Nothing To Poo Poo About

Toastmasters has two speech contests every year: one in the fall and the other in the spring.
I volunteered to count ballots for our club's spring competition. The officers of our group had another plan for me. About a week before the event, I was asked to join the contest. While I tried to get out of it by claiming that my life at home was too crazy with everything going on with Dick, the rebuttal was that I needed to take my mind off of my troubles and writing a speech would be the perfect anecdote. Finally I acquiesced.

I titled my speech, "Nothing To Poo Poo About"

It went like this:

If you change the way you look at things...
the things you look at change.

This simple phrase became quite meaningful to me after an experience I had recently.

About a month ago, I was driving home from visiting my son at Indiana University for a Mom's weekend at his frat. To break up the monotony of the long, tedious ride, I stopped at Fair Oaks Farm off of Highway 65 S in Indiana. They have a cafe that serves fresh homemade dairy products including milk, cheese and "to-die-for" ice cream. I decided to treat myself to a little frozen treat. As I was savoring every spoonful of my decadently rich, creamy scoop of mint, chocolate chip, I strolled around the gift shop area admiring all the adorable trinkets until I saw a display that made me stop and take a double look. I couldn't believe my eyes. In fact, my reaction was so strong, that not only did I begin to lose my appetite, I actually became nauseous.
I was staring at a full display of paper products including stationary and note cards made out of recycled cow poo. At the time, I believed that this was a case of recycling gone mad.

When I came home, I couldn't stop talking about how ridiculous this was. In fact, initially I was going to write my speech on how sometimes we can overdo a good thing. Using this as an example, I was going to talk about when is enough... enough and when can things be taken too far.

However, while I was researching this subject matter, something very interesting happened. I couldn't remember the name of the product. I called Fair Oaks Farm and described what I was looking for. The woman I talked to, very quickly and matter-of-factly told me it was called Poo Poo Paper. Without missing a beat, she informed me that they didn't have any in stock right now, but will be getting a shipment in the next few weeks. "Do you mean this is a popular product and you are sold out?" I asked. "Yes, but you can google "Poo Poo Paper" to find out where you can order it online," she responded. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I had no intentions of buying this crap.

But for the sake of research, I googled "Poo Poo Paper." First, I found a website that sells unusual gifts. There were several reviews for Poo Poo Paper. Ah-Ha!!! Now I'm going to find a lot of people who agree with me!!! Surprisingly though, that was not the case. The reviews were all positive. Everyone raved about how wonderful this company was. The comments included...it was so creative, novel and fun... environmentally friendly... makes a great gag gift...perfect for children...and for those who love everything about cows... A school teacher even remarked that she bought this product and used it to teach her class about the life cycle in nature. Hmmmm..... maybe I was missing something here and needed to change my opinion.

Then I found the company website. www.poopoopaper.com. I was pleasantly surprised by what I discovered. This was a very creative, educational, informative, well thought out and designed site. That's no poo! I even laughed as I scrolled through the pages. One of their slogans is, "We're Number One At Number Two." Another is, "We Take The 'OO' Out Of Poo."

This wasn't a gimmicky, off-the-wall, cutesy business. They had a purpose. Originally they started out with elephant dung. They washed and sanitized it until only the clean, undigested grass and other fibers were left. They then dried this on mesh sheets in the sun. The finished product was sturdy, durable paper which is odorless and neutral in color. Out of this, they created over 150 beautiful and useful products including stationary, note cards, photo albums, picture frames and elegant paper flowers. In the process, they created new jobs, built up a profitable company and donated a portion of their proceeds to elephant conservation and welfare.

Now I don't know how anyone can look at a pile of stinking, nasty elephant poo and envision all that they did, but it certainly made me think... If you change the way you look at things... the things you look at change.

Then I had an ah-ha moment. Recently, life has dumped a major pile of poo on me. Instead of dealing with my mess negatively by being depressed, angry, bitter, hopeless and fearful, I should follow the philosophy of the creators of Poo Poo Paper. I need to find the purpose behind what I'm facing. How can I handle it with a sense of humor and have fun? What will I gain and how will I profit from this experience? Who will I help as a result? And most importantly, how do I turn my ugly, stinking mess into something that is beautiful and meaningful?

My son is graduating college on May 8. On my return home from the ceremony, I will be stopping at Fair Oaks Farm for another scoop of amazing ice cream. I might even go all out and treat myself to a complete meal. One thing is for sure. This time, I will be making a bee line straight to the Poo Poo Paper display. I'll be buying one or two of their products---not to ridicule the company, as a gag or even to give away as a present. I'll be buying it for myself. When I come home, I'll be putting it on my desk so I'll be able to remind myself every time I'm about to make a snap judgement or feel that my life is trapped in a hopeless situation that
If you change the way you look at things... the things you look at change.

Not only did I win the contest at my club level, I competed and won at the area level and continued on to compete at the district levels as well. While I didn't win all the competitions, I think I walked away with the ultimate prize: the realization that I can handle this divorce and whatever else life throws at me as long as I change the way I look at my circumstances.

I guess it was a great thing that I decided not to count ballots at the club contest after all.

Speak Easy

A few years ago I joined Toastmasters, which is an international public speaking organization dedicated to helping its members improve their communication and leadership skills. As someone who has always been shy and who could never comfortably speak in front of a group ("group" being defined as anyone other than myself) I realized that it was time to finally face my fear head on, deal with it and overcome it.

When I attended my first Toastmasters meeting, I knew that this was what I needed to do. I wound up joining a corporate club in my neighborhood that opened its membership to the community. After being out of the workforce for so long, I wanted to gradually ease my way back into a professional setting. This seemed like a good way to start. Giving speeches is a main part of Toastmasters. It wasn't, and quite honestly, still isn't easy for me to get up and speak to a group of strangers. However, I discovered that when I converse with the audience like I'm talking to my close personal friends, I'm very comfortable and relaxed. As a result, the audience appears attentive and interested in what I have to say. What surprises me the most is how much I've actually come to enjoy this. This completely blows me away. Every time I address a group, I understand what Sally Fields felt like when she said, "I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now you like me! You like me, you really like me," during her acceptance speech for winning the Oscar for Leading Actress in 1985 for "Places in the Heart." Public speaking has became my hypothetical drug of choice. I now need my regular fix of feeling accepted, admired and appreciated for what I say. It's very addicting.

Murphy's Law

I'm sure I'll either be entered into the Guinness Book of World Records or achieve some other historically noteworthy distinction as being known as the "Human Equivalent of Murphy's Law." It's not an exaggeration to say that if something can possibly go wrong in my life, it definitely will. Case in point: A few days after I obtained my new mailbox, I came home from running errands in the early afternoon only to find Dick sitting in the family room watching his favorite show, The Young and the Restless. In his hand was a postcard which he immediately thrust at me and then confronted me about. After reading the message scrawled on it, I inwardly silently screamed at the top of my lungs, OH...F*#k!!!

As my luck would have it, somehow when I was filling out the paperwork for my P.O. Box, I inadvertently managed to leave out the name of our town where my mail should be delivered. The clerk checking over the information obviously overlooked this too. But lo and behold, it was eventually discovered and instead of contacting me by phone to obtain the correct village, I received a card in my home mailbox informing me that I needed to provide the necessary data before my request could be processed. And as everything else in my life and divorce process seemed to be going for me lately, it should have been no surprise that Dick would be home in the early afternoon on this particular weekday to intercept this correspondence, read it and react to it, instead of being at work, treating patients like most normal physicians would be doing.

Immediately, like a panther stalking it's prey, he pounced. "You can do whatever you want with your mail, but you can't do anything with Marni's mail. We are both her parents and you have no right making this decision for her without consulting me. I talked to my attorney and you are in serious trouble for what you did. You better take her off the P.O. Box or we will take you to court over this," Dick announced. (*What he actually meant here was that I can't do anything that concerns our daughter, but he has every right to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without discussing it with me. ) With total disgust welling up inside me, I replied as calmly as humanly possible, " At this point, you have no right touching any one's mail but your own. Marni and I both know that you took a letter that was addressed to her, opened it and took out the contents. She never got a chance to see it. This was her mail. She is a teenager and deserves to have her privacy respected. But no, you couldn't stop there. Recently you opened other letters that were addressed to her. You now have a P.O. Box where your mail is being delivered. There is absolutely no reason for you to be handling any mail that comes to this house. It's not for you. But, not only do you bring in the mail, you also go through it and open whatever you want. That's mail tampering and it's a federal offense. So in answer to your demand. NO, I will not have Marni's mail delivered back to this house. As long as it is being delivered to our P.O. box, she will receive all her mail, UNOPENED!!! The only reason we had to get our mail delivered somewhere else is because you've crossed the line and taken things too far. If you'd mind your own business, this wouldn't have happened. This is your fault. Don't turn around and blame me for your actions. You think you are threatening and scaring me? (*Actually you are, but I'll be damned if I let you know that!) Go to court and waste more time and money over frivolous matters. I can't wait to tell the judge what really went on here.

With that, I turned around, walked out of the house, got into my car and drove to a (thankfully) uninhabited park in my development. I turned off the ignition and sat in the drivers seat trying to come to terms with what just transpired. My body couldn't contain itself any longer and finally let loose with what it so honorably kept together until I reached a safe location . Shaking like an addict going through withdrawal, I sat alone in my vehicle until the spasmodic convulsions ravaging my muscles eventually subsided, the explosive cacophony of voices in my brain muffled and the violently throbbing blood vessels in my temples simmered down.

As I slowly breathed in and out, I refused to even consider what "Murphy" might possibly be conjuring up for me next. I guess some things are better left unknown.

Until Further Notice...

After the policeman and I finished up our business, I drove off in a daze to the post office. Being a creature of habit as well as being an individual who does not adapt very well to change, I was having an extremely difficult time trying to come to grips with what was occuring now. In my "previous life," anything that deviated from the status quo made me uneasy. But back then, fortunately nothing much out of the ordinary or unexpected happened too often. However, since the day I filed for divorce , my taken-for-granted lifestyle had been violently and suddenly tossed by the wayside. In its place, chaos, fear and uncertainty took up residence. Every day has become an exercise in adjusting to this new life I don't have a clue how to live. So to say I was slightly apprehensive, nervous and fearful when I entered the post office is a gross understatement. This was just another confirmation that my situation was real and my life was changing rapidly whether I liked it or wanted it or not.

Once inside the surroundings of my neighborhood post office that I frequented on a regular basis for over two decades, I was mortified to feel that what had once been so familiar and comfortable to me suddenly seemed so foreign and strange. For some reason I couldn't figure out what to do or how to do it. Even the mundane task of getting my daily mail had taken on a whole different meaning and significance. Nothing in my life was humdrum or commonplace anymore.

I approached a postal worker and asked for assistance on how to undertake what I perceived to be the difficult and mind-boggling procedure of obtaining a P.O. Box. All of a sudden I felt like I was transported to a new planet where I didn't have a clue how to function. The kind, middle-aged gentleman pointed to a table in the center of the room where forms for change of address were placed. I felt the sudden need to explain why I was undertaking this unusual measure, but I could see from the expression on his face that he could care less who I was, what my situation was or why I needed to rent a mailbox.

I had to keep reminding myself that simply having my mail temporarily delivered to a new address wasn't the end of the world and I would survive this transition. Nervously, I picked up the applications and proceeded to fill in the required information. Why was I having such a difficult time focusing and answering simple questions like my name...current address... where I wanted my mail to be delivered to...etc? From the way I was reacting and behaving, you'd think I was suddenly placed in the formidable position of finding a cure for cancer, solving the middle east peace crisis and balancing our nation's budget simultaneously, instead of the piddly, benign chore I was carrying out. However, in my heart I knew exactly why I was so unnerved by my new undertaking. Truth be told, I was scared out of my mind, shaking in my boots, worried beyond reason of how Dick would react when he would out that I've forwarded Marni's and my mail.

With my heart pounding and sweat accumulating in the palms of my hands, I answered the questions to the best of my ability and then took my place in line waiting for the next available clerk. When it was my turn, I approached the counter, handed over my completed paperwork and waited while everything was checked over. After all appeared correct, I paid for my new acquisition and was given a set of keys to my new mail delivery receptacle.

A supervisor led me to my new small parcel of rental real estate and then proceeded to explain that I would need to contact everyone who sends Marni and me mail and give them our new address. "WHAT," I exclaimed in total amazement. "This is only temporary. Doesn't the post office just forward our mail to our box?" The supervisor informed me that after about 30 days or so anything that is not addressed to the P.O. Box will be returned to sender as undeliverable. This wasn't what I expected. I began to question what I was getting myself into. In addition to being totally inconvenienced by having to make daily "mail runs," I'd also have to inform all friends, family, Marni's school, magazines, insurance and credit card companies, and literally anyone who would be sending any correspondence to us of our new temporary address. What a major pain in the ass this was turning out to be. And to think that hopefully sooner than later, I get to go through this whole process all over again in reverse.

Law and (Dis) Order

After I talked to the superintendent at the post office, I called my attorney to report what had happened. He told me that I should call the police and let them deal with Dick and his shenanigans. The next morning, as soon as Marni walked out the door for school, I dialed the non-emergency number of our local sheriff's office. Not knowing what to expect, and with much trepidation, I told the officer on the other end of the phone about my mail fiasco. He asked me what I want to do about it. What do I want to do about it? What was this all about? I realized that this incident wasn't a life and death situation. And I also knew that this wasn't a major crime. *That's why I called the non-emergency number instead of 911. But for crying out loud, I didn't call the police looking for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on and to shoot the breeze about my divorce and the pain in the neck I'm unfortunately still married to. Mail tampering is a federal offense and I was simply following up on the directive given by two respectable sources. I'm sure I wasn't the first and I definitely won't be the last to have this happen to. But if this officer wanted my advice on how to proceed, I would have gladly suggested that they arrest Dick and hold him without bond until further notice.

Instead, I said that I would like to file a police report. We then discussed where this should take place. For several reasons, I did not want the police showing up at my home. If a squad car pulled into my driveway, all the yentas in my neighborhood would be outside in a split second. This wasn't something I wanted everyone else to know about. Nor did I want to air out my dirty laundry on the street. Also, I didn't want to take a chance that the police would show up if Dick were still home. That wouldn't have been a pleasant scene. So we decided that a safe place to meet was at the Seven-Eleven located in the strip mall by my home.

I parked my car directly in front of the store and waited for the police to arrive. After about 20 minutes, a squad car finally pulled up next to mine. The officer inside motioned to me and we both got our of our vehicles. While I understood that this wasn't an emergency, I thought he would have shown up much quicker than he did. As I opened the door to exit my auto, I glanced around to make sure that no one I knew was in the vicinity. That would have been totally embarrassing and humiliating. Thankfully no one looked familiar.

Being the "goody-two-shoes" that I am, I was anxious about the prospect of speaking with a law official. Within seconds, it became obvious that I had nothing to be nervous about. (Not that I want to make a habit of this!) The first thing the deputy asked me was what I had called for. I wondered to myself, "Didn't he get a heads up about what this was about or was he just in the neighborhood looking for a convenience store to stop by to grab a quick cup of coffee and a pastry?" I certainly didn't think it should have been a surprise to him. I explained that Dick and I are going through a bitter, ugly, nasty divorce; we are still living in the same house together; he had opened Marni's and my mail; he took one of Marni's letters without her even seeing the contents of it; and he opened and resealed my credit card bill. Judging by the expression on his face, it was apparent that this man wasn't the least bit concerned. I then produced the tampered envelopes. He looked them over briefly and quickly informed me that he had no way of knowing if Dick did this or not. The gentleman then proceeded to tell me that for all he knows, I could have done this myself and blamed my husband. I looked at him with total disbelief and replied that while I can understand his point that he didn't actually witness these occurrences, how was I supposed to prove that this really happened? He told me that even if I called the police while something was going on, unless they were there to witness the event, it was Dick's word against mine. While I knew he was absolutely correct, I was starting to wonder if there really is any justice in this world... and if there is, when will I start seeing any of it.

The officer then asked me when I filed for divorce. I told him the date was July 15, 2009. Next, he told me that I should move out of my house and get a job until our divorce is finalized. (I've been discovering that when it comes to divorce, just like pregnancy, everyone is an expert and has an opinion on what needs to be done.) I told him that my daughter and I are not leaving the house. It's not an option at this time. The deputy then told me that he doesn't think this will be the last time his office will hear from me. He felt that as time goes on, I will be calling complaining of other things. "Isn't he a ray of sunshine?" I thought to myself. I loved his optimism! The last thing I wanted to consider while standing outside my neighborhood convenience store was what Dick might be scheming to do to me in the future. All I could do at that point was take it one day at a time. However, the officer's next suggestion made more sense to me. He told me to go to the post office and get a P.O. Box in Marni and my names. This way Dick wouldn't be able to go through our mail. Now this was a recommendation I could live with.
With that, he told me he would write up a brief one paragraph incident report. We then parted ways.