Note to Self July 10, 2009

It’s that time again!  Some things to remember…

• When packing for your move, lift with your legs.  And don’t lift a bag with two bowling balls in it with your arms or your legs.  That’s what The Husband is for.
• The Husband is also good for other things.  Even buying feminine products.  And giving you a good laugh when he calls from the warehouse store to ask, “Regular? Overnight? Ultra thin? With wings or without?” 
• The Husband is also good for introducing you to television shows that you might not have watched otherwise.  You even started watching Lost because of him.  And now Burn Notice.
• Try really hard to not start every sentence with, When you’re a spy…
• Maybe start with, When you’re a Southern Baptist stay-at-home mom…
• That’s not as sexy.
• Speaking of sexy, don’t forget to bring the chocolate eclair cake to the get-together tomorrow.  Why is that sexy?  Because you were told it’s called Better Than Sex cake.  It isn’t though, and it’s kind of sad that someone thought it was.  But whoever named it wasn’t married to The Husband either.
• You mentioned “your move” in the first note to yourself, and you haven’t mentioned yet that you found a house in your blog.
• YOU FOUND A HOUSE! YOU FOUND A HOUSE!  *cabbage patch* *white girl two step*
• Stop watching Music and Lyrics.  Stop it now.  It is so painful that even the Darvocet isn’t helping.
• YOU FOUND A HOUSE! YOU FOUND A HOUSE!  *cabbage patch * *white girl two step*
• Actually, God found the house.  Or maybe God had the house the whole time and was just waiting for you to wise up and join Him where He was working.  DUH!
• Maybe now you can stop stressing, and maybe you won’t see any more grays.  Maybe.  But Oil of Olay’s website still recommends the need for skin rehabilitation using an intensive 3-phase treatment.  Stop crying.
• Wait, keep crying.  Facebook thought an ad for Tummy Tuck Jeans would be appropriate for you.  Keep marking that one offensive.
• YOU FOUND A HOUSE! YOU FOUND A HOUSE!  *cabbage patch * *white girl two step*

I Swear July 8, 2009

But I don’t really.  Swear, that is. 

I wasn’t always like that.  There were times when a few well-placed expletives found their way into conversations once in a while.  It was mostly when I was much younger and trying to fit in.  Then, when I was older, it was to make a point.  I tried to use them well.  Like, there’s a part in the movie Failure To Launch where Matthew McConaughey’s character tells Sarah Jessica Parker’s to “get the f*** out” of his car and, I’m sorry, but it seemed appropriate.

Then I met The Husband and I noticed how he never cursed.  EVER.  (Except that he doesn’t think b*st*rd is a bad word, and I do.  But I also have used the word pr*ck and not thought anything of it, then I said it in front of my mom one time and thought she was going to put me over her knee right then and there even though I was 27-years-old.)  But anyway, The Husband didn’t curse.  And I’ve seen the man in some serious pain, where you’d think a good cuss would actually make you feel better.

He didn’t curse, he didn’t find cursing attractive, so I deleted the choice words from my vocabulary.

That was seven years ago.  Seven years of making it a point to not curse plus two children equals a woman who will spell out the word c-r-a-p among adults.  (I do type it though.  That doesn’t seem as bad.  Or carp, because holy carp is still funny to me.)  And watch this… I type OMGosh, because I want it to be clear that I’m not saying God.  Or WTHeck.  You get the idea.  (Oh, but I do still find monkey fighting and motivators funny.  Is that wrong?  That might just contradict this whole post.  Oh well.)

So I don’t swear, and now when people do swear in front of me, I get all uncomfortable.  It doesn’t happen a lot, because I’m in a bubble.  My People are The Husband, and we’ve established what his thoughts on it are, The Girls, and the older one corrects me if she hears me say c-r-a-p, and The Friends, who are mostly friends from church and you don’t often hear them swearing either.

But, in a couple of months the older daughter will be starting school — public school.  (Cue the scary music!  Not really, because I’m not skeered.)  I want to be an involved parent, and that means I will be around other involved parents.  And as I learned from going to a couple of birthday parties this past year, some of them sprinkle a few expletives into their dialogue occasionally without batting an eye.  And I need to practice not looking completely horrified when it happens. 

Because truly, it’s not like I’m thinking less of someone who says a dirty word now and then.  I may wonder why they choose to say it, but I don’t expect everyone to be as Pollyannish or goody-two-shoeish as me — especially because I’m not as Pollyannaish or goody-two-shoeish as it seems.  But I think my facial expression may tell a different story.  My expression may convey the message, “Someone needs their mouth washed out with soap!”

But I really do wonder why the words are used.  Because even if you aren’t a Pollyanna goody-two-shoes, curse words are curse words.  Kids get in trouble for saying them at school, it’s not considered professional if you use them in the business world (hear that, former realtor?), and movie ratings are still affected by how many and/or which ones are used. 

So why say them?  What’s the benefit?  No one sounds more educated saying them, and it sure doesn’t add class to the conversation.  I’m not talking about if you stub your toe and you need something stronger than sugar or darnit.  I’m talking about in your day-to-day tête-à-tête (hahah, pardon my French).  I’m genuinely curious here.  Maybe if I understand it, I won’t wince or wrinkle my nose when I hear them when I’m beyond the bubble. 

Unless you say them in front of The Girls, in which case I will wash your mouth out with soap.  You’ve been warned.

Note To Self July 3, 2009

It’s Friday, and this is my lame attempt to do something like this.  Or this, except on a Friday, and I don’t know if I can keep it under 140 characters.  Anyway…

Note to self:

• When that time of the month comes around, it might be best if you lock yourself in a room for a couple of days.  Because during that time, there’s just no telling how you will act.  It’s like the estrogen gets together and spins a wheel to determine if you will be slightly moody, weepy, or cranky and hostile.  What’ll it be this week? the little estrogen monsters ask as they gaily dance around the wheel.  CRANKY AND HOSTILE!  Woo-hoo!
• You cannot even watch the first five minutes of the movie Scream or you will have nightmares.
• Do not ever sign Winn up for this show unless you want to see this woman come to harm.  Or unless Winn says she wants a new wardrobe.
• Find out if those are actually gray streaks in her hair.  Because if that’s the case, you can hold off on getting a part-time job to cover the cost of coloring your hair since you found your first gray.  Because if she has her hair like that, then it has to be fashionable, right?  Since she’s one of America’s premiere style experts — so sayeth the website.
• A quick Google search indicates she may have had that gray streak since she was 12, so she’s had more time to get used to it.  Reconsider the part-time job.
• Keep an eye out for more grays.  The first was just a scout, but hopefully being yanked out by the root was a fair warning to send to the rest of them.  They will die quick and painlessly unless they decide to attack in larger numbers, at which time chemical warfare will be utilized.
• Determine what caused your aversion to raw meat, vegetables, and eating your own cooking.   Although, this is probably the best diet you’ve ever been on, and it makes The Husband happy to not have to come home and cook, so maybe it isn’t all that bad…
• Go to bed.  You have a busy weekend ahead of you, and you don’t want to let the estrogen monsters scare away all of your family and friends.

The Letter I Should Send July 1, 2009

I wrote about the things we would like to say, but know we shouldn’t, so we don’t.  (Here.)  It made me think about all the things we ought to say, but for some reason keep to ourselves. 

And then Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson and the OxiClean guy died, and they were each just starting their 50s.  I know Farrah Fawcett was battling cancer, but from what I know (which is limited because I haven’t been keeping up), it seemed like the other two deaths were surprises.  So after all the hype has passed, when Neverland becomes the next Graceland and we are able to watch an informercial without waiting to hear, “Billy Mays here,” there will still be families that were left without their loved ones unexpectedly, and I wonder if there was anything left unsaid. 

I’ve always thought that there aren’t enough ways to say the three most important phrases we have:  Thank you, I’m sorry, and I love you.  Those words need to be spoken and they need to be heard.  A lot of things we should say go unsaid because of pride.  I hate pride, but I’m full of it.  I don’t like it when I know that someone is able to hurt me.  Even writing it makes me cringe.  And I just sat here for a couple of minutes thinking about if I want to leave that in the post — that I’m able to be hurt.  (Estrogen, I curse thee.)

So what are some other things we should probably say more often? 

You were right, I was wrong.

I am thankful for you.

I appreciate you.

You mean so much to me.

Yes, thank you, I could use some help.

I don’t know how we got to the place we’re at now, but I do know that I don’t want to be here. 

What can I do to make things right?

It’s even hard to read, knowing the vulnerability that would have to go along with saying them… But that probably means they’re needed even more.

When will they learn? June 28, 2009

The Husband and I attended a wedding this weekend, where I wore the cutest dress I have ever worn in my entire life thanks to a sweet friend, and he wore a suit.  He came to pick me up from my mom’s, because she was incredibly wonderful (as she usually is) and watched the girls for us overnight, and I got butterflies when I saw him get out of the car with his shirt and tie on.  Yay for dress up occasions!

Now, let me just say that The Husband wearing a suit did not happen easily.  Until he drove up, I was expecting to see him in a polo and khakis.  Not that he doesn’t look incredibly handsome in whatever he decides to wear (and I only hate him a little for that), but The Husband in a suit… Ohhhh, him in a suit…

Anyway.

So he wore a suit.  And then we went to the wedding.  And there was a teensy bit of fussing from The Husband regarding wearing a suit, sitting through a wedding, and then I made the mistake of mentioning that there could be dancing at the reception.  Oops.  (He doesn’t drink and he doesn’t like dancing — and he says he’s not a Baptist!)

I want to ask a question — are most guys like this?  The complaining about dressing up ONCE IN A WHILE?  Attending a wedding ONCE IN A WHILE?  I mean, the ceremony itself only lasts maybe 45 minutes at the longest.  Is that really so awful?  Guys will sit and watch other guys on TV trying to put a little white ball in a little hole for HOURS, but asking them to sit through a wedding service is too much?  I officially psh that.  Heck, I thppttt that! 

I wonder if guys realize the benefits they could receive from just putting on that suit without complaining and sitting through the service.  Going to a reception without asking, “Are you ready to go?” a couple hundred times.  I mean, for me, a wedding is romantic — and I can’t be the only one who feels that way.  (C’mon.  Tell me!!)  It’s romantic, and it makes me think about my own wedding.  I remember coming down the aisle and locking eyes on The Husband and not being able to look away.  All the tears and sniffling… Not because I was crying, because I had a pretty bad cold, but I digress…

Do husbands not realize that all those silly girly froo-froo emotions can sometimes be parlayed into some fun times in the bedroom later?  Did they not get that memo?  Are we keeping that a secret from them?  I think we should tell them, because maybe we wouldn’t have to drag them along, they would just come willingly.  I’d kind of like that.  Am I violating a code if I let that secret out?

PSSSSST, hey husbands!  Attend a wedding with your wife, preferably without complaining, and you might get lucky that night!  Get dressed up without being begged, and you might get… Well, I don’t know what your favorite thing is, but your wife does, and she might remember that night!

Oh, and dancing.  SLOW DANCE WITH YOUR WIFE.  Seriously, it really isn’t even dancing, it’s holding each other and swaying.   There’s a reason it isn’t allowed in some churches!  It can be SEXY!  And if you’re married, you are totally allowed to be sexy with each other!  It’s not inappropriate!  In fact, it’s very, very appropriate!  I mean, keep it kind of PG-13, there are children around, but otherwise, go for it!

I hope I didn’t just let out some top secret information.  Oh, but if I’m going to spill the beans, I might as well let the guys know that chick flicks can sometimes have the same effect.  Especially if they don’t point out how utterly pointless the plot is and complain that the body count isn’t high enough.  Or say loudly at the end of the movie, “Are you crying?!“  Just a tip.

On the flip side… Sometimes we ladies talk about how clueless the guys are, right?  So why are we so surprised when they don’t figure things like this out on their own?  Duh.  Who’s clueless now?  (And, for the record, that light bulb just went off over my head as I was writing this, so I’m just as guilty.)

In short, for the husbands: Dress up + Dance + Don’t Whine About It = Happy, Quite Possibly Hot-For-You Wife.

Everybody was monkey fighting… June 26, 2009

A while ago, Kearsie wrote a motivating post. 

I’m waiting while you skim over it…

I had never seen a movie on cable where they didn’t just keep the offending words silent, or replace them with the more obvious choices of shoot, dangit, or even freaking.  (I think my mom still cringes when I use that word.)  Not until Kearsie’s post did I realize that they could fill it in with something far more creative.  I got a kick out of that.

Then today during the blissful period called naptime, The Husband decided he was going to watch Snakes On A Plane.  He’d recorded it a few weeks ago and I had hoped he would watch it sometime when I wasn’t home.  No such luck.  So I sat and watched it too, and The Husband laughed a lot.  Not at the movie, though.  At me, as I jumped and squealed and covered my eyes.  Me no likey snakes.

I was waiting for the scene that I knew was coming.  Samuel L. Jackson was about to get tired.  Real tired.  He was going to tell the world.  And then the moment arrived…

I have had it with these monkey fighting snakes on this Monday to Friday plane!

Hope you have a monkey fighting awesome weekend!

Mushy Gushy Lovey Dovey… *vomit* June 25, 2009

There’s a lot of love in the air.  Two friends have written about their love stories, here and here, recently because of their anniversaries.  If you’re looking for some tales of love (or lurve, if that’s your thing), head on over and give them a read. 

I thought I’d written out my little love story before, but maybe that was in a MySpace blog, and I can’t cheat on Facebook by going to MySpace to refresh my memory.  I tried to write a little bit about it in my last post, but I got feedback that someone looking for a sweet story was “sorely disappointed.”  Ouch.  I thought it was sweet, and I know that’s all that matters, but still… Ouch.  Of course, I’m also married and know the reality of what happens after the honeymoon is over.  Don’t get me wrong, life is still good because it’s the life that God wants me to have — but that don’t mean it’s gonna be easy.  Anyone who tells you otherwise, anyone who tells you that marriage isn’t work, well… Sorry, their pants are on fire because they’re LYING.

Anyway, let’s move on to some sappiness.  The Husband and I are going to a wedding this weekend, and I am very excited about it.  I love weddings, I love dates with my husband, and I love this couple and can’t wait to see them tie the knot!  Weddings, of course, make me think back to my own, and the months preceding it…

As I said a few days ago, The Husband and I met on June 22nd of 2002.  We met, stared, talked.  He left that night, and I wondered if I’d see him again.  The next morning at church, I did a little peeking around the worship center, but didn’t see him.  BUMMER.

The next week, however, our pastor did something that he hadn’t done in YEARS.  He asked if there were any visitors.  My sister would tell you that my SGR (Single Guy Radar) went off at that point, because I looked around to see who was raising their hands, and my eyes were immediately drawn to HIM.  (And The Husband would tell you that he had his hand barely lifted over his head, so for me to notice was surprising.)  After service was over, I told the friend I was sitting with that we should go say hi, you know to make him feel welcome.  But he was gone.  BUMMER!

He showed up in Sunday school, though.  I greeted him warmly, as I greeted everyone warmly.  Okay, so maybe I didn’t make googly eyes at everyone, and maybe I didn’t move a stack of books to sit closer to everyone, but I was a friendly person!  He was only getting semi-special treatment.  Really.  He stayed after church for lunch, we invited him to come to  back the next night for an activity.

That activity was our 20-somethings group meeting with the senior adults at our church for a game night.  I was shocked and slightly dismayed when he walked in the door.  Shocked, because I didn’t expect him to come.  Dismayed, because I was wearing pretty sloppy clothes and my hair was icky.  I remember running to the bathroom maybe two dozen times to check my hair.  Should I keep it in a ponytail?  What if it gets a bump?  Does it look too flat?  Does it look too poofy?  I was 26-years-old and acting like I was 16. 

I guess I didn’t look too bad, because after he had finished at one of his tables, he joined the Yahtzee table I was at.  I was a MESS.  I think I giggled a lot.  I couldn’t look at him.  Those eyes!  That smile!  Later, still trying to be congenial and welcoming, I asked him for his e-mail address so I could let him know about other activities our group had going on.  I still have the business card he wrote it on.

I went home and e-mailed him.  I told him we were so glad he could join us, and we had a lot of other things going on that week.  We would be so happy if he could come again.  We hoped to see him again soon.  If he had any questions, he could call ME at …  He told me later he took the e-mail to work and asked some of the ladies if he should read into that.  They told him if he didn’t call me, they would!

Tuesday night I had praise team rehearsal, and when I got done there was a message on my cell phone.  HIM!  I think I called one of my girlfriends to squeal about that (yep, at 26) before I returned his call so I could get it out of my system.  So I called him, and it took him my entire drive home to get to the point of asking me out on a date for that Friday. 

Wednesday, he came bowling with us.  Thursday he joined us to watch fireworks for the 4th of July, and met my parents (he didn’t know they were coming, but it was all good).  Friday was our first date.  We went to see The Bourne Identity and then he drove me home.  We’d gone to an afternoon movie, and we spent hours, HOURS, just talking.  We talked in his truck in the parking lot, then we talked upstairs in my apartment.  He sat on my couch, I sat at my table.  I think we talked until there was nothing left for us to find out about each other.  I talked so much that I let it slip I knew he’d gotten a speeding ticket before (public records search = great way to weed out bad dates). 

The day after our first date, one of us called the other one to say we had a great time, and we ended up talking for another couple of hours.  I think I coordinated some kind of group activity so we could see each other again.  We had our second date, and it was on that date that I just knew it was all over.  He. Was. It.  I was done, there wasn’t going to be anyone else but this man for the rest of my life. 

For years I would wonder, “How do you know that he’s the right one?” and I’d get the infuriating reply, “You just know.”  That night, I completely understood that response.

Our first date was July 5th.  He proposed July 29th.  Yeah, of the same year.  (I can write more on that when the date approaches.  I can’t give it all away now, I need some material!)  We were married November 29th.  Yeah, of the same year. 

It was a whirlwind romance.  Nothing stood in our way — as a matter of fact, it seemed like waters parted for he and I as we became The Husband and I.  It was as close to perfect as I could imagine.

I’m sorry, though, I’m not going to disillusion anyone and say it’s all been sunshine and rainbows after we got married.  It hasn’t been.  But it is amazing and awesome and incredible and wonderful to be able to get through the clouds and storms to see another day together, knowing that you have something worth fighting for.  (And besides, if you never fight, you never get to make up — and making up can be a lot of fun!)

I don’t think dating should be a whole lot of work.  If you know, you know.  If the person isn’t right, move on.  (If there’s a doubt, don’t.)  Marriage is a whole different story, though.  It takes work, and it’s worth working on. 

So let’s put on our hard hats and get to work.

Four score and seven years ago… June 22, 2009

But really, take out the “four score” part, because it was only seven years ago.

I said once before that 2002 was a busy year.  And it all started on this day seven years ago, at an indoor rock climbing gym.   To this day, I remember seeing him for the first time and I remember realizing that I was blatantly staring at him.  I remember talking to him for the first time, and wondering if it was a problem that I was two years older than him.  I remember getting to hold his watch while he scaled a wall.  I don’t know why I remember that last part, but I do.  (And that’s not us in the picture, it’s a Kim Anderson photo.  I’ve always liked them.  At least, I did until I found out that Kim Anderson is a guy.  Then it kind of creeped me out that a dude was taking pictures of little kids acting romantic with each other.  But perhaps that’s a post for another day.)

I remember how I liked that he was kind of a smart aleck, kind of sarcastic.  No pushovers for me, please, I liked a little bit of a challenge.  Although, seven years later, I find myself reminding him that sarcasm is “anger’s ugly cousin” and asking for a little more sensitivity.  Oops.

But anyway, life lessons I’m learning aside, he is one amazing man, and I love him.  Sure, there are days when I wonder if we will ever get past certain issues (usually that whole failure to communicate effectively thing), but most of the time I look at him and can’t believe I get to keep him.  He is everything I always wanted in a husband, and many things I didn’t know I wanted… And some things I probably didn’t want at all, but ended up needing.  God’s smart like that.

And to think I almost didn’t go that night!  I can’t even imagine!  I don’t WANT to imagine!  I just want to imagine the next seven years, and the seven after that, and four score and seven years from now…  You get the idea.

The Letter I Won’t Send June 16, 2009

Have you ever been upset with someone or a situation and someone told you to write a letter, get it all out, express every single one of your feelings?  Yeah?  And then what did they tell you to do with it? 

Throw it away.

Take all your feelings, all your thoughts, every single piece of angst and turmoil that you would like to dump on them, and chuck it.

So I’m going to do that.  Except, it’s not really a letter.  It’s a list of things I wish I could say, but I really can’t.  It wouldn’t be nice.  And maybe, maybe, if I do this post and toss it out into the internet, I’ll feel better.  Right?  Right.  So, here we go:

Oh, I love your skirt!  Where’s the rest of it?

Sweetie, you’ve got to put the pants over your panties… Oh, those are your shorts?  Okay then.

I’m sorry, I don’t remember asking for your opinion.

Build a bridge and GET OVER IT!

Could I interest you in a mint?  No?  Then could I interest you in standing a little further away from me?

No, no, really.  It’s not me, it’s you.

If you think I just wrote about you, think again. 

If you still think I wrote about you, maybe I did.

Okay.  I feel much better now.  Thanks.

Pajamas, Parking Lots and Popped Balloons June 12, 2009

After I typed my title, I realized just how Southern Baptist I am.  Those of you that went to seminary, tell me — was there a course on that?  Or was it a test question somewhere?  “True or False: All sermon points must begin with the same letter.”

Back to my three Ps…

Earlier this evening, I ran through my parking lot chasing a rogue balloon.  As I jogged after the escaped pink balloon that just kept bouncing along even though there wasn’t much of a breeze, I was also grasping the handles of four kitchen trash bags that were full of roughly 32 more balloons.

I was doing this while in my pajamas.  A very cutesy set with pink hearts all over the pants, but pajamas nonetheless.

Why was I doing this?  VBS.  Vacation Bible School.  For two of the groups tomorrow, I slipped little notes with “You are special!” and “God loves you!” along with the memory verse into about 40 balloons.  The balloons’ only purpose in their short life is to get popped at the very end of the lesson.  (Note to self: remember to bring Extra Strength Tylenol…)  It took me a very long time to get that done, especially because I am horrible at tying up balloons.  The Husband had to help me when he came home.

All week long, I’ve been coming home and planning for the next day or two, because preparing all 15 lessons in advance was a little overwhelming.  I’ve been cutting, taping, figuring out how to get gift bags to stay attached to waist aprons or how to reenact a storm inside a classroom (box fan and squirt bottles, FYI)  – all for sessions no longer than 25 minutes.  The kids come in, I present what I’ve slaved over and tried to be creative with, they go along with it and sometimes like it, then they leave.

Will they remember that 20-25  minutes?  Maybe.  Will it be included in their “What I Did On My Summer Vacation”?  Probably not.

Do I mind?  Not so much.

I rush around between groups changing the room around for the different lessons. I am completely exhausted after just four measly hours each day.  I come home and I plan and work, and sometimes shop.  I write out these little lessons on notebook paper and sort all the printouts and posters and what I’ll need in the different leader books.  I go a little crazy, and I notice my hands are kind of shaky when I do it all.

Do I mind?  Not so much.

I am loving every single shaky-handed minute of it! 

Not so long ago in a Bible study, we talked about when we do things that God wants us to, what He’s purposed us for, we feel His joy.  A reference to the line in Chariots of Fire was made — “…when I run I feel His pleasure…”

I wonder if that’s what this is.  The joy I have getting up earlier than usual.  The fervent prayers that He can use this scatter-brained uncool mom-type to reach out to these kids.  The rush of excitement as the first students walk through the door in the morning, and the ”It’s over already?!” as the last group shuffles out. 

Am I being shown something I need to do more of?  Is it a coincidence that this feeling in my heart comes right after reading Pathways to Purpose for Women and completing Beth Moore’s study where she told us we would find our destiny?

Ah, that it would only take me a mere 33 years…