Saturday

She walked down the familiar barn aisle, peering into the box stalls as she passed. Friendly eyes met hers, a few heads even poked over stall guards to watch her as she walked away. Some days she brought carrots, and the horses knew that. In the tack room she smelled leather and sweat, and she ran her fingers over the smooth saddles and traced the buckles on bridles. A box of brushes sat next to the door, and she picked it up as she walked back through. In the cross ties, her partner for the day stood patiently, eyes half closed, one hoof resting on the toe, hip jutted out as the horse napped. She laughed softly, and he opened his eyes. 

“If someone came along and unclipped that rope, you would fall on your nose big guy!” 

She gently stroked his face as she spoke, and leaned into his mane, breathing his scent in. This was so much better than school, where her friends begged for attention from football players and those dumb guys who thought that skinny jeans looked good on their skinny bodies. Here, there was no make-up on young faces, hair was pulled back in ponytails and braids, all the girls wore old jeans or tan riding breeches, and black boots. Everyone here, no matter how different, had the same purpose.

She groomed her mount, massaging him with the curry comb, in counter clockwise circles. She was careful over his hip bones, and then on his neck, when he leaned into her hand to tell her it felt good, she spent an extra second there. Then the body brush and the soft brush for his face, and to give him an extra shine. She picked up each of his four feet, checking for loose shoes and trapped stones. Then she gently saddled him, talking to him as she tightened the girth. He flicked his ears back and lifted his head very slightly to let her know he wasn’t thrilled with that part, but after a gentle pat and a whispered “Sorry, boy” he forgave her.

Next was the bridle, and she held the bit in her hands for a few moments, blowing warm air on the metal, before she gently slid it into his mouth, careful not to bump any teeth. She adjusted and fastened the nose band, and throat latch, made sure there was no mane or forelock trapped under the leather. Even though horses have no nerve ending in their manes, she always made sure there was nothing that could be pulled and make the horse uncomfortable. She pulled her helmet onto her head, and fastened it beneath her chin, then pulled the reins over his head, and led him to the arena.

It was Saturday, and the ring was full, younger students bouncing around on patient ponies, older girls warming up their rides with circles, asking their horses to bend their necks, and give to their hands. Riding instructors stood in the center, calling out directions, asking riders to push forward, or collect back, to soften hands and steady legs. The instructors of the younger riders called out encouragement and praise for every little deed done right. Some of the horses knew the instructors voices so well, you wondered if it was their rider in control, or the voice in the center of the ring. The arena was damp where it had been watered to keep the dust down, and her boots crunched across the sand to the mounting block. Left foot in the stirrup, right leg over the saddle, and she gently lowered herself onto his back.

The rhythm of his walk soothed her, and she wondered, what in the world do girls without horses to ride on Saturdays? Without the smell of hay and dust. The sounds of hot breath and stomping feet, swishing tails and metal shoes on concrete. 

It felt like excitement and love, and home.

And she couldn’t imagine a better home.

Rambling Man

He is standing in the doorway, his suitcase in his hand. She looks at it, then back at him. With all her heart she wants to ask him- to beg him- to take her along. She’d trade Colorado, its mountains and snow, and starry nights, if he’d take her with him. 

He looks at her, her childlike face and innocent eyes. She’s never loved a man before, yet somehow she loves him. The thought scares him. He knows no twenty year old should be on the road, following him from town to town, searching for rodeos and state fairs so he can ride and win his living. He is lost without a horse beneath him, and Jack Daniels inside of him. The sound of the crowds and the smell of leather are his first, and only, true loves. He thinks how nice it would be to have her there, to kiss his wounds and bruises, to cheer him when he rode out into the arena. But he knows in his heart, no matter how he might long to, he can’t let her get lost with him.

She sees the hesitation, she feels the longing in his heart. She lets herself imagine, just for a moment, that maybe he’ll take her. She's imagined their life together, following the rodeo circuit, living the cowboy life. A song plays in the background, something about cowboys and angels, and she lets herself believe for a second that maybe she could tame this wild man. The song ends, he reaches out, touches her cheek, and when he smiles she knows he’s gone already. 

He says, with all the conviction in his lonely heart, “I want to see you again someday.”

“Take me with you. Please. I’ll never look back, just take me.”

He shakes his head, and says “I can’t. Not now. But I’ll be back...” His voice trails off, leaving the promise dangling in the air.

She replies “You’re never coming back. If you leave me here now, I will never see you again.”

He reaches for her, but she pulls away. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t blame you.... You’re never going to change. You were born for leaving, so just leave.”

She can’t hold back the tears, feeling like a foolish child... feeling every bit as young as he thinks she is, so she holds her up and smiles through the tears. 

He shakes his head, smiles sadly, and says “Please don’t cry. Tomorrow you’ll see, it will be better this way. Some day you’ll see... I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She nods, knowing the call will never come. 

He closes the door behind him, keeping the winter outside the walls of her small apartment. 

She stands at the window, watching as he drives away. She stands like that for a long time, the tail lights fading into the darkness, until she knows for sure she has her answer.

****** 

The truck stop neon flashes, advertising twenty four hour cups of coffee and slices of apple pie. He pulls the truck and trailer into the parking lot, and climbs down from the cab. His breath makes clouds of smoke, and he shoves his hands further into his pockets. He wlaks to the back of the trailer, and looks through the small window. His horses breath smells like hay and ice. He checks the water buckets, adds another flake to the hay net, and heads into the restaurant. The door jingles as it opens, and he looks around, squinting in the florescent light. 

The waitress calls across the diner, telling him to seat himself. He chooses a booth that faces the door. He likes to see who’s coming and who’s going. No surprises that way. 

“Coffee?” The waitress is a blonde with a messy ponytail. She looks like she’s pulled a lot of late night shifts, but there’s something in her eyes. It reminds him of Colorado, and he feels something shift inside of him. 

“Sure. That’d be great.” He says, smiling up at her. 

In her eyes, he can see that fire. And he sees that she’s noticed him, too. 

She smiles. 

He smiles.

She blushes and looks out the window. 

"That your truck and trailer out there?"

"Yes ma'am it is. Headed down towards California. Hear the winters there ain't so cold. Hoping to find a rodeo circuit I can hook up with."

His cowboy drawl and sideways smile work their magic, and she blushes. He can't understand why women love cowboys, almost as much as he loves rodeos. 

A blessing and a curse.

"Can I get you some pie to go with that coffee? Best Apple Pie this side of the Rockies." 

He looks up at her name tag. Sarah. 

"Well, Sarah with the blue eyes. I would love a piece of apple pie." 

She giggles, and immediately regrets the girlish sound. She turns on her heel, and heads to the kitchen, her skin burning under the collar of her uniform.

He watches her go, and the elation he had felt seconds earlier dimmed, as he remembered the girl he had just left behind. He can't do this again. Every town a new girl, a new way to say good-bye, a new heart to break and a new crack in his own.

He stands up, tossing a few dollars on the table. 

The door jingles as he exits, walking out into the cold, black, night.

Hmmmm

Remembering

Do you ever get that hurt in your heart at the thought that your childhood, all the events and trips and holidays and friends that formed and define who you are today, are finished. It's a strange feeling, one that i only recently started having, but it comes on me like a mini panic attack. Maybe it's the fact that I am past the 30 mark, and into the 31 year mark, or maybe it's wondering if my children are going to have the same happy childhood memories I did. Some days when I think back on my youth, I forget the actual number  of years that have past. And when I remember, I get hit with waves of nostalgia.... and a little sadness...

I grew up outside Los Angeles, in a city that while big, felt small. With only 2 high schools and 3 middle schools, you were almost guaranteed to know pretty much everyone by the time you became a junior in high school. Not many of us moved away, and the ones that stayed are still friends. Some of them even got married to each other. I keep up with them on Facebook, and while I am blessed that I made the right choice in moving to Tennessee, some days I feel that hole even more. When I see my childhood friends, who have babies the same ages as mine, gather for birthdays and play dates, weddings and births, I feel that hole. I wonder if I should be there, finishing out my life with the same people I started it with. I only make it worse when I start thinking of all the things I will never do again...

I will never cram into the backseat of a car, and make the 5 hour trip to Lone Pine, California, for a western film festival with my parents. And I will never see the beach house in Ventura where weeks were spent without a TV, when the only entertainment was the beach, the pool, and wooden board games at night. I will never again walk down Orchard Drive to my friends house, and then sit out on the curb, goofing off until our parents call us in. Or walk with those friends to the weird smelling shop that housed a little lady who made creepy dolls, where we would walk to giggle at the porcelain faces and buy candies for a quarter. And the Pizza Pie outside pizza place, with the creepy guy in the grease stained shirt who sat in the back watching a small black and white TV, is gone, replace by an office building. And the train tracks we walked on to get to school have been made into a bike path. Time marches on.... I will never again leave school at lunch, climb into a friends car, and decide that driving to a friends house to go swimming is better than going to 6 and 7 periods. I will never walk the halls of the school I couldn't wait to graduate from. I never thought I would miss it.

And it really hurts that I will never lay in the bed, in the room that I lived in for my whole childhood, and stare at the crack of light coming under the door, letting me know my daddy was still sitting in his spot on the couch, under the brass standing lamp, reading his book, giving me comfort. I will never again lie in that bed, listening to old radio show programs on cassette tapes, of the Thin Man and The Shadow, complete with commercials for products from the 1950s and 60s.

I will never again hear the voice of my friend Jim, or the voice of Shirley, who taught me how to love horses. Two beautiful souls gone too soon.

I will never be 5, or 10, or 16, or 21 again.

But I will be 32, and 40 and 50, and older (God willing of course). I will torture my children with road trips of our own,  and ground them when they cut school. I will go to birthdays and graduations and weddings and the birth of my grandchildren. I will have all of these, and along the way, my children will make the memories that one day, will give them pangs of remembering.

Real Men Drive Mini Vans

Yesterday I was on my way to a street festival in a neighboring town. I was in the car with my Mother In Law, Sister in Law, 2 nieces, and my two kids. We pulled into a gas station off the interstate, and while my Mother in Law pumped gas, I watched a man dealing with his children. 

Had I passed this guy in the parking lot, or the grocery store, or in Target, I would have assumed he had a motorcycle, or a sweet truck... something that matched the tattoos and cut off tank top. But there I sat, watching him at his Mini-Van, filled with unruly kids. I sympathized, I have often been the one dealing with the car load of unruly children, where my means of survival includes visualizing an island somewhere, where I lay on a beach, with a cold drink in hand. 

So I watched his scene unfold. What I saw was not what I expected.

One boy in particular was having a meltdown. Not the kind of meltdown my kids have, but the kind where he flaps his hands, making panicked noises and hitting himself in the face. The kind where nothing the Dad did, or said, seemed to matter because this boy couldn't get past whatever it was that was upsetting him. Through it all, this man, with the tattoos and earring and rock n roll T-Shirt stayed calm. He never let his face show if he was frustrated, or upset himself. He never faltered in his low voice and calm words. He didn't touch the boy, who I can only assume must have been his son, but he got down to eye level, and tuned out the noise from the van behind him, tuned out the stares of strangers (like me) watching his life story unfold. He tuned that all out and focused on this boy. On reassuring and comforting this boy. I couldn't hear his words, but I saw when the boy heard him. I saw the relief in the boys shoulders when he realized that things were going to be okay, at least for a little while. And I saw the man smile, and gently guide to boy back to the van, where he carefully buckled his seatbelt without touching him. Then he leaned in the backseat, said a few words to the other occupants, got in his van and drove away.

I am often times amazed by the way people are not always what we expect them to be. 

So today, Fathers Day, I want to say Thank You.

To the dads who stepped out of their box and traded motorcycles for minivans- even if it's just for a few hours a day. 

To the dads that love their children even when it would be easier to hit the road. 

To the dads that don't let their girls wear short shorts, or let their boys cuss, and expect their children to say yes maam and no sir.

To the dads, like my husband, who are Dad to the kids who came with their wife, and never treat them any differently, until one day you forget that they are not the birth parent, because it has become so ordinary.

To the dads, like mine, that still do whatever it takes to make sure we have all that we need, and most of what we want.

To the moms, who play the role of dad.

To the grandfathers, who always stop by our table at Cracker Barrel to say hello and comment on what beautiful babies we have, sometimes sharing stories of their grand-babies, with so much pride it seems that they will burst.

To the men who are overseas, fighting so that our children will be raised in the land of the free.

To all the men that are dads, even though they didn't have to be.

To the dads that go out and work long hours to provide, and the dads that stay home and work long hours to nurture.

Any man can father a child, but it takes a Man to be a Father.

Thank you, and Happy Fathers Day. 

How I know I am doing SOMETHING right...

Future leader of America?

I think so....

Just Keep Swimming

This year we have had 33 foot, above ground, pool from hell. We failed to winterize it last year, and paid a dear price.

At one point early this spring there were frogs living in it. I don't mean one or two green friends, I mean families of them. Every night it was a symphony of croaks, and if you walked out with a flashlight you would see them gathered along the rim of the pool, discussing what I can only imagine must have been the fate of the frog world.

In the beginning of May, we started the process of re-opening the Pond pool. We went through all the steps, and nothing. I had planned an end of year party for Ana and some of her classmates, and we ended up having a pool party with no pool. My friend and her hubby came to visit, and we sat around looking at the pool, listening to the frogs enjoy what should have been our special swim time as we drank wine.

I turned 25 (plus 6) this past week, and since May I have been planning a huge shin-dig to celebrate my eternal youth. Yet the pool, for all the work and money we sunk into it, has stubbornly hung on to its emerald green hue.

Timeline of events:

Summer 2011: Spend 2 days cleaning and treating pool, enjoy 3 months of crystal clear pool fun.

October 2011: Dan and I leave for 10 days of vacation, return to a green pool. We decide "screw it" and lower the water level, but do no further winterizing.

Spring 2012: Frog families take up residence and begin breeding/ plotting world take over

Early May 2012: Plan pool party for Ana's friends. Begin treatment of pool, dumping 100s of dollars into the chemicals and water, with no results. The frogs moved out... well, the ones who survived. If those frogs are truly plotting world take over, we are toast. Have Ana's party with a slip n slide and water balloons instead of pool.

Mid May 2012: Friend comes to visit, we drink wine and look at the pool. Decide it looks too toxic to swim, but trooper that she is, she gets in and helps me skim and vacuum. True friend.

End of May 2012: Take water sample to pool store #1, are sold 60 dollars worth of chemicals, use said chemicals, pool turns slightly bluer.

Memorial Day: Saturday we swim, Sunday we leave town for a night to go to a (real) lake, return to an even greener pool. Monday we swim anyway. Well, those who decide to swim, swim, I choose to drink wine.

From there the time started ticking, and my huge 31 25+6 year birthday party was approaching fast. Nothing was working.

June 4- Go to pool store number 2, find someone who actually seems to listen, she gives us a strict schedule of chemicals- we shock, we chlorinate, we stabilize.... I wake up at 4 am and realize we are out of shock, so I drive to WalMart at 5am. I am impressed with the number of shoppers at 5am. Really, how is WalMart as a place to start your day... they are either genius or crazy. Still undecided.

June 5 (my birthday) we go back to the pool store, the lady is still stumped. Chemicals are fine. There is NO REASON the pool is still green. And by green, I mean emerald. A lovely shade, actually. But not appealing. I drink wine by the green pool, and pray. I have 25 people, and a ton of kids coming to a freaking pool party in 4 days and the pool looks like something the creature from the black lagoon would inhabit. Minus the frogs. Not sure if we are minus the creature since we can't see the bottom.

June 6 Still Green. I do not go to the pool store, however, I do visit the wine store.

June 7 (party is in 2 days) we make one. last. trip. to the pool store. Pool lady gives us one. last. thing. to try. We are given strict instructions, and sent on our way.

June 8 (1 day till party) :

8 am, Friday morning, the pool is blue. As the day goes on, the blue gets bluer, and I am thanking God for answering my silly prayer.

Friday evening, 4:00, we head to the grocery store, last minute supplies, etc... we come home...

5:15 WATER. Beautiful blue water. POURING out the bottom outer seam of the pool.

How does this happen??

 5:30 We get on our bathing suits, jump in, and begin the process of finding the leak. We decide it is under the stairs. We remove said stairs, and release into our newly blue pool all the algae that was trapped behind and under the stairs, immediately tuning the pool back to a cloudy green.

5:45 Meltdown commence.

6:00 Husband is able to locate the (huge) hole that was apparently caused by a rock caught between the stairs and the floor of the pool. Patch said hole.

6:10 We begin vacuuming the green out, I  begin continue praying.

6:40 We get out of pool, pour one last dose of chemicals into the water, I crack open a beer... still praying.

Saturday (Party day)

7:00 am, We have a bluer pool.

10:00 Even bluer. AND we are holding water.

2:00 Guests arrive, fun is had by all

Sunday-Tuesday (Aftermath)

Rains for 2 days straight.

Pool is slightly green.

Oh well.

Pond it is.

At least it gives me an excuse to drink.

Mother's Day

Today is Mother’s Day.

And guess who’s up with the baby, and who is sleeping in. Then guess who got yelled at when the baby went in the room and dumped out the file holder filled with important documents? I’ll give you a hint. The files were not mine. So I didn’t do the yelling.

Whatever.

Something similar happened last year, too, so I am not too upset.

I was upset last year. We had a big fight and I left and drove around, then I went home and was taken out for breakfast. Kind of a crappy way to win a breakfast.

Oh well.

I guess I have learned a few things this year. 

Like, sleeping in is overrated when I get up, drink my coffee, and play with the cutest darn baby ever.

Fighting is overrated when really, what’s the point? After all, anger is a hot coal, and the one who holds it gets burned.

My husband is not the perfect man. He is, at times, selfish, grumpy, lazy, smelly, obnoxious and annoying. Guess what? I am all those things sometimes, too. Yes, even smelly... but that one not nearly as often as he is.

When life hands you a pile of cow manure, spread it in your garden and watch the flowers grow.

Happy Mother’s day to all the Mother’s out there. 

Not just the ones who gave birth, but the ones who adopted. 

The ones whose babies were never born, or whose babies left too soon.

To the father’s who step in and become Mothers when there is a need.

To the Mother’s whose babies are furry, or feathery, or scaley.

To the Mother’s who maybe don’t have babies of their own, but take the time to be mothering to someone who needs it.

To my Mother, who is still my best friend.

To my sisters and friends, who share this crazy ride with me.

Happy Mother’s Day.

You are loved.

Even if you don’t get to sleep in. 

Even if you don’t get breakfast on a tray

Or a trip to a spa.

Or they forgot to send a card.

Even if your fur-babies can’t speak the words to remind you that you are appreciated.

Even if you feel you are forgotten, you are not. 

You are amazing.

Best Friends Forever

I have a friend. She’s kind of the bees knees. 

I call her my best friend. 

I use that term, but I kind of hate it. 

Because I have so many friends who, in my opinion, are “the best” for some part of me. The term, if you don't understand what I mean, can cause hurt feelings and questions about love and loyalty. 

But you see, I have several Best Friends.

I have friends that have been a part of me so long I cannot remember a time they weren't. And I have friends that are new in comparison, but feel as if they have always been there.

There are friends that I once called best friends, and somehow lost along the way. 

There are, however, a few that stayed. Through the hard times, and the good times, through the years and miles and relationships and disappointments. These are the friends that never gave up on me, and loved me when I hated myself. 

They are all so different. 

They are all so similar.

They are me, and I am them.

They bring out a part of me that I love, that wouldn't be there if not for them...

In no particular order, meet my best friends....

Victoria is my best friend who became such when we were 8 years old. She’s the friend I played Barbies with, and with whom I laid awake at night planning our weddings, the best friend that was more like a sister. She’s the mature friend, the friend who married her childhood sweetheart and graduated college and is crafty and designs things. She's the best friend who comes to visit and brings things she made with her hands and her heart, and we drink wine and laugh and plan our futures, and she reminds me that even at the age of thirty something, there is still so much future to plan. I thank God for her.

Katie is my best friend that I have known my whole life. She's the friend whose mom worked long hours, so she spent holidays and weekends and vacations with my family. She's the one who had chicken pox at the same time as me, so we got to lay in my moms bed and be miserable and itchy together. She’s the friend that I sometimes competed with She’s the best friend that I bickered and argued with, but somehow 27 years later we can still pick up right where we left a year ago, with bottle of wine and laughter at inside jokes from years ago, that are so funny they still make our sides hurt. I thank God for her.

Jennifer is my best friend that is so close to selfless, I sometimes think she’s an angel. If Jennifer has ever done anything that puts her before someone else, I don’t know about it. She’s a mom to everyone, a caretaker, a worrier, a birthday remember, and the one who will fly across country with her baby and mother in law to come to your last minute wedding. She is the friend that calls to tell you about births, and deaths, and the one that keeps all of us connected. I thank God for her.

Jackie and Crystal are my best friends that lived down the street from me from age 9 until I left California. They are the best friends that I speak of when I say a had the happy childhood everyone dreams of. They are the friends I camped in the yard with, the friends I played in the street outside our houses until late in the night with, the friends that threatened to hurt those who hurt me, and the friends I knew I could call when the going got tough. I thank God for them.

April is my friend that I rarely speak to anymore, but I think of often. She was the first best friend of my adolescence. The first best friend that came to me after childhood, as we moved into teenage years. She is the friend that I almost lost to rebelliousness, but somehow, some way, we found each other years later. Though we only speak a few times a year, I always carry her in my heart. I thank God for her. 

Christy is the friend that lives 3 hours away, but we speak almost daily. We met because we both love the same things, and we stayed friends because we realized we are similar people. She makes me laugh, she lets me vent, and I never have to worry about what I say to her. I know she will always love me anyway. I thanks God for her.

Jeanne is my best friend in adulthood. She is the friend that has kids the same age as mine, who has been married and who has moved around, and somehow we found each other. Her kids have known me most of their lives, and mine have known her. She is my  best friend I can dress up with for a grown up night out, or lay in pajamas and watch kid movies all day, while the children make their childhood memories. I thank God for her.

I call these women my Best Friend. I call them that to each other, and to themselves. I call them that not because I love one best, or more, but because each of them brings a part of me that I think is the best part of me for some reason o another.

In a world where people say that true friends are hard to find, I say no they are not. 

You just have to know where to look. And it’s not just about looking outside yourself. You have to look within yourself, to find the best parts of you. 

Then, you find the friends that bring out the best.

And you hold on to them so tight, you can never let go.

That’s a best friend.

Shiny Things

On May 8th my husband and I celebrate our two year anniversary. It’s been a rocky two years. 

See, we have an 18 month old son. 

So if you can do elementary math at all, you might conclude we were kind of strangers when we wed. Add to this equation a (then 7 year old) daughter and you have a stressful situation. 

People kept telling me it would be hard. It had been myself and my daughter for her whole life. We had our house, our routine, our life. We had a dog and a cat. Life was easy. Or as easy as it can be for a single mom training horses and teaching riding lessons for a living. It was easy and it was hard and I was completely independent. 

That was the hardest part to let go. The independence. The having the whole bed, and making plans and all the decisions. Not having to cook. My daughter was also independent, so we blended well. 

Then I met my husband. We got along well, had a good time. I met his family and loved them. He got along well with my daughter. I knew from the start we were different. He was not as social as I was. He was more of the joined at the hip type. I loved him, but I needed more time to decide. 

Then fate stepped in. And 2 pink lines decided for me.

So we found out I was pregnant in February, and were married in May. Our wedding was beautiful. Small and intimate. We bought plain white gold bands, and our honeymoon was a night at a local bed and breakfast. It wasn’t fairytale but it was lovely. 

Once we married, the bickering started. For all our differences, we were similar in our hardheadedness. We moved twice. I quit my business. We struggled to pay the bills. Much like any young couple with 2 kids. We had to learn how to get along, and get to know each other, at the same time. 

So it’s been a rocky two years. 

Lately though, things are changing. We aren’t bickering as much. We aren’t shouting and slamming doors. 

We still disagree. And annoy one another. But a few months ago, I decided to stop. I decided to stop trying to “win”, and I decided to start choosing my battles. And when I stopped arguing, so did he. If he started arguing, I would shut my mouth, put my best neutral face on, and relax my shoulders and body language. This body language would usually diffuse him, and the potential problem would dissipate. 

I’m not saying it always works. And I’m not saying I always back down. Or that I don’t still pick at him sometimes. But I’m trying to not allow the silly things bother me. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Or at least as little of the small stuff as possible. 

Other things are changing, too. 

I am keeping up with the house better. I am listening to my kids better. I am taking a few minutes a day to groom the dogs. My laundry is at a reasonable volume. 

Then, a few weeks ago, my husband came home with flowers. Pretty little potted flowers, one for me, and one for my daughter. 

I hadn’t even hinted. 

What a feeling.

He took the trash out without asking, and helped clean out the closets.

One day he came home. And I had just cleaned the whole house. And I was tired and cranky. My resolve to be peppy and happy was weak. So I jumped on him for not noticing how hard I had worked. And I picked at him for rolling his eyes. 

Then, when I had had enough, I noticed that there was a box on my nightstand. A small brown box. Like the ones our plain gold wedding bands had come in. 

I picked it up.


 Opened it. 

And inside was the engagement ring I had never gotten. The ring we had decided was too expensive. The ring that for 2 years my husband had said I would get someday. 

Someday had come.

I know a ring is just a piece of metal with a rock set on it. 

I know a ring cannot solve problems.

I know some might think it is materialistic, and frivolous.

But it isn’t the ring itself.

It’s the promise, it’s the thought. It’s that he took the time and the money he works so hard to come by, and he went and picked out a ring.

Without me even hinting.

What a feeling.

And when I look at my left hand, and see this shiny stone, I remember that I really am a lucky girl.

Running... For My Life

I realized today my thirty-first birthday is approaching fast.

I made a goal a few months ago, to be able to run 3 miles continuously by my birthday. I am currently at 2.5 miles. I am feeling confident that I will be able to do 3 miles in the next few weeks.

 This is a huge accomplishment for me, as I am someone who used to say the only way I was running was if someone was chasing me. As the time for the possible zombie apocalypse approaches, I realize more and more that there may very well be someone chasing me at some point. I decided, I might need to start running. After all, I only have to run faster than someone else, and if that someone is a person who sits on the couch a lot, I am in good shape.

Seeing as how I live in Tennessee, where the obesity rate is fourth highest in the country .. I think I am in pretty good shape. My sister in law, and her husband, run 12 miles regularly. Guess who I'm NOT hanging out with after the zombies take over.

I was concerned, at one time, about my children. They are young, so assuming they can run fast, and far, is a little unreasonable. I could easily carry one, it might slow me down, but if I had a gun... How would I  carry a gun, and my kids, and run?? I couldn't leave them behind obviously, because I'm not THAT kind of mother...

Then, the answer:

                                                                 Photo Credits here.


Pure genius.




My original post was not going to be about zombies, I got sidetracked. But, since I can't top zombies, I am going save the other one for some other time...

Spring Cleaning

I cleaned closets this week. 

Domestic Goddess, YES. 

Not Really.

Anyway, I cleaned and sorted. And at the bottom of the closet I was rewarded!!! 

Cute zebra patterned flip flops!!

I remembered buying them on our cruise last fall. They were less than 3 dollars at Target. So that means I bought them. 

However, I can’t remember wearing them...

Why?

I can’t recall. 

Uncomfortable??

I try them on, walk around on the carpet. Definitely comfy. 

I flop around my room, admiring my find. I just painted my toenails, and my legs are starting to look tan, and these shoes look really cute.

Totally wearing these today!

I proudly walk from my room, into the kitchen. As soon as my foot hit the linoleum...

I was sliding across the floor!

I reached out and grabbed the counter, and narrowly missed an ugly attempt at the splits.

Now I remember why they were in the bottom of the closet.

THIS is why I don’t clean closets.

Who Will Save Your Soul?

I am from California. From a very liberal city in Los Angeles County, in the San Fernando valley. Yes, I am a valley girl. Like, totally,

Now I live in Tennessee. In the bible belt. 

Talk about a culture shock. 

I love it here. I know I belong in this place, in this time. 

But sometimes I fantasize about New Mexico. 

Why New Mexico, you ask?? 

I don’t know. Really. 

I probably read it in a book somewhere and I think I would like to live there someday. 

I digress.

Back to the Bible Belt.

For the last 7 years I have been surrounded by Christians. I was raised (sort of) in the Christian Science church, so I was not unfamiliar to the ritual of Sunday church. For the first few years I successfully ignored the church. I was hanging out with a crowd that drank beer on weeknights, and managed to turn every occasion into a reason for a party. So I wasn’t exactly surrounded with Godly people. Fun people. GOOD people. They just made it easy to ignore the church folk.

Anyway, jump ahead a few years, I did a little growing up, and I started getting to know some Godly people, and I started getting curious. I found a GREAT church that was filled with people who had probably spent a few weeknights drinking beer themselves  and started attending regularly. 

Then life happened and I got married and knocked up (not neccesarilly  in that order) and moved. And stopped going to church. But my questions haven’t stopped. And I recently decided to find a church. 

One weekend we went to the big Baptist church. If you live in the south, you know the type. Huge, lots of people telling you how it is according to them. They try to draw you in with activities and groups. Small bible studies, kids classes. 

Do I want a church like this? Maybe....

An usher came by. He urged me to fill out a card. I was promised a coffee mug in exchange for my precious information. 

Stop. You had me at FREE COFFEE MUG. 

So I filled out the card, disclosed my number, email and home address.

Needless to say I was not smitten.

 Well, with the coffee mug, yes. I mean, it is big, has a great handle and a wide mouth. 

But with the church, it just wasn’t me. They lost me at “All Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Muselims and anyone else that doesn’t think just like the people leading this church are going to hell” part.

I am very picky when it comes to God. 

So I dismissed the church, and started researching some others.

The next Saturday, I was home alone with the angels. I had finally looked around the living room, and decided ENOUGH. This house was HORRIBLE. I started barking orders at A, and we set about the enormous task of picking up old cheerios, folding blankets, and putting away toys. 

As we worked my mood darkened. I was pissed because I hate that my house smells like Dog. I am pissed because the trash stinks. I am pissed that I used to be a business owner and now I clean up after kids and dogs and a man all day. I am just pissed.

Then, the dogs go nuts. 

Have I mentioned the dogs? Patches (aka Pee Monster, P, P Willy) and Ginger (AKA Gigi  or “the stinky one”) are Yorkies. They are the ugliest Yorkies ever. Not because they aren’t cute, but because I have somehow ended up with the task of caring for what were once Husbands dogs, and I have so many other damn things to do that I totally neglect the dogs and therefore they never get brushed and have way too long claws. I feel horribly guilty and am trying to be better. Max is the big Bulldog. He is terrifying to strangers. I would be terrified if I didn’t know him. He lives outside where he chases bikers (which has led him to being tied up during the day. But not this day).

Again, I digress. 

Said dogs started going crazy, so I looked out the window. A fancy Lexus had pulled into the driveway, and Max had the occupant trapped. Like Cujo. Well, not exactly. But kind of. 

I figured it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses come calling, so I stepped outside to chase them away. Max does a pretty good job of that for me, so it’s not hard. And the Jehovah’s witnesses are not the religion for me. Not because I think they are going to hell, but because I like birthdays. 

Once I stepped outside, I realized my mistake.

It was the Church lady from the Baptist Church. In her pretty car and pretty clothes. And her pearls. Waving at me over my big stinky dog in my driveway that is next to my yard that is filled with toys. And things the dog dragged in from somewhere that I keep thinking I need to pick up and then don’t. And the stinky trash bag from the house is sitting there.

And me.

Oh dear, ME.

I am wearing Husband’s flannel PJ bottoms with pictures of dogs all over them. A T Shirt  filled with holes. No bra. An ugly green cardigan sweater I got at Old Navy 6 years ago for $1.50.  My teeth are not brushed, my hair is REALLY not brushed. Slippers. 

Lovely.

My heart sinks and I wonder if it is too late to pretend not to be here. 

It is.

She asks if Cujo (Max) bites, I tell her he never has but I don’t make any promises since, you know, he’s a dog (and if there’s something I learned from years working with animals, as soon as you promise you can predict a behavior, they go and prove you wrong).

 She wants to come in, and chat. I tell her the kids are napping, even as the baby presses his little face to the window and waves, screaming “HI!” at the top of his lungs. 

I have a terrible flaw. You see, I hate to say no. I am a people pleaser. When I am confronted with a situation I truly cannot say YES to, I immediately try to find a compromise that will make everyone happy. Even if I am not included in that “happy.” So I called off the hound, and hopped into her car. 

She chuckled and said in all her years of calling on folks, this was her first car visit.

I smiled and pretended I was actually dressed, and that I actually wasn’t hating her just a tiny bit for interrupting me (surely hating the lovely church lady is not smiled upon). I tried to talk through closed lips because of the coffee breath and lack of toothpaste. Her car was pristine, but as I slid in she apologized for her mess, which consisted of a pile of neatly stacked, paper-clipped papers, and an umbrella. 

Dear Lord I am glad I didn’t let her in my house. 

She starts by expressing how glad she was that I came to church, and attended her women’s class. She just wanted to talk a little bit about Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. 

I nodded along, smiling. MmmmHmmm-ing occasionally. 

I agreed that yes, I believe in God. And Jesus. And since I’m not concerned with the question about whether God is Jesus or not, to me they are the same AND different at the same time, since God is tricky like that, but I didn’t feel like getting in to a discussion so again I nodded and agreed. 

Then came the Big One. 

Have you been asked this?

“When were you saved?”

This was followed by a brief history of her baptism at the age of 13, and how she just suddenly, out the sky like a meteor, knew. Jesus Christ had saved her.

I nodded politely, and then realized she was expecting me to share my story. 

The two answers she was expecting were either:

I am not saved, please help me find my way today 

OR

I knew I was saved at such and such a time/date.

I was on the spot. Because neither of these statements are true for me. I believe that I am not destined for Hell. I believe that I have ALWAYS spoken to God. I remember as a very young child conversing with Him, in  my head or even out loud sometimes when I was playing alone. 

I never had that shining moment, because I had never felt like I was alone. 

I have been tested in my faith. And sometimes I have a hard time defending it, because I DON”T know the bible backwards and forwards. I DON’T know the historical, political and social structure within religions very well. 

While I have trouble verbally defending it at times, I never LOSE it. I know what I know, with all heart, and soul, and I know it without a doubt. Without HAVING to have proof. 

Isn’t that the very definition of Faith?

 Knowing and trusting with unshakeable conviction, even when you can’t explain why?

So why was this lady arguing with me?

She must have thought I really needed saving, and looking around, who could blame her. She spent a good quarter of an hour trying to make me see why my faith wasn’t as good as hers. Why my understanding of God and what he stands for is incorrect. And the longer we sat there, the more I knew with certainty that this was not MY religion. 

I held my ground, and a little while later she sighed, and I could see her give up the fight. 

I extracted myself from her vehicle, and she left, uttering prayers all the way I am sure. 

I returned to my heathens, poured another cup of coffee into my church mug, and surveyed the scene. 

This, right here, in the midst of the mess and the noise, is how I know God loves me. He wouldn’t bestow these blessings onto me if he didn’t. Dirty laundry, stinky dogs, and all.

No one can convince me otherwise.

And if you want to try, please call ahead so I can shower first.