jane

Jane is dying.

To see Jane's name in the same sentence with the word "dying" is almost more than any of us can stand. The very definition of Jane, the very essence of who she is screams "LIFE". She is beautiful. She is funny. She is spunky beyond most. She is the wife we all want to be. An amazing mother. A loving daughter. A natural hostess. A friend to everyone. An example of Jesus to her world. In nearly eight years of battling cancer we have seen her tired, we have seen her without hair, we have seen her not look like herself . . . but we have never seen her without a smile. We have never heard her complain. We have never witnessed her be anything but radiant, inside and out.

Jane, you are a blessing and an inspiration to all of us who have the honor of knowing you. You are loved.

you know you love sushi when . . .

You have your dinner professionally photographed.

These pictures come courtesy of Sara Darling and our Christmas/New Year's Sushi Celebration! It's so much more than just pretty . . . but the best part is going with a group so you get to enjoy lots of different ones!

Though I've become pretty adept over the past 2 years at using chopsticks with the actual sushi, I still fold about halfway through the fried rice . . . it's like trying to eat peas with a knife. Makes me feel like the Karate Kid trying to catch a fly . . . or a 2-year-old eating peas with a knife.

Volcano Roll with spicy crab.

Fire Roll. Yummy. It comes on a plate by itself, because they set fire to it as it leaves the kitchen and cooks just long enough to sear the outside.


From top to bottom:
*Me, with chopsticks in hand, trying to decide what the first taste will be.
*White Castle
*Sunset
*Mango Sunrise
*V.I.P.
*Philidelphia/Dynamite
*Volcano

I'll tell you which one is my favorite as soon as I decide. Much like picking a favorite movie or song or child . . . virtually impossible.

2010

I feel the need to write some profound New Year's blog. Something about new beginnings and old friends. Or maybe something about new friends and old beginnings, whatever that means. Instead, I think I just want to take a minute and say "thank you" for the people in my life who make me happy . . . you know who you are, and I love you.

Happy New Year.

duh

SocialInterview is one of Facebook's applications. It asks you random questions about people on your friend list. Today, Emily, one of my very gifted former literature/writing students was asked, "Would Stephanie make a good perfume salesperson?"

She answered "DUH."

So I responded:

"1. Being best-smelling person you know, is not a viable reason for assuming I would be a good salesperson, because sales is definitely NOT my calling.
and
2. "DUH." You answered "DUH?" You're a writer! Write!"

Emily apologized, "I had a moment of weakness. Forgive me. What I meant to say was, "Yes, I'm sure she would be splendid as a perfume salesperson." But, since you deny my claim, I revoke it."

I then told her THAT answer is why she made an "A" in my class!

Emily then added that she also made an 'A' in my class, "because I'm your favorite. Don't forget I'm your favorite."

To which I responded . . . "DUH"

The final response from Emily simply stated, "You ma'am, win at life."

Just one of several bright spots in my day.

reasons I am too scroogey to put up a tree this year

1. In 2006 I put up three Christmas trees. This year I put up: none. Not one. My mother's house, on the other hand, looks like the Christmas edition of Southern Living. It's beautiful. It's amazing. Every nook and cranny (is that even how you spell "cranny"? and just exactly what IS a "cranny"?) is decorated with trees and garland (the real green stuff, not the cheesy tin-foil looking stuff) and ribbon and swirly twigs and oversized ornaments and white lights and . . . so, to not throw the space/time continuum out of whack, it is important for universal harmony that I do absolutely nothing.

2. I don't have room this year. Seriously. The cool desk that is supposed to be in the living room is in the den where the "tree spot" is because the living room, where the cool desk is supposed to be, is still "under construction" and I am stuck with a roll-top desk that I haven't sold yet still sitting in the middle of the room, plus there are no curtains in that room, and because there are no curtains in this room, this room gets really cold, and since the rolltop desk with the computer is right next to this cold curtainless window, I have my space heater plugged into the outlet where the tree would be plugged in, you know, were there room for it, which, of course, there is not.

3. The kids want to go to my mom's to spend Christmas Eve/Day, so . . . what's the point in decorating if we aren't going to be here on Christmas to enjoy it? Of course, maybe the reason they want to go to mom's is BECAUSE it is decorated. Oh, the vicious cycle.

4. The Matheny's are in Texas. The Darling's are in Florida. How can you expect me to be in a Christmassy mood when 6 of my favorite people are hundreds of miles away? Besides, none of them put up Christmas trees. And they're the best people I know. So, clearly I'm in good company.

5. It seems that "Santa Baby" is the most overplayed Christmas song now. Good grief. That's enough to make anybody scroogey.

6. The utility room, where the Christmas tree and subsequent boxes of decorations are stored, is blocked by a plethora of leftover wedding supplies and decorations that I have procrastinated dealing with since last August. And by "last August" I mean "last year in August". I'm just sayin'.

7. My sweet little friend, Ashley offered to wrap herself in tinsel and lights and come stand in my living room. That seemed to be a fun and non-traditional solution to my treeless dilemma, however, she has not followed through with her offer. Ash, when you were, you know, squeezing Aurora out of your body a few months ago, who was THERE FOR YOU? Not to give you a guilt trip or anything, I just think it would be great bonding time for us if you were here right now, looming over me as I type, tastefully decked out in colored twinkle lights. Of course, you'd have to share an extension cord with my space heater.

8. Not putting up a tree leaves me much more time for holiday baking.
Commence laughter now.

9. I'm walking around in a perpetual state of distraction this Christmas. Kacey texted this afternoon to ask me what time we're supposed to be at my grandmother's for Christmas Eve tomorrow night, and the only thing I could think to respond was "THAT'S TOMORROW NIGHT???" Seriously, didn't we just have the New Year's Eve Eve Eve Party a few weeks ago?

10. I couldn't come up with a #10 reason for being too scroogey to put up a tree this year, so I just called Kevin into the room and asked, "Why didn't we put up a tree this year? Go!" And he said it was because HE didn't want to, HE didn't want to crawl into the death trap we call a utility room to retrieve the boxes, HE didn't want to untangle tree lights, HE didn't want to fluff the tree branches, yada yada. So, apparently, the REAL reason I didn't put up a tree this year was not scroogey at all. I, unlike Scrooge, am giving my slave-boy a break. God bless us, everyone.

Merry Christmas to all of you. May you spend the day with people you love.

big head deflation

I have had 16,195 hits on my blog since I put the counter on it back in May.

Kacey says I have a 3/10 rating with Google, which, apparently is pretty good.

I've even been approached a few times lately about doing reviews and linking ads to my blog.

I'm starting to get a big head. (Which is good, actually, 'cause then the rest of me won't look so out of proportion.)

Then I realized I have 2 really, really really good friends who don't use Google Reader, (thanks Sara M. & Jessica) who apparently click on my blog a couple of dozen times a day just to see if I have posted anything. (2 friends x 24 times a day x 7 months = 10,000 hits).

Add to that the number of times I go back and read my own blog because I think I'm hysterical and we've pretty much covered the hits on the counter.

So . . . never mind.

my thoughts, your thoughts

Kacey said I have to blog today because she is tired of the "downer" blog. However, I have nothing in particular about which to blog, so you just get random thoughts.

At the recommendation of someone who said my humor reminds him of Alton Brown, I have started watching "Good Eats" at 1 a.m. on the Food Network. Love him. Last Wednesday night I learned popover-making. A useful skill that will serve me well when Kellogg's stops making Pop-Tarts. Which I'm sure will happen right after Satan ice-skates. Or I mow the lawn.

Speaking of good eats, one of the best things about the combination of ministry and Christmas is that people bring you goodies. Lots and lots of goodies. So far this week alone I have been blessed with a Christmas mocha mix, banana bread, homemade peach jam, puppy chow (the powdered-sugared cereal, not the dog food), a loaf of homemade bread, ginger snaps, and two, yes two bags of Lisa Young's Amazing Super Spicy Chex Mix That is The Best Snack Food on the Planet. Lisa always makes an extra bag just for me. I love her.

Despite the bestowal of all things yummy, I am in the least Christmassy-mood I have been in for years. Don't get me wrong, I'm not scroogy or bah-humbuggy . . . I'm my usual "chipper" self. I'm just not really feeling the whole "holiday music" calling. Haven't done any baking. Not been to a concert or a Christmas play. Haven't put up a tree. (Get over it. My baby is almost 17, he will not be scarred for life.) And the only things I really want are not things that can be bought, so . . .

Does it make me a terrible person that I really want to see the Meryl Streep movie where she has an affair with her ex . . . ?

Kacey did, however, find a fun accent chair for the living room. It's polka-dotty. I love it.

Janice asked for the official living room final color. I ended up combining a bit of all the gallons and pints I had accumulated of Cavern Clay, Cinnamon Clove, LaFonda Copper, and Roasted Squash. Add to those names the obvious Longhorn Rust I whined about for several weeks and Kacey's Pumpkin Spice Latte. I toyed with naming the color something unifying like "LaFonda's Cinnamon Squash Longhorn Latte in a Clay Cup" but that seems a bit wordy and more than just a little confusing. I thought about giving it something symbolic like "West Texas Sunset", but I'm not a big fan of the state in general, much less the west half, so that idea got tossed. I like the presidential idea of referring to the living room simply as "The Tangerine Room". Maybe I should have a "paint naming" contest? Maybe I should just call it "Bob"? Your thoughts?

unmet expectations

Okay, you people know I like to make you laugh. I like to find the humor in life, at least to the best of my ability, because there is not much sense in wallowing in the "what if" and "poor me" stuff. Today, however, I just want to remind you that, while I hope and pray you are all having a wonderful holiday season, Christmas is not always "Merry" to those around you.

To this day it remains the worst Christmas of my life. My sophomore year of college, my sister's junior year of high school. The H.S. band went to Pasadena to march in the Rose Bowl parade. Mom & Dad, being the amazing and supportive parents they are, chaperoned this 300+ person, 6 charter bus trip . . . this trip which began on Christmas morning and continued until after the New Year. Meaning they LEFT at 4 a.m. on CHRSTMAS MORNING. They were gone for 9 days. Leaving me home alone. All alone. And that's not the bad part. This took place after a devastating break-up with the guy I was going to marry. I was still struggling to get out of bed in the mornings. Still struggling to breathe. So, basically, I spent 200 hours sleeping, crying and hoping for more. I mark that week as the loneliest time in my life.

A few years later, we experienced a very sad, very awkward Christmas as well. It was after my sister died, and we tried to "change things up", start new traditions, do things a bit differently . . . but the hole remained. Not that any loss is not tragic, it's just especially evident in small families. We mostly stared and sighed and felt sorry for ourselves and wondered if we would ever feel like celebrating anything ever again.

Okay, so this is NOT the blog you wanted to read today. They were not times in my life I cherish either. I just want to say that there are a lot of unmet expectations in the lives of the people you encounter day to day. Be alert. Be sensitive. And may you all be blessed with a very Merry Christmas.

who, me?

I'm complicated, and not so much. I love people, I hate being in groups of new people. I have the best friends in the world, almost all of them in their 20's and 30's. They teach me to look at life through very different lenses. I am not at all artistic, but I am creative. I'm right-handed, but very middle-brained. I'm great with words, but stink at puzzles. I'm a control freak, I talk too much, and I tend to interrupt. I like to strike up conversations while waiting in line with people I don't know. I like being challenged. I like to read books I don't think I will agree with. I almost never get angry. I never yell - okay, once in 1998. I love mothering. I have the BEST relationship with my kids, and though they are practically grown, I don't feel that my job as a mom is finished. I love hanging out with youth group kids. I love that they text and facebook and talk to me about important things and stupid things. I really wish I'd had more children. I'm seriously contemplating foster parenting . . . my heart breaks for kids who aren't loved. I have a wonderful family. I'm a very even balance of both my parents, and I married my polar opposite. I love my job. I love the ministry team I am blessed to be part of. I love our church. I hate dealing with money. If I never had to pay a bill or balance an account or plan a budget, it would be alrighty, okie dokie with me. I don't like to spend money on myself. Okay, on clothes maybe. I like to give money away. It seems like the right thing to do with money I get paid from a church to do a job I love so much I would do it for free anyway. I don't care about vehicles even a little bit. I bite my cuticles when I'm nervous or bored. I love all weather except HOT. I actually enjoy cooking, it's the planning ahead part I dislke. I have no patience for people who play the "poor pitiful me" role over stupid things. I panic, I'm talking cold sweats and dying a little inside, everytime I get put on the spot . . . I need time to prepare. I like to drive. I love to learn new music. I love to crank up the stereo as high as I can stand it and sing at the top of my lungs when no one else is around. I love to quiz Kevin on music trivia. I love when he quizzes me right back or sticks his headphones on my ears and says, "Hey, I think you'll like this". I've wanted an iPod for 3 years but still don't have one. I love to communicate in most every way - except by phone. I love to watch "The Office" via text with Kacey - we quote lines back and forth during the entire half hour. I'm a notorious multi-tasker. I love to plan and organize, but I'm not always good at the follow-through. I'm punctual. I'm not a collector of things, but I highly value friendships and memories. I procrastinate big jobs. I can't make a decision to save my life for fear that it will be the wrong one and I will have to live with it - for a long time. I love movies. I hate watching movies by myself. Wearing glasses makes me feel claustrophobic. The thought that in 9 months I could (potentially) have a grandchild is completely terrifying. I'd rather pay for something I don't want or didn't get than deal with customer service reps. I overtip bad waiters/ waitresses because I figure they must be having a lousy day and need the encouragement. I neglect taking care of myself because I just haven't thought it was that important. I hate to cry. I cry at everything. Except when I was on progesterone which made me not feel emotion at all. Ever. About anything. Decided crying wasn't nearly so bad as not feeling. I've been depressed 3 times in my life, twice due to grieving lost relationships, once we'll blame on hormones. I don't like to be left out of anything. I HATE surprises. I'm not nearly as good a person on the inside as I want to be. I'm grateful for the friends in my life who make that "inner me" want to be more authentic. I love color. I love the smell of hazelnut coffee. I love sushi. I hate tomatoes. I like basketball. I hate going to bed with a dirty kitchen. I enjoy folding laundry. I hate yardwork of all kind. I like baths, not showers - including baby and wedding showers. I like history and literature - especially children's books. Childbirth, when done right, is fascinating and empowering. I love to write. I hate not knowing what to write about. Blogging is the most fun. When I have to shop, I prefer to do it online. I want to pinch the heads off of disrespectful kids and the parents who allow them to be disrespectful. I hate judgmental attitudes. Although in saying that, it kind of makes me judgmental. I'm a clutz and a bit of a nerd. I used to avoid issues, not so much now. I'm a night owl who also happens to wake up early. I intentionally try every day to make somebody's life a little better. I'm very affectionate. I'm funny. I use sarcasm like salt. I'm trying to use it more like, say, paprika: occasionally, and only when appropriate. I'm also quick to compliment. I am not happy with myself at all, but I do like myself. I like to think I'm a realistic optimist. Or maybe an optimistic realist. I used to believe everything was black and white. Now, I see everything in shades of gray. Which, for someone who likes color, is very disorienting. I used to think life was about getting through it successfully by doing as few bad things as possible. How ridiculously STUPID is that? Now I understand life is my opportunity to be Jesus to those around me, not because I have to, not because He needs me to, but because I want to. Because He loves me and I love Him right back. Because he sings over me, he knows every detail, every thought, every flaw, every single fall - accidental and intentional. He sees me for who I am and, though it doesn't make a bit of sense to me, He is crazy in love with me and thinks I'm something special. I believe that with all my heart, even when I don't act like it. That's who I am.

my first cell phone. a love story.

I have a new cell phone. It's a bit newer than my first one, I didn't invest much in it, and it's pretty basically a good functional cell phone.

Problem is, I don't love it. Not that there's anything wrong with it, in all fairness. It's just that I didn't really want a new phone. I really LOVED my first phone. We had the perfect relationship, this little Nokia and I. But it broke. I scratched up the screen, I wore out the battery, and there was a red half-heart-shaped piece broken off the body leaving exposed wires and I'm still not sure how that happened. Apparently it just couldn't take the pressure of living with me on a day to day basis.

And though we were only together for a couple of years, the first phone holds so many memories that I found I couldn't transfer to the second one. And trust me, I tried. I even read the manual. There were special ringtones like the "Peanut Butter Jelly" one that let me know when one of my doula clients was in labor, there were text messages from Sara encouraging me to "breathe in and breathe out" on days when it just seemed too hard to remember to do it on my own, photos of Emily M. on our "Countdown Calendar" weekend, video clips of Kevin blowing pizza bubbles (trust me on this, you don't want to know), audio files of Mike singing silly songs, and thousands of other clips of my life that are irreplacable and very special to me.

So though I committed to a long-term contract with this second phone, I'm still carrying the broken one around in my purse. What can I say? My heart will always belong to the first one.

uber tuesday

Family Night.

The son is sprawled out on MY bed, watching tv and getting Cheese-Nips crumbs on the sheets.

The husband is sprawled out on the den couch, watching 30 second snip-its of every channel between 2 and 423, because he suffers from remote-control A.D.D.

I reorganized 4 kitchen cabinets, folded laundry, read 5 chapters in my latest book, and am now hoping for somebody interesting to show up on my Facebook chat box.

I'm sorry the rest of you are not experiencing the same uber-excitement that is Tuesday Night.

Then again, maybe you are.

in the market

After completing a 3 hour road trip where an antifreeze leak not only kept us smoking a good deal of the time (I should clarify: the car was smoking, Kevin and I were not), but also left us driving in 31 degree weather with no heat, I am reminded that I am in the market for a vehicle.

Now, when I say I am 'in the market' for something, this merely means I am beginning to think about a purchase. I tend to think and plan and shop for an item for so long that by the time I decide to pull the trigger, I've lived with it long enough mentally that I'm tired of it and want something different. I've been 'in the market' for new living room chairs since this time last year and still have yet to purchase any appropriate seating for said room.

That being said, I am in the market for a perfect vehicle.

It should:

*Have seating for 8. Or better yet, 10.
*Have a relatively short wheel-base so it's easy to park.
*Have cup holders wide enough and deep enough to adequately contain a Sonic Route 44 whatever-I'm-in-the-mood-for-that-day Happy Hour drink.
*Have voice activated heat/air and stereo controls. You know, Distracted Driving is Deadly Driving.
*Get 30+ miles to the gallon.
*Be self-cleaning, like my oven. Although, in all fairness, I actually USE my vehicle, so that gives the oven an unfair advantage.
*Have a nifty little compartment specifically for my diva sunglasses.
*Have a center console large enough for my purse so Kevin doesn't inadvertantly buckle my purse straps into his seatbelt, leaving me frustratedly fumbling trying to find a lipgloss while driving.
*Be a pretty color. Not like "SWEET, there goes Stephanie!" pretty color, but more like "That vehicle is nicely understated and is unobtrusive in the driveway and doesn't at all clash with the shutters."

There. Like I told Sara earlier this week, "I am not that picky".

To which she replied, "MmmmHmmm."

traditionally untraditional . . . or why Kevin probably shouldn't be allowed to eat the Rum Cake. A holiday story by Stephanie Reynolds

My side of the family loves to be traditionally untraditional. Especially when it comes to food. For years Mom would get up in the wee hours of the night to baste a turkey, only for us all to admit afterwards that none of us really like turkey. A few years back Dad ordered a Tofurkey or Turducken or somesuch critter combination (just don't say it incorrectly and shock your grandmother . . . ), but it tasted pretty much like it sounds. For the last few years we have thrown caution to the wind and dad has grilled. This year he did ribs with a brown sugar/black peppercorn marinade and a Jack Daniels pork tenderloin. Add double-stuffed potatoes, 9th Street tea, and rum cake and, well, it was nothing short of A. Mazing.

Adding to the traditionally untraditional feel is Mom's flair for drama in decorating. The mantle, the kitchen table, the dining room are completely harvest-festive, down to the little touches like individually moulded butter pats in the shape of fall leaves, that sort of thing. Then we all come to the table in our best (cough, cough) clothes - dad was in his paint-stained pants, Kevin in his black Beatles t-shirt . . . you get the idea.

Here is where I will verbally reprimand my mother for callously engaging in the tacky practice of irreverent holiday jumping. When I said the mantle, kitchen table & dining room were harvest-festive, I should also say the Thanksgiving holiday was confined to those spaces, and those spaces only. Mom and Dad had already completely Decked the Halls for Christmas . . . and the front porch and the den and the garden room and the foyer and all three bedrooms AND THE BATHROOMS. I am so not kidding. Mom's house looks like an issue of Southern Living Christmas . . . she begins decorating in August and finishes getting it put away in June.

I, on the other hand, am contemplating whether or not I want to go to the effort of putting a wreath on my door.

The most bizarre of the traditionally untraditional had to be our dinner conversation. Did we share all the things we are thankful for? No. Did we discuss politics? Barak Obama, the health care system, Nancy Pelosi, Global Warming, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck's Christmas Sweater, or the economy? Thankfully, no. Was there mention of Michael Jackson's death or Oprah ending her show? A discussion of the best books and movies we have read this year, like Crazy Love or The Blind Side or Where the Wild Things Are or anything Twilight-related by Stephenie Meyer (in book form, not on the big screen). No. No. No. Instead, Kevin nearly stabbed Greg in the face (accidentally . . . at least, I think) with a steak knife, and Mom was displaying a burn on her hand from a decorating mishap. The 10-person, full-table discussion went something like this:

"There are 3 things you should never grab:

a pan right out of the oven, a sharp knife, and a hot glue gun."

"AND OH, THE ARK OF THE COVENANT!" Greg instantly interjected.

"Yeah, that would be a bad way to die."

"So that would be 4 things then, not 3."

"So . . . would you rather die by getting chomped in half by a shark

or swallowed whole by a whale?"

"Shark."

"No, whale"

"Seriously?!?!"

"I'm afraid that if the lower half of me was bitten off by a shark,

the upper half would still be alert and know what was happening."

"True, but if you were swallowed whole by a whale,

you might get in there and find out you aren't alone."

At this point, Kevin waves and, pretending to be inside a whale,

says, "Hi Elvis!"

Kevin then goes back to the kitchen to refill his

previously overflowing plate.

"Speaking of dying, how many squirrels have you killed at the bookstore,

Paul?" (Paul is my dad, the bookstore is his business).

"342 glorified rats, all with a single shot 22!"

These mashed potatoes are so creamy.

"Wow, of course none of those squirrels were shot when

Nancy (mom) was around!"

"Of course not, Nana sets them free, then cuts down an oak tree

so the squirrels can find food without having to climb so high."

(At this point mom asks if anyone wants cake.

The answer is a resounding, and unanimous "no").

The conversation continues with my sweet 90-year-old grandmother:

"I used to catch mice and put them in the garbage disposal."

WHAT???????!!!!!!!

She repeats with her quiet soprano voice,

"I used to catch mice and put them in the garbage disposal."

Shock and Awe. Oh, and Disgust.

Kacey turns three shades of green and begins to look

like she is going to lose her recently-eaten holiday meal.

(Again, mom asks if anyone wants cake.

It has been approximately 6 minutes since the last time she asked.

Again, the answer is a resounding, and again unanimous "no!")

Since Kacey is now in a pukey mood, she shares the memories of a "Fear Factor" competition from college when she had just finished drinking a pureed hamburger, peanut butter and DIRT milkshake and was the only remaining female competitor. (Yes, yes. A proud moment indeed in her $80,000 college career.) Kacey tells her end of the table (mostly men):

"After that I quit. The final contest involved eating bull balls."

The mostly female end of the table didn't quite hear her,

so she repeated louder,

"After that I quit. The final contest involved eating bull testicles."

Greg then wanted to know why she felt comfortable using the term

"balls" with him, but chose to say "testicles" to the matriarchs.

These mashed potatoes are so creamy.

"I used to eat brains and eggs. I liked brains and eggs."

"Gross. I can't imagine eating brains, though I do like the eggs."

"Hyena eggs?"

"WHAT?"

"You said 'hyena eggs'"

"No I didn't. I said 'I do like the eggs'."

"Oh. Nevermind."

"Speaking of balls, when is Nana going to pass on her

Christmas ornaments to Kacey?"

"HEY! Some of those are MINE!" Kevin objected.

"Yes," Kacey said, "But the Frosty Friends are all mine."

"Fine. But I get all the Star Wars ornaments!"

Yes, because nothing says "Christmas" quite like Darth Vader.

Kevin went back to the kitchen for thirds.

I widened my eyes at him and he shrugged his shoulders and said,

"I can't help it. I'm 16 and this is yummy!"

"Speaking of yummy, anybody want cake?"

"No! But what does everybody want for Christmas?"

"I don't know. I haven't even started thinking about Christmas yet."

"How can you not be thinking about Christmas

when the entire house is decorated for it!?!?"

"I had to start decorating early, we have a church party

here next weekend. Can't relax till it's done!"

"Speaking of relaxing, did I tell you I had a facial last Monday?

It lasted for a full 90 minutes."

"I got a pedicure for Christmas one year. It lasted for 9 months."

"9 months? The pedicure lasted for 9 months?"

"No, the polish on my toenails lasted for 9 months."

Dad interjected,

"Apparently they painted her toes with automotive enamel."

"Really, ya'll, does anybody want cake?"

At this point we imbibed in a rum cake so strong it was illegal for Kevin to eat in most states. Then we cleared the table, put away the cornucopia of autumn decor, and mom began decorating the dining room with a trio of silver glittered Christmas trees.

make music in your heart . . .

Today's Highlight: Listening to the reading of Ephesians 5:19 -20 after singing "Great is Thy Faithfulness" with instrumental accompaniment. I love Community Thanksgiving Services. Does this formerly-traditional church of Christ girl's heart good.

faster than a speeding bullet-point

Sunday:
*Ministry leaders' budgets due, great worship, lunch at Penn with the Matheny clan and Mike.
*Daily visit to Lowe's for my 7th attempt to ascertain the perfect shade of . . . well, I don't know, but somewhere between rust and tangerine. I'll know when I get there. Sara just shakes her head at me and tells me I'm hopeless. She, of course, is right.
*Evening spent getting to know new friends better, and trying to work on a couple of brain teasers from NPR, one being: Name an auto manufacturer and telecommunications company whose names are exact opposites. (The best I came up with is Dodge and Sprint. Not exactly opposites.) It's been 5 days . . . still working on this one.

Monday:
*Paint girl at Lowe's greeted me by name. Well, not by MY name, but rather by my original paint name, "Hey! It's the LaFonda Copper Lady".
*Called mom to go to lunch, but she turned me down. Sad day. Okay, so she already had other commitments, but still . . .
*Went to the movies to see 2012 at the STRONG insistence of daughter-face, who thought it so nice she saw it twice. Now, I like a good action flick as much as the next easily-entertained American, but COME. ON. I rolled my eyes so much I think I may have snapped my optic nerve. And since I dragged a couple of people to the theater with me for this disaster of a disaster movie, I'm sending Kacey a bill for $17.25.
*Belated Birthday Sushi and only 24 days after my actual birthday! Two additional friends, who have never experienced the bliss that is sushi, were supposed to join us, but every time we have made plans to go she has found an excuse to back out. This time she was "sick". Jessica, I think you are suffering from ichthyophobia. Or omophagiaphobia. No! I know, it's consecotaleophobia! (When it's time for Christmas Sushi, we will let you use a fork!)

Wednesday:
*For Kevin, last day of co-op this semester, then guitar lessons.
*For me, an office filled with people all day, making it very difficult to work, work, work.
*I also had to "break up" with a doula client today . . . the most important aspect of childbirth is for everybody to be comfortable with everybody else involved. After our third phone call, I could tell that was not going to be the case, so I did my best to amicably part ways.

Thursday:
*Was planning to go to our Women's Bible Study brunch . . . when I thought it started at 9. Turns out it started at 10:30. Apparently they hid that tidbit of information in the invitation they gave me. If only someone had told me I actually needed to READ the invitation.
*So, instead, it was just work, work, work, then . . .
*Administration meeting from 5 until . . . whenever it was we finished. This time of year it's all about the budget. Blah. Necessary, but blah.

Friday:
*More work, work, work. (Be it known, when I say "work, work, work" there is NO negative connotation to this. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE my work, work, work!)
*Grocery to stock up on pre-Thanksgiving necessities.
*Friday Night High School Hangout crowd arrived for French Toast and games! No, Erin, there will NOT be cow-chasing tonight, or ever again!
Tonight's Highlights:
**5 females to 1 Kevin. They made him watch Runaway Bride. I love these girls!
**In playing "Imaginiff" we had to fill in an empty blank with someone we all knew well. Aymee and Kevin chose their youth minister. His question was: If he was a famous vehicle, he would be 1) Batmobile, 2) Herbie the Love Bug, 3) Monster Truck, 4)General Lee, 5) Thomas the Tank Engine, and 6) Starship Enterprise. Our group offered a unanimous vote for . . . well, for those of you who know Mike, I'll let you weigh in on this one.
**Erin arrived, stood in the living room and observed the multi-paint-layered walls that look like that piece of paper you test color all your nailpolish on when you are trying to find that ONE shade that is NOT orange but blends with your autumn sweaters, then came into the den and said, "Stephanie, your living room is going to be a foot smaller by the time you decide on a paint color!"

Tomorrow:
*Kevin has a Recording Technology workshop to attend; Greg, I'm certain, will head to his deer stand for the morning; and I, well, I will be shrinking the square footage of my living room by adding a coat of pumpkin spice latte to the walls. Wish me luck.

a beautiful system of communication

Last weekend at the Youth Conference (Celebration), my co-chaperone and five of our high school girls had a couple of really great late-night girl talks in our cabin. Laughing, crying, sharing . . . the usual heavy, deep and real estrogen-laden conversations. My favorite form of "bonding".

On the last day of Celebration, Aymee mentioned to my son just how much fun we had with our girl talks, then she asked him if the high school boys had experienced similar bonding times.

Kevin replied, "Uh, that'd be a no. We stayed up late watching 'Snakehead Terror." (Which, based on the title, sounded pretty cheesy but I recanted when I discovered the plot: Bruce Boxleitner and Carol Alt battle against mutating fish.)

Aymee was clearly dismayed by the startling revelation that boys don't really do "boy talk" in the same way girls do "girl talk", and she struggled to understand why boys prefer to live like ostriches with their heads in the sand.

Kevin explained, "Men don't share their feelings, we watch tv. It's a beautiful system of communication."

bound for independence

He did his chores, plus the dusting and vaccuming.

He practiced his guitar.

He turned in the money he collected from the Youth Group for their Compassion child.

He offered to go to the bank and get lunch for me.

He got all his schoolwork done, including AP biology, without complaint.

He visited with his grandparents.

He went to the gym and worked out for an hour.

He packed his bag for a weekend camp retreat. Knowing he has NEVER successfully packed for a trip without forgetting something vital, like say, his pants, I run down the usual checklist:

"Did you remember to pack your bedding? Pillow? Sleeping bag?"
"Yep."
"Did you remember clean underwear? Pajamas?"
"Yep. Yep."
"Got your toothbrush?"
"Yep."
"Razor?"
"Yep."
"Deoderant? Toothpaste? Shampoo?"
"Yep. Yep. Yep."
"Q-TIPS??? Did you remember to pack Q-tips?"
"Yep!"
"Oh, you did NOT!"
Smiling and nodding his head as he bounded away down the sidewalk he confirmed,
"Oh, YES I did!"


A proud moment, indeed. When he is on his own, he will have clean ears. Clearly, my work as a mother is complete.

bait and switch

If you haven't read Mike Cope's blog today. Read it. He's always insightful, but this one is especially wonderful: http://preachermike.com/2009/11/06/the-bait-and-switch-of-contemporary-christianity

discourse with daughter-face

The beginning of Wednesday . . .

Kacey texted: "What is the word for when you attribute human characteristics to something that isn't human, or possibly even inanimate? Nathan and I tried to think of it for an hour last night and we couldn't come up with anything."

And because I'm a good mommy, which you know by now, because I tell you all the time, I answered: "Personification"

She replied: "Are you sure?" (Am I sure? Does she KNOW to whom she is speaking? Of course I'm sure! Even when I'm wrong, I'm sure!)

"Yes," I stated, "Personification is a figure of speech in which inanimate objects or abstractions are endowed with human qualities or are represented as possessing human form, as in 'Hunger sat shivering on the road.' "

She retorted, "No, I just googled it, and the term for which I was searching is ANTHROPOMORPHISM: The attribution of human motivation, characteristics, or behavior to inanimate objects, animals, or natural phenomena . . . BooYah!"

"NOT the same thing," I argued, "as anthropomorphism is a basic cognitive process in which some entity comes to stand for or represent something else. It is more sociological in nature, whereas personification is more literary."

Her reply: "Is TOO the same thing. But Nathan says he was thinking of your word anyway, so it doesn't matter." :o)

Then we discussed her brother dressing up like a log.

diaLOG with my son

ME: "So, what's your costume gonna be for the Halloween party?"
KEV: "I dunno. Maybe I'll go as a telephone pole."
ME: "You COULD go as a tree."
KEV: "No, that's boring . . .(long pause) I think I'll go as a log."

He did.

So, six pieces of poster board, a roll of woodgrain contact paper, and some black mesh garnered him a prize for "scariest costume" . . . not because the costume itself was creepy, but because the brain that produced the idea to dress up as a LOG is, apparently, pretty darn frightening.

I told him he should put a nametag on his log costume that read, "Hello, my name is Lincoln." Then I laughed my silly head off.

He didn't think that was funny.

overflow

Spiritual

"If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever

believes in me . . . streams of living water will flow from within him."

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him,

so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."

Yes, more water analogies. When you are spiritually dehydrated, there is nothing to "overflow". Hence: burnout. He alone quenches our thirst. He fills us when we let Him.

There are two selfish problems with this: 1) It has to be proactive on my part. Being filled with Him doesn't happen by osmosis just because I'm in the right places with the right people, and 2) Note the language that occurs AFTER you have been filled, "streams will flow" and "you may overflow". Overflow requires a time commitment. Time to be filled and time to be spilled into the lives of others.

Silly
I've always sort of prided myself that I wasn't one of those "girly girls" who has to pee every 53 minutes. You know, the one everybody hates on road trips because you have to stop at every truck stop, rest stop, and 7-11.

Turns out, another by-product of being physically dehydrated is that there is no excess fluid in your body to get rid of. So, imagine my disappointment when I began drinking 72+ ounces of water every day and discovered it didn't matter if I thought I was Wonder Woman or not, "streams of water" still have to flow every 53 minutes.

Water in, water out, so to speak.

And while the "blue restroom" and I share a wall thin enough to hear my male co-workers', uh, cell phone conversations, the "pink restroom" is on the other side of the building, exactly 96 round-trip steps from my desk, resulting in several necessary 3-minute/14-second "potty breaks" throughout the workday. By 5 p.m. this results in a half-hour of time to just "overflow", so to speak.

There is not enough time in my day to run to the girl's room that much. Seriously.

I just thought you needed to be aware.

for today, November 2

Outside my window.....
the full moon rising through the trees

in the back yard. One of the joys in life

I never take for granted.

I am thankful....
for my bed. I was just thinking about it last

night when I crawled in. Soooo comfy and warm.

Then I thought about all those sleeping on the

ground and on park benches and on dirty floors.

It's amazing how spoiled I am with the things I consider basics.
From our studies....
Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. Shawn Baldwin loaned this

book to Kevin last night, so today after Kev went to the gym and

finished up his regular schoolwork, he cloistered himself in his

room and knocked out six chapters. He is reading even still.
I am wearing....

the most comfortable pair of shoes I have owned in a long time.
I am thinking....

about taking off those shoes, now that I am home

and my toes are longing to breathe free.
Around the house....

Waiting for the paint fairy to show up

and finish repainting the living room.

She's had a month and still the walls remain mostly

Longhorn rust. I don't know what her problem is.

Greg is just hoping the paint fairy knows how to use a drop cloth.
I am going....
to start dinner. Soon. Really I am.
I am reading....
Secondhand Jesus: Trading Rumors of God for a Firsthand Faith

by Glenn Packiam. Just started it this morning. I am finishing

"The Blind Side", which I have thoroughly enjoyed.

I am hoping....
for Mike to get well and beautiful weather for Celebration this weekend!

I am hearing....
"The Magnificat" in my head. Kelly W. called me earlier and asked

me to sing it to her on the phone. I did. AND I was in the chiropractor's

office at the time. There were some strange looks. Of course,

I was the one making most of them, but still.
From the kitchen....
Chicken Noodle Soup with mushrooms and rosemary and . . . basil.

Made especially for the sick and infirmed. You know who you are.

Now, get well. Seriously.

One of my favorite things....

fall. fall leaves. fall colors. fall weather.
A few plans for the rest of the week.....

getting my house cleaned, getting the bills paid, getting ready for Celebration, getting over myself.

At least, that's the plan. :o)

the presents of God

My birthday this year happened to fall during the 2009 Saddle Boy Competition, which though it took place in Murfreesboro this year instead of Fort Worth, was still not the place I would have chosen to spend my birthday had hubbyman not been competing.

But Greg WAS competing (and took home a 4th place ribbon in the "In Hand" division), so instead of sushi with Mike & Sara and my kids, I found myself eating bbq and reading a good book in the back of a horse arena. :o)

But even in the midst of Mustangs, Manure and Belt Buckles the size of Rhode Island, I was reminded how blessed I am in the friendship department. Aside from the innumerable obligatory Facebook birthday wishes and dozens of texts and phone calls from friends, family and youth group kiddos:
* The High School girls all left fun little ego-boosting sticky notes on my desk, utilizing the words "best, amazing, favorite, beautiful and fantasticle", and who am I to argue with those adjectives?! :o)
* Lindsay and Parker met me for lunch at Wolfgang's while Kevin was taking his ACT at Lipscomb. Pumpkin Ravioli. Yum.
* Mike & Sara called and sang to me, and you can't not smile when people sing to you. Unless it's strange people singing to you in front of other strange people, like at restaurants, which I hate, but Mike and Sara aren't strange people . . . well, they aren't STRANGERS, and I was quite entertained by the serenade.
* Many of my lovely friends bestowed sweet and very appropriate gifts upon me - everything from organic dark chocolate and cute clicky pens to books and earrings and homemade Cranberry-Walnut Bread (accompanied with a "God story" from Sara M. that made me cry and feel, oh, so special.)
* Boy Jr. gave me a nifty little iPod amplifier and other musical goodies.
* My parents took us out for AMAZING crab legs, (after the weekend) and are gifting me with curtains for the very large, very bare living room windows. (That is, once I find curtains that work with the Texas Longhorn wallcolor. . . like maybe Dallas Cowboy blue.)
* Daughter-face drove down from Indy so she wouldn't miss my birthday. She also brought a big bag filled with jewelry and some strange fabric things she called "PA JA MAS" (I've heard of them, just not quite sure I've figured out how to properly use them!)
* Preceeding the Cranberry-Walnut Bread, was this photo, which Philip brought with him when he also drove to Murfreesboro so he wouldn't miss my birthday! (Or maybe it was because he actually came to see the mustang competition!) Anyway, when he handed me this picture, my reaction was 3-fold:
1) "OOOOHHHH, pictures of the kids!"
2) "OH! They are holding birthday wishes for me!"
3) "Oh my goodness! They got all dressed up for the pictures!"

Let me tell ya, kids just don't get any cuter than these two. They just don't. Seriously.

The birthday is ongoing and will not be considered official until there is sushi. And there will be sushi.

Thanks to all of you for going out of your way to bless me and make my Birthday Week special. Having you as friends is the best present of all.

H2Overwhelmed by a Relentless God

Okay, so we established that I hate water and I'm never thirsty because I'm perpetually dehydrated. And once the lightbulb began flashing over my head I could hear God saying, "Are you getting it, Steph? Do you see what I'm trying to show you?"

Yes, I think I do.

Physically, I was never thirsty. I absorbed most of what I needed, fluid-wise, through secondary sources like food and soft drinks, so I rarely felt the need for water.

Spiritually, I was never thirsty. I absorbed most of what I needed, God-wise, through secondary sources like church and work and other people, so I rarely felt the need for living water.

See, my life is immersed in church. And I love it. I swim in it every day. I work for the church. I spend the majority of my hours in the church building. I spend the bulk of my work time with two pretty amazing ministers. My social life consists primarily of church people. Good people. God people. My extra time is spent with church administrative teams and youth group kids. It is my life. IT. Church. Work. Busy-ness. IT. Not Him.

Time to get out of the shallow end of the pool, Steph.

I'd let myself become so immersed in all of IT, I was only absorbing God through secondary sources . . . and I was starting to burn out. I'd let my quiet time slip away. I'd let my study time slip away. I'd let Him slip away. . . or rather, I'd let myself slip away from Him. And I didn't even realize it. I had even let my prayer life become one-sided: a lot of talking and virtually no listening. I was dehydrated and didn't know it.

Enter a Crazy little book I had bought some months earlier (I can't even remember what prompted me to get this book), but when it arrived, I stuck it on my bookcase and forgot about it. Until God reminded me. I pulled it off the shelf, took it home and read it. All in one sitting. Then I went out onto my front porch and cried. Then I began to pray. Out loud. For a long time. Then I just sat there. Then I began to sing. You Are God Alone. Out loud. I spent 3 hours on the front porch, some of it in the rain, soaking up as much of Him as I could.

I didn't know I was thirsty . . .

H2Overrated

I hate water.

Well, not entirely. I love rain; long, hot baths; the ocean; and watching the dust rinse off the windshield from an interior view at the carwash.

But I hate to drink water, even though I know I need it. It makes me feel queasy. Oh, I make feeble attempts from time to time to increase my H2O intake, but never with any lasting results. Last year, my darling Sara even stuck a post-it on my lovely BPA-free pink Camelback water bottle reminding me to "refill 3x a day for best health". I tried. Sort of. At least I looked at the note every day and felt semi-guilty about NOT refilling. And guilt is good. I mean, KNOWING you are supposed to do something is ALMOST as good as actually doing it, right?

But you see, I'm never thirsty. Ever. Sometimes I do well to refill the water bottle once a week. No joke. If I do drink, it's usually something loaded with caffeine from Happy Hour at Sonic. At restaurants my glass is frequently untouched, and rarely refilled, regardless of the contents.

So, a few weeks back, I was having the Most Amazing Late-Night Chicken Nachos at Sunset Grill in Nashville with 5 of my Favorite People in the Entire World, when Mike starts nagging at me to drink some water. "But I'm not thirsty!" I protest. "In fact, I'm never thirsty!"

That's when God used a weird little moment to teach me a really big lesson.

Sara said, "You're never thirsty because you are dehydrated. You are always dehydrated."

I'm never thirsty because I'm chronically dehydrated. (This prompted quite a bit of research to verify that she was, in fact, completely correct. When you don't get enough water for a long enough time, your body stops triggering the thirst mechanism.) Instead, it lets dehydration take its toll and manifests itself in dozens of subtle ways like dry skin, backaches, swollen ankles, forgetfulness (because apparently my brain, and yours, is 75% water), lowered metabolism, liver toxicity, headaches . . . and EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY.

WHAT? Not drinking water has made me an emotional basket case.

Lightbulb on.

I am now refilling 3x a day for best health. And sanity.


Leave it to God to use this 18-month-long physical analogy to also teach me a spiritual lesson. But that's next blog.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to Me. I'm writing this from the Hyatt Place's computer/business center before I head down to Cool Springs to have lunch with my neice, nephew and DAUGHTER-FACE who surprised me by driving down to celebrate with me! (Poor Kevie-poo is taking his A.C.T. this morning. You can say a prayer for him!)

crazy love

I am grateful:

For hearts that want to be more like Jesus.

For the thoughts and actions of friends who model this for me.

For the challenge and conviction to want to live surrendered to what God wants for the life He has given me.

For second chances. And third chances. And fourth chances . . .

. . . and it was still hot.

One of my favorite things in all of life is children's literature. Especially great children's literature. Maurice Sendak's "Where the Wild Things Are" earned the number one spot on my picture book list back when Kacey was a toddler. Having read it to both my children every single night of their young lives, even now, some 10 years past any regular reading of it, I can still quote each page.

"The night Max wore his wolf suit,

and made mischief of one kind, and then another,

his mother called him 'Wild Thing!'

And Max said, "I'll eat you up!'"

I have been anticipating the movie for quite some time now, and it did not disappoint. Wild Things was not at all what I expected, and it is most definitely not a children's movie. It is deep and dark, heavy with troubled relationships and characters who portray each and every one of us at some point in our lives: angry, neglected, negative, hurt, quiet, needy. But it is also thought-provoking and hopeful and emotional.

This movie didn't play down to its audience, didn't feel the need to explain itself or make excuses. It portrayed, through the eyes of a hurting and confused Max, a way to deal with the reality in his life by running away into fantasy.

"That very night in Max's room

a forest grew, and grew, and grew

until his ceiling hung with vines

and the walls became the world all around.

And an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max.

And he sailed off through night and day

and in and out of weeks

and almost over a year

to where the wild things are."

I loved the imagery of home in this movie . . . the igloo, the fort in his bedroom, the "sleeping pile", the Wild Things fortress. Places of comfort and happiness that came crashing in with a word, an action, a threat. Places of security that, in a mere moments, became places of suffocation.

'And Max, the king of all wild things,

was lonely and wanted to be where someone

loved him best of all.'

And while the movie took great liberties with the story, taking it from whimsical to near melancholy, it stayed wonderfully true to the illustrations and the eccentric feel of Sendak's story. When the "wild rumpus starts", the sounds the movie creatures made were some of the sounds I made up myself when they

"roared their terrible roars and

gnashed their terrible teeth and

rolled their terrible eyes and

showed their terrible claws."

Max's theatrical journey left me in tears, and I completely loved everything about it.

"And he sailed back over a year
and in and out of weeks
and through a day

and into the night of his very own room,

where he found his supper waiting for him

. . . and it was still hot."

dental anguish

brief wave of panic

Experienced a brief wave of panic this afternoon as I was brushing my teeth with my Sonicare toothbrush and the battery died midway through the process. So I'm standing at the bathroom sink thinking to myself, "Great. Now what am I gonna do???"

Once it dawned on me that I could still rinse and spit manually, the brief wave of panic subsided.

I am so not kidding.

I guess even crooks care about hygiene

While I'm on the subject of toothbrushes, I keep a small makeup bag in the top drawer of my office file cabinet. Nothing special, just a small black bag with one each of all the basics: toothbrush & paste, foundation, blush, powder, mascara, deoderant, hairspray, and, uh, other assorted female stuff. This morning I went to my now-always-unlocked office (you know, since the punks kicked in my door and broke it) to retrieve one of those assorted female items from my makeup bag.

They stole my makeup bag.

I am so not kidding.

I guess after eating all of Mike's cookies, they felt the need to brush the crumbs out of their guilty teeth.

Sheesh.

yeah, a big baby

I am used to having a husband who works midnights. We've had this schedule for so many years, I don't even think twice about staying alone in an empty house. It's just never been a big deal for me. Then again, I've never been given a reason to feel insecure about it.

Yesterday I was laughing off the church break-in a bit. My computer was not taken and neither was Kevin's laptop (which, he points out "has a floppy drive, Mom. Not even crooks want it.").

This morning when I came in to work, I knew I would be alone. I couldn't bring myself to come in the door I use normally, because it enters to a dark hallway, so I pulled up under the canopy and came in the front doors, flipping on lights as I went through, you know, 'cause if there are any thugs in the building I want them to get a good view of me falling on my face as I attempt to run away.

About 4 feet from my office door I heard a man sneeze. Seriously. Sounded like it came from my office. So I'm now totally freaked out.

I went right back outside and sat in my car. Greg was at work, so I was out of luck there. I debated about calling the Sheriff's dept. to see if they would come do a "walk through", but I really didn't want to look like a baby. So I tried calling Ian, 'cause
1) he lives close by,
2) I don't care if he thinks I'm a baby, and
3) I figured he would bring some macho GI Joe grenade launcher and check things out . . but he didn't answer his phone.
So, instead, I texted Mike, thinking at least he would be empathetic, he would give me some sense of "it'll be okay." He responded with "Hmmm". I think he believed me to be a drama queen. So I drove around the building to see whose car might be there, so I could ascertain the identity of the sneezer. There were no other cars but mine. Now I'm feeling a bit paranoid and second-guessing what I heard. Or thought I heard. Did I REALLY hear a man sneeze? Yes I did. I definitely heard a man sneeze.

I drove back around under the canopy and stared into the building, trying to decide exactly how I could hook up my computer and work from the car, when somebody knocked on my passenger window.

This is when I experienced a rather large myocardial infarction, complete with the bright light and the sound of St. Peter's voice.

Turns out it was the church's next door neighbor coming to borrow tables. He happened to be walking outside my office (and, apparently, sneezing) at precisely the moment I was arriving. Lousy timing. Funny. But lousy.

So, I have decided to pray myself through this ridiculous feeling of insecurity and get to work.
Right after I blog, of course.

they shattered my security

Some time back I blogged about Kevin & Mike shattering my happiness.

But this is different. This was . . . a violation of security.

As we were finishing up a late night meeting last night around 10, I settled myself at my desk to stay a few minutes longer than the guys so I could send out some emails. Before he and Terrell left, Mike said, "Just so you know, the [church down the road] was broken into a couple of nights ago." Well, that prompted me to NOT want to stay alone in the building after dark, so I went ahead and left when the guys did.

I had a dream then that Sandy asked me to drive her home from church because her husband was going to stay at the building and secure all the doors and "stakeout" the building in case of prowlers.

This morning early, Terrell called to say our church had been broken into. They kicked in our office doors, rummaged through our things, stole cameras and computers and cash, and generally made a mess out of things.

We spent the morning talking to deputies, trying to remember what went where, calling insurance agents and banks and security companies and carpenters and ISPs. Not to mention cleaning up doggie doo from a stray that had wandered in and "done his job" in several locations after the doors were left open. After the Sheriff's Dept. dusted my office for fingerprints, (I discovered, unfortunately, that "dusting" my office does NOT leave it cleaner than they found it!) I spent the rest of the morning cleaning up my office - to include antibacterially de-crookifying my water bottle and Brita water filter in a Monk-like fashion, 'cause I don't know who these guys were, but you better believe I don't want any of their nasty germs to go along with their nasty behavior. And, I know they weren't likely to drink out of my water bottle, but, hey, they ate cookies in Mike's office, so who's to say?

Anyway, the place where I generally feel incredibly safe, even when alone, now feels, well . . . strange.

I don't think insurance can replace that.

longhorns and lattes

Paint Stalking
Okay, so I've been stalking the idea of painting my living room for two years now, but I never could decide on a color. Finally, back in the spring, I kept running into this not-quite-persimmon, but lovely shade of orange. But not. So hard to describe. Finally bought the paint (officially called "Cinnamon Clove"), and my niece painted the room when she was here a couple of weeks ago. She did a GREAT job painting, HOWEVER, it then became the proverbial picking-the-petals-off-the-daisy for me - "she loves it, she loves it not, she loves it" . . . Yeah, she really loves it NOT. Kacey texted to ask if it was the color of her yummy pumpkin spice latte. No, no it's not. It's the color of the Texas Longhorns, and it is not working in what I hope will soon be a very contemporary multi-functional dining space.

SOOOO, I went to Sherwin-Williams, picked a new color, Cavern Clay, which was VASTLY different than the Longhorns Rust color, paired it with my Bamboo Shoot & Blackberry accent colors. Loved it, bought a gallon of it, came home and painted a square on the wall, and let it dry.

Turns out, Cavern Clay is also the same color as the Texas Longhorns. Back to square one. Or paint three. Whatever.

A Bit Sad, but the Right Decision (part 1)
Listed my rolltop desk and antique upright piano for sale this morning. A bit sad, but the right decision.

A Bit Sad, but the Right Decision (part 2)
I am NOT a shoe person. I buy one comfy pair of black loafers and wear them every day for 8 months. The heels on last year's black shoes collapsed, so when I tried them on this winter, they forced me to walk like a peg-legged pirate. And since there is frost on the ground and I have still been wearing sandals, I had no choice but to break down and go shoe shopping. I finally found a pair in the mall. Loved them, bought them, came home and wore them. Turns out, they really hurt my feet. So, I plan to spend some time this afternoon re-shoe shopping. A bit sad, but the right decision.

A Bit Sad, but the Right Decision (part 3)
I also plan to spend some time this afternoon phone shopping. I need a new one. My lovely little red Nokia flip phone that I have blogged about on numerous occasions is nearly impossible to read in daylight. A seriously scratched up screen. When Christina texted to ask how many "desserts we were needing" and I read "buzzards we were feeling", I knew it was time. I want an iPhone. I really want an iPhone. I have decided NOT to get an iPhone. A bit sad, but the right decision.

That's my update. Have a GREAT Monday!

the log flume

There is much to blog. Much to share. No beginning point as of yet. Six pages of somewhat illegible notes from the mini-notebook in my purse . . . mostly on the effects of water - or lack thereof - in my life. Physically and spiritually. For months and months my life has been a rollercoaster - or since I'm going for the water analogy here, a log flume, of needy, clingy, poor-pitiful-me emotions. Really bad. Sometimes even worse than that.

Occasionally normalcy seems to return and then I get splashed in the face yet again. About 6 weeks ago I concluded that I was sick and tired having pity parties and playing the blame game. Before I scare off all my friends, I decided to get fixed. (Oooo! Not in the "we got our dog fixed" kind of way, but in the being proactive sort of way.) Actually taking steps to make changes. And I'm seeing improvement. I'm better, though definitely not good. But there is hope. And I am looking forward to being me again.

Mommy Cake
Went to eat sushi with Ashley last Friday. When the sushi arrived, beautifully arranged and brightly colored, her 2 year old daughter pointed and said, enthusiastically, "CAKE!" Ashley gave her a piece while trying to explain to her that it wasn't really "yummy cake" but more a "fish cake". Don't think she really grasped the concept until she took a bite. She turned up her nose, handed the piece of sushi back to Ashley and said, "Mommy cake."

Let the Sunshine In
The other day I went into Mom's house. It was really dark. I mean REALLY dark. And it was the middle of the day. For a minute I thought the power was out. I even asked, "WHY IS IT SO DARK IN HERE?" Then I took off my sunglasses . . .

Yeah. Not my, uh, "brightest" moment.

Just Say No
(The following story is not intended, in any way, to make light of drug abuse and addiction. We take it very seriously and feel for those who struggle with it.)

We don't do drugs in our house. And when I say we "don't do drugs", I mean if you come to visit and get a headache, you will not find anything in our cabinets to alleviate your pain, unless chocolate works for you.

It became a running joke in our family, years ago, when the "Just Say No" public service ads came on tv, for me to say, "Hey Kacey, Hey Kevin, Don't Do Drugs!" Then it evolved. Anytime anyone on television would say, "Talk to your kids about drugs", I would say, "Hey Kacey," or "Hey Kevin, Don't Do Drugs!" And, since we're fans of repeptitive humor, this has happened pretty much weekly in our household for some 10 or 12 years. So much so, that when I say, "Hey Kacey" or "Hey Kevin" they will conclude the statement, "Yeah, yeah, don't do drugs."

So this morning Kevin and I are going through our usual routine of emptying the dishwasher, eating breakfast, folding laundry, putting on makeup (this one would be limited to me), all while watching the Today Show. They did a segment on the rise of marijuana use among professional women in their 30's & 40's, when my son says,

"Hey Mom, Don't Become a Casual Recreational Pot Smoker."

only if you enjoy the holy grail

Greg is in Georgia for another horse thing this weekend. (He will be riding a real horse, not just clopping together two empty halves of a coconut.)

Lindsay came to visit AND cooked dinner. (Pasta Alfredo, not lambs and sloths, and carp and anchovies, and orangutans and breakfast cereals, and fruit-bats)

Kacey is jealous that Lindsay came to visit, and is texting to say my mother was a hamster and my father smelt of elderberries.

The usual high school bunch is here to hang out, plus a couple of newbies this week!

Tonight became "Double Feature Movie Night". Can I just say, there is nothing - NOTHING - more hysterical than watching Monty Python's Holy Grail with a room full of teens. An hour later and I'm still giggling at the Holy Hand Grenade: "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it."

The kiddos are having a good time.

*There are four squashed into a loveseat that is only designed to accomodate two.

*There is one naysayer who didn't want to watch this movie, and who continues to say, every 30 seconds or so, how "dumb" this movie is. I didn't really think he meant it until he said it for the 82nd time, so I'm really, really glad he was persistent in voicing his dislike.

*There is an empty plate on the coffee table, that an hour ago, held dozens of brownies. Pretty sure Becca ate 32 of them.

*There are two kids who feel a bit more connected tonight than they ever have before.

*There is one who is well-acquainted with all the jump scenes in this movie and who is enjoying making Samantha jump at all the appropriate times.

I find it also imperative to say it is completely futile trying to watch a good M. Night Shyamalan movie (Good = one with great dialoge, Horrid = "The Happening" with that awful B-movie script) with a room full of teens who chatter incessantly. How can you possibly appreciate Bob Balaban's brilliantly ironic death speech if you aren't listening, people!?

You can't. Which is why I am now blogging. :o)

updating the outdated

My first blog post, some 2 1/2 years ago was "100 Things About Me". I didn't know at the time that topic is generally reserved for your 100th blog, but . . . whatever. Anyway, it dawned on me a few days ago that many of the original "100 Things" from April '07 are already woefully outdated. So, because you are fascinated with my life, or because you have an iPod and happen to be stuck somewhere with wi-fi access and nothing better to read, I have updated the outdated.

3. The numerous nicknames I have had for my kids over the years have morphed into just two: Daugher-Face and Kevie-Poo. In fact, at one of the FOG softball games this summer, Kevin's "groupies" were all cheering for him and they did: "Gimme a K, gimme an E, gimme a V, gimme an I, gimme an E, gimme a POO, whatd'ya got? KEVIE-POO!"

8. I am still not a collector of things, (the exception being the previously blogged-about collection of gross family treasures: baby teeth, gallstones in a little jar, titanium pins from a broken hip, and a shriveled umbilical cord with the shoestring still attached.) I'm seeking therapy.

17. I still love email and texting! (It's like getting letters in the mail, only without a 3 day delivery wait and a liberty bell stamp.) I have added to that a love of Facebook and all things blog-related. I hardly knew what a blog was 5 years ago, and now I have a running list of dozens I keep up with - some I enjoy, some are convicting, some are like bad car crashes - I don't necessarily want to look, but I just can't help myself.

18. I still HATE talking on the phone, but now I know why . . . A) people only call when they want something or when they want to talk ABOUT somebody else. Either option doesn't work for me. B) All the really horrible life-changing news in my life has come to me via the phone.

19. I am terrible about keeping up with old friends, though Facebook has brought many of them out of the woodwork and made my life infinitely richer . . . For example, I can know when a guy I sat 2 rows behind in my Senior English class some billion years ago, feels the need to mow his grass today. :o) Seriously though, I am adding "friends" on a regular basis, some close, some not, plus a very special one I haven't heard from in a lifetime (and which, between you and me, has me totally freaked out.)

20. In April '07, we were still Amish (no cable, internet, or cell phones). Now we have all three, making the original number 21 on the "100 things" list even easier.

25. Even more codependent on my reading glasses, which have gone from 1.25 to 1.75. At last count, there were 8 pairs floating around the house and the office.

26. I have a pretty new purple purse.

35. Still love road trips, still prefer to be in control, but I am completely relaxed when my newly-licensed son is at the wheel. He is a GREAT driver. Clearly he had a good instructor.

41. Well, #41 is probably the most significantly changed of the 100. Pasta has been demoted as my favorite food. If you don't know what replaced it, you haven't been reading my blog very long.

49. Every night, after Kevin went to bed, I would flip the light on in his room so the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars would shine and then flip the light back off and say “PWETTY Stars”. Every night. It annoyed him. A lot. Which is, of course, why I did it. So one night, after he had spent the evening home alone and I was feeling that I had neglected him that day, I went to tell him goodnight, flipped on the light, and just as the words "PWETTY Stars" began to escape my mouth . . . NOTHING. No stars. Just darkness. He had utilized his precious few hours alone to "de-astronomize" his ceiling. Sad day. Sad night, rather.

54. My musical range has expanded considerably, thanks to my iPod-addict son and the minister-who-shall-remain-nameless in the office next door. They share their musical tastes with me, and I am happy to have my horizons broadened.

56. Coffee has been added to the list of things I love.

58. I have been blessed to be part of 3 more births since my blog was born, (Titus, Aurora, and Garrett the amazing enter-the-world-at-record-speed homebirth baby), with another doula "job" on the horizon.

68. I still always clean the kitchen before I go to bed, but I no longer start a load of laundry until morning thanks to a germophobic friend who pointed out that my clothes are sitting wet for 7 hours just waiting to sour.

79. The treadmill got demoted from my bedroom to Kacey's room, where it no longer gets used as a clothes rack, and where it no longer stares at me like the creepy Geico Cash, making me feel guilty for not using it.

91. Blogging replaced scrapbooking as my creative outlet. I no longer have the time to crop off the heads of people I don’t like.

100. My favorite scripture is still, and will likely always be, Philippians 2:3-15. I never get tired of reading it, and it serves as a much-needed reminder that it's all about Him and NOT about me.

no sign of mass destruction

I took the week off from work. Yes. The WHOLE week. I even created one of those auto-reply emails that read, "I'm sorry, Stephanie is out of the office this week. If it seems to you that the world is coming to an end, please notify Melissa, our church secretary, and she will pass along the information to the appropriate member of your ministry staff". So far there is no sign of mass destruction or of my being irreplacable, which is good for my ego to be aware of. :o)

I have a lunch appointment tomorrow with a doula client. Can't wait. This one is a friend who is doing a VBAC (v-birth after c-section). She is due on my son's birthday, which is kinda cool.

Spent a couple of days this week in Indianapolis, helping move Nathan & Kacey into their new home. Was a blessing to have their friends help out, and an even bigger blessing to be able to pray over their new home with them. Kacey has painted her living room/kitchen a kind of sagey green. My den/kitchen is sage. She painted her bedroom brown. My bedroom is brown. She painted her office lime green with black & white accessories. I just painted her old bedroom lime green with black & white accessories. I think I'm starting to see a pattern here . . .

I woke Kevin up the other morning. I almost hated to. He was so peaceful, lying there all curled up in the fetal position, one leg outside the covers as always. So I did what any good mother would do: I licked my finger and woke him via a "wet willy". Hey - before you get too grossed out, just know it was payback from the day before when he did it to me. Revenge served cold is so sweet. Of course, he then declared that the quality of my future nursing home has officially hit rock bottom. According to him, my twilight years will now be spent in in an alley with a partially delapidated dumpster. This kid makes me laugh out loud every stinkin' day.

My table is in! It arrived today! Yea for me!

Okay, that's it. Have a great night!

41 at 2:31

At 2:31 yesterday morning, I was awakened by my son standing in my bedroom doorway.

He said, "Is it 41?"

"Is it what?" I asked sleepily.

"Is it 41!?" he repeated adamantly.

"HUH?" I questioned.

"41!!!" he insisted.

"Oh! Yes, honey, it is 41, now go back to bed."

"Okay."

From time to time my son sleepwalks.

Can be quite entertaining.

multi-tasking

A couple of weeks ago, Mike and I were planning worship in the man-truck while heading to the hospital to visit one of our youth group kiddos who decided she no longer wanted to keep a particular kidney stone in her body. Anyway . . .

I was looking over a song list of about 90 songs while Mike started singing one them. I continued to read through the songs, thinking about the lyrics, trying to find a couple that worked with the theme for the upcoming Sunday. Mike finished singing, looked over at the list and said,
"That one works."
"Which one?" I queried.
"The one I was just singing!"
"I wasn't listening" I said.
"What do you mean you weren't listening? You were singing with me!"

I had no idea, though I'm not surprised. That's just how a female brain works. We do a dozen things we KNOW how to do all at the same time without thinking about them, so we can concentrate on the ONE thing that really needs our attention. Mike shook his head and admitted, "I can't even comprehend it."

So, in all fairness to my husband who says I never listen to him - he's partially right. I do listen . . . while I sort through the mail, text my daughter, think about tomorrow's To-Do list, hum a song to myself, and cut up a chicken. I just don't always hear.

Scratch that. I never cut up a chicken.

Holy Cow, Batman

The cow. Got out.

To quote my Facebook status from last night: Green Acres is NOT the place to be. Farm living is NOT the life for me.

Greg was out of town. WAY out of town, buying a registered quarter horse, because, you know, we don't have one yet.

I was hosting something that has come to be known as "Friday Night High School Hangout", where a bunch of our high school kids come over to my house on Friday Nights and, you know, hang out.

And since the cow (affectionately known as "Patty") is a relatively new phenomenon at the Reynolds' Ranch, the kiddos wanted to go out and see her. And, apparently, pet her.

The problem: She is a COW. She does not wish to be petted. She wants to be left alone. The kids approached her. She backed away. She ran in circles. She disengaged her hindquarters (which, in horsetraining, has something to do with submission. In marriage, however, it has an entirely different meaning, but we're not going there.)

Patty tried to dissuade them from petting her. She spoke to them in Bovinese: "Children, lovely children . . . I do not wish to be touched. I do not wish for you to come closer. I prefer that you do not force me to . . . "

Then she squealed some sad-sounding cow scream, bolted to the north, and jumped a 4-foot chainlink fence. Yes she did.

Kevin immediately ran into the house to inform me of the Cattle Coup, and we instantly did what city-people do in a farm emergency: we made phone calls. After many such calls to multiple sources all giving us the same lousy advice ("just go find her and herd her home"), we did the other thing city-people do in an emergency: drive. So I put on my 2" black wedge sandals and took the car up the road.

I found Patty a few tenths of a mile up in a neighbor's side yard. I parked the car, got out, and walked toward her. She stood there. I waved my arms (hoping to scare her back the direction of the house). She waved back. I stared at her. She stared at me.

We stood there

Just staring,

We stood there

We two.

And I said,

"How I wish

We had

Something to do."

And since Dr. Seuss rhymes seemed ineffective as a herding tool, I went back to the house to herd the high schoolers up to the cow. Kevin drove up in a second car.

At this point I was FINALLY able to reach Greg by phone. Though he was 320 miles away, I felt it imperative that he know what was going on.
"THE COW IS OUT!" I yelled.
"The power is out?" he queried.
"No . . . YOUR COW IS OUT!"
"The power is about to . . . what?" he asked, confused.
"YOUR STUPID STUPID COW HAS JUMPED THE FENCE AND RUN OFF!!!!" I declared in no uncertain terms.
"Then go find her and herd her back home," he responded calmly.

Ohhhhh . . . this ticked me off.

"Well, honey," he asked sweetly, "What do you want me to do?"

WHAT DO I WANT YOU TO DO? WELL, FIRST OF ALL, I WANT YOU TO PANIC WITH ME, DOGGONE IT, BECAUSE FREAKING OUT MAKES THINGS SO MUCH MORE MANAGEABLE. AND SECONDLY, I WANT YOU TO GIVE ME THE STINKIN' CODE TO THE COW SIGNAL YOU HIDE OUT THERE IN THE BARN SO THE LOCAL SUPERHERO, 'SADDLE BOY', WILL COME RESCUE ME! THAT'S WHAT I WANT YOU TO DO!!!

So, basically, I hung up on him, somewhat angry and incredibly frustrated that this Big Dumb Future Shish-ka-Bob was going to make a beeline for the interstate and cause a 7 car pileup resulting in death, dismemberment and a really big explosion, and I would be responsible.

I went back up the road to find Kevin driving around in somebody's backyard and bunch of kids running around and flailing their arms. Patty darted around them and got away again. We couldn't find her, and since it was nearing dark, it was becoming virtually impossible to locate a black cow in the country.

Thankfully, a couple of "Saddle Boy" superhero trainees had been viewing our comedy routine, and came out to join in the chase about the time Patty reappeared on a side road. After several more minutes, and a 9-person team of rodeo clowns, we managed to herd her into somebody else's field, via somebody else's gate, where she joined a herd of somebody else's cattle.

So far our Friday Night High School Hangouts have consisted of: going to the movies; playing "Murder"; having finger-dart wars; nighttime Hide & Seek, and glow-in-the-dark ultimate Frisbee. This, however, was a whole new experience. I wondered, "What would they tell their parents?" Erin, one of our sophomore girls, answered that question for me: "This is the MOST FUN Friday Night Hangout . . . EVER!!!"

We spent the rest of the night relaxing with a low-key game: SPOONS.

I lost.

Q-tips and quiet, clones and comic relief

I never thought I would enjoy the boy as much as I enjoyed the girl. I am NOT one of those moms who plays favorites, who chooses to love one more than the other. And though sometimes you can hear me say, "Kevin is my favorite, but I love Kacey more," I could just as easily flip-flop that statement and never realize it.

I never wanted a boy. You've heard me say that before, but it's true. Having been the oldest of two girls, and then myself giving birth to a daughter, the idea of a boy was foreign. Especially the idea of raising a boy. So when my order for a second female offspring turned out to be on permanent backorder, I was a bit bummed. But you have also heard me say how God knew what I needed better than I did, and how much comic-relief and unconditional love the little man brought into my life.

Still . . . when my daughter-clone left for college, leaving boy junior behind, I couldn't imagine a relationship with him like the one she and I have. Which is good. Because if I had the expectation of shoe shopping, late-night girl talks, and sharing a love of all things sparkly, I would have been sorely disappointed. However, a love of great music, action movies, sushi rolls and a myriad of quirky little inside jokes keeps this mother/son duo pretty tight.

We don't have those late-night "talks", you know, because of the whole XY chromosome thing, but he does share with me, in detail, the latest goofy thing one of his friends did, or every single play of the last football game, or each hi-def detail of whatever video game happens to be the flavor of the month. Sometimes I even find out the big stuff that goes on in his brain, though it usually takes him about a month to get around to the really important topics. But he is sweet, he does little things to brighten my days, and he works hard to never hurt my sometimes way-too-fragile feelings. (Although there was THAT incident at McAlister's . . . but that's another blog altogether.) All in all, he seems to tolerate my existence in his life and on his facebook with minimal disdain, and what more could a mom ask for, really?

So, the other day I was working at my desk and glancing at him from time to time as he sat four feet away at his laptop, doing school. (Why is it homeschoolers always say, "doing school?" Anyway. . . ) After a few minutes, he loaded his 67-pound AP Biology book onto the furniture dolly and headed down the hall to an empty classroom. He has done this for about 3 years now, this going down the hall thing, whenever he has needed room to "spread out and study".

But that was before . . . I remodeled my office. That was before . . . when he had virtually no desk space of his own. That was before . . . he had an entire table to himself. Now I had to wonder . . . why is he still "speading out" on the table in the empty classroom down the hall? There is absolutely nothing in that room but a table and a dozen chairs. It is hotter in the summer and colder in the winter. It has those evil retina-destroying fluorescent lights. Plus, it's quiet. Too quiet.

So I asked him why. "Why?" I asked him.

He shrugged it off as just a preference, merely a change of pace, "think of it as changing classes, if you will," he implied.

This answer did not satisfy me. Not with a perfectly good table sitting empty before me, just screaming for something to be dissected or depolarized or dehydrated on it. So I kept asking, why? Every day he would drag those enormous textbooks down the hall. Every day he risked herniating something, and every day I would ask again, "Why?"

Finally, one day, the truth came out. The truth he feared would hurt his mother's feelings.

Why?

Seems that mommy talks to herself. A lot. Seems that every time she talks to herself, or hums a little song, or argues with her hard drive, he thinks she is talking to him. Seems that sometimes she even answers herself, and it is just more than this man-child can handle while trying to concentrate on peroxisomes and eukaryotic cells.

Therein lies the difference between sons and daughters. The girl could have worked there just fine. She could have hummed along with me, played "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon", and still memorized the periodic table of elements (though why anyone needs to know there are seven stable isotopes of mercury, is beyond me). But not so the boy. He has been quietly leaving the room for 3 years just to avoid hurting my feelings and telling me that when I talk to myself it drives him crazy enough to want to "sneak into my room at night and stick Q-tips up my nose."

If that's not the basis for a great mother-son relationship, I don't know what is.

I am what I am

I am: cooking chicken and wild rice for dinner.

I am seeing: the tiny little prism on the hall wall where the late afternoon sun shines through the peep hole.

I am hearing: Newsboys "Wherever We Go", 'cause Mike was listening to it in his office earlier today and I have been singing it in my head ever since!

I am smelling: Nothing, 'cause my Secret works pretty well, and the chicken & wild rice in the oven hasn't been in there long enough to be fragrant yet!

I am reading: The Blind Side: Evolution of a Game by Michael Lewis - it came in the mail today and I am looking forward to getting started on it tonight!

I am feeling: Better this week than the previous 10 or 12. (Note to self: "Steph, taking your vitamins on a regular basis makes you a happier person. Take your vitamins. Seriously. Before all your friends decide to shun you. I mean it!" Self has been duly informed.)

I am thinking: Nope. I've been thinking ALL day, and I've decided to take a brain break.

I am going: to harvest my raspberry crop on Farmville in a few minutes. I love stupid little addicting Facebook games!

I am hoping: and praying, a LOT, that the people I love will get the answers they want.

I am looking for: great pictures to display in the church foyer

I am grateful for: precious little Emily & Titus who make me smile just thinking about them!

I am: hopefully going to think about more interesting blog posts for the next few days!

lifestyles of the (not yet) rich and famous

If I ever become famous, or infamous, and Trivial Pursuit once again becomes all the rage, you will need to know the following:

Whenever I enter a place that gives you the choice of going to either the right or the left - places like museums, or concert halls, or shopping malls (hey, that rhymes!), I will always go to the left. Always.

Speaking of left, I have real issues with distinguishing left from right. It's not like I don't KNOW the difference, I just almost ALWAYS manage to call out the wrong word while pointing the right direction (or the left direction, whichever is appropriate!) Drives the men in my life batty, 'cause, for some reason, this is the one time they actually do what I say, despite my flailing arms wildly indicating the opposite direction.

I have a frighteningly accurate internal clock. I almost always know what time it is to within a couple of minutes. I also have a self-alarm clock that wakes me just a couple of minutes before my phone alarm beeps, which would be understandable if I got up at the same time every day, but I don't. Go figure.

I order chewing gum and hairspray online. Why? Because apparently I have weird taste and nobody seems to carry the ones I like in their stores, that's why. Do you know anybody else who orders Dentyne Ice Chocoblast or White Rain Pearberry hairspray by the carton? Yeah, me neither.

I read magazines and catalogs back to front. Don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with always going to the left, or not being able to distinguish left from right. Clearly, one of my many genius flaws.

green is the new dead

When I annoy or embarrass my kids (which, I assure you, only happens on the 5th Tuesday of each month), they have always enjoyed verbally fantasizing about the evil things they will do to me later in life. They taunt, "Just wait until you're old and I'm the one pushing your wheelchair!" or "Be nice to me! One of these days I'll be picking out your nursing home!"

I have to admit, I raised these kids, I know what they are capable of, and I'm more than a little scared.

So, since I'm concerned about the quality of my future in the hands of my loved ones, I decided to do some serious research. I did some web searching, worked up a good family medical history, then turned to the most accurate source I could find:

Facebook.

I took the tried and true quiz, "When Will You Die?" and answered some very technical health questions like:
"What is your favorite color?" (GREEN)
"What is your shoe size?" (7 1/2 - 8)
"On a sinking ship, who would you rescue first?" (Leonardo, because I always thought it was tacky that Rose let him freeze to death in the cold water rather than sharing her plank.)
and
"What Jonas Brothers song makes you cry?" ("I Gotta Find You". Duh.)

The result was not at all surprising.
Apparently, according to this AMA-authorized quiz, I am already dead, so I guess that spares me from the kids' revenge.

On the other hand . . . isn't the best revenge to live well? And live LONG? So, I'm pretty sure (despite my pasty reflection in the mirror this morning) that "I'm not dead yet!", so I retook the test and decided it was time to choose a new favorite color. Now that I'm "turquoise" instead of "green" I get to live until 2061, giving the kiddos plenty of time to enjoy their mother's twilight years. Whew, that's a relief!

The Facebook quiz was so accurate, and so well-done, I decided to take a few more. You'll be fascinated to know that:

My Ghetto, Redneck, Mafia and Hippie Nicknames are:
Pookie
Rhonda Sue
Twinkle Toes
and
Birkenstock Blue Sky

My Super Power is Shape-Shifting (which is really just a nice way of saying I can't make up my mind), my aura is yellow, and apparently, according to the "What Are You Worth?" quiz, I am valued at a grand total of $6.21. Some days that feels about right.

Then I took the "What color are you?" quiz. Turns out I'm "green" after all, taking me back to the "When Will You Die?" quiz.

So, if I am, in fact, already dead, will somebody notify my family and let them know I will not be cleaning house this week?

dangling teeth and pecan tortes

SMILE . . . apparently today is National Tooth Fairy Day.

And, you know, since I AM the tooth fairy in my household, I get the day off, right? Hmmm . . . prolly not.

With regards to losing teeth, Kacey always kept me, er, the tooth fairy, on her toes. As soon as there was a hint of a wiggle in her mouth, she would twist and pull and twist and pull and twist and pull until that puppy popped out and blood gushed. She NEVER had a loose tooth more than a few hours before she struck gold.

Kevin, on the other hand, kept the tooth fairy waiting. And waiting. And waiting. There would be the slight wiggle. There would be the protecting of the baby tooth, by chewing on the opposite side. There would be the gentle rinsing instead of brushing after meals. There would be playing with the loose tooth using the tongue to flick it forward, then pull it back. Kevin could entertain himself for days, and sufficiently gross me out, with this process. Finally, sometimes after WEEKS of dangling by a thread, the tooth came out so clean and effortlessly that he sometimes didn't even realize it was missing.

The kids' baby teeth were always placed inside an envelope, and gently slid under their pillows, sometimes with cute little kindergarten handwriting that read, "This is My First Tooth". (This "sucking up" to the dental fairy would almost always guarantee bigger monetary returns on the enveloped contents.)

Granted, being the Tooth Fairy was never really a tough job. It ranked on the household job-o-meter somewhere between emptying the dryer lint filter and dusting the hot water heater. Like I said, not difficult . . . but easy to forget.

Because sometimes the tooth fairy would be SO BUSY watching late night reruns of Seinfeld that she would forget to make the coin/tooth switch on the first night following the tooth's removal. Mommy would have to explain to the disappointed little snaggle-toothed child, that SURELY the toothfairy (or Shirley the Toothfairy) would be in the neighborhood tonight while they were sleeping. And she almost always was. I mean, one time it took her about 3 days to make the rounds to retrieve one of Kevin's molars, but come on, by then he was nearly 11 and I'm pretty sure on that particular occasion the tooth fairy was completely out of cash and just didn't feel like making a trip to the bank.

It's not like this ever really disappointed my kids, since I'm not the kind of mom prone to lying. They knew I was Santa Claus, they knew I was the Easter Bunny, and they knew I was the Tooth Fairy. (How else do you think I explained the tiara I wore on Saturdays?)

Apparently it's also National Pecan Torte Day as well. Celebrate as you wish.

football and faceplants

TRUE: My daughter is joining a fantasy football league. My daughter. Football.

TRUE: Kevin's friend John Mark was challenged to do some push ups. Clapping push ups. But not just clapping in a conventional way . . . the challenge issued was to clap behind his back. Imagine a lanky 16-year-old boy do a push up, then throw his arms behind his back to clap, then FACEPLANT right into the floor.

TRUE: Greg got stung by a wasp on his left ear. It turned bright red and swelled up behind the center so that it stuck out. Way out. He said he was afraid that if he encountered a stiff wind he would start spinning like a top.

DREAM: I had a dream that my friend Carrie was mowing Mike and Sara's yard and she mowed over a bunch of rose bushes and pretty landscaping. Then the dream moved into the house where I had a white 5-gallon bucket of pink lemonade I had extracted from a plant that apparently gives pink lemonade. Randi W. walked in and rinsed off her grassy feet in my bucket of pink lemonade. Explanations, anyone?

girl, uninterrupted

From the moment of conception, they dominate your every thought, every plan, everything. You do your best. You learn as you go, hoping to teach them right from wrong, to love God, to become responsible, compassionate, intelligent adults. You also have a bit of fun. Okay, who am I kidding? You have great fun. Pure JOY. You are not only growing what you hope to be amazing adults, but you are also creating future friends. Friends who like the same movies, the same food, the same music, the same humor, the same lime green satin floral throw pillows. Friends who WANT you to be included in their lives, who can't wait to talk to you, whose stories keep you fascinated into the wee hours of the morning. By the time they are old enough to steal your shoes, (this should probably only apply to daughters) you know each other so well you can communicate with looks, gestures and single-word sentences. You can blurt out "hummus!" and without even giving you a goofy look, they know immediately that you are finishing a thought you had 4 days ago when you were discussing Christmas parties.

And then they get married to a BOY1 and move 5 hours away (this, again, should probably apply only to daughters).

I had my baby girl home for the weekend. Girl time. MUCH-needed girl time. Birthday Sushi. Birthday Shopping. A Dustin Hoffman movie marathon. (Okay, an attempted marathon, with no fewer than 7 dvds on the coffee table, but only 3 completed.) And talking. Lots of talking. Which is why the marathon turned into more of a Hoffman-mini-film-festival. Somewhere between "I'm an excellent driver" and "Judge Wapner at 4 O'Clock", we paused Rain Man for a nearly-2-hour "chat".

Have I mentioned lately how incredibly much I LOVE my daughter-friend? I MISS you, Chick! Texting is good, but it is SO not the same as having your pretty face around here! Thank your BOY1 for letting me borrow you!



1BOY in the above sentences refers to my precious son-in-law to whom I am very grateful for his willingness to share his lovely bride with her mommy.

tongue-tied

Granted, I'm not very good with the personal stuff. Occasionally, one-on-one, I might get "heavy, deep and real", but not often, and not easily. Trying to understand the root of my sarcasm put me metaphorically swimming in some uncomfortable water the last few months. During that nasty little self-awareness trek, I have discovered something else about myself: I am pretty good with written words, be it on paper, blogger, or elsewhere. On the other hand, I am absolutely, positively, ridiculously incompetent in any kind of verbal impromptu setting.

I'm talking about drawing a complete and total blank each and every time I am put on the spot. This has become painfully embarrassing to me several times in the past few months, making me feel like a complete idiot. For example, just last week I took part in an Administrative Team meeting with 5 other people (Doesn't help that I also happen to be the only female on the team.) The meeting lasted 3 1/2 hours. In closing, we were asked, "In 5 words or so, what are you taking away from this meeting?" I think my answer was something like this, "uh, an empty water bottle and a full bladder?"

On another occasion, same Administrative Team, we were asked to play "Two Truths and a Lie", where you tell three things about yourself, only one of them isn't true, and the group has to guess. Supposedly this is a good "get to know each other" kind of thing. I say "supposedly" because in trying to overcome the brain panic, the clammy hands, the heart palpatations and think of SOMETHING to say about myself, I completely missed what everybody else had to share.

Okay, so maybe sometimes it's difficult to sum up a 3 hour meeting, or come up with original information about yourself. Apparently, though, the level of difficulty has no bearing on my eloquence, or lack thereof. When asked, "What's gone on in your life this summer?" I answered . . .

(insert sound of chirping crickets here)

I totally drew a blank. Seriously. I could have talked about any number of books I've read lately, or about spiritually treading in some deep water, or about relationships that have developed and bonded over the summer, or the empowering nature of childbirth, or . . . Instead, I think I mentioned something about blinking.

Now, some of you who know me on a social level aren't buying this because I'm pretty quick with one-liners and puns. I'm kind of funny, a bit witty, and often sarcastic. But I'm dead serious here. As soon as my brain is forced into the spotlight it locks up. Shuts down. Quits working. My IQ becomes completely irrelevant. One taco short of a combination platter, as they say. (Or is it, "a few fries short of a Happy Meal" or "the elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor" or "not the brightest candle in the chandelier" or my personal favorite, "the wheel is still turning, but the hamster is dead"). Anyway, you get the idea.

I've always been this way, but I'm just now starting to connect the dots. I used to do a fair amount of public speaking. I even used to go to speech competitions and do very well in original oratory, expository, and storytelling. But they were planned, written, rehearsed. MEM-O-RIZED. My speech teacher pushed me one time to try debate or improv. I did. The valuable lesson I took home from that is how it feels to place dead last. (For those of you who are nearly perfect, the answer is: "not good").

Apparently my brain needs time to process. Time to prepare. Time to, I don't know, formulate coherent sentences with both a subject and a predicate. I struggle with the ability to speak up in a classroom setting, with the ability to pray in a group, and at times, with the ability to carry on intelligent conversation, even with friends. Oh, there are thoughts in my head. Ideas. Concerns. Occasionally, even brilliant observations. You know, "light bulb" moments. They just struggle to make a full electrical circuit from my temporal lobes to my tongue.

steph and nonsense

AS A KID, WERE YOU A LEGO BUILDER?
nope, but my son was in a BIG way
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF "REALITY TV"?
RE diculous
DO YOU CHEW ON YOUR STRAWS?
Nope, but I always chew on pens caps, which is why I'm a fan of "clicky" pens with no caps
DO YOU SING IN THE SHOWER?
No, my sheet music gets wet
ANY SECRET TALENTS?
Word Games. But that’s not a secret.
WHAT'S YOUR IDEAL VACATION SPOT?
Morocco. Australia. North to Alaska.
HAVE YOU EATEN SUSHI LATELY?
Well, Mike just had a birthday so . . .
DO YOU GIVE A DARN ABOUT THE OZONE?
Of course, but does it give a darn about me?
HOW MANY LICKS DOES IT TAKE TO GET TO THE CENTER OF A TOOTSIE POP?
28 . . . if you have a large tongue
CAN YOU SING THE ALPHABET BACKWARDS?
Yep. Learned how from Big Bird when I was a wee little lass.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON AN AIRPLANE?
16 times, I think. But I don't think it was the same plane.
ARE SPEEDOS HOT?
Only when they are fresh out of the dryer.
WHAT'S YOUR STAND ON HUNTING?
Don’t shoot me, I won’t shoot you
WHAT ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO?
Chlorine, cats (mildly), and something that blooms around here in the spring
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU SAID, "I LOVE YOU"
To whom? You? "I love you." There. Just now.
IS TUPAC STILL ALIVE?
nope, but his lyrics are
DO YOU CRY AT WEDDINGS?
Depends on who’s getting married, or if they are showing "Steel Magnolias" at the reception.
HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS?
Scrambled in some chicken fried rice, and eaten right before SUSHI!
ARE BLONDES DUMB?
Depends on the blonde
WHERE DOES THE OTHER SOCK END UP?
In my drawer-full of imaginary puppet friends. But I have no idea how they got there.
WHAT TIME IS IT?
Where are you?
DO YOU HAVE A NICKNAME?
Depends on who you ask. My mom calls me "George". Seriously. My daughter calls me "madre" and "Mawmy". My son calls me "WOMAN!" My niece and nephew (and now Titus) call me "Stephie". People I don't know call me, "Hey you"
IS MCDONALD'S DISGUSTING?
Depends on whether or not you like it. I’m not a huge fan.
IS SANTA CLAUS REAL?
Yeah, just don’t tell my kids . . . he never brought them anything.
CRUNCHY OR CREAMY PEANUT BUTTER?
Creamy
HAVE YOU EVER RIDDEN IN AN AMBULANCE?
Not for fun
HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH TODAY?
So far, once more than I've flossed
ARE YOU WEARING SOCKS?
Yeah, but they came out of the "imaginary puppet friends" drawer and the button eyes are rubbing blisters on my toes.
HAVE YOU EVER HITCH HIKED?
Not without my guide to the galaxy
ARE YOU PSYCHIC?
Am I psychic? Is that what you're thinking?
Psycho, maybe
HAVE YOU READ "CATCHER IN THE RYE"?
Yes, and Holden was REALLY psycho
DO YOU PLAY ANY INSTRUMENTS?
Piano/keyboard, clarinet, tenor sax, and air cymbals everytime I hear the Star Spangled Banner.
DO YOU LIKE CAMPING?
Yep. But only if we camp at the Hyatt Place.
DO U SNORT WHEN U LAUGH?
Occasionally. But only very ladylike snorts.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?
Sure. I hear that Dwight Howard guy is pretty darn good.
CAN YOU DO THE MOONWALK?
Are you kidding? I can’t even bob my head.
WHAT'S THE MOST ANNOYING TV COMMERCIAL?
The Burger King air horn ad
DO YOU WEAR NAILPOLISH?
Most of the time, but usually just on my fingernails and toenails.

there's no place like home, there's no place like home

I wonder: if I click my heels together three times and hang onto Toto, might I actually get to go home for awhile? Doubtful.

School starts . . . TOMORROW.
Didn't it just end . . . YESTERDAY?

I don't think I have been home 5 nights all summer - seriously. Monday and Tuesday nights have been training meetings, administrative meetings and prayer groups, and Wednesday nights I have been teaching middle school girls, and Thursdays have been FOG softball, and Fridays have been the High School Hangouts. Add to all that: church camp and Chicago and visiting family & friends and Topaz-sitting and redecorating two rooms and two doula births and an entire wasted evening trying to unlock the man-truck and . . .

Creative blogging will resume after I have had a good nap.



Ellen . . . I don't quite know what to say in response to your comment. I am humbled. Thanks for sharing - I'd love to know more of your story.

shaken, but not stirred

My lovely daughter, Kacey texted the other day to say she needed to know the last generation’s equivalents for Brittney Spears and the Jonas Brothers. I asked for a bit of clarification on what she meant by “last generation”, then suggested perhaps Madonna and New Kids on the Block.

Deciding she needed some examples that were a “little older”, she asked who I mighted have “swooned over” in my day, adding, “Robert Redford? Burt Reynolds? Sean Connery?”

Excuse Me? Let me turn on my hearing aid, daughter. Not sure I heard you, what with all the shuffle-board noises going on.

Apparently my daughter thinks I have a thing for old men, considering the aforementioned were all born in the 1930’s. Either that, or she thinks I was on the same yearbook staff as the Golden Girls. Neither option is very flattering.

I responded with “Ewww” or something equally loquacious and suggested perhaps Matthew Broderick or Tom Cruise (both of whom are still older than her dear old mom . . . )

She quickly changed the subject and we discussed the next potential opportunity to spend some quality time together in the same time zone, because CLEARLY we have some “pop culture” issues to discuss . . . of course, this is assuming the nursing home will give me a weekend pass.

I suggest the weekend of the 14th, which she thinks might work:
1) Unless she and Nathan decide to go to Florida
2) Unless she gets tickets to the Kelly Clarkson concert
3) Unless the Aztecs were right, but had their numbers mixed up, and the world ends next week instead of 2012 . . . OR
4) Unless there is a “Family Guy” marathon on TBS
“But,” she says, “if we can ward off all those things, I think we’ll be good.”

I responded, “You forgot about the possibility, according to Dateline NBC, of gas reaching $20 a gallon. Or, of course, alieos invading.” (I meant “aliens”, but I was multi-tasking and didn’t catch the typo.)

She asked, “Are “alieos” the off-brand version of Swiss Cake Rolls? Or are they alphabetized Cheerios?”

“No,” I replied, “Alieos are invaders from Italy. Alphabetized Cheerios would be ‘abieos’.”

At that, she remarked that if gas went to $20 a gallon, I could just buy them plane tickets.

In case anybody wonders, Kevin is my favorite child. At least this week.

(Photo fun by www.yearbookyourself.com)