Tag Archives: humor

6 days: that Christmas letter

Not every family sends Christmas cards, and I get it on many different levels. I even have some friends that attempt New Year’s cards which eventually arrive in the mailbox around Valentine’s Day. It counts in my book because the year is still relatively new. Trust me, no judgment here as we sometimes have Blizzards from Dairy Queen for supper. NO. JUDGEMENT.

Having had pen pals as a teenager, I am still a big fan of real postal service mail, especially Christmas cards and newsletters. I enjoy reading each and every one. My aunt who passed away a few years back would tell me how much she loved receiving my card. Much before I knew I had a writer’s voice, she knew. In her gentle way, she would tell me to keep writing because my newsletter was her favorite each year. She loved watching my children grow in all the pictures, much the same as I do annually with the cards arriving in my mailbox.

Of course, every family has that friend or relative who shares a little too much. My sweetie and I would savor those letters. Waiting until the kiddos were snuggled in bed, we would giggle and snort through the retelling of a bad case of gout or my personal favorite: toe fungus. When I referred to the difficult blog I had recently read regarding Christmas cards and not sending them to grieving people, I originally thought the title was admonishing card senders for fabricating Norman Rockwell like families. Intrigued by the article, I read it in its entirety even though I could not identify with everything that author said.

I originally thought the article would be about not trying to portray your family as perfect, and instead I accidentally stumbled into an article about helping (or from the author’s viewpoint, hurting) families grieving the loss of a child. The concept of being real (okay, maybe not sharing about toe fungus) is refreshingly honest to me. Personally, I think that is the part of all of my talks, speeches, and blogs that resonates with people. I struggle, but more importantly, I share my struggles. If that is not your style, again: no judgment here.

I am far from perfect (and so too are all the people that share a home with me). We all have our moments, yet somehow we scrape our broken pieces back together and keep going. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about? A perfect baby came so we didn’t have to even try to be perfect. He came to give us the hope that would become the glue, putting all the brokenness we experience in perspective. For that, I am truly thankful because I know we don’t have to be (or even pretend to be) perfect for God’s love to reach us.

So in the spirit of being real, I am sharing my sister-in-law’s absolute favorite Christmas picture of my kids, which was taken quite a few years ago. By a few year’s I mean longer than Sally Gal has been alive. So enjoy . . . my perfectly imperfect family!

The real Team Stevens

Hopping down the bunny trail. . . wait, that’s my street!

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My husband and I participated in a tawdrily-named event from Memorial Day to 4^th of July. Before you envision that this blog has become a tell-all confessional, our activity was the Runner’s World magazine one-mile streak. No, thank you! We did not run or walk in our birthday suits akin to a Ray Stevens song. Close your eyes, Ethel! In reality, it was much less adventuresome. Every day for that period of time, we completed a mile run/walk.

We had some entertaining moments along the way, but we started to have this eerie feeling that we were being watched. We soon discovered this much needed and coveted time spent together, just the two of us, was nothing of the sort. Little black beady eyes were everywhere. Black eyes attached to long ears and white tails followed our every move.

As birders, we are familiar with the Christmas Bird Count; so if streaking wasn’t scandalous enough, we took to calling our evening outing the “Town Rabbit Count”. On most nights, in our one mile, we would average around 20 furry little “friends”, and I use that term loosely.

Our town has become inundated with members of the Leporidae family. I was worried that streaking was causing my sweetie to have oxygen issues because he was pretty sure that those cottontails were taunting us with threats ranging from devouring all of our Monarda to nibbling our star gazer lilies to nothing. These were not idle threats either as they accomplished those goals with gleeful success.

Instead of this, which is what I planted, I got green stems about an inch tall.

A friend has a childhood story where he, his brothers, and a classmate found a baby bunny walking home from school. They came to their grandmother’s house before reaching their own. When they showed their little treasure to the grandma, she asked to see it. What happened next scarred them for quite a while. Let’s just say, baby bunny earned his heavenly reward that day.

I always felt bad for the baby bunny in that story. I have even been known to rescue a few batches in my day, but after hundreds of dollars of plants were devoured overnight – literally, there was a shift in the tide of my thinking. As I sit penning this blog, there are four of the little scamps merrily tra-la-la-ing away in Reed’s memorial garden. Do not mess with a mother’s heart.

This is why our streak times got better and better.

If our city fathers (and mothers) will not recognize this pervasive problem, I am here to tell ya we’ve got trouble right here in River City. Have they not seen “Night of the Lepus”? Because I have . . . well, a few parts of it. My dad will swear to you that I never walked in one late, turbulent night and saw gigantic bunnies eating buildings. I reminded him about that recently, and he swore no such event ever happened. I think he may be going senile or at the very least trying to cover his tracks. He is a gardener too, and I think he was trying to plant the seeds of what could happen if we were not ever vigilant.

So while streaking and tabulating counts of taunting members of Bug’s clan, we decided to come up with some options on how to help our fair city rid ourselves of the pests among us. These are listed in no particular order.

In story books, Mr. MacGregor’s place was pretty enticing, perhaps we could come up with a great relocation package, including lifetime ice cream and sporting and fine art tickets. Perhaps that would allow the dear old farmer to move to outskirts of our city. As for replenishing his produce, those of us with gardens would be more than willing to share our bounty. What happens there need never be questioned because you know the old saying, “What happens at MacGregor’s, stays at MacGregor’s”. At least, that’s how I think it goes.
On more than one occasion I have been called the Pied Piper of Children. Perhaps the bunny equivalent exists out there who could woo away the entire fluffle to a land flowing in vegetables. (Add that one to your vocabulary. Fluffle – an obscure term for a group of rabbits.)They would merrily march hop down the street faster than Pooh’s friend, Rabbit, would protect his rutabagas. There must be some community (far, far away) that would love them.
Issue live traps along with curbside recycling and garbage receptacles. Provide instructions on how to properly care for the rabbit until pick up. Then rabbits can be relocated to cities that are considering new rabbit project groups for their county 4H. Personally, I think this is a win-win!
Since our fine city has pretty severe leash laws, allow an evening once a month where dogs and cats are allowed to roam free. Now before you think we would be creating a greater problem, this freedom would only be allowed if your pet was spayed or neutered AND registered (think: tax dollar revenue, people). I am not suggesting the pets eat the rabbits, but it might give a few rabbits comeuppance about their nonchalant attitude to spend a night being chased.
Finally our favorite as we are true environmentalists at heart. We recently read an article about how the lynx was once plentiful in our area, but encroaching habitat destruction pushed their territories farther away. Reintroduce the lynx to our county. This could be similar to the reintroduction of the wolf to Yellowstone National Park. We understand that program had some success. We can make no guarantees, but even a lynx has to eat.

We are nothing if not people of action. We feel that we didn’t just complain to city hall about our concern. We asked not what they could do for us. Rather, we have spent our time wisely while streaking (not solely for our physical health either), but I daresay, performing our civic duty brainstorming ways to improve our little town.

Hoping that someday soon, the invasion is much less noticeable. Even though we see them as pests, rabbits do serve a purpose in this world. Until that balance is reached, we may need to buy some more fencing before one stands on his back leg and greets us with, “Eh, what’s up, Doc?” At that point, we may be taking a left turn to Albuquerque.

Note to my dad: I used creative license in this post. I do not believe you are going senile; so, please do not have Mom call me and question my sense of humor.

The fitted sheet dilemma

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This summer, our lives have settled into a different routine than we had been dreaming about during our hygge moments of the long winter. One of the by-products of having an athlete injured is all your have-to’s and want-to’s were changed in an instant. Instead, our summer has turned into a pretty freeing one (although wrapped around doctor appointments and therapy) where each new day holds its own adventure. We wake up and decide what new and fun thing we are going to accomplish today. I just wish our carefree days were completely free of cares. But as I have alluded to before, we tackle Mt. St. Laundry each week.

Thankfully, though another by-product of being limited in choices of activities has been my children deciding there are certain chores that they prefer over others. As long as we aren’t looking like a pigsty, I don’t mind who does a job as long as the job gets done.

My knee brace-wearing girl has decided laundry is her thing. She has developed a Zen-like attitude about the whole process. She enjoys the washing and drying, but she has proven to be a true All-Star when it comes to folding. At times, she has even recruited her siblings in supporting roles, especially when needing to return folded items to their proper location. She has also learned about the thorn in my side when it comes to folding laundry. Our ninety-seven pound golden retriever thinks he is four-legged iron, laying on top of any item and pressing it flat with all his furry-ness.

At times, my basement family room appears to be a Gap store (more on that in a moment) with stacks of items arranged for a quick sale. I really should consider this a proud moment; however, more than once, I have encountered this scene in my travels up and down the basement steps.

Notice the beautifully folded and stacked clothes and towels. Did you also notice the wadded up pile of bed sheets. I decided to use this as a teachable moment. What follows next is the true conversation:

Me: Do you see anything wrong with this picture? (Imagine me doing my best Vanna White interpretation gesticulating my hands over the room.)

Oldest Daughter: Not really.

Me: How many times have I shown you all how to fold sheets?

OD: Not enough, I guess.

Me: It really isn’t that hard. Let me show you.

OD: (With as much enthusiasm as if I asked her to trim my toenails) Okay. But for the record, it only bothers you.

Me: I don’t think I am going to enjoy going to your houses in the future. All your sheets will be wadded up messes.

Oldest Daughter: Well, we don’t plan on washing our sheets like you.

Me: Whatever do you mean?

OD: We will wash the sheets. Dry the sheets. And then replace the sheet sets right back on the bed; thus eliminating the need to fold them.

Me: But you have flannel and cotton sets now. How do you plan on dealing with that?

OD: Maybe our spouses will know how to fold fitted sheets or maybe you can just bring your own set when you come to visit.

Argh! I have one leaving for college a year from now, and I am probably going to have to add lack of ability to fold fitted sheets to my letter of apology to the college roommates. I have tried. I have really tried. I use the fist method of folding fitted sheets, as in each fist in a corner . Then fist over fist until the whole works is folded into a quarter of the original size. A little smoothing out, a final couple folds, and Voila! You have a nice bundle that matches your flat sheet; both of which are placed inside the pillowcase for organized (read: not a crumpled mess) storage.

How can I reframe this utter disinterest for finely folded bed linens? My solution to this perplexing dilemma is to have a tutorial. If you think I am kidding, talk to my kids. The summer before their 7^th, 5^th, and 3^rd grade years, the big kids watched the how to “fold a t-shirt Gap style video” one afternoon, per their mother’s insistence. Then we practiced folding shirts like it was some necessary skill needed to return to school. That little tidbit came in handy in a folding contest against a football coach at a camp. Wasn’t such a big waste of time after all, was it?

So who could I turn to for assistance in my disheveled dilemma? The guru of all fine homemaking skills herself has a delightfully entertaining video on this very issue. But seriously, even I struggled with that tutorial.

This one is much more my speed. Not nearly as funny as the first one, I think we can follow Jill’s instructions in the second one. Although, I almost sprayed iced tea on the screen, the moment I saw the crumpled mess example. She gets me. . . she really gets me.

Guess we know what we will be working as we start collecting school supplies over the next few weeks. Because, I really do not want to wave the white ~~flag~~ sheet too soon. I still have hope that these young pupils are moldable and impressionable.

Of course, we will probably end up in as much giggles as the audience of the first video because you can never take yourself too seriously.

In all honesty, who do I think I’m kidding? I cried the day Reed finished 6th grade because I wasn’t ready for him to grow up. How small that worry seems today. So even if their sheets aren’t folded, I will still visit their future homes someday, just to be with them . . . wishing for the days when we previously used the sheets to build forts instead.

Hug your kids every day and let the laundry worry about itself!

Newfangled Laundry Woes!

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Growing up, my brother and I once played a colossal game of Clue. By colossal, I mean our characters spent about five hours trying to figure out where poor Mr. Boddy had been done in. With 6 suspects, 6 weapons, and 9 rooms, there are 324 possible outcomes. (Have I ever mentioned I love math?) I am certain we tried almost all of them. We were sure of the perpetrator and the weapon, but we spent hours trying to determine where in the cat hair this murder took place. Complete and utter aggravation! Eventually, frustration overtook us or perhaps it was our early bedtime. We looked into the mysterious envelope to discover the error in our logic.

It was Miss Scarlet with the knife in Colonel Mustard. He might have been a big man, but I think he would have taken umbrage with his comparison to being as big as a room. Honestly, I don’t blame him.

It was our original card choosing and not our logic at fault. Whew! We laughed for days. Looking back now, our parents should have been proud of raising persistent children.

I recently ran into another one of those moments of frustration. Since I love to cook from scratch, I create stacks of dishes. Since none of my ~~workers~~, children, are particularly persuaded by mine or Madge’s promise of extremely soft hands, I am (alas!) the cheese. You know the cheese stands alone washing all the dishes and cookware which appear to multiply when we leave the room. I envision Lumiere (of Beauty and the Beast) lighting up a rousing rendition of “Be Our Guest”, inviting all pots and pans to a luxurious hot tub soak.

Warning: Not a staged photo. These are the real dishes that accumulated between lunch and supper today.

When I am doing the dishes sans help, I have a system that works for me, but not necessarily for my small kitchen – the bane of my existence as a foodie. My method involves allowing the dishes to drip dry until . . . the saints come home. Since my sink-style drainer can only accommodate the silverware, three or four cups, and the plates, once upon a time I placed dish towels all over the counters with the remaining piles of sparkling dishes on top.

I am a nothing if not a woman committed to progress. My archaic system went by the wayside like the daily sweeping of my ~~golden retriever rugs~~ laminate floors did before God’s greatest invention since sweet tea, the Roomba. A chance encounter with an end cap special at the Mecca of the South and Voila! Instead of piles of dish towels, my counter had a lovely, little, rapid-dry dish mat.

Although not coordinating with my décor, the colors reminded me of the beach; so why not? Do what makes you happy! At least, my super soft hands can pretend they are in the Gulf of Mexico while my eyes are stimulated by the colors of my beloved Emerald Coast. If I poured sand around my feet, then I would have the complete package. That, however, might tax my precious Rosie (my beloved Roomba). “The Jetsons” fans would totally understand my attachment to her. Seriously, I adore her.

All was fine until my drying mat (who has no name – yet) encountered a wayward marshmallow. Really, who leaves a marshmallow, a green one nonetheless, to bake in the sun on my dish mat buddy? Oh wait! I get it now! One of my children just wanted their new little mallow friend to enjoy the illusion of Pensacola Beach like their mother does when Calgon doesn’t take her away after meals.

Wonder Twins (aka washer and dryer) to the rescue! Only that’s not what happened. Instead of a quick cleaning, I had to get an advanced degree in laundry terminology.

A cursory glance at the tag on the mat had me just about as frustrated as that Clue game of my childhood. My first thought was, “What in the mayonnaise am I supposed to do with this?” If Rosie had been more like her namesake, she mostly likely could have interpreted. She was no help – whatsoever! I was stuck trying to decipher what to me appeared to be the Rosetta stone of laundry.

One not prone to waving a white flag hastily, I managed to come up with the following instructions. Add one Alka Seltzer tablet to a glass of water, use not one but two drumsticks on a percussion triangle while listening to your favorite 45 play on your record player, and whatever you do – avoid bumper cars.

While I would love to sit around and bang drums all day, I failed to see how any of that was going to clean marshmallow (he seriously should have used sunscreen) off my drying mat. Acquiescing to husband’s sage advice of “this isn’t rocket surgery”, my quest for truth, justice and the laundry way led to a resource, with a saucy little name, which enlightened my laundry knowledge.

Frankly, I think my instructions had much more pizzazz, but at least the decoded ones actually work. I am attaching them here to save another mom or dad or better yet, teenager, the agony of a deer-in-headlights feeling of not knowing what to do. http://www.textileaffairs.com/c-common.htm See what I mean by saucy: textile affairs – which leads me to wonder if they know about any trysts involving wayward socks.

Oh well! Never take yourself too seriously, and next time, I think I will just have kids dry the dishes.

Prisoner of the high seas

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Every time I go on a trip I return home with some of the best traveling stories. In fact, one of my friends and I try to top each other with the crazy shenanigans that somehow have a way of finding us when we travel. After relaying this story to him yesterday, he paused momentarily before reflecting this would be a tough one to top.

I wish that I could tell people at least some of my adventures are fictional, a by-product of my overactive imagination. They, however, are one hundred percent true.

I have the world’s best friends, including ones who give gifts of amazing cruise vacations. Winter continued to hammer crushing blows on the Minnesota prairie; so, a trip to the Caribbean for a week was truly a blessing for this girl. I was the sole Minnesotan among a party consisting of ten fairly eclectic Kentucky personalities – all female. We were loosely held together by the game of soccer. Long story short – my friend is the coach, four of her players, three of their moms, one family friend, my friend’s mother, along with the team’s motivational speaker (that’s me) – set sail for a week of fun in the sun.

All was great until our next to last night on the ship. After a hot and bustling day in port, we had a lovely evening meal and entertainment. I turned in early while others sang karaoke and enjoyed other ship amenities. Starting around midnight, things took a not-so-pretty turn. By things, I mean my gastrointestinal track.

I do have one shred of dignity remaining; so, I will spare us all the gruesome details. In three hours, I had made eight, explosive trips to the bathroom. This was not my first adventure on the seas, and I know ship staff desire to keep stomach ailments from spreading onboard. I made the ethical decision to go to the Medical Center (yes, they have those on cruises) both to inform and hopefully seek some relief.

This was my first mistake. Apparently I was one of many who were sick, but the only one who reported the illness on Cell Block C.

Upon arrival, I was handed a sheet documenting how expensive this little foray to the medical staff would cost, greeted by “Olga” the Viking ~~warrior~~ nurse. After listening to my symptoms unsympathetically and distributing some medications, she began her explanation of how things were going to go (for me not my bowels) henceforth.

She handed me a very legal looking document and proceeded to dispense her orders boisterously. If I hadn’t been doubled over with pain, I would not be surprised if I would have been required to raise my right hand and swear an oath to Odin, or at least the captain of the ship.

Next, her booming voice gave me instructions while I looked down at her steel-shanked nursing boots. By signing my name, AND I WOULD BE SIGNING MY NAME, I understood under Penalty of Maritime Law that I was now officially quarantined. That tidbit was repeated several times because apparently I appeared not only violently ill, but also deaf.

“Do I have to stay here?”, sincerely praying her reply would be “no”. Spending another moment with her alone, locked in isolation, did not sound like a good time – EVER.

The small sliver of hope in this story was her response requiring me to be locked in my cabin for the remainder of our trip, which thankfully was about another thirty hours.

Cruise ships are replete with marvelous buffets of twenty-four hour accessible delicacies of every imaginable kind, but not for this girl. Her parting gift to me was a lovely letter reminding me of my declaration (through signature) that under penalty of maritime law I could not leave my room. Yet, in their benevolent provision, the cruise company gave me a special number where food (in which the word bland was emphasized) would be provided by staff arriving in a haz-mat suit so as not to infect anyone else.

I didn’t want my friends to feel like prisoners as well; so, with genuine sincerity, I asked them to go forth and enjoy the last day at sea. My only request was an occasional of glass of water.

At some point during the day, I received a letter from the top brass again restating my prisoner status, but this time they upped the ante – my pass card (which is how you do just about everything onboard a cruise ship) was blocked. Should I feel I could flagrantly disregard my previous pledge, the gentle reminder of other accommodations could and WOULD be arranged for me.

One of my new gal pals on the trip retorted that she had watched a documentary on cruise ships before our “Bon Voyage”, where she learned that each ship also houses about four jail cells. The letter implied that would be my new housing, should I not keep my sworn oath. While that information should have been comforting, I was still having nightmares that maritime law might have “walking the plank” as one of those antiquated laws remaining on the books.

I wasn’t completely destitute as my friends did bring water, and I had a television. Of course, out of twenty channels, sixteen were live feeds of people having a grand time on our ship, two were in Spanish, one giving instructions of how to disembark the ship the next day, and finally one syndicated news channel.

At last, the anchors were dropped in port back in Tampa in the good ol’ U. S. of A. Hallelujah! But as we were getting ready to disembark, it occurred to us I had not been cleared to leave. My pass card was still blocked. The same pass card that was necessary for leaving the ship.

While my friend dialed the guest relations number, I had visions of the plights of other sick passengers that arrived at the steps of Ellis Island, only to be told America did not want them. This happened to the family of one of my former colleagues. They were turned away at Ellis Island, but were smuggled into Canada, eventually ending up in South Dakota. Briefly, only briefly, I was a citizen with no homeland. Perhaps Canada would take me.

I could hear the voice on the other end of the phone say all too enthusiastically, “Oh yeah. She’s free to go.” I had to ponder if my release papers were lost in the mail or if it was one of Olga’s final acts of whipping this gastrointestinal failure into shape by playing mind games with frail. But perhaps my ears detected a little too much enthusiasm for getting Dysentery Debbie off their ship.

As we proceeded through Customs and Border Patrol, I will say that my knees knocked a little at the thoughts of what questions were awaiting my new status as felon of the high seas. Thankfully I breezed through those checkpoints without the appearance of bringing the plague back to America.

After making the cut, I felt like a survivor of a crazy episode of The Twilight Zone. A few pounds lighter for obvious reasons, I walked away into the possibilities of a new day with a much more settled stomach, hungry for just about anything at all. And downright giddy, I wasn’t one of the people starting a diet that day.

Laundry woes

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Two times of day, I have peaceful solitude. The first is early morning devotions, and the second is when the day is done. The house is quiet and I check in on what happened in the world. For the latter, sometimes I sneak in a conversation with one of my friends. Those small touch point chats encourage me for bonding moments where we swap stories and giggles. So it was a few days ago while talking online with a friend. Truth be told, she and I have only met once, introduced by mutual friends. Initially, our friendship was sparked over a common life experience – losing a child – but we have since learned that we share many other interests.

During this chat, we shared more than a few laughs as we talked about our busy days. At some point, the tone of the repartee took a cathartic turn bonding over things that frustrate us– like chores that never end and lessons we are continually teaching our kids. Since we’ve only met the one time briefly, she quickly relayed that she loved her kids, lest I think otherwise.

Do not get me wrong! I realize that our “worries” are first world problems and that much of the world would love to have has many dishes to wash because that would mean there is food to eat. I also realize that the beast, also known as laundry, pales to those who don’t have adequate clothing or shoes. My world is a blessed one compared to a majority of the world.

Yet, I completely understand her thinking. My children are the world to me. PERIOD. However, they much like their mother are not perfect, and there are days that I feel like I am instilling the same lesson over and over. It is tiring, humbling, and on more than one occasion, frustrating. I have even warned my children with drafting a letter to their future college roommates sending my apologies and explaining that I did my best.

Instead of futuristic letter writing, I decided to put my years of training as a classroom teacher to good use. If nothing else, I got my frustrations out, and had a good chuckle while doing so. What is written below is the result of my overactive imagination.

Laundry Quiz

Carefully read through each question and answer to the best of your ability.

Section One: True or False

Please circle the appropriate answer.

True or False. The appropriate time to remember that you stashed dirty clothes in your closet and under your bed is when Mom has finished all the laundry for the day.
True or False. Mom’s van also serves as a closet for your stinky clothes following sleepovers, playdates, or sports practice.
True or False. The best place to store uneaten candy is in your pants pocket.
True or False. The best time of day to remember you need your jersey washed for tomorrow’s game is at 2:00 AM.
True or False. Clothes that have been worn for less than an hour and are not stained should immediately land in the dirty clothes pile.

Please go back and look over your answers in Section One. Your choices might determine whether your mother chooses to reveal herself as Emperor Palpatine later at dinner tonight.

Section Two: Multiple Choice.

6. Places where your dirty clothes should not be found

a. Mom’s van (HINT: you might want to go back and double check your answer to #2)

b. Your floor (especially if your room is next to the laundry room)

c. The dirty clothes pile/basket

d. The bathroom floor

e. Both a & b

f. Answers a, b, & d are correct.

7. When walking downstairs while carrying nothing, a good use for your hands and arms might be

a. Try to find the best location for future tattoos

b. Flex your muscles to see how much time you need to put in at the gym

c. Pick up dirty clothes pile and take to the laundry room

d. Practice stiff arm placement for Irish dance lessons

8. When you do not put away clothes from your own assigned basket, the message you are sending your mother is

a. Oops, I forgot! (Remember your mother wrote a song about this, and she would be happy to share it on YouTube.)

b. Cha-ching! Extra money for college funds! Reasoning: We don’t each need a room. We would like to live hostel-style. All of our clothes can be kept in the laundry room, and we can rent out our current rooms.

c. We don’t really like our clothes all that much, and we hate to break our mother’s heart. Feel free to donate those clothes to less fortunate children.

d. Winter has been hard in Minnesota. We hear that they are in need of warm materials for bed linings at the Humane Society. Stay warm four legged friends!

9. The thing to be done with clothes hanging on the drying rod is:

a. open a rather eclectic boutique in the basement.

b. fold them and place in the owner’s basket.

c. offer them as wardrobe for the next class play.

d. hide behind them in an epic game of Hide-N-Seek.

10. If you are able to read English and you are suffering from no mobility issues, you are also capable of

a. Placing a load of dirty clothes in the washer and starting said washer.

b. Placing a load of clean clothes in the dryer or hanging clean clothes on drying rod.

c. Folding clean and dry clothes.

d. Getting a job of any means to pay for having the family’s laundry sent out.

e. All of the above are correct answers.

f. Okay, a, b, & c are more realistic answers.

Any given day of the week . . . sadly

Meanwhile . . . back to reality.

Mothers (and fathers) of the world – JOIN ME!

Well, maybe you can . . . after you unbury yourselves from Mount St. Laundry.

Who knows, I might just start penning that letter . . . after I get the next load of laundry done.

Strength Revisited

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A few years back, we wanted to impress upon our sports-loving kids that the game officials needed to be acknowledged. Even though we don’t always agree with their calls (okay you can stop snickering now), we wanted our kids to understand those folks in the stripes gave up time with their own families to benefit them. Our children’s job was to personally walk over and thank the officials at the conclusion of every game. It took a few times before that became a habit. I am proud to say that many of their teammates now follow suit. When my kids first started doing that, many of the officials were stunned. Creating a spirit of good sportsmanship, a hand shake or high five was just a small acknowledgement, but it went a long way. As time wore on, those methods of thanks were replaced with Howie Mandel’s ubiquitous fist bump, lovingly referred to as knuckles around our house.

Over the course of the last week, I wrote a reflective blog on my perceived strength and another that bared my soul regarding my personal grief journey. Grief ebbs and flows, and we have many good days. Every once in a while, at obvious times like last Wednesday, but just as often at seemingly random moments, the grief “monster” will rear his ugly head. Writing allows me to acknowledge the monster, and then as if almost by magic, with each word written, the monster loses his power. By releasing my emotions, God allows my storms to calm. For that, I will always be grateful.

Another thing that God has provided in my journey is amazing, loving, caring, forgiving, and understanding friends. Only a handful of them know what I am about to share, and I refer to them as my inner sanctum, the refuge where I can be me.

I have always bristled when someone has remarked about my strength or faith. In those previous two blogs, hopefully, you can somewhat understand why I don’t always see strength when the scars on my broken heart are still so raw. So I was astounded when one in the inner circle made the “strength” remark at a 4H potluck, our annual Christmas party, (always held in January).

As soon as the words were uttered, I said, “Can we just put this nonsense to rest?”. Eyes bewildered, everyone at the table stared in disbelief. Quickly, I shared a story that had all eyes looking at our table.

This is that story . . .

The first Christmas without Reed was just plain agonizing. My beloved Nanny had given us money as a gift with the stipulation that we should go and do something together as a family. We decided to spend New Year’s Day doing something most of us find therapeutic. Notice I said most of us, my sweetie would probably rather have listened to nails on a chalkboard, but he was a good sport and went with us to a paint your own pottery studio.

We painted and glazed and used every ounce of creativity we could muster. Our thoughts never lingered far away from the hole in our hearts. Putting on a brave front, we tried to go through the motions.

Once our pieces were finished, it was time to make the hour and half trip back home. A quick glance at my watch told me that we could still hit, “Happy Hour”! I know what you are thinking. She took her kids to get half-priced drinks. What kind of mother is she?

Well, she is one that loves a good deal and an even better limeade! I steered that mini-van to the closest Sonic where we loaded up on our favorite beverages for the road. At this point in our healing journey, we were still dealing with night terrors, heavy doses of medications, wheelchairs, and daily hospital visits for therapies. Exhaustion came easily.

Every single person in the van was sound asleep by the time we made it from the speaker to the drive-thru window. So I could have kept this story to myself and only one other person would have EVER KNOWN.

In my defense, I was as equally tired as my passengers, but as the driver I didn’t have the luxury of a nap.

As soon as I reached the window, I knew we were in trouble. Seriously, how hard is it to make 3 milkshakes and 2 limeades when those items are the bread-n-butter of your franchise? Apparently the answer to that question is a LONG time.

That will be $6.30.

In one swift motion, I handed him my debit card.

Then he walked away, not to be seen again for quite some time. Impatiently, I sat there long enough that I could have milked a cow and squeezed the limes myself. Then, through the window came the first milkshake. Chocolate, and lots of it, was literally dripping down the side of the cup.

Perturbed and exhausted, my response to a lap full of cacao and dairy was an eye roll and, “Um! Napkins???” said with a tone of exasperation.

Oh yeah. Here.

This was, of course, said with about as much enthusiasm as if I had asked him if he wanted to clean the clog in my bathroom sink.

Another really long wait before he handed me two limeades. I wish I could tell you that this was a better experience. It, however, was not – as these too had as much carbonated beverage on the outside as in. Thank goodness when he gave me napkins earlier he had given half of the dispenser.

On a positive note, it was Sonic and not Subway; so, I am not really complaining about the extra napkins.

Then there was the equally awkward moment of silence when I didn’t drive away immediately. At this point, my-I-hope-for-his-sake-trainee frankly looked irritated that I just sat there.

With my best one eye eyebrow raise, I proffered, “Perhaps I could have my debit card and receipt.”

His look of shock was almost worth this ridiculous adventure. I could see him shimmy to the till nearly knocking over one of the carhops.

He came back with my debit card and receipt. Now, I could have just driven off, but I am hopeless when it comes to misplacing things. I purposely took the few seconds to actually return those items to their proper spots in the black hole, I mean, my purse. Just as I was getting ready to roll up the window, I saw his outstretched fist out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head just in time to hear him say, “Hey. Hold up!”

Knowing full well, I had everything I ordered, my debit card, and don’t forget enough extra napkins to host a dinner party, I just shrugged my shoulders and did what anyone would do in this situation.

For a fleeting second, I thought, “Well this is different”, but I am all for making peace when I can.

Fingers curled . . . I gave my new found “friend” a fist bump.

A barely perceptible smirk crawled across his lips.

Well, that was nice and all, but here’s your mints.

Even the so-called strong have their moments.

With tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks, I laughed the entire way home, and it had been a long time since I had laughed like that.

Wonder Twins Power: Activate – Sonic Dude!

Photo found at www.returntomanliness.com

And to you my dear friends: Knuckles to you!

The blind date

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There is a catchy country song that came out a few years ago that ends with the line, “Thank God for good directions and turnip greens.” The cute song tells how a boy, selling turnip greens on the side of the road, steers a beautiful, yet lost, young lady back to the interstate and some good sweet tea (of course, you know I would like that part of the song). Once the young lady gets there, the purveyor of that intoxicatingly sweet beverage is the boy’s momma who steers the young lady right back to the boy in the truck.

And my favorite part is implied.

HAPPILY. EVER. AFTER.

Since today is Valentine’s Day, you might think that this blog is all about me and my sweetie. It isn’t. Okay, maybe a small piece.

As today’s title infers, we did indeed meet on a blind date. Only it wasn’t all things quintessentially Southern like turnip greens and sweet tea that brought us together. Nope it was much more academic than that. And I do mean academic – think Calculus and Chemistry. Two of our professors – mathematics and science – thought we would make a good couple, and they were right. From our first date, we both just somehow knew we would be together. We had the stuff that added up to the right chemistry. (I couldn’t resist a silly pun.) The motto of our alma mater, Mayville State, is “The School of Personal Service”. I have joked for years; it doesn’t get much more personal than picking out your husband for you.

Even through all the ups and downs (and trust me, we’ve had plenty), no one can make me laugh like he can, nor surprise me like he does. At the end of the day, there is no one whom I would rather spend all of my days.

So even though, I love my sweetie, today’s blog is actually dedicated to a woman that I don’t even know.

Somewhere out there in the world is a girl – probably now a grandma – who missed out on an opportunity. That opportunity was a blind date with a Navy boy. Well, if my understood version of the story is correct, he was an Alabama boy, college graduate, and Naval officer stationed at Pensacola Naval Air Station. All things dreamy back in the day. Well, maybe not the Alabama part to Florida girls.

The girl I want to thank was supposed to go as the escort – on a blind date with this Navy boy – as a favor to her friend who was dating another Navy Officer. For those of you not familiar with living in a Navy town, this sort of thing happens all the time. Many a relationship have started with service men or women meeting local people. Pensacola is no exception.

Well, except for this day. The woman I do not know – not even her name – got cold feet, leaving her friend in quite a perplexed situation. I mean really – not having a double date for going out with your sweetie could be quite devastating news! I like to think of her looking something like this after her friend’s refusal to even entertain the thought of going on this date.

photo found at beatlesnumber9.com

Not to be known in this story as one without resources, the now only female member of a rather odd three person date decided to beat the path of her co-workers to see if anyone would help her out of this ridiculous predicament.

Lo and behold – there was a willing soul found in the workplace washroom! This unsuspecting local girl who worked at the library of the university was pounced upon by Miss Debbie Desperate in the bathroom.

“Hey! Would you be interested in going on a double date with my boyfriend’s friend tonight? They are both in the Navy.” That last tidbit could possibly seal the deal . . . or break it, depending on how you look at it. A casual conversation that took place over the porcelain sinks with the reflective images of the two girls watching and listening earnestly.

The replacement girl’s answer was something rather romantic and dreamy like, “Um. Sure. Why not! I’m not busy.”

Cue the super hero music because replacement girl just saved the day!

Turns out in the stories of happily ever after, that good fortune of needing the potty at that time and having an adventuresome spirit was a good thing.

Tomorrow, replacement girl and Navy boy will celebrate three kids, eight grandkids they’ve met, three they will meet in heaven, and forty-five years of marriage together!

So today, I am thanking God for cold feet and blind dates!

Note: The events of this story took place in November 1968. Since I wasn’t born (as the first of those three kids) until November 1969, I might not have all of the details exactly accurate. That, and I might be known for having a little bit of a flair for embellishment.

My Mom & Dad. And no! They do not normally pose in front of racy art auction paintings.

Happy 45th Anniversary to my mom (replacement girl) and to my dad (Navy boy)! Love you both!

And for the record, I adore happy endings!

The Sisterhood

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As I have shared on this blog before, I have a way of collecting friends. Recently, someone asked me about my love of moose, and before I answered the question, I blurted out, “Don’t buy me any, I don’t want to dust them”! The great thing about collecting friends is I never have to dust them. E.V.E.R. That’s a good thing because I am allergic to dust. Of course, like most people, I have the inner sanctum of friends, those girlfriends that know my heart and my struggles, and they love me anyway. This is partly their story.

I have those friends that I see only once in a while, but I cherish each moment I share with them. I also have friends whom I have never met. Some are the modern day version of pen pals, and others are people that I have done business with over the years.

Today’s ~~confession~~, I mean, story is about one of those friends. For her sake, she shall be called X. (For all you math lovers, X is getting some love today.) X is a wonderful woman who over the years I would have called acquaintance until a certain EVENT solidified her place in my Hall of Friends. Hey! If the Super Friends can have a Hall, so can I!

X is a seamstress – well more precisely – Teddy Bear Maker Supreme. I am awed and amazed by her work, but more so, humbly grateful. A friend of a friend told me about her work. She put her life’s grief into action by epitomizing the verse “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” 2 Corinthians 1:4 (NLT)

She makes teddy bears out of the clothes of loved ones who have passed away. Magically, she transformed our first Christmas without Reed into one where we were able to “hug him” again. Over the years, I have probably grown into one of her biggest customers and fans.

I loved her work, her gentle nature, and her excellent service, but this past year, I fell in love with her sense of humor.

Brace yourselves, dear readers, because it is confession time up in here.

Normally, I am the buyer of the bears, but last spring, I was simply the middle man. A dear friend of ours asked me to order a set a bears made from his wife’s wedding dress. You want me to do what? Does she know about this? Are you crazy?

He said his wife didn’t know as this was to be a surprise. He relayed how the dress had been in a storage unit they were clearing out and how she said just get rid of it. Okay girls, that might be what she said, but is that really what she meant?

He gave me his money and gift certificate (purchased at Reed’s Run), and went on his merry way. How do I get myself into these things??? No way, am I cutting up someone else’s wedding dress without her permission. What in the world am I going to do about this???

So I didn’t do anything for a long time. The dress sat in a storage tote in my garage forever. My friend finally ~~harassed~~, I mean, asked enough that I broke down and sent it. I explained to X that there were special circumstances as the family had recently gone through some horrific life events, but the order was for bride and groom bears.

Apparently, X, had the same thoughts as me, because immediately upon arrival I received an e-mail.

Are you sure that they want to cut into this wedding dress? Just checking to make sure, but I really hope they do because I have wanted to make bears out of a wedding gown for a long time.

I assured her they did.

Later that night, I received perhaps the most embarrassing e-mail of my life.

Just checking in. Also, within the wedding dress box was an animal print bra…was that to be used also as an accent or just got there by mistake?

As I sat at my computer that spring evening reading this e-mail, I am certain that I showed hues of assorted reds that would rival the hidden fabric stash of any of my quilting friends. Oh dear Lord, please just take me now. How do I explain what really happened here? Accompanied with: So that is where that bra ended up!

One of my best friends always says, “I had on my 18 hour bra, and those 18 hours are up”, and that is my only defense. I hate dirt – in my house – and as a girl who prides herself in digging in the dirt most every day in the summer; daily I am faced with the colossal decision of how to solve that problem.

My solution is one that I no longer think is ingenious. Leave a towel hanging in the garage, strip down to what God gave me, and run like crazy to the shower. That plan had worked real well . . . until now. Not to mention that the bra in question is a hand-me-down. There I said it! One in the inner sanctum lost a bunch of weight and passed on her secrets – literally as in Victoria’s – to me. Only of course, there is a much bigger story there as well. Maybe I will share that one someday, but right now, how does a sweet little Christian momma end up mailing a va-va-voom bra with a wedding dress to a pseudo stranger?

I finally summoned the courage to respond. If X didn’t offer a commodity that I adored, I might have just “dropped” off the face of the planet. I pulled from the last shred of dignity I had and went with humor.

Hey X! Right about now, I am a hundred shades of embarrassed. I have no idea on how the bra went travelling. We’ve been doing a major house cleaning and paring down of clutter. Is it cheetah print? If so, then it is mine, and the embarrassment meter went through the roof. Either it slipped into the box or decided it was time to go on a road trip.

Her response a little later in the evening, let me know that she didn’t think I was a total nut.

Yes, it is a black and gray cheetah, thanks for ending my evening with laughter. I will be sure and send it back with the bears.

This was a good thing because I can live with being thought of as a kook, but I did not want to have to find a new purveyor of custom made bears. Before I went to bed, I sent her back a little message.

X -I am so glad you have a good sense of humor. Someday I will have to tell you the story of that bra. When my friend hears this, she is going to crack up because she is a part of the story of my personal mortification on how I came to own the bra.

To tell the truth, I almost peed my pants at the thought of the bra being a part of the accessory packet.

Definitely smiling now

And so it went it. X made the bears and sent them back to my house as part of the surprise. I let our friend know they had arrived, but never opened the box. I felt they were his to open. The bears sat wrapped in the box waiting for their upcoming anniversary.

The day of the pick-up, I was not at home when our friend arrived. My husband called and asked me about them. I explained they were in the box in the living room. Daniel opened the box, pulled out two bears, and discovered a most mysterious package at the bottom.

Thank the good Lord that he gave my husband a good head on his shoulder. I could hear the perplexity in his voice when we called me back within minutes.

Hey Kan, we found the bears, but there is something here about a travelling bra? Am I supposed to give that to him too?

I am certain that they could have heard my response in South Dakota. Oh dear heavens, will this never end? Imagine if he hadn’t called me, and I sent anniversary gift of lingerie to this poor woman – not in her size!

When I returned home later that evening, I found the unusual package in the bottom of the mailing box.

X solidified her friendship with me by celebrating my ridiculous faux pas – complete with its own label and packaging.

With friends like these . . . life can definitely get interesting!

Riding the rails

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After returning from Kentucky, one of my friends asked, “How was your trip?”. I told her about the amazing trip God had planned for me. I spoke about being awed and exhausted and about how the trip home was definitely an adventure. She looked me square in the eye and said, “Traveling with you is ALWAYS an adventure.”

To say the station was packed was an understatement. I have traveled the railways as far back as I can remember, and I knew from the looks of things we were going to have a full train. I had really hoped to get a last minute sleeper car, because we were boarding at one in the morning. However, I had no luck on that one.

After loading all the families and couples, only us single passengers remained. There were four of us in a line – a college kid, an older woman, and elderly gentleman, and me. Onboard, the lady was struggling to get her bags on the overhead storage rack, and the student helped her. The older gentleman made a few loud, cantankerous remarks about wanting to sit down, and that was when it hit me. He was holding the ticket to the seat next to mine! Oh dear!

The other three were all seated while I stored my items above. Like the roaring of a lion, his voice startled me. “Well, at least, I get to ride next the prettiest girl in this car.” A sheepish, flattered grin crossed my lips as my thoughts raced to, “Here we go” and “Who I am to argue with a septuagenarian?”!

Within the first five minutes, I knew this was going to be one interesting journey. His response to my offer to place his portable oxygen tank above was met with, “I shot myself in the foot”. I am certain I had a look of horror in the dim light of the coach car. A quick smile, followed a few seconds later with an honest assessment of “years of smoking”. Then he shared his whole life story – Korean War Veteran, married and divorced (twice), father of three, railroad worker for 43 years, and drummer in big bands his adult life.

Humbled, I shook hands with Mr. Jimmy S and thanked him for his service.

Slowly the Cardinal (how fitting) rattled and rumbled as we headed on down the tracks to our ultimate destination – Union Station: Chicago. Any hopes of sleep were dashed as this old railroad man told me all about the intricacies of rail signals, troubles on the tracks, and engineers signaling off. Mr. Jimmy had me in giggles telling about his gigs over the years in the bands. Quickly, I learned he lived a colorful life. I discovered that we were both to be passengers on the Empire Builder later that day. Eventually, exhaustion overtook me, and I fell asleep.

I rose to discover he was still awake and enjoying the ride. He asked if I would accompany him to breakfast at the station because I had been a willing listener to all his old tales. I accepted the offer on one condition: He must allow me to help him maneuver around the station. It was a deal!

In Chicago, it became clear that Jimmy’s COPD was worse than I knew, and that walking was a challenge for him. I learned these things because the redcap was not waiting for us on the platform as had been previously arranged.

Slowly, and I mean very slowly, we walked the entire way, pausing many times along the way, from the rail car to the VIP lounge. I dropped him off with the promise I would come back as soon as I secured a sleeping car for the next train.

No sleepers were available, and I didn’t have the golden ticket of entrance to the VIP lounge. I entered once and was turned back similar to the scene in “Titantic” where the passengers want to get out of steerage. About twenty minutes later, I tried again. I explained the situation which was exactly what I knew to be true and holy. This man was from a different generation – where you didn’t leave a man (or female traveler) behind.

I asked if they could page him so I could explain that I wouldn’t be able to travel or wait with him. The desk clerk begrudgingly obliged.

Paging Mr. Jimmy S

Nothing

Mr. Jimmy S, please meet your party at the VIP lounge door.

Nothing

At this point, the agent began to question my integrity just as a gentle hand was placed on my shoulder.

Exasperated: Where have you been?

Looking for you. I was worried.

Relief flooded every fiber of my being. Somehow God put me with this older man to look out for him, and I knew it.

Then began the conversation I dreaded.

Did you get your ticket?

No, there weren’t any sleeper cars available; so I cannot stay here with you.

Well, why not?

Because this lounge is for first class passengers in sleeping cars. I don’t have a sleeper; so I cannot wait in here with you. I will be fine. You stay here. There are food, drinks, nicer chairs, television, and the newspaper.

I will not! I want to stay where you are. How far is it?

It’s not far, but that is beside the point. This is where you should be. You will be more comfortable here. I will be fine.

No! I am going where you are!

Jimmy, I really feel like you should stay here. Please just stay in this lounge. It’s so much nicer, and you will be well taken care of.

I’m coming with you.

At this point the VIP lounge agent chimes in. Ma’am give me your ticket. Do you have any problems riding in a sleeper car with this gentleman?

Um . . . no. (Knowing full well, I would be getting off the train before bedtime.)

Sir, do you have any concerns of this young lady riding with you in your sleeper car?

Not at all.

Ma’am, I am giving you a free ticket upgrade. Enjoy dinner on us.

You sir are a scholar and a gentleman.

What just happened here? This does NOT happen to my friends!

We went out for breakfast, and then waited the five hours until our train arrived for parts westward. Of course, our waiting time was not restful, as more stories were shared. During our wait my phone died; so, I wasn’t able to call or text home to explain what was going at the train station.

Finally, the time came for boarding. This time, however, I insisted that the train company provided Mr. Jimmy a redcap. We were driven basically from our lounge seats right up to our sleeper car. Whew!

After a quick recharge, I sent a text to my husband to tell him, “ALL WELL. SHARING A SLEEPER CAR WITH A GENTLEMAN.”

His response said it all, “What? I am nervous.”

I explained that he was a 70+ year old Korean War Veteran with COPD. I could outrun him. Trust me. God & I got this.

I don’t think he was convinced.

We rode for five hours, and again with no rest. This time, I learned much more about his time in the war. I almost lost it, when he teared up telling of an ill-fated night flying mission. He was a flight gunner, and one simple mistake (not his) caused the loss of two whole planes and their entire crews. He was on the only plane that safely made it back that night.

Finally, we were called for our dinner reservations. The jaunt to the dining car was a journey in and of itself because our sleeper was eight cars away. We had to pause twice in each car, just so he could catch his breath. My heart was breaking because I would be getting off in an hour, but Mr. Jimmy would be traveling all the way to Idaho, arriving sometime late the next evening. Who would take care of him?

At dinner, despite my protestations of being full, I was ordered dessert whether I wanted it or not. This was a proper meal, and dessert must be ordered. Stuffed to the gills, we made it back to sleeper as the engineer announced that the next stop was Red Wing.

I reminded Mr. Jimmy this was my stop and that we would be parting ways. I needed to gather my things and get to the door platform. I shook his hand and said, “Thank you for traveling with me today.”

I thought that was the end of our time. I should have known better. The ride into Red Wing is a little slower due to construction on the bridge there. As I stood on the platform with the porter, I sensed a third presence. Yep, there was Mr. Jimmy unsteadily waiting to make sure I safely got off the train. In his words, no gentleman would allow a beautiful young lady to travel alone. It was his duty to make sure I arrived safely.

When the train stopped, I showed him where my car was parked, and with a quick hug and a peck on a stubbly cheek, I disembarked with strict instructions to the porter to take care of my friend.

Walking exhaustedly down the brick platform, I begged God to not give me any more little old men for a while.

God obliged . . . for about a hundred feet.

There at the station, disembarking from another car, was a little old man who couldn’t get his walker over the tracks without it getting stuck.

I sighed, then threw down my bags and got him safely across. On my final drive home, I thanked God for the time spent with one heck of a gentleman from a great generation.

So Mr. Jimmy S – Thank you for your service and for spending time with a girl on a train.

Sweet Grace Blog

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Tag Archives: humor

6 days: that Christmas letter

Hopping down the bunny trail. . . wait, that’s my street!

The fitted sheet dilemma

Newfangled Laundry Woes!

Prisoner of the high seas

Laundry woes

Strength Revisited

The blind date

The Sisterhood

Riding the rails