In the Year of Our Lord 1066

One evening, while reading to Levi from a Mac B Spy book, we came to discuss what can happen in just 45 years.

 The following conversation ensued:

Levi:  How old will I be in 46 years?

Me:  54.

Levi:  How old will yOu be?

Me:  (Tactless as always) I won’t be here then.  I’ll be gone.  

Levi:  (Falling back onto his pillows)  I have tears in my eyes.  Really!

Me:  Well, if I do make it, I’ll be 97.

Levi:  (Popping up quickly, excitedly) You’re the best grandma in the world, so you’ll be a billionaire by then!

The Universe:  Nope.  No one’s paying billions for that.

Me:  But I’ll be pretty frail by then.

Levi:  (Considering) You may be in a wheelchair.

Me:  (Watching him closely) Will you push me around?

Levi:  Nah.  I’ll just getcha a feeding tube. 

Bad Guys

When it was clear we were under attack, we tiptoed to Levi's closet and snagged the longest gun we could find. With this wooden gun, Levi was able to slow the assault somewhat, but if we were to make it out alive I would have to help. So I hunkered behind the nearest wall and shot nineteen Bad Guys with my dinner fork.

Moments later, I would cover our flank with said fork while Levi burst into the front bathroom, using the element of surprise in conjunction with solid marksmanship to route thirty-one Bad Guys. When they had scattered in all directions, I brandished my fork in triumph.

That is when Levi saw my fork.

He said, "Ma? Why you using a fork to get the Bad Guys?"

So we hunted and foraged throughout the closet for a "real" gun, only to be constantly interrupted by a barrage of enemy fire. We fought for our lives between full-frontal assaults and reconnoitering missions to the back of the couch. And if it weren't for my fork in those pressing moments, we would have been completely undone in the 7:15 Living Room Campaign.

But feeling vulnerable and discredited after our near-calamitous ruin in the kitchen doorway and Levi's frequent chagrined glances at my fork, I slipped away to search lengthily for, at least, the orange capgun with the chewed handle.

Levi said only, when he caught me searching again, with a long and sad sigh, "Ma, just use the fork."

Shape of Defeat

Bushrod's name is Algonquin for "Canine of cylindrical shape".  He attained his girth not through hand-outs, but by raw jealousy. He cannot bear to see Rufus eat from their shared food bowls, so he stands sentinel, eating kibbles until he is sick, fat, and of cylindrical shape. Meals are not even covered in gravy, or sugar, or butter, or steak - only the sauce of Rufus's hunger.

Bushrod eyes Rufus's every foray toward the dog food bowls with suspicion, but seldom now does he move suddenly unless it's truly necessary, due to the weight of the fat pressing in on his organs; His power is so diminished, he can now only bare his teeth in jowl-quivering menace. But no one is scared anymore - except that he will hurt himself.

He even forgets his own position, flaunting his weakened monarchy by lounging on his back in the beaming sun, all four legs held aloft in a pantomime of defeat - as Rufus looks on with that "lean and hungry look".

The stroke that's ending Bushrod's reign is swinging far more quickly than he can move to counter it.

The King is Fat. Long live the King.

Sustenance

I find entertainment in knowing what others are eating at mealtimes. Vivid details are best, but perfunctory answers are not unwelcome. I will even accept, in lieu of a description, a bag held aloft, displaying its Burger King logo. Although later, if you walk by too slowly, I will ask if you had a Whopper or a chicken sandwich.

When dining out at restaurants, Luke always made it a point to remember for me what his dinner companions ordered, but Allie resisted - for a time. She gave in eventually; once, asking her lunch mates at zoo academy if she could take a picture of what everyone was having. I think she phrased it thusly, "My mother is crazy. Can I just take a picture of your lunches so I don't have to tell her later who had Cheetos and who had peanut butter and jelly?"  She thought I would be ashamed; I thought she displayed brilliant forethought.

Knowing the intimate details of your loved one's food preferences is vital to knowing them more openly and loving them more fully, since what we enjoy eating reveals so much about our souls.

However, certain types of people will narrow their eyes at you for asking what they eat throughout the day. They would like to know why you would like to know. For instance, the seven-foot porter stingily withholds the details of the contents of his lunch bag. He does not like for you to guess at them either, and delights in walking by, waving a nondescript takeout container that he has no intention of discussing with you. He will also smack your hand if you pet his takeout container. (And by "you", I mean the collective "you").

Although, one Christmas, he lifted the lid from his salad buffet box, allowing me a glimpse into his soul. (It is covered in fake bacon bits.)

In contrast, other types when asked, fold their hands together and begin cataloging their food passions with gusto, describing sauces, cooking methods, and accompaniments. This is how my co-worker Tony always responds to inquiries about his and his partner's dinners from the previous evening. In addition, we begin at 9:45 a.m. discussing what he should consume for lunch. (His soul is covered in blue cheese crumbles and whole milk.)

I enjoy written descriptions of food preparation the most, and I must not be alone, owing to the proliferation of all those blogs devoted to family dinner menus, homemade bread baking, and scratch-baked pies. Those types never mind revealing the garnishes on their souls.

(Btw, mine is covered in grated sharp cheddar with a dusting of Pringle crumbs and junior mints.)

Spring Break

Before Allie left for Florida with the Daniele's, Allen gave her "The Talk". He explained, again, about the nature of men, and how the objective of any fellow on spring break is not marriage. He warned Allie and Mara to be wary of "pathetic, pimply-faced college boys", and to stay close to Mr. Tony for protection. Allie bristled at being so insulted and mistrusted.

Last night, when I spoke with her on the phone, she described her activities as shopping, swimming, and eating. She said to let her dad know she was faithfully fighting off the hoards of "pimply-faced college boys" who found her irresistible.

She then admitted her surprise at finding so many beautiful men in Florida:

"Mom! The guys here are so beautiful! I've never seen such beautiful men, and they are everywhere. They are so beautiful, that instead of talking to me about spring breakers, Dad should have come here and talked to the spring breakers about me."

Sigh.

Soon

Soon I will be a grandmother. When that occurs, I will start wearing elastic-waist pants and I will blame it on the baby, not Pringles. I will cut my hair short and tease it in order to hide all the new, patchy, bald spots that the birth of my grandchild will conjure. I will eat dinner at 4:00 in the afternoon - dinner that will consist of canned peaches and cottage cheese atop a bed of lettuce. I will tuck my shirt into my elastic-waist pants while yelling, "Land sakes!"

I will yell things like, "Mercy, Child!"

I will bother company about having more dessert and I will wear orthopedic shoes with kneehighs. I will smell like powdered old people, and cottage-cheesed peaches. I will tuck my pants into my knee-highs while calling, "Does anyone smell that?!"

I will wear floral-print shirts and let my gold rings spin beneath my arthritis-swollen knuckles. I will eat ice cream for dinner and tell everyone I just don't eat much anymore.

I will disapprove of all music besides Lawrence Welk and the greatest hits from Hee Haw. I will take trips to Branson, MO to see the Baldknobbers music show and prune my lips when my husband makes dirty jokes about their name. I will fuss, "Not in front of the baby!"

I will spoon mashed potatoes into my grandson's mouth while asking if he ever gets a proper meal at home. I will hint, gently, that he isn't getting enough protein in his diet and that his clothes smell of cat pee. I will say this even though Luke and Jennifer don't have a cat - because it is my duty.

I will pry into everyone's business while tucking my cottage-cheese stomach into my elastic-waist bed of lettuce. I will dye my sparse hairs red and cover my bald spots with peaches. I will fuss at Luke for disciplining his own son, while asking if everyone would like more lemon meringue pie.

I will crotchet lime green baby booties for Levi, plus also a cute little noose - then cry when Jennifer takes it away from him. I will act like this new generation thinks they have all the answers and are better than us for disapproving of a good, old-fashioned noose now and again. I will say, "Why, Luke and Ben hung each other all the time and look how they turned out."

I will keep a bowl of Werther's candy and hard peppermints on my coffee table. I will argue with Jennifer when she says the baby can't have another Sprite. I will act hurt and cry a little, using the crumpled-up tissue I always keep in the pockets of my elastic-waist, cottage-peach pants.

I will awake at 4:00 in the morning on a weekday, tuck my peach-lettuced cheese into my elastic-waist cottages and wait around to call people at 10:00 a.m. I will say innocently, "I wasn't sure you'd be up yet."

I will set up an egg dying table on Thanksgiving and shoot fireworks on Easter. I will trip on my wrinkled knee-highs in a Fourth of July sack race and have to be rushed to the hospital. While awaiting surgery, I will worry about whether someone put away all the boiled eggs. In the recovery room, I will tuck the elastic-waist hospital blanket into my hospital gown while yelling, "Glory be!".

::Sigh of contentment::

Obviously, I have found the secret to aging gracefully. (There's a reason to live 'til one hundred-twenty after all.)

Subscription

I have a subscription to Prophecy in the News.


Laugh if you want, but anytime I like, I can order books and DVDs from their catalog section:


Angel Wars by Stephen Quayle - $39.95

The advert tells me that Stephen has done the impossible by combining thirty-year's worth of research into this oversized book. "Ancient history and legend, as well as the Bible, attest to the fact that there were once giants in the Earth....Does their existence relate to the sins of the fallen angels who cohabited with women? Could such mind-boggling, incredible events occur again during this end-time?" - William F. Dankenbring

(I will be purchasing this book based on the name of William F. Dankenbring alone. It is a doctorate-worthy name.) (Also, I want to be Mrs. William F. Dankenbring.)


Giants: Master Builders of Prehistoric and Ancient Civilizations by Stephen Quayle - $34.95

The advert asks, "What if everything you had been taught about ancient history turned out to be 90 percent false?"

(I will be purchasing this book because I have always hoped this was true.)


As it was in the Days of Noah: The Return of the Nephilim by Tom Horn (and Stephen Quayle) - $24.95

The advert says that this DVD has been called "The Best Ever Series". Tom Horn's newest revelation from the Book of Enoch left Stephen Quayle speechless for several seconds.

(I will be purchasing this series because although never having heard Stephen Quayle to begin with, I would like to hear him speechless.) (At least, for several seconds.)


Nephilim Stargates: The Year 2012 and the Return of the Watchers by T(h)om(as) Horn - $14.95

The advert says that "beings of super intelligence have descended through openings of sky, earth, and sea to interact with this planet's creatures, appearing to come to us from nearby planets and/or dimensions". It quotes Neil Armstrong's description of all the spacecraft that lined up on the far side of the crater's edge to watch them explore the moon.

(I will be purchasing this book because I believe this.)


Conspiracy Theory by Thomas Horn and Spencer Bennett - $24.95

The advert says this CD set is a fact-filled, six-hour investigative interview about end-times prophecy and its relationship to biotechnology, UFO's, the Nephilim, and the Watchers, perhaps in 2012.

(I am purchasing this book because I feel like I'm being watched, and I want to know by who.)


Forbidden Gates: The Dawn of Techno Dimensional Spiritual Warfare by Tom and Anita Horn - $16.95

The advert says this book is about an "international, intellectual, and fast-growing cultural movement known as transhumanism that has been embraced within the deepest and darkest chambers of the military".

(I will be purchasing this book because they got me with the term "morphological transformation". I wonder if William F. Dankenbring knows about this. I wonder if he gives a dank.)


On the Eve of Adam by J. R. Church- $14.95

(I will be purchasing this book mainly because it sounds a little dirty.)



The Lost Symbol Found by Thomas Horn - $29.95

The advert says this DVD series explains how Novus Ordo Seclorum is derived from the prophecies of Cumaean Sybyl.)

(I will be purchasing this book because it says a lot of smart-sounding things in Latin which is something William F. Dankenbring never did.)

Searching for Noah's Ark by Randall Price -  $14.95

The advert says that a team of geologists and archaeologists conducted a test using Ground Penetrating Radar that has confirmed previous satellite data which may soon lead to the GREATEST DISCOVERY OF THE MODERN AGE.

(I will be purchasing this book because it appears the cure for cancer must be hidden in the ark.)


Frankincense and myrrh - $34.95 each

The advert says Danny Ben-Gigi visited a friend in Israel who held an ancient formula for making Frankincense (Levona) and Myrrh.

(I will be purchasing these fragrances because I like smelling ancient. Like Jesus.)


Whenever I receive this magazine in my p.o. box, I wave it around for Ben to see from the car. He is concerned, but I am not ashamed. It is one of the funnest things I read, and it is often informative.

Did I mention I am not ashamed?

Well, I'm not.

Speed Art - Part Two

While Eve languishes in nude perpetuity, a matronly subject of Rembrandt's hangs nobly bedecked in all the lace produced in the17th century. As we museum visitors leaned in to inspect this gentlewoman's clothing, I marveled at the skill required just to paint the intricate ruffs and folds humans of that era were expected to wear around their necks in public.

The docent informed us that such frills were added at the end of the artist's work, and I imagined these elaborate adornments were the reason (besides the main one) so many artists turned to nudes. If I had been expected to reproduce these lacy tufts of overlapping rings, I would have quickly become the grand master of the dimpled bare arse.

I don't suggest the human body is so easily painted, what with all its shadows, folds, and challenges, but the sheer monotony of painting all that irrelevant, white neck-wear, when inches above is the greater conquest of the eyes, seems torturous.

And Rembrandt artfully captured the life in his forty-year-old subject's eyes, arresting us over all those centuries with the wealth of their expression. Though all is still left up to interpretation as the docent finds the woman "sweet" and Allie and I agree she's definitely "mean".

I was fascinated by the intricately painted hair, combed severely from our serious gentlelady's face, each hair still amazingly separate under her cap. When I mentioned this, the docent explained that the use of oils made such delicate work possible, but to me it still seems impossible. (I would rather draw a nipple any day.)

But then, I'm no artist.

I would make a much better model for an artist.

(Of course, it would have to be as a 17th century Eve, or I could not expect to get paid.)

Speed Art - Part One

So, I took Allie and Elijah to see "Rembrandt, Rubens, and the Golden Age of Painting" at the Dixon Gallery yesterday. The collection, on loan from the Speed Museum, showcases (at the top of the spectrum) some works of genius and (at the bottom of the spectrum) some works of Hogarth.

We took a casual, interactive, docent-led tour with a group of (apparent) amateur art historians. While the group discussed shadows, oils, and the symbolism of clam-shell framing, I kept hissing to my fledglings, "This stuff is from the 1600's!" 

Right away, we discovered that the subjects of several paintings were naked - mainly the religious ones. Poor Adam and Eve. To be not only exposed to Judeo-Christian censure for millenia, but to be hung perpetually bare in museums across time just seems cruel and unusual. It's the sort of exposure Adam and Eve tried to avoid in the first place.

Add to that the more voluptuous female form preferred in earlier centuries, and I think we've put Eve to the permanent blush. (And if she's anything like her modern daughters, she can't be happy about how she looks in pictures.)

In fact, Eve's allure in a certain painting by an artist whose name I promptly forgot, bordered on larval. She is velveted in smooth folds, with a considerable largess not equaled in her garden mate. Her skin is palest white, and I get that, but the unnatural absence of any skin tone only exaggerates the sharp contrast between her glowing galumptuousness and Adam's peachier sinew. She is depicted in a sensually reclining sway, deliberately tempting Adam with fruit forbidden. Lowered eyelids hide her intent and mask her ambitions with seeming indolence, while in the background, a dragon-like serpent looks on suspensefully. As if he has a lot to lose.

At first look, I thought this seductive rendering of Eve trivialized the enormity of the events in the Garden of Eden, but then I decided the artist was correct to boil it all down as he did. Sometimes, there's no way to dress these things up (pun maybe intended).

But I still feel sorry for Eve. I would have probably given in for much less. Especially if that serpent had been totin' a can of Pringles. (Though many artistic renderings over the ages make it appear Eve may have had her fair share of those too.)


To be continued.........

St. Francis

Tuesday night, Ben observed the well-lit Patient Discharge sign at St. Francis Hospital and said, "Ewwwww.""

Spa Mafia - A Guest Blog by Ben Helms

Hello, my name is Ben Helms.

For a week now, mom has been riding my ass about blogging. I'll get up for work, and there she will be at the crack of dawn in a bath robe and no makeup in the kitchen. When I sit to put my boots on, she'll throw a remark my way like, "You know, Luke's writing a blog this week..." "Heather Marie (not actually what Heather goes by, but mom thinks if your Facebook page says it then that's your Christian name) might write a blog." Mom talks of Heather constantly. (You've got a stalker, Heather [Marie].)

When subtlety is not an issue, mom says, "You need to write a blog, Ben."

These attacks come at six in the a.m. I'm not open to any suggestions before twelve. But today, I will humor her by putting fingers to keys:

Earlier today, I was patronizing the Wolfchase Galleria. I purchased shoes, a polo, and body spray first, if you really must know what I got there. I was just about ready to vacate the premises when I spotted the Dead Sea Spa kiosk. Normally, I just find a group of people walking by them, blend into that group, and sneak past the kiosk, much like a ninja avoiding a samurai. I do this for two reasons: One, they have exorbitant prices for salt; Two, they get very upset when you do not wish to purchase their overpriced lotions and salts. Very upset.

I have taken to calling them, "The Spa Mafia", since they look like they would very much like to break your legs when you refuse their samples. But I digress. There was no group for me to blend into, and when I walked past the saleslady, she called to me in a (very attractive) middle-eastern, Hebrew-like accent (though she looked Korean), "Would you like to sample our lotion?"

"No thank you ma'am." I said with a friendly smile. (Never smile. Big mistake.)

"Can I ask you a question?" (Damn.)

"Yes ma'am." (Still smiling) (Just keep walking when they ask if they can ask you something.)

"Do you celebrate Valentine's Day?" (How does one celebrate Valentine's Day?)

"Uhhh..."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" (Damn.)

"No ma'am."

"What?"

"I'm single."

"What about your mother?"

"Uh...no." (We're not dating.)

"Are you giving something to her?"

"I haven't gotten her anything." (Damn. Now I've set her up for a pitch. If I hadn't already.)

"Well, let me show you this. Can I see your hands?"

*I raise my hands obediently, silently cursing the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob for putting me in this nightmare situation*

"Do you bite your nails?"

"Yes." (Now I'm embarrassed, exposing my soft underbelly to the Dead Sea Spa Mafia.)

"Well, here's something that will keep you from biting your nails, and make them look beautiful."

*She produces a strange block and begins to rub my right index finger vigorously with it.*

"This will make them shine, and it's all natural."

"Mmmhmm."

*She finishes, and wouldn't you know it, my nail looked fabulous!*

"Wow, that looks good."

"Yes! And it's all natural!" (Really? All natural! Surely not?)

"Cool."

"Here's the kit. Normally, we sell this for sixty dollars, but for you, today only, we will  let it go for forty dollars."

(Here's my chance, I can say no, but before I can say anything....)

"And guess what? If you buy an extra kit for forty dollars more, I will give another one. And guess how much?"

"How much?"

*She hands me a kit, and with a mischievous smile she says:*

"I will give it to you as a present!" (Wow! A present! From a beautiful Jewish [?] Korean [?] woman.)

"I'll take it!" (DAMN!)

I give her my debit card, buy two nail kits, and receive one "free" kit.*

*She gives me the receipt, and tells me her name* (It's not as exotic as I expected.)

"Can I ask you something else?" (Uh oh....)

"Yeah, Sure." (Just say you've got to go!)

"Do you use lotion on your hands?"

"Not very much, no."

"Ah, Let me show you our salt." (Salt)

*She brings her salt out and instructs me to rub it into my hands while she sprays them with water over a bowl.*

"Now be honest, when was the last time you washed your hands?"

"Uh, this morning."

*She beckons me to look at the water in the bowl. It is brown.*

"Yikes."

"This is only forty dollars. Here is the lotion that you can use with it."

*She pulls her lotion out and puts a dab on my hands, instructing me to rub it in.*

"How does that feel?"

"Very nice, actually."

"Just like a baby's bottom, right?!"

*She laughs a lot. In a foreign manner.*

"Yes."

"Now, if you buy this salt and this lotion for eighty dollars, I will give you another lotion and salt as a present!"
(Another present!? Wow, I'm so lucky!")

(Wait! Wake up!)
(What? It's a deal!)
(No, it's not. You just dropped eighty dollars on nail kits, you dummy!)
(You're right! What am I doing?)

"You know what? I'm good."

"What if I sold you the salt for forty and gave you the lotion as a present?"

*She gets that mischievous smile again.*

"Alright, yeah." (Noooooo!)

I am now the owner of three nail kits and a salt/lotion combo.When I got home, I gave Allie and Mom two of them. One I shall keep for myself.

Ladies, I'm single. And I buy expensive things. Act fast, you may get something shiny out of a relationship with me. Or something completely useless. Like the gas mask I purchased yesterday.

Shade - A Guest Blog By Allie Helms

It's Allie's turn at guest blogging.

 THE CRAB APPLE TREE

When I was a girl, there was this beautiful crab apple tree in my backyard. This large, bright green tree dripped with thousands of little crab apples that grew no bigger than a child's hand. They tasted sour and sweet and would give you quite the stomach ache if you ate too many along with handfuls of wild mulberries. Not only did this tree provide delicious fruit, but it also was a wonderful play area. My brothers and I would climb all over it, though I was the monkey queen and would not be out-climbed. I swung from the large, main branch that tilted out from it, and from a higher branch that you could hang from, then drop to the soft dirt. If you were ever feeling down, the crab apple tree always was there to hold you in its branches, as you would hum a little tune and imagine a little game as you explored the tree.

Many a day would I practice my climbing skills and never did I tire of being in my tree. I would look down and become fascinated by the thought that I was sort of defying gravity; that only a large stem was holding me up. Up here, I was just another apple. This was my shelter, my hiding place, my fun little world. And every summer, my feet would become calloused from tree climbing, but I loved the feeling and fresh smell of the tree.

One fall, when I must have been six or seven, my brothers were planning a big bonfire. And as simple as clipping your toenails, my father cut down all the main branches of the crab apple tree for the bonfire. And just like that, my old tree friend had lost its use, for I could never climb it again. My crab apple tree eventually was cut down all together.

This is only one of the many memories from my childhood, and I look back on my tree fondly as it gave me many wonderful summers. I hope one day that my children will have a climbing tree as I did when I was a girl.

Stinky Ears

Last evening, as Lita the Chihuahua/terrier lounged on her mouth-mounded blanket-bed in Ben's room, he was moved to pet her and to coo at her. But it is not easy to love on little doggies whose ears have been criminally neglected by their owners. The sort of neglect that causes a pungency cheese has failed to achieve in its long line of achieving pungency. So, shortly after kneeling to gently touch his cheek to Lita's tiny head, Ben quickly pulled his shirt up to cover his nose, and the following conversation took place:

Ben:  Achhauuuuacchl@@!!

Lita: ::::tail going all, "Thump thump":::

Ben:  If Lita wasn't so stinky, I'd let her sleep in my bed.

Me: You should give her a quick bath then.

Ben: (closely studying Lita's ears) Then I'd have to pick her up.

Me: You should've taken her in the shower with you wallago.

Ben: She's a girl.

Lita:  ::tail going all, "Does anyone have any jerky?"

Ben:  (sing songy) Who's a gooood girl? Who's a stiiinky girl?

Lita:  :::eyes going all, "What? A girl can't roll in rank junk and dead birds in the backyard anymore?"

Ben: (sing songy) "Who disgusts me? That's right! You!"

Lita:  :::tail thumping slower, "You're gonna put me outside with the hounds aren't you?"

Ben:  What's this thing on her back leg? Is that puss?

Lita: :::making a sound that can be loosely translated as "Hwaarck!".

Ben:  I would still let her sleep in my bed, but she's got some eye-pookie or something going on. On her eye.

Lita:  ::eyes going all, "This is not eye-pookie."

Ben: (Looking closer, puzzling) Wait. That is not eye pookie. It's.....a little.....is that a growth?!

Lita:  ::tail going all, "I thought we were having a snack?"

Ben: (jumping up) Okaaaayyyy! I need to go bathe again.

Lita: tail going all, "What? A girl can't have a few minor, possibly cancerous blemishes anymore?"

Ben: Where's my vitamins?! :::shaking several from the bottle into his mouth while crying.:::

Lita: ::tail going all, "Does anyone have any crackers to go with these ears?"

Silver Screen

When my family made a radical move from Church of God to Assembly of God, we were allowed to start going to the movies. We had fudged around a bit with The Rescuers, Pippi Longstockings, and Star Wars, but basically, by the time I was nine, those were the only movies I'd ever seen. However, since it was not the story lines we were barred from, just seeing them on the big screen, my sister and I did get to listen to Disney albums while drifting to sleep each night.

Against my Christian principles, I longed to see the whole, real, actual versions of Lady and the Tramp and the Aristocats. The Methodists in town went to movies regularly, but since they didn't attend church on Sunday nights (which is another thing I longed for against my Christian principles), it was obvious their collective denominational judgment was impaired. They seemed like nice people, and I pitied their slow journey to hell, wondering how many movies they could squeeze in before splitting it wide open. I also wondered if they'd seen Lady and the Tramp - and if it was worth it. Against my Christian principles.

When Melody Courtney moved in next door, she sweet-talked dad into letting us attend The Rescuers one Saturday. I was so excited to finally be entering the den of iniquity I had only ever passed in the car. Scandalously, there were always people at the theater on Sunday nights, and at church they would ask us things like, "Wouldn't it be awful to be in a movie theater when the Lord decides to return?" (And I would wonder if Lady and the Tramp was worth it. Against my Christian principles.)

I don't think I understood that Lady and the Tramp wasn't always playing somewhere at a theater - just out of reach and between me and the lake of fire. I fear if there had somewhere been a double feature of Lady and the Tramp and The Aristocats, I might have jettisoned all principles and bought two tickets on the spot. An act which would have triggered the Lord's decision to return.

So, of course, I loved watching the Rescuers that Saturday and wondered afterward if others could see my new town polish. Then Dad moved us to Memphis for a better job and promptly took us to Star Wars after testing it out by himself. As a science-fiction geek, he described it so glowingly that we did not feel bad at all. I think we saw it twelve times.

As for the real drum roll portion of this tale, Star Wars was only my mother's second movie ---- in thirty-two years. Someone had sweet-talked Mamaw Rene into letting mom see Bambi years earlier. Apparently, though, she had rededicated her life and been good right up until Star Wars - when my dad, the only person in our immediate family who had been born Baptist, derailed us all.

He even found, after a time, a denomination that allowed for movie attendance as long as it was not R-rated. We had finally come home. The Assemblies of God even showed movies in church - usually about the End of Days, but still, I remember feeling uncomfortable about watching a movie in a sanctuary. I see now that it was a little bit late for me - connections in my brain had not been formed early enough regarding this aspect of entertainment, or rather had been formed, only negatively, or rather both.

I am unable to suspend disbelief, making it a trial for my movie partners (i.e. my children). And I don't like sitting still that long. And it feels like I can see right through plots. And I dislike sentimentality, which most movies employ to the nth. And I dislike preachy diatribes. And I despise horse movies. And violence makes me ill, ill, ill. And I dislike chick flicks. And my mind wanders to more interesting trains of thought which the movie then disturbs. And I was unable to watch all of My Big Fat Greek Wedding though it was highly recommended. And I disliked Brother, Where Art Thou pretty firmly. And I eat too much popcorn. And the list goes on and on. And I make others fully miserable about the whole business.

All I'm allowed is to be secretly satisfied that my children know what it is to be normal (at least about movies). So my work is done. Nonetheless, for me, it's probably too late.

But I will keep praying for Dad. He can't help being born Baptist.

P.S. When I was nineteen, I finally got to watch Lady and the Tramp on VHS tape with my niece and nephews. My ex-brother-in-law made fun of me, but I stretched out on the floor in the fat middle of all those kids and watched the whole thing. And I loved it.

(Please pray for me.)

Song of Sausage Pig

My Dear Fresh Market:

I forget myself when I am with you. Because you make me forget. It is your goal that our time together pass intimately in the glow of your gentle, ambient lighting. You play to me the strains of perfectly pitched classical music and swirl aloft the fragrances of your bounteous floral and produce offerings, engaging my every sense. You want me to forget......and I am helpless.

My eyes feast on your lavishly laden displays of cheeses and chocolates and breads and sweets. You say to me, "I am too rich, but taste me anyway. I am all good and there is none better." I resist you, but awaiting me as I proceed through your careful design is another display, another row, another line, another tower of your over-priced, exotically packaged goods. I feel myself grow weak smelling the intoxicating scent that is peculiarly yours, yet I do not leave.

I hear the voices of reason calling, "Come away. We can't stay here forever. We must go back." The distant voices of my children, who do not see your allure. They have their organic sodas and their favorite bags of candy, filled from your overflowing, pristine jars, and they are ready. I, however, am still sipping the enchantingly drugged nectar of your richly brewed coffee of the day. Is there a world outside this cocoon in which you have enrobed us? I have forgotten. Stay me with this nectar, for I am weak with love.

As if fearing I will break from your spell, you have lined the recesses of your establishment with cases of quality meats and fine desserts, showcasing in the center, as your ultimate triumph over my will, the sausage pig.

He is altogether lovely, shaped from a firm mass of sausage and herbs, and sporting two scarlet red cherry tomatoes for eyes. His swinish snout is symbolized with two light impressions under his ingenious eyes. I will not leave without seeing him.

He beckons even as I peruse the tables of baked goods and the gleaming cases of creme brulees and fruited tarts. I take with me his picture, as a remembrance of our time together, and to share with my Facebook friends who are, sadly, far from him - in the real, flat world where the lighting is harsh and the scents are suspect and the tones are loud.

I imagine him in my quiet moments, living amid your perfection. He is your ultimate, seductive hold over me, ensuring my return to you. As if I had a choice. Because as surely as you make me forget all else when I am with you, I remember our every moment when we are apart.

All my love,
Me

Seventeen

Seventeen years ago today, Allie Dawn Helms was born. She was not the first girl child on either side, she was the second, but it had been a long while. I was relieved because I hadn't expected to pull that off.

She had an air about her baby self that was different from her male siblings in some indefinable way. She had startlingly blue eyes like her father, and they sat largely in her little baby face as she gazed at us quietly - as if we were bugs.

Allie is still quiet in all social settings, including family ones. I assumed it was because she is the runt of the litter, but she says it is because no one listens to her. Wince.

When Ben discovered she was fun, they began to enact a game with characters named "John and Mac". Two days later they would reprise these roles as "Cut and Neosporin". In addition to that role, she also was allowed to play nurse in Luke's elaborate backyard Civil War re-enactments. She once helped with (got in the way of) a fort building mission - in a princess costume.

She spent many an hour in the crab apple tree, swinging on the lowest branch and eating crab apples with Ruby the Pig. Once, she abandoned the tree to swing on the dog's new pen, but fell from it, banging her head on the concrete below. As I inspected the considerable knot, she sniffed, "I hit my head on the concrete. It was hard as a rock."

The day she spotted a handicapped dog attached to wheels, she was so captivated she asked, "I wonder if he bites his own tires."

"I wonder if other dogs chase him."

Then singing:

"The wheels on the dog go round and round."

She was probably around eight.

At the top of the short pine tree by the fence, she once discovered a bird laying eggs in a nest. She reported daily on the progress:

"There's an egg in the nest!"
"There's two eggs in the nest!"
"Three!"
"One of them hatched!"
"He's so cute!"
"He's so soft!"
"He has a tiny little beak!"

I hauled my largeness up that tree to see the sweet birdie, but what I actually saw was a bulbous-eyed, scraggly-ass, sparsely-feathered monster screaming for help. Allie has very loving eyes.

She is artistic and creative and funny. She's so quiet in public that no one guesses how funny she is.

Allie is kind to everyone, and is understanding and tender-hearted. She's a lamb of a girl.

She takes imaginative pictures - and draws - and sings - and plays piano - and writes. This summer, while I was at work and Ben was staffing at camp, Allie wrote a novella without telling me. When she finally let me read it, it was so good I almost cried. She acts in plays, but she would rather sing in them. She's more feminine than her mother, but also less so in some ways. She's a perfectionist, and her father knows he can rely on her to help him on his projects in the proper manner. I always tell him, "She's you - only cubed".

She loves her brothers (except for Ben), and they largely made her who she is today.

And we like it.

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

As a girl of eighteen, I disapproved of lavish weddings. Also, not so lavish weddings. Idealistically, I felt that marriage was all about the marriage with nothing whatsoever to do with the wedding. I watched as friends and family walked nervously down the matrimonial aisle in clothing they would never wear again; say words they would never use in daily life; and line up their peers in horrid dresses, surrounded by strategically placed flowers and candles. All of it choreographed over months, and performed after an oddity referred to as "the rehearsal". And I, as a young maiden, would think, "Rehearsal for what? Us? Who are they kidding?"

It was all reverse pretension, of course, but my opinions now have changed little from those of my youth. My own wedding, though Spartanly simple, was still fruffier than I would have liked because my mother is a woman of class, but it was against my wishes. I refused a formal wedding dress, wearing instead a creamy, lace dress I had bought for $100.00 months prior to realizing I would be marrying. And I had occasion down the line to wear it to another fancy function, which well suited my romanceless heart.

I toyed with the idea of bridesmaids, but discarded it, figuring my sister was all I needed. She was less happy due to being eight months pregnant, but I eschewed the theater of trotting my few friends down a petal-strewn aisle in dyed shoes. As they had caused me to do.

I was awful. An awful girl, and rebellious. But I thought weddings the worst cross between a costume party and a stilted church play, and since it was more important to my mother than me, I let her plan mine with nary a bit of help - then eyed her harshly when I saw a few frills and flowers. (Though they were actually very, very pretty faux flowers, smelling pleasant for years.)

I objected to fancy weddings on so many grounds, but in one unselfish way, I didn't want my parents to spend all that money. I regarded it as so much waste as none of it could ever be used again. All to put on airs in front of our family and friends? And people who didn't much like me anyway? And people who knew I had undergone a miscarriage only a month before? I didn't think so.

I knew others who had fountains and slide shows and bowers and twelve attendants and lavish receptions, and even carriages to either convey yonder the glowing young couple or to convey hither the blushing young bride, but it was never in the stars for a girl like me to ride to her beloved in a carriage. (Besides, my sort of luck does not interweave comfortably with any scenario wherein a horse can lift his tail at will. And I wasn't going to give it the chance.)

I thought the best wedding possible would be outside under the sun, with grapes and cheese and bread for refreshments, but tradition said we had to have cake and punch and nuts and little pale mints that no one but the youngest of children eat because they don't know any better. (Or those weird melty flower molds that might or might not be made of white chocolate. ?)

Frankly, Allen and I strongly considered the Justice of the Peace, but our mothers wouldn't hear of it. We said to them that marriage was what you make of it and had nothing to do with the ceremony, but in the end we caved and were ultimately forced to stare into one another's eyes as a paid singer sang two lengthy ballads about love. Well, we could not even keep straight faces.

I realize this all sounds harsh and unlovely, and I'm certain it was to a degree, and a little self-righteous. After all, I have been to (including my own) some lovely, sweet weddings that were a pleasure to attend. Luke and Jennifer, for instance, had the prettiest wedding ever without breaking Mark Thornton's budget. Chrissy and Jennifer rolled up their sleeves and did the creative work on their own, with friends and family offering help and services, making the whole process a meaningful testament to friendship and community. Plus also, I believe couples feel freer these days to do as they like, not as others dictate.

Ultimately, however, marriage takes work that gains no help from the facade of flowers or candles or mints or punch or lace. Only the promises made before God - promises which bear couples along more safely over rough terrain than any horse-drawn carriage.

Steroid Trials, The

The following is a FB exchange between my sister and I in May 2011, after a prolonged eye condition required her to visit a round of doctors and receive various ineffective prescriptions. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever get well, then they started giving her steroid injections - in the eye:

Scottie: Stacey, please begin writing *The Steroid Trials: I Shall Not Go Quietly Into the Madness*....(oh, and mark me down for another book title : 

Me: 

Day one: Scottie's eyeball receives a medieval medical procedure wherein a hollow, blunt device is inserted, and a decoction of steroidal emolient is injected. (Sounds like her honeymoon.)

Day two: Scottie's eye swells to double it's normal capacity and relocates to another socket. 

Day three: With her eye oozing a clearish coagulant, Scottie frantically telephones her physician. They have gone out for tea and crumpets.

Day four: Scottie screams at the butcher and gouges out her one good eye because the other one is too tender to mess with.

Day five: Scottie text messages a picture of her freakishly bulbous eyeball to her loving sister - who forwards it to everyone in her address book. It has now gone viral.

Day six: Scottie defends herself against all accusations of corneal syphilis. (Again reminding her of her honeymoon.)

Day seven: Jack breaks up with Scottie, placating, "It's not you; it's eye. I mean me."

Day eight: Scottie kicks a man in a local Captain D's. Then shoots him.

Day nine: Scottie curses God, but does not die.

Day ten: Scottie self-medicates her eye with Ambien, whereafter it cooks an entire meal, text messages old boyfriends, and drives to the mall.

(Btw, Scottie's better now.)

Seychelle

Since rousing Ben for school in the morning was not as easy as rousing myself, I used to turn on the Jim Bakker show in order to do my heavy lifting. Because no one can sleep through that, I figured.

And that's how I got hooked.

I watched with head-turning fascination (think puzzled dog) as Mr. Bakker sold gear for disaster survival. Or, more aptly put, tribulation survival. He is definitely not pre-trib, believing we had better be doubly prepared for banding together as a millennium church and bartering freeze-dried food, seeds, water, and home remedies for hair cuts and plumbing work. Well, other trades too if I'm being honest, but these two did come up fairly often.

And it made total sense! (Even though I'm a staunch pre-tribber, and believe we will have no use for such things). (That, my friends, is excellent salesmanship.)

Likewise, Ben, like a snake being charmed from its basket, would slither from his covers to an upright position of enchantment. Because, though the Bakkers were selling tribulation gear, it was backpacking gear that Ben heard. We sat, breaking down in our heads the cost of seven years worth of food versus the cost of three years worth. Plus also, the worthiness of those Seychelle water bottles that make all things new, over those little tablets that may or may not. A difference which is pertinent, especially if one is considering swamp water. It seemed that our separate, but growing obsessions met and shook hands on the Jim Bakker show.

The Bakkers even offered a one-fit solution for any medical needs we might have during our tribulation ordeal/backpacking adventure. And as I watched, morning after morning, I eventually came to wonder, "Maybe I should put colloidal silver in my dog's ears." (I have to add here that the Bakker's are not actually selling colloidal silver, but its handsomer cousin, Silver Sol, which is guaranteed not to turn a person blue from overuse.) (And which is safe enough even for a dog's ears!) (Plus also venereal disease!) (That's basically all I know!) (Because if I'm to give out anymore facts, I have to watch a fourteen minute video!) (Which is not going to happen!)

My father, who lives within forty-five minutes or so of Jim Bakker's condominium complex at Morningside (somewhat near Branson, MO), eventually became concerned with my constant questions about the Bakker's doings, shaking his head at my puzzling focus on their ministry. Though, I have to say, Dad never lacked an answer since he has access to a Christian barking chain of sorts, living as he does in that same area.

I also wondered regularly at the circular reasoning for Mr. Bakker's daily program. I understood that he only sold stuff on air in order to stay on air, but........in order to stay on air he had to devote his entire program to tribulation survival/hiking weekend gear (depending on whether you were talking to me or Ben), so.....it seemed a combs-for-her-hair/hair-for-his-watch fob situation. Only, slightly less O'Henry-like and slightly more pointless-like.

BUT, I have to add that in February 2011, Mr. Bakker announced that during a time of prayer, he was given the words "Major March" for March 2011. He was unsure of specifics, whether positive or negative, but emphasized the importance of watching for world-changing events in March.

Coincidentally or not, how right he was.

In any case, looking back, I could have done a lot worse than be as prepared for eventualities (temporal or spiritual) as Mr. Bakker. So, my hat is still off.

Salad Jail

Salad jail is the detention facility for overindulged Christmas fatties. Sentences there are to be served without parole (or cake), and inmates do not receive (french fries or) time off for good behavior.

Salad jail is for those charged with receiving Christmas basket contraband such as cookie brickle, caramel popcorn, cherry kisses, salted nuts, brownie bites, truffles, Oreo balls, pecan pie, sausage, cheese, and Pepperidge Farm butterfly crackers.

Salad jail offers no conjugal visits for you and your lemon meringue pie.

Salad jail uniforms consist of breath-stealingly tight jeans and uncomfortably overstretched t-shirts.

Salad jail is the "Big House" for the Big Arse.

Salad jail houses detainees behind cell bars made of celery and carrot sticks - with no decorations save posters of the food pyramid.

Salad jail is hard time. Don't bend over for the chocolate covered strawberries.

Levi

If rowdiness inside the womb is any indication of rowdiness outside the womb, Levi Helms is going to be one rowdy boy. We have been blessed to peek in on his warm little world via sonogram twice now, and to see that he is the smartest baby in the land. His tiny head is simply perfect, housing an obviously large, superior brain. I think the sonogram notes determined he was the most awesome baby ever, with a penchant for genius problem-solving and unparalleled athleticism. I'm positive that's what the notes said.

While Levi thrashed around inside his momma, we could nearly count all his bones, and Jennifer says it is because his skin is so thin at this stage. How smart of him to have such accommadatingly thin skin just when we are peeking!

(Each time I see Baby Levi, it feels like I'm looking into the mysterious quantum world, where the particles seem to know what you expect of them based on the experiment with which you choose to view them. This makes our grandson as clever as any proton - equipped with his very own "down quark".)  (Tee Hee)

The baby solicitously turned this way and that, allowing us full, unimpeded views of his face, back, and sides - even turning upside down once, as if burrowing to the bottom of the world. His world anyway. Which makes him the funniest little tater tot in the land.

The sonogram notes say Levi weighs eleven ounces. He's obviously been lifting weights and watching what he eats. Such discipline is unheard of in the arena of baby incubation, but we're not surprised. And though Baby seems displeased with the constant interference of his umbilical chord, this fascinating tether glowed red, highlighting to us the life-giving exchange between mother and son. While he is happily eating his mother alive, she sends down the best food she can provide. I hope he knows, but he probably won't appreciate it til he "has children of his own".

When leaning in closely, we could hear the baby's strong, miniature heart swishing away at 150 bpm.  Heartbeats sound like a melody, and if this makes our grandchild a music prodigy, well, we're not surprised about that either.

Levi's long legs were on view as well. Mark Thornton took one look at them and said to Allen, "He gets those from you." The well-developed calf muscles, however, come straight from the baby's father. But we don't like to brag. We really don't.

To go along with our show-and-tell experience, Jennifer let us all touch the baby through her tummy. As if in response, Levi rolled and moved for us, and Chrissy knelt and called his name and "knocked" at his door, making me laugh. Levi blessed us with firm pushes and pokes, clueless to the fact that we'd been spying on him. But maybe he did realize. He's no dummy, you know.

Ben, too, got to feel his nephew's aggressive maneuverings, and the look on his face was priceless. He seemed disappointed to be so far behind his brother in progeny as to have no cousins in the offing for Levi.

Allie's heart is already very much knit with her nephew in that she brings his subject up daily and always speaks of future events in terms of his age. I can see who I will fight with the most over holding-rights.

But sometimes, I fear we will all just be one giant snake's nest of jealous "It's-my-turn's!"

What baby could arrive in a more perfect world than that?

Solvency of a Higher Order

My coworker, Lisa, mentioned receiving from an old friend one of those yearly Christmas updates wherein the mother catalogs her children's many accomplishments, successes, and victories.

This conversation triggered a memory of a maternal familial contemporary who emailed us a Christmas update about her large brood of fiscal overachievers. Privately, I drafted a facetious response as if written by my mother about her own brood. It was never completed, but the seeds of it set me on course for writing the following 2011 update:

My, how the year has flown! It seems only yesterday we were shallow, fleshly, disinterested people staggering deludedly toward financial security. Today, we can proudly claim that completely opposite those earlier vain strivings, we are now utterly and Utopianly dependent on the kindness of others. Strangers are next.

We have stayed evangelistically committed to this journey of near poverty, though being tempted to leave all and return to our former lives of stunning (yet unfulfilling) prosperity. We have resisted, viewing lack and need to be a more advanced level of spirituality. So advanced that Calcuttans would envy it. But we don't like to brag. We really don't.

Happily, the art of worrying over our uncertain future, apparently, intends to enrich us to our dying day. And sleeping less has freed up more hours for releasing those healing tears that eluded us when we lived among modern conveniences and/or basic necessities.

Our physical bodies are also being toned and revived. So toned and so revived that I was able to successfully wrestle from the customer behind me the dime that dropped from my purse and rolled under the checkout counter at Kroger.

As if things couldn't get any better, reduced health benefits have taught us to suffer quietly with physical ailments that would have formerly sent us limping needlessly to the doctor. (As I learned after the paramedics pried me from under the checkout counter at Kroger.) And the rich, online world of home remedies has introduced us to almost monastic-type sufferings with no end. We've grown so accustomed, we now actually self-inflict in order to speed up our personal growth.

We've also embraced the catharsis of Constant Bickering and Blame. A simple daily exercise that keeps our home an open forum for opinions and productive critiques of how we are each spending what little money our experiment with simpler living brings in. Family dinner hour is the best opportunity for these discussions, we've discovered, since the police have opposed them being conducted in the wee hours, or in the front yard.

As for our mountainous debt, we feel that the ability to shovel out would negatively transform us into those carefree, frivolous sorts with credit scores over 85. "But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, having nothing." James 4:1 (Or something like that.)

I've considered writing a self-help book possibly entitled Finding Change Within Your Soul When There's None Under the Couch Cushions. Pray for this endeavor as we plan to donate all proceeds to a needy couple we know.

As our year of choosing the blessings of deprivation winds to a close, we can only hope our lofty new spiritual position will not keep us from deigning to enter the humbler homes of our lesser friends and family.

Especially if there's dinner involved.

Merry Christmas to all!

Savior According to Christopher

I didn't know that Christopher Hitchens died or that he was even dying until I read it on a friend's blog. After years of following political figures and commentators, I was enjoying a respite from all things National Review, Fox News, CNN, and Hardball. Which is probably, where I was first introduced to Mr. Hitchen's particular brand of reasoning, and to his brilliant, razor-witted style of argument. I was so enlightened by his well-reasoned defense of the Iraq war that I was moved to check out some little book of his from the library. As I read, I remember feeling  tricked since I had thought his drift from labeling himself as being of the "left" (correct for the most part, but not in the main) meant he must be a new sort of Conservative. He was not.

That realization and the issue of his staunch atheism (or as he referred to it "anti-theism"), led me to further view him as just a head-turning, thought-stimulating curiosity of intellectualism that need not concern me. Though I respectfully sat at attention whenever I had the pleasure of seeing him on the tele. He verbally traveled places with his opinions that believers and unbelievers alike would not dare. Mother Theresa was not even safe, and you had to admire it. You just had to.

Clever as he was, I'm not sure that his accent didn't elevate his arguments, nay, his beliefs to a seemingly higher level in the minds of some (It's the English accent alone which makes every common word they speak appear unquestionably erudite). (Said with an English accent.)

I have read that he described the adherents of Christianity as masochists who subjugate themselves to a divine dictator. He thought this trait of humanity our worst, and it irritated him. But it was there, at spiritual subjects, that he always left me because the argument that we, as supplicants of our faith, submit ourselves to the whims of a cruel, imaginary dictator ignores the fact that no dictator (that I know) ever waited for someone to accept (or elect) them of free will, but rather enthroned himself whether anybody agreed to it or not. So, based on my interpretation of this logic, Mr. Hitchen's belief that the Christian Savior can only be manufactured in our weak and needy human minds precludes those same weak and needy human minds from manufacturing such a concept to begin (And that is logical even though I say it with the lesser American accent).

I am so sorry he is dead. So sorry - along with the many, many other believers of this world who found much in common with him in these curious times. It is impossible not to admire a mind of that caliber. He was a captivating, honorable fellow. A man so well-spoken that I am impressed, despite myself, with the creative (though erroneous) words he used to describe my very own faith:

"It's a plagiarism of a plagiarism of a hearsay of a hearsay, of an illusion of an illusion, extending all the way back to a fabrication of a few nonevents."

No one has ever been so wrong with such style. However, just as Mr. Hitchens believes that we need a savior because we are weak and needy, so do I.

Spice It Up

Me:  Aren't you gonna eat some of this chili?

Allie:  You know I don't like chili. I have never liked chili. I think the people who made the first chili were Mexicans in jail, and they threw some beans in a toilet and stirred it around with their hands ---- and that was chili.

Me: What' s wrong with you? You can sit there and eat only pickles and give up this chili?

Allie: Also, I think they threw some poop in there to spice it up.

Me:  Okay, you totally made up that part.

Allie:  You don't know. You weren't even there.


:::The above blog entry received the complaint, "Racist AND disgusting!" from a fellow blogger, but when I attempted to placate her, she declined my offer of chili:::::

Six Months

Is it possible for a person to appear any worse than I appear on this blog? I believe the only way it could possibly be worse is if I started telling the actual truth about myself.

For I have, in the past six months, admitted to:

  1. Feeding my children too much sugar
  2. Various unattractive physical qualities
  3. General cluelessness of the first magnitude
  4. Negative behavioral issues
  5. Verbal unkindness
  6. Contributing to the demise of several woodland creatures
  7. Forgetfulness
  8. Talking too much
  9. Being a boring, unimaginative cook
10. Judgmentalness
11. Defrauding the library of historical material
12. Using the word "butthole" far too often
13. Inappropriate parenting methods
14. Writing bad poetry (took that one down, don't even look)
15. Blah, blah, blah (tiring of this)

The trouble with blogging about the past is that rotten memories, interwoven with the good ones, begin rolling toward me, gaining the speed of a menacing, detritus-laden tumbleweed of depression. (Or a veritable yarn ball of despair speared with life's brain-stabbing knitting needles.) And when I grow tired of pushing against this onslaught, I wonder if I just go to bed and never rise from it again, will life's cruel search light go away and forget me.

And the Christmas season doesn't help, what with all it's reminders that life will never be as perfect as it is in December. 

But, despite it all, I get up, get a shower, and go to work.

Sometimes, that's just got to be good enough.

Well, anyway, Merry Christmas.

Scout Ceremony

The Facebook invitation Ben sent friends and family for his eagle ceremony:

Description

Hello my friends. I've put it off long enough. It's time to have my eagle ceremony. Obviously, not everyone I invited will be able to come; be it distance, reluctance or any other excuse that ends in a "nce", but I do wish you would find it in your generous hearts to attend.... The time I have set is subject to change, but rest assured, it will only be an hour, or less. Light refreshments will be available following the ceremony.
One last thing, if you want to have a part in my ceremony, let me know, such as singing my praises as I look on in tears or basking in the glow of my many accomplishments. I don't think that's too much to ask.

I hope to see many of you there, and if I don't, well, you can kiss our friendship goodbye. Only joking.

But seriously, we'll be through.

Sorry

It's my parents for whom I feel most sorry when I look back over my childhood.

I was one weird kid.

Obviously, I should have been diagnosed with something, but in those days, before brain dysfunctions and behavioral disorders were discovered, there was only "regular" and "retarded" to choose from. Nowadays, children receive helpful diagnoses, followed by hugs. I went largely undiagnosed, followed by whoopins.

I lived in my own little world mostly, but at the oddest moments I would surface to run my mouth.

I said insulting things to adults. Adults. Nor did I gel with most children. I shake my head now. My poor parents. I regularly embarrassed them at church, yet they still had to take me home and feed me.

Though the embarrassments didn't just stop with church. I made sure their reputations as the parents of Stacey Dawn Henderson were known community-wide. For instance, the year I started first grade, there was a parent's night at the school. I took special care with my personal appearance, even combing my hair; a thing which never got combed unless my mother did it, causing her to eventually have it all whacked off due the constant tick-bearing tangles (because I was always standing on my head in the yard). I dressed myself in some sort of cherry-festooned get-up, pinned a colorful pin to my collar, and donned my church shoes. I was excited, but, apparently, forgetful.

When I arrived at the school with my father (mom had to work that night), I began to walk more slowly down the aisles, stopping at random desks while my father kept saying, "Stace, this is not your work. Where's your desk?" My teacher, Miss Lott, had to inform him that my desk was the one by itself against the wall. I had had to be moved away from the other children - because I wouldn't shut up.

And do you know what I thought after this humiliation had come to the fore?

"And I dressed up for this."

One Saturday afternoon, when my dad was lamenting the fact that Easter was not Christ-centered enough, I thought up a song on the spot to help make Easter a little more Christ-centered for him. It was sung to the tune of "Here Comes Peter Cottontail".

Here is my song:  "Here Comes Peter Jesus Taaaaiiillllll!".

Here is my Dad's opinion of that song: "Stacey!!!!!"

The real problem with that song is that I still sing it every Easter.

There was an evening, however, during my second-grade year that I brought home some sort of reading certificate, and my parents, wanting to see the extent to which this award was merited, handed me one of my dad's college-level psychology books. I fluidly read the words aloud without pausing or struggling over the big ones. I could see that they looked at each other over my head - I was a year younger than other second graders.

But again, woe to my parents, because I believe it was the last academic achievement I ever made.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, but at least you don't have to feed me anymore.

Scented

My mother has always smelled so good. Before they reformulated the recipe, she wore a perfume called "Royal Secret", layering her skin with all its scented choices of powder, lotion, and perfume. When you hugged her, atomized fragrance floated into you and over you in a gentle cloud that clung to your clothing long after parting. Walking into her closet was like walking into Goldsmith's department store, and the fibers of her robe were steeped in the flowery essence of all that Royal Secret. I don't believe she uses it anymore, but she still smells wonderful.

The lesson of targeted perfuming settled on me late in life because strong fragrances have generally always given me headaches, but I now realize I have no trouble with lotions and light aromatics, and I want to smell as good on approach as my mother.

Plus also, I not long ago sat in church next to a young fellow whose feet I could smell, rendering me incapable of concentrating on the Lord - at all.  It struck me then just how vulnerable we are to one another in close settings. What if it were my feet coming between someone's personal relationship with God? What if they were unable to hear that still, small voice while battling with my wafting b.o.? Or worse - stanky breaf.

(As former congregants of the Church of God, we followed Jesus' example by holding a "foot washing" after church some Sunday evenings - confirming my theory that this is no accidental doctrine by any means - not by the church, and not by Jesus.)

Therefore, even though I have always been an ardent bather and scrubber, I now, layer on a veritable bouquet of cologned goodies. I travel with wisps and gum in my purse and, just in case, I keep my feet tucked well underneath my chair in church. I feel that as Christians, it is up to us to add our personal redolence to the promptings of the Holy Spirit.

In fact, churches should offer this lesson starting in Sunday School - and they should let my mother teach it. Children everywhere could learn by example at her (thankfully unscented) feet.

Sensitive Skin

Allie has extremely sensitive skin. When she was an infant, I noticed that sometimes, after picking her up, my hands left faint, red outlines on her back. When my sister's did the same, she asked, "What's wrong with the baby?", but I always figured it was just the fairness of her skin which, though not as freckled as mine, is nonetheless freckled and sun-burny - like all the other skin in my Dad's family.

This sensitivity is no better now that she's sixteen, and still unable to bear shirt tags against her neck. As a child, she accidentally ruined many a shirt trying to cut off those annoying tags without asking for help (No one was happier than I when clothiers started printing the tag information on shirts themselves). Nightgowns were also an issue, causing her to wear the same soft, lightning bug t-shirt for so many years it grew embarrassingly small. And don't get me started on shoes that hurt her feet, including Yellow Box flip flops. !!!??

As she began to complain about the discomfort of certain bedding, I started calling her "The Princess and the Pea". (I can walk around all day in wet socks and a hair shirt, never realizing I'm uncomfortable, but Allie will rip off anything not made of silken, spider threads, and forage around irritatedly for something tolerable.)

Betimes, she dramatically asks me, "How can you stand to wear that? It itches!". I just shrug my shoulders, look pitiful, and answer that since Daddy didn't find enough magic beans today, there was only enough to buy the gossamer thread woven by fairies in the moonlight for her clothes. I had to make do with fur the dog scratched off - before his flea bath - at high noon.)

She seems very princess-like, indeed, when one sees her lying atop her covers at night, wrapped partially in a soft, brown throw and partially in the baby blanket Aunt Lynne made for Luke twenty-one years ago. The best-made blanket in the land, I might add, lasting as it did through three children and a nervous Chihuahua/terrier.

In addition to the jumble of diverse bed coverings, Allie's eyes are covered with a satiny night mask - to block out the light that so disturbs her royal highness's sleep. But the truth is that she genuinely suffers from this sensitivity to the point that her fellow thespians at play practice are always questioning the sudden appearance of red marks on her neck. A few nights ago, Allie complained of developing heated streaks after a younger girl with "boogery fingers" toyed too long with her necklace. (This is also, likely, the reason we are now sick.)

I asked if she explained to them that her skin was Princess-and-the-Pea-type skin, but Allie has a way of coldly staring down rough-skinned Proletarians like me.

(Nobody ever tell her about this blog. Ever!)

Salubrious

I don't like feeling guilty for not dispensing advice on diet and exercise. Especially since everyone is clearly interested in knowing my secrets. They are as follows:

I diet and I exercise.

If by "diet" it means I eat more Cheez-its than vegetables, and if by "exercise" it means I run in place while watching the Food Network. By now, you're thinking, "Well, that's too hard already!", but just remember:  Don't give up. Never lose hope. Keep trying. Believe in yourself. And turn that frown upside down.

This is all going in my book on health and beauty.

My basic philosophy on staying Cheez-it Fit (Chapter Two) is to burn as many calories a day as possible. (Ben hates my mantra, "Burn a calorie!") This can be accomplished by standing up when you feel like sitting down; Playing with your children when you feel like watching the Food Network; And cleaning the toilet when you feel like reading War and Peace. Just keep moving.

I am fortunate to live in a home with stairs, and I capitalize on this boon by taking them two at a time - on the run. But don't do this with a stack of laundry - it can result in injuries only athletes suffer. Luke takes the stairs on the run too, and he is strong as an ox - the cute, little fat kind.


The habit of running the stairs all day, however, spills over into public life. I now can't even enter municipal buildings without taking the stairs two at a time, which looks funny, but is (I believe) the reason I never feel the burn in my thighs after Zumba class. Either that or I'm doing it wrong. Meh.

The reason I don't eat regular food is that it takes a lot of calorie-burning activity to burn off calories (Chapter Three). Some things are not worth opening your mouth for if you have to spend an hour burning it off on the treadmill. Twinkies is my case in point - not even if they're fried in pancake batter. Fourteen chocolate chip cookies is a much better hole for a calorie-sink.

Additionally, I switched from Coke to diet Coke just before losing that last 800 pounds. It contains zero calories and is the perfect substitute for water (Chapter Four).

The Carsons are runners; the whole fam damily. But I find running to be a mental game not easily won - because once you start, you are not supposed to stop - even when you feel like vomiting and pooping. Which I almost did once while trying to run just one mile with Kit and Lisa. I tell Lisa, when she encourages me to take up "real" running, that my mind is not solid enough or disciplined enough to run for two hours straight, as she does. In fact, her daughter, Michelle, another seasoned runner, who has seen me "working out", describes it thusly, "Miss Stacey does the most random things for exercise." So, running is not for wimps. Don't take it up (Chapter Five).

I figure I need to stay with something I know I can do forever. Weight training at the gym, besides the ankle weights I wear to work every other day, is not something I'm going to keep up. Utilizing my little barbells in front of the t.v. at night is a practice I know I can maintain. Except for when I quit six months ago. But I 'm still a big believer in choosing a realistic regimen you can add to down the road, after you've established a pattern of success. It also needs to be a routine you can employ when you're out of town or on vacation or sick with cancer (Chapter Ten).

Allie jumps rope at night while catching up on the shows she taped during the day. She is slowly adding to the number of jumps, and makes sure to stay hydrated. And, honestly, if one eats as much pasta as Allie, she is going to have to jump for life. We also take frequent walks, even when we would rather stay in the house. We gossip and complain the whole way which makes walking fun and productive.

I've done a couple of Zumba classes with Darma, so I'm changing my mind a bit about exercising outside the home. It's sort of like going for coffee with the girls, only in sweaty spandex that create unattractive rolls.

Chapter Eleven is going to be about learning to enjoy salad, which is not a problem for me since I love salads - salads with homemade thousand island, three varieties of cheese, chicken tenders, and extra croutons and/or crackers. Also, eating a small handful of nuts keeps hunger at bay. Unless, of course, you eat so many nuts you develop some sort of allergy that causes you to almost poop yourself at work. I've heard.

In case you didn't notice, I skipped all the other chapters so the reader can fill in their own hopes, dreams, and ideas - not because I ran out of my own and junk.

So, that's my book - predictably cute in all the right places, and adopting a lecturing tone only when necessary to trick you into believing you are not a loser.