speaking of . . .

Those of you who know me, know I laugh. A lot. Those of you who REALLY know me, know I cry a lot as well. But just because there are tears for circumstances beyond my control doesn't mean I don't know how blessed I am. So today I am recounting some of my current favorite things. I am calling this my "Sweet Sunday Sixteen".


Number One is children. And not just any children, but this week it is specifically Mayah & Cohen. My daughter's daughter. My best friends' son. They make the people I love happy, and that makes ME happy.

SPEAKING OF happy . . . Number Three is Happy Hour at Sonic, baby. I'm currently on a Peach tea kick. "Hi. My name is Stephanie. I'm an addict. I have a $5 a week habit. I need help."

SPEAKING OF berry . . . Number Four is White Rain Pearberry Hairspray. Dear Pink Bottle, as long as you are in production and I am not bald, we will be partners. Every single day somebody tells me how good I smell, and I usually respond with "Thanks! I try hard NOT to stink." But the truth is, it's all about the hairspray. I love it even more now that I can buy it at the Dollar Tree instead of having to order it online.

SPEAKING OF online . . . Number Five is "building blog headers" as my new creative outlet hobby. I am SO over scrapbooking. I cannot believe the money I spent on paper and stickers and scalloped scissors and rubber stamps when I could have been doing creative projects on my computer with NO mess! Besides, cool blog headers make reading blogs more fun. Hey, it's not ALL about the words!

SPEAKING OF words . . . Number Six is "Words with Friends" on my iPod. It's Scrabble with a different name. I keep 8 or 10 games going at all times . . . mostly with friends like Jessica and MaryKate and Elizabeth, though sometimes with random opponents. Did you know that "jalapeno" with the J and the L played on triple letter squares and the word played over a triple word square WITH the 40 point bonus for playing all your letters at once gets you 178 points???

SPEAKING OF 178 . . . Number Seven is my 365 project. I have effectively cleared 178 items out of my house since January 1. (Okay, really it's 176, but it WILL be 178 by Monday, so the whole "speaking of" segue still works.) The whole project is very en"lighten"ing and makes me feel less burdened. I may keep it up until it's just me, my jeans and a toothbrush. :)

SPEAKING OF jeans . . . Number Eight is just that. Until recently, I haven't worn jeans in . . . well, I don't remember ever wearing jeans very much. They never fit me right. To fit in the hips, the waist was always WAY too big, and then the uber low-rise jeans came in and, uh, well, I don't think so. But now jeans actually sit at your hips and they fit and I'm so never wearing anything else. Seriously. (Note to daughter-face: Bury me in the boot-cut pair with my turquoise cardigan and those cute dangly earrings you brought me from Saba, and my black clogs - WITHOUT socks. I mean it. Don't think you can bury me with socks on as a joke. I will NOT Rest In Peace. I will hunt you down and make you cry. Thanks.)

SPEAKING OF shoes and socks . . . Number Nine is the road I walk . . . literally. The metaphorical road I am walking these days is pretty sucky, but the physical road is quickly becoming a favorite place for me. I go almost every day now. I rarely see anyone else, not even passing cars, but I almost always see deer or turkey or critters of some sort. It's my prayer time, my alone time, my outdoor time all rolled together.

SPEAKING OF all rolled together . . . Number Ten is Girl Scout Thin Mints. Oh my goodness. I know mint chocolate is not to everybody's liking, but if I'm crying and you give me a frozen thin mint it will make it all better. Give me a whole roll of frozen Thin Mints and I may not cry all week.

SPEAKING OF crying . . . Number Eleven is Loreal Collagen mascara. When the Thin Mints eventually run out, and the tears return, I want my waterproof friend to know she is not taken for granted. That's why she made the list.

SPEAKING OF the list . . . Number Twelve is my prayer list. I'm doing something I've never done before. I have "A Prayer List" that I have been praying every single day for months now. God and I are getting some much-needed talk time. I think I'll do a whole blog about this sometime soon.

SPEAKING OF much-needed talk time . . . Number Thirteen is the infamous, life-changing pedicure which was part of a "Christmas Girl's Day" with Sara and resulted in ten very purple toenails. Actually 20, as Sara opted for a shade of purple as well. My toenails are starting to grow out, so I may not have the purple much longer, but I love them!

SPEAKING OF growing out . . . Number Fourteen is my hair. I've NEVER liked my hair, which is pretty ridiculous, because I have good hair. At least people TELL me I have good hair. But one of my favorite things right now is having it longer. I don't think my hair has been this long since the 3rd grade . . . and that's been, oh, aWHILE. Like 1971. And since I'm getting, well, not younger, I want to enjoy it before it goes gray and I start to look like the Wicked Witch of the West.

SPEAKING OF green ogre-like things . . . Number Fifteen is the fact that Fiona (the green Taurus) has been passed on to Kevin and I have the pleasure of driving Eddie van Honda. Now, if you know me AT ALL, you know I couldn't give a flip about what I drive and I don't really love that it took $60 to fill with gas this week, still . . . the trade-off to be able to travel "in community" has been really nice. The girls all went with me to Indy back in the fall . . . several of us filled it up and drove together to Madisonville for a funeral . . . this week I will have the privilege of driving a new family home from the Nashville airport. I like being able to spend time in it with the people I love the most.

SPEAKING OF the van . . . Number Sixteen is parking in the garage. We have lived in this house for 16 years and I have been able to park in the garage exactly 2% of that time. Greg sold a tractor in December and Eddie has been allowed to move into the empty space until a replacement tractor is acquired. Oh, I didn't know how much I would love getting into a warm car on a cold morning!

SPEAKING OF cold mornings . . . Number Seventeen is this amazingly wonderful almost-spring weather when I don't need to park in the garage; when I can go to my favorite place to walk; and when I can free my toes and enjoy my purple pedicure!!!


Hope your Sunday is just as blessed.

the granny gig

A few months back, I was grieving the loss of my youth, when my daughter decided I had mourned long enough. "You are going to be a grandmother. Suck it up and get through the stages of grief." She said the next step was anger, then I could move on to acceptance before labor day arrived. I informed her that she had forgotten depression and bargaining, but she said I'd had enough depression already and my bargaining chip was allowing me to be present at the birth. So just as I was settling on the anger phase, she jerked that one out from under me as well and said there was no way I could be angry about becoming a grandmother.

I started to grieve the fact that she wouldn't let me grieve, when she told me to stop whining or she would force me to sit in the hall during the birth and torture me with an epidural needle . . . or a turkey baster . . . she hadn't fully thought it through.

That was nearly a year ago when my concept of the sensible-shoe-wearing, gray-haired granny gig was almost more than I could bear . . .

This weekend I attended a youth conference in Gatlinburg. It just so happened my daughter, son-in-law and baby granddaughter, Mayah, attended this conference as well, staying in a condo some 2811 feet from my hotel.

Lucky for me, 5-month-old Mayah learned how to butt-dial my cell phone through her diaper. Late Friday night she called and said, "M.E., wanna have a girls' day with me tomorrow?" (It sounded more like "ee wah ooowee hiii", but I knew what she meant.) So, being the wonderfully clever grandmother that I am, I called my daughter and offered to "help out with the baby" so she could enjoy the morning session outside the restraints of motherhood.

Saturday morning arrived, and I forfeited the banana-topped, cream-cheesy French Toast at the nearby Breakfast Cabin with the rest of my group, and hiked the half-mile up the hill in my trendy gray vest and black clogs (sans socks) to see my baby girl.

Once we got rid of her mommy, my granddaughter and I discussed the turmoil in Egypt, the 66th anniversary of the Marine landing on Iwo Jima, and why P!nk is so cool, despite her failure to use ladylike language. We analyzed the appeal of the cellophane inside baby toys and marveled at the amazing job character actor, John C. Reilly, did in his role as Mr. Cellophane in the musical, "Chicago". This led us to speak of the differences between narcissism and self-esteem as we shared a cafe mocha. I assured Mayah that while Stacy London says babies with eggplant-shaped heads should never wear mullets, and zebra-striped knit pants are definitely "what NOT to wear", her own self-esteem should never become wrapped up in external beauty.

After our exhausting heart-to-heart, we stretched out on the couch and I introduced her to a great Creature Feature on SyFy and educated her on the difference between BAD movies and the highly underrated genre of B-movies. During commercials we shared our excitement over the upcoming Arrested Development movie and Liam Neeson's latest action flick, and decided someday we would have to find the time to watch "Schindler's List" together.

We knew our alone time was drawing to an end when one of us needed a nap and the other needed a clean nappy. So while I readied myself for some fresh air and perhaps a glimpse of a winter waterfall, Mayah changed her own diaper and slipped on her elastic-waist, zebra-striped pants just to spite Ms. London.

This "granny gig" isn't really so bad after all. Pretty sure it beats death by turkey baster.

midnight at the oasis

Monday night, both the guys went to bed early. I, however, have been getting ENTIRELY too much beauty sleep lately. So, as I was waiting for my coach to turn back into a pumpkin, I browsed Facebook, read blogs, and watched a rerun of my beloved Alton Brown. As I finished the episode "Don't Be Chicken of Dumplings" I heard one of the boys clomping down the hall. Expecting the cowboy (who generally is up and down a couple of times every night), I was surprised to see the manchild (who, once asleep, is comatose until his second snooze alarm).

Kevin walked into the bathroom and closed the door (again, unusual, as our bathroom doubles as the family meeting room. Seriously, I haven't shaved my legs in privacy since 1984. George Orwell may have been on to something.) Anyway . . . After a few seconds, I heard the shower running. Minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, walked toward his bedroom, turned around and came to the den and stared at me with squinty eyes. I stared back, and, recognizing the oddly familiar look on his face, I smiled and said, "Whatcha doin' Kev?" Blankly he asked, "What time is it?" As I replied it was nearing midnight, he rubbed his wet hair with a puzzled look, then turned and went back to bed.

He has been known to sleepwalk from time to time, sleepTALK, even.

SleepShowering, however, is a new phenomenon.

this one's for you

Last night, I was eating fall-off-the-bone tender ribs marinated in a bbq sauce so hot my lips went numb. In the process, I got sauce on my head. Like, a big blob right between my eyes. Don't ask me how. I was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the couch with my laptop on my knees, typing an inbox one-fingered and eating my ribs in a very ladylike manner with my pinkies up. So how the sauce made it to my forehead is a mystery. But, lucky for me, my son had tickets to this show. He said, "You should blog THAT, Mom. 'Cause THAT'S embarrassing." I informed him that I blog embarrassing stuff all the time. He stated, "Not about yourself, you don't."

So, my son, that was for you.

iron steph

There's nothing to eat.

Oh, there's food in the house. The shelves are stocked and the fridge is full, but it's a bizarre hodgepodge of odd ingredients that somehow got left out of their intended recipe - a can of black beans forgotten from chicken nachos, sliced water chestnuts Kevin begged to be left out of the beef stroganoff (because they're crunchy), mushrooms not added to last Sunday's chicken noodle soup, 3 cans of fat-free (aack!) cream of chicken soup clearly bought by accident, 3 jars of jalApenos, frozen blueberries from last summer's pickings, and 4 potstickers (because they are packaged by the dozen and I had 8 for lunch one day). This is not to mention staples like crackers, rice, pasta, bisquick, and Pop-Tarts.

Normally, this is when I would head to Kroger to fill in the gaps with $75 worth of meat and dairy and cookies and berries.

Instead, I'm challenging myself to EMPTY the kitchen before I refill it.

(Read the rest with Alton Brown's image in your head):

Welcome to Kitchen Stadium. My name is Stephanie and I've been cooking for 26 years. My mission is to charm the palate with savory dishes for two men who couldn't BE more different.

Man One (aka The Cowboy) will eat anything as long as it's bland. Forget the spices. Forget the seasoning. Just DON'T forget the mayonnaise. Noodles and rice are fluff and just get in his way. Meat is a prerequisite for every meal, food should be served in abundance, and MUST be followed with something - anything - sweet. He wouldn't touch a Pop-Tart if it was the last item in the house (they are DRY), but will eat an entire box of Pecan Sandies in a mixing bowl full of milk for dessert. He drives through Dairy Queen 10 mornings a month and orders the Jumbo Artery-Clogging Breakfast Platter - with extra ketchup. He likes his food WET - drenched in whatever condiment is available. It's a texture thing.

Man Two (aka the Manchild, the Ginger, the Kevie-poo) is, shall we say, selective. His metabolism rivals that of a small army platoon. He wants cheese, and lots of it - especially if you combine it with noodles and rice. Spice is good - his fries are incomplete unless saturated with black pepper. Condiments are a curse - just a PLAIN burger, thank you very much. Without his Pop-Tarts, he wouldn't know the definition of breakfast. And while green beans and broccoli are fine, don't even think about serving him a brussel sprout. Oh, and most importantly, he doesn't like crunchy food. Yeah, you heard me. Crunchy food. It's a texture thing.

So my quest is to feed these two growing boys something they will both eat using only the existing ingredients in our kitchen until my cabinets look like Old Mother Hubbard's.

This week I pan-seared a salmon, mashed ONE sweet potato, baked a corn casserole (dryer than usual - no butter), grilled chicken breasts with onions & mushrooms, made turkey bacon sandwiches with jalapenos and black beans, and boiled ramen noodles with olive oil & parmesan.

So far, so good. But we're now out of all things dairy and for Man One, we are dangerously low on mayo. There are only a few chicken breasts left and possibly some lunch meat. The only veggies are frozen. We do have an abundance of oatmeal, so constipation shouldn't be a problem, and I made an emergency stop yesterday for fruit, because I have an irrational fear of scurvy.

So tonight, while Iron Chef Roberto created Lobster with a Chocolate & Peppercorn reduction garnished with Mint Leaves, I got inspired to work on Friday night's menu. I call it "Kentucky Fusion": Microwave Popcorn in a canned Cream of Mushroom Sauce, mashed with Refried Beans and Wasabi Cashews, garnished with 2 Girl Scout Thin Mints that have been hiding in the freezer since the spring of 2009.

Eat your heart out.

my heart bleeds for you

If God wanted me to give blood, He would've put a spout on my neck.

At least, that used to be my stance. See, I don't bleed. The very few times I have had blood drawn have been less-than-pleasant experiences entailing multiple phlebotomists, multiple needle insertions and multiple bruises.

But a couple of years ago, I decided to put on my big girl panties and get over myself.

I am now a blood donor.

When you give blood, the Red Cross wants to know four basic things:
1. Have you been outside the U.S.?
2. Do you have a disease?
3. Do you now, or have you ever, taken drugs?
4. Is it possible you could have an STD?

But the Red Cross can't risk your forgetfulness, so they ask these four basic questions 172 times in various formats in complete confidentiality behind a very private tri-fold cardboard divider.

So after being reminded that my blood type is "A plus" (of course it is . . . would you expect LESS than perfection from me???), I answered the first few questions something like this:
1. Have you had an accidental needle-stick? YES
(just last month while attempting to thread a sewing needle without my glasses.)
2. Are you a coke addict? NO
(I used to be, but I switched from Coke to Diet Coke last year.)
3. Have you ever been paid for sex? UNSURE
(My husband once left some change on the dresser, and I took it as payment for services rendered. Does that count?)

Apparently, I wasn't understanding the questions fully, which explains why the Red Cross goes on to ask 169 more pointed questions before they take your blood, like:
11. Do you suck down those orange-flavored baby aspirin like they are Sweet Tarts?
28. Could you possibly be a hemophiliac due to the fact that you are 5th in line to the royal throne of Luxembourg?
61. Did you ever have to deboard your 747 in Botswana en route to Frankfurt, Germany following your 1995 trip to the Rugby World Cup in South Africa, and in doing so, accidentally come in contact with a Macaque monkey?
76. Are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?

Once I made it through the list of questions, the finger prick to note my iron level, and a quick check of my temperature and blood pressure, I am given a free t-shirt, an armload of papers and rubber tubing, and sent to a room with a lawn chair and great 80's music where it appears I should expect a pedicure and a margarita. But no. (though there is the promise of a snack once they finish removing all the leeches.)

I won't lie, giving blood is not completely painless, but surprisingly, it's no big deal, even without a spout on my neck. Besides, less than 5% of the U.S. population gives blood on a regular basis, and my little pint has the potential to save three lives. Three. Maybe a premature baby. Maybe a heart patient. Maybe you.

Besides, where else can you lose a pound in 10 minutes and be rewarded with Cheez-Its and a Sprite?

dances with wools

Things I Hate:
Injustice. Litterbugs. Mosquitos. Wintergreen. Comb-overs. Fluorescent lighting. People who have to "one up" your stories. Having only vowels in a Scrabble game. The smell of sardines. The lyrics to "Milkshake". Using "would OF" and "could OF" when you mean "would've" and "could've". Cheese Whiz. Not being able to find my keys. Middle school girls who say "I love you, baby" to their boyfriend of 3 days. Pumping gas in the winter. Four friends - three final pieces of sushi. Four family members - one bathroom. Yogurt. The guy who decided Pluto could no longer be a planet. Getting all comfy in bed and realizing I forgot to pee. And any show with "housewives" in the title - desperate or otherwise.

But the thing I hate most?

Socks. Darn them.

Cotton. Wool. Nylon. Striped. Solid. Argyle. Athletic socks. Trouser socks. Ankle socks. Knee socks. Crew socks. Toe socks. They are evil in its purest form. Be a-frayed. Be very a-frayed. Masquerading as "essentials", "comfort items", "fashion accessories", they are nothing more than vile, wretched, sweat-inducing, pedicure-hiding, toe-enclosures. AND. I. HATE. THEM. Wearing them is like forcing my feet to go spelunking against their will. Cruel and unusual punishment. And to add insult to injury, I'm pretty sure some of my toes are claustrophobic.

Three-fourths of the year my toes are happy little campers. Strappy sandals or microfiber mules or casual clogs - all sock-free. But then winter sets in and my choices are roast or freeze. And since I don't particularly look good in blue . . .

Besides, my oh-so-comfy Clark winter-weather loafers require socks. So, for Christmas, I asked my children to buy me socks. Cute ones. Cute enough to get your attention, but not so cute that you lose respect for me. And comfortable ones, though I know in my heart there are no such things. But my children refused. Kacey even went so far as to Facebook her brother saying, "Do NOT buy our mother socks. No matter WHAT she says she wants, she hates socks. You don't want to be remembered forever as the 'child who bought her those stupid, awful, toe-torture devices'" . . . or something like that.

So, I broke down and bought my own socks. And I broke down further and wore my own socks.

I think I may have to start a humanitarian group called "PETF" - People for the Ethical Treatment of FEET, or maybe the ASPCT - the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Toes.

The absolute worst is sleeping in socks. I don't know if it's the fact that my bed is on the north wall of the house, or that my cotton sheets lack warmth, or that I frequently sleep alone, or that I'm just getting older and my circulation lacks oomph. Regardless, I find myself often wearing socks to bed these days. But at some point during the night, poet Emma Lazarus calls to me . . . "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. . . " and my right big toe grasps the top of my left sock and frees my left foot and my left foot returns the favor by stepping on the toe of the right foot so my right foot can free itself, then both feet push the socks out of the bed and into the floor while my ten toes do a little middle-of-the-night emancipation dance. And for some bizarre reason, despite the fact that the kitchen is clean, the towels are always tri-folded, the sheets are washed every Monday, and the dvd's are alphabetized . . . the socks remain in the floor until their services are required again.

I don't know why. Oh yeah, because I hate them.

make a note of it

I make blog notes. A LOT. The writer in me used to always carry a notebook in my purse, but now I just text myself or, preferably, use the "notes" application on my iPod. When I recall a cute story, or hear something humorous, or experience an epiphany (as my husband says, "epithany"), I jot them in my electronic journal, so I can share them with you at a later date.

Like the following:

I always sleep on my side with the sheet AND the blanket covering my ear - but NOT covering my nose. I like to BREATHE cool air, but it appears that I like to LISTEN to warm air.

I want to magnetize my nail polish and my key ring, so every time I reach into my purse, my keys automatically find ME. I know. Brilliant.

I suspect you would be the best parent EVER if you always treated every day with your kids as though it is the only day you will ever have to be their parent. Impossible to go wrong.

I am convinced the item my life is most lacking is a portable tip jar.

I experienced the literal definition of a "rude awakening" when Greg woke at 2 a.m. screaming, "STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!" and sucker-punching me in the kidneys.

I told my mom she really needed to get an email address, because I always have things to send her. When I suggested this, she looked at my dad and said, "Paul, I DO have an email, don't I? Isn't it nana.com?" Uh, sure mom. :)

I have a penchant for useless trivia, so upon writing the previous, I actually googled www.nana.com only to find it is the website for the Northwest Alaska Native Association.

I'm curious why it's Aldi's and Kroger's and Sam's and McDonald's but not Wal-Mart's or Burger King's or Taco Bell's or Target's?


Undoubtedly, my note-taking is vitally important, but there's a dilemma: I'm not a meticulous note taker . . . I'm more a "hit the high points" kinda gal. Key words are all I really require. See, I have such a good memory I only need a modicum of information to recall the specifics.

Back in October, when I attended the annual Saddle Boy Competition, I had an excess of free time to think. (It's either that or watch cowboys load horses in and out of a trailer while trying to avoid the manure piles . . . ) I made some notes that weekend. Scant notes. Tidbits, really. I then forgot about the notes. About an hour ago I rediscovered them, but baby, 47 has hit hard, and the days of short-term memory retention (and, for that matter, perky breasts) are so over. Now when I say I have such a good memory and only need a modicum of information to recall the specifics, what I REALLY mean is I USED to have such a good memory I only NEEDED a modicum of information to recall the specifics.

Still, I made the notes, so I feel obligated to blog the notes:

"Chuy interesting picture saturday nuclear bermuda ambulance pot pour medula not even a ponytail mike at hicks the statistics of someday scuba doo"

I'm sure they would have been informative/ insightful/ illuminating/ hysterical . . . if only I had a clue what they meant.

*purgery

The pursuit to purge my house of 365 unnecessary items has commuted into something akin to Pandora's box . . . I began opening doors and drawers and a plethora of possessions began to find their way back into the world.

Two "mother of the bride" outfits from 2008. Why? Because the first one was hideous - great catalog appeal but not so much ACTUAL appeal. However, I was afraid I wouldn't find another one, and I figured hideous suit was better than birthday suit, and by the time I did find one I could live with, I'd had the hideous one for 10 weeks and it had since gone on sale and I felt bad about returning it.

So I didn't.

Three pairs of size 8 black shoes, (yes, children, one of them is the "stinky" pair) because I pretty much have only worn black shoes for the last six years, but once I bought my amazingly comfortable $69 pair of black leather Clarks last fall, the only other shoes I have a need for now are the red leather thigh-high boots in the back of my closet the amazingly comfortable $69 pair of BROWN leather Clarks.

One bed tray, you know, for breakfast in bed and such. I'm parting with it . . . WHY? Oh yeah, because I have never once in my entire life had breakfast in bed. Maybe someday when I have a reason to spend an entire day in bed, I will eat my strawberry pop-tart there. Maybe. Someday. But for now the bed tray goes bye-bye.

Thirty sweaters. Mostly mine because, for heaven's sake, the men in my life wouldn't be caught dead wearing season-appropriate clothing. Much less anything that's not blue, brown or green.
A puzzle, a basket, a soap dispenser, three black & white ceramic balls that look gray from 5 feet away.

A large vase that matches absolutely nothing in my house.

An erector set from Kevin's younger years.

A sheet set from Kacey's younger years.

Four useless Italian soda glasses from The Old Spaghetti Factory.

Eleven nearly-full nail polishes - all in some shade of mauve because I am the most boring human being alive. Or rather, WAS the most boring human being alive. I currently have DEEP PURPLE toenails, so I've become a much more fascinating individual since the infamous, life-changing Christmas pedicure.

A dozen glass tiles I bought for the bathroom when my husband began remodeling it in 1995 . . . BEGAN being the operative word . . . "and that's all I got to say about that".

So far 120 items to Goodwill, one large box to the recycling bin, two sacks to the dump, and we are only 27 days into the year. According to the myth, when Pandora opened the forbidden box, all of the evils mankind had not previously known, escaped from the box. But, it is said, that at the very bottom of her box, she found HOPE.

At this point, I'm just hoping to find the closet floors.

*yes, I realize "perjury" is the correct spelling.

a baby blessing

It's still dark outside. And cold. At least here in Kentucky where two people I dearly love are boarding a small plane as this blog goes to post. Destination: Chicago . . . D.C. . . Rome . . . Ethiopia. They have checked four LARGE duffle bags, three of which are filled with donation items like diapers, baby wipes, soy formula, bottles and toys for an orphanage in Addis Ababa.

An orphanage where my darling friends, Mike and Sara, are going to meet their son.

Life happens to all of us . . . the blessings and the tragedies. For some, like this baby boy, these tragedies come all too early. And yet, it is in this unjust beginning where God brings hope, where He turns sorrow into joy, where He shows love.

Love. And that's the whole point. To find love. To know love. To be loved. It is . . . until you experience the one joy greater than being loved . . . and that is the joy of unconditionally loving someone else. Being loved is wonderful. But being able TO love is overwhelming . . . and heartbreaking . . . and selfless . . . and godly . . . and the reason for life.

This little boy, this beautiful little dark-skinned angel with huge round eyes, is about to have his mourning turned to dancing (quite literally, if you know Mike) and begin a lifetime experiencing what it's like to be loved unconditionally by two amazing parents.

Every child should be so blessed.


My Darlings,
I am so proud for you and so proud of you. You have met every step with faith, and I am a better person for having been part of your journey to this point. I love you like you were my own family. Be safe, be well.
~Steph

it's not the end of the road

For the last 14 years, a print entitled, "End of the Alley" has hung in my house. I fell in love with this picture, I think because it reminds me of a print my mom had when I was growing up. Whatever the reason, I spent my birthday money on it back in the late 90's and hung it where it would get the most viewing: the wall behind the toilet.

Day 20 of this year's quest to get rid of one item a day led me to this picture. While I still love it dearly, it is woefully dated and needs to go. I took it off the wall behind the toilet and put it in the "January box".

A couple of days later my husband announced he was having urinary issues. "What's the problem?" I asked. "Well," he said, "for years I have been peeing at the 'End of the Alley' and now I don't know where I'm supposed to pee."

Today, as my son was celebrating his snow day by helping me pack up the January box, he too mourned the loss of the print that has hung in our bathroom since he was in Pull-Ups. "Don't you like it anymore? Cause I think it's kinda cool." And I admitted that I really do still like it, but the frame makes it look out of style. "Maybe I could reframe it and hang it in the bedroom."

"You COULD reframe it," he said, "but be careful hanging it in the bedroom. Dad may still try to pee at the 'End of the Alley'."

Good call, Kev. Good call.

blog header designs

Who has time to blog? Not me!

I am having WAY too much fun designing blog headers . . .

the man child

My baby boy is a man. Somewhere between giving birth to him on the bedroom floor in 1993 and sending him off to school this morning with a laptop, a guitar, a case of M&M’s and his car keys, he grew up.

And can I just say . . .

I HATE IT.

It was different with his sister. She was my first. It was critical to my maternal self-worth that she become independent early. Like somehow my "mom-value" increased when she learned, at the age of 4, that Carson City was the capital of Nevada and that, when doing laundry, you don’t wash darks with whites.

But not so baby boy. I don’t care if you think my son is brainy or talented (though he is), and I don’t care if he is ready to face the adult world (though he is that too - mostly). I just want him to let me cuddle him and scratch his back and be his mommy.

I miss when he ate peas with his fingers and his socks matched his tee shirts and he brought me Lego creations and said, “Mommy, LOOK!” and he thought girls had cooties and he couldn’t wait to spend the night at Nana & Papa’s house and he wore Lion King underwear and his birthday cakes were topped with gummy worms.

Sigh.

Happy birthday, man child. I love you and I am so proud of you.

perhaps her heart was two sizes too small

Every one, it's assumed, likes Christmas a lot
But Steph, who felt scroogey, most certainly did not.
Oh, she loved all the sharing and wee balls of rum
And songs about drummers who rum-pa-pum-pum,

But she hated the shopping and wrapping and glitter
And taking the tree down alone made her bitter

It could be perhaps that her socks were too pinchy
Or the stuff in the utility room made her grinchy.
But whatever the reason, the socks or the junk,
She stood here in January, feeling the funk.
She snarled with a sneer, "I can take it no more -
This house is too full, the stuff has to go!"

Then she got an idea! An awful idea!

Why, Steph got a wonderful, awful idea!
She gathered some empty containers and sacks
And took down the lights and the ornament of Max.
She packed up the wrapping and shiny red balls
And rolled up the garland that decked out the halls.

"Now all I need are some boxes to fill.
I'll pack up my stuff, and I'll go to Goodwill"
She cleaned out the closets and shelves of the clutter
And emptied the fridge of the last Nutter Butter.
She boxed up a vase of coffee beans and a candle
And even got rid of the "R" on the mantle.

She slithered and slunk with a smile almost gruff
And cleared out the house of all excess stuff.
She got tired more than once, and thought she was through,
But she mustered the strength of ten women, plus two.
She kept working all day and into the night
When she heard a deep voice that gave her a fright.

She turned around fast and saw You-Know-Who
The little boy Kevin, who was no longer two.
He looked at his mom with gleaming blue eyes
And said, "Why are you cleaning and boxing up, WHY?"
And you know, that ol' Mom, was so tired and so sick,
Of working alone, that she schemed really quick.

"Get out the stepstool and climb really high,
Take down the tree topper, then be a good guy
And haul these to the dump and then when you can
Load the rest that's for charity, into the van."
Her jobs hushed the boy, then she patted his head

And said, "Thanks for helping!" and sent him to bed.

Now the chaos was vanishing from under her roof,
The odds and the ends were all going "POOF!"
She'd bah-humbugged throughout the whole holiday season
But please don't ask why, no one quite knows the reason.
It just could have been that her socks were too pinchy.
Or maybe her heart had become mean and grinchy.
But the most likely reason for holiday gloom
Was all of the stuff in the utility room.

a sequins of events

After unwinding the glittery amber fishnet ribbon off the Christmas tree earlier this week, the ribbon that sparkled in the glow of the white holiday lights . . . I have to agree with Dimitri Martin. Glitter IS the Herpes of craft supplies. It has spread all over this house, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of it.

Speaking of sparkly things, ever noticed how ebay sellers always describe a sequined sweater as "having sequence". Makes me laugh.

Ninja Princess is awesome. There is a little boy in Africa who is a step closer to being with his family today because of her generosity. Thanks.

I'm teaching a class this quarter on discipline. Stephanie's Spiritual Discipline Class. Anybody else catch the oxy in this moron?

I am confessing that my tree is still up five days past the deadline. It IS undecorated at least. It stands here next to me as merely a light-giving presence, the warmth of which I am greatly enjoying, which is why I have violated my hard-and-fast New Year's Day rule, which I guess isn't so hard-and-fast after all. Although, if it isn't decorated, it's not really a CHRISTMAS tree, now is it? It's just a tree. A January tree. So maybe I haven't violated my rule after all. It could be a birthday tree for Kevin. I like it. I'll decorate it with Cinnamon Roll PopTarts and bottles of CheerWine and drape it with headphones and drizzle it with sarcastic comments. This is getting weird. Moving on.

You cannot lose weight by eating Panera's Macaroni and Cheese for lunch. Especially if you get the large. With the french bread. That's my health tip for today. Tomorrow I will let you know if that also holds true for dark chocolate cream cake.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home tonight and bought milk, eggs and bread. How cliche' is that?

I filled an entire donation box with ornaments, votives, tabletoppers, and wall art. There are 30 things in that box, but I have decided to count it as one thing - a single box of Christmas STUFF. So far I have also gotten rid of two sweaters, a cordless telephone, and a partridge in a pair of jeans. Five items down, 360 to go. It's not even going to be a challenge.

I just poured a half a glass of milk to drink before I go to bed . . . there is glitter in it. I am SO not kidding.

steph's stuff . . . or "bring your own box, part deux"

If a home is where your heart is, then a house is where your stuff is. And all my stuff is neatly organized within 1630 square feet of house. (With the exception of socks. I just don't see the point in neatly organizing socks. I roll pairs together and throw them in a drawer - minus the 8 pairs in the floor on my side of the bed, but that's a different blog altogether.)

When I first started thinking about getting rid of "a thing a day" this year, I was a wee bit concerned I might not be able to come up with 365 items, especially since I cleaned out all my closets AND emptied the attic last spring, and, lest you forget, I am NOT a "stuff" person.

But for somebody who is not a stuff person, I have a lot of stuff.

A LOT of stuff. My eight rooms are full of stuff. My closets are full of stuff. My drawers are full of stuff. My kitchen cabinets are full of stuff. My bookshelves are full of stuff. My utility room is REALLY full of stuff. I have storage boxes and Rubbermaid containers and canvas cubes to hold all my stuff. (In fact, I'm a little obsessed with storage boxes and Rubbermaid containers and canvas cubes, but that's a different blog altogether.)

Today I acquired 7 medium cardboard boxes to begin the 365 item collection, and I am downright excited about filling them with stuff, donating the stuff to Goodwill, and letting it all become somebody else's stuff. I don't want stuff. I don't want to clean the stuff. I don't want to store the stuff. And I sure don't want a bigger house to encompass the stuff. (I secretly dream of someday living in a 16' camper with very little stuff, but that's a different blog altogether.)

The stuff has got to go.

I don't need it.


". . . the only thing I need is *this*. I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray . . . and this paddle game. The ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need . . . and this remote control. - The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need . . . and these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control, and the paddle ball . . . and this lamp. That's all I need. And that's ALL I need too. I don't need one other thing, not one . . . oh, I need this . . . and that's all I need." - Steve Martin as "The Jerk"

don't think about the morrow . . . it's always a day away

My maiden name being "Morrow", my granddaddy used to quote this King James verse from Matthew 6 as a way to playfully tell my boyfriend to stop thinking about me so much: "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself." And though it became a running joke with the three of us, I don't think he quite hit at the heart of the meaning: "I tell you, don't worry about your life. Can you add even one hour to your life by worrying? . . . Your Father knows every little thing you need, so put Him first, and don't worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Fine. Worry has never been a part of who I am anyway. When I was younger, I never dreamed life would not be all sunshine and roses. (What a blessing to have grown up in a family where I could feel that way.) As I got older, I trusted that my life, my relationships, my decisions - good and bad - were always in God's hands. But this last year, after He put me on my face, I became a worrier. Not about everything, but this nagging voice in my head keeps whispering, "What if God doesn't answer your prayers? What if the things you think you need aren't in His plan? What if you never feel happy EVER again?" Those of you who know me, KNOW I'm not a pessimist or a "poor pitiful me" kinda gal, and I know my life is not supposed to be about what makes ME happy, but let me tell you, when you are facedown on the floor, it's hard to keep that in perspective.

So, that's part of my goal for this year. Try to let it go. Stop listening to the scared little voice in my head. Leave it in His hands.

Oh, and just for the record, I have NO IDEA HOW I'm going to do this. I'm open to advice.

I don't plan to come out of the closet anytime soon

A couple of years ago as I was walking gracefully through a parking lot, I stepped on the hem of my apparently-too-long pants, tripped and fell flat on my hands and knees. Hard. I rolled over and sat there, nearly in tears, rubbing my skinned palms and wondering how in the world I could manage to bloody both knees and not even rip my pants, when Mike reached his hand down to help me up. "Aren't you glad I was here?" he asked. "NO!!!" I reacted. "I would much rather sit here alone on the ground in pain than have you see me clumsy and humiliated!"

God used 2010 to get my attention in much the same way. He didn't whisper in the wind or sing over me in my sleep. No, He tucked the hem of my pants under my very comfortable Clark loafers (metaphorically, of course), and let me trip and fall flat on my face. And, unable to pull myself up, I am sitting here still. The worst part of being flat on your face is that it hurts, and you can't see what's in front of you except the floor, and I don't like not knowing what's in front of me. I mean I REALLY don't like not knowing what's in front of me. But He is letting me see my life from a different perspective and He is giving me the prospect of renewed hope . . . maybe not now, but Someday.

When you are facedown on the floor there is no pretending you've got it all together. Being on your face is humbling . . . and incredibly lonely . . . and frankly, there's not much to do down here but be patient and pray. A lot. I think that has been the point. He is causing me to wait on Him (even when all I can see is the floor) and to TRUST that He will provide what I need in His time.

My Matthew 6 verses for today:
"When you pray, go into your closet and close the door . . . don't do it for show. Don't be like those who only pretend to be holy. Your Father knows what you need even before you ask him."

I have a lengthy prayer list I have been praying through every day for two months already, but I'm committed to continue praying for the entire list every day through 2011. Last year I would have found this tedious . . . this year it feels like a privilege. But don't expect to see me praying . . . I'll be doing so in my closet.

where my heart is

Instead of a resolution for 2011, I've decided to claim Matthew 6 as my chapter for the year. Why? Because I think it encompasses most of my spiritual strengths. And, as many of us know, our greatest strengths are almost always our greatest weaknesses as well.

I'm starting today with the part that reads,
"For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

I already know where my heart is. My heart is in the same place it has been for as long as I can remember. But sometimes the "treasure" part gets out of whack.

Today I asked my five best girlfriends what they saw as my greatest gift. Not surprising to me, four of the five listed generosity in some form. I say "not surprising" because I like to bless others with what God has given me. It makes me feel good. The weakness to this is that sometimes I think I deserve my treasure too . . . I think I deserve to be blessed with what I want. (And I do believe with all my heart that He wants to bless me with the things that are good for me . . . but I HAVE to learn patience and wait for His timing.)

That being said, as part of the "waiting" process, I have decided to clear out the clutter in my life. For one, I have WAY more stuff than I need. And I am not a "stuff" person. So beginning today, I plan to give away one thing every day. And, since it's not a leap year, that means by December 31, my house will have 365 fewer items in it than it has now.

I plan to blog about Matthew 6 for the next few days, so if you're looking for a chuckle, you probably won't find it here. However, if you're looking for free stuff, you might. :)

And just so you know, it's BYOB . . . Bring Your Own Box.

movie meme

1. Name a movie that you have seen more than 5 times.
You've Got Mail
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
The Lion King
Shawshank Redemption
Toy Story
Jurassic Park
The Sound of Music
Men in Black
Hitch
Jaws
Psycho
Rear Window

2. Name a movie that you’ve seen multiple times in the theater.
(3 times each)
The Lion King
Chicago
Red

3. Name an actor/actress that would make you more inclined to see a movie.
Tommy Lee Jones
Will Smith
Morgan Freeman
Bruce Willis
Dustin Hoffman
Jeff Bridges
Alfred Hitchcock

4. Name an actor/actress that would make you less likely to see a movie.
Will Ferrell (excepting "Stranger Than Fiction")
Rob Schneider
Keanu Reeves
Woody Harrelson
Toni Collette

5. Name a movie that you can and do quote from.
(These are more quotes that I use in real life on a regular basis.)
America's Sweethearts ("She's on Prozac?! " "If ONLY . . . the dog.")
Airplane ("I am serious . . . and don't call me Shirley"!)
Lion King ("You have NO idea.")
Princess Bride (“Inconceivable!”)
Twister (“I gotta go Julia! WE GOT COWS!!!”)
Monty Python & the Holy Grail (“It's only a flesh wound")
Ferris Bueller's Day Off ("Anyone? Anyone?)
Men In Black ("A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals, and you know it.)
Apollo 13 ("Houston, we have a problem.")
Psycho ("Mother . . . isn't quite herself today.")
Goodbye Girl ("I AM decent. I also happen to be naked.")
Kindergarten Cop ("It's not a TUMAH")
Pirates of the Caribbean ("Where's the RUM???")
When Harry Met Sally ("I'll have what SHE'S having.")

6. Name a movie musical that you know all of the lyrics to all of the songs
The Lion King
The Sound of Music
The Little Mermaid
Chicago
Annie
Newsies

7. Name a movie that you have been known to sing along with
Raiders of the Lost Ark - "dun da dun daaaa, dun da daaaaa, dun da dun daaaa, dun da da da da" Sing with me!!!

8. Name a movie that you would recommend everyone see.
To inspire or change you:
Crash
The Blind Side
Martian Child
Les Miserables
Seven Pounds

Fairly recent fun movies:
Red
The A-Team
Despicable Me
Star Trek
Avatar

9. Name a movie that you own.
Any movie previously mentioned and available on dvd . . . plus a myriad of chick flicks, most Harrison Ford movies (Indiana Jones, Jack Ryan, Star Wars, etc.), King Kong, the library of Pixar & Disney, some Stephen King, some John Grisham, some M. Night Shyamalan, some Coen Brothers, some Alfred Hitchcock, and pretty much any disaster movie threatening the end of the world as we know it. Oh, and about 10 dozen others.

10. Name an actor that launched his/her entertainment career in another medium but who has surprised you with his/her acting chops.
Will Smith. No contest.

11. Name a movie that you keep meaning to see but just haven’t yet gotten around to.
Schindler's List.

12. Ever walked out of a movie?
So far, all of them.

13. Name a movie that made you cry in the theater.
See #12.

14. Popcorn?
Rarely. I LOVE it, but I can't justify paying $6 for something I can pop at home for 75c. And, NO butter.

15. How often do you go to the movies?
Average: once every 6 weeks.

16. What’s the last movie you saw in the theater?
True Grit. Love those Coen Boys.

17. What’s your favorite/preferred genre of movie?
I gave this a bit of thought. I don't think I have one. A good movie is a good movie. For me, it MUST have, and I cannot emphasize the importance of this enough, it MUST have great dialogue.

18. What’s the first movie you remember seeing in the theater?
The Jungle Book, though it was actually at the drive-in

19. What movie do you wish you had never seen?
Hmmmm . . . if I had to pick just one movie, I would say, "The Hours." I wish I had "the hours" back that I spent watching it. Dreadful.

20. What is the weirdest movie you enjoyed?
I tried to enjoy "Inglorious Basterds", I really did. I wanted to. But I just couldn't make it past the gore to appreciate the humor. So . . . weirdest movie I've enjoyed? Fargo. Or Supergator. They're both so similar . . . :)

21. What is the scariest movie you’ve seen?
The Shining. Silence of the Lambs. The Ring. None so scary now.

22. What is the funniest movie you’ve seen?
I rarely like comedies that are JUST comedies . . . i.e., most anything starring a Saturday Night Live alum. I like movies with action or a story that also happen to BE funny. BUT, for strictly giggles, the movie that makes me laugh hysterically no matter how many times I see it . . . Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Hands down.

23. Great books that were also great movies?
For me . . . Hamlet, Little Women, and several John Grisham's.

24. Great books that were not-so-great movies?
Most of the movies based on Stephen King stories seriously do NOT do him justice. (There are a FEW exceptions.)

give peach a chance

She was two, and OH SO cute. She had definitely NOT earned the "terrible" nickname that particular age brings to so many toddlers. She was good-natured and imaginative and verbal.

But on this particular day, she was quiet. Really quiet. And at first you, as a parent, don't notice 'quiet'. It's peaceful. That's why they call it "peace and quiet". But then suddenly 'quiet' screams at you like an airhorn: SHE IS TOO QUIET. WHAT IS SHE DOING? IS SHE BREATHING? HAS SHE FALLEN INTO THE TOILET HEAD FIRST? Of course, all these thoughts go through your head in less time than it takes you to gasp.

On my way up the stairs, I called out frantically, "Kacey?"
"Wha mommy?"
(Sigh of relief. Panic subsided. Heart rate returned to normal.)
"What are you doing?"
"I play wif da soap."

Whew. Play with the soap. Good. Wait. Play with the soap? What soap? The only soap upstairs is in the bathtub, and she can't reach it. Investigation became urgent.

At the door of my room I found her sitting in the middle of the bed. It took a second or two to assess what I was seeing. In the middle of my very 1980's peach comforter was a reddish stain the size of a large Rorschach ink blot. Was it blood? No, too purple. Finger paint? No, there's no finger paint upstairs . . . OHHHH, but there IS paint for FINGERS upstairs.

Kacey, wearing nothing but her big girl panties, swiveled around to reveal a bottle of nail polish in one hand, a very decorated Winnie-the-Pooh in the other hand, and a tummy covered with "soap".

It was clear (unfortunately the nail polish was not), that the comforter was ruined. As was Pooh Bear, her favorite "baby". But how could I be upset at something that stinkin' cute? I couldn't. I said, "Honey, don't move. Mommy will be right back!" And I ran to get the camera.

The comforter became history. Kacey's tummy stayed "pretty" for several days until the polish wore off in the bath, 'cause there was no way I was rubbing my baby down with acetone. And the mauve-painted Pooh was discreetly replaced by a new, clean Pooh.

I just realized it's not often you get to say "new clean Pooh" in a blog. Or in real life, for that matter.

2023: A Displaced Odyssey

Walking uphill, alone on a cracked sidewalk, I was just past the outskirts of an old town. Walking toward me in the street was a guy I recognized, I think from high school. He still looked the same as when I knew him, but as we got closer it was apparent he was drunk, and had an empty brown bottle in his hand. He smiled and I smiled back. After he had passed by, I looked over my shoulder. He had stopped behind a telephone pole. When he saw me look back, he threw the bottle at me, which shattered on the sidewalk in front of me. I said, “That wasn’t very nice. I’m barefoot.” As I maneuvered around the broken glass, he continued to throw things at me - rocks, trash, cans. But he was so drunk, both his strength and his aim were greatly affected, so I walked on unthreatened. It was all very Stanley Kubrick, in “A Clockwork Orange” kind of way.

I arrived to a rundown diner, now accompanied by someone else. I asked my boss - a petite, 60ish woman - if my friend could join us. The friend also asked if she was welcome, and the boss replied, “You will always be welcome, as long as you have not had any contact with live, warm animals.”

Looking around the kitchen, there were about 15 people. I assumed we were about to start serving food in the diner, when my boss said, “Stephanie, you’re first.” So I got a metal tray, like from a prison cafeteria, took it over to her, and she sprinkled an assortment of food onto it - pieces of a fried egg, what looked to be chunks of chicken-fried steak, and some green vegetables. They were just scattered across the tray and not compartmentalized into groups. The boss lady then said, “Go to your pod and eat.” I realized then that the food was being rationed and this was my portion. I walked out to the parking lot to find my car. The parking lot was grown up with weeds. Boxes and piles of junk were littered throughout, almost like an old salvage yard. I walked back to my car, the 1983 white Chevy S-10 blazer I had years ago, intending to get inside to sit down. When reaching the car, however, I realized the floorboards had been filled with soil, and we were growing vegetables inside. I remember thinking this was 2023.

Then my cell phone alarm went off and I woke up. I fully intended to blog about socks today, but this takes precedence because I don’t want it to slip away as dreams often do.

I’m usually good with interpretation, but this SyFy weirdness has me stumped.
Anyone? Anyone?

it's worth repeating

"Nursing on Peppermint Sticks"

I did not feed my children sugar until they were 2. Even then, they were more likely to get it from other sources than from me. My theory: why give it to them when they don't even know what they're missing? Anyway, the Christmas when Kevin was 11 months old, Kacey (7) wanted to decorate the tree with a whole red and white candy-cane motif. We hung shrink-wrapped candy canes, strung peppermint garland and made a huge bow for the top from red & white striped ribbon. It turned out really cute!

Kevin, (having never had a nursery, nor a crib because we're "family bed" people) was, what I call, a "wandering baby". You never knew where he was going to be when you woke up. One particular morning during the holiday season (I believe it was "8 Maids a-Milking" day), I woke to funny little noises coming from the living room. Upon further inspection, those funny little noises turned out to be my barely-steady-on-his-feet baby boy, standing as high on tiptoes as his footie pajamas would allow, neck outstretched like a Serengeti giraffe, nursing the end of a peppermint stick. Apparently he had sucked the plastic wrap off the end, then continued to lick and slurp it to a sharp point. The funny little noises were his grunts and groans as he neared the end of his height range in relation to the dwindling candy cane. The look on his little face told me what his lack of verbal communication could not: "Me like sugar."

As a wandering baby he did many other funny little things like sleepwalk, pee on his sister (well, almost!), and sleep in the kitchen cabinet. Oh, other stories for other days!

25 Christmassy Things

1. Favorite Holiday Memory - Kevin licking the candy canes off the Chritmas tree when he was barely old enough to stand up.
2. Favorite Holiday Song - “O Holy Night” - 'Fall on your knees' gives me cold chills every single time I hear it. Although Harry Connick Jr.’s “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” works for me too. :o) (**I also highly enjoy my Charlie Brown Christmas cd that Kacey bought me, and Mikey’s “Candlelight Processional Disney Massed Choir” cd he recorded when he was in high school.)
3. Favorite Holiday Cartoon - How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the animated version!)
4. Favorite Holiday Movie - Die Hard! But I’m also a sucker for “It’s a Wonderful Life”.
5. Wrapping Paper or Gift bags? Both. I like the looks of wrapping paper better, and I LOVE big bows, but I hate the thought of 3 trees in Oregon giving their lives just so we can rip it up and throw it away . . . so gift bags or gift boxes would be more honest.
6. Real tree or artificial? Fake, baby! Although I LOVE the smell of pine, I again hate the thought of a tree withering away in my den when it could be thriving outdoors. Besides, the last time we cut a real tree, some critter hatched out in the house and we were bug-infested the entire season. Ick!
7. When do you put up the tree? Thanksgiving weekend. Usually. This year was later because when I went to get the tree out of the utility room, there was no tree. Apparently I got rid of it last year when I was feeling scroogey, so I had to go buy another tree.
8. More importantly, when do you take down the tree? New Year’s Day. I’m firm on this one. When the season is over, doggone it, turn off your giant inflatable penguins and take down the garland. I will give you about a one-week grace period on this one, and then I will be yelling at your house from my car, “CHRISTMAS IS OVER!!!! TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!!!”
9. Favorite Gift? Hmmmm . . . the funniest one was a GIGANTIC can of ravioli my parents thought would be good for a laugh. It was. The most creative was from my boyfriend who did a “12 days of Christmas” thing that included a lot of sweet and fun things like matchbox cars and fur coat charms and a diamond necklace. I’ll have to blog about that sometime . . .
10. Hardest person to buy for? Dad. What to get dad? I never do know.
11. Easiest person to buy for? I used to say Kacey or mom, because they both like what I like! But really, it's the cowboy. He writes out a VERY detailed Christmas list about a mile long containing several thousand dollars worth of items he can't live without. I take the list to the nearest Saddle Boy store, ask them what I can get off this list of x-amount of dollars, have them put it in a burlap feed sack with a green bow and call it good.
12. Greeting cards? Nope. Sorry, just don’t do them. Again, I don't see sacrificing trees just to say "Merry Christmas", but I’m happy to open yours as long as you don't include one of those "this is how wonderful my family is" newsletters!
13. Nativity Scene? Uh uh . . . I don’t even have family pictures displayed in my house, so this is not a big surprise. Jesus is in my heart, but not on top of my entertainment center. Sorry to disappoint.
14. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? SUSHI!!! HaHa. Okay, truthfully it's grandmama’s oyster dressing. Yum!
15. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? Yeah, Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey and Fred.
16. Angel on top of the tree? Sticks and twigs and berrys and spirally things that stick out everywhere. Love it. When the kids were little we usually topped the tree with a Santa hat.
17. Open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? One present only on Christmas eve, the rest on Christmas morning, or whenever daughter-face and son-in-law and baby girl come in.
18. Best part of the holidays? Playing games. Especially ones that I win. Like Boggle. Or Trivial Pursuit. Or Scrabble. I will seriously kick your tail at Scrabble.
19. Worst part of Christmas? Missing people who should be sharing the holiday with me. That, and taking down the tree and getting used to seeing the house look “naked” again.
20. Weirdest Christmas memory? Asking for a doll that looked like me, and getting a Raggedy Ann doll. Not a great self-esteem booster, though now that I see her again . . . round face, pale skin, thick ankles, unruly red hair . . .
21. Colored lights or white? White, LOTS OF THEM, but NO BLINKING!
22. Ever been Christmas caroling? Yes, but it's been a LONG while! Mostly I just Christmas Carol to myself in the car . . .
23. Ever been ice skating? Once, in Alaska, while pushing Kacey in a stroller. Cold, but FUN!
24. Candy Canes or Gingerbread? Gingerbread, but star-shaped sugar cookies with colored sugar sprinkles are even better!
25. Christmas quirk? When the kids were little, I wouldn't let them see the presents under the tree or open their stockings until everybody was awake and their hair was brushed. (It's a photographer thing. Or a control-freak thing. Who, me?) :o)

NAME THAT HOLIDAY MOVIE:

1. A tiny little boy is separated from his family.
2. When his mother finds him, he is thousands of miles from her.
3. His 5-year-old sister saves her coins, one at a time, to help save her little brother.
4. Legal red tape keeps them apart for months upon months.
5. His parents scrimp and save and pray every day for their son who, halfway around the world, doesn't even know they miss him.
6. After a long, long time, the precious little boy hears that his family has found him and is coming to get him as soon as they possibly can.
7. You buy a t-shirt.

What?

Okay, so it's not a movie. At least not yet. It's the story of my amazing friends, Philip & Sara, who are adopting a little boy with special needs from an orphanage in west Africa. The legal work is nearly finished, their son DOES know they are coming to bring him home, and you CAN help write the end.

They need to raise $15,000 dollars to finish this journey.
Sound like a lot of money?
How much are your children worth?

Go. Seek. Love.

Seriously, go seek love. As in
http://www.goseeklove.com/ and buy a t-shirt. Or buy 2 t-shirts. Or buy t-shirts for your whole family. If you do it before December 13, this sweet family gets the proceeds donated to their adoption fund.

You are likely to spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars this season to spoil your children, indulge your appetite, take a vacation, and deck your halls with boughs of Hallmark . . . while this little boy waits in an orphanage for his dad and mom and sister and brother, who are already crazy-in-love with him, to come get him and bring him home.

Come on, if that doesn't tug at your heartstrings, your name must be Ebeneezer.

"God bless us, one and all." Now buy a t-shirt. Please.

(If you would simply like to make a tax-deductible donation, please email me - stephanie@reidland.org and I would be privileged to help you do so. Also, you can click HERE to read about their adoption journey. Merry Christmas to you all.)