Always

Imponderable

Here is my imponderable question of the day.

Why is that when you purchase a fitness DVD to do at home, the picture on the cover always features a person who looks like this?

Is this picture supposed to somehow inspire me? Is it supposed to make me feel energized? Is it supposed to engender feelings of warmth and happiness? Hmmmm? WHAT is the purpose of that kind of photo?

And let me also ask you this imponderable question? Why is it that the workout included on the DVD unfailingly features a whole flock of other annoyingly thin ladies--in addition to Miss Twiggy on the cover? Just how is that supposed to make me feel motivated?

Why don't they put real people on the covers? Why don't they put real people in the demonstration? Real people like the model on this magazine cover?

There now. Don't you all feel better? Don't you feel inspired?

Can you see how the inspiration just oozes out of the model's face? Do you see how she is trying to burn into your brain the irrefutable truth that even the food you eat standing up contains calories? And even if you break a cookie in half before eating it, the fat grams don't fall out? And that consuming your child's leftover macaroni and cheese so it doesn't go to waste will still, um, make the macaroni go to "waist?"

These are the kinds of truths that the perfectly formed women on the covers of exercise DVDs are not capable of communicating. And that is why I believe that I may have a second career in being a fitness magazine model.

In fact, I'm quite certain that as soon as this magazine cover hits the Internet, my phone will be ringing with Fitness Modeling Offers. And if, for some odd reason, they don't think the picture on this particular cover is what they're looking for, I have more!

My own personal fashion/fitness photographer, the famous Sarah Smith, also took these photos last night.

I know beyond any doubt that you can not look at these photos and not be inspired to lose weight! And that knowledge makes me so very happy.

I am making a difference.

I am inspiring people around the world to eat healthy and get fit.

My fluffy (but happy) form on the front of fitness magazines may very well begin a revolution in the weight loss world.

It's a, um, heavy responsibility.

Rebuked By Potatoes

Our family was sitting around the table on a Sunday afternoon, eating a takeout meal from a chicken place. Most of the food had been passed and it was finally time for the little container of potatoes to begin its way around the table.

It started with my son, went to my husband, passed by my parents-in-law and finally came to me.

I was so incredibly happy to see the Potato Container wending its way in my direction because I love potatoes and gravy. I long for potatoes and gravy! I live for potatoes and gravy!

But alas! When I finally got my greedy paws on the Styrofoam bowl and peered into its depths, I saw to my everlasting horror that there was just one small scoop of the delectable, white stuff remaining.

One scoop.

I looked to my left and noticed that my daughter, Sarah, had not yet gotten any potatoes. I looked at the potatoes again. I looked at Sarah's plate.

I wrestled with my conscience. I wrestled with my soul. I wrestled with the Unselfish Mother DNA that was rising up in full force. I wrestled with the Selfish Becky Smith DNA that was rising up in even fuller force.

I pondered. I ruminated. I looked at the potatoes one more time. And then, as hard as this is to admit, I helped my selfish self to the last serving of potatoes.

And then I had the nerve to pass Sarah the empty container and say, "Sorry, sweetie. The potatoes are all gone."

Sarah looked at my plate. She looked at her plate. Her face filled with the pitiful pathos of a potato-deprived princess. She looked back at me once more and said, "You took all the potatoes?"

My first instinct was to be proud of myself, to be glad that I had stood up for myself and had not cowed to what I should have done. I was a strong, independent woman who could have the last serving of potatoes if I jolly well wanted to. I was not enslaved by the expectations of my children, I was not constrained by the compulsion to please everyone all the time, and I was not obligated to fulfill the needs and whims of those around me. I could partake of the last bit of potatoes if I wanted to, thank you very much!

I spent a few glorious moments reveling in my rare foray into the realm of self-indulgence. I rejoiced that one of my all-time favorite foods in the world was nestled on my plate, waiting to be doused in my gravy, waiting to be forked into my lips, waiting to attach itself to my hips. (Oh wait. Forget that last line.)

Sarah didn't do anything to make me feel guilty but I did notice a look of slight confusion cross her face that said, "Who is this woman and what has she done with my mother?"

I sat for a few moments pondering The Look. I also pondered The Potatoes.

And then suddenly, right smack dab in the midst of all my pondering and reveling, my brief flirtation with my giddy greediness started to lose its appeal. I stared at the potatoes and they stared back at me with one white, accusing eye as if to ask, " Why have you stolen food from your poor child?" I stared back with some small attempt at bravado but it was useless.

What's a mother to do when she's being rebuked by potatoes? She caves in. She gives up. She capitulates.

I picked up my spoon and scooped up the pile of potatoes. I held them aloft for a few shining moments of fond farewell and then reached over and plopped them on Sarah's plate.

I said, "Here, Sarah. I don't really need these." (And if you were to take one glance at the expanse of my "back forty" you would doubtless agree.)

And then, with a light heart and a potato-chewing princess at my side, I made the wonderful discovery that if you split open a biscuit and put gravy on it, it's even better than potatoes!

Although the selfless uniform of motherhood seems to fit me just fine most of the time, I was still glad for the opportunity to briefly dip my toes into the shallow pool of selfishness. It helped me realize that making it all about me isn't all it's cracked up to be and it reminded me that giving gifts to people I love brings me far more joy than hoarding things for myself.

But when it comes to sharing my chocolate? All bets are off.

The (Mild) (Wild) Roller Coaster Ride

(Note: I posted this piece a couple years ago on Sarah's site after we had spent a day at the Busch Gardens Amusement park.)


We had a lovely day at Busch Gardens although it started off with a bit of a fizzle. (Instead of a sizzle.) We had parked the car and were blithely (and rather smugly, I might add) bypassing the very congested area where people were forming long lines to buy tickets. We sashayed right on through the crowd and sailed right up to the entrance where I opened my little bag with a flourish and prepared to distribute our four complimentary tickets.

And then it hit me. “Oh no. I only see THREE tickets! I must have left the fourth one at home!”

Now any of you husbands reading this missive are probably already thinking to yourself, “How would I handle a situation where my intelligent wife—who I’m quite sure knows how to count--shows up with only three tickets for four people? How would I handle a situation where purchasing a ticket to replace the one that she forgot would cost a chunk of change?”

I’ll pause here for a moment and let you fill in your own blanks. Done? Okay, now I’ll tell you what my husband did.

He was quiet for about ten seconds and I knew that a few “interesting” thoughts were probably percolating in his head. But all he said was, “Well, let me go back and buy another ticket. You all go ahead into the park and have fun and I’ll meet you in about an hour.” And he didn’t mention it again all day.

Now don’t you think he needs the Husband of the Year Award? I felt bad enough as it was and he was so wonderful not to make me feel any worse. After that inauspicious start, we had a wonderfully relaxing day.

Well, I should say it was relaxing until Nathan talked me into going on a roller coaster with him. (Side note: when we were driving up to the park, Sarah looked at this huge roller coaster and said, “I would never go on that coaster.” Nathan said, “Why? Are you scared?” She retorted, “No, the colors clash." While Nathan rolled his eyes I smiled proudly at my female offspring. It was such a great “girl thing” to say.)

Anyway, I had already chickened out of going on a roller coaster earlier that day. That unfortunate incident involved me standing in line with Nathan for about thirty minutes and then, right as it came time to board, losing my nerve and making my way (going in the wrong direction) through a line of about 300 people.

It was pretty embarrassing saying, “Pardon me, ‘scuse me” that many times and announcing to everyone by my exodus that, yes indeedy, I was a ‘fraidy cat!

So after that egregious egressing experience, I was extra determined that I was NOT going to back out of the next roller coaster riding opportunity. I patiently stood in line with Nathan as we awaited our turn on the instrument of torture.

At long last, we got strapped in and took off. And when I say took off, I mean, TOOOOOK OFFFF!

After a brain-tingling, spine-snapping minute or two of frenetic action, the ride slowed down and I immediately started to pat my middle-aged self on the back saying, “Hey, Becky. You did it! You rode a scary coaster! You ROCK, girl!”

But then all of a sudden, the dreadful thought occurred to me: The ride was not done. Indeed, the ride of terror had just begun.

WHOOOOSH! we flew off down the track.

WHAM! we turned sideways, back and forth, a hundred times.

WHEEEE! we plummeted straight down toward some water.

WHOOAAAAA! we ripped around several corners.

It was bad, but I was hanging on--screaming, yelling, hyperventilating, but all in all, still in pretty good shape. But then, to my everlasting horror, the ride REALLY took off.

For real.

Real fast.

And I lost it.

I closed my eyes as tight as they would go, grabbed on to my little shoulder harness (which I was convinced was going to let go of me at any second) opened my mouth and just WAILED. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I actually CRIED on a roller coaster.

Nathan told me later that he looked over at me and was filled with a terrible horror that he was responsible for taking his mother on a ride that was making her cry! But what was he supposed to do?

Call Steve on the cell phone? Ask for the ride to be stopped? Offer me a Kleenex?

I think not.

A few seconds (or years) later, the cars finally careened into the station and there I sat in front of the whole waiting crowd--tears dribbling down my cheeks, nose running, and terror oozing out of every pore. I didn’t have the wits or the wherewithal to look around me but I wouldn’t be surprised if one glance at me sent all the middle-aged moms running and screaming in the opposite direction. I know for a fact that I wasn’t very good for business.

The next day I was telling a friend about the experience and she had the temerity to say, "Oh, my 8-year old daughter just loves that ride."

WHAT?

I told another friend about it and she said, “Oh, I’ve been on that ride. It’s one of the more mild ones at Busch Gardens.”

One of the MILD ones!!! I couldn’t believe it! I cried on a MILD roller coaster? I sniffled on an easy peasy ride that 8-year olds adore? I shed all those traumatized tears over stinkin' NOTHING?

Here I had thought I was on the worst roller coaster that the Engineers of Horror had ever come up with and I was just sure that my stricken tears were more than justified. And then I found out it was mild. Mild, I tell you!

I am so embarrassed.

Moment of silence please, while I just get over it.

Okay, I’m done.

Thank you for your support.

______________________


One additional roller coaster story: A couple years before the above story took place, our family was at Islands of Adventure in Florida. I thought I would create a bonding moment with Nathan and go on the Hulk roller coaster with him. To show you that I had completely lost my mind, here is a brief description of the ride taken from a Web review:

"This ride has quickly gained all sorts of media attention
and has made its name in the list of the world’s best roller coasters. The best part of the ride is that at the beginning, it accelerates from 0-40 in less than two seconds.

Then you head into an inverted zero gravity roll and go down a 105-foot drop and through a cobra roll that, in 1999, was the world’s largest. Riders complete a vertical loop, then enter a tunnel full of mist. By this time, the speed of the train has reached its highest speed --aproximately 65 mph. Also, during the ride, the train pulls 4 G's."

During that horrific, horrible, horrendous ride, I screamed until I thought I would pass out. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I knew I would never again see the faces of my husband or daughter. It was over. My Life. Was. Over.

When I had miraculously survived till the end of the ride and we were pulling back into the station, Nathan (who was only fourteen at the time) looked over at me and inquired worriedly, "Mom, are you emotionally damaged?"

I forgot all about the terror and just laughed and laughed at my funny son. And then, when I was done laughing, I made a solemn promise that I would never, ever, ever get on that roller again.

And I haven't. And I won't.

The end.

Chased By A Giant Slug

For the past few weeks, I've noticed that there has been a "slug trail" on the rug at the bottom of our garage stairs that lead up to the kitchen door. Every time I'd walk on that rug, I'd shudder just a little because I'm not overly fond of slugs and the thought that one was lurking somewhere in the garage did not bring peace, happiness or serenity to my little, ol' slug-hatin' heart.

Well, Monday night I had to go out into the garage for something. I put my foot on the first step into the garage, looked down and there on the stairs. Was. The. Slug.

I stared.

I shrieked.

I threw my hands up in the air and fluttered them wildly.

I jumped up and down.

I shrieked again.

And then I turned and ran back into the house.

My gym mates would have never even recognized me. The slow moving, forty-something woman on the treadmill who plodded along beside them week after week had been miraculously transformed into a gold medal runner.

I flung myself through the kitchen. I screeched around the corner. I sprinted down the hall. I hit the stairs at warp speed squared, all the while imagining that the slug had suddenly grown into a nine-foot creature and was, at that very moment, racing behind me through the house, breathing down my neck and plotting (in his little slug brain) my imminent capture and eventual demise.

I thundered up the stairs, feet pounding in horror, heart beating in terror, mind bursting with the dreaded "slug news" that I would have to share with my unsuspecting family.

I flew around the corner of the bedroom where Steve was seated placidly in a comfortable chair, calmly reading a book. He had obviously heard me coming (who could miss the sound of all that gasping and galloping?) and stared at me in some curiosity, waiting for me to catch my breath and find the words that would best express the magnitude of the situation to his husbandly ears.

I was finally able to gasp out the hideous, horrible, horrendous news.

"Steve! There. Is. A. Slug!" (I almost added, "And it's chasing me up the stairs" but I wisely opted not to.)

Steve stared at me and I stared at him and then I repeated myself in even more hysterical fashion. "A slug! Downstairs! In the garage! Do something!"

Now obviously Steve knew this wasn't an emergency. This was not a nine-foot rattlesnake curled up in the living room, nor a rabid raccoon racing through the dining room. This was a slug.

Slugs, by their very nature, are sluggish. Slow moving. Non panic-inducing.

However, Steve has been married to me for a long time and he is smart and wise enough to know that anything that causes me to sprint and thunder around the house deserves his immediate attention. (Sprinting and thundering are not on my usual list of daily activities.)

So he mustered up some alacrity and some sense of urgency (so that I would be impressed by his great husbandly concern) and diligently plodded downstairs to deal with this threat to Homeland National Security, not to mention Smith Wife Happiness.

I stayed upstairs in the bedroom, wringing my hands and hoping against hope that the slug had not by that time, grown to fifteen feet, attacked Steve and carried him away to the dreaded Kingdom of the Slugs.

Then the thought occurred to me that I should go and share the news with Sarah so that she would be prepared to run for her life should the slug escape from Steve and come running after her as well.

She listened calmly to my ranting, watched curiously the flinging of my hands in the air and gave me the most sympathetic look she could muster in the face of this extreme non-emergency.

A few minutes later, my own personal Sir Galahad returned from his mission. He did not thunder or sprint or wring his hands. He merely stated with the greatest of masculine calm, "Dear, the slug is now outside."

I shrieked, "You TOUCHED it? You got NEAR it? You saw it up CLOSE?"

Another round of hand wringing and hand flinging followed at the very thought of having actual contact with the terrorizing creature. I finally sat down in a chair in the bedroom and started to take DEEP breaths.

By this time, Sarah had joined Steve in the room and they gathered around me, trying to express their great sympathy and compassion in the best way they could, while all the while attempting to keep themselves from giggling out loud at my unaccustomed display of drama.

When Steve finally realized that I was going to survive the trauma and was becoming a little more calm he said, "I bet you went through all these theatrics just so that you could have a new blog story to write."

Sarah burst out laughing and said, "Yeah, Mom! You just wanted something to write about on the site!"

I put on my most offended face and said, "I am NOT going to write about this!"

And they said, "Yeah, right."

And I thought to myself, "Well, maybe . .

The Key To Embarrasment

For the past six years, Steve has driven a 1993 blue Cadillac, which we purchased from his parents when Sarah was first diagnosed with cancer and we were desperate for cheap transportation. (Sarah had always jokingly called it “the old people’s car.”)

When the car finally broke down a few months ago and could no longer be repaired, Steve bought a 2001 Oldsmobile. Sarah had never heard of that make of car and so when Steve told her what he had bought, she thought it incredibly hilarious that her dad had gone from an “old people’s car” to an “Olds” mobile! (I'm glad our daughter is so easily entertained.)

Last Thursday when I was bringing Sarah home from Victory Junction Camp, I was driving Steve’s “Olds” mobile because it gets better mileage than my mini van. As Sarah and I stopped at the gas pump, I suddenly realized that since I hardly ever drove Steve’s car, I didn’t know how to open the cover on his gas tank.

There was a lady waiting behind me (it was one of those cheap gas stations where people wait in long lines), so I was feeling kind of frazzled and stressed, trying to get the tank open and get my gas pumped in a hurry.

As I glanced in her direction, I saw her looking at her watch and giving off all sorts of “impatient vibes." After making several fruitless attempts to open the little gas lid, I finally got back into the car, grabbed my cell phone, and called Steve to ask him what to do.

I’m sure the lady was wondering what my problem was. First of all, I couldn’t even open my own gas tank, and then, for no obvious reason, I stopped even trying and started chatting on my cell phone.

After Steve informed me about the little “magic button” I had to push inside the car, I pumped the gas, and hurried to get everything put away so that I could get out of Miss Impatient’s way. Everything was going along just swimmingly until I sat back down in the car and realized that I had no keys.They had disappeared. Completely.

Now you may be asking how anyone could pull into a gas station with their keys in plain sight, only to discover five minutes later that they are gone.

After a cursory glance around the inside of the car and around the gas pump area, I decided I was going to have to make a little speech to the lady-in-waiting and tell her that I could not move my car out of her way because I could not (and here comes the embarrassing part) seem to locate my keys. There was an almost comical look of incredulity on her face when I told her my news.

She rolled her eyes, backed her car out, and got in line at another pump.

Fine. She was taken care of. I, on the other hand, had a minor crisis in front of me. I had no keys.

I continued my not-yet-frantic search for them, thinking that they must have fallen behind the seat, or had been put back in my purse. Nothing.

Then I glanced up and saw that a second car had pulled in behind me. I sighed, walked back and made the motion of rolling down the window so that I could inform the young lady about my situation. Then it occurred to me that she was probably so young that she had never rolled down a window in her life and therefore would have no idea what I was talking about.

Well, I got so completely befuddled about the fact that I didn’t know the current method for asking someone to open their window that I just stood dumbly outside her car in a little puddle of misery until she finally took pity on me and opened her window a crack. I repeated my little speech about having lost my keys and watched as she too, backed up and joined another line.

Returning to my car I asked Sarah, who was watching the whole thing with wide eyes, if she would get out and look underneath the car. (She bends a whole lot easier than I do. When I try to look under a car, I tend to stick my unsmall rear straight up into the air which is not an inspiring sight for anyone.) She got out and started rummaging around, looking everywhere she could think of.

No keys.

It was about 98 degrees outside and I was quickly discovering that the deodorant I was wearing was not doing what it was touted to do. I could feel the sweat forming under my arms, and the heat rising in my cheeks and to make the whole situation all the more scintillating, I looked up and saw that another car pull up behind us, except this car was driven by a man.

I thought, “Oh great. This will make his whole day. He is about to be told by a ditsy woman that she has just driven up to a gas pump to fill her car with gas and in the process, has somehow managed to lose her keys."

I trudged miserably back to his car, arm pits glistening (Southern women don’t sweat—we glisten) and stood silently beside his window, once more scrolling through my mental litany.

“Do I make the ‘roll down your window gesture?' Is he old enough to know what means? Do I smile? Do I wave? Do I really want to make this speech all over again?”

After a few moments of awkward silence, he finally opened his window to see what this strange woman might have to impart to him. I repeated my speech word for word, saw the look in his eyes that immediately labeled me A Scatterbrained Woman and watched as he pulled out and got in another line.

By this time I was positive that I was losing my sanity. I mean, I am forty-six years old and my memory is not what it used to be, but surely I would have remembered if some criminal type had walked up to me and stolen the keys right out of my hand. I even walked over to the garbage can and looked in there to see whether or not some wild moment of pre-menopausal brain spasming had caused me to absentmindedly toss them in there.

No keys.

I got back in the car and attempted to gather my wits. Alas. They were not to be gathered.

I was about to start looking in all the places I had already searched when I noticed in my rear view mirror that yet another vehicle had pulled in behind me. Driven by another man.

Sigh.

I pulled my harried self together and trudged forlornly back to his car. Thankfully, I was spared the whole “make the rolling down the window motion” conundrum because his window was, happily, already open. I forced myself to don a nonchalant smile as I repeated The Key Speech.

“I pulled in here to get gas. When I got back in the car, I couldn’t find my keys. I’m still looking for them.”

It sounded so ridiculous to say it, even to my ears. I could see in his eyes the same thing the other guy was thinking. “What a wacky, absent minded woman! How could someone lose their keys in the four minutes that they are pumping gas?”

I offered one last wavery, watery smile and stepped away from his car waiting for him to back up and get in line somewhere else. This particular fella, however, turned off the engine and settled back to wait. And watch.

I thought, “Oh great. Now I not only can’t find my keys but I'm also going to have an audience watch me not be able to find them.”

So for the third (or was it the hundredth time?) I went through the same routine.

Bent over (flaunting the aforementioned rear), and looked under the car.

Looked all around the gas pumps.

Looked in the garbage can.

Looked in my pockets.

Looked in my purse.

Looked behind the seat.

I stole a glance at the guy behind me. He had his chin propped in his hands, viewing the whole sorry scenario like he was watching an interesting TV show. And I was it. I was his Reality TV show! I was the sole source of this guy’s entertainment for the foreseeable future.

I continued to search. I continued to sweat, er, glisten.

Just as I was pondering whether or not I should look for a couple guys to help me push the car out of the way, a man and woman pulled up on a motorcycle on the other side of the pumps. While the man started pumping gas, the woman slowly became aware of my frenetic circling, mumbling, and sweating.

When I caught her puzzled look in my direction I said feebly, “I lost my keys.”

And that was all it took. Immediately, I knew I had a comrade who was on my side. There was no “This is a scatterbrained woman” look in her eyes; she was sympathetic and better yet, she was willing to help me look.

While Mr. Van Man continued to happily observe the entertainment unfolding before him, I watched the lady begin her own search. You want to know the first place she checked for the missing keys? In the garbage can. I just wanted to hug her. She understood completely the fact that the female brain sometimes compels us to do things that are completely illogical. I had found a kindred spirit!

Not finding anything in the garbage, she circled around the far side of the pumps, and approached my car from the front. Then she stopped. And she smiled. And she said, “There they are.”

And there they were, indeed.

The keys were hanging in the outside lock of my car door. I had unlocked the car to get my cell phone and since I hadn't closed the door again, I never noticed them.

I smiled. I laughed. I almost cried. And then I said to my new best friend, “I’m so thankful it was a woman who discovered the keys and not a man.”

She understood that sentiment completely. She gave me a conspiratorial wink and a smile and without another word, got back on the motorcycle with her fella and roared away.

I pulled the keys out of the door, held them up to the guy behind me and yelled, “I found them!”

He straightened in his seat, beamed at me, and burst into wild applause, like his team had just made the winning touch down.

I was so very glad to be of service.

Right about that time, I happened to turn around and unhappily discover that a few feet across the parking lot, there were two guys sitting at a picnic table. Unbeknownst to me, they had been keeping a close and interested eye on me as The Key Proceedings unfolded.

I felt my red face become all the more rosy as I imagined them telling the guys back at work, “You’ll never believe this woman we saw at the gas station. She was pumping gas and somehow lost her keys. She even looked in the GARBAGE can for them! And then they were in her door all the time!”

It later occurred to me that the keys were visible from their vantage point; they’d probably known they were there all along!

Sigh. Again.

In my defense (and I must redeem my reputation), for four years I have driven a vehicle opened with a little clicker so it never even occurred to me look for the keys in the door.

And who knows? If my new best friend on the motorcycle hadn't shown up, I might still be there. I might still be mumbling and glistening and circling and searching and providing rare entertainment for all the guys in the vicinity whose opinion that women are all scatterbrained was being confirmed right before their eyes.

And that's what I did on my summer vacation!

______________________________


And now, onto some Caleb News which Debbie emailed to me last night.

Becky, thanks so much for your prayers and concern for Caleb and us this past week end. It's such a blessing and comfort to have a supportive family. Caleb's home today and feeling pretty perky. He still gets headaches and probably will for a while. Hopefully he can go back to school this week.

It does appear that the reason he fell in the first place is that he passed out. But the doctors checked his heart and any other possible contributers and everything seemed fine. But it still concerns me. We'll just watch him closely and, and if I had my way, wrap him up in a few layers of blankets and duct tape!

Please thank your blog readers for us. Their expressions of concern meant so much. And tell them to have their kids wear their bike helmets. Or the blanket/tape thing might be an option too.

Love, Deb

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And thirdly, as to the question about dieting and exercising together, I have reserved a place for that conversation over at the Backyard Discussion Forum which can be found in the right column. I figured it would be fun to give it a try for a few weeks and see who might be interested in participating.

There have been a few great responses show up there but nothing has been added in the last few days. If you're interested in being part of that forum/support group, please head on over.

_____________________________________

Finally, we haven't heard anything back from the people who were sort of, kind of, quasi interested in our house. That doesn't mean that they won't ever be back in touch, but we'd sure like to hear something sooner rather than later.

We're currently in the process of figuring out where we're going to live in Manteo if our house doesn't sell for a while. Most of the apartments in Manteo (even the very small ones) have monthly rental fees that are more than our current mortgage! So that's going to make life just a wee bit interesting as we transition.

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I'll close with some pictures from the Miscelleneous Photo Department.

Here's Steve, displaying yet another one of his talents, which is being able to fix a whole lot of things on a whole lot of cars.

It's a good thing he doesn't mind getting dirty! I think it's about time for a Tide Commerical.

That's it for now; thanks for stopping by!

Lessons Learned In Limbo

Long ago I came to the conclusion that the grocery store is not one of my favorite places. I usually try to get in, get the stuff, get in the car, get home, and get on with the rest of my life. Because who has time to meander meditatively through the dairy department when your to-do list is five times longer than your grocery list?

But during this transitional, limbo-esque period of life, my grocery store trips have now become 43.6% less frantic than they were before. (Don't you just love statistics that are pulled right out of thin air?)

They have become less frantic mainly because I've been making some changes to my Grocery Store Behavior. I've started to stroll instead of sprint. I have taken the time to stop and peruse new foods that I never noticed before. I have even caught myself humming (yes, humming!) as I shopped.

I've also become a sort of "stealth shopper," trying to train myself to be aware of people that I can stealthily be a blessing to.

There are a lot of elderly people at grocery stores and with some of them, I get the feeling that their grocery store outing is one of the highlights of their week. I see the look of loneliness on their countenances and when they catch my eye I feel like they are silently asking, "Do you see me? Will you speak to me?"

And when a little wrinkled and beautiful lady asks me, "Dearie, can you reach the Raisin Bran on the top shelf?" I think she might really be asking, "Do you have an extra moment just to notice me?"

In this new challenge to myself to really see the people around me, I take the time to not only reach the cereal for her but to also stand still for a minute and talk about the price of eggs. Or the hot weather. Or whatever. The words aren't important. The fact that someone is taking the time to say the words, is.

Another aspect of my stealthy commitment to be a grocery store blessing takes place at the check out area. If I have a whole cart load of things and the person behind me has just four or five things I'll say, "Would you like to go in front of me?"

It is almost comical to see the range of reactions that cross their face.

First, I see shock. Then disbelief. Then surprise. Then finally, acceptance.

They say, "Really? You really mean it?"

Like I have just offered to buy them their own island, write them a check for a million dollars, and send them to the French Riviera for a month.

I wave a languid hand in their direction and say, "Yes, go on. I'm in no hurry."

They scuttle on in front of me and the whole time they're being checked out, they keep on casting anxious looks back at me, as I though I might suddenly change my mind and leap suddenly upon them, snatching their groceries away and shoving them to the back of the line where I will then call store security and have them arrested for cutting into line.

When their things are all checked out and they're reaching for their bag, they cast one last tremulous glance in my direction and say, "Thanks again, very much!" (Like they're still afraid I might change my mind.)

And I just have to laugh to myself because these are such small things to do! Grab a box of cereal for a person and take thirty extra seconds to chat. Let a person get ahead of you in line who is obviously hurried and hassled. No biggie!

I think that busyness is a disease with many symptoms, one of which is blindness. Busyness makes us blind to small things along the way, small acts of kindness in the grocery store, small ways of reaching out and making big differences to people who are carrying all sorts of unnameable, unspeakable burdens.

And believe me when I say that I am not writing these words so that I can preach at you. I am writing these words so that I can preach at me. I just happen to have a Masters Degree in the Art of Busyness. I have blown by so many people in my life it's not even funny. I have stood in line with my mountain of groceries and made a very deliberate point to not notice the person behind me with just three cans of soup.

Because if I let them go ahead of me, I might put myself behind schedule by two whole minutes! Two minutes, I tell you! How could this universe possibly continue to exist if I were to be delayed by two minutes?

I know that in a matter of time, I will be back to my "real life," back to all the hectic happenings that fill up the days and nights of a pastor's wife. But my hope is that I won't forget these lessons I learned in limbo, lessons I learned during this time when things weren't quite as frantic as usual.

And you know what? I believe that the day will come when I will be the person standing in line with three cans of soup and some munificent person in front of me with a mountain of groceries will say to me, "Would you like to go first?"

What goes around comes around.

That's just one of the lessons I learned in limbo.

Where Seventeen Went

While we were eating lunch with Steve's parents last Sunday, I looked around the table and remembered that I had first sat on those dining room chairs when I was just seventeen years old. And now, amazingly enough, my own children have grown into teenagers and are sitting there at the same table.

Steve and I are about the same age now that his parents were when I was first introduced to them as a teenager. And now Nathan is bringing his girl friend to that very table, except that Steve and I are the parents instead of the starry eyed youngsters and Steve's parents are the grandparents of the children I hadn't even thought about when I first set foot in that dining room thirty years ago.

At some point when I wasn't even looking, the generations regenerated. And when they did,

they took me along.

Truthfully? I'm not sure that I'm quite ready for all this generational shifting. I'm not sure that I'm ready to acknowledge the fact that I'm no longer the seventeen year old teen, the new kid at the table, the daughter-in-law-to-be, the young girl on the brink of the rest of her life.

I'm not sure that I'm overly thrilled with the fact that I somehow morphed from seventeen into forty-seven and no one even told me it was happening. No one told me that I would go to sleep a few times, cook a few meals, change a few diapers, travel a few miles, and then wake up a few mornings later to discover that thirty years had passed.

Seventeen-year old kids should be warned about that.

Seventeen-year olds should be told, "Don't take Thursday afternoons for granted. Or Tuesday mornings. Don't wish for the day when you'll be eighteen. Or twenty-one. Be happy you're seventeen because one day you'll turn a page on the calendar and you'll be forty-seven and you'll wonder where seventeen went. You'll wonder where the wrinkles came from. And you'll wonder how you survived the heartache that life brought with it. You'll question why you didn't always treasure the joys that were birthed out of the heartaches. You will be well aware of the fact that you made a few mistakes and learned a few lessons as you glance in the mirror and see a face that is no longer young. And you will ask, 'Why didn't I know all this at seventeen?'"

Seventeen doesn't last forever. But neither does forty-seven. I know that the next time I blink, I'll be seventy-seven and looking back thirty years at today. The generations will have once again shifted and I will be the gray headed lady at the dinner table everyone is calling, "Grandma." I'll remember the days when I was forty-seven, and when I was seventeen and I will be ever so glad for those lovely days.

And yet I wouldn't ever choose to go back, because seventy-seven will be a good age. Just like forty-seven is a good age. Just like seventeen was a good age.

In fact, you know what? Every age is a good age. Every age reminds me that I'm still alive, and I still have gifts to give, adventures to experience, pain to bear, joys to treasure.

I am very much aware that the days I'm living now will soon fade and that the calendar leaves will soon fall. I know that in some nostalgic moment down the road, I will look back at this sweetest of all generations when I had Nathan and Sarah's laughter filling the house. I'll think of how I was so aware that the winds of time were blowing harder and stronger and that one day they would blow those children right out my front door and take them to meet the loves of their lives and they would have children of their own and put their feet under their own tables in their own houses.

But happily, beloved children who go away also come back to vist. And the day will come when Nathan and Sarah will bring their own children home; they will sit at our table and look around and say, "I remember when I was seventeen." They will feel sad about it. They will feel happy about it. And then they will count their blessings and hug their mamma and go on living.

But you can't see all that at seventeen. And that's how it should be. One of the things that age carries with it is those kinds of special secrets, imparted only to those who make the journey through a whole lot of years. Nathan and Sarah will arrive at forty-seven and they'll find that it's really not so bad hanging out in the Land of The Middle Aged. And my hope is that by the time they get there, I will have paved a straight path for them, set a good example and helped to make their journey meaningful.

They will discover that in the ongoing reshaping of their lives, each generation will come to be inhabited by new faces, new stories, and new lives. And in the midst of the shifting of the generations, in one of their houses, at one of their tables, someone will have turned seventeen, someone who will be on the brink of the rest of her life.

And a generation's journey will begin again.

The Scary, Alien, Sandal-Eating Microbes

Recently I found a cute pair of almost new, black leather sandals at one of my favorite thrift stores.

The price? Three bucks.

As I paid for them, I rejoiced with exceeding great joy about my latest bargain. Although I didn't go so far as to dance in the aisles or anything, I did do some serious internal rejoicing. (If rejoicing can, indeed, be serious.)

With continued internal rejoicing, I decided to don yon black sandals last Friday when I took Sarah to our meeting place with Victoria's mom. Once the Great Daughter Hand Off was accomplished, I turned the car around and headed back home, planning to stop for a few minutes at my favorite consignment store on the way.

After I had spent about an hour (and five dollars) in the store, I headed out to the car. As I walked along, I noticed that my shoes felt sort of . . . funny. Not ha ha funny, but funny, funny.

I had been noticing throughout the day a gathering pile of little black clumps on the light colored floor mats in the car but I just thought I had tracked in some dirt. However, as I sat down in the seat of the car and pulled off my sandals, I saw a most disturbing sight.

Warning: These might just be the scariest shoe pictures you have ever seen so please, proceed with caution. Pregnant ladies and children are advised to steer clear altogether.

Are you ready?

Are you sure?














That is what my almost new shoes looked like! In less than hour, they had been eaten away! They had disintegrated! I could fold in half what used to be a thick, sturdy sole!

Well!

I sat in the middle of that parking lot and I pondered. I pondered what could possibly have caused my shoes to just dissipate into thin air like that. What could be behind this malevolent mystery?

Finally, the truth dawned. The light came on. I received a clear answer to The Question.

The sandals were obviously being eaten alive! They were defenseless little fellas that had trusted me (their new owner) to help them and to defend them and I had failed. Right before my eyes, I was seeing scary, alien, sandal-eating microbes at work, microbes that had infiltrated the earth from The Planet Shooz and had come here for the express purpose of munching on my fabulous footwear.

I mean, what other explanation could there possibly be?

For the rest of my journey home, I kept on glancing worriedly down at my sandals.

I thought, "Any minute now, those microbes will get finished with the sandals and they will start eating their way into the bottom of my foot. I am going to arrive at home with both feet missing and will have to call Steve on my cell phone to have him come out to the car and help me inside. And then I am going to have to explain to him about the scary, alien, sandal-eating microbes. And he won't believe me. And he'll think I'm just a little, teensy, tad bit crazy. And he'll silently blame my hysteria on PMS. Or peri-menopause. Or some other mysterious 'makes a woman crazy' condition."

As my wild imagination continued to run amok, I was fully convinced that my feet were starting to feel a bit warm and kind of prickly. I could just picture the little microbe thingies getting closer and closer to my very own personal foot flesh.

It was not a happy trip.

Even though, theoretically, I knew that I was in no immediate danger, I must say that it is highly alarming to have shoes that you are currently wearing begin to disintegrate for absolutely no reason. And what could be more normal (in my mind, at least) for one's thoughts to turn to scary, alien, shoe-eating microbes?

When I got home, I ran into the house (thankfully, my feet were still intact) shoved the shoes into Steve's face and shrieked, "Do you want to see something really, really strange?"

Poor Steve.

He put on his patient husband voice and said patient husband words to me as he carefully examined the microbe-devoured, newly destroyed, almost new sandals. And then he finally came forth with his masculine opinion.

"Dear," he intoned, "The only thing I can think of is that maybe those sandals were stored in a hot attic and the shoe materials started breaking down in the heat. When you started wearing them, they just couldn't hold up."

Or something like that.

I know he was trying to be all comforting and technical and everything but personally, no one is ever going to convince me otherwise.

It was scary, alien, sandal-eating microbes that were at work.

And that's all I'm saying.

Well, except that I should also add that I feel fortunate to have escaped with my feet still intact.

It was a close call.


_______________________


And in other news . . . .

I guess I shall have to pay my chiropractor a visit today since my back pain isn't giving me any relief. I have pretty much decided I can't go through the rest of my life on ibuprofin and muscle relaxers. (Although la-la land is a really fun place to be!)

The Post In Which Steve Decides That His Picture-Taking Wife Has Finally Taken Leave Of Her Senses

A couple days ago, Nathan and Meagan went out to the backyard to swing. Meagan told me later that she had said to Nathan, "I bet that within the next five minutes, your mom will be at one of the windows taking pictures."

Meagan knows me too well.

I was working upstairs when I just happened to glance outside. I immediately grabbed my camera, ran to the upstairs bathroom window, threw it open and yelled, "Smile! I'm going to take your picture!"

And then I yelled again even louder, "Smile! I have the camera!"

They heard me. They saw me. They smiled.

I took their picture.







End of story, right?

Wrong.

Let's now take a look at this whole scenario from Steve's perspective.

He and Nathan had just returned from the gym where they had played a ferocious and highly competitive game of racquetball. Steve decided that since he was sort of sweaty, he would take a shower.

Fine.

So there he was, standing happily in the shower, humming merrily to himself, and just as naked as a newborn. And then suddenly, crashing into the middle of his placid, peaceful, showery existence comes the sound of his wife's voice. And his wife's voice is uttering some very strange and scary words."

Her voice is shrieking enthusiastically, "Smile! I'm going to take your picture!"

And then even louder, "Smile! I have the camera!"

It occurred to Steve that his wife had finally crossed the line. It occurred to him that in her frenzied efforts to come up with enough pictures to adequately supply her blog, she had finally gone completely loopy, not to mention loony and had decided to start snapping pictures of nekkid men in the shower.

So he did the only reasonable thing he could think of--well, reasonable to him, at least.

He flung open the shower door and hollered, "WHAT in the WORLD are you doing?"

Now let me just insert this little wifely thought.

If I was in the shower and I heard a voice outside saying, "Smile, I'm going to take your picture" I would not, repeat, WOULD NOT fling open the shower door to find out what was going on. No, I would commence to huddling in the corner of the shower until the maniacal person had left the room, with his or her accompanying maniacal camera.

When I told the Shower Story to the family later, Steve took a lot of ribbing about flinging open the shower door all the while knowing there was a wild camera woman lurking outside.

But in his defense, I guess that when you hear someone in the bathroom yelling about taking pictures, you very well might experience a temporary bout of discombobulation that could cause you to do things you wouldn't normally do.

Let me just say that he was very happy that I was NOT taking his shower picture for his blog. And let me just say that I am very happy that he now believes that I would never do such a thing.

Well, unless I got really, really desperate for blog pictures. And then? All bets are off.

May I Borrow Your Busyness?

I was in a store last week when I heard a lady on her cell phone, chattering away with cheery enthusiasm.

Her side of the conversation basically went like this, "Well, I have to go by the store and pick up the birthday cake and then make potato salad, and then find that chicken casserole recipe I lost, and drop off Kim at ballet class and run by the Post Office and then go and get the oil changed."

Do you know what I wanted to do?

I wanted to march right up to her, tap her on her shoulder and say, "Excuse me, ma'am. May I borrow your busyness?"

Steve and I used to be addicted to busyness. To adrenalin. To crises. To over scheduling. To being needed. To being indispensable.

So when I heard this lady going on and on about her busy life, I felt a brief, strong moment of envy. I wanted someone to be relying on ME to bring the potato salad. I wanted to, once again, have too many things to do and too little time in which to do them.

It has occurred to me more than once that a lot of us seem to derive our self esteem from being over tired, over extended, and over scheduled.

I mean, think about conversations you have with people around you. You ask your neighbor, "Hey, how are you doing?"

She replies, "Well, okay I guess, but if this summer gets any busier I don't know what I'll do. I've been running around like a maniac trying to get everything ready before we go on vacation, and the kids all need me to take them places, and I haven't cleaned my house in a month, and the dog needs to go to the vet, and I had to work overtime three days in a row and I am exhausted!"

Bingo!

She suddenly feels useful and needed because she is frantically (and happily) over scheduled. And you admire her for it, maybe even more so than if she had replied, "Well, I'm feeling very well rested, and I've crossed the last thing off my to do list and I think I'm just going to spend the rest of the afternoon reading a book."

Because Americans are all about busy. We're all about doing stuff faster, doing MORE stuff a LOT faster.

Take communication for instance.

We started out with the Pony Express. Four weeks for your letter to get to your Great Aunt Martha in Boston? No big deal.

A short while later, the telephone is invented. But not many people have it. Most folks still rely on slow and ponderous methods of communication. But it's still okay. Because "frantic" isn't yet the most important word the American vocabulary.

Pretty soon, there is cross-country telephone service. And the pace picks up a little.

And then in the 1930's and '40's, radio and TV start to make an appearance and the soul of the nation starts to change.

Then it's fax machines, the first computers, the first cell phones. The thought of waiting a month to get a message to our dear old aunt in Boston is unspeakable. Because we are impatient! We are important. We are busy! And we are important because we are busy!

Or so we think.

And you know the rest of the story. E-mail, instant messaging, test messaging and Twitter all conspire to pay a visit to a nation of people who can't stand silence, who can't stand to wait for more than a few seconds for ANYTHING.

Three minute oatmeal isn't fast enough. We must have one minute oatmeal. No wait! That's too slow. We must have INSTANT oatmeal!

And busyness becomes the new badge of worthiness. If you're busy, if you're over scheduled, if you're on the brink of a breakdown because of your commitments and responsibilities, then you are looked at with such great admiration that those might around you might even be tempted to ask, "May I borrow your busyness? I want to feel important, too!"

Our pastor is preaching through the Twenty Third Psalm. Yesterday he focused on the verse, "He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside still waters."

Don't you know there weren't any cell phones ringing beside those still waters?

Don't you know that in those green pastures, the only "Twittering" going was bird related?

When Nathan was in Israel earlier this year, he was strongly impacted by the Jewish peoples' weekly tradition of observing Shabbat. Although Shabbat is translated as "rest," its meaning goes even further by encouraging active rather than passive abstinence from work.

In other words, those very wise folks in Israel make it a priority to rest and to cease from their labors. Nathan said the shops close down, and families spend time together and there is a wonderful sense of restful quiet no matter where you go.

He said, "Mom, why don't people in American do that?"

Good question.

Actually, ministers are the WORST culprits for not taking time off. As I said earlier, Steve and I spent a lot of years addicted to adrenalin. We were addicted to the ridiculous belief that if we took off a day or even (gasp!) a whole week, that surely all of Christendom would collapse. We were important and we were needed and we were crucial to what was going on. And that was a great feeling.

But that was then. This is now.

For seven months now we have been unneeded. We have been non crucial. We have had no adrenalin pumping to get addicted to. Our Type-A, workaholic personalities have had to do an about face and our frantic, overworked selves have had to learn the strange skill of lying down in green pastures.

And yes, we have needed this time of rest. Before it came, we were both very "stretched." Steve, especially, was burned out in every sense of the word.

But now, seven months later? I would really like to borrow someone's busyness! I would really like to sew myself back into the fabric of a church and a community--people who rely on me, people upon whom I rely.

Steve and I have stayed active over these past months, simply because we're wired in such a way that doesn't allow us to give ourselves over to doing nothing. But it's not the kind of activity we're used to. It's a little lonely, a little solitary, a little strange to stay busy outside the context of friends, church and community.

We're ready for the pace to pick up a little. We're ready to be needed again. And I know that that time is not far off, when I will once again have so much busyness of my own that I won't be tempted to borrow from someone else.

But when that time comes, I don't ever want to ever forget the serenity of Shabbat. I don't want to be guilty of sprinting by the green pastures God has prepared for me. I don't want to fail to remember that I am created in the image of a God who found it needful and helpful to take a time of rest.

I am not indispensable. And neither are you.

Isn't that the best news you've ever heard?

A Sermon on A Stump

He was just sitting there.

On a stump.

Looking away from the people who were working behind him. Looking toward the group of teenagers who filled the field in front of him.

And I won't ever forget him.

I was driving past a local High School and noticed that the marching band was outside rehearsing their formations and their flag waving protocols. A colorful group of kids, awash in high spirits and bright colors, filled with energy and focus.

Although they didn't realize it, they were being watched. The teenager across the road, a young migrant worker, was taking a brief respite from the back breaking work of harvesting crops under a scorching Carolina sun. He was turned toward the dreams he had no hopes of ever achieving, turned away from the sadness that comprised the narrow boundaries of his life.

I only had time for the briefest glimpse; however, I didn't need a week, a month, or a year to comprehend the look of naked yearning on his face as he watched kids his own age prepare to march into the next football game, the next year of High School, the first year of college, and from there, into a future that was brighter than the blazing sun.

It occurred to me that those marching students probably had no idea how truly blessed they were. Sure they had loads of homework, dating problems, tough teachers, summer job concerns, and worries about being accepted by their favorite college.

But all of those "problems" actually represented opportunities, opportunities that they didn't think twice about having.

The boy on the stump. The kids in the field. Teenagers at the same stage of life.

Some of them marching off into the great unknown of unlimited possibilities. One of them turning and trudging back into the not-so-great "known" of every day unfolding exactly like the day before.

That young man represented a sermon on a stump to me.

The sermon said, "Yes, life is complicated and challenging and full of decisions and choices and unexpected turns in the road. But all those decision and choices that make life complicated also represent freedom and opportunity. So stop your bellyaching about how hard life is, because you don't know the meaning of hard until you've sat on a stump and watched your dreams for a different future march away into the distance and all you're left with is the bleak, sad sameness of a thousand days passing. "

A sermon on a stump.

I will always see it, always hear it, always remember it.

And it will always remind me. I am blessed.

Value Meal

A little while ago, Sarah and I were at a store looking at a rack of t-shirts. One of them showed a line drawing of a family around the dinner table with the words, "Value Meal" written above the picture.

I just loved that t-shirt, not just because it was a clever play on words but because that is how we view dinner time around our house. It's a time when values, knowledge, joy and camaraderie are ingested right along with the chicken casserole. It's also a safe time and by that I mean it's a time when no corrections are allowed.

Unfortunately, it hasn't always been that way.

I remember a meal last year when Nathan was eagerly telling us all a story about something that had happened to him that day. His face was lit up, his voice was animated, and he was really getting into the telling of the tale. Halfway through his story, he said something that wasn't grammatically correct and without even thinking about it, I corrected him.

I'll never forget the sight of the joy leaking out of his face. I'll always remember how his voice faltered just a little. I can still hear the way the rest of his story ended up sounding a whole lot less enthusiastic than the beginning.

Although Steve and I had already made the agreement that we wouldn't discipline the children at the table (for not getting the lawn mowed or the homework finished, for instance) I had never thought that something as simple as correcting grammar could rob dinnertime joy, too.

And so our table has been officially deemed A Safe Place. Although it sometimes takes me holding on to my self control by my fingernails, grammar is no longer corrected at the table. If one of my children wants to insert the word "like" four hundred and twenty-two time into their dinner time narrative, I will not say a word. If Nathan wants to say, "Me and Michael" instead of, "Michael and I," he's free to do it! Even if one of them were to (gasp!) use the word, "ain't" it would be okay.

The bottom line? No joy-smushing in any form is allowed at the dinner table.

When Sarah was going through speech therapy, part of our job at home was to listen to her talk on a casual basis and occasionally point out if she was sliding over "S" sounds or talking too fast and jumbling her words.

Dr. Jones said, "Just be listening as she is talking, maybe at dinner or in the evening before bed and mention any corrections that need to be made in her speech."

At first I thought, "Well, I can do that. No problem."

But then I remembered about The Safe Place. No grammar correction. No posture correction. And no speech correction.

I ended up telling Dr. Jones about our family's dinnertime policy. He seemed quite impressed by the whole concept and was very understanding of the point I was making.

Now this is not to say that dinnertime is a free-for-all where anything goes. Steve and I are not so much into unconditional parental love that our dinners turn into wild sessions of burping, slurping and pea throwing!

However, there is some sense of dinner being a free-for-all in the area of giggles, friendly arguments and frequent dashes for the dictionary.

Last night for example, we spent twenty minutes discussing how driving speed affects gas mileage and how a tail wind or a head wind affects the progress of an airplane.

Then we discussed how important stereophonic hearing is in being able to locate the direction sound is coming from. This led to Steve clapping his hands in different areas around the table while Sarah closed her eyes and turned her head toward the sound of each clap.

That little illustration was followed by a discussion of how monocular vision affects depth perception. We conducted experiments where Nathan closed one eye and tried to reach for something across the table; he was surprised by how much perceptions change when both eyes are used.

Naturally, at one point a call for the dictionary was made, although I don't remember at the moment what the word in question was.

What I DO remember, though, is that grammar went uncorrected, foibles went unmentioned, and laughter was served as the main course.

It was a value meal, indeed.

Obeying the Eyeballs

See Steve.

See Steve stare.

See Steve stare at his sumptious birthday cake cookie. (With the smoke ascending from the single candle so recently removed.)

Can you see the celebratory satisfaction on the face that is Steve's?

What's that?

No? You can't?

Hmmmm . . .

You think maybe he was expecting a BIGGER cake? Maybe he was expecting an ACTUAL cake? Maybe he was expecting some EFFORT to be put into the BIGGER, ACTUAL cake? Possibly?

Wait! Don't go! I have an excuse! A really, really good excuse!

And here it is.

Ummm . . . . as soon as I think of one.

Okay, I've got it!

Steve LOVES tiramasu. In fact, he loves it so much that I actually tried to make it. Once.

I will never try it again. I ended up with mysterious little blobs of something or another floating in the pan. The blobs looked like accusatory eyeballs. They were speaking to me in accusatory eyeball language saying, "Do not ever try to make this dessert again. Or we will come and FIND you. We KNOW where you live!"

And so I have obeyed the eyeballs and have never even thought of attempting to make tiramusu again.

Never. I still have nightmares about the eyes.

But anyway, back to my story.

A couple months ago, I happened to see the menu for a restaurant in town that featured tiramasu! I was so excited! My plan was that on Steve's birthday, I was going to sashay on down to this particular eating establishment and purchase for Steve one perfectly made piece of tiramasu. (With NO accusatory floating eyeballs.)

However, when I called the restaurant to see if I could order a piece to go, the nice man on the phone said, "I'm sorry. We no longer carry that dessert."

My heart sank. My spirits plummeted. My face sagged. (Oh wait. My face was ALREADY saggy.)

I called around to a few other places but without much hope because we live in the land of sweet tea, fried chicken and coleslaw. When I asked the first guy if he carried tiramusu he said, "Huh?"
Now how many of you want to take a guess that if a fella has never even HEARD of tiramusu, he probably does NOT carry it?

So when Steve got home from Duke with Sarah on Wednesday, I explained my foiled plot to him. He said in grand husbandly tones, "Oh, that's fine. I'll just have a cookie with a candle on it for tonight."

And so that's what he had.

On his 52nd birthday.

On his ONLY 52nd birthday.

Sniff. Sigh. Cue the sad violins.

Happily, however, the tale doesn't end there!

For the past two days, I have been cooking/baking up a veritable whirlwind, including my famous deep dark choclate cake with pudding/whipped cream icing. After a sumptious feast tonight, Steve will be served his official birthday dessert and the forlorn little cookie will become a faded memory.

Plus, Nathan and a friend are driving home from Florida today so the two of them will be with us for the party, along with a really fun pastoral couple from the area.

So I'd better get back to my cooking, cleaning, baking and chocolate chip cookie-memory erasing.
Because we certainly don't want THIS to be the last memory of his 52nd birthday!

The Spider Brothers

THE SPIDER BROTHERS

Last week while Steve was out of town, I had the unhappy privilege of making the acquaintance of two spider brothers; one took over the front porch while the other commandeered the back deck. (I say they were brothers because they looked exactly the same.)

Now these were not friendly, cute, Disney-esque spider brothers—no, these guys were huge and fat and hairy and they scared me to no end. Every time I got the courage to brush one away with a broom (they both built webs on or near the doors) they would be back in a matter of hours. It got to the point where I was paranoid about opening either of the doors to let Snowy out to “do his business” because I was afraid I would run into one of them. So I not only had spider brothers lurking on the outside, I also had a miserable dog lurking on the inside.

Two harrowing days of spider dodging passed. Very early on the third morning, I dragged out of bed and immediately began to dread the pending Spider Brother Brouhaha. However, I couldn't put it off very long because as soon as Snowy heard me rattling around he immediately came to inform me that he had to go outside—NOW!

I thought, “Okay, I am a brave, strong, mature woman who is not going to be an intimated by a relatively petite arachnid. I am not going to cower any longer. I am going to march myself downstairs and I am going to open the front door and I am going to show those spiders WHO. IS. BOSS!"

Snowy accompanied me down the stairs and over to the door—he was one desperate doggie and I’m sure he was eager to assist me in any way possible. Sidling to the door, I took a deep, (hyperventilating) breath, flipped on the porch light and eased the door open about half way. Right there in front of me, dangling two inches from my horrified face was a spider brother.

Oh brother.

I SLAMMED the door shut just as Snowy was getting a fleeting glimpse of the promised land. What his little doggie brain wasn’t able to comprehend, though, was that I would have to walk THROUGH that spider’s web in order to get to his leash so basically, we were trapped. A full-bladdered doggie and I were being held hostage by a dastardly spider in the front of the house and his even more dastardly brother in the back.

By this time, I was starting to get mad. I started to mutter to myself, “Well, enough is ENOUGH! I have HAD it! I am going to declare WAR!

I strode toward the laundry room and snatched the cap off the top of the bug spray with a vengeance. This spider was about come to face to face with a mad momma who was going to defend her little homestead to the death.

I then went into the kitchen and snatched up our broom; with Snowy staying close by my side (and looking more desperate by the minute) I stalked back over to the door. I stood there for a moment and tried to psyche myself up like a professional wrestler might do. I was saying all sorts of mean things about the spider and how I had HAD it, and was not going to TAKE it any more and that spider had better WATCH OUT! Snowy, in the meantime, was eying a corner of our new carpet with some longing which confirmed to me that the time had definitely come to act.

This time around, I didn’t ease the door. No sirree. I FLUNG it open with the most aggressive, spider-fighting gesture I could muster and directed a few bursts of spray in the general direction of the spider. Unfortunately, he and his web were floating around so much that it was next to impossible to zero in on him. After futilely flailing around with the spray a few more moments, I grabbed the broom and began to brandish it wildly in a frantic attempt to knock Brother Spider down to the porch.

I finally succeeded in getting him down only to discover that he was not only moving fast but he was also moving toward the INSIDE of the house! I screeched, “Oh no you don’t!” and chased him around the front porch, yelling and whacking and swinging my trusty kitchen broom like a wild, suburban, Schwarzenegger-type assassin.

It took about ten whacks before I accomplished my goal. Let me just say that Brother Spider had a very severe headache and wasn’t moving very much by the time I swept him off the porch and sprayed around the area with my trusty can of bug spray. FINALLY I was able to hook poor little Snowy out in the yard where his look of desperation morphed into pure bliss. I knew exactly what he was thinking by the look on his face: “Ahhh!”

As I headed triumphantly back into the house, it suddenly occurred to me that any other early risers in our neighborhood would have just witnessed a few very rich moments of unparalleled entertainment. I tried to picture the whole spider incident from their viewpoint: Door bursts open, woman with wild hair and fuzzy, tattered pink sweater (worn over pajamas) appears with broom and spray can. Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, she begins to behave in a maniacal fashion, swinging her arms like a dysfunctional helicopter trying to get airborne and leaping around madly, whacking the porch repeatedly with a long broom, face contorted, snorting and muttering about spider invasions.

NOT a pretty picture. My triumphant entry back into the house suddenly morphed into a slow slink as I realized how goofy the whole thing must have appeared.

Oh well. All that really mattered was that The Spider was totally, completely, and unequivocally DEAD!

Spider: 0
Maniacal Housewife in Pink Sweater: 1

Tomorrow I take out his brother.

The Toilet Paper Stand Off

I'm sure you've all been sitting around your computers this entire day, completely incapable of tearing your eyes away from the screen for even one second for fear that you might miss the first installment of the first moment of the first word of the first telling of our first Toilet Paper Stand Off.

But the moment has finally come. The time for the telling is here. Here's the whole story.

Last week, I bought toilet paper. Nine rolls of toilet paper. On sale.

What I normally do when I get home with the Smith Family Supply of toilet paper is to put three rolls in the downstairs bath, three rolls in the master bathroom, and three rolls in the kids' bathroom.

(Aren't you ever so excited to have the inside scoop on how our family's toilet paper is distributed? I realize that blogging really doesn't get much better than this.)

On this particular day however, I did my first two drop offs and then I thought, "I'll just throw these three rolls down the hall towards the kids' bathroom and one of them can pick them up and take them in when they go that direction."

Just so you know how well that plan worked, I would like to share a picture of what the hallway looked like on Thursday evening, several hours after I had tossed the toilet paper down the hall.

Now I'm just asking this for the purpose of scientific research, not because I'm dissing my children or anything, but if you walked down this hall and into this bathroom several times a day, would you notice those three rolls on the floor?

I kept on thinking with my perky positivity, "Any moment now, either Sarah or Nathan will pick up the rolls and carry them the two or three steps into the bathroom and put them into the Official Toilet Paper Storage Area. It's a no-brainer!"

Alas.

On Friday afternoon, this is what the hallway (still) looked like.

Now it may just be me, but I can't really tell much of a difference between those two photos, can you? Once again, I'm asking for research purposes only. I am not in any way insinuating that my lovely children would ever ignore such a vital housekeeping issue for TWO days in a row.

And you'll never, ever guess what the hallway looked like on Saturday.

Even though I'm not going to post a picture, you won't even have to use your imagination. All you have to do is to scroll slowly back up the screen to look at the pictures on Thursday and Friday. There was No. Change.

My first instinct was to make my way down the hall and with my patented, martyred maternal sigh, pick up the three rolls and put them away. But then I thought, "Nope. I'm not going to do it because first of all, both of those children bend much easier than I do and secondly, it's their toilet paper and their bathroom."

By Sunday, the (unspoken) stand off was still going strong. At dinner however, Steve casually mentioned the toilet paper that had been sitting in the hallway for three days.

I said to him, "Oh, you weren't supposed to say anything. I was going to see how long the kids were going to let it sit there!"

Both Nathan's and Sarah's heads shot up and their eyes opened wide. By the looks on their faces, I could tell that they either hadn't even noticed the toilet paper lying there--on the floor, right in front of them, that they were tripping over and stepping around---or else they hadn't thought it was any sort of a big deal. They both kind of made a joke about it and we went on with the meal.

After we ate, Nathan disappeared upstairs. Steve followed a few minutes later and when I heard him up there sort of chortling to himself, I went upstairs to investigate. This is what I saw.

Well, I just stood there and laughed and laughed. It was such a Nathan-esque thing to do; it was like he was saying with his Tower of TP, "Okay, Mom. I moved the toilet paper. Are you happy?"

Now if your heart is longing for a more artsy view of the Tower, I took a picture from a different angle. I know how important it is for toilet paper to be portrayed in an artsy manner.

When I had finally finished my laughing, I called Sarah upstairs and she got a pretty good giggle out of the TP Tower, too. However, when all the laughing was over, Sarah (being a female), figured out that enough was enough and that it was time to get the toilet paper moved to its rightful home.

After posing for the inevitable picture, she cheerily deposited the aforementioned rolls into their aforementioned Official Toilet Paper Storage Area and just like that, the stand off was over.

Later on, I was kidding Nathan about the whole "toilet paper in the hallway" situation and asking him how long he had been planning to leave the toilet paper in the hallway. He replied with the kind of sincerity and wide-eyed innocence that only a 19-year old college student can muster, "But Mom! I was planning on going out there and getting a roll whenever we ran out in the bathroom!"

Like that was the obvious solution. Leave the toilet paper in the hallway and just get out and get some when you need it. No biggie!

He is SUCH a male. Such a beloved, funny, "non-picking up the toilet paper" kind of male.

And Sarah is SUCH a female. Such a beloved, funny "I'll help Mom and and pick up this toilet paper for her" kind of female.

And I am SUCH a Mom. Such a beloved, funny "Those kids had better jolly well pick up that toilet paper or I will have a major mamma hissy fit!" kind of Mom. (smile)

I am very happy to report to you all that the stand off ended peaceably. The toilet paper is where it belongs and the hallway is neat.

And that's the end of the story, right?

I wish.

I had actually written most of this entry before dinner and was going to finish it up and post it after we ate. Well, while Nathan and Sarah and I were at the table (Steve is away at a conference) I casually said to them, "I'm about to post a blog about the toilet paper and how Nathan stacked it in the hallway."

Nathan looked at me with great puzzlement and said, "Mom, I didn't stack the toilet paper in the hallway!"

I gaped at him and said, "You didn't? Well, who did then?"

He said, "It must have been Dad!"

Sure enough, when Steve called home a few minutes ago I asked him The Stacking TP Question and he said, "Oh yeah, I stacked it. I just called you upstairs because I was having such fun with it."

Somehow all along, I had assumed it was Nathan's doing. And now my entire blog is ruined because I told the story wrong.

Hmmm . . .

Here's the deal, folks. I would like to earnestly request that you please just ignore the untrue portion of the blog that talks about Nathan's stacking because I have spent way too much time already writing about toilet paper and I'm not going to re-write the entire blog over one little ol' stacking error.

The bottom line is that the stand off is over. The toilet paper is put away. Peace reigns.

Life is good.