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Post-Vacation Blues: How to Deal with Going Back to Work and Reality
Though I’ve always thought Post-Vacation Depression was a real thing, most psychologists now agree that “Vacation Hangover” is a more accurate term. Cue the lime and celery. “Post-travel depression is not a legitimate mental health issue,” said Jeroen Nawijn of the Centre for Sustainable Tourism and Transport. “In my own study that dealt with post-trip effects, I found no proof of post-travel depression.” But in my research I learned that for some people, experiencing Vacation Blues is a very real thing and may result in tiredness, loss of appetite, strong feelings of nostalgia, and in some cases, depression. See? I’m not loco, I’m nostalgic. But I’m also feeling slightly…
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Finishing Well. Sort Of: Moving to Another Country When You’d Rather Not
Did you know you’re never supposed to start a sentence with a number in the shape of a number? 11 years ago we had recently moved to Porvenir. We felt rather pale. And tall. 9 months ago we thought we might move back to the States. I didn’t want to. 7 weeks ago I stopped packing for our move and celebrated my last Mother’s Day in Mexico. 5 days ago Doug moved our fridge and beds into our new rental. Weird. 3 hours ago our real estate agent moved through our home with his tripod, clickety-clicking his way from the calle to the bodega to the baño. 1 minute ago…
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Stress: Top 5 Factors for Kids and Adults
Psychologists say the most stressful changes for children are (in no particular order) moving, divorce, losing a pet, death of a parent and death of a sibling. And for adults? According to Health Status, the top five include moving, divorce, major illness, job loss and death of a loved one. Since moving is one of the highest stressors no matter your age, we know our whole family sits on the brink of needing to breathe into paper bags while counting to nine in Danish. Not really. But maybe. Even if you’re only moving down the street, you still need to empty cupboards, pack boxes, and then unpack in a new, unfamiliar…
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Adjusting the Scales of Honesty: Do White Lies Count?
“Hey, boys—throw this blanket on top of the sacks. And make sure you get the corners.” I cringed in opposition. Did he just involve our children in a hidden importation? I turned my head to the west and spaced out while he drove. Lest you feel the urge to judge, think about this: if you were taking a twenty-dollar item across the border, would you be willing to pull over and pay a six-hundred-dollar fee for it? Behold, one of my most humbling posts ever. Thoughts of a corrupt government, two years of paying 16% taxes, border agents who charge whatever they’re feeling like that day, and insane importation…
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Gossip: Loose Lipps Sink Ships
“Some say our national pastime is baseball. Not me. It’s gossip.” ~ Erma Bombeck When he welcomed us into his rad classroom, we eighth graders knew we finally made it to the top. To be in Mr. Lipps’ class meant we got the cool English teacher. Of all my junior high classes, this particular one simultaneously thrilled and unnerved me. The middle-aged, borderline hippie spoke with authority and sauntered between our desks with an abundance of confidence. His “Loose Lipps Sink Ships” poster spanned the width of one wall and sat higher than our heads when we stood. It struck me as deep… forward-thinking… high school-ish. And I had no idea…
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I Decluttered and Broke Up With 500 Things. You Can Do It Too!
Feeling skeptical? Yep—I get it. I didn’t think I had 500 unwanted things I could find either. I wanted to move toward a minimalist lifestyle though so I knew it would be a solid challenge. An impending international move sealed the deal. Let’s be clear: my husband loves pitching clutter but has zero desire to become a minimalist or live in a tiny house, so I was on my own. Suggesting he only keep one coat, two shoes and three books would probably make him shake his head and mutter about hipster millennials and their vintage cameras. Paring down doesn’t mean you have to become an official minimalist though. Don’t think…
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Dave’s Daughter, Corky’s Chica, Micah’s Mom: Finding My Identity in My 40s
He leaned sideways against our crummy lockers, tilted his head and flashed his crooked, pearly whites. “So when are you gonna sleep with me, girl?” His casual offer made me blush, but inside I hid my shock. And then a speck of pride crossed my heart. He wanted me. He wanted me? The tall black jock pursuing the tall white jock in the middle of a normal school day made for such great gossip and bragging rights. Good grief, Carrie, snap out of it. You don’t want to be wanted like that. Well, duh. He had no idea who I truly was or where I came from. Never mind…
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Not Your Grandma’s Kind of Ghost: Writing and Editing for Someone Else
We stood in the aisles of the gigantic dining room, huddled in a loose swarm, chatting and anticipating the afternoon. Ropes course? Zip lines? Creek walk? Yes. Two groups of friends from the Temecula Valley were all at Mount Hermon’s family camp together but had never met, so a common friend did the introductions. “Carrie, this is Becky… and Mike.” “Hi, nice to meet you.” “They’re the ones with triplets.” My eyebrows shot north without warning and I smiled. “Ohh… I’ve heard about you guys. Have you been here before?” “Nope,” said Becky. “First time. We actually don’t know why we’re here. God told us to come so we came.”…
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Because You Live Here, That’s Why: Kids and the Battle of Chores
I crafted a plan. I felt prepared. I started with the basics when he started walking and talking. My voice sounded cheery and I easily herded the little man into my camp. “Can you please put Finding Nemo back in the movie cupboard?” “Where does your stuffed orca go? No… not there, silly.” “You want to clean the kitchen with mommy? Sure!” Chore time with one toddler felt easy because he actually wanted to help. And the jobs were like him—short and sweet. Then we moved to Baja, birthed another baby and adjusted to living in the land of dust and mud. The harder chores required more direction, but my…
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Awkward as a Fat Idol in Church
She stood behind the last row of chairs, alone, with beautiful brown eyes taking it all in. I had never seen her in there before, though I knew she was a native. Our church does not carry the best reputation for being the most friendly bunch to outsiders so I figured I should welcome her. But how? Maybe extend my hand? Show her around? Point out the restroom? Ask if she needed translation? I didn’t care that she was black; I’m not brown like the locals anyway. Maybe we could become outsiders together, bonding over ice cream. We get lots of visitors to our church and they all tend…
