I've been writing a lot the past several days. It's been mostly drivel based on vague memories from high school and college, and I usually don't get much further than a paragraph or two. I'm finding it helpful in these instances to not have a very good memory for reality. For example, I remember going miniature golfing with friends in high school, but that is about all. I don't remember when in high school and I don't even remember which friends I was with. I just remember being on the golf course with a small group of friends. Since I don't remember the actual events or people involved, it's easy to have some fun with the story....
The invitation to mini-golf was legitimate, but everyone involved knew that it was another attempt by the group of friends to get Tiffany and Steve together. Tiffany was quite comfortable being single even though the prom was fast approaching, but her friends disagreed. Since they were her friends and she wanted them to be happy, or at least to stop bugging her, she went along with the ruse and found herself paired up with her handsome, yet awkward companion.
Steve pulled out all his best cheesy date moves. As Tiffany was about to putt on the fifth hole he wrapped his arms around her. "Let me help you with your form." It was a cringe worthy moment. His arms were strong, fingernails clean and he smelled nice so Tiffany was willing to overlook the ridiculousness of it all.
By the end of the round Tiffany had agreed to get some ice cream with Steve. Pleased at their success, the rest of the group made their excuses not to join them so the two "love birds" could be alone.
The pair meandered down the boardwalk and onto the pier while eating their ice cream and nervously talking about what a great time they had that night. As they stood at the end of the pier watching the sunset melt into the lake Steve contemplated kissing the girl he had been dreaming about for months. Without warning, Tiffany grabbed Steve and threw him over the edge. She turned and casually strolled back down the pier to the beach.
Crazy can come out of nowhere.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
I Do Not Heart Zumba!
I do not love Zumba. This is not a popular opinion. It's been my experience that, for the most part, people who like zumba love it, and people who don't love it rarely go back for a second class. I do not fall into either of those categories. I grudgingly return to the gym twice a week, every week to endure the humiliation that is me attempting to dance and be even remotely funky while doing it.
I get through it by standing behind a really tall girl in the class so I don't catch a glimpse of myself flailing around in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that surround the room. I imagine myself being just as coordinated as the lovely and tall instructor who has been a dance teacher for 25 years. When she stretches her arms out from side to side looking graceful as a swan, I imagine I look the same and not, as I notice when the tall girl was out one day and was exposed to my own reflection, looking like Kermit the Frog having a seizure.
Guilt is a big factor in me returning to the gym for zumba. My kids take dance lessons from my instructor and when I pick them up from class she gives me a doubtful look and says, "Are you coming tonight?" She has a gift for getting people to do things that they have no motivation to do; a gift I am sure is helpful while she is trying to get a room full of 3- and 4-year-olds to pirouette all at the same time. She is lovingly motivational and pushy in the best possible way. :-)
I think the most motivating factor in getting me to go back to zumba is friendship; friendship with my instructor who keeps me on track, and friendship with the other ladies in the class. One friend in particular keeps me coming back. We share a similar sense of humor about ourselves. We snicker at the same ridiculous moves. Class is not the same if she's not there to laugh with.
So no, I do not heart zumba. But I do love all the friends I have made while going. And that's what will keep me coming back.
I get through it by standing behind a really tall girl in the class so I don't catch a glimpse of myself flailing around in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that surround the room. I imagine myself being just as coordinated as the lovely and tall instructor who has been a dance teacher for 25 years. When she stretches her arms out from side to side looking graceful as a swan, I imagine I look the same and not, as I notice when the tall girl was out one day and was exposed to my own reflection, looking like Kermit the Frog having a seizure.
Guilt is a big factor in me returning to the gym for zumba. My kids take dance lessons from my instructor and when I pick them up from class she gives me a doubtful look and says, "Are you coming tonight?" She has a gift for getting people to do things that they have no motivation to do; a gift I am sure is helpful while she is trying to get a room full of 3- and 4-year-olds to pirouette all at the same time. She is lovingly motivational and pushy in the best possible way. :-)
I think the most motivating factor in getting me to go back to zumba is friendship; friendship with my instructor who keeps me on track, and friendship with the other ladies in the class. One friend in particular keeps me coming back. We share a similar sense of humor about ourselves. We snicker at the same ridiculous moves. Class is not the same if she's not there to laugh with.
So no, I do not heart zumba. But I do love all the friends I have made while going. And that's what will keep me coming back.
Friday, April 22, 2011
The Unwelcome Tenant
Raccoons are horrible creatures. I know this because there is one living in my chimney. He (I say "he" because I'm praying it's not a "she" who is ready to have babies in my chimney. Yuck.) as I was saying, he has been living in there since February. My husband and I were coming home from a date night (which we get to do about once a year, but that's an entirely different post) and saw the horrible beast perched on top of our roof against the moonlight. We grabbed a flashlight to determine what it was and, sure enough, the masked bandit peered back at us. Then he got spooked and ran towards our chimney.
"No! No! Noooooo!!!" I yelled as he squeezed his fluffy butt into the tiny hole leading to our fireplace. We could hear him banging around inside for several months. We would hear him leave just after dusk and return at around 5:00am each day. Sometimes he would bang in the middle of the afternoon and my kids would start pounding on the wall near the fireplace yelling "Get out of our chimney, you filthy beast!" My husband wouldn't get him out because of the ice on the roof. It was too dangerous to climb up there. He assured me (repeatedly) that there was no way for him to get into the house.
So finally, Spring came (sort of). At least the ice melted from the roof and we were able to get up on the roof to put a cap on the chimney. But first we would have to have a fire in the fireplace to smoke the stinking thing out. So we collected all of the old bills and credit card offer that I've been meaning to shred and had ourselves a good smokey fire. Unfortunately, the flu was stuck closed and the living room filled with smoke. But don't panic! We got a hammer and smacked that darn thing opened. The smoke began to rise up the chimney, but there was no critter going out. Apparently, he had met some friends for lunch that day, so the fire was for nothing.
No matter. My husband happily climbed up the roof to install the chimney cap. Once he was up there he realized he needed a different screw driver. He wanted me to throw it up to him, but I refused because that just didn't seem safe. So I decided to climb up the extension ladder leaning against the side of the house. This is when I discovered two things; 1) I do not like heights and 2) I think aluminum is a stupid material to make a ladder out of. It does not give any feeling of stability or safety. I almost called my dad to come and get me down, just like when I was a kid and climbed that 30-foot pine tree and couldn't get down.
The cap made it on the chimney without any further problems and we cleaned up the mess from the fire by shoving the cold ashes down the little chute at the back of the fireplace. Everything seemed fine until about half an hour later when we noticed the basement was full of smoke. There was smoke streaming out from behind the basement wall right under the fireplace. We opened the ash door in the basement and found nothing. Not even the ashes we had put down the chute earlier. Weird.
As the smoke got thicker, we had no choice but to call the fire department. Apparently, there was nothing else going on because we ended up with five engines from two different fire houses, plus three volunteers in their own cars, and about 30 gigantic firefighters in full gear stomping through my kitchen and into the basement. I thought having that many people in my basement might violate fire regulations, but I figured I'd leave that detail up to the experts. After a while, the fire fighters came out of our basement with a smoldering bucket of small planks. Apparently, the previous owner of our house had shoved three or four small boards and a foam ceiling tile up the ash trap. There was a single ember that was still warm enough to start the tile smoldering. Who stores flammables in a place you put ashes?
Once the fire fighters and their engines were gone, we thought everything was fine. Then came the windstorm. The next day we heard some banging on the roof and the chimney cap lifted up and blew off. Later that night we heard the all-to-familiar sound of the raccoon climbing down the chimney. The stinking thing is back. And the wind and rain haven't let up enough to get back up there to put the cap back on the chimney. We might just have this unwelcome tenant until summer.
Which is why I was so annoyed to see caged raccoons on display at the zoo today.
"No! No! Noooooo!!!" I yelled as he squeezed his fluffy butt into the tiny hole leading to our fireplace. We could hear him banging around inside for several months. We would hear him leave just after dusk and return at around 5:00am each day. Sometimes he would bang in the middle of the afternoon and my kids would start pounding on the wall near the fireplace yelling "Get out of our chimney, you filthy beast!" My husband wouldn't get him out because of the ice on the roof. It was too dangerous to climb up there. He assured me (repeatedly) that there was no way for him to get into the house.
So finally, Spring came (sort of). At least the ice melted from the roof and we were able to get up on the roof to put a cap on the chimney. But first we would have to have a fire in the fireplace to smoke the stinking thing out. So we collected all of the old bills and credit card offer that I've been meaning to shred and had ourselves a good smokey fire. Unfortunately, the flu was stuck closed and the living room filled with smoke. But don't panic! We got a hammer and smacked that darn thing opened. The smoke began to rise up the chimney, but there was no critter going out. Apparently, he had met some friends for lunch that day, so the fire was for nothing.
No matter. My husband happily climbed up the roof to install the chimney cap. Once he was up there he realized he needed a different screw driver. He wanted me to throw it up to him, but I refused because that just didn't seem safe. So I decided to climb up the extension ladder leaning against the side of the house. This is when I discovered two things; 1) I do not like heights and 2) I think aluminum is a stupid material to make a ladder out of. It does not give any feeling of stability or safety. I almost called my dad to come and get me down, just like when I was a kid and climbed that 30-foot pine tree and couldn't get down.
The cap made it on the chimney without any further problems and we cleaned up the mess from the fire by shoving the cold ashes down the little chute at the back of the fireplace. Everything seemed fine until about half an hour later when we noticed the basement was full of smoke. There was smoke streaming out from behind the basement wall right under the fireplace. We opened the ash door in the basement and found nothing. Not even the ashes we had put down the chute earlier. Weird.
As the smoke got thicker, we had no choice but to call the fire department. Apparently, there was nothing else going on because we ended up with five engines from two different fire houses, plus three volunteers in their own cars, and about 30 gigantic firefighters in full gear stomping through my kitchen and into the basement. I thought having that many people in my basement might violate fire regulations, but I figured I'd leave that detail up to the experts. After a while, the fire fighters came out of our basement with a smoldering bucket of small planks. Apparently, the previous owner of our house had shoved three or four small boards and a foam ceiling tile up the ash trap. There was a single ember that was still warm enough to start the tile smoldering. Who stores flammables in a place you put ashes?
Once the fire fighters and their engines were gone, we thought everything was fine. Then came the windstorm. The next day we heard some banging on the roof and the chimney cap lifted up and blew off. Later that night we heard the all-to-familiar sound of the raccoon climbing down the chimney. The stinking thing is back. And the wind and rain haven't let up enough to get back up there to put the cap back on the chimney. We might just have this unwelcome tenant until summer.
Which is why I was so annoyed to see caged raccoons on display at the zoo today.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
My Love Affair With The Buffet
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.
"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.
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.
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