Tag: life

I’d Like to Thank the Academy…

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

Oscars 1Every year I watch the Oscars. Some years I see only a few of the actual contending films, but I watch nonetheless. I don’t like missing out. And while I love all of the spectacle, it seems to grow more and more ridiculous and excessive every year. This year, Kristin Chenoweth’s red carpet smurfiness was…wow. She seems so sweet, and yet I had the urge to choke her to see whether her voice could get even more annoying. And the “who are you wearing?” script gets old after the first 435 times it’s asked. But what a night, right?

We love movies and we love the people who make them, but most of us don’t work in an industry that is so spectacularly awesome at patting itself on the back. Can you imagine if you did? It’s hard enough to hear the one-on-one job well done, let alone have a special night that celebrates your work. “And the Oscar for best Year-End Report goes to…” Hard to visualize, isn’t it? And even for those industries that do have an awards night of some sort, well, who would watch beyond those directly connected? Accolades from the masses are rare. We are picky supporters—even the Academy Awards did away with televising the technical awards. Not so interesting for the general population, and it was one way they could chop the length of the show down to only 17 hours.

While a night of honor is farfetched, it would be nice (or kind, even) if people who managed others were gracious with praise (because words do count!) Especially in these days of 0% raises where more and more is being asked of the work force. But too often that’s not how it works. Many of us deal with bosses who like to pinpoint the single flaw in a project rather than lift up the rest that is done well. (Do they actually teach that in management classes? Because so many people I know have a boss that uses this method. Maybe they call the class “You Missed a Spot.”)

So for us mere mortals, I guess we’re stuck finding validation through less glorious ways. As in…within ourselves. No red carpet to walk. No designer to wear (unless Levi Strauss counts). Maybe not even a boss to let us know they appreciate what we do. Just little ol’ us knowing that we did our best work and hoping it makes a difference.

Because it does.

And just so you hear it once today from the “outside world”: Thank you for the job you do. Whether you are teaching kids, plowing snow, fixing a roof, designing a building, taking care of your child at home, cleaning teeth, solving problems, serving food…whatever you do that helps you take care of yourself and those you love…you are doing important work, and you are doing it well. (I’m trusting this is the case—because if you know you can do a better job, then…do a better job!)

I’d give you a raise if I could, but all I might be able to possibly raise a bit is your spirits. Maybe.

So please accept this non-award on behalf of all the rest of the world for getting up every morning and scraping a little of the crud off of things to help make it a better place. You rock.

Mean People Suck

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 14 Comments

I have some serious sarcasm flowing through my veins. It’s nothing I aim for—it’s just there—and I imperfectly strive to keep it in check.

sarcasm-o-meter

I remember making jokes in 4th grade, and—though the kids were laughing—sometimes I would hear, “You’re mean.” I didn’t intend to be, but since my humor could be at someone else’s expense, at the very least I was mean to that person. I’ve remembered that always. I don’t want to be mean—I just enjoy making people laugh. I know what it feels like to be the butt of someone’s joke, and I don’t want to create that feeling for another.

But I fail, for sure. Sometimes the laugh apples are hanging so low off the tree I can’t help but pick ‘em. Still, that’s no excuse. (Sometimes, though, when a person’s being a major jagwad, I don’t feel bad when I shoot a caustic arrow his or her way…That’s probably still wrong, but it can feel like a kind of justice—especially when it’s on someone else’s behalf.)

And while I am still guilty of sharp comments, I learned long ago that there is a perfect subject for me to make fun of: me. So I am my own best target. And when I make fun of myself, I totally get it and don’t get mad. And since I am the butt of many of my own jokes, it explains why I have a big butt. So it all makes sense.

When I had my son, I thought to myself, “If there was one word you could pick to have as a descriptor of this kid as he grows up, what would you want it be?” My immediate response was kind. Not nice, but kind. (Don’t get me wrong—as Frank Burns said, “It’s nice to be nice to the nice,” I know…but that’s not enough.) Nice is pleasant and obliging…but kind is compassionate and helpful. At least that’s how I see it. Kind runs deep and is grounded in loving others.

We need more kindness. Mean people suck. And it’s not just about being mean for a laugh. I’m really sick at heart when I see how easy it is for people to be nasty with their comments—both in the real world and the cyber world. The Internet has afforded an anonymity to people to just be horrible to one another as they comment on articles, blogs, and videos. Just awful…and for what? How is that okay? This past election season nasty comments didn’t even need anonymity. Facebook was rife with cutting and mean-spirited crap from both sides of the aisle. It really made me sad…and still does.

It’s simply not okay. And while we are all human and will all fail at times, in “The World According to Lisa” (which is super awesome), we need to strive harder to see to it that the Meanies lose. Just imagine what our world might be like if kindness reigned supreme…if the whole world played a game of Kindness Tag…Tag! I’ve tagged you with kindness! You’re it! Go be kind to another! (And tag-backs would totally be allowed!)

But we can’t depend on the “whole world” for anything, can we?…So it’s up to us in our own little world…where it still absolutely matters. And maybe it will ripple out and impact more than you could ever possibly know.

I hope you agree. But if you don’t, I hope you’ll be kind in telling me so!

2013…WTF?

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 8 Comments

I’m not a fan of whining (not to be confused with “wining,” of which I am totally a fan), but I’m going to indulge in it for this post. Forgive me. I know that these laments are First World, that I am very blessed, and that others have it much worse, but…can’t a girl vent a bit?

Like in the movie City Slickers, I’m ready for a do-over of 2013. I was ready for a great year…I mean, come on, look at my cheerful Facebook attitude on New Year’s Eve:

NYE wish

2012 had been a bit of a pain in the patoot, and I was ready for that lovely clean slate that somehow takes on meaning because we rip the 12th page off of a calendar. But, I gotta tell you…so far, 2013 blows. Do-over time!

Yes, yes, I know it is only mid-February, but so far in 2013 sickness has reigned supreme—including taking a shot at my husband’s 50th birthday party. After weeks of planning and preparation (not to mention hand washing that would rival Lady Macbeth’s, as I tried to make sure I didn’t get sick as the party planner), the day of the party—a party where the band my hubby plays in is supposed to rock it out—he falls ill. And thus begins roughly a month’s worth of sickness for him. And because we believe in sharing, I eventually got sick. And so did the kid (though not as badly, thank God). We have yet to completely climb out of the sickness hole, but we hope that we succeed soon.

And once I’m well, then I get to do fun things like have my gallbladder out. And maybe my knee operated on. Have I mentioned that the furnace has needed repair twice in just over a week? How about the dryer conking? The car dying?

Yeah, I know—this whining is getting annoying. Sorry. I’ll stop.

Sometimes it just feels good to put words around that “ack!!!” that you’re feeling…and then move on.

Indulging in a bit of whining doesn’t mean I’ve lost perspective—I have people in my life who have it much harder—friends with significant illnesses or losses, people who have major, challenging life decisions facing them. My struggles are nothing in comparison to theirs.

So stick your eye roll back in your socket and know that I know what you know—I know I am loaded with good things, too. And sometimes it takes walking through the manure field to realize that you’ve got people in your life ready to walk right alongside you on that stinky journey. And that makes it all stink less.

So…here’s the deal. I think I’m going to create my own sub year. It will be known as 2013B, and it will only have 10.5 months. And it starts…now.

Is This the Party to Whom I Am Speaking?

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 11 Comments
Stop callin', stop callin'...
Stop callin’, stop callin’…

One thing I lament for “today’s youth” is that the beauty of the simple prank phone call is no more. Now, I know there are ways around it, and that there’s plenty of mayhem occurring in today’s Caller ID world, but it’s not the same. While you can block your number from appearing on Caller ID…do you answer those calls? Yeah, me neither. So the opportunity for calling a neighbor to have a few innocent yet mischievous giggles just isn’t the same as it was when I was a kid.

My best friend Jen was my main partner in crime. Like most pranksters, we aimed low at the beginning but quickly graduated from the level of “Is your refrigerator running?” (yawn) and “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” (we weren’t even sure who this Prince Albert was, so we didn’t find it all that funny) to more clever—at least to us—calls.

Since we had our own “radio show” (i.e. we had a sketch comedy show that we recorded on cassette tape…man, we were cutting edge), we liked to think that we had a wide array of voices and characters at our disposal. I’m not sure how we, as 11-year-old girls, pulled off convincing men’s voices, but based on the success of our pranks, we must have been somewhat believable.

[Side note/disclaimer: if anything in these stories can be found to be illegal, then these stories are absolutely not true. Completely fictitious. If not, then never mind this disclaimer.]

One bit that we loved doing was acting as though we were from the fire department. During sleepovers, we would be up at 2am and just call someone we knew and say, “Mrs. So-and-So (that’s not really her name—because that would be an awesome last name to have, but it’s not—it’s just because Jen and I still need to maintain our cloak of anonymity even after all these years. I’d hate to have to relocate.) Anyway, we would say, “Mrs. So-and-So, this is the Mayberry (no, not really Mayberry…come on) Fire Department. Forgive me for waking you up, but fires can strike a house at 2am, and if one did, would you have an escape route planned?” Of course, Mrs. So-and-So wouldn’t know which end was up. On the one hand, she’d just been awoken by a call, but on the other hand…that call was trying to save her life. How could you get mad at that? Remarkably, she could. After a few minutes of back and forth conversation, where the “fire department” was expressing concern for her home safety plan, Mrs. So-and-So finally told me to go to hell. Jen’s convulsive giggling in the background probably wasn’t keeping a tight lid on our ruse, but…that was what it was all about.

Another fire department call that we had fun making was when our neighbors were having a big party. We called the partying neighbors and told them I was the fire chief and that we had heard they were having a big party. Did they have a permit for that party?? Jen and I almost wet ourselves laughing as we could hear the man switch phones to go to a quieter room where he could better answer “the chief’s” questions, as he worriedly told his wife. “Mr. So-and-So (no, he was not married to Mrs. So-and-So…please, quit being so literal), can you please tell me the number of people in attendance at your party?” Again, Jen and I had all we could do to keep it together while we overheard him count off bunches of people and then finally come in with a guess of “around 40.” “Well, based on the size of your house, you are just under the number where a permit would be required. Carry on.” And the very relieved man thanked me and went back to his party.

We also loved calling up people and freaking them out just a teensy bit. We had a neighborhood phone book that listed the names of the children and their ages as a way for neighbors to get to know one another (my, how times have changed in that regard, no?) We would call up strangers and act like we were related to them. “Uncle John? This is your niece Susie. How ARE you??” To which John would reply, “Uh, I don’t have a niece named Susie, you must have the wrong number…” And I would jump in with, “But Uncle John, I can’t believe you don’t remember me! Can you put Aunt Linda on the phone? Or how about one of my cousins? Alan must be around, what? 11?…” to which John would, well…freak out a bit. “Listen, I don’t know who the hell this is, but…” and then he would rage on and threaten us…you know, fun stuff.

Okay, maybe it’s better that there is Caller ID. Nah, I take that back—it was a lot of fun that was mostly harmless. Well, now that I’m all grown up (technically), I wouldn’t want my kid doing it, but, as a memory it’s harmless. And who knows, maybe Mrs. So-and-So decided to create an escape route in her house after all? Maybe these calls of ours were actually helpful. In fact, I’d like to think they made the world a slightly better place.

P.S. Bonus points if you get the reference in the title.

The Sandwich Generation – If Only It Were as Simple as a Turkey on Wheat

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 4 Comments

Hold the mayo.I am so representative of the Sandwich Generation that I may as well be salami with a nice slice of provolone. The “Sandwich Generation”—the term that has come into use to describe those of us who are taking care of both children and parents—is a growing reality, and I suspect several of you reading are card-carrying members of this special club. You know you are in this group if someone asks you for your date of birth or Social Security number and you have to think hard because your parent’s or your kid’s numbers come to mind first.

It’s just a fact of life, but some days are more “sandwich-y” than others. Having my octogenarian mom living with us can make for a 3’ submarine sandwich, where some days I’m dealing with “the sick kid shuffle” (you know—the rearranging/redefining you need to do with your day when your child is sick and home from school), while I’m on hold with my mom’s doctor to have test results sent Somewhere Else, trying to deal with a barrage of emails, then there’s that pesky thing called “work,” and the dogs are whining to be let out. (The dogs don’t play an “official” role in the Sandwich, thankfully…they just add color to the situation.) On an average day, it simply means scheduling her doctors’ appointments so they don’t conflict with having to pick my kid up from school or some other activity…just another consideration in the juggle struggle.

Overall, it means seeing to the parent’s well-being in a similar way that you do your child’s. But. There is a big but, my friends (just one T on the big “but”…this time)…It does NOT mean treating said parent AS the child. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. That will buy you a heap o’ trouble. It is an art in which I frequently fall short. Can you relate? An aging parent needs support and care, while at the same time they do not want to admit that they need the support and care because it means they are diminishing in some ways. And trying to find the fine line to walk, wherein you are helping without being too helpful can be like walking a minefield.

A classic rough spot for me is doctors talking to me rather than my mom, though she is sitting right there. For the life of me, I don’t know why doctors don’t have better technique in this respect, but I know I would not like being the third party subject of the conversation while someone looks past me. So I find my diplomacy skills grow, as I redirect the conversation to my mom, while at the same time gently filling in any blanks that she may leave. Even with my diplomacy, though, we often leave the doctor with my mother fuming at being treated like a child…and since her generation doesn’t typically spout off to doctors, guess who gets the ire? Ah, life.

There is so much more to say on this topic, but my intention is not to bore you (really—I mean it). I’m just scraping the surface here because I merely want to say that for those of you going through similar challenges, you are not alone. And sometimes just knowing that helps. Some days you want to just curl up and say “enough,” but we keep on carrying on. Because we have to. And hopefully you have someone in your immediate world who takes care of you now and then. Remember to let them do that for you. And if you feel guilty when, for instance, your understanding spouse (like mine) tells you to go have a girls’ night out, remind yourself that you can’t take care of anyone else if you’ve fallen apart.

So if not for yourself, then for those who depend on you: don’t forget to be a caregiver to yourself, too. 

And for those of you who aren’t officially in the Sandwich Generation, you better buckle your seatbelt because odds are your bumpy ride is right down the road. Don’t worry, though—we who are living this now will try to draw you a map—it’s just that it might have some missed turns, wrong directions, and a few unnecessary detours. It’ll be like a Garmin in need of an update. Hey, what do you expect? We’re doing the best we can.

Making Non-Sense

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 3 Comments

Though The Juggle Struggle aims to be a generally lighthearted and hopefully humorous blog, I just can’t bring it today.

Often what we juggle as people isn’t the least bit lighthearted. Charlotte, Daniel, Rachel, Olivia, Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Dawn, Madeleine, Catherine, Chase, Jesse, James, Grace, Anne Marie, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Lauren, Mary, Victoria, Benjamin, and Allison aren’t here anymore. Their lives—so many of them only just beginning—snuffed out by one person’s unfathomable actions. And their families and loved ones are dealing with devastating losses that have forever changed them. I, like the rest of the world, am struggling to deal with the recent horrific tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

I struggle with my feelings of both deep sorrow and fierce anger.

I struggle with what to tell my child about such an abominable event, knowing I can’t protect him completely from the harsh and bitter realities that life sometimes presents.

I struggle with what this all means in our world, and what we need to do to make it harder for another lost soul to wreak such havoc.

I struggle with feelings of helplessness.

And I struggle with the guilt of knowing my life will absorb this blow a lot differently than the parents of the 20 children who watched all the other families get reunited with their kids while they waited…and waited…and then were told that their little one was dead. My heart breaks over and over again as I try to put myself in their shoes.

The families of the heroic adult victims, too, are also dealing with such painful loss.

So where do we go from here?

I’m not really sure, but I know that in today’s rabid hyper media attention of such tragedies, I am thankful that one of the aspects they are reporting on is that the Newtown area is steeped in faith. And though faith won’t “explain away” such horror, I believe it is what sustains us and is the foundation to rebuilding broken lives. And hearing our president, as he offered his sympathies, quote Psalm 147—reminding us that God “heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds”—was something I needed to hear in that moment.

Though I don’t fancy myself to have “the” answers, I do know that we need to be better to one another. We need to love and listen. We need to give and support. We need to forgive and remember. We need to work together to provide a safer world for all of us.

And we need to remember that life is a gift and not a guarantee.