The Sick and the Spoiled

Well, there's nothing like being sick to remind you what is really important in life. Like, say, for instance, your stomach lining.

My week started off a little crazy, a little hectic, but nothing foreshadowed what was to come.

Over the weekend, we noticed Hannah was acting a little lethargic. With rabbits, you have to watch for lethargy, since it is a major sign of illness. Unfortunately, the rabbit vet wasn't available over the weekend. So, I planned to take advantage of my office's flexibility plan and take Hannah to the vet on Monday.

Eventually, Brett and I decided all three rabbits should be examined. Hector needed a nail trim, and Peyton needed a tooth and nail trim. With Brett still on probation at his temporary job, I knew he couldn't take off work to help me. And I knew, as one person, I would need help handling all three carriers. So, I called Mom, and she graciously agreed to accompany me.

I woke up on Monday feeling a little strange. I thought it was just the Monday doldrums. I felt guilty about calling in to work and asking for a last minute vacation day without having given my boss any prior notice. But, as a responsible pet owner and the only spouse with flexible office hours, I couldn't see a way around it. So, I called in, left an apologetic message, and then drove over to Mom's to pick her up.

Before I left the house, I told Brett I felt "strange." There weren't any concrete symptoms, but I felt different than normal. I dismissed it, and Mom and I headed to the vet.

Once we were inside the exam room, I started to feel faint. We had Hector, scared to death, out of his cage and anxiously awaiting the vet. Mom noticed I had started to sweat and sway a little bit. She told me to sit down. I took a moment to sit down and blamed the whole thing on low blood sugar.

The vet came in and trimmed Hector's nails. She was ready to start on the other two, but then she was paged to return a phone call. As she left, Mom and I extricated a non-helpful Peyton from his cage. I started to calm Peyton but found myself drained of the energy to stand. Mom went to get me orange juice, since we were both still operating on the assumption that this was all the result of low blood sugar.

While she was gone, I was swamped by a wave of nausea. I crawled across the clinic floor on my hands and knees and was violently ill in our vet's trash can. Twice. In between, Mom came flying in with the orange juice and – in the most calming thing any child's ear can hear - said, "Oh, baby!" in her sympathetic, concerned Mom voice. I was never so glad to have my mom with me. Suddenly, I was ten years old again, as Mom helped me sit back up, leaning against the bunny carriers for support.

By this point, our vet had returned to find me half-laying on the floor. I told Mom I had to get horizontal pronto. My body was sending me urgent messages to, "Lay down, NOW!" So, Mom had to half-drag me out to my car where I crawled gratefully into my back seat and smartly cracked my head against the door handle. It felt so good to lay down; I didn't even care.

Concerned and little frantic, Mom was running back and forth between the vet's office and the parking lot, checking on the bunnies, and then checking on me. We decided (actually, Mom decided. I moaned in agreement.) to call for reinforcements. Mom called Gary who dropped everything and drove right over.

By the time Gary got there, the vet had finished with all three rabbits (three cheers for our valiant vet). Gary loaded the carriers in my car, and Mom got me situated in the back seat of her car (which Gary drove over) where I gratefully zoned out.

We had no more than just pulled out of the parking lot when I felt another wave of nausea. Frantically, I looked around Mom's car for something – any type of receptacle. But Mom's car was spotless. It could have passed a military inspection. So, I used the only thing I had - Gary's favorite flannel shirt he had given me to use as a pillow. I was violently ill again, about five times.

Mom was driving, yelling comforting statements over her shoulder, and (I'm sure) trying not to freak out about how I was desecrating her still-pretty-new car. Thankfully, Gary's shirt was super-absorbent. The car emerged relatively unscathed.

We got back to my house, and Mom and Gary unloaded the carriers and got the bunnies back in their areas. I changed quickly and grabbed some sweatpants and underwear and crawled right back into Mom's backseat where I nearly passed out again.

Once we got back to their house, Mom helped me lay down in the spare room, with a bucket this time.

I stayed with Mom and Gary from Monday to Wednesday as I battled nausea (thankfully, I didn't get violently ill again), severe stomach cramps, sweats that soaked my hair, aches, dizziness, and skin that felt like it was on fire. Brett called each night, concerned, and even drove over my medication after his shift.

I had all but given up on the idea of voting on Tuesday. I was overwhelmingly dizzy if I stood up for more than a minute. But, Gary persisted, until I couldn't say "no" any longer. With Mom on one side, and Gary on the other, I walked into the polling place to exercise my right to vote for the candidate who would not be President.

There was some concern at the judges' table over my age. Apparently, with no make-up and my hair undone, I look "entirely too young to vote." I had to verify my age before they let me near a ballot. Not the most unflattering thing to hear as sick-as-a-dog 30 year old.

So, I voted, swaying a bit near the end from all the standing.

Gary was very persistent, to the point of agony, that I vote. I found myself thinking if John McCain had Gary as his campaign manager, he might not have lost.

I was out of it most of the time. I remember watching part of the election coverage and feeling giddy near the end. Just because it was really finally over. I might have been a little hallucinatory. I mean, I'm assuming Obama didn't have a koala bear on his shoulder, right? Because I saw one.

Brett picked me up on Wednesday night, after his shift was over, about 11:30 p.m. I'm still not up to snuff, and as much as I hate it, I think I'm going to have to call in again (4 DAYS!). Right now, I'm still moving pretty slowly and having to take everything at a slow pace.

But, as a dear friend once said, "Sometimes God catches your attention in unusual ways."

During my stint in Mom's spare room, I found myself reexamining my life. I don't know if it is sickness, the reminder we are mortal, which makes us take stock of our lives. I took stock of mine and (per my humanness) found myself wanting. I prayed over those few days and asked for guidance on the tough road I'm currently traveling. I asked for help, for contentment, for the peace that passeth all understanding.

So, I thanked God for the reminder, for Mom and Gary's kindness, and especially for my stomach lining.

Election Electrolysis

Well, I’ve read umpteen blogs about the election today. Not on purpose. These are people I normally like to read. And yet…shumpth…sucked in once again.

I’ve had the whole thing crammed down my throat on the internet and on my beloved TV.

I think the only time I was this disgusted was…okay, I’m this disgusted every year, right about the time they start advertising the Super Bowl. I hate sports with just about as much passion as I hate politics.

And do you know WHY I hate politics? Because I am part of an ignored majority! Who ministers to us? Who caters to our vote? Who promises to serve us in office? WHO, I ask you! Who!

We, the apathetic, in order to seek a more perfect union wish to get back to normal. Give us the remote, dial up a black and white movie, turn on a thumping bass, and let us rock out. Bring on the same old, same old, and let’s all just get along!

Maybe it’s because we don’t like conflict.

We don’t like it when people get in each other’s faces. We’d rather not destroy relationships over something as simple, trite, and often pathetic, as political parties.

If you stab a Republican, does he not bleed? If a Democrat gets breast cancer, does she not don a pink ribbon?

We are all flesh and blood and in this crazy, mixed-up world together. We do NOT feel exhilarated by yelling ourselves hoarse in order to smash another person’s opinions, thoughts, and dreams to dust.

We are tired of being bashed for “not caring”, when really we are just trying to help the rest of you not kill each other. We cherish close relationships, time together and world peace.

So, that’s it. I leave you to it.

Wax happy, sad, or spiritual about the election, if you so wish. Call me when you’re done, and I’ll head over with the chocolate, movies, and bandages for the wounded.

Because I love you and want you to be happy.

Because that’s just the kind of person I am.

Because, we, my friends, shall overcome.

Payne & Glory

I apologize for my extended hiatus in blogging.

I’m sure my three readers missed me – or would, if I didn’t talk to Mom and Candice daily. Or clog Alice’s in-box with anxious e-mails three times a day.

My life has been a soap opera for quite a while now. And - as much as I’d like to change the channel - I’m not the one in charge of the remote.

I might be able to be more specific in the ways my life is starting to mimic a badly-written, self-help book in a little while. Right now, I’m just waiting for spousal acquiescence and my level of humiliation to compress.

God bless Angie for knowing me well enough to recognize I was in desperate need of escape. Of course, our escape has always been a dark theater, buttered popcorn, and some action flick where everything blows up at the end and our favorite characters walk away unscathed.

Some of my personal drama involves finances, so we were frugal enough, patient enough, to wait until our choices hit the $5 club. Tonight, we ran away together to see Max Payne, starring (MMM)Mark Wahlberg, and Pride and Glory, starring Colin Farrell.

“If seeing Mark Wahlberg shoot bad guys or watching Colin Farrell get down and dirty in a fist fight doesn’t make you feel better, you’re too far gone.”

Truer words were never spoken by any friend of mine.

We popped for the jumbo popcorn combo and drinks large enough to drown in. We added in salty pretzels and that delicious melty cheese and headed to see Max Payne.

I don’t know what it is about watching a movie in the theater, sitting next to my sister action flick freak, that makes me feel all is right with the world. Right now, I’d have to assume it’s because it’s not my life I’m watching on the big screen.

Mark Wahlberg’s character is out for revenge after his wife and baby are murdered during a purported robbery. He devotes his life to searching street alleys and deserted back roads for the murderer.

In the movie, which moved at a glacial pace, Mark spends most of his time brooding and sending smoldering glances to the suspected bad guys. Not that I’m complaining, but he definitely didn’t collect his paycheck for learning many lines. In fact, for being such good actor, I don’t think I’ve heard him speak less in a movie.

I have to give props to Mila Kunis (Jackie from That 70’s Show) for showing up and performing very well in an underutilized (and poorly explained) role.

I was worried she’d overact or (worse yet) that I wouldn’t be able to watch her without thinking about the vain idiot she portrayed in that show. I was pleasantly surprised, as she turned in a nuanced and non-stereotypical character representation.

The steamy Chris O’Donnell was also good in a throwaway role. I complained to Angie about it, but she pointed out he hasn’t been in movies in a while, so perhaps this was him putting his toe back in the water.

He has always been a favorite actor of mine, so I’d be thrilled if he threw his hat back in the ring. It infuriated me that his role was so tiny. He’s destined for bigger and better. We shall see.

One of the bad guys was…Sucre from Prison Break. And, I’m sorry, but he’s forever Sucre to me. So, even as I watched him crush some guy’s finger underneath his boot, I found myself waiting for the smarmy smile and a Puerto Rican accent to come bursting out.

Plus, darn it, he’s just too nice for me to hate. Sorry, Sucre.

The movie itself was blah. It moved very slowly, and there just wasn’t a lot for the actors to do.

A very important plot point was revealed by….a video. That’s right. The characters sat around and watched a video that basically delivered exposition for like 5 minutes. Angie and I were like, “Really? They used a video…not the actors to tell us about this? Hmmm…”

There is a part near the end where Mark executes a very fly scissor kick while swimming/drowning. It was basically like the scene at the end of The Bourne Ultimatum, only instead of Matt Damon, they used Michael Phelps for the stunt man. Nice scissor kick, buddy.

After the movie, we went to the bathroom. As we do, we analyzed the movie by talking to each other over the top of our stalls.

At one point, I elicited a laugh from the non-Angie side when I said, “The only thing better than watching Mark Wahlberg shoot at people while running is watching him shoot at people while running under the fire sprinklers.”

Next on our list - after a pop, popcorn, and pretzel refuel – was Pride and Glory, starring Ireland’s favorite son (and yes, I know you think he’s skanky, and I don’t care).

Now, here was a good action flick. We had good cops, bad cops, snitches, and Edward Norton – who ALWAYS brings it.

Of course, the problem with Mr. Norton is that no matter how kick-butt his role is…he’s got that Fight Club monkey on his back. His best work – and Brad Pitt’s, too, as far as I’m concerned – is the beat-each-other-bloody buddy flick.

At one point, Mr. N and Colin throw down in an old fashioned good-cop-on-bad-cop fist fight. And, even though I was thinking it, Angie leaned over and whispered, “The first rule of Fight Club…”

To which I retorted, “When is Tyler Durden going to show up? I didn’t know Brad Pitt was in this movie!”

Accolades to Jon Voight for turning in a solid performance as the slightly alcoholic father to his two police officer sons. And delivering a great one liner that had our audience in stitches during an otherwise serious movie.

Speaking of serious, Colin showed some moves toward the dark and twisted side during a particular moving scene involving him threatening a family – using a newborn and an iron. It was nail-biting suspense and not at all clear what was going to happen.

It was good acting all around, with a satisfying, solid, and even believable (not always important) ending. Definitely worth the hard-earned, high-in-demand dollars we paid.

The ride home was spent analyzing the second movie. We were in agreement it was the better of the two.

We debated over the casting, as I prefer to see Colin play the good guy. Mr. Norton has dabbled in some of the best evil roles I’ve ever seen – see American History X, Primal Fear, and The Score - so maybe the casting directors thought we (informed moviegoers) might smell a rat. Either way, we were in critique heaven all the way home.

Angie dropped me off, and I found myself breathing normally again.

Thank God for the company of a good friend, the escape of fantasy, and intricate shoot ‘em ups that have nothing to do with me.

Loveable Link

Want to see the cutest thing ever?

Hannah, Hector, and Peyton!

Pink Ribbon Pandemic

I found this article on msnbc.com today, and I have to say it is wonderfully written! My childhood pastor died from pancreatic cancer, so I connected to the story in a personal way.

This topic is rarely broached, and I thought this article presented the situation in a positive and balanced way.

Check it out!

Leading Men

A particular male cousin of mine often accuses me of “reverse sexism.” In other words, sometimes I objectify, group, and stereo-typify men in such a way that I, myself, might protest if done to women. Well, today is one of those days. So if you are male, I would suggest you might want to stop reading at this point. Because, although I plan on being respectful and courteous, I’m about to talk about men as objects.

Objects
Of
Our
Appreciation

OOOA (yeah!)

Recently, a friend and I were discussing a particular TV show. She mentioned to me one of the men on the show was (to quote her) “hawt.” This was a revelation to me, since I had seen this show and the word that came to mind was not “hawt,” but “old.”

And then I got to thinking…I’m old.

Well, I’m 30, anyway, and the leading men of my generation are not the same as the cute, metrosexual young men of Hollywood today.

Still, I will always feel warmth and affection for the then choirboy-faced Ralph Macchio as he crane-kicked his way into my heart. Or Mark-Paul Gosselaar’s preppy Zach as he pined for cheerleader Kelly. Or Luke Perry’s rebel Dylan, the swoon-worthy 90210 leading man, whose poster adorned many a locker, even in my conservative Christian school.

My friend with the hawt detective grew up a generation slightly ahead of mine, and her detective graced the 80’s with his suave moves and ruggedly handsome face. Another 80’s friend regaled me with stories of her leading man, Rick Springfield, who I had never heard of.

For a long time, I thought she meant Bruce Springsteen who I had (at least) heard of.

Another friend confirmed Mr. Springfield’s hawtness (if you will), and I began to realize we all have leading men in our own generation.

Those men who remain in our minds, forever adored, thanks to memorable roles in music, movies and television shows. Men who defined the awaking realization of our own unique girlhood.

The first moment your heart leaped into your chest, the first name you scrawled on your notebook, the first kissing dream you had. The moments that still make you squeal inside. That voice, that smile, that knowing tip of the head.

I remember the first time when Christian Slater’s Will Scarlett broke through the brush after being unjustly imprisoned and screamed -

“It was your anger that drove them apart! It's not a lie! You ruined my life! I have more reason to hate you than anyone. But I found myself daring to believe you. What I want to know brother, is will you stay with us and finish what you've started?”

Hold on. Wait. Okay. *fans self*

Back on topic.

All in good fun, what I want to know is...what leading man do you still remember from your generation and for what role?

(P.S. – I love my husband, and he completely knows about and understands my Christian Slater/Will Scarlett obsession. And apparently, he’s still hot over someone named Kelly McGillis?)

Back to the Will Scarlett fantasy still in progress…

Some Bunnies to Love!

Bunnies in Boats

I cleaned the bunny areas in our house last night.

I spent over three hours vacuuming the carpet floor, scrubbing the tile floor, cleaning litter boxes, rearranging favorite towels, and creating mazes out of sturdy cardboard boxes. I shook the old towels and threw them in the laundry. I washed food and water bowls and filled them.

When I got done, I was covered in bunny fluff and smelled like fresh bunny pee. I looked like a spastic colon and was sore all over.

I stood by the bunny gate and looked at the newly clean rooms. There were my bunnies, cuddled together, tuckered out after chasing each other through all the new nooks and crannies.

Kneeling on the floor, I started to pet them and smiled when they nudged each other closer into my hands. I buried my head in their velvety fur and was rewarded by the soft grinding of bunny teeth (the bunny equivalent of purring). I gently rubbed noses and cheeks and petted flanks and ears. I breathed in the fresh butterscotch smell of happy bunnies.

As I showered later, I found myself grinning and thanking God for making me a bunny mom. It was a small moment that reminded me how very fortunate I am.

With this revelation so prominent in my mind, I ask you to check out this new rabbit book. Each sale benefits the House Rabbit Society and helps save more bunnies like the precious three who occupy my house and my heart.

It’s a little book that makes a BIG difference. Bunnies in Boats will touch your heart and more than half of each book sale goes to support programs at HRS, plus a tree is planted for each book sold!

Click here to go to the website, read a page, and see what other bunny lovers are saying.

Here’s a mini-review:

“I loved this book! Reminds me of ‘Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah’ by Richard Bach - one of my favorite ‘Johnny Appleseed’ books of all time… (those are books I buy several copies so that I can hand them out when I find someone who I feel might appreciate the message).”

John P. Rourke

Top Ten…

…things to say if you’re caught sleeping at your desk:

#10 "They told me at the Blood Bank this might happen."

#9 "This is that 15 minute power nap they raved about in the time management course you sent me to."

#8 "Whew! Guess I left the top off the Whiteout. You probably got here just in time."

#7 "I wasn't sleeping! I was meditating on the mission statement and envisioning a new business strategy."

#6 "I was testing my keyboard for drool resistance."

#5 "I was doing a highly specific Yoga exercise to relieve work-related stress. Are you discriminatory toward people who practice Yoga?"

#4 "Darn! Why did you interrupt me? I had almost figured out how to handle that big accounting problem."

#3 "Did you ever notice sound coming out of these keyboards when you put your ear down real close?"

#2 "Who put decaf in the wrong pot?!?"

And the NUMBER ONE best thing to say if you get caught sleeping at your desk...

#1 Raise your head slowly and say, "...in Jesus' name, Amen."

The Prince

He watches me stumble, watches me fall.

Starts laughing out loud, a horrible, hideous shrieking sound.

I watch his handsome features dissolve. His skin burns, blisters, and breaks off.

He kicks me then with horse’s hooves.
I roll over, spitting bile. Hiding my eyes, I’m so reviled.

Bruised and beaten, bloodied heathen.

Before me, he transforms. His shoulders hunch, hair sprouts along his haunches. Bushy, scratchy mane appears. Fangs long and white, to predator’s sharpened point.

I stare the bedeviled lion before me, tosses his head and roars triumphant. Cowering and broken, I pull myself away. Head lowered, expecting to be devoured.

I cry and hope help has not abandoned me.

The chime sounds then - soft at first - builds to clanging in the void I occupy. The darkness clears, and light blinds my weakened eyes. I peer out in pain, my head turned, seeking the lion. And my death.

There is no lion.

The white around me seeps. In front, in red, a spitting cobra sits.

Serpentine in movement, no mistaking his wrath, he spits his poison inches from my person.

I turn to run, to flee. But the poison puddles and forms translucent colors.

I find myself transfixed and inching forward. The poison flows toward me in drops, and drips, and rainbows. The sweet smell of ecstasy so close within my grasp, I reach my fingers toward it, distracted. The cobra’s eyes slant in anticipation.

My fingers’ a hairbreadth length away, when once again, that deafening sound surrounds my space.

I snatch my fingers back and clamp my hands about my ears. The cobra hisses again. But the sound does not reach me.

I turn my head away and see what I’ve been missing. So close, so far away.

I find myself standing. I begin to turn my head, but see I am moving by no power of my own. I begin to run - the cobra, the lion, nipping at my heels. My feet no longer touch the ground. For one second, I fear the worst.

I realize I’ve been lifted and drawn in towards the light.

He greets me in silence. In love. I read my Rescuer’s story, in his wounds at hand and foot. Not surprised, though disappointed, His child again wandered after warning.

We stare together at the ground. Slithering snake is prostrate, frantically hunting escape.

I wish my Father’s wrath released upon my captor, but He shakes His head towards me, and whispers the words.

“Just wait.”

Nature Hates You and Wants to Hurt You

Well, I’ve been proven right! Don’t hug a tree; it might stab you in the back.

Or in our case, the hand.

Yesterday, my mom called me from a Door County area hospital. She and Gary are vacationing there and staying with a dear Christian woman. In exchange for the generous free lodgings, Mom and Gary wanted to do some chores around the woman’s house.

One such chore involved Gary standing on a ladder and sawing away at errant tree limbs. Mom stood beneath the ladder, holding on to steady it. As the saw chewed through one branch, it fell to the ground and bounced back up to where Mom was standing. It slashed through the skin and tore through the tender skin between Mom’s thumb and forefinger.

At first, Mom didn’t know anything was wrong. Then Gary and their host began to stare at Mom, as her hand bled “like a war wound.” Mom has the pain threshold of a stoic Stoic. Still, her hand wouldn’t stop bleeding.

So, they ended up in the emergency room where Mom received 5 dissolvable stitches and twelve ugly above-the-hand stitches. The doctor told her it was amazing she hadn’t severed any tendons.

Mom and Gary were also disappointed to learn Mom would have to wear a sling. Mom was also given strict orders to do “nothing,” which under normal circumstance might be nice, but not when you’re up in Door County to go bike riding and cherry picking.

So, Mom called me again this afternoon, from a clinic, where her dressing was changed. The good news is there is no sign of infection (with the wound coming from a tree branch there was some concern). The bad news is that, besides the huge slash on Mom’s hands, two of her fingers are grossly swollen. The clinic tech told her that the fingers are “traumatized.”

“Me, too,” Mom joked.

The doctor told Mom she can have the stitches taken out the Monday after next. She’s also still in the sling and drugged up on pain meds, as some of the pain finally seeped through her armor.

“Mom, I’m SO sorry,” I told her over the phone. “I know you guys were looking forward to this trip.”

Then she proved she is the woman I have always loved and admired.

“It’s okay,” she assured me. “At least they have the Hallmark channel.”

Atta girl, Mom! Nothing’s quite as bad if you can watch Christy to dull the pain.

Her Humble Highness

I received this thank you note from my grandmother after her 91st birthday.

Dear Ann-Marie,

I’m so glad you could come to my birthday bash. It was awesome; your mother did such a good job.

Your presence lit up the place, and your poem was well done.

Perhaps just a wee bit exaggerated?

God bless you.

Love,
Grandma Rehfeldt

Orange You Glad

Now, this post actually does have something to do with cooking!

My cousin Colleen went to the trouble of tracking down Grandma’s Orange Cookie Recipe which I referenced in my recent tribute. These cookies are legend in our family and have been at almost all of our family events. They are wonderfully citrusy and still a very hearty cookie. The orange frosting is what really makes them delicious.

Head on over, and check it out!

A Good Time to Be a Girl

Working for the Girl Scouts is much like working for any other company.

As in any office, you never know what you are going to find on the community lunch table. On occasion, there will be doughnuts, bagels, or pumpkin bread. Unlike most other offices, there is also a ready supply of Girl Scout Cookies.

The difference, of course, is that the employees in my office stay away from those particular cookies.

It’s not that they aren’t delicious or a wonderful quality food product. It’s just that we are so overexposed to them during the year, they lose all mystery. Frankly, after 8 years, I can’t look at a Thin Mint without going a little cross-eyed.

We serve Girl Scout Cookies at meetings, bring them to community events, and (I, especially) hand them out for public relations events.

But it wasn’t cookies I found on the lunch table today.

Someone must have been cleaning out their home library and brought in the rejects for recycled reading. Sitting primly atop the table was the 1947 Cookbook for Beginners (Cooking for Brides) by Dorothy Malone.

Curious, I picked it up and within minutes was laughing uproariously.

I suppose the…gender notions…found in this book were commonplace in 1947, but by today’s standards they seem unbelievably sexist, and (honestly, I found them) a little quaint. Kind of sweet, actually. Still sexist, though. Really, really sexist.

Reviews from the back of the book:

“Whether you are a bride or a seasoned spouse, here is a volume to convince you that cooking is a pleasure rather than a necessary evil.”

“The bride who reads Mrs. Malone will want to start her kitchen career upon laying down the book.”

Table of Contents:

The Beginner Dons Her Kitchen Apron – and prepares to cope with three good meals a day. She puts on her beruffled apron and checks her kitchen equipment, the staple closet, the spice corner, and the emergency shelf. She learns about measurements, too, and gets a beginner’s view of quantities.

Rise and Shine, It’s Breakfast Time – Attractively dressed and nicely complexioned, the beginner deals with simple breakfasts, produced with ease and confidence. Sunday brunches are also dealt with, as the beginner progresses from the elemental breakfast to slightly more complicated dishes. Which dishes, it will be noted, double handsomely for Sunday night snacks, lunches for unexpected guests, and after-the-movie tidbits.

The Foreword: (This is a little long, but absolutely priceless, and well worth the read.)

We find it startling to note that the girls who boast proudly of their ability to cook are getting scarcer and scarcer. It’s a sad indictment of our sense of values, for every woman ultimately knows that a well-cooked meal is a triumph of creative talent, a potent and insidious lure to the suitors on whom she is casting a speculative eye, and a most excellent adornment, eventually, to a happy marriage.

It’s fun to cook! It’s a great thrill to produce a luscious spicy apple pie which is eaten to its last flaky crumb, or an old-fashioned strawberry shortcake tumbled with crimson berries and smothered under snowy whipped cream. It’s an even greater thrill to watch the light of admiration that creeps into an ardent swain’s or perhaps a young husband’s eyes when he realizes that he has snatched a very jewel from the matrimonial mart, and that he will be well and delightfully fed all the days of his life!

It takes intelligence to be a good cook. It’s the intelligent cook who will have nothing to do with “good plain food,” but who specializes in “simple food” which is cooked with imagination, seasoned with a flair, and served with charm. It’s the intelligent cook who realizes it is a rich privilege to minister to the well-being of a family.

In this little book you will find the ways and means of mastering the fine art of cooking. Please note that we have scaled the recipes, in the main, to feed two. Knowing, however, that you will be seized with a compelling urge to show off the exciting results of your kitchen adventuring. We have included two chapters entitled “Entertaining” and “Specialties of the House” in which the recipes will feed 6 to 8.

May your culinary laurels grow greener with the years. You’ll never wear prouder honors.

But my absolute favorite (so far) has to be:

Chapter 1 – The Beginner Dons Her Kitchen Apron
You may have been the most popular deb of the season. You may be the most up-and-coming ‘Career Girl’ of the business world. You may be a very paragon of charm and unselfishness and sweetness, and a threat to the bachelor status of any man able to recognize a paragon when he sees one. But you can’t be a cook without a cookbook – and experience.

This book is written, therefore, for the day when, in the natural sequence of events, your thoughts turn to domesticity, to ruffled plastic aprons and parsley, to – eventually – a home of your own.

Gosh, I’ve never been so glad to be a girl!

In 2008.

Justice!

Do you remember that sad story I posted recently about the rabbit theft, mutilation, and senseless death?

Good news.

They caught the guys who did it.

Names Needed

One huge advantage to having a BRAND NEW LAPTOP (Thanks, Mom!) is the increased ability to work on my books. My favorite thing to do in my spare time is to shape characters and advance storylines.

I almost always base my characters on real people, using their actual names, until I can come up with replacement names. Finding replacement names has frequently been a hard thing for me. I’ve identified so strongly with the characters by that time; it feels wrong to change their name.

In some ways, it’s easier when a character is pure fiction. Recently, I created a personal servant for one of my main characters. She’s a young girl, about 14 years old, and is unusually mature for her age. Her name came to me in an instant. She arrived fully formed and named in my mind.

I remember when I was first working on Gangland. My main character was based on Larry, my cousin’s friend from middle school. He was an imposing character, a tall and muscled African-American.

When my friend Carleen (and impromptu editor) read over my character list, she said, “You cannot name this guy ‘Larry.’ Everyone is going to think of ‘Larry the Cable Guy,’ and picture some redneck driving a pick-up truck. His name has to be strong. It has to inspire fear.”

I agreed I couldn’t name him Larry, but I fought for Lawrence. She thinks I need to keep looking.

My latest project has brought another round of name changing. Currently, I’m searching for a name that can also be used as a title. In the story, a young man has just come to power as the dictator of a large region. Only a select few will use his given name. The rest of the world will refer to him as…

I wanted to stay away from anything so cliqued as King So-and-so, and since this is set in the future, I also wanted to introduce new groups and titles. So, I looked up baby names that include “king” in the meaning.

Arkin
Basileus
Boldizsar
Kyzer

Does anyone have a preference? I need input. Arkin makes me think of Adam and Alan Arkin, both good actors, but neither quite young or kingly. Basileus and Boldizsar both sound commanding and different, but I fear may be too Lord of the Rings-ish. I was drawn to Kyser, but immediately thought of Keyser Soze in The Usual Suspects.

If it helps, this young dictator is 19-22 years of age, medium height, with dark hair and brown eyes. He’s muscular in a lean and healthy way and has the charisma of a natural leader, with hidden facets of youthful anxiety and mischief.

The last time I asked for advice, I got a great new name – Kole – for one tough character. So I thought maybe lightning could strike twice.

Suggestions appreciated.

* photo is of actor Wes Bentley

She

A tribute to my grandmother on her 91st birthday

She was the smell of sizzling bacon when you woke up in the morning. She was the faded housedress and seasoned apron. She was the one who called you to meals and welcomed your friends for dinner. She was the mender of clothes, the voice you heard before you fell asleep, and the one who made your house - your home.

She was yours.

She was grilled cheese, goulash, corn bread, orange cookies, and the world’s best potato salad. She was hot dogs for breakfast, if you wanted them, and thick slices of ice cream for dessert.

She was the calm comforter who cared for you when you were sick. She was the voice of reason when your world spun out of control. She was your safe harbor, your rock, and your lighthouse as you navigated the waters of life.

She was yours.

She was our biggest fan. When we were born, she celebrated with our parents. She was the always available last-minute-babysitter. She reminded us not to slam the door, throw the gravel, and that the outhouse was not a toy.

She was ours.

She cheered our accomplishments whether they were straight A’s or top spots in athletic achievement. She gave advice when asked and listened and loved unconditionally. She played Kings Corner or hide and seek, and always had a Tootsie Roll or cookie for the… undernourished.

She was ours.

She is the pink-cheeked, white-haired friend they see every Christmas. She is the soft kiss and surprisingly strong hug they’ll always remember. They bundle up in coats and hats and sing “To Great-grandmother’s house we go,” as they travel to see her. She is the hallways that smell like disinfectant and the room that still smells like sweet orange cookies.

She is theirs.

They climb up in her nursing home bed and talk to her like their dearest friend. They watch those clear beautiful eyes absorb their childish troubles and offer comfort in hugs and simple words. In her presence, they are honest, unburdened, and strengthened.

She is theirs.

She is morning prayers, the worn Bible, and carefully written out devotional thoughts. She is Sunday services, hymnbooks, and well-worn church shoes. She is the nursery worker, Sunday School teacher, and universal grandmother to countless children.

She is a life still lived in service. She is the witness, the proclaimer, and the gentle persuader. She is the Book, the Word, and the Message in all she does. She is a child of the King.

She was yours.
She was ours.
She is theirs.

But mostly and forever, she is His.

Friday’s Food Fun Fact

It’s a mini-victory, but it’s a victory all the same. Yesterday, I celebrated exactly one successful week on the South Beach Diet! Whoo-hoo!

I’ve tried the South Beach Diet two times before.

The first time was just a trial run before the holidays to see if I could do it. I was able to do it and liked it. The holidays were right around the corner however, so…

The second time, I did great the first two weeks (Phase 1) - where you go without carbs and sugar to help retrain your body’s insulin production. However, when I got to the third week (Phase 2), when you can add healthy carbs and sugars back in your diet, I threw the baby out with the bathwater. I quickly went back to my old habits of eating carbs (not necessarily the good ones) and non-natural sugars, and before I knew it – the weight came back with a vengeance.

I wanted to get back on SBD for a number of reasons. First, in the beginning two weeks, you lose belly fat almost immediately. I mean, so fast you can actually feel it in your clothes. Secondly, when I’m following the principles of SBD, I feel healthier. Dr. A. (the creator), in the SBD book, explains how the diet actually cleans up your blood chemistry

Also, on SBD, I’m forced to think about what I’m going to eat (the choices are wide and plentiful); I can’t just grab the closest thing and call it nutrition.

Lastly, SBD has five amazing cookbooks, so I can make delicious dinners for me and Brett (who loves. loves. loves. it when I cook) that fit in the plan. Thanks to SBD, we’ve also discovered some delicious meals I never would have attempted previously. We especially enjoy the Rustic Tomato Soup (super-fast and easy) and White Bean Turkey Chili!

This time I know what I am going to change. I learned from my mistake last time of adding too many carbs and sugars back in too fast. This go-around, I’m going to slowly add those carbs and natural sugars back in – I’m even thinking of just eating one per day until I feel I can handle it.

When I tell people about SBD, everyone says the same thing, “Well, I just couldn’t give up bread, potatoes, or rice. I love my carbs!” Well, you are talking to the QUEEN. That’s exactly what I would have said before trying SBD. I couldn’t imagine my life (even for two weeks) without bagels – my favorite thing ever.

Believe me; I was as skeptical as anyone. But what I didn’t know was that those carbs are addictive! As soon as you give carbs to your body, it burns them up quickly, and creates a craving for more. No wonder we can’t “give them up”…it’s a “natural” addiction.

The body – nature’s meth lab. Heh.

So, by following the SBD principles, your body’s craving for carbs automatically decreases. Even thought many delicious foods are available in unlimited portions on SBD, you find yourself getting fuller faster with carb cravings reduced to next to nothing.

Also, for the budget-conscious (where I am currently being dragged kicking and screaming), you simply eat less food. You can save your money on quantity and put it towards quality.

In the SBD book, Dr. A. compares it to snacking. If you are sitting in front of the TV, and someone hands you a bucket of popcorn, it would be no problem to polish it off in the course of an hour show.

But, if someone hands you the same size bucket of steak bites, you are probably not going to plow through that bucket at the same speed. (This, of course, assumes you are not eating these two buckets of food concurrently. Because that’s just gross. )

The steak will fill you up with nutrition, and you’ll be satisfied. The popcorn will be burned rapidly by your body which will then send those carbs coursing through your veins, creating your body’s desire for MORE.

The book does a much better job of explaining it than I do. I’ve still got one more week on to go on Phase 1, and I have to say I’m enjoying myself. I never used to like eggs (in fact, I HATED eggs), but I’ve been trying making different omelets and have discovered if I use a savory cheese filling, the omelet is actually pretty good.

I also HATED salads, but I tried different variations and found I liked plain old heart of romaine with a little onion, cherry tomatoes, and cucumber, tossed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and topped with grated Romano cheese and sunflower seeds.

Some of my favorite foods on SBD Phase 1 are low-fat and reduced cheeses, olive oil, any kind of nut, and savory grilled steak. I don’t feel deprived at all and just the knowledge I don’t have to be overly concerned with portions makes me feel better.

I’ve still got one more week on Phase 1 to go, but I’m excited at the possibilities.

Care to join me for a bucket of steak?

Working Woman Wishes

When I was 16 years old, I decided to get a summer job. I asked my parents to help me look, but Dad was especially unhelpful.

“Look honey, Taco Bell is hiring! You love Taco Bell!”

“Dad!” I’d wail. “I’m already 300 pounds! Working at Taco Bell is NOT a good idea.”

“Sweetheart, I just read the Park District is hiring lifeguards for Magic Waters.”

“Dad! Seriously? Like I could squeeze into a swimsuit for the whole summer. Drowning people would say, ‘No thanks, Shamu.’”

Dad even drove me to Bob’s Hardware to apply for a job. I remember the two of us sitting in the waiting area as I filled out the application. Everything was going fine, until I got to the section that asked me to add up a column of numbers (a mile long).

I reached for my calculator, but Dad pointed out the application said to add it up mentally.

“Mentally?” I whined. “I can’t do this!”

Math has always left me frustrated and angry, probably because I’m totally right-brained. My creativity thrives, but repetitive and logical equations drive me to distraction.

Being easily frustrated is a trait inherited from my father, which is probably why he didn’t react when I threw the pencil down and gave a little scream of aggravation. Eventually, I finished the calculations and stomped out of the store with no plan of ever going back.

I also applied at Kohl’s but was told Sales Associates had to be a least 18 years of age. Afterwards, I wrote a scathing letter to Kohl’s CEO lambasting the store policy of age discrimination.

The early summer obstacles blew over, and God provided a great job working for a daycare. I took to it immediately, and it remains one of my most positive career experiences.

Brett’s recent bout with unemployment, coupled with his new job’s lower wages, my company’s announcement of no raises this year, some stupid financial decisions we made in the early years of our marriage, plus the ever-worsening economy and gas prices – have led us to a financial crunch here in 2008.

We consulted several knowledgeable people and one very helpful agency to see what avenue we should take to best stay afloat. The overall consensus was (ta-da!) we need to cut costs and make more money (like we didn’t know THAT) to help us through these lean times.

We never really had enough money for extras like gym memberships, cable, and high-speed internet – so we couldn’t give them up to save money. We slashed our budget further, eliminating extras such as eating out, newspaper delivery, cheapie dial-up internet service, our home phone, and (wail!) my beloved Netflix.

Still, it wasn’t enough. So, once we’d cut all we could cut, the only option left was to bring in more money.

Like that’s sooooo easy.

We’ve been specifically praying for divine guidance in this situation, and I especially felt a sense of peace about adding a part-time job to my schedule.

I’d considered getting a second job about a year ago, but at the time I just couldn’t imagine my life being that crowded. But late one night last week, I couldn’t sleep, so I started praying God would show me how to turn our lives around in the area of good stewardship and fiscal responsibility.

When I prayed about pursuing a second job, I felt a serene sense of harmony with God’s will. I approached Brett with the idea, and we prayed about it together. Then we took the idea to Pastor, and the three of us prayed over it.

We gave ourselves some time to think about it, and the more time goes by, the more we feel it is God’s definite leading.

As I considered the possibility, I began to see God’s hand at work in our lives.

The Lord has chosen not to give us children at this time in our lives. So, there are no children going hungry or having their lives wracked with worry about where they might have to live. Thanks to God’s plan, we don’t have to obsess about child care or causing irreversible upheaval in a child’s life.

For the first time, I have been thanking God for barrenness. Taking unbelievable comfort that His plan has worked to our good, after all (why does that always come as such a surprise?).

I am open to working many types of job, but I’d like to hear from you!

Is there any place you’ve worked that you just loved or hated? A particular store or industry? Feel free to share good workplace environments, too. I’d really like an insider’s guide to the optimal part-time job. I can work in the evenings and on weekends, so if you hear of anything – please let me know!

Now I just have to hope Kohl’s didn’t keep that letter!

Supercilious Salad Story

Brett’s new job is on second shift, so I only get to see/talk to him from 11:30 p.m. – 12:00 a.m. (which is when I promptly fall asleep). I’m usually a little tired by the time he comes home from work, and last night was no exception.

I was already half-asleep when he got home. My head was slumped down, and I was perilously close to drooling on the book I’d been reading to try and stay awake. Brett bounced into the room (he so AWAKE at night, now). We talked for a few minutes, and I told him I had made him a pork chop.

“It’s in the fridge,” I told him. “Oh, and I made you a salad, too. Only I wasn’t sure what you’d want in it, so I didn’t add tomatoes, onions, or cucumbers.”

My husband studied my sleepy-stupid face for a second. “So, you um, basically put lettuce in a bowl?”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed. “I guess that’s what I did. Enjoy your salad.” I patted him on the head, totally missing his point, as I dropped into a dead sleep.

And that’s all I remember, folks.

Remember, don’t cook or make salad when you’re tired. Stupid conversation (on your part) may ensue.

The Case of the Whispering Co-workers

Only a few of you (who read my blog) have ever worked with me in a professional setting.

I hope it doesn’t sound too pat-myself-on-the-back to say this, but I’m a pretty easy person to work with. I’m funny, cheerful, and definitely a team player. I like to make friends with my co-workers and foster a positive work environment.

Plus, I always stock my candy dish with chocolate.

So, it came as a surprise when - in one of my jobs - that attitude turned out to be frowned upon by the management.

There were two other women in my department. One co-worker was about ten years older than I was, and the other was at least twenty years older. The three of us immediately hit it off.

I found myself looking forward to coming to work everyday to hang out with these hilarious and hard-working companions. Often, we would be in the midst of a mundane workday and erupt into laughter over shared home stories and office high jinks.

Our work was getting done faster too, since – though few career people will admit this – you are much more willing to help people you actually like.

Everything was going along swimmingly until we were unexpectedly called into our supervisor’s office. She broke the news to us that other people were complaining about our department.

“You are much too loud, and you keep laughing,” she warned us.

One compatriot leaned over and whispered to me. “What? Are we working in a library now? Is laughing illegal?”

I, on the other hand, was more than a little offended. I mean, I’d prided myself on bringing a joyful spirit to the office. And now I was being called on the carpet for it?

As we grumbled back to our office, we debated the cause of our reprimand.

“It’s because other people hate coming to work. They can’t stand to see us having fun and getting the job done at the same time.”

“They wish they could make friends at work, but they’re horrible, so they don’t. And then they have to make life miserable for everyone who isn’t a [unladylike word uttered by my co-worker].”

Judging from the smug expressions of several people who just happened to be ambling by our office at that precise moment, we were able to pinpoint our accusers.

Over the next few days, the three of us stewed over the situation. We wanted to show “them” that they hadn’t won. Which wasn’t easy, since several people were crowing over the victory in the break room, and assuming (since we were “nice” people) we would just crawl back into our offices and resign ourselves to a wretched working existence.

As we angrily slammed staples into paper and shoved files drawers back with our hips, we discussed various ideas to harness our exuberant personalities AND make a point.

Finally, I hit upon an idea.

“What if we did exactly what they were asking?” I suggested. “We could whisper our everyday work conversation. Whispering drives everybody nuts! We could be quiet as church mice, and follow the letter of the law.”

“They don’t want us to like each other, either,” one of my co-workers pointed out.

“So, let’s actively hate each other,” said the other one. “We could snarl at each other and call each other ‘hey, stupid.’ No one will know what to think!”

Getting into the spirit, my other co-worker piped up. “Instead of laughing, we could do the jazz hands deaf people use to signify applause.”

“Perfect!” The other two of us responded in sync.

We kicked our plan into action over the next few days. I would tip-toe into my co-worker’s office and whisper. “Can you fax this for me?”

She’d wink at me and say, “Get out of my office, jerk.”

Later, my other co-worker would put her mouth inches from my ear and tell me an amusing story about her dog eating a tampon, and we’d both wave our hands over our heads like we were on fire.

We discovered that whispering drew our accusatory co-workers inexplicably to meander slowly by our offices, no doubt convinced we were talking about them. When, in reality, we were examining the target audience demographic.

After four days of constant whispering, hurling insults at each other, and jazz handing, one of our co-workers – the main conspirator and queen of office unpleasantness – finally came into our department.

“Why all the whispering?” She demanded, not in a whisper.

“We heard we were being too loud,” my other co-worker said innocently.

“We surely don’t want to offend anyone,” I said, working my baby blues with wide-eyed fluttering lashes.

“We just don’t want to cause trouble,” my other co-worker intoned earnestly.

“Well, this whispering is driving me nuts! Can you all go back to the way you were?” She threw her hands up in exasperation.

“If you insist,” said the co-worker closest to me.

As she started to leave, my other co-worker stopped her. “Just one more thing. If you could stop by our supervisor’s office and let her know it’s okay for us to talk and laugh again? We’d really appreciate it.”

Nothing tasted finer than watching the dawning look of realization move across her face. She finally understood we’d known it was her comments that had started the whole thing.

Resigned, she huffed off to our supervisor’s office.

Elated, I turned to my friends, “Well, that’s over. What a relief! We can stop whispering.”

“Not quite,” said my other friend, as she lifted her hands over her head.

Grinning, the three of us happily jazz handed together in silent applause.

Rabbit Readings

I read this story in the Rockford Register Star a few days ago, and it just made my heart hurt. Rabbits are beautiful and sensitive animals, and this type of cruelty and abuse is indefensible.

I sent the following e-mail to the reporter in hopes that he will convey my sympathy to the family.

Hi, Kevin! I read your article in the 9/12/08 issue of the Rockford Register Star, Family seeks answers to rabbit’s death. I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you writing sensitively about this family’s loss.

My husband and I own three house rabbits who we love very much. Normally, rabbits are not afforded the same status as beloved family pets as cats and dogs. I imagine, had this kind of animal abuse and mutilation occurred on a German Shepherd, it may have been considered even more “newsworthy.” So, the inclusion of your article, through sad, was very much appreciated.

Is there any way you could offer our condolences to this family on the loss of their pet? I would be grateful if you could pass our sentiments on this hurting family.

Thanks so much for your integrity and thoughtful writing.

At the bottom of the page, there is section to leave comments concerning this tragedy. As a rabbit caregiver, I would be appreciative if you’d add your voice to mine to let this family know you are thinking of them!

The Friday Fours

Someone tagged me! Since my mind has been blank when it comes to blogging lately, and my dreams have dried up and died, I was grateful when Alice tagged me for this topic!

1) 4 Places I go over and over: work, Mom’s, library, Dollar Tree

2) 4 People who email me regularly: Alice, Angie, Heidi, Kelly

3) 4 of my favorite places to eat: Chili’s, Olive Garden, Kiki B’s, Mom’s

4) 4 places I would rather be: Movie theater, Goodwill, Game Night, Disney World

5) 4 TV shows I watch: The Office, Criminal Minds, Big Brother, Lost

6) 4 people I tag: Heidi, October, Mom, Michelle

OK, your turn!

Sleepy Snow Story

The air conditioner was broken. It was too late in the evening to call a repair service, so the couple decided it would be cooler to sleep on their deck underneath the stars.

When the husband woke up, he discovered he was sleeping in his car in his parents’ driveway. He was confused about why he was there and wondered where his wife was. But he forgot all about her when he saw his parents coming out the front door. They were so happy to see him! His mom wrapped him in a tight hug, and his dad slapped him heartily on the back.

Soon, he was settled inside, talking and laughing with his parents. He looked out the window and realized it had begun to snow. All of a sudden, he remembered his wife asleep on the deck!

He bundled his parents into his car and drove the two hours back home. Frantically, the three of them searched for his wife in the ever-deepening snow. They couldn’t find her!

Eventually they called 911 and search teams scoured the area. An EMT made a grisly discovery. The wife’s body was jammed against a tree, frozen solid. The EMT whisked the wife away to the hospital where doctors specializing in cryogenics were called in.

It was too late. There was nothing the doctors could do but give the bad news to the stunned husband.

Then…my husband woke me up to make sure I was breathing. He told me about this horrid dream he’d just had. The only bright spot was that he got to see his mom again (she passed away in 2005). But I died!

He was really freaked out, telling me it had seemed so real and, “I just couldn’t live without you!” He spent the rest of the night with his arms wrapped tight around me.

I just don’t know what is up with these crazy dreams of ours.

At least Adam Sandler wasn’t in this one.

Thursday’s Tale

I was in college, and I was broke.

I knew I needed money to finish college, and I was scrambling - asking everyone I knew if they knew of any jobs. Luckily, a friend of mine told me that Adam Sandler - the funnyman actor from Saturday Night Live, Happy Gilmore, and many other raunchy films - was looking for someone to clean one of his many homes.

Immediately, I remembered I had actually met Adam once at a friend’s party. I went through my scrapbooks and located a blurry photo of me and Adam posing goofily with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

I called home and asked Mom and Gary if they’d be interested in moving to California and cleaning Adam Sandler’s home with me as a way to earn money for my college expenses. They were excited at the prospect and quickly agreed.

The three of us ended up in a palatial home in the Hollywood Hills. We started cleaning and hardly ever saw a glimpse of Adam. A few months later, Adam was hanging around his game room when I came in to clean. He challenged me to a game of pinball and before I knew it, we were laughing and talking.

Over the next few months, Adam and I became friends. It quickly became obvious we were also romantically interested in each other. My mother began to pressure me into talking about marriage with Adam. “Get that ring,” she’d say to me. “Then, think of all the money you’ll have.”

“But, Mom,” I argued. “I really need to finish college. It’s important to me.”

“Get that ring,” she’d repeat loudly.

Adam sensed I was under pressure and told me he understood I needed to go to college. He told me to follow my dream and sent me off with his blessing.

I took the helicopter flight to Boulder, Colorado where I planned to attend Boulder University. The snow was blinding white, and I eagerly embraced the cold weather. I made my way up the concrete stairs, under the hunter green awning that proudly proclaimed Boulder University in sleek gold letters.

I stopped by the reception desk where I was surprised to find the former president of my previous college, Dr. Joseph Stowell, working as the harried receptionist. I checked in with him and headed up to my new dorm room.

Another pleasant surprise awaited me when I met my new roommate. It was my cousin Candice! She had brought along her beautiful daughter, Brielle. I excitedly picked up Brielle and could not have been more shocked when she told me in a very grown up voice to, “Back off!”

Candice told me it was just phase Brielle was going through and admonished her daughter.

My cell phone rang just then. I answered it and smiled when I heard Adam’s voice on the other end asking how I was enjoying my first day of college. I started to answer him.

And then I woke up.

Second Blogiversary

It’s hard to believe I started blogging almost two full years ago.

Back then, in 2006, someone referred me to their blog. Soon I found out even my Pastor had a blog. Immediately, I thought, “Hey, if they can do it, so can I!”

After I found out it was free, I was ready to get started. I even remember typing my first blog post and accidentally losing it before it published. I was so mad! It took me forever to reassemble my thoughts and write it all over again. I’m still convinced there is some brilliant witticism missing in that first post.

For a long while, it was just an online diary. I didn’t get any comments, and when someone WOULD comment, I’d salivate with happiness! I e-mailed my blog address to people I knew would be kind and understood my warped blend of sarcasm and insecurity.

Over the past two years, I’ve watched as some of those friends have started their own blogs - even my mom who said, “I’ll probably never use it.” and now can’t get her digital photos downloaded fast enough!

I’ve shared my heartaches of marriage trials, infertility, and rejection. I’ve laughed with friends at flimsy trash bags, Puffy Coats, and Brett’s zip-tied pants. I’ve debated parenting issues and rallied at parents who let their kids misbehave in public. I’ve apologized, ranted, and raved. I’ve even watched myself mature.

Through it all, I’ve felt the joy and freedom that naturally go hand in hand with uninhibited self-expression.

The truth is that I sincerely love writing and - by extension – blogging. I’ve appreciated you freely sharing your advice, insights, and comments that constantly challenge me to think and reevaluate.

As I embark on this third year of blogging, I want to thank you for reading this – my blog – and sharing the journey with this obviously fundamentally flawed person.

Thank you!

Spoilsport

My dislike of sports, especially “professional” sports, is well documented on this blog. See here and here.

However, if you will allow me a repeat rant?

There is a particular news station in our town that currently has an ad running where a local newscaster is saying, “We know you all love prep sports!” (at which point, I yell “No, we don’t!” at the TV). The newscaster goes on the say, “That’s why we’re giving you more coverage on the morning, noon, and evening weekend reports.” (at which point I resignedly sigh, “It’s your air time and real news stories to waste.”)

That’s really it. No big point to make. I’m just frustrated. It’s just a game – tiddlywinks, dominoes, and guys in tight pants throwing a leather ball and mauling each other – it’s all the same to me.

I just hate being bombarded with it on TV, sandwiched cleverly in between real news, like it’s actually important.

When. It’s. Not.

My 2 Cents on Sarah

Look, I like her, too.

And my husband loves her. Are you kidding - a beautiful woman who moose hunts AND belongs to the National Rifle Association? Where's she been all his life, you know?

I guess I just want to remind us to try and NOT put her on a pedestal. The higher we lift people up, the farther they have to fall.

But that said, I'm all girly in high-pitched screams at the possibility of having a smart conservative woman in the White House (as everybody is over-saying) a "heartbeat" away from the presidency.

Team Sarah. (Oh, and that other guy, too.)

Why the Big Secret?

I’m not a parent. (I heard those of you who sighed in relief).

My inexperience leads me to ask many, many questions of my friends who ARE parents. These people give me a great eagle-eye perspective on life inside the family bubble. I especially love my friend Angie’s insight as a mom to five very active (and wildly creative) youngsters.

I remember once when Angie suggested we eat at Red Robin. We sat there shouting our conversation as kids screamed, yelled, and swung wildly on the vines over our tables (okay, not really, but it felt like it). On our way out of the restaurant, I remarked on the experience using words like “rambunctious,” “annoying,” “ear-drum-bursting,” and “duct tape.”

Angie just got out her keys and gave me blank stare over the top of her car. “Now imagine living with it 24/7,” she said dryly. “You get over yourself after a while and learn to enjoy the good.”

Now, it takes a true friend to tell you to get over yourself in such a way that you don’t want to lean over the car hood and smack her. Angie is that kind of friend. Lucky for her.

(In all honesty, Angie has a brown belt in karate and could drop kick me from here to Australia.)

Anyway, I’ve got a NEW question for all the parents out there.

Why do some parents keep their unborn child’s name a secret?

Recently, some friends of ours decided they weren’t going to tell anyone the name they had chosen for their unborn daughter. When I learned a friend-of-a-friend was expecting, I joyfully asked her what she was going to name her baby. “We’re not telling anyone,” she told me.

I have to say I am as human as the next person, and while secrets often do intrigue me, they also frustrate me. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t understand why people make such a big deal out of keeping it a secret.

I understand people have a right to privacy, and I wouldn’t want to violate it. But when you’ve already told people you’re having a baby, why would you choose that moment to clam up? People are happy for you, and they want to share in your joy.

Does the secrecy make you feel powerful? That’s the vibe I get from people sometimes, plus the old, “I know something you don’t know” which I have to say feels like snobbery.

I mean, we all know you’re going to name your child something, so why the big secret?

Those of you who may have some insight, feel free to shed light on this topic for me. I’m truly curious, and I'm sure there’s some part of the big picture I’m just not getting.

I should offer this disclaimer - I am half-Rehfeldt. In our BIG family, most of us live open book lives. We DO share TMI on occasion, but often just because we want to know more about you, so we can strengthen our relationship with you. What can I say? We’re relatable relatives! And proud of it. And vocal about it. Have I mentioned the TMI? And had you already guessed the vocal part?

Movies with Michelle

My cousin Michelle, a wonderfully well-adjusted person, is recommending a family-friendly Christian movie. She watched it first hand at a screening where the guest speaker was (gasp!) Kirk Cameron (squeal!) from Growing Pains (I can sing the theme song to this show! – Show me that smile…) and Left Behind fame.

If you’re looking to watch a movie you can feel good about, check out her post and the movie. It’s got “Fire” in the title, so maybe something blows up! *Just kidding!

*Not really. My goal for every movie is to have something blow up.

The TV Theme Queen

Here’s a link to the CD I blogged about yesterday. If you scroll down, you can see a list of all the songs I am now singing or humming along to in my car.

It’s sort of like how…*no one told me my life was gonna turn out this way – my job’s a joke – I’m broke – my love life’s DOA – but you’ll be there for me - like you’ve been there before – you’ll be there for me – as the rain pours down – you’ll be there for me – ‘cause I’m there for you, too!

*The theme to Friends (for those of you who might not have gotten it!)

Name That Tune

The other day I went to the library to formally petition the librarians to call the guy who STILL has that Coldplay CD checked out.

I’m not doing it just for me. There are approximately 15 holds on that CD before I can get my greedy little hands on it. But still, this ONE guy is holding up the whole process! I’m hoping he hasn’t broken or lost it and just not called the library yet.

Anyway, while I was there, I perused the CD selections and found a little gem among the new releases. It was a two disc collection of famous TV theme songs. How awesome is that!

As I perused the set, I noticed some of my favorites from yesteryear – Full House, Perfect Strangers, One Day at a Time, etc. I thought to myself, “Self, you would get a blast listening to this in the car, just riding along, remembering all those years spent indoors in the AC watching your favorite shows!”

So, I checked it out. I had a blast on the way home, singing along loudly. I’m sure the passing cars wondered why I was holding my hands up and snapping occasionally (The Addams Family).

I left the CDs in my car and promptly forgot about them, until we decided to take my car over to Mom and Gary’s for a Labor Day cook out.

“What’s this?” Brett asked as he popped it in CD player.

“It’s TV theme songs, and….” I started to answer.

“STARSKY AND HUTCH!” My husband screamed at one hundred decibels, an inch away from my ear.

“Yes. Oh, this one is Cheers. I like this song.” I started to hum along as I pulled out of the driveway.

My husband, who is rarely the passenger, had already flipped past the place where everybody knows your name, and was clicking through the rest of the CD.

“THE A TEAM!!!”

“MASH!!!”

“THE LONE RIDER!!!”

He’d click to the next track, listen to the first few tones, and scream out the name like an excited contestant on Name That Tune. After he’d been proven right by the booklet on the inside, he’d pump his fist with an “Oh, yeah!” and giggle like a schoolboy.

Have I mentioned my husband is normally quiet and reserved?

Something about this CD brought out the kid in him, and I got a glimpse of what he must have been like as a junior higher.

I also lost at least 10% of my hearing in that one car ride.

In spite of my pleading with him to let me at least LISTEN to the full theme, he just kept clicking through. Finally, I just gave up and started nodding as he continued screaming titles at me.

During the round trip, I learned some new things about my husband. First, his parents let him watch WAY too much TV growing up. Secondly, he was amazingly accurate at guessing the themes. For a while I tried to guess too, but I couldn’t even come close to his lightning fast ability to match the theme with the show.

Just our luck, Brett finally finds his talent, and Name That Tune’s been off the air for twenty years.

And just when I wanted to apply to be Queen for a Day, too.