how low can you go?

FOREWARD
When my son tells me about his Ultimate Frisbee Tournaments, it sounds like this to my brain:
"So this guy ran down the field and dove and caught it and then he threw it and they scored and then another guy jumped and caught it and then HE threw it and WE scored and then the same guy who made the first throw caught it again and then..."

When my husband tells me about horse stuff, it sounds like this to my brain:
"So the horse ran to the back field and I ran after it and made it run in circles until it got tired and then I went to the barn to get the other horses and I took them out to the back field and then I got the tractor and hauled a round bale out to the back field where the horses were running and..."

So when I tell a birth story, I'm very aware that to some of you it sounds like:
"So then she had a contraction and then we walked and then she had more contractions but she was only dilated to 4 so we walked some more. And then her back hurt but she was only dilated to 5 so we squatted and lunged while she had more contractions. Then she was dilated to 7 and the contractions became really intense and then the contractions were really close together and ..."

But I've got a story to tell and I promise, it won't sound anything like that.

INTRODUCTION
She was only worried about two things:
1. Transporting the 40 miles to the hospital in the dead of winter,
and
2. Staying calm, relaxed and peaceful. (She, MaryKate, had been very stressed and anxious the last time, and did NOT want that experience again.)

CHAPTER ONE
The Call came at 12:40 a.m.. Contractions 10-12 minutes apart, MaryKate is ready for me. Foregoing my usual "I-have-plenty-of-time" shower, I dressed quickly and hit the road, stopping to fill my empty gas tank at 1:00 in the morning. I am 6 blocks from their house when her husband calls (NEVER a good sign), "Steph, we are at 4 minutes apart, we need you now!"

Two minutes later I let myself in the side door. Hubby takes my keys and starts loading things into the van. I find MaryKate laboring in bed, eyes closed, very internally focused. I remind myself: calm, relaxed, peaceful. During contractions I do my "back magic", and in-between I get her some water and put on her shoes.

I hold her hair back away from her face and doing my best Julie Andrews impersonation (who once said about herself, "Sometimes I'm so sweet, even I can't stand it.") I whisper, "We're not going to be laboring at home, MaryKate. You're doing great, but this is happening fast." Inside my head, Gilbert Gottfried is shrieking, "OH MY GOODNESS, THIS IS TOO FREAKIN' FAST!!!"

The next contraction finds us squatting in the driveway. Her mom - who will be following us in her own car- asks, "Are we going to make it to the hospital??" Calmly I smile and hear Julie Andrews say, "Most certainly!" (Internally, Gilbert panics, "We may not make it to the hospital until AFTER the baby comes, but we'll definitely make it!")

Before we hit the road, MaryKate insists I teach her husband how to do "that back thing", so Lance gets a crash course in a technique I've been perfecting for nearly 3 years. Now the 40-minute drive...and though I could drive crazy fast and get us there in 30, there is a laboring woman on her knees in the place of my center console, so safety has to take precedence. Through all of this, I am pretending to be cool as a cucumber. Driving 80 mph, talking over my shoulder in my best Mary Poppins voice, "You are doing such a great job, MaryKate. Practically perfect in every way. Take a deep breath through your nose ... now blow it slowly out through your mouth. Goooooood."

With every mile, contractions are growing closer and more intense, and suddenly she responds to one of them with a screeching dolphin-call. "MaryKate..." I speak in a soft, low tone, and quite possibly with a British accent, "remember what we talked about. Keep your throat relaxed. Bring your voice down low. Moan it out. Remember: LOW."

From the floor behind me I sense the beginning of the next contraction...her throat tightening, her shoulders rising, her voice starting to squeak with the pain...and the next moment I will forever remember as one of my Favorite Things (Sing with me: "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and MaryKate's contractions...") She remembers what we talked about, brings her dolphin screech down to a deep Darth Vader growl, and for the next 45 seconds I hear, "low low low low low low low low low low low low..." as she literally chants the word "low" through the entire contraction. It is ALL I can do to keep from laughing hysterically!

Now I become the living GPS, only with a slow, lilting voice.
"Only 10 more minutes and we'll be there."
"Three more contractions, MaryKate, and we'll be at the door."
"Just a spoonful of sugar and the baby will be out."

Maneuvering the parking lot like Speed Racer, avoiding the bumps, swerving around parked cars and a cigarette-smoking nurse, I zip to the front door, jump out and grab a wheelchair. After some chair-not-working-and-what-do-we-do-about-the-bags confusion, the four of us glide through the deserted hospital corridor, up the elevator and into Labor and Delivery.

It is 2:02 a.m.

"This is MaryKate and she's having a baby," my Julie Andrews voice says. And even though we are pre-registered, the nurses respond with a myriad of questions, asking for insurance cards and social security numbers, and a request for MaryKate to get on the scales so they can weigh her. Clearly, they are not understanding, so Gilbert makes an appearance outside of my brain, "Ladies! This is MaryKate's THIRD baby, it doesn't matter what she weighs as she will weigh 12 pounds less in only a few minutes! We need a room right now!" Sensing the urgency, one of them says, "Room 4!" and in we go. MaryKate stands up out of the wheelchair and grabs the bed as I instinctively take my place behind her. I feel a splash on my foot just as she announces, "My water broke! My water just broke!" Why, yes, yes it did.

She lays down on her side as we get her lower half undressed, feet still dangling off the bed. Dr. M. comes in and says, "Let's get you all the way up in the bed." So with hubby on one side and me on the other, we pull her up in the bed. Before we can even get the bed raised, one nurse is trying to get her shirt off, another is trying to monitor her. I politely ask them to "get real", as MaryKate is hit with one MASSIVE pain - her feet on the bed, her head on the bed, the rest of her body imitating the St. Louis arch. She looks wide-eyed at me and declares, "I'm on my back! I'm on my back! I don't want to be on my back!" I tell her I understand completely, and as SOON as this contraction is over, we'll get into a better position. Before I finish my sentence, Dr. M. announces, "We're crowning...and THERE she is!" And Gilbert Gottfried screams, "WHAT THE...???"

Time of birth 2:09 a.m.

my life as a newspaper, the leap day edition

HUMAN INTEREST:
Stephanie's BRILLIANT 17-month-old granddaughter, Mayah, recognizes her letters, oh yes she does. Chicka Chicka Boom Boom gets the credit.

SPORTS:
Stephanie's AMAZING son, Kevin, is playing Ultimate Frisbee for Harding University and they are the number one ranked team in the nation (really)!

In playing this so-called sport earlier in the season, Kevin's cranium collided with the ground, rendering him concussed. When consulting with the E.R. physician, Kevin asked, "What should I do?" The doc replied, "Next time, don't land on your head."

ENTERTAINMENT:
If Stephanie's cowboy husband made movies, they would all be over in approximately 11 minutes... roughly the time the villain makes his first appearance. The bad guy would steal a car/rob a bank/shoot an innocent bystander/roll his eyes at a cop, then BANG, the "good guy" would instantly shoot the bad guy.

Movie over.

In other news, I recently saw both "The Descendants" and "The Artist" at Maiden Alley Cinema. Exceptionally good movies, though I didn't think the "The Artist" was artsy enough to deserve the Best Picture Oscar. Maybe if they added Olivia Newton-John in roller skates and some E.L.O. music...

EDITORIAL:

WHY predictive texting? Are we so lazy that our phones think we can't finish typing entire words??? (My finger is exhausted!) So, I type out the words I want, and my phone changes them into other words. For example, Andy made a NICE play against me the other day in Words with Friends and I tried to say, "Ooohhh, NICE play." What he got instead was, "Popgun, NICE play" as though Popgun is my own little nickname for him. What??? How does OOOHHH become POPGUN??? I'll have to admit, though, sometimes it can be funny ... like when one of my more reserved postpartum clients texted to say, "I'm thinking about pimping."

She quickly sent a second text that read, "PUMPING!!! I'm thinking about PUMPING!!!"

GENERAL NEWS:
Do you drink Mountain Dew or Orange Crush or Gatorade Ice or ANY soft drink/sports drink that is a bit "cloudy" in appearance? It might interest you to know that clouding agent is called Brominated Vegetable Oil or BVO. It contains bromine, a poisonous chemical whose vapors are both corrosive and toxic. BVO is used in light-sensitive photographic paper, as an additive in gasoline and as an agricultural fumigant. BVO causes numerous health issues including iodine deficiency, cancer, heart disease and kidney disease, to name a few, and has been banned in over 100 countries, just not in the U.S. because they know we'll feed our kids anything.

OBITUARIES:
Mice. They were preceded in death by other mice. They are survived by many more mice, who had better stay out of my house if they want to remain on the survivor list.

LIFESTYLE:
I have an artsy doula client (whom I just love!), but whose extreme right-brainedness makes even creative ME feel like an accountant. When making our last appointment she texted: "Let's meet at the coffee shop sometime before darkish." Darkish? What time is darkish? Is that as the sun is setting, or that half hour after it has set, or the few minutes before total darkness when everyone on the street looks like a silhouette? And even more, how much "BEFORE" darkish is before? Half hour? Ten minutes? I didn't know. To be safe, I showed up an hour and five minutes early and waited in the van. Pretty sure the barristas thought I was casing the joint.

BUSINESS:
Over the holidays I took one very rare day off from work. My co-worker (who happened to have a badly scraped up nose) texted me, "Great. With my nose, I'm already Rudolph, and now you're gonna be Splitzen."

CLASSIFIED:
I have a text on my phone that SHOULD be classified, that simply states: "I want you to look at his penis". I would put it in context, but that would take all the fun out of it.

COMICS: ('cause I always save the best for last)
As I was driving downtown last Saturday night, I passed by the Catholic Church just as a large crowd was leaving the building. I thought to myself: Mass Exodus.

Then I laughed, 'cause I tickle myself.

the wrath of cohen

Some pictures really are worth 1000 words...

...and boppin 'em on the head

Once upon a time, Walt built an entire career on one, then he let a bunch of them make Cinderella's ballgown. The Mighty one was a superhero, and the Mexican one was super Speedy. Spielberg brought a little Russian one to America, and E. B. white let his sail a boat in Central Park. There were, apparently, three blind ones, though Bart Simpson's was just Itchy. The one in the nursery rhyme ran up a clock, and at some point you have scrolled around your desktop with one. Tom chased one who often stole cheese, you've probably let a giant one named Chuck E. serve you pizza, and Laura Numeroff gave one a cookie.

So why am I completely freaked out to have one in my house???

I was sitting in my chair, as I often do when I chat or write...one foot tucked under me, the other foot in the floor, laptop in, well, it's called a laptop for a reason. Then I sensed it. You know that feeling you get when there is SOMETHING else in the room with you. I peeked around the laptop and THERE IT WAS, not 4 inches from my foot. I screamed silently (since there was no one else at home or in the woods to hear me, I obviously wouldn't have made a sound anyway), quickly tucked BOTH feet under me, and watched it watch me.

Ewwww.

When it was a safe distance away (safe distance = 3 car lengths), I went to get a mousetrap. Not finding one, I came back with a broom, as I guess I thought I could use it as a getaway vehicle if I saw her again. I say "her" because she was small. And kinda cute. And completely gross. And though I NEVER gave her a cookie, she still left little chocolate sprinkles in her wake. *Shudder.

I used to have gerbils as pets. Explain this to me.

Anyway, a couple of days and a mousetrap-shopping-spree later, the cowboy trapped one and notified me via text. I breathed a deep sigh of relief until the second text arrived stating "what a big sucker he was".

No, no she wasn't.

She was a wee little thing. Dainty. Delicate. Disgusting. And apparently still vacationing in my house and inviting her friends.

Oh, where is a hungry snake when you need one???

She - let's call her "Mini Mouse"- tormented me for days, zipping around corners, scurrying under sofas, bounding across the bedroom floor, forcing me to leap into bed and pull the comforter up on all four sides to make CERTAIN she did not have an access ramp up to my mattress. Once she even stared me down from the back of what USED to be my favorite reading chair.

Finally, today, I broke down and bought glue traps. I don't like them. They are inhumane. Or inrodentane. But this cohabitation arrangement had gone on entirely long enough; it was time for this unwelcome tenant to go. The cowboy lined up several traps in a row, baited them with cat food (which works great, especially in the absence of an ACTUAL cat) and within a few minutes we heard her. Then we saw her. She raced under the couch, around the leather cube, across the brick hearth, landing on one of the glue traps with all the finesse of an Olympic medalist, and went flying across the floor like a sticky Jamaican bobsledder.

I will not tell you what happened next, though a reference to Little Bunny Foo-Foo would be appropriate.

Go ahead, Good Fairy, goon me.

The End.
I hope.
I really, really hope.

food, baby!

My daughter is an amazing mom - she took care of herself while pregnant, gave birth naturally (as in, intervention-FREE), feeds my granddaughter organically, and at 16 months, is still breastfeeding. She's a great mommy in dozens of other ways as well, (and my son-in-law is a fine baby daddy). My granddaughter is one happy, well-adjusted little girl.

Mostly.

See, she loves her milk and her bread and her rather pricey 'puffs' (cheerio-like organic snacks) and her baby food. They are "clean" foods. They don't get her fingers messy. They don't feel funny in her mouth. But she will not TOUCH real foods. And I mean that LITERALLY. Will not touch, much less eat.

I teased my daughter, "You can stop that, you know." Kacey agreed that, yes, she could, but she couldn't STAND for her baby girl to cry and she was afraid she would starve to death. I assured her that she would NOT starve.

"You're gonna MAKE me do this, aren't you?"

"Of course not," I said. "She's your daughter, it's completely up to you", but Kacey restated emphatically, "You ARE gonna make me do this, aren't you?!"

So I smiled and assured her I would help her with some "tough love".

We started the day with some corn, which Mayah refused with a tightly-closed mouth and a turn of her head. I tried to open her little mouth and insert a kernel, but she spit it right out. We repeated this process for about 20 minutes. She looked at me, then at her mommy, then back at me as if to say, "WHY would I want to put this weirdness in my mouth when I have mom's body 24/7 as a vending machine?"

She cried. She whined. She pouted. But she ate nothing. Fine.

A couple of hours later we tried some blueberries and grapes, but no way. She wouldn't even touch them with her fingers.

At lunch, we gave her a buffet of black beans, corn, tomatoes, strawberries, bananas and canteloupe. She did TOUCH it - as in, pick it up and throw it in the floor - but she would NOT eat it. Not one bite. She asked for her "milk", but Kacey did the hard thing and told her 'no'.

She cried. She whined. She pouted. But she ate nothing.

Following an afternoon of shopping and talking and bonding, my daughter and I went for coffee. We bought Mayah some all-natural gummy snacks. I attempted to push one through her pursed lips, but she clenched her teeth and looked at me with disgust and said, "M.E., darling, you know I adore you, but if you try to feed me ONE MORE BITE of ANYTHING today, I will shove these gummy snacks up your nostrils and suffocate you in your sleep."

So, I went to Kroger and bought a smorgasbord of options for her: peas, carrots, green beans, yogurt, berries, bananas, organic fruit strips, etc., and we went to meet our Darling friends and their child (Cohen) for dinner. We hoped Mayah might be inspired to eat after watching Cohen, for whom eating is a religious experience. But no.

She cried. She whined. She pouted. But she ate nothing.

Finally, at bedtime, she begged for her milk. (Begging = climbing up into Kacey's lap and making reverse waving signs with her hands as if to say "gimme, gimme, please, please!") Kacey firmly told her there would be no "milk" until she ate ONE BITE of something. So I put a piece of fruit strip into her mouth. She spit it out. I put it back in. She spit it out again, this time with attitude. I put it in a third time. It came back out. And a fourth time. The beauty of fruit strips, however, is they dissolve in saliva, so with each reinsertion, the fruit strip became smaller and gooier. Finally, it liquified in her mouth and we called it good. Twenty-four hours and all she had eaten was a fruit strip. Fine.

The next morning Mayah woke and happily ate a bowl of real oatmeal with blueberries, as if the previous day never existed. At lunch she ate a fruit snack and a bowl of green beans (she greatly enjoyed feeding herself like a big girl with her own little fork). For dinner she ate half a banana and more green beans. Every day since has resulted in new fruits and grains and eggs and veggies being added to her repertoire.

Stubborn as she was - IS - it only took one day of "tough love" for Mayah to decide we meant business. One day to learn it was a fight she wasn't going to win. One day to get her to eat foods she wouldn't even try before. One day to learn how to use a fork and feed herself. One day to get over her stubbornness. One day to cut their baby food bill by 75%.

One day.

to kill a water buffalo

I'm standing in the hospital room, quite literally falling asleep in an upright and locked position, in-between her contractions. It is 9:30 a.m. and we have been at this "laboring" thing together since I arrived at their house at 1 a.m. I'm wearing shoes that aren't nearly as comfortable as they should be for as ugly as they are. My lower back is aching. I haven't eaten in 14 hours. And I would kill a small water buffalo with my bare hands for a cup of coffee or a pillow.

"WHAT AM I DOING???" I ask myself. This is not fun. This is HARD. She is exhausted and in tears from intense back labor. She doesn't know what she wants anymore. Yesterday she knew what she wanted to do, tomorrow she will know what she wished she had done, but today, well, today she just wants it to be OVER.

And, frankly, so do I.

Finally, with the option of an epidural looming in front of us, we decide to give it one more valiant try ... and it works. My doula experience pays off and it all finally comes together as we get the baby turned and dilation then quickly moves from 6 to 9. Just an hour later she is holding her beautiful baby girl. She EARNED this moment. Her husband hugs me a long, sweet hug of thankfulness. Her mom wraps her arms around me and says, "You are my new best friend." Our sweet little baby mama looks up at me, her face glistening from sweat and tears, and says, "I feel like I owe you my life. THANK YOU. There is NO WAY I could have done this without you."

I'm still standing here in ugly shoes. My back is still aching. I would still kill a water buffalo for some caffeine. But I KNOW why I do this.

am I WHO?

This is where I live. Sort of. This is my "church office", and I love it. Really love it. This was Kevin's "schoolroom" for grades 5-11. This is where I plan events, coordinate volunteers, design graphics, write blogs, have deep and meaningful conversations with people, and generally do all my planning, organizing and communicating. This I where I got a phone call a few weeks ago when a salesperson asked me if I was "Mrs. Christ".

Uh huh, 'cause I'm just THAT good.

I love that I have the freedom to make it look like "me".

I love the granny-apple-guacamole-green on the walls.

I love the dark wood.

I love the "HOPE" that is leaning on the baseboard, I think it's symbolic that I haven't hung it up higher..."not getting my hopes up yet" so to speak. :)

I love "Mr. Smiley" who lives behind my door.

I love my comfy little couch that is perfect for Kevin's afternoon naps when he is home.

I love the slightly funky bookcase which holds a yummy hazelnut-scented candle, leftover wedding flowers, my iHome, my "Happiness" (a Willow Tree figurine), and a little book called "How to Love Someone You Can't Stand" which I make myself read regularly because ...
well, just because.

what's in my ... purse?

Hi, and welcome to "What's in my..._____?"
(Episode 1 - The One with the Copper Purse.)

Why am I blogging this? Because I'm home on a Friday night, the laundry is done, I'm caught up on Words with Friends, I've stared blankly at Facebook for a half hour, and I can't go to bed because I have no hope of dozing off until the cowboy is in stage four of his sleep cycle and has stopped actively dreaming about rescuing the world from nuclear holocaust..

So here is my winter purse. It's the exact color of a 1980 penny, and although the straps are a bit too short for "throwing over my shoulder" it's a fine bag.

What's IN my purse?
An organizer
A make-up pouch
Kindle Fire, iPod and cell phone
Wallet, 2 checkbooks, receipts
Keys, hairbrush, fun spinny toy.

The cell phone, though scratched significantly, glows a lovely shade of purple and is all 'matchy-matchy' with the hairbrush.

The beaded, lime-green keychain (which is 'matchy-matchy' with the wallet), holds the key to Eddie van Honda, my house key, 2 work keys, and 2 keys from friends' houses so I can use their bathrooms and wifi at will. Just kidding. I would never do that. At least, not while they're home.

The colorful spinny toy is so I can entertain Mayah and Cohen and any other toddler who needs to think I'm the coolest person ever.

The receipts are from the day Sara and I drove to Nashville and stocked up our carts and coolers with healthy, organic groceries and then topped off our food shopping with dinner at Chipotle. And since we were also shopping for Jessica and the other Sara, our Whole Foods bill rivaled the daily accumulation of the national debt. Still, I now have organic sesame seeds and extra-virgin coconut oil, so I feel complete.

So...what's in my wallet? $67 (which is 67x more cash than normal), a "Love Live Grow Go" card from church, semi-dated pictures of my kids, a photo of Evarest - the child I sponsor in Tanzania, my driver's license with important numbers blurred out like a bad guy's face on Cops so you aren't tempted to steal my identity, cause, let's face it, who doesn't want to be me? And the following cards: debit, Visa, health insurance, blood donor, Sam's, Kroger and Panera. Oh, and tickets to the upcoming "Spamalot" at the Carson Center. :)

The make-up bag consists simply of 2 kleenex, NON-anti-bacterial hand sanitizer (would that make it bacterial sanitizer?), 2 lipglosses (one light, one dark), a granite eyeliner, Cover Girl's professional mascara in waterproof black because this is the ONLY mascara that is truly waterproof. Trust me on this. It is the product that allows me to blubber like a baby with grace and dignity. The last item is, of course, Pearberry lotion to be all 'matchy-matchy' with the smell of my hairspray.

Kacey gave me this organizer last Christmas so I could carry "bags" instead of "purses", but it ain't happenin' - I NEED compartments. Still, I use the organizer to house my most-used handbag items.

Three clicky pens - 2 black ink, one purple. Dentyne Blast CocoMint gum because I hate the taste of most chewing gum, but when I want to mask the smell of sushi on my breath, this tastes just like Andes mints and makes me happy. A Cover Girl Lipslick, color: Princess. Shut up, I don't want to hear it. It's the perfect shade of pink. A Physician's Formula compact powder (because Cover Girl foundation products smell like Noxema. Bleh.) A Bonnie Bell vanilla chapstick, as apparently I'm still 14. Two pairs of reading glasses in case I inadvertently leave one somewhere. Nail clippers and file because I bite my cuticles which make my nails break easily, and a pair of tweezers in case I get a splinter, not to pluck the little hair that appears under my chin out of nowhere and grows 3/4 of an inch in one day.

And there you have it. Stay tuned next time for "What's in my ... __________?" (Episode Two: The One with the Pockets.) Although I don't carry anything in my pockets. Unless, of course, I'm running into Huck's for coffee in which case I put $2 and my keys in my pocket so I don't have to carry my purse inside. But otherwise my pockets are always empty. Pocket fuzz maybe, something akin to bellybutton lint. That would be it. So, on second thought, don't stay tuned. T'will be too dull.

1600 x 900 - my new year's 'resolution'

In 2012, I am resolved:

To stop drinking orange juice after I brush my teeth.

To not watch "The Notebook" when I'm home alone.

To change all my passwords to something besides '666'.

To eat healthier by switching from cream-filled to lemon-filled.

To stop SAYING 'LOL' in real-life conversations.

To claim the cowboy's horses as "dependents" on our taxes.

To post MORE pictures of my feet on Facebook just to irritate my daughter.

To stop arguing with the Australian chick on the GPS.

To NOT use the term "nipple stimulation" in conversations with people who aren't preparing for childbirth.

To switch my alarm to Pacific Time, so I will FEEL like a morning person.

To learn the lyrics to all of Katy Perry's songs.

To download the 'Mirror' app for my new Kindle Fire.

To cut the toes out of ALL of my socks.

To be more diligent about correcting other people's grammar.

To petition Keurig for a Route 44 cup size.

things that go boom and things that go bust

New Year's Eve in Alaska brought 3 things:
1. Great food
2. Games with good friends
and
3. Going downtown at midnight to stand outside in the freezing cold to watch the fireworks!

Fireworks on New Year's Eve in Alaska?
Yes, because it doesn't get dark in Alaska in the summer, so pyrotechnics on July 4th just don't fly. Well, they may fly, but you can't see 'em!

Too bad the guy who built the NEVER-used Drive-In Theater in Anchorage didn't think about that important little fact before he invested thousands of dollars: Alaskan summers bring 24-hour daylight, so when it's warm enough to go to the drive-in, you can't see the screen, and when it's dark enough to see the screen, it's way too frigid to sit outside in your car.

Just a fun little reminder that, as you make resolutions and set goals for 2012, be sure you think through the ways you plan to accomplish your goals.

Happy New Year.

the end of 365

So my "365 Project" turned out to be way too easy. I got rid of over 500 items in 2011 - none of which I miss - except maybe Kevin. I plan to continue this project for another year...minimalism here I come!


187 articles of clothing
2 "mother of the bride" outfits
12 pairs of shoes
4 votives
36 votive candles
3 styrofoam balls
1 old briefcase
2 binders
1 decorative plate
1 bag of silk flowers
1 decorative lantern
1 wooden letter "R"
6 Rubbermaid containers
2 quilts
3 baby blankets
26 pairs of earrings
8 necklaces
12 placemats
1 vanity case
4 Spaghetti Factory glasses
26 Christmas ornaments
13 Christmas decorations
4 kitchen towels
2 aluminum pans
1 divided party platter
1 kitchen timer
1 small mixing bowl
1 funnel
5 candles
6 green glass bottles
1 decorative greenery
3 purses
1 scrapbooker's drink holder
2 leaf prints
1 box of stamping up items
7 stuffed animals
2 sets of twin sheets
1 set of queen sheets
1 treadmill
14 toys
10 videos
48 books (which I forgot to photograph)
8 mugs
1 zebra backpack
3 puzzles
17 cds
22 computer games
2 scarf/earmuff/glove sets
1 tv antenna
1 old camcorder
2 umbrellas
1 erector set
2 soap dispensers
9 decorative balls
3 bath towels
1 large vase
1 lap desk
3 baskets
...and numerous cardboard boxes :)

socks & bonds

My friend Debbie (who lives in Great Britain) says I should blog about: Chocolate, Love, Sex and Money. So here goes: Chocolate has never disappointed me. EV.ER. The End.

(Unless you count the time Mom burned a batch of chocolate pudding and it tasted like ashes and dirt, but that was really more Mom disappointing me than the chocolate). The End Again.

My friend Bernie (who lives in British Columbia, which is nowhere NEAR Great Britain, despite its name) says I should blog about: Toeless Socks. Now back in my marching band days, we woodwinds cut our gloves to make them fingerless to enable us to play, so why not toeless socks to enable my toes to play? If you know me at ALL, you know my claustrophobic feet HATE socks. So, as I'm sitting here contemplating the joy of free toes (not to be confused with Fritos, which are great with chili and onions), I googled "toeless socks". OH MY GOODNESS! They exist! Not only do they exist, but there is a myriad of manufacturers and a plethora of patterns! DID YOU KNOW THIS??? If you did, you are now on my "You OWE me one!" list for allowing my toes to sweat and suffer in silence all these years.

This blog is over. I have to go make a call now.

"Hello, Sockdreams? I NEED to place an order..."

church is not a place

The weird and the broken. That's what we jokingly call ourselves. The church of the weird and the broken. I could not love a group of people more than I love this group I call my "church family". For the last two years I have been one of the 'broken'. I have struggled deeply in my relationship with God. There, I said it out loud. Not struggled with believing IN Him, mind you, just BELIEVING Him. I have continued to pray every day, though I quit praying for myself, because I reached the point where I don't think He listens to me or cares. I know in my head this isn't true, but I can't convince my heart otherwise. Despite that, I'm not sure what I would do without these people in my life ... they make me better.

I grew up with a very legalistic view of church. "Going to church" was a requirement. "Being good". "Earning salvation" by being in a perfect church filled with fake people who pretended to be perfect as well. We sat in our pristine buildings, based our belief system on a handful of verses taken out of context, and patted ourselves on the back for being God's favorites. If only everyone else would open their eyes and see "the right way" as we saw it...

It took a while for that twisted view to morph into something much different, for me and for the church I call my family. We stopped seeing the Bible as an instruction manual, and started reading it as the story of God's presence in the lives of His people. We gave up pretending to be perfect, and are much more open with our flaws, our struggles, our humanity. We stopped sitting in a building up on a hill waiting for the world to come to us to find God, and have become a group of people who get outside our four walls and try to BE Jesus to the people around us.

We also happen to love each other. And pray for each other. And annoy each other. And laugh with each other. And cry with each other. And hurt each other's feelings. And forgive each other. And take care of each other. It's a perfect imperfect church.

As I work through my own junk and struggle to find hope again, I'm blessed to have this group of weird and broken people in my life every week.