Accidental Friends

The unfinished story of Lisa and Christina

At our first practice, I didn't recognize the short little plain-looking girl wearing a Disney T-shirt with her hair all slicked back in a pony tail.  I was told her name was Christina and she'd filled the most recent alto position on our church worship team.  I was brought on the team as her alternate. Then I heard her sing, and I understood why.  There was nothing plain or little about her voice. She was jazz meets gospel, a classic tone and vibrato gelled with contemporary R&B style.  And come Sunday morning, she cleaned up very nice! A pretty blouse replaced her Minnie-mouse tee. Unleashed from its pony tail, was a perfectly manicured, shiny, thick, brunette mane permitted to float around her shoulders framing her adorable, freshly powdered face. She was cute as a button. Then she'd proceed blow the roof off the church building with her ginormous voice.

Pity Party

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I like to joke a lot about being mediocre, but sometimes, being average just gets to me. My self confidence seems to be fair-weathered. I have to nurture it like a tender flower or, before too long, I'll find myself sulking in a pool of self-loathing, in danger of drowning in my own hypothetical tears. 

I will spare you the whoa-is-me details of my latest episode, but seriously! What is this thing with self pity? Why do I get this way sometimes and what can I learn from it? 

It's not depression or even insecurity. It's more of a general sense of not being sparkly-enough. It's mixed feelings of being scrutinized and forgotten, feeling unnecessary yet entitled. At the same time, I don't want to care what the world thinks about who I am, so it drives me nuts when I find myself practically addicted to everybody else's reassurance and approval.  I wish there was a pill to get rid of pride. I would swallow it with a big bite of humble pie and chase it down with a gulp of suck-it-up. I want God to be proud of me, not people.

Jesus Loves Them So Why Do I Have To?

ChristArt

The other day I dove head first into a facebook debate. I knew it was a bad idea but I did it anyway. I just couldn't resist the topic. I deflowered that conversation like a cheap box of chocolates.  I've always fancied a good debate. What sets me apart, however, is my cheeky way of turning a serious argument into a three ring circus. Watching people explode into flaming tirades has always been a source of entertainment for me. Instead of getting mad, I flippantly antagonize. It's a contest. I feel like if I can make the opponent lose their temper and act a fool, I've won.  Sinister, I tell you.

5 Survival Tips For Dating a Mama's Boy

This post comes to you as a cautionary notice, so before you get all gaga over my son(s) (and how could you not?).  I want you to know a few things, because you are in for a treat if they're considering you to join our tribe.

My boys' dad is the poster child of  how to respect, serve, adore and listen to a woman. They have grown up knowing what it looks like to love a woman. Meanwhile, I've devoted my days to strategically investing exorbitant amounts of quality time with our sons, revealing to them all things girl-confidential. It is my aim to de-mystify the female creature and do my best to teach my boys our body language, subtle nuances and decode any passive aggressive girl-speak. I warn them about our instinctive urges to control and undermine.  I teach them to resist our blubbery tears and fluttering puppy dog lashes. I coach them on how to recognize when a girl is twisting an argument in attempt to reverse blame.  If I've done my job, my sons will be immune to whining and nagging know how to dodge girls who use these bags of tricks. Hopefully by the time I'm finished galvanizing their spines, my boys will become men able to resist bewitching Delilah-like  powers of fruit-scented Jezebels. 

Ladies, you will thank me later. Because, I'm really helping you, you know, weeding out the tramps and the manipulators, preserving my man child for a nice girl he can bring home to mama. You're a nice girl, aren't you?

Bad Words: 140 Alternative Ways to Cuss Politely

I was raised by parents who didn't believe in saying dirty-words.  I think I heard my dad say "damn" once or twice in my entire life, but he usually emphasized his point with "shoot," "Dang-it," or "Darn-it!"  When he was mad, he was "ticked" or "chapped" and when he hammered his thumb with one of his tools (which was often) he would shout, "son-of-a-biscuit-eater!" We didn't use Jesus or God's name in vain, we said "jeez" and "gosh." And if we had 'acceptable' family cuss words they were, "crap" and "ca-ca."  In fact, I hadn't realized potty-talk was so controversial until I was an adult and one of the parents of a child I was sitting requested I not use it in front of their kid (never-mind that she and her husband practiced prolific profanity on a daily basis). 

I suppose curse words are culturally and morally relative and vary in potency from person to person. For instance, I was never allowed to say the alternate word for urine. And as much as I hear my Christian friends use the "p" word in their daily vocabulary, I still cant bring myself to say it.  I was taught that it takes more intellect to be creative and not use profanity, that even mentally-challenged people know how to cuss. But since I've grown-up, I've realized some situations necessitate the power that swear-words evoke--when used sparingly and in the right context, of course. I think my parents understood this need as well and perhaps that is why they allowed us to use curse-word euphemisms.  

The Incidental Family Menu Board

I'm no domesticated engineering genius but I sure am proud of my little creation...

Unfortunately, I am a Stay At Home Employed Mom, which means I have to split my attentions betwixt Real Estate matters and homemaker duties. I used to be pretty dang awesome at the wifey-mom stuff before I started bringing home some of the bacon. Now I'm scrambling just to stay mediocre at it. So, this chart became a necessity. 

Before you slather me in all your gooey praise for my lucky stroke of brilliance, allow me to take it down a notch or five and admit this calender was actually birthed out of my detest for the question "what's for dinner?"  You may as well shave my fingertips through a cheese grater than blurt those whiny, presumptuous words in my ears. I hate them almost as much as the phrase "I'm bored." Deciding what to make for dinner requires planning and motivation. Neither of which I give any forethought until one of my starving kids deliriously begs "what's for dinner?"  By then it's usually around 7PM and the S.A.H.M. in me feels a slight hunger-pang of empathy for the child so I answer, "food!"  And out of guilt, I'm finally forced to think about it. Ugh.

Kaden's "Angel" Day

Sunrise: Septemper 12, 2003

Sunset: January 4, 2004

It's been eight years ago today since my baby boy died. Whenever this day comes, I feel like I should say something...to commemorate him...preserve his memory...continue his legacy. But the reality is, I don't know what to say. No words are worthy-enough.  So some years I don't say anything. Honestly, I don't know what good it will do or why it even has to 'do' any 'good'.   I don't want to be melodramatic, I don't want pity, I shrivel at that kind of attention. Fact is, I celebrate Kaden every year on his Birthday. (He is 8yrs, 3mo and 3wks old now, btw.) That is always a happy day for me. 

There is nothing to celebrate today. After all, this day is not really not about Kaden. It's a glaring stamp in time that more represents me, my family, and what we're missing.  A child we'll never get to love on, make memories with, or watch grow into a man. I struggle with this day because it shouldn't be about me. This is his anniversary, it's Kaden's 'Angel Day'.  In my mind, this day is monumental. So, if  I'm going to 'go there' and mention my son, I expect the world to stand down and take notice of him.  If  I say anything, I only want my words to give more purpose to his short little life...but then again, it's not my job to define it. Kaden already has purpose, it doesn't matter whether you or I will ever understand what that is, exactly.

21st Century's Ordinary Wife's Guide

My Personal Revisions to the Original "Good Wife's Guide"
 

I did not particularly care for this 1955 version of how to be a good wife. I thought it needed some updating so I've swept off the cob-webs and condensed the finer points of this Article's 19 guidelines down to just 11 rules. My changes correlate alphabetically below the originals. Follow at your own risk, I'm not in a very good mood today...

1)  Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

-OR-

A) Text him that you've had a very hard day at work and/or being domestic and the prospect of him picking up some Taco Bell on his way home would really be awesome.  This way he will know you have been thinking of him and are concerned that you both get fed. 

2)  Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

-OR-

B)  Put your sweats and T-shirt on, wash your face and throw your hair up in a bun when you get home from work. This way maybe he won’t get the idea to attempt any funny-business while you're trying to relax. You're weary from working and/or watching his kids all day, but he has needs so perhaps an exchange can be negotiated? Suggest retiring to the boudoir early for a little procreation ‘trade’ should he be inclined to give you a foot rub or, if he is really ‘in the mood’, have him clean your bathroom. After all, that's the kind of thing that actually turns a wife on.

Somewhere Between Miss and Ma'am

My knee-jerk response rebuttal to Lynda's, "45 Is NOT the New 25"

I found a new blogger I'm in lurve with. My other bloggie friend, Christina, turned me on to Lynda, and she is a hoot. We share some core beliefs on snarcasm, self abasement and child education.  I think we would make good friends if we were not three-thousand miles apart.  Lynda has a moderate following of 80 or 4,000 readers, so that makes her pretty popular in blog-land. She probably is so busy writing her next post right now to notice my little crumb of the blog pie. I don't expect she has time to read what I think and I'm counting on that based on what I'm about to say (hiding safely in my little inconspicuous corner of her territory).  For I am a chicken and in no way seasoned enough to challenge this woman personally.

From what I've read and far as I can tell, Lynda and I probably don't disagree on much, except this one teensy thing. In September she posted a manifesto on acting like a forty-something and I was intrigued to read her summation on what will be expected of me during an age that will surely be the dregs of my mid-life crisis. You see, Forty is rapidly hunting me down like a ravenous beast and fast as I'm being chased by its imminent approach, running in my flip- flops (or Toms depending on the weather), I will go down thumping the forty year old monster like a scared little bunny rabbit donned in lip gloss, slightly impeded by my tight trendy jeans and sparkly low cut T-shirt. This is where Linda and I part ways.  While she solemnly intends to abide by her self imposed rules for women over forty and though her vehement suggestions are all good and well for her, I could not miss the stern mother-tone in her pitch that implied the whole lot of us girls over forty ought to better follow suit. Now, I happen to agree with a few of her proposals so to save time I will just give you the bullet points to which I cowardly raise the gauntlet.

Being Misunderstood

     It's easy to make assumptions about people. I am a master profiler myself (hold on while I snicker smugly and flick the lint off my shoulder). I learn a lot about folks just by the way they carry themselves, and I ask questions. If you didn't already know, I'm a Realtor from nine to five, it's my job to read people and get 'in their business'. I like to think of myself as more of a noticer than nosy. It's always been easy for me to pick up on subtle nuances in tone, inflections, body language and mood patterns.  Mostly because I have radar ears and x-ray vision and I can smell a secret smothered in peanut-butter and buried in dog poo. It's a gift, really. I'm always searching for what's missing from the puzzle, taking notes on what you're not doing, listening for what I didn't hear you say, generally looking for what's out of character. It's how I bust my kids every. time.


But for someone who possesses such keen sensory superpowers as I, it's taken me twenty-plus years to realize that sometimes my E.S.P. aint so popular with others.  Folks pretty much don't want to be figured out, psychoanalized or dissected. It makes them kind of, "uncomfortable".  I've noticed most people don't show a lot of gratitude when I'm pulling the rug out from under them either. Calling someone out is no way to get brownie points, I have discovered.