Since I was a child I have been quite certain that I was born in the absolute wrong era. I'm absolutely fascinated with Ancient Egypt, Revolutionary America, Georgian England, the entire Victorian period and the Ante-Bellum South. I would have loved to have visited the temples of Amarna in their glory, witnessed America in it's pristine state, wandered the grounds of Pemberly (yes, I know it isn't a real place), experienced a Diamond Jubilee, and wandered the grounds of Monmoth before there was a CitGo across the street. There just seems to be a simplicity, an innocence and a purity that have been slowly chipped away at as the years have slipped past. Our chaotic daily pace must have been unimaginable to those who were willing to wait for weeks for the written word of a loved one to arrive by rider, or to never travel further in a day than your coach and team of four could carry you. I can't imagine how pure the air must have been, how strong the bonds of friendship, and how passionate the heart. If our ancestors had sat, transfixed by the television, would we still labor under the bonds of colony-hood? It's a point to ponder to be certain.
BUT-ah yes, that nasty little word-BUT... Had I been born in any of the above eras I would have already died no less than five times. First by ruptured appendix at 7, then by a nasty case of strep at 9, a horrific bout of the flu at 10, a ruptured gallbladder at 33, and a nasty heart condition at any old time. And of course, that is only if I hadn't been offed by yellow fever, an abscessed tooth, a rusty nail, or any myriad of ailments that I no doubt lived through but didn't realize ought to have killed me. AND, had I been fortunate enough to survive all of the above I'd have been nothing less than atrocious to look at. Cross eyed and buck-toothed does not a diamond of the first water make. Yes folks, born even 100 years earlier and I would no doubt have been a tombstone by 7, but if not, a spinster knitting quietly at home. Far more Jane Eyre than Elizabeth Bennett...
So where does that leave me? It leaves me quite content, thank you very much. I may fantasize about chivalry and gentility, but I can experience friendship and love in a time of technology and medical miracles. I can wander the grounds of Longwood, while talking on my cell phone. I can wear my bracelet circled by ancient Scarabs, while perusing the internet. I can sit on my settee, and text my sister on my iphone. I can read Pride and Prejudice for the 500th time, while flying to Oregon. And, I get to do it all with Mr. Big Prize, who didn't show up on this spinning ball until the mid-part of this century. So, it really is the best time to be alive.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
You just never know how your dreams might come true
I am not what one might call a lucky person. In fact, were I to add up all the events in my 30 some odd years of living that might be attributable to "luck" I doubt we'd need all the fingers on one of my hands. In things both grand and small I seem to be entirely luck-less. On the significant end of things, I do not win lotteries, or even raffles. I think it is quite possible that I could be the proud possessor of 99 tickets out of 100 in any given raffle, and I'd still lose. On the smaller end of luck's measuring stick I will invariably be the first to catch a red light, always get in the wrong line at the grocery store, and if my path is crossed by anything of the feline species it's bound to be black. Don't get me wrong, I don't have BAD luck, I just don't seem to have any at all of the good variety. I suppose, given a choice, I'd rather have none of the good than all of the bad. And it isn't that great things don't happen to me, they do! However, they can all be traced back to years and years of really hard work, determination, and loads of prayer. I'm not one of those people that Karma just seems to smile upon. And you know that type too, oh yes you do. They are the kind that things really do just seem to fall from heaven right into their lap, all the time, at any given moment. They are the type that we all see and say to ourselves "How on earth did he/she get/win/find/know that?" Well, I'll tell you how-LUCK!! Luck, karma, whatever-call it what you will, it doesn't seem to know I exist.
However, there is one area in my life where I do seem to be far more fortunate than some, and that is in my friendships. I have been so incredibly blessed by the people who have touched my life, and I hope that they feel the same about me. My most fortunate event to date is of course the winning of Mr. Big Prize-he's given almost 14 of the most amazing years imaginable, with only time and God to call it all to an end. I've had the same best girlfriend since high school, and we have seen each other through thick and thin. My sister has morphed from sibling to sustainer, and keeps my head screwed on straight. My girl Robin has my back, and makes me giggle at the most inappropriate moments. And I have been blessed with literally dozens and dozens of other amazing people in my life who have contributed positivity and happiness in more ways than I can recount. Recently, I made a new friend, one who we will just agree to call Outrageous. Outrageous has been an almost constant source of encouragement and support for me, and seems to sense the days when I most need an encouraging word or thought sent my way. Outrageous also has an unerring sense of selflessness, and truly wants to give to the world and to others, knowing it will be repaid a hundred fold, and is ever encouraging others to follow their dreams and never give up on them. Outrageous has just made one of my almost forgotten dreams come true, and for the first time in my life, has made me feel lucky too.
Let's rewind some 20 odd years in my life, back when I was still a gawky adolescent-the anathema of the Christian Heritage Academy's seventh grade class. Too tall, too thin, with glasses far too thick, for once in my life I found myself almost friendless. My primary escape was through books. I read voraciously, and still do to this day. But back then, I discovered an author whom I loved, and I devoured her books. My favorite of hers was a mystery/murder surrounding a mysterious and beautiful rare gemstone. I was HOOKED, and dreamt of the day I would have one of these amazing pieces for myself. Years went by, and I re-read the book a half a dozen times over. I searched for these stones, but found them incredibly hard to locate, and when found, out of my realm of possibility. Mr.Big Prize can attest to the fact that I'm rarely attracted to the simple or common. So, I'd all but given up on that dream. I still have that book, but the idea of the gem was long forgotten.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. After months of friendship with Outrageous I find out that the occupation of choice for said person is that of gem and gold dealer...specifically, my rare gems. I shared with Outrageous the story of my book, and my search, and my dream, and asked if I could possibly buy one of those pieces laying around. Three days later, on a snowy February afternoon, a box arrived for me. Inside that box was a dream come true, a stroke of amazing luck in the form of an incredibly giving friend. There was my gem, and it was magnificent. A gift from a friend, and a forgotten dream fulfilled.
How do you say thank you for a gift like that? Seriously, those things DON'T happen to me. I'm not lucky. Then, I realized, luck had nothing to do with it. I realized two very important things. First, friendship really is the best gift we can give one another. To show someone unconditional support and encouragement costs you nothing, but can be returned to you in unimaginable ways. Secondly, it taught me to never ever give up on any dream. Life is far too short and far too fragile to let any of life's opportunities pass you by. Dream big, plan big, and take the actions necessary to make your dreams a reality. And, with a tiny bit of Luck, and a lot of hard work, your dreams will come true in an Outrageous way!
However, there is one area in my life where I do seem to be far more fortunate than some, and that is in my friendships. I have been so incredibly blessed by the people who have touched my life, and I hope that they feel the same about me. My most fortunate event to date is of course the winning of Mr. Big Prize-he's given almost 14 of the most amazing years imaginable, with only time and God to call it all to an end. I've had the same best girlfriend since high school, and we have seen each other through thick and thin. My sister has morphed from sibling to sustainer, and keeps my head screwed on straight. My girl Robin has my back, and makes me giggle at the most inappropriate moments. And I have been blessed with literally dozens and dozens of other amazing people in my life who have contributed positivity and happiness in more ways than I can recount. Recently, I made a new friend, one who we will just agree to call Outrageous. Outrageous has been an almost constant source of encouragement and support for me, and seems to sense the days when I most need an encouraging word or thought sent my way. Outrageous also has an unerring sense of selflessness, and truly wants to give to the world and to others, knowing it will be repaid a hundred fold, and is ever encouraging others to follow their dreams and never give up on them. Outrageous has just made one of my almost forgotten dreams come true, and for the first time in my life, has made me feel lucky too.
Let's rewind some 20 odd years in my life, back when I was still a gawky adolescent-the anathema of the Christian Heritage Academy's seventh grade class. Too tall, too thin, with glasses far too thick, for once in my life I found myself almost friendless. My primary escape was through books. I read voraciously, and still do to this day. But back then, I discovered an author whom I loved, and I devoured her books. My favorite of hers was a mystery/murder surrounding a mysterious and beautiful rare gemstone. I was HOOKED, and dreamt of the day I would have one of these amazing pieces for myself. Years went by, and I re-read the book a half a dozen times over. I searched for these stones, but found them incredibly hard to locate, and when found, out of my realm of possibility. Mr.Big Prize can attest to the fact that I'm rarely attracted to the simple or common. So, I'd all but given up on that dream. I still have that book, but the idea of the gem was long forgotten.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. After months of friendship with Outrageous I find out that the occupation of choice for said person is that of gem and gold dealer...specifically, my rare gems. I shared with Outrageous the story of my book, and my search, and my dream, and asked if I could possibly buy one of those pieces laying around. Three days later, on a snowy February afternoon, a box arrived for me. Inside that box was a dream come true, a stroke of amazing luck in the form of an incredibly giving friend. There was my gem, and it was magnificent. A gift from a friend, and a forgotten dream fulfilled.
How do you say thank you for a gift like that? Seriously, those things DON'T happen to me. I'm not lucky. Then, I realized, luck had nothing to do with it. I realized two very important things. First, friendship really is the best gift we can give one another. To show someone unconditional support and encouragement costs you nothing, but can be returned to you in unimaginable ways. Secondly, it taught me to never ever give up on any dream. Life is far too short and far too fragile to let any of life's opportunities pass you by. Dream big, plan big, and take the actions necessary to make your dreams a reality. And, with a tiny bit of Luck, and a lot of hard work, your dreams will come true in an Outrageous way!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Let it Snow
I think we are all now well aware of my feelings for winter. I would be blissfully happy to live in an area where there are only two seasons; warm and warmer. But no, God in all His greatness has seen fit to place me in the mid-south. We do have four seasons, and I am ever grateful that winter seems to be the briefest of these. The worst part of this, our typically shortest season, is that it generally feels like some sort of seasonal purgatory. Neither cold enough to keep one indoors roasting chestnuts and the like, nor warm enough not to have to wrap ourselves in multiple layers and drab colors. No, winter in my home state, brief though it may be, tends to be grey and wet. For us there are no post card winters, where the boughs of the evergreens hang slack under the weight of newly fallen snow. I love the idea of sleigh rides, jingle bells and snow plows. Snow shoes are cute, toboggans are great accessories, and could there really be anything more darling than ice skating on a pond? But for us, none of those are ever part of our winter scene. Nope. We get soggy socks, muddy pants legs, short grey days.
But this year, something all together different has occurred. We've been visited by Jack Frost not once, but twice. As I type this the sky is shedding layer after layer of fresh snow, and the ground is piled with almost eight inches of it. The sun has set, but the white glow of the snow reflects what little light the moon is casting through the clouds, and sending out an almost eerie winter aura. It's gorgeous. It's unique. It' spectacular.
I know I wouldn't feel this way if every winter in my little home town was like this. If every morning dawned on a fresh blanket of newly fallen snow the wonder would cease, I'm sure. If our streets were constantly piled with exhaust covered piles of snow, the bloom would certainly be off the rose, as it were. However, here snow is something of a winter anomaly, and for that reason, I'll enjoy it. Don't get me wrong; I am more than ready for the first blooms of spring to peak their sleepy heads through the frozen ground, to don my gardening gloves and to break out the flip-flops. I'm really really ready. But, this snow is just another way that the universe tells me to stop, and enjoy. Enjoy the unique and the glorious in things that are really rather mundane and ordinary, and to most of all, relish every single moment of life! Spring will be here soon!
But this year, something all together different has occurred. We've been visited by Jack Frost not once, but twice. As I type this the sky is shedding layer after layer of fresh snow, and the ground is piled with almost eight inches of it. The sun has set, but the white glow of the snow reflects what little light the moon is casting through the clouds, and sending out an almost eerie winter aura. It's gorgeous. It's unique. It' spectacular.
I know I wouldn't feel this way if every winter in my little home town was like this. If every morning dawned on a fresh blanket of newly fallen snow the wonder would cease, I'm sure. If our streets were constantly piled with exhaust covered piles of snow, the bloom would certainly be off the rose, as it were. However, here snow is something of a winter anomaly, and for that reason, I'll enjoy it. Don't get me wrong; I am more than ready for the first blooms of spring to peak their sleepy heads through the frozen ground, to don my gardening gloves and to break out the flip-flops. I'm really really ready. But, this snow is just another way that the universe tells me to stop, and enjoy. Enjoy the unique and the glorious in things that are really rather mundane and ordinary, and to most of all, relish every single moment of life! Spring will be here soon!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I have one enemy
Remember, gentle readers, how just a few weeks ago I regaled you with lovely stories of my one friend? My one awesome friend who loves me in spite of myself? I also told you about the family I adore, the best friend who I love, the hubby who thinks I'm pretty swell. Beyond that, there are a great number of folks who think I'm pretty OK too. A nice kinda gal-one of those 'give you her shirt' types.
Well, tonight folks, you get the darker side of things. Because, it seems, I also have one enemy. One person in the world who apparently loathes the fact that some 36 years ago two X chromosomes came together to create...well...ME! Now, to understand the true absurdity of this situation you'd have to understand this-I do not think in all my years I have spoken to this person even one time. I'm not even sure that I've been close enough to him to give him the flu if I had it, much less a salutation of any kind. On a normal day I don't give this person so much as a single thought. No decision I have ever made, be it personal or business, has in any way been due to the existence of said person. But apparently, said person wishes me wiped from the face of the planet. In all honesty, I think this person dislikes me to such a degree that if given the chance he'd personally drop and atomic bomb on my head, and dance on my ashes.
Said person takes every opportunity to malign and slander me, to attack and abuse me. It's enough to boggle the mind, I can assure you. You see, this person and I compete in a way, and he has chosen that the way to build himself up is to tear me down. We are apparently in the third grade.... I can't really decide how I should feel about it. Should I be flattered? If I wasn't doing something right I wouldn't be worth the effort. Should I be angry? No one enjoys having their name maligned. Should I laugh? I mean really, it's just hilarious if you look at it objectively. Should I simply not care? Is that kind of behavior even worth notice? Or, should I learn from it?
I think that last option is really best, don't you? I mean, I cannot do a single thing to change the behavior of another, and it's foolish to waist time and breath trying to. I will never understand the behavior, as I can't imagine treating anyone else that way. So, I'll learn from it. I'll learn that words do hurt, so I'll not hurt another with mine. I'll learn that excelling at what you do and loving the people you do it for will not be appreciated by everyone, and that's OK. And most importantly, I'll learn that there is nothing and no one in the world who will stop me from following my heart and doing what I love. I do what I do out of a desire to better the lives of those with whom I come into contact, and to perhaps be an encouraging light in a world where there is too often too much darkness. So, I'm going to press on and continue, and leave that enemy of mine to watch.
Well, tonight folks, you get the darker side of things. Because, it seems, I also have one enemy. One person in the world who apparently loathes the fact that some 36 years ago two X chromosomes came together to create...well...ME! Now, to understand the true absurdity of this situation you'd have to understand this-I do not think in all my years I have spoken to this person even one time. I'm not even sure that I've been close enough to him to give him the flu if I had it, much less a salutation of any kind. On a normal day I don't give this person so much as a single thought. No decision I have ever made, be it personal or business, has in any way been due to the existence of said person. But apparently, said person wishes me wiped from the face of the planet. In all honesty, I think this person dislikes me to such a degree that if given the chance he'd personally drop and atomic bomb on my head, and dance on my ashes.
Said person takes every opportunity to malign and slander me, to attack and abuse me. It's enough to boggle the mind, I can assure you. You see, this person and I compete in a way, and he has chosen that the way to build himself up is to tear me down. We are apparently in the third grade.... I can't really decide how I should feel about it. Should I be flattered? If I wasn't doing something right I wouldn't be worth the effort. Should I be angry? No one enjoys having their name maligned. Should I laugh? I mean really, it's just hilarious if you look at it objectively. Should I simply not care? Is that kind of behavior even worth notice? Or, should I learn from it?
I think that last option is really best, don't you? I mean, I cannot do a single thing to change the behavior of another, and it's foolish to waist time and breath trying to. I will never understand the behavior, as I can't imagine treating anyone else that way. So, I'll learn from it. I'll learn that words do hurt, so I'll not hurt another with mine. I'll learn that excelling at what you do and loving the people you do it for will not be appreciated by everyone, and that's OK. And most importantly, I'll learn that there is nothing and no one in the world who will stop me from following my heart and doing what I love. I do what I do out of a desire to better the lives of those with whom I come into contact, and to perhaps be an encouraging light in a world where there is too often too much darkness. So, I'm going to press on and continue, and leave that enemy of mine to watch.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Stick A Fork In Me
You have, gentle readers, learned many things about me over our few brief months together. You have learned that I love all things fuzzy and furry, all things leafy and lively, and that I adore Mr. Big Prize. You have learned that I have one sibling, one amazing Little Miss, and one really fabulous friend. What you haven't yet learned is what I am not, so here it is; I am NOT a cook. This cannot be stated in strong enough language for you to fully comprehend my meaning. I am SO not a cook that I only have a kitchen because it came with my house. Real estate agents tell me it would absolutely destroy my property value to eliminate it all together, but to me it's a horrendous waste of some very valuable square footage. In all honesty I'd much rather move the refrigerator to the bedroom and expand the master bath right on through where the range once stood. I get far more excited about dual shower heads than double ovens. This may or may not surprise you, but if you knew my mother, it would absolutely stun you. My mother is the culinary equivalent of a Mad Scientist. Of course instead of beakers, wires and screws her laboratory is filled with whisks, measuring cups and spices. And the creations which come from her laboratory don't walk out to wreak havoc on mankind, oh no, they waft out to entice the senses and wreak havoc on my waistline. Seriously, she's a veritable genius in all things gastronomic. It would therefore stand to reason that I would have inherited both her love of and her ability in the kitchen. I did not. I believe this is because there is a basic difference in my personality and my mothers. She is both meticulous and patient, and I am neither of these things. No matter how many times she may have baked a certain pie she always follows the recipe. She measures out her ingredients to the infinitesimal degree, and completely understands the difference between "folding" and "whisking". The result is always spectacular, and I do envy her ability. She tried her hardest to turn me into the next great Iron Chef America, but it just didn't take. The only real claim to culinary fame I can make is that my mothers chocolate pie with homemade crust and meringue was a major part of the wooing and winning of Mr. Big Prize, and I did prepare those by myself...with my mother looking over my shoulder. But still, I claim it proudly. While I may not have become the next Julia Child there are a few very basic rules of cooking that did manage to stick in my dietarily dyslexic brain, one of which is that you have to stick a fork in it to see if it's done. You know what I'm talking about, and you've probably done it. Let's say you are cooking a cakey-brownie-spongy sorta thing, and you need to know if it's finished. You cannot tell by looking at it. Very often cakey-brownie-spongy things look all golden and fabulous on the outside but the insides are all mush. You can insert said fork, and if it comes out gooey your goodie needs a few more minutes, clean means you are prêt à manger (ready to eat). So it is with life-is it not? Well, this week, I've had a "stick a fork in me I'm done" week.
It started out well enough, but as it went along it just seemed to spiral downward. We all have those weeks, the weeks where it seems like everyone you contact takes their personal issues out on you, whether you have anything to do with their personal issues or not. No one is happy/satisfied/content with the work you've done, the things you've said or the amount of effort you've exerted on their behalf, and it seems that there is just absolutely no end in sight. I know that this too shall pass, and what I am even more certain of is that no matter how horrific my week seems to be there are thousands out there for whom life is truly horrific. My petty issues and concerns are nothing in comparision to the concerns of hundreds of thousands of my fellow man. How can I have had a "bad week" in a week where so many lost their homes, their families and all that they held dear in one of the worst natural disasters we've ever seen? The truth is that my life, though often frustrating and always exhausting, is magnificent. My problems are miniscule, and perhaps my sole purpose for being is to comfort those around me who are having bad enough days or weeks to take their frustrations out on me.
So, I'm going to take a long hot bath, try to get a good nights rest, and start it all over again tomorrow. But for right now, go ahead and stick a fork in me, I'm DONE!
It started out well enough, but as it went along it just seemed to spiral downward. We all have those weeks, the weeks where it seems like everyone you contact takes their personal issues out on you, whether you have anything to do with their personal issues or not. No one is happy/satisfied/content with the work you've done, the things you've said or the amount of effort you've exerted on their behalf, and it seems that there is just absolutely no end in sight. I know that this too shall pass, and what I am even more certain of is that no matter how horrific my week seems to be there are thousands out there for whom life is truly horrific. My petty issues and concerns are nothing in comparision to the concerns of hundreds of thousands of my fellow man. How can I have had a "bad week" in a week where so many lost their homes, their families and all that they held dear in one of the worst natural disasters we've ever seen? The truth is that my life, though often frustrating and always exhausting, is magnificent. My problems are miniscule, and perhaps my sole purpose for being is to comfort those around me who are having bad enough days or weeks to take their frustrations out on me.
So, I'm going to take a long hot bath, try to get a good nights rest, and start it all over again tomorrow. But for right now, go ahead and stick a fork in me, I'm DONE!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The times that try (wo) men’s souls
Now, as I begin this most recent of my pontifications I want to preface this with a warning. This is not a judicial overview of the way of the world. This is a truly one sided and prejudiced view based on life experience as a wife and daughter. I do not mean to intimate that I do not feel that the thoughts put forth below are anything but 100% factual and accurate, but I also do not care for hate male (and no, that isn’t a typo).
Ahh, the times that try women’s souls… there are so many. There are eight a.m. meetings after long nights of teething or stomach flu. There are flat tires on lonely highways in cars with missing jacks. There is the sudden and unexpected shrinking of our favorite jeans on the night of our big date. In truth, the list goes on and on, from the trivial to the truly traumatic, the mundane to the melodramatic. But I suggest to you, my fellow wonder-women, that there is simply no time that tries a woman’s soul like the following; a sick man. (Can I get an Amen?)
What is it about a sniffle that causes the manly men in our lives to regress to the level of pond-scum? These normally self sufficient Adoni suddenly become totally incompetent to complete even the most modest of tasks, including but not limited to taking a shower. I should be truly fair here. Mr. Big Prize is not one of the worst case scenarios of this sex-wide phenomenon. However, the other manliest of men in my life is-my father. Strangely, there is only one ailment that really turns him into a quivering gelatinous mass; the common cold. Let one of those little acute viral nasopharyngitis germs sneak past his hard working immune system and he’s down for the count. Again, I should be perfectly clear on the reality of his hardheaded stubbornness when it comes to all other ailments. This is the man that will trek into the hills even though he’s suffering with the stomach bug, because if he doesn’t he might miss that perfect sunrise picture. This is the man who refuses stitches in a thumb after nearly cutting it off while doing honey-do chores because it might slow the progress of the project. This is the man who only took two weeks away from his job after having his left lung removed, because, after all, it was really just a little flesh wound. These things seem not to bother him at all, comparatively speaking. But give him a bit of sinusitis and he’s dead man.
Enter the hero of this situation; my mother. Bed bound dad is moaning and wailing and blowing his nose, and mom trudges out into the freezing cold to buy some sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, so-you-don’t-smother-your –husband –with –a-pillow medicine. Upon her return she peeks into the den of the devil to see if he’d like anything for breakfast/lunch/dinner. The answer sounds something like “esss”, because really, who can pronounce a “y” when your nasal passages are blocked? However, when asked WHAT he’d like to eat all that comes back is “I dodt doe” (I don’t know?), which roughly translated, means “Nothing in this house”. So, back out into the cold she goes, in the hopes of bringing home something the monster might find passable, and save her hide from certain destruction. This usually goes on for days, while Mr. Large and Growly grows worse and worse and worse. The end is always the same; mother slings her stubborn hubby over her shoulder and drags his sorry hide to the doctor, where he gets shot up with all varieties of B vitamins and steroids. Miraculous recovery ensues, mothers sanity spared, marriage saved. (Can I get an Amen?)
Now I ask you, gentle reader, what is it that drives our manly men to run crying to the arms of mommy (figuratively, of course) when the fever strikes? I think it’s perhaps it’s their one chance to simply “be”. I honestly cannot imagine the stresses of being a man. The responsibilities of the world literally ride on their broad shoulders, so how tired must those shoulders be? Maybe a day or two of a nasty cold is the only way they can really rest from that without succumbing to an overwhelming sense of societal guilt. They are well and truly being taken care of for the few days that their bodies force them to submit to healing. And we, their women, willingly and gladly coddle and croon as they recoup from it all. But I say to you, it was a wise man that wrote “in sickness and health” into those wedding vows, and a wiser woman still who knows that “till death do us part” does not mean until we find the bullets…
Ahh, the times that try women’s souls… there are so many. There are eight a.m. meetings after long nights of teething or stomach flu. There are flat tires on lonely highways in cars with missing jacks. There is the sudden and unexpected shrinking of our favorite jeans on the night of our big date. In truth, the list goes on and on, from the trivial to the truly traumatic, the mundane to the melodramatic. But I suggest to you, my fellow wonder-women, that there is simply no time that tries a woman’s soul like the following; a sick man. (Can I get an Amen?)
What is it about a sniffle that causes the manly men in our lives to regress to the level of pond-scum? These normally self sufficient Adoni suddenly become totally incompetent to complete even the most modest of tasks, including but not limited to taking a shower. I should be truly fair here. Mr. Big Prize is not one of the worst case scenarios of this sex-wide phenomenon. However, the other manliest of men in my life is-my father. Strangely, there is only one ailment that really turns him into a quivering gelatinous mass; the common cold. Let one of those little acute viral nasopharyngitis germs sneak past his hard working immune system and he’s down for the count. Again, I should be perfectly clear on the reality of his hardheaded stubbornness when it comes to all other ailments. This is the man that will trek into the hills even though he’s suffering with the stomach bug, because if he doesn’t he might miss that perfect sunrise picture. This is the man who refuses stitches in a thumb after nearly cutting it off while doing honey-do chores because it might slow the progress of the project. This is the man who only took two weeks away from his job after having his left lung removed, because, after all, it was really just a little flesh wound. These things seem not to bother him at all, comparatively speaking. But give him a bit of sinusitis and he’s dead man.
Enter the hero of this situation; my mother. Bed bound dad is moaning and wailing and blowing his nose, and mom trudges out into the freezing cold to buy some sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, so-you-don’t-smother-your –husband –with –a-pillow medicine. Upon her return she peeks into the den of the devil to see if he’d like anything for breakfast/lunch/dinner. The answer sounds something like “esss”, because really, who can pronounce a “y” when your nasal passages are blocked? However, when asked WHAT he’d like to eat all that comes back is “I dodt doe” (I don’t know?), which roughly translated, means “Nothing in this house”. So, back out into the cold she goes, in the hopes of bringing home something the monster might find passable, and save her hide from certain destruction. This usually goes on for days, while Mr. Large and Growly grows worse and worse and worse. The end is always the same; mother slings her stubborn hubby over her shoulder and drags his sorry hide to the doctor, where he gets shot up with all varieties of B vitamins and steroids. Miraculous recovery ensues, mothers sanity spared, marriage saved. (Can I get an Amen?)
Now I ask you, gentle reader, what is it that drives our manly men to run crying to the arms of mommy (figuratively, of course) when the fever strikes? I think it’s perhaps it’s their one chance to simply “be”. I honestly cannot imagine the stresses of being a man. The responsibilities of the world literally ride on their broad shoulders, so how tired must those shoulders be? Maybe a day or two of a nasty cold is the only way they can really rest from that without succumbing to an overwhelming sense of societal guilt. They are well and truly being taken care of for the few days that their bodies force them to submit to healing. And we, their women, willingly and gladly coddle and croon as they recoup from it all. But I say to you, it was a wise man that wrote “in sickness and health” into those wedding vows, and a wiser woman still who knows that “till death do us part” does not mean until we find the bullets…
It's Just Unnatural
It's just unnatural, repugnant, repulsive, and I absolutely positively refuse to do it. The very thought of it makes me recoil in horror, and not only do I refuse to do it, I don't want to see anyone else doing it either. What, you ask? Consume anything that is artificially colored blue. I recoil in horror from blue infused sports drinks, slurpies, slushies, icees, and blue sorbets and gelatos are right out. Nothing in nature we are meant to consume is the color of the clear summer sky; oranges are orange, strawberries are red, limes are green, but not even "blue"-berries are truly blue, but rather a deep royal purple. So what, I ask you, possesses purveyors of soft drinks to insist on continually coloring our beverages blue?? My repugnance at this coloration is crazy, I know, but I'm Southern and crazy is almost expected of me.
We love our crazy in the South. We learned a long time ago that things that you try to hide, shut up, and tamp down have a tendency to jump up and bite you at the most inopportune moments. So, in the South we dress our crazy up and bring it right on down into the living room to chat it up and introduce it to the neighbors. We gussy it up and trot it off to church, sit it on the front row to bellow hymns, and shout "AMEN" at the most inappropriate times. We have crazy contests, trying to one up one another to see whose crazy old uncle is truly the craziest (mine is, trust me on this) and which crazy relative has embarrassed the family name to the highest degree. My family's claim to insanity comes down to me from my maternal side. My grandmother was one of her mothers thirteen living children. In her hall hangs a portrait of all of the siblings while they were all in the prime of their lives. Twelve of the siblings stare back from the portrait from twelve pairs of black eyes. The Native American ancestry of the family is perfectly clear in the high cheekbones, black hair and eyes and keen awareness in the faces of twelve. Then, there is number thirteen, Aunt Doris. Or, Crazy Aunt Doris as I have always heard her referred to. Crazy Aunt Doris sticks out like a sore thumb in the portrait. Where twelve of the siblings are long and lean, sharply featured and keen eyed, Aunt Doris is softly rounded on all corners. Her blond hair and cherubic cheeks look absolutely delightful from a distance, but the closer you get to the portrait it becomes clear from the look in her crystal blue eyes that Crazy Aunt Doris was not present on the day that the other twelve siblings lined up to receive their Merit Badges in Sanity. Crazy Aunt Doris is certifiably insane, but luckily for her (or perhaps for us) it is the kind of crazy that can at least be controlled by taking two little white pills each and every day. As long as Aunt Doris takes one little pill in the morning and one in the evening the fog of insanity lifts and the bright light of lucidity dawns. But, as is the case so often with the truly crazy, that dawn is short lived. Once sanity takes hold Aunt Doris is convinced that she simply doesn't need those little white pills...so she stops taking them. You, no doubt, can ascertain what happens very shortly thereafter. I have actually heard Crazy Aunt Doris say "There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, it's all the rest of you that are crazy!" Now, with that kind of sparkly crazy tinsel dangling from the boughs of my family tree can anyone be surprised that I might have certain idiosyncrasies?
So, more about my blue aversion. When I was in the fifth grade my parents transferred me out of public school into a private Christan school, and in my opinion, into an unmitigated hell. I was all of the things that made for the perfect target of adolescent cruelty. Overly tall and gangly, I was an awkward combination of elbows and knees, teeth and ears. I was cursed with a need to wear glasses that had the width of a number of pop-bottles. To make matters all the worse I had decided that the cure to all my woes was having blond hair, and chose to achieve that end through the use of a bottle of Sun-In. You can imagine the outcome of that adventure; my normally nearly black hair turned the shade of a rotten orange. Not pretty. All these things combined to make me the anathema of my classmates (and in truth, the faculty as well) and made my life nearly unbearable. My salvation came in the sixth grade, in the form of Shannon Sides. Shannon was all the things I was not; tall, but with a dancers grace, a crystal clear olive complexion and flowing hair. Shannon had been held back to re-take the sixth grade, for some unknown reason-most likely her inability to properly place the phonetic symbols correctly in her spelling test. A true life skill to be certain. So, due to her repeat of the sixth grade Shannon found herself lumped into the slightly unsavory category along with myself. We became fast friends, with Shannon's friendship toward me probably extended more out of necessity than desire. But that friendship blossomed, and by seventh grade we were sharing everything; a locker, secrets, and a crush on the same Senior High Boy. Shannon and I both had the great misfortune of having summer birthdays, but the summer after our seventh grade year Shannon's parents threw her a pool party. It was an event that was simply not to be missed. I awoke that morning feeling slightly off kilter, but there was no way under the sun I was missing the big event. So, just after noon my mother packed me off with all the necessities one needs to enjoy a summer pool party-gift; check, mint green frilly skirted bathing suit; check, towel; check, raging case of the stomach flu; check. By the time we arrived I was feeling truly under the weather, but in true pre-teen form was unwilling to sacrifice time in the chlorine heaven to a silly thing like the stomach flu. So, we started swimming in the scorching noonday sun. Short breaks in swimming were filled with the eating of Popsicles, and not your expensive wooden stick variety. Oh no, there were ice filled old fashioned wash bins filled to the brim with those brightly colored ice sacks. You know the kind of which I speak; you can find them at any family dollar, stacked floor to ceiling in the aisle selling for something like 10,000 boxes for a dollar. Once opened you find brightly colored sleeves filled with sticky syrup in every imaginable and unnatural color known to man, most notably, blue. If one is unlucky enough to actually consume this syrup before it is frozen one will have the lining of their esophagus burned completely away. But for me on that day, those blue frozen sleeves were a little taste of heaven. That is, until my stomach completely rebelled and sent each and every one of those Popsicles right back out from whence they came. I did manage to make it from the pool area to the bathroom, leaving a wet trail of pool water behind me. Shannon was the one who found me, still hanging over the toilet, debating whether or not to report my mishap or go back to swimming. She exclaimed in horror "Your lips are blue! My aunt threw up and her lips turned blue and she had tuberculosis and died!!!" I might interject here that I think this is the moment than formed another of my idiosyncrasies. Whenever I am subjected by life to acute amounts of stress my psyche responds by convincing me I am suffering from some rare and afore-to undiscovered deadly illness. Thank you, Shannon Sides. But I digress; from that moment on I have been repulsed and revolted by the consumption of all things blue. There is simply no need for them, and even less need for those vile sticks of poison parading around as Popsicles. They are just unnatural, and should be banned.
All this brings me to the realization that we are deeply formed by the events of our past. Our human psyches are clearly and deeply punctuated by the kindnesses and cruelties of life, and of others, as we grow and mature. I am, very truly, the sum of all my parts. For better or worse the effects of blue Popsicles, the cruelty of Clay Bullard, the kindness of Shannon Sides and that Senior High boy all left an indelible mark on who I was to become. Those years in that school were brief, but defining. I like to think that they left me with a tender heart, and a real desire to be the person that I so desperately needed in my life during that time. It instilled in me a true appreciation for kindness, and a longing to touch lives in a positive and caring way. And, it obviously left me with an aversion to eating all things blue. It's just unnatural.
We love our crazy in the South. We learned a long time ago that things that you try to hide, shut up, and tamp down have a tendency to jump up and bite you at the most inopportune moments. So, in the South we dress our crazy up and bring it right on down into the living room to chat it up and introduce it to the neighbors. We gussy it up and trot it off to church, sit it on the front row to bellow hymns, and shout "AMEN" at the most inappropriate times. We have crazy contests, trying to one up one another to see whose crazy old uncle is truly the craziest (mine is, trust me on this) and which crazy relative has embarrassed the family name to the highest degree. My family's claim to insanity comes down to me from my maternal side. My grandmother was one of her mothers thirteen living children. In her hall hangs a portrait of all of the siblings while they were all in the prime of their lives. Twelve of the siblings stare back from the portrait from twelve pairs of black eyes. The Native American ancestry of the family is perfectly clear in the high cheekbones, black hair and eyes and keen awareness in the faces of twelve. Then, there is number thirteen, Aunt Doris. Or, Crazy Aunt Doris as I have always heard her referred to. Crazy Aunt Doris sticks out like a sore thumb in the portrait. Where twelve of the siblings are long and lean, sharply featured and keen eyed, Aunt Doris is softly rounded on all corners. Her blond hair and cherubic cheeks look absolutely delightful from a distance, but the closer you get to the portrait it becomes clear from the look in her crystal blue eyes that Crazy Aunt Doris was not present on the day that the other twelve siblings lined up to receive their Merit Badges in Sanity. Crazy Aunt Doris is certifiably insane, but luckily for her (or perhaps for us) it is the kind of crazy that can at least be controlled by taking two little white pills each and every day. As long as Aunt Doris takes one little pill in the morning and one in the evening the fog of insanity lifts and the bright light of lucidity dawns. But, as is the case so often with the truly crazy, that dawn is short lived. Once sanity takes hold Aunt Doris is convinced that she simply doesn't need those little white pills...so she stops taking them. You, no doubt, can ascertain what happens very shortly thereafter. I have actually heard Crazy Aunt Doris say "There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, it's all the rest of you that are crazy!" Now, with that kind of sparkly crazy tinsel dangling from the boughs of my family tree can anyone be surprised that I might have certain idiosyncrasies?
So, more about my blue aversion. When I was in the fifth grade my parents transferred me out of public school into a private Christan school, and in my opinion, into an unmitigated hell. I was all of the things that made for the perfect target of adolescent cruelty. Overly tall and gangly, I was an awkward combination of elbows and knees, teeth and ears. I was cursed with a need to wear glasses that had the width of a number of pop-bottles. To make matters all the worse I had decided that the cure to all my woes was having blond hair, and chose to achieve that end through the use of a bottle of Sun-In. You can imagine the outcome of that adventure; my normally nearly black hair turned the shade of a rotten orange. Not pretty. All these things combined to make me the anathema of my classmates (and in truth, the faculty as well) and made my life nearly unbearable. My salvation came in the sixth grade, in the form of Shannon Sides. Shannon was all the things I was not; tall, but with a dancers grace, a crystal clear olive complexion and flowing hair. Shannon had been held back to re-take the sixth grade, for some unknown reason-most likely her inability to properly place the phonetic symbols correctly in her spelling test. A true life skill to be certain. So, due to her repeat of the sixth grade Shannon found herself lumped into the slightly unsavory category along with myself. We became fast friends, with Shannon's friendship toward me probably extended more out of necessity than desire. But that friendship blossomed, and by seventh grade we were sharing everything; a locker, secrets, and a crush on the same Senior High Boy. Shannon and I both had the great misfortune of having summer birthdays, but the summer after our seventh grade year Shannon's parents threw her a pool party. It was an event that was simply not to be missed. I awoke that morning feeling slightly off kilter, but there was no way under the sun I was missing the big event. So, just after noon my mother packed me off with all the necessities one needs to enjoy a summer pool party-gift; check, mint green frilly skirted bathing suit; check, towel; check, raging case of the stomach flu; check. By the time we arrived I was feeling truly under the weather, but in true pre-teen form was unwilling to sacrifice time in the chlorine heaven to a silly thing like the stomach flu. So, we started swimming in the scorching noonday sun. Short breaks in swimming were filled with the eating of Popsicles, and not your expensive wooden stick variety. Oh no, there were ice filled old fashioned wash bins filled to the brim with those brightly colored ice sacks. You know the kind of which I speak; you can find them at any family dollar, stacked floor to ceiling in the aisle selling for something like 10,000 boxes for a dollar. Once opened you find brightly colored sleeves filled with sticky syrup in every imaginable and unnatural color known to man, most notably, blue. If one is unlucky enough to actually consume this syrup before it is frozen one will have the lining of their esophagus burned completely away. But for me on that day, those blue frozen sleeves were a little taste of heaven. That is, until my stomach completely rebelled and sent each and every one of those Popsicles right back out from whence they came. I did manage to make it from the pool area to the bathroom, leaving a wet trail of pool water behind me. Shannon was the one who found me, still hanging over the toilet, debating whether or not to report my mishap or go back to swimming. She exclaimed in horror "Your lips are blue! My aunt threw up and her lips turned blue and she had tuberculosis and died!!!" I might interject here that I think this is the moment than formed another of my idiosyncrasies. Whenever I am subjected by life to acute amounts of stress my psyche responds by convincing me I am suffering from some rare and afore-to undiscovered deadly illness. Thank you, Shannon Sides. But I digress; from that moment on I have been repulsed and revolted by the consumption of all things blue. There is simply no need for them, and even less need for those vile sticks of poison parading around as Popsicles. They are just unnatural, and should be banned.
All this brings me to the realization that we are deeply formed by the events of our past. Our human psyches are clearly and deeply punctuated by the kindnesses and cruelties of life, and of others, as we grow and mature. I am, very truly, the sum of all my parts. For better or worse the effects of blue Popsicles, the cruelty of Clay Bullard, the kindness of Shannon Sides and that Senior High boy all left an indelible mark on who I was to become. Those years in that school were brief, but defining. I like to think that they left me with a tender heart, and a real desire to be the person that I so desperately needed in my life during that time. It instilled in me a true appreciation for kindness, and a longing to touch lives in a positive and caring way. And, it obviously left me with an aversion to eating all things blue. It's just unnatural.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
An Insatiable Lust for Life!
It's true; I have one. In the past few years life seems to have sent me an overwhelming message, and that is that it is to be lived. We've talked about this before, have we not? What is the meaning of life? To LIVE, to experience, to adventure, to love, to laugh, to enjoy. I cannot bear the idea of a life of mere existence. We all fall into a rut from time to time, but the truth is that it is within all our power to burst free from it. What good is a life that is merely spent? What joy is there in routine? Now, I am certainly not promoting a life of sloth, or indulgence, or vanity. But to occasionally break free from the mundane is what makes life truly joyous.
I did that just this weekend. I gussied myself up and trotted myself off to a completely different city to participate in something crazy; for a chance to be part of a show I didn't want to be on and a career I have no interest in. Mr. Big Prize came with me, and we ate scrumptious food, slept in a great hotel, met amazing people, and left before the event for which we'd come was even at an end. On the way home Mr. Big Prize said to me "You are a schemer. You always have a plan; something to do, somewhere to go, something coming up, some plan in the works. I love that about you. I'm a do-er. I love doing what you plan. Makes us a good team." It put us both in mind of an adventure we had in the same city, more than a decade ago. We made a mad dash over for me to audition for a Francis Ford Coppola movie. We had no idea that said director extraordinaire would be there live and in person. I walked into the audition room to find him sitting there in all his bulky, gray glory. It was magnificent! For obvious reasons he decided to go with Claire Danes for the role (something for which I will never forgive him, ha!), but yet again, something I can say I have done. Another magnificent life experience, and something else worth remembering when I am old and gray myself. It's crazy, wonderful adventures like that which set the days apart, and make "life" a verb! No wants to sound redundant, but some things are just worth repeating.
Now, again, I'm not condoning dropping off all your responsibilities to trod off on mad escapades. That may be the way that Mr. Big Prize and I live our lives, but for you, little changes in your day may make all the difference in the world. Make an effort each day to break free from the waking/work/home/bed cycle. Take a walk, smell the proverbial flowers, take an after work art class, attend an exhibit. Be the person you've always dreamt of being. Find your lust for life, and live it to it's fullest!
I did that just this weekend. I gussied myself up and trotted myself off to a completely different city to participate in something crazy; for a chance to be part of a show I didn't want to be on and a career I have no interest in. Mr. Big Prize came with me, and we ate scrumptious food, slept in a great hotel, met amazing people, and left before the event for which we'd come was even at an end. On the way home Mr. Big Prize said to me "You are a schemer. You always have a plan; something to do, somewhere to go, something coming up, some plan in the works. I love that about you. I'm a do-er. I love doing what you plan. Makes us a good team." It put us both in mind of an adventure we had in the same city, more than a decade ago. We made a mad dash over for me to audition for a Francis Ford Coppola movie. We had no idea that said director extraordinaire would be there live and in person. I walked into the audition room to find him sitting there in all his bulky, gray glory. It was magnificent! For obvious reasons he decided to go with Claire Danes for the role (something for which I will never forgive him, ha!), but yet again, something I can say I have done. Another magnificent life experience, and something else worth remembering when I am old and gray myself. It's crazy, wonderful adventures like that which set the days apart, and make "life" a verb! No wants to sound redundant, but some things are just worth repeating.
Now, again, I'm not condoning dropping off all your responsibilities to trod off on mad escapades. That may be the way that Mr. Big Prize and I live our lives, but for you, little changes in your day may make all the difference in the world. Make an effort each day to break free from the waking/work/home/bed cycle. Take a walk, smell the proverbial flowers, take an after work art class, attend an exhibit. Be the person you've always dreamt of being. Find your lust for life, and live it to it's fullest!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A Tree in the River
I think we could all agree that it is a well established fact that I am a nature lover. In all honesty, I am just a few grains of granola away from being a full fledged tree hugger, but I find I am far too attached to my smoothly shaved underarms and deodorant. But I assure you I am far more attached to mother nature than any sane person ought to be, and take slights to her person extremely seriously. Hell hath no fury than Laine when the electric company advances on her 150 year old oak trees. I have single-handedly made burly adult men with chain saws back away from my property, while trembling and shaking like saplings in the wind. I can go Julia Sugarbaker in a millisecond when a local resident decides that their 200 year old maple must be sacrificed to the gods of Bermuda grass. And of course my feelings extend to all creatures great and small (with the exclusion of the afore-mentioned shovel headed worms). I am such a fanatic in fact that I refused to allow a dead tree to be removed from my side yard for fear that a momma squirrel might be raising a brood in it's trunk. And this was no newly dead tree; this tree was so incredibly dead that it's limbs had long ago fallen from it's trunk, it's bark peeled away to reveal a shining grey skin, and a precarious lean developed that drove my cranky neighbor to distraction. I simply would not allow it to be chopped down and hauled away, so mother nature took care of it for me. Cranky neighbor got a new fence, and our insurance paid for the removal, so really, in the end everyone came out a winner...
Evey spring we have what I like to call thunder-blusters. These are enormous storms, which always seem to hit in the dead of night, and threaten to take down everything in their paths. The morning after these natural disasters we awake to see whose gorgeous 150 year old oak has been sacrificed to the gods of the wind, and whether or not said gods have also required the sacrifice of a roof or fence along with the tree. Some of these storms go on for absolute weeks in the spring, which of course results in flooded river banks all over the state.
To get from my home to our office we have to cross a huge bridge over the Arkansas river. One spring, after such a multi week deluge, the river over-ran her banks and drug to her murky depths all form of flotsam. At one point I noticed a rather nice sized oak tree had been trundled into the river, and appeared to be lodged, roots skyward, in a sandbar in the dead center of the river. I mourned momentarily for the death of such a gorgeous specimen, and wondered briefly how long it would be until it washed away from it's temporary anchor. But day after day, bridge crossing after bridge crossing, the tree remained rooted firmly in it's sand bar.
Now, even with all my ardor for nature, I do not claim to be a arborist. However, there are a few things I know about oak trees, and they are as follows:
A)They do not grow in the middle of rivers
B)They do not grow with their roots in the air
I first spotted my oak tree in the river three springs ago. Every spring since that day it has sprouted new leaves, greened through the summer, and gone dormant in the winter. For three years my River Oak has remained firmly rooted to it's sandbar, and continued it's life cycle in what has to be the most miraculous example of that trite little adage "bloom where you're planted" I've ever seen.
Life has a desire to thrive. Inside each plant, animal and human is the instinct to preserve its own life at all costs. How beautiful would our world be if we could somehow expand that instinct to a protection of all life, and not just our own? Would we be dealing with global warming, animal extinctions, and even war? I think not.
I may not be able to work on a global level, but I can assure you I'll be keeping watch over my own little piece of mother earth...and those men with their chainsaws better back away from my River Oak.
Evey spring we have what I like to call thunder-blusters. These are enormous storms, which always seem to hit in the dead of night, and threaten to take down everything in their paths. The morning after these natural disasters we awake to see whose gorgeous 150 year old oak has been sacrificed to the gods of the wind, and whether or not said gods have also required the sacrifice of a roof or fence along with the tree. Some of these storms go on for absolute weeks in the spring, which of course results in flooded river banks all over the state.
To get from my home to our office we have to cross a huge bridge over the Arkansas river. One spring, after such a multi week deluge, the river over-ran her banks and drug to her murky depths all form of flotsam. At one point I noticed a rather nice sized oak tree had been trundled into the river, and appeared to be lodged, roots skyward, in a sandbar in the dead center of the river. I mourned momentarily for the death of such a gorgeous specimen, and wondered briefly how long it would be until it washed away from it's temporary anchor. But day after day, bridge crossing after bridge crossing, the tree remained rooted firmly in it's sand bar.
Now, even with all my ardor for nature, I do not claim to be a arborist. However, there are a few things I know about oak trees, and they are as follows:
A)They do not grow in the middle of rivers
B)They do not grow with their roots in the air
I first spotted my oak tree in the river three springs ago. Every spring since that day it has sprouted new leaves, greened through the summer, and gone dormant in the winter. For three years my River Oak has remained firmly rooted to it's sandbar, and continued it's life cycle in what has to be the most miraculous example of that trite little adage "bloom where you're planted" I've ever seen.
Life has a desire to thrive. Inside each plant, animal and human is the instinct to preserve its own life at all costs. How beautiful would our world be if we could somehow expand that instinct to a protection of all life, and not just our own? Would we be dealing with global warming, animal extinctions, and even war? I think not.
I may not be able to work on a global level, but I can assure you I'll be keeping watch over my own little piece of mother earth...and those men with their chainsaws better back away from my River Oak.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I live in a small Southern town
I live in a small Southern town. Now, granted, the town in which I live is neither that far South nor is it really all that small, but you won't convince the residents of this small Southern town of those facts; myself included. The town in which I live, and have called home for 21 years, is quintessentially Southern in all the ways that count. All of the women in my small Southern town have the same first name: Miss. There are Miss Suzanne's and Miss Katherine's, Miss Martha's and Miss Marianne's. It's fabulous, and it's very very Southern. A young lady knows that she has finally passed that mystical bridge into womanhood when someone her junior refers to her as "Miss". I am now commonly called "Miss Laine" by a myriad of high school girls, but I commonly refer to anyone older than myself as "Miss Whomever". It is a wonderful mark of respect, and an acknowledgement that the "Miss" to whom you are speaking is in fact older, wiser, and deserving of your admiration.
In this small Southern town we still adhere to all the "old" rules. No matter what Vogue may tell me is acceptable I absolutely cannot wear white after labor day. The rule against said behavior is so ingrained in my soul that I have come to believe that were I to step a toe into the sunlight in white after the first Monday in September I'd burst into flame, like some fashion vampire. We send thank you notes for everything, and do so in our own handwriting and in a timely fashion. We pull over for funeral processions, and take food in to the ailing. Girls still don't regularly call boys, and if they do they secretly feel guilty. Cotillion is alive and well, balls and soiree's are still attended, beauty pageants wins are still admired, and Sunday is still a day of reverence and respect. And we may fight bitterly with our neighbor, but we'll be the first ones there in their time of need.
It gets so hot here in the summer that the shingles drip off the roofs of houses, but lemonade still quenches the thirst and picnics still tame the savages beasts. It's a place where prayer is a verb, not a noun. The pace is slower here, and we like it that way. Yes, there is industry and technology and wi-fi and and all the rest. But there is also respect, and concern, and love and faith.
To many, this small Southern town in which I live might seem out of time. It might confuse you, or amuse you, but the reality is, it's a lingering gem in a world of speed and rush and discontent. Change is good, but there is great good in sameness as well. So I grow, and age, and change. I evolve and plan and create. But I am certainly glad that I get to do it in the loving arms of the wonderful family I have here in this small Southern town.
In this small Southern town we still adhere to all the "old" rules. No matter what Vogue may tell me is acceptable I absolutely cannot wear white after labor day. The rule against said behavior is so ingrained in my soul that I have come to believe that were I to step a toe into the sunlight in white after the first Monday in September I'd burst into flame, like some fashion vampire. We send thank you notes for everything, and do so in our own handwriting and in a timely fashion. We pull over for funeral processions, and take food in to the ailing. Girls still don't regularly call boys, and if they do they secretly feel guilty. Cotillion is alive and well, balls and soiree's are still attended, beauty pageants wins are still admired, and Sunday is still a day of reverence and respect. And we may fight bitterly with our neighbor, but we'll be the first ones there in their time of need.
It gets so hot here in the summer that the shingles drip off the roofs of houses, but lemonade still quenches the thirst and picnics still tame the savages beasts. It's a place where prayer is a verb, not a noun. The pace is slower here, and we like it that way. Yes, there is industry and technology and wi-fi and and all the rest. But there is also respect, and concern, and love and faith.
To many, this small Southern town in which I live might seem out of time. It might confuse you, or amuse you, but the reality is, it's a lingering gem in a world of speed and rush and discontent. Change is good, but there is great good in sameness as well. So I grow, and age, and change. I evolve and plan and create. But I am certainly glad that I get to do it in the loving arms of the wonderful family I have here in this small Southern town.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Step right up, get your tickets here
In spite of my earlier bemoaning of fall, in Arkansas, there are a few redeeming qualities to the season. I find caramel apples, vibrantly hued leaves and 70 degree days to be relatively fair trade offs for the horror to come. However, by far the most appealing event to occur each fall is the County Fair. Yes, I love the County Fair. Does this shock you? It still shocks me... This year I think I finally realized the reason I love the fair. I am, at the very core of my being, a very competitive person. I truly believe this was a genetic trait instilled in me from eons past. I am competitive at everything I do; when in school it wasn't enough to just get an "A", I had to get the highest "A", when I began my career it wasn't enough to be the first woman in my company to be promoted to a certain position, I had to also be the youngest woman to do so. You no doubt get the drift. I discovered this year that the County Fair combines my two greatest loves; critters and competition. While I may not understand the difference between a fine bovine and a poor one, I appreciate the dedication and work it took by said animals handlers to raise their specimen to meet those specifications. So, I find I can wander through the various barns and admire for hours on end the multitude of examples of equine, bovine and porcine perfection. I can even look covetously at their dangling purple ribbons,and know full well that had I chosen to enter my prize pig (if I'd had one) it no doubt would be carrying one of those home. I love furry footed chickens and velvet coated rabbits, woolly lambs and bleating goats. Those all give me warm fuzzy feelings that are just perfectly topped off by a funnel cake and a lemonade. But then, to really get my competitive blood boiling, the fair also has the midway, does it not? For a highly competitive person this little thoroughfare is the epitome of pleasure. There is just something about all those little men with their "step right ups" that just get my competitive juices flowing. And here is where it gets really nasty-it isn't good enough just to pop the slightly flaccid balloons with the more than dull darts to win the tiny, and no doubt highly flammable, stuffed toy. I, and my competitive mania, have to pop ALL the balloons to win the BIGGEST toy. It isn't just that I want any old prize; I want the biggest and the best. Strangely, this puts me very much mind of how I wooed and won my biggest prize; my husband.
I met Mr. Big Prize at just this time of year. The air was just turning crisp, and I was just turning back to dating after a particularly foul time in my life. I met him in the most unlikely of places, and it was wonder and amazement at first sight. My husband is a stunningly beautiful creature. He was once described by another woman as "the most beautiful man she'd ever seen in real life", and I have to say that I ascribe to her feeling, 110%. Owning no doubt at least in part to that fact, and to the fact that when I met him he was 28 and never married, Mr. Big Prize had dated nearly everyone in the state of Arkansas over the legal driving age and under that of the average nursing home resident. I just fell quite head over heels almost right away. We'd been dating for a few weeks when one of his well meaning friends pulled me to the side to give me a bit of what I'm sure he considered well meaning advice. "Laine", he said "you're a really nice girl,and we all like you a lot. But there is something you need to know. Mr.Big Prize never dates anybody for long. He's way WAY too picky, and is looking for perfection. He'll no doubt find something wrong with you too pretty soon." Then, he proceeded to list for me a myriad of reasons why Mr.Big Prize had dumped my poor predecesssors, and you can read in parenthesis my thoughts in return. "For instance", he said "he once dumped a girl because her toes were too long (well, of course, feet are disgusting anyway and should be lopped off) and once he dumped a girl because she ate all her dinner and some of his too (naturally! What kind of grocery bill would this glutton eventually run up) and worst of all, he once dumped a girl for not liking dogs (what kind of monster doesn't like dogs????)" You can imagine what kind of response this elicited in me. It was like 10,000 of those little Carnies all waving at me and screaming "step right up". There's nothing like going after the Big Prize, the one that is perfect for you, and the one you want most of all, when the odds are just dead stacked against you. Well, long story short, 10 short months later I had Mr. Big Prize standing at the alter saying his till death do us part's, as I giddily waltzed down an isle littered with the broken hearts of most the women in our fair state. And no, I do not exaggerate.
That was 14 glorious years ago. Turns out I was his version of perfect and he mine. He is more perfect for me now than he was then. Our lives thus far have been filled with a myriad of joys and hurts, challenges and triumphs. We pledged from the beginning that we were going into marriage as a team, and that it would be as a team that we would face every challenged lobbed at us throughout life. She's thrown some doozies, I can assure you, but she's rewarded us along the way as well. I cannot imagine what my life would have been without him, and I cannot adequately express the wondrous joy it has been with him. I pray that God grants us both long life, so we can have even more of this incredible adventure together. What an adventure it is...and it doesn't hurt that I'm having it with the most beautiful man I've ever seen in real life.
I met Mr. Big Prize at just this time of year. The air was just turning crisp, and I was just turning back to dating after a particularly foul time in my life. I met him in the most unlikely of places, and it was wonder and amazement at first sight. My husband is a stunningly beautiful creature. He was once described by another woman as "the most beautiful man she'd ever seen in real life", and I have to say that I ascribe to her feeling, 110%. Owning no doubt at least in part to that fact, and to the fact that when I met him he was 28 and never married, Mr. Big Prize had dated nearly everyone in the state of Arkansas over the legal driving age and under that of the average nursing home resident. I just fell quite head over heels almost right away. We'd been dating for a few weeks when one of his well meaning friends pulled me to the side to give me a bit of what I'm sure he considered well meaning advice. "Laine", he said "you're a really nice girl,and we all like you a lot. But there is something you need to know. Mr.Big Prize never dates anybody for long. He's way WAY too picky, and is looking for perfection. He'll no doubt find something wrong with you too pretty soon." Then, he proceeded to list for me a myriad of reasons why Mr.Big Prize had dumped my poor predecesssors, and you can read in parenthesis my thoughts in return. "For instance", he said "he once dumped a girl because her toes were too long (well, of course, feet are disgusting anyway and should be lopped off) and once he dumped a girl because she ate all her dinner and some of his too (naturally! What kind of grocery bill would this glutton eventually run up) and worst of all, he once dumped a girl for not liking dogs (what kind of monster doesn't like dogs????)" You can imagine what kind of response this elicited in me. It was like 10,000 of those little Carnies all waving at me and screaming "step right up". There's nothing like going after the Big Prize, the one that is perfect for you, and the one you want most of all, when the odds are just dead stacked against you. Well, long story short, 10 short months later I had Mr. Big Prize standing at the alter saying his till death do us part's, as I giddily waltzed down an isle littered with the broken hearts of most the women in our fair state. And no, I do not exaggerate.
That was 14 glorious years ago. Turns out I was his version of perfect and he mine. He is more perfect for me now than he was then. Our lives thus far have been filled with a myriad of joys and hurts, challenges and triumphs. We pledged from the beginning that we were going into marriage as a team, and that it would be as a team that we would face every challenged lobbed at us throughout life. She's thrown some doozies, I can assure you, but she's rewarded us along the way as well. I cannot imagine what my life would have been without him, and I cannot adequately express the wondrous joy it has been with him. I pray that God grants us both long life, so we can have even more of this incredible adventure together. What an adventure it is...and it doesn't hurt that I'm having it with the most beautiful man I've ever seen in real life.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Midlife meanderings...or, random thougths on the meaning of life
Don't start with me on my age, and whether or not I can actually be considered "mid-life". This conclusion has been reached by scientific analysis and careful consideration of my familial track record where life and living are concerned. It appears, if one considers a mother who had triple bypass at 47 and a father who was struck with cancer at 58, that I am indeed in my middle years...if I'm lucky. It may very well be that I could, in fact, be considered quite geriatric. My husbands people, on the other hand, tend to just keep on living until they decide they are quite done with it. His maternal grandfather passed away at 99, and only then after he'd announced to all and sundry that he was quite finished living, thank you very much. His paternal grandmother, now 92, is living independently and only last year quit mowing her sloped yard on her riding mower. She did slip and fall off of her ladder while painting her bathroom ceiling, so that has curbed her activity somewhat. When one extrapolates the data it doesn't take long to discern that I am, in fact, going to leave my gorgeous hubby at the mercy of the nursing home hotties.
In all seriousness, when one considers one's own mortality, it is easy to slip into a maudlin sense of the macabre. One shouldn't. We are all going to die; what matters is what we do with the time we are given, no matter how much time that might actually turn out to be. These thoughts so frequently lead to that eternal question which has plagued man from the time of creation; what is the meaning of life? How many great minds of the ages have pondered and pontificated on just that point? To me, at my advanced age, it seems that the answer to that question is really quite simple. I feel that there are really two meanings of life a) to give love and joy and b) to find love and joy.
When one takes the time to really break down the things that matter, and that will last, that are of eternal significance, I suggest to you that one will find that they are all fundamentally linked to love and joy. Love-loving your fellow man, and expressing that through showing compassion, patience and giving; loving your family, and recognizing their intrinsic importance in your life; loving the minutia, and finding pleasure in a beautiful sky, or a great meal, or a hearty laugh. Joy-bringing joy to those around you; taking joy from the mundane and the magnificent; bringing joy to the everyday. I know to some this will sound simplistic, but if you find the time to really investigate what makes a life worth remembering, I will suggest to you that it will always be through the love shown, or the joy brought to the world by that individual.
So, on my tombstone, I can think of no better epitaph than "She brought love and joy to the world"...and considering the family track record, I may need that tombstone sooner rather than later.
In all seriousness, when one considers one's own mortality, it is easy to slip into a maudlin sense of the macabre. One shouldn't. We are all going to die; what matters is what we do with the time we are given, no matter how much time that might actually turn out to be. These thoughts so frequently lead to that eternal question which has plagued man from the time of creation; what is the meaning of life? How many great minds of the ages have pondered and pontificated on just that point? To me, at my advanced age, it seems that the answer to that question is really quite simple. I feel that there are really two meanings of life a) to give love and joy and b) to find love and joy.
When one takes the time to really break down the things that matter, and that will last, that are of eternal significance, I suggest to you that one will find that they are all fundamentally linked to love and joy. Love-loving your fellow man, and expressing that through showing compassion, patience and giving; loving your family, and recognizing their intrinsic importance in your life; loving the minutia, and finding pleasure in a beautiful sky, or a great meal, or a hearty laugh. Joy-bringing joy to those around you; taking joy from the mundane and the magnificent; bringing joy to the everyday. I know to some this will sound simplistic, but if you find the time to really investigate what makes a life worth remembering, I will suggest to you that it will always be through the love shown, or the joy brought to the world by that individual.
So, on my tombstone, I can think of no better epitaph than "She brought love and joy to the world"...and considering the family track record, I may need that tombstone sooner rather than later.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
....ack
There is no beast so foul in heaven or hell as Bipalium Kewense; no creature so loathsome, no animal so vile. Not in all my days as an animal lover have I found such a creature as could make me gag, start, stare or moan, until Bipalium Kewense, otherwise known as the Shovel head worm. May I remind you, my readers, that just last week I regaled you with tales of my ardor of nature. I have been an avid gardener in my home state of Arkansas for the better part of 22 years, and in such time I've encountered spiders, snakes, skinks, lizards and variety of insects to boggle the mind. None of these have so much as caused me to flinch...until I encountered the shovel headed worm. Not familiar with this vermin? Let me introduce you. Bipalium Kewense is a flat worm, which is the consistency of a soggy slug. It is flat as a pancake, and has a head that is in fact shaped like a shovel. They can be up to 12 inches long, and exhibit a color that can best be described as snot-like, with three black stripes which run down their backs. To make matters worse, they are members of the planairan family, which in layman's terms means that if you try to off one of the buggers by cutting it in half you then are merely stuck with two of the wriggling demons. You can continue this process until you have any number of writhing nasties from one single worm. They creep about in the garden, feasting on my earth worms. But what makes Bipalium kewense even more vomitous is their propensity to produce copious amounts of mucus when they are 'attacked'. They wrap their noxious little bodies around their 'attackers' and stick like glue. So, as luck would have it, they are particularly nasty when mixed with dog hair....Pomeranian dog hair most especially. One night about four weeks ago 'The Dude' brought one in on his hind leg. Daddy held him, while I used scissors 'et al' to remove it. Now, you cannot imagine the horrific things I have removed from Pomeranian dog hair in the 13 years I've had them as members of my family. But this, by far, was the worst. It was the first time in history that I had to take a moment to gag and breathe before finishing the task. At first the hubby and I were horrified that these aliens were something spawned from the bowels of our beloved 'bitties', but praises be, that was not the case. A second made it's way in on 'The Smidge', and a third had the audacity to crawl under the threshold to my HOME and die on the floor. But, horror of horrors, tonight the unthinkable occurred.
Kev and I dined out, spent time with Little Miss, and came home...in the dark...in the damp (two things Bipalium kewense loves). We walked in, and as I was putting away a few groceries I slipped on something on the floor. Looking down I spotted one half of one of these little devils squirming about on the floor...but where was the other half??? Then, I saw it; wrapped around my LEGGGG. Oh dear GOD save me from a fate such as this. I turned into a weeping, screeching whirling dervish. All I could do was extend my leg in the general direction of hubby, and start shaking it wildly while screeching 'get it get it GEEEEEEET ITTTTTT OOOFFFF'. Praises be that he is the very definition of a 'manly man'. He subdued me (while I turned my head and alternately whine-moan-gagged), and removed the demon from my leg. HALLELUJAH I AM SAVED!!!!
So, I have to ask myself, what purpose can these abominations serve? They eat my much needed earth worms, and they cause all forms of unnatural reactions in my psyche. Here you go; they eat slugs. The nastiest of garden gremlins, slugs eat all variety of carefully cultivated flora, and shovel head worms eat slugs. So, while they are the bane of my existence, many people online who actually discuss this horror do so with an attitude of gratitude. Once again it is proven to me that there is a purpose for everything in creation, and that one mans horror is another mans blessing. I may not understand the why of so many things under heaven, but I trust there is a purpose. I hope to always be a woman of purpose...even if I do it while loathing Bipalium Kewense.
Kev and I dined out, spent time with Little Miss, and came home...in the dark...in the damp (two things Bipalium kewense loves). We walked in, and as I was putting away a few groceries I slipped on something on the floor. Looking down I spotted one half of one of these little devils squirming about on the floor...but where was the other half??? Then, I saw it; wrapped around my LEGGGG. Oh dear GOD save me from a fate such as this. I turned into a weeping, screeching whirling dervish. All I could do was extend my leg in the general direction of hubby, and start shaking it wildly while screeching 'get it get it GEEEEEEET ITTTTTT OOOFFFF'. Praises be that he is the very definition of a 'manly man'. He subdued me (while I turned my head and alternately whine-moan-gagged), and removed the demon from my leg. HALLELUJAH I AM SAVED!!!!
So, I have to ask myself, what purpose can these abominations serve? They eat my much needed earth worms, and they cause all forms of unnatural reactions in my psyche. Here you go; they eat slugs. The nastiest of garden gremlins, slugs eat all variety of carefully cultivated flora, and shovel head worms eat slugs. So, while they are the bane of my existence, many people online who actually discuss this horror do so with an attitude of gratitude. Once again it is proven to me that there is a purpose for everything in creation, and that one mans horror is another mans blessing. I may not understand the why of so many things under heaven, but I trust there is a purpose. I hope to always be a woman of purpose...even if I do it while loathing Bipalium Kewense.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
How many fruit flies can dance on the head of a pin?
My husband has a penchant for muscadine grapes. Perhaps I should be fair in that statement; we both have a penchant for muscadine grapes. From what either one of us can tell their sticky sweet tartness is about the only redeeming aspect of fall. We take regular trips to the farmers market in hopes we'll see those gorgeous globes of fabulousness, and if found, will finish off whatever we buy in one 'sitting'. So far this autumn we'd been unable to find even a single grape, much less the quarts we were craving. Then, as I was leaving my sisters home two weeks ago, I passed a street vendor with quart after delicious quart of muscadines glowing from his offering table. So naturally, I swung my car around in traffic, parked in the mud, and tromped through the rain to get to said bounty. He had 6 quarts left, and I took every single one. I honestly can't tell you how much they cost. Like some kind of grape junkie I grappled in my purse and spilled whatever dollar amount the man quoted on his table, and took off with my six precious quarts. Like any good junkie I broke into my cache immediately, and in my haste, I may have dropped a grape...or two...in my car. What harm could a grape...or two...really do? Then today, I got the answer to my question.
Now, it really has been two weeks. Those six quarts are LONG gone. Today I got in my sporty little car, and hovering to my left, I saw a swarm. At first panic set in, because anyone who knows me knows that I am an absolute magnet for mosquitoes. Luckily, it wasn't mosquitoes. It was fruit flies. Dozens of cute little hovering fruit flies, and they were doing their hovering directly over my passenger seat. Were they hitching a ride somewhere? Had they mistaken me for a little fruity taxi? Surely not. So I did what anyone would do-immediately set out for a search for what on earth could be the source of fruit flies. My car is clean, the floors are vacant of refuse, and there were no apparent signs of fruit anywhere. Don't fruit flies come from fruit????
Then it hit me, the grapes! The one...or two...little grapes had brought with them dozens of fruit fly larva. I suppose they come from larva-do they not? They had to still be under my passenger seat, fermenting away, and bearing fruit of their own. Life is amazing, is it not? It will thrive almost anywhere, even under my car seat, all the time. Isn't it seemingly miraculous that we live on a planet which is 93 million miles from a ball of fire, which is neither too close to cook us alive, nor too far so that we freeze. Life is delicious, and perilous, and precious. It should be protected, and valued, and cherished. We are fearfully and wonderfully made, as is all the world around us. We have been commissioned with the protection of life; the lives of those around us, the life of the planet, and the one life we have each been granted. Cherish each moment, and cherish each life, no matter how seemingly insignificant-the fruit flies will thank you.
Now, it really has been two weeks. Those six quarts are LONG gone. Today I got in my sporty little car, and hovering to my left, I saw a swarm. At first panic set in, because anyone who knows me knows that I am an absolute magnet for mosquitoes. Luckily, it wasn't mosquitoes. It was fruit flies. Dozens of cute little hovering fruit flies, and they were doing their hovering directly over my passenger seat. Were they hitching a ride somewhere? Had they mistaken me for a little fruity taxi? Surely not. So I did what anyone would do-immediately set out for a search for what on earth could be the source of fruit flies. My car is clean, the floors are vacant of refuse, and there were no apparent signs of fruit anywhere. Don't fruit flies come from fruit????
Then it hit me, the grapes! The one...or two...little grapes had brought with them dozens of fruit fly larva. I suppose they come from larva-do they not? They had to still be under my passenger seat, fermenting away, and bearing fruit of their own. Life is amazing, is it not? It will thrive almost anywhere, even under my car seat, all the time. Isn't it seemingly miraculous that we live on a planet which is 93 million miles from a ball of fire, which is neither too close to cook us alive, nor too far so that we freeze. Life is delicious, and perilous, and precious. It should be protected, and valued, and cherished. We are fearfully and wonderfully made, as is all the world around us. We have been commissioned with the protection of life; the lives of those around us, the life of the planet, and the one life we have each been granted. Cherish each moment, and cherish each life, no matter how seemingly insignificant-the fruit flies will thank you.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Random thoughts on Happiness
Am I the only one who finds it odd that our Declaration of Independence guarantees, as one of our inalienable rights, the pursuit of happiness? What an odd concept to include in the founding and defining document of a new nation. It makes apparent that the pursuit of the ideal is timeless, and constant. This opens up the eternal question; what is happiness? We hear so much about it. It seems that society as a whole is in constant search of it; singing songs, writing poems and dedicating odes to the search thereof. And yet it seems that there are an almost infinite number of people who never achieve that enviable and ephemeral state of 'happiness'. I think I have this 'happiness' thing figured out. Do not take that statement as one of arrogance, or as evidence of some kind of over enlightened state. I'm just an average Jane who is living a fairly average life, but is doing it quite happily. Don't mistake me for one of the charmed ones-we all know at least one. The 'charmed ones', as I call them, have never faced any difficulty, or controversy. They've never lost a loved one, or been rejected by a friend. Everything seems to fall from the sky directly into their laps. They live in a perpetual state of ease, and seem to be floating along in a perpetual state of ecstasy, and who wouldn't living that kind of life? I wish them no ill, and genuinely hope their lives continue on in just that vein, but no, that certainly isn't me. I've lived through intense degrees of heartache, heartbreak, disappointment and rejection. I've fallen as many times as I've risen, and honestly, if I were to actually calculate my odds I'd say the falls would well outnumber the ascensions. And yet, I'm happy. I'm very very happy. It's all because I think I've figured out the truth; happiness is a choice. It isn't some esoteric idea that only the elite few can attain. It isn't a by-product of wealth, or health, or even wisdom. It's a simple choice, that I simply make every day. Every morning, when the sun rises (or when I decide to get up) I can make the decision whether today will be a day filled with happiness, or discontent. Will I relish the very fact that I am alive, and able to breathe and walk and hold my husbands hand to be enough? Or will I choose to fill my day with unrequited longing for the things I don't have, the money I haven't made, the career I didn't choose? What good does that do? I have found that if I choose happiness each day I am far more likely to be mentally prepared and able to pursue those things which as yet are out of my grasp.
For years I have watched friends and relatives wallow in the pains of 'yesterday'. Yesterday is truly and completely gone, and all it offers me is the chance to learn and grow from what it taught. In the very best of circumstances 'yesterday' is a tool to use to improve today, and in the worst of circumstance, it is something to be left where it is. Yesterday cannot hurt you; only you can use yesterday as a tool for self inflicted pain. Instead, I begin each day with a sense of new beginning, and hope. Now again, please do not misunderstand, I do have bad days. There are days when I just get up on the absolute wrong side of the bed, my hormones are out of control, or my precious hubby has just left one too many pairs of socks on the floor. There are days when my loved ones are ill, my heart is broken, or my feelings wounded. I may have bad days, but as long as I am able to make the choice I won't chose to be unhappy.
Don't take my random thoughts on happiness to be some preachy-holier-than-thou tripe. I'm merely sharing with you my secret to happiness, in the hopes that it might help find your own. I'm happy, and as a result, I find that I am now more content and fulfilled than I've ever been before. So, in the end, 'happiness' itself may not be an inalienable right, but the right to choose it is; and that is a truth I hold to be self evident!
For years I have watched friends and relatives wallow in the pains of 'yesterday'. Yesterday is truly and completely gone, and all it offers me is the chance to learn and grow from what it taught. In the very best of circumstances 'yesterday' is a tool to use to improve today, and in the worst of circumstance, it is something to be left where it is. Yesterday cannot hurt you; only you can use yesterday as a tool for self inflicted pain. Instead, I begin each day with a sense of new beginning, and hope. Now again, please do not misunderstand, I do have bad days. There are days when I just get up on the absolute wrong side of the bed, my hormones are out of control, or my precious hubby has just left one too many pairs of socks on the floor. There are days when my loved ones are ill, my heart is broken, or my feelings wounded. I may have bad days, but as long as I am able to make the choice I won't chose to be unhappy.
Don't take my random thoughts on happiness to be some preachy-holier-than-thou tripe. I'm merely sharing with you my secret to happiness, in the hopes that it might help find your own. I'm happy, and as a result, I find that I am now more content and fulfilled than I've ever been before. So, in the end, 'happiness' itself may not be an inalienable right, but the right to choose it is; and that is a truth I hold to be self evident!
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