Knowing I'm Alive

Measuring Success

2010-03-13T11:41:00.006-05:00

I recently asked for comments on success and how to know when you are successful. The replies were interesting though somewhat predictable. Being able to say "Yes" to many things. A healthy and loving family with resources to take care of them and to give to others. Being blessed and realizing that all you have comes from a loving God.

I agree with each reply I received. However, I don't always have the same thought processes that others have. As I reflect over the meaning of success in terms of my life, I would have to say that the bar has been raised over time...always just beyond my grasp.

While others celebrated a report card sprinkled with 'A's, I was glad to receive the 'A' but never felt the need to celebrate something so easily attained. That said, a 'B' could easily send me into a tailspin.

Raised in a single bathroom home, I felt that a one-and-half bath home was surely a sign of fortune and success. By that measure, I am most certainly successful today with three full baths.

The wherewithal to stock those bathrooms with supplies adds a layer of success. I remember when we had to call for help in our most compromising situations. One had to yell loud enough to ask a family member to bring a partial roll of toilet paper from another bathroom before we could finish the paper work and be on our way. I have carried my toothbrush to another bathroom for a squirt of toothpaste.

No more. I now have 36 rolls of toilet paper and six tubes of toothpaste in the closet with 12 bars of soap, six deodorants and 10 rolls of paper towels. But am I successful?

I have gone through the sofa, chairs and car seats looking for enough change to go get a loaf of bread. No more. I have baskets and coin dishes all over the house literally overflowing with change. But now I need $20's. However, I can conveniently go to the bank and that neat little machine just spits out $20 bills.

I once thought driving a car that used more gas than oil would mean that I had achieved success. Now I drive the latest BMW. It never uses oil and gets great gas mileage.

The reason I need to define success is so I will recognize it if I ever meet it. Every time I set the bar and reach it, it just seems too easy. It is never a huge accomplishment. It was just the last in a series of small steps taken in the same direction that got me to where I am. Just one more small step. When I've reached the mountain top, I've seldom looked back to see the distance I've come. I only seem to see the next higher peak in the distance and set my sights on it.

I've heard that I am successful. I've been introduced as "a successful business woman." I think to myself, "Not yet. Maybe someday. I hope. Just let me get to the next level."

Anyone home in New Jersey?

2009-09-25T13:44:00.010-04:00

So, I'm driving south and east to North Carolina. I'm cruising along just above the speed limit. Heading down the main highway to the Outerbanks in general and Duck, North Carolina, in particular. I was listening to my CD-of-the-month on various management intelligence ideas and the latest in marketing psychology. Aside from that, this promised to be a fun "girls' weekend" filled with food, adventure and gossip.

So, as I'm driving along completely immersed in this captivating and informational material, I begin to notice that there are a lot of cars that are loaded down with stuff. I'm not talking about just full of people and their belongings--which they were--but literally loaded down. Think Clampetts here. That's what I was thinking. Tops of cars were packed with heaven knows what, covered by blue plastic tarps, clear plastic tarps and by nothing, but all secured with bungee cords. Loose corners of tarps flapped freely in the wind as suitcases threatened to break free and fly directly into the windshield of any vehicle brave enough to follow too closely.

I would not have been terribly surprised to see Granny strapped to the top in her rocking chair. However, there were bicycle racks hanging off the backs of many of these vehicles. Some had three or four bicycles suspended securely, but bouncing precariously.

Thinking of black gold and Texas tea, I did a double take when I saw a New Jersey license plate on one of these loaded SUVs. (Sorry, West Virginia, my first thoughts were of you!)

Then I began to notice that three out of five cars I passed were from New Jersey. What's with that? Why the mass exodus from New Jersey? "Its the beach," I thought. But these people had just driven--what?--four or five hundred miles down the coast past miles and miles of beach to get here. For heaven's sake! They have their own beaches! They call these sandy stretches of oceanfront "the shore," but they are beaches nonetheless.

Arriving at my friend's beautiful resort home, I walked back out to the highway just to verify my premise. "The girls" came out to see what I was doing and they concurred. Something was definitely going on. I don't mean to incite drama here, but what would YOU think?

Conducting an impromptu survey, I began to ask these New Jerseyites, "Why are so many of you here?" This was not the southern hospitality they expected. Obviously. "Ya gotta problem wid it?" "Whatcha lookin' at?" "You never seen anyone from Joisey before?" "Git outta m'face, lady!"

Welcoming them warmly to North Carolina, I suggested that IF I were so inclined, with so many from New Jersey visiting our beaches (Ok, I'm from Virgina, but close to North Carolina) this would be an opportune time for someone predisposed to burglary and larceny to score big time in New Jersey. Apparently few people remained at home there.

Admittedly, even I was surprised when a large group of these visitors looked around at each other and ran for their cars which were last seen heading north at excessive speeds.

I'm shocked I was the only one to think of that!

(FULL DISCLOSURE: Parts of this blog are true.)

Tomatoes and Wrinkles and Beggars, Oh My!

2009-07-29T18:39:00.004-04:00

Part I - Tomatoes

Having paid $2.99 per pound for reddish tasteless tomatoes, I decided that this year I would grow my own. Memories of walking to the garden on a hot July day to pick a bright red juicy tomato came to mind. I know I was seven or eight years old because that's when we had a big garden. I would choose the most perfect tomato I could find, rinse it off with the garden hose--not to be sure it was clean, but rather so the salt would stick to the first bite. Then I sprinkled a little salt on it (ok, a lot of salt) and took a bite. It was better than biting into an apple. I then added more salt, took another bite, add more salt, another bite. When the fruit (vegetable? I was never sure) was gone, I'd rinse off my face and hands with the garden hose and quickly move on to the day's next distraction.

In buying those two tiny plants a couple of months ago, I had that picture in mind. Living in the city with a beautiful backyard, I chose as my garden plot a large planter. I filled my garden with enriched potting soil, added water, carefully bedded my two tomato plants and waited. I watered daily and within a very few days, my plants needed support.

It was suggested to me that I go to Ace Hardware and purchase tomato stakes. Are you kidding me?? My mother never purchased tomato stakes. She used what she had at hand--broomsticks, mop handles, whatever. What I have, that she did not, is an abundant supply of bamboo growing in my beautiful backyard. So I harvested some green bamboo as supports for my hearty and growing tomato plants.

Within a few short weeks (much sooner than I anticipated) I began to enjoy the fruits (vegetables?) of my labor. The plants became heavy-laden with tomatoes...much smaller than at first, but plentiful. I walked out one morning to find my tall, beautiful plants had fallen over into the nearby boxwood shrubs. The bamboo supporting my bounty had dried up and broken under the heavy load.

Lesson learned: Your venture may exceed your expectations. Invest in a good support system.

Tomatoes and Wrinkles and Beggars, Oh My!

2009-07-29T18:36:00.004-04:00

Part II - Wrinkles

I remember my first wrinkle. I still have it, in fact. It appeared near my right eye. And it had a twin…near my left eye. Then came all the siblings. When you are 25, they are called “laugh lines” and no one is concerned too much about them. However, as the years pass and you realize that they are here to stay and they are increasing in number, depth and intensity, you begin to worry.

This worry, of course, along with fading vision, causes you to knit your brow in great concern as you look more closely in the magnifying mirror. You no longer see anything to laugh about as you examine the “worry lines” that have formed on your forehead and over the bridge of your nose.

What happens when you worry? You frown, of course, causing…you know where this going…frown lines around your mouth.

Now you’re not laughing. You would think, therefore, that the laugh lines would vanish. Not so. Now you are frowning because you are worried about not laughing. And you wish you had not laughed so much early in life. That’s what started all this!

Lesson learned: Forget that you once said, “I’ll never inject poison into my face.” Schedule a Botox party and bring laughter back into your life.

Tomatoes and Wrinkles and Beggars, Oh My!

2009-07-25T10:54:00.013-04:00

Part III - Beggars

I was at a stoplight and in the median was a filthy beggar with one leg, a wheelchair and sign that said, “I love Jesus and I am hungry.”

Several years ago, I decided that if I had any cash or change with me (there are times I do not, and I’m not handing out credit cards) I would give something to every beggar I come across. I also determined to contribute something to every Salvation Army bell ringer I pass by during the holidays. I am sure there have been exceptions, but I try to make good on my commitment.

You must understand. I’ve never been accused of being a compassionate person. In general, I figure if I work for my money, you can work for yours. If I manage to provide for myself, so can you.

But beggars are different. They have no hope that tomorrow will be a better day. Perhaps they’ve “had their moments.” I can’t pretend to imagine what their life is like. Blind, crippled, mentally incompetent, hopeless. The latter, perhaps, being the most debilitating of all.

They most likely will waste my dollar on something I would prefer they not. They probably will not tithe to the church or put a part of it away for a rainy day. Chances are that they will not buy nourishing food. That’s their decision. My decision is to share a tiny bit of all that’s been given to me.

Lesson learned: I gave my dollar or two, not because he was hungry or even because he loved Jesus. I gave my dollar because I have hope of having more.

My Competition

2009-05-09T11:38:00.005-04:00

I'm not one you would consider a competitor.

I don't enter contests I can't win. I don't pick fights. When I must, I choose my battles carefully. I'm not a good loser. My passion is to win! Therefore, for the most part, I choose not to compete.

However, there is one person in my life with whom I find myself in constant competition. This person is a very formidable foe. This competitor plays a shrewd game and does not always play fairly.

The game is ongoing and informal. Therefore, there are no ground rules. No rules of etiquette. No time-outs.

With a full bags of dirty tricks, she pulls them out at the most inopportune times. She knows my weak spots and plays to them at every juncture. She plays mind games with me. She talks trash. Just one discouraging word from the sidelines and she makes sure I hear it and she repeats it over and over--just in case I might forget. The slightest stumble and she is there to point it out.

Ah! But I am learning her tricks. I am learning to sidestep her daunting remarks.

Every competitor needs fans. I have mine. I hear my fans from the sidelines...Think positive thoughts. Don't even think those negative thoughts. You're winning. Keep running! So what if you stumbled? You're still on your feet.

I think she will always be there to remind me, to goad me on. In fact, as long as I stay ahead of her, she keeps me stronger. We're becoming pretty good friends, my competitor and I. I'm even learning to like her. She's eased up on me a bit, but keeps me humble, nonetheless.

My strongest competitor is..ME!

Mother of the Year

Happy Birthday to Me!

2009-05-01T17:25:00.007-04:00

Yes. Today is my birthday. Don't bother calling or emailing or sending gifts and cards if you have not done so already. It's OK. Really. I just have a couple of things I need to get off my chest. (Not those things! What are you thinking??!!)

I'm completely confused by birthdays. Yes, its nice to have them and to have friends remember you. It's nice to receive gifts from your children after their father reminds and threatens them. But after you pass 21, birthdays somehow become insignificant. There are no landmark birthdays for many, many years after that. So why do we find it so important to keep count? So we can save 10% on a cup of McDonald's coffee? I think not.

Why do people think they need to know "how old you are?" Knowing that number will affect their lives how?

And yet, I don't want to stop having birthdays (i.e. stop living). I have known too many people who have done just that. It is not a good alternative.

I just want to quit counting them. I'm not as old as that awful number sounds. Seriously. I'm not. In fact, I did a body age test at the gym. My body is a full 10 years younger than my so-called chronological age. So when people ask, "how old are you?" are they asking how old is my body according to strength and agility? Or are they asking how long have I been alive? Should I count the nine months pre-birth? Or should I count only those years I remember?

How about asking how old do I feel? That's a good question and I can answer it truthfully without grimacing or stuttering. That would relieve me of the moral dilemma I face when I want so badly to lie.

I really don't care about senior discounts--not that I am old enough for them--but I see that time looming in the distant future. I resent some 12 year-old behind the counter asking if I want the senior discount. Money is not everything. I know people who lie to GET that discount. Give me a break!

Retirement sounds like a horrible idea. I'm just learning how to live! With all this accumulated experience, knowledge and wisdom, I am finally equipped to do something with my life. "In my end is my beginning."

I've never felt better about life, about myself and what I'm doing. So, don't ask me how old I am. Don't try to guess. (If you must guess, guess 'way low or duck when you say it.) Don't ask how old my children are or how long I've been married. Just let me enjoy today. Everyday. Quit counting.

Thank you. I'm glad to get that off my chest.

Seriously, you can send gifts. It's OK!!!

Terror!

2009-03-22T16:25:00.006-04:00

I shivered as I curled up under my luxurious cashmere throw. I wore two sweatshirts, sweatpants and socks. And yet, I was cold. I got out a heating pad, turned it on high and put it on my feet.

I was reading "the Terror" by Dan Simmons. I am a historical novel junkie. I prefer novels based on medieval England or Biblical characters, so this one was a few centuries outside my favorite genre.

The basis for the book was the mid-nineteenth century Arctic expedition commanded by Sir John Franklin and Sir Francis Crozier. With two ships (the HMS Erebus and the HMS Terror) rigged for ice exploration and a crew of 125 souls, they set out to discover the elusive Northwest Passage. Suffice it to say, things did not go as planned. They were frozen solidly in place for two years without the expected summer thaws. They endured, not months, but years, of sub-zero weather, dwindling food, coal and rum supplies, mutinous uprisings, frostbite, long periods of 24 hours of darkness, followed by long periods of 24 hours with the brightest sunshine reflecting off the frozen tundra of ice and snow. They experienced the most harsh weather conditions Planet Earth has to offer. They succumbed to scurvy, overcrowded conditions, a horrendous lack of sanitation...you get the picture. And the "thing." The "thing" was ever watching, ever mindful of their presence; ever lurking to destroy every creature that breathed the cold desolate air.

Now, if this had been their first expedition, I might understand. (For some in the crew, it was indeed their first experience--and last, I might add.) But many of these men had been on numerous similarly dangerous adventures. I have to wonder, what drives humans beyond the expectation of a comfortable and safe life? What about the unknown inspires some to leave home and hearth, safety and comfort to risk their very lives to explore the frozen vacuity of Antarctica or the Arctic to search for the Northwest Passage? Why would one sail across an ocean with merely a hope that one will not drop off some far distant edge into never ending nothingness?

I am quite sure that, left up to me, we would all still be speaking some form of Hebrew and living on a very small parcel of overcrowded land somewhere between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. Not that I totally lack any sense of adventure or discovery. I am currently on a quest for the perfect white blouse. I will leave no store in the mall unexplored until I find it.

Economic Stimulus

2009-02-16T15:19:00.008-05:00

Frankly, I'm a little weary of the phrase. There are others that are beginning to bore me as well.

Sluggish economy. Lagging sales figures. Retail sales continue to plummet.

Excuse me! I don't want to understate the catastrophic economy or minimize the doom and gloom that we currently thrive on, but do any of these researchers and pundits ever try going to the mall?

I went to the mall on Saturday, expecting to bop in and bop out quickly--given the gravity of our situation. I saw in the paper that Dillard's was having a shoe sale...50-70% off, no less! Since I recently cleaned my closet and passed 32 pairs of shoes to charity, I have empty spaces on my shoe racks...lots and lots of empty spaces...and feel a real need to fill the vacuum. Realizing that we are in dire straits in our country, I felt a little guilty about going out to spend money.

But face it, my friends, I'm an American. I can only control the urge to shop for so long.

I headed off to the mall with only a short amount of time before my next appointment. I literally drove around for twenty minutes trying to find a parking spot. I followed package bearing shoppers to their cars hoping for a spot. They were only dropping off the load so they could go back for more.

When I finally found a spot 'way out on the edge of nowhere, I was running short on time, but not determination. Not only were shoes on sale, but so were jewelry, clothing, bedspreads...everything!!

I'm thinking Dillard's, Macy's, Dick's, Kay Jewelers and others sparked their own Economic Stimulus package for a mere fraction of the cost of the Congressional version.

They did this for the price of a newspaper ad. What a concept!

Can You Help Me, Please?

2009-02-16T14:55:00.005-05:00

I work hard to provide good customer service...even if I don't work at the place! I must have a friendly face (or look like I belong in the mall) because I often have people stop me and ask questions.

"Excuse me, where did you get that pretzel?"
"Auntie Anne's...and they've got amazing hot dogs there as well. Have you ever had one of them? They are located in the food court near Chic-fil-a."

"Where did you get that coat? It's beautiful!"
"I got it at Bebe. They're having a great sale now. You ought to check it out."

"Where is Victoria's Secret?"
I guess they figure I would know since I closely resemble the "Angels" they are accustomed to seeing on TV. So, I, of course, proceed to explain that I love the new line of bras that just came out. And, by the way, go left at the center court and it is the third store on the right.

On the other hand, when I ask a question, this is the more likely response:

"Can you tell me if you have.." "No."
"It's a little box that gift..." "No."
"They are about this size and... "No. We don't have them." End of discussion.
I go exploring on my own and, guess what...I find what I need within 25 feet of the 'salesperson.'

I was in Costco the other day and bought some shampoo and conditioner that indicated there was a $2 coupon I could use for each of them. That's 4 bucks! So I figured it was worth a little effort.

I left my half full cart where it was and went to the customer service desk. I quickly asked the customer service lady (just before she motioned for the next customer) if I could ask a quick question. She granted me permission. "Do you have a coupon brochure that I can have?" "Yes," she answered, "but you'll have to wait until I take care of this gentleman." So I stand calmly as as she takes literally 7 1/2 minutes (I timed it) to answer his question.

Then she turns to me. "May I help you?" "Yes. I need a coupon." "Oh, yeah." In one nano second, just one...she reached down and handed me the coupon book.

Hmmmmmm...

Wow!

2009-01-25T21:13:00.006-05:00

Be honest. You've been tempted--as I have been. There is something fascinating about the fact that you could actually experience this. You find it titillating that others have tried it and you have not. How many times have I (and you, let's be honest here) seriously considered picking up the phone and dialing that number? I've had a great desire to do so, but just could never carry through. As a result of my reluctance, I've always felt that somehow I was missing out on one of life's great experiences.

Well, last week, I attended a trade show in Las Vegas. As I wandered aimlessly through the thousands of booths, overwhelmed and feeling lost, I was drawn to a particular booth where a live demonstration was being conducted. Right there in front of my very eyes, I witnessed the marvel take place. No trick photography. No slight of hand. I was in the second row of a growing crowd of gawkers. I'm not easily persuaded. I'm a skeptic. And I like to hang on to my money. But this was truly amazing.

I watched in awe as the young man poured a half liter of Sam's Cola on the counter and soaked it up with just one swipe of this amazing cloth. My jaw dropped when I saw this miracle product slurp up the cola from the patch of white carpet leaving no trace on the carpet or the surface beneath it.

Then came the time of reckoning. This young evangelist asked for a commitment. Explaining that by taking advantage of this outstanding opportunity, I would not have to pay shipping and handling because I would walk away with the amazing product. He had me. I'd always wanted one...and here it was less than five feet from my grasp.

But wait! That's not all! If I would put my hand inside my purse and bring out my money or credit card right now within the next 15 seconds, he would double the offer!! I was so excited! I could have one for every member of my family and still have enough to last me a lifetime. Look at what I would save in paper towels alone! Only seven of us out of the crowd of, say, fifteen or twenty potential proselytes made the cut. And I was one.

After signing my credit card receipt for just $25 plus tax, I walked away with four giant-sized (which I can cut into as many pieces as I want) and four handy kitchen-sized Sham-Wows! Well, except they weren't exactly Sham-Wows but a very convincing generic.

And, well, I had to carry these giant bright yellow and blue things with me throughout the show for the rest of the day. They did, however, spawn many interesting conversations.

People stopped to ask where the Sham-Wow booth was. (I could not have found my way back there if I tried.) They asked if the guy from TV was there. (No. But this guy was even better!) I was asked if they were giving the cloths away for free. (I wish!) They asked if I liked them. (Unfortunately, I hadn't spilled anything yet.) I was asked if the word across my forehead was really S-U-C-K-E-R. (Pretty sure that was the case.)

I can't wait to wash my car...but it's too cold. Oh, yeah. I pay someone to do that for me. I keep hoping to spill something major, but can't even remember the last time that happened. I'm trying to recall all those incredible things he said these Sham-Wow knockoffs were perfect for.

So here I sit with four giant-sized and four convenient kitchen-sized amazing towel-like shams and all I can think is, "Wow! He was good."

No Shoes This Week

2009-01-06T21:31:00.008-05:00

It had been 38 hours since my last Diet Coke. I was a junkie desperate for a fix. I stopped at 7-11 for a Big Gulp. I inhaled deeply and eagerly on the straw. I felt a certain euphoria as the ice cold fix of caffeine coursed through my veins. My mood improved. My energy increased. I was ready to shop!

As I entered Hilton Village, I recognized the 25 MPH sign as my reminder to slow down...which I began to do immediately. Honest. I did. But not soon enough. At the same moment, I recognized the car sitting in the parking lot. Inside the car was one of my fair city's finest dressed in blue. My passing by seemed to activate the flashing blue lights on top of the vehicle. It pulled effortlessly in behind me.

I worked my way ever so slowly to the right lane then turned reluctantly onto the side street. Seeing the blonde ponytail hanging from the blue cap, I knew that no amount of tears was going to dissuade this public servant from her mission. Her voice was soft and very kind as she requested to see my license and registration. Then she calmly explained that I was traveling 41 in a 25 mile zone.

I began to explain. "I realized I was going too fast as soon as I saw the sign. I mean, I always forget to slow down when I pass through here. Never mind, I think I'll be quiet now."

I seem to remember blogging (See "Living Outside the Law" 9/16/08) about how we should be thankful when we see someone pulled over. I made some insane comment about "if not for them, it could have been me."

I just hope someone said a word of thanks as they passed by me on Saturday. I hope they understood and acknowledged that they were driving too quickly by, on their way to the mall, only because I was keeping Officer Cooper occupied. The sacrifices I make for you people!

That caffeine rush cost me two pairs of shoes!

It Wasn't Santa Claus

2008-12-30T14:08:00.005-05:00

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

2008-12-03T08:55:00.007-05:00

“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

2008-11-26T09:21:00.007-05:00

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

2008-11-24T16:14:00.013-05:00

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

2008-11-13T15:20:00.013-05:00

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

2008-11-03T16:16:00.015-05:00

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!

2008-10-27T10:47:00.022-04:00

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

2008-10-10T18:10:00.010-04:00

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:

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

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

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

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

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.

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

I work unbelievable hours.

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

I care what you think of me.

My other favorite food is cake.

I consider corn chips a vegetable.

I need constant affirmation. (Hint! Hint!)

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

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

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

I love attention.

I enjoy seeing myself on TV, in magazines, and in the newspaper.
I have 81 pairs of shoes. 47 of them are black.
I enjoy reading Sara's blog almost more than my own. Sara's Blog Here
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

2008-10-03T16:16:00.009-04:00

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

2008-09-27T16:26:00.004-04:00

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

2008-09-20T13:54:00.007-04:00

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

2008-09-16T19:12:00.011-04:00

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

2008-09-02T23:18:00.023-04:00

"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

2008-08-30T13:13:00.013-04:00

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

2008-08-27T23:35:00.007-04:00

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?

2008-08-25T09:35:00.006-04:00

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!

2008-08-17T19:16:00.008-04:00

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!

2008-08-11T16:28:00.004-04:00

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!

2008-08-06T11:59:00.007-04:00

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

2008-08-05T10:39:00.008-04:00

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!

2008-07-31T08:01:00.008-04:00

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!

2008-07-30T17:40:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-27T14:24:00.015-04:00

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

2008-07-24T10:17:00.007-04:00

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!

2008-07-22T14:39:00.005-04:00

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!

2008-07-20T22:33:00.006-04:00

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

2008-07-15T21:45:00.014-04:00

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.

Salt of the Earth

2008-07-12T17:50:00.013-04:00

The year was 1984. This was the day Peter would surrender the last vestige of his symbolic protest against the Establishment. An avid hippie in his youth, Peter had long ago, little by little, over two decades moved into the mainstream of corporate quagmire. Leaving behind his social concerns and socialistic ideology, Peter had for quite some time had a healthy bank account and assets to be envied by the established elite.

You see, Peter remembered hearing as a child, “You are the salt of the earth.” One day as he worked behind the counter of the local movie theater, he over salted the popcorn. Moviegoers by the scores returned to the concession area for soft drinks. When he observed the phenomenon, Peter began to over-salt the popped delicacy routinely and on purpose…and he raised the price on soft drinks. Astounded, he realized that he could not out price his thirsty customers’ willingness to pay exorbitant amounts of cash. Who would have believed it? Movie patrons were not only willing, but standing in line, to spend $5 for a fifty-cent drink and another $5 for a fifteen cent bag of Peter’s salty snack!

But today would be the day that Peter would surrender his thinning gray scraggly ponytail for a chic trendy haircut to compliment his custom Armani suit. Yes, my fellow movie fans, you know this gentleman best by his popular moniker—Salt Peter.

(Note: I realize you found this article confusing given my usual blogs written about my thoughts. This is just a fun piece I wrote one day. While doing some research, I came across the term "saltpeter" (feel free to google it) and this whole funny concept just came to me. Call it creative writing. You've heard of that, right?)

Moby Dick, a Rowboat and Tartar Sauce

2008-07-10T22:15:00.016-04:00

That’s how I would describe my feelings right now…I am going after Moby Dick in a rowboat with my fork and little jar of tartar sauce! How’s that for optimism?

I have launched into the deep armed with a business license hooked onto an idea. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a good idea. I take that back, it’s a GREAT idea. I’m so excited about it that I splash all over myself trying to get everything done. I have my notebook, my ever-growing checklist and an ocean of tasks ahead of me. My little boat rocks from time-to-time and I get the occasional wave of nausea, but I see land ahead and can’t wait to get there.

Yes, I have started my own business. (For those of you who take me so literally, I feel I must explain that I am not actually going fishing for a whale.) Not because no one would give me a job, mind you, but because I decided that I need to make my own decisions. I was weary of stressing out because it was never enough. I was tired of working long, long hours then staying awake at night worrying about tomorrow. And the irony is, I loved my job so incredibly much! But I knew it was killing my spirit. I had allowed it to rob me of my joy. (No pun intended!)

I must say that I prefer what I am doing now. I feel adequate. I feel empowered. I pat myself on the back. Good job, Joy! I am meeting my goals. I am accomplishing more every single day. I enjoy working long, long hours even though I am currently putting zero money into my bank account; I am doing it for me! I am doing it because I know I can do for myself what I have done for others all these years.

I have a small, but supportive volunteer crew. (You are volunteering, right?) Many, many thanks to those who listen, ENCOURAGE and offer suggestions. Each day I move a little closer and gain a bit of confidence that I can really do this.

Each time I eat a Filet ‘o Fish sandwich at McDonalds, I think of you!!

How Old Will I Be?

2008-07-07T12:56:00.005-04:00

Call me strange. Call me neurotic. Obsessive. Quirky. Sick. Want to see me with that “deer in the headlights” look in my eyes? Ask me how old I am and I become paralyzed as I start searching for a way to escape. I want to lie…and I keep that option open. But what I really want is to ask you, “Is there a reason you need to know?”

I despise those questionnaires that we all have to fill out almost on a daily basis.. Name, Address, City, State, Zip, Phone Number, Cell Phone Number, Email Address, Date of Birth. Whoa! Back up the truck there, Pete! Date of Birth?? Date of Birth???This inquiry causes me to break out in a cold sweat—Who wants to know? Why? Do I have to answer this question? I look around to see if anyone is watching. My hands tremble. My heart races. My breathing becomes shallow. My mouth goes dry. All color drains from my face. Tears begin to run down my cheeks. Slobber trickles down my chin. I’m in the throes of a full-blown panic attack.

Come on…Do you really need to know how old I am to sign up for your free newsletter? Does my age matter if I am opening a bank account? Or applying for yet another credit card? I mean, these people can plug my name into Google and find out more about me than even I want to know. My age should be low on their priority list.

I suggest that we stop asking that horrible, intrusive question. If it is a legal issue, just ask, “Are you of legal age to sign a binding contract in your state or locality?” If relevant, ask simply, “Are you over the age of 18?”

Again, I raise the query, “Who wants to know and why do they care?”

At what age will I start bragging about my age…again?

I was in line behind a little lady the other day. I was really quite annoyed with her anyway. As she took each item out of her cart, she folded it nicely and handed it to the cashier along with an explanation of why she felt compelled to purchase each article. “This rug will go beautifully with the wallpaper in my bathroom. This kitchen towel is exactly what I’ve been looking for. I collect chickens, you know.” On and on and on. Finally, as eternity was just ringing the last bell, she was finished. Did she pay by credit card like the rest of us? Oh, no! She pulled out her checkbook and started digging in her antique bag for a pen. “How do you spell Value City? Does it have an ‘e’? Is it one word or two?” (I’m thinking, “Who gives a care? Just sign the check.”)

Then, of course, the cashier had to ask for an ID. (Now, have you ever wondered why they do this? How does a photo ID affirm if the check is good? Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask for a copy of your last bank statement? Prove you actually have the cash to back up the check?) Of course, my little old annoying lady had to dig in her purse to find her wallet. As she handed over her driver’s license (yeah, that in itself is scary), she remarked that she would be 90 years old on Tuesday.

Don’t we quit saying that when we are 12? “I’ll be 13 next week.” Those were the days when we just could not wait to be one year older. I don’t remember the last time I was inclined to say, “I’ll be ___ years old next week.” I can’t imagine when I will be ready to say it again.

Perhaps when I am 89, I will have reached the age once again that I just can’t wait to be one year older.

Pick Up Line with a Twist

2008-06-26T11:23:00.008-04:00

I guess it was to be expected….

Walking the trail, I see all sorts of people. Most folks greet you with a blink-nod. This is just the slightest nod of acknowledgement. The head is lowered in a nanosecond nod that is barely discernable to the naked eye. Runners are more apt to say something like, “Hey.” This is southern talk for “’Mornin’. Hope y’all are doing well today and, by the way, how’s the family?”

Here are some of the people I have met—passed—on the trail:

Flaming Senior – This lady is perhaps 80 years old. Dresses in bright yellow spandex short shorts with no underwear. Don’t ask. You can just tell. Shocking purple tank top. Don’t even ask. And flaming red hair that is totally out of control. She can outrun me any day.

Asian Belly Slapper – Beautiful petite lady. I see her regardless of the time of day I walk. Whether I go to the left or to the right, I pass her in the oncoming traffic. She slaps her belly with alternate hands in sync with each jogging footstep.

Distinguished Overachiever – A nice looking man in his early sixties. He runs 12 miles several times a week over the rough trail. I see him often and we speak occasionally at the end of the trail. I asked him about the effect this has on his knees (not the effect of talking to me – the stress from running!). He has to ice his knees down every single night. And yet, he keeps running.

One day, a man was jogging toward me. We exchanged polite blink-nods accompanied by, “Hey.” Now, I’ve got to tell you. This was one hot guy. Not that I notice such things. He was just a bit younger than me—probably in his mid-thirty’s. Did I mention he was ripped? We’re talking pecs and six-pack here. Not that I notice such things.

After he passed by, I heard his steps slow. Then I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. Rather than passing me, he fell into step beside me.

“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. (“Well, hel-lo, there!” I thought!)
“How ya doin’?” he asked.
“Great. And you?”
“I’m fine.”
(“You certainly are!” thought I.) But aloud I said, “That’s good.”
“So….do you walk the trail often?”
“A couple of times a week,” I answered.
“Do you always walk in the evening?”
(When would you like me to walk?) “No. I just walk whenever I can make the time.”
“Oh,” he said. Was it my imagination or did he sound disappointed?
“Can I ask you a question?”
I knew I was going to have to break his heart eventually, but he was just SO cute!
“Sure.”
“Are you married?”
Oh! My goodness! Was this really happening to me? Pinch me! I know I’m not dreaming because I’m not snoring! Do I have to tell the truth? Does it really matter? This is quite flattering. It took me ‘way too long to answer.
“Yes. I am.” (I’m thinking…and I have been since you were in kindergarten!)
“Oh,” he said. This time I’d swear he sounded genuinely disappointed.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, my mom died about four months ago and my dad is so lonely. I just thought maybe I could introduce you to him.”
“You know,” I replied, “I just passed a lady you might be interested in. If you run real fast, you'll be able to catch up with her. She’s wearing bright yellow spandex shorts.”

Kidnapped

2008-06-23T20:33:00.005-04:00

I never claimed to be a genius. I was, however, a Bible-bred and raised Baptist preacher’s kid. I was outgoing, evangelistic and well versed in the Romans Road. I never met a stranger I didn’t invite to church.

“If you were to die tonight and stand before God, and He were to ask you, ‘Why should I allow you to enter my Heaven?’ what would you answer Him?” There is only one right answer to that question. Answer it incorrectly and I could unload the entire Plan in 7 minutes and 37 seconds. So don’t judge me too harshly for what happened.

It was the summer after my senior year in high school. I was at Disneyland with a group of church friends on a Saturday night. Remember the Tiki Hut? Animated fake birds drop from the ceiling and pop out of every corner totem pole singing songs and wisecracking jokes. I was seated on the front row of my section and facing me on the front row of the opposing section was a really cute guy. Every time I looked in his direction, he was looking in my direction. Each time our eyes met, we flashed increasingly brave – brazen – smiles. When my friends and I walked out, sure enough, he was waiting for me. He and his friend introduced themselves to me and my friends.

After a brief conversation, I invited them to attend our church the next evening. They said, “We’ll be there.”

And they came. I introduced them to the others in the youth group and to my parents as well. After church every Sunday night, all of us kids went to McDonalds. It was a ritual. This evening was no exception. So, naturally, we invited the new guys.

My new friends invited me to ride with them and show them the way. I was glad to hop in the middle and ride on the console of this late model silver Corvette. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I said, “Turn left.” He turned right. I laughed and explained that McDonalds was the other direction. He said he needed to go get gas. But he didn’t.

We traveled farther and farther from McDonalds and my close group of friends. I like to think that at some point, someone asked, “Where’s Joy and those new guys?” I was concerned when the two of them explained that their names were not Jeff and Brad as they had said. They pulled out their driver’s licenses and showed me their real names—not the names they had used to be introduced to my friends and parents. Turns out they were not 18 and 19 either. They were 24 and 25. I found this odd on several levels. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that I would not have a burger and fries that night.

Orange County in Southern California was part of a huge metropolis that covered many, many square miles. We drove in relative silence for a long time. For a while, I attempted mindless small talk. I even asked where we were going. Eventually, there was no traffic, no traffic lights and then, there were no streetlights. I could see only the occasional twinkling headlights or perhaps the lights from a secluded home in the sparsely populated hills.

The silence was good for praying. The time was right for praying. And praying became my main focus. I somehow remained calm as I suggested to Jeff and Brad—or Tom and Mark—or whoever they were—that I really needed to go home. They didn’t disagree. They just didn’t say anything at all.

Finally, the driver pulled the sporty Corvette over onto the gravel shoulder and stopped. No lights, No approaching headlights. No houses in sight. The driver put the car in park, turned off the headlights and leaned forward. Speaking past me to his friend, he asked, “What should we do with her?” I really didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. “Just take me home. Please, just take me home. I have to go to work tomorrow.” I continued to pray silently, praying I would not this very night stand before God answering His ultimate question…though I was certainly hoping I had the right answer. Somehow I remained calm though my heart was racing.

The guy on the passenger side got out and walked to the back of the car. Then he came back and got in again. “Let’s just take her home.”

And they did.

Critter Encounters

2008-06-19T15:45:00.017-04:00

You know how much I enjoy my walks along the trail. These walks are therapeutic and give me much time for my thoughts. You would think that I am a nature-lover (which I am) and have a great love for all God’s creatures (which I do not). We have already established my great fear of snakes. I do enjoy seeing the many varieties of absolutely beautiful birds. Sparrows, jays, egrets, blue herons, cardinals, woodpeckers, finches. And though I have been personally pooped on by a sea gull, I do not hold all birds accountable.

My trail winds around a beautiful lake. Lakes are natural homes for ducks and geese. I love to see a mother lead her young family across land or water. They are so precious and well behaved. But add daddy Gander and you could have a problem. One day I paused to watch a beautiful flock of geese. They were snacking, talking, relaxing and generally having a nice day at the park. I was minding my own business, mind you.

Mr. Gander Goose looked my way as though to say, “Whachu lookin’ at?”
“Nothing,” said I with a smile.
“Then move it,” said he.
“It’s my lake, too,” I replied standing my ground.

This guy stretched his neck to its full extension at which point he was as tall as me. He spread his wings to their full expanse. He was much wider than me. He honked threateningly as he came toward me. I looked at him, he looked at me, our eyes locked in potential combat. In a physical battle, I knew he would be the victor after rearranging my face. Not sure I could outrun him, my quick wits and calm thinking gave me an idea. Ever so slowly I removed the cap from my water bottle.

Eyes still locked, I sent the telepathic message, “Back off, Buster, or I’ll throw this water on you.” He was smart enough to back off and go back to his family. I walked away victorious thinking to myself, “Did I just threaten a water fowl with water?” Man! I’m good!

On another day, as I approached Bridge 14, I heard a rapid scratching sound on the wooden planks. A look in that direction revealed a turtle scurrying across the span. Now, I’m not a big turtle fan. I generally think of them as slimy disgusting creatures. But this guy was out of the water, dry, and moving right along. I immediately thought of the “Tortoise and the Hare.” In my estimation, this fellow could win the race hands down. He was focused and movin' on. When I stepped on the bridge, he began to move even faster. My respect for this animal was increasing with each quick scratchy step he took. I thought, “If he can move this fast now, I wonder how fast he would move if I run up behind him and scare him.” Being quite the animal behavior experimentalist, I did just that. I ran up behind him and stomped loudly. He stopped. Dead still. I thought I might have literally scared him to death. Then he moved his head ever so slowly from the left to the right as though looking to see if anyone was watching. Only God and I saw as the circle of wetness spread out around him. I frightened him so badly, he peed his pants.

Did I feel bad? Nah!

Food in the Dressing Room

2008-06-16T08:54:00.013-04:00

TASTEFULLY

FASHIONABLE

The next time you are out in public, take a few minutes for people-watching. We hear continually that America is suffering an obesity crisis. A casual observance will prove to you that this premise leaves no room for debate – like, say, global warming.

Let’s start with us girls. We have problems with numbers. I’m not talking about smart stuff like mathematics, physics and calculus. I’m speaking here about plain old simple numbers. Three digit numbers, max.

First, we cannot face the number that represents the measure of years we have existed on earth—our age. Second, we avoid an honest confrontation with the number that presents itself on our bathroom scales—our weight. And, finally, we struggle with the little tags sewn inside our garments—our dress size.

There was a time that, when our clothes no longer fit, we moved up to the next size. I will admit, it was with a strong reluctance, but we did it. We made the move, not only in the interest of comfort, but also for sake of appearances.

It seems both these reasons are no longer deemed to be more important than the magic number. You now see size 14 butts squeezed into size 8 jeans. Extra large upper bodies are barely covered with size Small mid-riff exposing tank tops; and 42-G jugglies are forced into 34-D bras.

However, as American women, we are resourceful. We have come up with the solution to our problem. No, the answer does not lie in “What Not to Wear.” Stacy and Clinton insist upon purchasing clothing that actually fits. What fun is that?

We decided instead to name these various bulges; thereby giving them credibility, and ultimately, acceptance.

Let me introduce you to the “‘shroom.” (You may have also heard this referred to as the “muffin top.”) “’shroom” is derived from the word mushroom. You, of course, see the similarities in the geometric design of these grocery items. You see this new look everywhere. It has become quite the rage. Almost anyone can have a ‘shroom. This fashion statement can be achieved even by those skinny-minnies who are determined to fit into a size 0. Here’s how it works: You buy low-rider jeans or shorts so small that you have to suck in air from your lower abdomen, lie down on the dressing room floor and have a friend help you fasten and zip them up. Your friend must then help you back to your feet (sometimes with the assistance of a crane). If gravity does its job correctly, you will have this bulge of skin (if you are very thin) or flab (if you are not) that hangs over the waistband of your garment. This is called a ‘shroom.’ It is acceptable now to not only sport a ‘shroom,’ but to wear it proudly exposed or covered by a thin tight T-shirt.

I would like to establish some additional food groups into our wardrobe.
Focaccia Bacon Bun – This treat of a term adds a touch of Parisian sophistication to the look that incorporates the boob bulge on top with the next layer tightly bound by a too-tight bra sitting on the resulting bulge supported by a ‘shroom. This is, of course, wrapped in a carefully selected tank top borrowed from a prepubescent 10 year-old brother. For an added touch of elegance, add short shorts that accentuate the prominent fullness of the thighs. Ah-ha! Let’s call these Buffalo Drumsticks.

Cottage Cheese – You know where I’m headed! There is no shame in cellulite, though the cosmetic industry has tried to make us think so. I say it’s time to fight back. Let’s name it for a respectable snack and end the torture so we can quit fighting and proudly display all 50 pounds of it. Cottage Cheese. Now that we have named it, let’s accentuate it. Wear those polyester pants so tight that no one could miss all the nooks and crannies. Throw in a thong for an extra lump. Better yet, just expose it. Don’t give up those short shorts and French cut bikinis! Cottage Cheese with ‘shrooms and Buffalo Drumsticks. Mmmm….makes one’s eyes water just to visualize it.

Remember the vanilla cake with chocolate swirls? I’m thinking we no longer need be embarrassed by stretch marks, varicose veins and plastic surgery scars. Let’s call these “Marbling” and make them fashionably exposable.

So, next time you are at the mall, take time to look at the walking fashion menus there. Perhaps you will be the one who names the next new look. Please send me your suggestion for the next “Tastefully Fashionable Selection.”

As for me? I’d like to suggest two of my favorite fashion rules:

* If it jiggles, cover it – loosely.
* Purchase a full-length mirror – and use it often.

I’ll write more later. My hair stylist is waiting to cover my roots in a deliciously tantalizing color we affectionately call “Warm Chocolate Carmel Latte.”

Tadpoles and Other Urban Myths

2008-06-12T21:06:00.006-04:00

“Come here! Look at the tadpoles come up for air!”

I had just walked 2.2 miles wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair. I looked where Gloria was pointing in the mossy sludge pool. Tiny creatures were popping up breaking the surface of the water. Every couple of seconds, one would appear and disappear just as quickly.

We had agreed the night before that the five of us (gone to the beach for a girls-only mid-week retreat) would get up early and walk to the coffee shop for coffee. We missed the ‘early’ mark along with the cool morning breeze that may or may not have come with the early post dawn hours. But here we were, in a beautiful beach community. We enjoyed our iced drinks in the air-conditioned coffee shop. After listening to much whining and complaining, I alone volunteered to walk the 2.2 miles back to the house wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair to get the car and come back to pick up the others.

Walking alone for the 2.2 miles back to the house wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair, I had the opportunity to think about comments we hear and accept without question. I propose to you that you consider carefully the following Urban Myths.

Urban Myth #1 It’s about a mile and a half from here.

Beware when someone tells you – “It’s just a little ways from here. Let’s walk.” This doesn’t really bother me. (Remember, I’m a distance walker and walk 5 miles a few times a week.) This phrase is usually spoken by someone who aspires to walk—but seldom does—and assumes that if it only takes 15 minutes to drive the distance, it should only take 20 minutes to walk it. Double beware if they use a number to define the distance. Assume they are guessing and don’t have a clue how far it actually is.

Urban Myth #2 Exercise will make you lose weight.

Several years ago I bought a Richard Simmons “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” video. Night after night, I watched that video while eating my buttered popcorn and drinking my Coke. Didn’t lose a pound. I complained how my time could be better spent watching Magnum PI and Tom Selleck with my popcorn and Coke. I was informed that watching exercise was not the point; it would never work; I had to actually participate and DO what Richard does. I put my popcorn down and danced along. I tore the cartilage behind my kneecap (meniscus tear). The injury required surgery and put a stop to my aerobic endeavors.

With each year, I added a few pounds. I joined a gym. I worked out. Still the pounds accumulated. I hired a personal trainer. Week after week, he pushed. I huffed and puffed. He pushed harder; I sweated more. I felt great and weighed more than ever. “You’re building muscle mass. Muscle weighs more than fat.” My muscle mass was encased in a mass of fat. I quit.

One day it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something to this calorie theory (calories consumed – calories burned = FAT) and that if I kept eating massive amounts of food, I would continue to grow as a person. I decided to eat less – considerably less – and, like magic, the fat disappeared. I have concluded that I can exercise my little butt off, but if I eat like a horse, I will not lose weight. But that's just my experience.

Urban Myth #3 Tadpoles grow legs and turn into frogs.

I’ve got to be honest here. When Gloria said, “Look at the tadpoles. They’re coming up from the bottom of the pond to get air,” I was looking through over-heated contact lenses. I saw little somethings break the surface of the water. Gloria said they were tadpoles. I accept it because Gloria said it.

Walking alone for the 2.2 miles back to the house wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair, it occurred to me—I have accepted this tadpole tale all my life without question. For several years in a row, my elementary teachers brought into class little jars of pond water filled with tiny sperm-looking creatures. Each teacher explained that these were tadpoles. In time, they would grow legs and turn into frogs. We took turns looking at the murky water, watching for legs to grow. Mrs. Lawrence got all excited one day because she said she could see legs growing on the tadpoles. I looked at the tadpoles. I looked at my legs and the legs of my classmates. I didn’t see anything resembling legs growing on the tadpoles.

Each year, the jar would disappear shortly after discovering the ‘legs.’ I never missed the jar. I never wondered what happened after that. Not one time, not ever, did I see frogs in those jars. Never. If seeing is believing, I’m just not sure that tadpoles grow legs and turn into frogs.

Urban Myth #4 Put this on your hair and it won’t get frizzy.

A Day Worth Changing

2008-06-08T20:38:00.005-04:00

I remember reading a play by Thornton Wilder called “Our Town.” The Third Act takes place in a cemetery. Dead people remember and talk about their lives and how they arrived at the end. I agree it may be a classic piece of literature, but it’s a stretch. Emily Webb who died in childbirth wants to go back and revisit a day in her life. She is advised not to pick a special day…just an ordinary day. Special days were too disappointing. If I remember correctly, she was sad to see that her day of choice – her twelfth birthday – was, well, disappointing.

I asked some friends, “If you could go back to one day in your life, which one would it be?” Immediately, the days we all recalled were days that were marked by tragedy or crisis or death. Or weddings—this was a popular one, but not for the reasons you might assume! I suppose good days are ordinary days. It seems there are few days that truly stand out in our minds.

I was six years old. It was summer time. We lived in Cabool, Missouri. Our house was very small; just four rooms and a bathroom. I seem to remember the house was built up on piers. Not high. Just open. You could see under the house. It had gray asbestos shingle siding. On the back of the house was a wooden porch with no railing. It was pretty high if you were very short. I was afraid to jump off it, but often did anyway. (Today we would add railings and call it a deck.)

We, of course, kept the windows open and the breeze blew the sheer billowy curtains as it entered through the front of the house and exited through the screen door on the back of the house. It then blew gently across the porch where Mom washed our clothes in a wringer washer before drying them on our wind/solar powered clothes dryer (also known as the clothes line).

We were poor. Seriously. Not poverty poor, but close. However, Mom and Dad purchased a new bedroom suite when we moved to Cabool. I remember it had a gray wood-grained finish. They kept it for many years. The headboard was a bookcase style with sliding doors on each side. The dresser had black detailing carved into the fronts of the drawers. The chest of drawers (‘chester drawers,’ as we called it) matched and was taller than me.

We had lived there just a short time—days, weeks, months—time is meaningless to a six-year old. Mom shrieked, “Joy Elaine! Michael Lee! Get in here. Right this minute!” It’s one of those times you really know it is not in your best interest to move quickly to ‘get in there’ but know you must or the already bad circumstances could deteriorate even further very fast.

As I entered the room, I observed that Mom had this familiar look on her face and her hands on her hips. You know ‘the look.’ Her eyes were blazing, cheeks flaming, hair standing on end. All mothers develop this persona. There, in middle of Mom’s new dresser, was a big shiny blood-red spot with an open bottle tipped over in the middle of it. Yes. It was nail polish. Mom’s new red fingernail polish, oozing grotesquely over her brand new gray dresser. The mirrored reflection made this scene twice as horrifying.

“Who did this? Joy Elaine, did you do this?” I hung my head and shook it ever so slowly.

“Mike, did you spill this nail polish?” The four-year-old hoodlum also denied the deed.

“Joy Elaine, I’m going to ask you one more time. And this time, don’t lie to me. Did you spill the fingernail polish? Tell me the truth.”

“No, Mama, I didn’t spill it. I haven’t even been in your room.”

“I’m giving you one more chance to tell me the truth. Mike wouldn’t lie to me.” You see the obvious assumption in these statements.

“Mike, you go in the other room. Your sister’s in big trouble for lying.”

What happened to the rules of justice here? What about innocent until PROVEN guilty?

Spanking was not frowned upon in those days. In fact, it was much the fashion. (I have always been into fashion it seems.) I was spanked soundly all the while denying my guilt for spilling the polish. Then I was spanked for lying with a demand that I tell the truth or get spanked again. Then I was spanked again because I still would not admit to having committed the act.

Remember, I was a child. I didn’t know any better. As an adult, I would have explained that the alternate remedies to this situation were mutually exclusive. I could tell the truth OR I could admit to the deed, but not both. Perhaps I should have just lied and admitted guilt to stop the pain. Then I could have tended to the details when the circumstances were a bit cooler. I didn’t understand that then. I stupidly kept telling the truth…remember, I was only six. This was very confusing to a six-year-old.

That afternoon at 5:00 while eating supper—It would be several years before we began to eat ‘dinner’ at 6—Mom related the incident to my Dad. Mike giggled. Dad asked what was so funny. Mike, with his adorable lisp, said, “Thissy didn’t ‘pill it. I did.” Everyone found this funny—except Sissy.

Now, all these years later, we laugh about it. Mike still laughs the loudest while pounding the table and throwing his head back. But it wasn’t funny then, and it wasn’t funny the next day…or the next year.

If I could go back and live a day over again and change the outcome, I would pick that day. I was too young to learn that life is not fair.

It’s still not all that funny.

Trophy Mom

2008-06-06T08:42:00.018-04:00

Kids, listen up! This is for you.

(If you are reading this and you are not one of my children, please feel free to read on. If your children are still young, you will face this dilemma in the future. If you are a parent of adult children, perhaps this will serve as an inspiration to you as well...or it may make you smile!)

You left home a long time ago. It was the right thing to do.

I carried each of you inside my body for nine months. I spent a total of over two years and three months of my life being pregnant. I nursed you. I fed you. I rocked you. I sat up nights with you—many times, all night long with no sleep at all. I proudly wore your spit-up on the shoulder of my little black dress. I kissed your skinned knees and made them well. I wiped your snotty noses and cleaned your messy boo-hineys. I kissed away your tears and mended your broken hearts. I took you to sports practice. I cheered you to victory. I washed your clothes. I bought your clothes. I cut your hair. I made your beds. I cleaned your rooms. I occasionally even cooked for you. And yet, you left home a long time ago. It was the right thing to do. It was your decision. It was a good one.

During all those years, I never complained. Ok, I complained sometimes.

Throughout those years, you brought home trophies. Lots and lots of trophies. All three of you brought home trophies. Remember how proud we were of those trophies? Do you remember how meaningful it was when you were champions, MVPs, or team captains? Or just participants? It didn’t matter. You completed the season. You got a trophy….and another…and another. Our house was filled with trophies. Big trophies. Little trophies. Everywhere. And plaques.

I doubt you even notice now, but those trophies are not in our house anymore. Not one of them. I take that back. One serves as a doorstop in the bathroom upstairs. The little tree-shaded cottage on the back of our estate is filled with trophies. And license plates. Your first license plates are there: ENGR2B, JAIREMY, SAUCY. They are all there. The cottage is a museum of memorabilia of you—my children. Memories of times gone by. Memories of my little children and your achievements and accomplishments. Memories of happy times. Memories of times that will never be again.

Kids, you’ve got 30 days. Come and get that junk or pick it up on the curb.

MY Space

2008-06-04T09:20:00.006-04:00

I’m not talking here about some social structure in cyberspace where you define, not who you are, but who you would be, not given the constraints of who you are. I’m not thinking of an outer dimension where little people with bulging eyes and crystal skulls abduct powerless humans and transform them into robots. I’m talking about MY space. That fifty-nine and a half cubic feet of air space surrounding my body that is MY space and goes where I go. It surrounds me like an invisible shield and is ideally not to be penetrated by anyone unless invited and approved by me.

Remember trips in the car with your parents and siblings? Adults in the front seat, kids in the back. Dad draws the invisible line that follows the path of the upholstery stitching. My Dad did that. My brother and I were not to cross that line with any part of our bodies, souls or spirits. We were not to look across it, speak across it or breathe over it. This, naturally, made it impossible for my hoodlum brother to resist. Keeping my eyes straight ahead as instructed (of course), I could sense his fingertips crawling to the line of demarcation. I could feel his eyes watching to see what I would do about his encroachment into my space. When his fingers crossed that line, I could endure the torture no more. I slugged him. He screamed, “Sissy hit me for no reason.”

“Dad, he crossed the line!” “Did not!” “Did, too!” I could never win this game. How could I have seen his dirty little fingers come over the line if I was looking straight ahead? I just knew. I just knew.

I don’t appreciate people coming into my space uninvited. I don’t like close talkers. You’ve met them. These are the people who stand far closer to you than convention allows. Then they lean in toward your face while talking directly into your nostrils. No! Do not do this. Not to me, not to anyone. This is unacceptable behavior. If you see me take a step back, don’t follow. Stay where you are and talk to me from there. Got it? I’d hate to have to slug you.

If you sit beside me on an airplane, I can accept that I have to give a little and allow you into my space. But you really annoy me when you claim the seat separator as your own. That slender piece of metal that comes down between your seat and mine is not an armrest. It is a physical barrier, put there through the wisdom of the designer who obviously played the invisible line game and lost as I did. It is meant to separate your space from mine. Do NOT put your arm on it or let your elbow hang over it into the space on my side. I paid good money for my seat and all the allotted air space that goes with it. While I’m at it, I want all my knee space. Do NOT assume that you can spread your legs out all over my side. Keep your knees and feet together on your own side. I do.

While I’m on the subject—if you need a seat and a half, go ahead and pay for it. Don’t assume that I am willing to share my seat with you. If your big butt doesn’t fit on your seat—and your seat alone—buy two or move to first class. I don’t like having to scrunch up in the other half of my seat and still be forced sit with your flabby thigh and jiggly arm sweating against me. This is not only very uncomfortable for a trip of any length, it just isn’t right on many levels.

Did I hurt your feelings? Come here. Let me give you a hug.

Shootout! Real-Life Drama

2008-05-26T10:08:00.016-04:00

I was returning to the church from a quick trip to the wholesale confection warehouse. That’s where you go to buy candy in bulk to sell at the concession stands for Little League baseball games, church leagues and such. The trunk of my white Pontiac LeMons with the red leather top was filled with Atom Bombs, Tootsie Pops, bulk popcorn and gallons of coconut oil. This mother lode would yield huge profits that would translate into new uniforms and equipment. (I think about the few cents it costs to produce a small bag of my favorite treat—movie popcorn—each time I put out five bucks for the delicacy at the theater. But we all pay the price because the smell of fresh buttery popcorn leads us into a temptation from which we cannot be delivered.)

In the passenger compartment of my car, I refereed the never-ending game of “That’s Mine, Don’t Touch It—I Saw It First.” This is a driving game played by my three kids each time we were in the car. This game is played by engaging in increasingly loud conversation, escalating to hitting the person closest to you and throwing anything that is not permanently attached to the body of the vehicle. That potential projectile can be a book, a backpack, lunch box or baby sister’s bottle. The object of the game is not to hurt the other players, but to see who can move Mother most quickly from, “Let’s play the quiet game. Let’s see who can go the longest without making a sound,” to a screaming maniac in rush hour traffic. The real pros can accomplish this in under three minutes. My kids were world-class champs.

We were on a side street beside 7-11 getting ready to turn onto Jefferson Avenue. I heard sirens and lots of them. Five police cars with sirens blaring and lights blazing were suddenly in my path. The cops jumped out of their cars and ordered me into the parking lot. My kids quickly realized the seriousness of their crime. Before I could figure out who called the cops on my kids, I realized the attention of the police was not focused on my red and white Pontiac, but on a taxi that was surrounded and blocking the street.

The officers were positioned behind the squad cars with weapons drawn and pointed at the cab. Time stood still for seconds. Minutes? Then the shouting began. “Get out with your hands on your head!” Again, time was of no consequence as they continued yelling, but nothing happened. Then, slowly the driver’s door opened and the cabbie emerged in slow motion with his fingers intertwined on top of his head. As he moved ever so slowly, he was ordered to drop to the ground and crawl on his hands and knees to safety and cover behind the dumpster. He did so ever so quickly.

More time passed. The SWAT team arrived in full SWAT team apparel. It looked like a movie set as the men in black approached the yellow taxicab. I heard a pop. Just a pop. Not a bang. Not a boom. Just a pop. The team crouched low and swarmed the target. Lots of indistinguishable yelling. Then someone gave the “all clear.”

It was about that time that somebody noticed the red and white LeMons with four open-mouthed faces pressed against the driver-side windows. I was ordered, not asked politely, not thanked for my cooperation, but ordered to leave.

The Six O’clock News and the Daily Press told the rest of the story. A single mom, obviously desperate with no place to turn for help, had called for a taxi to take her to the drug store. She told the driver to wait. She would just be a minute. She just needed to pick up something for her baby.

Once inside the store, she drew a pistol and demanded money from the cashier. Running back to the cab, she ordered the driver to take her home as she held the gun to his head. You know the rest.

I have to think how desperate she must have been. She had passed three churches on her way to the crime. Any of the three would have helped her with food and even with money. I know this to be true. I worked at one of them and we had helped hundreds of people.

Did she not plan her day at all? Did she expect to get away with this? Why go back home? How much money did she get and how long could it possibly last? Did she have a plan for when the money ran out? Who stayed with her baby while she ran this errand? Did she have a baby at all or was her desperation drug-induced?

This lady chose a very permanent solution to a very temporary and fixable problem.

Oh, that “pop” I heard? It wasn’t a bang. It wasn’t a boom. It was just a pop. She shot herself in the head.

Layover

2008-05-23T08:00:00.001-04:00

Let’s see….in the last week and a half, I have spent time decomposing—make that decompressing—whatever! I have slept until I am ready to get up every morning; picked strawberries; made jam; reconnected with friends at a networking event; cooked dinner (yikes!—but just one time); gone shopping with no money (compare that to taking an alcoholic to a beer tasting); did a classy photo shoot at “The Spa of Colonial Williamsburg” for a NY agency (that was cool!); written numerous blogs; had breakfast with friends; walked approximately a hundred miles (more or less); took naps; wrote more blogs; talked to my Aunt Kay; started reading a book by William Faulkner; took more naps; wrote blogs (did I mention that already?); tried to set up lunch dates with my kids because I have nothing else to do—but they are busy working (remember "Cat's in the Cradle"?); scheduled a trip to Oklahoma; started to understand a book by William Faulkner; wrote blogs; called most everyone I know because I have nothing else to do; thought about what I want to do in the future; tried really hard to figure out how I can justify a NY shopping trip with no money; procrastinated doing most things because, “I can do that tomorrow.”

Are there any rules on this? As you know, I like rules. Let’s write some:

What to Do When You Have Nothing Really to Do

Enjoy the time. It won’t last long.

Remember when you would have killed for this time alone.

Resist the temptation to eat constantly.

Clean house. You can’t afford the maid anymore.

Write some blogs and spam your friends’ emails with notices every time you post a new one.

Do your own nails. It may be a while before you can afford a manicure and pedicure.

Daydream about whatever. Just let your mind wander.

Read a difficult book—like one by William Faulkner. He doesn't follow the rules very well!

Clean out the bathroom cabinets…tomorrow.

Call your friends. Sure, they’re really busy, but what the heck, you’re bored and they are nice about it.

Check your email every 7 minutes. Reading junk mail is underrated.

Check your phone’s caller ID. Maybe it rang and you just didn’t hear it.

Go to Barnes & Noble and just hang out and drink lattes with the other losers. Just kidding. They’re not losers. They’re just retired.

Pile the dishes in the sink. You can wash them tomorrow.

Walk 3-5 miles a day…or quit eating so much!

Let you naturally curly hair have its way for a change.

Wash your own car. That guy that comes to the office and washes it? He costs money.

Sit in the sunroom and enjoy the gorgeous view and wildlife. This you can afford.

Download new songs from iTunes.

Wish you had the money to replace your broken iPod.

Plan what to wear to your phantom job interviews.

Worry about your present situation…tomorrow.

Check your bank account for overdrafts hourly.

Go get something to eat and take a nap.

Carpe diem!!

Oh, and be sure to schedule at least one important action item per day. But if you don't get around to it, don't worry. You can always do it tomorrow.

This won’t last forever. But then, if it does? So what!

Parachute Angels

2008-05-22T08:29:00.006-04:00

It’s been a week—just over a week. A full week since I jumped out of the plane. A full week since I realized I didn’t have a parachute. No safety net. No plan. Guess what! No pain. No anxiety. No regrets. Not one.

My mom is a praying woman. Is there anything you need? Ask my mom. She’ll pray for you. She has always prayed for me. I turn to her and ask her to pray for me during my difficult times. And my trials have always, always improved. Every single time. I had some bad days; Mom prayed and my days got better. I called to tell her so she would not worry. (I know, you’re not supposed to worry if you pray about it, but that only counts when it’s not your daughter.) Within the next few days, the situation fell apart again. I called Mom. “Well, you said things were better, so I quit praying.” “Well, can you start again?!?” “I’m going to pray that you will be surrounded by angels.” “Great. Just don’t send them away for a while, ok?”

Then the day came and I jumped out of that plane. No parachute. No safety net. No flight plan. I just jumped. Sure enough, the angels were there. My family, my friends. From the very first person I called, not one has said, “What? Are you crazy? Who does something like that?” Without exception, they have encouraged me. “I’m proud of you.” “I’m %@$# proud of you!” (Yes, angels say those words. I heard them.) “You’ve done the right thing!” They have listened. They have encouraged. They have counseled. But more than anything, they caught me before I hit the ground. These angels surrounded me and gave me a soft landing on solid ground.

Mom must still be praying because you are still here.

Never thought of yourself as an angel? Think again! And a gazillion thanks to my parachute angels!

Rules? What Rules?

2008-05-21T09:08:00.008-04:00

I thought it was just me—play fair and make sure everyone else does, too. A simple enough rule. But life has become confusing. How do you play fair when there are no rules? It seems the rules are changing while the clock is running! That’s not fair. There are rules for basketball, baseball, tennis…even dodge ball and red rover, for cryin’ out loud! We learned social skills because there were rules to follow. I like rules. I like to know that there is a rule that says you don’t burp in public and if an air bubble happens to slip out, you say, “Excuse me.” I like to know that it is appropriate to dress for business. I like to know the boundaries in conversation. I like knowing that some actions are suitable and others are not. I can play by the rules – or I can choose not to play by the rules, but I need to know what the rules are. Don’t you?

Ours is the generation that changed a lot of the rules. Women gained equality. Children were granted rights. Men learned to vacuum and wash dishes. Love was free and uninhibited. And it all became ok.

I’m afraid we were near-sighted when we changed the rules. We did not foresee that this game would go into overtime and we made no rules.

Your family will always be there when you need them. We didn’t see that by moving far away from our family home and farm, we would break the rule that says, “Mom will bring chicken soup when you are not feeling well.” No matter how much love a family possesses, children have lost out by not seeing Grandma and Grandpa on a weekly basis. They haven’t heard the stories or felt the comfort that comes only from a close grandparent-grandchild relationship. My children and I lost out by not having my parents live two blocks away. We should have made a rule that you can only move a maximum of two hours away from home.

There will always be more than enough to go around. We set the standard of materialism extremely high. We didn’t realize that our children would become so accustomed to designer athletic shoes and the newest and best video entertainment that they would never be content to make their own walkie-talkies out of paper cups and string and imagine it worked because we told them it did. As a result, they live in houses they can’t fill and drive cars they can’t afford. We should have made a rule that you can have it now, but not all of it yet.

Someone will always be there to take care of everyone. Just not true. We made an assumption, but forgot to make the rule about who will do it. Who’s going to take care of my parents? I live too far away. My brother? Sure, but he’s also taking care of his grandchildren. Who’s going to take care of him? I live too far way. (Refer to Rule #1)

You’re only as old as you feel. That’s our rule. We made it up. We are trying desperately to play by that rule. Don’t give me a rule then set me up to lose. This is a cruel game we are playing. While we can feel 28 on the inside, our bodies belie that feeling. The pain in your back didn’t used to be there. You were not even aware that you had a knee when you were 28, now it aches every time the weather changes. Inside, we can still climb mountains, drive fast cars, write a book. On the outside, we sit in our recliner, watch the travel channel and drive the remote control. Don’t fault us for coloring our hair, using Botox and seeking plastic surgery. It’s not a matter of vanity and self-indulgence. We are only trying to play by the rules. We are in the fourth quarter and trying to close the gap between how old we are and how old we feel on the inside!

We’ve tried to make up the rules as we go. We depend on Miss Manners. Where are Emily Post and that Vanderbilt lady when we need them? Who gets invited to the wedding? Does your Dad’s girlfriend sit next to your step-mother? Do both of them sit on the same pew with your mother and her current friend? Do you inherit your dad’s wealth or does it go to his 27 year-old fourth wife and her children? Who gets your mother’s good china?

We can’t quit playing now even if the game is out of control and the players are all over the field with no official game plan. The referees are blowing the whistle and we don’t know why. We are being penalized and not sure what we did wrong because we don’t know the rules. We are still inventing this game our children and grandchildren will play. Who’s going to write the rulebook? We need one now!

Rich Heritage

2008-05-20T10:54:00.015-04:00

I'm pretty sure I've lived over half my life already. It's simple arithmetic actually. I have accounted for my long-life genes and even my fantasy age. I have added in any extra years I might get for good behavior and I just can't make the numbers work in my favor.That being said, I plan to stick around for quite sometime yet, just not as long as I've already been here. So, what have I done of any lasting value at all? Not much. But, in some way, a part of me will live much longer through my kids. Poor things.

This gets me to thinking about my heritage. I’ve mentioned my mother. I love that woman! She is loving, funny, smart, a great cook, ditzy, forgetful, creative and very compassionate. I picked up a couple of those traits. You can be the judge which ones. And I will write more about her, as I’m sure she is woven tightly through every fiber of my being. But let me say a few words about my dad.

He is my hero. Dad had it tough growing up.

When I say my folks grew up in rhe country. I’m talking country. Dirt roads. Outhouses. Naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. No phones. Chop-the-firewood country. Grow-your-own-food country. Butcher-your-pet-pig country.

To get to Grandma’s house, you must take the blacktopped two-lane road for twenty miles from Mtn. Grove (pop. 3,476), take a sharp right in the big curve in Manes (pop. 54), go about five miles to the three mailboxes, turn right onto the one-lane dirt road. Drive carefully and very, very slowly. Straddle the tall weeds growing in the middle. Grab a handful of leaves as the branches from the small trees and underbrush scrape the sides of your car and reach in through your open windows. Pay especially close attention as you navigate ‘the branch.’ This small swift-running tributary to the larger creek on the backside of the property is famous for hiding large rocks and underwater holes that could take out the vital organs of your automobile. The safe passage route was known only to the two families who lived on the other side—and the milkman from the dairy who picked up the milk and brought me blue bubble gum when I stayed with Grandma. It was actually a pretty good security system, I’d say.

Back to Dad. He had few advantages as many would think of them. He worked hard as a child. He doesn’t remember sitting on anyone’s lap or being tucked in at night. However, he always knew that his mother loved him. To write about Dad’s life would take a book. Literally.

He took on shame and embarrassment that were not his to bear. But somewhere inside him was a drive and desire to press forward; to learn more; to have a better life. He was not driven by money. (At least, if wealth was his motivation, he has never acquired it to any measurable degree.) I suppose there was this innate desire to learn. He passed up some opportunities that could have caused his life to have a very different outcome. He was offered some incredible jobs that I will have to go back and ask him about—and write them down this time. But for whatever reason—fate, God’s will, poor choices—he did not take them.

Here’s what he's done:
· School teacher in a one-room school house
· Factory worker
· Watch repairman
· Television repairman, electrician
· Mailman
· Sunday school teacher
· Associate pastor
· Missionary
· Pastor
· College professor
· College dean
· College president

Here’s what he accomplished:
· College graduate after the age of 40
· Masters Degree
· Doctorate
· Built a college library
· Owned multiple properties
· Influenced and impacted thousands of people literally around the world
· Stayed married to Mom for 58 years and counting
· Survived a heart attack and two by-pass surgeries
· Wrote and published a book
· Survived raising me and brother

So, why is this man my hero? Why is he my role model? I adore him. He is loving. He is kind. He is strong. He is highly intelligent in a non-assuming or in-your-face kind of way. He is simple, honest, handsome and humble. He is dedicated, likable, hilariously funny and witty with a dry sense of humor—but I get it! He’s my dad and there are only two people in the entire world who can say that. He loves me exactly the way I am.

Wrong Way!

2008-05-19T23:16:00.010-04:00

It was the Christmas season and the mall was predictably crowded. I had gone back and forth, up and down each aisle of the parking garage. I was on the third level and still could not find a single empty space. Exiting shoppers were being followed closely by SUVs, mini-vans and luxury cars alike. I chose my overloaded shopper carefully and followed her to her car. I watched as she opened her trunk and loaded her many packages carefully and closed lid solidly. I had my blinker on indicating to all others that this was, indeed, my parking spot. I had earned it and it was mine. My shopper, on the other hand, still had money to spend. I know this because she walked away from her car and headed back in the direction of the mall entrance. I continued my scouting mission. I was not to be deterred by this minor setback.

As I began my quest up yet another aisle, I saw a vehicle approaching me. This was a bit annoying because the aisles were “One Way” and very narrow. This vehicle had a yellow rotating light on the top. As I pulled carefully to the right—as close to the row of parked cars as I dared—the security patrolman stopped his official little truck and rolled down his window. I, likewise, rolled down my window. We were so close, I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. He said, “Lady, you’re going the wrong way.”

I looked quickly at the cars on my left and on my right and they were all parked in the same direction I was driving. I said, “I don’t think so—“ he cut me off abruptly. “Lady, this is one way and you are going the wrong way.”

I was momentarily confused as I once again looked at the direction of the parked cars. “I don’t understand—“

“Lady, you are going the wrong way. Go back the other way.” Ok. Now this was getting serious. How was I to turn around in this narrow passageway? It was a very long aisle and he seemed very short on patience.

At this point, my husband leaned across console and spoke through the open window. Pointing at the sign with the arrow, he said, “Sir, I believe you are the one going the wrong way.” The security guard turned his head in the direction of my husband’s authoritative finger. (Not that finger, silly! What are you thinking?!) He turned back to me, tipped his cap, and said, “Have a nice day.” He drove on to find other holiday offenders.

I cringe to think of how often I have pointed out to others the direction—in my humble opinion—they ought to be going. I remember others, besides the mall security guy, who have shared with me the path they felt I should choose, or leave, or do differently. But I have found that it is usually best for each of us to establish first of all, if we are headed in the right direction before mandating the course for others.

The Professional

2008-05-18T19:49:00.027-04:00

I experienced a flashback as I stood at the end of the long soggy, muddy row of strawberry vines. It could well have been the same man in the same cowboy hat from long ago who pointed out that water was standing in the row and we might want to try to avoid it. (Duh!) I was twelve years old again. Looking out over the field, I observed people with varying sized backsides pointing in our direction, bent over the plants looking for the rich red delicacies. Except today was different. I was paying them to be there today.

The mornings were the same. At 5:00 AM, it was always foggy, chilly and dark as I stood on the street corner waiting for the unmarked former school bus now painted blue or green. It was Vancouver, Washington, so rain at some point in the day was pretty much a certainty. Perhaps it would rain all day. It didn’t matter. That didn’t change the schedule. Sometimes I would wait alone with my bag lunch. Most days, other ragamuffin children or adults would join me. This was my first job.

Arriving in the fields, we were directed to our designated row by a man in a straw hat, chosen carefully for his lack of warmth and personality. He gave us our instructions. “Go to the far end of this row and work your way back this way. Don’t miss any berries. You’ll be docked if we find you left good berries on the vine. Leave the caps on the vine. You’ll be docked for any berries with caps on them.” Only the more experienced and best pickers were allowed to pick ‘caps’ which you and I see so temptingly displayed at the grocery store. This job paid maybe a couple of cents more per flat. I admired these pickers and, of course, aspired to join their elite ranks. “You’ll be docked for any damaged berries, so be careful. Don’t pick them green and don’t pick them if they are rotten. You’ll be docked if we find bad berries in your flats. Don’t drop the berries in the mud. You’ll be docked for dirty berries.”

It wasn’t really difficult to fill a flat with the big beautiful berries. I didn’t eat many after the first couple of hours. I’d much rather fill my flat. And I didn’t much mind crawling through the muddy rows throughout the long hours of the day. The hard part was carrying a full flat back to the far end of the row where the big flat bed truck waited to collect the fruit of my labor. It was even more difficult to lift the heavy burden up to the berry nazi on the high truck bed—almost over my head—without spilling the red gold. I would invariably come up short. The kid on the truck would take one or two of the boxes from my flat and pour them over the remaining boxes and send me back for more fruit before punching my card for a full flat. I didn’t like coming up short. I soon learned to overfill my flats though it meant nothing to my paycheck…a practice I would continue throughout life.

But as we picked berries yesterday, I was the expert. I pointed out to the children in our group what to look for. They pointed out to their mother that I was the professional. I had done this for a living. This time, I got to pick ‘caps.’ The lady with the scales weighed my berries. With a sense of having arrived, I paid her what she asked and walked away with my strawberries. I am the professional!

Funny Thing Happened

2008-05-16T07:49:00.010-04:00

My kids think I should write happy, funny stuff on my blog. I think I do—well, with a few exceptions. I think the one about being Dairy Day Princess is hilarious. I laugh out loud every time I read it. That is one of my funniest memories of all times. My kids read it sadly. They felt bad for me. Are you kidding? Lighten up, kids. I get tears of laughter just thinking about it. And the one about poison ivy? What was I thinking?

We have the funniest family I have ever been around. Read their blogs and websites. Are we funny or what?

I remember when Jason was four. Mom and I were talking about how Becky “has her dad’s nose.” Jason looked at us so strangely. He was trying to figure out what Becky’s dad must look like if she had his nose. He had never seen anyone without a nose!

Jeremy was around seven when he dropped something in church. It went just under the pew we were sitting on. He leaned over to get it, lost his balance and was literally stuck with his butt straight up in the air. He could move neither his shoulders nor his legs to free himself. People around us tried so hard to keep a straight face, but ended up laughing out loud. The rest of the congregation thought they’d missed a punch line in the sermon.

Poor Sara. She never had a chance around the boys. While Jason was her protector, Jeremy was her tormentor. (Sorry, Jer, but you know it’s true.) Jeremy came in after working with a roofing crew one hot summer day. He told Sara that when he was away at college, he had learned that vinegar is the best natural deodorant there was. That it worked much better than commercial brands. He said, “Seriously, I used it this morning. Smell my pits.” She did. Poor thing!

Even in the tough times, we joke about things. That’s our way of coping. We don’t mope (much). We don’t whine (much). We don’t even complain—OK, we do complain. But we laugh a lot. We laugh at jokes that aren’t all that funny. We laugh at memories. We laugh at each other. They laugh at me. I guess that’s why we still like to hang out as a family. We think we are the funniest, greatest people in the whole world. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that?

Reasons for Jumping Out of an Airplane

2008-05-14T08:41:00.008-04:00

There are a lot of things I want to do in this life. I want to shop in NYC. I want to go to Venice. I want to spend more time with those I love. I want to go on an African photo safari. I have done several things few people in the world have done. (See the list on this blog.) One thing I have never, for one minute, ever wanted to do is to jump out of an airplane. I don’t want to jump without a parachute—obviously—and I have never had the desire to jump with a parachute—or attached to the body of someone who has a parachute. Jumping out of planes has never been on my bucket list. I can’t see it making the list under any circumstances.

Some people love to jump out of airplanes. They do it over and over. They pay a lot of money for that thrill. I don’t get it.

I suppose that IF I were in plane, there might be some reasons for jumping under certain unavoidable circumstances. Please allow me a moment to reflect.

Let’s suppose I’m on my way home from an exhausting business trip. The flight attendant is crabby. I hear the pilot say some unkind words to her/him. I find my seat next to a mother with a toddler and an infant-in-arms. (My only fear of flying!) I ask to be moved. The flight attendant informs me there are more important matters to attend to. The baby, of course, is screaming. The toddler yanks the lid off his sippy cup splattering the red Kool-Aid over my white wool designer suit. I consider my options, but decide that though I may want to, but I’m not jumping out of that plane.

Hijackers are on board! Lives are being threatened. Fear is rampant. Uncertainty abounds. We have no idea where we will end up. People are being hurt. Shoot, no! I’m not jumping. My chances are still better on the plane. I’m staying put.

Plane is going down. Nope. Not jumping. A miracle can always happen. Right? The fuel pump may start working again. The pilot just may be able to get the engine to start again. However bleak our chances may seem, I’m staying with the plane.

So, what could possibly make me jump out of a plane when I’ve never jumped before? No parachute, no jumping lessons, no jumping experience.

What could possibly make me jump from the plane? Nothing but me. Taking control. Deciding my own destiny. Knowing I'm Alive.

NOW I Know I'm Alive

2008-05-13T11:00:00.017-04:00

It's a little like pouring a bucket of ice water over someone half asleep just as they are getting out from under some snuggly warm covers. You know you're alive.

Or maybe it's more like jumping from a plane only to discover your parachute doesn't open. You just released the trapeze swing and the next one is not coming toward you. There's no net.

Something inside sends a message to every fiber of your being. Your senses heighten. You feel this intense invigorating awareness that your life has just changed. You are flying. You are free. Suddenly the exhilaration brings a realization that life as you know it may be ending soon. It's too late to change your course. You can't jump back into the plane; the swing is out of reach. Your decision is irreversible. Fear grips your very soul. The immediate feeling of freedom quickly becomes a realization of doom and impending pain. What will it feel like to hit the ground? Will it hurt? Will I survive? Will help come? How will my future change? Will I have a future? Will those in the plane cheer my demise? I guess it really doesn't matter.

I walked away from my job today.

Not Funny Anymore--OK, Maybe a Little

2008-05-11T20:51:00.003-04:00

As I pushed my shopping cart around the Costco parking lot today looking for my car, I remembered how many times I have laughed at my Mom for forgetting where we parked. How many times have I lagged behind her laughing and watched as she tried to figure out where she left the car? She has even parked and gone in through one mall entrance, out through another, and thought for sure her car had been stolen.

You must understand that I have one of the funniest moms in the world. She’s always been a bit ditzy. She is highly intelligent and an extremely gifted writer and speaker. She just doesn’t always pay attention to what she’s doing. But it’s ok. She is the first to laugh at herself and the first to recall stories of her mishaps.

Like the time she could not find the bacon she had bought at the grocery store. She assumed the bag boy had left it out of her shopping bag…until a few days later when she found the mystery meat inside the stereo cabinet. She apparently carried the bacon into the living room and laid it down when she adjusted the volume, went back to the kitchen and put the rest of the groceries away.

Or the time she raised up and hit her head on the open cabinet door and sharply slapped my brother who was standing nearby. (Don’t feel too bad for him. If he didn’t deserve it that time, there were plenty of other times he did!)

I can’t calculate how many cumulative weeks of time we have spent over the years looking for her keys…or her glasses…or one of her shoes…or her checkbook.

When we get together now, we enjoy “Mom Stories.” It is one of our favorite pastimes. And she is such a good sport about it. She even reminds us of some we have forgotten. You’ve got to love a person like that.

Through the years, I have watched helplessly as I have seen myself become my mother. Now I can’t imagine how she ever found her car without a remote control. True, I have perfectly legitimate reasons for my absent-mindedness. Like talking on my cell phone and being deeply involved in a conversation when I leave my car…actually, I was talking to Mom. And I am, after all, my mother’s daughter. It really is kind of fun…ok, funny…to find myself pushing a shopping cart up one isle and down another…in the parking lot…searching for the flashing taillights on my cute little BMW…as some unsuspecting person drives slowly, following me so they can get my parking place when I leave. They usually find an empty spot long before I find my car!

Random Thoughts on Friendship

2008-05-06T20:26:00.005-04:00

Friends are good. Seriously. They are. People make such a big deal about having friends. It's ok, folks. Relax. Friends come and go. Here today, gone tomorrow. Say something good, have a good day and everyone loves you. Be happy, helpful, funny, and complimentary, you'll have friends. The Bible says to have friends, you must show yourself to be friendly. Wow! That's easy. You mean that's all I have to do to have friends? Cool. I can do that. I can have lots of friends. But I really don't want all that many, to be perfectly honest. Friends generally take a lot of effort! I have to invest time, energy, emotion. By and large, I'll pass.

On the other hand, have a bad day...make that a bad week. No one likes you. No one wants to be around you. No one says, "Can I help?" No one overlooks the fact that you said something out of line or out of character (as they perceive it) for you. Except your friends. I'm not talking about acquaintances. They are the ones who stand back and, honestly, are probably glad you are having it tough for a change.

But your friends...they care. They call and ask how you doing. "Are you doing better?" They take your side when you complain whether they think you brought it on yourself or not. Friends love when you succeed and take offense at your offenders. They pray for you and tell you so.

I've heard it said that you are indeed fortunate to have one or two true friends in a lifetime. To quote our "friend" Frank, "Friends, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention." I think I've done better than that and am blessed.

Faux friends? Oh, yeah! Had those, too! Pretty sure there are some hanging around now.

I have a group of what might seem like the most unlikely of friends. I would be hard pressed to explain this group except that "opposites attract." We are politically diverse; religiously polarized; totally different careers; but I think we care. We care about each other. We enjoy the times we spend together. We don't talk on the phone, we seldom email, but we all roll out of bed early every couple of weeks and get together. We talk about whatever subject comes up. We don't gossip, much. (We don't know the same people, so gossip's really not as fun as it could be.) But we enjoy the connection we share. I'm not sure what it is, but it gets me out of bed at six o'clock a.m. every other Tuesday. And for them I am thankful. I love these friends.

Then there are my peripheral friends. These come out of nowhere when I need them most. Don't hang out, but have something that pulls us together. These may be business friends, church friends or other friends with whom I have specific niche friendships. I enjoy these friends. I need these friends. I love these friends.

Temporary friends. Those people with whom you have a real and unique attraction and amazing friendship for a short time. And then, its gone. You don't talk or get together anymore. But it wasn't a bad ending, it just ended. And that's ok, too. It was what it was. I loved these friends.

And then, there are soulmates.

Puerto Vallerta Vacation

2008-05-01T21:14:00.009-04:00

I decided one morning on vacation that I would go for my walk before it got too hot. (Too late. It was already as hot as hell's kitchen.) So I decided to go only three miles instead of my usual five on that morning and finish off the other two that evening when it would be cooler. So while walking, I noticed that the sand on the western coast of Mexico is much courser than Caribbean sand; and brown, not white, fine and beautiful like the sands of the islands. Also, the water was brown to match the sand, (not a gorgeous turquoise) but I was in my thankful mood and noticed the beautiful sparkles all through the sand. Also, I figured this was a great exfoliant. right? After about a mile, I noticed that my big toes were feeling a bit raw, but kept going, because I must meet my stated goals--driven as I am. When I got to a mile and a half (ok, there are no mile markers, but based on the time it had taken me, I judged it to be so--and if I got it wrong, who´s to question it?) I stopped and rinsed the sand off my feet. I now believe those sparkly bits of sand to be ground glass...figuratively speaking. I had blisters the size of dimes on both big toes. Now, my problem was that I had to walk the mile and a half back over the same treacherous ground glass I had just traveled. Try walking this distance holding up both big toes. Thankfully, when I got back to the hotel, the blisters were only about the size of quarters and fully intact. I decided that the next day, I would sacrifice, not my walking, but my cute Sketchers shoes. I can always buy new shoes.

Ophidiophobia

2008-04-27T19:06:00.006-04:00

Yes. It is true. I am a certifiable ophidiophobiac. Defined as "a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of snakes", each year this surprisingly common phobia causes countless people needless distress. And yet, it is not the countless others I am concerned about. If you are reading this and are one of "us" I'm concerned about you, of course. But mostly, I am concerned about me. I cannot tell you how many times I have awakened my bed buddy and eventually myself as a result of terrifying nightmares starring these slithery reptiles. Even as I write this, I am concerned this very action of thought could trigger such an attack tonight. But, too late, I've already popped the cork on the subject....and here's why.

But first, let me explain the reason, as I see it, for this crippling fear. I was seven or eight years old. We lived next to the church, though at this time, my dad was not the pastor (has nothing to do with this story). Across the church parking lot and on the other side of the block and across the street lived some very mean boys. The Todd boys. They were probably 3 or 4 years older than me and really never paid me any attention...princess that I was! Except one day they were cutting across the church parking lot and found a garter snake. As the crowd (4 or 5 boys) gathered to look, my curiosity drew me into the circle. In answer to my, "What is that? Let me see!" The snake handler thrust the viper toward my face. Unless you have experienced sheer terror, you cannot know the fright I felt. So distressed I was unable to scream, I turned and ran which only added to their entertainment. On the open parking lot, there was no where to run, no where to hide as they continued their laughing pursuit, putting the snake over my shoulder, in my face. That's all I remember.

Since that day, I have experienced this extreme phobia of snakes. I have come across them at other times out in nature (even in a pet store) and been paralyzed with fear. I am, however, fascinated to see them in captivity where I am safe from the vile creatures.

I tell you this to relate a recent thought I had as I wandered along my beloved (5 mile) nature trail. I am, of course, always alert to the possibiltiy that at any moment a snake could cross my path or fall from a tree....or certainly swim in the waters with the fish, the fowl and the nasty turtles. So I even watch the water for signs of swimming snakes. I did see one last year. I won't be swimming there.

But last week as I walked, I saw ripples in the water with what appeared to be tiny heads on the surface. There were several together--maybe a dozen or more. My first thought--water snakes. It matters not if they are poisonous. All snakes are deadly to me. But these tiny snakes appeared to be swimming a water ballet. A gross, frightening, disgusting display of syncronized swimming which would lure curious creatures into their pit of deadly destruction.

Feeling safe by distance and land, I walked to the bridge overlooking the scene for closer observation. Give me credit for a vivid, if distorted, imagination. It was, in fact, a beautifully orchestrated performance of water bugs skimming across the smooth surface of the lake.

I wonder, how many times in the circumstances of life, do I envision the threat of snakes when in reality, I am seeing the rippling effects of water bugs? Perhaps a closer look could eliviate some of my anxiety.

Walking through the forest

2008-04-20T13:53:00.005-04:00

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
--Joyce Kilmer

I love to walk. My favorite place to walk is the the Noland Trail. It is over five miles of nature at its best. It is my time to walk, reflect, unwind and to be alone. Each time I am reminded of Joyce Kilmer's poem we had to memorize in fourth grade and how we giggled as we said the words "breast" and "bosom." Looking at this poem now, in the context of trees, I'm still just a bit uncomfortable with it.

There is a monument along my trail with the words "I am taller today because I have walked among the trees." My first thought is, "No, I'm not. I'm hot, sweaty, tired and thirsty, but I'm not taller."

But on a nobler thought, let me describe my walks. I love the quietness of walking this trail. There are plenty of people along the way. Some walk, some jog, some even run. The trail is a dirt trail, but is well kept. There are tall trees, short trees, scrubby trees and fallen trees. Birds and squirrels abound.

The trail and nature park surround a lake. There are 17 bridges to cross as you wind your way around the lake. The lake is full of turtles. Slimy, nasty turtles. And you can occasionally see a fish break the surface of the water or swim under a bridge. I saw a snake swim through the water one time and yet, I still walk the trail.

People walk their dogs on the trail. The dogs are supposed to always be on leashes, but, of course, many people think their dogs are so well behaved that it does not apply to them. It does. And they should obey the rules. I hate when their well-behaved dogs run up and sniff me. One of those well-behaved dogs bit the woman in front of me last year.

Sometimes its a little creepy. If I walk in the late afternoons, I find the forest gets darker quicker than the parking lot. As the shadows lengthen and the hikers thin out, the imagination swells and there are predators of the the human and animal persuasion behind each tree...not really, but I can almost see them.

But, wait! I said I love these walks and I do. Just the sounds of the breeze rustling the leaves. The birds singing, the squirrels running through the underbrush. I see people with their ipods and we nod as we pass on the trail. No conversation necessary. The nod says all that needs to be said. I step to the side as I hear a jogger overtaking me from behind. Lovers stroll. Families walk together. Friends chat and gossip. Sometimes I like my ipod. Other times I like my thoughts. I like to pray or reflect. OR I like to do none of the above. I just walk.

100% Right

2008-04-15T21:38:00.004-04:00

It was hot, humid and stuffy inside the country church that day. And worse yet, it was Saturday. My mom drug me along either because she didn’t have anyone to leave me with or she thought I would enjoy sitting in a hot stuffy church on a Saturday squeezed in between her and some other overdressed woman who sang horribly off-key. I have to admit I enjoyed the breeze the well-coiffed lady created as she sent her perfume my direction waving the Shannon Funeral Home fan with the picture of Jesus praying in the garden. But that, too, got boring. Did I say boring? We would have to redefine the word to make it fit here!

After a lunch of fried chicken and chocolate cake, I convinced Mom that if all the other kids could play outside for the rest of the afternoon, I should be extended the same courtesy. This was so much better. I don’t remember what we played that day, but I do remember that there were many trees—ok, make that a small forest that surrounded the cemetery. Having carefully navigated through the graveyard without stepping on a grave (lest we fall into one!) we played in the shade.

One of the boys pointed out a plant growing up the bark of many of the trees. He gave it a name I do not recall. But I knew what it was. It was poison ivy. He said it was not and explained all the characteristics of poison ivy and that this plant had none of those. But I knew it was poison ivy as I had previous experience with this evil weed. He insisted and I was not backing down. I knew I was right.

So to prove my position and to show this idiot who was right, I took a handful of leaves and rubbed them over my hands, my arms, my neck and my legs. I told him that if I were correct, we would know by tomorrow. I would like to point out that I was definitely 100% right. There was no doubt. It was, indeed, poison ivy. I spent the next two weeks looking like a pink leper. There was not enough calamine lotion in Missouri to ease my suffering. My mom’s entire vocabulary became, “Don’t scratch, you’ll make it worse.” Worse? That’s hardly imaginable. Don’t scratch? How about, don’t blink or don’t breathe? But! I was right. 100% right!

I still find it odd to observe what lengths we will go to in order to prove our ‘rightness.’ (Yes, I include myself despite my early experience.) Why are we so determined to be right, that we would rather be 100% wrong than to be almost right?

By the way, I have no idea who that boy was. I never saw him again. Unless he is, by some chance—that far exceeds any odds in Vegas—reading this, he most likely still thinks that plant was NOT poison ivy.

A Real Princess

2008-04-15T19:21:00.010-04:00

This could explain a lot, so stay with me.

Mountain Grove was not a big city like Springfield. It was a small town. People sat around in the Square and visited with their friends. Let me see if I can explain this. The town was carefully planned and laid out around the town square. The Square was just that--a square park with a one-way traffic pattern around it consisting of four right angles--hence, not a traffic circle. Across the street from the park in each direction was a block of retail stores. In the center of the square was a large open gazebo structure. The park was filled with park benches and had lots of shade trees. We even had a statue of someone. I have no idea what hero ever came out of Mountain Grove. They may have borrowed one.

Sometimes on Saturday evenings a blue-grass or gospel band would entertain the crowd. Stores stayed open until 8 or 9 on Saturdays. I suppose this was because the farmers from the surrounding area made their weekly trip to town on Saturdays and shopkeepers wanted to make the most of it. (Though I am sure the farmers had to be home by 4 to milk the cows.) The Square with all its park benches was always full on Saturdays. That's the kind of town Mountain Grove was.

We liked parades in Mountain Grove. We had a Christmas Parade, Homecoming Parade, Kids Day Parade and, the big one, the Dairy Day Parade. I have been an angel, a cheerleader, a member of the marching band, a kid, and a Princess. I think I was the Virgin Mary one year and had to walk the entire parade route as an 8 year old pregnant virgin.

But Dairy Day was the biggie, though I only remember one of them.

I really don't understand why my mom entered me in the contest. From the time she filled out the entry form, she made sure I understood that there was no way I was going to win. "People like us (term I was to hear often, in many circumstances) don't win these things. The rich kids always win." But even though I had no chance in ... of winning, she bought a piece of light blue dotted Swiss and had some woman make me a dress to wear. I remember being fitted for the dress and though it was simple by any standards, I thought it was beautiful.

For two weeks before Dairy Day, Mom had me practice smiling. On the day of the event, she pin curled my hair then brushed it out when it was dry. Every time Mom brushed my hair I knew for sure there would be none left attached to my scalp. It was especially true on this day. But I continued to practice my smile between my screams and cries at having my hair pulled out. Apparently, I never got it right because in our final smile rehearsal before leaving home, she said, "Don't smile. Just stand there."

We went to the high school gym and were directed backstage where someone pinned a glittered ribbon banner across my beautiful dress. I believe I was sponsored by Hauber's Jewelry. I was careful not to smile as I stood in line with the other girls across the front of the stage. No winning. No walking. No waving. No talking. No singing. No dancing. Just stood there not smiling. Then they had us all take a few steps back and instructed us to step forward as they called our names. Third runner up -- a rich girl. Second runner up -- successful business owner's daughter. First runner up -- I don't know--mayor's daughter? And this year's Dairy Day Princess -- Joy Wade, poor watchmaker's daughter! At that point you would think I broke into the biggest smile you've ever seen. Contraire! I stood like a toy soldier with no smile. (I have the newspaper clipping to prove it!) To beat it all, I looked at Mom and she was crying. I was very confused. I thought it must be a good thing that they were putting a crown on my head. I thought a smile would be appropriate, but had been told not to--and Mom--she seemed very unhappy about the whole thing.

I got to ride several times around the square on the back of a convertible in the parade. This part I'm not sure about, but I think Mom said I could smile now--and wave to the crowd!

That was Mountain Grove's last Dairy Day. I never got to crown the next Princess. I suppose that means that I am still the reigning Dairy Day Princess of Mountain Grove, Missouri. Yeah. I can live with that!

Almost Kidnapped - First Time

2008-04-12T19:07:00.003-04:00

I was five years old and playing in my front yard.

This was not some dangerous city. This was Mountain Grove, Missouri, population approaching 3,000 souls. I was allowed to walk to the grocery store all by myself. We're talking two blocks. In fact, I wonder if my memory is misleading me, but I honestly think I was allowed to walk to my dad's work in town--through the viaduct and about four or five blocks away. I really think I did that at five years old. The point here is that it was considered a safe place to live. We never locked our doors at night; slept with the windows open...you get the picture.

So, back to the story. I was playing out in the front yard alone. Along came this old man and asked me to go home with him. He looked a lot like my grandpa, but I remember that it didn't 'feel right.' I just shook my head. He said, "I think you ought to come home with me. I have some candy. You like candy, don't you?"

Hello! This man knew the pickup lines for sure! But, my mom had already warned me. "Never, ever go anywhere with someone you don't know. They might say they have candy or toys you would like. But NEVER go with ANYONE unless you ask me first. Do you understand?" She went over and over this with me and answered all my 'but what if's.' But what if I know them? But what if they go to our church? But what if ....There were no exceptions to this rule.

"My mommy said I can't go with people I don't know." "I know your mommy and I'm sure it will be ok with her." "Ok, I'll go ask her," I said. I ran around to the back of the house and into the basement where my mom was doing laundry. I asked if it was ok. Mom dropped the wet clothes and ran to front yard. To my disappointment, I'm sure, my generous benefactor was gone.

That was my first experience with an attempted kidnapping.

Hands Off!

2008-04-12T18:30:00.006-04:00

Yesterday I shared my thoughts on feet. Today I'll discuss hands and then I think we will move away from body parts. Hands are right out there. We adorn them with rings, we groom our nails (which are really nothing more than dead skin cells that protect the ends of our fingers). We wash our hands more than any other part of our body; we slather them with moisturizer. To lose a hand would be a real inconvenience, for sure. We can be identified by our hands.

I notice people's hands, don't you? I notice if they are rough or smooth, fat or bony, dirty or clean, present or missing, I just notice hands. I probably even judge people by their hands. If I like your hands, I like you. Your hands, like yourself, do not have to be beautiful for me to like you. But your hands do say a lot about you. They can also tell a lot about your health and your history. Chances are you have scar on your hand that has a good story behind it. Your hands reveal if you have arthritis, nail fungus or disease, whether you've missed the nail and hit your thumb, if you've spent too much time in the sun...they really say a lot!

As a teenager, I would not hold hands with boys who had soft flabby hands. (I know, some of you guys are looking at your hands thinking about that one!) Obviously, things never went any further.

I am a handshaker. It's automatic to look someone in the eye and offer my hand as a friendly gesture. I fear I might be becoming a little germophobic. I find I wash my hands more often these days. I don't like touching public door handles. I wonder if that person who serves my food or gives me back my change has washed their hands.

I shook hands with a business contact the other day and his hand felt slimy and greasy. Naturally, I looked down at his hands. He obviously had Vaseline or some such substance on his hands. He skin was peeling badly. I felt really bad for him. It must be embarrassing for him to shake hands. It may well be painful! I also was grossed out. But I went straight to my car and rubbed a good portion of hand sanitizer over my hands....after I finished my business with him, that is. I wasn't rude or anything.

I can offer help and guidance with my hands or I can cause injury. I guess my hands and my mouth are similar in that way! But I won't be putting my hands in your mouth....or vice versa!

Defeeted

2008-04-11T20:40:00.009-04:00

I'm sure you've had this happen...or at least something similar. We were driving through a neighborhood and this little white dog (Pomeranian, maybe?) started running after our car. He chased us for a way and finally stopped. Within minutes my son called and wanted to know if we were home. No. He said he just saw a dog (golden retriever) that looked like Gipper out running around near our neighborhood and wanted to check to see if Gipper was in our yard. It wasn't Gip, but it did seem coincidental, don't you think?

Well, things like this have been happening lately. Maybe I'm just conscious of them.

Take feet for instance. How often do you think about feet? You probably talk about feet even less often than think about them. Ok, I think about feet fairly often. Not foot fetish often, but sometimes. I appreciate my feet. Ugly feet freak me out. Exposing your feet is so completely optional. Faces are out there. You can't hide your face....or even your hands for the most part. But you NEVER have to expose your feet to the world. Not really. You can always wear full coverage shoes. Many feet-exposing, sandal wearing people should take a hint here. But back to thoughts on feet.

I like my feet. They look ok. Nice even toes. No bunions, corns or callouses. They work well for me. I like shoes. I like to buy shoes. They adorn my feet.

I went to see my doctor the other day. Someone asked me the name of my doctor. When I said his name, they said, "Oh, he's the one who lost one of his feet." HUH? Feet are not easy to lose. Keys are easy to lose, but feet are normally firmly attached. They said it was in the paper. I still think that it is not true. I've been going to see him for years and years and never saw him limp. The next time I go, I'll ask to see his feet. I mention this because feet are not often the subject of discussion.

I was talking to someone else that same day or the day after. They mentioned "feet." Then, someone else brought up the subject. No big deal, just struck me as odd.

So, now I'm thinking about feet. I like my feet to be touched. I like to get pedicures. But so seldom does anyone touch my feet unless I pay them (pedicure) to do so. Come to think about it, I seldom touch anyone's feet....like almost never--ever! That's rather intimate, don't you think? To touch someone's feet? Have you noticed that we love to touch baby feet (this little piggy went to market) but once a child can tie his own shoes, we pretty much give up feet-touching. And that's ok.

Every once in a while, I could just use a good foot massage. Yeah. That would be good.

A Really Good Day

2008-04-11T18:17:00.003-04:00

I thought it would be in order to say, "I had a great day today." I say that because I've had some really bad days lately (see "Thoughts on Anxiety"). I have felt good, remained unmedicated, had some victories at work. I wonder which comes first: The good day or the victories at work? Is it a chicken/egg effect? But it was good. Good conversations with my clients. Lots of sales - Who would ever have thought I would base my good days on sales? Who would ever have thought I'd be selling stuff? But I am. I feel like I'm trying to break in a new pair of shoes that don't fit. But it's beginning to feel better now. And know, what? I'm actually pretty good at it.

Thank you to my friends and those who have cared enough to call and ask how I'm doing. If you haven't called, don't worry about it. I'm not making a list...I save listing for my bad days. ;-)

On Being 27

2008-04-09T20:56:00.004-04:00

27. I thought yesterday about being 27. I cannot remember one thing about that year...not that it was so long ago. I think it must have been uneventful. Like being 26.

25. Now that should have been an eventful or at least a memorable year. Doesn't 25 mark some kind of milestone? I think I may have had a baby that year. Yeah. I did. It was a memorable year. Come to think of it, I also had my appendix out. I remember because I was pregnant. I don't recommend having an appendectomy while pregnant. Not that you would have a choice. Nor did I.

I guess that means that at 27, I had a two year old....and a six year old. That means that I lived in Mt. Vernon, Illinois on Airport Road. I was a stay-at-home mom. I did laundry (ironing, even) every Monday. By evening all the dirty clothes from the week had been washed, dried, folded, ironed and put away. For a few glorious moments, every piece of clothing in the house was clean and put away. Then it was bath time for the boys and the week's accumulation of dirty clothes began again.

I think I met Paula when I was 27. That would be about right. It was a good year then. We talked on the phone while we did laundry on Mondays. We didn't start PJ Originals that year. But that may have been the year we made my kitchen curtains.

I cooked 3 meals a day then. My house was always clean.

I organized the school's fund-raising dinner that year. It was very successful. I had never done anything like that before.

I probably didn't accomplish a lot the year I was 27. But I survived to tell about it. I guess that's something.

Playing Fair

2008-04-08T21:48:00.000-04:00

I was five. Kindergarten was not so bad. I did OK. My teacher wrote on my report card, "Joy plays fair and tries to see that everyone else does, too." My parents reminded me of that so often, I think it became my motto in life.

I would like to think that life is fair, but its not. And that's OK. If life were fair, by whose standards would it be deemed as such. In my humble opinion, (OK, humble might be a stretch) if life were fair, I would still be 37. I would look like Kathryn Zeta-Jones, travel the world at my leisure and have more money than I, my kids and my kids' kids could spend. That would be fair.

Or would it be fair to say, God has been good to me. I live in a nice house, drive a luxury car, have a wonderful family, a job I love most of the time and housekeeper so I never have to do housework. Is it fair that I have so much and complain so much? If I lived in Manes, sat on the front porch, broke green beans, peeled potatoes and spit tobacco juice while I gossiped with the neighbors, would I think life was fair?

How should we judge what is fair? It's not like philosophers haven't debated that one for eons! Fair would be if I could be free to do exactly what I want when I want. Yes? And what would that be? I don't know.

I think it best that life is not fair. If it were, I think I should have to give up a lot.

Thoughts on Anxiety

2008-04-08T21:32:00.005-04:00

A few short years ago, had someone come to me and confessed feeling as I do now, I would have told them simply to pray about it and God would relieve their anxiety. I would surely have quoted verses and even shared a short prayer before sending them on their way. I must confess I feel differently about that now. I have prayed about it. I know the right verses. I have even asked others to pray for me. And pills. I asked for and received pills from my doctor. Sure enough. They help...and hinder. I do feel better, but they pull me down until I stare into space and feel detached from my surroundings. This is with a less than minimal dose!

I have researched, watched Today Show interviews and talked with others who have experienced anxiety. Nothing has helped much. I have better days and I have bad days. I have feelings that something is wrong...that someone will be upset with me... that I am being snubbed...I know these thoughts can be self-fulling and I find that bothersome. My heart beats too fast, my brain won't focus. I know it is affecting my work and my very closest relationships.

They say the causes of anxiety build up over time but suddenly manifest themselves in a time of panic and unexplained fear. For me, it happened one evening when something very incidental happened. I (wrongly) thought I had done something wrong. I began pacing the floor and actually saying out loud, "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" Rationally I knew it was no big deal and sure enough it was not even a deal at all, much less a big deal.

I try to think about what is the worst that can happen. Death? Most likely not. Anything else I can survive. :-) Must keep the sense of humor. I've gotta admit. This is not easy for someone who is driven to do well, has always done well and struggles with a lack of control. Oh, Well! Tomorrow is another day. I will survive. I will thrive.

Early Memories

2008-04-05T10:47:00.002-04:00

A couple of random memories:

My grandparents lived in a tiny community called Manes, Missouri. My Grandpa Jim and Grandma Orie (Ora), never owned an automobile (car, truck, tractor, scooter) that I know of. They had a wood stove in the front room to warm the house. I once rode my tricycle too close and trapped my pinkie finger between the blazing pot-bellied stove and my tricycle. I bear the scar of the encounter to this very day. Grandma (never Grandpa!) cooked on a wood-burning stove in the room that became Hell's Kitchen in the summer.

They had an outhouse with a Sears & Roebuck catalog for reading and for sanitation. I guess there were just enough pages for a family to get by until the next edition arrived...or they substituted corn cobs for catalog pages. A painful substitution.

Drinking water came from a well with a bucket on a pulley. The adults talked about children who fell into wells and drowned. I, therefore, never leaned over too far to look into the well. I don't think we actually knew anyone that ever happened to. Maybe it was just one of those things grownups made up to protect us kids. We (family, friends and passersby) drank from a shared dipper that hung over the water bucket in the kitchen.

I remember as a very little girl starting out to walk to the general store with Grandma Orie. One of the neighbors came by with his horse-drawn wagon and gave us a ride down the dirt road to Austin's General Store. I think Grandma traded her chicken eggs for supplies, but I'm sure she bought me a Cho-Cho ice cream. As I remember it, it was the best treat in the whole world. It was similar in taste to a Wendy's Frosty, but frozen and much better..or maybe that's just the way I remember it. Men sat around on benches whittling figures with their pocket knives and chewing tobacco, spitting that disgusting juice into tin cans. I must admit I admired their talent for hitting the intended target most of the time. I tried target spitting (but not chewing) but never got very good at it. I soon gave it up as a disgusting sport. The women, as I remember, just gossiped. I never got very good at that either. But the few times I have tried it, I found it a lot of fun and quite fulfilling, actually!

You know, I don't go back as far as Laura Ingalls Wilder, but though the rest of the world had modernized, Manes was about a century behind or so it appears to me. In retrospect, I think it reminds me of Little House on the Prairie. It hasn't changed all that much to this day. Except they do have cars, phones, electricity...but what they don't have anymore is Austin's General Store, Jim and Ora Wade or Hobart and Ressie Hurley...or Cho-Cho ice cream.

Why Do This?

2008-04-05T10:37:00.006-04:00

Why should I--one of the busiest, most stressed out, overworked people I know--take time from my overbooked life to write a blog no one will read? The answer is perhaps to find an answer. What in my past or present has caused me to be driven beyond healthy limits? I have been asked that question by my closest friends on more than one occasion and I have no answer. So, I thought that perhaps if I go back and write things that stand out in my memory--important and not so much so--I would find the answer or enjoy the journey--or maybe not. Don't expect me to reveal deep dark secrets or create a "tell all." First, I have so few deep dark secrets that there is nothing to explore. And there is no "tell all." This may be so boring that even I will not want to proof read it. But I do have a head and life full of memories and I think I would like to document some, embellish a few, but go back over some and smile.