It Wasn't Santa Claus

We always enjoy Christmas. Ok, not always, but pretty much. I shop and spend money just hoping to please everyone. I wrap gifts at the last minute. I put up a tree purely out of guilt and obligation. I slave for hours over the food in the hot kitchen with my itsy-bitsy oven. Then I subject myself to ridicule over burned food. This year, it was not only the biscuits, but the coffee cake. I think I sneaked that one by, however, because I removed the entire bottom of the cake before I put it out on a plate. But not the biscuits. They noticed the biscuits.

I well remember the year that I did not burn the rolls. (Hey! There's a lot going on around roll-time. I just forget about them until I smell them...burning.) Anyway, one year I did not burn the rolls. This is memorable because one of the kids asked, as he buttered the golden lump of bread, "Hey, Mom! Where's the black stuff we're supposed to peel off the bottom?"

This year was pretty normal. After a lovely brunch with burned biscuits, we cleaned up the kitchen, read the Christmas story (the one about Jesus--remember it?), opened our gifts and played some games.

As the crowd began to disperse into different rooms, I heard the front door open and a woman's voice exclaim, "Suprise! We're here! Merry Christmas!"

I was surprised. I wasn't expecting anyone. Nor did I recognize the man and woman standing in my entry way bearing many, many gifts. I welcomed them cordially and wished them a Merry Christmas.

My husband came in from the kitchen. He smiled, greeted them cheerfully and wished them a Merry Christmas as well. I looked to him for introductions figuring they must be someone from his work, clients of his or someone he knew from church. He looked to me for introductions, assuming she must be one of my friends from my "PMS Group" as he calls it. My son thought I had invited yet another homeless family over to share this blessed occasion.

The lady apparently thought we were guests in this lovely home. She looked around for an awkward minute or so. Finally she said, "You know what? I think we're in the wrong house. I'm supposed to be at my brother's house and you're not my brother. I don't recognize this house."

Her husband turned around without a word and went back to the car.

We directed her next door to her brother's house while encouraging her to leave the gifts with us.

She didn't.

Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

“I want to look chic, but casual.”
“I want the room to light up when I enter.”
“I want to stand out, but blend into the crowd.”

December is the big party season that technically ends with the popular New Years Eve celebration. People often ask my opinion about how to dress for the holidays. There are many social events, parties, and obligatory appearances. You can’t possibly wear the same outfit to two occasions because, as we all know, people overlap at these functions.

Let’s rule out a few things before we get started. There are to be absolutely no sweaters, sweatshirts or other apparel adorned with embroidered, appliquéd or knitted Christmas trees, presents or even Santa himself. Return these clothing items to the back of the closet where you have kept them for eleven out of twelve months for the last 25 years.

Let’s also exclude Frosty the Snowman and manger scenes. I’m not opposed to any of these symbols. In fact, I embrace them on my tree and on my holiday cards. They do not belong on my body…or on yours.

Unless you are guiding Santa’s sleigh, lose the reindeer antlers. They are not funny or cute on adults. Trust me. Oh, sure, people laugh when they see you wearing them. Think about that for a minute.

You may wear green or red. Not both. That particular color combination is reserved for Santa’s elves. You must show your North Pole ID when pairing these traditional colors. Don’t have North Pole credentials? That’s what I thought. Sorry.

Here’s what to do: Be festive. Sequins and sparkly accessories are great when used appropriately and in moderation. Be generous with your earrings—go for the dangly ones! Shiny necklaces and bracelets will brighten that basic black, red or winter white dress.

Spruce up! Whiten your teeth. Nothing adds sparkle like a glistening and genuine smile. Buy a new shade of lipstick. Get a manicure and pedicure. Do something special with your hair. Add a few curls. Pull one side back. Wear it down if you usually wear it up. Wear it up if you usually wear it down.

Panty hose—to wear or not to wear? It’s a special occasion. Wear them with closed-toed or peep-toed heels. Never, ever wear them with strappy sandals or fully open-toed pumps. You’ve been wondering, haven’t you? Now you know. This is not seasonal, by the way.

Start early. Thirty minutes before the party is too late to discover that the damp air in your closet shrunk last year’s party dress and it no longer fits. Above all, wear clothes that fit correctly and comfortably. It’s also too late to realize that you dropped frosting on your favorite blouse and forgot to take it to the dry cleaners after last year’s New Years’ Eve party.

Guys, I must have a quick word with you. No neckties that play music or scream obscenities. No red socks with snowflakes. No red socks. No white shoes. No trousers printed with Christmas trees or reindeer. I don’t care if Ralph Lauren has his insignia on them. He was joking. He can’t believe you fell for it. No black socks with brown shoes. Shoes and belt must match. If you aren’t sure, ask someone who knows. Your dog doesn’t know.

Once again, those ageless rules to which we must all adhere: If it jiggles, cover it loosely. Never ever leave home without a 360-degree turn in front of your full-length mirror.

Stand up straight; shoulders back; chin up and enjoy the season feeling confident that you look good and feel great about yourself.

(I was asked by my good friend Shari Wilson to write this article for KISS magazine. If you live in Hampton Roads, be sure to pick up a copy!)

Giving Thanks

I'm not one to gush and get openly sentimental about my feelings. Those things I hold most dear, I keep close and treasure in my heart, but find it difficult to express. It is much easier to make light of things, laugh and enjoy life. However, just so you know, there are people, things, blessings and opportunities for which I am deeply grateful and of which I never speak. If I were to write those down here, you would say, "Yeah, yeah, so what else is new? Everyone says that." Just so you know, I am eternally grateful for my family, my friends, my home, my country, my God and all those people and things that make up who I am. That being said, I would like to expand my list of gratitude to those things that perhaps most of you take for granted.

As I sit at my desk this morning, I am thankful for my computer and all those conveniences it brings with it. I can stay in touch with family and friends, run a business and keep informed with a few effortless strokes of my fingers.

I am thankful for clicker pencils...not just any clicker pencils...the Pentel variety with the clicker on the side. I love pencils rather than pens because I tend to change my mind a lot and, like my computer, a pencil allows me that luxury of easily erasing the past and moving in a new direction.

I am thankful for the new cell tower in our neighborhood. For the first time in history, I get clear reception on my cell phone without walking through the house trying to find a "hot spot." Life is good.

I am thankful for Diet Cokes. I like the carbonation. I need the lift from the caffeine. I love that there are no calories to be concerned about.

I am thankful for the good books in my office. Many have strengthened my resolve to be a better person, think smarter and do better. Others have simply entertained me--those are the ones I like the best. Sometimes you just get tired of trying to be better...at least I do.

I am thankful for my car. Would I be just as thankful if it were not an '08 BMW? Hmmm...Hard to say.

I am thankful for my over-sized, but chic chair and ottoman in my office. It is in this chair that I am comfortable and secure as I read many books and watch TV...oh, yeah, and I do a lot of thinking and contemplation there as well..and sometimes I fall asleep. And I am thankful that I found my cashmere throw on sale for 75% off. I would never have considered it at $200, but had I known how much I would enjoy it, I would have paid $500.

Ok, I can't help it...here it comes...I love my family so very, very much. I am so grateful for a strong and cohesive family and for our love for each other. I am grateful for all my friends and especially those few who are so close and dear to me. This year in particular I am thankful for those who have listened, advised and encouraged me. It's been an amazing and unique year to say the least. I have learned a lot. I am thankful.

Chilling Experience in Cancun

Think Cancun and you think year-round sand, surf and sunshine. Right? I've been to Cancun several times now...five, maybe six. I've been in the summer, fall, winter and spring months. Cancun has been consistently hot and hotter. This is as it should be. That's why people flock from all over the world to vacation there. That's why they pay the big bucks to fly all the way from Europe, Australia and Virginia. It's a place to thaw out and warm up.

Not so last week. A cold spell hit the Mexican coast. Of the seven days in Cancun, we enjoyed two hours (Note: HOURS, not days) that the temperature rose to 80. That was on Thursday before we had to leave on Friday. The other 166 hours of our vacation had an average temperature of 66 with 25 mph winds. You think I'm kidding. I'm not.

It's really funny to watch people when this happens. There are those who are determined to enjoy their fun-in-the-sun fantasy. They try so hard to make it work. Dressed in bikinis (Yes, the European men wear bikinis--However, I was shocked when I heard a bikini-clad man speak with a North Carolina accent!) and wrapped in several beach towels, they lay around the pool and try to look nonchalant as the winds blow the tall palm trees to dip their leaves into the water.

Making the best of it, ladies dressed in their finest sleeveless, backless sundresses and strappy sandals for dinner. Everyone still wore shorts, tank tops and flip-flops during the day when not wrapped in beach towels. My feet were freezing right along with the rest of me! Remember, this is Cancun. That's the only clothes we packed.

So what did I do for seven days? I read a book...a very good, 1020-page book by Ken Follet, World Without End. And I ate. I ate nachos and salsa. I ate pasta with meat sauce, cheese sauce, ham, vegetables, marinara and Alfredo sauce.. I ate steak and fried potatoes. I ate french fries with cheese, chili and salsa. I ate oatmeal, about a pound of bacon each day and eggs. I ate turkey, chicken, ham, pork, fish, and sushi. I ate croissants, crepes, cake and ice cream. I ate alligator, rattle snake, ostrich and zebra--just kidding. If it sat still, I ate it.

Oh, and I slept...a lot. Not such a bad vacation after all!

Things My Kids Have Missed - Part I

It occurred to me today that I have been blogging for years and years. Occasionally, I stumble across spiral notebooks, old envelopes, loose sheets of paper, index cards and backs of church bulletins where I have written whatever was on my mind that particular day. I know, technically, "blog" is defined as a "web log." Perhaps mine was a plog (paper log), but it is a history, none the less--a log of my thoughts. Some of them are pretty good. Not surprising.

I found five yellowed notebook pages of hand-written notes that recorded my thoughts one day apparently long, long ago. These are things I remember from my childhood that would be foreign to my kids. I will begin sharing these today and continue when you have more time to read them.

My kids have always lived with beautifully manicured, lush green grass lawns. When I was little, we sometimes had yards with sparse brown dirt interrupted by clumps of dried brown grass and lots and lots of dandelions. I loved to pick the beautiful yellow flowers and take them inside where Mom oohed and aahed as she arranged them into a lovely bouquet and set it proudly on the kitchen table--never making a reference to weeds.

And sometimes the yard would be full of the ripe plants that I could pick and blow the fluffy white seeds all over the neighborhood to fully populate every yard in the vicinity.

And rocks. We had lots of rocks in our yard. My friends and I would gather up these stones and lay them out on the ground to outline our "house." These houses were fun. They had rooms and you could walk right through the walls.

We cooked mud pies in the kitchen of our make-believe house. Dad didn't mind if we dug small holes in the dirt which was the main ingredient of mud pies, of course. The single other ingredient came from the garden hose. Mom supplied the aluminum pie plates by saving them from the frozen chicken pot pies. I always ran out of patience waiting for the mud pies to "bake" and they ended up as a blob on my "kitchen floor." But the next good rain recycled these pies back into the dust from whence they came.

My cooking today has improved only slightly from those early beginnings. You would still recognize it.

Screen doors. I still love screen doors though I haven't seen one in years.. The kind that squeak when you open them and slam behind you as you run through just in time to hear, "Don't let that door slam!" Sometimes you missed the frame and your hand would leave a permanent bulge in the screen. Or the stick you were carrying poked a hole right through it. Sadly, storm doors don't slam or tear, or bulge. They only close slowly and collect fingerprints.

That's it for now. Stay tuned for Pepsi & peanuts, shade trees, neighborhood stores and wringer washers. If you would like to share things you miss from your earlier days, please leave a comment! But it might take a couple of days for me to post it. Just be patient. Remember when we had no computers?

Lunch at Costco

Is it an oxymoron to say, "I save money at Costco"? The fact is, they have an amazing marketing program that convinces me to pay them $50 per year just for the privilege of shopping in a warehouse environment with a concrete floor. Nordstrom's it is not. Macy's it is not. It's not even a shoe store, for goodness sake!

Now that I think about it, I PAY them to let me push around an over-sized cart with squeaky wheels that leads by brute force in a direction that I do not aspire to go. I fight with all my upper body strength to keep the vehicle headed toward the Diet Cokes, bottled water, toilet paper (can I say that?) and paper towels. No soft music, no pretty displays, no sale racks.

But they do have free snacks. I struggle with this. I have my snobbish reputation to protect, after all. What do I struggle over? Why do I struggle so? I battle on several levels.

There is the obvious: Do I really want to stand in line for free food? If there happens to be no line and I can walk by and pick up and consume the bite-sized morsel in an inconspicuous fashion, that's one thing. I can have it in my mouth and swallowed before I pass the trash can to dispose of the tiny napkin and toothpick. But when there is a line, I am faced with a decision. How long will I stand and wait for a one-inch square of microwaved pizza? Will I wait for the one person in line in front of me? Perhaps. But three people and a child? Absolutely not! I have my standards.

There is an upside. If I am just a bit tolerant and make my rounds, I can have a fairly fulfilling lunch within an hour of wandering from station to station. Sometimes I may even hit the same station two or three times if I think the little lady will not notice.

Oh, but do not underestimate these little sample ladies. True. Some never look up or acknowledge my presence. But there are those friendly ones who, on my third pass, say something like, "These little wienies really are tasty, aren't they? You can find them on aisle 7 next to the chicken nuggets." Then I feel like I have taken advantage of her generosity and should go buy the 25 pound package of cocktail wienies that will fulfill my party requirements for the next 12 years...ok, longer than that. (I know you are thinking, "She gives parties? I've never been invited.") Truth is, I threw a party in 1982. No one came. I haven't tried since.

But the struggle continues. Do I buy the 10 pounds of Cheerios in the plastic bag? Do I really need 5 pounds of face cream? But its such a good deal...think what it would cost at the cosmetic counter in Macy's!

The guy at the door counts the number of items in my directionally challenged shopping cart as I'm still trying to figure out how I saved so much money if I just paid $352 for Diet Cokes, bottled water, toilet paper, paper towels, party wienies and moisturizer.

Oh, well! At least I won't have to stop for lunch on the way home.

My Pet, Peeves!

As the dinner conversation turned to pet peeves, I thought, "Boy! Do I have a lot to contribute to this conversation!" I am easily annoyed and, therefore, full of pet peeves. But, alas! I found myself at a total loss to come up with even one witty comment when put on the spot.

Eventually I eeked out a few weak attempts with some not-so-clever peeves, but I was greatly disappointed in my lack-luster results. (Could it be that I was in the midst of what might arguably be called one of the most important dinner meetings of my career? Could it be that I was trying to follow conversations to my right, to my left and straight ahead as well as trying to respond to the waiter?)

Since that dinner just a few evenings ago, I have come up with a rather lengthy list of pet peeves. Just so you know, I took the liberty to borrow a few from the conversation. I also have included some that as soon as I heard others say them, I knew in my heart that I felt the same and could legitimately claim them as my own. Since this may be a long, boring list, I will categorize them for you.

PET Peeves

• "Don't worry. She won't bite." I'm worried. Past performance is not a guarantee of future behavior. Her growling, snarling and bared teeth concern me.
  
• "Oh, look! He likes you." Explains why your dog is doing that to my leg.
  
• "Don't worry. Dogs mouths are cleaner than humans." Don't make me explain this one.
  
• "He's just checking you out." I'm REALLY not comfortable with him sniffing me there.
  
• "Spot, don't jump on her. You'll get mud all over her beautiful new coat." Too late.
  
• "Don't worry about him shedding on you. I've just come to regard cat hair as an accessory." I'm worried. It doesn't go with my outfit.
  
• "Kitty, get off the table. How many times do I have to tell you not to lick the ice tea glasses. Bad kitty!....OK, everyone, we can sit down to eat now."

PEOPLE Peeves

• "How are you?" is a greeting. It is not an invitation for an organ recital. (My stomach has been giving me problems. I've been having chest pains. You know I had surgery 12 years ago, right? etc. etc.)
  
• "How much did you pay for it?" Take note: Unless you are an extremely close friend, the answer is always, "Why do you need to know?"


• Smacking and eating noises irritate me. Crunching sounds do, too--even though I know they are unavoidable at times. (Smacking and slurping are totally avoidable. Don't do it around me...please.)


• Stupid. I can handle 'not smart,' 'uneducated' and 'dense.' Don't be stupid when you can help it.
• Women who think they can stand up to tinkle and spray golden drops all over the toilet seat. I actually confronted one of these as she left the stall one day. Turns out she was much bigger and meaner than I had anticipated. I don't recommend confrontation.


• Talking about sports like it matters. People are starving in the world and you are spending time not only watching, but talking about sports. Get a life! Go shopping!

FASHION Peeves

• Dirty coats with paw prints.


• Turtlenecks.


• Nylons with sandals.


• Dirty exposed bra straps.


• Clothes that are too little...or too big, for that matter.


• Clothes that are unkempt. (Except if you are Gregory House, MD...then they are kinda sexy...but you aren't and they're not.)


• Do rags. Should never be done.


• Dirty or tattered undershirts that show with your top button unbuttoned.


• People who obviously go out in public without consulting a mirror. That's a no-no!


• This list could go on indefinitely.

PROFESSIONAL Peeves

• "Hello, this is Joy Kilgore. May I speak with Mr. Smith, please?" "Of course, one moment please." (Hold music. Hold music.) "May I tell him what this is in regard to?" "I'm returning his call." (Hold music. Hold music. Hold music.) "I'm sorry, Joy. He's not in his office. Would you like his voicemail?"


• Director of First Impressions - This is OK for a job description. It is OK to use this phrase to explain to the person how important her job is. It is a dorky and demeaning job title.
  
• Unreturned emails and phone calls that need a response.

PERSONAL Peeves

• That I am so easily annoyed.


• I can't think of someone's name when I'm standing there talking to them.


• The word I need escapes me.


• Three clocks in my house--all supposedly set by radio signal to THE atomic clock somewhere in Denver (or is it Denmark?). Three clocks, three different times...by one minute thirty-six seconds.


• Wait staff in restaurants who join in my conversation.


• Having my dinner interrupted (and delayed) because everyone the entire restaurant staff must stop what they are doing to sing "Happy Birthday" to you...or you...or even me. It doesn't matter who. I refuse to join in the festivities.


• Fingerprints around the edge of my plate when served to me in a restaurant. Find some way of placing my plate on the table without touching it, please.


• I don't care who you are or where you are...I don't want to see you clip your nails or floss your teeth....ever!!


• People who bring smelly food onto the airplane. (Don't get me started on airplane peeves.)


• Bluetooth gadgets sticking out of your ear.


• Texting on your cell phone during a performance that I paid $100 a seat to attend. The light on your phone is distracting. Pay attention to the performance. That's what you came for.


• Talking on your cell phone while in the checkout line. These lines are stressful enough for me. I always lose my bet on which lane will move the fastest.


• People who gripe and complain and are easily annoyed at little things.

Don't be offended if you fall into one of these peeve categories. People I love the very most in the world are offenders, too. (Peeves would actually be a good name for a pet, don't you think?)

Confessions of an Overachiever

Perhaps there are some things that are better left unsaid. Perhaps there are secrets better left in secret. Perhaps you don't really need to know all these things about me. Perhaps I risk losing your confidence, your respect--even your love. Step back. Once I pull the plug, who knows what will bubble over! But here goes:

1. I drink my Diet Coke straight from the can. Sometimes I wipe off the top first!


2. My favorite meal is fried potatos, pinto beans and cornbread. It's true.


3. There are days I'm depressed and don't even want to get out of bed.


4. I sometimes get grumpy--even though my name is Joy.


5. I enjoy watching the TV Guide channel--the one where some mindless drivel is going on on the top of the screen while endless listings roll through below.


6. I don't do my laundry until my undies drawer is empty.


7. I work unbelievable hours.


8. My biggest fear (yes, more than snakes even) is failure.


9. I care what you think of me.


10. My other favorite food is cake.


11. I consider corn chips a vegetable.


12. I need constant affirmation. (Hint! Hint!)


13. I miss Paula. It's been a year now.


14. I have watched the same episode reruns of House as many as four times hoping they'll figure it out quicker this time.


15. Sometimes I just need to whine and I need someone to listen.


16. I love attention.


17. I enjoy seeing myself on TV, in magazines, and in the newspaper.
18. I have 81 pairs of shoes. 47 of them are black.
19. I enjoy reading Sara's blog almost more than my own. Sara's Blog Here
20. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and drink milk straight from the jug. (Don't tell Tag. He'd die!)

That's it. Wow! I feel better now. Still love me?

The Slippery Slope

I'd have to say there's a chance that I'm pretty vain.

When I was young, a mentor told me that if I did get married someday, I should get up every morning and put on my make-up, fix my hair and get dressed for my family. After all, why should we go to all that trouble for other people and not for the ones we love most?

For all these twenty (or so) years, I've lived by that advice. Whether I was staying home doing laundry, going to the grocery store, to work, or an important event, I've tried to make the best of what the good Lord gave me. It's not always easy.

When I made the big decision to work from home, I determined that I would treat my business like a public job. After all, I'm a very professional woman in a very professional field. So I kept up my daily routine -- jumping cheerfully out of bed and into the shower. I grab a cup of coffee and slowly savor the warmth and aroma as the caffeine spreads through my veins and into my brain, waking up my mind and clearing my blurry vision. Then back to my vanity (ah-ha! that's why they call it that) to put on my make up and blow dry, then iron, my frizzy hair. I take the few steps to my overcrowded closet and make the day's clothing choice of 'dress to impress.' Being dressed for the day, I then seat myself behind my executive desk and am ready to start my day at the customary 9 o'clock.

This routine continued for two days...more or less.

A Sign, But Not a Good Sign

My neighborhood was built about 30 years ago. I live on a remodeler's dream street. I don't suppose there is much to be done about the 8 foot ceilings, but there's a lot of potential when you talk about kitchens, baths, additions and replacement windows!

One family had a room addition and kitchen makeover. The contractor's sign (and big green port-a-potty) was in their yard for almost two years. It was not that big of a project. I called Codes and Compliance to see if you can really have an outhouse sitting on the curb for two years in our neighborhood. I guess they are still looking into it. According to the neighbor--who was glad to share his experience--there were weeks at a time when he neither saw nor heard from his remodeler. The man (neighbor, not the contractor) suffered through chemo for most of the time his house was in disarray. His calls to the contractor went unanswered. He passed away shortly after the project was finally complete and the port-a-potty and sign removed. Not a good sign.

The doctor next door has entertained a sign in her yard for over nine months now. Her contractor took a six week sabatical while his son played sports. Her three kids spent their summer with a dumpster blocking their basketball goal. It is very possible they will not spend the holidays in their new room since workers are seldom at their house even now. No trucks. No banging hammers and buzzing saws. But the dumpster is still there. And the yard sign. Not a good sign. It is still advertising to the rest of us that if you enjoy having a sign in your yard more than you enjoy a completed project, he's the one to call!

Another neighbor had replacement windows installed. The big trucks advertising the dealer were in and out in a day or two. For sure, it was not an extended project, but I remember the name on the truck and when the time comes, I'll give this guy a call!

Dust Bunnies and Other Household Pets

My housekeeper has been on hiatus for a few months. I miss her. I truly miss her...though I seldom saw her or talked with her. I went to work; she came into my house and did her thing, picked up her check and left. I came home and my house looked very similar to the way it looked when I left that morning. My house was always clean.

I am a neat freak...not to the extreme or obsessive...I do have a tolerance for messy, but the threshold is fairly low by standards I've observed in others. But I do have a high tolerance (apparently) for dust accumulation. In fact, as long as dust is undisturbed, I hardly notice it. Until, of course, I am entertaining guests and glance at a piece of furniture with the sun shining in on it. Yes, if you have never experienced that, it is embarrassing!

So, I say that, to say this: I cleaned my own house today. Needless to say, I encountered an entire colony of dust bunnies. Being the Socratesial thinker that I am, I began to wonder why these clumps of dirt, dust and lint are so named. They don't look like bunnies to me. Here are my theories.

• Far away and many years ago, a lonely, extremely near-sighted and very old woman saw these critters scurrying across her floor. It became her passion to collect as many of these furry friends as she possibly could. They kept her company and she never had to worry about food for them on her meager existance. The excentric old lady's neighbors began to gossip about Ida and her dust bunnies. Nah! Probably not, but maybe.
• A bit more scientific would be the theory that, like bunnies, these beings, left to themselves, proliferate and reproduce at an astounding rate! Also, like their breathing counterparts, they are incredibly difficult to catch! Start after them with a broom or dust mop and watch the entire herd scatter to seek safety in the corner, under another piece of furniture...somewhere...daring you to chase after them.

I don't think I am well suited for housekeeping. The entire time I was chasing dust bunnies, I was thinking of a blog........

Living Just Outside the Law

You've done it. I've done it. I don't know anyone who hasn't. I take that back. I don't think my mother ever has.

On my trip to and from Baltimore last week, I thanked God for many of those who do.

Do what? Speed. Exceed the speed limit. Drive faster than the law allows. Yes. I often (usually) exceed the speed limit. (Can I be arrested for admitting this or do they have to catch me in the act?) I chalk it up to the fact that I am a born leader. I find it difficult to follow. Therefore, I tend to try to take the lead. But that's not the point of this blog.

You know those little "Emergency Vehicles Only" roads where the state troopers hide out? I think every single one of them was occupied last week...let's make that half of them. The other half had sent their occupants to issue those costly 'safety reminders' to those who pushed the throttle too far.

There was a time I openly laughed as I passed by those drivers who had practically blown me off the road in taking the highway racing lead position. I could not resist a "serves you right" as I flew by.

But I have had a humble change of attitude.

This change is due to my resent resolve to make it a point to develop an "attitude of gratitude" in my life. I have begun to make a conscious effort to look for occasions to be thankful. Now instead of mocking the speeders as I pass by, I give a quiet nod of respect and thanks to them.

If they had not blown by me and attracted the attention, that could be me sitting in my car fumbling for my license and registration.

"But for the grace of God there sit I."

The next time you speed by that driver looking for his/her documentation, I challenge you to observe a moment of silence in honor of that red Honda, silver Chevy, or black BMW. It could have been you!

Expression at the Lowest Level

"When you exercise your freedom to express yourself at the lowest level, you ultimately condemn yourself to live at that level."

PLEASE! Who said that?!?! Tell me this has nothing to do with expressing myself through this blog! Be honest with me here. Am I condemned to writing this drivel for the rest of my life?

Somehow I've always imagined that, given the time, I could sit under shade trees in a toga or in the shadow of the Parthenon and write words of incredibly profound wisdom. I have always imagined myself conversing with Socrates, Plato and Hyperconese -- and amazing them with insight of such magnitude that it leaves them speechless until, alas, we find ourselves delving into deep deliberation over the hypothesis.

I dream of sitting in expostulations with modern world leaders, sharing my philosophy of energy conservation, eradication of world poverty, and--not of the problems of global warming--but of solutions with global programmable temperature and climate control. I could solve the problems of hunger (Let them eat cake!) and hot flashes given the time to do so.

I really wish I had had the time to discover pi...the 3.14159265 variety. It just amazes me that someone figured that out. I could have done that...if I had time to think about it.

But, woe is me! I found myself instead changing diapers, cleaning up spilled milk, doing laundry, mending broken hearts, kissing boo-boos, burning biscuits and working.

Instead of the porticoes of the Parthenon each week, I chat over coffee with six other women at a breakfast table for four. I sit in my sunroom and debate bird species. I carefully speak English in slow broken syllables to explain to the nail tech that when she sees blood, I feel pain.

And I write. I write a blog. I write words that inspire others. You are inspired, right? This is important because it would seem I have "condemned myself to live at this level."

I bet Socrates and those guys wish they could have had a blog!

L.A.B.O.R Day

Yes, it is that holiday we look forward to and dread at the same time. It is a day set aside for us to remember and observe something that must have been extremely important to someone at some point in time. Few of us really know why we get off work the first Monday in September each year, but I don't know anyone who questions its wisdom.

Labor Day for many marks the end of summer freedom and the beginning of the school year. Or for some, the changing of the seasons--though it really is not the change of seasons. The actual change takes place precisely on September 22, 2008 at 11:44 am EDT.

Let's get down to why this holiday is really important and why it has such a great social impact. I realize that there is some room for discussion on this subject. But since I'm doing the writing and this is my blog, guess who's opinion you are about to hear!

L.A.B.O.R Day--Let's All Begin Our Rediscovery Day. Yes, it's time to switch out those cool revealing summer rags for the richer, warmer colors and more substantial fabrics that make up our fall and winter wardrobe. The comfort of tank tops and shorts becomes a memory of the past and a hope for the future. But for now, we must move on. Put away the straw purse, the white purse, the white shoes and fake tan. Put away the pinks and yellows and baby blues. Its time for the vibrant royal blues, purples, reds and orange tones, rich deep browns and the ever favorite black along with the woolen winter whites.

I'm going to miss my skinny white jeans. I thoroughly enjoyed those this year. I'm going to miss my $100 apricot tank top. (No, I didn't pay that much, but it makes me feel indulgent anyway.) I'll miss my brown Roxie flip-flops. I really enjoyed my sundresses and my new (this season) khaki shorts. I bought some really hot (cool?) summer dresses this year. I'm going to miss them.

I'll move my spring/summer selections to the spare closet and move the fall/winter fare back to my main closet. In doing so, I'll rediscover articles of clothing that I loved at one time, but was so weary of just six months ago. I'll love them again.

But, this exercise will bring back other memories. Memories of shopping. Shopping at Macy's. Shopping at Nordstrom. Shopping in Manhattan. Shopping in Williamsburg. The innate need to go shopping again. To replenish, replace and renew last year's look. I'll, of course, need more black shoes. I think I'll major on dresses this year. Pants are good. I'm sure I'll need some new black ones. You can never have too many, you know.

Have a great L.A.B.O.R Day!

The Journey

They tell us that success is not a destination. It is a journey. That’s good…I guess. But journeys are often forgotten. It is the destination that drives us forward. We desire to get there. We want to arrive.

When I start my five-mile journey several times each week, I begin with a few steps. I check my phone for the time—Wait! I check my phone for the time?!? Yes, I check my phone for the time as I begin. I calculate the time I should reach my destination (my car). Only an overachiever would track such goals...and then try to beat them!

As I approach the one-mile marker, I feel a strong compulsion to turn around and go back. After all, that would make my walk total two miles and that is farther than most people of the world walk in a day. I review this thought process upon reaching each successive half-mile marker. To turn around at Mile Two, I would complete a journey of four miles. That’s not bad. Many would be satisfied with such an accomplishment.

I keep putting one foot in front of the other, leaving my footprints behind, pushing toward my destination.

At Mile Three, I sometimes think I cannot possibly walk two more miles. This is quite a dilemma. To continue seems impossible. The only other alternative -- to turn back -- is even greater. The path is not smooth. There are hills to climb, rough spots and tree roots to trip me. I’m tired. I’m thirsty. I’m discouraged. I’m surrounded by trees and forest on my right and bound by a lake on my left. It’s hard to enjoy the beauty of the journey when you are tired, thirsty and discouraged. So I continue what I’ve been doing; following the path I’ve chosen with my goal, my destination in mind. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. One small advance comes with each small step.

And so it is with my present life’s journey. I continue doing what I’ve been doing. I keep following the path I’ve chosen. One step at a time. One small advance after the other. I’ll sure be glad when I get there!

Who Says?

If you tell me something, I generally believe it. I just do. All my life I have easily accepted that what people say is true. For instance:

Tadpoles grow legs and turn into frogs. Never seen it happen. Have always believed it, but I’ve pretty much become agnostic on that one.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away. I don’t eat an apple a day and my doctor never comes around. In my case, I guess you could say, “A Twinkie a day keeps the doctor away.”

Takes one to know one. What the heck does that mean?

Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime. That’s SO not universally true. What if he lives in the desert where there are no fish?

Time is the one asset of which everyone has an equal amount. This one really gives me trouble. I’ll give in on the fact that each day is technically a 24-hour cycle. However, everyone doesn’t have the opportunity to use those hours in the same way and, therefore, the 24-hour thing becomes a technicality.

For example, I have read about people who sleep only four hours in a 24-hour period. (Again, never seen it, and don't know them personally.) That gives them four more hours in their day than most of us. Could I sleep less? No. Maybe I can make do with less sleep for one day…maybe two…but that schedule is not sustainable.

Men, you are in the shower for three minutes, jump into a pair of pants and a shirt and you’re on your way. For many of us of the female species, it takes a considerable amount of time to groom and preen. Take another hour (or more) off my day. For those girls who are saying, "Hey, I'm ready in 10 minutes," you might consider taking a little more time. It shows.

Some of us need time to ramp up on caffeine for the day, then, we need time to decompress at the end of the day. We need our breaks to stop and readjust mentally. We need nourishment, exercise, email, entertainment, time to plan and to schedule our ‘to do’ lists and plenty of time to worry about what we’re not getting done.

Time is on my side. Simply not true. End of discussion.

Scared to Death!

Scared to death. Afraid. Literally scared to death. Frightened to within an inch of my life. Terrified. Scared the wits out of me. Heart-stopping fright. Panic. Fear.

What’s the deal about fear? Seriously. Do you know anyone who was “literally scared to death”? Or was the person telling you that they were ‘literally scared to death’ literally still breathing? That’s what I thought.

When the kids were little, we went to a theme park with a roller coaster ominously named “The Grizzly.” As the rest of the family got in line, they handed me their hats, sunglasses and all other items deemed valuable—just in case. I thought about it and said to myself, “Am I going to spend the remaining years of my life sitting on a park bench while my family enjoys the rush and excitement of theme park rides?” I found the strength in my heart to say, “Yes, I am.” They returned with glowing faces and tales of being scared to death described in terms of awesome, cool, and, “You’ve gotta ride this.”

I had to decide, am I going to play it safe every time? Am I going to sit and watch while others experience the thrills of life? I looked that Grizzly right in his gnarled tracks and said, “No! You are not going to intimidate me any more.” I turned to the fam and said, “Ride it with me.” Granted. This was a carefully calculated risk. As far as I knew, no one had ever died on this ride. The statistics of surviving a roller coaster were probably higher than those of driving to the theme park. But I squared my shoulders, passed out caps and sunglasses to their rightful owners and stepped in line. As the safety harness was latched into place, I remember thinking, “If I die, I die. I had hoped for a nobler death, but, hey, we don’t always get to choose.” I survived.

This was not the end of my brave adventures—my triumph over death-defying feats. I have ridden stand-up roller coasters. I have parasailed. I stood before a crowd of 7,000 and gave a speech. I have zip-lined through the jungles of Costa Rica. I glided down a half-mile water slide of cold mountain water in a foreign country that has not yet considered the sanity of safety standards. I traipsed through the jungles of El Salvador at night. I have walked alone through New York City. I have gone scuba diving with a shark...that’s right. There was just one. I had not planned on him being there. I have snorkeled with barracuda. I have climbed to the top of a live volcano and looked down into the depths of its hell.

Look at all the beauty, the excitement, the thrills I would have missed if I had listened to my fears. Sure, I'm afraid. I'm scared to death. I will find courage in my fear. Fear is good.

What a Bargain!

I am so weary of hearing about the price of a gallon of gas. It is what it is and I notice we keep buying it regardless. Whether the outrageous price is due to a shortage…or a conspiracy…or a manipulation of the futures market, we keep buying and consuming the golden fuel. We can’t live without it and we are quite unwilling to significantly alter our lifestyle. We sure drive a hard bargain! Let’s send our message loud and clear: “No matter how high you raise the price, we are going to buy! We’ll show you!”

But I am extremely upset over what I witnessed in the grocery store. It’s been a while since I purchased ice cream. Oh, I may have driven through Dairy Queen a time or two for a chocolate dipped cone. And I seem to remember a trip to Ben & Jerry’s for a tiny (but expensive) dip of cookies ‘n’ cream. So you will understand my shock at what I encountered in the freezer section of my local grocer last week.

I had placed my staple items in the cart. Diet Coke, Fresca, Diet Coke, bananas, whole wheat bread, jelly, peanut butter, 1% milk, Diet Coke and Diet Coke. I experienced an epiphany on Aisle 7. I wanted a half-gallon of Breyers butter pecan ice cream. As I opened the freezer and reached for the carton, I thought my eyes were experiencing some sort of optical illusion. The half-gallon carton looked the same but smaller. Sure enough. The half-gallon package is now 1.5 quarts. I looked at the price. It had gone from $3.79 to $5.69.

The only reasoning I could come up with was this: Someone at the Breyers team must have sat in the Monday morning meeting and said, “I know! Rather than to raise the price of ice cream, let’s just cut the package size down by 25%. I doubt our consumers will even notice as long as we keep the same look.”

Not to be outdone, the new kid at the table said, “A true ice cream lover will notice. Let’s just raise the price. As long as we keep the increase under two bucks, no one will complain…look what they’ve done to gasoline. Who’s going to notice ice cream? We won’t do it in one jump. We’ll raise it in slow small increments over 21 days.”

The CEO clapped his hands in delight. “Give these kids each a corner office! This is brilliant. We’ll reduce the size of the carton significantly AND increase the price dramatically. This is pure genius!” Turning to the oldies at the table, he said, “See, this is innovation. This is forward thinking. We must move beyond traditional value-based thinking.”

We, the consumers, are left scratching our collective head, thinking, “Huh? What just happened?”

Meanwhile, next week we’ll save 70 cents on the frozen calories with our VIC card and think, “What a bargain! I paid only $4.99 for a quart and a half of ice cream.” We’ll be perfectly pleased as we sit in front of the TV and consume our completely renewable, all natural resource…and look at the money we are saving on gas by staying home!

Surprise!

Oh, pu-lease! Grow up! I don’t like surprises.

I don’t like it when you walk up behind me, put your hands over my eyes and say, “Guess who!” I immediately give up…because I don’t care. “Surprise! It’s me.” Whoopdy-do-da! I’m thrilled.

Please don’t ever jump out from behind something and surprise me. I could end up in the hospital and you could end up with injuries and we’ll both feel bad.

Are you aware of the outrageous number of people who die annually as a result of surprise parties? The mortality rate is astounding, actually. Think about it. You get off work on Friday evening. You’ve had a really tough week. You’re exhausted by the time you stop by the grocery store and the movie store. Your arms are filled with Diet Cokes, microwave popcorn, Breyer's butter pecan ice cream and DVDs. The house is dark, you flip on the light and 50 people jump out of closets and from behind the furniture screaming, “Surprise!” We’re talking here about possibly serious strokes and heart attacks. And that’s supposed to be fun? For whom?

Or better yet, some woman tells her husband she is going to visit a sick aunt for the weekend. He walks into his own house with his own girlfriend; only to find out his wife deliberately lied to him. She was planning his surprise birthday party all along. How fair is that? This one situation could lead to multiple homicidal deaths…all because the wife wanted to see the surprised look on his face.

Oh, and by the way, don’t even attempt to give me a surprise party. I’ll know. I will. Someone will always slip up. Always. You ask, “Com’on, seriously, did you suspect anything?” You mean did it set off any alarms when Susan asked what she should bring to my party on Friday? Or Aunt Erma asked what time she should be there? No, of course these questions totally went over my head. Didn’t suspect a thing! Now you’re forcing me to lie or burst your bubble. It puts a lot of pressure on me.

I have a strong belief that surprises are not for the benefit of the recipient, but for the giver. It’s all about seeing that two second look of utter shock and confusion on the face of the surprisee. It’s all about catching the honoree completely unawares. It’s all about pulling off the ultimate practical joke. What other motive could possibly precipitate such a plan?

My preference would be to enjoy the process. In the weeks leading up to the event, let me savor the fact that you care enough to do this for me. Let me know so I can brush my teeth and have on a clean shirt, deodorant and lipstick. If it’s at my house, I would like the opportunity to clean the bathrooms and put out full rolls of toilet paper before the guests arrive. Give me an opportunity to review the guest list so the real surprise doesn’t come in the fact that you’ve invited people I don’t even know or like.

Now, please don’t confuse other surprises with unexpected gifts. Unexpected gifts are perfectly acceptable for any occasion or for no occasion. You can seldom go wrong with an unexpected gift. There are exceptions, I suppose. Like the time my husband surprised me with a kayak for my birthday. A kayak! Do I look like I would want a kayak? Has the man lived with me all these many years and yet, he thinks I would enjoy a kayak? We laughed all the way to the jewelry store!

Writer's Block

But, of course! I can write about trivial matters day after day after long weary day. I can think of things that happened yesterday, last year, even years ago that I want to write about. I can think of novels, storylines, plays, songs, poems. I overflow with words and clever inspiring subjects. I am witty, entertaining…now I’m definitely veering into fiction.

Then, one day, a newspaper columnist features me in an article. I achieve instant fame. Fame that lasts for just an instant, I might add. I thought I’d get at least 15 minutes, right? I receive emails, hits on my blog site and pats on the back. People stop me in the grocery store. A State Delegate congratulates me. Admirers clamor for my autograph. Ok, I’m getting carried away again.

I think to myself, “Hey, this is fun! I’m going to go write another blog! My public wants more!”

So I go sit with my computer. Nothing. Nada.

I go on my walk for inspiration. Nope. None there.

I park myself in my sunroom. I sit at my computer again. It just sits there with me. Not a word. I put my fingers on the keys. My fingers and the computer are willing, but my mind is a total blank. No direction. No muse. Zero. Zilch.

Friends have made plenty of suggestions. Some are good suggestions and bear consideration. You will probably read about them here one day.
· “Write about cell phones—everyone’s best friend and pet peeve.”

· “Write about your colonoscopy—you could save lives.” (A lofty motive, grant you, but you won’t see pictures here!)

· “Write about your business.”

· “Write about me—I’m interesting. Did I tell you about the time I…”

· “Write about Obama…McCain…Hillary…” I’m sorry, WHO?

· Pap smears (Oh, yeah, lots of humor there!), growing grass, osteoporosis, why leaves change colors—all great topics, no doubt.

I’m just not inspired. .......... Still nothing. ............. Stay tuned! ........... Hey! I just got an idea! Check back in a little while.

Read All About It!

Many thanks today to Kathy VanMullekom of the Daily Press for writing a feature article about "Remember It Now-Knowing I'm Alive" (my blog) in the 'Life Section - Real Women' of today's Daily Press. As of this writing, it is listed as one of the Most Viewed articles for today's dailypress.com.

To view the full article click here.

Blog Is Letter to Her Kids

It is a pictured article, but the pictures are not featured online. I plan to purchase about 100 hard copies (or maybe 10), so if you want one, let me know!

Thanks, Kathy!

Pack Your Bags, Kids!

Kids, Quit your jobs and pack your bags. Never mind, we’ll buy new stuff. Whatever you need, we’ll pick it up as we go. We are going to travel the world! I have come up with an idea that will set us on Easy Street for the next couple of generations.

How many times has a ringing phone sent you on a scavenger hunt against time? You run from room to room searching for the handset only to find it in the garage, out on the patio, under stacks of newspapers or in the dirty clothesbasket ready to be washed. Before you can locate it, voicemail has picked up. You try to play back the message but find that the battery is dead and must be returned to the base to recharge before you can retrieve that important call from the drug store reminding you to pick up the prescription you picked up two days ago.

Are you ready? Here it is. (Drum roll)

I envision a telephone that has a flexible wire connecting the handset to the base of the phone. That way, you will always know where it is and it will stay fully charged and ready to use. How efficient would that be? And you can keep your cell phones for use on-the-go!

It’s so simple. I’m surprised someone hasn’t already thought of it!

Gratuities Cheerfully Accepted

On a recent trip to the San Francisco area, I discovered that Airport Express provides a shuttle that will take me all the way to Rohnert Park for a very reasonable price. It was an hour and half drive, so this seemed a practical alternative to a rental car. The coach was clean; the ride was comfortable and uneventful. What more could a girl ask for?

Over the giant front windshield were two signs. The first was a yellow and black bumper sticker sized message. “Remain Seated for Your Safety.” The sign beside it was larger. The brightly scripted message: “Gratuities Cheerfully Accepted, Thank You.”

I travel quite a bit and, therefore, have a low expectation of courtesy and customer service. And still, I tip. I tip generously. I tell myself that I could be working for tips. I’ve told myself this for years and it has never happened, but it still could, I suppose. So I practice the “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” thing. I always exceed the minimum and there are times I tip far too much just because I want to show kindness.

When I read the gratuities sign, I remembered how, just minutes ago, the driver had thrown my bag into the baggage compartment. At that very moment, I remembered my laptop and asked him if I could retrieve my bag to get it out. His body language left no doubt where he thought I should put my laptop, but he complied grudgingly and I apologized for the trouble. When I disembarked, I tipped him. He was a grumpy old man. Instead of a cheerful, “Thank you,” as promised, the passengers received grunts as we pressed our hard earned dollars into his hand.

On my return a few days later, I waited patiently to board the bus while a party of seniors hugged each other, consoled one another over their latest current ailments and the driver loaded their bags. I saw he was closing the compartments so I said, “Excuse me.” He didn’t hear me. “Excuse me, please. I have a bag to go in there.” He closed the last compartment while I was still trying to get his attention. He finally looked my way. “Excuse me,” I said. “Here’s my bag, please.” Airport Express must teach body language in their training program. His mannerisms, like those of his counterpart a few days before, spoke very clearly indicating where he’d like for me to put my suitcase as he threw it inside the baggage compartment instead and slammed the door.

I found my seat and looked toward the front of the coach. The same neat signs were over the windshield. The first was a yellow and black bumper sticker sized message. “Remain Seated for Your Safety.” The sign beside it was larger. The brightly scripted message: “Gratuities Cheerfully Accepted, Thank You.” Personally, I think Airport Express should add another sign – “Services Grudgingly Rendered.”

But I arrived safely at my destination and that was, after all, what I paid for. Did I keep up my cheerful habit of tipping for substandard service? Nope. Not this time.

(NOTE: I received a very friendly and productive phone call from Airport Express. I would use them again for my transportation needs. Good job, Tony of Airport Express!)

Becoming My Mom

Stop any woman on the street. Ask her about her greatest fear. “I’m afraid I’m becoming my mother!” It’s not that we don’t love our mothers…we do! We love them more than anything. But face it, we grew up with them on a daily basis. How much is a person expected to endure?

Every morning, my mom came into my room interrupting my perfectly good sleep. “Joy, it’s time to get up.” I could ignore her once, twice, even three times. But that woman was persistent. She insisted I get up, eat breakfast, get dressed and go to school at least five days of every week. I hated it! She made me go to church. She made me do dishes. She gave me really mean looks and kicked me under the table when I made comments to embarrass her. Sure enough, when I had kids, I was just as cruel as my mom ever was. Unbelievable.

When my mom goes to the grocery store, she starts at the front and proceeds down the far right aisle. Let’s call this Aisle 1. Then she remembers she needs a loaf of bread, so she cuts across to the other side of the store (Aisle 10) to get the bread. Oh, eggs. She needs a dozen eggs (Aisle 3). Jelly (Aisle 7). Potatoes back to Aisle 1. And so it goes. Every time. It never gets better.

On a recent visit home, we went to Wal-Mart to pick up a bag of pinto beans. She still fixes my favorite meal every time I go home—pinto beans, cornbread and fried potatoes. My dad pulled out a $50 bill. “Dad, I’ve got a 5. I’ll go in with her…I’ve got it covered.” Poor Dad. He just rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sis, you don’t understand.” He parked his body on the bench as though he had been there, done this before. Sure enough, he was right. After several trips criss-crossing the grocery section, we had strawberries, lettuce, ice cream and a host of others items—including the 89 cent bag of pinto beans. We were in the checkout line when she told me to “wait here with the grocery cart. I’ve got to go get some corn meal.” I waited. I waited. I let everyone go ahead of me. I got out of line. I made a phone call. Here came Mom, her arms full of chips and cookies and about a half dozen other items … and just about to drop the entire load … while I stood there with the grocery cart as instructed. Sure enough. She forgot the corn meal and had to go back to Aisle 6.

I swore years ago that this would never happen to me. I would be organized. I would systematically go up one aisle and down the other, choosing my grocery items as I came to them. That worked great. Once, I think. With each backtracking step, I chide myself, “I’m just like my mother. I’m just like my mother. I’m just like my mother.”

But the truth is, I’m not just like Mom. My mom is a remarkable person. She has more talent in her little finger than I could ever hope to emulate. She has written volumes of poetry. Really good stuff. She is witty, funny, and insightful. A sought-after speaker, she decided one day that she just didn’t want to do that anymore…a loss for those who love her wit, wisdom and inspiration. She is an amazing cook. She takes food to people when they are sick or have lost a loved one. She waits on my dad hand and foot. She truly cares about people and they truly care about her. Obviously, I’m not JUST like Mom.

So, why do I fear that I am becoming my mother? Now that I think about it, it sounds like something I should work to achieve!

You Can Bet on Me!

Of course, you can bet on me...everyone else does!

My life insurance company bets I’m going to live (and pay premiums) for a very long time. And I place monthly bets that they are wrong. This is a bet I want them to win; and yet, I bet against them…huh? Remind me—if I win this bet, I win what?

My health insurance company bets I’m going to be sick. I’m betting that I’m going to be sicker than they think I am. They bet I’m going to fear financial ruin enough to pay them huge amounts of money each month. They win.

White Strips bets I’m going to hold a piece of white copier paper up to my teeth when I look in the mirror. They bet that when I do, I’m going to run out and buy their flimsy little peroxide-coated plastic wrap. They win.

Botox bets I want to keep my youthful appearance. They are betting that I will take whatever minimal risk there might be to pay someone to inject a tiny bit of lethal poison into my face. They may be right. We’ll see.

BMW bets that I am going to buy into their materialistic culture of prestige and egotistical philosophy. I fold. They win.

“Your name is Joy? I bet you are cheerful and happy all the time.” (How can someone named Joy be anything less?) I do my best not to let them down. Again, they win.

Want to place your bet on a sure thing? Step up to the table. Bet on me!

Carry Me!

A young man walked by carrying his little girl. She sat perched on his elbow and forearm, her sandaled feet dangling in rhythm to his steps. Her right arm rested comfortably around his neck as she used her left hand to point out those things that she wanted to share with her daddy. Her face was next to his making it easy for either of them to plant a kiss on the other at any given moment.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed when all you see are kneecaps passing by. “Daddy, carry me.” That’s all it took to be swept up from a two-foot-six-inch vantage point to being able to view the world from what seemed to be a mountaintop. Instead of trying to hurry and catch up, suddenly I was effortlessly keeping stride with the crowd. I was being carried. I was safe in Daddy’s arms. I was seeing the world as he saw it. I could squeeze his neck just as hard as I wanted to and feel his strong arms hold me close.

I remember my mom carrying me to bed and telling me stories and tucking me in, saying our prayers at night. I don’t actually remember, but I am sure she carried me on her hip as she fixed dinner or washed the dishes. She carried me when I was tired of walking. She carried me when I cried and needed comfort. I loved to be carried. I loved the security of being held close. I love being loved.

I loved holding my kids, rocking them to sleep, and carrying them in my arms and on my hip. I loved their softness, their scent, the way they fit so snugly in my arms, the way they hugged me as we walked along. I loved holding each of them, in turn, and carrying them until little by little, they didn’t need to be rocked, or carried, or eventually, held on my lap anymore. It was a gradual process and as one got too big to be carried, there was another to take his place, and another. And then there were none.

I miss seeing the newborn baby in his mother’s arms as she pulls back the blanket to show you the cute outfit the child is wearing today. Or the new dad, still a little insecure about how to hold this new life in his strong arms, proudly displaying this little girl who stole his heart so quickly. I miss hearing, “Here, would you like to hold her?” Instead, Mom pushes back the sun visor to show that precious baby scrunched down with its head cocked to the side, harnessed in securely and swinging just a few inches from the ground in a ‘safe’ piece of equipment. Babies now spend hours and hours in this ‘touch-free’ environment.

Does that bother you at all? Or is it just me? Perhaps it’s only because I loved that closeness so very much—as a child and as a parent.

It occurs to me that I have not been carried by anyone now for many years. Granted, it would be a little strange and incredibly awkward. Nor have I carried my children for many years. Again, strange and awkward. But I miss that, don’t you?

I suppose the next time I am carried—a very long time from now, I hope—it will take six men to do the job. I won’t feel the closeness or the comfort. I won’t feel anything at all. That’s incredibly strange and awkward!

However, I will be watching from a mountain top view, carried in the arms of the One who loves me the most. Talk about comfort and safety!!

The Hare, The Maltese and The Princess

As we approached the Princess’ castle, (Ok, it was Sara’s condo.) we heard Gracie (the Maltese) barking frantically. This was not her typical ‘Hurry up! I can’t wait to jump all over you’ bark from inside the front door. This was frantic. It was more like, ‘Get out here quick! You’ve got to see this and do something about it’ from-outside-on-the-patio bark. Gracie actually communicates quite well for a dog.

Sara went out to see what caused all the commotion. Within seconds, I heard her shriek as only a princess can. “Mom! Go out there and see what that is!” she screeched as she ran inside and slammed the door behind her clutching Gracie tightly to her chest. “Hurry!”

There are things that I will hurry to do. I will hurry to Macy’s to use my 20% off coupon. I will hurry to Dillard’s to get those shoes I saw yesterday. I will hurry to take a shower when I’m running late. My list of things-I-will-hurry-to-do does not include running through her back door into her small-enclosed patio to investigate “what that is.”

“What does it look like?” You’ve got to start somewhere, right?
“I don’t know. It’s I think its an animal.” She thinks it’s an animal?—as opposed to a vegetable or a rock?
“How big is it?” This is an important bit of information if I’m going to consider going out there.
“I don’t know. But I think something is wrong with it.” I’m hoping for a small chipped rock or a wilted carrot.
I made my decision. “I’m not going out there, Sara.”
“Mom, you HAVE to! We can’t just leave it there.”
“Oh, but we can. And we are going to.”
“Mo-om.” The two-syllabled ‘mom’ gets me every time.
“Ok. But you’re coming with me...and leave Gracie inside.”

So the brave hunter and the timid Princess carefully opened the door and crept silently in the direction of the corner of the fence where the unidentified—apparently injured—creature was lying on its back, all four legs twitching in the air.

“What are you going to do?” the princess whispered in my ear while standing safely and closely behind me.
“I’m not going to do anything. It’s dying,” I whispered back lest the six-inch beast suddenly jump up and attack us.
“You have to do something. How do you know it’s dying?”
“I’m a mother. We know these things. But I’m not doing anything. I’m not ITS mother.”

About this time, the unidentified dying creature staggered to an upright position sending us screaming and running to the safety of the castle.

Peeking through the closed blinds (you can never be too careful), we squealed like girls as the baby bunny shuttered and fell to his back with all fours in the air again.

“Mom, you have to do something. That thing can’t die on my patio.”
“It is dying on your patio. Get over it.”
“You have to get it off!!”
“And just how do you propose that WE do that?”
“I don’t know. You just go pick it up and throw it over the (eight-foot privacy) fence.”
“You have got to be kidding. I’m not touching it. Do you have a shovel?”
“You’re not going to beat it to death, are you?” asked the wide-eyed Princess.

We went to the tool shed and surveyed her pathetic choice of gardening instruments. (Idea!) “Do you have a pitchfork?” asked the evil mother.
“Mom! You wouldn’t!”
“Nah! I was just kidding. Hand me that BBQ skewer.”

Eventually we found a pair of garden gloves. After several attempts to approach the dying creature and just as many retreats, I scooped the pitiful thing up in my heavily gloved hands and fearfully carried it out the patio gate and gently set it beside the big oak tree.

Locking the gate securely, we pulled the hot tub steps over to the fence so we could observe from a safe vantage point. Against her protests of, “It’s going to die. It doesn’t need water! Don’t go out there!” I took a small bowl of water and set it near the critical creature and we went to Starbucks to calm our frayed nerves.

When we returned, we carefully mounted the hot tub steps and peered cautiously over the fence. The bunny was gone. I like to think we saved a life that day…or perhaps we just provided some predator with a convenient and tasty snack.