Redheaded Stepp Child

Make a Wish and Make It Real

2012-03-09T09:13:00.003-05:00

Outback Steakhouse in Southern Pines is having a fundraiser for the Make a Wish Foundation today. I’m reposting this blog from 2010 to show you the face of a beautiful child who had is dream fulfilled by Make a Wish.

Garin Stepp is an 8-year-old boy who loves to cook. The Make a Wish Foundation sent Garin and his family on a cruise two years ago, where Garin got to put on his chef’s hat and cook with the chefs in the kitchen. Even better, the cruise was with the Carolina Panthers who Garin had already met when the foundation made him part of the half-time show at a Panthers game.

Remember this boy when you think of the Make a Wish Foundation. This post from May of 2010 is all about that beautiful child.

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I’m feeling pretty lousy today.

But yesterday Garin asked if he was “going to have this muscular dystrophy forever.”

His growing awareness of his condition breaks my heart. Garin has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. It’s among the worst types of MD to have. The life expectancy is not long.

Duchenne attacks the muscles, causing them to slowly degenerate. First, Garin’s leg muscles are deteriorating, and it will lead to eventual paralysis. The disease moves up the body, attacking all the muscles of the body.

The lungs are muscles, the heart is a muscle, and Duchenne cruelly attacks ALL muscles. You see where this is going for Garin?

It makes me feel so…well, I lack the words. Filled with despair. Sad, yes, but something much deeper. Hopeless. Helpless.

I wept. Here’s a child (and a whole family, too) who’s hurting, and I can do nothing.

I cried and cried and cried some more.

And then, I wiped my tears with disgust. What good did my tears do? Tears don’t fix Garin. They don’t help my brother, his wife, or their other child.

This melancholy is still with me today. Plus, I woke up feeling grumpy because my daughter needed me in the middle of the night and I didn’t sleep much.

I reached a new low as I realized what an ingrate I am. I have a healthy daughter, and I should be on my knees thanking God I have a daughter I can comfort instead of feeling grumpy over loss of sleep.

I was still feeling pretty low when a verse I read yesterday popped in my head.

So here's what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God.” (Romans 12:1-2, The Message)

Those words “everyday, ordinary life” jumped out at me, showing me something I can do when faced with a hopeless, heartbreaking circumstance like my sweet nephew Garin.

I can take my “everyday, ordinary” life and give it to God. He’ll show me what He wants from me, and I can quickly respond to it.

Amazingly, Garin’s 10-year-old brother Hilton knows this without knowing Romans 12.

Garin asked, “Will I have this muscular dystrophy forever?”

Hilton answered, “You probably will, but don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.” Hilton’s taking his everyday, ordinary life and helping his brother.

Hilton’s words encourage me. I can do that, too. So, I’m wiping away my tears and giving God my everyday, ordinary life.

The Mafia Meets the Confederacy

2012-03-05T08:12:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I met a Yankee. Bless his heart, he had no idea that, even before our first date, I decided he was going to be my husband.

My single-mindedness surprised even me. I was pretty vocal that I wasn’t ever getting married so I wasn’t a marriage-crazed woman. No, Patrick was simply that great. Fast-forward a few months, and Patrick and I are one of those nauseating couples who sit on the same side of a restaurant booth seat so we never break physical contact. We were sure, too, that no one else in the history of the universe had ever, ever, ever felt the way we did.

Barreling down the road to engagement, we realized it was time to meet each other’s families. Which made me nervous on account of Patrick’s being a New Yorker. We Stepps were Southern centuries back to when our people settled in the Appalachian Mountains.

I eased my family in by first telling them Patrick was Irish-Italian, emphasizing the Nicchitta side of his lineage. For some reason, I don’t know why, my family loves the Italians. I made sure to tell my mama about Patrick’s amazing fettuccine alfredo. Visions of alfredo sauce dancing in her head, Mama took the news that my beloved was a New Yorker very well and asked when she was going to meet him.

Patrick and I flew in to Charlotte on a perfect Carolina autumn day and rented a car to get to Albemarle. Patrick was still driving like a New Yorker when we turned on to the country road leading to my sister’s home, the site of his debut. My mouth was watering at the thought of her sugary tea when something in the road caught my eye.

“Stop!” I shrieked. Patrick slammed on the brakes, gravel flying and a cloud of dust surrounding us. “Why did you yell like that? You scared…,” he trailed off when he saw for himself why I shouted.

“Are those chickens crossing the road?” he asked.

We waited for the chickens to pass, my city boy’s jaw still agape. I leaned out the window to take in the smell of a bonfire. The Stepps were welcoming Patrick in to the family with one of our traditions, a weenie roast topped off with s’mores.

When the last chicken clucked by, we headed on down the road and into my sister’s driveway, Patrick driving a bit more slowly than before. I pointed out the craftsmanship of my sister’s log house, built entirely by her manly-man husband. I called Patrick’s attention to the pond behind the house where ducks swam lazily. I showed him where a tree branch slapped me in the face during a careless moment on the four-wheeler. Patrick wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued on the mass of people surrounding the bonfire.

He needn’t have worried. My sisters barely let Patrick get out of the car before enveloping him in hugs. He had a few moments to relax until the crunch of gravel and the sight of a big white Cadillac signified the Grande Dame’s arrival. My mother stepped from her car, greeted Patrick and, to my mortification, said something along the lines of, “When are you going to take my daughter off my hands?” Nevermind I was an adult; Mama thought she was responsible for me until I found a husband. That I waited until I was 28 to marry was inconceivable to her.

It looked like Patrick was settling in just fine with my family. Already, he was doing his best gumba impersonations and patiently answering my sisters’ questions about whether the Mafia was real, and if it was, did Patrick have any connections?

My manly-man brother-in-law, who had disappeared during the conversation, suddenly came out of nowhere toting a rifle. Even though I knew Mike meant no harm, I have to admit he made an intimidating sight, looming tall and with broad shoulders and giant biceps. He came right up to Patrick and held out the rifle to him.

“You ever shoot a muzzleloader?” Mike asked.

And with that gesture –a good ole Southern boy sharing his prized gun with my Yankee– I knew Patrick was officially accepted into the Stepp family.

When the last sparks of the fire went black, we drove away, and I gushed about how well the evening had gone. Patrick quickly squelched my contentment. With more than a hint of smugness, he said, “Now you get to meet my family.”

Stuff I Can Do That You Can’t

2012-02-08T17:59:00.002-05:00

My friend Laura is thinking of having another baby. She already has three young children. I think she should go for kid #4 because it’s weird for me to see her, for the first time in our friendship, neither pregnant nor with a baby attached to her breast.

Laura has some hesitations, though. Among them is whether having a fourth child will put her into another category of mothers. As in, What is wrong with that woman that she has four kids? Or, Have you heard of birth control? Laura didn’t have to explain anything more to me about her concerns. The mother of one, I know precisely how we judge each other based on the number of children we have.

One child = Either you can’t have another child or you’re too selfish to be inconvenienced by another child.

Two children = You’re orderly and perfect.

Three children = You really, really love kids!

Four children = Hmmm. You might love kids. Or you might be weird.

Five children or more = Caution! Caution! We’re not sure where you fit into the categories. (Or you could be Catholic. When my husband tells people he’s the youngest of eight, they immediately ask, “Catholic?” to which he shows them the ruler-scarred hands he got courtesy of Sister Mary Margaret.)

No children = You don’t want kids (may even find them pesky and annoying) or you can’t have kids.

A friend of mine I’ll call Ashley decided she didn’t want children. She likes children, but she simply didn’t see them fitting into her life. Ashley became so weary of people asking her why she didn’t have children that she started telling them she couldn’t have children. Which shut them up fast, their facial expression immediately changing from questioning to what I call The Look.

As the mother of an only, I’m used to The Look. It communicates in only a millisecond, Oh, you poor, poor, poor thing. I’m so so so so sorry for you. You poor thing. It’s true that having an only child was not my plan, and I did feel very sorry for myself for a while. But I enjoy living vicariously through my friends.

With my friend Helena, uber-organized mother of two, I get to peek in the window of the All-American perfect family. Everything is in its place, and her life is perfectly orchestrated.

Kim, mother of three, keeps a beautiful but slightly chaotic home. I love it. The energy of an eight-year-old boy, a six-year-old girl, toddler boy and eager dog conjure a sense of comfort in her home. Bonus: I feel at ease stopping by her house any time without calling first. She herself says there’s never really a good time to come by so people might as well stop in unannounced.

Meridith has four children and totally blows my mind. Through her, I see how much a person can accomplish when they are focused and determined. She works full-time as a labor and delivery nurse, takes care of the kids, aged 2-12, AND is nursing her husband back to health after a serious illness.

Likewise, my friends tell me they get to live vicariously through me. They admit to feeling a smidgen of envy at the freedom that comes with being the mother of one. I can’t deny it. Having an only is the bomb! In celebration of parenting a singleton, I came up with this list of Stuff I Can Do That You Can’t.

Get a mani/pedi. With my child. It’s awesome. I especially love seeing her demure smile as we sit next to each other, our feet soaking in the warm water. When she thumbs through “National Geographic” magazine and points out interesting pictures to me, we bond even more. (I’m laughing as I type that. National Geographic? Yeah, right. Try “InStyle.”)
Juggle only one kid’s calendar of extracurriculars. That’s me sipping coffee outside Starbucks while you rush from gymnastics to ballet to soccer to tee ball to scouts to … nevermind, my head is spinning just thinking about your schedule.
Vacation at Disney World without taking out a second mortgage. Heck, vacation anywhere without taking out a second mortgage.
Get excited about a school event or recital instead of thinking, Crap, another one.
Shop for clothes together. Instead of hunting down a child who thinks it’s a really funny trick to hide in the clothes rack, I’m enjoying the fact that my daughter rummages the racks for my size…and then brings them to me…and then says, “Mommy, this is a good color for you.” I could weep at the sweet memory.
Decide at 11:50 a.m. to put on pearls and have a noon lunch at Lady Bedford’s Tea Parlor, just us girls.
Decide at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday to have a date that night, just my husband and me. There’s always someone happy to help out with one child.
Drive something besides a mini-van. The only reason I have a large vehicle (an SUV) is to cart around the dogs. My husband has a convertible. We would so not be feeling the wind in our hair if we needed four car seats.
Jet off to NYC, just us girls, to take in a Broadway show and slurp pasta at Babbo before sashaying from one boutique to another and getting lost in a ginormous department store. Ok, so this hasn’t happened yet. I’m planning for it to be an annual girls’ trip starting when she’s 12 or 13. But I can dream.
Have friends over whenever we want. This is one of my favorites. I’m pretty sure if we had more children, we wouldn’t have as many play dates as we do. I relish having other people’s children in our house. I get to see, for a short while, what it would be like to have a bigger family. But it’s even better than having a big family of our own because I get your children at their best! Kids only misbehave for their own parents.

So, you see mothering an only has lots of perks. But there are perks no matter how many children you have (including zero, and you know who you are with your glamorous cruises six times a year). Let’s stop judging each other. Laura, have that fourth kid! Ashley, stop being sheepish about your decision not to have children.

I hereby vow to stop judging. I promise not to think you’re crazy for having five kids if you’ll stop feeling sorry for me for having just one. Deal?

The Vajajay: Pantyhose or Gemstones?

2012-01-31T11:59:00.001-05:00

Pantyhose are evil. Ugly, uncomfortable, expensive and sweat-inducing, they’re all-around gross.

Why am I even talking about pantyhose, you may ask, when they have been oh-so-passé for at least a decade?

Because when you live in a small town where much of the population is old-school, there can be a lot of pressure to fit in, to not stand out very much. Especially, say, at a business event or a function with mostly older women. (I still blush when I remember the look my mother-in-law gave me once when I wore a business suit sans pantyhose.) The implication is a woman who doesn’t wear pantyhose is not a proper lady.

These days, I avoid the whole issue of pantyhose by simply wearing knee-high boots or tights in the winter. But this week, I have a new dress to wear to a conservative business banquet, and neither boots nor funky tights will work with the dress.

It was actually my mother who solved my hosiery dilemma. The same woman who taught me I should always, always cover my legs told me to skip pantyhose. She learned last month from her guru, minister Chuck Swindoll, that the first women to wear pantyhose were prostitutes.

Prostitutes? Well, I sure don’t want to look like a hooker, so I’m ditching the pantyhose. My legs will be bare, and I’ll be ok with the disapproving looks because I am, at last, justified. I’ll have to shave, of course, which may require more than one razor given the impressive hair growth on my legs.

So here I am content that I’m finally resolved my conflicted feelings on pantyhose, and I hear about vajazzling.

Va-whatting? I had to google it when I read the word in someone’s blog. It is, according to an official website, “the act of applying glitter and jewels to a woman’s nether regions for aesthetic purposes.” Maybe, probably even, you’ve heard of it. Apparently, some chick named Snooki is very vocal about her love of vajazzling. (Yes, I’ve heard of Snooki, but I’ve remained intentionally uninformed about her because she sounds like a moron.)

But back to vajazzling. I gotta tell you I’m in shock. Mostly from the disconnect between my life and the lives of other women. Here I am, about to shave for the first time in a month and discussing pantyhose while other women are having jewels glued to their privates?

Some women even have real jewels put on. As in precious gemstones. Believe me when I tell you that, if I had any extra diamonds lying around, they would be prominently displayed somewhere people can see without following me into the shower.

Nope, no diamonds here. Instead, I’m trying to find alternative uses for pantyhose, which honestly, I think are a little expensive when you consider their short lifespan. It’s like a friend of mine at work used to say every time she got a run, “Dammit, there goes another f&*#ing five dollars.”

Not one to waste, I learned from quick online research some alternative uses for old hosiery. Use them to tie up tomato vines. Buff a pair of shoes. Even give a gauzy look to photographs by stretching pantyhose over the camera lens. Ok, so those are the things I would do if I grew tomatoes, cared about the luster of my shoes or had a serious camera.

My favorite tip for recycling pantyhose? Protect your car engine from abrasive volcano ash in the air by wrapping the hosiery over the car filter. Um, yeah. If hot lava is erupting nearby, my first thought is going to be swathing my car engine in pantyhose.

But a vajayjay enthusiast? Now she could have some fun with a volcano. After fixing up the engine with the hose she no longer needs, she could remove the bling from her vajayjay and apply it to the car’s bumper in the shape of a smiley face or heart. Just think how awesome she’ll look as she flees the molten lava! Once she has reached safety, camera crews will crowd around her. “How did you escape the devastation when so many others lost their lives?” they want to know.

“It all started,” she’ll say with the confidence only a woman who would decorate her privates could summon, “when I gave up pantyhose...

“...and I jazzed up my vajayjay.”

Cool girl. One I'd like to be friends with. But I'm staying where I am: no longer a hooker in pantyhose but not yet a blinged-out vajazzler. I like it here in the middle.

Winter Friends, Summer Friends

2012-01-22T11:54:00.005-05:00

In the same week I wrote a column for The Pilot about friendship, a friendship ended.

There was no big event, no heated conversation, just a moment of clarity that revealed the truth I’d been avoiding. It was over.

Signs had pointed this way for a couple of years. Our frequent play dates slowed and eventually stopped altogether. Instead of exchanging birthday gifts, we forgot each other’s birthdays. We waved to each other across the room rather than saving seats so we could be together.

I lament the demise of our relationship, of course, but this slow burn-out is much better than an explosive end, which I have also experienced. It’s ugly.

In my mid-20s, my closest friend and I had a volatile argument that severed all communication between us. The word “awkward” does not do justice to the experience of ending a friendship with the girl who works down the hall from you (at a publishing company, no less, where communication is critical) and lives across the street from you.

From my cozy balcony, my favorite reading spot, I could see the Domino’s guy delivering a pizza to her and her new best friend. (Was it an extra-thin crust cheese pizza, our favorite? Would they watch a Krzysztof Kieslowski move and pretend to understand it, like we used to? Would they spontaneously decide, after the pizza and wine, to fly to New York City for the weekend, as we had once done?)

No matter. It was over. After a period of grieving, I looked to the wisdom of The Byrds and King Solomon: to everything there is a season.

New friendships spring up like the first daffodils of the year, lifting your spirits when the barren trees and gray skies burden you. Some friendships burn hot under a golden summer sun, and just like a summer vacation, they reinvigorate you. Other friendships flutter like an autumn leaf, dead before they even hit the cold ground.

But sometimes, you get lucky. What you fear you lost comes back.

That was the case with my nephew Benjamin, now a senior at UNC-Chapel Hill. In his early teen years, I found I had no idea how to communicate with him. Who was this somber guy? Where was the little boy who used to dance on my coffee table? The one who used to yell from the back seat of my car for me to drive faster so we would soar over the small hill by his house? (My record is 70 mph, a fact I can admit to my sister a decade later). I feared that I had lost this little boy who I thought of as my own child.

But seasons changed. Now this boy is a dashing and brilliant young man with whom I can have stimulating conversation. It’s quite a change from when we used to make fart noises with our hands. (That's him above. I posted his picture for no other reason than that I'm a proud aunt. And he's so stinkin' cute.)

Yes, winter came to a friendship this week. I don’t know why, and I don’t think it will come back to life. Yet it had its purpose. It had a time to laugh. A time to dance. A time to embrace.

I’m choosing to embrace: embracing the memory of what once was. I appreciate the friendship for what it was and when it was.

And I celebrate my spring and summer friendships.

Complex Times. Simple Words

2012-01-12T10:12:00.001-05:00

Make it a great day!

When someone chirps these words to me, I reach for a stress ball. I want to respond in the voice of Diff’rent Strokes’ Arnold Jackson, “Whatchyu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” And then throw my stress ball in their face and shout, “No, YOU make it a great day.”

Why? This phrase has entered the world of overused platitudes. Worse yet, it’s a platitude in the category of forced positivity along with these:

Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. How can you say that? My heart’s still ticking, but I’m utterly crushed.

God never gives you more than you can handle. Then God has a higher opinion of my threshold than I do, and right now, I’m not sure I agree with His opinion.

Everything happens for a reason. You assume we live in an organized world. I have a hard time believing that in this circumstance.

Time heals all wounds. Unless you die first, and I feel like I just might.

This, too, shall pass. It’s not a kidney stone. It won’t pass; it will forever be part of my story.

And my personal favorite, used when someone dies: God needed another angel. I’m throwing the stress ball in your face again.

Such platitudes of positivity are chronically force-fed to us. I get why people use them. They don’t know what else to say. They mean to offer comfort, but these clichés succeed instead in making the recipient feel even more isolated.

When I’ve experienced dark times in my life, the most encouraging words I’ve heard have been: “I have no idea what to say to you.”

The fact that a friend took time to call, write or visit me is all the affirmation I need. When she admits she lacks the words to comfort me, it affirms me even more so. It is validation that what I’m going through totally stinks and that it’s impossible to quantify it.

Actually, “that stinks” is one of the phrases my friend Ally often uses. I love that she doesn’t offer advice or talk it through. She just validates my feelings.

Strangers and acquaintances can sometimes encourage me as much as my dear friends.

I was sick over the holidays and felt very sorry for myself. I arrived home from a doctor’s appointment two days before Christmas exhausted and dejected. Before collapsing into bed, I checked voice mail on our home phone. I heard this message from Sharon, a woman I see only once a year: “I’m calling for the lady known as the redheaded stepchild. I heard you were sick, and I hope you feel better.”

Playful but succinct and sincere. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My mother rushed to my side. “Are you alright? Do you need to lie down?” she asked in a panicky voice.

Between tears and gulps of air, I told her about the voice mail and concluded, “Sharon will never know what her phone call meant to me.”

Bottom line? Plain words trump trite platitudes. Whether your words are stuttered, mumbled or ineloquent, nothing beats simple sincerity.

And that will make a great day.

Cussin’ Christians

2012-01-04T10:32:00.004-05:00

I want to be a proper lady. I really do. But sometimes the words that come out of my mouth are not at all ladylike.

Out slips a cuss word here and a cuss word there. I’d be ashamed to admit it except that I like to cuss. There, I
said it.

I. Like. To. Cuss. (Dammit.)

Now, I’ve heard it argued many a time that resorting to cussing demonstrates a deficiency in creativity and intelligence. That someone who cusses is showing to the world that they are ignorant.

You might think that argument would sway a word girl like me. But no. There are some swear words that roll off the tongue in a delightful way no regular words can match. Some are staccato (my favorite). Others are mellifluous. I enjoy the way that, when used properly, a cuss word becomes an audible punctuation mark.

I did have to reconsider my cussin’ ways, though, when I decided to be a follower of Christ. Christians, it seemed, simply didn’t cuss.

One of my Christian friends contends that Christians should watch their language because of the example it sets for people who are searching and longing for a Godly relationship. She says that those people may interpret foul language (and any other unseemly behavior) as a sign that Christians are no different from non-Christians. And, she says, if there is no difference, why would someone be a Christian? This friend is a woman wise beyond her years whose opinions I take to heart, so I had to consider her perspective.

But on the other hand, I’ve never been inspired by Christians who set themselves apart from non-Christians based on behavior. Actually, it was precisely that ideology that had me hightailing it out of church as soon as I had the freedom to do so. I have known too many Christians who behave to the letter of the law (both government and Bible laws) yet miss the core of Christianity: that Jesus loves us and calls us to love each other. These people are so busy congratulating themselves on their good behavior that they fail to live love as an action word.

Instead, what inspired me to a real relationship with Jesus was the example I saw in openly flawed and honest Christians. Regular people who are clearly imperfect but succeed in emulating Christ.

I have recently gotten to know a woman who does this. She is absolutely in love with Jesus. She authored a Christian book. She blogs about Jesus. You talk to her for more than two minutes, and you’re going to hear about her gratitude to Jesus and how He has changed her life. Her bumper sports a blinged-out Jesus sticker.

This woman also dresses to the nines in designer clothes, drives a Mercedes, and is probably the closest I know to a real-life Elle Woods. And my favorite part? She cusses.

I sat across from her one day recently and asked her about how she reconciles her Christianity with the fact that she doesn’t fit the stereotypical Christian mold. She crossed her legs, clad in thigh-high boots, sat back and pondered my question as she tapped a cheek with her perfectly manicured finger.

“Just because you love God doesn’t mean you have to wear a wool skirt down to your ankles,” she answered. “I am who I am, and God uses all of us just as we are.”

Amen. As Christians, we strive to encourage others rather than discourage. To act with kindness. To seek out opportunities to help others. But we also have shortcomings.

Today, I earnestly want you to know those shortcomings might be the very thing that inspires another to turn to God. Your out-of-the-mold Christianity may show someone searching for meaning in life that they, too, can live up to Christ’s example.

To all you cussin’ Christians who helped me see that I didn’t have to change who I am to live out the love of Jesus, I owe you my deepest gratitude. Dammit.

Where the Drama Really Begins

2012-01-02T12:08:00.003-05:00

When I went to my first school program as a parent last month, I felt a sudden need to call my mother.

The parents around me were stressed, I was completely spent from the effort of getting there, and the program was shaping up to be very loud and tedious. How did she do it, I wanted to know, how did my mom act as if every cacophonous and awkward moment of an elementary school performance was rapturous?

My daddy did it in the way only he could. “What’d you think, Daddy?” I remember asking after one particularly heinous flute solo in which I rendered “Greensleeves” unrecognizable.

“Aw, honey,” he said, squeezing me close. I stared up at the first truth-teller in my life and waited for him to weigh in on my musical career. He tweaked my freckled nose, an exact replica of his own, and declared, “You sure are pretty.”

That smart daddy of mine had learned early to dodge giving feedback when the truth is ugly.

A singing friend of mine takes the proactive approach with fellow singers. As soon as a criminally bad performance concludes, she rushes to the performer, clutches them earnestly by the arm and says, “I just wish you could have heard yourself.” All with a smile on her face, bless her heart.

So there I was at my daughter’s school program with these thoughts distracting me from the show about to start. Sadly, I could barely see the stage from where I was sitting. I couldn’t even zoom in on her face because the camera was still on the kitchen counter next to four outfits my daughter had fiercely rejected. And my husband wasn’t sitting with me. No, he was in the way, way, way back and standing because we arrived by the skin of our teeth, too late to get two seats, never mind two good seats.

I was physically uncomfortable as well since I was sweating profusely. My best we’re-creating-a-family-memory attire had been marred as soon as we left the house by the exertion of carrying my six-year-old child to the car. She didn’t want to wear what I wanted her to wear, so I did what any mother determined to create a perfect family memory would do. I picked her up and carried her under my arm in a football clutch. I even muttered, “You’re gonna wear it, and doggonit, you’re gonna like it,” channeling my father in his less shining moments.

When I finally got her to the car, I plopped clumsily in the back seat to rest my ankles, shaky from carrying all that weight in three-inch-heeled boots. I chose to sit in the back so I could soothe her and dry her tears. An unfortunate choice since I sat down on a mostly-full Capri Sun and thoroughly wet the back side of my pants.

Astoundingly, none of the evening’s earlier drama mattered once the program started. This was our first and only child’s inaugural elementary school program, and I settled in to watch the magic. By golly, the show wasn’t bad. And the costumes? Academy award-winning costume designers had nothing on these six-year-olds dressed up as Santa/rappers getting their gangsta on.

Harried parents, stuck like me in lousy seats, hushed. Other than a few whispered comments along the lines of “Just thank your lucky stars it’s only kindergarten through second grade and not the whole danged school, Vern,” the auditorium became, for 45 minutes, a place of camaraderie and good will toward men.

When it was over, my daughter ran to me with a smile. “I’m so glad you made me come, Mommy.” I heard myself answering with sincerity, “Isabella, you were wonderful. It was perfect.”

So maybe my version of a perfect family memory is sweaty, tear-streaked, wet-bottomed and all-around drama-filled, but you know what? It really was perfect.

Seven Tips for the Aspiring Writer

2011-09-13T10:32:00.003-04:00

I’m amazed by the number of writers I meet in my small town. It seems like once per week someone shares with me their writing aspirations. Though they may be unpaid and/or unpublished, I firmly believe that anyone who finds writing as essential as food and water to their survival is already a writer.

You know if this is you because you can relate to one or more of the following:
• You wake up and you have an idea. It stays with you like an itch until you sit down and get the words out.
• Your day doesn’t feel like it happened until you record your thoughts about it in your journal.
• You daydream about the characters in your works of fiction, and if you don’t write about them often enough, you feel like they are waiting for you.
• You see the potential for a good story in just about everyone you meet.

I’m a baby writer in the big, wide world of writers as measured by income and frequency of published works. But I’ve met my share of snooty, territorial writers (I can almost see them peeing around their territory as soon as I walk close), and the experiences made me vow to always help other aspiring writers.

So here are tips from this baby writer. :-)

(1) Stop worrying about seeing your name in print right off the bat. There are successful writers whose name you’ve never heard. They make their money in small, obscure publications. They do ghost-writing. They do P.R. work. They do technical writing.

That’s one of the reasons I don’t see other writers as competition. We all have unique interests, and there’s a niche for everyone.

I was once asked to bid on the writing of a technical website. Though I’d started my writing business saying I would take on any project that paid, I felt dread as soon as I hit “send” on my proposal. I realized I did NOT want to spend my time on technical writing, though the job had the potential of being among my most lucrative projects. When I didn’t get the job, I felt relieved. But simply going through the process of writing the proposal helped me narrow down my business focus.

(2) Blog. Even if only your friends know about it, blog. Don’t worry about deciding your theme yet. Just write. A blog allows you to write for an audience regularly which helps you develop your voice.

Another bonus of blogging? I have scored two jobs (one of which is being a regular contributor to the magazine OutreachNC) because a friend of a friend saw my blog. They approached me. I never expected that to happen, and it has been a delightful and educational experience.

(3) Take on non-writing projects if they interest you. It may help get your name out and expand your breadth of experience. For example, I also do editing and public relations work. Both of those help me hone my writing skills: editing other people’s words keeps me sharp, and the PR work gives me face time with people. (I get a charge from interacting with people, so the face time gets my creativity flowing.)

(4) Stop worrying about perfection in all your written communications. In my blog, for example, I often see mistakes after I’ve published the entry. I go back and correct it, but I don’t sweat it. If I obsessed about perfection in my blog, I would never post anything. I used to read my emails five times before hitting “send.” It cost me a lot of time.

Now I save the obsessive checking and re-checking for work that is going out to clients. Like submitting a query letter to an editor or the final product to a client. THEN I obsess about getting it perfect.

(5) Take on projects in trade. My interior designer friend advised me on my home in exchange for writing a marketing piece for her. That gave me my first marketing copy for my portfolio AND professional design expertise I could not have afforded otherwise.

(6) Celebrate the accomplishments of other writers. Their achievements in no way diminish your own. In fact, their achievements only affirm that IT CAN BE DONE.

I cried tears of joy the day I found out Celia Rivenbark’s latest book made it on the NYT bestseller list. I’m not a fan of Celia just because I like how she writes. I’m a fan even more so because she’s a beacon of hope for all of us. She climbed her way up, starting with weddings and the police beat in a newspaper. (And having written for a small newspaper myself, occasionally seeing some pretty ugly stuff on the police beat and even uglier stuff on the political beat, I really really admire Celia’s commitment).

Later, Celia scored her own column which eventually led to a book deal. Six books and eleven years later, voila!, she is on the NYT bestseller list. That is tenacity. And now she’s living the writer’s dream (or at least the dream as I envision it).

(7) Always approach other writers to pick their brains. They may turn out to be one of the snooty ones, but if so, know that it stems from some deep insecurity they feel and move on. On the other hand, a fellow writer may turn out to be a friend who helps you achieve your dream.

Happy writing!

Spanxed Out of Hell

2011-08-31T10:33:00.001-04:00

I’ve hit that stage of life in which many of my friends are undergoing –or talking about–medical enhancements.

What a relief it is to come out of the closet since I have long known a tummy tuck is in my future. Even in my size 6 days, my stomach pooched. Getting pregnant and having a baby (a C-section to boot) just gave me the excuse I need to go for It. I think a C-section warrants a tummy tuck being declared medically necessary and thus covered by insurance, don’t you?

I mean, have you ever actually seen a C-section tummy? Check out some pictures on the web. But not while you’re eating. (And by the way, people who insist on saying “Caesarean section” annoy me for some reason.)

So here I am at the point of my life a tummy tuck is possible. Child-bearing over? Check. Husband on board? Check. Reached a reasonable weight to make it worthwhile? Check. Able to afford it? Well, not quite but that’s a minor detail, right?

This spring, since the stars seemed aligned for my coveted surgery, I identified a plastic surgeon I want to work with. I made an appointment for the initial consultation. I told all my friends about my plans. I analyzed myself in the mirror from the side, dreaming of a new silhouette. I told more friends.

But in the month between my phone call to the doctor and the appointment, I felt my enthusiasm waning. All those risks listed on the waiver you sign before surgery started popping in my head. Um, mainly DEATH.

It isn’t so much that I’m afraid of dying. I’m constantly aware life can end any time ever since the preacher told me the Rapture was imminent. (That was 30+ years ago.)

But the thought of leaving my family behind makes me doubt the wisdom of elective surgery. Who would take care of the important stuff like French-braiding Bella’s hair? Or laughing at Patrick’s jokes?

I know it’s something like .0000001 percent of all elective surgeries that go wrong. Which doesn’t seem like a big deal unless you’re the person who makes that statistic.

I fear being the vanity surgery gone wrong. I imagine my family being presented, along with my body, a glass jar (just like back in biology class) of gloppy white matter in formaldehyde.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Coughlin. I hope this fat recovered from your wife’s mid-section brings you comfort,” the doctor will say solemnly.

And since that’s repulsive, Patrick will have the fat globs cremated along with me. He’s not so keen on the cremation thing, but I know he’ll do it because Bella promised me. After I explained cremation to Bella (it really was relevant to our conversation), she said to me earnestly:

“Don’t worry, Mommy. I’ll burn you in the fire.”

I hope she waits until I’m dead.

At the funeral, my sisters will keen over the coffin as my mother shakes her head in resignation. “I told her vanity is the work of the devil,” she’ll say.

“Well, she gets to meet him in person now,” my brother will respond since he’s a twisted man who is sure I’m hell-bound (probably because he wants good company).

Actually, even now, sitting here in my cozy alcove of an office, I can feel the fires of hell radiating from my waist.

Oh, wait, that’s just the Spanx cutting into my flesh.

But better that than hell. Or worse, having my picture plastered all over national television as “Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong.” The thought terrifies me more than eternal damnation.

I think I’ll stick with cheering on my friends as they get “enhanced.” And I’ll buy more Spanx.

It Ain’t a Word Til Somebody Done Did Say It

2011-08-26T10:36:00.004-04:00

“I’m befuzzled,” announced my mother.

“Do you mean befuddled? Or maybe bedazzled?” I asked helpfully, not wanting to tell the woman who taught me to speak that, hello, “befuzzled” isn’t a word.

“Yes,” she said. “Both.”

I bit the bullet and corrected her.

“But Mom, ‘befuzzled’ isn’t a word.”

“Oh, good! Then I just coined a new one!” she said, clearly pleased with herself, then added, “If Sarah Palin can do it, then so can I.”

It’s hard to argue with that. My mother is only about, I’d say, 80 IQ points higher than Sarah Palin, so why not?

I can’t decide if I like this new free-wheeling Patricia Stepp who is so cavalier about breaking language rules. When I was a child telling her about my day, she constantly interrupted me to correct my grammar.

“Wait. ‘Me and Wendy practiced cartwheels?’” she’d say, the height of her eyebrows telling me I'd screwed up. “No, start from the beginning and say it correctly.” And I’d have to go all the way back to the very beginning of my tale.

The new Patricia says things like, “Oh, honey, it don’t matter,” when I ask if she wants to eat at Pat & Mick’s Fish Camp or Blue Bay Seafood. (The right answer is always Pat & Mick’s. Anybody can tell you that. Blue Bay is just too new, having been around a mere 20 years or so.)

What the hell? Where did my mother go? When I call her on it, she waves me away and gives the lame explanation that she has “just lived in Stanly County too long.”

I can’t argue with that either. I’m actually quite fond of my home county, but our county seat of Albemarle will forever be colored by associations with the cute, talented, but seemingly dimwitted, Kellie Pickler.

I watched “American Idol” for the first and only time that year just to support our hometown girl. But I shuddered when she pronounced the “L” in salmon and went on to compare her first spinach salad to “just like pickin’ leaves off a bush.” Her first spinach salad? Right. Then she pretended never to have heard of calamari! (A stroll down Main Street, Albemarle, reveals not one, but two, restaurants with calamari on the menu.)

I value our Southern idiosyncrasies and think we should never let them die. I’m tickled pink when my nephew Daniel says, “Do what?” as a way of expressing surprise. And I enjoy channeling all the beehived church ladies of my childhood by spurting out an occasional “I swannee.”

But to intentionally sound stupid? Come on, Kellie. You done rurnt us all (that’s “you ruined us” in countrified, as opposed to genteel, Southern speak) when you pretended Albemarle was a hillbilly town.

Do we have rednecks? Yes. But I declare, even rednecks have high-functioning brains in those mulleted heads.

So where was I? Oh, yes, I’m befuzzled. I can lose track sometimes since my “rememberer,” as my uncle David calls it, is on the fritz.

Embracing these made-up words is challenging for a woman who finds Strunk & White’s “The Elements of Style” tantalizing bedtime reading. By the way, that’s style as in rules of usage and composition, not “Project Runway” style. And my favorite thing about being on the editorial team of a magazine is racing my colleagues to see who can be the first to find the rules of serial commas in the “AP Style Guide.”

Fun stuff.

Even my sweet husband, who usually doesn’t share my word nerd tendencies, came home the other night shaking his head.

“It’s the end,” he said. “There’s no respect for the language anymore.”

I waited.

“I heard ‘indexes’ instead of ‘indices’ is becoming accepted,” he said with a hangdog expression on his face.

“That’s ok, sweetie. It ain’t a big deal,” I said, using a word that, Lord help me, was deemed acceptable by Webster’s third edition in 1961.

That was the edition that argued almost anything goes as long as somebody uses it. And no, I’m not really such a scholar on lexicon. This tasty tidbit came courtesy of William Zinsser and his hallowed book “On Writing Well.”

I have to say I’m downright befuzzled that the learned folks at Webster’s would be so careless about what constitutes acceptable language. But since it opens the door to all kinds of made-up words, I think I’m on board.

And I’ll be listening attentively to see what new words I can pick up from the brilliant, but befuzzled, Patricia Stepp.

JoJo and His Mojo

2011-07-28T11:13:00.002-04:00

My nephew JoJo (his name is Joseph, but Isabella and I can get away with calling him JoJo) phoned me yesterday.

That in itself is a big deal because JoJo is 12, a tween only six months shy of transforming into a teen. That age group is not known for communicating with anyone too old to be cool, i.e. people over 17.

So JoJo calls from the Outer Banks where most of my family is currently vacationing, but we couldn’t go since Bella started school. But hey, I’m not bitter they chose a week I wasn’t free. :-)

Anywho, JoJo said he found a letter I wrote to him when he was born. In the letter, I wrote that I hoped he would never forget me. After that short preamble, JoJo got right to the point.

“I haven’t forgotten you, Mel,” he said to me. Simply but poignantly.

It was an earnest moment for a kid who tells jokes and uses physical humor to make us laugh.

Awwww. All my nieces and nephews are special to me, but JoJo’s got some mojo. He has the distinction of being the first baby to make me think that maybe, just maybe, one day I would like to have a child.

It was early spring of 1999; JoJo was only a couple of months old. I went over to my sister’s house one morning where she was busy getting her two older boys ready for school. In the midst of the mayhem, JoJo woke up wailing.

I went in to see him, to see if I could help even though I wasn’t sure how to even hold a baby. Poor JoJo had a cold, and his eyes were crusted over with eye boogers. Yuck!

Strangely, I got past my disgust and wiped his eyes with a wet washcloth until they were clear. In the midst of rocking him and cleaning his eyes, I realized I was touching eye boogers and wasn’t grossed out. Instead, I felt privileged to be tending to the needs of an innocent child. It was a magical moment of transformation in my life, so it’s not surprising to me that today JoJo has a special relationship with my own child.

Bella thinks JoJo is a rock star. Just mention his name, and she goes gaga. “Oh, JoJoooooo!”

JoJo plays with Bella despite their seven-year-age difference, but I know her constant demands for his attention drive him a little nuts. After a whole day of togetherness this summer, I said to him, “JoJo, you are so good and patient with Bella. Thank you.”

He answered without malice, just matter-of-factly, “Mel, she is really getting on my nerves.”

And then he went back to kindly and wholeheartedly playing with the cousin who idolizes him.

That’s how it is with kids. One minute they make you crazy. But if you hang in there, they’ll do something the next minute that’ll make you want to squeeze ‘em with love.

And if you’re really really lucky, the kid loves you back and never forgets you.

Here all the kiddie nephews on my rainy wedding day. JoJo is the one planting a big one on me.

Sippy Cup Coffee and Other Realities of Parenting

2011-07-23T11:02:00.002-04:00

Last week, my friend Jennifer bought a $175 present from the bridal registry for her 20-something friends. Now to me, that kind of money should buy something really nice, a few pieces from their china collection, perhaps? Whatever it is, it will be something the couple will cherish forever.

But no. For $175, Jennifer bought the happy couple coffee mugs. Two coffee mugs, to be exact.

I laughed tentatively, thinking she was exaggerating, but she wasn’t and then I was horrified. Jennifer was quick to explain that these were Italian coffee mugs with beautiful detailing.

And then I did laugh, a great big belly laugh. Because what this starry-eyed couple doesn’t know is that one day, after they have children, those $175 cups will either be broken or relegated to the china cabinet. At least if they display the cups in the china cabinet, they’ll be able to admire them while they drink coffee from sippy cups.

Starry-eyed couples with fancy registries delight me almost as much as expectant parents with baby registries full of ridiculously expensive and equally useless junk.

I never really got into the whole wedding registry thing. I was in my anti-establishment phase back then. But when I was pregnant, I woke up and smelled the coffee (or in this case, the presents) and went hog wild on the registries. Babies R Us, Target, Pottery Barn, Crate & Barrel, Belk, even Wal-Mart.

Because of my own innocence about what having an actual living, breathing, screaming baby in the house entails, I can relate to the blissful parents-to-be floating through nine months of anticipation.

While they lie in bed playing Mozart for the prodigy over headphones placed on a giant tummy filled with nachos, ice cream and apples (ok, so those were my cravings), they just have no clue. They don’t know that in just a few months, those fancy embroidered burp cloths are going to be so disgusting, they won’t even reuse them as dust rags.

And that $600 crib with coordinating changing table? In just 18 months or so, they’re going to need a big-kid bed and wonder why on earth they didn’t buy the cheapie crib. And maybe they could use the changing table, but that awkward lowered section for the changing pad just looks, well, dumb without a changing pad. I know because I have the exact dumb-looking dresser in my daughter’s room.

All those items so lovingly researched and that cost more than the monthly mortgage payment will be obsolete in a short time.

And all the cutesy bedding? Forget it. We got an adorable Hello Kitty comforter for Isabella. It lasted a few months before it was covered in stains and looked just plain disgusting. Now that butt-ugly Hello Kitty blanket covers our marital bed because the Sheltie vomited all over the nice down comforter. Yes, a pink and purple Hello Kitty blanket in the same room that features custom curtains and an oil painting of Venice I thought would give us a sense of tranquility.

So, you see, if it isn't the child, it's the dog. And the Sheltie brings me to the other thing expectant parents don’t know. The dirty little secret about bodily fluids in the house. And what’s worse, how they will learn to tolerate the bodily fluids.

When Jennifer, a mother of two, had her carpets replaced, the installer said the cat must have peed all over the carpet. She just nodded while her face reddened because there had never been a cat. No, it was her very own precious daughter who had peed all over the carpet.

My friend Sara has Stanley Steemer on speed dial for all the times her three darlings pee, poop or vomit on the floor. In fact, I was on the phone with Sara the day I learned about how previously Nice Things quickly became That Old Crap.

Isabella had curled up in my purple comfy chair, saying her stomach hurt. Whatever. She gobbled down those waffles so fast, I was hardly surprised at a tummy ache.

And then in the middle of yet another one of Sara’s Stanley Steemer stories, I heard the unmistakable sound of vomiting. On my chair. One-half of a set of chairs that everyone, including my realtors, has always asked if we’re selling when we move. Because those chairs are so bee-u-tee-ful that they're worth coveting.

Now that I think about it, as I sit in my treasured chair that only faintly smells of vomit, let the young lovers enjoy their $175 coffee cups. Reality will come soon enough.

Yes, I’m THAT Mom

2011-07-20T09:57:00.007-04:00

I did it! I survived the first day of kindergarten.

The weeks leading up to the day have been wrought with anxiety. After all, I’ve had my shoog to myself for five years, eight months and four days. Now I’m going to be spending my days all alone.

Still, I did it. With increasing stomachaches, headaches and waves of nostalgia, I did it. With just a few missteps of being that mom, I did it.

Nevermind I was that mom who came to pick-up 30 minutes early and then coerced the nice front office people to please, pretty please, let me go peek into the classroom. A big no-no, probably because the sight of one mother could send sensitive kindergarteners into a fit of tears.

When I asked if I could check in on Bella, the gatekeeper looked at me with a mixture of pity (how sweet, she missed her little girl) and suspicion (what is WRONG with this woman that she can’t wait 30 more minutes?). She paused, appearing to debate whether she should allow it. I tried to read her mind – was she worried about setting a precedent giving me carte blanche to wander the halls at a whim?

“Just this once?” I urged, not even caring how desperate I sounded. “Yes, just this once,” she agreed with a small sigh.

Nevermind I was that mom who forgot to send a snack. I didn’t really. I’d lovingly placed a pack of veggie sticks in the backpack’s front compartment at 9:10 the night before.

I know it was 9:10 because I'd neatly written up a timetable reminding me of everything that needed to be done in preparation for The Day. Stuff like lay out clothes at 9:20. Double-check the mountain of paperwork required for school at 9:25. Obsessively triple-check the lunch box at 9:30. And again at 9:45.

But none of my efforts at organization mattered. Bella forgot where I packed her snack (the front compartment of her backpack) and told the teacher she didn’t have one. So, I looked like the mom who forgot to send a snack, forcing the teacher to fetch something from the emergency snacks for parents like me.

Nevermind I was that mom who went searching the whole school for a fork. A fork. Bella lost it in the lunch room. And it wasn’t just any fork. A fancy pink fork Nonna got special for kindergarten.

But to appreciate this fork, you have to understand Nonna. Frugal and money smart, Nonna nonetheless has only the highest quality of everything. When she took Bella back to school shopping, she didn’t head for Target (my plan), she headed right to Macy’s and Lord & Taylor. When she bought Bella exercise clothes, she didn’t buy Wal-Mart’s Faded Glory (my plan), she got Puma. So, this fork was Nice. Dang, that fork was nicer than our regular flatware.

When I asked the assistant principal where lost and found was, she jumped to my aid with concern on her face.

“Oh, no. What did you lose? How can I help?” She looked a wee deflated when I told her I was searching high and low for a fork.

“A what?” she asked, clearly thinking she had misheard me.

“A fork,” I said again. “A cute pink fork but real heavy.” As if the fact that it was cute, pink or heavy would make it any easier to find.

“Did you label it?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” I said realizing from the bleak look on her fact that this was probably a lost cause. “But if you find it, my daughter is in the kindergarten class.”

“Ah, kindergarten,” she said.

Clearly, the fact that I’m the mother of a kindergartener explained away my zeal to find a fork as well as my failure to label said fork. But how could I know to label it? I mean, the list of school supplies was very clear: label the nap mat, label the snack, label the backpack, label the art tee shirt, label the lunch box, etc. But label flatware? No, I missed that part of the instructions. Now, of course, a day wiser, I know better.

But yesterday? Nope, I was that mom.

Bella and I spent the Last Day Before Kindergarten doing all her favorite things. Which means we played Barbies, and that is always a little stressful because I like to have their hair neatly brushed before they go to galas or ride in the convertible. And really, in all these decades, why haven’t they found a way to make Barbie hair less tangly?

We went to the movies to see Winnie-the-Pooh. Except we made the mistake of not having lunch first, so I zoomed by Panera to grab something to smuggle into the theater. (Ha! To the people who ask me how I ever manage to find anything in my giant purse, let me ask, can you fit a Caesar salad and sundried tomato pannini into your purse?)

We went for a long walk, including a stop on the dam for a picnic snack Bella packed. We went to the pool, and I made her a pizza for dinner. We read “The Night Before Kindergarten” and snuggled until she fell asleep. Then I headed to the kitchen to get everything ready, butterflies in my stomach.

After an emotional drop-off (me, not her), I spent the entire day in restaurants. Breakfast at Panera. A breakfast that lasted 3 hours thanks to coffee with supportive friends and followed by a client meeting. Then I headed over to see my friend and editor Carrie, obstensibly to write photo captions, but after I collapsed in tears on her shoulder, she took pity on me and took me to lunch at Rhett’s where a fried green tomato sandwich provided some comfort.

And then, voila!, it was time for pick-up, where Bella announced, “Kindergarten is the best! The best ever.” So we celebrated by walking over to The Red Door in the village for ice cream. And then, what do you know, it was time for dinner. I realized that if every day of kindergarten was this stressful, I was going to need new, much bigger, clothes.

But thankfully, every day won’t be. Bella woke up without the alarm (a whole hour and change earlier than we’re used to rising), excited about a new day at school.

And now that it’s the day after kindergarten, I’m that other mom.

You know, the one who realizes, “Hot dawg, I’m going to be spending my days all alone!”

Veggie Living Suits Me

2011-05-09T21:43:00.002-04:00

Dinner the other night was a grilled portobello mushroom stuffed with red peppers, zucchini, onion, parmesan cheese and panko. I say -with as much modesty as I can muster- it was delicious. On the side, we had a nice green salad with warmed goat cheese, and then we dipped rosemary bread in olive oil. For dessert, I ate ice cream (Ben & Jerry's Phish Food).

This is pretty typical of how I eat. Cheese, bread, and ice cream hardly constitute deprivation. And since I am sugar-challenged, I tend to over-indulge in dessert once I start.

Nonetheless, I've lost weight eating this way. People keep asking me what I'm doing, so I'll let you in on my secret.

It's the vegetables.

I went meat-free back in September after being inspired by vegetarians I interviewed for a story I wrote (see below). Since then, there has been nothing but health benefit for me and zero sense of deprivation.

I don't eat like a rabbit, and though I probably should, I eat very few raw foods. I like a hot meal, and you really can't get that if you eat mostly raw foods. Instead, our meals are as tasty and satisfying as they were back when they were meaty.

Do I miss meat? Once in a great while. But last week, I gave in to a sausage biscuit at a Mother's Day brunch and had to restrain myself from gagging on a tiny bite. It just doesn't taste good anymore. Despite this aversion, I do have one unbreakable rule. If I'm at someone's home, I eat what they are serving. I don't want anyone to change their plans for me, and I don't want to be a rude guest.

Eight months into my life as a vegetarian, I can't tell you a single downside to making the switch. I feel great, I'm having fun cooking, and I don't have to touch sticky raw chicken.
Read for yourself about the people who spurred me to give veggie living a try.

Plant-Based Diet Staves Off Disease
OutreachNC Magazine, October 2010

“How old do you want to be when you die?” asks Darrell Simpkins, M.D., medical director of the FirsthHealth cardiac rehab program.

A proponent of plant-based eating, Dr. Simpkins asks this question of people interested in transitioning to a vegetarian diet. He asserts that individuals have more control over when they die than they think they do, and it starts with good nutrition.

Research supports his assertion, showing that a plant-based meal plan staves off and corrects many health problems. Following a vegetarian diet helps prevent and treat cancer and diabetes. It can reverse heart disease, lower cholesterol, and prevent dementia. All this, plus it aids in weight management.

A plant-based regimen means eating a vegetarian or vegan diet. Vegetarians consume no meat and eat mostly fruits, vegetables, and legumes. Vegans do the same and avoid products derived from animals such as eggs, cheese, and milk. A nutritious meal plan for vegetarians and vegans alike means consuming more whole foods, or foods that are as close to their natural state as possible.

Giving up animal products is a big adjustment for most Americans. On average, Americans get 40% of their food from animals, according to the book “The China Study.” Yet the research about the benefits of a plant-based diet is compelling enough that many adults are making a change in their eating habits anyway – and getting good results.

John Gagan, a self-described “meat and potatoes” man, experienced a dramatic drop in cholesterol after giving up meat and dairy products last summer. The drop was significant enough that Gagan’s doctor took him off one of his cholesterol medications. This is noteworthy for a man who underwent heart bypass surgery four years ago. Gagan reports his energy level is higher. That, too, is typical for individuals who change to a plant-based diet.

Dr. Simpkins made the switch himself six months ago. A fervent exerciser who competes in triathlons, he has always had a lot of energy but sees results with his new eating plan.

“Now I have more energy, and I’m more alert,” says Dr. Simpkins. “Mentally, I feel a huge difference.”

Marjory Leidy lost almost 10% of her body weight after beginning a plant-based diet last summer. Though she wasn’t obese, Leidy had tried different strategies to shed a few extra pounds. When she considered changing her eating habits, she had doubts as to whether she could go without the foods she enjoyed. It turned out to be easy for her.

“I don’t miss animal protein at all,” said Leidy.

Leidy, like other vegetarians and vegans, gets her protein from other sources. Only 10% of a person’s calories should be derived from protein, but the “protein myth” –the claim that it’s impossible to get enough protein from a vegetarian diet– is still strong.

Bill Croft, Ph.D., tackles that myth in his role as chair of the health sciences department and as a whole health educator at Sandhills Community College.

His own life is a testament to the fallacy of the protein myth. A competitive weight- and power-lifter, Dr. Croft’s protein and dietary needs are greater than the average person. He has built the strength and muscle mass he needs while following a vegetarian diet for more than 20 years.

Dr. Croft began transitioning to a vegetarian diet when he was 14. Over many years, he slowly cut back animal products and increased his intake of whole foods. He recommends people interested in changing to a plant-based diet do it slowly.

“It takes several years to become a vegetarian,” says Dr. Croft. “The biggest mistake people make is to try to do it in one day. That’s a recipe for failure.”

Fortunately for followers of a plant-based diet, it’s not as hard as it once was to dine at restaurants. Frances Purcell-Abbott, a vegetarian for 30 years, says she couldn’t eat out at all in the 1970s if she wanted anything more than a salad. Now she can eat almost anywhere she wants and still get quality food. Purcell-Abbott calls ahead to locally-owned, higher-end restaurants to let them know her dietary needs. The eateries are happy to prepare something special for her.

A Southern Pines restaurant, 195 American Fusion, was ahead of the plant-based diet movement, In the 1990s, Milton Pilson and his wife Karen opened the health food store Nature’s Own Market. Pilson often made his own lunch of veggie burgers using a toasting machine on his desk. Over time, customers followed their noses to Pilson’s office and bought veggie burgers from him there. He and his wife knew nothing about the restaurant business, but nonetheless launched a vegetarian eatery based on their customers’ interest. Today the restaurant menu includes non-vegetarian items while keeping its vegetarian roots strong.

Purcell-Abbott says vegetarians “can eat wonderfully” and not just at high-end restaurants. Growing awareness of plant-based diets means many of the chain and fast-food restaurants offer vegetarian- and vegan-friendly dishes, too. Purcell-Abbott finds vegan dishes at Ruby Tuesday, Chili’s, and Moe’s. She gives Moe’s high marks for cooking tofu in a separate container from meat, saying that level of attention to detail is rare.

The ease of finding plant-based meals is good news for people seeking to improve their health by changing how they eat.

“Food is your medicine,” says Dr. Croft. “It’s very powerful. You can harness that power by eating whole foods.”

War and Peace (of Mind)

2011-05-02T10:15:00.001-04:00

Work has been busy, which is a good thing because I love what I do, but it also means I've had less time for this blog. So today, I want to share with you a story I recently wrote.

For this article, I interviewed a man I have never met in person. Knowing he was a Special Forces soldier intimidated me. I don't know why. I think I expected a no-nonsense guy who got right to the point and had low tolerance for my military ignorance.

I also knew I had very little time to get his story. He has begun filming a new television show, which means his time is at a premium between trips out of the country. I asked for 15 minutes of his time. We ended up talking for an hour and a half.

When we concluded the conversation, I felt honored to have the opportunity to be part of telling his story. I was inspired by the peace he feels despite (or perhaps, because of) the bodily devastation he faced.

Read on for the article that appeared in The Pilot (Southern Pines, N.C. http://www.thepilot.com/).

Local War Hero Turned TV Host Supports Sandhills Classical

Greg Stube shouldn’t be alive. The injuries this Green Beret sustained in Afghanistan in 2006’s Operation Medusa were critical.

An IED detonated as Stube and his team headed up a hill during engagement with Taliban forces trying to retake Kandahar. The bomb blast blew his boot off, and splinters of bone pricked through his pants. A one-pound piece of shrapnel pierced Stube’s hip and went into his abdomen.

“All I felt was the pain of the fire in my flesh,” Stube says of the moments after impact. “When you look down beside you and see your intestines in the sand and your foot and ankle still in the boots attached by what looked like ligaments…it was a moment of surrender.”

A soldier from another unit pulled him from the truck. As the only medic on site, Stube coached the soldier on how to save his life. In the hospital, Stube recuperated from third degree burns. Doctors surgically restored his right leg and removed 70% of his intestines. He spent 18 months in a medical facility.

“I shouldn’t have lived. I never witnessed a guy live with the injuries I had,” Stube says.

Stube volunteered for this tour after teaching at Fort Bragg’s Special Warfare Center. His injuries reinforced his commitment to the Army he had served since 1988.

“Lying in a hospital bed and having lost a lot of capabilities, I knew I still wanted to serve in some way,” he says. “Service above self and beyond sacrifice are the fabric of our country.”

He channels his desire to serve into his new roles as author, speaker, and television host. His television show “Coming Home with Greg Stube” begins airing on Sportsman Channel this July. Stube describes his show as a celebration of the ways people exercise freedom in the outdoors. The show is both about hunting and fishing and the local culture in which the hunting and fishing are done.

A typical episode starts with Stube getting coached by a local expert and ends with him exploring the culture and history of the site. In a pilot episode filmed in Kenai, Alaska, Stube fishes the Kenai River and grins widely when he catches his first King Salmon. Moments later, Stube walks to a small forested cemetery. The graves of this Russian Orthodox sacred ground are dotted with American flags. The sight conjures for Stube respect for the people of all backgrounds who came together to serve the nation.

“They remind me that I know little of diversity,” says Stube. “Diversity is really what America is all about.”

It is, Stube says, what makes America strong. His love for his country stems back to his childhood in western Tennessee. The son of a Navy man, Stube entered the Army in the infantry and was targeted for Special Forces four years later in 1992. He has served there with honor since. He is self-effacing about his accomplishments, using humor that shows he is a regular guy.

“I’m not a Green Beret. A Green Beret is a hat,” Stube said in a speech to a national organization.

Despite his humility, Stube has gotten attention from major news outlets. He has been interviewed countless times and speaks often about his experiences and love for his country. Multiple appearances on the Glenn Beck Show spurred the Fox News host’s personal respect for Stube.

“If I were in a battle, the guy I’d want on my side is Sgt. Greg Stube,” Beck says, “because he’s gonna do the right thing no matter how hard, all the time.”

After recovering from his injuries, Stube and his wife Donna could have chosen to live anywhere. Stube says the biggest reason they chose Moore County was because of Sandhills Classical Christian School. It exemplifies, he says, the spirit of service and teaches children to be leaders of integrity.

He and Donna found the school by accident during a drive around town. They thought it looked quaint and were impressed by how well-behaved the children outside were. They visited the school for a tour as soon as they could.

“We sat in Mrs. Proulx’s kindergarten class. Here I am, Special Forces medically qualified, and sitting in her class intimidated me,” says Stube. “I’m not uneducated, and those kids were learning things I didn’t know.”

Today, the Stubes’ son Gregory is a kindergartener at Sandhills Classical Christian School. Stube is lending his help to the school’s fundraiser, Sandhills Cast & Blast: A Day at King Fisher on May 14, because he wants to support its efforts to add classroom space.

“I’m attempting to bring attention and honor to any of the institutions that exist to develop character and role models,” he says. “I think one of those institutions is Sandhills Classical Christian School.”

The day before the event, Stube is bringing his television crew to film at King Fisher Society. A speaker represented by the elite Premiere Speakers Bureau, Stube will also be speaking at the conclusion of the Sandhills Cast & Blast.

After a day that includes bass fishing, 5-stand clay shooting, a falconry demonstration and entertainment by national storyteller Mitch Capel, Stube is sharing his story. The audience will get a sneak peek of the thoughts in his new book, “Service Beyond Sacrifice,” due out this fall.

Tickets are $50 to hear him speak and attend the auction and $300 for the full day. For more information, visit www.sandhillsclassic.com.

Though his passion for the school is personal, it’s just one way Stube is carrying a message he feels he owes to his fellow Americans.

“I consider it a citizenship obligation to share my story,” he says. “When I show people pictures of holes in my body, they understand. I want to increase awareness of how all citizens, not just soldiers, give service. And Sandhills Classical Christian School is giving service and creating leadership for future generations.”

Sugarholics (Not) Anonymous

2011-03-02T10:32:00.004-05:00

If you have a healthy relationship with food, congratulations. For the rest of us, let’s talk.

Last night, I consumed a shocking number of fresh-from-the oven brownies. When I say “shocking,” I mean your jaw would have dropped in disbelief and disgust had you seen it. I ate like a starved woman. Greedily. So fast the crumbs flew like fur on a fighting dog. And licking my fingers as I went.

I looked a little like Bruce Boxtrotter from the movie "Matilda."

But let me back up. I woke up one day about two years ago and realized I felt like crap. I’d felt crappy about my appearance for a while, so it wasn’t that. No, this revelation was a knowledge that my lifestyle was depleting my enjoyment of life.

You can be fat while also being happy and healthy. I wasn’t. I was just fat. I wanted to change that. I wanted be happy and healthy, and I wanted it more than I wanted to fit in a size 6 again.

It was on that day of epiphany that I stopped caring how much I weighed and started caring about taking care of myself. I made a change here (exercising). I made a change there (reducing portion sizes).

Slowly, I made manageable and incremental changes. I didn’t have a 12-point plan, nor was I on a timetable. I just focused on how I felt, and once I subconsciously mastered one change, I moved to the next without even thinking about it.

Of all my changes, going to a plant-based diet back in September made the most dramatic difference. More energy? Check. All-around sense of well-being? Check. Weight loss? Check.

And though I hesitate to even write this for fear that I’m jinxing myself, I haven’t had a single respiratory issue since going vegetarian. This is huge for me. I used to get colds every other month. I got sinus infections as least once a quarter. Those sicknesses were a normal part of my life. I can’t explain why they’re gone now that I’ve changed how I eat. But they are, and I’m happy about it.

I feel great, but there’s been one issue hanging over my head. Sugar. Mmmm, sugar. It brings out the cave dweller in me: Me want sugar.

I eat sugar every day. I’m not even talking about the sugar that’s in regular foods like fruits or cereals or hidden in surprising places like soy sauce. No, when I say I want sugar, I mean I want massive amounts of chocolate or freshly baked anything: cake, muffin, cookie, pie, whatever.

I’ve known for a long time that sugar is a problem for me. I enjoy it, but it’s more than that. Sugar calms me and soothes me. It’s almost like a sedative. Especially at nighttime (it hits me around 9 o’clock), I need my fix.

A couple of weeks ago, I was hit over the head about my unhealthy relationship with sugar. I read a women’s magazine over breakfast and randomly turned to a page that said in big letters: “What food has a hold over you?” “Sugar,” I answered silently. A few moments later, I logged on to Facebook and saw a friend’s post, “People ask me how I stay healthy. One of the biggest factors is reducing sugar.” I read my daily devotion. Believe it or not, this Christian writer had written about…sugar.

I gave up sugar that day. I didn’t say forever. I took it hour by hour, day by day. It went well.

Until yesterday. I thought about sugar from the moment I woke up. I wanted to bake Ina Garten’s chocolate cake as soon as I got dressed. Then, I considered tearing into Bella’s stash of Valentine’s candy. When I got desperate, I even considered eating Patrick’s Thin Mints.

This is the bag that was my demise.

I resisted all of them until about 6 o’clock. I opened the pantry to get olive oil, and hidden behind my oils and vinegars, I saw it: “All Natural 8 Grain Brownie Mix.” Friends had brought the mix to us months ago and I forgot all about it. I pulled the package out and read the ingredients. Flours made from barley, oat, soy, buckwheat, corn, and more. How healthy, I thought. Surely, this would be a constructive way to indulge my craving.

Happily, I started mixing it together. When Patrick got home, I announced, “I’m having sugar –lots of it– and I don’t want you to talk me out of it.”

He didn’t.

The brownies soothed the savage beast in me…that’s truly what it felt like. I went from frenzied to calm in two bites. Which would have been ok, maybe, if I’d stopped at two bites. Of course I didn’t. Remember what I said earlier about crumbs flying?

It. Was. Awesome. Until about 15 minutes after I finished. Then I felt crappy. Not just about my lack of control, but physically. I felt ill.

It’s worse this morning. I’m having flashbacks to a morning my freshman year in college. After trying kegstands for the first and only time, I woke up not knowing how I got in bed but knowing that I needed to find a bathroom and fast. I think that’s why I loathe beer to this day.

I wish my sugar hangover today would have the same effect as the over indulgence in beer. But probably not. Unlike alcohol, which I can take or leave, sugar is my major addiction. I hope to get to the point that I can savor baked goods and extraordinarily good chocolate rather than using them like sedating drugs.

I’m going to take it hour by hour. Day by day. And if you see me sneaking a baked good, ask me if I’m truly enjoying it.

Religion in a Tiara

2011-02-28T10:12:00.001-05:00

Last week was the long-awaited spelling bee. I met my goal: my team was not the first to go out, nor did we go out in the first round. Add to the victory that I got to wear a fancy dress, hair extensions and a tiara while supporting literacy, and it was a great night for me.

But there was some disappointment in the auditorium. Twenty-two teams of three competed for top honors in spelling, costume, stage presence, and amount of money raised. We were there for the Literacy Council, but all 66 people plus the hundreds of fans supporting them were deeply invested in the event personally.

One person studied the dictionary for an hour a day the last few weeks. One team started studying a full year before the bee. Elaborate costumes showed that teams put a lot of thought and effort in their themes. I saw a Roman soldier ready for battle. The B-52s rocked the house with the love shack and bee hives tall enough to brush doorway tops. Darth Vader and his minions –plus a cute kid as Yoda– dominated the stage.

So it’s not a surprise that after the bee I heard people beating themselves up. “I’m not smart enough.” “I should have studied more. “We put so much work into our costumes and it wasn’t good enough.” “We just didn’t measure up to the other teams.”

It’s easy to get sucked into that thinking. I was feeling high from a fun night, but the more I heard the negativity, it rubbed off on me. I started to rail on myself. Why hadn't I studied? How could I not know a five-letter word? (It was dolor; look it up.)

Then as suddenly as I started, I stopped. I heard God. No, not audibly. Rather, I heard in my head the truths that come from a relationship with a being greater than one’s self. Whatever I do, whether I fail or succeed, however intelligent I am, none of it matters to my God. And therefore, it shouldn’t matter to me. What does matter is my character and how I show love to the people around me.

That’s the cool thing about religion. By focusing on a higher being, we take our eyes off ourselves. Rather than being defined by our latest success, we are defined by simply being. Rather than looking at ourselves, we look to how we treat others.

The spelling bee was a good reminder for me. Sometimes I get so caught up in my life, my aspirations, and desires that I forget to look beyond me me me. Or I swing the other way and wallow on my failures and shortcomings. Neither is a place of peace. Real peace comes from focusing on the things that God intends for my life.

On the night of the spelling bee, I came into the auditorium thinking about me. I left the auditorium with the serenity of knowing that it’s not about me. My moment of spiritual enlightenment came in a tiara.

Macaroni and Gandhi

2011-02-05T17:15:00.001-05:00

I finally made it to the big time! I spelled my way to the top, earning the title of spelling bee champion of my school.

Year after year, I had been the top speller in my class only to crumble in the school-wide spell-off. But not in eighth grade. That was the year I made it to the county spelling bee. Already, visions of the national spelling bee danced in my head.

I arrived at the county office ready to spell but also ready to vomit. Then judges walked in to the small room where we awkward teens and pre-teens sat with clammy hands. Among the judges was none other than my school principal, the tall, thin, smoky-voiced and very scary Mr. Chestnut. My stomach clenched even more. What if I didn’t win the bee? What if, instead, I messed up on an easy word, embarrassing my school and my principal?

I did ok in the first few rounds. I settled into my groove and my nerves steadied. Then I got the word that would haunt me for the rest of my life. Macaroni.

Macaroni? Seriously, this was a county spelling bee word? For every other round of the bee, I’d painstakingly pronounced each letter, careful to avoid letting the wrong letter slip out. But macaroni? Puh-leez. I had this one in the bag.

“Macaroni. M-A-C-C-A-R-O-N-I. Macaroni.” I sucked in a deep breath, relieved that I’d survived another round.

Mr. Chestnut shook his head, and I heard the dreaded words: “Have a seat, Miss Stepp.”

I was stunned, sure my ears had deceived me. But I soon saw from the judges’ faces that I had not misunderstood. My face reddened, and I scurried to a seat next to my mother. What had gone wrong? Mama hugged me and delivered the news that I had inserted an extra “c” into this most pedestrian word.

Macaroni isn’t just a pasta anymore. It’s a black mark on my record. I’ve come to realize that knowing how to spell something in my mind is different from saying it loud. Especially when I feel under pressure.

That pressure isn’t just on a stage with my principal watching. Sadly, I crumble even in friendly games. It happened on a February night six years ago when Patrick and I played Cranium against another couple. (Given our competitive natures and the smack talk we spew, Patrick and I found it’s best for our marriage if we play on the same team.) We were poised to win. It was ours to lose when the opposing team drew a spelling card for us. Or “gnilleps” card as it’s known in Cranium because you have to spell the word backwards without writing it down. Patrick looked at me smugly; spelling’s my thing. Right?

“Gandhi,” said my friend. “Without writing it down, spell Gandhi backwards.”

I couldn’t believe our good luck! I thought for a fraction of a second before blazing ahead confidently. “I-D-H-N-A-G.”

“Arghhhhh!” and “Woo hoooo!” I barely heard my husband’s cry of dismay under my friends’ loud whoops of glee.

And that’s why I have low expectations for my role in the upcoming Moore County Spelling Bee for Literacy. Put on by the Literacy Council, this adult spelling bee supports a great cause and one in which I believe.

This year the magazine OutreachNC is sponsoring a team and asked me to be one of their three representatives. We’ve got a good team. Cos Barnes is a local writer and book review queen; her deftness with words inspires my confidence. Jennifer George works in geriatric care but has definite literary leanings; she’s a bit of a local character, too, which makes her a fun person to be around. (Knowing Jennifer, she is –at this very moment as she reads this– screaming at the computer screen: “A bit of a character? A bit? I’ll show you character.”)

Considering our team’s skill with words and the fact that in this bee we get to write the word down before spelling it aloud, I was feeling pretty confident about our chances to take home the grand prize. Until Jennifer and Cos made it clear that, though they were excited to participate, they were counting on me for the heavy lifting.

It’s a mistake, I want to scream at them. You don’t know about the macaroni debacle. You don’t know about the Cranium fiasco.

I choke under pressure.

They don't know, but I know. So in this spelling challenge, I’m keeping my expectations in check. My lofty goal in the Spelling Bee for Literacy is to stay in until at least the second round. And I pray, pray, pray not to be the team listed in our local newspaper as the first team out.

But if the judges ask us to spell macaroni, I’m ready.

Happiness in a Bottle?

2011-02-02T11:05:00.001-05:00

So you can’t find happiness in a prescription bottle. And you can’t find it in a tequila bottle. Sadly, you can’t even find it in the bottle of expensive eye cream that promised to lift and smooth imperfections.

But I am finding happiness in a bottle. This bottle.

In October my friend Theresa asked me if I could stand in for her husband for a charitable run. I laughed her off. Me? Running?

There was a time when I ran. But it was eons ago and I was never good at it. I ran because aerobics got boring and everybody I knew ran. So I did it, and I liked it ok. But definitely the word “runner” wouldn’t be the first word I or anyone else would use to describe me.

Theresa assured me we didn’t have to run. We could run/walk. But that scared me too. How could I, with barely enough stamina to run a block and let’s not talk about the extra pounds on my body, gather the courage to even stand among a throng of runners?

Three things convinced me to do it:

If I didn’t, Theresa would be alone.
I’d be setting a good example for my daughter, who I had entered in the children’s portion of the run.
The absurdity of my fear and anxiety. Afraid to run/walk? Afraid of how I’d look? Seriously? If I was scared about something so insignificant, I’d be setting myself up for all kinds of other lurking fears to take hold.

So I agreed. When I showed up on a cold December morning for the 5k portion of the Reindeer Run, I was pleased to see all shapes and sizes. There were serious runners for sure, but there were also regular people who came just to support the charity.

Theresa warned me that when the horn sounded for runners to go that we had to run. Otherwise we’d get trampled by the speed demons. We took off with everyone else. At first, the mass of people moved slowly as everyone settled into their individual paces.

Then as the fast runners started edging around us and Theresa and I picked up our pace, I felt something surprising. It felt great to run! It’s been a long long long time since I felt that sensation of stretching my legs and heart. Though I’m a Zumba aficionado, it’s just not as taxing on my body as running.

I brought along our Golden Retriever who yearns to run but got stuck with a family of readers instead of a family of outdoor enthusiasts. She kept Theresa and me motivated. When we tired, we walked. When we wanted to run, we ran. Ultimately, we finished the 5k around the same time the 10k runners began barreling in. In fact, I think we finished the same time the speed walkers did.

It’s ok. Because at the end of the Reindeer Run, I felt contented. I was intimidated by something, but I did it anyway.

Every time I reach for the water bottle I got at the end of the Reindeer Run, I’m filled with pleasant memories. The memory of running. The memory of completion.

But my bottle is a visible reminder of something greater. While completing a 5k is a small thing, it’s the small things that add up. By tackling the small things one by one, I can achieve bigger things.

I started with one writing client four years ago. Now paid work is steady enough that I have little time for my fun writing (like this blog). I went vegetarian five months ago. I’ve gone down a whole clothing size without changing anything else. I did a 5k. Now I want to try other things. Up next: flying via the vertical wind tunnel. (Pictures to follow!)

I’d love to hear what small things in your life have ultimately enriched your life in bigger ways.

War on Xmas

2010-12-01T10:42:00.002-05:00

Unless you’re very very lucky, you have been or will be disenfranchised, discriminated against, or marginalized at some point. It may be because of your age, gender, beliefs, or hair color.

You’ll feel offended or hurt, and sometimes, you have to rise to the occasion and fight. Faced with a social injustice, you’re called to defend yourself and those who suffer with you.

But other times –let’s face it– we look for reasons to be upset. We search out examples of how we’ve been marginalized or offended. Then we nitpick and nitpick that point until no one listens anymore.

Case in point: Christmas. Every year, people get worked up about semantics instead of enjoying this holy and joyous season.

When people write “xmas,” it’s a conspiracy to remove Christ from Christmas. When a store clerk greets us with “Happy holidays,” retailers are plotting to devalue Christians. The prevalence of Santa Claus is a scheme to get us to idolize a myth over a divine baby.

Somebody somewhere is fuming over these slights right now. And there are times to get worked up. In 2002, the New York City public school system banned the display of nativity scenes but allowed the display of menorahs and the Muslim star and crescent. That gets my heart rate up. That’s an injustice worth defending.

But mostly, people have innocent reasons for the things they say and do during the month of December. I admit to writing xmas in place of Christmas because it saves me five whole letters.

My own laziness aside, it’s ok to write xmas. The use of X in place of Christ traces back to the church. In the 15th century when typesetting and printing were expensive, the church substituted the X, Greek for Christ, to save money. (This article from the Christian Resource Institute tells the history well.)

People who say “happy holidays” are usually trying to be nice. Rather than risk wishing you a very merry celebration of Christ’s birth only to find out you’re Jewish and awaiting the Messiah, they’ll keep their sentiments holiday-neutral.

Or maybe they’re conserving on words. It’s a mouthful, after all, to say, “Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy Kwanzaa, happy New Year’s, plus any other observance you may honor but I don’t know about.”

But to feel affronted that someone wished you happy holidays or enjoys the tradition of Santa Claus? It robs you of your pleasure in a happy time of year.

I like what Christian author Margaret Feinberg had to say about our tendency to be easily offended: “We all feel marginalized in some way. Get over it! Extend grace. Move on.”

To me, that grace means accepting others’ observances, whether it’s to celebrate Jesus’ birth, the re-dedication of the Holy Temple of Jerusalem, or full-on retail gluttony. We may not agree on the cause for celebration, but we can nonetheless wish each other happiness.

Merry Christmas!

A Scrooge with my Time

2010-11-29T14:27:00.001-05:00

“We should do something to give back at Christmas!” I declared to my husband many years ago. “Volunteer in a soup kitchen, deliver gifts to families who can’t afford them, just anything to give to others in the true spirit of the day.”

I had no plan for how to make it happen. It was just one of those vague “I’d like to do this someday…” kind of thoughts.

Last Christmas, my husband offered me a great opportunity to live up to my aspiration. He suggested we get up early Christmas morning and help distribute bicycles to children, some of whom wouldn’t receive any other gift.

It was a wonderful idea and a worthy cause. But leave my perfectly crafted Christmas tradition? Yikes. Fact is, when faced with the chance to turn my good intentions into actions, I only wanted to do it if it was convenient for me.

Patrick and I severed ourselves from family obligation years ago to create our own Christmas tradition. We wanted our family -which was just the two of us back then, but we were looking to the future- to have a Christmas rhythm of its own.

Here’s what we envisioned. We’d be awakened by the sound of little feet running noisily down the stairs. We’d smell croissants that were left to rise overnight. We’d gather round the tree with our coffee to watch our child delight in new gifts. We’d cap it off my reading the story of Jesus’ birth. We’d stay in our pajamas until we ate Christmas dinner. It would be a leisurely and slow morning filled with the laughter of children in a warm house.

My expectation of Christmas was heavily dependent on how the day began. I wanted to be laid back and unhurried. I did not want to leave the house until my Christmas vision had come to fruition.

I really did want to help others. Just not in the morning.

But Patrick was intent on helping distribute free bicycles on Christmas morning. I saw how important it was to him, and I love him. So I wanted to make it happen despite my own selfish idea of what Christmas morning should look like. I agreed to help out at Project Santa.

Patrick, on the other hand, saw how important our Christmas morning tradition was to me, and because he loves me, he suggested a compromise.

“I’ll go help for a while. You and Bella just watch,” he said. “Even stay in the car if you want. This way, Bella can still play with her toys, and you can have a somewhat leisurely morning.”

It’s embarrassing to admit I was relieved by his suggestion. It sounded like a reasonable compromise. So, come Christmas morning, we drank coffee, delighted in Bella’s excitement, and headed out for Project Santa. Patrick with a spirit for living out the meaning of Christmas, and me with a spirit of trudging along for the ride.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when we arrived at the supermarket that served as the distribution center. Hundreds of people waited in the cold and rain for a bicycle. Dozens of volunteers faithfully handed out bikes and hot chocolate. Children of all ages rode their new bicycles around the parking lot. Everyone was smiling and laughing; not one person was deterred by the weather or long wait.

I should tell you that the bicycles given away are not necessarily new. Some of them are new, thanks to cash donations. But most are cast-offs, bikes donated because their owners either didn’t need or want them anymore. Volunteers refurbish the used bikes, sometimes using the parts of several bikes to make one fit for riding.

Yet even these used bikes were a joy to their new owners. I heard whoops of joy all around me. I was so moved by the sight of this love that I cried.

Then I cried at my selfishness. I was so intent on my precious tradition that I didn’t even think about others. Living, breathing fellow human beings who need care and tenderness and love. They needed it especially on this day when we celebrate the gift of Christ.

Project Santa lives out that gift: pure love and putting others first. Volunteers work year-round to collect and refurbish bikes. Their work culminates in a single morning. The happy children whose Christmas was transformed in the parking lot of a supermarket showed me what happens when you put your own interests aside.

The next time I’m presented with an opportunity to put my actions where my ideals are –whether it’s morning, noon, or night or even inconvenient- I’m taking it.

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

If you’d like to help, here’s how:

Bring your new or used bike to Bill Smith Ford in Southern Pines, N.C.
Send a check to Sharon Thompson, care of Project Santa, at 291 S. Mechanic St., Southern Pines, NC 28387.
Or join the fun at Bo’s Food Store in Southern Pines on Christmas morning.

An article about Project Santa appears here starting December 1.

The Palatable Pig

2010-10-27T11:14:00.000-04:00

Once there was a pig named Petunia. When she first came to our house, she was a tiny pink thing whose oinks sounded more like squeaks.

My sister used to walk her around our yard on a leash, parading her past a jealous dachshund and put-out cat. I played with Petunia as if she were a puppy. In my seven-year-old brain, I was sure I’d never love another creature as much as I loved her.

Petunia grew up. She got too big to walk on a leash. She was too heavy to frolic with a little girl.

But I still adored her, so I visited her every day. I got into the pen with her and petted her as I scooped food into her trough. My father admonished me every time, reminding me to be careful of her hooves that could easily crush my feet.

One day, Petunia disappeared. When I asked my parents about her, I got non-committal answers and averted eyes. I wondered and worried about Petunia for a few days. But being a fickle child with many interests, I admit my attention was soon diverted by tree-climbing and bike riding.

One Sunday morning, my family had breakfast together. It was what we always did, but this breakfast was different, set apart by the quality of the particularly delicious bacon we enjoyed.

“This is the best bacon we’ve ever had!” I exclaimed.

But even as the words tumbled from my mouth, bells rang somewhere in the back of my mind, putting facts together.

“Wait a minute,” I said, my voice suddenly solemn. “This bacon is Petunia, isn’t it?”

My parents confirmed it. My brother smirked.

I sat back, looking with new eyes at the bacon. I knew bacon came from pigs, but I’d never thought of it in the context of a certain pig. My pig.

I waffled back and forth. Delicious bacon. Beloved pet. Delicious bacon. Beloved pet. Delicious bacon. Should I push away the plate or take another bite?

I silently thanked Petunia for her sacrifice and took another bite.

I felt bad, but this was the order of things. I saw it all the time. My father was a butcher by trade. When I visited him at work, I saw different meats transformed at the blade of his knife.

At our house, he kept a walk-in cooler for our own meat. Because of his expertise, his friends and friends of friends routinely brought their fresh kills by for my dad to dress. I have never someone kill a deer, but I’ve seen many a deer contorted in the bed of a pick-up truck, blood dripping from the bumper onto my family’s driveway.

These memories burbled up when my 30-day trial as a vegetarian concluded on October 15.

Now I can eat whatever I want, but I have little appetite for meat. It’s partly because I’m happy with my new-found energy. I’m less sluggish and feel lighter.

It’s also because I’m conflicted about eating animals. I’m headed down the path to a new world, a meatless world, but what if I want meat one day? And what if no one wants to have us over for dinner anymore because I’m labeled difficult to feed? Worse yet, what if my mother-in-law is offended when I don’t eat her meatballs?

My brain gets tired worrying about all the what-ifs, so I think, like everything in life, I can only focus on today.

And today, I’m remembering a small pig that once slept in my lap.

Cheeseburger in Paradise

2010-10-06T12:07:00.000-04:00

A few days into my vegetarian life, I turned on the radio in the middle of a Buffett classic. His voice rang clear, singing the siren song of my tastebuds.

I like mine with lettuce and tomato
Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes
Big kosher pickle and a cold draft beer

Oh, the temptation!

Though if I wrote my own lyrics, it would be more like:

I like mine with blue cheese and some bacon
Caramelized onions and fried sweet potatoes
Big side salad and a glass of syrah

When the song ended and the deejay announced it was National Cheeseburger Day, I felt earnestly my duty to embrace this commemoration. Must. Get. Cheeseburger.

I resisted.

Other than that day and the occasional junk food craving –please, Lord, let Bella eat all those chicken nuggets before I give in– my 30-day experiment has been surprisingly easy and exciting.

Exciting because I’m branching out in my cooking. My husband noticed this first.

“Dinner has been delicious every night,” he said. “You’re trying interesting things, not just relying on the stand-bys.”

It’s true I’d been in a bit of a cooking rut. Every week, we ate tilapia cooked in one of three ways. Twice a week, I pulled chicken out of the freezer and threw something together last-minute. And in the summer herb season, I made pesto a lot. Pesto pasta. Pesto chicken. Pesto salmon. Pesto pizza.

I can see how that got tiring.

Instead, as vegetarians we’ve tried something new almost every night. It’s been easy thanks to the vegetarian friends who rallied with their favorite recipes and loaned me cookbooks. The calzones filled with eggplant, sundried tomatoes, and shallots stand out as one of the best dishes.

Eating out can be an adventure. Some restaurants have great vegetarian food, and others, well...no.

And then, I’ve been surprised by the places that do have good vegetable-rich dishes. I was on the UNC-Pembroke campus this week and dreaded the options that awaited me in the cafeteria. I expected brown iceberg lettuce smothered in greasy ranch dressing. Surprise! They had a garden fresh quesadilla which was so delicious I’m going to try to recreate it at home.

There have been some unintended side effects of my decision to go meat-free and eat more fruits and vegetables:
• I’ve dramatically reduced the amount of packaged foods I eat. Good news!
• I’m eating more bread. I have no idea why bread is suddenly so appealing to me, but it’s bad news for any weight loss aspirations.
• I think chicken is gross. Really, really gross.

As to the side effect I hoped to see from this experiment? I don’t know if I have more energy. I’m holding off on my final analysis until I reach the 30-day mark on October 15.

Until then, I’m singing
Herbivore in paradise (paradise)
Heaven on earth with spinach and rice (paradise)
Give me some fennel and an apple slice (paradise)
I'm just an herbivore in paradise

The Jerry Springer Effect

2010-10-01T10:46:00.004-04:00

Someone vomited on me in the grocery store last week.

Ok, so this woman didn’t literally hurl, but I felt as if she had. She told me details of her life that I don’t want to know about anybody. Other details were sad and tough to hear.

All of it was entirely inappropriate to hear in line at Harris Teeter.

Like why she and her husband decided to divorce (and really, I think she held back zero information about it). What she’s doing to handle her daughter’s emotional problems. How her menstrual cycle has changed after the birth of her second child (yep, that’s the one I don’t want to know). How much money she earns and how behind her ex-husband is on child support.

What’s stranger than the TMI is that I’d met this woman only once before. It was in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. I use the word “met” loosely. She didn’t introduce herself. Though I can tell you how much her pants cost and where she bought them, I still don’t know her name.

I wonder why we feel compelled to share intimate details of our lives with people who may or may not care about what we’re dealing with.

My friend Anne and I call this experience the U Bus of Life. In Chapel Hill, the U bus loops around the entire campus, making it possible for South Campus students to easily get to Franklin Street on days that, say, cute shoes trump sensible footwear.

Anne and I noticed something strange on our rides to and from Franklin. Unlike city buses, where people generally avoid acknowledging the existence of other human beings, the U bus had the opposite effect. Strangers on this bus routinely shared intimate information about their lives.

I always got off the bus feeling dirty and soiled, like I should run back to the dorm to shower.

This tell-all Jerry Springer phenomenon is not limited to strangers. Sometimes good friends cross the line.

I know I have.

When something hits me hard, turning me upside down and sending me into shellshock, I sometimes spew out random personal information indiscriminately. I blush just thinking of all the times that’s happened.

Other times, I share personal information and wonder why I did. It felt right in the moment, but I leave the encounter feeling vulnerable. Intermingled with the vulnerability is a twinge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I said what someone else needed to hear. In the act of being honest and genuine, maybe I helped another person who’s facing the same thing.

A friend did that for me this week. She told me about a faith struggle she’s having. Amazingly, I’ve been facing the same struggle. Instead of feeling like I just got TMI from my friend, I felt comforted. I was not alone in my experience.

So I couldn’t relate to the woman blurting out her problems in the grocery store. And yes, I felt more than a little uncomfortable hearing it.

But I suspect she’s feeling shell-shocked, a feeling I can relate to.

If it made her feel even the tiniest bit better to voice her problems to a stranger, I think I can handle a little vomit.
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Photo courtesy wireimage.com.

Permission to Give up

2010-09-24T16:35:00.004-04:00

My daughter ran to me, arms outstretched and a smile on her face.

“I did it, Mommy!” she squealed. “I didn’t give up. I persevered.”

The object of her perseverance was mastering scissors. Bella had successfully cut something to her satisfaction.

This was a big deal to her. I felt happy for Bella. Happy she made something in which she took pride for a job well done. Happy she didn’t give up.

Something nagged at me, though. Clearly, Patrick and I have taught Bella the importance of seeing something through. That’s a good thing. We recognize as a society the value of persistence and stick-to-itiveness.

On the other hand, the absoluteness of the concept of perseverance bothered me. What about those times when quitting is the best thing to do? Sometimes we commit to something we later realize we don’t even like. Or we commit to something and realize our priorities lie elsewhere.

Should we persevere just for the sake of patting ourselves on the back for our doggedness?

I’ve given up a few times in my life, and sometimes it was the right thing. The first time I remember admitting defeat was when I tried sewing.

My mother sews. She sews well enough that she made wedding dresses for three of her daughters. She sewed all my window treatments, and they’re beautiful. When I was little, I wanted to be just like her. I told Mom that I wanted to learn to sew, and lessons began.

Sewing, it turns out, is not my thing. The word “disaster” comes to mind. After months of lessons, it was clear I would never sew like my mother. I gave up, and today, I admire my mother’s artistry while feeling happy that I can do minor repairs like stitching on buttons.

I turned my attention, instead, to another of my mother’s talents I admire: baking. Today I remain committed to baking despite lots of flops.

Quitting was a good thing because it opened me up to a lifetime hobby that fits me.

But the best time I ever threw in the towel, admitting I was officially giving up was in 2008. That was the year of three pregnancy losses. I felt emotionally spent. Raw. One day, I looked at my family –Patrick, coincidentally, was on bedrest from back surgery– and saw their neglect. I had been so focused on conceiving and birthing three more children that I deserted my duties as wife and mother.

I decided the emotional rollercoaster of getting pregnant and losing a pregnancy simply wasn’t worth it given the toll on my family.

Still, I felt like a quitter. I know many women who have trouble conceiving, and I admire their resolve to have a baby despite obstacles. Why couldn’t I persevere? Why didn’t I have the stamina to keep trying for a baby while also tending to my family?

Earlier this month, I saw my quitting in a new light. Patrick, Bella, and I spent the first few days of September at Disney World. One day, we wandered the parks hungry and drenched in sweat from the heat. Those two things would normally combine to make me edgy and grumpy.

Instead, I looked at my husband and daughter and felt euphoric. We’re a team. We have that elusive thing: happiness.

Why, I didn’t give up after all. I persevered! After all, through marriage and the decision to have a child, I pledged to nurture, put first, and love my family. Leaving behind the dream of more children gave me the time and energy to honor the commitment to Patrick and Bella.

The day after announcing, “I persevered,” Bella came home with another example of her resolve.

I keep this little horse on our kitchen table. It reminds me to not only persevere, but to persevere with the right thing. Sometimes, perseverance can mean dedication to another –and greater– goal.

An Experiment in Vegetarianism

2010-09-20T17:06:00.000-04:00

I like cheeseburgers and filet mignon. I’d eat foie gras every day if I could. My dining staples tend to be chicken and salmon, but I eat more bacon than I want to admit.

But for thirty days, I’m forgetting all that and switching to a plant-based diet.

I researched vegetarianism for an article, and the facts* and anecdotes were compelling. One cardiac doctor told me he feels more alert than ever. A meat-and-potatoes man went off his cholesterol medication after going vegan. But what I heard over and over from everybody I talked to was this: “I have so much more energy.”

More energy? I could use some of that. I’m happy to forego meat forever if it means a little more pep in my step.

I’m on day six of my 30-day experiment in vegetarian living. My goal is simple. Avoid animal flesh; eat more fruits and vegetables.

So far, I’ve made a roasted vegetable tart, brown rice gratin, veggie pizza, stuffed artichokes, and zucchini feta cakes. Everything has been tasty, and I’m learning something new every day.

I’ve learned, for example, that it’s possible to be vegetarian and still eat an unhealthy diet. Some recipes are loaded with butter or cheese. Other recipes, like a big bowl of pasta with a couple of asparagus tips thrown in, simply don’t have much of a nutritional punch.

I’m learning I need a little more seasoning. Take the brown rice gratin. I give it high marks for nutritional value, texture, and visual appeal. On the other hand, it was a little bland (please pass the cholula).

I got a crash course in dining out as a vegetarian –and in testing my self-control– this weekend. Our friends, Paula and Doug, visited from New York. If I were to classify my friends, I would call Paula and Doug our Decadent Friends. We once had a four-hour lunch at Red’s Bistro in Toronto, after which we walked off our meal just in time for dinner reservations across town.

This weekend, we went out to a restaurant where my dish of choice is always the coconut shrimp. I watched Paula bite into plump, crisp shrimp while I ate a salad. With a plate piled high of tender greens, fresh pineapple, and pear, I didn’t regret my choice at all.

The meals I’ve eaten have filled and sated me. I expected to crave meat. Maybe it’s too early to have a craving.

In case I do have one, though, I’m counting on the pressure of going public with my experiment to keep me in line. I’ll resist those delectable Chick-fil-a nuggets a little easier knowing that someone might see if I sneak one.

As to whether my new eating plan gives me what I really crave –more energy– I’ll let you know.

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*Many studies are available on the internet, but the book “The China Study” presents compelling research about the effects of a plant-based diet on common diseases.

Ghosts of Younger Me

2010-08-30T13:38:00.001-04:00

I don’t know when I turned into a scaredy cat.

But I remember clearly the moment I realized that’s what I was.

My roller blades were firmly fastened. A flat parking lot stretched in front of me. It was the perfect spot to ease back into a hobby I’d once enjoyed.

It had been several years since I rollerbladed. Even on my best days, I’d never been very good at it. I wasn’t particularly fast. I wasn’t the steadiest on my feet. I’d accumulated a lot of skinned knees and bloody elbows on the uneven brick walkways in Chapel Hill. But I loved every minute of it.

Over time, jobs and real life put a stop to my pastime. I packed up my rollerblades and packed in the business suits.

A few years later, I moved into a new house –my first home as a married woman– and unpacked box after box of useless junk. That’s where I found my rollerblade gear.

Bounding with enthusiasm at the vision of newlyweds blading around town, I urged Patrick to buy rollerblades that very day. He agreed.

To make his first run less intimidating, I chose the smooth parking lot near our house for Patrick’s foray into rollerblading. He took to it immediately, gliding confidently around the lot.

I, on the other hand, stood frozen. I couldn’t move. The pavement under my feet seemed miles away. I was terrified of falling. Afraid of falling while raised just three inches off the ground.

I knew that day I’d lost some of my courage. I’d become someone who was afraid.

The girl who saw scrapes and bruises as proof of a life well-lived was gone. I let her go. I was too afraid and too drained by the prospect of recapturing her.

Every once in a while, though, I see a glimpse of that girl, the younger me.

When I run with my daughter through the spray fountain at the pool, the icy water takes my breath away. For those few seconds, I remember running as fast as my six-year-old legs would carry me, belly-flopping onto the backyard slip-and-slide.

Sometimes Bella asks me to teach her how to cartwheel. As I turn upside down in our yard, I can almost smell the chalk and stinky gym, remembering how thrilling it felt to cartwheel on a balance beam for the first time.

When she charms me into slipping down the sliding pole at the park, I feel tree bark, not smooth metal, under my hands. I see palms calloused from daily shimmies down my favorite climbing tree.

Catching glimpses of younger me feels good. It also reminds me how simple life was back then, leading me to reconsider: am I a scaredy cat? Grown-up risks are different but no less scary and no less thrilling.

I gave myself wholly to someone in marriage, and it feels brave and exhilarating.

I have a child. Life with my daughter presents a new adventure every day.

I boogie away in Zumba –not a pretty sight, I assure you– and get the same high I used to get from climbing the tallest trees.

Even putting my thoughts and opinions on a blog requires reserves of courage.

So I don’t rollerblade around town. That girl, that younger me, is still in there. I still fall down. I still have scrapes and bruises. They're proof of a life well-lived.

Felled Trees and Good Friends

2010-08-23T14:13:00.003-04:00

I live here.

Patrick wanted this house because of the porch. He likes to sit in a rocker and drink his Arnold Palmer, a half-and-half mix of lemonade and sweet tea.

I fell in love with the pine trees. The gentlest of breezes sways the tops of the longleaf pines, filling the air with a gentle whisper. The trees tower over our home, reminding me of their majesty and God’s greatness.

Here’s what I see when I look out my back window.

The view from our front porch used to be similar. In a quiet subdivision, we were lucky to find a house fronted and backed by empty lots. We even had an empty lot to one side. These were properties boasting a plethora of dignified pine trees. Being surrounded by them gave me a sense of being cocooned in nature.

Then came the surveyors. I felt dread and disappointment.

I called my mother, a retired realtor. “Can surveyors mean anything besides construction?” I wanted to know.

I got my answer shortly when a crew came and clear-cut all three properties, save a tree here and there.

My mother chirped optimistically, “I bet a family with children is going to move in, and you’ll end up being lifetime friends.”

I only half-heard her as my mind wandered, envisioning the worst neighbors I could conjure. The next few months passed slowly, constant construction sounds (or, as I called them, sounds of destruction) taking my mind to the felled pine trees.

Then one spring day, I saw a young couple entering the house. A little boy who looked to be 3 or so walked with them. The woman, dare I hope, looked like she was expecting.

I kept my hope in check. “Ok, so my mother was on to something with anticipating a young family,” I thought. “Still, we may not like each other.”

When the family moved in, I took lemon bars over to them. The couple, Chris and Lee Ann, seemed nice and normal. I learned their son Garrett was 3 years old and that they were expecting another son in a few months.

The next week, Lee Ann brought over a restaurant gift certificate to thank us for welcoming them. It was a surprising and endearing gesture.

And so the courtship, that unique and guarded dance of getting to know each other, began.

It went well.

Today, Lee Ann is one of my closest friends. She’s exceptionally kind-hearted and thoughtful. Chris, a brilliant computer dude, provides good comic relief, and between him and my husband, our street could be the site of a comedy revue.

Despite their two-year age difference, Bella and Garrett hit it off. They claim they’re going to marry each other. Jacob, born shortly after Chris and Lee Ann moved in, is now 3 years old, and Lee Ann and I share carpool duties. Bella loves Jacob as much as she loves Garrett, and I know we’re blessed that our child has two good friends right across the street. Patrick and I are lucky, too.

Chris and Lee Ann are the kind of neighbors to whom we wanted to give a key to our house.

They’re the kind who sneak food into your refrigerator when you’re sad.

They’re the kind you hope ARE outside when you go out (and if you’ve never had neighbors you go to great lengths to avoid, count yourself lucky).

They’re the kind you trust enough to watch your dogs when you’re out of town.

They’re the kind of neighbors who remind me, more than a thousand pine trees, of how magnificent our world is.

The view from our front porch is better than I could have imagined, making me wonder how many other things I’m worrying needlessly about.

Maybe something wonderful is about to emerge from the destruction.

Desserts and Other Disasters

2010-08-14T18:44:00.003-04:00

Once upon a time, I made a tofu chocolate mousse.

It didn’t taste good.

After we’d cleared the dishes and I’d finished pouting over my ruined dessert, Patrick said, “You made a chocolate mousse with tofu and you’re surprised it didn’t turn out well?”

Well, in my defense, it looked really good in the magazine photo.

See what I mean?

This dessert was the very picture of delectable and inviting. And healthy, to boot.

So things didn’t turn out quite as I planned. I wasn't deterred. I continued my exploration into the rich world of sweets.

A few months later, I discovered the chocolate oblivion truffle torte. The name itself had me salivating. When I considered the list of three simple ingredients -dark chocolate, eggs, and butter- I decided I must make it that very night.

The cake, I’m happy to say, exceeded my expectations.

My challenge was the raspberry sauce.

The recipe was from "The Cake Bible," which to be honest, makes even the simplest of instructions complicated. Imagine Martha Stewart on steroids, and you can catch the tone of the book.

The recipe for the three-ingredient torte was almost four pages, for crying out loud.

I was relieved that the raspberry sauce appeared easy enough. Microwave frozen raspberries, press them through a sieve, and add sugar and lemon. Easy, right?

I should have read the sidebar.

That was where the author said the sauce can be “tedious and time-consuming” because the seeds cling to the pulp and pass through most sieves.

The author also said she would never serve the cake without the sauce, so I persevered.

45 minutes later –yes, 45 minutes to push goopy raspberries through a sieve– my work yielded six ounces of raspberry sauce. A paltry amount, but on the bright side, just enough to top a few slices of torte.

After dinner, I hummed with anticipation as I plated up the cake. I placed raspberries on top and reached into the refrigerator for the sauce. It was gone. Vanished. We took everything out of the fridge to find it. Nothing. We failed to find a mere six ounces of a bright red sauce in a small kitchen.

We never did find it.

Either the dog jumped up on the counter and confiscated both sauce and bowl, which she had never done before, or one of us –Patrick or I- accidentally threw it out when we cleaned up the kitchen.

Almost a decade later, we still don’t know who the over-zealous cleaner was. (I’m not saying it was Patrick, but the thing is, I’m a messy cook and Patrick has the sweet habit of cleaning up along behind me.)

Whatever the outcome, I keep trying out new desserts.

There have been black-bottomed linzer cookies and ice cream cakes that never set up. I've cooked more than my share of collapsed cakes, including the red velvet cake I shoved into the cabinet before company came. These disasters just make the good ones even better.

And the Chocolate Oblivion Truffle Torte was just perfect without the sauce.

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Photo courtesy of Oxmoor House. You can find the Cooking Light recipe here.

Coming Out of the (Consignment) Closet

2010-08-09T07:00:00.000-04:00

Math is not my strong suit, but I turn into a mathemathical genius when I’m scoping a sale.

Patrick –who is my best shopping companion– holds up an outfit he likes for me, and before he says a word, I’m finished calculating the discount and am figuring out the price for a pair of shoes 200 yards away. (Shopping also, for some unknown reason, improves my vision.)

The thing is, I like a good deal.

I learned the value of a deal when I earned next to nothing in Manhattan. This was, as you may remember, back when I sometimes had to choose between food or subway fare. (You can read about it here.)

My stylish aunt took me shopping. I oohed and ahed over an irresistible pair of boots in a Soho boutique, but Aunt Patricia quickly ushered me back to reality.

“Those are adorable,” she agreed. “But at your salary, those boots will cost you two whole days of work.”

Ouch.

We were in Soho, apparently, just to see what was current. Our real shopping was to take place at Filene’s Basement.

My mother had already taught me to sniff out a good deal. It’s just that newly independent young women have a tendency to disregard what their mamas taught them.

Lesson learned. Today, I make a purchase only if it’s a good deal.

Still, it’s one thing to wait until something you want goes on sale or you have a store coupon.

I went to a new level when I left my full-time job.

Yes, it’s true. I shop at (shhh) consignment stores.

It started out harmlessly. I moved to North Carolina with a ridiculously large heap of suits. Pants suits. Skirt suits. Spring suits. Winter suits. Fun suits. Boring suits. I was having a hard time with the idea of discarding them, so I decided to sell them to make myself feel a little better.

I researched consignment stores and was shocked at what I found.

There are some really nice stores. They carry good quality items (it’s common to find tags on clothes). And the women! The women shopping in the store were stylish and beautifully dressed.

I guess my first clue should have been the store parking lot. All the cars were in the high-end range. One woman exited her Mercedes, her arms full of clothes to consign. We happened to leave the store at the same time almost an hour later. Her arms were heaped with clothes again, but this time it was clothes she’d purchased.

As a new mom, I was also becoming more green aware. I’d always recycled, but there was something about staring into the eyes of my child that made me think more about what the world would be like for her.

I saw consigning as another way of recycling. There’s a lot more I can do to be green, but I feel good about doing this one thing.

Ok, and I admit it. Shopping consignment assuages some of my guilt. When I see a jacket I want and know I won’t have many opportunities to wear it, I just think of what I’m doing for the environment. “If I don’t buy this jacket,” I say to myself, “it will end up in a landfill, and I can’t let that happen.”

I’m telling you this because I recently wrote an article on consigning. And I was shocked –shocked!– at the number of women who raved about how much they love buying clothes at consignment stores, only to say at the end of the conversation, “Please don’t use my name.”

These were women of means. They did not shop consignment out of need. They did it because they like finding a good deal. These were women who park extravagant cars in the garages of their extravagant homes. Yet, they’re shopping at consignment stores.

That article drove me to this moment. This clandestine consignment shopping is unnecessary. When you find a new store or a really good deal, you want to tell your friends.

I need to come out of the closet. I have to shout it out: I shop at consignment stores!!!

And I highly recommend it.

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Thinking of checking out a consignment store? I still buy most of my clothes new because it’s easier to find specific items at a traditional store. So just know that going in. It's best to keep an open mind at a consignment store and be pleasantly surprised by what you find.

Vandalism for God

2010-08-07T15:39:00.003-04:00

I tossed a roll of toilet paper over the sturdy branch of a pine tree. On my back, I wore a pack filled with more toilet paper.

My friend and I giggled at our prank until we noticed a man in the shadows. He stepped from behind a bush, and in the moonlight we saw the shotgun he held.

I looked toward the street where our getaway car was parked. It was too far. No chance of escape.

I turned back toward the man with the gun and realized with relief he was the owner of the house, the father of a good friend of mine.

At the same moment, he recognized us and quickly lowered his gun.

“Girls,” he admonished. “You could have gotten hurt. I thought you were robbers.”

I heard a hint of annoyance in his voice. It was gone when he spoke again.

“Go ahead and have fun,” he said. “I’m going back inside. Your secret is safe.”

I was 16 at the time. My partner in crime and I knew exactly whose house we were papering. We thought it was side-splitting funny –and exhilarating– to sneak into someone’s yard and toss paper into the trees. We always chose the homes of friends, and we did it in fun.

Looking into the kind eyes of my friend’s father, though, I saw that the prank was only fun for us.

Viewed from the perspective of a homeowner, our prank was vandalism.

I felt ashamed, and I never did it again.

I remembered that night when I drove home from a Christian women’s writing conference last week. I was on a high from being surrounded by 600 wonderful women who share a common interest.

I tuned the radioto National Public Radio, where the talk was about a billboard defaced in Charlotte.

The vandalism happened in June. If you didn’t hear about it, the fuss is about a billboard reading “One Nation Indivisible.”

Vandals spray painted the words “Under God” on the sign. They did it shortly after the billboard was unveiled.

The North Carolina Secular Association bought the advertising space to, according to the NPR report, raise public awareness that Atheists are patriots, too.

I don’t know if that’s true. Is it a coincidence that the association chose to buy advertising space on the Billy Graham Parkway? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.

Whatever the intent of the North Carolina Secular Association, I feel the same sense of shame that I felt all those years ago when I was caught toilet papering my friend’s house.

Someone who believes that God needs to be in the pledge of allegiance took a can of spray paint and defaced an advertisement purchased with someone else’s money.

And who, other than a Christian, would care if God is in the pledge of allegiance?

When any one of us acts in the defense of God, we have an obligation to God and fellow Christians to do it respectfully and within the confines of the law.

Spray painting a sign is vandalism. Ruining someone else’s property is a crime. Showing disrespect for other people’s opinions shows disdain for the people themselves.

We can do better than that.

Those Evil Chain Stores

2010-07-29T10:10:00.002-04:00

In the small town where I live, one of my favorite restaurants is a chain restaurant.

It pains me to admit this.

I think of myself as a bit of a foodie. I like to know as much about food as possible. I want to know where it comes from, how it’s prepared, and what new gadgets and food prep techniques are out there.

Being a foodie is a mindset.

It’s not a mindset that generally goes with chain restaurants.

So, in my shame, I’m wondering why I don’t like to admit that one of my favorite restaurants is part of a chain.

I think it’s cultural pressure. People love to hate chains and big box stores. There’s a fear of mega-stores taking away business from the mom-and-pop stores.

I disagree. When a business does what it does well and does it at a fair price, people will spend money there regardless of its size or origin.

Last week, some friends and I went to a new store that sells olive oil. Yes, an entire store that sells nothing but olive oils and a small assortment of vinegars.

Green Gate Olive Oils is owned and run by Georgeanne and Keith McDaniel, a husband and wife team who have always wanted their own business.

Now, they have it in the form of a store that mesmerized all my senses.

I bought a chipotle olive oil that I’ve used just about every day since bringing it home. It’s jazzed up my green beans. It added a kick to the tuna steak. It was even delicious on my artichoke and caper pizza.

Same goes for the lavender balsamic vinegar. I only bought it because Patrick likes pork, and the label said it complements pork well. The label was right. This vinegar made a simple ole pork chop into a memorable main dish. Since then, we’ve found it complements a lot more than just pork.

Of course, I’m going back to Green Gate Olive Oils.

Georgeanne was attentive and helpful. The products, though more expensive than I would buy at a supermarket, were priced reasonably, especially in the context of their quality.

Then, of course, there’s the fact that I wouldn’t find products like these at Wal-Mart.

But before we beat up on Wal-Mart and complain about how ugly its façade is, how the parking lot’s impervious surface damages our ecology, and how it’s impossible for other stores to compete, let’s remember that Wal-Mart was once a mom-and-pop store. We all know about Sam Walton and how he made Wal-Mart into what it is today with his scrappiness and hard work.

Just about every mega-store starts with one person like Sam Walton. Most chains don’t just spring up from the ground with millions of dollars in backing to build in every town in the nation.

The mom-and-pops start out with one couple like Georgeanne and Keith McDaniel.

There’s room for both.

And I’m not going to be embarrassed anymore to admit that I really like to eat at this chain restaurant.

Computer Crash Bliss

2010-07-26T10:47:00.001-04:00

Something good happened last week. My computer died.

All I saw when I pressed the on button was an infuriating blue screen with critical error messages only a computer genius can interpret.

This happened, of course, in the midst of my angst. Book angst.

I’m going to a writers’ conference this week where acquisitions editors from reputable publishers are waiting to hear the next best-selling book idea.

The only problem was that my idea was not coming together. You know how sometimes a thought that’s crystal clear in your head comes out of your mouth a warbled disaster? That was the status of my book proposal when the computer died.

Every second counted. I didn’t have time for a computer crash.

But then I realized something worse had happened. We’d possibly lost every picture ever taken of our daughter from birth to age 4¾. With that realization, well, I just didn’t care anymore about the stupid book proposal.

I wrote in Too Busy Sharing about living the moment instead of trying so hard to capture the moment on film or status updates. That’s true, but we need a little balance.

I do want some pictures of my daughter. So I can remember the way her hair, jet-black at birth, stuck straight up in the air the first few weeks of her life. So I can remember her at 18 months brushing a golden retriever who stood taller than she did. So I can remember her and my mom wearing puppy dog noses and puppy dog ears as they growled ferociously at me.

I’ll never forget the big stuff like her first Frankenstein-esque steps or her giant eyes marveling at Aurora and Belle at Disney World. It’s the small stuff I need help remembering.

Losing these treasured photos of the little moments gave me perspective. And since perspective is a recurring theme in my everyday life, it’s obviously something I need remindin’ of. A lot.

A lost book proposal that was giving me such angst. Lost financial data. Lost emails. None of it mattered.

I stuck Chutes and Ladders and Candyland under one arm, grabbed Bella with my other, and shuttled us off to Panera. Cinnamon Crunch bagels and Candyland can fix a heap of trouble.

The whole week turned into our own version of Candyland.

Bella’s cousin, just two months older than she, spent a night with us. After Forrest Gump and Jenny, I’ve never seen peas and carrots like those girls. It was Giggle Fest 2010.

We went to see a movie one morning, which was so crappy we left 30 minutes into it. But Bella got to finish her popcorn before we left, so she was happy. Another bonus: we saw a friend of hers from preschool and had a spontaneous playdate because they, too, thought the movie was junk.

We made brownies. Twice. We ate chicken nuggets. We had a “picnic” with Patrick at his office.

There was no email. No Facebook. Heck, even my phone died last week. I couldn’t talk on it for more than two minutes before it disconnected my call.

It was maybe the best week of our summer.

Sometimes, we need to throw our schedules out the window along with our worries and have fun.

Oh, and sometimes, we need to back up our computer data to an external drive.

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

P.S. One of those computer geniuses lives across the street from us and he salvaged our data to transfer to a new hard drive. The pictures are saved! Chris, you are awesome!!!

Serenity Now!

2010-07-15T01:27:00.002-04:00

I snickered the other day when I was talking with some friends about anger. When asked what made them angry, they said slow drivers and tailgaters.

I snickered because I couldn’t believe those were the first things that came to mind.

I was thinking more along the lines of war and betrayal, of arguments and misunderstandings, of life’s hurts so big the only thing I felt at the time was blinding rage.

But minor everyday nuisances? Come on.

Which is, of course, why I had the Monday I had.

My daughter whined all morning about swim lessons that afternoon. It was like a song with this as the refrain: I don’t want to go. I already know how to swim, why do I have to go to a class? If you make me go, I’m going to my room and I’m never coming out. My stomach hurts, and I think I should stay home today. Now I have a headache, and I can’t swim. I don’t want to go. I already know how to swim…

Amidst this, I talked to The Most Annoying Woman Ever. I was working on something that would give her free publicity for her business. Instead of giving me information, she gave me a hard time. She used up the 30 minutes I’d allocated to her complaining that no one had ever wanted to do a story on her before. Even though she’d tried and tried and tried for years and years and years to get someone to please please please come talk to her and give her free publicity, no one came. This woman lives in a town called Bitterville, so I split as fast as I could.

And during that, the normally low-key dogs in our house were acting very keyed up. They barked when a neighbor closed her door. They barked when a squirrel came too close to their territory. They barked when the pine trees swayed in the wind.

Then, I made successive calls to people with some health problems. These were calls of obligation not of kindness. I’m not very gracious to chronic complainers on a normal day, so calling them when I was frazzled was definitely not a good idea. Enough said about that.

Next, it was time to go to the drive-through teller at the bank with my teeny tiny simple transaction. Thanks to the drama of the morning, I was running behind.

I pull into the parking lot, and a woman cuts me off. Instead of parking as I expected, she gets ahead of me in the drive-through.

You may think you see where this story is headed. This woman cut me off, and I lost it. Totally blew my cool.

No, in fact, I was calm. I found myself thinking, “She must be in a big hurry. I really can spare a few minutes. It’ll be fine.”

So, the woman put something in the box, sent it up the little air chute, and waited. The box came back, and by then, I’ve already got my foot off the brake, ready to pull ahead. But when she took her receipt out of the box, she put something else in the box, sent it up the air chute, and waited. The box came back, and she did it again. And again. I’m not kidding.

I was seething. I was muttering under my breath about the rules of bank transactions. Hellooooo. Everybody knows that if you have more than one transaction, you’re supposed to go inside.

Bella asked me what a transaction was, and I was so thankful I hadn’t said out loud all the other words in my head that her question stopped me in my tracks.

It was in that moment that I realized what I was doing. Boiling in anger because of … well, traffic. Traffic?

I don’t know how many transactions that woman at the bank had. I pulled away. I was too frustrated to even sit still. I saw clearly that I was angry over something ridiculous, but I couldn’t get past it. I didn’t want to sit, to wait. I had to get moving.

I wanted to shout “Serenity Now!” but it didn’t work for George or Jerry, so I didn’t think it would work for me.

And here’s the crux of what I want to create in my life, how I want to use my God-given creatability.

I want peace. I want peace if it’s been a frustrating day. I want peace when I’m inconvenienced. I want peace when I dislike someone I’m forced to interact with. I want peace if something –the worst thing I can imagine– happens. Hey, I want peace if another customer takes too long at the bank.

That peace is creatable. God has given me (and you, too, of course!) a lot of tools to reach that level of peace. It’s in Galatians 5:22. I love the fruits of the spirit verse because it’s like the CliffsNotes of the entire Bible.

All that we should be striving for can be found in nine simple words: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

The rest of the Bible supports those nine words. Nine simple words with so many nuances and overlaps. But that, too, is part of their beauty.

Looking back at my frustrating Monday, it was a slippery slope that brought me to the point of traffic rage.

I could have shown Bella more kindness and gentleness in responding to her worries. Instead, I tuned her out.

I could have been patient with the annoying woman on the telephone. After all, I will never see her or talk to her again. What’s the harm in zipping my lips and testing the limits of my patience?

I could have kicked the barking dogs to quiet them. Just kidding. Here’s where I plug in the brain God gave me. Put the dogs outside. Just let them out for a little while. Not a big deal.

And the people facing health problems? I love these people. I had every reason to act in a loving way to them. I did not. Nor was I faithful. If I’d been faithful, I would have been steadfast and consistent in being good to them.

If I’d handled each of those minor nuisances better that morning, I would not have blown my cool because I had to sit in my air-conditioned car for a few minutes longer than I deemed acceptable.

If I’d handled my morning differently, I would have been filled to the brim with love and joy and peace, three qualities synonymous with God.

I would have had, after all, serenity now.

Your Creatability

2010-07-13T00:50:00.002-04:00

I’m on a Genesis kick.

I blame Rob Bell. In one of his NOOMA videos, he talks about Genesis as a creation poem.

And ok, so there is some controversy surrounding Bell’s conclusion. As one writer said, “The most dominant type of Hebrew poetry is parallelism. The Genesis creation account is clearly not written as parallelism; therefore, Rob Bell is making heretical claims.”

Or, what I heard: “Blah. Blah. Blah.”

Whatever. I’ll leave the theological analysis to the experts.

I think what rankles critics, though, is when Bell said God specifically designed the earth so that each part of creation could create more.

Call me a heretic, but it makes sense to me.

An acorn falls from an oak tree, feeding small animals and creating more trees. Air rises, condensing out the water molecules within, forming clouds, and ultimately, creating rain. Heck, look at bumblebees; through pollination, those little guys create about one-fourth of the food we eat.

Now, if even bumblebees have the power to create, how much greater is our human ability to create?

Humans, chosen by God. Created in His image.

The Ultimate Creator created us in His image. If we assume that image refers to God’s nature rather than a physicality, then it logically follows that we have the ability to create.

We have creatability.

Wow.

Just wow.

Everything in life –medicine, business, architecture, music, and art– is outward proof of that innate creatability.

When I walked on the Great Wall of China, I marveled at man’s creatability. When I look at my own mother, healthy as ever after a heart attack and stents, I marvel at man’s creatability. When I go to Starbucks and can get the same drink and same consistent service anywhere in the world, I marvel at man’s creatability. (Nope, I’m not kidding. Howard Schultz is a genius!)

Likewise, when I saw the ancient weapons of warfare at the Louvre, I marveled at man’s creatability. I marveled while being repulsed.

I had this feeling of wow, I can’t believe they were smart enough to make that way back then.

And then I had this feeling of wow, I can’t believe they were that smart and squandered it on figuring out more creative ways to kill each other.

Nothing has changed.

We’re so smart. We have so much potential. We have the ability to create. What are we using it for – to make the world better or to make the world worse?

Forget the world for a moment.

What do you want to create?

Whatever it is, know that when God gave you the ability to create, He gave you all the tools you need to create the very thing you want to create.

Go do it. Use the tools God gave you: your brain, your talent, His word, His faithfulness, His love.

Trust the truth that you’re made in God’s image. Endowed with the gift to create. Endowed with great intelligence. Endowed with the love of a God who wants you to achieve your highest potential.

Go use your magnificent ability to create.

Water Nuts

2010-07-08T13:46:00.003-04:00

My husband is a water nut.

By water nut, I don’t mean that he’s an avid watersports guy. Sure, enjoys skimming the water on a jetski. He likes sitting poolside, and at the beach, he frolics in the ocean with abandon.

But what really gets him going, gets him totally fired up is … water infrastructure.

Patrick can talk like nobody’s business about water supply in our community, where to be honest, things have looked a little bleak at times.

A severe drought a few years back forced even elite the most restaurants to serve meals on paper plates. Can you imagine dining at a four-diamond restaurant, anticipating that first bite of pancetta-wrapped filet mignon, and having it served on the best of Chinet?

Patrick has taught me more about water than I ever hoped to know, but I still didn't understand why it mattered to me until the “National Geographic” special issue on water came out in April.

One hundred miles north of Delhi, families start their days scrambling for water. It’s an arduous process, taking up to seven hours. That’s seven hours without food or drink, waiting in line for water or maybe waiting around for the mere rumor of water. (Water trucks sometimes drive into the area. These huge tankers are emptied in less than ten minutes as people siphon the water as quickly as they can.)

That’s a sobering thought, but consider this. In the same part of India, a teenage boy cut in front of others waiting for water and was beaten to death.

Beaten to death. Beaten to death because the need for water was that great. Beaten to death because the need created that degree of tension.

I can’t even imagine it. I took a hot shower this morning and put on clean clothes. I wash my hands for 20 seconds (that’s how long it takes to get rid of germs). Heck, the pool we go to has a spray element that shoots out cold water for entertainment.

So where does this disparity leave me? I feel sympathy for people who have no water while I have plenty.

Those feelings, while well-intentioned, don’t fix the scarcity problem. Truth is, nothing I do can fix the problem.

But I can be a good steward of the resources I have right here at home.

In fact, this stewardship is a responsibility I bear as a Christian. God created this wonderful world … then gave it to us.

Check out this passage from Genesis:
God spoke: "Let us make human beings in our image, make them reflecting our nature so they can be responsible for the fish in the sea, the birds in the air, the cattle, and, yes, Earth itself, and every animal that moves on the face of Earth." God created human beings; he created them godlike, reflecting God's nature. He created them male and female. God blessed them: "Prosper! Reproduce! Fill Earth! Take charge! Be responsible for fish in the sea and birds in the air, for every living thing that moves on the face of Earth." (Genesis 1:28, The Message)

God entrusted humans with the responsibility of caring for the earth. He told us to take charge.

I’m taking charge starting in our own home. Small changes here and there will add up.

So when you come hang out, forgive me for un-flushed toilets. I’m trying out the “If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow” philosophy. (One-third of America’s water is used to flush toilets!) We'll see how this turns out. Even Patrick with his water zeal is not too keen on the experiement.

Maybe Patrick isn't the only water nut in the house!

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Here's a site I like for great water conservation ideas.

Too Busy Sharing

2010-07-06T22:10:00.000-04:00

Something strange happened at dinner a few weeks ago. It was a local civic group’s annual meeting, so my expectations were low.

But then, amazingly, I had a great time. I scored a cool table, the one where people were cramming in shoulder-to-shoulder to sit there. The food was interesting – a little N’awlins kick to what would have been typical banquet fare. Then there was the entertainment.

A storyteller of national renown came home to Southern Pines for a visit, and we had the treat of seeing him perform. Gran’daddy Junebug, aka Mitch Capel, entertained us with a few tales told in his unique poetic style. In fact, Capel coined the term “sto’etry” to describe his way of reciting stories poetically. It’s a beautiful combination; the stories roll off Capel’s tongue in a way that delights the ear. Hear a clip here.

But none of this was the strange part.

The strange part was when I turned to the people at my table to say something … and saw that everybody was engrossed in their Blackberries. Everybody.

On the way home, I mentioned it to Patrick. He responded with an explanation that makes perfect sense: “We were all enjoying the moment so much that we wanted to share it.”

That’s a wonderful sentiment! To be so caught up in a moment that you immediately want to Tweet it or Facebook it.

But as I thought more about it, I connected the dots to something that’s been on my mind more and more.

Are we so caught up in sharing the moment that we’re missing the moment?

This thought first needled my brain at the start of the year when I was organizing photos. Christmas after Christmas, I saw the same pictures. My mom unwrapping a gift while looking down shyly. My husband unwrapping a gift with an “it’s way too early to take pictures” look on his face. My brother unwrapping a gift while our dog cuddled in his lap. See the trend here? Not very exciting stuff. Just person after person unwrapping a gift.

When I saw the pictures of Bella at Christmas, I felt melancholy.

Bella’s been old enough to unwrap gifts for three Christmases now. That’s three years of mediocre photos of festive paper in the foreground, partially obscuring an adorable face in the background.

As I looked at the pictures, I realized the source of my melancholy. I’d been focused on capturing a moment that I could share with our family and friends…so focused that I never really lived the moment.

I thought back to the first Christmas Patrick and I ever stayed home in our own house. Woo hoo, no traveling! It was before Bella was born, but in our hopes of having a child soon, we wanted to start our own tradition. We picked out a huge tree which I decorated beautifully. (To be honest, it only looked beautiful in the warm glow of eggnog. The next morning? Not so much.) We had the sweetest puppy ever, a two-month old Golden Retriever, join our family on Christmas Eve. And of course, we had Williams-Sonoma chocolate croissants for Christmas morning.

Come Christmas morning, I called everybody in my family to wish them a merry Christmas. That’s my mother, four siblings, and a handful of aunts and uncles. That’s a lot of phone calls.

I remember telling everyone what we were doing: “Merry Christmas! We’re drinking lattes, eating croissants, and rubbing the fat belly of our new dog.”

I remember telling it. But do I remember actually living it?

It was in that photo organization-induced melancholy that I resolved to try to do a little more living. To trust my own memory instead of being so obsessed with sharing the moment. I’m waiting until the moment is over before posting to Facebook. I’m taking snapshots in my mind instead of taking a camera everywhere. I'm not going to stop taking pictures of precious family times, but I'm trying to be a bit more selective.

I went cold-turkey with the camera for a little while to see how it went. It was hard.

Patrick, Bella, and I went to the Carolina Tiger Rescue in Pittsboro, N.C. Back when I lived in nearby Chapel Hill, I volunteered at the Rescue once and got to bottlefeed a baby tiger, so I knew the photo opps we were in for.

And I left the camera at home.

I missed a lot of great photos that day.
• An 11-year-old tiger named Nitro leaping into the air to catch the raw chicken our guide tossed to him.
• An odd-looking animal with long black fur and tufted ears. He’s a Binturong named Disney, and he likes to eat bananas.
• A stunning white tiger named Jellybean lounging in the sun. Jellybean was magnificent!
• The sight of my two favorite people enjoying it all.

No, I didn’t have my camera. But I can remember the way the sun felt on my face that first warm day of March. I remember the distinct and unpleasant musk of the animals. Best of all, I remember the laughter that rang around me as Patrick, Bella, and I made a memory.

And that’s why that picture from the Carolina Tiger Rescue website is the only one I have of Jellybean.

I'm still going to share moments. But I'm not going to miss them in the process.

That Was Easy

2010-06-29T20:32:00.000-04:00

My car failed inspection.

Not a big deal, I guess, except that two new tires on an SUV aren’t cheap. And doggonit, the last thing I want to be spending money on as we save for our Disney trip is tires.

I can’t wear tires. I can’t eat tires. And tires won’t get me in to Disney.

I’m stuck. Two balding tires put me and the people I love in danger. That fact overrides my concern for all the other stuff I’d prefer to be spending money on.

It’s not a news flash that unexpected and unwelcome events come our way in life. It’s just how things are.

But this truth doesn’t mean we have to be miserable and stew about it.

Wouldn’t it be better if we just made things easier for each other?

It’s like the Staples commercial where they hit the Easy Button. Someone –a befuddled office employee or a frazzled customer– seeks a solution to a problem and the Easy Button appears. The object of befuddlement presses the button, and voila!, the problem is manageable.

I want that for life.

It’s not because I expect things to always be easy. But where I have within my power to make things easy –for myself or for others– why not?

My friend Amanda does this all the time. If I drop something, she has picked it up for me before I even realize it fell. If I’m thinking out loud about a scheduling conflict I have, she’s suggesting a solution (which usually involves her inviting Bella over for a while) before I finish my thought. I love how she does that. It doesn’t come naturally for me, but unlike me, Amanda answers a need the moment she sees it.

My best friend does it, too. In fact, Patrick is the king of making things easy. Once, back when we were going through the terrible two’s, I had a Really Bad Day. One of those days where it seemed like Bella ruled the house and I was pretty sure the only way I’d survive was by hiding in a closet somewhere. Patrick happened to call in the middle of it. I answered the phone not with hello but a quivery voice: “I’m a terrible mom. I can’t control our child. What’s it going to be like when she’s a teenager if I can’t manage her now?” He let me ramble incoherently for a while. When I was finished, he said, “Bring her to my office this afternoon. She can play while I’m working.”

This was huge. Not only because it meant a couple of hours for me to pull myself back together but also because I knew it was a sacrifice for Patrick. He had an evening meeting –the third that week– and would probably have to work at home after the meeting if Bella came to his office. But his first concern was how to help.

Patrick made it easy for me.

I thought about all this the other day while I sat at PJ’s Auto Care waiting for new tires to be put on the car.

I had my feet up in a comfy leather recliner. I sipped a freshly brewed latte –made right there at the auto shop– and watched a cooking show on the flat-screen television. I went to the bathroom where sconces cast a soft light, and I found that there were no paper towels. Nope, instead, I found neatly folded hand towels and a laundry bin for me to toss my used towel into. When all was done, I got into my freshly vacuumed car. Not even a single crumb of Teddy Grahams remained.

Sitting in relative luxury there, my failed car inspection didn’t seem so terrible. In fact, it seemed almost like a gift: a few moments with coffee and not a single thing that must be done. I’m not the publicist for PJ’s Auto Care. I just appreciate how they hit the Easy Button for me.

And just the way Patrick, Amanda, so many other friends, and yes, PJ’s, have made things easier for me, I want to do it for friends and strangers.

We’re all going to face the unpleasant, ranging from nuisances to heartbreak, so why not hit the Easy Button for each other when we can?

That was easy.

Does Church Suck?

2010-06-18T11:09:00.000-04:00

Church sucks.

Ok, not really, but that’s what 75% of Americans think.

This tidbit comes courtesy of a Zondervan news release. Is it true? I don’t know, but it’s an intriguing number that I’ve been turning around and around in my mind.

I’m fixated on it because it shocks me while also ringing true.

Shocking since that’s a big number and a big statement. Church, a hallowed place of reverence, sucks? The site where we celebrate the most significant life events sucks? Church, the house of God that brings peace to so many people, sucks?

Yet, my own experience of eschewing church and all things church-related makes this figure relatable.

Basically, I, too, thought church sucked.

What I found, after years and years of feeling spiritually adrift, is that I’d simply been in the wrong church.

I found a church where people love me. I know they love me not because they tell me so but because of how they treat me. It’s a church where the weekly message inspires me to be the best person I can be.

When I leave church, I’m not thinking about hell, how I’m bound there, and how I can eke my way into eternal paradise.

Instead, I’m thinking about I can possibly spread a small taste of heaven here on earth. How can I be an ambassador to God –behaving kindly, patiently, and lovingly– to everyone I encounter? (Boy, is that hard! But I keep at it and get a little bit better ever so slowly.)

And it feels so much better to think that way than it did to fritter away my days thinking about myself.

I wonder about the 75% of Americans who think church sucks. Some of them have written off church, possibly forever.

But I think there are others who think church sucks but wish it weren’t so. Among the 75%, there are others who long for spiritual restoration and just don’t know where to find it.

If that’s you, I challenge you to give church another try. There’s a place that will feel right to you. I promise.

We live in Pinehurst, North Carolina, a village that’s truly Small Town, USA, and we found several churches that we would have liked to be part of.

If there are several here, there’s got to be one where you live.

See for yourself if church still sucks.

Redheads Unite

2010-06-17T15:23:00.003-04:00

“Redheads of the world unite!”

It’s what I say to red-haired strangers. All. The. Time.

Sometimes the stranger will smile and nod. But more often, I get weird looks, and once in a while, the stranger backs away slowly like I’m a crazy lady about to attack.

At first, I was baffled. Don’t they get it, I’d think? Don’t they know we’re unique—less than 4% of the world population?

I mean, you’re only slightly more likely to encounter a man with one testicle (they ring in at 4-5% of the population).

With statistics like that, we redheads have to stick together. And when you consider how redheads throughout history have been vilified, we need each other even more.

Who knows when they might resume burning redheads alive? Or when redheads might be spit at as they are in Corsica?

Consider these prejudices.

• Judas is depicted most often as a redhead. So is Mary Magdalene.

• “Red on the head, fire in the bed.” Before you go thinking maybe that’s not so bad, imagine walking around in your everyday life and having men you don’t know shout it out to you.

• Redheads have fiery tempers. (Ok, so this one is a little true for me, but I much prefer how my husband lovingly calls me “passionate.”)

On the other hand, red hair dye has been the most popular shade for home colorists for a while, and its popularity has grown 17% in the last decade.

Which leads me to tell you something that might hurt your feelings.

Unless you were born with red hair, you’ll never truly be a redhead. It’s not because we’re a snooty club that prefers to keep outsiders, well, outside. It’s because redheads have to endure a childhood of teasing—some good-natured and playful and some downright mean.

A side note to you Richfield mean boys (and you know who you are): I’m sorry you’ve gone bald.

Yes, we’re teased endlessly, and that kind of experience only strengthens the depth of our redheadedness. It means we’ll be redheads long after the red hue fades, ultimately becoming silver or white. Which it does, and that will be pretty cool, too.

Being a redhead is much more than a hair color.

It’s a confidence born from our rarity. It’s a strength born from the teasing. It’s a stubbornness born from prejudices. It’s a vitality born from the passion within.

It’s a state of mind.

Redheads of the world unite.

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This post is dedicated to my most favorite redhead in the world, my sister Connie.

And some redhead-inspired websites for you to visit:
• Redheaded Stepchild – a clever magazine for rejected poems.
• The Redhead Connection – a Southern Pines-based group for redheads. It’s new but oh-so-fabulous.
• The Quirky Redhead – a blog from a redhead-by-choice who gets the redhead state of mind.
• Red and Proud – a site dedicated to redheads of all types, famous, fictional, and shamed.

Lessons from the Williams-Sonoma Catalog

2010-06-11T00:30:00.001-04:00

“Ahhhh.” It’s what my heart and brain do when I see a Williams-Sonoma catalog in my mailbox.

Coming in at more than 100 pages, the catalog offers me a solid 15 minutes of reveling in pretty pictures of food, stuff to make food, and stuff in which to serve food. For a few moments, my preoccupation with food is more sophisticated than “Me want food.” (A reference only 30 Rock fans will get, but I heart Tina Fey. And to get in the know, you can watch the clip here.)

Williams-Sonoma brings me into a world of unimagined kitchen tools and accessories. There’s a burger press especially for sliders! Daisy-shaped rings to make fried eggs or pancakes! A corn zipper! Potato scrubbing gloves!

For heaven’s sake, they even have an egg topper, which I’ve never even heard of. But when you can conveniently snip off the top of your soft-boiled egg with scissors featuring a whimsical chicken-shaped handle, the egg topper seems like a must-have.

Alas, ever since my crème brulee torch went to the gadget graveyard, I’ve restrained myself when it comes to the Williams-Sonoma catalog. Now, I look at it for fun and, ok, to order the occasional box of chocolate croissants.

I also thumb through it to find a few lines of consistently recurring text – words that truly taught me a new perspective. It’s become like a look-and-find. I open up the magazine, and the first thing I do is search for the page with practical and soothing words. (This issue, it’s on page 98.)

“Stay organized. Professional kitchens call it mise en place – everything in its place.”

Mise en place.

This French phrase is about cooking, about keeping all the ingredients and tools in their proper place for better preparation.

But at the time I first read it in the Williams-Sonoma catalog, it hit me a different way, and it stuck.

It was shortly After Gabrielle. (You can read about Gabrielle in A Broken Heart Still Beats.)

I was feeling guilty about feeling sad. To my own ears, it sounds ridiculous today. In the moment, though, I thought my deep sadness was preventing me from doing a good job of parenting my two-year-old daughter. And nothing makes me feel guiltier than the thought that I’m letting my family down.

Too, I was impatient to feel better and get back to life. I wanted the old me –the one who was carefree and optimistic– to come back and fast.

And then, the words mise en place just floated off the page and made me see clearly.

If everything has its place, I thought, then so does my grief. If everything has its place, it’s ok to lament this life chapter. If everything has its place, then laughing, happy days will come back around.

Thinking “everything in its place” relieved me of my guilt. It freed me from my impatience. It helped me find my footing again.

It’s sort of like when people tell you to “take one day at a time” or “this, too, shall pass.” Except that the words mise en place, perhaps because they’re in a romance language and not grossly overused, don’t feel like a trite cliché. The words mise en place exude confidence and certainty and even fun.

Sure enough, happy days did come back around. But I’ve never stopped thinking about mise en place.

When I’m spending time with people I love, I don’t fixate so much on what I should be getting done somewhere else. I put it in its place.

When I’m working, I don’t feel guilty about the other stuff I’m not doing. (Amazingly, I love writing so much that it feels like a guilty indulgence, and it’s easy to start thinking about the dishes in the sink or the dog hair on the floor.) I put it in its place.

When I’m feeling torn about virtually anything, I think the words mise en place. Then I can think logically and prioritize my life according to my values, neatly putting that internal conflict in its place.

There really is a place for everything, and the silly, over-the-top Williams-Sonoma catalog brought me that very good message when I needed it.

And now that I’m finished with this issue, it’s time for the catalog to get its place before I order something ridiculous like an egg topper. To the recycle bin.

Get the Name Right

2010-06-08T13:13:00.004-04:00

In my first journalism class, Professor Shumaker scared me silly.

First off, he was legendary. An award-winning journalist, Shumaker was the inspiration behind cartoonist Jeff Macnelly’s comic “Shoe,” and that gave Shumaker a celebrity factor in my eyes.

Second, Shumaker walked into class on that first morning and closed and locked the door behind him. His wispy white hair looking a little wild, he walked to the front of the classroom with purpose in an unrushed gait that mounted my fear. Once at the lectern, he announced that if we were late for class we would not be allowed to enter.

Next, he described our beginning reporting class and what was expected of us. It sounded pretty straight-forward until he shared the tidbit that pushed me over the edge from scared to terrified.

If we misspelled the name of any person in a story, we would automatically fail that assignment.

It didn’t matter how well it was written, how much research had gone into it, or how many hours we labored over using precisely the right words.

An assignment in which a person’s name was misspelled would be handed back with a big, red “F” on it.

I’m happy to say I never saw that dreaded “F” on my papers.

But Shumaker’s point has stuck with me.

Names are important. Very important. It matters what we call people. It matters that we get it right.

I see it with my husband Patrick. That’s PatRICK. Not Pat.

I’ve watched him be introduced to people: “I’d like you to meet Patrick Coughlin.” And a small percentage of people will respond, “Nice to meet you, Pat.”

Patrick cringes. He’s too nice to correct people, to tell them that Pat is not his name.

But why does it matter if we get each others’ names right anyway?

My Sunday School class talked about this last week when we watched the NOOMA video “Name.” The video was ok –not my favorite of the series so far– but I loved the class discussion.

We went around the room and told each other our whole name. We shared what was behind our names. Not just the inspiration for our names (I wrote briefly about the folk singer who inspired my name in Contractor Blues) but all the stuff that goes along with our identities. The crap in our pasts, the highlights of our lives…the stuff that makes us who we are.

If our names reflect who we are, then getting someone’s name right shows you respect them. It shows you care about them as a person—a person with a history and a future and fears and losses and accomplishments and joys.

Getting names right is important.

As for Professor James Hampton Shumaker, he turned out to be not in the least bit scary. He was, in fact, a kind professor who went by the name of Jim.

- Melanie, also known to friends as “Mel”

(Photo of Professor Shumaker courtesy of UNC School of Journalism and Mass Communication)

Hope in a Cruel World

2010-05-26T10:05:00.003-04:00

I’m feeling pretty lousy today.

My six-year-old nephew is starting to realize what’s going on with him. Sure, he’s been wearing leg braces and special foot supports for two years now. He knows that he needs to ask for help when he’s going up the stairs. He runs out on the soccer field and is clearly slower than the other kids because, truthfully, he can't run.

But yesterday Garin asked if he was “going to have this muscular dystrophy forever.”

His growing awareness of his condition breaks my heart. Garin has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. It’s among the worst types of MD to have. The life expectancy is not long.

Duchenne attacks the muscles, causing them to slowly degenerate. First, Garin’s leg muscles are deteriorating, and it will lead to eventual paralysis. The disease moves up the body, attacking all the muscles of the body.

The lungs are muscles, the heart is a muscle, and Duchenne cruelly attacks ALL muscles. You see where this is going for Garin?

It makes me feel so…well, I lack the words. Filled with despair. Sad, yes, but something much deeper. Hopeless. Helpless.

I wept. Here’s a child (and a whole family, too) who’s hurting, and I can do nothing.

I cried and cried and cried some more.

And then, I wiped my tears with disgust. What good did my tears do? Tears don’t fix Garin. They don’t help my brother, his wife, or their other child.

This melancholy is still with me today. Plus, I woke up feeling grumpy because my daughter needed me in the middle of the night and I didn’t sleep much.

I reached a new low as I realized what an ingrate I am. I have a healthy daughter, and I should be on my knees thanking God I have a daughter I can comfort instead of feeling grumpy over loss of sleep.

I was still feeling pretty low when a verse I read yesterday popped in my head.

So here's what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. … Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it.” (Romans 12:1-2, The Message)

Those words “everyday, ordinary life” jumped out at me, showing me something I can do when faced with a hopeless, heartbreaking circumstance like my sweet nephew Garin.

I can take my “everyday, ordinary” life and give it to God. He’ll show me what He wants from me, and I can quickly respond to it.

Amazingly, Garin’s 10-year-old brother Hilton knows this without knowing Romans 12.

Garin asked, “Will I have this muscular dystrophy forever?”

Hilton answered, “You probably will, but don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.”

Hilton’s taking his everyday, ordinary life and helping his brother.

Hilton’s words encourage me. I can do that, too. So, I’m wiping away my tears and giving God my everyday, ordinary life.

***************************
My brother writes about Garin at Caring Bridge.
Pictured above are Gary, Rebekah, Hilton, and Garin as they head out in style for a Carribbean cruise with the Carolina Panthers, courtesy of the Make A Wish Foundation.

Feminism. Oops, I Said a Bad Word.

2010-05-25T10:26:00.004-04:00

I dated this guy in high school, and my parents thought he was wonderful, beyond reproach, and all-around ideal. In fact, I think they liked him more than I did.

He had some positive attributes.

I liked, for example, that he drove a Porsche and let me perfect driving a stick shift on it. I mean, letting a 17-year-old girl do horrible things to your precious vehicle has to count for something, right? (Can’t you just hear the awful screech of a gear change gone wrong? That was me.)

I liked that he was older –seven years my senior– and therefore more mature. He was a college graduate, which sounded oh-so-romantic to a high school senior ready to move on to the next chapter of life.

He was working at the family business, a fact I respected, though the family business was a bit unseemly. They specialized in converting animal by-products into “useful materials.” In other words, a rendering plant.

This was a relationship based on convenience. He filled a need for me to escape from high school, and it was, you know, nice. But I never intended it to go further than that. I figured he felt the same way.

It was on a humid summer day as we drove curvy country roads that I realized the relationship must end, and pronto.

As we meandered the roads, the distinct stench of the rendering plant permeating my nostrils, my boyfriend pointed out a cute house surrounded by rolling hills. “That’s where we can live when we’re married. It’s close to my work, and it’s a nice place for you to stay home and raise our kids.”

Huh? What? Did he miss the part where I firmly pronounced my feminist stance?

“Um,” I started out, trying to be delicate. “I intend to work. I have career goals. Even if I had children, I would never stay home with them.”

I thought that was the end of that.

And then he uttered a statement that made me want to jump out of the moving car and make like Forrest Gump and run, run, run.

“No matter what ‘work’ you do, it will never be as important as my job. So you would have to stay home.”

And there it was. The sentence that guaranteed the demise of the relationship.

The picket fence, the family, the hierarchical viewpoint that puts men above women? Not for me.

Even now, when I say that I’m a feminist, women will look at me with incredulity and ask, hope in their voice, “But you’re not anymore … right?”

Wrong. I am still a feminist.

Yes, I know that’s an odd thing to hear from a woman who left a good job –one in which I got to do work I enjoyed and be well-compensated for it– to be a stay-at-home mom. But I made my choice and now I get to do all my favorite things: be with my child, cook and bake, have energy to spend time with my husband, and write for pay. (You can read more about that choice here.)

But guess what? You may be a feminist, too.

Do you think men and women should be equal partners in society?
Do you think women and men should be treated equally?
Do you think women and men should be paid equally for comparable work?

If you do, you’re a feminist.

When I lived in Upstate New York, my office was sandwiched between Seneca Falls, where the foundational document of the suffrage movement was drafted, and Canandaigua, where Susan B. Anthony was tried, convicted, and fined $100 for voting in the 1872 presidential election.

I was stirred every time I passed through Seneca Falls and every time I drove by the Ontario County Courthouse in Canandaigua (pictured above). Stirred by gratitude for the acts of these women who started a movement that affected our lives here, today.

It was almost 40 years later that women won the right to vote. And that right didn’t come easily.

On a November day in 1917, a group of women picketed outside the White House, lobbying President Wilson for the right to vote. Instead of being heard, they were treated brutally, resulting what is known as the “Night of Terror.” Charged with obstructing sidewalk traffic, these orderly lobbyists were beaten, dragged, slammed, and kicked during their imprisonment.

Lucy Burns was chained with her hands above her head, left hanging all night while bleeding and gasping for air.

Guards hurled Dora Lewis into an iron bed, smashing her head and leaving her unconscious. Her cellmate thought she was dead and died of a heart attack.

When Alice Paul went on a hunger strike, guards tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat, and poured liquid in her until she vomited.

It was three years later that women were granted the right to vote. An act that propelled women on a path of greater freedom, the one we enjoy today.

It’s because of these women that I’m proud to say I’m a feminist.

Yes, you can make traditional choices and still be a feminist. I even have the picket fence that was an object of scorn.

Oh, and I’m married to a real man, one who respects women as equal partners in the world.

It’s awesome. I thank all the women who came before me.

I’m Right. You’re Wrong.

2010-05-21T11:05:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, I posted a funny Facebook status. It made me smile. After all, smiling’s my favorite, and I wanted to share the humor with my friends.

The status update was: “Another reason not to go to Wal-Mart: The sight of a woman EXITING the store then taking her 4-year-old son to the HILL to relieve himself.”

I have to admit, though, in addition to finding this humorous, I was also utterly disgusted by the mother. I mean, what kind of mother leaves a store with functioning restrooms (albeit not the cleanest restrooms) and encourages her child to urinate in plain sight of a crowded store?

I’ve used the “bathroom” in the wild when I was camping. That was back when I thought it was fun to hike up a mountain with a backback and then sleep on the ground with nothing between me and the elements besides a flimsy sleeping bag. (These days, my idea of communing with nature is walking from my back door to the herb garden when I’m making dinner.)

I even remember, at the age of 7 or so, peeing roadside on a long stretch of nothingness during a car ride to Gatlinburg. (That was also the trip where the curving mountain roads made me so sick I hurled in the woods.)

But those two occasions were of desperation. I didn’t have access to a real bathroom. And in the case of my roadside pee, I certainly didn’t do it in plain sight. I ducked into the forest for privacy.

So, back to the question of this mother. What kind of mother lets her kid pee outside of Wal-Mart?

Most of my friends commented on my status with droll remarks that made me laugh. Some of them shared my shock at what the mother did. It was all lighthearted fun.

But two friends posted different kinds of remarks. Comments that opened my eyes. That made me think about this event in an altogether new way.

My friend Sara is a speech pathologist. She agreed it was a funny thing to see. But then she said that some children have sensory difficulties related to autism. The flush of an industrial toilet actually hurts their ears.

Another friend said her son was frightened by the way sensor-flush toilets go off before he even gets started. After that happened a few times, he refused to use a public toilet with a sensor because he was scared.

Here I was, thinking I had the situation neatly summed up: bad mother, public urination, Wal-Mart penis sighting. I thought I was clearly right in my judgment.

And then two friends kindly showed me a different interpretation of what I saw. Instead of a thoughtless, disgusting mother, perhaps I saw a thoughtful, considerate mother.

It really got me thinking. How many other times do I see something –whether it’s a relationship dispute or biblical interpretation or world issues– and become so convinced of my rightness that I refuse to even hear another perspective?

I suspect I do it a lot.

We grow up hearing, “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.”

And while it’s true we need to hold to our convictions, isn’t it possible to hold to our convictions while also being open to other interpretations, other perspectives?

Let me be clear that I’m not suggesting we compromise our principles, which should be unchangeable. The word “conviction” is not synonymous with principles. It’s synonymous with “opinion.”

I hope to always be open to hearing, and thoughtfully considering, the opinions of others. Because, when we dig in our heels, becoming so adamant in our opinions that we refuse to even HEAR other people, we become ignorant.

The kid peeing in front of Wal-Mart? I still find it amusing. But my friends helped me see it from another angle. And that made me a little less ignorant.

I’m not so right after all.
*************************
A note to the cutest, smartest, kindest, and all-around best man on the planet: Yes, honey, even with you, I'm not always right. :-)

Going Blind ... Briefly

2010-05-17T10:42:00.001-04:00

I was blind Friday night.

Dinner was a fantastic four-course affair: tomato and mozzarella bruschetta, baby field greens, petite filet in a cabernet demi-glace and grilled chicken. All finished off with a dessert trio of crème brulee, cappuccino mousse, and a chocolate raspberry truffle.

Mmmmm.

But I couldn’t see any of it. My eyes were covered with a firm-fitting eye mask, so unyielding it came over my nose a la Batman, giving me no way of cheating even a little.

How would I butter my bread? Find my water glass without turning it over? Spear food onto my fork?

It was a challenge I was a little apprehensive about.

This “Dining in the Dark” event was presented by the Mira Foundation USA. Mira USA is working to provide service dogs to visually-impaired children. Unbelievably, there isn’t an organization in the United States that does this. Mira USA, modeled after Mira Foundation in Canada, is the first.

This United States initiative started with one compassionate man. Bob Baillie of North Carolina went into the hospital for what should have been fairly routine bypass surgery. He emerged sightless.

A Bernese Mountain dog helped Bob find a new life. Bob and his dog Devon walk three miles from home their home to Bob’s favorite coffee spot every morning, and Bob says he’s met more people in the last two years than he’d met in the previous decade. Through this life-changing experience, Bob set out to improve life for other people living with blindness, particularly children.

“Dining in the Dark” raised funds for Mira (it costs $60,000 for one service dog – just imagine the intensive training required). It also raised awareness in the community about Mira and its goal to help children who desperately need help.

The cause was worthy. The execution was highly effective.

This experience of being blind –even for such a short time– was transforming for me.

The thing that amazed me most about being blindfolded was how quickly my other senses kicked into overdrive.

In good ways and bad.

On the positive side, dinner was delicious. That’s not generally true at banquets, even at nicer venues as this event was. But between my heightened sense of smell and taste, I enjoyed every scrumptious bite. Especially dessert.

When dessert was served, the scent of chocolate wafted into my nostrils before it even reached our table. This made me question the adage that “we eat with our eyes first.” Without sight, this dessert was exquisite.

On the down side, my ears were extremely sensitive, too. So much so as to be uncomfortable.

During the hour of mingling before dinner sans blindfolds, I was oblivious to the chatter of 200 guests. Once I donned the mask, though, normal conversation blared into my ears. The din of so many people talking and clinking their silverware was almost overwhelming.

After the second course, I went to the restroom (thankfully, we were allowed to do that without blindfolds!), and I was surprised that my ears were ringing. That usually only happens after hearing a loud band, but normal noise did that to me Friday night.

And most unfortunately, that petite filet was beyond my dexterity without vision. Our server Michelle kindly advised us that the beef and chicken were placed at 6 o’clock on the plate. Even knowing that, I managed to slide the beef around the plate a whole lot and, just when I thought I finally had one of those suckers on my fork, I bit into … air. (Kudos to Michelle for giving us tips for finding our food rather than laughing at all our mishaps!)

The final thing I noticed about being blind briefly is that it brought my guard down a bit. That could be good or bad. :-) At our table of 10 mostly serious business people, conversation went beyond the typical fundraiser dinner conversation. We laughed, we bonded, we sang 80s television theme songs. (And here’s where I offer my apologies to the professional entertainment for our interjection of “The Love Boat” into the night’s line-up.)

“Dining in the Dark” transformed how I think about the five senses, and that was a very cool experience.

But in the bigger picture, it changed how I think of the sightless. Or to be blunt, it made me think of the sightless at all. I never have before. Oh, sure, I have encountered a few blind people and marveled at their normalcy. But after our brief passing in the street, they’re out of my mind.

No more. Today, I think of sightless children who need a service dog. Children whose lives can be improved by a loyal canine who will comfort them, enable them to do routine tasks, and keep them safe.

Mira Foundation USA is making that possible.

**************************
If you want to help Mira, you can do that here.

The Other Gold

2010-05-11T10:27:00.003-04:00

You know that heady rush of a new relationship? It’s an excitement unique to getting to know a person you’re sure “gets you.” And likewise, you feel like you “get them.”

Meeting new people is one of my favorite things, and like anyone who’s ever made a new friend, I like it even more when I meet someone with whom I just click.

A few weeks ago, the mother of one of Bella’s friends invited us over for lunch and a playdate. I’m standing in Kristy's kitchen making small talk while our girls squealed happily upstairs. It was all pretty standard getting-to-know you stuff until Kristy said, “I picked up a couple of paninis – a turkey and a reuben. I hope that’s ok.”

Ok? It was more than ok. I think sandwiches, everything from the ordinary to the fancy sort are woefully underrated.

I dream about the barbecued shrimp BLT I always ate at the Weathervane in Chapel Hill. I get misty thinking about the fried bologna and mustard on white bread that my daddy used to make.

So, I told Kristy, probably a bit too enthusiastically, that I love sandwiches.

“Really?” she said. “I do, too!”

“But,” she continued, “I never met anybody who likes sandwiches as much as I do … except maybe Joey.”

Joey? Now, if you’re not a fan of “Friends,” you may not know Joey from Adam’s housecat.

But to me, a true “Friends” aficionado who speaks to her husband in “Friends”-isms, Kristy’s Joey Tribbiani reference got my attention. Joey loves sandwiches so much, he once risked his life saving one (see it here)!

We both love “Friends”! We both love sandwiches! I couldn’t wait to find out what else we had in common.

I had such a good time talking to Kristy that, when it came time to go home, I hated to see the playdate end.

I drove home happily. Because it’s just cool that, even when you have lots of friends, you can still get that rush of clicking with someone new, perhaps leading to a lifelong friend.

On my drive home, I found myself singing a song I learned in Girl Scouts:

Make new friends,

But keep the old.

One is silver,

And the other gold.

I’ve got lots of gold. My golden friends give me the same feeling I get when I’ve spent a whole day in a constricting suit, control-top pantyhose, and too-high heels … and come home to put on my comfy lounge pants and plop down with Patrick in front of, say, an episode of “Friends.” :-)

Golden friends are comfortable. And they’re comforting. It’s easy to be with them, and they love you despite your warts just as you love them with their warts.

Anna’s one of my golden friends. I’ve known her almost as long as I’ve known Anne (you can read about her in The Comfort of Mountain Dew).

Anna and I met in gymnastics when we were 8 or so. I was soooooo excited to meet Anna because, though we went to different schools, her mother was my second grade teacher. And Mrs. Parry was one of the most loving, smart, and encouraging teachers I’ve ever known. So, naturally, her daughter was going to be just as wonderful.

Right?

We-e-e-e-ll, as it turned out, I disliked Anna on sight. And the feeling was mutual.

By silent agreement, we found creative ways of avoiding each other in our small gymnastics class. I knew, for example, never to let Anna be my spotter. We wouldn’t want to be stuck together for any length of time. Plus, I admit to an element of self-preservation … I wondered, did Anna dislike me enough to let me fall?

Still, gymnastics was tolerable because of our avoidance techniques.

And then, we hit high school. We were in the same classes. We were in band together. We were stuck in the same social circle (what are the chances that all her friends and all my friends would make friends?) We even got stuck in the same hotel room on our band trip to Orlando.

Crap. With that forced togetherness, the dislike settled into something closer to a mutual loathing.

Then, double crap. The summer before senior year, Anna and I were the only students from our school selected for Governor’s School.

I should have been happy. I desperately wanted to attend Governor’s School. I’d put everything I had into the demanding audition process. And every day, I’d hurried to the mailbox with butterflies in my stomach to see if THE letter had arrived.

But when the letter arrived, my joy was overshadowed by one detail: I had to spend the next six weeks at a camp where the only person I knew was my arch-nemesis.

I went, of course, but with a churning stomach. Then, something surprising and amazing happened on the quiet campus of St. Andrews College.

Anna and I … bonded!

It started with tentative evening walks around the track. Anna was gearing up for soccer season and asked me to run with her at night. I think she asked me out of desperation; a 17-year-old can’t, even on a tiny campus like St. Andrews, risk running alone at night.

But those runs turned into walks because we found we couldn’t stop talking to each other. It was either run or talk, and we chose to talk.

Lo and behold, I enjoyed spending time with Anna! It was as if we were different people when removed from our hometown. At home, we were caught up in our history and unending one-upmanship. It didn’t help any that our loathing was stoked by mutual friends, friends who told both of us mean stuff (sometimes true, sometimes not) that the other one had said.

Since that summer at Governor’s School, Anna has been one of my best friends. Ever. The kind of friend who will never drift away. The kind who, even when we haven’t spoken for a while, we’ll pick up right where we left off.

A few weeks ago, I wrote something about the "road" of my life on my blog. Anna commented about the road having had a lot of potholes. That's a golden friend. Anna knows about all my potholes and loves me anyway. And she's been there to scrape me out of most of those potholes.

I think, too, there’s something about the way our relationship began that makes us hold on even tighter. At least that’s true for me. Knowing that I completely misunderstood, discounted, and detested this really wonderful girl makes me want to understand her more now. I will always assume the good about her. I will always cherish her.

It’s my friendship with Anna, too, that reminds me that not all great friendships start with a heady rush. Sometimes, they have less than illustrious starts (can it get any worse than outright loathing?) but grow into something great nonetheless.

I’ll continue to enjoy that heady rush and the delight of meeting potential new friends.

But I’ll never let go of “the other gold.”

*************************************
The first photo is Anna and me on the night of her bachelorette party. The second is, duh, her wedding day, and I was humbled to be her maid of honor.

My Mama, the Magic-Maker

2010-05-06T23:23:00.007-04:00

Oh, man. When I decided to write a series of posts about my “mothers,” I didn’t realize the task that was before me. The post I thought would be the easiest turns out to be the toughest of all.

I’m talking, of course, about my own mother.

So, I’ll start at the beginning.

And I mean the beginning: The crucial moment when my mother decided to toss out the birth control pills a month before my daddy’s snip-snip.

It was the surgery that would end her child-bearing days. With one daughter married off and two teenage daughters and a school-aged son at home, I imagine Mama was feeling pleased as punch to be putting this chapter of life behind her.

Oops. That was not to be.

Nine months after that brief-lived self-satisfaction, Mama’s stuck with a baby so ugly even the baby’s father said to the nurses, “That ain’t my baby.” (Yes, my daddy really did say that. It’s a story my siblings love to tell any chance they get.)

And because siblings like to tease each other, my brother also relished any occasion to tell me I was an accident.

Anytime Gary said that, Mama would swoop in and set the story straight.

“You weren’t an accident, Melanie,” she’d say. “God meant for you to be here.”

She’d get this dreamy, far-off look in her eyes. “What were the chances?” she’d wonder aloud and chatter for a while about the miracle of conception, birth, and bringing new life into the world.

Then, Mama’s eyes would settle back on me, and she’d envelop me wholly in her arms. She said, no matter what came along in life, I should always remember that God had plans for me on earth – that He wanted me here so bad he snuck me past her plans just to get me here.

Now, as an adult, I know God has a plan for everybody’s life, not just mine. But as a little girl looking into the face of the most important woman in the world, my mama’s words made me feel like a superstar. Me, an accident? Never. I brimmed with confidence that I had a place in this world with God always at my side.

I wrote a few weeks ago about wabi sabi and the art of finding beauty in imperfection, but I only told part of the story. I didn’t tell you that, though I faltered for a while, the person who originally introduced me to wabi sabi was my own mother.

Mama may never have heard of wabi sabi, but she was my sensei nonetheless.

When I hit the pavement face first in a bicycle accident at the age of seven, my mama told me my broken front teeth were beautiful. She continued to tell me that for the next 11 years because, Lord help me, the dentist said my teeth wouldn’t be set until I was 18…and there was no point in getting them fixed until then.

I look back at pictures of me all snaggletoothed, and I marvel that anyone wanted to date me in high school. But back then, I thought I looked fine. Because I believed my mother when she told me my broken teeth made me unique, that I was beautiful in that uniqueness. Ultimately, Mama said, that imperfection made me me.

A woman who can convince a teenager her chipped teeth are an asset is a magic-maker.

Those words sum her up. Mama really is a magic-maker.

Snuggled in bed and lulled by a sweet Southern voice, I met my first love –words– through Mama’s storytelling. She read to me every day, and when she wasn’t reading to me, she shared the stories of her life, her mama’s life, my daddy’s life, anybody she’d ever known. It was all magical to me … that feeling of being transported to a different place and different time, even to a different body, simply through words.

Every word I’ve ever written, every sentence I’ve strung together, has been because of that magic Mama created for me in stories.

She created magic in the kitchen, too. Some of my best memories are of standing on a chair at the kitchen counter baking with my mother. Cookies and cakes, usually. It didn’t even matter what we were making. I just loved standing by her side.

(It's a tradition I've carried on with my daughter, as you can see here!)

Many a day, I’d come off the school bus into a house that smelled like…well, I’m back to the word magic. Because how else can you describe a smell that kindles all your senses at once? A smell you can taste is an everyday kind of thing. But a smell you can almost touch, almost see, and almost hear? That’s magical. Even now, decades after my last school-bus ride, I can think about that smell and feel the way I felt back then.

My whole life is filled with memories like that. Memories that transport me to a happy place, that make me smile or remember how much my family loves me.

They’re memories that ground me.

And that’s perhaps been my Mama’s best magic of all. Everything she taught me and did for me goes back to that basic premise of being grounded. Come what may –whether I was an “accident” or sported imperfect teeth– God loves me and has a plan and a purpose for my life.

Isn’t that kind of certainty in life what we all wish for our children?

Thanks, Mom, for all the magic and all the every-day moments. I love you forever.

The Other Mothers

2010-05-03T08:19:00.003-04:00

What do you call grown women attacking each other with spatulas covered in frosting?

Or how about adult women who look at each other and that alone sends them into peals of laughter? (And if they try to talk, they’re laughing so hard that no one else can understand them.)

What do you call so-called mature women who prank each other, upping the ante more and more, until one snaps a photo of the other on the toilet?

I call them my sisters. Debbie, Susan, Connie, and I laugh together. A lot.

And all three of them have shaped my life, helping mold the person I am today.

[Here we are on our sisters' trip to Biltmore: Connie, me, Mom, Debbie, and Susan.]

Because of our age difference (they’re 20, 18, and 13 years older than me), my sisters were influential figures. Almost like mothers but also like the wacky aunt who lets you get away with anything and spoils you rotten.

Debbie’s a Southern Lady: all pretty and sweet on the outside with immense strength on the inside. She’s also the quintessential eldest child. Responsible, level-headed, perfect. When we all went to Niagara Falls a few years ago, we saw Debbie’s responsible side firsthand. Anything we needed, she somehow whipped it out of her petite purse. You need a sewing kit? Here you go! You have a little indigestion? Here’s some Bean-o. That bird pooped on you? Here’s a change of clothes! It was like circus clowns getting out of their teeny tiny car. We still tease her about it to this day. But while I may poke fun at her, (shhh, this is my secret) I’ve followed her example and now I’m the one with the well-stocked purse.

Another secret about Debbie? I feel like I've just started to get to know her in the last 10 years. She was married and had a child by the time I was born. I have great memories of spending weeks at her house in the summer playing with my nieces Melissa and Kristen, but those trips were all about three little girls dancing around in leg warmers and singing Olivia Newton-John. Now that I'm all grown up, I'm getting to know a different Debbie. She's very cool!

[The photo above is of Debbie and Mom -geez, they look alike- at the Grove Park Inn.]

My sister Susan’s gifted with this sixth sense of knowing what other people like and what they need. And because she always thinks of others and puts them first, Susan knows just how to lift spirits. A package will arrive at my house when I’m feeling blue, and she’ll have filled it with simple things she knows I’ll love. She’ll call me to talk before I’ve even realized I want to get stuff off my chest.

[This is Susan after our frosting fight: a Christmas cookie baking party gone wild.]

She’s also my movie cohort. Now, I could go to the movies with anybody. But will anyone else do it the way we do it? We have to get there in plenty of time to get our popcorn and get it fixed just right (that’s with extra butter on multiple layers). Then, we have to find seats (in the middle about three-fourths up from the front) in plenty of time to be settled for the previews (the most important part of the movie). And who else besides Susan will understand that it’s ok to constantly pepper each other with questions during the movie about what the heck is happening?

And if we’re seeing a movie at home, Susan and I know it’s ok to make a special trip over to the movie theater for take-out popcorn. Then, we'll giggle all the way home thinking about how the theater employees looked at us when we left with popcorn and no movie ticket.

Then, there’s Connie. I like to think of her as my partner in crime. We were the ones who, on our summer beach vacations, would slither on our bellies into our parents’ bedroom, quietly lift the covers, and paint our daddy’s toenails fire-engine red. She’s the one who would fling open the bathroom door so I could get a quick snapshot of Susan on the toilet. (Why on earth did we do this? For some reason, we used to think nothing else was quite as hilarious. In our defense, Susan can dish out the pranks, too.)

Somehow, amidst all her joking around, Connie has managed three boys, two of whom are in college. And they’re really, really great boys. Debbie and Susan raised great kids as well (three for Debbie and two for Susan), but Connie’s so freakin’ laid back, I don’t know how she did it. She doesn’t worry. She doesn’t second-guess her parenting decisions. She doesn’t stress out. Ever. Those are all parenting prerequisites for me. But Connie’s style -and the living proof in her boys- shows me there’s a different way to live as a mother. [The pic above is of Connie, her son Joseph, and my Bella. I loved the irony of snapping her in front of "Moonshiner's Cave"- she'd never drink any kind of alcohol, especially Moonshine!]

I love all my sisters. I can’t imagine my life without them. And not just my past life filled with beautiful memories. I can’t imagine my present or future life without them.

I love how easy it is to talk with them and how easy it is to be together without talking.

I love that laughter is our second language.

I love that we're vastly different from each other and still find so much common ground together.

I love that they mothered me when I needed it and let loose with me when we all needed it.

Debbie, Susan, Connie: I love you. And I'm ready for another sisters' trip!

Who are your "other mothers?" Who gave advice you valued, baked cookies just when you needed them, or inspired you just by how she lived? Celebrate them this Mother’s Day, too!

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P.S. I can’t talk about my sisters without mentioning my brother Gary. First off, Gee’s a nut. The good kind of nut, the kind that keeps life interesting. But underneath that nuttiness is a serious man who philosophically contemplates every aspect of life. Gee and I have great conversations about Big Stuff. He’s also helped me out of many a pinch, most of which are too mortifying to mention. And despite whatever age he’s spouting, I’m stating for the record that he’s 5 ½ years older than me.

Spunky Mama

2010-04-30T07:34:00.004-04:00

There’s this spunky woman I know. Coming in at 5’ 2’’ and with a beatific countenance, her spunkiness is unexpected.

She’s a silk blouse and pearls kind of woman. She carries herself regally. Her weekly hair appointments keep her beautifully coiffed. In fact, her whole look says lady of refinement.

Which she is, and I admire that about her.

But what I admire more is that spunk. The spunk of a woman named Florence but prefers to go by the name of Nickie.

This is a woman who, after a traditional upbringing in Rochester, New York, hopped on a train bound for a destination hundreds of miles away. The nation was in the middle of World War II, and Nickie headed to Washington, D.C. to serve her country as a secretary in General Omar Bradley's office.

Fresh out of high school and moving 400 miles away all alone.

I always wonder what was going through her mind then. Nickie speaks of it matter-of-factly. But after moving from my sheltered home to the Big Apple (see Vexed in the City), I know a little about the terror of stepping out of a cocoon into a foreign and intimidating place.

Today, her family loves to tell how this young woman was the belle of Washington. I’m sure she was. She can engage anyone in conversation, and part of her charm is that she truly listens to what others have to say. Plus, I’ve seen the pictures of the Washington Nickie, a stunning Italian woman whose allure pierces through the confines of a decades-old photo.

It was under the twinkling lights of D.C. that Nickie met her husband, Tom. It was a double date. Tom’s date couldn’t make it, but he went along anyway to keep his Army buddy company. Poor Army buddy. He picked up on the chemistry ignited that night between Tom and Nickie and headed home with a “headache.”

The two settled in Rochester, and had eight (eight!) children. And of those, seven were boys with one lone girl coming in at number six.

I can’t imagine it.

I’m even more amazed at how those children turned out. Every single one of those boys grew into sensitive men who know their way around a kitchen, whipping up delicious meals. (The photo above demonstrates one son's cooking prowess as he passes culinary knowledge to his dog.) Though parenting their children was clearly a joint effort between husband and wife, Nickie was the one home with them. She had to have been the one who taught her children the value of keeping the house. For heaven’s sake, those boys even know how to iron better than I do!

All the children are accomplished grown-ups: two doctors, a priest, a chemist, two civil servants (don’t be fooled by State Trooper Tim’s gruffness; he’s a teddy bear), a teacher, and one very handsome and irresistible chamber of commerce CEO.

As for that lone girl in the big family of boys? She held her own, clearly inheriting her mother’s spunk. A gifted family physician, Margaret spends her precious little vacation time traveling around the world. Margaret sent pictures of her solo trip to India, and as I look at the one of her atop an elephant, I hope that my daughter will have that same independent spirit.

How did Nickie do it? Again, eight kids! She and her husband ensured all their children had the best private school education. The best, not just the best they could afford. Some of the boys are McQuaid graduates, and if you know Catholic education, you’re sure to be familiar with it and its impeccable standards.

Nickie’s faith is another aspect of her life I admire. She’s loyal to her beliefs and her church, and she demonstrates her faith in how she treats people.

I got to see that firsthand when one of her sons brought me to dinner. I was the new girlfriend. A Protestant. A Southerner. Ok, so maybe Northerners don’t have as many stigmas about Southerners as I fear. But I was desperately nervous that my Protestant upbringing just might be a deal breaker.

Not so, Nickie and Tom welcomed me warmly with hugs the moment I stepped into the restaurant. I had so much fun I forgot the evening was my unofficial parental interview.

As early as that first dinner, I saw the thing in Nickie I most admire. It’s this zest for life, a devil-may-care attitude. She laughs without restraint. She takes inconveniences, annoyances, and problems in stride. She exudes a confidence that, whatever may come, there will always be laughter and joy in her life.

It would be easy to attribute her attitude to the experience earned over years of raising a large brood and of weathering the trials life brings.

I don’t think that’s it.

I go back to the young woman who got on a train, alone and headed for a city she’d never seen.

A woman who does that was born with zest. Nickie may have gotten better at it over the years, but her spunkiness comes naturally.

It’s admirable, and it also makes her adorable. Nickie is loved by everyone: her children, husband, friends, strangers in Wegmans, and of course, her daughter-in-law.

So this Mother’s Day, I thank Nickie for her many gifts to me. For a son she raised up to be a man of integrity and a wonderful husband. For teaching me some of her cooking secrets (anything she touches in the kitchen is gold!). For the memory of so many happy times (in the photo above, we’re on a road trip to Toronto). For enveloping me into her family.

And of course, for her spunk, which inspires me.

Christian Anger

2010-04-28T10:35:00.002-04:00

I have Christianity issues. If you know me, you know this. I don’t hide it and couldn’t if I tried.

I’ve alluded to it here on my blog: how the church of my childhood almost turned me away from God forever. A Christian leader said to me, after asking me to tell my whole story: “I’m surprised you ever came back to God.”

I don’t mean to whine about my experience. Ok, so maybe I am whining a little bit…thus, the Christianity issues I’m fighting my way through. :-)

But the thing that bothers me most about my own experience with religion is wondering how many other people are out there, missing God’s love because they went through something similar.

My mother shared a story with me last week about her senior group visiting a nearby church for a special program. Because the church was a little different from their own church, someone in the group asked the pastor how people dress for church there.

This pastor said they’d had people come to church dressed inappropriately, but he addressed this “problem” by preaching about it several times. According to the pastor, this little problem was fixed after his preaching.

Fixed how? Because people started to dress the way they were “supposed” to? Or because the people dressed “inappropriately” stopped coming?

It’s stories like these that get me riled up.

And when I get riled up, I am forced to confront the truth that I have not let go of the anger about my childhood church experience.

Seriously. How crazy is that? It was twenty years ago!

I ran into the pastor from my childhood a few years ago, and I was civil to him. Civil while thinking most uncharitable thoughts about him.

Admitting to myself that I feel this anger is hard. It’s inconsistent with my values. I believe in forgiveness. I believe in kindness. I believe in second chances. I believe in NOT judging others. It’s the way I strive to live.

Yet, here I sit in judgment of this man I loathe, a man I obviously have not forgiven, don’t want to give a second chance, and definitely don’t want to be kind to.

It’s in moments like that, when my heart rate is up and I’m read to blow, that I hear God’s whisper. A loving God who calms me and reminds me of my values and the person I want to be.

Oddly, those flashes of anger get me back on track. I’m reminded of my passion for the God I know now.

I’m reminded that I want to help people see the real God, the one who is bound by no church, no doctrine, and certainly no pastor.

It’s a God who can overcome even 20-year-old anger. Stay tuned. I’ll let you know when He's done. :-)

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Right now, I’m reading an awesome book that will touch hot points for anyone who has some church anger issues. Reading this book feels like the author got a peek into my mind.

Can't I Just Stay in Bed?

2010-04-26T10:28:00.005-04:00

Patrick and I went to UNC’s Friday Center for the sole purpose of sharing the story of the baby we lost.

We were invited to speak at a continuing ed class on perinatal bereavement. The audience was caregivers: doctors, nurses, chaplains, and grief counselors who interact with the parents who leave the hospital empty-handed.

It was a great day. “Great” may be a surprising word to use when describing an event that ripped my heart out. But it was.

Because for one hour, we had the attention of people who will make a difference. These were the people who will help other parents in the future, and Patrick and I had a small say in changing how it’s managed. By sharing what was good and what was bad about our hospital experience, Gabrielle’s life has some meaning.

There was the doctor who popped in the room, all smiles, and said, “How are we doing in here?” in this overly enthusiastic voice that probably would have turned me off on a good day.

“Just waiting to deliver a dead baby,” is what I wanted to say. (I didn’t.)

He picked up on our mood then, and as we talked, he said, “I notice you’re referring to this as a baby instead of fetus. How would you like me to refer to it?”

Nice.

On the other hand, there were the nurses who tended to my every need, doing it with compassion but without pity. There was the doctor who delivered our child and, with all sincerity, ooh-ed and ah-ed over her beauty and perfection.

The opportunity to speak in front of an audience about all these aspects our experience was affirming. It made us feel like our suffering would help others.

That night, though, the emotional impact of speaking about it hit me, taking me back to my dark days.

The life before Gabrielle was one with certainty. Certainty that if you do the right things and follow the rules, life pretty much works out. But sadly, that’s not true. Gabrielle’s condition affects something like one in a gazillion babies, and there was not one thing I could have done differently.

Wait, how can that be? I did all the right things. I took my prenatal vitamins. I exercised. I even went on a vegetarian and fish diet.

When the thing that almost never happens happens to you, it shakes your certainty about the world. And that’s all I could think about for months. Patrick could die. Isabella could die. Anything bad could happen at any time.

And so I woke up Saturday morning feeling pretty blue. I didn't want to get out of bed. With all this emotion hanging over me, I dreaded the day. I wanted to curl up with a mindless book and forget about the whole world. I didn’t want to interact with anyone, not even Patrick or Isabella.

Unfortunately, we had a commitment on Saturday. We’d been invited to visit friends of Patrick’s. Knowing Patrick’s love for gardening and Bella’s interest in horses, they wanted to share their gardens and miniature horses with us.

Gardens for Patrick. Horses for Bella. Why couldn’t I just stay in bed?

Then, Bella asked me to make muffins. Well, not just any muffins. The cappuccino chocolate chip muffins that are her favorite.

Measuring, pouring, stirring with Bella…these were the things that got me through the dark days after we lost Gabrielle. The precision of baking appeals to me. If you measure correctly, stir just as the recipe says, bake it for the appropriate time…well, you can be certain the outcome will be just what you expected. Unlike life. Baking is one place that’s safe.

My blues started to fade as Bella and I worked side by side.

And when we got to the home of these friends of Patrick’s, I forgot I’d ever been blue at all. The horses! The flowers! The quiet! It was a 22-acre wonderland of peace and tranquility.

And these hosts I’d never even met? Joan and Dick possessed hospitality and an air of peace that made all the worldly cares melt away. Joan whisked Isabella away to make a fairy garden. And Bella is not one to open up to strangers. In fact, she won’t even talk to people she knows well until she’s spent a few minutes with them. But she went right with Joan and created a fairy-land planter.

The day was even more magical when we met Tucker and Bad Bart, horses who stood eye-level with Bella. She fed, petted, and brushed Tucker, and again, I couldn’t believe her comfort level at this strange home. She was so comfortable that Tucker picked up on it and followed her around the pasture.

Patrick got to take as many plantings as would fit in the back of the Explorer. My gardener husband was in his glory.

As for me, this simple day in tranquility making new friends and watching the people I love do things that make them happy…well, it made me happy. I was glad I'd gotten out of bed.

P.S. And the day ended with Patrick getting soaked in the dunking booth at SpringFest. Here's a shot of him coming up, his face a mix of disbelief and indignance, after Bella hit the bull's eye! That bit of levity added to the day's fun for sure.

Playtime Epiphany

2010-04-19T12:02:00.005-04:00

I came across a print advertisement a few weeks ago that just may take the prize for the worst ad ever.

The worst because its message capitalized on the fear of mothers who worry endlessly whether they’re good enough.

It’s an ad for coffee and shows a mother kissing the irresistible baby she holds in one arm while holding a cup of coffee in the other. By the ad is a bulleted list of two items:
* Connect with office
* Connect with Jeremy
Guess which item had the check mark?

Yep, “connect with Jeremy.”

And there it is in a full-page print ad, reminding us once again that we’re bad mommies if we put anything besides our child first.

I’m really fed up with it.

A very few lucky women I encounter don’t struggle with this. They’re comfortable with their work/life balance, and in saying “work,” I’m counting work that is paid or unpaid.

But for the rest of us, we spend too much time wondering if we’re good enough, if we’re doing the right things, if we’re spending enough time nurturing our children, and if we’re spending enough time managing other priorities…you know, little things like earning money, nurturing the other people we love (my Patrick in this case), and taking care of the business of life.

Take our family finances. I used to take care of it while Bella napped. It was only a once-a-week check-in, but in that hour, I was able to pay bills and enter receipts so I could see exactly how we’re spending our money. Then, I’d generate spreadsheets for review (I love, love, love spreadsheets!) It was a great system because I could quickly pull in the reins if I saw we were going over budget in any area.

But ever since Bella stopped napping more than a year ago, I usually have a stack of two months in receipts to enter. That means, of course, that I can go on a spending spree without even realizing it until too late to fix it.

That’s not good, and it’s entirely my fault. Why on earth do I feel guilty about taking time to do work that’s critical to our family’s goals and well-being?

It’s part me. I’m prone to guilt in all areas of my life.

But the other part is the messages we receive from well-meaning friends, the media, and parenting books. You know the friends and books I’m talking about. The ones that say, “Cherish this time while they’re young. The housework can wait.” (See Traffic Light Tweezing for some thoughts on that.)

But I had an epiphany during a recent playtime that motivated me to say, “Enough!”

We were all outside as a family on a beautiful Saturday. Patrick gardened while Bella and I painted her picnic table, a chair, and a desk in bubblegum pink. It was perfect and harmonious until, gradually, coat after coat of paint started to feel tedious instead of fun.

I reached over and striped Bella’s nose with the bright pink paint. The look of surprise on her face was priceless. She quickly sprang into action, giggling as she retaliated. It led to a full-on paint fight with us chasing each other around, wielding our brushes as weapons. (We spared Patrick; he wasn’t keen on pink gardening clothes.)

When the paint was gone and we were covered in pink, we stamped the wood of the raised herb garden with Bella’s handprint.
Reality set in when I remembered a writing project with a looming deadline (plus there were those dreaded receipts). I headed inside to wash off and get started.

But Bella begged me not to go inside, pleading for me to stay and play hide-and-seek. That inner struggle started: “Should I play with her? Or should I do what really needs to get done?”

And that was the moment of epiphany. I love writing, and I have writing commitments. I hate managing our finances, but I have finance management commitments. It’s good for me to do those things.

I turned back to Bella. “Nope. You can play independently or help Daddy garden.”

Guess what. She accepted that, I completed my work, and all was well.

Now, every time that guilt creeps in –and it still does– I look at the pink handprint.

It reminds me of a fun family day. It reminds me that I’m a good mother who does spend quality time with my child. It reminds me it’s good for our whole family for me focus on other things besides my child.

It reminds me to say no to guilt.

And when I come across that ridiculous ad in magazines –the one trivializing our responsibilities and commitments and telling us kids are king– I rip it out.

P.S. Bella has been happily playing alone while I wrote this. :-)

ObSEXssion

2010-04-16T15:01:00.000-04:00

I’m trying to understand this whole homosexual thing.

And by homosexual “thing,” I mean certain Christian groups’ obsession with it. Preaching against it. Campaigning against policies regarding it. Screaming about it on the radio. Boycotting businesses tolerant of it. Preaching against it some more.

Isn’t there something more interesting to talk about from the pulpit?

When I was driving to the beach last week, I found myself in no-man’s land with access to nothing but a single radio station.

On this station, a preacher from who-knows-where, NC, was raging about how filthy homosexuals are and –this is the kicker– their agenda to convert the whole world to their lifestyle.

Hello? That premise is just … there’s no other word for it … stupid. If the whole world became gay, there would be no procreation. And if, as this preacher further said, homosexuals are constantly searching for new “prey” from America’s young people, gay people wouldn’t have anyone else to indoctrinate once they’d converted the whole world.

Next, the preacher launched into a tirade about the sinful nature of homosexuals and how we should all work to rid our world of “them.”

The broadcast made me laugh until I realized I wanted to cry.

To cry about how God’s word is cherry-picked to deliver messages that suit individual group’s agendas. To cry about how so-called leaders, those who have an obligation to use their power responsibly, teach people to hate other people.

Why should we Christians hate, reject, or in any way, blackball homosexuals?

Because it’s a sin?

Ok, let’s accept the prevailing biblical interpretation that homosexuality is a sin. So what? We all sin. That’s fact. Not one of us is perfect.

Well, the “so-what,” according to many with whom I’ve argued this is that homosexuals choose to sin every day.

Oh, now I understand. Because no heterosexuals would ever choose to sin.

How about that extra 30, 15, or even 5 pounds of fat sitting on your body? That’s an abuse of the body that Paul calls a temple of the Holy Spirit. He says, “Honor God with your body.” And that extra weight doesn’t get there by itself. It gets there by habitual abuse: eating junk, overeating, and ignoring exercise. Isn’t consistent abuse of the body choosing to sin every day?

And must we really debate which is the worst sin: those that are habitual choices versus the occasional sin? Do we have the right to rank sin?

In the story of the adulterous woman whom the Pharisees said should be stoned, Jesus responds this way:

"But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, 'If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.' Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground." (from John, chapter 8)

It’s this simple: If any of you is without sin. Jesus put no conditions on it. He did not differentiate between occasional sin or habitually choosing to sin. Nor did he discuss which types of sins were worse. If any of you is without sin.

Some people have argued with me, “Yeah, but that chapter ends with Jesus telling the woman to leave her life of sin.”

Yep, that’s exactly right. It’s what Jesus calls us all to do.

Have we done it yet?

And that’s why I don’t get this obsession with preaching against homosexuality. It merely teaches and advocates hate – the antithesis of Jesus’ message.

Ironically, the very people being preached about probably aren’t in church to hear it. That’s because we’ve made the church such an unwelcome place for them to be.

Why not create a church –a community of people who embrace the message of Jesus Christ– that welcomes everyone? Why create an environment that embraces only “socially acceptable” people?

By the way, those people who are considered socially acceptable? Their sins just aren’t as visible. And I’m counting myself in that category because I’m guilty of a multitude of sins (including the very visible sin of gluttony referenced above).

But that’s why Jesus’ message is so beautiful. There’s a place of grace for me. A place where I’m loved. A place where I’m forgiven. A place where every day is a fresh start.

Wouldn’t it be great if every person had the privilege of hearing that message every week in church … and not just heterosexuals?

Wabi Sabi – Or Why Your Imperfections Rock

2010-04-14T10:50:00.000-04:00

An attractive friend of mine has a scar on the side of her face near her chin. As a child, I was always fascinated by that scar.

First off, there was the mystery: what story was behind her scar?

Secondly, there was something about that one little imperfection that made her even lovelier. It was as if the scar illuminated the rest of her face, highlighting her beauty.

Between that and the intrigue of how she was hurt, she possessed an undeniable allure.

The few friends to whom I’ve confessed my fixation with what many call flaws think it’s a little bizarre. I guess I can see that.

Like the friend who came to work with a fresh and rather large cut on her hand. I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was just very cool … to me. Exasperated during our lunch together, she finally blurted out, “I know you’re into imperfections, but can you please stop staring at my hand?”

Since then, I’ve been in the closet about this fascination.

Until I read an article on the Japanese aesthetic of wabi sabi. It’s the art of finding beauty in anything imperfect, impermanent, or incomplete. Some Japanese potters place tiny flaws into their pieces in recognition of the wabi sabi nature of life.

Ultimately, wabi sabi is acceptance of the transience in all things. And make no mistake: we’re all transient bodies. You need look no farther than your laugh (or frown) lines to know that truth.

Yet in spite of my affinity for imperfections in others, I spent part of my early 20s wearing scarves to conceal the bright red scar running horizontally across my neck. Of course, scarves are pretty, and I enjoyed how the ends fluttered behind me when I walked briskly. But why use an accessory to conceal a flaw, especially one I find so comely in other people?

Then one day, I woke up and decided: no more scarves. However red, however ugly, my scar was part of me, and I was embracing it.

Today, I love that scar. It’s almost imperceptible to others. But I can still see it, and it reminds me of so many good things.

It reminds me to be thankful for life. The cyst was benign. But I didn’t know that when an endocrinologist dropped the C word during an examination. In those few days before the test results came back, I contemplated illness, difficult medical treatments, and even death.

My scar gives me empathy for people going for surgery. I was sure I was going to die during surgery. I’d never had general anesthesia, and several nurses told me redheads often have bad reactions to it. (Hey, you nurses who told me that, thanks for scaring the crap out of me!) Clearly, I came through it just fine, but because of my experience, I understand the suffering of others a little more.

The scar makes me laugh when I remember how I used to fall asleep at my desk every day. Yes, sitting straight up, one can still sleep. (The cyst was on my thyroid gland, keeping the thyroid from doing its job and making me extremely tired.) I’m also grateful for an employer who was sympathetic rather than firing me for going all George Costanza. Hey, let’s take a moment to revisit George under the desk!

My scar is an outward symbol of all my imperfections, my impermanence, and the fact that I’m incomplete – still a work in progress.

And like the scar on my friend’s face, it reminds me to find beauty in all things.

Those scratches on the brand-new hardwood floors? They’re signs of a happy child chasing her dogs around the house. The Crayola graffiti on the bonus room walls? It’s a memory of two cousins giggling conspiratorially together. The orchids that, when not in bloom, look like ugly sticks on display? They’re symbols of a loving husband who nurtures everything to its best … from orchids to a moody wife.

Try a little wabi sabi yourself today. You may find those imperfections weasel their way into your heart to become something cherished.

Immune to Good Friday

2010-04-02T10:46:00.001-04:00

Ok, I’ve got to know. Am I the only person who has become a little immune to the horrors of the day we know as Good Friday?

I’m feeling very vulnerable putting this out there. I mean, what kind of Christian admits they are unmoved by the terrible execution of Jesus?

I know the details of his death. I know how he was humiliated, scourged, nailed to beams of wood, and ultimately, suffocated as his body weakened. I know these facts clinically, sort of how I imagine a doctor reads patient records. The doctor is aware on an intellectual level of the pains associated with, say, cancer. But does the doctor feel the patient’s pain? Does the doctor weep over the patient’s suffering? My guess is no.

I wonder sometimes if perhaps my immunity stems from childhood education of this story. I was told from a very early age the gory details of how Jesus was treated on this day. I remember being appalled, but appalled in the sense that I couldn’t believe humans were capable of doing that to one another.

My revulsion at how humans treat each other remained. And my clinical perspective on Good Friday remained.

I’ve always wondered what was wrong with me. Again, what kind of Christian could feel nothing while reflecting on this day?

A couple of years ago, I decided to watch “The Passion of the Christ,” hoping this controversial yet acclaimed depiction of Jesus’ last days would shock me into connecting emotionally with his suffering.

Nope. All that movie made me do was want to vomit. And it made me mourn, once again, the creative energy humans put into inflicting pain on one another. But I still didn’t connect with the man suffering.

I do connect with the resurrection. That glorious morning when two women encountered an angel who gave unbelievable and wondrous news. I can feel the joy these women felt. I can also feel the doubt of the Apostles, doubt that gave way to joy. Joy compounded as more people heard the news. I feel the hope they all must have felt. A hope Christians share today. No matter how much evil is out there –evil embodied in the torture inflicted on Jesus– we have hope.

But how can I feel the joy of Easter morning and feel nothing for the suffering of the man who made hope possible?

Oddly, it took a children’s Bible for me to “get it.”

Bella and I read from her Little Girls Bible Storybook every morning during breakfast. It’s come to the point that she requests it if I forget. The cool thing about this book is that all the stories are written from the perspective of a woman. I like that because I’ve always felt women’s perspectives are too few and far between in the Bible. Women are mentioned very little, and when they are, I see them as fitting into one of two categories: perfect or perfectly evil. But that’s a blog for another day.

So yesterday we read the account of Jesus’ crucifixion … from Mary’s perspective. I was so moved, I could hardly make it through the story. It was ugly. That hiccup-y crying usually only heard from small children.

Bella was looking at me like I’m crazy. At the age of four, she already knows this story. (And she didn’t learn it from me. Because of my own premature exposure, I didn’t want to give Bella too much information before she was ready for it.) But between Sunday School, children’s church, and preschool, Bella can scientifically recount the day’s events better than many adults.

It took me 15 minutes to get through a 5-minute story meant for a child’s ears. And it’s been with me ever since. Through the eyes of Mary, I felt this story for the first time. I imagined all the people who loved Jesus as a person. I could imagine how they felt as they witnessed his awful death. I could see Jesus as a man. A man—God’s son, but still a man. A man for whom I feel compassion.

Good Friday’s usually just another day to me. But today, the history of this day is more than a story to me.

I’m no longer immune.

Politics Schmolitics

2010-03-30T10:24:00.004-04:00

I’m fed up to my ears with politics. We used to be inundated only around major elections: U.S. senate and congressional seats or presidential races. Now we get it all the time, and even more so thanks to the internet where we can get a spew of everyone's opinions pretty much non-stop.

Persuasive argument. Remember learning that around, I don’t know, fifth or sixth grade? The ancient Greeks gave us this art, and every person should learn the skill of persuasive argument, if they haven’t already, because it’s an essential life tool.

But when it comes to shaping public opinions about important world and social issues? I’m not sure persuasive argument is valuable anymore. Perhaps it’s because people don’t take the time to construct an effective argument.

History is rich with leaders who did it well. I always weep when I hear Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s 1963 “I Have a Dream” speech. It’s simply beautiful. But his address was persuasive because Dr. King lived out the words he spoke. They weren’t just eloquent words dreamed up by a high-paid speech writer. These words represented the world he dreamed of, the life he lived.

The Gettysburg Address 100 years before that? Another weeper. Read Abraham Lincoln’s words, and I dare you not to be moved in some deep place in your soul.

Today’s commentaries –paltry attempts at persuasion– are all talk. When is the last time you heard a person of positional power (i.e. politicians) speak in a way that aligned with his or her life?

At the risk of offending anyone (I should say “at the likelihood of offending someone), arguing about recent political leaders, particularly on the national level, is futile. All I see is rhetoric. Mostly, I see major stinkers, and I regret voting for any of them.

But to cede my vote is to cede a right as an American. And however disgusted I am about politics, I love this nation with all its imperfections.

And here’s my disclaimer. I’m sort of dumb when it comes to politics. I’m not the person with whom to argue public policy. I’m leaving that to my brilliant friend Elizabeth Paradis Stern, a Virginian who will one day occupy a seat elected by the people and will live out the words she speaks.

I’m a mish-mash of political stances. I came to most of my conclusions through life experiences and observations, but if I had to sum up my beliefs in one statement, it’s this: I support policies that honor the rights of the individual.

Sometimes, that means my beliefs fall under typically Republican perspectives, and other times, my beliefs align with typically Democratic principles. But I can’t make sense of public policy to figure out where I fit in. There’s so much garbage out there hidden under more garbage, I can’t see the truth.

Really, unless you’re following politics full-time, who is an expert on public policy?

And here lies the rub. Why do we argue with each other about our individual stances? Do we really expect to persuade the person with whom we’re arguing? Do we simply enjoy arguing?

There is something to be said for the enjoyment of argument. I love philosophical discussions with my husband. I have a few other friends with whom I can vehemently disagree and end the conversation, friendship intact.

I have to admit, though, I’ve actually considered dropping Facebook because it’s become another place where I’m inundated with political perspectives. When a viewpoint is supported by a link to an article from a reputable source, it’s educational. When it’s mere opinion, it just gets old. (Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll never drop Facebook!)

But I don’t want to argue politics with you unless it’s over a glass of wine. Then, I will happily listen to your opinions and you can listen to my opinions. And because there are so few facts to argue –they’ve been successfully concealed by political “leaders”– we’ll accept our conversation for what it is. An exchange of opinions.

And in this platform, my blog, I’m not suggesting we should approach our nation’s policies with apathy. We must continue to strive to shape the public policies that ignite our passion. I just don’t think we do that by spewing opinions at each other. We do it through (effective) persuasive argument and by lobbying at a grassroots level.

Instead of telling your Facebook friends your convictions, write and visit your elected officials. Do it relentlessly.

Photo of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. courtesy of www.mlkonline.net.

Grumpy Old People

2010-03-29T16:37:00.001-04:00

Grumpy old people are the best. I’m keen on them because they represent a challenge.

Most usually, underneath that cantankerous veneer, you’ll find a delightful person with great stories. You’ll discover that the source of their crabbiness is tired bones or arthritis or a hard life that has left them feeling empty.

And there lies the fun. We can choose to write them off for their ill temper –maybe even detest them or poke fun at their expense– or we can choose to coax out that person they forgot was there.

I first saw this with a woman at our church I’ll call Cora. I was new there and didn’t know the “rules,” seating rules present at just about all churches. Cora’s spot was the aisle seat on the third row on the right side of the church. Every week I went (it was just me because Patrick was in the choir and Bella was in the nursery), I found that seat always available. I liked it because it offered a clear view of the pastor, good acoustics for the music, and most importantly, eye contact with my husband so we could wink at each other impishly. How was I to know then that seat’s availability stemmed from Cora’s extended visit to her daughter?

So one Sunday, I’m sitting in my favorite seat. And here comes Cora.

Teeny little thing with white hair and a cross face. She was late, so the church had already quieted in anticipation of the service. Cora stands right in front of me and rasps at me in a loud voice, a voice especially thunderous coming from a 90-pound body, “You’re in my seat. MOVE.”

Now normally, I don’t respond well to someone telling me what to do. But on this day (probably because I was in church), I didn’t snap back with a snide comment. Instead, I stood up and, awkwardly and red-faced, found another seat in the hushed church.

The next week, I carefully avoided Cora’s seat and took the one behind her. Cora turned around and said, “I see you’re having a baby.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” I answered simply, expecting an apology or the familiar deer-in-headlights expression. (See Not Pregnant. Just Fat. for more about this dreaded comment.)

Instead, Cora chose the mean route.

“Well, you look like you are,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eye, running her eyes over me head to toe and pausing meaningfully at my waist.

As I sat there fuming, I realized that –just as Cora could have chosen kindness or malice– I had a choice, too. I could deem Cora my arch-enemy, or I could look past her words and try to see the person underneath. For some reason, I chose the latter.

At the end of the service, I introduced myself to her, shook her hand, and apologized for having taken her seat the week before. The next Sunday, I chose the seat next to her and attempted some small talk with her. The next Sunday, she told me a little about her children who lived far away. It didn’t take long at all before I saw the crinkles of smiles around Cora’s eyes and I got to know some of her stories.

And what a character! Her hearing was fine, but she still chose to talk loudly to me during the service. Like after the choir sang, she’d practically yell, “Oh, that was terrible,” as if she were a judge on American Idol. Or during announcements, she’d say at full volume, “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

I was sometimes embarrassed to be sitting next to her (especially on the couple of occasions when people asked if we were related). On the other hand, I found her immensely amusing and –dare I say it?– endearing! We had a bond.

Lest I paint myself as the patron saint of old folks, I’ll be upfront. Prior to the moment of enlightenment in which I realized I had a choice about how to respond to this crotchety old lady, I can tell you with 90% accuracy that I would not have taken the high road with Cora. I’m fond of sarcasm –a hard habit for me to give up– and I’m sure I would have introduced Cora to my talents in that particular area.

I’m happy I did have that moment of enlightenment, though. Not because I helped a lonely elder feel a little less lonesome, although that feels pretty good.

I’m happy because that moment freed me. Freed me from negativity and freed me from assuming the worst about others. I’m the winner when I take the time to peer past grumpy faces and grouchy exteriors* and see someone else. It’s an adventure to discover the person hiding underneath the crusty armor.

And sometimes that lovely person isn’t hidden too far deep. Often, they are yearning for a chance to come out. They just need a little coaxing.

**********************************************************
*Random factoid:
You know how some older women appear to be perpetually frowning? I read somewhere (and no clue where so I can’t cite the source) that the muscles around women’s mouths are among the first to lose their elasticity. Gravity takes over, leading to down-turned, frowny mouths on perfectly content women.

A Broken Heart Still Beats

2010-03-26T10:43:00.002-04:00

“A Broken Heart Still Beats” is the title of a book* a friend gave me in a sad time. It’s a compilation of poetry, fiction, and essays on child loss. While it’s more about the death of living children, it comforted me in my pregnancy loss two years ago.

Five simple but eloquent words that sum up what happens when grief strikes.

My friend Tim reminded me of this book Monday when he wrote as his Facebook status, “In memory of all babies born sleeping or whom we have carried, but never met, or held in our arms. Unlike cancer, baby loss is still a taboo subject. Break the silence.”

Why is it taboo? Why do people get all squirmy and uncomfortable talking about a person who existed –perhaps only in the womb– but existed just the same? Why are we silent in our heartbreak? And why does it hurt so bad when it happens to you?

I know the answer to that one: A fetus in a womb is a person we never really met but knew for a lifetime.

In talking about the death of his grown daughter, Mark Twain nonetheless expressed the grief of pregnancy loss when he said, “There was but one of a kind. It cannot be replaced.”

That’s it. “One of a kind.”

The people who tell you to be thankful you weren’t any further along in the pregnancy just don’t get it. This collection of cells was a singular person who can never be replaced. Another pregnancy resulting in a living child will be joyous, but that child will never be the person the other cells could have been.

I want to digress for a moment to be clear here. I’m not taking a political or religious stance on ending a pregnancy. I think every woman makes the best and most compassionate choice she can make in her life. I’ll leave the futile arguments –pro-life versus pro-choice– for others because, above all, I strive (and sometimes fail) not to judge others in their choices.

What I do want to talk about is when a woman desperately wants a baby, experiences the joy of learning that even now, her body is working hard on its job of creating a future person, only to learn that her body failed. It’s not her fault, and probably nothing could have been differently. But the heartbreak is there despite any degree of reasoning.

I know it because I had the privilege of holding a tiny, lifeless body all too briefly. 18 weeks gestation, yet beautifully formed with a familiar face, that of her would-be sister Isabella.

In the wake of the grief, Patrick and I chose a memorial service as a way to process our own feelings and begin healing. It was a time for our little family of three to gather with our extended family and acknowledge our sadness over this girl we named Gabrielle.

I needed to speak at the service, even if I did it through squeaks and tears. I needed to publicly acknowledge Gabrielle as a person, though the only way she got to be a person was through the life I imagined for her.

When I stood up and looked around the church, I was utterly shocked. The church was full. People we knew and loved –and people we knew only a little– came to share our sadness.
Something even more unexpected happened after the service. Woman after woman after woman came up to me and thanked me, saying the memorial was for them, too. They told me about their own losses. They told me the service gave voice to their own heartbreaks.

I loved sharing those moments with other women. For a short time, talking about pregnancy loss was not taboo.

And I love that Tim, a manly drummer dude, was the one who posted a taboo topic on his Facebook page. Because men suffer this grief, too, though they are more silent than women.

Let’s stop being silent in our sadness. There are more people than you might imagine ready to share in your grief and offer love and support. People who can affirm that, yes, a broken heart still beats.

*“A Broken Heart Still Beats: After Your Child Dies” was compiled and edited by Anne McCracken and Mary Semel and is published by Hazelden.

She Speaks

2010-03-24T22:41:00.002-04:00

I’ve got a fire inside me. It’s burning and spreading, and much like a house fire, I know where it started, but I don’t know where it’s going.

I can equate it with the time I caught our kitchen on fire. It was picture day in seventh grade which is, of course, one of the most important days of the school year. I was in a hurry to complete all the usual morning requirements –feeding the dog, feeding myself!– so every spare moment could be devoted to perfecting my hair, wardrobe, and sadly, blue mascara.

I buttered my bread, put it in the toaster, and rushed back to my room to put on a rockin’ outfit.

It wasn’t until I heard a bellow from the kitchen that I smelled the smoke. Running, one leg in nude-colored hose and a mint-green leg warmer (really, what was I thinking?) with the other end of my hose swaying in the wake of my gait, I rounded the corner and saw the fire. Origin: toaster. Current location: burning the cabinets above the toaster, leaping over to the curtains, and starting to lick at cabinets on the opposite side of the window. And there was my father, attempting to put it out.

The story ends well. Our house didn’t burn down. My mother got a brand-new kitchen plus new paint throughout the house thanks to all the smoke damage. And my family got a big kick out of my ignorance—but really, how was I to know that butter dripping down into an electrical appliance was a bad thing?

But there were a few scary moments there that my dad and I didn’t know where this fire was going.

Unlike the house fire, this God-fire is not frightening. More like thrilling. It’s burning stronger and stronger every day, but I don’t know where it’s taking me.

There have been fits and starts in my spiritual journey, but the God-spark didn’t truly ignite until a few years ago when I found a church home and a MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group. There, my passion and love for God grew under the nurturing care of people who fed my quest for knowledge. Most importantly, these people lived out the love of Christ, something I’d not seen before in an organization.

That’s when my fervor in God began intersecting with my joy in writing.

I told my pastor I wanted to start writing on faith, hoping he’d recommend some readings for me. Being the resourceful pastor he is, he reminded me of my interest a few months later when he asked me to deliver a mini-sermon one Sunday. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. The honor of being an instrument of God –using the very foibles and failures I’d once angrily blamed on God– was one of the most amazing and humbling experiences I’ve had.

And so the fire burned brighter.

Then I found Proverbs 31 Ministries. I loved the devotionals and the writings of the individual bloggers. I thought, “Hey, it would be so cool to be involved with that organization. Too bad I’m totally unqualified.”

Unqualified because I’m a spiritual baby. Very ignorant of the Bible. I mean, I know most of the stories from my Sunday School days, but as for interpreting their greater meanings? I score D-minus.

It wasn’t a coincidence, though, that within weeks of that thought, I met two amazing Proverbs 31 writers (and on two different occasions!). Women who were encouragers. Women who told me about the She Speaks conference. Women who said the conference was a must-attend for an aspiring writer.

I can see why. Opportunities to pitch a book proposal to reputable publishers. Seminars to strengthen my own unique writing voice. Classes on what it takes to write a book. So much to soak in and all under one roof for three awesome days!

I see God’s hand in this, and I will be at that conference. I’ve spent too much of my life ignoring the voice of God to squander another chance so carelessly.

As for the financing? Based on the encouragement of my supportive husband, I took money that was designated for an important household expense to pay the $575 conference fee. It's a step of faith that this conference is one way God will use me, will grow me. Stepping out further, I’m requesting a scholarship to help with the conference expenses.

Either way, I’m energized and keyed up about the conference. It’s where I think God is leading me to understand how I can write about Him, to use my experiences and voice to help others in their faith journey.

It’s where God is taking me to further stoke this fire.

[The conference is open to all women, as is the scholarship. Check it out at Lysa TerKeurst's blog. The deadline is this Friday.]

Gadget Graveyard

2010-03-22T15:23:00.007-04:00

From my first bite of crème brulee, I knew I’d found my dessert soul mate. My spoon struck an amber surface, digging deeper to meet a velvety and creamy center. I put the spoon to my lips and sampled it. Ah, love, sweet love. And certainly not love unrequited…the way the flavors lingered on my taste buds assured me this dessert loved me back.

But to say my love stems from the flavor is too simple. There’s a depth to crème brulee thanks to its texture: the juxtaposition of crunchiness and melt-in-your-mouth smoothness. This is my absolute favorite dessert.

I had to learn to make it myself. There are some dishes I don’t want to learn to make. Like if I want braciole, I know I need to head to Rochester, N.Y., where Mama Coughlin (nee Nicchitta, so hers is the real deal from Sicily) will give me my fix. And if she’s not up to it, I will head east to Casa de Pasta in Canandaigua to the capable hands of Dominick Dardano.

I like keeping the mystery of some dishes and enjoying the fruit of someone else’s labors. Crème brulee, though? I needed to possess it, master it, and make it myself whenever I wanted another taste of heaven.

I experimented with different recipes, ultimately finding the one in Craig Claiborne’s “The New York Times Cookbook.” I used the oven broiler to caramelize the top for the perfect crunch.

My crème brulee, if you’ll forgive my immodesty, was excellent.

But I couldn’t rest. I lacked the most essential tool for crème brulee preparation: the torch. I just knew the torch would take my crème brulee to new heights.

So, when I received the torch for my birthday (a kitchen gadget is an acceptable –and even desired– gift from my husband if it’s something more exotic than a blender), I couldn’t wait to try it out.

I removed the chilled custards from the fridge, sprinkled on my blend of sugars, and commenced torching. Ah, the power was intoxicating. Fire wielded in my hands … leading to a new level of crème brulee greatness.

Without even waiting to see Patrick’s reaction to the first bite –which is what I usually do when I’m seeking approval on my cooking– I took a bite.

It was, it was, it was … disappointing.

The torch, it turns out, caramelizes the top to a beautiful hue without heating the custard through. Now, the crème brulee experts advise this is how it should be eaten. Chilled on the inside. But I like what I like, and I like a warm custard with a crunchy top.

Two vehement thumbs down to the torch. I decided to send it to the gadget graveyard with so many other disappointing kitchen doodads.

And isn’t that just like life? We have something that’s fine, maybe even really really good, but we’re dissatisfied with it. We embark on a quest to transform that something good to something MORE, something BIGGER, something BETTER. Something that is going to take our lives to its BEST EVER!

Sometimes, that quest works.

Sometimes, it doesn’t. That’s when we find out things were really better before the quest. Nothing needed to be changed. We feel disappointed the new thing didn’t meet our expectations. We feel misled because, doggonit, that new thing advertised itself as having transformative powers.

But time passes. And then we grow to appreciate what we started with. We learn that sometimes, we don’t need to tweak anything—we just need to sit back and enjoy things as they are.

Like my crème brulee. It love it still without any gadgets. Just custard, sugar, and an old-fashioned broiler. Voila! Taste bud ecstasy.

Oh, and the torch did get an 11th hour reprieve from the gadget graveyard. It now has a healthy and active existence as a fancy lighter for Patrick’s cigars.

Contractor Blues

2010-03-19T10:32:00.001-04:00

It’s that time again. The time when a housepainter is going to magically appear at my door to transform the colors in my house.

Amazing how that happens. Updating the paint in a room does not rank high priority in our family budget until I casually mention, “I’m painting [insert room name here] this week.”

Suddenly, Patrick is all, “Oh, you have so much to do. Why don’t we call Willy instead?”

I’m not sure why Patrick thinks I’m a terrible painter (which he clearly does), but it doesn’t matter since the end result is the same. I can overlook his lack of confidence in me as long as the colors change.

Willy is the best painter ever. Well, that might be overstating things. The best painters ever were these two brothers named Rich and Stu who painted our house in Virginia. They didn’t spill a drop, they left no streaks, and they had chutzpah. They once painted a section of our family room a color I had vetoed because they thought it would look better than what I’d selected and because they thought I’d like it. They were right on both counts. Yep, they were good, and their services cost only slightly less than the price of a new car.

So, I would say Willy is the best painter ever who also does the job for a reasonable price. He has done enough work here that our daughter started calling him “Uncle Willy.”

Overall, though, I’m really uncomfortable with having people come to my house to provide a service. There are just too many awkward moments. And I'm not talking about those butt-cleavage revealing moments as someone crouches under your sink.

I mean, what do you say when a stranger in your home asks you if you want to join hands and pray? (I said yes, and it turned out to be a beautiful moment.)

What do you say when the burly guy with the backhoe cuts your phone line for the third time? (I pointed it out nicely and came to appreciate the extraordinary customer service offered by our telephone company.)

What do you say when the guy renovating the bathroom of a 100-year-old Victorian steps through the floor, his foot appearing in the ceiling below, and denies he did it? (I don’t even remember how we handled that one. I was pregnant and sweltering and living in the guest room of some very understanding friends who offered us shelter during the neverending renovation.)

What do you say when the guy you’ve gotten to know over the course of a couple of weeks runs behind on his project and demands that you go to Lowe’s to get supplies for him? (I said no and hid out at my friend Sara’s house drinking wine until he finished and left the house.)

The same guy, incidentally, started out his project calling me “Mrs. Coughlin” with a pleasantly polite voice and ended his project bellowing out “Melnie” when he needed me. Oh, yes, the best way to endear yourself to me is to yell at me and mispronounce my name.

My father is the only one who got away with that nails-on-chalkboard pronunciation. “Melnie” is what always came out of his mouth when he was angry with me. I would respond icily, “My name is Melanie.” To which he would respond, “I know your name. I named you.” And there was something about the absurdity of that moment that always broke the tension between us.

By the way, I'd love to tell you I was named for the genteel and kind Melanie Hamilton of Gone With the Wind. But no, my parents named me for Melanie Anne Safka who had, like two hits, one of which was the absurd song about rollerskates: Brand New Key. Oh, and it wasn't enough for my parents to go with "Melanie." They had to throw in "Anne," lest there be any doubt about the origins of my name. What was my mother thinking?

But he contractor dude hollering “Melnie,” and usually managing to do it while my daughter was napping? Unlike my father, there was nothing endearing about that.

The other thing that drives me just a little nuts about having any kind of work done is that the words “stay-at-home-mom” have a different meaning for some people. Apparently, there’s this crazy perception that a stay-at-home-mom stays home. All the time. As in, please stop in anytime. We’re always here, just waiting for your arrival.

“Uncle” Willy, though? He’s easygoing and pleasant to have around. He won’t call me “Melnie.” In fact, he’ll probably call me Mrs. Coughlin though he’s older than me and deserving of my respect. He certainly won’t damage the house, and if he does, he’ll make it right. And I won’t run to a neighbor’s house to hide from him.

He’s the kind of contractor I like working with. Welcome, Uncle Willy. And welcome, fresh colors!

Island of Misfit Christians

2010-03-17T18:21:00.002-04:00

Remember when Hermey from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sang “Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit”? Other than being a catchy tune, I like that little ditty because I suspect we all feel that way from time to time. I already confessed that my blog is named for those not so infrequent times I feel out of step with the world.

This one’s a particularly scary place for me to open up about. Scary because it makes me vulnerable to criticism and judgment. Scary because it’s an area where almost everyone is better informed than I am. And scary because it’s an emotional topic for most people, religious or not.

But here it is. I’m a Christian but have not always been. In fact, I used to be the opposite, (assuming Atheism is the opposite of Christianity). The order was this: baptized-by-immersion-Baptist, Atheist, Agnostic, moving toward Christian, and finally, Christian. Some people become Christians when they are children and remain there. Others find God through an emotional conversion a la Paul on the road to Damascus. For me, it was two steps forward and one step backward. I kept hearing the voice of God, and over time, I found the freedom I’d always sought in the very place I equated with oppression.

But that’s not the scary part. Those are just the facts. The scary part is that, now that I’m a Christian, I have more questions than answers. Why are there conflicting edicts in the Bible? Why are Christians as a whole so closed to the rest of the world when we are to live in the world, just not OF the world? Why does the Old Testament read like a list of ways Gods may smite you when the message of Jesus is all about love and tolerance? Believe me, this is merely a PARTIAL list of my questions. (Incidentally, I am fortunate that I have a place where my multitude of inane questions are encouraged. The very questions that would have been called blasphemous at my childhood church are welcomed at Community Presbyterian Church in Pinehurst, N.C.)

Back to Jesus and his beautiful message…I have to admit that, though I love God deeply and the way He has transformed my life, I’m just not comfortable with Jesus-y language. Maybe it’s because, even five years into my relationship with God, I fear coming across like some of the judgmental, spiteful people in the church of my childhood, the ones who relished sniffing out (and publicizing) other people’s sins. I don’t know the reason.

But I do enjoy when other people talk all Jesus-y out of love and not out of a sense of superiority.

My nephew Daniel who is 19 and has gone on many mission trips, including foreign countries, is simply adorable. He’ll say things like, “I love me some Jesus!” He says it with complete sincerity and real gusto in his voice. I can’t tell you how much I admire that about him. I mean, when I was his age, I was all about Nietzsche and “God is dead.” Not to mention the occasional keg stand.

Then, I met these awesome women who embody the lyrics, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” You may want to check out their inspirational blogs at http://www.threegirlygirlz.blogspot.com/ and
http://www.liveitoutblog.com/. They are not at all unnatural speaking that way. Their writings always inspire me.

The other thing that makes me feel like a misfit among Christians is that I often find that we disagree on social issues. They would disagree with me, too, if I had the courage to say what’s on my heart because I would probably be coming out of the closet as a “liberal.” I’m passionate about issues like equal rights for all people, regardless of behaviors condemned by the Bible. Because who are we to judge those people? (Coincidentally, lots of behaviors are condemned by the Bible, and humans persist in pursuing them.) And I’m passionate about a fair justice system that embodies the message of Jesus of love and forgiveness. Who are we to decide on life and death for a fellow human being?

And why do we even divide ourselves with labels like “conservative” and “liberal?” Those words have become so loaded with other meanings –religious, political, and social– that they serve merely to create schisms among humans. That’s what we all are: humans. What other label matters?

Isn’t that the message of Jesus?

So, I’m trying to figure out where I fit in. I love God, I believe in the sacrifice of Jesus for me (and you), and I want to shout at the top of my lungs about God’s transforming power. But I don’t know how to express my joy for God when I don’t fit into the conservative, never-doubted-God for a second, Jesus-y mold.

One of the reasons I started this blog was to stop self-censoring and find my voice. I can’t tell you how many articles and stories I’ve begun and tossed aside over the course of my life. This blog is my foray into just throwing thoughts out there without, gasp, editing! And a part of my voice is faith because it’s so important to me. I’m passionate about God and want to write about Him. I’m just not sure how to do that when I feel like such a misfit.

I’m just wondering, getting back to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and his friend Hermey…am I the only Christian feeling a little out of step with aspects of faith, even while living with a pure joy in and wholehearted pursuit of God?

Hermey and friends went on to sing: “What's the matter with misfits? That's where we fit in!”

Maybe there really is an entire island of misfit toys out there. Maybe it turns out we’re all inhabitants.

When Enthusiam Exceeds Ability

2010-03-15T12:11:00.001-04:00

My daughter lives in a different world from me. It’s a place I visit from time to time but not nearly often enough.

This occurred to me a few weeks ago when we were in the car, zipping along to Hannah Montana’s “The Best of Both Worlds.” Isabella was belting out the words as loudly as she could, missing –no, slaughtering– the notes. She was singing it with abandon, oblivious to her shortcomings. She sang with utter joy. And it was one of the best sounds I’ve heard.

She did it again this morning boogying to a DVD tutorial on dance moves. (This DVD has a refrain I can’t get out of my head so I’ll be singing “Bella, Bella, Bella Dancerella, you’ll be a pop star!” all day). Isabella’s face was scrunched up in concentration as she followed the moves and attempted to do a little hip-hop. She was entirely caught up in the fun of dancing. I’m not going to say she doesn’t have a future as a dancer, but today, her enthusiasm for dancing definitely exceeded her ability.

She’s four years old. She doesn’t know to be self-conscious. She doesn’t know that we’re “supposed” to stick with the things we’re good at, the areas where we excel—and above all, avoid humiliation.

That’s her world. It’s a world where most children live. The world where enthusiasm exceeds ability. And I want to spend a little more time there.

If you’re lucky, or particularly enlightened, perhaps you never lost that connection with the part of you that allows you to have fun without worrying if you’re good at what you’re doing.

As for me, I’ve been too chicken to just jump into things without carefully analyzing them and making pros/cons list.

Here's one example. I’ve always wanted to travel to other countries, but I never had the courage to do it because languages do not come easily to me. I had the enthusiasm for travel but lacked the linguistic abilities.

I went to China because I got to travel with a team of translators. Even so, I did a lot of smiling and nodding during the meetings. And about the only thing I learned to say after 10 days there was “Gumbay!” which means bottoms up to whatever beverage you have in your hand. (The Chinese were good hosts to us.) :-)

France? My husband spent a year there, so I felt comfortable going with him. I even brushed up on my high school French and attempted to speak the native tongue, knowing Patrick was there to rescue me. At one point, I found myself without Patrick close by and asked a waiter, “Ou sont les toillettes?” But knowing how to ask is much different from understanding the rapid-fire response I got from this sympathetic waiter who ultimately led me to les toillettes.

But why did I wait so long to travel when it was something I yearned for? Honestly, the overall experiences outweighed the cluelessness I felt in China or my momentary embarrassment with the waiter.

Dancing? I secretly love to dance even though I'm the one who is always off-beat. And thanks to my marching band days, I move like a robot. So, I envy Isabella how she can lose herself in the moment. I refused to have music at my wedding reception, choosing instead a dignified dinner. It’s true I love good food, so the food was important to me. But I also chose that kind of reception because I didn’t want to look like Elaine Benes, causing my husband to question the wisdom of his decision to marry me. And yes, it would have been that bad.

Michel Lauziere has made a career of leaping into new things without fretting about what people think. He’s the guy who, among other talents, makes music by roller skating next to wine bottles. I’m pretty sure that the first few times he attempted this, his enthusiasm for tackling the feat exceeded his ability. And honestly, as cool as that clip is, he looks silly. But he doesn’t care, and that’s part of what makes him appealing. His joy shines through.

I’m taking baby steps into the world of letting my enthusiasm exceed my ability. Patrick and I started ballroom dance lessons, and it’s exhilarating. Really! I’m only learning the basics, and I don’t care that it’s basic or that I’m not ever going to be lauded for my ability. I love it.

One day soon, I’ll have to take my daughter iceskating (she’s been asking about it), and I’ll stink. But who cares because we’ll be skating together!

And I promise I’ll be writing soon about my rite of passage into karaoke. Why save my awful singing for the car? I love to sing – definitely have the “make a joyful noise” part down pat. I should share my voice with the world, if for no other reason than to give them a good laugh.

If you already live in the world of letting your enthusiasm exceed your ability, keep doing it! I’ll be joining you soon.

Sweets by Sisters Truffles Winner

2010-03-13T19:34:00.000-05:00

Sorry to be tardy in announcing the winner of this week's treat: amazing truffles from Sweets by Sisters. The winner was Helena Wallin-Miller. Congratulations, Helena! Enjoy your truffles, and thanks for sharing your story.

Traffic Light Tweezing

2010-03-10T11:52:00.002-05:00

I keep tweezers in the car—right in my cupholder so this precious tool is close at hand. When I hit a redlight, I grab ’em fast and get to work. The light outside is way better than anywhere in my house, and doggonit, those little eyebrow hairs pop up lightning-quick which means I need to stay on top of it daily. I do get a few odd looks when I’m stopped in a four-lane road and the driver next to me glances over to see me grooming in the car. I wave and keep on plucking.

Now, some people might call this multi-tasking, and based on all the magazine articles and books out on mindfulness right now, multi-tasking is bad.

I get the whole mindfulness thing and the revelation that we are not, in fact, multi-tasking. That we are just doing several things in close succession and doing each of them poorly.

But what I’m doing isn’t multi-tasking. It’s seizing a moment, even an opportunity. Because, believe me, plucking unwanted hair (even, Lord help me, the occasional gray hair on my crown) is a very welcome opportunity indeed.

I love seizing moments.

I was at my mother’s house a while back. We’re big Scrabble girls. We’ve played since I learned to spell. So, I’m at her house, and the Deluxe Scrabble board is out. It’s the one with the turntable—in my day, we had to read upside down. I learned she’s been playing Scrabble with my 11-year-old nephew Joseph after she picks him up from school. Unfortunately, my mother and I didn’t have time for a game because she had to pick up Joseph soon.

Grinning mischievously, we conceived a brilliant idea: set up the Scrabble board as if we had played, using only words too impolite to say out loud. You know, the very words that 11-year-old boys love to say…and act out.

My mother and I laughed so hard as we set up the board that I thought I’d lizz (that is, according to 30 Rock, the more efficient way of saying “laughing so hard you think you’ll whiz your pants”). And as I made the hour-plus drive home, I found myself laughing out loud as I imagined Joseph looking at the Scrabble board and slowly reading each of the words.

Though I’m not sure my sister appreciated our humor that day, my mother and I seized a few moments that I’ll never forget. We bonded more in those thirty minutes than in an entire girls’ shopping day.

I see my husband do it, too. When I’m cleaning up after dinner and we have just a few minutes before Bella’s bedtime, Patrick plays silly games with her. They have this one thing they do, where Bella stands on our bed and says, “You better not push me over.” And then giggles like crazy, knowing exactly what’s coming. Bam, Patrick gives her a push that has them both roaring with laughter (Patrick usually snorts), and the dogs are running around the bed barking because they want in on the fun. I love hearing them, and it’s a few stolen moments that make all five of us happy…and yes, I’m counting the dogs.

As a child, I used to wake up early when everyone but my father was sleeping. I’d find him in the kitchen brewing his coffee. He let me have a cup, and together, we’d sip our coffee, watching the sun rise over the pine and oak trees at the edge of our yard. Granted my “coffee” was cream and sugar spiked with coffee, but more than 30 years later, I can almost smell the coffee and my father’s aftershave. More than 30 years later, I can definitely feel how I felt in those few stolen moments where I got Daddy all to myself.

I want to seize as many moments as I can every day, capture them from the doldrums of duty.

Fact is, there are a lot of things that have to get done every day, leaving precious little time for fun and connecting with each other. We have to work, we have to keep the house up, we have to pay bills. We can’t just abandon responsibility.

I loathe when people tell me the house can wait because our daughter will only be little once. Really? We should live in a pigsty, wear dirty clothes, and eat nothing but take-out while playing Chutes and Ladder and doing the Hokey Pokey all day? That doesn’t sound so great to me.

How about, instead, my daughter and I clean the house together, do the laundry together, and cook together? Some of my favorite Bella moments are when we do projects side-by-side. She loves to be in charge of picking herbs from our garden and tearing them into tiny pieces for me. And she mops the floor while I dust. Or vice versa. But we do it together, and we laugh because it’s actually fun when we do it that way.

I look at it as moments seized from the jaws of life-sucking and never-ending housework.

In the interest of full disclosure and to prevent painting an idyllic, but inaccurate, picture, I’m owning up to the fact that I frequently fail at this. I’ll get annoyed at my daughter’s painstakingly slow pace and do it myself or, worse, snap at her. And then I apologize. And then I feel guilty.

But I keep trying. I want to be the person who DOES seize moments, whether it’s for connecting with the people I love or for taking care of the little things that need attention.

Honk if you catch me tweezing.

The Comfort of Mountain Dew

2010-03-08T08:05:00.003-05:00

There it was. A bottle of Mountain Dew. The sight steadied my uncertain feet and calmed my swirling thoughts.

I had come to the hospital to say goodbye to Catherine, a woman who counseled me –whether I wanted her to or not!– and loved me throughout my childhood. That alone made my heart heavy, but the thing that inspired my dread, fear, and sweaty armpits? Looking in the face of my dear friend Anne as she made decisions about her mother’s last days.

I opened the door with shaky hands and brimming tears, only to find that Catherine had been moved to another room. This room was empty save a hip handbag and that familiar green bottle. Anne’s things.

Anne and I have been friends since we were five years old. We have evolved over the years, but I know three unchanging facts about Anne:

She will always look fabulous. Even if she has spent the last four hours on a sweltering July morning sorting through chickens and their waste to collect eggs in a basket. I know this because I saw it when our mothers conspired to teach us the value of hard work by putting us at the chicken house. Yes, even then, Anne will manage to look perfectly put-together.
She will always be kind, whether you are a stranger or friend. Anne is universally loving, and everyone can see it. We used to walk down Franklin Street when we were students at UNC-Chapel Hill, and people in need would come out of the woodwork, pleading for money. They never asked me. I was invisible, as if my chest were stamped “hardened heart located here.” But Anne? They swarmed around her because Anne seemed to have a stamp reading “I will always help others.”
She will always have a bottle of Mountain Dew nearby. This was true even when we were five. Southern mothers in the 70s let their children drink all manner of sugary drinks. I was practically weaned on Coca-Cola. (Please, whatever you do, do not offer me a Pepsi. It’s akin to sacrilege.) Anne’s sugar drug of choice has always been and always will be Mountain Dew.

So, by the time the nurses got Catherine settled and led me down the two floors to her room, I felt prepared. The certainty that some things never change –embodied in that half-full Mountain Dew bottle– gave me comfort.

I won’t tell you it was easy to look on this woman of strength –the first female firefighter in the history of our county– and see her so frail. It was even more difficult to choose the last earthly words I would have a chance to say to her. Catherine had always welcomed me to her home. Even on school nights because, as Anne and I argued, it was easier for us to study for trigonometry if we spent the night together. Catherine had always spoken truth to me, including the times I didn’t want to hear it. She cheered me on, celebrating my accomplishments as wholly as my own parents.

But Anne? It was heart-wrenching to see her in this setting under the saddest of circumstances.

This is the girl who has always blazed the trail for me. Though only four months older, Anne was one grade ahead of me. She did everything first, hit all the rites of passage before me. She drove me around in her breezy white Cabriolet (top down, of course) when I was still only thinking about driver’s ed. She gave me her CliffsNotes version of the lowdown on UNC, making my transition easier. She was by my side in college when my father died, knowing exactly what I needed since she had faced the same terrible loss only a few years earlier.

I didn’t know what to say to her. Anne is the more poised of us (hello, debutante and beauty queen!). She’s the one who knows just what to say or exactly what to do regardless of the circumstance.

Silly me, I shouldn’t have worried about words. An embrace between girlfriends needs no words. And when the tears dried up and we were able to talk, we did what you do when someone is dying. We told Catherine stories, and we laughed at all the happy memories.

And we did it, of course, over Mountain Dew.

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

Prize Giveaway!

Ironically, on this very same weekend, I had the pleasure of hearing author and speaker Julie Barnhill talk about girlfriends. As she shared her own girlfriend memories and spoke poignantly about the value of those relationships, my mind was running through my rolodex of friends…and the memories with each one.

So, here's what I want to hear from you. Post here or on my Facebook page a memory of one of your girlfriends, and be entered to win a prize (more on that below). Forward this link or post it to your FB page, and get two chances to win.

The prize? A new indulgence I recently discovered. Simply heavenly chocolate truffles handcrafted at Sweets by Sisters. Truly worth every bite. I love truffles, and these are among the best I've ever tasted.

The lucky winner will be announced this Friday! Please make sure I know how to contact you. Thanks for reading.

Breasts and First Impressions

2010-03-05T08:32:00.000-05:00

If you are gifted with small- to reasonable-sized breasts, you may or may not feel happy with your lot in life.

But from where I sit (usually hunched over in discomfort), there are a lot of perks. No pun intended. You get to do aerobic exercise without pain. You get to go bra-free. You get to buy tops right off the rack that fit.

It’s the last one that bothers me most. Because unless you are buying tailor-made clothing –and I’m not– all clothes are made to fit the average measurements of that size. Average hips. Average inseam. Average cup size. Average whatever.

And that means that women with larger cup sizes usually spill out of their shirts a bit.

You may look at a woman who’s sporting some cleavage and think, “Wow, she really likes to show her stuff,” when in fact, it’s just that nothing fits properly. I mean, a crew neck works fine, but crew necks? Really? They’re ok to wear sometimes, but with more appealing necklines available, why be limited to the mundane? And once a woman with a larger-than-average bust steps outside the crew neck comfort zone … well, folks, there’s going to be cleavage.

If one more person suggests a camisole, I might scream (if you have ever said this to me, know that I love you anyway). Camisoles, like every other article of clothing, are made to fit the average woman, which means I end up spending the whole day or evening tugging up the disloyal garment meant to shield me. That camisole suggestion usually comes after a pointed glance at my chest. It makes me feel like I'm being judged –and not in a good way– for my clothing. And for good reason. I'm a bit self-conscious about my chest, proving that, no matter what cup size a woman is, she's probably dissatisfied with it.

I once read a magazine article with Giada De Laurentiis in which she was asked about the criticism she receives for her décolletage-revealing clothes. (Check out the picture here. Normal shirt on a lesser bust.) She has been accused of using her body to attract the male demographic to her show. Poor Giada. There’s even a website devoted to her breasts. The tagline: “Where good food plays second fiddle.” She gave a poised response, asserting she was comfortable with her body and that clothes just fit her the way they fit her.

I’m trying to think like Giada. “Clothes just fit me the way they fit me.”

In the meantime, the issue of breasts and cleavage has me thinking about the greater question of how we judge people based on their appearance.

I do it. I freely admit it. I try not to do it. But I find myself doing it anyway.

The area I’m most likely to judge someone is if they look sloppy or unkempt. I think, “Doesn’t she care how she’s presenting herself?” I wonder how on earth, in this day and age of rock-bottom clothing prices at discount stores and excellent consignment stores, she could look so completely un put-together.

Then there’s attire I deem “suspicious.” My husband and I had a lengthy conversation one night about how I cross the street to avoid people, not based on skin color, but based on how they are dressed. There is, quite simply, attire that makes me uncomfortable enough to question my safety even without any other warning bells.

And there are people who try too hard with their clothes. You know the ones. They have fabulous bodies, and lest you miss a single inch of it, they wear the most form-fitting clothes they can get their hands on.

But I’m owning up to the ways I judge people on their appearance. I’m trying to do better, to see the whole person instead of the clothes.

The sloppy people? That may have truly been the absolute best they could do that day. I remember when the pre-child me got together for coffee with a friend who had just given birth to her third child in three years. Her black pants were covered with something sort of shiny and glistening, and upon closer inspection, I saw it was snot. Ewwwww! But I didn’t judge her when I could see the panic in her eyes and her jittery hands (jittery not from caffeine but from the stress in her life).

The people with the “suspicious” clothes? My own adorable and brilliant nephew sported the exposed underpants look for a while. I thought it was a little odd, but I also knew that he most definitely was not someone for me to fear. So, I dug deeper. That style is what was cool in his crowd, and they were all just trying to blend in.

And the people in skin-tight clothes? Maybe they went from fat to fit and are motivated to exercise by squeezing into tiny outfits that remind them of how far they have come. This one goes out to my brother, who I failed to recognize in one picture. “Who’s the guy with the six-pack?” I wondered, looking at his Facebook page. It was my bro who, though never fat, became inordinately buff...and enjoyed making that fact transparent.

The old adage, “You only have seven seconds to make a good impression” … I think we should let that one apply to job interviews. For all other circumstances (you know, like real life), let’s all cut people some slack. Whether it's a friend or stranger, let's try to look beyond the clothes to see the good person within.
As for breasts, I don’t think I’ll fret too much about décolletage anymore. The experiences of many wise women before me tell me I should just enjoy their fleeting presence before they wither away.

Vexed in the City

2010-03-03T13:37:00.000-05:00

Finally, New York City! I moved in with this guy, the friend of a friend, and though I’d never met him, I was fairly sure he was not an axe murderer. He graciously let me crash on his couch for a couple of weeks until I found my own place (oh, and a job). I found both and moved into my very own one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea. Nevermind that it cost significantly more than half my take-home pay to live there. I’d left behind a condo in near Research Triangle Park –a place I managed to purchase on a paltry salary– and I was not going back to living with a roommate.

I was 24, and this adventure to the city of my dreams was something I’d always wanted. I suffered from a total fixation on the magical land of Manhattan.

Sadly, the New York in my head did not match up to the New York in which I lived.
First off, there was simple economics. On my visits there, I ate like a queen. I saw marvelous shows. I went to clubs and heard good music. It’s easy to do those fun things when you’re on a mini-vacation.

In the real Manhattan, I spent most days weighing food against transportation. Walk the 40 blocks to work (figuring one minute per block, that’s a 40-minute walk) or eat? Yes, I really was that poor.

In the real Manhattan, I worked in the movie “Mean Girls” except it was an office rather than high school. “Oh, you’re from the South,” as eyes scrutinized me from head to toe. Ten women, one small office, competitive industry. Not a great combination.

Oh, and lunch? I anticipated fun lunches out with my new friends. Wrong! In the real Manhattan, we were expected not to leave our desks all day, except to go to the bathroom. And don’t drink too much water, lest the backbiters (um, I mean co-workers) think you’re slacking off.

I did get to leave the office during the day when one of my bosses wanted to talk to me. She was in such a rush to do everything that the only time she could fit me in was on her daily walk over to the psychiatrist. It did make me pretty good at taking notes while walking and dodging other hurried pedestrians, though!

Quite simply, I was miserable and lonely. So, I squeezed in all the items on my checklist of “Stuff to Do in Manhattan” and got the heck out of dodge.

And here is where we come to my ultimate vexation.

I was utterly humiliated that I couldn’t hack the city. The place I’d dreamed of, the place I was sure would bring my dreams to fruition – I wasn’t cut out for it, and that was a very difficult realization.

But the worst part? Going home with my tail between my legs, and when I say “home,” I mean my childhood home. Living with my mother. I’d rented out my condo, and though I probably could have broken the lease, I’d spent all my money on moving to NYC, and without a job, how would I make my mortgage?

This goes on my list (yes, it’s true I love lists) of top-five darkest times of my life. Failure in the city? Check. Turning into a loser by moving in with my mom at the age of 25? Check. Running into old friends who asked how NYC was and admitting my defeat? Check. Jobless? Check.

The irony here is that, without this crash-and-burn chapter of my life, my LIFE –the real life that I enjoy today– would never have happened.

I developed a deeper relationship with my mother. A daddy’s girl, I found that this time, just Mom and me, was a precious period of growing closer and getting to know each other as adults.

I found a job I loved in my hometown, where I also met the woman who was the ultimate mentor for me. (Here’s a big shout-out to Marianne Bright, former newspaper woman, president of the Stanly County Chamber of Commerce for more than a dozen years, and current entrepreneur running a Sylvan Learning Center). I am forever in her debt.

It was because of Marianne and her encouragement that I moved to Geneva, New York, as president of the chamber of commerce there. Where I met the best people. Truly the best. I had wonderful experiences, both professionally and personally. Upstate New Yorkers are salt-of-the-earth kind of people. They cut right to the chase, a trait endearing to me, since in the South, I’m accustomed to decoding communication where nothing means what it seems to mean. Upstaters are also quick to help, quick to show kindness, and quick to adopt single women who don’t know anyone. I’ll never forget finishing my interview, where I’d mentioned in passing that I like port. Scott Osborn of Fox Run Vineyards was back to the office within one hour with a bottle of his own port as a gift. That epitomizes the Finger Lakes region of New York and its people.

And from that job, came Patrick Coughlin, president of a chamber only 17 miles away. Cute, smart, funny, and my husband within 18 months.

Life only got better from there, and none of it would have come about without my crash and burn in Manhattan.

I often reflect on that time of my life and the disappointment and humiliation it represents for me. Especially when I don’t understand the events in my life or the ones I love. When something bad happens that I can’t comprehend. When God seems utterly absent and silent.

I think to my disaster in the big city and how, when life seems to be falling apart, things really do always work out for the best. It’s hard to believe when well-meaning people pat you on the back and spout absurd aphorisms like “God never gives you more than you can handle” or “This, too, shall pass.”

But it’s true. From those tough times, some of the best things often emerge.

[For the record, I have rediscovered the joy of being a tourist to the former city of my dreams.] :-)

Peter Pan in the Senior Center

2010-02-28T23:14:00.004-05:00

An art show at a senior retirement community makes for a pretty stimulating night. You get the eccentric older adults, throw in the eclectic artists, and just sit back and watch things get bizarre. And absolutely delightful.

Where else could one view stunning art while also being asked, “May I please borrow your napkin? My tooth just fell out.”

Oh, and the person who lost the tooth? She rolled her tooth into my napkin, which she tucked into her purse, then picked up her sushi roll and continued to eat. And then asked me where I was from, which I suddenly couldn’t remember because I’m picturing the tooth –root and all– that just came out of her mouth and is now in her purse, and I’m feeling relieved for her sake there’s nothing crunchy in the sushi.

My strange night began because I knew absolutely no one at the event besides my husband (who was busy for the first hour as a guest bartender) and the guy running things (who was busy, well, running).

I left my husband at the bar at 6:31 p.m. “Ok,” I think, “this isn’t too bad. So, I don’t know anyone. Patrick will be finished in an hour and we can have fun together.” Unfortunately, even after looking at all the art, finding a watercolor I loved, and purchasing the piece, it was only 6:47 p.m.

I was starting to feel more than a little awkward. The room was filling up, and I still didn’t see any familiar faces. I went to the hors d’oeuvres for a distraction. Big mistake. Between the glass of pinot in one hand, the plate in the other, and the program booklet tucked under my arm, I couldn’t move, much less eat or drink.

I eyed the small bar tables set up for just this kind of quandary. I didn’t want to go stand at a table even if it meant nibbling a crab cake without spilling red wine. Standing by the art…well, people could just assume I was waiting for a friend to join me. But parked at a table? I envisioned the blinking neon “loser” sign over my head.

Finally, my practical side won out, and I acquiesced to loserdom at the table. I was not alone for long. And that’s when the fun started.

Vera* –who presumably still had a full head of teeth at this point in the evening– joined me first. She asked me if she could share my table. I opened my mouth to say sure, but I had not even gotten the “sh” out before she inundated me questions. Vera, it turned out, was a master at the art of conversation and quite the party girl. Sharing a table with Vera was like having one popular kid in high school give you the thumbs up, thereby making it ok for the other kids to talk to you. Virtually everyone at the event came by our table, hugging Vera and staying to chat for a moment before moving on.

Her friends and fellow senior community residents Blanche and Kitty were my favorites, though.

Blanche was spunky. “What I want to know,” she said with a gleam in her eyes beneath thick glasses, “is when did I become a pronoun?”

My confusion must have shown on my face because she was quick to explain.

“I go to the doctor, and the nurse asks my driver, ‘When did she start having symptoms?’ or I go out to eat and the waitress asks my daughter, ‘What would she like to eat?’” Blanche said. “I want to say, ‘I’m right here. Talk to me.’ But I don’t.”

“Why not?” I ask.

Blanche doesn’t miss a beat. “That would just be a bad attitude. And we should all keep a little Peter Pan in our lives.”

Kitty chimed in. “Yeah, Peter Pan. You know, keep some of the child alive. Not take things too seriously.”

“Besides,” Blanche said, “Just because everybody else thinks we’re old doesn’t mean we are.”

How true. I see that even at my age. Anyone who has passed the landmark age of 30 is already old to someone else. I’m sorry, 30-year-olds, but it’s true. Teenagers and even early-20-somethings look at you and see someone ancient. But I don’t feel my age. I’m still pretty darn amazed I’m old enough to be married much less be entrusted with the care and well-being of another human being. Why should it be any different when we age past 70?

I looked at these women with new eyes. They knew their bodies were failing, and they could not ignore the fact that, though they may be living independently, it was no longer in a single-family home. And rather than living with their own families, they were building new families made up of friends in similar life stages.

But they weren’t old. They were clinging to their inner Peter Pan, and they were making every day –even a conversation with the average 30-something small-town mom– an adventure.

It seemed like no time before Patrick, freed from his bartending duties, walked up to the table where I stood with my new friends.

We said our goodbyes. As we walked away, Patrick said he couldn’t tell if I was having a good time or looking to be rescued.

“No, I was having a great time,” I said, realizing the awkwardness that had marked the start of my evening was gone.

The fact is, I was rescued by these ageless women and their Peter Pan perspective. Unlike Wendy, I do want to grow up, and I want to do it just like Vera, Blanche, and Kitty.

*Out of respect for these very cool women, I changed their names.

"Smiling's My Favorite" Winner

2010-02-26T15:19:00.003-05:00

Thank you to all of you who gave me extra reasons to smile by sharing your own funny and happy moments. Linda Gerdes is the winner of the $10 Starbucks gift card. See, posting the link pays since Linda got two chances to win. The winner was drawn, of course, by my impartial four-year-old assistant. :-)

Prehumous Eulogies

2010-02-26T10:50:00.001-05:00

My sister and I have a death pact. Or maybe it's a posthumous contingency plan? Whatever, we know what we want when we die.

Susan has vowed that, should I predecease her, she will not allow the funeral cosmetologist to put me in blue eyeshadow. I don’t know why, but every makeup artist in my history wants to put me in blue eyeshadow. I’m not Molly Ringwald, my life is not Pretty in Pink, and it’s not 1986. Plus, blue eyeshadow looks unbelievably awful on me. Truly horrendous.

Should Susan predecease me, I am assigned the job of wailer. Since this comes from my dramatic sister –the one who should have her own comedy show just for being herself– it is not to be your run-of-the mill show of sadness. No, I have strict instructions to wail mournfully and loudly throughout the service. And at the graveside, just as her casket is being lowered into the ground, I am to hurl myself onto the casket with a loud cry of anguish. (I don’t want to lose my sis, but I secretly hope to outlive her just so I can grant her wish.)

This is on my mind today because I attended a funeral yesterday. The man who died, a good man who spent his life in public service and was funny, to boot, was not someone I knew well. Thus, I was able to be present in the service while my mind wandered pensively.

What kind of funeral do I want? Should I select my own music now or settle for the traditional dirge? (Hello, that music is depressing on a carefree, sunny day, much less when a soul has ended its earthly time.) So, I’m thinking preludes like Walking on Sunshine and What a Wonderful World. Basically, I’d love to have a funeral in the spirit of Jill and Kevin’s wedding—surely, you’ve seen the YouTube sensation? Maybe the pallbearers could carry in my casket with a boogie in their tushes to the tune of I Like to Move It.

Then, my thoughts turned to the people I love. I realized I don’t know what kind of funeral my own husband wants. Shouldn’t a spouse know that kind of thing? I want us to die peacefully in our sleep together, but if I ever have to endure the horror of saying goodbye to my soul mate, I’d want to say goodbye in the way he wants. Does he want to be buried or cremated? (For the record, I do not, under any circumstances, wish to be buried. Let me go free in the wind.) Who would eulogize him, and what would he want to be said?

Then, at yesterday’s funeral, the eulogies began. As I listened to story after story recounting this man’s good deeds, how he spread cheer and optimism to everyone around him, the way he advocated relentlessly for the community he loved, I looked around the filled-to-the-max church. And I wondered if this sweet man with the mischievous smile knew the impact he had on the people around him. Even people who knew him as little as I did? He’ll never know that the evening Patrick I spent with him and some of his friends –a fun dinner listening to The Cowboy Band– was the first night I had fun after a very sad time in my life. I thanked him and his friend Ginsy for a lovely evening, but he never knew that this simple evening represented much more to me.

How often do we do that? Life slips us by. Moments to lift up others slip by. People boost our spirits or brighten our days with simple kindness or grander acts of generosity, and we don’t tell them what it means to us. We see somebody do something good, and we don’t applaud them for it…though we move with lightning speed to criticize if they do something bad.

Why do we wait for the eulogy to say what people mean to us? I know the eulogy is more for those of us left behind than for the deceased. It helps us say goodbye. It makes us feel good to hear stories of the loved one’s life.

But wouldn’t it be wonderful to eulogize people NOW, while they are with us? I think it would make us feel good. And even better, imagine the warmth and joy your prehumous eulogy would make in the person you’re celebrating.

I have to go now. I think I have some letters to write, starting with my mother.

Smiling's My Favorite

2010-02-24T08:45:00.002-05:00

When I got my first job out of college, I was giddy. A real job! Don’t get me wrong. The college internships were enlightening, the summer stint at my hometown newspaper was a blast, and even the days at Western Steer had their perks. But finally a real job! With bright, inspiring people. It was a publishing company made up of individuals of all ages and backgrounds. And a couple of times, I got cool assignments (San Francisco for a trade show? Woo hoo!).

When it came time for my one-year review, I was nervous, of course. Getting evaluated –and more importantly, responding graciously to the feedback– is not one of life’s most relaxing events.

As it turned out, I did need to make some improvements. But there was one item my supervisor marked on the written evaluation as requiring particular attention. It said, and I’m quoting directly here: “Melanie smiles too much. Her loud laughter in the halls causes co-workers and superiors to take her less seriously.”

I saved that evaluation and still have it to this day. Why? Because many years later, it makes me smile and laugh out loud.

Why must we be so serious? Life is serious without our help.

My six-year-old nephew is slowly dying from a 100% fatal disease. My husband has been touched by the deaths of friends three times in the last six months. My BFF had an illness that knocked her off her feet for more than a month. A friend is in the hospital now. And that’s just my tiny world and doesn’t even begin to account for all the other things that can go wrong in life.

Good people are out of work, wondering how they are going to feed their families, much less make the mortgage. Our soldiers are in dangerous places putting their lives at risk. Groups snipe at each other constantly over issues ranging from the trivial to the life-changing. Families snipe at each other. Husbands and wives divorce.

Is smiling really so bad? I say we need more of it.

Thus, my predilection for stuff that makes me smile. Here are just a few of my go-to mood enhancers:

• Elle Woods – Need I say more?

• Ooh-La-La by Maira Kalman – I’m owning up to the fact that I purchased this book way before I even thought about having a child and used to perform dramatic readings for Patrick.

• Authors like Adriana Trigiani, Jennifer Weiner, Sophie Kinsella – Likely to generate deep thinking? Nope, but guaranteed to make you smile.

• Ina Garten – Especially Barefoot in Paris in which she magically makes any problem disappear with scrumptious food that delights the eyes.

• 30 Rock – It’s absurd. They’re all so irreverent. Forget smiling. It’s laugh-out-loud funny and is my quick-fix when I only have 20 minutes for a pick-me-up.

• Casa Coughlin – I probably don’t need television or books since I married my “one-man walking party,” which is what I dubbed my husband soon after meeting him. And just last night, my four-year-old demonstrated her talent for physical comedy with repeated pratfalls. Good stuff.

But in the end, it’s Buddy the Elf who has the low-down on smiling’. He does it best, and he said it best: “Smiling’s my favorite.” Take a sec to watch the clip now, get your laugh on, and forget about the serious stuff.

And if Buddy ever fails me as my guaranteed smile-generator, I have my back-up: the tried and true one-year employee evaluation.

Prize Giveaway:
I want more in my personal arsenal for generating smiles and laughs. Tell me what elevates your mood, and be entered into a drawing to win a $10 Starbucks gift card. Just post a comment here or on my Facebook page. Forward this link to a friend, and get two chances to win (write in your post that you forwarded it – I trust you!). Winners will be announced Friday.