The Assignment:

"Set your alarm for just before dawn tomorrow morning. Then GET UP. (I included those three words because it occurred to me that the alarm going off is not synonymous with the body getting up!) Take a chair and your Bible to the back yard (or the front if you dare!) and position yourself toward the East. Lift up the day's needs as the light begins to dawn and the sun rises. Then read Genesis 8:22, Lamentations 3:22-23, and Psalm 30:5. Meditate on the truth from God's Word..." (From Living Beyond Yourself by Beth Moore).
The following are my thoughts regarding the assignment.

It was a long night, fraught with wakeful children, but today--today is new. I hoped when I began this exercise for a glorious sunrise--for vivid colors painted on a canvass as high and wide as the sky. But I was reminded this morning, wrapped in my robe and wishing for slippers, that sometimes morning comes without fanfare. Sometimes clouds just turn from midnight blue to "it's gonna rain on your stocking feet gray." But morning comes.
Mercy, grace, forgiveness: sometimes they happen quietly, but they still stir the soul. They still happen.
Thank you, Father for your still, small voice.

I encourage you to try this assignment. (The weather would be better if you wait until July, but you can sleep later if you do it now). Try it and share your thoughts. It's impossible not to be moved with the morning air on your face and in your lungs--even if it's only to shiver.

Loose Screws

While re-organizing my kitchen in a feverish attempt to nest during my final months of pregnancy, I bought a small basket to put next to the microwave. The intent was for the basket to neatly contain the various AC adapters necessary to our lives--cell phone chargers. The plan was to keep the chargers out of the junk drawer where the cords tangled among rubber bands and empty pens and kept the drawer from opening properly. All things were bright and beautiful and functional again--for a while. Then yesterday the most damaging magazine to home makers everywhere , Real Simple, arrived in the mail. The magazine is damaging because, in my experience, the plans on how to organize tend to backfire. Hence the overflowing basket by the microwave. The latest issue had a small feature on organizing your pantry. While alphabetizing cans of tomatoes, I decided the basket had gotten out of control and must be dealt with immediately. I took and inventory:

• 5 Ac Adapters (one for each of our phones, one for each of our Blue Tooth ear pieces, and one for show)
• 1 Mini LED flashlight (with a broken cover)
• 2 Pairs sunglasses (wishful thinking?)
• 1 chapstick (Caribean Coconut flavor)
• 3 large binder clips (we don't bind)
• 1 ear ring
• 1 lid for breast pump
• 4 Dutch Bucks
• 1 mystery bracket
• 1 safety pin
• 1 notepad
• a mini calendar
• and 2 screws.
  

Screws?Screws seem to show up everywhere in my house. What are they from? Where do they go? Are they important? If I needed them, would I even know where to look? Never the less, screws are important. You have to put them somewhere. And Real Simple hasn't told me how to organize my husbands tools and miscellany without incurring some sort of wrath. After sorting and putting away, I did one of the boldest things I have ever done in my entire life. I picked up the two renegade screws, discreetly looked over my shoulder, and buried them at the bottom of the garbage can. I assume this is where Murphy's Law kicks in and my husband comes home looking for the screws he put in the basket for safekeeping. Then he'll have to go to Lowes and buy a box of fifty screws and while he's at it, a few more things we can't live without. And in a couple of months, I'll fine 47 of the remaining screws in the medicine cabinet, one in my sock drawer, and one in the toy box.

Manufactured Memories

The following is an excerpt from a piece I wrote a couple years ago in my wild and carefree college days. It brought back some great manufactured memories.

It was a Sunday in July on a Paris afternoon and roughly 230 degrees outside. I remember walking through Notre Dame with hundreds of other people, moving slowly--like lemmings--their conversations a rumble of distraction in the afternoon mass. But I can erase the hoards from my memory and leave the sound of a priest chanting in Latin. I can imagine away the sacred parts of the Cathedral now used for storing folding chairs and see past it to what it might have been once. I remember carved stone and pointed arches; I imagine torchlight instead of electric light poorly illuminating the vast interior. I hear the sounds of an ancient organ echoing off the walls and coming back in a haunting, full reverberation that I feel with my whole body, and the sound fills me with awe and a strange sense of anticipation.
In reality, I am in Paris at the height of tourist season surrounded by people who don’t appreciate the sound. People who are just touring the Notre Dame because they are supposed to. People who even if they listen carefully to the tour guide will never understand the draw of this place. A religious building with hideous lines, crude architecture, and an amazing stained glass window. I can’t grasp the significance of this place, but I am willing to spend a very long time here trying.
I read The Hunchback of Notre Dame before I came, and while I know the story is fiction, inside this building, I can believe it’s true. I look around, and I see what Victor Hugo saw. I can see the mish mash of architectural styles. Different architects with different visions building hundreds of years apart, struggling to complete the heart of Paris; what turned out to be a magnificent monstrosity.
Now with the distance of time and an ocean between us, I remember the Notre Dame as empty, dark, and cool. With torchlight wavering high above the stone floors, haunting music rumbling through the open spaces interrupted once an hour by the majestic sound of the great bell pounding out the haunting rhythm of the hour. It’s not such a terrific leap. The only thing missing, the cover of darkness. The only addition, a thousand or so tourists.
I remember looking down from the top of the bell tower at the tiny city below spilling with tiny people and tiny buildings and a tiny river winding down the middle. I remember the night Esmeralda fled from the Cathedral in the company of two men who would betray her--the priest who was obsessed with her and the man she married to save his life. I can see them, just off the point getting into a small boat. The robed priest rowing furiously across the Seine, the husband holding a white goat, and a young gypsy girl not understanding why the crowd at the Cathedral wants to see her dead. Not knowing that the fate she is escaping to is the same as the one she flees from.
Is it so important that these characters are not real? That I visited the top of the bell tower in daylight with a couple of hundred other people and never saw the lights of Paris rippling across the river, cut by a little boat in the dark? From the Citè island at the center of Paris, I saw the point, I heard the bells, I felt the music.

A Picture in 1000 Words or Less

Dallas City Park, still situated where it has always been, has changed little since I was my son’s age. The things I remember best remain the same: daisies in the grass, narrow paths of cracked asphalt winding through the trees, picnic tables and enormous shade trees. Even the play ground equipment has stood the test of time with a merry go round, teeter totters, swings with rubber seats and metal chains, steel monkey bars, and a cement tube painted in primary colors. And Rickreal creek tumbles over its rocky bed on its way to bigger and better things.

Saturday, Dallas City Park hosted least three birthday parties, a wedding, and family reunions for the Harrisons, the Colbergs, and the Cogswells. The Cogswells brought us here. Well, Grammy and Grandad enticed us, along with overwhelming feelings of nostalgia on my part. I wanted my son to play in the park where I played as a kid.

Sometime after the Safeway fried chicken, shrimp and wild rice, macaroni salad and seventeen varieties of pie had been ravaged, Benton tugged Grandad away from long lost cousin Claud, (or was it Cliff?) to throw rocks in the water. That’s where I found them a conversation with cousin Norm later.

I stood above them and held my breath, watching, wishing I hadn’t left my camera sitting on the kitchen counter. I willed the moment into my memory with eyes wide open, not wanting to miss a second of the scene before me.

The clouds hang overhead blocking the sun and every now and then dropping a sprinkle. When it is still, the air feels warm, but when the wind gusts, I cringe that the other thing I left home was Benton’s jacket. On this side of the creek, round rocks blanket the beach. On the other side, scantily clad trees grow across the water, swaying in the breeze.

Benton stands on the rocky shore of the creek, short legs spread apart balancing, in navy blue shorts and a red-white and blue striped t-shirt. With his back to me, I see the strawberry birthmark on the back of his freshly shorn head, right where it was the first time I saw at the base of his newborn skull. It has been covered up for two years by thick blond hair, and I like having it back in view. In his fist, he clutches a rock, but his thin neck and well shaped head are turned toward his Grandad.

Next to him, Grandad also balances on the rocks, the back of his white head toward me. I marvel at his strength, the corded calf muscles, the broad shoulders. He leans to one side and sends a smooth stone tripping across the surface of the water. Benton laughs, and Grandad watches him plop a rock in the water barely off shore. He says something I can’t hear. Grandad selects another stone, and sends it across the water again, seventy some years of rock throwing experience hard at work.

Too soon, Benton turns around and sees me. The words come tumbling from his mouth so quickly I only pick up the key ones: slide, swing, Grandad, merry-go-round, great big splash!

I will remember this day as one of those frozen moments, and I hope Benton will remember it too. He will not always have his great-Grandad to throw rocks with, but he had that day, that hour of primitive bonding where man connects with boy. Man remembers, and boy hopes to one day “skip rocks like Grandad.”

Growing Up--or not

I’m beginning to wonder if I will ever feel like a grown up. I got to thinking about this at 4 am while feeding the baby. He’s been sleeping though the night for several weeks now, but he woke up hungry last night, right on target for his four month growth spurt. My baby is getting bigger.

Then after a long discussion about gender identity in pre schoolers, off came Benton’s glorious golden locks. I didn’t realize it could physically hurt to watch a haircut. When it was all over, there was nothing left of the two-year old I knew. In his place is a child, unmistakably boy, all great big eyes and hammy grin. He’s the same kid, but all grown up.

A few months ago, we received in the mail proof that my husband is old—the announcement of his 20 year high school reunion which takes place this weekend. And frankly, that huge time span of 8 years between us doesn’t seem like such a yawning abyss any more.

On top of this, my dear cousin and oldest friend (hehe) Jessi turns thirty tomorrow. In high school, it was “just the four of us.” Melissa had her birthday first in February, followed a few weeks later by Christi. Jessi’s was third on August 12, and it was with her birthday that I began to consider myself older as well. She’s “celebrating” her birthday on the other coast while her husband is across the ocean. Celebrating is fun when you’re three or sixteen or twenty one, but after that, once real life intrudes, not so much. Even though I claim I stopped getting older coming up on five years ago now, I feel as though I am careening toward the big 3-0 anyway.

• I am married, but I don’t feel grown up.
• I’ve attended two colleges and have a degree, but I don’t feel grown up.
• We own a home, two cars (one of which is a gold minivan previously owned by my grandparents!!!), and a retirement account, but I don’t feel grown up.
• We have two kids. One who is not a toddler, according to babycenter.com, but a preschooler, and one who stopped being a newborn two months ago, and is halfway through infancy, but I don't feel grown up.
• My favorite baby cousin is starting college in the fall, but I don’t feel grown up.
• My knees act like they’re fifty, but I don’t feel grown up.

What does it take, I wonder, to feel grown up. My great-grandma claimed to feel like she was sixteen into her seventies. Now when I was sixteen, I felt grown up. I knew everything; never questioned my own judgment, only that of the people in authority over me.

What exactly does it take to be grown up/mature? Maturity is knowing your own limits and recognizing you can’t always be in control. Maturity is following though on your responsibilities even though you have no idea what you’re doing. Maturity requires seeking out and accepting help even when you’d rather do it yourself. So maybe not feeling grown up is a sign of maturity. Hmm. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Three O'clock Smiles

He grunts, coughs, grunts, and whimpers. I flop to my side and squint in the direction of the red numbers on the alarm clock. Three a.m. He is crying now. Dragging myself out of bed, I shove one arm through the cold sleeve of a blue bathrobe. The volume increases. On auto-pilot, I gather supplies—a diaper, wipes, and a square of blue flannel to soak up the inevitable spit. He is wailing now. I click on the light, and open my eyes at last. A scrunched up purple face howls from his bed. I pick him up and hobble to the chair where I plop and settle without ceremony, my eyes open only as much as they need to be. I look down, and round slate gray eyes look back at me. Then pink lips push chubby cheeks into a dazzling, toothless smile. I touch his soft brown hair, and run a finger along the sweetest baby face. I tickle his neck, and his mouth opens in an almost-giggle. For this moment, at three o’clock in the darkest part of the morning, I am not tired, and I smile back.

Ramblings

I'm not at all sure what to blog about today, but frankly, I'm over Jerry being dead, and feel it's time to move on. Probably I am the only one in my sphere of influence that cared anyway. But then again, you never know. That's the problem with blogging. You never know who is reading your stuff--as I discovered with that one infamous post. The number one rule of writing is to always remember who you are writing to. (Also never end a sentence with a preposition, but I won't get in to grammar right now). Many books on the subject tell you to visualize a person that represents your target audience. When I'm working on my novel, I picture my grandma, my mom, and my sister. They cover the age brackets I'm writing for, and I know them well enough to know what they like to read. With the blog, I'm not quite sure who to visualize. Mostly, it's bored friends and family who stop by to be polite while hoping to read some inspired piece only to find Jerry Falwell's obituary. Disappointed, they go back to the fun blog and link to another friend or family. Then there's friends of friends of friends. Strangers who stumble by... I know of college friends, great aunts, my sister's friends, my husband's co-workers, and my mom. How can I as a writer appeal to everyone in this group? It's pretty much impossible, I've decided. My sarcasm will likely offend some. It has before, and will again, because smart as I am, that's one lesson I can never seem to learn. I am very curious who all is out there. If you stop by, please let me know you were here. Comments are fun. And if you're a fellow blogger, prepare to have a few more strangers stop by your blog!

I was sad to learn of Jerry Falwell's death yesterday. You see, I went to his school and sort of almost met him. I saw him drive his suburban over a curb one time. Mostly, I heard him bare his soul to 5,000 students a couple of times a week. Jerry didn't know how to do anything other than speak his mind. Whether you agreed or disagreed with his politics or theology, his passion was contagious.

Falwell, Founder of Liberty University , Dies

Date: May 15, 2007

Contact: Dr. Ronald S. Godwin, 434-582-7600

LYNCHBURG , Va. — The Rev. Jerry Falwell, Founder and Chancellor of Liberty University and Founder and Pastor of the historic Thomas Road Baptist Church , died today. He was 73.

Rev. Falwell was found unconscious in his office around 11:30 a.m., by members of his staff and received immediate resuscitation efforts there, again in the ambulance and at Lynchburg General Hospital .

He was officially pronounced dead at 12:40 p.m.

Rev. Falwell’s family, including his wife Macel and sons Jerry Falwell, Jr. and Jonathan Falwell, were with him at the hospital at the time of his death.

Ministry officials called a special 2:00 p.m. meeting in the Thomas Road Baptist Church auditorium and on less than an hours notice over 6,000 faculty, staff, students and church members attended the announcement of the passing of their Pastor and Chancellor.

Rev. Falwell established the Thomas Road Baptist Church in 1956 where he pastored for over 50 years. He founded Liberty University in 1971 and oversaw its rise to prominence as the largest evangelical University in America .

Ice Cream Memories

Baskin Robins had their 31cent scoop night last night, and though I didn’t take advantage of the bargain ice cream, it did get me thinking of my favorite ice cream memory.
At the tender age of eighteen, I was on my own 3,000 miles away from home at college. I met Tim in a stupid required Freshman class called Freshman Focus. I don’t remember any of the content of the class—my Freshman focus was elsewhere. Tim was a charmer, and pretty cute, even if he was a little on the skinny side.
One day, Tim didn’t show up to class, so I was forced to pay attention (not that any of it soaked in, but I took notes). Though bitterly disappointed, I managed to pull through. Imagine my delight when that afternoon the phone in my dorm room rang and it was for me! It wasn’t roommate #1’s fiancé or roommate #2’s boyfriend, but it was a boy, and he was calling for me! Tim wanted class notes.
“What’s it worth to you?” I asked. “I don’t give up valuable notes just because you ask nice.”
“Well,” he answered slowly, as if knowing he held the trump card, “I work at Baskin Robins…”
“I’ll take chocolate peanut butter.”
He laughed. He thinks I’m funny! “I’ll meet you at 6.”
At 6:00, freshly made up to look fantastic without looking like I was freshly made up to look fantastic, I left my room (keep him waiting just a little). There he was, sitting on a couch in the commons with a pink and white paper cup just calling my name.
I ate the ice cream while he copied my notes—he had horrible handwriting. It took forever because we kept talking. After a while, we started talking about annoying habits, and I told him how this guy in high school was always telling me my shoe was untied. He thought it was the funniest thing when I would look, and for some reason it got me every time. “Look up gullible in the dictionary, and there I am!” He gave me this quirky little smile that I took for amusement at my story.
“Um. You have a little something on your shirt,” he said, gesturing awkwardly toward my white t-shirt.
“Oh please! I may be gullible, but I’m not that bad.”
He bit the corner of his lip, “No. Really. You have something on your shirt.”
“I am not going to fall for that.”
“Here,” he said gallantly, “I’ll turn around so you can look. I promise, you have something on your shirt.” I’m not sure how long exactly this went on, but he finally shrugged. “You win,” he said, and I felt quite proud of myself.
We decided it was too late to get any studying done, so we should go to a movie. We walked to his car and drove the three blocks to the $1 theatre. On the way there, he kept glancing my direction and chuckling.
“I’m not going to look,” I insisted. And I didn’t. Not until I stopped off at the restroom when we arrived at the theatre.
Have you ever had chocolate peanut butter ice cream from Baskin Robins? It’s not made with some sissy light brown milk chocolate. It’s a deep, rich, dark, chocolaty brown. And there it was: a spot about the size of a quarter, right where my cleavage should have been, on the whitest of white backgrounds.
That is my favorite ice cream memory. It was a tad mortifying at the time, but today, I cannot tell the story with a straight face—I can’t type the story with a straight face. Poor Tim. So what’s yours? I want to read the stories that make you laugh (now, if not then). Come on. I know more of you read this than comment. So comment. We could all use a good laugh today.

Life Forms

The baby is coming in days—presumably—and one worry consumes my mind. Not true. A million worries consume my mind. Will the kitchen be finished? Will I get all of his stuff ready before he gets here? What if Benton doesn’t like him? Will he be healthy? And the kicker—will he be ugly? It is a fear common among hormonally deranged (pregnant) women. Perhaps it’s our way of coping with all the stuff that could really be wrong. Or maybe some of us are just really shallow.

I experienced this same worry with Benton. Those ultrasound pictures, while amazing, were a little creepy too. He looked just like Skeletor in a few of those pictures. How was I going to scrap book that? I told myself over and over that it wouldn’t matter what he looked like, but deep inside, I knew the truth. It was all that mattered. (Like I said, hormonally deranged).

When they brought me my firstborn, fresh from the womb, I took it all in very objectively. I noticed his purple skin, his wrinkles, the white spots on his face, the flat nose, the squinty eyes… He was screaming with all the lung capacity he could. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on. Any mom will admit to being willing to lay down her life for her baby from that first moment. But when I held that tiny, wrinkled bundle, I knew I would kill for my son. (Not in the Texas cheerleader mom sort of way. More like the mama bear maul for my offspring kind of protection).

What is so spectacularly beautiful about a newborn? It’s certainly not the way he looks. It’s not what he can offer. It’s not his potential. It’s not his charisma. No. It’s far more primal that that. That child is the closest you will ever get to participating in creation. That baby is half your DNA, half your husband’s. He grew inside of you, he fed off you. He is science, he is miracle. He is perfect.

In the beginning, God created. He created baboons, hyenas, Venus fly traps, mosquitoes, onions, French poodles, and those plants that look like hot dogs. I’ve often wondered if God made these things just to show us he has a sense of humor. Maybe. The truth is there are a lot of ugly babies out there. They say a mother will never know if her baby is ugly. Does God know any of his creation might be ugly? Our Creator spoke the world into existence and then said it was good. Even the ugly, useless stuff? The beautiful things, the ugly things. From parasites to redwoods from viruses to volcanoes. They are good because he made them.

So on those days when you’re wearing vomit instead of makeup; the days you pay bills instead of doing your hair, remember who made you. Remember that when your Father sees you, he is so overcome, he would do anything for you. He would start the world over so you could live in peace. He would make the sun stand still so you could experience victory. He would bend the laws of nature to give you the desires of your heart. You haven’t done anything to deserve it. We’re all ugly, useless, ungrateful lumps, but in the arms of your creator, you are cherished completely.

ARE PARASITES MAKING YOU FAT?

I don’t handle pregnancy well. I just don’t. Where some women blossom, I wilt. I grow to the size of a house—or as my husband put it, a luxury condo. I’ve developed what I call pregnant back. It’s when your shoulders, waist, hips, butt and thighs meld into one gigantic mass, broken up only by the ill placed elastic waistband of full-panel maternity pants and the tie in the back of the shirt. The tie in the back of the shirt was clearly not thought through by clothing designers. While the accentuation between engorged bosom and swollen belly is appreciated, why does it have to tie in the back were the band rests just under the new roll of fat under your shoulder blades. I never knew you could develop a roll of fat under your shoulder blades. All in all, this look is reminiscent of tying a bow around Jello and letting it walk about in public.

With this in mind, I stood in line at the grocery store the other day while my toddler “shared” his goldfish with me. “Here mama. You eat it.” As I opened my mouth to tell him “no thank you,” he’d shove a fish in. I played his little game distractedly while I studied the behind of the woman in front of me. Also very pregnant, she managed to keep this cute little bubble of a bum completely in tact. I came dangerously close to saying “How in the world did you keep your butt?” Before I decided I should probably look away.

There on the magazine rack beside me, the headline of an article asked (in all capital letters) ARE PARASITES MAKING YOU FAT? I looked down at my goldfish orange colored toddler and the handprints he’d placed on my bulbous belly—no doubt trying to “share” with his brother. “Why yes.” I said aloud. “Yes they are.” I pretended to be talking to my son, so the woman with the cute butt in front of me wouldn’t think I was crazy. Though if she’d caught me staring, there really wouldn’t have been doubt.

I know I should be filled with wholesome reflections on the beauty of the life growing inside of me, and there are times when this is true. There are other times, like when the only known cure for the nausea is a McDonald’s sausage biscuit (or two), when I feel a tad resentful. Or I try to put on a shirt that fit just fine last week. Or, heaven forbid, I see a picture of myself and my five chins in a turtle neck. I feel swollen to Veruca like proportions and until this baby comes out, there’s very little I can do about it. It’s a big responsibility being the host for this tiny parasite. He needs his mom to provide him with every ounce of nutrition. And if he only likes his protein in the form of Jumbo Jacks with cheese and his vegetables in the form of onion rings, what is a host to do but oblige.

Then there’s the toddler who has become far more needy since the subject of “baby brother” has come up. While past the point of being an actual parasite, he still has a way of contributing. Someone has to try that first bite of chicken nugget to make sure it’s not too hot. And am I really going to just throw away that second half of a perfectly good peanut butter and jelly sandwich away just because he got full? We both need our milk, but do I seriously need to buy two gallons just so he can have whole and I can have something with a little less fat?

Perhaps my tone seems bitter. It is, to an extent. The part I don’t want to admit is that it’s mostly my fault. I don’t have to feed my unborn child trans-fats and dairy in the form of milk shakes. I don’t have to eat-up after my toddler either. It is within my power to continue being the Weight Watcher I was trained to be. But sometimes, gluttony can be fun—maybe not fun so much as tasty. And when there’s a parasite or two to blame it on, so much the better.

The Storm

“A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” They were terrified and asked each other “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him.” Mark 4:35-39

So there was this scary storm, then Jesus whispered, “Peace,” and everything was OK. Aw. Isn’t that a nice story of the miracles God can do. So warm and fuzzy. Jesus is neat.

Do you really think that’s how it went down? Granted, we only have a few verses allocated in ¾ of the Gospels to the story, but the disciples came away from this cozy little story terrified. Terrified. They were afraid of the storm. They were terrified afterward. Interesting.

A squall came up. A squall so furious, men whose livelihood depended on weathering storms knew they were all going to die. They wake Jesus up. Maybe they thought he’d like to be notified that they were all about to meet their maker--not fully comprehending that the maker of the wind and the waves was the one sleeping in the stern.

Jesus rebuked the wind. With the wind whipping his hair in his face, the salt water stinging his eyes, the waves slamming against the boat, Jesus stood up. His voice thundered above the storm, “QUIET! BE STILL!” The wind held its breath, the waves trembled in submission, and the disciples were terrified.

Infomercials

I don't know if I'm alone in this, but it seems like the older I get, the more my life looks and sounds like an infomercial. Have you seen that one for the can opener where the woman struggles and struggles opening a seemingly simple can of tomatoes? You just shake your head and wonder why they make it look so difficult. Well, I'll admit to having a lousy can opener, but last night, trying to open a can of tomatoe paste, I made that woman's struggle look like childs play. The can only opened part of the way, so I used the handle of a baby spoon to pry it off. Not only did the spoon handle bend to a ridiculous angle, but the lid went flying and stuck paste side to the wall.

It's not just the disasters though. A few months ago, people were over at the house, and I had to break out the Mr. Clean Magic sponge to demonstrate how it would remove paint scuffs from my new kitchen table. Last week, my cousin and I spent the morning in the bathroom so she could show me the most fantastic makeup (Bare Escentuals, in case you're wondering). I hear phrases like "Oxy will clean anything" and "Oh, Kids and Pets will take that right up" coming out of my mouth, and I shake my head. It all started, I think, with my George Foreman Grill. I've gone through three in the last seven years, and I love it still. And don't even get me started on the Food Saver.

I wonder if I should worry about how much commercialism has seeped into my life. I'm not too worried though. I mean, someone had to convince the world it couldn't live without the microwave and tin foil (to be used seperately, of course) And where would I be if my aunt, grandma, and sister-in-law hadn't preached Weight Watchers non-stop? Pregnancy aside, my husband and I would sill be chubby, and so would a few of our friends.

So help me out here. Am I the only walking advertisement out there or are you guilty of spreading commercials too?

Where Were You?

September 11 isn't just a date anymore. It's a phrase that makes my heart sink. I didn't lose anyone that day, but the memory of where I was and what I did that day is etched indelibly in my mind. I wonder if it is the same for you or if it's all a blur.

That Tuesday morning, I didn't have to be at work until 10, so once I was ready, I sat down in front of the TV with a snack and a book. The snack was never eaten, the book never opened. I held the remote in my hand unable to move, I sat stone still, disbelieving what I was seeing. When the phone rang, I answered it with a strangled, "hello." The voice on the other end, just as tense, my sister asked if I was watching TV. I said yes, and that was all. I held the phone to me ear, drawing strength from the breathing of a loved one over the phone lines until I had to leave for work.

It never occurred to me to call in sick or not to go. When I arrived, the two cooks were huddled around the TV in the bar with a bottle of gin between them. At precisely eleven, opening time, four beautiful, poised older women entered the restaurant. I performed my duties as their waitress much as a robot might and returned to the TV in the bar. Over the sounds of the explosions coming from the small speakers, we could hear the women laughing. They didn't know. And I would not tell them. Instead, I encouraged their laughter. For a few more bright moments, they would enjoy life. They would feel joy and appreciate friendship. It's what we all should have been doing up until the moment the world screeched to a halt that morning. The women left a ridiculously large tip, we locked the doors behind them and went home.

The Ants go Marching

I noticed the first scouts a few days ago. They were nothing a paper towel or a thumb couldn't squash, but they kept coming back. It became a nuisance, albeit an easily eradicated one.
But this morning, I walked into the kitchen to find a full fledged invasion underway. I don't understand the logic of these ant invaders. There were no more or less crumbs than usual, so what provoked the attack? I think it was probably an over eager general trying to make an impression on the queen--maybe he was up for promotion or something.
"Thank you for the report sergeant. All right troops, we're going in." He declares in his chipmunky squeak.
"But sir," the sergeant interrupts, "we can't! It's suicide! The humans have weapons--giant paper crushing mechanisms and toxic chemical gases. We'll never make it out alive! They are sixty kajillion times bigger than we are--"
"That will be enough, sergeant. The humans may be bigger and have weapons. The humans may be monsters bent on our destruction" (can't you almost hear the soundtrack music swelling?) "but we have numbers. We will defeat them by overwhelming them with our tiny black bodies in their sinks and on their counters. We will get in their cupboards and their sugar bowls and they won't be able to stop us!"
The ant troops raise their voices in a victory squeak, and invade.

I probably should have toned down the evil cackle as I fumigated the lot of them. It was almost heroic the way some of them tried to survive, hobbling out of the way on two remaining legs. After I coated their battle field with a layer of Raid, I wiped up their dead bodies with baby wipes and tossed them in the garbage. Then I wiped the counter down with bleach, filled the hole they came through with caulk, and set an ant trap, just in case. At the moment I am feeling quite victorious, but I fear it is only a matter of time before a tiny survivor makes it back to the ant village and a mission of revenge is launched. I fear the "Shock and Awe" attack they might attempt. But unless they call in those people eating ants like the ones that ate the guy in that one episode of McGyver that still gives me night mares, I'll just massacre them again and call it a day.

In Loving Memory

My cousin Phil is several years older than me, and for most of my life, I have seen him as something of an enigma. He graduated college and was traveling the world making a difference while I was piecing together fragmented ideas of hopes and dreams. And then came Tera. I don’t know whether I just got around to growing up or if she really did soften him a bit. Whatever the case, she was good for him. The fist time I remember meeting Tera was at a bridal shower that my grandma hosted. Tera didn’t know any of us, but she remained untiringly gracious in a room full of strangers.
Paul had to work the day of Phil and Tera’s wedding, so I had to go alone. I remember few things about that day besides how hot it was (I came away with a sunburn as a wedding favor), and how much I missed my husband when Tera sang to Phil.
Tera was inspiring. All you had to do was sit in the same room with her, and you wanted to be a better person and to try and change the world a little. I found a card from Tera this morning that closes with “Hope we can get together sometime soon!” We always said that, but we never got around to it. I will always regret not getting to know her better. I ache for Phil and pray that he will never feel alone, because in Heaven, Tera is in the perfect place to inspire his guardian angels to stay on their toes. And as much as we will miss her sweet smile and mourn the shortness of her life, I do “hope we can get together sometime soon.”

What is wrong with this picture?

My sister pointed this sign out to me, and I couldn't help but take a picture. When the restaurant re-opens, I think I'll go in and order some frajitas (pronounce the j like a j). 

Chichen Itza

Chichen Itza, or Chicken Pizza, as I like to call it, was the first leg of our journey. It was quite the accomplishment getting there. Eight hours on a plane and six on the slow bus (not the short bus) through the Yucatan had us seriously doubting our sanity. Once off the bus, the vacation commenced.
Chichen Itza was established by the Mayan people, peaceful farmers who used the city as a central gathering and marketplace. A couple hundred years later, the peaceful farmers were chased off by Aztec warriors who turned the place into a religious center where they sacrificed people and displayed severed heads on walls.
And what would a Paul and Andee Show vacation be without Paul desecrating something. He climbed the steps to this ancient cathedral despite the sign warning "Please no to climb" and the rather formidable piece of twine strung between two twigs at the bottom.

Cozumel

Known for its amazing coral reefs--over 15 of them--we could not have skipped the little island of Cozumel for anything. Paul loved SCUBA diving in some of the best water on the planet and got his Advanced Open Water Certification while he was at it. I went along on one dive, but I have ultimately decided I am not a fish. I'm begining to understand why some whales just beach themselves. There is something to be said for land. We rented this crazy John Deere Volkwaggon and toured the island one day on land.
And I enjoyed this sunset from a rooftop pool deck while Paul was playing with the fishes sixty feet below sea level. It's not so bad up here... 

Playa del Carmen

Playa was our last stop on our journey through Mexico. Though crawling with sunburned tourists, it is a truely beautiful place with miles of the softest sand you've ever wiggled your toes in, and crystal clear turqouise water warm enough to take a bath in. We loved Cozumel so much, we were afraid of what we would find in Playa, but we fell in love with it too.
Our last morning in Playa, we left the hotel, grabbed a couple of iced coffees and walked to the beach. There we spread out in our beach chairs under a palapa umbrella and snacked on fresh plums, nectarines and bananas. While refreshing at first, the wind had me a bit chilled by the time Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet finally confessed their love for one another. After warming up with a dip in the Caribean, I was reasonably convinced that Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth were the second happiest people in the world.