There is nothing better than being comfortable. That comfortable pair of shoes that you can walk all day in, that corner of the couch that is indented perfectly to match your curves, the blanket that is the perfect weight to keep you warm or cool no matter the temp. I realized today, as I was chatting with my friend of 15 years, that the best way to describe our relationship is comfortable.
We have the luxury of working together, which gives us the unique first hand understanding of each other's workday. We know who ticks us off, what ticks us off, and what makes us laugh. We know each other's husbands so we can discuss how wonderful they are, and what sweet things they have done for us. We can also confide about when they are driving us a little crazy, which is close to never.
We share the same faith so we can have deep discussions about how God is working in our lives. We can be honest when we feel close to Him and distant. When He's teaching us a lesson we don't want to learn we commiserate about what we are going through. We have raised our children on the same principles and we have shared what has worked and what hasn't.
Her children are a few years ahead of mine so she has let me in on numerous secrets about dealing with in-laws, wedding planning, sharing holidays, grandchildren and patience.
She recently had a surgery and was out of work for ten weeks. We spoke on the phone and I visited her, but I didn't realize how much I missed her daily company until she got back to work this week. We work well together and I work better when she's around. I am once again comfortable. I love my friend Linda and I love being comfortable.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Sprinkles Are For Winners
Life is full of wins and losses. When I was growing up it was very clear who was a winner and who was not. Organized sports was not the norm. Parks and Recreation Departments had one job: keep the stoners and gangs out of the park. They were usually not successful. So we played in the street, in the back yard and on the railroad tracks. We played marathon games of whiffle ball, kick ball and cops and robbers. We played to win and to gloat. We either sent our best friends home crying and furious or we went home feeling the same way. The next day we were all best friends again and we played the same game.
Raising my own children in the 1990s saw the advent of the premise that everyone's a winner. Due to our busy, both parent working lives Parks and Recreation met our demands to entertain our children by morphing into the activity café where we chose what kind of fun our children will have based on the programs they offered. We structured our children's free time to include valuable learning experiences and skill building programs instead of just hanging out in the back yard playing kickball.
Being the soccer fans that we were, we indoctrinated our children into the world of soccer programs. Jerseys, boots (the official word for soccer cleats. DO NOT use the word "cleats") and shin guards. Adorable five year olds on the field all huddled around the soccer ball like a swarm of bees. Then there was always the one child who was on the other side of the field picking dandelions, usually my kid. The interesting thing about these soccer leagues was that no score was ever officially tracked, though all the parents tracked it, and at the end of the season everyone got the same trophy. Everyone was a winner. I guess this had its merits. It gave our children confidence to participate and not get discouraged. It reinforced a positive self image. But it also didn't teach them about real life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. If you are not good at something you should really find something else to do. You can and will be crushed by your competition at some point. It's okay to lose. It's okay to win.
There's a commercial on TV lately where Flo, the insurance lady we all love to hate, is giving a pep talk to a new insurance guy. She assures him that his mistakes are temporary and he will learn and offers to take him for ice cream. "With sprinkles?" he asks excited at the prospect of the special treat. "Sprinkles are for winners." She sadly informs him. A victory in life, much like a victory in sports, is only sweet when you know the taste of defeat. Save the sprinkles for your victories.
Raising my own children in the 1990s saw the advent of the premise that everyone's a winner. Due to our busy, both parent working lives Parks and Recreation met our demands to entertain our children by morphing into the activity café where we chose what kind of fun our children will have based on the programs they offered. We structured our children's free time to include valuable learning experiences and skill building programs instead of just hanging out in the back yard playing kickball.
Being the soccer fans that we were, we indoctrinated our children into the world of soccer programs. Jerseys, boots (the official word for soccer cleats. DO NOT use the word "cleats") and shin guards. Adorable five year olds on the field all huddled around the soccer ball like a swarm of bees. Then there was always the one child who was on the other side of the field picking dandelions, usually my kid. The interesting thing about these soccer leagues was that no score was ever officially tracked, though all the parents tracked it, and at the end of the season everyone got the same trophy. Everyone was a winner. I guess this had its merits. It gave our children confidence to participate and not get discouraged. It reinforced a positive self image. But it also didn't teach them about real life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. If you are not good at something you should really find something else to do. You can and will be crushed by your competition at some point. It's okay to lose. It's okay to win.
There's a commercial on TV lately where Flo, the insurance lady we all love to hate, is giving a pep talk to a new insurance guy. She assures him that his mistakes are temporary and he will learn and offers to take him for ice cream. "With sprinkles?" he asks excited at the prospect of the special treat. "Sprinkles are for winners." She sadly informs him. A victory in life, much like a victory in sports, is only sweet when you know the taste of defeat. Save the sprinkles for your victories.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Gone To The Dogs
For some reason, whenever the subject of owning a cat or a dog comes up in conversation, people generally ask me if I own a cat. What do I do to lead people to believe I'm a cat person? Is it my independent nature, my sarcastic humor, or the way I fall asleep instantly if I cross a sunbeam? For that matter, what makes anyone a "dog" person versus a "cat" person? I have done extensive research and have come up with the following answer; I don't know.
My research has revealed some interesting characteristics of such species, but there is always the exception. However, I will share with you my findings and let you draw your own conclusions.
Subject one: Me. I grew up in a family that liked cats and hated dogs. So my bias was tainted toward cats from an early age. The cat of my youth, named Sabu, was a huge 18 pound part Angora, part Tom Cat. He was neutered, so that made him mad from an early age. He was your typical cat. He loved you when he wanted to, hated you when he wanted to and terrorized you on a regular basis. A little five pound cat who runs and pounces on you is amusing, an 18 pound cat doing that is truly frightening. I loved Sabu because he was our pet and the closest thing I had to a cuddly animal, but nothing could have prepared me for the love I felt for our first dog.
My husband and I got a dog when he graduated with his Masters. Craig's family was a dog family so Craig was biased toward dogs. He was also allergic to cats, so a dog it was. We got an American Eskimo puppy named Natasha. She was a very good doggie and was our companion through the birth of our two boys, two moves, and me attempting to give her the Heimlich Maneuver when all she had was gas. She died at the ripe old age of 18. We now have a West Highland Terrier named Sherlock who is my constant companion. He has a ton of personality and is fiercely devoted - to anyone who will pet him or play with him.
So through my extensive experience with pet ownership and my observations of other pet owners I have found the following:
Cat Lovers are usually independent, stylish, the oldest or only child, have a sarcastic or warped sense of humor and are allergic to dogs.
Dog Lovers are usually devoted, comfortable, the middle or youngest child, love physical humor and are allergic to cats.
People who own both cats and dogs love a good fight.
I still love cats, but my heart has been stolen by the dog's I've owned, so I've definitely gone to the dogs!
My research has revealed some interesting characteristics of such species, but there is always the exception. However, I will share with you my findings and let you draw your own conclusions.
Subject one: Me. I grew up in a family that liked cats and hated dogs. So my bias was tainted toward cats from an early age. The cat of my youth, named Sabu, was a huge 18 pound part Angora, part Tom Cat. He was neutered, so that made him mad from an early age. He was your typical cat. He loved you when he wanted to, hated you when he wanted to and terrorized you on a regular basis. A little five pound cat who runs and pounces on you is amusing, an 18 pound cat doing that is truly frightening. I loved Sabu because he was our pet and the closest thing I had to a cuddly animal, but nothing could have prepared me for the love I felt for our first dog.
My husband and I got a dog when he graduated with his Masters. Craig's family was a dog family so Craig was biased toward dogs. He was also allergic to cats, so a dog it was. We got an American Eskimo puppy named Natasha. She was a very good doggie and was our companion through the birth of our two boys, two moves, and me attempting to give her the Heimlich Maneuver when all she had was gas. She died at the ripe old age of 18. We now have a West Highland Terrier named Sherlock who is my constant companion. He has a ton of personality and is fiercely devoted - to anyone who will pet him or play with him.
So through my extensive experience with pet ownership and my observations of other pet owners I have found the following:
Cat Lovers are usually independent, stylish, the oldest or only child, have a sarcastic or warped sense of humor and are allergic to dogs.
Dog Lovers are usually devoted, comfortable, the middle or youngest child, love physical humor and are allergic to cats.
People who own both cats and dogs love a good fight.
I still love cats, but my heart has been stolen by the dog's I've owned, so I've definitely gone to the dogs!
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Playing Games
I have always liked playing games. I mean real games. Monopoly, Sorry, card games. Almost every game has some level of interest to me. I do not like the following games: Chess, Stratego, Risk. These are games of strategy. These are games I never win. I like to win.
I grew up in a family that played a lot of games. I learned how to count playing dominoes and Rummy 500 way before I started school. Both of my grandmothers loved dominoes and made sure that time we spent with them included a dominoes marathon. I had one grandma that actually called the other one a sissy because she only liked playing with double sixes. My Grandma who was a diehard domino champion played with no less than double twelves. Even when she had cataracts and had to hold the dominoes right in front of her eyes to see how many dots were on them, she refused to settle for anything less.
My grandma who was a more simple person in terms of domino domination, was more enthusiastic about Rummy 500. She would visit us for a weekend every three weeks or so with Friday night consisting of sitting around the kitchen table smoking cigarettes (she smoked real ones and we "smoked" candy cigarettes that she supplied), and playing cards. We would play for hours until someone reached 500 points, then we'd have ice cream. It was amazing that she never won. She would "mistakenly" miss opportunities to make points that we would then capitalize on.
Playing games with my sisters was usually a different story. They are both older than me by three years and six years so I rarely won a game. To top it off, the oldest, Joanne, cheated. Oh yeah, you heard me. She cheated! We would play Monopoly and she was always the banker because she claimed she could count better than us. When we had to pay the bank she would slip the cash into her own pile instead of the bank. She always won. My middle sister, Jeanne, had a strong sense of right and wrong and never cheated, but she also had a "no mercy" rule and also always won any game the two of us played. However, she was so merciless that she wouldn't just win, she would kill me. I would get so frustrated with her that I would lunge across the board and attack her in a fit of rage. She was bigger and stronger so she just laughed, pinned me to the ground and tickled me. ARGH!!!
Playing games has taught me many life lessons that I didn't even realize I learned.
I grew up in a family that played a lot of games. I learned how to count playing dominoes and Rummy 500 way before I started school. Both of my grandmothers loved dominoes and made sure that time we spent with them included a dominoes marathon. I had one grandma that actually called the other one a sissy because she only liked playing with double sixes. My Grandma who was a diehard domino champion played with no less than double twelves. Even when she had cataracts and had to hold the dominoes right in front of her eyes to see how many dots were on them, she refused to settle for anything less.
My grandma who was a more simple person in terms of domino domination, was more enthusiastic about Rummy 500. She would visit us for a weekend every three weeks or so with Friday night consisting of sitting around the kitchen table smoking cigarettes (she smoked real ones and we "smoked" candy cigarettes that she supplied), and playing cards. We would play for hours until someone reached 500 points, then we'd have ice cream. It was amazing that she never won. She would "mistakenly" miss opportunities to make points that we would then capitalize on.
Playing games with my sisters was usually a different story. They are both older than me by three years and six years so I rarely won a game. To top it off, the oldest, Joanne, cheated. Oh yeah, you heard me. She cheated! We would play Monopoly and she was always the banker because she claimed she could count better than us. When we had to pay the bank she would slip the cash into her own pile instead of the bank. She always won. My middle sister, Jeanne, had a strong sense of right and wrong and never cheated, but she also had a "no mercy" rule and also always won any game the two of us played. However, she was so merciless that she wouldn't just win, she would kill me. I would get so frustrated with her that I would lunge across the board and attack her in a fit of rage. She was bigger and stronger so she just laughed, pinned me to the ground and tickled me. ARGH!!!
Playing games has taught me many life lessons that I didn't even realize I learned.
- Know your strengths
- Challenge yourself
- Show grace
- Have fun
- Never trust the banker
- Play to win, don't play to kill
- Frustration will get you nowhere
Saturday, February 21, 2015
A Prequel to the Oscars
Every year my husband and I take the Oscars very seriously. We hardly go to a movie all year long, but as soon as the Oscar nominations come out, we make in depth plans to view as many of the nominated films as possible. We review which movie got the most nods and start with them. Then we watch the movies we think we'll actually like, which is usually not many. Lastly, we choose the movies that we really have no interest in, but got enough nominations that we feel we must see it to be fair in casting our ballots.
Oh, we cast ballots alright. We are not members of the Academy (yet) so our ballots don't count, but they count to us. We usually make some sort of small wager that will benefit the winner and the loser as well as provide bragging rights.
Over the years of viewing movies that Oscar feels are worthy of the award I've noticed a pattern. Every once in a while the pattern is broken and an unusual pick wins something, but if movies were horses and the Oscars were a horse race there would be some definite odds. Actually, I think Vegas does have betting on the Oscars with actual odds, but I haven't looked that up - yet.
Best Picture:
Oh, we cast ballots alright. We are not members of the Academy (yet) so our ballots don't count, but they count to us. We usually make some sort of small wager that will benefit the winner and the loser as well as provide bragging rights.
Over the years of viewing movies that Oscar feels are worthy of the award I've noticed a pattern. Every once in a while the pattern is broken and an unusual pick wins something, but if movies were horses and the Oscars were a horse race there would be some definite odds. Actually, I think Vegas does have betting on the Oscars with actual odds, but I haven't looked that up - yet.
Best Picture:
- Must be over two hours long. The longer the better. If it's so long it needs an intermission, it's a shoe in for best picture.
- It must be about a serious subject. Comedies are completely out. Any level of humor is suspect but acceptable if it's dark humor.
- It must be rated R. Every so often a PG-13 sneaks in, but is doomed to lose. Apparently, life is an R and PG-13 is too sweet. PG is the death knell for an Oscar. It won't even be considered, unless its animated.
- Must be well known, but not too well known. If a male actor is extremely famous and is nominated he will lose to the relative unknown. The voters of the academy want us to believe that they believe in underdogs.
- Must not have been previously a comedic actor. Comedy is a sign of weakness.
- Must not portray a conservative character. The academy also want us to believe that conservative men are not worthy of Oscar.
- Contrary to their male counterparts, a female lead needs to have principals, however warped, to be worthy of Oscar. Even in the liberal world of Hollywood a woman is still held to a different set of standards.
- Does not need to be naked in the film, but it helps. Another stereotype. Yikes!
- If Meryl Streep is up for best actress, she will win.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Mini-Golf
I love mini-golf. I love the colorful balls, the smell of fake turf and the feel of the tiny pencil in your pocket stabbing you every time you bend over to pick up your ball. I consider every course a work of art. A masterpiece created by some aspiring architect or a janitor who wanted overtime.
There are definite classes of courses. There are the ones built on a fake hill with a water feature running throughout the entire course. This type of course usually means two things; you will lose your ball in the water at least once and you will pay way too much to play mini-golf. Then there are the courses built next to a driving range or real golf course. These courses are usually built to appease the children of the adult golfers and lure the parents into the pro shop. They are usually in some level of disrepair. The windmill doesn't turn, the bowling ball pins don't pivot, They forget to put an actual hole in one of the holes.
But a new type of course has sprung up in malls across America. Glow in the dark mini-golf. This is a brilliant idea! The only thing better than having a bunch obstacles in the way of seeing the hole, is not actually being able to "see" the hole! Glow in the dark courses usually include wooden cutouts of trolls and mushrooms painted in neon glowing colors. It's as if a troll on mushrooms painted the course. These courses are usually in the worst shape since, well, they are in the dark. The employees can't fix anything because they can't see anything and also, it's dark, none of the customers can see anything either, so who cares!
So what do I really love about mini-golf. It is 30 to 45 minutes of uninterrupted connection and fun. I usually play mini-golf with my family. We know each other well and can just have fun. Oh, it hasn't always been fun. When my sons were young we would get to hole 8 and there will have been at least one melt down, two trips back through the entire course to go to the bathroom and the threat of using the putter as a deadly weapon. And that was just me! But now we are all adults, sort of, and there is no competition or fighting, sort of.
The best news is that there is a class two course close to us that is part of a driving range and pro shop. It is cheap, run down and best of all, they serve beer which you are allowed to take on the course with you. The only thing better than mini-golf on a hot sticky summer evening, is mini-golf and a beer. I love mini-golf!
There are definite classes of courses. There are the ones built on a fake hill with a water feature running throughout the entire course. This type of course usually means two things; you will lose your ball in the water at least once and you will pay way too much to play mini-golf. Then there are the courses built next to a driving range or real golf course. These courses are usually built to appease the children of the adult golfers and lure the parents into the pro shop. They are usually in some level of disrepair. The windmill doesn't turn, the bowling ball pins don't pivot, They forget to put an actual hole in one of the holes.
But a new type of course has sprung up in malls across America. Glow in the dark mini-golf. This is a brilliant idea! The only thing better than having a bunch obstacles in the way of seeing the hole, is not actually being able to "see" the hole! Glow in the dark courses usually include wooden cutouts of trolls and mushrooms painted in neon glowing colors. It's as if a troll on mushrooms painted the course. These courses are usually in the worst shape since, well, they are in the dark. The employees can't fix anything because they can't see anything and also, it's dark, none of the customers can see anything either, so who cares!
So what do I really love about mini-golf. It is 30 to 45 minutes of uninterrupted connection and fun. I usually play mini-golf with my family. We know each other well and can just have fun. Oh, it hasn't always been fun. When my sons were young we would get to hole 8 and there will have been at least one melt down, two trips back through the entire course to go to the bathroom and the threat of using the putter as a deadly weapon. And that was just me! But now we are all adults, sort of, and there is no competition or fighting, sort of.
The best news is that there is a class two course close to us that is part of a driving range and pro shop. It is cheap, run down and best of all, they serve beer which you are allowed to take on the course with you. The only thing better than mini-golf on a hot sticky summer evening, is mini-golf and a beer. I love mini-golf!
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Lean Cuisine
Let's face it. We all hate to diet. Well, at least I do. I hate to join groups and pay them to tell me what to eat. I hate to count calories and keep food journals. None of the nutritional shakes work because I'm allergic to everything healthy. I figured out that if I'm given a system to follow, I spend all my time figuring out how to work the system to still get what I want. So, I've given up on systems. No more Weight Watchers, Slim Fast, calorie counting. I'm just going to eat less. Yeah, right. But there are products out there that force you to eat less. My personal favorite, Lean Cuisine.
Lean Cuisine is made by Stouffers. That's a good start. I mean, anyone who can perfect Macaroni and Cheese in a frozen meal can't be all bad, right? Lean Cuisine has about 255 different types of frozen meals, all of which are right around 300 calories per meal. Perfect. That is, until you eat it. The descriptions are scrumptious. "Succulent shrimp with angel hair pasta in a creamy vegetable sauce." Translation: Four tiny tough shrimp with soggy pasta in a chemically reproduced cream sauce with pieces of red pepper and carrots. Yum. It's actually not too bad, but the problem is, you just get to the point of starting to enjoy it and it's gone. If there were four frozen dinners of succulent shrimp all sitting in a row waiting for me to eat up, then we might have success, but four dinners would equal 1200 calories and that would be all I should eat for the whole day.
I'll keep fighting the good fight, and eating healthy when I can, but until they can make a 300 calorie hamburger and fries that fills me up and tastes delicious, I will eventually lose a few battles. The question becomes will I ever win the war, and what does winning the war look like?
Lean Cuisine is made by Stouffers. That's a good start. I mean, anyone who can perfect Macaroni and Cheese in a frozen meal can't be all bad, right? Lean Cuisine has about 255 different types of frozen meals, all of which are right around 300 calories per meal. Perfect. That is, until you eat it. The descriptions are scrumptious. "Succulent shrimp with angel hair pasta in a creamy vegetable sauce." Translation: Four tiny tough shrimp with soggy pasta in a chemically reproduced cream sauce with pieces of red pepper and carrots. Yum. It's actually not too bad, but the problem is, you just get to the point of starting to enjoy it and it's gone. If there were four frozen dinners of succulent shrimp all sitting in a row waiting for me to eat up, then we might have success, but four dinners would equal 1200 calories and that would be all I should eat for the whole day.
I'll keep fighting the good fight, and eating healthy when I can, but until they can make a 300 calorie hamburger and fries that fills me up and tastes delicious, I will eventually lose a few battles. The question becomes will I ever win the war, and what does winning the war look like?
Monday, February 16, 2015
Photographs and Memories
"Photographs and Memories
of the love you gave to me.
All that I have are these
to remember you."
Jim Croce
Photos have become extremely important to me. As I age, photos become my story, my history. I can look back and see my youth, my parents, the love from and for my husband, my babies growing into strong young men. Now with these new fangled inventions of cell phones and digital cameras photos are everywhere. I can send or receive a simple smile to my husband when the day is long and I need to see a smiling face. I can see what crazy things my youngest son is doing at college though he's 400 miles away. I can see the sparkle in my oldest son's eyes as he gazes on his new girlfriend.
I see the importance of certain photos in my friend's lives. A husband who left this earth too soon, a father who meant the world to them, a son fighting for our freedom in Afghanistan, a daughter on her way down the aisle. Through the social media I come in touch with friends and family's lives and what's important to them. Words are written, true, but the pictures, the pictures speak the story.
If you were to ask me what would be the first possession I'd grab to rescue from a fire, I'd say my photos. If you asked that same question to a mother in her 30's, she'd say her phone, because her phone is the photo album of her life. No matter how they are stored, the answer is the same. With a photo we capture a moment in time when someone purposefully decided that this moment should be recorded. Whether it's a child's first smile, a bride and groom, or just a funny way your dog is acting, it's your life and you want to hold on to that moment in some way.
My husband is a great photographer. He works diligently to provide me with the best shots of all the birds and other sights we see on our vacations and even just on our walks together. But the photographs I cherish the most are the stupid selfies where we laugh at how awful we look and I fall in love all over again with the man who smiles at me in a photo.
of the love you gave to me.
All that I have are these
to remember you."
Jim Croce
Photos have become extremely important to me. As I age, photos become my story, my history. I can look back and see my youth, my parents, the love from and for my husband, my babies growing into strong young men. Now with these new fangled inventions of cell phones and digital cameras photos are everywhere. I can send or receive a simple smile to my husband when the day is long and I need to see a smiling face. I can see what crazy things my youngest son is doing at college though he's 400 miles away. I can see the sparkle in my oldest son's eyes as he gazes on his new girlfriend.
I see the importance of certain photos in my friend's lives. A husband who left this earth too soon, a father who meant the world to them, a son fighting for our freedom in Afghanistan, a daughter on her way down the aisle. Through the social media I come in touch with friends and family's lives and what's important to them. Words are written, true, but the pictures, the pictures speak the story.
If you were to ask me what would be the first possession I'd grab to rescue from a fire, I'd say my photos. If you asked that same question to a mother in her 30's, she'd say her phone, because her phone is the photo album of her life. No matter how they are stored, the answer is the same. With a photo we capture a moment in time when someone purposefully decided that this moment should be recorded. Whether it's a child's first smile, a bride and groom, or just a funny way your dog is acting, it's your life and you want to hold on to that moment in some way.
My husband is a great photographer. He works diligently to provide me with the best shots of all the birds and other sights we see on our vacations and even just on our walks together. But the photographs I cherish the most are the stupid selfies where we laugh at how awful we look and I fall in love all over again with the man who smiles at me in a photo.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Valentine's Day is What You Make It
Who created this holiday anyway? A special day to mush over that special person in your life. A day to celebrate love, find love, make love and eat large amounts of rich foods and chocolate. For those without lovers there exists a plethora of fast food and non romantic restaurants waiting for them with open arms. There's also TV and the bottom of a bottle of wine to provide entertainment for the lonely.
I never thought I'd be lonely on Valentines Day. My husband had always found a way to make the day special for us, but work got in the way this year and we found ourselves with 600 miles between us. What's a girl to do? The game plan was to hole away in my bedroom and watch TV and search for that bottom of the bottle, while my son entertained his new girlfriend downstairs. But it turned out that I had people in my life who rescued me from certain disaster. My husband and I talked and skyped for most of the morning. My son and his lady took me to lunch and mini-golf (though they didn't let me win) and a good friend whose husband was also traveling hung out with me for dinner and an improv show.
Not everyone is this lucky. This holiday is downright painful to some who have loved and lost, or never loved at all. We are surrounded by hearts and flowers, candy and perfume, red and pink dresses and sweaters, young lovers kissing and holding hands and, worse yet, old lovers kissing and holding hands! Is this holiday a great idea or an evil plan to crush the hearts of all single people.
So I end my night with TV and not my honey, but as lonely Valentine's Days go, it wasn't too bad.
I never thought I'd be lonely on Valentines Day. My husband had always found a way to make the day special for us, but work got in the way this year and we found ourselves with 600 miles between us. What's a girl to do? The game plan was to hole away in my bedroom and watch TV and search for that bottom of the bottle, while my son entertained his new girlfriend downstairs. But it turned out that I had people in my life who rescued me from certain disaster. My husband and I talked and skyped for most of the morning. My son and his lady took me to lunch and mini-golf (though they didn't let me win) and a good friend whose husband was also traveling hung out with me for dinner and an improv show.
Not everyone is this lucky. This holiday is downright painful to some who have loved and lost, or never loved at all. We are surrounded by hearts and flowers, candy and perfume, red and pink dresses and sweaters, young lovers kissing and holding hands and, worse yet, old lovers kissing and holding hands! Is this holiday a great idea or an evil plan to crush the hearts of all single people.
So I end my night with TV and not my honey, but as lonely Valentine's Days go, it wasn't too bad.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Facebook Booty
Everyone with a Facebook account has done it. You take a photo and post it to brag on whatever wonderful gift, meal or vacation you've enjoyed. It's innocent enough. You just want to share how wonderful your life is with all your followers. Your husband sent you flowers, you made your spouse a special meal, you went to Disney World! Here's the problem, your friend who got not flowers, has no spouse (or worse yet, a lousy spouse) or can't afford to ride the bus let alone Space Mountain now hates you. We don't mean to hate you. We even press "like" to show you how happy we are for you. But, we hate you.
Sometimes opening up Facebook is like getting a Christmas letter every day of the year. Not in that its joyful, but it shows us how wonderful all our friends' lives are and how our life sucks. I am totally guilty of this. I only post my booty. Those of you who know me know what I mean. If I were to post my actual bootie I would lose 253 friends at the speed of sound. I mean the good things in my life. Today alone I posted a photo of the beautiful flowers my husband sent me for Valentine's Day, a note about how wonderful my son is to his girlfriend and how he's just like his dad in his thoughtfulness, plus I made a few zingingly wonderful comments on friends pages and "liked" at least three new grandchild photos, and it's only 6pm.
There are also the brutally honest people out there who post how horrible their lives are going. Since no one knows what to comment on these posts, most people say nothing or "I'll pray for you." I've yet to understand how it's socially acceptable to "like" someone's calamity. "I just lost my Dad to Cancer. I am totally distraught. Please shoot me now." - - "Like" What?!
I've also fallen into the trap of thinking a post to wish Happy Birthday, Happy Anniversary, Get Well Soon, Happy Baby, Happy Wedding, and Happy Sympathy are quite enough. No card necessary. Hallmark is going out of business due to Facebook!
Don't get me wrong. I do not intend to change one thing about the way I use and misuse Facebook. Just know that I am aware that the decline of civilization will be blamed on this behemoth and I will have been a part of it. For that I am terribly sorry and . . . look at how funny my doggy is!
Sometimes opening up Facebook is like getting a Christmas letter every day of the year. Not in that its joyful, but it shows us how wonderful all our friends' lives are and how our life sucks. I am totally guilty of this. I only post my booty. Those of you who know me know what I mean. If I were to post my actual bootie I would lose 253 friends at the speed of sound. I mean the good things in my life. Today alone I posted a photo of the beautiful flowers my husband sent me for Valentine's Day, a note about how wonderful my son is to his girlfriend and how he's just like his dad in his thoughtfulness, plus I made a few zingingly wonderful comments on friends pages and "liked" at least three new grandchild photos, and it's only 6pm.
There are also the brutally honest people out there who post how horrible their lives are going. Since no one knows what to comment on these posts, most people say nothing or "I'll pray for you." I've yet to understand how it's socially acceptable to "like" someone's calamity. "I just lost my Dad to Cancer. I am totally distraught. Please shoot me now." - - "Like" What?!
I've also fallen into the trap of thinking a post to wish Happy Birthday, Happy Anniversary, Get Well Soon, Happy Baby, Happy Wedding, and Happy Sympathy are quite enough. No card necessary. Hallmark is going out of business due to Facebook!
Don't get me wrong. I do not intend to change one thing about the way I use and misuse Facebook. Just know that I am aware that the decline of civilization will be blamed on this behemoth and I will have been a part of it. For that I am terribly sorry and . . . look at how funny my doggy is!
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Romantic Nights and Raccoons
Not words usually uttered in the same sentence, "romantic nights and raccoons." At least not words I'd ever thought I would use to describe an evening at a high end resort in a tropical paradise, but there we were. Our second night in Costa Rica and we have just had a beautiful, relaxing day together, young and in love. Well, at least young at heart and in love. We chose a more secluded, quiet restaurant to have dinner at to really just have a romantic evening to top off our perfect day. Peruvian cuisine in an open air pavilion near the sea.
We were enjoying a glass of wine to start our meal when we noticed a cat sauntering from one table to another begging for food. We thought this a little odd, but also oddly endearing. Not far from us was a couple enjoying a special evening in a private dining area closer to the water with curtains tied to the four edges of the canopy, flowing in the breeze. Candle light on their table, champagne chilling on ice and three raccoons standing in a row on their hind legs begging for food. Now and again, one of the vermin would boldly approach the table and wave his little paw demanding a morsel. The poor couple who probably paid good money for the private meal tried to ignore their uninvited guests, but it was hard to do, with all the other diners laughing amusingly at their predicament.
The couple finished their meal and slunk away embarrassed by their poor luck and the raccoons disappeared into the woods. But not to be deterred in their efforts to ruin a romantic evening for yet another couple the trio set their sites on us. We finished our meal returned to our room, etc., etc., and fell asleep. At two in the morning we heard a terrible racket outside our front door. We had heard that monkeys come on the property at times, so we quickly ran out our front door to see if monkeys were greeting us. No, the trio of raccoons were having a coon brawl in the bushes. They saw us and started running in our direction. I screamed and we hightailed it back to our room and locked the deadbolt, because everyone knows raccoons know how to pick locks but they can't get those deadbolts open.
When we got back in our room we noticed the full moon shining right over our patio. Romantic, right? Not quite. We were too scared to open our patio door.
We were enjoying a glass of wine to start our meal when we noticed a cat sauntering from one table to another begging for food. We thought this a little odd, but also oddly endearing. Not far from us was a couple enjoying a special evening in a private dining area closer to the water with curtains tied to the four edges of the canopy, flowing in the breeze. Candle light on their table, champagne chilling on ice and three raccoons standing in a row on their hind legs begging for food. Now and again, one of the vermin would boldly approach the table and wave his little paw demanding a morsel. The poor couple who probably paid good money for the private meal tried to ignore their uninvited guests, but it was hard to do, with all the other diners laughing amusingly at their predicament.
The couple finished their meal and slunk away embarrassed by their poor luck and the raccoons disappeared into the woods. But not to be deterred in their efforts to ruin a romantic evening for yet another couple the trio set their sites on us. We finished our meal returned to our room, etc., etc., and fell asleep. At two in the morning we heard a terrible racket outside our front door. We had heard that monkeys come on the property at times, so we quickly ran out our front door to see if monkeys were greeting us. No, the trio of raccoons were having a coon brawl in the bushes. They saw us and started running in our direction. I screamed and we hightailed it back to our room and locked the deadbolt, because everyone knows raccoons know how to pick locks but they can't get those deadbolts open.
When we got back in our room we noticed the full moon shining right over our patio. Romantic, right? Not quite. We were too scared to open our patio door.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Show Off
The only thing worse than not seeing a bird you've longed to lay your eyes on for years is having your son see it first. My oldest son had the privilege of serving on a missions trip to Brazil during the World Cup this past June. He came home and said "oh yeah, and by the way, I saw a scarlet macaw while I was there, mom. It was spectacular!" Shut up!
I do love hearing from friends who visit exotic places and tell me they saw a specific bird while there. This means two things. The fact that I love birds has opened their eyes to the fact that birds are actually out there, and that they care enough to mention it to me. What this also means is that they have likely seen a bird I would kill to see and they don't even realize how lucky they are!
When my son was in Brazil, he was probably not aware that just standing in the street afforded him the opportunity to see birds that would be life birds for me. If I stood on that same street I would be jumping up and down in pure ecstasy over the wildlife that surrounded me. He was more excited about soccer. Can you imagine? Soccer? Now I like soccer just as much as the next female who appreciates young, fit men with tight shirts, tight buns and muscular legs, but I'd give that up in a heartbeat to see the birds of Brazil. Wait, what am I saying? Let me think . . . yeah, I'd still choose the birds.
Hah! I saw a scarlet macaw in Costa Rica! Craig spotted it's tail sticking out of a nesting cavity in a tree on a river boat trip we took to find, you guessed it, scarlet macaws! We stopped the boat, waited and little by little, the bird, turned around, stuck just his head out of the hole then slowly hopped out onto a nearby branch and preened himself. If I were writing this with pen, the words would be smudged right now from drool. You see these birds in zoos, and think, "hmm, nice." But in the wild? What? I couldn't contain myself. Craig took photos like crazy and the guide took photos with my little snap and shoot camera through the lens of his spotting scope. And then, just like that, the macaw flew away, leaving me with an unforgettable memory.
I repeated this story to my son when we got home, happy to report he wasn't the only one in the family who'd seen a macaw, and he blithely replied, "Yeah, but did you see five of them flying in formation right over your head?" Rotten kid.
I do love hearing from friends who visit exotic places and tell me they saw a specific bird while there. This means two things. The fact that I love birds has opened their eyes to the fact that birds are actually out there, and that they care enough to mention it to me. What this also means is that they have likely seen a bird I would kill to see and they don't even realize how lucky they are!
When my son was in Brazil, he was probably not aware that just standing in the street afforded him the opportunity to see birds that would be life birds for me. If I stood on that same street I would be jumping up and down in pure ecstasy over the wildlife that surrounded me. He was more excited about soccer. Can you imagine? Soccer? Now I like soccer just as much as the next female who appreciates young, fit men with tight shirts, tight buns and muscular legs, but I'd give that up in a heartbeat to see the birds of Brazil. Wait, what am I saying? Let me think . . . yeah, I'd still choose the birds.
Hah! I saw a scarlet macaw in Costa Rica! Craig spotted it's tail sticking out of a nesting cavity in a tree on a river boat trip we took to find, you guessed it, scarlet macaws! We stopped the boat, waited and little by little, the bird, turned around, stuck just his head out of the hole then slowly hopped out onto a nearby branch and preened himself. If I were writing this with pen, the words would be smudged right now from drool. You see these birds in zoos, and think, "hmm, nice." But in the wild? What? I couldn't contain myself. Craig took photos like crazy and the guide took photos with my little snap and shoot camera through the lens of his spotting scope. And then, just like that, the macaw flew away, leaving me with an unforgettable memory.
I repeated this story to my son when we got home, happy to report he wasn't the only one in the family who'd seen a macaw, and he blithely replied, "Yeah, but did you see five of them flying in formation right over your head?" Rotten kid.
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| Scarlet Macaw - photo taken through a spotting scope |
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Toucan Sam's Got Nothing on These Guys
I always loved Toucan Sam as a child. He was funny, colorful and had great taste in cereal. It seemed inevitable that I should want to see Toucans in the wild. However, Toucan Sam and all of his sugary glory did not prepare me for the true beauty of the two types to Toucans I laid my eyes upon in Costa Rica.
For my birthday gift late last year, Craig hired a birding guide for a full day of birding when we were to be in Costa Rica on vacation. Jorge, our guide, was a great guide. He loved birds and wanted to make sure I saw as many different species as possible. We traipsed through dry, lowland forest and then drove over an hour on a bumpy dirt road to the foothills of the rain forest. In all, we saw well over fifty species with at least half of them being "life" birds for me. Not too shabby.
The day was coming to a close and we were headed back. We were slowly coming out of the rain forest and headed toward farm land when it happened. I spotted a keel billed toucan in a tree on the side of the road. I sputtered the words "stop! Back up, back up, back up! Toucan!" Our driver slammed on the brakes and threw the van into reverse like we were backing out of an alley after a bank robbery. Jorge and Craig jumped out of the van like a swat team to see the bird and take photos. I, however, could see perfectly through my window. There he was, a keel billed toucan sitting in a tree eating berries. The colors of his feathers were so brilliant nothing could match them. Then after we got our fill (in bird terms that means the bird flew in a direction we couldn't follow) we moved on. Not two minutes later we spotted chestnut billed toucans in another tree. Again, we all jumped out of the van and swarmed the area to get a good look.
Photos can never do justice to the beauty that our eyes beheld that day. But do not be mistaken. We got photos! A few of the best ones are posted here. But the best pictures are the ones in my memories of the day that I shared the air with these beautiful birds.
For my birthday gift late last year, Craig hired a birding guide for a full day of birding when we were to be in Costa Rica on vacation. Jorge, our guide, was a great guide. He loved birds and wanted to make sure I saw as many different species as possible. We traipsed through dry, lowland forest and then drove over an hour on a bumpy dirt road to the foothills of the rain forest. In all, we saw well over fifty species with at least half of them being "life" birds for me. Not too shabby.
The day was coming to a close and we were headed back. We were slowly coming out of the rain forest and headed toward farm land when it happened. I spotted a keel billed toucan in a tree on the side of the road. I sputtered the words "stop! Back up, back up, back up! Toucan!" Our driver slammed on the brakes and threw the van into reverse like we were backing out of an alley after a bank robbery. Jorge and Craig jumped out of the van like a swat team to see the bird and take photos. I, however, could see perfectly through my window. There he was, a keel billed toucan sitting in a tree eating berries. The colors of his feathers were so brilliant nothing could match them. Then after we got our fill (in bird terms that means the bird flew in a direction we couldn't follow) we moved on. Not two minutes later we spotted chestnut billed toucans in another tree. Again, we all jumped out of the van and swarmed the area to get a good look.
Photos can never do justice to the beauty that our eyes beheld that day. But do not be mistaken. We got photos! A few of the best ones are posted here. But the best pictures are the ones in my memories of the day that I shared the air with these beautiful birds.
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| Chestnut Billed Toucan |
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| Keel Billed Toucan |
Saturday, February 7, 2015
"Happy Wife, Happy Life"
The memorable words of a Costa Rican gentleman who takes his job of making people smile seriously. Julio is a shuttle driver at the Hilton de Papagayo. We spent a week there recently enjoying sunny, breezy days, all inclusive cocktails and dining and the beauty of nature surrounding us. As lovely as all that sounds the simple acts of Julio made our vacation even brighter.
Upon our arrival the reception area called the shuttle to bring us to our room. Julio met us with a huge smile and a willing hand to get us to our room on the top of a hill. He asked us our names and never forget them all week. After he got our bags to our room he said "remember Craig, happy wife, happy life!" The beginning of our vacation was kicked off with a giggle and a great feeling about the resort.
We discovered throughout the week that, while the resort was indeed nice, the one thing that made this place special was Julio. Over and over again, other guests would echo our sentiments that Julio was the best thing about the place. I don't know Julio. I don't know if he makes great money or lives quite modestly as most Costa Ricans do. After all he is a shuttle driver, not the hotel manager. But maybe the reward Julio gets for making people happy is the satisfaction of knowing that he is making people happy.
A truly great employee is one who does his job with the attitude that no matter what its importance in the spectrum of the big picture, the employee does his part with the knowledge that he is making a difference. Sometimes a small difference makes all the difference. That little phrase Julio said a few times to us "happy wife, happy life" kind of sat with us and we ended up saying it to each other now and again during our stay with a little chuckle, but also a little wink that we knew we wanted to make each other happy. Julio is just a shuttle driver, but a wise man, indeed.
Upon our arrival the reception area called the shuttle to bring us to our room. Julio met us with a huge smile and a willing hand to get us to our room on the top of a hill. He asked us our names and never forget them all week. After he got our bags to our room he said "remember Craig, happy wife, happy life!" The beginning of our vacation was kicked off with a giggle and a great feeling about the resort.
We discovered throughout the week that, while the resort was indeed nice, the one thing that made this place special was Julio. Over and over again, other guests would echo our sentiments that Julio was the best thing about the place. I don't know Julio. I don't know if he makes great money or lives quite modestly as most Costa Ricans do. After all he is a shuttle driver, not the hotel manager. But maybe the reward Julio gets for making people happy is the satisfaction of knowing that he is making people happy.
A truly great employee is one who does his job with the attitude that no matter what its importance in the spectrum of the big picture, the employee does his part with the knowledge that he is making a difference. Sometimes a small difference makes all the difference. That little phrase Julio said a few times to us "happy wife, happy life" kind of sat with us and we ended up saying it to each other now and again during our stay with a little chuckle, but also a little wink that we knew we wanted to make each other happy. Julio is just a shuttle driver, but a wise man, indeed.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
A Hill to Climb
How can one top off the perfect day. Thus far, we had a great breakfast, a wonderful walk near the beach where we saw an entire troupe of Howler Monkeys and gorgeous birds, many of them life birds for me. Then we went souvenir shopping and had lunch at a beach front restaurant that was delicioso! An afternoon nap and then that awkward time in the afternoon where it's too late to go swimming or start another big event. So we decided to take a walk on a nature trail on the hotel premises.
Our walk began with a jaunt up a fairly steep hill. Not too bad, but we were sure it would flatten out soon. We turned a bend and before us was another steep hill. We ascended up several steep hills stopping only for me to catch my breath and consider what I may have forgotten in my last will and testament. We finally reached a bench and thought this must be it, the zenith. It was beautiful. Overlooking the bay with the sun shimmering on the water. However, at this point I was too dizzy to care. I was using every ounce of oxygen I could find to just stay alive.
We turned and looked toward the path and it continued upward. Are you kidding?! We pushed on. Another steep hill and we actually did reach the zenith of the hill. Once again, it was beautiful. Once again, I didn't care. I just wanted this walk to be over. We moved onward. We were so high that there were no birds or animals and barely any vegetation anymore. When we looked out over the hill the vultures were lower than us. They were circling close by, just waiting for one of us (namely me) to fall over the edge and kill ourselves. We finally reached a dead end in the path and had to choose whether to throw ourselves into a ravine or turn around and go back down.
I thought long and hard, but chose to turn around and go back down the steep hills. Now as I lay here with ice on my foot, I ponder the choices I made in this journey and realize that, like life, pushing forward through the tough times seems like the obvious choice as everybody has their own hill to climb. But when the vultures are circling and there seems to be no way out, sometimes turning around and saying "the heck with it" may be your best option.
Our walk began with a jaunt up a fairly steep hill. Not too bad, but we were sure it would flatten out soon. We turned a bend and before us was another steep hill. We ascended up several steep hills stopping only for me to catch my breath and consider what I may have forgotten in my last will and testament. We finally reached a bench and thought this must be it, the zenith. It was beautiful. Overlooking the bay with the sun shimmering on the water. However, at this point I was too dizzy to care. I was using every ounce of oxygen I could find to just stay alive.
We turned and looked toward the path and it continued upward. Are you kidding?! We pushed on. Another steep hill and we actually did reach the zenith of the hill. Once again, it was beautiful. Once again, I didn't care. I just wanted this walk to be over. We moved onward. We were so high that there were no birds or animals and barely any vegetation anymore. When we looked out over the hill the vultures were lower than us. They were circling close by, just waiting for one of us (namely me) to fall over the edge and kill ourselves. We finally reached a dead end in the path and had to choose whether to throw ourselves into a ravine or turn around and go back down.
I thought long and hard, but chose to turn around and go back down the steep hills. Now as I lay here with ice on my foot, I ponder the choices I made in this journey and realize that, like life, pushing forward through the tough times seems like the obvious choice as everybody has their own hill to climb. But when the vultures are circling and there seems to be no way out, sometimes turning around and saying "the heck with it" may be your best option.
If You See A Snake
If you see a snake, just kill it - don't appoint a committee
on snakes.
Ross Perot
A morning walk on the beach.
That’s one of Craig and my favorite things to do on vacation. Kind of hard to do when visiting Iowa but
since we happen to have a beach where we actually are (not Iowa), we
proceeded. A local family visiting the
same resort was gathered around something on the sand. The mother was farther away with a look of
dread on her face so we figured it had to be something live and also not
adorable. As we approached the father
was poking at a sea snake with a stick.
I’m sure the snake was more scared of us than we were of it, but I was
ever so slightly terrified.
The snake was small, about 20 inches long. Craig later read that the same breed could
get up to nine feet long. Post traumatically,
I suddenly had even more respect for our new friend. The family consisted of all boys so they were
thrilled with their find; jumping up and down and offering advice about how to
handle the snake. Since the advice was
in Spanish I can’t tell you if it was good or not, but the father just ignored
them and did what he thought was best.
His wife yelled obvious phrases of insanity using words like “loco” and
“macho,” but like all men everywhere in the world he ignored her as well.
It ended up his intent was to save the snake and return it
to the sea but far away from the area where people swim. So he figured out a way to safely carry it
down the beach toward the rocks and released it back into the water. I’m not sure, but I think we witnessed the
Latino Steve Irwin before our very eyes.
At least I’m sure he thought that’s who he was.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Like Yesterday
As Craig and I prepare to celebrate thirty years of marriage, we decided to take a vacation to a great little spot in Costa Rica. While my adult son is at home throwing endless parties. We are enjoying beautiful weather, tropical drinks, sitting around with no schedule and staring at the moonlight. As we share this time I think back to all those years gone by and the little things that make our relationship so special. It was like yesterday.
We first held hands on our first date in the back of a friend's car. It felt exciting, it felt right.
Our first kiss, the first time we said "I love you," the laughing and talking on the phone for hours, never running out of things to say. It was like yesterday.
Thirty years sounds like a long time. To couples who couldn't get there it is. The hard times, the doubt, the pain, through sickness and health, through poverty and prosperity. What makes us get to this point and not others? Compromise? The grace of God? I don't know. All, I know is its still special. I still feel that fire when he holds my hand or steals a kiss. It's still feels like yesterday.
We first held hands on our first date in the back of a friend's car. It felt exciting, it felt right.
Our first kiss, the first time we said "I love you," the laughing and talking on the phone for hours, never running out of things to say. It was like yesterday.
Thirty years sounds like a long time. To couples who couldn't get there it is. The hard times, the doubt, the pain, through sickness and health, through poverty and prosperity. What makes us get to this point and not others? Compromise? The grace of God? I don't know. All, I know is its still special. I still feel that fire when he holds my hand or steals a kiss. It's still feels like yesterday.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
The Miracle Suit?
I have managed to get through many a summer without ever donning a swimsuit. I'm fairly proud of the amount of poor unwitting souls I've spared by managing the feat of protecting them from the view of all this woman in a bathing suit. But there are times in one's life when buying and actually wearing a swimsuit is required. One is when you choose a vacation destination whose main pastime is sunbathing, swimming or snorkeling.
I've reached this point. While I'm excited to be headed off to an exotic land where warmth and sunshine rain supreme, I'm somewhat less than excited (more like horrified) to have to appear in public in a swimsuit. The good news is that we will be so far away from home that likely nobody there will know me. The other good news is that most people who will see me will not speak English so when they gasp and utter a blessing to save their very soul, I can tell myself that they are saying that I look pretty darn hot in that new suit.
So I began my search. Like all good full figured women, I started online. I looked at a few swimsuit sites, rolled right past the string bikinis and discovered a new invention. There it was in sparkling letters "The Miracle Suit." Carried in only the finest stores, it promises to automatically make you look 10 pounds thinner. This was good news since I now don't have to actually lose 10 pounds. The only problem is I could probably stand to lose 50 pounds. But, hope springs eternal and I ordered the suit.
Now some of you have heard the saying "trying to fit 10 pounds of jelly beans in a 5 pound bag." The experience of trying on this suit was very close to that description. I'll spare you the gory details other than to say, I twisted my body in positions to get that suit on that would make a yoga instructor jealous. Success! It "fit." It made me look 10 pounds thinner (hey, its a start), it was a perfect color for me (purple) and I have high hopes that there will not be a mad rush to the first aid station from people fainting or feeling generally nauseous.
Would I say it's a miracle? Well if it were up for sainthood because of its healing powers it wouldn't get enough votes, but it did do what it promised. Now when my vacation comes I'll be ready to show myself in public without fear of causing pandemonium. It's going to be a good vacation!
I've reached this point. While I'm excited to be headed off to an exotic land where warmth and sunshine rain supreme, I'm somewhat less than excited (more like horrified) to have to appear in public in a swimsuit. The good news is that we will be so far away from home that likely nobody there will know me. The other good news is that most people who will see me will not speak English so when they gasp and utter a blessing to save their very soul, I can tell myself that they are saying that I look pretty darn hot in that new suit.
So I began my search. Like all good full figured women, I started online. I looked at a few swimsuit sites, rolled right past the string bikinis and discovered a new invention. There it was in sparkling letters "The Miracle Suit." Carried in only the finest stores, it promises to automatically make you look 10 pounds thinner. This was good news since I now don't have to actually lose 10 pounds. The only problem is I could probably stand to lose 50 pounds. But, hope springs eternal and I ordered the suit.
Now some of you have heard the saying "trying to fit 10 pounds of jelly beans in a 5 pound bag." The experience of trying on this suit was very close to that description. I'll spare you the gory details other than to say, I twisted my body in positions to get that suit on that would make a yoga instructor jealous. Success! It "fit." It made me look 10 pounds thinner (hey, its a start), it was a perfect color for me (purple) and I have high hopes that there will not be a mad rush to the first aid station from people fainting or feeling generally nauseous.
Would I say it's a miracle? Well if it were up for sainthood because of its healing powers it wouldn't get enough votes, but it did do what it promised. Now when my vacation comes I'll be ready to show myself in public without fear of causing pandemonium. It's going to be a good vacation!
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
North Jersey vs. Chicago
I'm a Jersey girl. That's all there is to it. If one were to do the math they might disagree. I spent the first 26 years of my life in Northern New Jersey. I have spent the most recent 27 years of my life in the suburbs of Chicago. Since I'm only 34 years old the math definitely doesn't add up and I'm sure somebody's wrong here but in true Jersey style, I'm never wrong, so it wasn't me.
I have found that Chicago is the true Second City. Chicagoans are proud of their food, culture, geography, sports teams and politics, but they seem to have an inferiority complex about New York City. When I lived in North Jersey (which is basically the NYC suburbs, lets face it) I don't ever recalling comparing what we had to offer the world to what Chicago offered. I knew nothing of Chicago and didn't care either. So having spent almost equal years in each location, I'm going to provide my own flawed, skewed and completely correct review of the two areas.
The most divisive topic between the two that has almost caused fist fights is the all important New York vs. Chicago pizza. Yes, pizza. I grew up on New York pizza. It is just one size, large. It is flat and round with gobs of stringy moozerella and olive oil dripping from the top of it. It is called a pie. Because it is round it is cut in triangles like a pie. It can have toppings, but it is best with just cheese. When you go to the pizza parlor you order a "pie." There are no questions asked about size, toppings or type of pizza wanted. There are no forks or knives in the entire restaurant. You don't need them. You just get a large flat pie and that is all you want. Believe me, that is all you need. It is heavenly.
Chicago is known for it's "Chicago Style Deep Dish" pizza. It is as thick as a pie but not called a pie. It requires a fork and knife to eat. Okay, it's delicious. But it's different. Even Chicagoans can't agree on which restaurant makes the best deep dish pizza. There's Unos, Giordanos, Ginos East and numerous others. In my opinion Ginos East is the best and I'm always right because I'm from New Jersey, but I'm just sayin'. You can also get flat round pizza in Chicago. But, they cut it in squares. Yes, you heard me, they cut a round pizza in squares. It is a hot mess. Also, because it is not that great, it is rare when someone orders Chicago pizza without toppings. They even do that wrong. They put the toppings under the cheese! What?! It's insane!
Other than that, it's pretty much the same. New Jersey has hills. Chicago is flat as a pancake. Jerseyans go to the "shore," Chicagoans go to the "Dells." Both pride themselves on corrupt politicians, except I think Illinois wins the award for most governors making license plates. Both have great skylines, great entertainment and sports teams that pretty much suck.
So, basically, the only reason I'd move back to New Jersey is for an offer of a spectacularly high paying job (which one would need to be able to afford the property and taxes) or for a good slice of pie. There are some days when a good slice would be enough.
I have found that Chicago is the true Second City. Chicagoans are proud of their food, culture, geography, sports teams and politics, but they seem to have an inferiority complex about New York City. When I lived in North Jersey (which is basically the NYC suburbs, lets face it) I don't ever recalling comparing what we had to offer the world to what Chicago offered. I knew nothing of Chicago and didn't care either. So having spent almost equal years in each location, I'm going to provide my own flawed, skewed and completely correct review of the two areas.
The most divisive topic between the two that has almost caused fist fights is the all important New York vs. Chicago pizza. Yes, pizza. I grew up on New York pizza. It is just one size, large. It is flat and round with gobs of stringy moozerella and olive oil dripping from the top of it. It is called a pie. Because it is round it is cut in triangles like a pie. It can have toppings, but it is best with just cheese. When you go to the pizza parlor you order a "pie." There are no questions asked about size, toppings or type of pizza wanted. There are no forks or knives in the entire restaurant. You don't need them. You just get a large flat pie and that is all you want. Believe me, that is all you need. It is heavenly.
Chicago is known for it's "Chicago Style Deep Dish" pizza. It is as thick as a pie but not called a pie. It requires a fork and knife to eat. Okay, it's delicious. But it's different. Even Chicagoans can't agree on which restaurant makes the best deep dish pizza. There's Unos, Giordanos, Ginos East and numerous others. In my opinion Ginos East is the best and I'm always right because I'm from New Jersey, but I'm just sayin'. You can also get flat round pizza in Chicago. But, they cut it in squares. Yes, you heard me, they cut a round pizza in squares. It is a hot mess. Also, because it is not that great, it is rare when someone orders Chicago pizza without toppings. They even do that wrong. They put the toppings under the cheese! What?! It's insane!
Other than that, it's pretty much the same. New Jersey has hills. Chicago is flat as a pancake. Jerseyans go to the "shore," Chicagoans go to the "Dells." Both pride themselves on corrupt politicians, except I think Illinois wins the award for most governors making license plates. Both have great skylines, great entertainment and sports teams that pretty much suck.
So, basically, the only reason I'd move back to New Jersey is for an offer of a spectacularly high paying job (which one would need to be able to afford the property and taxes) or for a good slice of pie. There are some days when a good slice would be enough.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Physical Therapy
There are two words that I hate to hear my doctor to utter - "physical therapy." I also hate when my dentist utters the words "root canal" but if I were to chose which I'd rather have, I'd have to pick root canal. It only takes two visits and you get great drugs. Physical therapy is usually at least six weeks of torture. Physical therapists have to have six years of college to be certified. They know all your muscles and bones intimately. This is so they can press way too hard in the exact spot that hurts the most.
Now it's no secret that I am not an exercise addict. I actually avoid it like I'm in EA (Exercise Anonymous.) Physical Therapy has one common component no matter what your ailment - exercise. Ugh! They force you to get in shape, or at least in shape enough to treat you. But the good news is, when the therapy is over you can go back to your regular regimen. I personally plan to go back to my EA meetings, religiously.
Then there are their tools of torture. Well, actually this part isn't too bad because you usually just have to sit there while they attach electrical shock pads to you, or ultrasound waves through you, or hands-on massage. The word "massage" is a ruse to get you to think this will feel good. It doesn't. This is where they dig in their palms, knuckles, fingers, elbows, whatever body part they can figure out to use that will hurt the most.
I'm going through physical therapy right now for Plantar Fasciitis. In case you don't know what that is, it's inflammation in the tendon that runs along the bottom of your foot and connects to your heel bone. The pain presents in your heel. It basically feels like someone is driving a nail into your heel with a hammer. Guess what the best cure for it is - physical therapy. Four weeks into it and, I hate to say it, but it's actually helping. Now, if only root canals could cure Plantar Fasciitis. I'd be all set.
Now it's no secret that I am not an exercise addict. I actually avoid it like I'm in EA (Exercise Anonymous.) Physical Therapy has one common component no matter what your ailment - exercise. Ugh! They force you to get in shape, or at least in shape enough to treat you. But the good news is, when the therapy is over you can go back to your regular regimen. I personally plan to go back to my EA meetings, religiously.
Then there are their tools of torture. Well, actually this part isn't too bad because you usually just have to sit there while they attach electrical shock pads to you, or ultrasound waves through you, or hands-on massage. The word "massage" is a ruse to get you to think this will feel good. It doesn't. This is where they dig in their palms, knuckles, fingers, elbows, whatever body part they can figure out to use that will hurt the most.
I'm going through physical therapy right now for Plantar Fasciitis. In case you don't know what that is, it's inflammation in the tendon that runs along the bottom of your foot and connects to your heel bone. The pain presents in your heel. It basically feels like someone is driving a nail into your heel with a hammer. Guess what the best cure for it is - physical therapy. Four weeks into it and, I hate to say it, but it's actually helping. Now, if only root canals could cure Plantar Fasciitis. I'd be all set.
Friday, January 23, 2015
That One Crazy Friend
You all know who I'm talking about. She's that one person in your life that is pure joy to be with. She is bigger than life and doesn't just go to parties, she IS the party no matter where she is. She can walk into a room of fifty people she knows or fifty complete strangers and still have a great time and make a great time for all around her.
I've known my crazy friend since our children started playing soccer together almost twenty years ago. Our friendship started while sitting on the sidelines shouting embarrassing encouragement at our children, who worked hard to ignore us. We were the moms at the Chuckee Cheese parties in the ball pit laughing hysterically and scaring three year olds. We were the mini-van carpool mates driving to soccer games who were singing ABBA at the top of lungs with the windows wide open, while our kids shrunk in their seats pretending they were being abducted.
Through the seasons of life our paths have moved in different directions and come back together, but now we are close buds again, sans children. We go shopping together and talk too loudly and laugh too loudly and have fashion shows in the aisles. We will go out to dinner with our husbands and the four of us will warn the waiter at the beginning of the evening that we will be the wild table that he wish he'd never been assigned to. But we'll tip generously.
Our most recent adventure was a duo mani-pedi at a local nail salon. We had late appointments and were the only ones in the salon. Needless to say, we closed the place down, and they weren't even selling drinks! Though that is an excellent idea, note to self. Anyway, the first chore in getting your nails done is to pick a nail polish color. We giggled with delight at the 286 options on the wall and then both reached for the same fluorescent orange color at the same time. No kidding! So to compromise we found a second similar orange and proceeded to pretty much have matching nails. We talked and laughed and had our manicurists laughing (and they know very little English). She took a photo of her toes and texted it to her daughter. When, at last, fifteen minutes past closing our nails were dry, our manicurists actually put our shoes on us so we wouldn't mess up our nails and thanked us for making them laugh.
Our next adventure? Who knows? But it will be fun, I can guarantee that!
I've known my crazy friend since our children started playing soccer together almost twenty years ago. Our friendship started while sitting on the sidelines shouting embarrassing encouragement at our children, who worked hard to ignore us. We were the moms at the Chuckee Cheese parties in the ball pit laughing hysterically and scaring three year olds. We were the mini-van carpool mates driving to soccer games who were singing ABBA at the top of lungs with the windows wide open, while our kids shrunk in their seats pretending they were being abducted.
Through the seasons of life our paths have moved in different directions and come back together, but now we are close buds again, sans children. We go shopping together and talk too loudly and laugh too loudly and have fashion shows in the aisles. We will go out to dinner with our husbands and the four of us will warn the waiter at the beginning of the evening that we will be the wild table that he wish he'd never been assigned to. But we'll tip generously.
Our most recent adventure was a duo mani-pedi at a local nail salon. We had late appointments and were the only ones in the salon. Needless to say, we closed the place down, and they weren't even selling drinks! Though that is an excellent idea, note to self. Anyway, the first chore in getting your nails done is to pick a nail polish color. We giggled with delight at the 286 options on the wall and then both reached for the same fluorescent orange color at the same time. No kidding! So to compromise we found a second similar orange and proceeded to pretty much have matching nails. We talked and laughed and had our manicurists laughing (and they know very little English). She took a photo of her toes and texted it to her daughter. When, at last, fifteen minutes past closing our nails were dry, our manicurists actually put our shoes on us so we wouldn't mess up our nails and thanked us for making them laugh.
Our next adventure? Who knows? But it will be fun, I can guarantee that!
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
My Tuesday Bouquet
I love getting flowers! I love the colors, the textures, the fragrances. But most of all I love that someone thought enough of me to bring some beauty into my life.
Behind every flower in a bouquet is a story. Each flower was once a seed. It could have been cultivated by a well trained horticulturalist and fed exotic plant food, or sprung up in a field and fought through weeds, rocks and thorns to gain it's beauty. Some flowers took a few short weeks to grow, others months, and yet others, years. Each flower grew up amongst it's brothers and sisters and basked under the same sun, fed the same food cared for by the same caretaker, but yet each had its own unique shape, size, amount of petals and leaves. Some flourished, others wilted. Only the strongest were chosen to be sent to a florist and used in a bouquet. Good news and bad news. They were the best, but they gave their lives to be the best. They would provide beauty and enjoyment for others but they would eventually die and be returned to the earth.
Similarly my Tuesday Ladies Group is a bouquet to their Maker. We all have our own stories, our own seasons of blossoming and wilting. Some of us received great love in our growth, some of us had to fight for our lives to bloom. But God has personally chosen each of us to be together and do life together. To pray together to reach up to the same Savior and out to each other. Like a beautiful bouquet, our time is limited. But while here, all the ladies in my group have such compassionate, loving hearts that they are a blessing to everyone they meet. Especially me.
I have come to look at Tuesday nights as a gift. A beautiful bouquet delivered right to my front door that fills my home with a vision of loveliness and an aroma of love. I love my Tuesday bouquet!
Behind every flower in a bouquet is a story. Each flower was once a seed. It could have been cultivated by a well trained horticulturalist and fed exotic plant food, or sprung up in a field and fought through weeds, rocks and thorns to gain it's beauty. Some flowers took a few short weeks to grow, others months, and yet others, years. Each flower grew up amongst it's brothers and sisters and basked under the same sun, fed the same food cared for by the same caretaker, but yet each had its own unique shape, size, amount of petals and leaves. Some flourished, others wilted. Only the strongest were chosen to be sent to a florist and used in a bouquet. Good news and bad news. They were the best, but they gave their lives to be the best. They would provide beauty and enjoyment for others but they would eventually die and be returned to the earth.
Similarly my Tuesday Ladies Group is a bouquet to their Maker. We all have our own stories, our own seasons of blossoming and wilting. Some of us received great love in our growth, some of us had to fight for our lives to bloom. But God has personally chosen each of us to be together and do life together. To pray together to reach up to the same Savior and out to each other. Like a beautiful bouquet, our time is limited. But while here, all the ladies in my group have such compassionate, loving hearts that they are a blessing to everyone they meet. Especially me.
I have come to look at Tuesday nights as a gift. A beautiful bouquet delivered right to my front door that fills my home with a vision of loveliness and an aroma of love. I love my Tuesday bouquet!
Monday, January 19, 2015
Forgiving Mom
Wouldn't it be nice if we all could say "I had the best Mom!" Moms get a ton of pressure to be good at their vocation of motherhood. Especially Moms who were raising children in the 1950's and 1960's. June Cleever, Betty Crocker and Emily Post worked in cahoots to set moms up for the trifecta of failure before they even got out of bed in the morning. If Mom didn't wear pearls, cook great meals or set the table right she felt miserable. If Mom happened to work outside of the house, society deemed her neglectful and certain to raise delinquents. The only fun role model was Julia Childs. Julia taught us that if you were going to have to cook anyway you might as well enjoy a good glass or three of wine while doing it.
My mom, Betty, was a stay at home mom. She swore by Betty Crocker, but I'm pretty sure she thought June Cleever was a crock and Emily Post was useless. She emulated Julia Childs, at least the wine drinking part. But Betty didn't grow up with a good example to measure her motherhood success quotient. Like many Moms of the 50's and 60's her mom worked long hours in the 1930's Great Depression era, usually scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets just to put food on the table. Then as a reward for helping to keep her family alive during this time, her son got shipped off overseas to fight and die in World War II in the 1940's. The example of motherhood Betty got was a mom who barely knew her kids because she worked so hard and was too tired to exhibit love when she was around. Betty was basically raised by a grandmother who's example of motherhood was to have as many children as possible to self produce a slave labor workforce for the farm.
Fast forward to the 1960's. My sisters and I have Betty for a mom. She has had no discernable example of a hands-on loving mom other than what she has seen on TV and she has already determined that was an unachievable standard. So she did the best she could. She placed unrealistic expectations on my oldest sister, because she had talents and skills. She belittled my middle sister and tried to "toughen her up" because she saw so much of herself in my sister and didn't want her to turn out like she did. She placed no expectations on me. Which was good and bad. I got the most hugs and just general "youngest" type of attention, but I got no direction, no acknowledgement of value or a future to pursue.
My mom was not an evil woman who beat us relentlessly, or sold us into slave labor. None of us will be able to write a book about our horrible childhoods and make millions, but none of us got out of our childhood unscathed either. Our choices for career, the men we married, the way we raised our children, the way we keep house all have some level of my mother's fingerprints on them. We've all learned from her mistakes in some cases and have been doomed to repeat her mistakes in other cases.
What do we do with this reality. We can cling to the wrongs committed and let them be the bitter pill we swallow on a daily basis or we can understand that in so many ways we are just collateral damage of Betty's upbringing. The generational dominoes will continue to fall and we can let them keep falling forward or pull out just one domino to stop the collapse. We can see what needs to change and change it, but carrying around resentment from past hurts will never make the change worthwhile. We need to forgive. I choose to forgive Mom.
My mom, Betty, was a stay at home mom. She swore by Betty Crocker, but I'm pretty sure she thought June Cleever was a crock and Emily Post was useless. She emulated Julia Childs, at least the wine drinking part. But Betty didn't grow up with a good example to measure her motherhood success quotient. Like many Moms of the 50's and 60's her mom worked long hours in the 1930's Great Depression era, usually scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets just to put food on the table. Then as a reward for helping to keep her family alive during this time, her son got shipped off overseas to fight and die in World War II in the 1940's. The example of motherhood Betty got was a mom who barely knew her kids because she worked so hard and was too tired to exhibit love when she was around. Betty was basically raised by a grandmother who's example of motherhood was to have as many children as possible to self produce a slave labor workforce for the farm.
Fast forward to the 1960's. My sisters and I have Betty for a mom. She has had no discernable example of a hands-on loving mom other than what she has seen on TV and she has already determined that was an unachievable standard. So she did the best she could. She placed unrealistic expectations on my oldest sister, because she had talents and skills. She belittled my middle sister and tried to "toughen her up" because she saw so much of herself in my sister and didn't want her to turn out like she did. She placed no expectations on me. Which was good and bad. I got the most hugs and just general "youngest" type of attention, but I got no direction, no acknowledgement of value or a future to pursue.
My mom was not an evil woman who beat us relentlessly, or sold us into slave labor. None of us will be able to write a book about our horrible childhoods and make millions, but none of us got out of our childhood unscathed either. Our choices for career, the men we married, the way we raised our children, the way we keep house all have some level of my mother's fingerprints on them. We've all learned from her mistakes in some cases and have been doomed to repeat her mistakes in other cases.
What do we do with this reality. We can cling to the wrongs committed and let them be the bitter pill we swallow on a daily basis or we can understand that in so many ways we are just collateral damage of Betty's upbringing. The generational dominoes will continue to fall and we can let them keep falling forward or pull out just one domino to stop the collapse. We can see what needs to change and change it, but carrying around resentment from past hurts will never make the change worthwhile. We need to forgive. I choose to forgive Mom.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Shoes
Now don't get all excited. I'm not going to write about the 250 pairs of shoes I own or getting the cutest pair of heels that I couldn't live without. In actuality I have some level of a shoe phobia. Not because I'm afraid of my feet being in a confined space, but more because my feet hurt in just about every confined space I've ever purchased for them. I own maybe 20 pairs of shoes and my feet feel okay in 1.5 of them. So when an unsuspecting sales clerk sees me enter the store and says "can I help you?" She has no idea what she just signed up for.
My most recent shoe shopping experience was more of a death march than a mere purchase. I need shoes for an upcoming trip in which I will be doing a large amount of walking and hiking. Let me begin with the point that as well as needing high quality shoes to minimize my pain, I'm cheap. My husband made the mistake of coming with me, by store number four he was napping while I tried on shoes. First stop, the Flip Flop store. Sounds innocent enough. I figured maybe they may have some sandals with good support. They did! $106.00. . .yeah, no. Now comes the exit without appearing that I am in absolute shock that a pair of sandals would cost that much. "We've just begun shopping. We'll be back." The sales clerk and I both knew that would never happen.
Store number two. Hiking shoes at the Walking Store. The eager sales clerk gives me one of those fancy foot analysis with a computer. "It appears you are having some pain in your foot." She wasn't kidding. I have Plantars Fasciitis. Heck yeah, I'm in pain. She brings out two sizes of five different pairs of shoes. There is pyramid of boxes in the middle of the store that everyone has to scoot around. For sure I will find a pair I like. Not only did none of them fit right, they were all $140.00 or higher. . .yeah, no. I was more honest this time. "None of these fit right but thanks anyway."
I finally found a pair that sort of fit fine in store three, but they were over $100 also. Relative to the other stores they were affordable, but, I'm cheap. So I'm having a hard time deciding on them. Maybe I'll go back, maybe I'll keep looking. But I'm pretty sure that Craig won't come along again, unless he needs another nap.
My most recent shoe shopping experience was more of a death march than a mere purchase. I need shoes for an upcoming trip in which I will be doing a large amount of walking and hiking. Let me begin with the point that as well as needing high quality shoes to minimize my pain, I'm cheap. My husband made the mistake of coming with me, by store number four he was napping while I tried on shoes. First stop, the Flip Flop store. Sounds innocent enough. I figured maybe they may have some sandals with good support. They did! $106.00. . .yeah, no. Now comes the exit without appearing that I am in absolute shock that a pair of sandals would cost that much. "We've just begun shopping. We'll be back." The sales clerk and I both knew that would never happen.
Store number two. Hiking shoes at the Walking Store. The eager sales clerk gives me one of those fancy foot analysis with a computer. "It appears you are having some pain in your foot." She wasn't kidding. I have Plantars Fasciitis. Heck yeah, I'm in pain. She brings out two sizes of five different pairs of shoes. There is pyramid of boxes in the middle of the store that everyone has to scoot around. For sure I will find a pair I like. Not only did none of them fit right, they were all $140.00 or higher. . .yeah, no. I was more honest this time. "None of these fit right but thanks anyway."
I finally found a pair that sort of fit fine in store three, but they were over $100 also. Relative to the other stores they were affordable, but, I'm cheap. So I'm having a hard time deciding on them. Maybe I'll go back, maybe I'll keep looking. But I'm pretty sure that Craig won't come along again, unless he needs another nap.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Airport Observations
Going to the airport to catch a flight is always an event. Whether it be for vacation, business, family visits there is the anticipation that the only thing that stands between you and your destination is a harrowing drive to the airport, the humbling walk of shame through security, the waiting to board your plane, which is usually late due to many reasons, some of which are stupid, some of which are just scary enough that you question whether this plane you are about to get on should really even take off.
During this time of anticipation one has plenty of time to make some observations if you aren't so nervous about flying that you are busy making a cocktail of Xanax and whiskey at the airport bar to get up enough nerve to get on the plane. Other than the slight motion sickness I like actually being on the plane so I enjoy making observations during my 2 hour lead time since I arrive obsessively early for every flight I take.
Observation #1: Everyone in the airport awoke that day knowing they were going to fly. So they chose clothes to wear for this event. Some people still think that flying is an elite privilege so they dress up like they are going to a dinner dance, suits, high heels, full make up, enough perfume to choke the entire passenger list. Yes, they look great, but by the time they get to the gate they are limping, their hair do is hanging to one side and they usually have a run in their stockings. And the ladies look even worse!
Observation #2: Is it really a good idea to have CNN running on the TVs the entire time? On a recent flight I decided to watch the TV for awhile and the entire time CNN was covering terrorist acts across the world and how airports will have to step up security as they remain major targets. Nice. This is what I want to hear before getting on a plane. I immediately start profiling the other passengers to decide who might have a bomb strapped to their waist.
Observation #3: People traveling with children try so hard to keep them busy and happy while waiting for the plane that when they get them strapped in on the plane, the kid is trying to figure out why this isn't fun anymore and starts whining. I think parents should strap the kids into waiting room seats and make them not move and not talk, so sitting on the airplane will seem like a release from captivity. Just a thought.
Air travel has become a necessary evil in today's society of worldwide business, spread out families and all the great vacation spots being so dang far away. If anyone can come up with a better way to handle this situation, let me know. Or better yet, write a book. You'll make millions!
During this time of anticipation one has plenty of time to make some observations if you aren't so nervous about flying that you are busy making a cocktail of Xanax and whiskey at the airport bar to get up enough nerve to get on the plane. Other than the slight motion sickness I like actually being on the plane so I enjoy making observations during my 2 hour lead time since I arrive obsessively early for every flight I take.
Observation #1: Everyone in the airport awoke that day knowing they were going to fly. So they chose clothes to wear for this event. Some people still think that flying is an elite privilege so they dress up like they are going to a dinner dance, suits, high heels, full make up, enough perfume to choke the entire passenger list. Yes, they look great, but by the time they get to the gate they are limping, their hair do is hanging to one side and they usually have a run in their stockings. And the ladies look even worse!
Observation #2: Is it really a good idea to have CNN running on the TVs the entire time? On a recent flight I decided to watch the TV for awhile and the entire time CNN was covering terrorist acts across the world and how airports will have to step up security as they remain major targets. Nice. This is what I want to hear before getting on a plane. I immediately start profiling the other passengers to decide who might have a bomb strapped to their waist.
Observation #3: People traveling with children try so hard to keep them busy and happy while waiting for the plane that when they get them strapped in on the plane, the kid is trying to figure out why this isn't fun anymore and starts whining. I think parents should strap the kids into waiting room seats and make them not move and not talk, so sitting on the airplane will seem like a release from captivity. Just a thought.
Air travel has become a necessary evil in today's society of worldwide business, spread out families and all the great vacation spots being so dang far away. If anyone can come up with a better way to handle this situation, let me know. Or better yet, write a book. You'll make millions!
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Only Her Hair Dresser Knows
A line from a famous commercial for hair color millions of years ago (or 20 years ago, who's counting). This leads us to believe that we tell our hair dressers things that no one else will ever know. In my case, this may be true, but only because my hair dresser is also a good friend. So an appointment with my hair dresser usually involves a lot of talking, a lot of laughing and a lot of wine. Oh, and she cuts my hair too.
My most recent appointment was earlier this evening, so I'm in a pretty good mood right now. I look great and feel great. After years of growing my hair out and trying to find the perfect balance of layers and length, I had reached the pinnacle of hair perfection, except for split ends. I expressed my concern to my friend/hair dresser and she said "oh, you want to keep your sexy hair." What? "You know, when you can swing your head to the left and right and your hair flows around your neck and face at just the right speed, you know, sexy." So, me being the shy person that I am immediately flung my hair to the left and right and, yes, I was sexy. From the neck up anyway.
So I advised her to keep the sexy hair in place and that she did. I still have sexy hair, but without split ends. But that wasn't the best part of the evening. The best part was just talking and sharing our lives and laughing and bearing each other's burdens. . .and the wine.
When I'm asked what makes my hair so gorgeous, even though heredity and pure blessing have a lot to do with it, getting a hair cut from a person who knows you and loves you and understands "sexy" hair makes all the difference in the world. My answer will be "only my hair dresser knows."
Nina is my hairdresser, but more importantly, Nina is my friend!
My most recent appointment was earlier this evening, so I'm in a pretty good mood right now. I look great and feel great. After years of growing my hair out and trying to find the perfect balance of layers and length, I had reached the pinnacle of hair perfection, except for split ends. I expressed my concern to my friend/hair dresser and she said "oh, you want to keep your sexy hair." What? "You know, when you can swing your head to the left and right and your hair flows around your neck and face at just the right speed, you know, sexy." So, me being the shy person that I am immediately flung my hair to the left and right and, yes, I was sexy. From the neck up anyway.
So I advised her to keep the sexy hair in place and that she did. I still have sexy hair, but without split ends. But that wasn't the best part of the evening. The best part was just talking and sharing our lives and laughing and bearing each other's burdens. . .and the wine.
When I'm asked what makes my hair so gorgeous, even though heredity and pure blessing have a lot to do with it, getting a hair cut from a person who knows you and loves you and understands "sexy" hair makes all the difference in the world. My answer will be "only my hair dresser knows."
Nina is my hairdresser, but more importantly, Nina is my friend!
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
My Not So Big Year - So Far
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Count each species of bird I see this year, and actually venture out to find different species. January 1st I headed out in 20 degree weather and found 17 species of birds in a half hour. Great start. But it was cold, and I mean, cold. Then it only got worse. Since January 1st, I don't think it's been over 10 degrees at all. I love birds but I'm not nuts.
So I've been counting birds that show up to my feeders in my back yard and feeders at work. I'm up to 19 species! So unless a bird flies in front of my car in a suicide attempt, I don't think my list is going to grow very quickly.
I know Spring is coming. I know I'll get out there and start amassing thousands of birds sighted by May. Okay, maybe ten birds. But it's all in the journey isn't it? It's breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the beauty of nature, savoring the moment of that rare sighting. . . .
Forget it. I'm screwed.
So I've been counting birds that show up to my feeders in my back yard and feeders at work. I'm up to 19 species! So unless a bird flies in front of my car in a suicide attempt, I don't think my list is going to grow very quickly.
I know Spring is coming. I know I'll get out there and start amassing thousands of birds sighted by May. Okay, maybe ten birds. But it's all in the journey isn't it? It's breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the beauty of nature, savoring the moment of that rare sighting. . . .
Forget it. I'm screwed.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Potato Chips
Who doesn't love potato chips? It is earth's perfect food. Potatoes, oil and the all important salt. If Matthew 5:13 were written by Mr. Lay, it would have definitely read "you are the potato chips of this earth...."
Potato chips are attractive. They are great alone, with dip smothered on top of them, a sandwich laying next to them or in my tummy! A friend once said that chips were a mere platform for dip. I disagree. I believe chips make dip taste good. Try dipping a chip in onion dip and a celery stalk in the same dip. Who wins? The chip!
When our Lord spoke of being salt, He wanted us to be people who make a difference. People who make the world a better more enjoyable place and "our" own personal daily world a place that shines the love of Christ in every little thing we do.
I would love to be thought of as a potato chip of God. If I lived my life in such a way that people wanted to have what I have because it so appealing just as it is, because it's still great or even better when weighted down with things that could otherwise smother us or because it makes everything it sits next to taste better.
Unfortunately, I get stale, I get dull, I get soggy.
Thankfully, Jesus is the master crisper and the holder of the salt shaker. Thankfully, His mercy lets me revive my saltiness and His grace gives me new life. I may not be the best potato chip in the world, but I'm a potato chip, indeed. Yum!
Potato chips are attractive. They are great alone, with dip smothered on top of them, a sandwich laying next to them or in my tummy! A friend once said that chips were a mere platform for dip. I disagree. I believe chips make dip taste good. Try dipping a chip in onion dip and a celery stalk in the same dip. Who wins? The chip!
When our Lord spoke of being salt, He wanted us to be people who make a difference. People who make the world a better more enjoyable place and "our" own personal daily world a place that shines the love of Christ in every little thing we do.
I would love to be thought of as a potato chip of God. If I lived my life in such a way that people wanted to have what I have because it so appealing just as it is, because it's still great or even better when weighted down with things that could otherwise smother us or because it makes everything it sits next to taste better.
Unfortunately, I get stale, I get dull, I get soggy.
Thankfully, Jesus is the master crisper and the holder of the salt shaker. Thankfully, His mercy lets me revive my saltiness and His grace gives me new life. I may not be the best potato chip in the world, but I'm a potato chip, indeed. Yum!
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Seasons
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
For those of you who smoked way too much weed in the 60s and 70s, this is indeed a passage from the Bible and not the brain child of Pete Seeger or the Byrds.
Most of us face goodbyes in this transient age of out of state colleges, armed services deployments and job transfers (or just moving to try to find a job). But a wise pastor once gave a message about seasons at a point in my life when I needed most to hear it. He pointed out that God brings people in and out of our lives to bless us and teach us and even bother us to give us the opportunity to love, learn and grow and in turn bless and teach others.
I have a young friend facing his fair share of seasons. He's moving to a new state to be a youth pastor at a new church. He has held the same position at our church for the past year and a half. As I served with him as a ministry director this past year he has blessed me in many ways. His genuine character has taught me to be more honest about how I feel and what I believe. His passion for his faith has taught me to not take my faith for granted. His friendship has been pure joy as we have many things in common including a love for sushi.
Now he moves on. Since he is just at the beginning of his career, he has just begun to touch people's lives. He has been with us for a season. Now he will be at his new ministry for a season. The length of the season is unknown, but one thing is for certain. God will use him to bless others as he has blessed us and as he has blessed me.
I'll never forget you, Jerell.
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
For those of you who smoked way too much weed in the 60s and 70s, this is indeed a passage from the Bible and not the brain child of Pete Seeger or the Byrds.
Most of us face goodbyes in this transient age of out of state colleges, armed services deployments and job transfers (or just moving to try to find a job). But a wise pastor once gave a message about seasons at a point in my life when I needed most to hear it. He pointed out that God brings people in and out of our lives to bless us and teach us and even bother us to give us the opportunity to love, learn and grow and in turn bless and teach others.
I have a young friend facing his fair share of seasons. He's moving to a new state to be a youth pastor at a new church. He has held the same position at our church for the past year and a half. As I served with him as a ministry director this past year he has blessed me in many ways. His genuine character has taught me to be more honest about how I feel and what I believe. His passion for his faith has taught me to not take my faith for granted. His friendship has been pure joy as we have many things in common including a love for sushi.
Now he moves on. Since he is just at the beginning of his career, he has just begun to touch people's lives. He has been with us for a season. Now he will be at his new ministry for a season. The length of the season is unknown, but one thing is for certain. God will use him to bless others as he has blessed us and as he has blessed me.
I'll never forget you, Jerell.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Letting Go
I'm not the first person to write on this topic. Possibly not the first person to write about this topic today! So I have resisted putting these words on the page, but after today's events, I felt I needed to voice my thoughts.
I am not a helicopter mom. I don't hover over my adult sons' lives needing to know every little thing they are doing. I don't need to talk to them every day, wait up at night for them to get home, or wipe their noses (though I will call each of them a snot nosed kid on occasion).
But if you ask them, you'd probably hear that I haven't let go. I still give unsolicited advice about everything from girls and careers to hair cuts and clothes. I still want to feed them, hug them and hang out with them. I still embarrass them whenever possible.
Today I faced some inevitable truths about my youngest son. As he headed off for his last semester of college it hit me that the chain of events before him went like this: graduation, internship in another state, job in another state. Marriage. Taking his wife with him to another state and having babies in another state. So unless I move to the same state as him, his walking out the door today represented the beginning of my life consisting of seeing him in only small stints a few times a year, if I'm lucky. No! Don't leave!
My oldest son still lives with us, but our struggle is more a Tug O War of wills. He asks for my advice then doesn't like it when I give it to him. He has started to "parent" me, giving me advice. We have turned into roommates in many ways. If he's having friends over, he can clean up, I ain't doing it! But then I have to make myself scarce in my own home when they arrive. When I have friends over, I play the "Mom" card and he still has to clean up. So in many ways I hang on with both arms, but in other ways I want to let go.
The way us moms deal with letting go are as unique as our personalities. I just pray that I learn the gentle balance of letting go to provide freedom and autonomy for my sons, and holding on just enough so that they know I will always be there for them. If distance provides that balance, I will welcome it. If shutting my mouth provides that balance, I'll try to shut it, but knowing me, it won't be easy.
Letting go is tough but necessary if you truly love your children. The best thing that can happen to any person is the freedom to succeed or fail on their own terms. I will always be available, but not always holding their hands. I will always be a listening ear, but will dish out advise only when asked for. I will always love.
I am not a helicopter mom. I don't hover over my adult sons' lives needing to know every little thing they are doing. I don't need to talk to them every day, wait up at night for them to get home, or wipe their noses (though I will call each of them a snot nosed kid on occasion).
But if you ask them, you'd probably hear that I haven't let go. I still give unsolicited advice about everything from girls and careers to hair cuts and clothes. I still want to feed them, hug them and hang out with them. I still embarrass them whenever possible.
Today I faced some inevitable truths about my youngest son. As he headed off for his last semester of college it hit me that the chain of events before him went like this: graduation, internship in another state, job in another state. Marriage. Taking his wife with him to another state and having babies in another state. So unless I move to the same state as him, his walking out the door today represented the beginning of my life consisting of seeing him in only small stints a few times a year, if I'm lucky. No! Don't leave!
My oldest son still lives with us, but our struggle is more a Tug O War of wills. He asks for my advice then doesn't like it when I give it to him. He has started to "parent" me, giving me advice. We have turned into roommates in many ways. If he's having friends over, he can clean up, I ain't doing it! But then I have to make myself scarce in my own home when they arrive. When I have friends over, I play the "Mom" card and he still has to clean up. So in many ways I hang on with both arms, but in other ways I want to let go.
The way us moms deal with letting go are as unique as our personalities. I just pray that I learn the gentle balance of letting go to provide freedom and autonomy for my sons, and holding on just enough so that they know I will always be there for them. If distance provides that balance, I will welcome it. If shutting my mouth provides that balance, I'll try to shut it, but knowing me, it won't be easy.
Letting go is tough but necessary if you truly love your children. The best thing that can happen to any person is the freedom to succeed or fail on their own terms. I will always be available, but not always holding their hands. I will always be a listening ear, but will dish out advise only when asked for. I will always love.
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