My favorite things

April 11, 2012 By

Everyone has favorite things.  I’m not talking about a crackling fire or the smell of cut grass, but real tangible things.  And let’s be honest.  Nobody really sits around thinking about raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.  Who’s thankful that kittens have whiskers?  Isn’t it just naturally assumed they’ll be born with them?  Are some poor kittens born without whiskers, the poor suckers running around hairless and whimpering?  If someone is even thinking of cat whiskers, I suggest they find a hobby.

Here are a few of my favorite things that are actually cool.  Raindrops on roses, I swear.

(1) Perrier with Lime.  It’s sparkly.  It makes me feel fancy.  There’s just no need to drink tap water when you can drink spring water from the south of France.  No’ sir.

(2) Starbucks blond-roast.  It’s smooth and silky.  It gets me through the morning after a long bender of writing.

(3) Gruyere cheese.  Anytime, anyplace.  Even my five-year-old knows to stay away from it.  It’s more precious to me than chocolate chips.  And that says a lot.

(4) Oatmeal dark-chocolate cookies from scratch.  Nothing can top it.  Except for perhaps Gruyere, but that’s not a fair comparison.

(5) TIVO.  I can no longer comprehend a world where you cannot pause live television and fast-forward through commercials.  I shudder to imagine it.

(6) MAC powder.  It’s quick, and it covers your sags, bags, and dark circles.  It’s better than a night’s sleep for the look of your skin.  I’m always a sucker for those MAC salespeople, their faces all painted up with odd colors and tool belts of brushes dangling from their hips.

(7) Down bedding.  I like to lie on top of it, wallow underneath it, and basically sleep atop one big marshmallow.

(8) Loreal Tubes Mascara.  Just go buy it.  You’ll thank me.  It peels off your eyelashes in little tubes, and I think that’s just glorious.

(9) My apple computer.  If I didn’t have it, I’d crawl back to the store scratching and crying and immediately buy another.  I’m a total addict.

(10)               Salted caramels from Dean & Deluca.  Or Williams-Sonoma. I’m not that picky, I swear.  Okay, maybe a little.  If you get me caramels from Target I’m throwing them in the trash.

On the other hand, there are things I can’t stand:

(1) Hominy.  It’s bloated and strange.  It looks like little tiny fur balls.  Why eat corn that’s all puffy and weird tasting?

(2) Shrimp.  To me, they are the ocean’s cockroaches.  I stay far, far away. Don’t tell me they’re good on the grill.  Do you roast other pesky insect-like creatures and sprinkle sea salt on top?  I don’t think so.

(3) Daytime television.  You deplete brain cells by watching it.  Resist the urge to find out who slept with the pub owner’s cousin who recently was convicted of murdering the Baroness’ housekeeper.  Because honestly, these aren’t real people.  Who the heck cares.

(4) Double negatives.  You don’t gotta do it.  You just don’t.

(5) Candles that smell like cinnamon rolls.  They make you hungry.  Why torture yourself?  Wouldn’t you rather smell flowers or fresh linen?  Why walk around with your mouth watering?

(6) Car commercials.  Someday I’m going to hear a witty and soft-toned commercial about how a car can change your life. But until then, all I see is a bunch of bad ties, balloons, and unnecessary yelling.

(7) Cheap eye shadow.  You know when you are on vacation and you forget your make-up?  You end up at Wal-mart buying Cover Girl?  It’s trash.  Go free and natural until you can head back to Nordstrom.  Trust me on this.

(8) Automated phone trees that don’t use “0” for the operator.  Why use six or some other goofy number?  Zero, people!

(9) Rice cakes.  There is just no need to eat cardboard.

(10)               When celebrities gripe about their private life being overly exposed.  Choose to be a veterinarian, and your problems are solved.  But the moment you get paid over two million to be in a movie, I get to know what your dog’s name is and what color underwear you like best.  That’s the way this thing works.  Deal?

Until next time. . .

Amanda

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: , , , , ,

Rising

April 10, 2012 By

Every Monday, I take off my wedding ring and pull my hair back in order to mix, pound, and watch bread rise through the dark oven door.  I always need to control something, and my two-year-old never listens.  So bread has become my new muse since leaving the corporate world.  Watch out, Julia.  Here I come with this hard crust and soft center business, all up in your junk about how Parisians do it best. So says the woman who used muffin mixes and bought canned biscuits.  I shudder now at the thought of my former self.

The old me wore heels and rushed off to the office, saying things like “well that’s a bifurcated approach” and “I hope we don’t bust our E&O deductible.”  I never used yeast packets except for holidays, and couldn’t understood why things never looked like magazine photos.  I was harried, and short-tempered, and wondered why my husband didn’t pitch in more with the kids.  I was juggling a career and a novel and small children and, well, I didn’t have time to wait hours for things to rise, for goodness sakes. I scratch my head at that woman now.  I pity her a bit, running around and around the wheel at a dizzying pace.

My life is simpler now.  I am settling into a new routine.  I complain less.  I sigh less.  I try to hug my children more.  But most of all, I’m grateful.

I used to think staying home was akin to bondage, where men secured all the power and the women were forced to perform menial tasks.  Who is John Galt? was framed on my desk, as if to remind myself to keep fighting against the machine. Stay-at-home mommies wrung their hands about potty training and play dates and had nothing interesting to talk about.  They wore flip-flops and gym shorts and all went to Starbucks after carpool talking about reality television.  I went to law school.  I defended the Federal Government.  I’m a fighter.  Women before me forged a rugged trail for me to blaze through.  Plus – it was good for my daughter to watch me working, so she could witness first-hand one who could do it all.  I could buy bread at the grocery store.  Right?  Anyone give me a hell yeah?

But one day, I quit running.  I realized that my life was out of balance, and I longed for peace.  So I quit my job, and bake day firmly settled over our house like a bad coat of dust. Maybe it was to fill the house with an aroma of warm wheat.  Maybe it was so my daughter had memories of always having fresh bread.  But when I really dig down deep, I think it was just my way of working things out.  To put my frustrations into tangible form.  I punched and kneaded and watched the first few batches bubble up or not rise at all and wondered how I’d make it in this new life.  But I kept trying.  There was always next Monday, after all.

I’m so very thankful these days.  I piddle around the house.  Sometimes I take a bubble bath after I drop off the kids.  I take long walks and pray for wisdom.  I make up songs with my daughter and let my son pick me flowers on a Tuesday afternoon. I used to laugh at those mothers.  I used to think they were crazy.   I was built for more than this, I thought.  While waiting for a new batch of bread to rise the other day, I took a walk in a wooded area around our house.  I heard the snort of a deer not ten feet away before she went running off at breakneck speed.  I laughed out loud, scared to death of a deer.  As it turns out, this is enough. I’m finally hitting my life’s stride.  I finally feel ready to stretch myself in ways I never did before.

I’ve learned that one has to feel bread dough to know whether it will turn out okay, regardless of what the recipe says.  You have to pat and form and squeeze it beneath your fingers.  You have to knead and pull and give it time to grow. To let the yeast mix with the warm water and sugar.  To rise.

Sometimes you just have to push the pause button and take it all in.  Long measured breaths.  One ingredient at a time.  Then, you’ll start to see how God is working all around you.  How he softly calls you to do something greater, and bigger, and more glorious.

A friend told me to cover my dough bowl with hot tea towels, which was an excellent tip, and I rub risen loaves with water to form a harder crust.  Just for looks, I sprinkle the top with oats.  I love every part of baking bread, from the smell of the yeast granules to the way the molasses runs down the heap of sticky dough like dark rivers, to the moment I pull it out of the oven and my family comes rushing over, asking for butter.

I am so grateful for this moment in time to walk slowly with my hands behind my back.  I am allowing my words and thoughts and the meditations of my heart to slowly expand, growing into myself with each passing day.  I am praying.  I am listening. I am rising.

Filed Under: Cooking, Health, Motherhood, Religion Tagged With: , , ,

sore backs and sunburns

April 3, 2012 By

This past weekend, our family decided we’d do something practical.  Worthwhile.  Healthy.  We decided that two adults and two children under the age of six could so totally build a garden large enough to feed a small nation.  With extra-high raised beds.  And dirt that needed to be shoveled in truckload at a time.  Of course we had no experience with this, but that’s never stopped optimistic folks like us.  How hard could it be?  Well, for starters, here’s the expanse of land in our back yard we started with.

There’s like, trees in the way that required complete removal.  And prickly weeds.  It was supposed to be hot and I had emails a-waitin.  But I didn’t want to be a game killer, so I went inside and put on my best “let’s build a garden” ensemble while wondering if we could break for an early lunch.  Maybe a picnic?  Sun tea?  But our son was totally into it.  He was all “dude, hand me a rake.  I’m all over this.”  Of course he’s not yet two, so he tires out easily.  And his version of helping is dragging things around and jumping.  He was always screaming for water and has the audacity to need things like snacks and clean diapers.  We really have no use for him.  But he is so adorable all covered in dirt that we let him hang around anyway.

And yes, that is a drink kuzi on his arm like a power shield. I have no idea how kids come up with these things.

Finally, we ask our daughter to help out.  After all, the reason for the garden to begin with was prompted by her school’s insistence that we do a family project.  A project which is due in two days and has not yet been detailed in any way.  A project that must be crammed together by tomorrow night on a poster board, complete with one-hour photos.  “Can you at least act helpful?” I asked. “For the pictures?”  She sat there scowling at me with flushed cheeks, begging to go inside and play with her dolls.  Finally, after screwing in exactly one board and raking some dirt, she claimed her exhaustion was simply overwhelming.  When we ignored her, she finally just disappeared.  We assumed she was safe since we didn’t hear screaming, and she later reappeared to obtain permission to eat a Popsicle.  She was really a helpful addition to our powerhouse labor team.

So after we hauled and hammered and leveled for two solid days (my husband really did most of the work.  I got tired and needed water breaks and had to deal with diapers), we finished.  Here it is before we decided to use our superhuman strength to fill all the raised beds with dirt.  I am learning to hate dirt.  Why is there a need for so much freaking dirt?

The next time we decide to tackle a project regarding overall health and wellness, we should make smoothies.  Or recycle even more.  After all, we can buy spinach at the grocery store, and all we got outta this deal is sore back and sunburns.  But at the end of the day,  I looked at my two little people, and decided that it was good.  Good for them to get so dirty.  Good for us all to be together.  Good for us to show them that work is hard, and bounty doesn’t come from nothing.

Here’s to good.  Here’s to our first garden ever.

Here’s to fresh spinach and cursing over hail.

We really are country folk now, I suppose.  Lord help us.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

diamond dust

April 2, 2012 By

I am no stranger to eye surgery.  I’ve had so many of them you’d think it would be easier just to rip the thing out and replace it with wood puddy.  I’m sure all eye cancer survivors are familiar with this feeling. But the last one was different.  It could have been because I was at a different place.  Or used a different surgeon.  Or, quite possibly, it could have been the fact that I was awake the entire time.

It all happened in a blur – the doctors telling me that I had a cataract that simply must be removed, that my eye was dangerously close to exploding with excess pressure, that my retina would forever be damaged.   The procedure had to be done sooner rather than later or face rather ugly consequences.  But I was pregnant – over six months so – and I didn’t want to do it.  But there I was, faced with the choice of having surgery while pregnant, IV drugs and anesthesia seeping into my son’s developing little brain, or waiting as each long day stretched on to see if my eye would blow up like a defective bomb.  Did they think I’d risk anesthesia drugs when I wouldn’t even eat feta cheese for fear my unborn child might get botulism? That’s crazy talk.

So I asked the logical question.  Can I do it without anesthesia? After all, Lidocaine would numb up the eye so I couldn’t feel any pain.  Right?  “Uh, I guess,” the doctor said.  He said he had a heart patient once that couldn’t have anesthesia or his heart would stop, and that guy lived.  This was his one eclectic example.  Awesome.

But on the day of surgery, it wasn’t a joking matter. A much older nurse walked in and repeated that I was to have eye surgery with only a small amount of IV anesthesia.  “You are mistaken,” I said loudly (how did I know she wasn’t actually hard of hearing?).  “No anesthesia,” I said.  “None at all.”

Another nurse came in to start an IV, which is apparently a requirement whether you have drugs or not, and we all listened with a fetal heart rate monitor to my little boy, kicking and spinning happily in my belly, oblivious to the word outside the womb. Finally, I saw the surgeon.  But instead of assuring me that this would be fine and my decision to go IV-free was a noble one – he thought it might be wise to let me know that moving, even a slight bit, could have disastrous consequences.  I didn’t find this little lecture particularly comforting.  Does one tell an astronaut that one false move might mean he’s forever thrust into the abyss of space, never to return to the life and family he knew?  Not helpful.  But there he goes, telling me to be still.  Like moving during awake surgery would be something I planned on doing.  “Can’t you tape my head down with duct tape?” I asked.  He snickered at that, which I thought was a perfectly reasonable request.  “Won’t do any good,” he replied.  “If you were going to move, no tape would hold you.”

Then, as my face turned to the color of copy paper, he told me that since my eye was full of oil (to hold up my tired and radiation-damaged retina), which is “not like normal folks,” it was also possible that his incision might cause the oil to come rushing out like slicing a hole in a water balloon, running into places it shouldn’t.  “That would be a real emergency,” he said.  He waits until now to tell me this? “Well let’s try to avoid that,” I said, seeing my husband out of the corner of my good eye kicking the floor.

Finally, I was wheeled to the OR.  Along the way, I was lectured by the anesthesiologist that at any time he would start IV anesthesia if I couldn’t handle the pressure, or got too anxious.  “I’ll be just fine,” I lied, thinking about oil oozing out of my eye and into my brain, laughing and dancing with freedom.

The temperature in the OR felt something like Alaska in the dead of winter, so they covered me with warm blankets.  They began to strap probes to my chest and someone stuck a breathing tube in my nose.  “What the heck’s that for?” I asked, but everyone was so busy they didn’t answer.  Then, I realized why.  After wiping half my head down with iodine, they stuck a piece of plastic down around my face with a hole in it in the center to expose the surgical field.  The rest seemed to cling like saran wrap and came down on all sides.  It now made perfect sense why all the nurses were asking me if I had claustrophobia.  I think perhaps I do, just a bit, when my face is covered in plastic so that the only way I can breathe is to assume oxygen is coming in through the tube in my nose.  Huh. Didn’t see that one coming.

 

So there I was, sucking down oxygen, my arms secured to my side with Velcro straps, waiting.  Dear Lord.  I just can’t do this on my own.  Finally, after a few shots of a numbing agent, the surgeon went to work.  I tried to imagine I was lying on the beach in Aruba the summer my husband passed his bar exam, the night we sat on the sand and watched the moon edge into the night sky.  I used those tips they gave you in yoga and childbirthing classes, relaxing and breathing in deeply.  I told God that this effort was for my unborn child, which should count for double, so maybe this thing could just hurry-on-up.

Then, I heard my surgeon ask the nurse for an instrument (I’m making up the words of the instruments since I don’t remember the exact medical terms).

“I need a 2.75 septical,” he ordered.  Pause.

“We have a 2.8 septical, Dr. Walters,” she said clearly in response.

“I actually need the 2.75,” he replied.  Suddenly I’m ripped from Aruba and I’m back in an operating room, feeling like I’m participating in my own nightmare.  I wanted to yell at the nurse.  “He wants a 2.75!  Give him what he wants, damnit!”  I was screaming on the inside. I thought I might be shaking. Suddenly, the nurse’s voice reappeared.

“Here it is, doctor,” she said, as she must have been attempting to hand it to him.  Another pause.

“Actually,” he said, “I don’t trust your instruments.  Can you rip open my emergency kit?” he asked someone in the distance.  “That one there, right by the door?  Reach in and grab by 2.75 septical.”

Of course, the emergency kit.  During surgery where I can’t move or my eye oil will come oozing out and bad things will happen.  And I’m freaking pregnant.  Does any of this shock me?  Of course not.  That’s exactly my luck. But I am usually not awake to hear about it.

Annnnnd, he was in my eye again, doing something important.  Suddenly, I was sweating.  Why was I covered with so many blazing hot blankets?  I couldn’t find the moon anymore. And my nose had a sudden itch that couldn’t be scratched.  After what felt like an hour, I tried to speak.  Being fearful that talking might make me somehow move, it sounded more like “whaddadon.”

“Well right here, I’ve got an instrument with diamond dust on the bottom,” he said, emphasizing the word diamond like it was supposed to be really impressive.  “I’m just doing a little scrubbing.  You’ve got lots of debris in here I’m trying to get rid of.”

“I sure like diamons,” I muttered through my clenched jaw.  He snickered at that one.

Eventually, it was over.  They ripped the plastic off my face, unhooked my arms, and let me breathe good ‘ol OR air without a breathing tube.  As I was wheeled back to the post-op room, where my husband was waiting, I felt strangely normal.  “Pretty easy,” I lied.

My son is two years old now, full of energy and strength.  He is a wanderer, my boy.  He likes to be outside, exploring and running and feeling the dirt in his hands. He is strong.  He is healthy.  He is perfect.  I use my eye to wink at him, my precious son, as he runs around the back yard with disheveled hair.  I have my hand on my hip, about to stir up a batch of brownies.

“Ya’ll be careful on that slide,” I’ll yell through the open window.  My heart is filled with a surge of love as I see him.

Diamond, or no diamond, I am so incredibly rich.  I am filled with so many blessings I feel like my soul might burst instead of mere oil.  I am lucky to survive.  I am lucky to be linked with such a strong, beautiful man.  I am lucky to have two children who take my breath away on a daily basis.

But truth be told, it’s not really luck.  I’d have run out by now given the comedies of my life.  I think instead it’s grace, and a love greater than one I’ve ever known. God was there then.  He is there now.  Guiding and holding me still when my body is full of tremors and doubt and fear.

Sometimes that love is too overwhelming for me to take in, like a basket full of diamonds twinkling in the light of the afternoon sun.  I sure like diamonds.  They remind me of things that are pure, and unchanging.  Things that last forever.

Filed Under: Eye, Health, Humor, Motherhood, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

peace for the wandering soul

March 28, 2012 By

I have always been surrounded by wanderers.  I swim amidst thinkers and singers.  Artists and tinkerers of all kinds.  Whether they have spouses or partners, dogs or made-up friends, these are my people. I’ve always been drawn to those who challenged life.  Pushed back the limitations. Created things.  I look at kids nowadays, forced and squeezed into certain stereotypes.  What a shame to be so pigeonholed.  What a waste to not absorb it all.

What’s come of the wonderful patchwork of friends I’ve gathered along the roadside is a realization that I’m a bit of a loner.  That my faith defines me in a different light.  The fact is that I’m surrounded by non-believers, whom I love dearly.  I’d gladly sit for hours through nights and storms with these dear friends, despite our differences, holding their hands and crying into their pad Thai noodles.

I want to tell them what I have learned through so many hard lessons.  That peace is possible.  That God simply loves.  Yet I’m forced to cut down so many negative stereotypes of faith, like hacking through a rainforest, that the message is lost.  I won’t send sappy emotional poetry about how Jesus Saves.  I won’t drag someone to church and make them sing Rock of Ages.  I won’t tell someone in the grocery store I’m praying for them, because I know that won’t make any difference for them to hear.  In fact, it will have the opposite effect.

And yet I pray for them all the same.

I think the problem with religion is there are too many people that think right-wing crazies and Rush-Limbaugh-for-president folks (and the bigots and the bible-thumpers too, if you’re counting) are all lumped together in one ball of dough.  They all bake up into one hot and crazy loon that is not to be trusted.  I don’t feel like a crazy loon.  I don’t take the written word literally and like to question established truths.  I thought Origin of the Species was brilliant and totally understand people scratching their heads at the thought of Noah building a large ark whereby eight people and a billion animals be-bopped into it two-by-two and floated along the entire earth for a few days.  Yet I still think God is real.  I still believe he guides and directs my life.

You don’t have to consider yourself a member of the crazy tribe to have faith.  You can believe in metaphors, or think that our ancestors didn’t look like us, or that there is a plausible life form outside our solar system.  You can believe Jesus was a great teacher. Or, like his father, a great healer, without surrendering your soul to stupidity.  People who are blessed with great big thinking brains – the ones who analyze and process and deconstruct problems like science experiments – have a difficult time with faith.  It is outright inferior to accept something because we are told to.  Because it’s the right thing to do. Because everyone’s doing it.

We are more than this. 

But sometimes, in your lowest hour, faith comes upon you like a whisper.  A small breath of truth that tells you that you cannot survive the winter alone.  That you must be able to let go of your demons and fall effortlessly into the arms of God.  One who can keep you safe in those cold, bitter nights.  One who accepts you right where you are, and forgives all that went before that one moment.

It’s hard to explain to my fellow intellectuals, who say they feel silly praying to a popcorn-covered plaster ceiling.  To sit alone in one’s thoughts and think there is a God above, somewhere in some celestial heaven, watching nations get torn apart or seeing people drown a slow death, lost at sea. 

To these people I just say – have patience.  Don’t give up at least considering that this man people have revered for so many hundreds upon thousands of years wasn’t just some random bloke with a beard and dirty sandals, but that there was meaning to his words. That forgiveness really is possible.  That peace happens.

Because deep down, that’s what’s holding us all back. Fear that we’ll be found out.  That our insecurity will surface like a helium balloon and we’ll be the ones left with our pants down.  But God cares not of this.   We all start out from different places, with different gifts, and with different hearts.  Some that profess to believe, and hate Darwin to wit, might not actually believe in much after all.  All those pot luck casseroles and church committees for nothing. For regardless of where we are in life, or how silly we feel entering this new world, naked and starving, he simply forgives. 

I believe that God is real.  That he loved us enough to deliver a son to this earth to die for our behalf.  This I believe despite having one of those big ‘ol thinking brains.  I like to drink a cold beer and laugh at good, hearty jokes.  I cut other people off in traffic.  I might not take all written words – even some in the bible – literally, but I think God’s okay with the fact that we can question and explore and investigate.   That we can still buy groceries and walk the dog and live in this crazy, silly world of heartbroken people, and still make a difference.

Yes, I’ve heard that still, quiet breath.  When my life was screaming for mercy and chains wrapped around the walls of my heart, closing in faster than I expected.  When I stared death in the face and told it I wasn’t ready. It was in that moment I poured out tears of guilt and shame.  And that, my friend, is what grace is all about.

Pray for peace, my wonderful beatnik friends.  If you can’t manage that, try to keep a sliver of your heart open, so someday, you might find the room to believe.  And then, peace can start to happen.

Filed Under: Religion Tagged With: , , , ,

pork chops for breakfast

March 26, 2012 By

While the rest of the Western world is baking muffins, chomping on triskets, and sucking on popsicles, I’m at home gnawing on a boiled egg.  It’s not because I particularly love eggs.  It’s just that I’m on a low-carb diet, which is the one thing I know works.  I have to start running to hasten the effects of weight loss because I can’t stand eating tortillas that taste like cardboard.

All our kids eat is carbohydrates, wrapped in bar form, or rolled into the size of a cereal pellet, or hardened into the shape of pasta.  I bake it and toast it and wallow in it, and yet I can’t eat a bite.  Our pantry really is a diabetic nightmare.  Oatmeal.  Buttery crackers.  Muffin Mix.  Cookies.  Oh, the cookies.  Sometimes I peek around the onion soup mix to see if the chocolate chips are still there, waiting for me to come to my senses. They are sitting there on the top shelf like a stoic friend, patient and still.

The worst is breakfast.  After a week of eating scrambled eggs, or peanut butter on a flatbread, or a processed low-carb bar, you’re a little tapped out.  I went online to try and find low-carb breakfast ideas.  It was packed with helpful information, like “why do you have to eat sweets for breakfast?  Try tuna!” and the always helpful “if you get sick of eggs, just add extra cheese.”  There were fifteen recipes for frittatas and a mock pancake recipe made from cottage cheese.  One recommended left over pork chops.

I don’t know about you, but when I get out of bed in the morning, after scrubbing away stale breath and sipping on hot coffee, all I can think of is tuna.  And pork chops.  And cottage cheese pancakes with no syrup.  Stop it.  My mouth is watering.

This is why no one can stay on a low-carb diet forever.  There has to be some wiggle room.  I punched down the bread dough I was making this afternoon (now that I quit my job I declared Monday “Bake Day.”  I’ve also declared Wednesday Spa Day and Friday Drinking-and-Gambling Day, so it all evens out), and realized I’d never eat a bite.  Who bakes bread and then fails to eat one single bite?

People who need to lose ten pounds.  That’s who.  They are over in the corner with a bad attitude eating a handful of almonds and a cheese stick.  Don’t go near those people.  They are bound to crack. Or pass out.  Or start stuffing tortilla chips down their pie hole whilst laughing eerily.

Soon, I’ll ease those lovely carbs back into my life.  Until then, I’ll just be here.  Quietly eating pork chops for breakfast but dreaming of thick, sweet oatmeal.

Filed Under: Health, Humor Tagged With: , ,

ribbons

March 20, 2012 By

I have articles from the Department of Justice sitting all around my ankles, sprayed out like a fan in neat little piles.  I haven’t strayed far from the computer for hours and a babysitter is attending to my daughter.  A half-started and half-witted attempt to summarize the laws of Medicare fraud lies unattended on the screen in front of me as deadlines await.  Deadlines that amount to paychecks, that amount to more gardening supplies and summer sundresses and art camps.  I will finish it on time.  I will somehow find the energy.  God let me finish.

It’s not that words are hard to come by.  I live in words. I both admire and abhor them.  I want to stomp on them like ripe grapes and feel the juice squirting out between my toes. The problem with words is that I simply can’t escape them.  I am drawn to words that make me laugh or cry or feel something different.  Legal writing doesn’t invoke that same emotion, which is why I drift into my daydreams.   Dreams of stories and beauty and adjective-filled rooms filled with light.

When I lie in bed at night, with dishpan hands and a tired back, my fingers tap away at some imaginary keyboard in the sky.  I can hear the repetitive sound of my hands striking the letters like summer storms on a metal roof.  Rapping and pelting and beating down while I’m trying to sleep or pray or just lie there in peace.  I try to shake them from my head, but like the ringing in one’s ears, it’s a fool’s game.

So I keep driving to the grocery store, or to the bank drive-through. I drop off my husband’s dry cleaning and help my daughter cut out caterpillars out of yellow construction paper. But sentences keep forming like ribbons out of my brain, some constant output I can’t seem to shut off.   My daily life is so busy I don’t often do  anything with them.  They are just mental litter, thrown away like discarded trash. There are times I just want words to leave me be.  To allow me to sit silently without thinking, or hearing that incessant tapping of the keys, or the phrasing of sentences.  I want to scream at them to shut up already.  Sometimes, I just want to sit and not think of all those stupid, stupid words.

But we all have our gifts, whether we are paid for them or not.  We all carry with us some unyielding urge to create, albeit in different forms.  I firmly believe that God chose to give each of us the gifts that we were meant to have, and there’s little way around it.  According to Exodus, the Lord told Moses that he chose Bezalel, son of Uri, to oversee the task of building the tabernacle. “I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with skill, ability and knowledge in all kinds of crafts — to make artistic designs for work in gold, silver and bronze, to cut and set stones, to work in wood, and to engage in all kinds of craftsmanship.”  Exodus 31:3.  Paul explained in 1 Corinthians 12 that all the gifts we have been given “are the work of one and the same Spirit, and he gives them to each one just as he determines.”

I may, or may not, ever get paid for my words.  The novel that took me years to finish, with nights of sobbing and mornings of great exaltations, might never be read by the New York Times or by a single woman in the suburbs of Chicago.  The words that plague my sleep and dominate my fingers might be small to most.  But they are ultimately from God.  They need to be used and cultivated so that when they spring forth from my head, they are as tulips rather than dandelions.

I thank God for words, even though sometimes they feel like a burden.  But when the burden is for a higher good, and the purpose so great, can one really complain?

Lord, please let my words and the aching of my heart be acceptable to you, in your sight, and in your most perfect glory.  Thank you for these ribbons that flow from my thoughts.  Help me piece and string them all together as jewelry fit for a king.   

Filed Under: Religion, Writing Tagged With: , , ,

New makeover, Fiji style

March 20, 2012 By

I’m trying to be sensible these days.  We operate on a budget, we try to not dine out, and I quit buying Fiji water.  Even though it tastes like rain from heaven.  Even though I, alone, was probably supporting the entire island’s economy with my water slogging.  And it made me feel all rich and fancy carrying around those square bottles.

But now, all that’s changed.  I darkened my hair.  I need to lose ten pounds.  I drive a messy mom car and always forget to pluck my eyebrows. My appearance is becoming slowly mundane and dreary. I went to Target to find myself some new clothes, and thought to myself that those little shirts they sell up in there are pretty darn cute.  Tiny little flowers actually affixed to the knit?  Capri pants with drawstring waists?  Brilliant!

It’s Target, people.  I need an intervention.

I used to wear flashy jeans and maintain dark tans.  My hair was blond against my long back and I’d cackle with overly-white teeth. Now, I’m lucky to get a pedicure when my mother-in-law comes to town.  I’m convinced those Vietnamese ladies are not talking about soap operas but instead laughing about my calloused, dark heels. Maybe I was just being paranoid and they were complimenting my new shirt.   You know, the one with the tiny flowers.

I think it’s time for a makeover.  And some exercise.  Today, I found myself eating a hot dog for lunch.  It was organic, but still.  No adult needs to be eating a hot dog unless this person is at the ball park drinking a beer wearing a large oversized nerf hand.

Strike that.  Under no circumstances should anyone really be eating a hot dog.

I’m sick of feeling self-conscious in tight-fitting t-shirts and feeling like I have frumpy hair.  I have great hair.  So today, it ends.  I washed my car even though a rainstorm is coming.  I cleaned out the clutter and went through my house wiping and dusting.  I’m going to figure out how to start working out, even if I’m down on the floor doing push-ups to a Jane Fonda video.  I don’t think I’ll ease back into the cackling, no matter the condition of my teeth. That just sounds weird and witch-like.

So from this day forward, I’m going to steal back the woman I know is inside of me, aching and yearning to escape.  I want to feel strong and powerful again, not lumpy and soft with mouse-brown hair drinking tap water in my kitchen.  Where is the glory in that?  I might have to take on a part-time job to afford all that fancy water and highlights, but it will be worth it.  I’m cleansing.

My two-year-old probably won’t notice the impending change.  My husband might.  But Fiji certainly will.   It’s really all about the island people, after all.  I’m doing this for you.

xoxo,

Amanda

P.S.  I have no idea where Fiji is.  I should know this, since they inspired my new resolve.

P.P.S.  The more I think about it, they don’t give two rips if I’m blond.  As long as I buy their water, I could be bald with bad teeth for all they care.   That’s disappointing to think about.  I thought we had something.

P.P.P.S.  I looked it up.  Fiji is northwest of New Zealand.  As it turns out, they are looking for a tall blond woman with an occasional southern twang to lead their nation into a new and bright economic era.  Floral shirts are a plus, but not required. Who knew?  Who freaking knew?!

P. . . S.  I’m moving to Fiji. Don’t bother to call.  I’ll be working out.  Or eating a hot dog.  One of the two.

Filed Under: Humor, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

tennis rocks

March 11, 2012 By

I thought it might be fun to talk about my insanely awesome athletic skills.  I’m a Texas girl, and everyone here in the Lone Star State should know how to throw a football, identify an offside penalty, or at least jump a hurdle or two.  So naturally, my parents were ecstatic to have a tall girl like me on their hands.  There were so many possibilities.

But reality came crashing down when I dribbled the ball down the court the wrong way, and broke both my wrists (at the same time) in a very polished backward fall.  And there was that one attempt at softball, where my uniform never got dirty and the opposing team just aimed their bats in my general direction to see the ball land directly next to my ankles.   One summer my parents put me in a soccer league, which required an insane amount of running, of all the crazy things.  They even tried to enroll me in ballet, but I argued with the teacher about why I needed to learn all those silly positions.  I felt – more like deserved – to be leaping across the room in toe shoes after three weeks and fall in the arms of well-muscled men wearing tights.  Duh.

But one day, things changed.  Tennis came along.  This was something I could practice alone and advance at my own speed.  I actually liked it.  Seeing a glimmer of hope that I might lead a normal life and not become a colossal choir nerd, my parents enrolled me in private lessons.  They drug me across town to the country club with the rich kids so I could attend tennis camp and bought me little tennis skirts with blue and yellow stripes. I wasn’t that great, but I stuck with it, and in time I (barely) improved.

In high school, the tennis coach had pity on me and allowed me to play on the varsity team.  After all – I was a funny sort that kept everyone else’s spirits high.  I considered myself the team mascot, since I never won a match but got drug along to all the tournaments.  I kept everyone on the bus laughing and encouraged them to keep on smiling (“It’s just one game!  You’ll do better next time! Tally Ho!”).  Okay, so I didn’t actually use the words tally ho, since that sounds strangely English for a blond Texas girl, but you get the general optimistic mental picture.  I played games occasionally, but no one watched because they always knew I’d lose. But I didn’t care because it was jolly fun to smash the ball across the net and watch my opponent race to catch it.  I’d eventually hit a fly ball or miss altogether, which would cost me the match, but I considered those just minor setbacks.  I just needed to work on my consistency.

The Fall of my freshman year of college, dewy with hope and a youthful optimism, I rolled up my sleeves and hit the court with a bucket of balls and my old tennis racket.  It was a good stress reliever, the weather was warm, and I was suddenly filled with the reality that I could actually play.  It was so clear – like a vision laid out in front of me.  All those years of goofing off and I had a talent hidden underneath that finally blossomed like a beautiful flower.  I was a tennis player.  This was my destiny.   I was born for this.

That wasn’t true, of course.  I totally sucked.  I think it might have been heatstroke.

So fresh with my newfound love of tennis, and the reality that I just might compete at Wimbledon if I darn well set my mind to it, I contacted the athletic department.  I was going to try out for the Texas Tech University Tennis Team.  Yes, I was available to meet with the coach for an information interview.  Yes, I was more than happy to work out with the team.  And yes, why of of course I could play tennis at a very professional level.  State championship?  Well, no.  But I have many, many participation ribbons.  That should count for something.

For a month, I got to eat at the athletic dining hall, and made many friends with people from Sweden and Missouri and other far-off places.  I was fascinated by the whole experience and soaked it up with vigor.  I rolled up my sleeves and ate chicken-fried-steak with the best of them.  I ran laps and said “hell yeah suckahs!” and wore the perfect grimace on my face when faced with a tough opponent.

Then, I had to hit the ball.  Just some simple forehands and backhands and volleys at the net.  Nothing difficult or challenging.  Whoops, I said the first time around, covering my mouth.  How funny!  Did I hit that ball clear over the side wall?   I’m terribly sorry.  That just never happens.  And then began the comedic efforts of one who cannot actually play tennis at the college level, bumbling and running and jumping and missing and having a terrific ‘ol time.  The girl from Sweden just looked at me like I just recently landed on this planet.

The coach was so incredibly sweet, and pulled me aside after a few days to give me the tragic news.  “You didn’t make the team,” she said.  She offered some terrific advice, like perhaps years and years of lessons.  Or an arm transplant.  Perhaps a racket that hits the balls for you.  Or sticking with choir. I thanked her so much, and hugged the Swedish girl.  I smiled my big Texas smile.  “It’s just such an honor,” I said as I held my hand to my heart – not sure why since playing tennis isn’t at all akin to fighting in Iraq.   “Thank you all so much for this opportunity,” I bellowed, my eyes full of tears.  But by this time they had turned their heads, back to playing tennis. Glad to get the crazy girl off the court.

This, my friends, is what happens to a young girl with an inflated since of self-esteem with absolutely no talent behind it.  I went on to do fulfilling and wonderful things in college, like being a Resident Assistant in the dorms (is that pot I smell, mister?), singing baroque music in the concert hall (oh the beauty, oh the harmony), or meeting my friends in the dining hall for chicken strips (how do they make this gravy so yummy?).  I had a very dorky useless boring amazing college life, and I don’t regret for one day my near-brush with athletic fame and fortune.

I think the lesson to be learned here is to never give up. One day, you’ll realize what you’re good at and quit making a fool of yourself.

But what’s the fun in that?

Filed Under: Embarrassing Moments, Humor, Texas Tagged With: , , , ,

new beginnings

March 8, 2012 By

I quit my job.

Well, that’s a bit of a lie.  I walked out of my job as General Counsel for a large and wonderful company to stay home more.  To bake and volunteer and write.  And take the occasional calls from my former company that might crop up that they find useful to ask a lawyer.  But working from home in an oversized t-shirt billing by the hour, taking occasional phone calls from doctors that have questions, isn’t the same as really working.  I’ve always worked.  I went to law school to earn a great salary and feed my brain and wear heels.  I love heels.

But finally, I admitted to myself that I couldn’t keep up. There were select toilets in our home that even our dog wouldn’t drink from.  I was forgetting to pay bills and couldn’t seem to pack lunches and was always screaming at my daughter to get her shoes on.  I almost cried when I tried to bake homemade bread one weekend and the dough wouldn’t even rise.  My life was starting to spin out of control.  With two small children and a brain that never shuts off and writing that was finished inside my head but not yet recorded on paper, something had to give.  I was tired of running.  I was tired of yelling.  I was just flat-out tired.

So I stopped.

It’s been exactly four days since my newfound freedom.  I sent my son to day care every single day, which perhaps I should feel guilty about.  But I don’t.  I did heaps of laundry and sent off thank-you notes and made some tea.  I read some articles I’d been meaning to read and unpacked boxes of law books I schlepped home from my office.   I took a nap and read to my daughter and opened my eyes to what I’d been missing all this time.   Peace, really.  And clean toilets.

So here I sit.  I can feel a dozen years of legal experience begin the slow process of atrophy.  I can see that hanging on to my old world will not last forever, although billing by the hour is nice.  I feel God tugging on my sweater and tapping me on the shoulder, like something is just around the corner – up ahead.  I just can’t quite make it out with all the fog around me.  I’m defogging.  And praying.  And trying to learn how to bake bread.  For real.  Someone needs to send me a better recipe.

It’s a huge leap to quit a career.  It’s easy to tell people it’s for the kids.  So you can be a better mother.  But I didn’t think I was a horrible mother before.  I think it’s more about finding your footing.  Making sure the place that you stand is the place you really want to be.  Right now, in this moment, I know I’m heading in the right direction.  That’s something.  Even though it might not involve heels.

So here’s to freedom, wherever it takes me.  Probably to the grocery store.  And the bathroom, to clean more toilets.

Filed Under: Career, Motherhood, Religion, Writing Tagged With: , , ,

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