Icebergs, iPods & Creamsicle Light OR How to Banish Those Stinky Brat Blues

Being grateful is a bit of an art. It takes practice..sure, but I have also noticed that some folks have a natural aptitude for it...as for me...I do it with considerably less panache. It has come easier to me since having my babies, as most moms will tell you. Any mention of sick babies, starving kids or abused teens has us running for our own babies and giving them bone-crushing hugs and sloppy kisses.


Still, I have to admit, that I can be slow to see the glory of the place I stand in, and far too fast to "lack to marvel". This week in particular I was having a righteous case of the "are you kidding me's". Really...snow again? REALLLLLYYYYY!!!! I mean sure, it's okay to look ahead to the magnificence of spring, but to throw a foot stomping (not that you could hear them stomping because they were still wrapped in wool socks) fit was a bit much, yes? But God decided to handle me like He always does...by being REALLLYYYY obvious...because honestly, I can be crazy dense.

So...I woke this morning feeling royally miffed as my blanket-warmed feet hit the cold floor. I schlepped my way to the kitchen, with my eyes obstinately squeezed shut, to pack my husband's lunch. I'm sure I looked like a mole as I rooted around in the fridge for anything that even remotely had the shape of ham and bread (poor hubby...I still don't know exactly what he ate for lunch that day). I opened the kitchen curtains before I grudgingly sat to read and pray. AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW?....There...laid out before me was an absolute banquet of beautiful...

The sun was so bright my eyes watered and the sky was so hard and cold and brittlely blue that I just knew had to put on boots and stand under it. I ran to the office and grabbed my camera and threw on my coat as I slipped out the back door...literally. Overnight, our whole yard had been turned into an icy wonderland. I felt my breath push out of me and fall right to the ground around my feet. Every surface was smooth with ice and the trees were dressed in white swags with frosty trinkets and charms. Sliding down the hill, I started clicking my camera; driven by an anxious feeling that I just had to capture it all. I pushed the button again and again until my fingers were too stiff.

When I looked back toward the house, I saw my boys' faces smashed against the kitchen windows. I crunched my way back to the house, and the very clear vision of myself this summer fault-finding with Michigan's dreaded heat and humidity had me laughing out loud. Yep, I got it (I mean even I have my limits of denseness ): Find the joy in every moment. The rest of the day had me wringing every minute of extraordinary out of it.

As evening comes now, the boys are all doing their nighttime things: my oldest is playing guitar hero (dreaming of his own band someday) and my middle guy is watching AFV (which is ALWAYS on somewhere in the world) and giggling at the babies and pratfalls (unless someone gets hurt and then I hear him say "hey, that's not funny"...which I love about him). My youngest has already been tucked into bed (protesting the whole way that he isn't sleepy), but is breathing evenly and completely silent by the time my foot hits the bottom stair.

The shadows are falling now as I swivel in my office chair and I turn my face toward the creamsicle light and wait for the last of it to melt down. I close my eyes so tightly that I see turquoise flashes on the backs of my lids like my own personal light show. I listen to Asia "Heat of the Moment" on my iPod with old school walk-man headphones (caught indefinitely between 1989 & 2011 and loving every minute of it ) and I shut out the sounds of the house behind me... the doggies, the dishwasher and the extra spin cycle of the washing machine. I can feel the dimness coming and my smile fades with the light...like the setting sun controls the corners of my mouth. But before the sun sets for good it flares one more time into brightness and my mouth curls up again and I delight in the idea that there's always something to be joyful about if I'd only just open my eyes a little wider.

ps...no surprise here, but our pupper got the right idea long before me... :)

BUT WAIT...THERE'S MORE!!

I was gaffawing and almost spit water through my nose this evening when I read the following online headline :

"Celine Dion's Exercise Trick"

Umm...ohhh....oooo, me...me... pick me.. I know what it is!!!  SHE'S CRAZY HORSE RICH AND 10 FEET TALL... For the low low price of $19,950,000.99 per Vegas show and a painful and costly surgery to lengthen my stubby gnome-like legs, I too can have Celine's Secret Exercise Trick...

Remind me to add that to MY workout regimen tomorrow morning!!

(ps....itty bitty disclaimer here...I never did actually click the link to see what the "trick" was....I was to busy trying to save myself from drowning in my own glass of water)

(pss...yes, yes...I know... she seems like a perfectly lovely woman...not hatin' just sayin')

(psss...in the interest of full disclosure...I was also making short work of a ginormous chocolate/peanut butter filled Easter egg ((that was the a demo for my son's youth group sale)) while reading this little ditty...don't judge....it was either that or gluten free crackers...I mean...come on!!)

"The Right and Wrong Way to Deliver Funeral Arrangements" Or "The Day I Almost Got Rubbed Out"

Sit down children. I want to tell you a little story. A story that shows that even in times of great loss; there can be great laughter…well, for my sister and me anyhow.

Picture it: Sicily, 1932....no wait, that's another short Italian...

Oh yeah. Eastpointe, 1995....

My uncle got my sister and me a sweet (pun intended...cheap but it was there) gig delivering flowers on Sweetest Day. We were working for a big florist in the Detroit area (starts with a "V" and ends with an "iano"). It was easy, really...wearing a uniform of jeans, sweatshirts and work boots; we would pick up and drop off flowers all day long. We got to drive a gigantic white van with sketchy steering. If you wanted to change lanes, you had to twirl the wheel about 3 times...it was very entertaining; almost like the witch's wheel at Cedar Point.

Things were going great. We ate and drank and laughed, all punctuated with the joy of delivering flowers to sweethearts across the Metro Detroit Area. What girl could ask for a better day? AND...To top it all off, I had called in sick to my regular J.O.B. for this little sanity break. The day was all rainbows and flowers and Big Macs and Lattes.
UNTIL...we stopped back at the shop for our next delivery.  My uncle seemed a little harried...which is saying something because he's usually so laid back you'd think he was high on his "Macho Man"cologne. Anywho, there seemed to be a lack of drivers and there was an important delivery that had to go out to a funeral home. My sissy and I were standing off to the side out of the way of all the commotion when my uncle spotted us (apparently there's only so much big hair you can hide behind foliage).

"Hey, you two, Come 'ere. I wants you two to go take these flowers over to "Super Italian Name Funeral Home". (The name has been changed to protect the aunt and mother of my children)

Sounded reasonable...so we nodded our heads okay and started loading up the truck. We were given directions and no further instructions. Easy ,peasy chicken pleasey...no problemo...just another delivery by the professional drivers from "V's" florist.  On our 25 minute drive we talked and laughed and had no inkling of the foolishness to come.

When we pulled up to "Dearly Departed Guido's are Our Business" we kind of scoped things out. I parked the van in the front row, and we hopped out and grabbed a bunch of the arrangements. We knew this was a somber occasion and we put on our best "condolence" faces. We walked through the front doors and looked for the little sign that said "Old-as-Dirt Italian So and So in here". The parlor was to the left, so we headed in with arms full of flowers. We quietly went to the front, so as not to disturb the wailing mourners, and started arranging the flowers around the casket (which either held Yoda or someone's great grandma).

There were various pillars and stands, and Mary and I conscientiously placed each arrangement for the maximum effect; debating the merits of one stand over another. We made sure each one is a little slice of paradise in its own right. As we worked, I realized the strident wails have died down. It's right around now that my Spidey senses kicked in. Mary and I shared a look that said "do we turn around?" We cowgirl up and did to find all twenty-ish people in the room staring open mouthed at us. The "Wailer" (every good Italian funeral has one) on the couch has her hanky over her mouth and she's shaking her head in confusion looking at us and then back to "Grandma Yoda" and back to us, and I now knew that something is probably not right.

Because Mary and I have the uni-mind, we circumspectly put down any un-positioned flowers and begin to back slowly out of the room. We spied one of the relatives marching back toward the office. Now I was sure some thing's off. We turned and booked it to the door with the funeral director in hot pursuit. I jumped in the driver's seat and started to take off as Mary hopped in the passenger's seat. The big van lumbered out of the parking, lot mostly on two wheels, and I put the pedal to the metal and went from zero to 35 in ...well like 2 minutes honestly, but we made our not-so-clean get-away.

Yep...something was definitely wrong with the execution of that delivery. We drove all the way back to "Vs" (in the "no cell phone smaller than a Buick" era) and asked my uncle exactly where and how one delivers funeral floral arrangements.

It seems that there is a door AT THE BACK OF THE FUNERAL HOME where one drops off arrangements to the blooo-bi-dee-blah FUNERAL DIRECTOR!! Drivers do not, in fact, arrange flowers around the casket themselves; however conscientiously and enthusiastically they "undertake" this task.
In my minds eye, I see Grandma Yoda's family laughing about this in the years following; praising us for bringing levity to a difficult day. "Thank God for those girls", they say over cannolis and coffee. "If we could only find them thank them personally."
In truth, my sister and I were saved having to move out of state only because we know people. I have never gone back to "V's" Florist. I have, in fact, been back to "Bring Us Your Deadiano's" funeral home. I just kept my hanky over my face while crying softly, "mia culpa, mia culpa".

"Quasimodo...It's Got a Certain Ring to It!!" or "My Mommy is Boris Karloff & Other Scary Tales"

So I'm totally having one of those days where I feel like I'm two neck-bolts and a zigzag scar away from being chased by villagers. You know those times, right? (please say yes, pleeeease say yes...or at least smile politely and nod your head at my lunacy)  I mean, seriously, it's one of those days where I feel like slippin' on a scratchy sack, changin' my name to Quasimodo and callin' it a day. What is up with that?!

And ps..Do dudes EVER feel like this?...
I'm guessing...ummm...wait for it...wait for it....
uh, NO.

Ah well...I guess you can't feel like

Wonder Woman every day :)...

So, I guess there's only one thing left to say,

"Good Eeeevening"

(channeling Boris Karloff ). 

Or as they say in the church tower/laboratory

(pronounced "La-bore-atory"),

"URRRGHHH, yes Master"

Do You Hokey Pokey God's Way

I just read a book about a Kindergarten teacher that ended every day with a round of Hokey Pokey. At the end of the song the kids waited with baited breath and wobbly freeze poses to throw their "whole selves in"; which, of course, they did with unfettered abandon. I remember those days. Days where every game was positively plush with anticipated challenges and even some expected let downs. Where a winter game of "King of the Hill" was played with sanctioned recklessness, and every recess was like a mini Super Bowl. Any bumps and bruises we earned during our quest to the top were brushed off; and later, proudly displayed during lunch (especially the really purple, bumpy ones...those boasted of real commitment). And even when, occasionally, someone cracked their coco but good on the ice and had to permanently leave the game, there was only a brief intermission (long enough to fetch the recess lady & have a moment of silence for the fallen) before the we pushed forward again.

But what about now? Do we throw our "whole selves in"? Are we obedient to God, love our families, do the work of servants, honor our bodies as the temple of the Holy Spirit and build our lives with unfettered, "hokey pokey" abandon. Do we take only brief moments to mourn the let downs and losses and then press toward the mark. Or, do we wrap ourselves in bubble wrap and excuses, stick just our toes in and play it safe ? Are we stuck doing the Chicken Dance, and completely leaving behind the creed of the sorely underrated Hokey Pokey? Your Honor, girls and boys of the recess tribunal...I am guilty as charged. My 40 year-old-self has, on more than one occasion, played it "safe" and walked the VERY long way around the hill instead of going up and over it, much to the chagrin of the 5th grade me.

So what does God have to say about that? How does He feel about being a "Chicken Dancer"? Well, at the very basic level He tells me in James 1:22 "But be DOERS of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves." I am to hear and then DO!! I am not to be tricked into thinking that reading my Bible and sagely nodding my head is enough...Hmmm..well, that's pretty straight forward. I am to throw my "whole self" into the work of living and Hokey Pokey my way to being Christ like. I am to be a "doer"!! And, if along the way, I end up with some spectacularly purple bumps and bruises...all the better. That's what is commonly known as LIFE...

Little Spaces and Christmas Tree Lights

There is nothing better than those little spaces in time when I get out of my own way long enough to experience a pure and beatific glimpse of God. Those modest flashes of the merest sliver of the formation of my Heavenly Father.

This morning my little nugget ambled down the stairs to find me dressed and ready for the day. A little sleepy and full of kisses, he was still so warm from burrowing in the den of his blankets that his hug was like slipping on an electric snuggee (patent pending). It was so dark in the house that our German Shepherd's tail became an unfortunate casualty as I fumbled around to the Christmas tree and turned on the lights. And, for whatever reason this day, instead of rushing/shoving us headlong into the day, we cuddled up on the chaise under the white, purple, green and red lights. The house was so quiet that we naturally slipped into whispers as we looked at ornaments and my little nugget pointed out each and every one he had hung (and even some he will be tall enough to hang next year). He told me all about the angel that lives (if only for 6 weeks a year) at the top of our tree, and I told him about the job God had given her. How she announces every year that unto us is born a Savoir, who is Christ the Lord.  He asked me silly questions and serious ones and ones that are typically and egocentrically 4 years old. I buried my nose in the little space at the back of his neck and kissed him until he made me stop (which gets shorter with every quickening day). We kept warm under his too small blanket and I covetously smelled in the last moments of baby boy in his hair before it naturally gives way the to the big boy kindergarten smells of paste, outside and (in lucky moments) laundry soap. I bit my tongue a little to keep all the rushing love from spilling out headlong into a good old-fashioned mommy cry. My little nugget is still sensitive to the changes in my voice, and I wanted every second of this little pause to be filled with sweet calm and quiet. I wanted him to rest and know the truth of being safe in my arms and acutely loved as we snuggled under his thread-bare crib blanket beneath the Christmas tree lights.

Our little snuggle only lasted 10 minutes or so until we began to add first one hungry brother and then another until eventually the chaise whimpered under our collective weight, and the dogs let us know that this snuggle-fest must come to a close. It was, indeed, time to get hopping. We had breakfast to make and play practice to jet off to and Christmas shopping to finish and library books to drop off and checks to be deposited and packages to be mailed and the cub scout swim party to rush to and friends coming in to play and and and.... BUT in those few fleeting moments I was crowded with the truth that I had just experienced with my own babies about one millionth, or more likely billioneth, of the love and care God has for His children...and I was blown away.

The Night I Was Bested by Two Pint-Sized Chupacabras

So I went out to eat the other night...by myself (shocking). I wanted to finish my book without interruptions (chocolate-dipped cheese cake for the mind, the "Twilight" series, if you don't know…don't ask, you're better off left in the dark). I would have been just as happy curled up on some moderately clean surface at home, but that's not an option…if the chief underwear washer is home; then by-golly, by-jiminy she had better be a'washin' something. (I work for short, cruel task-masters)


Anywho, I was completely absorbed in my book and lemon rice soup. I became aware on the fringes of my consciousness of a family sitting (I use this verb loosely) to my right. Then I was given no choice but to notice them when one of their bobble-headed children poked me on the arm on his way to the restroom. It took me by surprise (one does not think one will be accosted while eating soup), and I looked up to find a little pie-faced kid staring at me with a malicious grin. Sure I could have been projecting, I was reading a book about vampires, but I don't think so. "Okay kid", I thought, "I'm feeling charitable today. I will ignore your creepiness in favor of reading my book. Now scamper off and pee on the bathroom floor like I'm sure you do at home."

It soon became clear to me...this was not a "family" to be ignored. This was the kind of "family" that clears out restaurants and movie theaters. The kind of "family" that drives up to your house for a visit…and you lock all the doors and hang garlic and crosses around your neck. These little dears were so vile, so defectively behaved…I can't even spit/type out any description that can even come close to capturing their putrescence. To make the state of affairs even more painful, their parents were devoid of anything even remotely resembling a spinal column. I mean, we've all seen parents that kind of...well…stink on ice (and we probably are those parents occasionally. I mean not me, of course, but…), but these two took it to the level of freak show performance art: Come One, Come All!!! See with Your Own Eyes…the Amazingly, Dim-witted Parents Made Entirely of Grape Jelly, Teeth and Hair (excitement swells through the restaurant, and the crowd roars).

These two gelatinous mounds had zilcho by way of control on those two pint-sized chupacabras. They "begged" them to sit in the booth with them and wait for their food (in the restaurant's defense, it's hard to scare up a live sacrifice on short notice). They "pleaded" with them to not pretend to stab people with the Coney Island cutlery. They all but offered them blood money to stop running around the tables. I, of course, being the non-judgmental soul that I am, said nothing and continued to read (Yes…the books are that good). Finally, the kitchen staff produced whatever it is that demon seeds eat. These two smallish people informed their parents that they would not sit with them, and proceeded to plop down at yet another table even closer to me…why...why...why?

At this point, my Andi-O-Meter was tick, tick, ticking away; counting down the milliseconds to detonation. BUT I WAS TRUMPED!! Before I could even give my patented "I will stuff you in a small, dirty box in the back of my closet" look, Diablo One made a face and started yelling at the top of his lungs, "EWWWW, something smells….Oh, it's just her!!"…yep you guessed it...he was standing on his chair and pointing at me. There are moments in life when no reaction seems perfectly appropriate. There is not one action or word that comes to mind that will move you past the moment you are living in. This was just such a time. I just started to nod my head (I think a part of me always knew this day would come) and looked squinty eyed at the "Jello-Jigglers" parents. Their heads took on voodoo shrunken head proportions as they slumped down in their seats . The "mom" (I feel dirty even using this here) just sat there with her jaw unhinged (come on…was she really that surprised). She looked at me, while the "dad" kept his eyes firmly planted on his fish and chips, (which, FYI, is what that stench was…you little monster!!) and mumbled something about…"Oh, no, no, Barnaby (or some equally pretentious name), that must be the food your smelling". I can tell you what I was smelling…a couple of REEKINGLY HORRIFIC PARENTAL UNITS & THEIR FESTERINGLY ROTTEN CHILDREN!!!

The rest of their time in the restaurant was anti-climatic. The little fiends dug into their "chicken strips" (though I still suspect it was actually something more sinister) and left within 10 minutes. I think their handlers saw the other patrons of the Coney Island fashioning pitchforks and torches out of forks and chicken shish-kebobs. I continued to read as they exited, but I still wasn't off the hook. The "mom" stopped at my table on the way out and said in her most convincing breathy voice, "I'm so sorry if the boys disrupted your reading…" Again…for the second time in one evening (let alone one lifetime) I was speechless…which was then followed by a sort of loud snort/laughy/raspberry-blowing thingy. "Yeah, sure", I say with as much sarcasm as possible when your drooling on yourself "no problem" (laugh, hiccup, snort...sigh).