Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Return of the Horrible Hosts, Part II

Some people never learn.

In spite of our proven poor hosting skills, the Sturgills have decided to give us another chance. The whole (Aaron) Sturgill crew, six strong, is coming to stay with us this weekend for Grandma’s 90th birthday party.

We are delighted they have asked us to host them again, in spite of almost boiling them in hot water and virtually starving and almost-maiming their children upon their last visit.

Among the things we learned during that last visit:

Leaving candles burning on low-to-the-ground end tables is a no-no. Either the children will burn themselves, or ask if it is their birthday and then proceed to blow out ALL said candles.

Children should not drink out of real glass glasses. After learning this the hard way and chipping a glass dropped on the floor, I had to hunt for plastic cups. The only one we had was one of Brett’s old Miller Lite cups he’d gotten from who-knows-where when he was in high school.

P.S. – Small child drinking out of a plastic beer cup looks very weird and feels wrong, somehow.

However, we loved having them visit us and are in kind of shock-happiness that they actually want to come back.

Brett, who normally is not (shall we say) receptive to small children even standing 100 yards in FRONT of our house nodded his head enthusiastically when I asked if the Sturgills could stay.

“Yes, yes!” Picture enthusiastic head-nodding.

“You understand they have four (I held up four fingers, just to be sure) children?”

“Yes, of course. Call him back NOW! Yea!” Okay, okay, he didn’t actually say “Yea!’ but I could tell he was thinking it.

I did, however, actually say, “Yea!” when I called Aaron back.

We are so excited they are coming! We promise to try and be better hosts, but da, da, DUM…you know…anyone who visits us, stays at their own risk!

Good luck to you. And don’t worry; we fixed the hot water heater!

I think…

Monday, August 27, 2007

Thirsty for More

I was so young when we left Church #1 that most of my memories are just vague recollections of kindly Sunday School teachers and a wonderfully heroic Senior Pastor whom I adored.

Church #2 was a disaster of epic proportions. It was where my father suffered through a debilitating mid-life crisis; I learned about legalism at the seat of its master; and my mother discovered that not even having family close by was worth spiritual torture.

Our family found its stride in Church #3 where we were accepted (warts and all) and loved. I spent the bulk of my teenage years, my college summers, and the first part of my married life happily ensconced in the comfort bubble of Church #3.

The decision to leave Church #3 was difficult and resulted from number of factors, mostly from the realization that for all the love, comfort, and familiarity of our church family, we, personally, were not growing spiritually.

Now, we are at Church #4, and I can honestly say it is the best place for our hearts. The Lord led us, clearly and with no doubts, to this amazing congregation of believers.

We were discussing this last night, and I felt the need to blog about the conversation.

I remember at Church #2 when the pastor would go on and on and on for up to three hours, and all the church people would be exasperated. Nothing of worth was expounded on in those extra two hours, and it seemed like extra time for appearance’s sake, only.

When my family attended Church #3, the main thing that impressed me (upon first perusal as a 13 year old) was the short sermon length. Over the years, I became enamored with the wonderful church family and my involvement in the ministries of the Lord’s house. However, I cannot honestly look back and point to specific spiritual truths I learned during those years.

The bulk of my spiritual learning was done in four short but intense years at
Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. Part of the reason we left Church #3 shortly after we graduated was because we saw what we COULD be learning compared to what we were NOT learning.

But Church #4 is a different story. We go to church hungry to learn. Thirsty to hear. We revel in the Word. We are convicted. Our toes are bruised, and still we come back for more. It is like a burning need where before there was only festering apathy.

Last night was a prime example. We had a missionary presentation, two testimonies for church membership, AND a sermon. It was two hours long, and it felt like 30 minutes had barely passed. We didn’t feel the time, because it was flying by. We were being blessed.

I know two hours at another church would have FELT like two hours, but here it felt like a flash. Sort of how I imagine a tiny second in heaven might pass!

Just a little blessing we experienced that I wanted to pass along.

When Semis Block the Sun

In spite of my cynical and sarcastic nature, I am a born optimist. It comes from being born to two of the most cheerful people in the world.

When I say, “They woke up singing.” I am not speaking figuratively.

Brett, on the other hand, is a kind and thoughtful person who is a pessimist by nature.

In other words, while I know people are nasty, evil creatures out to get you, I don’t mind all that much. Brett sees the best in people and often (most often) they disappoint him, and he lives perpetually wounded by the unseen, uncaring slight of others.

That said, my occasional spurt of optimism can be a little annoying to my husband. He calls it my Pollyanna nature.

You know Pollyanna, don’t you? That wonderfully, perky heroine played by Haley Mills? I LOVED that movie as a kid. Loved it. Loved it. Loved it.

I wanted to BE Pollyanna (well, at least until she broke both her legs and went all manic-depressive). I even made a promise to my ten year old self that I would name my first born (a girl, to be sure) Pollyanna.

I’ve passed by Pollyanna as a possible name for my eventual little ones, but I still love the movie and the feelings the Pollyanna name evoke.

I say all this to tell you a little story about this past Sunday.

We were on our way to Sunday School and running a few minutes late. Brett wanted to stop for a mocha at Starbucks, and I thought we could swing it and still get to Sunday School a few minutes late.

Well, we got the coffee, and I ordered an oatmeal cookie. Now, if YOU saw something advertised as an “Oatmeal Cookie,” what would YOU think? I assume you would, as I did, think you were going to get an actual oatmeal cookie.

Imagine my surprise when I opened my oatmeal cookie bag and saw a big cookie with oatmeal in it and squishy bugs sprinkled on top.

Okay, okay, they weren’t squishy bugs - they were raisins. But when you hate raisins as much as I do, squishy bugs would be comparable.

Why didn’t the sign say, “Oatmeal Raisin Cooke?” Because that was (indeed) what it was.

There are two kinds of people in this world.

People who recognize raisins as the nasty, shriveled up, bordering-on-past-spoiled-fruit resembling squishy bugs that you would normally kill, ball up in a tissue and throw away in the furthest trash can possible.

And those people who eat said resembling squishy bugs and still manage to keep living, or (to be concise) raisin lovers.

I am not (if you couldn’t tell) a raisin aficionado.

So, I asked the lady (over Brett’s get-over-it-they’re-just-raisins-I-can’t-believe-you’re doing-this unflinching stare) if they had any other cookies as “The sign didn’t say anything about (disgusting look on my face) raisins.”

To her credit, our cheerful Starbucks lady offered to get me a chocolate chip cookie, told us to keep the oatmeal-ish cookie, and probably went back to her station wishing she’d spit in my husband’s mocha when she’d had the chance.

That little exchange cost us a few minutes more, and my husband had to *cough* make up time *cough* on the road.

Only there were multiple semis in both lanes of traffic.

I could almost SEE the steam rising out of Brett’s ears (as I happily munched on my raisin-free chocolate chip cookie).

“I hate these semis,” he told me. “Is there anything good about semis?” He loves to challenge me.

I squinted at the hot sun for a second before it was eclipsed by a speeding semi a foot from my door.

I smiled at him. “At least, they block the sun.”

“Thank you, Pollyanna,” he retorted. But I saw him visibly relax and lean back a little more in the now (thanks to our neighboring semi) shaded drivers’ seat.

So, in a way, I guess I get to live my childhood dream, one Pollyanna saying at a time.

Now, time to play the Glad Game! Anything good about raisins? No? Oh well! I guess even this Pollyanna has her limits.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Commercial Craze

I have long been fascinated by commercials.

Even as a little kid, I often liked the commercials better than the show. Such was my fascination that it prompted me to explore marketing and advertising, and eventually led me down the path to a career in public relations.

There are many classes of commercials, and over the years I’ve learned a thing or two about advertising and marketing ploys.

Still, I find myself constantly judging commercials, giving each one a letter grade. If it’s so bland I’m bored, it gets an F. If it’s badly done, but gets my attention due to the producer’s incompetence, it gets a D. If it’s mildly entertaining, and I can remember the product name 10 seconds after it’s done, it gets a C. If I laugh in my mind or am made to think hard about a subject, it gets a B. And, if I laugh out loud or want to cry (or whatever the desired response is) each time I see it, it gets a bona fide A.

Very rare things, those A’s.

Then, there are those other commercials. The ones I’m not exactly sure how to grade, since, well… here’s an example –

I was watching this commercial of a bunch of different guys with guitars - in all different parts of the country. One guy is sitting in a honky-tonk bar, strumming his guitar, the other guy is in a barn during a hoe down, one is sitting by the New York subway, and another one is in a jazz club. The camera cuts to each guy, sitting and strumming, the same song.

The tune is set to Viva, Las Vegas! but the words are different. The guys are singing about their wives and how much they love them.

I like Viva, Las Vegas! and the tune IS catchy, so I’m kind of humming along waiting for the inevitable moment when they burst out with VIVA, LAS VEGAS!

And then the camera cuts to the guitar player in the jazz club who proudly bursts out with VIVA, VIAGRA!

I was so mad! I LOVE that song, and now they've forever ruined by tying it to an ED drug.

I know, I know, I should have seen it coming. Guitars? Manly men? Yep, it’s a Viagra drug ad. But, I have to admit (and I’m not proud of this) I was completely blindsided.

I even burst out, “WHAT?!” after I was cheated out of my big singing moment. Brett laughed pretty hard.

“What did you think it was for?” he asked. Apparently men have a Viagra ad sensor, and he immediately knew what it was for, since he swore on a stack of Bibles he’d never seen it before.

“Not Viagra,” was all I could come up with. “Definitely not Viagra.”

There is another ad currently getting on my nerves. It is the new Old Navy ad for their three different jeans – the Diva Cut, the Flirt Cut, and the Sweetheart Cut. Now, I guess they’ve proved themselves, since I am able to remember the cut names while still hating the commercial, but I’m never buying a pair of those jeans.

I don’t like Old Navy anyway. It’s just not my style. It’s inevitably cheap fabric produced for the masses with a cookie-cutter monotony and lack of style I personally don’t find the least bit attractive. If you want to look like everybody else, sure…shop at Old Navy.

Setting my preferences aside, I’ve plenty of friends (especially in college) who love Old Navy. I really didn’t think about the store all that much until they started running these commercials.

The commercial consists of these three girls. I’m going to call them girls; although these are not the type of girls my mom would have wanted me hanging out with at any point in my life. I see the phrase Bad Influence hanging over their heads.

Anyway, the girls already have one strike against them as the camera shows the three of them walking down the street together. There is nothing but air where their thigh fat should be. Their legs have an inverted U shape that makes me sick. A woman would have to be unbelievable skinny to have that shape. It’s almost physically impossible to be that thin.

Secondly, the ad shows each of the girls in some sort of interaction with men. The Flirt Cut Girl is especially guilty, biting her lip, as she sends heavy-lidded fretful glances to the mirror. She slyly sidles up to the guy’s closet and begins humping the doorway. Or so it seems.


For his part, the guys is pulling on his shirt, buttoning it (up…down, I can’t tell) and you’re led to believe that either some hanky-panky just ended or is about to start.

Either way, I’m not seeing what jeans have to do with it.

The girls all wear dark make-up and have a better-than-you attitude that actually just makes me want to shred their jeans, not buy a pair of my own.

I realize, of course, that the people at Old Navy are not marketing to me. They already know someone like me isn’t going to buy their jeans.

At least, not until they make the Chubby Cut.

Monday, August 20, 2007

29 and Holding

It’s my 29th birthday!

I would like to thank:

My mother and father - for being the best parents in the world

My husband - for making me feel loved, secure, and self-confident for the last eleven years

My friends and family - for knowing all my flaws and accepting me and loving me in spite of them

Most of all, my precious Savior - who has given me the gift of eternal life which will be a lot longer than these short 29 years

Thank you to all the wonderful people who make me glad to be alive!

Favorite birthday quote:
“Why do people have birthday parties? All they did was not die. You could have that party every day if you wanted to." - Anonymous

Friday, August 17, 2007

One of My Favorites

I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times, but every time I see this saying, I think of my kind and sweet husband:

No boy is worth crying over
and the one who is
won’t make you cry.

- Sarah Kane, Age 10

Totally Cool Co-Workers!

I have the world’s best co-workers.

Really!

Yesterday, one off my co-workers offered to take me out to lunch to celebrate my birthday. I told her that was SO sweet. She wanted to know where I wanted to go, but I asked her if she had a taste for anything. “I was thinking Olive Garden,” she said.

In my head, I’d been thinking Arby’s or Beef-a-Roo, since I didn’t want her to go broke taking me out to lunch, so I was like, “Wow, Olive Garden. Are you sure?”

She was like, “Yeah, let’s go there.”

So, not only did she drive me all the way to the Olive Garden, she bought us an appetizer (toasted ravioli and fried mozzarella), both our meals, AND the Black Tie Mousse Cake for dessert! I could NOT believe it! That must have cost her a MINT!

I had no idea she was going to treat me to that much. We’ve become friends, but WOW, I mean for a co-worker to go all out like that…it’s just this wonderful surprise I never expected!

It was a great start to my birthday celebration! I’m also SUPER excited for my birthday party tonight at Mom’s. Some of my very best family and friends are going to be there, and (honestly) who could ask for anything more?

Well, (honestly) I wouldn’t mind just a tad more of that Black Tie Mousse Cake.

Oh. My. Yum.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Happy Birthday From The Rotten Poet

To Tancy

It’s your birthday – a happy time of year
Memories of you are what I hold so dear
Diving for the volleyball or dribbling down the courts
I didn’t really know you, but that you loved your sports

Off we went to college – making separate friends
But now we find we made the same ones, so I guess it just depends
On how I see you now through your precious blogs
When I cry with laughter as you talk of bathroom clogs

We’ve a great deal in common now – mostly with the pounds
We’ll keep trying to lose them ‘til Doomsday comes around
I’ve come to treasure you, and on your shoulder always lean
My sporty, spirited friend – another rebel from Berean

Happy Birthday, Tancy!!!


And YES, I know it isn’t until tomorrow, but poorly written poetry waits for no woman.

What Are You Proud Of?

You know what I’m talking about. The secret talent or accomplishment that might seem sort of ridiculous to someone else, but for you it’s a matter of personal pride.

Here’s one of mine. In fifth grade, our class had to take musical aptitude tests to see which band instrument we were most suited for. I scored perfect on the rhythm test (not to be confused with the rhythm method – although that might explain an inability to conceive thus far).

The test administrator, an instrument specialist, was amazed by my accomplishment and told my parents he had never seen anyone get a perfect score on the rhythm test before.

Then he sold my parents a snare drum, worth hundreds of dollars, for their budding (and apparently brilliantly rhythmical) musician.

For a couple of days I walked around in a haze. I had rhythm. Mom always said I had good “timing” when I would sing along with Steven Green in the car, but now I knew it was “rhythm” and someone other than my mom thought so.

I snapped my fingers for hours and wondered how my talent could have gone undiscovered for so long. I saw myself being described thence forth as Writer and Musician, Ann-Marie Trotter.

Then, inevitably, came the letdown.

For, you see, I attended a hyper conservative Christian school where the word “rhythm” conjured up visions of evil rock and roll - the “Devil’s tongue” music.

Alas, my great talent wasted on all but a few Sousa marches for the school’s end of the year concert.

I practiced for hours on my drum and was heartbroken when my efforts were funneled into a few lethargic taps on every other band song.

My parents, however, delighted in telling people about my perfect score and that their daughter was a “drummer” in a band.

I stuck with my sad little drum and my few resounding taps until I reached high school.

I remember walking into the cavernous high school band room for the first time. There, behind the flutes, trumpets, trombones, and French horns, was the percussion section.

There they stood, in all their coolness, the residents of Drummer Boy Alley.


The rebels of the school, hair-slicked back, hands stuffed in their pockets, slouched up against the wall whispering and man-gossiping. They had figured out a long time ago that being in the percussion section of a Christian school band was minimal effort to a passing grade. And, of course, the flirting opportunities with the opposite sex far surpassed the meager prospects of a boring study hall.

I imagine if I had been thinner or cuter, the boys might have liked the prospect of having a hot girl in the percussion section. Unfortunately for them, I was not at all popular and about the size of our big bass drum.


I was an outcast from the beginning.

Being new had more than its share of disadvantages. For the few percussion parts there were, the older boys took first priority. All my rhythm talent was wasted that first year as I played in only three songs. Each one I was the featured soloist on the triangle.

That’s right. The triangle.

I was fully aware that any 3 year old could play the triangle with the same propensity I could.

On the other hand, the boys had graduated from completely ignoring me to throwing the sheet music in my general direction. I spent half my time in band shuffling my music back in the right order after the boys purposely knocked it off my music stand, and the other half huddled in a corner watching from afar while the all-girl flute section talked and giggled about boys.


I found myself wishing God had gifted me with the ability to play the flute. Who cared about my unique rhythm gift in a Christian school? No one, that's who.

I would have fared better knowing how to play the cantaloupe.

There must have been five boys to my one girl in the percussion section, all older and all cooler than I could ever hope to be. By the end of my sophomore year, I had been hedged out of all the percussion parts, except for the occasional triangle accompaniment.

For me, it was good enough reason to finally quit.

I’d never quit anything before. I was almost afraid to tell my parents, knowing full well they’d spent hundreds of dollars on my barely-used drum. I explained the whole thing from beginning to end, finishing with the argument that I’d probably get more out of the extra study hall anyway.

My parents were gracious, and my dad said he didn’t really think of it as quitting since I had stuck with it for six years. “It’s not like you quit after a month or so,” he pointed out.

Thus was the end of my career as a brilliant rhythm musician. I may not have been a great jazz player or even a great drummer, but I live with the knowledge (and the secret pride) that I do, indeed, have a perfect score in rhythm.

So, bring it on Steve Green. Bring it on.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

MUTHER!!!

Well, Mom is posting on her own now. And what does she go and do but put a nice embarrassing photo of me on her blog! What are parents for if they still can’t embarrass you when you’re out of diapers!

Click here (
http://retiredandlovingit-mom.blogspot.com/2007/08/help-ann-marie.html) to see the post. It was the day it was so hot at the Heilman Reunion, and I was just so heat whacked.

It looks like I had too much to drink and passed out!

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Everything You Wanted To Know But Were Afraid To Ask

As I read through different blogs, questions seem to circle in my mind. Questions I would like to ask the blog’s writer.

Of course, I rarely do, since I don’t wish to sound offensive or combative. Since my sarcasm doesn’t always translate well to the written word, I tend to err on the side of caution.

(Okay, my family, you may stop laughing. You KNOW I never MEAN to be offensive. Imagine if I TRIED. Seriously. Stop giggling.)

Some examples of this would be:

Why do you home school? (Wendy)
Why does illegal immigration bother you? (October)

I don’t have a great deal of pre-disposed knowledge on these topics, and frankly I’m just curious.

I say all this, since I imagine one or two people might have a question they’d like to ask me about XYZ. Why do I like movies so much? Why do I advocate zero population growth? Why all the bunny love?

Or maybe even more serious topics...

So, I’m just saying if you have a burning question, like I know I do, feel free to ask!

The Culottes Contradiction

It is said that when people make plans, God laughs.

It is true that we make plans for our lives, swearing to never be like that person or never do this or that, and yet we find ourselves in that very predicament later in life.

Well, I’ve come full circle.

Today, I willingly, for the first time in a l-o-n-g time, pulled on a pair of culottes.

Now, they are longer, sleeker, and made to look professional. And, if I wanted to wiggle out of my obligation, I could call them gaucho pants, but I know what they really are.

Culottes.

The bane of my existence through most of my childhood, I swore upon my high school graduation to never willingly don another pair of the hated skirt-pant.

My graduating girlfriends gathered with me in secret to do something we’d dreamed about during every gym class and volleyball game – burn our culottes. As we watched our crimson colored culottes turn to ash and drift toward the blue sky overhead, we toasted ourselves with Clearly Canadian (remember CC? Flavored carbonated water was ALL the rage in the mid-90’s).


We were finally free from the legalistic oppression that had forced us to repeatedly wear the most hideous clothing in the known universe. Only leggings crafted from rat carcasses could have been worse.

I hated culottes on sight. I never understood the right wing fundamentalist drift that embraced and adored culottes. They were the holy grail of Christian feminine wear.

But, see, they weren’t. They were… revolting. Billowy and scratchy with weird half-calf lengths. They were flattering to no one. And, as a fat girl, I had long since realized that clothing makes you neither closer nor farther from God. It simply covers you. And as long as you were, indeed, covered in some semblance of modesty, I could see no purpose for culottes.

They were the worst of two worlds, a revolting collision of poor taste and male-dominated legalism.

When I went off to my not-Baptist-school-approved Christian college and told my tale of culottes, I found few believers. No one could imagine what it must have been like for me. It seemed incredible to the non-brainwashed.

Until one day, a new girl pulled me aside. “I have to show you something,” she whispered.

We made our way to her room. “I wish I’d had the guts to burn mine,” she admitted as she opened her closet. There, folded neatly, was a royal blue pair of the hated garment. She unfolded it, and I found myself looking at the writing Calvary Baptist School.

“No one on my floor believes me either,” she said conspiratorially.

As I grew spiritually at college, I began to realize that I didn’t actually hate culottes. They were, after all, simply a piece of clothing. I could no more hate calico or denim.

I simply hated what they had come to represent to me.

They were a tangible reminder of people who took Bible verses wildly out of context. They were another nail in the coffin of “christianized” female oppression. They forced women to be defined by what they wore and not who they were. They were…strangely losing their hold on me.

I found myself finally being able to separate the clothing from the attitudes I had once hated.


So, it was a strange feeling of freedom when I bought my first pair of culottes post-high school. I felt like I had finally crossed a new threshold of understanding and knowledge.

Now, if I could only find some Clearly Canadian.

Monday, August 13, 2007

My Birthday

Let the countdown begin!

It is officially a week until my 29th birthday!

I hope I can count on you to stop by my blog next Monday, August 20, and say “hi” so I can have a nice big comment section as my cyber-present from my blogging friends!

My New Photo

I was recently interviewed for a local magazine article. They asked me for a head-and-shoulders photo to run alongside the article.

Well, when one is not particularly thrilled with how one looks, one does not necessarily sit around snapping photos of oneself. Therefore, I had no recent photo to give them.

The magazine would not take “no” for an answer, so they sent me over to a local photographer for a business photo…at THEIR expense!

Unfortunately for me, it was the hottest day of the year. Hence, my hair is flat and a tad bit frizzled. However, I am grateful, as the photographer was a pro, and my co-worker Nancy came along to help tame my tepid tresses.

The work of art you see (at right) is the result. Believe me, it’s 100 times better than it would have been if I had not had a professional photographer.

Studying myself in a professionally shot photo brings about all the normal self criticisms about how I would like to look better. But what puzzles me most is that I do not look like the kind of person I envision myself to be.


Maybe it’s just me, but when you look at my photo, doesn’t it bring to mind someone who bakes a lot of cookies and swaps recipes at the local A&P?

I look positively domestic.

God definitely has a sense of humor.

P.S. – And NO, I don’t know why I am all hunched over like that. Seriously, I don’t remember any hunching.

Weather Wit

Despite the fact that I am not a huge talk radio fan, I do occasionally listen to Chicago’s WGN station in the morning.

The other day, the meteorologist had me laughing when he referred to our Midwestern heat and humidity as “air you can wear.”

That is SO true!

Soccer Stars and Sunstroke

My face is as red as a cherry tomato.

Well, since we’re talking about Old Chubby here, I guess “as red as a regular tomato” is just as appropriate.

Hot, hot, and more hot! We spent all day Sunday sunning ourselves in the extreme heat at Gary’s Heilman Family Reunion in Freeport.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a lot of fun. It was just so unbelievably hot. I think I actually got sunstroke.

It was nice to see Gary’s family, especially Camille (Gary’s daughter) and her family. Camille’s husband Dave is a firefighter, so (as always) he had some great stories to tell us. We also got to play lawn golf (photos to be posted on mom’s site soon) with my amazingly talented niece Brigitte and nephew Andrew.

Andrew is going to be ten, and Brigitte just celebrated the big number “5” recently. I can’t believe how fast they are growing up. Camille had just given birth to Brigitte a month or so before Mom and Gary got married.

Friday and Saturday were unexpectedly busy. We had a surprise visit by Brett’s brother Bill and his family. Their youngest son, Steven, a budding soccer star, had a seating tournament in Rockford.

Steven is on the fast track to being the next David Beckham. He’s already been selected to be on the Olympic Development Team at the state level. If he survives the cuts, he could move on the regional level, and then eventually on to the US Olympic team.

And he’s only 13!

The five of us had dinner Friday night at Lonestar. I asked Steven what he plans to do if he becomes a soccer superstar. He told me that I could visit him in his mansion whenever I wanted (he wasn’t sure about Uncle Brett), and he said he would sign autographs for all my friends.

His mom and dad asked him what he wanted to have in his mansion. He said a pool table, foosball table, and one 72 inch plasma TV. When we asked him what he planned to do for his parents, he said they could live with him, but they would have to do all his grocery shopping!

Bill, my brother-in-law, asked what car he would buy his parents, since Steven kept talking about “his” new Mercedes and Mustang. “Oh, you guys could drive a new Loser Cruiser,” he said, referring to his parents’ mini-van outside.

Too funny!

We also got to see our superstar in action. We caught one of his games at Sportscore Two and saw his amazing potential.

He really is THAT good. But Sally, my sister-in-law, says he eats, breathes, and lives soccer. “If he’s not sleeping, he’s practicing or at a game,” she told us.

For his “down” time, she said he plays virtual reality soccer! Crazy!

So, we were able to attend a game on Saturday with a field trip to Volcano Falls, so Steven could try out their soccer cages. We eventually ended up back at the hotel where an exhausted Steven fell into bed (six games in two days will do that to you).

The four adults then adjourned to the hotel lobby where we played Sequence until the wee hours! We had such a good time!

That, plus the fun on Sunday, almost makes up for my cherry tomato sunburned face.

Almost!

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Sucked into Reality (Show, That Is)

How many years has Survivor been on TV now? Fourteen, fifteen years?

I remember when it was introduced, and I thought, “You couldn’t PAY me to watch this show!”

I was more surprised than anyone when it became a stellar hit.

Knowing my aversion to all things outdoors, you’ll understand why I can never bring myself to watch more than a few minutes.

Since camping is equal to cruel and unusual punishment in my mind, it is beyond reason to me why people would televise and/or watch and/or participate in such a disgusting spectacle.

Every year I see the promos for it on TV, and my psyche responds with a gut reaction.

“Ewwwwww.” A slight pause. Then. “Yucky.” Often followed by, “yucky, yucky.”

So, you might think I am well protected from the reality show temptation.

Not so.

A couple of years ago, I got sucked into the sleazy-almost-bordering-on-salacious Fox show Paradise Hotel. It was more “spa” than Survivor with gorgeous hotel guests completing “challenges” in the tropical blue water off the coast of a luxurious island.

There was a lot of whispering, conniving, manipulating, back-stabbing, and politicking to see who would win the prize. As I remember it, the prize was some obscene amount of money.

I would watch the show in secret, often waiting until Brett headed upstairs to work on bills or watch his shows. I knew, in my heart of hearts, what would happen if he caught me watching my “trashy” show.

Sure enough, one night he came downstairs for ice cream and saw me mesmerized by the blue glow of the TV and the provocative antics of my Paradise Hotel friends.

He gave me the famous “husband eyebrow raise.”

The look that says, “Hey, you’re a grown woman, and I can’t tell you what to do, but are you sure you want to be watching that? Would the woman I married watch that?”

And that was that. I was shamed by a single eyebrow.

I said goodbye to my Paradise Hotel friends and figured I would be safe from now on.

Uh-huh. Sure.

Well, it has happened again.

Not with Paradise Hotel, thank goodness. But with Big Brother.

Big Stupid Brother.

It’s like a train wreck where I just can’t look away.

Now, these houseguests keep a great deal MORE of their clothes on, but all the other stuff – backstabbing, conniving, and manipulation – is all there.

I find myself siding with alliances. I feel like I actually know these people.

But I don’t. Yet I care who wins. I inexplicably, unapologetically CARE WHO WINS!

Why? It’s not like they’re going to give ME the $500,000.

So, here I am again. Stuck in reality show madness.

I guess it makes sense that I would gravitate to Big Brother as opposed to a Survivor.

The Survivor people are outside on a remote island. The Big Brother people are safely sheltered in a mansion-sized house. The Survivor contestants have to fend for themselves. The Big Brother contestants have food catered in. Both shows, of course, do come complete with friends who will stab you in the back as soon as possible.

Perhaps, best of all, while the Survivor set deals with bugs, humidity, and parasites, the Big Brother house comes fully equipped with flushing toilets, air-conditioning, and comfy over-sized beds.

Which reality show do YOU think I would want to be on?

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Welcome, Mom!

Mom is new to the blogging world, so be sure to stop by her new blog and encourage her! After all, she IS the best mom in the world.

Mom’s blog is
http://www.retiredandlovingit-mom.blogspot.com.

Hector, My Little Honey

I spent most of Monday afternoon and early evening at Mom’s. Together, we figured out how to download photos and videos from her new digital camera to her PC. It was fun for me to work with relevant IT, and Mom was able to get some hands-on technology experience.

I had planned to use most of Tuesday to do nothing. I was going to lay around and watch Dr. Quinn episodes and my new He-Man and the Masters of Universe Commemorative DVD rental from Netflix.


Since most of my other “unscheduled” days had filled up, as wonderful as they were, I was looking forward to some down time.

Alas, it was not to be.

When I first announced my vacation, my friend Wendy said she would consider it a vacation to go through one day and not get pooped on.

“How funny!” I thought at the time.

When I went upstairs on Tuesday to feed the bunnies and take a shower, I saw poor little Hector just miserable, quivering in the corner. There was wet bunny poo EVERYWHERE!

Out of my three bunnies, Hector is the most tidy about his litter box habits. I could tell he felt awful about not being able to control his bowels. I scooped him up (therefore, indeed, getting pooped on – thanks for the foreshadowing, Wendy) and called our vet.

I was then disheartened to find our vet no longer worked at that animal clinic. In fact, the clinic had NO exotic animal vet. They recommended I call another clinic; that clinic had an exotic vet, but she was on vacation. On my third try, I finally reached a clinic that had an exotic vet who was actually in the office.

By God’s grace, I got an afternoon appointment. I called Mom for moral support, just in case. She kindly offered to take me and her “grand bunny” to the vet.

The financial cost of the new vet was HIGH to say the least, easily twice the previous clinic’s cost. However, I liked this vet right off the bat. She was gentle with Hector and spoke with a degree of respect for animals that I find lacking in most people.

After taking numerous samples and administering intravenous fluids for my little guy, she diagnosed him with a bacterial infection. We have to give him medication twice a day for seven days, but it looks like he will pull through.

This morning, he looked a little more chipper (still under the weather, though). He was drinking just fine though, so I think he should be able to stay hydrated. Of course, we are in a pinch for groceries, since we used our grocery money to pay the vet bill. Guess it’s Cheerios and pasta for the rest of the week!

We are so grateful our little guy is going to be okay - it will totally be worth it.

Almost all of my Tuesday, the last day of my vacation, was taken up with rabbit parent duties. None of which included down time.

All in all, though, my vacation was really wonderful. Even if I did get pooped on.

Baby Shower Bingo!

Sunday was church, and then a family baby shower for my Cousin Jason’s wife, Jennifer. They are having a girl, due on September 6, which also happens to be Aunt Judi’s birthday (for you Rehfeldt family members out there). She’s rooting for a birth-on-her-birthday.

Since I share my August birthday with my oldest and youngest aunts, I know how cool it is! So, fingers crossed for another double birthday!

Brett was born on his dad’s and his uncle’s birthday. In fact, Brett’s dad, who is NOT a sentimental man, likes to tell people that Brett is the best birthday gift he ever got.

Aww…is that sweet or what?

Brett’s favorite family photo is of him at four years old sitting on his father’s lap during their birthday blowing out their candles together.

Say it with me people, aww….

My second cousin Hannah was almost born on “our” birthday but decided she wanted to be her own person and held on for one extra day! Aunt Linda, Aunt Laurie, and I were a little sad!

Jennifer’s shower was fun! Kara (who is married to Jason’s brother – and obviously also my cousin – Paul) hosted the shower at her house. The food was fabulous, catered by King’s Table Catering. There were vegetarian-friendly organic foods and sandwiches, since Jason and Jennifer are ardent vegetarians. There was also a meat tray for any carnivores in attendance. Everything was SO good!

A special cake was brought it from Dinkleman’s, the famous Chicago bakery. The cake was especially decadent with a strawberry filling. I don’t even LIKE strawberries, and this was one of the best cakes I’ve ever tasted!

There was also a new baby shower game – Baby Shower Bingo – where we crossed off squares for common baby gift items. The first one to bingo won a prize. I liked the game because it made you personally invested in what she was unwrapping, instead of oohing and aahing and not really paying attention (okay, I admit it. I don’t pay attention at baby showers. Never have. Sorry). But the game helped hold my attention and boy did I care what she was getting!

Aunt Louise was the first one to bingo. No surprise there.

There was nice representation of Jason’s family there with Aunt Venita (the grandma-to-be aka Jason’s mom), Kara, Mom, me, Aunt Louise, Aunt Judi, and Elizabeth.

It was great to see family and “shower” the soon-to-be-baby with gifts, including a Baby Bjorn from several of us Rehfeldt family members!

Isn’t That What Boy Scouts Do?

Have you heard that old adage about how Boy Scouts always help little old ladies across the street?

Well, my husband, who has not been a Boy Scout for many years, got to live up to his old credo this past Saturday.

We were on our way back from dinner at Chili’s, where we had to wait 35 minutes just to be seated, even though it was BEFORE 5:00 p.m. That’s what happens when it’s the only decent sit down restaurant on the brand new burgeoning commercial corridor that is 173.

However, we did meet several nice couples while we were all jammed into Chili’s shamefully small waiting area. We were practically living in sin with these people, so it seemed courteous to introduce ourselves.

When we finally sat down, it was across from Rowdy Kid Town – which is actually not so noticeable at Chili’s – a nice feature. We had a good waitress, but she dropped Brett’s fajita dish on the floor, and it took ANOTHER 30 minutes to have it prepared.

Still, the food was delish, and we ran into Uncle Billy, Lina, and Billy’s brother whose-name-I-always-forget. I’m sure he thought I was rude, since I didn’t look at him once – on account of the fact I was trying really hard to remember his name.

Later, in the car, I slapped my head and said, “That’s right! It’s Gray. No wait, it’s Gary.”


Brett stopped me just short of congratulating myself by pointing out it was “Ray” and not “Gray” or “Gary.” He also argued with me that “Gray” is not a name.

It is SO a name!

Anyway, we were on a mission to get over to Mom and Gary’s (at least I know HIS name) to help Mom with some PC issues. As we sped down 251, we saw a sweet little old lady pulled over on the side of the road.

My hero pulled over, put his hazards on, and jumped out eagerly to help. He called the police, and then we waited about an hour and half for them to get there.

When the officer DID finally arrive, the poor guy looked so harassed. He apologized for being late. Turns out, right after our traffic call, he had to go break up a bar fight and then on his way to us, his car battery died. So, he had to get a tow, and then start all over again. He thanked Brett profusely for staying at the scene.

He did a little detective work and discovered someone had lost their muffler and our little old lady had run over it. This had caused her car to run off the side of the road, halfway into the ditch.

I marveled at my hubby as he stood for over an hour and a half – while it got dark – on the side of a major highway – chit chatting with this sweet old lady like she was the most interesting person in the world.

Sometimes, I just LOVE that man.

I stayed in the car (Brett told me the police don’t like more than two people on the side of the road, for safety sake) and listened to a conservative talk radio loony who proclaimed Hilary Clinton as the devil. If this guy ever meets the REAL devil, he’s got a big surprise coming.

Anyhoo, after the whole fiasco, we left our little old lady in the capable hands of the Roscoe police department and headed home.

Brett apologized for the delay, since he knew it was too late to head over to Mom and Gary’s. I told him I hope a nice man will stop and help if that ever happens to me.

Then I told him that besides being her hero, he was mine!

Steak Fry Friday

Our church partnered with Mom and Gary’s church – well, that’s not the church’s official name (it’s First Baptist) but that’s how we like to think of it – for a men’s Steak Fry on Friday. With Brett and Gary on their way to High Cholesterol City, Mom and I decided to celebrate with a Girl’s Night Out!

We looked up the Cattail Lounge (at the Ramada Inn in Beloit) menu online and decided to try it out.

Wouldn’t you know it? When we got there, we discovered that, on Friday night, they don’t allow off-the-menu ordering. Instead, they have a steak and shrimp buffet. Now, this might be good news for some people, but the two things I avoid (like the plague) are RED MEAT and SEAFOOD. So, there you go. Cattail Lounge (at least on a Friday) is NOT the place for me!

We settled on DiGiovanni’s in Roscoe. Mom treated herself to filet mignon and a virgin Pina Colada. She asked the waitress two times to make sure it was alcohol-free. Mom’s always afraid someone is going to try to slip her some alcohol just to mess with her mind. Ah, my mother!

I was going to buy something “el cheapo” until Mom offered to treat. Well, then, of course, I had to try the Chicken Alfredo Pizza. And I let Mom talk me into trying a virgin Peach Daiquiri. Both were – oh. my. yum. – delicious.

Afterward, we went back to Mom’s and watched a movie Mom bought for $1 at a garage sale the previous day. It was…well, let’s just say it was over priced. Oh well, they can’t all be winners!

Brett checked in via cell phone after the steak-fry and managed to talk me into going home, so we could actually see each other for more than five minutes.

It’s nice to be missed!

P.S. – Thanks for the delicious dinner, Mom! You know, I think my drink tasted funny. How was yours? Ha! Ha! Just kidding!

It’s Just an Old Family Tradition

It is a family tradition handed down from…well, just the previous generation, I guess. It is GARAGE SAILING (or SALEING if you are a picky speller).

When I was a little girl, I remember being packed up in a hot car and spending every Wednesday of the summer garage sailing around Rockford. In fact, that’s how I learned all my local street names. Halstead. Ridge. Rockton. Auburn. And so on.

It would be me, Mom, Aunt Louise, Aunt Kathy, Aunt Jan, and a host of my Boehm cousins. We’d bundle in and out of the cars, peruse the goods, beg for quarters, drink 10 cent lemonade, and then trade our penny purchases back and forth.

We’d break for lunch – sometimes a picnic in the park or (if we were lucky and the “mom’s” didn’t feel like making the effort) treat ourselves to McDonald’s!

I’d say a good quarter of my childhood summers were spent in other people’s garages looking at their junk.

Well, the tradition lives on. And I’d be lying if I said it still doesn’t bring back warm fuzzies.


I always suspect I’ll see Aunt Kathy just around the corner sorting through an old pile of kids’ clothes. And sometimes, I swear I hear her contagious belly laugh echo out past the old furniture and worn-out bean bag chairs.

Garage sailing is more than just a family tradition; it’s in my blood.

So, this past Thursday, we decided to perpetuate the Rehfeldt stereotype of bargain hunting experts. Mom, Candice, and I all packed into Mom’s nicely cooled car. That is one sign of the changing times I fully appreciate – air conditioned cars.

We hit the jackpot! We found lots of clothes, games, books, and all manners of other assorted treasures. Plus, we just had a good time together. Candice is my “adopted” sister-cousin, and I’m ever grateful to her for the company.

The three of us met Angie for lunch at the Northwoods Beef-a-Roo. So good…as always. Then, while Angie headed to work, the remaining three of us took in the new No Reservations movie at Showplace 14.

It was nice change of pace to see a movie with no swearing, sex, or inappropriate innuendos. It surprised me exactly how family-friendly this movie was, plus Abigail Breslin steals the show with her stunning portrayal of a young girl who has lost her mother and doesn’t understand the career-minded aunt who is now her guardian.

It was charming and only a little smarmy. But sometimes smarmy is nice. Especially with your mom and cousin sitting next to you.

We headed back out to our homes after that - tired, exhausted, but glad for the time we spent together. Only one more thing would have made it perfect.

It sure would have been nice to have Aunt Kathy along for the ride.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Remember those 200 word essays when we got back from summer vacation?

Other kids had to struggle to come up with 200 words for “stayed in my room and played video games.” I, on the other hand, had to restrain myself from making it a 1,000 word essay on my thoughts concerning all the books I had read during the summer.

Having no TV in the house when I was a kid made it easier for me to do more interesting things in the summer. No temptation!

This mini-summer vacation has been nice. It’s nice to roll around in bed and get up when I feel like it. And (shock and awe) I’ve hardly even watched any TV.

Fine. Don’t believe me. But it’s true.

Wednesday!

Wednesday night was SO cute. I helped out at Kids 4 Truth (poor Brett was home sick with the flu-like thingamajig I gave him…accidentally).

Our little mostly-girl group made me laugh so hard! I was the substitute leader for our group, since several families were out of town this past week.

This also meant I was the Bathroom Leader. I was very impressed with how fast the girls were finishing their business and washing their hands. When I was a little girl, we used to make that time s-t-r-e-t-c-h so we could mess around in the bathroom. (Hmm, don’t you feel sorry for MY AWANA leaders?)

Anyway, the little girl chorus said they were all done, and it was time to rush back into the big room. One little girl took my hand and led me out the door.

“We have to hurry,” she reminded me. “So we can beat the boys!”

Oh, so that’s what that was all about.

I hated to be the one to tell her, but I decided to be honest.

“Sweetheart,” I said. “The boys will always be done faster in the bathroom than the girls. It’s just the way it is.”

The girls nodded seriously, as the oldest girl in the group spoke up sagely, “That’s true. It’s because we’re prettier than the boys.”

I almost bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Well, we still want to use our time wisely,” I advised as our little group hurried back to the big room.

Mr. Jeremy was talking about the importance of reviewing the previous week’s lesson. He talked about how essential it was to remember the lessons we learn in Kids 4 Truth for our spiritual growth.

Then, he asked the kids for some other reasons why we should review the lessons and sometimes play review games.

A ripple of excitement went through the kid crowd. Review games are very popular.

As we waited silently for the kids to give more reasons to review, one little girl cheerfully and loudly interjected, “To beat the boys!”

The whole crowd laughed.

I guess she figured that if we couldn’t beat the boys in the coming-back-first-from-the-bathroom “game” then at least we had a shot in the review games.

After that, I sat in amazement as Mr. Jeremy led the kids in a review game where each correct answer led the kids to a video game world on the big view screen. Each child who answered correctly was able to go to a cyber bank to get cyber money and then a cyber sweet shop where they could “buy” cyber goodies.

It was sort of like being in the audience for Price’s Right. The kids couldn’t go over their money limit, or they would lose all their cyber goodies. The excitement was contagious as the kids shouted the correct answers and then “Buy!” and “Stop!” as the game went on.

Mostly, I sat back in wonder that Mr. Jeremy was doing a review game where he was giving absolutely nothing away and the kids were grinning like they’d won the lottery!

Hat’s off. The man is a genius. Where was he when I was buying gallon candy bags for my gig as Junior Church teacher back in high school?

Either way, it was fun to participate, even as a leader. And a great way to kick-off my mini-summer vacation.

Because, as we all know, I love to shop!

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Content to be Unscheduled

I am taking vacation.

Four blissful days with a weekend sandwiched in between. A little getaway taking me away from my office for nearly a week.

I’m thrilled. I’m even more thrilled that I don’t have anything planned.

Don’t get me wrong. If we had the money and Brett had the vacation time, we’d be headed to numerous vacation spots. We’d both like to go day tripping to Galena or Springfield, or overnighting in Door County or Wisconsin Dells, or longer trips to Florida, Vermont, Maine, and (while we’re dreaming) Hawaii. Or Alaska. We both have a yen to see the frozen shores.

But we’ve neither additional money nor vacation time (in Brett’s case that is. I have oodles of vacation time).

So, I’ve opted to spend a couple of unscheduled days off with nothing planned except for NOT going in to the office.

I tried an “unscheduled” vacation a couple of months ago and found the whole thing rather relaxing. It was so nice to have flexibility to do what I wanted when I wanted and know my paycheck would still be the same meager amount when I went back to work.

Thankfully, I have things I need to do (cleaning) and I want to do (writing) which are absolutely free. Which IS about all I can afford.

The way vacation works around here is…take it as soon as your schedule clears, since you don’t know when you’ll be free again. Just recently I finished two monstrous (albeit professionally satisfying) projects. My schedule cleared, and I saw a way to wheedle out of the few small tasks on my calendar and opt for vacation instead.

My boss (who has been after me for some time to TAKE a vacation for any length of time) quickly signed off on my request and even talked me into adding two more days than I’d originally planned.

So, I’m excited just contemplating the days ahead. I’ve already told myself NOT TO PLAN – because we all know what happens when we plan anything. Or I know in any case, that if I plan it, it won’t get done.

So, I’m just saying that if the cleaning bug bites then (for once) maybe I’ll have the energy to tackle one of my many dust filled rooms. Or finish a new chapter in Bruised. Or simply sleep until noon and then indulge in a couple episodes with my favorite pioneer, Dr. Quinn – Medicine Woman.

Who knows? I don’t, and that’s the deliciously juicy part of the whole thing!