By Marie Bombeck It has been a month since I came back from New York City. This Midwestern girl was excited to spread her arms wide and not hit anyone on the subway. But that being said, going to New York was an experience I will never forget. I came back a little heavier, a little poorer, but much more inspired. How could I not come back inspired when there is so much art, so much history, and so much life? And when I say so much life, I meant so many lives. There were so many people. I have never seen so many people in my life. They are everywhere; on the subway, in the elevator. Even in the art museums. But people mind their own business. I was completely smooshed against a complete stranger on the subway and we just avoided eye contact. No conversation was made. No small talk. Then that person would step off the subway car and I would never see them again. Yes, there tons of people. Yes, there were tall buildings. But I kept thinking things looked smaller in real life than they did on TV. Times Square seemed small. The sidewalks seemed small. I don’t think I could take in the magnitude of this city until we went to the 86th floor of the Empire State Building. At the top, you see it all. The skyline was littered with light and it was stretched in every direction. The city never ended until it met water. Beyond the horizon, there were more lights. It amazed me how many people came to this city and stayed. I can’t speak for all New Yorkers, but I think I know why they stayed. They love being in the center of it all. They loved the diversity. There are always things to see, do, and eat. Oh, yes, eating. I could have stayed an extra week to just eat more food. My husband made a detailed list of all the food we ate. And boy did we eat. We ate some fantastic things. I tried things I never thought I would try, like Japanese inspired tacos. To this day, I am not sure what leafy greens I ate but it was delicious. The best place though was Udon West which was a ramen place. I don’t mean the ramen like the packets starving college kids make. I mean authentic ramen, the kind they serve with chop sticks. I was the one person who had to ask for a fork, but I would eat that again. When we were not eating, we were absorbing so much art that our fingers started to itch to grab a pencil and sketch. I wanted to sit down and write and write and write. But I also didn’t want to stop. I wanted to see all I could see. However, we got to the point that we had seen so much art, we couldn’t absorb anymore. We were “arted” out. Our last day there, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was nice to absorb in the skyline and enjoy the view. And what a view it was. Again, the height of the building and the amount of people amazed me. Some of Americans got crowded and headed west. But there is something that pulls people here. I felt it that pull. I can’t describe what it is, but there is pull. You can feel the pulse of this city that never sleeps. There is energy in the people who live here. I can see why they stayed. I feel it. I can feel why they love it here. But when my plane took off back towards Nebraska, I knew why I loved my state, my home. The slowness we can feel. The sense of urgency from the city melted with every 100 miles the plane flew toward the center of this great land. I feel a different love for life here in Nebraska. But my heart will remember the rush of life it felt in New York City.
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By Marie Bombeck
Last Saturday was a quiet Saturday morning in my house. My husband was still asleep when I woke up. So I went downstairs, I made coffee. Then I settled into the couch with my book. Above me on the top of the couch, one cat was staring out the window. I heard a small cackle when something caught his attention outside. The other was sleeping soundly in the recliner. And at my feet, the newest addition to our family snored. Tucker, the nine-year-old cocker spaniel, has been my newest joy. The cat person in me didn’t realize how much I could love a dog. I quietly sipped my coffee. I looked down and looked at the handle of my mug. There is a big chip in the handle. Great, I thought. I mean it is not my favorite coffee mug, but it definitely the third or fourth choice if the favorite is dirty. (I know you know the one.) Then I look at my finger nails and notice of course my nails are chipped too. Huh, is that the theme of my life? Chipped? I look around my living room at all the chipped and imperfect things. The paint is chipping off the walls. The wooden arms of the couch have scratched. The throw pillows that are becoming impossibly lumpy… But then Tucker’s snore interrupted my thoughts. Gizmo meowed softly and rubbed his head against me. Dobby licked herself in her sleep and rolled back over. I heard a creak upstairs as my husband started to stir. I looked at this incredible little family I have. More animals than humans, but it’s the perfect ratio. Also it is incredible that we were all in one room. Because when Tucker came to his forever home, his kitty siblings were not enthused. They hissed. They hid. Fur flew. Backs arched. My heart chipped to see my cats so unhappy. Tucker didn’t understand why the cats didn’t like him. He tries to approach nice and slow to sniff their heads. But the cats would bat at him or run away. But here we are a week later, and we can coexist. No, it is not perfect yet. But hey, nothing is. Now, even though life can be chipped, our world can be turned upside down, we can adjust. We can adapt and make room for new people, new animals in our hearts. Our feelings can be chipped. Our hearts can get chipped, but we can move along and enjoy the moments of perfections that do come along. So don’t look for the things that are chipped in your life. Look for the things that are absolutely perfect the way they are. There may be many chips in my life, but right now my family isn’t one of them. By Marie Bombeck
Disclaimer: I wrote this twice. The first time it turned into a negative rant. It should have been a page in a diary, not a blog post. I had a bad week. Ok, maybe a bad week and a half. Or two weeks… but who’s counting? Anyways, on Friday night I sat down to write and what came out was awful. Not bad writing awful, but really negative. It was a real downer. I had my husband read it and his exact words were: “Marie, you can’t post this.” He was right. It was a vent session. It wasn’t anything that would benefit anyone else but me. I couldn’t figuratively rip a page out of my diary and call it a post. So I let myself decompress. I let the post sit another week. And now I came back to it. So here is the tame version of what I have to say. After my awful week, I collapsed on the couch Friday night. There was something I couldn’t get out of my head: Nobody told me that adulthood could be so, well, awful. I thought adults were supposed to be as close to perfect as you can get. They went to work and they didn’t make mistakes. Yes, I know they were human. But once you hit a certain age, wasn’t it all supposed to fall into place? Well, it really hasn’t all fallen in place for me. I am making mistakes and I am mad. I have been seriously misled… I thought adults had their ducks in the row. My ducks are walking out in front of me into oncoming traffic. I thought after four tortuous years of high school and four and half years of college, I would emerge knowing how to be an effective member of society; someone who makes a difference; someone who has her stuff together. I thought I would know how to eliminate some mistakes, manage my life, my stress and my break outs. I just really thought that adults knew what they were doing all the time. But it was the mistake thing I was hoping to avoid. I am a perfectionist and my sister believes I have chronic anxiety. No she is not a doctor but she may not be far off on her amateur WebMD diagnosis. I am at constant stress level of at least eleven and blame myself for 110% of the mistakes I make, accidental ones too. God, life is stressful. I was hoping that at some point I would feel like had enough figured out that those mistakes could just be shrugged off. The knot of stress in my shoulders doesn’t allow me to do much shrugging. I see my friends on Facebook posting adulting memes. I know they get this feeling too. I know that I am not alone, but somedays it feels that way. I catch coffee with my best friend and talk about all the stress. I know she gets it. She is stressed too. We both beat ourselves up for not handling our lives better. We want to do everything right. But that is impossible… If you read this hoping that I had a grand truth. I am sorry. I really don’t have it. I am an adult but I am still trying to figure this whole life thing out. I am trying to eliminate mistakes, but sometimes ten more pop up for everything one thing I get right. It is a real whack a mole situation. But I am realizing we all feel this way. We all just need to talk about it and support each other. Reach out and share our stress. And keeping doing the best we can. By Marie Bombeck
Well, it has been awhile… a long while. It has been so long that the excuses of why I have not written are as long as my arm. And boy, the excuses are lame. The best excuse is that a cat jumped in my lap and wanted to snuggle. Cat lovers, you know that this is a valid excuse. But the other excuses are simply me not making the time to write. That is valid, right? Hey, you get it. I know you do. There is no judgement here. So this short post is to get me back in the blogging game and let you know that more is going to be coming your way. I am back on the blogging horse, and it is going to be going full gallop ahead. As long as no cats jump on my lap. Because I am one cat mama that will always make time for my fur-babies. Unless it is before 7:00 am, then sorry, the food bowls are going to be empty another half hour. Pardon the long introduction, while I got to the meat of this blog. It will be worth it, I think. I don’t know. You decide. So it is Lent season, I am going to give up excuses for not doing the things I love, such as drawing, reading, and most importantly writing. You know those everyday excuses that we use to worm our way out of most things. My house isn’t clean. I don’t really have any good ideas today. (I had no idea what I was going to write when I sat down for this post and I am already at 284 words by the end of this sentence. So clearly that excuse is complete hogwash.) So here is to no lame excuses, especially if they are preventing you from doing things you truly love to do. Forget the dishes, forget the chores. Feed yourself because that is important, but besides that draw a line. Make some time. Shut your pie-hole before you utter the lame excuses. No more excuses. Nike it. Or in other words, just do it.
By Marie Bombeck
I could be Jane in that sentence. Actually, I am Jane. I show up to work at my full-time job where I sit at my desk. I go on lunch break exactly at noon and I clock out at 5. The regularity of it all is awesomely boring. But the key word in that sentence “appears.” I definitely can pull off an adulting façade. Adulting is a definite #thestruggleisreal situation. I mean c’mon, who decided that when you reach a certain age, your life is supposed to be all figured out? And if so why? Why can’t we all be hot messes? I opt for this option. If I have a free pass not to fix my hair, I’d take it. But, I am pretty new at this whole real world, adult life situation. Just recently I realized that I could be considered adult. Just wait, it will happen to you. It is such a gradual transition that you don’t even realize it is happening. One day, almost everyone will have this moment. You wake up and think “Oh (insert choice cuss word here), I am an adult.” It was time to be responsible or something. My sister visited me last weekend and asked me a question I am sure we have all asked ourselves. “Marie, do you feel like an adult?” Gut response? Nope, not at all. Most days, I feel like I am pretending to be an adult. I really don’t think that I have it figured out at all. I am floundering around trying to find my way. Is adulting really this hard? Am I the only one this lost? Am I the only one that hasn’t figured this out? When you go away to college, you want to believe you are an adult. You want to be considered an adult. You fight for your independence. You try to take steps on your own. But really I think we were all highly functioning hot messes. But then you graduate. You look for work. You find work. You get married. You get cats. You get responsibilities and it is all new unfamiliar territory. You don’t quite know the hacks yet. And you wonder to yourself, why did I want this so bad? It is really quite horrible. Maybe it’s just me, but at least once a day I am quite certain that I don’t know what the heck I am doing. But does anyone really have their whole life figured out? Does any adult have their whole act together? So can someone show me the well-adjusted functioning adult? Show me and I will eat my next words. I believe that there is not a true functioning adult. We are all just figuring it out as we go. At least that is what I would like to believe. If this is not the case, I may be quite doomed. So raise your glass to fake adulthood, where we appear well groomed and here is to most definitely figuring it out as you go. By Marie Bombeck
I am a planner. I always have been and always will be. I am the queen of to-do lists and scheduling. I like to organize my life in micro details. I plan every aspect of my life. I am the girl that always has an idea on how my life should work out and a plan to get there. It may be ever-changing, but one thing is constant, I have planned it all out. I follow the steps and I will get to where I want to go. I do realize that I live in the real world and I can’t just plan myself out of any situation. But boy, I should get points for effort. I get caught up in planning the plan that is to be my life. One phrase that has never described me is “go-with-the-flow.” I try to plan myself out of any situation. When my life goes awry, I do everything in my planning powers to create a plan that will solve all my problems. I like structure. I like knowing what my next step in life is. I like living in the boundaries. I like coloring in the lines. But lately, life hasn’t been following my plan. Don’t get me wrong, it is working out, probably for the better. The path I have been led on is definitely a path I should be on. However, the principle of the matter is that it didn’t follow the plan I laid out for myself, and if I am being perfectly honest, that scares me to death. And when I find myself in unfamiliar territory, I start planning a plan. But what is that saying? You know the one about life and plans? “Life is what happens when you are busy making plans.” But the planner in me sometimes has a hard time seeing the beauty in my unstructured life. But when you are too caught up in the plan, you miss the life lessons you are supposed to be learning, the good things that can happen when life doesn’t go as planned. It has been my New Year’s resolution to stray from my life plan a bit. (See my previous posts, Letting life take you where you need to be or Putting a little more faith in God.) Clearly from past posts, letting go a bit is something I need to work on. However, I have learned to slow down enough where I can enjoy the small bumps in the road. Like even if you don’t get your dream job right away, you got to make the most of where you are in the moment. There are new friends to be made, new things to learn. Because there is a lot more life to live, you abandon where you think you are supposed to be and enjoy where you are. Forget the plan. Throw your hands to the sky and live your life. See where life will take you. Stray a bit. Come back to reality, and then stray away again. That sounds scary, doesn’t it? But hey, maybe something beautiful could come of it. Forget the plan. Live your life. I dare you. By Marie Bombeck
Sometimes I open my mouth and my mother comes out. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Mom is flattered a lot these days. But God bless my mother. I am not sure how she put up with me. I recall being an angst-filled, drama-queen teen. Even though no one in my entire life has told me that I look like my mother, my husband tells me he sees the resemblance and says I have a lot of the same mannerisms. I usually push the comment aside, but somedays I see a little bit of my mother in my face, around the eyes and mouth. Or I find a trait that I never knew we had in common. As kids, it seems to be the worst thing in the world to resemble our parents in any way. We want to rebel, break the mold. And most importantly we want to be our own person that in no way shape or form resembles the people who gave us the gift of life. As kids, we want to fly away from our families, spread our wings, and forge our own paths. As we become adults, we realize that our parents were always one step ahead of us, building the path we were walking on. They were laying down the bricks, planning for our futures. They were putting the guard rail up on the cliff and building the staircase down so we could leap off the cliff by taking baby steps. And also, don’t tell the teenage you, but I have a feeling now that deep down, our parents probably wanted us to be our own individually unique person too. Whenever Mother’s Day or next month’s Father’s Day comes around, I find it hard just figuring out how to thank just one parent. I still see my parents as a unit or a team, both shoving the same values down my throat. Work hard. Honor your commitments. Don’t gossip. Treat others the way you want to be treated. And watch your mouth. (The last one I am still working on on a daily basis.) I owe my parents a lot. More than I will ever be able to repay or thank in my lifetime. Mom always joked that she wished I wanted to be a doctor. But she always supported my artistic side. She encouraged me to go to school for art. She encouraged me to be creative. Dad always wanted my sisters and me to become our own person and not care what others thought. Whatever our passion was, he wanted us to give it our full 100%. It was hard to see all the lessons my parents were teaching me when I was living under their roof. It was hard to appreciate in boundaries they set. It was easy to take for granted all that they did. It was easy to dream about the day that I had my own place and ruled the roost. It is easy to dream about not being anything like the people who raised me. But you know, when you leave home, make it on your own, you start hoping you will at least be half as good of the person that they were. This week I had a bad week. Things that I didn’t think could go wrong did. I reached a new level of exhaustion that I didn’t know was possible. The planner was filled with commitments, to-do lists and reminders. This whole week was go-go-go.
But on a rare day this week, I had a small 20 minute break that I could spend with my husband. I went to visit him on campus where he is a student. We sat and talked. I can guarantee you that I was probably constantly checking the time. When it was time to go, I asked, “Walk me to my car?” As we walked, we did something we do out of habit; we held each other’s hands. “Excuse me,” a lady said, stopping us. “It is so nice to see you two holding hands. It is so nice to see young love. You don’t see that much anymore, people holding hands.” Her comments brought a smile to our faces, but soon her comments slipped away. I rushed away back to work and my husband went back to his school work. The encounter became a distant memory. But the comments swam back to me today as my exceptionally long week came to a close. I came home last night and I sighed knowing that I could sleep in the next day, sighed knowing that some of the problems from this week were hopefully unrepeatable. But I thought about what the woman said to us. I thought about how even though my schedule was crazy, I was able slip away from work to see my husband for 20 minutes. And I can guarantee you that those 20 minutes were the best 20 minutes of my day. We need to back up from all the little details of our lives and see the whole picture. Sometimes we are too close to the mess that is our lives. Sometimes our disappointments, failures, troubles seem more prominent than things that are beautiful. You need to back away and see the beauty that is sprinkled in. The irreplaceable moments that can make your day seem just a bit better. The moments you make take for granted like reaching for the hand of the person you love. What do you love about your home? No, I am not talking about design features like a spacious bathroom or a walk in closet. I’m not talking about whether or not you have an awesome kitchen or huge windows. I am talking deeper than that.
Home is not a place, it is a feeling. But I know how easy it is to get caught up in the four walls that surround you and how easy it is to love or hate them. My husband and I moved about a month ago and it is a bit of a sore topic. We loved our old apartment. It was our very first place together, but we loved it more than just sentimental reasons. First of all the price was right. Rent including all utilities. Then there was the fact that the place was recently remodeled. There was new paint and carpet. The kitchen was gutted with all new cabinets, flooring and appliances. You name it, it was probably new. The apartment was on the small size but it was cozy. We decorated it just the way we liked it. It was the first space we could truly make our own. We loved living there. Then the two of us doubled with the kittens, Dobby and Gizmo, and the apartment had a fatal flaw. It was not pet friendly. So the search for a new apartment ensued. The apartment we live in now was not our first choice. We had our eye on a brand new apartment building with more space and perks like a gym and pool. We walked through imagining ourselves living in this lap of luxury. Then the relator showed us the price and reality sunk in. So we settled on this place. There were never two more sour people to move. We drug our feet putting stuff in boxes. We slightly teared up when we had to remove all the artwork from walls. Seeing those empty walls made us feel a bit empty ourselves. We knew it was the right thing to do, you know, not having illegal cats in a building that didn’t allow them. We knew we were getting an extra bedroom and bigger kitchen. But nothing could ease the fact that we were compromising on our new apartment. And nothing seemed to make us stop feeling like we were leaving our home. Now that we have lived here a little over a month and all the boxes have been unpacked. The things that made the last place feel so much like home are spread around the apartment and hung on the wall. We are starting to get settled and the feeling of home is starting to come back. However, as I sit down to write this, I have become acutely aware that none of that stuff matters, the decorations, the furniture or the size of the rooms or closet. What matters about my home is who is in the home with me. I am talking about the irreplaceable items or people or animals that are in your home that comfort your heart and your soul. What matters are the two cats siting on the desk beside me while writing this post. What matters is the person I am always excited to come home to, the person who was crazy enough to decide to spend the rest of his life with me. What truly matters is that we have a space to call home. No matter the size or the space. No matter the color of the walls or carpet. What matters is that I have all the people I love are under one roof. As long as I have them, I will always feel at home. |
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