Pick Up Line with a Twist

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Enjoy the time. It won’t last long.


2. Remember when you would have killed for this time alone.


3. Resist the temptation to eat constantly.


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


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


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


7. Daydream about whatever. Just let your mind wander.


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


9. Clean out the bathroom cabinets…tomorrow.


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


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


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


13. 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.


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


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


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


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


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


19. Download new songs from iTunes.


20. Wish you had the money to replace your broken iPod.


21. Plan what to wear to your phantom job interviews.


22. Worry about your present situation…tomorrow.


23. Check your bank account for overdrafts hourly.


24. Go get something to eat and take a nap.


25. 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

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?

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.