My Writeful Place

It's Complicated

2011-05-14T17:17:00.000-04:00

So much for making this the year of more writing instead of well, less writing. Not that I haven't been writing, of course I write all the time...
Grocery lists
Matt to-do-lists
Myself to-do-lists
Trivial posts on Facebook once a month or so - just so people wont forget I'm still alive. All the while trying to avoid reading the teenage friends of my daughter's pages because it just feels wrong and creepy that I would be interested in what a seventeen year old has to say. I'm not sure if it's true that I'm interested at all. Sometimes it's just a nice change from the usual political/religious/Farmville rants.

I've discovered I am very thankful that Facebook wasn't around when I was a teen. As if that time of life isn't full of enough drama and moments of heart stopping embarrassment when you think you may fall over and die that very second, can you imagine having your heart broken by the love of your life only to have them change their "relationship status" the next day? And then, if you're fortunate enough to have an ex who has just a tad of sensitivity, he/she may wait a good week or two before beginning the dance of Facebook flirting with the next person, who is also your "friend." Now, do you think the average teenager would block all of these goings-on as to save themselves the self-torture of watching, or do you think they would be compelled to look on with mouth-gaping horror? I know not the answers to these things, and I thank the good Lord I will never have to find out. Although I did change my Facebook relationship status once. Matt didn't notice.

I've been writing plenty of other stuff too, although none of it is going to catapult me into a publishers office where he will beg me for the honor of publishing my first book and later I become one of the world's most beloved authors, right up there with Dickens. Not unless some publisher is looking for someone who can post particularly witty Facebook comments. Who am I kidding? "Happy Birthday!" is not witty. Sometimes, I abbreviate birthday like this: "b-day," just to be different. I think it suggests that I am somewhat cool and possibly attractive. It also suggests that I am really too busy to type out the whole word.

And busyness suggests success! Why is that, I wonder? As I get older I want to work less, not more. Working more at something I actually enjoy and less at things that feel like work - now that is success! Some day I may even open that dog grooming shop I've always dreamed of - "The Fluff & Buff." Catchy, yes?

Premonitions

2011-04-01T18:28:00.001-04:00

It was one of those dreams that stick to the corners of your mind like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth. Except no amount of scraping makes it go away and the taste it leaves is anything but sweet. More like some strangely bitter fruit which leaves one wishing they'd never taken a bite.

Not long after I'd downed my first cup of coffee on Saturday morning, I remembered. The memory didn't come abruptly like some do, assaulting the conscience with stabbing awareness. No, it was slow and subtle, creeping softly, barely making a noise until soon it was right before my mind's eye - staring back at me. That's when everything about the dream came back to me, one detail at a time.

I seemed to be in my own kitchen except the cabinets weren't white like mine, they were brown - probably oak. Walking to and fro in the kitchen, I watched myself in the dream preparing meals and doing "kitcheny" things as one day melted into another. Except there was something in the background of my thoughts - an awareness that I wasn't alone.

What might be surprising to some, but not to anyone who knows me very well, is that there was no fear in this awareness. More of an annoyance. The thing that was totally out of character for me is that I didn't want to deal with the mysterious kitchen visitor - but I rather preferred to put it off as long as possible.

In the dream, my annoyed disposition seemed to be growing, fueled by the fact that I knew sooner or later I'd have to open the bottom kitchen cabinet where my unwanted guest had set up housekeeping. Not only because I had to get him out, but because that's where all my pots and pans are. The dream never explained how I had been cooking all of this time without them, perhaps I'd been using the microwave - I always did say a microwave is a girl's best friend.

Anyway, with some hesitancy, I opened the cabinet door to peer upon what I already knew was there, only I had no idea it could have made such a huge home for itself in such a short time. The mouse sat there on top of a huge (bigger than a breadbox) pile of paper clippings, assorted trash, and mouse turds. Appalled at the disgusting-ness of it all, I quickly slammed the door. That's when I saw the cutest little twitching mouse nose and whiskers suddenly appear beneath the cabinet door. Then I woke up.

Now, you may be thinking, BIG DEAL! Just hold on - I'm not done. The very following Monday, I went into work and guess what I found in my office next to the brown oak cabinets? Mouse turds! And - there were TWO mouse droppings on my desk, right in the middle - as if to say, "Believe it." It's amazing, I know. Who would've guessed that God would bless me with the ability to have premonitions? Although I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse, what do you think?

Chained

2011-03-10T17:03:00.000-05:00

I may or may not need a root canal. This were the final words of wisdom my doctor of dental distress uttered to me upon my visit to his office/sports-fanatic museum. Even his business cards say, "Go Bucks!" Who are the Bucks? Some breed of deer? Anyway, after x-raying the upper right quadrant of my oral orifice and holding said x-ray over his head while studying it with squinty eyed concentration, I was more or less comforted that perhaps this too shall pass. Or maybe not. Wait and see. Telling someone like me to wait is like telling a ballerina to resist tippy-toeing or like asking someone to look away from a Charlie Sheen interview.

What in the world is up with this guy, Charlie? There was this radio guy who interviewed hundreds of super-stars during his career and he was convinced, according to an article he wrote, that fame and fortune is more of a curse than a blessing. I suppose I've never given it much thought, although I can think of plenty of the most famous who had miserable lives, Marylin Monroe, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, et al. We see example after example of these people who seem to have everything that many people strive for, namely fame and fortune, yet it's not enough. It's like the appetite for such things can never be satisfied, so they go looking for other ways, other things, people, drugs, adventure, sex, to fill the void.

I know, since I used to be one of them. Not famous or wealthy, but constantly looking for something else to bring me some satisfaction, fulfillment, some sort of peace of mind. If I can only have that relationship, or make that much money, or earn that degree, or drive that car....then I will be complete and happy. Funny how once every one of those things are achieved, happiness is still fleeting. Short-lived and fallen flat. It wasn't until I realized that my completeness is found only in Jesus Christ, who I am in Him - and for Him, that I finally became free. What an oxymoron, for me to gain freedom by chaining myself to Christ!

I was contemplating all of these things today when I walked out to my car, fiercely clicking the "unlock" button so I could quickly enter my vehicle and get out of the rain. Finally giving up, I stuck the key in the door to unlock and attempted to start the engine while silently whining to myself about the remote not working only to discover a much larger horror when the engine wasn't working either. Turn key. Silence. Turn key. Silence. Check shift thingy, turn key. Nothing. Notice the head light switch was left in the 'on' position. UGH! Not again! Yes, this is the second time in a few months that I've killed my battery because I left the lights on. But it's not my fault - in my old beat-up car, which I traded in and up for this newer better model, the lights always stayed on and went off automatically when the car turned off. Now, I evidently am expected to remember to turn my lights off every time I turn the car off. I mean, really? Thank you, Lord, for the nice man who gave me a jump. My hope for him is that he never attains fame or fortune as to drive himself stark raving mad and believe that he has "tiger blood." Amen.

A Dental Conspiracy

2011-03-03T19:19:00.001-05:00

I suppose I've finally learned my lesson concerning flossing of the teeth. Dentists down through the ages of my life have been telling me, "Your teeth are really close together so it's especially important that you floss everyday." Six fillings and one root canal later - here I sit with a toothache. Oh Lord why can't brushing be enough? And why is it so hard to get myself in the habit of flossing? It's not as if it's time consuming or strenuous or even painful. Incredibly confusing it is, and just how long of a piece does one really need? Should I use one for the upper and another for the lower or should I use the same one for both? What if a piece of something I just retracted gets lodged in another gum? Should I rinse after?

There is a sneaky little suspicion (which means I'm usually right - perhaps intuition is a better word) floating around in the back quarter of my brain telling me I'm going to need another root canal because the circumstances of this aching tooth are eerily similar to the makings of my last dental misfortune, which went like this:
Get cavity filled
Two weeks later same tooth is aching
Get root canal

See? Two weeks ago to this very day I had a cavity filled in the very tooth which is assaulting me today! And the kicker is I didn't know that I had a cavity until I went to the probing tooth man for an innocent cleaning and to get my free toothbrush, travel size toothpaste, and travel size dental floss to throw in the pile of other travel size dental flosses in the corner of my medicine cabinet.

This is all starting to sound very strange to me now that I consider it. It's almost as if the mouth magician caused me to need this root canal....yes, it makes perfect sense now. He probably mistakes me for a sucker because I always smile politely and nod when he tells me I have another cavity and promise to do better in the flossing department and I always comment nicely on his vast array of Ohio State paraphernalia of which is sickening to someone who could care less about sports but is forced time and time again to endure the agony of oral probing.

Come to think of it, I did floss several times last month. Perhaps this dentist is running some kind of conspiracy against forty something women (forty is the new thirty) who may appear to have large sums of money because they carry large bags and wear pointy toed shoes but in reality are starving artists who write for pennies. I may have to check into this. Nevertheless, I have sworn, and God is my witness, that I will never lie my Loreal #4r head against the pillow again until every last stinking tooth in my head has been pillaged and plundered by dental floss.

So What?

2011-02-24T19:06:00.000-05:00

In the middle of eating my Wendy's chicken sandwich at lunch on Monday, and praying between bites, I was assaulted by my mind. Yes, it told me to shut-up the whining about the sore shoulders, anxiety, morning shakes, headaches, crying jags, peeing every 30 minutes, nausea, inability to focus, and the occasional desire to murder. Not only that, but my mind accused me of being a cry-baby wimpette and if it had to listen to me say, "Jesus help me," one more time, it was going to leave me. I decided to straighten up (at least for the time being) - a mind is a terrible thing to lose.

So, like any good menopausal woman, I shall take my lumps and wait. This too shall pass. I'm fairly certain things wouldn't be nearly as tough if I could just learn to relax. I read something rather profound (to me) the other day, to paraphrase, the author said, "If you would stop trying to control your symptoms, you'd find most of them would go away." And then this morning I heard someone say something very similar, talking about herself she said, "When I stopped trying to control everything around me, my kids, my husband, myself, where my ministry would go, how it would grow, and just let go - was when things began changing for the good."

I suppose all of us anxiety ridden Christians have heard the sentiment before, "Let go and let God," and Lord knows I've tried for many years to do just that, without much success. I'm better than I used to be but no where near where I ought to be. I understand the concept of "letting go," but how the mechanics of that thing actually work? I haven't a clue. Well, I have a feeling God is going to teach me whether I like it or not.

And isn't that just like God? For people like myself, particularly, there's no better teacher than experience to hammer the point across, and there's no hammer more precise than His. I find it fascinating how He knows exactly where to push, prod, and examine to get to the bottom of things and even though the process can be quite uncomfortable, I'm sure the end result will be well worth it.

This morning when I woke to a pounding chest and what feels like tiny jolts of adrenaline on steroids pulsing through my veins, I said, "So what." And guess what happened? Or better yet, guess what didn't happen? I didn't die! Then, instead of saying, "Help me, Jesus," I said, "Thank you, Jesus." It was a good birthday. :)

Manopause

2011-02-19T16:17:00.001-05:00

On another topic, other than how menopause is slowly killing me, I'd like to talk about manopause.

Manopause is a perfectly normal and natural part of life for every man.

"Many men view manopause as a time when their youth is lost and no longer can they indulge in high jumps on the basketball court or deep knee bends while grooming the lawn, men should focus on the positive aspects instead," states Manlee Owed, MD. "For every man who complains about making extra trips to the bathroom at night, I'll show you three who have learned to be thankful they can still get there on time."

According to leading studies from 2010, the key to dealing with manopause is staying positive. The second the manopausal man begins to focus on things like protruding waistlines or failure to stay awake past 8:00 PM, the battle is lost. Manlee Owed, MD, notes, "This is a time for men to pamper themselves, allow for early bedtimes and even random naps in the middle of the day."

Yung Fun Boi, from the American Psychology Association, reminds men, "When a man is in the throws of manopause he may feel like he's losing his mind, but it's important to remember if he actually were, he probably wouldn't know it."

Most important, even though manopause is not an illness, men shouldn't hesitate to get treatment if they're having severe symptoms. Many treatments are available, from spacing men out on drugs to adjusting the diet to eating only broccoli and water.

Dancing Innards

2011-02-18T19:40:00.000-05:00

This morning, after I awoke to the motion of my innards doing the jitterbug, I kicked my butt out of bed and proceeded with the usual morning routine. Once the dogs had breakfast and my coffee was ready to be enjoyed by me (hazelnut creamer, have you ever tasted anything so delightful?) and I had a chance to ask God to please not allow me to go insane, the rest of the day went pretty well. Thanks for all the prayers - I felt them. :)

Charlie says, "Got treat?"

I Will

2011-02-17T17:17:00.000-05:00

I had a melt down the other night while Laura was at work and Matt and I were having dinner. Alone. Well, alone with each other. One of the things that's been important to me as a mom/wife is trying to get all of us around the dinner table together most nights (there's only three of us so it shouldn't be so difficult!). And it's not at all that Matt's company isn't nice, or enough, or great - it's only that I'm not ready for my baby to be growing up (are we ever ready?). I'm fairly certain this is a female thing because as I started the blubbering at the dinner table and began sobbing about how "it just doesn't feel right when she's not here at dinner," Matt just kind of stared at me with that puzzled/afraid/try-to-be-compassionate, look.

The funny thing is, it's not as if Laura's' never missed dinner before. Are you kidding me? Since she got her driver's license and a job our family dinners are few and far between. Something tells me this dinner of my melt down has more to do with what I know is coming for future dinners rather than the one at hand.

The last few days have been tough, emotions riding high and low like some sort of demented roller coaster ride that I can't stop (menopause). And there's nothing more disturbing to me than not being able to control these waves of emotions and racing thoughts. Yet, trying to be true to my promises to myself - that I will not give up or give in - that I will write in spite of bad days - that I will not be afraid of the unknown, I will trust God to get me through every storm no matter how high the winds blow or how deep the waters run. He's never let me down before, and I've been through some big ones.

I'm thinking about what Peter said in 1 Peter 4:12 - Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you.

Every time I'm faced with some "painful trial," the first thing I tend to think is, "I can't believe this is happening to me." Why do I do that? Have I not yet learned that sometimes (a lot of times) life is hard. Sometimes the hard times last a lot longer than I would prefer, and I'm no different than anyone else on this globe. We all have something we're going through, or getting ready to go through, or just finished going through. So, I've got to stop trying to live in some fairy tale where everything is made of green grass and blue skies. I don't know, it's a revelation to me, and I'm pretty sure it shouldn't be.

So, I'm making a new promise to myself - that I will remember every painful trial (small or large) is all part of the program and if I trust God I can believe it will eventually be for my good no matter how much it feels like I'm losing my mind. Sounds easy? Thankfully, I don't have to do it alone.

Chasing Fireflies

2011-02-14T19:19:00.000-05:00

One of my fondest childhood memories is of going to my great-grandmother's house on Sunday afternoons. This family tradition began long before my birth and continued until she died when I was around eight years old. I'm not sure if words can describe the emotions that rise up when I think of the faces of all of my aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and the joyful expression on the lips of my youthful mother.

There are some scenes I can remember so clearly - everyone gathered around that red kitchen table, my great grandmother cooking furiously, flour flying and pots boiling. Children running in and out the side door and frolicking on the rolling hills that surrounded the home. Sometimes just sitting on the front porch, swinging to and fro on the cushioned glider, or chasing fireflies and wishing on a blown dandelion puff. There were no jungle jims or swimming pools yet there was never a shortage of activities or people or laughter, or love.

It's all sometimes faint - sometimes vivid, sea of faces and moments burned into my mind like water-colored waves backing away slowly and rushing forward to wash over me and make me remember again and again - to make me feel that bittersweet bygone, echoing, don't forget, don't forget, don't ever forget the way this time, this pure innocent era gave me a glimpse into the heart of the Eternal.

I treasure these memories, I suppose because they remind me that we need each other, that there is nothing better than a love that just exists without boundaries or fear or judgment. To be surrounded by people who belong to something bigger than this world, something that lives beyond the mortal and stretches its arms out wide to embrace the less than beautiful, the less than brilliant, less than perfect. This Love searches for the child-likeness in us all and makes the simple firefly in a jar, become the sublime capture of our hearts.

Love on Whole Wheat

2011-02-11T19:46:00.002-05:00

Deer, deer, beautiful, astounding, gorgeous deer! I just saw six of them in my backyard - it's one of my favorite things about living in this house, we back up to a wooded area and the deer action is pretty heavy. I was almost able to get an awesome picture but then Charlie spotted them and scared them off with his huge mouth. Just look at how huge his mouth is:

It's somewhat disturbing, I know. He carries around that blue football so much that we have deemed it his pacifier. You might be thinking how odd it is of me to be taking pictures of my dog's mouth, and to that I would have to say: I know, right?

I guess this is Valentine's Day "Weekend"? Isn't that what happens when a holiday falls near a weekend, instead of one day, it gets a whole weekend? This means I must blog about love and such things all weekend, although if I remember correctly I've already talked about love this week. Can anyone talk about love too much though? I think not! Love is one of my favorite subjects, right along with shoes, napping, and assorted pastas.

I just texted Matt, "Will you bring Chinese home?" And he said, "K." Now that is what I call love! It's no secret that I hate cooking and Lord knows I have tried to like it, but I can't. Luckily, Matt prefers take-out to my cooking so it doesn't take much to convince him. I do cook, and sometimes I do it fairly well when the mood strikes me but the mood seems to come very few and far between lately. I will blame it on menopause. (shhhh)

Love is:
Never nagging your spouse about cooking more often.

Love is:
Never nagging your spouse about eating too much peanut butter.
(he really hates that)

Check this out: I buy quality lunch meat and Matt would rather eat peanut butter everyday for lunch. Seriously, everyday for the last nineteen years of our marriage he eats peanut butter. He thinks he's mixing it up when he sometimes changes flavors of jam.

Love is:
Never criticisizing your spouse's lunch habits in your blog.

Love is never commenting on your spouse's muffin top or calling him/her by a nickname that verifies you've noticed the muffin top. Do not squeeze the muffin top and laugh, smile, or blink. Do not touch the muffin top at all and if your hand accidentally brushes the muffin top, quickly retreat. In spite of a widely held belief, the muffin's top is Not the best part of the muffin.

Love is always remembering those sweet characteristics that attracted you to your mate in the first place even though now you think they are disgusting, annoying habits. Like her sarcasm, or his sense of humor. Never try to turn your spouse into yourself because if you succeeded, you'd be married to yourself and that would be just wrong, weird and you'd be even more narcissistic than I, I mean you, already are.

For my single friends (Havah) - love is never having to roll your eyes at the stupidity of television choices because yours are always perfect and love is always right on time when you're single because there's no one to complain about how you are always late! Single love is spending as much time as you like on Facebook because no one else is breathing down your neck wanting the pc even though there are two others in the house or your teenager calling you a "creeper," because you're looking at other teenager's pages. Heavenly.

Here's me sending Love to all of my single friends for Valentine's Day:

February has Heart

2011-02-10T11:01:00.001-05:00

My Beloved February,

Please leave now.
Love,
Me

It's 10 degrees here in the Cincinnati area this morning, at least the sun is shining, in its deceivingly warm kind of way. It's okay, Mr. Sun, I love you whether you're warm or not. Although this February morning is cold enough to make anyone's exposed bodily fluids freeze up as soon as stepping outdoors (tear ducts, nose hairs, drool) I must admit I have an affinity for February. First of all, it's the month I was born and what if we didn't have February? There's a good chance I wouldn't have been born - (duh). Secondly, February is short. It's kind of like the bridge between old man winter and baby girl spring. The days are getting longer and I can almost spy March off in the distance. For my friends who live where it's warm all the time (Dave) and rarely, if ever, snows - I just want to say one thing: My family is open for adoption.

At least I know Laura would love it, she's always talking about getting out of Hamilton and living in a big city and well, basically - leaving her mommy. How could she actually want such a horrendous thing? After all, she's still a baby (17) and knows nothing about life in the real world where you work or you don't eat, or even worse - don't shop for shoes. Last night I got the teenage obligatory, "You know, I'm going to be 18 soon."

In which I replied, "So?"

Matt tried to stop this train before it picked up steam, to no avail. Everything turned out okay, however, no derailments or worse - lifeless bodies on the tracks. I'm inclined to think I may not do so well when the empty-nest stage of life makes its nasty little self at home in my house, but at least I'm trying to prepare for it- kind of. Cutting one little corner of the apron strings at a time, having faith in her that she'll remember what we've taught her and mostly having faith in God that He will keep her from doing anything too utterly stupid.

Home

Since Matt works a lot, I'm already thinking about things I can get involved with when Laura does leave home, you know, things that will distract me from that deep, cavernous, hole, that will be in the center of my heart. Actually, I'm thinking of starting something right away, to add to my blog - a "tip" section of sorts. A place where I share something that might be of use to you, because Lord knows this discourse about me is only giving you a headache. Thank you though, all of you, from the very bottom of my not-yet-cavernous heart - thank you for reading and especially especially especially (did I say especially) those who comment?

Thank you also to Whatever Lovely Magazine for buying another of my articles (the pay is dismal but it's something) and Not thank you to Suite101 for sending me a rejection e-mail and making me feel like, yeah, my writing really does stink up the place. Nevertheless, I shall carry on until I can no longer put these words all in a row or until the good Lord takes me home, or until my pc crashes, or until I get into some tragic accident and all my fingers get chopped off, or until...well...you get the picture.

Do you have any suggestions about what to call this new "tip" section? I thought about Paula's Pointers, but it sounds too pointy and then there's Tips by Titus, but it sounds too formal. Any ideas? Let me know!

So Loverly

2011-02-09T08:08:00.002-05:00

You Need a Kiss?

Simba wants to send his love to everyone, although, I think he secretly wants to show off his red Valentine's Day sweater. He has a different colored sweater for every holiday, but he particularly likes this one since it's stretchy and doesn't too tightly constrain his little fat belly which has resulted from a few too many begging episodes. Yes - I have the ability to say no (and usually do) but, really, how could one resist such a face? My aunt tells me Simba has a face that only a mother could love, I cover his ears when such rubbish is being uttered.

I've been thinking about love a lot these past few days, in honor of Valentine's Day I suppose. I've concluded that I like love. Who doesn't? Of course there are always those who pretend they don't much care for it, could take it or leave it, and would be happier if others didn't expect love from them. I believe those kind of people are just "wall" people, and most likely need a good dose of love to crack through. The oxymoronic thing, however, is that even though love is the potion those people need, they are the least likely kind of people to get it! Okay -so that's no surprising revelation. It's so much easier to love the lovable.

I think we are lazy lovers. If we weren't, wouldn't everyone be going around getting good lovin'? Not just those who love us back, or send us nice gifts in which we then feel obligated to throw some love their way, but even those who barely know we exist - except we know that they know we exist because they see us with their eyes - quite frequently, maybe everyday.

Nancy Leigh Demoss (radio personality & author) has this 30 day challenge for married women to show love to their husbands every day for 30 days. Each day something different, and subtle, is said or done, and the results are most often astounding. It just goes to show that we don't have to buy expensive stuff or smother people with kisses for them to feel loved, and in return love us back. Someone once said, "It's the little things that count." I believe it!

When Jesus said, "Love your enemies," - I don't think He wants us to do it because it's such a "holy" thing, or because holy people ought to do something unpleasant to mean people, but because He wants us to discover that if we love our enemies - most likely they will love us back - WaaaLaaa! We don't have any more enemies! I think I shall work more diligently on this idea of loving people intentionally from now on, especially the unlovable. God help me! Who's with me?

Rub my belly to show your love!

Offerings

2011-02-08T22:26:00.001-05:00

Dear Heavenly Father,

I don't know what I'm doing. Please help me. Lead me and make me know how to follow closely so I will never fall away or behind or become useless. More useless. I feel useless most of the time. Forgive me for getting distracted so easily. Help me stay focused on You. Help me remember the things that are most important. Help me stop trying to work everything out in my head and just do what You give me and do it the very best that I can. Thank You for loving me, I love You. Please kill my pride Lord, and teach me to stop trying to make a name for myself and only care about Your Name.

In the precious name of Jesus I pray, amen.

The Milky Way or even Mars

2011-02-05T15:05:00.002-05:00

Are there more dead animals lying around on roadways, or is it me? Yesterday morning was the worse of late because I passed what I swear was a dead dog on my way to work. Ugh. That terrible intrusion into my eye gate could have set the tone for the entire day, instead I am learning to not dwell on such things and just..well, ...let it go...so cliche. I regularly see possums and raccoons - I wonder if they aren't as bright as most other animals who wonder close to roadways? I remember last summer, I was driving along and there was this raccoon standing up on his back legs right on the edge of the road, just staring like some kind of zombie raccoon. Very eerie. I still remember it like it was yesterday. Had he been hit and was stunned? Was he waiting for traffic to clear? Could he have been pondering the meaning of life?

Simba remembering the good ole days of bird watching

I rarely see dead squirrels on the road, although they are the animal I see the most of. So, obvious to me - they have some smarts. I mean, who hasn't seen a squirrel run out in front of your car, it sees you coming and runs back the other way? Just in case, however, I always hover my foot over the brake. Lord knows I don't need that on my conscience. There's a squirrelly little squirrel who frequents by backyard and tries to assault my bird feeder. He actually did a good job of it until Matt thought of slathering Vaseline all over the pole so the little varmint wouldn't be able to shimmy up. It worked! I remember looking out my kitchen window one afternoon shortly after said squirrel realized he couldn't thieve anymore. He sat in the tree not far from the feeder, staring it, like he was trying to figure out some other invasion. Yeah - squirrels are to be reckoned with. I'm not against them, mind you, he gets to eat what the birds drop on the ground, lest you squirrel lovers start sending me hate mail! Although lately there's nothing on the ground because the birds are boycotting my yard.

I used to say, "Who cares about birds?" I mean, really. Only old people worry about feeding them or watching them or talking about birds. I'm much to young, cool, and busy to think about such feathered things." Then I woke one day and discovered I'm old, uncool, and enjoy watching the birds. Someone shoot me. Not that it matters much, since apparently I stink at feeding birds. One would think all that is required is to put the feed out - and they will come. I have discovered, however, that the birds in my backyard are somewhat uppity and will only eat the more expensive brand of bird feed. Seriously. Who do they think are? Does this sort of thing happen all the time?

When Matt first hung the bird feeders for me (I have two on the same pole) I had bought the rather expensive (at least to me) kind. Oh they loved it, I had red birds and blue birds and yellow birds (the colors, not the kind- I have no knowledge of such things) and even the occasional woodpecker. They loved it so much we had to fill the things twice a week. So when it was time to buy more feed, being the good steward that I am, decided to opt for the cheaper brand. Well - you can see for yourself what happened next:

Feeders still half full - since October

Mind you, this is the middle of winter and one would think that a bird doesn't have the right to be so picky. HA! Think again, mister. I have no idea where they are getting their portions but it certainly is not from my backyard. Matt tried to console me by telling me that all the birds flew south for the winter, but I soon figured out he was joshing when I saw the swarm of a hundred or so in the trees in my backyard, about 50 ft from the feeder. Not one ate, they didn't even try it. I guess they've all told each other not to bother with the Titus' food, oh I can hear them now, "They buy the cheap stuff - let's get our chow on down at the Johnson's."

On the radio I had heard a Christmas tree expert (yes, there are such things) talking about ideas for recycling your live Christmas trees instead of just dumping them after the holiday. He suggested sitting it out in your yard and using it as a bird feeder, he promised it would stay green until spring and the birds would love it. What a great idea, I thought! I'll get those birds over here one way or another. Shortly after Christmas - I carried the tree to the deck and adorned it with old bread. Not a bite! Not a peck! Not a whisper of gratitude! Apparently we are now being shunned by the entire bird community! Matt said I should have broken the bread into pieces instead of flopping whole pieces on the branches....what happened to working for your food? Really, these birds have got it so easy that I am now wishing I were one of them.

Same bread since January 5th

Can you imagine being a bird? Being able to fly wherever you want to go, not worrying about high gas prices or snow covered roads. Never having to work for your food because there are suckers like me everywhere willing to give handouts? (wait - that happens with people too) That would be the life. I don't know where the birds in my neighborhood are getting their nutrition, I suspect that Jesus meant it when he said,
"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them." Lucky bird.

What kind of bird feed do you use? What am I doing wrong?

Still Powerful

2011-02-02T18:11:00.001-05:00

My apologies to anyone who saw this blog last night. That's what happens when I decide to play with photo editing tools at midnight. Plus, I was frozen over and holding my breath because the lights were flickering. I'm not sure how holding my breath helps the lights to stay on, but it worked. The weather has been so bizarre lately, it's like the world is ending or something (see yesterday's post). When Matt and I were driving home from Larosa's Pizzeria last night (we are adventurous people) during the ice storm - I saw the sky light up in the distance, blue-pink-orangish colors, it was beautiful, it happened several times - then it was over. My first instinct was to think Jesus is coming back, but luckily I had Matt to correct my lack of understanding. Apparently, exploding transformers can look a lot like the second coming.

We are still covered in layers of ice today although it hasn't slowed me and my Honda CRV down one bit. I am a fearless driving fool. I did, however, discover that even my Honda CRV will not always go where I direct it when there is significant ice under her tires. I wonder why the city doesn't just dump salt from the sky when the weather is like this? Wouldn't it save so much time and effort? Flying salt helicopters. Neither would they have to worry about other traffic or fitting into tight places.

Matt told me I was acting insanely last night just because I was running around the house and gathering up all of the jar candles, to have them all in one place in case the power went out. I might have been mumbling and complaining a bit too - but nothing that would warrant him considering to put me away. Oh, I know he'd like to sometimes. I can see it in his eyes.


I think that should be enough

The weather people (who act very strange when these sort of things are happening, almost as if they like it) said the winds were going to be fierce all day so the chance of power outages are still high until at least tonight. It's after 6:00 pm here now and the winds have died down and the power is still going strong even though I am sure I am the only one out of the three of us who actually prayed about it like I requested. I am feeling more calm about my comforts of home at this point. I think I need to go camping in the woods somewhere without toilets or outlets for hair devices to toughen myself up a bit, like we used to do in the good old days. I'll have to chew on that for awhile.

Perseverance and Prophecy

2011-02-01T17:06:00.002-05:00

I will write this post if I have to sit on this couch all day until it's done! Not that I have anything so pressing to say, but when one needs to write, it must be done or terrible things can happen. I sat down here two hours ago to begin writing and one thing after another has prevented me. I give myself back-pats for perseverance.

I have to admit some of the distractions were self induced like playing around with the graphics on this page (hope you like the new stuff) -- I easily get sucked into playing around with photos and such. And then I received e-mail about a few writing projects for freelancers, and of course it takes forever to investigate those and figure out if they even pay - geesh. There's just too much to choose from, and it could literally take hours to weed through only a few. It's kind of how I feel when I go the mall, so many shoes - so little time. Couldn't all the shoe stores just be in one area? I mean, really - wouldn't that make life so much easier?

After finally deciding to put that aside, I was ready to get busy and do some serious blogging when I got this text message from a Washington state area code: "You better watch your back."

I was like...WHAT THE HAY? I didn't think I had any enemies...but I can be fairly annoying to most people. To make a long story short, after a few more text messages and twenty minutes of my surfing the net to see if I could trace the phone number, Laura comes downstairs (where I am) and starts laughing.

don't let her fool ya

Not knowing whether to ground her or feel relieved that I was not going to be raped and beaten in the near future - I gave her a good talking to (oh yes I did). Which wasted another ten minutes or so. While all of this was going on, mind you, I had to run upstairs three or seven times to dump the coffee I've been drinking like a caffeine junky. Goes right through me.

Okay - here we go. I'm ready. I pulled up the blog site, clicked on "create new post" and Simba (who is lying beside me on the couch) starts making that familiar churning/pumping/gagging noise. Nice! Dog vomitus all over the place! Now I'm sure the demon world is out to get me for some reason unknown to me....unless....unless....they know, somehow in some way that I wanted to blog about dead birds and dead fish and they know something about its creepiness that I do not, and therefore they do not want people like me who blog about such things to blog about it.

I found some pertinent info here:
http://www.naturalnews.com/030985_mysterious_deaths_birds.html#ixzz1AqaUHZ91

12.13.10 - Thousands of dead barramundi fish wash up in Australia, unknown causes (http://www.themorningbulletin.com.a...)

12.15.10 - Thousands of dead fish wash ashore on Florida beach, blamed on cold weather (http://www.cfnews13.com/article/new...)

12.17.10 - Dead fish wash ashore at lake beach in Indiana, blamed on winter storms (http://www.wndu.com/localnews/headl...)

12.18.10 - Thousands of dead fish turn up in bay in Philippines, unknown causes (http://globalnation.inquirer.net/ce...)

12.22.10 - More than a hundred dead pelicans turn up in North Carolina, unknown causes (http://www.carteretnewstimes.com/ar...)

12.23.10 - Hundreds of dead sea creatures wash ashore in South Carolina, blamed on cold water (http://www.abcnews4.com/Global/stor...)

12.23.10 - Ten tons of mostly dead fish found in fishing net in New Zealand, unknown causes (http://www.stuff.co.nz/auckland/loc...)

12.27.10 - Scores of dead fish wash ashore in a lake in Haiti, unknown causes (http://www.france24.com/en/20101227...)

12.28.10 - 70 bats found dead in Tucson, Ariz., unknown causes (http://www.azcentral.com/news/artic...)

12.29.10 - Dozens of fish found dead in San Antonio, Texas, unknown causes (http://www.ksat.com/news/26316464/d...)

12.31.10 - 5,000+ birds found dead in Arkansas, suffering from massive trauma and blood clots (http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/01/03/ar...)

01.03.11 - 100,000+ dead drum fish found in Arkansas river, unknown causes (http://www.todaysthv.com/news/local...)

01.03.11 - Dozens of dead birds show up in a woman's backyard in Kentucky, unknown causes (http://www.wpsdlocal6.com/news/loca...)

01.03.11 - Tens of thousands of dead fish wash ashore in Chesapeake Bay, Md., blamed on cold water (http://www.wbaltv.com/r/26357581/de...)

01.03.11 - 100 tons of dead fish wash ashore in Brazil, unknown causes (http://www.care2.com/greenliving/10...)

01.04.11 - Several dead manatees found on Florida coast, unknown causes (http://www.orlandosentinel.com/news...)

01.04.11 - Thousands of dead fish wash up on creek in Florida, unknown causes (http://www.wftv.com/news/26367953/d...)

01.04.11 - Hundreds of dead fish was ashore on St. Clair River in Ontario, Can., unknown causes (http://www.torontosun.com/news/cana...)

01.04.11 - Hundreds of dead black birds found on highway in Louisiana, suffering from internal injuries and blood clots (http://www.2theadvocate.com/news/11...)

01.05.11 - Hundreds of dead birds found on highway in Texas, unknown causes (http://www.ktre.com/global/story.as...)

01.05.11 - Large amount of dead fish wash up on New Zealand beaches, unknown causes (http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/a...)

01.05.11 - Up to 100 jackdaw birds found dead on road in Sweden, unknown causes (http://www.thelocal.se/31262/20110105/)

01.06.11 - 40,000+ dead Devil crabs washed ashore in the U.K., unknown causes (http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503543_...)

01.07.11 - More than 1,000 dead turtle doves found in Italy, unknown causes (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/wor...)

01.10.11 - Countless fish found dead in U.K. brook, unknown causes (http://www.peterboroughtoday.co.uk/...)

01.11.11 - Thousands of gizzard shad fish float to the top of Lake Michigan and wash up on the shores near Chicago, blamed on cold weather (http://www.hispanicallyspeakingnews...)

I was hoping someone would make this time-line since I couldn't find anywhere that had all of the info in one place when the reports first came out about the dead animals. I find this so interesting because of its utter weirdness. I've read the science people's explanations and the religious people's too - I don't buy either one, and I don't think things like this are so easily explained away and I do think it has something to do with things (whatever those things would be) winding to a close. Is it God's way of stirring the pot? According to Google, the phrase "dead birds fish Bible" was the number one searched for phrase shortly after the incidents began being reported. Do these Googlers just have a hunch, or are they all listening to T.V. evangelists? Is there some innate knowledge in each of us that just know this crazy merry-go-round is going to halt sooner or later?

Of course it could be later, I understand that trying to figure out when the end will come is futile and mostly guess work. The Bible gives us clues - but anything beyond a few educated guesses is just malarkey. I know a few Christians who get so caught up in that prophecy stuff, and it is fascinating - especially today when we can see how things are being played our according to Scripture, but there's something about trying to predict the future that can make you lose sight of today. If every single event that happens in your life and the lives of others is somehow related to the book of Revelation - you may need to check yourself.

Too awesome for words

And what's up with Egypt? I mean, really. The only time I am reminded that Egypt even exists is when I read about those deadly plagues in the book of Exodus. This whole thing, however, has reminded me that Egypt is a major player in the middle east and plays an important part regarding whether or not there is peace or war. Is this something that could lead to (so-called) world peace? If democracy gets its way over there and everything is ran by secular officials, wouldn't they stop fighting over religious stuff?

"When they are saying, Peace and safety, then sudden destruction cometh upon them, as travail upon a woman with child; and they shall in no wise escape." 1 Thessalonians 5:3

I don't know - but it's fun to speculate about such things. I'm still amazed at how the whole world keeps its eye on the tiny nation of Israel. It's a God thing. Who knows, tomorrow we might wake up, flip on the news and see the two witnesses (Rev 11:3-12) prophesying it up on our television screens. Now that would be something to blog about.

Want to share your ideas about Bible prophecy? Please do!

It's A Love/Hate Thing

2011-01-28T19:07:00.001-05:00

I know who you are. I am so on to you. Your types come a dime a dozen, showing up around the holidays and always overstaying your welcome. I'll hand it to you - you put up a good front, appearing to be harmless, soft, and some would even say "lovely."

But what you really are is dangerous, cold, and ugly - especially after you've been around for awhile. That's when everyone gets to see the real you, gray and black mounds of slushy gunk - like a mashed potato casserole gone desperately wrong. You know what? I'm going to get in my Honda CRV and run you down like a lazy cop hiding in some bushes waiting for a speeder to drive by because he's too pathetic to be out catching real criminals. Yep.

Have I talked about the Honda CRV I bought for myself over the summer on one of those days when it was around 102 degrees and the air in my '98 Grand Prix blew hotness at me? I said, "Enough is enough!" So I marched myself down to the Ford dealer where it was sitting so majestically among all of the plain-old-man trucks and she said, "Aren't I a beauty? My air will chill you up. (wink wink)." The best thing about her is that she will NOT let any amount of snow slow her down! So bring it on Mr. Snow Miser.

I'm sorry, Snow. I still love you. Please forgive me? I mean, really...if it weren't for you how would the kids get extra days off of school and how would I have a good reason to be late and Simba would no longer have an excuse to pee on the deck. We good?

Friday. It's been a fashionably good week. I sold a few articles (first time since 2008) and I have a few other good leads for some writing projects which is really exciting to me because after last year I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to write again, I lost two pounds (first time since 2008) and no strange or new whiskers appeared on my chin (other than the ones which appear all the time.)

Don't you hate it when you get out your magnifying mirror to check for whiskers and when you turn your chin at just the right angle - HOLY CRAP - where did that come from? I know that sucker didn't just grow four inches overnight (hopefully- ladies, you should be on whisker patrol daily after the age of thirty-five). I don't get it. I must have some sort of bionic woman hair growth cell that sometimes goes into overdrive while I'm sleeping. Trust me, a girl's best friend is a good pair of tweezers. And my last beauty tip of the day: Hug a cute puppy!

From Walls to Bridges

2011-01-27T19:38:00.001-05:00

I probably loved giving Laura the iPod more than she actually loved receiving it, but she really really loved receiving it so it was a good day all around. Next year the iPad? We'll see. I think parenting is one of the few roles we play in life in which one enjoys giving away the stuff they'd really like to keep for themselves. The enjoyment we see on our child's face is ten times more gratifying than any material possession could ever be.

I don't regret any of the Reese-cups or stuffed bunnies or electronic devices. I give to Laura because I love her but I don't expect Laura to love me any more because of it, if I did then they really wouldn't be "gifts," would they? Plus, I'm sure I would find myself disappointed. I can think of a few people who have given me some great gifts but it didn't change how I felt about them, even when I wanted it to. I wonder why? Maybe it's because people are driven toward relationships from the inside out, and there's nothing material about it. Relationships happen internally - in places that can't be bought or sold. Show me how you feel by exposing your nakedness to me and allowing me to do the same without some awkward tension getting in the way.

Pretty much stinking at relationships in the past, I have to say it's nothing short of a miracle that I can have one now with any depth. Thank goodness God is still in the miracle business. If he can save me from a shallow, self absorbed existence there's definitely some supernatural stuff going on in here. Can anyone relate? Matt and I were on the verge of divorce five or so years ago and it wasn't until I stopped whining about all of his flaws as a way to divert the attention away from my own, that things started turning around. Of course I knew all along that my own flaws outweighed his by a ton, (and still do) and I think somewhere I just wanted to leave him or hurt him or do something, anything, before he had the opportunity to do it unto me. After all, it was only a matter of time before he noticed how disgusting I was and how could someone so kind, loving, and forgiving stand that? I still don't know. We will be celebrating our 20th this year. I'm praying for another 20.

Breaking down walls and building bridges is a phrase that keeps coming to my mind lately, I can think of a dozen possibilities why, although there's no certainty. I've been known to erect my own walls throughout my whole life - some to keep people out, some to keep me in. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I just chucked every brick into the sea of the past and went through my days utterly exposed to all of the elements. People would see that I'm not perfect, that I have fears, and am able to feel pain. What if every Christan really lived like the Bible tells us by considering everyone else better than ourselves and being our brothers keeper? What if we didn't care about looks or money or status and loved people because they are people, each one with their own stories of disappointment and shame.

What if I went out of the house without makeup on? Well, that's NOT going to happen. :) It could be a first (incredibly shallow) step though, (you know, one brick at a time). What would be yours?

Please Call Me Mommy

2011-01-21T19:01:00.002-05:00

Another day covered in white at Paula's world. I'm thankful Matt doesn't expect me to shovel the driveway, that is, after all, man's work - wouldn't you agree? I have shoveled from time to time, lest you think I am less woman (hear me roar) than I am. A few other jobs at Paula's world which are strictly man jobs are:
Taking out the trash
Mowing the Lawn
Trimming
Any and all kinds of auto repair and/or maintenance

I like being a girl.

Last night I said something that even surprised myself:

"It doesn't matter where your husband works as long as He loves Jesus." Paula said to Laura, her daughter.

Laura - being seventeen, rolled her eyes and said, "That's right, besides I shouldn't have to rely on a man to support me, I'll be able to support myself."

Paula thought for a moment and almost blurted out, YES! She then realized I don't believe that anymore, counter-cultural indeed. Paula said, "No. It's the husband's job to support the family so you can stay home and take care of your kids."

Laura -being seventeen, rolled her eyes.

Before you send hate-mail, please know that I am encouraging my daughter to go to college. Please send all donations to pauiamarie@aol.com - Visa, MasterCard, Discover accepted.

I hate that she is growing up, even grown? Did I enjoy every minute? Did I value every stage? Did I relish every laugh, hug and "mommy." I miss her, I miss what was and what can never be again. I miss being mommy. God. I love her so much it hurts. My gut spills out when I think that maybe she doesn't know. Maybe I failed somewhere. What if I could have been more loving or more attentive or more gentle. Does she know how much I love her? Can she feel it?

Does God really love her even more than I? Is that possible? I pray it is. I pray it everyday. I pray that she would run after Him like "the deer that pants for water," I pray that she would search Him and find Him and know Him and love Him with every single bit of herself. I know if she does

everything will be alright, alright, alright...

Last week someone broke into her car and took many things she just received for Christmas like her Tom-Tom and everything that was in her purse. Laura, being seventeen, left her purse in the car. Not in the trunk, but in the backseat - under a pile of coats her and her friends locked up in plain view of some would-be criminal who would be prowling around the streets of a downtown city at 10:00pm. Yes, I've told her, "NEVER leave your purse in the car!" Laura, being seventeen....you know the rest.

Anyway, one of the things in her purse was the brand spanking new iPod we bought her for Christmas. (She really wanted that stupid piece of electronic beauty) And since we did make her pay for a new driver's license and the new car window and she is working to buy all of her own gas and paying for her own car insurance and getting excellent grades and because I love her like crazy, I really really really want to buy her another iPod. What do you think Matt will say? Should we do it? What do you think?

Don't Look at Me

2011-01-13T08:23:00.002-05:00

This time of the morning (8:00am) last year would have found me wiping tears and leafing furiously through the book of Matthew to find those soothing words of Jesus' for the umpteenth time. Then I would read it again and again. Being sure to hover over each word and slurp it up like a thick dose of maple syrup. I'd close my eyes and try to picture doing the things Jesus recommended - don't worry, have faith, look up. Tossing around the baggage in my mind from one corner to the other, sometimes finding detestable squishy things underneath, struggling to control my thoughts and fearing the dark would eventually choke out the light, I'd live out each day under a cloud of frightening anxiety. Shame on me.

2010 was a difficult year. Losing things I love, leftover failures lingering from 2009 to test my sanity and attempt to bury me under their piles of dirt. Realizations about things that seem lovely at first turning ugly up close. Nevertheless - the things I learned in 2010, about myself, others, my relationship with God, could not have been more effectively taught than through the suffering. Through, being the operative word. A very wise woman told me, "Stop asking God to take it away and start asking Him to help you through." Light bulb moment! Am I strong enough to endure such a storm for very long without death? I pondered.

"With help."

Thank you, my Lord.

Your grace endures forever.

No fear in 2011!

And then there was menopause....

Paula walked into the gynecologist's office, feeling reassured by the multiple diplomas and degrees hanging on the wall, she took a seat on the "patient" side of the desk. Doctor Sue came in toting her laptop and smiled before she sat across from Paula. Mustering up her best concerned look, Dr. Sue asked, "Tell me what's going on, Paula."

"Well, I could be losing my mind. But I think I'm going through menopause, possibly post by now, considering I haven't had a period in over 8 months."

Doctor Sue frowned. "That would be highly unusual," glancing at her laptop, " You're only 44?"

"Yes, but I've been having symptoms for years. Hot flashes, moodiness, irregular periods."

"We'll have to do some blood work but I think there may be another reason why you're not having periods." Dr. Sue smiled.

Paula's drive home that afternoon was full of second guesses and a fresh dose of fear. If it's not menopause causing my periods to stop, then what? Cancer - of course. It has to be cancer.

Another four weeks of sweaty nights (and days) passed. There were spontaneous tears followed by lunatic-like laughter, bizarre electrical shocks buzzed around in her body (seriously) and intense worry about the cancer Paula knew she had. Then finally, the blood work results came in.

Doctor Sue entered her office, once again carrying the beloved laptop, she sat it down on the desk and slightly turned it toward Paula, who sat quietly holding her breath. "You are definitely post," Doctor Sue said as she pointed toward the chart on the screen, "See this?"

Paula breathed. And then she realized she was officially old. Paula cried.

The End

Designer Dogs and other Nonsense

2011-01-11T09:55:00.000-05:00

I feel like an idiot since Matt said white geese aren't that uncommon and I thought I'd seen the eighth wonder of the world when I spotted one. At least I still have the memory of being in awe. No one can take that from me. Matt also told me that when a white goose is in a flock with the other brownish color-me-all-alike geese, they are nasty to the white one and try to keep it from eating (jealous probably). Of course when I heard that I was completely dismayed and have made it my life's mission to save all of the white geese from now on. Whenever I have the opportunity, that is. And by saving, I mean I will look compassionately with love in its general direction.

Charles In Charge Of Charlie

Introducing Charles In Charge Of Charlie! Since Horse Head our Great Pyrenees left us last January (a heart wrenching experience) we decided to be good animal lovers and pick ourselves a misfit dog from the island of homeless shelters, preferably one which doesn't shed or bark or nibble on small children. So of course we ended up with one which whines like an old serpentine belt and regularly attacks the neighbor. Charlie came from a shelter called, All Dogs Come From Heaven. In Charlie's case, they may have made a slight error in judging his origins.

Charlie perched on his throne

Sometime when I start feeling sorry for myself about bringing Charlie home, I remember that he is, afterall, a designer dog. Uh-uh. A Bassador. Part Basset Hound, part Labrador. I mean, really, could any dog lover ask for a more interesting hybrid? Yes, I learned all of these new and upcoming canine terms on Google in case you wonder how I became so informed about such doggie matters. In Charlie's defense I must say his redeeming qualities outweigh his annoying ones. My most favorite thing about him is that he LOVES to love and be loved, snuggling, kissing, being kissed, petted, admired and spoken to in that high pitched baby voice are all of Charlies favorite pastimes, and who could resist a dog who loves that? Charlie is really Laura's dog, she's the one who picked him out and begged for him like a two year old until I gave in. It wasn't that painful, I sometimes enjoy giving in to my Little Punkin Pie who is not so little anymore (17 - ugh). Plus, Charlie with his Basset Hound eyes was equally difficult to say no to.


Simba says, "Get me out of here!"

Our other dog, whom (or who) you know also is the old grumpy man dog (14 years old) - he was also supposed to be Laura's dog when my loving but annoying father bought him for the three year old without checking in. We already had two dogs at that time so I told Laura (the 3 year old) that Simba would have to live at papaw's house and I would instead buy her a hamster. Laura, cuddling Simba in her arms which were barely capable of holding him , peeked over his little puppy head to make sure I saw her big brown eyes and sniffled, "But I want something with a fluffy tail." Slam dunk. Touch down. You can guess the rest of the story.

Being not exactly sure why I am writing so much about dogs lately, and fearing you may think I have an empty life filled only with doggie stuff, I shall now stop talking about dogs and switch to the subject of cats.

Kidding! I have no cats! But if I did, I'd want this one:

A Goose by Any Other Color

2011-01-07T18:54:00.001-05:00

Today on my way to work I saw a group of Canadian Geese snacking on something buried in the snow, they looked lovely to me even though Matt insists they are incredibly grumpy birds. I suppose I've never been close enough to annoy one - or should I say "ruffle its feathers?" I smiled to myself as I passed the first group and tried to remember that thing I once read about why they fly in a "V" pattern because it was very profound, at least to me. Then just a few yards later I came upon the second group of geese except this group had a completely white goose in the center of the bunch. I was delighted! Since I know nothing about Canadian Geese, I can only assume this white bird is of the same kind - only much prettier. Or maybe its prettiness is only due to its difference. I thought about stopping to take a photo, which is by the way, one thing I plan on doing more of this year, but when you have your timing down to the exact second in order to arrive to work on time - there is nothing left for goose pictures. I may never be early, but neither am I ever late.

Matt would say I'm always late, only because he's always early. Which is just another example of how much more perfect he is than I. Although one thing I am more perfect than he, is buying Christmas stuff after Christmas when it's almost free. While stopping at the local grocery mart today, the one I try to avoid because everything is overpriced, but is close to home and a quick in-and-out, I noticed a lovely wreath on sale for $2.00! The best part is, it can be used for the whole winter because it's made only of greenery and pine cones and no glittery stuff or red bows - my best buy so far this year. I happily added it to my shopping basket along with the sugar free CoffeeMate (hazelnut, of course) and a bundle of ankle socks for my daughter. Ankle socks and wreaths at a grocery mart? Who knew.

Don't you utterly love it?

Another great after-Christmas deal I was smart and snazzy enough to grab up was a super cheap dog bed for Simba, our peek-a-poo. He loves to snuggle in them and when I saw this one, I must admit I second guessed its size, but considering its cheapness I could not say no, really.

Simba doesn't seem to mind that he doesn't quite fit. We're hoping he will shrink
when he gets his haircut next week.

Cinderella Tree

2009-12-15T08:42:00.008-05:00

Our Tree

Today's photos brought to you courtesy of Laura Titus (daughter of me) and her brand spanking new Nikon camera given to her for her Sweet Sixteenth Birthday (Dec. 12) of which cost the equivalent of two and one half electrical bills. You better learn to pay the bills with that there picture-taking contraption, missy.

I have decided to not think of Christmas as a day, but as a season. This way I will not get overly flustered and anxious because those emotions have been known to put a serious damper on my Christmas Spirit, and we cannot have any of that. This is seriously my most favorite time of the year, and I want to enjoy every moment instead of feeling like I'm spending mountains of time, energy, and money to enjoy only one day that will be over in the blink of an eye. Doesn't this make wonderful sense to you?

How many times during your Christmas Day celebrations have you, yourself said, or heard someone say, "All that work and preparation and it's over so quickly!"? Well I am determined to not ever say or even think those blasphemous words again. And now that we are in full swing of the Season, I have begun to implement this tactic by making sure I spend ample amounts of time sitting on my couch with feet relaxed on footstool and gazing at my lit Christmas Tree. I dreamily peer at its loveliness and try not to notice that it's leaning heavily to the left or the naked spot near the top. I then remind myself that it is a real tree, afterall, and nature doesn't grow perfectly shaped store-bought trees. Or if nature does grow that sort of tree, they must all get snatched up before Matt and I make it to the Christmas tree store.

I like to think of our tree as a poor, ugly, orphan tree, you know, the one who would never be chosen by a respectable family to have in their respectable home. Then on some blessed day, someone takes pity on said tree and sees it for its potential, takes it home and nurtures it, waters it, and covers it with glittery stuff until finally comes the hour when it can rightfully be declared a "Christmas" tree. And what better name could a tree be called or purpose be served? I can't think of one.

There was once when it seemed as if I could hear our tree whispering glad tidings of great joy, as if it's barely able to believe how beautiful its sparkling ornaments and twinkling lights are, my Cinderella Tree. Sometimes, when it's just me and Cinderella Tree alone together I could swear I hear it break into Away in a Manger, as it fans its sparsely covered branches ever so lovingly atop the roof of the nativity scene, protecting baby Jesus and company from the wind and snow. I would tell you about the times when certain candy canes curiously disappear from the tree, but I fear you will think I've completely lost my marbles.

Here is a photo of Horse Head himself, following my example of taking the time to gaze at and enjoy our Cinderella Tree:

You can see how this tree gazing technique can even calm the wildest of beasts. He's not barking, and anytime Horse Head is not barking, is a time for peaceful celebration complete with pumpkin spice eggnog, cinnamon scented candles, and heartwarming Hallmark movies.

This Moment

2009-11-26T01:07:00.006-05:00

My Cranberry Salad

Here we are, the Eve of Thanksgiving, and mouths around the country begin watering for turkey and stuffing and pecan pie. I'd eat dessert first if it was appropriate -just to make sure I had room for it. I'm grateful that after many years of getting severe stomach cramps during the post-meal bloat-and-burp festivities I've finally figured out that it was Grandma's deviled eggs giving me such anguish. And boy did I love those little delectable hunks of mustardy goodness. I could easily pop four or five before dinner ever began.

Grandma isn't with us any longer to make these Thanksgiving treats, but once in a while they appear at other gatherings by the hands of someone else who wants to torment and tempt me into thinking, just one wont hurt you. And then that subtle serpent whispers, surely, you won't die! I used to be able to eat eggs without pain, I remember those morns' of days gone by when Mom would set the plate of scrambled eggs smothered in ketchup before me and I would devour it with much delight, now this is but a memory of a happier time, an egg-ee-er time, a time when eggs liked me and I liked them, together we would mingle joyfully in the acids of my stomach and all was right with the world.

Luckily for me, I suppose, no one else in the family has carried on the deviled egg tradition since Grandma's passing, but I proudly carry on the torch of cranberry salad, which used to be strictly Grandma territory. I'm not sure how I ended up being the one to make cranberry salad every year, but I think it was per election by family members who know if any recipe contains more than five ingredients there's a dangerous risk it may turn out unfit for the likes of something as superb as Thanksgiving. What would you like to bring this year, Paula? Oh, I know - why don't you bring cranberry salad? (Sighs of relief echo 'round the room as I nod in agreement).

Sometimes I long to create something more complex, something with dozens of herbs, spices, and other stuff I would have no idea where to find in the grocery store. A dish that would melt like butter in the mouth and people would be talking about for months. Then I remember that would probably require a lot of time spent in the kitchen instead of doing something ....else. So, I'm thankful I'm making cranberry salad.

Let me not leave out the often forgotten macaroni and cheese, which I'm also bringing to the table. Mac and cheese is now a tradition for our Thanksgiving meals, basically because the children in the family prefer it to the cranberry salad.

Notice I'm making Kraft macaroni and cheese, not the frozen kind. Not only that, but notice I'm cooking it in an Le Creuset stoneware collection cooking device. Only the best for my family will do.

Tomorrow, when we are all seated around the table and everyone's plate is overflowing with all the trimmings, it wont be the turkey or the dressing, or even the cranberry salad that causes me to smile. It will be the faces. Most of them older now, the tougher moments of life leaving its mark in small lines around the eyes and mouth. The children with expressions of excitement, not understanding they are living in a moment of what will someday be a memory forever to be cherished. I'll silently pray that God will keep them together and never let them forget each other when responsibilities begin to weigh in like a necklace of stones.

I'll giggle when Uncle Jim moans in ecstasy after his first bite and Aunt Brenda asks, "Well how is everything?" for the third time. I'll listen to Melanie tell the story of how Matt and I caught the rolls on fire that one Thanksgiving, and my eyes will meet Mom's in a moment of bliss. I'll watch Matt's plate to see if one food accidentally touches another and I'll tease him about not wanting gravy on his potatoes because it may travel to the green bean casserole. I'll remember the ones who can't be with us, and the ones who will never be with us again. I'll thank God for this Thanksgiving and for these faces, these memories, this moment, and I'll pray to never forget how much I have to be thankful for.

"Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!"

2009-11-20T07:58:00.002-05:00

Matt, the hubster

I still can't figure out why the cruel cruel hands of time are always so sweet and kind to men like Matt, but revert back to their cruelness when dealing with me, and females in general. It's not fair! Men get ruggedly handsome and women get saggy. On good days, I like to think there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, I just haven't thought of it yet.

I can't stop thinking about a movie I saw the other day, A Christmas Carol, the one Disney just made with Jim Carrey. Not because the movie was so fantastic, although it was, but because the story is so fantastic, so rich, so heartwarming. I never ever get tired of watching it, and I've seen every remake of the classic including The Muppet Christmas Carol.
Why why why (crying out to God now) can't I write something like that?

Take the character of Scrooge for example, whose name has now become synonymous with someone who dislikes Christmas or is generally greedy. A character that is so ingrained into the way we view a personality trait that we use the name of said character to sum it up? And in case you think people like Scrooge don't really exist or his character was exaggerated, you might find the following snippet interesting. I snatched it from a literary forum where people are talking about the storyline from A Christmas Carol:

"The Christmas Carol is rather boring as it is nothing but an "Infomercial" paid for by the paper and the advertising merchants.

Crachitt had his own house and enough to purchase a goose. He was asked to work on Christmas Eve day as I have done many times. Where would we be if our police, firemen and doctors followed the ridiculous dogma esposed in this tiresome, non-relevant tome? Eb only becomes acceptable when he gives away his money. Duh. Dicken's father was obviously a wasterel and Chucky baby was following in his footsteps wanting others to give to him

It was designed to pull money out of the pockets of all who read it and refused to think. It has done a marvelous job but is really ready for the trash heap."

Can you believe it? The author of above post didn't leave his name but if I had to guess who it was I'd say the pre-converted Scrooge rose from the dead and wrote it himself!

I must say the animation in Disney's Christmas Carol is unbelievable. I don't know how they make something that is more/less a cartoon look so similar to a real life person. You could actually see how some of Scrooge's expressions favored Jim Carrey. A few minutes into the movie I heard Dad say to Mom, "Boy, he had to lose a lot of weight to play this part." And Mom, trying not to sound overly condescending, replied, "It's a cartoon, Paul."
"Oh."
This short conversation will no doubt be relived in many family gatherings as we kids pull out memories from our stockpile of "Dad's most humorous comments."

Tonight I'll be going to see New Moon, and although I don't expect it to end up being the classic that A Christmas Carol is, I'm betting I'll enjoy it for all the reasons that I always a enjoy a good love story - even if one of them is a vampire.

Update on toenail fungus: You wont believe this, but I believe the toenail fungus which has plagued my big toe on the right foot for over two years now is GONE! That's correct, gone as in the wind, goodbye as in the girl and absent as in professor. I'm not sure what brought about this phenomenon, but if I had to guess, the only explanation I can find is what I did over the summer. I kept the nail painted first with a ridge filler and then topped with a dark purple nail polish for about three months. I'm thinking this magical combination of pure miracle power suffocated the little monsters under my toenail and caused them to pack up and move to another unsuspecting host. The verdict is not set in stone as of yet, but stay tuned and I'll keep you posted!

Thankfully Yours

2009-11-17T14:33:00.003-05:00

My daughter, Laura (right) and cousin, Rachel.

As you can plainly see, I've the most beautiful child that ever was or ever will be, as well as being super smart and compassionate, topped off with a sense of humor, rounds this girl out to very possibly be an upcoming ruler of the world. And all of this from my humble loins, it boggles my mind. Well, I suppose Matt helped a tad too.

To fulfill her calling as ruler of the world, Laura would make sure everyone had pizza on their dinner table, thousands of songs on their iPod, special days designated only for shopping, and awards would be given out to those with the speediest texting abilities. What a joyful world this would be.

In one of my prouder Mom Moments of late, Laura mentioned to her uncle Eric that he should try church as a place for meeting women. Not to say this should be the sole purpose of going to church, but certainly miles above meeting females in bars. I was delighted this thought popped into her head without the usual coaxing from yours truly. Maybe she really is getting some of the things I've been trying to pound into her head for the last sixteen years. Perhaps "pound" isn't the appropriate word. Nevermind. It is.

I have realized, however, the pounding exercise of parenting rarely works without the example exercise. Children pretty much copy what they see. Scary thought, I know. At least scary for me because I'm prone to sarcasm, negativity and perfectionism. I can only pray that Laura has spent more of her childhood studying her father rather than myself.

You know how once in awhile you meet someone who just seems "good"? Someone who is completely unpretentious and unconcerned with what others think of them. That's Matt. He never ever ever has a bad thing to say about anyone, even when they deserve it and he always looks for the silver lining. Somewhere I read his name means sent from God. There's no doubt in my mind that God sent him to me because I can't imagine my life without him, plus, God knew I needed someone especially patient to tolerate all of my cranky and selfish moments. Thanks, God. You must love me a lot!

On the down side, and you know I must always find one, Matt works a lot, so sometimes I get sucked into the lonely vortex. Sure, I have a daughter still living at home, but it isn't the same as having him around, and anyway, she has her own interests and friends, and Mom isn't exactly her favorite hang-out buddy. When I get sucked into this lonely vortex I usually cry a lot and feel sorry for myself while obsessively cleaning the house and whining to God about my woeful circumstances. It's not a pretty sight.

Today has not been a lonely day, however, as a matter of fact, my brother, Eric, will be here any minute to supply me with great company and stimulating conversation. I will feed him and add flavored creamer to his coffee while he makes me laugh and reminds me of all the reasons I'm so happy he's moved back home. I may even show him a picture of the goat I'm buying for a poor little boy overseas. According to the magazine, one goat can supply milk, cheese, fertilizer and some other stuff that will help a family in need. I wouldn't mind having my own goat, come to think of it. I wonder how Matt would feel about that?

Homehio

2009-11-14T10:39:00.001-05:00

This is me looking rather happy with myself about posting twice within the same month. Could this be the beginning of a trend? A happier, wordier, more committed time? I doubt it. Nevertheless - it feels good to be writing again. Writing for me is apparently something I need to do whether I want to or not. I'm not sure why this is true, or if it's even common among writers, but I do know that when I go for long periods of time without writing, I get this weird longing to gather words and line them up. Evidently this crazy writing thing is something God has given me a desire for, so now I just have to figure out which words to lasso in and in what order to slap them up. Sure, it sounds easy enough, but one just out of word order can disastrous be.

I live in a smallish town of around 60,000 people just north of Cincinnati. They call it Hamilton, and now they call it Hamilton the City of Sculpture. Impressive, isn't it? As I was driving through downtown yesterday I noticed they had hung the Christmas wreaths along both sides of the street, the odd thing is that some of them were lit while others were not. It didn't seem to bother me though, because I would swear these are the same wreaths they've been lining the streets with since I was a girl. Vintage Christmas decorations are always way more special and meaningful than brand new ones, wouldn't you agree?

I think this shot of one of Hamilton's downtown corners portrays the kind of feelings I have about my hometown. In one word - "Homey." I didn't always feel this way about Hamilton, I'd often think what a boring town with a boring name in a boring state - Ohio. Ohio is still on my list of the most boring names one could call a place, almost synonymous with Ho-Hum. See the similarities? If I could rename Ohio I would call it Homehio, and I think that name would fit much better with our state slogan, the heart of it all.

I feel safe here, not only from predators, but from most natural disasters. We don't have hurricanes or earthquakes or blizzards (usually) in the winter or unmanageable heat in the summer. Sure, we might have an occasional tornado, but who doesn't love the wind blowing through your hair? I can leave my home at any time of day or night with the door unlocked and feel confidant that nobody will steal my stuff. Matt has proven this theory several times when he's forgotten to put the garage door down at night, said garage which is attached to our home which is attached to an unlocked door which leads directly into our family room. And all of that is very good, because a Homey Town should feel like a safe place.

I suppose I've been pondering all of these things lately because my brother just moved back here from Washington state. If you've ever been there, you know what a beautiful place Washington is and all of the great things it has to offer, not to mention a much better name. Thinking about all of these things made me realize that in spite of boring names and small town living with small town people, Dorothy was ever so correct when she said, "There's no place like home."

And since I live in the City of Sculpture, let me direct your eyeballs to my favorite sculptor we've ever had here. It's made entirely of sand and was part of River Days last summer, the sad thing about this piece is that it was only temporary and I had to watch it slowly melt away with every rainfall - but then I suppose the fact that it was made out of sand is what makes it so cool. We also have a very impressive ice sculpture show here in January, I'll be sure to post some photos for your viewing pleasure, as long as the bitter cold doesn't scare me away and cause me to stay cuddled up by a warm fire with a good book next to a steaming mug of cocoa. Home is a good place to be.

Looking Up

2009-11-11T18:15:00.000-05:00

Things are looking up, my friends. Or it could be that I am looking up. You know, instead of staring at my inner self with a magnifying glass and studying every flaw and shortcoming which results in feelings of failure and promotes whining, I'm learning to look away, look away, look away, Dixieland.

My brother, Eric, who had formerly (as of three days ago) lived in Washington state for forever, which is also a forever distance from where I am (Ohio) has now returned home and my elation and excitement is unmatched by any excited feelings I can remember ever having, ever. Well, a few exceptions may be the day I joined my husband, Matt, in wedded bliss and the day I delivered our daughter. But other than those, and maybe the first time I tasted chocolate ice cream - but since I can't remember that day, I will have to exclude it from the running.

Prayer really works. What a cliché. That's okay though, because I couldn't say it better myself with any original thought of my own. Prayer just works, simple. Why its taken thirty-five years of my Christian life to actually figure this out certainly deserves a slap upside my hard head, although it wouldn't be the first time God has had to smack me around a bit to make me learn something.

One example, in case you think I'm making things up:
I prayed to sell our gas guzzling truck and our dumbest purchase ever - the hot tub, so we could use the money to pay off one of our credit cards. Within a few weeks of each other, both things were sold and guess what? The credit card is paid off! YAY! One down - one to go. This may sound like a trivial thing to pray for in the minds of my more spiritual readers, and I must say while studying the prayers of Paul, I never found one time that he prayed about money, nevertheless - when one's debt is mounting, it doesn't seem so trivial. Besides, if God wants to give me money to do good, I refuse to stand in His way.

I have also been praying for months that God would bring my brother home, for reasons I wont go into here, but at last, that prayer was also answered (see above). Excuse me while I do a happy dance...

Lest you think I am God's favorite child, let me assure you that sometimes He also says NO. I suppose He doesn't want to spoil me and make me utterly useless, flatulent, and finally rebellious. Probably a good call on the part of God. It's a good feeling to know Someone understands me better than I understand myself, especially since there are days when I barely recognize me. I would say as of late, however, I am becoming more of my self but in a way which is less of my self. Trust me, this is a very good thing since the old self can be depressing and often gets lost in a foggy maze of regret and worrisome thoughts about a future that can never be controlled. I like the new self much better, like when she refuses to concentrate on how difficult some relationships can be and instead focuses on being thankful for the little things. Little things, like remembering to floss in the morning and someone else making coffee. Ahhh - life is good. :)

Martha or Mary

2009-09-24T09:13:00.001-04:00

If the rapture happens today, I hope it waits until after I get that pair of shoes I’ve been eyeing at Macys.

Summer, now being officially over, has left me feeling grateful. Grateful it’s over. This summer could easily be slotted as one of the worst of all times in the life of me. But autumn brings a little light-heartedness into view. Do you think people actually use the word “autumn” when speaking in normal conversations, or is it one of those words we wish we’d use more often but because we are lazy and forgetful we use “fall” instead? I think so.

The other day I actually found myself praying for Jesus’ return. Five years ago this never would have happened. Not because I’m not enjoying this life, but because life is just tough and seems to be getting tougher with age. Partly, I think it’s because I know how grand the Kingdom will be and how less-than-grand this world is. But then, I’m often too introspective, bordering on obsessive. Chill out – loosen up – relax! I know, I know.

Relaxation has never been one of my fortes, which could be why I married the man I did. He is capable of relaxing for hours with very little movement; while I anxiously tend to “business,” making sure everything is in its proper place and remembering to dot every proverbial i. I’d like to be more like him. Carefree, living in the moment. Not worrying about what catastrophe may strike if the carpet doesn’t get vacuumed today. You never know when the Queen of England may stop by for a bit of tea.

Lest you think I’m completely nuts, let me say I am improving. I no longer lose bowel control when noticing crumbs on the kitchen counter. Now I simply wipe them off. That’s correct. Right onto the floor. Sometimes I even leave them there for days.

Besides, I have more important things to worry about these days. Like raising a teenager. Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be so difficult? You did? That’s right, you did. I guess I didn’t believe you. I guess I thought if I was a pretty decent parent, she would sail right through adolescence without a hitch. HAHA. Not true, my friend. Now that I realize my parenting style needs a total makeover during these years, I feel like a fish out of water. Much like I felt the first week I brought my precious newborn home. I have no idea what I’m doing, is the prevailing thought.

Thankfully, I’ve become fully aware there is Someone who knows what to do when I feel helpless. Tapping into His wisdom has now become my full time job, and I get the idea the paycheck will be well worth my effort. Now, if I could just get Him to send me something in hardback, complete with step-by-step instructions, we’d make the greatest teenager this world has ever seen. (smile).

A City

2009-09-12T10:27:00.002-04:00

Maybe I only love the big city because I’ve never lived in one.

I did live inside the city of Cincinnati for awhile, am now in the suburbs, but Cinci is tiny in comparison to Chicago, where I visited last month. The above photo is the view from our hotel window. It’s the second time I’ve been there, but was able to take in much more of the sights this time around. And I am in love. I can’t exactly put my finger on why or even if I’d love it long time, but I must say there’s a pulse in that place that makes me feel alive.

People in Chicago walk when they want to go somewhere, whether it’s the city blocks or getting to the trains and busses, there’s plenty of stepping to be had. I’m sure I’d lose a good ten pounds if you gave me a couple of weeks and a comfortable pair of shoes. Which I discovered I have NONE of. Well, except for my gym shoes which I wear strictly for walking because they are big and ugly. Why didn’t I wear those, you ask? I just told you – they’re ugly! I imagine the walking part may not be as enjoyable during a Chicago winter, but think of all the cute boots I’d have an excuse to buy!

The Bible says Heaven (new Jerusalem) will be a city. As much as the word “city” disgusts some people, it doesn’t mean there will be bumper to bumper traffic, thick smog, or rude people. I’m pretty sure none of those things will be in the Heavenly City, besides – I bet God knows how to build highways so they don’t become congested. And we will all have our own Porsche.

All “city” really means is a place where many people live in close proximity to one another and are subject to a common government. I imagine the bustling and busyness of an earthly city will be present in the Heavenly City also. Contrary to popular opinion, we won’t be lying around on clouds playing harps all day. I believe each of us will have a God-appointed job to do and will actually LOVE doing it! Imagine that. And people will be working together without the competition and politics involved in our jobs now. It will be Heavenly!

What I can’t fathom is what in the world will our work be? Serving God, sure…but how, specifically? Serving each other, sure…but in what way? I don’t know, I can’t think about it right now, I’m too foggy. I’m kind of hoping I’ll be taking care of the animals – minus cleaning the stalls.

Which reminds me that I’m totally bummed because a book I ordered on Amazon won't be coming because they are “out of stock,” according to the e-mail I just read. I’ve never had that happen; I guess I just need to find it from a different seller. The book is Hope Rising by Kim Meeder, she tells stories about the youth ranch she runs, from a Christian perspective. Kim takes in abused horses and couples them with abused or neglected children. I found out about the book from listening to her chat on the radio about some of the stories she has included. I was in tears the whole time I listened, particularly when she told a story about a horse she was checking out as a possible adoption and how it began trembling just at the sight of her. When Kim reached her hand out to touch its nose, the horse collapsed to the ground in sheer terror. This same horse, after being brought to the ranch was coupled with an abused child and the two of them bonded in ways which seem unexplainable. I wrestled with the idea of reading it, just because of the nature of the book, and knowing I’d probably be weeping like an infant all the way through it. But sometimes, I think, it’s worth feeling pain just to experience hope. Hope is all we really have anyway, a confidant hope that someday there will be no more pain. So we keep pressing on, never looking back, with our eyes fixed on Jesus.

An Insignificant Animal

2009-08-04T18:56:00.001-04:00

Happy Wednesday to one and all. I need to ask you something. What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

I’ve given up all that tastes good in hopes of losing five pounds before Christmas, so I can put five pounds back on at Christmas. I was kind of half listening to the TV last night and there was some guy talking about how he convinces himself not to eat junk food by telling himself it’s going to cause an early death. I think there may be something to this, because whenever I pass a plate of brownies or some such I chant, “Evil evil evil.” And it helps me to resist. I wish I could do the same for gray hairs. They seem to be appearing at an alarming rate in spite of my disdain for them. Loreal says I’m worth it, and what the heck does that mean?

If we dissect the meaning, together, you and me…we can only come to one final conclusion. If one chooses to not get rid of the gray, one must believe they aren’t worth much. “Much” could mean the cost of a box of Loreal, which is probably around ten bucks or the time it takes to apply it – thirty minutes? So, the next time you notice a person with grays, just remember – they have low self esteem. Be kind. Offer a box of Loreal. You might want to carry one on your body at all times, just in case you ever get the opportunity to increase someone’s self worth. Yeah – then you can feel better about yourself and know you helped a fellow citizen. Who could ask for more?

***********
Almost a week later…

Happy Tuesday to one and all. It’s a crying shame I can’t crank out one simple blog in less than a week. And I call myself a writer. HA! I laugh.

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you take your mostly healthy pet to the vet and have it end up dead a few hours later. Don’t panic! It wasn’t Horse Head, he’s barking at the moon as we speak. It was our other pet, a bunny we affectionately called Bunny, formal name was Cinnamon. No, she wasn’t a stripper. You can see her picture over on the right side of the page, desecrating the manger scene.

Bunny was our first (and last) pet rabbit, thoughtfully bought for my daughter by her granddad about five years ago. I tried to halt this whole affair by talking to my daughter about how much work rabbits are, how tiresome cleaning their cages can be, and stressing the point that I would not be the one responsible for Bunny’s overall care. Of course, these mini-sermons sailed over the head of the then ten year old and with a few promises and pleading looks from her big brown eyes, I caved like an old woman’s chest.

I’d say it was about a month before Laura (said daughter) had grown bored and disenchanted with this cute, but strangely aloof animal. Bunny hated to be held, and wouldn’t hesitate to bite the hand that fed her. However, the animal lover that I am, it didn’t take me very long to discover Bunny had a few redeeming qualities as well. Everyday I’d let her out of her cage for a few hours (animals shouldn’t be caged – see Zoo Post). And she would use a litter box for her dirty business, which I was fascinated to learn about rabbits, since I had no clue. If there were some way to convert bunny poo into human food, there would be no more starving children. Or if one bunny poo equaled one penny, we’d all be rich! RICH I tell you! Anyway, you get the point. (If I could poo like that, I’m sure I’d be back into my size five denims in short order). Enough of that.

I also discovered Bunny loved to have her head rubbed, as long as you didn’t try to touch any other part of her body. She would go into a trance, and beg for more if you dared to quit. Sometimes she would demand this trance technique by nipping at ankles, I imagine it was the only time she felt peaceful. I only remember one time when I actually saw her sleeping; when you’re on the bottom of the food chain you’d better stay alert. Sometimes I would smash my face up against the bars of Bunny’s cage and she would lick me like a puppy. That was the best.

All the while we had Bunny I didn’t really believe that I was attached her. Sure, she was very cute, soft, and sometimes funny. And her personality reminded me of mine (just pet here, but don’t get too close). But after all, she was just a rabbit.

A few weeks ago we discovered Bunny had a few small “bumps” on her back, which I ignored because I wasn’t about to spend money on an insignificant animal by taking her to the vet. This past Friday we discovered the bumps were now scaling and Bunny was losing patches of fur. Can I ignore this or I am I going to have to spend forty bucks just to walk through the veterinarian’s door? After Googling the phenomena I became paranoid that Bunny could have something called Fur Mites, which could infest our dogs (we have two). Great! Just great! I’ve got to call the vet! Either that or set her free in the woods behind our house. …..Thinking…. Great! I’ve got to call the vet!

Prior to our beloved animal doctor/thief collecting my eighty-five dollars and forty-three cents, he had informed me that Bunny had a simple skin fungus which could be easily cleared up with a few shampoos of prescription stuff plus a topical ointment. I was at least relieved that I wasn’t dealing with some microscopic insect. Yuck.

So, we gave Bunny her first bath ever in the laundry room sink. She was less than thrilled with this endeavor, had it not been for my speedy reflexes, she would’ve ended up behind the washer on more than one occasion. She was towel dried, treated with the ointment, and left to romp around the house in her usual bunny fashion. Once again, all was well in the Titus household.

This story is turning out way longer than I wanted it to be, but I’m going to continue to type anyway because it feels kind of therapeutic, and when you’re a bunny-rabbit murderer, therapy is sometimes needed (excluding hunters, which I could never be- but hold no grudges against). To continue – Saturday afternoon Bunny had found a spot beneath the living room chair and I on the couch, having the whole house to ourselves (minus the two dogs) was welcomed after a week spent with visitors. So I settled in to do a bit of studying with all thoughts of the morning shoved aside. Sure, I had noticed Bunny hadn’t made her usual fifty trips to the litter box (I can always hear her jumping in and out of it and scratching around) but I was deep in thought. Finally, it was my notice of her slowly jerking body coming out from under the chair with eyes closed; Bunny never closes her eyes, at least that I’ve noticed.

What the heck is she doing? This doesn’t look good. Is she cold? Is she having a reaction to the medication? I was completely convinced Bunny was not well when I bent over to pick her up and she didn’t run. Bunny always runs. My first diagnosis concluded she had been poisoned from the shampoo and/or the ointment. I’d seen the exact same thing in my dog once, which almost died after a vet’s prescription. I laid her on top of some towels on the couch next to me and when I began Googling the name of her meds she began convulsing rather violently. Then came the panic. And the praying.

I knew there was no point in calling our vet because it was after hours and everyone knows vets no longer care for their patients once they clock out. I remember the good old days when you could call your vet at any time with an emergency and he would be available. They don’t roll that way anymore, at least not in these parts. Now we have twenty-four hour “animal hospitals” where you can take your sick animal and your last dollar. Emergency rates apply. To make matters worse, there is no animal hospital within thirty miles of my home.

I’m ashamed to admit (although that’s never stopped me before) there was a part of me that just wanted Bunny to meet her maker right then so I wouldn’t have to deal with whatever was coming next. Neither could I stand the sight of her suffering, and I prayed for God to end it right there. He had other plans. I couldn’t find any conclusive info about the meds being possibly toxic, although there’s always that chance. I knew if it was a common thing with this particular script – it would be splattered all over the internet as it was with my dog’s near death poisoning.

I called my husband who said he was on his way home, so I waited. Bunny was fairly lethargic during this time, with intermittent jerking and a few times I thought her eyeballs were literally going to pop out of her head. I felt utterly helpless and confused. Do I pack her in the car and just go? Do I spend hundreds of dollars trying to save a rabbit? Is she hot, should I turn the air down? Is she cold, should I cover her?

When Matt (husband) came in, I could tell he was as torn as I was. Then the most violent convulsion came, and with it – I couldn’t hold back the fountain of tears. Soon after we were in the car headed for the hospital. I decided Bunny was probably hot (I’d read they like to be cool and didn’t fare well with the heat) so while I held her in my lap I made sure the air conditioning vents in the car pointed directly on her. This memory still haunts me. The vet at the hospital said her body temperature was dangerously low. She also said her glucose levels had bottomed out and when that happens in rabbits, the prognosis is not good.

I don’t feel we were wrong in making the decision to have her put down at that point. But it didn’t particularly feel right either. The vet gave us a few educated guesses of what could have happened to Bunny, but nothing would ever be conclusive without a lot of testing. Later that afternoon I once again looked up my best friend, Google, and learned that rabbits have been known to die after having a bath (the vet mentioned this also). And if you did have to give your rabbit a bath, be sure to blow dry them afterward (I didn’t). Evidently it has something to do with the stress of the whole bathing experience. Bunny certainly had plenty of stress that day. I was only doing what the vet had told me to do, but still – it was at my hands that she was taken to the vet, held down for the prodding, and scrubbed during the bath.

I have enough people telling me it wasn’t my fault, so please don’t be another. In the logical section of my brain I know it wasn’t my fault. In the emotional, Bunny-loving section of my brain, I know it was my fault. I remember talking to a fellow rabbit owner once who told me rabbits only lick your face like Bunny did mine because she trusted me. She trusted me and I let her down.

She could chew through a computer cord quicker than a chainsaw could slice butter, and she could fill a litter box more efficiently than a dump truck at the landfill. Still, I miss her. And so, I bid a bittersweet farewell to a not-so-insignificant animal.

Connections

2009-07-25T10:40:00.001-04:00

I’m in deep and there’s no shore in sight. No lifeboat has come to my rescue. No lifejacket thrown to my sinking body. Waves of faces pound and throw me from side to side. Merciless updates suck me under. I gasp for air and struggle to find the surface, but my fingertips only discover another friend request. Cool. That makes twenty-three.

Maybe I’ll just float for awhile.

Yes, I’ve been sucked into the time wasting vortex called Facebook. I successfully resisted this suction cup for several months, but after relentless prods from those who shall remain nameless but not Faceless, I shamefully succumb. Forgive them Father, they know not what they do.

Facebook is probably a good way to get in touch with old classmates, or people who you’ve lost contact with. But I can’t seem to find any of those people – probably because I don’t know their married names, or possibly because they don’t want to be found. It can’t be because they aren’t on Facebook. This is 2009 for crying out loud - the age of connecting, and doesn’t everyone want to be connected?

Apparently so. The first day I joined Facebook, I looked around at several profiles and was astounded to find so many people with two, three, and sometimes four hundred friends. Are these close friends, occasional buddies, or mere acquaintances? It didn’t take me long to discover the answer when people began sending me “friend requests,” and I had no idea who they were.

These were friends of friends and friends of friends of friends. I’m sure some were just being courteous to a newcomer, some writers trying to be read (who can blame them?) and some who just want another notch in their Facebook belt. “Look at me- I have 243,742 friends, I’m somebody!”

There’s something appealing about being connected to other people without really being connected. Like an electrical cord that’s been partially chewed through. The casing is gone, but a few wires still hang on. Connections without commitment. I want you to be known as my friend, but don’t expect a phone call or birthday card. I won’t come to you when I need a shoulder to lean on, and I’d never admit to you when I’m lonely. I want to feel loved, cared for, and needed. But for you to know that is far too risky. So I will expose my endearing qualities and shrink from the light of imperfection. I’ll never find you when I’m crying and promise to never make you feel uncomfortable. Just be my friend and love the image of me on your computer screen, but don’t come too close or I’ll lose something - especially time, I’m very busy, you know. And friendships require work.

Human beings were created by God to desire interaction with one another. You want proof? Just look at the likes of Facebook, Twitter, MySpace and scores of other websites that promise to bring people into your life. What’s ironic to me is many of these people who are obsessive about these networks have real live people living in their own homes who they rarely interact with. They have friends and relatives living on the next block who are rarely visited. I’m not pointing fingers – I’m just as guilty as everyone else. It’s so effortless to flip open the laptop and leave a quick message, and much more effortful to make a live appearance. Although, the differences between the two are like night and day. Don’t misunderstand, I believe real relationships can be formed and nurtured over the internet – if both parties are willing to put in the time and effort. Still, it’s a much longer process than face-to-face interactions, and even in the best of circumstances will never be equal to having that person by your side.

Bah – I take stuff too seriously. They say all artsy people are that way. I just love to know what makes people tick; now if I could just figure out my own devices – I could rule the world! And then I’d rule Facebook! I’d have eight thousand friends and they’d all love me, hang on my every word, and send me extravagant Christmas gifts which they can’t afford.

Hey – Facebook me!

Give Me Liberty or Give Me a Rare Steak

2009-07-22T18:11:00.002-04:00

The second she stepped out of the building, Linda felt it. The thick humid air smacked against her skin. Day twelve of one-hundred-plus temperatures, and it didn’t seem to matter that it was only 7:00 A.M.

Linda strode past towering buildings on either side that seemed to trap the heat between and deposit itself directly on her being. Blacktop covered parking lots mocked anyone with bare feet and blanketed themselves in a hazy fog that hovered just above its surface.

She hurried her pace anticipating the air-conditioned restaurant where soon she’d be serving eggs and coffee and carefully blotted the beads of sweat forming on her brow. Linda knew if her make-up became ruined, her tips were bound to suffer. Waitressing at this place was 10% service and 90% flirting, and she was mastering both.

THE END

I told you so.

Whatever happened to 5:00 PM rush hour? When did the world shift ahead two hours, and why didn’t anyone tell me? Coming through my semi-small town just north of Cincinnati at 3:00 PM has now become reminiscent of New York City on a slow day. Isn’t this traffic supposed to appear much later?

My husband’s twenty-one year old niece and her boyfriend came to visit with us for the week-end from Nashville Tennessee. Cassie, who’s always been a well mannered and delightful girl, slept in the spare bedroom while her bf slept on the couch – in case any of you finger-pointers are wondering. I am nothing if not consistent. Besides, I have a teenage daughter in the house and I don’t need to give her any more ammunition than she already has.

Cassie’s boyfriend, Brad, was born and raised in Tennessee and I have to say with all certainty this was the most polite, considerate, and well mannered young man I’ve ever met. Is this a southern thing? If so, I’m sending my daughter down there to find one as soon as she starts hearing wedding bells. This guy was all about please and thank you, consistently held doors open, and offered to pay for our lunch. When getting out of the car after a trip (knowing there was stuff in the trunk) he would beat me to the rear of the car and begin helping like it was second nature or something. Needless to say, I was thoroughly impressed. Way to go – all you Tennessee parents. I won’t elaborate on how this magnifies my own failures as a parent; I’ll just leave that to your imagination.

In all fairness to my beloved child, I must say her behavior is always exemplary - when she’s not at home. Since she was a pre-schooler, her teachers would add comments like, “A pleasure to have in class,” to her report cards. And since I’m boasting – I’ll go ahead and mention that she’s in all honor classes. Excuse me while I strut around the blog.

Hey! I saw you stick your foot out!

We took a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo on Sunday – which, by the way, is ranked one of the best zoos in the country. I’ll post some pics for your viewing pleasure as soon as I get my daughter to transfer them from my camera to the laptop; I can’t be bothered with such trivial work (translation = I don’t know how).

I’ve been to this zoo and others countless times, and I enjoy looking at animals I’d never get a chance to see up close any other time, but I can’t help but think the whole thing is just wrong. Animals like lions, bears, and apes all trapped in a small area, never to be free. It’s true, Cincinnati does a good job of making their environments look similar to where they’d hang out in the wild, but the spaces are still considerably smaller than if they were in, oh – let’s say – a jungle.

As I stood there with scores of other people staring at the apes, I longed to know what they were thinking. Are they content, bored, hopeless? Most of the animals just lie around while all of us oglers want to see them get up and do something, anything. The manatee swim in the same circle – round and round, and the cats pace the same path over and over. Can people really think this is a good thing? Is it better to capture an almost extinct animal just to have it, or let it live as it was meant?

Now that you’re thoroughly bored from my zoo rant, I’ll tell you a little secret. Are you listening? Lean in. Closer. Don’t tell anyone, but I lied today. Yeah – that’s right. I know it’s wrong! Geesh, give me a break, I couldn’t help myself. When the old lady from London e-mailed me today and told me she wanted her inheritance to go to good use by sending it to me, I replied by saying I’d be in her town tomorrow and we could have a face-to-face chat over the whole matter. You know, skip all the red tape. She could just give me the cash right there, on her death bed. Then I would kiss her forehead and promise to use the money to feed all the starving children in Ethiopia.

And that’s a wrap! Paula has left the building.

Chaotic

2009-07-13T07:46:00.020-04:00

Esther Brownsby probably never thought being tied to a chair would eventually be part of her dining experience.

However, if one happened to be the unfortunate victim of Alzheimer’s while living in a nursing home, and was known for wandering off in the year of nineteen eighty-four, being tied up was par for the course.

Esther shoved the peas aside causing most of them to fall off her plate, and grudgingly stuck her fork into the over-cooked slice of meatloaf. I watched her face contort into a grimace just before she pulled the partially chewed chunk of meat from her mouth and threw it to the floor.
“Let the dog get it.” Esther remarked, just as I grabbed her napkin to retrieve the repulsive meat. She was beginning to fiddle with the straps on her restraint before I could distract her enough to grab the cup of ice cream. Esther was known for her love of chocolate.

THE END

Yeah, that’s as far as I got in writing last weeks challenge entry for Faithwriters.com. It’s one in a slew of partially finished short stories that die an early death due to a Thursday morning deadline, which sneaks up behind me and mocks my procrastination. But, hey – I wrote something, so there.

Why, I wonder, do politicians want to destroy our healthcare and kill us? Do people really want governmental bureaucrats managing yet another area of our lives? Rationing is okay for flour and cheese in war time, but if I need a CAT scan, I want it now.

Why do we curse people who are driving too slowly and speed around them, but when someone speeds around us we call them a “maniac”?

I’m on day three of writing this post. That’s right. Three days to write basically nothing worth reading. So I sit here having no idea what to write but force my fingertips to move across the keyboard anyway. Just string letters together to form words – something will come. Ignore the drops of blood forming on my forehead. Perseverance pays off, or so they say.

My husband found out he is a diabetic a few weeks ago, or as he likes to say, “Borderline damnit.” Which isn’t as bad as actually being in the country of Diabetes, apparently. Don’t cross the border or they’ll shoot your head off! I lied. My husband wouldn’t curse; I added the “damnit” for effect. It successfully portrays his mood when I bring up the subject of what he has on his plate. I don’t really get why people get upset because other people care about them. Maybe it’s the nagging factor, although I wouldn’t consider myself to be nagging – more like reminding.

DAY FOUR

I begin beating myself over the head with a rolling pin while mumbling, “Write write write .” Suddenly I halt the self motivation technique and notice a crumb on the kitchen counter. Which leads to noticing smudges on the microwaves, spills on the stove, and fingerprints on the pantry door.

DAY FIVE

The need to write is more powerful now. Maybe if I wait until Day Ten, the words will just overpower me and place themselves on the keyboard. Soon, I’ll be able to post the two paragraphs I’ve written for this weeks writing challenge.

Have I mentioned I’m married to a saint? Good married couples balance each other, however, the scales are heavily tipped in his favor and I just hold on for dear life. When we were married my mom said, “If you two end up divorced – I’m keeping Matt.” I don’t blame her; I would’ve said the same thing had it been my daughter. Luckily, once in a while his goodness rubs off on me and I get to wear the halo. But it’s usually not long before I find myself kicking it around in the street, using the sewer as a goal.

Welp, I think I have typed enough to actually post this in its entirety. It doesn’t make much sense, and you’ll forgive me, I know. I promise to do better and make you proud of me, and in the end you and I can celebrate in Hawaii while watching hula dancers and gnawing on pineapple. Just ignore the screams coming from my side of the campfire, “Are you eating potato-chips AGAIN?!!”

A Man's Mirror

2009-06-28T23:39:00.001-04:00

There’s somethin’ about you baby, that makes me want to feed you a high calorie meal and lengthen your trousers.

I can’t say I was ever a fan of Farah Fawcett, who died this past week. Although I certainly knew who she was, and spent more than a few hours during my younger years, trying to copy her coveted hair style. I didn’t much care for Charlie’s Angels but did appreciate her performance in The Burning Bed, perhaps because I fantasized about doing such to my now ex-husband. Maybe I’m ignorant to all that was the icon-Farah, but I’m left with the impression her most notable accomplishment was nicely posing for a swimsuit pin-up.

Michael Jackson, who died on the same day as Farah, however, has left quite a different impression on my being. I was never a huge Jackson fan, but did grow up listening to him and enjoying his music, dance, and videos.

Nah, I never could get the “Moonwalk” perfected. My version looked more like the Saturn shuffle.

I can still remember the day the Thriller video made its debut, my friends and I gathered around the T.V. with high expectations and Michael delivered, leaving none disappointed. I’m not sure why I didn’t recognize it at the time, but this man was clearly a musical genius.

Some have said the bridge of brilliance can lead to the island of insanity. Or maybe only I said that, either way – what a trip!

As with many Jackson fans, the allegations of child molestation, weird, eccentric happenings, and the more than disturbing transformation (mutilation) he subjected to his face, sent up red flags all over our musical listening lawns.

To be fair, Michael was acquitted of all charges concerning the molestation incident and I remember feeling relieved when hearing the verdict, but certainly can’t pretend like I know what actually happened. I won’t deny there was always that speck of doubt that lingered in my mind, fueled by the media’s seeming angst against him. It was more than obvious to all of us by this time; there was something going on with this guy which made it impossible to ignore the fact that he had “issues.” Issues, which apparently stemmed from an abusive childhood at the hands of his own father.

But who of us don’t have issues? I’ve been known to panic after noticing dust bunnies swirling beneath the bed. I’m reminded of how grateful I am that there are no paparazzi reporting on my every eccentric-ism.

Still, I have to ask the question; why was the death of Michael Jackson such a shock to so many? It has to be more than his young years, he wasn’t twenty-five - he was fifty. While fifty is still considered much too young to suffer death, it certainly isn’t unheard of. Was it because he’s been out of the public eye for so long, the last thing any fan expected to hear about him next, was of his demise? Is it because of the magnitude of his fame? Is there some part of our brains that dehumanize these super-stars, deeming them untouchable – even for death?

Bigger than life.

Or perhaps a combination of all this, and more. There’s no question the tragic aspect of Michael’s life plays a roll in the outpouring of love and grief. Whatever you think of him, there’s no denying his musical talent and success far surpassed those of most entertainers. Someone who, from our viewpoint, had all that is desirable – yet was profoundly miserable.

If something good can come out of Michael’s death, I hope it will be that people will give pause to what they consider valuable. I hope people will discover we are all the same – in the deep crevices of our hearts lie the universal need to love and be loved. A desire to be accepted and appreciated.

Michael, with all of his talent, didn’t deserve to be loved any more or any less than any other human being. His accolades, awards, and platinum accomplishments couldn’t fill those crevices or smooth over the scars of his life, and our impressive automobiles and designer denims won’t serve any better.

If something good can come out of Michael’s death, I hope people will look up. I hope somehow, in some way, they find the only One who promises to accept, appreciate, and love.

Now – just BEAT IT!

Over-Worked and Under-Prayed

2009-06-20T00:44:00.000-04:00

I'm obsessed with being productive. And it's wrecking all my fun.

A few years ago I began asking God to "make me His servant." Honestly, I just wanted to be used for His purpose, any purpose, as long as it was "God-sent." I spent many nights beating myself up for spending years sitting on the shelf, collecting dust and being perfectly useless. Little did I know He would answer my request - but not in the way I had imagined.

I dove head-first into any and every ministry I thought could use me, volunteered my time and read theology books day and night.

I started working toward a bachelors degree in biblical studies, although I'm beginning to think Jesus may come before I ever get finished - then I suppose I could just ask Him for all the answers. If that happens, shouldn't it be called a "Masters" degree? hehe

There were times when I thought I was doing the right thing by studying, evangelizing, or being involved in yet another church project, while my daughter withdrew and my husband sat alone. "Putting God first," "Being a good servant," "Sacrifice," were just a few of the words I used.

Yes, God gave me my wish, and I began to realize I was miserable. One evening I was listening to a sermon and the preacher said, "Serving your family IS putting God first," at that moment I felt those words were meant just for me. All the while I'd been trying to serve God, but missing the most important way He'd given me to serve - my own family.

And it wasn't just my family I'd been neglecting, but God Himself. It came as quite a shock for me to realize all of the good deeds in the world can't build a relationship when there's very little communication - and this is what God really desires from us. My prayer life was dismal, but then, I was too busy to pray! Don't misunderstand, I still struggle to make time for prayer - but I'm miles from where I used to be.

I'm still learning what this whole grace thing is about. And I still flounder more than I swim, but one thing I know for sure is that God's love for me is not determined by how much I do. What a relief! And yes, I still obsess over being productive more than I ought, and I still feel guilty when I take time off. But someday soon I'm sure I'll be able to sit on the porch swing, do absolutely nothing except swing, and know that God loves me.

No Pomp for Lunch

2009-06-16T23:19:00.004-04:00

The BMV (Bureau of Motor Vehicles) may become my home - away from home.

I was there today, during a momentous occasion - daughter receiving her temporary driving permit. I'm not sure if I should weep or celebrate. Granted, it'll be a few more months before I can unleash her on unsuspecting elderly drivers, nevertheless, in spite of my growing fear of handing over the coveted keys, I also have an uncanny urge to throw a "Mom's no longer your chauffeur" bash. And what a bash it would be!

If I invited everyone who was present at the BMV today,the photos would look like something out of Poor Man's Weekly.

I wonder, do people feel distraught about going to the BMV - knowing they're about to spend three (or more) hours wages on a sticker which size is comparable to that of a healthy bunny turd? This dismay compels them to throw on whatever clothes lie crumpled in the corner, forget about the hair and make-up, and who cares if last night's decision to forgo shaving the stubbly leg hair has now resulted in a full blown shaggy-thigh pandemic.

As I sat there, crowded by people of my own kind, I felt strangely comforted in my wife-beater t-shirt, frizzed-out hair and stained, cut-off denim shorts. Even with hairy legs, I
knew the guy seated next to me understood when his sheepish smile revealed this afternoon's salad - lodged firmly between his two front teeth.

Unpretentiousness was the order of the day, and I was lapping it up like the left-over chocolaty milk in my Co-Co Puffs cereal bowl.

A thirty-something lady struck up a chat with me about how nervous she was to be taking her driving exam. Her eyes wide with apprehension, fidgety hands and green sneakers (she'd been mowing the lawn) left me free to converse without walls or worries of sounding enlightened.

People like this don't care how rich your vocabulary is or how many bedrooms are in your Terrace Place closed community home. I think these are the kinds of people who will inhabit Heaven. Just average, ordinary people, experiencing life, loving God and not wasting one precious moment pretending to be anyone but who they are.

A Time For Every Purpose

2009-06-15T23:56:00.001-04:00

Good evening friends and people who can barely tolerate me.

Today I was contemplating shaving my legs, but decided against it.

I wonder when this aversion I have to normal everyday activities began, I just noticed my lack of interest a few months ago. These are things which I know ought to be done for my own good, but when I think about doing them I get quite agitated because it means I have to stop doing other stuff.

I get annoyed at myself for feeling hungry. Belly growls signify that I have two choices; 1.) eat or 2.) get a headache. What's the big deal, just grab some food for crying out loud! Sometimes I opt for the headache just because I don't want to stop whatever it is I'm doing. You'd never know it, however, if you saw my hips. No wonder you don't believe me.

And what about sleeping? We've already been over my nightly struggle just to fall asleep - but then I'm expected to sleep for seven-eight hours to feel rested? Geesh! I can't think of a bigger way to waste time!

Besides, I sleep much better in the afternoon when I should be working.

Ahh...naps are a glorious thing. In case you're wondering - (I'm sure you do wonder about my sleep habits) I've tried cutting out any naps to make falling asleep easier at night. Nope, doesn't work. It's like something snaps inside my head around 10:00 p.m. and my brain dares my body to go near the bedroom.

No eating, no sleeping - wow! Think of all the senseless blogging I could do.

Showering. Oh, stop holding your nose! I do shower daily, but not because I want to. The drudgery of having to stand there and wash is almost more than I can bare/bear. If I could cut out showering every day at fifteen minutes a shot, that's almost two extra hours a week, eight hours a month, and a whopping ninety-six hours a year! However, I don't recommend anyone stop showering, especially if I have to smell you.
KIDS- DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Does anyone else get irritated by these daily intrusions, or is it just me? I'm weird, it's probably just me.

Musings of an Earlier Time

2009-06-13T11:41:00.010-04:00

Yowza! What a week - filled with grueling lesson plans, activity seeking, phone call making, endless driving, and then trying to make it all somehow seem “fun.” In spite of all the hard work, a good time was had by all and I think the teenagers learned a few things in the process.

I wonder, when Jesus prepared His teachings, if He experienced some of the same things I did.

Jesus: “How am I going to make this fun?” Shuffling His sandals in the sand, He contemplates craft ideas, then sends His disciples ahead to harass people about showing up.

********

Woman who touched the hem of Jesus’ garment: “I don’t have a ride; can you pick me up and bring me home?”

James: “Uh, yeah – and invite your friends!” James grumbles silently, knowing he’ll be on the road for hours and his donkey isn’t what it used to be.

*********

Man healed of leprosy: “I don’t know, a friend is having his Bar Mitzvah tonight, will you have food?”

Matthew: “Absolutely – Jesus is at the grocery as we speak, picking up some goodies!” Matthew secretly ponders doing a tax audit on this guy.

*********

Woman at the well: “My kids? Well, you know, I can’t MAKE them come!”

Peter: Grins sheepishly, “Yeah, I guess not, but tell them we’ll be playing putt-putt tonight!” Peter suppresses urge to slice off her ear.

*********

Paralytic who was lowered through the roof: Takes a moment to read flyer, “You bet- I’ll be there! Wouldn’t miss it! Can't wait!"

John: Politely thanks him, and walks away - knowing full well this joker won’t show up.

*********

Meanwhile, back at the Temple: Jesus stirs ten pounds of hamburger and hopes it’s enough. On the other hand, if it’s way too much – He knows He’ll be eating tacos for the next eleven days. He checks the budget to see if there’s enough money left to buy a cake, and prepares the room with whimsical decorations, complete with a life-sized cardboard camel. One that you can punch the face out of, in case any students want to have their picture taken and fool their friends into thinking they grew the body of a camel.

**********

Nah, you’re right. I don’t think it was anything like that either.

I think Peter actually would have sliced her ear off.

You're Beautiful, and I Hate You

2009-06-09T00:01:00.001-04:00

Isn’t it interesting how certain images from the past lodge themselves into the crevices of our memory like that stubborn kernel of popcorn wedged between two molars?
I wonder if people who lose their wisdom teeth have fewer memories. Perhaps old people can take out their dentures whenever they don’t want to remember. Or maybe people with partial plates can…nevermind, you get the picture.

**************

There I stood, nervous and scared in front of five females, adorned in my Sunday best. At the age of seventeen, I must’ve seemed very young to those twenty-fivish looking alley cats, all sizing me up with every bit of disdain a truck driver has for speed limits. While the office manager introduced me - it happened. An event that should’ve been insignificant turned into one of those wedged kernels.

Her cupped hand went to the eager ear of her co-worker, whispered words, subtle snickers, mocking glances. One can never find a toothpick when it’s needed. If I’d had one I may have used it to gouge their eyes out. The mess would’ve been a nice distraction.

**************

While shopping with my teenager daughter, in a matter of just a few hours – I’m able to witness girl after girl fire searing looks at her that, if able to be bottled, would be the envy of any military force. I actually witnessed one girl give my daughter such a look, that I thought her head might explode. Her face contorted, eyebrows furrowed, eyeballs rolling into the back of their sockets – I wasn’t sure if I should be angry or call an ambulance.

Is it no wonder our young women are more self conscience than ever? They have each other to thank. Just for the record, I’m not referring to girls who are scantily dressed, have multiple piercings, or any other oddity kids use to draw attention. These are normal females who haven’t broken any rules, except that they happen to be attractive. And how dare they!

I’m not sure how we arrived at this place where women hate other women just because they're beautiful, I know it’s nothing new – but the momentum seems to be swinging out of control. Have we sunk so low that we only look at each other as someone to be in competition with, never to consider the human being behind the exterior? Are we so shallow that we feel we must make another bleed – just to feed our own blood-thirsty desire to be “the best,” “the most,” “the center.”

Females: try something new this week. Smile at a beautiful woman. Don’t be surprised if she looks shocked for a moment. And then prepare to be smiled upon.

Please Press 5 to Repeat Menu Options

2009-06-06T01:03:00.000-04:00

A solid seven point five hours of sleep last night, plus a thirty-minute nap today has left me ready to conquer the world! Perhaps I should conquer the laundry first. Thanks be to Tylenol PM, I was able to skip steps nine through seventeen and get right to business.

The manager at Staples Office Supplies ought to be grateful also. If I’d been my usual tired and grumpy self I may have peeled his face off with my perfectly manicured nails and stuffed his dangling flesh through the copy machine.

Sorry, that may have been too graphic for some of my sensitive readers. I don’t have many pet peeves, but incompetence by people who are paid to be competent is one I grapple with. Honestly, I don’t mind a little floundering by the competently-challenged (to be referred to as “C-C”) if the dork at least: 1.) Acknowledges his mistake, 2.) Assures me it will be corrected, 3.) Pretends to care about keeping my business, and 4.) Kisses my ring while genuflecting. Is that really too much to ask?

Sometimes I get free food at restaurants that employ the C-C because they don’t know the difference between well-done and rare. I never ask for anything free, but I guess when the wait person notices me passed out on the floor and vomit dribbling from my lip, they figure they ought to do something extra-special. Hubby enjoys that benefit too (free food, not the vomit).

And then there’s the newspaper joint in my town that strictly employ the C-C.

“Listen carefully as our options have changed. Press 1 to report delivery problems. Press 2 to stop delivery. Press 3 to begin delivery. Press 4 to speak to an associate.”

After pressing 4, you get: “Listen carefully as our options have changed. Press 1 to report….”

&^%$%^!!!

Our Father who art in Heaven….

Having said all of that, I know I stink at several things. Driving is one thing which comes to mind. I’m not reckless or anything, but I am stupid about some things. I just learned a few years ago (I’ve been driving for 27 years) that on a two-lane highway you’re only supposed to drive in the left lane to pass. This explains a lot. I remember more than once getting the not-so-nice hand gesture and actually getting angry at the gesturer. I was doing the speed limit for crying out loud!

Which reminds me of a great joke I heard the other day, I have to share it:

A woman was waiting at an airport one night, with several long hours before her flight. She hunted for a book in the airport shops and bought a bag of cookies. She was engrossed in her book but noticed the man sitting beside her grabbed a cookie or two from the bag. She tried to ignore it, and munched the cookies herself.

With each cookie she took, he took one also, when only one was left; she wondered what he would do. With a disgruntled sigh, he took the last cookie and shoved it toward her. She snatched it from him and thought...oooh, brother. This guy has some nerve and he's also rude.

She sighed with relief when her flight was called, and gathered her belongings, headed to the gate, refusing to look back at that thieving ingrate.

She boarded the plane, and sank in her seat. Then she rummaged through her baggage to find her book and when she reached inside, she gasped with surprise. There was her bag of cookies, in front of her eyes!

Dreaming of Dreaming

2009-06-04T23:00:00.002-04:00

Alrighty then. Just chased down two Tylenol PM with a mug of coffee.

No worries – I think my body has grown immune to caffeine; just converts it into fat like everything else I consume. Taking sleep aids one evening a week ensures I get at least one full night’s rest which helps me refuel for the following sleep depraved six. I like to refuel near the weekend so I can take full advantage of being off work. Who cares if my work week is done in zombie mode? You do? Aww, that’s so kind. You want to give me your feather pillow? Nice! By any chance, do you have a matching duvet cover and shams to go with? A girl likes to be stylish while she’s snoring.

Sweet slumber used to be my friend until I hit forty when Old Man Elderly decided to mess everything up. Anytime I slipped under the covers would result in a few seconds of rehashing the day’s events, then off to la-la land.

Now that I’m forty-three, the best I can hope for is to fall asleep within an hour. I have sort of a ritual now.

1. No beverages containing caffeine two hours prior to bed – (doesn’t really matter but I like to trick myself) Already blew this one – drats!
2. No watching Aerosmith videos thirty minutes prior to bed – (Dude Looks Like a Lady flashbacks, hinder relaxation)
3. No playing with techy stuff ten minutes prior to bed – (stimulates central and peripheral nervous system)
4. Check for anything that needs plucking- (promotes less friction against pillow)
5. Shake finger in Horse Head’s face and threaten violence for barking. - (no explanation necessary)
6. Make sure bedroom temperature is below seventy degrees – (thirty degrees would be ideal)
7. Check alarm setting on clock and make sure it’s set twenty minutes before time needed to get up. – (can hit snooze three times)
8. Check time setting on clock and make sure it’s set ten minutes faster than actual time. (can hit snooze one extra time)
9. Climb into bed and start telling self how tired I am. (ignore twitching)
10. Try not to wake hub in order to avoid lecture about staying up too late. – (if he does awaken, request back rub)
11. Fluff pillows, close eyes, snuggle in.- (wont last long)
12. Fluff pillows, close eyes, stick leg out from under cover. (wont last long)
13. Pound pillows, close eyes, throw entire blanket off – it’s too darn hot in here! (turn air down and fan up)
14. Pretend like boogie man is watching and if I move he will kill me. - (sometimes works)
15. Chant silently, “Mind is off, mind is off, mind is off.” - (picture light switch flipping down)
16. Pound pillows, close eyes, cover self with blanket – getting cold in here! (good sign)
17. Picture self lying on marshmallowy cloud, harps softly playing, fluffy sheep bouncing by. – (wont be long now)

So, there you have it. It’s exhausting, I know. You’d think I’d be worn out after all that. Feel free to share this list with anyone you know who struggles with going to sleep, free of charge, of course.

I’m off to get started to get finished. Wish me luck!

Speaking of Night Crawlers

2009-06-04T00:41:00.001-04:00

Greetings lovely people, or person. Whichever applies.

I worked like a dog at church today, gearing up for Vacation Bible School. For those who may not know, I'm employed at the church where I'm also a member. It's like anything else I suppose..with pros and cons. The job itself - I'm in love with. Who could complain about working somewhere where you feel at home, get to participate in a great ministry, AND get paid for it? Not I.

I'll be teaching the teenagers next week, Mon-Fri, in the evening. More work for me to do - just GREAT! (smile) I'm kidding, kind of. I seem to have developed a fondness for teens, not sure how or why that happened, but I'm glad it did. More kids than ever are leaving their faith during college, and if God can use me to prevent this from happening for only one, all my hard work will have been well worth it.

The challenge is getting them to come. Parties, games, food...etc. The bribery list goes on for days. When I first began teaching (Bible study class) I'd refuse to participate in any of these tactics. "I just want to teach!" was my motto. Unfortunately, it doesn't matter how much one wants to teach if no one shows up to listen. So - during VBS we'll be playing putt-putt, having a pizza party and if you have any other good bribes up your sleeve, please let me know.

I've heard many people say things like, "God will provide the kids He wants there." But I'm not so sure it works that way, sure - God is sovereign, and how in the world He works that out with the human will is far beyond what I understand - and trust me, I've tried. Lately, when I think about it, I keep coming back to what Jesus said about making Peter a "fisher of men." God supplies the net, the bait, and the boat - but what good are they if no one casts, hooks, or sails? Ahh well, I just hope putt-putt will work as well as night crawlers.

Speaking of night crawlers...

Dave-O and Dav-id seem to be having some kind of dude-war going on concerning who's the manliest man. Now, I certainly don't want to compete with all things male - but since it looks like they're having fun I wanted to get in on it. And besides, I think I have them both beat. You decide.

Dave-O

Somewhat impressive.

Dav-id

Hmm, not quite as impressive - but interesting nostril hair.

As you can see, they're using soda cans to use as a comparison. I didn't have any of those so I edited in the little butterfly for your comparison here:

Pau-la

Yeah, read it and weep.

Dogs Are My Favorite People

2009-06-01T23:57:00.003-04:00

Confessions – Part Four
"Dogs Are My Favorite People" is part four of a series of confessions entitled "Confessions."

Is that a cute pic or what? I’m starting to feel guilty about taking some of these photos from the net without checking to see if they’re free for the public. It’s just such a hassle, and takes enormous amounts of time to find the ones which are freely distributed. And if people don’t want their photos to be taken why don’t they block them? OKAY YOU’RE RIGHT – that doesn’t make it okay! Geesh, did you just come here to send me on a guilt trip? Anyway, if anyone knows where I can get a nice selection of photos without having to jump through hoops, please let me know. Thank you, thank you very much.

Moving on to the confession at hand…dogs. I love all animals generally, but dogs are my favorite. What’s wrong with that? I’ll TELL you, mister man; it’s a problem when one prefers dogs over people.

You’re sick. I’d never marry one or anything. Stay with me, will ya?

Besides, I’m already married. But I won’t lie about noticing that handsome mutt next door.

Just to clarify, and I think I must – I’m not one of those people who think animals are on an even playing field with humankind, and I don’t treat my pets like children or do freaky stuff like feed them from fine china or dress them up. Well… sometimes I do slip my panties on Horse Head before putting him in the backyard. But I mostly do that for a laugh, plus it embarrasses hubby.

The first time I actually noticed my warped outlook on life was when a friend of a friend brought her new baby over to said friend’s home while I was there. She had her dog with her – can you guess which I fawned over first? In my defense, it WAS an adorable Labradoodle.

That wasn’t the only time I found myself gravitating toward animals rather than people. More than a few times you might find me outside playing with the dogs while the party’s going on inside.

As a matter of fact, a dog party is my cup of tea. Big dogs, little dogs, blue dogs, red dogs - it’s a dog party! (A little Dr. Seuss for the occasion)

Yeah, I enjoy good conversation and have healthy relationships with people that I would never swap for a dogaffair, however, I still have to wonder why I’d rather pet a puppy than bounce a baby (my own baby was different, mind you – I’m not totally reprobate) or visit a pet store rather than a human store. Wait – aww, you know what I mean.

Why do I sob like someone just drank the last cup of coffee without making a new pot when I see an animal abuse story on the news? They’re JUST DOGS for crying out loud!

Just dogs.

Dogs that’re always glad you came home. Always hate to see you leave. And always love you, even when you don’t feel particularly lovable.

I Beg Your Pardon?

2009-06-01T00:53:00.002-04:00

Did you just think what I think you thunk? Well, don’t let it happen again. Says the rabbit to the lion.

Good news - I survived the tornadic weather happenings. And today held no remnants of the stormy night, other than the deflated expression of adrenaline burn-out on the faces of our local weather people.

The children’s choir at our church performed a musical entitled “Arkeology” tonight. Extremely cute. I would post some pics for you, but being the ignorant, forgetful, air-head that I am, my camera was left on the kitchen table right next to my purse so I’d be sure not to forget.

The story of the musical was told from the perspective of the animals on Noah’s Ark, which, I must admit – I’ve never considered before. I wonder if the skunk lost his cool every time the elephant came near, or if the bunny shivered in fear when the lion licked his lips. Of course, I’m sure the animals weren’t roaming freely about the ark, but I bet they interacted in some ways. What were they thinking after a whole year had passed and were still confined? Great – something else for me to ponder and never know the answers!

The musical had a nice ending with a big emphasis on the rainbow. It made me remember how often I forget what God has promised, and how often I concentrate on the storm rather than the rainbow. Sure, it’s tough to see the promise when the waters are raging and the wind is beating against my boat – but something tells me the rainbow was there all along.

Speaking of zoo animals…

This is my daughter, Laura, on your left and her cousin in the background. Isn’t she the most beautiful child you’ve ever seen? She’s fifteen now, so sometimes she’s more beautiful than others – if you know what I mean. (wink wink) What is that expression on Rachel's face, you ask? She's sticking you up with her squirt gun! Geesh, get with it people.

On my drive home from the infamous Jungle Jims yesterday, I noticed one of those large billboards on the side of the road. It read, "KISS ...Keep it Safe Seniors." Mind you, this a very busy 4 lane highway. Seems to me, if they were that concerned about seniors keeping it safe they wouldn't be trying to distract them with huge billboards.

We Got Jungle Jims - What You Got?

2009-05-31T00:23:00.001-04:00

Well?

Many cities have lofty museums, sandy beaches, or majestic mountains, but we got Jungle Jims. Take that, sucker.

Today I went there on a shopping extravaganza. You’ve probably heard of it, or not. It's an icon as far as supermarkets go. Each time I visit (twice a year) I’m always astonished, but when one lives in Ohio it doesn’t take much.

The Jungle has any type of food item you could ever want from all over the world, and some you probably don’t want.

Ewwwww!

Gagggggg!

As a matter of fact, they were voted to have the best restrooms in America in 2007 by Cintas. Needless to say, people come from far and wide to visit The Jungle.

So, the next time you go strutting around your so-called fabulous town, just remember – you don’t got Jungle Jims.

You know what else we got?

Tornados. I bet that blows you away.

We’re having a tornado warning at this very moment. I’m not scared, much. They get to be common place in the spring around these parts. Why am I suddenly talking like a hick? Let me rephrase. Tornado warnings are not unusual in southwest Ohio. There, that sounds more intellectual.

I get a kick out of watching the weather people on TV trying to whip people into frenzy. Air mass, vertical wind shear, shortwave of energy – so many weather terms and so little time.

Of course, the warnings should be taken seriously. I thought I better say that in case any of you dare devils decide to do something stupid and run into the center of a tornado. Then again, maybe you would get taken to Oz and meet the wicked witch, realize your old life wasn’t so bad and then stop your incessant whining.

I’ve always been fascinated by tornadoes, have never actually seen one up close – but have seen the effects not far from where I live. It reminded me of what my hair looks like in the morning.

I must admit, I love a good storm. Not the wimpy kinds you people get who live in your so-called fabulous towns. I’m talking about storms which produce claps of thunder that rock your whole foundation, and lightning flashes which turn night into day. I know when it’s going to be a good one – everything gets eerily calm and the sky turns a yellowish green. I used to think I wanted to be one of those storm chasers – but instead I got married and had a family, they always spoil my fun.

Speaking of being politically incorrect…

I didn’t realize how much I missed watching this show, or how much times have changed. Can you imagine that sort of thing being aired today? Don’t misunderstand – I don’t advocate prejudices, but LIGHTEN-UP people! Not you personally – sorry.

Remember how Archie would tell Edith to “stifle”? Well, here she reverses the roles…

Which reminds me of my own mustache, I better get to plucking. But before I go, I need to wrap this thing up like a real writer does by tying tornadoes and All in the Family clips into Jungle Jims supermarket.

Never mind, I’m too tired to be a real writer tonight.

I Never Promised You a Prose Garden

2009-05-30T02:03:00.006-04:00

But that’s exactly what you’re going to get! Prose, prose, and more prose.

All photography in this post compliments of a friend, Superragman. You can view more of his work here: Come Walk With Me

Feeling very tired and dull this evening, its been a long and tedious week. That’s what I get for taking Monday off. Trying to stuff five days of work into four is like trying to stuff myself back into those size five denims. It aint happenin’.

Of course, I don’t get to take Saturday or Sunday off either. Saturday is always ketchup day when I attempt to do everything I couldn’t the previous five. Sundays’ I enjoy church although it’s more like work than rest. I teach in the morning, and then there’s choir – which I have no business being part of, but hey, someone has to do it. Then back to church Sunday night – when I can just sit and listen. It’s a good part of the day.

I’m becoming painfully aware I don’t listen often enough. Various moments in my day I find myself talking to God, thanking Him for this or that but rarely do I just listen.

Perhaps this is why I have such a love affair with Scripture. God never fails to speak to me when I meet Him there. However, I don’t believer anything can replace silent prayer. Just me and my Father, and allowing His presence to unpack my suitcase of fears. A time to lay every doubt and unrealized dream at His feet while He gently reminds me He has much better things in store for me where He is.

Don’t misunderstand, I enjoy this life and relish in all the beauty of His creation while I’m here, but I’m assured this life is only a whetting of the appetite for His banquet.

If we can enjoy things like this, here on earth…can you imagine what Heaven will be like?

Nah, I can’t imagine it either. No matter how I try. Although I’m certain we wont be disappointed.

There's a Horse Living in My House

2009-05-28T23:41:00.005-04:00

I decided to post a pretty picture today since yesterdays were disturbing for some of you. I think I even grossed myself out a bit.

This is our Great Pyrenees, Bingo – but we just call him Biggie, or Horse Head. He’s pretty, don’t you think? In a manly-dog, kind of way. I edited in the little butterfly next to his head to give you an idea of how big he is. Wasn’t that brilliant of me? I don’t want you thinking I have butterflies flitting around my home. As you can see, he’s much larger than your average size insect. 135 pounds larger – to be exact.

WARNING- RANT FORTHCOMING

This dog is the biggest pain in my buttocks ever. All he does is traipse around my house leaving hair everywhere, which results in my having to vacuum incessantly like some kind of Hoover freak. The paws on this beast are comparable to a baby lion and they know exactly how to find every mud puddle in the yard. And since we have very little grassy area left -due to his lionish paws, there’s plenty of mud. And then there’s the barking.

Horse Head doesn’t live by many rules, but here are the ones he must uphold at all times:

If a human dare to walk or drive or breathe within a five mile radius – BARK for a minimum of ten minutes.

If another canine dare to walk or bark or breathe within a five mile radius- BARK for a minimum of fifteen minutes.

If the wind dares to blow at any velocity whatsoever – BARK for a minimum of five minutes.

If hunger strikes and feeding trough is found empty – knock trough loudly around kitchen floor and BARK until someone shows up.

If thirst strikes and watering trough is found empty – find a porcelain water bowl with lid up. Regardless of either water supply, be sure to dribble water from chin all over floor. No barking necessary.

End of rant.

Isn’t he cute? In spite of Horse Head’s annoying habits, we love him like the son we never got to screw up for life.

This is a pic of my brother and me:

He has a goofy expression on his face, which is why I chose it. I also want to prove to all of my follower that I’m pretty normal despite the infliction of fungi.

Ooops, let’s not bring that up again!

I edited in the little butterfly next to my head so you could get an idea of how big I am. Brilliant.

I must admit I edited some other stuff too; I’m getting fairly prolific at it, just take a peek at me before the edit:

And here’s a pic of my mom:

HAHA! – Just kidding Mom. I’m thrilled you figured out the comment button! And thanks for being my mom. I love you like Bingo loves barking, only with less noise.

Toenail Fungus is Ruining My Life

2009-05-28T00:20:00.005-04:00

Confessions – Part 3

Toenail Fungus is Ruining My Life is Part 3 of a series of confessions entitled ”Confessions” (In case you forgot)

I didn’t realize I had so much stuff to confess until I started confessing.

It feels good to point out my imperfections while most people are running around trying to hide theirs. I highly recommend it.

Besides, I know you will love me unconditionally. Okay, that might be asking too much – especially by the time I get to part 378 of confessions entitled “Confessions.”

Anyway – let’s move on to the real subject of this post: toenail fungus. I know the suspense is killing you.

This isn’t my toe – but when I Googled “pics of toenail fungus” I found this one which pretty much looks like mine. Google is fantastic. Satan, the evil one - first shook my world with this fungi about two years ago. Oh sure, you know how he works – all slithery and subtle at first. “Did God really say you have toenail fungus?”

I fell for his trickery for awhile and let myself sink into denial by painting the toe with varied hues of red and pink. Yes – you guessed it. Before I knew what hit me, I was in full blown toenail fungus Hell.

I was in deep, and no amount of Sally Hansen could disguise the deep ridges and distorted shape. I played it cool for awhile, figuring if I scrubbed the putrid toenail super hard in the shower it would eventually go away. I wore a band-aid over the mess in public and when someone asked about it, I’d just smile and say, “I stubbed it.” But I could tell by their knowing glances and whispers they were on to me. I didn’t care; I had to keep my secret.

Even my husband was clueless for months, until one day he caught me slathering Vicks Vapor Rub on the deformity. I knew I couldn’t hide it from him anymore, and besides, it stunk.

I cursed Satan day and night and told him I couldn’t wait for Judgment Day. He just snickered while I looked longingly at my thirty-some pairs of sandals. I prayed to God to release my toenail from this bondage. It just got uglier. This must be how the Apostle Paul felt when God told him he must keep his thorn in the flesh also.

After trying a host of so-called home remedies I decided to see what the podiatrist had to say. He was as useless as the Vicks Vapor Rub. “You can try this pill, but it might not help, and it could mess up your liver. And if the pill does help – it will probably come back.” One of Satan’s messengers, no doubt.

So, that’s pretty much it. God has been good so far in keeping the fungus limited to one toenail, and I’m thankful for that. I’m still searching the net for home remedies which I haven’t tried yet, and in the mean time I refuse to let this toenail tragedy distort my view on life and love. I proudly wear my flip-flops and when I catch someone peeking at the thing, I count my blessings and remember – it could always be worse…

Sorry –that’s really gross. And I don’t want to end with grossness, so I will give you an up-date from the Mom camp.

She read the blog and loved it! (Of course she did – she’s Mom!) This could certainly open the door for my making even MORE fun of her (and Dad). I can’t wait! She said she tried to post a comment, but, “It didn’t ‘stick’ or whatever.” This isn’t surprising considering she barely knows how to check e-mail and sometimes stays signed on to AOL for days because she “forgot” to sign off. Gotta love Mom. :)

Big Chickens like Me

2009-05-26T18:32:00.010-04:00

Not big chickens like me – big chickens like me. Get it?

Here I am on day four of my blogging adventure and I still haven’t given Mom the link. I’m too chicken. I was ready to e-mail her last night until I started thinking about the whole birthing post and realized she might get upset about that and unleash her mom-wrath on me. I mean, it is embarrassing for her too I suppose. So for the last hour I’ve been deciding if I should delete it or keep it. Since it’s still here, I guess my decision is made. Besides, her mom-wrath is more like semi-wrath. Anyway, I think it's good for Mom to get used to my honest writing, there's no telling what I might say next.

C’mon Mom – it’s not like anyone around here knows who you are. They can’t Google “Paula’s Mom” and find your pic. Relax, chill, did I mention I love you. :)

On the up-side I have my first follower! Woohoo! (Thanks Dave) I’m still new to this blog etiquette thing, so I was wondering does this mean I should print your pic and have it laminated like business owners do with their first dollar? Hubby might have an opinion on that so I’ll wait and ask him, being the good submissive wife that I am.

Sorry folks, no confessions today. Other than me still being afraid of my mommy, of course. Don’t be dismayed, I’m sure I’ll get around to dragging my name through the mud again before you know it. Speaking of mommies, this video is hillarious...

I don’t want to leave Dad out of the mix so let’s make fun of him for awhile, want to?

Dad isn’t a man of, shall we say, many words. But my dad puts a whole new twist on that phrase, when he can’t think of the word he wants; he just makes his own. And sometimes he uses a word he can think of to replace the real word. For example, one balmy afternoon here in Ohio he and my hub were working on something (can’t remember what). My dad was looking for a certain tool, couldn’t find it – so he asked for the “yo-yo.”

Matt: “What?”

Dad: “You know, the yo-yo thing”

Matt: “What are you talking about, Paul?”

Dad: Becomes flustered and finally finds what he wants.

Matt: Explodes into laughter when he sees Dad pick up the tape measure.

I want to be The Bachelorette without actually being the Bachelorette

2009-05-25T22:20:00.002-04:00

Confessions - Part 2 I am narcissistic.

Calm down little doggies, that’s not a pic of me. Although I look exactly like her except I’m older, fatter and less cute. But I’m certain I could fool someone who is legally blind in a foggy rainstorm.

Above is a pic of this season’s “Bachelorette.” Every time I watch the show I’m reminded of my own narcissism. Now before you get all judgmental – according to WikiAnswers, people can have “healthy” narcissism. That made me chuckle.

I could never actually BE the Bachelorette because I’m happily married to the most bestest man ever and would never DREAM of any other guy (there was that one dream after watching a Brad Pitt movie, but I digress..). However, wouldn’t it be interesting to be surrounded by 20 guys all fighting for your affection? Even the most deflated of egos would surely pork-up a bit. Yeah – I’d dig it for sure. What girl wouldn’t?

I refuse to go out of the house without at least mascara and concealer (it helps diffuse the accumulation of late nights). We can’t have anyone seeing what I really look like, now can we? But why do I care if they do see? Would I be worth less if the checker at Wal-Mart thought I looked a bit racoonish? I think so, apparently.

Speaking of Wal- Mart where I was shopping with my teenage daughter a few weeks ago- I noticed a couple of young gentlemen ogling in my direction. Initially I was flattered – until I realized they weren’t looking at me, but my daughter. How sick is that? Not sick that guys look, sick that I was too stupid too know it wasn’t me they were looking at! After I recouped from the shock to my ego – my mothering instincts kicked-in and I sullenly stared back with a smoldering look I’ll soon need to master. I call it the “back-off-Jack she’s too young” look. All Wal-Mart oglers beware.

Why do so many of us women have this curse of feeling like our self worth directly links to how others view our beauty, or lack of? Why do we suddenly feel invisible when the Victoria Secret commercial comes on? Why can’t we just feel comfortable in our own skin? While we contemplate these questions together, I'm off to pluck, dye, and unclog.

I was Born in a Toilet

2009-05-24T13:50:00.002-04:00

"I was Born in a Toilet" is the first in a series of confessions to be entitled, “Confessions.”

Confessions - Part 1

Now that I’ve formally introduced myself, let us move on to the nitty-gritty. I was born in a toilet. No, I’m not speaking figuratively.

There, it’s out. Man - I feel so unrestrained and liberated! Doesn’t the Bible say, “Confession is good for the soul”? I have no idea, but my soul is screaming “YES!” Not that this little dirty secret of mine has ever been totally concealed. My uncle used to chomp at the bit to inform my teenage boyfriends of this fact upon their first meeting. Everyone should have such an awesome uncle. All I could do is mutter something about it not being my fault. However, this never seemed to extinguish the boy’s initial look of disgust. I remember my ex-husband’s comment once (while we were still married) – “You should have flushed,” he snorted, looking in the direction of Mom. Did I mention he’s my ex-husband?

In defense of my mother, she was only nineteen when she birthed me and was exceptionally naïve and frightened. Don’t look so shocked people! When I googled “people born in toilets,” I was delighted to find quite a few. Having said that, most of those women had good reasons for delivering in toilets – like not being aware of their pregnancy, having some form of retardation, or severe physical handicaps. Mom’s excuses aren’t nearly as good, she tells me she thought she needed to have a bowel movement. I pretty much bought this until I had my own child and then realized she was full of macaroni.

It’s okay Mom, I hold no grudges.

My favorite google story about a person born in a toilet is from a place near Seoul. This guy was not only born in the loo, but is living in one. He built a 1.6 million dollar toilet-shaped house. (See pic above).

You’re probably thinking, how does a person born in a toilet ever get past it and live a normal, happy life? Easy! I figure if God can come to earth as a mere man and allow Himself to be placed in a manger (feeding trough for animals) then I ought to have no problem with plopping into the icy waters of a commode.

Greetings and all that Junk

2009-05-23T13:12:00.000-04:00

Blogging. What is it? Can I do it? Will it require anything strenuous? I’m still not sure if I have the self discipline needed to keep a blog current, but I know one thing for sure – I love to say the word “blog.”

I’ve been trying this blogging thing for a few months and I keep going back to delete what I’ve written. Woe is me. But this time…yeah, this time will be different.

We’ll see.

Should I be funny, serious, informative, or something else all together? I have no idea, so I guess I’ll just be me, which could in all likelihood result in something considerably boring. When I commented to my teenager daughter that Hollywood should follow me around for a reality show, she made it very clear that no one would watch.

I’ve conceded to the fact that I need to write. God seems to have cursed/blessed me with the desire. The process can sometimes be quite grueling and torturous for me, but I always feel a sense of relief when the deed is done. And then there are the ideas – oh yes I have tons of them! However, only a rare few ever make it out of mind and onto the keyboard. So – I figure this blogging thing will give me a venue and an excuse to write. Hopefully.

I’ve read from some of the blogging greats that blogs should be orderly, topic oriented, if you will. In other words – a blog which talks about Christianity, gardening, or parenting shouldn’t be lumped into one blog. Well, I say – too darn bad. My mind doesn’t operate that way. Although I’m known for being organized to the point of obsession – this is really just to cover up for my chaotic thinking. And I want this blog to be about letting the reader see inside my thoughts, whatever my thoughts are for that day.

Which brings me to the reader. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to read about my thoughts, except maybe for my mother. So I’m content with the idea that only Mom will be reading. This is disturbing on many levels. Can I write honestly when Mom is watching? Will she call and ask, “What did you mean by that?” I guess the possibility isn’t so bad when I remember she’s also my greatest cheerleader. Yay for Mom!