Archive | March, 2011

Running for our Lives

31 Mar

Last night after dinner I needed to get out of the house.  Do you ever have those moments when the desire to “go out” feels similar to what inmates must feel when they decide a jail break is in order?

Not that I’ve ever been involved in a jail break, so I don’t speak from experience.  Just want to be clear.  Sometimes my written words don’t exactly communicate my message.

So after dinner, we piled into the car and went down to the river’s edge.  Actually my entire family sat in the car waiting for me, but I had no idea they left.  I guess I was off in lala-land.  Not uncommon, but annoying just the same.

I just realized “down to the river’s edge” sounds a little John The Baptist.  Our experience wasn’t exactly spiritual unless you count the flight for our very lives.

After peering into the windows of a closed, but super-cute little boutique, I crossed the condemned bridge (condemned because it will crumble under the weight of vehicles, but perfectly safe for foot-traffic…Hmmm, I’m convinced) to meet my family who were so absorbed in looking at ducks, they didn’t miss me.  These ducks must be polar ducks, because that water is one degree warmer than ice.

About a hundred baby steps down the three-mile paved trail, I tore my eyes from ice formations still hanging from the rocks across the river and looked straight ahead.  Into the eyes of a the biggest, slobber dripping, dog I’ve seen since Turner and Hooch.

This not-so-friendly looking beast charged straight for us.

Of course we did what all responsible sane adults would do.  We ran for our lives, yelling for our children to follow.  Sheer panic doesn’t necessarily describe our feelings.  It was more like, “I refuse to die under a mountain of drool, dog hair, and razor sharp teeth.”

We burst through the doors of my husband’s old school chum’s coffee/ice-cream shop with a blast of cold air and a need for oxygen.  The girl behind the counter probably couldn’t decide if she should give us coffee or call 911.

We all settled for an ice-cream.

I’m definitely counting the escape run as exercise,  canceling out all calories from my blueberry cheesecake frozen yogurt.

The End.

 

Tossed Like a Load of Dirty Socks in The Spin Cycle

30 Mar

Photo complements of Chrissy Spear

I’ve been feeling a nudge lately and uncharacteristically decided to pay attention before the whopping kick in the backside.  Sometimes it’s the “still small voice” that penetrates my fog, but more often than not, getting my attention requires sky writing from the finger of God himself.

I’m thick like that.

In the beginning of the new year while everyone was making resolutions and picking words to focus them (like ‘Intentional’, chosen by Megan), I decided to live abundantly this year.  Armed with John 10:10, determination, and cup of hot cocoa, I stormed 2011.  Only, I’ve gotten off course.  February found me not having time to write, frustrated with homeschooling, wanting an army of friends and family to come whisk me away to anyplace warm, and depressed over my extreme case of cabin fever.  March hasn’t been much better.

That ends today.

I’ve taken inventory and I’m out of the good, sweet, and fat-free.  I need a total overhaul of everything from poor eating habits to managing my laundry.  I get thrown off course way to easily.

James 1:6-8  But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive any thing of the Lord. A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.

I’m wavering.

Not in my faith, but in my service – my actions.  In my heart and mind I’m resolved to do one thing, live one way, and accomplish one goal, but my actions run amuck by noontime.  I’m tossed like a load of dirty socks in the spin cycle.

I’m missing my mark – Abundant Living.

Barely surviving, half-heartedness, things undone, wasted time, squandered days, harsh words, hardened heart, split-second decisions, lack of self-control, inability to say no, poor management, hopelessness – these do not equal an abundant life.

It’s time for me once again live like who I am – an adopted daughter of the almighty God, set free from sin and death, and called to live a life holy and acceptable.

Before you say anything, I realize not every day of this new year has been a wasted or defeated day.  Not at all.  But, I can do better.  I must.  What I do affects not only today, but also tomorrow.  It changes me and also my husband and children.  We cannot live our lives without touching others.  I want my touch to positive.

I don’t want to merely speak a bunch of empty words, allow my thoughtless actions to hurt others, or carelessly squander time that could be productive.  I want to be deliberate, love with abandon, trust with faith, and work with fervor.

I want the abundant life.  Anything less is not good enough.

What about you?  Has your year been good enough?

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Sharing The Love

A few great blog posts I’ve recently read: Intentionally Intentional Successes and Fails, Telling Myself No, What Makes Men Romantic,  and What It Really Means to be Free…ok, just one more – Wifey Wendesday: Should we be upset when our husbands are tempted?

Internationally Cow-Sational

29 Mar

International Cow Sensation

Ladies and  gentlemen, boys and girls, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…

FringeCow Dances Her Way to Canada

If that doesn’t impress you, nothing ever will!

Thank you Sarah, Debra, and Laura for making my day.

Oh.  By the way, It is a signed original.

 

Blissful Denial – Good for You?

28 Mar

I awoke this morning determined to greet Monday as if she were a Friday.  So far, it’s working, but I’m only one cup of coffee, one sick kid, and one school lesson into the day.  It’s hard to determine if this will be a passday or a failday – not for my kids, but for me.

Since I’m settling quite comfortably into my little world of denial, I wore my summer shoes yesterday.  All day.  Only two emerald painted toes have lasting frostbite.

If you don’t think people notice your feet, wear a pair of summer shoes when there is frost on the ground and snow in the shade.  People notice.  It’s nearly alarming, considering my usual footwear.

I’m quickly falling in love with the wedge.  Why, oh why haven’t I chosen a wedge before this spring?  They are supremely comfortable.  I gladly name the wedge my shoe of choice.  Added lift without cause for fractured ankle alarm.  It was love at first step.

Anybody notice how late Easter is this year?  I admit, I don’t mind.  Perhaps it will actually be sunny and warm this Easter, given it’s April 24th due date.  We are happily planning to Easter in Queens with my brother-in-law, his fiance, and her family.  I should be on a crash diet, considering my soon-to-be sister-in-law is a pastry chef.  My fat quivers at the thought of dessert.

Easter 2007

On Palm Sunday, we decided to have a gaggle of college students over for dinner.  There is a college nearby with lots of live-in students.  It’s fulfilling to host a dinner with a crowd of people who are happy to be served anything cooked.  I’m simply praying that God expands our walls or at least allows them to stretch like rubber bands – rubber bands with no bounce back.  I can’t imagine the chaos of a bounce back.

Since I’m attempting to create a meal plan before Palm Sunday Eve, I have a question for you.

What would you cook if you had, oh, let’s say twenty or so (college students seem to multiply when there’s food) people over for dinner?

Now, please remember, I’ll be in church on Sunday before this dinner.  I must cook ahead or at the least, have crock-pots slow cooking a chicken dance.

Since it’s such a special day, I would like to celebrate with a tummy fare a step or two above my classic hotdog/chili/mac & cheese dish.  After all, it is Easter!  Almost.

Spring Shopping this Fashion Friday

25 Mar

Isn’t it interesting how quickly topics change on this blog?

I like to think it keeps things from getting too boring.  Others may say my blog lacks focus, is too random, and will not build a readership when everyday is written for a different audience.

I say, oh well.  Although, I could stand a little more focus and little less random in my life.

Since it’s Friday and women across blogland host Fashion Friday posts, I figured I’d steal their ideas jump on the bandwagon.

I actually went shopping for some spring/summer clothes.  I’ve been prepping my husband for months.  It’s not that I never shop for clothes, I do, but it’s usually only when we are desperate.  Desperation is now!

I like to shop.

Retail therapy is very real; however, I’m a little odd because I don’t need to spend money every time I shop.  The act of choosing cute outfits and trying them on in too small fitting rooms with too bright of lights is enjoyable for me.  I’m not even sad when I return my cute outfits to their proper places and leave the store empty-handed.

For me shopping, not buying is therapeutic.  In fact sometimes the actual buying, spending money, gets me a little stressed.

I don’t know how you plan your wardrobe, but I buy a few outfits and then wear them out.  By wear them out, I mean they get threadbare and holy and reduced to sleep/house wear.  It’s a budget thing, not a noble ‘live simply’ thing.  Just being honest.

If money were not an issue, I would buy closets full of clothes and way too many uncomfortable shoes just because they are cute.  For me, that dream life is not today’s living and I’m content.

Every Wednesday The Pleated Poppy hosts What I Wore Wednesday. Tons of women photograph their cute outfits and then link a post showing what they wore for the week.

I like snooping around to see what people are wearing, but I’ve never participated.  I’m afraid you’ll think I don’t wash clothes when I show pictures of me in a t-shirt, sweater, and jeans on Monday and then I show another picture of me in the same outfit on Saturday…week after endless week.

I promise I wash in between!

Wow.  I am long-winded today.

All that jabber just to show you a few jewels I purchased!

Here goes…

This is my granny gypsy outfit from H&M.  The skirt goes to the floor and has old lady flowers on it, but for some unknown reason, it spoke to me.  I like it and it’s terribly comfortable.

Don’t tell Stacy & Clinton!

Better yet, do tell.  I wouldn’t mind $5,000.

It’s all very lightweight and I’m sure it will be nice and cool when the temps go from thirty degrees to ninety degrees in July.

July – a blessed month.

To complete the summer gypsy look, I bought this set of bangles.  I cannot resist $2.99 jewelry sets.  My husband is so lucky I’m not that into diamonds.  I’m a female anomaly.

Oh, and don’t worry.  Just because I look like a gypsy, I will not steal your children.  Any more laundry would find me in a psych center.

This next set comes from GAP, on clearance.  In my frigid part of the world, sweaters never go out of style, and this is a spring sweater, not a winter sweater.  It’s so thin, I can see through it.  The blouse is sleeveless.

I should worry that my arms aren’t gym approved, but I think the flab gazers will get over their shock.

Can you handle more?

I bought this top in Charlotte Russe.  It looks better on the bod then on the hanger.  I visit that store because I like their jewels.  This time I did not partake of their bounty.

I also bought one more light sweater and I think it may be my favorite item…also from Charlotte Russe.

I love the gathered elbow length sleeves, the scrunched trim, and the light floaty fabric.

That’s my loot!

My daughter wanted to quit shopping after she tried on clothes from one store – ONE store.

I’ve failed as a mother.

As a result, this is THE only outfit she’ll have to wear this summer.  None of last years clothes fit.

That tie belongs in the back, but I’m a lazy photographer.

And last, but not least, my son is sporting his new Ewok t-shirt from Old Navy.  I can’t get it off his body.  I’m afraid the budding stench will burn a whole in the cloth.

If you’ve stuck this post out, I commend you.  I want to promise tomorrow’s blog reading will be better, but in good conscience I cannot.

I do have a tip for you.

Before shopping, always Google printable coupons for your favorite stores.  I arm myself with coupons before hitting the mall.  Most major stores have them.  I had a 40% off coupon for the GAP and a 15% off coupon for Children’s Place.  I had a coupon for Old Navy too, but my son’s t-shirt didn’t cost enough to meet the requirements.

Coupons are a good thing.

I’m linking to Fashion Friday at Musings of a Housewife.  Go visit for real fashion advice.

Happy Friday!

Deep Fried Tomatoes & Baked Potatoes

21 Mar

Devil Dog on My Porch (Prt. 5)

It’s Not Only The Moose Watching (Prt. 4)

Closing – Not a Naked Dance (Prt. 3)

Our Dream House (Prt. 2)

From the Beginning (Prt. 1)

One of my favorite moments of  housework landed me sloped on a ladder, clinging to the house in hopes of stilling my shaking limbs.  After witnessing winter’s fury, we decided to wrap the entire house in an insulating foam board.  This after we squandered weekends chipping clapboard siding that saw centuries turn.

The foam had a silver paper on the outside, similar to aluminum foil.  By now it was summer and I never gave the silver paper a thought.  The sun reflected off the paper turning my face into a beefsteak tomato – deep fried with blistering skin.

I, the tomato, stood on the ladder clinging to the foam covered, very reflective wall like I was a cat hanging by her claws.  I held boards, John zipped them to the wall.

Now Maine is a funny place in the summer.  On a Thursday, a slumbering town of 20,000 people who spend their winters in hibernation, can suddenly grow to 40,000 people on a warm sunny Saturday morning.  It’s the weekend invasion.  For every one Maine license plate, you see three Massachusetts plates, two Quebec plates, and one New York plate.    Streets that see more snow plows than cars suddenly fill with joggers, bike riders, and can you believe, an occassional blond roller-blader possibly misplaced from the West Coast.  After all, Maine is ‘Vacationland’.  Very few are brave enough to winter January, February, and March.

For two seasons I looked at summer people with contempt.  While I worked my muscles into knots, they enjoyed vacations.

I will never forget one very tanned summer guy.  He jogged past our house each morning, looking at us with a mix of amusement and disbelief.  Very few realized such foolish determination still existed in America’s youth.

On the day my faced burned to a beefsteak, he jogged up to our front stoop and stood for a moment jogging in place.  After a once-over glance, he said, “Looks good.  Like a baked potato!”  And he jogged off.

John and I jumped off our ladders and stepped back for a gaze.  Sure enough.  Our little porchless cape looked like a giant baked potato.

Hearting You With Links

20 Mar

The other day I left a Facebook status update saying, “I heart this necklace. Someone tell my husband, ok?”

See necklace in question HERE.

Apparently some hate the word heart used as a verb.  I failed to realize the passion my friends and family hold for our Americanized slang version of the English language.  I should know better than to use kid jargon on facebook!

In a moment of maturity, I responded with “Heart, heart, heart, HEART!”

Humph.  I told them.

And I’m telling you today, I heart these posts.  If you’re in need of some good reading, go visit a link or two.

The Brows Post by Broken Poet – To pluck or not to pluck?  That is the question.  Advice from a real life make-up artist.

Homemade White Chocolate Peanut Butter at How Sweet it Is – Seriously this looks amazing.  I want to make some, but I can’t figure out how.  I don’t have a food processor and the motor on my blender is burning up.  Between puffs of black smoke, it works slightly.  Suggestions are welcome.

When Your Faith Begins to Change by Emily from Chatting at The Sky- Emily has a magical way with words.  She makes the simplest of things poetic.

Self-Discipline at Life With my 3 Boybarians – One successful woman talks about how she does doesn’t do it all.

Enjoy your reading!

Lessons from Mama

17 Mar

When the telephone rings, the world is a good and happy place – wrongs are righted, arguments cease, and tears dry.

My childhood is laced with moments of awe as I watched my mother transform from a fire-breathing – I’m going to half-kill you for that! – What were you ever thinking? – Drop your draws, because you’re getting a beating!! – dragon into a pearl wearin’, child lovin’, Bible totin’ mama.

At the first “Bring, bring…,” hope stirred in my tummy.  By the second “Bring, bring…,” I could see the fire fading.  And by the third “Bring, bring…,” I knew salvation was nigh.

Rubbing my happy heiney, I’d run from the kitchen and leave the strange, but thoroughly lovable Donna Reed to her conversation.  I stand assured that I wouldn’t be alive today if it were not for the telephone.  I only wish we had cell phones.

I owe Graham Bell a thank you card.

**************************

Never be ashamed to show your true colors.

During the longest, hottest part of several summers, my aunt and grandparents whisked my cousin, my brother, and myself off to the Jersey Shore for a vacation.  We splashed in the water while our skin baked to a warm pink.  We raced on the boardwalk looking for samples of fudge and taffy.  At night, we threw coins in arcade machines faster than grownups could say no.  We had pure summer fun.

One sunny afternoon shines a little brighter than the rest.

The phone rang.

My mother called to tell us her exciting news.  She painted the living room a surprise color and couldn’t wait to show us.  For the rest of our ten days at the beach, I thought about color.

Sky blues, sandy beiges, milky cloud whites, chlorine greens, and swimsuit pinks blurred my vision of home.  I couldn’t wait to see what my mother had done.

What had my mother done?

Our living room shone a tangelo orange well past labor day’s no-more-bright-colors rule.  My uncle wore sunglasses in our house until his eyes adjusted (for about a year), and I saw that style and color are personal choices.

No matter good reason, show your color!

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Life may hurt and tears will come, but always know “You’ll Live.”

I wasn’t a reckless child, but I sure was clumsy.  Family would tease me for having two left feet and if I’m honest, my pigeon toes did not help keep me upright.

I fell up the flight of stairs to our apartment.  I fell down the flight of stairs at school.  I tripped in parking lots, scraped my knees playing jump rope, and twisted my ankles walking down the street.  Bruises, scrapes, and cuts were the defining marks of me.  Strong bones and springy muscles spared me real harm; however, my young body hurt.

Before my tenth birthday, I cried more tears of shame than pain.

No matter the fall, no matter the blood, no matter the tears, my mother would always glance my way and say, “You’ll live!”

I didn’t get Barbie bandages or healing treats, but I learned to get back up and carry on.  Life doesn’t stand still for bumped and bruised girls; life goes on.

I’ve never forgotten the message.  Even now, when I want to succumb to a heap of tear-stained whines, my mind reminds me – I’ll live.  So I get up and go on.

 

And those are a few lessons I learned from my mother.

Thank you mom!

Today I’m participating in Mama Kat’s weekly writing prompt – Things My Mother Taught Me.  You can go visit Mama Kat and many others by clicking HERE.

 

Mama’s Losin’ It

Devil Dog On My Porch – Dream Houe, Part 5

16 Mar

“Really?  The house is still standing?”  John asked into the phone with me hanging on his shoulder listening.

“Ok, we’ll be up on Saturday morning.”  He hung up the phone.

We both sat with a thump.  Shaking out heads in disbelief, we kept murmuring, I can’t believe the house didn’t fall.

Finally I grasped that our entire porch, the porch that wrapped around two full sides of our house fell to the ground.

“The porch is what sold me on the house.”  I said as if it mattered.

 

Ice built on the roof, slipping between the porch and the house, finally tearing the porch from the house.  I just couldn’t believe ice could take down a porch large enough to simultaneously hang a hammock on, host a dinner party on, and cultivate a flower pot garden on.

I underestimated the ferocity of a Maine winter.  By the time my blood thickened to ice-crystals and snow covered my first floor windows, I had learned my lesson well.

Unearthing the house from the collapsed porch was worse than the fact that it fell.  We didn’t need more work!

In our early days of home repair, we hadn’t learned the trick, “If something is destroyed, cover it and begin again.”  No, we stripped the house naked, redressing her in lovely layers of new.  We left nothing of her old self except her bones.

Aviation cable pulled the second floor peak to a semi-straight tilt.  We jacked first floor beams to an almostbutnotevenclose to level.  We replaced windows.  We removed ceilings and let Hedgehog nests rain on our heads.  Neighbor’s cheered when the old chimney fell.  We pulled up two hundred years of cat-pee soaked flooring.  Our hands filled until nails, insulation, and siding ran into the street.

One long evening, my cousin and I sat on the second story floor playing cards while we waited for John to return with building supplies.  The entire front of the house was removed.  From our interior post on the floor,  we talked to people in the street passing by.

Nothing halted our determination.  Not even hunger, although I consistently begged for lunch breaks.  For the longest time we had no water in the house.  We took no showers over the weekend.  We worked.  We caught rain water to brush our teeth.  We trudged through miles of muddy field, cutting through a patch of woods to use a port-a-potty at the baseball field.  We worked, always holding the hope that one day we would rebuild the porch to its original shabbiness grandness.

I regret we never did.

We did build a little half porch/stoop in the front of the house.  I obsessed over every floorboard we cut and nailed.  I wanted to seal the wood in a clear water sealant, so we could enjoy the pureness of a porch.  John and I even worked in socks to keep a mud-free porch-ette.

Mud is a season in Maine.  When the snows melt, you’re up to your armpits in mud.  Maine mud can consume cars, small children, and possibly pets.  It’s not to be taken lightly.  Mud season found us laying a porch.

Every board was perfect, clean, and waiting sealer when an old woman and her dog rounded the corner, heading right for our house.  We put down our hammers and nails, ready for a break and friendly chat.

I stood regally as a dirty, smelly woman could stand, waiting to receive visitors, but before I could yell GETYOURMUDDYBEASTAWAYFROMMYPORCH!!!, her devil dog jumped, planting all four muddy paws on my sacred floorboards.  Clear became opaque as mud splattered my socks and sent my nerves into an IwannakillsomeoneNOW frenzy.

“You may as well go back to where you came from.”  The voice of the devil dog’s mother said.  “You won’t like it here anyway.”

Her disturbing words broke my death gaze from her dog.  An old woman stood before me adorned in at least ninety years of meanness.

I only had one other conversation with her.  She and her devil broke loose when I was planting flowers on the hill just below my once grand porch.  She stopped long enough to frown at my dirt covered front and say, “You must like to be dirty.  I hate dirt under my fingernails.”

The walking piece of unlovable female history and her devil were known far and wide in our region.  Not long after our second collision of personaltities, she was found alone in death.  Rotting too long in her home before someone finally found her.

Till today I regret my short encounters with this old woman.  Although mean as a nest of scorpions, she was alone in life and death.

It’s not only the Moose watching…Part 4

14 Mar

I am convinced if it were not for the young and verifiably insane, we would accomplish little in our world; however, if it were not for the wisdom of the mature, the young wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy the reward of their zeal.

A long, long time ago when inspiration struck, I began a series titled “My Dream House.”  Many of you probably thought my dream ended when a rambunctious realtor encouraged my husband and I to dance around the closing table naked; however, I continued to dream.  In fact, my dream blossomed when warmed with the sweat of hard work and watered with the tears of frustration.

Today, as hearts are breaking and a country is grieving, I will continue to share my dream. My soul is heavy with thoughts and prayers for the people of Japan.  I want to share in their sorrow and one day rejoice with them as they rebuild their lives.

Hope lives.

But for today, I’ll travel back to my early days of marriage – days consumed with our dream.

If you are new to this series and have way too much time on your hands, you can read the following links and catch-up.

Closing – Part 3

Dream House – Part 2

Dream House – Part 1

———————————————————————————————–


Because someone had to finance our dream house, my husband and I worked as many hours overtime as possible.  John did electrical work that took him all over Westchester County, NYC, and Connecticut.  I worked at a nuclear power plant.  We were workhorses until Friday night when we became racehorses, speeding our way up to Maine, only to return dirty and tired Sunday night.

Our neighbors kept watch over our house by night.  By day every person living within a five mile radius knew exactly what was going on in and out of our house.  News in our town traveled faster than CNN correspondents.  By the time we went from the closing table to the front door, our neighbors already knew our basic life history, family tree, and probably our social security numbers.

Sadly I now realize they also identify my birthmark.  You see, I thought our house was in the wilderness.  Compared to the city, it was; however, we did have a neighbor directly across the street and one at either end of our field.  My city naiveté convinced me that no-one really lived in those houses buried under more snow than they have in the North Pole, not in the winter anyway.

So I hopped into the back seat and changed out of my house buying clothes and into my work clothes.   Our new house was so filthy, I didn’t want to mess up my nice clothes.   Unfortunately I was under the watchful gaze of one moose and at least two neighbors, Mrs. Cravitz included.

About ninety seconds into our home renovation, Mrs. Cravitz poked her head in the front door and said to my husband, “So I hear your dad was a dairy farmer?”

John and I were in two different room, but our eyes quickly found each other.  Till today he can still hear the thinking look in my eyes, “How did she know that!”

During those early days of dreaming and working, I learned a lot about small town life in a America.

I learned you leave your doors open and people may snoop, but they won’t touch.

I learned the UPS man will leave your package on the kitchen table when you’re not home.

I learned there are no secrets in life.

I learned a small town will sometimes watch you, often laugh at you, but will always come to pull your rusty clunk of a car out of a snow drift.

I learned that chickens sense property lines.

I learned that people were born in my house, died in my house, and loved it long before I was born.

I learned to respect history and to avoid family feuds.

I learned life does have a slow pace.

And one dark night after a long day of work, John and I learned that neighbors look out for you.  After each putting in several hours of overtime, we met somewhere for dinner and headed home to relax in the last few minutes of the day.  We didn’t expect a phone call from Maine.

In the days before voicemail, I rarely checked my answering machine.   John checks.  He’s always waiting for news, wanting to know what he missed.

After the beep, a heavily accented New England voice tore into our New York apartment.

“Uhm, Hi John and Trish.  I’m calling because, well, something happened to your house.  Call me.”

Click.

Silence stretched to Maine and back.

We sank to floor, afraid to hear.

…………………………………………………………………………….to be continued.

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