On the agenda this past weekend was taming our unruly butterfly bushes … that had turned into tree height this summer. They had grown from being a focal point of our backyard to … well, mammoth bushes that weren’t so pretty.

So … picture if you will, me, a hotter-than-expected sunny afternoon, extra-tall butterfly bushes, 15 yard tools (just in case), a spool of twine, and two four-legged “helpers” who love to chew branches.

Quite comical – and I certainly took away 5 important lessons from the weekend’s circus (er … chore list).

Lesson #1: I really excel at trimming butterfly bushes back … perhaps too much? From 8 feet to 18 inches! Eh … they’ll grow back!

Lesson #2: I am not all that good at solo branch gathering. The kids next door had to pick leaves out of my hair – and I am really not sure why they were there.

Lesson #3: My “helpers” were better at dragging branches than I was. I finally got smart(er) and distracted them with kindling for the fire pit! Yah Me!

Lesson #4: I really, really SUCK at tying knots. Seriously stink, actually! (I know! I couldn’t believe it either!). Let me just say that I spent six years as a Girl Scout (four of those years in the back-woods of New Hampshire!). I grew up with boy cousins, boy neighbors and a brother. I am an Army Ranger’s wife and one of those girls who loves being outdoors – hiking, camping, boating, and heck, I have even spent summer vacations salmon fishing in Puget Sound! But this weekend, could I tie a knot to SAVE me? Hell no!

(And this, my friends, was a totally unanticipated challenge for me.)

I couldn’t even get the Square Knot to work.

Right over left;

left over right;

that’s what makes a Square Knot tight.

(Ya … I may have been able to remember that little verse, but getting the flippin’ twine to make a knot wasn’t working out so good.)

For a brief moment late in the game, I considered going inside to Google “knot-tying” but decided against it for fear of not being able to understand the diagram in my sweaty, dehydrated state.

Let’s just say, I got something resembling a knot to hold the branches together long enough for me to transport the branches from Point A to Point B – which, may I add, felt like 10 miles by this point!

Lesson #5: Dragging a shit-load of long-ass branches up a hill and through my yard on a 90+ degree afternoon kicked my ass. But mission accomplished!

One of the first stops we made was to the new frozen custard place in town, The Meadows. Chloe got a mint chocolate chip cone, and Wyatt enjoyed creamy vanilla! Yummy!

During one of the hottest afternoons, Chloe, Wyatt, “the girls” and Ryan played in the rain (‘er sprinkler) with the kids next door.

We made a trip to Hershey’s Chocolate World so Chloe could see the singing cows again this year.

And my cousins from the other side of the family (Clint and his wife, Tiffany) joined in the fun. They thought it was about time they met Dina, Ryan and the kids – since Clint and Ryan talk on almost a nightly-basis while playing World of Warcraft. Chloe loved her new friend, Tiffany, who brought lots of kid-crafts with her!

And who can forget (gluten-free) dessert!

The first to appear was next door, where Todd, Kara and the kids hung their ribbon as a family (and said a prayer for Mr. Jason’s safe return, too).

The next day, a yellow ribbon was hung by neighbors across the street, Ed & Molly …

… and another one appeared at Sam & Kathleen’s home.

By the end of the first week, a fifth yellow ribbon (Yahtzee!) made its way to Logans Run at Miss Jeans’s house!

I know it feels like the troops have been overseas forever – and they have! Some of our friends have seen 2, 3, and even 4 tours overseas in the last 9 years.

After the tragedies of 9/11/01, I witnessed an outpouring of pride for the great U.S.A., and in the first years of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, regardless of personal views over the war, citizens visibly showed their support for our troops and their families. They purchased yellow ribbon magnets to stick to their vehicles and tied yellow string around their radio antennas. Many, whether they knew someone deployed or not, hung yellow ribbons on their trees, homes or mailboxes to simply show their support.

Walmart and Lowes gave away red, white, and blue ‘Pride in the USA’ bumper stickers, and all across the country, many people flew their American flags. I saw “Old Glory” waving in neighborhoods, at business centers and even on construction jobsites – where a crane was positioned to fly a HUGE flag along Rt. 283 in Lancaster County.

Fast-forward to 2010, and the only place I found to purchase a yellow ribbon was on an Army post. They are no longer in stock at my local Walmart or the craft stores. And although I still see American flags hung with pride in my own neighborhood (there are many ex-military where we live), I rarely see the amount of flags that would cause me to tear up like earlier in this decade.

(Yes, this military wife is a total sap and have been that way for a long time. In fact, the first time I cried during the American anthem was at a Harrisburg Senators baseball game (where  worked job #2 for a summer) after my brother joined the Army in May 1997.)

And speaking from experience, there is nothing more touching to a soldier and his/her family than receiving unexpected support. The act of our neighbors hanging a $2 ribbon has affected me beyond what words can express. So I simply say … Thank you Logans Run for showing your support for Jason and the rest of the troops overseas!

And if you have a photo of a yellow ribbon hanging at your home, please share it with me. I’d love to post it on this blog … for all to see!

Every few days I go around my yard on a mission with the little metal pooper-scooper (a Christmas present from the fish ~ did I mention that Jason has a wicked sense of humor?), and if one of the neighbor kids is outside, he/she will help me locate the “treasure.” Once they find a pile, they will jump up and down, raise their hand as if they were in class and exclaim, “Miss Tess! Miss Tess! I found some poop over here, Miss Tess!”

And these kids, ages 7, 6, 5 and nearly 4 aren’t alone. In my life, I’ve witnessed plenty of other kids who have been engrossed with finding poo-piles (Meanwhile, I call my poop-scoop duties a treasure hunt where I don’t want to find any treasure!).

The afternoon ritual for the past few years in our family is for me to take the “girls” outside about 10-15 minutes before Jason gets home. During that time, I play ball with them and they, of course, usually do their business. If the kids are outside during this event, they will announce, “Miss Tess! She’s pooping!”

And admittedly, even though I can predict this announcement, it still cracks me up every single time.

And what made me think about this young kids’ fascination with poo? I came across this photo of me and my niece, Chloe. It was taken this spring on a nature walk we took near Lake Massabesic, New Hampshire during a “Cousins Weekend.” Jason and I had the “girls” with us, and early in the expedition, both “girls” took care of business. Being the suburban dog owner that I am (and the fact that we were paralleling a N.H. Audubon Center trail) I took out my handy-dandy blue poop bags and cleaned up their mess. This amazed Chloe, and being the big girl she is, she wanted to help (and I am a very proud Auntie!).

What tales do you have about poo and kids? Please share!

I hung the yellow ribbon on our flowering pear tree this weekend, and just as I was positioning myself to take this photo, a cool summer breeze made Old Glory wave ever so slightly. As soon as the photo was taken, the breeze stopped. I think it was Grandpa Wahto’s way of telling me he’s watching over us …

If I am to be completely honest, I have actually been quite … what’s the word … dramatic … neurotic … irrationally crazed about my age from time to time. My milestone birthdays haven’t exactly brought out the best in me … and it all started with my 25th one.

25th birthday: This quarter-century mark (that I was so quick to “tease” my friends when they reached it) left me having a completely and utterly unexplainable meltdown – that to this day has me a bit baffled why I was so upset.

The best I can figure is that before I was 25, I saw 25 as being a grown up age. More importantly, I thought of people in their mid-20s as having their shit together. By this age, many of my friends were either married or dating the person they were going to marry; they were making headway in their professional lives, and even had adult-looking apartments (read: not college furniture and decorations). Not me. I was still floundering along trying to figure a lot of stuff out. I was convinced that because I hadn’t met the “right” guy yet that he simply didn’t exist. (As it turned out, my 25th year would turn out to be the year that led me down a twisted, horrendously jagged path; but because I followed it anyway – bumps, mud puddles, ditches and all – it turned out to be exactly the route I needed to go.)

30th birthday: If anyone witnessing the dramatics of my 25th birthday thought they’d seen the show, then my 30th birthday was the be-all-end-all encore! I was a total mess the weeks leading up to my birthday. I couldn’t explain it. To make matters worse, I actually knew, without a doubt, that I was being absurd about turning 30, but it didn’t stop me from fixating on the big 3-0.

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I remember sitting on the couch in a meltdown-like state saying to Jason, “Guys get distinguished with age; girls just get old, fat and wrinkly.”

I was so unbelievably warped about hitting 30 that I ripped down the “Happy 30^th Birthday Tess” banner that my co-worker had made for me. She’d come into work early just to have it hanging when I walked in the door. Yes, I completely ripped it down in an undignified war-cry (clearly a finer moment in my life – ha!), but being the friend she was, she made me a new one that didn’t disclose my age and hung it the next day.

After those fine, lady-like dramatics of those two milestone birthdays, I was determined to reform my thinking about age. Jason was always telling me that you only as old as you feel (and it isn’t the age, it’s the mileage). With each challenge that I faced in my early 30s (loss of life-long friends, parents getting sick, death of grandparents, and long, unexpected military separations, to name just a few), I was also learning an extremely valuable lesson – how to appreciate the moments of today.

Still, as I moved towards the next milestone birthday, 35, I wondered how I’d handle this new milestone.

35th birthday: For my birthday, Jason organized a cookout with my family. Knowing how past milestone birthdays had brought out the head-spinning ogre side of me, my only request to Jason was that he didn’t put “Happy 35^th Birthday” on my cake.

“Sure,” he says. “No problem!”

But Jason is a total prankster, and in his smart-ass fashion, he did indeed honor my request – his way. He presented me with a cake, lit with candles that read “Tess, Happy 420 Month Birthday!”

Just in case the number “35” made me feel old, then he was going to prove that “420” could really make me feel foolish about being fixated over my age! (and you better believe that I got the calculator out to check his math!)

So today is my 38th birthday, and Jason, the math-whiz, says to me, “You’ve been with me for about 30% of your life?” Wow! He’s right since we’ve been together for 12 years (married just shy of 9) – which according to my calculations, is totally worth celebrating. Happy 30% Day to Me!

And next year as I “creep towards 40,” the percentage will increase to 33% of my life. Way cool (and clutch!), and I am looking forward to it!

(…and for you math geeks out there, today technically marks 31.57894% of my life spent with Jas).

We chose the Outer Banks (OBX) because it was close (a 7 hour drive, according to Mapquest), we both enjoy being near water, and neither one of us had been there before. It would be a new adventure!

In true Wittler fashion, neither one of us did a lot of preparation for our trip before taking off (other than print out those Mapquest directions and pack the map – didn’t even bring along the GPS unit, which I believe is a sin in today’s technology age!).

To be completely truthful, our lives have been more than hectic and stressful lately, and we just ran out of time. Other than requesting a travel guide from the Outer Banks Visitors Bureau and reserving a vacation home, we hadn’t done a whole heck of a lot in researching our destination, so we didn’t know what to expect from the area. We had been told by a few friends that there “isn’t much to do there” so I was a little concerned that we’d get there only to realize that we’d made a grave mistake. That the first “us only” vacation we’ve had in years was a complete flop because we didn’t take the time to do more research and pick the right location.

But I had absolutely nothing to worry about, because the vacation turned out to be exactly what we needed.

Once we got unpacked and did a food run to Harris Teeter (love that store!) – we managed quite nicely with absolutely no agenda for the week. We got up when we wanted, drank our morning coffee on our choice of three decks (or four, if you count the screened-in porch), took leisurely strolls on the beach with the “girls” and totally forgot about the world for a week.

Peaceful.

I will blog more about our trip in the coming days, but for now, here are some of photos from the home to share with you.

~~~

Our vacation home was nothing spectacular (and we saw impressive homes – some of which were even bank owned – ha!), but our home away from home was comfortable for us. The kitchen was much nicer than the one in our house. This one actually had a several silverware drawers. (Our home was built with two narrow (pathetic) drawers in our kitchen, and neither is wide enough to hold a silverware tray. Seriously. What was the builder thinking when he came up with that ingenious design?).

Although the cottage was small (only 1200 sq. ft), the floor plan was open, so it felt much more spacious than it actually was. Plus, with only Jason, me and the two “girls”, we had plenty of space to lounge around. The table below was Jason’s World of Warcraft command headquarters and our puzzle station (we completed three 1,000 piece puzzles in six days; I know! True vacation excitement!)

The vegetation at the Outer Banks was interesting, and not what I was expecting. For starters, only the really nice homes (that weren’t bank owned) had grass growing in their yards. Most of the residential homes had sandy front yards with an attempt at beautification with landscaping, which usually consisted of a rock garden or red mulch around a tree. However, the vacation homes were easily distinguishable from the 12-month residential homes (by more than a just a mailbox, too).

Our vacation home’s yard was … umm … dreadful. It consisted of sand, brush, thorny-bushes, and a plant that looked quite like cannabis (I am positive it was ditch weed, folks!). In short, it was anything but attractive, and even our “girls” didn’t want to to their “business” there!

Interestingly enough, I wasn’t expecting to see a yard with cactuses next to blackberry bushes in North Carolina (and yes, those thorns HURT – even through the ‘tough plastic’ of poo-bags!)

This unknown plant (below) was in bloom everywhere. Can anyone tell me what it is?

As a military wife, I keep all of my husband’s military missions and maneuvers “tight.” I don’t share what he does or where he travels on Facebook, Twitter or in my blog. But, I do share our real names – first and last – and I am beginning to wonder: is this smart of me to do?

Here’s the thing: I am a freelance copywriter, and because of the business I am in, I am already in the “public eye.” Over the course of my career, I’ve been quoted in various newspapers and my work has been published in several media outlets. I understand that my business success will be, in part, built on being visible – so publishing, posting, tweeting and participating online is a key element of growing my visibility. So I use my real name.

And as a side note, my ultimate goal is to live the life of a best-selling author (one that is recognized by the masses but isn’t followed by the paparazzi; do you think that’s possible? Heck ya! The paparazzi don’t care about book authors! LOL).

While researching a writing project on the topic of social media marketing, I asked an industry expert this question: “What do you say to people who are fearful of putting themselves ‘out there’ for all to see?”

His response was “Get over it.”

He followed up his cut-throat response by saying that in the world of social media, if you want to be effective, you must be transparent. This means you must give a little more of yourself and be accessible; no ghost-blogging allowed. It must allow your own personality and opinions to shine through.

I believe in being authentic. This is my philosophy with friendships, family and business. Sure, I am selective in what I blog about, but my readers will see the real me – not anything fake.

But after reading Household 6 Diva’s blog, I am left questioning whether or not am I compromising my family’s safety by using my real name (BTW, both Jason and I can be found under directory assistance, although our last name is misspelled with some telephone companies)? Should I be using my first name only? Should this blog be separated entirely from my business life and blog? Please weigh in … let me know what you think!

So on April 23, 1995 (a Sunday afternoon), I packed up my Ford Probe with a week’s worth of clothing and moved to Harrisburg. Thanks to the generosity of a dear friend (I’ll call her “A”) who was already living in Harrisburg (and happened to be working at the same association), she convinced her husband to let me temporarily move into their spare bedroom. They had a blow-up mattress with my name on it! This arrangement allowed me to take the job without first having to find a place to live.

“A” and I were actually very good friends already, and she took such good care of me. She made sure my lunch was packed, and when I was nervous about going somewhere new for work, she’d take me on “dry runs” around town so I wouldn’t get lost. “A” introduced me to friends, and when it came time to move into my own place five weeks later, she helped carry what little belongings I had.

To say I didn’t have much when I moved to Harrisburg was an understatement, and I certainly didn’t have a “safety net” when I moved (other than “A”). I actually had very little money and possessions. But what I did have was a strong will not to blow this opportunity by falling flat on my face.

The generosity I received when I moved to Harrisburg still touches me today. Spearheaded by “A”, the ladies at work threw me a “here’s-stuff-that-we-don’t-need-but-you-can-use” luncheon. I received gifts ranging from groceries to a soap dish to even a cute side table (that I still use today). One of the ladies was moving, so she invited me to her pre-yard sale. For me, each item was only $1. I got a cutting board, toaster oven, pasta strainer, and other household things … including a Lazyboy recliner all for the grand sum of $20. Seriously. I actually still get choked up when I think about her generosity. She knew I barely had two nickels to rub together; she probably would have given me anything I wanted for free, but she allowed me to keep my pride.

By June 1, I moved into my own place – a house in New Cumberland that had been turned into four small apartments. Another coworker lived on the bottom floor. It wasn’t much; it was kind of dingy, small, and the ceilings were sloped in places (okay, so it was a dive), but it was in a safe neighborhood and what I could afford. I didn’t have cable; I used “rabbit ears” and got three stations. I didn’t have a bed; I slept on an ugly pea-soup green 1950s steel-framed pull-out sofa that my dad gave me. My towels consisted of two sets that Mom had given me in high school (in preparation for college), and the parents of my boyfriend-at-the-time bought me a shower curtain and bed sheets, since I didn’t have either.

Those first few months on my own were rough – very rough actually. There were weeks (and I know my father will cringe when he reads this) where I only had enough money to buy a loaf of bread, a container of margarine and a jar of peanut butter. That’s it, and I’d eat peanut butter toast for dinner. (And surprisingly enough, this wasn’t the poorest I’ve been … those days were yet to come. A story for another day.)

Like I said, the generosity of others was amazing. Luckily, my boss (and other co-workers) sensed that I was struggling financially and took turns inviting me out for “business” lunches. Sure we talked business – and it was all legitimate – but looking back, I now believe that many of those times were prompted by them wanting to make sure I had a solid meal in my belly. Also, “A” would invite me over for dinner at least once a week, and she would pretend to have “extra” fixings and bring me a sandwich for lunch.

Gasoline was cheap back then (less than $1 a gallon – can you remember those days?), so on the weekends I would drive home and raid Dad’s pantry (and the couch for loose change). He knew I did this and was okay with it, but I never let on how tight money was those first few months – and he never asked.

Another thing – my wardrobe was hideous! I am no fashion-ista, but my God, to look back on what I wore! Wowza! In those early months, I had five outfits – one for each day of the week – and most of them were dry-clean only (I obviously hadn’t read the tags for care instructions before purchasing them). Of course, I didn’t have the money for dry cleaning, so I hand-washed them in my bathroom sink and line-dried them in my apartment.

I could rarely afford to go to the Laundromat to wash my other clothing, so on the weekends that I headed to Dad’s, I toted my dirty clothes along. On the weeks that I didn’t go home, “A” invited me over to her place so we could do laundry together.

Each pay period, I made a little progress financially, and eventually, money became less tight. I could afford groceries, the Laundromat and even some fun stuff, too.

Looking back, I am not sure where I got the strength to face challenge after challenge after challenge. I guess I was just THAT determined (or stubborn) not to fall.

The whole year of 1995 was an interesting journey for me. I made a lot of poor decisions, but I eventually got my head out of my ass and started making better choices. I think making blunders is only to be expected when you are trying to figure out who you are. You make a lot of mistakes, but hopefully you only make the mistake once and can learn from it, grow from it and become an enriched person because of those falters.

So today, Friday, April 23, I say Happy Anniversary to Me! Fifteen years ago today I chose to take a HUGE chance that changed the course of my life. I am proud that I had the gumption at such a young age to take such a significant step, and what an amazing ride it’s been!

It’s been 15 years. Wow.

Why I moved to Harrisburg

I graduated from Lock Haven University in December 1994, and after spending my college years stuck in my hometown, I was more than ready to not be there anymore.

A flashback to 1989-1990 …

As an honor roll student in high school, I’d never imagined NOT going away for college – and my choice institution for higher learning was always Penn State – University Park campus. Hands down – that’s where I wanted, more than anywhere else, to attend college. I received my PSU acceptance letter the day of Senior Night for my girls’ soccer team, and there was nothing more satisfying, at the time, than getting into the university of my choice.

For a long list of reasons, that plan didn’t quite work out. Lack of money along with life throwing a few curve balls my family’s way prevented me from attending Penn State. Instead, I became a “townie” (aka commuter student) and attended LHU full time while working my way through school. I don’t resent that experience anymore (although at the time it was a real pisser); it actually turned out to be a vital thread of making me who I am today. The lack of a traditional-live-on-campus college experience actually gave me a fuller adventure that I would have missed had I gone away to school.

So back to why I moved to Harrisburg.

As you can imagine, after spending an additional four-and-a-half years in my hometown when I didn’t intend (or want) to, I was anxious to go. As soon as I graduated from college, I started looking for opportunities outside the area. I was 22 years old and ready to have the opportunity to experience life. Fall or fly, I wanted that chance.

Because I worked as many as three jobs at once through college, when I graduated, I actually already had a decent job that I could have turned into my career. I worked for a fire sprinkler contractor, and over the years I had worked side-by-side with the owner and done everything from answering the phones, estimating jobs, payroll and even being part of the construction crew that retrofitted an existing building. The job paid good money, and the boss saw my hard work ethic. In fact at one point, he offered to pay for me to attend graduate school. Of course, there was a catch. In exchange of him paying for school, I had to return and work for the company for five years. His vision was to open a satellite office in a new territory, using me as the manager.

However, giving up more years of my life just wasn’t something I was willing to do. I felt as though I’d already sacrificed a lot of myself by staying home, and more than anything else, I wanted the opportunity to figure out my life – who I was and what I was capable of – without owing anyone any more of me.

In early April 1995, I received two job offers. One position was as an executive assistant to the president of an international marketing company. The money and benefits were decent enough, considering I was a new college grad, but as an additional carrot, after a year of working with the president, he would set me up with a mentor in any division of the company I chose – with the promise that when a position opened up, I’d begin my career. The downside was this: the company was located at home.

The other position was as an administrative secretary for a governmental affairs division of a state trade association. The association was located in downtown Harrisburg, one-and-a-half blocks from the Capitol Building. My duties would be typical secretarial ones, but I was also required to go to the Capitol building a few times a week to pick up legislative schedules and other important information (pre-Internet days). The position paid less than the marketing company, and there were no promises of career advancement. But it was in Harrisburg and away from home.

Guess which position I chose?