Muddy Christmas!

We wish our friends and family a joyful Holiday Season and a New Year that makes you want to dance!

Boxing Match With God

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. On the left we have a hapless human, MJM, and on the right we have the one and only, the Almighty God, or AG. Who will win the fight? Watch and see...

MJM, to AG: So let me cut to the chase: I hate you.

AG: What's wrong, my child?

MJM /hook to the chin/: Don't "my child" me! What do you think is wrong? She was so young.

AG: Your friend Tracye...

MJM: And so vibrant.

AG: Tracye.

MJM: Damn right /hook/hook/hook/, Tracye. So vibrant, so beautiful, so absolutely loved by so many. Did you see how many people mourned her at her funeral? There must have been 800, 900 or more.

AG: Yes.

MJM: Then maybe you also saw her heartbroken husband, Doug? Her tiny daughters, Abby, Julianne and Anne Renee?

AG: Yes.

MJM: /stiff jab/ Yes, yes, yes! How dare you? How dare you allow this to happen? Hodgkin's is supposed to have a 90% cure rate. What good could possibly come from cutting her down in two short years--just two? No bone marrow match, no successful chemo treatment. /uppercut/uppercut/hook/ DAMN you!

AG: There are things you don't understand; things you will never understand.

MJM: Blah, blah, blah. I've heard it all before. Like, when you took my one year old baby and gave her tuberous sclerosis complex; that was just rich. That was 2,000 epileptic seizures ago, let alone the surgeries and mental retardation.

AG: Yes, when she was diagnosed in 1993, you said you hated me then, too.

MJM: Yes, and I flipped you off when no one was looking. But believe me, that was nothing compared to how I feel today. Tracye was gentle, kind, funny, compassionate, a model wife and mother, a community leader. /stiff jab/ And yet you let murderers and terrorists live. What the hell is up with that? Are you even out there? Do you exist? /straight right/

AG: I have always existed. Especially during your suffering.

MJM: Oh don't tell me, is that when you carried me? Like Footprints In The Sand, God Said No, and a string of other feel-good, mindless essays that people like to forward on e-mail. Or for special needs parents, the Trip to Holland or Heaven's Very Special Child. Who writes this stuff? Let's not forget the ever-loving Tapestry analogy. I believed it when I was younger; I don't believe it anymore.

AG: Your devastation hurts me more than you know. And I have seen more than you have seen. Do you believe you are the only one who suffers? Consider the poor, the sick, the abused. Think of those who have suffered at the bloody hand of war throughout all of history.

MJM: Because you allow it! Why do we bother praying? We had so many prayer chains going for Tracye that they could have circled the earth 10 times. You tell us that whatever we ask for in your name, we will be given it. So we asked for one incredibly special human being to be spared. You didn't do it! /jab/jab/kick/ You could have and you didn't!

AG: But my will must be done for reasons you do not yet know. Trying to explain the reason for suffering and death is impossible, my child. As a friend said to you recently, it would be like trying to explain physics to a two-year-old.

MJM: Back to the Tapestry thing, right? /upper cut/kick/scrape/ It's not fair! I loved her! Hundreds, possibly thousands of people loved her. Her family loved her. They depended on her. She was always supposed to be there, with her vibrant spirit and sense of humor. She even laughed in the face of your crappy cancer. Called her chemo pole "Joel the Pole" and organized her daughters' birthday parties from her hospital bed. She did so much good. She was only 41! I'm seething with anger, with anguish. I used to be one of your biggest fans. What a sham you are.

AG: Do you remember Tracye's wake and funeral?

MJM: They were last week! /punch/uppercut/punch/ Of course I remember them!

AG: Think about the others who filled the pews of the church. All of them were hurting, too. But think about the collective warmth, love, and faith in that church.

MJM: Whatever!

AG: You felt it, didn't you? After days of crying and hating me...you felt it.

MJM: I suppose.

AG: I was there. I am always there. I cannot explain suffering to you while you are on earth. But I will always be there to comfort you.

MJM: Why won't you fight? Why do you just stand there? /kick/

AG: It's not the first time I've been hit, beaten and hated because people misunderstood me. It's not the first time I have chosen not to hit back. I once hung on a cross for you.

MJM: Not everyone believes that. A long time ago, I believed it without question. Now I don't know what to believe.

AG: This is what you were taught, and what you believe. And as you think of dying and the place I have prepared for you, the place where Tracye is now one with the angels, consider what her eulogist said at the altar. "When all of us enter Heaven," our first word will be "Oh."

MJM: Yes. She said "Oh...this is why my child died, Lord. Now I understand. Oh...this is why there was poverty, Lord. Oh...this is why Tracye went home to be with you."

AG: Exactly.

MJM: It hurts. My heart hurts. And I am so worried for her family.

AG: I know. But please try to remember something I said a long time ago. Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

MJM: Rest isn't an answer. But I won't get an answer right now, will I?

AG: No, but you will receive comfort. You prayed the morning of her death, and insisted that if I was going to take her, that I better "damned site take care of her family," right?

MJM: Yes.

AG: Almost immediately, you were contacted by widowers who experienced the same loss as Doug--one who was left with three daughters of his own to raise--yes?

MJM: Yes.

AG: Perhaps you could consider this an answered prayer.

MJM: [silence]
AG: Did you not receive kind and loving notes from friends and family, as well as prayers to lighten your heart?

MJM: My heart doesn't feel lightened right now.

AG: You may not feel it now, but your heart is healing. When your daughter was diagnosed with tuberous sclerosis, and you denounced me that evening, what happened next?

MJM: I met an older man the next day, under a very unusual circumstance. Without prompting, he told me about his mentally retarded brother. How happy the brother was; how happy their family is. Shortly after that, I heard a song on the radio about how children like Mackenzie are a "blessing in disguise." I thought then that I felt your presence.

AG: When your mother died?

MJM: The light on her face...falling softly from the sun shining through the stained glass, before the internment. I felt your presence.

AG: Because I was there. Do you truly hate me, my child?

MJM: Yes. No. I don't know.

AG: You know, I stay in one place; I never leave. I am always here, and I wait for my children. They leave me, and they come back. I hope you will come back.

MJM: I just don't understand why you had to take her.

AG: I know. I ask that you trust me, that you remember the beautiful things about your friend and that you release your anger. You know she would do the same. She is so happy now. I can promise you that.

MJM: Well, I suppose I'll lay down my boxing gloves now. Hating someone takes a lot of energy. And, I suppose I do feel your presence...when I ask. When I try, and when my heart is open.

AG: I am here, and I will never leave. Remember to look for me, and you will find me. Then someday, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, you too will say "Oh."

In Loving Memory of Tracye Ford Sellers

Goodbye For Now

Message to College Admission Consultants: Know Your Audience!

For the love of Pete! Here's an e-mail I just sent to an "expert college admission consultant."

Dear Friends at Vernon, Schmidt and Peters,

Thank you for your letters regarding college admission consulting for our 17 year old daughter, Mackenzie. I have received two such letters over the past few months. However, please remove me from your list since Mackenzie suffers from a disorder called tuberous sclerosis complex, and is moderately mentally retarded. I'm sure you didn't know this, so there is no offense taken. However, it does hurt just a tiny bit every time I receive one of your letters.

You can keep us on the list for our other children, though, who will soon be 13 and 10, respectively. I'm sure that whatever database that supplied you with Mackenzie's name will supply you with theirs as well. Thank you!


Who needs college anyway, when you have a crush on a cutie named Cole?!

New Moon: More Than Just a Vampire Flick

Pondering the other night: Driving to Houston in pouring rain on Houston Freeway: stressful. Parking at a mall loaded with holiday shoppers: maddening. Cost of tickets and concessions: outrageous. Listening to an entire theater of girls scream and ad lib every time Edward or Jacob came on screen: priceless.

It's a memory I'll cherish forever!

Inflatable Workout Shoes, Anyone?

So here I am on a business trip in tiny Port Barre, Louisiana, and for grins I take a photo of this product at the local Walgreen's and post it to my Facebook Page. Before I can say TACKY BLANKET, voila! I get numerous responses from FB buddies--we're talking girlfriends to in-laws to a big, burly guy--saying how they have one and they love it. What gives? I used to look at the original infomercials for the Snuggie with highbrow disdain, assuming they'd never catch on. But here I am, sitting in a damp Louisiana Holiday Inn that smells like a combination of cigarette smoke and air freshener, and there the Snuggie inventor is, most likely sipping Pina Coladas on a beach in Tahiti.

This just reminds me of all the times I've seen something I wish I had created on my own, thinking damn, if only I did that!

For example, the Don't Sweat the Small Stuff book series. Good Lord, just imagine sitting down at your desk with a scratch pad, scribbling all the things we shouldn't take too seriously. But the author did it, and now we have Don't Sweat the Small Stuff for moms, dads, teens, pre-teens and whatnot. I'm waiting for one to come out for my dogs. They should stop worrying about passing cars, construction workers and the ankles of assorted visitors.

Then there's the Chicken Soup books. This especially peeves me because I'm the queen of sappy sentimentality. Everyone who knows me knows this, having winced at the occasional one-off e-mails I tearfully send reminding them of good times, first kisses, pet funerals and who knows what else. And again, we now have a Chicken Soup book for every need. I refuse to read them.

And then there's the Snuggie. Enough said.

So today I am making a pledge: I will think harder about books and products I can bring to market to enhance the lives of others while making me stinking rich.

For starters, the inflatable workout shoe. How many times have business travelers packed big, bulky workout shoes in their suitcases, using much-needed space with the hope of exercising once they get to their point of destination? And if you're like me, half the time you don't work out anyway so you took up all that space for nothing. Grrrrr. My response to this "pain point" (cool marketing term meaning where there is pain, there is a marketing opportunity) is a shoe that folds flat in your suitcase and can be blown up if you actually want to work out. I've been yakking about this since my corporate training-related travels of 1998, but have yet to make it real. Anyone want to join me? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

If not, then post your entrepreneurial ideas and let's see if we can team together and make them happen! Of course, don't post anything you're truly serious about, in the case your idea will be lifted and you sue me since I came up with the posting concept in the first place. That would bite.

Ideas, anyone? I'm waiting! In the meantime, I'll be packing my things to get out of this damp hotel room and embark upon my drive home, to Houston. Dare me to stop by the Walgreen's and buy a Snuggie? Hmmmmm.....

Girl Scout Troop Leader Gone Mad...October 2009

Bittersweet Moments

When she was born, I thought she'd be like all the other girls. But as many of our friends and family know, Mackenzie is anything but ordinary. Although she will never have the same experiences that most girls have, she can still go to the Homecoming Dance. And her daddy makes a wonderful date.

Forget Super Woman. I'd Like Some Sanity.

“Where’s my laptop? My PowerPoint slides? My stuff?!!,” I croaked yesterday morning, as I helplessly watched conference goers file into the room, ready and enthused to hear me speak about social media. Yes, a digital marketing presentation without the benefit of colorful slides, photos or online demonstrations to make the information pop. Just little ‘ol me, myself and I.

I glared at the empty podium as though it would grow arms and hand me a laptop, but alas, it was not to be. So I silently cursed myself. After 25 years in the communications industry, it’s the most basic of rules: Before giving a speech, make absolutely certain you have checked out the room and that all equipment is working. But I had been too busy to check out the room at the Omni Hotel, and too focused on client work and family tasks to see a tiny e-mail floating between hundreds of others sent
the day before. A little note from the Texas Business Alliance’s One Woman Conference organizers informing their speakers that plans had changed; “Please bring your laptop after all,” it said.

I turned and faced the audience, secretly thanking God for my knowledge of the subject matter, love of public speaking, and more than anything, my lifelong ability to use self-deprecating humor when in a bind. After an hour, attendees were laughing, shaking my hand and thanking me for the talk. Whew, that was a close call.

Which got me to thinking: Why the insanity? I’m Type A, as evidenced early in life. “No one can clap erasers and participate in spelling bees at the same time,” wrote Sister Irmita on my fourth grade report card. I admit I've always prided myself on juggling as much or more than others. I even dressed as Super Woman for a Halloween party a few years ago. My energy has always defined me, but with the advent of home, hearth and a consulting business, things have gone a tad awry.

This may be why I rammed my car into a bank pole the other day—another first. I was minding my own business, simply racing at record speed from lunch with a friend to a client meeting while thinking about the kids’ summer camp, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel while stuck in traffic on a congested road under construction. I succumbed to line rage (yes, I have line rage) and took the first shot at a parking lot to get around the traffic. I found out all too soon, though, that I was stranded at a bank which was cornered on every side by ripped-out streets. So I tried to turn the vehicle around, only to get completely stuck in one of the now-abandoned drive-through lanes. I sat in my Volvo SUV, all alone other than the girl in the bank window who counted money with glazed eyes. Fuming at myself as well as the glazed girl who didn't feel compelled to guide me from behind the window, I shifted gears from forward to backward, over and over. Drive-reverse-drive-reverse-drive-reverse. Ugh! I gunned it over the median to straighten out the car. Who knew there was a pole on the left, hiding and just waiting to tear out a chunk of metal? I posted the event on Facebook, much to the guffaws of friends who wrote about incidents of yesteryear, going back to the 80s. Talk about kicking me while I’m down. Well, $1,500 in car repairs later, I won’t be cutting through abandoned parking lots anymore.

I know I’m not alone. With the juggling act of work and life coupled with digital media making us available 24/7, these things can happen. And as covered at yesterday’s One Woman Conference, ladies are still taking on the lion’s share of child rearing activities. What to do? Well, don’t come to me for advice. But there are a few things I’m considering before mistakenly leaving one of the kids at the mall or forgetting a speaking engagement altogether.

Breathe. Upon hearing of my recurring stomach pains (long story and a little gross) my doctor prescribed Yoga. Yoga! Who has the time to stretch? But I succumbed to her demands and just signed up for a class. My 12-year-old is taking it with me so we can have some mother/daughter time. I suppose that’s another way of clapping erasers while participating in spelling bees, but I’m looking forward to it.
Prioritize. Last time I looked, there are only 24 hours per day. Include sleep, eating, exercise and a few other necessities and there are only about 12 – 14 hours to manage home and work activities. There are hundreds of courses by endless consultants on how to do everything from writing personal mission statements to using large and tiny rocks as a metaphor for prioritization. I’m shooting for simplicity. I will take a good chunk of time redefining top priorities for my family, life, and business. After that, I will spend 30 minutes every morning and base the day’s activities on the aforementioned priorities. When surprises occur, I will apply the breathing activities learned at aforementioned Yoga.
Don’t question yourself. I dislike disappointing people, but one of the joys of being over 40 is that I’m caring less and less. For example, I left a recent awards dinner about a half hour early to be with a sick child, only to be lambasted by a woman who caught me tip-toeing out with my goodie-bag in hand. I wasn’t on the planning committee but she simply felt that given my role in the organization, I should stay to the bitter end. I decided, shame on me, that she could cram her awards. Consider another situation...many, actually...in which I was criticized by some well-meaning church friends for choosing to work outside the home. Their comments made me question myself for years, but no more! If I didn’t work then I wouldn’t have my consulting business now, and I love what I do (as long as I’m not so busy I’m ramming my car into stationery objects). Sometimes we forget that we can’t do it all. No one is Super Woman, or Super Man. This is when we should breathe, prioritize, and participate in activities based on goals and values that only we can fully understand. Most of all, we shouldn't question ourselves.
Find someone who “gets it.” I have an eclectic taste in friends—if I put them all in a room they wouldn’t know what to say to each other—but there’s nothing like a friend or colleague who really walks in your shoes. Social media like Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter can make it easy to find a group of people who do what you do and feel the way you feel. I rarely reach out to others for advice, most likely since I’m short on time and just a little proud, but I may consider it now and then. We can always learn something new from someone else.

And, if none of these things work, there are life coaches and other professionals to help us get the most out of life. At yesterday’s Texas Business Alliance event, there were hundreds of professionals who have to remind themselves to breathe, prioritize, avoid questioning themselves and find common experiences with others.

As for me, I think I'll get to Yoga. That is, after I'm done burning my Super Woman cape.

Welcome to My Muddy Life.

I woke up this morning and decided it's time to record the insanity that is my life. I figure it will be worth reflecting upon some day while I'm gumming my dentures, or for the kids to have in case I'm ever hit by a banana truck. In this blog, I plan to share the ups and downs of everyday life, but before I do, let me introduce you to my primary cast of characters:

Chris Mudd, husband: Personable, funny, musical, successful. Passive aggressive. Loves electric guitar, golfing, and being with the family. Plays "Hey Jude" on piano at our parties, encouraging intoxicated guests to stay and sing until I kick everyone out. Including Chris.

Jeff Mudd, age 23: My bonus son. Enjoys golf, teaching, beer and spending time with girlfriend Faren. Tolerated wearing black turtlenecks for nearly two decades of Mudd holiday photo greeting cards. He says paybacks are hell.

Mackenzie Mudd, age 16: Sweet, funny, lover of Sponge Bob, horses and stuffed animals. Known to strip naked at Halloween parties, take 10 baths a day and laugh maniacally for no reason, compliments of tuberous sclerosis complex. Life is never dull with the Skenz! (Note: TSC still sucks.)

Juliette Mudd, age 12: Honors student, drill team dancer, party girl. Hates piano lessons. Has inherited father's sense of humor, intellect, and nutty professor demeanor. Frequently misplaces shoes, glasses and phone, demanding whereabouts from innocent bystanders. Still thinks I'm cool.

Karenna Mudd, age 9: Smart, sassy girlie-girl. Sings like an angel. Hates piano lessons. Big hearted, social butterfly (like me!); feisty and dramatic (uh, like me). Has perfected the art of eye-rolling. Dreams of being a fashion designer.

Vaneta, our nanny of 4 years: Fun, friendly, loving, and just a little nuts...a necessity for working with us. Brings her three small dogs to work, where they hang with assorted Mudd pets. Marches to the beat of her own drum and we love her for it!

Mudd dogs, left to right: Rocky, age 10; special talent--eats rocks, men's socks, and other assorted items requiring veterinarian assistance to remove from rear end. Bosco, age 7, deaf; talents--running away when the front door is open and passing gas while we're eating dinner. Barney, age 3, rescue dog; talent--giving nonstop love to anyone, unless you're an Hispanic workman...then he'll rip your eyes out. Canine bigotry?

Mudd cats, left to right: Sasha, age 10; talents--eating pet fish out of fish bowls and vomiting in high traffic areas. Petunia, age 5; talent--answers to the name "Howard."

And then there's me. I'll let you develop your own opinions.

That's enough Mudd for one day. You'll hear more about these colorful characters and others in the near future. Stay tuned!