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“Hast thou been rolling in elephant feces?
Or maybe the droppings of some other species?
Surely you can’t think the lotions and sprays
Can make that foul stench you sport just go away!
I cannot endure the sour taste of your kiss
So until you quit, it’s my kisses you’ll miss!”
I don’t know what brought me to take up the habit
Maybe because we’re no longer like rabbits.
Possibly tasting that sweet puff of freedom
Feeds my rebellious side-that’s why I need ‘em.
Could be the stress of my Super-Mom goals
Or that, as a lady, I can’t dip the Skoal. (P’tOO)
Whatever it is, I’m approaching the moment
When I say “I’m done!” and I do not postpone it.
Then, in its stead, I will pick up a vice
That isn’t so stinky, but pretty and nice
Instead of a cloud of smoke over my head,
I’ll spend all my time with my husband in bed.
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She loves each and every one as if it were her only one. She is patient with them, loving them for their unique personalities and for the blessings she considers each of them to be. Often, when you enter her home, there is chaos. Children running up and down the stairs, playing outside with the animals or with each other, are a visible reflection of her soft spirit and gentle strength.
The precious bundle she is adopting now is the only child she didn't bear herself. He makes number eight (8!).
The ages range from 16 down to 5 months, with two sets of twins (13 and 11). There is a twinkle in her eye when she tells me the story of being pregnant, and dreaming about the joy the new life would bring to her family. Each pregnancy, she would scan the clover, looking for luck. During two of these pregnancies, she found four-leaf clovers. Both pregnancies turned out to be twins. When she sees four-leaf clovers now, she smiles. I feel privileged to share the secret of the meaning behind the smile.
I could write pages in vivid description of all the ways she has made my life more full, more loving, more joyous. She is a tireless servant, a devoted wife and the most loving of mothers. She is kind and soft-spoken, yet if her children are at stake, she can be fiercely protective. Her love for God is the kind that I hope to someday find within myself.
And the most amazing thing? That a woman like that would choose to call me "friend".
***
Sorry for my absence, but I've been in Yard-Sale limbo! We've raised HALF the funds for cheerleading, and will be having another sale next weekend. Don't give up on me!
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Someone please initiate a search party. I am officially lost.
Lost in a pile of antique glass bottles, old men's clothing and piggie banks from 1972 (coincidentally, the year I was born!). I have a box full of at least one hundred pair of earrings (from the 80s and made in Taiwan) and more books that I could
Yes, that's a WALKER in the corner. And a bird house. And a desk. And a urine collection bottle. I'm pricing that baby at ten smakaroos. It's a collector's item! Used? I don't know! That's what makes it fun!
No, I'm not starting my long-awaited flea market and Ebay business! I have enough crap filling up my house without inventing a constant flow to pad my pockets. No, internets, this is for the Cheerleading Fund. The Yard Sale to End All Yard Sales that will, hopefully, offset the ONE THOUSAND dollahs it's going to take to keep my daughter in pom-poms and pleated skirts. And no, you can't have a picture. Yet. She gets fitted Wednesday. Then, naysayer parents be damned, I'm posting a proud picture of my adorable 13 yr old in her cheerleading outfit. Because, clearly, I don't give a rip about her online safety. Don't get me started .
Since I was spared Jury Duty (for now), starting on Thursday all this
Today, some amazing women gave me, yes GAVE me, an entire van-load of stuff from estate sales to put in my yard sale. Little do they know, that will be most of the yard sale. Along with some stuff from our house that is no longer necessary. Please. Take it. ALL!!
Wish me luck! The Mr. and I have already had the first 'tense moment' regarding the great expense this endeavor will bring to our already stretched budget. And it wasn't pretty. Or fun.
But...the Mr. is both pretty AND fun! WAY !
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That whole "Rise and Shine" thing was brutal. Vicious, and brutal. Beautiful Jessica has not yet faced the day when she woke up and thought "Ooo...I look like ASS this morning". So of course, it stands to reason that she would be the catalyst of a great MEME for all of us to participate in! And what a fab-u-lous job we all did! Anyone who did it and didn't post here, please let me know so I can link! I think I only saw Dave , Hilly, Karl and Jessica ! Did YOU post a rise and shine? Well, did you tell me about it??
So here I am, brutally abused and left to my own devices, looking for what I should post today. My 15 yr old is not providing the normal fodder of smartass comments and ridiculous expectations, so I am left with only my husband to use and abuse. But that comes later tonight. After some wine and maybe a margarita or two. And toys. Er... marital accessories.To quote Bill Murray, " It's OK! We're MARRIED!"
I'm in a foul mood anyway, and need a reason to believe that people are generally good, rather than the heart-breaking-life-crushing-soul-sucking-leeches that we tend to be, so your comments, people, are totally coveted. It crushes me to see a husband or wife completely broken and defeated by a spouse who, after X number of years, has decided to leave. I don't understand or support breaking up a family, unless there is some serious abuse going on.
I have many friends who are enthusiastically supportive of someone we all love making a difficult choice. And, having been in their shoes, I can understand what a major decision it is to leave a marriage, especially with children involved. Someday I'll post on it. But it is so discouraging to see marriage after marriage (CHRISTIAN even!) crumble and dissolve because someone feels that they dont' get the love they need or the dishes aren't done often enough. Clearly, there is more involved in these cases, but honestly, if I left the Mr. every time he hurt or neglected me, or every time he didn't do something that was needed around here, we wouldn't have stayed together for 12 years.
Yes, 12 years isn't that long. I understand. And my experience isn't the most well-rounded and reliable to refer to. But it's something. And I've learned that in all this time, after all the evenings he has spent on the computer instead of with me, all the days of fighting over parenting and finances and even after an affair (mine) and some serious health issues, the man that I see when I wake up every morning is still the most amazing man I have ever known. Even as he sits there with a dorky headset on, listening to a bunch of guys playing a game and trying to be 'cool', he is the most handsome, intelligent and sexy man I've ever seen, and I could talk to him for days without ever feeling uncomfortable or bored. I can tell him my deepest darkest secrets and he might be hurt or offer his opinion, but I know he'd love me anyway. I promised that I would do the same. And I do. Every day.
Marriage in this country is in trouble, and not just my friends'. People enter marriage with the idea (based on their life experience) that getting married is a few years, maybe more, and then possibly divorce if things don't go well. Which is ridiculous, because they never do. The grass is NOT greener, no matter what you think in the moment.
A tangent, I realize. Bear with me. Pray with me. Maybe we'll see a change. Otherwise, I think we're seeing the end of the family as we know it. You don't want to know what I think about where that's all heading. Lots of you folks would maybe start sending me not-so-nice-mail.
Just pray, friends. Join me in praying that the marriage of two people I care about will be healed. Pray that their children will be ok. Pray that I will do whatever is required without messing things up.
And pray that I stop drinking wine in the evenings and making really cryptic posts. Maybe God will grant it. Or maybe He'll give me something even MORE fun to drink while I post! YAY!
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...Kick em in the CHECKBOOK !!
After weeks of work, many tears, much hand-wringing and a whole lotta hope, I can proudly say that my 13 year old daughter (bound for high school next year), has made the Varsity Cheer Squad at McMinnville High School! That's right! A FRESHMAN on Varsity!
Aside from the years I spent in my youth mocking the bouncy, short-skirt clad bundles of school spirit, I find myself oddly excited for my daughter in this new endeavor. Primarily, I am filled with pride for the amount of seriously painful hard work she dedicated to making the team. It is amazing to see how much determination she has, and completely fulfilling to see her use it to do something difficult rather than fight a constant battle of wills with me (so far she still loses...every time).
Admittedly, the sport has changed drastically from my school daze when prissy, perky preppies were the butt of all my jokes. It is much more athletic and truly worthy of the "sport" label that proponents have fought so vehemently to gain. Watching K. participate in cheer squad, I shall live vicariously through her and obtain immortality.
No?
Ok, then, I'll take lots of pictures and brag nonstop to my dear internets. You shall love it. Indeed, you shall.
Now comes the monumental task of digging through couch cushions (and grandparents' pockets) to find the One-zero-zero-ZERO dollahs it will cost her to participate. That's right, ONE THOUSAND dollars. A grand . Give me a moment. Just saying that made me woozy.
What could cost ONE THOUSAND dollars? Here is the page that breaks down what my 1,000 smackaroos will be paying for. What's that? I don't have that kind of money lying around, either. I would resort to pandhandling on the street or selling my body, but I know too many people in this town, and none of them are buyin'.
My answer? A YARD sale! No, I can't earn THAT much, but I can sure cut a chunk off the total if I get enough STUFF! So guess what I'm doing next Saturday? And possibly the Saturday after that? Pleading with my parents to send money? Oh yea, baby! Also selling loads of unwanted belongings, donated by my family and others with extra on their hands.
So wish me luck, friends! I've a mountain to climb in a couple weeks' time with nary a tool and a button up cardigan sweater.
Bring it ON!
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Following in the lovely footsteps of Jessica , the distinguished footsteps of Karl and the sultry footsteps of Hilly (and if you posted this too and I have somehow missed you, please leave a comment and I shall do so! Post haste!), I have decided to show you my naked self. Not that kind of naked self! People from CHURCH read this! It keeps my language on the clean side!
I snapped a picture of myself this morning at 7:30 a.m. This was before makeup (especially concealer), before a brush and before my first cup of coffee. Also before my first snotty comment, before my first bad attitude and AFTER all the children had gone to school.
As I looked at the picture in Fireworks (to crop it!), it was very tempting to alter this or that, smooth this over and get rid of some lines, but that would defeat the purpose. For me, staring at this picture speaks volumes about who I am, where I came from and where I'm headed.
First of all, I look like my Father. I miss him so much. The way we play guitar together, the loving way he listens to all my original songs as if they were the most amazing thing he's ever heard...and the way he hugs away the fear and pain like only a Daddy can. As you can see in this picture, my Daddy is getting older. When I look at pictures of myself and am moved by how much I've aged, it reminds me that my parents are aging, too. And at some point in the not-too-distant future, I might have to face a world without my Daddy. And that is so wrong .
I also see the many nights of less-than-ideal sleep I've been getting lately, and how it shows on my face so much more than it used to when I was younger. Apparently, I really AM too old to party! My glasses of wine before bed seem to increase my snoring, and lately I have awakened several times every night, feeling like I was gasping for air. I think it's called apnea, but I haven't had a sleep study so I really couldn't tell you if I have it. However, I am clearly in need of restful sleep.
Finally, I see humor. A bit on the heavy side, but there's a twinkle in those eyes of mine. That left eyebrow? No...MY left...it's about to raise playfully and my mouth about to spout some smart-alec remark. Then my entire face will laugh, and you will see joy.
Look at that. I'm my own little ray of friggin' sunshine.
PS-the bottle of wine from last night was actually very good! Although, it only poured TWO (2!) glasses!
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I'm wiped. And not in a good way.
Two straight weeks of staring at this computer screen making boxes line up and the colors 'just right' is enough to make me want a vacation, yet oddly NOT enough to actually pay for one.
As I flopped into bed (wishing the Mr. would come home for a nooner...or...a 3o'clock'er) and turned on the Tyra show, I realized that not only was I exhausted, but I feel a flare coming on. Great.
From the television set, a loud, friendly voice shouts at me (at twice the volume of the show I was watching):
"Is your cat looking for a new flavor?!?!"
We have four cats. Cat #1 is asleep in the Mr.'s keyboard. When we move her from her comfy spot, she will often find my cleanest pile of laundry- and pee in it . Cat #2 has found whatever "flavor" he's looking for between his legs. That, and attempting to viciously copulate with cat #3. Cat #3 is busy soiling the corner of my carpet and then climbing on the desk in front of my monitor and purring her sweet purr. Grrrggg. Cat #4, if God loves me at all, is as we speak transforming into roadkill. Whoa. That was harsh. Ok, I don't want him to die, just...maybe go away. He's missing half his hair. He looks like a Chernobyl kitty. When you go to pet him, he pulls his entire body away from your hand, and yet still purrs as if you had pet him. Both he and Cat #2 stand at my bedroom doorway and howl when they want out. These are the most sickly, disturbing howls uttered by cats, and often sound more like humans saying "I'd like OOOUUUUTTT, I'd like OOOOUUUUUTTTTT". I just keep repeating to myself, I love my cats...I love my cats...
New flavors? Cat chow mein? It could be a dish...
Perfectly served right along with this:
Another !@#% Merlot! In a really cool bottle! And, in actuality, it IS a really cool bottle! It is tilted! So even if the wine sucks, at least the bottle's cool! Although I don't actually know if the wine sucks yet. We'll find out tonight! I'll let you all know, because I just KNOW you're all waiting with baited breath!
Oh, jeez, please don't eat bait. It's only for fish, and in that case only so they'll eat the hook and DIE. So please, don't eat bait. Ewww.
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In the wee hours of the morning (actually closer to 10 a.m.) I stumbled out of bed to find everyone had left for the day, and I was alone. Utterly alone. Except, of course, for the four cats, two dogs and various insects roaming around.
And Miss James.
She was waiting for me in the kitchen, just beyond the steady blink blink of the answering machine. Apparently, I had missed her call whilst I slept in. What a shame.
Miss James represents ABC Financial, the collection branch of satan himself. Her voice is insistent that she must receive a call from me in her office today, in a tone that suggests dire things might happen if her master is not appeased. But I do not wish to call Miss James. I have no desire to dial her number and spend thirty minutes explaining (again) why I will not pay this bill. And I'll tell you why.
Once she has her claws of communication in me, Miss James asks politely if she can set up a payment. No? Well then when shall she tell the creditor that I will make payment? No, she doesn't want to hear the background because I'll have to call the original creditor for that. What then ensues is my increasingly desperate attempt to assure her that I am not some loser with no job (well, I'm half right) who goes around racking up bills she can't pay, and then letting society pick up the tab. If I don't respond by this time, she pulls out the big guns.
"You have children to support, ma'am?"
"Yes..I.." but she interrupts
"Well those children will have to watch you being taken to jail and raped repeatedly with inanimate objects if we don't get our $92"
"Um..."
"And it's people like you that make our deficit so big that our children will be paying for it when they are adults..."
"But I..." interrupted again
"And I bet you litter..."
Now that's taking it too far. I don't litter .
Miss James is no longer on my short list of people I would talk to if I had 12 hours left to live. And you know what? I'm not sure I want to pray for her anymore either. Sorry, Lord. Please forgive me for my unforgiveness for her unforgiveness.
The truth about this debt? It is to a fitness club. I used to work out regularly. Stop laughing. It's true. I went every morning at 5:30 a.m. and did cardio and weights. I loved it! I fulfilled my obligation of a year and was happy to continue on a month-to-month basis. Until, a few months down the line, I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. If I tried to do that kind of activity now, I wouldn't be able to move for weeks. I had to give up that which I loved (a repetetive theme in my life) because of this stupid illness. So I cancelled my membership.
Apparently they never got the memo. So I got letters. I'd call them. Remind them I'm disabled now. Our bad, sorry, we'll fix it. Over and over.
Until finally, Bob's Fitness said I'm stuck with this bill and it's out of their hands. Because the company that takes the premiums out of my bank account for them has to have something in writing, and now it's been more than 3 months without a payment. Therefore they must introduce me to Miss James and her pitchfork-wielding boss. Her predecessor was Mr. Williams. I find it interesting that they insist on being called by formal names but refuse to call me anything but my first name. Loan shark mentality. I think they all took a conference in Chicago and spent a few days with the Family, ifyaknowwhatImean.
So, this morning, there she sits. Blinking at me. And with the press of a button, she goes back to where she came from.
...until the next call.
Anyone up for some coffee?
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The other evening, as we gathered at a friend's house for game night, she issued a challenge to the 13 yr old: Do not say LIKE for the rest of the evening.
Meanwhile, the two adult women were re-enacting our Valley Girl days, spouting "Oh m'GAWD" and "Gag me with a SPOON!" and "Like TOTALLY" ad nauseum, to the background of eye-rolling from the teenagers in the room.
It was really difficult for her!
Tonight, on a Show That Shall Remain Nameless, one of the women is trying to explain something and cannot use the word "Like" less than fifteen times per sentence.
I realized that it's, like, part of our current culture, and will no doubt be inducted into Webster's dictionary before long. I mean, like, as a conjunction or something.
And who told Webster he could do that? Does he have ANY idea what he did when he put "ain't" in there? And he did it JUST when I could have used that phrase on my kids, "Ain't ain't a word because ain't ain't in the dictionary!" PSHAW!!
Next thing ya know someone will take my catch phrase: I brought you into this world, I'll take you OUT!"
Like, totally.
********* EDIT ***********
I was glued to the teeveeee after I heard from the corner of my ear the words "Keanu Reeves" and "local" in the same sentence. I was way too encompassed by Wil Wheaton's blog, but after I finished posting my "dude, I loved you in Star Trek" comment (and he's probably rolling his eyes by now), I sat intently, waiting for them to announce where and when I could find Keanu here in Oregon.
Because I totally need to take a picture of my own personal Keanu next to the actual KAY-a-Nu. For comparitive purposes. Mine wins, by the way.
My hopes were dashed, however, when the story was in reality about a class offered at the college on Keanu Reeves films. Yep, they talk about it for 20 minutes and then you watch a movie. Like sex ed. Only without the sex. But lots of KAY-a-Nu, so maybe it will inspire sex.
Regardless, no sex for me tonight. The Mr.'s feet hurt. Why that means no sex, I dunno. But it's probably my fault and a result of last night's romp. *wide evil grin*
I'd give details but I think people from my church read this. Seriously! And us church people ain't havin' no sex!
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Sorry for the absence, but I have been up to my eyeballs in the pink, frilly world of Mary Kay. You see, the first two weeks of every month, I spend every waking moment gathering sales information, searching for appropriate graphics and content, and putting together newsletters for successful directors. They then send them out to the consultants and further their quest for world domination.
For this reason, and because my brain hurts, I jumped at the chance to answer 5 interview questions from Karl over at Secondhand Tryptophan.
If you would like to participate, read on, and find instructions at the end of the interview! And now,
....Heeeeere's KARL!
1. Do you know how hot you are? ;)
I'd say hotter than the water I dissolve yeast into for pizza dough, but cooler than the oven I cook the pizza in, right? RIGHT? What do you mean, there is no right answer? Truly, though, thanks for that, and for making it so that I cannot go to the bathroom until my head is able to fit through the door again!
2. Describe your efforts at natural pain control regarding your fibromyalgia.
Oooo good one! Well, the first natural remedy I tried was marijuana. I had heard good things, but in the end, it wasn't what I was looking for. Once I kicked all the narcotic pain relievers (and had a wicked spell of withdrawal), I decided that the foods I eat play a huge role in this pain thing. I try to stay away from sugar and wheat (thus the pizza last night! DOH!...er...DOUGH!), and when I'm really behaving, I try to stick to lean meats and veggies. No sugar, no flour, no wine (gasp!) and no caffeine. If I throw a little exersize into that mix, I feel about 80% relief, and can almost live a normal life. If you can ever call me normal .
And then there's weeks where I drink a ton of wine, eat a ton of crap and just deal with the consequences. Because who wants to live a healthy life without pain?
3. What singing style/voice are you most told you resemble?
Most often I am told I resemble one of two people-Trisha Yearwood (country music) or Darlene Zschech (who wrote "Shout to the Lord"), a christian singer/songwriter. Both are amazing compliments, and take them fully to heart.
And then there was that guy at karaoke-when I had brought a back-up CD of a song I had written myself and sang it. I got rave reviews, and then one lovely intoxicated man staggered towards me. He said,
"That song! Hey, do you know that girl from American Idol who sings that Jesus song (I cannot count the number of times people think I am 1. under 29 and therefore qualify to get on that show and 2. Think I would be caught dead on that show)?" I nodded and smiled, "Well, that song you did..." nodding and smiling, "...she would sound GREAT singing your song!" ... ... "Thank you." Pride cometh before a fall.
4. What are your biggest pet peeves?
Let's see...whom shall I offend?
Well, I get VERY weary of folks who will whine and complain about their circumstances, and refuse to do anything about them, even when solutions are both offered and available.
On the flip side, it ticks me off when I want someone to listen to me and the offer solutions or to "fix" everything. Because me, I like to complain a bit and then get all down with my bad self and take action. Like Rambo.
I DESPISE when people ride my butt in a school zone when I am going seven miles above the speed limit. I will slow down to 3 miles below the speed limit. Because I'm nice like that.
I hate hair on my hands. It grosses me out.
I really really completely dislike being ignored when I am talking to you. Like if you're on the computer, and can clearly see that I am standing there, and when I ask you a direct question, you don't answer. As if you cannot hear me. Because you can. I know you can. I bet you'll hear me when I throw the beautiful 19" flat screet monitor
There are more pet peeves, but I'll save those for later.
5. Has blogging caused you any awkward moments "in real life?"
I was about to say no, and then remembered one little tiny thing.
Back when I blogged about building a trellis for my wysteria, I wrote that my neighbor came over and helped, and as I watched him put the screws in my trellis, I was overcome with wanting-for his DRILL! I wanted to have me a yellow DeWalt POWERFUL drill that could handle any job I could throw at it without going VRRrr...rr...rmmm...It was a funny post, and although my neighbor is nice, he's not really my type. My husband, however, made a little comment that made me think I should be a little more careful about choosing people that don't live next door for my lustful posts.
I then directed my desire toward lime tortilla strips and things have been wonderful ever since.
Thank you, Karl! Great questions!
If you're participating in this meme already, let me know so I can drop by and request more interview questions. Otherwise, here are the directions...
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Happy Interview-ee-ing!!
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You opened your browser. You were searching for something. Something different. Something specific.
Leaving MSN in a blue-green fit of jealousy, you typed into that multi-colored search screen, sending into cyberspace your deepest, burning questions.
And now they're coming back to haunt you.
1.makes no sense never curing always leaving
The definition of curing is to make whatever's ailing you LEAVE, no? And since it is always leaving, indeed, it makes no sense.
2.nonsense shirt only hope
Perhaps the same person from search #1-and this ailment that is always leaving is about to be cured. With a nonsense shirt. *shrug*
3.powah grass
I'm hoping we're talking about the kind they puree in protein shakes rather than the kind that requires a bong. Because I'd have a difficult time explaining THAT to my pastor. And the lime strips.
4.does the eye sense pain
Hast thou never poked thyself in the eye?
5.keanu reeves email address
I can tell you from personal experience he's not giving it out. But if you find it, send it this a-way! There's lime strips in it for you!
Them's the best of the best, folks! Now that you're good and loosened up, head over and send Karl to BlogHer! I have a soft spot (And possibly some anti-psychotic medication) for a man who would give his boxer shorts to be in a convention full of blogging women. That's brave, man.
Tomorrow (or sometime in the near future):
"The monsoon that was a soccer game". Stay tuned!
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I know you expected more from me.
I realize I have completely let you down. I've let myself down too. But much like the lime strips in the Fiesta Taco salad, I am an addict. I promise myself I will abstain, only to find my butt parked in front of that television every Monday night. And tonight, it's not Heroes that has me glued to the tube.
I have to say, the Bachelor this season is adorable. He's a Navy officer, a doctor and a triathlete. My problem? His speech. He speaks like a surfer. Lots of "uhhh" and "yeahhhh". It's horribly distracting from those gratuitous chiseled ab shots. Also distracting are his blindingly white teeth. Duuuude, I can't see yer AAAABS when you BLIND me with yer teeth!
Also less appealing than last season is how completely MALE he is. T'n'A, all the way. Each time they strip down to bikinis (I think each woman has like eight) he lets loose with a cheesy line akin to "it's getting hot in here" or something equally eye-rollish.
And then, there was a scene where the two platinum blonde women (and I have to say, they were both horribly stereotypical blondes) were on either side of Andy, and one of the other women is quoted as saying, "Two barbies and one Ken? It doesn't work!"
That's poetry, there.
Next week, I plead with the Caffeinated Librarian to entice me back to Heroes-land. PLEASE let the new episode be enough to break this reality-spell and bring me back to my own personal fantasy land.
Where the men look like Keanu Reeves, can fix my Windows when it crashes and take three weeks to install my new windshield wiper blades.
Oh, baby !
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Today is Easter Sunday.
Easter has become such a loaded holiday. Controversial for many, sacred to others and a spring ritual for many. In a cock-eyed attempt to add to the "I Believe" posts floating around, I want to share with you a little about Easter and its meaning in my life, past and present.
Growing up, every spring on Easter Sunday our entire extended family gathered at Granny's house. She lived in downtown Oakland (CA), but her house was surrounded by a garden of eden, of sorts. There were pathways through blooming roses and geraniums, lilac and jasmine, a swing tied to a tall oak tree and countless other beauties that only now do I fully appreciate. It was a magical place for a child, made all the more magical by the hunt for colored eggs that would ensue after everyone arrived. I can still smell the flowers, still feel the green and white striped seat cushions in Granny's garden chairs. I still remember that for some reason, we never went around the back of the house. I don't remember why.
Granny and Grandpa (great) immigrated from Scotland when they married. Great Grandpa was a professional soccer (football) player for the national team. Their accents were so thick, you would be certain to pick it up during a fifteen minute conversation with either of them. Granny wore black cat-eyed glasses with rhinestones that were so thick they magnified her eyes. She was a larger woman who always wore polyester dresses with knee-high stockings, and usually had a cup of tea in her hand. Grandpa had a stash of those hard, color-striped candies, and was quick to offer them. On the piano was a senior portrait of their daughter, Helen, who had died in an accident years before I was born.
Each of the relatives had their own interesting traits, some I share to this day. I remember the egg hunts, the ham & eggs with biscuits for breakfast and the security of knowing where I came from which signified Easter for me when I was a child.
Now I'm 34 with children of my own. Granny and Grandpa have long since passed away and the extended family rarely so much as shares a phone call or an email.
And Easter? Well that's changed, too.
You see, I suck. No, really. I'm a world-class loser of the worst kind. I cannot claim any of my successes (including my beautiful children) and am fully at fault for all my mistakes. Although this might seem hopeless and dark (and certainly not representative of Easter) it is here that I find my tiny pinpoint of light and begin to see what this holiday truly means to me.
I've always believed in God. I spent my life just living, paying no attention to Him, assuming he wanted nothing to do with me. I mean, DUH! Creator of the universe? Hanging out with someone like me? I think not. During a horrifically painful period in my 20s (divorce while pregnant, life crumbling around me, etc), I decided to see what He had to offer. I didn't put much stock in it, but like most folks at the end of their rope, I was willing to try just about anything to feel less pain.
As I read, something clicked . The same creator of the universe that I assumed wanted nothing to do with me wants EVERYTHING to do with me! No, that's not possible, I thought. He has no use for this former drugee, adulterous, dishonest, selfish and manipulating scab of a human being that resides in this ugly little shell. Again I read it-He loves me. I probably went about 20 rounds before I would let myself believe that maybe it was true. Maybe God loved me. Maybe there was hope for me. And my babies.
I continued to read, and learned that not only did God love me, but he knew I was a screw up! Oh, He knows, and he made a plan to take care of it. Skeptical as always, I continued reading. Once I hit John 3:16, I broke down in tears. For God so loved the world (that means ME! I'm part of the world!) that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.
I've always been the girl that falls in love fast. Fast and hard. And this Jesus, well, lemmejusttellya, he won my heart. I always dreamed of a handsome, perfect and adoring man to be willing to do anything for me...even die for me...and low and behold, if he didn't do just that. And soon I found the girl who was so hurt-so angry, confused and distrusting-the one who thought she was so ugly and empty-was now flawless...beautiful... complete.
Today, I watched The Passion of the Christ. I weep every time I see it. The man I love (or an actor portraying him) was brutally beaten, and then murdered. It was graphic. Bloody. Heartbreaking. It reminds me in fleshy detail that this thing that was done for me was not done lightly. Not done easily.
The battle for control of my will rages daily. There are easier routes. I fail. Constantly. But sometimes, I succeed. And because I invited him, Christ remains right by my side. He's there when I stand in front of 1200 people and sing his praises, and he's there two nights after that when I'm sleeping on the bathroom floor because I've had too much wine.
Easter reminds me of what I believe. And to never, ever give up. Because he didn't.
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After a whirlwind tour of four different stores in our town for holiday goodies and cheerleading shoes (please, God, make it STOP!), we finally arrived home. After downing pain medication (because DAMMIT I hurt!) and a glass of wine or three, I am sitting here reading this HILARIOUS post, and my daughter darkens my doorway.
"Mom! I figured out what we forgot at Wal Mart!"
I paused...
"Our souls?"
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As I was driving around town running errands today, I was confronted with yet another stupid Oregon driver. We're in a school zone, I'm behind a car who is doing the speed limit, and I am keeping a safe distance whilst also doing the speed limit. Driver behind me? Riding my butt like I were Brad Pitt. Er...anyway.
For a moment, I felt myself easing into passive-aggressive behavior, and then it hit me: I'm such a b!tch!! No, SERIOUSLY! I sat there, in my Plymouth Voyager (1994 baybee!) making a mental list of all the reasons I am a total beeeyotch and came up with MY VERY OWN MEME!
So here is is.
Top FIVE reasons why I am a BITCH (or butthead, if you're a guy...because I fully expect you ALL to do this!)
1. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. If you are behind me (especially in a SCHOOL ZONE, and extra-especially if it's in my daughter's school zone), and I am doing five miles over the speed limit (because that's what I normally do) and you are driving THIS CLOSE to my bumper, I will slow down to 18 miles per hour . You will be angry. It's your own fault for tailgating me. When I am about to turn, I will come to a complete stop before making my turn, even if there are no cars coming.
*In my defense, I usually only do this when the driver is making pissed off faces in my rear view mirror as if I am doing something wrong by going the friggin SPEED LIMIT.
2. I don't like to sing "Black Velvet" in karaoke. Not so bad, eh? The really bitchy part is WHY. Why, you ask? Because that is the song EVERYONE sings because it makes anyone sound like Mariah Carey. And I sing well enough that I don't need an easy song to make me sound better. Go ahead, I can take it. Yep, I am. Totally.
*Not that I haven't done it just to prove a point, and not that I don't completely ROCK that song when I do break down and do it.
3. I am a shameless flirt. Even more so when I've had a drink or five. I can't help it. Give me attention, and give it to me NOW! Thankfully, I'm blessed with a patient (and trusting!) husband who knows when to take me home and put me to bed. Something about having ice-cube fights by the poker machines on karaoke night, I think.
*They weren't putting ice down my shirt, they just said something about a target too big to miss, I think.
4. I asked my husband to do something. He said he would. We had the parts in the van, waiting. For three weeks . Then four. Based on principle, I refused to do it because he said he would. Mind you, I can totally install new wiper blades. But HE said he would! He eventually did. It took him 3 years with the dryer hose and clamp. Yep, I was a bitch then, too.
*And there is still another wiper for the BACK window, dear! It's right in the van, waiting for you!
5. I talk my kids out of going to their different clubs and commitments when I'm not up to it. When the reasons don't work, I begin the bribery. When that doesn't work, I pull out the big guns: Because I Said So.
*...and because I don't want to have to stop on my 3rd glass of wine to go pick you up. Mommy doesn't want a DUI. Who knows what Dr. Janet Taylor would say?
Ok, kiddos, TAG, YOU'RE IT! I expect to see this spreading like wildfire across the blogosphere! Even the popular ones! You hear me, Heather? Alice ? Mrs. Kennedy? Melissa ? Yeah, I mean YOU!
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