word to my peeps

Clearly I like to eat. And I will try JUST ABOUT anything once. I say "just about" because right off the bat I MUST exclude anything organ related, anything unborn, or anything I might buy Raid to ward off.

Before I begin the Top Ten Gross Food List, there are some potentially offensive foods that deserve an honorable mention:
>Grape Nuts: "a cross between gerbil food and gravel".
>Brussel Sprouts: Kevin describes them as "vomit disguised as a tiny little lettuce heads".
>Souse (head cheese),which I'm told is pig brain jelly. This is Dad's #1 gross food. Since I've never eaten it, and don't intend to EVER eat it, I'll trust him on that one.
>Mushrooms: they rank really high on a lot of people's lists, and I guess I can see why, but I LOVE THEM. Except the ones that used to grow behind our toilet in that humid one-bedroom apartment we lived in for 6 months in Georgia.
>Sushi: While it ranks as my favorite food EVER, I've heard my beloved sushi referred to as "amorphous mounds of raw flesh." Clearly this person has never eaten sushi with ME.
>Fonduta: As I sit here writing this blog, Olive Garden is advertising its new "Fonduta". I'm sure it's delicious, but I refuse to order anything that sounds like something in a baby's diaper.

Top Ten Gross Foods
So, I broke the "Raid Rule" once with my dad at a local seafood restaurant. He ordered the escargot. I have to "try it", he said. When it arrived, it took me a while to work up the nerve. Finally I stabbed one with the tiny little baby fork and mentally prepared to take a bite. "No," Dad said, "pop it all at once." The whole thing? I pulled the fork away from my mouth, looked at it again and, realizing there was no way I was ever going to WANT to eat this, I popped it in. My face turned inward at the nastiness and I began to chew. And chew. And chew. I double-checked in front of me to make sure I hadn't accidentally eaten a rubber placemat. Then I began to think about WHAT it was I was eating. I mean, visually imagining the slugs that sometimes get into the catfood bowl on the back porch in the summertime and leave slime trails on the concrete. At that point it was either swallow or gag. Dave Barry's description is right on the money for what I consider Gross Food Number One: Escargot is French for "fat crawling bag of phlegm."

Gross Food Number Two: Greens. Cooked spinach, turnip greens, collard greens, etc. Tastes like you mowed the yard, scooped up the clippings, and boiled them in a big pot of oily water. My daughter, on the other hand, sometimes buys frozen spinach, zaps it in the microwave and eats it with a fork. Then again, she snacks on frozen corn, still frozen, with a spoon.

Gross Food Number Three: Sauerkraut. Shredded, soured cabbage, which is even more offensive to the olfactory sense than the taste buds. Need I say more?

Gross Foods Number Four, Five and Six: I list these together because they all three look like the same red gelatinous muck.
>Beets. When my kids were babies, I made their baby food. Organic veggies and grains, cooked at home, mashed by hand, and tasted by me before I fed it to them. I bought the beets, cooked the beets, mashed the beets, tasted the beets, threw up the beets, then dumped the beets in the trash.
>Canned Cranberry Jelly. Looks like beets. Wiggles like rubber. Everybody puts it on the table at Thanksgiving, but nobody ever really eats it. And for good reason.
>Tomato Aspic. Basically, ketchup jello. Tomatoes, the black sheep of all fruit, are liquified and turned into a wiggly bundt cake. Again, looks like beets. Wiggles like rubber. Nas.Ty.

Gross Food Number Seven: Sardines. Little tiny herring, canned in mustardy disgustingness, heads, tails, fins, bones and little tiny eyeballs. Every now and again, my dad would scroll back the little tin lid and stink up the entire neighborhood. Mmm, mmm, gag. At this point, I would also list anchovies, but frankly, I've never had the desire to even try. I've read that "they're very salty and hairy, and make me feel as though I'm chewing on somebody's sweaty eyebrow." Well, sign me up for the hairy fish of the month club. Yum.

Gross Food Number Eight: Chocolate Buttermilk. This was an accidental and unfortunate discovery in the fifth grade, when, after searching the house unsuccessfully for anything nutritionally deficient, I defaulted to Quik as a last resort. Four heaping teaspoons of powdered chocolate in a 12-ounce glass of cold milk, stirred not shaken, and gulped. Well, gulp. That's when I discovered the yellow carton was buttermilk, not 2%. The brown-colored water they bottle and sell as YooHoo is almost as unpleasant.

Gross Food Number Nine: Cheese "Foods". Cheese Whiz, American cheese squares, the powdered junk that comes with boxed macaroni & cheese, anything served at a ballpark with nachos or soft pretzels, and mostly, Velveeta. Velveeta's label refers to it as Pasteurized Processed Cheese Product containing MILKFAT, WHEY, PROTEIN CONCENTRATE, SODIUM PHOSPHATE, MILK PROTEIN CONCENTRATE, ALGINATE, SODIUM CITRATE, APOCAROTENAL, ANNATTO, ENZYMES, and CHEESE CULTURE.

Number ten is a rare food indeed. It is highly seasonal. And, while considered a delicacy by some, it is surprisingly affordable. It comes in a vast array of colors. It is apparently best served by rolling it in a crunchy sugar coating, while its cousin is most often roasted to a golden brown before eating.


Gross Food Number Ten: Peeps.

a redneck petting zoo

I'm not much of a critter person. Especially when it comes to pets. Don't get me wrong . . . I love animals, I just don't WANT animals. My daughter's recent acquisition of two, yes two pound puppies who yap and snag your clothing with their little doggie claws and chew on your shoes and require constant attention and use your carpet as their own personal diaper (not to mention various other forms of disgusting canine behaviors) further validates my "no animals in the house" philosophy. Well, maybe not "NO" animals in the house . . . more like no MAMMALS in the house, and that includes some small children I've known. I have, however, welcomed hermit crabs and turtles and such into the family with little fanfare, and frankly, anything that's noiseless and stinkless and messless doesn't ruffle my feathers too much.

The worst offenders are the uninvited critters.

One day not long after we had moved into our current house, something on the kitchen counter caught my eye. Where Kevin's peanut butter sandwich remains still graced his lunch plate was Mickey's Kentucky cousin. Before I could sprint the 18 feet from the den to the dishwasher (and when I say "sprint" I really mean "approach slowly with much trepidation"), the little rodent darted behind the fridge and disappeared. Freaked me out. Clean houses are not supposed to have varmints. I made every effort to dissuade them from visiting my home and to ensure their demise should they return.

A couple of years later my mother-in-law was visiting. We were in the den and I had my back to the kitchen. She, however, did not. A few minutes into our conversation her demeanor changed. Her expression of horror conveyed to me the unthinkable: a little mouse. And not just ANY mouse, but one with impeccable timing. I mean, my mother-in-law, for crying out loud. The one person in the world you most want to be "clean" for!

On another occasion we noticed a smell. Just a slight rancid odor. We took out the trash, did some laundry, poured a box of baking soda down the drain, and called it good. A day or two later the odor became more of a stench that emanated from, surprise, the kitchen. I took the smell as a hint I might need to defunkify my refrigerator. I took everything out, threw away anything rotten, expired, black, or unidentifyable, along with anything that could be considered a tribute to Alexander Fleming, and scrubbed the fridge with vinegar-water. It fairly glowed. The next day I walked in the front door, took one whiff, and turned around and walked right back out. "I cannot live in there until whatever reeks, reeketh no more!" A whole house search brought us right back to the fridge. Upon complete inspection, we discovered a very VERY dead mouse which had met its demise in the fan some days earlier. The memory of that pungent smell nauseates me to this day.

Still, on occasion, we hear one rustling (it's an unmistakable sound), or catch a glimpse of one scurrying across the floor. Traps are baited with peanut-butter-dipped-cat-food, and within the hour we almost always humanely execute the unwanted intruder.

One day, in my church office, where no mouse has ever been detected, I heard the rustling. Reigh Anne was standing in the doorway talking and she heard it too. The sound kept interrupting our conversation, drawing our attention away from each other and over to the silk ficus tree in the north corner of the room. It ceased and we forgot about it. A couple of hours later I heard it again. And again. I decided the best way to deal with this critter would be to quickly carry the entire tree out the front door, lift the tree out of the basket, and hope the mouse goes in the direction opposite my toes. So I approached the tree and it rustled again . . . but not from the base. The rustling came from the leaves at the top . . . not a mouse-friendly location. I peered in. I reached out my hand to grab the trunk and a 6-lined racerunner lizard flew across my hand, down the trunk, between my feet, and vanished in the hallway. Okay, that was kinda cool, actually.

The last of the offending critters have been skunks. Plural. Living under the house this winter, along with a stray cat that decided to use our crawl space as an obstetrics ward. Every week or so, Pepe LePew and Fluffy would have an altercation that resulted in my house getting "skunked". Finally, after many weeks, and many skunkings, Greg set a live animal trap. The question is: "How does one rid oneself of live skunk without getting oneself skunked in the process?" The answer is: Tie a really, really long rope to the trap. Over the course of several days, we caught 2 skunks and a few cats. . .one of them being Mandy-kitty, our own little outside/barn cat.

There have also been squirrels in the attic and possums under the car and even a snake or two in the garage (which, much to the dismay of some, are always "catch and release", because, after all, Mr. Reptile helps keep Mr. Mouse out of my house.)

While I will always be a city girl at heart, country living does have its perks. . .but being a veritable petting zoo is not one of them.

sick day

put a coat in the dryer
changed a lightbulb
called Mom
threw out 3 expired cups of yogurt
played 140 levels in "Unblock Me" on my iPod

yep, that's pretty much it

a little culture

I LOVE yogurt!

No I don't, but I WANT to love yogurt! Really, I do.

I stand in the dairy section at Kroger and gaze at all the yummy flavors, think about the creamy custard-like texture, and become mesmerized by the myriad of colorful, shiny, foil lids.

I almost always buy a few, take them home, get out my favorite long iced tea spoon (because I eat EVERYTHING possible with long iced tea spoons), take one bite and declare, usually out loud,

"GROSS! Why do I buy yogurt??? I HATE yogurt?"

I always expect something pudding-like, but I fail to remember that yogurt is the nasty by-product of the bacterial fermentation of milk. Not to mention the unfortunate fact that yogurt has 160 calories, as opposed to my favorite dark chocolate pudding, which tastes like heaven in a little plastic cup, yet has only 90 calories.

But I guarantee you, I will buy yogurt again within the month.

Maybe I'm just looking for something in my life with a little culture. :o)

hippo-drone

My daughter is milking this pregnancy thing.
"Kevin, will you carry in my suitcase? I'm pregnant."
"Mom, will you get me a raspberry scone? I'm pregnant."
"Kevin, will you move my car so I don't have to go out in the rain? I'm pregnant."
"Mom, will you do my laundry? I'm pregnant."
Clearly, I have taught her well.

We had dinner at Mom & Dad's house Monday night. (I made yummy chicken & dumplings, for those of you who don't know that I CAN cook!) Anyway, we sat down to dinner and Papa (my dad) asked Kevin to pray. Toward the end, Kevin prayed for his sister, "Thank you for letting Kacey come home safely. Please help her baby grow and be healthy . . . and . . . well, (snicker) sane." His snicker turned into a snort, and the rest of us around the table just lost it.

The previous night we had been watching
"Life" on the Discovery Channel. One scene showed a river FILLED with hippos. Like, HUNDREDS of them. The conversation went like this:
"WOW! Look at all the hippos!"
"That would be a dangerous place to be."
"Yeah, but you can outrun a hippo."
"Not in the water you can't!"
"Well WHY WOULD YOU BE IN THE WATER WITH 400 HIPPOS???"

Exactly.

witches' stands and water buffalo

I was standing in line at Penn Station the other day, enjoying a little Motown (actually playing over the radio, not just in my head like most days) when Smokey Robinson's voice chimed in with ". . . and if you feel like giving me" and I continued with, "a life down in the ocean . . . I second that emotion." Okay, so the line is supposed to be "a lifetime of devotion", but when Kacey was little, and I spent a lot of time listening to the "Big Chill" soundtrack, she heard "a life down in the ocean" and I didn't dare correct it.

During the same time frame, Carly Simon's Concert on Martha's Vineyard became Kacey's favorite. At the age of 4, Kacey played with her Polly Pockets and sang "Anticipation" and "Nobody Does it Better" and "You're So Baned (Vain)". Okay, so not the most lyrically wholesome influences. Sue me. This was pre-Veggie Tales. So she sang "Well you're where you should be all the time, and when you're not, you're with some underworld spy or the wife of the postman, wife of the postman and . . . you're so baned, you prolly think this song is about you."

Then there was the Beach Boys' classic, Surfin' Safari, where the line "Come on a safari with me" became "Come on a far and see". Gotta love it.

By the late 90's, not only had Veggie Tales entered the scene, but so had the Newsboys and my Kevie-poo, and he had his own set of musical misunderstandings. In "Step Up to the Microphone", the line is "one God one body one faith alone, if you don't know, then you need to be told" where Kevin would loudly substitute the line, "if you don't know, then you need a guitar."

And in "Everybody's Got a Water Buffalo", apparently yours is fast but mine is slow. Where we get them, I don't know, but everybody's got a water buffaloooooooooo. The next line is "Took my buffalo to the store," But Kevin never could make the transition from "water buffalo" to regular "buffalo", so he always sang, "Took my water buff to the store, got his head stuck in the door." At least the future drummer in him understood meter and rhythm, even at the age of 4.

At about 8 or 9 years old, I can remember asking my mom what a "witches' stand" was. A what? she asked. "A witches' stand, you know, I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for witches' stand."

Dad shared that as a kid he always asked to sing the "gravy song" at church. "Low in the gravy lay Jesus my Savior."

Recently, a big kid shared that every time he sings "We Will Worship You (There is None Beside You)", he pictures a woman in a Catholic habit as he sings, "There's a Nun Beside You." Unfortunately, now I do too. Thanks a lot, Bret Morris.

Okay, so you know you have your own little ballad blunder stories. Care to share?

And while we're sharing, can ANYBODY give me a line completion for the E.L.O. song, "Don't Bring Me Down ___________"???

And don't try to tell me it's "Bruce" unless you can give me a reasonable explanation as to why.

mega-manure and mega-shark

So I was enjoying SuperGator, still dressed in my "It's Saturday, I'm home alone, and I'm not putting real clothes on" sleep shirt, when a green pickup pulled into the driveway. Not recognizing the man walking to the front door, I decided to put on pants and go say "hello". Turns out he is a new neighbor from across the road and he happened to observe that one of our horses was out. Yippee. And maybe you noticed the really good part in the first sentence: I'm home alone. I thanked him politely, returned to the den, and weighed the pros and cons of equestrian hunting versus continued movie viewing. After watching a few more annoying tourists meet their demise in the toothy grip of the prehistoric alligator, I went on a house-wide search for my off-road shoes, grabbed my denim jacket and headed out. Lucky for me, I have great neighbors, and this sweet man had gone to get a bucket of corn and returned to help me lure "Heigh Ho Silver" back onto our property and into the corral. Also lucky for me, it has rained a lot the last few days, so walking through the horse lot was much like wading through knee-deep brownie batter. Only the brownie batter smells like, well, something brown, but not brownies.

By the time I got back into the house, SuperGator was over, and I missed the ending. I have no idea if the girl in the pink thong lived happily ever after or not, and it may haunt me for hours. However, something new appears to be on in its place. What's this? Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus? Yes! I know this is a completely stupid waste of a good Saturday afternoon, but it's like a train wreck - I can't seem to look away. It's almost over anyway, and then I'll do something productive.

I promise.

miracles and monsters

Miracles are happening in my house. Much like the turning of water into wine, all the clean clothes in this house are turning into dirty ones. And like the widow's jar of oil that never emptied, my laundry basket seems to have the same blessing. Never empty. And if the neverending hamper phenomenon isn't enough, it seems my bedroom mirror has been replaced with Dorian Gray's portrait. I'm just sayin'.

So as I was putting away some of the miraculously clean laundry this morning, I passed by Kevin's room just as his iPod alarm went off. I stuck my nose into his room and said good morning. "Uurramm" he responded. "Sleep well?" I inquired. "Uurramm" he repeated. I then reminded him that if he used his tongue and actually moved his lips, there are a myriad of other sounds humans are capable of making. He raised his head slightly off his pillow, moved his lips AND his tongue to say, "PBTPBTPBTPBTPBTPBTPBT!!!!!" and proceeded to make raspberry noises at me. And since I had been out of bed for two hours, raspberries sounded like a pretty good breakfast choice to me. So I left him to roust himself out of bed, returned to the Shrine of Downy to sort 71 left socks from 68 right socks, then went to the kitchen to have a bowl of raspberries and put on some chicken to cook. Yeah, cook. I told you miracles were occurring.

See, I was at Reigh Anne's last Sunday, and she had one of those refrigerator chalkboards where you write out your week's menu. You know, something like the board on the left: <----- If I had one on my fridge, it would look something like the second one. Now, in all fairness, we don't eat dinner together. I don't think we have used the kitchen table for anything but sorting mail for nearly 3 months. Greg works nights a lot, and when he's not working, farm chores keep him outside until after dark, so cooking is not one of those goals to which I aspire often.

So as I was savoring my bowl of raspberries (God's nearly perfect food, second only to the Sunset Roll at Tokyo Sushi), I became mesmerized by the dramatic fare Kevin was watching as he devoured his bowl of Captain Crunch (ironically, another of God's nearly perfect foods). It's a Stephen Baldwin film, but I didn't recognize it. How can this be? "What channel is this?" I asked, and since Kevin had a mouthful of Crunchberries and decent manners, he punched the display button on the remote to show the SyFy logo. Continuing to be intrigued by the acting quality of this film, which I would later learn from imdb.com has only a 3.1/10 rating, I asked the name of this flick. "Shark in Venice", was the reply. "Shark in Venice?" and as I watched a sweaty Mediterranean bad guy hold a shockingly helpless girl hostage in some delapidated warehouse, I wondered if this feature presentation had been misnamed. Just then, as the 4th of the Baldwin boys shouted something witty like, "Hey you, let her go!" a giant Great White jumped out of a nearby Venetian Canal and chomped the villain in half, leaving the Damsel-in-Distress unharmed. Whew. SciFi, where have you been all my life? I mean, I've always been a fan of Mystery Science Theater, but apparently there is an entire genre of B-movies I have missed out on.

I have been composing this blog post now for 2 hours and 20 minutes, not because I'm slow, but because I have become so distracted by the 10 a.m. showing of "SuperGator", which garnered a 3.3/10 rating on Imdb.com. Shocking, really, because it is WAY worse than "Shark in Venice" and doesn't even star a Baldwin babe. So apparently, this giant prehistoric gator is attacking only the annoying and ugly tourists in Hawaii. Miraculously the thong-clad busty girls all manage to narrowly escape, but only after running. A lot. It's like a bad episode of Baywatch. . . or maybe a good episode. Yes, I know this is a completely stupid waste of a good Saturday morning, but it's like a train wreck - I can't seem to look away. It's almost over anyway, and then I'll do something productive.

I promise.

candy, barbecue, peanuts and tootsie pops

Here's Your Sign:
>The cowboy called from work the other night. He called the house phone. I answered the house phone. He said, "Did you make it home?" Ummm. No.

>John Mark was looking at a book on my desk, pointed to the title "Crazy Love", and said, "Is THAT the name of the book?" Kevin responded, "No, John Mark, those are just random words they printed on the cover to see if anyone would buy it." Ummm. Yeah.

>Last Saturday we watched the last few minutes of the movie "Splash" before the Olympics came on. John Candy and a very young Tom Hanks were playing raquetball. I said, "Wow. Look how skinny he is!" To which my husband replied, "Who? John Candy?" Ummm, yeah, John Candy.


He Might Have a Point
>Today was our secretary's birthday, and as is our office tradition we all went out to lunch together. During the conversation, Melissa said she had discovered that men (one specifically) did not have the ability to multi-task. I had to take exception. I disagree with her, because, as I went on to explain, ALL the men I know have the ability to multi-task . . . although this ability is limited to a certain location. Tell me, what man do you know who does not text, sing, make phone calls, read novels or even do his taxes . . . while on the toilet? I'm just saying.

Terrell went on to say that I wouldn't even KNOW this information if I didn't keep walking into the men's bathroom while it's occupied.

He might have a point. :o)


What's in a Name?
>My daughter's dog is a female, but Kevin and I still choose to call her "Mr. Squiggles" just to tick off Kacey. Every time the dog jumped up onto Kevin this past weekend, he threatened to turn her into Korean barbecue. Made me laugh.

>While in church Sunday morning, the minister was reading about Thomas (who was also called Didymus), when Kacey and Nathan looked at each other and exclaimed (in a loud whisper) THAT would be their child's name. And since the wee little unborn G-child is already being called Peanut based on the appearance of the first ultrasound, it was decided the full name would be Peanut Didymus . . . or P. Didy for short. :o)

>My son has taken to threatening my life in bizarre and creative ways. Mostly he reminds me on a regular basis that he will be the one choosing my retirement home. A few months ago he downgraded me from a bad nursing home to an alley with a dumpster. Mostly though, when I get on his nerves, which, you know, almost never happens, he threatens to sneak into my room while I'm sleeping and shove dry Q-tips up my nose. Last week, however, he threatened to bludgeon me with an orange Tootsie Pop.

If his body didn't so closely resemble an orange Tootsie Pop, (scrawny white body, big orange head) I might be threatened.

>I texted Kacey last Friday afternoon to tell her we were on the road and heading to Indy. She texted back and said, "Don't forget to bring the red thing." What red thing? "The red thing with the brown polka dots." HUH? No sooner had I requested she explain than Kevin said, "Mom. Red thing with brown polka dots. She's talking about me." Sure enough, she was. Made me laugh. A lot.

Okay, that's all the weirdness for this week.

hope

HOPE.

It's my favorite word. My favorite concept.

My daughter gave me this as part of my Christmas,

and I've put it in my office

because that is where I will see it the most

(unless I can figure out how to mount it on the dashboard)

Recently my mom passed along a box of stuff to me,

and in the bottom of the box was a little 1970's plaque

that hung in her kitchen as long as I can remember.

I guess I read it every single day of my life until I left home.

I always loved it.

"Yesterday is already a dream

And tomorrow is only a vision

But today, well lived,

Makes every yesterday a dream of happiness

And every tomorrow a vision of HOPE."

Hope that is seen is no hope at all.

Who hopes for what he already has?

But if we hope for what we do not yet have,

we wait for it patiently.

(Romans 8:24-25)

parenting 104

Be creative. Be smart. Be consistent.

I heard a story one time about a single mom whose teenage son continually lied to her. She was at her wit's end with him when she decided to do something drastic: She would turn the tables on him, AND, she would do it for a full two weeks. She began at breakfast one morning as he was getting ready to catch the school bus. "Honey," she said, "How 'bout I pick you up today?" The kid was thrilled because that meant he didn't have to ride the bus, AND he would be home a half hour earlier. Then she didn't pick him up. Now because he had already missed his bus, he had to walk home. When he confronted his mom, she simply said, "Oh, I changed my mind." He ranted about how unfair that was and did she know he'd had to WALK home? She apologized flippantly. The next day she promised him pizza for dinner - his choice of toppings. Instead, she went out with friends and left him a note to fix himself a sandwich. She told him she was going to buy him new shoes . . . she bought herself some instead and said his would have to wait until next paycheck. She got creative. By the 5th or 6th day the kid had all he could take. "MOM! You are driving me crazy! You keep telling me all this stuff and then you don't do it! You are being so unfair! How am I ever supposed to know if you mean what you say?!" Mom looked him square in the eye and said, "It's really hard to trust someone who never tells the truth, huh?" The kid got the point. But mom continued HER bad behavior for the remainder of the 14 days. Her son, however, learned the consequences of lying and began to be a kid who could be trusted.

Then there was the 15-year-old girl who kept missing the school bus. (She was embarrassed about having to ride the bus.) Her family was a one-car family and dad had to be at work on the other side of town at the same time she had to be at school. So, when she missed the bus, dad had to take her, which meant he risked being late for work. This had to stop. Her parents told her she could not miss the bus again or she would be responsible for getting herself to school. A few days later she missed the bus. She asked dad for a ride. Dad reminded her of the rule. "WHAT? That's not fair! Just how am I supposed to get myself to school???" Dad pulled out the phonebook, flipped to the yellow pages and stately flatly, "Call a cab." Which she did. Expecting a yellow New York City-style taxi to pull up, she was mortified at the reality. This was not a large town, so the cabs were beat up old station wagons with less-than-reputable drivers. (An uneasy Dad followed the cab to school that morning without her knowing it.) The cab was not only more embarrassing than riding the bus, it also cost her $22 of her own money. She never again missed the bus.

My favorite story of consistency is actually about lab rats. The experiment was simple: Build a maze, put a lever at the back that distributes a food pellet. Two mazes were built. The rats entered, made their way to the lever, pulled it, got rewarded with food. They were allowed to do this on a regular basis. Then one day things changed. In maze one, food pellets were only distributed once every 100 pulls. In maze two, food pellets were stopped completely. Result? The rat in maze one continued to run the maze and pull the lever every single time. He never quit hoping for the reward. The rat in maze two tried for awhile and then quit trying. Completely. How does this relate to parenting? Consistency. If you give in, EVEN ONCE out of every 100 times, your kids will keep trying and keep trying because they know, eventually, you will give in, and they will get what they want.

I personally put this "rat maze concept" into practice with my two little darlings in the grocery store check-out aisle. Every time we would check out they would ask if they could "have something" - gum, candy, mini-flashlights, whatever. I ALMOST ALWAYS said "no". Remember: ALMOST always. And yet they ALWAYS asked. So I made a rule: IF YOU ASK FOR SOMETHING IN THE CHECK-OUT AISLE, THE ANSWER IS AUTOMATICALLY "NO". The next time we went to the store, they asked. I said "no", and reminded them of the rule. It didn't take long for them to catch on that mommy meant "no" when she said "no". This had a two-fold benefit: 1) I never, ever got nagged in the check-out aisle, and 2) occasionally, I would look at my kids and say, "Why don't you pick out something today?" This resulted in "yippee!" and "yeah!" and "You're the best mommy ever!"

And, isn't being the 'coolest mom ever' one of the best by-products parenting?

parenting 103

(This is the 3rd in a series on discipline and parenting.)


What kind of discipline works?

Any kind, really, so long as it speaks to your child. I spanked SOME, but only for defiance or for actions that could cause someone to be injured. If I was doing it again, I doubt I would choose to spank. But I don't think it matters the route you take, as long as you remember you are disciplining - not punishing, not harming, not humiliating. Be creative. What does your child value most? Cell phone minutes? Cookies? Staying up late? Hanging out with friends? A favorite toy? Facebook time? An upcoming event like homecoming? You know your kid better than anyone. Pull the plug on it. Proactive discipline works as well. What does your child hate? Cleaning the bathroom? Writing essays? Pulling weeds? Any of it will work, as long as your child dislikes the discipline more than they LIKE their bad behavior. And, no, your child is not allowed to scream and cry and throw a fit about their discipline. That just calls for further discipline (like doubling the punishment.) Eventually, and if you are consistent, it won't take long, your child will learn not to break the rules, and will also learn to accept discipline without whining or crying.

If being consistent means that you absolutely, positively, ALWAYS, 100% of them time MEAN WHAT YOU SAY, that means we as parents must THINK and LISTEN before we speak. One of the best books I read as a young parent was "How to Talk so Kids Will Listen, and Listen so Kids Will Talk". One of the lessons I gleaned from this book was how to give kids choices. Giving choices is is a healthy way to teach decision-making. But be sure when you offer choices, that you respect your child's decisions.

Example 1: If you don't care, REALLY don't care what your 5-year-old wears to Kindergarten, fine. Let her choose her own clothes and be prepared to let her wear mismatched socks with green shorts and a purple striped turtleneck. If, however, you do care, then pre-choose a few items and let her pick from within your limitations.

Example 2: Dad says, "Hey kiddos! We're going to Wal-Mart. Do you want to go?" The kids say "no", but Dad says, "Too bad, you're going anyway!" If what Dad REALLY meant was "We're ALL going to Wal-Mart and you have no choice but to go with us." then you are teaching your children that their opinions are not important and not valued. Always say what you mean. Then always mean what you say. Your integrity as a parent depends on it.

Granted, we aren't perfect. We say things we don't mean. We even give in and forget to be consistent. When we do, we need to be able to apologize to our children. "I know I just asked you if you wanted to go to Wal-Mart with me, but that was unfair, because I really need you to go with me. I'm sorry I gave you a choice when you don't really have one."

Part of fair discipline also means that you LISTEN to your children, and you can't listen if you don't let them talk, regardless of your child's age. Even more, listening sometimes means doing a little observing and even a little "remembering what it was like to be their age". When Kevin was about 4, he had a piece of chewing gum he wanted to spit out. We were in a small store, so when he told me, I pointed to the lady at the check-out and told him to go ask her if he could throw it away in the trash can behind her counter. He refused. I insisted. He refused. I got angry and informed him he would do it NOW or get a spanking. He still refused. We left the store calmly, went home, and I spanked him. Some time later we were in another store and he needed to go to the bathroom. I showed him the nearest employee and told him to go ask her where the bathroom was. He refused. I insisted. He refused. I informed him he would do it NOW or get a spanking. (Sound familiar?) He still refused, with the same resulting spanking as before. Only after this time I actually stopped to ask myself why he had done this. He was not generally defiant or strong-willed. Although when I asked him, all I got was, "I don't know." What was the deal? Finally it occurred to me: My son was MY son, and I was the shyest kid in class until the age of 16 or so. He was shy. He was so shy that for him, the spanking was preferable to talking to new people. So with a little reflection, I learned my kid wasn't being defiant, and I also learned another aspect of his personality that needed some guidance. If you know my son, you know shyness has not been an issue for him since we worked through it by the time he was 6.

There are two methods some consider "discipline" that almost never work: yelling and lecturing. Yelling communicates a lack of control on your part, it is unpleasant and embarrassing for everyone within earshot, and not least of all, it makes you look like a jerk. Lecturing is kind of like trying to water your garden for the entire summer all in one afternoon, it's overkill and kids just learn to tune you out.

One greatly untapped avenue of discipline is community. Once I heard a mom tell her son as he was leaving for camp, "have a good time, behave yourself, and remember: if you do something wrong, I am praying that you will get caught." WHAT? Yes, and she meant it. Give the people who are most involved in your child's life (teachers, friends' parents, friends, youth ministers, etc.) your permission to set your child straight when he/she gets out of line. Also, as a parent, be willing to listen. Don't ever assume "NOT MY CHILD", and conversely, don't ever just assume your child is guilty either. Listen, be smart. Sometimes mercy is way more important than discipline.

Be creative. Be smart. Be consistent.

parenting 102

(This is the 2nd in a series on discipline.)

BE CONSISTENT.

That's it. Sounds easy, but it's not. The earlier in life your children learn that you absolutely, positively, ALWAYS, 100% of them time MEAN WHAT YOU SAY, the earlier they learn to discipline themselves. WHY? Because you have taught them that the consequences to breaking rules are ALWAYS THE WORSE CHOICE.

Scenario 1: Toddler cries in church. Parent gets up and takes said toddler to nursery. Toddler is now happy. Parent attempts to return with said toddler, toddler resumes crying. This happens week after week until after a few weeks the toddler stops crying as soon as the parent stands up. Eventually the child is just taken straight to the nursery at the beginning and left for the duration. Why? Because who in their right mind WANTS to do something NOT FUN when there is the option of doing something FUN? Really? Wouldn't you, responsible adult that you are, rather sleep in, call in sick to work, and spend the day goofing off? But you don't. WHY? Because losing your job, your house, your car, and possibly your relationships are NOT WORTH the trade off. Hence, you act responsibly.

The core problem is parents think they are being cruel if they don't do what it takes to make their child happy. But by giving in to the instant gratification, by making them happy in the moment instead of teaching them to discipline themselves, you are setting them up for a lifetime of expecting society to cater to their every whim.

Solution. Toddler cries. Parent checks all responsible reasons why child could be crying. Once determined that the child is just "unhappy", parent takes child out to the hallway and makes being in the hallway more unpleasant than sitting still. (It truly does not matter HOW you accomplish this task, so long as you accomplish it EACH and EVERY time the child cries until the crying stops.) Child learns that sitting still and being quiet are preferable to what is going on in the hallway. By the way, you are NOT being cruel to your children by expecting them to learn how to be still and be quiet.

Scenario 2: Pre-teen smarts off when told to do something. Parent responds with
1)"Don't make me come over there and whop you!",
2) "Your father is going to hear about this!",
3) "Did you HEAR me? Don't make, me say it again!",
4) "One, Two, Two-and-a-half, . . . , or
5) "I've already told you three times, now MIND ME!"
Believe it or not, if you are experiencing this one from a child of ANY age, your child is SCREAMING for boundaries. BEGGING you in his or her own way to MAKE THEM MIND YOU. They WANT you to be the parent. They NEED you to be the adult. They need limitations for their own sense of security.

Solution: The very second your child shows disrespect to you, deal with it. NOT publicly. I am completely against humiliating kids, regardless of their age. Embarrassing your children will only cause resentment. Get somewhere private, even if it means you simply whisper in their ear, and you give them whatever is appropriate. And it needs to be big. AGAIN, YOU HAVE TO MAKE BEING DISRESPECTFUL MUCH MORE COSTLY THAN BEING RESPECTFUL. I'm a big fan of long-time groundings from their favorite toys and activities. (But again, you have to be consistent. If you say "NO iPod", that means "NO iPod". None. At all. Don't make an exception for ONE SINGLE MINUTE.) Oh, and NEVER, EVER repeat yourself if you were heard the first time. If you have to call a child, or warn a child more than once, you are not being consistent. In fact, if a child is breaking a rule he/she already knows, don't even give a warning, just go straight to the discipline.

When my oldest was 12 or so, I grounded her on several occasions from watching tv. But after a day or two I would give in because: her dad worked nights, her brother was little, and I hated to watch movies by myself. After a couple of times giving in and "lifting the tv ban", she started to work the system. I realized I was either going to have to BE CONSISTENT or find a different disciplinary route. (In this case, I chose the latter because I didn't trust myself to be consistent on this one.)

However, when my younger one broke a certain rule, he was grounded from Facebook for 2 weeks. He was warned that if he broke this particular rule again, he would lose Facebook for a year. After 5 months passed, he broke the rule again. He lost Facebook privileges for 12 full months. That was 3 years ago. He has, at least to my knowledge, never broken that rule again.

BE CONSISTENT.

The principle is the same, regardless of your child's age. Make the negative action more costly than the positive one, and don't waver. Ever.

parenting 101

(The following blog is the first of several on the theme of discipline. Please understand I am no expert. Please understand this blog is not intended to be judgmental. Please understand that I know God has GREATLY BLESSED me with two amazing kids.)


Now, please excuse me while I rant.

I am scared to death for an entire generation of kids who will generally fail in life because their parents either:
1) don't love them enough to discipline them, or
2) are afraid of the concept of "tough love".

Let me qualify this before I begin said rant: My parents were not perfect parents. I was not a perfect child. I am NOT a perfect parent. My children are NOT perfect children. Also, children are not supposed to be perfect. It is OUR JOB as parents to teach them, train them, love them, discipline them, so they learn how to be teachable, respectable, loving, self-disciplined adults. I have an AMAZING relationship with both my children (now ages 23 and 17) either despite their discipline, or more likely, because of it. Don't be afraid of your children. Don't be afraid that they will hate you or turn against you. (They will almost certainly hate you many times, but . . . ) They are wired to need and want your love, respect and acceptance. That being said . . .

It seems that almost daily now I hear parents complain about their kids. They complain about picky eaters and temper tantrums and disobedience. They complain about dirty rooms and smart mouths and breaking rules. They complain about grades and irresponsibility and lying.

Not only do parents complain, but for the most part, they seem to have this "throw their arms up in the air, shrug their shoulders, there's not much I can do about it" resignation to this being acceptable, something to just grit their teeth and trudge through until the child leaves home at 18. (FYI, if your kid is undisciplined, he/she may LEAVE at 18, but it's almost guaranteed he/she will return home to you as permissive parents once he/she: flunks out of school, gets fired, gets out of jail, etc.)

There IS a solution for this. I promise. It's not even complicated. (Mind you, I did not say it was easy.) The solution works for 2 year olds just like it works for 16 year olds. Ready?

BE CONSISTENT.

That's it. Sounds easy, but it's not. But the earlier in life your children learn that you absolutely, positively, ALWAYS, 100% of them time MEAN WHAT YOU SAY, the earlier they learn to discipline themselves not to break the rules. WHY? Because you, as their parents, have taught them the consequences to breaking rules are ALWAYS THE WORSE CHOICE.

Next: How to make the right choice easier than the wrong choice.

could be worse . . . could be david lee roth

The kids tend to name our vehicles. Don't guess that's too weird. Kacey's very cool Buick sedan she inherited from my Granny is called "Stella!"(which must be said with the Marlon Brando inflection from A Streetcar Named Desire). The white 1992 Sable that still graces our driveway even though it hasn't run for months and whose mere existence there now qualifies us for white trash status is affectionately called "Tank: the Sabletooth".

Pretty sure my next vehicle is going to be a van. I know, I know. I made it through the entire childrearing years without one and NOW? But yeah. I'm always needing space to haul stuff and groups of people (mostly teens). I've toyed with the SUV route, but the green in me CANNOT justify a gas-guzzler. And, of course, there's the whole "G" status, so with the G-baby on the way, a van makes even more sense.

Kevin has decided the new vehicle will be named "Eddie".
"Eddie?" I queried.
"Yes, mom. Think about it. It's a VAN."
"Ohhhhhh. Then we should call it 'Halen', don't you think?"
"No, mom, when people ask you what your van's name is (which, you know, happens a LOT), if you say 'Halen' no one will laugh. If you say 'Eddie', people will laugh. Eddie is funnier."

So, though I didn't want to know the sex of my children before they were born, I guess we've already taken all the mystery out of automotive acquiring. I willl have a van. He will be a boy. His name shall be Eddie. Eddie the miniVAN Halen.

I hope your family is a bit more normal than mine.

stereotypically confused

A grandmother uses knitting needles and sewing machines.
A grandmother does NOT use Bonnie Bell kiwi-watermelon lipgloss.

A grandmother bakes cookies from scratch.
A grandmother does NOT microwave "grilled" cheese.

A grandmother wears face cream to bed.
A grandmother does NOT facebook in bed at 2 a.m. from her laptop.

A grandmother wears a floral housecoat.
A grandmother does NOT wear a black bra.

A grandmother sends $10 checks for your birthday.
A grandmother does NOT send unlimited text messages.

A grandmother has short silvery-gray hair.
A grandmother does NOT threaten to kill you for calling her "Granny".

A grandmother listens to birds sing outside her window.
A grandmother does NOT listen to Jason Mraz on her 32g iPod touch.

A grandmother has occasional hot flashes.
A grandmother does NOT still ovulate.

A grandmother is nice and sweet.
A grandmother is NOT me.

. . . at least that's what I thought until today.

lipstick and the Big Shoe dance

Jane's visitation was tonight. I have never seen so many people in a funeral home. We stood in line for over two hours and the line was just as long when we left at 7:15 as it was when we arrived at 4:45. Not surprising though, if you knew Jane. Jane knew everybody, Jane loved everybody, and everybody loved Jane.

Jane always made me laugh, mostly because she just found the fun in life. If anything EVER happened in church that could be taken out of context, Jane would lean forward and whisper it in my ear because she knew I was already thinking the same thing, and we would both try not to laugh out loud. (Once I was sitting 3 rows in front of her and she actually wrote it on a piece of paper and passed it up to me.)

Jane never let me live down the "lipstick test". This is where you compare your used lipstick shape to all your friends - slanted, angled, flat, concave, pointed, and rounded. Supposedly the shape of your lipstick tells something about your personality. In a room of 25 or 30 women, mine was the only one rounded, or as Jane often reminded me, "phallic-shaped". She said that spoke enough about my personality.

My favorite memory of Jane was at her 40th birthday party when she, being the amazingly great sport that she was, jumped up in front of everybody and danced the "Big Shoe Dance" right along with the clip from PeeWee's Big Adventure on the big screen tv. So funny. So cute.

Occasionally when I put on my lipstick I think of her. When something inappropriate happens in church, I will think of her. When I eat watermelon I always think of her. When I watch anything with Steve Martin, I can hear her quote Bernadette Peters, "I don't care about the money, I just want the stuuuuufff."

Jane, you brightened every room you entered. I'm guessing even God's face lit up when you entered His presence Saturday afternoon. As we were leaving the funeral home tonight, Carla said, "I imagine most people bowing down in the presence of God. I imagine Jane doing the Big Shoe Dance for Him." Yep, that's Jane.

he just ACTS like he was dropped on his head . . .

So in the last post I said the worst thing about being a homeschool mom is that your kids learn EVERYTHING from you . . . this is especially true with Kevin and his sarcastic wit.

This morning he finished getting ready before I did. Not unusual, except that his routine this month involves bottle feeding two cows when his dad (the cowboy) is on day shift. Yeah, you know Kev is loving that. Anyway, I finished curling my hair, tossed it upside down to brush it out, then flipped back up. As Kev walked down the hallway toward the bathroom he asked (for like the 9th time) "Are you ready YET?" To which I responded, "No, I am still doing my hair." Arriving at the bathroom door, and taking one look at my hair, he stated, "Good, 'cause I am not going out in public with you. It looks like the back of your hair is trying to eat you."

Last Saturday night Kevin was picking on his sister. She was play-whining and I told him to leave her alone. "Are you serious? She started it!" I informed him, with a big grin on my face, that I was serious and that "I ALWAYS mean everything I say!" Under his breath he mumbled, "What you mean to say is that 'Everything you say is always mean!'"

To preface the next story: 1) Kevin was born at home in the bedroom floor, where, despite his continual lies, he was NOT dropped on his head, and 2) I am not the most modest person in the world, I prefer to sleep in the same clothes I was born, much to my son's dismay.

So anyway . . . we are having dinner at my parents' house Monday for Kevin's birthday. At his request, we are about to feast on ribeyes, double-stuffed potatoes, green beans with bacon & brown sugar, brie & cranberries, homemade bread with strawberry butter, and cheesecake. (The menu is not at all pertinent to the story, but oh my goodness it was amazing.) So, before we eat, Dad prays. And he prays this sweet, sweet blessing of thanks over Kevin and Dad gets choked up and has to stop. Precious. I'm very grateful for how much the two of them love each other. When Dad finished praying, Kevin looked at him and said, "Thanks, Papa." Mom said, "I can't believe how old you are." And I said, "Has it REALLY been 17 years since I was sitting naked in the bedroom floor? Seems like last week." Without missing a beat, Kevin says, "That WAS last week, Mom."

circle of life

I’m not a birdwatcher, but this week I seem to be noticing hawks. I’ve rarely noticed hawks before, partly because they don’t seem to be all that common, and partly because I’m not into that “old person hobby” phase of life just yet. (I know, soon. There is no shortage of people who take far too much enjoyment reminding me of the fact that the half-century mark is looming on the horizon. But I digress. . .) The point is, the hawks are everywhere this winter. Why?

Because of the ice storm.

Remember that nasty little wintry phase of life when everything was dark and cold? Those nights when the tree branches snapping around you sounded like a war zone? Those days that seemed to drag on forever when you had no contact with the people you loved to know if they were even alive, much less safe and warm? That following spring when you wondered if our little corner of the world would ever be beautiful again?

Yep. The ice storm. It all began to make sense. The trees that had been standing solid for years were broken to make a way for new life. Raccoons, moles, possums. Squirrels and rabbits, and skunks, oh my. Those thousands of fallen limbs and branches and dead trees have provided safe shelter this past year for our little friends to reproduce and repopulate. Which, with the small mammal population increase, has provided more prey for our hawk friends. Circle of life, and all that.

God has a reason, and a time, for everything.

There is a time for everything:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

There is a time for everything. In His time.

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.

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 the 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. The kids and I put up three Christmas trees each holiday season from 2000 until 2006. This year I decided to put up: None. Not one. My mother's house, on the other hand, is decked out 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 that spin and white lights and . . . well, so as 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 still 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 ginormous roll-top desk sitting in the middle of the room that hasn't yet found its way to Goodwill, plus there are no curtains in the living room, and because there are no curtains in the living room, this room gets really cold, and since the rolltop desk with the computer is right next to this cold, curtainless window, a space heater is plugged into the outlet where the tree would be plugged in, you know, were there room for it, which, of course, there is not. (inhaling)

3. The kids want to go to Nana's house 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 Nana's is BECAUSE it is decorated. Oh, the vicious cycle.

4. Most of my loved ones are not Christmassing with me this year. How can you expect me to be in a festive mood when my favorite people are eslewhere? Besides, I doubt any 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 surplus wedding pretties 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 seven pounds of newborn 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 twinkle lights. Of course, you'd have to share an extension cord with the 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 year wondering where I misplaced my time machine. Maybe Someday I'll find it. Anyway, 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 celebrate Easter just 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.

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.


12-16-09

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?

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 have to be careful not to interrupt. I like to strike up conversations with people I don't know while waiting in line. 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 teenagers. 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. My heart breaks for kids who aren't loved. I have great parents and I'm a very even balance of both of them. I married my polar opposite. I love my job and the team I am blessed to be part of. I love our weird and broken 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 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'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 jobs that can't be done in one sitting. 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, but I am progressively needing them more and more. The thought that in 9 months I could (potentially) be a grandmother is completely terrifying. I'd rather pay for something I don't want or didn't get than deal with customer service. 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'm always the last person to leave, as I don't want 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 like basketball. I hate going to bed with a dirty kitchen. I enjoy folding laundry. I dislike 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. 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 klutz 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 love those around me, not because I have to, but because I want to. Because God loves me and I love Him right back. Because 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 always act like it. That's who I am.

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."