I was bullied in my Christian school from 5th to 11th grade.
Those six years stand out in stark contrast to the rest of my life. The verbal, emotional, and physical abuse I endured at the hands of those bullies shaped the rest of my life.
Those are the scars I bear everyday. Their familiar voices whisper to me. They tell me I’m fat, ugly, and that no one will ever love me. They chant my insecurities in chorus and laugh loudly at my failures. They try to remind me how I am, in every possible way, a ludicrous, disgusting mess.
My shame in being bullied lies mostly in the fact that one no one ever believed me. Not my wonderful parents, not my teachers, not my principal, and not my pastor. At first, I thought it would just go away. So, I tried to ignore it.
But when the lack of adult intervention caused the boys to become braver and more hostile, I began to complain to the adults in my life. Some told me to keep ignoring it, and it would go away.
Other adults told me that the boys “liked” me and that’s why they were “teasing” me. After being corralled into the gym’s ball closet and hit repeatedly in the head with basketballs by the bullies, I’m glad they didn’t “like” me all the way to a broken jaw.
My classmates were the only ones that knew the truth. But they were afraid. Afraid that if they stood up for me, they would become the bullies’ next target. And I couldn’t blame them. So they stood by and did nothing. Some of them even blamed me for things they had done to upset the bullies. And, of course, the bullies never believed my protestations of innocence, and punished me mercilessly anyway.
I’m detailing the bullies’ actions in my life stories collection, but I thought I could sketch them out here, one by one.
Elementary/Middle School
Main Bully – Josh
Henchman 1 – B
Henchman 2 – D
High School
Bully 1 – C
Bully 2 – J
Bully 3 – S
Let’s start with the lesser of all the evils, as posts about Josh could tend to get a bit long.
My high school bullies were a walk in the park compared to middle school. It was not a pleasant experience by any means, but infinitely more bearable.
My cousin Charity says I should “forgive and forget” what these guys did to me. I have to remind her that although she wasn’t popular in high school, these guys didn’t make fun of her for sport. They simply ignored her. I would have given anything to be ignored!
C, J, and S were all in the class ahead of me. Most of the time they left me alone (for which I was grateful, especially after my everyday harassment by Josh in middle school), but occasionally they dragged out their verbal bats and used me as their piñata.
I remember two instances, specifically. These are (of course) not counting all the sarcastic remarks and guffaws made in public at my expense.
C, J & S all sat at the same table in the lunchroom. One day when I walked into the lunchroom, C stood up, pointed at me, and yelled, “Ahoy! It’s Moby Dick! Look at that blubber! Run for cover!” At that point, in a moment that must have taken a great deal of planning and choreographing, the entire high school dove under their lunch tables. I stood, alone, in the doorway.
I don’t know how I didn’t cry. I know I wanted to. Perhaps the hardest thing was seeing the faces of the people I considered my “friends” peeking out from under their tables. Their eyes were penitent, apologizing to me. But I was expected to understand, since I “knew how it was” if they didn’t “go along.”
A second vivid memory of C, J & S happened in the economics class the Junior and Senior classes shared. The highlight of the Junior/Senior Economic Class was the end of the year life-size Monopoly game. The economics teacher has created this wonderful game board, complete with giant dice, where members of the class were their own game pieces.
We worked the whole year with the promise of playing this game. It was a tradition in our high school.
We started to play the game, and at one point, our teacher had to leave the room and left C in charge. C began to mock me saying that I should represent “houses” on the board, since I was as large as a house. J chimed in saying that I should represent “hotels,” because they were even bigger. My face was burning with embarrassment while my classmates laughed.
They made me skip my turn the next few times, until the teacher eventually returned. At the end of the class, J was behind me walking out. He whispered, “Get out of my way. You’re so big I can’t even get around you.”
I held up pretty good all the way to the bathroom where I locked myself in a stall and cried until the ache went away.
There are other incidents, but those are the two I remember in detail. Now, I know there are a lot of people out there who had much worse experiences with high school bullies than mine. I send them my empathy.
But mine did hurt. Even a whale as large a Moby Dick can feel pain.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Excerpts from: Dresden Avenue
As many of you know, I am constantly working on writing projects. One project, a collection of stories from my life, I have been working on for over a year. I’ve decided to call the collection – Dresden Avenue - the name of the street where I did most of my growing up. I thought I would share a small excerpt from the collection.
So, here goes:
Every Sunday, my father would read the funny page out loud using various funny voices. He had a trunk full of voices. His booming voice and infectious laughter is the wonderful soundtrack to my early life.
Dad, it seems, was more devious than I realized. One Sunday morning, he changed from reading the funny papers to reading Pilgrim’s Progress. Since he still used the funny voices, at first, I thought it was the funny pages. As time wore on, I began to understand that this was a real story.
I would race to the fake-brown-leather recliner that Mom routinely patched with duct tape and jump into Dad’s lap. He would read out of a very old leather bound edition of Pilgrim’s Progress. He used a high falsetto for Pilgrim and changed to his deep bass voice when Pilgrim became Christian. I still remember his voice scraping the depth and the horror I felt when he read that Pilgrim had fallen into the SLOUGH OF DESPOND! Oh, the horror!
Dad left every chapter as a cliffhanger…would Pilgrim ever climb out of the Slough of Despond? Would he ever make it to the Celestial City? When Dad finished the book, I remember the look of profound relief that crossed his face. I can’t imagine the patience it must have taken to read the entire early edition of Pilgrim’s Progress to a squirmy five year old who interrupted and asked too many questions. Squirmy and talkative – seems I haven’t outgrown those particular traits.
It seems interesting to me to remember those moments in the glow of the 1970’s lamp stand/coffee table that was so popular during that time-period. Nowadays, kids have special edition Bibles and special edition this and that, none of which was available when I was growing up. Yet, I seemed to understand Pilgrim’s Progress at five and remember the lessons it taught me to this day.
So, here goes:
Every Sunday, my father would read the funny page out loud using various funny voices. He had a trunk full of voices. His booming voice and infectious laughter is the wonderful soundtrack to my early life.
Dad, it seems, was more devious than I realized. One Sunday morning, he changed from reading the funny papers to reading Pilgrim’s Progress. Since he still used the funny voices, at first, I thought it was the funny pages. As time wore on, I began to understand that this was a real story.
I would race to the fake-brown-leather recliner that Mom routinely patched with duct tape and jump into Dad’s lap. He would read out of a very old leather bound edition of Pilgrim’s Progress. He used a high falsetto for Pilgrim and changed to his deep bass voice when Pilgrim became Christian. I still remember his voice scraping the depth and the horror I felt when he read that Pilgrim had fallen into the SLOUGH OF DESPOND! Oh, the horror!
Dad left every chapter as a cliffhanger…would Pilgrim ever climb out of the Slough of Despond? Would he ever make it to the Celestial City? When Dad finished the book, I remember the look of profound relief that crossed his face. I can’t imagine the patience it must have taken to read the entire early edition of Pilgrim’s Progress to a squirmy five year old who interrupted and asked too many questions. Squirmy and talkative – seems I haven’t outgrown those particular traits.
It seems interesting to me to remember those moments in the glow of the 1970’s lamp stand/coffee table that was so popular during that time-period. Nowadays, kids have special edition Bibles and special edition this and that, none of which was available when I was growing up. Yet, I seemed to understand Pilgrim’s Progress at five and remember the lessons it taught me to this day.
The Rancher's Wife
I often wonder what other people think during the day.
Personally, I am always in the middle of a story in my head. I even remember the first story I ever dreamed up. I was laying in my blue-quilted, wood-sided water bed. I imagined that my whole second grade was stranded on a desert island after a plane crash (this was before Survivor or Lost, but after Lord of the Flies, so I suppose it wasn’t totally original, but if I take the Swiss Family Robinson into account, then…oh never mind, it isn’t like I was plagiarizing, just playing).
I imagined my second grade crush, a freckled-face blue-eyed boy named Joel and I were intrepid explorers and the leaders of our poor, stranded second grade class. We did amazing things on that island…like invent toasters. I clearly remember inventing a toaster out of coconuts or something similar and how impressed Joel was by my ingenuity.
In reality, Joel once told the whole class that if any girl ever said that she liked him, he would “beat her up and stuff her in a garbage can.” I even remember him shaking his first in a manly attempt to impress the rest of the second grade boys.
I still loved Joel, secretly, and stuffed the Valentine he gave me (He gave one to everybody. It was the rule in second grade) under the siding of my waterbed. I used to take it out every night and gaze at it. Eventually, Joel and his family moved to Hershey, Pennsylvania (I remember it was Hershey, because he promised to send us all candy bars) to be near his grandmother who was very sick.
When I was fifteen, we moved to a new house, and I re-discovered the Valentine while dismantling my waterbed. It was like old times. I stared at it for a while and then tucked it in a box – a reminder of my school-girl crush.
When I got married and moved my stuff from my mother’s house to our house, I found the Valentine and told my husband the story. He said that he hopes some girl somewhere saved one of his Valentines, too.
Joel wasn’t my first crush.
His name was Steve, and it wasn’t so much a crush as it was a mutual attraction. Steve and his parents went to our church. His parents would invite me and my parents over after Sunday evening church every so often. Steve had brothers and sisters, but they were much older and never around. So, since there weren’t any other girls for me or boys for him, we played together.
I remember loving to go to Steve’s house. His dad was funny, and always did this trick where he pulled a quarter out of thin air. He did it every time, and I was always impressed. When I told Steve, he rolled his eyes and said that he would be more impressed if he got to keep the quarter.
Whenever we were at Steve’s, we would go down to the basement and play our favorite game – Rancher and Rancher’s Wife. Steve played the part of the Rancher. I remember him dressed up in a cowboy hat with silver guns hanging from a plastic holster around his waist. He would run around in a circle and pretend to round up cattle. Then I – playing the part of Rancher’s Wife – would yell, “Supper’s ready!” in my loudest voice. Steve would come in to our pretend house, and I would serve dinner. Then, Steve would get back up and say, “Come on out and help me.”
At this point, I would run around behind him pretending to rustle up cattle and help defend him against enemies. We did a lot of pretend shooting, and I can’t imagine what Steve's mom thought when she heard me shouting, “Supper’s ready!” eight or nine time throughout the night. Still, I remember the cool, cement floors of Steve’s basement, and the freedom and acceptance I felt in his friendship.
Over the years, things changed. We changed churches, and Steve and I ended up going to different schools. Then, when we were about fourteen, our parents decided to get together again, like old times. Only it wasn’t. Steve was a freakishly tall (and popular) basketball player who had to be forced to come to dinner with his parent’s old friends. I was an overweight teenager who was well aware of the fact.
I saw what kind of night it was going to be from Steve’s first look. Still, I tried to salvage it – with a video. I had rented a new video tape, and suggested to Steve that we watch it in the living room while our parents talked in the kitchen. I don’t know why I was so desperate for it to be a good night. Steve sat on the opposite side of the room and didn’t say a word to me the whole night. I remember turning off the light in an attempt to…I don’t know…I guess I thought maybe I looked better in the dark. Anyway, when the movie was over, Steve and his parents left.
Two weeks later, I heard from a girl at Steve’s school (my old school) how Steve was telling everyone what a horrible time he had at my house and how disgustingly fat I was. I realized then that the best memory I would ever have of Steve was playing Rancher and Rancher’s Wife.
My husband and I now go to the same church as Steve’s parents. We are friends with Steve’s older brother and his wife. One Sunday, Steve and his wife came to visit. Somehow, we got stuck standing together in the lobby waiting for Sunday School to finish, so we could go into the church service. I was friendly and introduced myself, and Steve’s wife was very sweet and nice. My husband, ever the kind person, expressed interest and welcomed them warmly to our church. I searched Steve’s eyes for a change. They were blank. He gave only a half-smile and an impatient sigh.
I thought how some things never change. I wonder if it would have been different if I had been slim and gorgeous. Maybe it would have been different if I had been slim and gorgeous back then. Who knows? All I know is that while Steve hadn’t changed and I will probably never enter his mind. I still get to enjoy the privilege of my mind’s eye – to see him in his cowboy hat, guns blazing…with me just waiting for the right moment to yell “Supper’s ready!”
Personally, I am always in the middle of a story in my head. I even remember the first story I ever dreamed up. I was laying in my blue-quilted, wood-sided water bed. I imagined that my whole second grade was stranded on a desert island after a plane crash (this was before Survivor or Lost, but after Lord of the Flies, so I suppose it wasn’t totally original, but if I take the Swiss Family Robinson into account, then…oh never mind, it isn’t like I was plagiarizing, just playing).
I imagined my second grade crush, a freckled-face blue-eyed boy named Joel and I were intrepid explorers and the leaders of our poor, stranded second grade class. We did amazing things on that island…like invent toasters. I clearly remember inventing a toaster out of coconuts or something similar and how impressed Joel was by my ingenuity.
In reality, Joel once told the whole class that if any girl ever said that she liked him, he would “beat her up and stuff her in a garbage can.” I even remember him shaking his first in a manly attempt to impress the rest of the second grade boys.
I still loved Joel, secretly, and stuffed the Valentine he gave me (He gave one to everybody. It was the rule in second grade) under the siding of my waterbed. I used to take it out every night and gaze at it. Eventually, Joel and his family moved to Hershey, Pennsylvania (I remember it was Hershey, because he promised to send us all candy bars) to be near his grandmother who was very sick.
When I was fifteen, we moved to a new house, and I re-discovered the Valentine while dismantling my waterbed. It was like old times. I stared at it for a while and then tucked it in a box – a reminder of my school-girl crush.
When I got married and moved my stuff from my mother’s house to our house, I found the Valentine and told my husband the story. He said that he hopes some girl somewhere saved one of his Valentines, too.
Joel wasn’t my first crush.
His name was Steve, and it wasn’t so much a crush as it was a mutual attraction. Steve and his parents went to our church. His parents would invite me and my parents over after Sunday evening church every so often. Steve had brothers and sisters, but they were much older and never around. So, since there weren’t any other girls for me or boys for him, we played together.
I remember loving to go to Steve’s house. His dad was funny, and always did this trick where he pulled a quarter out of thin air. He did it every time, and I was always impressed. When I told Steve, he rolled his eyes and said that he would be more impressed if he got to keep the quarter.
Whenever we were at Steve’s, we would go down to the basement and play our favorite game – Rancher and Rancher’s Wife. Steve played the part of the Rancher. I remember him dressed up in a cowboy hat with silver guns hanging from a plastic holster around his waist. He would run around in a circle and pretend to round up cattle. Then I – playing the part of Rancher’s Wife – would yell, “Supper’s ready!” in my loudest voice. Steve would come in to our pretend house, and I would serve dinner. Then, Steve would get back up and say, “Come on out and help me.”
At this point, I would run around behind him pretending to rustle up cattle and help defend him against enemies. We did a lot of pretend shooting, and I can’t imagine what Steve's mom thought when she heard me shouting, “Supper’s ready!” eight or nine time throughout the night. Still, I remember the cool, cement floors of Steve’s basement, and the freedom and acceptance I felt in his friendship.
Over the years, things changed. We changed churches, and Steve and I ended up going to different schools. Then, when we were about fourteen, our parents decided to get together again, like old times. Only it wasn’t. Steve was a freakishly tall (and popular) basketball player who had to be forced to come to dinner with his parent’s old friends. I was an overweight teenager who was well aware of the fact.
I saw what kind of night it was going to be from Steve’s first look. Still, I tried to salvage it – with a video. I had rented a new video tape, and suggested to Steve that we watch it in the living room while our parents talked in the kitchen. I don’t know why I was so desperate for it to be a good night. Steve sat on the opposite side of the room and didn’t say a word to me the whole night. I remember turning off the light in an attempt to…I don’t know…I guess I thought maybe I looked better in the dark. Anyway, when the movie was over, Steve and his parents left.
Two weeks later, I heard from a girl at Steve’s school (my old school) how Steve was telling everyone what a horrible time he had at my house and how disgustingly fat I was. I realized then that the best memory I would ever have of Steve was playing Rancher and Rancher’s Wife.
My husband and I now go to the same church as Steve’s parents. We are friends with Steve’s older brother and his wife. One Sunday, Steve and his wife came to visit. Somehow, we got stuck standing together in the lobby waiting for Sunday School to finish, so we could go into the church service. I was friendly and introduced myself, and Steve’s wife was very sweet and nice. My husband, ever the kind person, expressed interest and welcomed them warmly to our church. I searched Steve’s eyes for a change. They were blank. He gave only a half-smile and an impatient sigh.
I thought how some things never change. I wonder if it would have been different if I had been slim and gorgeous. Maybe it would have been different if I had been slim and gorgeous back then. Who knows? All I know is that while Steve hadn’t changed and I will probably never enter his mind. I still get to enjoy the privilege of my mind’s eye – to see him in his cowboy hat, guns blazing…with me just waiting for the right moment to yell “Supper’s ready!”
Vocabulary
There are certain words I wish had never been introduced in the American vocabulary.
I’m not talking about swear words. I’m talking about words like – “booger.” I actually got a little shiver of disgust just typing that word. Why is it necessary for words like that to exist?
Now, I know you’re thinking, “Well, what would you call it? We’ve got to call it something.” And you’re right. We do. I don’t have the answer. I just know I don’t like the word (nor the object it represents, I guess).
There are people’s names I don’t like either – for totally random reasons. For instance, Kimberly – because it sounds like “TIMBER!” and makes me think of sweaty lumberjacks. Or Tricia, since it reminds me of the sound a tuna sandwich makes when you eat it.
All right, I’ll stop complaining. Yeesh! I can really be a booger sometimes.
I’m not talking about swear words. I’m talking about words like – “booger.” I actually got a little shiver of disgust just typing that word. Why is it necessary for words like that to exist?
Now, I know you’re thinking, “Well, what would you call it? We’ve got to call it something.” And you’re right. We do. I don’t have the answer. I just know I don’t like the word (nor the object it represents, I guess).
There are people’s names I don’t like either – for totally random reasons. For instance, Kimberly – because it sounds like “TIMBER!” and makes me think of sweaty lumberjacks. Or Tricia, since it reminds me of the sound a tuna sandwich makes when you eat it.
All right, I’ll stop complaining. Yeesh! I can really be a booger sometimes.
Horrible Hosts
Hello, our names are Brett and Ann-Marie, and...
we are horrible hosts.
No, really, it’s true. We are.
In fact, if you’ve ever been to our home in a “party” setting, you know this. I have been struggling with this issue, since our pastor recently talked about extending the hand of Christian fellowship by inviting other people into your home.
Well, it’s easy for him to say that. He’s married to a woman who is Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, and Rachel Ray all rolled into one. The woman is a domestic goddess! We were invited to Pastor’s house once, and there was exquisite china, extravagant food, and elegant surroundings. Our house? Not so much.
We don’t try to be bad hosts. But everything goes so horribly wrong; it’s amazing we haven’t killed anybody yet.
Case in point
My high school friend Jennittia, her husband Rodney, and their children were visiting from New Hampshire, and we invited them to come by for dinner. I prepared the meal, and we all sat around waiting for Brett to get home.
Brett had a dentist appoint that was supposed to be just a routine cleaning. Well, as he stumbled in the door, slobbering, mouth full of gauze, and in loopy drug haze, he informed us they’d given him an emergency root canal. He sat down to eat dinner with us. I’m still not sure how Jennittia and Rodney kept their food down - watching Brett slobber over the food, periodically taking his bloody gauze out.
Thoroughly disgusted, I got up to clear the table and promptly fainted flat on the kitchen floor. My blood sugar must have gotten low waiting for Brett to get home. As Jennittia and Rodney gasped and leaped up (I’m told), Brett stared at my unconscious body, and blandly told them, “Don’t worry about her. It happens all the time.” Thanks to his drug-induced stupor, he had no idea what he was saying or what was going on. Finally, Jennittia and Rodney convinced him to get me to the couch until I regained consciousness.
When I did finally regain consciousness, there they all were - Jennittia, Rodney, and their kids staring at me and Brett like circus freaks. By this time, Brett had fallen asleep, snoring loudly, his body resting haphazardly somewhere between the couch and floor.
I apologized profusely, and they were gracious. Jennittia remarked, “What a funny story! Someday, we’ll look back on this and laugh.” But (as I recall) they did leave rather quickly and haven’t been back since.
Now, tell me. Would you want to spend the night with people like that? Well, we’ve had some attempt it.
My cousin Michelle and her three children stayed with us once. The hot water handle on our shower got stuck, and everyone had to take 5 second showers to avoid third degree burns.
My cousin Alex and his family stayed with us, too. I was careless about leaving utensils on our kitchen counters. They finally said something when their one year old daughter proudly carried a butcher knife into the living room.
So, yeah, we’re not so good at being hosts. But we’re nice people. Really. And we won’t let this stop us. We’ll keep trying. But, if you receive an invitation from us, please know you’ll be coming at your own risk. Oh, and if I were you, I’d make sure my tetanus shots were up to date.
we are horrible hosts.
No, really, it’s true. We are.
In fact, if you’ve ever been to our home in a “party” setting, you know this. I have been struggling with this issue, since our pastor recently talked about extending the hand of Christian fellowship by inviting other people into your home.
Well, it’s easy for him to say that. He’s married to a woman who is Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, and Rachel Ray all rolled into one. The woman is a domestic goddess! We were invited to Pastor’s house once, and there was exquisite china, extravagant food, and elegant surroundings. Our house? Not so much.
We don’t try to be bad hosts. But everything goes so horribly wrong; it’s amazing we haven’t killed anybody yet.
Case in point
My high school friend Jennittia, her husband Rodney, and their children were visiting from New Hampshire, and we invited them to come by for dinner. I prepared the meal, and we all sat around waiting for Brett to get home.
Brett had a dentist appoint that was supposed to be just a routine cleaning. Well, as he stumbled in the door, slobbering, mouth full of gauze, and in loopy drug haze, he informed us they’d given him an emergency root canal. He sat down to eat dinner with us. I’m still not sure how Jennittia and Rodney kept their food down - watching Brett slobber over the food, periodically taking his bloody gauze out.
Thoroughly disgusted, I got up to clear the table and promptly fainted flat on the kitchen floor. My blood sugar must have gotten low waiting for Brett to get home. As Jennittia and Rodney gasped and leaped up (I’m told), Brett stared at my unconscious body, and blandly told them, “Don’t worry about her. It happens all the time.” Thanks to his drug-induced stupor, he had no idea what he was saying or what was going on. Finally, Jennittia and Rodney convinced him to get me to the couch until I regained consciousness.
When I did finally regain consciousness, there they all were - Jennittia, Rodney, and their kids staring at me and Brett like circus freaks. By this time, Brett had fallen asleep, snoring loudly, his body resting haphazardly somewhere between the couch and floor.
I apologized profusely, and they were gracious. Jennittia remarked, “What a funny story! Someday, we’ll look back on this and laugh.” But (as I recall) they did leave rather quickly and haven’t been back since.
Now, tell me. Would you want to spend the night with people like that? Well, we’ve had some attempt it.
My cousin Michelle and her three children stayed with us once. The hot water handle on our shower got stuck, and everyone had to take 5 second showers to avoid third degree burns.
My cousin Alex and his family stayed with us, too. I was careless about leaving utensils on our kitchen counters. They finally said something when their one year old daughter proudly carried a butcher knife into the living room.
So, yeah, we’re not so good at being hosts. But we’re nice people. Really. And we won’t let this stop us. We’ll keep trying. But, if you receive an invitation from us, please know you’ll be coming at your own risk. Oh, and if I were you, I’d make sure my tetanus shots were up to date.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Oh, Brother! When I’m Glad to Be an Only Child
There are days when I am especially grateful to be an only child. In fact, most days I feel this way. The only time I wasn’t glad about my “only” status was when my Dad died, and I didn’t have anyone to share the burden of taking care of Mom. But most days it feels great!
Only children can have all sorts of fun with comments like:
My parents believed in quality, not quantity
I’m my parent’s favorite. No, really, I am
And so on…there are lots of things I love (and loved) about being an only child. I’ll have to write a post on that sometime, but the post today is about something I completely do not understand…siblings!
My husband has four siblings – two sisters and two brothers. They are all married and have kids. At a recent family gathering, we noticed Brett’s one brother and his wife were acting “cool” toward us. Well, it bothered us, and on the way home that evening, we called their home to see if something was the matter. As far as we knew, we hadn’t done anything to offend them. When Brett got a hold of them, they gave him the “brush off” and said they were “too busy” to talk.
We just shrugged our shoulders and waited to see what would happen. Well, today, Brett called his brother, and it turns out they ARE mad at us. As Brett recounted the “reasons” to me, I couldn’t believe it, because:
a.) They were stupid reasons
b.) This is a family that is SUPPOSED to be Christians!
Anyway, here are the reasons:
Reason 1:
When Brett’s mom died, we traveled up to Geneva and stayed with this brother and his family. When their son developed appendicitis, we figured that the last thing they needed was houseguests and headed over to stay with Brett’s other brother. Apparently, they are mad at us because we didn’t offer to watch their other children while they went to the hospital.
My response:
They didn’t ask us to watch their kids! We would have totally done it if they’d asked. We were tired, traumatized, and not thinking straight. How they could hold this as a grudge for a year and a half, I just don’t know!
Reason 2:
Apparently, someone told them that I said the dress they buried my mother-in-law in was “not her color.”
My response:
Okay,
a.) I never said that, and
b.) Even if I had said that – it could have been out of grief, or even just an opinion, but that doesn’t matter, because
c.) I never said that
Reason 3:
Brett’s brother told him that we always “blow them off” when it comes to special events.
My response:
“Well, give us a little more warning.” They call us the day before the event and then expect us to drop everything to run to little Joey or Joshie’s birthday. We have plans on the weekends, and if you’d let us know about the party at least a week in advance – we’d plan to be there. That is just as much your fault as it is ours!
Reason 4:
When we were staying with them after Brett’s mom died (but before the Appendicitis Episode – in which we were so apparently un-thoughtful), my sister-in-law and I had (what I thought) was a really good heart-to-heart conversation. Afterwards, we both kept saying how good it was to get to know one another better. Well, now it comes out that I apparently said to her, “Wow, you’re not as bad as everyone says you are!”
My Response:
Now, you know me, so you know I would NEVER say that! Unbelievable! It’s like they just decided to start pulling things out of the air.
Reason 5:
Now, we’re getting down to brass tacks. Here’s the granddaddy of reasons – Brett’s brother told him that Brett must not love his family because he moved away!
My response:
Hello! I’ve got family, too! And besides, Brett wanted to move here. His brothers and sisters always treated him like a baby, so he wanted to get the heck out of Dodge. And Brett’s parents had 5 kids!!! There are four families right there to take care of his mom and dad. My mom and dad only had I child!!! Who would take care of my mom, huh? No one, that’s who! So there!
Continued Familial Ramblings:
The weird thing is that I can think of numerous things Brett and I could be (or have been) offended at. This particular brother and his family have never come to visit us, even though it is only and hour and a half away – yet, we manage to get up there every couple of months. Or how he broke his mother’s heart by eloping and not letting her see her firstborn son get married – or other things, but we’ve never mentioned them! We were trying to be Christ-like!
So, now we’ve got to figure out how to handle the situation. I can’t imagine going to another family gathering and seeing them there. Both Brett and I want to get this resolved, but we’re just not sure how. We are both a little stressed out about the whole situation – we’ve been praying about it, and hopefully the Lord will lead us to do the right thing.
But right now, I feel sorry for Brett having to go through this.
And, like I said, I’m feeling grateful that I’m an only child!
I’m Famous, But Don’t Tell Anyone
That’s right! Yours truly was quoted (but not credited) on the front page of today’s Rockford Register Star’s Business section. I had responded to an e-mail asking for good boss/bad boss stories for a feature the newspaper wanted to run today on National Boss’ Day.
When I originally received the e-mail requesting the stories, I immediately wanted to send back a reply detailing the seven circles of you-know-where that my old boss put me through. But I opted for being professional and asked my new boss what I should do. She said (to my surprise) that I should GO FOR IT! So, I sent back my e-mail detailing just a few of the horrendous things I went though a few years ago.
The Business Editor liked my story SO much that he published the e-mail IN ITS ENTIRETY! If you know anything about newspapers or editors, you know that is rare. Thankfully, he protected my identity! However, my co-workers got a hold of it and gave me the “thumbs up” all day. NOBODY liked my old boss!
When I got the paper this morning and saw my story published, I actually did a little jig and yelled, “Vindication is mine!” before going out the door to work! No, really, I did!
And that’s how I feel! I went through so much with THAT WOMAN, and it was so horrible at the time. Now, it feels so good to look back and laugh.
That’s right, I’m going to say it again – Vindication is mine! Ha!
When I originally received the e-mail requesting the stories, I immediately wanted to send back a reply detailing the seven circles of you-know-where that my old boss put me through. But I opted for being professional and asked my new boss what I should do. She said (to my surprise) that I should GO FOR IT! So, I sent back my e-mail detailing just a few of the horrendous things I went though a few years ago.
The Business Editor liked my story SO much that he published the e-mail IN ITS ENTIRETY! If you know anything about newspapers or editors, you know that is rare. Thankfully, he protected my identity! However, my co-workers got a hold of it and gave me the “thumbs up” all day. NOBODY liked my old boss!
When I got the paper this morning and saw my story published, I actually did a little jig and yelled, “Vindication is mine!” before going out the door to work! No, really, I did!
And that’s how I feel! I went through so much with THAT WOMAN, and it was so horrible at the time. Now, it feels so good to look back and laugh.
That’s right, I’m going to say it again – Vindication is mine! Ha!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Dazed and Confused
I think there was a drunk driver behind me on my way home from work on Friday. I say “I think” because I suppose he could have been incapacitated in some other way. But it sure looked like drunk driving.
I was at the light at the corner of Harlem and North Main, right before the two lanes merge into one on Route 2. A guy pulled up behind me in a truck. And I mean, he pulled up RIGHT behind me. If he’d been any closer, he would have been IN my trunk. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. I just figured him for one of those obnoxious “Friday” drivers who have got to get home RIGHT NOW to start their weekend.
But he did seem awfully close, so I turned around to get a good look at him. He looked to be a guy in his forties, unkempt, and kept combing his fingers through his hair. The guy in the PT Cruiser next to me saw me turn around, so he turned around, too. Then, when he turned back, he shot me a look of concern. I think maybe we were thinking the same thing. But, of course, then the light turned green.
Immediately, the guy in the truck began weaving back and forth uncertainly. He managed to pass me, but with only inches to spare. I backed off and tried to give him as much room as possible. I think the other drivers around me sensed something was wrong, as we all immediately slowed down. The drivers in front of us weren’t so lucky.
The truck very nearly ran two cars off the road trying to “merge” into the one lane. Once he was in the lane, he wanted to pass the car in front of him and began to try to pass on the right. One problem – there was nothing but a ditch on the right side. There is no lane, not even a flat piece of land. His truck actually teetered on the edge before he seemed to realize there was no way to pass. Then he began to weave towards the left and into oncoming traffic. Those cars slowed down big time – there was no question something was very obviously wrong with this driver.
I picked up my cell phone with the intention of reporting the driver, but then a turn separated us, and I had no idea where he went, what his license plate number was, or even the make and model of his car.
I called Brett, instead, and asked him what number we are supposed to call to report a drunk driver. Do we call 9-1-1? Do we call a police number, since it is a “non” emergency? Do we call a special number? Brett didn’t know, but I’m going to have to find out now. I’m really racked with guilt that this guy was on the streets and someone could have gotten hurt. I just wasn’t prepared. But (although I hope there isn’t a “next time”) I want to be better prepared in the future.
When I got home, Brett and I thanked God for preserving me and prayed for the man and his family – whatever the circumstance.
Later, when I was checking the answering machine, I realized we had accidentally recorded the conversation I had with Brett earlier. As I listened to my panicked voice recount every shaky detail, I realized:
a.) I have a very annoying, whiny voice. Why did no one tell me?
b.) Why Brett was so glad when I got home.
I don’t remember feeling quite THAT panicked. I mean, after all, I was behind the guy. He couldn’t really cause me any harm, but I sure sounded scared on the phone.
The whole experience affected me. I realized (yet, again) how short life can be. It only takes one irresponsible driver, in a sea of competent ones, to cause loss of life. And I learned I need to be better prepared to handle this sort of thing.
After all, next time, I might end up in FRONT of the bad driver.
I was at the light at the corner of Harlem and North Main, right before the two lanes merge into one on Route 2. A guy pulled up behind me in a truck. And I mean, he pulled up RIGHT behind me. If he’d been any closer, he would have been IN my trunk. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. I just figured him for one of those obnoxious “Friday” drivers who have got to get home RIGHT NOW to start their weekend.
But he did seem awfully close, so I turned around to get a good look at him. He looked to be a guy in his forties, unkempt, and kept combing his fingers through his hair. The guy in the PT Cruiser next to me saw me turn around, so he turned around, too. Then, when he turned back, he shot me a look of concern. I think maybe we were thinking the same thing. But, of course, then the light turned green.
Immediately, the guy in the truck began weaving back and forth uncertainly. He managed to pass me, but with only inches to spare. I backed off and tried to give him as much room as possible. I think the other drivers around me sensed something was wrong, as we all immediately slowed down. The drivers in front of us weren’t so lucky.
The truck very nearly ran two cars off the road trying to “merge” into the one lane. Once he was in the lane, he wanted to pass the car in front of him and began to try to pass on the right. One problem – there was nothing but a ditch on the right side. There is no lane, not even a flat piece of land. His truck actually teetered on the edge before he seemed to realize there was no way to pass. Then he began to weave towards the left and into oncoming traffic. Those cars slowed down big time – there was no question something was very obviously wrong with this driver.
I picked up my cell phone with the intention of reporting the driver, but then a turn separated us, and I had no idea where he went, what his license plate number was, or even the make and model of his car.
I called Brett, instead, and asked him what number we are supposed to call to report a drunk driver. Do we call 9-1-1? Do we call a police number, since it is a “non” emergency? Do we call a special number? Brett didn’t know, but I’m going to have to find out now. I’m really racked with guilt that this guy was on the streets and someone could have gotten hurt. I just wasn’t prepared. But (although I hope there isn’t a “next time”) I want to be better prepared in the future.
When I got home, Brett and I thanked God for preserving me and prayed for the man and his family – whatever the circumstance.
Later, when I was checking the answering machine, I realized we had accidentally recorded the conversation I had with Brett earlier. As I listened to my panicked voice recount every shaky detail, I realized:
a.) I have a very annoying, whiny voice. Why did no one tell me?
b.) Why Brett was so glad when I got home.
I don’t remember feeling quite THAT panicked. I mean, after all, I was behind the guy. He couldn’t really cause me any harm, but I sure sounded scared on the phone.
The whole experience affected me. I realized (yet, again) how short life can be. It only takes one irresponsible driver, in a sea of competent ones, to cause loss of life. And I learned I need to be better prepared to handle this sort of thing.
After all, next time, I might end up in FRONT of the bad driver.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Stuffing - Why?
Can someone please explain to me the appeal of stuffing? I mean, essentially, isn’t stuffing just dried up old crusty bread? I mean, who thought, “Hey, let’s throw some boiling water on this stale bread, fluff it up with a fork, and serve it next to perfectly good meat.”? I just don’t get it.
My husband loves stuffing – chicken stuffing, turkey stuffing, vegetable stuffing…you get the idea. I don’t think of myself as a picky eater, but every time I make stuffing for him, I just stare at the crouton-like bread in the package and think, “Ick.”
I may not think of myself as a picky eater. My husband would disagree. But he’s a man who will try anything at least once. He would probably go on Fear Factor just to sample the bug cuisine. I stick mostly to safe and traditional foods. “Stuffing’s traditional,” you say. Okay, so maybe not all traditional foods.
I love food, I really do. It is my comfort, my crutch, and the altar of my greatest weakness.
But I just can’t bring myself to touch the stuffing.
My husband loves stuffing – chicken stuffing, turkey stuffing, vegetable stuffing…you get the idea. I don’t think of myself as a picky eater, but every time I make stuffing for him, I just stare at the crouton-like bread in the package and think, “Ick.”
I may not think of myself as a picky eater. My husband would disagree. But he’s a man who will try anything at least once. He would probably go on Fear Factor just to sample the bug cuisine. I stick mostly to safe and traditional foods. “Stuffing’s traditional,” you say. Okay, so maybe not all traditional foods.
I love food, I really do. It is my comfort, my crutch, and the altar of my greatest weakness.
But I just can’t bring myself to touch the stuffing.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
A Good Morning
But it didn’t start out that way.
My car has been acting funny lately, and when Candice and I were driving to the hospital the other day, she asked me what that “weird squeaking noise” was, and I told her it was probably another car.
But she rolled down her window, stuck her head out, and said, “No, I think it’s YOU!”
She thought it might either be that my tires are low or that I might have a problem with my steering. I was not thrilled at the prospect of having to take my car in to be fixed, as I just recently managed to knock off my right-side mirror by running into a blockade on stupid Auburn Street construction. I was so mad that I called the Planning Commissioner for the City of Rockford, and told him to MOVE THOSE BARRICADES OVER! I told him I had to decide whether to take out the right-side mirror of my car or the car coming towards me. I made the right choice, but now I have NO MIRROR!
Anyway, I’m getting off track. Back to my car trouble. So, last night I was leaving a Pampered Chef party and heard the squealing again. I told Brett when I got home, and he said he would plan to take a look at it today after he got home from his 3rd shift job. Neither of us wanted me to drive the car today on the chance it MIGHT be the steering. So, that meant he would have to take me to work today.
Well, this morning, he had to work overtime, so I had to call in and say I would be running late. But (when he got home) things started looking up! He received his 90 day review at Staples and is now considered hired on. YEA! So, since we had the extra time, we celebrated. You know what I mean. It was a good morning for both of us! Mmm - mmm!
So that was great. Then, we stopped by Starbucks on our way to drop me off from work, and I tried their new Hot Caramel Apple Cider and oh-my-YUM! It was delicious! Brett even stole a sip in between drinking his Café Mocha! Then, as we were turning back onto the road, We Will Rock You by Queen came on the radio, and so we jammed together in car to that funky tune on the way to work. We are two people who should absolutely never sing together – but we love to do it! It was so fun!
So it turned out to be a fabulous morning. Which we’ll need to hang on to, just in case my steering is headed south. But that’s okay, because We will, We will ROCK YOU!
My car has been acting funny lately, and when Candice and I were driving to the hospital the other day, she asked me what that “weird squeaking noise” was, and I told her it was probably another car.
But she rolled down her window, stuck her head out, and said, “No, I think it’s YOU!”
She thought it might either be that my tires are low or that I might have a problem with my steering. I was not thrilled at the prospect of having to take my car in to be fixed, as I just recently managed to knock off my right-side mirror by running into a blockade on stupid Auburn Street construction. I was so mad that I called the Planning Commissioner for the City of Rockford, and told him to MOVE THOSE BARRICADES OVER! I told him I had to decide whether to take out the right-side mirror of my car or the car coming towards me. I made the right choice, but now I have NO MIRROR!
Anyway, I’m getting off track. Back to my car trouble. So, last night I was leaving a Pampered Chef party and heard the squealing again. I told Brett when I got home, and he said he would plan to take a look at it today after he got home from his 3rd shift job. Neither of us wanted me to drive the car today on the chance it MIGHT be the steering. So, that meant he would have to take me to work today.
Well, this morning, he had to work overtime, so I had to call in and say I would be running late. But (when he got home) things started looking up! He received his 90 day review at Staples and is now considered hired on. YEA! So, since we had the extra time, we celebrated. You know what I mean. It was a good morning for both of us! Mmm - mmm!
So that was great. Then, we stopped by Starbucks on our way to drop me off from work, and I tried their new Hot Caramel Apple Cider and oh-my-YUM! It was delicious! Brett even stole a sip in between drinking his Café Mocha! Then, as we were turning back onto the road, We Will Rock You by Queen came on the radio, and so we jammed together in car to that funky tune on the way to work. We are two people who should absolutely never sing together – but we love to do it! It was so fun!
So it turned out to be a fabulous morning. Which we’ll need to hang on to, just in case my steering is headed south. But that’s okay, because We will, We will ROCK YOU!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
If I Ever Had A Store
If I ever had a store, I think I would call it:
The Electric Eclectic!
That sounds SO fun, doesn’t it?! Sometimes these random thoughts just come to me! Here’s another one. I recently saw a sweatshirt with this slogan, and I really want to get one:
National Sarcasm Society
Like We Need Your Support
Ha! Ha! That’s just the greatest! Well, okay, Muhammed Ali is "the greatest" but you have to admit this is pretty great, too.
The Electric Eclectic!
That sounds SO fun, doesn’t it?! Sometimes these random thoughts just come to me! Here’s another one. I recently saw a sweatshirt with this slogan, and I really want to get one:
National Sarcasm Society
Like We Need Your Support
Ha! Ha! That’s just the greatest! Well, okay, Muhammed Ali is "the greatest" but you have to admit this is pretty great, too.
When It Works
There are days when I am so glad to do what I do! Lately, I’ve been filled with joy about my job. I’m watching almost seven years of hard work come to fruition, and it has been extremely rewarding.
The other day I sat in a video production suite and supervised interviews from both girls and adults. The interviews will be featured in a video at our upcoming annual fundraising breakfast. As I watched the girls I have trained in matters of the media (over the course of three years) talk about our organization, I was filled with pride at their poise and speech. These girls have already purposed in their hearts to be successful, and I am humbled to have been a part of their success.
There are girls who were part of my media groups over the past seven years who are now in college. Occasionally, they e-mail me and let me know how they are enjoying – or enduring – college life. I’m so fortunate they feel that they have learned from me and want to become friends. I have no doubt many of them will become teachers, doctors, television and movie stars, and more! To have been a part of that – well, wow!
One of my media girls is a fledgling movie star and has already performed in an upcoming movie. She told me she wants to be a cardiologist, but I really think acting is in her blood. Her mom and I have become friends, and we were joking the other day about how I should be thanked when she wins her Oscar! It truth, I’m just glad to contribute to the life of a bright girl who wants to make the world a better place.
It is obvious to me that God led me here to do this! He has always given me a burden to advance the cause of women and the equality He sets forth in His Word. It is achieving that balance in an uneven world that can be tricky. Still, I’m glad I have the chance to positively impact the lives of young girls who will hopefully go on and improve this world we live in.
God has also provided me with the opportunity to write in this job – the video producers this year want ME to write part of the video copy. They said they read my work and were impressed. I was SO honored! And grateful!
Sometimes working just really works, you know?
The other day I sat in a video production suite and supervised interviews from both girls and adults. The interviews will be featured in a video at our upcoming annual fundraising breakfast. As I watched the girls I have trained in matters of the media (over the course of three years) talk about our organization, I was filled with pride at their poise and speech. These girls have already purposed in their hearts to be successful, and I am humbled to have been a part of their success.
There are girls who were part of my media groups over the past seven years who are now in college. Occasionally, they e-mail me and let me know how they are enjoying – or enduring – college life. I’m so fortunate they feel that they have learned from me and want to become friends. I have no doubt many of them will become teachers, doctors, television and movie stars, and more! To have been a part of that – well, wow!
One of my media girls is a fledgling movie star and has already performed in an upcoming movie. She told me she wants to be a cardiologist, but I really think acting is in her blood. Her mom and I have become friends, and we were joking the other day about how I should be thanked when she wins her Oscar! It truth, I’m just glad to contribute to the life of a bright girl who wants to make the world a better place.
It is obvious to me that God led me here to do this! He has always given me a burden to advance the cause of women and the equality He sets forth in His Word. It is achieving that balance in an uneven world that can be tricky. Still, I’m glad I have the chance to positively impact the lives of young girls who will hopefully go on and improve this world we live in.
God has also provided me with the opportunity to write in this job – the video producers this year want ME to write part of the video copy. They said they read my work and were impressed. I was SO honored! And grateful!
Sometimes working just really works, you know?
Monday, October 09, 2006
Operation!
Today, Candice and I sat with members of our family while our Uncle Dave went through surgery to remove cancer from his prostate. So far, the prognosis is good. The doctor said the cancer did not spread to his lymph nodes, and they’re sure (as far as they can be) that they removed all the cancer in his prostate.
As Uncle Dave’s immediate family went into the Consultation Room to meet with the doctor, Candice and I sat outside in the Surgery Waiting Room and talked.
People may wonder why, out of our HUGE family, we were the only ones who decided to sit through the surgery with our family, instead of just dropping by afterwards when Uncle Dave was conscious and up to receiving visitors. The answer is simple. Candice and I both lost a parent when we were barely out of our teens. We know how short and tenuous life can be.
People who have not experienced loss like we have, have no concept of how precious we consider life. We know what it is like to have someone there one minute and not the next. We understand the total devastation. Neither of us could have forgiven ourselves if something HAD gone wrong at Uncle Dave’s surgery, and he hadn’t woken up. We were both prepared to be THERE for our family.
AND since both our parents died hospitals (mine in route and hers in the aftermath of surgery), we tend to be a little skeptical. As we eavesdropped on what the doctor was telling Aunt Venita and her kids, Candice leaned forward to me and rolled her eyes.
“They told Mom they were 98% sure they got it all, too,” she muttered. My Aunt Kathy, my second mom, died from cancer, and most of her immediate family are disgusted with how poorly her case was handled.
We also like to joke that the Rockford Memorial Hospital’s ER only has an EXIT sign. Those who go in, exit permanently! Not really, but I’ve had two dear people die there, so I’m a little bit sensitive to it.
Death changes you. Especially the death of someone close. In my case, my dad – Candice’s case, her mom – and my friend Angie who lost her best friend. The list goes on and on. You get it. You understand why people say life is short.
Death was the reason I moved “home” after college, and now I treasure being close to my family (if not the surroundings – see previous post!). Part of it is because I am an only child and the one responsible for my mom. I think that’s why my cousin Tammy stuck around, too. We both feel the obligation, the welcome tug, of being close to home.
Mom always says she feels sorry for parents’ whose children move away. She knows how fortunate we are. She especially feels for my Aunt Jan whose grandchildren are growing up far away from their grandparents. Whenever Aunt Jan comes to town, we really try to include her in things, since we know how much she misses her family.
To be honest, I’m so grateful God has given me my family. We are a uniquely strange little bunch. Make that a BIG bunch. And we’re funny. Take my Uncle Dave for example. When we finally did get see him after his surgery, he smiled big. (And showed us his morphine drip. He was so proud that he had a morphine drip.)
We waited for the loving words that always come after life-altering surgery. Sure enough, Uncle Dave looked at us and said, “Where’d you eat and what’d you have? Tell me everything!”
We love you too, Uncle Dave. And we’re glad we were able to be there.
As Uncle Dave’s immediate family went into the Consultation Room to meet with the doctor, Candice and I sat outside in the Surgery Waiting Room and talked.
People may wonder why, out of our HUGE family, we were the only ones who decided to sit through the surgery with our family, instead of just dropping by afterwards when Uncle Dave was conscious and up to receiving visitors. The answer is simple. Candice and I both lost a parent when we were barely out of our teens. We know how short and tenuous life can be.
People who have not experienced loss like we have, have no concept of how precious we consider life. We know what it is like to have someone there one minute and not the next. We understand the total devastation. Neither of us could have forgiven ourselves if something HAD gone wrong at Uncle Dave’s surgery, and he hadn’t woken up. We were both prepared to be THERE for our family.
AND since both our parents died hospitals (mine in route and hers in the aftermath of surgery), we tend to be a little skeptical. As we eavesdropped on what the doctor was telling Aunt Venita and her kids, Candice leaned forward to me and rolled her eyes.
“They told Mom they were 98% sure they got it all, too,” she muttered. My Aunt Kathy, my second mom, died from cancer, and most of her immediate family are disgusted with how poorly her case was handled.
We also like to joke that the Rockford Memorial Hospital’s ER only has an EXIT sign. Those who go in, exit permanently! Not really, but I’ve had two dear people die there, so I’m a little bit sensitive to it.
Death changes you. Especially the death of someone close. In my case, my dad – Candice’s case, her mom – and my friend Angie who lost her best friend. The list goes on and on. You get it. You understand why people say life is short.
Death was the reason I moved “home” after college, and now I treasure being close to my family (if not the surroundings – see previous post!). Part of it is because I am an only child and the one responsible for my mom. I think that’s why my cousin Tammy stuck around, too. We both feel the obligation, the welcome tug, of being close to home.
Mom always says she feels sorry for parents’ whose children move away. She knows how fortunate we are. She especially feels for my Aunt Jan whose grandchildren are growing up far away from their grandparents. Whenever Aunt Jan comes to town, we really try to include her in things, since we know how much she misses her family.
To be honest, I’m so grateful God has given me my family. We are a uniquely strange little bunch. Make that a BIG bunch. And we’re funny. Take my Uncle Dave for example. When we finally did get see him after his surgery, he smiled big. (And showed us his morphine drip. He was so proud that he had a morphine drip.)
We waited for the loving words that always come after life-altering surgery. Sure enough, Uncle Dave looked at us and said, “Where’d you eat and what’d you have? Tell me everything!”
We love you too, Uncle Dave. And we’re glad we were able to be there.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Urbanite
I’ve been pining for Chicago lately. The sights, sounds, and (strangely, yes, even the) smells! I lived in Chicago for four years, and I can still identify parts of the city with my eyes closed – just by the smell. The El has this gritty, dirty unwashed-human smell. The Mile tastes like Garrett’s buttery popcorn, and the Loop scents like flowers and reeks of luxury cars. Mmmm…mmmm. I love that city!
I came to Chicago the day after I turned 18 and never intended to leave. I was there for college, and I saw my life in front of me. I would graduate and live in an apartment in the city. There I would toil as a journalist by day and activist by night. I’d cover important social topics and attend gallery openings. I’d memorize every part of the city until I became so familiar with it; I could walk it blindfolded (although I never actually planned to do THAT – I’m not naive).
For four years, I walked the city streets and marveled at my fortune. I was born to be a city girl. I was surrounded by people who longed for their country homes and escaped back home as often as possible. I, however, relished the chance to walk the streets (not THAT way) and take in Chicago with true appreciation.
My job as a Communications Intern at the Chicagoland Chamber of Congress was a perfect fit. I’d hike the twelve blocks back and forth to my job, sometimes even twice in one day, and love it. I’d take cabs on snowy days and shop on Michigan Avenue with the hordes.
I think part of the reason I love the city is because you can be totally alone in a sea of people. You can have perfect anonymity, which you can decide to break if someone piques your interest. It’s very easy to be social or isolated, depending on your mood, in a big city.
My dreams of staying in Chicago had to be abandoned – for a couple of reasons. The first being my father’s unexpected death had left my mother all alone. She encouraged me to finish school with the understanding that I’d come “home” when I graduated. The other was my fiancé who loves the peace and solitude of the country just like I relish the hustle and bustle of the city. Circumstances made me leave the city. And every so often, I regret the choice.
I turned down an offer to be a producer at the top AM radio station in Chicago, and even had to reject the C of C’s offer to stay on and move up in their communications department. Now, that was hard.
I liked being a city girl. I liked being surrounded by people, losing myself in the crowd. Eating at the best restaurants in the world – at 2:00 a.m. Knowing what fashions were storming through the streets – shopping on the Mile. The theater, the shows, and the ease of transportation. It’s hard to reconcile yourself to “the Walmart,” when you long for Neiman Marcus.
I loved the elevators at the John Hancock building, the fireworks over Navy Pier, and the carriage rides that clip-clop around the Water Tower. I miss the street performers, the creative beggars, and the business people who seem to glide down the streets.
So, I sit here – trapped in Suburbia – the one place I never wanted to be, trying to make the best of it. I DO love being near my family, but if I could magically transport them all to Chicago, I would.
I think what I miss most is the freedom to just take off - to decide where and when I wanted to go and just fly free. Maybe it’s not the city, after all. Maybe it’s the freedom and my youth that I miss. Just maybe.
But, either way, I still grieve for my loss of Neiman Marcus!
I came to Chicago the day after I turned 18 and never intended to leave. I was there for college, and I saw my life in front of me. I would graduate and live in an apartment in the city. There I would toil as a journalist by day and activist by night. I’d cover important social topics and attend gallery openings. I’d memorize every part of the city until I became so familiar with it; I could walk it blindfolded (although I never actually planned to do THAT – I’m not naive).
For four years, I walked the city streets and marveled at my fortune. I was born to be a city girl. I was surrounded by people who longed for their country homes and escaped back home as often as possible. I, however, relished the chance to walk the streets (not THAT way) and take in Chicago with true appreciation.
My job as a Communications Intern at the Chicagoland Chamber of Congress was a perfect fit. I’d hike the twelve blocks back and forth to my job, sometimes even twice in one day, and love it. I’d take cabs on snowy days and shop on Michigan Avenue with the hordes.
I think part of the reason I love the city is because you can be totally alone in a sea of people. You can have perfect anonymity, which you can decide to break if someone piques your interest. It’s very easy to be social or isolated, depending on your mood, in a big city.
My dreams of staying in Chicago had to be abandoned – for a couple of reasons. The first being my father’s unexpected death had left my mother all alone. She encouraged me to finish school with the understanding that I’d come “home” when I graduated. The other was my fiancé who loves the peace and solitude of the country just like I relish the hustle and bustle of the city. Circumstances made me leave the city. And every so often, I regret the choice.
I turned down an offer to be a producer at the top AM radio station in Chicago, and even had to reject the C of C’s offer to stay on and move up in their communications department. Now, that was hard.
I liked being a city girl. I liked being surrounded by people, losing myself in the crowd. Eating at the best restaurants in the world – at 2:00 a.m. Knowing what fashions were storming through the streets – shopping on the Mile. The theater, the shows, and the ease of transportation. It’s hard to reconcile yourself to “the Walmart,” when you long for Neiman Marcus.
I loved the elevators at the John Hancock building, the fireworks over Navy Pier, and the carriage rides that clip-clop around the Water Tower. I miss the street performers, the creative beggars, and the business people who seem to glide down the streets.
So, I sit here – trapped in Suburbia – the one place I never wanted to be, trying to make the best of it. I DO love being near my family, but if I could magically transport them all to Chicago, I would.
I think what I miss most is the freedom to just take off - to decide where and when I wanted to go and just fly free. Maybe it’s not the city, after all. Maybe it’s the freedom and my youth that I miss. Just maybe.
But, either way, I still grieve for my loss of Neiman Marcus!
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Dreaming with the Stars
I had the weirdest dream last night.
I dreamed I was living with a Hispanic family who ran a family camp out in Montana. I must have worked for them as a nanny or childcare provider, because I spent my days with these very cute Hispanic children.
One day Angelina Jolie shows up with her two kids. (Yes, I know she has three kids, but in my dream it was just Maddox and Zahara.) Anyway, she shows up out of the blue, with no reservations, and politely asks the Hispanic family if she can stay with them. She explains how she wants her kids to experience a real vacation away from the paparazzi. The Hispanic family told her she could absolutely stay with them.
So, I ended up taking care of her kids, along with my other Hispanic charges. I even got to talk to her a couple of times. I tried not to fawn all over her, since she looked really tired and exhausted. I asked her how she liked her vacation, and she told me it was nice to get away.
She kept to herself and her kids most of the time, but I kept thinking, “Wow, I can’t believe I’ve met AND talked to Angelina Jolie.”
It felt SO real, and it was a bit of a letdown when I woke up. I also got gypped because there was NO Brad Pitt in my dream. I’m so mad at my subconscious!
Dream Weaver:
I’ve had vivid, detailed dreams since I was a little girl. It might be because I have such an overactive imagination. It could also be because I’m left handed, and it’s been proven that left handers have significant right brain activities – such as creativity, and in my case (I guess) these crazy dreams.
Not So Happy Days (or Nights)!
The earliest dream I remember involved Tom Bosley (the dad from Happy Days, the sheriff on Murder, She Wrote) being a blood sucking vampire who climbed in the window of my room and tried to kill me. I escaped the room and ended up at the top of this spiraling staircase. As I looked down, I realized that the room below was filed with other vampires. Thankfully, I woke up right as they were all running up the stairs to get me.
Ewwww
When I was in college, I dreamed that I was married to this icky guy from high school and HAVING HIS BABY! Ewwww! I even remember thinking, in the course of my dream, “Why would I do this? I don’t even LIKE this guy!” It was very disturbing.
Accident Prone
The scariest dream I had (early on in life) involved driving a car. Beginning at age 6, I had this dream at least once a month until I actually did learn how to drive at age 16.
I would be in the back seat of an old car, a classic car of some kind. It was dark and icy out, but someone else was driving, and I felt very safe. Then the car would spin violently out of control, and suddenly plunge down into this deep ravine. It was so real and so dramatic that I still remember the landscape today. Tree branches scraping the windows, wet grass flying up and sticking to the window, and eventually the tires giving into the mud and down we would go to the bottom of this hill.
I was always okay. I would climb out of the car and find that the other person was hurt. And I knew I would have to drive the car to get the person help before he died. Since there was another road at the bottom of the hill, I would push the car onto the road and then get in the driver’s seat. This was where the terror would start.
I would be in a blind panic thinking, “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE A CAR!” Eventually, I would get the car going, but inevitable, almost instantly, I would steer the car down another hill and wake up right before we crashed at the bottom.
That dream stopped when I learned how to drive, but dreaming about it for ten years was not pleasant.
Before Columbine
When I was nine, I also had a scary dream about my friend’s father. I dreamed I was at a wedding and my friend (Amber Cooper’s) dad walked in with a machine gun and blew everyone away. The only reason I survived was because I ducked down under a pew.
The scary thing was that there WAS a wedding the next day. I told my parents I didn’t want to go, and when they pressed me on why, I finally told then about the dream. THEY thought it was hysterical and said that it was JUST a dream, and didn’t I think I should go just to see what happened? I said I didn’t particularly WANT to see anyone blown away but was eventually persuaded to go.
Then, my parents made it WORSE! They thought it was SO funny, that they told Mr. Cooper all about it. So, during the wedding, when I would turn around and look at him, he’d pretend to pull out a gun and pull the trigger. He would wink and think it was cute, but I was terrified my dream would come true!
Thanks a lot, Mr. Cooper. No wonder I still feel some trepidation at weddings.
Honeymoon Disaster
After Brett and I got engaged, I had a real-life scary dream. I dreamed that Brett married someone else on the day of our wedding, and took THAT girl on OUR honeymoon. I remember (in the dream) standing outside their room and pounding on the door in desperation.
I kept saying, “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.”
When I woke up, I called Brett and asked him if he was seeing someone else.
He said, “Are you kidding? Who else would have me?”
When I told him about my dream, he said he thought it was sweet I was jealous of a girl who didn’t even exist!
Brett’s Turn
Brett’s had a couple of those real-life types of dreams. In college, he called me at 2:00 a.m. to ask me if I still loved him. When I asked why, he said he had a dream where I was dating all these guys on campus while still being engaged to him. Then I yelled at him all the time to LEAVE ME ALONE. I told him that yes, I did love him. I also said it was 2:00 a.m., so I (for right now) DID need him to LEAVE ME ALONE. At least until 6:00 a.m., that is!
Since we’ve been married, he’s had similar dreams and has woken me up early in the morning to proclaim his love for me and ask me to affirm my love.
I’m sure you could all analyze the above dreams. I like to analyze them, too, but mostly I use them as inspiration. Most of my writing ideas come from my dreams, and I consider them a gift from God.
I’ve often thought of my subconscious as a playground, and I’m kind of excited to see what it has in store for me tonight!
I dreamed I was living with a Hispanic family who ran a family camp out in Montana. I must have worked for them as a nanny or childcare provider, because I spent my days with these very cute Hispanic children.
One day Angelina Jolie shows up with her two kids. (Yes, I know she has three kids, but in my dream it was just Maddox and Zahara.) Anyway, she shows up out of the blue, with no reservations, and politely asks the Hispanic family if she can stay with them. She explains how she wants her kids to experience a real vacation away from the paparazzi. The Hispanic family told her she could absolutely stay with them.
So, I ended up taking care of her kids, along with my other Hispanic charges. I even got to talk to her a couple of times. I tried not to fawn all over her, since she looked really tired and exhausted. I asked her how she liked her vacation, and she told me it was nice to get away.
She kept to herself and her kids most of the time, but I kept thinking, “Wow, I can’t believe I’ve met AND talked to Angelina Jolie.”
It felt SO real, and it was a bit of a letdown when I woke up. I also got gypped because there was NO Brad Pitt in my dream. I’m so mad at my subconscious!
Dream Weaver:
I’ve had vivid, detailed dreams since I was a little girl. It might be because I have such an overactive imagination. It could also be because I’m left handed, and it’s been proven that left handers have significant right brain activities – such as creativity, and in my case (I guess) these crazy dreams.
Not So Happy Days (or Nights)!
The earliest dream I remember involved Tom Bosley (the dad from Happy Days, the sheriff on Murder, She Wrote) being a blood sucking vampire who climbed in the window of my room and tried to kill me. I escaped the room and ended up at the top of this spiraling staircase. As I looked down, I realized that the room below was filed with other vampires. Thankfully, I woke up right as they were all running up the stairs to get me.
Ewwww
When I was in college, I dreamed that I was married to this icky guy from high school and HAVING HIS BABY! Ewwww! I even remember thinking, in the course of my dream, “Why would I do this? I don’t even LIKE this guy!” It was very disturbing.
Accident Prone
The scariest dream I had (early on in life) involved driving a car. Beginning at age 6, I had this dream at least once a month until I actually did learn how to drive at age 16.
I would be in the back seat of an old car, a classic car of some kind. It was dark and icy out, but someone else was driving, and I felt very safe. Then the car would spin violently out of control, and suddenly plunge down into this deep ravine. It was so real and so dramatic that I still remember the landscape today. Tree branches scraping the windows, wet grass flying up and sticking to the window, and eventually the tires giving into the mud and down we would go to the bottom of this hill.
I was always okay. I would climb out of the car and find that the other person was hurt. And I knew I would have to drive the car to get the person help before he died. Since there was another road at the bottom of the hill, I would push the car onto the road and then get in the driver’s seat. This was where the terror would start.
I would be in a blind panic thinking, “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE A CAR!” Eventually, I would get the car going, but inevitable, almost instantly, I would steer the car down another hill and wake up right before we crashed at the bottom.
That dream stopped when I learned how to drive, but dreaming about it for ten years was not pleasant.
Before Columbine
When I was nine, I also had a scary dream about my friend’s father. I dreamed I was at a wedding and my friend (Amber Cooper’s) dad walked in with a machine gun and blew everyone away. The only reason I survived was because I ducked down under a pew.
The scary thing was that there WAS a wedding the next day. I told my parents I didn’t want to go, and when they pressed me on why, I finally told then about the dream. THEY thought it was hysterical and said that it was JUST a dream, and didn’t I think I should go just to see what happened? I said I didn’t particularly WANT to see anyone blown away but was eventually persuaded to go.
Then, my parents made it WORSE! They thought it was SO funny, that they told Mr. Cooper all about it. So, during the wedding, when I would turn around and look at him, he’d pretend to pull out a gun and pull the trigger. He would wink and think it was cute, but I was terrified my dream would come true!
Thanks a lot, Mr. Cooper. No wonder I still feel some trepidation at weddings.
Honeymoon Disaster
After Brett and I got engaged, I had a real-life scary dream. I dreamed that Brett married someone else on the day of our wedding, and took THAT girl on OUR honeymoon. I remember (in the dream) standing outside their room and pounding on the door in desperation.
I kept saying, “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.”
When I woke up, I called Brett and asked him if he was seeing someone else.
He said, “Are you kidding? Who else would have me?”
When I told him about my dream, he said he thought it was sweet I was jealous of a girl who didn’t even exist!
Brett’s Turn
Brett’s had a couple of those real-life types of dreams. In college, he called me at 2:00 a.m. to ask me if I still loved him. When I asked why, he said he had a dream where I was dating all these guys on campus while still being engaged to him. Then I yelled at him all the time to LEAVE ME ALONE. I told him that yes, I did love him. I also said it was 2:00 a.m., so I (for right now) DID need him to LEAVE ME ALONE. At least until 6:00 a.m., that is!
Since we’ve been married, he’s had similar dreams and has woken me up early in the morning to proclaim his love for me and ask me to affirm my love.
I’m sure you could all analyze the above dreams. I like to analyze them, too, but mostly I use them as inspiration. Most of my writing ideas come from my dreams, and I consider them a gift from God.
I’ve often thought of my subconscious as a playground, and I’m kind of excited to see what it has in store for me tonight!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Controversial Blogging?
I recently discovered several of my cousins have blogs! It has been so interesting to read them and get caught up on their lives. It sounds like a lot of people talk about their day-to-day activities on their blogs. I’d do that more often if I thought my life wouldn’t put people to sleep. Ha! Ha!
Anyway, the reason I bring up the blogs is because one of my cousins recently posted an entry where she brought up a pretty controversial topic – birth control. Or the lack thereof. The next day she posted another entry talking about how people had been very unkind in their comments to her last entry.
It’s true. There are some topics that just get people’s blood pumping. They feel passionately about a subject, and if there are two sides to it, a debate rages. We all have our hot button issues. If you know me at all, or if you’ve even read a smidgeon of this blog, you know that I feel very strongly about women’s rights. And, as a sub-topic, I support Christian women’s right within the home and church. I suppose there are a lot of people who would disagree with me and relegate women to being barefoot, pregnant, uneducated, uninformed, and not equipped to make the world a better place. They may not phrase it like that, but there are still a lot of people who support the Donna Reed persona of women.
So, I got to thinking about topics where I have seen people rage in debate – Christian and non-Christians. Here are the topics I immediately came up with – general and specific:
The war in Iraq
Illegal immigration
Taxes
Politics
Politicians
Birth Control
Abortion
Breast Feeding (I’m serious. You wouldn’t believe the fan club breast feeding has.)
Home schooling vs. Private/Public School
There are tons more, but those were my immediate thoughts. It’s amazing how little I care about those topics. I have absolutely no opinion on the war in Iraq, illegal immigration, politics, or politicians. The other things I have opinions on, but there is only one I would care more passionately about – and those of you who know me know which one.
As far as Birth Control, Breast Feeding, and Home schooling - I look at those as personal choice and leave it at that. But I have to say that it’s really hard for me to take breastfeeding seriously as a topic. I mean, really?
So, I just want to say to my cousin - keep at it! Keep blogging and enjoy your personal expression. I may disagree with you on your topic (and I do). But if you feel passionately about it – you should campaign for it!
Long live free speech!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
My Wise Friends
At some point in my life, I watched an illustration of how having bad friends can affect a person.
One person stood on a chair, and the other person stood on the ground. The moderator asked the person on the chair to lift the person on the ground up to his (the person on the chair’s) level using only one hand. He couldn’t do it. The moderator then asked the person on the ground to try and pull the other person off the chair using only one hand. He accomplished this easily. The moderator explained to us that it is always easier to pull people down into bad habits than to lift them up into good ones. He encouraged us to seek out friends who would help lift us up and not pull us down.
God has been so good to me in giving me wise friends. Many friends read my blog and send me e-mails about how they like it or not, agree with me or not, and yet they’ve all said almost the same thing. They are afraid to post a comment, because they’ve had a bad experience posting on other people’s blogs.
I’d say that was learning from experience and very wise.
So, please don’t feel bad about not commenting! You can always e-mail me, and it has been really wonderful to hear that people are (one way or another) enjoying reading my incoherent, opinionated, rambling blog!
I love you guys, too! Thanks for not taking me too seriously.
One person stood on a chair, and the other person stood on the ground. The moderator asked the person on the chair to lift the person on the ground up to his (the person on the chair’s) level using only one hand. He couldn’t do it. The moderator then asked the person on the ground to try and pull the other person off the chair using only one hand. He accomplished this easily. The moderator explained to us that it is always easier to pull people down into bad habits than to lift them up into good ones. He encouraged us to seek out friends who would help lift us up and not pull us down.
God has been so good to me in giving me wise friends. Many friends read my blog and send me e-mails about how they like it or not, agree with me or not, and yet they’ve all said almost the same thing. They are afraid to post a comment, because they’ve had a bad experience posting on other people’s blogs.
I’d say that was learning from experience and very wise.
So, please don’t feel bad about not commenting! You can always e-mail me, and it has been really wonderful to hear that people are (one way or another) enjoying reading my incoherent, opinionated, rambling blog!
I love you guys, too! Thanks for not taking me too seriously.
The Problem with Pastors
Today, I was all set to write a *bitter diatribe about the many things I don’t like about some pastors or some people in the ministry. However, that was obviously not God’s plan, since the two pastors who I do trust have both really come through for me in the last two days. I think God was trying to prove a point. So, I’m not going to “go off” on pastors as originally planned.
Well, not totally.
First off, I’d like to say that my cousin Aaron, who is a pastor, was the one who made me realize I had a “problem” when it came to pastors. He said, “Look, I’m your family, and I know that you love me, but when you talk about how much you dislike pastors, I almost feel like my job is more important to you than me. Like you hate me, or something, for being a pastor.”
Since I don’t hate him (at all), those words really made me stop and think.
I’ve had to work through some deep seated resentment due to a bad “pastor” experience when I was a teenager (see above post). So, I’m sure my opinions on pastors are colored a little negatively by that. However, through the years, I do believe I have drawn some valid observations about mismanagement of the “pastor” position and experience. Let me say, right up front, that these do not apply to every pastor. These are just “general” observations drawn over the course of the 28 years I’ve spent in church.
Observations:
There were a lot of girls in high school and college who believed they were “called” to be pastors’ wives. They had been told this was a valid “calling” (oh, how I hate that word!) ever since they were small. I personally remember sitting in my sixth grade Sunday School class as the teacher told the boys they could grow up and serve God as pastors and missionaries. He then turned to us girls and said we could also grow up and serve God as pastors’ wives or missionaries’ wives.
I remember thinking, “Well, whoopee. That lets me out. I obviously can’t serve God if I don’t get married.”
And since I knew that wasn’t going to happen, I felt as through I would be permanently disqualified from serving God. I also drew the faulty conclusion that God obviously loved boys more than girls. I hung on to that until college when a marvelous class and a fabulous female teacher opened my eyes to God’s love for me AS HIS CHILD.
Sorry, I got off track there. Back to those girls.
So anyway, there I was in a gaggle of girls who sincerely believed it was God’s will for them to marry a pastor. I still don’t know how any reasonably intelligent Christian woman could ever fall into this trap. You cannot marry a man’s profession. You can only marry the man.
What happens if you marry a pastor and then, for some reason, he stops being a pastor? Are you no longer in the will of God? How is that possible? You may have done nothing wrong and now you are cast out of God’s will? If your husband is no longer a pastor, and it’s God’s will for you to be married to a pastor, then are you supposed to try to find another pastor to marry? If you believe divorce is wrong, then obviously not.
So, I’ll say it again. You don’t marry a man’s profession. It doesn’t matter what it is. You marry the man. You should be in love with him, his very person, not what he does. His job may (and often does) change. Your love for him shouldn’t.
While I’m on the topic of pastors’ wives, I‘d also like to say that I completely DO NOT understand the process of putting them on a pedestal. Just because they are married to a pastor does not make them qualified to do anything spiritual. Just like being married to a plumber, doesn’t make his wife qualified to fix a toilet. I know as much about running a warehouse as my husband does about public relations. Zip.
I’ve never worshiped any of my pastors’ wives. My own shining example of godly womanhood exists in my mother. As far as my pastors’ wives go, I’ve never had any sort of special relationship. One pastor’s wife wouldn’t even talk to me, unless I had missed church. And even then, it was more of a lecture than a friendly conversation. I tried several times to be friendly to her and received the “brush off” when she saw someone more important she wanted to talk to. So, I gave up.
I also had a horrible time when I attended a ladies retreat. I was brand new to the church. I didn’t even really know anyone. So, I invited my mother and mother-in-law to attend with me. We had a miserable time. No one even talked to us. At dinner, we ended up all by ourselves at a table, and, as people streamed in, no one sat with us. Both my mother and mother-in-law had to comfort me, since I was in tears by the end of the evening.
Off track, yet again. Okay, back to pastors’ wives.
I swear I don’t have a vendetta against them. I’m sure lots of them are very nice. My cousin’s wife is a living example of that. However, I have noticed the inequality. Such as when we throw birthday parties for them or give the pastoral families extra money on special occasions throughout the year. Hey, guess what? My co-workers don’t throw me any special parties. As for the money? Well, all the pastors I know make more money than Brett and I do – combined.
My mother said that things used to be different years ago. Pastors did only make a little money, and there was no health insurance or retirement. But all that has changed. Many pastors today make way more money than the average Joe. Yet, many of them still expect deals when they go to buy a car or get a haircut.
Many pastors claim that they work nights and weekends and even all hours. Well, la, de, da. So do the rest of us. I work nights and weekends too, Bub. But no one hands me an envelope bloated with extra cash at Christmas time.
Perhaps what I have observed most is the misplaced sense of martyrdom that many pastors’ posses. The “woe-is-me, struggling-to-serve-God-in-the-oppressed-world, doing-without” syndrome. Hey, I’ve got news for you, pal! You chose this profession! You walked into it with your eyes wide open. You knew what was coming. So, stop complaining and expecting people to feel sorry for you. YOU decided to DO IT!
My cousin Aaron once asked me what really got under my skin when it came to pastors. I told him, “They expect special treatment just for doing their job.”
And I guess that’s what it really boils down to.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore our current pastor and begrudge him nothing. Mostly, this is because I sincerely believe that he loves his congregation and does pray for each member. I also believe his transparency is real. He is the first pastor I have EVER put any level of real trust in. The first pastor who took the time to get to know me. To help me. To care. To treat me equally.
And I love my cousin Aaron and believe his heart is in the right place for ministry. Although he does, on occasion, enjoy teasing me with sarcasm about how he is just doing his job and not expecting any special treatment. (Much sarcasm applied here!)
There are good pastors out there. Unfortunately, I fear, just not too many.
*That’s NOT a bitter diatribe, you say? Believe it or not, I actually held a lot of stuff back. My favorite being, “But he’s a man of God!”
“Yeah, well, so are all Christian guys. Get over it.”
Oops, I guess I didn’t hold that back, after all.
Well, not totally.
First off, I’d like to say that my cousin Aaron, who is a pastor, was the one who made me realize I had a “problem” when it came to pastors. He said, “Look, I’m your family, and I know that you love me, but when you talk about how much you dislike pastors, I almost feel like my job is more important to you than me. Like you hate me, or something, for being a pastor.”
Since I don’t hate him (at all), those words really made me stop and think.
I’ve had to work through some deep seated resentment due to a bad “pastor” experience when I was a teenager (see above post). So, I’m sure my opinions on pastors are colored a little negatively by that. However, through the years, I do believe I have drawn some valid observations about mismanagement of the “pastor” position and experience. Let me say, right up front, that these do not apply to every pastor. These are just “general” observations drawn over the course of the 28 years I’ve spent in church.
Observations:
There were a lot of girls in high school and college who believed they were “called” to be pastors’ wives. They had been told this was a valid “calling” (oh, how I hate that word!) ever since they were small. I personally remember sitting in my sixth grade Sunday School class as the teacher told the boys they could grow up and serve God as pastors and missionaries. He then turned to us girls and said we could also grow up and serve God as pastors’ wives or missionaries’ wives.
I remember thinking, “Well, whoopee. That lets me out. I obviously can’t serve God if I don’t get married.”
And since I knew that wasn’t going to happen, I felt as through I would be permanently disqualified from serving God. I also drew the faulty conclusion that God obviously loved boys more than girls. I hung on to that until college when a marvelous class and a fabulous female teacher opened my eyes to God’s love for me AS HIS CHILD.
Sorry, I got off track there. Back to those girls.
So anyway, there I was in a gaggle of girls who sincerely believed it was God’s will for them to marry a pastor. I still don’t know how any reasonably intelligent Christian woman could ever fall into this trap. You cannot marry a man’s profession. You can only marry the man.
What happens if you marry a pastor and then, for some reason, he stops being a pastor? Are you no longer in the will of God? How is that possible? You may have done nothing wrong and now you are cast out of God’s will? If your husband is no longer a pastor, and it’s God’s will for you to be married to a pastor, then are you supposed to try to find another pastor to marry? If you believe divorce is wrong, then obviously not.
So, I’ll say it again. You don’t marry a man’s profession. It doesn’t matter what it is. You marry the man. You should be in love with him, his very person, not what he does. His job may (and often does) change. Your love for him shouldn’t.
While I’m on the topic of pastors’ wives, I‘d also like to say that I completely DO NOT understand the process of putting them on a pedestal. Just because they are married to a pastor does not make them qualified to do anything spiritual. Just like being married to a plumber, doesn’t make his wife qualified to fix a toilet. I know as much about running a warehouse as my husband does about public relations. Zip.
I’ve never worshiped any of my pastors’ wives. My own shining example of godly womanhood exists in my mother. As far as my pastors’ wives go, I’ve never had any sort of special relationship. One pastor’s wife wouldn’t even talk to me, unless I had missed church. And even then, it was more of a lecture than a friendly conversation. I tried several times to be friendly to her and received the “brush off” when she saw someone more important she wanted to talk to. So, I gave up.
I also had a horrible time when I attended a ladies retreat. I was brand new to the church. I didn’t even really know anyone. So, I invited my mother and mother-in-law to attend with me. We had a miserable time. No one even talked to us. At dinner, we ended up all by ourselves at a table, and, as people streamed in, no one sat with us. Both my mother and mother-in-law had to comfort me, since I was in tears by the end of the evening.
Off track, yet again. Okay, back to pastors’ wives.
I swear I don’t have a vendetta against them. I’m sure lots of them are very nice. My cousin’s wife is a living example of that. However, I have noticed the inequality. Such as when we throw birthday parties for them or give the pastoral families extra money on special occasions throughout the year. Hey, guess what? My co-workers don’t throw me any special parties. As for the money? Well, all the pastors I know make more money than Brett and I do – combined.
My mother said that things used to be different years ago. Pastors did only make a little money, and there was no health insurance or retirement. But all that has changed. Many pastors today make way more money than the average Joe. Yet, many of them still expect deals when they go to buy a car or get a haircut.
Many pastors claim that they work nights and weekends and even all hours. Well, la, de, da. So do the rest of us. I work nights and weekends too, Bub. But no one hands me an envelope bloated with extra cash at Christmas time.
Perhaps what I have observed most is the misplaced sense of martyrdom that many pastors’ posses. The “woe-is-me, struggling-to-serve-God-in-the-oppressed-world, doing-without” syndrome. Hey, I’ve got news for you, pal! You chose this profession! You walked into it with your eyes wide open. You knew what was coming. So, stop complaining and expecting people to feel sorry for you. YOU decided to DO IT!
My cousin Aaron once asked me what really got under my skin when it came to pastors. I told him, “They expect special treatment just for doing their job.”
And I guess that’s what it really boils down to.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore our current pastor and begrudge him nothing. Mostly, this is because I sincerely believe that he loves his congregation and does pray for each member. I also believe his transparency is real. He is the first pastor I have EVER put any level of real trust in. The first pastor who took the time to get to know me. To help me. To care. To treat me equally.
And I love my cousin Aaron and believe his heart is in the right place for ministry. Although he does, on occasion, enjoy teasing me with sarcasm about how he is just doing his job and not expecting any special treatment. (Much sarcasm applied here!)
There are good pastors out there. Unfortunately, I fear, just not too many.
*That’s NOT a bitter diatribe, you say? Believe it or not, I actually held a lot of stuff back. My favorite being, “But he’s a man of God!”
“Yeah, well, so are all Christian guys. Get over it.”
Oops, I guess I didn’t hold that back, after all.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
In Appreciation of a Common Man
I don’t consider myself rebellious. I was the kid who followed all the rules and didn’t make waves. You can ask my Mom. She tells everyone I wasn’t a hard child to raise. I was born with a self-motivation chip. Now, I return the compliment by saying that Mom and Dad were (without exception) the best parents in the world. They seemed to know exactly what discipline structures worked best with my personality.
Mom and Dad had rules, of course, but they were livable and breathable. And they allowed me to be a part of all family decisions.
I remember when our family made the decision to go to Berean. It meant that I would have to switch schools. I was in the fourth grade at my current school and really liked it. I remember Mom and Dad and I sitting around the kitchen table and talking about it. And I distinctly remember Dad asking how I felt about it. Now, I knew how they felt about it (they were totally for it), and yet I knew they would listen to my concerns and take them into consideration. It may not have changed the outcome, but to be listened to goes a long way towards cooperation when you’re a kid.
I also credit Mom and Dad for teaching me to be real. When I was in 7th grade, Dad came in and sat on my bed. He said now that I was going to be part of a youth group; I would have to make my own decisions about what activities I would or wouldn’t attend.
“Your salvation and relationship with the Lord is not based on your mother’s or my salvation. It is your personal relationship with God.”
He told me that from then on I could make the decision to go to or to stay home from church. And I could decide what youth group activities to attend.
Dad never subscribed to the “every time the doors are open” theory of church attendance. He supported the edification of the saints and church attendance, but he also knew spiritual enrichment could expand far beyond the church doors.
Sometimes, we did things as a family on a rare Sunday away from church - a picnic at Severson Dells and a family prayer deep in the rich green woods. I remember those moments with startling clarity and recall how my heart sang in appreciation at God’s creation.
As a young man, Dad had been snookered into believing he was “called” to be a pastor or at least “in” the ministry. This was the current assumption prescribed to all men seeking an education at a Christian college (and still is, to some extent). Through many sorrowful years, it became painfully obvious that this was not God’s plan for him.
Because of this, Dad went through a deep depression for the two years we were at Berean. It was worsened by the fact that every time Pastor Swanson preached, he made it sound as if there was but one road for men – the ministry. And those men were glorified and almost deified. I watched those messages tear off pieces of Dad’s heart, one small slice at a time. He had tried everything, and (since God can’t fail) he had failed.
Dad’s depression reverberated with me. It caused a deep resentment against Pastor Swanson, Berean, and every ill-informed moronic Christian IN the ministry. How dare people put them on a pedestal when my Dad was the godliest man I knew. The man most deserving of, yet never seeking, praise. He never won any awards, he was never given any envelopes with money on Christmas and assorted holidays, and yet he deserved that and so much more.
The cloud of pain and depression did not lift for two years. Those were rough years. I knew he loved Mom and me, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he questioned the value of his own life. The veil lifted one day when Dad sat down for morning devotions. He later told us that he prayed, “God, I am not getting up from this table until You give me peace.”
And he sat there through most of the morning just praying and reading. He missed work. And at some point, in His grace, after two long years, God finally gave him peace.
The change was immediately evident. The decision was unanimous in our family to change churches. Unbeknownst to my parents, I’d been hiding in the church restroom ever since starting in the church youth group. Even at thirteen, I couldn’t stomach the bilge the lunatic youth pastor was trying to pass off as biblical teaching. So, mostly I was relieved to not have to hide anymore. Mom was probably the greatest relieved. She had her husband back!
We visited Windsor shortly after that, and the fit was perfect (well, as perfect as imperfect humans can have). Dad became a vibrant Christian once again. He also said the experience - that horrendous trial - taught him about depression and metal illness. He had experienced it first hand and was (for the remaining years of his life) empathetic to those who were going through it.
Dad became the Song Leader at our church and loved it. Mom and I loved hearing his deep bass voice rolling out over the crowd, Sunday after Sunday, in evident joy.
Dad still believed he was a failure in many ways. That is something I can never fix. To me, he was extraordinary. I read a quote once that applies to Dad’s life:
“The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.”
Mom and Dad had rules, of course, but they were livable and breathable. And they allowed me to be a part of all family decisions.
I remember when our family made the decision to go to Berean. It meant that I would have to switch schools. I was in the fourth grade at my current school and really liked it. I remember Mom and Dad and I sitting around the kitchen table and talking about it. And I distinctly remember Dad asking how I felt about it. Now, I knew how they felt about it (they were totally for it), and yet I knew they would listen to my concerns and take them into consideration. It may not have changed the outcome, but to be listened to goes a long way towards cooperation when you’re a kid.
I also credit Mom and Dad for teaching me to be real. When I was in 7th grade, Dad came in and sat on my bed. He said now that I was going to be part of a youth group; I would have to make my own decisions about what activities I would or wouldn’t attend.
“Your salvation and relationship with the Lord is not based on your mother’s or my salvation. It is your personal relationship with God.”
He told me that from then on I could make the decision to go to or to stay home from church. And I could decide what youth group activities to attend.
Dad never subscribed to the “every time the doors are open” theory of church attendance. He supported the edification of the saints and church attendance, but he also knew spiritual enrichment could expand far beyond the church doors.
Sometimes, we did things as a family on a rare Sunday away from church - a picnic at Severson Dells and a family prayer deep in the rich green woods. I remember those moments with startling clarity and recall how my heart sang in appreciation at God’s creation.
As a young man, Dad had been snookered into believing he was “called” to be a pastor or at least “in” the ministry. This was the current assumption prescribed to all men seeking an education at a Christian college (and still is, to some extent). Through many sorrowful years, it became painfully obvious that this was not God’s plan for him.
Because of this, Dad went through a deep depression for the two years we were at Berean. It was worsened by the fact that every time Pastor Swanson preached, he made it sound as if there was but one road for men – the ministry. And those men were glorified and almost deified. I watched those messages tear off pieces of Dad’s heart, one small slice at a time. He had tried everything, and (since God can’t fail) he had failed.
Dad’s depression reverberated with me. It caused a deep resentment against Pastor Swanson, Berean, and every ill-informed moronic Christian IN the ministry. How dare people put them on a pedestal when my Dad was the godliest man I knew. The man most deserving of, yet never seeking, praise. He never won any awards, he was never given any envelopes with money on Christmas and assorted holidays, and yet he deserved that and so much more.
The cloud of pain and depression did not lift for two years. Those were rough years. I knew he loved Mom and me, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he questioned the value of his own life. The veil lifted one day when Dad sat down for morning devotions. He later told us that he prayed, “God, I am not getting up from this table until You give me peace.”
And he sat there through most of the morning just praying and reading. He missed work. And at some point, in His grace, after two long years, God finally gave him peace.
The change was immediately evident. The decision was unanimous in our family to change churches. Unbeknownst to my parents, I’d been hiding in the church restroom ever since starting in the church youth group. Even at thirteen, I couldn’t stomach the bilge the lunatic youth pastor was trying to pass off as biblical teaching. So, mostly I was relieved to not have to hide anymore. Mom was probably the greatest relieved. She had her husband back!
We visited Windsor shortly after that, and the fit was perfect (well, as perfect as imperfect humans can have). Dad became a vibrant Christian once again. He also said the experience - that horrendous trial - taught him about depression and metal illness. He had experienced it first hand and was (for the remaining years of his life) empathetic to those who were going through it.
Dad became the Song Leader at our church and loved it. Mom and I loved hearing his deep bass voice rolling out over the crowd, Sunday after Sunday, in evident joy.
Dad still believed he was a failure in many ways. That is something I can never fix. To me, he was extraordinary. I read a quote once that applies to Dad’s life:
“The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.”
- Henry David Thoreau
Dad touched many people’s lives. His visitation lasted over six hours as endless streams of believers and non-believer’s filed past in honor of the man who was godly and true. His testament to the unsaved was amazing, as person after person from his work hugged me and whispered how Dad’s faith had changed their lives. His funeral packed out our small church and the sentiments expressed resounded to the rafters.
So, yes he was never “in” the ministry. He never pastored a church. He never received accolades from the pulpit. He never wrote a book. He was never idolized, except perhaps a bit from his little girl.
Oh, but now, in glory, I have no doubt. No doubt at all that he was met at those gates with the words that have welcomed faithful Christians throughout the years -
“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Well done.”
Never underestimate the power of a common man devoted to the Lord. As D.L. Moody once said, “The world has yet to see what God can do with a man fully devoted to Him.”
Dad didn’t have be “in” the ministry to make a difference. Dad simply “had” a ministry.
His life.
Dad touched many people’s lives. His visitation lasted over six hours as endless streams of believers and non-believer’s filed past in honor of the man who was godly and true. His testament to the unsaved was amazing, as person after person from his work hugged me and whispered how Dad’s faith had changed their lives. His funeral packed out our small church and the sentiments expressed resounded to the rafters.
So, yes he was never “in” the ministry. He never pastored a church. He never received accolades from the pulpit. He never wrote a book. He was never idolized, except perhaps a bit from his little girl.
Oh, but now, in glory, I have no doubt. No doubt at all that he was met at those gates with the words that have welcomed faithful Christians throughout the years -
“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Well done.”
Never underestimate the power of a common man devoted to the Lord. As D.L. Moody once said, “The world has yet to see what God can do with a man fully devoted to Him.”
Dad didn’t have be “in” the ministry to make a difference. Dad simply “had” a ministry.
His life.
Proudly Not Caring Since 1978
I’m tired of apologizing for not being a competitive person.
The first time I realized I was different from other kids in this respect was in AWANA. I understood why memorizing Bible verses was important. It had a purpose. But what was the purpose of running around a circle, handing a baton off to some other kid, and waiting anxiously in line to see who “won” the race? There’s no purpose in that (especially not if you’re a fat kid). I didn’t care if the Red Team won or the Blue Team won. I mean, who cares? It served NO PURPOSE. But judging by the gleeful expressions of the “winners” or sorrowful foot stomping of the “losers,” it mattered to these kids.
When it came to summer camp, the counselors would try to whip us into a fanatical frenzy to beat the Bible Thumpers or the Flaming Fundamentalists or whatever stupid Camp Joy or Camp Northland nickname they had chosen for the camp units that week. They’d force us to make up inane cheers on how our team was better. Then they’d take us out into a mud covered field and make us toss a giant beach ball back and forth to see which team would drop it first.
So there I stood, knee-deep in mud, listening to the breathless cheers and excitement of my sister campers, trying to make myself care. I never could. And I never let on, since a perceived lack of team spirit at either camp could have left me battered and bloodied on the field, with SPOILSPORT tattooed across my forehead.
I have the same feelings toward competitive Vacation Bible School. Isn’t there a better way to teach children about God’s grace, mercy and love than pitting them against other kids in a battle to the death? I mean, really. Is that how Jesus operated? Surely, there is better way.
Don’t get me wrong. I like to play sports, and I like board games. But I’m just in it for the fun. Deep down, I like the fellowship of being with other people and matching wits or skills. I loved playing volleyball because I loved the girls on my team, and I enjoyed improving on my skills. But I never felt the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat. All I really cared about was the time spent together with my friends on the bus on our way to and from games. Really.
That’s what I don’t get about professional sports. I mean, we pay these guys obscene amounts of money to run around chasing a ball. How stupid is that? It serves no purpose! I understand sports at the high school level – exploring the values of teamwork and athletic improvement, but after that it gets real fuzzy on why I should care.
Speaking of games, have you ever played a board game with very competitive people? I mean, they really get into it. And when they lose – watch out! Their moods darken and they are inevitably sour the rest of the evening.
I spring from a non-competitive family, and I’m married to a non-competitive man. We are the sort of people who are entirely willing to sell you all our property in Monopoly for $1 just to make the game end. We’re the people who cheerfully head back to Start in SORRY. We’re there for fun. It doesn’t matter to us.
But being non-competitive carries a stigma. In AWANA, I memorized a LOT of Bible verses, but no one wanted me on their team, since I didn’t care about the baton race. In school, I didn’t have “school spirit” since I refused to go hoarse yelling in support of a team of cocky, arrogant Christian school boys to win a stupid trophy that would just sit in a case anyway. In adult life, people get frustrated when I don’t feel or act crushed when they “beat” me at a game. Usually, I’ll clear the board, give a smile, and say, “You want to play again?” And they woefully shake their heads.
And what good does competition bring anyway? These sports fanatics who actively hate other teams – what does that teach our children? What does it say about our society? What about the seemingly endless money we throw at school, college, and professional sports? Think of all the PURPOSEFUL things that money could be used for. Such as the arts – things that make people actually think. Things that make for a better society.
So, that’s it. I refuse to feel bad about not caring who wins or loses, anymore.
You care, okay? You can care for me.
Go, Bears! (That’s for my mom.)
The first time I realized I was different from other kids in this respect was in AWANA. I understood why memorizing Bible verses was important. It had a purpose. But what was the purpose of running around a circle, handing a baton off to some other kid, and waiting anxiously in line to see who “won” the race? There’s no purpose in that (especially not if you’re a fat kid). I didn’t care if the Red Team won or the Blue Team won. I mean, who cares? It served NO PURPOSE. But judging by the gleeful expressions of the “winners” or sorrowful foot stomping of the “losers,” it mattered to these kids.
When it came to summer camp, the counselors would try to whip us into a fanatical frenzy to beat the Bible Thumpers or the Flaming Fundamentalists or whatever stupid Camp Joy or Camp Northland nickname they had chosen for the camp units that week. They’d force us to make up inane cheers on how our team was better. Then they’d take us out into a mud covered field and make us toss a giant beach ball back and forth to see which team would drop it first.
So there I stood, knee-deep in mud, listening to the breathless cheers and excitement of my sister campers, trying to make myself care. I never could. And I never let on, since a perceived lack of team spirit at either camp could have left me battered and bloodied on the field, with SPOILSPORT tattooed across my forehead.
I have the same feelings toward competitive Vacation Bible School. Isn’t there a better way to teach children about God’s grace, mercy and love than pitting them against other kids in a battle to the death? I mean, really. Is that how Jesus operated? Surely, there is better way.
Don’t get me wrong. I like to play sports, and I like board games. But I’m just in it for the fun. Deep down, I like the fellowship of being with other people and matching wits or skills. I loved playing volleyball because I loved the girls on my team, and I enjoyed improving on my skills. But I never felt the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat. All I really cared about was the time spent together with my friends on the bus on our way to and from games. Really.
That’s what I don’t get about professional sports. I mean, we pay these guys obscene amounts of money to run around chasing a ball. How stupid is that? It serves no purpose! I understand sports at the high school level – exploring the values of teamwork and athletic improvement, but after that it gets real fuzzy on why I should care.
Speaking of games, have you ever played a board game with very competitive people? I mean, they really get into it. And when they lose – watch out! Their moods darken and they are inevitably sour the rest of the evening.
I spring from a non-competitive family, and I’m married to a non-competitive man. We are the sort of people who are entirely willing to sell you all our property in Monopoly for $1 just to make the game end. We’re the people who cheerfully head back to Start in SORRY. We’re there for fun. It doesn’t matter to us.
But being non-competitive carries a stigma. In AWANA, I memorized a LOT of Bible verses, but no one wanted me on their team, since I didn’t care about the baton race. In school, I didn’t have “school spirit” since I refused to go hoarse yelling in support of a team of cocky, arrogant Christian school boys to win a stupid trophy that would just sit in a case anyway. In adult life, people get frustrated when I don’t feel or act crushed when they “beat” me at a game. Usually, I’ll clear the board, give a smile, and say, “You want to play again?” And they woefully shake their heads.
And what good does competition bring anyway? These sports fanatics who actively hate other teams – what does that teach our children? What does it say about our society? What about the seemingly endless money we throw at school, college, and professional sports? Think of all the PURPOSEFUL things that money could be used for. Such as the arts – things that make people actually think. Things that make for a better society.
So, that’s it. I refuse to feel bad about not caring who wins or loses, anymore.
You care, okay? You can care for me.
Go, Bears! (That’s for my mom.)
My Uncle Dave & My First Sip of Beer
My Uncle Dave is everyone’s uncle.
He defines what an uncle is (other than the technically familial distinction). He is a lovable guy with a loud voice, cigarette in one hand, can of beer in the other, and a smile on his weathered face. His escape is his garage which always has one working car and one fully restored classic. The walls are papered with beer and girlie calendars from 1988 and occasional photographs of his kids, grandchildren, and nieces and nephews.
As a kid, I was fascinated by Uncle Dave. He was so different from my dad. I remember staring up at him during a family wedding. He was cracking jokes with the groom. When he saw me staring at him, he leaned over and offered me a sip of his Old Milwaukee beer. Since, at the tender age of five, I didn’t know the difference between a beer can and a soda can, I took a nice long gulp. The bitter flavor stung my throat, and I must have made quite a face. Uncle Dave and the groom burst out in laughter while I ran to get some punch to wash away the taste.
When I told my mom, a look of surprise crossed her face, but then she gave a sort of half smile. “Did you like it?” she asked. “No, it was gross!” I vehemently answered. “Well, then you’ll never want to try it again,” she assured me. And I never have. So, I guess Mom can thank Uncle Dave from steering me away from a life of alcohol consumption. Although, I wouldn’t recommend that course of action for everyone, it did work for me.
Out of all my family, Uncle Dave and Aunt Venita lived the closest to us when I was growing up. I remember sitting on their front steps and talking while Uncle Dave showed off his latest garage sale finds. He used to scour the neighborhood in search of elusive junk which he could then stock in his own garage sale. For a kid fascinated with junk, Uncle Dave’s garage sales were a treasure trove!
My Aunt Venita is a saint and still one of the most beautiful women I know. She loves Uncle Dave and puts up with a great deal of “man stuff” much better that any wife I know. She also has a strong and unshakeable faith in God. Inside and out, she simply shines.
Our family’s faith is being put to the test. My sweet Uncle Dave has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. There is a 90% chance the cancer has not spread to his lymph nodes, but he will be undergoing surgery on Monday, October 9. I would greatly appreciate your prayers for Uncle Dave, Aunt Venita, and their children and grandkids as they go through this difficult time. I know they would appreciate it, too.
He defines what an uncle is (other than the technically familial distinction). He is a lovable guy with a loud voice, cigarette in one hand, can of beer in the other, and a smile on his weathered face. His escape is his garage which always has one working car and one fully restored classic. The walls are papered with beer and girlie calendars from 1988 and occasional photographs of his kids, grandchildren, and nieces and nephews.
As a kid, I was fascinated by Uncle Dave. He was so different from my dad. I remember staring up at him during a family wedding. He was cracking jokes with the groom. When he saw me staring at him, he leaned over and offered me a sip of his Old Milwaukee beer. Since, at the tender age of five, I didn’t know the difference between a beer can and a soda can, I took a nice long gulp. The bitter flavor stung my throat, and I must have made quite a face. Uncle Dave and the groom burst out in laughter while I ran to get some punch to wash away the taste.
When I told my mom, a look of surprise crossed her face, but then she gave a sort of half smile. “Did you like it?” she asked. “No, it was gross!” I vehemently answered. “Well, then you’ll never want to try it again,” she assured me. And I never have. So, I guess Mom can thank Uncle Dave from steering me away from a life of alcohol consumption. Although, I wouldn’t recommend that course of action for everyone, it did work for me.
Out of all my family, Uncle Dave and Aunt Venita lived the closest to us when I was growing up. I remember sitting on their front steps and talking while Uncle Dave showed off his latest garage sale finds. He used to scour the neighborhood in search of elusive junk which he could then stock in his own garage sale. For a kid fascinated with junk, Uncle Dave’s garage sales were a treasure trove!
My Aunt Venita is a saint and still one of the most beautiful women I know. She loves Uncle Dave and puts up with a great deal of “man stuff” much better that any wife I know. She also has a strong and unshakeable faith in God. Inside and out, she simply shines.
Our family’s faith is being put to the test. My sweet Uncle Dave has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. There is a 90% chance the cancer has not spread to his lymph nodes, but he will be undergoing surgery on Monday, October 9. I would greatly appreciate your prayers for Uncle Dave, Aunt Venita, and their children and grandkids as they go through this difficult time. I know they would appreciate it, too.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Happy Medication Land & Car Ads
I was watching an ad for Ambien CR, the sleep medication, and the announcer said that one of the side effects was drowsiness. Well, I hope so. I mean, who would want to take it and one second later ZZZZZZZZ.
Why is it that all the ads for medication show people checking themselves out by looking in the mirror and laughing? I mean, hey, yeah, I might not be depressed anymore, but I’m still fat, you know? I’m not heading for a mirror. I mean, what if they start that in the ED ads? I sure don’t want see some guy admiring himself in the mirror and laughing. “Hey, look at me, I look great. Take a gander at that bulge.”
Those ads always bother me anyway. I mean, who are these people? They are always taking long walks on the beach, playing with their dogs, and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes. Who does that? That’s not real life. That’s life in Happy Medication Land. I’ll bet dogs don’t even poop in Happy Medication Land. Happy Medication Land much be on an island populated with little blue eyed blonde zombie children who are programmed to play football with their dads who are happily sexually active, bake cookies with their mothers who are not depressed, hang out with Grandma (who has no trace of arthritis) and Grandpa who escaped a heart attack by taking a Bayer aspirin.
Speaking of Bayer, my Dad died of a heart attack. One second he was here, the next he wasn’t. I mean, does Bayer have a product for that? Do they have a warp speed Bayer? I mean, if people have the time to go get a glass of water, sit down, twist the childproof cap off, pull out all that cotton, and actually take the aspirin – I’m just not all that worried about them. Call the hospital if you’re having a heart attack! Don’t take the time to sit down and have tea time with your grandkids. No kid wants the memory of watching Grandpa take a header in the scrambled eggs because of a heart attack. “I don’t know what happened, Mom. Grandpa took some Bayer, sat down for tea, and then boom!” I mean, that kid is not going to eat scrambled eggs for a long time.
I finally figured out who those car ad people are marketing to – the hearing impaired. Right? I mean, that has to be it. I’m pretty sure even dead people can hear the car ad announcer. IT’S A BEAUTIFUL CAR. ONLY $$$$$ WITH BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. I mean, have you ever been at a stop light when one of those commercials comes on the radio? It’s worse than the cars pumping out diesel bass. I mean, you’re sitting there listening to calming talk radio and then the car ad comes on. People are glaring at you as you scrambled for the volume knob. “Sorry. Sorry. Just a car ad. I’ll turn it down. Sorry.”
Why do they think that yelling at me is going to make me want to buy a car? Yelling at me never made me want to do anything. What I want to see is a mellow car ad. You know, some average person saying, “Yeah, see here, this car, it’ll get you from one place to anther, fairly reliable, and comes in all these nice colors. I’ve had mine for ten years now, and it still works.”
Now, I’d buy that car.
Why is it that all the ads for medication show people checking themselves out by looking in the mirror and laughing? I mean, hey, yeah, I might not be depressed anymore, but I’m still fat, you know? I’m not heading for a mirror. I mean, what if they start that in the ED ads? I sure don’t want see some guy admiring himself in the mirror and laughing. “Hey, look at me, I look great. Take a gander at that bulge.”
Those ads always bother me anyway. I mean, who are these people? They are always taking long walks on the beach, playing with their dogs, and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes. Who does that? That’s not real life. That’s life in Happy Medication Land. I’ll bet dogs don’t even poop in Happy Medication Land. Happy Medication Land much be on an island populated with little blue eyed blonde zombie children who are programmed to play football with their dads who are happily sexually active, bake cookies with their mothers who are not depressed, hang out with Grandma (who has no trace of arthritis) and Grandpa who escaped a heart attack by taking a Bayer aspirin.
Speaking of Bayer, my Dad died of a heart attack. One second he was here, the next he wasn’t. I mean, does Bayer have a product for that? Do they have a warp speed Bayer? I mean, if people have the time to go get a glass of water, sit down, twist the childproof cap off, pull out all that cotton, and actually take the aspirin – I’m just not all that worried about them. Call the hospital if you’re having a heart attack! Don’t take the time to sit down and have tea time with your grandkids. No kid wants the memory of watching Grandpa take a header in the scrambled eggs because of a heart attack. “I don’t know what happened, Mom. Grandpa took some Bayer, sat down for tea, and then boom!” I mean, that kid is not going to eat scrambled eggs for a long time.
I finally figured out who those car ad people are marketing to – the hearing impaired. Right? I mean, that has to be it. I’m pretty sure even dead people can hear the car ad announcer. IT’S A BEAUTIFUL CAR. ONLY $$$$$ WITH BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. I mean, have you ever been at a stop light when one of those commercials comes on the radio? It’s worse than the cars pumping out diesel bass. I mean, you’re sitting there listening to calming talk radio and then the car ad comes on. People are glaring at you as you scrambled for the volume knob. “Sorry. Sorry. Just a car ad. I’ll turn it down. Sorry.”
Why do they think that yelling at me is going to make me want to buy a car? Yelling at me never made me want to do anything. What I want to see is a mellow car ad. You know, some average person saying, “Yeah, see here, this car, it’ll get you from one place to anther, fairly reliable, and comes in all these nice colors. I’ve had mine for ten years now, and it still works.”
Now, I’d buy that car.
Zacchaeus: Inventor of the Box Seat?
Luke 19:1-10
1 He entered Jericho and was passing through.
2 And there was a man named Zacchaeus. He was a chief tax collector and was rich.
3 And he was seeking to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd, he could not, because he was small of stature.
4 So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree to see him, for he was about to pass that way.
5 And when Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.”
6 So he hurried and came down and received him joyfully.
7 And when they saw it, they all grumbled, “He has gone to be the guest of a man who is a sinner.”
8 And Zacchaeus stood and said to the Lord, “Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor. And if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I restore it fourfold.”
9 And Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, since he also is a son of Abraham.
10 For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”
Luke 19:1-10
Our Assistant Pastor preached a message on this passage last Sunday. His focal point was on how God does care about how we look at and use our money and possessions. He pointed out that the Lord knew Zacchaeus had truly changed in his heart, since he was willing to restore his financial mistakes and part with a great deal of his ill gotten gains. Our Pastor also pointed out that everything we have is God’s anyway, and how once we realize that, it is easier to part with our money to be used for God’s glory, and not our own advancement.
BUT – while it was a GREAT message, from which I drew many valid points, I also got a little sidetracked by something the Pastor mentioned in passing. He said it was a testament to Zacchaeus’ urgency to see Jesus that caused him to climb the tree and inch along its branches. He said it showed how humble Zacchaeus was being, especially since he was a rich tax collector who probably got everything he wanted and didn’t usually have to climb trees to get them.
Well, I’m not so sure about that. I think Zacchaeus’ climbing of the tree shows someone who could think on his feet and who (at the end) DID get the best seat in the house. In fact, it made me start thinking about all those rich (and often short) people who buy box seats to events. Could Zacchaeus be the precursor to those men? Should we credit Zacchaeus with inventing the box seat? Just curious.
It was a little side thought. Those come to me occasionally in the middle of the message, and it can be difficult to get back on track. Sorry, Pastor!
1 He entered Jericho and was passing through.
2 And there was a man named Zacchaeus. He was a chief tax collector and was rich.
3 And he was seeking to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd, he could not, because he was small of stature.
4 So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree to see him, for he was about to pass that way.
5 And when Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.”
6 So he hurried and came down and received him joyfully.
7 And when they saw it, they all grumbled, “He has gone to be the guest of a man who is a sinner.”
8 And Zacchaeus stood and said to the Lord, “Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor. And if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I restore it fourfold.”
9 And Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, since he also is a son of Abraham.
10 For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”
Luke 19:1-10
Our Assistant Pastor preached a message on this passage last Sunday. His focal point was on how God does care about how we look at and use our money and possessions. He pointed out that the Lord knew Zacchaeus had truly changed in his heart, since he was willing to restore his financial mistakes and part with a great deal of his ill gotten gains. Our Pastor also pointed out that everything we have is God’s anyway, and how once we realize that, it is easier to part with our money to be used for God’s glory, and not our own advancement.
BUT – while it was a GREAT message, from which I drew many valid points, I also got a little sidetracked by something the Pastor mentioned in passing. He said it was a testament to Zacchaeus’ urgency to see Jesus that caused him to climb the tree and inch along its branches. He said it showed how humble Zacchaeus was being, especially since he was a rich tax collector who probably got everything he wanted and didn’t usually have to climb trees to get them.
Well, I’m not so sure about that. I think Zacchaeus’ climbing of the tree shows someone who could think on his feet and who (at the end) DID get the best seat in the house. In fact, it made me start thinking about all those rich (and often short) people who buy box seats to events. Could Zacchaeus be the precursor to those men? Should we credit Zacchaeus with inventing the box seat? Just curious.
It was a little side thought. Those come to me occasionally in the middle of the message, and it can be difficult to get back on track. Sorry, Pastor!
The Japanese Evolution of Peyton Manning
Visitors to our humble home might automatically assume Brett and I are fans of all things Japanese. They would draw their conclusions from the fact we tend to run around after our rabbits calling, “Pei-Pei and Han-Han, you two come back here this minute!” In fact, we often joke about sounding like a poorly-dubbed Japanese disaster movie.The truth of the matter is that we’re really saying, “Pey-Pey (shortened from Peyton Manning Soderstrom)” and (well,) “Han-Han” (shortened from Hannah Soderstrom) is still correct.
Our beautiful rescue rabbits came to us already named. The bunny foster parents told us we could change the names, but it was pretty obvious it was frowned upon to do so. So, we put aside our possible names - Lois and Clark, Luke and Leia, or Eve and Roarke - and accepted the irony that two VERY non-sports people were adopting a tiny rabbit saddled with the pro-sports moniker of Peyton Manning.
Now I have allowed myself to learn enough about the despicable sport of professional football to know that Peyton Manning is a player of some sort. I am proud to tell you I have no idea what team he is on or what position he plays. I didn’t know what he looked like either until Brett pointed him out in a commercial the other day.
Our Peyton Manning is clearly cuter.
Peyton is a brown ball of fluff, smaller than a football, with an unbridled sense of curiosity. He’s our explorer – boldly going where no rabbit has gone before (dum, dum, dum) – like under the bed! He’s a mini-lop, which mean his ears hang down low (He can tie them in a knot! He can tie them in a bow!) and almost touch the floor when he lies flat.
Peyton was abandoned at six weeks. A family found him and tried to feed him cat food. Well, since cats are carnivores and rabbits are vegetarians, they basically left him on the brink of starvation. Eventually, the family left him at a shelter (the only good thing they did for him). There he nearly missed being rescued by the Chicago chapter of the House Rabbit Society (HRS).
The representative from HRS was there to check out another rabbit – a healthy fellow eventually named “Iceman.” While there, the HRS representative fell in love with the tiny, hungry bunny that was headed for death. She rescued him from the shelter, along with Iceman, and took him to an HRS foster home.
Susan Yencho (Patron Saint of Rabbits) became bunny foster mom to the itty-bitty rabbit which she and her daughters christened “Peyton Manning.” She told Brett they wanted to give him a name to inspire him to grow big and strong – like a football player.
Now, going to Susan’s home is the best things that can happen to a foster rabbit. Even in our pretty indulgent rabbit circles, it is known that Susan excessively spoils her foster rabbits with an organic diet and specially-designed treats. So, Peyton was still very tiny – he’ll never get much bigger due to his mistreatment earlier in life – but much healthier when he came to live with us.
Peyton came to us just in time. Our sweet, affectionate brown lop, creatively named “Brownie,” had died about two months before. We loved Brownie. We had gotten him from a pet store months after we moved into our house. He thought that we were all rabbits and loved us, too. He’d jump up on the bed with us and settle down to be petted for hours at a time. He chased around our feet and nudged our ankles when he wanted attention. With running jumps and twisting leaps, he showed us how happy he was to be with us. And we were very proud parents. When he died, we were devastated.
Instead of re-visiting the pet store, I checked out the HRS website at www.rabbit.org and learned about local rescue rabbit operations. We contacted the HRS and the rest (as they say) is history.
In HRS, we found kindred spirits. People just like us who thought there was nothing more natural in the world than to love rabbits and re-arrange their homes to make it a safe and nurturing environment for each bunny.
We learned a lot from Joan (Chicago-area HRS Director), Lois, and Susan. Like how we probably contributed to Brownie’s demise with an unhealthy diet. We were racked with guilt, until Lois (the AMAZING Foster Director at the Chicago HRS) assured us we were not alone. “Everyone learns on their first rabbit.” Still, it hurt to know that the pet food we purchased for Brownie led him down the path to a shorter life.
So, Peyton got settled in our home, and we learned the right way to care for a rabbit (open living space and unlimited fresh vegetables – I highly recommend The House Rabbit Handbook – 4th Edition). All HRS rescue rabbits come neutered or spayed and LITTER BOX trained which was very nice. Rabbit litter boxes consist of newspaper and hay, so it’s pretty easy to put together.
After a few days, Brett and I began to wonder if Peyton needed a companion. We had often thought Brownie was lonely when we weren’t home and had felt bad about it.
So, we attended the HRS Picnic in Schaumburg (which they should really call the Cute Picnic because it’s so gosh darn CUTE! – Everyone brings their adorable rescue rabbits!). We looked at several companions for Peyton and (with Lois’ help) fell in love with Hannah, a gray/white lop. She’s twice Peyton’s size, but ten times more timid.
Hannah was rescued from an abusive situation. Her previous owners had her in a small cage (painful, especially for a large rabbit) and poked at her though the cage with sticks. Kids were probably responsible for the poking, and I’m not going to say what I think should happen to those parents in this post. Really. It might catch on fire.
So, after a month of bunny bonding, (keeping the rabbits apart most of the day and gradually introducing them until they bond), Peyton and Hannah fell in love. They are still happily in their honeymooning stage. They cuddle together and find solace in each other. They still have separate personalities – Peyton likes people and is naturally curious – Hannah runs from most people (except me) and tries to hide behind Peyton (her brave defender).
Rabbits are fun (and a lot of work) to have. Being a rabbit owner, and (finally) an informed bunny parent is one of the highlights of my life. Brett and I feel that these are God’s creatures, and we’ve been given the opportunity to care for them.
So, run on – Pey-Pey and Han-Han. Run on!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
A Literary Evening
I could have used a friend like Carleen in high school.
As I make friends in my adult life, I will occasionally ask them, “What were you like in high school?” I’m just curious, and I find it interesting that a lot of them say, “Oh, you wouldn’t have liked me.” Now, since a lot of my friends view me as a “religious” person who tends to be a bit of a goody two shoes (doesn’t swear, doesn’t get drunk…), what they mean by this is that they were a little “wild” in high school.
My friend Carleen told me that she was smart, proud of it, and (like me) avoided the Stepford-student pep rallies that seems to be a requirement for every school. She signed up for extra study halls, more homework, and had a group of like-minded friends.
Well, I would have loved a group of like-minded friends. Or even a friend WITH a mind. Unfortunately, my private school was of the opinion that girls weren’t supposed to be smart and treated me like a kind of circus sideshow – I was the one who “slipped” through, the exception to the rule.
I met Carleen my first day at my current job, over six years ago. I pulled into the parking lot and saw a beautiful woman in bright, billowy turquoise pants and shiny waist-length hair striding confidently across the parking lot. Later, I learned her name was Carleen.
As this was my first “real” job out of college, I was nervous and a little afraid of my co-workers who all seemed so sure of what they were doing and ready to condemn me for any mistake. So, for the first few days, I ate lunch at my desk buried in work and obsessing about how to please my imposing new boss. Then one day, Carleen stuck her head around my office door and asked if I wanted to eat lunch with her in the lounge. I was so relieved – a friend amongst the Philistines!
Over the next couple of months, Carleen and I became fast friends. We enjoyed each other’s company and weathered a few friendship storms along the way. I’ve had some of the funniest times of my life with Carleen and definitely the longest laugh of my life. I’ve also shared poignant times with her. When she decided to take another job (the same week in which she found out she was pregnant), I wrote her a letter that still makes me cry when I re-read it today.
She is smart, kind, and honest – really honest – the kind of honest that doesn’t hold anything back when you really need to hear the truth. I’m so grateful to God for bringing her into my life. And I’m grateful to her for continuing to be my friend even though we don’t see each other every day anymore!
Carleen and I have put real effort into continuing our friendship. We still try to get together every couple of weeks for dinner, dessert, a movie, or anything! And no matter how late we stay out, the evening is always over way too soon, and we still have so much to talk about. That’s the way I like to leave an evening out – like there was still so much to say.
Well, last Thursday, Carleen invited me to a Girl’s Night hosted by the Rockford Public Library. We went and listened to two authors discuss their books and their writing process. It was delightful – although…we were led to believe the smoothies and manicures were free, when in fact they were not, and knowing Carleen as the frugal and responsible person that she is…I kissed them goodbye in my head.
The first author wrote several bestselling chick-lit books. She was very down to earth and wonderfully honest and frank about writing and the real life publishing world.
The second author was Kimberla Lawson Roby, a local Rockford author who has written several best-selling fiction books dealing with women’s issues and relationships. Carleen has read several of her books. I haven’t, but after hearing her talk about them, I plan to read them soon.
Ms. Lawson Roby was inspiring and down to earth. I felt an instant kinship with her upon hearing her kind words about Weight Watchers and discovering she has no children – and a successful career. Her self review of her books was funny and moving. It takes a lot for me to want to read something other that action, suspense, mystery, thriller, or science fiction books. And, after listening to her, I definitely wanted to check these out!
She also gave some advice to inspiring authors. She said it was important to “Write something every day. Even if it’s crap. Write a couple pages of it. Eventually, you’ll get rid of the crap, and your story will take shape.” Well, that was convicting advice. I know I need to write everyday. And when I sit down to do it, I love it. It is just that I get so distracted! I end up watching TV or doing household chores – or the worst offense – reading!
So, I have renewed vigor and excitement about my writing. I’ve been trying to find my hobby everywhere else – card-making, candle-making, etc. When all I should be doing is writing!
Well, after the lecture, Carleen helped me with some story ideas. She’s been super supportive of my writing and will tell me flat out if something stinks or is inspired. And I admire her honesty – writers can get cranky when other people criticize. But, since I know Carleen is sincere and trying to make me a better writer, I begrudgingly appreciate it.
As we got back to my car and were sitting in the blissfully warm seats of her car talking and laughing, I had a flashback of me sitting alone in seventh hour study hall while my classmates chanted “Ninety-Six, Ninety-Six, Nine-Nine-Ninety-Six” in the auditorium at the top of their lungs. Well, finally I had some company in that lonely study hall in my head. There was a girl, like me, glad to escape the school spirit zombies, and find refuge in books, intelligent conversations, and real friendship.
Thanks, Carly!
As I make friends in my adult life, I will occasionally ask them, “What were you like in high school?” I’m just curious, and I find it interesting that a lot of them say, “Oh, you wouldn’t have liked me.” Now, since a lot of my friends view me as a “religious” person who tends to be a bit of a goody two shoes (doesn’t swear, doesn’t get drunk…), what they mean by this is that they were a little “wild” in high school.
My friend Carleen told me that she was smart, proud of it, and (like me) avoided the Stepford-student pep rallies that seems to be a requirement for every school. She signed up for extra study halls, more homework, and had a group of like-minded friends.
Well, I would have loved a group of like-minded friends. Or even a friend WITH a mind. Unfortunately, my private school was of the opinion that girls weren’t supposed to be smart and treated me like a kind of circus sideshow – I was the one who “slipped” through, the exception to the rule.
I met Carleen my first day at my current job, over six years ago. I pulled into the parking lot and saw a beautiful woman in bright, billowy turquoise pants and shiny waist-length hair striding confidently across the parking lot. Later, I learned her name was Carleen.
As this was my first “real” job out of college, I was nervous and a little afraid of my co-workers who all seemed so sure of what they were doing and ready to condemn me for any mistake. So, for the first few days, I ate lunch at my desk buried in work and obsessing about how to please my imposing new boss. Then one day, Carleen stuck her head around my office door and asked if I wanted to eat lunch with her in the lounge. I was so relieved – a friend amongst the Philistines!
Over the next couple of months, Carleen and I became fast friends. We enjoyed each other’s company and weathered a few friendship storms along the way. I’ve had some of the funniest times of my life with Carleen and definitely the longest laugh of my life. I’ve also shared poignant times with her. When she decided to take another job (the same week in which she found out she was pregnant), I wrote her a letter that still makes me cry when I re-read it today.
She is smart, kind, and honest – really honest – the kind of honest that doesn’t hold anything back when you really need to hear the truth. I’m so grateful to God for bringing her into my life. And I’m grateful to her for continuing to be my friend even though we don’t see each other every day anymore!
Carleen and I have put real effort into continuing our friendship. We still try to get together every couple of weeks for dinner, dessert, a movie, or anything! And no matter how late we stay out, the evening is always over way too soon, and we still have so much to talk about. That’s the way I like to leave an evening out – like there was still so much to say.
Well, last Thursday, Carleen invited me to a Girl’s Night hosted by the Rockford Public Library. We went and listened to two authors discuss their books and their writing process. It was delightful – although…we were led to believe the smoothies and manicures were free, when in fact they were not, and knowing Carleen as the frugal and responsible person that she is…I kissed them goodbye in my head.
The first author wrote several bestselling chick-lit books. She was very down to earth and wonderfully honest and frank about writing and the real life publishing world.
The second author was Kimberla Lawson Roby, a local Rockford author who has written several best-selling fiction books dealing with women’s issues and relationships. Carleen has read several of her books. I haven’t, but after hearing her talk about them, I plan to read them soon.
Ms. Lawson Roby was inspiring and down to earth. I felt an instant kinship with her upon hearing her kind words about Weight Watchers and discovering she has no children – and a successful career. Her self review of her books was funny and moving. It takes a lot for me to want to read something other that action, suspense, mystery, thriller, or science fiction books. And, after listening to her, I definitely wanted to check these out!
She also gave some advice to inspiring authors. She said it was important to “Write something every day. Even if it’s crap. Write a couple pages of it. Eventually, you’ll get rid of the crap, and your story will take shape.” Well, that was convicting advice. I know I need to write everyday. And when I sit down to do it, I love it. It is just that I get so distracted! I end up watching TV or doing household chores – or the worst offense – reading!
So, I have renewed vigor and excitement about my writing. I’ve been trying to find my hobby everywhere else – card-making, candle-making, etc. When all I should be doing is writing!
Well, after the lecture, Carleen helped me with some story ideas. She’s been super supportive of my writing and will tell me flat out if something stinks or is inspired. And I admire her honesty – writers can get cranky when other people criticize. But, since I know Carleen is sincere and trying to make me a better writer, I begrudgingly appreciate it.
As we got back to my car and were sitting in the blissfully warm seats of her car talking and laughing, I had a flashback of me sitting alone in seventh hour study hall while my classmates chanted “Ninety-Six, Ninety-Six, Nine-Nine-Ninety-Six” in the auditorium at the top of their lungs. Well, finally I had some company in that lonely study hall in my head. There was a girl, like me, glad to escape the school spirit zombies, and find refuge in books, intelligent conversations, and real friendship.
Thanks, Carly!
When You Don’t Have Kids
Alternate Title: Lost in the Land of Sippie Cups and Slobber
We were in the grocery store the other day, and there was a grandfather in the store (a young grandfather – I might add) with his two grandchildren – both boys. We were all standing by the deli counter and after some general mayhem and misbehavior, one of the boys started swinging his coat in wide circles. After the second time the sturdy metal zipper hit me in the arm, I had enough.
Normally I wouldn’t say anything, but my arm was starting to get sore, and the young grandfather was obviously not going to put a stop to it. Finally, I looked at the kid sternly and said, “That’s enough.” Now, he was old enough to have flipped me the bird and muttered an obscenity, but I’ll give him credit for dropping the coat and looking ashamed.
The grandfather finally looked up from his “zoning out” at that point and speedily processed what had happened. His response? A bland “That’s enough, Kevin.” They eventually moved away from us and a few aisles later I spied Kevin swinging his coat around trying to knock things off the shelf.
“Kids,” I muttered, and my husband nodded gamely beside me.
Then yesterday my husband and I went on a romantic anniversary (6 years now!) date to scenic Edward’s Apple Orchard. It was the perfect day for it as evidenced by the 1.6 million other people who were also there. We didn’t mind the crowds. The hustle and bustle added to the cold zip of the day, the beautiful changing leaves, and the hauntingly delicious smell of Edward’s famous apple cider donuts.
As we were waiting in line for the donuts – yes, they are so famous and so delicious that people are willing to stand in line – the father in front of us suddenly went berserk. He solidly spanked the little boy next to him, hoisted him in the air and, inches from his face, and yelled, “Why did you bite Daddy? That hurt.” He then stormed out of the line carrying the kid under his arm like a football.
Brett and I raised our eyebrows at each other and simply smiled.
About an hour later, we were in the line for the orchard gift shop. A few little tots in the line had discovered the brightly painted (and hollow) milk crocks that held the rope line place. First one kid started pounding on a milk crock, and then one by one the little tot army caught on, and before we knew it, the entire line was being serenaded by what sounded like a poorly rehearsed Jamaican band.
The mothers of these tots did nothing to stop them. In fact they were smiling like it was cute. It was not cute. It was annoying. I didn’t come to the apple orchard for a romantic date with my husband to listen kids misbehave in chorus, just like I didn’t go to the grocery store to be assaulted by a metal zipper on the end of a swinging coat.
When the pounding and faintly metallic zing finally faded into a dull ache in our heads, Brett pointed out the sign at the orchard entrance. No Pets Allowed.
“I don’t know why not,” he said. “Our rabbits are ten times better behaved than those kids.” And I agreed with him.
When you don’t have kids, it’s easy to dislike them at times. Not having had children, we lack the experience and in-bred patience of many parents. My friend Julie (who has 2 kids) says it’s normal for most parents to love their own kids but still have trouble putting up with other people’s offspring. It was a great comfort for me to hear this. You see, I thought it was just me.
My husband would die before admitting this, but he doesn’t like kids. Well, that’s not entirely true. He only likes well-behaved kids. I, having a little more insight on this matter, have told him many times that no child comes well-behaved – that’s a matter left to nature and good parenting.
And to us, acceptable parenting has come down to one piece of advice – Parents, watch your children! That’s all we ask.
There’s a cute towheaded four year old who lives on our lovely suburban cul-de-sac. The cutie pie is allowed to play in the street. We’ve almost hit him with our car twice now because he darts out into the street without caution. Our pastor was visiting us one time and almost hyperventilated when he narrowly missed mowing the kid down with his car. I still can’t believe any capable parents would allow this kind of negligent behavior! They are risking their son’s life.
Here are some other things to keep in mind:
Kids looking over the seats in restaurants – not cute, annoying
Kids running up and down the aisles of anywhere – not cute, a hazard
Kids yelling anywhere other than with other kids on a playground setting – not cute, noise pollution
Kids in stores – if you don’t watch your kids in stores, you are asking everyone else to be your babysitter. Believe me, the rest of us don’t want the job. And the store (my mother assures me from many years in retail) doesn’t want your kid’s sticky fingerprints and slobber all over their merchandise.
Addendum – It isn’t fair to your kids to take them to stores where they will want to touch stuff. So either instruct them on proper behavior before hand and then follow through (for goodness sake) or DON’T BRING THEM AT ALL! PLEASE!
Okay, now I know I’m starting to sound like that grumpy neighborhood lady who yells at kids to get off her lawn and lives with 100 cats, but I’m being honest. And yes, I probably will change if God ever grants us kids. And, yes, I do like kids (for the most part), but I’ve seen well-behaved kids that made me proud to be a member of society, and then I’ve seen kids who I honestly hope will be abducted by aliens, re-programmed, and returned to earth with some sort of Good Behavior Chip.
All right, I know all the mothers out there are probably rolling their eyes and telling themselves that I have no idea how hard being a parent can be. And you are right. So, why don’t you pray that God will grant us children, so I can learn all about it? Now, that would be great.
And, just think, you’ll be able to tell me, “I told you so!”
But, please swear to me that if you ever see me being passive about my kid swinging his coat around whacking innocent bystanders with a zipper, you’ll rip the coat out of his hands and beat me half to death with it. Please? I don’t ever want to be THAT kind of a parent!
We were in the grocery store the other day, and there was a grandfather in the store (a young grandfather – I might add) with his two grandchildren – both boys. We were all standing by the deli counter and after some general mayhem and misbehavior, one of the boys started swinging his coat in wide circles. After the second time the sturdy metal zipper hit me in the arm, I had enough.
Normally I wouldn’t say anything, but my arm was starting to get sore, and the young grandfather was obviously not going to put a stop to it. Finally, I looked at the kid sternly and said, “That’s enough.” Now, he was old enough to have flipped me the bird and muttered an obscenity, but I’ll give him credit for dropping the coat and looking ashamed.
The grandfather finally looked up from his “zoning out” at that point and speedily processed what had happened. His response? A bland “That’s enough, Kevin.” They eventually moved away from us and a few aisles later I spied Kevin swinging his coat around trying to knock things off the shelf.
“Kids,” I muttered, and my husband nodded gamely beside me.
Then yesterday my husband and I went on a romantic anniversary (6 years now!) date to scenic Edward’s Apple Orchard. It was the perfect day for it as evidenced by the 1.6 million other people who were also there. We didn’t mind the crowds. The hustle and bustle added to the cold zip of the day, the beautiful changing leaves, and the hauntingly delicious smell of Edward’s famous apple cider donuts.
As we were waiting in line for the donuts – yes, they are so famous and so delicious that people are willing to stand in line – the father in front of us suddenly went berserk. He solidly spanked the little boy next to him, hoisted him in the air and, inches from his face, and yelled, “Why did you bite Daddy? That hurt.” He then stormed out of the line carrying the kid under his arm like a football.
Brett and I raised our eyebrows at each other and simply smiled.
About an hour later, we were in the line for the orchard gift shop. A few little tots in the line had discovered the brightly painted (and hollow) milk crocks that held the rope line place. First one kid started pounding on a milk crock, and then one by one the little tot army caught on, and before we knew it, the entire line was being serenaded by what sounded like a poorly rehearsed Jamaican band.
The mothers of these tots did nothing to stop them. In fact they were smiling like it was cute. It was not cute. It was annoying. I didn’t come to the apple orchard for a romantic date with my husband to listen kids misbehave in chorus, just like I didn’t go to the grocery store to be assaulted by a metal zipper on the end of a swinging coat.
When the pounding and faintly metallic zing finally faded into a dull ache in our heads, Brett pointed out the sign at the orchard entrance. No Pets Allowed.
“I don’t know why not,” he said. “Our rabbits are ten times better behaved than those kids.” And I agreed with him.
When you don’t have kids, it’s easy to dislike them at times. Not having had children, we lack the experience and in-bred patience of many parents. My friend Julie (who has 2 kids) says it’s normal for most parents to love their own kids but still have trouble putting up with other people’s offspring. It was a great comfort for me to hear this. You see, I thought it was just me.
My husband would die before admitting this, but he doesn’t like kids. Well, that’s not entirely true. He only likes well-behaved kids. I, having a little more insight on this matter, have told him many times that no child comes well-behaved – that’s a matter left to nature and good parenting.
And to us, acceptable parenting has come down to one piece of advice – Parents, watch your children! That’s all we ask.
There’s a cute towheaded four year old who lives on our lovely suburban cul-de-sac. The cutie pie is allowed to play in the street. We’ve almost hit him with our car twice now because he darts out into the street without caution. Our pastor was visiting us one time and almost hyperventilated when he narrowly missed mowing the kid down with his car. I still can’t believe any capable parents would allow this kind of negligent behavior! They are risking their son’s life.
Here are some other things to keep in mind:
Kids looking over the seats in restaurants – not cute, annoying
Kids running up and down the aisles of anywhere – not cute, a hazard
Kids yelling anywhere other than with other kids on a playground setting – not cute, noise pollution
Kids in stores – if you don’t watch your kids in stores, you are asking everyone else to be your babysitter. Believe me, the rest of us don’t want the job. And the store (my mother assures me from many years in retail) doesn’t want your kid’s sticky fingerprints and slobber all over their merchandise.
Addendum – It isn’t fair to your kids to take them to stores where they will want to touch stuff. So either instruct them on proper behavior before hand and then follow through (for goodness sake) or DON’T BRING THEM AT ALL! PLEASE!
Okay, now I know I’m starting to sound like that grumpy neighborhood lady who yells at kids to get off her lawn and lives with 100 cats, but I’m being honest. And yes, I probably will change if God ever grants us kids. And, yes, I do like kids (for the most part), but I’ve seen well-behaved kids that made me proud to be a member of society, and then I’ve seen kids who I honestly hope will be abducted by aliens, re-programmed, and returned to earth with some sort of Good Behavior Chip.
All right, I know all the mothers out there are probably rolling their eyes and telling themselves that I have no idea how hard being a parent can be. And you are right. So, why don’t you pray that God will grant us children, so I can learn all about it? Now, that would be great.
And, just think, you’ll be able to tell me, “I told you so!”
But, please swear to me that if you ever see me being passive about my kid swinging his coat around whacking innocent bystanders with a zipper, you’ll rip the coat out of his hands and beat me half to death with it. Please? I don’t ever want to be THAT kind of a parent!
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