SINK, SWIM...OR FLOAT

I recently returned from a trip to the Caribbean and I gotta tell you, there are few things in life I appreciate more than floating aimlessly in the ocean like a piece of human flotsam.

 

I've always loved being in and around water. Some of my earliest and best childhood memories are those of spending long summer days at the swimming pool, staying in the water until about five minutes before Mom came to pick me up---just long enough for the hot concrete to quick-dry my soaking swimsuit to an acceptable level of dampness for the ride home. 

 

As a teenager, most of my summer Saturdays were spent water skiing at Lake Meredith with my friend Jeannie and her Dad. I look back at those halcyon days with nothing but smiles. Okay...except for that one very awkward day when my friend's dad was pulling me back into the ski boat, and my boob popped right out of my swimsuit and into his face. We both eventually got past the embarrassment. In fact, he's called me 'Sunshine' ever since.

Oddly enough, while I grew up bobbing in the water like a cork, the Dickman spent his formative years avoiding water with as much fervor as the Wicked Witch of the West. (What a world, what a world!)

 

  

While I cannot remember being unable to swim, Dickie never had much of a chance to learn, as a child. His Mom was (and is) deathly afraid of water and fearfully convinced her youngest son that swimming pool chlorine would trigger his asthma. Whether true or imagined, by the time Dickie grew old enough to go swimming on his own, her fear had become his. Teaching Dickie to swim became the goal of all his high school buddies. After purchasing several cans of liquid courage from the Jolly Pig one night, some of Dickie's friends convinced him to sneak into Huber Country Club for an impromptu swimming lesson. With every attempt, he sunk like a rock to the bottom of the pool.  Miraculously, they all managed to come up for air just in time to notice the flicker of headlights from an oncoming police car. Thankfully, the Dickman's legs and lungs were much more efficient on land.

 

Many years passed before Dickie found enough motivation to overcome his fear of water and his inability to float. The motivation came in the tiny form of his five year-old son, Lucas, who couldn't wait to go fishing with his Daddy. Which is precisely how---at 30 years of age---the studly Dickman found himself lined up along the edge of the Johnson Park Swimming Pool with an assortment of five and six year olds, ready to begin Mrs. McDaniel's Guppy Swim Class. As I sat in the bleachers (with the other Moms) and watched him dive nervously off the high dive and swim underwater like a madman to the other side of the pool, I was filled with respect for my husband.  Though he never mastered the fine art of floating, we celebrated the Dickman's damaged dignity and Guppy gumption with a shiny pair of water wings and a delicious fish-shaped cake.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So there we were, 27 years later...lounging like lizards on a beach in the Bahamas, gazing peacefully out into the gorgeous turquoise waters of the Caribbean. A salty breeze lifted off the ocean, the waves splashed gently against the rocks. Enveloped in a cocoon of tranquility, nothing could disturb our peace. Right up until I uttered those five dreaded words:

 

“You ready to get in?”

 

Dickie's eyelids slammed shut and he started snoring. Loudly.

 

Not to be deterred, I punched him in the arm and repeated, “Come on...let's go play in the ocean.”

 

He reluctantly opened one eyeball and said, “Nah...you go ahead. I think I'm just gonna lay here and rest.”

“Look, we're here. We HAVE to go in. Bad things happen to people who travel thousands of miles to visit the ocean and don't appreciate it for all it's worth.”

Unconvinced, the Dickman replied, “Oh, I'm appreciating it just fine from right here. I do not feel the need to appreciate it up close and personal.  And wet.”

It was time to bring out the Big Guns: “Well. I'm not going in unless you do. And I really don't think you want to ruin my trip. Do you...?”

 

In we went. One of us in eager anticipation, the other in utter dread.

 

You see, it's all about perspective...

 

Before my bunions even get wet, I anticipate nothing will feel so good as being up to my ears in ocean. It doesn't bother me that the water is chilly, that there are sharp rocks to avoid along the bottom or gritty sand beneath my toenails. It never even crosses my mind to scan the water for sharks or jellyfish. I step into that ocean believing in my heart that my soul is about to be blessed, and I am never disappointed.

 

Dickie, on the other hand, is holding onto me for dear life...gasping in shock from the cold, cold water, yee-ouching! and pussyfooting over the rocks. His attention is sharply divided between watching out for predators and avoiding the abyss...that dreaded moment when the bottom of the ocean simply drops out from underneath him. Afterwards, he's usually glad I bullied him into going, but even more happy to return to dry land.

 

Same body of water shared by two different people with two vastly different experiences.   And this is why:

"We do not see things as they are, we see things as we are."

 

When I step into the ocean, I bring along with me my entire collection of  wonderful memories and delightful water-filled experiences, expecting more of the same. Similarly,  Dickie brings his preconceived ideas and perceptions with him.  Thus, the moment becomes two entirely different experiences.   I'm relaxed and awed. Dickie is stressed and wary.

 

For both of us, our perception has become our reality.  I perceive swimming in in the ocean to be a positive experience, and it always is. Dickie is 'pre-programmed' to believe that the treachery and danger of water outweighs the good, and it often does.  

 

Isn't that just a metaphor for life? Perception becomes reality:  we usually receive what we believe.  

  

It's a simple concept, really; a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The Good News is that you are the author of your own life story.  And it's up to you to make it a Best Seller. 

Because I refuse to leave him behind, and because he has a hard time telling me 'no', together we are managing to change Dickie's perception.  He is rewriting his reality.  Through the years, our collection of memories--complete with  pictures of splashing, even snorkeling in the ocean-- continues to grow. 

Will he ever be completely comfortable in the water?  Probably not.  Has he mastered the fine art of floating?  Absolutely...with a little help from me, standing behind, holding on. 

That's how it works, folks.  Believe it, receive it.  Even if the bottom falls out beneath you...just lay back, take a deep breath, and believe that you will float.

 

 

 

Of Mustard Seeds & Hand Baskets

On my 8^th birthday, my oh-so-precious grandmother Flodie gave me a gold bracelet with a little charm exactly like the one above:  a mustard seed encased in a little glass bubble.

I squealed as I opened the gift, clueless as to what the charm represented. Flodie gathered me to her side, picked up her Bible and read to me the story of faith and the mustard seed. I was amazed by this exquisite gift, filled with childish wonder at the potential of the tiny seed inside the bubble. I wore the bracelet everywhere, anxiously seeking out unwitting souls who would listen to the story of my Magical Mustard Seed. I was the envy of every third grader at Goldsmith Elementary.

To me, that wondrous charm was nothing less than an amulet of superpower just waiting to be released. For many years my desire to break the glass bubble and remove the tiny seed fought mightily against my will to keep the pretty bracelet intact. I often dreamed about planting that mustard seed in my back yard and watching it grow into a majestic Mustard Tree of Faith.  The only detail I had not worked out was how I might collect my boundless bounty of faith from the tree.  What exactly did faith fruit look like?  I was sure it smelled like mustard.

 

As irony would have it, I never succumbed to the temptation of planting that mustard seed.  Truth is, I didn't have enough faith that the seed was magical enough to break through the harsh, dry soil of my West Texas backyard.

 

As I grew older and somewhat wiser, I came to a deeper understanding and appreciation of the parable my Flodie had read from her well-worn Bible. Jesus used the example of the tiny mustard seed to teach his disciples - to teach us all -  that it is not the quantity of faith that matters.  When it comes to faith, all it takes is all you've got.

It is humbling to realize that we come into the world with all the God-given faith we'll ever need.  Just imagine...a tiny mustard seed-sized faith planted somewhere in the whirling, twirling matrix of our infantile DNA, just waiting to grow into an majestic Mustard Tree of Faith.

On matters of faith, I take Jesus at his Word.  I never pray for a stronger faith. Nope. No way. I have learned, what doesn't kill you may make you stronger, but it makes you stranger.  And just between us?  I'm just about as strong - and strange - as I care to be. 

 

Life doesn't test us, it tests our faith.  It takes trials and tribulations to grow a big, strong Mustard Tree. 

 

My Mustard Tree is mighty.  My faith is simple.  Even in days of darkness, I believe with all the childlike faith of a charmed 8-year old that everything is gonna be okay in the end.

 

Yet, I know from experience that until the end is here, there will be days - even years - of devastating suffering and pain scattered among my undeserved bounty of blessings.  My faith doesn't spare me from pain. Instead, it carries me through the pain and makes life bearable until peace and joy can be restored.  It is unseen, though never passive.

As you can see, I'm a big fan of faith. 

 

Shouldn't everybody be?  I just don't get it.  I know people - religious people - who sing about faith and talk about faith, but when the rubber meets the road or when the government teeters on the cliff, they just don't seem to have any faith in their faith. 

 

CASE IN POINT: If I had a devalued dollar for every time I've heard somebody whine “This Country Is Going To Hell in A Hand Basket”, I'm sure I could make a significant dent in the deficit.

Now don't get me wrong, the whiners may well  be correct.  There is always the possiblity that America is on her way to hell in a hand basket.  But in the big scheme of things - like eternity - it's only a problem if YOU are in the hand basket...right?

 

Instead of wasting precious time predicting doom and pointing blame, I wish these fine, fearful folks would direct their energy into nurturing that little seed of God-given faith within themselves. I promise it is there, complete with the potential to move mountains of doubt and negativity.

 

O ye, of little faith...please stop and smell the mustard.
 

SMOKE ON THE WATER, FIRE IN THE SKY

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Since I ended last year with a blog about the Apocalypse, it is only fitting that I should end 2012 in the same way.   According to mortally misinterpreted Mayan mathematics, there are less than three weeks left of humanity.

 

Now, I don't want to offend anybody who may  take these miscalculations seriously...but it seems everybody is making apocalypse jokes like there is no tomorrow.

 

 

Have I purchased a 2013 calendar? Yes.  With my January appointment to the gyno already neatly penciled in.   

 

Will I fill up my car with gas on December 21^st? Eh, maybe not. And now that I think about it, I may just forget about doing laundry that week, as well. After all, a wise woman always hedges her bets.

 

I mean, there are always 'what-ifs'...

What if we knew for sure that the world really was going to end on December 12, 2012? What might we do differently?

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

I will never forget the day my Daddy was told he had only three months left to live. I will forever remember how he looked at my Mom with a sad smile and said, “Well, Donna...I guess we need to plan that trip to Hawaya” (that's Texan for Hawaii).

 

Hawaii had always been on Dad's Bucket List.  But he never got to make that trip.

It wasn't necessarily because he ran out of time.  Those three desperate months were blessedly prolonged into three cherished years. 

The reason Dad never took Mom to Hawaii was because he was just too busy living to stop and plan a trip.  Going away to a tropical paradise became less important than golfing with his sons, hanging out with his family, simply appreciating what was right in front of him.

Did the knowledge of an imminent earthly expiration date change the way my Dad lived his life? Absolutely. Just like the song says, Daddy spent his last years loving deeper and speaking sweeter. And when all was said and done, I do believe he was glad he had the chance to live like he was dying.

 

So...why can't we do the same?

 

What if we payed less attention to the Twelve Days of Christmas (eight maids a milking, seriously?) and focused our attention on trying to live like we were dying?  Just for say, twelve days.  The Twelve Days of Pre-Apocalypse.

 

Hang with me here...I am not talking about maxing out your credit cards or running naked through the streets.  I'm merely suggesting that from December 10th to December 21st, you and I find ways to use our powers for good. 

 

I mean, what have we got to lose?  If we're all still here on December 22nd, then our little corner of the world will be a brighter, happier place.  If not...if we all get zapped into the apocalypse, at least we will go out holding hands and singing Kumbaya. 

 

Please accept this as your personal invitation to join me in celebrating...

 

THE TWELVE DAYS OF PRE-APOCALYPSE

 

(12-10-12) / DAY ONE:  Give a homemade coupon to the ONE you love the most (redeemable before 12-21-12) promising something that you know will make him or her smile. Reeeeeally smile. 

 

(12-11-12) / DAY TWO:  Tape an envelope with TWO dollars to a vending machine with a note telling the finder to enjoy a pre-apocalyptic treat.

 

(12-12-12) / DAY THREE: Share your favorite cookie recipe on Facebook. Then bake THREE dozen and give them away, preferably to someone who provides a valuable service to you and your family.  (And don't forget to take a minute to appreciate that 12-12-12 will be the very last date of perfect symmetry in our lifetime.  With or without an apocalypse.)

 

(12-13-12) / DAY FOUR: Go to the Dollar Store and hide  FOUR $1 bills, preferably in the toy section.

 

(12-14-12) / DAY FIVE:  High FIVE Day.  Give everybody you see a High Five. Heck, here's even one you can share online:   

 

 

(12-15-12) / DAY SIX:  Tell SIX people completely unrelated to you that you love them.  Mean it when you say it.

 

(12-16-12) / DAY SEVEN:  Random Hug Day.  That's right, you have to give away SEVEN soulful and indiscriminate hugs.  But here's the deal:  you cannot be the one to let go first.  Unless things start to get creepy...then, by all means, let go.

 

(12-17-12) / DAY EIGHT:  Appreci-EIGHT-tion Day.  Choose EIGHT deserving individuals and thank them - either in person or online - for making a difference in your life. 

 

(12-18-12) / DAY NINE: Peace Out Day. Flip the ol' Peace Sign to everyone you run into between the hours of NINE a.m. and NINE p.m. 

 

(12-19-12) / DAY TEN:  Offer a TEN minute massage to someone deserving, no strings attached (did you hear that, Dickman? No.Strings.Attached)

 

(12-20-12) / DAY ELEVEN:  Sincerely compliment ELEVEN people. No backhanded compliments allowed.  For example, "You sure do look good for your age" is not an acceptable, pre-apocalyptic compliment.  Save that one for the zombies.

 

(12-21-12) / DAY TWELVE:  On the outside chance that the end is near, today is the day to Pay It Forward...since everybody knows you can't take it with you!  (You've never heard of anyone pulling a U-Haul through an apocalypse, right?)  Tell the cashier at your favorite drive-thru that you want to pay for the car behind you.  Then go home.  Lock your doors. And while you wait for...whatever, crank up the volume  and lip sync with complete abandonment: 
 

This, my friends...this is how the world should work. And not just when we think we're gonna die.  After twelve days of this Love Fest?

Apocalypse, Schmocalypse. 

 

 

“There are far, far better things ahead

than any we leave behind.”

~ C.S. Lewis ~ 

THIS 'N THAT

WARNING: If you do not have a fondness for Pinterest, HGTV and dirty talk about underwear...you may not appreciate the spine-tingling, gut-gripping drama behind this story.

 

<<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>>

There are two ways to look at this past week. I am either a Whiz-Bang Whirling Dervish of a  home decorator or I am an idiot. Okay, make that three ways, cause it could be a tie. 

Just about the time the crazies on Facebook were making me nostalgic for the Good Old Days - when nobody really cared how you voted or what you ate for supper – one of my girlies sent me an invite to Pinterest. 

Let me say, in my favor, I did not become a Pinterest Ho overnight. I played a short game of  hard-to-get, for no other reason than it took me a while to understand the magical genius of hoarding, er...pinning cyber pictures onto personalized boards to be shared between virtual strangers.

But then, I found THIS:

And before you could say “DIY”, there I was...tumbling down the rabbit hole.

 

Overnight I became a Pinterest crackhead, pinning pictures like a maniac with increasing delusions of grandeur in my ability to recreate each and every project I pinned.

We were a match made in heaven – me and Pinterest. I love working with power tools, I can caulk a blue streak, and have a minuscule attention span. 

 

 

The biggest problem was, I spent so much time pinning home decorating projects that nothing actually got done.  Well, that's not entirely true.  My Pinterest boards became very organized.  I was even clever enough to name my boards with corresponding songs from the oldies:  "colour my world" for painting projects, "if I had a hammer"  for crafting projects...etc.  I know...brilliant!

 

In truth, decorating has always been a stress-reliever for me. The size of the project increases in direct correlation to the size of my perceived stress. Some people eat or drink their feelings.  I hot glue sparkly trim to stuff...while eating and drinking. 

I count on stress for my motivation.  And life never disappoints. 

Shortly after I found my inspirational photo, along came the Stress Train and BOOM!  Just like that I began pulling pins off my Pinterest boards and converting them into reality.  The inspiration of that beautiful black & white harlequin tile in the above photo became THIS:

 

Thankfully, along with dilating eyes and delivering his own babies...my very own Dr. Luke also happens to be a primo tile layer.  And, he works really cheap. 

 

While it took him about four hours to tile the room, it took me another six weeks to get around to grouting.  (Oddly, I hit a dry run of stress.)  When I finally got around to the grouting process, it was not pretty.  I mean, the tile was pretty, but all the other places the grout landed?  Not pretty.  Somehow the BLACK grout found it's way onto my beige carpet and other places...like random body parts that should never ever be grouted. 

 

Suffice it to say that after my grouting fiasco, I needed new carpet.  Then, since I was getting new carpet anyway...it was the perfect time to take out those worthless french doors and replace them with a custom bookcase. 

 

That is how THIS hole ended up in my wall:

 

 

 And let me tell you folks, once you have a hole in your living room wall, there IS no turning back.  The Dickman and I shifted into High Renovational Gear. 

 

[Yes, I dragged the Dickman right on into my decorating frenzy.  I needed him for the heavy lifting.  AND, he has his own toolbelt.  Just like Tim The Toolman Taylor.  Exactly like Tim the Toolman.  Although he works even cheaper than Dr. Luke, I had to make him all sorts of promises (which I have no intention of keeping) to get him to help me out.]

 

There are no words to express what a disaster the hole-in-the-wall bookcase turned out to be.  Nothing about the hole we created was square.  Which means, nothing about the bookcase we created is square. 

 

However, if there is one thing I have learned in life it's this:  you CAN put lipstick on a pig and make it purty. 

 

THAT hole in the wall turned into THIS:

 

I won't even tell you how many curse words were spewed in my attempts at cutting crown molding to look like my inspiration.  I wanted it to look just like THAT:

Aaaaaand...after a little luck and a LOT of spackling, my trim turned out just like THIS:

  

 

So, there we were:  tile grouted, new carpet installed, bookcase completed...a good time to sit back, take a break and enjoy the fruits of our hard labor, right? 

Wrong.  I was one short week away from hosting a bridal shower, which - as hostesses everywhere know - anytime you plan a party, it's time to redecorate EVERYTHING!

I bought a couple gallons of paint and a gadzillion yards of burlap, more glue sticks, feathers and crystals, two old lampshades, enough foam board to fake an 11-foot cornice and back to Pinterest I went. 

The only thing I forgot to remember was that I am 55 years old.  My back and shoulders are 55 years old.

Still, I started off strong.  By Wednesday, my newly tiled room had been transformed into THIS:

 

 (Look fast – this room will mysteriously morph into a mess. Soon.)

Somewhere along the reno way, I had stopped cleaning, cooking and/or eating anything of nutritional value.  By Wednesday, laundry was stacked to the ceiling, my hair was speckled with paint and I had multiple hot glue gun burns on my hands.  (Seriously, who has time to stop for the mundane parts of life when there is HGTV'ing to be done?!)

 

The Dickman, the poor, poor Dickman, began frantically searching for his invisibility cape.

Not only had his Happy Home been taken over by a maniacal power tool wielding woman with paint drying between her toes and a crazed look in her eyes; even worse, his side of the garage had been taken over with...stuff. 

THAT stuff.

I did feel a bit guilty for making the Dickman park out in the cold, but I justified it by the fact that I HAD to park in the garage because I did not have time to put on a bra or shoes when I made my frequent Sonic runs for a Large Diet DP With Vanilla/Easy Ice.  (Only girls will appreciate THAT logic.)

 

On Thursday - two days before The Bridal Shower - I gutted the room on the other side of the bookcase and started painting.  When Dickie came dragging in from work that evening, I greeted him at the door with an armful of electrical fixtures and said, "Hi, Honey!  I'm gonna light up your life!".  He tried to fake a seizure, but it didn't work. Resigned to the task at hand, he asked if he could eat first.  

I looked in the fridge and found three old meatballs and some corn tortillas to which I added some moldy cheese (it was perfectly fine after I cut off the mold),  nuked it and gave him ten minutes to eat.

 

I could hardly wait for the Project of the Night, inspired by THIS Pinterest pic...

And THIS photo of a $200 petticoat swag light that I covertly snapped while browsing through a little store in Fredericksburg:

When it comes to decor, I.Am.Cheap.  And obviously not above stealing ideas.  I found a vintage petticoat on Etsy for $15.00 and two old lampshades for $3.00 at the salvage store.  I bought the shades for their pretty curvy shape, even though one of them was stained with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood spatters, or diarrhea.  I preferred to think the stains were caused by blood, because...well, you know.  Besides,  who would set a lamp so close to the potty?  Does anyone really want that area illuminated? Either way, I donned protective gear before removing the fabric and doing away with all traces of bodily fluid, DNA, etc.

And the lil ol' petticoat and those two gnarly shades turned into THAT:

ME:  Look, Dickie!  With the picnic table moved indoors, I now have a Great Place to do my crafting!

DICKIE:  Oh yay.  Another flat surface.

Somewhere around 2:00 a.m. Saturday morning, it dawned on me that bunches of lovely ladies would be knocking on my door in not-enough-time-to-pull-my-sh*t-together hours.  I quickly guzzled down a 5-Hour Energy drink, pulled up my raggedy big girl panties (the only clean ones left), and shifted into Turbo 'Company's Coming!' Gear.

With one big swoop, I cleared all the cluttered flat surfaces into boxes and tossed them randomly into closets, like THIS...

 

 

I took the clean load of laundry that had been sitting on the bed for a week and stuffed it back into the dryer.  I threw the piano bench that had been stained with a “2-hour drying stain” - yet was still tacky 10 hours later - into Dickie's side of the garage in order to avoid a frivolous lawsuit from miffed shower attendees sporting walnut stain on their buttocks.

Two short hours before the shower I had morphed into every single one of the Seven Dwarfs:  Loopy, Sleepy, Achy, Hungry, Sweaty, Bitchy and Gross.  I was exhausted and starving...mere seconds away from eating a Cheeseburger off my bathroom floor, ala the Hoff.

Instead, I soaked the pain and paint streaks away in a 45-minute bubble bath and picked out an outfit I could wear with leggings.  Commando.  (Don't judge me...my only other clean undergarment was my bathing suit bottoms.  Not a choice at all.) 

 

I don't wanna brag, but except for the bulging lumbar disk, multiple bruises and circles under my eyes...I think I pulled it off. 

Now where is that doggone DID THIS button??

 

 

(P.S.  If you have not yet fallen down the Pinterest rabbit hole and would like an invite, leave me a message below.)

SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE?

Beginning with my stellar performance of “I'm a Little Teapot” at four years of age, I've always danced like nobody's watching.

 

When I was a teenager, my highest aspiration was to become a dignified dancing Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader.  Either that, or a Fireman.  Instead, I grew up to be a wife and mother. 

Not that any of those life choices are mutually exclusive.  In fact, I prefer to believe I managed to incorporate all of the above into one slightly dysfunctional slice of life: I became a mother who wore spandex while putting out toaster fires. 

 

I was a stay-at-home Mom who settled for teaching aerobics instead of pursuing fame as a Solid Gold Dancer (only because the commute to L.A. was too far). Honestly, those Solid Gold chicks had nothing on my tightly spandexed butt.  Gimme a pair of leg warmers with a matching headband, crank up the ABBA cassette, and I WAS THE DANCING QUEEN. Why, yes...yes I was.

Not satisfied with being a mere Aerobic Instructor, I ambitiously clawed my way to the top of the aerobics chain until I was offered the coveted title of Aerobic Coordinator.  Too sexy for my spandex, indeed!

 

But as anyone who has ever donned a leotard knows:  With great honor comes great responsibility.

 

When Lucas was 11 and Jacob was 8, I made the uncomfortable and unwise decision to leave them at home under the watchful eye of  Saturday Morning Cartoons (Ninja Turtle Power!) whilst I ran off to teach a one-hour aerobic class for an instructor who had called in sick.

 

And there I was  - right in the middle of a donkey kick -  when I looked up to see my neighbor and two sheepishly smiling sons standing in the door of the exercise room.

Apparently the Ninja Turtles had seduced Jacob to leave his toast in the toaster long enough to set off smoke alarms which alerted his older brother to call 'that 911 number' resulting in all my neighbors and assorted fire department employees voting to kick me off the nominee list for Mother of the Year – 1991.

 

Still, I was not deterred from following my dream to dance.

 

A few years later, I purchased four primo tickets for The Nutcracker Ballet.  I can't even tell you how excited I was to attend this acclaimed production for the very first time!  The only problem was that I had purchased the other three tickets for my guys, foolishly thinking they would share in my excitement of getting all  dressed up to sit in a crowded theatre for two hours and watch Talented People in Tights Glide Across The Stage.  I carefully dressed for the Big Event in my most festive Holiday Frock and hair poofed up to the sky (the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus!).  I assumed my fellers were grooming themselves likewise, in eager anticipation. Not wanting to be late for the curtain call, I rushed into the living room to gather the guys...only to discover with dismay they were unclean, undressed, and completely absorbed in an episode of Beavis and Butthead.

 

I planted my well-coiffed and thoroughly pissed-off self smack dab in front of the television, fluffing up the furor of my indignation like a tu-tu.  With tears in my eyes and no small amount of drama, I said something to the effect:

 

“All my life, all I've ever wanted to be is a ballerina. And finally...FINALLY...I get to go see this wonderful ballet – spend my hard-earned aerobics money to buy tickets for YOU TURDS to go to this wonderful ballet with me  – and you couldn't care less!  I put up with your burping and your farting and your scratching and all I've ever asked of you is THIS ONE THING. But NO. Nooooo!  I can't believe you stinking Buttheads had to ruin my Special Night!”

 

Three pairs of blue-green eyes looked back at me as though I had grown seven heads, one of  which was spinning around spewing dark slime.

 

[Truth be told, I was probably on my period and slightly hormonal.]

 

To this day, if I ever start getting all girlie on them, my boys love to torture me with The Nutcracker Speech.

 

Somewhere along the way, I realized that Very Few of the Very Best Ballerinas are blessed with Thunder Thighs.  This realization forced me to give up my dream of starring in Swan Dance and to begin looking for something more suitable to my un-ballerina-ish frame.

 

That's when I discovered Tap Dancing...the rhythmical cure for all pear-shaped-wannabe-dancing-divas.  No tu-tus required!  A few girlfriends and I signed up for a beginner's class at Amarillo College.

Yet, once again, life wreaked havoc on my dancing career.  I kept missing class and falling further and further behind. The only time I could find to practice was while cooking dinner. Picture this:  me in my tap shoes, Hamburger Helper sizzling in the skillet, me click-click-clicking my way between the fridge and stove like a happy housewife hoofer. 

 

All-in-all, a mediocre effort which left me with nothing to show for it except a pair of dusty, impotent tap shoes stashed away in the top of the closet. Right beside my tu-tu.

 

When our boys finally left the nest, I came up with a new way to feed my dancing dreams:  I signed up for Ballroom Dancing. I signed the Dickman up, too.

 

And after we flunked the first session, I doggedly signed us up for another.

 

Suffice it to say, the Dickman took to ballroom dancing like a mermaid takes to high top sneakers.

 

It just didn't click for us. We danced like a couple who was staying together for the sake of the children...all awkward and tense and painful. I would become frustrated with Dickie and start yelling at him like that  mean dance dictator on Dance Moms:  "No!  Slow down!!! You're going too fast.  Start with your RIGHT foot...your other RIGHT foot!  Quit pulling on me!  Turn to the OUTSIDE...!!"

 

Funny thing about the Dickman:  he is a ridiculously gifted drummer and talented athlete, but his left-handedness goes all the way down to...his two left feet. I'm not saying he dances as bad as Buzz Aldrin, but still…severely grapevine and box-step impaired, he is.

 

And because he is so fiercly competitive, what he lacks in technique he makes up for in, uh...let's go with  passion. Not a positive asset in a crowded ballroom filled with people who actually  recognize a Rumba from a Fox Trot.  We managed to turn ballroom dancing into a full-contact sport, literally taking people out with our dance moves. Dickie even pulled a muscle that wasn't his.

 

[Babe, if you are reading this, you know I'm just trying to be funny.  Literary License and all that. You can SO drop it like it's hot.]

 

Ultimately, we sacrificed our turn on the ballroom floor for the greater good of the class and all of mankind.

 

After going through all that agony of de-feet, you would think we would never wanna dance again.  Guilty feet have got no rhythm...right?

 

Wrong.  Our hope for twinkling toes continued to spring eternal.

With a group of likewise-impaired dancing friends, we signed up for Beginning Country Western Dance classes.

Ladies and Gentlemen,  I am proud to announce that The Dickman and I successfully graduated as Officially Licensed Country Western Dancers. (Hold your applause, please.)

 

Yes, I said successful.  Keep in mind that I use the word in its most forgiving definition.  Which means that while our individual senses of rhythm are still not completely in tune...somehow, over a grueling eight weeks, we finally managed to convert our Texas 3 1/2-Step into something very close to a gen-u-ine Texas 2-Step.

 

It wasn't easy.  I mean, look...it's me and the Dickman; between the two of us...it's never easy and it's never clear, who's to navigate and who's to steer.

But this time, THIS TIME...he had a Hot Dang Cowboy teaching him how to lead.

 

The lessons went something like this:

 

Instructor to Dickman: "Jest grab aholt of that bump back there below her shoulder, that's how you steer her".

 

Dickman to Instructor:  "You mean her shoulder blade?" 

 

Robin to Instructor: "You mean my scapula?”

 

Instructor to Dickman: “No, that roll back yonder.  You kin jest grab right onto it and with a little pressure, you kin take her wherever you want her to go.”

Robin to Instructor: “You mean my fat roll?”

 

Instructor to Robin: “Uh...er...no, no. I mean, that uh...'curve'. Grab aholt of the curve.”

 

[Note to the Hot Dang Cowboy: curves and rolls are NOT the same thing, dude.]

 

Regardless, Dickie listened to the cowboy and took 'aholt' of my fat roll, with more pressure than was either necessary or comfortable.  Then he started pushing me around that dance floor...and, one-two-three-one-two-three, LOOK! We're dancing!

 

What?!  Is it possible that after 35 years of meandering to a different beat with my left-footed drummer...We.Are.Finally.Dancing? In rhythm?  On a dance floor?  Shut The Front Door!

 

In the spirit of full disclosure, our boot scooting is far from perfect. We are a work in progress. Even though he still pushes more than he leads, even though I spend most of my time trying to guess what he's gonna do before he does it (story of my life), even though it's not very pretty because I'm sweating like I have four armpits and trying to coerce body parts into stopping when the music does...somehow, in spite of ourselves, we have finally turned our stumbling into dancing.

 

Can you believe it? Old Dogs Learning New Tricks, working together to accomplish a heretofore unattainable goal. 

 

Ladies and Gentlemen, now you may applaud.  Or better yet...

Jazz hands, y'all.

YOUR PAIN IN MY HEART

"One day Jesus was teaching,
and Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting there.

They had come from every village of Galilee
and from Judea and Jerusalem.

And the power of the Lord was with Jesus to heal the sick.

Some men came carrying a paralyzed man on a mat

and tried to take him into the house to lay him before Jesus.

When they could not find a way to do this because of the crowd,

they went up on the roof and lowered him on his mat

through the tiles into the middle of the crowd,

right in front of Jesus."

Luke 5:17-19

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

STRETCHER BEARERS.

 

That's what they are called. Those wonderful warriors who run to our rescue when the struggles of life become too heavy to bear alone...the ones who metaphorically load our paralyzed selves onto a stretcher and carry our burdens to Jesus on our behalf.

 

I am not ashamed to say...I have taken a ride in that stretcher myself, more than a few times.

 

And I have been honored to help carry the stretcher for others.

  

My friend Karne introduced me to the term and explained it to me this way: We, as Christians, do for each other what Jesus would do if He was on the earth.  We are the vessels through which He provides care.

 

While reading a book that introduced her to the concept, she realized that God had brought us together to act as Stretcher Bearers for each other.

 

It's true.  She has taken my pain into her own heart. I have shed tears for her sorrows. We have helped each other through some tough times. We have borne one another's burdens.

 

Blessed beyond what I deserve, I claim for myself a legion of Stretcher Bearers:  Mom, my husband, my brothers, my sisters-in-law, my brother-in-law, my wonderful friends – y'all know who you are.

 

God gives us who we need and puts us exactly where we are needed. 

Whether we know it or not.

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A friend of mine recently lost her son in a sudden and tragic way. I had briefly met him on a few occasions, but his beautiful smile lingered in my memory. He and my youngest son were the same age. His mother and I graduated high school together.

 

My friend and her family are well-loved. They are wonderfully generous, Godly people who make the world a better place just by being in it. The repercussions of such a devastating loss spread far and wide.

 

We all hurt deeply for this precious family.

 

Our paths had not crossed often in the intervening years since high school; we had reconnected on Facebook and I had become a big fan of her witty and positive outlook on life. 

 

But to be honest, our lives did not intertwine closely enough to warrant the depth of sadness I was experiencing for her. My grief was beyond understanding.

 

I know I'm not alone in admitting this, but...I could not stop crying. I grieved endlessly for my friend, for the son of her heart. Tears filled my eyes each time I spoke her name. A heaviness filled my soul.

 

A few days after his memorial services, I literally woke up crying. With my head in my hands, I fervently prayed for God to bring peace to my friend and her family.

 

Later that same day, I was inspired to find her posts on Facebook to be courageously uplifting...full of hope and grace.  Nothing but words of praise to the God of Healing.

 

Though I know her to be a woman of deeply sustaining faith, I couldn't help but wonder...

 

Could God have chosen me to be a Stretcher Bearer for this sweet friend? 

 

Undoubtedly, there were many of us sharing the burden of this broken-hearted mother who had lost her son. All of us faithfully (though unwittingly) allowing God to weave our lives together into a comforting blanket of strength for the journey ahead. Through offerings of casseroles or cards, phone calls and hugs.  Prayers without ceasing.  Grief equal to the loss. God provided.

 

As further evidence that His plan was already in place before I knew what was happening, I recalled the image I posted to my own Facebook page the day I learned of the tragedy:

 

This experience has served to reinforce what I have always known to be true:  When Jesus asks us to “Bear One Another's Burdens”, we should take Him at His Word.  He is asking us to literally transfer the burden off our brothers and sisters and onto ourselves. For it is by enduring their hardship that we make it easier for Jesus to guide them through their oppression.

 

Being a Stretcher Bearer is a physical manifestation of God's second commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves.  To love them just as Jesus loves them.  To be Jesus in our own skin.

He never promised that this life would be easy.  He has always promised to provide what we need to make it through.

What we need is each other. 

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

To those of you who have carried my stretcher...I love you. I thank you. And I ask you to please stand by   :o)

I will do the same for you. 

Even if it means getting creative, cutting holes in roofs and dropping that stretcher right on top of Jesus' sweet head.

Bam.

Before we know it, our burdens won't seem quite so heavy to bear...

 

TO PEE OR NOT TO PEE?

Have you ever noticed that after turning 50, bodily functions become nothing more than a series of science projects?

 

CASE IN POINT: Last Saturday evening I dined like a princess on Prime Rib, baked potato and a side order of ...

 

Fresh Asparagus.

 

I have never been a big fan of asparagus, having been introduced at an impressionable age to slimy stalks of the canned variety with disgusting results.

 

But Saturday night, my waitress encouraged me to take a chance on the “tastiest, freshest asparagus ever!”

 

So, I gave it a whirl.

 

And it was good.

 

I ate every bite.

 

Twenty minutes later, the most amazing smells were coming from my stall in the restaurant loo.

 

At first I was a bit worried. Then I remembered about the high sulphur content of asparagus, one of the chemicals blamed for producing smelly wee.  

 

Curiosity got the better of me and I did a little Googling. (Seriously, were we just a bunch of bumbling idiots before Google?)

 

Please allow me to share what I have learned about Asparagus Pee:

 

Did you know that only 40% of people have the genetic ability to produce funky smelling urine after eating asparagus? According to scientists (who study things like rectal thermometers and bodily fluids), the ability to produce such an odor is genetically controlled.

Even more interesting is the hotly contested debate over whether or not the ability to SMELL the odoriferous effect of asparagus in urine is also at the whim of our genes.

 

Some tinkle experts believe that ALL of us actually experience fragrancy following asparagus ingestion, but not everyone has the ability to smell it.

 

So there it is: if you produce it, you may not smell it and if you can smell it, you may not produce it.

 

Obviously more of our tax dollars need to be spent in solving the all-important Asparagus Pee Controversy (APC). The potential impact this could have on the future of our nation is mind-boggling.

 

What if – instead of Democrats / Republicans / Libertarians / Vegetarians / Progressives / Whigs – what if all of America was divided into two political parties: the SMELLERS and the NON-SMELLERS????

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just imagine...

 

No more partisanship.

 

No more 'Us' versus 'Them'.

 

My rights would be everyone's rights.

 

All Americans would be equally free to exercise their God-given gifts of  forming differing opinions through independent thinking without fear of harassment or denigration.  

 

The thought of such unadulterated freedom makes me giddy.

 

Why, there might even be folks who would feel free to oppose gun control...yet still love Jesus.

 

Or others who were free to disagree with health care reform…without being a heartless swine.

 

What if…what if every American could respectfully claim to be a good citizen whether or not you wish to save the whales or the snail darters?

 

Mind-boggling, indeed.

 

Divided into SMELLERS and NON-SMELLERS, minorities and gays would be afforded the same respect as majorities and straights.  What a concept!

 

No longer would personal beliefs be used as a litmus test for patriotism.

 

It

        would
                         all
                                   come
                                                 down
                                                               to
                                                                         our
                                                                                     DNA.

And left with the choice of a SMELLER or NON-SMELLER, the choice would be crystal clear.

 

SMELLERS win.

 

Every.Single.Time.

 

I mean, seriously.  When it comes to presiding over this great and bountiful nation of ours, why in the world would we choose some schmuck who can't even smell their own stink??