pastorschick

Birthday Dinner

2009-11-14T06:27:00.000-08:00

The Reverend Sir has a conference all weekend, so last night was the appointed night to celebrate my birthday. I was instructed to come home after school, put on a pair of jeans, and get in the car. So I came home and did as I was instructed, but was told to wait, because the freezer repairman was supposed to be here at 4:30, to install a part that was on order for two weeks. Nothing says freezer repair urgency like turkeys on sale for 25 cents a pound. So we waited, and waited. Waiting is good! It really teaches virtues, like patience, and muttering under one's breath, and feeding your child cookies so that he can wait to eat dinner when it is past his bedtime.

The repairman finally came, and he left before I realized he was gone. The freezer hums! It is now a hungry maw awaiting our frozen greed. (sorry, I am in the midst of a unit of Shakespeare). I was finally given clearance to get in the car and off we went to the mystery restaurant. An aside about me: I really don't like surprises. I tell myself I do, but you are reading the blog of a woman who has been known to unwrap Christmas presents when no one is around and then re-wrap them. I leave the room at the climax of crime shows because I just can't stand the suspense. Weird, perhaps, but some may find it charming. So, I am squirming in the passenger seat of our car because I have no idea where we are going. I know it is not a fancy restaurant because Lucas is with us, and I am wearing jeans. Those days went away a long time ago. I don't think The Rev. would take me to Marie Callender's or Mimi's for my birthday, because he never mentioned a coupon. My solution to my angst was to play with my cell phone, which drives my husband nuts. So, I have a child in the backseat who is stressing me because he is being so good and it is his dinnertime so something must be wrong with him, and a husband who is dangling a mystery restaurant over my head. To me. A self acclaimed food snob. I'm surprised I didn't break out in hives last night.

We wound up in Vista, and The Rev. said, "Help me find the Famous Dave's." Famous Dave's? You are taking your wife, who spent the majority of her life raised on juke-joint barbecue and her mama's farmhouse potato salad to a chain barbecue restaurant? You must think that age has begun to soften my gray matter. But, dear reader, I kept these thoughts to myself, and while I was pondering them in my heart, I pointed and said, "Oh, look, it is the new Sonic. How cute." And then The Rev. gets this sly grin on his face and he says, "Maybe you would rather have Sonic." Dumb me, I reply, "Nah, I don't think I want Sonic." Dumb me. Of course you want to eat Sonic, because that WAS YOUR HUSBAND'S ORIGINAL INTENT YOU MORON. Your husband, who you think doesn't listen to all the important words you have to say, decides to do something sweet and romantic (albeit totally southern, mildly redneck) way and you deny him. Nice. He deserves the birthday meal for agreeing to put up with you until death. So I recover and I say, "Well let's figure this out, they don't look that busy." HA HA HA.

We circle the block and the restaurant has the entrances blocked off. We pull up and ask the uniformed girl what we have to do to get our cherry limeade fix. She pointed up the street and said, "Take two rights and go to the dirt lot. That's the staging area." Wait. Staging area? What is that? It's Sonic. I come from a part of the country where Sonic is as ubiquitous as Baptist churches, Dollar General stores, and Kroger. Seriously, a staging area? At least it is in a dirt lot, that evokes some memories of home, and authenticity, but who am I to judge.? I was going to eat Sonic; I could handle a little off-roading. So we drove the appointed two blocks and looked at the 36 cars lined up in the staging area and we decided to go to Famous Dave's. The Rev. and I agreed that while we did indeed love and cherish one another, we recognized it was not worth a test of one's patience, especially not one of that magnitude.

We ate our barbecue, and we enjoyed our beer, and Lucas was an angel during the meal. When we left, we thought we would drive by one more time, because maybe the line wouldn't be so bad and we could get a Banana Cream Pie shake. We pulled up to the staging area, and the teen-age boy asked, "Do you want car-hop or drive-thru?" I replied, "Food doesn't taste any different if a girl on roller skates brings it to me, so give me drive-thru." He waved us through, gave us a ticket (are your reading this, my Tennessee friends? Especially the ones who would sneak off campus with me at lunch to the Sonic that was a block from the school? You better RELISH your next Coney dog, or Toaster sandwich, because you are eating PURE GOLD.) and off we went to wait for fifteen minutes behind a guy who read the entire menu before ordering. You think I am exaggerating that point. I am not exaggerating that point. We finally ordered, and I had to settle on a chocolate cream pie shake because they were out of banana. It really didn't matter because I got two sips before a greedy toddler screeched in my ear for a sip and clutched the cup to him like it was a chalice from the last crusade.

It was an enjoyable ride home, and the Sonic trip kindled some memories of our early marriage, when I would sell tickets at the high school football game and The Rev. would watch the game in the stands, often sitting behind the mother of one of my students. She would clang a cowbell and in a thick, syrupy accent screech, "Low-Ull! Low-ull!" Her son's name was Lowell, and I think you get the picture. After the game we would go to Sonic and listen to the high school football reports on the radio and talk about Hunter's Lane's chances at the playoffs. Now we marvel at how different our lives are, but different in a better way. It was worth the suspense.

JUNE? REALLY?

2009-11-13T09:56:00.000-08:00

I was surprised to see it has been nearly six months since I last posted my musings. I thought it had been August.

Forgive me. I've been busy.

Busy is probably too blase' of a word. Ninety miles an hour with my hair on fire is probably a better description. Teaching is wonderful, and the family is much more appreciative of my "normal" hours. No more late nights, no more weekends, no more holidays. Which brings me to the coming holidays, and how I am working hard on restraining myself to not go Clark Griswold on everybody and make these the hap-hap-happiest holidays since Noel Coward sang "Jingle Bells."

Or something like that.

Honestly, I have been too busy to put pen to paper to plan the festivities, and I have a feeling this year is going to be a ninety mile an hour with my hair on fire kind of year. And when I wake up on New Year's Day, I will sit up, blink, rub my eyes, and wonder "What just happened?" We do have friends coming for Thanksgiving, which means rubbing my hands in maniacal glee and stocking up the fridge and the wine closet. It also means that the cookie recipes have to come out, as well as the 25 pound sack of flour for the dozens of cookies that will be coming out of our thirty year old oven. Frankly, I'm just happy to be looking forward to the holidays, instead of looking forward to them being done. Ha. 'Tis a strange feeling, but I am embracing it.

We are crossing the Mississippi for the holidays, so prepare yourself for an onslaught of pictures of what I am going to eat. I promise I will only post one picture of Sonic. Well, maybe two.

Causing me to Pause

2009-06-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

Yeah, Michael Jackson is dead. I briefly alluded to his "Thriller" in a Facebook comment; I also referenced a red pleather disco bag that a grade school friend had and I wanted. I can still see the likeness of his face etched on that bag, complete with the word, "Thriller." That memory has got to be at least 25 years old, if not older. I don't want to think about it.

Then my brother made a comment on his Facebook in regards to a writer's comment about Michael Jackson being bigger than Elvis. My first reaction was to disagree, and I wrote a long blog about it, and then I walked away from the computer to think about what I had written. Now I am back, with the benefit of four hour hindsight, and I think Elvis will always be bigger Michael Jackson. Yes, Elvis died of a drug overdose, and like so many other famous celebrities, painkillers became his drug of choice when the pressure of fame became too much for him to handle. Elvis did have some erratic behavior (the visit to Nixon in a sparkly jumpsuit), but at the end of the day, it was Elvis and his Memphis Mafia behind the gates of Graceland. If there was weirdness going on, it was a well kept secret.

Michael Jackson? To say his life was a carnival freak show is to speak ill of the dead, but a spade is a spade. If you look at the psyhchological parameters for abnormal behavior, Mr. Jackson is Exhibit A. The chimpanzee, the hyperbaric chamber, the plastic surgery and the disappearing nose. I have to agree with a radio commentator: I think the man was incredibly sad. As a result, he dulled the pain with behavior that most normal people could not understand. And then came the molestation charges. The trial ended before a jury could reach a verdict in regards to the accusations charged against him, and some saw the settlement as an admission of guilt, washed away with a pay off. Others saw the settlement as a wise business decision that would be cheaper in the long run. I think the spectrum of public tolerance is pretty wide, but when it deals with the abuse of a child, bar the door. A nose job? Forgiveable, everyone in Hollywood has had some work. The chimp? Meh, an exotic pet. A molestation charge? Damned forever. Even if he was found innocent, the specter would always loom: he got off because he was famous. I personally believe he got away WITH A LOT because he was famous. Remember the baby dangling incident?

And the more I think about Elvis, the more I think about how incredible the Elvis machine is in regards to marketing his likeness. Priscilla Presley was genius in handling her daughter's affairs, and if anyone has visited the vast complex across the street from The King's home, you know exactly what I mean. I personally don't need a t-shirt or a mug or a cookbook emblazoned with his likeness to show my admiration for the man and his music, but there are some who do. I only own his greatest hits. I know the man can sing, but I will probably buy some sort of memorabilia when I am in Memphis in a few weeks. A little taste of home, if you will, perhaps a magnet for my refrigerator, and I will justify my purchase saying that this enterprise is a testament to those who love Elvis, constructed by his loved ones.

Who is going to create the Michael Jackson machine? The living one certainly self-destructed a long time ago. Perhaps the better question is, will there be one created? Will there be a giant, vast complex across from Neverland Ranch where you can buy a t-shirt or a coffee mug or a stuffed chimp named Bubbles? Unfortunately, I think there will be. I am steeling myself for the t-shirts with his likeness and his birth and death date, because someone out there is going to make money on him, and in our world, that is all that matters. The insatiable need to peer at the train wreck, to learn his secrets, to twitter about the children will all translate into dollar signs for someone. It may be family driven, it may not be, only time will tell, and it will be measured by the volume sold.

Again, why does anyone want to be famous?

On Working Motherhood

2009-06-22T20:16:00.000-07:00

Lucas has started going to a babysitter a few days a week. The Rev. has his hands full with visits and planning. I have my hands full with shuttling back and forth between the store and school. We finally had to buckle and arrange for someone to watch him so we can get stuff done. I admit: I can't do it all. My apologies to those who thought I could. A definition of working motherhood: consciously deciding not to do the dishes so that you can play with your son. The dishes will be in the sink tomorrow. Lucas pushing a pink carpet sweeper around while holding a cookie and wearing a diaper is temporal.

Working motherhood. Sigh. I ask Lucas, "Where's Mommy?" He points to The Rev. and says, "Daddy!" Thanks, kid, why don't you twist that knife a little deeper into my chest? He is in good hands with Aunty Treva, someone with whom he is familiar, and she loves him like her own, but I still feel the guilt, the nagging voice that I am not doing enough. It gets worse at night, when I am trying to put him down, and he fights sleep until The Rev. can come home and say prayers with him and sing "Now Rest Beneath Night's Shadows." For those of you who don't recognizie the title, it is a hymn, not a vampire melody. And I think it is a lovely sight to see daddy and son cuddled together in the chair, a sippy cup in the crook of Lucas's arm, as he drifts off to sleep.

My mother was here recently, and she noticed I let Lucas do something that seemed out of character for me. I can't recall what it was, maybe it was giving him some jellybeans after he had brushed his teeth, or something insignificant, and she asked me why I let him do that. "Working mother guilt," was my pat answer. She really didn't have a response for it. I used to teach in a preschool, and we would cluck and murmur about the lunches that kids would be given, or the fact that their shoes had worn out and they had not been replaced yet. I understand now the frazzled sense of trying to get it all done, and sometimes it is a-okay for a kid to eat bologna three days in a row, or wear the socks he wore yesterday. He's happy. He knows we love him. He can get clean socks out of the laundry basket.

I don't know what it means to be a stay at home mom. I don't consider my maternity leave a period of stay at home mom-hood. I was out for 8 weeks. We rarely left the house because he was nursing every two hours, and my one anxiety was nursing in public. I know, I know, we live in an enlightened culture; it is such a natural thing to do; I live in California for crying out loud, but I let me tell you, my life was made exponentially easier when Lucas took to a bottle. It got easier when he started eatin table food. It got a little easier when he became more mobile. It gets a little easier every day. Lucas turned 18 months yesterday, a testament to his survival of our parenting skills. So working motherhood it is, and it probably will be for a very long time, and I will continue to ignore the dishes in the sink and the unmade bed. I have more important things to do.

2009-06-16T23:58:00.000-07:00

Many people have asked me about when I made the decision to return to teaching. I cannot give you the exact time or day, but I can tell you it was made some time during the holiday crush when I had been working for nine days straight and was seriously contemplating skipping putting up the Christmas tree, again. The previous year we skipped the tree because I was nine months pregnant and tired. Last year I had an 11 month old and was even more tired.

It also had to do with California easing restrictions on teachers with out of state licenses. When we first moved to California five years ago, the state was suspicious of anyone who had not been trained or taught in their state. Suspicious to the oint of, "Hey, we have to indoctrinate you, so go back to school to take coursework on the history of California and using computers in the classroom." Plus, you had to take the CBEST, some sort of basic education test to make sure that teachers entering schools kood write reel good. And I was told that it was on an eighth grade level. Seriously, eighth grade level? So are you saying that you only want teachers who are as smart as an eighth grader? Because of all the grades I am willing to teach, there is not enough money in the world to get me to teach an eighth grade boy. I don’t need to be privy to the knowledge an eighth grade boy possesses about Carmen Electra and farts. And hello, I just paid off my very expensive, private label, liberal arts Master’s Degree from THE top ranked school of education in the country, and I wasn’t about to go back to school. I rarely pull that out, because I am not an elitist snob, but when I have to impress elitist snobs…

So, in January, I compiled my packet to send off to the state to see if I qualified for a credential. Transcripts, fingerprints, letters from my previous district all got packaged up and sent to Sacramento. In May, I got a letter from the state denying my credential because the letter stating my employment in Nashville did not state I was a full time employee. I am not kidding. Denied because the letter stated I worked for four years, but not full time for years, or even part time for that matter. I don’t know of a teacher who works part-time, do you? Another round of phone calls and another letter was sent out and two weeks later, nearly six months after I mailed off the initial packet, I received, via email, a letter stating that I was issued a credential. Hallelujah. I would like to mention that in the interim, I did interview for and was offered a job, and I was fingerprinted an additional three times because no one shares information on applicants. That, people, is your tax dollars at work.

I do realize that the Dear LORD has had his hand in this process, because I applied for three other positions and never heard a word from any of them. If the state is going to run out of money, receive a bailout, or go bankrupt, I am very thankful I scooted in the door before it is shut for long time. God is watching out for me, but he is most definitely watching out for my little one, because this mama gets her nights, weekends and holidays back. This Christmas is going to be awesome.

Back to Routine

2009-06-09T06:57:00.000-07:00

Those of you on Facebook already know, and if you share any DNA with me, you must be living under a rock not to know. Yesterday I officially resigned my management job to accept a teaching position at a high school here in Escondido. Yeah! Considering how dour the economic outlook is in California, I am truly grateful to have this opportunity presented to me.

It is bittersweet for me, as I will just miss my five year anniversary with the company. I will also miss the generous employee discount, and the travel up and down the West coast. In my five year tenure, I made many wonderful friends, and I know I altered the path of friendship yesterday when I made those dozen phone calls. Christmas cards may be exchanged and we may talk on occasion, but I will be an outsider now, and that makes me kind of sad. For those of you who have never worked retail, and think it is all about folding sweaters and standing around looking cute, let me tell you, IT IS HARD. It is not just about folding sweaters and looking cute. It is about maintaining a house that is probably bigger than the one you are living in, and it can range from changing a lightbulb in a twenty foot ceiling to soothing a customer who thinks Fed-Ex lost her jacket only to realize two days later that it is hanging mysteriously in her closet. It is about making your numbers and being proud that you did, and not making your numbers and having to take a look at yourself and your staff to figure out how you are going to right the ship.

It is also about early bird mornings where the store is dismantled and re-assembled, and everyone remains in a state of confusion for three days because they can't find the pants "that were just on this rack two days ago." It is about decorating for Christmas in October, and passing out candy to trick or treaters in the mall, all while standing outside the store, feet from a huge sled, so that the constant in and out of candy grabbers won't ruin your conversion. It is visits from V.P.s and executives and quick bites to eat in between customers, and it is patiently listening to an older woman sob in the fitting room because she lost her husband last year and she is so lonely she wants to die.

I've learned these past five years.

But now I have a baby whose first haircut I missed because I was working. And the morning I left him to return to work, I ate oatmeal over the kitchen sink, sobbing because I was a working mother. The Rev. and I had a deal. I would stay home when the kids came. Well, the kids never came, and then one finally did, the deal had to be altered. He had the baby at his office and I went to work. "I am doing this for him, not to him," I would say over and over again, as I dragged my breast pump into my tiny office. I watched his father take him trick or treating at the mall because I was working, and I relished every minute of Christmas Day, because I knew that I would be leaving again the next day for an early round of post-Christmas bargain hunters. There were many later afternoon hand offs, as I came walking in the door from work, and The Rev. was walking out for a meeting or a hospital visit. Lucas didn't nap on Thanksgiving Day, because his parents were in the same room and he couldn't believe his good fortune. Truly, something to say grace about.

So, now it is time to embrace a routine, and weekends off, and the holidays. No more missed haircuts or church events, and I could not be happier. The Rev. and I just watched a movie this week, and the main character narrated a great line, "You go back to visit, and it looks the same, and it smells the same, and the people are same, but you realize that you are the one who has changed." And that bittersweet summation of life is so true. I have changed, but I know these past five years happened for a purpose, and I am looking forward to being a better wife, mother, and teacher.

Change is in the air

2009-05-07T08:14:00.000-07:00

There are changes a-coming round the corner, I hope. Now don't get excited, Lucas is not going to have a little brother or sister. I know what ya'll are thinking. However, change is good, and sometimes one has to take matters into their own hands.

Everyone say a little prayer for me today, around 1:00.

In Between Services

2009-04-12T20:45:00.000-07:00

Lucas wore his p.j.'s to Sunrise Service and then I changed him into his Easter outfit in between services:

Rev: Is that the outfit he is wearing?

Me: It's the outfit I am putting on...

Rev: He is going to wear sandals for church? We always had to wear dress shoes to church when I was growing up.

Me: This is San Diego. He's wearing sandals to church. Consider yourself lucky that I didn't rock the flip-flops to church this morning.

And then he wound up running around barefoot after the Festival service.

Wishing for Little Feet

2009-04-07T20:54:00.000-07:00

The boy needed an outfit for Easter, preferably one that did not have to be starched and ironed and in a color that would hide the crumbs of whatever he happenedto be eating. Do you know how much little boys get short-changed when it comes to special occasion clothes? Humans certainly are different from the animals because every male animal I can think of has magnificent colors. Little boys get relegated to a tiny corner of navy blue and white while clothing for little girls vomit all over the store in a cascade of pink and purple, along with headbands, barettes, socks iced with lace, and little plastic purses.

Today I went to four stores in 30 minutes (I work at a mall) on the hunt for clothes for Easter Sunday. I figured he has a blue oxford shirt at home, so all he really needs is a little sweater or jacket and a new pair of pants. I was even ready to plunk down $40 for a sweater and a pair of pants at one store, but the one clerk was doing a price adjustment for two women in front of me and it was taking forever. That store did not get my money. I finally found an outfit for him at a department store, plus bought an extra outfit just in case (you always have to have a Plan B) and I got it all for the same amount I was willing to pay at the other store. We'll see how it goes when I try to find him some shoes. We may have to put some shoe polish on his brown sandals and call it a day. I'm tired.

I am also hunting for something for myself, and I am not having any luck. I have a pair of off-white slacks and all I really want is a pretty top to wear with them. No luck. Everything I have seen today is hideous. And I know some of you are thinking, "You work retail, buy something from your own store." To that I say, "There are times in one's life where you look in your closet and realize you need to branch out." I am refusing to buy one more thing from my store. I also need new shoes, specifically a pair of comfortable sandals. I don't wear heels much anymore for a few reasons: 1. I am nearly 5 feet, 10 inches tall. If I wear heels I have to let the hem out of my pants or order them in a longer length. Time is of the essence. 2. Because I am tall, I have big feet. Big shoes are not cute. 3. I'm tired and heels require you to work it.

Tonight I looked for sandals and I got increasingly frustrated because all of the sandals are hideous this season also. Why do you need to have fringe on a sandal? I love the look of a platform wedge, but again, I would be over 6 feet tall if I wore them. I'm tall enough, thank you. What kills me is that manufacturers don't seem to be thinking of these things when they make these shoes. I wore a woman's size 7 in the FOURTH GRADE, and the size 7 wedge is still quite adorable, however, when it is presented to me in a size 11 something just gets lost in translation. So tonight I walked longingly past the little 6s and 7s and 8s, and checked out the 11s. While I looked I wondered if there are any short women out there with big feet, or tall women out there with tiny feet.

Tomorrow is another day, and I will be looking.

Field Trip

2009-04-03T08:21:00.001-07:00

Yesterday The Rev. and I packed up the little one and headed north to Los Angeles. A friend from high school was giving a talk and having a book signing at a small book store on the Sunset Strip. I knew The Rev. would not want to go just for a 10 minute face to face with someone I haven't seen in nearly 16 years, but I told him we could go to Pann's Restaurant first for fried chicken and waffles and then drive the 20 minutes to see Heather. This would be Lucas's first extened road trip, and after clocking in nearly two hours in his car seat he was ready for some fried chicken.

We first went to Pann's after The Rev.'s return from his Mexican experience, and we have been talking about their fried chicken for the past two years. I recall Willard Scott once speaking about being a judge at the Memphis in May BBQ cooking contest, he told the interviewer that after a while you think you cannot look at another piece of smoked pork, but then, when you leave the experience all you can think is , "Must. Get. Smoked. Pork." The Rev. and I feel the same way about Pann's. We haven't overdosed on it by any means, but as of late we've been looking at each other and saying, "Must. Get. Fried. Chicken." So off to Pann's we went and we immensely enjoyed our fried chicken. And all I can think of at this moment (even after Sunday brunch) is the next time I will get to sink my teeth into a chicken wing fried to a crispy, golden goodness.

Our road trips have been rare, due to the nature of our schedules, and our trips to Los Angeles even rarer. We have both traveled there for our jobs on separate occasions, and given our tastes of L.A. traffic, we don't travel there if we don't have to. The trip was unfolding spectacularly well, and we left the restaurant with plenty of time to make it the bookstore. It was literally a straight shot down La Cienega to the Strip, and once we got there our lives of suburban domesticity came out and sucker-punched in the face: no free parking. We drove up and down, looking for a place to park, or at least, a place that would take a Visa card, because who in the world carries cash with them these days? I can think of two people in my life that would always have cash on them, and unluckily for us, they weren't in the backseat of our car. Most of the available parking demanded ten bucks in cash, and my frustration mounted with the lack of ATMs. After the fourth u-turn down a street, I just so happened to pull out and cut off a squad car carrying two of L.A.'s finest. And I promptly got pulled over.

I was fully expecting a ticket, and I will admit I deserved one for the fit I was subjecting The Rev. to as I drove. Instead, the officer gave me a mini-lecture on the importance of "being cognizant while operating a motor vehicle." and then directed me to a public parking lot a few blocks away that actually accepted ATM cards. As he pulled away, I turned to The Rev. and said, "You are so laughing on the inside right now, aren't you?" He responded with a laugh, and we found the public parking lot a few minutes later.

I did get to see my friend, and due to the courteousness of the staff, they actually directed us to cut the line because I was carrying Lucas. I think she was suprised to see me, and we had a few good minutes to catch up. She mentioned wanting to get back to California, and I hope she does come back. I would be happy to show her around, and I won't get pulled over again.

He may thank me when he is older

2009-03-31T09:08:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I wrote about traumatizing my child with a visit to Santa Claus. Spring has arrived in San Diego county, and the Easter Bunny has his official digs at the mall, complete with mechanical bunnies-in-waiting and pots and pots of artificial plants. Perhaps this is the company's disclaimer that everything about the Easter Bunny is fake, because it is pretty easy to get a real looking Santa, but a person who looks like a rabbit, complete with ears and a fuzzy tail usually works for Hugh Hefner and that is simply not age appropriate. Business has been slow in my walks by the hassenfeffer throne, but I am sure the throngs will be out this weekend and next with Easter just around the corner.

I have pretty much made up my mind that I will not be taking Lucas to see the bunny, and I blame it all on a costumed pig at the Memphis in May BBQ cooking contest. I wasn't present for the festivities, but my brother attended with several of his friends. For those of you unfamiliar with Memphis in May, it is the city's way of recognizing and honoring a chosen country and an excuse to get drunk and eat roasted pig flesh. And then cap it all off with a symphony on the banks of the Mississippi River. You have to class up the event somehow, and nothing says class but the Memphis Symphony Orchestra playing Mozart to legions of drunken rednecks, frat boys, and families from the 'burbs venturing into the big, bad city. I say that out of jealousy, as I will probably be sunning myself with a glass of chardonnay on my tiny patio and longing for a taste of 'cue when they start to sing, "Ole Man River."

One year, my brother attended with several of his close friends, and they were able to get coveted tickets inside one of the competitor's tents, courtesy of friends of my parents. Drinking and eating ensued, and given the pictures I have seen and stories I have heard, more drinking than eating occurred. During the night, someone was making the rounds to the tents dressed in a pink pig costume, which looking back, I find to be a bit grotesque, sort of like Porky Pig being named the official ambassador of a festival celebrating the slaughter and devouring of his people. Given that Memphis in the month of May tends toward the warm and humid, I can only imagine how uncomfortable the person inside the costume must have been. Also, May can be a rainy month, and those who venture down to the event know to wear comfortable shoes and clothes they don't mind getting dirty (except for some women, who insist on open toe sandals and their best summer short/top combo, it is an occasion, you must remember). The pig, or rather the pig costume, looked to have been on the receiving end of a puddle, or perhaps in drunken revelry, the wearer decided to get down in some slop. Whatever the reason, one of Joel's friend eyed the pig and very blandly stated, "That is one dirty ass pig." That statement became a catch phrase of our group of friends, and sometimes, in the middle of a conversation someone would randomly drop the catchphrase and chuckles would ensue.

In the past ten years, I have been unable to look at anyone in a costume of that nature, whether it be a team mascot (sorry San Diego Chicken), a company mascot, or a costumed character from a children's show or a cartoon and not be transported back to a hot Memphis night with a bunch of my friends, listening to them tell me the story of the dirty ass pig. SO, maybe, just maybe, one day when Lucas is old enough and he asks me why I never took him to see the Easter Bunny, I may just tell him the Easter Bunny is a dirty pig.

When it rains, it pours

2009-03-07T22:47:00.000-08:00

I can use all ten fingers and none of my toes to count the number of times friends have come to visit us in San Diego. Given that most of my friends live on the other side of the country, and we all have busy lives, I understand how taking a jaunt over to the left coast might be a little difficult to navigate.

Suddenly, however, I have had three dear friends visit in the span of two weeks. Two of them I used to teach with in Nashville, and the other one is an old college friend. Lanita and Melissa know me on a personal and professional level, and their stories about the latest escapades at my old school made me simulataneously question going back into teaching and made me want to jump back into it again with both feet. We had a grand old time driving up the coast, and given that San Diego is so different from Nashville, I thrilled at playing touring guide and showing them all the scenic nooks and crannies along the Pacific Highway. As we drove through La Jolla, they asked about the pronunciation of its name. You must understand that any Southern pronunciation is hard, meaning a name like "eggplant parmigiana" would be prounounced, "Egg plant PARMA JONNA." So, I explained the double "L" pronunciation and they we all decided jointly that it should be pronounced, "La Holla." As in, "Holla back atcha." Yes, we all have our Master's degrees in education and yet we revel in the immature mispronunciation of La Jolla. A fun time was had by all.

My friend Teresa is still in San Diego, but is visiting other friends. Our escapades involved wine country and lots of it. It also involved a sick child, and her wonderful, kindred spirit to me came shining through when she looked at Lucas's red, watery eyes, running nose, and drooling mouth and pronounced, "THAT, is a face only a mother could love." It felt to good to laugh hard again, and reminisce about our escapades in Memphis and Nashville. It is always nice to pick up right where we left off.

Come see me again! We'll pass a good time.

14 Months and Why I am a Killjoy

2009-03-01T12:58:00.001-08:00

Lucas is 14 months old today. He is officially walking, and I feel like I need to tape record myself telling him "no" because it is all I seem to be doing lately:

"Don't stick your hands in the dog's water dish."

"Don't lick the cat's tail."

"Don't spit out your food."

"Don't cram that last two inches of banana in your mouth."

"You will not act this way in God's house." This is usually done with a hiss of hot breath in his ear as he tries to wreak havoc in the back pew.

"Stop sticking your finger in your nose."

"Don't poke the dog in the eye."

"Don't lick my hair."

"Don't bite me."

This morning I was sitting in the back pew, and as it was a communion Sunday, Lucas's babysitter came back and sat with him so I could take the sacrament without him clinging to my hip and trying to stick his finger's in our Lord and Saviour's body and blood. She sat next to me, and since he is going through the stage that if I put him down for a nanosecond he goes into full conniption mode, he refused to let her hold him. Instead he kept reaching out to touch the hair of a visitor in front of us. Given that her hair is to her waist and long, and shimmering, and just beckoning to be stroked, Lucas stuck his paw out to touch it. I took his hand and put it firmly in his lap and told him, "NO." So, he tried again, thinking I would not notice. Again, I took his hand, placed it firmly in his lap, and said, "I said NO." This time the hot breath came in his ear; I felt the spirit of my mother descend upon me, and his lip quivered and poked out, just like I used to do when I didn't get my way. Then my mother really took hold of me, "That's right, poke it out REALLY far. I think you are going to step on it." It quivered for about 8 seconds and then he was distracted by the pretty blonde sitting behind us. At least he was distracted until I passed him off so I could go up the altar. His screaming pretty much distracted me for the entire sacrament. We could have gone into the nursery, but I am a firm believer in not using the nursery, because, hey, it is full of toys and FUN, and well, given a choice between playing with some blocks or sitting in the back of the church, YOU ARE SITTING IN CHURCH. I never had that choice when I was growing up, and on more than one occasion I was introduced to my mother's hot breath when I was not cooperating. I feel bad enough letting him have a sippy and some cookie during the service, but it allows me some peace, allows me to hear part of the service, and keeps him from pointing up the altar and screeching, "Hi, Daddy!"

Tis the season to be tortured...

2008-12-10T12:03:00.000-08:00

I only have one memory of sitting on Santa's lap. My mother had enrolled me in ballet lessons and at Christmas time the ballet teacher gave us gift certificates for McDonald's and a visit from St. Nick. All was well until I had to sit in his lap, and he put me down after I screamed for bloody mercy. That was it, no more Santa lap sitting for me, at least until I was an obnoxious 16 year old and my best friend Lisa and I drove to the mall to be, well, obnoxious 16 year olds. I am sure that picture is somewhere. The one of me in my little black leotard with tears streaking down my face is hopefully lost forever.

Now that we have Lucas, I figured I could introduce him to Santa at an early age and he would be okay with a once a year meeting. Last week I donned him in a snowman sweater and took him to the mall for his introduction.

Three clicks of the camera and he was finished.

The first picture was of a totally deadpan face. Santa was all smiles and jolly and Lucas was looking at all of the cooing adults like he was the only sane one in the room. The second snap shot turned out to be a profile shot of a totally serious Lucas looking up at a smiling Santa. The third shot was him looking right at me with a quivering lip, ready to turn on the hoses. We picked the second picture for the "official" portrait and away we went to finish off our errands. He has been pretty tame for the rest of time, but he likes to smile and point at all of the Christmas trees, as well as the garish lawn decorations, lights, candy canes, snowmen, and other assorted secular Christmas debris that looks strangely out of sorts against a back drop of San Diego palm trees.

My wonderful mother-in-law sent him two Christmas books, and when we first received them, he enjoyed looking at both of them with us. One is a Christmas alphabet and the other is a cardboard book that tells the Nativity story while playing a tinny version of "O Little Town of Bethlehem." As earlier stated, Lucas has been fine with both of them, and will happily sit on the floor while I am checking email, and "read" to his heart's content.

This morning I was at the computer and he was playing with an assortment of toys. It was really quiet in the room, and suddenly he reached for the Bethlehem book to look at it. As soon as he opened it the music started blaring and it totally scared the poop out of him. Totally not expecting to be surprised, he looked up at me and started this hysterical, hyperventilating screaming fit, complete with fat tears and gasps of breath. I thought he had pinched himself on something and I start to hold him and rock him and tell him it's going to be okay, "Here, let's sit here quietly and look at your music book..." WRONG PLAN, MOM, WHY DON'T YOU JUST GO AHEAD AND SCAR ME FOREVER! It took a good 15 minute walk around the house, looking at every picture on the wall just to distract him back to calmness, and now when we sit in the office playing, he looks at the top of the desk, just to make sure the book is still there and won't come flying off to eat his face. Part of me wants to laugh at him, because it was sort of funny, but the other part of me totally gets his fear. The five year old in the black leotard that lives waaaaay in the back of my head. Thank goodness he is too young to remember any of this.

I have about three months to prepare him for the Easter Bunny.

Baking

2008-12-05T18:56:00.001-08:00

Last year I totally understood the passage, "And Mary, who was great with child..." I can say that because I was great with child and all I did in the month of December was work and then come home and sit in the bathtub, gazing at my enormous pregnant belly. I probably walked enough the month of December to to equal the walk to Bethlehem, and I can happily say I did not give birth in a stable, there was room for me at the inn.

We did not "celebrate" Christmas last year in the traditional sense, either the SoCal way (tamales) or the deep fried Southern way (fried turkey, divinity, anything with pecans or marshmallows), nor did we celebrate in our German heritage way (springerle, lebkuchen). We just sort of skipped over all of it, because I was too busy sitting in the bathtub, working, and not getting the baby's nursery ready because, well, I was working or sitting in a bathtub. We skipped lights, the tree, and anything involving getting out decorations. The only thing we did do was pull out a tiny advent wreath and set up a nativity I bought that was made in Mexico. Unfortunately, I did not check the nativity very carefully because all of the pieces are made of pewter, but one of the shepherds is four times the size of everyone else and he just overpowers the whole scene. When we set the nativity up, we put him off to the side, at a distance, so that he just looks the same size as everyone else. It is not a very effective special effect, but it makes me feel better about spending $40 on a nativity set that is missing an important part of the nativity account. At least baby Jesus wasn't four times too big. That would have been embarassing. A resounding focal point, but embarassing just the same.

Well, well, well, it is now a year later and we have a son who is obsessed with anything that twinkles or resembles a tree. Of course, it is his first Christmas! Of course we must pull out all stops! I must make tamales! I must bake! I must decorate the house in an age appropriate manner for an 11 month old! So, tonight I have started the baking: spice stars and coconut macaroons. The problem is that there are too many recipes and not enough time. Tamales are an all day project, and a project that is handicapped by a baby who only naps from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. on a good day. Baking can be done at night, but once dinner is made and the kitchen is cleaned for the 89th time, I really don't want to pull out the flour and sugar and make another mess (conveniently, just like the one I have in the kitchen as we speak). And did I mention I am still working full time? Sitting in the bath tub and staring at my post post-partum belly sounds good right about now. So, I will have to cull and I will have to decide what to bake and what to file away for next year. Maybe it will only be chicken tamales and not chicken and beef and pork. Maybe it will be springerle and not lebkuchen. Maybe I should just go to Trader Joe's and empty the boxes of store bought cookies into my cookie tins and pretend to wipe sweat off my brow and then go sit in the tub.

Oh, but then I eat a homemade macaroon, still warm from the oven and my nature that just adores all that is homemade won't let me. So I will have to get organized and make lists, not excuses and get the baking done and get the decorating done and get the nativity set out and then leave it all out until Easter.

First Thanksgiving

2008-11-23T20:25:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. That was before I started working retail. Now, I enjoy a love/hate relationship with Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving at our little house in Nashville were legendary affairs, usually involving three turkeys, two kinds of stuffing, four vegetables, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish and cranberry chutney, 6 pies and a pumpkin cheesecake. Don't forget the two trays of assorted vegetables and the shrimp mold. I would cook for two weeks and relish feeding my extended family. Now, I just think about eating the turkey t.v. dinners.

Thanksgiving in California has been quite different. There was the year of the bbq bird, where I cried all the way home, and there was last year, where I was one month away from giving birth, and happy that someone else was cooking the turkey. It was also the first Thanksgiving where I ate ham.

This year it will be a small family affair, and Lucas will be introduced to turkey and all the trimmings. And it will be to bed early, not to get up to look for bargains, but to sell them to early morning shoppers. But on Thanksgiving day, I will be thankful for my immediate family, a loving husband who is more adept at housekeeping than I am, and our little boy, who we prayed for on so many Thanksgivings in years past. Six years ago, we were visiting a fertility specialist who was optimistic about my chances of conception, and then, on Thanksgiving day, with a house full of family, I learned I was not pregnant, even after all of the treatments we had endured for the previous few months. Now, looking at my precious, precious little boy, I know he was totally worth wait, and I am excited to see his little face light up when he takes his first bite of turkey and dressing. He has made every holiday this year my favorite holiday.

The House of 5th Avenue

2008-11-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

I like to drive around and look at old houses. I suspended my expeditions this summer due to gas prices, and thankfully, now that gas is less than $4 a gallon here, I am back to driving through my favorite parts of historic Escondido. I think this is a trait that I inherited from my father, who spent much of my childhood pulling off highways and byways to read historical markers, and who took us to most of the antebellum plantations in the lower Mississippi Delta. Some of the grand dames were in fabulous shape; I always remember the ones that were crumbling.

Most of the historic homes in Escondido are turn of the century Victorians, built near Grand Avenue when Escondido was becoming a booming farming community. Sunkist had a huge packing plant here, and the citrus went out on trains to tables east of the Mississippi. Old Escondido has wide streets and bumpy sidewalks, mainly due to the roots of old trees, a happy sign of an established neighborhood. Whenever I see old trees I think about old homes and the shade those trees provided in the days before air conditioning.

One of the homes in Escondido pulls at my heart whenever I drive its street. From what I can gather, it used to belong to Escondido's blacksmith, and is a white clapboard Victorian with a double front porch. It is also in an utter state of disrepair, with clapboard and shingles missing. The gable on the third floor is missing a window, and there are two front doors. I don't think the door with the badly hung security door was in the original schematic. It makes me sad to see that house, especially when I think about what it must have looked like when it was first built, and the generations that grew up within its walls. I think homes develop a spirit or perhaps a personality, and I see a once proud lady now hidden behind a wall of grime, hair uncombed, teeth missing, and in need of a new dress. Maybe there will be a for sale sign and someone with deep pockets will restore it. Until then, I will just keep driving by it, curious about her current inhabitants and wondering what her former inhabitants would now think.

10 months and the value of 24 karat gold

2008-11-02T14:47:00.000-08:00

It was a big week this past week at our house. The Rev. was lectured for giving Lucas hotdogs (cut up of course), and then I promptly gave him another hot dog last night because it was late and I was tired. His appetite is expanding at the same rate we are introducing foods to him, and today he ate: cereal, an animal cookie, a cinnamon bun from a bakery, a few bites of chocolate yogurt, toast, and some potato. Tonight, I will be happy if we can throw a green vegetable into that mix. He has also added meatballs and minestrone to the list of food that he can eat by himself. He is way beyond being fed, and insists on feeding himself, which means feeding the dog.

Halloween was pretty uneventful. The Rev. snapped one picture and then the camera died, so we are awaiting pictures from a friend. Halloween ended and All Saint's Day began with a trip to the emergency animal clinic for our cat. Long story short, I found him outside and thought he had been hit by a car. Once we got him to the vet we learned that he had a urinary tract blockage and had not gone to the bathroom in about 4 days. He should have been dead, and at that point we should have said, "It's been nice having you cat, and now you get to walk with God." However, I decided to see if the cat could be fixed to pee 24 karat gold. The cat is fixed but no gold, not even 10 karat. He gets to come home tomorrow.

Selfishly, It breaks my heart

2008-10-14T20:43:00.000-07:00

Lucas is a daddy's boy. Not daddy's boy in the terms of dragging a fishing pole behind his father's shadow (but I anticipate that in about five years), but daddy's boy in that the is acutely aware of when his father is in the house, and acutely aware of when he is not in his father's arms. Did I mention he is acutely aware?

The other day, Aaron woke up late and dashed out of the house or else risk being late for chapel and his catechism class. He came home two hours later to eat breakfast, and both Lucas and I were surprised to see him come through the door. Aaron came in just as we sat down to watch Regis and Kelly do their morning monologue (life is so exciting when I work the late shift!), and chatted with me as he put down his briefcase and keys. He started to walk across the room and Lucas started wailing and reaching for him. Like I was poking him or something.

Tonight, he went down early, after a very busy day of rattling the baby gates, banging on the screen door, and getting his head stuck in rails of chairs. Aaron was teaching a late class, and Lucas woke up minutes after he came in and started screaming. I went in and got him so Aaron could eat dinner, and for the next fifteen minutes, Aaron stood behind me eating and talking to Lucas, who was wailing at the top of his lungs. He eventually wound up in daddy's arms, and fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sitting in the arm chair, Lucas clutching a bottle of water and Aaron reading the paper. The boy was happy as a clam, and was soon cooing himself to sleep. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, just content with the world that he was sitting with his papa. I told Aaron that it selfishly broke my heart, to see the two of them like that, knowing that when he was crying all he wanted was his daddy. But at the same time, I felt so blessed that Lucas could sit on his lap and fall asleep as Aaron's heart was breaking because it was so full of happiness.

Creep Them, Crawl Them

2008-10-09T11:01:00.000-07:00

Lucas is creeping, and by creeping I mean making dangerous swerves, leaps, and jumps from one piece of furniture to the other, all while wearing he adorable new shoes with pirates on them. So fierce, that one.

He is thrilled with his new found mobility, and has taken this skill to new levels by pulling himself up and then trying to turn around to grab at the ottoman. The look on his face is one of concentration mixed with a sense of "do I try to do this, or will I fall?" We pushed the ottoman closer and he crowed in triumph as he managed to turn and reach his chubby hands for the magazine that was just within his reach.

We have now gated the house, and he manages to pull the forlorn jailbird look off quite nicely as he rattles the bars on the gate to the dining room. Look out, here comes trouble!

Vote No on Prop Fall

2008-10-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

The Santa Ana winds are blowing. For everyone who does not know about the area of high pressure that forms over the deserts in Utah and Nevada and blows dry, hot wind into San Diego, that means trouble. Trouble because the risk of fire goes up exponentially (like last year when three wildfires started simultaneously and went uncontrolled for days), my skin and hair wither and die, and my internal seasonal clock gets all our of whack because, HELLO, it is October and time for fall leaves and cool evenings and beef stew and cozy sweaters. Unfortunately, cozy sweaters, boots, jeans, beef stew, fall leaves, and cool evenings are denied and delayed because at this moment I am wearing a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. And it is supposed to be 97 degrees today in Escondido. It means I have to keep shaving my legs and getting pedicures. It means my beef stew becomes a beef taco with cool lettuce and salsa, which I enjoy as I run my air conditioning.

Oh, I can decorate my house with pumpkins and fall leaves, and bake any amount of apple pies and gourd shaped cookies, but it means nothing and is lost when I step outside to a dry oven of brown grass and palm trees waving over the tumbleweeds and scrub brush. It actually rained last weekend, but the cool smell of wet concrete lasted about 10 seconds. And then it was time to break out the sunglasses and the the baby pool.

California just asked the federal government for 7 billion dollars to bail them out of their credit crunch, and with all that pork, there better be some beef stew in there, as well as a pair of boots and a wool sweater. Throw in some sugar maples that are red, yellow, and orange, and I may be able to tolerate living in year round summer.

On Eating

2008-10-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

Happy 9 month birthday to Lucas. Nine months ago we were celebrating the New Year and a new baby. Now, we marvel at his ability to crawl, and how he has memorized the path the dog's water dish. Take a bath in the duck tub and in the dog's dish. Lovely.

Now that the boy is 9 months old, we can begin a slow transition to table foods. Yeah, right. This is going to be painful, as he DOES NOT LIKE the jarred chunky stuff. I'm sorry, but baby food is disgusting. Perhaps it goes to show how degraded our own adult tastebuds have become due to years of exposure to salt, sugar, and their evil counterparts: monosodium glutamate and high fructose corn syrup. Some days I can be a culinary snob and demand organic shade grown chocolate that is 73% cacao. Other days I am ready to stick my face in box of Captain Crunch. Yeah, that's right, and if it is peanut butter Captain Crunch, then all the better.

Today, for example, I opened a jar of garden chicken pasta dinner. It smelled pretty good, and it even looked marginally appetizing, but the taste. My lord, the taste was like watery, chickeny, carroty water. It needed salt...and Tabasco. And the little nodules of pasta reminded me of my scarred childhood when I was eating a certain brand of soup that comes in a red and white can. The soup was beef and barley, and my mother teased me that the barley kernels, all swollen from their bath in monosodium glutamate beef water, were bugs. "Ewww," she said," You're eating bugs!" I looked into this jar of food and my first thought was, "I am feeding Lucas bugs today. Well, here we go, open up for me lil' buddy!"

Lucas did not cotton to his pasta dinner. In fact, blood curdling screaming coupled with visceral gagging is probably a better description. He would swallow the goo, but the little pasta nodules would fall to the front of his mouth, making him look like he had four molars growing from the front of his gums. Not an attractive moment for a child who takes cherubic photos. So, I caved to prevent another child from being scarred with a scary food association, and I switched to pureed fruit, which he greedily ate. He finished his dinner with a teething cookie that was gummed to the softness of wet cardboard and then dropped on the floor for the dog to polish off. By that time, it was time for my own dinner, so I balanced Lucas on my lap while I ate my chicken and pasta. Lucas has long held a fascination with whatever Aaron and I are eating, so I broke off a tiny strand of spaghetti and put it in his mouth.

And he ate.

Not only did he gum and swallow spaghetti, he ate onion and mushrooms and kept trying to stick his paws in my dish to feed himself. The spaghetti he held in his fat little fist didn't quite make it to his mouth, but he did rather enjoy the rest of my meal, and even tried a bit of melted cheese on flatbread. Any suggestions for the 54 bottles of baby food I have in my pantry?

Seriously, why buy toys?

2008-09-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

When playing with Lucas, we have learned that his attention span requires at least 6 different toys to keep his hands, mouth, and brain occupied and away from my fingers, my hair, my earrings, or any paper good I may hold in my possession. The fascination with those toys lasts about a second each, and then he is on to the fun, grown up stuff that we would not think in a million years to give him. We have found new uses for the millions of Mardi Gras cups I brought home two years ago, as he likes to play with them in the tub and bang them on his changing table. They keep his hands occupied while I try to change his diaper. Let's just say the boy has discovered his parts, and that's fine, it's just when his plumbing is covered with poop, we want to keep everyone as clean as possible.

He has also developed a fascination with rubber spatulas, which make great teething toys, but only until his attention is turned towards the dog's food dish and he decides it is time to drop the spatula and the little tupperware filled with black pepper pods (what a fun noisemaker!), and take a bath in the dog's water dish. The church bulletin is a nice distraction too, until mom takes it away from him for making too much noise in church and his ear piercing wails of disagreement force a hasty exit to the church entrance where we hang out with the ushers for the rest of the service. We have also found that washrags, flip-flops, and coffee cups are fun toys until mom the kill joy takes away all the fun. The metal mixing bowl dad gave him lasted for a few minutes because we want to prolong the drumset for at least 15 years.

One Armed Bandit

2008-09-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

I wish I could say that the above title means I won big in Las Vegas, or maybe even one of the Indian casinoes nearby, but it refers to my newly developed ability to accomplish my to do list with one hand. No, the other is not tied behind my back. My other arm is wrapped around a 25 pound monkey who now clings to my neck and shirt when I hold him, which is ALWAYS because although he can now crawl, being carried everywhere is so much faster than being a quadriped. Albeit a quadriped who is still a wee bit unsteady and has a propensity for bumping into things.

I can now mix and bake a cake with one hand, complete my entire makeup routine with one hand, and complete a variety of other household duties while balancing a baby on my hip. One hand hold the mascara wand, the other hand holds the tube at a crazy angle to prevent Lucas's first introduction to the wide world of cosmetics. I don't think his father would be pleased. I realize that such activities are probably limiting Lucas's development, but the thought of cleaning cake batter, eye-makeup, and wads of chewed up paper out of his chubby fists far out-weigh any developmental need. He's a smart kid. I'm sure he'll catch up.

Commando

2008-09-18T09:01:00.000-07:00

Well, let the baby-proofing commence. The boy has started to scoot and crawl. For the longest time he would roll to what he wanted, which I give credit to a developing intellect. I guess he figure it would be more fun to roll 180 degrees to get his toy than to just scoot a few inches and grab it. Now he looks alarmingly like a mini-marine (especially when daddy puts him in his camo pants), as he crawls around on his elbows.

With the crawling comes something new: bumping his head. The look of surprise registers on his face, and if we don't look at him he won't cry. If we do, it's all over. How quickly they learn, the little manipulators. The joys I have to look forward to when he is a teenager. But he won't let me suck on his fat little cheeks when he is 15, so I have to get it all in right now.

Missed You

2008-09-10T18:20:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone. I have no excuses. My brother has sent me pleadings to write. A sorority sister I haven't seen in ages has asked when I will start writing again (Hi, Val!). Even my mom has asked about "the blog thing." Yeah, well, I've been busy on a a variety of projects, and I still find it hard to type when I have a little monkey clinging to my neck and yanking my hair (a delightful new development, let me tell you.)

So, Lucas Pookus full of mucus (and we say that with smiles and love), is now 8 months old. He smiles, belly laughs, eats baby food voraciosly, does not like to nap, loves to sing and is already mastering the art of staring at a woman until she smiles at him then he grins and cuts his eyes away. Flirt. He'll be banned to his room and not allowed to date until he is 36. Every day his father and I just look at each other and marvel at how much we love his little food crusted face, the way he leans down to suck on his toes, and how he forces himself to stay awake because he has already realized that LIFE is happening and if he closes his eyes he might miss something. I've tried to assure him that life is dull, get used to it, but then the dog walks by and he shrieks with laughter. The dog walks by him a hundred times a day and each time is like they have just been introduced. It is obvious that he will be a child that loves life, loves people, and loves the action. Now it is our job to keep him away from fast cars and loose women. See my above comment about locking him in his room until he is 36.

I am very fortunate to have The Rev. caring for him most days, as I am still working. It is not in our long range plans for me to work, but with a mortgage in California, it is something we have to do. One of the biggest joys has been seeing how much The Rev. ADORES this child. He's ready to have another one. Please note. HE is ready to have another one. I just got back into my normal clothes, although I have resigned myself to never fitting into a couple of things ever again. Hips. Baby. Wider.

Anyway, we are here in SoCal, and would love for everyone to meet the little guy. I will try to be more diligent in my posting, and let me send a shout out to my New Orleanian brothers and sisters. I was glued to the television and the internet for a week. I am so glad that you lost power, but not your life. I can't wait to take Lucas to his first Mardi Gras. Now, Ike is bearing down on Texas, and they mentioned Port Lavaca. I have a few happy memories of swimming there with my cousins, so I send a prayer your way. Love you all, thanks for the happy thoughts sent my way.

The Happy Chair

2008-06-16T19:14:00.001-07:00

My son hates his swing. I never met a child who was not immediately soothed by the rick-rock of a mechanical swing. So many people I know ask if Lucas likes his swing and then register genuine shock when I disappoint them by saying, "Sadly, no. I am cursed to a life a having a child cling to my neck like a little monkey while I perform mundane tasks like unload the dishwasher or brush my teeth." I've mastered brushing my teeth. I leave the dishwasher to someone else.

Lucas, does love his bouncy seat, also known as "the happy chair" in our house. He can sit in it and look at either a blue parrot or an orange monkey and set off a chain reaction of lights and music whenever he manages to grasp one of their plastic artifices and throttle it within an inch of its life. His squeals and howls of maniacal laughter totally make up for me having to listen to "Down by the Station" in musical toots and whistles over and over and over again.

He will be crawling soon, which is a good thing, as he is getting a little too big for the bouncy seat. His feet are already threatening an overflow onto the ground, and the last thing I need is to have catapaulting himself out of it to the tune of "Pop Goes the Weasel."

Time Well Spent

2008-05-14T08:31:00.001-07:00

When Lucas was born I thought I would have so much to write about. Instead, I have found that I wanted to keep some things about our first 4 months together private. I find myself the same way with taking pictures. One night the three of us were eating dinner on the patio and I said, "Let's take a picture." Instead of ruining the mood by jumping up to get the camera, we opted to savor the moment and tuck it away in our respective memories. Sorry, grandma.

So much has happened these past weeks that it is hard to put into words what has transpired. We are slowly getting on a schedule, aided by the fact that he sleeps through the night now. He is also weaned, which I hate, but with work I found it necessary and coincidentally, I think he is much happier being on the bottle. Church has become much easier, due to me giving him a huge bottle right before the service. He either sleeps or is incredibly mellow for most of the hour. It's nice to be able to sit and enjoy the service, even on communion Sundays. When I was still nursing and addled from sleep deprivation I nursed him in the cry room and came out just as a table of communicants was leaving the altar. I looked down and realized that my shirt was still pulled down and I was flashing the congregation my nursing bra. Yeah, that pastor preaches a great sermon, but his wife knows how to put on a show!

Happy Easter, Easter Bunny! Bwak Bwak!

2008-03-23T08:15:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter everyone. A proud moment in parenting as I made it to sunrise service with child in tow. We leave for Memphis tomorrow so Lucas can see both sets of grandparents, his aunt, and meet his uncle and cousins. A member asked me if Lucas received an Easter basket this year. I told her, "No, not this year, definitely next." And then I reassured her that in no way had he been deprived of any Easter chocolate. I've been eating enought for the two of us.

Lucas T.

2008-03-21T14:41:00.001-07:00

So, it has been forever since I had two minutes to myself to brush my hair or go to the bathroom, let alone try to put together some words to make a coherent sentence. I have found myself speaking some garbled, slurred jargon, the likes of which makes The Rev. wonder if I have decided to drown motherhood in a sea of gin. Rest assured I have not, but I have had to imbibe a margarita once this week.

I am back to work, and I have been for the past three weeks. Maternity leave was wonderful, and I did not want to return to work. However, mortgage payments call, and I know Lucas is in good hands with Papa Rev. The memory of the first day back at work is like my memory of my doctor putting Lucas on my chest right after he was born. I can recall it in a second. I was standing at the kitchen sink, trying to swallow some oatmeal through my sniffling. I don't like to cry. My mama didn't raise a wimp, but motherhood--the act of just mothering Lucas, has made my heart a soft, quivering bowl of pudding. I teared up at a Hallmark movie last night. The sight of an infant in a cheesy Hallmark movie caused my eyes to get a little misty. Lucas used to be that small.

Lucas is now a 15 pound, 3 month old chunk of baby pudding. We call him Mr. Serious, because his face is totally deadpan, just looking at the world. He'll crack a smile at you, but then he goes right back to stoic. He has made Lent interesting, as I couldn't recall one sermon I "heard" these past few weeks, and last night, after Maundy Thursday services, The Rev. asked me how I liked his sermon.

"It was fine, what I heard."

"You didn't hear all of it?"

"You didn't hear your son screaming in the back of the church?"

"No--he was screaming?"

Yes, I can count on one hand the number of sermons I have heard since the child's first advent into church. You would think he would like the sound of his father's voice. Maybe it is the law preaching. He always screams during the law preaching, so he misses the gospel. Perhaps we can persuade The Rev. to preach the gospel first and then preach the law. Anyway, baby wrangling on Sunday has become a little easier as we get used to being parents.

We would not trade this time for anything, even though my heart shatters each day I drive to work. I know my boy is in good hands, they are just not my hands, and that is the part of parenthood that hurts the most.

Lesson Learned

2008-02-11T10:59:00.000-08:00

"You should see this spit up stain on my suede jacket."

"That will cost a fortune at the dry cleaners."

"It will probably be more than what I actually paid for the jacket."

"What lesson did we learn?"

"Don't hold a baby while wearing a suede jacket."

"You're really catching on!"

Catching Up

2008-01-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

I have been working on a longer post, detailing the events that led to the delivery of our baby boy, but it is taking me forever, considering that I am getting the hang of the new mom thing.
Here are the basics:

Lucas, born at 12:31 a.m. on January 1, 2008.

We are ecstatic and blessed to have been given this healthy, beautiful baby.

I am working on a longer post, detailing how my contractions started and stopped every 2 hours, the fact I went into work the day I delivered, how The Rev. embarassed me in front of my Ob/Gyn in telling her to stall her last examination of me so that he could watch a stuntman jump 200 yards on a dirtbike, or how surprised Lucas looked when he was placed on my chest and we met for the first time. But I will probably publish the account in installments, given that I want everyone to share in the experience of me telling my husband to call someone to keep him entertained, because I'm trying to have a baby, here, and I can't be paying attention to you.

It has been an exhausting, exhilirating three weeks, but we would not trade a minute of it for anything. It feels like he has been a part of our family forever.

3 more weeks

2007-12-20T20:44:00.000-08:00

"Let's play a game."

"What game?"

"The 'How pregnant do I look today?' game."

"You look pregnant. And you look like you are going to get bigger."

"That's not part of the game."

Nesting

2007-11-29T09:15:00.001-08:00

Everyone in my family knows I am a terrible housekeeper. I always excuse my clutter by saying it is the sign of a busy and fulfilled life, not of abject laziness punctuated by the munching of peanut butter Captain Crunch while watching "Iron Chef." I was a terrible housekeeper until this week:

"Did you see my list?"

"What list?"

"The list I made for cleaning. A room a day for a week."

"What do you want me to do?"

"You have to look at the list."

"Roll up the rug in the livingroom?"

"Yes, so I can vacuum and mop the tile. You have to pull the entertainment center out from the wall too, and the sofa so I can get behind them with the vacuum and the mop."

"Buy new toilet seats?"

"Yes."

"We need new toilet seats?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Have you seen them?"

"Yes."

"We need new toilet seats."

"Why?"

"I don't know why, don't argue with the hormones of a pregnant woman. By the way, you have to wash the sliding door windows,too. Our godchild's fingerprints are still on them from June."

This is where The Rev. just looks at me and I begin to wonder if he really is happy with this transformation. I usually whine we need a maid. I give this one more day until I begin to annoy myself.

One liners

2007-11-18T07:20:00.001-08:00

I have been the recipient of two baby showers so far, and I would call them thunderstorms instead of showers. The Rev. and I have been overwhelmed by everyone's generosity, and I think it is safe to say that co-workers and congregants are just as excited about this baby as we are.

Everytime I open a box that has a little outfit in it, I realize that in 8 weeks I will have a baby that will be wearing these clothes. I have received several onesies, and I especially love receiving the onesie with a cute expression on it:
"Party in my crib at 2 a.m."
"Poop is my business. Business is good."
"Tax Deduction" (but only if he comes before the 31st!)
"Holy Frijoles" (with three beans adorned with halos and wings)

The Rev. and I are also taking what we call "turbo childbirth" this weekend. Given that our schedules do not allow for a 6 week class on childbirth techniques, we opted for a weekend class that crams it all into two sessions, lasting about 6 hours each. I wouldn't call it turbo anymore. We went at a snail's pace, and I knew I was in for it when the instructor whipped out a poster of the woman's anatomy and said, "This is your uterus." Um, yeah, I know that, which is how I got here in the first place. I know I had a hard time not rolling my eyes as she went through the anatomy that every female on the earth possesses, but I knew I could not look at The Rev. because I knew he was rolling his eyes. The six hour class could have been conducted in two hours if she had asked for a show of hands before the class when asking the question, "Does everyone in here know how they got pregnant?" I used to be a public school teacher; I know I had fourteen year old students who got pregnant and weren't really clear on the whole biology of reproduction, but we had four other couples in the class who were no where near being teen-aged, and as we exchanged glances with one another, I was silently thinking about the child developement class I had as a senior in high school. I'm pretty sure everyone else had been in a class similar to it also.

We have one more class today, and given that it is Sunday, and we are all pretty bright students, maybe she will give us a hall pass and let us out early.

Recovery

2007-10-25T17:36:00.000-07:00

I am happy to report that the evacuation orders have been lifted for most of San Diego County. We have two church members who have lost their home; no one has lost their life. The news and the pictures in the papers do not do justice to the devastation that surrounds us. I had to drive to Costa Mesa today, and the area of I-5 going through Camp Pendleton was thick with smoke; the thickest I have seen all week. In the distance, off the interstate, you could see darker plumes of smoke from fires still burning. Life is returning to "normal" as both The Rev. and I went into work today. My store is still closed and will be until Saturday. Most of my salespeople have just been allowed back into their homes today, and far be it from me to be calling them to come into work.

The outpouring of concern and love has been overwhelming. Thank you. The Rev. and I were blessed to be in a tiny pocket of Escondido that never had to be evacuated. God is good. I am now running errands with a face mask on, as the news is warning people that to be outside for periods of time is like smoking a half a pack of cigarettes. We are expecting air quality to get progressively worse before it gets better, so the air mask will probably be the must have accessory for this winter. You heard it here first.

Burn Day 2

2007-10-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

Nothing much has changed since yesterday, and much has changed since yesterday. We are still sitting tight, not sure when/if the reverse 911 phone call will come telling us to evacuate. The sky is gray orange, and I can't go outside without gagging. The smoke gets everywhere, in your clothes and especially in your hair. We've kept ourselves indoors as much as possible.

Several members of our church have been evacuated, and one family is at the church. We feel relatively safe at our home, as it is on the far north end of town, but there is talk of fire just east of us, and that has us concerned. The Rev. and I are home again today, and we anticipate being home for the rest of the week, unless of course, the wind pushes flames towards us and then we head somewhere.

We've been surprised at how orderly everything has been. Thousands of evacuees are at Qualcomm Stadium, local high schools, and the fairgrounds and the news has done a good job of encouraging people to stay off the roads and stay tuned for information in regards to the fire zone. Everyone is calm, or the news has done a good job of keeping hysterical women out of the camera's eye.

Thanks for keeping us in your prayers. We'll keep you updated.

Burn

2007-10-22T10:54:00.001-07:00

At the moment, there are ten separate wildfires raging in Southern California. One is just to the south of us; one is north of us; one is to the east. We are basically surrounded, and while people have been evacuated to the high school that is just around the corner from where we live, The Rev. and I filled the truck up with gas and made of list of "grab and go" items just in case we get the call that we have to leave also. If you were to look out our dining room window, you would see blue skies and the big white "E" for Escondido that is on the hillside. If you step outside and look south, you see a menacing orange-brown cloud looming behind the not so distant hills. I've live through a few hurricanes and a tornado, but I have never seen anything like this.

The interstate that runs parallel to my place of work is shut down, and the church school is closed, so The Rev. and I have the day off to listen to the news and look at each other. The Santa Ana winds that have been driving the fires are howling right now, and are not expected to die out until tomorrow. What tomorrow will bring is anyone's guess.

The ladies at work had a surprise baby shower for me last night, and I was driving I was struck by the ash falling from the sky. Funny how fast things can change. One minute my hostess is cleaning up baby shower favors and the next minute she is being evacuated with her family to a local high school. Count your blessings, one by one. Once the fires are out, it will the air quality that will be keeping everyone inside.

We'll keep you posted.

6 months

2007-10-07T09:04:00.000-07:00

I am six months pregnant. My belly is obvious, and the discomforts of pregnancy are becoming more and more apparent to me with each passing day. I am learning to master the art of squatting to pick things up, because it takes me two or three tries to grasp something if I bend over from what used to be my waist. We won't discuss the heinous swelling of my ankles, but every bottle of water I eye causes an internal battle within me: swollen ankles vs. potty breaks every 20 minutes. The Rev. has grown used to me stopping to use the restroom before we leave the house and waiting patiently at our arrived destination so that I can find one.

I am also learning the rhythms of Baby Boy's daily cycle. He's up early with a kick, but is quiet once I have eaten breakfast. By 11 a.m. he is at again, and if I am sitting down, I can see little bumps and nudges through my clothes. He's quiet again for most of the afternoon, but in the evenings The Rev. and I talk to him and he responds to The Rev.'s touch wiht a bump and a kick. For the longest time The Rev. thought I was crazy because he could never feel anything, but the lightbulb went on the other night, as our baby demonstrated his future ability as a kick boxer.

We have also entered another dimension of house repair, as my parent's graciously gave us an early birthday/Christmas present of new flooring. Nasty carpet up, new laminate in. Unfortunately, The Rev. got a wee bit excited about demolition, so when I arrived home, I found my dresser in the dining room and the contents of my closet on the guest bed. We thought we would be able to lay the flooring yesterday, but a visit to our flooring place revealed that the flooring that I had to have was on BACKORDER and wouldn't be in until this week. The Rev. quickly communicated that he had an unhappy 6 month pregnant lady in the car, and the very apologetic owner said he would personally deliver it this week. "He's lucky I won't make him personally install it," was my response to The Rev. This was after we spent another large, unexpected sum in the span of 15 minutes at Sears because our washer and dryer went kaput.

As bad things seem to happen in threes, we are taking bets on what in the house is going to blow up next. My bet is on the dishwasher. But, hey, we're having a baby, and what could be more exciting than that?

Drum Roll, Please...

2007-08-22T18:02:00.001-07:00

I purposely scheduled my second ultrasound to coincide with The Rev.'s triumphant return from Mexico. Monday rolled around and we made our way to radiology to find out if our baby has fingers, toes, eyes, etc. etc. The scan was going quite well, and the ultrasound technician was clucking to herself as she measured head, arms, legs, spine, and gathered other information needed for my doctor and the radiologist who would be examining the film. The Rev.'s face never left the monitor, as he took a look at his child for the very first time. And heard the heartbeat for the very first time. And learned that this child has already inherited my dislike for having a picture taken, as a little set of hands covered a little face for the entire test. At one point, the technician asked me to go and use the restroom, because baby decided to present the rear view for an extended length of time and she needed to measure some part of the frontal anatomy. Living proof that this child has inherited a sense of humor from my brother.

After the tech took all of the measurements, she turned the monitor so that I could see what was happening. She assured us that everything looked great (music to our ears), and happily obliged me when I asked if she could tell us what the sex was. "Give me just a second," she said, and maneuvered the sonar so that we could get a rear view. "You tell me what you think," she said, "Dad, what do you see?"

"That is most definitely a boy."

So, we will be welcoming a baby boy into our family in about 4 months. After the ultrasound, The Rev. and I took a two day mini-vacation to Palm Springs, where we discussed names and how to decorate the nursery. We have a name decided, but we will be keeping it under wraps until he comes around for formal introductions. For now, we will be calling him "Eliazer." For those of you who know my husband's first name, you will understand. You may get it if you have a great memory for Biblical figures.

Thank you to everyone for your warm congratulations and prayers. We are half way there.

Late Arrival

2007-08-20T08:32:00.000-07:00

The Rev. arrived home on Saturday, after a tortuous journey home from Los Angeles. I left the house at 6 a.m. to be at the airport by 8 a.m., and after standing in the wrong terminal for two hours (I was at AeroMexico arrivals, he was stuck in customs), we finally caught up with each other outside of the international arrivals gate. We found the fried chicken and waffle restaurant, and for the past two days, we have done nothing but talk about driving back up to L.A. to eat chicken and waffles. For a southern girl raised on her mama's fried chicken, the bird I ate on Saturday was the best I have had since eating Uncle Lou's Fried Chicken in Memphis, Tennessee. It was that good. The restaurant looked really familiar to me, and then I read the back of the menu and realized why. It was featured in the movie Pulp Fiction, the breakfast scene where Samuel L. Jackson is telling John Travolta he doesn't eat bacon because "the pig is a filthy animal." The breakfast dulled the pain of the three hour car drive home. Only in California will it take you three hours to drive 76 miles.

The Rev. and I are slowly getting used to each other again, and I commented to him on Saturday night that it was strange for me to see two sets of feet propped on the coffee table. He replied, "It's strange to be watching a movie that is in English." We both agreed it is wonderful to be reunited. He commented on my baby bump, with a "Aww, you have a little bump." It wasn't until I was changing into my pajamas that his jaw dropped and he realized that his wife did learn something from him in regards to camouflage. "YOU'RE HUGE," are the exact words that came out his mouth. I just laughed and told him, "I told you so, and yes, I am going to get bigger in the next four months." The look on his face was absolutely priceless. And I can't wait to see his face when he sees the ultrasound today. Parenthood is sinking into his brain and I am loving every minute of it.

T-1 Day

2007-08-17T13:54:00.000-07:00

The Rev. returns from his Mexican field trip tomorrow. I am driving to LAX tomorrow morning to pick him up, and in order to fulfill his request to eat American food as quickly as possible, I found a diner that specializes in fried chicken wings and waffles for breakfast. And it is only 7 minutes from the airport. I have already awarded this establishment four stars.

Yes, I am excited to see my husband after a three month separation, and I am even more excited for him to see my expanding stomach. I went from a tiny pooch to a small volleyball seemingly overnight, and people have begun to notice that I am pregnant. We find out on Monday if we will name the bean Roxanne Verbena or Waldo Hassellhoff. Kidding, just kidding. We haven't discussed names that much, and we won't tell until the baby is born. We have to keep some semblance of suspense.

My father drove in last week, and in an earlier post, I mused what I was going to do with him. Then I remembered he is into historical markers, and what better way to spend a day off then drive to South San Diego and see a monument to John J. Montgomery, the father of flight? We stood on the hilltop where he took his first winged craft into the air, and my father told me Montgomery would have beaten the Wright brothers if he had not met his demise in one of his creations. It was a 45 minute drive for a 15 minute session of staring at a slab of marble, but it made my dad happy, and we want to keep grandpa happy.

The Rev. and I will be heading over to Palm Springs for a few days to make sure we still like being married to each other and for him to practice speaking English again. The digital camera is returning with him, so I will try to post pictures soon!

Papaya Dreams

2007-08-04T08:29:00.000-07:00

The Rev. will be home in two weeks. I spoke to him briefly last night and I told him I was to the point where it was like waiting for Christmas. He better show up at the airport in a red Santa suit, bearing lots of presents.

I am not particularly sympathetic when he emails various ailments or complaints. He thinks they are sympathy pains, but I told him he would never understand what I was going through until his chest swelled to the size of grapefruits. Sorry to be crass, but that is the best illustration I could think of at the moment.

He is also sick of papaya, which I gues must grow on trees down there, because he eats it at nearly every meal. I told him I had a tropical fruit trifle waiting for him at home and he threatened to re-decorate our floor with pink puke if I made him eat it.

He is doing really well, though, and his confidence in the language gets better every day. It will be interesting to see how longs it takes for him to get used to American culture again. I may spring some papaya on him just for the sake of memory lane.

I am feeling okay. I begin my 18th week today, and according to my co-workers I possess the official pregnancy glow. I still have my moments where I feel awful, like my body, which is finally adjusting to having this little person inside of it, demanding to be fed every two hours, decides to revert back to pregnancy week number 10. I've stopped with the eating of macaroni and cheese and now I am on an egg kick. Fried eggs, to be exact, which I normally liken to white rubber. Oh well, this rubber tastes good with swiss cheese, bacon, and toast. This kid is going to have a varied appetite. Just wait until my tastebuds come back for Thai. More hotter, more better. I will not be eating papaya any time soon.

Behold, The Irrational Pregnant Mind

2007-07-18T15:37:00.000-07:00

In exactly four weeks, The Rev. will be home. We have both survived 7 weeks of being apart from one another, but it has been this week, the eight week milestone, that I decided it was time to lay the "Have I mentioned to you that I am under a lot of stress at work which is aggravated by the fact that I am alone and pregnant" card on the table.

Given, I know that The Rev. misses me. Personally, I think he misses the dog more. She can't complain to him via email and the phone. I know he is having a good time in Puebla, and the little annoyances that come his way pale in comparison to me bending over and wondering what is poking me in the chest. Oh, wait, it's my stomach. Not that I want to take away from his learning experience, but our last phone call...

"I had a fantastic week."

"Really, I had a corporate visit and I think I have to fire someone."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but my guide is a student of french..."

"Your guide is a frenchman?"

"No, she is Mexican, but she is learning French."

"Oh, so your guide was a girl this week."

"Yeah, so anyway, we were touring this palace and talking about french food and she mentioned that she knew a great French restaurant in Puebla that has great wine and cheese."

"So you went on a date with your guide."

"It wasn't a date."

"When did you go?"

"In the late afternoon."

"You drank red wine, ate stinky cheese and french bread without me."

"Um, yeah."

"Well, is she cute?"

At this point I knew The Rev. knew that he had dealt himself into a corner and no matter what he said, he was doomed. He could have said this woman had fallen out of the ugly tree, hitting every branch on the way to the ground, set on fire and put out with an axe, and I would still be annoyed that he was having fun. I know his eating at this bistro was all a part of a learning experience, but the fact that he took one of our favorite pasttimes and did it without me (who is not allowed any wine or stinky cheese at this point) pushed my pregnant, hormonal emotions to the waaaaaaaaaaaay other side of the rational. Aggravated by he didn't even ask about my week and when he did all he could say was, "I'm sorry to hear that, but I had a great week, let me tell you about it!" I was ready to tell him not to come home, and if he did, he could hitchhike his way home from LAX. Boo. Hiss.

And he did say she was cute, but not as cute as me, of course. I'll have to see the pictures.

2007-07-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

I am officially wearing maternity clothes. My mother swept into San Diego in what can only be described as a whirlwind of cleanliness punctuated by long breaks that included naps, shopping, eating popsicles, and beholding the bump that has been renamed "baby g." I still slip and call him/her "lima bean" on occasion, but being that I don't want to burden my child with being nicknamed a legume for the rest of their life, I decided to put on the brakes. Now that my mother is back in Memphis, I won't have any guests for a month, when my father comes into town, so that he too can behold the bump, hear the fetal heartbeat and participate in naps and popsicles. I don't see myself taking my dad shopping for maternity clothes.

My mother insisted on taking pictures, and one is particularly horrendous, showing how fat my arms have gotten. The maternity clothes worked wonders, though, because the next day she took a picture and I looked like I wasn't pregnant at all. At 14 weeks I am amazed at how much I have changed, although it still hasn't settled into my gray matter that I am pregnant. Most of my friend have told me that I won't realize it until the baby kicks for the first time, and that won't be for another 5-6 weeks, around the time we see Baby G again on the ultrasound monitor. And then I will be half-way to having a baby...I AM HAVING A BABY IN 26 WEEKS AND I HAVE DONE NOTHING! As one of my baby books observed, most cities can't fill a pothole in 9 months, but a person can produce another living being in that amount of time. Truly amazing.

The Rev. is well, and shared with me that he watched a whole television program in Spanish and understood everything the characters said. He has five more weeks to get addicted to Spanish soap operas, and he should count his blessings that of the 20 channels we get with our basic cable, channels 12-20 are Spanish speaking. He can feed his addiction and not feel obligated to do it in another country. I am ready for the man to come home.

Someone has to rub my feet after a long day at work.

First Trimester

2007-06-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

I will officially be 12 weeks pregnant on Saturday. The first trimester is over, and for all of you snarks out there, The Rev. was here for the conception. Do the math, he left at the end of May.

The nausea has gradually subsided, and I will readily admit I was pretty green for about a six week stretch. Now I get evening sickness, but I have found that if I eat plenty of starches it will go away. Many people have asked me about cravings, and I have had a few, random cravings that come and go for a few days. One week it was iceberg lettuce. I could not get enough iceberg lettuce salads with avocado, bacon, tomatoes, and ranch dressing. Now it is Granny Smith apples. I can eat two or three a day. The tangy sweetness just hits the spot. I can't explain the cravings, especially since I HATE ICEBERG lettuce and Granny Smiths are my least favorite apples. I guess I should say "were" because I ate eight apples in a two day stretch and then bought a dozen more from Costco.

As far as food aversions, I can't handle meat, either beef or chicken. I can taste the chicken in chicken and it makes me gag. Mexican food and Chinese food are out as well. The thought of teriyaki sauce churns my stomach. I have discovered a talent for eating boxes of macaroni and cheese. Yes, mom, I know this will make me fat, but when I have to balance the apple eating with something substantial. Surprisingly, I don't miss my coffee, but I do miss my glasses of wine.

Speaking of fat, I am surprised at my baby bump. I can't fit into any of my pants, and I give my favorite blue jeans one more week before I will not able to zip them. My skinny jeans have already been tossed to the side. I have found several cute, non-maternity dresses which are comfortable and I have taken to wearing them everyday. The bump is noticeable, and although the official announcement at work has been made, I still catch people looking at my stomach. "Is she really pregnant or has she just let herself go since her husband has been gone?"

The Rev., in case you are wondering, is alive and well in Mexico, and is bummed that he is missing out on my....blossoming. We have seven more weeks to go until he arrives home, and given that he has a knack for timing, we will find out the baby's sex upon his arrival home. I am OVER the fact that he is gone, and now it is just an impatient waiting until he arrives home in August. He wants me to come and visit him, but I am apprehensive about visiting a country where I will be unable to eat or drink anything.

My next doctor's appointment is next Thursday, and my mom is flying in so that she can see the work in progress. The Rev.'s mom was here a few weeks ago and she saw the earliest picture of the lima bean. That was my first impression when I saw the baby on the ultrasound screen, and I do know it has arms, because he/she waved to me. "Hi Mom! I'm Here!" I would have waved back, but my doctor already thinks I have fabricated a story about my husband being out of the country, and I don't want her to think that I am any more crazy than her initial first impression.

Incubation

2007-06-08T16:15:00.000-07:00

The Rev. and I have been married for eight years. Many of those years were spent trying to start a family. Given that all of my friends my age are working on their 2nd or 3rd kid, and The Rev. has friends who have children working on driver's licenses, we know we are behind the ball in starting a family. After many long, heartfelt talks, we decided to start the process of adoption. We had adoption agency paperwork on our kitchen table, and most of the discussions surrounded "How much is this going to cost us?" International adoptions are expensive, local adoptions are much less so. Part of me felt that we were putting a price tag on the price of a child, and ultimately, a price on how much we were willing to pay to start a family.

After being married for eight years and with both of us seemingly the picture of health, people who don't know us have asked, "Do you have children?" "Do you plan on having children?" Both innocent questions, but they stabbed me in the heart everytime it came out of someone's mouth. I did not want to become an overly sensitive, bitter, infertile harpy, so I would jokingly respond, "Yes, of the four-legged variety. I find they do the same things children do." It would shut them up for a little while, unless they were really nosy and then the more outrageous questions, theories, and bits of advice would come out of their mouths. I always responded, "It's not for a lack of trying." That would usually shut them up.

The Rev.'s barber, who is from Tijuana, suggested that he get me drunk on tequila. "It makes them reelaaaxxxx," he said. Another acquaintance, also from Tijuana, suggested the same thing, "Get 'er drunk." I like tequila, in margaritas, but I don't like it enough to get drunk on it. We just kept on talking about adoption and saving money for it when he returned from his 3 month stay in Mexico.

In February, we decided that we needed to set aside one day or evening of the week for a date night. Friday evenings turned out to be the best, and we usually celebrated the end of the week and the start of the weekend with a bottle of champagne. The Rev. and I looked forward to "Champagne Fridays" and we usually drank Mumm Cuvee, Schramsberg Cremant, or Domaine Chandon Riche. Sometimes we had friends over to share, and sometimes we just ate strawberries, drank the wine, and watched the latest movie from Netflix.

The day after Mother's Day we learned I was pregnant...

"Oh, Lord have mercy, I don't believe this..."

"Are you okay in there? What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. Aaron, I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure? Did you take the test right?"

"How hard is it to pee on a stick?"

"Let me see that thing."

What followed was tears and much hugging. We have wanted a baby for so long, and now all of the prayers that have been prayed by so many people have finally been answered. The Rev. was pleased to tell his barber that his advice worked, but that it was from champagne, and not tequila. So, here a few name suggestions, given that the incubatee was conceived on a Champagne Friday:

Domaine Chandon Riche

Champagne Bubbles

Sparkles Moet Chandon

I think that it is most appropriate to name our child after a wine, given that we do live in Calilfornia. If we stilled lived in Nashville the name choices would not be as playful, but they would do:

Miller

Bud

Coors

PBR (pronounced Peber)

I had my first doctor's appointment yesterday and I am currently carrying a lima bean. I saw the heart flutter and a tiny arm waved as if to say hello. I am nine weeks along and due on January 14th, although my doctor said I would be full term on Christmas Eve. Yes, The Rev. is totally bummed that he missed it, although in keeping with his sense of perfect timing, he will arrive home in time to learn if we are having a boy or a girl.

This is the answer to many prayers.

Finally Getting My Way

2007-06-02T18:32:00.001-07:00

It has been a quiet week at my house. The Rev. has been gone for one week today. That means eleven more weeks to go before he comes home. I have been keeping busy, and it just seems like there is alway something to do: pay bills, feed the dog, pick up cat puke.

The one thing I am enjoying is Netflix. The Rev. signed us up for the service a few months ago and never told me the user name and password until he left town. I have already gone in a deleted a few of his choices (war movies) and picked out movies I wanted to see. The first movie I received was Casino Royale, the latest James Bond movie. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I must admit, I think Daniel Craig makes an excellent James Bond. Talk about being a beautiful man, and a very talented actor. Have I mentioned he is a beautiful man? He is a beautiful man. Not as cute as my husband, of course, but he is a beautiful man.

I don't know what The Rev. is going to think when he comes home to find that his choices of esoteric foreign films and bloody war movies are no longer on his list of choices, but I have 3 months to worry about it.

First Impressions

2007-05-29T07:04:00.000-07:00

The Rev. has emailed me twice from Puebla. His first email commented that "the first night I slept like a bird in a room full of cats." A comment I do not understand given that we own three cats and he sleeps like the dead, even when they decide to jump on our heads while we are asleep. Or meow incessantly to be let outside. Or meow incessantly to be let back inside the house. Or meow incessantly to be fed, and then let outside again.

He loves the Institute, and he is staying with an older couple. He has not commented at all on them, except to say that his home life would be the most challenging part of his stay. I am assuming he means that they don't speak any English, which is exactly why he is living with them in the first place.

LAX

2007-05-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

The Rev. and I drove up to L.A. last night, and as I type this, he is somewhere over the state of New Mexico or Texas. He will be in Puebla by early evening.

We took our time leaving yesterday afternoon, and instead of willingly subjecting ourselves to the head-banging frustration that is the I-5, we opted to drive up Highway 1 last night. The Pacific was on our left and funky beach towns were on our right. We also wondered what people did for a living to own a 4,000 square foot house on the beach. Being that we are unimaginative people, we could not get past doctors or lawyers. And given the fair amount of medical offices touting plastic surgery we saw en route, I could probably tell you the doctor's specialty.

We stayed at the LAX Hilton last night and if I had not been so tired, I would have stayed up for people watching in the lobby. There was a sorority party, a Bar Mitzvah, and some sort of conference where everyone was casualy dressed and carrying around laptops. It was an interesting mix, especially the drunken sorority girls trying to maintain a semblance of sobriety as they staggered through the lobby, either on the arm of a sister or the arm of a date. I was in a sorority in college, and there were strict rules about drinking in public, so I guess times have changed or the girls thought they were doing a good job of faking it. "If I stare straight ahead, walk really slowly, and speak slowly, maybe I will fool everybody." Right, that works every time.

The next morning we heard Italian, German, and Japanese in the hotel lobby and it was more people watching. I did not take The Rev. to the airport, because he could catch the hotel shuttle and get there faster. He also did not want to subject me to the traffic snarls that tend to encircle one of the largest international airports in the country. Bless him. I won't lie to you, it was hard to say good-bye, and it really has not sunk in that he will be gone until August 18th. We just stood there in the lobby looking at each other and what do you say to someone who is leaving you, but isn't leaving you? Well, you put on your big girl panties and you say good-bye and you don't let him see the two big tears that are in the corners of your eyes because you know that if you cry, he will cry, and you don't want to embarass a man wearing cowboy boots in L.A.

So, he is gone and the house is empty and the dog is morose. She knows something is not quite right, and I estimate that it will take her about a week to figure out that she can quit sleeping by the door, because he isn't coming home for another 84 days.

Viva Mexico

2007-05-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

The Rev. leaves one week from today for a 12 week stay in Puebla, Mexico. The past few days have been a flurry of activity getting him ready to spend 3 months in a foreign country. It has not sunk into my gray matter yet that he is leaving on Saturday and will be gone for three months, and I have a feeling it will either sink in on Saturday when I say goodbye to him at LAX or three weeks down the road when I forget to pay the gas and electric bill. Either way, I am sure there will be tears involved.

We purchased a digital camera last night, and as he sends me photos, I will post them here so we can all vicariously experience the street vendors, the colonial architecture, and the mole that is in many Pueblan dishes. People have asked me if I will be traveling to see him, and for now, the answer is no. There have been some developments here that require my attention, and we decided that it is in the best interests of the family that I stay here. You know, to experience the excitement of paying the mortgage, which I can only liken to throwing teaspoons of mud against a wall that is 72 feet long and 72 feet high. You throw the mud, but you know that it will take a good, long time for you to cover it.

I do have visitors coming to see me in June and July, and as The Rev. will not be back until August, I have about 10 weeks free for anyone who wants to experience lovely Southern California. I promise I will not make you work on my house.

Don't Scare Me Like That

2007-05-10T19:43:00.000-07:00

Today I was sitting at my desk when my cell phone rang. I normally don't answer my phone when I am work, call it a semblance of professionalism, but it was 4:00 in the afternoon and the caller i.d. said, "dad cell." My heart always skips a beat when my father calls me from his cell phone in the middle of the day and I have a running list going through my head of who has been hit by a Mack truck or who has cancer. Instead, he called and shouted that I gave him a holiday themed gift card for his birthday that occurs in the spring. I just laughed as my heart rate returned to pumping blood at a normal rate.

Naming the Cat

2007-05-07T20:28:00.000-07:00

Naming the cat has been the easiest thing going this week. I realized today that I better get Mother's Day cards in the mail and include a card for my father, whose birthday was before Easter. I bought him a gift card from Sears, because they carry Land's End and he can buy a pair pants or if the mood strikes, some tools. Perhaps he will put it towards buying a tire.

The gift card had very Land's Endish looking lighthouse on it, so I chose it along with a different one for my father-in-law. When I got home, I wrote a little note in the belated birthday card and then I noticed that the gift card said, "Happy Holidays from Land's End." Upon closer inspection, the beach that framed that framed the forefront of the lighthouse was covered in snow. It was 90 degrees in Escondido today, I don't see snow in the forecast anytime soon. The gift card for my father-in-law came with four stickers that said, "thanks," "congrats," "best wishes," and then something else I can't remember. I stuck the one said that "thanks" on my dad's gift card, that way I figured I covered all of my bases, belated birthday, a holiday greeting, and a thank you for everything.

The cat's name is Boudreaux.

No Reasonable Explanation...

2007-05-01T20:07:00.000-07:00

So much has been happening around here, that as of late I feel that all I can do is strap on the seatbelt and hold on as I careen through the next few weeks. The Rev. and I witnessed the shortest wedding ever (14 minutes with 2 minutes of "I do," but it was lovely), and we decided that life wasn't interesting enough so I brought home a kitten who has been with us nearly a week and is still "no name kitty." The Rev. was not particularly thrilled with the last event, but has since taken to the little critter to the point where he intervened when I was about to lock it in the bathroom last night. The rest of the night was spent with my head, hands and feet being attacked by a 1 pound Geronimo.

"We need to name this cat."

"How about Target?"

"Like the store?"

"No, because he has a bulls-eye on his side."

"How about Tar-jey? Like the French?"

"No."

"How about Tigger? Bandit? Leo?"

"What about J.D.?

"J.D.?"

"Yeah, Jack Daniels."

"Nice."

"He has marks around his eyes, what about War Paint?"

"How about seatbelt or chin strap? He has those markings too."

So no name kitty has been keeping us entertained with his antics involving the dog's tail, the shirts hanging in The Rev.'s closet, and his ability to turn on the charm when I am ready to lock him in the bathroom. The Rev. is disapppointed that he won't stay small and cute forever, because when he returns from Mexico in August, we will have another beast, just like the other two.

Grown-up Choices

2007-04-22T12:23:00.000-07:00

Last night a dear friend called to tell me that she, husband, and godchild were trying to plan a trip out West to see us. Unfortunately, their visit will only be with me, as The Rev. will be busy becoming an expert in the conjugation of irregular Spanish verbs by the time they arrive. On the upside, we will applaud The Rev.'s fortitude with a margarita salute. I also promised Stephanie that I would not make them work on my house when they were here.

As we said our good-byes I said, "Well, I have to run, I am making popcorn for dinner and washing it down with root beer."

"Sounds good."

"Yeah, my secret is the stick of butter I melt and put on it after it comes out of the kettle."

So, The Rev. and I had popcorn for dinner and I ate a strawberry shortcake today for lunch. Coming from a family that believed in the sanctity of three square meals a day, I chart this one up to a genetic aberration. It was homemade shortcake and I will balance it with a salad for dinner. Maybe.

Champagne Friday

2007-04-20T12:11:00.000-07:00

It has been two weeks since Easter, and The Rev. and I actually spent an entire 24 hour period together. Because two sets of hands are better than one, we set about demolishing the other spare bedroom. He scraped the nasty popcorn texture off of the ceiling and replaced it with a flat texture. We painted and hopefully, he can get the trim installed this weekend. I only slopped paint in a few corners of the room, and I consoled my much neater husband with the promise of laminate flooring by the end of the year. Whether we will be able to do so, I don't know, but it kept him from moaning that I stepped in paint and tracked it in concentric circles around the room. The dog only got paint on one ear this time. The computer has been disconnected for a week, and today is the first day I have been able to read my brain candy websites and write.

It has been really busy for us, as the realization that The Rev. will be leaving to spend 3 months in Mexico in less than a month has caused us to kick into a frenzied list making mode. The supply checklist (pack enough undies) and the financial checklist (don't forget to pay the mortgage, don't buy a new car) are but a few of the many that are nagging our attention.

We have managed to keep Friday evenings open, and we began the tradition of drinking champagne on Friday afternoons. It has become the highlight of our week, and every Friday morning I get up and punch The Rev. in the arm and ask, "Do you know what day it is?" and then I don't even let him answer because I start crowing "It's Champagne Friday!" Like "Eureka, I just discovered plutonium!" I will probably suspend such celebration while he is gone, you can call it my champagne Lent, but you can bet I will be popping one open when he returns on August 18th, even though I think that is a Saturday.

Good Friday

2007-04-06T17:42:00.000-07:00

As I sit at my desk, the marine layer is creeping in, uncurling foggy tendrils of gray mist. As the gray blanket settles, my brain begins to switch gears from mentally checking off the items on my to do list to preparing for the service this evening. I will get up from this desk soon, and change out of my blue jeans and put on a dress, a black one, because isn't it proper to wear a black dress to a funeral?

O dearest Jesus, what law hast thou broken,
that such sharp sentence should on thee be spoken?
Of what great crime hast thou to make confession?
What dark transgression?

As I sit at my desk, I think about why Good Friday has always held special meaning for me, and how it has become more dear to me the as the years have passed. Christmas, a birth and a promise of life. Easter, a rebirth and a promise of life everlasting. Good Friday, though, is all about death. The death of Jesus. The death of God. The death of my sins, all taken away by one man's willing sacrifice, a lamb without blemish or defect. God knows the creation in his image are visual learners, and what greater sacrifice can be shown, what more dear object lesson can be summed, than to point to the cross and echo John, "Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world!" But I know that more often than I would care to admit, I am not a believer pointing at the cross, echoing the man who ate locusts and wild honey, I am a Peter; I am a Pilate; I am a Pharisee. My god is no longer a lamb, but a golden calf: worldly posessions, a pet sin, guilt, hatred, anger, discord.

Whence come these sorrows, whence this mortal anguish?
It is my sins for which Thou, Lord, must languish;
Yea all the wrath, the woe, Thou dost inherit,
This I do merit.

At this desk I think back to a Good Friday nearly twenty years ago and I remember my father being moved to tears at the evening service. I remember sitting in the backseat of my parent's car, waiting for my father to finish locking up the church and my mom commenting, "Your father really loves his Lord, you know." It was dark and I couldn't see her face, but it was a comment that she just said, and it hung there with some gravity before my father came back and drove us home. I had faith, but I had no appreciation for it. My parents had both been through enough in their lifetimes to have an appreciation for their's.

What punishment so strange is suffered yonder!
The shepherd dies for sheep that loved to wander;
The Master pays the debt His servants owe him,
Who would not know him.

At my desk I can look out the window and see a rose bush. It is loaded with yellow flowers, some at full maturity, petals dropping with the onset of early death, but there are hundreds of buds, promising a season of showy glory. The Rev. pruned it to a nub last fall, and I was sure he had killed the plant, but lo and behold, I was wrong. Good Friday is about death, but I am thankful it does not end there. I am thankful for the showy glory of the angel on Easter morning and for the subtle presence of Christ at the tomb, so subtle that even his own followers did not recognize him. I can only imagine the joy leaping from their hearts into their faces as they realize what they are witnessing, and as I drive to church tonight, I will think and ponder about the coming weeks and how I too can show that joy and love and excitement.

Whate'er of earthly good this life may grant me,
I'll risk for thee; no shame, no cross, shall daunt me.
I shall not fear what man can do to harm me
Nor death alarm me.

And when, dear Lord, before Thy throne in heaven
To me the crown of joy at last is given,
Where sweetest hymns Thy saints forever raise Thee,
I, too, shall praise Thee.

Easter Candy

2007-04-05T16:46:00.000-07:00

I bought some jelly beans for the niece and nephews arriving this weekend and marvelled at how some things about Easter change and some don't. Toys for baskets are certainly more sophisticated, but Brach's still makes those disgusting soft marshmallowy eggs that taste like chemicals, and PEEPs, well, I am sure they still explode in the microwave. I bought Cadbury eggs in a nod to my father, but I passed on the Reese's peanut butter eggs. After eating organic peanut butter for so long, I don't think the filling of the Reese's egg qualifies as real peanut butter, more like the Velveeta cheese of the peanut butter world--pasteurized processed cheese food. Just look at the label next time. It's right there.

When I got home I realized that The Rev. and I have inadvertently begun marking the passing of time and seasons by the candy that is in our candy dish on our coffee table. He had to pry the Christmas ribbon candy out of it, rinse the sugar residue out with hot, soapy water, and then dry it so the jelly beans wouldn't stick together. I have a feeling that those jelly beans are going to be in there for awhile. As we are about to enter a no man's land for holiday themed candy, I am willing to bet that those jellybeans will by pryed out of there around October, just in time for Halloween.

Why I appreciate two televisions in the house

2007-03-28T12:24:00.000-07:00

"Please turn it to Zorro."

"What channel?"

"Twenty."

"Why would I want to watch a show where I don't know what they are saying?"

"I'll translate for you."

Twenty minutes later, The Rev. was still trying to explain to me the intricacies of this particular Hispanic novella. I was thoroughly confused, as I could only pick out a few words of the dialogue that was on t.v.

"Can I please watch the news?"

"Don't you want me to learn my Spanish?"

"How was your Spanish class tonight?"

"You mean my ESL class? My ENGLISH class?"

"Do you speak Spanish to them at ESL?"

"Yes."

"THEN IT IS A SPANISH CLASS--at least for you."

"You really should learn Spanish."

I did not respond to that statement because the thought in my head was, "Yeah, let me squeeze that in between running a store and becoming a church delinquent." Although it is a very poor analogy, I can liken it only to St. Paul's statement about doing what he should not do and not doing what he should do. I should learn Spanish...

"Did that character just say guapo?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that bat poop?"

"That's guano"

"Oh. Can you please turn it to the news?"

Puttering

2007-03-19T18:34:00.000-07:00

The Rev. left me to my own devices this evening, and although I enjoy spending time with him, I also like to be alone, especially now, with daylight savings time in full swing, and the still light of mid-spring still shining at 6:30 in the evening. I am sure countless writers and poets have written verse and tome about the magic of late afternoon light, but I love the late afternoon on my patio, especially with a glass of wine in hand and a lovely meal about to be tasted. Call it the angle of the sun, the deep straw color of the light, the seeming peace in the air; it is my favorite time of day, the fragile hour between daylight saying goodbye and night making its entrance.

I puttered in the kitchen this evening, and sauteed some red and orange bell peppers, garlic, and shallots in a cast iron skillet with a little sugar and balsamic vinegar. I piled the combination on top of a pita with provolone cheese and ran it under the broiler until it was bubbling. With my feet propped up on a chair outside, I sipped and nibbled and pretended I was on a porch swing in Tennessee, a terrace in Tuscany, a courtyard in New Orleans. I appreciate the climate of California; I just wish I could afford it. Spring and summer are not my favorite times of year. I appreciate Spring, because of its promise of rebirth and the gentle days and evenings it gives, but I detest summer, at least at mid-day, with its garish heat and light. But 5:00 comes and the sun takes a magical cast of golden ribbon, and we take one more step to closing a day, a month, a season and the worries and the cares of the day can wait until tomorrow, and the night will make them seem not as important, not as magnified.

The Traditionalist

2007-03-17T13:32:00.000-07:00

I think getting older causes us to embrace traditions more readily than when we were younger. Last year on Saint Patrick's Day we ate at a Mexican restaurant. This year I have a corned beef in the slow cooker, an apple pie cooling on the stove, and two 6-packs of Harp and Guiness in the refrigerator. I don't know where this is coming from, but The Rev. is certainly enjoying himself, and laughing at my "maturity" from last year.

"Don't lift the lid on the slow cooker."

His hand touches the lid.

"DON'T LIFT THE LID. It will take longer to cook."

His hand lifts the lid so slightly and he inhales deeply.

"Why did you lift the lid?"

"Because it smelled good."

"Couldn't you smell it without lifting the lid?"

"No, my sniffer is not working at full speed today."

I give up.

Not Exactly the Happiest Place on Earth

2007-03-16T12:10:00.000-07:00

I attended a meeting at the Disneyland Resort recently and came away with the distinct feeling that it was not the happiest place on earth. I have never set foot into a Disney themed land or world, and I am sure there is a Patriot Act enforcer reading this is a dank cubicle somewhere preparing paperwork to revoke my passport and my U.S. citizenship.

I won't bore you with the details of how it took an hour to check eight people into their hotel rooms, how the hotel managed to misplace our tickets into the park so we missed the evening parade, or how a fellow co-worker and I kept our boss entertained all night so that she would not physically wrap her hands around someone's neck and throttle them into next week. My boss, the longer I work with her, the more I appreciate her. She did ask that I put my writing skills to work (at least someone recognizes my genius--ha ha) and write a letter of complaint. I did, and sent my two page missive off for her approval. If it ever makes its way to the desk of the Disney CEO, you will be the first to hear about it.

I grew up with an appreciation for Cinderella and for Snow White, but it was the Grimm's version of events, complete with step-sisters cutting off their toes so that their boats would fit into the glass slipper. I am waiting for Bambi to be released missing the gunshot. There are televisions all over the hotels, and pint sized chairs arranged in a semi-circle around them, so the little tikes can stare, glassy-eyed, at a movie they have at home. That was one part of the trip that bothered me, it just seemed like brainwashing, which I guess is their aim. The Rev. owns nearly every Disney cartoon on VHS, and at the rate we are having children, I am hopeful that the tapes will be so degraded that they will be rendered unwatcheable. Don't tell him I said that, because I know deep down that he and I will be saving for two years to take the kids to see Mickey and Minnie, pay $7 for an ice cream bar, watch them puke their lunch on the roller coaster, and then have them bug me to plunk down $45 for an overpriced stuffed animal. Call it one of the joys of parenthood that I have already recognized and accepted, like college tuition.

When I returned, everyone was shocked by my reaction to Disney, and several people have offered to take me there this summer to disprove my notions that the Disney Board of Directors have a secret plot to take over the world, with the ultimate goal of having every man, woman, and child wearing mouse ears as part of a standard issue, American uniform. If I do make it back to Anaheim this summer, I will let you know. But if you see me glassy eyed, spouting quotations from a variety of Disney cartoons, and trying to squeeze myself into a tiny chair, promise me you will do an intervention.

Compromise is a Two Way Street

2007-03-06T13:21:00.000-08:00

My brother called the other night and asked when I would posting another blog, and told him that as of late, I have had nothing about which to write. I could write what I had for lunch, or the shape of the latest hairball that has launched out of my cat's mouth, but I don't want to bore you. I have been busy with the mundane banalities of life: work, sleep, work, sleep.

Sunday The Rev. and I decided to start cleaning the house for spring, and it became an object lesson in how we have let our very expensive half of a house become a hovel. Perhaps hovel is too strong a word, but the cat hair that has accumulated in this house since Christmas would allow for me to projectile vomit my own hair balls. The vacuum, mop, dust rags came out and the dirt was scrubbed into oblivion. We only got the kitchen and living room done, but I told The Rev. that I would work on our bedroom this week. Well, here it is and I have decided that cleaning is so much more fun with your spouse and a martini. However, now that I think about it, I did clean by myself on Sunday because The Rev. decided to take his two hour post-sermon nap in the midst of me vacuuming cat hair off of the living room curtains.

Sunday night we sat in the living room and enjoyed our 1/3 clean, 1/2 house and discussed my plans to ride in a Mardi Gras Krewe next year. When I first mentioned it to The Rev., I was met with lukewarm acceptance, which kind of annoyed me, given that when The Rev. said:

"Honey, I will be going to Mexico this summer for 12 weeks so that I can immserse myself in the language and culture of our Mexican hermanas y hermanos."

I said:

"Great, I support you totally."

Now realize, I understand my participation in the riding of a Mardi Gras parade has absolutely nothing to do with the spread of the gospel, and actually pales in comparision and importance to living in Mexico for 12 weeks so that you can speak and write Spanish to do home mission work. Twelve weeks is a long time, and the fact that The Rev. trusts me to pay the mortgage on time, 3 times in a row, speaks volumes about a faith that trusts he won't come home to a sign in our front yard that says "Bank Owned, Make an Offer."

After some discussion, The Rev. realized that is probably wiser to surrender and agree to the terms of peace, rather than try to take the hill of "Mardi Gras is early next year, be sure to pack warm clothes."

"So, if I can, I get to ride next year?"

"I never got the impression you were asking for permission."

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes, I will go to see you throwing crap and shoes from float. I must witness this great and wonderful thing."

Honestly, I did not expect such quick capitulation, and I was a little disappointed to put away my battle plans of a Mardi Gras themed 4th of July, birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

Hopefully, I will see ya'll on the parade route next year.

Oscar Night

2007-02-25T19:31:00.000-08:00

Why are movies important?

Much of a Good Thing

2007-02-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

On the flight to Dallas, I read A Confederacy of Dunces to get myself in the mood for the sensory onslaught that is New Orleans. I had tried to read it ages ago and skipped to the end because I didn't understand Ignatius Reilly's feigned distaste for what did not fall into the categories of proper "geometry and theology." It is a great read, and I kept looking for the green hunting cap and the flannel shirt in the Mardi Gras crowds.

The Brother and I had a memorable Mardi Gras, and we give a shout out to our gracious host and hostess, J.P. and Erin, and another shout out to all of their family. They are the embodiment of southern hospitality, and we all had a grand time.

The ball on Friday night was an affair, and everyone looked grown up and elegant in white tie and formal dress. Erin had previously commented that we would be in "an older crowd, and probably the youngest ones there." Her words were true, but the crowd certainly knew how to have a good time. I had barely met Erin two hours earlier and we were chatting about her experiences in riding with a Mardi Gras Krewe. She loved it, and likened some of the activities to being in a sorority. When I asked her which sorority she had pledged, we discovered that we had both pledged the same one, although at different schools. For a moment, all grown up seriousness was cast aside as we squealed, "Oh my gosh, we're sisters!" Then we put our grown up face back on and sipped our drinks. It was a moment, and you had to be there.

The weekend was packed with parades and people and laughter and generosity, and I drank it all in like it was my first Mardi Gras. It became even more special when I realized that twenty years earlier, nearly to the day, my parents had moved us from New Orleans to Memphis, and my brother and I were crushed that we would miss Mardi Gras. It seemed fitting to go back, and we drove by the houses that we grew up in, remembering features and nuances about each one, and we also visited our church, which had been devastated by Katrina. I am happy to report that the church and parsonage have been rebuilt, but I was not prepared for the desolation of the surrounding neigborhood. Whole neighborhoods are vacant. The windows that are not broken are still grimy from the toxic soup that lapped against them, and in the neighborhood that we visited, it was as high as four feet. Some neigborhoods were as high as fifteen. Rebuilding is slow; I would not use the word "progress" to describe the rebuilding, but it is happening and I believe it is a reflection of the resiliency and the resourcefulness of the people of New Orleans. In retrospect, perhaps we should have visited on Ash Wednesday, after all of the festivities were over, but we went on Lundi Gras, the Monday before Fat Tuesday, and it was a reminder to me to count my blessings, right then and there.

My brother and I headed back on Wednesday, and we stopped in the French Quarter for breakfast and to pick up lunch before heading west. The difference a mere eight hours makes is incredible. It felt like Ash Wednesday, with rain dripping from the eaves of buildings, and people huddled quietly under the covered patio of Cafe du Monde, sipping coffee, perhaps nursing a hangover. The Quarter was quiet, and it felt like it belonged to me and I could have stayed
there all day, just wandering the streets. It was on Ash Wednesday that we drove, in the rain, to our childhood homes, and marveled at how everything looked smaller. Perhaps that is testament to the passing of twenty years: the memories enlarge and make bigger in life, what is actually small in scope and size. I am glad I was there with my brother, because he understood the importance of those unmarked landmarks, their historical significance to us, because the events that took place are our memories, and they shaped part of who we are today.

I am going back next year. I am making The Rev. come with me.

Waffles and Boiled Eggs

2007-02-15T06:12:00.000-08:00

The Rev. and I never eat out on Valentine's Day. It was part of a pre-marital agreement that forbade the other partner from becoming a victim to buying overpriced, thematic candy, greeting cards or any other tchotke that would later be shoved in a dark closet and be sold at a future garage sale. We always make plans to make a nice dinner at home, drink a nice bottle of wine, and enjoy each other's company. We at least take advantage of the "keeping the wife happy" command of "Thou shall not plan a council meeting on Valentine's Day."

The Rev. had promised me dinner, and we had decided on a braised oxtail dish. You are probably wrinkling your nose in disgust right now, but we have never tried oxtail, and it keeps with our theme of "not doing what the rest of the world is doing right now, sort of." I arrived home, anticipating the smell of braised meat and cooked greens, but instead I got nothing. The Rev. was sitting at the table eating a waffle. There was a flower arrangement on the table, and a card, and a glass of champagne, but no oxtail.

"Waffles are in the oven."

"Dare I ask what happened to the oxtail?"

"It was a three day recipe."

"What do you mean it was a three day recipe?"

"It takes three days to cook."

"Didn't you read the recipe? I emailed it to you."

"Yes, I read it today, about an hour ago."

"Well, pass me a waffle. Do you want some eggs? I can't drink champagne without having some protein in my stomach."

"No, I'm happy with my waffle."

So, dear readers, my Valentine and I celebrated our special evening with breakfast. The waffles were homemade. The syrup was maple. The conversation....

"This is our 9th Valentine's Day."

"Yep."

"Have I changed much in 9 years?"

"I would dare to say you have improved greatly with age."

"Really? Are we talking a 98% improvement or a 60% improvement?"

"I wouldn't say 98%. You aren't that close to perfection."

For Joel

2007-02-13T18:43:00.000-08:00

Fresh Fresh Fresh Fresh Fresh Fresh Fresh Fresh.

There, I feel better.

My brother just told me that I use the word "fresh" too much on my blog. I never noticed, so if I have offended anyone who is all for equal opporunity when it comes to frozen or canned food, I extend my sincerest apologies. Perhaps I will substitute, "Just Picked" which may erroneously lead you to the conclusion that I have an orchard in my tiny backyard. "New" and "Clean" makes it sound like I just drove my food off of the car lot, while "unsullied" sounds a tad Victorian for me. I would never want to give the impression that I eat, or serve, dirty food. "Spanking new" sounds like a clean baby's bottom to me, and I would never want to associate anything that goes into my mouth with something that winds up in a diaper--at least not in pleasant conversation.

So, dear brother, you can tease me all you want about my torrid love affair with the word "fresh." I have my reasons for using it, just like your have your reasons for abusing the word "amazing."

Counting Down

2007-02-08T09:50:00.000-08:00

One week from today I will be on an airplane to Dallas, Texas. My brother will pick me up at the airport. I will beg him to take me to "Mi Cocina" for Mexican food and a delicious beverage called
a Mambo Taxi. Depending on how well my flight goes, I may order a Mambo Limousine. It will be the perfect preface to the start of my mini-vacation.

I cannot wait for my trip. I am looking forward to Mardi Gras, but I am also looking forward to the time spent with my brother. We have a long car drive on Friday to New Orleans, but I am sure it will go by quickly--as long as he does not get us lost. I promise to keep my sarcastic comments to a minimum of two, maybe three.

I have been listening to Louis Armstrong this week, and craving beignets, gumbo, and red beans and rice. Our SoCal weather is back, with highs in the 70s and 80s this week, so the weather has not really called for me to fix such dishes. The Rev. and I are also on a bit of a health kick, and I have banned all white flour from the house, along with white rice. I grew up eating Uncle Ben's (it makes the best jambalaya), and the taste of Creole cuisine is not the same with brown rice. I read somewhere that New Orleans was behind Milwaukee as being one of the most unhealthiest cities. I grew up in New Orleans to parents of German heritage, so I am battling a double whammy of possessing the appreciation for a good bratwurst and beer along with loving making a roux with a cup of oil and a cup of flour. All in moderation, I know, but there are days you just want to start your day with a dozen fried oysters, snack on a gumbo, lunch on red beans, and squeeze in some bread pudding with whiskey sauce. I'm looking forward to reconnecting with old friends in my favorite city, but I am also looking forward to breaking bread with them.

It is going to be a good time.

Historical Markers

2007-02-03T20:19:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl, my father had a predilection for stopping at historical markers on the side of the road. Often. It drove my mother absolutely nuts, and she would sit in the front seat of our beige impala, arms crossed over her chest and sighing about my father's predilection for stopping at historical markers on the side of the road. Most of the time, the markers were next to a grassy field of nothing, and the raised letters would proclaim that this had once been the sight of a historic home, or a Civil War battle, or the site of some long gone town. My brother and I would happily skip behind my dad's lanky legs, happy to be free from the confines of the car, and would hang off of my father's limbs or kick rocks as he read about the historical significance of the site.

To this day, whenever I pass a historical marker, I either supress or give in to the urge to stop and read what the marker proclaims. Yesterday, The Rev. and I were driving through Escondido and he suddenly pulled off the road next to a historical marker. It was in front of Escondido's first schoolhouse, a one room building just off the road. It is now privately owned, and little did we know, but they were having an open house. . . for potential wedding parties. We were both a little embarassed, and we felt awkward at being the only people at this open house. The awkwardness grew to full on uncomfortable when the hostess learned that we were already married, and had been so for nearly eight years. She was polite, and gave us the history of schoolhouse, pointing out the original glass and original ceilings, along with the newly restored school bell. We felt bad for keeping her, but it wasn't like she was busy, and we all managed to excuse ourselves and get on with the rest of our day.

It made for a nice day, and a nice way to remember my dad telling me later on that one should always stop and read the historical markers. You never know what you might learn.

Thin Blood

2007-01-30T17:15:00.000-08:00

I often joke with The Rev. that we could never move to a northern climate because I have thin, Southern blood and I would freeze abnormally faster than a regular human. Given that my hands and feet are perpetually at sub-zero temperatures, The Rev. has taken to thinking that we could live at the equator and I would still be cold. This is probably true.

When we moved to SoCal, I came completely and totally ignorant of what the climate would be like. I blame my public school education, which glossed over the Spanish exploration of the West, the Mexican-American War and the gold rush of 1849 to get to the important stuff, like the War of Northern Aggression. You may know it as the Civil War. California was dim, far away land, and I came expecting normal seasons and conquistadors.

Our first Christmas was spent on our patio, barefoot and in short sleeves, chuckling over the unfortunate relatives east of the Mississippi who were in the throes of an ice storm. It took me some getting used to, this habit of never putting away your summer whites, and pairing flip-flops with a scarf and a jacket. I still hold off on the white pants until after Easter, but I have heartily embraced the flip-flops.

Now we are in some weird weather funk, and it is cold and rainy. Very unseasonal, and I miss the balmy days of 74 degrees and sunny--all year round. My thin blood is cranky, and I am torn. I like my San Diego weather. I like the sunshine. I have grown accustomed to paying an obscene amount of money for a house. I have grown accustomed to being served unsweetened tea at restaurants. I have grown accustomed to suppressing the urge to kick people who ask me if I am from "back east." I have grown accustomed to all these things, but do not cruelly take away the one perk of living here, because heaven knows we just lost the perk of paying $1 for 6 pounds of navel oranges.

A tale to tell

2007-01-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

It is hard to believe that my parents and my in-laws have already come and gone. The frenzy of getting the house ready was worth it, and the visits were much too short. Throw in a wedding and inventory, and the visits were really much too short.

Now the anticipation of my mini-vacation is upon me, and I am looking forward to another road trip with my brother, who is affectionately nicknamed "Magellan." And I don't mean that as a compliment to his skills in navigation. This is someone who loses his car in parking lots on an hourly basis. I have a hunch that he has to calculate extra time to find his vehicle when he has a list of errands to run.

Our last road trip was precisely a year ago. I had some time off, a travel voucher to use, and a desire to surprise the you-know-what out of my mom for her birthday. I flew into Dallas and Brother and I got up early the next morning for the long drive to Memphis. In my journal, dated January 19th, I scribbled a few quoteable quotes from that trip:

"Where is the cocktail sauce?" This question was posed at the delicious S&D Oyster House in Dallas right after he told our waitress that she didn't need to make any for us and I had just started to mix the ketchup with the horseradish. My response? "What's in front of you, moron?" Ah, the love between a brother and a sister.

The next morning we were up before dawn and drove to 4 Starbucks looking for one that would be open at 5 a.m. Luckily, a gas station/Wendy's/Starbucks was open for us as we headed out of town. I have not seen a gas station/Wendy's/Starbucks combo since.

As we were driving down the dark interstate towards Memphis, Brother comments, "I haven't seen a sunset in a while." I responded, "Um, you may have to wait, because what we are seeing is called a sunrise." Coincidentally, on the way back to Dallas, he got me for making the same remark. I chalk it up to shared DNA.

Some Days

2007-01-12T19:44:00.000-08:00

A few days turns into a jumble of days which turns into a week and you cap it off by saying, "Forget the gym, I am going home to drink a bottle of wine with my husband and eat gobs of bread."

And I did. It was good.

I have my parents coming one week from today. My in-laws are coming one week from yesterday. They are all staying here and I haven't cleaned out my refrigerator or the bathroom yet.

I'm opening another bottle of wine.

High Society

2007-01-04T09:59:00.000-08:00

My brother and I will be attending Mardi Gras festivities this year in our old hometown of New Orleans, Louisiana. We are staying with my brother's childhood friend, a nice guy who used to live a few houses down from us. The plans are to arrive in New Orleans for the weekend before Fat Tuesday and take in all the drunken festivities (notice I said "take in" not "partake in") on the Saturday and Sunday before everyone gets really drunk and then sobers up for Lent. To say that I am excited is an understatement. Growing up, Mardi Gras was my favorite time of year, and my appreciation of a city is often measured by how cool it is compared to the Big Easy.

Joel's friend, JP, is not only letting us stay with him and his wife in Uptown, he is also getting us into a few swanky affairs that will not allow me to wear flip-flops (as I have grown so accustomed to living in SoCal) and to put on a dress for which I have yet to buy, but already begun to diet. Joel called to inform me of the news, and we have discussed it over several phone calls:

"This is really fancy, I have to wear a tux."

"I guess I have to buy a cocktail dress."

"No, you need a ballgown, something to the floor, like Pretty Woman."

"Are you calling me a reformed prostitute?"

We talked about it again yesterday:

"This will be so much fun."

"I know, I just need to find a dress."

"When was the last time you got really dressed up?"

"Two years ago, right before we moved when I was in Leslie's wedding. And they got divorced, remember?"

So, I am off on the hunt to find a dress to the floor. I am awaiting a response from JP's wife as to what she is wearing, and in the meantime I have been doing internet searches for dresses. I typed in "ball gown" just to see what would pass onto the screen and I got a Wikipedia article detailing the proper attire for evening formals. Watches are not de rigeur, as well as rings and bracelets, but necklaces and earrings are fine. Married women can wear a tiara if they own one. Maybe I'll pick one up on my way to finding a dress.

Stay tuned, I am off to the gym.

Worst Luck Ever

2007-01-03T19:51:00.000-08:00

I am a pastor's wife, and with that title comes the statement that I do not believe in luck. I don't read horoscopes and I never had a rabbit's foot on a key chain. However, there comes a time in one's life when you find yourself wondering if some cosmic force has aligned the stars against you so that everything you touch goes horribly wrong and you grasp the realization that you should not waste that dollar on a lottery ticket because you will not win. Ever.

The Rev. and I had such good intentions, really, when it came to doing a little home improvement over the weekend. Popcorn ceilings were scraped clean; horrid wallpaper was removed; paint was put on the wall and I only got a little bit in my hair. The turn for the worse came when we primed and textured the ceiling in a bedroom. We returned to discover that the drywall paper had bled throuh the texturing and would require not one, but two coats of primer. While I worked in the bedroom, The Rev. worked on installing drywall in the dining room. Not only did he need my help to repair the absolutely wretched patchwork that was completed by the previous owner, he soon discovered that the tape he used on the drywall caused two lovely humps to form in the wall. Our aggravation was compounded by the fact that every vertical service in our home is textured in some stuff called "orange peel." It has a slight pebbly texture, and it requires twice as much paint to cover it. That meant two more trips to a certain home improvement center for paint.

"Look at this paint for the kitchen."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It is too light."

"Well, did you tell him the right color?"

Insert stink eye here.

"Well, we can't finish painting tonight. We'll have to go back to Home Depot tomorrow."

Insert stink eye here.

"That breaks my rule."

"What rule is that?"

"That we limit our trips to that place to two."

"Do you want paint?"

Insert exasperated stink eye here.

We painted as much as we could, however, there was still some weird residue on the wall from the wallpaper glue (yes, we washed them before we painted) and it caused the paint to roll off the wall and back onto the roller in little crumbs. We decided to just get one coat on and then go to bed. It would have to look better in the morning. Before we retired for the night, I decided to wash some clothes. The washing went off without a hitch, but when I put the clothes in the dryer and pushed the button, nothing happened. Nothing.

New Year's Eve afternoon I worked while The Rev. drove around town looking for a laundrymat to dry our wet clothes. We were expecting company that night, and my hopes of having a painted house, not thrown into the discombobulation and chaos of "do it yourself-dom" were as fried as our dryer. The bedroom was not finished, all of the furniture for that bedroom was piled into the other; I had two humpback whales in my new wall, and the rest of my kitchen had one coat of textured paint on it. Not to mention that I was finding construction dust in every nook and cranny of our house. And while painting the dog decided that she couldn't have paint on just one side of her body, she needed it on the other and on her ears.

I cooked an enormous pot of black eyed peas for New Year's Day. I did it for tradition, not for luck, but I did eat two helpings.

Reconstruction

2006-12-29T18:56:00.000-08:00

What to do when The Rev. and I have days off together? Demolish the house and get to work, of course. I won't divulge too much of what we have done, given that I would like to surprise my parents and my in-laws when they are here in a few weeks, but I can say that we have done some hard, but rewarding work. Mom and Dad, the Home Depot gift card has been put to good use.

I wish I had a tape recorder whenever The Rev. and I get to work together on projects. I tend to be more of a task master, while he tends to let the ADD take over and run the project until I stamp my foot and raise my voice a decibel. A few of the goodies:

"We can either go New Orleans decadent or shabby chic farmhouse."

"Decadent farmhouse would not be good."

A member of our congregation met us at Home Depot last night so we could haul dry wall and crown moulding back to our house. He witnessed:

"We need to buy doors."

"WHAAAAT? Doors were never part of the deal."

"Don't you want two new doors?"

"We have four doors that need to be replaced."

"A little bit at a time baby."

"No."

"Why not?"

"NO."

"Come on."

At this point I turn to Roy, our member, and say, "Forgive me in advance, Roy, but you might witness a small domestic dispute."

Christmas Day

2006-12-26T21:04:00.000-08:00

I walked into the children's Christmas Eve service just as the children were leading the congregation in the last hymn. It was the first Christmas Eve service I have missed, ever.

I did attend Christmas Day services, however, and my hurt feelings about missing Christmas Eve were alleviated because The Rev. used a devotion service of nine reading and nine carols. The nine readings were the traditional Christmas recitations that so many of us know...

"In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken over the entire Roman world..."

"And an angel appeared to Joseph and said..."

"But Mary treasured up all of these thing and pondered them in her heart..."

You get the picture.

Anyway, some of the children who were in the program the night before dug deep and delivered the congregational recitation with the same gusto and fervor as the previous night. I am sure they did it just for me, and I had to cover my face with my service bulletin because one of the little ones behind me was getting so into it and compounded it by an inability to pronounce the sound of the letter r.

"But Mawy tweasuwed up awl these things and pawndewed dem in hew hawt."

"And and angel of the LAWD appeawed to dem and they were SOWR afwaid."

God Bless them every one.

Help Me, Baby Jesus

2006-12-25T11:05:00.000-08:00

I, like so many others, let Christmas get away from me this year. I didn't get around to making an Advent wreath, and The Rev. and I didn't read one devotion together in the soft glow of our Christmas tree. Too busy, too frazzled, too tired to show respect, love, and awe for the miracle of Christmas. The Rev. said it best this morning, and he has so kindly forwarded me his devotion so that I could share it with you, dear readers.

May the Dear Lord bless you and yours this Christmas.

Introduction: SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS
Dear brothers and sisters who have been moved by a miracle to return and give thanks to him who gave it:
So this is Christmas. It seems so, well, anti-climactic in a way. All the frenzied commercialism, all the running around, all the decorating, all the fuss for just the right gift or recipe, and for what? A few hours of quiet with a loved one or two that will not last long enough, that cannot be savored enough. SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS.
You might say that when you read St. John’s account of Christmas. In his account he strips away all the side dishes, all the fancy trimmings and ornamentation and all the little stuff that often seems to get in the way and obstruct our view of what Christmas really is. Try this on for Christmas: The Word became flesh and lived for a while among us. That’s it. No snow on the ground, no angels sweetly singing in the sky, no shepherds with fluffy little sheep, no cows mooing or drummer boys banging on their drums. No Swedish looking virgin cuddling her little one. No soft golden hay in a western European manger. No starts twinkling on a cold crisp night. None of that. John writes none of that. He simply describes what Christmas really is, what really happened in Bethlehem so many years ago. The Word became flesh and lived for a while among us. SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS stripped of all its decorations and left to stand for what it is.
Body: Stripped of all its decorations and left to stand for what it is
Perhaps, just perhaps John is writing for people who live in the kind of world we live in. Think about what they have done with Christmas! There is no baby in a manger any more. There is no baby. There is no Christ. There is no miracle of a virgin mother giving birth. Not a care or a thought is given to these things, much like it actually was on that first Christmas. In our world Christmas is about showing how charitable you are or how greedy you can be without getting caught. It’s about spending more money than you have. It’s about ornaments, and trees, and light displays, and parties and bonuses, and big dinners, and vacations to mom and dad’s or grandma and grandpa’s house. There’s nothing wrong with many of these things just by themselves. But when all this glitz and glitter covers the stable and the road to Bethlehem is lined with malls, how can Christ not be lost among all the masses?
It’s so easy to pick on our world. Why I could go on, but I don’t want to turn you into a room full of Pharisees. You of all the people have at least had the decency to show up on Christmas Day, the most sacred day in our social and political and financial calendar to worship Jesus. Certainly your hearts haven’t been over decorated with the stuff of the season. Certainly you haven’t so decorated your homes and hearts that you’ve buried the baby Jesus under all the holly, ivy, wrapping paper and tinsel. No not us.
But of course we have. And that is why we are here, isn’t it? You and I can be just as greedy for bonuses and presents as anyone. Our nerves can be just as frazzled as anyone else’s as we try to make this year perfect. Our homes can be just a filled with holiday turmoil as anyone else’s. That’s because devil and sin and world never quit assaulting and harassing you. For them the battle never ceases, not even for Christmas, especially not for Christmas.
So you’ve come to God’s house AGAIN today, to find Christmas and to see the Christ who is so often lost and hidden among us. You’ve come to repent and to readjust and to refocus on the one thing needful. And St. John is here to help you. The Word became flesh and lived for a while among us.
There it is dear friends. There is Christmas stripped of all its decorations, plain and simple. The Word of God who is God and through whom all the world was created, that Word came and took on human flesh and blood, so that he could live among us as one of us in order to save us. This divine Word became human not only to live for awhile among us but then also to die as the atoning sacrifice for our sins and not only for ours but for the sins of the whole world. This heaven-sent Word-made-flesh has risen from death with healing in his wings. The peace he brings is a peace that is beyond understanding. It is a peace between the just and holy God and you, a sinner deserving of nothing but his anger. The peace this sweet sentence gives is that the war and hostility between God and mankind is over. The Almighty has set aside his thunder and lightening. This divine Word became flesh and lived among us for a while, and he still lives among us and he always will. He still lives among us and speaks to us through his Word. He still comes to us in bread and wine and assures us that by his body and blood given and poured out for us, we are forgiven and have peace with God. And this Word is coming again to call us to live with him forever.
Dear friends, if you will get rid of all the songs, all the decorations and trimmings, if you peel it all away, this is what you have--The Word became flesh and lived for a while among us--and this is all you need. Christmas can stand on its own. It gives a joy and peace and comfort and confidence that none of the trimmings can offer. SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS! Yes, and isn’t it full of wonder?
Through the Word of Christmas the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard and keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus until he comes again in glory. Even so, Lord Jesus, come quickly! Amen.

How to amuse The Rev.'s Secretary

2006-12-15T19:03:00.000-08:00

When you mess up one of the addresses on your Christmas cards you say, "Oh Crap. Oops, I shouldn't say that so loud."

Because there is a room full of school kids learning about fractions five feet away and the classroom door is open.

I don't think they heard me.

The Christmas Pickle

2006-12-15T18:40:00.000-08:00

Scene: The anteroom to The Rev.'s office. I am sitting on the floor working on Christmas cards and chatting with The Rev.'s Secretary (Hi, Rev.'s Secretary!):

"Do you have a pickle in your Christmas tree?"

"Why, as a matter of fact, I do have a pickle in my Christmas tree."

"Really? We don't have one and I'm beginning to think we should."

"Well, the only reason I have one is that one of the teachers gave me one and insisted that I must have a pickle in my Christmas tree."

Today I learned there is a German tradition of hanging a Christmas ornament in the shape of a pickle in your Christmas tree. I was raised by parents who had parents who spoke German in their homes, and I know for a fact that there were never pickled vegetables of any size or shape in any Christmas tree I have every known. Either my ancestors missed the memo on having nitrate laden fruit and vegetables hung on a dead tree, or they chose to ignore it. Given that both of my grandmother's were extremely practical, frugal people, I think they chose to ignore it.

When The Rev. was finished with his morning classes, I asked him whether or not his mother hung a pickle in their tree. He could not recall, which for me was as good as "No, and I am less of a person because of it." Today we took it upon ourselves to find a pickle to hang in our Christmas tree. We tried one Christmas shop in Escondido, and besides the throngs of people buying ornaments more ridiculous than pickles to hang in their trees (think mermaids, fish, alligators, and scary angels) we came up empty handed in our search for a pickle. We would have asked for help, but we both felt a little foolish approaching the little old lady who looked extremely overwhelmed with the mobs buying disco balls for their trees and asking, "Excuse me, do you have any pickles?"

"Let's try Hallmark."

"Absolutely not. I will not hang a pickle from Hallmark in my tree."

"Why not?"

"It's like buying coffee from Starbucks."

"You are supposed to buy coffee from Starbucks."

"That's my point. It is the easy way out, and I don't want to buy my pickle from Hallmark. This is my mission, and if Hallmark has a pickle, I am not buying it."

We found a ceramic pickle at a Christmas market in the mall (made in China, but it was a pickle!), and then I found two glass ones at another shop in Escondido. These glass pickles are Polish, and my conscience felt better that at least two of our pickles have a heritage that is remotely associated with their country of origin.

The pickles now hang in our tree, and one will go to church this weekend to hang in the tree that is outside of The Rev.'s office. Our next mission is to find olives and pickled okra.

The Good Sister

2006-12-06T13:10:00.000-08:00

Check it out:

www.joelfrey.com

Besides keeping The Rev. in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed, I have been known, on occasion, to don the hat of editor and proof a manuscript that has been written by my brother.

Out of my element

2006-12-06T09:16:00.000-08:00

I started Christmas shopping yesterday, and I discovered that there is a place where I feel completely out of my element, besides a non-liturgical worship service that uses an electric guitar and a drum set to praise Jesus. That place is a children's clothing store, and I spent a few bewildered moments trying to get my bearings, surrounded by pint size clothes and sales women who were more than willing to teach me the difference between a 4T and little girl's small.

My intentions were initially pure, and I wanted to buy something cute and girlish for my nieces, but I found myself having to control an impulse to purchase a leopard print coat. Children's clothing is EXPENSIVE, and I want to meet the parent who is willing to shell out fifty bucks for a coat that can be worn for two minutes without having jelly dribbled on it and two months before it becomes a hand-me-down. Yesterday, I discovered I have an opinion about the way children should dress, which should be filed under "Ignorant statements made by a person who has no children." That statement will sit right next to the folder that contains my opinions about the way children should behave in church, but that is another post entirely. What I learned yesterday is that clever marketers want us to dress our kids like miniature adults, on the cusp of being able to purchase their own beer, rather than little kids who still have eight years before the onset of puberty. Of course, once my nieces open their gifts, I am sure their mothers will think, "This is obviously a purchase made by someone who has no children, and has no business having them."

I did find matching outfits for my nieces, who just so happen to live on opposite ends of the country, and they are cute outfits, pink with a smattering of glitter, something a little girl would love. I had a harder time shopping for my nephews, and after perusing Baby Gap, I decided that if I purchased a shirt that said, "World's Cutest Sailor," I would be pointed out as the culprit who made sure my nephew got beat up everyday on the playground. I did have my hand on a camo patterned hoodie, but two of my nephews live outside of San Francisco, and again, I want to make sure they don't get beat up everyday on the playground, or ostracized by some protester who is against hunting Bambi.

I bought the nephews toys, and then I worried that I was perpetuating a stereotype that encourages girls to think only in the terms of pink and clothes, while encouraging boys to be, well, boys. I had to push that aside, though, because I know when the wrapping and bows are torn off their presents on Christmas, they will love their presents. Their parents may not, but the kiddies will.

Under my skin #2

2006-12-04T10:32:00.000-08:00

Meow and whine to go outside.

You are let outside because I don't like to hear repetitive meowing and whining.

Five minutes later I hear repetitive meowing and whining to be let inside.

I let you in because I don't like to hear repetitive meowing, whining, and scratching.

Repeat the process 23 times in an hours because I am home and obviously, I have NOTHING better to do than be your doorman.

Cookies for Dinner

2006-11-29T11:08:00.000-08:00

I suppose I could do something constructive with my day, like pick up my gold sandals that have been sitting by the kitchen table for the past week, or pay bills, or do a load of laundry. Can you tell that it is my day off?

Instead, I am waxing nostalgic and making Christmas cookies. The holidays, like I mentioned in an earlier post, can bring out the best and worst in people. Many people look forward to the comfort that tradition brings, others dread the anticipation and anxiety that comes with "if we don't do this it is not (insert random holiday here.)" Stress, hand wringing, and hair twisting ensue and you might as well say, "Baby Jesus cannot come if we don't make pistachio jell-o salad with the little marshmallows for Christmas dinner." Hello, He's already arrived and is standing right next to you in his omnisicient, omnipresent glory. What part of "Lo, I am with you always, until the very end of the age." don't you understand? I admit, I still struggle with it, especially when I am making Christmas cookies by myself.

I could probably survive Christmas with a box of cookies from the Keebler elves, but it just wouldn't be the same. I will readily admit I survived Thanksgiving without the requisite Turkey Day appetizers of vegetable dill dip and a shrimp mold made with tomato soup and cream cheese; however, I did loudly complain about it to two people: my mother and The Rev. I normally don't label my family traditions with a value, but Christmas cookies were such a part of my childhood that it would not feel the same if I didn't make a batch of Animal Cookies or press Springerle. I have the dough for the Animal Cookies chilling in the fridge right now, and this afternoon I will cut them out with cookie cutters that are just like my mom's. I found them on ebay, and I hope she knows that I think of her every time I use the one shaped like a Christmas tree. Later tonight, they will get frosted and sprinkled with colored sugar. They will sit in a holiday tin and I will probably eat no more than two this entire holiday season, but they will make me recall frosting cookies at the kitchen table when I was little, my mother's hands covered in flour, the little kid anticipation of wrapped presents under a tree, the security of home.

Back to Carpoolin'

2006-11-28T10:44:00.000-08:00

"I love driving you to work. It gives me a chance to talk to you."

"Why did you go this way?"

"Oh, right, I forgot school started again today."

"You should have gone the other way."

"Right, anyway, tonight I need you to help me get the Christmas decorations down from the attic."

"I can do that. Why are you getting on the interstate? I'll never get to work on time."

"I was got lost in our conversation and thinking about all the stuff I have to do."

"You need to turn right when we get to Felicita."

"I will, honey, now, back to Christmas decorations..."

"I'm going to try to start baking tomorrow night when I get home from work and finish them on Wednesday morning...Felicita is right there, you are getting back onto the Interstate."

"What is wrong with my brain?"

"Are you sure you actually like driving me to work, or are you just using it as an excuse to hold me hostage in the car all day?"

How to get under my skin #1

2006-11-26T11:01:00.000-08:00

Puke up a hairball the size of Iowa for the second time this week.

And you pick the exact same spot as last time--on a chair.

Leftovers

2006-11-24T16:22:00.000-08:00

We had fried turkey yesterday. I may live in California, but I don't have to eat like I do. Today, I ate a pita stuffed with turkey, bean sprouts, and an avocado. The influence is creeping in and I don't mind, because I slathered the pita with mayonnaise before I ate it.

It was good.

Now that I think about it, I should have put bacon on it.

Thank goodness there are still leftovers.

Be thankful, and not just for turkey

2006-11-19T18:34:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and the one thing I will never get used to about living in California is not having a house full of people on Turkey Day. My job prevents my usual three day preparation for such an event, coupled with the fact that our relatives are so far flung that any visit would require a trip on an airplane or a really long car drive. Given that we all know what airports are like during holidays, I would not wish that on anyone, especially my mother. I really miss cramming twenty-two people into the little parsonage on I-65, and if I ever have the opportunity to cram twenty-two people into the half house off the I-15, you will be hearing from me.

This year we will be going to someone's house for Thanksgiving, and we are bringing pies, cornbread dressing, and a fried turkey. We purchased four turkeys today, in a salute to our American gluttony and our thankfulness, and so The Rev. can be kept in turkey through the winter. I am not sure what events will present themselves this year that will require the cooking of a twenty-six pound turkey, but I am sure you will be reading about it in the very near future.

This week also marks the beginning of the Christmas rush for retailers. My full time, bill paying job is in the wonderful world of retail. Given that this week is the beginning of what I can only describe as a free fall descent into consumerist spending, fueled by buckets of coffee, sugar, and adrenaline, I am using the next few days to mentally prepare myself for a four week onslaught that will show me both the best and worst of humanity. Keep me in your prayers. The day after Thanksgiving and the day after Christmas are the worst, but I am going to do my best to make sure that those two days, along with all of the days sandwiched in between are happy and positive, not only for myself, but for all of my employees. Again, keep me in your prayers. I know the season is not about the latest toy, a great pair of jeans, or a sweater, but some people do. Keep them in your prayers.

31 Years

2006-11-16T19:39:00.000-08:00

I turned 31 yesterday. I asked my father for an outstanding memory of me from the past 31 years, and he told me he would have to get back to me. I will probably get a response sometime next year, closer to my 32nd birthday. My nieces and nephews all called to wish me a happy birthday, as did the parents and a few other far flung relatives.

The Rev. bought me an IPod for my birthday, a request I had made in passing a few months ago, and it was a nice surprise, considering I thought I might receive a puppy, or replacement for Minnie Pearl (may she rest in peace). It is the size of a stick of gum on steroids, and The Rev. and I have had to practice our sharing skills. I downloaded a few pieces of Bach for him, and a few other downloads that have surprised him to thinking that my taste in music is not so bad after all. I had to remind him that I grew up in the eighties. If it doesn't have a synthesizer in it, I just can't appreciate it.

Owning an IPod means that you have to download music. I wanted the very first piece of music to be significant. And all I could do was stare at it and wonder what I should pick. A hymn? Something from A-ha? That was the first tape I ever received as a birthday present. I think that was for my 11th or 12th birthday, which was the same year I received a Swatch watch from my parents and a turquoise purse from my grandparents in Michigan. I thought about a classical piece, or a Dave Matthews song, in a nod to my early twenties when I thought I was a grown up because I had a full time job, an apartment, and a car. The Lord could have come any day, because in my eyes, I had already arrived.

I chose "Over the Rainbow." No, not the one sung by Judy Garland. I chose a contemporary version by Israel Kamakawiw'ole. I chose it for two reasons. One, it has an upbeat tempo and whimsical, Hawaiian flair to it. It makes me happy. Two, I sang the Judy Garland arrangement with my class on kindergarten graduation day. I wore a light green and white dress with butterfly sleeves and white socks and sandals. I can still see the cafeteria at St. Rose Primary school on the River Road near Destrehan whenever I hear the song. I graduated kindergarten 25 years ago, and there are days that I still want to be able to color in the lines, take a nap, and have a snack. Tying my shoes came way later for me. Ask my mother.

Calling it like he sees it

2006-11-11T18:37:00.000-08:00

Scene: The Rev. and I are getting ready to make a run to the grocery store. The Rev. steps back inside to retrieve his wallet and I make preparations to lock the door. Once we are outside, I realize I am still wearing my bright pink slippers:

PC: "Oh, good night, I am still wearing my houseshoes. Didn't even realize it."

Rev: "That is so white trash, wearing your slippers in public.

PC: "Here, let me grab my gold and sequin flip flops."

Rev: "That is maybe half a step better."

PC: "Don't be jealous."

Advent

2006-11-11T14:33:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know, Advent does not officially start until after Thanksgiving, but here at the coop we are trying to turn over a new leaf and shrug off dull sloth. We tried to shrug off dull sloth a few years ago when we didn't send out Christmas cards and then made it a New Year's Resolution to send them at the end of that new year. We got them sent out that year, and even bragged about shrugging off aforementioned dull sloth.

We promptly forgot that resolution as soon as we pasted the last stamp to the last envelope, and the following year we didn't send out Christmas cards.

You can only backslide so many years, and if I recall, last year many of you received Christmas cards. We usually like to send out homemade cards, complete with a hymn verse from the venerable, red, Lutheran hymnal, and that probably contributed to our delinquency in sending out Christmas cards. Last year I swallowed my pride, bought cards, and felt guilty the entire time. Many of you know the feelings I have toward boxed brownie mix. You can only imagine my distress at the thought of sending out a card that somebody else made. Tragic.

Today I mentioned to The Rev. that we should get a jumpstart on Christmas cards, especially since we both have the day off and can devote some time to it. Forget laundry, cleaning, and running errands. I can always postpone housework for craft time. We thought of an idea, and I would consider it semi-homemade. The Rev. will be doing a simple calligraphy on each one, but we will be cheating and using a rubber stamp to get the effect we want for the message. We figure if we do a couple a day, we should be all set when Christmas card exchange time is at its peak.

Now I have a request. Many of my addresses have been lost/misplaced/forgotten in our move. If you would like to receive one of our special, semi-homemade Christmas cards, email me your address. I would love to send you a Christmas greeting. Mom and Dad, I do know your address, so don't worry. Joel, brother, don't say a word.

Birth Month

2006-11-06T11:51:00.000-08:00

I turn 31 next week. In keeping that I have forgotten several holidays and birthdays these past months, I think it quite fitting that I forgot my own birthday. I also realized this morning that Thanksgiving is in a few weeks, and given that Christmas decorations are already up and lit at several stores around town, I think most of the world has forgotten that holiday, too.

The joke in our house is that November is my birth month, and The Rev. has opportunities all month to buy me presents. We are six days in and I have not received one, and given that we are both working on my birthday, it might as well be celebrated in January, when we both have a little more breathing room. We made a quasi-big deal about my 30th birthday last year, but this year just brings me one more year close to 40. And we still don't have any children. And we still need to work on the house. And my student loan is a little closer to being paid in full.

I have liked being thirty, with all the neuroses and developments and traumas and issues of my teens and twenties behind me and the road to maturity well paved before me, but I still secretly think that all adults are grown up children, but cheating on your taxes (or your spouse, for that matter) has a far worse consequence than cheating on an algebra test.

I needn't wring my hands and bewail my state, but a little respite from the hustle and bustle would be nice. I am learning the importance of patience. I am learning that differences are good, but having the same goal is even better. I am learning the wisdom that comes with age, but I am still immature when it comes to putting it into practice.

Call it being a work in progress, I guess.

In keeping with forgetting anniversaries, birthdays, and other special events...

2006-11-01T14:05:00.000-08:00

The Rev. and I are notorious for forgetting birthdays, anniversaries, and other milestone events. We are godparents to many, and we neglect all of them. We are children and siblings, and we forget which set of parents or which brother or sister had a birthday or an anniversary. I do say my prayers for my godchildren, that they will remain steadfast in their faith and that guardian angels will watch over them, but they will probably never get a birthday card. Terrible, I know. Call it a weakness of the flesh: laziness, dull sloth, apathy. Our intentions are always good, but if I dig in my planner deep enough, I will probably find a few thank you notes that have never been mailed, along with a belated birthday card for a nephew's third birthday. I think he will be eight in April. Maybe it is May. See what I mean?

I forgot it was Halloween yesterday, until a trick or treater walked into my store and chirped, "Twick or Tweat, peas." Fortunately, we had some candy in the backroom, and that tided us until I could run to the grocery store and buy 22 bags of chocolate to pass out to the horde of goblins, devils, ballerinas, spacemen, and witches that traipsed through our door. The Rev. had meetings last night, so he wasn't home to pass out candy, which is probably a good thing because he would have been forced to pass out the stale candycanes that had been sitting in a candydish since last Christmas. If it had gotten really bad, he could have resorted to the colored sprinkles I use to decorate cakes and cookies. Sugar is sugar. People ask how I stay thin and I think I have discovered why. I buy candy and junk, but I am never home to eat it.

God is good, however, and because I am redeemed and always working on my sanctification, I will celebrate All Saint's Day today. On time as the calendar shows it to be. And because today is All Saint's Day, and since we were not able to celebrate Reformation on Sunday as we would have preferred, I am cooking pork and red cabbage for dinner tonight. I have never cooked pork and red cabbage, but I will figure it out. I am not so comfortable in my Christian freedom to say that I am celebrating a belated Halloween, but two festivals in one day will do.

Happy All Saint's, everybody. Don't go looking for a card in the mail.

It was long because it was a festival Sunday

2006-10-29T13:51:00.000-08:00

"Did you think church ran long today?"

I give him a look that says, "Don't you realize I think all of your sermons are five minutes too long?"

"Weeelllll, yes, I do think it ran long."

"Any reasons why?"

Insert same look here.

"Weellll, could it be we sang a hymn that was ten verses long, followed by one that was eight verses long? Plus a confirmation and a two hour Bible class?"

"What did you think of my sermon?"

"It's good to have faith."

"Well, yeah. Did you follow my theme?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Yea, but I got what you were saying. It's good to have faith. Be happy that I can summarize a 22 minute sermon in five words. I could have said 'Your sermon was on God.'"

He hates it when I have a point.

Where have you been?

2006-10-26T19:26:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in quite some time, and I am sure there are one or two people in America who are sad. Okay, maybe three, but I really don't count my parents as fans. They have to like me, I have their DNA.

To say I have been busy is an understatement. Today is day thirteen in a stretch of days that will end on Saturday. The store has officially opened its doors, and we have been busy, busy, busy. I won't bore you with the details of shoddy construction, downed computers, incompetent computer techs and the like. Just know that if it could go wrong this week, it did. I handled it with as much grace as I could, given that several of my employees know that I am married to a minister. I didn't swear at anybody; I didn't threaten anyone with bodily harm; I didn't lose my temper. I just thought about doing all of the aforementioned, and then promptly repented. My husband can rest easy. I haven't been around too much to say something embarassing.

This weekend is Reformation. We crazy Lutherans have a special service and then celebrate our heritage by drinking beer and eating sauerkraut. It is also the weekend when my childhood church is rededicated after being destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. I would like nothing more than to be there, but life and responsibilities in California are keeping me here.

I always like to say that my formative primary years in Louisiana had a profound impact on who I am now. Mardi Gras, crawfish, and drive through daquiri stands made quite an impression on my young mind. The church in New Orleans started as a mission congregation, and we met in the Pastor's garage. Until I was eleven years old, I thought only the Catholic church had pews. We had folding chairs and stood up for communion. But we went to Mardi Gras parades together, had a crawfish boil in the spring, and the church put out a cookbook called "Louisiana Lagniappe." It is the best church cookbook I own, and I don't think there are any recipes for hotdish in it. If there are, the recipes probably call for hot sauce and alligator tail. How many potlucks have you been to where there is shrimp etoufee?

My parents are making the drive down this weekend, as is my brother. If The Rev. and I could do a drive by re-dedication we could, but I am working and there is a joint service in San Diego that we will attend. My heart will be in the Crescent City, though, and I plan on getting my body there soon.

Words I hate

2006-10-18T20:17:00.000-07:00

Hate is a strong word, but there are words that I hate in the English language. Most of my distaste is because the words have become trite and overused. Some of the words have been so beaten to death and abused by corporate lingo and jargon that I often find myself counting how many times an associate or coworker can use them in a conversation. After hearing the word "feedback" used 7 times in the span of 15 minutes I wanted to stab myself in the eye with the nearest highlighter. Here are some more words, in no particular order:

partner--now, if you are from Texas it would be "pad-nuh" and that would probably be more linguistically acceptable, considering I pronounce "eyelet" like "Ah-leht."

feedback--for some reason I think of a feedbag muzzling a horse's mouth when this word is used.

execute--I know that this can mean the act of completing a task, but it also means to kill someone. Hello! It means to kill someone!

buy-in--as in "get the person's buy in." I find that being a nice person with a sincere concern for someone else usually gets their buy-in. But what do I know?

Amazing. I know of one person who is truly amazing and he rose from the dead after being in the grave for three days. I don't think your grilled lamb with pancetta sauce and rosemary potatoes counts as such. Tasty, but not amazing.

There. I feel better. No more complaints. Life is good. I am blessed. Now excuse me while I go give some feedback to someone executing a task so that I can get their buy-in to partner with me on an amazing adventure.

Sigh.

Tidbits of Conversation because our plates are FULL

2006-10-17T07:31:00.000-07:00

The Rev. and I have been going ninety miles an hour with our hair on fire these past few weeks. My store opens in a week. MY STORE OPENS IN A WEEK!

Last night we did a marathon shopping trip to four stores in an hour and a half so that we could make it home on time to watch CSI: Miami. Priorities, people, priorities.

"Shaving cream in a small tube, I can't find shaving cream in a small tube."

"Airborne, I need Airborne. Lozenges, do you have any lozenges? I need some lozenges before I get on the plane tomorrow."

(I magically whip out a tube of Airborne and a bag of cough drops out of my purse.)

"Packing. I hate packing. What do you think about this tie with these pants?"

"I think that if whining were an Olympic competition, you would be a strong contender."

"I would so win the gold."

"No question."

THE BIG 4-0

2006-10-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

The Rev. has a milestone birthday tomorrow. If anyone gets a chance--holler a happy birthday to him.

I usually fry him a chicken for his birthday. This year he has requested chicken fried steak. If we have no kitchen it will be Popeyes.

The joys of half a house

2006-10-11T20:11:00.000-07:00

Life has been happening since our return to the half house off the interstate. The wedding was lovely, and it was even lovelier to reconnect with cousins I last saw at my wedding 7 years ago. Idaho was lovely, even though I battled a cold the whole week I was gone, and I kept The Rev. at breathing distance from me most of the week because he had a cold and I was not going to be sick at a conference. I took to calling him a leper, which he did not appreciate. He kept his distance; I still got sick. I am ready for the Dear LORD to return today, just so that I can quit hacking, hacking, hacking.

Life keeps happening around here, whether we want it to or not. Today, I was meeting with my management team at my house when I noticed water seeping from underneath the refrigerator. I thought it was leaking, but after pulling the fridge from the wall and using every towel in the house to wipe up the mess (THAT IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION), I discovered that it was coming from the wall. Our neighbors had a pipe break in their slab and the water damage on their side of the wall was much worse than the water damage on our side. However, given that sharing a wall is like a commitment bordering on the realm of some weird marriage, it is safe to say that the pipe break could be considered ours also, as we had to have their repairman come into our house to inspect for damage. When the first words out of his mouth are, "You do have homeowner's insurance," I know that celebrations involving presents for The Rev.'s birthday, my birthday, and the birthday of Jesus are out of the question. Sigh. We were planning on a kitchen remodel in the next 18 months, not the next 18 minutes.

I'll keep you posted.

Drive by Wedding

2006-09-27T19:43:00.000-07:00

In February, we attended a drive by baptism. This weekend, we are attending my cousin's wedding. She gets married on Saturday and I fly out early on Sunday for a meeting in Idaho. I won't be back until Thursday, so stay tuned.

We don't do drive by funerals, in case you are wondering.

Second Chance

2006-09-17T14:59:00.000-07:00

I was on the phone the other day with a colleague, and she was asking me questions pertaining to a manager's meeting that we would be attending in a few days. I was trying to be as helpful as possible, given that she is new to our company, and has had the terrible misfortune of having her store opening date pushed back 6 months. A date was finally set, and was then promptly pushed back another week. I was at home during our phone conversation, and as I answered one of her questions I heard Butch meow at the back door. I opened the door and he strutted in and promptly went to the kitchen.

I continued my conversation until I heard the deep, gutteral growl of a cat on the prowl. I walked into the kitchen to witness Butch batting a goldfinch around the kitchen. I promptly screamed into the phone, (what I cannot recall), and proceeded to grab the cat and try to throw him outside. I was still holding onto my cell phone, and Butch kept jumping inside to get back to the bird. I just couldn't get the door shut fast enough to keep him at bay. I finally managed to lock him into the garage, and he immediately began to bang his head against the locked cat door and howl with indignation. I think I was still screaming at that point, and the woman with whom I was speaking asked me if everything was okay. I told her I didn't know, but I had a dead bird in my house and I would have to call her back.

The bird was in the corner of the kitchen, hunched over and breathing a death rattle when I walked over to inspect it. I then called The Rev. to make him come home and pick it up and put it away, anywhere but in my kitchen. I even thought about walking to our vet and having him pick it up and put it away. The Rev. was not sympathetic to my plight, and he told me to get a paper towel, pick it up and put it outside and let nature take its course. Part of me was actually mad at Adam and Eve because it it hadn't been for them, my cat wouldn't want to kill birds in the first place and I wouldn't be standing in my kitchen wringing my hands and trying to shut out the sounds of my cat giving himself brain damage as he continually beat his little head uselessly against the cat door.

I screwed up my courage and bent over to pick up the little bird. The second my hand touched it, it took off, beating its wings to the beat of my howling, girly screams. It gained enough momentun to fly down the hallway and into our bedroom. Visions of bird doo on my bed just steeled my resolved to get this thing out of my house. From the headboard to a picture frame, it flew into a mirror and dropped behind my dresser. I dragged the dresser away from the wall and once again tried to pick it up, this time with a cookie sheet/towel combo that was more bull fighter than bird catcher. After two more passes between the bed and the mirror, I finally managed to throw a kitchen towel over the bird and release it outside.

Second chances are good.