pith, marrow, and coffee spoons

Wistful Thinking

2012-02-08T17:05:00.002-06:00

As I was driving through town today, I spotted a bulldog staring out the window of a house. He had the curtain pushed back and was watching the cars intently, his tongue lolling out slightly, his head moving this way and that as the cars zoomed by. I laughed a little at the ridiculousness of him and wondered what he was thinking: "Man, if only I could get outside, I bet I could catch one of those things!" Or: "Brr. I can't wait until Spring--I am sick of being inside and am ready to go play in the yard." Or: "Why is that weird lady laughing at me?"

'Course he might not have been thinking anything at all, and it is really ME who wants to chase cars and wishes it was Spring and can't stop laughing at my own weirdness.

Yeah, it's probably that one.

The More I Think I Know, the More I Know I Know Nothing At All

2012-02-07T12:20:00.002-06:00

It is really true that you never understand a situation until you have had some time to gain perspective. I am finally, finally getting a little smidge of perspective about Lori's death--not peace, mind you--but perspective. What I have learned so far is that before this, I had no idea how or why I should pray. I was raised in a Christian home, a missionary kid who heard her entire life things about God and the Bible. This, I have decided, is a blessing and a curse, and it took getting the crap beat out of my soul for me to begin to really question the things I had blithely accepted as truth. Thomas Jefferson once said, "Question with boldness even the existence of God; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason than that of blindfold fear." I get that now. Job, that paragon of virtue, questioned God. (Of course, he then got properly smacked down when God roared back in the midst of a whirlwind, "Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?") Though God put Job in his place, I feel that there is no question that he admired Job's moxie a little--if he hadn't, I'm pretty sure he would have blasted Job right out of this life. So I have decided two things: one, God loved me enough to let me get mad (and I was--really, really FURIOUS) at him because he did not answer my prayer and heal Lori, but two: it is NOT okay for me to stay mad. I am a toddler who really did not want God to deny my request for something that honestly was not a BAD request. I mean, I wasn't asking for riches untold or to be super-famous or super-beautiful. I just wanted God to save my best friend's life. And he said "no." So I threw a tantrum, and like a loving father, he stood back and let me--he did not roar at me from a whirlwind and blast me into oblivion. He let me scream and stomp and throw myself on the ground, and now that I have finally shut UP already, I can let him pull me to my feet so he can say, "Are you finished? You ask why? Because I said so. That's all the reason you need. It's not an answer you like but it's all you get. You just have to trust me on this: I love you. I love Lori and her husband and her kids and her parents and her family. I am good, and I do what I do because I am God. YOU, Becky, are not. You don't get a say in this. So let it go." And because I am the stubbornest toddler to walk this earth, it has taken me about a year and a half to finally say, "Okay. You're the boss."

Which brings me to prayer. I don't pray like I used to. In fact, it took me months after Lori's death to pray at all--part of it was the stubborn tantrum thing, but part was honest bafflement. We had literally THOUSANDS of believers praying for Lori's healing all over the world (I was in Kenya when I found out about the cancer and we had dear brothers and sisters in Christ there praying for her)--and SHE STILL DIED. So why bother asking, I wondered. Was this not a noble request? I have never been so consistent, so CONSTANT in prayer as I was when she was sick--and I can only imagine her own family was as well. So what was the point? If God already has things laid out according to his purpose, then what the heck am I asking for? He will do what he wants to do, and no prayer of mine is going to change that (just ask King David when he begged for the life of his son, or Christ himself, who asked that God take the cup from him before the crucifixion). When I finally stopped being mad and started remembering how good God has been to me in my life, I was faced with a terrifying emptiness I have never experienced before. I found that I could no longer talk to one who had been in my life as long as I could remember. I could not bring myself to pray--what on earth would I say? I could praise him, but I no longer believed that God would really answer my requests. Finally, I thought of Christ and the Lord's Prayer: "This, then, is how you should pray." And so that's all I prayed: Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the glory, and the honor forever, Amen. And as I prayed this prayer and ONLY this prayer, I realized what Christ was saying--it is all about God. Hallowed be HIS name. HIS kingdom come, HIS will be done. Becky and her will, surprisingly enough, don't appear anywhere in there. But it doesn't answer the question that if God is going to do what he wants to anyway, why should I bother asking for anything?

I am still not sure on this one, but I am looking. And for now, that's enough.

Eternity

2011-10-17T20:09:00.005-05:00

I came across a comment you left on a facebook note today and now I can't stop crying. I miss you so much--there is so much I want to share with you, so much I need your help with. I remember that line in Anne of Green Gables where Anne asks Marilla if she has ever been in the "depths of despair." Marilla answers, "I never despair--to despair is to turn your back on God."

How I wish I didn't understand so deeply how right Marilla was--and how deep these depths really are.

Flabby Muscles

2011-08-30T13:02:00.002-05:00

I haven't done any serious writing in a long, long time--and I can tell. My fingers wheeze as I thump them along the keyboard, my brain keeps saying, "Huh? What?" in puzzlement as I try to coax it into some kind of coherent thought. So sorry, fat little dumplings, I think it's time we lay off the potato chips (facebook) for a while and eat some salad. Consider these your push-ups for the day--I'll be nice and just make you do ten. Ready? And one, and two . . .

*puff, puff, puff*

Because I Can

2011-08-29T19:17:00.003-05:00

Wow, it's been so long since I've blogged, I actually forgot for a moment how to start a new post! Well, I can't make any promises about being back and all (I am, if nothing else, fickle when it comes to writing), but I'm here today, and really, that's all anyone can hope for. To be here--today. Those close to me know I fell into a deep, dark place, but I think I'm actually climbing out now--there are moments when I can actually see light above me. I've started to laugh again. I've started to feel.

Here's to today.

Perils of NON-Facebooking

2011-01-27T07:51:00.002-06:00

Dang it, I missed a Woot-off, as my friend Chris so gleefully pointed out via an email from his sweet wife, Sarah. He usually tells me on fb when they are happening, but I obviously didn't know about this last one. Trade-offs: peace for cheap junk? Hmm . . .

Karma, She's a . . . Well, You Know What She Is

2011-01-23T19:34:00.001-06:00

What goes around, comes around. Only a fool thinks he can escape that little gem; too bad I know me some fools.

OCD Sucks

2011-01-22T08:53:00.003-06:00

I have struggled with it for as long as I can remember, and though I have never officially been diagnosed and have never spoken to a professional about it, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that it's a big problem for me. It's manifested itself in various ways over the years, from counting stairs and tiles and believing that every bump I hit on the road means I ran over someone, to obsessively worrying about relationships that don't matter to me on a personal level. My brain is a hamster wheel, a squirrel worrying a nut. I have always managed to pull myself out of it--stopped counting (though I still have to resist the urge, sometimes), moved on to other obsessions--I've even had short periods of peace where I don't obsess at all. The one I'm in now is a doozy, though, and it's making me really, really sick. I can't eat, I don't sleep, and the amount of time I waste thinking about it makes me weep. Coupled with the winter blues, I am having a rough time right now--I feel like I'm drowning. I keep saying, "Okay Becky, get a grip. Replace bad habits with good ones. Sing when those imaginations begin." It usually works, after a while, but it's not really happening now. I'm a little lost.

Aren't you so happy I decided to start blogging again? ;)

On a Brighter Note

2011-01-20T18:55:00.002-06:00

Tonight is the night for my PROGRAMS--my sittin-on-the-couch-slurping-my-potato-soup-watching-Community-The Office-30 Rock-and-Outsourced night.

Don't even THINK about calling me on the phone, 'cause I ain't answering

Change the Bloody Record

2011-01-20T10:25:00.003-06:00

Reason 465 why I HATE SNOW and I HATE WINTER: my Zumba class will be canceled again tonight due to crappy road conditions. The Zumba class I LOVE, which is, so far, one of the only things lately that has shaken me out of the pitiful apathetic state I am in.

Blergggggghhhh . . . >:(

As Per Usual

2011-01-19T20:19:00.003-06:00

When I take a break from facebook, I turn back to my old faithful friend, blog. Though it's been so long since I've written that I'm sure no one even bothers checking anymore, it helps me kick the habit--and it's so much more time-efficient. I DO miss the interaction, though, so if you happen to stumble back to me here, please give me a hollaback. You can even just write "like" if you want to. ;)

So what would I have posted on my facebook today, if I were still holding that monkey on my back? The following:
"Thirty Helens agree: Coleslaw deserves another chance." (_The Kids in the Hall)

I LOVED The Kids in the Hall, back in the day. Casey and I would watch them faithfully our first year of marriage . . . those crazy Canadians. Thanks to the wonder of Netflix, I am able to revisit those old episodes, and ya know what? They are STILL funny.

I'm sure thirty Helens would agree . . .

Graveyard Noises

2011-01-17T16:25:00.003-06:00

As I walked along the path beside the graveyard yesterday, striding briskly through the glass-sharp cold dark of a winter night, I heard the unmistakable hoot-hoot of an owl in a tree. I skidded to a halt, squinted at the black arms of the graveyard trees, but though I could hear him, I could not see him. Still he kept on, calling, calling--mournful, insistent. Some Native American tribes believe that an owl represents death that is soon to come . . . or that the owl is the bearer of a newly deceased soul making its way from this life to the next. Is it weird that neither one of these possibilities bothered me in the slightest? That I muttered, as I shrugged and continued down the path, "All right then, do your worst."?

That dimly, the most I felt was relief?

Beck O'Lantern

2010-09-09T22:11:00.003-05:00

Scooped, scraped, hollowed out, all hallow's eve,
Flesh and seeds pulled out, ripped out,
Clingy stringy bits of the good stuff discarded, tossed in the trash.
Triangle eyes, nose,
And that unhappy mouth, snaggle-toothed,
Carved in a false forever grin.
In order to simulate life,
Someone sticks a stumpy candle inside
Where it flickers and burns,
Sputters and melts,
Until I finally, finally begin to feel the blessed rot
Start to set in, like November.

Don't You Wanna Dodge the Taters, Too?

2010-09-02T19:09:00.005-05:00

Dear Rednecks Who Live By the Road Where I Drive Every Day:

I realize that because you have now filled your yard with every possible manner of items, including but not limited to: one rusty freezer, a bale of wire, six mismatched lawn chairs in colors ranging from forest green to taupe, a stove (plugged into the house via an extension chord), seventy-five thousand crushed beer cans, and six dirty diapers, you are obviously trying to find creative ways to expand said yard. The answer to your problem, alas, is not to make the public road that runs alongside your trailer part of your property. I am tired of dodging your dogs and their puppies, your chickens, your busted-down pick-up truck(s) AND your toddler-sized children (whom I affectionately refer to as "the tater tots"--as in "Whoops! Watch out--there are the tater tots!"). I appreciate that you have taken some initiative to claim said road by posting your handmade speed limit sign ("Slow. Sped limit 15"), painted with care on the back of a broken beer crate and affixed to a tree. Equally impressive is the bright green plastic caution turtle wearing a red ball cap that you cart out every morning and place directly in the center of the street; however, as serious as such a symbol is, I must respectfully ignore it--you are, after all, not the boss of me. I WILL be very cautious because I don't want to squash your dogs, your puppies, your chickens, OR your kids, but please--find another way to increase your yard. Your babies should not grow up believing that tag is always played best on asphalt, and I can't take the stress of worrying about them anymore.

Grumpily yours,
Becky

Handprint On My Heart

2010-08-29T12:28:00.002-05:00

I was listening to the soundtrack of Wicked yesterday, and when I got to this song, I was overwhelmed again at how much I miss my friend, Lori. I never expected so many little moments to knock the knees out from under me.

"Because I knew you, I have been changed . . . for good."

2010-08-11T10:31:00.001-05:00

Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.
--Christopher Marlowe

Happy 20th anniversary, Casey, my love. Thank you for everything.

Tribute to Lori

2010-07-30T18:39:00.005-05:00

The following is a letter I wrote and shared at Lori's funeral today. I am so blessed to be able to say she was my friend.

Dear Lori,
When Chris very kindly asked me if I thought I might be able to say a few words today, I was immediately and instantly terrified. Since you have been my dear, dear friend for seventeen years, I know for a fact that you would understand my initial fear; I can imagine you giggling in that lovely way you have, saying, “Chris, you know Becky is afraid of speaking in public!” And Sweetness, as usual, you’d be right, because I’m thoroughly petrified right now. But because you were my friend for seventeen years, I wanted to try—so here we are.

I have another, larger fear right now, though. How can I do justice in this small amount of time to the memory of someone so amazing, whose life touched both my own and those assembled in this room today in such a profound way? I am afraid because I know my words will be utterly inadequate in expressing how much you mean to us, and how much you will be missed. Which of your many traits could I speak about? The love that marked your life, as a precious wife to Chris, a godly friend and mother to your two daughters, Erica and Emily, beloved daughter to Pat and Gary, treasured sister to Jeff? The kindness and generosity that your friends and acquaintances experienced anytime we were around you, or the integrity and complete capability that you exemplified in your work? The adjective of “sweetness” that most people would apply to your nature, whether they had known you for many years or a day? Your incredible gift of encouragement, that blessed my own life in more ways than I can count? Yes, I could talk about all these traits, because they were all yours. But your strength, courage, and determination . . . Lori, I never knew how tough you were until these last two months—and then, I was completely blown away by the wonder of you.

When I heard of the news of your passing, I was, as were many in this room, shocked--grieved beyond belief. The Lord brought various words of encouragement, as He so often does, through others, and the one thing I really latched onto was my mother’s reminder that you had lived your life in a pleasing way. I remembered 2 Timothy 4:7: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful.” After reading over this verse several times, I began to really think over Paul’s metaphorical use of a “race” to describe our lives—particularly the lives of believers. Your race, in human terms, anyway, was a short one—a sprint, really. But God knew, before he put you on this earth, how many days you had before you, how long your race was going to be—and it was up to you to decide how you would run it. And Lori Anne, you ran your race like a champion. Your life was a testimony to God’s glory.

Some parts of your race were smooth and the scenery lovely; other times, you came upon some pretty ugly, steep hills and had to put your head down and push yourself up to the top. You always managed, though, to keep your pace and climb your hills, and as you ran, Lori, you glowed, like a lamp in a dark room. Your kindness, your grace made a permanent mark on the people you came in contact with, and you truly were the face of Christ to many of us when we needed to see him the most.

No hill you struggled up, however, was equal to the mountain you faced these last two months. And that’s when your determination to finish well was most evident. You eyed that mountain of pain and sickness, took a deep breath, and then began your climb—not walking, not crawling, but running, and running hard. Many in your position would have simply given up, but not you—your life continued to be an example of Christ’s love as you expressed gratitude for the smallest gestures of kindness or care, gentleness as you watched those who loved you struggling to keep their pace in their own races, humor as you dealt with so many obstacles. And on Monday night, my sweet friend, you finally reached the finish line.

I’d like to imagine what that scene might have looked like: You, exhausted from your heart-wrenching race, seeing the tape stretched taut—and right behind the line, His arms outstretched, was the Savior you knew and loved. I imagine him gesturing to you, calling out, “Come on, Lori. Keep going. You’re almost there—just one more step, my beloved.” Around Him, the spectators of heaven would be cheering you on as well, thrilled that you would finally, finally be home, that you would know, in a few more seconds, that which we on earth cannot fathom—the beauty and joy of heaven. As you broke that tape, crossed that finish line, I imagine Christ wild with happiness at your arrival, wrapping you in his arms, whispering in your ear, “Well done, Lori: my good and faithful servant. You’ve fought the good fight. You’ve run a great race. And now, my sweet daughter, you can stop running, stop fighting . . . and rest.”

None of us in this room know how long each of our individual races will be. Some of us will, like you, be given a short race in which we must do our best to live as fully in grace as we can. Others of us will have longer races to run, and we may have to practice extra patience as well as endurance as we near our ends. But Lori, I know that however long or short my own race is, I will be looking at your example. As I lace up my shoes every day, I will remember how glorious a creature you were, and how I have learned, from watching you, how very much I want to finish well, too. One day, I know that I will also see my Lord standing at the finish line, and as I round the last corner, rush up to that line, my eyes will be searching the crowd of heavenly spectators. I have no doubt that I will see you, front and center, smiling that beautiful smile of yours, dancing in delighted anticipation, calling out, “Hurry up, Becky! Faster! I just can’t wait to share heaven with you!”

I can’t wait either, Lori. I love you—thank you for being my friend.

Lori

2010-07-27T10:58:00.005-05:00

My precious friend, Lori, died last night due to complications of leiomyosarcoma cancer. I can't even express the hole she has left in the hearts of those who love her. This morning, I read over this post I wrote just six short, short months ago, unaware at the time that my sweet darling girl would NOT, in fact, grow old with me. Instead, she has been called home ahead of me, and I look forward to the day when I can thread her arm in mine again and let her show me around heaven. I decided to re-post the original instead of trying to write a new one right now, because really, what else is there to say? She was a wonderful, joyful, delightful person who walked this earth for too short a time, and I am grateful beyond belief that I had the privilege to know her.

I love you, Lori.

Fabulous Friend Friday (January 15, 2010)

Oh, dearie me--who to pick next? (Remember, this is in no particular order, all my peeps, so if it's not you this week, it will be SOON, I promise.) Ya know, after a particularly heart-warming email from my friend Lori yesterday, I think I'm going to talk about her today.

I was at college at the same time as Lori, but we weren't friends then (not enemies, either--our paths just didn't cross). Later though, she ended up marrying a guy I had gone to school with in Africa who was really good friends with my husband. Lori and Chris left school before us to move to Alaska, where her husband was posted in the Army. My first inkling that we would be real friends some day was when they came all the way from Alaska to attend our wedding in the summer. I love to watch my wedding video and see them both there, and think, "Wow. I had no idea how much I was going to love that girl someday."

Since all roads do NOT lead to Rome, but to the town next to where I live, Lori and her husband moved back shortly after Casey and I moved here. She and Chris had two little girls, and I was pregnant with my first child. Lori was--and has been--my favorite teacher in regards to child-rearing. Because her girls are a few years older, she has always had to go through all the kid stuff before with me--school issues, boy issues, peeing-in-class-in-Kindergarten issues (hey-ho, elder E). Her girls are FABULOUS young ladies, who my kids adore (as do I), so she and Chris obviously know their stuff. (I always tell Mygirl, "E and E were your first friends," and Myboy wanted to marry Lori's eldest when he was small--until he started Kindergarten and met a girl more his age . . . :))

Because Casey and Chris were friends before, and she and I liked each other so well, we have managed to capture that elusive beast: the couple/friend dynamic. I tell ya, it's a rare thing to find a couple to hang out with where you like both of them, your husband likes both of them, and they like both of you!

It's hard to know when to cease the gushing intro and move to the list, so I'm going to dive in. Here are just TEN things I love about my friend, Lori:

1. Her encouraging, sweet spirit. Lori has the gift of encouragement like few I know. She always makes me feel good about myself, no matter how crap I may be feeling at the time. Case in point: I wrote a short story and sent it out to some select friends before sending it on to a possible publisher. Lori's response was stunning in its thoughtful kindness. I was walking on air all night because of it, looking at myself in the mirror and saying, "Who's a good writer? Who's a good writer? YOU are, you sexy beast." Her response was THAT. GOOD. And she does that kind of thing all the time--just effortlessly says things that makes you feel great about yourself. What a gift. I really envy it.

2. Her laugh. I mentioned Shannon's--I'll mention Lori's. I love Lori's laugh--it's very feminine, and I especially love when she and her girls are all laughing at once, because they sound exactly the same--it's kind of like this:

Okay, they don't sound like babies when they laugh, but they sound identical to each other, and it's just as musical. How can you NOT love being around laughs like that?

3. I admire Lori's go-getter attitude. I've watched in amazement as she moved up the ladder in her career, and then took a turn to another one, and then up she went again. She's got great confidence--that's probably why she is able to be so encouraging to others. She can just about do anything, and she knows it--but never in a stuck-up, haughty way. She's got the perfect blend of confidence and humility going on.

4. She can SEW. I mean, REALLY SEW. I can't even thread a sewing machine; my friend Lori whips out drapes and pillows like it's no big thang. I will ever, ever be grateful for that time she made Mygirl a "Madeline" cape for her birthday--those pics of my little girl, wearing that blue cape are some of my faves.

5. I mentioned it before, but I'll say it again: Lori is a great mom. She has a real friendship with her girls, and it's a great thing to behold. Another thing I plan on copying with my own kids--that friendship-with-your-kids thing.

6. She is always cold, like me. So, she has no problem wearing a Snuggie . . . like me. With our Snuggies, we can take on the WORLD.

7. She's a great partner in games. We always play boys against girls on our game nights, and we usually beat the pants off our fellas. Unless they cheat.

8. She's always on my side when I don't like somebody. That's a great trait in a friend--loyal to the end, mi casa, su casa, mine enemies, your enemies.

9. She talked us into making our kids join the swim team a few years back, and that meant we spent many weary (but fun) summer weekends together, sitting under our co-purchased tent, snacking on our official swim-team trail-mix, timing at poolside, keeping up with the swim-team drama together. Those are some happy memories, and I love that both my kids are better swimmers than I could ever hope to be--all because Lori talked me into signing them up to be "Flyers." She is also the real reason the annual Christmas party at my house became an annual tradition--I tried to cancel it once, and she was so devastated by the idea that I decided it was a officially now a "thing." I now look forward to it every year!

10. She's someone who I can imagine still being friends with when I'm very old, whose kids I love almost like they're my own, who knows me and loves me for who I am. I envision she and Chris and Casey and I gathering together to play "hand and foot" when our hands are wrinkly and our eyes are a lot dimmer, when we will have to shout our conversations to each other while our husbands pretend that they are deaf. She's my sweet friend, and I love her.

Oops, She Did It Again

2010-07-13T09:42:00.004-05:00

Argh! Crazy lady called us again at 6:00 a.m.! SAME. FLIPPIN'. M.O. :"Is this the lady I spoke to from First Christian Church?" Whaaat?? Enraged, I hung up after barking, "NO!"

Guess I'll call the local nutter bin and tell them their girl has access to the phone again . . .

Greeting from Kenya

2010-06-03T05:05:00.002-05:00

So here I am, sitting on a hard wooden chair in the shade of a bottle-brush tree, where the wireless connection is best and the breeze is gentle. I am home, in the town where I grew up in Kenya, and I feel blessed beyond belief. It's been nine years since I've been home, but this trip has been so different from that one. Nine years ago, my entire family (father, mother, husband, kids, sister, brother-in-law) was here with me; today it is just m parents and me. Last time, I wept when the airplane wheels touched the ground, wept when we arrived at the boarding school I attended, wept when we made it into Kitale (my hometown); this time, I have not cried once. I think the difference is that nine years ago, I was overwhelmed because I never really thought I would get to come home; this time, I easily agreed to come and feel no finality--I believe I will be back again some day.

Suffice to say, it's nice to be home. We are not doing the "see the sights" thing--my dad is teaching at a seminary here in Kitale, and my mom and I are just along for the ride. We don't have a home here anymore, so we're staying at a cottage on the campus. We don't have a car or a driver, so our activities are limited to where we can walk or where various friends choose to carry us.

It's still really nice.

We have chai (sweet milky tea) and mandazis (thick triangle-shaped fry bread) every morning at 10:30. We sometimes walk to town, which a bustling, VERY busy place. Some of the same merchants we remember from before still have shops here--the hardware store owner, the man who owns a specialty grocery store, the butcher's son, who took over for his dad when he passed away. Our town now sports two HUGE grocery stores, a little like Walmart, but filled with familiar Kenyan foodstuffs. Of course, this is Kenya, so you have to deposit your bags at a little stand (you're not allowed to take big bags into the market because of shoplifters), the workers follow you closely to make sure you're not stealing, and the guards at the door carry heavy nightsticks.

Yesterday, we went to a slum on the outskirts of town, where the Catholic sisters have begun a mission to a displaced northern tribe now here in Kitale. These women make soap and beaded jewelry and cards, which the sisters help them sell. This enables the women to make a living other than prostitution and begging. We bought a lot of stuff from them. Last night, we had supper with a teacher and his wife from the seminary; it was traditional Kenyan fare: chicken, peas, rice, and my favorite, chapatis. They do not have electricity yet, so we ate by the light of a kerosene lamp. They are a wonderful couple; the wife is lively and adventurous, the husband is gentle and really smart. Their youngest daughter, who is four, was shy of us at first, but by the end of the evening, she wanted to sit near me and rode with us on the way home, singing songs and holding my hand.

Did I mention it is nice to be home?

Village Doctor or Supreme Court Justice?

2010-05-10T09:25:00.007-05:00

I loved your work in the British television series Clatterford (aka Jam & Jerusalem).

Oh, wait . . .

"I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, And Doggone It! No one Thinks I'm Funny Here"

2010-05-07T09:15:00.007-05:00

I'm sorry, Minnesota, but I need to shout this again: AL FRANKEN? REALLY??
Ugh. Is it just me, or is Franken channelling Stuart Smalley all over again whilst trying to explain our financial woes with a cartoon illustration? Talk about "big, fat idiots." (His words about someone else.) I kept hoping he would introduce a special guest like Michael Jordan ("We'll call him 'Michael J' to protect his anonymity") to drive the point home.

I love how he points out the trash on the ice--"This is an apple core. This is a fish head--skeleton. This is a banana." And then he says, VERY Stuart-like, that we don't want trash on the ice because it's (ready for this profound idea?) "bad."

Poor Al. What's funny on SNL is not so funny on the floor of the Senate. Though to be fair to him, he just blends in with all the other clowns occupying space there and wasting our tax dollars. Maybe he should start "taking some risks" by "wearing his new sweaters" to work . . .

So What Have I Been Doing If I'm Not Writing?

2010-04-28T08:52:00.009-05:00

Well, a little of this:

Salsa dance lessons from my girls for my 40th b-day

And a little of this:

Throwing Mygirl a Pride & Prejudice & Zombies sweet 16 party

And some of this:

Prom 2010

And the beat goes on. Mygirl has another banquet-type thingy this weekend, and then a dance recital about an hour and a half away on Saturday. Myboy's 13th birthday is just around the river bend in May, and I will have to pull something together for that, of course, and then, packing up Mygirl for her trip to Hawaii with her grandma and getting myself ready for my big trip. Which reminds me: have I mentioned that I'm really, REALLY excited about going home to Kenya in a few weeks, where I plan on NOT driving anyone anywhere to any activity? I'm not even taking my laptop--I'm going old-school unplugged. I'll take a notebook to write in when I feel like it, and books to read, but that's it. I'm ready for a break, and there's really no place like home for that. No place at all.

Crazy hum-drum life. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Dry

2010-04-26T22:38:00.003-05:00

In case you haven't noticed, I'm in a desert place of writing, metaphorically speaking. I just don't feel like it--either blogging OR noveling. It's not good, it's not right, but it is what it is. When it starts to rain again, I promise you'll be the first to know. Until then, I offer you a tube of chapstick, some sunblock, and the elusive dream of shade.

What the Kids Nowadays Might Call an "Epic Fail"

2010-04-13T00:19:00.005-05:00

I'm sorry--what? The booty of the bear must be swept by his mother because of an inferior brand of TP? Forgive my ignorance, but is tiny bits of toilet paper stuck to someone's er . . . nether-regions a common problem I'm not aware of? And being chased by one's mother, who happens to be brandishing a dustpan and broom, threatening to wipe your booty with it (is that really any better than toilet paper--even the inferior brand?) is not going to require any kind of therapy later on down the road, right?

This is just ONE in this horror-show line of Charmin commercials. Here's another:

Umm . . . yeaaaah. Because I alwaysalways check my kids' hands, teeth, and BOTTOMS before we leave for school. What. The. Flip??

I miss the old "Don't squeeze the Charmin" ads. They didn't make sense, but they didn't make me gag.

Fail. Epically

Sixteen

2010-04-07T01:44:00.008-05:00

Wasn't it just yesterday? Yesterday when it was you coming squalling into my world--all 9 pounds, 11 ounces of you. Such peachy skin, rosy loveliness, milky sweet breath . . .

I think it was it just yesterday, when your world was filled with dolls and books, colors and tea parties, thumb-sucking and Sesame Street . . .

Wasn't it just yesterday? Trick-or-treat and spelling bees, you swimming one whole lap in the pool and we cheering wildly . . .

Just yesterday: first dances, first crushes, graduations from elementary and middle school, starting high school . . .

Wasn't it just yesterday? But I blinked, and you surprised me with sixteen. Sixteen--my joy, my heart, my sunshine, my blessing straight from God. I love you, precious, precious girl.

Happy birthday.

Four To the Oh

2010-04-05T23:20:00.003-05:00

Well, it's over and official. I'm now forty, the year I've been dreading pretty much my whole life. Forty is what age I have my parents frozen as--it was hard for me when my husband (who is six years older than me) turned forty; I kept thinking, "I'm married to a guy who is as old as my dad!" (Yes, I know my dad got older too, and his forty has turned into sixty, but still . . .) Thirty wasn't so bad, but forty puts me right smack-dab in my middle age now. MIDDLE AGE!! Which is aka: old.

I've been trying to keep my thoughts light, and I've resisted making this day a mid-year (mid-life) resolution time, OR, worse still, a "I-was-supposed-to-have-all-this-stuff-done-by-the-time-I-was-forty-and-I-haven't-and-therefore-I-suck-and-I've-run-out-of-time!" day. Really, though, I was pretty apathetic today, as far as deep inner feelings about my aged-ness goes, which is good, I guess. I really can't afford the loss of moisture in tears now that I am so very, very old.

Did I just say, aloud to myself in the quiet of my sleeping house, that I am very, very old? Uh-oh. Here come the "Oh my word. I'm FOUR-FLIPPIN-TEE" midnight panics. Yeeargh!!

Mean Reds On a Yellow Day

2010-03-30T17:54:00.007-05:00

I'd like to sell you a song of hope, of light and love, where sorrow has melted like the last of the March snow, leaving behind that always surprising spray of green and purple and yellow. (When did that hill bloom? Where was I when it was happening?)

I'd like to fling my arms out wide and show you the span of the world, from fingertips to fingertips, and then, when you came near, I'd capture you, hold you, keep you from growing older. You'd struggle, but just a little, and I'd rejoice in the knowledge that you're not ready to leave yet, either.

I'd like to tell you that life moves too fast, so try to find the beauty in every day, learn to put worries away, like dusty books on some forgotten shelf. Only pick them up again if you really, really have nothing better to read. Find yourself a good novel, instead, I'd suggest--something silly or snarky or stupid. Just not serious--serious can come later, will come later.

My sweet, I'd like to sell you a song of hope: two for a nickel, five for a dime--oh, I really, really would . . .

. . . but my pockets are empty, and I'm fresh out of change.

Mommy Nightmares

2010-03-27T09:41:00.003-05:00

Mygirl has been gone for two-and-a-half days at a state science fair. Because the venue is so far away, they went down early to set up, and stayed for awards--so they've had lots of spare time, which they've filled with swimming, and the mall, and laser tag, and bowling. I repeat, my good little, obedient, sweet Christian (lovely, lovely geeky) girl is at a science fair--so why did my dream last night, SO vivid, consist of her coming into my bedroom, a teen sneer (that I've yet to see in real life, but have dreaded with every passing day) on her face as she informed me that "Saturday night, I'm going to a party at a hotel with some of the guys from the fair."? I looked at her and said, very controlled, "I. Don't. Think. So." When I woke up, I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking over and over, "Nope. Don't think so."

I was a psych minor; I don't need Freud to interpret that dream for me. Mutter . . . Stupid kids and their need to grow and be independent . . .

I don't even want to THINK about the dreams I'm going to have the night before prom!

There's That Silver Lining . . .

2010-03-22T11:12:00.002-05:00

If one of my least favorite sights in this world is snow falling down, then one of my most favorite sounds is the dripping, puddling, plonking of that snow melting. It's sunny today, the snow is disappearing, and I know tomorrow I will be able to see my tulips blooming again.

It's not much, but it's enough.

S.A.D. in the Spring

2010-03-19T19:23:00.007-05:00

My dad said to me, "When you facebook, you don't blog--and when you blog, you don't facebook." He's right, of course, though I wasn't entirely sure what his point was--which device is preferable for communication? Am I a better blogger than I am a facebooker? Obviously, my writing is better in a blog, because it's longer (and original--I've been in a lazy, lazy mood on facebook lately, posting quotes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail). But my facebook gets me instant gratification and allows me to put on a happy mask when I'm feeling sad. My blog is a mask-ripper-offer and sometimes I don't like the face underneath. The weird thing is I like blogging better--probably because I'm a writer, and stanky mess or not, what I slap out for my readers means something to me. But sometimes, like now, when I'm inexplicably sad, I don't want to examine the mess. And I really don't want you to, either.

Until I'm out of this funk, then, it's breath held, eyes turning to the sun, hoping and holding on for happier, greener days.

Best Explanation Ever

2010-03-06T10:12:00.003-06:00

My daily guru/get-me-through-my-exercise-with-your-talking-fellow Glenn Beck explained the difference between a republic (governed by bound, fixed laws, which America is) and a democracy (governed by majority rule--or "mob rule," which America is NOT) in the following way:

"We are a republic, not a democracy. You know what a democracy is? Two wolves and a sheep, deciding what to have for lunch."

Perfect.

"Give 'Em That Old Razzle-Dazzle

2010-03-04T10:21:00.004-06:00

". . . fool and flummox them."

"I'm not a doctor, but I play one on t.v." Sorry, but white coats on a person does not a doctor make, and ramming a health care bill down the throats of people who don't want it, even if you've got "doctors" as your backdrop doesn't make us want to swallow it. To quote the man himself, "You can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig." And WHAT a fat, sloppy hog this health care bill is--you're going to need gallons more lipstick, guys.

Call your reps--tell 'em NO. They want to fix things, it's simple (though painful): cut taxes, cut spending, allow people to succeed, and we can buy our OWN darn health care. Baas.

PETA Must Stand for "Protest Every Thing Always"

2010-03-01T23:30:00.001-06:00

I saw a snippet about the Westminster Dog Show and its 2010 winner, a silky Scottish terrier called "Sadie." I don't usually pay too much attention to dog shows, because whilst I like canines as much as the next gal (much better than CATS, eww, thanks all the same), I'm not what you would call a fanatic. Ever since the movie Best in Show, though, I do snicker when I hear about the winners; plus, last year (or the year before--see, not fanatic), a Welsh Corgi won, and since I have a Welsh Corgi . . . well, you see the logic as it fades away.

What was funny about this year's dog beauty pageant was the PETA protesters. The handful of animal-crazy (and I do mean cah-RA-zy) numskulls were wearing KKK clothes, complete with hoods, protesting the creation of a "master race" of dogs. Er. . . huh? I thought the KKK wanted a master race? So shouldn't the PETA people be burning KKK clothes with doggies on them, or something? Why would they dress like that to make a statement against creating a master race? That would be like me donning a short, short skirt and a pair of hooker heels and then yelling at guys to stop being so flippin' sexists when they stare at me.

I just can't figure those PETA people out. (Am I allowed to even call them people? Would they prefer I call them something else--mammal, perhaps? Or is that prejudiced against fish and fowl?) I mean, think about it--the dogs at the Westminster dog show are the cream of the canine crop. Do they lack ethical treatment? Fugghitaboutit--these pooches are pampered more than Paris Hilton on her birthday. Still, cah-ra-zy PETA screeches if animals are mistreated (and by mistreated, I of course mean eaten, which, as a beef-loving red-blooded American, I do love to do), and then they screech if animals are coddled too much.

We gotta forgive them, though. Anyone whose diets consist only of bean sprouts and lawn clippings can't be expected to actually put rational thoughts together--those poor mammals/fish/fowl/people need them some animal flesh, seared just right and slapped between two sesame-seed buns.

I'm just sayin' . . .

To Live Where I Live

2010-02-25T08:36:00.003-06:00

It was time--long put off, inevitable, but necessary. MyGirl had to go take the written portion of her driving test, so she could get a learner's permit, so she could eventually drive. We had skipped the school's summer driving course, because my sister and her kids were home for the summer, and frankly, I didn't relish driving all the way to school for six weeks during our "play" months. Instead, we opted to do the Parent Education option--we paid for an online course, which Molly took months to finish--but finally, finally, she was ready. I researched the closest place where the test was given--30 minutes from our home. The test is only given on Wednesdays, from 8:45 to noon, then a lunch break for the instructor, and then back at 1:00. We studied and studied for the test, then bright yesterday morn, after dropping MyBoy off at school, we headed for the testing place.

Which was in a small-town Community Building/Senior Citizen Center/Nutrition Center (as in, they feed poor people lunch)/Juvi Courtroom. We opened the door, pushed past some derelict-looking men who were missing a good ALL of their teeth, and looked around. To our right, round plastic tables were set up, and white-haired ladies were assembled expectantly. To our front was the long silver buffet station, and we could smell cafeteria food beginning to bubble. To our left was the Juvi Courtroom, where people for the tests were waiting. And it was PACKED.

Oh, dear.

We went in, signed our name on the clipboard, spotted someone we knew whose daughter was there for the driving test, and sat down. As we chatted, I began to get that feeling that I had forgotten something important--which I had. I had collected every possible form of ID I thought MyGirl might need--birth certificate, SS card, passport, school form--everything but the affidavit saying that Casey and I were participating in the Parent Ed Driving course. Which I needed. I looked at the clock, looked at the crowd, and gulped. "I'll be right back," I told MyGirl. I drove like the wind--30 mins home, 30 mins back (with the dratted affidavit in tow), and found that only half the people in front of us had gone. Apparently there were only two driving instructors--one who processed paperwork and gave the written test in a tiny room, and one who gave the actual driving test. They only called three people at a time, regardless of whether they were taking a written test or a driving test. It was excruciatingly inefficient. We discovered, too, that not only was it test day for all those nervous teens, but test day for those burly types who wanted to drive big rigs and school buses--they had to take their driving and written tests on Wednesdays, too.

As I settled back in, MyGirl leaned over and whispered, "The lady instructor came in and said everyone with the number 25 or over should just go home and come back at 1:00."

We were number 22.

So we waited. And waited. And waited. Around 11:00, we heard a woman's voice over a microphone in the "main" area. And I kid you not, she was calling out Bingo numbers. RIGHT NEXT TO THE TEST ROOM. We listened to her: "G46. B7. B12. N38." and MyGirl said, "Well, I hope the test is not multiple choice, or I will be marking: "G46. B12. N38."

She makes me laugh.

Finally, the last batch of testees (which included MyGirl) was called. It was almost 11:45, and by now, the Bingo game had finished. Instead, throngs of elderly had lined up for their afternoon meal of buttered green beans, chicken pot pie, a biscuit, and chocolate cake for dessert. "Good luck," I told my daughter, then I proceeded to wait some more. I was the only person left in the formerly stuffed Juvi Courtroom. Minutes ticked by as I sent up a little prayer that MyGirl would be calm and clear-minded. About that time, I heard an old woman holler at the test-room door (to the test-giver, I suppose), "I'm ALIVE!" I laughed at that--isn't that what we all seek to announce, every day of our little lives, whether we're scaling a mountain or falling in love or heading off for our lunch at the Senior Citizen Center?--"I'm still here! Living! I am, in fact, alive!"

After a few minutes more, MyGirl came dancing on her toes out of the test room. "I got a 100," she sang.

"Thank goodness," I said. I hugged her. "Come on," I said, "I think you deserve a special lunch. How does Sonic sound? I saw one on the way out of town."

"Great," she said. We got into our car, and as I pulled out into the road, I glanced over at my daughter--my baby--lovely, sweet . . . and growing up fast. I realized one more milestone that will move her away from me had been reached, passed.

It hurts a little, but I'm alive.

Is. A. PUZZLEMENT!

2010-02-20T23:20:00.011-06:00

Here's a weird, wacky tale of woe for ya. Mygirl is going to prom with a friend of hers in April, and so we have begun the early process of looking for a dress. Since she is a sophomore and probably has more proms ahead of her, we wanted to keep the cost of this one on the down-low--so we looked at Craigslist for dresses. We found a vintage dress that Mygirl LOVED--and score! it was only ten bucks. So I emailed the poster, telling her that we loved the dress, and could we come and see it? She replied the next day that great, she still had it, and did we want directions? Why yes, directions would be lovely, quoth I.

And that was the last we heard from her.

I waited, double-checked the email, waited again--emailed her and said, "Did I type in the right email?"--no response. I tried again in a week--do you still have the dress, can we come look at it, blah, blah . . . ?

Cue the crickets: cree cree, cree cree

Mygirl was disappointed that she would have to start looking again. A week or so later, I checked CL, and lo and behold, there was that same dress--reposted! My feelings were hurt--what was wrong with me? Why didn't that girl like me enough to let me buy her ten dollar dress? Had my habitual use of correct English and my lack of text lingo actually worked against me?

I became diabolical. I emailed the poster again through CL, this time using Mygirl's email. I got a response right away: "Great. I still have it. Do you want directions?"

Um . . . YEAH. So, still in Mygirl character I said, "Yes," and the poster actually gave us an address and told us that since she was a stay-at-home-mom, she was home. Staying, I presume. We emailed her again, asking if we could drop by today, since we would be in town.

Cue the crickets: cree cree, cree cree

"Well," I told Mygirl, "I'll just email her and tell her we'll be by her house at around 3:00, and if she doesn't want us to come then, she should call." We went to town and had lunch. (Brief diversion into culinary bliss: the egg-and-mayonnaise-on-white-bread sandwiches at The English Tea are TO. DIE. FOR. Paired with a pot of Earl Grey . . . heaven). We then went to Hobby Lobby. After Mygirl perused the yarn aisle forflippinever, we headed off to see if we could find the dress of her dreams. I had Mapquested the address before leaving the house, so we found it no problem. (Side note that is important: I had ALSO done a little snooping and white paged the lady with the dress, and even though her name did not appear at the address, another woman with the same last name DID.) We saw lights on in the window, a car in the driveway--good signs, all. We climbed out of the car, walked up to the door, and knocked. After a few minutes, a young girl, probably in her early twenties, wearing a towel over her head and a ring in her nose, opened the door. I saw a towhead toddler dash behind a curtain, where s/he watched us quietly the whole time.

"Hi," I said, "are you Christy H.?"

She smiled lazily and said, "No, I'm not."

That threw me a little--she was about the same size as the girl in the photo who was wearing the coveted dress. "Is Christy here?" I asked.

"No, I'm not her." (That wasn't the question, was it?)

"Hm." I said, starting to feel uneasy. "Well, that's weird. We're here about the dress that was listed on Craigslist, and the address the poster gave was this one--this is 2954 such-and-such street, isn't it?"

"Yes it is, but I don't know about a dress. Sorry. Good luck."

And with that, she closed the door and Mygirl and I stumbled back to the car, bewildered. Neither one of us could shake the feeling that that girl was LYING to us. As we mulled it over, Mygirl started to get mad. "Why would she lie to us?" she said. "I mean, if she doesn't have the dress, why not just say so? And why doesn't she want to sell her dress to me? And, Mom, she didn't act surprised to see us, or worried that someone on Craigslist was giving out her address for a dress she wasn't selling. So what is her problem?"

"I dunno," I said. "It certainly feels wrong." The more we pondered, the more the whole surreal experience started to feel like a game that we didn't know the rules to. So began our evening-long game: "What Is She Really Selling?" Drugs, was my guess--I said "dress" must be code for "crack cocaine." Mygirl thought she was schizophrenic and one of her other personas was trying to sell the dress. My next guess was that she and a friend had an argument about whose prom dress was prettiest, and this was a betting game--how many people responded to each post would determine the winner. Mygirl countered that she thought the girl just hated us. So what about you, dear reader? Any guesses, obvious or otherwise?

Poor us, in such a state--Mygirl really wanting a dress she can't have, and all I can think is, "Well, at least I've got something interesting to blog about!" We writers suck, that way--the whole world and its little pains are a veritable buffet (pronounce that "boo-fey," if you don't mind) of possible stories.

Twist! update: I just checked Craigslist again, and the dress is NO LONGER LISTED! What does this mean? Did the girl simply sell it under our noses and was too afraid to 'fess up? Did she look at the dress after we contacted her and think, "This is too pretty a dress to give up--I would look dandy washing the windows in it"? Could it be that someone else saw it and said, "I will give you two hundred bucks for that dress"? And if any of the above scenarios are true, then why, oh-ham-on-my-hock, didn't she just SAY SO?

If You Fashionistas Could See Me Now

2010-02-16T17:36:00.007-06:00

Our internet is still the pits, so I am writing this at Casey's office whilst I wait for MyGirl to finish up her weekly clogging lesson. It is COLD in here--so I came prepared. Yes sir, I am sitting at his desk, wearing my royal blue Snuggie. I have his teeny-tiny heater positioned right at my feet so the captured heat can blow up and around my legs. If the Snuggie catches on fire, at least I'll be warm.

Postponed

2010-02-12T12:55:00.002-06:00

Internet has been messing up, so no new Fab Friend Friday this week. Next week, if all goes well and the sun still shines.

Fabulous Friend Friday

2010-02-05T11:39:00.002-06:00

Today's fabo friend is Jenna--who I like to call, "Jenna-girl."

I met Jenna ages and ages ago, when she lived in the town next to mine and we went to the same church. You know those people you think you have figured out based on the clothes they wear and their "stranger" (as in, you don't know them--they are strangers to you) temperament? Well, Jenna-girl was someone I thought was a preppy, serious girl, because when I saw her at church (never having spoken to her, mind you), that's how she struck me. Serious and preppy. I was shocked to find out how much younger than me she was, because she seemed very, very grown-up. And serious.

Boy, was I wrong.

I got to know Jenna-girl because she was my sister's friend, and we started showing up at the same sister-motivated functions. Jenna-girl was like a delightful surprise package to unwrap--a fun, silly, hilarious, sweet (did I mention fun?) gift. As the years have passed, Jenna has moved from the "my sister's friend whom I really like" status to "my own friend whom I really like" status. I feel very, very lucky to know her.

So . . . ten thing little things I love about Jenna-girl:

1. Like I said: FUN. Jenna can make fun out of thin air. She's hugely imaginative and creative, and ordinary things lose their blah edges when Jenna gets a hold of them. Her parties are amazing, her ideas for activities are always great. She's a gifted fun-maker.

2. She is great mom. She has always displayed such grace and kindness towards her two, and genuinely seems to dig being around them. She's younger than me, but I've learned a thing or two about patience while watching Jenna deal with her babies (who are carbon COPIES of their momma, and hence supremely adorable).

3. She's a great wife. I love how sensitive she is towards her husband. She really builds him up with encouraging words and kindness. It is obvious he's crazy about her, too, because he lets her get away with anything--like making him perform for her friends (he has quoted the Declaration of Independence in Spanish for us, and done a mighty fine beat-box, just 'cause Jenna wanted him t0), and buying her that HUGE dog. They are a sweet pair.

4. She's crafty--I don't mean diabolical--I mean, the Martha Stewart of her town. She can whip up awesome cakes, put together themed parties--you name, it crafty Jenna can do it. She's very cool.

5. She is fearless. She decided to start a mom's group in her town when she moved and then proceeded to do it, and do it well. She decided she wanted to play soccer again, even though it's been a couple of years since she was in high-school and--bam!--there she is, playing soccer every week, getting banged up and bruised and loving it. She amazes me, because she makes up her mind to do something, and then she just does it. I envy that quality--I hem and haw and worry about failing--not her. She is the Nike poster child.

6. I love Jenna's big arm swing dance. 'Nuff said.

7. Jenna's a very honest person, which, as I've said before, is one thing I really treasure in a friend. You always know where you stand with her--there's no beating around the bush. But with this honesty comes a lot of love and forgiveness--she has mercy like no other running in her veins, and she is NOT a grudge-holder.

8. I love Jenna's House O' Fun. Lest you think I love Jenna ONLY for her House O' Fun, let me hasten to say that I would love Jenna if she lived in a cardboard box (though give her some scissors, glitter glue, and five minutes, and that cardboard box would transform into the happening place to be). But I do so enjoy her swimming pool parties and her movie theater basement. She's got an eye for making awesome things even MORE awesome. Like I said: fun-maker.

9. Jenna-girl has a strict moral compass that guides her, and she doesn't waver. That does not mean she's a legalistic stickler (can someone FUN actually be a legalistic stickler? No, I don't think so)--it means that she knows what she believes and she won't budge. A good quality for a great Christian girl.

10. Jenna-girl is loyal. I always know that Jenna will come down on my side, if I need her to. I love that. I hope she knows the same is true for me to her. I got your back, kiddo.

So there ya go. Just a few of the many things I love about my friend, Jenna.
Have a great weekend, ya'll.

Phase Two (Or: Four Down, Eight to Go)

2010-02-01T20:55:00.002-06:00

I started the second "phase" of P90X today. That means I survived ONE MONTH--six days a week for four weeks. I never cheated once. (And when I say never cheated, I mean, of course, that I did the DVDs every day. I did NOT always get through every single rep--oooh, no sir. Not even close. But I'm a little stronger every day.)

Phew.

For those who know what the heck I'm babbling about, I will state for the record that my favorites are: Core Synergistic, Cardio X (because it's short!), and Legs and Back. (Minus all those hideous pull-ups. So I guess I really just like "Legs.") On the HATEhateHATE side: Yoga X. I like yoga, normally--but I don't like ninety flippin' minutes of yoga. Nope, no I don't.

Summer is coming; I wanna be ready.

Fabulous Friend Friday

2010-01-29T14:58:00.007-06:00

Wow! Because of the snow storm and the kids not having school, I almost forgot it was Friday--it feels like Saturday! So, phew, I remembered that it was Fab Friend Friday just in time! So who is on the docket today? Well, since my husband's birthday is Sunday, I'm going to give the nod to him, whaddya say?

Casey is my college sweetheart. In fact, I left school after two years to receive my "MRS." (Let it sink in for a moment . . . there ya go. Cheesy, but always fun to say.) My parents often quip, "Getting Casey is the best $7,000 we ever spent" (talking about my college tuition). It's true; he's a gem. Everybody says so--even me, most of the time.

Here are ten little things I love about my best, best friend, Casey:

1. He can do ANYTHING. Girls, be jealous, because I've married me one of them fellas that can chop the wood, fix the car, build the addition, fix what needs fixin'. He really can do about anything--except find stuff. That particular gift has fallen to me--"Honey, where are the jalapenos? I've looked and looked and can't find them." Whereupon I calmly reach past him and pick up the peppers, which were in plain view all along, and say sweetly, "THESE peppers?" He always acts amazed, like I just did a magic trick--poof! I pulled peppers out of a hat!

2. He's a servant-hearted man. Which means that he uses his wonderful abilities to do about anything to help others, as well as us. (His dependability and helpfulness is WHY my parents think he's such a "good deal.") He will stop and pull people out of ditches, change tires, rush over to repair a roof in the rain. That's my man--a servant.

3. He's humble, and a true man of God. I sometimes get aggravated because he pulls himself back, unwilling to toot his own horn when I think everyone should know how great he is. (In particular, how great a builder he is. His customers have always loved him because he's so easy-going and he works so hard to get things right.) I'm glad he's not like some obnoxious horn-tooters in town--Casey shrugs it off; he just doesn't need all that attention. He is happy to do things because he likes to help. As an "affirmation junkie" myself, it's a mystery to me--but I love it about him. He loves God in his quiet way, and I'm sure that is why he is such a treasure.

4. He's a great dad. Both my kids are crazy nuts about him--I'm sure MyGirl will never be satisfied with any man that doesn't live up to her daddy's standards, which means she'll have to work hard to find a guy that great--but he's so worth it. And Myboy thinks his dad hangs the moon. Casey is the gentle, the calm, the balance to my noisy (and sometimes slightly hysterical). When I think about love, I always remember one time when MyGirl was little and she threw up ALL OVER the bedroom. That is not an exaggeration--she and Myboy were still sharing a room. She was in the top bunk, he was in the bottom. She tried to get up and out of bed and then lost it--threw up DOWN THE LADDER, where it splashed onto Myboy's bed, the toys underneath, the walls, the doors. Casey and I got her and Myboy out and cleaned up, and then we cleaned up the puke everywhere together. I remember looking over at him and thinking, "Wow. I don't know how single parents do this job." I was so grateful to have him with me, partner-in-puke, patient and kind throughout. Me and my kids are so lucky

5. He thinks I'm the funniest thing around. He laughs at me all the time; he gets my sarcasm and jokes. I love making him laugh--it's great having a fan-for-life.

6. He's a man's man--he hunts, he fishes, he thinks Borat is hilarious. But . . . he also likes to watch Masterpiece Theatre movies on PBS with me; this includes Pride and Prejudice. He cries a little at the part in Mulan where the dad says, "The greatest gift and honor is having you for a daughter." He is more than willing to watch whatever girlie flick I bring home. Lucky for him, I don't like movies that are too sappy.

7. He's outdoorsy. I like that we can geocache, hike, fish, and take the pontoon out. He gets up early on snow days and walks the woods. He reminds me of my favorite great uncle, who was ALWAYS outside. My grandma often laments that he died before Casey came into our family--we think they would be two peas in a pod.

8. He never, ever pushes me away when I climb into bed and stick my cold feet on him. It doesn't matter if he's been asleep for hours. I also love that if he's sleeping with his arm over his head (which he often does) and I lay my head near his shoulder, his automatic response is to drop his arm and pull me close.

9. He makes my sister feel safe. (Inside joke). Actually, he makes everybody feel safe--unless they don't know him. There have been a few guys in the past who have nervously confessed, "Casey seems like a nice guy, but he is scary looking--I'd like to laugh at his jokes, but I'm afraid he'd beat me up." I think it's his incredibly buff chest . . .

10. After almost twenty years of marriage, he still seems to really like me. Think about that--we've committed to LOVE each other, but like? That's hard, and truth be told, sometimes not possible for either of us. But we always slog through, and I'd say the time spent liking each other outweighs the not-liking parts. Bonus: I really like him, too. He's my pal; I know that I don't have to explain my thoughts to him for him to get what's going on inside my head. He knows what makes me laugh and what makes me cry, and he pushes the laughter, tries to stave off the tears. He is an amazing man, a true gift of God to me. I am blessed.

A Weird Thing About Me That I Secretly Like (And So Does He)

2010-01-27T14:34:00.005-06:00

When he climbs into bed, he always grumbles, "Why do you have to kick off your socks in bed, woman? I can hardly get my feet in."

I lift my head, peep over the blanket at the assorted lumps under the covers that stretch along the bottom rim of the bed. Two things about me: I HATE when my feet get chilly. I have poor circulation, and if my hands or feet get cold, it takes an eternal forever for me to warm them back up. So I live in thick woolly socks, most of which don't last too long because I also think that socks should hold up when I need to dash outside for some reason or another. The worn-through holes in the heels would bespeak another truth entirely. I do usually have fresh socks for night-time, though. It's like blankets for my feet.

The other thing: I canNOT sleep with my feet covered. Even if it is fros-tee out, I have to position myself so that my toes peep out of the blanket just a bit. They need air. If I go to bed in socks, my feet are warm. If I kick the socks off in bed and then sneak my tootsies out of the covers, they stay warm but not too warm. And yes, sometimes I make the bed with the socks still at the bottom--I think lumps give my bed character.

"When I die, you'll miss all those socks stuffed at the end of the bed," I tell him, sliding my toes into the top of one sock, pulling it off, and then repeating on the other side.

"No, I won't," he says, and kisses the top of my head.

I turn over, poke my toes out a bit, and smile. Yes, he will.

Snotty English Professor Public Service Announcement (Or: Ask Me Why I Mourn)

2010-01-24T22:03:00.008-06:00

TOO: Also, as well, besides, very, in an excessive amount, and sometimes "so." Think, "I can supplant this word with one of the above, too." Or, "It's too bad that you can't think of another word." Reply: " I can, too."

TO: a function word that MAINLY acts as a preposition indicating movement or action towards a person, place, or thing; connects one thing in relation to another; serves as the infinitive for verbs ("I want to run screaming from one room to another when I see that someone has forgotten to use this word correctly.")

And FYI for the English-killing texters of the world: the number 2 should NOT, never, no be used as either "too" or "to." (It's a NUMBER, for Pete's sake. As in, what comes after one and right before three.) Nor is 4 really a good substitute for "for." And dear Butter-On-My-Toast, WHY is it easier to write "knwing" and "u"? IT'S LIKE ONE OR TWO LETTERS--HOW MUCH TIME ARE YOU SAVING BY SKIPPING THEM?? (Forgive me for cyber-screaming. It's the bleeding in my eyes that causes these tears of red, brought on by the impending and dire Armageddon of the English language in the form of text messaging. I find myself ringing my bell madly, crying into the flames, "Repent, for the end is near" until I am hoarse. Despair is when the only response I get is: "OMG. That made me rofl, jk--u 2 crazy 4 me to b knwing!")

Curmudgeons of the world, unite. I've got to go prostrate myself with an aspirin and a hankie. It's all just too, too much for me to bear sometimes.

Fabulous Friend Friday

2010-01-22T10:09:00.006-06:00

An obvious one, today:

My baby sister

She's five years younger than me. Which means that growing up, I waffled between worrying about her like a little mom to being indifferent because she was so little. We didn't have the same interests: she is a game player--I am a reader. She is social, social, social--I am a hermit. She always wanted to play something that involved a board or dice or cards--I wanted to hide at the top of the loquat tree with a Narnia book and read and eat until I was sick. I loved her, but I didn't always want to bother with her.

Fast-forward many, many years. We've both come through teenagedom, early adultdom--and we're now both married and living in the same town. And throughout the course of years, we've become good, good friends. We like to hang out; we are on equal terms. Granted, she still tries to get me to play games, but sometimes I even give in, and it doesn't always suck. She has started reading more, so I can share book talk with her. I love her, and I WANT to bother with her. (Then, of course, she had to up and leave me--and I miss her. But I sure have fun with her when she comes home.)

Here are ten things about my friend, Sara, that I love:

1. She's fun to be around. She's always thinking up a caper, a party, an activity. Sometimes it's hard for me to get behind, initially, but when I do, I always have lots of fun. She is a fun girl. She also endures MY weird ideas with an admirable amount of enthusiasm.

Sara and me, at my step class one Halloween

2. She's funNY. I love her sense of humor; she makes me laugh with her stories.

3. She is a true Christ-seeker, like few I know. If I had to point to one thing that I envy the most about Sara, it's that she has such a continual thirst to know Christ more fully. She's an inspiration to me. Her faith isn't all showy touchy-feely, "Look at me"--it's real. She talks about her struggles and her times in the barren places, but she never gives up, and she always comes out the other side stronger.

4. She likes the same movies and TV shows as me. Really--MOST of the time (barring that favorite of Aaron's . . . The Once and Future King, was it?--sorry, Aaron) if she tells me to watch a movie that she thought was great, I know I'm gonna like it, too. And when I watch something particularly cute or funny, my first thought is usually, "Ooh, I can't wait to watch this with Sara." One of my favorite memories of time with my sister was when we were watching The Forsyte Saga together--I had checked it out from the library, and every week, Sara would come over and we'd watch just one of the ten or so episodes. It was great fun, anticipating the show and then talking about how much we hated the heroine. (Oh, and we both loved the musical, Wicked. No one mourns the wicked.)

5. She's a really, really good artist. I mean--REALLY good. My house now has two funny little caricatures she's done for me--one's of me and my aerobic class, and is in my gym. The other is a smaller one I keep in the living room, depicting all my favorite coffee drinkers (including Sara). This Christmas, she sent my parents a couple of watercolors she did, and they were AMAZING. And if she reads this as a campaign for my OWN watercolor-by-Sara, then I've done my job well. :)

6. She's a great mom, and a great aunt. My kids love her so much--again, she's FUN. When she was home last summer, she organized a camping trip in my parents' back yard, and that was one of the highlights of my kids' summer, I think. I am content knowing that if anything were ever to happen to Casey and me, Sara would love my kids just like they were her own. I hope she knows the same is true for hers, because I love, love, love my little Duck and Boug.

7. She's brave. I admire that about her, because I'm more careful than brave--when I have to do something risky, I will, but I am slower to say "yes," and I like to know all the options before I commit. Not Sara--she just dives in. Drive around a capital city in Africa--no problem (I would be apoplectic with fear). Give birth in her bedroom--pshaw, what's the deal? (I was there for both births and I gotta say: BIG RESPECT, yo.) Scold a charging dog (I believe I had begun to run already) with a flick of her hand ("Watch your dog!")--second nature. Rearrange her furniture every few days--like our mom--(I am relieved to find a place for something and there it will sit FOREVER)--why not? She's braveheart. I like that.

8. She's got an innate sense of style, even on a budget. She has always manages to look really stylish and cute. She's got a good sense of what looks good, and she doesn't seem to struggle with it. No missionary-woman-jean-skirt uniform for her . . . at least, not yet. ;)

9. She attracts friends like bees to honey. Because she's so fun and thoughtful and maintains contact with her friends, she has friends in every port. Sara makes friends for life--and lots of them.

10. She is smart and deep and I love our hours-long conversations. She and I can talk about everything and nothing and enjoy every minute. She loves me for who I am, understands what makes me tick like almost no one else, because she knows intimately where I come from and why my responses are the way they are.

There is something unique about being best friends with your sister--I am so thankful we grew up and grew into this role. I've sometimes played this awful game with myself (because I tend towards the morose AND because I'm a writer and my imagination goes there) where I wonder whose death would affect me the most, of all the people I know and love. Of course, my kids and husband are up top--but Sara is next after them. I honestly am not sure I would want to live in a world that didn't have her in it.

Goodness, I love her.

And Today's Slimiest Scumbucket Award Goes To . . .

2010-01-21T08:40:00.002-06:00

John Edwards. I mean, come on! It wasn't bad enough that he cheated on his cancer-ridden wife over and over and paid out hush money to his girlfriend and the guy he was bribing to take the fall for him--he had to throw dead-beat dad into the mixture as well? And to think: this man could have been our vice-president--nay, our president. Boy, we sure missed a great chance there, didn't we?

Yucky. I feel like my blog needs a shower after this post.

Deep Wisdom for the Day

2010-01-19T13:32:00.003-06:00

People who live in glass houses shouldn't write blogs. The repair bills are steep.

Happy (?) Blue Monday

2010-01-18T13:10:00.003-06:00

THAT's why I'm still in my jammies at 1:00--though only the Arctic temperatures really apply to me in this situation. Still . . .
Blue Monday

Since "Becky-Bleu" is my nickname, how about I throw this in to seal the deal?

A Week In a Life

2010-01-16T11:15:00.002-06:00

This has been one of those weeks that frankly, I'm glad is over. Lots of ups and downs--Mygirl had a rough week, which is tough for her mom to see. I had a bit o' disgruntle regarding certain issues. I had a friend keep trying to pick a fight with me. I struggled to keep up my P90X fervor. Haiti happened.

BUT:
Mygirl has grown a little this week--she's been pushed to, but she's done it, and done it well. I think I grew a little too, in how I dealt with my certain issues AND with the friend who wants to fight. I did all my workouts this week, even when I didn't feel like it. I can't do anything about Haiti, but I have started washing clothes in the hopes that I can donate them.

AND:
I had those blessings that I mentioned before--good times with my friend Shan, good times with my grandparents. Last night, we had a great time with some new friends. I had a really good walk the other day in the sunshine, laughing my head off to Glenn Beck, who was in rare form this week. Tonight, I'm taking Mygirl out on a date--just she and her grammie and me. Chick flick and dinner, followed by a little Barnes & Noble. And what the hey? I've blogged EVERY DAY this week.

To quote Robert Frost: "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on."

Fabulous Friend Friday

2010-01-15T10:00:00.006-06:00

Oh, dearie me--who to pick next? (Remember, this is in no particular order, all my peeps, so if it's not you this week, it will be SOON, I promise.) Ya know, after a particularly heart-warming email from my friend Lori yesterday, I think I'm going to talk about her today.

6. She is always cold, like me. So, she has no problem wearing a Snuggie . . . like me. With our Snuggies, we can take on the WORLD.

7. She's a great partner in games. We always play boys against girls on our game nights, and we usually beat the pants off our fellas. Unless they cheat.

That Time of Year (Or: A Not-Really Haiku)

2010-01-14T20:53:00.004-06:00

Two kids--two science projects. Due: Tomorrow.
Glue sticks, boards, construction paper, letters, wires, tears, cajoling, threats, tears, promises . . .

Seventh ring of hell.

Sunshine In My Soul

2010-01-13T12:29:00.003-06:00

Yesterday I made a nice pot of Kenyan chai (not the same as Indian chai, though that is good, too) and watched an episode of The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency with my friend, Shan. (Can't wait until next Tuesday!)

Today, the weather is glorious and I'm taking a walk outside, then going to sit with my grandpa whilst my grandma gets her hair done.

Little gifts in a little life.

Apple Falling From the Tree and Settling Right On the Roots, Etc.

2010-01-12T21:57:00.009-06:00

Mygirl has to keep a blog for a class she's taking in school (she's only allowed to post about specific assignments). The first post had to be a quote from someone she admired, and then her own deep thoughts about said quote.

Guess who the little darlin' chose? I'm not telling--you gotta go over there and find out for yourself:
http://mahlimii.wordpress.com/

Her "Obi-Wan"--ha! Brilliant.

Sniff. She makes her mommy so proud . . .

Eclectic, Much?

2010-01-11T13:18:00.005-06:00

Today I put my recently purchased songs from itunes on shuffle whilst I cleaned the kitchen, and this is what played (in order):

"Requiem for a Tower" by London Music Works & Clint Mansell. This one I bought for my boy a while back 'cause he loves to listen to it when he's playing video games--brings out the warrior in him. I still think the best use for it was when the Tea Party movement put it as the background for their video--it gives me chills; makes me want to pick up a flag and lead a charge. The founding fathers were SO BAD!!

Next came "The Fightin' Side of Me" and "Okie from Muskogee" by Merle Haggard. (Hmm. Do we see a pattern here?) I grew up listening to Merle, thanks to my Pop. Merle's music was what this little girl growing up in Africa thought Americans all believed. Is it any wonder that I think Muskogee is one of the prettiest cities in the States?

BIG shift--another blast from my past--my one true love, Michael Jackson. "Baby, Be Mine."

A new one: "Uprising" by Muse. (Oh dear, another revolutionary song!) And yes, we can blame Glenn Beck for turning us on to them--they are so darn cool! Mygirl can't stop jamming to them lately.

(Done with the dishes and the stove--now sweeping the floor . . .)
"Ten Million Slaves," by Otis Taylor. I dare you to keep your feet still!

And then: "What Was I Thinkin'?" by Dierks Bentley. Yes, it's country music, much to my daughter's disgust. And yes, I especially like it because the girl in the song is called "Becky."

"Desperation Song" by Carbon Leaf. (I LOVELOVELOVE Carbon Leaf).

Before I leave the room--"Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps," by Mari Wilson.

(Oh, and as I sat down to write this post--still in the kitchen, mind you--the following song rounded the whole experience out: "O. . . Saya" by A.R. Rahman & M.I.A, from the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack. Shall I confess that I've seen that movie five times--three in the theater, twice when I got the DVD for my b-day?)

What have we learned about Becky from this? That we can't figure Becky out by the music she listens to. And really, do we want to?

Tidbit 2

2010-01-09T12:26:00.001-06:00

I finished my first week of P90X just now (I'm resting tomorrow, Tony), and I'm still alive.

Miracles.

Monday, starting week two with Core Synergistics--bring it on!!

Tidbit

2010-01-09T09:24:00.003-06:00

Casey, the kids, and I went out on a little family date last night. We had supper at Thai Spice (business was a little slow--those of you in my town, don't forget to eat there; it's so yummy, the family who owns/runs it are so nice, and the food is priced so right), and then we went to see Sherlock Holmes.

All I can say is, "Awww, yeeaaah . . ."

Fabulous Friends Friday

2010-01-08T08:18:00.013-06:00

I realized that my posts lately have a been little grumpy--I'm blaming the cold weather, cabin fever, and my propensity for developing S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder), but it may just be that I'm becoming a grouchy person in my old age. To combat this, I've decided to consider the blessings in my life (thanks, Kassi for the post that motivated these thoughts). I decided to dedicate every Friday (or at least every Friday when I remember) to writing a post about one person who has come into my life and made it better by her/his mere existence. It's in no particular order, no ranking system or anything--just who I feel like writing about at the moment.

Today's fabulous friend is probably no surprise to anyone because she's my best friend, and has been for over twenty years now. Ladies and gentleman, let me tell you about my friend, Shannon.

Shannon and I met in college (the first time around, for me) in 1988. She was friends with my cousin, and I slowly began to hang out with them as the semester rolled by. When my cousin left college, Shannon and I had the AWKWARD task of becoming friends without our "glue" around--I will never forget how weird it was when it was just the two of us the first time. That feeling didn't last long, though--we were true kindred spirits. My memories of college consisted of Shannon and Casey (who was at that time, my boyfriend--later, my husband). Shannon taught me patience by taking so long to put on her make-up; she taught me how to lie when we had to 'fess up to Mr. D about why we had missed chapel AGAIN (because she had been taking so long putting on her make-up). We laughed a lot together, skipped too many classes together, forgot to get enough sleep together, ate junk together (she's diabetic, so when she couldn't eat some delicious treat because it would KILL her, she would make me eat it and she'd watch, saying, "Tell me everything about how it tastes." It was a little sick, but it worked). I saw her through a few boyfriends; she saw me through an engagement and then a wedding.

After we both left school, we kept in touch sporadically (we both SUCK at correspondence) but every time we got together physically, it was like no time had passed--we simply picked up where we left off. Then Casey and I moved to this here area, and a few years later, so did Shannon and her husband. We've all been here ever since, and it's a blessing, I tell ya. I love that she's, as we used to say at Rift just they-ya (said whilst indicating the direction with one's chin).

So why do I love Shannon? Let me count the ways (I'll limit myself to ten):

1. Everyone mentions this first about Shannon, so why should I be any different? Her laugh. She has the most raucous, boisterous, rolling laugh. You can't NOT laugh when Shannon laughs. If you could bottle that laugh up and sell it, depression medicine would become obsolete. Seriously.

2. Her generous spirit. Shannon is a great example of a true servant. She is Miss Hospitality-plus. In fact, I don't like going to her house when she's got a big crowd there because I don't SEE her--she's running around the whole time, tending to everyone's every need. I envy that trait so much because I lack it--I'm a selfish girl. I often leave my friend Shan's house promising myself to be more like her.

3. Her style. My friend Shannon was a crazy, unique dresser when we were in college (something that drew me to her instantly because I also like to dress a little less-than-normal), and she still dresses like MONEY, baby. We were laughing the other day because a sweet little thing from choir asked us, "Who dresses you? You two always looks so cute and hip. . ." We think what sweet little thing really meant was, "How do old ladies like you manage to look not-so-old?", but we took it as the compliment it was intended to be. We're not ready to accept polyester pants--hey, I'm not even FORTY. . . yet. We'll keep up with the youngsters as long as we can without becoming an embarrassment to our children. Then we may do it just to spite them.

4. That she is always going to have to experience "the big years" before me--forty, fifty, eighty. She's one year older than me, so I watch her and learn how to prepare myself.

Shannon, getting ready to take the "plunge" into forty . . .

5. Her sense of humor. She is a funny, funny girl, and I love her stories. She is a good writer, too, which I appreciate, and I love that she keeps a blog now to showcase her talent. I also love that she seems to think I'm funny; it's always nice to have an appreciative audience. We like a lot of the same movies/t.v. shows. (Though not all. She does not get my devotion to certain quirky British movies--Yes, Shann, I'm talking about "that gardening movie"--and I simply cannot understand her acceptance of Kill Bill, but all in all, we are simpatico when it comes to entertainment.)

6. Along that line, I love her because she introduced me to Flight of the Conchords. And Glenn Beck--I resisted listening to him for a long time because I thought he was too dramatic. She kept saying, "Just try him." I did, finally, and my eyes were opened. For that alone, I'm ever in her debt.

7. She has great kids, one of which is one of my son's besties, and she is a great mom. Watching her deal with her youngest, whom she and her husband adopted and is a sometimes a bit of a handful, has taught me a lot about grace and unconditional love. That boy has no idea now how blessed he was when Shannon and Jamey took him into their lives--but I know one day he will.

Myboy and his friend, "Ratchet."

8. Her shortbread. I believe that at least ONE of the streets of heaven will be paved with Shannon's shortbread. Kids, it's that good.

9. Her willingness to just dash out the door at a moment's notice and go for a walk with me. Sometimes she can't, but lots of times, she will. I also love that sometimes when she CAN'T go with me, she is still perfectly willing to stay on the phone while I walk and chat to me the entire time so I won't be bored. It's almost as good as the real thing.

10. She knows so much about me--all my shortcomings, my failures, my insecurities--and yet she still loves me. There are few people out there that I am willing to let see ALL the crap going on in my head--she's one of 'em, and the reason I let her in is that she can take the mess I show her and breeze on past it. I never walk away from a visit with her thinking, "I can't believe I said that--she is going to HATE me now." I've had friends in the past who have broken my heart a little because they either couldn't or didn't want to handle me the way I was--they were "fair-weather, only if you agree with/cater to me" type friends. Not my Shan--she loves me even when she doesn't agree with me, even when I'm SURE I'm working her last nerve. She has proven over and over to be a loyal, loyal friend--and loyalty is a quality I treasure above almost all others.

So that's it for today. Maybe you should go and hug a friend today; I think I'll call mine and see what she's up to . . .

Wherein I Dispute My Kids' Lack Of School Today

2010-01-07T11:23:00.005-06:00

Dear Powers-That-Be,

I feel that I must be allowed to express to you my extreme annoyance at your decision to cancel school today and tomorrow. I looked out the window this morning, expecting to see a blanket of white covering the earth. I did not. In fact, the only white on the ground is a little skiff left from the LAST snow, which happened a week ago. So why the cancel? I know it is cold--but people can drive in the cold, can't they? Chilly air doesn't cause one to careen off into a ditch, does it?(Those are rhetorical questions--I don't need an answer.)

My kids should be--nay, NEED to be--in school. It's not that I don't like them, or anything. Quite the contrary, I dig them quite a bit. But I like them best in the summer, which, if you keep cancelling school for NO REASON WHATSOEVER, will be shorter than it is already.

Also, I am deeply busy writing a novel and I need complete silence to work. Kids, you might remember, are rarely quiet, let alone silent. Sound of any kind pulls me out of the world I'm trying to create and causes me to gnash my teeth. When I gnash my teeth, my jaw gets sore, which means I will have to visit the dentist. I loathe going to the dentist. Loa.The.

Really, it's all I can do to bang out this irritable blog post.

And then there is this point: I am trying to lose weight so my newly P90X-d muscles can be seen in the Spring. Do you know what my daughter made today because she was home (and not at school, where she belongs)?

CINNAMON ROLLS.

I am drinking a protein shake with the odor of CINNAMON ROLLS in my nostrils. If the kids were in school where they should be, I would not have saliva dripping down my chin and this extreme feeling of discontentment in my soul.

Bad form, Sir-stroke-Madam--bad form.

Therefore, I implore you to avoid, in the future, letting peer pressure determine your school-cancelling policies. Just because every other school in the area cancelled this week does NOT mean you have to, too--why, if those other schools jumped off a bridge, would you follow? Need I remind you that it's only January 7th? We have a LONG winter still ahead of us. Pace yourself a bit.

Respectfully,
Disgruntled-In-MyTown

Oh, the Muscles I Didn't Know Existed!

2010-01-06T17:53:00.003-06:00

I bought Casey the P90X system for Christmas, and we both started it on Monday (I work out in the morning; he works out at night). It's been kicking our butts--but in a really good way. As some of you know, I taught step aerobics for eleven years, up until last summer when I took a break and then our class was cancelled (no, I don't think one was connected to the other). Since then, I've been hitting the treadmill hard, lifting weights on my own, racewalking outside when the weather allows. I THOUGHT I was in good shape.

Wrong-O.

I swear, after Monday's workout (Core Synergistics), I could not stand up from a chair--I had to roll out and then push myself up with my hands. It hurt to laugh, cough, or sneeze because my abs hurt so bad. Places in my body that I didn't even know existed were in pain. If you look up the phrase, "no pain, no gain" in a phrase book, this workout system will no doubt be pictured beside it. Yee-owtch.

Yesterday was cardio day. Cardio when your legs and booty hurt is NOT a fun thing, but I pushed on through. Boy, was I glad that today was a strength day--though I'm not relishing how I will probably have to sip tomorrow's morning coffee through a straw because I bet I won't be able to lift my arms. . .

Fit by forty, fit by forty, fit by forty . . .

Er . . .

2010-01-05T09:11:00.005-06:00

Top headlines around the country:

Winter Could Be Worst in 25 Years for USA...

CHILL MAP...

3 Deaths Due To Cold in Memphis...

PAPER: GAS SUPPLIES RUNNING OUT IN UK...

Elderly burn books for warmth?

Vermont sets 'all-time record for one snowstorm'...

Iowa temps 'a solid 30 degrees below normal'...

Seoul buried in heaviest snowfall in 70 years...

Historic ice build-up shuts down NJ nuclear power plant...

Midwest Sees Near-Record Lows, Snow By The Foot...

Miami shivers from coldest weather in decade...

Global warming--really? Thank goodness the world had that energy-efficient (how many planes/limos landed again?) global warming summit last month--we are just about to burn. up.

Bah.

2010: Resolving To Be Resolute

2009-12-31T09:13:00.006-06:00

Sometimes I like to ponder the actual definitions of the English language because I'm an English nerd. So let's play game that I like to call "Fun with Linguistics." To begin, let's consider the following from ye olde Merriam-Webster:

RESOLVE:
Main Entry: 1re·solve
Pronunciation: \ri-ˈzälv, -ˈzȯlv also -ˈzäv or -ˈzȯv\
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): re·solved; re·solv·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin resolvere to unloose, dissolve, from re- + solvere to loosen, release — more at SOLVE

transitive verb
1 obsolete : DISSOLVE, MELT
2 a: BREAK UP, SEPARATE (the prism resolved the light into a play of color); also to change by disintegration b : to reduce by analysis (resolve the problem into simple elements) c : to distinguish between or make independently visible adjacent parts of d : to separate (a racemic compound or mixture) into the two components
3 : to cause resolution of (a pathological state)
4 a : to deal with successfully : clear up (resolve doubts) (resolve a dispute) b : to find an answer to c : to make clear or understandable d : to find a mathematical solution of e : to split up (as a vector) into two or more components especially in assigned directions
5 : to reach a firm decision about (resolve to get more sleep) (resolve disputed points in a text)
6 a : to declare or decide by a formal resolution and vote b : to change by resolution or formal vote (the House resolved itself into a committee)
7 : to make (as voice parts) progress from dissonance to consonance
8 : to work out the resolution of (as a play)

intransitive verb
1 : to become separated into component parts; also : to become reduced by dissolving or analysis
2 : to form a resolution: DETERMINE
3 : CONSULT, DELIBERATE
4 : 4 : to progress from dissonance to consonance

Now I know most people refer to definitions 5, the first part of 6, and the second 2 of the above when talking about New Year's resolutions: I resolve to eat healthy; I resolve to read my Bible more; I resolve to lose x amount of pounds. I am drawn, however, to some of the less common uses of the word vis-a-vis New Year's. Number 1, for example: I resolve to dissolve or melt x amount of fat from my thighs and tummy. I will make those extra pounds obsolete. Or perhaps a less vain resolution: I resolve to dissolve or melt my anger towards those who have hurt me. Just let it go--like an ice cube in warm water. That pain? Begone--obsolete.

How about number 2? I like b and d: to reduce by analysis; to separate into two components. What problems in my life could be reduced if I just took the time to use analysis to separate emotions from logic, fact from fiction, important from not-so-important-at-all? In other words, less knee-jerk reaction, more cool headedness.

Number 3: to cause a resolution (a pathological state.) Hold the phone . . . pathological state? As in, diseased, habitual, extreme, and sort of crazy? Then I remembered my days of OCD and decided it's probably good to keep this one in mind--it's possible to allow your resolutions to take over your life, and sometimes the results are not so pretty. Case in point: If I resolve to not let the house burn down, I mustmustmust check the oven at LEAST five times before leaving. Every time. I resolve not to accidentally run over a person with my car, so if I hit a bump, even if I know it was just a normal bump, I must pull over and make sure that someone's mangled body is not caught in my wheels. Or, how about I resolve to count every tile or stair whenever I am around a set of tiles or stairs; otherwise, I can't go on in peace?

OCD sucks; it's a hard way to live and a hard habit to break, so please, go easy on the resolutions. As Captain Barbossa said in the first Pirates of the Caribbean, "the code is more what you'd call 'guidelines' than actual rules. Welcome aboard the Black Pearl, Miss Turner."

Number 4 goes nicely with number 2 so we won't belabor the point. Part 2 of number 6 makes me think about what the House and the Senate are doing by ignoring the will of the people that they are supposed to serve and ramming this health care bill down our throats, which makes me begin to break resolution 2, so let's hurry past that one, trailing expletives as we go, shall we?

Skip ahead to the intransitive verb definitions, to number 4: to progress from dissonance to consonance. Dissonance means "a lack of agreement," particularly in the area of one's life. It's preaching one thing and doing something entirely different, hoping that no one will ever find out. Inconsistency is the key word in dissonance. Consonance, on the other hand, is harmony or agreement--a life of consonance is marked by a harmonious nature. In essence, "I am who I say I am." My favorite people in the world are these types of people--people who are just who they are, warts and all. They don't try to sugarcoat their lives and their achievements, they say what they mean (even if it's shocking and sometimes non-p.c.), they laugh loud when they are happy and cry when they are sad. You never have to worry about what they think about you, because they are GLAD to tell you. You just grit your teeth and hope it's something good.

On the flip-side, some of the people I can't stand are the opposite: on the surface, they looks so polished and shiny, every word they say is measured for how it will appear to others, they lie to make themselves look better, more; they make sure their faces are on the news, in the paper, here, there, and everywhere; they pretend to be the best, the most wonderful, the most honest, all the while cheating, stealing, living lives of dishonor and debt. They preach, but boooy-howdy, they do not practice, trying to flick the specks out of other people's eyes with the planks sticking out of their own, wondering aloud why people don't just LISTEN TO WHAT THEY ARE SAYING??!!?? When I'm around these people, all I can think about are Christ's words in Matthew 23:27: "Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men's bones and everything unclean." (Brr. Jesus had a way with metaphor, that's for sure.) I don't want to be a whitewashed tomb, so I resolve to try and live a life of harmony, asking my Lord for help because sometimes it's hard. As for all those other graves walking around out there--they will just have to talk to Jesus about the skeletons in their respective closets their ownselves when the time comes.

*********************************************************************************

Now to the second part of "Fun with Linguistics" (are you bored yet?). Hand-in-hand with the word "resolve" is the word "resolute," which is pretty simply defined as "marked by determination"; "resolved"; "bold"; "steady." I like that--bold and steady. Those are two words I wouldn't mind having attached to my name--"Becky? She's bold . . . AND steady." I can do steady pretty well, but oh, the bold. I am not always as courageous as I'd like to be. That's why so many things in my life are unfinished, I think. (And when I say "so many things," I am talking, of course, about my books. If they're never finished, they can never fail.) BE BOLD, Becky. Finish, risk failure, and if you fail, be steady enough to keep on trying. In all the complexities of these two small words, therefore, I resolve to be resolute.

Happy New Year's, all.

Bah, Humbug

2009-12-30T02:29:00.005-06:00

To all you "Oh, I hope it snows and snows and snows tomorrow" people out there, I feel it is my obligation--nay, my duty--to remind you of a few things:

1) Snow = icy roads. Which may = wreck. Which then will = MONEY/PAIN/IRRITATION.

2) Snow = kids cooped up in the house again. Which = cabin fever. Which then = fighting amongst themselves. Which inevitably = them working Mama's every. last. nerve.

3) Snow = mud. Muddy cars, muddy clothes, muddy shoes, muddy floors. Mud, mud, mud.

4) Snow = cold. I do not like cold, Sam-I-Am. Not with a goat, not whilst wearing a coat. Coldness SUCKS.

5) Snow = grumpy, grumpy quasi-expats from warmer climes. So grumpy, in fact, she may just write a whole blog growling about it. Grumble, grumble, stupid snow, mutter, mutter, hate it, grouse, grouse.

Snow is yucky. We hate it. Got it?

Blogging Is the New Facebook

2009-12-26T16:49:00.004-06:00

For me, anyways. Because I'm old-fashioned.

So here is a photo montage (with commentary) for all my peeps out there. Let one thing be known throughout the land: I must put Christmas decorations/tree up the weekend after Thanksgiving--and I double-must take it all down/away the day after Christmas. It is a decree not to be broken--and boy, am I glad to have my house back to normal.

So to begin . . . Christmas Eve we invited my folks over for supper. We had my special pizza (crust brushed with olive oil, garlic, and oregano, with green olives, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, feta and mozz and Parmesan cheese sprinkled atop), and then Grammie and Doc (as my kids call them) played a little Wii bowling. My mother must have gotten a strike here . . .

It started snowing, so my parents headed on home. Before bed and the opening of ONE Christmas present each, the kids took turns reading the Christmas story. We reflected for a bit on how thankful we are for the many blessings of God--especially His gift of Christ.

And here am I, with yet another blessing: my man.

Here are some Christmas morning shots. After presents were opened and the traditional cinnamon rolls were consumed, the kids bundled up and did a little sledding. (And with only two inches of snow, I do mean a little. It was more scooting rather than sliding.)

After we got all the snow shook off the kids, we headed very gingerly towards my parents' house for dinner. This first pic is of my dad, my daughter, and my grandpa--who is, as usual, sleeping.

My mom, the maestro of the kitchen, and my grandma.

My mom, the original Holiday Cheermeister, made up stockings for ALL of us--including the grown-ups. Here we are, enjoying them:

Yes, she put an Archie comic in my stocking--there's a story there that someday I will share. Or you could just wait until I finish my book and read about it then.

We were ALL thankful for my mom's sweetness--including my grandpa, who finally woke up!

We stayed around the house until after 5:00 pm, then headed home. The kids stayed up late playing, but I was exhausted, so I went to bed. Today, in my usual post-Christmas frenzy, I put away all the Christmas decor and had Casey drag the tree out. And this, friends and foes, is what my floor looks like after the tree is taken away to the bonfire pile. It's a veritable carpet of pine needles--yuck. But the smell of a live tree is so worth it . . .

So that's our Christmas, 2009. Hope yours was as grand.

Goofus and Gallant at War

2009-12-26T08:37:00.003-06:00

When you wake up in the night, choking on the acid indigestion in your throat from Christmas lunch, it's a pretty good sign you overdid it a bit. I'll be lacing up my new Christmas Nikes and climbing onto my treadmill today, yep I will. Thank goodness I got ALL THOSE NEW MOVIES for Christmas--I may stay on the infernal machine all day! (And based on the calorie consumption of yesterday, I will need to.)

Another Sign He Is Growing Up

2009-12-20T23:32:00.003-06:00

Soft black peach-fuzz on upper lip . . . check.

Hair under arms . . . check.

Taller than his fifteen-year-old sister (and almost taller than me) . . . check.

Voice dropping deeper and deeper every day . . . check.

And today, whilst watching him from my vantage point on the stage during the church service (our choir was singing), I saw him bow his head in prayer for several moments before he consumed the wafer and "wine" (grape juice, at our church) of communion. Suddenly, I saw him as a young man with a faith that he doesn't talk about much, a young man who, as I pray daily for him, will grow up to love God on his own terms, apart from his dad and me.

This is my favorite sign of his growing up so far. Yet is it wrong that I am absolutely, stunningly grateful that though he is growing up, bit by bit, faster and faster, he climbed into bed with me this afternoon to be my "nap buddy" because, as I always say, "Mom sleeps better with a kid"? And that I found out later it was all part of a diabolical plan of his to sweeten me up so he could move the Wii from the game room into the living room (forbidden up until now because of the mess of it all)?

What a blessing this parenthood gig is.

Update On Our Early Morning Caller

2009-12-18T00:48:00.005-06:00

She called again two nights ago. At 11:00 p.m. this time. Casey and I had just settled down for a long winter's night, when what to our wondering ears did a'ring but the phone, making me mutter some not-so-sweet words out loud.

"Hello, my name is Jessica W_______. Well . . . is this the woman I talked to the other night from church?"

"You've got to be kidding me," I hissed to Casey, and then extended the phone so he could hear the conversation. It was almost word-for-word as the last call, except I hung up on her WAY before she could start on the details. But the same "I've tried calling three different numbers, and, well . . ." Well, STOP CALLING MY HOUSE, LADY!

Weird, right? So the next day, I decided to go to the guru of all things in our town--our local postmaster --to ask him if he knew who might be plaguing us in the wee hours.

When I finished speaking, he cocked his head and said, "I think I know who that is. Does she have kind of a high, wavery voice?"

"Yes!" I said.

"I know a woman who uses 'well' between her words like that--she lives up there in the Nut Hut." (Our town has two bars, four churches, and a home for the few-bricks-short-of-a-loader-ers.) "She's harmless--but I wonder if the person who runs the place knows she's getting up at strange hours and calling people. Maybe I'll give him a call and tell him."

So there ya go, mystery solved . . . I think. I feel much better with the idea that it is one kind of crazy person, and not the other. I just hope the powers-that-be take her phone privileges away--at least in the hours between 10:00 and 7:00. True confessions really need to be made in the cruel light of day.

I Heart India and Christmas, Part One

2009-12-08T21:46:00.003-06:00

Go on--party Punjabi style. It'll warm you right up.

Black Friday Be Damned

2009-11-25T09:09:00.002-06:00

I'm pretty sure that I'll be doing my Christmas shopping in my jammies from the comfort of my laptop.

Yep. Pretty sure.

Happy T-Day, ya'll.

What the Huh?

2009-11-21T11:22:00.008-06:00

A couple of days ago, the phone rang at 5:30 in the morning. I sat straight up, my heart racing, and then fumbled to answer. The only thought that wound itself through my still-asleep brain was, "Oh, no--it's going to be my dad, telling me my grandpa is dead." (My "Chief," as we call him, is eighty-nine years old and very frail.)

It wasn't my dad; it was some woman, who said, "Well, I'm sorry to call so early, this is Jessica W______, but, well, I've just got to talk to someone and, well, I thought I'd call you."

I shook my head, dazed, trying to deal with both the enormous relief that my grandpa was not dead and the befuddlement at this stranger on the other end of the line. I said, "Who are you trying to call?"

She replied, "Well, I just needed to talk to someone, well. You're the lady from church I talked to the other day, right?"

I said, "Ma'am, no I'm not." Before I could politely hang up (inside seething that I was awake at five-frikkin'-thirty due to this piece of work), she said, "Well, I've called three different numbers, and well, I need someone to talk to. Is it okay if I talk to you? I think, well, it may be better for me to tell my story to well, a stranger." (My husband, in the meantime, was hissing, "Who is it? Hang up!")

My first instinct was to say, "NO" and hang up, like Casey told me to. But what if this lady was on the brink of suicide or something? What if I was supposed to help her? So I said, "Um . . . sure, I guess . . ."

And this is when it got weird.

She said, "Well, you know them people--them Pentecostals--who make their women wear long skirts and put their hairs in buns?"

"Um, yes?"

"Well, I been to their church two times now, and, well, a few nights ago, (big sigh) well, one of the women and I were alone in her house, (pause) and, well . . . (pause) Oh, I'm so embarrassed. (Pause) I don't know if I should be telling a stranger all this . . ."

Wherein I, in a great state of alarm, cut in and said, "No, I don't think you should."

There was silence, and then she said, "Well, okay, well--I'm sorry I disturbed you, well, I just needed someone, well . . ."

"That's okay," I said, and then hung up. Casey, who at this point had sat up and was leaning over my shoulder to hear what was happening, said, "What was that all about?"

I said, "I don't know, but it started to take on a creepy, confessional sex-magazine quality and I had to get away. I don't want to know about this chick and her uber-religious friend's 'alone time'. Blech."

Casey laughed and quoted Kramer from Seinfeld, quoting Penthouse: "I never thought it could happen to me . . ."

"Yucky. Stop it," I said, and then I laid down, pulled my blanket over my head, and tried to go back to sleep.

So that was WEIRD, right? What do you think it was? Crank call (at 5:30 in the morning)? Deviant phone-shock-voyeuristic play? Crazy woman hopped up on meth? What?

Yikes.

Does Producing Snot Burn Calories?

2009-11-15T08:29:00.002-06:00

'Cause if it DOES, baby, I'm gonna be lean. Ugh. I am really sick, and I need pity so I am sharing my woes with you, faithful readers. It started bizarrely on Thursday night--I felt good all day and then before bed--BAMMO, I got this weird sore throat. It wasn't like a normal sore throat, which tends to actually ache around the tonsils and deeper--this one was all surface-y and more towards the front of my throat. It burned us, Master. After a fitful night, I drug myself up and taught my classes--at this point, it was just an itchy throat still, and I had ramped up my echinacea use, so I thought, "Why not?"

Because I use a loud inside voice when I teach, that's why not. Dolt. By the time my last class was done I was pretty wretched. I picked the kids up from school and then headed straight for me bed, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Terrible sick night, with the headache, the stuffy nose, the ick. Sat. morning, I awoke feeling not as awful, so I urged Casey and MyBoy to go to the gun show as planned, and I took Mygirl to school so she could catch the bus to an academic bowl meet she had. I came home and began to feel all crappy again--by the time I picked her up at 4:00, my nose was swollen like somebody-in-town-I-know's stuck-up, fat head. (Now all my homies are nervous, asking, "Is she talking about me?" If you have to ask, it might be . . .)

Throughout all this, though, the one thing that hasn't slowed down is my appetite--I can't get enough food in my body. It must be "feed a cold," right? Which brings me to my original question--does the body producing snot burn calories? Because I've gone through almost TWO entire rolls of toilet paper, blowing my schnoz, and there doesn't seem to be any signs of slowing. If said snot production doesn't burn calories, I am in BIG. TROUBLE., because I just finished off the cookies. Don't ask me how many there were--you don't wanna know.

Blech. I hate sickness.

Avoid Beard Growth

2009-11-12T13:41:00.002-06:00

Sorry ya'll, I've GOT to clean the bathrooms today, so I'll leave this instead of a post--one of my favorite public service announcements ever.

Later, you "dear, sweet, fragile little things--how I adore you."

Twins Are Fun

2009-11-11T14:51:00.002-06:00

Happy birthday to my FAVORITE twin in the world. I love you, Pop.

Despair

2009-11-08T00:11:00.003-06:00

I

"We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar" (. . .)

V

"This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper. "

T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

What Does YOUR Saturday Night Look Like?

2009-11-05T21:05:00.003-06:00

Mine's gonna start out with a little British/Indian curry:

And then a little Italian trilling from an Austrian:

Who says we ain't got culture 'round here? Friends in the area--JOIN ME!

Facebook Status Update For a Non-facebook User

2009-11-04T07:03:00.002-06:00

Becky
would rather eat dirt.

Okay, I Give Up

2009-11-03T08:58:00.002-06:00

I can't do two. So I'm back to one--and those who aren't interested in my political views can (*ahem*) MoveOn. Dot . . . well, you know. Besides, my politics are part of who I am. Love me, little lamb, or leave me.

SO . . .
I was talking to Casey and the kids about our government system and how the founding fathers set things up, and my son piped in--"You're wrong, Mommy. My social studies teacher says we are a democracy."

Silence, while I counted to ten (at the rage building because my son's teacher doesn't even know the difference between a DEMOCRACY and a REPUBLIC), and then I (semi-calmly) began to argue with him. The little stinker was immovable at first--I don't know if it is the pre-teen "Mom doesn't know squat" thing he has going on, or the "Teachers always know everything," but he was set. My husband entered the fray, saying, "Well, I always thought we were a democracy, too."

I looked at him with my mouth open--he had been a elementary teacher for seven years! (To be fair, he taught 1st grade, so they probably didn't get into government, but STILL! What are they teaching teachers?) I got a glass of water and then began to explain the difference--a democracy is rule by the majority, whereas a republic is rule by the law--in our case, the laws set forth by the Constitution. To convince my son further, I found this GREAT video, which explains the different governments. We all watched it together, both my boy and my husband had bright light bulbs appear over their heads, and we are now a fully informed, happy-to-live-in-a-republic group again.

Give it a look; pass it on to your KIDS, because they may not be getting it in school.
Peace out.

A True Tale of Terror (Or, Why My Mother Will Probably Never Visit Me Again)

2009-10-25T17:05:00.013-05:00

In honor of the witching time, I thought I'd share my own personal horror story with you:

Once upon a time (last week), a not-so-much-a-princess type female went into her attic to find a jacket for her son. What she beheld inside was a sight that froze her blood and made her scream loudly. Her not-so-gallant husband, who was in another room, neither dashed to her rescue nor appeared brandishing a sword; indeed, he rather grumpily growled, "What? Did you see a spider?"

The not-so-much-a-princess screamed again, this time in indignation as well as horror. "NO. Come. And. Look."

The not-so-gallant husband did so (much too slowly, in the not-so-much-a-princess's opinion), and, upon seeing what his fair maiden did screech about, changed his countenance double-quick. "That's pretty bad," he said.

The not-so-much-a-princess was mildly gratified at that, hence forgiving the not-so-gallant husband for not rushing to her aid. When the not-so-gallant husband began digging around in said attic of horror, he discovered more things horrific than can be described. He dragged evidence of the awful out and put it on the screened porch, that all may see and dismay. So the author respectfully submits them to you, dear reader, for your investigation and sympathy. Be warned: 'tis not for the weak of heart.

Yep--many, many, MANY snake skins.

From.

My.

Attic.

Lord, have mercy.

Indeed, that's a ruler. At the head.

And here is that same ruler, at the same spot, showing you how long these suckers were.

The handsome fellow I'm blaming for all this. If he didn't need to be WARM, for Pete's sake, I wouldn't have been in that chamber of terror in the first place. He's about five feet, five inches tall, so you can do the math on how long these skins are. (The answer, of course is "TOO FRIKKIN' LONG TO LIVE IN MY HOUSE!")

The worst, worst, worst part of this story is that the snake of the skins was never found, leaving one to deduce that he (she?) is still happily haunting my attic, leaving her ghostly presence for us to wonder at. I guess if we MUST have a happy ending here, it's that we certainly don't seem to have any MICE in the attic . . .

I Got Nothing

2009-10-22T18:02:00.001-05:00

I'm full of political angst, but my friend's husband was apparently mocking me a little bit on how this was supposed to be my non-political blog, yet the subject keeps dripping out of me. So enjoy the sound of crickets here tonight; when I get a bit o' time, I'll tell you about the horror I found in my attic last week . . . (and no, it wasn't a politician of any sort).

(Hi, Jamey.)

This Ain't Ever Gonna Get Old

2009-10-10T18:57:00.002-05:00

I literally laid around and did nothing all day today. I should get a Nobel Peace Prize.

Beer Goggles

2009-10-09T08:56:00.006-05:00

That's what the group who gave the president his Nobel Peace prize must have. I mean, come ON--even Oprah doesn't have one of these things yet. What is this world coming to, when a man who has done nothing but EXIST gets the Nobel Peace prize, and a woman who is responsible for the O magazine walks away empty-handed? They should so let her host the Olympics on her televison set. Did the folks at the NPP offices even watch SNL last weekend?

Al Gore, that other brilliant choice for NPP winner, must be advising Obama where to keep his prize ("in the lockbox") right now . . .

** Of course, I've got more to say in the other place

Teaching Is Fun, Too

2009-10-07T15:45:00.008-05:00

Every semester, I make my Freshman Comp. 1 students each give a grammar presentation on common problems I see in papers. I scatter it out so there is one five-minute presentation a day; since I get tired of hearing my own voice sometimes, I figure they probably do, too--this lets them be in the driver's seat for a little bit. I tell them they can do whatever they want for the assignment, as long as they address the problem and show us how to fix it. Sometimes they are very creative . . .
Enjoy this youtube one of my students made for class today. His subject was missing or incorrect verb endings; after the video, he gave the group a handout that addressed the problem. We've also been discussing what to do and what not to do (that IS the question) in an argument paper--hence the sly shout-out to logical fallacies.

"Kill zombies"--ba-ha. I love my job.

What To Do On A Rainy Day

2009-10-06T09:23:00.003-05:00

With a sick little boy lying on the couch and watching Shrek WAAAY too loud--blog, of course. Unfortunately, I really have no personal news but lots of political verve, so you have to go over to my other place if you want to hear from me today. There you will find not one, but TWO new posts.

Oh, and today is National Call Congress day, so heat up those phone lines. Remind your reps who their bosses are (Y.O.U.).

Books Are Fun

2009-09-24T13:58:00.003-05:00

I bought two of 'em today at Sam's. One is gruesome and weird and hilarious: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Classic Regency Romance - Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem! by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith.

The other . . . well, you need to toodle over to my other blog to see about it.

My New Naughty Obsession

2009-09-21T09:11:00.003-05:00

My mother used to really, really dig Martha Stewart. She would tape Martha's television specials, and had stacks and stacks of Martha Stewart's Living magazine (until it became, in her own words, "too expensive and snotty"). And my mother could pull some of that stuff off. Me, I liked some of Martha's stuff, though I am a realist and recognized my stuff would neh-vah-her look anything like Martha's--we're talking Rembrandt versus woefully inept, probably-held-back Kindergartner. Because I knew I could never be Martha, I resented her a wee bit (Martha, not my mother)--I was de-lighted by that mean biography about her (Just Desserts by Jerry Oppenheimer). I remember reading it and thinking, "Ah-HA! I guess I could be a perfect homemaker, too, if I had an entire ARMY of minions about to do my bidding." (The sad truth is Martha could do all that stuff herself, she just didn't want to--I, on the other hand, could not if my life was at stake.)

After reading that book, I always wondered what it would be like to be Martha's kid. After discovering this little gem, I can say that I'm glad I'm not Alexis's mother. I do love me some snarky, though.

Keeping My Eggs In Two Baskets

2009-09-16T19:50:00.003-05:00

I have decided to separate Becky, the person from Becky, the political frother. Hence, the advent of my NEW blog: My Life, My Fortune, My Sacred Honor . It will be the place for my observances on things all political--my catharsis, if nothing else. I also plan on reading The 5,000 Year Leap, by W. Cleon Skousen, and will do a chapter-by-chapter comment in my new digs. It's also a handy place for me to dump links I think are worth a look-see.

From this point on, I will try to keep this blog for me stuff--though I will probably try and point you over to the other every once in a while. My strong beliefs are me, too. Crap--TWO blogs now? This is what I do with "all my extra time" without Facebook ? Two steps forward, six steps back . . .

Let's Roll

2009-09-13T22:14:00.008-05:00

The watch party on Saturday was great. It made me so proud to see HUNDREDS of thousands of Americans gathered together, peacefully exercising their First Amendment rights. I wonder, if you added up ALL gatherings around the country, how many people were out expressing themselves in a similar fashion--I think the number would be staggering. I was disappointed that our president couldn't be bothered to stick around and listen to the people who contribute to his paycheck--so much for bipartisanship. Despite what the sneering mainstream says, this was a grassroots effort--do you think they will ever get a clue? (Don't answer that--the fact that all their major headlines are still about Joe Wilson and NOT about the-horror-that-is-ACORN says it all.)

Tomorrow, I will be writing my senators and congressman, asking them if they will be three of the fifty-six willing to stand in Congress for the Constitution and America, and will they fight to root out the sickness of corruption that is killing our country. I will tell them that, like Thomas Jefferson, I'm ready to pledge my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor for this great land . . . are they?

Are you?

http://www.the912project.com/

I Can't Be In Washington Tomorrow . . .

2009-09-11T14:46:00.005-05:00

. . .but I CAN be here:

The "watch party" at the Pontiac Coffee House (such a cool coffee house, by the way) in Springdale, AR, from 11:00 am to 2:30 pm. The place is easy to find--it's right off of 71B in Springdale.

Join me. C'mon. It will be fun and rowdy, and caffine-laced. You don't really have anything more important to do, anyway.

LINK

To All the Boats I've Loved Before

2009-09-08T08:38:00.007-05:00

We're a boating family. Oddly enough, I never really thought of myself as a sailor, but looking around our yard, I guess it's fair to say yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum--I like the open sea (er . . . in our case, where we live, it is the open river or lake).

It started when we first bought our home, sixteen years ago. We ALSO bought a canoe. At first, we loved to take the canoe out every weekend, all summer long (I can see the river from the top of our hill, about a half mile away). It was a pain to shuttle back and forth (take both cars to the drop-off point, unload the canoe, leave one person there while two others drove both cars to the pick-up spot, leave one car there, drive the other back, have our fun day, and then repeat the above), but we didn't care--it was worth it. The sun, the excitement of VERY mild rapids, the smugness we felt because we could put in where the regular hoards could not--very satisfying. One time, Casey even took me out to the lake where we used to smooch in college, and rowed me around in the moonlight at midnight--I mean, come on--what could be more romantic?

That particular love affair (with the canoe, not Casey--I've loved him longer) lasted for a good six or seven years, I'd say, but finally we got tired of the shuttling, and our caneoing trips went from every weekend to once or twice a summer. Then Casey found a rattle-trap fishing boat for cheap, and we discovered the insurmountable pleasure of time spent in a boat that actually moved ITSELF. We took "The Putt-Putt," as we affectionately dubbed it, out to the lake and cruised around, feeling mighty proud of ourselves, oblivious to the fast speed boats and jet skis that zoomed around us in circles--we were quite happy to go thirteen miles an hour, thanks all the same. The year of the putt-putt was exactly that--one year--until, perusing our local want ads, I found "The Pontoon." Built in 1980, 28 feet long with brown Naugahyde seats, an awesome permanent upper deck, and a motor that goes at LEAST 30 mph--we were, no pun intended, "sunk" the moment we saw it. Despite its seemingly doomed beginnings (yes, I'm talking about the time it TIPPED OVER on the highway), it has been a source of great joy and fun for us every summer weekend since we bought it. We love taking friends out with us on the boat--since it's so large, we can carry several friends at a time. This last summer, my sister and her kids had a bah-HALL (I've been watching reruns of Scrubs) with us on the pontoon. We even like to take my grandparents out in the fall so they can see how beautiful the changing leaves are from the lake. (We won't go into my hatred of changing leaves again--other people seem to really dig them.)

Still, though--sometimes I miss our other boats. We haven't taken the canoes out for several years, and I miss that. I've been missing our putt-putt, too, so a couple weeks ago, I talked Casey into taking it out onto a little local lake so we could fish. That trip was a comedy of errors--the motor wouldn't run very well, and we had forgotten to bring a paddle. There were TONS of submerged trees under the water that you could not see until you were literally grounded on top of them, hoping you weren't going to topple over. And to make matters worse, she started taking on water--it was race to the shore . . . once we finally got the motor running.

Yesterday Casey suggested we take the putt-putt out to a man-made lake near us, in order to see where the boat was leaking. We didn't get out onto the lake until almost seven in the evening, but we had worms for little sunfish, and our hopes were high. We launched, and there didn't seem to be any leaks, at first. Casey had a TERRIBLE time getting the motor to start--until he sheepishly noticed that he had forgotten to connect the fuel line. We dropped "anchor" (a cement block) and fished with bits of worm, (Yes, I tear the little suckers into three or four and bait my own hook)--there were tons of teeny, tiny sunfish hitting like crazy--some were smaller than the hook, almost. I caught six, MyGirl caught seven. Myboy caught ONE--but it was a decent-sized catfish, so he won the prize--and Casey, poor lad, caught zero (he wasn't fishing for the bait fish like we were). We stayed out there until it got dark and MyBoy got nervous--it was lovely, with the stars out and the lake silent. We DID notice our boat was taking on a little water, so we've got a leak to deal with, but nothing major.

Not a bad way to spend a Labor Day evening. Who knows? We may even pull the canoes out before the season ends.

Well, Whaddya Know?

2009-09-06T10:55:00.011-05:00

It worked! One day after I called my senators and the congressman from my district, to urge them to vote "no" on a government-run health care plan, and to insist in the removal of Van Jones and President Obama's other "czars," I heard that Jones resigned (with no argument from the President). I'm not egocentric enough to imagine my little voice had much to do with it--but my little voice, combined with thousands of others--maybe so. That is the power of the Republic.

I am happy that Jones, that dangerous "green job Czar" is no longer going to be overtly involved in developing policies for our country, but that's not where it ends--we need our congress and Senate to push an investigation (and removal, if necessary) of ALL thirty-plus "czars" the president has in place--ESPECIALLY Mark Lloyd (FCC "Chief Diversity" Czar), Cass Sunstein, crazy-pants regulatory czar who thinks animals have a right to sue humans, and be represented by humans--oh great, as if we don't have ENOUGH lawyers (source: http://www.opposingviews.com/articles/opinion-keep-anti-hunting-cass-sunstein-out-of-the-white-house), and John Holdren, science czar, who once wrote about the idea of forced sterilization OF WOMEN (source: http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2009/07/21/obamas-science-czar-considered-forced-abortions-sterilization-population-growth/). Why does the president need all these "helpers"? Could it be evidence of the fact that he is, as many of us predicted, woefully unprepared for the job he has been given, forcing him to rely on others to make policy? He told us to judge him on the people he surrounds himself with . . . really? Because I look at his advisors and chills run right up and down my spine--and these are the really scared chills, not the Chris-Matthews-type chills. (To be fair, it was THRILLS that "unbiased, fair and balanced" reporter got when he heard Obama speak, not chills. I'm still reeling from that one: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/02/13/chris-matthews-i-felt-thi_n_86449.html ).

I think it's also important to point out that NONE of the "major" media outlets reported on Jones and his radical views, and now, whilst wiping the egg off of their faces, they are forced to be all abuzz about it today. It is offensive to the extreme to me that they think they should not report the news to the public--probably because they think we're too stupid to get what's going on. I know which bunch is too stupid--the ones that are, as I mentioned, having a face-omelet for breakfast this morning. This fact just underlines why Marky Lloyd, who speaks warmly of the idea of forcing private (read: successful because of their conservative talk-show line-up) radio stations to pay HUGE fees to "help" national public radio, needs to be the NEXT Czar to go back to life as a private citizen. (Source: http://www.cnsnews.com/news/article/52435 )

Keep up the good fight, ya'll. It's our country, and we have a sacred duty to fight for it--it's not a Republican/Democrat thing--it's an American/Constitution thing. Have a good, lazy Monday--rest up, because we've got a long way to go, and a short time to get there.

Froth For My Mouth

2009-09-03T09:54:00.002-05:00

I've broken down and done it: subscribed to The Glenn Beck Program so that I can download the show daily on my ipod. Girls and boys, I will NEVER go back to slogging through hours of commercials and "every hour, on the hour, and the half hour, and when it breaks" local news. Did you know that these three-hour shows (Beck, Rush, Sean) are really only about an hour and a half when you take all that other crap out? Not that I'm complaining (too much); without the ads, there wouldn't be the talk, so yeah, yeah--thanks, Goldline and Carbonite and Lifelock and LegalZoom, I love capitalism and I'm a capitalist--I'm just sayin', a girl's got other things to do.

Now instead of listening to audio books whilst I "duck-walk" (that's what my dad calls race walking) around town, I am usually catching up on the day's political horrors. The reason I'm partial to Glenn is two-fold: one, he's a Constitutionalist, which the older I get, the more I realize I am (rather than a party-Repub), and two, while he's AWESOME at bringing to light things the mainstream media ain't gonna tell you, he and his crew are also sometimes hysterically funny.

And herein lies the rub: I can keep tears in pretty well (unlike Mr. Beck, it would seem), but not laughter. So if I go to a sad movie and don't cry, it's not that I'm made of stone, I just keep it in. But I can.not. stifle the laughter. And I have one of those non-dainty, horsey-type laughs that booms around and embarrasses my childrens. So when I'm walking around town (where people know me), I am sometimes laughing my head off . . . all by myself, to myself. I'm sure I look like a loony-tune. Sometimes I startle birds and small children, without meaning to. I have a feeling that the guys in the white coats are going to cart me off one day . . . which would be fine, as long as they let me download my daily dose of Beck.

Darn him and his clever use of his First Amendment rights.

Here We Go Again

2009-09-01T08:40:00.003-05:00

It's the first day of September. On my walk this morning, in the glorious, seventy-degree, sunshiny weather, I spotted something that made my stomach drop and my skin fold into itself:

A reddish-brown leaf. Instantly, my cheerful, hopeful aspect changed, and I was on top of the highest roller-coaster in the world (I hate roller-coasters), clinging to the sides so fiercely that my knuckles were bone-white, holding my scream in, because to let it out would mean I would probably dump out the sour vomit that had also filled my throat. Below me, on those impossibly steep tracks, was that thing that filled me with terror, and it was white and cold and slippery.

And it seemed to stretch on forever.

Every year I ride that ride. Every year, I plummet, eyes searching for the part of the tracks that stretch back up into the blue sky, my spirit desperate to see the sun again.

A couple days ago, my daughter, whilst working on a vocabulary list, had to define "S.A.D" (Seasonal Affective Disorder). "Hey," she said brightly, "I know all about this." Then she glanced at the calendar, looked at me, and her face crumpled a little. "Oh, no," she said. "Don't get sad, Mom. Please."

I am instantly filled with self-loathing. I hate that she knows too much about this topic. I hate that I can't promise her I won't. And I hatehatehate that reddish-brown leaf, that pimply teenaged ride attendant who locks the bar down, tells me to keep my hands inside the car at all times, and pulls the lever to start the ride , grinning through the metallic grid of his braces as I feel myself clacking up-up-up, praying that I will survive the drop.

Was I Ever That Young?

2009-08-26T21:41:00.004-05:00

Two classes of 'em in a row. Fresh-faced, nervous as cats in a room of rocking chairs, some babbling to hide their fear, others hiding in the back. I don't smile on purpose for the first couple of periods, because I think a little fear is good for the soul--they will learn about the real, goofy me soon enough. Right now, they are unmarked pages, devoid (at least to me) of habit, personality, issues--as I am to them. There is a beauty to that newness, but I can't wait until I get to know them all better--flaws and all. I always feel a pang at the end of the semester, when I send them forth from my room. If I'm lucky, they will have learned something and won't hold it against me. If I'm really lucky, they will smile at me when I see them in the halls in later semesters, and greet me like we're old friends--they are now older and wiser, and I am now not in charge of their grades. Perfect.

They keep getting younger, while I keep getting older. So why, when I look at them, do I still glimpse myself--not so fresh-faced, but nervous.

Nervous as an unsmiling cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Reading Tea Leaves

2009-08-25T09:45:00.004-05:00

The sun is shining, the air is just warm enough but not too warm, my house is relatively clean, I am as ready as I'm gonna get for classes tomorrow

BUT

I didn't have enough peanut butter to completely cover my breakfast banana, and I have some weird rash in the crook of my right arm.

So what kind of day is this going to be? I'd really like to be prepared.

That Time of Year

2009-08-23T12:22:00.002-05:00

When I am sick to death of planning for the future. But hurrah for me--I've got my semester laid out pretty specifically, my first month of lesson plans ready to just print off and carry to school, and my Blackboard, complete with a month's worth of assignments and lecture notes, all set up and ready for my students. My classes start Wednesday . . .

I need some fresh air.

If You Want To Make God Laugh, Just Tell Him Your Plans

2009-08-20T14:00:00.004-05:00

The plan I told him (well, not really him--I told my kids and Casey, but I know he was listening) was that now that I am no longer bound to any evening activities, we would start sitting down as a family and having dinner together. Every night.

(Here that boom in the distance? I think it may have been a chuckle.) We managed to keep that going for exactly ONE WEEK, before the reality of school starting smacked us right in the head. I have had three meetings in the evenings this week (yes, it's only Thursday), and I have two more on Monday and Tuesday. And the kids' activities are just gearing up: piano lessons, clogging lessons, Tae Kwan Do, youth group, Academic Club, FCCLA, and band . . .!

How did June Cleaver do it? Oh wait, she didn't work . . . or drive, apparently. Have you ever noticed that Wally and "the Beav" WALKED everywhere they wanted to be? Dang June and her flippin' pearls, though I'm not sure I would trade my mad, mad life for hers--if I had to do housework in heels, I would absolutely be a closet afternoon (And morning. And evening.) drinker. Maybe June was too; they just never showed us that part.

What We Do For Fun 'Round These Parts

2009-08-17T06:00:00.004-05:00

Myboy's friend spent the night with us the other night, and in the course of our talk over pizza, he mentioned that a friend of his said that Mythbusters had proved that someone cannot eat seven Saltine crackers in a minute. It has to do with saliva production, apparently--the crackers dry up your mouth faster than your salivary glands can produce saliva, and you are unable to swallow them.

Of course, we HAD to stop by the grocery store and pick up a packet of Saltines to give it a try.

We all assembled in the kitchen (Me, Casey, MyGirl, Myboy, and friend o' Myboy), and Casey doled out five neat little stacks of seven crackers each. The only rule was that you had to eat all seven in a minute, without the aide of any sort of liquid. We all took a big glup of water, swallowed hard, and watched as Casey counted down the time. "Three. Two. One. GO!" Casey said, and then we were off, stuffing crackers and chewing as fast as we could. Everyone had his/her own system, but my diabolical plan was to eat four at once, then the other three.

It didn't work. We tried a couple of times, but five was my limit, as well as Casey's. I don't know what the kids' were; I think a little less than that. It WAS, however, a lot of fun. Later on, I tried to find the Mythbuster stuff on the web so I could post a link here, but had no luck--I guess friend o' Myboy was misinformed. I DID find this handy little link though, which gives a little info on the "Saltine Challenge." It was an advertising contest developed by Nabisco (big surprise) in the '70s, and apparently seven is not only possible, it's passable--the record for eating Saltines under a minute is nine.

Thank goodness Saltines are relatively low in calories and fat, because I have a feeling I will be trying again. And again.

And again.

Wherein We Re-Visit My Slovenliness

2009-08-15T11:01:00.004-05:00

I just discovered a household chore almost as bad as cleaning the fridge:

Cleaning BEHIND the fridge.

Our ice-maker has not been working for a few months now, and Casey, trying to avoid going into his office and working on estimates (he sorta feels about estimates like I feel about cleaning the fridge), decided to pull the fridge out from the cut-out in the wall and have a look-see. I was cheering on his industriousness from my usual reclining position on the couch, when he dragged me right on in to his wise-little-brick-laying-piggy world (I'm more of a build-with-straw-and-then-get-to-fiddlin' type) by clearing his throat gently and saying, "Er . . . honey? Would you like to clean back here while I have the fridge pulled out?"

That, boys and girls, is what we call a rhetorical question, defined by Merriam-Webster thusly:

Pronunciation: \ri-ˈtȯr-i-kəl, -ˈtär-\
Variant(s): also rhe·tor·ic \ri-ˈtȯr-ik, -ˈtär-\
Function: adjective
Date: 15th century
1 a : of, relating to, or concerned with rhetoric b : employed for rhetorical effect; especially : asked merely for effect with no answer expected 2 a : given to rhetoric : grandiloquent b : verbal
— rhe·tor·i·cal·ly \-i-k(ə-)lē\ adverb

Did you catch definition b: "Asked merely for effect with no answer expected"? Man, I hate those.

So I dragged my sorry butt off the couch, padded into the kitchen and beheld the disaster-that-was behind the fridge.

It was horrible--really, you can't even begin to imagine. Grease spatters from the neighboring stove, vitamins that had slipped in that one-inch space between the cabinet and the fridge, and dust bunnies? Fahgetaboutit--try dust pitbulls. And all bearing their grey, furry teeth at poor old, non-scrubby ME. I took a moment to kiss my husband and kids goodbye, did a quick "hail, Mary," and then, armed only with a broom and a wet cloth, dove into the fray.

Hours later (okay, about ten minutes), I made it out alive. You will be relieved to know that the dust pitbulls did not. But I now need a little lie-down to recover from the experience. Gee, I hope Casey doesn't decide to work on the leaky faucet in the bathroom next. I don't think I have the courage to tackle the cabinet that time forgot . . .

(Insert dramatic dum-dum-DUUUMMM here.)

Not So Crazy After All, Slush

2009-08-13T09:12:00.005-05:00

My cousin made the comment, a little while after she and her husband purchased "half" a boat, that she has always been afraid of Beaver Lake because she thinks it's full of bodies. Last night, the news reported that two fisherman had reported seeing a body floating in Beaver. It was recovered by emergency crews, and had apparantly been there for a while. The most grusome part (for me, anyway), is that two weeks ago, we took our pontoon out with some friends and spent almost the entire day anchored near that general area, swimming and jumping off our upper deck. Can you imagine if I had jumped in and come face-to-face with a corpse?

Yes, I'm officially creeped out now, and no, I don't think I want to go to the lake this weekend.

I Said Yes

2009-08-11T00:10:00.000-05:00

He was excited because he had bought a new tent. It was not very big--just slightly larger than a pup tent, really--but being hard-pressed for cash, any purchase was an event. We set it up in his bedroom, in the apartment he rented with another guy. It filled almost every corner of the room, which tells you how small the room was. We clambered inside, he zipped it up, and we lay there, side by side, staring up at the red-and-grey nylon roof, watching as the moving ceiling fan made artificial dappled light. We were silent, contentedly watching shadow and light, shadow and light, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he said quietly, "So how about marrying me?" I didn't pause. I had never been more sure of anything in my whole life when I opened my mouth to say, simply, because I didn't trust any other words that might try to break in and spoil the moment, "Yes."

And then we kissed.

It's been nineteen years today since he pushed a ring on my finger and I pushed one back on him. Nineteen years, and the answer is still, "Yes."

From Wheel to Wheel

2009-08-10T09:53:00.003-05:00

My sister and her kids left this morning, after a fun-filled, action-packed summer. You know those vacations you take where you come home so exhausted from all the FUN you had that you need a vacation? Try a whole summer of that. We had a blast, and I'll miss them like crazy, but there is a certain amount of relief in the idea that our lives will settle back into "normal" again. Of course, my kids start school on Wednesday, so I have pretty much jumped from one hamster wheel onto another. Driving the kids to school, to various lessons and clubs and events, getting myself back into the classes I teach (I am teaching two Comp classes this semester, instead of just the one)--life just spins and spins, and I hang on. There are things I want to trim and cut, removing them from my path so I can sprint along faster, things like Internet usage (but not blogging--I've kind of missed blogging). There are other things I want to add, like joining a community group of believers, or having supper every night with the family.

I have begun reading a book called Strengthening Your Grip by Charles Swindoll, and the first chapter is about priorities--setting them, changing them, honestly arranging them. Swindoll references a tiny booklet I read years ago, called Tyranny of the Urgent (something I need to read again--where the heck is my little booklet?) which deals with the freedom of schedules. Scheduling is, for me, as distasteful as keeping to a strict budget or diet, but I would be a big ol' liar if I tried to say that those distasteful things don't actually make my life much, much better. It's funny how even though a person knows something is good for her, she stills tries get away from it . . . until she just HAS to have it. In my case, I will liken this to going to the doctor, which my friends and family can all tell you I abhor. I will do almost anything, live with almost any uncomfortable pain, rather than go to the doctor--I don't have a problem taking my kids to see the doc, or encouraging others to do it, but for myself, no thanks. Until something falls off or gushes blood at a regular rate, I will try to either deny the issue's existence, or I will try to find some herbal remedy. This is me; this is who I am: a person who avoids the doctor for no good reason other than she simply does. not. like it. I am not quite so passionately against a schedule or a diet (or even a budget, though I don't like having to think about money so much), so maybe it's a good place to start.

So here I am, staring down a school year, all fresh and apple-polished new. This is the time for new year's resolutions. I resolve to live a more scheduled life, where I stay busy enough to be satisfied, but not so busy that I miss life altogether. I will balance that flippin' checkbook and think about making a budget. I will stick to a healthy diet. I will work on my book(s) a little every day. I will blog more, because blogging exercises my writing skills, and more often than not, makes me think a little harder about the life I live.

Who knows? With this newly scheduled life, I may even find time to go to the doctor for a sorely needed check-up . . . but don't hold your breath.

When He Dances, I Can't Stop Smiling

2009-06-25T21:08:00.008-05:00

There are moments when television or radio has broken into my little world and broken my heart. I will never forget the day I heard that Magic Johnson had AIDS. I was in our little rented house in Nebraska, where Casey was teaching in a one-room school house (very Little House on the Prairie). I was cleaning the living room, dusting the wood floors with a dry mop, the television on to keep me company. When I heard the news break in, I laid my mop down and walked over to see what was going on. When I saw Magic and heard the announcement, I felt sick and had to sit down. I was no great basketball fan, but I had graduated from high school in California, and everybody loved Magic. At that time (1992, I believe), AIDS was a sure death sentence, and I could not imagine how someone so likable, so straight could have it.

A few years later, after we had moved to Oklahoma, I was driving to Tulsa to visit my mother and I heard on the radio that Princess Diana and Mother Theresa had died on the same day. I was shocked and saddened for Princess Di, being so young, dying in such an awful way, but I was devastated by the news of Mother Theresa. So much so that I had to pull over and weep. It felt as if a certain measure of light and goodness had left the world, and I have always feared the dark.

Today we were watching re-runs of The Office and I saw a commercial for Dateline "Celebrating the lives of two legends: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson." What was that? Farrah I had been expecting . . . but Michael? I rushed over to the computer and read the news, tears welling up in my eyes. I have been a devoted Michael Jackson fan since the Jackson Five days. It was one of the few shows that made it to Kenya, and my sister and I watched it faithfully every week. She said Randy was her favorite Jackson, but my heart always, always belonged to Michael. In boarding school, we were forbidden to listen to Thriller because the powers-that-were deemed it "demonic" and "sexually explicit." We listened to it anyway--once, we got caught DANCING (another big RVA no-no) to "PYT," for which we all received a demerit.

It was worth it.

*****

As some of you may or may not know, I have written a book about my life at Rift. Rather than going on with any new thoughts about Michael Jackson, I am going to post an excerpt from my book. I wrote this part about three years ago (editing is an excruciating process--especially when one decides to write a novel at the same time--but I am getting close to being done, once and for all). I remember smiling as I wrote it, and I smiled again as I re-read it just now. That was what I loved about Michael--he always made me smile.

****
From The Food Is Crap, but at Least It's Always Cold: My Life as a Buffalo by Becky M.

Please note that names have been changed in this book to protect the innocent . . . and the not-so-innocent.

The first and most important decision my friends made that term was that our room would be hands-down, no questions asked, the coolest room in Titchie Swot. So when Jean pulled last year’s kitty and unicorn posters out of her bag and started to stick them up on the yellowy concrete wall, Njema stopped her with one cold look.

“What?” Jean asked, twisting the poster in her hands nervously.

“We are not babies anymore, Jean. We are women.” Njema reached into her own bag and pulled out a magazine. She held it aloft and we all crowded around her, as if glimpsing Excalibur. The magazine was an American one called Teen Beat, and its cover was crammed from edge to edge with pictures of delectable male American stars. Njema flipped the cover open and Tom Selleck’s perfect white teeth gleamed out at us.

“Mmm,” Carrie said. “That Tom Selleck is one handsome guy.” She reached out a finger to caress Tom’s bristly mustache, but before her hands could come in contact with the glossy photo, Njema had snatched the magazine away.

“Tom is MINE,” Njema said. She looked down at Mr. Magnum P.I. and sighed in ecstasy. “Here is what I think,” she said. “We should all pick out some guy to love, then we will each ‘own’ that guy. Any picture we may find of that guy belongs to the girl who owns him, and we will call the girl by the name of the guy—like I will be ‘Selleck.’ We will decorate the walls around our own beds with our special guy. Understand?”

Carrie, Jean, and I nodded. Njema pulled out more fan magazines like Teen Beat—garishly colored mags, rich with pictures and skimpy on words, bearing names like “Starz,” “Fanfare,” and “Tiger.” We each grabbed a magazine and started “shopping” for our man.

I had no trouble finding my dream fellow. Ever since a friend of ours in the States had sent us a pile of recorded VHS tapes of “Happy Days,” I had been secretly, passionately in love with Chachi (and conversely and not surprisingly, I had an equally passionate hatred of Joanie). When I discovered a picture of Scott Baio leaning against a barn door, wearing a denim jean-jacket and pleasingly tight blue jean pants, grinning that beautiful grin of his, I let out a squeal of delight. I traced the outline of his brown Italian eyes lovingly. “I’m gonna be Mrs. Baio,” I murmured.

Njema heard me. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” she said. She walked over to my bed and looked at the picture I was stroking. “Okay. Becky is ‘Baio,” she announced. She turned a few pages in the magazine she was holding, found a two-page-spread poster of Scott Baio, ripped it out, and handed it to me. I held my prize to my chest and sighed in rapture.

Carrie and Jean claimed their men, too—Carrie pledging her allegiance to the C.H.I.P.s star, Erik Estrada, and Jean deciding that Ricky Schroeder, with his bright blue eyes and white-blonde hair, was the man for her. We spent the afternoon ripping, cutting, and exchanging pictures and tacking them up on the walls around our beds, on the ceiling over our bunks, on our closet doors. As I flipped through yet another magazine, a different face suddenly moved my affection. I held up a picture of a young, light-skinned black man. His gerry curls were oiled just so, his dark brown eyes were velvety and innocent, his smile shy and dangerous, all at once. “And what about . . . ?” I began, displaying the picture to the other girls in the room.

Njema studied the face in the magazine for a moment, then shook her head. “Michael belongs to all of us,” she said. Carrie and Jean nodded, and I agreed too. Michael Jackson WAS for everyone. He had a power over us that we couldn’t explain—we loved his music (although Thriller was banned at our school for being possibly “occultish,” we listened to it anyway), we loved his dancing (who in their right minds wouldn’t love Michael’s dancing?), but there was something more about him, some indefinable quality that spoke to us. In fact, years later, despite all of his troubles, I have to admit to all that I am still a closet Michael fan. (I guess that means I am now out of the closet?) And I’m not alone—I have discovered that M.Ks (“missionary kids”) the world over have always loved Michael Jackson. In fact, I have, to this day, never met an M.K. who would not admit (albeit sometimes reluctantly) that deep in his or her heart-of-hearts, that he or she sorta thinks Michael, is, well, still the coolest.

I recently had an argument with my husband about this very fact. I insisted that a mutual friend of ours, a guy I had gone to Rift with and who was now a good friend of my husband’s, would just naturally like Michael Jackson, based on the fact that he was an M.K. My husband argued that “No way! He may be an AC/DC fan or KISS fan, but NEVER Michael Jackson!” (American males who have lived in the U.S. all their lives don’t seem to share the same appreciation for the King of Pop as we “Wogs” do). I responded that since my husband was NOT an M.K., he was incapable of understanding the magic that was Michael, and would he please like to make a bet? He did, and the next time we were with our friend, I pounced.

“What do you think about Michael Jackson?” I asked our unsuspecting friend, as he polished off the last bit of chocolate pie that I had put down as an unofficial bribe.

He responded without missing a beat, “Michael is awesome.”

My husband stared at him in disbelief. Our friend, oblivious that his masculine stock had just plummeted in my husband’s view, continued, “Did you see the MTV special that showed all of his greatest videos? I taped it, if you want to borrow it. Man, that guy can flat-out MOVE!”

I sat back smugly and stuck my tongue out at my husband. The Michael Jackson phenomenon has proved to be true with every MK I’ve known. I don’t know what it is about Michael—maybe we share a kinship with someone who never really fit in anywhere, like us. Maybe he really is Peter Pan, and MKs, as a rule, have problems with growing up. Whatever the psychological reasons, during my time at Rift, my girls and I all loved Michael with an undying, unfaltering passion and fought like cats in heat over who would get that poster of him reclining on the floor, holding the baby tiger.

Mmm. Michael.

*****

Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. (William Shakespeare, Hamlet).