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.