I’ve tried to update this space several times since my last post, but have found it (exceptionally) hard. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Perhaps it’s that I’ve had too much on my mind.

I went home last month. For most people, perhaps that’s not such a big deal; it happens every couple months, or at least within a year (or few). .. It’d been almost 13 years since I was back to the place where I grew up.

You’ve heard the expression, “You can never go home again.” I was caught somewhere between that, and an overwhelming love for the few people from my past that remained. At the end of only a few short days, I found myself walking away, my chest overwhelmed with things that I couldn’t change or wouldn’t be.

Thirteen years. So much had changed: my childhood home was neglected; weeds were deeply rooted in cracked concrete where I met some of my oldest and best friends; hangouts and places that held so many memories were demolished or abandoned (and likely awaiting a similar fate).

What remained weren’t the streets themselves, but something beneath the surface that still threads a group of us together. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until I read a post that hit straight to the heart of the connection that remained so strong.

“Social Media,” we call it these days. It’s the newest trend, so hot it’s making positions like Chief Listening Officers start to pop up. (Weren’t we supposed to be doing that, anyway?)

Back when I was in junior high, I called it a BBS (Bulletin Board System). T.R.E.X. (The Relationship EXchange), to be specific. As my title suggests, my first username was Twitty Bird.

To me, it wasn’t “Media”. It had no resemblance to where I sang along with the latest releases, mocked headlines, anticipated series finales, or sat on the edge of my seat for commercial breaks to end.

It was where I went to connect, share and be honest. With people that understood me. Because all we could do was “listen” as we typed and shared our stories well into the night.

Despite how we refer to it today, has that changed? Will calling it “Media” make it any more a palatable platform for advertising to be consumed by a product/brand’s potential purchaser?

We can want things to be whatever we choose to name them: “Home” .. “Media” .. But that doesn’t necessarily make it so.

As kids, we’re taught to be independent. We learn how to look both ways before we cross the street, not only so that we know to be safe, but so that we can do it alone.

Sometime along the way, most people begin to struggle to ask for help when they really do need it. I know I’m not alone when I say that it’s hard for me. So difficult that I never asked for help when I needed it the most: not even from my mother; not even when she pleaded with me to let her.

Today, I’m in my 30’s.  I’m just learning how to ask for help.

I’m also a parent, facing my own desires to push my kids towards becoming their own people. At times, I forget to focus my teachings on encouraging them to ask for help when they need it, too.

It’s okay to ask for help. It’s natural to need it. We can’t, and shouldn’t, always stand alone.

As Ray LeMontagne says in his (most beautiful IMHO) song, Let It Be Me:

“There comes a time

A time in everyone’s life

Where nothing seems to go your way

Where nothing seems to turn out right

There may come a time

You just can’t seem to find your place

For every door you open

Seems like you get two slammed in your face

That’s when you need someone

Someone that you, you can call

When all your faith is gone

It feels like you can’t go on

Let it be me

…

If it’s a friend that you need

…

Let it be me”

Please note: The lyrics are not as quoted online, but as I hear them.  Perhaps I am incorrect.  Perhaps I am not.  Listen and judge for yourself.

There are two things that I find acceptable to mutter under my breath out of frustration in my household.

One is to my husband. The other is to my kids.

See if you can match which mutter applies to which family member:

A) “Son of a bitch”

B) “Mother fucker”

Hint: I think it’s okay, because I’m really just insulting myself.

Particularly not since it took me no less than FOUR trips there to get two cars registered.  ..I won’t spoil this post with the details behind that headache.  Rather, I mention it because I’d noticed the guy perched outside the door, begging for petition signatures, for two days in a row.  Finally leaving with plates in hand, able to cross something off my to-do list and still on a kidless-high from leaving the munchkins with the sitter, I didn’t wait for my time to be requested before I approached him.

After accusing me of hitting on him, I found my flirtatious new friend telling me not only about the politician he was trying to get on the ballot, but of his own personal struggles.  (Please remember.. I’ve been practicing getting strangers to open their hearts to me within five minutes for a while, now.)

“I’m not much of a reader,” he slipped in, trying to quickly move past his words.

I stopped signing my name long enough that he made eye contact.  “That’s an interesting statement.”

“I can read sentences.. but not all together.  They stop making sense after the first or second one.  I’m just.. not much of a reader.  I’m more a ‘common sense’ kind of guy.”

After gently pushing a bit further, he told me a little about being epileptic.  Unable to drive.  Without a”real” job.

My breath was sucked from my chest as he went on to share his dream to bring joy to our local Children’s Mercy Hospital, where both he and my own daughter have spent some dark times.

Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he picked through it carefully as we spoke.  A look of finality on his face, “Here,” he said, pressing a carefully laminated heart into my palm.  I looked down.

My lucky heart

“Where did you find this?” I demanded, skeptical of the four-leaf clover I held.

“I just.. look down,” he replied, looking down, digging a half dozen more samples out to show me.  After sharing his collection, he demanded, “And what do they stand for?”

“Luck,” I stammered back.

“Exactly.  Those little things have given me luck.  Luck in health.  Luck in life.  And now.. It will bring you and your kids the same.”

The directness of his words and the heart pressed not really in laminate, but as he admitted, in packing tape, struck me in the center of my chest.  I’m not sure quite how I managed to walk away from that conversation, just as I’m still uncertain how to end this post.

Equally, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.  Will the four leaves bring me luck?  Or will it wind up being just another superstition?

We shall see.

I’m one of the 9% of adults in the U.S. that suffer from chronic pain.  If you’ve met me in person, this may not surprise you.  You’ve perhaps noticed the limp, heard my knees and hips pop, or seen me struggle to straighten my back.

…

The earliest contributor to my condition is EBV.  Basically (for me; not for most), it’s mono that reoccurs in my body.  It doesn’t lay dormant like it normally does after running its course through a correctly-functioning immune system (which mine, apparently, is not).  The virus flares up when I am sick with a cold/flu/sinus infection/etc; if I don’t sleep enough; if I don’t eat enough (tricky little bug, since it makes you not hungry); sometimes, even if I’m just carrying too much stress.

One big side-effect of EBV is the fatigue.  Fatigue that doesn’t make me feel unable to focus, but like I’m unable to support my body or lift my arms.  When living through a flare-up, I take baths rather than showers.  I sit while I brush my teeth.  When I can get away with it, I don’t brush my hair at all.  (Not.worth.the.effort..)  I fall a lot, because my legs lose the ability to support my small frame.  (Ever wonder why I’m always in pants?  I’m hiding bruises.)  Once I’m down, I question whether I have the strength to pull myself back up.

There’s a weird pain associated with EBV, particularly in the early days of flare ups (when evening fevers are also most common; in the first 10-14 days).  I’ve heard it described as muscle aching, but it feels deeper than that.  It feels like my bone-marrow is pushing through it’s barrier and seeping into my muscles, as if turned to lava.  The dull, fiery pain pushes between my ribs; under my knee caps; in my arms and legs; behind my eye lids.  (Yes. I know there’s no marrow in my eye lid - it’s just the same pain.)

…

Then, there was September 29, 1999.  The accident.

Apparently, I resemble a mailbox and am invisible through a chain-link fence when I’m on a bike, wearing a white t-shirt, in broad-daylight.

In respect to the man that hit me, I must add that he was 76 years old and had a stroke while he was driving.  I think he ended up with the short end of the deal.  I heard that he died months later.

RIP, old man.  Perhaps we’ll share a beer in heaven (whatever that is; I’m not really a “religious” person) and laugh over your reaction some day.  “What were you doing in the middle of the street?  I never let my kids ride their bikes in the street for exactly this reason!”

I was 20 years old and on my way home from an undergrad class.

>blinkblink<  … I think that was pretty much my response to him.  I had no idea what was going on at that point.  One minute I was cruising home, the next I was sitting on the curb wondering what had happened after I yelled, “FUCK!!!” (after I realized he was starting to accelerate rather than stop at his two-way stop sign. I had the right of way/no sign.)

Even though I stood up without a broken bone and carried myself to the curb to sit down, that one left me with several pain-related issues.

My back and shoulders never stop hurting.  Never.

I’m not sure which is the primary cause of my limp: my knees, or my hips.

…

The accident then led to a simple sinus infection going misdiagnosed for nearly four years.  Insert the now incurable (without invasive surgery) migraine-esque headaches that cause light sensitivity, as the sinus cavity in my forehead pushed into my retina.

If you’ve ever wondered why I almost always wear my People Magazine hat: it’s proven the best at cutting out the most painful lights directly above me while giving me relief through tightening it against a pressure point in my forehead.  (That’s why I’m always adjusting/re-tightening it.)

…

Once an active person, I went to the gym, enjoyed running and biking, and enjoyed hiking and bouldering in Phoenix.

Today, I struggle to walk and stay standing long enough to fill my kids’ glasses full of juice.  Prescription bottles are even difficult to open, with my under-used muscles’ premature weakening.

There’s shame in chronic pain.

But there’s also isolation after years of pushing people away, rather than admit to what I’m dealing with.

So, I recently made reservations to spend a weekend among people that I grew up with, and go to a place that I haven’t been since this whole thing started.  I haven’t been home in a dozen years.

I found myself on the phone with an old friend today, forewarning him with what I feel he’s about to see: the shell of the person that he once knew.  His reply?  “I don’t judge.”

I hope you don’t either.

Some are my fault.  (Never hold on to the back of a moving car while riding a skateboard.  Sure, Michael J. Fox made it look easy in “Back to the Future,” but even at a lowly 20mph, it’s just not a good idea when there are pebbles on public streets that can make you lose your balance.  Jumping off and trying to run to catch yourself will result in a face-slide and perhaps a somersault or two, so don’t try that, either.)

Others really are random acts of injury.

Carrying laundry upstairs the other day, I reached the top landing and heard a very loud, “POP!”  Dropping the basket and cussing the kids in my head, I looked down to search for the toy I must have stepped on, only to find carpet.

“What the…” I sat on the floor, grabbing my foot.  My second and third toes were locked in a rigid “V” position with what felt like the worst foot-cramp I’d ever experienced.  Rolling it over, I found a nickle-sized ball forming in the ball of my foot, centered below the two toes.

“Well… This is new,” I muttered.  Pushing the laundry to my room on my knees, my kids followed, barking behind me.  (They thought that was a very fun game, playing “Bolt” with Mommy.)

Asking the kids to give me a minute (I don’t like them to see me express pain), I closed the door and pulled myself up with my bed.  I tried to put pressure on the “cramp,” but the pain was a bit too much.  Figuring it’d just have to work itself out, I attempted a few ways of walking around my bed (where I’ve learned I can comfortably fall).  Every angle that I tried to place my foot to take a step left me with shooting, burning pain and face-planted in my comforter.

“Unacceptable.  I have things to do today.”  I crawled to the bathroom and pulled out an ace-bandage.  Clenching my teeth, I wrapped it and re-wrapped it even tighter, until the gap between my toes was nearly closed.  With a deep breath, I pulled myself up using the door frame.  Triumphantly, I was able to hobble on my heel across the room and back to the bustle of the kids and the pets in the house.

Passing Luc’s room, he saw my bandage instantly and raced to investigate.  “Oh no, Mommy!  Did you hurt yourself?”

“Yes, but I’m okay.” I rustled his hair.

“Mommy?  Can I please have some juice please?”  He didn’t mention it again as I limped after him, fulfilling juice and snack and car and Dora and shoes and outside and sprinkler and bubble requests throughout the day.

The next morning, without a bandage, my toes had only a small gap between them.  The bump showed signs of bruising on the ball of my foot, but was smaller than the day before.  “Progress.”  The bandage was only on a few hours that day before I was comfortable enough to hobble on my heel or side of my foot without it.

The following day, my limp began to subside.

Yesterday, however, I woke up with a change.  I didn’t even notice it at first, since I thought it was improving enough that I was over inspecting it.  It was feeling good enough, in fact, that I found myself pacing my room on what was supposed to be the first of several business-related calls I made that day.  It wound up being my last, as I started to lose feeling in my toes.  A cold sensation changed to tingling, as if my extremities were falling asleep.  As it crept deeper into my foot, I felt my palms begin to sweat as my heart-rate elevated in a panic.  Luckily already on the last leg of the conversation, I was able to amicably part ways rather than lose-my-shit on a business call.

Dropping to the floor, I finally took a close look at the oddly injured area.  A new bruise ran like a stripe on the inside of my second toe.  Rolling my foot over, I found a large, fresh, purple blotch in the center of my foot, about an inch below the original, diminished knot.

“What. The. FUCK?!?!”  With now a complete loss of feeling in three toes and the tingling sensation even deeper in my foot, I fled my room and raced to the phone.  The fact that it didn’t hurt (other than the prickling feeling that’s associated with losing circulation) made the sweat start to bead under my shirt and on my face as my panic attack escalated.

“I think I have, like, a blood clot or something,” my voice shook as I concluded my saga to the poor woman who picked up the phone at the appointment-desk.  “Or maybe my foot is dying.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any appointments available today.”

“I don’t care that you don’t have any appointments available!” I shrieked.  “Call Kettler.  I’ll send him an email.  I’ll drive to his house!  Don’t make me do that!!”

“Let me have you talk to a triage nurse, hold on.”

After rattling off my story to her, I was in.  Could I be there in 50 minutes?  Hell yes, I could.

I threw my plans for the day out the window as I raced toward my doctor’s office.

My husband met me to keep the kids occupied with reading and videos, rather than my touting them around the office.  I, on the other hand, limped after test-orders, from room to xrays to room.

Once the morning was successfully beaten, I got the answer I was … well … not really waiting to hear at all.

Apparently, I had a cyst.

A big, funky cyst that attached itself to a tendon in my foot.

When I walked upstairs, barefoot, with a measly load of laundry, it popped. And all hell broke loose in my foot.

Seriously.

My agony.  My swelling.  My bruising.  My gimpified limp.  All for a cyst.

Ew.

At the end of this, I’ve decided not to post any pictures.  Sorry for the long-winded verbiage with absolutely no benefit to the time you spent to get here.  But I thought everyone should know that you can get a cyst in your foot.  And it can f* you up.

The reason, per the doc?  “They just happen.”

The cure?  “Stay off it, and use ice.”

Awesome.  That’s what I was doing before I dropped a co-pay.

Instead, I have this whole crazy life thing I allow to interfere with writing here.  I don’t usually cross too many personal lines with this space, but I have no idea why not.  I say entirely too much crap on twitter and facebook that I’m sure no one ever wanted to know.  Why not here, too?

So, in the spirit of over-sharing (and perhaps posting before I have to change the title to “…June.”)  What have I been so busy with since deciding that I’m a crappy full-time employee?

Working.  Yes, I know I quit my job.  But I do consulting stuff.  No, I’m not going to pitch you.  I’m not even going to tell you about it.  I’m just mentioning it because it takes time.  (Oh.  And because I love it.  But that’s a story for another time.)

Attempting to sell our house.  Didn’t quite work out that way, but we did finally get several things off our house-to-do list.

Getting a 3mo puppy.  Because two kids, the dingo-dog, a cat not even cool enough for a real name, a grumpy turtle, grumpy turtle’s collection of fish friends, and a husband just weren’t enough to take care of.  But really.. Can you blame me for falling in love with that face?

Going to Texas.  Again.  And what felt like again.  And again.  As I drove with two kids and the puppy from KC to Austin to Houston to Austin to KC.  I saw a lot of family and a few good friends, but the driving was awful.  Particularly the five hour drive to Houston.. while I had some sort of stomach bug.

Battling snot.  Seriously.  I think the majority of the world is with me on this one right now; my allergies are horrible this year.

There was a lot of laundry and life in between, but those are the bigger things that occupied my time over the last several weeks.  Did you miss me?

Yet again, it’s been a while since I’ve updated. I’ll admit that once my lapse hit a few months, I was almost too embarrassed to return. But I have. Because I have a pretty good excuse for slacking off since November.

After being hit by the recession in June, I was excited by possibilities. I think it was just because I avoided reality so well for a while. I kept my kids in daycare for nearly a month while I reinvented myself, pulling weeds in my garden (literally and figuratively).

I started doing a little consulting, mostly on temporary projects. Working with a few companies and individuals, I found ways to leverage my understanding of targets, contextual planning, and traditional/digital/social media to be able to work from home, with my kids.

Four months into it, I got a call out of the blue from an outstanding digital agency in the metro. I was floored to talk to them, let alone how quickly we wound up speeding towards a path of working together. Less than a week after my first (second and third) interview(s), I put my kids back in daycare and started a new full-time position.

My full-time day-job exceeded my expectations, but I found myself overwhelmed with both full and part time jobs, two kids and just too much as the CEO of my household.

To make matters more difficult, it was the beginning of the sick-season, and boy, did it hit our household hard! I found myself taking off almost weekly to tend to a sick child (or myself). When at work, I was worrying about if my kids were washing their hands enough and not sharing their snacks and drinks and what if they didn’t cover their mouths when they coughed and what if their friend sneezed in their face like they always do to me and how many more times was I going to have to call in this week and would my boss get annoyed with me and what if I just went in when I was sick and took down the whole office and spread the funk and…?

“Overwhelmed” perhaps turned into “worried sick.” After a panic attack left me hooked up to an EKG in a parking lot (ironically, in front of a Starbucks), I knew something had to change.

I considered leaving the part-time work behind, but it really wasn’t those extra couple hours per week that pushed my sanity over the limit. I thought about hiring a house cleaner, but the idea of a stranger alone in my house, doing my favorite (albeit most time-consuming and strenuous) chores freaked me out. I even tossed around the idea of hiring a personal assistant to help me around the house, pick up the kids or run errands.

I returned to work following a brief sanity-break, and turned in my notice.

In the end, all of those options still meant living with the one thing that bothered me the most: My kids would have to be taken care of – raised – by someone other than me. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to curb any of those anxieties about what was happening in daycare without giving up something bigger.

I’m officially independent. Today is my kids last (full) day in daycare. Being a WAHM (Work At Home Mom) is certainly not going to be easy. But neither was trying to juggle being a mom of two young kids and being good employee. Not that I was horrible, but having kids certainly made me less of an employee than I was used to being.

What is it about this niche group, beyond an ability to write (hopefully on similar subjects as the marketers’ products/services) to their captivated audience?  What’s driving them to spend their time writing, often for free?  Going back to that same, most recent MRI study (Spring 2009), I drilled a little further into the heart of the blogging community: those that both write and read the online articles (2.7%, or just 6M adults).

More than Moms

While we often hear about the Mommy Blogging storm, only 51% of adults who visit and write blogs are women.  In fact, less than 50% of all bloggers even have kids in their households, making only 23% or 1.4M Bloggers who are Moms of a kid under 18.  Nearly a third of Bloggers are presumably “roomies,” living with multiple adults in their home.  Similarly, Bloggers are also 55% more likely (than other adults) to have never married.  This, of course, is a direct reflection of their younger skew, as graphed in that Consumer Intelligence article from MRI.

Imagine That

To captivate an audience, bloggers are more than strong writers.  Publishing regularly requires a lot of content; their natural creativity and curiosity combine to inspire that material.  They spend more time going to museums and art galleries; painting or drawing; playing a musical instrument; and reading books.  This also drives their desire to continue learning new things, which keeps them not only in the classroom, but seeking new experiences in travels both domestically and around the world.

Taking a Break

Seeking variety in their everyday is important and they consider themselves to be very sociable, which leads them to spend a lot of time doing fun things.  Activities shared with friends are preferred: participating in team sports; golfing; going to bars and nightclubs; playing pool; attending live music; and going to the movies are just a few ways they like to break their routine with friends. 

Their downtime isn’t always about being out with their friends, though.  They also enjoy time at home, playing word games or on their computer, reading up about new technology and current events, or even perusing the ‘net for fashion advice.

“In My Opinion…”

Their curiosity and large time spent searching for new, interesting things gives them a lot to talk about, on- and off-line.  They thrive at being in the spotlight and will admit they enjoy being the center of attention.  Comfortable expressing themselves and often finding themselves in a leadership position, they’re more likely to have made speeches, signed petitions, called radio stations, written editors, or written something that’s been published.  With friends, they also often seek out ways to share their opinions, particularly when it comes to products.  They like to be the first among their friends and co-workers to try the latest products and services, and often give advice before those peers make purchases.

Making an Impression

With so many eyes on them, it’s no wonder they want to look their best.  Exercise is essential, but they also wear designer clothes to impress others and admit that they, “want others to say ‘wow’,” when they see their tech gadgets.

Under Pressure

Similarly, they also like to give the impression that their busy lives are under control.  With so much on their plates, they use technology to help stay organized, carrying PDAs and booking travel, making purchases and paying bills online.  Beyond not putting a stamp on an envelope, they cut out little daily routines like clipping coupons and preferring stores that offer low daily prices.  They are also more likely to make fast, impulsive purchases and spend on credit if they really want something.

At the end of the day, they still agree, “I’m so busy, I often can’t finish everything I need to in a day.”  Eleven percent have even experienced anxiety in the last year; that’s 54% more likely than the average adult.

Despite their busy schedules, that endless desire to seek, experience and share drives them to be the Bloggers that are not only loved by their audience but by marketers.  If they like a product, they’re likely to talk about it, on- or off-line; they’re brand ambassadors, regardless of their websites.  The FTC may now require them to say if they received that product for free, but that shouldn’t stop marketers from pursuing relationships with appropriate Bloggers.

BusRadio was a radio station in buses crossing 160 school districts in the country.  The programming included kid-friendly music, news, health and safety tips, contests, and – yes – even advertising.  That is, it did until the service was shut down on Monday, according to Media Life.

Fueled by the “Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood” (CCFC), the FCC has apparently cracked down, forcing the service to close.  While the reason for the abrupt end has not been confirmed by BusRadio, the CCFC has been fast to stand up and take responsibility for the company’s demise. 

Way to go, guys.  I’m sure no kids have rushed home this week to grab their remotes without hearing the “entreaties to spend their after-school hours watching TV and playing videogames” on their bus ride.  In fact, I’m sure that they’re sitting in silence, missing the censored version of their local Top-40’s station that is likely not only available in their parents’ cars, but right in their own bedroom via (>gasp<) a radio!  Certainly, they’re not talking to each other on the bus about the hot new video game or toy that they already have at home, fueling the evil word-of-mouth.

There’s a reason that I call myself a “media fundraiser”: we (in advertising-media) make it free, cheap and/or even possible.  Perhaps we could consider ourselves “community fundraisers” as well, if only people would let us do our jobs.

Media Life’s Toni Fitzgerald seems to agree, “…school districts are pinched for money and looking for nontraditional ways to account for budget shortfalls. Programs like BusRadio, which required no upfront fee from the school districts and cut them in on a portion of the ad revenue, fulfill that need.”

This is quite a conundrum that we find ourselves in.  I don’t think anyone would disagree that we have a need for quality education, which also requires funding beyond what’s obviously available.  There are other ways of getting money than relying on a check from our debt-ridden government, yet the voices of a few can captivate even parents enough to help prevent assistance.

As silly as it is to think that the FCC might say that I’m not allowed to play the radio in my car when I pick up my kids, so is it to think that four minutes of advertising in a loud, kid-filled bus is going to make a bit of difference in how many times they ask for that Barbie or cell phone.

Maybe the parents in this group should’ve said “no” a few more times to their own kids, or spent some time explaining what a commercial is when they were exposed.  Perhaps if they’d taken such responsibilities, they wouldn’t be blaming advertisers and media vendors for their children’s greed.