Tag Archives: Vicki Hughes

Undie Adjustment

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 12, 2013

To say that my husband has a thing for my butt would be like saying mice have a thing for cheese or moth’s for flames, or fat kids for cake. He simply cannot help himself. In nearly every photo or video he has produced in the twenty-eight years we’ve been together, you may rest assured my hind quarters will be included at some point.

Now that he has an iPhone I’ve grown increasingly paranoid. It’s just too easy to snap a candid photo. My only saving grace is that he is still very muddy about this fad they call the Internet and that wacky Facebook. If he ever gets a clue, I will need an app called “Remove My Ass” to put on his phone (he’d never know!)

I bring all this up to discuss one of my quirks, which is Undie Adjustment. When I get into bed at night, I like to sleep in either a light t-shirt or a nightie and my undies. He’s a commando guy. For the last twenty-eight years he has attempted to persuade me to do likewise, usually with a thinly veiled concern for my comfort, “You’d be so much cooler!” Uh huh.

I assure him, I am comfortable. The reason I’m comfortable is, I like my undies adjusted “just so,” where the elastic in the back is assigned a very particular spot in the hemisphere of my butt and I want them no higher and no lower. Like I said, it’s a quirk. So after I crawl in bed and wiggle around to appreciate the softness of the sheets and the fact that I have survived the day and been rewarded yet again with getting horizontal, I adjust my undies. I get them “just so” and for that moment in time, all is right with my world.

Which brings us back to mice and cheese and moths to flames. My husband and my ass. He is compelled to grope and examine it as soon as he gets in bed, and as you may have already guessed, this completely ruins my Undie Adjustment. The calibration becomes all caddy wompus and I lay there feeling like a jigsaw puzzle with three missing pieces. To his credit, he often tries to re-adjust them for me. But let’s face facts. Nobody else can adjust your undies for you. That might be the worst part of having no arms; never really getting your undies to your liking.

So we do the Undie Adjustment Dance almost nightly. I used to get mad. I’d say, “WHY do you have to DO that!?” Why indeed. Have you ever met a mouse? A moth perhaps? Mice have an uncontrollable urge for cheese, even when it is perched upon a steel trap. Moths beat themselves silly against hot lightbulbs and singe their wings in candle flames. It’s what they do. There’s really no point in getting mad about it.

I’ve learned to adapt. I let him have his nightly fun re-arranging my undies and then when the festivities are over I put everything back where it belongs. That’s how love works. I happen to know there are parts of his world that I have, on rare occasions, disrupted. Of course I only do it because it makes perfect sense to me.

I have a thing for putting his water glasses in the dishwasher. He drinks a lot of water. I find his glasses all over, and I assume (wrongly) that he is done with them. I put them in the dishwasher, where they belong, and then he gets parched searching for the glass he was sipping from only moments before I “hid” it in the dishwasher. This is somehow annoying to him, in spite of how obviously helpful it is.

We torment each other in these amazingly predictable and odd ways, and it’s somehow become the weird glue that’s made us stick. Occasionally one of us has a bad day and freaks out over the undies or the water glasses in life, demanding that the other one reform immediately. But then we laugh at the same jokes, recite the same lines from a favorite movie, or roll our eyes in ecstasy over really good blue cheese, and we decide to cut each other the tiniest bit of slack. The fact is, we aren’t going to change each other. Of course it doesn’t stop us from launching a try now and then, but really, twenty eight years is long enough to conclude that a track record has been established . You shrug, you kiss, you move on.

Why I’m Hell-Bent On Happy

Circle The Wagons!

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 11, 2013

hell-bent [hel-bent] adjective

Stubbornly or recklessly determined
Determined to do or achieve something

hap·py [hapē] adjective

Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.
Having a sense of confidence in or satisfaction with (a person, arrangement, or situation)

Hell-bent and happy don’t usually hang out in the same sentence together. When I began to formulate the concept for Hell-bent On Happy, it came out of the recognition of a need. This phrase for me, captures the image of a dog with a meaty bone, determined to hang onto it.

We have to be committed to our happiness enough to learn how to power through the many and sundry obstacles, that I like to think of as the Asshats.

Asshats are simply circumstances and individuals, alone or in groups, who are counter-productive to experiencing joy, and the opposite of happiness. Perhaps you married one once. It happens. There are accidental Asshats, those who unknowingly participate in Asshat behavior, and sadly, I’ve been one of these on several occasions. But there is also a deeply devoted group of professionals. Professional Asshats who are not content to stay in their own company, and quietly carry on amongst themselves. They are zealous, and they recruit with fervor. They don’t think, “I’d like to be miserable, but it’s cool if you want to be happy.”

Misery doesn’t just like company, it likes crowds. It wants a huge mosh pit of cranky bastards to join into the fray. Us happy folk, we do like to hang around other happy people, but we need a bit of encouragement to get serious about it. Being happy and maintaining a sense of joy requires us to choose what we think and focus on. It calls into question three things:

How do we spend our time?
Who do we spend our time with?
How long do we spend time with them?

Happy people need the same hell-bent attitude towards their own happiness and well being that the Asshats seem to have for being and making others miserable. Both attitudes are contagious. I believe it’s a mistake to take our own happiness too casually, “Maybe I’ll work on it, maybe I won’t,” is not a philosophy for success. One of my mentors in life, Jim Rohn, said it so well. “Casualness leads to casualties.”

Being Hell-Bent On Happy gives me courage to speak up for myself and others who want to live a happy life. It reminds me that the Asshats don’t have all the power, or the right to spew their crap without a rebuttal. It gives me the bravery I need to call out the people who are militantly being a pain in the ass, or giving us all a twitch, and say, “We’re on a mission to be happy over here, and I think you’d fit better elsewhere!”

Whew! That made me nervous, just writing it! But it felt GOOD!

I had a similar experience at a business conference a few months ago. The conference was packed full of some of the best speakers I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard some of the great ones. One of the speakers was Marianne Williamson. This was a great opportunity, and I was really excited to hear her talk. Part of her excellent talk included the idea of approaching other people with the idea, “The love in me salutes the love in you.” I was jotting notes, and getting a lot out of it.

Unfortunately, just as she was getting into the meat of her presentation, the group of people immediately to my left and in front of me seemed to lose interest, and begin chatting amongst themselves, discussing where they would like to go for lunch at the break, and where they might go for dinner and lots of other Asshat behavior.

At first I simply found it irritating, and attempted to ignore it. But it soon became clear they were not about to shut up, and just yackity-yackity-yack about their own personal stuff. I lost my ability to strain forward to stay focused on the speaker.

By nature, I am not a confrontational person, and I don’t like confronting Asshats. They scare me a little. My nickname among my immediate family is The Nice Lady, because I’m usually so diplomatic! But my stress was going up, and the silent death threats I was sending these people were not getting through to them at all. Thankfully, some of the earlier speakers had driven home the importance of bravery, which I had taken to heart, and put on my own list of things to work on.

With a fearless glint in my eye, I scrawled in my notebook, “The talker in me salutes the talker in you, but kindly shut the fuck up.” I seriously considered handing it to the Asshat on my left. I looked down at it and I realized I was so pissed off, it was nearly illegible, and there was already enough talking going on, I didn’t want to have to explain!

So I leaned over, made intense eye contact with the Lead Asshat and said in a stage whisper, “I can’t hear the speaker because YOU are talking!” She got a funny, pinched look on her face, but lo and behold, she and all her Asshat friends shut the fuck up! I could feel the quiet people all around me doing a little victory fist-pump for all the folks in our section who were spending time and money to actually hear the speakers.

Sometimes to defend happiness, joy and other valuable virtues, you have to step out of your “nice” comfort zone. In my case, being Hell-Bent On Happy means developing a tolerance for a little more confrontation when necessary, to defend my happiness. A joyful life cannot flourish and grow in a toxic environment. I’m the person in charge of creating and managing my own environment. I’m a big girl now.

Hell-Bent On Happy People have to be okay with not being everyone’s cup of tea 24/7. You can’t be happy hanging around a band of Asshats. Either happiness is important enough to give some of our time and attention to, or it’s not. Hell-Bent On Happy People are stubbornly determined to be happy, experiment with bravery, join forces with other Hell-Bent On Happy people and to learn how to defend it when neccessary. Circle the wagons! The Asshats are coming!

Pants Are a Scourge

“Clearly, I’ m Not In Charge.”

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 10, 2013

Pants. They drastically increase a person’s responsibility in life. I’m considering starting a revolution of people who are all very tired of being responsible, who, rather than flip out, just stop wearing pants. In the 60’s, women liberated themselves from social expectations by burning their bras. Maybe we could begin with a nice bonfire of pants.

It begins at a frighteningly young age. We start out wearing Onesies, where our chubby, Michelin- Man thighs can be squeezed at will, or in those soft, fleecy sleeping bags with arms and bunnies embroidered on the lapel…but somewhere around age two, someone puts you in pants, and as soon as that happens, suddenly here come the expectations. Now they want you to use the potty and stop spitting out your strained peas and for Pete’s sake, they insist that you share things. Back before those stupid pants, this was never an issue.

Pants are complicated. The question, “Who wears the pants in this family?” is still code for, “Who’s in charge?” seventy years after women quit wearing skirts every day.

Did you know that if you are wearing an attractive skirt, people will actually do things for you that they would not do if you were wearing jeans or slacks? That’s right. Stand next to a car with a flat tire in a skirt and see. Men, you are excused from this experiment. Seriously, people will hold more doors, pick up fallen change, carry more of your parcels and basically act like better human beings when you shun pants.

Pants are a scourge.

Pants are anathema to all true relaxation. They don’t belong at the beach, in a massage or any place tropical where you might sip a margarita. Pants equal full adult responsibility. Put on your pants and you are sending Life a text that says, “Bring it on, I’m ready.” Other than Scottsmen, who are in several weird categories all by themselves, such as being completely unintelligible, people don’t charge into battle without their pants on.

Pants baffle me further. Why is it called a pair of pants. It’s one article of clothing. It’s pants, not a pair. A pair is two. Pants refuse to comply with the laws of mathematics, they are so bossy.

Bossy Pants. Nobody ever uses the phrase bossy shorts or bossy skirts or bossy boxer shorts do they? Why? Because you can’t really pull off bossy behavior without your pants on. I mean, you’re welcome to try putting on your short-shorts and then address the Board of Directors if you’re feeling brave, but don’t blame me if the acquisition goes poorly. I warned you. We only want to be bossed around by people in pants. Bossing people around in skirts pretty much went out with Margaret Thatcher. After that, pants won.

Should life ever become all too much, and should you need to send a smoke signal out that says that you are no longer the person in charge, and all complaints need to be directed elsewhere…just take off your pants.

I guarantee, if the pilot of an airplane came out of the cockpit without his pants on, somebody else would be asked to land the plane. Someone in pants. Taking them off is a very clear signal that says, “I’m not in charge right now.”

Are your teenagers bugging the hell out of you, clamoring for you to arrange this and arrange that, take them here and pay for that? Off with the pants, watch them scatter!

The big difference between doctors and patients in hospitals? Pants. The ones still in pants are in charge and the ones in sketchy gowns are not. It’s all perfectly clear. As soon as they hand you the gown, you know immediately, there’s been a power shift. That’s why dentists and chiropractors will never get the same respect as an M.D. They can’t get you to take your pants off. At the end of a long week, I consider it the height of relaxation to remove my Bossy Pants and put on shorts or a swim suit or even a cotton sundress to simply send the world a signal that says, “Today I will not be making any further Big Decisions. Direct all inquiries elsewhere.

Talk to the Pants.

Five Tricks For Overcoming Little Annoying Crap

You try and try, but they keep showing up.

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 10, 2013

Little annoying crap has the power to suck the joy right out of an otherwise lovely day. We’ve all done it; The client who no-shows, the person in front of us, who spaces out, and makes us miss our big shot at getting through the light before it turns red, the bill we thought we mailed , discovered when we pull down the sun visor to put on our lipstick. Little. Annoying. Crap.

Everyone has it.

The real problem comes in when we start giving it our undivided attention. We go from being stuck in traffic, to thinking our boss is an idiot, to thinking we will never get out of debt, to lamenting the complete deterioration of Western Civilization because everyone sucks.

Whoa! It’s just a traffic jam! It might be keeping you from a head on collision, or helping you miss the creepy (Did he just sniff me??) guy who likes to follow you too closely when you get out of the elevator.

Chill.

I have found a few little tactics I like to use when I feel myself boarding the Teeth Grinding Train.

1) Tell yourself this situation may be working to your advantage somehow. A traffic delay may save your life, or cause you to meet your new best friend, or find a fifty dollar bill on the sidewalk. If you can’t change it, choose to imagine something good coming from it.

2) Decide to be un-offendable. To do this, you can say, “It’s not me, it’s YOU!” I suggest in most cases, you do this silently. In other words, you remind yourself that the person making you feel bat-shit crazy is not doing it just to get under your skin. They would be doing or saying the same routine, no matter who was standing in your shoes. People do what they do because of who they are. Stop taking their actions so personally and remember; sometimes you’re the one driving people nuts.

3) Say to yourself, “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.” When you were five years old, you created countless new opportunities, futures and possibilities by pretending. You let your imagination do great things. You still can! I’m not talking about living in complete denial, I’m suggesting we choose to focus on what makes us happy instead of spinning out movie-length scenarios of how this one event is going to ruin our lives forever! When I say to myself, “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen,” it frees up parts of my brain to notice things that are funny or inspirational or at the very least, neutral. Neutral thoughts are better than being dialed into the little annoying crap.

4) Distract yourself with something. Spending the weekend with a deaf uncle who blares the news 24/7? I suggest taking walks, offering to clean his birdfeeder, cooking some chili while plugging into your iPod and cranking your own tunes, or challenging him to a game of checkers. Distraction is a powerful tool. You can’t raise toddlers without it! Use it when you feel the Cranky Train leaving the station.

5) Don’t throw away the brownie because of a few annoying nuts. I’m not a nut person, but if you were to hand me a fudgy brownie with nuts, I would not be inclined to toss it in the trash. I would enjoy what I did like, and leave the rest. We can’t always guarantee that our brownies or our lives are nut-free, but we can choose to enjoy the sweet parts, and leave the rest.

Confessions of a Condiment Whore

This is just sad.

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 9, 2013

There’s nothing like packing up and moving your household to bring you face to face with your hoarding tendencies and housekeeping inadequacies. This past fall, in what I can only describe as The Bermuda Triangle of Bad Timing, I decided to move for the second time in two years, go on vacation, help our daughter move into the house we were vacating, and go out of state to get my mom to move her from Tennessee to Alabama, into the mother-in-law suite at our new house. It’s not stress that I like, it’s excessive stress.

All of this moving made me very aware of my foibles, quirks and assorted mental illnesses. I was faced with the damning reality that since 1986 I’d managed to transport a nearly empty tin of Safeway Allspice all over the United States, and not because I’m fond of kitchen antiques, but because I’m a Condiment Whore. In fact I’m a complete nutcase when it comes to spices, condiments, and anything pickled. I squirrel them away as if preparing for the coming Apocalypse of Seasonings.

This recent move once again confronted me with a can of hearts of palm that I can never seem to bring myself to add to a salad, “My God, what year did I buy that!?” I’m clearly incapable of throwing it away. Do you know what they want for hearts of palm? Using it is to risk ptomaine poisoning, but tossing it gives me the shivers. I have issues.

Our new house has a gorgeous stainless steel refrigerator, which is lovely to look at, but is significantly smaller than the typical requirements of a Condiment Whore. Would you like to guess from which side I inherited my food hoarding genes? Yes, from my mother…and we are now sharing a Barbie doll refrigerator. Yesterday we made the mistake of going grocery shopping together. We came out of the Piggly Wiggly as if we were each personally responsible for feeding the Pittsburg Steelers. What were we thinking? As we were loading things into the trunk I kept eyeballing her bags of groceries quietly thinking, “There better be room in that fridge for my Bud Light Chelada’s or her sour cream is getting the ax!”

A recently discovered challenge of having two women in the same house is that we both move things, but one of us moves the other’s stuff more. She KEEPS MOVING MY SHIT! I’ve nearly had a couple of breakdowns looking for, in no particular order: empty plastic shopping bags for dog poop duty, a wet Swiffer, maraschino cherries, horseradish, a plastic container for leftovers, tealights, and, God help me, my martini shaker.

After some very sweet quizzing on my part, I was taken to their maddeningly logical locations. Their new homes made perfect sense, but they were simply not where I saw them last. Coffee filters in the cabinet above the coffee maker? I thought they were fine sitting on the counter…Oh no. No, no, no. Logical.

Not only does she have a flair for putting things in logical order (spices, alphabetized “loosely” from left to right!) She is very neat. My husband and I are a bit neat-challenged. Or maybe I should say we have a higher threshold for the non-neat than she does. Either way, it’s a bit of an adjustment.

I have discovered things I truly didn’t know. The unsightly must be camouflaged. Electrical cords are the crazy relative in a Victorian novel, discretely kept out of sight. Everyone knows you have them, but nobody must ever see them. The plastic trashbag that lines the pedal-operated trashcan? It should be neatly folded over, into the can, in a tiny little cuff that can only be seen with a very high powered microscope. It matters not that my husband and I create a very American amount of trash every 24 hours, and this cuff-folding ritual will become a part time job for someone. Not me! I truly do not give a rat’s ass if the trashcan liner is visible on a trashcan. I’m pretty sure everyone knows there’s a trashbag in there. Why are our trashbags in the Witness Protection Program?

I kidded her the other day, saying I think she’s part squirrel, and everything is a nut to be hidden to her. I had no idea that daily living could have so many rules. Holy shit. For instance, did you know that used coffee filters and their grounds are to be thrown away before you leave the house, rather than the next morning when you’re ready to make more coffee? Me neither. File that away, you’re going to need it later.

The cushions for patio chairs need to be brought in nightly to protect them from the dew. This relentless attention to cushion maintenance may sound a bit extreme, but it also explains why the cushions she bought in 1994, when our daughter was five years old, look like brand new. I’ve bought a new set every year. You could safely perform open heart surgery on my Mom’s patio chair cushions. After a full summer of use, mine usually look like the reject pile after a trailer park yardsale. Sadly, I’m comfortable with my sloppy cushion behavior. I also admit that it’s oddly comforting when our now twenty-three year old daughter is sitting there on those same pristine cushions, sipping a mimosa on a Sunday afternoon. Comforting, and a little weird, like time travel to the nineties.

Adapting.That’s what we’re all doing. We’re learning to adjust to having three grown adults living with four dogs, and how we will manage to love and respect each other in spite of all our individual persnikitiness.

She whispers to me out of the side of her mouth, “I don’t know if you want to say anything to John, but MOST people wear shirts when they cook.”

Um, no. Actually I don’t think I will say a word, since he’s cooking in his own house. But your revulsion is duly noted! Dear God. I’m just thankful that he’s wearing shorts! When you’ve been married nearly thirty years to an Australian/Californian/Redneck carpenter, you have to expect a few etiquette adjustments. What he lacks in proper attire, I promise he makes up for in amazing BBQ chicken. It’s probably the mixture of marinades and dripping sweat that makes it special.

My Mom always compliments me on how easy going I am. I’m now starting to wonder if easy going is code for “sketchy low standards,” but I’m okay with it. My Mom is amazing. She is beyond accommodating, she wants everyone to be happy all the time, she offers to help me, and keeps the wheels of progress turning, preventing our new household from spiraling off into complete chaos.

When the adjustment period is all said and done, I may have to teach her the art of the perfect dirty martini. I’m sure she could make James Bond shed tears over the perfection of her martinis if only someone showed her the ropes. Then, when she asked me, “Is there anything I can do to help you?” I could say, “Shake it, Sister!” That’s help I need.

I know she’s intrigued with the whole martini thing. About a week after she moved in, we were in the kitchen together, and I’d mixed my nightly adult beverage. I poured it with a flourish into a blue martini glass. The frosty chilled edges just said, “This is wonderfulness in a glass.”

She looked furtively at me and asked quietly, “Do you mind if I taste it?” I smiled my evil genius smile and said, “Why, no. Go right ahead, but prepare yourself. I like booze in my booze. It’s boozy.” She took a tiny squirrel-sip and then coughed like Doris Day in a Rock Hudson movie. That will teach her to mess with my gin. I may have her condiment hoarding genes, but I got my Daddy’s drinking genes. I do not require my alcohol to taste like iced tea, a peppermint patty or a Snicker’s Bar. I eat my food, and I drink my drinks. But I am not opposed to a tiny snack in my drink, I mean, olives are condiments, and that’s how I roll.

Hellbent On Happy

Staying Positive and grateful in an imperfect world laced with random asshats