Eating my Words (with a few drops of oil)

I’m not a sellout. I’m not a buy-in. All of my friends and family know it. I don’t do the fancy chef thing, the scrapbooking extravaganza, or the secret panties club. I don’t want the free facial, the extra points or the fancy stick on nails. None of that. I don’t go to parties and I don’t host parties. No ifs. No ands. No buts. So, when one of my good friends began selling (and pushing) essential oils, I stuck to the rules. “No thank you,” I said. I ignored the testimonials, the invites to classes and the firm nudging to “just give it a try, Karla.” I thought, “I’m NOT doing it. I’m not buying in. I will not sellout.” I taught preschool at the time and many of my co-workers bought in, many of the mothers bought in. I stood strong. Admittedly, I truly thought they were all a little bonkers.
Let me digress. I’m a fairly healthy woman in my early forties but I’ve struggled with asthma and allergies (thanks to my daughter’s beloved cat) for years. For years and years, really. I was on a daily regimen of allergy and asthma medications that included, but was not limited to, the following: melt away, immediate relief 12-hour allergy tabs once-a-day, every single day, a morning dose of a decongestant, a daily dose of asthma-preventative medication, a preventative inhaler AND a rescue inhaler. Yet, still, I knew better than to laugh too hard or try to run too far or even to clean too many rooms on a Saturday morning. My adult-onset asthma truly ruled my life.
My youngest daughter has suffered from severe (and I don’t use the word lightly) eczema and psoriasis her entire life. She suffers from constant “itchies” that she struggles to resist scratching. The scratching then, inevitably, creates open sores that are susceptible to a plethora of staff infections. Through her eighteen years, we’ve tried it ALL – every cream sold in the drugstores (both prescription and non-prescription) and many that aren’t sold in drugstores. We’ve tried oral medications and she’s taken her fair share of steroid rounds. In our home, we don’t use scented anything. All detergent, body wash, shampoo and etc is perfume and dye-free. We do not use perfumes, air fresheners, carpet powders or anything that even remotely smells of perfume. Our strict no-perfume rules have helped but the itchy problem has remained a constant presence in our daily family life.
Now, I’ll come full circle, while I was thinking that my “oily” friends and acquaintances were a little crazy, I also refused to sell out and buy in due to our firm “no smelly things” rule. Many tried their pitch. “It’ll help your allergies,” they claimed.  “It’s so good for itchy eczema skin,” they tried to tell me. “Pish,” I thought. How can anything so smelly help my already sensitive allergies OR my daughter’s itchy skin. Smelly things exacerbate the problem, not help it. That’s just crazy talk. I continued to firmly, but politely, decline their sales pitches, offers of samples and invites to educational classes.
Fast forward a year (give or take). I’m suffering from yet ANOTHER sinus infection brought on by an allergy flair after a cleaning spree. I remember feeling miserable and thinking there just has to be a sensible solution. So, in a moment of desperation, I sold out. I messaged a friend that I knew lived a loud and proud oily life. She was more than happy to share her testimony (NOT a sales pitch) with me. Then, I bought in. I purchased a starter kit of Young Living essential oils AND the Young Living Thieves cleaning products kit.
That was five months ago. It’s been quite the educational experience. I’ve learned more than I can share in a single blog post so I’ll keep it short. Please understand that I accept that I’m now one of the crazy-oily people that goes around smelling “funny” and saying things like “Hey, there’s an oil for that.” However, I am not (and most like will NEVER be) a sales person. This is not a sales pitch. Instead, consider this a testimonial of the highlights of my oil journey so far.

·         I no longer take allergy medicine every day. I take it some days here and there, but not every day.

·         I no longer use an inhaler every day. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I did use it.

·         Our home is alllllllllmost chemical-free (which I believe is the main contributor to bullets one and two).

·         My daughter’s skin looks better than it has looked her entire life. It’s less itchy so she sleeps better and feels better during the days.

The simple truth is that I cannot pinpoint exactly what has benefited us the most; the diffusing of essential oils, the application of particular oils onto our skin or the elimination of chemicals in our home. Truth be told, I don’t really care which it is. I enjoy doing all three and I’ve seen my family benefit from the combination. For us, it’s been an excellent investment. I’m careful, mind you. I do my research. I know more about essential oils, essential oil companies and the toxins and chemicals in everyday household supplies than I ever thought I wanted to know.  My knowledge has only scratched the surface. I learn something new every single day.
I sold out. I bought in. I’m a believer.  I live an oily life. The end.

*Disclaimer*
It gets on my nerves that this is necessary in today's society, but alas...
The content presented here is NOT meant to replace professional medical diagnosis, treatment or advice. Information obtained here has not been medically or scientifically verified and should never cause you to disregard or delay seeking advice or treatment about a medical condition from a medical or healthcare provider. Use of any information from the content of this site solely at your own risk.

A Friendly Rant

Part One: Friendship

Here’s the thing, in my opinion, a person’s FB page is just that…THEIR own personal FB page. They have the freedom to choose who to be friends with, who to unfriend and when, and what to post on their own page. And so do I. I choose my FB friends much like I choose my real-life friends. Wait. As a matter of fact, for me, there is no difference. I am only FB friends with my real–life friends.  They are one in the same. If I wouldn’t stop and speak to you in the grocery store, we aren’t friends…FB or otherwise. You don’t really care about my children or grandchild and why should you? We aren’t friends. We don’t know each other. We may have met once or twice, worked together twenty years ago or have friends in common. But, we aren’t friends. 

I’m often shocked at the friend requests that I receive from random people that I hardly remember. I find myself questioning where I may have known them from. No, we aren’t friends.  I’m also baffled by people that have 500+ FB friends but never seem to be actually talking to any of them. The same five friends respond to their posts and the same 5 friends are included in their pictures. Who are the other 495+ people? Again, that’s completely their choice to be friends with people that they aren’t actually friends with. It just baffles me.

Part Two:  FB Ghosts

Why do some people have a FB page and never post or comment on their “friend’s” posts? That’s not rhetorical. I really do want to know. These silent FB page owners are creepy to me. No judgement intended. I just don’t get it. If you are a FB ghost, please feel free to explain. Surely there’s a perfectly logical explanation. Is it because you want to keep up with your friends from a distance but really have no desire to foster a relationship with them? Is it because you are too shy? Antisocial? Private? Too lazy? Is it because you want to know everyone else’s business (that they willingly post for their “friends” to see) but you don’t want anyone to know yours? Why, please explain, are you FB friends with people you don’t even like to communication with?

Part Three: Solicitation

I wish FB had a front door. You know, so people actually had to knock to come in and so I could hang one of these awesome signs on it, loud and proud!  Ya know, when I open my FB to see what’s going on in the world with my friends, I don’t want to be slammed with marketing ploys. I have been hit up to buy (and sell) Pampered Chef, Mary Kay, Isogenix, Tastefully Simple, Rodan & Fields, and various essential oil companies.  I mean, people that I haven’t seen or been in contact with for years and years have sent me these creepy FB messages about joining their amazing business venture. They most often begin with messages like, “Karla! I saw your mom/sister/dad/daughter the other day. I can’t believe how many years it’s been…” OR, my personal favorite, “I see you’ve returned to your maiden name and assume you’re divorced. I’m sorry. I’d like to help you by introducing you to my company. Here, you can make millions…” or some bull malarkey like that that is then followed by an obvious copy-and-paste sales pitch. Stop it. Seriously. Stop it.  I always resist the urge to reply, “I’m not divorced. My husband died.” That might shut them up. Or maybe not. Here’s a newsflash: I never respond to those messages or accept those friend requests. As a matter of fact, I block them so they can’t find me again. We are not friends. We never were and it is quite obvious that we never will be.
Now, I will say that there are a few of my friends, that I actually keep up with, that use their own FB page to post solicitations for their multi- or mid-level marketing company.
Which, in my opinion, is perfectly acceptable, so long as they don’t harass me. Referring back to Part One. Your page is your page. Solicit away. Maybe I’ll contact you to buy or be educated. Maybe I won’t. Don’t bother me. I won’t bother you. Confession: I’m a Young Living member. I love my oily, (almost) chemical-free life. I love my DIY hair products, cleaning products and bath products. I may post about my love for my oily life but I never solicit using my FB page and I never, ever harass. (Don’t bother waiting for it, there will be no sales pitch in the next paragraph). I signed up to be a member of YLEO’s through a friend. She lives the oiliest life of anyone I’ve ever known. If you meet her, she’ll give testimony and witness but she’s never tried to push me or give me a sales pitch. There is a difference.  She has never called me during the day while I’m at work or in the evening when I’m being a mom to talk to me about “building my business.”  She has never sent me obnoxious, annoying messages or sales pitches via FB messenger.  She doesn’t use her FB page to beg for business and she doesn’t flood her page with nothing but oily this and oily that. She has never bugged me to host a party or teach a class. Fact is, if I want to buy something, I’ll look for a marketing-type FB page, or, Hell, I’ll just go over to Amazon.

Remember, people, friendship is defined as a relationship that involves communication, trust and support. I suppose Webster needs to define Facebook Friendship.  Clearly the two are very different.

Fix your Child's Hair!

This post comes with a warning. 

Caution: Please watch your toes.  They may get stepped on.  Read at your own risk. 

Selfish, self-centered parents…I can’t stand ‘em. We all know them and most of us simply ignore their shenanigans.  It’s accepted and almost encouraged in our society.  I’m not a vain person, per se, but I am a firm believer in appropriate, acceptable public appearances. Come on ladies, how can you justify getting your nails done while your kid is wearing tired, pill-balled hand-me-downs?  Parents that do not take the time or make the effort to teach their child to take pride in their appearance are just…selfish!  Listen, I’m all about living on a budget and stretching pennies. But, seriously.  Worn out, soiled clothing weighs heavy on young shoulders.  Beauty does come from within but it shows without. When these poorly dressed children feel less than worthy and less than attractive, they show a lack of desire to be clean.  They have dirty feet, dirty fingernails and frizzy, matted hair.  Can’t you teach your child to grasp the importance of taking pride in his/her appearance?  It drives me absolutely insane to see parents with their name brand jeans, fancy tennis shoes and recent dye job when their kids don’t even look like they’ve recently bathed.  Presentation and cleanliness are signs, in our society, of self-confidence and self-respect.  Who wouldn’t want their child to have a strong sense of self-worth?  Many people, I’m afraid. Children can be mean; just plain mean.  They do not want to be friends with someone that smells of days old sweat.  They don’t want to be friends with the child that hasn’t taken a shower in four days.  They don’t want to be friends with the child that looks like squirrels have been mating in their hair.  It isn’t skin deep.  It’s that even at a young age, they know.  These children, they know that the kid that looks “thrown away” is an easy target.  They sense the target’s fear and lack of confidence.  It’s a cruel world but it’s the world that we brought our kids into.  It’s the world that they have to live and learn to thrive in. Don’t you want them to thrive?  Children that are ridiculed and bullied run a strong risk of “failure to socially thrive.”  As a parent, you’re going to have to accept that you are the root of that failure.  It is your responsibility to teach your child to have just the right amount of self-confidence.  It is your responsibility to avoid over-inflating your child’s sense of self-worth without under-inflating it.  It’s a delicate balance and it is your responsibility to find it. You, mom, should feel ashamed to send your daughter to summer camp without even brushing her hair.  You, dad, should feel ashamed that your son smells like a donkey on a hot day. Do your job. Wash their clothes (& shoes). And, for goodness sake, fix your child’s hair!

The Phoenix on My Back

When I was twenty-one, I bought into the whole “it’s cool to be tattooed” theory.  I made the trip to Georgia, where tattoos were legal.  I’d taken with me a drawing of a mother and baby elephant.  After all, the elephant was my favorite animal. Once inside the tattoo parlor, I decided I’d just get one of the elephants and come back later for the other. Once I was on the artist’s table, I’d decided that the one elephant would be the baby one annnnnnd it needed to be much smaller than I’d originally planned.  I drove out of Georgia and back to South Carolina with a baby elephant, about the size of a half dollar, that much resembled an anteater, on my hip.  I didn’t exactly regret the tattoo, I just didn’t connect with it.  It was JUST a tattoo;  a right of passage, if you will.  And there that baby elephant stayed, alone for fifteen years. During my marital separation, I came across a quote in some random store about a phoenix rising from the ashes. Hmmm.  The obsession began.  I began researching phoenix quotes which lead to researching phoenix tattoos.  I never really considered getting a second tattoo before this time of my life.  After all, I knew I needed to rise from the ashes.  I was still smoldering, however, and not nearly ready to rise again. I moved through the stages of grief as my husband and I moved through the separation and towards a divorce.  Once the divorce was final, the fire settled into ashes and it was time.  I knew it.  I’d found the perfect phoenix.  She isn’t tribal.  She doesn’t look “real.”  Phoenixes aren’t real, so how can they look real? She’s a simplified, stylized, mystical, abstract phoenix. The life that I had lived had gone up in flames and, slowly, I rose from the ashes, anew.  I am a phoenix. I wanted a tattoo that told my story. This time around I did things very differently.  I asked around. I got references.  I viewed samples of their work.  I chose an artist and I made an appointment. He took the pictures I had printed and edited and asked him to see what he could do with them.  He disappeared to his drawing room and returned with a masterpiece, in my opinion.  She, the phoenix, was perfect.  She was the perfect size, about 12 inches, head to plume with a 4 inch wing span.  She was flying up, looking up, coming out of the ashes.  She was the perfect shades of blues and purples.  The symbolism was right on target. I felt a spark.  I didn’t expect to ever feel giddy love again…but here it was.  No doubt, this was love.  I loved her, instantly.  I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, tattoo that permanently on my back.” It took almost 4 hours in the artist’s chair for her to be transferred from a flat phoenix on paper to a life-like image that moved in sync with me. It wasn’t difficult to keep my mind off the pain of the procedure.  I contemplated the past fifteen years. I ran through the memories in my mind… year by year, the good times, the bad times, the death of the marriage, the new life that was beginning.  When she was complete, I beamed with pride.  I loved her.  I love her still.  She’s my war wound and, often, my inspiration to keep trudging through.  It’s been five years.  Sometimes, I forget there is a phoenix on my back.  Then, I’ll catch a glimpse of her.  I still admire her, the artwork and the meaning behind her creation.  She’s still perfect. Perfect for me.  Her wings tattooed on my back helped me spread my own.  Together we soar.

Just a Hole Punch

Throughout my accounts of parenting, it may often appear that I think I know exactly what I’m doing.  That’s a façade.  I don’t.  I’m no fool, though.  I prefer to share the stories of success.  That’s human nature…a parent’s nature, isn’t it? Today’s parenting blog is about the choosing of battles.  It’s probably the foundation that I built my parenting strategies on.  I…choose….my….battles.  I have for years.  I fight the most important ones and I let the other “fights” go. After all, I’ve raised (and am still raising) two sassy, strong-willed girls.  I often wonder where they get that from (hmph). Make up, for example, is not worthy of battling. When my eldest daughter was thirteen she decided she wanted to wear eye shadow.  I mean she wanted to reeeeeally wear it.  We shopped, she picked out and I purchased eye shadow.  She later came out ready to conquer the world with purple, several shades of purple, eye shadow from her eye lashes up to her eye brows.  She looked like she was having an allergic reaction to blackberries. I didn’t say a word.  Not a word.  A few years later, she came across a picture that had captured her purple shadow days.  She looked over at me, aghast.  “Mom,” she whined, “WHY would you let me go out of the house like that?”  I just giggled.  Lesson learned, phase passed, giggle earned. So, recently, when my youngest daughter wanted to pierce her conch (look it up, I had to), I weighed the effects, the good consequences, the bad consequences and all of the reasons I wanted to say no. What if she regretted it?  What if it hurt like Hell?  What if people judged her?  So, I tapped into my mom voice and began listing my reservations.  She listened.  For good measure. I said she’d have to pay for it, herself, with her own money.  I said she’d have to take care of it, herself.  I said she couldn’t swim the rest of the summer.  I said she may regret it later in life.  However, I did not say no.  She listened to my reservations, she contemplated (as much as a seventeen year old contemplates) and she stood convicted.  I mean, who is surprised?  She IS my daughter.  She wanted the piercing. Standing before me was my sweet baby girl; the baby that I couldn’t watch get shots when she was an infant or a toddler or even a ten year old.  And she wanted me to not only sign for her to get a hole punched in her ear, she wanted me to go along.  She’s a straight A student, I told myself.  She doesn’t sneak out, or do drugs with her friends and she isn’t pregnant. Why can’t she get a hole punched in her conch.  Well, I decided, she can.  Silently, I freaked out at the prospect of some stranger punching a hole in my daughter’s ear.  I cleaned house like a crazy woman (it’s what I do), I took too long getting ready (hahaha, to go to a piercing ‘salon’), I dug out an old bottle of Xanax and off we went.  We arrived at the ‘salon’ and I was, first, shocked and second, ashamed.  I was ashamed because I realized I’d had a stereotypical expectation of what a piercing salon and what piercist (Is that a word?  You get the picture.) would/should look like. Shame on me. The place was appropriately named Immaculate.  It was, in fact, immaculate.  The glass jewelry cases were immaculate.  The floor was immaculate.  The couch in the waiting area was leather and was, also, immaculate.  I had to show my driver’s license, her birth certificate and a copy of my divorce decree verifying that I am, in fact, her custodial parent. The receptionist was knowledgeable and thorough. The piercist (I like the word, even if I made it up) was professional.  The tools were sterile, opened in front of us. The room was more sterile than many doctor’s offices I’ve been in.  The piercist explained each step.  He was gentle and the piercing was completed without a hiccup.  My daughter, my beautiful baby girl, stood in front of the mirror grinning from ear to ear.  “I’m in love,” she declared.  And she was.  “So am I,” I thought, “I have been since the day I met you. You’re beautiful to me, even with a hole punched in your ear.”  I couldn’t say that out loud, of course, because I was concentrating on NOT fainting. Battle not chosen. No regrets.

Fish are Fishy Business

Once upon a time, there was an odd twist of events that landed a newly relocated apartment dweller with a really cool fish tank, and fish. A pictus catfish, an African feathered catfish and two parrot fish (one that swam upside down). I've never owned fish before but I've read about how soothing a tank can be. Hmph.  I'm still choking down that theory. Soon after set up at the apartment, the upside down swimmer went to fishy heaven. This made the lone parrot fish become extremely defensive and he began bullying the gorgeous feathered catfish. So, we found ourselves on a midnight mission to save the being-bullied fish. After much commotion and lots o' water on the floor, the parrot fish was safely swimming in a private bowl. We took him to The Fishy Store and Mr. Know-It-All-About-Fish man calmly explained that the death of upside down fish had upset the balance of the ecosystem. We left Mr. Bully Parrot with the Fish man and brought home three Tiger Barbs. All was well, until.... Mr. Feathered Catfish suddenly grew exponentially in size and ATE, yes ATE, Katy Perry (AKA the blue barb). So, once again, I fished out the bully fish (Feathered Fish, this time) and took it to The Fish Store. There Mr. Know-It-All-About-Fish man calmly explained that with the Parrot fish no longer keeping Mr. Feathered Fish in his place, Feathered Fish became King Fish and took over as ruler of the ecosystem. We left him with Mr. Fish Man and brought home 4 new Tiger Barbs. The tank then held 2 blue barbs, 2 striped barbs, 2 orange barbs and a pictus catfish. Oh, I was also instructed to add a rock that made bubbles. Within 3days, the entire tank turned black. Black, I tell ya. Mr. Pictus was first to choke out. At this point, I inappropriately cried...OVER FISH, for Pete's sake! My daughter felt sorry for her emotional momma and took a water sample to The Fish Store. There, they gave us these "sponges" ($17 a piece type sponges) to soak up all the toxic levels of ammonia that the tiger barbs had flooded the tank with, (which, by the way, I totally think would've been handy info to have had when purchasing the barbs!) Three sponge soakers later, the tank was clear. I purchased two gouramis. They lived for 2 weeks so I felt safe and added three small angel fish and a replacement pictus catfish. No one seems to be taking on the role of bully or assassin, as of yet. This evening, as I sat enjoying the "soothing" view, I thought we all would enjoy some comic relief! ‪#‎fishladyIAMNOT

Just Bounce

Inspiration is such a mysterious thing.  It creeps up when we least expect it, often from the depths of our memories.  Once upon a time, in a desperate need for inspiration, I remembered a theory about bouncing. It came from Gwyneth Paltrow’s character in the movie Bounce. “That’s what I’ve been doing all this time,” she says, “bouncing…it’s like crashing, expect you get to do it over and over again.” That’s it, I thought, I just bounce.  Since my time as a single mom began, I’ve often thought, or even stated aloud, “That’s it.  The last straw.  The end of the line.  I’m going to crash this time, for sure.” But, somehow, inevitably, I just…bounce.  Sometimes, it takes a few bounces to get back on my feet. Other times, I bounce up higher than when I began the decent toward the ground. For the record, I rarely actually land ON my feet.  It’s more like a butt bounce, of sorts, and then I’m able to GET on my feet. There are times, even, when I find myself silently chanting, “just bounce, just keep bouncing.”  It gets me through.  Whatever, works, right?! Happy bouncing!