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Friday, December 16, 2011

Fillin' that heart

This will be brief and it won't hurt a bit. My kids were talking about the North Star yesterday, and asking if it was called "The North Star" because it's at the North Pole, with Santa. It is, in fact.

It's also called Polaris, or Ursae Minoris. Also, as I explained to the kiddos, it was the called the Star of Bethlehem - it led those three very wise men, also called the Magi, to baby Jesus.

By then they were bored with me. Very bored, and not at all amused with all of my information.

So they asked me a question I didn't know. But Google did. How far away is the North Star?

According to Google, it's about 430 lightyears from Earth. In a car going 100 miles per hour that never stops, it would take you about 3 thousand million years to travel that distance. Wow. I hardly even like to drive down to the store.

Satisfied, my kids went away.

And I started thinking. If the Magi just trusted that star enough to follow it to Jesus, why shouldn't it be our quest to follow it too? And then I remembered, the darn thing is 3 thousand million years away.

But there is a simpler fix, thankfully.

Just invite Jesus to live in your heart. He will come right away, because He can travel much faster than the speed of light.

And He promises to stay forever.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Fragile

Every Christmas, we watch "A Christmas Story" with "Ralphie" and "Randy." If I get my way, we watch it about 18 times. Hey, you don't earn the right to quote the movie year 'round until you've seen it 372 times.

Anyway.

There's a part in the movie when the father receives, via delivery truck, a large wooden box marked "Fragile." We all know it's the infamous leg-lamp...but I still feel that pang of anticipation for him each time he runs his hand over the word, proclaiming, "Must be Italian...."
And then, as the story goes, that fragile leg breaks into a dozen pieces when Mother is cleaning one day, proving its delicate state and crushing Father's dreams of being a "major-award" winner along with it.

Such is life. Literally.

I've learned that as I get older, I also get more emotional. Maybe 10 years ago, if you would've told me there was a disastrous earthquake that decimated a region of the world, I would have had sympathy, and I might have acknowledged it to be horrific, but my life would have remained the same. I would certainly not have taken any time out of my day to thank God for my safety, nor would I have asked Him to comfort those grieving.

Now, I see a house fire on the news, and I'm reduced to weeping. And praying. Prayers of comfort and peace for those who are homeless. Prayers of thanksgiving for the safety and health of my family. Funny how things have changed.

I suppose it is just that I've realized that little things can alter the course of one's life. Even little things are big things, sometimes. We are all indirectly affected by not only the things that happen in our own life, but also by the things that happen in others' lives. It is foolish to think that we have not, ourselves, made decisions that have changed someone's life. Have you ever fired someone? Broken a heart? Paid for someone's groceries? Sent an encouraging note? Have you ever bullied?

Life is fragile. Italian or not.

And it's ever-changing. The things that are a big deal today, won't be, in a year. Maybe even in a week. But the things we say or do can have more impact than we could ever imagine. I started writing this blog about two years ago, thinking I might bring a smile to someone's face. I've never written it with the intent to have hundreds of followers; I don't care about that. If I make one person's day a little bit more bearable, I've succeeded. I've altered the course of their day in a positive direction.

Virginia O'Hanlon wrote to The Sun back in 1897 to ask if Santa Claus is real. The Sun not only said "it was so," but that "the most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see." Think about it, next time you look at the fragility of life, and words, and actions. Think about your own contribution, and then think about the way your contribution will affect others for years to come.

Make sure it's a good one.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Christ-mas

I saw a sign today that said "Beware of Christmas celebrations that remove Christ."
Isaac said, "If you remove Christ, you just have mas. What's 'mas'?"

I thought about it for a second: I'm not really good at word origins, in fact, I was perfectly content with everything being a derivative of the Greek language, a la "My Big Fat Greek Wedding."

I did take Spanish class, however, and back then, I learned that 'mas' means 'more.'

And that's exactly right. If you remove Christ, you just have more. More greed, more stuff, more emptiness. More hype, more stress, more people who say I can't wait for the holidays to be over. More depression.

Less of what matters.

Many argue the tradition of celebrating Christmas on December 25; many argue celebrating what has been called a Pagan holiday, altogether. The point is, it's a time to celebrate the greatest gift of our entire existence, and how one tiny little life could blossom into a perfect man, who would wipe away the sins of the world with His incredible sacrifice. And that's the only point. The rest is just gravy.

When I was a kid, I had mile-long Christmas lists, too. I wanted lots of stuff. My kids have those same lists, minus the requests for legwarmers, Fad makeup and the game Girl Talk. I waited for Christmas cookies, parties and the sound of sleigh bells. We didn't have Norad to track Santa, but the weather man on the news would often show super cool "spottings" of the sleigh on the radar. I still wish it was like that; Santa was much more mysterious then.

Anyway, I have had really odd feelings about Christmas this year. Somewhere between anxious and depressed. I feel like it's happening too fast, and it's too routine. I feel like this giant to-do list cloud is hovering, and there has been no peaceful enjoyment of the true meaning of the holiday. Bake this, wrap that, be at so 'n' so's house at 7:00. Fix the lights, plan the meal, clean the house, check to see if Amazon has a better price...more, more, more.

So I'm stopping. Right now. The stress part, I mean. Christmas is coming, ready or not. More importantly, Christ is coming, ready or not. So I'm gonna take His word for it, and cast my worries on Him, instead of trying to make everything perfect for the Super-Holiday this has become. My kids will get over it. They aren't getting mountains of gifts that cost me well into next spring. We talked last night about the gifts of the Magi...and the fact that there were only three. My boys were appalled. We agreed on four gifts each, an idea I saw on Pinterest: Something they want, something they need, something to wear and something to read. I told them to count themselves lucky; it's one more gift than Jesus got.

I'm hoping that we can put more Christ back into Christmas this year; that's my goal.

An unrelated goal, now that I've mentioned it, though: does anyone have a Girl Talk game anymore? My mother always said it was "too-old" for me. I'd like to see if I'm mature enough to play it now. That, and I always thought those fake red zits looked like fun. Anyway, I regress.

Go to church, friends. Learn what this whole thing is all about, and get ready. While we might be able to track Santa with Norad, we sure can't track Jesus, and He's going to show up one of these days, whether the house is decorated or not.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Thanks

I sit here, sweating. Tired. Exhausted, really. And covered in glitter and blood. Not my blood; Gabe's blood.
After a long, trying day, a not-the-greatest dinner (Buittoni tortellini didn't turn out to be as spectacular as it sounded),lunchbox-packing, cat litter changing and two overflowing baskets of laundry to fold and iron, I mostly just wanted to sit down.
Alas, my plan was foiled, when Gabe took off for his bedroom in footed pajamas...on the hardwood floor...and the wooden bench got in his way. Spurting, almost cartoon-like blood covered his face and I had no idea what to do. I didn't bleed as a child, because I am a girl. A girlie-girl. I played with dolls, legwarmers and FAD makeup. Quietly. Bloodlessly.

I picked him up, trying to ignore the fact that my shirt was quickly becoming speckled in red and his screams were only making it come faster. I plopped him on the kitchen counter and grabbed the paper towels, trying to mop through the mangling to find the source. As it turns out, it was just a small cut, and I immediately recalled that head wounds just produce more blood than other areas of the body. Okay. I can deal with this. I searched the medicine cabinet for the right bandage; a butterfly would have been my choice. I cursed myself for the 112th time, because every time I open that cabinet I think I need to organize this soon. And I do. Need to organize it, that is.

I didn't have a butterfly, or at least I didn't find one. I settled on a cotton pad, some gauze tape and an antibiotic ointment. After a shirt change, I'm now sitting next to my boy on the couch, because there's no way I'm letting him go to sleep right now. I'm sitting, doing what I was going to do, earlier, till the mayhem began. I was going to write about how my 30th wasn't that big of a deal, after all. But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." Remind me to quit planning.

Anyway, I realize I kind of freaked out about turning 30. It wasn't that bad. The things that were important still are, and the things that weren't, well, they're still not. I'm realizing more and more that despite the heart-attacks my children like to give me, they are my entire life. I think anyone who becomes a mother and thinks their life can possibly resemble anything it did before is crazy. Is that mean? This life, this mom life, is worlds away from the "old me."

And as Thanksgiving approaches, and I see all my Facebook friends posting the things they're thankful for, I guess it boils down to the simple things in my life that I'm most thankful for. I'm thankful that I have a washer and dryer to produce these overflowing baskets of laundry. I'm thankful for the money to buy even the not-so-great dinners. I'm thankful for Isaac, who always likes the lunches I pack and reads to me each morning, for Ella, who dresses up in my pantyhose and her brothers' t-shirts and shrieks "Gook at me, Mommy! Am I so cute?"....for Brett's ability to be flexible and good-spirited in the worst scheduling circumstances ever,and for the rest of my family who...all have their own qualities. I'm thankful that I had Sarge, the best dog ever, who loved me more than I ever had the right to be loved. And for this bloody kid, who says "you would never laugh at me for having this tape and stuff stuck to me, would you, Mommy?"
No, I wouldn't. Ever.
"Is my blood done coming, Mommy?"
I sure hope so.
"How does tape stick, Mommy? You should get that eyeshadow on TV, Mommy. You could look like Halloween all the time. Do you think I should wear my pajamas to school tomorrow? Can I drink hot apple cider for my breakfast again?"
sigh.
I'm thankful for that. I'm really, really thankful for that.
Oh, and the glitter. I've left you hanging about that, and you're dying to know how I am covered in blood and glitter, right?
Yes.
I was starting to make a wreath. A Christmas wreath.
Because that's just around the corner, too, you know.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Something-life-crisis

I ate a Little Debbie snack cake. I ate two, actually. I haven't eaten one in probably twenty years. I know why: they're disgusting, and they taste like plastic. I am watching a movie, on television, that isn't Lifetime, and hasn't been in theaters. This means it was never good enough for either.
I bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of Essie nail polish; it's called "Lady Like," as if I'm really going to accomplish something.
I bought a Zumba Ultimate Transformation kit. I eyeball it warily. I've yet to unwrap the DVDs. I just figure that if I'm going to wear the leggings (which were last week's brilliant idea), I'm going to have to do something about these thighs.
I keep looking online at spas and getaway trips to resort lodges with glossy pine beams on the ceiling and pictures of women resembling Stepford Wives enjoying glasses of wine.
I am back and forth on whether or not I want bangs again.
I am determined that I have to get rid of my minivan. It only makes me feel older.
Older. The same feeling I get when I look in the mirror each morning and see bags and gray hairs. I remind myself that I'm still young and hip. I have a Kindle.
I feel a little crazy, but I wouldn't call it a mid-life-crisis because I don't know how old I'll live to be. How does anyone know when their mid-life is? I never understood that.
Nope.
I'm turning 30.
In 5 days.
Please pass the Xanax.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Unconditional Love


The best kind of love is the kind that is free. It does not require stipulations, it does not change, it does not lessen. I am certain I've felt two, solid instances of this type of love in my life thus far.
I think the most common example of this kind of love is felt when a woman becomes a mother. For me, it happened the moment I discovered, after peeing on countless sticks and seeing countless pink plus-signs, there was a person growing within me. It was a two-fer, in my experience...I hadn't 100% trusted in Jesus yet, but I realized He loved me enough to give me a new life. He loved me that much, even though I hadn't lived my life for Him. Through months of discomfort, uncertainty, nausea and what felt like a million trips to the bathroom, I awaited the moment I'd look into the face of this little creature I loved more than anything before. No other love before that can measure up to it; the feeling is, for lack of other explanation, euphoric. Sadly, the love from child to mother doesn't always follow suit. Don't get me wrong, I think my kids love me, and I think they love me a ton. At this age. I'm all they have, I'm their lifeline to everything they've known in their brief time on this earth. I just know it will change. I know they will be angry with me, someday, and they will claim to not love me. Two of them have already "hated" me at some point. I know they don't mean it...but what I'm saying is, the love isn't the same. My theory is that they'll discover this type of love later in life...I can't remember loving anything unconditionally when I was a kid, either. But I remember feeling unconditional love, from my mother.
I think it's tough for people to love unconditionally. It's natural for humans to put conditions on things. "I love you when..." or "I love you, except..." This is why, I think, God gave us animals. In Genesis, God creates Eden and gives Adam the responsibility of looking after all the animals, forming a bond between man and four-legged-creature that has continued for centuries. My dogs love me unconditionally. They follow me throughout the house with their eyes, and if I leave their line of sight, they'll move to a new position so they can see me again. When I stir in the morning, when they hear my movement, they begin to whine with anticipation, waiting for me to pat my hands on their heads for the first time of the day. Their backs grow rigid and their eyes wary with suspense whenever a strange person approaches me. They'd lay down their lives for me, any day, any time, unconditionally. It's sort of how I'd lay down my life, any day, any time, unconditionally for one of my kids.
Dogs (or any pet for that matter) are a great example of unconditional love, because "stuff" doesn't get in the way.
The thing that taints unconditional human love, when it does happen, is "stuff." Money, possessions, greed. You can't take it with you, anyway. When I last looked at my best friend, Sarge, I felt my last dose of his unconditional love for me. In his deep brown eyes, I knew that nothing in life had satisfied him more than the bond we shared. When marriages end, and couples sever their ties and create new lives apart, it's the greed, the bitterness, and the argue over "stuff" that surfaces. The love wasn't unconditional.
When a loved one dies, their "stuff" becomes a breeding ground for anger and contempt. For jealousy, as one sibling discovers that another sibling will fight them for a material possession. For betrayal, as deep secrets are discovered and relationships are forever wounded. The love wasn't unconditional.

So, friends, my point on this Saturday morning is to strive to find the moments of unconditional love you've experienced in your own lives. If you're a mom, maybe you already know it. If you have a pet, maybe you know it. Maybe you have experienced a different form altogether. Whatever it is, find it. Think of all the things in this life we will have, or consume, or even think we own, and know that it is only temporary.
Love is the only thing you can take with you.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Sometimes

...I find myself crying for no reason. I know that's a symptom of something horrific, according to one of those chemically life-altering anti-depressant commercials, but, alas, I do. I used to think my mother was insane for crying at Hallmark commercials, but...now that's just par for the course. Sometimes I can't even go in to a Hallmark store. Well, and that Maxine just gets me going, too.

So, today, as I was sitting in my dark and clouded dining room, I found myself staring at a "mega-noodle" on my spoon. I was thinking how it was indeed much more practical than an "average-noodle,"when suddenly, something plopped down into the liquid. I thought to look up to the ceiling, but I then realized it was a tear. I plunged the spoon back into the bowl of Campbell's and rested my forehead into my palms, twisted the pressurized knob of the emotional spigot in my brain, and let everything pour out. A flood of all things unspoken (at least unspoken to most) came rushing through my head; tightening my throat, burning my eyes and making my nose begin to run.
Next week I have to go and have another ultrasound, and it terrifies me. What if it's something really bad and...what if my kids, God forbid, had to grow up without me? In two weeks, I'm turning 30. In 10 years, I've been a wife twice, a mother three times, and I've lived in four houses, not counting the cottage and three apartments. Yet, I still haven't figured out what to do with my life. I just know it goes on, whether you figure it out or not.
And then,there's the deep-dark secret. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is, but it's there, tucked away, all the same. Right there, snuggled next to "no one understands you." They've become good friends. And the reminder I give myself: "you can't get upset with people because they don't understand, and not everything you do can be undone."
Today is my little baby girl's birthday. She is two! She is two.

I suppose I could have been crying for any of those reasons. Sometimes, I just do. And so I sat, staring at the orange and brown and green stripes of my place mat, and feeling the warmth of a ray of sun, creeping between the limbs of a tree and making its way through my dining room window. For now, though, I tell myself, it's time to dry it up and put on a smile. There's a cake to be made, some laundry to be done. There's a little boy who wants to me to play Legos, and another one who will want to tell me all about his day at the school farm. Yes, so just get up.

Tomorrow, after all, is just another day.

Monday, September 12, 2011

The day after September 11

I didn't post this blog yesterday, mainly because I just couldn't get it right. Okay, in all honesty, I didn't type it until today.
But that's no big thing, really. I write everything in my head way before you ever see it in typeface.
I didn't post it because I kept thinking about the actual day of September 11, 2001, and how on that day, nobody had any idea what had just happened. But the next day...after hours of no sleep, and trying to get to the bottom of it, we all had a pretty clear picture of the magnitude of horror. And ten years later, watching the events unfold again on television, I had just that feeling: what in the heck is going on? So I waited. Till today, to see if my thoughts would magically congeal into something more...logical. And I regret to inform you, they have not. There was no lightbulb, no "a-ha!" moment, when I suddenly understood why families have suffered from this tragic day for ten years. Because it was all stemmed from hate. And hate has no logic.
Some of us have suffered less than others, certainly. I didn't lose a family member in the Trade Center, and no one I knew was on one of the flights. We all remember what we were doing on that day - just like my mom remembers what she was doing when she found out President JFK was assassinated. You just remember stuff like that, I guess. I was in school, if you care to know. And I was an Army wife, which presented a set of problems all on its own. My husband wasn't home...he was in Ranger school. Somewhere in the Everglades. I was alone. Next to an Airforce Base, where it was normal for Chinooks and Little Birds and C-130s to hover the area regularly. As I drove to the base, though, that afternoon, the silence in the sky was deafening. The military police were bigger jerks than usual, armed with weapons fit to kill something much bigger than me and my dog, Sarge. We just wanted to get through the gate before the base locked down, and get to someone we knew. Marc Anderson walked out to my car, pet Sarge and asked if I was alright. He said he wasn't sure when I'd see my husband again - he didn't know the plans. Maybe they'd all deploy to help, somewhere. Maybe they'd just go to Iraq and blow up the bad guys. I know a lot of guys were hoping it was the latter. There was a lot of anger, amid the confusion.
There was a lot of fear. I needed my mother...no matter how old you get, when you're scared, you want your mama. I must have called my mother ten times that day. And my two best friends in Georgia, Tracey and Laura. And of course, I had Sarge. During the next few months, Marc was a big brother to me, too. He made sure I got out of the house for a few good dinners, and asked me to come and help pick out an outfit for his brother's expected baby. He was incredibly excited to be an uncle. We even got a boonie hat embroidered, "Lil' Anderson."
That Christmas was bittersweet, in 2001. "The boys," otherwise known as 1st Platoon, came over for Christmas dinner. I made the biggest turkey I could find at the commissary, and enough sides for, well, an army. We had a roaring fire in our old brick fireplace, and that tiny cottage with the wooden walls was never cozier. All the guys spread out on the floor and we watched Shrek. I remember Marc fell asleep with a cleaned-to-the bone turkey leg resting on a plate on his chest. We all joked that he looked exactly like Shrek.
The next day (which is always kind of a letdown anyway, when the festivities are over), the boys all left for Iraq. With the nation whirling around in fear, frustration and uncertainty, it was just the icing on the cake to know that my husband, not to mention the rest of the boys, were heading for war.
And to make matters worse, Marc never came home. Those bad guys took him down, on March 4, 2002. I told you nothing good comes from hate.
So, yesterday was a flood of emotions, as it is every year on the 11th of September. I watched the programs on television and I remembered, of course, what I was doing that day. I still felt the horror and disbelief when I saw the victims jumping from the Trade Center windows. The gruesome thud of bodies, hitting the concrete. The firefighters valiant effort to herd masses of corporate America down dozens of flights of stairs. The shaking voices of wives, hearing a final goodbye from their husbands, on a plane about to crash.
A horror film.
And then I heard the bagpipes. And I love them, but since Marc's memorial service, I just can't do them anymore. Then a beaten and battered American flag triumphantly unfurled at the memorial site, telling the story of her courage, even though her rips and holes and dirty stripes didn't come for free. And I sobbed and sobbed.
And I reached for the phone to call my mother.

Friday, September 2, 2011

It's all baloney

I am eating a bologna sandwich. I can't tell you the last time I had one. I might have been ten. No, I was nineteen. I remember this now, because I was incredibly poor, and bologna was cheap. So were pickles and grape jelly. Our fridge was interesting. This sandwich is good; I put butter on it, along with the mayo, by the way. I always do, because my mom always did, and my grandma always did, and beyond that, my grandpa put butter on anything edible. And he lived to be 98.

Butter and mayo and bologna and bread. And let's just get it out in the open, I think it's stupid that "bologna" is spelled with a g-n-a at the end. So in the title, I spelled it "baloney." It works out better that way.

I'm eating this baloney sandwich and blogging, about nothing. About the sandwich, so far. Earlier this week, a female acquaintance of mine commented on a post I made on Facebook. She said I ought to write a blog; what I have to say helps her prepare for the future in raising her own children. (They're babies, still, and I've been there and done that already). Of course I told her I already do write one, and she should follow it. If she wants. Not that I'm an expert on child-rearing, but because sometimes, it's easier to deal with your own life if you can see that you're not alone. It's better than going to counseling, see, because you can read it and either say "Ahhh, well, there now, I'm not that crazy," or (and hopefully not) "Good grief, I'm in trouble." Self-diagnosis.

Anyway, after reading this acquaintance's suggestion, I asked myself, why do I write a blog?

For one thing, the computer doesn't talk back. It doesn't question. It allows me the freedom to "talk and talk" and it never rolls its eyes or pretends that I'm interesting.

I know there are other moms out there who must experience the same things I do. Life's trials and tribulations, moments of ultimate frustration with kids and husbands and family, along with moments of indescribable joy. My life is plain, yet it is never dull. We aren't rich or fancy, we don't take lavish vacations, and I can't, honestly, even remember the last time I ate dinner out somewhere. Unless you count Pizza Hut family night. So, I can't write about red-carpet-worthy events. I can write about my love for stuffed-crust, however.

Each blog is a snapshot of my mind at a current moment. Some days I am contemplative, some days nostalgic, and some days, I'm just writing because I need an outlet. A listening "ear." So I sit (with or without a baloney sandwich) and click the keyboard. I note that I'm getting crumbs on the keys.

There's this feeling of disbelief that people are actually reading what I write, yet they say they do. People have even said they like it. Perhaps they have related to something. Some blogs are a little pointless, like this one, maybe.

I don't know if you have ever experienced this, readers, but sometimes, when your mind seems to be flooded with thoughts, the last thing you could do is put them in writing. The thoughts are transparent; you cannot grasp them and nail them down. And they're so overwhelming, you'd love nothing more than to be able to do just that. Because if you could line them up, you could prioritize; make a plan. But you can't. Or I can't.
I keep hoping that by writing things down, eventually, things will sort out. They typically do.
So I just blog.

And develop wrinkles in my forehead.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

And the green grass grows all around

You know that saying, "about as exciting as watching grass grow..." or something like that? I realize this post might fit that bill. However, I decided it was important to note, in writing, how much I am actually grateful that my grass does grow, and how happy I am to mow it. Weird, eh?

When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.

When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.

Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.

I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.

Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.

Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.

In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Fearless

How is it that I am so much more tame now than I used to be? Last night, I was laying in bed, recalling that once upon a time, I went to Atlanta with a friend, and this friend took me to another friend's apartment, and at this apartment, people were smoking marijuana from a big thing that I learned, later, was called a bong. Or was it a hookah? I enjoy that word...but anyway, I had no idea. Really, I did not. And no, I didn't use it. But when we went to a bar, later, for a costume party, I did have a drink. Hey, I was 21. It was legal. Smart? No. I was in Atlanta and I knew 3 people, sort of. But...

I had no fear.

Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.

I had no fear.

The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.

Because maybe I had a little fear.

To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."

I had fear, but I had mace.

Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."

For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.

Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.

Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.

Monday, August 22, 2011

County Fair

In my case, the annual 4-H "youth" fair has always been a source of anxiety and excitement for me. I wasn't a farm-kid, growing up. My grandparents on my mother's side were farmers in their young years, but none of that really carried over when they married and had children. On my father's side, my grandparents had a farm with cattle. While I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to visit the cows out in the field and feed them ears of corn, and certainly loved the adventure of dodging cow patties along the way, I never entered any of them in the fair.
Growing up in a rural farm community only meant that about 70% of the school population was composed of farm-kids. I don't know what the other 30% did; maybe they were the "gamers" of our time. I never got in to that, either. Looking back, I don't know what the heck I did with my time. Let's continue.
The farm-kids spent full weeks at the fair, hanging out in barns with their livestock, riding all the rides a hundred times, eating fair food and forming, whether they knew it or not, this ultra-cool secret society that someone like me, a non-farm-kid, would never understand. I recall meandering through the barns with my parents (lame, because none of them had to walk with their parents, but mine still believed someone would steal me), and casually encountering farm-kids in each barn. I always felt envious of them, and their freedom to interact until late-night, wander the fair grounds in happy little packs, make ill-fated attempts at summer romances and be patted on the back by the teachers in school, a few weeks later, for their ribbons and achievements.
I never went away to camp either. I'm sensing a trend. This is why there are therapists.
I spent the past week at the same 4-H fair, except now, of course, I'm (supposedly) all grown-up and (supposedly) looking at life from a different perspective. I was hosting my own booth for lia sophia, my jewelry company. When representing my company, I feel it's necessary to look my best, whatever that means, and present myself as a professional. So, I made all attempts to achieve just that, and stood proudly behind my booth all week. I did, however, still feel that little twitch of anxiety. I knew, for certain, that in a small town like this, I would surely run in to people from high school. Farm-kids. And on top of that, other kids, now (supposedly) all grown-up too, and looking at life from a different perspective.
Anxiety. And maybe a little curiosity.
Right away, they started filing through the commercial building. Every hour or so, I'd see another familiar face. At one point, a boy from high school walked in. This boy, in particular, is one that I drooled over, back then. I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy. It was common practice for seniors to bring their wallet-size pictures to school and pass them out to friends. If you were a close friend, maybe the back of the picture would have a personalized message, too. Anyway, I happened to be standing in a random group of people when this boy was handing out his pictures one day. He handed me one. There was no personalized message, but I ain't complainin.' I hung that picture on my bedroom mirror, convinced that there was a divine reason he handed me that picture. Of course, it wasn't just because I had been standing there. Surely he intended for me to have it.
Boy, I ramble.
So he walked in, pushing a darling little baby girl in a stroller, and his wife and older daughter were close behind. I immediately felt a pit of anxiety in my stomach. Now would be the time to remind you, readers, that I am not suggesting that I have any desire or attraction to someone outside my marriage. I'm simply recalling the oddness of the past working in the present. It is not because I've thought of this boy at all in the past 10 years, or because I harbor any lingering feelings, but at that moment, I remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be 15 years old, uncool, and awkward. Turns out, while those feelings dissipate over the years, they never actually go away. Right away, I was astonished (as I was when I saw many old schoolmates) that he looked so normal. I guess, back then, I thought all of the "cool kids" were cool because they were somehow better than me. More attractive, popular, charismatic.
And then life happens. And things go the way they go. And almost 12 years later, we're all sort of on the same page.
So I stood up straight, grinned my toothiest grin, and mustered up all the confidence a nearly-thirty-year-old mama can muster. I did my best to shush all those old feelings. I applauded myself, internally, of course, for wearing heels, because Clinton Kelly says they lengthen the leg and make you appear thinner. I stood, nonchalantly glanced in the direction of his family, and....never made eye contact. He didn't pay a lick of attention. Hmph...doesn't he remember, he gave me his senior picture!?!
What does it matter, anyway. I'm glad his family looked so happy and I'm proud of mine as well. Why do I care if he recognized me?
It's just that inner-kid. The non-farm-kid, relatively awkward, out-of-place girl making her way to the surface. The girl I've worked for years to improve, suddenly shouting "still here!"
Will she ever just go away?
Do I really want her to?

Just then, the guy in the booth next to me says, "Hey, do you know that guy with the two little girls over there? He keeps looking over at you, like he knows you or something."

Ha.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

How do you do it?

I am asked that question all the time, and friends, I don't get it. How do I do what? Watch my kids? Stay at home? Cook three meals-a-day, wash, dry and fold laundry, vacuum, dust and pay bills? I just do. Because it's my job. And yes, contrary to popular belief, it is a full-time job...but unlike those of you who get a paycheck each Friday, I am perpetually waiting for the crew from Publisher's Clearinghouse to show up at my door and reward me for all of my hard work. I mean, I would be waiting if I actually did that Publisher's Clearinghouse stuff. I just don't...because I'd probably become addicted to those bonus item things they send ya.

Anyway, I regress....as I typically do....
The other day (I say "the other day" a lot, as if there is some week in my subconscious, comprised of "other days") I was in the grocery store with one kid. I have decided that one kid is my max for grocery store trips. More than one comes along, and they fight like rabid raccoons. One, I can handle. Usually. It's just important that I never underestimate the volume of even just one little mouth. And the word "want." A kid can say something as politely as possible, but when it comes to the part when they say they "want" something, it is always at least 30 decibels louder than anything else they've previously said. E.g.: "Mommy, can you please buy those Danimals (or if you're my kid, you embarrassingly pronounce it "damnanimals") crush-cup yogurts? I WANT them!!!"

So.

I had a pretty successful trip, on this other day, when I went to the store. Things stayed mellow, I bought what I needed, took advantage of some good deals. Then there's the checkout. And I think we should really give a tongue-lashing to people who market checkout lanes, because they clearly do not have children who WANT all those little pocket-size toys, gum, and intriguing cans of Binaca. Nonetheless, my boy was not too hard on me this day. Yes, he asked for every last little item there, as I was distractedly emptying my cart onto the belt, but he did not scream or cry, or do anything that would have surely happened if there had been more than one child present. It was the lady behind us who made the trip memorable...she kept eyeing my purchases, making concerned faces. Finally, as she placed the little "order separator" between our cart-loads, she said "How do you do it?!"
I stopped, dead in my tracks.
"Do what?" I said with a half-smile, expecting the worst...imagining that she perhaps saw my child pocket the Binaca when I wasn't looking, and I'd have to make some horrible example of why we do not steal even if it's small and fits in our pocket...(can you tell I've had to do that before?!)
"I mean," she says, "do you have a big family? Or do you at least have someone to help you unload all this stuff at home? Who do you make all this for?" as she sweeps her hand across the grand pile of chicken, toaster waffles, spaghetti sauce, dog treats and produce on the belt. "And all those paper products," pointing to the paper towel and toilet paper, (listed as PT and TP on my grocery list)"must cost you a fortune!"
I chuckled. It's what I do when I don't really know what to say.
"It does, actually, but you know...coupons...and..."
"But how do you do it? How many kids do you have?"
Now this woman looked about 65. From what I know about her younger years, back in the 40's and 50's, it wasn't atypical to have a big family. So what gives? I've only got 3. 4 when my stepson is over...I didn't think that was a lot. Yes, it's hard, and yes, they're young. But it isn't horrible. So I told her something along those lines, and she gave me this half-smile of pity. Which is when I started mentally going over my outfit and hairdo without actually looking away from her. Did I brush my hair? Am I wearing earrings? Did I spill Diet Coke on my shirt in the car? My only guess is that I look like a destitute woman at her wits-end.
And something odd comes of this situation.
Instead of feeling bad about her revelation that my life must be terribly difficult, I suddenly feel a little bit gleeful. I stand a little taller. I grin at my little boy, now engrossed in a National Enquirer. Heck yeah, this is a tough job. Finally, someone sees, it's a job. No weekends off. 24 hour shifts. No paycheck, no bonus, no vacation. No company car, just a hideous minivan with a mysterious odor and the occasional french fry wedged in the seat cushion.
Clearly, even if just for a moment, I've debunked the myth that stay-at-home moms are these perfectly pedicured Betty Crockers, lounging about on the patio with an Arnold Palmer, awaiting their Ward Cleaver to return, briefcase in hand, to sit down to a lovely gourmet meal.
So I shrugged my shoulders, wiped the pretend-sweat from my brow and did one of those little, "well ya know..." things while playfully shaking my head as I handed the cashier my credit card.
All in a day's work.

Monday, July 18, 2011

...and thanks for listening all the time.

Dear God,

I know I talk to you all the time. Probably to the point of annoying, but, I figure, hey, you're God, things aren't supposed to annoy you. So I keep talking. And hoping that some of it is making its way to your ears.
Today I am putting it in writing. And then I'm gonna post it to this blog forum. I don't know if you're in to blog forums at all, but I suppose as long as I keep it clean, and I make sure everybody knows how I feel about You, it's probably okay. Besides, the only reason I'm writing this in the first place is because there might be another mom out there who needs it. So she doesn't think she's alone in her crazy world. Because as I've told you, it's easy to feel alone.
So here's the gist of it: I need a break. Relief, from somewhere. I've done it all myself, and I know you tell me not to. I've tried not to bother you with all my woes. I've been very thankful for all you've already done for me. But right now in life, I feel like I need someone bigger and stronger than me to take over for a little while. Or at least give me a good boost. Yeah. A boost would be good - like when you know you can't possibly reach the next level by yourself, and someone comes up and makes that little foothold by locking their hands together, and they say "here, step up," and you're thinking oh my word, but I'll break your arms off, but you giggle nervously and take the lift because you really needed it and then you realize it wasn't so awful to trust for a second, that someone else, bigger and stronger than you, could actually help. There I go rambling again to you. See, I even do it in writing. Sorry.
You know the stuff I need. You know the relief I'm asking for, so I won't blare that all over this blog forum thing.
But I will post it....because maybe another crazy person out there needs You too, but they're too afraid to ask.
Love,
Sara

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Mint Juleps and Rocking Chairs

"And then I am going to buy my house in Kauai before I am too old to actually enjoy it," I announced, last night, mentally sealing my deal that I am going to triumph in my own business, make a six or seven-figure income and become very comfortable in life. Not that I believe money is all that we need - it's the last thing, really. But it would certainly be nice to not feel the pings of a coronary each time I get my credit card statement. Or when I take my stepson to the dentist and hear the words "insurance won't cover this." Or when I get a text from my husband casually saying "The washer broke...basement's flooded." A few extra bucks would be nice, that's all.
My mother and I were conversing on the phone the other day and I exclaimed: "It's just NOT how I planned my life to be. I had no idea it would turn out this way!" And then I instantly felt guilty because I am certain that the woman who listened quietly as she was told she had breast cancer, or that she couldn't bear children, or that her husband had been killed, her child has a debilitating disease...didn't really plan on life being this way, either.
I heard snippets of many womens' stories this week while attending National Conference for lia sophia. So many of them had a butterfly story, of how they mustered up the strength and perseverance to rise from the pits of despair and become successful in their own businesses. One woman looked at me and said, "Well you know, girlfriend, that if you want somethin' done right, you just gotta do it for yourself!" And how many times have I heard that? And how many times do I still believe I will be somehow rescued from my woes? I promise to let you know when it happens.
John Lennon said "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." As we hurdle through the day's challenges, feeling like hamsters on the wheel, life is going on around us, and, before we know it, our hair is gray, our kids are grown and have moved away and we wonder where it all went.
So, I'm scheming again. Planning, I should say...because it sounds nicer. Can I, through faith, courage, and enthusiasm, change my own path? Because the alternative is to be stagnant. Sitting in a stale pool of "wait and see." And I know I can do that, because I do it all the time. Can I feel the empowerment of being a woman in today's society, grab life by the reins and show no fear? "I'll try," I say to myself. And then I remember the saying, "There is no try; only do." So...there's that.
I had another little dream, in case Kauai didn't work out. When I lived in the south, there were these magnificent old plantation houses, with majestic cypress trees drooping over the front yard, a dog or two wandering about the long, gravelly driveway. The best part about them was that they all had these porches as big as my garage - equipped with dainty little tables, lumbering rocking chairs and giant porch swings. I imagined myself laying in the swing, reading a book, or sitting in one of those chairs, sipping a mint julep and watching the day go by. There'd be a lake or a river out back, full of fish, a rickety old dock to sit on with a dog or two by my side and a night sky so big an starry, I'd feel like I was in outer space.
For now it's just a dream. But maybe also a challenge, because, as I'm slowly grasping, this is the only chance we've got to make what we want of this life. There are no do-overs. And, the only guarantee in life is that it won't last forever.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Waiting to exhale...

For about 3 years, I've struggled with this: a child who is bright and intelligent, imaginative and social, inquisitive and thoughtful. Oh, and also hyperactive and impulsive. And sometimes a little violent. And disobedient, unfocused, and obnoxious. That's all. Just that.

Many parents would be drinking by now. Many would have turned to child abuse, or demanded medication to drug this child into a zombie-like oblivion. I took him to counseling, tried with fervor to work with him at home, and spent endless hours on the internet, doing research on this sort of behavior. And I cried, certain that I had failed as a mother.

I consulted Isaac's teachers recently, after finally wrapping my mind around the fact that he may, indeed, suffer from ADHD. Some people who know us might be laughing right now, muttering something along the lines of "duh!" But those people don't get it, unless they've been through this. Mother's of children with ADHD don't admit it easily. At least I didn't. I didn't want this diagnosis, considering it's a mental disorder. What mom wants to hear that their child has a mental disorder? The pediatrician suggested it quite a while ago, but that only put me into the frenzy of research, along the way deciding to obtain my master's in child counseling because of it. The teachers' evaluation of Isaac was what really shook me. It was devastating to me. I realized that I was only hurting him further by waiting. We sat down and had a long talk, which was when this six-year old with amazing potential told me, in a nutshell, just that.
"Mom, I want to do well. My brain tells me to do things that I know are bad, and I can't stop it, even when I want to."

So all this time, maybe he could have done well, he could have struggled less...and I was too stubborn to try medication.

Until today.

He had his first dose of Adderall at about 4:30 p.m. The doctor and the pharmacist both told me it could take 2 or 3 months to level out in his system, but this was an immediate-release, six-hour formula, and I'd likely see a change relatively quickly. The first 30 minutes, I noticed nothing. He was insane in the grocery store, and acted as though he could hear me. He grabbed for everything on the shelves, begged for candy, and ran in the parking lot. Hmph...yeah, immediate release. Right.
By the time we returned home, however, something changed. He was oddly quiet. He was respectful to me while I made dinner. He asked for salad. He ate his meal without jumping up from the table, complaining about the food or making obscene noises. He volunteered to take a bath, did homework without any nagging, and even helped his brother make his bed. I thought surely it was a joke. He had to be making it up. Except for the part that he's six and has no idea what that little blue pill was for.
So I find myself, still, holding my breath. Tomorrow is a new day, another 2 pills. I am immensely curious as to how his teachers perceive his behavior. And I continue to stress, because that's what moms do. They live and breathe for their children, I suppose. And cry for them, and laugh for them, and celebrate their victories.
I'm certainly opening up to the idea that this might be one of those victorious occasions.

Monday, March 14, 2011

To Go to Heaven: The Simple Version

We're driving to church Sunday morning, and between chattering teeth because the heat hasn't started working yet, Isaac opens up a conversation, again, about Sarge.
"I really miss that dog, Mommy. He must have been very old if God wanted him back in Heaven."
"Well, he was old," I say, "But you don't always have to be old to go to Heaven. Often, God needs to take back young people, too."
"I'm so mad that I'll be seven, soon," he says."This means, I'll be seven and my brother will only turn 4, and I'll always be older than him. Which means, I'll have to go to Heaven first."
I reassured him that age is not the only reason people die and go to Heaven. Although, I told him I hoped it would be the reason that all of us go...that we'd live a full life, grow very old, and then one day, God would come for us.
He sat quietly for a while, his six-year-old hands stuffed into his coat pockets, shoving his feet against the blower of the now-warm heater. Then he pipes up:
"Sarge probably has to protect people, even in Heaven. I think that's his new job. Like maybe he protects God, or the angels or something. Or maybe he is an angel and he protects me."
"Maybe. What made you think that?"
"Easy, Mom. He was a lifeguard."
And that, he was. And this conversation did to me what many conversations do to me. It provoked so many thoughts. Thoughts about the mind of a child, and how vast the world must seem to them. Thoughts of how fleeting it all really is.
We went to my late-grandparents' house later in the day, and I took a few pieces of Grandma's old costume jewelry, and a sugar bowl that sat on the table every day I ate there. They didn't have lavish things in life. Nothing of great value, material-wise. They were just great people. I didn't want anything of great value, anyway. I got that while they were alive, just soaking in their presence. I wanted a few things that I knew they used often...a bowl that held the sugar that Grandpa spooned into his daily coffee, and a couple pairs of earrings that not only do I remember Grandma buying (from the Avon lady, at that), but wearing. I wanted things that they touched. So fleetingly.
My Grandma used to talk about the end of the world. She read the National Enquirer and half-believed all the outrageous stories about a "half-child, half-monkey" or an "alien invasion impregnating rural farm community women." But she really believed everything about the end of the world. About the apocalypse, and Jesus' second coming. She thought it might even happen during her lifetime. Turns out it didn't, but I am not sure she was far off.
My mother noted, today, that the devastation at the World Trade Center was on 9/11/01, and the earthquake in Japan was on 3/11/11. Then I saw on a website that someone took the time to add those numbers together, reaching the conclusion of "12-21-12," the date Nostradamus predicted the world would end. Hmm...but then I did some further browsing, and noticed that the Madrid bombings happened on 3/11/04. Coincidental, maybe. I don't like being too superstitious.
However, the other day, at church? I opened our Daily Devotional. The 40 day one we are supposed to use during Lent. It has little blurbs, each day, about things we can ponder during this time of reflection. I read March 9 (Ash Wednesday) and then the 10th. It was when I flipped to Friday, March 11, that I got goosebumps. The topic for that day was "Seismic Shocks." It was all about great earthquakes, and David. The prayer? "Lord, use seismic shocks to wake us up to your Message, and use us to spread your word so that others may learn that they must turn to you for their rescue."
That, my friends, is no coincidence.
How can I tie this all together? What's the point? The point is: life is fleeting. If you've ever lost something you love, you're aware of this, all too painfully. There's nothing we can do about it, except to live well and live right while we live here. There's no telling when the world will end. There are plenty of hints in the Bible, things to look for. Either way, we have to agree, he's given us ample time to prepare...so that's all we can do. It's never to late to repent all the bad stuff and start over. If we know anything from Lent, it's that the ultimate sacrifice was made over 2000 years ago, and it didn't have an expiration date. Trusting in that, I think, is the simplest way to get to Heaven.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Just a Dream

Have you seen the movie "Family Man" with Nicholas Cage? The one where he is a high-falutin' business man with everything and then after the altercation with the guy robbing the convenience store, he wakes up with a full-fledged family on Christmas morning? And...um...doesn't really dig it?

Some days I wonder if I'm dreaming...if my life, pre-kids, pre-responsibilities, pre-marriage, etc...isn't just a "wake-up" away. No, I'm not saying that I don't want my family...no I'm not saying that at all. I'm not ungrateful. I just feel like I'm in some sort of dream sequence, and I'm often unsure of why God chose me for this life, instead of, perhaps, another one.

Sitting at my kitchen counter, looking at the debits going out for bills vs. the credit coming in, living in a day-to-day panic, dealing with a child with undeniable behavioral issues (which the doctor calls ADHD and I haven't been able to fully accept, yet), having to move, pack, deal with sickness...the list goes on. And I'm officially griping, I suppose, for which I apologize. It's just, don't any of you ever feel this way? Please say you do.

I've been studying the purpose and meaning of Lent, and today I've finally reached the point that I think God has been asking us to reach. I sat here with my cheek pressed against the cold counter top, racking my brain for answers. "If I pay the hospital with this paycheck, I can wait on the car payment till next week...and still have some room for groceries..." and it happened. Turn it over. Our pastor preached about turning our worries over to God, a few weeks back, and I half-heartedly went along with it. It's a nice concept...but really? I doubt God'll pay my bills or make my kid behave. And truth is, He won't...exactly. But He will listen and He will see, that somehow, everything works out.

I found a greatly supportive quote by Ian Maclaren: What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but it does empty today of its strength. It does not make you escape the evil; it makes you unfit to cope with it when it comes. God gives us the power to bear all the sorrow of His making, but He does not guarantee to give us strength to bear the burdens of our own making such as worry induces.

So, I'm gonna try. I really will. Pastor Pat said to cast our worries upon Him and then go to sleep. He's going to be up all night, anyway.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Thank God for Creamer

...if I didn't have it, I'd be in a world of hurt. My dark chocolate breve creme in my Nantucket Blend is the closest thing I have to cake at the moment. Speaking of deprivation, I am supposed to facilitate a 30 hour famine for my teen Sunday school group. I am now realizing, after about 30 hours without my favorite desserts, but with all the other foods, how difficult that famine will be. I also realize how ignorant that sounds. Considering there are children who probably haven't eaten at all this week...or ate mud cakes, convincing themselves it tasted okay. Anything to fill the belly.
Makes 30 hours, and creamer, seem pretty insignificant.
Lent is a lot about self-discovery. Redirection. It's about learning or relearning your abilities to control yourself. On the surface, I've sacrificed something superficial: cake, cookies, pies...but deeper, I am trying to relearn my ability to devote myself to something, and really mean it. I'm thinking of ways to teach this to my children, but I still think it might be too early. Only last year did they watch (parts) of the Passion of the Christ. It moved them, for certain, because we still talk about it regularly. I'm not sure they understand sacrifice, though. How do you teach them the value of self-sacrifice, of following Jesus when it is much more convenient (and fun) to follow negative influences? It's not something I'm really trying to answer just yet. Really, I'm only pondering...
I found this quote from the writings of Frederick Buechner, and decided to re-post it. I find the idea of spirtual rebirth fascinating, if, in fact, we believe it can happen:
"In many cultures there is an ancient custom of giving a tenth of each year's income to some holy use. For Christians, to observe the forty days of Lent is to do the same thing with roughly a tenth of each year's days. After being baptized by John in the River Jordan, Jesus went off alone into the wilderness where he spent forty days asking himself the question of what it meant to be Jesus. During Lent, Christians are supposed to ask one way or another what it means to be themselves...to answer questions like this is to begin to hear something not only of who you are but of both what you are becoming and what you are failing to become. It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end."

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Ashes

Cookies, cakes and pies. That's what I gave up. Generic, I know. Everyone gives up sweets, or soda, or junk food...something like that. Me, too. I figured I should give up something that will be challenging, so it's actually a sacrifice. Coffee was a suggestion. Give up coffee? Me? I don't think so...that's too drastic...and I didn't figure it would be that noticeable if I gave up, say, brussels sprouts. The lack of those three desserts will hurt. Trust me. However, I still feel a little silly. It's not going to be that big of a sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things.
In thinking about it, if we truly want to repent our sins, we should give up things that hold us in sin. Vices, if you will. What's mine? Probably Facebook. I should have given up Facebook. Does it make me sin? No. It does, however, hold me in an addiction, and allows me to do things that, well, let's just say God probably doesn't promote. For example, what's the newsfeed for? Gossip! It's so we can call up our best friend and say "did you see what so n' so had as their status today?" How about profile "stalking?" Checking out your ex, or your old high school crush, or that girl you hated in high school so that you can now compare your life to theirs? Or worse, lust after times you spent together? As with all things...guns, drugs, money, etc....Facebook isn't evil. It's when people who are using it misuse it, and turn it into an escape vehicle from real life, that the trouble begins. I'm not trying to preach, friends. I'm just as guilty. And...did I give it up? No. I confess that I am weak; I love a mug of coffee and a juicy "Most Recent" newsfeed in the morning.
When our pastor spread the ashes on my forehead last night and said "In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven," I felt tears prick my eyes. Because just like that, she's right, I am forgiven. Even though I know I might sin a dozen times before lunch today, I'm still forgiven.
As I listened to the rest of the sermon, I realized that in addition to giving up something, I'd like to add a conscious effort in something else. Writing is one of my passionate outlets, so why not add a documentation of my own journey to the cross? If I had been there, that day, asked to carry His cross...could I have done it? Would I have recognized, then, what this man was about to do for me?

Last night,I sang the lyrics, "the world behind me, the cross before me...no turning back, no turning back." And although I know we all fall short of the glory of God...I decided that I will use this time of Lent to focus on the cross before me, and I am praying that God will help me stay focused, in all that I do.
So that's my charge to all of my friends who are denying themselves something, this Lent. Whether it's something easily doable or something that will be a major sacrifice: pray about it. Pray for the strength and focus, and maybe you'll be surprised about the other things that seem to fall in to place when you do. I'm counting on it.

Friday, March 4, 2011

When I wore power suits, I had power....

Once upon a time, I was tough. I had the proverbial "backbone." I didn't back down to people, and generally didn't mind confrontation. I remember a day, back in Savannah real estate, when I said to my then-business-partner Kim, "well this'll be a fun one," as we were dealing with an impossible, rude, demanding couple buying their first home. They antagonized me with late-night phone calls, daily complaints, and wish-lists for things that I should pay for on their behalf, since, of course, they chose me as their Realtor in a sea of other real estate professionals. I took it with a grain of salt. I didn't mind. I may have even enjoyed the challenge. I'd give assertive answers, I'd get the job done, and I'd show up to the lawyer's office for closing, in my black Ann Taylor suit, my favorite Coach heels and and my Louis Vuitton briefcase that begged for the commission check. (Insert materialistic sigh).
Today, friends, I avoid phone calls. I hate to talk on the phone, except for the "regulars" I talk to every week. I love caller ID. If I don't recognize the number, I don't pick up. I don't check my voicemail, either. I generally don't want to know who is calling, because I probably won't call them back anyway. Now, if the call is confrontational, i.e., if there is a problem that I am to somehow solve or otherwise remedy, I really don't want to hear about it. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I did my time. I handled my share of conflict in life. I've been on the receiving end of some horrible calls, with horrible news, and I'm, well, done.
However, it's 1:43 a.m. here, and I awakened from my sleep with one thought: when did I become a sissy?
Maybe you think "sissy" is a bit much, considering I've only mentioned that I avoid phone calls. But I think I avoid more than that. For instance, I don't like dealing with people in person, either, anymore. I find the older I get, the more annoyed I get. Am I a crotchety old woman, at the ripe old age of 29?

I found myself in the check out line of the grocery store, in the deceiving "20 items or less" lane the other day. Everybody always has at least 21 things. Maybe a few more, but, I figured it would be my best bet to at least try to get out of there quickly. Friends, I loathe the supermarket. I love food; I hate buying it. Let's not start me on that tangent. Anyway, I'm behind Little-Miss "I can fit all my needs in one of those little baskets and carry it home in my one little earth-friendly recycled fabric bag." I have never been able to fit all of my stuff in one of those baskets. In the few times I've attempted it, I've nearly killed myself trying to lug it around, obviously full beyond capacity, and left serious track-marks on my forearms from trying to distribute its weight. I regress. Did I mention it's like 1:45 a.m.? My point is, this gal ended up arguing with the cashier over a box of too-expensive teeth whitening strips. She had a coupon. The cashier wouldn't take it. I was immediately annoyed. I would have backed out of the lane, chose another one, and cut my losses. But I'd already used the little separator thing, and put my groceries on the belt. Reloading my cart was not an option. I stood patiently for about a minute. This is a personal record. I tried to soothe my antsy children. I felt an edge in my voice as I told my son "NO" for the one-hundred-ninetieth time he asked for a Ring Pop. They're sticky messes, I'm telling you, Ring Pops. They make for sticky, messy little boys. I shushed my daughter and felt my hands growing sweaty on the handle of the cart; my forehead prickling with sweat as well. It wasn't hot. I was becoming that irritated. Something happens to me that never did before. I get anxious. I get this bewildered sense of...I don't know...craziness. It's a short trip from patience to losing it. The final straw was when the cashier put her flashing light on, for assistance. Little-Miss platinum highlights in front of me was insistent upon using her coupon. It had expired, I overheard. My inner-sissy was telling me to calm down...it'll pass...mellow out and avoid conflict. Then it hit me. Suddenly I was not wearing Adidas track pants, running shoes and a hooded tie-dye sweatshirt. I was in heels, a pencil skirt and pantyhose, and gol-darn-it, when I'm in pantyhose, I mean business. I heard a voice say "Excuse me, dear. I would guess that you have better things to do than stand here and wait for another Meijer employee to come and verify that it is not acceptable to take an expired coupon, and frankly, your teeth appear white enough already. I,in fact, also have better things to do. I'm not exactly sure what those things are, because my life consists of doing things like laundry and changing diapers, but it wasn't always like this, I used to be a little like you. You know, before...this," as I swept my arm over the cart containing my children and groceries. "If you look into my eyes and see the crazy woman behind them, at her breaking point, I am certain that you will end this ridiculous rant and be on your way." Did I just say that? I think I did. Okay, I didn't say the last part, about the eyes and the crazy woman, because, really, they might have called the cops, and I'd be typing from a rubber room right now.
Friends, here's the long and short of it. I always like it when people say "the long and short of it," even though I don't get it. At all.
I have, somewhere along the line, mellowed into some passive-aggressive wanna be of the old me. I'm not confrontational anymore, at least, not right away. I'm now the type who becomes sick, physically, at the thought of having to address "an issue" with someone. I hold on to bad associations way too long simply so I do not have to face them. I am overwhelmed with motherhood, housewifehood, groceryshoppinghood and all of the 'hoods in between, leaving me no time to be the power suit-donning fireball I once was. Maybe, just maybe, a piece of her is still in me, though...and maybe that's enough to someday spark up my "old ways."
On the flip side, though, since I traded pantyhose for track pants, I don't have to shave my legs as often.

Friday, February 11, 2011

A Tribute

It started the way I would think a blind date might start. I had, after all, picked a safer option. In fact, he was already on the way with me to my car, ready to go back to my cottage. Jessica, a girl who worked there, ran out to me as I climbed into the driver’s seat and said “Sara, wait…there’s another one I really want you to look at. He’s really timid, won’t open up to anyone.” I gave her a look of dread and said “but I already have Gump here…” as I peeked into the backseat at the happy Border Collie who would surely be a smart companion. “This guy is different, though,” she explained, “he’s badly abused and doesn’t trust anyone. You have time…you could turn him around.” I remember trying to protest again when she said “Okay, girl, I wasn’t gonna say it, but his card is up for tomorrow.” I knew what that meant. This “timid” guy she was talking about would be euthanized when the vet came around in the morning. Usually that was reserved for sick ones, or the ones who were the least likely to be adopted due to the ugly nature of their previous lives. In this case, abuse had hardened this six-month old Shepherd mix, making him wary and ill-tempered. At those words, I let Gump out of the backseat and headed back towards the shelter.
Volunteering there off and on, I knew my way around, and I knew several of the employees. Jessica took Gump inside and pointed down the row of barkers toward the last run on the right. At first, I didn’t even see the dog. He was crouched in the corner, eyeing me nervously. A kennel-hand passed by. “I wouldn’t mess with him,” he said, “he snapped my hand when I tried to water him.” I rolled my eyes. I could have been home by now. I read the card on the door of the run. Sure enough. Scheduled for tomorrow. Found tied to a tree….six months old….male…called Sarge. The scarred over lacerations on his back told me enough about the first six months of his life. I tried to speak to him. He tried to blend in with the wall. I did my best baby-talk voice for him, hoping he’d ease up a bit, and it only made him retreat further. I thought of Gump, inside, who had been promised a home, and thought I’d better move on. I looked toward the building and saw Gump in the play yard with Jessica, and her full grown Shepherd, Sheba. I looked back at Sarge, and, against my better judgment, opened the kennel door. His eyes widened as I took a seat on the concrete just inside. He curled up a corner of his lip, to let me know I’d better stay put. I did. Determined not to let him intimidate me, I rested my head on the block wall behind me, looking up to the sky. “You know,” I told him, “I came here today to adopt a dog. Someone broke into my cottage, and my husband is overseas. I’m by myself in this God-awful state. Alone. I hate being alone.” I peeked over at him. He was laying down, his muzzle on his front paws, as if he was listening. “You’re alone, too,” I continued, “You don’t trust anybody either, I get that.” I sighed, thinking again that I better go. But I stayed. A little longer. I continued to lean my head back, more focused on the clouds than my conversation with this dog. I don’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly I felt something tickle my toes in my sandals. I jerked my head down, startled to see Sarge, sniffing my feet with his wet nose. Not wanting to alarm him, I stayed still. Moments later, he was sitting next to me…not touching me, but sitting there. “Do you want to walk?” I asked. I cautiously slid the mandatory rope-leash around his neck and took him out of the run. I couldn’t see Jessica or Gump anymore, but I figured taking him out was alright, if he was leashed. We walked along the fence line, me chatting like an insane woman, trying to reassure him as we went. He stopped at the edge of the fence, looking out over the lawn, sniffing in deep breaths of the January air. A woman and her daughter walked nearby, looking at the dogs. She said to me, “What a good dog you have there,” as she looked at Sarge, sitting like a nobleman at my side. I began to protest, “he’s not actually my dog.” She looked puzzled, and then softened, “Looks like he is, now.”
From that moment forward, he was. I needed him as much as he needed me. Gump, by the way, still got a home that day, too. My landlord fell in love with the description of him, and headed right there to adopt him. We were two loners, Sarge and I, learning each other and more importantly, learning that we could depend on each other. Even when my husband returned, and although Sarge accepted him and grew to like his company, he was still very much my boy. He actually loved everyone he met. He made friends quickly with my friends, neighbors, and even their kids.
When I began selling real estate, I had a bit of an altercation while showing a house. A man had pinned me to the wall of a house in the “bad part of town”…a house I had no business entering in the first place. I was lucky enough to get out unharmed, but from that day on, I decided my sidekick would come to work with me, too. It didn’t bother him any, in fact, he loved waking up with me and getting ready for “work.” He especially loved eating lunch at the Sonic next door to the car wash when we’d have the car done.
Speaking of favorites, Sarge developed a few of his own: a yellow stuffed man from the local pet store became Harvey, his favorite toy. He never shredded it or mangled it; he instead carried it around like a child might carry a doll. A couple times, Harvey was left in the yard after a long afternoon of playing, and when bedtime would come, Sarge would go to the back door, whining. We’d have to let him out to go fetch his Harvey.
As life progressed, my bond only strengthened with my Sarge. He seemed to know my habits better than I did; he knew my timing, my routines, and my emotions. He diligently waited to dispose of any scraps I might have while cooking at the stove. If I was sick, he knew it. He was like Velcro on my side, not even allowing me a private trip to the toilet. He ascertained that no squirrel would linger too long in our yard, no mailman would deliver mail unannounced. When I had Isaac, my first born, he got up with me in the night to feed him, grumbling with me as we padded down the hall to retrieve the screaming baby. When we decided to move back north, he rode up front, for 22 hours, keeping me company on our travels. I am known to be an animal lover, and Sarge wasn’t an “only child” for long. Besides the two cats I also had, I introduced Maddie, a black lab mix, and years later, Yukon, a fluffy white sled dog. Sarge may have had to quarrel with the others to protect his status as “pack leader”, but he never lost his place with me. He knew, above all, he was mine and I was his. Anyone close to me would have confirmed for you that Sarge and I were bonded by something that doesn’t happen with every pet-person relationship. We had weathered many storms together, and we had become the very best of friends. Amazingly, the other animals in the house revered Sarge like a wise man. He became gentle and easy in his older years, and much like my grandfather, he would sit patiently and watch the world go by. He always kept me in the corner of his eye, and if I barely whispered his name, he would be at my hip in seconds.

When Sarge turned nine, I knew age was taking its toll. His muzzle was becoming more and more gray, and he would grumble when laying down or getting up. Those things were expected. I didn’t, however, expect for his mind to be compromised. Just like an older person might develop dementia, apparently, dogs can develop mental disorders too. Now, it was never actually diagnosed, but I think he had some major anxiety issues, and maybe even some doggie dementia. After being the neighborhood socialite for years, he suddenly decided to fear people. It became increasingly common for us to put him “away” when guests would come, as he would growl and bark, raise his shackles and show his teeth. He remained friendly to a few, though…my mother, father, sister, and my (now) ex-husband. He would go through periods of time, mostly at night, when he no longer knew who people were or where he was. He’d panic, and look for me. When he’d find me (usually asleep, in bed) he’d jump on me, burying my head with his body. This not only became a nuisance, but a hazard, as well. A 55 lb. dog making a surprise attack on your head in the night is unpleasant, to say the least. We tried various things: closing him in the bedroom with us at night, giving him his own room to feel safe in, leaving lights and a TV on all night for him…nothing worked, and he progressively got worse. After moving into our current home, he discovered that he could open doors. From then on, he would open the doors at night and drag out the kids’ hampers and stuffed animals, in a crazed panic. He’d wake the children, and create quite a bit of chaos. All throughout, however, I could never bring myself to be upset with him. I knew this wasn’t really him. He didn’t want to do these things. He wanted to be a good dog. That’s all he ever really wanted to be in the first place.
Yesterday will go down in history as one of the worst days in my life. It wasn’t supposed to be; I wasn’t prepared. I opened the doors to my van at 8:30 in the morning, allowing Sarge and Maddie to jump in for our trip to the vet. It was supposed to be a quick visit; a couple booster shots. I knew I’d talk to our vet about Sarge’s behavior, as we’d been keeping tabs on it with different behavioral modifications and anti-anxiety prescriptions for a couple years. I knew she’d ask, and I’d have to tell her, it was all getting worse. Just Monday, Sarge had been left alone in the house for 10 minutes, and he panicked so much that he jumped onto the kitchen island, breaking a glass and annihilating a Valentine candy dish, tearing up a newspaper and pushing the laptop computer onto the hard kitchen floor. I know this stuff is serious, but I also know that I have shrugged it off for years, and chuckled along with people when I recalled the stories of his “senile antics.” In the back of my mind, however, I felt like screaming…this isn’t normal…my baby is getting worse…it isn’t funny. Anyway, when we arrived at the vet, we did the usual weigh-in. I usually hold my breath a little, because Sarge has had a few notorious extra pounds for the past few years. Admittedly, this is because I indulge him in a few table scraps now and again. I figure he deserves it after all these years. I darted my eyes at the vet-tech when she said he was only forty-some pounds. I eased into a smile, “That can’t be right…” She agreed, easily, and said we’d check again. Scale must be off. To my horror, the scale, again, read just over forty pounds. He had lost nearly 15 lbs since the fall…great for someone like me, who’d be elated at that sort of news, but an alarming sign of something wrong in a dog. Especially in a dog who had been eating regularly and still having his “extras” at dinnertime. The vet tech, a very sweet girl, reassured me that we’d check into it. We’d do blood work. We’ll talk to the vet. I felt ill. I went along with the motions of the rest of the appointment, chatting easily and lightheartedly coddling my dogs as they had their nails trimmed and their vaccinations administered. I waited for Dr. Lori to come in and give me her advice…surely she knew why he was losing weight. Surely there was a prescription we could give, and he’d be back to his old self in no time.
When she came into the room, she appeared different to me. She was still pleasant, but I felt (and it could just be me, and my pre-determined apprehension) that she was biting back the advice that she knew I didn’t want to hear. “He could have whipworms,” she said, “Maddie had them before, we could test him. I mean, with his age…” and I heard the words “cancer” and “quick-spreading” and all of those words associated with senior dogs that no one likes to hear. We spoke about his doggie-anxiety. She began looking up the generic prescription for a canine Prozac. We continued talking and finally, I looked at her and said “What would you do?” I waited. I needed her to confirm. Yes or no. Keep going or don’t. She looked at me and said, in a shaky voice, “I don’t know. I can’t say,” and went on “You have gone above and beyond what most people would do for their dogs. You have put up with a lot. Most people wouldn’t tolerate being kept awake all night, or having the threat of destruction in their homes. He could be in pain. He could be suffering, but we know this isn’t him.” And it became clear to me. I was keeping Sarge here, for me. In turn, he was staying, for me. Suddenly, in that room, I was transported back in time to that kennel run, 11 years ago. It was Sarge and I, alone. Staring into each other’s eyes. Asking, silently, what the next move would be. Only this time, it wasn’t Sarge with the apprehension. It wasn’t Sarge who was wary and ill-at-ease. It was me. He was the calm one. He looked at me as if to say, “It’s alright Mom. I’m in, whatever you decide.” He had come to trust me with everything, down to his very last breath. We stared at each other, my hands running frantically through the fur that surrounded his face, suddenly knowing it would be the last time. I began blubbering, through tears, about how handsome he is, and what a great dog he had been. I repeated, over and over, how much I loved him. He leaned his bony head into my shoulder, giving one last infamous “Sarge-hug.” His “sister,” Maddie began licking his face. I kissed his gray muzzle and Dr. Lori said “You’ve really given him a great life.” I broke into full sobs and corrected the statement with certainty: “Oh, no…he has given me a great life.”
Sarge sat patiently, his tail swishing on the cold tile. He looked as stunning as ever, his distinguished graying brows against the black and tan of his coat. The vet-tech offered to let me go, and she’d take him “to the back” after I had gone. I couldn’t stand the horror of him watching me go. I never, ever, left without him. I asked that she take him from me, so he wouldn’t know I was leaving. Watching him leave that room, for the last time, was the absolute worst feeling I’ve ever endured. Tail wagging, looking over his shoulder at me one last time. He didn’t look at me with fear, but with the reassurance we often get from a parent or an older, wiser person. It’ll be okay, Mom.
I don’t remember the walk to the van, how I got Maddie back inside, or any part of the drive home. I don’t know how I saw the road through the constant wash of tears. I know that I kept looking at the clock, wondering if he was still “here,” or if they’d given him the injection, yet. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t have seen his body, lifeless, on the table. I had to remember the tail wagging, ears perked, and warm chocolate eyes that were always glued to mine.
Ironically, I find myself at a loss for words, even after all of these recollections. I find that I cannot convey appropriately the impact this dog had on my life. It’s rare to find someone in life who will truly love unconditionally, one who will be loyal, no matter how often you screw things up, no matter how often you move or change, or forget to show how much you care. A third of my life was spent with Sarge, and he never faltered from his position as my true companion. He never threw in the towel or said “enough’s enough.” He’d wag that tail and take it all in stride, making it clear that as long as we were together, we’d be alright. He was right. It’s a new beginning for me, now. Essentially, I have to retrain myself. I don’t really know how to go about life without him, as silly as that sounds. He was my protector, my faithful friend. We got to a point in life when words didn’t even need to be spoken; a simple glance spoke volumes. I felt safe and comforted by that dog, and now, I have to learn to go about my every day life without that feeling. I have the other two dogs, yes. I love them dearly. They will never, however, be like Sarge. They are completely different; while still loveable, heartwarming, and happy assets to our family, they will just never be like Sarge. No dog will, again, I think.
I lost both of my grandparents. They were wonderful people in my life. My grandpa always really liked Sarge to visit him; he’d quietly pet his smooth head and Sarge would respond by sitting nobly next to him, allowing his gentle old hands to caress his fur. I don’t believe that animals, our beloved pets, just die. I believe we’ll see them again. I have to believe it. For now, though, I genuinely hope my grandparents were waiting for Sarge, ready to welcome him into a much better place. I hope Grandma will fry up a pan of liver n’ onions for him, and Grandpa will sit with him in some sunny backyard, stroking his head and watching the birds.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Sales Pitch

Okay, Moms. Those of you who are like me (we stay at home with our kids, even though we don't have super-rich husbands or a wild inheritance, but rather, we live paycheck to paycheck and remind ourselves of how blessed we are to be able to watch our babies grow up?)know what it's like. You know what it's like to get ahead a little bit, and then to receive a crazy-high gas bill. Maybe it's a medical bill, for that Urgent Care visit on a Sunday afternoon when your little girl had a high fever. Or simply the fact that the holidays just came and went, and wreaked their havoc on your already-laughable savings account. However it works, in your household, I have an inkling that you know how it is.
You also know how it is to have that annoying post-card show up in the mail, inviting you to some sort of party. Candles, jewelry, makeup...heck, I even got one for a "romance" party, and I laughed my tail off. Clearly the person who sent that one is a jokester. It really made my day.
So, when I got an annoying post-card in the mail advertising a lia sophia jewelry party a few months back, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Like I reaaally have the money to buy this stuff, on top of the fact that I'd have to pay a babysitter just to go, for my children who would inevitably break any jewelry I did buy." Yep, that's what I thought. I looked at the "hostess" name. A friend of mine. Shoot. She'd probably be hurt if I didn't come. She knows me. She knows I have nothing better to do. So, I decided to go, on the notion that she might have good snacks and perhaps I could score a free glass of wine. Plus, I could always try on someone else's jewelry and pretend, for a few minutes, that I could actually get away with it.
Flash forward: today.
This morning I sit and share this story with you for one reason: I am that annoying friend who is selling jewelry now. Except, I hope I'm not that annoying friend. I found out that this jewelry company is different. There are a lot of moms, just like me, who do this for a little income. Or a lot of income. And, amazingly, they know my kids. I mean, they must know them, because they put a lifetime guarantee on their jewelry - which means my kids can break things and lia sophia will simply send me replacements...for free. (Not that I actually let my kids break things, friends. But you know it's bound to happen). With my first few parties, I held my breath: I waited for the "catch." I waited for them to send a note that said, "well....sell this much more, and we'll pay you," or something like that. Instead, I woke up one morning, checked my bank account (a task that makes me wince on a daily basis) and I was shocked to see a few hundred dollars added to the balance. I didn't even really do that much work. I left my house with a bag of my jewelry and a briefcase full of order forms and - poof - suddenly I was getting paid.
The best part about the company is that they seem to be a breath of fresh air from the other pushy-naggy companies out there. They just want their "advisors" (that's me!) to have a good time. Sure, they give you goals, but only goals with clear rewards - and if you don't make your goals, so what? Nobody calls and berates you. Nobody gives you a funny look. Heck, it's really your business. You are your own boss. So, what I've learned is that I really can do this. I can sell pretty things, have a whole amazing collection of pretty things of my own, and they also pay me. Pretty well, in fact. It's exciting to feel like, after only going out and working a couple nights a month, I can actually have a little money in my pocket again.
So, here's my sales pitch. I'll only do it once, because I truly HATE sales pitches. My goal for 2011 is to grow my team. I want to work with real women...women like me. I want to piece together a team of ladies who'd like to make some money their way. It doesn't matter where you live, and I don't suggest this because I want to be at the top of the "pyramid," either. I haven't even really looked into it, but I think I'd need a pretty big team to actually make more money that way. I just want to help others, like me, and to work together with some great girls. No pressure or gimmicks. No weird catches. Just a paycheck, some really nice jewelry, and hopefully, new friends who are a lot like you.
So, in conclusion - (I feel like balloons should drop from the ceiling and confetti should shoot out of no where)if you think you'd like to give this a whirl, let's talk. Better yet, come by for coffee. Or I'll come to you. We can even have a test-party at your house. Invite your friends, and if they like it, I'll let you call it your first party, to get you started.
End sales pitch.
But really, what do you have to lose?
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