It is a gorgeous spring afternoon, and I am in the backyard sunning myself. When people admire my golden glow on Monday at work, I will tell them that I "worked" in the yard this weekend to dispel the assumption that I have been going to a tanning bed.
And anyway, I DID work in the yard this weekend. Just not very much. Blowing the pine needles off the porch with the Black and Decker blower, and playing with Dave and the kids doesn't technically qualify as work, but thats my story and I'm stuck to it.
The truth of it is...I like having a tan. Being tan makes me feel thinner, prettier, healthier and downright more OK. I have always placed a goofy value on tan-ness; I don't care to think about the hours than I have wasted laying on my butt in the sun.
At least I've put away the baby oil and iodine concoction of the 1980s, which almost certainly tripled the UV intensity and damage to my skin. I don't fool around with lemon juice in my hair anymore either - these days I sweat like a pig and it just runs in my eyes and makes me cranky.
But I do look forward to those first tell-tale tan lines, the ones that result from me parking it in the backyard whilst sporting a grubby wife-beater undershirt that I reserve for just such an occasion (can't have the farmer tan lines from a t-shirt, after all...) I check my progress periodically by comparing the palm of my right hand to the back of my left hand. Looking good.
And yes, there is a definitive history of melanoma in my family, and yes, I have been sunburned at least fifty times in my life. And yes, I think about it a little bit, especially when people feel compelled to tell me about someone they know who had to have part of their nose cut out on account of skin cancer.
And no, I'm not stupid. Well, maybe I am - when it comes to having a tan.
30 April 2011
29 April 2011
Fault Line
"Will you please stop apologizing?" says the Mister.
I think about that for a minute, and then I say, "I'm sorry" - clearly missing his point.
It is my nature to stay permanently apologetic; I don't really know why. God knows I've done a lot that I've been sorry for over the years, but for the most part I've made amends as best I can and moved on. Yet I find myself saying that I am sorry, usually several times a day.
Likewise, I am extraordinarily adept at making almost anything be my fault.
Kids in trouble at school? I am a terrible mother.
Dog getting fat? I feed her too much.
Traffic heavy? I left home too late.
Bird poop on the mailbox? I should get rid of the bird bath.
I'm pretty sure that my status as a "working mother" is the source of at least some of my guilt, but all mothers I know are "working mothers" whether they have a job outside the home or not. And those who've known me for any length of time prior to my maternal status will attest to the fact that I've been guilty all my life.
Wallowing in guilt, real or imagined, has got to be one of the most useless wastes of energy and gray matter there is, yet I find myself there frequently - not even knowing how I got there.
Hilariously enough, it makes me tired to feel guilty all the time, and then I am sorry for being tired!
This wasn't one of my better blog entries. I'm sorry. :-)
I think about that for a minute, and then I say, "I'm sorry" - clearly missing his point.
It is my nature to stay permanently apologetic; I don't really know why. God knows I've done a lot that I've been sorry for over the years, but for the most part I've made amends as best I can and moved on. Yet I find myself saying that I am sorry, usually several times a day.
Likewise, I am extraordinarily adept at making almost anything be my fault.
Kids in trouble at school? I am a terrible mother.
Dog getting fat? I feed her too much.
Traffic heavy? I left home too late.
Bird poop on the mailbox? I should get rid of the bird bath.
I'm pretty sure that my status as a "working mother" is the source of at least some of my guilt, but all mothers I know are "working mothers" whether they have a job outside the home or not. And those who've known me for any length of time prior to my maternal status will attest to the fact that I've been guilty all my life.
Wallowing in guilt, real or imagined, has got to be one of the most useless wastes of energy and gray matter there is, yet I find myself there frequently - not even knowing how I got there.
Hilariously enough, it makes me tired to feel guilty all the time, and then I am sorry for being tired!
This wasn't one of my better blog entries. I'm sorry. :-)
25 April 2011
Control Freak
I like being in control of things - as much as I'd like to think of myself as a "go-with-the-flow" kind of gal, I'm actually more of a "what-the-heck-are-you-doing-and-why-didn't-you-clear-it-with-me-first" type. I don't like surprises unless I planned them myself (which throws a kink in the entire concept of surprise), and I think this world would be a better place if everybody would just follow my script.
Life, however, has apparently not read my script, because I keep getting curve balls and unexpected complications. Interestingly, many of these are side-effects of my own crummy decisions and choices, so if I'm even remotely honest with myself, I shouldn't be surprised.
In the interest of sharing some of my recently-acquired wisdom, I am passing along these tips to you, dear reader.
1. The grass is, in fact, NOT greener on the other side. It's all dry and scratchy and brown unless you water it yourself.
2. Don't take a verbal (or email) swing at somebody then be surprised when they hit you back.
3. Don't try to rationalize with hormonal young people. You will probably get farther trying to reason with the cat. Turns out that "because I said so" is a pretty handy rebuttal after all.
4. Delegation = less frustration. Ask for help - otherwise, don't complain about how much you have to do, because nobody feels sorry for martyrs.
5. Pray. Pray a lot. Learn to meditate for at least 15 minutes a day; it's medicinal.
More wisdom forthcoming once it has beaten me into submission.
Life, however, has apparently not read my script, because I keep getting curve balls and unexpected complications. Interestingly, many of these are side-effects of my own crummy decisions and choices, so if I'm even remotely honest with myself, I shouldn't be surprised.
In the interest of sharing some of my recently-acquired wisdom, I am passing along these tips to you, dear reader.
1. The grass is, in fact, NOT greener on the other side. It's all dry and scratchy and brown unless you water it yourself.
2. Don't take a verbal (or email) swing at somebody then be surprised when they hit you back.
3. Don't try to rationalize with hormonal young people. You will probably get farther trying to reason with the cat. Turns out that "because I said so" is a pretty handy rebuttal after all.
4. Delegation = less frustration. Ask for help - otherwise, don't complain about how much you have to do, because nobody feels sorry for martyrs.
5. Pray. Pray a lot. Learn to meditate for at least 15 minutes a day; it's medicinal.
More wisdom forthcoming once it has beaten me into submission.
21 April 2011
A Perspective on Stress
I am stressed out. I stay stressed out, about work or about my kids or about my husband's health or about my weight or about my work (wait, I already said work...but it actually does deserve double mention for the amount of energy I spend stressing out about it.)
I just stay stressed out...which then turns into maudlin self-pity, irritability, victim-thinking and general unpleasantness.
During this Lenten season, I've spent an unprecedented amount of time in worship and study. (Not that it's been all that remarkable, but it's more than I've ever done before.)
In the car this morning, I was running through my schedule today and looking forward to tonight's Maundy Thursday service at church. And then I got to thinking about the significance of observing Maundy Thursday.
We know from Scripture that 1,978 years ago, after sharing what was to become known as The Last Supper, Jesus was in the Garden of Gethsemane tonight, on his face and asking his Father if there was some other way to pull off the salvation thing. The Bible says that he was literally sweating blood as a physical manifestation of his emotional state.
What the Bible doesn't tell us is how he felt in the hours leading up to the Last Supper - the anxiety of trying to explain to his disciples the coming 72 hours, the gut sickness that must have accompanied the certainty of impending and unimaginable physical pain...and the knowledge that the very people he was dying to save were going to spit and make fun of him.
Now THAT'S what I call stress.
I just stay stressed out...which then turns into maudlin self-pity, irritability, victim-thinking and general unpleasantness.
During this Lenten season, I've spent an unprecedented amount of time in worship and study. (Not that it's been all that remarkable, but it's more than I've ever done before.)
In the car this morning, I was running through my schedule today and looking forward to tonight's Maundy Thursday service at church. And then I got to thinking about the significance of observing Maundy Thursday.
We know from Scripture that 1,978 years ago, after sharing what was to become known as The Last Supper, Jesus was in the Garden of Gethsemane tonight, on his face and asking his Father if there was some other way to pull off the salvation thing. The Bible says that he was literally sweating blood as a physical manifestation of his emotional state.
What the Bible doesn't tell us is how he felt in the hours leading up to the Last Supper - the anxiety of trying to explain to his disciples the coming 72 hours, the gut sickness that must have accompanied the certainty of impending and unimaginable physical pain...and the knowledge that the very people he was dying to save were going to spit and make fun of him.
Now THAT'S what I call stress.
19 April 2011
Beep Beep
Chances are, if you live anywhere north of Atlanta, you have likely been in the same traffic jams that I sit in pretty much five days a week. It's interesting to watch how people divert themselves from the frustration of going 3 mph; I see women putting on makeup and fixing their hair; men having animated conversations with themselves (we can't see your earpiece, so it does actually look like you are shouting at yourself). I see construction workers and delivery trucks and way too many SUVs.
I used to be the person who would rudely travel down the exit lane, only to jump over in front of you at the last minute, thereby saving myself the 20 minutes that you've been waiting to get to that point. It isn't illegal - I checked. I would feel a tinge of guilt for being selfish, but I quickly recovered from each pang of conscience and instead assuaged myself with the belief that "you'd do it to me, too".
Lately, I've been slowing down, listening to good music or inspiring speakers and enjoying the quiet break between home and work. I've also been known to sing! Perspective is a beautiful thing.
On Palm Sunday, our church passed out car magnets that say "Enjoy God", and I had a moment's pause at the thought of me blowing down the exit lane at Mansell Road, then zipping over in front of somebody while sporting my cool new advertisement that I Enjoy God.
Not exactly the testimony I want to share, so I've got a choice to make. Put the magnet on the fridge and avoid the pressure of following through on what I say I believe? Or put the magnet on the car and persevere in becoming who I was designed by my Creator to be?
The magnet is on the car - a day at a time.
I used to be the person who would rudely travel down the exit lane, only to jump over in front of you at the last minute, thereby saving myself the 20 minutes that you've been waiting to get to that point. It isn't illegal - I checked. I would feel a tinge of guilt for being selfish, but I quickly recovered from each pang of conscience and instead assuaged myself with the belief that "you'd do it to me, too".
Lately, I've been slowing down, listening to good music or inspiring speakers and enjoying the quiet break between home and work. I've also been known to sing! Perspective is a beautiful thing.
On Palm Sunday, our church passed out car magnets that say "Enjoy God", and I had a moment's pause at the thought of me blowing down the exit lane at Mansell Road, then zipping over in front of somebody while sporting my cool new advertisement that I Enjoy God.
Not exactly the testimony I want to share, so I've got a choice to make. Put the magnet on the fridge and avoid the pressure of following through on what I say I believe? Or put the magnet on the car and persevere in becoming who I was designed by my Creator to be?
The magnet is on the car - a day at a time.
18 April 2011
The Evil of Ego
One of my favorite movies is a violent piece of nastiness called "Revolver". There are all sorts of bad words and blood and guts, and there is pretty much nothing "appropriate" about it.
EXCEPT.
Mr. Green, played by Jason Statham (yum) is an ex-con who amassed significant wealth prior to his 7 year incarceration. Upon leaving prison, he shortly thereafter learns that he has a terminal illness, and through a bizarre chain of circumstances, finds himself in the company of two dubious benefactors who can allegedly help him solve his problem.
I won't recount the entire plot line, because frankly I'm not sure I can. There is depth to this film that is hard to grasp, much less explain. The upshot is that Mr. Green's very worst enemy turns out to be himself and the way that evil exploits his ego and weakness. The aforementioned "benefactors" teach him that giving himself away is his only hope.
Like I said, this movie is filled with F-bombs and violence galore (it's a Guy Ritchie movie), and it's just plain weird in parts. But, it moves me in a way that is again difficult to explain - except that I am Mr. Green.
EXCEPT.
Mr. Green, played by Jason Statham (yum) is an ex-con who amassed significant wealth prior to his 7 year incarceration. Upon leaving prison, he shortly thereafter learns that he has a terminal illness, and through a bizarre chain of circumstances, finds himself in the company of two dubious benefactors who can allegedly help him solve his problem.
I won't recount the entire plot line, because frankly I'm not sure I can. There is depth to this film that is hard to grasp, much less explain. The upshot is that Mr. Green's very worst enemy turns out to be himself and the way that evil exploits his ego and weakness. The aforementioned "benefactors" teach him that giving himself away is his only hope.
Like I said, this movie is filled with F-bombs and violence galore (it's a Guy Ritchie movie), and it's just plain weird in parts. But, it moves me in a way that is again difficult to explain - except that I am Mr. Green.
16 April 2011
Parenting Rumination #1
I remember the terror that flooded my soul when we were pulling out of the parking garage at Fort Sanders hospital in our little green Honda Civic, me with a belly full of gas and staples and stitches and a tiny little male human being strapped in like an astronaut in the back seat. What are these people thinking, letting me leave here with this baby? Do they realize what a giant mess I am?
And where's the handbook, or manual, or at least a laminated handout that would tell me what to do when I don't know what to do? I guess I could've called my own mother for advice, but then again, if she'd been all that, I probably would have had a little more information going into this gig. But I digress.
Twelve some-very-odd years later, I am listening to him play some kind of galactic shoot-em-up video game in the next room and feeling terrified all over again. He is standing on the edge of adolescence, growing zits and armpit hair and a mercurial temperament that would embarrass a schizophrenic. I am overwhelmed, truly, by how much I love him and want to save him from himself. He's already been through a lot of heartache, and if my own experience is any testament, it's about to get worse, at least for the next few years.
But how do we learn, if not from our own mistakes? I think I knew a handful of people in middle school and high school who actually did what they were told, but I and most of my friends were way smarter than our parents and had to learn things the hard way. And I do mean the HARD way. And now I watch my baby boy, defiantly and intentionally choosing the hard way, and it makes me feel sad and ill.
So I pray, and ask others to pray, and I love him as best I can, even when he is being quite unloveable.
I don't suppose there is a laminated handout for this part either.
And where's the handbook, or manual, or at least a laminated handout that would tell me what to do when I don't know what to do? I guess I could've called my own mother for advice, but then again, if she'd been all that, I probably would have had a little more information going into this gig. But I digress.
Twelve some-very-odd years later, I am listening to him play some kind of galactic shoot-em-up video game in the next room and feeling terrified all over again. He is standing on the edge of adolescence, growing zits and armpit hair and a mercurial temperament that would embarrass a schizophrenic. I am overwhelmed, truly, by how much I love him and want to save him from himself. He's already been through a lot of heartache, and if my own experience is any testament, it's about to get worse, at least for the next few years.
But how do we learn, if not from our own mistakes? I think I knew a handful of people in middle school and high school who actually did what they were told, but I and most of my friends were way smarter than our parents and had to learn things the hard way. And I do mean the HARD way. And now I watch my baby boy, defiantly and intentionally choosing the hard way, and it makes me feel sad and ill.
So I pray, and ask others to pray, and I love him as best I can, even when he is being quite unloveable.
I don't suppose there is a laminated handout for this part either.
15 April 2011
My New Toy!!
As of Monday, it will have been thirteen years since I told the Mister that I'd be his Missus. This is notable for a number of reasons, but most interesting at the moment is the fact that he remembered it and I didn't. Well, I did, but I haven't gotten him anything yet. It's three days away, for crying out loud.
Tonight after supper, he says "so, do you want your present early?" Present? What present? He got me a PRESENT?? Now I'm all intrigued by this turn of events, so I ask what it is. He smiles coyly and says that I will like it - that it's something I've asked for.
Now my neurons are really firing, because I can't think of what I've been asking for. A car? Liposuction? I can't remember!!
He goes to get his iPad, comes back and sits down at the table across from me, with a sly grin on his face. He says, "well, I guess we will just play Dueling iPads tonight."
I glance over to see that he has a Brookstone box in front of his iPad, and DANG if it isn't the Bluetooth keyboard case I've been eyeing in the catalog. I blink at it for a minute, and he smiles mischievously.
"Is that for ME???" I practically spring out of my chair, seizing the box off the table and giggling like a kid at Christmas. I am so happy! He got me a present! A present that I really wanted! AND he surprised me!
So, of course, as soon as I figured out how to turn it on and pair it up, I had to type on it posthaste. Hence today's blog.
Did I mention that I'm really happy?!?
Tonight after supper, he says "so, do you want your present early?" Present? What present? He got me a PRESENT?? Now I'm all intrigued by this turn of events, so I ask what it is. He smiles coyly and says that I will like it - that it's something I've asked for.
Now my neurons are really firing, because I can't think of what I've been asking for. A car? Liposuction? I can't remember!!
He goes to get his iPad, comes back and sits down at the table across from me, with a sly grin on his face. He says, "well, I guess we will just play Dueling iPads tonight."
I glance over to see that he has a Brookstone box in front of his iPad, and DANG if it isn't the Bluetooth keyboard case I've been eyeing in the catalog. I blink at it for a minute, and he smiles mischievously.
"Is that for ME???" I practically spring out of my chair, seizing the box off the table and giggling like a kid at Christmas. I am so happy! He got me a present! A present that I really wanted! AND he surprised me!
So, of course, as soon as I figured out how to turn it on and pair it up, I had to type on it posthaste. Hence today's blog.
Did I mention that I'm really happy?!?
04 April 2011
Weather Girl
I love storms - always have. When I was a little kid, I would stand on the porch to watch the leaves on the trees whipping upside down - you knew it was going to be a humdinger if the leaves were underside-up. And the darker the sky, the better.
My great-granny would shout, "git in here, young'un, it's fixin to come a blow!" and then proceed to panic over an array of potentially disastrous outcomes. To this day, she remains one of the most impressive worriers I've ever known.
Our local weather personality would place her Velcro storm cloud on the storyboard during the 6 o'clock news, and I knew I had something to look forward to. It was rumored that Margie liked to take a nip of bug juice during the commercial break, and sometimes the yellow cardboard lightning bolt would be pointing up as if Zeus was aiming for Canada instead of Florida like usual.
Storms make me feel charged and alive; like the chaos in my gut is being dramatized across the sky, in a good way. The wind, especially in spring and summer, blows the cobwebs off my soul - an air baptism. And though I have only done it twice intentionally, getting soaked in a downpour is plain old exhilarating.
With today's technology, I can now know when it's going to storm several days in advance - giving me plenty of time to get stoked up for the show. Sometimes I feel like I got ripped off if it blows through too quickly, and it's an especially crappy occurrence to have the storm disintegrate on its travels from west to east.
What's that? Did I just hear a rumble? Was that just a flash?
Yeehaw! Here we go, boys!
My great-granny would shout, "git in here, young'un, it's fixin to come a blow!" and then proceed to panic over an array of potentially disastrous outcomes. To this day, she remains one of the most impressive worriers I've ever known.
Our local weather personality would place her Velcro storm cloud on the storyboard during the 6 o'clock news, and I knew I had something to look forward to. It was rumored that Margie liked to take a nip of bug juice during the commercial break, and sometimes the yellow cardboard lightning bolt would be pointing up as if Zeus was aiming for Canada instead of Florida like usual.
Storms make me feel charged and alive; like the chaos in my gut is being dramatized across the sky, in a good way. The wind, especially in spring and summer, blows the cobwebs off my soul - an air baptism. And though I have only done it twice intentionally, getting soaked in a downpour is plain old exhilarating.
With today's technology, I can now know when it's going to storm several days in advance - giving me plenty of time to get stoked up for the show. Sometimes I feel like I got ripped off if it blows through too quickly, and it's an especially crappy occurrence to have the storm disintegrate on its travels from west to east.
What's that? Did I just hear a rumble? Was that just a flash?
Yeehaw! Here we go, boys!
02 April 2011
Road Trip
On Thursday, the Mister called me at the office and casually inquired as to my plans for our weekend. I emphatically replied that I wasnt doing a damn thing more taxing than taking Grace to see the Wimpy Kid movie.
The Mister is highly skilled in the art of the pregnant pause, and because my own neuroses cannot suffer more than 6.5 seconds of silence in a conversation, I followed up with "why, is there something you want to do?"
He explained that he just needed TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! for a day trip and he wanted to go soon. Did I mention that the Mister is a stay-at-home dad? Not the sit-in-his-underwear-all-day-and-and-watch-SportsCenter kind of stay-at-home dad, but the kind who does the laundry and packs the lunches and helps with the homework kind. He probably does squeeze in a little ESPN here and there, but I'm down with that.
Anyway, I went with my natural selfish compulsion and said that I didn't really feel like a road trip this weekend, but maybe we could plan one soon.
So this morning was a sunny early spring Saturday, and after I rubbed the little eye boogers out of my eyes, I lay there feeling spiteful and ashamed for not being all giddy over the notion of a family outing. Despite his rhythmic respiration, I poked him with my foot under the covers and said, "you up? I have an idea."
Most husbands will not admit it, but hearing "I have an idea" from the Missus makes them all a little queasy, just for a second. What kind of an idea? they silently wonder. Will it cost money? Does it involve people I don't like?
To assuage his fear, I quickly followed up by announcing that today was, in fact, A Great Day for a Road Trip. Not only that, but I picked the place and had already formed a plan for the day. He crinkled an eye open and said, "I knew you'd come around".
The Mister is highly skilled in the art of the pregnant pause, and because my own neuroses cannot suffer more than 6.5 seconds of silence in a conversation, I followed up with "why, is there something you want to do?"
He explained that he just needed TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! for a day trip and he wanted to go soon. Did I mention that the Mister is a stay-at-home dad? Not the sit-in-his-underwear-all-day-and-and-watch-SportsCenter kind of stay-at-home dad, but the kind who does the laundry and packs the lunches and helps with the homework kind. He probably does squeeze in a little ESPN here and there, but I'm down with that.
Anyway, I went with my natural selfish compulsion and said that I didn't really feel like a road trip this weekend, but maybe we could plan one soon.
So this morning was a sunny early spring Saturday, and after I rubbed the little eye boogers out of my eyes, I lay there feeling spiteful and ashamed for not being all giddy over the notion of a family outing. Despite his rhythmic respiration, I poked him with my foot under the covers and said, "you up? I have an idea."
Most husbands will not admit it, but hearing "I have an idea" from the Missus makes them all a little queasy, just for a second. What kind of an idea? they silently wonder. Will it cost money? Does it involve people I don't like?
To assuage his fear, I quickly followed up by announcing that today was, in fact, A Great Day for a Road Trip. Not only that, but I picked the place and had already formed a plan for the day. He crinkled an eye open and said, "I knew you'd come around".
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