'Tis the Season

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.

Changing my ways before it's death by chocolate.

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.

Egging My Own House

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!

2009, you have big shoes to fill.

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.

If I Had a Shovel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kingdom of the Vacant Skull

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

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

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

A Flight and Fight with Anger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hill of Regret

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Haunting History

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

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

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

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

Medicating My Family (Mostly Myself)

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.

Indicators of Growth

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

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.

Not Knowing What to Think of Me

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.

The Laughs on You

“He who laughs last, laughs best.”

At least I think that’s how the traditional statement goes, but what does that mean really? Wouldn’t the last person to laugh miss out on some laughter time? Wouldn’t laughing last be an indication that a person is a little slow to “get it”? And when they finally do “get it,” they’re usually being laughed at, not joining in on the laughter. No, I think he who laughs last, laughs less.

I’m a fan of laughter, a seeker of laughter, a laughter advocate if you will. I tend to surround myself with people who make me laugh. People say lots of things about laughter. It’s the “best medicine,” the “shortest distance between two people,” it’s “good for the abs.” Okay, the last one is my own, but it’s true. You can actually exercise by lying on the couch and watching a funny movie. I wouldn’t recommend this as your only fitness endeavor.

Aside from the obvious health benefits, laughter provides multiple mental and emotional benefits. Tension and stress can usually be dissipated with a good joke, and laughter almost always brings people together. Of course, tequila is also good for these things, but laughter is free.

To me, laughter is essential to making life a bearable and enjoyable thing. Sometimes life is hard. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it’s embarrassing and cruel. And sometimes, the only way to not let it overwhelm you is to see the humor in it.

I remember one Christmas several years ago when my family was gathered together in Mississippi. My two brothers were probably already in jail at that point and my uncles and cousins wanted to come for a visit. The problem? None of them had driver’s licenses because of DUIs (another reason to choose laughter over tequila for life’s problems). Various family members were discussing who could go get them, but even some of them had suspended licenses. I was standing in the kitchen listening to all of this when I yelled out, “Okay, if you have a driver’s license, raise your hand!” After that, my sister and I started making jokes about giving out door prizes for having a driver’s license, longest consecutive time without an arrest, etc. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. That is still (sadly) one of my most memorable holidays.

Laughter has often helped me deal with life’s hardships and over the course of several years, I have learned to not take myself or life too seriously. It wasn’t until I learned to laugh at myself though, that life became so much more enjoyable. Now, instead of worrying that people think I’m an idiot, I embrace my idiot moments and consider them an opportunity to laugh. By Wednesday of this week, I had already had two opportunities to do so.

When I arrived at the YMCA on Monday morning for a workout, I pulled off my fleece pullover to discover a dryer sheet clinging on for dear life. There I was, standing at the elliptical in the Green Hills Y, surrounded by strangers who were probably watching me (because we all know that’s what other women do at the gym – that article is coming), standing there pulling this dryer sheet off my shirt. Years ago I would have been mortified. How embarrassing. I look like I don’t pay any attention to myself. What must they think of me? Those would have been common thoughts. Instead, I chuckled, probably shrugged my shoulders in an “oh well” kind of way and gently laid the dryer sheet on top of my shirt as I climbed on the machine. I thought it was funny.

The next night as I was leaving Jon’s house, I kissed him goodbye, turned to walk out and smacked my forehead on the side of the open door. I ain’t gonna lie- it hurt! I grabbed my head and let out an “owwww”. Once the initial stinging pain subsided, I stood there holding my head, laughing. “I’m such an idiot!” I said. “Yes, you are,” he agreed. We both laughed.

The ability to laugh at yourself is a gift. If you can’t do it, try to learn, you’ll be a happier person for it. Someone is going to laugh at you, don’t be the last- you’ll laugh less.

Ready for Christmas?

“Are you ready for Christmas?”
That’s the question I keep hearing from people. By “ready” they mean, have I done all my shopping. Have I spent my money, marked off my list, wrapped my gifts? I can’t blame them really. This is after all the consumer-driven, materialistic society in which we live. Sure, those of us who are Christians will attend services, we’ll sing, we’ll proclaim the “reason for the season,” but we’ll end up askers of the same two questions:
“Are you ready for Christmas?” and “What did you get for Christmas?” This is the end result of our celebrations.

This year, I can’t seem to find the motivation to participate in the mass commercialism of Christmas. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t like shopping, or crowds. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m trying to learn to budget my money better. Maybe it’s just rebellion against the consumer mentality. Or maybe… maybe it’s perspective. I can’t think of Christmas, or any other holiday, without thinking about my brothers who sit in prison. My brothers, who can’t receive gifts, and who would probably trade them anyway for the opportunity to experience what most of us will take for granted this Christmas- a sense of home, being surrounded by family, good food, feeling the embrace of someone who loves us. I wonder if my brothers have forgotten what it feels like to have someone hug them. Maybe it’s easier for them to not think about such things, and in forgetting, it lessens the pain of being without it. I wonder how many times I will half-heartedly hug someone this Christmas, or how many times I will take for granted the experience of being with those I love. I wonder how much I will fail to love those around me. Love is, after all, what we ultimately got for Christmas. How many of us will actually be “ready” for it?

The Power of Personal Touch

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a fan of e-mail. It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s free, and it’s immediate. And because of its convenience, it has all but replaced the hand written letter. I love e-mails. I love that I can easily store them in a folder and just as easily retrieve them for future readings. But, there is something impersonal about e-mail. Maybe it’s the type, or the uniformity of it all, of the cyber delivery of it. Maybe it’s the realization that it takes such little effort to send it that lessens its value.

I’ve been slowly unpacking boxes after my move a few months ago and I recently came across a box of cards and letters. As I was sifting through a stack, my heart stopped as quickly as my hand. I sat motionless for a moment, unable to move, to blink, to breathe. Tears welled up and I knew that any effort to stop them would be in vain so I let them flow. My hand shook as I lifted three letters from the stack, letters addressed to me from my older sister who died ten years ago. I hadn’t even pulled the letter from the envelope and already I was paralyzed with emotion. There was something about holding the envelope, knowing that it had once been in her hands as she thought of me. There was something about seeing her handwriting, imagining her hand moving along the lines- knowing she was tired or in a hurry when the letters slurred. It was personal, it was tangible, and in a way it was a small piece of her. Through the years, it’s gotten more difficult to clearly recall the image of her face and the sound of her voice- and with each failure to do so, there is a slight feeling of another loss. As I sat there reading, I felt those letters bring her back to me for those fifteen minutes.

When I finished, I safely tucked them away right next to another stack of letters- love letters that my dad had written to my mom before they were married. Since my parents divorced when I was six, I never witnessed the love that once existed between them. Sometimes I sit and read my dad’s letters and know that at one time, things were as they should be. I’m comforted by that fact.

It’s difficult to reflect on the past and not think about the future, knowing that today will one day be ten years ago. Often when Jon leaves town, I will try and send a few cards and notes with him to read while he’s away. For his last trip, I decided to write him a love letter… a letter that will one day hopefully be even more meaningful than it is now.

I’m aware that in an age of computers and technology, I often take for granted the power of personal touch. It’s much easier for me to type a quick e-mail and get on with the day than it is to take the time to hand write a note or card for someone I care about. I know from experience that there is no promise of tomorrow. Someday, I’ll be gone. People will forget my face and the sound of my voice will fade from their memory. But hopefully, those I love will one day sit and hold something personal from me… something as seemingly insignificant as a letter or card- and the one thing that won’t be forgotten is how I loved and thought about them.