Faith and Angst

and why I need my Crutches.

I've spent the last week flopping around in a torrent of emotion. I know, weird, right?  I think my eyes even got watery at one point last Tuesday.  It's really boiled down to a matter of where my heart and my head have been, colliding. Or maybe it is just hormones as usual, but as I slog through some unfamiliar feelings cluttering my judgement, I hold fast to this, Christ is in me. He is the only thing holy about Lisa Frey. The rest of me is a sanctified mess. Sometimes it's like I'm on the edge of  a cliff and the only thing between me and certain free-fall is this chain of commitment to God and Family tethered around my neck. I'm either gonna hang myself with it or it's going to save my life.

Now, I'm all about introspection and self-improvement but I snarked at author, Donald Miller's, challenge to his subscribers the other day to confess their three biggest faults on Facebook. Being the proud person I am, I'm pretty sure my first thought, Hell no!, was audible.  Although, I have noticed some sketchy things materialize in myself lately that, I suppose, have been dormant for years. The challenge gnawed at me. I tossed and turned all night and decided, why not? You want people to know the authentic Lisa, right? Yeah, okay, well here are four...

Like I said, I'm prideful.

I hate being embarrassed.  My fear of it is physically crippling and I will avoid humiliation at all costs, even if that means missing opportunities or feeling regret over never attempting something.  I mean, I can laugh at myself with the rest of you... right? Is it not entertaining enough that I fall down and spill stuff, daily? I know my absence of rhythm and coordination are hilarious. I've even learned to own my pigeon toes. But what I lack in physical grace, I make up for in self dignity. I think I was born with some blue DNA though, because I crave respect more than a desire to be liked and I've developed this all-sufficient attitude that inhibits me from submitting to anyone or thing.  I'm not going  to burden anybody with my complaints or needs. I keep my walls high and expectations of people low to avoid disappointment.  And sometimes, *gasp* I might only do the right thing because I just don't want to have to apologize later.

I want what I want.

And I'm not even talking about material things. Sometimes I feel more obligated to my commitments than a desire to be committed. There are days I get claustrophobic by my own life-choices despite that I have everything a girl could ask for, I still find myself daydreaming  over what I can't have, even envious over those who seem content with much less. Discontentment. Or is it, restlessness?  I've been 29 years old for a decade now, maybe it's the onset of mid-life crisis... I'm seriously considering a career change or taking up some adrenaline infused hobby... Anyway, I've made my bed, but there are nights I just don't wanna lay in it. Yeah, yeah, Somebody call the whaaambulance.

The Dirty Truth About Youth

In March I posted on confessions, and *whew*, did that feel good! So I thought I'd follow it up with a "part II" and put this shallow topic of vanity to bed. In the next few paragraphs I'll come mostly the rest of the way out of my closet (the one I keep all my skeletons in) and throw you a couple more bones I've been keeping to myself.

They say the "secret" to success is not to blab all your secrets but I just celebrated the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday and honestly, staying 29 forever is a LOT of work! It takes commitment and almost having to be down right OCD about it. So because some of you have asked about my routines, others have been just plain nosy and because I think everyone should be able to stay 29 if they want to, here's my formula:

Don't Forget To Take Your Happy Pill

I have another confession, while I'm feeling all vulnerable and transparent again...

Some of you might recall my post about Pre-Murder-Syndrome, awhile back?  Well, it was all the rage for about seven minutes.  Anyway, PMS has been a seriously debilitating issue for me these past few years and I wanted to give you a little update on my recovery. 

After trying all sorts of conventional methods to treat  my homicidal condition, I am happy to announce I have finally found a solution that works! Wait for it...

Prozac. 

There. I said it. After much meditation, prayer, exorcisms, exercise, dietetic and homeopathic trials, I have settled on a drug.  Let the shock ruminate a little and continue reading, please. I can justify.

TMI?

"Integrity" was the topic of discussion at small group last night. Someone asked the question, would our spouse describe our character the same as our church friends? Well that's a toughy, because I wear multiple hats.  So the deeper question I had to ask myself was, am I willing to allow my entire sphere to see what I look like in all those hats? How transparent am I, really?

I figure, this blog is as good a place as any to start letting a few bones out of my closet.  But first, I had to build up some nerve.  So I scanned the internet for gritty, unedited honesty...along the lines of cluttered bedrooms, botox reveals, and dinner disasters. Except, all I found were people pinning ideas on how to be amazing, or facebooking how fabulous their lives are.

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

Click here to see more by this artist

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.