Life GPS

I asked Kevin what my worst habit is . . . and he rattled off some nonsense like, "Well, I'd tell you . . . but you'd just tune me out halfway through."

So I asked his sister, who stated that I think everybody has a milk allergy. (I do NOT think everybody has a milk allergy. I think SHE has a milk allergy and you probably do too.)

Anyway, I feel like I'm always trying to make big permanent changes for myself that never really stick. Probably because I don't LIKE making big permanent changes that aren't really fun. I like chocolate, I love my sarcastic humor, biting my cuticles is comforting, I hate balancing the checkbook, etc., etc., etc.

So, in honor of my 50th birthday (in 27 months), I have made a list of 27 bad habits to tackle. (Just finding 27 negatives about ME was challenging enough. I'll easily admit to 3, but the other 24 were fabricated to make me seem humble for now, and to seem disciplined later. I'm just sayin'.) Where was I? Oh yeah, tackling negative behaviors. One a month. Nothing crazy like the couple who decided to go 'trash-free' for a year, and nothing drastic like my camp friend Danny who is doing nine 40-day fasts this year. (Though I SO ADMIRE both ot these!) Just 27 simple changes to make the 50-something me a slightly improved version of the 40-something me, disregarding the addition of gray hair, wrinkles and failing eyesight.

In the last couple of years I have gotten into the habit of eating out, like ALL the TIME. Picking up lunch rather than packing a little brown bag, grabbing dinner before I go home, especially when the cowboy works nights, because it seems like such a waste to cook for just one or two.

So July's Challenge: Stop eating out. I have 3 'lunch dates' and one birthday sushi celebration on my to-do list for July. I'm allowing myself those four events and that's it.

Now . . . if you want to take ME out to lunch . . . we'll go in August. :)

who, me?

When I started blogging four years ago, I didn’t think twice about the title. “Who, me?” - mischief and ignorance and identity crisis all rolled into two well-punctuated words.

See, I don’t know where I'm going. At 16 that’s not such a problem - so much time and so many opportunities. At 28 it’s time to get serious, but sometimes it takes awhile to “find yourself” and your direction. At 47, well . . . “Who, Me?” just means I'm wandering. And frankly, I've been in the forest without breadcrumbs for far too long.

Since I was 22, I’ve been ‘Mom’. It was not a role I planned or even wanted, but once I realized it was fact, I threw myself into it 100%. Natural childbirth, parenting books, Mothering magazine, 24/7 MOM. I BECAME Mom, and I loved every second of it. Every step I took was intentional. But now, my baby girl has her own baby girl, and my baby boy turned 18 and is preparing to leave for college in 57 days (yes, he is counting), and I find . . . I don’t know which direction to turn.

Part of this identity crisis is that for 25 years, I have read Where the Wild Things Are and biology textbooks and Little House on the Prairie and How to Talk to Kids Will Listen and Listen so Kids Will Talk (note to parents: still one of THE best parenting books ever written.). And I have taught classes and chaperoned field trips and hosted teen events and run children's programs and homeschooled. I have chauffered my kids to baseball and gymnastics and scouts and play practice and choir. I have spent a year of my life being chauffered BY my kids as they each learned how to drive. I have rewatched every movie I have ever loved, reread every book I have ever loved, retold every story that was important to me, so my kids would have an appreciation for the things I love.

Now it’s over, and I have no regrets with them. Okay, I have a FEW regrets - the Beanie Baby craze being at the top of that list, followed closely by the one time I yelled at Kevin in 1998. But I have mothered them well.



However, my job is being phased out. I am being “let go”.

It’s time to find out where to go from here.

Can somebody tell me where to buy a Life GPS?

q-tips and quiet, clones and comic relief

(the best of kevie-poo)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

(from Sept 09)

* The "Incident at McAllister's" refers to us throwing straw wrappers at each other. I threw one that landed IN his ear. He gave me a "WHAT THE??" look and I merely commented that it was easy - his ears being the largest target on his body. He proceeded to wad up a straw wrapper and throw it directly at my backside, implying exactly what you think he was implying.

come what May

New 'doula baby' Jenaleigh (Her mom wants to be a doula now, too!)


My g-baby, Mayah (almost 9 months)



The 'grad' Kevie-poo with his Nana and Papa




















Wild graduation bash!

pick your own title - it's been a long week

Michael ordered a cookie cake for Sara's birthday last week, which we offered to pick up. So I had Kevin drop me at Sam's to get a few things, while he ran into the mall to get the cookie. While I was in Sam's, I texted him to come on inside when he got back, because he had my debit card, and I would need it. He responded, "on my way now" to which I replied, "no hurry". Please note the manner in which I replied. No caps. No punctuation. Just simply, no hurry. But NOOOOOOO. Kevin read it, "NO. HURRY!!!" and sped through the parking lot, darted around old ladies like they were traffic cones in an obstacle course, and slid the cookie cake into the floor of the van. By the time we got it to Mike & Sara's house it said, "Happy 30th Birthyad ARAS."

So, we had a little 'Fajitas & Games Night', and played True Colors. Now, I love my friends. They are the BEST people on earth. So when the question is "Who would you most like to help you write a love letter?" I'm fine being chosen. I am, after all, the writer in the bunch. When they choose ME as the one "most likely to get an inappropriate tattoo" . . . well, it might be time to find some more interesting friends. And when the question is, "Who would you most like to live next to when you are 80?" and NONE of them choose me, I'm also fine with that. Offended, but fine, because I am (by far) the oldest one in the group, so when they're 80, I'll likely be dead anyway. Or at least on the floor and not able to get up.

I have managed to eat at TGI Friday's three times in the last few days . . . and once was on a Tuesday. On the last trip, Kevin noticed the sugar packets had questions printed on them. So he asked, "Okay, Mom, what actress would play you in a movie?" Quickly I answered, "Julia" then changed it to "No, Angelina - you know, because we have so many features in common." Kevin just stared at me for the longest time, then said, "Yeah. Right. I'm thinking Kathy Bates." I'm thinking I'm ready for him to go to college.

An hour before this insult*, I got into Eddie van Honda, put him in reverse, and backed smack into the cowboy's red F-250. Hard. Yeah.

How's your week been?


*Insult being the comparison between Kathy Bates and myself. This is in no way a slam on Kathy Bates. She can hobble James Caan with the best of them. It's just that she's 15 years older . . . and she has more insurance.

it doesn't really matter who draws the blueprints

I always wanted to build a house. Well not ME, literally with hammer in hand, so to speak (unless they make little cordless electric ones in lime green with tiny turquoise finishing nails). . . but I digress. I wanted to design my own house, and then have it built exactly as I wanted. And I spent countless hours - which in hindsight could have been spent in so many more productive ways - drawing house plans. Somewhere between 1997 and 2003, I achieved, what I believe to be, the perfect house. Not too big, not too small, great for large groups but still cozy, a good flow, no wasted space, designed for four but accommodating for 24 . . . it was just right. That was the appeal to building . . . getting exactly what I wanted. Someplace where people would walk in and say, "Yeah, this looks like Steph". Sure, I might find, after awhile, that is wasn't exactly PERFECT, but at least the imperfections would be mine. Nobody else's mistakes. Nobody else's dirt. Nobody else's history.

I have realized, over the last couple of years, that my approach to parenting has been the same. I wanted to design my own children. A girl. A boy. Good spacing between them. I wanted them to be "just right" - healthy, happy, beautiful, intelligent, funny, interested in the things important to me . . . people would look at these children and say, "Yeah, they are definitely Steph's kids". Somewhere between 1986 and 2011, I achieved, what I believe to be, amazing children. And parenting them has been the greatest joy of my life. No, they aren't exactly PERFECT, but at least I know the imperfections are mine. Nobody else's mistakes. Nobody else's dirt. Nobody else's history. (Sorry to disappoint you, son, you are NOT adopted.)

Some time back, my sweetest friends found that biology was not going to allow them to "design and build" their own family. I know this happens to many couples, but to know THIS couple, you would understand this to be nothing short of tragic. They were MADE to be parents. The perfect blend of responsible and silly, disciplined and fun, loving and lovable . . . if PARENTING had a poster, these two would be on it. My heart broke for them. For months, I prayed for God to change their circumstances. WHY would He allow children who are unwanted to come into this world by the thousands, and yet prevent one child who is SO wanted from coming into this family? Made no sense to me. Then again, God often makes no sense to me.

One day, in talking about their options, they used the 'A' word: adoption. I felt a rush of disappointment. Not IN them, mind you, just FOR them. Adoption can come with such problems, such issues, such . . . heartache. When you adopt a child you have to deal with somebody else's mistakes. Somebody else's dirt. Somebody else's history. And I didn't want this for them. I wanted them to have children we could look at and say, "Yeah, they are Darling children". I wanted THEIR lives to as perfect as they could be.

But somewhere between "Steph, we've decided to pursue adoption" and "STEPH, WE'RE NUMBER ONE ON THE WAIT LIST!!!" all that changed for me. In watching them give their hearts to a child they hadn't even met yet, I realized I had been looking at everything backwards. Being a parent is not about having a child who resembles you, it is about forming a child's life so he resembles God. And parenting is not about having a child who will make your life better, it's about unselfishly making a better life for a child.

(My evolution, in part, can also largely be attributed to ET's parents and their relentless pursuit of Little Matheny, who has now endured three birthdays without a family to hold him . . . and to certain other precious friends who have adopted abandoned and abused children because it was the right thing to do. My apologies for ever thinking this was a lesser way to be a family.)

Cohen: You are the MOST Darling Child. . .in every sense of the word.

April Showers bring Mayhem . . . and a really silly blog.

If you are reading my blog because you know me, then you also know we have had over 10 inches of rain here in the last week.

If you are reading my blog because you googled the Weather Channel and ran across this post, well, I'm sorry, but now you've already read the first paragraph, so I don't see the need to repeat myself.

SO . . . in celebration of the April rain, I have done two things . . .

First, I made a 72-minute April playlist for my iPod:
James Taylor's Fire & Rain
Ronnie Milsap's Smoky Mountain Rain
Elvis' Kentucky Rain
Waylon & Willie's Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain
The Eurythmic's Here Comes the Rain Again
Eric Clapton's Fall Like Rain
Bill Wither's Ain't No Sunshine
CCR's Have You Ever Seen the Rain?
Eddie Rabbit's I Love a Rainy Night
The Carpenter's Rainy Days and Mondays
Jars of Clay's Flood
Phil Collins' I Wish it Would Rain Down
Simon & Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water
Kermit the Frog's Rainbow Connection
Noah's God Told Me to Build an Arky Arky
and
Michael Jackson's Billie Jean

Second, in an effort to put an optimistic spin on the constant thunderstorms and overflowing rivers, I present:

"Fifteen Reasons I am Embracing the Flood"
15. I can bass fish from bed.
14. It's fun to watch Kevin mow the yard with hedgeclippers and a kayak.
13. We are the next family to be featured on the History Channel's "Swamp People".
12. I always wanted to live on a 1630-square-foot luxury yacht. used HOUSEboat.
11. My friends, the ants, have come back to visit. Oh, how I have missed them.
10. My "walking place" is now my "swimming hole".
9. Free flotsam!
8. We can play "Marco Polo" in the living room.
7. Gotta love the irony of river-rafting to the nearest "Huck's" for a 79-cent Big Swig.
6. Scuba diving for earthworms!
5. Walking to the mailbox is reason enough to wear the thigh-high red leather boots in the back of my closet.
4. Spa night at Steph's . . . mudbaths for everybody!
3. TADPOLES!
2. Our pet alligator, Fluffy, can now go out to play.
1. My beloved Eddie van Honda's name has been changed to Chitty Chitty van Bang Bang.

Indiana. Indiana. Indiana. Indiana. Corn.

I spent 10 hours alone with Eddie van Honda last weekend . . . 10 very QUIET hours alone, as my iPod and Eddie's cd player are both kerplunk for the time being. And since my creativity gene is in "hibernation mode" these days, I had to rely on more prosaic ways to entertain myself.

So, I . . .

Set my cell phone alarm and repeatedly hit the snooze button every 15 minutes so it would play a nice little Caribbean tune which, for me, was an audio oasis in the Land of Corn.

Counted semi-trucks. Maybe you'll find it fascinating that I encountered 10.3 semis every minute on I-24, 8 semis per minute on I-57 and 9.6 per minute on I-70. Then again, maybe you won't. I didn't.

Prayed through my entire prayer list. Three times. It's entirely possible the political turmoil in Burkina Faso is much improved as a result. I'm just sayin'.

Somewhere between F'ingham and Indy, passed an exit for Martinsville (population, 14,543). Thought it was located between Indy and Louisville though, so texted myself to look it up on a map.

Stopped in Terre Haute for gas, then spent the next 10 driving miles doing math in my head trying to figure how many gallons of gas I got for $66 at $3.85 per gallon, and then dividing that into 418 trip miles to determine that Eddie gets 24.5 mpg interstate driving.

Chewed off all my cuticles.

Still finding myself hungry after the cuticle appetizer, weighed my dinner options and ended up grabbing a bag of Doritos, a Krispy Kreme donut and a diet Coke. In retrospect, the cuticles might have been the better option.

Practiced using my windshield wipers, in an effort to improve my rainy day driving skills. Discovered that my slow wipers have a 45-swish-per-minute rate while my fast wipers swish at one beat per second.

Wondered if our health insurance covers OCD therapy.

The highlight of my travel was upon arrival when I texted Kevin to say, "I'm here now!" My precious son wasted no time in responding with, "Darn. The assassins failed me again!"

same song, second verse

Outside my window... it's completely dark, which is one of the loveliest things about living outside of town. On overcast nights, it is pitch black. On clear nights, the stars go on forever.
I am thankful... for Sunday afternoon naps. I am going to desperately need one tomorrow.

I am wearing... what I always wear when I sleep alone. I seriously hope the New Madrid fault is content to remain inactive for at least another five hours.

In the learning room... it's 2:12 A.M. My brain quit functioning three hours ago.

I am remembering... that I left the corn casserole on top of the stove, so now I have to go down to the kitchen and put it in the fridge. At 2:13 A.M. Maybe I'll get a cookie.

I am going... to be a doula!!! Again, and again, and again, and again. One down and four to go already on my calendar for this year, and it's just April!

On my mind...too many things. Mostly why the British pronounce schedule as sheddule. This fully explains my wide-awakedness at 2:18 A.M.

Around the house... it's quiet as a mouse. No dishwasher, no fan, no clothes dryer, no snoring man, just the faint humming of my laptop.

One of my favorite things... the way my cell phone glows purple when there is a message I haven't seen yet. (note the phone above in my blog header.) I like purple . . . my phone, my purse, my toenails.

P.S. - It's 2:24. Shouldn't I be asleep?

mother's not quite herself today

Outside my window... everything is a soft spring green. Each time I look outside, I am reminded of the ice storm of 2009 which took my redbuds, my Bradford pear, and my forsythia, leaving my spring yard devoid of color. Everything for a reason . . .

I am thankful... for being able to find the humor in life. Even if the humor is, more often than not, seriously sarcastic.

I am wearing... vitamin E moisturizer from head to toe because DANG, my 47-year-old skin feels like an out-of-swampland alligator.

In the learning room... in reading "Mental Floss" this week, I learned that the sound effects for the famous shower scene in Hitchcock's "Psycho" were actually created by repeatedly stabbing a casaba melon. I also learned that Donald Duck's middle name is "Fauntleroy". Man, I feel smart today.

I am remembering... that I need to fix a side dish of some sort for our small group tomorrow, which means I will have to actually go into the kitchen today for some reason other than "to get a cookie". I'm just sayin'.

I am going... to the kitchen to get a cookie. Be right back.

On my mind... You. And Willie Nelson. Always.

Around the house... the intense smell of diesel fuel. The cowboy decided to take a shower in it while he was filling a gas can. His clothes have now been through the washing machine at least 6 times, but the fumes are still permeating my breathing space.

One of my favorite things... I don't pick favorites. You know that. If I picked a favorite, that would entail actually making a choice. And I rarely make choices for fear of making the wrong one. What if I make a wrong choice and then have to live with the consequences? No thank you very much. I will just sit here in my jeans with my bare feet and look at pictures of Mayah and Cohen while blogging on my laptop and listening to a little Switchfoot and sipping on a cafe mocha and wishing my ipod was working so I could play Words with Friends. But I will not be picking favorites today.


P.S. - I have no idea what the entree is for our small group tomorrow. I'll fix corn. Corn is like beige carpet or blue jeans . . . it goes with everything, right?

phone ring, ring of fire, ring-tailed lemur

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It has been more than 2 weeks since my last blog post.

Sunday, WHILE I was teaching the high school Bible class, my phone rang. The teens all gave me this "UUUuuuUUUMMMM, Miss Stephanie, why is YOUR phone ringing in class????" But I knew why, and when I answered the phone and began saying things like "When did your contractions start? How far apart are they now? Has your water broken?" they knew why too. I ran home, (if you know me, you know to never take that phrase literally), changed into appropriate doula attire (comfy shoes and clothes that dry quickly and don't show goo), and headed to my 22nd birth (17 of them completely natural). And, despite a mom who began a 23-hour labor already tired, she gave birth to a lovely little 6# 14oz baby girl. On Monday, I slept, and then I took a nap, and then I slept some more.

Last weekend, my best friends brought home their newly-adopted son from Ethiopia. We had a welcome-home celebration for them at the Nashville airport, complete with grandparents and old girlfriends and siblings and youth group kids and closest friends and camp friends and college roommates and other adoptive families and a musician (okay, he just happened to be playing guitar where we were, but we requested "Ring of Fire" anyway) and a professional photographer. Oh, and my beautiful daughter and granddaughter who drove 5 hours JUST to be there. The plane was scheduled to land at 3:19, then it got bumped to 3:27, the miraculously to 3:09, then 2:57 (apparently a caped Clark Kent was pushing the plane) and so we all gathered at the security gate, balloons and posters and cameras in hand and waited. And waited. And, oh my goodness, WAITED. We think they must have stayed on the plane to catch up on their jet lag! But FINALLY they walked through the gate, and it was as special as any birth I have ever been part of (Mayah's excepted.) And seriously, have you ever seen a CUTER little boy??? Amazing day.

Finally, Tuesday I saw a man on the interstate, walking back to his vehicle, carrying . . . a slightly bloated, very dead raccoon. I console myself, and my queasy stomach, by assuming he mistook it for the extremely rare Kentucky ring-tailed lemur and was taking it to a taxidermist. Yes, I'm certain that is what he was doing.

theory of revolution

As I stood in line with some 37 teens waiting to get into the Winterfest Youth Conference in Gatlinburg, 8 of them formed a small circle around me and started turning in a clockwise direction for no apparent reason . . . other than to prove my theory that everything actually DOES revolve around me. :)

During another “standing in line” episode, one of our senior guys dissed me. TWICE. And all before breakfast. I’m not going to mention his name, but only because Bradley doesn't deserve the attention. Anyway, the second time he slammed me by stating that it was way too early in the day for me to be beautiful. One of our girls jumped to my defense, “Saying Stephanie isn’t beautiful is like saying the sun doesn’t shine!” I foolishly felt compelled to point out that it was a very overcast morning, and the sun actually wasn’t shining. “Yes it is!” she proclaimed, “you just can’t see it!”

Yeah. Like me and the beauty thing. It’s there, you just can’t see it.

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.