard to want to do much of anything when you're chronically unhappy, and I've had many reasons to feel that way.

But what I gained from this experience - this fairly unpleasant, stressful experience - is that it helped me hit some kind of emotional bottom. I hit these every so often; a low point in which I have to reassess exactly what I want in life, where I want to direct my limited energy, and what I need to do to achieve those things. Naturally the exhibitionist attention whore in me has made a to-do list, in no particular order, Maven-style (you may want to take notes):

Fall in love with my partner all over again - without making three more babies together (emphasis on the NO MORE BABIES part, thank you).
Some wise person once said that marriage is like a garden, and that it can get overcrowded with weeds if you don't tend it, and those weeds get huge and overbearing and get little spikes on them and end up choking the life out of the pretty little flowers of love and affection, and then the dandelions turn into fluffy things that get caught in your nose when your partner blows on them, which sends you into a frenzy of resentment because why couldn't he blow that shit the other way, and you end up sneezing your way to divorce court.

Or something like that.

Underneath the years of baby-making and child rearing and financial stressors and all-nighters and tantrums and exhaustion, there are two people who love each other and miss spending time together. When you're buried in babies, it's easy to forget that this person is the reason you have those beautiful little beastlies in the first place. Reconnecting with Geekster has become a big priority in my life, every day. We're talking more, working together more, laughing more, going out together more, and putting in the effort to make our relationship the heart of our family. It's awesome. I feel like I have my best friend back. Eighteen years together is a long time, and I'm looking forward to the next eighteen.

Spend more quality time with The Gremlins Three without going bat shit crazy.
This pretty much goes without saying, but the horned wonders are the little moons that circle my planet - or, at times, the meteors that crash into it. They either control the tides or render large creatures extinct - both important roles in planetary evolution, really.

The boys need more of my positive attention so that maybe they can stop seeking so much of my - ahem - negative attention. Now that I'm able to move around and drive again, we've been hitting up museums and parks with more frequency. I've been putting my fear of epic meltdowns aside and realizing that if someone starts screaming, we can always leave; it doesn't mean we shouldn't go in the first place. Yes, we have a four-year-old who challenges everything right now and an eight-year-old with special needs who can get very defiant, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't go out and live - intelligently, of course.

This weekend, we attended a family-friendly BBQ. We stayed just over three hours, then packed up after dinner and said our goodbyes. Everyone was calm and playing nicely, so why did we leave just then? Because Geekster and I knew that we had hit the sweet spot: The kids had played enough and were just tired enough that they would likely leave happily. If we stayed much longer, we'd have to take off quickly with someone screaming and kicking while in the fireman's hold over my husband's shoulder. So the trick is to go out and experience life as a typical family, but also know when it's time to head back home for some decompression time. At any rate, the boys seem a lot happier lately, and as such we are all a lot happier. And this is saying something, considering it's summer: the cosmic joke on stay-at-home-moms.

Extended family: yes, I really do have some.
I'm fortunate enough that my parents and siblings and grandma all live in the same town as I do. And yet I don't see them nearly as much as I'd like. This is a damn shame, because they're all awesome people (it's genetic) and we should see a lot more of each other. So another priority for me is to connect more with them. I feel a little sorry for them that they don't get a Maven fix as much as they should, so we can call this an outreach program. You're welcome, family unit.

Friends - those great people you wish were family because they know exactly what to get you for your birthday.
This shouldn't come as a big surprise to anyone, but I'm really popular. This became even more apparent over the last few weeks, as people regularly checked up on me post-op, and did everything from drop off a coffee and a hug to clean the house and cook us a meal. My friends deserve a standing ovation for being so wonderful (I just need to finish my coffee first, ok?)

The thing about friendships is that they are relationships, and as such require their own bit of emotional landscaping. I've given a lot of thought recently to what makes a good friend, and how I can be a better one. What I've concluded is this: Good friends leave a conversation feeling mutually enriched, fulfilled and positive. This is how I want to feel when I interact with my friends and, just as importantly, this is what I want to give back to them. No head games, no passive-aggressiveness, no manipulation, no drama. Just good stuff, love, laughs, support, hugs. I think I'm a good friend most of the time, but having given it a lot of thought, I see room for improvement. I know this is shocking, being as I'm so fabulous and all, but it's true. So I'm going to focus on bringing joy to my friends' lives, which will only serve in bringing me joy as well. And then we'll all have buckets of joyfulness, and I'll likely get a Nobel Peace Prize for discovering said buckets and ending all wars.

Attitude. Oh, do I ever have some.
What I've been reminded of recently is that happiness is a state of mind. It's a choice. It's not something that is created or taken away from outside influences. Yes, there are big catastrophic situations that can suffocate a person's happy for a time. But, overall, most of how we see life is based on how we choose to see it. I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy for a good while. But you know what? I've had plenty of reasons to be happy, too. I've just overlooked those in favour of focusing on the negative stuff.

As such, I'm making a conscious effort each day to look for the good stuff in my life and celebrate it. There may be plenty of suck, but there will always be plenty of suck. There will also be many things that are plenty of great. I'll deal with the suck, but I'll also invite in the great. And thus, I will be even more kick ass than I already am, if that's even possible.

Buckets of Joyfulness, Batman! You've hit on something big! (See? It's already happening - my buckets are being mainstreamed into the English language)

What's big on your priority list? (Other than reading my blog, of course...)

Why Surgery is My Dream Come True

Mmmmmorphine.

 I had originally mentioned that my surgery was June 21st. That was a big giant fib told to me by some mean lady at the hospital, who then told me something else (actually she was quite nice and apologetic, but that doesn't sound nearly as dramatic). In fact, it is tomorrow, the 23rd.

Tomorrow morning I head into a lovely country hospital about 45 minutes from here, will be put under, sliced open, meshed shut, and will spend the next three days or so in bed before I'm able to come home.

I can't wait. This is sounding more and more exciting to me by the hour.

Tonight, as I was chasing Gutsy and Spawnling through a parking lot, then through the aisles at a grocery store whilst having my arms unceremoniously packed two feet high with various forms of high-fructose corn syrup (operation Buy Their Love complete), a list of reasons why this surgery is not only required, but needed, started running through my head. Here's what I've come up with:

Time to Myself
I've been a mom for fourteen years, and have had maybe four nights away from my children in that time. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm willing to get my gut cut open and barbaric things done to my insides in the name of some time off. Desperate times call for desperate measures. To celebrate my alone-ness, I have packed two books, a few magazines, my iPhone and headphones and am praying they still offer me free cable. Nothing says "I have nothing better to do" than watching The View.

Say Yes to Drugs
Unless you're living under a rock, you probably know I'm in recovery. That means I'm stone cold sober at all times: No drinking, no drugs, not ever, in just over twenty years. The exception to this rule, of course, is if they're administered at a hospital under strict control for the purpose of pain management. I am not-so-secretly hoping to get stoned out of my everlovin' mind for a couple of days. I'll be happy as can be, it'll pass the time, I'll sleep a lot, and I'll probably engage in some serious Stonedbooking and Tweeting while I'm at it to amuse the masses. You're welcome.

Not cleaning
I don't even think I need to elaborate here. Mothers everywhere are breathing heavily at the enticing thought of not having to lift a finger for days, if not weeks. I think I'll enjoy it at first and then will be dying to clean something - anything - before I'm given the green light to do so. But until the twitches start up, I'm going to enjoy every unproductive minute.

Quiet
I know hospitals aren't quiet, but they're a hell of a lot quieter than Casa Maven. There are not three unbridled boys running through the joint, knocking, misplacing, breaking, manipulating, and disorganizing everything. I know I'll miss my Gremlins Three. I really will. And I'll likely sleep better once I'm drifting off to the sounds of their tirades and tantrums again. But in the meantime, I'll just up the morphine drip and listen to the soothing beeps of the monitors.


Staying in Bed
"Mom? Moooom? MOOOOM?? MOOOOOOOOOOOM??!! ... Can I have some cereal?"
"It's 6:15 on a Sunday, and you know how to pour your own cereal."
"But I can't open the baaaaag. And the milk is emptyyyy."
There will be none of that.
All. Weekend. Long.

Booyeah.



Room Service
"Nurse? Nuuuurse? NUUUUURSE!? NUUUUUUUUUUUUURSE?!?"
"You have a call button beside you bed, Maven."
"I know, but it's more fun to yell for you. Anyway, can you get me a coffee?"
"...Again? Didn't you just have one?"
"But, but, I should really make good use of this provincially-funded catheter, and I'm an invalid with a stapled wound, trapped in a bed, and life is hard. And come on now, do you really want to see my sad face? Look how pretty I am with this mascara on. This hotness can't be redone with swollen red eyes, girlfriend."
"*sigh* Fine."
"Thanks, toots. Two cream, k?"
Oh hellz, yeah.

See you on the flip side. And don't worry, I'll be back. I'm speaking at BOLO two weeks post-op, so I'll be sure to get plenty of rest, blog from bed, and get better - fast.

Coming Down with a Case of Bitchface

It really didn't seem like a big deal to be in a sling at first. Really, it didn't. After I epically threw myself down the stairs earlier this week in an attempt to be right (my ego knows no bounds) and sprained my shoulder, I tried to look on the bright side: It's not broken. It doesn't need a cast, nor does it need surgery. A week in a sling is no big deal.

Besides, when you're The Maven and your body is a gluten-free health hive where immunity makes the most delicious honey, you don't worry about this stuff as much. I rarely get sick, and I will undoubtedly heal quickly because I. Kick. Ass. A week? More like two days and I'll be flinging my arm around, whipping up a morning latte and throwing together lunches. Flinging, I tell you! Flinging!

Three days in, I have changed my tune - just a little bit.

First of all, I'm not getting better nearly as quickly as I'd like. Secondly, most of that is probably my fault. This limited mobility thing is seriously suckish when you have three kids and a job and a blog. It's hard to type with one hand, especially when it's not your dominant one. So I generally type with two and regret it later. And as much as my incredible husband does around the house, there's still more than he can manage alone. Spawnling still needs help with those buttons when it's just he and I, and I'm still chief operating officer of Mom's Preschool-to-Puberty Limousine Service.

Go ahead, shake your finger at me (but not on your right hand or I'll get a little jealous). Roll your eyes at me. Tsk-tsk at me. Get angry and tell me I should be taking it easy. You're absolutely right. I berate myself regularly for not resting more. But that doesn't change reality. I'm not trying to play martyr here, people. I am a mother: If you don't want me to use my arm at all for an entire week, you'd better sew it into my side, because otherwise it's going to get used. There's no way around it.

But worse than the need to do things, is the eerie desire to do them. Yes, it's true: even when nobody needs a thing and I have a couch and a TV at my disposal, I have a hard time sitting still for long. I've been a stay-at-home-parent for over a decade; the need to putter about, tidy up, sort something, plan a meal, or generally just check up on everything has been assimilated into my DNA. It's the most frustrating thing to make myself sit down when I know the table has a juice spill large enough to become the ant orgy-equivalent of a Roman bath house. Can Geekster clean it? Would Gutsy happily take care of it if I asked him? Absolutely. But that's not the point. It feels lazy and wrong and downright sinful to watch a romantic comedy while the bathroom sink is smeared with toothpaste. Must. Clean. The. Toothpaste.

The problem, of course, is that if I don't take it easy, this sling ain't coming off any time soon. I'll be stuck wearing it or some other restrictive torture device for longer than a week. And then my bitchface will be permanent.

Yes, I said "bitchface," as in "the face made by a bitch," or "The Maven has a giant bitchface going on right now." Boredom coupled with chronic pain will do that to a chick, ok?

What's that? You don't think it's possible that I - the sweet and wonderful human being I am - could look bitchy. Yes, I am generally full of amazingness, but even the mighty falter at times. Observe:

Day 2.
Bitchface setting in. Note symptomatic eyes.
Also note pretty sparkly scarf used as sling.
Vanity for the win.

Day 3.
Full-on case of Bitchvisio Maximus.
Boring grey sling with better support. Boo.


I keep telling myself I'm going to get scowl lines. Being a somewhat vain individual, this may be just the thing to cure me. That or chocolate-covered almonds, which have not materialized in my world recently. I may have to treat myself tomorrow - you know, for medicinal reasons - in the name of curing the bitchface.

I vow to rest my arm now and go watch the hot dudes in Supernatural. They're not chocolate-covered almonds, but they sure are yummy.

How to be Popular Even When You're Kind of a Douche


"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart, and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." - Unknown.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I wrote about feeling like absolute garbage? Well, you can breathe again: I'm feeling much better. You can probably gather that from my last few posts about my awesome life. It was a blip on the radar screen of life, albeit a decent-sized one. The Maven is back full-force, spreading greatness to all her sheeple.

But surprisingly, this post is not about my greatness. If you're a friend of mine, it's about yours. And if you're not a friend of mine, pretend you are and feel good about yourself for a few minutes. But, like, not in a stalker-ish way because that's creepy.

When I was at my absolute lowest, when I felt quite alone in the world, all I had to do was send out an SOS to a friend, and - ka-pow! - I had a drive to a restaurant, a cup of coffee in my hands, and someone to listen and tell me everything was going to be okay. The friend in question was the first person I reached out to, and she responded without hesitation. I doubt she realizes the impact of her simple act of kindness, but it was immense. I am indebted for a very long time. Good thing she likes coffee.

What I realized - and what is key for me to remember in those yucky times - is that there are many other people I could have reached out to who would have done the same thing in a heartbeat. And with that in mind, it's hard to feel alone.

That night was but one of many recent reminders that my life is full of amazing human beings. There have been so many more acts of kindness in the last little while. I'd list them all, but you wouldn't believe me. I hardly believe it myself. This weekend alone had me feeling so happy that I almost blew up in a sticky mess gratitude. It would have taken Geekster weeks to clean me off of the upholstery.

All kidding, all ego, all narcissistic tendencies aside for once, I don't know what I do to deserve the quality of friendship in my life. I really don't.  I tell my husband all the time that I must have a social horseshoe placed somewhere in my lower quadrant, because there is no other reasonable explanation. My support circle is forever expanding, improving, and filling to the brim with these loving, supportive, far-more-awesome-than-I-am people. I am humbled by their strength, their wisdom, their courage, their resilience. They are truly what keep me going some days when chaos tries to pull me under. And I have three boys, folks, so believe me: my life is well-acquainted with chaos.

There are days when I spend far too much time trying to figure out how to give back to everyone. I really don't think I give out nearly as much love as what comes in. I am a mooch of epic proportions. I don't keep up with everyone like I wish I could, I don't always promptly return phone calls or emails. I admit to feeling enormously guilty about that. I'm like a bad boyfriend who takes and takes and takes and doesn't even call on our anniversary. No flowers at the door, no declaration of love in the Facebook relationship status. My name should be Chad or Tad or some other heartbreaker jock name that makes you want to cry into your pompoms.

Tonight, while trying to decide what to blog about, I threw the question out into cyberspace via a status update. The suggestions I received ranged from "sibling rivalry" to my obvious Facebook addiction (I'll have you know I can quit any time I want to.) While I was looking over the list, the answer became clear: My friends. I shall write about my friends, and thank them from the bottom of my heart for being wonderful.

I shall dedicate this post to them because, in the end, who cares whether I return phone calls or ask people about their day? If I write one blog post about everyone, that will make it all better. We'll be even Steven. Then I won't look like a douchebag moocher anymore because I'll be thanking everyone, bulk-email style. People love that stuff, right?

Right?

Don't argue with The Maven. I'm drowning in my own popularity. I must be doing something right.

So thank you. Really and truly, thank you. Until I come up with better ways to give back, this will have to do. It goes without saying that every girl needs good people in her corner, and my corner has an entire pyramid of broken-hearted cheerleaders yelling "Why, Chad-Tad? WHY?!?" 

12 Reasons to go Back to Work after 12 Years

1. You get offered a near-perfect job. The hours fit, the work suits you, the commute is short, and you still get to sit around in your jammies for three weekdays and a weekend if you so choose (and you so choose). You've been working from home doing contracts for a couple of years, but this will get your foot in the office door once again.

2. The heating company is sending you polite reminders to pay your exorbitant oil bill, and any offers made by you to "work it out in trade" have resulted in the threat of sexual harrassment lawsuits.  Prudes.

3. Going somewhere where the furniture isn't covered in peanut butter stains* is a nice change of pace.

4. Being able to think clearly - and not just in between bouts of intense fighting/screaming/threatening/toy-launching - is a really neat trick that you look forward to.

5. Getting organized down to the minutest detail the night before you drive everyone to school and yourself to work brings out your inner OCD Virgo, and she tingles with glee at the thought. Lunches made, clothes laid out, house clean, bags packed-- oh, there we go, getting all excited again...

6. You just happen to work for the coolest boss lady on the planet, and you're not even exaggerating all that much, even though she reads your blog. (Reading your blog, incidentally, just ups her coolness level, anyway). You've known her for awhile, share a mutual love of caffeine and Doctor Who, and she gets what it's like to be a mom who's trying to balance a job, too. I have struck managerial gold, people. May this mine be bountiful.

7. The Boss Lady says you can use the space during off hours to practice with your Justin Bieber interpretive dance troop. (You did say that was okay, right, Nat? I'm pretty sure you also said you wanted to join)

8. After your first day of work, there's a knock on the door, and a flower shop delivery person hands you a big bouquet of these:

Thank you for being my cheerleader, Lil.
It means a lot! xo

9. After over a decade, you get a little giddy saying "I have to go to the office this morning." In fact, any excuse to say it is welcome, and your Facebook statuses are filled with those words to a sickening degree. Thankfully, everyone must sense your excitement, because they're being uber supportive. Thus, when you're CEO of Awesomecorp (I'm a working mom now, folks. It's all about ambition! AMBITION!!) you shall reward them all for their allegiance to your corporate ladder climbing campaign.

10. As a writer, you're going to enjoy coming up with interesting ways to present your administrative assistant tasks during Career Day at your child's school. It takes an enormous amount of talent to make "filing" and "proofreading" sound like "surgical rotation" and "space exploration," but I think I can do it. I look forward to exercising my imagination muscles like most other parents on the planet.

11. Because you finally had an excuse (like you needed an excuse) to buy one of these beautiful things to put in place of worship upon your kitchen counter:

My life is now complete.

12. Your husband hugs you this morning, hands you a coffee, and says "I just want to thank you for everything you do to keep this family running smoothly. You're amazing and beautiful.**" And that small little thing blossoms into a really big thing and makes you get all teary. Dammit. And you realize that all the work you do - both inside and outside the home - is incredibly important to the your little family. That feels so. very. good.

*The jury's still out on whether or not those stains are peanut butter or another brown, organic substance, but I will deny, deny, deny until it can be proven otherwise.

**Okay, maybe he didn't say the "beautiful" part, but that was assumed, even in my nasty pyjama pant getup. It's not a workday, okay? Cut me some slacks.

Self-Esteem

SELF-ESTEEM noun


confidence in one's own worth or abilities ; self-respect ; 
Some days, The Maven's self-esteem could use a giant coffee.

Yesterday, a friend of mine mentioned a recent US study that showed women with self-esteem issues tend to post more pictures of themselves online.

Why did she tell me this? She suggested that I take, well, a few too many pictures of myself.

Me, The Maven. Humble, quiet, mild-mannered me. Can you believe it? Well, I have...


NO


IDEA


WHAT


SHE'S


TALKING


ABOUT.

The girl is clearly delusional.

All kidding aside, she's right. I take way too many pictures of myself, and I do have self-worth issues. I will be the first to admit that I, like 99% of women out there, do struggle with my confidence levels. It's not that I think I'm hideous, it's just that I've spent a fair bit of my life trying to convince myself that I'm at least kind of pretty. Years of bullying and weight issues will do that to you. And I take lots of pictures so that I can hopefully capture the one that will make me think "Why, I believe I might have been wrong all these years. I'm not that bad looking after all!"

Despite all the brokenness mentioned above, I do surprisingly have a bit of self-esteem. I really do. You might have to squint to see it, but it's there. It precariously balances next to my ego, and they go back and forth in this tug-of-war for ultimate control.

My ego is like a big, bright bouncy castle that you'll see at any community fair. It screams "HEY! LOOK AT ME! OVER HERE!" and wants you very much to pay attention to it. When you do, it's thrilled. It gets even bigger and brighter and shinier.

But when you don't - because, say, you have your own life and you're too busy to really pay it the attention it wants - it's quick to deflate, pack up and go home, defeated. Obviously you don't care. You don't love me. You won't pay attention to me. I'm temporarily devastated.

Self-esteem is different; it's not based on how many people jump up and down excitedly on me (uh...). It doesn't care if you don't think it's pretty or smart or talented. It sits just behind the bouncy castle, slowly building itself up, brick by brick. It's taken years - and a copious amount of therapy - to create the foundation. You can't see it until that big annoying castle deflates, but it's there. It's smaller, less obvious - and far more solid. It will never puncture, it will never waiver. It's there for the long haul.

As much as I talk about the excitement of going back to work, I truly believe being a full-time stay-at-home-mom has taught me a lot about self-esteem. When there are no accolades, no pretty clothes, no reasons to put on makeup, no pay cheques rolling in; when there are only demanding kids, dirty dishes, runny noses and scribbled-on walls all day, every day - the only way to feel good about yourself is to feel good about yourself.


Yourself. You.

Because if you don't feel good about who you are, you're going to get depressed and lonely and feel worthless. It's so easy to fall into that as a stay-at-home-parent. There has to come a point where you stop looking elsewhere for who you are and find it within yourself, no matter where you are. That's self-esteem.

I definitely have some confidence issues, and my self-esteem foundation may be small, but I have one. Realizing that I need to be my biggest cheerleader is what made that little miracle happen.

But no, you won't see me taking any pictures in a squad uniform. Are you kidding? I don't have a self-esteem warehouse, people. It's, like, a shack, plastered with pictures of myself for you to compliment me on.

What's bigger in your world? The foundation or the bouncy castle? And how did you get there?

Traditional

tra·di·tion

noun \trə-ˈdi-shən\
1
a : an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior (as a religious practice or a social custom)


Thanks again to the folks on my Facebook fan page who threw a heck of a lot of words my way when I asked for some writing inspiration. I was happily surprised only about half of them were insults and curses. You sure know how to treat a gal!

I just about died laughing when the word "traditional" was suggested. Not because it's a bad word, but because I consider myself anything but.

"Are you serious, Maven?" You ask loudly, nearly spilling your piping hot coffee all over the keyboard as you jump out of your seat. I get where you're coming from, readers. I'm a stay-at-home-mom to three kids in the suburbs. I do a ridiculous amount of baking and cook lots of lovely meals for my family. I married a boy I met when I was in high school. I drive a minivan and volunteer in the classroom. It doesn't get much more traditional than that, does it?

But you need to excavate just a little deeper than that, my dear sheeple. In the words of my idol, Glee's Sue Sylvester, let me break it down for you. Here are five things that will shatter the Holly Housewife impression of yours truly:

1. I moved out on my own at 16.
Not exactly typical for a Canadian teenager, but there you have it. I hope like crazy none of my kids are dumb enough to follow in my footsteps, but that's what I needed to do at the time. I couch-surfed for a little while, spent a couple of memorable nights in stairwells, a few months in halfway houses, and a short but terrifying stint at the downtown YM/YWCA. I did this all while still going to school and maintaining a decent average. It was the best and worst time of my life. I didn't always know where my next meal was going to come from, but I had a deep belief that it wouldn't always be like this. And it hasn't been, thankfully. A few months after moving out, I met the love of my life, and together we built this awesome little family.

2. I've been clean and sober since June 13, 1991.
This is the day I entered a six-month live-in treatment program and my life changed forever. This year will mark my 20th one sober. And yes, that would have made me fourteen. Can you really be an addict at fourteen? Um, yeah, dude. Trust me on that one. I now have a fourteen-year-old. This year it's really hit me just how young I was. To be so broken at that age is unbelievable. This non-traditional experience of mine means that when I say to him "And remember: I can smell alcohol from a mile away" I'm not kidding - and he knows it. Having been the teen my friends' parents hated, I know how being bad works. My poor gremlins are going to have a very difficult time hiding any kind of rebellion from me. I almost feel sorry for them. But it definitely makes me a very aware (and probably far too paranoid) mom.

3. I absolutely love Eminem and other naughty music.
Ever hear me rap along to Jay-Z? That's too bad; you're really missing out. My minivan regularly bumps mad beats as I drive to the school board for a Special Education Advisory Committee meeting. I sort of teeter on trashy, but I'm not quite there just yet. Thank goodness I'm well-spoken. And I refuse to sing/rap any verses with double negatives in them. Sorry, but The Maven has grammatical standards.

4. I'm an agnostic.
Raised Catholic, but now a highly non-commital adult. I don't believe in any religions, I celebrate Santa's birthday, and honestly don't feel my soul needs saving - but thank you very much for trying. My kids aren't baptized and don't go to church. I tried my hand at - and studied - many religions in my lifetime, but ultimately I can't find a single one that is a good fit for me. I believe in something greater than me, but that thing - that higher power - holds no judgement and makes no rules. I'm not quite sure it's even intelligent or has free thought. In the end, I think men and women are equal, gays can make excellent spouses and parents, and that you should be able to do whatever you damn well please as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. So I suppose I'm generically spiritual - not exactly the suburban mom norm. If anyone starts sending me religious pamphlets I promise to make them into pretty origami; just ask the Jehovah's Witnesses that kept coming by last year. Their newsletters make lovely swans.

5. I sit in my bed at 5:30PM and blog instead of making dinner.
Normally, Mommy Maven would be in the kitchen making something hot and nutritious for her children. But right now she doesn't feel like it. I took them out sledding today. I hosted a sleepover last night. They can have grilled cheese and carrots so I can finish my blog post. This is the price you pay for being the child of an in-demand blogger. All five of my readers are counting on me to provide them with quality content.

And there you have it. Things you might not know about me and probably didn't really care to know, anyway. Did I burst your bubble? Are you crushed that I'm not the sweet innocent mommy you thought I was?

Traditionally Yours,
The Heathen The Maven