The Perfect Fit

I put together a puzzle today with my son.  In truth, what happened was he dumped the contents of a puzzle box onto my lap, sat with me for a few minutes then ran off to play Captain America while I tried to sort things out.

It seemed as though there were about a kajillion puzzle pieces even though the box said there were only 63.  I began to doubt that any of the pieces even belonged to the same puzzle.  Maybe it was just a random box filled with random puzzle pieces.  Maybe I had just discovered the secret hiding place for every lost puzzle piece.  Perhaps when one of the tiny cardboard slices inadvertently is pushed under a couch or slips beneath the edge of an area rug a magical vortex opens up and whisks it away to this unassuming little box to spend eternity with all the other lost puzzle pieces. 

Well, I'm not ruling that out completely, but after a short time a picture began to form.  That's when I

noticed it; an odd little puzzle piece.  It had a weird shape and a strange splattering of colors.  There was no telling what part of the picture this strange little piece would end up revealing.  I set it aside, doubting if it belonged at all.  But I found myself picking it up again and again.  I turned it in all directions in my hands and tried to fit it in here or there.  Sometimes it seemed like it would fit, but then I would remove it after finding a piece that was a better fit; the right piece.

And then I started to cry.  Not just because I was a tired, stressed out mother of three who found herself being stymied by a children's toy intended to be mastered by ages three and up, but because I realized that I am that weird little puzzle piece.  I am 37 years old.  I have a home, a family, a job, but I still don't know where I fit in.  Where do I fit in this world?  Like the little puzzle piece, I am lost... misplaced.

An impressive
amount of hairspray.

It's as if I never left the seventh grade and I'm still praying, "Please God, please don't let me be a nerd.  Please just let me fit in."  As a kid I was always acutely aware that my jeans were never rolled quite right.  And no matter how much hairspray I used I was never able to get that perfect wall of hair.  While the bangs of other girls stood at attention all day long, mine would unceremoniously flop to one side by second period.  I suppose, in the long run, it made for less embarrassing school photos. 

I had friends here and there, but none that would really be close for a lifetime. 
Some of my friends had such active social lives that my introverted self couldn't keep up with all the activity.  Some seemed so much more intelligent than me that I felt like I had to study up on a subject every time I wanted to have a conversation with them.  Some friends were so sweet and kind.  As much as I wanted to be more like them and remain close with them for my entire life, I knew that I was not nearly as compassionate as they were and would eventually hurt them.  So I quietly faded into the background. 

I did not fit in right through high school and into college.  I'm still not sure if I fit in anywhere.  Perhaps I will some day.  Maybe.  I mean, every puzzle piece fits somewhere, right?

As my pint-sized Captain America stomps across the puzzle, pieces sticking to the bottom of his feet waiting to be whisked away into the Lost Toy Vortex, I realize that none of that matters at this moment.  He snuggles into my lap, looks up at me with that sweet face and says, "You're my best girl, Mama."  I hold him tight and kiss the top of his fuzzy head. 

It's a perfect fit.

The Girl In The Record Store

I'm sure there is a woman who exists that, back in the early 70s, dated a cute boy in high school named John.  He and his friends had a little band.  He had great hair and an ambition to be a musician when he grew up.  While they were very happy together, they were young and, as is the fate for many young loves, the flame burned fasted and faded just as quickly.  They parted friends and went their separate ways.

Several years later, in 1982, I'm sure that same girl,
now a young woman, was flipping through the
albums of her local record store.  After all, she had dated a musician in high school.  As she flips through the 12-inch squares looking for a new band to spin on the old family Hi-Fi, she gasps and quickly snaps up an album.  She exclaims loudly, "Jon Bon Jovi!?!  I used to make out with him in his mother's basement!"

I'm sure that woman exists.  She has to.  Because right now, I feel very much like that woman.  Except I'm not flipping through dusty vinyl albums.  Facebook is my record store.  A friend of mine from high school is at the beginning of a rocket ride upwards to national, and quite possibly international recognition for his art work. 

He is one of the few people that I know that said, "I want to be <fill in the blank> when I grow up," and now he actually is.  Many kids say they want to be a rock star or a famous actor when they grow up.  Most of them become accountants or possibly lawyers.  Very few actually go on to be what they professed when they were kids.  I personally wanted to be a race car driver when I was a kid.  I had a need for speed.  Some people who have driven with me might consider that I have accomplished my goal.  I also wanted to be a Notary Public.  But I digress.

Scorch was a cross between
an angry Bugs Bunny and a
more irritable Sonic the Hedgehog.

I remember in high school, my friend used to doodle pictures of this little bunny.  It's name was Scratch... Scorch... I can't remember what it's name was.  It was an angry little bunny with clenched teeth and one floppy ear and was the star of his very own comic strip.  And even though I made constant fun of his floppy-eared bunny, I always appreciated how detailed his drawings were.  I merely enjoyed drawing, he was passionate about it.  No matter how hard I tried, I could never create images as beautiful and compelling as his.  I'm pretty sure I still have some of his napkin doodles in a box somewhere in my parent's basement.

Due to the wonders of Facebook and other online media, some of his recent work is being recognized.  He is being commissioned to do the artwork for band CDs and movie posters as well as other projects.  I have to say, I am so proud of him and thrilled to be a person who can say, "I knew him when..." 

I look forward to the day in the not-too-distant-future when I'm looking through CDs or perusing the "Coming Soon" movie posters at Regal Theater and recognize the distinct style of my friend's artwork.  I'm so proud of him and can't wait to see such a talented and deserving person receive public recognition and admiration for his craft.  I can't wait to be that woman in the record store.  Because we totally made out in his mother's basement.

Valentine's Day Approaches

Valentine's Day is nearly upon us and with it comes the special combination of anxiety and neuroticism that makes me uniquely me. As if my general fears of the day aren't enough, I am now finding myself contemplating what illness or accident will land me another romantic evening in the Emergency Room.

I'm so glad that my kids have not inherited my Valentine's craziness. They seem pretty cool and matter-of-fact about it. There's no anxiety about giving a valentine to the weird kid or people thinking that they like the weird kid. I guess that's a plus to today's school system. They really emphasize that every kid in the class is "one of our friends." That wasn't the case when I was growing up. There was a definite stigma associated with being friends with some kids. Was it fair? No. Did I want to exclude people? No. But when you're a kid with thick glasses, freckles and really messed up teeth, you can't take any chances giving a Valentine to the smelly kid. Childhood was really rough for me.

We actually have the opportunity to have a grown-up night out this year. Our church’s Married Couples Group is sponsoring a romantic evening of dinner and entertainment. It's reasonably priced, but we can't make it for a few reasons, which coincidentally is the exact number of children we have. When you have three kids and not a single one of them is old enough to stay home alone or watch any of the others, you spend a lot of Valentine's Days eating chicken nuggets and watching Curious George.

We could hire our niece to babysit. She's done it before and did a great job. She's responsible, organized, and really prepared. She's much more prepared than I ever was when I used to babysit kids. She brings toys, prizes, candy and activities. But that's not really the problem either.

My parents are going to the Married Couples Valentine's Dinner. I suppose this isn't really that big of a deal. But personally, I find it really difficult to look deeply into my love's eyes while my Dad is asking me to pass the salt.

And here's Robert Downy, Jr., just because he makes everything better. 

Paper Cuts and Miracles

The Barbie Band-Aid really
does make it feel better.

I cut my finger while using scissors the other day. This is a potential injury I had been warned about since Kindergarten. Even as a child I wondered how one was supposedly able to cut through human skin with scissors that just barely cut through an ordinary piece of construction paper. (Side note: One can get beat up simply by referring to oneself as "One.")  Most of the time the paper ended up being ripped rather than cut.

I've always been pretty good with sharp objects. Most of my cuts are usually from broken glass or paper.  Paper is, by far, the worst enemy of my epidermis.  I've gotten some pretty nasty paper cuts. For some reason they always seem to hurt the most. Maybe it's because they're such a clean cut. Or maybe it's because I usually get them right on a knuckle where they never get a chance to really close up. All I know is that I can be bested by some thinly sliced tree pulp.

I've always excelled at using sharp objects.  It's a point of pride my father instilled in me as a child.  I've mentioned before that my father used to send me outside with a large knife and practice throwing it so that it would stick straight up in the grass and not land flat on its side.  Yeah, it sounds weird to me now, too.  But it seemed like a perfectly reasonable past time as a kid.  Dad would also bring me to the Rochester Fencing Club and have me poke a knot in the knotty pine bleachers with his extra foil while he and the rest of the club members parried and thrusted.  Good times.

My mother is generally discouraged from using knives.  She has accidentally sliced herself open and ruined more dishcloths than I can count.  We tend to take stock of the paper towels and bandages when Mom goes to slice up anything for a big family dinner.  Clearly, her parents never sent her into the back yard to practice her knife throwing skills.  Poor thing.



The blood-free project!

Since I am generally pretty good with sharp objects, I have to admit, I was quite shocked when I felt the tip of my brand new, race-car-red scissors slice through knuckle of my left index finger while cutting felt for a new project.  It was a rookie mistake.  I was so focused on cutting the felt in a straight line I didn't notice I was placing my poor little piggy that stayed home in harms way.  It was a bloody mess, but I managed to finish up my project without getting any on it.



Yup, I got cut right on the Middle
phalanx of my left index finger.

Fortunately for me, the next day was Sunday.  I went off to church and, having forgotten to put a new Band-aid on after taking a shower, was very conscious of my grody, open wound.  But worry not!  That day in church the Holy Spirit was moving!  It was a really awesome time of worship.  Pastor didn't actually ever get to his sermon, cause instead of telling us about stuff, God just did what God does.  While I was sitting there praying I looked down at my open cut.  But it wasn't as open as it had been when I got to church.  I periodically would look down at my finger, and the cut was closing up.  By the end of church, there was a small red dot where before the raw insides of my finger had previously been.  Now you may be thinking, "So what?  It was just a simple cut that would have healed in a couple of days."  And you would be right.  Except that I didn't have to wait a couple of days.  It was healed in less than an hour at church.  And yes, it wasn't a cancerous tumor or a deadly disease that I was healed from, but if we can't believe God to heal the little things then how will we have Faith to believe for healing when big stuff hits?

I don't know about yours, but my God still does miracles.  He's pretty cool like that. 

Fasting and Prayer, or, How I Accidentally Poisoned Myself

My church is doing a 21-day Fast. They do it every year in January to start the year off right and hear from God. This year I'm sort of participating. I suppose fasting isn't any more difficult for me than it is for anybody else. But it makes me feel better to think that it is.

It's not difficult for the reasons you might suppose. I can go quite a while without eating or drinking anything. In fact, I do it inadvertently throughout the year. I take after my Mother and Grandmother.  They are both part camel. 

HULK NEED
CHICKEN SANDWICH!

Here's the problem: I get really... let's say "weird", when I don't eat at regular intervals. My husband can attest to this as can my mother, who previously didn't believe it was true until she witnessed my hunger induced transformation first-hand. We were at the mall one day just before lunch time when it hit. I went from being my normal, funny, fairly rational self to being extremely short-tempered, confused and irrational. My mother stood there with her mouth opened unable to believe what was happening to me. The whole time I had no idea that I was acting any different at all. We stopped at the food court and three bites into a chicken sandwich I was back to my normal self again, feeling calmer, but unaware that I had been anything but pleasant.

The point is, I need to eat. Everyone around me needs me to eat.  So fasting can be a bit of a problem for me.  Fortunately, there are many different kinds of fasting.  You can do a full fast, which means you don't eat anything at all and only drink water.  You can have broth if you start feeling too weak.  This is not a good option for me.  It would take about 20 minutes before I would go for the broth.  The Daniel Fast lets you eat only fruits and vegetables.  Not a bad way to live everyday, but I love bacon too much to make that a permanent lifestyle.  My kids are fasting TV, video games, and sugary snacks on different days during the week.  They're doing a great job and I'm really proud of them.

I decided this would be a good time to jump-start some better eating habits.  I found a 3-day cleanse on the Dr. Oz website that looked good.  It's supposed to re-set your hormones and boost your immune system.  It sounded great, so I went and bought all the fruits, vegetables, supplements, and weird food products that I needed from the Natures Marketplace section of the grocery store that I generally avoid because I'm no hippie.  I even bought the Epsom salts and lavender oil drops to take the nightly Detox Ultra Bath.  I don't generally take baths because sitting in a pot of my own filth is not something I generally enjoy, but I sat in the hot, salty water until my fingers got all pruney because I was committed to doing this thing.  It turned out to be pretty relaxing.  I didn't like it.  Relaxation is very uncomfortable to me.  I wrote a blog all about that here if you want to know why.

The breakfast drink went down pretty well on day one.  It was a little more banana-y than I like, but it was still okay.  The lunch drink was very, very thick and pulpy.  It made me gag and what bit of it I managed to get down burned my throat.  This should have been a red flag to me, but I ignored it.  Four large stalks of celery turned out to be too much.  I think I put too much cayenne pepper in the dinner shake the first night, because it made my throat feel like it was going to bleed.  I used cinnamon the next day instead.  It was much better.

The irony of me being taken out
by a nut is not lost on me.

I was well into day three of the cleanse when I made an important discovery.  I was so dedicated to being totally committed to doing this thing right that I missed a very important detail.  I don't like to admit it, but I have a slight allergy to almonds.  It isn't bad enough to keep me from grabbing a small handful of my sister's homemade seasoned almonds, but it is bad enough to keep me from breathing comfortably.  I consider comfortable breathing to be an optional luxury when compared to eating toasted almonds coated in cinnamon and sugar.  I don't want to admit that I can be defeated by a nut and believe that my increased sensitivity to them is a punishment for my general intolerance of food allergies, so I mostly just ignore the problem.  Until I realized that the reason I was feeling sick, tired, and lethargic while drinking smoothies that were supposed to make me feel energized and refreshed was because they were made of almond butter and almond milk. Yes, I was slowly poisoning myself.  And yes, it took me three days to realize it. 

I was going to finish the cleanse, but my husband insisted that I stop.  About two days later I was feeling just fine, breathing in and out without incident.  I tried it again a few days later, without the poisonous ingredients. 

I guess what I learned most during this fast is to listen more carefully to that still, small voice inside of me that says, "Hey, Dummy, you're poisoning yourself."  Maybe that voice should be a little louder.

Hey, Dummy.  You're eating poison.

Christmas Songs: The Ones I Could Do Without

The Christmas Season seems to start sooner each year.  This year we not only have "Black Friday", but "Gray Thursday" and even what I like to call "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs Wednesday".  The artificial trees at Wegmans started going on display before Halloween.  My daughter was outraged, and I admit I'm more than a little bit proud of that.

One thing I do like about jump-starting Christmas is the music.  I love Christmas Carols.  I would listen to them all year long if my husband didn't adamantly object.  He puts his foot down for so few things that I have to oblige.  I love that WARM 101.3 started its annual Holiday Gift of Music early.  Nothing makes me happier than a good Christmas song.  I feel the need to stress "good" Christmas song.  There are several Christmas songs that I feel are horrible and I turn the radio off when I hear them.  I don't even just change the station, I turn the whole thing right off.  I dislike them that much.

So, here's a list of songs that just bug the bejeebers out of me.  (Spellcheck doesn't like the word bejeebers.)  Now, I know that some of the songs on this list are on the Favorite Songs list for other people, but this is my blog, so tough noogies.  If you don't agree, write your own blog.  :-P

1.  Political Songs:  I really don't like political songs.  I specifically object to Happy Xmas (War is Over) by John Lennon.  First of all, Xmas is a pet peeve of mine.  It's Christmas.  Jesus doesn't sign his name with an X.  And taking Christ out of it doesn't change what the season is all about.  Secondly, even as a small child the lyrics "war is over if you want it" seemed ridiculous to me.  A boy in grammar school once threatened to punch me in the face.  I firmly believe that if I had responded with "Hey, man!  War is over if you want it," he would have punched me right then and there.  Also, Yoko Ono is the worst. 

2.  My Grownup Christmas List:  This song also falls under the category of "Political Songs" as does any song that tries to get me to think.  I don't listen to the radio to think about stuff.  I listen to it to stop thinking about stuff.  I can think about how horrible the world is all by myself without Natalie Cole reminding me.  The Michael Buble version is the only one I can even remotely tolerate, mostly because the sound of his voice makes me fall asleep.

3.  Christmas Shoes by Newsong:  This song makes me hate Rob Lowe's handsome face every year.  I blame him for perpetuating this super sappy song with the equally lame movie he starred in on the Hallmark channel.  I don't like songs that try to manipulate my emotions.  They are usually met with fury rather than compassion.

4.  Warm and Fuzzy Time of Year by Billy Gilman:  I don't know exactly what it is about this song that makes me feel... uncomfortable.  Maybe it's because the home economics teacher in high school used the phrase "warm fuzzies" all the time and it really creeped me out.  I don't know.  Plus, it's in way too high a key for most people to sing along.

5.  Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer:  When this song first came out when I was a kid I thought it was hilarious.  My cousin and I quickly memorized the entire song and sang it repeatedly.  My Grandma hated it.  She was deeply offended at the suggestion that she would wear a blue and silver wig.  Like I said, it was hilarious when I was a kid, but like many things of my youth, I just find it super annoying now.

6. The Twelve Pains of Christmas:  This song is literally just a list of complaining.  (The irony that this is a list of things I don't like is not lost on me.  I'm just ignoring it.)  Things are never really that bad and certainly not all at once.

7.  Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas:  If this seems like a strange one to have on the list, don't worry, it's a little strange for me, too.  Judy Garland sang this song in the movie "Meet Me In St. Louis" in 1944.  It's a lovely little tune and very sentimental with hope for a happier future.  The reason it is on the list is because of my Dad.  He once told me that when he was on the U.S.S. Enterprise during the Vietnam War they would play this song for the men.  It made him feel sad because so many of those men would never see home again.  Every time I hear this song I think of all the men and women who will never see home again and how thankful I am that my Dad was not among them.

8.  Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg:  This song is terrible.  The guy sees a girl he used to know in the grocery store, hides behind the frozen foods and then touches her sleeve.  I realize he needed to rhyme something with "Christmas Eve," but "touched her on her sleeve" is just incredibly creepy.  If someone who has just been hiding behind the frozen foods in the grocery store touches me on my sleeve I can guarantee you that my fist will be touching him on his eye.  End of song.  Also, the two are considering adultery, which I'm glad they resisted, but they split a six-pack of beer in a parking lot and then drove home.  Super classy.

So, that's basically it.  If you want to bug the heck out of me then call the radio station and request any of these songs repeatedly.  Just so you don't think I'm a total whiner, I'm going to also post my favorite Christmas songs.  :-)

I Blog Because Twitter Isn't Big Enough

I've been really horrible about writing.  In fact, aside from the extensive five-page packing list for our trip to Disney World this summer, I haven't written a darn thing.  Not even a grocery list, thanks to my new iPhone and the Wegman's App.  I thing the Wegman's App is my favorite thing about my phone.  That, and the Fart Cushion App.  Yes, I have the sense of humor of a ten-year-old.  Farts and Falls will always make me laugh.  The truth is, I'm having trouble figuring out how to use the new phone and wonder why people wait in long lines for such devices.  It's a phone.  It makes phone calls.  It also lets me post things to Facebook whenever I think of them, which is turning out to be a double-edged sword.  Sometimes I need a little extra time to filter my thoughts.

I've been insanely busy lately, although if you ask me what I've been up to the list is very short and unimpressive.  I'm not really sure why I feel so busy, all I know is that my son doesn't have any more shirts in his drawer and I'm sitting on the couch catching up on my blog instead of doing laundry.  Terrible guilt...  

I would love to have this Auto Pilot in my car.
I would probably get lost less often.

Anyhow, life has a habit of catching up to you and I'm pretty sure it will just overtake me if I don't make a point of slowing down and looking at where I am and how I got here.  I seriously have no idea how I get to most places.  The other day I was driving to work and I kind of went into auto-pilot.  I'm sure you've done that before, right?  No?  Just me?  Okay, well I went into auto-pilot on the way to work.  I was rockin' out in my minivan while Mandisa sang Good Morning to me.  I pulled into a parking spot and it wasn't until I got out of the car and locked the doors that I realized that instead of driving to work, I drove to the Christmas Tree Shop.  At that point, what else could I do but go in to buy some fall dish towels and some Thanksgiving napkins before heading to work?  Fifteen minutes and thirty-five dollars later, I left the store with several bags and headed to work feeling proud that I had only spent thirty-five and not fifty or seventy-five.

Em's Dance Party

I've fallen behind in practically everything.  My daughter's birthday was in September and only this past weekend did I finally get around to having a birthday party for her.  One of the moms said to me, "What a lovely party!  You're such a good mom!"  I decided to relish in the compliment and not tell her to hold on to the Mother of the Year Award because my kid's birthday was nearly ten weeks ago.  Yeah, some things are best left unsaid.  On the plus side, since I was planning my middle girl's birthday so late, it was nearly my oldest daughter's birthday so, for the first time in her nine years, Mya will actually have a birthday party pretty close to her actual birthday!  I got her party invitations out a full two-weeks in advance!


While I've been feeling technically deficient lately, I decided to open a Twitter account.  My Pastor has a twitter account.  So does C.S. Lewis, and if a dead guy can figure out how to use Twitter, then so can I... I think... probably not.  The point is, I can now legitimately type things like #goinginsane and #cantfindmycarkeys, although I have no idea why I would say #anything.  I'm also curious as to why it is suddenly called "hashtag" instead of "pound sign" as I have always known it to be.  I mean, when you're stuck in an automated phone call it doesn't say, "Press hashtag to talk to an operator."  Although, I'm sure that day will come because there will be a whole generation of idiots who think that it's actually called a hashtag.  Those are the same people who don't realize that this, &, is called an ampersand.  Anyhow, I have a Twitter account.  I have yet to tweet a darn thing, mostly because I hate learning new technology.  I'll probably master it once everyone has moved on the the next new thing, which has probably already happened, but I don't know about it because I'm a totally old lady who resists technology.  Plus, I don't think I will ever really be able to share my thoughts in less than 137 characters.