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.
Friday, January 30, 2015
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.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Premium
This is it! The mother of all DirecTV subscribers' weekends. Every premium movie channel is free! One has to prepare for this. Pre-purchase of large quantities of microwave popcorn, soda and Milk Duds is a necessity. Make sure all of your comfy sweats, fuzzy socks and throw blankets are clean and ready to be cuddled in and under. Pre-delete as much as possible on your DVR to allow for the 236 movies you will attempt to tape in the next 2 days.
Then there's the warm up exercises. Thumb agility training cannot be understated. Bowl balancing is a lost art that needs to be revived for such occasions as this. Then there's leg lifts. Lift your legs to go on potty breaks, lift your legs to run to the fridg, and, most importantly, lift your legs onto the couch to watch TV while laying down.
But what defines "premium?" Apparently, it means movies that were really panned in theaters, popular in theaters or just perverted. It also means TV shows that couldn't come up with intelligent enough scripts and talented enough actors to be good without swearing and taking their clothes off.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love a good movie or TV show for grownups, but I think the premium really just means "no commercials." So, thankfully, DirecTV has a pause button so I can run to the bathroom without missing the entire plot of anything.
So strap on the popcorn, get those thumbs moving and sit tight. It's about to get crazy at the Harling household!
Then there's the warm up exercises. Thumb agility training cannot be understated. Bowl balancing is a lost art that needs to be revived for such occasions as this. Then there's leg lifts. Lift your legs to go on potty breaks, lift your legs to run to the fridg, and, most importantly, lift your legs onto the couch to watch TV while laying down.
But what defines "premium?" Apparently, it means movies that were really panned in theaters, popular in theaters or just perverted. It also means TV shows that couldn't come up with intelligent enough scripts and talented enough actors to be good without swearing and taking their clothes off.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love a good movie or TV show for grownups, but I think the premium really just means "no commercials." So, thankfully, DirecTV has a pause button so I can run to the bathroom without missing the entire plot of anything.
So strap on the popcorn, get those thumbs moving and sit tight. It's about to get crazy at the Harling household!
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Sushified
I love sushi! Ten years ago those words would have never come out of my mouth. Raw fish? I don't think so. But sushi is so much more than raw fish. Sushi is a party in your mouth. Good sushi is fresh, just the right temperature of cold, has a combination of flavors and textures, spice and mild. It is pretty. When eaten properly, with chop sticks, it takes time. You can't rush good sushi. It is a conversation starter and a good companion to good conversation.
Here's the problem. Getting your family to like sushi. Even getting them to try sushi has been a battle. I started with who I thought was my adventurous son. I took him to lunch at one of those sushi bars where the sushi floats by on little boats and you pick what you want. Fun, right? I explained to him what was in the various creations floating by and he chose very carefully. A roll with shrimp, cucumber and avocado wrapped in the black seaweed and, of course, rice. Delicious! Or so I thought. He stuffed the whole piece in his mouth and proceeded to spit it out on his plate as if he had just put a spoonful of dog poop in his mouth. Followed by "yuck, yuck, YUCK!"
"Try a different piece," I attempted, mortified by the large lunch crowd staring at us. "You like spicy, right? Try spicy crab." He gallantly pushed forward and tried it. He reacted as though it was more like spicy crap. He managed to at least keep it down and we ordered him chicken tempura, which is really just. . .mom's, you know what I'm going to say. . .chicken fingers!
My less adventurous son will eat sushi if he is forced to and it's being paid for by someone other than him. My husband has been very honest with me and has flat out told me it's not going to happen. So I've had to find friends who like sushi so I can get my sushi fix. I have a few friends my age who will travel great distances to meet me for lunch if it involves sushi. For some reason all the pastors at my church love sushi. The head pastor, the youth pastor and the children's pastor have all joined me. The youth pastor in particular, has become a great sushi buddy, but he'll be moving out of the state soon so I'm not talking to him! Just kidding.
If you haven't tried sushi, call me. I'll meet you for lunch and introduce you to one of the best sushi bars around. I'll get you sushified if it kills me! I need the company!
Here's the problem. Getting your family to like sushi. Even getting them to try sushi has been a battle. I started with who I thought was my adventurous son. I took him to lunch at one of those sushi bars where the sushi floats by on little boats and you pick what you want. Fun, right? I explained to him what was in the various creations floating by and he chose very carefully. A roll with shrimp, cucumber and avocado wrapped in the black seaweed and, of course, rice. Delicious! Or so I thought. He stuffed the whole piece in his mouth and proceeded to spit it out on his plate as if he had just put a spoonful of dog poop in his mouth. Followed by "yuck, yuck, YUCK!"
"Try a different piece," I attempted, mortified by the large lunch crowd staring at us. "You like spicy, right? Try spicy crab." He gallantly pushed forward and tried it. He reacted as though it was more like spicy crap. He managed to at least keep it down and we ordered him chicken tempura, which is really just. . .mom's, you know what I'm going to say. . .chicken fingers!
My less adventurous son will eat sushi if he is forced to and it's being paid for by someone other than him. My husband has been very honest with me and has flat out told me it's not going to happen. So I've had to find friends who like sushi so I can get my sushi fix. I have a few friends my age who will travel great distances to meet me for lunch if it involves sushi. For some reason all the pastors at my church love sushi. The head pastor, the youth pastor and the children's pastor have all joined me. The youth pastor in particular, has become a great sushi buddy, but he'll be moving out of the state soon so I'm not talking to him! Just kidding.
If you haven't tried sushi, call me. I'll meet you for lunch and introduce you to one of the best sushi bars around. I'll get you sushified if it kills me! I need the company!
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
My Smart Phone
I'm a smart person. Really, I am. I got good grades in school, I make good money for a job well done. Then how come my smart phone makes me feel dumb?
I was the last person in my household to get a smart phone. For the longest time I insisted that I didn't need one. Then, my friend at work who is much less tech savvy than me (sorry Linda!) got a smart phone before me and that was it! I had given up multiple free upgrades for the rest of my family to get their IPhones and Droids, or whatever they're called, but it was my turn to be cool.
So I did my homework. Which phone had the biggest screen and the cutest cover? The Samsung S5 won. I got a darling pink book cover. I was asked a million questions by a pimply faced boy less than half my age, and two hours later I walked out of Best Buy with my beautiful smart phone! I got my first call and couldn't figure out how to answer the dang phone! Instead, I sent a pre-scripted message that I was in a meeting. What?! It took me three months to master answering the phone! Actually, I'm not 100% at that yet either.
I have mastered email, Facebook, messaging, the weather and loading apps. But I still have problems answering the phone. The other day I was driving with my youngest son, a diehard IPhone user, and I asked him to answer my phone when it rang. He just slid his finger across the screen like he'd been doing it for 20 years and he was talking to the person on the other end. I hate him!
I was the last person in my household to get a smart phone. For the longest time I insisted that I didn't need one. Then, my friend at work who is much less tech savvy than me (sorry Linda!) got a smart phone before me and that was it! I had given up multiple free upgrades for the rest of my family to get their IPhones and Droids, or whatever they're called, but it was my turn to be cool.
So I did my homework. Which phone had the biggest screen and the cutest cover? The Samsung S5 won. I got a darling pink book cover. I was asked a million questions by a pimply faced boy less than half my age, and two hours later I walked out of Best Buy with my beautiful smart phone! I got my first call and couldn't figure out how to answer the dang phone! Instead, I sent a pre-scripted message that I was in a meeting. What?! It took me three months to master answering the phone! Actually, I'm not 100% at that yet either.
I have mastered email, Facebook, messaging, the weather and loading apps. But I still have problems answering the phone. The other day I was driving with my youngest son, a diehard IPhone user, and I asked him to answer my phone when it rang. He just slid his finger across the screen like he'd been doing it for 20 years and he was talking to the person on the other end. I hate him!
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
The Five Ways In Which My Husband is Superior To Me
Bhahahahaha!!! Oops, sorry. I just had to get that out of my system. That was the response I gave my husband when I asked for a topic and he suggested the title to today's blog. But, since I didn't have any other ideas, I used it. I can make this work. As you can probably guess, my husband would not actually think he is superior to me in anyway and we are very equally yoked. We share the same faith, the same sense of humor and the same five o'clock shadow. You know what I mean all you menopausal ladies out there!
But there are, indeed, five ways in which my husband is superior to me.
1. He's calmer. I don't like to admit it but I am a drama queen. I make a big deal about everything; good or bad, and if someone doesn't physically tell me to calm down, it's just not going to happen. Craig gets to be the one to break the news to me most of the time. "The world is not going to end." "It doesn't matter what they think of you." "30% off at Kohl's is no reason to spend $500.00."
2. He's stronger. Jar opener, grocery carrier, jug o'water placer on top of water cooler. If he's not around I'm forced to drink city water. There are so many minerals in our water you can see them floating like ice cubes! They say it's good for you. It does come in handy when you start to glow in the dark.
3. He's a better cook. That's the good news. He will pour over recipes on line and tweak them and change them and improve them until the meal he places before me is that of a five star chef. The bad news is I ask him if he can make that again sometime and he replies "I have no idea what I just did."
4. He's a better photographer. His photos, mostly of nature, are stunning. People visit our home and can't believe that the photos we have hanging on our walls are not professional. I, however, never met a photo I didn't screw up. When I can actually figure out how to run the camera, the photos are blurry at best. I have more photos of my thumb than I care to mention. Now that I have a camera on my smart phone (another story I'll have to tackle some day) I can take blurry photos on an entirely new medium. 16 mega pixels of thumb!
5. He's better at loving me than I am at loving myself. Emotional baggage has taken its toll on all of us and I am no different. I blame myself for everything and don't feel worthy of the honor, self-sacrifice and unconditional love I get from him, but I get it anyway. He adores me, calls me "hot," can't wait to be by my side and is jealous of my time. Other than the "hot" part, he truly models the love example written in Ephesians as the Church being the bride of Christ. I am his bride, blemishes and all.
So I guess he his superior to me. Though ask him to make a list of how I'm superior to him and we'll see who's really running the show around here. Seriously, we fit together and are knit together in love. We make the perfect sweater. Not too overstated, comfortable and with a lot of mending done by the creator.
But there are, indeed, five ways in which my husband is superior to me.
1. He's calmer. I don't like to admit it but I am a drama queen. I make a big deal about everything; good or bad, and if someone doesn't physically tell me to calm down, it's just not going to happen. Craig gets to be the one to break the news to me most of the time. "The world is not going to end." "It doesn't matter what they think of you." "30% off at Kohl's is no reason to spend $500.00."
2. He's stronger. Jar opener, grocery carrier, jug o'water placer on top of water cooler. If he's not around I'm forced to drink city water. There are so many minerals in our water you can see them floating like ice cubes! They say it's good for you. It does come in handy when you start to glow in the dark.
3. He's a better cook. That's the good news. He will pour over recipes on line and tweak them and change them and improve them until the meal he places before me is that of a five star chef. The bad news is I ask him if he can make that again sometime and he replies "I have no idea what I just did."
4. He's a better photographer. His photos, mostly of nature, are stunning. People visit our home and can't believe that the photos we have hanging on our walls are not professional. I, however, never met a photo I didn't screw up. When I can actually figure out how to run the camera, the photos are blurry at best. I have more photos of my thumb than I care to mention. Now that I have a camera on my smart phone (another story I'll have to tackle some day) I can take blurry photos on an entirely new medium. 16 mega pixels of thumb!
5. He's better at loving me than I am at loving myself. Emotional baggage has taken its toll on all of us and I am no different. I blame myself for everything and don't feel worthy of the honor, self-sacrifice and unconditional love I get from him, but I get it anyway. He adores me, calls me "hot," can't wait to be by my side and is jealous of my time. Other than the "hot" part, he truly models the love example written in Ephesians as the Church being the bride of Christ. I am his bride, blemishes and all.
So I guess he his superior to me. Though ask him to make a list of how I'm superior to him and we'll see who's really running the show around here. Seriously, we fit together and are knit together in love. We make the perfect sweater. Not too overstated, comfortable and with a lot of mending done by the creator.
Monday, January 5, 2015
An Unexpected Sadness
Another wake. Another friend who has lost a parent. Nobody told me that when I turned 50 I should start stocking up on get well and sympathy cards. Both of my parents have passed away, so I feel a kinship with all of my friends as their parents, one by one, get to that age where time is just not on their side anymore. "It is a part of life" I tell myself. "They lived a long time," they're better off now." All of these things are true, but what's also true is as the generation before me moves on, I can't be a child anymore. Mom's pies and dad's jokes are gone. Having someone to call who will just say "it will be alright" is gone. I am now that "go to" person.
So, I teach my sons how to make my famous chocolate chip cookies, and I buy my future daughter-in-law things I wish I had when I started out as a young bride. I freely give unsolicited advice on loving well and what a woman wants from her husband. I am suddenly way too concerned about the weather forecast and have a favorite weatherman. I even sneak a peak at Wheel of Fortune now and again. I haven't started watching Law and Order reruns yet. But it's only a matter of time.
I become to my adult children who our mothers were to us. Strong, opinionated, meddling, doting, loving. It's an unexpected joy and an unexpected sadness. I think I'll see what movie is on the Hallmark channel. . . .
So, I teach my sons how to make my famous chocolate chip cookies, and I buy my future daughter-in-law things I wish I had when I started out as a young bride. I freely give unsolicited advice on loving well and what a woman wants from her husband. I am suddenly way too concerned about the weather forecast and have a favorite weatherman. I even sneak a peak at Wheel of Fortune now and again. I haven't started watching Law and Order reruns yet. But it's only a matter of time.
I become to my adult children who our mothers were to us. Strong, opinionated, meddling, doting, loving. It's an unexpected joy and an unexpected sadness. I think I'll see what movie is on the Hallmark channel. . . .
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Taking Down Christmas
We all have to do it. We all hate it. We all know what it means. Christmas is over. The one reason to eat too much, drink too much, party too much, spend too much is gone.
Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas for more than the reasons listed above, but, for me the decorations represent the festivity of the season. Each little trinket is a ticket to fun. There is a history to each piece that evokes memories of friends, family and spectacular sales at Macy's. Some of my decorations are so old they were made in Japan instead of China! The Asians, in general, must think we in America are insane to spend money on a fluffy snowman holding a birdy instead of something like . . . food or shelter.
Putting away decorations are a much different process then getting them out. When you get out the boxes of decorations (or when your husband gets them out) you provide direct and careful supervision, making sure each box is handled with ultimate care. You open each box with the bright eyes of a child reveling in the unwrapping of the first gift on Christmas morning. You screech with delight at the sight of the first of 27 nutcrackers. You dance around the room with it like you just got the lead in Tchaikovsky's ballet. You dust it off, wondering how it got dusty in a box and carefully place it in the same spot you have put it for the past 20 years. Your nutcracker is home!
Now I face putting the decorations away. My nutcrackers and snowmen have been out for a month now collecting dust. This is always a mystery to me. I thought Christmas was so magical that dust didn't exist during this season. I was wrong. Heck, I'm not dusting these things again . . . ohhh! That's how they got dusty in the box! I digress. I wrap each piece with as much strength as I can muster now that I'm on a carb free diet, shove it in the closest box and repeat until I can see my dining room table again.
I stop and pause and wonder is this too much? Should I have been spending my time and money on wiser, more nobler pursuits? There are definitely wiser and more nobler pursuits out there, but bringing a little joy into the home, watching the wonder light up in your child's eyes, that's kind of noble.
As every inch of my dining room table was filled with 40+ years of collections, I thought "too much?" Nah! There's still room on the kitchen table!
Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas for more than the reasons listed above, but, for me the decorations represent the festivity of the season. Each little trinket is a ticket to fun. There is a history to each piece that evokes memories of friends, family and spectacular sales at Macy's. Some of my decorations are so old they were made in Japan instead of China! The Asians, in general, must think we in America are insane to spend money on a fluffy snowman holding a birdy instead of something like . . . food or shelter.
Putting away decorations are a much different process then getting them out. When you get out the boxes of decorations (or when your husband gets them out) you provide direct and careful supervision, making sure each box is handled with ultimate care. You open each box with the bright eyes of a child reveling in the unwrapping of the first gift on Christmas morning. You screech with delight at the sight of the first of 27 nutcrackers. You dance around the room with it like you just got the lead in Tchaikovsky's ballet. You dust it off, wondering how it got dusty in a box and carefully place it in the same spot you have put it for the past 20 years. Your nutcracker is home!
Now I face putting the decorations away. My nutcrackers and snowmen have been out for a month now collecting dust. This is always a mystery to me. I thought Christmas was so magical that dust didn't exist during this season. I was wrong. Heck, I'm not dusting these things again . . . ohhh! That's how they got dusty in the box! I digress. I wrap each piece with as much strength as I can muster now that I'm on a carb free diet, shove it in the closest box and repeat until I can see my dining room table again.
I stop and pause and wonder is this too much? Should I have been spending my time and money on wiser, more nobler pursuits? There are definitely wiser and more nobler pursuits out there, but bringing a little joy into the home, watching the wonder light up in your child's eyes, that's kind of noble.
As every inch of my dining room table was filled with 40+ years of collections, I thought "too much?" Nah! There's still room on the kitchen table!
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| Explosion on 34th Street |
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Leadership
What makes someone a leader? Is it something ingrained in them since birth? Is it a learned skill? Is it just because they are pushy?
We all have encountered many different types of leaders in our life. The boss with the Napoleon Complex, the scout leader who is secretly preparing for the apocalypse, and the reluctant leader. The person who stupidly raised his hand at a meeting or, even worse, didn't show up to the meeting and got voted in.
I am a reluctant leader. I don't feel like I have any credentials to lead, but I care a little too much and see a need and want to fill it. That involves raising your hand. I presently carry a few "official" leadership positions. I am the "office manager" at my job. Though I only "manage" one almost perfect employee who requires little guidance, I'm still the manager! I mostly manage large amounts of paperwork. But I'll tell you, if those papers get out of hand I threaten them with the shredder and they straighten right up!
I am also a ministry director at my church. I am the director over the Connections area. That means greeters, hospitality, manna delivery to newcomers and helping hands to people who need meals, rides, etc. This is one of those "I raised my hand" situations. I thought "I like to greet people and make them feel welcome. I can do this." Also, a former, and I mean former, good friend really needed me to take this on so she could get out of it (you know who you are!) I have learned a lot about leadership through this experience. First, don't expect that the people you are leading will have the same passion that you do right out of the gate. You have to exhibit and live out passion for it to be catchy. Second, close to nobody reads emails anymore. Third, develop tough skin. I have some great leaders under me who handle many of the facets of this ministry without a whimper, and for them I am eternally grateful!
Lastly, I am a leader of a ladies community group. Leadership over something you have a true investment in is both the easiest and hardest thing you will do. I love each lady who comes to the group once or every week. I love each lady who even thinks about coming. I truly want to see each lady grow closer to God and closer to each other; to build strong relationships with each other. This starts with me, and this terrifies me. I've never been great at being a close friend and this is the kind of leadership that is required. I will make mistakes and will hopefully be met with grace, but, inevitably, I will hurt someone, maybe more than one. But, maybe, I will help someone, maybe more than one, and that will be worth it.
The greatest examples of leaders in my life have been servant leaders. Men and women who spur me on to be a better person not only by their words, but by the life they lead, by getting in there and getting their hands dirty, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Isn't this what we all want? Someone to meet us where we are at, to experience our joys and pains with us, to come along side us and say it's okay, but to also show us a way out of our circumstance. Hmm, this sounds familiar. . . .
"Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are - yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God's throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Hebrews 4:14-16
We all have encountered many different types of leaders in our life. The boss with the Napoleon Complex, the scout leader who is secretly preparing for the apocalypse, and the reluctant leader. The person who stupidly raised his hand at a meeting or, even worse, didn't show up to the meeting and got voted in.
I am a reluctant leader. I don't feel like I have any credentials to lead, but I care a little too much and see a need and want to fill it. That involves raising your hand. I presently carry a few "official" leadership positions. I am the "office manager" at my job. Though I only "manage" one almost perfect employee who requires little guidance, I'm still the manager! I mostly manage large amounts of paperwork. But I'll tell you, if those papers get out of hand I threaten them with the shredder and they straighten right up!
I am also a ministry director at my church. I am the director over the Connections area. That means greeters, hospitality, manna delivery to newcomers and helping hands to people who need meals, rides, etc. This is one of those "I raised my hand" situations. I thought "I like to greet people and make them feel welcome. I can do this." Also, a former, and I mean former, good friend really needed me to take this on so she could get out of it (you know who you are!) I have learned a lot about leadership through this experience. First, don't expect that the people you are leading will have the same passion that you do right out of the gate. You have to exhibit and live out passion for it to be catchy. Second, close to nobody reads emails anymore. Third, develop tough skin. I have some great leaders under me who handle many of the facets of this ministry without a whimper, and for them I am eternally grateful!
Lastly, I am a leader of a ladies community group. Leadership over something you have a true investment in is both the easiest and hardest thing you will do. I love each lady who comes to the group once or every week. I love each lady who even thinks about coming. I truly want to see each lady grow closer to God and closer to each other; to build strong relationships with each other. This starts with me, and this terrifies me. I've never been great at being a close friend and this is the kind of leadership that is required. I will make mistakes and will hopefully be met with grace, but, inevitably, I will hurt someone, maybe more than one. But, maybe, I will help someone, maybe more than one, and that will be worth it.
The greatest examples of leaders in my life have been servant leaders. Men and women who spur me on to be a better person not only by their words, but by the life they lead, by getting in there and getting their hands dirty, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Isn't this what we all want? Someone to meet us where we are at, to experience our joys and pains with us, to come along side us and say it's okay, but to also show us a way out of our circumstance. Hmm, this sounds familiar. . . .
"Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are - yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God's throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Hebrews 4:14-16
Friday, January 2, 2015
Patience
The Bald Eagle. Beautiful, majestic, soaring in the wind. Our National symbol of freedom. . . .
"Excuse me, have you seen any eagles around here today?" An innocent enough question yelled out the window of a mini-van full of retired birders. I had just completed a quiet, lonely, almost existential walk along the Fox River in Batavia viewing the waterfowl that had gathered in the still flowing water of the river. At one point I noticed a large shadow near the top of a tree on my side of the river. As I got closer, I confirmed it was an adult Bald Eagle replete with the white feathered head and tail. He had been sitting there, facing the rising sun, gathering the rays to warm himself. He had sat there through unaware bikers, joggers and lovers passing by just 100 feet beneath him. But I was aware. I stopped a distance away to admire him through my binoculars but the sun was in my eyes so I slowly walked past him as he watched my every move. I stopped just south of him for another look with the sun behind me. He looked at me intently, fidgeted a little and took off north up river.
Back to my van full of retired birders. I told them I had seen one fly north and off they went. As I approached my car they stopped directly behind my car and pointed out their window. The Eagle had landed in a tree directly in front of my car! I got in my car, so as not to scare him away and had a perfect view; except for the fact their van was directly behind my car. Let me clarify. The parking lot was big enough to fit over a hundred cars. We were the only two cars in the lot. They were directly behind me.
When birding, patience is a virtue. Not only in waiting for birds, but especially in dealing with other birders. So I wrote down the birds I'd seen, scanned Facebook, called my friend, did my nails, and finally they pulled away. The Bald Eagle was still sitting there. I whispered to him "sorry and thanks" and off I went to bird another day.
"Excuse me, have you seen any eagles around here today?" An innocent enough question yelled out the window of a mini-van full of retired birders. I had just completed a quiet, lonely, almost existential walk along the Fox River in Batavia viewing the waterfowl that had gathered in the still flowing water of the river. At one point I noticed a large shadow near the top of a tree on my side of the river. As I got closer, I confirmed it was an adult Bald Eagle replete with the white feathered head and tail. He had been sitting there, facing the rising sun, gathering the rays to warm himself. He had sat there through unaware bikers, joggers and lovers passing by just 100 feet beneath him. But I was aware. I stopped a distance away to admire him through my binoculars but the sun was in my eyes so I slowly walked past him as he watched my every move. I stopped just south of him for another look with the sun behind me. He looked at me intently, fidgeted a little and took off north up river.
Back to my van full of retired birders. I told them I had seen one fly north and off they went. As I approached my car they stopped directly behind my car and pointed out their window. The Eagle had landed in a tree directly in front of my car! I got in my car, so as not to scare him away and had a perfect view; except for the fact their van was directly behind my car. Let me clarify. The parking lot was big enough to fit over a hundred cars. We were the only two cars in the lot. They were directly behind me.
When birding, patience is a virtue. Not only in waiting for birds, but especially in dealing with other birders. So I wrote down the birds I'd seen, scanned Facebook, called my friend, did my nails, and finally they pulled away. The Bald Eagle was still sitting there. I whispered to him "sorry and thanks" and off I went to bird another day.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Day 1 - Dang Resolutions!
Happy New Year! I wake up to a text buzz (which in my case is a bird chirping). It's my son announcing his great New Year's Eve experience with a photo, his arms around a beautiful girl. Well, someone's year is off to a good start. This is at 7:41am - AM!!! That kid has not let me sleep in for over 24 years! I sat on the edge of my bed thinking, oh yeah, it's 2015, I guess I should make some resolutions. So I think a little. Lose weight? Too obvious. Keep the house clean? Are you crazy, Beth! So I thought, what do I love to do but don't do enough of. Birding and writing.
I have been wanting to start a blog for a long time, but all the buttons one has to push to get a free blog is maddening, so I've always bailed out. Now at 8:41am, an hour after I've answered all the inane questions BlogSpot wants out of me, here I am, making a commitment to blog everyday. What was I thinking?! What will you get out of this blog if you decide to read it now and again? You will get an insight into the inner workings of a bench warmer who's trying her best to get off the bench. I'll write about observations, birding, my faith, my family (when they'll let me); a hodgepodge of topics that will keep you coming back (I hope) because you won't know what you're going to get when you stop in.
So I invite you on this journey with me of getting off the couch . . . I mean, bench, and looking at life a little more vibrantly. Vibrant enough to make an interesting story out of it, anyway.
I have been wanting to start a blog for a long time, but all the buttons one has to push to get a free blog is maddening, so I've always bailed out. Now at 8:41am, an hour after I've answered all the inane questions BlogSpot wants out of me, here I am, making a commitment to blog everyday. What was I thinking?! What will you get out of this blog if you decide to read it now and again? You will get an insight into the inner workings of a bench warmer who's trying her best to get off the bench. I'll write about observations, birding, my faith, my family (when they'll let me); a hodgepodge of topics that will keep you coming back (I hope) because you won't know what you're going to get when you stop in.
So I invite you on this journey with me of getting off the couch . . . I mean, bench, and looking at life a little more vibrantly. Vibrant enough to make an interesting story out of it, anyway.
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