My Thoughts On: Being Thankful

Today is Thanksgiving.  Of course I'm thankful all year for a LOT of stuff, and I tell the Lord that all the time.  The Big 3 for me are His Son, my family and my health.  I thought it might be fun to come up with a list of some of the little things I'm thankful for each day.  So in no particular order, here are twenty-five of them.

1. heated seats in my car
2. books you stay up way later than you should so you can finish them
3. friends who will tell you you have something in your teeth
4. that my kids are no longer infants
5. that my kids are not yet teenagers
6. drinking my first cup of coffee in the morning in absolute silence in my house
7. summers off
8. that my husband still thinks I'm smokin' hot after 14 years together
9. living close to where I work
10. getting to see my kids there every day
11. all the modern conveniences in my house
12. climbing into bed with freshly washed sheets
13. being able to set reminders on my phone
14. living in a neighborhood where my kids have half a dozen friends just outside their door
15. every single time my husband helps around the house
16. tissues with lotion
17. being able to park in my garage
18. when I miss a call, and they send a text instead of leaving a voice mail
19. that my mom taught me the value of good manners and thank you notes
20. that my dad taught me how to change a flat
21. seedless watermelon
22. the clearance rack
23. when something starts to spill, and I catch it
24. copy and paste
25. knowing that I am making a difference, I matter, and I am fulfilling God's purpose for me (Okay, so that's a Big Thing.  Still grateful for it every day.)

My Thoughts On: A Happy Happy Happy "Non-Traditional" Birthday

Birthdays.  We all have one.  Some of you may even have enough to see Halley's comet twice in your lifetime.  I LOVE celebrating birthdays.  Other people's that is.  Don't get me wrong, I am not shy about my age (forty-one, thank you very much) or preoccupied with growing older.  That's because I just get more fabulous every year.  ;-)  I simply do not like a fuss made over me, especially in the "hey, we've gathered 100 of your closest acquaintances, and now you have to spend four hours talking to everyone" kind of way.

Again, don't get me wrong, I love socializing with people.  In small groups.  For a while.  And when I am not expected to give a speech or blow out candles after some yahoo makes a tired joke about having to call the fire department over the number of them.  ("I don't know what happened, Barb.  We were singing 'Happy Birthday' one minute, and the next minute, she had Bob in a full nelson on the floor")

And let me digress for a moment and give a little advice to the folks who go around celebrating their "birthday week" or "birthday weekend".  If you are turning one, I will give you a week to celebrate.  If you are under the age of 18, or you are celebrating a "milestone" birthday (21, 30, 40, etc), I will give you a weekend.  If you have any other amount of candles on your cake and would like my participation in some way, you get a birthDAY.  One.  Uno.  End of story.  Moving on...

Some of you probably have birthdays that are an extravaganza of celebration from the moment you are awoken with being served breakfast in bed by your adoring spouse and excited children, who are showering you with kisses and birthday wishes.  They are also shoving flowers and cards and gifts at you, while singing "Happy Birthday to You" in a three-part harmony.  You go on to have a day where you basically sit on a throne while your loved ones bestow you with gifts, surprises and a plethora of all of your favorite experiences.  That is awesome, and I am genuinely happy for you.  Enjoy!

My birthdays are a bit more non-traditional.  Some of that is by choice, and some of it is just circumstance. One of the reasons is that I am married to a guy who is not big on occasions.  Celebrating them, planning for them, or even remembering them in the first place.  My HH is easy on the eyes, and he has many redeeming qualities.  Making a "to do" over someone's birthday is just not in his skill set.  I do get a "Happy Birthday Baby" and a card every year, and some flowers about every fifth year, but that pretty much wraps it up, and that's fine.  At this point in our marriage, if he went beyond that, I would think that he's either having an affair or that I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness that my doctor told him about and not me.

Another reason my birthdays are non-traditional is because of my upbringing.  To avoid turning this blog entry into a therapy session (and to avoid opening any cans of worms with any relatives who may be reading this), just know that my childhood was quite different from many of my peers.  If it had been a TV show, if would have been "The Brady Bunch" with heavy doses of "All My Children" and "Monday Night Raw" (Google that one if you're not a fan) thrown in there.  Now before you go feeling all sorry for me, the upside to this is that as an adult, I can tolerate (just about) anybody, and I ain't skeered of anybody either. *crouching into Ralph Macchio's crane pose from "Karate Kid"*  Both are definitely good life skills to have.

But the main reason my birthday is non-traditional is because of me.  I don't do well with any hoopla over me, and those closest to me know that.  The idea of a big party makes me all rashy, and I start to pit sweat just thinking about it.  Instead, I take my birthday happiness in the Little Things, which are Big Things to me. Take my birthday this year for example.  It was yesterday, which is obviously why I turned these thoughts into a blog entry.

I was the first one up at my house as usual.  I got my coffee and got on my computer.  Lots of birthday wishes to me on Facebook.  Little (Big) Thing.  My kids got up next, having no clue at first it was my birthday.  That's fine because I still got my usual morning hugs, kisses and snuggles.  Little (Big) Thing.  HH woke up and gave me a card and my quinquenneal flowers before he went to work.  L(B)T.  My kids realized in the late morning it was my birthday.  They made me cards with printer paper and wrapped up stuff from their rooms to give me as gifts.  A favorite bracelet of the Girl Child's, and some of his prized marbles from the Boy Child.  L(B)T.

I then spent the afternoon pulling up carpet, pad, tack strip, nails and staples from our bedroom floor as the result of water damage from one of the HH's ideas that had hit the crapper.  Hard.  My friend Marty stopped by to drop off some stuff and wish me a HBD, and she offered (multiple times) to stay and help me. Any ol' friend will offer to go to lunch, the spa, etc. with you on your birthday.  A friggin' fantastic friend offers to sacrifice her afternoon by spending it down on her knees pulling staples out of the floor beside you on your birthday.  L(B)T.

Despite being tired and (more than) slightly cranky when I was done, I allowed myself to be talked by Marty and one of my other dear friends, Jolie, into going out to dinner to (not) celebrate my birthday.  They know very well to keep things at the restaurant on the DL.  If I see a herd of waitstaff coming at me with a dessert with a candle on it, I will fly out of there so fast, the breeze I create in my wake will blow it out.

No candles or cake then, just a dozen or so of my favorite people having good food and fellowship together. When we got to the restaurant, Marty's hubby, The Good Cowboy, had a present for me.  It was a Duck Dynasty pink cammo coozie with the phrase "happy happy happy" on it.  He knows how much I adore the Robertsons, so that gift was very thoughtful and spot on.  L(B)T.  My friend Jolie and her family were there as well.  Jolie had worked all day and had a major headache, but she still came.  L(B)T.

When you look at life overall, there aren't that many Big Things that happen on a day-to-day basis.  If you measure the importance of your life based upon Big Things, you're probably going to be disappointed.  I've learned to base my happiness on my birthday and every other day of the year on Little Things.  A hug, a small gift with a lot of heart wrapped into it, an offer of help, or someone taking the time to let you know you matter to them.  All of those Little Things really are the Big Things in life if you look at them the right way.

Everyone creates their own happiness, birthday and everyday.  You can make your own traditions by celebrating your birthday any way you want.  Maybe you want marching bands, jumbo-tron shout outs, a party with 1000 of your closest friends.  Go ahead, whatever makes you feel celebrated for being born.  I will stick to my "non-traditional" birthday of L(B)Ts.  At forty-one, I have learned that I want my birthdays to be more about counting blessings than candles and about taking pleasure in the gifts of the people God has put in my life rather than the presents any one of them might give me.

So to those who gave me a L(B)T yesterday, thank you.  For those who give them to me all throughout the year, I thank you even more.  I am a year older, I am a year better, and because of the people I love and that I am loved by, I am blessed on my birthday and always.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Meetings

I could make this blog entry really short.  Meetings suck.  But then I wouldn't get to use any humor, sarcasm, pontification or run-on sentences.  What's the fun in that?  So instead I will list my pet peeves when it comes to said subject.

Now before you get all wonky on me and ask me what, as a SAHM, I could possibly have to complain about when it comes to meetings, pipe down over there Tito.  I'm Michael Jackson in this blog, and you're Tito, and I don't need to rattle off my resume of current pro bono positions that require me to go to more meetings each week than I care to even think about.  So grab an agenda and go sit in the corner with LaToya.

Meetings for the Sake of Having a Meeting
 This is the one where there are no clear cut agenda, objectives, outcomes or point for anyone to have gone through  four rounds of "Evening Kid Activities Logistics" with your spouse in order to attend it.

Meetings Where the Materials are Read to You Point by Point
Uhhhhhh, I've been reading since I was five.  Save some trees and my time, and just email me this stuff.  If you want to also email me a follow up pop quiz, bring it on son!

"Breakfast", "Lunch" and "Dinner" Meetings
If you are trying to get me to come to your meeting by luring me with a meal, lemme break it down for you:
-Breakfast:  Y'all had best be serving some hot food. Cantaloupe and some mini-muffins that are so dry they turn into an inedible mass of crumbs when I try and bite into one is NOT breakfast.  And REAL 1/2 and 1/2 for the coffee, people.  You don't put powdered gas treatment in your car to make it run more efficiently.  I'm not putting any powdered crap in my coffee either for the same reason.
-Lunch: I have been to "lunch" meetings where I am given the same amount of food that I pack in my seven-year-old's lunch box.  While I am not a big gal, I do appreciate enough food to keep my stomach full at least for the duration of the meeting.
Dinner: If it resembles anything that is part of the meal service on an airplane, rethink the budget and the caterer next time.  Nuff said.

Endless Q&A Sessions in Meetings
I get it.  You lead a meeting, some people are going to have a follow up question or two.  By all means, let them ask.  I said one or two.  If someone goes beyond two, I'm likely to "accidently" kick her/him under the table with the pointy toe of my stiletto as I uncross my legs.  Being the good Christian that I am, I will assist them out of the meeting and to their car so they can hurry on home and get some ice on that bump, and I will be praying for swift healing for them in the name of Jesus, and BUH-bye now!

And like with the presidential debates, set a time limit on the A.  If you can't sufficiently answer someone's question in a minute or two, do some research and follow up with an email.  And if you send the answer to everyone on the meeting roster, for heaven's sake, blind copy it.  Otherwise the Q person will "reply all" with ANOTHER question, and now the meeting has spilled over into my inbox and has no end point.

-Loooooooooooooong Meetings
Sweet Mary and Joseph, no meeting should ever last longer than two hours.  And you had better have some good stuff in that agenda packet if you are going longer than ninety minutes.  Like some covers from "Men's Health" magazine interspersed throughout or a couple of crosswords and a "doodle" page.  Some meetings you can get away with playing on your phone, but others you can't, and it would be nice to have something as an incentive to stay awake.

So if I come to your meeting, I promise I will be a good girl and pay attention if you adhere to the guidelines above.  And I practice what I preach with the meetings I lead.  Short, sweet, informative and punctuated with humor are my main objectives.  And oftentimes, followed up with post-meeting "debriefings" on the patio of a local restaurant with daily drink specials.  So thanks for letting me air my meeting grievances, and I hereby declare this meeting adjourned!

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Cleaning My House

If you're the type of person who gets out of bed on Saturday morning, and your top priorities have nothing to do with a trip to the john and starting the coffeemaker, but instead of cleaning both of those, this blog entry is most certainly not for you.  If cleaning for you is more of a "have to" and not a "get to", read on my friend.

Before we talk about my current stance on housecleaning, let me first take you on a short journey first through my childhood of the 70's and 80's and my twenty-something years in the 90's.  I grew up with a chore list.  Started when I was five, and every year, a chore was added.  Now this was not stuff we got paid for or earned allowance for.  This was a "you do this because you live here" type-deal.  I dusted, vacuumed, cleaned bathrooms, washed floors, and a lot of other stuff that would leave some of you pampered children picturing a mini-me in a red curly wig singing "It's a Hard Knocks Life".  Suffice it to say that by age 10, I could argue the use of Comet vs. Bon Ami with any housewife.

Moving along to my 20's.  I got my first apartment in 1991, and I was all about keeping it spotless.  Immaculate.  Not a cobweb in the corner or dust bunny under the couch.  My Saturday morning routine without fail was to clean my place from top to bottom, stem to stern.  Whatever that means.  I think it has something to do with boats.  I grew up and live in Kansas, so the only experience I have as a boat captain is a part-time one as I'm driving it across the lake back to the dock, while holding the red Solo cup of the full-time captain we are boating with who has had to much to drink.

So from 1977-2002 (that's 25 years for those of you who get all confused counting years that span two centuries), I was all about getting behind a thorough cleaning of the house each and every week.  Then in 2002, something happened that took that particular crazy train right off the rails.  I became a mom.  Nothing throws every routine you ever had completely out of whack like having a baby.

Oh, you used to clean the bathtub every day while you were in the shower?  Yeah, well now you have 120 seconds to get in the shower and attempt to cleanse yourself before the baby takes the "Where's my mom?" whimper to a full-on "If someone doesn't pick me up RIGHT NOW, the neighbors are going to call Child Protective Services" scream.  Aww, you used to have trouble going to sleep at night unless every dish in the sink was washed, dried and put away?  Yeah, well now your husband has to pull your face out of your dinner plate because your sleep-deprived self passed out in it fifteen seconds after sitting down for the first time all day.

You get my drift.  Babies change priorities.  And that's a good thing.  When I became a mom, I realized that I could not care less about dust bunnies and washing windows anymore.  I would not trade one minute of time with my baby, then my baby and toddler, and now my kids, to spend the day cleaning every nook and cranny of my house.

Now, say you run a home daycare business like my friend Marty.  Not keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts your business.  And to clarify, CLEAN and ORGANIZED to me are not synonymous.  I am all about an orderly house.  I freely admit I am an anal-retentive OCD freak, just not about dust on the tops of the pictures hanging on the wall or people walking on the vacuum lines on the carpet.  (Seriously, it's a thing for some people.  What are you supposed to do, jump across the furniture to get around the room?) For me, keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts not my business, but my sanity, because I already have my hands full with the battle of "The Creep".

Everything in my house definitely has a designated place, and ideally, everything goes in said place.  I said ideally.  I live with three other people y'all, including Sandford and his son.  Sandford is my Handsome Husband.  Without my intervention, he and the Boy Child would maintain an existence that belongs in a homeless camp.  Further details are not needed for you to effectively get the point.

Just believe me when I say it's an ongoing battle just to keep all their "stuff" (I would use a different word, but Jesus doesn't like it) from accumulating all over the house to the point where it looks like raccoons have taken up residence in our home.  This would be the battle of "The Creep".  Most of the moms reading this (and the 2% of the dads out there who care about such things) are nodding their heads right now because they too fight "The Creep" at their house.

With that ongoing struggle, who has the time or energy to CARE if the dining room light fixture is free of cobwebs, or heavens, when was the last time was I moved the fridge and cleaned behind it?  But hey, I do  have SOME standards for housekeeping.  The laundry, vacuuming and de-toothpasting of the bathroom sinks get done on a weekly basis.  Note that I did not say that ALL the laundry gets put away or that EVERY room in the house gets vacuumed every week.  Just keepin' it real over here.

So if you come to my front door, you'd best check your judgy judgments about my housecleaning right there at it.  Otherwise, I will hand you my cleaning supplies and tell you to go for it.  Instead, I will be devoting my time to some other pursuit that, unlike house cleaning, doesn't leave me wondering one day and three family members later if I had done anything at all in the first place.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: The Chocolate vs. The Bikini

It's April in the midwest.  Flowers are blooming, trees are pollinating, allergy sufferers are miserable, and I am at an annual crossroads in my life.  This is the point in time where we are about six weeks out from pool season, and a decision has to be made.  A lifestyle-altering decision.  Do I continue my obsessive and destructive love affair with The Chocolate, or cease the affair to reconnect with my faithful summer love of twenty-five years, The Bikini?

If you don't dig chocolate, and you haven't worn a bikini in your life, this blog entry probably ain't for you.  But for those of you whose pulse rate spikes when you open a Whitman's Sampler (ahhh, you can smell it right now, can't you?), and for those who have committed to memory the first rule of the Bikini Code (a bikini is a privilege, and not a right), you are feelin' me big time right now.

I admit, the loooong KC winter of 2013 found me much more seduced by the siren call of Hershey, Cadbury, Dove and Rocher (kind of sounds like a yummy law firm, don't you think?) than I normally am.  I can't help it.  I get seriously bummed out by cold weather, and hey, chocolate makes me feel goooooood.  So if one piece makes me feel gooooood, fifteen make me feel friggin' awesome!  Shut up.  We all have our addictions.  I'm getting to the part where I turn the corner on mine, just hang on.

So around this time of year, I am forced to reintroduce myself to my body-mind psychotherapist.  She lives in my full-length mirror in my bedroom.  She makes me come to therapy in my underwear, and it's kind of weird because she comes in her underwear too, but whatever, she's the one in charge here. 

And then we have a frank conversation about how this love affair is controlling my life, it's no good for me, I'm not who I once was, I'm avoiding people who care about me just so I can spend more time in it.  It's not pretty.  Eyes are opened, tears are shed, and a new resolve is born to do what needs to be done to cut the ties of this affair and reconnect with the faithful love, The Bikini.

Now everybody who has a modicum of Body Awareness knows that you cannot jump straight from breaking the chains of The Chocolate back into The Bikini.  No, no, no, no, no.  Remember Rule #1 of the Bikini Code.  I wish more people had Rule #1 tattooed across their should-not-be-exposed-in-public midriff, but I digress.

I have to EARN my way back into the bikini.  Yes, I teach yoga twice a week, run at least two days a week, yada, yada, yada.  But weight gain and loss is simple math. 

Calories in = Calories burned = Bikini Ready At All Times. 
Calories in > Calories burned = You Got Some Work to do, Dough Girl

So I add another workout day of intense cardio/muscle work and start saying my goodbyes.  To sugar and other white foods, dairy, carbonated beverages and all the other delicious delights who stand between me and The Bikini.  Now I do have a bit of each from time to time.  Going cold turkey takes me to a place of insanity that causes my family to force me out of the car and onto the shoulder of I-70 somewhere between KC and Lawrence. 

I have never been, nor could I ever be a gluten-free vegan.  Meat, good.  Dough, good.  Sheridan's Royal Turtle sundae, majestic.  But for the purpose of honoring The Bikini, all of those things take a back seat until the glorious day when I can stand in front of my therapist in The Bikini, and she will proudly say to me, "My work here is done".  Until next spring when the cycle repeats itself.

So if we cross paths in the next six weeks, and I seem a little less sparkly, please be kind and understanding that I am in limbo between my happy place with The Chocolate and the self-satisfaction of having earned my way back into The Bikini.  Raise a low-cal protein smoothie in solidarity with me, and together, I promise we will make it through.  Until then...

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: The Plague of Perpetual Winter

I live in the midwestern U.S.  For my international readers, that means that while we do experience four distinct change of seasons, they overlap, intermingle and plain ol' intrude on each other like toddlers trying to share a snack bowl.  I have no problem whatsoever with autumn borrowing a day or two from summer, summer borrowing half a season from spring, and so on.  Where we run into an issue is when winter borrows one nanosecond from any of the other three.

If you know me personally, you are aware that I am a 100% warm weather kind of gal.  I could go on for days about all of the things I looooooove about summatime.  Sun on my SPF-50'ed face makes me happy, happy, happy.  My chakras line up, my spleen clears, my serotonin level soars, and an invisible Jamaican steel drum band band follows me around in my mind wherever I go. 

If you listen very, very closely, you can probably hear Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" whenever I'm around.  Probably helps if you have a Hurricane or two.  Since it's currently 10:00 in the a.m. when I'm writing this and not exactly cocktail hour, I'll let YouTube give you an assist  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaGUr6wzyT8

Anyway, if you live where I live, you know that Mother Nature has really put the smackdown on us this winter.  Three major snowstorms in a month, the latest one coming at the end of March.  When it's supposed to be spring.  You know, daffodils, green grass and kite flying.  My daffodils and the grass are buried under ten inches of white vomit, and the only thing currently flying outside is said vomit as my neighbor uses his two-stage snow blower on his driveway.

If you're a fan of winter, please spare me all of your comments about how pretty the snow is, blah, blah, friggin' blah.  It's a little like trying to convince Billy Graham than Anton LaVay had some redeeming qualities.  An extreme example perhaps, and I'm sure that Billy even prayed for Anton.  Hate the sin, not the sinner and all.  But there's no mistaking it.  I.  Hate. Winter.

If I had lived in the time of Moses and had been Pharaoh, the Lord surely would have made "Perpetual Winter" one of the ten plagues He placed upon Egypt to let the Israelites go.  In His infinite wisdom and knowledge of all things that cause me to freak the freak out, He would have also included the following nine:

"Plague of Snakes"
"Plague of Decaf Coffee"
"Plague of Lo-Cal Desserts"
"Plague of the 60+ min Meeting"
"Plague of Caring for Vomiting Children"
"Plague of Unwashed People in My Bed"
"Plague of Homeschooling My Own Children"
"Plague of Raw Meat Juice Coming into Contact with Food Prep Surfaces"
"Plague of Grocery Shopping on a Weekend/Day Before a Major Holiday"

What can I say.  I'm a reptilaphobic, germaphobic, agoraphobic, cold weather-hating caffeine junkie with a sweet tooth.  And long meetings just suck.  To know me is not to love everything about me.  Just to know that none of those things is probably going to change this late in my life.  And that acceptance is not synonymous with approval.

I remain grateful that the Lord (so far) hasn't seen fit to rain any plagues down on me, and any of the above annoyances or inconveniences the devil tries to send my way can be easily overcome with the Almighty's aid.  As Joel Osteen says in one of my fave quotes, "Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond.  Don't let anyone or anything steal your joy"

Bearing that in mind, I will try hard to remember that while the winter seems never-ending right now, it is just a season, and it will pass.  And while I will never find beauty in white vomit, I can find it in the fact that when it finally melts, the Earth will show its greens and blues and pinks and yellows and all the other vibrant colors of the spring.

So when it comes, if you see me doing the Carolina Shag in my tank top and flip flops, and you don't seem to hear any music, that's okay.  Just pull up a chair, grab some vitamin D and vibe to the Otis Redding playing inside my head.  And enjoy the warmth.  Ahhhhhh!

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Bells & Whistles

My friend Marty got a new(er) car.  It's purty, and it's fancy.  It has cool interior lights that glow in different colors when you press a button and a TV screen you can talk to.  I got to ride in it last night when we were on our way to someplace across the state line that neither of us was familiar with.  We were armed with Betty's (that's her car's name) information kiosk, two iPhones with all of the latest Apple has to offer for navigation and direction, and the address of the place.  We were set, right?  Wrong.

Everything was cool until we were about five miles from our destination.  Up until then we were on familiar highways.  Now comes the part where we need some direction from somewhere.  We try talking to Betty first.  Betty is calm and soothing and a good listener.  Right up to the part where she tells us the address doesn't exist.  Now mind you, we are trying to find the First Baptist Church of a sizable town, not an illegal cockfight. 

Everybody knows that the First Baptist Church of pretty much any town is usually bigger than city hall.  Baptists know how to build a church, Honey.  The higher the steeple, the closer to God.  No drinking, no dancing, but they've got parking for 5000 and a sanctuary with ceiling lights you need a crane to change the bulbs in.  Don't tell me the address doesn't exist, Betty.

We move on to the maps app on my iPhone 5.  I can't figure out how to start routing us from our "current location" to the church because I don't KNOW what our current location is.  I don't think telling it "on 350 Hwy between KFC and the Easy Breezy car wash" is going to fly.  Isn't that what satellites are for, for crying out loud?  YOU tell ME what our current location is.

Next I try talking to Siri.  If you read my blog, you know how I feel about Siri.  If you don't, and you don't care to read up, Siri doesn't get me.  And I don't like Siri.  The Bible teaches us to love everyone, but Siri isn't a person, so in my opinion, I can think unkind thoughts about her and keep my salvation.

Siri is at first confused by my overly-complicated command of "navigation to First Baptist Church of (city's name)"  Can you smell the sarcasm here?  She comes up with some instructions for knitting a sock monkey, but not directions to the church.  I simplify the command.  She then comes up with the names of 44 churches in the area, one of them being our destination.  She says to "tap the right location".  I tap.  And tap again.  Harder. TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP  Nothing. 

Knowing that touch phones are sensitives little wussies and don't like cold fingers, I stick my fingers between my warm butt cheek and the heated seat for a few seconds.  Tap.  TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP  Nothing.  I have my friend try.  Tap.  TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP  Nothing.  Siri is such a b.....ig waste of time.

I hearken back to my Android phone days and open Google maps.  Google has NEVAH let me down.  I type in our destination, Google springs to life, finds our current location (PTL!) and immediately sets us on our way.  Two blocks later, we are faced with a one way bridge with big signs saying "Do Not Enter".

At this point, if I were driving, I would have made sure I didn't see any cars on approach, said a prayer, and floored it across that bridge.  I can see on the map that this road leads directly to the church, so I'm not going to let a little thing like one-way traffic stop me.  But I'm not driving, and my friend has owned Betty for all of about two hours, so she opts to go around the bridge.  Wimp.

We are now in a desolate part of town full of warehouses, barbed wire fences and bad lighting.  I'm pretty sure this is where the torture scenes of the movie Reservoir Dogs were filmed.  However, Google faithfully leads us out of the Tarentino district and back onto the main road.  A few miles later, it tells us we have "arrived" at our destination.  Which is a field.  No steeple, no cross, no Baptists. Just grass and tumbleweeds.  Dang, Google. You let me down, and I am broken hearted.  

I try and save some face for Google by telling my friend that Google is so advanced that this is probably the "future home of the First Baptist Church" and that they just haven't broken ground yet.  She's not buying it.  I tried.

We drive a little further down and do a u-turn, and BAM!  Appearing to us suddenly out of the fog and confusion is (cue the "Hallelujah Chorus") the First Baptist Church in all of its steepled, four story glory!!  We are giddy, we are celebrating, we are woo-hooing, we going to a funeral visitation at a Baptist church, so we'd better simmer the heck down and rein it in.

After all of that, we decide it confirms what we already knew.  For women over forty, sometimes a lot of technie bells and whistles is just a big colossal waste of time.  Nothing beats a simple approach, like pulling over at the Phillips 66 and asking the counter dude where the biggest church in town is.  In our high-tech world, sometimes we forget that.  So Siri can shove it, and Betty can keep her information kiosk.  But I still think her color changing cup holders are pretty cool.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: The HH's Fashion Sense

I love my Handsome Husband dearly and more deeply every year we are married.  But anyone who's been married a while knows that loving your spouse certainly doesn't mean loving everything about them.  One of the things I can't affectionately embrace is the HH's fashion sense.  Or complete lack thereof.

Now before you go defending him, let me first tell you that I was the clear victim of a bait and switch.  When we first started dating a dozen or so years ago, he was the most dapper dude you would ever want to see.  Custom fit suits, designer sweaters and jeans, hair perfectly coiffed, the guy was a walking Kenneth Cole catalogue.  He was even known to pop into a nail salon for a manly-cure every now and again.  A true metrosexual, and I was head over heels for such a suave presentation in such a young man. 

But apparently when he said, "I do" to me two years later, he said, "I do NOT know how to dress myself anymore" to the rest of the world.  Don't get me wrong, thanks to my shopping prowess, he still has a very nice wardrobe.  His challenge lies in shoving aside the clothes in the closet that are best suited for things like working on cars and impersonating the homeless and getting TO the dapperware.  Or in combining items from the dapperware collection so that he comes across as looking stylish and well put together and not like he got dressed in the dark.

Trust me when I tell you that the HH does NOT see the problem.  He seemingly lacks a fundamental understanding that very few husband do have and that all wives definitely have that when a man walks out into the world wearing a wedding ring, he and his clothing are no longer a reflection on just himself. 

It doesn't matter if his wife actually signed off on his wardrobe choice that day or not, every woman and gay man he comes into contact with asks themselves, "Why in the name of sweet baby Moses did his wife let him out of the house dressed like that?"  Now please note that this observation is made solely by those two groups. 

If you asked a straight man to tell you what the HH was wearing, he would say "clothes".  Ask for more details, and he may add "a hat" or "tennis shoes".  Guys just do not give a rip what other guys are wearing.  When it comes to what impact their clothing will have on others, single men dress for single women.  Single women dress for single men.  Married women dress for other women, and married men dress in what their wife laid out on the bed.

I try and pick my battles.  If we are headed to the Mayor's Christmas party for example, you had better believe I am picking out his clothes from his tie all the way down to his underwear.  And yes, our outfits will be color-coordinated.  Not so much so that we look like we are back up singers in the Neil Diamond tribute show in Branson, but just so that what we are wearing isn't on opposite sides of the color wheel.

If we are headed, say, to the ball fields or the swimming pool, he is given latitude to come up with his own ensemble.  But if he opts for a ball cap that looks and smells like he wiped his hands on it after he finished cleaning a fish, or white calf-length socks and rubber clogs with his swimsuit (true story), not only will I walk ten paces ahead of him from the car to the venue and back, but I will be struck with a sudden case of marital amnesia if he tries to talk to me while we are there.

I definitely get that while the clothes do make the man on the outside, they really have nothing to do with the more important things like his heart and his character.  I am grateful to love and be loved every day by my HH, even if impeccable taste to him is more about Guy Fieri than Guy Laroche. 

So if you know him and see him out and about and in something that is less than fashionable, realize that behind the man is a woman who does what she can each day to resurrect his love and passion for his former fashion conscious side, while counting her blessings at the same time that after so many years, his love and passion for her remains.  He may be at times a candidate for the show "What NOT to Wear", but he's MY fashion misfit, and I wouldn't trade him in for a more stylish model any day.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Field Trips

I loved field trips as a kid.  Who didn't, right?  You got out of class, out of the school, onto a bus and off on an exciting adventure.  Didn't matter where you went.  The whole world took on a new perspective.  Look, we're on the highway!  Hey, there's a cat!  Whoa, I'm not wearing a seat belt!  

I have never understood the lack of safety restraints in school buses, even when I was a kid.  In third grade, I went so far as to write the then newly-elected President Reagan (shut up) asking him why there weren't any seat belts on them.  Six weeks later I got an official "pat on the head" form letter from The White House thanking me for writing.  Enclosed with it was some literature about coping with childhood fears about nuclear war.  Uhhhh, thanks Ronnie.  Good to know your staff was in touch with the youth of America.

Now I'm a mom, and I get a different perspective of field trips as a chaperone.  Don't get me wrong, I looooove having these experiences with my kids and making memories out of them.  I am also very blessed to be a SAHM so I can go on the field trips.  If there is a sign up sent home, I am all over it, and woo hoo, let's go!

When you and the other chaperones arrive for the pre-field trip ops meeting with the teacher, you're usually given a list with a group of kids that you are assigned to herd, uh, lead.  As the PTA prez at my kids' school, I have come to know the other kiddos in each of their respective grades pretty darn well.  Most of the other PTA moms know them too.  We listen to the teacher's spiel, and as soon as her back is turned, we get down to comparing groups.  Sometimes this leads to negotiations as intense and shrewd as those of Arab traders.  Example:

"Look, I cannot handle having Johnny Smith in my group.  When we went on the theater field trip, he kept taking old gum from under the seats and chewing it.  Seriously grossed me out.  If you will take him, I'll take Tommy Thompson from yours.  I know he gets carsick and threw up on you on the bus last time"

"Okay, I will trade you Tommy for Johnny but raise you Susie Simmons.  She talks in-cess-ant-ly, and I ended up with a migraine on the pumpkin patch field trip"

"Aw, sheesh.  Alright, I will take Susie.  But you're emptying the recycle bin in the staff lounge for a month"

"Deal"

*fist bump*

Since I know the kids well and the teacher knows this, I usually end up with a couple of the more "behaviorally challenged" kids in my group.  But no problem, it's cool.  I am here to help!  I put on my super hero cloak of optimism and start out by high five-ing my kiddos and letting them pick out a kick butt name for our group, like "The Cheetahs" and give themselves all awesome nicknames.  This shows them I am WAY more fun and hip than the other chaperones, and hey, aren't you glad you're in my group?  Cuz I'm sure glad you're in mine!  Woo hoo!

Yeah okay, fantasy, meet reality.  By the end of the field trip, I'm so sick of saying things like, "Cheetahs, hands at your sides!", "Indiana Jones, eyes on me!", "Black Knight, the sign says 'Restricted Area' for a reason!" x 200 that I voluntarily take a vow of silence for the rest of the day. 

Plus I have a pounding headache from trying to keep four kids who all want to go in four separate directions together for three hours.  Seriously, take a box of four cats, dump them out in the middle of Grand Central Station, and then try and keep track of all of them.  This is what chaperoning four eight-year-old boys at a museum is like.

Public school teachers are the most underpaid group of people in the history of civilization since the Jews built the Pyramids in Egypt.  After three hours of field trip mania, I am ready to treat all the chaperones to a liquid lunch at the local bar.  (I don't because: a) I'm not much of a drinker, and b) I'm too cheap.  But still, you get my point.) 

While we chaperones can sprint from the bus as soon as it hits the curb at school and into the nearest sound deprivation chamber, the teachers still have half a day of instruction to complete.  They have to take twenty plus over-stimulated kids into the classroom and get them to FOCUS and LEARN.  Wow.  That's amazing.  I can barely get the Boy Child to FOCUS and LEARN for fifteen minutes worth of homework each night.  And he usually ends up not speaking to me, and I usually end up looking like this:




That would be why I don't home school and why I will tell any legislator who will give me fifteen seconds of their time that spending for public education and educators' salaries needs to be increased exponentially.  But that's another whole other blog post!

The bottom line is that I love my kids to death, and I really am very enamored of their fellow students as well.  Every field trip is an adventure, and my kids and I are making memories to last for their life time.  As one of my Cheetahs said to me on the last field trip, "You always come with us.  You are always here at school.  Why do you do that?"  I told him it's because, for me, the whole reason why I became a mom was not to have my child say, "I wish you were there", but instead to say, "I'm so glad you were with me". 

I know every parent can't be there for everything their child wants them to, but I will move mountains to try to be there for mine.  If it's important to them, it's important to me.  Some day they will have their own kids, and I hope they move mountains to be there for theirs as well.  By then I will have been officially retired for many years from cat herding duty, er, field trip chaperoning, and enjoying the fruits of my labor by being the kookiest granny ever to my grandbabies.  Just you wait!  ;-)

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Siri

I am new to the iPhone world.  I was a die hard Droid girl for years, but when the new model came out, and it was about the same size as the Girl Child's Kindle, I thought it may be time to explore other options.  After about two months of back and forth on different phones (I take my phone purchases VERY seriously), I decided to go ahead and finally, FINALLY drink the Apple-flavored Kool-Aid.

Let me just stop and point out that the Fall of Man back in the day was caused by an apple. Now Applephiles, stand down!  I'm not calling either of those Mac dudes the anti-Christ or anything.  But given the fact that when that sweet day of Rapture finally comes, 84% the world will likely be clutching an Apple product in their humbled hands, I'm just saying, it's quite a coincidence that the Beginning and the End have that particular piece of fruit in common.  Mmmm hmmm. You can talk amongst yourselves about that one when you're done reading my post.

So when I got my iPhone, like most of you, I didn't download the 572 page instruction manual.  Instead, I just poked at the phone, bugged my friends who already have iPhones and Googled and muddled my way through the set up and features.  That's how I met Siri. 

If you're among the 16% of the people in the world who don't own some sort of handheld Apple product, according to the manufacturer, Siri is supposed to be the magical person with all of the answers who manages your life.  Now according to MY manufacturer, that person is my Heavenly Father, and it becomes apparent very quickly that Siri falls even more woefully short than the rest of us when compared to the Almighty.

We'll start with the fact that, despite sounding like a woman, Siri is actually a man.  How do I know this?  Ask "her" the question, "Where is the closest shoe store to me?", and "she" responds with the name of a orthopedic shoe store and asks you if you want "her" to "search the web" for more places.  Really, why bother?  I will pull on a pair of wool socks, slip into my Birkenstocks, throw my rain bonnet and Feen-A-Mint into my pocketbook and walk around until I find another one. 

And I love how Siri "personalizes" your experience by throwing in your name at the end of whatever "she" says.  If "she" knew me at all, "she" would, never, ever, EVAH put "orthopedic", "shoes" and "Deborah" in the same sentence.  *full body shudder* 

Yes, I get the fact that even I will someday get old and frail, and walking around in 5" heels will put me at serious risk for a broken hip.  That's what my blinged out Jazzy will be for Honey!!  I may not be able to stand in my stilletos when I'm eighty, but I sure can ride around in them.  *sparkle snap*

On the other hand, if I ask Siri, "When is the next men's basketball game for Harvard University?", not only does "she" pop right back up with the answer, it's in a cool little graphic with stats and a direct link to more information.  Woman, my behind.

Moving on to Siri's abilities to transpose what I say to her(him) into a text or an email.  Let me preface this by saying that I am not a drinker, and I am from the midwestern United States.  Therefore, I am not slurring my words or hacking up the English language by speaking it with an indecipherable accent.  Bonus for Siri; I am even an Articulate Enunciator.  (I really should add that to my Facebook profile information.)

Given all of this, "she" can still take a sentence as simple as "Please pick up a gallon of 2% milk on your way home" and translate it into "Please muck up the salon to do person melts in our gay home".   While I do rock at "Mad Gabs", the recipient of my text or email may not possess the same skill set as I.

I could go on, and no, Siri doesn't get it wrong ALL of the time I deal with her(him), but s(he)'s consistently inconsistent enough of the time to drive me nuts.  I will use this feature of my phone only when I'm feeling especially patient and calm (which is pretty much limited to the first hour after I come out of savasana at the end of a yoga practice), and the rest of the time, I will go back to my pre-Kool-Aid days of actually typing stuff out while looking it up online.  I guess it still beats the olden days of phone books and card catalogues.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Being a "Supportive", Not a "Stepford" Wife

If you read my blogs posts regularly, you know I'm pretty enamored of my Handsome Husband.  Are there times when he does (or doesn't do) stuff that seriously tempts me to freak the freak out?  Certainement.  But when you look at the overall picture, after thirteen years together, he still makes me want to bust into Mary Wells's classic, "My Guy". 

Why did I reference a song that's almost fifty years old instead of something more contemporary?  It's because to some of you, my views on what being a supportive wife means may be as out-of-date as you think that song is.  I am an Ephesians 5:22 girl.  For those of you not familiar with the verse, here it is in The Message translation, along with the two verses following it. 

"Wives, understand and support your husbands in ways that show your support for Christ.  The husband provides leadership to his wife the way Christ does to his church, not by domineering, but by cherishing. So just as the church submits to Christ as he exercises such leadership, wives should likewise submit to their husbands."

Right now, the fellas are probably thinking that all sounds pretty good.  Those of you ladies who maybe haven't done much Bible studying, please, stick with me here!  These instructions are not for you to be a robot moving thoughtlessly through life doing your husband's bidding. 

It speaks of a partnership and an equal commitment to trust each other and God completely.  If we are in a marriage where one person is giving as much of themselves as the other person is, a perfect balance can be achieved.  Both spouses are mindfully doing what they can to better the life of the other person.

A husband who looks at his wife with the same kind of love and tenderness as Christ does the church is always putting her needs ahead of his own.  It delights him to see her happy.  He doesn't look to dominate her, but to protect her and put himself between her and anything that could harm her or cause her pain.

When you have a husband who does this, giving him all your support and devotion is easy.  You know he makes faith-based decisions as to what is best for your family.  He does seek you out for counsel and advice, and your input and your feelings are very important to him.  But you know that he seeks God first and foremost, and also, that God has never, ever let your family down. 

As long as He is leading your husband's heart, following behind is never an issue.  In fact, you are glad to be in that position when faced with the world's adversity.  God is triumphantly leading the charge, and your husband is following in His footsteps while leading, shielding and protecting you and your children.

I spent a great deal of my early life feeling abandoned and alone.  I desperately wanted God to feel real to me, but I really wasn't actively seeking Him.  I also wanted someone in my life who would love me not for what I gave them, but because they cherished who I was inside.  Someone that I could lean against when the world came at me, and they would always be at my side. 

My husband and I came together not for all the right reasons or in the best of circumstances, but very much unbeknownst to us, God had a plan.  It wasn't a five-year plan, or a ten-year plan, but one for a lifetime.  We haven't always been consistent, but He has.  We haven't always put our marriage first, but He has.  We haven't always had all the answers, but He has.

We have come so far with God's favor and blessing and with a LOT of hard work and perseverance.  I think back to the man my husband was on our wedding day and the man he is today, and I am amazed and humbled and blessed by who God has transformed him into being.  He is my partner and someone I can't imagine doing one day of my life without.

I support him not because God tells me I should, but because it is completely consistent with who we have become.  My husband cherishes me, which compels me to follow him, which makes him cherish me more, and on it goes.  The ebb and flow becomes as natural as breathing and as perfect as anything that is ordained by God.

We are human, and we do fall short, but we know one thing we will never do in our marriage is fail.  We have faced and overcome so many things in the past that would easily shatter a relationship that is not based upon a strong faith in God and in each other.  I am blessed every day to be loved and led in my life by this man.  I'm even more blessed that God loved me enough to lead me to my husband and to the beautifully simple and precious life we now share.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Being a Drug Idiot

Unfortunately for some people, they are drug addicts.  I myself am a confessed Drug Idiot.  My friend Cori shares this condition with me.  Drug Idiots are people who are so inexperienced with drug culture and vernacular that whenever anyone references terms for drugs or drug use, we are left as puzzled and out of place as Martha Stewart at a Pantera concert.

Our friend Julie teaches at the local "alternative" high school, and she tries her best to keep Cori and me hip on terms like "chief a fat blunt" and "boot the gong".  (I admit, I Googled "marijuana slang" for the second one.  The first one is the only one Julie has taught us that I could remember so far.  However, I also admit that I don't remember EXACTLY what it means.)

You may be asking yourself why a couple of suburban housewives like Cori and me need to know this stuff anyway.  If we couldn't get the drug lingo down in college, why would we need the information now?  The answer is because we are parents of kids who will eventually be exposed to drugs. 

Now please, if you don't think marijuana is a drug, save your time, and don't send me a Power Point of your argument.  I live in Kansas, and possessing it is still illegal here, and I hope it always will be.  Also, unless you are smoking it under doctor's orders to relieve the pain from the side effects of your cancer treatment, you aren't going to convince me that one good thing ever came into your life from using it or any other illegal drug.

When it comes to our kids and drugs, ignorance is most certainly NOT bliss.  Not knowing what is out there and available to our children in today's world, how it is referred to, and how it is obtained is just plain dumb.  The ostrich in the sand routine was okay when your toddler was having a meltdown, and you couldn't reason with them.  Taking the same path of silence and withholding attention when it comes to who and what is trying to ruin the health and the lives of our teens and even pre-teens is not.

It's our responsibility as caring and concerned parents to take the time to become familiar with what temptations our kids could be facing in a short time.  The first time I was offered drugs as a kid was in 7th grade.  SEVENTH GRADE.  Some of you may fault the fact that I went to a public school made up mainly of students whose parents had a working-class background and not a private/Christian one located amid a cluster of tony subdivisions.   Brother/Sister, please!  Don't make the mistake of assuming that sex, drugs and rock n' roll are only a part of secular/public schools in the hood or schools located less than a dozen miles from it.  Surely, you're not that naive. 

I think the key to our kids making the right decisions as teens starts with first educating ourselves as to what's out there.  Learn about what they are faced with.  Talk to your pre-teens about drugs, and along with cautioning them against their use of them, sympathize with them as to what kind of pressures may be placed on them to experiment with them.  They need to know that we feel compassion for them and that they can come to us anytime they feel pressured or have questions.

I could write a whole other blog entry on what I think are the keys to keeping a close relationship with your kids and the long-term benefits that has for them (and us) as pre-teens, teens and adults.  Suffice it for now to say that the more they feel that you "get it" and get them, the more likely they are to open up to you about anything.

Another point is that I need to pay closer attention to Julie's lessons on "Drug Culture for Dummies".  (Hey, Jules, there's a book idea for you right there!  I won't take any royalties for it.  Just give me a shout out on the dedication page.  Muah!)  I want to understand what my kids will be facing so that they never, ever end up in her class. 

She's an awesome teacher, and it takes an exceptionally special heart to teach day in and day out in an alternative school.  But I would rather have my kids come first to their dad and mom who are in the know about drugs and alcohol, and for them to find understanding about what they are going through as teens so that, unlike Julie's students, they hopefully make the right choices.

So if you hear me talking about a "clam bake" and wonder wassup with that since I live in a land-locked state, maybe you'd best pick up a copy of Julie's book and get a little more informed there as well, Jack.  That way, when the appropriate time comes, you can educate your kids about drugs and not the other way around.  I think we can agree that's one curve we all want to be ahead of and not behind.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Aldi

I looooooove me some Aldi.  Since Aldi is a worldwide company, I assume my readers in Germany and Poland (and how cool is it that PB&J has an international "following"!) have heard of it, as well as those of you in 'Merica.  If not, do a little research on their website's home page, and then come back and rejoin the group.

Aldi is an experience for all five senses.  Let's start with the parking lot.  I am blessed with a nice car.  It's not nice in the sense that it's something you would play for in the Bonus Round of "Wheel of Fortune", but it's nice in the sense that it's pretty,  has lots of great bells and whistles, and it replaced my dinged up, generic mommyvan that I had and hated for years.  Suffice it to say that I love my car even more than I love Aldi.

So, consequently, the best place to park it is nowhere near other cars.  Let's just say that the general clientele at Aldi doesn't have the same pride of ownership in their vehicles that I do in mine, and I have seen more than one of them swing their car door open with all the force of a bank robber busting into a vault.  Also, given the fact that I also once witnessed (at ten o'clock in the morning, mind you) a guy slam a beer, set the bottle down on the asphalt and drive away, I'd prefer to park in the back forty and get some cardio in while power walking to the front doors.

Let's move along lest I scare off the newbies before we're even inside. Before you go in, you'll need to grab two things from your car, namely, some "green" bags and a quarter.  To save on costs, Aldi doesn't give you anything to bag your groceries.  You can buy bags from them, and occasionally you can rummage a box or two to put your goods in, but these are a hot commodity, and some arm wrestling may be required to win the rights to one.

The quarter is for a deposit on a shopping cart.  Some of you are saying "wha....?" to that, but again, Aldi does it to cut costs.  They are shrewdly taking advantage of the fact that most of us that shop there are serious cheapskates, and we will return our cart to the secured row of them next to the front door in order to get our whole twenty-five cents back.  This prevents the carts from being left in the parking lot, and if the customers logically treat the carts the same way they treat their cars, doing so could lead to some serious profit loss for the company.

Now if you're smart, when you pull in, you're looking for someone who is unloading their cart.  You give them a quarter, and you take theirs, thus avoiding the whole extraction of a cart from the tandem lock system, which worked well in theory and design at the assembly plant, but at the store itself, notsomuch.  At last, you're ready to head in.

Navigating the aisles will require some skill.  You will encounter middle-of-the-aisle parkers and screaming children running amok and ducking and dodging through the carts.  Don't be intimidated.  Move forward in a slow but deliberate way.  Come armed with three weapons to battle the Parkers and the Screamers.  First, try a smile.  If that doesn't work, try an "Excuse me".

As a last resort, try a "befuddled bump".  This is done by staring off to the side at the items on the shelf while gently, but firmly, bumping their cart/child out of the way.  Then when they turn to you in shock and surprise, you look startled and unsure yourself as to what happened, apologize sincerely, and move along what is now a clear path.  Genius.

This may seem like a lot of trouble to some of you.  Believe me when I tell you that Aldi's prices and the cool stuff you find there make it totally worth it!  And I'll bet that a lot of you Trader Joe's freaks didn't know that Aldi owns TJ's.  Mmmm, hmmm.  You can find a lot of the same types of foods at Aldi that you find at TJ's, and they are even cheaper!

I think Aldi keeps that information on the DL because most of the people who shop TJ's wouldn't want to mix it up with us Aldi regulars.  That's okay.  You can keep your Two Buck Chuck, and we'll keep our two buck milk.  Greasers will still be Greasers, and Socs will still be Socs, and if you see us in the hall at school or someplace, and you don't say hi, we know it's not personal.(That's "The Outsiders" for those of you who didn't get the reference.  "Let's do it for Johnny, man!"  Ahhh, great book, great movie.)

Before you check out, be sure to hit the "last chance" bin.  This is where my BFF Clarence (see earlier blog post) hangs out.  It is a veritable potpourri of everything from bread mix to pajamas to car mats.  This stuff is even cheaper than the regular cheap Aldi prices.  I have come home with everything from this fabulous area  from Andes mint chocolate chips for thirty cents a bag to a new large stainless steel crock pot for ten bucks.

When you hit the check out lane, you have to shake off your euphoria from the bin bargains you scored and focus.  The check out is run with all the speed and precision of the assembly line at a Toyota plant.  Remove your items from the cart as quickly as possible.  Aldi cashiers don't mess around.  (It's my theory that each of them is made to drink a "5 Hour Energy" and eat a jar of marshmallow fluff thirty minutes before their shift starts.)  Then move your cart rapidly to the end of the conveyor so that they can pull it into place to catch your items.  They zip your items across the scanner so fast, it's invisible to the naked eye.  Don't be distracted by it!

If you're paying by debit card (it and cash are the only forms of payment accepted), swipe your card right away, otherwise the cashier will already be done scanning all your stuff and barking, "Do you want cash back?" at you.  If you hesitate again, (s)he will jerk your card away from you, swipe it, tell you to enter your PIN, and complete your transaction for you.  (I've never been guilty of this, but I've seen this done, and it's not pretty.  The person walks away in shame with a scarlet "A" of a different kind on their forehead.)  Then roll your cart away promptly to the counter for bagging your groceries, take care of business, and head for the back forty and the car.

The roller coaster of emotions and diorama of experiences may leave you in need of a post-Aldi nap, but the whole trip is so worth it.  If you are an Aldi lover like me, you whole-heartedly agree.  If you just don't get it, that's okay too.  Aldi may not be for everyone, but this chica just can't get enough of the place.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Growth & "Development"

The Girl Child cannot wait to get into a bra.  I subscribe to the belief that before you purchase one, you have to have something to put in it.  Unfortunately for her, if she follows my rate of physical growth and development, that will have us shopping for training bras and her first formal at the same time.

I may have ended up being blessed in the general area where a child sitting on your lap likes to rest their head, but that blessing was the result of about 25% nature and 75% nurturing at the hand of a very skilled plastic surgeon.  Sorry if that's an overshare, but if you weren't scared off by the title of this blog post, you probably aren't clutching your pearls over that revelation. 

Also, I am all about keeping it real.  Well, when it comes to my character anyway.  I own up to what "work" I had done, and in the interest of full disclosure, everything else on me is au natural from the color of my hair down to the toes peeking out of my 5" heels.

Back to the subject.  I am keeping my fingers crossed that the GC will follow in her Nana and Grammie's footsteps when it comes to her development.  The Boob Fairy was very, very good to my mom and grandmother.  Apparently, I did something to tick Her Fairyness off, and while she loaded a lot of air into her pneumatic sparkle gun when she visited Teen Nana and Teen Grammie in the night, she packed only enough when she came to my bedside to inflate a beach ball for my Teen Barbie.  Either that, or the battery pack on her air gun died, I don't know.  The bottom line is that when, as a teen, I heard someone reference "mosquito bites", I usually knew they weren't talking about something itchy on their arm.

So here's hoping that the Boob Fairy's wrath, or failed equipment, or whatever it was with me, skips a generation and that she is generous with the GC when the time comes.  Now don't get me wrong, I'm in no way saying that a bountiful bosom in the key to happiness in life or anything.  I just know that if the Fairy is stingy with the GC, ultimately she is going to make comparisons to me, and those comparisons will lead to questions.

How am I supposed to convince her that she is physical perfection in my eyes (and she is and will always be) and that should be in her own eyes as well if I altered the very thing about myself that she may feel insecure about?  I will do it by coming clean about what I had done, why I did it at the time, and why, if I had it to do over, I wouldn't do it again.

My reason for having that alteration at twenty-eight was because I had yet to overcome the insecurities that ultimately led me to a surgeon's table.  Thank the Lord, I had no complications during or following the surgery.  But it lead to other issues down the line when it came to my babies, and that alone made the procedure 100% not worth it in my eyes.

Plus, the surgery changed the way I looked, but it definitely didn't change who I was and who I have become.  Every abundant blessing God has ever given me in my life has come to me because of my heart, mind and spirit and not because of my physical appearance.  My appearance may have turned my husband's head the first time he saw me, but it alone certainly hasn't made him stay with me for thirteen years.  Everything I am proud of and everything I have accomplished in my life are the result of gifts that God has blessed me with that have nothing to do with my physical being. 

And that's what I'll tell the GC anytime she is feeling awkward or insecure about anything regarding hers.  The best growth and development that you experience in life have everything to do with with putting your energy and your faith into improving not what the wrong people appreciate only on the outside, but into what the right people see who take the time look inside and appreciate who you REALLY are.

Our daughters have so many beautiful gifts inside their hearts and minds.  As their moms AND dads, let's do what we can now to encourage them in those things first.  A strong sense of self and of character can overcome anything they are faced with in life, even a personality/equipment malfunction by the Boob Fairy.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: Commuter Sign Language

It's been a loooong time since I commuted to work.  Granted my semi re-entry into the work force consists of just two mornings a week teaching yoga, but it's still almost a twenty mile drive on the highway with the other commuter-type people to get to the karate school where I teach.

This morning, I got schooled in their sign language.  I admit, I started it.  I love me some K-LOVE on the radio, and nothing gets my praise and worship on like Chris Tomlin.  Today, it was "Our God".  If you're not familiar with this song, take a listen.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_t_87NyHx0  Unless you're an atheist (and I highly doubt you are if you're reading a blog with "Jesus" in the title), you can't help but get a little pumped up by this song.  I get a LOT pumped.

So I'm driving down I-35 with the radio cranked, raising my hand in praise (gotta keep one on the steering wheel), singing at the top of my lungs, intermittently pointing toward heaven and beating my fist on the wheel during the "bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah-bah" part of the song.  This behavior provokes a very diverse reaction from the people in the vehicles around me.

Some apparently think I'm in the throes of some sort of seizure and move their car to the lane furthest from mine.  Others think I am waving to them and give a half-hearted or even an occasional enthusiastic wave back in their rear view mirror.  Both of these groups tickle me.  It's kinda fun when people think you're off your rocker. (Just wait until I get old, and I'm assigned my requisite Buick.  Then I am really going to be a hoot on the road!)

Then there are those who seem to believe that I am in a rant about the way they are driving and start giving me their own sign language.  These gestures are not indicative of any sort of gratitude for the feedback they think I am giving them.  In fact, what they are doing with their hands and mouth can't be interpreted in any positive way whatsoever.  I won't get graphic or go into details.  Let's just say that I think my car, my intellect and my mother were all being insulted.

For the peeps in the first two groups, you're welcome!  I am bringing a little joy to your morning drive by giving you a lil something to look at other than billboards and the SCOUT signs.  To the people in the last group, I can only say WOW.  I am not at ease knowing that folks with anger management issues are barreling down the highway in vehicles that weigh several tons, and dang y'all, I'm gonna be praying for you!

But no matter which group surrounds me on the road, it's not going to stop me from doing my thing in my car.  So if you see me on the highway flipping and flailing around inside my vehicle, don't be concerned.  Just honk and smile and give me a thumbs up.  Heck, turn your radio to K-LOVE and join me.  After all, I shouldn't be the one having all the fun on the road.

Sparkly Kisses,

D

My Thoughts on: The New Year

I'm not going to lie, 2012 isn't going down as the best year of my life.  Yes, my family was blessed with wonderful health all year, and we all know what a gift that is.  I also became an auntie again, and I reached a personal goal of running my first (and probably only) half marathon to name a couple of other highlights.

But in a lot of other ways, 2012 was the Year of the Drag-On.  Toward the last few weeks of the year, it caused me to reevaluate the direction I and my family were moving in and to figure out what I wanted to purge from my life and not carry with us into 2013.

I won't go into details of the process because they aren't important.  What is is the fact that as I turned forty, I realized that the simpler life is, the better it is.  You really don't need much in life to be happy.  Happiness for me starts with doing life with God.  Tried it on my own, and trust me, He is a MUCH better life coach than I am. 

Add in my partner, my Handsome Husband.  Over the course of our marriage, we haven't always gotten it right.  There were even times when it was going very wrong.  But we stayed in there, we fought and we never once lost that fundamental love for one another that brought us together in front of a preacher eleven years ago.

I was walking the track at the gym yesterday cooling down after my run, and there was a couple, both of whom had Down's syndrome, running together.  She was struggling to keep going, and she told him, "I can't do it, I'm not going to make it".  He looked back and slowed his pace until he was in step with her.  He took her hand and said, "Yes, you can because we are doing it together.  I'll stay with you, I'm not going to leave you, and we will make it.  I love you!"

Being the big baby that I am, I started boo hooing.  It struck me that their exchange was right in line with the simplicity with which we all should be doing life.  That man didn't gripe at her, tell her she should just suck it up, or say too bad for her, she could quit running, but he was going on without her.  She was uncertain, she was feeling bogged down, and without even having to think about it, he slowed down to encourage her and give her the motivation to continue.  Pure and simple.  Perfection.

We need to stop overcomplicating life and trying to force it, push it and contort it into something it's not meant to be.  It has to be more honest and authentic across the board.  In our marriages, our parenting, our friendships and other relationships, and most importantly, in our relationship to God. 

It's time to take a look at life and trim the fat.  Seek out and spend time with people who encourage you, who bring out the best in you and who sincerely want the best FOR you, and who add to your life value and don't take from it.

I don't believe in reincarnation.  For me, this is it until the blessed day that God calls me home.  While I'm on this earth, I need to be finding a way to make every moment purposeful and to order my steps so that they are in harmony with His plan for me.  I want my partner in step with me as well, and every move we make has to be in sync and in agreement with God. 

Not only for our own peace and well being, but because walking in our foot steps are two children that we have been given the responsibility to raise.  We pray that they will leave our home as adults who have their lives, hearts and steps in order as well.  That outcome first depends on how we are walking out our lives now as we lead them in theirs.

So as you start the new year, if you are the type to make resolutions, resolve to live simpler.  Make it about you and your relationship to God and to the people He wants in your life.  Give of yourself to the world, but draw the line at giving anything of your heart that isn't authentic and honest or that tries to take your steps out of order with His.

I recently came across a quote from Mother Teresa that I just love. "The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway. For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.”

Live simpler, and you live better.  And that will lead us all to a truly Happy New Year.

Sparkly Kisses,

D