Birthdays have always been a big deal in my family. Not one birthday in my life has passed without all of the birthday staples: friends, cake, ice cream, and presents. I love any excuse for a party and especially love MYSELF being the excuse. Most normal people (I think) sit back and wait to see if anyone plans anything special to celebrate their big day, but not me. I want to do it all, including sometimes baking my own cake! (I realize that this further confirms my skewed level of normality.) My reasoning is simple. It's my big day and I want to do exactly what I want for MY DAY, so who better to plan it than MYSELF? Sure, this might sound a little arrogant and selfish, but I grant myself this selfishness one day out of 364, so back off! :-)
I'm a holiday baby. I was born on the 26th of May (write it down, I expect a card) and the 26th always falls right around Memorial Day weekend. If I wasn't as deeply grateful as I am for the sacrifices made by our military for my freedom and safety, I would almost joke that my birthday is a National Holiday. However, out of respect for our armed forces that are way more badass than I'll ever be, I'll just be honored to be celebrated in general proximity to their holiday and extremely grateful for my 3 day birthday weekend every year. My big weekend is usually always perfect weather, hot enough for swimming but cool enough to want to be outside. People are by default friendly and fun loving and Anheuser-Busch goes into over-production mode for party-goers. It's the perfect time to celebrate.
You're all jealous now aren't you? I can see you there considering how poor it is to be born on some ordinary date in March that typically always falls on a rainy Monday when the coworkers are cranky and oblivious that anything is special in your world. Well, cheer up because I haven't told you about the Birthday Curse.
It all began when I turned 21. This is supposed to be the monument of all monumental birthdays, correct? I planned my perfect weekend for months. My closest friends from all over the US were going to gather at a cabin in the Smokeys for the weekend. We had a hot tub, pool table, grilling deck, and were far enough on top of the mountain to be as loud and obnoxious as we wanted. Great plan, right? Negative. It was a disaster. From the moment we all unpacked there was horrendous fighting and I lost one of my most valued friendships of all time that weekend. The heated confrontations weren't the worst of the drama either. Another friend of mine had to be taken to the hospital for fear of a heart attack, someone else got a stomach virus and to top it off I fell and cracked my head on the hot tub – not once, but twice. The Birthday Curse had commenced.
Every birthday since has been become a mini-crusade to try to recoup for the tragedies of my 21st but every celebration has failed incredibly. I've had more trips to the hospital, friendly-fire wars and family meltdowns than any once person should ever have to endure.
This year as I began the countdown to my big day fear and anxiety were in full force. What horrors would this year hold? God knows, my life sucks enough on a regular day lately… what more can I handle? I seriously considered locking myself in my bedroom and not coming out all weekend. Seriously. Briefly, I played with the idea of having a cookout with friends, because that's harmless right? However, after sending the invitations I began to fret about the fire liability of a grill and canceled the cookout. My sister even begged to throw me a dinner party and I practically refused because hell, at this point it's better to be safe than sorry! I'm tired of singing "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to!"
So I became anti-birthday this year and sat on my ass and didn't plan anything. And something amazing happened. I had the best birthday EVER. J
It's funny what life can present to you if you just let things take a natural course and stop trying to write your future for yourself. My best friend came to Nashville to see me, taking her only vacation time for the year just for me. That alone, MADE my weekend. Together we spent four days playing with my kids, visiting with people, laughing, and partying. On Sunday my wonderful sister convinced me to do a low-key dinner and I am so glad that I agreed. It was fabulous. Finally, on Monday my actual birthday passed almost completely without incident and ended with 3 amazing friends, a bottle of wine, a good movie and a surprise birthday cake. At midnight we toasted to the END of the Birthday Curse!
Happy Birthday to me and THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all of you who love me and have made this year soooo special!!!
Bring it on 28! I'm ready for ya!
If any of you have experienced any of your own birthday curses or have had the joy of being a part of mine, feel free to share!!!
On The Web
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Phoenix Firebird
I recently got a new tattoo. I have a mild addiction to this form of self-expression but I’ve kept myself contained to only having four (so far). After all, good ink doesn’t come cheap. This year, in honor of my 27th birthday, some dear folks in my life donated money to my ink fund. So with a few ideas in mind, this weekend I submitted myself to the hands of a tattoo master and the pointy end of a vibrating needle.
I’m not the kind of personality that is content with walking into a tattoo parlor, picking a design off the wall and letting some no-name artist (or skuz-bucket with a gun) brand me for life. All of my ink, with the exception of my first tattoo, involved months of preparation and planning. I start with an idea then research artists and shops, looking at reviews and portfolios before calling and making an appointment. Sometimes this process takes years, but since it’s not one of those things you get to “do over” if you mess it up, the meticulousness of it all is very worthwhile for me.
On Saturday, I had a phoenix forever imprinted on my leg and foot. For those of you who slept during Greek mythology here’s a crash course on this history of this creature. The phoenix is an ancient mythical firebird that ignites into flame when it has reached the end of its lifespan and is reborn from the ashes. Pretty badass huh?
As we’ve discussed, I’ve been through a lot of rebirths in my 27th years on the planet Earth. Whenever my birthday rolls around I can’t help but reminisce and sometime shudder at all I’ve walked through. I’d be lying if I tried to pull the “woe is me” card because most of the crap that has happened to me or around me has been self induced by a lot of poor decision making. Never the less, I’ve always come out on top and hopefully better off than I was before.
But let me tell you, the fire isn’t easy. It’s painful. Even more painful than having the top of your foot tattooed… and take it from me – that HURTS.
During this season of my life I find myself in the fire once again. All of my trips to the inferno have made me realize that it’s best to suck it up and get it over with, sort of like digging out a splinter. Yeah, it hurts, but not as bad as it will once it gets all oozy and infected. I can’t run from the demons that I have picked up along the road of the world. Running away from dealing with things only prolongs the pain and spreads it out on more people around me. So I choose to stand firm, not back down and accept the flames that are refining me.
In my experience, self discovery has always been excruciating. I’ve spent more time on “the couch” than my wallet would like to admit. Recently my therapist has been trying to make me cry because apparently my tear ducts are broken. I think it’s because I have lost my soul sometime over the past few years. My friends tell me that I can’t cry because I crush scorpions, but that’s a whole different blog… and tattoo. :-)
I’m not the kind of personality that is content with walking into a tattoo parlor, picking a design off the wall and letting some no-name artist (or skuz-bucket with a gun) brand me for life. All of my ink, with the exception of my first tattoo, involved months of preparation and planning. I start with an idea then research artists and shops, looking at reviews and portfolios before calling and making an appointment. Sometimes this process takes years, but since it’s not one of those things you get to “do over” if you mess it up, the meticulousness of it all is very worthwhile for me.
On Saturday, I had a phoenix forever imprinted on my leg and foot. For those of you who slept during Greek mythology here’s a crash course on this history of this creature. The phoenix is an ancient mythical firebird that ignites into flame when it has reached the end of its lifespan and is reborn from the ashes. Pretty badass huh?
As we’ve discussed, I’ve been through a lot of rebirths in my 27th years on the planet Earth. Whenever my birthday rolls around I can’t help but reminisce and sometime shudder at all I’ve walked through. I’d be lying if I tried to pull the “woe is me” card because most of the crap that has happened to me or around me has been self induced by a lot of poor decision making. Never the less, I’ve always come out on top and hopefully better off than I was before.
But let me tell you, the fire isn’t easy. It’s painful. Even more painful than having the top of your foot tattooed… and take it from me – that HURTS.
During this season of my life I find myself in the fire once again. All of my trips to the inferno have made me realize that it’s best to suck it up and get it over with, sort of like digging out a splinter. Yeah, it hurts, but not as bad as it will once it gets all oozy and infected. I can’t run from the demons that I have picked up along the road of the world. Running away from dealing with things only prolongs the pain and spreads it out on more people around me. So I choose to stand firm, not back down and accept the flames that are refining me.
In my experience, self discovery has always been excruciating. I’ve spent more time on “the couch” than my wallet would like to admit. Recently my therapist has been trying to make me cry because apparently my tear ducts are broken. I think it’s because I have lost my soul sometime over the past few years. My friends tell me that I can’t cry because I crush scorpions, but that’s a whole different blog… and tattoo. :-)
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Bikini Transformation
Today I bought a bikini.
OK… I bought half of a bikini.
If you're a regular reader, you know that I've been looking for a bathing suit for quite some time now. This is one of life's worst punishments in the world of being a woman. I've come to grips with the reality that I'm not going to find that one perfect swimsuit. I'm going to find something wrong with all of them because I always find something wrong with the ME that is in them.
In my heart, I'm a bikini girl. When I think of myself at the seashore, I'm always the Hot Tropic model in the strings and seashells. Maybe not seashells, but you know what I'm talking about. In my fantasy, I'm lying on a towel soaking up the sun rays, spreading oil over toned muscle and beautifully bronzed skin. I play volleyball with my girlfriends and roll around getting dusted with sand.
Snap out of it. (Yeah, I'm talking to you!) Here's the reality. I've had two kids and other than the occasional Mystic Tan, I've been "the white girl" all my life. I've got a decent figure, but I wouldn't exactly describe it as toned and the only way I will ever be beautifully bronzed is if my freckles multiply and run together. I've NEVER worn a bikini in front of another human being in my life, but I have a confession to make.
I want one really bad.
Many years ago when I was going through one of many life transformations, I looked like an extra from a Grateful Dead tribute video dressed in my bohemian skirt, ripped blue jeans and tank top. Everything I owned smelled like patchouli and pot. My wardrobe spoke loudly of the condition of my heart and the state of my life at the time. Needless to say, I was a mess on the inside and outside.
A "preachette" (female preacher) from London came to speak at the rehab center I was locked away in. As I listened to this refined woman speak I couldn't help but admire her outfit. When I caught myself in the state of admiration, I was actually shocked and embarrassed of myself. This was the day that something changed inside of me. I don't remember what the woman said, but I remember her navy slacks and jacket and how great I would look in them. I confessed this foreign daydream to my roommate who must've spilled the beans because on the day of the preachette's departure, she presented me with a large box and in it was the suit. Four months later, I graduated from rehab wearing it.
Currently, I'm in another life transformation. Hopefully not AS drastic as the last, but pretty close. This time, I battle more of my demons. I battle feeling like a failure, like a bad mother and generally like I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not talented enough, not strong enough and not pretty enough.
This time, instead of a suit, it's a bikini. I'm starting off small, so I just bought half. Yes, the store clerk cocked her head to the side in puzzlement, because really… who only buys only the top? Me.
Fake it till you make it, someone wise once told me. So I'm faking it. Until the day that I am ready to throw all my flaws out there for the world to gawk at, I will wear only half and it will look damn good under a tank top.
OK… I bought half of a bikini.
If you're a regular reader, you know that I've been looking for a bathing suit for quite some time now. This is one of life's worst punishments in the world of being a woman. I've come to grips with the reality that I'm not going to find that one perfect swimsuit. I'm going to find something wrong with all of them because I always find something wrong with the ME that is in them.
In my heart, I'm a bikini girl. When I think of myself at the seashore, I'm always the Hot Tropic model in the strings and seashells. Maybe not seashells, but you know what I'm talking about. In my fantasy, I'm lying on a towel soaking up the sun rays, spreading oil over toned muscle and beautifully bronzed skin. I play volleyball with my girlfriends and roll around getting dusted with sand.
Snap out of it. (Yeah, I'm talking to you!) Here's the reality. I've had two kids and other than the occasional Mystic Tan, I've been "the white girl" all my life. I've got a decent figure, but I wouldn't exactly describe it as toned and the only way I will ever be beautifully bronzed is if my freckles multiply and run together. I've NEVER worn a bikini in front of another human being in my life, but I have a confession to make.
I want one really bad.
Many years ago when I was going through one of many life transformations, I looked like an extra from a Grateful Dead tribute video dressed in my bohemian skirt, ripped blue jeans and tank top. Everything I owned smelled like patchouli and pot. My wardrobe spoke loudly of the condition of my heart and the state of my life at the time. Needless to say, I was a mess on the inside and outside.
A "preachette" (female preacher) from London came to speak at the rehab center I was locked away in. As I listened to this refined woman speak I couldn't help but admire her outfit. When I caught myself in the state of admiration, I was actually shocked and embarrassed of myself. This was the day that something changed inside of me. I don't remember what the woman said, but I remember her navy slacks and jacket and how great I would look in them. I confessed this foreign daydream to my roommate who must've spilled the beans because on the day of the preachette's departure, she presented me with a large box and in it was the suit. Four months later, I graduated from rehab wearing it.
Currently, I'm in another life transformation. Hopefully not AS drastic as the last, but pretty close. This time, I battle more of my demons. I battle feeling like a failure, like a bad mother and generally like I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not talented enough, not strong enough and not pretty enough.
This time, instead of a suit, it's a bikini. I'm starting off small, so I just bought half. Yes, the store clerk cocked her head to the side in puzzlement, because really… who only buys only the top? Me.
Fake it till you make it, someone wise once told me. So I'm faking it. Until the day that I am ready to throw all my flaws out there for the world to gawk at, I will wear only half and it will look damn good under a tank top.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Mother's Day Corset
Over the past couple of years I've read a lot of historical fiction. Historical fiction, for all of you who don't indulge often in the literary world, is fiction that based off of true historical events. You may have recently seen the movie in theaters with Natalie Portman called The Other Boleyn Girl. This movie is a historical fiction based film. My introduction to this glorious world of queens, kings, and beheadings began when my friend Tiffany left a copy of Philippa Gregory's The Constant Princess at my house. I thumbed through the first few pages and by the end of the first chapter I was hooked.
I'm not much of a fairytale kind of girl, so it may surprise some people how intrigued I can be with the royal courts of faraway lands. There's something about the enchanting tales of a princess in her lavish gowns and heavy jewels that sets off across the seas to find her prince and unite nations that awakens the feminine side of me that is sometimes forgotten. Her struggle to make it in her new country and be everything to everyone somehow makes me feel empowered. How could I not admire a woman who graciously wears a corset to cut off her circulation and only gets to indulge in a bath once a year?
The day I found out I was pregnant with a girl, I had a meltdown. I was sitting in my boss' office and I was crying myself into a puddle. "I can't have a girl," I sobbed. "I can't do tea parties and braid pigtails!" I thought for sure that God understood this and would only put me in care of dirty, messy, frog-toting boys. But nope, I was having a girl and I didn't know what I was falling apart! What does this have to do with stories of The Tudors and Marie Antionette?
Unlike her mother, my daughter was born with an appreciation of royal splendor. Through my modern day princess I am convinced that God has a sense of humor. Every day, my my four year old comes home from preschool and changes into a sparkly gown and tiara. She's even been known to sleep with the tiara. At least once a week we have a tea party with Dora the Explorer and Ballerina Barbie. I obligingly sip my tea, pinkie extended, and nibble imaginary cakes and crackers. On the inside I'm rolling my eyes toward the heavens imagining God, in all of His Glory, winking an eye at me.
At least her favorite band is Metallica.
In the fifteenth century women wore corsets. Here in the twenty first century, motherhood is my corset. It doesn't fit right, it's more than often uncomfortable, but it holds me together when I feel like I'm falling apart.
Here's to my princess and my little prince this Mother's Day!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Unexpected Angels
Today I took three children all under the age of 5 to Target. Some would call me crazy, some would call me a glutton for punishment and today I would have agreed with all of them. Target has this multi-kid shopping cart that is nothing short of a small, bright red tank with plastic bumpers and child restraints. Canaan and her best friend Moira climbed up on one side and I attempted, very unsuccessfully, to seat Will on the other.
You know those kids that you see in the supermarket that fling themselves to the floor kicking and screaming like you have just told them that Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy were all just blown up by the Taliban? You know how you either roll you eyes in annoyance or look pitifully at the pathetic parent who is unable to control the flailing monster that is rolling around in front of the cereal aisle? Today, that parent was me. I wanted to put a "Free To A Good Home" sign on Will and leave him at the corner in front of Starbucks. If you are offended by that statement, then either you have never been a parent to a toddler or you need to climb down off of your high horse and stop judging me. I believe that every SANE parent at some point has looked at the child that they love (more than life itself) and wanted to run screaming in the other direction. Today was that day.
Out of nowhere appeared this grandmotherly Hispanic woman. She came up very quietly with one finger poised over her lips and whispered to my hysterical son, "Shhh." By the time the stranger approached the cart, he'd calmed himself to sputtering breaths between tears. He was no longer kicking or fighting me and I quickly fastened his safety belt. Some parents would probably be offended by this woman's response, but I looked at her like a Godsend. A moment later, she reappeared with a cookie for each of the three kids instructing them that they could only have the cookie if they promised to be good children for the rest of Mommy's shopping trip. If I were a hugger I would've crushed this saintly woman in an excruciating embrace of gratitude.
If you are touched by this experience then strap your emotional seatbelt on for the next one.
A couple of weeks ago my kids and I were on I-40 traveling through what is known as "The Gorge" between North Carolina and Tennessee. If you've ever been on this particular stretch of highway you know that it's the kind of road that makes you pinch your seat cushion (if you know what I mean.) It's curvy and hilly with a mountain on one side and a cliff on the other. It can be very scary. Without going into detail, we had a near death experience and ended up stranded on the side of the road in a very sharp turn. It was nearing dusk and semi-trucks were whizzing past us at ridiculous speeds.
In a little less than an hour a tow truck pulled to a stop in front of us. The man that got out reminded me of one of those old-school rocker dudes with curly gray hair, a beard and an earring. He pulled on his Iron Maiden jacket as he approached my window. I got out of the XTerra and he held up his hands to stop me. "First things first, little lady. I'm going to put you and your babies in my truck up there because this is not a safe place for you to be sitting. You grab one and I'll grab the other," he said pointing to Canaan and Will who were bug eyed in the front seat.
He tucked us safely in the cab of his tow truck where the kids and I said a little prayer thanking Jesus for keeping us safe. When he finished loading the XTerra, he climbed back into the driver's seat and we headed up the interstate. Instinctively, because I am a mother bear, I tucked my kids under my arm and scanned the floor for weapons that this stranger might have in his possession. Other than a lighter next to his pack of Marlboro's no dangerous objects were in sight so I started to relax.
He told me his opinion on the condition of my car and suspected that foul play might have been involved. Yes, I said foul play. You can imagine that my stomach was doing flips. He could tell that I was obviously shaken by this news of the potential that someone had intentionally tried to harm me and my children. He flashed me a spotted-tooth smile. "I'm going to make sure you're safe tonight. We'll take the truck back to the shop and leave it for the mechanics in the morning, then I'm going to put you and the kids up in a good hotel."
We drove to the repair shop passing several roach-motels that I would've settled for because they looked affordable, but he found something wrong with each of them. "Now, I don't want you to stay there because you would have to cross the highway with the children to get food and I don't want you to stay at that one because I wouldn't let a dog I didn't like stay there." He finally pulled out his cell phone and said simply, "I have a friend I can call."
Thirty minutes later, we pulled to a stop in front of a very pleasant Motel 6 that looked almost new. He carried my suitcases inside and stayed until the desk clerk had us checked in at his friend's "special guest" rate. His friend just so happened to own the hotel. It was conveniently located next door to Sagebrush and a Shoney's. Before leaving he gave me his personal cell phone number saying that he lived right up the street if we needed anything at all and that he would be by the next day to pick us up when my truck was fixed. I offered to pay him whatever cash I had, but he refused with a smile and left.
Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels. - Hebrews 13:2.
Sometimes, angels wear Iron Maiden jackets and bribe two year olds with cookies.
You know those kids that you see in the supermarket that fling themselves to the floor kicking and screaming like you have just told them that Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy were all just blown up by the Taliban? You know how you either roll you eyes in annoyance or look pitifully at the pathetic parent who is unable to control the flailing monster that is rolling around in front of the cereal aisle? Today, that parent was me. I wanted to put a "Free To A Good Home" sign on Will and leave him at the corner in front of Starbucks. If you are offended by that statement, then either you have never been a parent to a toddler or you need to climb down off of your high horse and stop judging me. I believe that every SANE parent at some point has looked at the child that they love (more than life itself) and wanted to run screaming in the other direction. Today was that day.
Out of nowhere appeared this grandmotherly Hispanic woman. She came up very quietly with one finger poised over her lips and whispered to my hysterical son, "Shhh." By the time the stranger approached the cart, he'd calmed himself to sputtering breaths between tears. He was no longer kicking or fighting me and I quickly fastened his safety belt. Some parents would probably be offended by this woman's response, but I looked at her like a Godsend. A moment later, she reappeared with a cookie for each of the three kids instructing them that they could only have the cookie if they promised to be good children for the rest of Mommy's shopping trip. If I were a hugger I would've crushed this saintly woman in an excruciating embrace of gratitude.
If you are touched by this experience then strap your emotional seatbelt on for the next one.
A couple of weeks ago my kids and I were on I-40 traveling through what is known as "The Gorge" between North Carolina and Tennessee. If you've ever been on this particular stretch of highway you know that it's the kind of road that makes you pinch your seat cushion (if you know what I mean.) It's curvy and hilly with a mountain on one side and a cliff on the other. It can be very scary. Without going into detail, we had a near death experience and ended up stranded on the side of the road in a very sharp turn. It was nearing dusk and semi-trucks were whizzing past us at ridiculous speeds.
In a little less than an hour a tow truck pulled to a stop in front of us. The man that got out reminded me of one of those old-school rocker dudes with curly gray hair, a beard and an earring. He pulled on his Iron Maiden jacket as he approached my window. I got out of the XTerra and he held up his hands to stop me. "First things first, little lady. I'm going to put you and your babies in my truck up there because this is not a safe place for you to be sitting. You grab one and I'll grab the other," he said pointing to Canaan and Will who were bug eyed in the front seat.
He tucked us safely in the cab of his tow truck where the kids and I said a little prayer thanking Jesus for keeping us safe. When he finished loading the XTerra, he climbed back into the driver's seat and we headed up the interstate. Instinctively, because I am a mother bear, I tucked my kids under my arm and scanned the floor for weapons that this stranger might have in his possession. Other than a lighter next to his pack of Marlboro's no dangerous objects were in sight so I started to relax.
He told me his opinion on the condition of my car and suspected that foul play might have been involved. Yes, I said foul play. You can imagine that my stomach was doing flips. He could tell that I was obviously shaken by this news of the potential that someone had intentionally tried to harm me and my children. He flashed me a spotted-tooth smile. "I'm going to make sure you're safe tonight. We'll take the truck back to the shop and leave it for the mechanics in the morning, then I'm going to put you and the kids up in a good hotel."
We drove to the repair shop passing several roach-motels that I would've settled for because they looked affordable, but he found something wrong with each of them. "Now, I don't want you to stay there because you would have to cross the highway with the children to get food and I don't want you to stay at that one because I wouldn't let a dog I didn't like stay there." He finally pulled out his cell phone and said simply, "I have a friend I can call."
Thirty minutes later, we pulled to a stop in front of a very pleasant Motel 6 that looked almost new. He carried my suitcases inside and stayed until the desk clerk had us checked in at his friend's "special guest" rate. His friend just so happened to own the hotel. It was conveniently located next door to Sagebrush and a Shoney's. Before leaving he gave me his personal cell phone number saying that he lived right up the street if we needed anything at all and that he would be by the next day to pick us up when my truck was fixed. I offered to pay him whatever cash I had, but he refused with a smile and left.
Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels. - Hebrews 13:2.
Sometimes, angels wear Iron Maiden jackets and bribe two year olds with cookies.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Get Good Karma
I heard an interesting radio commercial in the car yesterday as my kids and I were parked on the interstate due to road construction on a Sunday evening. The announcer asked me if I was a victim of bad Karma. After taking an account of my surroundings: the exhaust being emitted from the hooptie-mobile in front of me, the mangy truck driver staring down at me from his semi to my right, and my kids who were having a screeching contest in the backseat, I answered aloud with a hearty, "Yep!"
Apparently, the remedy for having bad Karma is to visit this website called getgoodkarma.org. Yes, I'm serious, as being on the "bad side of the universe" is no laughing matter. I made a mental note of this as traffic finally began to move again and I promised the kids ice cream if they would stop trying to make mommy's ears bleed. At the next exit we stopped at the second McDonalds of the day for hot fudge sundaes. I turned off the car for about seven minutes and when I tried to restart it, guess what? Yep, my bad Karma had inflicted itself on my car battery.
I called my sister. Apparently bad Karma is also contagious or maybe hereditary. She and I are in a neck and neck race of who's life sucks the worst. I pulled ahead yesterday. All I could do was laugh. It was already nine o'clock and the kids and I had been on the road since 3:30. If you've never traveled with small children, let me just describe it as the third ring of hell. The only bright side was that the sundaes bought me twenty minutes of peace and quiet to figure out how the crap jumper cables work. Several fire sparks, a chocolate painted two-year old and forty five minutes later we were back on the road to home.
What should've been a four hour drive ended as a seven and a half hour trail of tears. After hauling the kids to bed and toting all of our junk back into the house, I got online. I visited getgoodkarma.org. I now hold the keys to cosmic freedom. Guess what was number one on the checklist?
#1 Send money. Haha.
I skipped to number two.
#2 Charity work. I think I've got this one covered. I mean, I work at a church and therefore my eight to five is practically all charity time. We're not exactly on the Forbes 500,000 list if you know what I mean. Adding to my do-gooder list, I do occasionally divvy up goldfish and animal crackers to a class of 30 screaming 4 year olds on Sunday mornings and sing songs about "The Arky Arky" and "The Walls of Jericho". I also have a handful of websites that I create, manage, and host for some non-profit ventures of other do-gooders, so that should count for something. And if the Karma thing was all about charity, my sister should be on the A-List of the universe – she spends her eight to five feeding hungry children for crying out loud!
Since #2 shouldn't be the problem, I checked out 3. Register to Vote. What does voting have to do with the universe's system of checks and balances? According to the website – a lot. "Civic action goes a long way", so it says. But I am registered to vote, even if there aren't any candidates out there I really want to put my vote behind. Hmm… I'd better save that bunny trail for another blog.
Well, maybe I should've just sent money. Too bad my bad Karma already sucked my bank account dry.
Apparently, the remedy for having bad Karma is to visit this website called getgoodkarma.org. Yes, I'm serious, as being on the "bad side of the universe" is no laughing matter. I made a mental note of this as traffic finally began to move again and I promised the kids ice cream if they would stop trying to make mommy's ears bleed. At the next exit we stopped at the second McDonalds of the day for hot fudge sundaes. I turned off the car for about seven minutes and when I tried to restart it, guess what? Yep, my bad Karma had inflicted itself on my car battery.
I called my sister. Apparently bad Karma is also contagious or maybe hereditary. She and I are in a neck and neck race of who's life sucks the worst. I pulled ahead yesterday. All I could do was laugh. It was already nine o'clock and the kids and I had been on the road since 3:30. If you've never traveled with small children, let me just describe it as the third ring of hell. The only bright side was that the sundaes bought me twenty minutes of peace and quiet to figure out how the crap jumper cables work. Several fire sparks, a chocolate painted two-year old and forty five minutes later we were back on the road to home.
What should've been a four hour drive ended as a seven and a half hour trail of tears. After hauling the kids to bed and toting all of our junk back into the house, I got online. I visited getgoodkarma.org. I now hold the keys to cosmic freedom. Guess what was number one on the checklist?
#1 Send money. Haha.
I skipped to number two.
#2 Charity work. I think I've got this one covered. I mean, I work at a church and therefore my eight to five is practically all charity time. We're not exactly on the Forbes 500,000 list if you know what I mean. Adding to my do-gooder list, I do occasionally divvy up goldfish and animal crackers to a class of 30 screaming 4 year olds on Sunday mornings and sing songs about "The Arky Arky" and "The Walls of Jericho". I also have a handful of websites that I create, manage, and host for some non-profit ventures of other do-gooders, so that should count for something. And if the Karma thing was all about charity, my sister should be on the A-List of the universe – she spends her eight to five feeding hungry children for crying out loud!
Since #2 shouldn't be the problem, I checked out 3. Register to Vote. What does voting have to do with the universe's system of checks and balances? According to the website – a lot. "Civic action goes a long way", so it says. But I am registered to vote, even if there aren't any candidates out there I really want to put my vote behind. Hmm… I'd better save that bunny trail for another blog.
Well, maybe I should've just sent money. Too bad my bad Karma already sucked my bank account dry.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Irrational Crickets
A couple of weeks ago I was playing with the kids in the backyard at our new house. OK, I was lying in the grass while they ran circles around me, but whatever, I was still being an interactive parent with my children. Will, my two year old, began screaming like his leg had just been severed completely off. I shot up, thinking the worst, to realize that my brave big boy was running for his life…. from a butterfly.
When I got my hysterical laughter under control, I saved my son from his attacker. I rocked him in my arms until the offending butterfly was out of sight.
I remember when I was a kid I was terrified of the bathtub drain. I thought about that today while giving Canaan a bath at my parent’s house where I grew up. As a five year old, I was certain that if I was still in the tub when the drain was opened I was a goner. The swirling of the water would trigger so much anxiety in my small heart that I once fell out on the tile floor sloshing water all over the bathroom. It never even occurred to me how ridiculous this was until this afternoon. The drain didn’t bother Canaan at all.
As an adult I still have some stupid fears. My therapist would probably argue that no fears are stupid, but I’ll tell you and you can judge for yourself. Crickets. I have a morbid fear of crickets. See, I told you it was stupid. My fear of crickets wasn’t fully realized until this past summer when I went fishing with some friends at the lake. I had never fished using crickets as bait; I’ve only used NORMAL things like worms and corn. I actually asked the captain of the boat, “You’re kidding right? They’re still jumping.” He looked at me as though I must be kidding and replied, “I thought you’d been fishing before?”
What kind of fishing cult was this? They seriously expected me to spear this live creature of God “ass to mouth” (as they told me). The spearing wasn’t the part that actually bothered me. I didn’t even make it that far. After eyeballing the basket-o-bugs for a solid five minutes, my friend Valerie leaned over and asked, “Do you want me to bait your hook for you?”
Valerie is outdoors woman extraordinaire and I refused to look like puss. “I can do it,” I assured her. The crickets and their creepy little legs and antennas were hopping around and laughing at me and my obviously elevated heart rate.
Valerie leaned back in her seat, her smile growing with every second that passed. A couple of more minutes went by. I was honestly trying but couldn’t force myself to reach into the bug lair. “What if I just pick it out and you can take it from me?” she suggested.
I nodded and she retrieved a cricked from the basket. She held it out for me to take. I took a deep breath, several actually and reached forward. I withdrew my hand like I’d touched an electrical socket and Val doubled over in laughter. More deep breathing. I closed my eyes and tried again. I literally thought that my heart was going to burst through my chest as my fingertips closed around the wiggly, creepy, icky, tickly body and legs… ugh the legs.
“I can do this,” I kept repeating as I tried to put the bug on the end of my hook, with my eyes closed, mind you.
Just then someone snuck up behind me, grabbed my sides and screamed “Ahhh!!!!” in my ear.
I think I wet my pants a little.
The cricket went flying through the air on one direction and the fishing pole went in the other. The scream that was emitted from my lungs was later compared to a shrieking eagle by another fisherman nearby who came to our boat to assist in whatever certain crisis that had just taken place. My assailant had been Mike, the boat captain. It was his fishing pole that is now resting at the bottom of Dale Hollow. Serves him right.
I have no reason under the sun to be that terrified of a cricket. I know that they are probably the most harmless creature on the planet and beyond. They just creep me out. Their icky bendy legs and swirling antennas and their freaking unpredictability as they hop about. I unashamedly hate them no matter how irrational it makes me seem.
I guess I can’t be too hard on my son over the butterfly. He gets it from his mom.
When I got my hysterical laughter under control, I saved my son from his attacker. I rocked him in my arms until the offending butterfly was out of sight.
I remember when I was a kid I was terrified of the bathtub drain. I thought about that today while giving Canaan a bath at my parent’s house where I grew up. As a five year old, I was certain that if I was still in the tub when the drain was opened I was a goner. The swirling of the water would trigger so much anxiety in my small heart that I once fell out on the tile floor sloshing water all over the bathroom. It never even occurred to me how ridiculous this was until this afternoon. The drain didn’t bother Canaan at all.
As an adult I still have some stupid fears. My therapist would probably argue that no fears are stupid, but I’ll tell you and you can judge for yourself. Crickets. I have a morbid fear of crickets. See, I told you it was stupid. My fear of crickets wasn’t fully realized until this past summer when I went fishing with some friends at the lake. I had never fished using crickets as bait; I’ve only used NORMAL things like worms and corn. I actually asked the captain of the boat, “You’re kidding right? They’re still jumping.” He looked at me as though I must be kidding and replied, “I thought you’d been fishing before?”
What kind of fishing cult was this? They seriously expected me to spear this live creature of God “ass to mouth” (as they told me). The spearing wasn’t the part that actually bothered me. I didn’t even make it that far. After eyeballing the basket-o-bugs for a solid five minutes, my friend Valerie leaned over and asked, “Do you want me to bait your hook for you?”
Valerie is outdoors woman extraordinaire and I refused to look like puss. “I can do it,” I assured her. The crickets and their creepy little legs and antennas were hopping around and laughing at me and my obviously elevated heart rate.
Valerie leaned back in her seat, her smile growing with every second that passed. A couple of more minutes went by. I was honestly trying but couldn’t force myself to reach into the bug lair. “What if I just pick it out and you can take it from me?” she suggested.
I nodded and she retrieved a cricked from the basket. She held it out for me to take. I took a deep breath, several actually and reached forward. I withdrew my hand like I’d touched an electrical socket and Val doubled over in laughter. More deep breathing. I closed my eyes and tried again. I literally thought that my heart was going to burst through my chest as my fingertips closed around the wiggly, creepy, icky, tickly body and legs… ugh the legs.
“I can do this,” I kept repeating as I tried to put the bug on the end of my hook, with my eyes closed, mind you.
Just then someone snuck up behind me, grabbed my sides and screamed “Ahhh!!!!” in my ear.
I think I wet my pants a little.
The cricket went flying through the air on one direction and the fishing pole went in the other. The scream that was emitted from my lungs was later compared to a shrieking eagle by another fisherman nearby who came to our boat to assist in whatever certain crisis that had just taken place. My assailant had been Mike, the boat captain. It was his fishing pole that is now resting at the bottom of Dale Hollow. Serves him right.
I have no reason under the sun to be that terrified of a cricket. I know that they are probably the most harmless creature on the planet and beyond. They just creep me out. Their icky bendy legs and swirling antennas and their freaking unpredictability as they hop about. I unashamedly hate them no matter how irrational it makes me seem.
I guess I can’t be too hard on my son over the butterfly. He gets it from his mom.
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