Mary and Joseph on Steroids

In my previous post, I shared how Jon proudly assembled the nativity scene gifted to us by his father and step-mother upon our marriage. I don't know what possessed my husband to then feel the need to accessorize the rest of the buffet table.

The neighboring advent wreath, I don't have a problem with. I mean, to complain about where an advent wreath is placed just feels wrong. On the other hand (and other end of the table), I did have objections to the "other" Mary and Joseph figurine. No, not the figurine itself. It's a lovely piece that belonged to Jon's grandparents. My objection is its placement next to the nativity scene. It's called "scale" as I had to inform my innocent husband. Men. There's something disturbing about looking at the sweet nativity scene and seeing a giant Mary and Joseph looming. It just gives new meaning to "no room in the Inn."

And he got this because I married him!

Internet, tonight was a momentous occasion in our household. Well, for me it was more joy for my husband. For him, it was the fulfillment of a long-awaited family tradition. See, Jon's father is a pastor and he occasionally spends sabbaticals in Israel. While there, he purchased these incredibly beautiful hand-carved, olive wood nativity scenes for each of his three children. And they are gifted to his children upon their marriage. Over the years, Jon has watched his two younger sisters marry and receive their nativity scenes. On more than one occasion when we were dating, he mentioned that he had one of these nativity sets somewhere at his dad's house. After we were engaged, we were in Minnesota with his family and I remember the exact moment he finally realized his long wait would be ending. I think the conversation went something like this.

Jon: Oh, now I'll finally get my nativity set!
Me: Honey, surely they would have given it to you at some point, even if you didn't get married.
Jon: No. I think they would have had to will it to me upon their death or something.
Me: Well, you're welcome. I'm glad I could be here for you.




















So tonight, I watched my husband unpack and assemble "our" nativity set, and what will become a family heirloom that we pass down to our children.

Merry Messed Up Christmas

I'll get around to writing something more meaningful and touching for the Christmas season, but first I hope you enjoy some of my favorite seasonal Calvin & Hobbs cartoons.

Seasons Greetings Neighbor!

If you haven't been fortunate enough to be exposed to a neighbor's festive holiday expressions, let me share mine with you.

This...














This is the view from our back yard. This? This is our neighbor's BACK yard.

This...














This is the neighbor's front yard. And this?













This is a close-up that just doesn't do it justice. There's music. Playing loudly into the street. And this? This is my gift to you.













You're welcome.

Status Update

Since I recently promised to post more and haven't, I thought I'd give you a quick apology and update. My laptop is having behavioral issues (like refusing to boot up). I'm trying some therapeutic techniques this weekend and if it continues to "act up," I'll be taking it in for professional counseling. I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving! I'll try and be back soon with more disturbing stories.

Eggs, Mason Jars, and Road Trips

Thanksgiving is almost here and I’ve been anxiously awaiting its arrival. I love having time off work, seeing my family, eating, watching the Macy’s parade, sleeping in, eating, napping, eating. Before a big meal (or any meal for that matter), my sister always says, “Girl, I’m gonna hurt myself”. This week, I fully intend to “hurt myself”. But before I get to the table or the couch, we have to make a road trip. And while some people would debate whether a four and a half hour drive qualifies as a road trip, I have to argue it does… because my grandparents were Effie and Lester.

When Lester wasn’t taking us to dumpster dive at the local Foodway, he was taking us with him to the Veteran’s hospital in Jackson, Mississippi. Why my younger sister and I had to make this trip every few weeks is beyond me. Then again, so were our trips to the drug store, where we were able to get out, go inside, and browse the store. But, when we went to the “medicine store” (which was oddly located in another county), we were told to wait in the car, and my grandparents “medicine” was carried out in bottles wrapped in brown paper bags. And trust me, that wasn’t Mylanta on their breaths later.

It seems like we were continually making trips to the drug store, or “medicine store”, or Veteran’s hospital. Pawpaw liked to keep his medicine cabinet stocked. And when I say “medicine cabinet,” I’m not talking about the cute little cabinets often located above the bathroom sink. Nosiree. I’m talking an actual cabinet. At least five feet tall. In the bedroom of all places. It was white… and have you ever seen those plain white birthday cakes you can get at the grocery that have the multi-colored, plastic smiley faces sticking out of them? Well, there were three smiley faces glued to the top front of the cabinet. I guess prescription drugs make you happy.

So, every month or so (when we were about 6 and 8 years old), my sister and I would have to make the trip to the VA with my mawmaw and pawpaw. And it was an event. We’d sleep over the night before because the whole process started at the butt crack of dawn. I’d wake up to the sound of eggs frying in the kitchen. I’d like to say it was the smell of food, but I’m sure my nose was still burning from the power of the Vick’s salve she would rub all over me at bedtime. Sickness was not necessarily required to get this rubdown. So, there we’d be at 5:00 a.m. Effie in the kitchen cooking up food, my pawpaw gathering up all his empty prescription bottles, and my sister still snuggled up in the bed in the leftover heat from my mawmaw’s body. And I? I was on the cot. Maybe because I was the oldest, but probably because my mawmaw couldn’t stand the smell of the salve either.

I’m sure we’d be loading the car by 7:00 sharp. It had to still be cool outside because Lester always had to rev up the engine in the Fairlane for a good ten minutes before we could go anywhere. Those harsh Mississippi winters! So, after ten minutes of racing the engine in park, we’d be on our way.

Now as an adult, one of my favorite things about road trips is being able to stop at convenience stores. And it doesn’t matter if I NEED gas, or if I NEED to use the restroom, I also NEED to get candy or snacks and something to drink. Almost every time I stop… and I can’t help it. I think it’s deprivation from childhood. On those trips to the VA, we didn’t get to stop. We didn’t get to have snacks, or cokes, or candy. Why? Because Effie had planned ahead. Hunger? She had packed sandwiches- egg sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches- every kid’s dream. Thirst? She’d hand us the water jar that sat in the middle of the front seat. It was a mason jar full of tap water. Community drinking, with just a hint of rust flavor from the old lid. This was one of two jars that sat on the front seat. The other? Her spit jar, because Effie dipped snuff. Man, those were the good ‘ole days!

So Jon and I will head to Mississippi on Wednesday and I officially deem it a road trip? Why? Because that trip to the VA was less than a two-hour drive. Less than two hours and my mawmaw packed up like we were crossing the Sahara. And while I won’t be making egg sandwiches or storing our drinking water in a mason jar, I can’t help but think of my grandparents. And I’ll think of them every time I stop at the store for some Sour Patch Kids and my own fountain drink!

Things that seem like a good idea at first: Paddle Boats

Do you remember how exciting it was as a kid to go out on a paddle boat? Chances are, you got to go out on it without adult supervision. What can happen on a paddle boat really? It’s not going to tip over. You’re not going to go so fast that you fall off. About the worse that could happen was having your foot slip off the pedal and having it slap you in the calf or shin. As a matter of fact, I’m not really sure where the excitement came from. I don’t know if I had short-term memory loss as a kid, but every time I had a chance, I thought it would be fun to ride a paddleboat. And every time, after a three- minute spin across the water, it would occur to me how much paddle boats sucked. Seriously. Those things are a lot of work! And your little brother or sister who ended up on that back seat after you threatened to throw them off in deep water if they didn’t let you “drive”… they’re just dead weight. So, there you are, pedaling away for the longest five minutes of your life only to realize you’ve moved three feet. But once you realize how bad this idea was, those three feet seem like three miles to get that thing turned around and back to shore so you can find some fun that doesn’t require so much dang work.

My point was made when I watched some kids a few weeks ago at a small lake. I was sitting on the far shore with some friends, out of earshot, watching these two young boys beg their dad to push them offshore in the paddleboat. He got them all secure in life vests and sent them on their way. “Watch this,” I said to my friend. “They’re about to realize what a mistake that was.” Those kids were on that thing two minutes tops before they were headed back to shore and asking to get in a canoe instead.

And people, just in case you’re thinking about taking a spin on one as an adult- because you have that nostalgic feeling- the older you are, the more torturous it is. Save the energy.

The Reason for My Absence

I know, where have I been right? Why do I even have this blog if I can’t keep it updated? Well, if it makes you (as a reader) feel better, I haven’t just been a negligent blogger lately. I’ve been a negligent housekeeper, a negligent friend, and despite my best efforts, I’m sure a negligent wife in some regards. But, before you start staging interventions for my drug or alcohol problems, I’ll just come clean. It’s just plain ole tiredness. I know, not very exciting, huh? Sure, I think about blogging. I have ideas, and stories, and random observations. But getting those from thought to typing requires something similar to energy, of which I’ve been in short supply. All of this is due to a parasite of sorts (and I mean that in the most loving way). Meet baby Stadler:

Sweet, little baby Stadler, who at the size of a grape is able to drain every ounce of energy I have. Unfortunately, I think I have to prepare for a lifetime of such exhaustion! So, I’m trying to muster up and get on with life. Blogging should certainly require less energy than say… cleaning the kitchen. We may not have clean plates… or towels… or clothes, but I’ll manage to type out more entries. At least I can do that lying on the couch!

The Finger Fork

I was at the mall food court with my sister and her kids. My sister offered some of her chicken to my oldest niece. I reached out to hand her my fork to use as she grabbed a bite of chicken with her fingers.

That’s when my six-year old niece looked at me and said, “Jennifer, we’re from Mississippi- we eat with our fingers.”

My sister rolled her eyes, and Hannah Grace said, “But mommmm, that’s what we DO.”

These are my people.

For the Love of a Ding Dong

I stood staring at the pantry shelves, wondering why we don’t keep sweets at home. There was a jar of hot fudge sauce. I picked it up and thought about eating it with a spoon, like I’ve been known to do with chocolate cake frosting. This isn’t what I want, I thought, and put it back on the shelf. I closed the pantry closet and stood staring at the door.

“I wish we had some Ding Dongs!”

Jon: “Are you having a sugar craving?”

“No. I’m having a Ding Dong craving.”

The next night, I sat in the car at Kroger while Jon went in to pick up some oranges and some cereal. Internet, there are those times in life when God seems to confirm and assure you that you’ve made the right decision about something. That moment for me? When my husband returned to the car with oranges, cereal, and a box of Ding Dongs that I didn’t ask him to get. And in that moment, my entire marriage was confirmed with those round, chocolate-coated, crème-filled cakes!

If I Had a Shovel

Jon and I recently finished the first season of Jericho on DVD. The show examines life in small town Kansas in the aftermath of massive nuclear attacks throughout the United States. As someone who grew up during the Cold War, I know a thing or two about the fear of nuclear attacks. I spent most of my childhood afraid the Russians were going to invade and attack us with nuclear bombs. Of course, movies like “The Day After” and “Red Dawn” certainly didn’t help. I don’t know where my parents were when I was watching movies like this. Probably the same place they were when I was watching “Children of the Corn” and “Cujo”. And while I don’t in any way have an aversion to corn, there may be a legitimate reason I don’t want to own a dog! But, I argue that children can watch movies like this and still grow up to be well-adjusted, mentally healthy adults. And I’m sticking to that even though you’ve read this blog and probably find that debatable.

When I was eleven, most girls my age were playing with Barbies and getting into make-up and clothes. I, however, was plotting this elaborate system of underground tunnels on our 13 acres. That I was going to dig myself. With a shovel. In about a week. The dream was alive until my friend, Tim, asked me to help him dig a fox hole in his yard and the reality of how much manual labor was involved in simply digging a hole resigned me to hope that hiding from the Russians in our barn would suffice. Why Tim wanted a fox hole in his yard is a mystery to me. Although I guess he was also preparing for the Russians to attack- just on a much smaller scale than my elaborate system of underground tunnels. I think he ended up keeping a pet raccoon in that hole. I mean, if you have a fox hole in your yard, you should use it for something.

If nothing else, I can be thankful for the shovel skills I acquired as a child- not just from the fox hole either. When I was seven, our cat died and I buried it in our backyard. Again, I’m not sure where my parents were or why a seven year old girl was responsible for burying the cat, but I was. And I know what you’re thinking after my last post where I came across as heartless toward dogs and pets in general… but, the cat WAS dead before I buried it. I promise. And I wasn’t totally heartless toward pets then either. I wanted my cat to go to Heaven. And I worried about it. So much so, that I went out and dug that dead cat back up every 30 minutes to see if it had disappeared and gone to Heaven. After digging it up 4 or 5 times, I was tired and didn’t care so much anymore. But the point is- I was worried about my cat’s soul. AND, kids who dig up dead animals, more than once, can grow up to be well-adjusted, mentally healthy adults.

Rodent v/s Shark v/s Idiot

I’m sure many of you recently heard about the Florida man who dove off a pier to fight a shark that had grabbed his dog. If you’re a dog lover, maybe you found this story endearing and inspiring. Personally, I found it disturbing. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a dog. If I did though, you can be certain I’d own a dog that could fend for itself. That’s what dogs should do. In my opinion, if a dog can’t protect ME, I don’t see the point. If your dog is… say… a rat terrier, such as the one in this story- it’s asking to be eaten by something. Rat terrier? Think about it.

So, this man- this owner of a Rat Terrier, decided to jump in the water and fight a five-foot shark to save his dog. I’m curious about his wife’s response. The story didn’t mention it, but I imagine the fight with the shark was the least of his problems that day. Or maybe she was proud of her husband for risking his own life- and potentially leaving her a widow- all to save a dog. I doubt it. The man said, “I thought Jake (the dog) deserved whatever I could do.”

How about this response next time? “Well… he was a good dog and we’ll miss him. It’s my own fault though for owning a dog named after a rodent.”

You know you live in the South when...

... you see this bumper sticker on the truck in front of you.

"If you can't RACE it or take it to BED, it ain't worth HAVIN'."

Some woman is going to be real lucky.

The Dunkin Donuts Diet

I know what you’re thinking? I can diet and eat and Dunkin Donuts? Thanks to brilliant innovation by the corporation that made its name on fried dough, icing, and lard injected fillings- YES YOU CAN! On a recent trip to Dunkin Donuts, I noticed a handful of new menu options labeled DD Healthy, Smart Choices if you will- mostly flatbread sandwiches of egg whites, or veggie omelets. Kudos to Dunkin Donuts for the effort, but it begs the question: If you’re trying to be healthy, should you really be walking into Dunkin Donuts? Even if you have a “Smart Choice,” when you’re standing at the counter surrounded by glorious scent of sweetness and you have that chocolate laden Boston crème donut staring you in the face, do you really think you’re going to order egg whites on flatbread? I think not! When I’m standing there at the counter, I’m not thinking about my hips. I’m thinking about how many donuts I can order without embarrassing myself. So, “no thank you” Dunkin Donuts on the flatbread- not unless you’re going to coat it in crème filling and drizzle it with chocolate. If I want healthy, I’ll go to Subway. I don’t come to Dunkin Donuts because I want flatbread. I come because I want fried, I want filled, and I want fat.

This is why our marriage will last.

We were driving through an area of Nashville today where it is not uncommon to see hookers. I looked out and noticed a shoe on the side of the street.

Me: "Oh, looks like a prostitute lost her shoe."

Jon: "Or maybe it was a crack whore."

Me: "Yeah, you're probably right. It was a wedge heel and not a spike."

Jon: "'Cause crack whores don't care as much about their appearance."

And the headline will read: Desperate Husband Discovers Cure

Jon and I were driving home from Shakespeare in the Park last night when he reached and started rubbing the back of his neck.

"I think I have meningitis again."

And being the caring, sympathetic wife I am, I reached over and patted the back of his neck.

"Hmmm... and what do you think cured that the last time you had it?"

"Sex."

"Really? Sex is a cure for meningitis?"

"Uh, huh."

Internet- why do I have the feeling my husband is going to suffer from chronic meningitis?

A Brief Photo Commentary

Almost every day in the car, I see something and want to smack my head on the dashboard for not having a camera with me. Like one day, I saw this white van that had a cosmetology head mounted on it's antenna. You know, those toy, life-sized doll heads you get as a young girl (or flamboyant boy), where you can fix their hair and do their make up. No kidding, it was sitting on the hood of this van with the antenna running straight out of the top of its head. Moments JUST LIKE THAT.

Well, these are a few where I DID have my camera. None like the doll head, but they still caught my attention.

LaMona's Cut-N-Up
No longer open. Perhaps LaMona did a little TOO much cut-n-up!
LaMona quit the hair styling business to pursue a career in comedy.



Now, I don't mean to state the obvious. Wait, yes I do.
I think Pappy did his own signage.
Antiques? Old? Used? How about "confused," cause I think those are all the same.



Construction started with this sign. Neighbors jumped the gun and had to dismantle their protest after the realization that this was indeed not a Gentleman's Club for the good 'ole boys.

Sometimes it pays to be a porker!

On my way home today, I passed our neighborhood Piggly Wiggly. Let’s stop right here. Piggly Wiggly is a grocery store, in case you’re not one of the fortunate folk who have had the pleasure of that knowledge. Piggly Wiggly was a staple in my hometown. My sister worked there in high school and my boyfriend was a bag boy there. He asked me to “go with him” while he was breaking down boxes out next to the dumpster. Yes, it seems much of my life revolves around trash (see previous entry). Another life lesson learned: Any relationship that starts at a dumpster… well, it probably isn’t destined for greatness. But, back to the store itself- they’re all but extinct these days. I blame it on the name. Seriously- Piggly Wiggly? Who would want to grocery shop in a place that reminds you that the sheer act of eating can make you a wiggly porker? What genius came up with that winner?

So, I’m driving by today and there was an advertisement for Hunts Ketchup- 5 for $5. Now, I don’t argue that this is a bargain… if you’re a freak of nature!! Who the hell needs five bottles of ketchup at one time? Tuna? Mac ‘n Cheese? Soup? I can understand some items in quantities of five. But ketchup? I don’t get it. If you're going to sell ketchup at 5 for $5, then pair that special with bags of fries at 5 for $5. Then this would be an entirely different kind of post, and I would be gladly oinking my way to the Piggly Wiggly!!

This was my childhood.

I think I could just tell you my mamaw’s name was Effie and my papaw’s name was Lester and that would be enough. Effie and Lester. Where do you go from there?
It’s a sad day when the words “mamaw” and “papaw” sound better than your grandparents’ real names.

I have a lot of endearing memories about my mamaw and papaw. Like how cute they were when mamaw would call me and my sister into the kitchen and sneak us a couple of dollars, instructing us to “not let him see it.” I suppose we should have told her that he had just done the same thing, but we weren’t stupid. Besides, I considered it payment for the cruel embarrassment suffered under my papaw’s supervision. I’m sure some kids got excited about going places with their grandfather, but honestly- the coolest thing about that experience for me was to climb in the back of his old blue station wagon with the roll-crank window in the back. That was back before seatbelts were invented and folks just threw their young ‘uns in the car or back of a pickup truck and told ‘em to “hang on”.
I was cool with the station wagon. What I wasn’t cool with was where we’d go in the station wagon. Mainly to Foodway- the local grocery store. I would have been perfectly fine pulling into a space in front, climbing out of the back of the wagon, and going grocery shopping with my papaw. I was eight years old and I would have been fine with that. But we didn’t park in front. We parked in back. In the alley. By the dumpster. ‘Cause my papaw… Lester… he wasn’t taking me and my sister grocery shopping, he was taking us dumpster diving. That’s right. He’d pick us up and toss us over in the dumpster to dig for produce. Not to eat. No, we weren’t starving. To feed his rabbits. His pet, caged, white, fluffy rabbits. So, you can understand why I was never overjoyed with finding an Easter basket full of jelly beans. That damn bunny should have been bringing me some imported chocolate... or baskets of cash.

Yeah, my fifteen year old nephew thinks it’s embarrassing when he has to be seen getting out of the car with his family at the movies. How horribly embarrassing. I think my sister and I should toss him over in a dumpster so he has a legitimate gauge of embarrassment. I have a feeling after digging up a couple heads of lettuce, he’d be ready to hold his momma’s hand in public. Kids now days.

No, we didn’t have to walk to school, three miles, barefoot in the snow. He drove us in the wagon and he at least let us wear shoes. I guess it’s good that we didn’t spend all our time sitting on the couch playing video games, or watching TV. There IS something to be said about child labor I guess. We even had occasional strength training. Foodway didn’t have the only dumpster. There used to be dumpsters along every county road and you could just go throw stuff away. Or pick it up.

This one time, my papaw took me, my younger sister, and our cousin, Michael, for a ride in the country. Hey- we were just excited it wasn’t to Foodway. That was, until my papaw spotted a roll of carpet lying beside a rural dumpster. He pulled over and we all did what normal 6, 7, and 9 year old kids do… we jumped out and acted like we had just pulled up at Fred’s Dollar Store. We figured this was as exciting as it was going to get. Lester had my sister and me trying to help him lift this roll of carpet into the station wagon when my cousin Michael popped around the corner wearing a mask he found in the trash. All I remember is him bouncing out and yelling “I’m Mickey Mouse,” before my papaw jerked that mask off and yelled, “BOY, STOP FOOLING AROUND AND HELP US GET THIS IN THE CAR!” ‘Cause Michael’s strength at six was staggering!

I guess I should be thankful. I’m thankful for the experience. I’m thankful that when one day my kids complain about how terrible it is that they have to sit down for family dinners, or that they don’t have the latest $400 cell phone… and all the other terribly horrible tragedies they’ll have to suffer- I’m thankful that I have a resource for a lesson in humility. Only nowadays, people get arrested for putting their kids in dumpsters. Maybe there’ll be a landfill nearby.

And later they'll all say, "He seemed so normal."

As Jon and I were lying in bed with the sleep machine running:

Jon: “Do you ever hear other noises in the white noise?”

Me: “Yeah. Sometimes the speakers on that thing are weird and it makes weird rhythms and some other noises.”

Jon: “‘Cause I think I just heard it say ‘nominate Romney’… and the other night, I thought I heard some of the Chinese Olympians’ names.”

Me: “Okay, honey… that’s not called ‘other noises'…. that’s called CRAZY. And I think you're watching too much TV.”

Maybe I should be the doctor in this relationship.

The following is a brief conversation with Jon, who on our honeymoon feared he had meningitis because his neck was stiff. I, taking a more practical and logical approach, reminded him that he had been sleeping on a plane and two-hour van ride while his head bobbled and flopped around. Muscle soreness seemed like a more legitimate diagnosis to me. I guess being married to a neuro-psychologist has its challenges. “I’m a brain scientist… I KNOW all the things that can go wrong with the brain and spinal cord.” I’m not a brain scientist (or a hypochondriac), but I know that having your head tossed around like you’re on a ride at the county fair will cause your neck to be stiff.

So, after we returned from Panama and I had finally convinced him that he did not have meningitis, he pointed out a small bloody spot on his elbow.

“What is that blood?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Did you slap a mosquito or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Gah, now you’ll be telling me you have West Nile or something.”

“No. Dengue fever. Everyone has West Nile.”

Leave it to my husband to be dramatic. We’re not too far away from cold and flu season. This could get interesting.

Welcome Back

If you've returned to this outdated blog, I'd like to commend you for your patience. Either that, or we really need to get you out of the house more! So, it's been quite a while since I've been able to blog, but now that the wedding and honeymoon are over, I'll return to my regular life and you can read all of the boring details of it here.

There's an overwhelming sense of pressure for this first entry. I've been thinking of how to return and what to write about. As you can imagine, much has happened in the past few weeks and I'll have many stories to share. But for today, I decided to ease back into things and let someone other than me be the idiot of the day.

Enjoy the video. This is classic! Who would guess working at Subway would provide such drama?

Jen's Perspective on Those First Dates

Jon recently shared with you where we had our first three dates. And like you, I gained a little insight into his perspective during those dates. To complement his story, I’d like to share my perspective.

Date Number One: Fido Coffee House
I’ll be honest, Jon seemed like a nice guy via e-mail and I could tell he was intelligent and witty (two traits I appreciate greatly), but I did not want to go on this date. If you’ve never done online dating, you probably aren’t aware of the mass quantity of first dates there are. A LOT. And for a woman, that means one thing- a lot of time and maintenance on hair, clothes and make-up. It gets exhausting and sometimes you just want to show up in your sweats and a ball cap. Which may be why I literally stomped my feet on the way out the door in a bratty-like declaration that I did not want to go. This date, to me, was another first date with little expectation for a second, which would mean I had invested way too much mirror time for nothing. I walked in Fido and stood at the counter to wait on Jonathan. When he walked around the end of the bar I noticed he was much cuter than his profile picture and I was thankful I didn’t wear my sweats. He bought me a hot cider and we sat down and started talking. It didn’t take me long to realize (a) it felt natural to talk to him, (b) his movie knowledge was impressive, and (c) in hindsight, he was sneaky in stealing glances at my cleavage (which, I’m confident played a factor in asking me on date number two!).

Between date number one and date number two, Jon and I realized we were playing in the same softball league, on different teams. The world is indeed small. We finally worked out a time for a second date and I was impressed he suggested Rumours Wine Bar. Not because it’s hip, or that it involved wine, but because it wasn’t Bubba’s Beer Barn and that meant he had some level of class.

Date Number Two: Rumours Wine Bar
Once again, we had great conversation over wine and crab cakes- but during this date, I was already trying to access whether (a) I wanted to go on another date with him, (b) I felt enough romantic chemistry with him (hard to tell after two glasses of wine), and (c) if his last name sounded good with mine (it’s a girl thing). He was chivalrous enough to walk me to my car (a good sign), but since I still didn’t know him well, I wanted to be sure he knew I could take him out (in case he tried anything funny). So, I told him about my martial arts training. He stepped back.

“So, could you kick me in the head?”

“Yeah. I can.”

And frankly, based on the look on his face that night, I’m surprised he asked me out again. Driving home from that date, I felt uncertain about the whole situation. It wasn’t that I found anything wrong with Jon, I just couldn’t determine my own feelings. As I was processing through my thoughts and feelings, it was as if God smacked me right on the head and said, this man is the right one. Hmmm, I thought. Really? ‘Cause I’m not sure, Lord. And as unsure as I was about my own feelings (and would be for several months), I was never unsure that God had asked me to wait and to trust Him.

Date Number Three: Little Miss Sunshine and South Street
Since we both love movies, it was only appropriate that our third date was to “Little Miss Sunshine”. I don’t typically like going to movies on the first few dates because there isn’t much you can learn about a person while you sit silently for two hours. But, I did learn a few things about Jon on this date. (a) He appreciates weird humor, (b) he soaks up details like a sponge (movie lines, character names, directors of movies, the name of Steve Carell’s wardrobe coordinator)- it’s scary how much this man knows! and (c) he is creative (because he took me to South Street for dinner – instead of a standard choice like Chili’s or O’Charleys- and I would have been happy with either of those, but I appreciated something different).
At South Street, he had me try fried cheesecake for the first time and any man who suggested dessert is a man I could live with every day.

And the story goes on with more dates of golf, playing darts, tennis, dancing, and many other random activities we have enjoyed together. Even though I had a hard time letting myself have feelings for Jon, I was always confident that God was at work and that He was going to work all things together for our good. Sitting at dinner with my friend (long before I fell in love with Jon), she commented that she just wanted to know what was going to happen with us. “We’ll fall in love, get married, have children, and live happily ever after,” I said. And as much as I’d like to know all that mirror-time paid off, I have to give God the credit.

A stroll down memory lane (with caffeine and FOOD!)

Since I haven't had much time to blog because of the approaching wedding (July 26), I decided to transfer a couple of posts from mine and Jon's wedding blog we are keeping, mostly for out of town guests who will be visiting Nashville. Jon wrote the following post about our first three dates. I followed with a post about my perspective, which I'll share tomorrow.

A stroll down memory lane (with caffeine and FOOD!)
Quite a few of you may not know much about the beginning of our relationship, other than that we met on Match.com. Three places figured prominently in the beginning of the relationship and also in my plans for proposing to Jen. If you would like to do a tribute to us, you could always visit the following three locations in Nashville.

Our first date occurred at Fido, a local coffee house near Vanderbilt. After corresponding with each other via e-mail, it was time to actually meet. So, I chose Fido because: (a) it was a public place in case Jen turned out to be a psycho, and (b) there was a ready source of caffeine in case Jen turned out to be boring. We met and had a wonderful first date, talking comfortably with each other. I knew after talking with Jen that: (a) I was attracted to her, (b) she was not a psycho, and (c) I was going to ask her for a second date [note (b)].

So, our 2nd date was at Rumours Wine Bar. I knew that Jen was Baptist and if she didn’t drink alcohol I would have no problem with that. I can say this now because we’re getting married, but this was a test. I wanted to know whether she could handle being with a Lutheran, one who was raised in the fine tradition of Luther himself (who enjoyed his beer). Jen had no problem meeting at Rumours and once again we enjoyed a night of great conversation. During our conversation I learned that she has a fourth degree blue belt in Tae Kwon Do, which made me realize that: (a) she could beat me up if she wanted to (cardio kickboxing is not going to be much help against real martial arts), and (b) she could also defend me if she needed to (see cardio kickboxing). I was nervous, intrigued, and impressed by this knowledge, which meant one thing: a 3rd date!

The 3rd date was quite traditional: a movie and dinner. However, the movie and restaurant were not as traditional – “Little Miss Sunshine” and dining at South Street. If you know anything about “Little Miss Sunshine”, it’s a movie that rewards a sense of humor that is slightly askew, i.e. mine. When I heard Jen laughing during the movie, I knew that this relationship could go somewhere. After the movie, we enjoyed a wonderful time eating at South Street.

The tale of our engagement will be the subject of a later post, but it involved these three venues. I highly recommend any of them if you have free time. If you decide to go to South Street for a meal, you must save room for their New Orleans bread pudding with Jack Daniels sauce – it’s SO DELICIOUS. Just thinking about it is making me hungry.

If I were a chain smoker, this would be one long smoke break!

Maybe you're checking this blog for the first time. If so, you're in luck. There's an archive of much about nothing you can catch up on. Maybe you're one of the faithful few who check regularly, and for that I'd like to say, "bless your heart, you must be really bored." Or, if you are truly faithful, you have this on your blog roll and I'm sure I've been at the bottom of the totem pole lately. And suddenly, today... today a new post pops up and now there are expectations. Expectations only lead to disappointment. You should know that. And here it is.

I'm not even sure what day it is these days. I try not to look at the calendar because when I do, I realize how few days there are until Jon and I bound ourselves contractually to one another, and I hyperventilate. Not because of the marriage itself, but because there are a bazillion details to take care of before the wedding. Having OCD has it's price. It's called sanity.

As much as you would like to have something more exciting to read, I would like to have the brain power and energy to write it. Though if it were a choice between the brain power and a good margarita, I'd have to live with being stupid and tired all the time.

The Essence of Saturday Night

I'm sitting here watching two of my girlfriends follow the "Anyone Can Dance: Nightclub Freestyle" DVD. I'm not sure at what point tonight they lost all motor control, but I wish you could see this! We've determined that this in no way demonstrates appropriate nightclub dancing, but it is the best $10 I ever spent for such quality entertainment. As the video instructor was demonstrating steps 1-5, one of my friends shouted out, "She totally just stuck her ass out and she didn't tell us to do that!!" I guess that move is implied in nightclub dancing.

The three of us here are the last of a large group of women who had a wedding shower for me today. We started with margaritas, chips 'n salsa, gifts... then we went out for Mexican food. Now I'm left watching two of them try to learn hip rolls in my living room. This is the best freakin' wedding shower EVER!

Random Statement of the Day

"Hey- before I move out... if you want to borrow my 'Anyone Can Dance- Nightclub Freestyle' DVD, feel free."

This is why I hate cats!

I don't remember much about the fifth grade. I remember not wanting to show my teeth in school pictures. It probably had something to do with one photo having two of me (thank you creepy reflection photos), thus twice the amount of teeth I already felt self-conscious about. So I now have a collection of elementary photos where I'm grinning ear to ear like I'm trying to pry the super glue from my lips. I remember having to line up with my other female classmates while we were checked for scoliosis... because those years weren't awkward enough without having to either wear a bra you couldn't fill, or show up in a t-shirt while you hunched over to see if you had bigger problems than teeth that weren't exactly straight. Those are the things I remember. What I don't remember is having math problems that made me want to have a tall glass of Kool-Aid on the rocks.

My sister sent me an e-mail today with a math problem that is supposedly on a fifth-grade level. I always appreciate when I'm having the most splendidly average day, then someone sends me something that makes me feel less than adequate. That's good times. So, I rushed through it a couple of times, confident in my IQ level, only to be crushed by stupidity. I got it wrong. Twice. Then, as I was driving home, I started to think about it in the car and with my cell phone calculator ("no officer, I wasn't texting while driving, I was calculating... that's much more intellectual"), I came up with the right answer... then celebrated my great achievement of being able to compete with fifth graders. My lifelong goal is finally accomplished.

So, here you go. Grab your pencil, calculator, and maybe a sprinkle of humility. Don't worry if you find yourself obsessing over it, struggling or cursing- a Vodka tonic works just as well as Kool-Aid.

There are 7 girls on a bus (no bus driver).
Each girl has 7 backpacks.
Each backpack has 7 large cats.
Each large cat has 7 small kittens.
How many legs are on the bus?

(This is not a trick question.) Post your answer under the comments and the first person to get it wins bragging rights. Jon- you're already out!

Warning: Someone has posted the correct answer, so don't open the comments until you're ready to know.

Boys and Their Toys

After Jon and I spent eighteen hours on push mowers cutting the lawn the other day, he was teasing me about being frustrated with me because his legs were eaten up by bugs while we were mowing.

“Don’t blame me because of that. How is that MY fault?”

“You were the one who kept saying, ‘we have to mow, we have to mow’.”

“We did! Had we not mowed, we would have needed a bush hog. Don’t blame me for trying to take care of our house. I’ll tell you what… you buy me a riding lawn mower and I’ll be glad to mow by myself every time.”

“If we buy a riding lawn mower, I’LL mow. That’s like having a go-cart. I’ll be glad to mow then… especially if I can get one with an Ipod dock and a brewski cup holder. I may even cruise the neighborhood on that thing.”

Great… I’ll be that woman who lives in the house on the corner with the waist-high grass and the husband who’s gotten two DUIs on the riding mower.

A Dating Deal Breaker

Yesterday I mentioned men and Bart Simpson décor. It reminded me of a story that I’d like to use to make a public service announcement to all guys (especially single ones) who come across this blog.

Before I met Jon, I briefly dated another guy. The operative word being “briefly” and you’ll soon understand. If you’re a woman, you’ll understand. Guys may still be clueless in the end.

On one of our first few dates, I went to his house so we could ride to his softball game together. He was three years younger than I, but seemed mature enough. He owned a house, had a car, and a good job. Those are the things he gets credit for. Those three.
When I drove up, he had his garage door open and I could see several Star Wars character cardboard standees in the garage. No need for alarm. He was a guy, and well… guys keep crap like that. I mean, I’m a fan of Star Wars, but what does a person do with things like that? I digress. When he opened the door and led me through the house, I literally had to step over piles of clothes on the floor. Seriously guys, let’s stop here. If you have planned a date with a woman and you KNOW she’s coming to your house, the VERY least you need to do is pick your crap up off the floor. I don’t want to encourage this type of behavior, but if you’re desperate, throw it in a closet, under the bed, in the bathtub… I don’t care- just don’t leave it all over the floor. To this guy’s credit (because I like to give credit where it is due), all of his crap wasn’t on the floor. Some of it was on his couch. We couldn’t sit down until he cleared a spot for us. Not cool, guys. Not cool.

Even though my OCD kicked into overdrive and my pulse rate went up, I kept reminding myself that some habits are not deal-breakers. That was, until he showed me his bathroom… his Bart Simpson themed bathroom. I’m not just talking about a shower curtain and bath mat- I mean the WHOLE bathroom. The color of the walls, the toothbrush and soap holders, towels, EVERYTHING. And how I felt at the moment is how I imagine a woman feels when she goes in to mail a letter and sees a black and white mug shot of her boyfriend on the Post Office wall.

For the next couple of months, I tried to focus on this man’s finer qualities, but I swear his physical appearance started to change because all I could see when I looked at him was Bart Simpson. As far as I know, he’s still single. Take notes, guys. Take notes.

One Man's Treasure is Another Woman's Battle

As with most couples that are preparing to marry and share a home together, the woman usually finds an opportunity to “purge” the man’s possessions. I know- men are finding me heartless right now… but the women? The women want to take me out for a drink so they can tell me about all the crap they had to pry from their boyfriend’s white knuckles. But men, let’s be honest- most women do not envision a home with inflatable furniture and Bart Simpson décor. All men have possessions that women would just as well douse with lighter fluid and dance their celebratory ceremonial chants in the glow of its embers. It’s a fact that as a woman, I’m willing to admit. But, I’m not without compassion. I know that men have deep emotional bonds with that couch some roommate years ago picked up at a yard sale and left behind when they moved out. You know, the one that may be incredibly comfortable, but screams 1987. Why wouldn’t they be deeply attached? Sure, they’ve hardly sat on it because it mostly functioned as a laundry hamper, but it was a GOOD laundry hamper.

So, you end up with a man’s “stuff,” a woman’s vision, and enough emotional tension to suck the air right out of a room. I pulled up with the pick-up truck so Jon and I could load his two couches for a yard sale. We tried the large one first and couldn’t figure out how to get it out the door. As we were lifting, tugging, sweating, and cursing under our breaths, I kept using words like “honey” and “babe” to soothe the tension. He didn’t use any words… and that’s to his credit because I saw a lot of words on his face. We finally gave up and left it sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor while we tried the smaller one. By the time we got to the truck with the smaller couch, I felt the need to make light of the situation.

“Hey- this is the couch I fell off of when we were making out. Remember when I rolled over and fell off and hit the hardwood floor?” Yeah, we make out people… and sometimes it ain’t pretty.

I thought my dancing in the bed of the pick-up truck while I sang “Memories… misty water colored memories… of the way we were…” was appropriate. He finally asked me to stop singing that song. I can’t blame him.

He finally assured me that he still loved me, even if he didn’t like me very much for asking him to part with his stuff. It turned out that I couldn’t find any other men who needed a seven-foot, blue plaid laundry hamper, so Jon won in the end. Or at least it was a compromise- now he’ll have somewhere to sit in the basement.

You say toe-mae-toh, I say toh-mah-toe.

On the way home from meeting with the caterer, Jon and I decided to run by our new house and check on things, turn on some lights, etc. For convenience sake, we traveled through a "sketchy" neighborhood. Among other interesting sites, we saw a tightly-clothed woman in high hair and heels walking alone down the side of the street.

"Niiiiice- a prostitute. That's great," Jon said sarcastically.

"I can't believe we just saw a hooker."

"She could have been a crack-whore, not necessarily a hooker."

Yeah... that's better.

And the romance faded as quickly as the sun.

On our last evening at Edisto Island, SC, Jon suggested we go and watch the sunset. How romantic, right? The man I’m about to marry wanted to go and watch the sunset with me. We got down to the pier as the sun was beginning its descent. After finding the perfect place on the railing with the sunset directly in front of us, I settled in for some romance… just about the time he pulled a bag of barbecue sunflower seeds out of his pocket. I’m surprised I haven’t blogged about these things before because he eats them all the time and he knows that I won’t touch him with a ten-foot pole when he’s eaten them because they are so odorous.

“I brought my sunflower seeds because I can spit them here.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to kiss you if you eat those things.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to kiss me anyway.”

“What? You don’t think I was going to kiss you?”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking romance. I was just thinking it would be cool to watch the sunset.”

Great.

“Okay, I won’t eat them then and we can be romantic.”

The sunflower seeds go back in his pocket and I nestle up next to him as he stretches out his arm around me. We stare off toward the sunset. At least I thought that’s where WE were looking.

“Oh, that little girl in the water down there is going to be eaten by a shark.”

“JON, that’s horrible.”

“Oh wait, she’s on her knees. I thought she was out to her waist. Well, now all she has to worry about are eels and crabs.”

“Yeah, you really weren’t thinking romance, were you?”

After a few more comments about shark attacks and foot fungus (okay, he didn’t really talk about foot fungus, but shark talk had already killed the moment, so why not), he focused on the sunset and on trying to be more romantic. The sun sank down into the tree line and I was ready to move on from the moment.

“No, we’re not leaving until every hint of magenta has faded from the clouds.”

“Okay, I’m totally not telling any of my girlfriends that you just used the word ‘magenta’”.

He did.

Kingdom of the Vacant Skull

That’s what I’d call a movie about my life right now. And yes, I have seen the new Indiana Jones movie. Jon and I saw it yesterday, on the way home from vacation. Wait, let me write that word again- vacation. Vacation. Vacation. I’m saying it out loud and am clicking my heels as I type. If this entry stops abruptly, you’ll know my endeavor was successful. If not, then by the time you finish reading you may understand my erratic behavior and will offer to enroll me in the Liquor of the Month club. There is one. I checked. So, while you browse the site and choose the gift plan you’d like to enroll me in (tequila), I’ll tell you about my hollow head.

First, I’d like to apologize for my lack of blogging lately. Again. Yes, life has been full of activity- out of town guests, wedding plans, looking for a house. There’s been a lot to do, but honestly there IS usually time for me to blog. Time, yes. Mental energy, no. Every day is now full of an array of decisions- what kind of cake frosting, who’ll play the ceremony music, where to take a honeymoon, how do we find another seat in the church for one more person, tube top or spaghetti straps? Decisions, decisions! We’ve also been doing pre-marital counseling. What are three things you’d list as wishes for him to do? What do you think are your relationship strengths? Weaknesses? Decisions, decisions! Did I mention we are buying a house and closing in a week? So, now bridal registry decisions are complicated by color scheme decisions. I’m making decisions on rugs, shower curtains, tablecloths. I haven’t been to the grocery store in almost a month because I’m afraid I’ll snap when they ask me “paper or plastic?” I already know right now that I’d choose paper, but I’d be standing right there in the grocery line, browsing the candy bars (some people look at the magazines, I look at the chocolate), and suddenly they’d ask me for a decision and I’d snap. And break down. And cry. And start eating Reeses right there and they’d all look at each other and finally call security to get the crazily unstable lady who’s yelling “paper or plastic? paper or plastic?” with a mouthful of peanut butter and chocolate. I’ve been eating out a lot.

So, vacation was like therapy. Except it was relatively free. And no one wrote stuff down as I talked. Or asked me about my mother. Or made me cry. But other than that, it was just like therapy. Only something happened. I realized two days in that my brain had indeed been seeping out my pores over the past several weeks. For some, sweat would have been the first assumption, but I’m convinced I’ve been leaking brain fluid. Why? Because on vacation, I was suddenly incompetent. Incompetent, directionally challenged, and incapable of functioning normally. I didn’t know where we were going half the time. I asked idiotic questions. I was on vacation and I was stupid. On the fourth day, I finally had to try and convince Jon that I wasn’t normally that incompetent. I’m normally the one people look to for decision-making. Maybe I finally collapsed on the safety net of having someone else to look to for decision-making, for competency. But for seven days, I was brainless. Brainless because my brain had rebelled against me. It was tired and it went on a seven-day smoke break. So we’re back from vacation and my brain has decided to come back (sort of). But now I’m on the nicotine patch, so keep your expectations low!

A Family of Monkeys

An e-mail from my sister:
“I just got the weirdest phone call for you. Someone is looking for you and said you’ve been hiding from them and they need to find you today.”

Me:
“What? That’s weird. I’m not hiding from anyone. What did they say? They called your cell phone?”

“Yeah… and they were rude. They wouldn’t tell me who they were, just that they needed to find you because you’ve been hiding from them. I wouldn’t give them your number, but told them I would give you theirs. It’s XXX-XXX-XXXX (number changed for privacy!) I checked and it’s unlisted. Are you going to call it? If not, I will call back.”

“No, I’ll call it during lunch. That’s so weird.”

“Well, they said they’ve been looking for you.”

Now, I won’t go into the multiple reasons I don’t trust my sister. It could have something to do with the fact that she was a chronic liar as a child. I mean, perhaps Kirk Cameron really DID believe that she was a straight-A student, blonde beauty queen who had to return her crown because of some controversy. At least that’s what she wrote in her fan letter that I found, and of course still make fun of her for it to this day. It could be a history of like-events from our childhood. Regardless, I’m always skeptical- which is the reason I decided to reverse search the phone number on whitepages.com. The result? Yeah, it sounds awful that I can’t trust anything she says, but this is why.

And this is how I repay you!

If you are one of the five people who regularly read this blog, I'd like to say "thank you." If you are one of the two people who think I'm even slightly funny or entertaining, you also have my deepest gratitude. My "friends" (and I use that term lightly) in college used to point out that I was not indeed as funny as I thought myself to be. And now? Now I can point to at least two people who think I am. And that is my great achievement in life thus far.

I'll be honest- I don't spend a lot of time reading blogs online. There are only a handful that I check on a regular basis. And do you know what? I find myself disappointed, and at times irritated when people don't regularly post. Why? Why would people take the time to set up blogs, to write enough to get people to come back, and then disappear for days on end? Why would they leave me with few time-wasting options? I count on them!

Why indeed. Are they out planning weddings? House hunting? Entertaining three consecutive weekends of company? House sitting for friends? Watching DVDs of "You Can Polka in a Weekend"?

Probably. Sorry. And the sad thing is, I still can't Polka.

It's my party and I'll eat cake if I want to.

I’m not gonna lie- I LOVE cake. Birthdays, weddings… celebratory cake occasions- my favorites. International Talk Like a Pirate Day- this day should involve cake. Shaped like a ship. Or a wooden leg. Or a parrot… but then it may be confused with “talk like a parrot day”. That day doesn’t exist to my knowledge, but if it would be another occasion to have cake, I’d vote for it.

Some people are high-maintenance about their cake. Not me. I even love Ding Dongs. Do you know why? They’re basically cake… cake that is chocolate, and those are two of my favorite things. And that chocolate covering and white cream filling? Those are just little extras.

So, you can imagine that how incredibly excited I was to get to schedule cake tastings for the wedding. People should get married for stuff like this. Free cake tastings. Well, and sex. Which is also free- just so we’re clear. If you are getting married and you’re paying for either of these things, something is VERY wrong.

A friend told me this morning that he and his wife didn’t get any of their wedding cake. He said everyone talked about how great it was- so great that they apparently ate it all without leaving any for the bride and groom. This would be my worst nightmare. Right up there with being naked, covered in spiders, and running through a lightening storm. Yeah, I’ve put some thought into it. Our caterer already told us not to count ourselves in the head count for the reception dinner. He said the bride and groom don’t normally get a chance to eat because they don’t get left alone long enough. We made it very clear that we WOULD be eating. Something else we’re going to make clear? We’re getting some of our wedding cake! I’m so optimistic about that fact that I’m not even going to stash a pack of Ding Dongs in my bouquet.

This is where being female gets you.

Not to be stereotypical, but… they’re doing construction at my work place and what could possibly be a better start to the day than to drive up to work and see a group of construction workers taking a break along the path I have to walk to get into the office? Yep, I’m livin’ the dream!

It’s not that I have a high opinion of myself that I would warrant stares by strange men. It’s that by most male standards, merely being… well, female, is enough to make me gawk-worthy. The bar is low, otherwise I’d let it boost my self-esteem. But the truth is, I’m not the hairy, overweight, sweaty, chain-smoking co-worker they have to stare at all day long. And sadly, that’s simply enough.

Got No Game

In order to not waste a perfectly beautiful afternoon, my roommate and I walked to the park at the end of the neighborhood to shoot some hoops. Or as my sister likes to say “thump some rock.” I’m not sure what that means and I think it’s probably used mainly in the black community. And, since I can assure you that my basketball playing is so far from the natural athleticism of African-Americans, even “shooting hoops” is stretching the truth. So basically we walked down to the courts and threw the ball at a fishing net on a pole. I did win our game of P-I-G, which I’m pretty sure is the white man’s contribution to the game of basketball.

Within a few minutes of our arrival on the courts, a little league game was forming on the baseball field next to us. And this is just what you want when you’re a white girl with no game… in your 30’s… trying to shoot hoops- an audience. Joy. It wasn’t long before a little white girl (who was around six years old) came up and stared eagerly at us. I turned toward her and I swear I could see my basketball gleaming in her eye.
“Do you want to shoot?” I asked.
“No. I just like to dribble.”
So, I handed her the ball and was glad to see someone more awkward than myself on the court. Yeah, I know she was six- shut up! So anyway… she’s dribbling the ball around and I said, “Is your brother playing baseball?” She nodded to affirm the fact. Then I had a really genius moment when I asked her which team her brother was on, at the same exact moment, realizing there was an ALL black team… and an ALL white team. I’m a great conversationalist! I did better with my next question when I asked what position her brother played.
“He plays catch… (I’m already looking toward the catcher when she finished with…) catching the ball. With a glove.”
Well that narrows it down.
“In the grass?” (outfield or infield?)
“Yeah. Not in the grass.”
You know what, I should probably end this conversation, I thought. “So, he plays on a base.” I said definitively. And that was that.
Then her mom came over and asked her to go back to the playground because she was suppose to stay with her other little friend. “The buddy system,” I declared to her mom. “I came with a buddy.” Yeah, I said it. I said it and wanted to thump the rock with my head because I can be that embarrassing to myself.

Sites Worth a Mention

A few months ago, my friend Cherilyn led me to Stuff White People Like- a blog that provides humorous commentary on all things Caucasian. If you don't know about this site, you're missing out on some good entertainment.

As of this morning (and thanks to my roommate, Allison), I'd like to introduce you to a similar concept site- Stuff Christians Like.

Enjoy, 'cause this is good stuff.

Tangelo, I love you so!

"I'm totally addicted to these things."

"What is it?"

"A tangelo. They are gooood."

"I've never had one."

"Oh my gosh! Here, take one and try it. You're missing out."

"What is again?"

"A tangelo... it's like an orange-sized tangerine."


Later in the day, my phone rings.

"Hello?"

"I'm just calling to say how much I love the ta-ang-ge-lo."

"Didn't I tell you? They are sooo good."

"I'm just sayin', you've revolutionalized my orange eating. I love the ta-ang-ge-lo."

"I love how you keep making that a four-syllable word! It's tan-ge-lo."

"Tan-ge-lo."

"Right. You've got it."

"You should blog about it. The whole world needs to know about the ta-ang-ge-lo."

Yes world- you do need to know about the tangelo. And it has THREE syllables!!!

Suggested Expiration Date?

At work-

Me: Do you think soup actually expires? I mean, there's a date on the bottom of the can, but...

Coworker: What's the date?

Me: October 2007... but do you think it actually goes bad then, or is that just a suggestion?

Coworker: That's six months!

Me: Really... you don't think it's still good? It's just tomatoes. I forgot to bring my lunch and I found this in my file cabinet drawer.

Coworker (grabbing the can of soup): Yeah, the can feels kind of soft.

Me: Dang it! I was trying to be all healthy, but if I have to go out in the rain to get something, I'm getting fried chicken!

"Sticks and stones..."

What ever happened to “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”? Perhaps that teaching has been lost in our culture, along with kindness, respect, and basic considerations. Words like I’m sorry, please, and thank you are a rarity in this generation, and will soon be non-existent as we continue to indulge our children and youth in the world of self-absorption. It’s ME-mentality. Children are becoming more disrespectful toward their parents. Teens are more assertive and more aggressive. It’s not that verbal cruelty and abuse are new ideas. It used to be called note passing. You would take a slip of paper, write something mean about someone, then fold it, tap the person in front of you on the shoulder and ask them to pass it to your best friend who was sitting two rows over. It was basic, but more importantly it was contained. Now, platforms like MySpace expand the limited world of classroom note passing to the infinite world of cyberspace. You don’t just tell your best friend what a bitch someone is, you tell the world… including the person named. And, it can all be done anonymously. Though because our teenagers are so self-absorbed, they often want the attention it brings- because clearly everyone in the world wants to know what they think.

In case you missed the story, a teenage girl was recently ambushed, assaulted, and beaten by a group of eight girls (ages 14-18) because she allegedly wrote something negative about a couple of them on MySpace. One girl lured her to a house, where for 30 minutes, they punched, slapped, and beat her- while two guys stood watch outside. The girl was knocked unconscious at one point, and suffered hearing loss in one ear, and a loss of vision in one eye, along with suffering a concussion. Tell this girl that words will never hurt her!

What does this beating have to do with being self-absorbed? Well, if a carefully planned ambush and physical assault over an alleged verbal insult isn’t enough- one of the girls videotaped the entire 30-minute beating so they could post it on the internet. Wouldn’t you be proud of this behavior? Even negative fame is fame when all you care about is getting attention. And, just in case my ME-mentality point isn’t sinking in, after the girls were arrested, they were laughing and joking at the police station, lamenting over the fact they wouldn’t make it to the beach and asking if they would get out in time to make it to cheerleading practice.

I wish I were shocked by stories like this, but it’s difficult when they’ve become so commonplace. Somehow though, disappointment, sadness, and discouragement are still with me… along with frustration. Sure, we can blame music, and television and the barrage of teen-obsessed shows out there, but when that TV turns off, those teens are left living in a house with their parents- parents like the mother of one of the girls in the assault- the mother who stated on national television, “the incident was being overblown” by the sheriff. Overblown? OVERBLOWN?! Her daughter and friends beat a defenseless girl into unconsciousness. Since I don’t believe in attacking with sticks and stones, let me say this- she’s stupid.

An Imaginary Confrontation

“Do they train you people to be rude?” I was practicing what I would say. For the past few hours, I’d had several conversations in my mind, for every situation I could possibly encounter- only assuming the worst. It felt natural to prepare, considering what I’d been told.

“Don’t go to David’s Bridal,” a friend said. “This saleswoman was so rude to me.”

“Oh… don’t go to David’s Bridal, my wife had a horrible experience there.” That was from a co-worker.

Great. Hours of online searching, hundreds of dresses and the one I loved… the ONE… was of course a dress from David’s Bridal.

Just in case the two people I know personally were exceptions to the bridal experience, I googled “David’s Bridal experience.” You know how some people self-diagnose themselves using the internet and what they initially thought was allergies suddenly turns out to be bird flu because both involve coughing and well, that’s what the internet said. Yeah, it was something like that. There were a lot of people who have posted their opinions about David’s Bridal- hundreds of them. People who obviously have nothing better to do than to get on the internet and share their opinions and complain. Seriously, the only thing more pathetic is spending hours reading those comments, then blogging about them. But, whatever.

So, for every one positive experience, there were seventy-five negative ones. I guess that makes sense though. Most people who have good experiences like to just go on about their joy-filled lives, skipping and smiling. You think skipping isn’t as popular as it used to be, but people still love it- they just need good experiences to bring it out. It’s the bad experiences that fester until we can get online and expunge the demons of our complaints. And that’s where I found myself- online with page after page of bridal horrors. After an hour of reading, I was so worked up, I was suddenly having imaginary conversations with rude saleswomen at David’s Bridal.

Everyone would be so stressed and hurried and tense. I’d walk in and some bridal consultant who thinks she’s an expert on everything about being a woman and being engaged would start telling me what dress she thought I needed to wear and was I going to do something about my hair before the wedding and how I should probably start a skin care routine to improve my complexion and if I would lose ten pounds, the dress would be much more flattering. And this situation became so real that I armed myself with an arsenal of smart remarks, ready to put her in her place, and tell her exactly what she could do with that veil. Or, I would calmly look at her in the midst of her condescending advice giving and simply say, “Simmer down NOW.” Either way.

I woke up the next morning in complete defense mode. I was ready to visit David’s Bridal and I was in no mood to take crap from their bridal consultants. My complaint demons were festering and I was already preparing a blog entry about how I ended up in a cat fight with the consultant, destroyed the store in the process, and was forever banned from the store… and I would be getting married in a second choice gown because the one I loved was ONLY sold at David’s Bridal. That would be my story.

Drama always makes for a better story. Drama OR adding “and then I found twenty dollars” to the end of any story suddenly makes it more interesting. But there was no drama, no evil bridal consultant, and no cat fight. To the contrary, it was a rather pleasant experience. My consultant and I chatted it up in the dressing room. I asked her what it was like to work with all the high-strung emotionally unstable brides and their demanding mothers. She didn’t try to get me in another gown, or tell me what to do with my hair or skin care. She simply got the dress I asked for, helped me in it, and provided accessory choices. In turn, I offered a few suggestions for their store, like providing a martini bar to calm the nerves of all the pushy brides. They should look into that.

So, I tried on the dress I loved and that was it. One dress and I was finished. As I left the store and walked across the parking lot, there was a small part of me that was disappointed by the lack of drama. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t have an interesting blog entry about my experience. I was disappointed… that was until I looked down and found twenty dollars. Then, I skipped to the car.

Memory Side Effects

A few months ago, I decided to let my hair grow out- for the first time since high school. Then, I got engaged and words like engagement photos and wedding photography joined my world… along with valid fears of my hair and skin being under the scrutiny of 400 eyes on my wedding day. So I did what every woman would do- I bought pre-natal vitamins. That IS what every woman would do, right? Wouldn’t that be the first thing to come to mind? Sure, I thought about regular vitamins (the non-pre-natal kind), but since I’m getting married and I won’t be taking birth control pills, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and nourish my hair and uterus at the same time. You’re welcome, future baby.

Since taking two vitamins in the past two weeks, I haven’t really noticed a change in my hair health or length. Vitamin regularity would probably be beneficial, but I’m optimistic nonetheless. This week, I’ll try harder to remember my vitamins because if I happen to get pregnant and fat within the next year, I better at least have pretty hair.

A Flight and Fight with Anger

I don’t normally consider myself a vengeful person. Sometimes though, sometimes when circumstances are just right- when it’s 9:30 pm… in Baltimore… on a plane… on Easter Sunday- sometimes when those are the exact circumstances, meanness washes over me and it’s all I can do not to act out of sheer spite.

Certain situations usually create an atmosphere that’s predisposed to stress- like the Southwest Airlines’ cattle herd boarding process. Oh, it’s great when you can jump on the computer at exactly 24 hours in advance and secure your spot in the coveted “A” group. But, if you’re not near technology, if your best is simply getting to the airport an hour in advance, well then- you’re stuck in the “sucks to be you” C group.

Jon and I were disappointed to see “C” printed on our boarding passes, but I kindled the hope in my heart with the encouraging fact that we were C-9 and C-10. Those are among the first Cs at least.

My head felt like it was cracking open in about five different places and as we stood in line and watched the masses of groups A and B board, we wondered if there would still be two seats together by the time the rest of us rejects got on the plane. The last thing I wanted to do was take my headache and wedge it between some chatter box and some screaming child.

As we boarded the completely full plane, there was one empty seat here and one empty seat there. I kept walking out of denial, when suddenly I spotted the last two seats together. Thank God for 9 and 10. Eleven wouldn’t have made the cut.

Once we reached 10,000 feet, that little “ding” sounded throughout the plane, providing permission to use tray tables and to put seatbacks in their “reclining” position. The fact two inches is referred to as “reclining,” is fascinating to me. Maybe it’s like a placebo. So, I reclined… about 1/2 of the way.

“UH, UH! That ain’t gone work for me. She gone have to move that seat back!”

Seriously? I know she is not complaining about one inch. I closed my eyes.

“I ain’t got no room back here. She gotta move that seat up.”

Don’t you just love when people talk at you and not to you? It was at this moment I made a conscious decision to not move my seat for the sheer fact that instead of being asked nicely to do it, some woman who had yet to speak a word to me was disrespectfully demanding my respect of her space.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder and the young girl sitting next to her kindly said, “Would you mind putting your seat back up?”

“But I’ve barely reclined it,” I politely informed her.

Here she went again: “But we ain’t go no room back here.”

Out of respect for being asked nicely, I pushed the button and pulled my seat back up. But another button had been pushed by this point- mine. Before long, I swear steam was piping out my ears. I recognized it was a petty thing to be so angry over, so I tried talking myself into a more peaceful state. The conversation went something like this:

Seriously… all she had to do was ask nicely and I would have been glad to move my seat back. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have just ignored her. Jennifer, calm down- it’s not important. Let it go. I should just plop my seat back all the way and leave it until it’s time to land! How would she like that? Okay, God- please help me with my anger toward this woman. Give me mercy and kindness toward her.

Jon leaned over and kissed me on the head (unaware of all that had happened). “Are you okay?”

“No. My head hurts, there’s a crying baby on the plane, and this bitchy woman behind me complained that I wanted to recline my seat one inch… and I’ve had to pray about the anger in my heart toward her.”

He gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my hand. I closed my eyes and tried to fight the urge to push my seat back. By the time we landed in Nashville, I was over my anger. That was until we stopped and those same people behind us got up and moved past us and everyone else who was patiently waiting their turn to de-board. Airplane etiquette, people… AIRPLANE ETIQUETTE!!!

Even with my splitting headache, I was able to burn a hole in the back of her head with my laser vision. How pitiful that I couldn’t let the better side of my nature win.

The Price of Fake Fame

Do you know that for $250 you can hire fake paparazzi to follow you around for thirty minutes? Makes you think twice about buying those clothes, or food, or other things you actually need, doesn’t it? I mean, we’re talking about having a complete stranger trace your every step, bombard you with questions that are none of their business, and blind you with camera flashes… all so you can feel important for half an hour… so you can feel like someone cares about your average life. I’d laugh if it weren’t so sad. Just when I thought our culture couldn’t get anymore self-obsessed…

The Hill of Regret

As Jon and I prepare for marriage, we’ve discussed whether we should be concerned that after a year and half of dating we’ve not had an argument. We’ve asked ourselves if we just repress things or if we just have good communication. We think the latter. Sure, we’ve been frustrated with each other at times, but not so much that it led to a fight- or even a passionate disagreement. The truth is, I just don’t think there are many things worth arguing over. To me, having peace and kindness in our relationship is more important than where we go to dinner, or what movie we see, or any number of other insignificant decisions. Jon has a similar approach I think. He often uses the phrase, “that’s not a hill worth dying on.”

People argue over anything, but the cause is always one thing- we want to be right… we want to have our way. Our selfishness becomes so powerful that suddenly our pride is of more value than the person facing us. Most of the time arguments get resolved… peace prevails… hurts are healed. But sometimes… sometimes learning the lesson is more painful.

I was eight when my stepbrother left to go deer hunting one morning. Some details of that day are vague, some are as vivid as yesterday. Like me being angry with him because I wanted him to stay home that morning, I remember that. I don’t remember what I did most of the day, but I was at my daddy’s house that afternoon when the phone rang. He picked it up and I remember every detail from that moment on. I remember his words on the phone. I remember knowing what was wrong before he told me. I remember every word, every hug, every tear, every regretful feeling of my last interaction with my stepbrother, and every pain in my heart.

I wish I could say that eight-year old girl learned a lesson that day. I wish I could have buried my pride and selfishness along with brother, but difficult lessons are learned through experience… the kind that repeats itself.

I can still see her standing on the porch, her hand placed sassily upon her five-foot frame. She had a level of feistiness for every gray hair on her head. She was my grandmother. We were exchanging snide remarks as I was getting in the car to leave. I don’t remember why exactly. I was eighteen and I suppose the years of her meddling had accumulated, and in that one moment the straw came down. There was no yelling, no fighting… just that passive, cold-shouldered sarcasm. If it were over something significant, I’d remember. But again, we argue over nothing all the time- never knowing when it’s the last time. A few days later, I was standing in my friend’s kitchen on a Saturday night and they called. It was a heart attack- in more ways than one.

Tragedy isn’t kind. It doesn’t let you know it’s coming. There’s no time to clean the house and prepare for its arrival. We just live, going about our daily routine… you don’t hear the car in the driveway, or the steps up to the door… there’s no knocking- the door just comes crashing down and it storms through your heart and your soul and leaves you disoriented and numb… and feeling every ounce of pain possible at the same time. And tragedy isn’t selective. It doesn’t pass you by just because it’s ravaged you before. I know.

I wish tragedy had just not noticed me the last time… had not turned down my street… or stopped in front of my life again. I wish tragedy had not caught me in my self-centeredness. If only I’d known it was coming, I wouldn’t have been unkind to my sister when she called that Saturday morning and woke me up. But I was. It didn’t matter that she just wanted to know what time I was coming home from college that day. She just wanted to know when she could see me. But I was tired… and sleepy… and unkind to her on the phone. She didn’t come to see me, so I went by to see her before I left home. But, she was tired then, and asleep on the couch. I didn’t wake her. I didn’t wake her and I would have given anything if the next voice on the phone had been hers. But it wasn’t. As I dropped the phone and collapsed to the floor, I didn’t think about all the times I had hugged my sister, or told her I loved her, or had spoken kind words to her, or laughed with her. Those aren’t the things that come to mind. It’s those last words. The words I never knew I couldn’t take back… the words that conveyed that something as petty as my sleep was more important to me than she was… the words that teach the cruelty of regret.

So, Jon and I haven’t argued yet. We will, one day. And, I hope it’s not over what to wear, or what to eat, or where to go… but if it is, I hope and pray that I recognize… and remember… and walk down that hill in love and kindness with him- because that "hill worth dying on" means something more to me.

Happy Easter

This makes me laugh every year!!

Two-Year Old Talent!

This is about the cutest thing EVER!

(Thanks, Allison.)

Mr. Karaoke

Me: "So... karaoke on Friday?"

Jon: "Yeah. That sounds good."

"Because they want to join us for karaoke. I think he has a hard time imagining you doing karaoke. Actually, a lot of people say that about you."

"I don't know why people say that about me! I think I exude karaoke."

My roommate: "What does that mean exactly?"

Jon: "You know- to give off a vibe... it's like an aura... like a sparkly aura."

Me: "I think you need to stop using that word, 'sparkly.' Cause that's a whole different kind of aura."

A Haunting History

Jon and I did a lot of “fun” things on our recent trip to Memphis. We ate barbecue, we toured Graceland, we visited friends, saw the Peabody Ducks, and hung out on Beale Street. While I enjoyed all those things, our most memorable excursion was our trip to the National Civil Rights Museum. We spent three and a half hours at the former Lorraine Motel, where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968. Even with little knowledge about the Civil Rights Movement, it’s difficult to approach the entrance without a sense of reverence. A stone monument in honor of Dr. King sits below the balcony where a floral wreath marks the spot he fell victim to hate. That remembrance of hate serves as an introduction to a history of it.

The walls of the museum are covered in history… excerpts of letters from slaves, historical documents, photos- faces that permeate you to the core. As I stood and read the words of the oppressed, my heart was filled with various emotions. These strangers… these people with whom I have never had anything in common… these faces of the past… seemed very real and very alive. As a white woman, I stood there reading the words of a female slave… reading words that I could never express because my privilege will never allow me to experience. Tears welled up in my eyes and I had to take a moment to gain my composure. This was the first wall. We had been there all of four minutes and there were so many walls, so many faces, so many words, and so many years ahead of us still.

We walked along, each at our own pace, reading, thinking, feeling. We didn’t talk much- probably because our words seemed worthless in our present company of history. There were so many photographs marking hatred toward the black man, but none so memorable as the one that haunts me still. It was taken in Omaha, Nebraska, 1919. (Warning: This is a graphic photograph and is not for the faint of heart.) I stood in front of this photograph for a few minutes. It wasn’t the horrific image of the black man that haunted me most (although it was disturbing in its own right.). It was the faces of the white men in the photo that pierced my soul. There they stood, some with smiles and smirks, some with blank faces… none with remorse, or an awareness of the cruelty of their beings. There they stood- proud… like hunting buddies after catching their big game. There they stood- without respect, without acknowledgement for the value of life. There they stood, in their superior white skin.

I’m not sure this photograph will ever leave my memory. As disturbing as it is, I’m not sure I would want to forget it, because it reminds me of the nature of hate… the nature of pride… the nature of man.