It's that time of year again when I feel compelled to impart my infinite (although, self-perceived) wisdom. Every year I hear several people lamenting the fact that they have to suffer through the degradation of having to listen or read the phrase Merry Xmas. I used to be on the same band wagon, too and would bristle whenever I saw an X instead of Christ and was convinced of a vast modern day conspiracy to take Christ out of Christmas because that's what the religious leaders of the day were telling me.
Then many years ago I bought an old book published in 1894 at a garage sale. On the inside cover someone had written "Xmas 94." Wait a minute. They were taking Christ out of Christmas in the 1800's? That just didn't sound right so I began doing a little bit of research. And I do mean a little bit. It didn't take long at all to figure out that X isn't trying to cheapen or lessen the reason Christians or Xians celebrate the season.
X is the Greek letter for Chi. Chi is used for Christ. People have been using the letter X to represent Christ for centuries. CENTURIES. Early Christians used the letter X to show that they followed Christ. Many early A.D. burial sites in Rome have an X inscribed in the stone around the tombs. It means "Hey! This person was a Christian."
So, please stop acting like there is a burr under your saddle when you see the phrase Xmas. Even if it is someone's modern day attempt to take Christ out of Christmas all they are doing is substituting the word Christ for the symbol for Christ. It's the same thing as us using the little fishy symbol or the pretzel symbol, the cross or the many other symbols we use to represent that we follow a living Christ.
And honestly, does it matter if someone really tries to take Christ out of Christmas? Does that make your relationship with Christ any less? Does someone writing an X keep you from knowing and worshiping God who sent us His son? Does it hinder you in any way from praying? More importantly, does your action of becoming angry or disgruntled at people who say Xmas make someone want to follow Christ? Do you really think Jesus has his feelings hurt because someone says Xmas and do you think we need to defend him for something as silly as that? I don't think so, but maybe that's just me.
So again, I say Merry Xmas, y'all. And I will continue to use that phrase if for no other reason than to irritate others who have nothing better to fret about.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
A Waterbug Story. (not for the squeamish of heart.)
It's true. Everything in Texas is bigger. But that isn't always a good thing. Our bugs are bigger, too. We are in a severe drought and heat wave right now so that means all the little critters are looking for a cool spot and moisture which sometimes means they try to make themselves at home in our houses. Now, I'm not a typical girl. I actually don't mind sharing my home with some of them. Jumping spiders are allowed to stay inside as well as the little baby geckos. They can stay because they eat the other bugs that aren't welcome. But with this heat there are no jumping spiders or baby geckos in the house. I'm not certain, but I think it might be because they are being eaten by bigger things that I haven't seen yet which have sought and found the comfort of our A.C. I don't want to think about that right now.
One bug that is absolutely not welcome in this house is the waterbug. Oh sure, it sounds harmless enough. I don't know why we call them that, but I think it is because no one is immune to one of these bugs occasionally infiltrating her home and highfalutin society folk don't want to admit to what it really is so they started calling it a waterbug. It's one thing to scream out, "There's a waterbug in the kitchen! Somebody take care of it!" but quite another to call it what it is by screaming, "There's a cockroach the size of my fist staring at me and daring me to walk near it in the kitchen! Sweet Mercy save us all!" We call them waterbugs, but make no mistake we know they are mutant giant cockroaches that will move items around on the counter if those items are blocking the way to a morsel of food. They are so big and nasty that we once had a dog who would snap at yellowjackets that dared to fly too close to him, had attacked a rattle snake to keep it from biting me, and once chased down a butting billy goat to keep it from ramming my rump, but when he saw a waterbug he would growl at it to alert us to its presence and then go cower until one of us was brave enough to chase it down and kill it. And killing those things is no easy task. You have to be fast. If you stand your ground long enough for them to know they have become a target they scurry away faster than anyone would think possible. Then if luck is on your side and one gets cornered there is that awful moment of the loud pop and splat as their guts are spewed everywhere. Thankfully, I had the good fortune of being told about the waterbug killing attributes of orange oil. A little squirt of that will doom any bug and the aroma it leaves behind is quite lovely. But even so, orange oil isn't always at the ready when we encounter a rouge waterbug.
Several nights ago was one of those times. I turned on the light in our bathroom and on the kitchen sink I saw a waterbug staring straight at me. I froze and in the distant corners of my mind I could hear "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" being played by a full orchestra. I was in no mood for the pop and splat so I decided to slowly back away to make it think I had been scared away and then grab for the bottle of orange oil when it let its guard down. He called my bluff and rose from the sink straight at my head. Did I mention that these bad mama jamas can fly? I think he thought I would then commence screaming that there was a waterbug as I ran out of his newly claimed territory. Little did he know that we have only one bathroom and I intended to use it. I grabbed for the first thing within reach and found myself swatting at him with a tube of toothpaste. I nailed him and he retreated to the top of the mirror. I was eerily calm and in a slow and steady voice said, "Come on you vile roach. You think you can take me out? Bring it."
He did.
He stared at me, flicked his long snaky antennae and launched another attack aimed at my face. I ducked and grabbed Jason's razor to throw at it as it came back towards me. I dodged to the side and grabbed my bottle of contact solution and used it like a bat only to miss and let the bottle slip form my hand. I stepped back and snatched up the next thing within reach, realized it was my hairbrush which I didn't want to defile, placed it back in its proper spot and then wrapped my hand around Jason's toothbrush instead. I chucked it through the air blindly at the sound of wings and it landed on the floor beside the toilet. (I should probably buy Jason a new toothbrush.) Next I used a shampoo bottle, a roll of toilet paper, facial cleanser, tweezers and a free sample bottle of wrinkle cream in my attempt to knock the stark raving mad flying cockroach out of the air. Each item crashed against the wall and clanked its way to the floor. A bottle of peroxide was catapulted over my shoulder and I ducked low and covered my head like I've seen soldiers do in war movies after launching a grenade. I heard a hollow and loud thud as it crashed into the cast iron tub knocking down and scattering bathtub toys on its descent. But I still heard the buzzing of wings and even felt the detestable thing touch me as I stood back up. I was calm the entire time and kept telling it in a low confident voice that it was going to die and how much I hated it. He answered my challenge by making eye contact with me not only when it would land briefly to regroup, but as it sailed through the air as well. Finally I grabbed a towel and with a ninja stealth windmill type motion I knocked that sucker out of the air and onto the floor. In one swift motion I used my hand to keep the picture that I also hit with the towel from falling and moved my foot, clad only in a flip flop on top of the roach. Simultaneously I gently straightened out the picture and stomped the cockroach as hard as I could. The pop that I had at first wanted to avoid was the sweetest sound I could imagine. I was elated even after I lifted up my foot and saw the mess. I took two Clorox wipes. One for my shoe and one for the floor and cleaned up around the monster that was still twitching and staring at me. I put everything back in its proper place beginning with rinsing off Jason's toothbrush with the peroxide. Then with smug satisfaction I used my innocent feminine beseeching voice to call out, "Honey, there's a dead waterbug in the bathroom." I stood by as Jason came in, looked around the bathroom, saw it twitching, finished the job of killing it, picked it up with a tissue and flushed it down the toilet.
I'm sure he had heard all the commotion I made in the bathroom. The clanking, the conversation I was having with the doomed roach and the crashes as my missiles were launched into the walls. But he just told me, "No problem, Babe," as I thanked him for taking care of it for me. I don't know for sure, but I think he learned long ago that I'm not quite a normal girl and sometimes it's best not to ask. But I do know for sure that if any other rogue roaches were in the shadows watching the battle they will think twice before trying to stake a claim to my bathroom. I'm probably already known as the waterbug slayer among guilds of those giant mutant cockroaches. And that makes me happy.
One bug that is absolutely not welcome in this house is the waterbug. Oh sure, it sounds harmless enough. I don't know why we call them that, but I think it is because no one is immune to one of these bugs occasionally infiltrating her home and highfalutin society folk don't want to admit to what it really is so they started calling it a waterbug. It's one thing to scream out, "There's a waterbug in the kitchen! Somebody take care of it!" but quite another to call it what it is by screaming, "There's a cockroach the size of my fist staring at me and daring me to walk near it in the kitchen! Sweet Mercy save us all!" We call them waterbugs, but make no mistake we know they are mutant giant cockroaches that will move items around on the counter if those items are blocking the way to a morsel of food. They are so big and nasty that we once had a dog who would snap at yellowjackets that dared to fly too close to him, had attacked a rattle snake to keep it from biting me, and once chased down a butting billy goat to keep it from ramming my rump, but when he saw a waterbug he would growl at it to alert us to its presence and then go cower until one of us was brave enough to chase it down and kill it. And killing those things is no easy task. You have to be fast. If you stand your ground long enough for them to know they have become a target they scurry away faster than anyone would think possible. Then if luck is on your side and one gets cornered there is that awful moment of the loud pop and splat as their guts are spewed everywhere. Thankfully, I had the good fortune of being told about the waterbug killing attributes of orange oil. A little squirt of that will doom any bug and the aroma it leaves behind is quite lovely. But even so, orange oil isn't always at the ready when we encounter a rouge waterbug.
Several nights ago was one of those times. I turned on the light in our bathroom and on the kitchen sink I saw a waterbug staring straight at me. I froze and in the distant corners of my mind I could hear "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" being played by a full orchestra. I was in no mood for the pop and splat so I decided to slowly back away to make it think I had been scared away and then grab for the bottle of orange oil when it let its guard down. He called my bluff and rose from the sink straight at my head. Did I mention that these bad mama jamas can fly? I think he thought I would then commence screaming that there was a waterbug as I ran out of his newly claimed territory. Little did he know that we have only one bathroom and I intended to use it. I grabbed for the first thing within reach and found myself swatting at him with a tube of toothpaste. I nailed him and he retreated to the top of the mirror. I was eerily calm and in a slow and steady voice said, "Come on you vile roach. You think you can take me out? Bring it."
He did.
He stared at me, flicked his long snaky antennae and launched another attack aimed at my face. I ducked and grabbed Jason's razor to throw at it as it came back towards me. I dodged to the side and grabbed my bottle of contact solution and used it like a bat only to miss and let the bottle slip form my hand. I stepped back and snatched up the next thing within reach, realized it was my hairbrush which I didn't want to defile, placed it back in its proper spot and then wrapped my hand around Jason's toothbrush instead. I chucked it through the air blindly at the sound of wings and it landed on the floor beside the toilet. (I should probably buy Jason a new toothbrush.) Next I used a shampoo bottle, a roll of toilet paper, facial cleanser, tweezers and a free sample bottle of wrinkle cream in my attempt to knock the stark raving mad flying cockroach out of the air. Each item crashed against the wall and clanked its way to the floor. A bottle of peroxide was catapulted over my shoulder and I ducked low and covered my head like I've seen soldiers do in war movies after launching a grenade. I heard a hollow and loud thud as it crashed into the cast iron tub knocking down and scattering bathtub toys on its descent. But I still heard the buzzing of wings and even felt the detestable thing touch me as I stood back up. I was calm the entire time and kept telling it in a low confident voice that it was going to die and how much I hated it. He answered my challenge by making eye contact with me not only when it would land briefly to regroup, but as it sailed through the air as well. Finally I grabbed a towel and with a ninja stealth windmill type motion I knocked that sucker out of the air and onto the floor. In one swift motion I used my hand to keep the picture that I also hit with the towel from falling and moved my foot, clad only in a flip flop on top of the roach. Simultaneously I gently straightened out the picture and stomped the cockroach as hard as I could. The pop that I had at first wanted to avoid was the sweetest sound I could imagine. I was elated even after I lifted up my foot and saw the mess. I took two Clorox wipes. One for my shoe and one for the floor and cleaned up around the monster that was still twitching and staring at me. I put everything back in its proper place beginning with rinsing off Jason's toothbrush with the peroxide. Then with smug satisfaction I used my innocent feminine beseeching voice to call out, "Honey, there's a dead waterbug in the bathroom." I stood by as Jason came in, looked around the bathroom, saw it twitching, finished the job of killing it, picked it up with a tissue and flushed it down the toilet.
I'm sure he had heard all the commotion I made in the bathroom. The clanking, the conversation I was having with the doomed roach and the crashes as my missiles were launched into the walls. But he just told me, "No problem, Babe," as I thanked him for taking care of it for me. I don't know for sure, but I think he learned long ago that I'm not quite a normal girl and sometimes it's best not to ask. But I do know for sure that if any other rogue roaches were in the shadows watching the battle they will think twice before trying to stake a claim to my bathroom. I'm probably already known as the waterbug slayer among guilds of those giant mutant cockroaches. And that makes me happy.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Day 2 of running. Yes, I might stick to it this time.
We had a thick drizzle this morning and even though I shouldn't have two days in a row I decided to fire up the ol' C25k again because nothing looks cooler than a person running in the rain. At first the people in cars that drove past saw my acting skills as I made it look like I had been running a really long time. I wanted them to think I was a dedicated runner who was either soaked from the rain or her own sacrifice of sweat. After the performance for the third car I realized how much more energy it was taking to use theatrics so I gave up that quest and no longer cared about the impression I was leaving on people.
My route this time was much more planned than yesterday's aimless jaunt. My husband showed me his 3 mile route that he has been using. I did really well. There was one time when my shoe came untied during the "walk" session of the routine, but I cleverly waited for the "run" part before I slowly stooped to tie it. And I did see a screw in the street and selflessly picked it up during another "run" session. (You are welcome to the person whose tire I saved.) I thought I found a penny during yet another "run" session but it was a leaf. It was interesting and needed further study until my "walk" session began and I had to toss it back to the ground. I was a little late getting started on the start of the next "run" because it had stopped raining so I had to gaze at the sky for a while to make sure it had actually dried up. That was followed by my next "walk" time being interrupted by an elderly man who was saying something to me. I took out my earphones and told him that I begged his pardon but I didn't hear what he had said. He said he was making sure I was okay because I looked like I was going to fall over. I can't be certain, due to the sound of the rushing of blood in my ears, of the tone in which he said it, but I think he was an elderly man with a smart mouth. I'm pretty sure if I would have had the courage to look back after I passed where he was sitting in his driveway I would have seen him laughing and pointing at me. My route brought be back in front of his house again so just to spite him I ran hard all the way through another run session. I was too busy looking to see if he was still outside and it was still hazy from the rain so I didn't see the silver car careening over a hill until I was already crossing the street. It was nowhere close to hitting me as I crossed in front of its path but since I didn't see it to begin with it startled me into a sprint like I've never sprinted before. I don't want to brag but I think I would have left Secretariat in the dust as I scrambled to the other side of the road.
I can't understand why, but the program ended after I had covered only about 2 miles. Since 5K is actually 3.1 miles I see that there could be a problem with the program. I think it was poor planning on the app writer's part to claim it would train me to run 3 miles and I'm only covering 2. The program left me on a cool down walk about a mile away from home. The elderly man who had shown so much concern about my ability to stand had already gone inside so I couldn't ask him for a ride back to the house. Good thing I still had another Cadbury egg stashed in my kitchen. It beckoned me home and I will be forever grateful. It's the simple things in life that make everything worthwhile. The simplicity of a Cadbury egg and a house that I wasn't locked out of made the rest of my day quite lovely.
My route this time was much more planned than yesterday's aimless jaunt. My husband showed me his 3 mile route that he has been using. I did really well. There was one time when my shoe came untied during the "walk" session of the routine, but I cleverly waited for the "run" part before I slowly stooped to tie it. And I did see a screw in the street and selflessly picked it up during another "run" session. (You are welcome to the person whose tire I saved.) I thought I found a penny during yet another "run" session but it was a leaf. It was interesting and needed further study until my "walk" session began and I had to toss it back to the ground. I was a little late getting started on the start of the next "run" because it had stopped raining so I had to gaze at the sky for a while to make sure it had actually dried up. That was followed by my next "walk" time being interrupted by an elderly man who was saying something to me. I took out my earphones and told him that I begged his pardon but I didn't hear what he had said. He said he was making sure I was okay because I looked like I was going to fall over. I can't be certain, due to the sound of the rushing of blood in my ears, of the tone in which he said it, but I think he was an elderly man with a smart mouth. I'm pretty sure if I would have had the courage to look back after I passed where he was sitting in his driveway I would have seen him laughing and pointing at me. My route brought be back in front of his house again so just to spite him I ran hard all the way through another run session. I was too busy looking to see if he was still outside and it was still hazy from the rain so I didn't see the silver car careening over a hill until I was already crossing the street. It was nowhere close to hitting me as I crossed in front of its path but since I didn't see it to begin with it startled me into a sprint like I've never sprinted before. I don't want to brag but I think I would have left Secretariat in the dust as I scrambled to the other side of the road.
I can't understand why, but the program ended after I had covered only about 2 miles. Since 5K is actually 3.1 miles I see that there could be a problem with the program. I think it was poor planning on the app writer's part to claim it would train me to run 3 miles and I'm only covering 2. The program left me on a cool down walk about a mile away from home. The elderly man who had shown so much concern about my ability to stand had already gone inside so I couldn't ask him for a ride back to the house. Good thing I still had another Cadbury egg stashed in my kitchen. It beckoned me home and I will be forever grateful. It's the simple things in life that make everything worthwhile. The simplicity of a Cadbury egg and a house that I wasn't locked out of made the rest of my day quite lovely.
The running adventure continues
I began the C25K program a month ago. I should be on week four and able to jog in five minute segments. But I just did my second round yesterday. Yep, a month later and I started day 2 which means I can jog for 60 second bursts. (more or less) Yes, I'm a slacker and I will eventually get over the disappointment in myself. . . and now I'm over it.
Yesterday went pretty well. Unlike the last time the voice on my phone never sounded snarky when it directed me to either run or walk. I think I showed it who's boss by not using it for a month. Also unlike the run last month, I am back on the Cadbury Eggs and I told myself I could have one if I completed three miles. That might be why the venture went better yesterday. I knew there was a Cadbury Egg waiting for me back at home. Don't judge me.
I ran aimlessly for what I felt was surely more than 3 miles. I was back at my house long before the bell sounded for a cool down. It was torture to keep going when I was so close to home where in my secret hiding place I would find a Cadbury egg. But I did continue. I walked/jogged to the end of the street and back again and again until the cool down bell sounded. Then I plopped down in my front yard and looked at the mileage I had covered. Are we sure this whole GPS thing is accurate? Has it really been tested? I was disappointed that I had covered only two miles, but it was a fleeting feeling because does the mileage really matter? It is more important that I tried and who cares about giving or taking a mile or two- I was still worthy of the chocolate reward. The chocolate egg was so close, but I knew I had to turn my frantic gasps for breaths into regular breathing before I could truly enjoy the creamy milk chocolate melting in my mouth. So I sat in the shade of my front yard until I worried that my muscles would lock up and I wouldn't be able to get up.
Once I was breathing normally again I headed for back door. For reasons that are still unclear, I found myself locked out of the house. My chocolate reward had to wait until I had found an unlocked window, heaved it open as far as I could with exhausted jelly like arms and crawled through. If any of my neighbors saw me, it wasn't a pretty sight. The upper half of my body cleared the width of the open window easily but as I was in a weird belly sprawl position halfway through it became obvious that my lower half was a few inches too wide for the window gap. There was no energy left to go backwards out of the window and open it wider. I sat in that A type position for a few stunned seconds and realized I had to push through and find whatever hidden strength I had left. I somehow managed to use my legs which also felt like jelly after the workout to heave my lower body up in an inch worm type move and wedge myself in the window jam. Then using that last reserve of adrenaline that is the highlight of every story about people in desperate situations I converged my body in a upwards motion until the window gave and shot open wider so unexpectedly that I tumbled inside head first. I'm not sure how long I laid on the floor with my left leg pinned against the wall bent back in an angle over my head in a temporary binding sling that had been created when I got tangled up in the curtain in my frantic scramble as I fell down. But a locked door wasn't going to keep me from the sustenance that my body needed to have replenished and neither was a curtain. Victory was mine in the end. I am the master of my own fate, the guide of my own path, and conqueror of curtains! Fear me if you stand in my way of a Cadbury egg! I will succeed!
Running really is a good boost for one's self-image.
Yesterday went pretty well. Unlike the last time the voice on my phone never sounded snarky when it directed me to either run or walk. I think I showed it who's boss by not using it for a month. Also unlike the run last month, I am back on the Cadbury Eggs and I told myself I could have one if I completed three miles. That might be why the venture went better yesterday. I knew there was a Cadbury Egg waiting for me back at home. Don't judge me.
I ran aimlessly for what I felt was surely more than 3 miles. I was back at my house long before the bell sounded for a cool down. It was torture to keep going when I was so close to home where in my secret hiding place I would find a Cadbury egg. But I did continue. I walked/jogged to the end of the street and back again and again until the cool down bell sounded. Then I plopped down in my front yard and looked at the mileage I had covered. Are we sure this whole GPS thing is accurate? Has it really been tested? I was disappointed that I had covered only two miles, but it was a fleeting feeling because does the mileage really matter? It is more important that I tried and who cares about giving or taking a mile or two- I was still worthy of the chocolate reward. The chocolate egg was so close, but I knew I had to turn my frantic gasps for breaths into regular breathing before I could truly enjoy the creamy milk chocolate melting in my mouth. So I sat in the shade of my front yard until I worried that my muscles would lock up and I wouldn't be able to get up.
Once I was breathing normally again I headed for back door. For reasons that are still unclear, I found myself locked out of the house. My chocolate reward had to wait until I had found an unlocked window, heaved it open as far as I could with exhausted jelly like arms and crawled through. If any of my neighbors saw me, it wasn't a pretty sight. The upper half of my body cleared the width of the open window easily but as I was in a weird belly sprawl position halfway through it became obvious that my lower half was a few inches too wide for the window gap. There was no energy left to go backwards out of the window and open it wider. I sat in that A type position for a few stunned seconds and realized I had to push through and find whatever hidden strength I had left. I somehow managed to use my legs which also felt like jelly after the workout to heave my lower body up in an inch worm type move and wedge myself in the window jam. Then using that last reserve of adrenaline that is the highlight of every story about people in desperate situations I converged my body in a upwards motion until the window gave and shot open wider so unexpectedly that I tumbled inside head first. I'm not sure how long I laid on the floor with my left leg pinned against the wall bent back in an angle over my head in a temporary binding sling that had been created when I got tangled up in the curtain in my frantic scramble as I fell down. But a locked door wasn't going to keep me from the sustenance that my body needed to have replenished and neither was a curtain. Victory was mine in the end. I am the master of my own fate, the guide of my own path, and conqueror of curtains! Fear me if you stand in my way of a Cadbury egg! I will succeed!
Running really is a good boost for one's self-image.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
I Wish Face Book World Could Cross Over Into the Real World
Jason plays WOW (World of War Craft for you lucky few who don't know what WOW stands for) He plays it alot. I used to make fun of him and tell him he was going to turn into one of "those" people who have trouble distinguishing between real life and the imaginary world where blood elves and tauren could jump out from behind any rock. (on a side note while I was typing this I asked Jason what those ugly little bull things are called that he plays in WOW. He indigently responded that they were Tauren and they weren't little or ugly. They were huge and they were a proud race. He might be one step closer than I thought to not being able to distinguish reality from Azeroth, but I have no time to worry about that now.) I can no longer make fun of him and his love for the MMORPG (again for those of you lucky enough not to know that means: mass multi-player online role playing game.) I can make fun of him no more because I too have an addiction with an online world.
My signing up for Facebook didn't begin as an addiction. In fact, I would log in once a day when I thought I had enough time to piddle away. But then I started finding more and more old friends in the social network and began finding news sources and other resources that I could follow. Suddenly I was logging in several times a day. At first, I kept my pride. I would refuse to post a comment on someone's status until hours had passed. I would post a status only once in a 24 hour period. I would wait an appropriate amount of time before responding to anyone's comment on my status or any messages they sent me. Then the hours long wait turned into just a few minutes. Suddenly that morphed into abandoning all regard for others' opinions about my FB habits and I would respond within nanoseconds of people's posts. I was status updating several times a day. Something would happen and my first thought would be, "I'm going to facebook about that." I know that makes me look like I live on FB and I just don't care. (notice I just use the initials FB, as if we are old friends-- Facebook and I.)In fact, not only am I unashamed about the frequency in which I FB, I wish real life could be more like FB.
THE LIKE BUTTON
There are so many times in life I find myself just wanting to give the thumbs up signal. Many times I find myself rushing through the grocery store searching for that one forgotten item from the last trip and wanting to get out of the store as quickly as possible. Then out of nowhere there is someone I know wanting to chat. I wish I could just flash them the "like" sign as they told me all about their planned vacation or their new found love of basket weaving. How much time would be saved if I could do that and keep right on walking? Wouldn't that make a lovely world where giving a thumbs up without further comment didn't seem rude and was actually accepted AND appreciated? Imagine if the thumbs up in all aspects of life could be taken as me saying I like you, I acknowledge that I care about your life, but this is all I've got right now.
There are times when I want to just use that signal before a face to face conversation even begins so the person doesn't notice that it's past noon and I still haven't put on makeup, or fixed my hair or brushed my teeth or changed out of the same clothes they last saw me in. Just a quick thumbs up and I'm on my way and the other person is appeased because I did indeed notice her, I just had nothing to say.
A Mormon at the door? A group of Jehovah's Witnesses congregating on your porch? A new church down the road that is trying to find some new members? A crack of the front door wide enough to stick out a wrist with a thumbs up to them means I'm praying for you, you can pray for me if you want in your own time as long as you don't take up any of my own time, I'm not going to be debating you, don't you dare leave that booklet in my mailbox and I already have plans on Sundays, now be on your way.
Sometimes I just want to use the "like" signal when someone is talking and I'm in a listening only mood. There are occasions when I love listening to what the person is talking about, but I can't think of anything to add to the conversation. When it comes to that awkward moment when she is waiting for me to add my two cents I wish I could just do a thumbs up to let her know to continue on without her feeling like I am bored. Think of all the pressure in a conversation the thumbs up could alleviate.
HIDE
I've used this lovely little feature often in FB. The intended facebook peep sees everything I do and can comment at any time on my page or about my posts. But I don't have to see his status updates feeding into my page. I use this usually when someone is going through a divorce and every post is bashing the soon to be ex, which results in the in-laws jumping in and defending the ex, which leads to her getting in on the action and sharing with everyone some deep dark secret about him that no one either needed or wanted to know. I admit, sometimes that is fun to watch. It's almost like a Jerry Springer episode only much more sad because you know that the FB peeps aren't acting. Despite me wanting to comment how stupid the person was for not blocking the ex and all the soon to be ex-inlaws and friends I usually hide those people for a while and then go to their page to test the waters to see if the worst has passed. If so, I unhide them and they are never the wiser.
I also hide those people who I like, but whose annoying status ratio far outweighs their entertaining or enlightening ones. We all go through those periods in our lives where we are annoying to others. Which leads me to wonder how many times that hide option has been used on me.
UNFRIEND
I haven't used this one, but I think some have used it on me. From what I understand when this maneuver is employed the intended un-friendee can no longer see the page of the un-friender but can still see his or her comments on another's page and can still look them up on facebook or send messages to them. I think it's used when someone's feelings are hurt and it reminds me of the Jr. High days when one friend didn't agree with another so they stopped being friends for a while, but made sure each other could see all the fun they were having without them. Eventually the animosity subsides and they approach each other and want to be friends again. This is a measure some use because they can still get a friend back and pretend that FB messed up because they would "never actually unfriend anyone." I think this has been used on me, but I don't have the desire to send another friend request or message after they send me another request to find out. It's been a long time since I was in Jr. High and I have no desire to act like that again.
BLOCK
The mama jama of FB features. The BLOCK! I've used it when I get a message or friend request from someone that I have no clue who they are and suspect that they are spammers. I've NEVER used it on anyone that has made it to my friend's list. But I have used it recently to hide the comments of someone who I didn't even know. He would pop up from time to time on other pages and I got tired of seeing his stupidity so . . . BLOCK! Now I can't see him and he can't see me on anything. Unless I change that setting he can't even look me up in a listing on Facebook. It's as though I have disappeared unless I decide to reappear. How I wish I could use this in real life. No more playing nice or tolerating someone because I have no other choice but to see them often. Just BLOCK and the blinders are on and we don't even know each other is around. Why would someone want to be around me if they don't like me? Why should I have to be around someone I don't like and even if I did like them, why would I want to be around someone who didn't like me? You see? It's a win/win. If I could do a real life BLOCK, I wouldn't have to be the hermit I look forward to becoming when I am old. I could just keep my friends who understand that I still love them and find them fascinating even when all I ever give them is a thumbs up 'like' motion without going into in-depth conversations with them. I would gladly keep those friends who know that on my cantankerous days they will be hidden from me for a brief while and are fine with that and will not hesitate to do the same to me. Then I could just block everyone else so they don't have to worry about pretending to like me and I don't have to concern myself with trying to hide the fact that I don't like them. How great would that be?
But all that is just wishful thinking so I must hold on to the face to face social skills I have left. Hopefully Jason and I can get a grip on our on line worlds before they cross over into real life. I'm not so much worried about myself. Flashing a thumbs up signal or smushing my face into a cereal box at the grocery store so I don't have to see someone isn't all that hard to explain and can just be blamed on stress. But if Jason begins trying to shoot fireballs out of his hands in an attempt to use his avenger shield on someone he doesn't like followed by screaming "For the Horde!" as he begins digging into their pockets to collect the "spoils" then we might have a problem on our hands.
And for the record Jason has completed *two quests in WOW as I typed this entry and I have checked FB at least a dozen times. And Abigail has been sitting on her chair with no other option but to watch cartoons as her dogs are gathered around her. I'm pretty sure she's scheming a way to train them to go outside with scissors and cut the cable/internet line so she can have her parents back.
* After Jason read this he said, again with indigence, that he had compelted at least 10 quests and he had moved up 1 level. He also couldn't understand why I didn't mention that his Tauren was a Paladin. I feel like such a failure now as a wife. How could I not have known all that?
My signing up for Facebook didn't begin as an addiction. In fact, I would log in once a day when I thought I had enough time to piddle away. But then I started finding more and more old friends in the social network and began finding news sources and other resources that I could follow. Suddenly I was logging in several times a day. At first, I kept my pride. I would refuse to post a comment on someone's status until hours had passed. I would post a status only once in a 24 hour period. I would wait an appropriate amount of time before responding to anyone's comment on my status or any messages they sent me. Then the hours long wait turned into just a few minutes. Suddenly that morphed into abandoning all regard for others' opinions about my FB habits and I would respond within nanoseconds of people's posts. I was status updating several times a day. Something would happen and my first thought would be, "I'm going to facebook about that." I know that makes me look like I live on FB and I just don't care. (notice I just use the initials FB, as if we are old friends-- Facebook and I.)In fact, not only am I unashamed about the frequency in which I FB, I wish real life could be more like FB.
THE LIKE BUTTON
There are times when I want to just use that signal before a face to face conversation even begins so the person doesn't notice that it's past noon and I still haven't put on makeup, or fixed my hair or brushed my teeth or changed out of the same clothes they last saw me in. Just a quick thumbs up and I'm on my way and the other person is appeased because I did indeed notice her, I just had nothing to say.
A Mormon at the door? A group of Jehovah's Witnesses congregating on your porch? A new church down the road that is trying to find some new members? A crack of the front door wide enough to stick out a wrist with a thumbs up to them means I'm praying for you, you can pray for me if you want in your own time as long as you don't take up any of my own time, I'm not going to be debating you, don't you dare leave that booklet in my mailbox and I already have plans on Sundays, now be on your way.
Sometimes I just want to use the "like" signal when someone is talking and I'm in a listening only mood. There are occasions when I love listening to what the person is talking about, but I can't think of anything to add to the conversation. When it comes to that awkward moment when she is waiting for me to add my two cents I wish I could just do a thumbs up to let her know to continue on without her feeling like I am bored. Think of all the pressure in a conversation the thumbs up could alleviate.
HIDE
I've used this lovely little feature often in FB. The intended facebook peep sees everything I do and can comment at any time on my page or about my posts. But I don't have to see his status updates feeding into my page. I use this usually when someone is going through a divorce and every post is bashing the soon to be ex, which results in the in-laws jumping in and defending the ex, which leads to her getting in on the action and sharing with everyone some deep dark secret about him that no one either needed or wanted to know. I admit, sometimes that is fun to watch. It's almost like a Jerry Springer episode only much more sad because you know that the FB peeps aren't acting. Despite me wanting to comment how stupid the person was for not blocking the ex and all the soon to be ex-inlaws and friends I usually hide those people for a while and then go to their page to test the waters to see if the worst has passed. If so, I unhide them and they are never the wiser.
I also hide those people who I like, but whose annoying status ratio far outweighs their entertaining or enlightening ones. We all go through those periods in our lives where we are annoying to others. Which leads me to wonder how many times that hide option has been used on me.
UNFRIEND
BLOCK
But all that is just wishful thinking so I must hold on to the face to face social skills I have left. Hopefully Jason and I can get a grip on our on line worlds before they cross over into real life. I'm not so much worried about myself. Flashing a thumbs up signal or smushing my face into a cereal box at the grocery store so I don't have to see someone isn't all that hard to explain and can just be blamed on stress. But if Jason begins trying to shoot fireballs out of his hands in an attempt to use his avenger shield on someone he doesn't like followed by screaming "For the Horde!" as he begins digging into their pockets to collect the "spoils" then we might have a problem on our hands.
And for the record Jason has completed *two quests in WOW as I typed this entry and I have checked FB at least a dozen times. And Abigail has been sitting on her chair with no other option but to watch cartoons as her dogs are gathered around her. I'm pretty sure she's scheming a way to train them to go outside with scissors and cut the cable/internet line so she can have her parents back.
* After Jason read this he said, again with indigence, that he had compelted at least 10 quests and he had moved up 1 level. He also couldn't understand why I didn't mention that his Tauren was a Paladin. I feel like such a failure now as a wife. How could I not have known all that?
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I Am Woman Hear Me Roar Unless I Use a Word You Don't Like
If you are easily offended stop reading now. I'll be offering my opinion on a word that some find highly offensive.
Also the word I am discussing in this post comes nowhere close to the R word. The R word targets a group of people who are often defenseless with no voice or without someone who will defend them if they are able to use their voice. If you can't see the difference among the two then think a little harder about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This week a new burger joint opened in Waco. It is called Fat Ho Burgers. It's making the news and not just on a local level. I understand that the word ho can be highly offensive to some regardless of how it is used and I respect your opinion if you do. Personally I don't use the word, but I am not offended when I hear it either in passing conversation or if I am called one.
So that should be that. A burger joint opens and based on its service and food quality it will stay open or not. But no. Little busy bodies who tout that they are successful business women have to interfere. I'm not bothered that they find the restaurant's name distasteful. Everyone has the right to his or her opinion and the right to decide whether or not to frequent a business. However what does bother me other than them wanting the government to censor a word they find offensive is their attitude that suggests they think they are acting selflessly and are saving a community from self-destruction by explaining to the business owner what ho really means and how it is offensive to any woman within earshot of the word. The first thing that irks me is that I'm a woman and being called a ho is the absolute least of my worries in life. I don't appreciate them speaking on my behalf. The second thing that irks me is that the owner is a 23 year old woman who I assume lives in the same area of her business so she understands the majority of her customer base and whether they will take offense. She put herself through college and she saved up enough money to venture out on her own to buy and run a restaurant. She's certainly no fool. I don't think she's too stupid to know the different meanings and uses of ho. I'm sure she doesn't appreciate being told that she is putting down all women when she uses it and she doesn't need a history lesson on women's suffrage. She hasn't asked for help in changing the name of her business but even so, the offers have come because they in their glass houses know better.
I haven't decided exactly where their misplaced sense of charity comes from, but I think I might know what part of the cause is. They have some sort of misguided sense of feminism. Feminism run amuck. Or maybe it isn't run amuck- maybe that's just feminism. The definition of that word and the levels of feminism get a little blurry to me. Don't get me wrong I believe any woman can do anything she sets her mind to. I believe a woman doing the equal work of a man should earn the equal pay of a man. I can get just as sweaty as a man when there is work that needs to be done, but I also know how to play it smart and get out of doing that hard work if I can use my womanly wiles to do so. God made man and woman differently and I have no shame in that and it leaves me with nothing to prove. But I don't think that a feminist can have her cake and eat it too. She can't scream that women are just like men and are strong and how she can take care of herself without any man's help and then cry in the corner when someone uses the word ho. She can't be so full of herself to assume that when that word is used that she is being made a victim. She certainly can't assume that women who have no shame associated with that word are ignorant or are damaging what they claim they have worked so hard to fight against. They insist that word creates victims out of women because the use of it is so demeaning a woman who hears it enough loses all self respect and worth.
I have news for them. The use of that word isn't what creates victims. The casual use of the word ho isn't what causes a woman to feel so unloved and unworthy that she is willing to remain in a relationship that is abusive. I'm not a counselor or psychologist so I don't even begin to know how a woman comes to that kind of view of herself. But I do know that acting haughty and lofty towards a woman who uses the word ho in her daily vocabulary or treating her as though she is an ignorant woman oblivious to her own hate mongering doesn't do a thing to help those women who are truly victims. I wonder if all those offers of money that are coming to Ms. Evans to pay for new menus and advertising if she changes the name of her restaurant to something that doesn't include the word ho are refused,as I suspect they will be, will instead be donated to Advocacy centers and after school programs to instill self confidence and worth in young girls and women so that if they are called a ho in an actual demeaning tone they can hold their head up high and walk away unscathed. Maybe if more time was spent on actually showing a girl her worth and how God intended her to be precious and treasured and uniquely different than men we would have more women who can find a better life around people who actually love and accept them. A campaign to stop the use of the word ho on a sign in a small Texas city isn't going to do a thing to change the attitudes this group of business women claim to abhor. They should instead try focusing on those women and girls they proclaim they are trying to protect by telling them they are worthy and priceless and that word does nothing to shape who they are or who they will be. I guarantee a woman who has been victimized to the point of having no self worth isn't going to be impacted in the slightest by seeing the name of a restaurant change from Fat Ho to something else. But I'm not sure that those successful business women leading the charge for the name to be banned are able to see my point through the lofty glances they have for Ms. Evans or anyone who defends her right to call her restaurant whatever she wants.
I wonder if they know they have unwittingly helped Ms. Evans. They have created a huge amount of free advertising for her. I probably would have never heard of the restaurant if it wasn't for them and even if I had, I probably would not have tried it. But now I will. And if the food is good, I will be back. And that is the way entrepreneurship is supposed to work.
And just on a side note. I heard a discussion on this topic on NewsTalk 1230. A caller against using Fat Ho seriously suggests that a better name would be Charlie's Angels or Evans' Angels. Yes, that's a much better choice not only because it's as cheesy as can be, but because that show didn't exude sexism in the least. I guess it's bad to use the word ho, but it's okay to insinuate that Ms. Evans is a pimp with her angels.
Also the word I am discussing in this post comes nowhere close to the R word. The R word targets a group of people who are often defenseless with no voice or without someone who will defend them if they are able to use their voice. If you can't see the difference among the two then think a little harder about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This week a new burger joint opened in Waco. It is called Fat Ho Burgers. It's making the news and not just on a local level. I understand that the word ho can be highly offensive to some regardless of how it is used and I respect your opinion if you do. Personally I don't use the word, but I am not offended when I hear it either in passing conversation or if I am called one.
So that should be that. A burger joint opens and based on its service and food quality it will stay open or not. But no. Little busy bodies who tout that they are successful business women have to interfere. I'm not bothered that they find the restaurant's name distasteful. Everyone has the right to his or her opinion and the right to decide whether or not to frequent a business. However what does bother me other than them wanting the government to censor a word they find offensive is their attitude that suggests they think they are acting selflessly and are saving a community from self-destruction by explaining to the business owner what ho really means and how it is offensive to any woman within earshot of the word. The first thing that irks me is that I'm a woman and being called a ho is the absolute least of my worries in life. I don't appreciate them speaking on my behalf. The second thing that irks me is that the owner is a 23 year old woman who I assume lives in the same area of her business so she understands the majority of her customer base and whether they will take offense. She put herself through college and she saved up enough money to venture out on her own to buy and run a restaurant. She's certainly no fool. I don't think she's too stupid to know the different meanings and uses of ho. I'm sure she doesn't appreciate being told that she is putting down all women when she uses it and she doesn't need a history lesson on women's suffrage. She hasn't asked for help in changing the name of her business but even so, the offers have come because they in their glass houses know better.
I haven't decided exactly where their misplaced sense of charity comes from, but I think I might know what part of the cause is. They have some sort of misguided sense of feminism. Feminism run amuck. Or maybe it isn't run amuck- maybe that's just feminism. The definition of that word and the levels of feminism get a little blurry to me. Don't get me wrong I believe any woman can do anything she sets her mind to. I believe a woman doing the equal work of a man should earn the equal pay of a man. I can get just as sweaty as a man when there is work that needs to be done, but I also know how to play it smart and get out of doing that hard work if I can use my womanly wiles to do so. God made man and woman differently and I have no shame in that and it leaves me with nothing to prove. But I don't think that a feminist can have her cake and eat it too. She can't scream that women are just like men and are strong and how she can take care of herself without any man's help and then cry in the corner when someone uses the word ho. She can't be so full of herself to assume that when that word is used that she is being made a victim. She certainly can't assume that women who have no shame associated with that word are ignorant or are damaging what they claim they have worked so hard to fight against. They insist that word creates victims out of women because the use of it is so demeaning a woman who hears it enough loses all self respect and worth.
I have news for them. The use of that word isn't what creates victims. The casual use of the word ho isn't what causes a woman to feel so unloved and unworthy that she is willing to remain in a relationship that is abusive. I'm not a counselor or psychologist so I don't even begin to know how a woman comes to that kind of view of herself. But I do know that acting haughty and lofty towards a woman who uses the word ho in her daily vocabulary or treating her as though she is an ignorant woman oblivious to her own hate mongering doesn't do a thing to help those women who are truly victims. I wonder if all those offers of money that are coming to Ms. Evans to pay for new menus and advertising if she changes the name of her restaurant to something that doesn't include the word ho are refused,as I suspect they will be, will instead be donated to Advocacy centers and after school programs to instill self confidence and worth in young girls and women so that if they are called a ho in an actual demeaning tone they can hold their head up high and walk away unscathed. Maybe if more time was spent on actually showing a girl her worth and how God intended her to be precious and treasured and uniquely different than men we would have more women who can find a better life around people who actually love and accept them. A campaign to stop the use of the word ho on a sign in a small Texas city isn't going to do a thing to change the attitudes this group of business women claim to abhor. They should instead try focusing on those women and girls they proclaim they are trying to protect by telling them they are worthy and priceless and that word does nothing to shape who they are or who they will be. I guarantee a woman who has been victimized to the point of having no self worth isn't going to be impacted in the slightest by seeing the name of a restaurant change from Fat Ho to something else. But I'm not sure that those successful business women leading the charge for the name to be banned are able to see my point through the lofty glances they have for Ms. Evans or anyone who defends her right to call her restaurant whatever she wants.
I wonder if they know they have unwittingly helped Ms. Evans. They have created a huge amount of free advertising for her. I probably would have never heard of the restaurant if it wasn't for them and even if I had, I probably would not have tried it. But now I will. And if the food is good, I will be back. And that is the way entrepreneurship is supposed to work.
And just on a side note. I heard a discussion on this topic on NewsTalk 1230. A caller against using Fat Ho seriously suggests that a better name would be Charlie's Angels or Evans' Angels. Yes, that's a much better choice not only because it's as cheesy as can be, but because that show didn't exude sexism in the least. I guess it's bad to use the word ho, but it's okay to insinuate that Ms. Evans is a pimp with her angels.
The Chronicles Continue
I'm supposed to go another round of my C25K training run again today. And I would if it wasn't for the shooting pains I have in every inch of my leg muscles with every step I take. Even my stomach muscles hurt. My lips hurt too because when I opened my car door earlier this morning it smacked me in my face. I tried dodging out of its way but my leg muscles stood firm and refused to move quickly enough.
Jason told me in his very compassionate way that I needed to learn that I couldn't just start running one day. I needed to work into it. I told him I've always been able to do it before without having this much muscle pain. He kindly pointed out that I was older than I've ever been before. How badly I wanted to kick him, but again my muscles refused to move. They wouldn't even let me bend to pick up the rock that was beside my foot. But even if they had bent and I was able to grasp the rock and fire it at the back of his head I would have had to ask him to rub Ben-Gay on my shoulder too.
I refuse to prove Jason right by giving up and accepting the hurting muscles as a sign of getting older. I will push through the soreness and run again. Tomorrow, or the next day or maybe the day after that looks a little better.
Jason told me in his very compassionate way that I needed to learn that I couldn't just start running one day. I needed to work into it. I told him I've always been able to do it before without having this much muscle pain. He kindly pointed out that I was older than I've ever been before. How badly I wanted to kick him, but again my muscles refused to move. They wouldn't even let me bend to pick up the rock that was beside my foot. But even if they had bent and I was able to grasp the rock and fire it at the back of his head I would have had to ask him to rub Ben-Gay on my shoulder too.
I refuse to prove Jason right by giving up and accepting the hurting muscles as a sign of getting older. I will push through the soreness and run again. Tomorrow, or the next day or maybe the day after that looks a little better.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Chronicles of a runner, well, jogger/walker. Shuffler.
It's that time of year again. The gathering and eating of my favorite seasonal candy snack of Cadbury eggs always coincides with the weather turning lovely, the birds singing, green replacing the brown of winter and people talking about beginning their training for marathons and triathlons and I say, "You people are crazy." . And then someone always mentions a 5K event for a fundraiser so I say, "I can do that!" In years past the "I can do that!" was usually followed by me swallowing my Cadbury egg and wiping the chocolate off my hands and mouth onto my exercise capris as I pulled them out of the forgotten spot in the bottom of the drawer. This year I hit the eggs early and have no desire for more due to me getting a little carried away with them on my birthday so there was no Cadbury chocolate to wash down with a glass of water before I headed out the door.
Today I searched through all the apps on my phone and found the C25K app I loaded two summers ago. By the time I found it buried among other forgotten apps I was dreading going and already thinking of how busy the day was going to be without enough time to exercise, but I quickly perked up when I saw there was an update to the app that added GPS so it would tell me how far I was going, my pace, and made it much easier for me to load up the songs I wanted from my Ipod onto the program. For only .99cents I was going to be equipped with my own personal trainer, maybe a triathlon wasn't so very far out of my reach. I was very excited and bounded towards the backdoor before I found my handy arm strap that I use for keeping my phone on my arm. No matter, I would carry it in my hand. It was only the first day of training and would be easy to carry it with me. I let the dogs out into the backyard happily and told them that they would have to stay and I would take them walking when I was done.
After a few stretches on my front sidewalk just so all the neighbors would know that I was about to exercise I began the app. And this is what followed on my first jog/walk of the season.
My music selection began and since I didn't have ear buds or my handy arm strap holder it was a little hard to hear, but I had the birds to listen to. It already sounded as though they were cheering me on. The bell on the app sounded and a friendly little voice said, "Warm Up." I couldn't hear it very well, but joy of joys the phone vibrated when it sounded so I would know to change pace even if I couldn't hear it. I started going around our block and had my route mapped in my head. It was a perfect combination of fairly sharp hills and easy hills. This was going to be great. A car was needing to turn where the two streets intersect and the driver waved me on. She had the right of way so I smiled and kept my feet moving so she would know this was no leisurely walk and motioned for her to go while I waited. We waved to each other as she passed.
My five minute warm up walk seemed to be taking a while. Not finding my arm strap was good because I could easily look at my phone to find out how much longer each part of the workout had left. My warm up walk still had 3 minutes to go. I thought it odd that time seemed to be moving so slowly and I was already a little winded. I slowed down the pace a bit and carried on. Surely I missed the bell sound so I looked at the phone again. 3 seconds left on the warm up. The bell sounded and the vibration shook my hand and the friendly voice said, "RUN." So I began jogging and saw that the countdown was for 60 seconds. That's all? No need to jog. I can run this.
The chipper voice said, "WALK" about the time I was at the house behind ours. I can see through their backyard into ours and saw all three of my dogs sitting at the back fence line. I glanced down at the timer and still had a full minute of walk time and smiled at the ease. I glanced back at the dogs who had noticed me and began whining in protest that they weren't with me. Barney the beagle began his baying howl. And I cheerfully told him to wait. I'd take him when I was done with my time. I now recognize the look he gave me as one of doubt.
Long before a full minute could possibly be up I felt the shaking of my phone and heard "RUN" in the amicable but stern tone. So I jogged. Again it was just for 60 seconds. I could do it. It was probably already halfway over so I quickly glanced again. 50 seconds left? My mapped out route quickly changed to just running around the block in the same direction downhill except for one tiny little stretch of a gradual climb. 45 seconds left?! O crap.
Sweet relief! The mocking voice said "WALK" again. One minute and 20 seconds of walk time. I could recover. Oh for the love of humanity that had better be a text message vibration and not the. . . I flippin' hate you stupid voice that screams "RUN!"
I jogged until the contemptuous voice said "WALK" in a tone that added "because I know you are about to fall over anyway you, loser!" The singing birds were mocking me. A dove dropped a twig it was carrying in an attempt to trip me and if I had been going at any faster of a pace it would have worked. I walked and was back to the house where I can see my dogs. They were watching intently. I wondered if I collapsed right there if they would love me enough to bound over the fence to come to my rescue.
"RUN." I hate you. Maybe if I pretend like the voice was a Zombie chasing me I could go. It worked. I shuffled a jog for a full 50 seconds, but I lost all sense of my surroundings imagining being chased. I looked to my left and about jumped out of my skin and did a little girly half scream thinking that someone was standing there staring at me waiting to scare me. It was a yard statue of either a haloed Jesus or Mary reaching out in an embrace. I was too weary to distinguish which one it was even when I was so close I could have touched it. I stopped running a couple of seconds before the patronizing voice demanded that I "WALK." I know when they recorded it they added a subliminal evil laughter at that point.
The GPS must be broken. I hadn't gone much over a mile and I was supposed to go 5K before it was over. I should have brought my pedometer. When I take that off my pants waist and give it a few shakes the mileage adjusts to where I know it's closer to what I've really done. When I shake my phone nothing happens. Maybe if I stop and give it a few good shakes the mileage will go up. "RUN." I curse you zombie voice.
I started jogging again only after giving the phone a rough shake for a few seconds. Imagining a zombie chasing me only made me want to turn around and walk into it with my arms outstretched like the scary holy statue. A zombie hug would be welcomed if it meant no more running.
I reached the point again where I can see my yard where the dogs were now running frantically back and forth down the fence line. I hollered for them to keep doing that because that was all the exercise they are going to be getting today. Then I regretted wasting my last bit of oxygen by talking.
At a point when I was going up the one steep incline that reminded me of Mt. Everest the phone made a different almost happy sound. And I used my remaining reserve of energy to do a few gallops thinking surely I was done. I made it! The mocking, angry voice said, "You are halfway done." Oh I loathe you and if I could make the muscles in my hand open I would chuck the phone that you have contaminated with your vile, vile voice. "RUN!" Another car was needing to turn and it slowed down enough for me to barely lift my arm in a wait gesture and I crossed in front of it. Run me over. I dare you. NO I beg you.
I rounded the next corner and saw a girl on a bicycle coming my way. Somehow over the pounding in my ears and the wheezing for breath I heard her say, "Keep it up! You are doing great!" If she had been wearing a helmet I would have shoved her off the bike. But I was still in enough control that I was concerned about her hitting her head on the pavement plus I now didn't have enough energy to give her a smile or even a far less friendly gesture so I wouldn't have been able to shove her hard enough.
At some point the voice said appropriately over the song "Wipeout" that I was ready for a cool down. I checked the phone and it was still marking my pace and mileage so I didn't think it meant the kind of cool down where I went and fell face down on a neighbor's sprinkler so I moved on. Barely.
I made it. Barely. Just as the voice said I was done the song "Crazy Train" began playing. How even more appropriate. And what makes it even more crazy is that I'm ready to do it all again tomorrow(after I take the dogs for a walk first.)
Today I searched through all the apps on my phone and found the C25K app I loaded two summers ago. By the time I found it buried among other forgotten apps I was dreading going and already thinking of how busy the day was going to be without enough time to exercise, but I quickly perked up when I saw there was an update to the app that added GPS so it would tell me how far I was going, my pace, and made it much easier for me to load up the songs I wanted from my Ipod onto the program. For only .99cents I was going to be equipped with my own personal trainer, maybe a triathlon wasn't so very far out of my reach. I was very excited and bounded towards the backdoor before I found my handy arm strap that I use for keeping my phone on my arm. No matter, I would carry it in my hand. It was only the first day of training and would be easy to carry it with me. I let the dogs out into the backyard happily and told them that they would have to stay and I would take them walking when I was done.
After a few stretches on my front sidewalk just so all the neighbors would know that I was about to exercise I began the app. And this is what followed on my first jog/walk of the season.
My music selection began and since I didn't have ear buds or my handy arm strap holder it was a little hard to hear, but I had the birds to listen to. It already sounded as though they were cheering me on. The bell on the app sounded and a friendly little voice said, "Warm Up." I couldn't hear it very well, but joy of joys the phone vibrated when it sounded so I would know to change pace even if I couldn't hear it. I started going around our block and had my route mapped in my head. It was a perfect combination of fairly sharp hills and easy hills. This was going to be great. A car was needing to turn where the two streets intersect and the driver waved me on. She had the right of way so I smiled and kept my feet moving so she would know this was no leisurely walk and motioned for her to go while I waited. We waved to each other as she passed.
My five minute warm up walk seemed to be taking a while. Not finding my arm strap was good because I could easily look at my phone to find out how much longer each part of the workout had left. My warm up walk still had 3 minutes to go. I thought it odd that time seemed to be moving so slowly and I was already a little winded. I slowed down the pace a bit and carried on. Surely I missed the bell sound so I looked at the phone again. 3 seconds left on the warm up. The bell sounded and the vibration shook my hand and the friendly voice said, "RUN." So I began jogging and saw that the countdown was for 60 seconds. That's all? No need to jog. I can run this.
The chipper voice said, "WALK" about the time I was at the house behind ours. I can see through their backyard into ours and saw all three of my dogs sitting at the back fence line. I glanced down at the timer and still had a full minute of walk time and smiled at the ease. I glanced back at the dogs who had noticed me and began whining in protest that they weren't with me. Barney the beagle began his baying howl. And I cheerfully told him to wait. I'd take him when I was done with my time. I now recognize the look he gave me as one of doubt.
Long before a full minute could possibly be up I felt the shaking of my phone and heard "RUN" in the amicable but stern tone. So I jogged. Again it was just for 60 seconds. I could do it. It was probably already halfway over so I quickly glanced again. 50 seconds left? My mapped out route quickly changed to just running around the block in the same direction downhill except for one tiny little stretch of a gradual climb. 45 seconds left?! O crap.
Sweet relief! The mocking voice said "WALK" again. One minute and 20 seconds of walk time. I could recover. Oh for the love of humanity that had better be a text message vibration and not the. . . I flippin' hate you stupid voice that screams "RUN!"
I jogged until the contemptuous voice said "WALK" in a tone that added "because I know you are about to fall over anyway you, loser!" The singing birds were mocking me. A dove dropped a twig it was carrying in an attempt to trip me and if I had been going at any faster of a pace it would have worked. I walked and was back to the house where I can see my dogs. They were watching intently. I wondered if I collapsed right there if they would love me enough to bound over the fence to come to my rescue.
"RUN." I hate you. Maybe if I pretend like the voice was a Zombie chasing me I could go. It worked. I shuffled a jog for a full 50 seconds, but I lost all sense of my surroundings imagining being chased. I looked to my left and about jumped out of my skin and did a little girly half scream thinking that someone was standing there staring at me waiting to scare me. It was a yard statue of either a haloed Jesus or Mary reaching out in an embrace. I was too weary to distinguish which one it was even when I was so close I could have touched it. I stopped running a couple of seconds before the patronizing voice demanded that I "WALK." I know when they recorded it they added a subliminal evil laughter at that point.
The GPS must be broken. I hadn't gone much over a mile and I was supposed to go 5K before it was over. I should have brought my pedometer. When I take that off my pants waist and give it a few shakes the mileage adjusts to where I know it's closer to what I've really done. When I shake my phone nothing happens. Maybe if I stop and give it a few good shakes the mileage will go up. "RUN." I curse you zombie voice.
I started jogging again only after giving the phone a rough shake for a few seconds. Imagining a zombie chasing me only made me want to turn around and walk into it with my arms outstretched like the scary holy statue. A zombie hug would be welcomed if it meant no more running.
I reached the point again where I can see my yard where the dogs were now running frantically back and forth down the fence line. I hollered for them to keep doing that because that was all the exercise they are going to be getting today. Then I regretted wasting my last bit of oxygen by talking.
At a point when I was going up the one steep incline that reminded me of Mt. Everest the phone made a different almost happy sound. And I used my remaining reserve of energy to do a few gallops thinking surely I was done. I made it! The mocking, angry voice said, "You are halfway done." Oh I loathe you and if I could make the muscles in my hand open I would chuck the phone that you have contaminated with your vile, vile voice. "RUN!" Another car was needing to turn and it slowed down enough for me to barely lift my arm in a wait gesture and I crossed in front of it. Run me over. I dare you. NO I beg you.
I rounded the next corner and saw a girl on a bicycle coming my way. Somehow over the pounding in my ears and the wheezing for breath I heard her say, "Keep it up! You are doing great!" If she had been wearing a helmet I would have shoved her off the bike. But I was still in enough control that I was concerned about her hitting her head on the pavement plus I now didn't have enough energy to give her a smile or even a far less friendly gesture so I wouldn't have been able to shove her hard enough.
At some point the voice said appropriately over the song "Wipeout" that I was ready for a cool down. I checked the phone and it was still marking my pace and mileage so I didn't think it meant the kind of cool down where I went and fell face down on a neighbor's sprinkler so I moved on. Barely.
I made it. Barely. Just as the voice said I was done the song "Crazy Train" began playing. How even more appropriate. And what makes it even more crazy is that I'm ready to do it all again tomorrow(after I take the dogs for a walk first.)
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Spay or Neuter Those Pets, People!
I know it sounds very Bob Barkerish of me, but if you have a pet that isn't spayed or neutered please get it done soon. I'm not addressing responsible (and I stress the word responsible) breeders, but people with a family pet.
Today I watched a man dump a litter of puppies at a local shelter. He rounded them into the shelter's side pens and drove away without a second glance. He didn't leave them water or food or even look like he had an ounce of regret as he pulled away. I was screaming at him in my mind as I watched in disbelief, but despite wanting to yell and ask him what he was doing I remained silent. At least he was bringing them to the shelter, even if it was after hours and even if for all he knew they would be left alone all night within easy reach of strangers who might happen to walk by and decide to be cruel to those pups. At least he was giving them a chance instead of taking them out to a river in a burlap bag or slowly letting them starve or shooting them in the head. If I had told him what I wanted to he might have done those very things to the next litter instead of bringing them in. I guarantee he wouldn't have heeded the advice given in even a friendly level-headed conversation about spaying his dog so I stayed out of sight.
And so, I would like to give that advice to you. If you have a female, get her spayed. You might like puppies. You might think you would love to let your dog have some and they would be easy to give away to home. You might be right. But for every home you find for that puppy another shelter dog that already exists goes without a family. For some shelter dogs that means being put to sleep if a free puppy goes to a home where he could have been.
If you have a male you might not have to worry about the puppies that are made if he gets out of the yard one night. But someone else will. And that someone might not be willing to treat the puppies humanely. Those puppies, if lucky will end up being abandoned in a side pen at a shelter. Lucky, even if they are shivering with fear because they are scared to death of a human's touch and sick because they haven't had any vaccinations. The puppies I saw were still young enough that they should have eagerly ran towards me when I talked to them and tried to pet them. Instead they cowered in a corner and cried out when I reached out and touched them. I should have been able to pet and pick up puppies that age with abandon and let them give me puppy kisses. Instead I had to pick them up gingerly because they were sick with diarrhea and I had to go home and immediately wash my clothes in bleach and take a shower to get all the germs off of me before I could touch Abigail or my dogs for fear of what I might give to them.
I'm sure the man that dumped them, if he has any sort of compassion, probably told himself that they will find good, loving homes when left at the shelter. Maybe. If they aren't so sick they can't be saved and if someone will think to look there for a dog instead of answering a free puppy ad or buying one off the side of the road. Maybe, but I'm not so sure. And if they do find loving homes, those are homes that the other shelter dogs that have been waiting for will never see. For $40.00 that man could have had his dog spayed. Now that $40.00 won't even pay for the food and shelter those puppies are going to need for the night and don't forget the medicine and care they will need in the next few weeks if they thrive. But for him it's already forgotten.
Hopefully you can make up for his callousness by having your dog fixed. If you haven't thought of it this way before and have already had a dog that had puppies it's not too late to change your way of thinking. I did mine. It wasn't until several years ago that I realized what a difference spaying and neutering made. Maybe you can help a shelter dog that has been overlooked because of an overpopulation of puppies by getting your next one at your local shelter. And if you do go to your shelter be sure to tell at least one staff member thank you for what they do. I helped a staff member gather those puppies up and had no idea what to say to her. I wanted to share with her my disbelief and anger, but she already knew because she felt it too. I'm quite certain that she has seen far, far worse than that. And yet she continues to come back to work to help the animals who have never seen any compassion other than hers. She didn't need my help because she does that sort of thing everyday and could have probably done it faster without me, but in my naivety I thought I could help her without showing emotion and save her a little extra time by bringing her the pups so she could more quickly put them in a warm sheltered spot for the night. I was fighting the urge to throw up the entire time because of the uncertainty those pups now face. I was moving slowly, torn between wanting to give each of those pups some human kindness and being repulsed at the mess they were covered in. I wanted to leave quickly and forget the meanness I witnessed and was glad when I had gathered the last pup. All I could do was hand the staff member those puppies at the door of the quarantine building and feel relief that I wasn't allowed beyond that point. I'm not ready to see the other nameless animals that have been abandoned and are crying out for compassion and companionship behind those walls.
Today I watched a man dump a litter of puppies at a local shelter. He rounded them into the shelter's side pens and drove away without a second glance. He didn't leave them water or food or even look like he had an ounce of regret as he pulled away. I was screaming at him in my mind as I watched in disbelief, but despite wanting to yell and ask him what he was doing I remained silent. At least he was bringing them to the shelter, even if it was after hours and even if for all he knew they would be left alone all night within easy reach of strangers who might happen to walk by and decide to be cruel to those pups. At least he was giving them a chance instead of taking them out to a river in a burlap bag or slowly letting them starve or shooting them in the head. If I had told him what I wanted to he might have done those very things to the next litter instead of bringing them in. I guarantee he wouldn't have heeded the advice given in even a friendly level-headed conversation about spaying his dog so I stayed out of sight.
And so, I would like to give that advice to you. If you have a female, get her spayed. You might like puppies. You might think you would love to let your dog have some and they would be easy to give away to home. You might be right. But for every home you find for that puppy another shelter dog that already exists goes without a family. For some shelter dogs that means being put to sleep if a free puppy goes to a home where he could have been.
If you have a male you might not have to worry about the puppies that are made if he gets out of the yard one night. But someone else will. And that someone might not be willing to treat the puppies humanely. Those puppies, if lucky will end up being abandoned in a side pen at a shelter. Lucky, even if they are shivering with fear because they are scared to death of a human's touch and sick because they haven't had any vaccinations. The puppies I saw were still young enough that they should have eagerly ran towards me when I talked to them and tried to pet them. Instead they cowered in a corner and cried out when I reached out and touched them. I should have been able to pet and pick up puppies that age with abandon and let them give me puppy kisses. Instead I had to pick them up gingerly because they were sick with diarrhea and I had to go home and immediately wash my clothes in bleach and take a shower to get all the germs off of me before I could touch Abigail or my dogs for fear of what I might give to them.
I'm sure the man that dumped them, if he has any sort of compassion, probably told himself that they will find good, loving homes when left at the shelter. Maybe. If they aren't so sick they can't be saved and if someone will think to look there for a dog instead of answering a free puppy ad or buying one off the side of the road. Maybe, but I'm not so sure. And if they do find loving homes, those are homes that the other shelter dogs that have been waiting for will never see. For $40.00 that man could have had his dog spayed. Now that $40.00 won't even pay for the food and shelter those puppies are going to need for the night and don't forget the medicine and care they will need in the next few weeks if they thrive. But for him it's already forgotten.
Hopefully you can make up for his callousness by having your dog fixed. If you haven't thought of it this way before and have already had a dog that had puppies it's not too late to change your way of thinking. I did mine. It wasn't until several years ago that I realized what a difference spaying and neutering made. Maybe you can help a shelter dog that has been overlooked because of an overpopulation of puppies by getting your next one at your local shelter. And if you do go to your shelter be sure to tell at least one staff member thank you for what they do. I helped a staff member gather those puppies up and had no idea what to say to her. I wanted to share with her my disbelief and anger, but she already knew because she felt it too. I'm quite certain that she has seen far, far worse than that. And yet she continues to come back to work to help the animals who have never seen any compassion other than hers. She didn't need my help because she does that sort of thing everyday and could have probably done it faster without me, but in my naivety I thought I could help her without showing emotion and save her a little extra time by bringing her the pups so she could more quickly put them in a warm sheltered spot for the night. I was fighting the urge to throw up the entire time because of the uncertainty those pups now face. I was moving slowly, torn between wanting to give each of those pups some human kindness and being repulsed at the mess they were covered in. I wanted to leave quickly and forget the meanness I witnessed and was glad when I had gathered the last pup. All I could do was hand the staff member those puppies at the door of the quarantine building and feel relief that I wasn't allowed beyond that point. I'm not ready to see the other nameless animals that have been abandoned and are crying out for compassion and companionship behind those walls.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Abigail's Art Lesson
Abigail and I went to the Mardis Gras Art Show today. It is a fundraiser to raise money for the Heart of Texas Autism Network to use for art programs to give the kids an outlet and sometimes even a voice through art. Abigail finger and sponge painted on a small canvas to donate to the cause. When painting she picks a poster paint color and I put a glob of it on a sponge and have her grab it and plop it down on canvas or paper. Then I either help her hold a paint sponge steadily while she swooshes it or she just uses her fingers to start raking the paint around. When her activity with one color lessens I will show her a few other colors to choose among and we begin again or she looks away and shows no interest in it, so we set it aside for a while. I am not an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but I think her work is really good. It isn't landscapes, or fruit in a bowl, or chubby cherubs playing with puppies, but it's her own style and I think it deserves rave reviews.
By the time we made it to the event many of the pieces had already been sold. Just when I thought hers must have been purchased I saw it hanging almost all alone on its peg board stand. Seriously? No one saw the pure artistic genius in that 5x7 work of wonder? Could the whole town of Waco be that fatuous as to not see the talent in those swirls and swooshes and the beauty of the colors? Maybe I was having a bit of an overreaction, but all you grandmas, aunts and especially moms know you would have felt the exact same way. So, I decided right then that I would buy it. I was pointed in the direction of the lady in charge of the art sales and told her I wanted to buy back my daughter's piece. So she explained what I needed to do and by the time I turned back to remove it from the peg board it was gone because they were already packing up all the art that hadn't sold. So the kind lady helped Abigail and me track it down. She asked me what it looked like and when I explained it to her, she and two other ladies who had joined us to help made gasps and said, "She made that? She's only ten?" As much as I hate to confess it, my first thought was that they didn't understand which one I was talking about. After all the feelings of indignation of no one picking my child's work, I was guilty of thinking, "Oh no. This is going to be embarrassing when they bring back the wrong piece and I have to explain that I'm looking for the one with just finger swirls and sponge splotches on it."
But they brought back Abigail's and with a tone of uncertainty asked if they had found the right one. When I confirmed it was hers they made another collective exclamation of appreciation. Then the lady in charge asked me if I was sure I wanted to buy it because she really wanted to keep it to show others exactly what she was talking about when she discussed the need for art programs for special needs children and the unexpected artistic talent they so many times have. Of course I let her keep it.
She then knelt down to Abigail to tell her thank you and to ask her to show how she had made it. Most of the time with strangers Abigail will look at them for a few seconds and then look away and not respond to them. But when she saw the canvas in the lady's hand Abigail made one of her undeniable nods of agreement and then began moving her fingers across the canvas. I thought I was going to have to explain that Abigail was non-verbal and those motions were showing how she had made it, but the lady understood exactly what Abigail was showing her and gave her lots of words of praise and admiration. Abigail was full of excitement and began jumping as high as her seat belt would allow. I stood watching her and realized that in a span of a few minutes I went from feeling that everyone was absurd for not appreciating Abigail's effort, to feeling that based on their awed expressions surely they were mistaken about which piece was Abigail's, to feeling convicted for not truly appreciating my own daughter's ability to have others recognize her potential, to being close to tears in the pride I felt in Abigail and the gratefulness that was welling up within me to strangers who had seen her amazing abilities when I had been temporarily numb to them. I see Abigail's potential and ability everyday, but I had worrying doubts as to whether others were looking hard enough to see them. Her small work of art taught me the lesson that others, even strangers, find it just as easy as I to behold the capabilities and potential that make up the joyous wonder of Abigail. It was just a 5x7 canvas, but it gave to me a cherished illustration on how Abigail shines in her own swirl of beauty that others can also treasure.
By the time we made it to the event many of the pieces had already been sold. Just when I thought hers must have been purchased I saw it hanging almost all alone on its peg board stand. Seriously? No one saw the pure artistic genius in that 5x7 work of wonder? Could the whole town of Waco be that fatuous as to not see the talent in those swirls and swooshes and the beauty of the colors? Maybe I was having a bit of an overreaction, but all you grandmas, aunts and especially moms know you would have felt the exact same way. So, I decided right then that I would buy it. I was pointed in the direction of the lady in charge of the art sales and told her I wanted to buy back my daughter's piece. So she explained what I needed to do and by the time I turned back to remove it from the peg board it was gone because they were already packing up all the art that hadn't sold. So the kind lady helped Abigail and me track it down. She asked me what it looked like and when I explained it to her, she and two other ladies who had joined us to help made gasps and said, "She made that? She's only ten?" As much as I hate to confess it, my first thought was that they didn't understand which one I was talking about. After all the feelings of indignation of no one picking my child's work, I was guilty of thinking, "Oh no. This is going to be embarrassing when they bring back the wrong piece and I have to explain that I'm looking for the one with just finger swirls and sponge splotches on it."
But they brought back Abigail's and with a tone of uncertainty asked if they had found the right one. When I confirmed it was hers they made another collective exclamation of appreciation. Then the lady in charge asked me if I was sure I wanted to buy it because she really wanted to keep it to show others exactly what she was talking about when she discussed the need for art programs for special needs children and the unexpected artistic talent they so many times have. Of course I let her keep it.
She then knelt down to Abigail to tell her thank you and to ask her to show how she had made it. Most of the time with strangers Abigail will look at them for a few seconds and then look away and not respond to them. But when she saw the canvas in the lady's hand Abigail made one of her undeniable nods of agreement and then began moving her fingers across the canvas. I thought I was going to have to explain that Abigail was non-verbal and those motions were showing how she had made it, but the lady understood exactly what Abigail was showing her and gave her lots of words of praise and admiration. Abigail was full of excitement and began jumping as high as her seat belt would allow. I stood watching her and realized that in a span of a few minutes I went from feeling that everyone was absurd for not appreciating Abigail's effort, to feeling that based on their awed expressions surely they were mistaken about which piece was Abigail's, to feeling convicted for not truly appreciating my own daughter's ability to have others recognize her potential, to being close to tears in the pride I felt in Abigail and the gratefulness that was welling up within me to strangers who had seen her amazing abilities when I had been temporarily numb to them. I see Abigail's potential and ability everyday, but I had worrying doubts as to whether others were looking hard enough to see them. Her small work of art taught me the lesson that others, even strangers, find it just as easy as I to behold the capabilities and potential that make up the joyous wonder of Abigail. It was just a 5x7 canvas, but it gave to me a cherished illustration on how Abigail shines in her own swirl of beauty that others can also treasure.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Me From the Future in a Geo Metro
I'm fairly certain that this morning I met myself who had traveled back in time from my future.
I was in a hurry and running late in getting Abigail to school. I came to a four way stop and encountered a little old lady in a red Geo Metro, which by the way was in excellent condition. It was the style that reminds me of the old Gremlins. We came to the stop sign at the exact moment. She to my left with her left blinker on and me going to go straight. I wasn't in a generous mood since I was pressed for time so I was going to take my right-of-way and go. Her car lurched forward and zipped in front of me before I could lift my foot off the brake and there she was zooming in front of me. I guess her adrenaline rush from beating me to the punch wore off because before I knew it I was up on her bumper. She was going a little above the 30mph speed limit so I quickly realized I was going too fast and slowed down to give her space.
She must have seen me in her rear view mirror before I admitted my error by making a gap between us. She took a page right out of my book and immediately began driving right at the speed limit. Before I could compensate I must have breached her territory again because she then dropped to 15mph.
So, there I was. Two car lengths behind her, getting a good look at the back of her head (which was barely peeking over the dashboard) through the back glass of her Geo biding my time until I could get around her. About the time I was thinking I was going to be stuck behind her for a good chunk of unforeseeable future I saw her left blinker flashing. Then three blocks later after I determined she must have never turned off her blinker at the four way stop so long ago, she suddenly veered left. I felt the weight of being penned lift. I sped up and was doing well recovering my time until I came to a red light at an intersection. I was first in line at the light so I had a very good view of a well kempt red Geo Metro in a shape reminiscent of the old Gremlins coming across the intersection making a left turn putting it right in front of my path I would take as soon as my light turned green.
Again, a page right out of my book was played because she looked me right in the eye and grinned. Touche'. Well played. I bow to you Mrs. Gremlin Lady.
And if you are me from the future traveling to the past, show me that shortcut before you go back. Oh, and go back a few months farther to sew up the hole in my coat pocket before I lost Jason's spare keys so I won't have to sit through that lecture again. It should be fine to tweak that a little because I would think having to say a few less, "Yes, Dears. You are right" won't alter the future and mess up the world's dynamics that much.
I was in a hurry and running late in getting Abigail to school. I came to a four way stop and encountered a little old lady in a red Geo Metro, which by the way was in excellent condition. It was the style that reminds me of the old Gremlins. We came to the stop sign at the exact moment. She to my left with her left blinker on and me going to go straight. I wasn't in a generous mood since I was pressed for time so I was going to take my right-of-way and go. Her car lurched forward and zipped in front of me before I could lift my foot off the brake and there she was zooming in front of me. I guess her adrenaline rush from beating me to the punch wore off because before I knew it I was up on her bumper. She was going a little above the 30mph speed limit so I quickly realized I was going too fast and slowed down to give her space.
She must have seen me in her rear view mirror before I admitted my error by making a gap between us. She took a page right out of my book and immediately began driving right at the speed limit. Before I could compensate I must have breached her territory again because she then dropped to 15mph.
So, there I was. Two car lengths behind her, getting a good look at the back of her head (which was barely peeking over the dashboard) through the back glass of her Geo biding my time until I could get around her. About the time I was thinking I was going to be stuck behind her for a good chunk of unforeseeable future I saw her left blinker flashing. Then three blocks later after I determined she must have never turned off her blinker at the four way stop so long ago, she suddenly veered left. I felt the weight of being penned lift. I sped up and was doing well recovering my time until I came to a red light at an intersection. I was first in line at the light so I had a very good view of a well kempt red Geo Metro in a shape reminiscent of the old Gremlins coming across the intersection making a left turn putting it right in front of my path I would take as soon as my light turned green.
Again, a page right out of my book was played because she looked me right in the eye and grinned. Touche'. Well played. I bow to you Mrs. Gremlin Lady.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Souveniers From Our Trip
Technically, it wasn't a "trip." It was a quick back and forth drive back home to visit family. But we were away from our house for one whole night so I will take what I can get.
First of all I brought back these bookmarks. They are cut out of paper thin wood. My dad made them. After a few subtle hints like "You know I read alot, right? And I don't have very many bookmarks." or "So, did you make these to give out to people? You know, people like me who read alot?" and "You gonna give me one or what?" he finally said to go ahead and take one if I wanted it. I took two.
My next find was a genuine Pet Rock from 1975 that I found in a thrift shop. I showed it to my 6 year old nephew who promptly started sneezing. I told him that he must be allergic to the dander that pet rocks had. He didn't get it. And he thought I wasted my money to buy a rock. Kids these days.
My third bring back was an old purse I found at the same thrift store that had the rock. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush from finding a 36 year old pet rock that made me think the purse would clean up nicely. It's pretty nasty looking now that I'm out of the dusty, dimness of the shop.
I had a feeling I should have left it in the store when I showed it to my cousin who tried very hard to hide the motion she made that told me she was afraid to touch the nasty thing. Jason saw it and said that it looked like something that would be in a hoarder's house as he scrubbed down the spot where it had been sitting on our table. So it's going to Salvation Army ASAP. Unless of course you like it. In that case it is a vintage Veldore' handbag that has signs of gentle wear. I will sell for a very reasonable price. Just message me if you'd like to deal.
And that was just about all the money I was willing to spend until we stopped at a gas station on the way back home. Jason went inside first and told the table of Girl Scouts peddling their overpriced cookies that they'd have to ask me. He gave me fair warning when he came back out to the car and I was heading in. I was ready to tell them I had already bought ours this year from girls in our neighborhood. They pulled out their best salesman who was a doe eyed, freckle faced little Brownie in that cute little beret uniform who looked hopefully up into my stern, ready to say,"NO." eyes and said, "You'll buy some cookies, right?" I bought two boxes.
My next find was a genuine Pet Rock from 1975 that I found in a thrift shop. I showed it to my 6 year old nephew who promptly started sneezing. I told him that he must be allergic to the dander that pet rocks had. He didn't get it. And he thought I wasted my money to buy a rock. Kids these days.
My third bring back was an old purse I found at the same thrift store that had the rock. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush from finding a 36 year old pet rock that made me think the purse would clean up nicely. It's pretty nasty looking now that I'm out of the dusty, dimness of the shop.
And that was just about all the money I was willing to spend until we stopped at a gas station on the way back home. Jason went inside first and told the table of Girl Scouts peddling their overpriced cookies that they'd have to ask me. He gave me fair warning when he came back out to the car and I was heading in. I was ready to tell them I had already bought ours this year from girls in our neighborhood. They pulled out their best salesman who was a doe eyed, freckle faced little Brownie in that cute little beret uniform who looked hopefully up into my stern, ready to say,"NO." eyes and said, "You'll buy some cookies, right?" I bought two boxes.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Memoires of a Tom Girl Who Loved Her Daddy's Truck
This weekend was spent going to visit our families in the town in which I grew up. On the car trip down there I whipped out the camera phone so I could take pictures of some of the things I always look for on the road. They are my own personal landmarks, I suppose, and how I gauge how much further we have on the trip. Starting out, the camera was just to stay awake so I could keep Jason company. But taking those pictures put me in a sentimental mood so the camera stayed out once we got to our destination so I could take some more pictures of other things that represented my own life's landmarks.
My first subject was Ol' Blue- the old Chevy truck that was my dad's source of transportation from my earliest memories until after I was married. Growing up, when it wasn't being driven by Daddy and was parked in its spot, it also served as our playground, our spaceship, Dukes of Hazard car, pioneer wagon, horse drawn carriage, yacht, row boat and then island that we had stowed away to, playhouse, upright sit and spin (huge steering wheel we could sit on and have someone else turn trying to knock us off)
trampoline (very springy bouncy seats) depository for many rocks (the little square holes along the side of the bed--the first drop we thought it would fall through to the ground. It didn't, so we kept dropping more and more trying to find out where they were going. We never found out and were wise enough not to ask Daddy where they might have piled up, but not wise enough to stop trying to figure it out on our own) a large farm truck so we could pretend like we were driving to the Co-Op to get feed and then pretend to load up the feed, our inflicter of pain (when we let down the tail gate to load the pretend sacks of feed and its weight crushed our fingers as it fell), our ledge to jump off and see how many jumping jacks we could do in the air once we were strong enough to let down the tail gate and hook it with the chains so it stayed out instead of slamming hard on its bumper, and our death defying balance beam or high wire perched over a pool of angry sharks (balancing on the edges of the bed.)
When it was being driven it was our transportation to Little League games, fishing at the lake, driving over the dam, trips to the hardware store, to the local nursery where we could pick out our very own seedlings to grow, to the veterinarian with our dog Sarge and treks to the grocery store or school when the weather was icy. If we were lucky and the weather wasn't icy we could ride in the bed of the truck. With the exception of driving over the dam and driving down to the shore of the lake, which for some reason terrified me, riding in the bed was pure delight.
Once when my dad was out of town and took the good family car with him my mom drove us in the truck to go pick up our cousins who were visiting from out of town and bring them to our house. We had a long time to sit and visit in the truck bed as my mom searched for each hard to find gear and we rattled and lurched in the back. We mostly tried to keep from laughing ourselves silly. My mom could drive a standard, but Ol' Blue was contrary when anyone but my dad was in the driver's seat. Mom still gets a little defensive to this day about it.
Once when we were riding in the back of Ol' Blue after a baseball game and big loss by my brother's team, I decided to cheer him up by waiting until we were at an underpass where echoing could always be heard by shouting (we had lots of practice at this)to declare at the top of my lungs, "Yellow Jackets are #1!" I looked at him expecting to see some team spirit and jubilation return to his face and instead saw more bitter disappointment and my sister looking at me in utter disbelief. In my young mind I had confused the two teams and even though I thought he had played for the Yellow Jackets, I was cheering the opposite team and pouring salt in his wound. He forgave me though when he saw me beating on the back window to get my dad's attention to get him to turn around and go back through the underpass so I could shout the right team name. Dad didn't, but my brother was somewhat cheered up when I was yelled at by both Mom and Dad and told to sit down.
Another time with another cousin we took the long journey to the lake with fishing poles from our shed and worms from my grandpa's worm business. He sold the juiciest, fattest worms imaginable for only $1.00 a box. He had dried catfish heads all along his fence to show others the size of fish that were caught by using his special worms. To this day, I remember the feel of the moist cool dirt of the worm beds and the sight and sound of the worms popping to the top of the soil when I would help Papa feed them and keep them warm. I'm going to be a worm farmer, too one of these days, but I digress. Since the road was long to get to the lake and my cousin was very impatient my brother and I convinced him along the way that we had left the state and were in New Mexico where fishing laws were very strict and since we didn't have the right fishing license for New Mexico we would all go to jail if we were caught with fishing poles and worms. Either we were good actors or he was a very gullible little boy because he was near tears when we had to nearly body slam him to keep him from pitching the worms, poles and tackle boxes over the side of the truck when we yelled, "Cop!" Our fishing lures were lucky indeed because we were able to keep them from being thrown out as we cruised along and none of the adults caught the quick scrambling in the bed of the truck as we tackled him on hands and knees.
As I grew older and hit those awkward Jr. High years I began to think no one understood me or had the time to really love me. My poor mom was always getting yelled at by me either because she talked too much to me or she didn't talk enough. She never did anything with me or she wanted to be with me too much. She never wanted to read what I wrote for school or she was too nosy about what I wrote for school. I remember going into a crying fit with her because she and Daddy named me Melissa. Didn't they know there would other Melissa's and my school and so I had no real identity? Didn't she care? How they came out of that period unscathed and with all their wits I will never know. But Ol' Blue helped me to realize I was indeed important to my parents. We had gone to Abilene(I was in the cab because riding in the bed in Abilene was never an option) and as my dad made a sharp turn the passenger door swung open wide and my mom sprang into action by grabbing me to keep me from sliding out. She somehow manged to quickly stand up hunched over me and push me towards Dad's reach and as he yanked me towards him she reached out for the door and slammed it shut. This life saving feat was all done as Dad kept driving and completed the turn with perfection. They had the opportunity to give me a big push and leave me there on my own, but instead they sprang into action to keep me by their sides. They loved me after all.
Midway through my teenage years Ol' Blue became an embarrassment. I didn't want to be seen in it anymore. After I had my driver's license I no longer cared about Ol' Blue and was driving myself to school in an 84 Oldsmobile Delta 88 which strangely didn't embarrass me. One morning it was icy enough for the roads to be slick but not icy enough to cancel school. Dad insisted that he drive me to school in Ol' Blue and no matter how much I protested he wasn't going to relent and let me drive. I was mortified. That evening when the roads were thought to be clear he allowed me to drive. I hit an ice patch in my 88 and did a small fish tail. It was enough for me to see my life flash before my eyes. It was enough for me to beg my dad the next morning to take me to school in Ol' Blue and this time instead of dropping me off on the Jr. High side he could take me straight to the high school. He could even drop me off right at the front doors where everyone could see me get out. I didn't care. I was in love again with Ol' Blue if it meant I didn't have to drive on ice again. Ol' Blue had changed my view on my own life once again.
My next photo subject will be Abigail inside Ol' Blue. It's sitting in my parents' back yard. My dad doesn't have the time to work on her, but he never could bring himself to completely let her go. Abigail won't be able to ride in Blue, but she can pretend she is as I tell her the stories. Maybe one day Ol' Blue will hit the open road again, but if not, the memories will always be taking her for a spin.
My first subject was Ol' Blue- the old Chevy truck that was my dad's source of transportation from my earliest memories until after I was married. Growing up, when it wasn't being driven by Daddy and was parked in its spot, it also served as our playground, our spaceship, Dukes of Hazard car, pioneer wagon, horse drawn carriage, yacht, row boat and then island that we had stowed away to, playhouse, upright sit and spin (huge steering wheel we could sit on and have someone else turn trying to knock us off)
trampoline (very springy bouncy seats) depository for many rocks (the little square holes along the side of the bed--the first drop we thought it would fall through to the ground. It didn't, so we kept dropping more and more trying to find out where they were going. We never found out and were wise enough not to ask Daddy where they might have piled up, but not wise enough to stop trying to figure it out on our own) a large farm truck so we could pretend like we were driving to the Co-Op to get feed and then pretend to load up the feed, our inflicter of pain (when we let down the tail gate to load the pretend sacks of feed and its weight crushed our fingers as it fell), our ledge to jump off and see how many jumping jacks we could do in the air once we were strong enough to let down the tail gate and hook it with the chains so it stayed out instead of slamming hard on its bumper, and our death defying balance beam or high wire perched over a pool of angry sharks (balancing on the edges of the bed.)When it was being driven it was our transportation to Little League games, fishing at the lake, driving over the dam, trips to the hardware store, to the local nursery where we could pick out our very own seedlings to grow, to the veterinarian with our dog Sarge and treks to the grocery store or school when the weather was icy. If we were lucky and the weather wasn't icy we could ride in the bed of the truck. With the exception of driving over the dam and driving down to the shore of the lake, which for some reason terrified me, riding in the bed was pure delight.
Once when my dad was out of town and took the good family car with him my mom drove us in the truck to go pick up our cousins who were visiting from out of town and bring them to our house. We had a long time to sit and visit in the truck bed as my mom searched for each hard to find gear and we rattled and lurched in the back. We mostly tried to keep from laughing ourselves silly. My mom could drive a standard, but Ol' Blue was contrary when anyone but my dad was in the driver's seat. Mom still gets a little defensive to this day about it.
Once when we were riding in the back of Ol' Blue after a baseball game and big loss by my brother's team, I decided to cheer him up by waiting until we were at an underpass where echoing could always be heard by shouting (we had lots of practice at this)to declare at the top of my lungs, "Yellow Jackets are #1!" I looked at him expecting to see some team spirit and jubilation return to his face and instead saw more bitter disappointment and my sister looking at me in utter disbelief. In my young mind I had confused the two teams and even though I thought he had played for the Yellow Jackets, I was cheering the opposite team and pouring salt in his wound. He forgave me though when he saw me beating on the back window to get my dad's attention to get him to turn around and go back through the underpass so I could shout the right team name. Dad didn't, but my brother was somewhat cheered up when I was yelled at by both Mom and Dad and told to sit down.
Another time with another cousin we took the long journey to the lake with fishing poles from our shed and worms from my grandpa's worm business. He sold the juiciest, fattest worms imaginable for only $1.00 a box. He had dried catfish heads all along his fence to show others the size of fish that were caught by using his special worms. To this day, I remember the feel of the moist cool dirt of the worm beds and the sight and sound of the worms popping to the top of the soil when I would help Papa feed them and keep them warm. I'm going to be a worm farmer, too one of these days, but I digress. Since the road was long to get to the lake and my cousin was very impatient my brother and I convinced him along the way that we had left the state and were in New Mexico where fishing laws were very strict and since we didn't have the right fishing license for New Mexico we would all go to jail if we were caught with fishing poles and worms. Either we were good actors or he was a very gullible little boy because he was near tears when we had to nearly body slam him to keep him from pitching the worms, poles and tackle boxes over the side of the truck when we yelled, "Cop!" Our fishing lures were lucky indeed because we were able to keep them from being thrown out as we cruised along and none of the adults caught the quick scrambling in the bed of the truck as we tackled him on hands and knees.
As I grew older and hit those awkward Jr. High years I began to think no one understood me or had the time to really love me. My poor mom was always getting yelled at by me either because she talked too much to me or she didn't talk enough. She never did anything with me or she wanted to be with me too much. She never wanted to read what I wrote for school or she was too nosy about what I wrote for school. I remember going into a crying fit with her because she and Daddy named me Melissa. Didn't they know there would other Melissa's and my school and so I had no real identity? Didn't she care? How they came out of that period unscathed and with all their wits I will never know. But Ol' Blue helped me to realize I was indeed important to my parents. We had gone to Abilene(I was in the cab because riding in the bed in Abilene was never an option) and as my dad made a sharp turn the passenger door swung open wide and my mom sprang into action by grabbing me to keep me from sliding out. She somehow manged to quickly stand up hunched over me and push me towards Dad's reach and as he yanked me towards him she reached out for the door and slammed it shut. This life saving feat was all done as Dad kept driving and completed the turn with perfection. They had the opportunity to give me a big push and leave me there on my own, but instead they sprang into action to keep me by their sides. They loved me after all.
Midway through my teenage years Ol' Blue became an embarrassment. I didn't want to be seen in it anymore. After I had my driver's license I no longer cared about Ol' Blue and was driving myself to school in an 84 Oldsmobile Delta 88 which strangely didn't embarrass me. One morning it was icy enough for the roads to be slick but not icy enough to cancel school. Dad insisted that he drive me to school in Ol' Blue and no matter how much I protested he wasn't going to relent and let me drive. I was mortified. That evening when the roads were thought to be clear he allowed me to drive. I hit an ice patch in my 88 and did a small fish tail. It was enough for me to see my life flash before my eyes. It was enough for me to beg my dad the next morning to take me to school in Ol' Blue and this time instead of dropping me off on the Jr. High side he could take me straight to the high school. He could even drop me off right at the front doors where everyone could see me get out. I didn't care. I was in love again with Ol' Blue if it meant I didn't have to drive on ice again. Ol' Blue had changed my view on my own life once again.
My next photo subject will be Abigail inside Ol' Blue. It's sitting in my parents' back yard. My dad doesn't have the time to work on her, but he never could bring himself to completely let her go. Abigail won't be able to ride in Blue, but she can pretend she is as I tell her the stories. Maybe one day Ol' Blue will hit the open road again, but if not, the memories will always be taking her for a spin.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Human Pretzel
I had my first chiropractic experience on Friday. My back has been hurting since I had a fender bender a few weeks ago. Many of my friends and family told me to go to a chiropractor instead of a M.D. because I would get quicker results without pharmaceutical drugs. Although, the possibility of pharmacy grade pain killers actually sounds enticing, the quicker remedy outweighed the loopy happy feeling that could have been mine. (more of a loopy feeling than I already have naturally)
I always turn into a shy person when I go to a doctor. And I find myself very nervous because I don't like to be touched by or have have a stranger really close to me. And it's for stupid reasons, too. Like, what if I have a booger in my nose, or a big glob of earwax peeking out of my ear (that's the biggest fear), or a string of mucus in the back of my throat, or bits of salad in my teeth or underarm odor that I don't smell because I'm used to it, or a patch of hair on my ankle or big toe that I missed when I shaved the last few times. I told you; stupid reasons.
I thought I would have my nervousness under control this time because I wore my pajama jeans to the appointment. I would have to backtrack to explain my long wait for the pajama jeans and how I fall in love with them more each day and I don't want to do that now, so I will just say that I assumed that my snazzy yet comfortable pants would allow me to keep my calm and allow me to be my quirky self without shutting down like a wallflower. I was wrong.
As I waited in the exam room I was scrolling through my phone. The chiropractor walked in and on impulse I threw my phone towards my purse, overshot it and then scrambled to scoop it up off the chair next to my purse where it landed. I shoved it into my purse, then tossed my purse off the chair next to me onto the floor. I have no explanation for that. I just felt as though suddenly I had been busted, so on instinct I was hiding the evidence. Again, I don't know.
He pretended not to notice, but I'm pretty sure I saw him do a quick eye sweep of the room. Because of my behavior, it's quite possible he was checking to see if I had stolen one of the models of the spine that was on display. He made a little bit of small talk and mentioned how the spine can get out of alignment for any reason. He said that for months his back had been hurting and just last week he realized it was because of his office chair and he went into telling me that tale. My pajama jeans should have given me the confidence to do what my brain was playing out. I so badly wanted to say, "Oh! Well then, I'm going to buy a new chair first before I go through this and see if that helps," as I jokingly stood up and faced the door. But instead I just politely and quietly said, "Well that is nice that it was such a simple fix." You know, maybe it was the pajama jeans that gave me the common sense to do that instead of my first sarcastic impulse since the man was about to crack every single vertebrae running up and down my treasured spine.
Anyway, onto the table I went. There is no graceful way to plop down onto a table face down. But it didn't help matters when my shoe started to slide off and I did a sidekick off the table trying to catch the shoe and maneuver it back on. There was no way to recover from that so I just did an odd spread eagle type of kerplop! down. If that wasn't bad enough, after he popped my hips he told me to roll to my side at which point I realized that pajama jeans are very slick on an slender exam table. He caught me before I pitched off the edge. He had very quick reflexes, but he might find in a couple of days that his office chair won't be the simple fix to alleviate his back pain that my little acrobatics caused him.
But overall, I'm glad I went. Being twisted like a pretzel is a fast remedy for my medical professionals touching aversion. And actually, the popping sensation of vertebrae and joints that I didn't even know I had was quite nice. I can handle this with or without my pajama jeans. . . as long as he doesn't have to look into my ears.
I always turn into a shy person when I go to a doctor. And I find myself very nervous because I don't like to be touched by or have have a stranger really close to me. And it's for stupid reasons, too. Like, what if I have a booger in my nose, or a big glob of earwax peeking out of my ear (that's the biggest fear), or a string of mucus in the back of my throat, or bits of salad in my teeth or underarm odor that I don't smell because I'm used to it, or a patch of hair on my ankle or big toe that I missed when I shaved the last few times. I told you; stupid reasons.
I thought I would have my nervousness under control this time because I wore my pajama jeans to the appointment. I would have to backtrack to explain my long wait for the pajama jeans and how I fall in love with them more each day and I don't want to do that now, so I will just say that I assumed that my snazzy yet comfortable pants would allow me to keep my calm and allow me to be my quirky self without shutting down like a wallflower. I was wrong.
As I waited in the exam room I was scrolling through my phone. The chiropractor walked in and on impulse I threw my phone towards my purse, overshot it and then scrambled to scoop it up off the chair next to my purse where it landed. I shoved it into my purse, then tossed my purse off the chair next to me onto the floor. I have no explanation for that. I just felt as though suddenly I had been busted, so on instinct I was hiding the evidence. Again, I don't know.
He pretended not to notice, but I'm pretty sure I saw him do a quick eye sweep of the room. Because of my behavior, it's quite possible he was checking to see if I had stolen one of the models of the spine that was on display. He made a little bit of small talk and mentioned how the spine can get out of alignment for any reason. He said that for months his back had been hurting and just last week he realized it was because of his office chair and he went into telling me that tale. My pajama jeans should have given me the confidence to do what my brain was playing out. I so badly wanted to say, "Oh! Well then, I'm going to buy a new chair first before I go through this and see if that helps," as I jokingly stood up and faced the door. But instead I just politely and quietly said, "Well that is nice that it was such a simple fix." You know, maybe it was the pajama jeans that gave me the common sense to do that instead of my first sarcastic impulse since the man was about to crack every single vertebrae running up and down my treasured spine.
Anyway, onto the table I went. There is no graceful way to plop down onto a table face down. But it didn't help matters when my shoe started to slide off and I did a sidekick off the table trying to catch the shoe and maneuver it back on. There was no way to recover from that so I just did an odd spread eagle type of kerplop! down. If that wasn't bad enough, after he popped my hips he told me to roll to my side at which point I realized that pajama jeans are very slick on an slender exam table. He caught me before I pitched off the edge. He had very quick reflexes, but he might find in a couple of days that his office chair won't be the simple fix to alleviate his back pain that my little acrobatics caused him.
But overall, I'm glad I went. Being twisted like a pretzel is a fast remedy for my medical professionals touching aversion. And actually, the popping sensation of vertebrae and joints that I didn't even know I had was quite nice. I can handle this with or without my pajama jeans. . . as long as he doesn't have to look into my ears.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Evolution of a Woman. Or at least this woman.
The sign has been in my grandma's house for as long as I remember. So long, that I even recall the first time I read it for myself: "My house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy."
The first time I read it, I didn't comprehend it. I was just proud that I had strung the letters together to make words.
Later, in elementary school I got the humor in it. It was cute.
Then came high school when I was close to graduation. I would read it and wonder how in the world someone could be happy in a dirty house? Even a small amount of clutter and dust was unacceptable and would not be tolerated when I had my own place. I even lived up to that expectation for the first few years of having my own apartment, both while being single then after being married.
A while after that, when I was working a full time job and the stress of life began to be a little weighty, I began to comprehend a different meaning. It was no longer humorous. It was a small treasure of wisdom. "Dirty enough to be happy." Relax. Enjoy the small things in life and don't let fixating on cleaning every crevice of my house distract me from seeing the fun and beauty in everyday.
The last 10 years I have had a kid and all that busyness motherhood brings to help me evolve to a completely different attitude. I see the sign now and think that whoever came up with it is a haughty, contemptuous busybody. "Clean enough to be healthy." What the blankety blank Yosemite Sam does that mean? Are you trying to tell me that I'm the only one with dust piling up on the pictures and a little mildew growing on the shower curtain where nobody looks anyway? Just don't turn off the cursed ceiling fan if you don't want to see the grime on the blades! As if I'm the only one on earth that hasn't cleaned the windows in a few months/years?! Well, if everyone would eat all that I cooked there wouldn't be fuzzy leftovers on the forgotten back shelf of the fridge! SO nobody but me in all the world has a perpetual laundry basket full of clean clothes that never make it to the drawers before being dug out and worn again? No; I don't scrub my baseboards- if the dirt doesn't fall off of them when I ram the vacuum into them during a frenzied cleaning then it is obviously meant to be there. Who the freakin' freak does she think she is? "Clean enough to be healthy." Yeah? Well, clean THIS!
I think maybe I should share this with my grandma so she will understand why I mumble and shake my fist whenever I see that stupid picture, which by the way usually has a film of dust on it. At least that gives me a small comfort of solace.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Behold, my creation!
I have a friend who has challenged herself to create something everyday and then blog about it. So, I am following her example for one day only and for one thing. I guess it could be two things if I count sewing some loose buttons back onto Abigail's sweater. That could count as creating something because she couldn't wear it, but then she could, so it's almost like I created a sweater. Yes, two things.
So here is my second thing:
I suppose one could say that taking five pre-made cedar panels out of a box, reading instructions and putting them together is not actually creating anything. But it took me an hour, so I overrule that sentiment and say I did make it.
I see the irony in the fact that I struggled to make my box since I have a dad who can piddle around with wood and make just about anything. I've seen him make snowflakes and a shed. One Christmas when I was a teenager he surprised me with a hope chest that he crafted. He even added a living room addition to our house while growing up.
And on my mom's side of the family I have an uncle that creates cabinetry work and for fun works at Lowes so he can share his knowledge with others. My brother can take an old, neglected piece of wood and turn it into a birdhouse, chair, table or bench, but I didn't get even a shred of that gene. 
An hour after looking at instructions, scattering screws all over the living room when I opened the bag they were in and nearly drilling a divot into our wood floor with a power drill that I had no business touching; I completed my box. Yes, I admit the irony, but I fail to see the hilarity in it that Abigail observed. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I am fairly certain that when God said, "Honor your Father and Mother" it meant don't laugh yourself silly watching your mom try to put together a pre-made cedar box. I tried explaining that to her, but it was a little hard to sound stern as I was lying on my stomach with most of my face squished against our heavy T.V.cabinet as I reached under it trying to retrieve the scattered screws.
So here is my second thing:
I suppose one could say that taking five pre-made cedar panels out of a box, reading instructions and putting them together is not actually creating anything. But it took me an hour, so I overrule that sentiment and say I did make it.
I see the irony in the fact that I struggled to make my box since I have a dad who can piddle around with wood and make just about anything. I've seen him make snowflakes and a shed. One Christmas when I was a teenager he surprised me with a hope chest that he crafted. He even added a living room addition to our house while growing up.
And on my mom's side of the family I have an uncle that creates cabinetry work and for fun works at Lowes so he can share his knowledge with others. My brother can take an old, neglected piece of wood and turn it into a birdhouse, chair, table or bench, but I didn't get even a shred of that gene. 
An hour after looking at instructions, scattering screws all over the living room when I opened the bag they were in and nearly drilling a divot into our wood floor with a power drill that I had no business touching; I completed my box. Yes, I admit the irony, but I fail to see the hilarity in it that Abigail observed. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I am fairly certain that when God said, "Honor your Father and Mother" it meant don't laugh yourself silly watching your mom try to put together a pre-made cedar box. I tried explaining that to her, but it was a little hard to sound stern as I was lying on my stomach with most of my face squished against our heavy T.V.cabinet as I reached under it trying to retrieve the scattered screws.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Country Cuteness
Somebody posted on facebook that her dog was having puppies. I talked to her cute, little daughter for a short bit this morning and she excitedly told me that the mommy made and gave her puppies milk when they were hungry. That triggered a memory, so I'm fixin' to tell y'all all about it.
A few years ago when Jason's second cousin was around 3, we took her with us to Sam's. Hannah was a spit-fire little girl who is now a smart, beautiful spit-fire teen. When she was little she had long blond curls, a cherub like face and to look at her made you think she was oozing in sweet girly girlishness. She would sit and listen to you speak to her while she blinked her eyes causing her long eyelashes to nearly sweep the top of her cheeks. And then she would speak. Hearing her words would cause a brief moment of surrealism. When she spoke her voice wasn't the twinkling child-like sound you expected by looking at her. Her voice was deep, and she had the thickest most countriest slow, drawn out Texan drawl you could possibly imagine.
So there we were in Sam's not looking at anything in particular. We were just roaming around with her in the front of the basket causing people in the busy Saturday crowd to look at her and smile at her cuteness. We took a turn and ended up on the dog food aisle. Hannah reached out and touched a bag of puppy chow and explained to me in her deep, loud drawl, "My dawg just delivered a litter of lil' pups. They cain't be a eatin' solid food like this, though." By now everyone was looking at her in amused surprise at her non-cherub like (but still cuter than calf snot) voice and listening to see if she would say more. After a brief pause for dramatic affect, she noticed her audience and added more loudly so everyone could hear her explain, "They're all still suckin' the teat."
I'm not sure if anyone laughed because I was concentrating too hard on holding in my own laughter.
I told the mom of one of Hannah's little friends about it a few weeks later. She smiled and told me that the first time Hannah came over to play she stayed quiet for a long time so they thought she must have been really shy. After a long moment of silence their family cat came out of hiding and approached Hannah. She reached out to pet the cat and in her unique voice told them all, "Did y'all know that cats bury their own mess. So if you see 'em scratchin' in the dirt, don't go a diggin' to see what they done."
A few years ago when Jason's second cousin was around 3, we took her with us to Sam's. Hannah was a spit-fire little girl who is now a smart, beautiful spit-fire teen. When she was little she had long blond curls, a cherub like face and to look at her made you think she was oozing in sweet girly girlishness. She would sit and listen to you speak to her while she blinked her eyes causing her long eyelashes to nearly sweep the top of her cheeks. And then she would speak. Hearing her words would cause a brief moment of surrealism. When she spoke her voice wasn't the twinkling child-like sound you expected by looking at her. Her voice was deep, and she had the thickest most countriest slow, drawn out Texan drawl you could possibly imagine.
So there we were in Sam's not looking at anything in particular. We were just roaming around with her in the front of the basket causing people in the busy Saturday crowd to look at her and smile at her cuteness. We took a turn and ended up on the dog food aisle. Hannah reached out and touched a bag of puppy chow and explained to me in her deep, loud drawl, "My dawg just delivered a litter of lil' pups. They cain't be a eatin' solid food like this, though." By now everyone was looking at her in amused surprise at her non-cherub like (but still cuter than calf snot) voice and listening to see if she would say more. After a brief pause for dramatic affect, she noticed her audience and added more loudly so everyone could hear her explain, "They're all still suckin' the teat."
I'm not sure if anyone laughed because I was concentrating too hard on holding in my own laughter.
I told the mom of one of Hannah's little friends about it a few weeks later. She smiled and told me that the first time Hannah came over to play she stayed quiet for a long time so they thought she must have been really shy. After a long moment of silence their family cat came out of hiding and approached Hannah. She reached out to pet the cat and in her unique voice told them all, "Did y'all know that cats bury their own mess. So if you see 'em scratchin' in the dirt, don't go a diggin' to see what they done."
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
A wife's Dart is her husband's Demon and other such life lessons.
I heard today on the radio that a woman called the Sheriff's department because she thought someone was doing a drive by shooting near her house. It turned out it was only the neighbor working on his car. He was trying to fix it so it wouldn't backfire anymore. I can sympathize with the neighbor who had the shot gun blast decibel backfiring car.
It reminded me of 17 years ago when Jason and I were still newly weds. He had a little red truck which was a standard. I had never successfully driven a standard,but when we moved my belongings to our new apartment I drove the little pick up and he drove the moving truck. Even though the moving truck was an automatic; it was huge, so I managed to convince myself that it would be best to drive the smaller vehicle and that the only way to learn to operate a standard was to just jump in and do it. I ended up getting stranded in the middle of a busy intersection- lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, eyes blurry from tears, frantic sobbing bursts escaping my lips, wiping the snot from my nose with my right arm while intermittently using it grab the stick shift as everyone was stopping with squealing brakes and slamming on their horns. I slowly made it out of the intersection. (It might be a good time to mention that the pick up was still decorated from the wedding reception so in bright red paint on the back window a huge pair of lips was painted with the words, "Hot Lips".) It took at least a few dozen lurches and stops to make it all the way through the intersection. 'Inch by inch, life is a cinch.' Whatever! Whoever made up that little rhyme never tried driving a standard pick-up with red hot lips on the back window through an intersection full of impatient, unsympathetic people.
My parents took pity on me and let me take the car they had let me use in high school. It had its quirks, but it and I were old friends, so I could manage driving it. I thought we had an understanding, that car and I. Until it started backfiring almost every time that I turned off the ignition. Sometimes it happened right after I turned off the key, sometimes it waited until I was several yards away. Sometimes it didn't happen at all. Everywhere I went, I was on pins and needles waiting for the sound of the blast echoing throughout everyone's ears. I was still young enough to measure my self-esteem based on what others thought of me, so the embarrassment of a car that sounded like a shotgun blast at random and unpredictable times was almost too much to bear.
Finally it got to the point where it was going to make its ear splitting blast every time the ignition was turned off. It was a little easier to deal with once it began to be a predictable event. I would kill the ignition, have enough time to get out of the vehicle and take a few steps away from it, wait for the deafening KAPOW!, then join with all the bystanders by looking around with a startled expression and participating with them in their exclamations of, "What was that?, Was that a gun?" It got to be pretty fun, actually. However, I did use wise judgment with my job. Since it required me to use my vehicle to take the daily deposits to the bank and make change orders, I would leave the car running while I went inside. I didn't think it would be wise to make gunfire sounds at a bank.
While I thought it great fun to cause people to jump and duck for cover every time I went for an outing, my dad realized the severity of our situation when he came to visit and took the car out to experience what I was talking about, so he would know how to fix it. He and Jason went to a parking lot in a not so lovely area of town, killed the ignition waited a few seconds to see if I had just been imagining the volume of the noise, jumped when they heard it and then heard "Drive by!" being shouted as he saw a group of young men hit the ground.
It turned out that it was going to cost a small fortune to fix it and it was becoming a safety issue to drive it for obvious reasons so I was forced to learn to drive the standard truck. With no other options, I got it figured out. I took the long, less traveled backroads anywhere I went to avoid traffic which worked out okay until I ended up on a steep incline of a hill with a red light in an unfamiliar area. Finally after three cycles of the light and countless horn blasts from behind me, I made it through the light. This time I didn't feel the level of humiliation that only having bright red hot lips on the back window can bring, so I gave out many angry and bold curses at the people honking behind me. I felt pride for getting the hang of driving a standard and guilty for cursing the people who only wanted to go when the light was green. The guilt outweighed the pride so I never cursed another driver again. Okay. . . I never cursed another driver who didn't deserve it again.
We kept that truck for several years. Then Jason's brother was given a 1972 Dodge Dart Demon to drive. I fell in love with that car and his brother was embarrassed to drive it so we traded. I got a baby blue Dart to drive around, which by the way was a column shift standard, and was never so proud to drive anything. I would lovingly refer to it as the little, old Dart. We ended up selling it though, much to my disappointment. It got to the point where we were pouring money into it randomly trying to fix things because it kept dying whenever Jason drove it to work. It would always give out on him at the same intersection everyday and he would have to push it while everyone was honking because they were missing their turn to go through the light. I wasn't bothered by it because on the rare occasion when it happened to me I always had someone who would offer to help give me a push, so I could pop the clutch to get it started again. Then I would give the helper a thank you wave and honk as I continued through. Jason was never so lucky with the offers to push so he referred to the car as That Demon in a contemptuous tone, and listed it for sale.
Selling it was the wise financial thing to do, but I was torn about letting it go. We sold it to an older man who was a retired mechanic so he was going to be able to fix it up nicely which was good to know. When he and his wife came to look at it, Jason wasn't around so I showed it to them. When it wouldn't start, I told the potential buyer that if he could give me a push I could get it running by popping the clutch. He looked doubtful, but the little, old Dart didn't let me down because it started right up on the first clutch pop and the grandpa aged man told me he was very impressed that I could drive a car that was older than I was. His wife told me that she had never been able to figure out how to pop clutch start a car. It's as though the car was giving me one last chance to take pride in myself. They came back a few days later to purchase the car and take it to a better home.
I still longingly think about the little, old Dart and the pride in myself I felt whenever someone would ask if they could drive it, to which I would reply that they could if they knew how to drive a standard. The men in my age group would always give me a confident, "Sure I can." as if I was stupid for even considering that they couldn't drive anything that had wheels. Then I enjoyed watching as the confusion would crawl up their faces as they tried to figure out how it could have a clutch, but no shift stick. I loved telling them, "It's a three on the tree. Don't you know how to drive a three on the tree?" in a tone like I was born knowing how to drive a standard and couldn't believe that they couldn't figure it out. They would have never been able to guess that just a few years before I was sitting in an intersection blubbering like a baby, with my teeth rattling on every lurch and stop that a hot lips decorated standard was giving me.
Maybe life isn't a cinch, inch by inch. But if inch by inch is how one learns to drive a standard, it certainly makes a confident woman who, to this day, gets a little boastful around anyone who can drive only an automatic. And thanks to That Demon I get a tad bit arrogant if someone doesn't know how to pop a clutch and downright brash when I come across a man who has no idea how to manage a three on the tree. But the humility returns the instant I think about having to drive a car with giant hot lips painted on the back window. Those cars taught me the life lesson about finding the delicate balance between self assertive pride and humility. For that I am grateful. Jason is just glad he doesn't have to look at That Demon everyday anymore or have a wife that drives a car that inflicts the terror of drive by's wherever she goes.
It reminded me of 17 years ago when Jason and I were still newly weds. He had a little red truck which was a standard. I had never successfully driven a standard,but when we moved my belongings to our new apartment I drove the little pick up and he drove the moving truck. Even though the moving truck was an automatic; it was huge, so I managed to convince myself that it would be best to drive the smaller vehicle and that the only way to learn to operate a standard was to just jump in and do it. I ended up getting stranded in the middle of a busy intersection- lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, eyes blurry from tears, frantic sobbing bursts escaping my lips, wiping the snot from my nose with my right arm while intermittently using it grab the stick shift as everyone was stopping with squealing brakes and slamming on their horns. I slowly made it out of the intersection. (It might be a good time to mention that the pick up was still decorated from the wedding reception so in bright red paint on the back window a huge pair of lips was painted with the words, "Hot Lips".) It took at least a few dozen lurches and stops to make it all the way through the intersection. 'Inch by inch, life is a cinch.' Whatever! Whoever made up that little rhyme never tried driving a standard pick-up with red hot lips on the back window through an intersection full of impatient, unsympathetic people.
My parents took pity on me and let me take the car they had let me use in high school. It had its quirks, but it and I were old friends, so I could manage driving it. I thought we had an understanding, that car and I. Until it started backfiring almost every time that I turned off the ignition. Sometimes it happened right after I turned off the key, sometimes it waited until I was several yards away. Sometimes it didn't happen at all. Everywhere I went, I was on pins and needles waiting for the sound of the blast echoing throughout everyone's ears. I was still young enough to measure my self-esteem based on what others thought of me, so the embarrassment of a car that sounded like a shotgun blast at random and unpredictable times was almost too much to bear.
Finally it got to the point where it was going to make its ear splitting blast every time the ignition was turned off. It was a little easier to deal with once it began to be a predictable event. I would kill the ignition, have enough time to get out of the vehicle and take a few steps away from it, wait for the deafening KAPOW!, then join with all the bystanders by looking around with a startled expression and participating with them in their exclamations of, "What was that?, Was that a gun?" It got to be pretty fun, actually. However, I did use wise judgment with my job. Since it required me to use my vehicle to take the daily deposits to the bank and make change orders, I would leave the car running while I went inside. I didn't think it would be wise to make gunfire sounds at a bank.
While I thought it great fun to cause people to jump and duck for cover every time I went for an outing, my dad realized the severity of our situation when he came to visit and took the car out to experience what I was talking about, so he would know how to fix it. He and Jason went to a parking lot in a not so lovely area of town, killed the ignition waited a few seconds to see if I had just been imagining the volume of the noise, jumped when they heard it and then heard "Drive by!" being shouted as he saw a group of young men hit the ground.
It turned out that it was going to cost a small fortune to fix it and it was becoming a safety issue to drive it for obvious reasons so I was forced to learn to drive the standard truck. With no other options, I got it figured out. I took the long, less traveled backroads anywhere I went to avoid traffic which worked out okay until I ended up on a steep incline of a hill with a red light in an unfamiliar area. Finally after three cycles of the light and countless horn blasts from behind me, I made it through the light. This time I didn't feel the level of humiliation that only having bright red hot lips on the back window can bring, so I gave out many angry and bold curses at the people honking behind me. I felt pride for getting the hang of driving a standard and guilty for cursing the people who only wanted to go when the light was green. The guilt outweighed the pride so I never cursed another driver again. Okay. . . I never cursed another driver who didn't deserve it again.
We kept that truck for several years. Then Jason's brother was given a 1972 Dodge Dart Demon to drive. I fell in love with that car and his brother was embarrassed to drive it so we traded. I got a baby blue Dart to drive around, which by the way was a column shift standard, and was never so proud to drive anything. I would lovingly refer to it as the little, old Dart. We ended up selling it though, much to my disappointment. It got to the point where we were pouring money into it randomly trying to fix things because it kept dying whenever Jason drove it to work. It would always give out on him at the same intersection everyday and he would have to push it while everyone was honking because they were missing their turn to go through the light. I wasn't bothered by it because on the rare occasion when it happened to me I always had someone who would offer to help give me a push, so I could pop the clutch to get it started again. Then I would give the helper a thank you wave and honk as I continued through. Jason was never so lucky with the offers to push so he referred to the car as That Demon in a contemptuous tone, and listed it for sale.
Selling it was the wise financial thing to do, but I was torn about letting it go. We sold it to an older man who was a retired mechanic so he was going to be able to fix it up nicely which was good to know. When he and his wife came to look at it, Jason wasn't around so I showed it to them. When it wouldn't start, I told the potential buyer that if he could give me a push I could get it running by popping the clutch. He looked doubtful, but the little, old Dart didn't let me down because it started right up on the first clutch pop and the grandpa aged man told me he was very impressed that I could drive a car that was older than I was. His wife told me that she had never been able to figure out how to pop clutch start a car. It's as though the car was giving me one last chance to take pride in myself. They came back a few days later to purchase the car and take it to a better home.
I still longingly think about the little, old Dart and the pride in myself I felt whenever someone would ask if they could drive it, to which I would reply that they could if they knew how to drive a standard. The men in my age group would always give me a confident, "Sure I can." as if I was stupid for even considering that they couldn't drive anything that had wheels. Then I enjoyed watching as the confusion would crawl up their faces as they tried to figure out how it could have a clutch, but no shift stick. I loved telling them, "It's a three on the tree. Don't you know how to drive a three on the tree?" in a tone like I was born knowing how to drive a standard and couldn't believe that they couldn't figure it out. They would have never been able to guess that just a few years before I was sitting in an intersection blubbering like a baby, with my teeth rattling on every lurch and stop that a hot lips decorated standard was giving me.
Maybe life isn't a cinch, inch by inch. But if inch by inch is how one learns to drive a standard, it certainly makes a confident woman who, to this day, gets a little boastful around anyone who can drive only an automatic. And thanks to That Demon I get a tad bit arrogant if someone doesn't know how to pop a clutch and downright brash when I come across a man who has no idea how to manage a three on the tree. But the humility returns the instant I think about having to drive a car with giant hot lips painted on the back window. Those cars taught me the life lesson about finding the delicate balance between self assertive pride and humility. For that I am grateful. Jason is just glad he doesn't have to look at That Demon everyday anymore or have a wife that drives a car that inflicts the terror of drive by's wherever she goes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)