Saturday Sampler OR A Day in the Life of the Oakland County Farmer's Market

I’m perfectly cool and suitably warm all in the same Michigan moment, a small miracle in itself.  The sun sneaks under the shade canopy and warms my lower legs through my jeans as a sporadic breeze ruffles through my hair and carries the sweet smell of popping kettle corn to my nose.  I scan the ombre skyline as it fades into an icy blue covered in stretched-out, cotton candy clouds.  Nature shows off its many shades of green while every frill and shape of leaf wiggles in the breeze.  I stand directly in the sun and am filled with a bright, hot hope...until even my toes are more joyful.  I watch a parade of circus-colored bouquets march past, and their blooms nod their heads politely at me.

Kiddos in mismatched pjs suck on honey straws and follow the wagon train of their families’ vegetable carts, and sweet fuzzy-headed babies squint into the early sun kicking their chubby bare feet as they go.  Decades-old couples hold hands and shuffle along.  Their heads are bent together in oneness and, sap that I am, it never fails to choke me up.  A mother wipes the chin of her wheelchair-bound child, cooing “sugar bear” to him, as she brings a basil plant to his nose for him to smell, and I sniff at the heartbreaking infinite tenderness of her love.

I’ve loaded my iPod with heavily syncopated beats and I dance a bit to wake myself up, and as I take in all this and more, I consider myself crazy blessed to be a part of this weekend tapestry.  I’m one little strand in this scene; soaking up the sun and sounds and scents and feeling richer for it.

Drawstring Christianity or Dirty Dishes and Deep Thoughts

This Sunday brought revelations that would rival any Oprah-esque “ah ha” moment.  It all started when Pastor challenged us with four New Year’s resolutions:

1.        I will pursue joy…through purposeful prayer

2.       I will pursue gratitude…. through purposeful prayer

3.       I will pursue faith and hope… through purposeful prayer

4.       I will pursue love… through purposeful prayer

How shocking, New Year’s resolutions that have nothing to do with our collective waist lines or checkbook bottom lines?  These four simple phrases completely gob smacked me…or more accurately God-smacked me.  You see, for the last 3 weeks or so I had been ridiculously mad and discontent.  Just p.o.’d to beat the band (on a side note, is the band actually getting a beat down or do they get beat in a competition or something…note to self:  google phrase “to beat the band”.  Okay, back to deep thoughts).  I had misplaced my compassion and love.  My faith and hope had floated away.  My gratitude was on life support and my joy was so tied to the nonsense of everyday that it rushed in like a tsunami and receded like a drought.  There was NO consistency and not one piece of spiritual fruit to be had.

For a few days leading up to this message, I had been intermittently poking around my psyche trying to get to the root of the problem.  I washed dishes and gave it a poke; I made the beds and batted a few ideas around; I grocery shopped and somewhere between produce and the frozen foods section, I tried to sort it all out.  Of course, I failed.  What else could have been the outcome when I left God completely out of my “process” (I like to say it like the Canadians do with a long O sound..I think it makes me sound sophisticated).  Not once had I checked in with Him.  I wanted to “fix” myself and then come to Him and say “see…I’ve got it all handled.  I’ve got this…look what I’ve done”.  (Insert hysterical laughter and snorts here)  Yeah, ummm, right…good luck with that.  How in the world did I think I was gonna pull that off, I do not know.  And that’s when it hit me.  I had been practicing an up/down, in/out, push/pull, “drawstring” form of Christianity.

This particular brand of Christianity happens when you are purposefully not purposeful.  When you ebb and flow with the day instead of the Holy Spirit.  It looks a little something like this:  You start Monday off feeling “nearer, my God, to Thee”, all pulled up nice and snug and tight to heaven, eyes aglow with the saving knowledge of God.  It’s Tuesday, and you’re rushing headlong into the week and BAM you hit your first speed bump…could be a broken down car…could be a major to-do with one of your kids, but whatever it is, it loosens your spiritual grip and you slip a wee bit down your spiritual tether, but there’s no time to stop now.  Wednesday is here, and it’s gonna be a loooong one.  What with running around all day and getting the kids to church at night, you are exhausted and cranky by 9pm and slip just a smidgey farther down your line from God.  Thursday dawns, and you realize that there are about five things on your weekly “to do” list that haven’t even come close to happening; soooo instead of taking a breath and drawing closer to God, a tight ball of frustration forms and the self-whipping begins….slllllliiiiip farther away.  FINALLLLLYYY, it’s “TGIF”….only wait, you just realized that you have a house full of people coming over and NOTHING is ready.  You give your kids a crazed rendition of today’s itinerary (and they look at you like you are full-on nutcakes) and when they don’t move fast enough for your liking, you blow your top so hard that the roof actually lifts off its moorings and a weird meaney –faced cloud appears over your house that can be seen for miles around…..sllllllliiiiippppp to the basement.  Saturday opens with a clean but unhappy house.  Everyone is walking on egg-shells around mom lest the “cloud of ugly” reappear for all the county to see.  You are completely tapped by the time everyone arrives for what should be a perfectly lovely day.  You feel rather disconnected from it all and would love to just curl up in bed with a good book and absolutely no thoughts….slllliipppp down into spiritual depression.  NOW IT’S SUNDAY…lots of scrambling ensues (because you were too tired last night to lay out clothes) and there’s lotsa hootin’ and hollerin’ to get everyone out on time.  Your hubby gets some dirty looks shot his way (even if he is completely oblivious to them) because (and I quote from my own nasty internal monologue) “Why didn’t he jump in and just KNOW what to do to help get everyone ready…and FAR BE IT FROM ME to ask…cause I shouldn’t have to ask and so on and so on and…blah blah blah” and you can be heard uttering phrases like "I just wanna have a nice Sunday, please." ….sliiiiipppppp those last few inches into spiritual darkness.  Now you are at church, and you let out a deep sigh, settle in and ready yourself to be pulled in tight to God all over again.  ONLY…WAIT!  Maybe, just maybe, this whole cycle can be stopped in 2013.  Could it be?  Could there really be another way? 

Yes…the answer is yes. 

The cure for the spiritual life-threatening condition of “Drawstring Christianity” is purposeful prayer that leads you to victory in the pursuit of love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.  Prayer is your inoculation against this dreaded condition.  Prayer that matters…not just the prayers we throw over our shoulders like salt for good luck, but rather, prayers that purposefully target our weaknesses and challenges and praise our God for deliverance from them.  No amount of self-speculation over frozen green beans will accomplish what purposeful prayer will.  I can make 2 million beds while trying to be better and do better, but without God in the equation, it is counted as all dross or in Italian terms “garbagio” (which is the Italian “Spanglishly” way of saying “nothin’ but JUNK”). 

Soooo…for 2013 I am resolute.  I will be purposeful in prayer.  I will let those still moments with God lead me to joy, gratitude, faith, hope and deep love.  I will leave my contemplations in the produce department for such deep thoughts as “should I go blonde again” or “is Joaquin Phoenix really a big nutbar or is he just a normal dude with the  great schtick of pretending to be crazy-cakes?”  (yeah…I know.  It’s like a carnival up in here *pointing to my noggin*)

Clean Up on Aisle Five OR When Your World Breaks Apart and God Shows Up

I walked through the grocery store listening to my Nugget chatter:

“Hey mom, ummm, did you know that I made a new mii on Wii and it has spikey hair like when I get out of the shower.  Also, I need a haircut; so can you tell grandma, cause I got crazy hair.”

“Mom, mom, hey mom, sometimes Jack gets sassy with me when I ask him too many questions, but then I say I’m gonna tell and he says you better not.” 

“Mommmmmmm, can I get a baby bottle pop?  Or some gum... or a Gatorade or…ummm, wait, do they have root beer here?  Cause that’s my favorite…ummm…oh and orange pop.”

“Mommmmy, are we almost done?  My legs are getting tired.  I think these shoes are too heavy.  Maybe you should get me new ones or maybe I could just wear my sandals at winter if I have lotsa socks on.”

Somewhere on aisle five, as I reached for a can of crushed tomatoes and with my back to my sweet six year old, I began to cry…silently sob really.  I tried so hard not to.  I pinched myself hard on the soft underside of my arm and stayed perfectly still willing that burning feeling in my nose to stop.  I gritted my teeth and squinted, but the tears came pouring out.  I pressed my lips together to not let a sound out while still shaking my head “yes” in that motherly way we do when our kiddos are telling us stories and factoids at the speed of light. 

Busy men and women, young and old, passed me with their grocery lists and determined eyes.  They took in my red shiny face and runny nose and we looked at each other with such understanding that it broke the rest of me apart into a million splintery mommy pieces.  And I knew they knew.  As each passing shopper looked down at my sweet, happy, talkative, bright as new penny boy, I knew I was not alone in this moment of intense grief.  I didn’t have to hide the rawness or apologize for being a spectacular emotional mess (Clean up on aisle five, please).  We quietly comforted each other with soft eyes and glimpses of the best part of ourselves.  In that small space, as time seemed to have been sucked away, my boy’s unselfconscious chatter and continual movement were the most beautiful things we had ever heard and seen.  In that moment, they were a healing balm for all of us on aisle five.  They helped us all make it to aisle six and then seven and then to frozen foods and eventually through checkout and home. 

I hugged my baby boy so tight that night that he said I was “smooshing the snot out of him”.  I smelled his sweet little neck and kissed him until he giggled and screamed “Uncle Milty”.  I pushed down the urge to sit by his bedside and stare at him all night.  Instead I just thanked God over and over and over again.  I thanked God for letting me see evidence of Him all over the place.  For giving me evidence of His reflection in everyday life…in my hopping, jumping, yelling, fighting, laughing boys; in the spectacular beauty of a December day; in the friends that I am beyond blessed to know; in the best family a girl could ever hope to have; in the strangers that I brush up against in a grocery store ; and most of all…in the hope and salvation I have in Christ.  For all of those …and all the others I am yet blind to…thank you, Father.

One of Those MMMMMMommy MMMMMoments OR OH NO HE DIDN’T!?!

So I have to start this post with some back story.  We’re just about 3 weeks into our third year of homeschooling.  It’s a great place to be…the third year.  There’s this lovely comfortable feeling that I’m enjoying this year.  However delusional it may make me…I kind of feel like the big boys and I have a handle on it and have this great rhythm going.  Because the big boys are busy with other  endeavors, I have really enjoyed all the one-on-one time with Nugget.  He’s really been cracking me up, and I’ve been amazed by how much he has grown up since last year.  In fact, just last night after he went to bed, I was practically breaking my arm patting myself on the back at how wonderfully it’s been going.  So yeah…here comes that other shoe...

A CAUTIONARY NOTE:  As a mom, just when you start congratulating yourself on something, DUCK!!!!!  Cause you’re about to get an emotional kick in the head...in fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s like a documented scientific law or something… I believe it's called:   Sir Isaac Newton’s MOM'S FIRST Law of DooDoo's About to Hit the Fan.

So here I was on Thursday morning doing a little work in the office with Nugget at my elbow, and in walks my middle guy…who we affectionately call “Bubba” or “Bubs” for short. 

“What’s up Bubs?”

“Ummm….Mom, did you see this,” he says holding a sweet little booklet from Nugget’s Wednesday night church class called “Jesus Can Help Us When We Ask”.  “Cause, ummm..I don’t think you did,” he adds in a sketchy voice.

I take the little booklet and start thumbing through it, not picking up on the fact that Nugget has gone completely still next to me.  He has written his little name on the front and the “J” is backwards (note to self…spend more time in handwriting).  Each page is a day of the week, and is set up something like this:  SUNDAY, I asked Jesus to help…  HOW DOGGONE SWEEEEET!  I go through each day until I reach Wednesday …which was yesterday…the day of my self-congratulatory party.  AND THEN I SEE IT!!!! 

Wednesday’s entry goes a little something like this:  WEDNESDAY, I asked Jesus to help…  “mom stop being  angry” WRITTEN IN THE TEACHER’S HAND.  WHAAAATTTTTTTTT!!!!??????  My eyes get as big as monster truck tires and I turn to look at Nugget.  He has, what in all candor, can only be described as a doo-doo eating grin on his face. 

“REALLY?” I ask completely flabbergasted… which he responds to by letting out a GIGANTIC belly laugh.

“Mom, it was kindda hard," he whines,  "And I hadda think of something really quick…soooo….I just did that”.  After which, not being a dumb boy, he ran out of the room and made himself scarce for the next ½ hour playing with Legos.

I sat there alternately laughing and being vaguely upset.  I looked again at the page and noticed that in addition to this  glowing endorsement of me, he had added a neat little stick figure picture of me with a bunch of connected mmm’s where my smile SHOULD be.  So not only had he outted me as “angry mom” but he had given me a puss that was nothing short of alphabetically horrific (so much for telling me I was the “prettiest mommy on earth” at nap time yesterday… you, son, have lost ALLLL your stock points)

So there I sat, staring at this this orange crayon depiction of my “funga-face” (an Italian term, that I have no doubt slaughtered in spelling, which means ugly face) and the little black crayon letters spelling out my flaws (written by some poor soul at my church who now, by the way, thinks that poor Nugget has a mmmmmeaney mmmmmonster for a mmmmmommy).  I wanted to be horrified, but I couldn’t quite muster it.  I wanted to be hurt, but my healthy sense of the ridiculous kept me from pulling the ole  “mea culpa, mea culpa” routine (an Italian Momm's plea of “oooh pooooor me, poor me”).  

I went back in time and wondered how many times my sister or I had committed some equal or greater atrocity against our own mother.  The only thing that came to mind was the time the Kindergarten teacher at our little Christian school (poor Mrs. Gilroy…I don’t think she was every the same after my sister's Kindergarten year) had to call my mom to tell her that my cherubic sister had brought maxi pads to class and displayed them on her little desk.  She thought they were Barbie Doll beds.  Oh, and there was that time that she put tampon tubes on the ends her fingers and came downstairs while mom was doing hair and said “Look at my fingernails, mommy”.  Other than that though, I couldn’t really think of any time we had “outted” our mom.  Maybe, as girls, we were just smarter than that (every recent study backs this up), or maybe we just knew that messing with Moni was a tactical error of EPIC proportions!  (Note 2. to self:  Up my game to prevent future incidents).

In the end, I decided that the feeling I was feeling was a feeling that I should be feeling…well..more.  Which is a confusing way of saying that I felt guilty because I didn’t feel more guilty.  Shouldn't I be swamped with fear that my little Nugget thinks I'm angry?  I wondered why I wasn’t being swallowed by some sort of guilt-tsunami washing over me as I read the words “angry” associated with “my mom” in the perfect penmanship of a stranger (who I will have to see EVERY Wednesday and EVERY Sunday, so thank you for that sonny boy).  I called my bestie to tell her about it and her guffaws grounded me and reminded me why I didn’t feel all that bad.  Because, ultimately, sometimes I do get angry.  Not like “Incredible Hulk” angry (with the exception of the microwave door that had it coming); more like “oh for the love of Pete” angry.  

Although I would much rather laugh my way through everyday wrapped in a rainbow that smells like puppy’s breath, that’s just not in the cards…not for me… AND not for ANY OTHER mommy.  Sometimes my mmmmommy mmmmouth does look like a series of lower-case m’s…particularly (but not limited to) when my 5 year old spills his lemonade, that I expressly told him to keep in the kitchen, within inches of my laptop and then cleverly uses my pillow to sop it all up. 

BEHOLD...the wonder:

So…I guess the take away here is that sometimes moms get mad…(which may or may not be tied to “certain times of the month”…I’m just sayin').  And while I would (selfishly) rather have my Nugget’s book filled with self-introspective things like THURSDAY, I asked Jesus to help…my brothers and I not fight over all the Legos wheels OR SATURDAY, I asked Jesus to help… me not throw a complete screaming meemee fit when I discover that all the left-over pancakes have been eaten by my teenage brother, I accept that I am the center of my Nugget’s world…for (hugs & kisses) better or (a wee bit angry) worse.  

Like all kiddos, he is quick to remember the times where he fell down and scraped his knee, the time he was stung by a bee AND the time on Wednesday morning when mom lost her marbles when he accidentally spilled his lemonade near her laptop.  Later, much later (somewhere in his late 20’s) he will also remember all the times we snuggled in bed reading books, watched endless hours of Veggie Tales and the time his mom almost asphyxiated herself wearing his yarn necklace to bed to show him how much she loved it. 

Ps…Later that day, in a moment I’m not so proud of, I heard Nugget screaming like a banshee and called all the boys downstairs for an intervention.  Apparently the big boys physically detained Nugget when he played “Godzilla” to their Lego city (yes…we play Legos alllloooot around here), and Nugget showed his displeasure by screaming loud enough to alert his grandparents 45 minutes away.  After taking all the details in, I handed down a Solomon-like sentence that concluded with “Hey Nugget, maybe we should grab your little book and you can ask for help not screaming like a maniac every time you don’t get your way”.  To which he replied, “Mmmmmooommm, enough with the book already.”

Such Beautiful Little Things OR Why Facebook Can Be a Gift from God

Don't you just love those days when all the pretty things around you are all that you can see.  When a little www address is the portal to awe inspiring joy.  So in honor of all those lovely threads of beautiful things, here is a list of all my exhilarating views on the world today via Facebook:

I love that I log onto FB to answer a quick little message and am treated to a Flashmob performing Ode to Joy by Beethoven.  My arm hairs stood on end as the music swelled and tears crept out as I watched the crowd be visibly moved by the majesty of music.  I got to see a little girl, another continent away, hanging from a light post and raising her arms in joy, throwing a kiss filled with gratefulness to the musicians.   I watched a little boy in the crowd, completely taken over by the music, conducting his own symphony with such joie de vivre that it made ME want to be six again (and trust me, six was not a great look on me).

I click through pictures of a brand new, fresh from heaven, baby boy whose mama I've known since SHE was a baby.  I remember thinking that she was the cutest thing I'd ever seen as she twirled around in her puffy dresses, lacey ankle socks and white patent shoes, and now, magnificently... she's a mama herself...what indescribable JOY to have a view on all that wonder!

I read an uplifting update about a boy whose life is filled with challenges and blessed by the unrelenting love and formidable care-taking of his parents.  His mom and dad were high school sweethearts when I was still in elementary school, and I remember watching them and thinking that they were THE perfect couple.  She:  so sweet and gracious and just lovely, and He:  so kind and manly and above all, gentlemanly.  And those qualities stand them in good stead as they live everyday with their sweet boy, walking every step with God.  How ridiculously blessed I am to read about their lives and be moved to better places by their faith.

I see amazing miracles of families that are grown COMPLETELY by God and in His time and by His path.  Girls I've known who have grown to women who fight and pray and push forward to have the families they've always dreamed of, only to be given a double portion by God for their unyielding faith that HE WILL MAKE A WAY!!  Oh, God, thank you for allowing me to see these things, read them, soak them in and forever make them part of me and my faith.


I get to share in change with friends who are moving far and wide and starting new chapters in their lives.  I have a court side seat for all the excitement and nervousness and plans and to do lists and eventual settling in that these great migrations will bring.  I am given the privilege of offering words of encouragement and even allowed  leeway to be a wee bit maudlin about it as well; and, ultimately, I get just so doggone excited to watch all the awesomeness yet to come. 

I write Happy Birthday messages to people I don't often (if ever) get to see and wish them every good and lovely thing on their birthday; and, if only for this one day because life's hectic pace , they stay on my mind and heart while I work my way through my day.

I am treated to clever and funny posts about kids and pets and politics, and well, just about everything AND the kitchen sink, and enjoy barking out loud with laughter!!  So, thanks friends for the endorphin rush, it's always needed and greatly appreciated.

Finally, FB old friends/acquaintances/new friends I consider myself magnified by sharing in all your tidbits and blurbs and pics and status updates about your lives because, DOGGONE IT, it's good to get outside of yourself and share in the laughs and joys and burdens of other people.  It's what keeps us grounded and loving and loved.

Status Update:  Gonna clean my kitchen for the 12 billionth time and then think on these things:  whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, with your status updates & pics & posts, by golly, I'll get to read allllll about these things.

A Love Letter to My Folks OR Mom, You Always Said I Should Be a Comedian.

So...there is no other way to start this out than by saying that my folks are THE BEST doggone parents a girl could have...literally.  They were and are loving, but very (read very very...like one shaved head/habit shy of a convent) strict.  We were blanketed in affection & coffee cake.  Even running to the store earned us kisses all around, and does still to this day.  On Sunday afternoons, we had these great picnics in the back room.  Mom would spread out towels and we would enjoy a feast of White Castle hamburgers (a fast food choice that appalls my hubster, calls them "Monkey Meat Sandwiches", to no end)  They brooked no nonesense from me and my sissy (up to the college years...then I think we just plain ole wore them out)  (well...maybe a little less from me and a tad more from "new baby"..but you other first-borns know what I'm talking about, don't ya...ps, I love you new baby..xo ).  And as good parents should, each one brought a different skill set to the parental goulash that is growing up. 

My dad kind of raised me to think like a dude; which, while being a super fun party trick on girls night out, can tend to make me a bit of an oddball...okay, okay...that'll be enough from the peanut gallery (But wait, hold on, I just gotta ask... what is a peanut gallery anyhow? Is it a bunch of rooms filled with well lit exhibits of extraordinary examples of nutty legume perfection? OR...is it, as I imagine it, just a big ole theater filled with row after row of Mr. Peanut impersonators all hooting and hollerin' out their two cents worth....yeah that one...let's go with that one.  Okay...now back to the show).   When I talk to my dad about some emotional dust-up or another that I've gotten into, he shakes his head and gives me that pained look that clearly says "please, for the love of your father...leave off all those itty bitty girlie details that are important for nothing except making this excrutiatingly detailed scenerio last longer and keep us from a.) finding the right solution to this straight-forward problem and b.) getting me back to my war movie / home-improvement show". When we talk about business, he regularly tells me to take all emotion out of the equation, and just deal in facts.  He is THE BEST that "man" has to offer.  He loves his wife, girls, son-in-laws and grandchildren fully...with nothing held back, no "love" stone left unturned.  He is quick to laugh and slow to anger with us.  He is EXCELLENT at exotic accents and is full of corny jokes (much to our communal chagrin & his unending delight).  He is the first one to tell us when we've gotten off the path and the first one to come to our aid to help us back on.  He has been given by God the power of disernment and wisdom...if John tells you something, I promise you, it would behoove you to listen...for reals.

Conversely, my mom did everything in her considerable power to make us the girliest girls that ever did girly things on planet super-girlie...up to and including teaching me how to curl my eyelashes in the 5th grade, how to utilize "Sun-In" as a beauty aid and making my sissy and I wear ridiculously-ruffled matching Gunne Sax frocks (regardless of the fact that we were 6 years apart, and that while empire-waisted dresses, trimmed in ribbon, with a mile-high lacey collars look ADORABLE on 1st graders, conversely, your 7th grader would rather not look like a piece of 1980's confection on picture day and, oh joy, for all of posterity....I'm just sayin').   She taught me everything I know about relating to all people.  She is dedicated to making people feel special and cared for.  She ALWAYS remembers special days and our favorite things, she unfailingly writes notes for EVERY occasion, and she loves phrases like "how do you feel?" and "what can I do for you?"  She is all things good and true and honest in womenhood.  She is beautiful inside and out (which is to say she's still a total hottie), clever and artistic.  She takes such great care of our dad (she still makes his lunches everyday...and even for my hubster when she comes to spend the night...he gets sooo doggone spoiled) and loves us girls, our hubsters and her grandbabies to distraction.  She is the epitome of the "mama bear" if ANY of us is even remotely poked at..she WILL cut you and drop you like a bag of cement.  She is ABSOLUTE about her beliefs and opinions and would win, hands down, any debate team nationals, given a chance.  She is pretty much to motherhood what Sean Connery is to hot Scottish men (and if you know me at all, you know of my undying love for Mr. Connery and what high praise this is indeed).   (and ps...yes...I have come to terms with the fact that my days with Mr. Connery are numbered and am currently interviewing extensively for a replacement...I'm told Gerard Butler is waiting anxiously by the phone for my call).  My mommy is the real deal...all the way.  She has been given by God the gifts of mercy and faith.  She worries for nothing and is unflagging in her belief that God will make a way...NO MATTER WHAT!!

So...the upshot of all this is that we (me and Mar-bear) have all this great stuff from our folks that has been mashed up to make, well...me and my dearest sissy, different and alike both and both a slightly unique interpretation of our mommy and daddy in all the best and weirdest ways.   My personal "Daggles / Moosie" sides can sometimes play nice with each other, and at other times...well, let's just say it can be like a not-so-fun scooby-doo haunted carnival episode up in here (pointing to my medusa-like too curly red-head.   Incidentally brought to you by:  new layers plus MI humidity). 

So, thusly, my "Uber Girlie-girl Artsy" side can mix it up a bit with my well..."2nd generation Italian Vietnam-vet Contractor" side (you can see how this could be troublesome).  It tends to make me VERY resolute (read...stubborn) about the things I believe, crazy-super-duper opinionated (you're shocked, I know) and also a wee bit "dude-ish" when dealing with overly emotional situations.  Which is to say, I don't love them and tend to zone out and begin scrambling for the escape hatch asap.  That "guy(ish)" part of me can be heard saying things like "well...you're just gonna have to toughen up buttercup" and "suck it up...what the heck did you expect to happen?"  While on the other side of the carnival grounds that is my personality, my "diva-artsy" side does things like wearing her pajamas all day and hiding away in her studio "creating", wearing false lashes and hot pink eye shadow to the grocery store just for the love of it and befriending random elderly Italian couples in hospital waiting rooms and becoming fast and busom buddies.

While this tug-o-war with my parental units' input used to fluster me a bit, I have learned to give in to the dichotomy that is "the eldest daughter of Johnny & Moni".  Not only give in really, but actually relish...run toward and even groove on.  To really take a beat and fancy all those pieces parts.

Delightedly, 15 years ago, God picked out the perfect guy for me who loves almost all of my idiosyncrasies.  Some, admittedly, he adores an itsy-bitsy less than others (as there are a few that are just beyond the pale by anybody's standards). 

He is eternally cool with being the romantic in our relationship and the one who always remembers special days and anniversaries.  He greatly appreciates the lunches  I make for him (somewhat sporadically) & (complete with lettuce and tomato on his sandwiches, which for some unknown reason pains me greatly and seems like a LOT OF WORK for the meager healthy payout) and acknowledges with humor how it goes against my baser instincts to do so.  He accepts that our bathroom is frequently full of girls of all ages and doubles on a moments warning as a hair salon/makeup artist studio; and that my hair color/style changes as habitually as Katy Perry's.  He doesn't crab or turn down the music when I have it cranked to an abnoxious level as I sing and dance around the kitchen while I clean...stopping frequently for my (badly done) break-out solos. And as if all that wasn't already cake & icing...he acquiesces almost every time when I ask him, as we girls are wont to do, what he loves most about me . He answer is always the same, "Your eyes."...to which I maddeningly whine, "no, not physically...what do you love about 'me the person'"...his every-time reply:  "Your tenacity".  Which I then follow up with the predictably girlie-ish trick question of "and what do you love the least about me?"..to which he again, just as consistently, replies "Your tenacity".  So there you have it folks... 

So thank you again, Mom & Dad for the mash-up that made me.  It's a gift I'll always be greatful for and just a wee teeny bit leery of.
Tenaciously Yours,
Andi

Why Midnight Snacks Lead to Scary Stuff OR Can a Graham Cracker Really Do Alllll That?

2 things I NOW know for certain:

1.  Even one stinkin' graham cracker before bed  can give you some seriously funkadoodle nightmares/dreams AND

2.  YOU NEVER NEVER EVER want to be caught walking through a combination...

  a.  Aquarium ...where they have the guests, kids included, throw big ole Flintstone-sized raw steaks to the sharks when they jump out of the water onto the deck...while all the other guests are contained safe and sound behind cages, and there are shallow ponds filled with pirana with signage which encourages you to "pet them".

  b.  SLASH petting zoo ...which includes an exhibit of a human lying on a circular bed holding a baby gorilla (who was sooo crazy cute, the gorilla..not the human) while they cuddle up to a female lion as the male stalks free around the enclosure AND where a miniture stegosauruses keeps trying to butt your legs (because you later realize that you are wearing one of those puppet hand dinosaur thingies that McDonalds gave out in their happy meals like 10 years ago, and so probably brought the whole leg-butting thing on yourself).

  c.  SLASH weirdy university (contained completely inside the aquarium/petting zoo), with dorms that actually look like doll houses with no back on them and that have crazy "recruiting" posters everywhere that feature people you used to know (even a girl from your high school basket ball team, who is apparently giving rave reviews for the "university's" communications department... and who is now also sporting a lovely full mustache in her photo) AND where you run into a "whose who" of who you've dated for the last century..going allllllllllll the way back to your first "boyfriend" in the 8th grade (using this term loosely here as, at that age, you can only really make googly eyes at each other between classes), some dude you really only mostly dated by phone in the 10th grade and took to one family wedding; as well as, an assortment of other characters you have known through time (most of whom you were never very tight with but in this aquarium slash petting zoo slash weirdy university, are strangely very chatty with you as you stand by the "chimpanzee lounging with a white tiger and some other crazy animal I can't quite remember by the end of typing this because I am now sadly, completely awake (but feel strongly it might have been a mythical creature)" exhibit.

Just trust me on number 2 here folks ...cause it just happened to me via one wicked graham cracker...and it weren't pretty (having jerked upright in bed, slightly sweaty, and looking wild-eyed around the room for that pesky little miniture stegosaurs)

so... be warned , no amount of graham-crackery goodness is worth wondering why your kind-of ex is living in a room with no back and doesn't apparently care or being cornered by people you barely know (who may or may not be sporting lush facial hair) while trying not to get your shins bruised all to heck by a smallish dinosaurs...I'm just sayin'.

On that cautionary tale and having now effectively expelled any residual scary stuff, I'm off to recheck all the door locks and try to force myself back sleep (with any luck...minus all zoos, marine life, extinct/mythical creatures and past beaus).

ps...please excuse all run-on sentences and other grammatical errors...that's just the kind of shoddy grammar you can expect from a dream sequence.