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Published January 11, 2015 by Jen Lawson

The dark side of getting gutsy

Since publishing an entry a few days ago in response on how choosing to get gutsy was a good thing, I’ve been thinking about the dark side of getting gutsy.

Can being gutsy end up being a bad thing?

Getting gutsy means having the confidence to step beyond one’s comfort zone in order to learn and grow.

However, what if you not only step beyond your comfort zone, but propel yourself beyond it to the point that you end up going way too far and getting battered and bruised?

Let me explain. I mentioned before that I wrote and delivered my dad’s eulogy at his funeral in October. I volunteered to do it without even thinking it through because I knew my sisters wouldn’t feel up to it, and I thought my dad deserved to have nice words spoken about him.

Up until then, the hardest thing I’d ever done had been reading a poem at my mom’s funeral. At the time I was proud of myself for getting up there and doing that, and I thought about it over the years to convince myself that I could do whatever next big scary task I was  facing.

That was small potatoes compared to the task I’d assigned myself for my dad’s service. I felt a combination of sadness for our loss and so much freaking anxiety in the four days we spent preparing for his service, knowing I’d have to stand up in front of people and talk.

Like lots of people, I have a real fear of public speaking. I called my doctor’s office to see if they could prescribe an anti-anxiety medication to help me get through it. (No dice.) Those around me told me I didn’t have to do it, but I felt I had to.

FullSizeRender (5)I spent a day writing the eulogy, then practiced in front of my family that night. I was nervous and shaking even in front of less than a dozen people!

Right before it was time to speak at the service, I felt like I was going to pass out. Luckily, two friends and my sister came into the restroom, where I sat with my head between my knees, and helped me feel better.

Standing at the podium, I tried to remember the pointers Mike and my family had given me. Try to look up and make eye contact. Take your time.

Afterward, I received positive feedback, so it seems like I did okay.

Still, the abject fear and anxiety compounded by the mourning rituals and grief was almost too much to take. I was glad I had gotten through it, but rather than feeling proud that I’d gotten gutsy, I wished that I hadn’t put myself through it. I wouldn’t do it again, and I wouldn’t recommend doing this to anyone.

Writing it is fine, but delivering it was just too much when the deceased person is a parent. I wish I’d given it to a family member with maybe a bit of distance, such as a brother-in-law.

Have you ever pushed yourself “too far” and regretted it?

(Thanks to Jessica Lawlor and her blog, Getting Gutsy, for the encouragement to explore this topic!)

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Published January 7, 2015 by Jen Lawson

How I got gutsy

I got the idea for this post from my friend Amanda Piccirilli and her blog, Take Your Pic. She was actually inspired by blogger Jessica Lawlor, who writes here about how to get gutsy. This is a story about how I learned to get gutsy.

Like so many people, I found myself caught in a plastic trap a few years ago. High vet bill? Visa. Car repairs? Visa. Plumbing emergency? Visa.

I relied on my Visa card when unexpected, expensive bills popped up. I wasn’t living beyond my means and buying dumb crap, and it didn’t reach stomach-sickening proportions. Still, it had crept up to about $2,000 over the course of several years, an amount that made me uncomfortable.

And, I barely made a dent in it because I was just paying the minimum payment most months. Sometimes I paid more, but not enough to really make a difference quickly. Even though I hated my debt, I hated the thought of paying more than $40 to $80 a month toward it even more.

Last summer Mike told me I was being ridiculous — because of the interest rate (around 20 percent) it would take me years to pay off the card if I only made the minimum payment, even if I stopped using it. At that point, the balance was about $1,700.

This isn’t a story about how I found ways to cut my expenses so I could scrimp and save and give up all that damn expensive craft beer so I could finally pay off my credit card. It’s a story about how I made a decision to be financially smart after being lulled for so long by the lies and scams of the credit card industry.

“Do you have seventeen hundred dollars in the bank?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then why don’t you pay it off? Just pay it off. Do it today.”

The thought freaked me out. I really had never considered just paying it off, even though I did have the funds to do so. Those small, bite-sized payments were manageable. I don’t spend money easily because I always feel I need to prepare for some huge catastrophe. And, yeah, paying more than small payments every month meant, to me, that I’d have less of a buffer against all of the evils of the world. Looming “bad stuff” could be zapped by having a healthier balance in the bank.

It all sounds crazy considering that I was actually paying more than I owed when I made the minimum payments. More of my precious pennies were flying out the door, deceptively so.

After I processed this, I decided that Mike gave me good advice and I needed to listen. So one morning in September, I got gutsy and paid off what I owed on the card. It was an amazing feeling to see the balance listed as $0.

IMG_3575

I was going to wait until I did my 2014 taxes before paying off the $303.15 I now owe on my student loan to take advantage of the tax benefits, but I don’t think what I owe will amount to much of a tax credit. So, I’m going to pay off my student loan this month. I imagine that will feel even more significant since I’ve been carrying it for so many years.

I signed up for a better, different Visa, one with rewards points, and I’ve been using it since October. I had always used my debit card, but Mike pointed out it’s not a good idea to give retailers, or anyone, direct access to your money, and using credit protects you from that.

The difference is that I’m now paying off the balance every month. You gotta do that. You just have to. And you know what? Given what I’ve learned and how I’ve grown and in the past few months, it’s not painful at all.

No reason for this photo. I found it on my phone and thought it looked cool.
Getting gutsy in a crowd! Just kidding. No reason for this photo, which was taken last summer at the East Passyunk Craft Beer Festival. I found it on my phone and just thought it looked cool.

Getting gutsy is all about stepping outside your comfort zone to reach your goals and live a life that makes you truly happy. This post is my entry for Jessica Lawlor’s Get Gutsy Essay Contest. To get involved and share your own gutsy story, check out this post for contest details and download a free copy of the inspiring Get Gutsy ebook.

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Published January 1, 2015 by Jen Lawson

Hi, 2015.

Tom Grunnick: What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?

Aaron Altman: Keep it to yourself.

– Broadcast News, 1987

When I look back on 2014 I will think of the loved ones who passed away — my 15-year-old cat Callie in February and my dad in October. But I’ll also remember the good stuff. And there was a lot of good stuff. So much of it. I have a good life and I’m grateful for everyone and everything in it.

Rather than keeping it to myself, here are some good things from 2014:

  • I started a wonderful new job that suits me to a T.  I work from home,  which cuts out a lot of the BS and daily annoyances and really improves my quality of life.  I also got a promotion and raise within my first year!
  • I joined the gym Mike belongs to, Sweat, which is just a few blocks away. Not only did I join, I actually go! I also started eating vegan more, which helps ease my asthma.
  • I’m about to pay off my student loans (I owe $303.16 at this point), but I’m waiting til I do my 2014 taxes. Other than that and my mortgage, I’m debt-free.
  • I became the volunteer site leader of the PAWS adoption center inside the South Philly Petsmart in April. To date, we’ve done 92 adoptions! 2014 marked my seventh year as a PAWS volunteer.
  • In August, the most handsome and all-around best human ever asked me to marry him while stargazing on the beach in Maine.  Everything, everything, is wonderful.
  • Mike and I just had a staycation and did a lot of decorating and organizing to prepare for the new year. I love our house even more now.

There’s so much to look forward to in 2015! Off the top of my head:

  • Mike and I are going to Mexico in the spring with some friends.
  • My student loans will be paid off!
  • I will become Mike’s old lady on Sept. 12, 2015
  • We’re also going to Scotland in September!
NYE 2014
New Year’s Eve party 2014 at Gus and Kevin’s!

 

Callie in her last days.
Callie in her last days.
RIP sweet baby Callie
RIP sweet baby Callie
Playing Scrabble with dad. This night, we played two games. We each won one.
Playing Scrabble with dad.

 

 

My dad's funeral card
My dad’s funeral card
One of many boozy brunches at the Pub on Passyunk East.
One of many boozy brunches at the Pub on Passyunk East.
Volunteering at PAWS
Volunteering at PAWS
At a beer fest in DC in July.
At a beer fest in DC in July.
July 4 vegan eats
July 4 vegan eats
Maine vacation in August
Maine vacation in August

postcard

Sassy with a haircut
Sassy with a haircut
Volunteering at PAWS
Volunteering at PAWS
A man and his puppy
A man and his puppy

 

 

2015
New Year’s Eve 2015 at Gus and Kevin’s

 

Me and dad looking happy
Me and dad looking happy
New Year's Eve 2015 party and Gus and Kevin's
New Year’s Eve 2015 party at Gus and Kevin’s

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Published December 30, 2014 by Jen Lawson

How to have a stress-free Christmas: Be your own Santa

Beginning around July, I started to feel anxious about Christmas. I wanted to opt out and go away somewhere and not celebrate. Neither of my parents are around, so I can do whatever I want, right? Mike said no, though.

Being merry.
Being merry.

For many years, the holiday season has been a season of loss and pain for me. It lessens as the years go by, but it’s always there. And the stress associated with exchanging gifts is something I’d rather not have to experience.

I feel a little uncomfortable receiving gifts from people — if I want something, there’s no reason why I can’t buy it myself. And I do.

One of the best things about working from home is that I’m around to accept deliveries from FedEx or UPS, so I don’t hold back when it comes to online shopping. I love getting the tracking number and watching as the package gets closer and closer to me. It’s like Santa brings me stuff year-round. My Christmas morning is hearing the doorbell, running to the door, and reaching out for that box.

Christmas
Still being merry.

I feel like nobody should have to go through the trouble of getting me anything because they feel they have to, you know? And I’m not convinced that the things I give to people are really the right things, either. Why can’t we express our affection through non-material means?

I took the Love Languages quiz the other night and found that my “love language” is acts of service. So when Mike does something like assembles the new Ikea bathroom cart I bought or makes me toast, that means more to me than an object in a box.

Time spent together is also important to me. It seems like a lot of people are realizing that time is more valuable than money, because our time is finite. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. We can’t make it up or get it back.

We ate at Winthorpe and Valentine inside the Westin, which is attached to Liberty One, one of the tallest buildings in Philly. Big enough to accommodate this massive Christmas tree.
We ate at Winthorpe and Valentine inside the Westin, which is attached to Liberty One, one of the tallest buildings in Philly. Big enough to accommodate this massive Christmas tree.

So when Mike’s mom suggested not doing presents this year, I was all for it. Not only did Mike and I not buy anything for his family, we also didn’t buy anything for each other. Rather than focusing the day on unwrapping gifts, we hung out, had a lot of laughs, played a game, ate and then had dinner at a restaurant — a first for everyone. It was wonderful because had an experience together and we made memories. Isn’t that more precious than unwrapping something?

I did end up exchanging gifts with my brother and a few others and I was happy to do it. It was nowhere near the stress I usually feel.

We sat in a private room.
We sat in a private room.

As 2015 begins, I decided to stop buying myself dresses and shoes online and instead save that money for our wedding. It’s time to retire that year-round Santa.

Have you ever had a low-key holiday like we did?

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Published December 11, 2014 by Jen Lawson

Bullying: Here’s how it affects a person

Yesterday I read an article that flooded my mind with memories. A woman who had been bullied as a teenager had been asked on a date by one of her tormentors, but stood him up. She delivered the news of what she was doing and why via a letter passed to him by a waiter:

Hey, so sorry I can’t join you tonight.

‘Remember year 8, when I was fat and you made fun of my weight? No? I do – I spent the following three years eating less than an apple a day. So I’ve decided to skip dinner.

‘Remember the monobrow you mocked? The hairy legs you were disgusted by?

‘Remember how every day for three years, you and your friends called me Manbeast?

‘No perhaps you don’t – or you wouldn’t have seen how I look eight years later and deemed me f***able enough to treat me like a human being.

‘I thought I’d send you this as a reminder.

‘Next time you think of me, picture that girl in this photo, because she’s the one who just stood you up.

I was bullied as a child for having red hair, glasses and braces and for being too skinny. Although I never turned the tables on anyone like she did, these four attributes plagued me every school day from roughly grades 5-9 (it started in kindergarten but those years were the worst) to the point that on the bus on the way home from school I would review my day by counting the number of times people called me a name or made a cruel remark.

My hair was an unusual color — auburn. I didn’t know anyone with my hair color growing up. The kids with more orange hair didn’t seem to be targets, maybe because there were more of them so they didn’t stand out as much.

First Holy Communion
My First Holy Communion, age 7 or 8.

It was confusing because growing up, my mom always told me I had such pretty hair and we were often stopped by old ladies while out shopping who told my mom they liked my hair. But among the middle school/junior high set, my hair wasn’t quite as appreciated.

I was called a “red-headed monkey,” or just “monkey.” Kids would say, “Your hair is on fire!” and pretend to throw drinks on me (fortunately nobody actually threw anything on me.)

But mostly I was called “ugly.” It was a universally accepted thing that I was the ugliest girl in every class. I made plans to dye my hair brown when I got old enough, and I also wanted a “face lift.” I thought getting a “face lift” meant getting a brand new face. And the one I had wasn’t working for me.

In eighth grade I was walking down the hall when a big, tall guy grabbed my backpack and flung my stuff all over the hall. Nobody stopped to help except for some teachers.

The year before, some boys took my folders and threw them out the bus window, littering a lawn. The bullies also did this to two other girls (one a friend of mine, one not) and the homeowner got our names from the papers, looked up our parents and called them. Even though we said we didn’t do it, and I think everyone believed us, we still had to pick up all the papers from the guy’s lawn because they were ours.

There are other stories that are worse, but you get the idea. Girls were actually much, much more cruel to me than boys were then. I know that others have experienced harsher treatment, including physical violence. Why are kids so cruel?

I was the last one picked in gym class. In fifth grade we had to decide among ourselves who had to do certain classroom and cafeteria table upkeep duties, and the decision-making kid usually picked me to sweep my class’ area of the cafeteria, like a janitor. It was either me or the other least popular person, an overweight boy who I’ll call Michael C.

The really bad part about all of this is that I became swept up in the ripple effect of this bullying and I, in turn, bullied Michael C. I was super mean to him and I feel really bad about that. As bad as I got it, he got it a lot worse, from everyone — including me. He never teased me; that would have gone against the hierarchy protocol of bullying.

I just typed his name into Facebook’s search bar and the only result is a guy from Philly, so it could be him. He looks to be about my age and he appears to be a hipster artist kind of guy. I threw away all of my yearbooks so I can’t look him up to compare photos, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to contact him and bring up stuff from his past he’d probably want to forget.

I'm about 10 here. Note the big '80s glasses.
I’m about 10 here. Note the big ’80s glasses.

I never told anyone about my bullying. I just checked out some old diaries to see if I mentioned anything about it, and I didn’t. I’d write, “Today was ok. I read a book in study hall.” As far as why I never told my parents, I think I just didn’t want to get into it and probably felt their involvement would make it worse.

So, I would have pep talks with myself while on the bus or walking the halls. I told myself that a human being’s face is just the focal point because it primary means for identification, and that’s it. The face isn’t everything. I was still okay even though I was ugly. And that would make me feel better. It’s like I had found a way to resist being completely dehumanized by the bullies.

What’s heartbreaking is that when I look at pictures of myself back then, I have enough distance to say that I wasn’t an ugly girl. I see an awkward girl, yes. But the damage done to my self-esteem made me believe I was ugly. Even today, I’m never pleased with what I see in the mirror and I envy those who don’t have that harsh voice inside them.

My hair color now (this was taken on Thanksgiving)
My hair color now (this was taken on Thanksgiving)

By the time I reached high school, the bullying had stopped, and it was a relief not to be under so much stress all the time. But those experiences really shaped the person I became.

And, you know, I think that’s a good thing. Even though I bullied Michael C. myself, I think being the target of bullies resulted in me being a kinder, more empathetic and sensitive person, ultimately. I spent a lot of time alone, so I developed solitary hobbies, like reading, writing and drawing.

And my outsider status sharpened my observation skills to the point that I channeled that into a career as a newspaper reporter when I became an adult.

I still have red hair. It’s so funny to me how red is now a desired color. Up until a few years ago I was still trying to get rid of the red and I’d get blond highlights.

But over the past year, I started embracing it more to the point that I now color my hair to make it even more red.

Fuck you, bullies.

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Published December 7, 2014 by Jen Lawson

Working from home: What’s it like?

In a word, awesome.

Pros, off the top of my head:

No commuting

Private bathroom

Can sleep later because there’s no commuting

Can wear sweats and slippers all day

Available to accept deliveries

Scheduling repair persons or contractors is a snap

Private bathroom

Can work in a coffee shop or anywhere quiet with Wifi

Hot, healthy lunches made in own kitchen

Easy to concentrate when others aren’t around

Able to get more done in the workday

Able to spend my day with my pets

PRIVATE BATHROOM

Cons

None

Working From Home, Plenty Cafe, Philadelphia, South Philladelphia, Philly
I work out of this cafe on East Passyunk Ave., a half block from my house, one morning a week.

Sure, it’s not for everyone. If you get your energy from being around other people, you’d probably feel isolated. I love being alone so it suits me very well. It’s so efficient to have a company that’s set up this way. Brilliant, even.

I worked in the journalism field for many years, but journalism is dying — in fact, it was on its way out when I was on my way into the field, before people even realized that the Internet would be the daily newspaper’s grim reaper.

But now, as a web content manager, I still get to work with words, punctuation, sentences and paragraphs, but rather than the words I write or edit ending up in newsprint or in the pages of a magazine, they’re solely on the web.

I feel grateful every day that I don’t have to work in public relations anymore, an ill-conceived choice I made in an attempt to evolve beyond journalism a couple years ago.

Gchat, Working From Home

Despite the fact that this is truly a great gig, I find myself explaining my situation a lot and even defending it.

Nope, I don’t wear my PJs all day.

Yeah, I still have to take PTO even though I’m home all day.

No, it’s not freelancing — it’s a normal, full-time job with benefits and all that jazz.

No, I’m not afraid I’ll be forced to go into the office every day eventually because there’s no office — it’s a virtual company and everyone works from home.

No, I don’t have unlimited free time during the work day to do random stuff.

No, this isn’t some fly-by-night company. It’s been around for 12 years and it’s been on the list of the top 100 fastest growing companies in Philly. We’re creating new positions all the time!

I have an office area set up in our basement, which is finished, and I rarely sit at my desk when I’m not working, so it’s my established workplace. (Even sitting here now, on a Sunday, it feels weird.)  I have deadlines all through the day, so if I had to go somewhere, like a long lunch or shopping for a belt for a relative (wtf) I’d have to spend a day or two working ahead to carve out that time that I’d be away from my desk. I’d also have to let my coworkers know I had to go somewhere.

But, I mean, I get it. Most people work in the traditional workplace and don’t know what this kind of setup is like.

Working From Home, South Philadelphia
My home office in the basement.

I get up, go to the gym (um, like only twice a week; three or four if I’m feeling really motivated) and I’m signed in between 8:30 and 9 a.m. Since my work is so deadline-driven and I’m racing against the clock every day, I’ve had to find ways to maximize my time.

One method that’s worked well is an app called Phocus, which is pretty much a timer. It helps me stay, well, focused. I use it every day. I end my day when Mike texts me that he’s on his way home, anytime between 6 and 7:30 p.m.

Do any of you work from home? What’s your experience been like?

P.S. Private bathroom!

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Published November 29, 2014 by Jen Lawson

What happens when you fight a parking ticket in the City of Philadelphia

If you’ve ever gotten a parking ticket, you’ve probably felt helpless and maybe even unjustly accused.

Maybe you’ll take your lumps and pay it and get on with your life. Maybe you’ll ignore it and fines will pile up until your car is booted and your credit is tarnished. Or, maybe you’ll check  the box marked “hearing request” and try to see if you can talk to a human being about your ticket in an attempt to get it dismissed.

I can’t give you any tips or hints on how to get out of a ticket. But I can explain the process if you’d like to take your chances and fight a parking ticket in the City of Philadelphia. If you’re like most people, including me, you’ll lose. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try if you feel your ticket was unfair.

I wrote this because I searched for information online and couldn’t find much of anything that shed light on the process. So, if this is relevant to you, read on.

(If you parked like a jerk and know it and you’re just trying to weasel out of paying, just be an adult and pay it.)

The Philadelphia Parking Authority is notorious because of the A&E reality TV show, Parking Wars. It mainly focuses on people who’ve gotten towed and so it takes place down at the tow yard in South Philly, so my experience wasn’t like that, even though I was dealing with the same agency.

Anyway. First you’ll go to the Philadelphia Parking Authority’s website, click “pay your ticket,” then go down to the bottom where it says, “Need to dispute a violation?”

Click that, then you’ll end up here, where it pretty much says because you received a ticket, you probably deserved it, but if you want to argue with us about it, go ahead and request an in-person hearing. The subtext being, “I guess we have to give you this option because we live in a democracy, but it’s only for show because you wouldn’t have gotten a ticket if you didn’t deserve it, you jerk.”

You have to enter your ticket number, then it will give you options for dates and times. When I did this, I was impressed that the times offered were staggered just 15 minutes apart. Like me, you’ll think, “Wow, so it’ll just be like 15 minutes, cool!”

But really, they schedule a ton of people for the same time because half of them won’t show up. My hearing was at 11 a.m. on Nov. 26, and I’m sure everyone else who was there that day had an appointment for 11 a.m. on Nov. 26, too.

Philadelphia Parking Authority
Some “evidence” I brought to my hearing.

Make your way to 913 Filbert St. and get there 15 minutes before your scheduled time, as the website says. I took the Broad Street line then the El and got off at 8th Street, then just started walking north, completely walking past Filbert by three blocks. So I got there right at 11.

You’re going to have to stand in line as soon as you arrive to sign in. You’ll go to the next available window and be asked to sign something, then you’ll be told to have a seat. The room sort of feels like the waiting area at the DMV, except no numbers are called, just names.

Every so often, a hearing officer will open a door and call out a name, and that person will go back into the office area. But first, you have to wait. I had to wait for about an hour, but it flew by because I just wrote emails on my phone and stuff like that. It probably wouldn’t be worth it to bring your laptop because I’m guessing they don’t have public WiFi here.

I should mention that my hearing was the day before Thanksgiving and it was the day that we were rumored to be getting snow, even thunder snow. I thought maybe the weather and the fact that it was before such a feelgood holiday would work in my favor, but no dice.

Anyway, it seemed like many people brought a friend or two with them who waited for them. One guy walked from the hearing area into the waiting room and announced to his friend, “I lost! Let’s go!” and they both scuttled out. Another guy shook his head forlornly as he headed to the exit, another presumed loser.

Philadelphia Parking Authority
Waiting for my name to be called.

Finally, the door opened and a woman called my name! I walked up to her and she instructed me to go down the hall to hearing room three. It’s basically the woman’s office, small with cinder block walls and your standard cheap work desk and chairs. She was very robotic and told me everything was being recorded, read the ticket number and violation and made me swear to tell the truth. Then I had my chance to explain.

My ticket was for “blocking a handicap ramp.” I didn’t know this but if you see a sidewalk cutout — imagine a driveway cutout in the curb like you see in the suburbs — it’s a ramp for people who use wheelchairs. So it’s not a ramp, it’s just a cutout in the curb. I partially blocked one, not even knowing I was doing anything illegal.

I figured since there was no sign saying not to park there, then maybe I could argue that and they’d dismiss it.

For a few days, I took photos of people parked the same way I had been parked in the exact same spot, the 1200 block of Mifflin, right at the end of my street, and none had tickets. (I had not taken any photos of my own car parked there; as soon as I noticed the ticket I moved it.) I wanted to demonstrate that this is how people park, and nobody seems to know it’s an illegal spot because it looks like a perfectly legitimate place.

Philadelphia Parking Authority

IMG_3173

Philadelphia Parking Authority
A few of the photos I took of other cars parked like I had been parked.

I told her all this and showed her my photos, which I had printed out. She wasn’t impressed. She said just because everyone else parks there doesn’t mean its okay. There doesn’t need to be a sign — just because there’s no sign doesn’t mean it’s a legal spot.

And further, the cars in the photos I showed her were also less than 20 feet from the corner, so they were committing two violations. I should be happy I didn’t get a ticket for that too, she said.

I just was like, “Okay” and nodded, because I guess she did have a point. Then she said her decision was that the violation is upheld and I had to sign something and then I left.

Whatever. I have 30 days to pay the $76 fine, so at least I didn’t have to wait in line again.

Even though it took more than three hours out of my day and resulted in me having to play catch up on some work, I’m glad I went through this process. At least I tried. But I mean, why give me a ticket when everyone gets to park there without any consequences? Be fair about it, you jerks.

Have you ever successfully beaten a parking ticket?

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Published November 24, 2014 by Jen Lawson

Why I drive a 1998 Toyota Camry

Driving an old car can be embarrassing.

In order to save face, I’ve purposely parked blocks away from places so nobody I know would see my car. I’ve ducked down and hid when spotting someone I know coming my way (while parked, not while driving). And I’ve distanced myself from it by saying I’m just borrowing it from somebody because my car is in the shop.

But the car I started driving out of necessity has turned into a car I’m driving out of choice, and it I were to ever get rid of it – and it will happen someday – it will be really hard.

My parents bought the car in question, a gray 1998 Toyota Camry, brand new. It was my mom’s car, and my dad pimped it out by adding some custom features that only older folks would need or appreciate.

My dad wrote his memoirs over the course of about 20 years. It's kind of funny to note that when my siblings or nieces and nephews were born, he'd write simply, "Jennifer (or whoever) was born." But when it came to cars, car repairs or house repairs, he went into great detail.
An excerpt about the car from my dad’s memoirs. It’s kind of funny to note that when my siblings or nieces and nephews were born, he’d write simply, “Jennifer (or whoever) was born.” But when it came to cars, car repairs or house repairs, he went into great detail.

He added a red light to the center console that flashes when the turn signal is on. He did that because sometimes he or my mom wouldn’t hear the noise of the turn signal and would drive around with the turn signal on, ostensibly creating a safety issue and also – I can only imagine – annoying the hell out of other drivers. So this little red light solved that.

The other thing he added was another red light, this one on the driver’s side under the vent. It looks like he drilled into the console and built in a light that has a steady blink, every second or two, and it never stops, no matter if the car is parked and cold, or if it’s being driven. There’s no way to turn it off, it just blinks and blinks.

The reason for this light is to deter thieves. My parents read that Toyota Camrys are the most stolen vehicles out there (at least they were back then) so they bought the anti-theft package when they purchsed the car, so I’m only guessing that this light was added to supplement it. Or maybe he installed it after the anti-theft package expired, who knows. They lived in a nice, safe suburb and parked it in the garage every night, but I guess it made them feel better. And, hey – it was never stolen!

Toyota Camry, Dad, Mom, Parents
The red blinking supplemental turn signal is visible, along with my mom’s rose stickers.

The other thing you’d notice if I took you for a ride are these two rose applique stickers on the center console. The car was primarily my mom’s, and she was very Catholic, and I remember her telling me that the roses symbolized the church’s anti-abortion beliefs. I almost removed them a few years ago but Mike stopped me, saying she put them there so I should just leave them. So, they’re still there.

I started driving it in the fall of 2012 after my dad had his stroke and it became clear he wouldn’t be able to drive anymore. My own car had a lot of problems and I felt unsafe driving it, so I had to get rid of it.

But, my newspaper reporter salary made a new car pretty out of reach. I started driving the Camry, reluctantly. It only had around 75,000 miles on it at the time, pretty amazing for a car that age. After my mom died my dad maintained it well, so it was in good condition. There was no reason not to drive it, but it felt so uncool.

Mike sold his own car years ago because he didn’t need it – we live in Philly and he takes the subway to work – so the Camry became our only car.

I changed jobs last year and the irony is that I can afford a new car now. But because I work from home, I no longer need one. I drive Tuesday nights when I volunteer at PAWS, and Mike and I go to Trader Joe’s and maybe Target on the weekends. It sits parked the rest of the time. We take the subway, walk, rent a Zipcar or take a cab rather than giving up our parking spot.

Every few months we talk about selling it and just relying on Zipcar to get around when we need to, but it’s a halfhearted conversation. Insurance is $82 per month, and there’s gas and routine upkeep, but it’s not really much. So overall, it’s cheaper to keep the Camry.

And really, even if it were more, I’d still keep it.

My parents are both gone now, and so it means something to be driving the vehicle they loved. I didn’t think I had a sentimental attachment to it until after my dad died in October. I kind of feel a duty now to drive it, even though I haven’t been the best guardian. It has some dings, scrapes and dents from being in the city, and it always seems to be spotted with pigeon poop. I think Mike took it to the car wash once. I never have.

Toyota Camry, Mom, Dad, Parents
The car.

I was always amazed at how my dad would react when he saw the Camry parked in my sister’s driveway when I’d go to pick him up for lunch, or to visit.

As if forgetting that it’s an outdated model and overlooking that fact that it’s seen better days, he’d always say the same thing.

“Man, that’s a nice car!” he’d say.

It’s possible that he was just being nice, like when in a dark and vulnerable mood while in college I called my parents crying and asked them to pick me up and take me home for the weekend because I was completely stressed out and couldn’t handle my life anymore and all I wanted was to be back home in the suburbs.

When I got into the car – the Camry – I could tell they were taken aback that I had dyed my hair jet black. I apologized for it and started to explain that it had been a mistake and I knew it looked bad, but my dad interrupted me.

In a resolute, insistent, don’t-argue-with-me-this-the-final-word-on-this sort of way, he said, “It looks good!”

So, while some people might see the Camry as a hooptie, I see it as an extension of my parents. And when I drive it, I feel a connection to them that brings me so much comfort.

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Published November 19, 2014 by Jen Lawson

Making sense of things after the loss of both parents

The last time I saw my dad was Sunday, Oct. 19, exactly a month ago today. I had no way of knowing that when I said goodbye to him that afternoon, it would be the last time I saw him. He died in his sleep Monday night, and we found out Tuesday morning.

That afternoon, as I drove us to the diner, I told him that Mike and I set our wedding date and location. It would be Saturday, Sept. 12, 2015 — my dad’s 86th birthday — at Philadelphia Magic Gardens. Mike and I wanted to pick a date in September or October, and I chose my dad’s birthday because I thought he could share the spotlight. I was (and still am) afraid of people paying so much attention to me. Having it on my dad’s birthday, by my reasoning, meant he’d be a focus, too. We could get a birthday cake, sing “Happy Birthday,” and so on. I thought it would be fun, and it just felt right.

He laughed when I told him.

“Birthdays don’t really mean that much to me anymore,” he said. “But it’ll be good.”

At Friendly’s, he had the “Fishamajig” sandwich with fries and I had a grilled cheese. Over lunch I told him that my nephew (his grandson) just got his first post-college job and was starting the next day, Monday. His face lit up and he said, “Oh, that’s great!” As our conversation went to different places, he kept going back to it, as he did. “Alex got a job, huh,” while smiling to himself. I could tell he was proud.

When the server brought the check I grabbed it, saying I’d pay. He protested and pulled out this little red plastic holder where he kept his cards.

“No, you’re not paying,” he said. “I’m paying.”

I told him I’d pay next time.

Friendlys receipt
The receipt from the last time I saw my dad. My sister found it in his wallet and gave it to me.

The bill came to about $17, and I suggested he leave a $2 or $3 tip, but he gave her $5 “because she was good,” he said.

When we got back to the house, I showed him some stuff on the computer. Despite being an electrical engineer and techie forever, Windows was confounding him. He often said his tech knowledge was only current as of 1990.

I had brought him a box of Scottish shortbread cookies, which he loved. He lived with my oldest sister and she didn’t like when he ate snacks in his bedroom, so he’d often sneak stuff and hide it. He told me he was going to hide the cookies in his sock drawer. His “summer sock drawer,” to be exact, because no one would think to look there.

As I was leaving that day, I hugged him and we both said I love you. I stepped outside, then poked my head back in.

“Make sure to hide the cookies!” I said, and he laughed and said okay. That was the last thing I said to him.

He had said at lunch that he was feeling good and that for once, he didn’t have any pending doctor’s appointments. The only thing he had scheduled was an appointment to get his hearing aid serviced Nov. 5. So when my eldest sister texted me less than 48 hours later and asked me to call her, and she told me, I didn’t believe it.

“Are you sure? Maybe he’s tired and doesn’t want to get up,” I said.

When I saw him he was perfectly fine. There was nothing wrong with him at all. But, she said the paramedics had already been there.

IMG_3102

I hung up with her, called another sister, but she was already on the phone with the one I was just speaking to. I called Mike, then called my boss and said I’d probably need a day or two off to go to the funeral. I emailed my volunteer group to say I wouldn’t be in to care for the shelter cats that night.

Feeling numb and not really knowing what else to do, I sat back down at my desk — I work from home — and continued to work even though I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking.

___

After my mom died, it felt like everything had imploded. It wasn’t sudden, really, although we knew it was coming. She was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, glioblastoma multiforme, in September 2006. She was gone before Christmas. I think it hit everyone pretty hard.

I was born when my parents were older, so to me, they’ve always been old. I always assumed my dad would go first, though. When he turned 50, I remember bracing myself for his death, which would surely come in a year or two because 50 is ancient to a little kid. With every diagnosis over the years, every hospital stay, every mishap, I’d ask myself if this is “it.”

And time and time again, I was amazed at how he rebounded. He healed from every health issue he experienced in his life. He relied on a wheelchair most of the time after his stroke two years ago, but he exercised every day and practiced walking with a walker. He was determined to walk again, and I have no doubt he would’ve achieved that if he had more time.

So I became convinced that he was pretty much invincible. Not literally, but that he wouldn’t go without a fight.

Funeral home card

Now, with him gone, it’s like, okay, now that question of “Is this it?” has been answered. The thing I’d been anticipating since forever has occurred.

He just slipped away in his sleep. It wasn’t cancer or any of the other bullshit he dealt with throughout his life. It was just time for him to close up shop.

It’s hard to believe it happened nearly a month ago.

And it’s hard to believe both my parents are gone now.

I read this essay after my dad died, the results of Googling, “both of my parents are dead” in an attempt to make sense of this.

“The death of the last of one’s parents is one of life’s great divides,” wrote the late Willie Morris after he’d gone home to Yazoo, Miss. to bury his mother. He stood in his childhood home one last time, sure that he could hear his mother playing the piano, his father’s footsteps on the porch and the barking of all the family dogs.

“It brings back one’s past in a rush of tenderness, guilt, regret and old forgotten moments,” he said.

The loss of parents also intensifies memories of that primary family and our place in it. Old scenes flash before us. Willie Morris asked himself, “What did all those moments mean? Was there any meaning to them at all?”

Unfortunately, unless we die before our parents, it’s something we all have to endure. I don’t know when grieving is supposed to end — or if it ever will — when a parent, or both parents, are gone. But I do know that for the loved ones they leave behind, the world is never the same.

Lawson, Headstone, Cemetery
My parents’ headstone before it was installed at their plot, shorty after my mom’s funeral.

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Published November 17, 2014 by Jen Lawson

Why I won’t use the word “fiance”

Since Mike and I got engaged a few months ago, I’ve referred to him as:

  • My husband-to-be

  • My future husband

  • The guy I’m marrying

  • My boyfriend

  • My man

  • The future Mr. Lawson

Just kidding about the last one.

One term I haven’t used is “my fiance.” To me, it comes across as obnoxious, stuffy and fussy, and there’s something smug about it that makes me uncomfortable. Just using the term would make me feel like I’m flaunting my relationship status as if it were a status symbol used to impress people at a party, as the Seinfeld clip above shows.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. Jezebel and other online publications have also expressed disdain for the F Word.

So, are the alternatives? Sure, there’s “betrothed” and “intended,” but they’re even more douchebaggy than “fiance.” I kind of like “significant other” because it’s sufficiently vague, but it’s also clinical-sounding and, at six syllables, sort of a mouthful. There’s always “partner,” but that’s somehow not specific enough because we could have different types of partners (business, etc.)

How do you feel about “fiance”? Do you feel like you should be eating a crepe and sipping cafe au lait when you say it, or am I just being weird?

Second Street Brewpub, South Philly
My significant other and I at the Second Street Brewpub last year.

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Hi! I'm Jen!

And this is Sassy, my 15-year-old puppy and interspecies life partner. She's my proofreader, too, so any errors in this blog should be blamed on her. (RIP Sassy, 2000 - 2016)

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