Shtopping: Day 49

Okay, I'll admit it:  there were a few days during this last stretch of the Shtopping experiment that I was a little pissed to be doing it.  I really, really wanted to go buy myself something sparkly and new. In particular there was a day where I spent literally the whole day wrapping presents for everyone else and then used a fairly stern voice to remind E. that there were not yet any presents under the tree for me and that this was not okay.  He correctly interpreted my tone, I think, and went out shopping immediately.

I was not particularly proud of this manifestation of the self-deprivation part of Shtopping, to be honest.  I'm supposed to be appreciating other parts of my life and discovering myself and everything, not demanding gifts from my loved ones.  I'm supposed to be finding other ways to satisfy my cravings.

Instead I just want some sparkly earrings.

In fact, the words "sparkly" and "glittery" and "light" kept running through my head over and over again these last few weeks.

Hmmm.

Lightbulb, meet the space over my head.

It occurred to me that 1) it has been dark and rainy here in Boise.  Like, super dark and rainy.  There were a few days this week where I actually walked out of the house and shook my fist at the clouds, Mr. Wilson-style.  It has been like living in Seattle, and while I know many of you adore Seattle, I have always said I could never ever live there because I would get the blues from all the damned rain all the time.  Living in Denver, on the other hand, was great because they had approximately 364 days of sunshine per year, so even though you might get four feet of snow in a six-hour period, it would be sunny the next day and you'd get enough Vitamin D while shoveling snow to float your boat for a while.

In Boise, though, while the sun peeked out a few times today, I really can't remember the last truly sunny day we had.  I miss it, the sun, on a deep cellular level.  Realization one.

2)  Maybe my desire for sparkly, glittery, lit-up new things is really some weird manifestation of some season-inspired blues?  Maybe I literally need some light, now that we live in the North?  I mean, I love sleeping nine or ten hours as much as the next guy, and it can be interesting to have fewer hours of daylight every day than I'm used to.  But feeling sleepy and a little blue and want-y is maybe not just about wanting to shop and more about needing some sun.

Also, as an aside, it is interesting to think about whether some of the grumpier feelings I have about my childhood can be connected to the long periods of darkness, which were alleviated when I moved to a) Southern France and then b) Southern California and then c) Denver.  Sorry, mom and dad.  I thought my childhood angst was all about you.  But maybe I just needed some sunlight!

3)  Even though E. and I felt sleepy and uninspired yesterday, we painted our dim, beige dining room a bright, yellowy cream.  I rearranged and cleared out some clutter and the room feels much brighter and happier.  We all want to be in there now.  Maybe if I wake up some time in the next week we might do another room!

Or I might take another nap.  Who knows.

So, all of this is a long way of explaining that I broke my Shtopping pact to purchase one thing:  a sun lamp from Amazon.  My brother told me when we moved here that he uses one in the winter months, and though I would have preferred not to make any major purchases until the experiment was over, the purpose of Shtopping is to not fill emotional needs unconsciously with purchasing.  The sun lamp purchase, instead, was a conscious choice to address some real feelings in a productive way, and since I can tend toward feeling a little sad sometimes, I figure it couldn't hurt to try.  I feel okay about breaking the rules in this way (just like I feel okay that I had to buy a new bra a few weeks back since the elastic went out on the old one.  Nobody needs my lady fruit roll-ups flapping in the breeze, right?).  But there weren't any extras in the cart, no piling on, no checking out, and I got it on sale.  And I guess that's the point--to buy things on purpose and while present.

I'll let you know next time how my sunning goes :).

I Believe in Santa

I love Christmas!  No seriously, I really, really love Christmas.  I love Christmas songs, goodwill to men, fireside chats, clove and cinnamon, giving gifts, ugly sweater parties, white elephants, Chevy Chase, baby Jesus, and the hope and magic the season brings.  (I promise not to get all "religousy", even though I believe all that, too.  I figure you know the story of Jesus, and you either believe it or you don't, but everyone can share in the magic and hope of the season.)

And I have done my best to foster a love of Christmas in my kids. We forbid anything "Christmasy" any other time of the year, then, after Thanksgiving dinner they make Gingerbread houses with my mom, and the day after Thanksgiving I let them pull out all the Christmas books, and movies to begin our months'  long celebrations.  We try to make it magical.

And it's worked, my kids love Christmas, too.  They understand, it's about peace and love and giving.

But they also like getting gifts, and when you love Christmas as much as I do, watching your kids open something they really wished for Christmas morning while snuggled up with your spouse drinking coffee in your jammies, can be the highlight of your year.

Which is why I'm always hoping that Santa can really pull through.

And it's touch and go sometimes.  There have been several Christmases when I'm not really sure he's going to make it, and this is why....

My kids ask for weird stuff.  No, like really, weird stuff.

Weird things my kids have asked Santa for:

1. Candy making robot
2. remote with one button on it that makes me invisible
3. suction cup shoes and gloves, so I can climb like spiderman
4. drone to scare bats out of my (non existent) butterfly garden
5. electric scooter (I know it doesn't seem that weird, but when you know the kid that asked for it, you quickly understand that it was off the table.)

It's important to me that Santa pull these things off, and there's a reason.  I want my kids to believe in magic, all their lives.

When Grace started questioning Santa's existence she was having a rough year.  Our dog of 15 years had passed away that spring.  She was devastated.  I was sad, and missed my dog, but after a few months of not picking up dog doo in the yard, or vacuuming up dog hair, I was pretty convinced that not only could our sweet Abbey dog not be replaced, but that she wouldn't be replaced.  Josh was so heartbroken, he told the kids that we would never have another dog.  Grace in a last ditch effort to believe in magic, wrote a letter to Santa asking for a dog.  She told me about it, and I told her, it was unlikely, that Santa only brought things parents approved of.  I saw the light of magic leave her eyes, and I wanted it back.  Long story short, Santa brought that dog.  In a letter, he explained that he got "Nicky baby", named for St. Nicholas, at the Humane Society and that she would be responsible for his care, and all of a sudden the magic was back.

Since that Christmas, I've learned that even Santa probably shouldn't give dogs for Christmas, see this article, but even so, I'm certainly glad Santa pulled through.

Grace is two years older now, and last year because I didn't want her to go through the pain and cynicism of finding out Santa's biggest secret, I took her aside, just before the season started, and said, "You've asked me if I believe in Santa, and I've always said that I do.  And I know you're getting older, and people are talking about Santa, and I want you to know that what I've always said is true.  I do believe in Santa, because I believe in the spirit of Christmas, and the magic of giving someone something special anonymously, and I want you to believe in Santa and magic.  That's why, today I'm asking you to become Santa with me, to help spread magic and joy to people at Christmas time."  She's a bright kid, and she understood what I was saying, and instead of the pain and cynicism I felt when I was her age, she was excited and joyful.  She couldn't wait to bring the light and magic she experienced the Christmas she got her Nicky baby, to someone else. 

And this year she did.  She read an article in the newspaper about a counseling center who's main clientele are refugee children who've been through traumatic events.  One year, the children, hearing about the tradition of stockings, hung their socks on Christmas Eve, and woke to find them empty. Grace read that article, and immediately asked if I would take her shopping.  With money she saved from doing house chores, she purchased, socks, underwear, toys, books, and art supplies, and donated them to this great cause.  She truly understands the hope and magic of the season, and she believes in Santa.

Oh, in case you were wondering about the list of weird stuff, in some way, however unexpected, Santa has filled those weird wish lists, and hopefully, he'll continue to do so with Grace's help.

Shtopping: Day 60. Breakthrough?: The Make

No way, really?  1/3 of the way through Shtopping?

Unreal.

If you're just stopping by, hopping about, or popping in, you can check out me bebopping my way through the Shtopping (Stopping Shopping) experiment here, here, here and here.

Okay, sorry.  I'm not a poet.  Geesh.

I know the Shtopping thing has been sort of uninteresting so far.  But I think I did have kind of a mini-breakthrough last night, so bear with me and my roundabout way of explaining this.

This summer, I took this "Psychology of Eating" group class over the phone with a couple of fitness life-coachy types.  Some of their suggested changes took, and some didn't, but let me say the one thing that has most stuck with me is the suggestion that we--meaning those of us who use food as a primary self-soother in ways that bum us out--could, potentially, find other ways of soothing or comforting ourselves.

Hmmm.

Part of me is all, nah.  Food is such a good self-soother.  It's such a part of our social lives, and it tastes good, and it feels good, and I don't want to give up a majorly awesome part of being a human American with enough money to purchase food.

BUT.  Bear with me.  I think what those coaches were saying is that we can really savor food, and enjoy the crap out of it, without stuffing ourselves with it when we feel sad or lonely.  I'm thinking right now about a meal I enjoyed in Chicago with my friends and co-authors where we waited an hour and a half to get in the restaurant, and split many small plates of food, and I could not sit still in my chair because it was all so amazing and delicious and I was with some of my favorite people in the world in an exciting city in a special restaurant eating quality food carefully prepared with love.  I didn't feel grossly full afterward.  I felt awesome.

Bottom line:  for some of us, stuffing ourselves over-full when we fill sad or lonely makes us feel even worse after a while.  Plus, not every meal can be at the Purple Pig in Chicago.  Still, the idea is that maybe if we're feeling sad or lonely, there are other things we can try to feel better besides eating a whole pizza (which I have done).

For me, the other thing I tried was shopping.  Ta da!  I so smart.

Except not.  Sorry, bank account.

The coaches actually suggested other forms of self-soothing, like having a nice glass of wine with a friend (instead of, say three bottles, which is my MO), or taking a hot bath, or going on a hike.

All of those things are great.  I love all of those things, and do them on a regular basis.  I also throw heavy, heavy weights around my Crossfit gym, do yoga, eat pretty healthy overall (minus an obscene quantity of desserts everyday), have friends, meditate, enjoy my work, and try to love on my family.

But honestly?  These things, as beneficial and essential as they are, do not scratch the itch in the same way that wolfing down a plate of nachos after a night class does, or the way pressing "Place Order" does, or the way receiving a package in the mail does.  I'm sorry, but they just don't.  I couldn't live without all these other things, but they don't set off the same physiological bells and whistles as chips and internet sales do.

And I don't want to give those things up permanently.  I love a good binge sometimes.  I just don't want to feel like it's the status quo.

Still, the idea of self-soothing kept nagging at me after that class.  I couldn't figure out how to do it without food or shopping, but the idea was intriguing.  It nagged at me.

Being a devoted habit-former, I kept eating nachos and shopping until Shtopping happened.  But now I just have nachos to deal with.  You would not believe how cheesy my keyboard is right now.  And I'm not saying I have Shtopping 100% to thank for this epiphany, but maybe I do.

Because last night.  Remember how I posted about how I was kind of freaking out about the state of my house and my stress levels at the end of the semester and then the puking flu?  I was making fun of myself for that post today in my own head (while vacuuming up dog hair, I'll have you know):  like, what the hell?  In the time it took you to write that blog post, you could have vacuumed up all the dog hair!

Then I was all: wait.

Because you know what?  I felt so much better after writing that blog post.  Like nachos and shopping better.  I felt so much better than I would have felt if I had not written about my disgusting toilet and instead had cleaned my disgusting toilet.

What?

Yes.

I don't totally know what to make of this yet, but here is what I think:  making something, often in the form of writing, makes me feel just as good as buying or eating something.

Could the make be my form of non-destructive, non-addictive, happy-place-forming self-soothing activity?

Post-Race Blues

I've been doing the professor thing long enough to recognize this particular pattern in myself:

September:  Excitement about the new school year!  Lots of plans and goals and accomplishments ahead!

October:  Whoa, nelly.  I'm kind of saying yes to a lot of things.  But yay!  Still pretty excited!  Doing okay over here.

November:  Oh.  Shit.  I thought I was running a 5k.  I trained for a 5k.  But this a marathon.  No, it's a sprint-marathon.  I signed up for a marathon, but I only have 25 minutes to run it.  Why do I always do this to myself?

December:  Exhausted, bitter, sick.  Take your race medallion and shove it where the sun don't shine, mister.

That's been the pattern since high school, pretty much.  I can almost guarantee you that I always lecture blithely about sagely managing my time and seeking "balance" in September, comment hilariously about my kids' Halloween hijinks and my stressed out response in October, and then I get some kind of high-level bronchial infection in November as a lead up to national conferences (for which I am perenially late writing promised papers).  But I get antibiotics and power through, eat and drink too much on Thanksgiving, and then get the stomach flu in December as I try to wrap up grading and live through epic and inhuman hiring committee meetings.

I refer to November as the "race to the bird," because I'm just trying to stay alive until Thanksgiving "break," and after that I'm half-assing it until Christmas because I've just puked up a lung and my body is giving me the old eff you.

It doesn't take much to set me off post-race, either.  Here are some examples:

Dog hair.  We have hardwood floors. This is awesome because Nolie and I have pet allergies, and we have two dogs.  So we can clean up the dog hair.  But it is not awesome if you don't have time to vacuum twice a week.  Tumbleweeds of dog hair are basically blowing through our house right now because I missed one day of vacuuming yesterday, because I had the stomach flu.

That's how important me and my vacuuming are, people.

The piles.  Piles of clothes.  Piles of shoes.  Piles of homework.  Piles of bills.  Piles.  Piles.  Piles.  I do not like the piles, but they like me.  I am a place-for-everything person.  Nobody else in my house is.  I am unlucky in this way, for many reasons.  I have never learned my zen lessons when it comes to the piles.  I have given up on myself ever learning to be at peace with the piles.  I hate the piles.

Post-sick sheets.  It's not like I puked on the sheets.  But the unmade bed, the rumpled, hot sheets, the sweat smell.  Just, no.  I have been known to pause between bouts of hurling to change them.  Or at least to change them as soon as I'm able to stand upright.  That's how I feel about sick sheets.

The post-sick bathroom.

I can't even.

Another pile (just because it's stacked horizontally doesn't mean it's not a pile).  The books I should have read for that new class I have to teach before placing my book order.  In my defense, I read some.  And some of some.  But not enough.  Never enough.  Which means someone is sure to find out about me and my actual preparation for teaching this fine class.  Perhaps I will even have my PhD revoked and be stripped of my fine office and skinny laptop.

That's what all this is, I guess, the fear that someone will see that I had too much going on there for a while and missed some deadlines and puked all over and had to spend 36 hours in a coma in a stinky bed while dog hair accumulated and Addie's pants all of a sudden ALL stopped fitting all at once and she has two music performances this week and who is this kid's mom anyway??? and the piles overtook us and then we had to come and be rescued from our house by some tv personality who really has it all together and probably gets her book orders in on time.

It's also a little scary how close we feel to unraveling every other minute, or at least how lame my vision of "unraveling" is.  I mean, nothing really bad happened.  We're going to be okay, the dog hair will get sucked up, the sheets changed, the toilets scrubbed, and the book orders canceled and remade.  It's all okay.  I just have the post-race blues and would hope at some point to just get out of the race altogether.

Shtopping Update: Day 69!

LOL!  I was supposed to do an update yesterday but Mondays are an all-out-race to prep for my evening class and I didn't think I had time to blog, PLUS if I waited until today I would get to make hilarious 69 jokes.

Okay.  That's all I've got.  Just saying "69" is my joke.

Plus, boring post, because here's the update:  still not much news on the Shtopping front.  I thought there would be much more gnashing of teeth, honestly.  Maybe some kind of middle-class drama to share.  My own little eco-stunt.  But no.

Still, in an attempt to find deeper meaning, here's what I've noticed:

I went shopping for a Secret Santa gift downtown this weekend and though they had Many Cute Things that I would have normally bought for myself in addition to the Secret Santa gifts, I was able to not purchase them.  It didn't feel so hard because 1) not having the stress of worrying about money this holiday season feels better than those fingerless mittens would have and 2) I'm getting better at remembering that fingerless mitts don't fix whatever I think they're going to fix.

Plus, I can make myself fingerless mittens.  Just saying.

I've also noticed that I've had to talk a little bit more about my feelings with people, namely poor Eric (proximity sucks, bud).  I had a pretty good bout of sadness and anxiety a few days ago, mostly having to do with existential FOMO on my part.  I choked some of this down by eating an obscene quantity of Thanksgiving leftovers and crying hard in the tub one night (it's possible both of those things happened at once, but we will neverspeakofthatagain).  Unfortunately, the talking about the feelings is the only thing that makes them roar a little quieter.

I'm also a little worried that as this experiment goes on it will get harder and rationalizing myself into purchases will get easier.  I'm worried I might mess up and buy something and let myself down and then have to figure out how to share it with you all.  I would guess this will happen at approximately day 53.  Just my intuition.

This is the perfectionism speaking, of course.  I mean, really.  Who cares if I buy socks with little penguins on them, in the grand scheme of things.  The world will not end.   But I thought I would just put that little bit of anxiety out there, and tell you my intention is for that not to happen, and please God do not let there be any penguin socks in my future.

I have plenty of anxiety to go around if you'd like some of those leftovers.

But also there is misty-eyed gratitude because Thanksgiving dinner was so beautiful, and it snowed yesterday, which was lovely, and Addie whispers her secrets to me at night while she's getting ready for bed, and work is exciting, and Nolie is writing a novel all by herself, and I get to sit and type this in front of my fireplace while the dog snores.

Still, let's be real.  All this gratitude is interspersed with many little freak outs on my part, which I usually use shopping to soothe, but now just use dark chocolate and binge Netflix watching and also some manic crocheting.  I freak out because of all the deadlines and undone Christmas things to do and friends I haven't called and the dogs' nails needing to be clipped, and is there anything worse in the world than that sound?

But the Christmas lights are sooooo pretty!  Gratitude!  Yay!

But I'm putting off working on that one chapter that's late.  And some grading.  What the hell.  Voice of Shite says I'm worthless and a procrastinator.

Also, meditation feels good!  I'm going to go do that and then maybe I'll calm down.

But, seriously.  The grading.

Anyhoo!  This gives you a pretty good snapshot of where I'm at.  Clearly, shtopping is not my biggest problem.

Love you guys,
Me

The best part of waking up...

I am no morning person, but that doesn't seem to matter because the world is and so are my husband and children.  I've learned to roll out of bed, and get that worm.  But just because I'm up, doesn't mean I'm functioning at my A #1 level.

I would love for school mornings to be like the breakfast commercials of my past.  The best part of waking up, me being gently awoken by the smell of brewing coffee, my kids downstairs laughing about the snap, crackle and pop of their cereal.

Instead, my husband is yelling the time every five minutes, and drilling Luke and Clive about combing their hair. Grace  is rolling her eyes at the drama of it all.   Somebody's lost the third pair of gloves, and just as we're about to go out the door, I see Luke has beat up, holey old shoes on.

The positive discipline parent in me knows that this is not an issue, that the scroungy shoes are indeed the perfect natural consequence, but the just woke up control freak in me, is thinking, "I buy you nice shoes, where are they" and "People will think I don't properly cloth you", and you know who wins in the morning?  That control freak.

 Next thing I know, I'm asking him (with that tone), "Where are all your nice shoes?"  Which brings  the anticipated response, "I don't know".  He walks away downstairs to finish what he needs to do, and the control freak sweating, and murmuring under my breath starts searching through his closet, where I find three pairs of decent shoes...THREE PAIRS.

I stomp down the stairs and say smugly, "I found your shoes, if you feel like it, you could go up and change them."  Which he knows means, "Go up and change them."  He goes upstairs, and starts throwing things around, crying, and while control freak (me), is doling out the probiotic supplements to the other two, he screams, "I can't find my stupid shoes."

The control freak marches upstairs yelling something like, "You're almost ten, you should be able to find your own shoes."  which brings more tears, the tears start to awaken the positive discipline parent, and all that's left for me to do is apologize.

And I've learned that this is the greatest lesson of parenting.  Always say you're sorry.  When you're wrong, and I was so wrong, it's important to apologize to those you've hurt, particularly your children.  I hope my kids learn from my mistakes, and especially learn that when you make them, you accept responsibility for them, rectify them the best you can, learn from them, and move on....  At least that's what I'm counting on.

Balls in the Air

As an individual I am prone to distraction.  Yet, I am the mother of three, wife of one, owner of a business, and social butterfly, and with all these balls in the air, I'm in a constant state of bending over to pick them up.

Hell, I don't know why I'm writing this blog post.  I need to change out another load of laundry, I have invoices to finish, and I need to get some food cooking before my kids get here.

I know that if I focused on one task at a time, I'd be better at them, but I seem incapable of this.  As we speak there is a bed upstairs half stripped of sheets, half of the accounts payable are done, there are three baskets of laundry that need folded in the family room, and I'm trying to respond to a text from my sister.

I have intentions of seeing a task to completion, but it seems like just as I'm in the middle of it, there's a fire that needs putting out.

I find myself being completely unorganized, forgetting to check homework, not signing that check, spacing payroll, or missing appointments.

The benefits of all this bad juggling are that my children are fairly self sufficient.  They've had to be. My daughter remembers to check the family calendar, even when I don't.  My son keeps track of the pets.

And it's a damn good thing, I've raised independent self reliant children, or I don't think my kids would eat.  They make their own breakfasts, pack their own lunches, and if they didn't, they'd probably be begging their teachers for half a sandwich.

I find myself saying too often, "Hey remind me to..."

I wake up in the middle of

I started to write something there, but then had to call software support, finish cooking, clean up and get my kids ready for bed. I don't remember what I was writing, and I was going to delete it, but Josh thought it illustrative of what I'm talking about, I can't freaking finish anything.

In the end, what's the alternative.  I'm doing the best I can with what I've got, and my kids are happy and healthy (most of the time).  And the whole reason I'm overwhelmed is because I have so many wonderful blessings in my life, a great family, a stimulating job, fantastic friends

I think this song is my new personal anthem.

Shtopping Update: Day 77

Oooh, I was supposed to post a Shtopping Update on Friday (10 days in to the Shtopping Experiment) and I didn't, because I was in Chicago for a conference.

The view from our 23rd-floor condo overlooking Grant Park.  When my writing team goes to conferences we rent from VRBO instead of staying in the stuffy, expensive, soul-killing conference hotels.  Sometimes this turns out not as fancy as being in a hotel, sometimes it's fancy as hell, like this one was.  But having good company and a kitchen is the best part.  Plus, you have to walk to the conference, so you get exercise and choose your panels wisely.

Historically, Chicago has been a major shopping temptation for me because they have all those big, magnificent chain stores on Michigan Avenue that seem to have All of the Things.  Also, conferences can be lonely, dehumanizing affairs where you are stuck concentrating under fluorescent lights unable to move for long periods of time.  If this sounds very similar to some kinds of torture you can think of, you would be correct.  Shopping felt a lot like freedom after such experiences.

And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that retailers think that we are already in the Christmas season, even though we are still a few days away from Thanksgiving.  The special hell that is Black Friday is still four days away.  There is a deluge of marketing going on, I'm sure.

All of this is a big wind up to my telling you....nothing!  So far, Shtopping has been no.big.deal.  I haven't bought anything, and only once was tempted by an Old Navy ad that popped into my inbox and I thought maybe I should buy Addie a winter coat.  But I wisely checked in with her first and she reminded me that she prefers to wear sixteen fleeces layered than put up with the itchiness and zippers of a coat.  So I stayed strong.

The keys to my success so far have been:

1)  Unsubscribing from all the retail emails and Facebook retail posts.

2)  Work ramped up, as it always does in November, and I have been able to use the extra time from Shtopping very, very wisely.

3)  I have really enjoyed the freedom from the stress shopping always caused me.  That's a self-reinforcing mechanism right there.

4)  Most importantly, I have amazing friends and family who are always inviting me to things and loving on me and it's much easier to focus on them when I'm not trying to frantically and secretively enter my credit card numbers into a website.  My kids are extraordinary, fascinating, exhausting little beings who love my attention, and I theirs.  My husband is a closet snugglepuss who is also relieved about this experiment.  Friends include me in activities all the time that make me feel loved and happy and stimulated. 

As for conferences, I have an incredible team of co-authors who would prefer to spend their time writing interesting things with me, sharing beers together, and avoiding consecutive panel-sitting.  They also walk briskly past department store windows, a strategy that is super-effective. 

The bottom line is, when you're connected to people in meaningful ways and spend your time on stuff that is satisfying, the pull of shopping virtually disappears.  Like I said in the original post, too, I think the pull had already disappeared and I was just going through the motions.  But the avoidance shopping enabled got too uncomfortable and I realized I was missing some pretty stellar chunks of my life.

I am a little ashamed to admit that the odd package is still showing up from the pre-Shtopping days.  Mostly Christmas gifts, but not all.  I'm reminded that the temptation is always there, and that I am weak, while marketers are strong. 

77 days to go. 

Decorating on a Dime, or Maybe More Like a Nickel

First things first, I'm cheap.  Like really cheap.  I'm proud of this designation, it does not mean that I am not generous, but I don't like to pay more for something than I have to, and I get a thrill from finding a new use for what other people would throw away.

I also love decorating.  I get almost a creative high from putting things together, but I'm not good at following trends, and I know that trends mean I have to buy more stuff.  The other reason I'm not good at trends, is that I've learned, while I may love what's in your house, and how it looks, that doesn't mean I'll like it in mine.  Everyone has their own sense of style, and the houses I love the most, reflect the personalities of the people who live in them.

Whether you want them or not, here come some tips for decorating.

1.  Discover your own style.  Trends are cool, or rather, trendy, which means they won't be around for long.  Instead decorate with things that have meaning to you, please you or bring you joy.  Your house will mean more to you, and people who come over will see that.  And you'll surprise yourself by discovering that what you like, goes together.  The drawer fronts hanging up are from my grandfather's shed where he sorted his rock collection. (And, yes, that is what our bulletin board looks like all the time.)

2.  Shop your house.  When we moved into our current house it came with this gigantic hutch, which I loved, but I had no idea what to do with it.  One day my friend was over, and she said, "What's in the cupboards of the hutch?".  I showed her, and she shopped the rest of my house to make this beautiful display.

3.  One chick's trash is another chick's earring holder.  My girlfriend gave me an old colander that she no longer used because it was rusting, and I turned it into an earring holder.

4.  Shop cheap, buy used.  When I get inspired to do something different, I start looking at craigslist. Craigslist isn't the only way to shop cheap, there are always garage sales, thrift stores, and in some areas, thrift store outlets (we have one in our city where you pay for items by the pound, the more you buy the less per pound you pay).  I found this beautiful antique piano on craigslist, and the sellers rolled it into my living room all for the bargain price of $75.00.

5.  Listen to your creative muse.  When you want something specific, google DIY projects for ideas, or check pinterest.  That's how I made this cool mobile for my daughter's room.  We made tissue paper flowers, and I strung them using differing lengths of yarn that we had on hand, an embroidery hoop that was kicking around the house, and the handle of an old purse I saved when the purse died. Which brings me to my next point.

6. Save everything.  I'm not condoning a hoarding disorder, but if you're about to throw something out, and there's a possibility it might be used in some other way when the creative muse visits, and you have room to store it, keep it.  We found these old window frames in a closet of the house when we moved in, and when I finally decided to do something with the blank wall above my kitchen sink, I ran up and grabbed them.

7.  Ask advice.  If you're not sure where to hang that piece of art, or what to do with that basket you got at the church rummage sale, ask a friend who's decorating sensibilities you admire.

Club Club

I'm a member of this book club.  Ok, book club may not be the right term.  Jen's husband, Eric, calls it Club Club, and that may be more fitting.  I've been a member of this club since my children were babies, (the youngest is 7), and really this club started even before we started reading books together. It really started when my best friend, Kristyn, started inviting her friends over to watch Desperate Housewives every week.

I was a housewife at that time, and with infants at my breast, and not much other human contact to speak of, feeling pretty desperate.  We would gather every Sunday, bring snacks and wine, and have the show on in the background while we soaked up pressure free human contact. 

As time went on, people would come and go from the group, but the same four or five people remained at every gathering.  As happens in the lives of busy women, people started to lose interest. Kristyn suggested taking the core group of women, adding a few more, and starting a monthly book club. 

Like many other book clubs, we read great books, discussed them a little, drank a lot of wine, and ate a lot of food.  

Book club was the best part of my month.  Getting together with these incredible women from diverse backgrounds, political views, and philosophical persuasions was so stimulating for me.  It reminded me that I was interesting, intelligent, and separate from my roles as wife and mother.

I admit, before book club,  I was one of those women that was sure she didn't like having relationships with other women because they could be so "catty".  These women taught me that I was wrong.

There are moments with this group of women that would definitely meet the conditions of "catty". We've talked behind each other's backs, had yelling matches over politics, plotted and schemed against each other, and have learned so much about unconditional friendship and and the redeeming quality of forgiveness. We've taught each other so many lessons, about parenting, relationships, business, self acceptance and love, that I'd relive every "catty" moment all over again.  

And we've had so much fun.

We've had crazy nights out.

Been there for each other's milestones.

We've even hopped on our bikes and pedaled 5 miles for some beer and burnt fried food.  

The best part of book club, hasn't been the amazing intellect of the women there, the fascinating and enlightening conversation, or the time away from everyday stresses to learn who we are at our core. It's been the friendships we've made.  

Book club has been there for me, when I was sad, or needing to learn to love my body, or having trouble with my spouse, or children.  These women have forgiven my transgressions, and I have forgiven theirs and we have formed amazing bonds with each other.  

Through the years, a few have left, a few have joined, but the core remains the same, and I feel so blessed to call this group of women my close friends. 

And even though we only read 6 books a year together now, we get together every month to lift each other up, and give each other the space to be ourselves, and I feel so fortunate to be part of it all.  

Voice of Shite

Oh, man, I've been reading Amy Poehler's new book Yes Please.  Because there's two kinds of heroes in my world, and they are writers and comedians, and comedians who write pretty much are my favorite people on the planet.

[Books aren't on my Shtopping list, by the way.  I know they should be.  I know I should order things from the library and then go pick them up and read them in the allotted time and then return them.  I love libraries.  I believe in them.  We use them all the time for kids' books.  But I am an erratic reader.  At any one time I'm reading sixteen books.  I'm not kidding.  So for me it's worth it to spend $8 a book for the Kindle because it might take me a year to read one book.  Or it could take a day.  But I never know which, and the pressure of needing to pick something up at the library and return it at a certain time is too much for my little brain to manage.   And if there's one area of my life I don't need more stress in it's reading.]

Poehler has this chapter called "plain girl vs. the demon" that I just feel like every woman should read every morning of her life.  Get up, drink your coffee, read this chapter, feel better, be nicer=world, better place.

Also, it will help you talk to your daughters.  More on that in a second.

Here's a good passage from "plain girl v. the demon:"

I hate how I look.  That is the mantra we repeat over and over again.  [...].  

That voice that talks badly to you is a demon voice.  This very patient and determined demon shows up in your bedroom one day and refuses to leave.  You are six or twelve or fifteen and you look in the mirror and you hear a voice so awful and mean that it takes your breath away.  It tells you that you are fat and ugly and you don't deserve love.  And the scary part is the demon is your own voice.  But it doesn't sound like you.  It sounds like a strangled and seductive version of you.  Think Darth Vader or an angry Lauren Bacall.  The good news is there are ways to make it stop talking.  The bad news is it never goes away.  If you are lucky, you can live a life where the demon is generally forgotten, relegated to a back shelf in a closet next to your old field hockey equipment.  You may even have days or years when you think the demon is gone.  But it is not.  It is sitting very quietly, waiting for you.

This motherfucker is patient.

I just read this passage today, but I heard Poehler describe it on Fresh Air  last week.  Aside:  I listen to Fresh Air incessantly, and yes I am always interviewing myself in my own head, Terry Gross style.  I listen to that show so much that I literally feel like I know everything about everything at this point.  I can tell you things about ISIS, Johnny Cash's session drummer, and how to train cats.  No one person should really know all of that.  Except Terry Gross.

Anyway, I love the passage above, because it's just so much better than the typical response to talking about the demon voice--the Voice of Shite--which is to say, "Shut up, you're so pretty!"  Or, if you have sassy friends who are being supportive, just "Shut the fuck up."  It is comforting to know that one of my heroes, who I think is hilarious and smart and pretty, has the demon, just like I have the demon, just like we all have the demon.

My 8-year-old Nolie came into my bedroom last week and said she needed to talk.  She said there was a girl at school who was mean to her, and that every time that girl was mean to her, Nolie heard in her head the words, "You are so fat."  The girl wasn't calling Nolie fat, and Nolie's not fat, but the Voice of Shite is already ringing loud and clear in Nolie's head.  Normally moms get blamed for instilling fat-consciousness into their girls, and maybe I've done some of that.  Or maybe we all just have the Voice of Shite and need to develop some strategies other than mama guilt for addressing it.

In fact, I think I would have normally been tempted to tell Nolie that she's not fat, and to shut up because she's so pretty.  She would have whined that I was just saying that because I'm her mom.  And then I would have cycled through some heady self-recrimination and tried to figure out what I was doing wrong.  My own Voice of Shite would have kicked in something fierce.

But I had just heard Poehler's interview, and so instead I told Nolie all about the Voice of Shite and how we all have the Voice and have to learn that this Voice is not our true selves and to put it on the shelf when it makes an appearance.  Because the Voice loves to lie to us, and is a very good liar.  So good that we think it's the truth.

Nolie nodded.  She got it instantly.  And then we cried a little and she gave me a hug and got ready for bed.

I bet we'll have to have that conversation a few more times.   Maybe many.  I'm 39 and still have tell the Voice to bug off.

Poehler ends the chapter by saying that we eventually figure out what our "currency" is, and that really helps to shut the Voice of Shite up.  She figured out hers was not being "pretty" but it was being "funny."  And it doesn't make sense to argue about this and say well, Amy Poehler is pretty (she is).  Because the point is that's not where her identity lies.  It's not where her true self lives.  And chasing after that would make her less pretty, less sexy, and probably less funny.

I wonder if this is why I've been feeling better since the whole gray hair decision.  I know "authentic" is a tricky word, but it describes how I feel.  More myself.  Perhaps this is because it opened the door to liberating myself from a currency I was always trying to attain (prettiness?  youth?), which is freeing me up to live my real currency, which I think might be writing and teaching and sass.

No wonder I love those funny writers and gots to read all the books.

Shtopping: Day 90

Okay, here's the Shtopping Game Plan:

1.  Post updates:  I'll post about my progress every 10 days.  In an effort to keep my innate narcissism at bay, I'll try to keep them short and sweet.  You're welcome.  But also:  accountability.  Important.

2.  Cancel all shopping emails:  I died a little, hitting "unsubscribe" to each and every one of those special offers.  Oh, the deals I'll be missing!  But I have a feeling they will be there when I get back.  But it's like getting your gym clothes on in the morning even if you're not working out till afternoon:  you got give yourself every chance you can of making the leap.

3.  Unfollow my fellow shoppers on Facebook.  I belong to a couple of awesome communities of ladies who are obsessed with shopping and fashion.  They're also just hilarious and dry and silly.  I'll be sorry to not be a part of those pages for a while, but they're just too good at enabling.  I'll see you in three, ladies.  Maybe.

4.  Gifts and necessities are still on.  Gonna be Christmas soon, and there are birthdays and stuff.  So I'll still shop for other people for the holidays.  And if I run out of toothpaste, I'm not going to reach for the baking soda, I'm going to get more toothpaste.  This isn't an eco-stunt (though I love those).  I'm just trying to re-set my system.  A shopping cleanse!

5.  Thailand is exempt.  I'm going to go visit some elephants in Thailand at the end of January, and those ten days are shopping exempt, because I want to buy gifts and souvenirs, and also it's implied that we can support the local tourist-dependent economy that way.  I haven't fully thought through this yet, but I'm keeping the possibility open.  These ten days won't be included in the overall dealio.

K, that's it.  Next post will not be shtopping related, I promise!

Shtopping

I've always had a little shopping problem.  Growing up, we didn't do much shopping, that I can remember, probably because my step-dad cycled in and out of being unemployed for a few years and also we had a lot of child support payments to make.  Shopping wasn't really a kid thing either, that much, in the 70s.  Not like it is now.

I'm pretty sure I had one of these in lavender in the 80s.  Or at least I really wanted one.  And also I wanted parachute pants and clothing from Benetton.  But I remember mostly wearing a turquoise velour turtleneck track suit my gram made.     There were lots of itchy, homemade clothes.

I remember from a really early age being hyper-aware of clothes and name brands and, generally, other people's stuff.  I'm hyper-notice-y about things.  So some part of me was prepared at a cellular level to fully participate in the consumer culture anyway.  Then when I was a teenager we inherited some money and I got to go on a few modest shopping sprees, and it was like a junkie's first encounter with heroin:  I've never forgotten the rush, and have chased after it ever since.  The promise of getting to be a new person with each trip to the mall or each package in the mail is pretty enticing, especially if you're kind of unhappy anyway.  And you can make it happen any time you want.

There were credit cards in college and student loans in grad school, but I always worked and we just kept climbing the professional ladder, E. and me, and so the lifestyle inflation never seemed like that big a deal.  I'm not a hoarder and we're not dealing with mountains of debt.  We drive crappy cars and live in a pretty modest house.  I've never bought a $300 designer bag.  So:  perspective.

'member these?

But I still spent more than I wanted, and often hid spending, and we've never saved as much as we should, either.  In the background was always the awareness that I was using the shopping for something, that it was helping me to avoid or check out or breathe.  And there are better ways of breathing, I've found.

E. was unemployed most all of last year and now is working in a trade, for an hourly wage.  He comes home happy, unlike the years when he was an engineer and seemed to have a dark cloud over his head everyday.  We're grateful.  We feel pretty peaceful.  A little freaked out, but peaceful.  We're happier than we've ever been, by many measures, even though I had several months while he was unemployed when I was terrified and very, very unhappy about being forced to transition out of the lifestyle I thought I had to have.

Just:  What.  What can be said.

I think we're largely over that hump.  We have a budget.  We've cut back on a lot.

Except:  sigh.

Except:  the clothes.

Once E. started working again, I started shopping again, at the pre-unemployment level, sadly.  We don't have the money for me to do this, and there is an increasingly large part of me that doesn't even want to do it anymore.  It's like a boring old habit where I just do it and am starting to notice myself doing it and not even feeling so much shame or embarrassment or anger but just fatigue.  Like:  let's get on with it already.  Like, I order things and then return them.  Which is time consuming and stupid.  And I'm over it.

Well, I feel some shame and embarrassment.  It's scary making this whole thing public, to all of you.  Now you see this about me, and also now I'm accountable for what I'm about to do.

Yazzle.

Still, this is what's going through my head, so I put it here, on the blog.  Plus, there's so many other reasons not to spend time shopping, besides expense.  Like:  I don't like it. I want to spend my time doing other stuff.  It's keeping me from feeling some good, important, feely-feelings.  It puts distance between me and other people because I just focus on things.  It keeps me from being myself sometimes, in a weird way.  The clothing industry is super polluting.  Advertisements suck.  Marketing is manipulative.

The list of greatest hits is long.

I'm a black and white person, and all-or-nothinger.  Examples:  I learned a ton about my body by ditching a nine-year vegetarian streak and going totally paleo for three weeks; I picked up Crossfit after being told I was never going to run again by a doctor; I've been letting my gray hair grow in, day by day, cold turkey, which has taught me all sorts of things about myself and how I feel in the world, and how I think about beauty; I moved back to the hometown I swore I'd never return to, and my soul just lit up like a Christmas tree over it.

And now I'm going to try not shopping.  My old friend, my old crutch, my albatross:  I salute you.

Now git.

For three months.

Which freaks me out.

But I'm gonna do it.

Here we go.

Shame and Punishment

I was listening to a story about school discipline on This American Life, this weekend, and it really touched home.  A large part of the story was about how minority children are disproportionately punished when compared to their non minority peers.  My children are not minorities, and I'm no expert on race discrimination in the classroom, but the part of the story that rang true for me, was when they talked about the effects of punishment on students, and what that meant for their futures.  The story also talked about the inconsistency in classroom management styles, and the lack of a standard for classroom discipline.

In a previous post I mentioned how much trouble my son had with behavior in school.  I noticed that he wanted so badly to please his teachers, but without clear standards for behavior he was often at a loss.  He was punished repeatedly, the punishment led to feelings of shame, and he began to feel like he was inherently "bad".  Obviously feeling that bad about himself, didn't lead to better behavior.  In fact, it often led to worse behavior.  He lived up to the expectations the adults had for him.  He was the "bad" kid, so he would be "bad". Except he isn't bad, he's an interested, busy, inquisitive, bright, kind, creative, sensitive kid.

In one incident I was called because he and three other boys were throwing rocks at a bee hive.  The bees were disturbed, and as a result, several students were stung.  Thankfully, no one was allergic, and no one was seriously injured.  I was told that my son, "wasn't really the instigator, but he definitely participated".  I was on friendly terms with the school principal, and he asked if I thought it was appropriate for my son to have "jobs" to do for the "next couple of recesses" to demonstrate that he needed to keep himself busy with things that were not harmful to others during recess time.  The principal also asked me to make sure I had my son write apology letters to the children that were stung.  I agreed.

A few days later, I was volunteering at the school, and another parent asked me if I realized that my son had been sitting on the yellow square,( The yellow square was just that, a yellow square painted on the ground next to the building, where students would sit when their behavior was deemed not appropriate, I affectionately called it "the square of shame" or "dunce square"), for the duration of every recess since the incident. Another mother told me how her child (not in my child's class) told her that Lucas was "a really bad kid" because he was always sitting in the yellow square. I became concerned that the principal was not instituting the discipline plan we discussed, but instead shaming my child in front of the school.   I confronted the principal with my concerns, and he said,"Yes, there is an element of shame to the punishment."  I countered, "Then it stops now."  (see parenting post about learning to advocate for my child).

Since that incident, we have moved schools (although, I'm happy to report that new administration at the old school removed the "squares of shame"), and I have become hyper aware of the different kinds of discipline used by different educators.

On the other hand, after years of volunteering in my kids' schools, I have seen classrooms where classroom management is truly lacking, and the students and teacher suffer i.e., children can't focus, because of noise levels, teachers never move beyond reprimanding and redirecting to academics.

Discipline is so essential to the overall feel of the classroom.  It would benefit the students and faculty if all teachers and administrators were on the same page. When Josh and I figured out (after a ridiculously long time of living in the dark), that punishment used in our parenting was causing shame in our children, and not really teaching them self discipline, we sought help and found an amazing resource, (see parenting post).   We learned that kids thrived when they were aware of expectations, have a hand in making decisions, and were empowered to take responsibility for their own behavior.  I have seen classrooms where what I just described was happening for my children, but what would be really wonderful is if that was happening for all children.  If I could, I would drop off a box full of these books to every school in the United States.

In the classroom, it is more than just academics that matter for our children's future.  What they believe about themselves, and their abilities matters, too.

Halloween? Hallo-Whatever!

Halloween is my second-least favorite holiday.  My least favorite holiday is Easter, mostly because it involves me having to get up early to hide eggs even though, let's be honest, my kids don't really believe in you-know-who anymore, and an egg always goes unfound and then starts to reek somewhere in the house.  We're not religious, either, so the meaning ends up lost on me.  And let's be frank, that meaning is particularly hard to explain to non-believers, amirite?  Glad I don't have to explain that bit of the Good Book to the kids.

Plus, Easter is always on a Sunday.  I hate it when things are scheduled on Sundays, period, because that should just be my day to stare into space, unmolested.

Finally, any holiday that requires ham be served as its iconic meat is just not okay with me.  If "Easter bacon" was a tradition, I could probably get on board.  But ham is just wannabe bacon.

Give it up, ham.

Besides, it's hard to compete with my most-favorite holiday, which is Thanksgiving, because that holiday gives me time off of work, absolutely nothing to sew, bake, or create, permission to eat many salty foods, and I don't have to buy any gifts.  The only requirement is that I eat too much, drink wine with friends, and sit down lots while my husband happily cooks.  Totally ideal.

But Halloween is my second-least favorite holiday, after Easter, and here's why.

TOP FIVE REASONS I DON'T LIKE HALLOWEEN.

5.  WORK.  It's supposedly a "kids" holiday, but if you're a parent of youngish children, you know that you are required to do things for parties and prepare costumes and attend events, but you don't get the accompanying time off work.  I know I should be cheerful that I get to participate in this ritual with my children--one that they absolutely adore, by the way--but you know what?  Halloween always comes at the very busiest time of the semester, when I invariably have some sort of respiratory infection or pending conference travel, and when I feel my least cheerful.  I'm a fan of the idealized 1970s version of Halloween parenting, where kids stole sheets from the linen closet to make their own costumes ("ghosts"/the KKK) and just roamed neighborhoods in great hooligan bands while parents stayed home, drank great quantities of sweet liquers, and were nasty to each other.  This reality probably only exists in my head and Steven Spielberg movies, but I long for it anyway.

4.  CANDY.  This is not an anti-sugar diatribe.  I love sugar.  I eat it everyday, preferably in the form of ice cream.  And most forms of candy I could give a rats' ass about:  Starburst, Mike and Ikes, Smarties, blah.  Who cares.  Those would sit on my shelves gathering dust for millennia.  But this kind of candy?

The chocolatey kind with peanut butter or nuts or toffee inside?  I literally have no self-control around it.  None.  I had bronchitis this weekend so bad that the doctor told me if I tried to go to work yesterday she'd meet me at the hospital to treat my pneumonia, and I STILL ate 12 of these things.  TWELVE.  That's like six real candy bars.  And I could have eaten more but my self-loathing finally kicked in.  I could be throwing up Snickers and shoving them in my mouth simultaneously is how much I love these things.

And guess what else is effed up:  we won't even be home to hand these out to trick or treaters.  So Eric bought these all for us to eat, on top of whatever we steal from the girls' bowls.

Who does that.

3.  DECORATIONS.  I have a complicated relationship with stuff, okay?  Our house is on the cluttered side of things, and I've inherited all sorts of "treasures" from my family that I find hard to give up, and I love clothes and shoes.  But I also do not like having a bunch of unused stuff around that has to be stored.  Ski clothes and holiday decorations fall into this category, and are frequently donated to the thrift store every year in a purge, then repurchased every year in a guilt-fueled binge.  We are perpetually cold in the winter and always shabbily under-decorated.  Because I feel so cranky about Easter and Halloween, in fact, I do not decorate for these holidays at all.

This makes my children sad.  In their minds, our house should be decorated in orange lights and drop-down spiders and fake webs and jack-o-lanterns.  Instead, there are just moldy leaves in the front yard and the cracked, peeling concrete of our front steps.  

I'm sorry kids.

It gets so bad that my normally bookish, tv-addicted children take matters into their own hands and decorate things themselves.  Like this weekend, when they decided to make a scarecrow for the front yard.

Just to be clear, that IS a Cabbage Patch head peeking out there.  And this IS on par with having a toilet in your yard as a "Christmas" decoration.  

In case you can't appreciate the utter sadness:

2.  HAVING TO DRESS UP.  There are lots of funny memes and commentary going around about "sexy" women's Halloween costumes and we can all nod knowingly and get feminist-indignant about it, but frankly there IS kind of an art to killing it at Halloween, and I sort of admire both the sexy barmaids and the family that can show up as the entire cast of The Office as their gimmick.  I am usually running around at 5:30 the night of the party we've been invited to trying to figure out what I am going to "be."  And, surprise, it's never a sexy barmaid, because rarely are the makings of "sexy barmaid" just lying around in my recycling bin.  

Also, let's be real.  My sense of humor is a little off, yeah?  One year, I thought it would be really funny to go as Octo-Mom, so I dressed up in a large shirt that I had sewn eight dolls' heads to.  This made me laugh maniacally at myself while I was putting it together but when I tried to explain it to people at the party, they just half-grinned and moved away a little.  

Another time, I was Hermione Granger but the wig was all wrong and I ended up looking like a cast member from Spinal Tap.

Please note that Eric actually looks like Harry Potter.

And then there was the year I was a Zombie Mariachi.

It pleases Eric to no end when I show up in such sexy costumery.

Anyway, my point is:  some of us have the Halloween spirit, and some don't.  I belong in one of those groups.  

It's not the first one.

1.  KIDS COSTUMES.  Oh, what to say about this.  I'm definitely not one of those moms who feels compelled to make her kids costumes, or to fanatically buy them, either, as some sort of statement about parenting.  There have been years we've bought costumes off of Amazon, years we've raided the thrift store, and years I've made them.  So this is not anxiety about source or procurement.

However:  the first year Addie was in school I completely forgot that she would need a costume and had a real loud crying fit about whether or not I should have ever had children, and now I have PTSD about remembering or forgetting Halloween altogether.  It should be obvious that my preference would be to forget it, but there is some decent part of me that knows that's not an okay option for my children.

And so I push the kids weeks, nay months, in advance to think about their costumes.  I lock 'em in early.  We try on costumes early.  And then, when they want to change their minds the actual week of Halloween, we have very many large fights about it and I turn into monster mommy, my very favorite Halloween role.

This year, Addie wanted to be a zombie bride (apple, meet tree) so we tore up a sheet (Spielberg!) and she ended up like this:

Great, good.

Except it itched, of course, and necessitated much futzing and complaining and fighting.  Awesome.

And Nolie wanted to be Cleopatra, which made me inwardly rejoice, because a few years ago Addie wanted to be a "Grecian Goddess," a costume which I actually sewed by my ownself with no pattern, and in my head I unilaterally decided to be culturally insensitive and historically inaccurate and lobbed Egyptian ruler and Grecian Goddess into the same category so that Nolie could wear Addie's old costume, currently balled up in the dress-up bin:

See the wrinkles?  Cuz I wasn't about to iron that shit.  Nope.  Not on Halloween.