Author: gaslightgirl

The Weaker Sex

~ gaslightgirl ~ 2 Comments

“Men are the weaker sex” the woman responded in a comment on social media this morning. She was serious. Dead serious.

And seriously wrong.

As I sat next to my stay-at-home-dad husband, who woke at 4:30 AM this morning to get up and drive me to a client in Eastern Washington this morning, I felt sorry for her.

With an attitude like that, she’s missing out on so much.

I know. Because I used to think the way she did.

Me, the girl who works dominates in a male-dominated field, the one who travels and brings home the proverbial bacon. The one who hires and fires and negotiates deals and slays dragons. Strong. Opinionated. I-can-do-anything attitude.

I mean, c’mon, who needs a man when you can do all of that?!

Turns out…I do.

From the outside looking in, it probably appears that I didn’t marry a “man’s man.” Rusty is not the guy who played tackle football or hung out at bars with the guys. Some have looked at my marriage and probably thought, “she married a guy she could dominate, too.”

And to be honest, for a long time, I did. After all, with his loving and nurturing nature, I saw him as just that: weak.

Huge mistake. HUGE.

That philosophy almost ended in disaster.

Here’s what I’ve come to learn: as much as I am in tune with the masculine side of myself (I had to be, but that’s a longer story…), there was a girly-girl hiding in there, too. This girl likes to dress up and get her hair and nails done. She likes doors being opened for her. She likes flowers and romantic dinners. And she can do more than bring home the bacon, she loves to be in her garden, her kitchen, and even her laundry room!

Certainly, I could have gotten my own self up this morning, made my own coffee, and driven myself the 300 miles to Eastern Washington to see the client, and turn around and come home the same day. Who needs a man’s help for that?

Turns out…I do.

And the fact is, he needs that, too.

Sure, Rusty cooks and cleans and schleps the kids to their events. He makes our house a home. You know, all the stuff a “mom” would do.

But with all of that love and care, he still needs to be a guy. He needs to take care of his girl. He doesn’t do that bringing home the proverbial bacon (a conscious choice we made more than a decade ago, not because he’s a lazy SOB). He does that by opening the doors, by mowing the lawn, by shooting guns, and teaching the boys about cars and BBQ and how to treat a woman.

You know, like driving his girl to Eastern Washington at 4:30 AM.

The fact is, that woman on social media had it all wrong. Men are not the weaker sex. And neither are we. The fact is, we were made to complement one another.

In Chinese philosophy, yin and yang describe how seemingly opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.

Sit with that powerful philosophy for a moment.

What if we thought of each other in this way? Could it improve personal relationships? Marriages? Heal families? Heal the world?

Certainly, men don’t give birth and have a hard time with the common cold and their emotional ranges can be somewhat limited. But they are also built to be our protectors and our lovers and our leaders. I, for one, am pretty glad that I’m not the one who has to do many of the things he’s responsible for, namely mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, and lifting heavy objects…or going to war.

But, let’s be fair, women are not the easiest creatures to get along with. Our emotional ranges can be so widely ranging we can’t even stand ourselves! But, we are also built to be caretakers, we have great intuition and empathy, and we are sensual beings. I’m pretty sure the guys have long lists of things they are happy we handle and they don’t!

I hope that the woman on the internet will one day realize how beautiful life really is when you accept your strength along with your vulnerability. When you accept the masculine along with the feminine.

It’s so much better than one dominating the other, don’t you think?

The yin to their yang. Or, perhaps, the yang to their yin.

 

 

The Rich Don’t Pay Their Fair Share of Taxes!

~ gaslightgirl ~ 1 Comment

It’s that time of year. At least it is for us.

Time to pay my taxes.

As a baby accountant, in the years when my clients would bring their tax information in and I would compile it all and marvel, mouth dropped open, on “how much money they made” I swore to myself that I would NEVER complain about paying taxes when I made that much money.

Well damnit, I’m complaining….just a little.

But maybe complaining isn’t the exact right word. What I really want to do is educate. Because I love to turn the lights on for people. And also, because I’m sick and tired of hearing:

“The Rich Do Not Pay Their Fair Share of Taxes.”

#bullshitalert

I know, I know. It’s what you’ve heard. From your friends. From the media. From Facebook.

So it must be true, right?

#wrong

As the owner of a small business (defined as a business with revenues [that’s revenues…not profit!] of $1 million per year or less), I’d like to walk you through parts of my tax return. So that you can help me in dispelling this terrible myth. This “party line” that only serves to further separate us.

So let’s start with wages. You’ll notice I don’t make any.

That’s because I only earn money if my business makes money. So, I don’t take a wage…I take draws from my business as there is cash available.

I’m going to take a wild ass guess and imagine that your tax return likely has line #7 filled out for wages for you or your spouse. And I’m going to take a guess that, like me, you grumble because that number sure as hell is NOT the amount of cash that you saw go into your bank account, right?

Life and taxes…are a bitch.

Most of the reason that you didn’t see that cash in your bank account is due to two taxes: your income tax and a little thing called social security taxes. In fact, 7.65 percent of your total wage is taken out before you even see that money.

But did you know that your total social security tax due to the federal government is NOT 7.65%?!?!?! That’s correct! Social security due to the federal government on your behalf is actually 15.3 percent! But if you don’t pay the entire amount, then who does?!

Yes, that jerk who employs you does!

So, for the pleasure of employing you, the owner of the company you work for not only has to pay the full wage you see on that W-2 of yours and send in the 7.65% of your wage that is taken out of your paycheck…..they also have to PAY 7.65% in additional tax just for you.

Example: you make a wage of $50,000. $3,825 is taken out for Social Security/Medicare tax of 7.65%. Let’s say your effective tax rate is 10% or $5,000 per year. Your employer expends $50,000 by paying you your wages of $41,175 and remitting the remainder or $8,825 to the government for your taxes. In addition, they pay another $3,825 in Social Security/Medicare tax on your behalf. So, for the pleasure of employing you, their minimum cost is not your $50,000 wage, but it is $53,825!

Right now, my business, is a proverbial small business. We make revenues of less than $1 million dollars per year. (Sounds like a lot, I know…but at the end of the day….it isn’t!). We put three people to work full time and usually have an intern or others who work for us. Last year, the taxes my business paid was: $74,159.

This included the Social Security / Medicare tax I just explained to you, plus here in Washington I pay what’s called a Business and Occupation tax.

Oh yes, this is a tax that I get to pay for the pleasure of doing business in Washington. And it’s a gross receipts tax.

What does that mean? It means that for every dollar that comes in the door, I get to pay Washington 1.5% of my revenues. Make $1,000? I pay them $15. Make $10,000, I pay them $150. Before I ever get to enjoy any of the fruits of our work or deduct any expenses!

It’s super fun! So the $74,159 line item you see above are the taxes I get to pay for the pleasure of being in business and having employees!

But it doesn’t stop there.

I am self-employed. So I have to pay the federal government my own social security taxes at the full rate of 15.3%. This is a super fun one. Remember, I don’t have wages! But it doesn’t matter! For those of us who are self-employed, the IRS made special forms just for us!


This year, my total self-employment tax was: $27,924!!

Don’t worry…we’re still not done.

After all my business income and expenses and taxes paid to various government agencies, my accounting records said I had earned income from my business!

And just like you, because I earned income, I paid more taxes.

This year, we paid:


Yes, $111,,784….you read that right. And believe me, it makes my ass pucker, too. Especially, since we aren’t done yet.

You see, according to the IRS and their infinite wisdom, we didn’t pay enough in tax…so a little thing called the “Alternative Minimum Tax” needed to be calculated. You know, because

Rich People don’t pay their fair share in taxes.

So in addition to the Self Employment Tax and my income tax, we paid $1,088 in AMT, because, well, the government needed to get their fair share!

And NO…we STILL ARE NOT DONE!

Thanks to Obamacare, also known as the “ACA” I evidently did not pay enough medicare tax…you know, because not only did I pay my fair share via the Self Employment tax calculation and also on behalf of my employees…but I now have to pay EXTRA.

So, they tacked this $1,856 on:

If you haven’t kept track, let me help you:

Business Taxes $ 74,159.00
Self-Employment Tax $ 27,924.00
Federal Income Tax $ 111,784.00
Alternative Minimum Tax $ 1,088.00
Additional Medicare Tax $ 1,856.00
Total Taxes – Before State Taxes $ 216,811.00

Let that reality sink in a little.

What could you do with $216,811 in your bank account? And this is no gimmick. This is real cash. Out of my pocket, into the government’s hands. You know…the government that does great things with our tax money!

With that cash..how many more people could I give a job to? What are the raises I could give to the awesome people who work for me now?

And remember, my little business makes less than $1M per year. That’s less than $1 million before I pay employees, pay rent, pay all these taxes…pay our household…

#depressing

My friends, can I tell you something else about being rich?

We don’t get to take the same deductions as everyone else. That’s right. I have two teenage boys at home. They eat us out of house and home. They are expensive!
But see that line item called “Child Tax Credit?”

Yeah…it’s blank. Because you know….rich assholes like us don’t deserve child tax credits, no matter how many kids we have. That’s a $2,000 tax deduction that we don’t get to enjoy.

But it gets better! Itemized deductions…you know for paying a mortgage, giving money to charity, all of that? Yeah….that gets diminished too. This is a fun one!

That’s $4,682 that could have reduced our taxable income that we weren’t allowed to claim because…”we made too much money.”

There you have it. A glimpse into a real “rich person’s” tax return.

Listen, we have an incredible life. And I get it, we live in a nice home, we drive nice vehicles and our kids go to private school. But also know, we shop at Walmart, I walked out of Kohl’s the other day because they wouldn’t give me an $80 discount I should have had on the items I was buying, and we are still as down to earth as two people can get.

And there’s the rub. The majority of people in this USA who are classified as rich are just like us. We are nice people. We work our asses off each day, we give people jobs and go without just to make payroll some days/weeks/months!

So, the next time you hear the premise that “rich people don’t pay their fair share of taxes.” Please remember this primer and please know that we don’t just pay our fair share…we pay more than our fair share.

And just like you, we help make up the backbone of our great and wonderful nation!

Erasing History

~ gaslightgirl

 

I understand that there are parts of our history that are uncomfortable. Slavery. The treatment of Native Americans. Our participation in wars. Japanese encampments. I could make a long long list if I really tried. But, just like the history of our nation is not perfect, neither are any of us. I could make an equally long long list of my various imperfections. Pretty sure anyone reading this could do the same.

As I was considering this recent movement to get rid of Confederate monuments, remove Indian names from school buildings, and all of the other “politically correct” BS that keeps being force-fed to us, I can’t help but wonder….what things are we doing today that our grandchildren and their descendants would be aghast about?

My friend and I were talking this weekend about our dads who were heavy heavy smokers, and who smoked all around us as kids. Our children, the grandchildren of these men, have grown up with the knowledge of the health hazards of tobacco smoke. I hearken back to the countless trips in the car, sans seat belt…or worse, flying 60 miles an hour down a dusty ditch bank in the back of my dad’s truck…or the story of the “playpen” that I rode around the car in as a baby – the playpen strapped in, me loose in the middle of the damn thing. Our kids? They have been harnessed into our vehicles since day one and will never know any different.

So I ask you this, should we disavow our parents for such transgressions? For gods sake! How many died? What kind of toxins were we exposed to?

Jesus, I never wore a bicycle helmet and neither did any of my friends. Pretty sure our parents should be locked up. We should ban them from our lives now and forever! How dare they be cold-hearted and expose us to such harm!

Sounds ridiculous, right? After all…they didn’t know any better about the seat belts or the cigarettes or the bicycle helmets. You see…they learned. And what did they do with that learning? They taught us to do it differently, to not do it like they did.

Or, we learned and passed along a different kind of life to our children in the face of that new knowledge.

So what the hell are we doing to our children, now?

If we are going to tear down the Confederate statues, then someone needs to come here and burn down the Grant House here in my hometown. After all, General Ulysses S. Grant was a Union soldier. And do you know what one of the things the Union soldiers did? They poisoned wells. Water that was life giving to people, plants, and animals. Ostensibly to poison Confederate soldiers…but guess what….that poison killed children, too. Like the Lotz children in Franklin, Tennessee.

Pretty sure you didn’t know about that, right? So if Ulysses S. Grant sanctioned that kind of activity, why aren’t we burning down his house here in Vancouver WA?

If we are going to erase all of the “bad stuff” in our Nation’s history, then how in the hell are our children going to learn from it? How are they going to know how to do better?

We are already raising a scary generation of children who have been told they are perfect, so we should make sure they live in a perfect Nation as well, right?

Wrong.

We can do better. We must do better.

 

The Grant House, Vancouver Washington

On Being a Rich Asshole

~ gaslightgirl ~ 1 Comment

My name is Tiffany. I live in a beautiful home with a substantial amount of square footage. Our home is surrounded by beautiful acreage. My mortgage is large but we live well within our means and so, it does not kill us to pay it each month.

And I am wholly and utterly embarrassed by it all.

To the point where I have a hard time inviting friends and even our own family over to enjoy it. And when they do come over, I cringe when Rusty gives them the “grand tour.”

Just a few weeks ago, one of the moms was dropping off her kid at our house and asked how many square feet we had.

I lied.

She said they were thinking of moving and purchasing a home on acreage with room for horses. She wanted to know what we spent on our place.

I lied about that, too.

(I could rationalize here, that it was just a small white lie and I wasn’t too far off…or that it wasn’t her business anyway…but that would be another lie I told myself to feel better.)

You see, I didn’t want this nice woman to feel bad. I didn’t want her to feel “less than”.

But more importantly, I didn’t want her to think we were ‘rich assholes’.

Because, you know: rich = asshole.

I can think of a few other beliefs I’ve likely held about “rich people” at some juncture in my life:

  • Rich = Snob
  • Rich = Entitled
  • Rich = Not part of the “real world”
  • Rich = Rich Kids Don’t Learn to Earn (Silver Spoon Syndrome)

In other words, if you were a rich person, you were a jerk and you likely didn’t appreciate what you had.

Here’s the problem I’m having:

I’ve come to accept that I am likely one of “them”, now. Only, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see entitled, or snobbish, or a bitch.

I am kind. I am giving. I am a loyal friend. I’m a good hot, sexy, wife to my husband. And a loving mom who puts her kids to work and finds joy when they find self-esteem from their own endeavors, not through what we give them.

I give thanks every day for what I have.

I am definitely not an asshole.

#WHOA

Here’s another truth:  I know other rich people!  And guess what? Most of them aren’t assholes, either!!!!

#MINDBLOWN

So why do I even write about this? To rub it in your face? To make you feel less than?

Nope.

To prove that money doesn’t bring you happiness?

Nope.

To prove that rich people aren’t assholes?

No, it’s not that, either.

It’s because we all have limiting beliefs about ourselves {I’m not good enough, I’m not pretty enough, I’m not lovable}.

And we all have limiting beliefs about money {we don’t have enough, how will we retire, we will never have a nice house or a nice car, what will people think if they knew we had all this money}. A lot of that includes putting people in “categories” based on what they have or what they don’t {rich people are jerks; poor people are stupid}.

You know, stereotypical stereotyping.

What if we just stopped all of that?

What if we were just kinder to each other…and more importantly, kinder to ourselves?

What if we dispelled the taboo money topics and found ways to support each other in order to have even more of it in our life?!

I get it. It feels selfish. It feels like we’re tempting fate. It feels like if we ask for more we don’t actually appreciate what we have. It feels like we would be turning into assholes.

#bullshitalert

Obviously, I still have work of my own to do. I have a big limiting belief that I need to let go of:

“What will people think of me if I live in this big fancy house?”

The real truth is, that I will still be still am Tiffany. I will be am the girl who worked in the cotton fields and later worked her way through college. I will be am the girl who felt lost in her early career, like I would never “make it”. I will be am the girl who started a business just to pay the bills at home and never once dreamed I’d be an employer whose business was supporting three other families.  I will still be am also the girl who has had the experience of setting all the bills out on the table and figuring out which ones to pay and which ones to push off for another month.

And not only will I be am I the girl who never forgets where she came from, I will be the girl who helps others find their way, too.

And money will not be a taboo subject when it comes to this journey we’re all on.

I have a new belief:

My name is Tiffany. I live in a big, beautiful home that I can’t wait to love to share with my family and friends. Our home is the place where our kids bring their friends. Where our friends become family. Where our family finds peace and solace. Where we eat, drink, and laugh – making priceless lifetime memories.

Post-Script ~

Before you think I’m crazy, go pick up Jen Sincero’s new book: “YOU are a BADASS at MAKING MONEY.”

Pick up a pen, a highlighter, and a journal while you’re at it. Go home and don’t just read it. Do yourself a favor and absorb every word, do the exercises in each chapter, and envision how you want money to show up in your life.

You can buy me a drink thank me later!

Depraved Indifference

~ gaslightgirl ~ 1 Comment

How do we get here?

How do we get to the place where three teenage boys are able to not only stand by and watch as a person is pleading for help as they drown, not picking up the phone to call police…but laughing and seemingly enjoy it as if it were a sporting event?

In some states, evidently not Florida, the teens could be charged with a crime of Depraved Indifference.

Depraved: Morally Corrupt; wicked

Indifference: Lack of interest, concern, or sympathy; unimportance

My Facebook feed was devoid of this article today. It was something I found reference to and then had to go look up myself.

Making sure it wasn’t fake news or anything.

So, how do we get here? How does our Facebook feed become riddled with political garbage, fake news, the latest fitness craze, or peace and sparkles?

What excuses do we make when we scroll past these stories in order to make ourselves “feel better”?

·       “They must have a terrible home life”

·       “Maybe they are gang members”

·       “Perhaps they’ve watched too many violent video games or movies”

Contrast this event with an event I watched in a courtroom on the same day.

Courtrooms are typically civilized places, with a set of rules, an order of things, and a professional level of respect and camaraderie among the lawyers, even those on opposing sides.

As lawyers do, each side approached their respective tables, opening briefcases, referring to notes, leaning over and whispering to their clients and each other, preparing for the hearing and awaiting the Judge’s appearance in the courtroom.

Doing what it is lawyers do.

As all were getting settled in, the lone female lawyer, a woman of approximately 40 years old, reached into her briefcase and drew out packets of documents, informing the lawyers on the other side of the table that these were copies of the pleadings [arguments, declarations, etc. filed for the Judge to read] she had filed the night before.

She was doing what I have seen lawyers do countless of times – basically extending them a professional courtesy by providing copies of documents that had been filed late – in case they had not yet reviewed them.

[It should be noted that the other side had filed late documents the night before, as well.]

Context:

This has been a contentious case. The clients on the respective sides are warring. The maneuvers being used are fast and hard to keep up with.

This is nothing new in my world. Contention is often the name of the game, but does not typically preclude the normal professional courtesies extended to the parties involved.

Out of the blue, the man in the tan suit, a man in the range of 65 to 70 years of age,  started yelling at this woman. Red faced, angry, literally out of control.  

           “I WILL NOT ACCEPT THESE DOCUMENTS!”

           “YOU ARE UNETHICAL!”

           “YOU ARE PULLING ONE ‘FAST ONE’ AFTER ANOTHER!”

The woman stepped back. She said nothing.

Everyone stopped. The handful of us in the gallery. The young lawyer co-chairing the “side” this woman was on. And three additional men on the side of the man with the tan suit. And then with his face turning purple and spittle being flung from his lips, the coup d’état:

           “YOU ARE A CHILD IN EVERY RESPECT.”

I looked at my client, a simple guy, probably the same age of the man in the tan suit. His hand is on the back of the next bench, he’s perched on the edge of his seat, he is clearly ready to get up and address the situation.

But what about the males who were sitting on the side of the man with the tan suit?

Where were they?

I can tell you: their heads were down, the words on the papers in front of them suddenly very important, eyes averted so as not to be a witness to this debacle.

Three grown ass men were silent as their colleague dressed down and berated a female lawyer in a truly unbelievable way.

Before my client could get up, the young female lawyer waited a moment.

In a quiet, but strong voice she told him:

“Sir, I am not a child. I am a 42 year-old woman. I have never been treated in this way before. I completely respect your experience and the work you are doing for your client. It is people like you who I look up to. But I won’t be spoken to in this way.”

Would you have had the strength of character or the presence of mind to respond in this way? I’m not sure I would have.

He could not control himself. The man in the tan suit had to get in one more dig:

           “I DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU HAVE TO MAKE THIS SO DIFFICULT!”

And with her calm voice she told him:

“Sir, I grew up in a refugee camp. I can tell you, that is difficult. This? This is just the law. This is just work. I can assure you, this is not difficult.”

And with that she sat down, awaited the Judge to arrive, and over the course of the haring, was able to make her arguments as well as any of the more experienced guys at the table.

So, what do the two situations have in common? Three boys watching silently as a disabled man drowns? Three grown, educated men watching as a young woman is being dressed down and humiliated in a professional setting?

I can tell you:

Depraved Indifference

If three grown, educated, professional men are too weak to ask their colleague to tone it down; if three grown, educated, professional men are so weak that they have to avert their eyes so as not to witness the altercation; if three grown, educated, professional men are so weak that they are incapable of standing up for what is right and not allowing said colleague to dishonorably treat another colleague (never mind dishonorably treat a woman!), then who is setting the standard for men to be men? Who is leading the next generation? Who is standing up to ensure that evil is banished from our society?

Evil flourishes right out in the open when “good men” do nothing. And I can assure you, evil does not always look like gang members, or ISIS, or airplanes being flown into buildings.

It does not have to take a significant or criminal event to witness evil. It walks around and is present every day in our lives.

Sometimes it is even dressed up as a nice looking educated man in a tan suit.

See Something? Say Something…and Be the change you want to see in the world. 

Forgiveness – Rules to Live By

~ gaslightgirl

I’ve grappled a lot with the idea of forgiveness. What is it, exactly? When is it appropriate? When is it not?

Does forgiveness depend on the transgression?

For example, I was sitting quietly in my window seat on the airplane yesterday morning when my middle-seatmate tossed his laptop bag into his seat as he boarded…except he missed and hit me in the arm instead. He said he was sorry. Pretty innocuous.

What about a sibling who steals your identity and uses it multiple times to steal money out of your bank account, open credit cards they never intend to pay for, and even commit crimes in your name?

On the other end of the spectrum, do you forgive the person who kills your loved one because they were driving drunk?

Transgressions vary wildly in life, don’t they?

So, does the process of forgiveness look the same no matter the offense? It seems to me that many think it does – that no matter the transgression, if you don’t “forgive”, somehow you are the bad person…or that you will be struck down from Karma or God’s wrath.

I call bullshit on this notion.

If you’re a religious person, forgiveness is mentioned multiple times in the bible, seemingly telling its readers to forgive, lest you not be forgiven yourself. No real explanation there. Just a directive.

But life isn’t really that simple, is it?

And when it comes to those that share DNA, do the rules change?
I’m pretty sure that very nice, well-intentioned people believe that DNA does change the rule.

In my case, I get this one all the time:

“But, she’s your mother!”

Anyone else feeling me out there on this one or something similar?

First let me literally laugh my ass off here. And then, as I do, let me digress: if someone is inserting a person’s TITLE in that phrase, as if their transgressions should be OKAY because they have a “title” …. then aren’t they making your point? I mean…shouldn’t the people who are SUPPOSED TO LOVE US not TRANSGRESS AGAINST US? And then if they do, why is it up to us to forgive without anything coming from the other person?

Sigh.

So, for all my confused readers out there, I want to share with you a definition of forgiveness that is so beautiful, that makes so much sense, that it made me weep the first time I heard it (1). I had to go back and listen and look it up and all I could say was:

This. This makes so much sense.

I have it posted in various places so that I can refer to it as I need to. Because let’s face it, I need to on occasion. After all, we all have opportunities to make proper reparations!

But most days, I have to compare this list to my irrational feelings. Because, well, it would just be easier not to make waves and “keep the peace”, wouldn’t it? It would be easier “just to forgive.”

Want to know the steps to forgiveness? Then, remember the 4 R’s!

1. REMORSE
The person tells you they are sorry. They express true remorse. Perhaps this is an expression of words. Perhaps this is an expression of deeds. Perhaps the remorse is communicated in writing. But the expression is overt and is true. Skeptical, are you? Go to step 2, and discern if the person is:

2. TAKING RESPONSIBILITY
In other words, are they not only saying they are sorry, but is this person also owning their own shit? Are they spelling out what they did? Are they communicating their role in the situation? This responsibility is not a result of appeasing your anger or hurt. This responsibility is genuine and real. Still skeptical? Go to step 3:

3. REPAIR
Is the person making steps to repair the situation? For example, if you’ve been spoken about poorly in a circle of friends or loved ones, has the person gone to those people and gone back to Step #2 and taking responsibility for the lies they’ve told? If the problem is between the two of you, have they fixed the problem and made a plan of repair?

If you have steps 1 through 3, then you’re well on your way, aren’t you? But forgiveness isn’t always as easy as forgiving the guy that clocks you with his bag on the airplane.

Sometimes forgiveness takes time, doesn’t it?

And that’s where step 4 comes in:

4. No Repeat
The behavior is not repeated. Over hours, days, months, and years…the person’s actions show, consistently, that they are sorry. Why? Because they don’t do it again.

Forgiveness can be confusing. It certainly can be a messy business, as I will communicate in coming posts.

But, these 4 simple rules – they are something to live by. They are something to measure against. And, they work.

And in the event that the 4 stages of forgiveness do not present themselves to you, take heart, you don’t have to stay bitter, angry, or sad.

You can let go.

Which isn’t the same as forgiveness.

But, it’s actually better. It’s better because it helps you fly. It helps you see clearly. It helps you love yourself no matter what happens against you.

I can’t wait to share that message with you, too.

(1) Dr. Laura Schlesinger – www.drlaura.com

No Snowflakes Allowed

~ gaslightgirl ~ 5 Comments

*Warning: Profane Language Ahead*

I sauntered into his classroom that cold, Monday morning 15 minutes late. I knew I was in for it. You didn’t show up to O’Shaughnessy’s Intermediate Accounting class late. If you did, you had voluntarily entered the danger zone.

Intermediate Accounting. It is the class that makes or breaks most accountant wannabes. If you can pass Intermediate Accounting, you will likely stride through the rest of your major. If you can’t get through Intermediate Accounting, well, you better start choosing a different one.

And while Intermediate Accounting at most universities have a similar stigma, O’Shaughnessy was a legend.

‘O’Shaughn’ had been a professor for more than 32 years by the time I walked into his classroom that morning in 1996. And he was a legend, not just on our small Central Washington University campus, but throughout much of the Pacific Northwest. If you held an accounting degree from CWU, then your interview would include the question:

“Did you take Intermediate from O’Shaughnessy?”

If you answered “no” (because you took the class in the summer to get away from having to take it from him), I guarantee that your application would be significantly discounted.

Even ten years after I had graduated and returned to the Pacific Northwest, I was still getting that question at each of the accounting firms I applied to.

But, like I do, I digress.

I walked into his classroom late that day…. because I was failing and my ass needed to be in that seat.

The girl who had never received a grade lower than a B in the entirety of her lifetime, including college, was failing Intermediate Accounting…. we’re talking a BIG FAT ‘F’.

I will tell you that one of the reasons that I was failing was because at that point in my illustrious educational career, I had never learned to study. Things came pretty easily for me, I could write papers, turn in my homework, understand what I was being taught and apply it in whatever way a teacher or professor asked. Accounting was a whole new language and I was at that time, unprepared for the challenge.

The Second Reason I was failing was due to a new boyfriend I had, you know the kind who leaves your head in the clouds….

And the Third Reason I was failing was due to O’Shaughnessy’s grading system:

  • Get the answer right: +3 points
  • Skip the answer (leave it blank): 0 points (i.e. no harm/no foul)
  • Get the answer wrong: -2 points

His philosophy: Know your shit. Know when you don’t know your shit. Get penalized for thinking you know your shit but you really don’t.

My friends, if that isn’t a life lesson, then I don’t know what is.

But when you’re 21 years old, you don’t see it that way.

So, to say the least, I was struggling. Life was truly “unfair.” I met my best friends (Suzanne Brandt, Lori Yount, Kevin Dahlen, Mike Voie, and Tim Merritt) as a result of our need to huddle together and study in group cry in groups drink in groups to survive. We all agreed that this was totally unfair. Didn’t he understand that we had other coursework to manage? Didn’t he understand that we needed to have a LIFE?! Didn’t he know that his grading system was bullshit and had no bearing on the “real world?!”

Fast forward to that Monday morning. Monday, being the operative word in this situation. Monday meant I had stayed the weekend with that boyfriend (who eventually made an honest woman out of me!) and drove the three hours from his place back to school at the crack of dawn.

But, I didn’t make it on time get out of bed on time.

“LeMay…you’re late.”  No one went by their first names in his classroom. We were only known by our last names. Yount, Brandt, Dahlen, Voie, and Merritt kept their heads down and pencils up.

There was no one to save me for the coming onslaught.

Now, to understand the rest of the story you have to picture this:

A man in his mid-50’s, average height, fairly thin, graying hair – with a loud, bellowing voice who commanded attention. Imagine him with an imaginary basketball between his legs, basically walking in a greatly exaggerated bow-legged fashion back and forth across the front of his classroom.

“LeMay, you walk into my classroom 15 minutes late, walking like this [insert exaggerated walk here]…it {ahem, the sex} must have been damn good.”

You could have heard a pin drop.

Of course, I wasn’t walking like I had only done one thing the entire weekend. Of course, his comment was wholly inappropriate. Of course, I could have died of embarrassment on the spot.

With everyone in the room at the same time stunned and trying to suppress their laughter, I assessed my choices:

  1. Turn around in embarrassment and walk out.
  2. Turn around in embarrassment and walk out and make a complaint to the school.
  3. Do nothing and sit.
  4. Give a little shit back to him.

I chose #4.

“It sure as hell was”, I retorted.

He laughed. The class laughed. And on we went with the day’s lesson.

I’m not sure that O’Shaughnessy’s brand of teaching would even be allowed today on America’s college campuses. And, that’s too bad.

Because I learned a lot more than intermediate accounting from him:

~ I learned that knowing when you don’t know your shit is more important than when you do.

~ I learned that when times get tough, you need friends.

~ I learned that you can either run from adversity or face it. Only one of those choices makes you stronger.

~ I learned to be a damn good accountant.  I walked out of his class (and the worst final of my life) with a B-, thank you very much!

Strawberry Granddaughter

~ gaslightgirl

A topic on my mind lately is one that I call “titles”. It is a topic I have explored a lot with my husband and one that has dictated a number of important decisions in our life.  We have commented more than once that it seems to us that folks often look at the “title” of the person, typically based on their lineage or “status” in the family, without giving equal look to the actions of the person.

It is always surprising to me what people get away with simply due to their title in the family. But if said person behaved in such a way with simply the title of “friend” or “acquaintance,” then suddenly the behavior would no longer be acceptable.

Why is that?

As I was getting ready for work this morning and I went to check my hair one last time, I smiled as I saw this on my bathroom counter:

This, my friends, is one of the most precious gifts I ever received. You see, this is a handkerchief, a very old handkerchief, embroidered with two simple wedding bands. It was given to me on my wedding day by grandmother.

Only, she wasn’t.

Zelma Penn married my grandfather when I was 7 or 8 years old.  Before then, we didn’t see much of my grandfather. He was a raging alcoholic, spent most of his time at work or in a bar, and didn’t come around much., except to introduce us to his latest girlfriend.

Zelma, or “Jerri” as she was introduced to us, changed all that. She was a woman from the deep south. She had a real southern drawl, a true gift for cooking, and always had an eye on beauty and personal upkeep.

Most importantly, she turned out not to be just one of another of my Papa’s girlfriends. She ended up being a keeper.

Now, given his background and the fact that the two of them probably met at a bar, it is likely that few in the family saw this woman as someone who was “worthy” of joining the family or the union as one that would last.

Lasted, it did. Until 2001 when my Papa died.

But, back to the story.

Jerri liked to tell me about the first time she met me. As my Papa drove her to our place, he of course “bragged” about his only two grand kids, my brother and me. Regaling her about how “smart” I was and how “athletically” talented my brother was. And then he told her:

“Tiff isn’t the prettiest little thing. But, honey, I sure do love her.” [she ALWAYS said this part with great emphasis!]

Both of those things were the truth. I wasn’t the cutest girl on the block. AND my Papa loved me something fierce.

And so did Jerri.

From the point that my Papa married Jerri, there was hardly a weekend that we didn’t see them. The door to their home was literally always open, I don’t believe we ever knocked. She cooked, she sewed, she gardened, and she cooked some more. She couldn’t cure his alcoholism, but at least her efforts meant he spent more time at home and less time at the bar.

They showed up at every family holiday event.

But to me, it was so much more than that.

You see, Jerri had grandchildren of her own. Two boys and a girl in Alabama. She’d talk and she’d brag on them, sure.

But she told me that I  was her Strawberry Granddaughter.

She called me this because I loved strawberries. From my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box to my favorite strawberry ice cream. She even had a special strawberry cake recipe that she made for me each year, even into adulthood.

This woman encouraged my Papa to build us a tree house (which turned out to be one slab of wood in the big tree out back). She put a huge pillow up there and let me spend hours reading my books. Bringing me cantaloupe for breakfast (salted just right) and peanut butter and (strawberry) jelly sandwiches for lunch. In the afternoons there would always be fresh strawberries, or even better, strawberry ice cream for dessert.

I thought she did so many things “backwards”.  She hung the clothes on the line to dry even though she had a clothes dryer in the house (why would I waste all that electricity?). She would buy hamburgers from Burger King plain and bring them home and put all the veggies and condiments on the burgers herself (they just taste better with garden fresh vegetables!). She shopped at the goodwill at least every week (why waste your money on something new?). And, she composted, whistled, and walked several miles each day to keep “trim and fit.”

She taught me to sew and one summer she and I made several cute outfits that I felt so pretty in. She could hem, alter, or make anything!

And she sunbathed.

In her bikini.

I wish I had a picture of her in her bikini, with her tan and wrinkled skin laying out in the backyard on one of the old plastic lounge chairs while my Papa tended his magnificent garden with the Dodger game on the radio and I read another Trixie Belden mystery up in the tree.

She had absolutely no qualms about laying out in her bikini. It is one of my earliest memories of someone being sure of themselves without worrying about what “others” thought. In fact, I just found this picture of her in a halter top (age 65 to 70?), looking radiant and happy.

In this picture, I see the picture of love. The kind of love I had not ever experienced before. The kind of love that loves you, even when they have no obligation to you whatsoever.

At night, she’d put bubbles in a bath and let me soak for as long as I wanted and then we’d snuggle into her bed (after she verified my feet were clean) and watch “Matlock”, “The Golden Girls” and our favorite, “Murder, She Wrote.” We would laugh or try and figure out “whodunit” and then off I’d go to “my” purple bedroom where I could stay up as late as I wanted and sleep in until I woke up.

As I got older, she took care of my two young cousins who came after me. She took on so much for those kids, becoming their primary caregiver for much of their pre-school lives.

But still, she always had time for her “strawberry granddaughter.”

And later, she loved up my husband and insisted on taking care of our little Jake one day a week just to have more time with him. I love this picture mostly because I can’t help but notice her perfect nails and toes:

On our wedding day, she gave me her handkerchief to wear as my “something old”. You see, this wasn’t just any handkerchief. This one was over 50 years old and had been given to her on her first wedding day.

And after all this time, without any blood between us, she didn’t give that handkerchief to her only  “real” granddaughter.

She gave it to me.

If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.

From that first day and that no-so-pretty little girl, to the gangly awkward teenager, to the young woman who moved away from everybody she knew – she loved me when she didn’t have to.

After all, she didn’t have the official title.

And I regret that. I regret that I never gave her the title of “Granny”, as she liked to be called. She was Jerri until the last day I saw her.

Only, I didn’t know it would be the last day I saw her.

You see, at the end of her life, I had to choose. Scratch that, I made a choice. A choice between someone with a familial “title” and Jerri. My beloved grandmother. I chose the title, hoping love and acceptance and a sense of family would be there. Thinking it was the “right” thing to do.

And I forgot about someone who had done the job, who had been there, and who had loved me, my husband, our son… all of us, even though she didn’t have to.

The choice I made was the wrong one. And before I could ask for forgiveness, find the courage to look up her phone number, to better articulate why I felt I had no other choice, she quietly moved back to Alabama and died not too long after in her sleep.

It took me a few more years to understand titles and how unimportant they really are.

Who in your life is loving you when they don’t have to? Who is doing the work even without the title?

Call them and tell them you notice. That you appreciate them. And that their love has made a difference in your life.

 

The Girl with the Purple Toes

~ gaslightgirl ~ 2 Comments

As I do fairly frequently during our short-lived summers, I peeked my head into our local “nail spa” in hopes that there would be an empty chair waiting for my bi-weekly pedicure. This particular place is a replica of so many other similar establishments. A dozen or more pedicure chairs lined up along one wall, a few manicure tables filling the open space, and two “waxing rooms” – private areas where all manner of hair removal services are carried out. Staffed by a crew of Asian men and women, likely of Vietnamese, Thai, or Philippine ancestry.

“Pick your colah” I am instructed by the Asian woman in charge. I do. Bright red. It is after all, the 4th of July.

A group of ladies, I later learn family members together for an annual reunion, have just been seated in their chairs. They are handed a menu.

“What kind of pedicure you like?” the manicurists ask. Before these women are able to ponder the “pedicure menu” the manicurists press on – “We do the deluxe. The deluxe is sooooo nice. Make your feet feel real good.” And just like that, deluxe, it is.  Within a minute the establishment just made an extra $60 (4 sets of feet times $15 price increase for each) and the ladies oohed and aahed about the prospect of the hot wax that was part of the “deal.”

I can’t help but chuckle. As a successful business owner myself, I have to admire the ability of the workers in these establishments to “upsell.” They are constantly upselling services. Effortlessly. With a smile.

I always find myself wishing I could be better at that.

But, I digress.

As I am directed by a beautiful girl to a massage/pedicure/lounge chair, with warm soapy water bubbling in the bowl, I walk by a girl with purple toes.

Ah, purple toes. Maybe one day I will find the courage to paint my toes purple. But in a world of lawyers and courtrooms and professional meetings, I typically choose a conservative red hue or if I’m feeling feisty, hot pink.

It wasn’t purple so much, as it was lavender…with sparkles in the lacquer. Quite lovely. Tasteful. Perhaps my mind could be swayed, perhaps I could go out on a limb one day?

Before I could get too far down the road of changing my nail color, I realized that she too, was in the midst of an “upsell” moment. Only this time, the manicurist wasn’t winning.

“But the gel is so nice. It last longer.”

Gel nails. All the rage lately, great for durability and long-lasting color. But not so great if you want a simple polish change or aren’t planning to visit the nail spa every two weeks to have them maintained.

The girl with the purple toes was explaining all of this to the manicurist. She clearly was there for a special occasion and had no intention of returning for regular nail maintenance.

“You no want the gel? How come you no want the gel?”

And that’s when I saw it.

First, multiple patrons are staring at this young woman who is trying to make this all-important decision.

Second, her manicurist and another are smiling at each other, almost mocking the girl.

And the girl with the purple toes. She was paralyzed. Her mouth partially agape.

I could see it all over her face.

  • “Will I hurt their feelings if I say ‘no’?”
  • “Will they talk about me while I finish out the rest of my services?”
  • “I really just want a regular manicure, but maybe the gel IS better?”
  • “What if they get mad?”

She did not know what choice to make.

Or, did she?

The girl with the purple toes had already made up her mind. She knew that she just needed purple polish for the upcoming event. She knew that she didn’t have the time and/or the funds for gel polish upkeep. She knew that she wanted to get out of there and on with the rest of the day.

But she was so worried about what “they” were thinking (who is “They”, anyway?!) that she forgot about what was practical and economical and made sense for her and succumbed to the gel service.

I have been exploring an idea, lately. And it is this one: how do I stop reacting emotionally, to decisions in my life? Reacting, typically, to outside forces that could be real or not?

As I have posed this question, some of the most extraordinary circumstances have presented themselves to me. Admittedly, I haven’t successfully reacted as I had wished in every scenario. But, I am getting better.

And it has made my life infinitely better and more serene.

So, what happens when we take the emotions out of most situations?

In this scenario, we are only talking about nail polish – gel or regular. This is not a life-altering decision. This will impact no one.

Or, does it?

It certainly had an impact on her. She looked defeated as she walked out of the nail salon a short time later. Not happy about enjoying a couple of hours of pampering on a beautiful sunny afternoon.

And, I can’t help but wonder….if we are unable to overcome a simple decision about gel or regular nail polish, how are we going to make bigger decisions in our lives?

What if the girl with the purple toes had let her emotions pass through her, and allowed herself to reason, instead:

  • “They would like to make more money on this service. It’s not about me.”
  • “They know that if they sell me this service I will be more likely to come back in two weeks to have them refreshed. In other words, making them more money. It’s not about me.”
  • “I don’t even know these people. What do their thoughts or feelings have to do with my personal decision? Certainly, if they think badly about me, it’s not about me. That would be on them.”

And there it is. “Me.” It’s all about us, isn’t it?

How we “feel”…how we think others will perceive us…the stroking of our proverbial egos.

I’m finding that the first and most important step of not reacting to situations emotionally means taking “Me” out of the equation. It has been one of the keys to unlocking clarity and joy in my life.

I love telling stories. I love learning from stories. The girl with the purple toes was my sign. A signal to let my stories and their revelations be unlocked and shared.

As I wrapped up my pedicure (yes, I wanted the Deluxe), and my $12 buff and shine manicure, “You like deluxe manicure, too? {No, thank you}”, I thought about the girl with the purple toes. I thought about how she left a small piece of herself behind in that nail spa and how so many of us do the same without even realizing it.

The glorious afternoon concluded with the excruciating but necessary eyebrow wax.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud when my manicurist tried a last-ditch upselling opportunity: “You like lip wax, too?“