If the Shoe Fits Size Two

I had the rare pleasure of buying myself some new shoes a couple of weeks ago. I say "pleasure" rather tongue-in-cheekish because (if you know anything about me) you know I hate (read loathe) to shop. (Which explaineth the rarity of said "pleasure"). Any well, I went straight for the size that I've worn for all adulthood and found several not so high-heeled, not so pricey, not too limited color-wise and sat down to try on my selections.

And to my delight, not a single one of them fit.

I returned to the shelves and picked up smaller size, slipped it on before I got comfy and nope...still too big. Wow. Cool. My feet have really shrunk.

Now, somewhere in the area otherwise known as my brain...where the knowledge dwells and thinking is (in theory) supposed to happen...the realization has already occurred. I've lost 175 pounds so, yeah, my old shoes have become looser and I connected that to shrinkage happening all over and not just to my butt. However, the reality of it, or rather the proof of it is far sweeter. Seriously, my feet lost a size or two depending on the shoe. Like I said, sweet!

That brain to body connection gets broken down in lots of areas. It's like there's this highway from self-image to reality and this highway has detours in to necks of the wood where reality is not at all welcome. Your hurtful past and your distorted self-image are there sitting on the porch of a post-Katrina-esque shack all gussied up in tattered overalls, scratching their bloated bellies and swigging moonshine. Reality has a not-so-firm grip on your arm and is tapping you on the shoulder for all its worth, begging you to get out of there NOW because reality hears the banjos playing. All the while those inbred goons are waving a shotgun in your face and telling you white lies through 3 black teeth and a wicked smile. And for reasons known only to your heart you continue to walk right in to their disinuring web of deception.

I’ve said it before, what I see in the mirror and what I am in reality are often uncharted miles apart.
And more often how others see me and how I view myself are as different as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Yes, I am the cynical sort. Not the glass is half-empty kind. No, I see the positive in life, I just don't think I'm really the recipient of the positive. Or that the positive is what it appears to be. So, even if the glass is half-full doesn't mean I get to drink from it. And I'm going to doubt the actual fullness of said glass until the water is poured out, measured, weighed and the glass is refilled and handed back to me. Then maybe I will believe that I get to have the glass and drink the water too. But, I tarry on the wrong rabbit trail...

You would think the more time that passes in this new body of mine, the more I would grow used to the new view. But words that are now ascribed to me are as unfitting and unfamiliar to me as those size 9 1/2 shoes. Words like: skinny, tiny, little and phrases such as you are an inspiration to me, you look amazing, I hate you, I want to look like you, cause me to turn to see just who the heck they are talking to because, surely, it’s not me. This isn’t me pretending to be humble and this isn’t me fishing for compliments, this is out and out disbelief because I just don’t see it that way at all. Nor do I believe it. (Remember the half-full glass? Of course you do...)

No matter that it has been nearly 16 months since my surgery. Or that I'm now a size 4 and have been for 3 or 4 months. Size FOUR I said. Something I never, ever, ever, ever dreamed possible. No matter that I am physically capable of doing anything and everything that I want to do, whereas before even thinking of attempting any level of activity would have rendered me breathless, immobile from pain or dead of cardiac arrest. No matter. The words are foreign and I don’t speak the language.

This is due to the fact that the weight loss surgery didn't occur in my brain. That operation does not happen once and its over with, whew I'm cured. Nope, this is a medicine I have to take daily like a good girl. Sometimes I refuse the treatment and suffer the consequences.

And for those who think weight loss surgery is the easy route, you should know that there are no easy routes in life. You may start down that seemingly easy road, but the banjos will catch up to you my friend. And if you want to escape the outcome you and reality will have to paddle faster.

And frankly my dears, it’s all just a bit scary. Not the banjos. Well, yes the banjos are scary but I am going somewhere else...Scary because seriously, you want to look like ME? I inspire YOU? You HATE me because I’m skinny? Inconceivable. Oh people, if you only knew.

There is within me a fierce insecurity with regards to how I look now, more so than when I weighed 315 lbs. I was far more comfortable cloaked in my layers of fat, protected and cushioned from the world’s eyes along with its expectations and ideas. And while I’d like to believe that I do not and will not cater to the world, truth is I find that I very much do. And while I long to be free of the desire for man’s approval, that desire sits there along with my self-image and my past, both daunting and taunting me. Quite a motley crew, those three are.

So now I am learning to make peace with both the reflection and the reality. Connecting who it is I think I am with who I want to be. I think, basically, that is life daily for all on planet Earth.





Go figure.

Oh, and yes I found shoes. Not these though...
















(not my foot)

Those beauties - according to my bff - are for all the anime hookers out there...

Empty Nexter

I'm standing in the middle of my favorite grocery store and I've been shopping for quite some time now. My basket is, for all intents and purposes, more than full. I stand, looking over my selections, watching the other shoppers. They appear enraptured with their selections, their carts, their choices...just their being there. Yawn.

Some are genuinely happy and I envy them. In my heart there is a longing to feel that happiness, that sense of contentment they seem to get from just being there. I don't understand it anymore. I used to, but now I am so very bored with it all. I've seen everything, over and over. I've snacked on the samples. I've gone home with and gorged on probably every item available to me in hopes that I will finally feel that proverbial illusive happiness only to realize I'm not content at all. I am still so very, very empty.

I walk up and down each aisle looking for what it is I feel I am missing. There is a clue here somewhere. Something they have in their cart that I don't have. Surely.

Some offer a specific item they are sure will answer my dilemma. I used to toss those into my cart with hopeful eagerness. But at this point in my journey I no longer think another item in my cart will make a difference to the balance, one way or the other. My appetite waned, my interest unmotivated.

I feel like walking away. No, scratch that. I feel like running away. Screaming. The urge to flee is so very strong. I want to leave the basket there and never return. What's the use? What purpose does this or that item serve. I no longer care about the contents or what happens to me if I don't purchase them. I no longer care to be here. I am empty. My heart screams NEXT!!??!!??

This is how it's been for some time now. It's not the store; I've been to many different stores. And it's not the contents of the basket; it's all healthy choices, no Twinkies or chips - not that an occasional Twinkie or bag of chips is bad mind you - but I don't even crave those things. I am empty. And I want next.

This is my walk in the Christian life of late. I am bored. Bored with Christianity, bored with church, bored with the reasons I am bored and bored with the answers to my boredom.

I am empty and I am screaming NEXT!?!?!?!

Yes, I work at a church. Yes, I attend this church and love this church. I love the God I worship and serve. I have no question of who He is or if He is or where He is. I've no question of my faith, the validity of my religion or the truth of Christ. All that is very solid, very real.

I know His word. I've read His word over and over. I've sat at His feet and desperately clung to His cross pleading for more of Him. He knows all of this because I talk to Him in very real terms on a daily basis.

And yet, I am empty. Next?

I'm not sure where this post is going or what my point is other than to put it out there. I know others feel the same because I've had this conversation with quite a few people. Christians bored with Christianity.

There is no answer you can give me. I am not asking for a solution or even your solution. No need to invite me to visit your grocery store. No sense in me envying or borrowing what you have in your cart. No need to figure out what snack, ingredient or even recipe I should try now. Nope. Been there. Done that. Next?

Weight Bearing Walls

During the first 4 months after my weight-loss surgery the pounds rapidly melted off of me as if a magician were pulling pound after pound after pound from his sleeve then a wave of his hand and a tap of his wand, voila! Gone. Each day I greeted the scale with a smile and it always, always, smiled back. *Sigh* We had such a good thing. At least that is how I remember it.

Now I hate the damned thing. Alas, a little too much time together and the newness of a relationship wears thin. The magic is exposed for the slight of hand illusion that it is and the memories, once cherished, are now seemingly empty and worthless.

We quarrel constantly - rarely seeing eye to eye on anything that should matter between us. I long to see it, so we meet and it quickly goes bad and I'm back to calling it off - for good this time. We've tried time apart, seeing others and seeing one another only on certain days of the week. Sadly, nothing seems to bring repair to our broken relationship.

It and all it stands for and in between, torments me. So much so, I've named the scale Dementor. Soulless and soul-sucking it feeds on my positive emotions, my happiness and my good memories. Whenever I'm in it's presence I relive my worst memories. I could devour a hunk of chocolate after our dates and I regularly scream Expecto Patronum! at its cold, dark self.

So why continue on with the wretched affair? I can only say it is done so in hopes that this time it will be different. I mean there are still moments when it is actually good between us, telling me what it thinks I want to hear. Teasing me with just enough affection that I, despite everything else, want to stick around.

But, for the past 4? weeks my scale has read the same number, over and over, to me. Although I know the inches are moving (because my clothes grow steadily baggier) I long with all my heart for the number to decrease. I long for it way, too, much.

I am coming to the realization (yet again) that, this information (not affirmation!) dispensing mechanism holds too much weight in my life. While not truly a weight-bearing wall in the construct of my heart, I treat it as such. Fearful of collapse upon removal and giving it full credit for the support of my entire being. Ah but deep down and truthfully (somewhere), I know it to be a non-weight bearing wall for it only supports itself.

In my mind, I know the number displayed does not display who I truly am, nor could it measure my self-worth or indicate how I should feel. It is a scale and not a thermostat registering the degree of my value on any level. Information, not affirmation.

I know this. But do I live this? No. No, at least not every day. Or even every moment of every day. I am a work in progress. Under renovation, as most of us are. Daily I am breaking down the lie of that deceptive wall so that I can have a better view of the truth. In its place, windows and open spaces. More room for lesser things.

So tell me, what holds too much weight in your life? What do you give credit for full structural support where no credit is due? What non-load bearing wall(s) should come down? And what would you do with the space it would create once it's gone?



On my scale I've written the following:

THIS holds no weight.

And I believe it.

Google Me This

As a child I could not abide in even a moment of uncertainty. I passionately hated the unknown and incessantly plagued whoever was around with my interrogation tactics. I was an unceasing dribble of why or why not and a constant drip of what for. My curiosity was the Chinese water torture to my mom's peace and quiet.

So much so, she bought me a series of books poplar in the '70's written by Arkady Leokum. With titles like Tell Me Why, More Tell Me Why, More More More Tell Me Why and Still More Tell Me Why, (Uh, yeah, I didn't write them I just read them) these mini-encyclopedic style books were meant to appease my appetite for knowledge. That, and perhaps she hoped to lighten the ever burgeoning responsibility that had been placed solely upon her shoulders as a single parent. The shaping and guiding of such a young and hungry mind had to have been quite overwhelming. That and she got tired of making up the answers.

What? No really, she did. It's not an ill-reflection of her parenting skills, I promise, that's just what parents did back then. Hello, there was no such thing as Google.

Any way, these books, I could not get enough of them. I would read them for hours and hours. They were the internet, the Wikipedia, and yes, even the Google of my time.

Now, as an adult, the tidal flow of curiosity has not ceased in the least. Constant and persistent, it has remained a part of my life. Whether the queries are my own or my children's, is not the point. The fact remains...with all those books and now the internet, answering our innumerable Tell Me Why's...we have yet to plumb the depths of the inquisitive human brain.

For instance tell me why when my hair started falling out by the handful (due to rapid weight loss after my surgery) it ONLY fell out from my head? Sweet ones, the multitude of hair that persists in growing on my upper lip did not, not even for one hopeful second, thin in the slightest. Au contraire, mon fraire, it continues to grow just as lush, dense and dark as the jungle at night. Nor did the hair anywhere else on my face or body lose it's substance, abundance, denseness, profuseness nor any other adjective I don't particularly care for when discussing hair on anything other than the glorious follicles of vanity that should be covering my near-bald head.

More tell me why my 13 year old could possibly think it wise to voice aloud to my face that I have a huge back and an extremely flat butt. (Sweetie, lets work on those complimentary skills, shall we?)

Still more, tell me why on God's green earth she is still breathing after the voicing of such a statement. Oh, and while you are at it, answer why all of a sudden the idea that my butt might actually be extremely flat kind of really bothers me.

More more more tell me why how she could possibly still be alive - proof that miracles do really happen - when just a few days later she tells me that she likes a certain shirt on me. (that's better baby you are starting to get the idea) *wait for it* because and I quote "it makes you look like you actually have boobs." Oh hon, you know I couldn't breast feed for just that reason.

Here's one for the books Mr. Arkady Leokum, why oh why oh why (oh why) has the hair that has decided to return to my lovely little head, changed not only color (to a beautiful (not!) shade of GRAY thank YOU very MUCH) but changed TEXTURE as well? Suffice it to say, it makes for bad hair days months and I will just go ahead and inform you so you won't have to Google this one, L'Oreal? Oh they lie...it doesn't cover the gray. It just covers every single hair all around the gray ones and leaves those little heralds of aging to stand out like a lighthouse on the shore. (It covers gray like a band-aid covers an elephant's butt.)

Dear Mr. Leokum,

If you would please address the oh-so-very deep, heart felt and provocative questions listed above in your next book of the Tell Me Why series (probably titled - Tell Me Why and I Promise I'll Quit Whining) I would be most appreciative.

Your adoring, and not aged in the least bit fan,
Dana

Act I Scene X

We left our (not so very) brave and beautiful leading lady in the clutches of the ruthless cold villain known as The Smasher, The Crusher, Ice-Ice Booby, Bruiser and Bob. More commonly referred to as "you want me to put my what where so you can do what?".

Ah, but that time has since passed, and these days our loverly heroine lavishes in the luxury of complete peace and quiet mixed with the noticeable absence of drama *cue needle dragging across a record** music, conversation and action come to an abrupt and theatrical stop*

That's what life has been lately - a needle dragging across the record of my life cuing yet another scene of the never ending drama in the One Act Play called Life. Oh of course I know that we aren't supposed to live our lives in a consummate cake walk. That would be boring. What with all the sunshine and good health, geez who could stand it? Well, I for one could stand it just a little bit more of late!

The stage darkens the curtains close and re-open on what we soon realize is a flashback. (as soon as we tell you that is) Flashback: The date, October 10th. Or 9th, no the 8th. Or something. Whatever, it's a Wednesday in October okay? Our beautimous leading lady is heading to the Dr. for her 6 month post surgery follow-up visit, only it's one month late thank you very much Ike.

She is in pain and has been for several days now. Clutching her stomach she patiently awaits her turn however, the pain has become increasingly worse over the past few days and is, at this point, almost unbearable. When she finally sees her Dr. he notices her tortured expression. He asks her a few questions, she answers, he prods her belly and then utters these exact words "blah, blah, hospital" and "something, something, surgery" and "right now" and "something, something, blah, blah, blah".

No! What? No. Wait, I have an exercise class today...I have a family...I need to go back to work...(all very lame excuses - except for the family - but like that made any sense.) Uh, hey Doc...don't you just want me to take some Gas-X and quit being such a baby? You know, this too shall pass and all that? Nope. Surgery. Surgery? Surgery. Gah! So, she obediently heads to the hospital, right after texting her husband and friends of course, and checks herself in.

Surgery happened the next morning. It seems WLS patients can easily get these little things called hernias. Which sound pretty harmless (to me) but can be extremely painful and can become life-threatening if not taken care of.

Our brave (and as some have noted, crazy) actress returned to the job she loves (eh, hem) apparently more than a few extra days off, the following Monday. *the word actress is used here rather than leading lady to denote the fact that this was indeed all an act. Who the heck returns to work that quick after surgery unless they are pretending to be insane? A leading lady would have stayed home and milked that puppy for all its worth*

Then there was the whole Crusher incident with several call backs for more pictures of you know what. Toss in a little scare due to a "questionable area" that looked like someone placed a cotton ball on my x-ray but actually turned out to be nothing. Well, not 'nothing' but nothing of importance. Whew. Rest. Breathe. Yay!

Nope.

Our beloved, brave, beautimous, loverly, insane heroine then decides it's time for an eye exam. Why not? I mean it is the end o' the year. Time to take care of all the body parts.

Eye Dr. does the usual look at this and squint at that. Performs the ever arduous and grueling task where she makes you decide ONE or TWO? TWO or THREE? Dude. DUDE! So much stress...I just know I am going to somehow fail her in my answer. Uh...four? To which she calmly replies, ONE or TWO? TWO or THREE?

After I fail that obstacle course miserably, she informs me there is something wonky with one of my tests. Um...NO.

Seriously? NO MORE DRAMA. I am quitting Broadway and going back to Kansas because this yellow brick road crap ain't fun anymore Toto.

The intra-ocular pressure in my eyes is high and there is significant nerve damage in the right eye. What does it mean Vern? Possibly Glaucoma. Go see a specialist. More tests. More concern. More drama.

Sigh. A heroine's job is never done.

**For my youngER readers a record was an ancient form we primitive elderly persons used to record sound, primarily music. These antiquated relics could be found in the form of what was known as vinyl and were approximately 10 inches across and round. Grooves were formed in the vinyl which, when you placed a needle of a "record player" on the grooves the record, began to play whatever was recorded. The sound was amazing. Not at all like the CD's or MP3's of today's generation. It was as if you were listening to scratchy muffled sound coming out of a can and through a wall. Oh and the crackling, scratching and skipping was a beautiful touch.

Support

More than just a good bra or a pair of Spanx. Support is in those who surround you, those who cheer you when you stand firm, who understand when you fall short and somehow carry you forward against the crushing rush of the tide.

Support is an assorted collection of family, friends and even, sometimes, absolute strangers. Strangers they may be, yet because they've walked in your shoes and you in theirs quite enough in life, these unfamiliar faces ring of familiarity.

Because in them you witness your hard-fought tears slip from their eyes, you hear your selfsame struggles in their voices and recognize the demons they have seen as the very same that have haunted you for years. The scars they bear - some old and barely visible, others fresh and still on the mend - are identical to yours for you have been warriors fighting a parallel battle. Synonymous lives.

I only remember a few of their names but I remember every single face. I remember them because we've come together gathered around a common purpose and have rallied for the same cause. I remember each one, because together we are strengthened by each admission of weakness; we take away a measure of courage in the fact that these weaknesses are normal and only temporary. I remember each face because I look around and I see victory in their expressions. I remember because I hear the triumphs declared in each of the voices. I remember the courage and determination of my circle who, against odds decided long ago, have clawed our way out of the dark prison cells of our own making and in to the light of freedom.

And freedom is a marvelous thing.

The Difference

I step on the scale. 235. Step off. Sigh. Same weight as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.

I have apparently hit what the bariatric surgery world calls a stall. Different than a plateau because it's shorter, only lasting a week or two. But frustrating none the less.

The ironic thing is, so many people have commented on my disappearing act this week. Perhaps it's inches instead of pounds which is still good....but....It's funny how a number, as insignificant as it may be, can give your spirit a lift every day. Just that smidgen of encouragement you need to go on.

I'm not sure how to react to the comments either. Comments such as:

"I don't even recognize you!"
(How do you know you are talking to the right person then???)
"You look like a completely different person!"
(Like who? Can I be Ashley Judd?)
or
"You must feel like a whole new woman!"

Truly? No. Well, I mean yes, I feel good. I feel great in fact. But a completely different person?

I know, I know, what am I complaining about? These are friends who are loving on me. And if any of you reading this has said these things to me, please don't feel bad. I love you for it. But it's just odd to hear. And I never know quite how to respond.

This is how I usually respond: I look in the mirror. Yep that's me.

Brown hair with more gray than I care to think about at the moment?
Check.
Blue eyes?
Check.
Freckles?
Check.
My mom's nose?
Check.
Nice big arms. Big legs. Good child-birthing hips?
Check. Check. Check
Huh.

I say to the mirror, "well you look like Dana." and then I think, you sound like Dana too.

But in truth, there are differences. Many. Mainly internal. Mostly unseeable. If that's even a word. I don't think it is, I see a red line....

Like I kind of feel pretty.

And I no longer feel like a Macy's Day Parade float.

And I actually want to go for a walk instead of laying around watching The Top-Secret Recently Opened Never Before Seen Undocumented Footage of Area 51 UFO Files for the 16th time in a month.

What?? The cooking channel was showing Emeril. Not a fan. No baby, give me Tyler Florence or Paula Deen or a Bobby Flay Throw Down any day...

So, that said. I am different. Not yet completely different. Or a whole new different. But well on my way.

Perhaps one day my eyes will see what it is you see.

A La Cosmo

For some reason my husband has recently taken a very strong liking to a certain popular coffee establishment. In fact it has almost become a daily feeding of his addiction.

We've tried to reign in the urge and keep it to a minimum of 2 or 3 times a week without much luck. With the rising cost of gas, I think we will soon have it down to mostly to Saturday and or Sunday.

He's also awakened the java monster that must be fed daily in our daughter. And oh honey does she get her feelings hurt if we don't wake her early Saturday morning and take her with us. Actually I believe it's the grown-up feel of holding the warm cup in her hand and hanging out with adults, you know the social aspect of it all, rather than a true java addiction.

At least for her. My husband is definitely a fallen member of Starbuck's Anonymous. I only get decaf so I am just along for the flavor.

Our son just goes for the breakfast.

I am definitely a morning person. Not many of us actually exist in the world I know, but I love waking up before the rest of the family to putter around the house, read, write, whatever. I get so much done. Apparently NOT writing on the blog has been one of them. Sorry.

This way of starting the weekend together has come to mean a lot to me. Time with my family and my coffee early in the morning.

And then there's the people. There are all kinds of earthlings that inhabit our world, and most of them frequent a Starbuck's. Most of them are at I-10. And I love to watch them all.

My mom used to say "to each his own". But then again, she used to say "said the old lady as she kissed the cow" right afterwards so don't put too many peaches in her basket. But scary enough, I have to agree with her. If we all had the same personality, the rainbow would be boring. Or something like that.

Last Saturday there were several coffee patron's sitting outside enjoying the cooler air and the morning sun. One was an older gentleman, rather distinguished. He reminded me of a character straight from the movies - very stereotypical of of someone from the north and of a certain nationality - one which I won't mention because I mean no, and I mean absolutely no offense. But, I know somehow, somewhere it might get taken. So fill in your own stereotype here.

The other gentleman was middle aged, weathered looking, smoking a cigarette, talking to himself and wearing some well worn clothing that was basically the same color all over.

Dirt brown.

My first impression was that he was homeless. I won't say for certain he wasn't, but as time passed I realized he was very...different. He had something on the table in between the ashtray and his coffee.

And he was petting it.

I kept looking at this greyish, round, computer mouse sized something on his table. I was totally fixated on the object. What would he be petting like that? Was it a mouse? Or God forbid a rat? I couldn't figure out what it was without walking right up to check it out. And since he was on the different list, I figured he might not take a liking to my perusing his personals all close like that. So I just watched and waited for a better glimpse of the...um...thing.

Well, we finished up our breakfast, our coffee and we got into the car. That's when it happened.

The object he had cooed at and carefully petted all this time....stood up, shook itself off, lept off of the table and flew right in to the side of our car with a resounding thud. I'm thinking 'What the heck? Poor thing...'

We (my family) looked all over for the rescued bird and could not find it anywhere. Mr. Dirt Suit simply walked off talking to himself.

So, Mr. From the North took it upon himself to tell us the story. According to him, the dirt clad gentleman had picked up the bird after it had flown straight into the Starbuck's window. (Perhaps the bird had needed a coffee fix too.) Where upon Mr. Dirt Suit had picked it up, rescusitated it, I didn't ask how, and had spent the last hour talking to it and petting it while it recovered.

This seemed to really impress Mr. From the North and give him absolute hope in humanity.

"That is amazing. Isn't that amazing? I tell you, that's just amazing that he would do that. There are good people I tell you. Good, good people."

This did not impress me nor did it give me hope in humanity. However it did make me think,

"Hmm, that would be something to blog about."

Love & Laundry

A tree root has interrupted life as we once knew it.

It seems the inescapable eventuality of anything growing is growing pain. In our case the pain came in the form of a clogged pipe that drains from our washing machine into the great unknown. So rather than draining like a good pipe should when the rinse cycle comes to town, the stupid thing vomits it's sudsy bile all over the garage floor like a kid full of cotton candy on the tilt-a-whirl.

So we did what everyone in this situation does: we ignored it and hoped itwould fix itself. But just like a child, when a problem is ignored or left to its own devices you will eventually have more serious consequences to deal with in the end. Consequences such as 30 piles of laundry and nothing to wear or like a washing machine that has an eating disorder.

The next predictable course of action is to attempt to rectify the situation with the easiest - which in our household goes obligatorily hand in hand with cheapest - method available. Odds are usually against you in these type situations because cheap and easy is just a cheerleader you hated in high school and not pertaining to your circumstance in the least bit.

(No offense to any cheerleaders who may be reading this post. Go Spartans!)

And lo these many weeks and puddles of sudsy hurl later the situation remains the same. The laundry has multiplied like unpaid tax penalties, becoming a seemingly insurmountable well, mountain and we still have a tree root in our pipe.

The tree root will have to remain, for now. From everyone we've talked to, this rates right up there in cost with a home mortgage or a college tuition. And since we just traded in Jesse's leg and my arm for our kids braces, remedying the situation professionally is not an option.

So, this morning at the crack of dawn we loaded up the Trooper with our dirty laundry and we headed to the nearest laundromat. Yee haw. It may seem strange, but to me laundromats are dirty, creepy and really a challenge for a person who is borderline OCD to endure. They are a necessary evil to be sure. I just don't like the idea of washing or drying my clothes in the same machines that hundreds of other people have used. *shudder*

Of course if you think about it the only other alternative, if you want to have clean clothes, is to throw everything away and start over and as exciting as that sounds (especially after a 12 hour marathon of What Not to Wear) it would mean one would have to shop for hours on end, possibly even at the mall, to do so. I hate to shop and I hate the mall. Choice made.

3 1/2 hours and $30 in quarters later we have clean laundry. For a day or two.

I don't think I've been to a laundromat in 20 years and I've never been to this particular one, but walking in was like stepping in to a time warp or encountering a small ripple in the fabric of the space-time continuum. (Psst, I have no clue what that means, but it sounds really cool and scientific like.) The same well used machines & cavernous dryers. The same well worn and quite annoyed attendant, the same gathering of stock characters (pick a culture, any culture) as 20 years ago.

There was one difference...20 years ago I went with my children alone. This time I had my husband with me. The cool thing was most of the women there had their husband or boyfriend there with them. Jesse, the children and I worked together bringing down the mountain one pebble at a time. In between switching or folding loads we sat together talking, laughing, watching the spin cycle and trying to ignore the horrible tacky Spanish soap opera being shown on all 4 TVs.

My daughter tells her father a joke and he laughs, adoration lighting his eyes. My son is completely at peace reading a book and holding my hand. Children go running by and we watch them all commenting on this one's chubby cheeks or an other's familiar face. And I feel such contentment.

Because I think, this is where you feel love. Not the Spanish soap opera. No, love is seen in the simple tasks, and found in the daily routine. Love is getting into the trenches up to your neck in dirty laundry tackling it together. Love shines in the most mundane of chores and is the glue in the fragmented chaos and normalcy of life.

And odd as it sounds, I'm so grateful for the tree roots of life. Grateful for the growing pains and the inconveniences, because in these times I remember what is good and important in the scheme of things. The small wonderful moments are like a family, irrevocably tied to one another - woven together one fiber at a time and braided around one another.

And It Was Blueberry Too...

Not too long ago I flew for the first time in my almost 40 year old (at the time) life. It's not that I was too afraid of flying to try it, on the contrary, I was very much looking forward to having the chance one day. Which is odd, considering I am absolutely terrified of even the slightest measure of height to the point of needing a handful of strong tranquilizers washed down with a bottle of any hard liquor available in order to cope with the screaming. The problem was always that the opportunity to travel and the funds to do so never seemed to have time for one another.

And when I finally took my maiden air voyage, I took note of every detail of the momentous occasion. My trusty guide was next to me and not completely feeling the same level of excitement. Apparently this feeling was reserved for the far less experienced souls. He had too many flights under his belt to be moved. However, I knew he enjoyed the fact that I was very much in awe of the whole experience.

While we waited for our flight to be called I compared everyone waiting with us in the terminal to the characters of Lost. I wondered if we were to crash on an island who would be our Kate, our Jack and of course our Sawyer. Who would be the Sayid or the Charlie and my absolute favorite, Hurley. Looking around it seemed I would have to be Hurley. Dude.

Once we boarded I felt my happiness wane. Seems the air conditioning on the plane had not yet kicked in and the temperature inside had reached a balmy 87 degrees. That coupled with 50 people packed in the area the size of a doctor's waiting room with chairs just as small and no personal space to be found anywhere, it was just a tad stuffy. I began to feel nauseous.

I tried to keep my mind off the heat with some more people watching. The sound of the air conditioner vent overhead attempting to make life more bearable was laughable as it seemed to be motored by an engine from a remote control car.

Just then a group of 5 or 6 young men boarded the plane, they were laughing and teasing one another with amicable insults. I gathered that one of the guys was along for his first flight as well. And unlike me, he was scared. And as friends tend to do, they were taking the opportunity to milk it for all it was worth.

To the left of us across the aisle was an older gentleman in a suit. He was reading a book written in what looked to be Chinese. I am almost certain it was a bible. Perhaps that's just what I wanted it to be.

The guy in front of us made small talk with the young lady next to him. He was older and sleazy like a character you would see on CSI: Las Vegas. You know the suspect trying to play it cool all the while he has a fine sheen of sweat on his greasy brow which is a dead give away to the interrogator that this guy was his for the picking. The girl reminded me of a someone who had been far from home far too long. She was dressed goth but she didn't have the dark sullen attitude. Perhaps she had faced some demons that took the attitude down a notch or two. She was polite to him. He was way too close to her.

Finally and I mean finally, the Captain announced we were about to take off. At least I assumed that's what he said because I only heard something mumbled over the speaker which reminded me of a drive-thru order being repeated back to me. No fries for me thanks, I am kind of queasy.

We taxied. We took off. We flew. I looked out the peephole that served as my window as best I could without causing serious nerve damage to my neck. It was all so beautiful.

Until we got to Detroit. Apparently Detroit was experiencing the thunderstorm from hell. For reasons unbeknownst to me the pilot went straight through the storm. I had always thought they were supposed to go around the storm by changing their flight plan or maybe land in another city. Or perhaps I watch too much tv. I guess he had his Wheaties that morning and was feeling rather confident about his piloting skills. Not me. I began to feel the fear rise in my throat like one too many tacos.

I repeatedly and I mean numerously asked my trusty guide if this was normal, did this always happen? Are you always tossed about like delicates in a dryer? And each time he assured me that yes, at times it can be pretty bumpy, and yes this was pretty much normal. His confidence and assurances did nothing to loosen my pit bull grip around his hand or remove my nails from his flesh.

It wasn't until we drove away from the airport terminal in our nice little rental that he confessed that this flight was - in the history of his hundreds of air travel experiences - the worst turbulence ever.

Of course. Why wouldn't it be anything less than the makings of a cheesy disaster movie?

When our plane finally did touch the blessed earth every single passenger on the plane was completely and utterly silent. No one chatted, no one coughed, no one whispered. No babies cried. We simply stood and gathered our things.

Then out of the silence came a voice. One filled with a shaky courage. This voice spoke to each of our souls. The words he uttered were magical - in one instant melted the icy fear that had frozen our countenances. It was not our Captain. Oh no, this came from within the circle. It was none other than the fearful young man, who like me, had just endured his very first mid-air heart attack, er, flight.

He said,

"So uh, so uh, the muffin stayed down eh."

Laughter. Relief. Release. We had made it. Sure each of us had considered the very small paper bag that was tucked in the seat in front of us with all its implications. Each of us had eyed the tiny compartment from which our oxygen would drop, wondering if if would come to that. Each of us had faced our own mortality and lived to see another day. And the muffin stayed down.

Our business taken care of we returned home to our kids. And the first story I shared with them regarding my virgin flight was the muffin.

To this day it is a catchphrase used in our home to signify we had made it through whatever. Another trial faced and finished, the muffin stayed down. One more battle fought and won, no one tossed their muffins.

And why am I telling you this story? It is that very catchphrase that comes to mind when I think about trying to explain the year that was 2007.

It was, at times very rough seas and several times I nearly slipped off the boat into the treacherous waters. Once or twice we nearly capsized. There were days we had to bail water to stay afloat, but we made it.

Muffin intact.

The Haunting

I read in a book that the spirit of a person who has died suddenly or painfully will remain in the area that they died. It's as if there was such a tremendous energy released from the event that it remains attached to the location of the incident. So, the spirit stays, not knowing it is stuck, unaware that the body has moved on. As a Christian I know there are spirits. Even the bible refers to ghosts and spirits in several different ways.

It seems the choices we make often return to us like ghosts of lost souls haunting us with their memories. People who have lived to make choices, good or bad, at times remain stuck, haunted by a particular incident in their mind long after the body has moved on.

Beginning early on in my life I entered into an on and off again passionate love affair with rebellion. For many years I got away with the affair having suffered little or no consequences, but I did not elude them long. I now realize there were many offspring that came of that long standing tryst. One love child in particular ended in a failed marriage with two beautiful children. Two children I left with their father to raise.

I was barely 19 when I had Joshua, and just at 21 when Erienne came along. Life with their father was hard, disappointing, and at times, down right ugly. I knew nothing about Jesus except that He was some perfect guy who was boring to hear about and I had better things to do than sit on a hard pew for 2 hours and listen about how evil I was. I was a hard headed girl, determined to have my way and do whatever pleased me and me alone. Mmm, rebellion was a fine looking man who had me at hello. (And I am speaking about rebellion being fine, not the ex.)

Quite a few years later I was the stereo-typical unhappy young mother. I had a head full of ideas, a heart full of longing and wild oats that needed some sowing. The decision to leave the children with their father wasn't made in one definitive instance. Rather it was made over several years filled with good intentions. I intended to leave them just until I got on my feet. I intended to have just a little fun before it was back to motherhood. I intended to get them back the next month and the next because I certainly had no intention of leaving them with him. Those many months of unfulfilled intentions added up to the guilt that is the essence of my most familiar ghost.

When Erienne left on Sunday I was in the backyard, left alone with my ghosts. She returned to give me some pictures and found me crying. The same tears of regret that I've shed a thousand times over so much so you would think there would be none left. Regret that she and I do not know one another. Regret that I missed out on so much because I thought I would miss out on so much.

But I was crying tears of hope as well. Hope that as the years pass we will come to have a friendship. That she would forgive me, that I would forgive me and that somehow the Lord would restore those years that the locust had eaten. In my head I know that I am forgiven, if not by them or by myself, then at least by Christ. His grace is abundant, of this I am aware.

But that doesn't stop the ghosts that stay rooted in my memory, haunting me, reminding me of the choices I once made. The spirit unaware that the body has moved on.

A Good Title For Telling You About My Long Weekend.

I cannot begin to tell you what an absolutely awesome weekend it was. But I will try!

First, let me back up to Wednesday evening. After work Jesse and I went over to the home one of the most dearest and sweetest ladies I know. She has had a faucet leak for a while and asked J to fix it for her. The reason I say she is sweet and dear is because Miss Fanny Pegg is a young lady in her 80's who is still working her little 98 pound butt off every stinking day. Folks, there are 20 year olds who won't get a job and this woman is still at it every day.

While hubby fixed her sink, I had the pleasure of spending time talking with Miss Fanny. I asked her so many questions I am sure she couldn't wait until Jesse was done. But she answered with enthusiasm and even got in a few questions herself. We looked at pictures and she told me stories and made me laugh. I would love to share everything with you today, but I will save bits and pieces for later posts. I must say I was honored to be able to sit and talk with her. What a woman of faith! And for a tiny elderly woman, she embodies absolute strength.

Miss Fanny has been a member of our church for over 60 years and before she retired a couple of years ago, she taught Sunday school to little kids for 50 years. People just don't commit to anything like that anymore. We certainly don't commit to a church for that long much less to a job or to marriage. Hear me, if the Lord moves you, then move, I'm no angel, life gets ugly and I'm in a second marriage myself. All I'm saying is, what an example of faithfulness.

Once Jesse was finished we took her back to the church so she could have dinner with friends and then off to bible study. I hope at 80-something I am still as active as that. Um, let me rephrase that. I hope at 80-something I am as active as that!

It was a little late to cook so we took the kids to Prince's Hamburgers. We had such a blast sitting there listening to the oldies, singing, dancing (in our booth) and acting silly. Yes, at 14 and 12 they weren't too embarrassed to act like fools with mom and dad. What great kids I have! The onion rings and milkshakes weren't half bad either!

Thursday was a blur. I had to get everything done that day that I normally do in two days because I was off on Friday! WOO HOO!!! I loves me a three day weekend!!!

Friday hubs and I had what we call date day. See, I am a morning dove and he is a night owl. For the most part this works for us just fine. I get up way early in the am and read, write, paint or whatever I want while he gets in a few more Z's. Then around 8 or 8:30 at night I am very much ready for bed while he is still wide awake. This is when he gets to catch up on the news, sports highlights of every game he missed and watch all those westerns I don't care for.

So you see, this doesn't work for us when we try to have a date night. Besides, everyone else is out at night and I hate crowds. So date day it is. Besides, they last a lot longer! We always start out by putting the kids on the bus and heading out for breakfast. This time we had breakfast at Spanish Flower. Such a great place to eat. But don't get the norm here or you will be disappointed - norm being on the lunch or dinner menu and being fajitas or nachos. Do get the specials, that is where this restaurant shows off. For breakfast I love their poached eggs over gorditas with a great chili sauce and fresh avocado. Mmm, bellies full we headed out for some serious shopping.

I am not a girl who likes to shop, I have my reasons but will leave it at I just don't. But this time I was very excited to hit the stores because we were out to buy a bed. How boring you say right? Not for me. Honey I've been sleeping on an inch thin mattress that was on the floor for about 5 or 6 years now. Between two kids, a new home, moving mom to Houston and moving eMiLy out, life has just not allowed me to buy a bed.

Okay, maybe not an inch thin. But it sure felt like it all those nights. My son Eddie said I'm worse than the Princess in the Princess and the Pea. Hey, I do have royal blood flowing through my veins so that's not too far fetched Master Edward.

I can't wait to take a picture of it to show it to y'all. It's so dang pretty. And fat. The mattress is absolutely fat. Got's to be 2 feet thick. The Pea Princess is happy. I even got some beautiful new sheets out of it. Sigh. I think I'll go lay on it for a minute I'll be right back...

Ahhhh. That was lovely.

Speaking of lovely, my beautiful daughter Erienne was in town to visit. She is on leave for a week or so before she returns back to her post. Then at the end of November she will be deployed to Kuwait. Now, I've said several deployment dates and locations before, but this time it's pretty much set. I think. While in Kuwait she will transport "things" to Iraq and back. Pretty easy right? Um, she is a chemical and biological weapons specialist. Dang.

This has been more like a diary or journal entry than a post but I just had to share. I hope I didn't bore any of you terribly much. I enjoyed telling you about it that is for sure. I mean I spent the weekend with my family we had beautiful weather and we did nothing special, but I have to tell you what an absolutely awesome weekend it was!

Just nothing...

Today was the first day that actually resembled fall here in Houston; a city famous for both oppressive heat and humidity. After a long and weary summer of living up to this reputation, the arrival of crisp northern air will be revitalizing to my soul. The coolness of the breeze and the rustle of fallen leaves speak to me of the shedding of lifeless things.

It's becoming harder and harder to wake up in the morning. I find myself clinging to the world that lays just between dreams and reality. The mist of slumber's warmth reluctantly gives way to encroaching consciousness. The denial comes due in part to the darkness of the late hour. My body refusing to acknowledge the truth of the clock's red glare. A change of the clocks with the change of the season will be restorative as well.

Sleep, however, comes to me quite readily. My body is tired and ready for repose even if my mind is still busy stirring together the ingredients of the day. I have always been one to rehash the conversations, happenings and observations of the past. Holding them on the palate of my mind, relishing the flavors and textures of each moment as if it were the finest of fare. Taking note of the excess or lack of seasoning here and there and thinking perhaps I should next time leave it simmer rather than boil. I drift off to sleep my heart full and my hunger for life temporarily sated this side of heaven.

I'm sitting here listening to the sounds of my children, resisting as all children do, the rules of bedtime. While I long for bed early in the evening, they would stay up all night if we would only allow them. I can almost hear the tv as my husband changes channels hoping for a worthwhile show to watch. I know that whatever he finds, it will end up watching him fall asleep. The dogs have settled in and the clock behind me is ticking faster than my typed words will come. The sounds of home are beckoning me to join in the music.

Assemblance

I've been at it again, it seems I can never leave well enough alone. The urge hits me and everything in my way gets turned around. It starts with me wondering if this chair might look better in that spot and perhaps that picture would show off this wall and then I've found myself having gotten in deeper than I'd like. Oh, and don't stand in one spot for too long because I will dust you off and stick you in another room as well.

There are specific goings on I could finger as the impetus of my furniture whirlwind. On the one hand the action helps me to work through the stress and worry of the moment. On the other hand the shuffling about of the tangible in my life is indicative of the desire to rearrange the intangible. That which cannot be moved nor cannot be made to be seen in a better light.

I've spent quite a few hours and much energy switching this for that, and back for this. Dusting it off, putting it up high and then back down where it was. Let's turn it this way, no, on that wall...first let me sweep under it and polish it up a bit...there, hows that? What do you think? Now that spot is empty...hmm. This lamp will bring some light in this corner and that mirror will make this wall seem bigger oh, and I think a plant here will make it lovely. Maybe I should paint it and get new pillows and those curtains I saw would look lovely in here. Too many things over here? Not enough over there? What if we just took it all out and started over?

Of course with no budget and even less room I am limited. And I know that no matter where I move the pieces, its the same old chair, the same set of books and the same set of circumstances. As much as I would like the situation to be different, nothing has been moved, nothing has changed. I can dust it, polish it, place it here or there, take away from it or add to it and no matter, the situation remains the same.

Yet, at the end of the day, when I sit down in the room there is a whole new perspective. Yes, the same chair, but it looks so comfy in that spot with the love seat. Yes, the same books but I really like the way the knick-knacks are mixed in with them. Of course the same corner, but with with lamp on the little table it doesn't seem as dark anymore.

At the end of the day, with the room put just so, I feel a new perspective on the situation as well. Yes, the very same circumstances abide, but they somehow seem more manageable now. Yes, the same feelings are there, but there are some pleasant ones mixed in as well. Of course I remain at the same place, but with the lamp of God's Word it doesn't seem as dark anymore.