Kids love adventure, their grandmas and Disney World. That place where magic happens right in front of you while captivating the sweet innocence of childhood. A trip to the Magic Kingdom is a wonderful opportunity for kids to bond and make memories with their grandparents.  Unless you are my children  because in this family things work a little differently.

Picture two grandmas both in their 70’s – healthy and active.   One is more the “put your dish in the sink or I’m going to kick your ass” AKA Nanna, and one is more “here, let me tie your shoes” (the kid is 25) AKA Grandma. Together they balance out and it works.   My daughter will say she’s got one that can’t walk and one that gets lost.  Translated : one is a cripple and one is a wanderer .   Both persona  are intentional. (Please note No grandmas were harmed in the making of this vacation.)  

Add to that three kids. A Girl, 17 – rules with an iron fist. A Boy, 15 – spends his days provoking and then avoiding said fist – most commonly by narrating his dinner as he eats it. “Man, this ribeye sure looks great – and don’t get me started on the steak sauce.”  Boy, 12 – the youngest, who has mastered the use of  well timed “puppy eyes” so all adults protect him and several are ready with cookies in case of any distress.

Lets start this journey with the airline departure.  Nanna, the one who can walk 5 miles up and down the beach looking like Usain Bolt,  suddenly develops a debilitating limp whenever a trip through the airport is imminent.  Her travelling cane appears and the cripple practicing begins in earnest.  Thankfully, to date , this has not escalated, although a last minute trip to Costco to “practice” driving a Rascal scooter was discussed.

Once settled on the plane the texts from the 17 year old on the trip begin. “If you want to know how slowly someone can walk through the airport – just go on a trip with Nanna”. Mom to the rescue to reassure her little princess that’s it’s fine – you made the flight while also reminding her that “Nanna just needs to feel she got her money out of the prop cane.”

A few hours of peace follow thanks to airplane mode. This is a mixed blessing however because shortly after arrival at their destination, the tsunami of texts begin again. “Really, mom? A Chevy Malibu? – there is a Red Dodge Charger available and you rent us the Malibu?” Understand this is coming from the one that overpacks and would have to tie her luggage and herself to the roof of the Charger for all of them to get off the lot.

And we’re off to the Park! Photos of blurry “Welcome to Disney World” signs sent from a moving vehicle signal their arrival. Check in is a success and they settle in for dinner and a trip to the pool. All seems to have settled down. Until – wait for it …. The 2 am text message – “Mom we have a problem here.” Now as a mother this is instantly conjuring images of the worst possible scenario. Fight or Flight kicks in. You sit straight up heart pounding trying to text back while imagining the worst. The little kids are lost! Someone is sick! Grandma tripped over her fake cane and hit her head. “What??” you respond bracing for the worst— and then she tells you. “The snoring- Mom I can’t take the snoring! Why could you not get two rooms? I would go sleep in the bathroom but there is no bathtub!” – understand this is a two prong guilt trip attempt. She’s backing up the snoring issue with an earlier complaint about the size of the room. Easy knowing the kid didn’t pay for hotel.

Off to the park Day 2 and the  panicked call from the 12 year old at dawn. “Mom we have a problem.  You need to send Nanna all my money right now!  All I want is a Lightsaber and she says that the vacation was enough of a present.”  Commence maternal maneuvers : tell the kid to go talk to Granny.  She will promise him anything and offer to go sell her plasma so he can have his lightsaber.   Then she will give him a cookie.  Note :  she will immediately go on a walkabout while the situation works itself out.  (Grandma is seriously conflict averse – explaining why she’s been missing a lot since they arrived).

Time for Mom to the rescue (again) and I place a quick call to Cruella DeVille – not the Disney character.  “Nanna can you knock it off?  You’ve got the kid stressing out trying to tell me how  to Western Union you his life savings – I already told you I would pay for the lightsaber!”  But yet again wait for it… here comes textbook Nanna : “Yeah, Yeah, I’m just letting him sweat it out for a while.”  Swift revenge on Nanna is made in the form of a trip to Space Mountain thanks to the calculated use of puppy eyes.  The cane won’t help you in there lady!

After a few days, that felt like decades, the trip will conclude. The travelers will all come home magically healed (where did the cane go?), weighed down with bounty (multiple Lightsabers that were charged to my credit card), exhausted, sunburnt and happy.  They will have stuff to laugh about and remember for the rest of their lives.  Nanna and Granny will survive and in about 6 months be glad they went. They will thank you for sending them on the trip and are glad the kids had fun.  They will then stress they are never, under any circumstance,  going back Dante’s Magic Kingdom.  I will humbly agree that once is more than enough and thank them for being such good grannies.   All the while knowing the secret giddiness I enjoyed while I stayed home to “work” and sent them on “vacation”.   Worth every penny Cruella, worth every penny.

First let me say I hate Social Media.  It’s the devils playground.  That said, I have come to terms with the fact it is here to stay, and stay in a way that fertilizes an endless crop of questions on the human condition.  Pun intended.  Lets talk prayer hands.

How is it that the majority so many  Americans  identify as non-religious or non-practicing at best or agnostic or atheist at worst yet every post that even hints at less than an idyllic situation is inundated with “prayer hands?”

Here’s the scenario : Some neighbor puts up a post about a missing pet hedgehog and suddenly, you guessed it, prayer hands for days!  Really?  I’m supposed to believe the atheist next door suddenly hit her knees because Herbie took a walkabout?  Get over yourselves people.

Better yet – do you happen to follow a community “news” (read gossip) page?  You know the kind where some poor sap sits next to a police scanner all day and  “reports” the news? These are the winners in the prayer hands Powerball lottery.

Scanner post  : “County Road 4 for a pedestrian, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and hip waders. Says he’s waiting for Elon Musk to pick him up in the company spaceship.”  This poor guy will instantly garner no less that 250 comments with phrases like “OMG”, “How Sad” or “Hope he finds help” – all utilizing the prayer hands, teary eyed emoji or the puffy heart.  The thread will quickly morph into everyone in the tri county area “sending prayers” to some random weirdo walking along a highway in the dark. 

The joke is on you, the reader, because you fall for the “250 comments” notation EVERY TIME.  You click on it hoping to find what happened to the Buzz Lightyear wannabe. Not today Zurg! You begin to devour the list of comments but you guessed it – just more puffy hearts!  Gossip file is empty.  All you find is an endless thread of emojis from random people curbing their guilty conscience – because they are wondering what we all are wondering. Who is this guy? – and if I get in my car right now can I find him and make a tik tock?

Little secret here people – no one knows if you clicked on the post.  You don’t have to let everyone know how teary eyed you are.  Because you’re not.  No one is.  It’s a crackpot in fishing gear wandering the side of the road in the middle of the night. Probably in Northern Wisconsin. Which really means it’s just a typical Tuesday in Rhinelander.   

Wouldn’t it be great to see someone post something informative like  “Thanks for the update. That’s just Uncle Wally. He is off his medication again and decided the bottle of Jack Daniel’s was his cough syrup.” OR “Dammit Ed I’ve been looking everywhere for my Sunday church shirt.”

Let’s have some honesty here – all anyone wants to know is where did the loony end up? Why? Because sometimes we love to watch the traffic accident that is other people.  Its just how humans are. It doesn’t make us bad people.  It makes us people.  I’m not saying we wish tragedy on others but that doesn’t mean we can’t make a Jiffy-Pop and watch the show.

 So if you really are worried, or concerned try this.  Pick up a phone or drop in on your neighbor in person.  If you really need to seem overly concerned stick a piece of onion up your nose and let the tears fall as they open the door. Just don’t push it in too far – you do not want to try and tell the ER doc why you have an onion wedged in your sinus cavity. You especially don’t want to give that community “reporter” a chance to make you the next cause for “sending prayers” while everyone just wonders – what in the hell happened there and how fast can I stakeout the hospital parking lot with some snacks and a Diet Coke?

Well like the scary girl in Poltergeist announced “shes back”.  Yes, I am back, after a long hiatus where along with the rest of humanity I was trying to hold it together as I watched us become a nation full of day-drinkers attempting to home school a generation of hypochondriacs. 

The days started out with an “all for one and one for all” mentality.  Generously peppered with the warm and fuzzy feeling that we were all out for a common goal.  To “stop the spread”, “bend the curve” while improving our skills at puzzle guessing on Wheel of Fortune and testing our IQ  with Jeopardy! 

We tried to cook, invented signature dishes – the “confinement casserole”  – and signature cocktails – the “Rona-Rita” and the “Nine-tini .”  We learned how to bake and returned to family meals around the table.  We looked at our children and thought – this is so nice to be able to spend time as a family.  That lasted about 2 ½ days.  Because after that the siren songs of “Im bored” kicked in – but unlike busier times – there was NOTHING to do! 

Primary school kids began to think that Tick-Tok was akin to Fox News when it came to capturing the news of the day.  Snapchat became the new telegraph where speaking emoji quickly resembled morse code.  Instagram became the community support group for the homebound and afraid. 

High School kids turned hiding in their rooms into an Olympic sport.  And the College kids, Oh those College Kids – those that had the sweet tequila of freedom turn to sour milk in their mouths – they were the real gift that kept on giving.  Weren’t they?  How quickly they morphed into the gargoyle in the basement that was poised to fly around the room pooping fireballs if you even tried to sympathize about their “lost college experience.”  Because as full grown adults we have never faced adversity and disappointment and couldn’t possibly understand.

The good news is that we made it.  WE MADE IT THROUGH!  Let’s celebrate the simple victory that we survived – and let us mourn those who did not by remembering the good times and living our lives in honor and memory of them.   Now is the time to burn your masks,  remember how to live, laugh, smile so people can see it, visit your neighbors, hug your grandparents, join weight watchers and your local AA.  Bill W could use a few new friends – and many of us could too. 

And when the sun goes down do not be afraid to dance in the street, sing at the top of your lungs – just run inside before the cops show up – if only because the pooping gargoyle is back at the frat house in a reality far, far away.

SO – for those of you wondering where I have been – Why haven’t I posted when there is obviously so much in the world to talk about?  The answer my friends is simple.  The issue is obvious. The question is where to start?  I sense that this will be the first of a series of posts as we as a people, nation and family work our way through this time.  I think it best if I use this platform to share my observations.  Feel free to comment or discuss among yourselves. 

1) People are given to panic and drama. That’s not the interesting part.  If any of you are of Irish, Jewish or Italian decent – and knew your grandparents- panic and drama is just how we get through the day.   This is the interesting part : When in a dramatic panic apparently the items needed to survive Armageddon consist mainly of toilet paper, bottled water and dry pasta.  What do we learn here?   That individuals with spastic bowels have a very sensitive palate and only know how to boil their food.   

2) All of a sudden everyone has a degree  in epidemiology with a minor in sanitation services.  Yes, even the grimiest of individuals suddenly want to bathe in hand sanitizer and dry off with Clorox wipes.  PSA here people – human skin was not meant to be cleaned with bleach wipes.  For all of you out there saying “I cant understand why my skin is so raw and irritated!”  My guess, genius, is it has something to do with switching out your exfoliator for a can of AJAX.   

3) Children of a certain age will love e-learning.  Its like one big online party with all their friends.  They pretend to pay attention, but in reality  are waiting for the best moment to make a fart joke. That they get to type.  Into the classroom.  While still in their pajamas.  Hilarity ensues and the teacher “mutes” the little clown.  Life lessons at their finest.   

4) Lastly, it’s a toss up as to who is more disappointed that college campuses across the country are shut down.  You or your manchild.  Your  college kid does not want to be home within the safety and security of his  family.   And (shocker)  you don’t want them around either.  He is now  an independent adult who should be allowed to make his own decisions.  In case you weren’t aware of this – give him 5 minutes and he will tell you.  Funny how the college kid definition of adult is straight out of the Bizzarro World Student Dictionary.  Makes you wonder if you should get them an online vocabulary course to complete in all their free time.

For now, thank you for your support.  Its time to change from my daytime PJ’s into my night time PJ’s and try and convince my kids that just because they can now go to school in their underpants it doesn’t mean that bedtime is optional. 

To be continued….

The Santa visit.  For the uninitiated, a wondrous holiday event where children can believe in the miracle of Santa and his flying reindeer.  An place, singletons  imagine, at some future date where they will take their perfectly groomed and behaved children and experience the wonder of watching their cherubic offspring tell Jolly old St. Nicholas their Christmas wishes.

Now, if everyone can put down their hallucinogen of choice we can get to what the Santa visit is really like.  While there are Bank Santas, Library Santas, Restaurant Santas and even Gas Station Santas, the most well known Santa, I think we can agree, is the Santa at the Mall.

This seemingly benign Santa is also the one who’s annual appearance strikes fear into the hearts of every veteran parent.  It is here you always get stuck behind the newborn dressed up in an outfit so ornate and intense it gives you hives just to look at it.  This child is accompanied by at least two adults who have saccharine sweet smiles and seem immune to the pack of rabid parents in line behind them.  Listen newbies, the kid is asleep – prop her up , snap the picture and get the hell out of our way.

Behind you is always the 5 year old dressed up in the winter equivalent of the seer sucker suit.  This is the kid that spends 45 minutes jumping up and down while his mother feeds him Mrs. Fields cookies and repeats over and over.. “Little Johnny we need to use our inside voices right now.”   Always key here is knowing when to place a safe distance between yourself and Little Johnny. This would be  just before he slips into a diabetic coma and channels Linda Blair in the exorcist.  Someone call the janitorial staff – Little Johnny just exorcised the demon and needs to get out of this line. Cleanup on aisle 4. You think I’m making this stuff up.

To make matters worse, the Shopping Mall Santa is always strategically placed right in the exact middle of the mall – so you are forced to trudge through a major department store and probably some type of food court just to reach the “North Pole.”  All the while you try to keep a hand on your kid that is alternating whines of Im hungry with the tactic of “you may have my hand but if I just drop to the ground right here in front of the ice cream store what are you going to do about it” routine.  Do not be a fool.  Do not stop to buy a little treat for that kid – please reference Little Johnny in previous paragraph.

Parents, I am trying to save you here. I have been in these lines and waited for the moment my kids will all crowd around Santa and have that magical moment.  Here’s the reality.  By the time you  get to the front of the line after waiting for over 2 hours, you are all overheated, tired, need a bathroom break and the kids all look like refugees from a third world adventure park.   Santa himself is ready to hitch a ride on Rudolph and get the hell out of there and the elf taking the picture has had to place themselves on the naughty list for language unbecoming a whimsical character.

Now, because I am never one to start one of these diatribes without a solution – here we go.  The way I see it you have two options.  First – just say no.  Kids, Santa is a magical creature – he knows when you’re sleeping and he knows when you’re awake.  Tell Alexa to send him a message and move on.  If you insist on the photo op – spend a few bucks and go get a life size Kris Kringle cutout.  Buy the kids some cookies – tell them to fake it till they make it – smile, snap and call it a day.  

Gift giving. Is there anything so joyful as an innocent child on Christmas morning?  Surrounded in wrapping paper remnants and beaming from ear to ear? I say no – that is a beautiful moment for any child and parent.  Unfortunately, they grow up.  Into teenagers.  I really don’t need to say any more to those readers that have or have had teens.  For the rest of you, I will explain.

I was recently with a group of parents discussing the upcoming holiday and truthfully I had to work very hard to keep my thoughts to myself.  Lest I offend. (Shocker, I know).  Here in this group of successful parents a discussion was brewing about what were the best gifts to get for their kids.  A new phone?  A Laptop? Airpods? WHAT?

First of all, most of these kids have so much stuff already cluttering up their lives that they won’t appreciate any of those things for more than 5 minutes.  I don’t care how much they want it, how many of their friends have one or that it’s the cool new thing.  Makes me wonder if its more about these parents competing to be the better gift givers than it is about the kids being the gift receivers. All done of course in an effort to be their kids “best friend.” As I repeatedly tell my children, “I am not your friend.  I do not want to be your friend. Most of the time I don’t even really like you.”

Our house doesn’t work the way these other family’s houses work– maybe because there are too many of us or maybe because we are too cheap. Or both. Probably both.   I can appreciate that kids want to fit in by having the cool stuff.  But life lesson alert – Money can’t buy happiness. And the real gift of Christmas isn’t about the stuff.     

Fundamentally– kids want very simple things.  They are just too stupid to get out of their own way and acknowledge what those things are.  They want food, clothing, shelter, safety, encouragement and to know they have the unconditional love of their parents.  Unconditional love that sets boundaries, enforces rules and provides the safety net so needed during adolescence.  They want to have the memories that start with “when I was a kid,” or “one time my mom…” or “on Christmas we always…” 

I don’t think that when my headstrong and demanding child gets older and moves away he is going to look back and say Christmas  was great because he got a new phone.  I’m hoping Christmas was great because that was the year that we had a lost relative come to visit.  Or because he stayed up all night with his siblings watching old movies.  Or simply because we were all together snoozing on the couch with the Heatmiser singing his song in the background.

These are the mental snapshots of childhood that yellow and curl with age but are all the more cherished because of it. If you doubt me, go to your Facebook feed and look – no ones best Christmas memory is an old photo of them alone with the 1957 equivalent of the new iPhone or a pair of Yeezys.

The holidays.  A time for families and friends to come together and share the joys of the season and love of each other.  Sure – that’s how it happens.  If and only if your world also includes unicorns, leprechauns, flying reindeer and convenient free parking in the city. 

We all know how this season really works, it begins with the passive aggressive missal of the season – The Christmas Card – or from the truly diabolical – the Christmas Letter. Here you have the vector by which seemingly nice and friendly neighbors and family can inject their syrupy sweetness and delusional existence into your every day via the mailbox.  You see the USPS – while completely dysfunctional – still has the ability to get our smiles to shine when we receive a handwritten LETTER.  But to all of you naïve mail recipients I say “caveat emptor” or perhaps “mail delicatus cave.” 

Here is how the sneaky little bastards get you.  You open the brightly colored envelope, anticipating a few photos of smiling kids or maybe a picture of a tree.  And on the surface you are correct in your assumption.  But then you start to read – “Jenny just graduated Sigma Cum Laude from Harvard Law while simultaneously developing a new water purification system for the peace corps.”  “Baby Richard is learning his letters and numbers in Mandarin but he’s thinking of switching over to a more obscure Mongolian dialect.  Mandarin is so 2019.”  And last but not least – “Our Madeline is busy preparing for her debut in the Joffrey’s Nutcracker while studying for 1’st Glockenspiel with the CSO.”  And just like that your hardworking day to day becomes an example of laziness personified and you feel like the gum on the shoe of humanity.  And Why? Why? Because everyone wants to seem important and no one wants to point out their shortcomings.  Lucky for them – I love to point out other’s shortcomings.

I think its high time we highlight the reality that lives inside every over decorated house.  I advocate for Christmas letters that serve to make the rest of us feel good about ourselves.  That is a gift that keeps on giving. Forget the holiday candy – and keep your cheap ornament exchanges. Lets sing O Come Emmanuel – and hey Emmanuel – bring  us the dirt. 

Here is my example for all of you to use when writing your letter.  Pay attention.

Hey Everyone! This year brought us some special surprises and excitement.  First of all, the new eco-friendly garden that little Jimmy was working on for science class turned out to be nothing more than a glorified pot farm.  The bad news is Jimmy is serving 32 months for possession with intent, but the good news is he can pay cash for his college education when he gets sprung.   

Momma got into a bit of trouble at the senior center when she introduced her own online sports betting app.  The app itself wasn’t so bad, but the pills-to-play setup she was working didn’t set well with the Medicare Rx members. Seems those seniors are a little tetchy when it comes to having to ration their pharmaceutical grade Fibercon pills to support their online sportsbook.

And lastly, little Cece, sweet adorable Cece.  You all remember her from those dance recitals? Well she put all that training to good use and now is the headliner at the new gentlemans club on the South Side.  Her latest stage name is Trixie Tinsel and she’s currently making six figures while completing her doctoral thesis in marine biology. That’s right friends – no one defines #strippergoals like our little Cece.

Oh the holidays – so much annoyance, so little time.  To be continued…..

Ask many young adults today and you get answers like Captain America – or maybe some professional athlete.  Ask the younger kids and maybe its Daniel Tiger or Big Bird.  While the idea of admiring someone who is best of the best. Or someone that stands up for others. Or someone (or something) that makes you feel loved and safe is healthy and human, I think we need to really re-examine what is the meaning of Hero.

The dictionary definition of hero is : a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.

So here is my challenge to you today – let’s think about the real heros in our lives.  Because those worthy of the title are EVERYWHERE.  We only need to look into their faces to see the true strength, courage and nobility.  The attributes that we as humans need to raise up as examples of our humanity.

The true hero is the single mother, working not just toward the obvious goals of putting food on the table and making sure homework but also making sure her children understand her unconditional love for them.  Always.  No matter how incredibly hard that can be at times.

The true hero is the physician that pulls endless hours and sleeps in the doctor’s lounge because they don’t want to be out of reach for their young patients.

The true hero is the teacher that pays attention to everything going on outside their classroom and makes an effort to be an advocate for mental health in their young charges.

The true hero is the coach that stays after practice to sit and listen to the players that don’t have someone at home to talk to – and need to know someone loves them.

The true hero is the young man or woman who feels the call to serve our great nation and leaves home for the first time toward unknown adventure and danger as a member of our Armed Service. 

The true hero is the Catholic priest that in the face of a world that would rather criticize and ridicule their calling, starts every day with a prayer of thanks –  for the honor God has bestowed on them – allowing them to comfort the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

The true hero is the mother, that loses a child – to addiction, to estrangement, to anger or to death – that gets up every morning and faces that loss with dignity and grace.  Knowing that in every day there is the hope that tomorrow will be better. That with each new sunrise brings new opportunity for healing.

Here is my challenge to you –  find your hero today.  Look at the wonder of those around you – and the little moments of achievement.  Take notice of the first time public speaker, encourage the young student, cherish the elderly parent, embrace the suffering neighbor and let them all know that they are your hero today.  Because we all need someone to be our hero – and maybe someone needs us to be theirs.

The Kennedy assassination.  Area 51.  The New England Patriots.  Conspiracy theories are everywhere – and weather you believe them or not – I think we all need to delve deeper into the biggest, baddest, most prolific of them all – Ready?  I propose there is a “deep state” alliance between women’s clothing manufacturers and the weight loss industry.  There – I said it.  Donatella Versace is on the take from NutriSystem and there is a reason that Target puts the “High  Fashion”  display across from the SlimFast aisle.

In this social climate of body confidence I cry – and please pardon the well placed and necessary therefore not gratuitous profanity  – BULL SHIT. .  Why you ask?  Because if size 12 is the new size 6 why do the people who always wore a size 6 now need a size 8? Or 10?  My size didn’t change but my label sure did.  Really?  And I’ve got news for you – I really liked being a size 6 and I do not want to be a size 8 or 10. They say Marilyn Monroe was a size 12 – no way in hell.  She was a hefty gal – hefty in all the alluring places but hefty.  I bet if Marilyn hit the sale rack at Macy’s today she would be shopping the clearance in the full figured section.  Seriously? The quintessential example of American feminine beauty would now be reduced to shopping high fashion at Chicos.  Am I the only one that sees a problem here?

Here’s what I think is going on – The clothing manufacturers are working off of two platforms 1) that by sizing what was a 6 into now an 8 they prey on the minds of those women who were ALWAYS comfortable at a 6 and now SHOCKER are an 8.  “How did that happen?  I need to go on a diet! This is insane!”  Been there.  Done that.

And lo and behold suddenly you become more aware of all those miracle weight loss programs that keep popping up in your Facebook feed.  We all know the ones I’m talking about where you can go from morbidly obese to fitness model “without giving up the food I love”. (insert disclaimer here) BULL SHIT.

Platform 2) by promoting the idea of “beauty at any size” they also guarantee that women see a specific label as friendly.  Do you understand people – they have your number! Loyalty – they are counting on it! Plus size? – Lane Bryant loves you!  Petite but voluptuous? – welcome to Spanx.  Therefore, you go back, again and again, size change after size change.  Turn on the money machine and start printing. They’ve got you people!

In an effort to undermine this crafty bit of American marketing I have a solution.  When you find a piece you like, quickly purchase 3-4 different sizes.  Try them on but DO NOT look at the sizing label.  Now, you will need a competent wingman for this – preferably one with good fine motor skills and a good pair of scissors.  When you find the perfect fit, quickly remove and pass to the one you trust (the one with the scissors).  They should immediately surgically remove all size evidence and burn it.   For the record this individual has already passed all prerequisite security checkpoints and has entered the circle of trust – we will never speak of that label again. Its dead to us. 

What is the end game you ask?  Just this – you are still the same size you were last season – and you can use all that money you would have spent on Hydroxycut on more important things.  Like wine.  Or Cheese. Or Wine flavored cheese – without guilt or anxiety.  Take that Donatella.  

Volunteering.  A great way to give back, help out and be a part of something.  We as a society need those individuals of generous heart – that offer up their time, talents and treasure to make things better.  What would our world be without the bell ringers, soup kitchen cooks and Sunday school teachers that show us what it is to be of service to humanity.

Unfortunately, for some it is also a great way to further bolster their need to boss people around, make themselves feel important and get their 15 minutes of fame.  Can someone please tell me when and how the lowly volunteer becomes the volunteer-zilla?  What is the tipping point?  When and how do people determine that its time to “show ‘em how its done?” and usher themselves into philanthropic history?

I have been involved in projects and missions over the years with varying degrees of success.   The thing is that no matter how much money you raise, food you collect, blood you siphon or fish you fry there is a common denominator.  WORK.  It takes a lot of work.  Outlining, organizing, recruiting and of course the ever fun – begging for donations.  The learning curve is steep so get your hiking boots on and plan your route.

So, you say, what’s your point? Today friends, I want to quite plainly point out to those of you taking on a new volunteering project. Please realize a few things. First, those people you are joining, (in other words the ones that have already done this a time or two), know more than you do. They do – so its probably not a good idea to go to your first meeting and say something. Anything. In other words – shut your trap and open your ears. There will be time to share your ideas once you get a clue what is going on. I like to say, “if you think you are the most important person in the room, you are in the wrong room.”

Secondly, your addition to the cause is not going to guarantee “this is going to be the best (Insert event here) ever!”  Its really not.  That’s not to say you wont make a contribution or that you aren’t going to help make for a successful event – but the fundraising drive that usually nets $5000 isn’t suddenly going to bring in $5 Million.  Set a reasonable goal and build on it but don’t get full of yourself. No one likes a show off.

Lastly, if you really want to make an impact, get a job! One that you can get fired from –  and learn (or remember) how to produce.  I guarantee it will make you more effective.  A better leader and more efficient volunteer.  Its said if you want to get something done, ask a busy person.  So get busy.  And remember that those who have been in the trenches have the war wounds you can only hope to get.  Respect the veterans in the volunteer war.  If you’re lucky one day you can compete with them – maybe.