A Square View

I'm moving.

2010-02-27T14:37:00.000-06:00

A Square View is no longer being updated. Please join me on my new Blog, Being Drizzed in Chocolate.

A Change of View

2010-02-20T09:07:00.000-06:00

Dear Friends,
I had intended to return to blogging on A Square View at the beginning of the year. Life threw us a few detours those first weeks in January and it took some time to get settled into a routine again. I have been contemplating how to return after such a long absence. I wanted to organize this site a little better (clean up categories, delete some of my lamest entries) and continue on with A Square View. Instead, I have decided to retire this blog and launch a new blog on March 1. The set up is still in progress, but it will be slightly more focused.

Life perspective comes in all shapes. Say farewell to the "Square" one and join me after March 1. Please come back then to find a link to the new blog.

Thank you for reading A Square View.

Jen

'Tis the Season

2009-12-15T22:40:00.002-06:00

A friend said I needed to update my blog because she was tired of seeing the “turd.” WHAT? How could that be, I thought. It’s so classy! But I suppose the novelty of a turd monster movie only lasts so long.

I know I haven’t been good about writing consistently. In the grand scheme of things, it hasn’t been that important to me. I mean, on the long list of things I haven’t really excelled at lately, sharing random and meaningless information (reference previous post) hasn’t been my highest goal.

There are several things I’ve been thinking about and hopefully I’ll be able to sit down at some point and assemble those thoughts in writing. I think my writing will change to some degree over the next few months. Motherhood has made me more reflective and I find myself desiring to be less cynical of the world around me. Some sense of sarcasm will always be in my pocket. It makes good humor. But, in the midst of road rage, criticisms, and complaints, there are beautiful moments in life I seldom savor. I often opt for the more humorous approach at the expense of sharing the meaningful side of life’s lessons. And if you visit this blog specifically for the turd movie type entries, don’t worry- I can’t be all sentimental and meaningful every time. I just need more balance.

It’s Christmas. Stop reading blogs. Turn off your computers. Turn off your TVs. Spend some quality time with the people in your life. Pick up the phone instead of sending an e-mail. Handwrite a note to someone you love. Be a friend. Help a stranger. Play with your kids. Appreciate your spouse. Talk. Laugh. Love. Thank God for all you have, then apologize for taking it for granted. Merry Christmas.

Just in case you're looking for something to watch this weekend!

2009-11-04T07:49:00.000-06:00

I was browsing through Netflix this morning and came across this gem. It's available to watch instantly in case you're interested. You're welcome.

Movie Synopsis: Serial killer Jack Schmidt is a fugitive who has the police and FBI hot on his trail. After being cornered and wounded by law enforcement authorities, he falls into a sewage tunnel where the chemical company Dutech has also been dumping its toxic waste. The poisonous mixture of feces and chemicals mysteriously transforms Jack into a part-human, part-feces monster who sets out on a deadly rampage.

(And just in case you can't read the poster: "It's not just a movie, it's a movement," and "My butt cheeks are clenched in anticipation of Popko and West's next film." Mine too!)

Drew's News

2009-10-30T09:12:00.000-05:00

I hope I'm back for good now. I need the therapy. The past month has been full and there are a few random entries in my pocket that I hope to pull out in the next few days. I've spent the past week working on a separate blog about Drew for our out-of-town family and friends. Since our families are in Minnesota and Mississippi, we needed a way for them to watch Drew grow. Not everyone has a Facebook account and I didn't want A Square View to become a baby blog, so I created Drew's News. If you're interested in seeing pictures and videos (coming soon) of the boy, you can find the blog link on my Facebook account. I'd prefer to keep my son's business among family and friends, so I won't link it here.

I'll be spending some time in therapy (aka blogging) this afternoon in order to share some random thoughts I've had in the past month about weight loss, motherhood, the homeless, etc. Thanks for being patient with me.

Diet Diary- Entry #8

2009-09-22T20:25:00.001-05:00

Dear Diary,
I thought watching the Biggest Loser would motivate me toward my weight loss, but it’s only made me feel guilty about eating a cupcake while watching all those people work out so hard. Man, they are really working up a sweat. I broke a sweat today too. I forget to turn the air conditioner back down when we returned home from running errands and it was hot in this house. I mean the chocolate icing on the cupcakes was runny!

I broke out the Tae Bo DVD the other day, but only made it a third of the way through. That Billy Blanks is in good shape. Of course HE made it through the whole thing. I hope to make it even further when I do it again this week. I should probably increase my workouts, especially since I’ve recovered from those fifty crunches and twenty push ups I did all last week. And when I say “all last week,” I mean last Tuesday. Sigh. This fitness endeavor his harder than I thought.

For my friend Kristi

2009-09-16T05:48:00.001-05:00

What stormtroopers do on their day off.

And this is why we don't go for walks in our neighborhood.

2009-09-15T22:31:00.005-05:00

*found on the store around the corner from our house

Prostitutes, drug dealers, and loiterers beware!!

I'll take the vegetarian cookie, please!

2009-09-11T20:07:00.003-05:00

Ummm, GROSS!
This is at the Subway down the street.
Who says punctuation and sentence structure aren't important?

Changing my ways before it's death by chocolate.

2009-09-10T21:56:00.004-05:00

Cardboard flavored popcorn. Yum, yum. I wanted, of course, to buy the kind that was drenched in butter- that I would want to shovel in by the handfuls, but that would defeat my purpose in eating popcorn in the first place. I normally don’t eat popcorn. When I’m living without any sense of awareness for my health and well-being, I eat sugar. And if that were the case now, I’d be sitting here snacking on a king-sized Reese’s peanut butter cup. It’s a lot more fun to not care how few of my pants I can still wear. But since it’s slightly embarrassing to still be wearing maternity jeans when my baby is three months old, I’ve decided to make some changes in my eating habits.

For the record, I have lost 31 pounds since Drew was delivered. Also for the record, I had gained twice that in nine months. Let’s top that off with the 10 pounds I had gained on our honeymoon and that equals something similar to cottage cheese and marshmallows. I know what you’re thinking. How long was your honeymoon? Yeah, that would be a week. Yes, I said 10 pounds. That’s what happens when you go to an all-inclusive resort where there is an unlimited amount of food and drink at your disposal. Three of the resort restaurants offered nightly buffets. We didn’t always go to ALL three EVERY night. For the record.

So, Jon and I both decided we were going to work toward being healthier… after we got back from the Minnesota State Fair over Labor Day weekend. ‘Cause let’s be honest, I’m not going anywhere near the fruit stand at the Fair. Not unless it’s next to the funnel cake stand. In which case I may see the fruit stand more than once.

Now that we’ve eaten our way through the MN State Fair, we have committed ourselves to a healthier lifestyle. I’m not sure how cardboard popcorn fits into that category, other than it provides me with a snack that won’t directly attach itself to my hips… and it keeps me from gnawing my arm off while I think about soaking in a tub of chocolate and peanut butter. And just so I don’t cave into that glorious reality, I’m sharing my endeavor with you. Accountability is a b@#*^. I’ll be updating my progress on the side bar, along with periodic “Diet Diary” entries- although it’s changing my diet, not a diet.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to close my eyes and think of M&Ms while I chew on some more cardboard.

"My milkshake brings..." umm, a big headache.

2009-09-02T22:03:00.001-05:00

Here’s a shocker: I’m going to talk about food. If you’ve been around me in the past… oh eleven months, you know it’s been a bit of an obsession- as evidenced by the pregnancy pounds I packed on. You’ll start seeing more entries about food because after this weekend I’m embarking on a serious weight loss campaign. Why put off till Tuesday what I could do today? It’s called the Minnesota State Fair. Corn Dogs. Funnel Cakes. Roasted Corn. Need I say more? I mean, what’s five more pounds in the grand scheme of things really? But, more about that later.

This entry is about one food item in particular: milkshakes. Did I miss something about milkshakes? I remember when you could use a pay phone for a dime (I should just say I remember pay phones at this point), when a bottled coke was 25 cents, and when you could drink milkshakes through a straw. Try that now and you’ll end up sucking your teeth down your throat. Sonic recently had a $2.99 burger and shake special that I took advantage of more than once. Cellulite be damned. That’s a bargain- I don’t care who you are. The last milkshake I got there was so thick that I turned my cup upside down and shook it. Not a drop fell. I’m not even sure there was milk in that thing. Or liquid of any kind. And they gave me a straw with it. A STRAW. Were they taunting me? Was that some kind of a cruel joke? I had to use the straw as a spoon. It took me two days to eat that thing.

Today, I got a milkshake from Jack in the Box. Shut up. I already know I’m fat. The girls at the window handed me a straw and asked if I needed a spoon. I declined.
“Have you ever had one before?” she asked. As if she couldn’t tell I’d been eating a lot of milkshakes! I said I had and she gave me this pitiful look as I drove away. Probably because she knew I was about to suck my brain into my stomach.

I don’t understand why milkshakes have become so menacing. I swear, I think you burn all the calories you’re eating by the time you work that hard to get it down. It’s a good thing I’m about to get skinny. Exercising is one thing, but drinking a milkshake is just too much work.

Making an Outhouse Even MORE Gross

2009-09-01T22:00:00.002-05:00

Nothing I could write would do this justice.

A coma would be a welcome relief.

2009-08-31T22:56:00.004-05:00

I know. In my last post I said I was going to start blogging regularly again. That was five weeks ago. The truth is- life with a new baby is harder than I thought it would be. I was full of aspirations of all the things I would accomplish once I was a stay-at-home mom. How much time could a newborn consume really? Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Eat. Finally, I was going to have time to do all of the things I couldn’t when I was working full-time. Wait. Let’s stop there. When I was working full-time. Like that was going to change once Drew was born. My job before now seems like an eight-year vacation.

There have been times when I thought I was tired. I thought I was tired during pregnancy. I’d fall asleep at my desk during the day and crash on the couch once I got home. THAT wasn’t tired. That was Tired giving me a little bear hug. Then Drew arrived and Tired bitch-slapped me in the face. Normally I would fight back, but I’ve spent the last two and half months crying in the corner from the red welt on my cheek.

Up until last week, Drew was waking every two hours during the night to be fed. It would take approximately 30 minutes to feed, burp, and change him before putting him back to sleep. I have never claimed to be a math genius, but let me do that equation for you. That leaves an hour and a half of sleep between feedings. Tired stood beside my bed like an abusive pimp. Now, the boy is sleeping in four-hour segments. That may not seem like much- especially when I keep reading on message boards about other babies his age who are sleeping 10 hours at a time- but when you’re so tired you wake up in bed looking for the baby you think you have in your arms and you can’t remember what you did with him, sleeping four hours feels like a mild coma.

All that to say- I am starting to adjust to doing life with a baby. He’s going to bed earlier and I’m finding myself with at least 2-3 hours of non-baby time each night. Granted, I spend most of it doing laundry, dishes, ironing, or scrubbing the bathroom floor, but I’m trying to discipline and balance my time so I can share all of my random babble and much a do about nothing with you, internet.

My goal this week is to post at least two entries in addition to this little update. We’re heading out to MN on Thursday, so that will be an accomplishment in a short week- unless I postdate some entries. But let’s not get crazy. One day at a time. Now, I have to run and jump in bed and savor the hour I have left before the boy should wake.

It's called LABOR for a reason.

2009-07-22T11:14:00.010-05:00

I said it more than once during my pregnancy- I was going to “get it” during labor and delivery. And by “it” I meant whatever was difficult, challenging, and would even out the fact that I had such and easy pregnancy. I suppose there are those women who are lucky enough to have an easy pregnancy AND an easy delivery, but I kept my expectations in check. In pregnancy: no morning sickness- check; no indigestion- check; no constipation- check; no weird cravings like wanting to eat laundry detergent- check; and no other common pregnancy side-effects- check. I did get fat, but that’s what happens when you make snack cakes and ice cream two of your major food groups. Maybe I was comfort eating. The fears of having a difficult labor could only be calmed by the crème-filled, chocolate goodness of Ding Dongs. Apparently, I had a LOT of fears!

In typical Stadler fashion, the baby was late and after a week my doctor suggested we induce labor. At 41 weeks pregnant, fat, hot, and waddling, I agreed.

I had three hours of pitocin before they turned if off to let me sleep through the night. My “through the night” usually involves waking up around 9am, but apparently that’s hotel not hospital time. Their good night’s sleep ended at 5am when they cranked up the medication.

Around 11am, I succumbed to that bit of pain where your body is preparing to evict the person living inside there- whom you hope hasn’t gotten as fat as you have- and I asked for an epidural. “Are your legs feeling warm and tingly?” the nurse asked me for the next twenty minutes. “I’m sorry, I’m in LABOR! Did you just use the words ‘warm and tingly’? Because I forgot I even have legs due to the sledge hammer pounding my lower back.” Um yeah… that epidural didn’t work. Twenty minutes later I had a new epidural and a new attitude about labor. Not even a case of Ding Dongs could have made me that happy.

By 1pm I was nearly passing out in 10-second intervals as I held my breath to push. I’m not entirely positive because I’ve had some not-so-good hair days, but I’m pretty sure that was one of my least attractive moments in life. Thank God pain has the power to trump vanity.

An hour passed with little progress because not only had the baby not dropped, he was turned wrong. And just when I thought this was the “it” I was getting in labor, a tornado warning was issued for Davidson County. I’m not even kidding. Do you know what happens in a hospital when there’s a tornado warning? Patients have to move out into the hallway. That’s right. Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just in the middle of trying to PUSH A PERSON OUT MY ORRIFICE! The only positive thing I can say about the experience is that they decided to let me rest instead of push on public display. The whole rest period lasted about 30 minutes until, of course, the epidural started to wear off… ‘cause that’s what happens when you have to wait on a tornado. After a re-dose and another ten minutes or so, we got the “all clear” to return to the room and spend another 30 minutes of wasted effort, during which the doctor tried to manually turn the baby… with her HAND… on his HEAD! If there was any doubt before, I was positive this was the “IT” I was due. The amount of pain in this process was enough that I would have rather delivered a 14 lb baby, in a tornado, in front of everyone in the hospital, without an epidural. THAT would have been a treat in comparison.

The baby never dropped or turned, so I opted for a caesarian… just to top off the whole labor experience. I mean, what non-working epidural, ineffective pushing, tornado warning, baby-turning labor would be complete without a little surgery?

In the end, I got more than my share of “it” in labor and delivery. And it was totally worth it.

Andrew Jonathan Stadler
“Drew”
born Tuesday, June 16, 2009
7lbs 14oz
20 ¾ inches long

Blog Update

2009-07-14T14:17:00.002-05:00

Due to the birth of our son and adjusting to life as a new mom, I have neglected my blog for the past month. My computer is currently not working (I'm borrowing Jon's when I can), but I hope to return to regular blog posts beginning next week. Please come back for the eventful story of our son's birth!!

My Husband- the TV Junkie

2009-06-06T10:12:00.002-05:00

A conversation with Jon as we were discussing our pre-labor "to do" lists:

Me: You know you need to pack a bag for the hospital too.

Jon: I do?

Me: Yeah. You'll need a change of clothes and stuff. Although we'll only be 10 minutes from the house, so you could run home if you want to... but you probably won't want to leave...

Jon: Yeah, you're probably right.

Me: ... 'cause they have cable.

Jon: I'll put packing a bag on my "to do" list.

That's what I thought.

Packing Heat... sort of

2009-05-23T08:00:00.000-05:00

Meet the "Grizzly".

Before you start thinking I’ve joined the NRA and installed a gun rack in the back window of my Mazda, it’s just a BB/pellet gun. But then again, it’s so much more than that. It’s the arsenal for my war with the stray dogs.

How heartless I must seem to all you dog lovers out there. Maybe I am, but I would argue it’s no different than spanking your children. There’s a momentary sting of unpleasantness, but the lessons of obedience and discipline are needed. Unless you’re someone who doesn’t believe in spanking your children- in which case you can call me heartless and I’ll call you wrong. Then we can move on with our lives.

The Grizzly is my last alternative to the stray dog problem. I’m hoping the dogs will soon make an association. They come into our yard. I bust a cap in their butts. It stings. They run. And hopefully it doesn’t take long for them to make the connection.

I borrowed the gun from my nephew. He tried to loan me a more powerful one that weighed about ten pounds. If I had stray moose in my yard it may have been an option, but I opted for the lightweight, less powerful one. I’m not completely heartless.

Now, I just need some ammo. A trip to Target and I’ll be armed for battle. Yes, I’ll be the VERY pregnant woman sitting on the back deck, with my feet propped up, drinking iced tea with a camo gun slung over my shoulder. You can take the girl out of Mississippi, but you can’t take the Mississippi out of the girl.

My Canine Gang War

2009-05-22T10:54:00.001-05:00

What do you get when you live in the hood?
- A neighbor who knocks your peach tree down with a riding mower, hauls it off and never says anything about it? Yep.
- Your car ransacked in the middle of the night and several items stolen? Jon’s was.
- Low-rider drive-by with the bass thumping so loudly the whole house shakes? Oh, yeah.
- Frequent police visits to the house across the street? Of course.

And apparently, you also get packs of stray dogs that hang out in your backyard. It’s a dog gang really. There is clearly a leader who comes to bark at our neighbor’s dog that stays fenced in his yard. The other gang dogs just sit, lie, poop, bark, and hang out in our yard. It’s a nuisance that has driven me to anger many a morning at 1:00am.

This time of year, I like to sleep with the windows open. Not only do I enjoy the night air, but we can keep the house cool without running the AC. Until that incessant barking! I always try to sleep through it, but end up jumping out of bed, mumbling expletives under my breath and slamming the window shut.

Recently, I’ve noticed the dogs making themselves at home underneath our deck. Great. Next thing you know, they’ll be having gang initiations in our backyard. Not to mention one of them is VERY pregnant and this has to be stopped before a litter of puppies is delivered on our property.

Solutions?
1. Animal Control: Been there, done that. I called. They drove by. The dogs weren’t there and they moved on. Just another failure to capitalize on my tax dollars.
2.Yelling “GIT”? That’s my Mississippi coming out. I’ve yelled at them several times. They slowly walk away, mumbling death threats under their breaths and probably plotting what they’ll pee on next.
3. Throwing rocks. Oh, I’ve done that too (not at the pregnant dog). Only at nine months pregnant, my ability to twist and throw isn’t what it used to be. They are usually out of range before I can get down the deck steps, bend down and pick up rocks, catch my breath, then throw. It’s a futile attempt, really. And again, it’s probably just enough to piss them off. It won’t be long before I come out to find gang paw graffiti all over the garage doors.

So, I’m in a gang war with a pack of stray dogs. If I’m going to beat the “hood,” I’ll have to think “hood.” I’ll keep you posted.

Making Room for the Boy

2009-05-21T10:20:00.014-05:00

I have several blog posts to catch up on and those thoughts, stories, etc. are coming soon. But, everyone keeps asking about the nursery. If you knew what this room looked like before then you know what a process it has been. Thank you Allison, Kristi, and Jon for helping me get it cleaned out and ready for its new purpose. We kept it simple… not too babyish, so it doesn’t have to be updated as he grows.

I should have gotten a closer shot of the quilt on the back of the rocker because it's so fun and creative and beautiful. Just like my sweet friend who made it! The moon on the wall above the rocker is one of my favorite finds. It’s battery operated with a remote control and it emits just enough light to give the room a soft glow at night. It will automatically cycle through the moon phases or you can change them manually to adjust the amount of light. After 30 minutes of inactivity, it shuts off. A great night light for $13- thanks Amazon! I made the rocket out of foam board and we’ll eventually throw up a few stars around it to take up some of the bare wall.

This is his changing station / bookshelf / toy storage / etc. I love multi-purpose furniture... and IKEA! The art is a canvas painting of the solar system with robot astronauts and aliens. Educational AND fun. I know… there’s a moon and rocket on one wall and the solar system on the other- and I said there wasn’t a theme. It just worked out that way.

This is one of my favorite things about the room. We still have a few to add, but he’ll be able to see the faces of his family members who live far away. Of course, we’ll have to update the photos periodically… along with moving them higher up on the wall when he’s able to stand and grab them. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have 8X10 wooden frames where they can be pulled down on his little head.

And thanks to Kristi again for the “Welcome Baby” banner she made for our baby shower. I found a place to display it. It will be a while before his new eyes can focus that far… or before he can read, but I love it.

We're looking forward to welcoming Baby Stadler into our lives, his family, and his room in our home.

The cookie question: to dunk or drown?

2009-05-02T08:00:00.001-05:00

When I made that recent trip to Publix for Chips Ahoy, I apparently fascinated my co-worker with the way I eat cookies and milk. I never realized my way was so “bizarre”.
It’s a natural process for me. I just take some cookies and pile them in the bottom of a mug. Then I pour milk over the top of them, break them up, and eat them with a spoon.
I realize that some people like to dunk their cookies, but I don’t. Yes, the cookies eventually get soggy. Once the chunks are gone, I just simply drink the milk, which is then sweetened with cookie crumbs and chocolate chips. It’s not gross- stop thinking that. Most people drink the milk after they eat all the cereal. How is that different?

From the way my co-worker kept watching me in astonishment, you would have thought I was riding a unicycle with a monkey on my back while eating cookies through a straw and juggling three pints of milk. Which begs me to question: how do you eat cookies and milk? Are you a dunker, a drowner, or do you have another way? I can’t be the only cookie drowner out there!

Incubating Crazy

2009-05-01T13:22:00.001-05:00

Pregnancy does a lot of weird things to your body and emotions. While I haven’t wanted to throw things at Jon’s head during the past eight months, I have been a lot more emotional. I started calling these crying bouts “episodes.” Jon and I will be sitting on the couch watching TV and I will have to get up and go to the bathroom for tissue. No reason. I’ll just feel like crying suddenly. And, he has been so sweet and understanding of my sudden onset of insanity. But, in all honesty- men have to at least feel a little panic when women start to cry… especially when it isn’t related to anything because there’s nothing they can fix. Sometimes I’ll try and leave the room so he doesn’t know and doesn’t have to deal with the absurdity of it all. But sometimes he just puts his arm around me and lets me cry on his shoulder until I pull myself together.

Hormones are unpredictable and some days/weeks they are more overwhelming than others. I may have one really emotional week, then be totally sane again for the next two weeks. The uncertainty of it all has made Jon paranoid. Now whenever something sad happens on TV, or when there’s even the slightest possibility I could find something emotional, he will look at me and ask, “Are you going to cry?” Being crazy can’t be nearly as challenging as living with crazy.

I wish I could blame hormones on the overwhelming sense of urgency I feel about everything these days. Someone mentions Chips Ahoy and I’m in Publix twenty minutes later grabbing a bag and a pint of milk. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about how I need to rake and mulch the flower beds around the house. I mean, I can barely get up from a full squat, much less clean out and mulch the flower beds. I had a dream the baby arrived several weeks early and nothing was ready. No crib. No diapers. Nothing. So, in my dream I did what every normal person would do… I tried to put the baby back. No, not in the same sense it comes into this world. I tried holding it really close to my stomach as though it would just morph back through the skin and go back into my uterus. I’ll take episodes of crying over this kind of crazy any day. I also dreamed our baby was born with a mustache, but I’m trying to forget about that one.

Confessions of a Bed-Wetter

2009-04-27T21:55:00.002-05:00

I know what you’re thinking. She’s pregnant and she’s now wetting the bed. Um… NO. And, if that were the case, trust me- I wouldn’t be posting it on the internet. That would definitely fall under the TMI category. You’re welcome. Just so we’re clear- I’m not currently peeing in the bed.

Now….

Jon and I were discussing the baby having hiccups in utero.

Me: My daddy used to scare me by yelling at me for something I didn’t do. That was his way of getting rid of my hiccups. Of course, he also used to spank me for wetting the bed.

Jon: You were a bed-wetter?

Me: Yeah, until I was six. I think it had something to do with having to share a bed with my two sisters.

Jon: So, that was your way of marking your territory?

Me: I guess so. We moved and I stopped wetting the bed.

Jon: You were a bed-wetter… wow, I’m learning all kinds of deep, dark secrets about you.

Me: I wouldn’t really call it a deep, dark secret. It’s just not something that comes up in conversation.

Jon (re-enacting an early date conversation): So, what kinds of things do you like do? Well, I wet the bed when I was a kid.

Me: Exactly.

Egging My Own House

2009-04-17T15:38:00.001-05:00

Something has happened to me during the last several months of pregnancy. I’ve gotten lazier. The piles of laundry are higher, the layers of dust thicker, and there are more piles of clutter in my house. My once task-oriented, productive personality has been replaced with someone who would rather lie on the couch, eat ice cream and watch TV. I still make the bed every morning (I haven’t gone THAT crazy), but my “neat freak” tendencies have been put on the back burner. Don’t get me wrong, it still makes me twitchy to see the light from the TV reflect off the table dust and my skin still crawls in the midst of a room full of clutter. It’s just that finding the energy to do anything about it is nearly impossible.

Honestly, I don’t tolerate lazy very well, in myself or in others. So, I’m starting to feel judgmental about my own. I know I’m eight months pregnant, but some women are still playing tennis and snow skiing at this point. A little housework doesn’t seem like too lofty a goal.

Yesterday, I decided to motivate myself back into a productive lifestyle… right after a short nap when I got home from work. I allowed myself 30-40 minutes to rest when I got home, then I got busy. One of the obstacles I’ve felt is being too overwhelmed with the amount of stuff there is to constantly do at home. I feel like it takes hours of my time to make any headway. So, I tried a new strategy. I threw some laundry in the washer, grabbed the egg timer from the kitchen, went to the bedroom and set it for 15 minutes. In that time, I made the bed (from my nap), picked up all the clutter, dusted the furniture, and vacuumed the floor and baseboards. The ticking of the egg timer kept me on task so I wouldn’t get side tracked (deciding it would be a good time to flip through that magazine beside the bed). In 15 minutes, the bedroom was clean!

Next, I tackled the bathroom. Let’s face it- if you’re going to spend extra time cleaning anywhere, it should be the bathroom. So, I gave myself 20 minutes there- that included cleaning the shower/tub. It was then time to cook dinner, so I moved to the kitchen. Since the laundry had finished in the washer, I loaded and started the dishwasher. Then, I started dinner. As dinner cooked, I cleaned the kitchen and accomplished both tasks at once. I decided that was enough productivity for one day, so we ate dinner off of paper plates (something we may be doing more often). Even though I didn’t clean the entire house, it felt good to have some rooms cleaned and I can do the others in the next couple of days. I’ll be using the egg timer again as a motivator. If you have some cleaning strategies that work for you, I’d love to know what they are. Who knows, I may find my inner “neat freak” again!

Putting the Foot Down on Weird!

2009-04-16T11:33:00.001-05:00

One of my co-workers e-mailed this to the staff. It’s so weird that I had to share it with all of you. I didn’t believe it at first and had to actually watch my foot to make sure it was happening. Have fun.

This will boggle your mind and it will keep you trying over and over again to see if you can outsmart your foot, but you can't. It's programmed in your brain!

1. Without anyone watching you (or with someone watching you if you don’t mind looking crazy) and while sitting at your desk in front of your computer, lift your right foot off the floor and move it clockwise in circles.

2. Now, while doing this, draw the number '6' in the air with your right hand. Your foot will change direction.

I keep thinking I can outsmart my foot, but even pregnancy brain is no excuse on this one.

Two Funny Bunnies

2009-04-06T16:35:00.004-05:00

There are many reasons this week is special- the least meaningful of which is that I get to pull out my favorite Easter-related cartoons.

This is my favorite.

And what's not funny about this?

For the record- my Holy Week/Easter reflections and celebrations aren't all this shallow. But, I'm also not above laughing at an Egg Ho cartoon. Happy Easter.

Is 37 the new 90?

2009-04-02T11:58:00.003-05:00

Today is my 37th birthday. I could feel discouraged with the thought of drawing another year closer to 40, but I haven’t. I still feel young, am healthy, and I’m pregnant for the first time and have felt great throughout the pregnancy. Jon and I recently went through physicals for a new life insurance policy and I received “preferred” status, which gave me a significantly lower premium. So, I’ve been feeling pretty good about myself.

Until this came in the mail yesterday…

Now seriously. I know that I’m moving around a little slower these days, but that’s what being 7 months pregnant and carrying around an extra 30 pounds of weight will do to you. I CAN still GET around. I initially thought the flyer was some kind of mailing resulting from our life insurance policy, but then I noticed it was addressed to my maiden name. Someone said, “at least it’s not from AARP.” Is that a good thing? AARP would just imply I was old- this implies I’m old AND immobile.

Here are some quotes from the flyer: (these are some gems)

“Make breakfast in the kitchen, go outside and get the newspaper… it’s always a good morning once you call The SCOOTER Store.”

“Visit the neighbors, play with your grandchildren, work in the garden… go to church without feeling like a bother to friends or family.”

“Go out to dinner, attend evening events, be part of life’s celebrations… at The SCOOTER Store we can make it happen!”

Happy Birthday to me.

Painting Where the Sun Don't Shine

2009-03-17T19:42:00.001-05:00

Over the past few weeks as we’ve discussed the nursery, I’ve informed Jon that I would paint the walls. I told him that I’ve done a lot of painting and I don’t have to cover the floors or tape off the trim. So, whenever he’s talked to his family about the nursery, he mentions that I’m doing the painting because I keep bragging about what an expert I am and how he’d probably screw it up (according to my standards). And what’s the argument there?

This afternoon he came home from work and I was painting around the top of the wall and around the windows.

“Wow, you are the shit when it comes to painting!”

“Shut up before I come down and kick your butt.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to tape or anything. You’re a bad Mo Fo!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but you keep making fun of me.”

“Oh, I’m making fun of you now.”

And right then is when I shoved the paintbrush straight up his butt. And no, I didn’t have to tape it off or anything. I guess he was right.

Public Service Announcement

2009-03-15T21:38:00.002-05:00

A small bit of advice for the viewing public:

When you pre-heat the oven for dinner, make sure you remove the leftover cupcakes you stashed in the oven because you were in a hurry. The good news is, if you forget, the smell will remind you.

Citizen Award - The Hit and Run Driver

2009-03-11T12:57:00.001-05:00

This week’s Outstanding Citizen Award goes to the anonymous driver who side swiped my husband’s car while he was at work yesterday. I use “anonymous” not to protect your identity, but because it’s a mystery. Your humility must have compelled you to keep your identity unknown, lest you receive too much praise and recognition for such an exemplary display of character. Thank you for the integrity you showed by not stopping once you hit his car, dented the side, and left the mark of your behavior along the length of the vehicle. It takes courage to step up and accept the consequences of our behavior- and for that, I award you this honor.

Kind of like a cakewalk... only with stomping.

2009-03-10T22:49:00.001-05:00

This week marks the end of my second trimester of pregnancy. Before I move into the third and final trimester- the one where exhaustion returns, leg cramps, backaches, and all number of discomforts begin… oh yeah, and the one where my body expands like a tick in a blood bank… before that one begins, I thought I’d give a pregnancy report before the full effect of pregnancy begins.

Every time a woman asks me about the pregnancy, I find myself censoring my response to some degree- especially if that woman has her own children. Why? Because most pregnancies aren’t easy. Most involve weeks of hunching over the commode. As if morning sickness wouldn’t be enough, imagine what it would be like to shove your face in a toilet every day. Some women spend weeks, if not months of their pregnancies this way. So, when a woman asks me how I’ve been feeling, I usually respond with “good” and leave it at that. I’m sure they don’t want to hear that besides those two weeks in early pregnancy where my stomach was a little uneasy (no toilet lunging), that I’ve actually felt great. I want to be careful not to rub that in with anyone lest they curse me with wishes of a lengthy and painful labor and delivery. Although I don’t know any women with black cauldrons in their basement, I do know women who pray. And it probably wouldn’t be some payback prayer either. They’d probably word it in such a sweet and sincere way as to request that God would “bless” me with the full pregnancy experience so that I will be even more grateful and appreciative when it’s all over. Trust me, I’m thankful.

I do take a daily beating from this baby boy. All day long. I seriously wonder if he ever sleeps. If he does, he must sleep walk already. Most women start feeling their babies move around 18-20 weeks. He started around week 14. As I sit here typing, he’s thumping and kicking away. And no, he won’t be tired after 30 minutes of this. Because in 15 minutes when I go to bed, he’ll kick into high gear. Why should I sleep if he’s awake, right? So, I’ll lie in bed for a good 30-40 minutes until my stomach stops gyrating and contorting before I’m able to fall asleep. Then, after each of my 3-4 bathroom trips in the middle of the night, he’ll start again each time I return to bed. Everyone keeps telling me to get plenty of rest now because there won’t be much sleep in the several weeks after he’s born. These people apparently haven’t tried to rest while someone is thumping and kicking their insides.

I’ve tried to read some tips on sleeping better. One is to get on the floor on all fours and to curl my back up like a cat several times. This is suppose to help the circulation in my legs, relax the baby in utero, and help with lower back pain. It was recommended that I do like 30-40 of these in a row. I tried, but quickly feared rug burn on my face after six months of not lifting weights or exercising my arms, coupled with the 30 extra pounds of weight I’m holding up. I think I did 10. Drinking a glass of milk was also recommended, so I had a bowl of ice cream after I hauled myself off the floor. We’ll see how tonight goes.

Putting off my Procrastination

2009-02-27T13:10:00.003-06:00

When Jon told me he was giving up fast food and carbonated beverages for Lent, I started thinking about it. Maybe I should give up something too. I thought about if for a couple of days before declaring, “I’m giving up procrastination for Lent!” What? That’s what the Man asked. How do you give up procrastination? Well, I’ll stop NOT doing stuff that I know I need to do. That long list of things that I haven’t done yet (update my blog, read those pregnancy books, sell my wedding dress, get the nursery ready, clean the basement…)- I’ll stop talking about how I need to get them done and I’ll do them, hence giving up procrastination. I mean, surely no one thought at six months pregnant that I would give up some kind of food item. Are you kidding me? By the time Easter arrived, I’d be wearing a dress and my new horns to church.

So yes, I’m giving up procrastination. The Man and I are in Atlanta this weekend. He’s downstairs in the hotel at a Psychology conference while I have the entire day to hang out in the room and finally update my blog and do some reading. I’ll get this posted, then work on some other updates on the site. Right after I finish my lunch from Wendy’s, refill my carbonated beverage and grab some SweetTarts.

A New View

2009-02-11T20:37:00.001-06:00

A friend asked me a few weeks ago if I planned to start blogging about pregnancy, babies, and all that family stuff that no single person honestly cares to read about. “No,” I responded. “If I start blogging about all of that, I’ll do it on another venue/blog”… which I had already started creating. But as the days passed, I thought, who am I kidding? I haven’t even written on this blog in four weeks. I can’t maintain two blogs. Half the time these days I can’t remember what I’m doing from one moment to the next. I can’t tell you how many times in one day I will get up to do something, and the very next second can’t remember what I was doing. It happened today at work. I reached to get a Post It and realized it was my last one. I got up to go get a new set of Post Its from the supply room and came back with a blueberry muffin from the kitchen. Go figure.

If I had little else to do with my time, maintaining two blogs wouldn’t feel like such a challenge. But I do… and it is. So, I’m not starting a separate blog specifically for my life as a wife and mother. But, I also have no desire to be so consumed with those things that I lose all other facets of my life. And in the end, I cannot separate the different aspects of my life. All of these things influence who I am and my perspective on life. I hope that in introducing new layers and topics to A Square View, that my perspective becomes more personal and meaningful in some way- to me and to others. If you’re one of my single friends and you don’t want to read about how I sit on the couch at night and watch my stomach as my son kicks me, or how I’ll probably adore my husband more and more as I watch him become a father, then skip those entries. Don’t worry, I’ll still include the shallow, humorous rants and raves you’ve become accustomed to.

So, in the next week, A Square View will be going through a slight facelift as I make some changes, add some features, and update everything. Thanks for being patient with me in the process.

It's called a dresser.

2009-01-09T15:08:00.001-06:00

The nesting phase of pregnancy has finally arrived and I’ve been trying to get the house cleaned and organized so we can start on a nursery. That means Jon is going to have to put up with more OCD behavior than normal. I already rush to make the bed when he gets up in the morning, usually to discover that he was only going to the bathroom and was planning on crawling back in bed. I like the bed made. What can I say?

Now I’m hiding his clothes in all kinds of crazy places… like the bedroom… and dresser drawers. I noticed him walking aimlessly around the living room the other night.

Me: Are you looking for your pajama pants?
Jon: Yeah.
Me: They’re in the bedroom.
Jon: But I left them on the couch.

Exactly.

Then…

Jon: Do you know where my wool socks are?
Me: Yeah, they’re in your sock drawer.
Jon: Well, what are they doing in there- not making any sense?
Me: Do you mean, ‘why aren’t they on the couch?’
Jon: Yeah.

It must be hard living with a crazy wife.

2009, you have big shoes to fill.

2009-01-07T21:39:00.001-06:00

Sure, it’s January 7. A whole week of the New Year has passed and I’m just now getting around to updating my blog. Had more regular blog posts been one of my resolutions, this would be a sad reality. It wasn’t, even though I do plan to blog more. I’ll have plenty of time since I won’t be working on all those resolutions I didn’t make. Maybe this was a year of growth for me because I finally faced the reality that resolutions usually motivate me for about three months, before I remember that I like chocolate cake a whole lot more than rice cakes. It’s like every January I get New Year Amnesia and forget that yeah, I didn’t really keep that same resolution last year. I didn't lose 20 pounds, I didn't read through the entire Bible, and I still can't speak Spanish.

I’m not without some personal reflection as the New Year begins though. I have thought about how to grow spiritually and emotionally (growing physically is taken care of with the whole pregnancy thing). I’ve thought about how to be a better wife, a better friend, how to be a good mother… and how to love my family more in general. I’ve thought about how to enjoy life more- not in a “living it up” kind of way, but in a savoring the truly important things in life kind of way. How to value what is really important. I know that over the course of this next year, some of life’s priorities will change with the birth of our first child. There’s a new kind of love coming my way that I know nothing about- a new love that will consume me more than I know.

A lot happened this past year. My husband proposed in February, we planned a wedding, we bought a house in May, got married in July, and found out we were pregnant in September. All of life’s most stressful events were compressed into a few short months and we made it without one single argument. I consider that a successful year.

Mary and Joseph on Steroids

2008-12-23T08:00:00.000-06:00

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!

2008-12-21T20:41:00.003-06:00

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

2008-12-18T21:21:00.007-06:00

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!

2008-12-12T20:43:00.007-06:00

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

2008-12-05T08:53:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-24T12:56:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-04T21:07:00.000-06:00

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

2008-11-03T11:57:00.001-06:00

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

2008-10-20T15:05:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-16T21:46:00.001-05:00

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

2008-10-13T08:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-06T10:53:00.005-05:00

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...

2008-09-18T12:05:00.002-05:00

... 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

2008-09-17T11:30:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-09-01T17:43:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-31T09:46:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-28T22:24:00.005-05:00

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!

2008-08-28T22:09:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-08-26T21:59:00.003-05:00

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."

2008-08-19T10:46:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-08-12T12:33:00.003-05:00

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

2008-08-06T09:53:00.005-05:00

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

2008-07-20T15:08:00.001-05:00

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!)

2008-07-19T03:31:00.003-05:00

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!

2008-07-09T22:18:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-28T22:39:00.003-05:00

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

2008-06-26T23:45:00.002-05:00

"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!

2008-06-24T22:25:00.005-05:00

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

2008-06-20T01:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-06-19T07:00:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-18T17:00:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-06-02T22:23:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-05-27T23:30:00.004-05:00

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

2008-05-23T21:54:00.001-05:00

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

2008-05-07T22:07:00.003-05:00

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!

2008-05-06T21:32:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-04-27T15:16:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-04-24T12:25:00.004-05:00

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

2008-04-22T19:20:00.001-05:00

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

2008-04-17T10:21:00.002-05:00

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!

2008-04-16T16:40:00.002-05:00

"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?

2008-04-12T09:13:00.005-05:00

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..."

2008-04-08T21:07:00.003-05:00

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

2008-04-03T22:19:00.003-05:00

“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

2008-03-30T21:33:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-27T21:43:00.006-05:00

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

2008-03-25T18:53:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-18T22:09:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-18T09:10:00.002-05:00

This makes me laugh every year!!

Two-Year Old Talent!

2008-03-17T10:14:00.001-05:00

This is about the cutest thing EVER!

(Thanks, Allison.)

Mr. Karaoke

2008-03-11T20:23:00.005-05:00

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

2008-03-10T21:42:00.001-05:00

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.

Racist Quackers

2008-03-09T09:50:00.006-05:00

A conversation with Jon in the Peabody Hotel lobby in Memphis.

Jon: "I think the Peabody ducks are racist."

"WHAT?"

"Yeah. They keep swimming away from all the little black kids."

"Jon, they are chasing the ducks. I'd swim away too."

"No seriously. I think they're racist."

Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease

2008-03-09T09:46:00.003-05:00

That’s the slogan at Miss Polly’s Soul Food Kitchen on Beale Street. Jon and I were walking down Beale searching for a place to grab an appetizer when we saw Miss Polly’s. Any place with the words “soul food” and “chicken grease” demands attention. We knew we were in the right place when we walked in and were the only white people in the place. See, white people are tourists in a place like Miss Polly’s- we felt like we had discovered a local’s joint. Every five minutes, I would exclaim, “I LOVE this place!”

Although we only needed enough food to tide us over till dinner with friends, we couldn’t resist trying a few selections… fried dill pickles, fried green tomatoes, hot wings, and jalapeño cornbread muffins. Miss Polly’s is not for the faint of stomach! Nor is it the right place for you if you are the consistent salad type. Miss Polly’s is where you go to get your eat on… and we did.

Back to the Beginning

2008-03-07T22:54:00.004-06:00

My relationship with Jon began over e-mail. We met on Match.com and after exchanging witty banter for a week or so, we met over coffee at Fido in the Village. I noticed that he was much cuter than his online photo and he noticed, well… he noticed my cleavage. I still have to remind him that my eyes aren’t located down there, but he’s a guy- 100%. We spent a few hours talking, which led to a second date at Rumours Wine Bar. He wined and dined me with wine, crab cakes, and his intellect, then walked me to my car where I let him know about my martial arts training. Date number one: get his attention with my cleavage. Date number two: let him know that my cleavage is off limits, lest he want a spinning round kick to the head. Both were effective attention getters! Surprisingly, he asked me for a third date, so we saw Little Miss Sunshine at a matinee and he took me to dinner at South Street where he had me try fried cheesecake for the first time. Any man who feeds me dessert will win my heart, so we kept dating. Golf dates, dancing, darts, plays, concerts, picnics, trips, and a year and a half later we’re still going out on dates and he finally knows what color my eyes are.

His birthday is February 27th, so I planned for us to go to Memphis for the weekend to celebrate. What says “Happy Birthday” like a tour of Graceland I ask you! So, I made plans… plans to celebrate him throughout the week and plans to take him to Memphis for the weekend. I did not plan on getting sick the day before his birthday. On his birthday I was in bed with a 101 degree fever, could hardly speak, and was in less than festive spirits. But, it was his birthday… and I’m his girlfriend… so I felt the need to “buckle up” and at least go to dinner with him. Sure, I was probably contagious and I sounded like I had strep and Bird Flu- who wouldn’t want to go to dinner with me. He suggested South Street and invited some work friends to join us- a good decision since I didn’t have a voice and someone should be able to talk to him on his birthday.

The next afternoon, I was still on the couch with a fever. He called when he finished work around 8:00 p.m. and invited me to go have a glass of wine at Rumours. Was he missing something? Was my fever and croaky voice not enough of an indicator that I shouldn’t be going out? Apparently not. He was slightly persistent. So I suggested he just pick up a bottle of wine and come over for a bit. When he showed up with a bottle of wine from Rumours, I was surprised. There’s a wine store within a mile of my house and he could have saved about $20, but he’s a man and I stopped trying to understand “man behavior” years ago. So, we had a glass of wine and he went home. Then I went to bed and woke up with hallucinations because… well, cough medicine and Tylenol PM should not be washed down with wine.

My fever was down on Friday but I was still very sick, and we still had reservations and plans for a trip to Memphis. So, I stopped to pick him up around 3:00 p.m.

“We have to take a little detour,” he said. “And I need to drive.”

“Okay. I don’t feel good, so you can drive all the way to Memphis if you want.”

He got behind the wheel and headed toward Hillsboro Village. I wondered what he was doing, but there was so much congestion in my head that it felt like my brain had shriveled up to make room for all the sickness, and I was doing good to know where I was. He pulled up and parked in front of Fido, getting out of the car. I followed him inside Fido. After trying to find a booth, we sat down at the bar along the window.

“Do you want a hot chocolate?”

Was he paying attention to my cleavage again? He knows I drink Chai tea. Why was he offering me hot chocolate!

“No. I’ll have a Chai.”

We sat down to wait on our drinks and he pulled a gift bag out of his backpack.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’s been a theme this week.”

Yeah… on Wednesday I had a fever, you asked me out. On Thursday I had a fever, you asked me out. I didn’t think that’s what he was talking about though.

“No… I don’t know.”

He handed me the gift bag and I reached in to pull out a DVD of Little Miss Sunshine.

“Awww, this is the first movie we saw together. But honey, I already own this.”

I couldn’t read him.

So I said, “But you can never have too many Little Miss Sunshines!”

I reached in again and pulled out some martial arts handwraps. At this point, I’m not sure if it was the fever or my shriveled brain, but I was confused.

“There’s a theme,” he said.

And right now, reading this- you’re catching on and you SEE the theme. But at the time, I was sick and I was medicated. There was no theme. I was thinking he was just being sweet to me because I was sick all week.

I reached in and pulled out the last gift- a CD he had made with the date and the words I love you, Jen.

“Awww, you made me a mix tape!” The ultimate ‘I’m into you’ gift.

Then he handed me a card and after reading the first panel, he asked me to wait until our drinks came. After getting our drinks, he let me continue with the second panel, which ended with instructions to open to the third panel.

And here is where the unmedicated parts of my brain turned on. He had written out the details of our first three dates, beginning with date number three at Southstreet. Then, he mentioned our second date at Rumours Wine Bar, and brought us back to the beginning of our relationship at Fido- where some other girl took the hot chocolate I ordered the night we met. He wrote a paragraph of sweet words, having nothing to do with my cleavage, and wrote there was just one more thing to ask…

I turned toward him and he dropped down on one knee, right beside the table where we first met.

“Jennifer Leigh Box, will you marry me?”

It wasn’t the most poetic “yes” with my laryngitis voice, but I managed to get it out. He slipped the most beautiful ring on my finger and we smiled all the way to Memphis… and it had nothing to do with getting to see Graceland the next day!

Less Than Sound Advice

2008-03-03T17:12:00.001-06:00

Conversation with Jon last night.

Jon: “What are you going to do tomorrow?”

“Well, I need to do laundry… and pay bills… and I’ll probably try and rest some more since I’m still not feeling well.”

“You should get in a good workout.”

“Maybe. But it depends on how I feel. It’s hard to breathe with all this stuff in my chest, so I may not be able to work out.”

“You’ve gotta sweat the cold.”

“What?”

“Feed the fever, sweat the cold.”

I laugh. “Do you really think that’s what it says?”

“What?”

“It’s ‘starve a fever, feed a cold.’”

He laughs. “Oh. I think my way sounds better.”

I guess if you’re trying to kill someone.

Under the Weather

2008-02-28T05:46:00.002-06:00

So, you know that phrase people use when they're not feeling well? They're "under the weather". Well, I don't really know what that is suppose to mean exactly, but that's me. Not only do I feel under the weather, but I feel like the weather just pimp-slapped me, threw me down, and is sitting on top of me until I yell "uncle". And, I'll be honest- I'm not that prideful. "UNCLE, UNCLE, UNCLE."

It hit me Tuesday and I've been down with aches, chest congestion, a fever, and sore throat. Thankfully I had Zicam on hand and started it immediately once I woke up Tuesday with a tight feeling in my chest. Because of that, I don't think it's as severe, or will last as long as it would have otherwise.

All that to say- I had promised myself more posts this week and it hasn't happened. Right now, the only thing I can think about is going back to bed. So, in regards to this feeling of being "under the weather," I'm ready to be over it.

Powerful Perspective

2008-02-25T16:26:00.004-06:00

Jon shared this with me the other night and I wanted to pass it along because it's powerful... and because we all need perspective.

"All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing."
Edmund Burke

Medicating My Family (Mostly Myself)

2008-02-24T09:58:00.001-06:00

When Jon and I planned a trip to visit my family last weekend, I realized it would be different than our first trip. On our first trip last fall, we met my family for a night of camping. They were out of their environment… there was a lot of wide-open space for the kids to release the effects of brownies, cookies and snack cakes… there was a ski boat and a jet ski for distraction… there were only twenty-four hours. This time… this time was going to be different. We would be at home- five adults and four children in a three-bedroom house. It would be cold… and raining… and twice as long as our first trip.

On Saturday, we drove thirty miles west to give Jon a tour of my hometown. I got to show him where I was born, where I went to school, and where I made my mom pack me a sack lunch because I just couldn’t make the 150-yard walk to my great uncle’s house without stopping to eat. Hey- 150 yards looks like miles to a five-year old! He also got to see the steep, concrete steps (all six of them) where my daddy dropped me when I was only a few months old. I tend to brag about surviving that incident as though it was Infant v/s Wild or something.

We also drove past my grandparent’s old house (hardly recognizable since their deaths years ago). It was a different color and both large trees in the front yard were gone, but I could see my younger sister and I making mud pies on the front porch, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, and flagging down the milkman when he drove by- asking him to wait while we went inside to plead with pawpaw to buy us Push-Ups from the truck.

On our way back to my sister’s house, we drove through Maben- the nearest wet county to my hometown. With memories of our grandparents fresh on our minds, we reminisced about them driving us to the “medicine” store in Maben. Since we also took trips to the actual Drug Store when we were little (where we were actually allowed to get out of the car), it didn’t take us long to figure out those brown bags probably didn’t hold bottles of Milk of Magnesia.

Three hours later, we were still driving around. We had endured the lunch conflict- where two kids wanted McDonald’s over Sonic. So, we did what any responsible adults would do and catered to every request. We had endured tense comments between my sister and her husband over where they were going to live next- sprinkled with bitter resenting remarks over how he didn’t do anything for her on Valentine’s Day. We had endured my two nephews on the seat behind us- annoying each other (and me) with verbal and physical jousting. We had endured… well, only twenty-four hours thus far. As we arrived back at the house, I climbed out of the car and whispered to Jon- “I think I need to go to the medicine store.” We laughed and got through one more day without any brown, paper bags.

When Candyland Isn't All Fun and Games

2008-02-18T12:09:00.000-06:00

Jon and I went to visit my family this past weekend. Within two minutes of our arrival, my six-year old niece started taunting me with the promise of good times.

I scooped her up in my arms and her first words were, “Guess what we can play when we get home? Four people can play!”

“What?”

“Candyland. Four people can play.”

Suddenly I realized why she was so excited. Who doesn’t love Candyland and who doesn’t want to spend their Friday night playing a game where you move one orange or two blues and you pray that you don’t get stuck on Licorice Lane and lose a turn, or worse yet- draw the gingerbread card and get sent back to the beginning? I quickly secured our places in the game- because only FOUR could play.

Since we met my family at the kids’ school for my nephew’s basketball game, Hannah Grace rode back to the house with me and Jon. She talked about Candyland all the way home and it didn’t take long for the trash-talking to start.

Hannah: “I’m good at Candyland. I play on the computer and the real game.”
Jon: “I think I’m going to win.”
Hannah: “No, I’m gonna win.”

Me, pointing at myself: “Hannah, you know who’s good at Candyland.”
Hannah: “I’m gonna win ‘cause I’ve been practicing every day on the computer AND the real game.”

Jon: “Well, you better bring it.”
Hannah: “I will bring it.”
Jon: “I’m gonna bring it double-time.”
Hannah: “I’m gonna bring it four doubles.”

I turn and look at Jon. “I can’t believe you’re talking smack with my six-year old niece.”

And then, from the backseat we hear Hannah, “I’m gonna smoke all of y’all.”

Oh, GAME ON girlie! And who won the game? Let’s just say the next day when we were talking about Candyland (because talking about Candyland doesn’t stop just because the game does), Hannah turned to me and said, “Aunt Jennifer, you brought it.”

Yeah, but she kicked my butt 6-1 in Old Maid, so I can’t brag too much.

Indicators of Growth

2008-02-09T15:15:00.000-06:00

I know it's bad when I see a photo of myself taken less than a year ago and I notice how much slimmer my face looks. Seriously? Maybe it's the lighting, I tell myself. Surely I haven't been eating that much. I dismiss it. I was probably thrusting my chin forward when it was taken. It's a photo trick that makes you look thinner. Or like a freak. Either one. But then I get dressed. I pull on my jeans that I haven't washed in six wears and realize they should be looser by now. Instead, my thighs are screaming for air. I do a few lunges and squats, hoping to loosen my jeans and burn 1/2 a calorie. They are still too clingy. I decide I need to eat better... and less. At the end of the work day, I head to the Y to burn off the soft drink, four cookies, and chips I snacked on during the day. I work out, then feel bad about how undisciplined I was with my snacking, so I comfort my discouragement by eating some chocolate. Tomorrow is a new day and day eight of jean wear. Surely they will be looser!

This Idiot Voted

2008-02-07T15:52:00.000-06:00

Months ago, I decided to not commit myself to any one presidential candidate. The field was wide. My time is valuable. I didn’t want to spend hours researching everyone’s stance on every issue. I knew the field would narrow before I had to cast my vote on Super Tuesday. Monday came and I still didn’t have a candidate I felt passionate about. I sat at my computer Monday night, reading On the Issues and trying to make a decision that would allow me to sleep at night. I went to bed undecided. And, when I say “undecided,” I really mean “undecided.” I don’t always vote along party lines. I vote for whom I think is the best person for the job, Republican or Democrat. Tuesday morning came and I knew I had to make a decision. I got to work. I read more on the issues. By mid-afternoon, my left eye was twitching from the stress. Seriously. The vote was closing in and I had to commit. I left work, driving to the polls around 4:45 p.m. My eye twitching, my mind racing. What is the right thing to do? I don’t agree with everyone on everything. What’s more important? Two miles from my polling station, I made a decision. I don’t remember my eye twitching after that.

I walked in to fill out my form. A long line quickly formed behind me. “You have to check one of these primaries this time,” the woman said. I looked. Democrat? Republican? I don’t want to choose, I thought. What will this mean anyway? Does it matter? I’m a registered Republican, but maybe I don’t want to vote Republican today. I could feel the pressure of those waiting behind me. It’s a good thing my eye was no longer twitching. There I would have been, leaning over the table, talking to myself, my hand going back and forth between the two check boxes, with a suspicious twitch. You know how the Red Cross serves cookies and kool-aid after you give blood? I think the polling stations should serve cocktails. Knowing I had to move, I quickly checked a box and moved on. What difference would it make anyway? A LOT.

In my stress, I overlooked the fact that my ballot would be based on what primary I checked. This is my political ignorance. So, there I stood, staring at a ballot that did not list the candidate I had finally chosen. I finally cast my vote for someone I felt okay about. On my way out, I stopped to get a sticker, but they were all out of the “This Idiot Voted” designs.

The Best of Both Worlds

2008-02-04T22:40:00.000-06:00

Ask me what I did this weekend. Be prepared to be jealous though. I saw Hannah Montana & Miley Cyrus: Best of Both World Concert in 3D. Twice. That’s right- I’m thirty-five, without child and I was there. As my niece would say, “Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me.”

Let me clarify though. As an independent contractor with Disney, I was assigned to see it. People paid $15 per ticket to see it. I was paid. Attendees were sectioned off in a separate area at the theater while they waited to go in. All showings were sold out. This was a big deal. This was Hannah Montana. This was the epitome of obsession. This was also one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had in my life.

Sure, I expected the little girls to be excited. I wasn’t too surprised by the Hannah Montana wigs they were wearing, or the screaming. Okay, I was a little surprised by the screaming. I mean Hannah Montana wasn’t actually there- it was a movie. I didn’t realize people actually screamed at movies. They did. A lot. But, these are young girls and that behavior is not odd. Their mothers on the other hand…

These were grown women with cameras. I’m sure they wanted to capture the memory of their daughter’s ~~obsession~~ excitement to show them later in life. That would explain why so many of them were snapping photos of their daughters with friends before the show began. Not every little girl got to go this weekend. Pictures would prove they were there. Those photographic moments can be explained. What cannot be explained is why these same mothers were taking pictures of the movie screen during the show. Seriously. Cameras were pointed up at the projection as mothers tried to snap pictures of Hannah Montana on screen. Let’s neglect the fact that this is in 3D. They did. I know those pictures couldn't have turned out that great. Mine didn't.

Did your mom really just say that?

2008-02-01T08:30:00.001-06:00

Usually when you’re getting to know your boyfriend’s parents, there is a bit of nervousness… fear. Do they like me? Do they think I’m good enough for their son?
Do they think I’m worthy of bearing their grandchildren? I’m thankful that I’ve never felt those things with Jon’s family. I liked them from the beginning and immediately felt comfortable being around them. Maybe it’s their fun personalities, or Lutheran love, or the fact that they send me notes occasionally… such as this one I received this week from Jon’s mom.

Funny how something can make you so comfortable, yet at the same time- so very uncomfortable!!!

Interpretation Makes all the Difference

2008-01-31T16:30:00.001-06:00

Do you ever have those moments when you’re talking to someone and you’re thinking one thing and they’re thinking another- only you don’t know you’re thinking differently, but what you do know is that things seem weird and suddenly you’re confused and wonder if the two of you are even involved in the same conversation? Happens all the time, right? I like to call it the misinterpretation of communication. Here are some recent examples for you.

Disclaimer: Contrary to my comments on alcohol, I really do not drink that much and the following idiot moments occurred under absolute sobriety. Though being under the influence would provide a somewhat valid excuse for my stupidity.

Misinterpretation Moment #1:
When Jon and I were out on our Vietnamese dinner date last weekend, I noticed a dish on the menu that contained very rare beef. Hmmm, I thought to myself. First of all, what kind of beef is so rare that out of all places, you could get it at this dinky little eatery in a strip mall? So, I pointed it out to Jon- “this one has VERY RARE BEEF.” I wanted him to find it interesting. He didn’t seem too curious about it. Then I thought, seriously… if this beef is SO hard to get, why is it only $5.00? 'Rare beef,' they're full of it. Once again, I commented on the “very rare beef” to Jon, the whole time wondering why he wasn’t as fascinated- and he was probably wondering why I was so fascinated. It was going nowhere, so I moved on. Later in the conversation, he mentioned something about the rare beef… and there is was- the LIGHTBULB! “OHHHH, I said, ‘rare’ as in ‘not cooked!’ This whole time I’ve been thinking ‘rare’ as in ‘hard to get.’ I’m an idiot.” It seems I have to admit that a lot.

Misinterpretation Moment #2:
This morning I was leaving the house and asked my roommate about a Chinese restaurant around the corner. “I’m thinking about picking up dinner for our group tonight.” She started in about how much she liked it because there were “these cute little Chinese boys who sit there in the evenings and do their homework and check you out.” I stared at her for a moment, repeating in my head ‘little Chinese boys…homework…check you out’. And, just before I blurted out, "who are you, you sick perverted woman,” she finished her statement with, “they are really nice, but it makes you wonder about child labor laws.” LIGHTBULB! ‘Check you out’ as in ‘at the register.’ Whew! This is me NOT drinking. Scary.

Not Knowing What to Think of Me

2008-01-30T22:32:00.000-06:00

People who have been closely involved in my life in the past several years probably aren’t surprised by much I write on this Blog. They aren’t shocked by my use of an occasional expletive or by my comments on tequila or road rage. This is the me they know. I realize however there are those who knew me in my early years (before I was old and over thirty!!) who probably suspect I’m now a trashy-mouthed, Crack-head, alcoholic stripper. Know this- I neither have the body, nor the dance skills for that occupation. These are the friends who know me from my “young Christian” years. Those years when bad words were substituted with niceties such as “sugar!” and “darn”… when I believed that God answered prayers for finding a close parking space- because somehow His glory is tied into me having a shorter walk into the mall… and when Point of Grace was the greatest Contemporary Christian group EVER! Those same days when I would never drink because it would provide such a poor witness to those watching me that they would somehow NEVER want to know the Lord because how could I drink alcohol and still go to Heaven?

I can understand how friends who knew me then may be banning together at the moment to stage an intervention on my damnable soul. They’re wondering how the former vice-president of the Ole Miss Baptist Student Union could digress to such behaviors as drinking and swearing. Friends, before you pile in the car and crank up the Michael W. Smith while having “popcorn prayers” for me in the car, rest assured that I have not crossed over to the Dark Side. Sure, I cuss occasionally and I drink on a social basis, but I still love Jesus and I still seek God, but I don’t pray for close parking spaces and quite honestly, I think I would rather be a Crack-head stripper than ever listen to Point of Grace again.