Mall woes

Dear Daughters,
I bought you both a Christmas present the other night at the mall. Weird huh, I never go to the mall. I hate the mall; the fact that you have to drive around the parking lot for 5 minutes trying to find a spot up close, and end up parking a mile away anyway (slight exaggeration). It's always crowded and full of crazy people with spikey purple hair and tattoo covered bodies. They scare me. The others intimidate me; the rich folk who go to the mall in 3" high heeled boots and size 2 designer jeans with perfect hair and makeup.

Why did I stray from my 2 minute drive to Kohls with my reserved parking spot up front? Why did I leave behind my 20% off coupon and $10 Kohls cash? Why did I trade the comfort zone of the other housemoms who shop in their comfy shoes and drabby coats, whose hair, like mine, show signs of gray and their Christmas sweaters show signs of dinner? I blame it on your Dad. He asked if I wanted to go the mall with him, and since I never turn down an invitation to go shopping, even if it's at the mall, I said yes.
Why did Dad want to go to the mall? The man who hates crowds even more than I do? Let's just say, he's obsessed with finding the perfect christmas present for his mom, and because he's a good son, and I want Trey to model his father's example some day of someone who likes to make his mother happy, I dragged (drug?) Trey along.

We never did find the gift Dad was looking for, but as we were leaving, and almost to the door...they got me! You know who, the annoying Mall Kiosk salespeople. I had flashbacks of Jamaica, trying to get back to the bus at Dunn River Falls. The only trail back was right through the middle of the locals selling their wares. We hurried along, made no eye contact, but didn't quite escape before one guy got ahold of us, and before we knew what had happened, a tiki with our names carved into it was being shoved in our hands and an extraction of money from the other.

I guess I let down my guard, being so close to the door and all, I let my eyes stray for a split second on a young man holding something. And then to make matters worse, I answered him when he asked me a question! That was all the encouragement he needed. Before I knew what was happening, he was showing me his product and all the wonderful benefits and good things that would happen if I were to use it. It sounded great, felt great, looked great, how have I been living all these years without this wonderful product in my life...sold! Then he told me the price...not sold. Of course, that was the shocker sticker price, it's Christmas time, and because he was in such a good holiday mood, he would reduce the price for me, making it a 'extra good bargain'. Still too much for my budget.

I looked around for Tary, hoping for a little support. He would have put the guy in his place with an absolute NO. He's good at that kind of thing. He has no problem with that word, as I'm sure your aware of; which is why you always came to me when you wanted permission for something. Pushover must be written on my forehead or something, cuz others can spot that same weakness in me as well. Looking around for a little help and a little common sense, Tary was no where to be found. Sensing my hesitancy, the guy quickly followed up with the question, "Do you have a daughter?" "Yes", I replied meekly, hoping he wasn't going to ask for my first born as payment. "If you buy the first one, I'll let you have a second one for half off."

Now in my head I'm adding up the totals and dividing it by two, still a little too much. The guy was a professional, he knew how to wear me down. He leaned in a little closer and said almost in a whisper..."don't tell anyone, but this is what I'll do for you. If you buy these two, I'll throw in another one for free." Free! Now that's a word I can relate too! But before I could wipe my stupid smile off my face, he asked "would you like to pay for that with cash or credit". Crap, now what do I do? Again, I look around, this time to make sure Tary wasn't watching. "Don't worry Mom, Dad's getting his hearing checked." Trey is by my side. How long has he been there? How much did he hear? I looked down the aisle, sure enough, he's at the ClearSound hearing aide kiosk. I hope he does a better job of telling the salesgirl NO, otherwise our bank account will be in trouble. "That will be credit."

Before I could let my conscience kick in, I had the three items in my bag, one for Chelsea, one for Kayla, and one for Me! Only a slight twinge of shoppers remorse had begun to set in as I realized what a wimp I am for not being able to say NO. It wasn't a planned purchase, it wasn't even a need, it was a want. And up until 5 minutes ago it wasn't even something I knew I wanted. But I smiled as he handed me the receipt, saving the internal "I can't believe I just did that" conversation for later.

As he handed me the bag he asked me yet another question..."Do you like pearls?" "Um, yeah sure. I think they're pretty?" Not sure where this conversation was going...was he going to offer me a strand of pearls for free because I was so nice and purchased his product? Doubtful. I wasn't going to let him suck me in further, so I told him straight up, "It's just a luxury I can't afford." After a strange look he said, "Well, my friend here would like to show you what he has to offer."

Before I knew what was happening...again...there stood another gentlemen, trying to escort me to the kiosk close by. Good grief, enough is enough. I know I'm a pushover, but I'm no fool. While I quickly brushed him off with a "sorry, but I've really got to go. My husband is waiting for me, and I've just spent enough", I looked at his display and thought it was a little strange that I didn't see a single strand of pearls. Just a display of beauty products.

As we were walking away, Trey asked, "Mom, did that guy ask you if you liked pearls or curls?" Curls?! Is that what he asked? That would explain the curling irons. Well now I felt foolish.

Maybe I should get my hearing checked.

On second thought, better not. I don't think I could afford it.

Ouch...

I almost chopped my thumb in half today!

Ok, not really. But it felt like I did.

I'm not really sure how it happened. One minute I was closing my car door, the next minute I was prying my thumb out of it. Ouch! I won't repeat the word I really used at the time, over and over again. Pretty sure I have some repenting to do, but by golly, it hurt!

If it didn't happen the minute I got to work, I probably would have cried. I wanted to, I'm sure it would have made me feel better, but I didn't. I didn't produce a single tear.

Weird. I didn't know I could control my tears. I didn't know I had the power to NOT cry. Why am I just learning this about myself. It sure would have come in handy on Saturday when at the last second, I was asked to lead the music at the funeral of my neighbor. "Are you kidding me? Do you know me at all? Cuz you wouldn't be asking me if you did." But since I've never turned down an assignment from the member of the bishopric, and since Christmas is just around the corner and i'm trying especially hard to be a good girl, I said ok. Afterall, how emotional will I be. He was old, he was sick, it was really a blessing that he passed, how sad could it really be?

Who am I kidding...I can cry at the funeral of a goldfish. If I lived in the days of old, I could have been a professional mourner. I would have been a millionaire.

15 minutes later I was standing at the stand, trying to hold it in as two young military soldiers carried in the casket of my neighbor, followed by his grieving widow and tear stained family. I shed a tear or two before I looked away and went to my happy place. I recovered in time for the opening song, which surprisingly I got through without making my distorted 'trying to hold it in face'. Of course I was smart enough to look at the back wall, not making eye contact with anyone who was crying. One down, one to go.

An hour and a shriveled up kleenex later, I was back at the stand. My confidence that I could get through another song was pretty strong. Afterall, I survived a musical number and four talks without losing it, what could one more song possibly do? Although I was extremely nervous about the song selection, I figured if I just pretend I'm leading the music in church, i'll be fine...i can do this.

And I was. I got through 3 versus of "I know my Redeemer Lives". Feeling confident, I let my guard down. I let my cocky "I'm doing just fine" attitude get the best of me, and committed the number one no-no. I glanced away from the back wall, for just a brief moment, and let my eyes rest upon a member of the congregation, Sis. Duncan, who was sobbing. Before I knew it, my eyes were filling up with tears, my chin quivering, my face distorting. I was a gonner.

I couldn't sing, so I tried to just mouth the words. My contorting face wouldn't let me form the words, so I just stood there, waving my arm. I couldn't bare the humiliation, so I put my head down and let the tears drop onto the music book before me. Where's my snot rag when I needed it. Dang, left it by my chair. It felt like the song would never end.

I'm not really sure what happened. Oh, I was doing so well too. I don't know why it got the best of me at the last minute. I guess at the end I couldn't suppress my true nature.

So, I guess what I'm asking myself is, how is it that I cry when I don't want to cry, and don't cry when I do? How come I don't cry when I'm in mortal pain, but watching a silly movie about a dying dog throws me in the depths of despair? How come I can give birth to a kidney stone without tears, yet when I see someone else cry, I tear up as if on cue? Is the pain of others greater than my own? Unless someone is in pain because they biffed it on their high heels, or skateboard, or anything else that causes them to fall like a fool; then I can't help but busting up laughing, which is soooo not appropriate. In cases like these, their pain adds to my humor relief; yet when I see someone in extreme joy, I tend to get choked up. Weird, I know.

My sister once told me, we (as in pretty much everyone in our family) have the gift of weeping. We mourn with those that mourn. Gee, so glad I got that gift.

So, for those of you who also share the same gift, feel free to cry for me. After all this typing, my thumb is really throbbing, and I can't seem to shed a tear.

go figure.

Whose your grandma

Vanessa from V & Co. turned 36 years old today! I only know that because she posted it on her blog, not because we're such good friends that I know when her birthday is and have been invited to celebrate the day with her. But one can always wish. Anywho, she was lamenting the fact that she's over the 30-something hump and getting old.

I know how she feels. I'm teetering on the 40-something hump and although most days I don't feel old, my looks don't reflect the way I feel. That's depressing. It's hard coming out of denial. I suppose it's like coming out of a coma. One day you wake up and say..."how did I get here?"

I woke this morning
My back was sore,
I rolled out of bed
It was quite the chore.

Then to the bathroom
To do my thing,
Stripped off my clothes,
Gave them a fling.

Stepped on the scale
To check my weight;
Afraid to look down
The truth I can’t take.

I weigh as much now
As I did back when
I was nine months pregnant
With Chelsea Breann.

The sad thing is,
I look it too;
My belly pokes out
Like I’m 5 months due.

I step in the shower
To wash my hair,
Leave a clump in the drain,
More than should be there.

Then to the mirror
I cautiously peek;
I see the wrinkles
Start to creep.

They start at the corners
Of my baggy eyes
And stretch down my face
That I start to despise.

I see a few hairs
That look out of place;
They’re not on my head,
They’re on my face.

I would be proud
Of the moustache I’ve got,
If I were sixteen
And my name was Scott.

The fuzz on my chin
Turns thick as it grows;
At least it matches
All the hair in my nose.

Oh don’t you worry
I’m not sasquatch yet,
My eyebrows are thinning
The older I get.

And the hair on my head

that I keep there with spray;
what doesn’t fall out
simply turns to gray.

And just when I think
I’m looking too old,
A pimple appears
For all to behold.

I turn to my closet
To get myself dressed,
Nothing fits anymore,
I’m further depressed.

My wardrobe has changed
From short sleeves and skirts
To mid calf capris
And long flowing shirts.

I use them to hide
My flabby body;
And if I fail to wave back,
I’m not being snotty.

Just trying to keep
The arm fat from flapping;
But what do you do
‘bout rubbing thighs chapping?

I sit down for breakfast,
To a big bowl of bran;
Make sure I’m still living,
Give the obit’s a quick scan.

My eyes turn fuzzy
As I start to read.
I wear bifocals now,
Had to finally concede.

Then I go to work
In my yellow sports car.
It’s the cure for my crisis,
But not working so far.

I get a few glances
From curious guys,
Through my tinted windows
I see hopeful eyes.

They must think a hottie
Would drive such a thing,
As they hope to invoke
A flirtatious fling.

I can see their faces
As they slowly inch
To get a close look,
Then suddenly flinch.

I make it to work
My humility intact;
I’m the oldest one there,
It’s a depressing fact.

I’m technology challenged,
Just ask my kids;
“Do what in Excel?”
Oh, heaven forbid.

i-pads and blackberries,
i-phones and kindle;
i-pod and apps,
my confidence dwindles.

I barely just learned
How to send a text;
The message, however,
leaves even me perplexed.

Reality sucks.
I’m not young anymore.
I stopped feeling perky
And now I’m just sore.

My hair’s gray, my eyes bad,
I’ve got middle age spread;
I’m sagging and dragging
My tired self to bed.

But then my grandbaby
Comes over to play;
And I’m young again,
Hip-hip-hooray!

And even after we
Play on the floor,
And I can’t get up
Cuz my body’s sore.

I still wouldn’t go back
To the age of my prime,
Cuz I wouldn’t be a grandma
And that would be a crime.

I'm Back

Did you even know I was gone? Yup, I went AWOL (absent with out leaving).

I don't know why i've been away so long. It couldn't have anything to do with Trey's fall ball and sitting on the hard cold bleachers twice a week in August and September. Or the fact that I've been officially made the un-official family photographer and have recently taken pictures for my nieces bridal/engagements/wedding, my daughter Kayla's Folk Dance Team photographer, and taken family pictures of my sisters Susie's family. Not to mention my own brood at our annual Gardner Village Pumpkin patch. It's been fun, but let's just say I have a whole new appreciation for what my cousin Faun does. Literally, hours go into taking an ordinary picture and trying to turn it into a work of art. She does it much better; i'm just a faunwannabe.

Perhaps my absence could be traced to my sewing room, where a certain Christmas Countdown quilt hangs over the chair, waiting to be bound. Sewing takes up valuable blogging time.

You could be wondering why I haven't been blogging about those things; afterall, most bloggers put their pictures, their quilts, their hobbies online for all to see. Some of those people make tutorials and gain followers and fan clubs. They make lots of money with their creative ideas.
It's a shame, really. I have no one to blame but myself...and my daughter (chelsea), not to point fingers or anything.

You see, a couple of months ago, my daughter was over at the house, using my computer. She said she wanted to show me something I might like. So she pulled up a little website, and to my delight...pictures of all things good and lovely, crafty and yummy, holiday galore and creative decor burst onto my screen! It was like I had died and gone to homemaker heaven.

That was the beginning of the end. It seems everytime I had a few minutes to spare and would sit down to blog something, I would say to myself, "I'll just take a quick peek while I'm thinking of something to blog about". Hours later I would find myself waking from my blissful craft induced coma and realize time has slipped away, my blog didn't write itself, and it's now much too late in the evening to stuff my lazy butt into my spandex and walk a mile on the treadmill.

And it's not just my blog that has suffered, my waistline is showing proof that sitting all day in front of a computer at work, and then sitting all evening behind the sewing machine/computer doesn't help. My future size 6 wanna-be has met her achielles heel. It's not chocolate or Dr. Pepper that keeps those skinny jeans untouched in the back of the closet; nor is it the hours of endless facebooking that I've prided myself on not getting attached too. It's not the comfy couch in front of Survivor, So You Think You Can Dance or NCIS.

It's a one-word website.

My future poet/childrens book author/someday i'll be as famous as cjane blogger has become almost extinct! All creative juices that used to flow to my fingertips, now rest on the mouse as they repeatedly click re-pin, re-pin, over and over again. It's addicting I tell you!


That was 2 months ago. I've been AWOL ever since.

I've been lost in holiday wreaths, mummy cookies and pumpkin decor;

Crock pot dinners, t-shirt scarves and tips for chores.

Beautiful pictures of faraway places, perfect kids and adoring love;

Exercise tips, make-up tricks and quotes from above.

Christmas goodies, neighbor gifts and homemade cards;

Twinkly lights, garlands on mantels and snow covered yards.

Romantic hints, hair-do styles and chic outfits;

Painted walls, painted toes and lots of glitz.

Do you want to know the name of my doom? My achielles heel? My productive downfall? In one word:

Pinterest.

It comes from the Greek word PIN; (meaning to immobolize) TE; (meaning me) REST; (meaning a state of inaction).

Perfect word for what it is.

I don't care, it's a wonderful sight.

But if you go there...beware. It will snare you. It will hook you.

(Disclaimer: The author takes no responsibility for children left unattended, families going hungry or dinners burnt; homework being left undone, husbands rejected, housework neglected. Exercise and scripture study out the window.)

Don't say I didn't warn you.

8th grade woes

It's official...it's fall! According to my calendar, as soon as the kids march back to school, the fall season has begun. Don't you love the smell of fall? Freshly sharpened pencils and crayons, never before stained socks and shirts. Binders and paper. Even new backpacks smell good the first day. (Give it a week till the gym clothes need their first washing and they come home shoved in the pack with a weeks worth of papers and candy wrappers.)

Trey started 8th grade today.

Wow. I can remember when I was in 8th grade. I had my first crush with the new kid in our school. He was a rich kid who showered me with gifts, and I'm not talking about 'my sister was cleaning out her junk drawer and doesn't want this fingernail polish anymore, so I thought you might like it' kind of gift. He gave me a tigers-eye ring and a gold herringbone necklace.

Unfortunately our whirlwind 3 month crush ended with the school year, and his lack of attention left me feeling hurt and rejected. My friend helped me compose a 'don't let the door hit you on your way out' type of letter that sounded like a pathetic country song; full of mean and sarcastic remarks. I felt better getting it out of my system and would have been fine leaving it at that, but my friend thought he needed to know how he had done me wrong, so I parted with my ring and necklace to show him how serious I was, and she delivered it to him in person, while I stayed behind and tried to justify what I had just done.

I never talked to him again. The next year we would pass each other in the halls like two ships passing in the night; aware of the others presence, but never speaking. It was awkward. I felt bad. My 13 year old self didn't have the courage or the words to right the wrong.

I never had the desire to go back in time and relive those awkward teenage years, but if given the chance, I would. If for no other reason than to go back and do things differently. I would never have written a hateful letter, I have regretted it ever since and still feel shame over my actions. I would go back and tell my 13 year old self to accept it for what it was; an exciting spring of twitterpation. And most important, I certainly never would have given back the ring and necklace. What was I thinking? Gold is worth a lot of money!

So, what advice do I have for my 8th grader?

Don't get a girlfriend. We are emotional and much too immature to handle boy problems at that age. (Sixteen isn't much better...or 18...or 45)

If a girl says something mean to you one day, and smiles at you the next, that means she's sorry and would really like to be your friend again, she's just to shy to say it.

If a girl breaks your heart, just know her heart is probably breaking too.

And for heavens sake, there is nothing wrong with fingernail polish. Girls that age love it!

Justin & Emilee

My beautiful niece is getting married next weekend. Since my sister knows I love to take pictures, but most likely because I'm related to the most amazing photographer, faundimages, and hopes some of it will rub off on me, she's asked me to be the official photographer. Scary...and fun. Here are a few of my favorites.

Dear Paisley

I'm going to carry on a tradition that started 22 years ago when Chelsea turned 1 years old. She was the first grandchild in my family, and her dear grandma, (my mom) wrote her a sweet letter expressing her love to her. Since none of my other kids received the same letter when they turned 1, I can assume Chelsea was the only recepient of such a letter. I think I can keep that type of tradition, the one that only happens once. I realize I'm a few days early, but this grandma is busy and won't have a single minute to spare on tuesday to sit down and write a letter. So here's a little early birthday present.

Dear Paisley,

I like to imagine that a year ago as your mom was making preparations to give birth to you, you were preparing as well. I can imagine you, sitting at the feet of our Heavenly parents, receiving final instructions about your life here on earth. I'm sure you were anxious and excited to begin your long awaited journey to come to earth to finally receive a body and be with your mother and father who were just as excited and anxious as you.

I'd like to think you were forwarned about the evil conditions that exist in the world, but were given hope when you were told how you were one of the strong and valiant ones; saved for this day because you are able to overcome the temptations and be a force for good in the world. I'm sure you were told that you were coming down to live with goodly parents; a mother and a father who were righteous and would teach you everything you needed to know to return again to His presence someday. I'm sure there were hugs and well wishes by your younger siblings as they watched you pave the way for them.

And then, the miracle we had all been waiting for happened. On July 26th, you were born and I became a Grandma! What a blessing you have been in my life! Being a grandma means I can feed you chocolate ice-cream, and not care that the sugar will keep you up all night. It means when you come over while your mom and dad are at work, I can play with you and take you on outings, because I know I can always get the housework done after you've left. Being a grandma means I don't have to discipline, or put on my angry face, or tell you 'no'. Being a grandma means I can take you to the library and check out childrens books again, oh how i've missed reading them. It means I can go to the park, or sit in the kiddy pool. It means I can blow bubbles, and shop at Carter's.

But do you know what being a Grandma means the most to me Paisley? It means that the love I felt for your mother, is the same love I feel for you. It is the strongest, most protective and pure love anyone can feel. It's not the same love I feel for grandpa, or my friends or siblings, or even my own parents; it's a special love reserved for our children, and yes, our grandchildren too. I'm so happy to know it's the same kind of love. It's one that you won't understand until you have a baby of your own someday. And when that day comes, and I'm sure it will come all too soon, I hope you will remember the love you feel, is how much you were, and still are loved, by me.

Love,

Grandma

P.S. to your mother Chelsea...the tradition has now been handed down to you. I wonder how we'll be writing letters 22 years from now?