I met him at my cousin's wedding. There he was, standing at the edge of the dance floor beckoning to me. I walked across the floor not knowing what I would say.
"Chicken or beef?" He asked coyly.
"Both," I answered. "I like to live dangerously."
He swept me off my feet with offers of Chicken French, Prime Rib and Green Beans Almondine. He put me at ease with his subtle signs; "French" "Italian" "Bleu Cheese". I knew it was happening and I couldn't stop it. I was falling in love with the Buffet.
We spent the entire evening together. I never left his side. After his dazzling display of sweets from decadent cake to chocolate-covered strawberries, it was time to say goodnight. I didn't know if I would ever see him again, so I tucked a few pastries in my purse to remember our one amazing night together.
I thought about him quite often after that night, but I never heard from him until I went on vacation. I was traveling on a gorgeous cruise liner. I had just settled in my room and decided to explore the ship. I wandered into the dining room, and that's when I saw him, even more glorious than before. He stood in the center of the room and seemed to go on forever. He showed off with a six-foot display of crudites; an indescribeable display of pineapple, papaya and mango the likes of which I had never seen before and would never see again. We spent the entire week together. It was amazing.
I saw even more of him after the cruise. We would meet at different family restaurants around town. Each night he would have a different theme; American Fare, Chinese, seafood. One morning he surprised me with a breakfast buffet with sausage gravy and made-to-order omelets!
But soon, my friends started to notice a change in me. They said I was gaining weight and that he was no good for me. They told me to just back away. But I couldn't imagine my life without him.
And then one day it happened. I went to the Ponderosa to surprise him for an early dinner, and that's when I saw it. Another woman was standing with him. I watched in disbelief as she reached again and again for more chicken fried steak and steaming hot mashed potatoes. My heart was breaking. But then came the unforgivable. She leaned UNDERNEATH the sneeze guard. My heart went from broken to shattered. I ran from the restaurant and never turned back.
It's been several years. I still run into him occasionally at some weddings or extravagant business meetings. I nod politely from across the room, but we're through.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Finger Flicking Good
I recently discovered something. I don't like reading books online. Don't misread that last sentence. I like reading books. I like it a lot. Truthfully, I'd rather read a book than watch TV, but by the time I get through my day, work out, get the kids clean and tucked into bed, I'm exhausted. I just want to turn off the lights and let the glow of the idiot box fill the room. I flop down on the couch and veg out until my eyes just won't stay opened. The thought of turning on a light bright enough for my coke-bottle glassed eyes to actually see small black print on an ecru page gives me a migraine. I would love to read a good book during the day when there is plenty of natural light to read comfortable by, but with a 1- and 4-year old with me all day, I don't get a lot of chances to read books that don't rhyme and have a picture of a cat wearing the same ridiculous striped hat my husband used to wear when he went skiing in high school. I can't count the number of pages that have been ripped out of books and magazines by pudgy, sticky fingers covered in cheese dust from fish crackers while I sit trying to read them. It's a pointless exercise.
I remember the first book that truly moved me. It was Amelia Bedelia. Specifically, it was the part of the story where she "dusted" the living room with the expensive dusting powder she found in the bathroom. In her family they "undusted" the furniture but, when in Rome. To my 4-year-old mind this seemed like a great idea. I was moved to action. I found a container of baby powder and began sprinkling it into all the places upstairs that might need some freshening up. I sprinkled a little in the hamper, some in the closet, a touch in the bed sheets. Then I moved across the hall to freshen up the bathroom. My mother suddenly realized that I had been upstairs for several minutes and was very quiet. She stood at the bottom of the stairs with the trepidation of a mom that is not yet sure of the disaster that surely awaits her and began to speak. "Kiiiiimmm, what are you....." Her sentence was interrupted by a blast of overpowering sweet fragrance wafting down the stairs in a powdery, white cloud. She ran up the stairs and found me at the top with a nearly empty container of baby powder under one arm, Amelia Bedelia under the other and a big, proud smile on my face. The entire second floor was covered in a fine dust that was quickly settling in between the slats of the hardwood floors. My mother was so furious that she couldn't even spank me. She took away the powder and the book and sent me downstairs. Every few minutes I would hear a cry of, "What the! It's in the...!" She never finished shrieking any of her sentences. I've never seen my mother so mad. But the house never smelled so sweet.
When I was a kid a couple of my friends and I had a book club. We each had a binder where we would list all of the books we read. (Yeah, we were super cool.) We would get star stickers and had to write book reports. I was certainly the slacker of the book club. My friends out-read me all the time. I remember thinking to myself, "Why are we wasting the summer reading books when Heather has a pool!?!" It really annoyed me that we couldn't swim until we finished our book club meeting. I remember the final book club meeting that I attended with them. I had only read two books that week compared to their five. I'm pretty sure I lied about reading the two books. I wasn't taking the book club seriously and they were considering taking official action to kick me out. I remember saying something along the lines of, "Stop forcing me to read! It's not fun when I have to write book reports just to play with my friends!" I don't know how much longer the book club lasted after that, just that I was never invited to another meeting. Maybe I should have tried a little harder. My friends are now successful and well read while I'm a house wife perusing my extensive library of Fancy Nancy, Pinkalicius and Golden Books.
When we were a bit older, my father started reading books out loud in the evening to the family. He would read a couple of chapters each night from books like "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" or "Animal Farm." I loved listening to my Dad read. His voice was so deep and clear that it was easy to picture Jonathan diving at top speeds through the sky, or Snowball leading a revolution. It terrified me to think that animals could rise up and revolt against their human keepers, but I really enjoyed listening to my dad read. It was worth the nightmares and unrelenting fear of pigs. I think that's why I don't eat sausage.
In middle school, we started reading really good books; the classics. The first book I read in school that I really loved was "The Hobbit" by J. R. R. Tolkien. A short while later, my Uncle Tom loaned me his copy of "The Chronicles of Narnia." I love reading the chapter about the creation of Narnia. Long before it was made into a fantastic movie, I had a very clear image of the huge and powerful lion, Asland, in my mind. A few years ago, my Mother bought me a hard copy of the Narnia collection. About once a year I take it off the shelf and my husband and I read it out loud to each other. I can't wait for my kids to be old enough to enjoy it.
Just this past Valentine's Day my husband bought me the two volume set of Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Romantic, no? The romantic part wasn't so much the books, as the promise to give me time all by myself to read them. These books will remain free of all fish cracker dust. Plus, they bring back fond memories of my logic class in college. I don't really remember much about the class except that we got to read Sherlock Holmes and that "the men in white coats" came for the professor one day. We never saw him again.
I like to hold a book in my hands. I tried to force myself into the 21st century and recently brought my laptop into the living room to find a good book to read online while the kids were playing. I started reading "The Time Machine" by H. G. Wells. Reading a classic from a screen is just not the same. The gentle glow of the LCD screen just can't duplicate the smell of a paperback book whose pages have been pressed tight together for so many years.
Where are we going with this technology? I understand that it's convenient, cheap, and probably saves a few trees. But I don't care. I've seen the Kindle commercials where people are sliding their finger across the screen to "turn" the page. Do we really want to replace the sentiment of "that book was a real page turner," with "that book was a real finger flicker." It's just not the same. Hope you found this entry finger-flicking good.
I remember the first book that truly moved me. It was Amelia Bedelia. Specifically, it was the part of the story where she "dusted" the living room with the expensive dusting powder she found in the bathroom. In her family they "undusted" the furniture but, when in Rome. To my 4-year-old mind this seemed like a great idea. I was moved to action. I found a container of baby powder and began sprinkling it into all the places upstairs that might need some freshening up. I sprinkled a little in the hamper, some in the closet, a touch in the bed sheets. Then I moved across the hall to freshen up the bathroom. My mother suddenly realized that I had been upstairs for several minutes and was very quiet. She stood at the bottom of the stairs with the trepidation of a mom that is not yet sure of the disaster that surely awaits her and began to speak. "Kiiiiimmm, what are you....." Her sentence was interrupted by a blast of overpowering sweet fragrance wafting down the stairs in a powdery, white cloud. She ran up the stairs and found me at the top with a nearly empty container of baby powder under one arm, Amelia Bedelia under the other and a big, proud smile on my face. The entire second floor was covered in a fine dust that was quickly settling in between the slats of the hardwood floors. My mother was so furious that she couldn't even spank me. She took away the powder and the book and sent me downstairs. Every few minutes I would hear a cry of, "What the! It's in the...!" She never finished shrieking any of her sentences. I've never seen my mother so mad. But the house never smelled so sweet.
When I was a kid a couple of my friends and I had a book club. We each had a binder where we would list all of the books we read. (Yeah, we were super cool.) We would get star stickers and had to write book reports. I was certainly the slacker of the book club. My friends out-read me all the time. I remember thinking to myself, "Why are we wasting the summer reading books when Heather has a pool!?!" It really annoyed me that we couldn't swim until we finished our book club meeting. I remember the final book club meeting that I attended with them. I had only read two books that week compared to their five. I'm pretty sure I lied about reading the two books. I wasn't taking the book club seriously and they were considering taking official action to kick me out. I remember saying something along the lines of, "Stop forcing me to read! It's not fun when I have to write book reports just to play with my friends!" I don't know how much longer the book club lasted after that, just that I was never invited to another meeting. Maybe I should have tried a little harder. My friends are now successful and well read while I'm a house wife perusing my extensive library of Fancy Nancy, Pinkalicius and Golden Books.
When we were a bit older, my father started reading books out loud in the evening to the family. He would read a couple of chapters each night from books like "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" or "Animal Farm." I loved listening to my Dad read. His voice was so deep and clear that it was easy to picture Jonathan diving at top speeds through the sky, or Snowball leading a revolution. It terrified me to think that animals could rise up and revolt against their human keepers, but I really enjoyed listening to my dad read. It was worth the nightmares and unrelenting fear of pigs. I think that's why I don't eat sausage.
In middle school, we started reading really good books; the classics. The first book I read in school that I really loved was "The Hobbit" by J. R. R. Tolkien. A short while later, my Uncle Tom loaned me his copy of "The Chronicles of Narnia." I love reading the chapter about the creation of Narnia. Long before it was made into a fantastic movie, I had a very clear image of the huge and powerful lion, Asland, in my mind. A few years ago, my Mother bought me a hard copy of the Narnia collection. About once a year I take it off the shelf and my husband and I read it out loud to each other. I can't wait for my kids to be old enough to enjoy it.
Just this past Valentine's Day my husband bought me the two volume set of Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Romantic, no? The romantic part wasn't so much the books, as the promise to give me time all by myself to read them. These books will remain free of all fish cracker dust. Plus, they bring back fond memories of my logic class in college. I don't really remember much about the class except that we got to read Sherlock Holmes and that "the men in white coats" came for the professor one day. We never saw him again.
I like to hold a book in my hands. I tried to force myself into the 21st century and recently brought my laptop into the living room to find a good book to read online while the kids were playing. I started reading "The Time Machine" by H. G. Wells. Reading a classic from a screen is just not the same. The gentle glow of the LCD screen just can't duplicate the smell of a paperback book whose pages have been pressed tight together for so many years.
Where are we going with this technology? I understand that it's convenient, cheap, and probably saves a few trees. But I don't care. I've seen the Kindle commercials where people are sliding their finger across the screen to "turn" the page. Do we really want to replace the sentiment of "that book was a real page turner," with "that book was a real finger flicker." It's just not the same. Hope you found this entry finger-flicking good.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The Awesomeness of Naps
The topic for this entry was suggested to me by my good friend Jen. Clearly, she knows me better than my friend Tom, whom I haven't seen since high school and who suggested I write about "the globalization of the world economy and the socio-political effects on the middle class in America and the growing middle class in China." So, naps it is!
Naps are awesome. I've read articles about businesses that have special rooms and sometimes little tents with cots for employees to take 20-minute naps during the day. Part of me would love to work in a place that gives me permission (and a pillow!) to doze off during the workday. The other part of me believes that this sounds like a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. If you don't happen to work in an office that provides a nice cot in the break room, I suggest you train yourself to wake up yelling the phrase, "I'm trying to concentrate!"
Kids always fight taking naps. At least, my kids do. Even as infants they never really took naps like all the rest of the babies I knew. I always get irritated at parents who are bummed that their 2-year-old is down to only two naps a day. If I can get my baby to take one nap that is longer than 20 minutes and doesn't require me holding him so that he can rub my arm in his sleep, then we're having a pretty good day, nap wise.
A really good time to take advantage of naps is when you are pregnant. Not only because people will excuse you for it, but because after you have the baby you will never sleep the same again. I remember, towards the end of pregnancy, building a giant nest in the center of the bed using about fifteen pillows. Every part of me needed to be propped and cushioned; knees, hips, back, belly, head and arms. It would take a great deal of energy from my gargantuan body to adjust each pillow until it was in just the exact spot for maximum comfort. And when I would settle down into my billowy nest... oh, what a rest it was! I would go into such a deep sleep that nothing but the crazy baby in my belly, who was clearly practicing tumbling, could wake me from it. It was great. Sleeping in a pillow nest is how I imagine it must be to sleep in heaven on a cloud; every limb optimally supported. I highly suggest that everyone build their own pillow nest tonight.
I'm not a sound sleeper myself and, unless I'm sick or pregnant, I have a hard time sleeping during the day. I clearly did not inherit my restlessness from my father. He can sleep on a rock in the median of the express way during rush hour and wake up happy and refreshed. He once fell asleep in a chair while holding a full-to-the-brim cup of tea by the saucer between his thumb and index finger. Most people would have dropped the cup as soon as they dozed off, but not Dad. His hand stayed completely steady; not a ripple in the cup! I was so fascinated by this oddity, that instead of removing the cup from his hand to avoid what would seem an inevitable spill, I sat there watching him sleep; waiting for the disaster. I watched him for at least fifteen minutes, listening to him snore like a hibernating bear before Mom came into the room and yelled, "Carl! You're sleeping with tea in your hand!" He calmly opened his eyes and, with his usual response of "I'm just resting my eyes," he took his first sip of his now cold tea. I never asked him, but I'm sure he would agree, like all of his naps, that was an awesome nap.
Even God thinks naps are awesome. He rested himself on the seventh day after making the whole world. And, right off the bat in Genesis, he had Adam take a nap so he could remove one of his ribs to make Eve. That's a pretty awesome nap, right? You go to sleep in a beautiful garden, and wake up with a wife! Psalms says that God grants sleep to those He loves. I love Proverbs 3:24, "When you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet." To sum up, God thinks naps are awesome. And if God thinks it's awesome, then so do I.
Thanks for the topic, Jen. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a nap now.
Naps are awesome. I've read articles about businesses that have special rooms and sometimes little tents with cots for employees to take 20-minute naps during the day. Part of me would love to work in a place that gives me permission (and a pillow!) to doze off during the workday. The other part of me believes that this sounds like a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. If you don't happen to work in an office that provides a nice cot in the break room, I suggest you train yourself to wake up yelling the phrase, "I'm trying to concentrate!"
Kids always fight taking naps. At least, my kids do. Even as infants they never really took naps like all the rest of the babies I knew. I always get irritated at parents who are bummed that their 2-year-old is down to only two naps a day. If I can get my baby to take one nap that is longer than 20 minutes and doesn't require me holding him so that he can rub my arm in his sleep, then we're having a pretty good day, nap wise.
A really good time to take advantage of naps is when you are pregnant. Not only because people will excuse you for it, but because after you have the baby you will never sleep the same again. I remember, towards the end of pregnancy, building a giant nest in the center of the bed using about fifteen pillows. Every part of me needed to be propped and cushioned; knees, hips, back, belly, head and arms. It would take a great deal of energy from my gargantuan body to adjust each pillow until it was in just the exact spot for maximum comfort. And when I would settle down into my billowy nest... oh, what a rest it was! I would go into such a deep sleep that nothing but the crazy baby in my belly, who was clearly practicing tumbling, could wake me from it. It was great. Sleeping in a pillow nest is how I imagine it must be to sleep in heaven on a cloud; every limb optimally supported. I highly suggest that everyone build their own pillow nest tonight.
I'm not a sound sleeper myself and, unless I'm sick or pregnant, I have a hard time sleeping during the day. I clearly did not inherit my restlessness from my father. He can sleep on a rock in the median of the express way during rush hour and wake up happy and refreshed. He once fell asleep in a chair while holding a full-to-the-brim cup of tea by the saucer between his thumb and index finger. Most people would have dropped the cup as soon as they dozed off, but not Dad. His hand stayed completely steady; not a ripple in the cup! I was so fascinated by this oddity, that instead of removing the cup from his hand to avoid what would seem an inevitable spill, I sat there watching him sleep; waiting for the disaster. I watched him for at least fifteen minutes, listening to him snore like a hibernating bear before Mom came into the room and yelled, "Carl! You're sleeping with tea in your hand!" He calmly opened his eyes and, with his usual response of "I'm just resting my eyes," he took his first sip of his now cold tea. I never asked him, but I'm sure he would agree, like all of his naps, that was an awesome nap.
Even God thinks naps are awesome. He rested himself on the seventh day after making the whole world. And, right off the bat in Genesis, he had Adam take a nap so he could remove one of his ribs to make Eve. That's a pretty awesome nap, right? You go to sleep in a beautiful garden, and wake up with a wife! Psalms says that God grants sleep to those He loves. I love Proverbs 3:24, "When you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet." To sum up, God thinks naps are awesome. And if God thinks it's awesome, then so do I.
Thanks for the topic, Jen. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a nap now.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
What God Has Taught Me Through Chocolate Pie
Some people have epiphanies in very dramatic ways. They can involve life-threatening experiences or a life-altering situation. Mine came while standing over the stove making chocolate pie for Christmas Eve. Not very dramatic, I know. But I'm willing to believe that it will alter the way I look at things for the rest of my life.
Now, anyone who has known me for very long will recognize that "patient" is not one of the top ten words people would use to describe me. Okay, truthfully, it's not even in the top 20. I'm not patient; it's not a virtue I currently possess, but I'm working on it.
Anyhow, I was once again realizing that I am not patient while stirring the previously mentioned pie. You see, with chocolate pie, you put sugar, flour, milk and chocolate in a pot on medium-high heat and stir it till it boils. Sounds simple, right? Simple, yes. But I'm not a medium-high cooker. In the grand tradition of my mother and grandmother, I prefer to crank the heat up high and get things going as fast as possible. The thing is, you can't do that with pie. High heat will leave a terrible burnt flavor in your filling. (I know this because I have previously attempted pie without being patient.)
So, I'm standing over the stove, on MEDIUM-high heat, stirring... stirring... stirring... for ten minutes.... fifteen minutes.... twenty minutes. This is the point where I really get sick of standing there stirring and get the impulse to crank up the heat. That is when I heard it; the "still small voice" spoke to me and said, "Be patient. The payoff is worth it."
It made me pause, because it's not my nature to be patient or think of the future payoff. It was certainly God. I continued to stir the watery, brown liquid that promised to become thick decadent chocolate pie. After 27 minutes, the liquid started to steam. After 30 minutes, there was drag on the spoon as I stirred and the concoction began to thicken. After 32 minutes of stirring, I had a pot full of thick, delicious, chocolaty goodness; Proof that God loves me.
I continued slowly mixing the chocolate with the egg a little bit at a time, marveling at the miracle that those few ingredients and the application of heat created. That's when I realized that miracles happen every day; we just don't appreciate the small things. The every day miracles have become too "everyday" for us to recognize that God is in them.
Patience. I don't make New Year's resolutions because calling it a resolution gives you permission to bail on it by mid-January if it gets too hard. But I'm making a commitment before God and the one or two people who maybe read this blog that I am going to be more patient this year and in the years to come. Miracles don't typically happen the second we ask for them. I'm waiting on my miracle and, if God says "be patient," then I will be patient. If you've asked God for a miracle, He will deliver. Waiting stinks. But the good news is, God is faithful and the payoff is worth it.
Now, anyone who has known me for very long will recognize that "patient" is not one of the top ten words people would use to describe me. Okay, truthfully, it's not even in the top 20. I'm not patient; it's not a virtue I currently possess, but I'm working on it.
Anyhow, I was once again realizing that I am not patient while stirring the previously mentioned pie. You see, with chocolate pie, you put sugar, flour, milk and chocolate in a pot on medium-high heat and stir it till it boils. Sounds simple, right? Simple, yes. But I'm not a medium-high cooker. In the grand tradition of my mother and grandmother, I prefer to crank the heat up high and get things going as fast as possible. The thing is, you can't do that with pie. High heat will leave a terrible burnt flavor in your filling. (I know this because I have previously attempted pie without being patient.)
So, I'm standing over the stove, on MEDIUM-high heat, stirring... stirring... stirring... for ten minutes.... fifteen minutes.... twenty minutes. This is the point where I really get sick of standing there stirring and get the impulse to crank up the heat. That is when I heard it; the "still small voice" spoke to me and said, "Be patient. The payoff is worth it."
It made me pause, because it's not my nature to be patient or think of the future payoff. It was certainly God. I continued to stir the watery, brown liquid that promised to become thick decadent chocolate pie. After 27 minutes, the liquid started to steam. After 30 minutes, there was drag on the spoon as I stirred and the concoction began to thicken. After 32 minutes of stirring, I had a pot full of thick, delicious, chocolaty goodness; Proof that God loves me.
I continued slowly mixing the chocolate with the egg a little bit at a time, marveling at the miracle that those few ingredients and the application of heat created. That's when I realized that miracles happen every day; we just don't appreciate the small things. The every day miracles have become too "everyday" for us to recognize that God is in them.
Patience. I don't make New Year's resolutions because calling it a resolution gives you permission to bail on it by mid-January if it gets too hard. But I'm making a commitment before God and the one or two people who maybe read this blog that I am going to be more patient this year and in the years to come. Miracles don't typically happen the second we ask for them. I'm waiting on my miracle and, if God says "be patient," then I will be patient. If you've asked God for a miracle, He will deliver. Waiting stinks. But the good news is, God is faithful and the payoff is worth it.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Christmas Lights
After dinner, the whole family hopped in the minivan and drove around the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights. The kids sang along with the radio to "Jingle Bells" and "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." As we drove we saw all sorts of lights, from a modest few strands on the bushes, to the grandiose displays that strung across three entire McMansions. We even saw a house with only a flood light pointed at the 3-foot-long real icicles hanging from the gutters. (It was actually a dazzling display.) We followed some flashing red and blue lights down one street only to discover a woman with her hands spread across the hood of a police car. (Not quite as festive, but still, if you squint and ignore the arrest, the flashing lights reflecting off the snow was very beautiful.)
I couldn't help but laugh at how over-the-top some of the displays were. You just can't beat a yard with a flashing polar bear, a neon pink flamingo, a penguin in a sleigh, and, to prove they know the Reason for the Season, a blinking, sparkling rendition of the Holy Family. We didn't see any lighted Elvis' rockin' out, but I'm sure it's out there.
We enjoyed light displays that, not only would I never set up myself because it's way too much work, but that we also could not afford to power; I could almost hear the dials of their electric meter whirring in the distance. The panoramic front windows of the Great Rooms allowed us to watch their flat screen TVs that were bigger than the windshield of our minivan. I could see the beautiful mantles decorated with greenery and lights and imagined how I would have decorated if that mantle was mine.
After about 45 minutes, we returned home, to our porch with 2 strands of simple icicle lights and our Christmas tree that has been stripped of it's ornaments on the bottom third by our 1-year-old son. In years past, I would have been sad to return to such a modest home after seeing such huge displays of wealth and excess. But today, I am happy. My little house is not just a house. It's our home. It's full of family and love. At the moment, it smells like pine trees and cookies when you walk in the door. It's warm and inviting, and everyone is welcome. The carpet is stained and the walls are the same color as when we moved in. But there's plenty of room for all three of my kids to dance like maniacs and giggle till they fall down.
I love my home. I love my family. There's plenty of time for painted walls and a tree that is decorated all the way to the bottom.
I couldn't help but laugh at how over-the-top some of the displays were. You just can't beat a yard with a flashing polar bear, a neon pink flamingo, a penguin in a sleigh, and, to prove they know the Reason for the Season, a blinking, sparkling rendition of the Holy Family. We didn't see any lighted Elvis' rockin' out, but I'm sure it's out there.
We enjoyed light displays that, not only would I never set up myself because it's way too much work, but that we also could not afford to power; I could almost hear the dials of their electric meter whirring in the distance. The panoramic front windows of the Great Rooms allowed us to watch their flat screen TVs that were bigger than the windshield of our minivan. I could see the beautiful mantles decorated with greenery and lights and imagined how I would have decorated if that mantle was mine.
After about 45 minutes, we returned home, to our porch with 2 strands of simple icicle lights and our Christmas tree that has been stripped of it's ornaments on the bottom third by our 1-year-old son. In years past, I would have been sad to return to such a modest home after seeing such huge displays of wealth and excess. But today, I am happy. My little house is not just a house. It's our home. It's full of family and love. At the moment, it smells like pine trees and cookies when you walk in the door. It's warm and inviting, and everyone is welcome. The carpet is stained and the walls are the same color as when we moved in. But there's plenty of room for all three of my kids to dance like maniacs and giggle till they fall down.
I love my home. I love my family. There's plenty of time for painted walls and a tree that is decorated all the way to the bottom.
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