I'm so proud of myself today.
I submitted another story for consideration in the myriad of Chicken Soup books. That makes four in less than a week. And this one I got in just under the wire. Submission in no way means acceptance, but writing ANYTHING these days is a big deal for me. To write four stories, good or bad, is huge.
I actually feel sorry for my stupid cat. I think she was traumatized. The good news is the vet said they don't need to see her for another year. I'll be sure to budget her in with the GNP of a small country for 2010.
I'm having fun with my Strep-y kid. If I didn't actually have to teach him anything, I'd keep him home for school. However, once I try to bring out the books, I know his surly twin brother will show his face. I guess I'll keep sending him off to his teacher (to whom I had to confess that she knew him better than I since I thought he was faking).
Now, I'm off to do my study on Corinthians II. Only six days late. But I'll finish, yes I will.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
DeCluttering
I know, I know, you are all shocked to think that I would be trying to get rid of stuff.
In my grand process of decluttering I generally start with toys, work my way though kids clothes and adult clothes (isn't it nice how much more objective you can be with your spouses wardrobe than your own?). I usually try on books and make it through about three shelves before I give up and just buy another bookcase. I've rid my kitchen on nearly every unnecessary gadget I can part with (contrary to popular belief the strawberry huller is a necessity).
But my latest cause has been my spiritual life. What God really wants from me. How I should be serving him. What is a calling and what is filling a man-made role. I just want to obey, ya know? And somehow my faith became religion and it frustrates me. And working at it just makes it more complicated. So when I got the chance to read Clutter-Free Christianity, I jumped at it.
Here's how the back cover opens:
"Your greatest desire is to please God, but with each passing week, your spiritual to-do list grows longer. As you strive to fulfill a never-ending inventory of requirements for being a godly parent, spouse, voter, employee, and more, you feel increasingly disconnected from the God you're trying to serve.
When did the Christian life become so complicated?"
I'm still a work in progress, but at least I'm a work in progress. It's better than being the room that Abba walks by as fast as he can and tries not to think about.
What? That's just me?
Fess up. Now you want to read it too, dontcha? Well, here tis.
In my grand process of decluttering I generally start with toys, work my way though kids clothes and adult clothes (isn't it nice how much more objective you can be with your spouses wardrobe than your own?). I usually try on books and make it through about three shelves before I give up and just buy another bookcase. I've rid my kitchen on nearly every unnecessary gadget I can part with (contrary to popular belief the strawberry huller is a necessity).
But my latest cause has been my spiritual life. What God really wants from me. How I should be serving him. What is a calling and what is filling a man-made role. I just want to obey, ya know? And somehow my faith became religion and it frustrates me. And working at it just makes it more complicated. So when I got the chance to read Clutter-Free Christianity, I jumped at it.
Here's how the back cover opens:
"Your greatest desire is to please God, but with each passing week, your spiritual to-do list grows longer. As you strive to fulfill a never-ending inventory of requirements for being a godly parent, spouse, voter, employee, and more, you feel increasingly disconnected from the God you're trying to serve.
When did the Christian life become so complicated?"
I'm still a work in progress, but at least I'm a work in progress. It's better than being the room that Abba walks by as fast as he can and tries not to think about.
What? That's just me?
Fess up. Now you want to read it too, dontcha? Well, here tis.
Think I'm Exaggerating?
Eldest's visit to the doctor today including visit, strep test and medication for two, count 'em two, different infections: $138.98 (thank you Walgreens take care clinic)
Nonny's trip to the vet: $389. Including the very comforting call that she made it through her surgery "beautifully."
Sigh.
The fact that the mommy guilt runs high this afternoon because I was certain he was faking is a whole nuther post.
(Someone out there, not naming names, will think this is passive-aggressive hinting. It isn't. It is complaining. Pure and simple.)
Nonny's trip to the vet: $389. Including the very comforting call that she made it through her surgery "beautifully."
Sigh.
The fact that the mommy guilt runs high this afternoon because I was certain he was faking is a whole nuther post.
(Someone out there, not naming names, will think this is passive-aggressive hinting. It isn't. It is complaining. Pure and simple.)
Things That Make Me Want To Swear Today
Warning, if you aren't in the mood for snarky, come back tomorrow. She's about to rant.
Husky Pants: Target put their Cherokee dress pants on sale this week for $10. I go to the store to buy pants for my child that needs a 6 waist and a ten length. That, my friends, is a 10 Slim. Since the Cherokee have adjustable waistbands, a 10 Reg would work, not well, but it would work. What do they have? HUSKY. Husky, Husky, H-flipping-usky. Not just in the 10s. Oh, no. Six all the way up to 18.
Yes, I know, America has gotten fat, and if I don't live in the fattest city in America, I'm sure I live in the top 10 because the papers are always telling me so, but for crying out loud, carry SOME-THING for the slim people to wear, ya know? We're talking about an eight year old boy here. Don't most eight year old boys still run and play?
Easter clothes: Call me crazy, but didn't people used to wear pastels for Easter? Isn't that part of the reason for wearing white shoes on Easter? WHY, I ask you, WHY can I not find something SPRINGY to wear for Easter for my family? Princess I can find. She is a seven year old little girl. They still make a few spring-y dresses (not many, but a few) for a seven year old little girl. But what about the mama? She wants to match me on Easter and I can find is freaking black and white or navy and white or green and brown (the closest thing I can find to an Easter color and Princess thinks green and brown is "not so much").
I'm not even asking for pastel. I'm not. But royal blue, red, black, they don't count. Not on my boys, not on me. The one ALMOST Eastery color I found was Aqua. Two XS and one XXL. My boys are medium. Wanna guess why they don't have any mediums? PROBABLY BECAUSE THAT IS THE ONLY REMOTELY EASTER COLOR THEY CARRY and I'm not the only freakish one to believe that.
That Darn Cat: Let me just lay it on the line here: the $90 the animal shelter wants for you to adopt a cat. BARGAIN. It's a STEAL! PAY UP! DON'T TAKE IN THE STRAY! YOU WILL PAY MORE FOR THAT BLAMIN' CAT THAN YOU PAY OUT FOR MEDICAL CARE OF YOUR CHILDREN. Not only that, the people at the clinic act like the stray cat is part of the family. They call you to let you know your cat made it through surgery. They take blood to make sure the cat will survive the anesthesia. (Yes, I was heartless and asked, "So what's the worst case scenerio here if we don't take that blood? She dies? Yes, let's skip that test.")
I spent the morning snipping at my kids because I had to get the cat to the stupid vet "between 7:30 and 8:30" no other option. Kids needing to get off to school, be darned. And my kids that can't remember to feed the cat once in a month, fed her this morning when she was supposed to have "no food after midnight." And I shrieked, SHRIEKED people, "NOOOOOOOOOOO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! YOU CAN'T FEED THE CAT!" Freaked out the cat. Freaked out the kids. I'm sure they all think she will die.
The one thing that ALMOST makes this cat worth surviving the stupid surgery is when we left the vet's office without the cat, poor little Charming was crying, "Nonny." Boo-hoo. Darn cat better survive.
Husky Pants: Target put their Cherokee dress pants on sale this week for $10. I go to the store to buy pants for my child that needs a 6 waist and a ten length. That, my friends, is a 10 Slim. Since the Cherokee have adjustable waistbands, a 10 Reg would work, not well, but it would work. What do they have? HUSKY. Husky, Husky, H-flipping-usky. Not just in the 10s. Oh, no. Six all the way up to 18.
Yes, I know, America has gotten fat, and if I don't live in the fattest city in America, I'm sure I live in the top 10 because the papers are always telling me so, but for crying out loud, carry SOME-THING for the slim people to wear, ya know? We're talking about an eight year old boy here. Don't most eight year old boys still run and play?
Easter clothes: Call me crazy, but didn't people used to wear pastels for Easter? Isn't that part of the reason for wearing white shoes on Easter? WHY, I ask you, WHY can I not find something SPRINGY to wear for Easter for my family? Princess I can find. She is a seven year old little girl. They still make a few spring-y dresses (not many, but a few) for a seven year old little girl. But what about the mama? She wants to match me on Easter and I can find is freaking black and white or navy and white or green and brown (the closest thing I can find to an Easter color and Princess thinks green and brown is "not so much").
I'm not even asking for pastel. I'm not. But royal blue, red, black, they don't count. Not on my boys, not on me. The one ALMOST Eastery color I found was Aqua. Two XS and one XXL. My boys are medium. Wanna guess why they don't have any mediums? PROBABLY BECAUSE THAT IS THE ONLY REMOTELY EASTER COLOR THEY CARRY and I'm not the only freakish one to believe that.
That Darn Cat: Let me just lay it on the line here: the $90 the animal shelter wants for you to adopt a cat. BARGAIN. It's a STEAL! PAY UP! DON'T TAKE IN THE STRAY! YOU WILL PAY MORE FOR THAT BLAMIN' CAT THAN YOU PAY OUT FOR MEDICAL CARE OF YOUR CHILDREN. Not only that, the people at the clinic act like the stray cat is part of the family. They call you to let you know your cat made it through surgery. They take blood to make sure the cat will survive the anesthesia. (Yes, I was heartless and asked, "So what's the worst case scenerio here if we don't take that blood? She dies? Yes, let's skip that test.")
I spent the morning snipping at my kids because I had to get the cat to the stupid vet "between 7:30 and 8:30" no other option. Kids needing to get off to school, be darned. And my kids that can't remember to feed the cat once in a month, fed her this morning when she was supposed to have "no food after midnight." And I shrieked, SHRIEKED people, "NOOOOOOOOOOO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! YOU CAN'T FEED THE CAT!" Freaked out the cat. Freaked out the kids. I'm sure they all think she will die.
The one thing that ALMOST makes this cat worth surviving the stupid surgery is when we left the vet's office without the cat, poor little Charming was crying, "Nonny." Boo-hoo. Darn cat better survive.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Swimming Suit Season
If you want a good idea of how much your body has declined since your teen years, go try on swimming suits at Burlington Coat Factory.
I'm glad my bedroom lights aren't that bright.
I'm glad my bedroom lights aren't that bright.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Boy Do I Have Her Fooled
I was standing in the checkout line at Price Chopper this morning when the checker said, "You're really patient."
"Yeah?" I looked up from the coupons I was going thorough and smiled at her and realized she was looking at me instead of Charming who kept asking "Ca-Ca?" (cracker).
"Him, or me?" I asked.
"You," she declared incredulously.
Me?
Yes, Charming had asked, in a normal, non-whiney kind of way, for crackers ever since he saw the box go on the conveyor. Possibly 25 times. And to each request I responded, "Cracker?" He'd say, "Yeah." I'd say, "In just a minute. After I pay." There would be 2.4 seconds of quiet when he'd again ask, "Cracker?" (wash, rinse, repeat) But there were no theatrics. No crying. No whining. No reaching. Just repeated conversation as if he was saying, "Now?" "How about now?" " Done yet, Mama?" And I was thinking about other things, as moms do, like where-is-that-yoplait-yoghurt-coupon-anyway-must-be-home-on-the-counter-where-all-good-coupons-seem-to-be. And, gee-should-have-picked-up-one-of-those-I-didn't-remember-I-had-that-coupon.
Come on moms, you know you can have intelligible conversations with your toddler without actually paying attention. Fess up.
So she was amazed at my patience in answering the question I wasn't really even listening to.
I told her that he was the patient one. He was asking politely.
I don't think she bought it.
What really gets me on this is how, just minutes before, I was praying, "God, please give me the patience to get through and out of this store before I let loose on one of these people."
The elderly, God love 'em, had taken over Price Chopper and it was busier that it often is on a Saturday. Except it wasn't busy with busy, fast walking moms and their lists. It was congested with slow walking people stopping to read the signs and swerving back and forth across the aisles. I think one of the local assisted living places must have brought a bus. (I'm serious.) And, as I said, love elderly folks, but my rambunctious toddler has a time limit at Price Chopper and we were nearing it. Halting every few steps because there was no way around, over, or through was trying my patience.
And then I got complimented for being patient about something that wasn't bothering me a bit.
"Yeah?" I looked up from the coupons I was going thorough and smiled at her and realized she was looking at me instead of Charming who kept asking "Ca-Ca?" (cracker).
"Him, or me?" I asked.
"You," she declared incredulously.
Me?
Yes, Charming had asked, in a normal, non-whiney kind of way, for crackers ever since he saw the box go on the conveyor. Possibly 25 times. And to each request I responded, "Cracker?" He'd say, "Yeah." I'd say, "In just a minute. After I pay." There would be 2.4 seconds of quiet when he'd again ask, "Cracker?" (wash, rinse, repeat) But there were no theatrics. No crying. No whining. No reaching. Just repeated conversation as if he was saying, "Now?" "How about now?" " Done yet, Mama?" And I was thinking about other things, as moms do, like where-is-that-yoplait-yoghurt-coupon-anyway-must-be-home-on-the-counter-where-all-good-coupons-seem-to-be. And, gee-should-have-picked-up-one-of-those-I-didn't-remember-I-had-that-coupon.
Come on moms, you know you can have intelligible conversations with your toddler without actually paying attention. Fess up.
So she was amazed at my patience in answering the question I wasn't really even listening to.
I told her that he was the patient one. He was asking politely.
I don't think she bought it.
What really gets me on this is how, just minutes before, I was praying, "God, please give me the patience to get through and out of this store before I let loose on one of these people."
The elderly, God love 'em, had taken over Price Chopper and it was busier that it often is on a Saturday. Except it wasn't busy with busy, fast walking moms and their lists. It was congested with slow walking people stopping to read the signs and swerving back and forth across the aisles. I think one of the local assisted living places must have brought a bus. (I'm serious.) And, as I said, love elderly folks, but my rambunctious toddler has a time limit at Price Chopper and we were nearing it. Halting every few steps because there was no way around, over, or through was trying my patience.
And then I got complimented for being patient about something that wasn't bothering me a bit.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Has Anyone Seen My Brain?
Last night I had a dream that included eating meatballs. I think I was at cheerleading camp, but it was also a missions trip. Not sure what that was about. What I remember was the meatballs.
I woke to remember that I made extra meatballs on Monday.
Where were those meatballs?
In the oven.
Where I left them to brown while I ate supper.
Monday.
Rotting.
If you see my brain, would you please return it to me?
I woke to remember that I made extra meatballs on Monday.
Where were those meatballs?
In the oven.
Where I left them to brown while I ate supper.
Monday.
Rotting.
If you see my brain, would you please return it to me?
That's It, Crown Me Queen Mother
Charming has made another spontaneous deposit in his mother's affirmation bank.
Praise God, I think he's getting it!
(Sorry. The PT posts will surely end soon.)
Praise God, I think he's getting it!
(Sorry. The PT posts will surely end soon.)
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
What an Extraordinary Mother!
I am singularly amazed at how, when my two-year-old spontaneously takes himself potty, I feel like I have succeeded as a "good mom" as if I actually had something to do with it.
Train Up A Child In the Way He Should Go
Charming was systematically unloading my purse last night as he so often does. Let me restate, Charming was systematically unloading my billfold, relieving it of all its contents as he so often does when he finally found what he was looking for.
My Starbucks card.
"Mmmmmmmmm, Mama! Mmmmmmmm! This!"
That's my boy.
My Starbucks card.
"Mmmmmmmmm, Mama! Mmmmmmmm! This!"
That's my boy.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Finding God in The Shack by Randal Rauser
The first time I heard about The Shack it was from someone outraged about its contents.
I'd never heard of the book. I didn't know the premise. I knew no-thing. So I had nothing to base any thoughts on, whatsoever. Other than that I basically trust the person who was so offended by the book. As he'd brought it up in a writer's group, there were several opinions thrown around and the gist I got was that The Shack was heresy and I should avoid it at all costs.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when my God-fearing MIL began talking about this book as if it had something of value inside. It didn't drive me to read it, mind you, but it made me take another think.
Fast forward a few more months and who is recommending that I gotta-read-this-book but my youth pastor's wife! I thought, for the love of all things holy, don't the people in my church know better? Heresy!
Sooooooo.....
When the book Finding God In The Shack came up for review I thought it MUST be time for me to explore a bit more.
I have to say, that Mr. Rauser has tipped the scales and I am now officially intrigued. He gives a lot of scriptural references and thought into his book and I'm ready to tackle The Shack, with my reference at the ready.
I'm not saying for sure what my final decision on The Shack will be. That has yet to be determined. But if you are feeling as conflicted as I was regarding it, you might want to read this one first.
I'd never heard of the book. I didn't know the premise. I knew no-thing. So I had nothing to base any thoughts on, whatsoever. Other than that I basically trust the person who was so offended by the book. As he'd brought it up in a writer's group, there were several opinions thrown around and the gist I got was that The Shack was heresy and I should avoid it at all costs.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when my God-fearing MIL began talking about this book as if it had something of value inside. It didn't drive me to read it, mind you, but it made me take another think.
Fast forward a few more months and who is recommending that I gotta-read-this-book but my youth pastor's wife! I thought, for the love of all things holy, don't the people in my church know better? Heresy!
Sooooooo.....
When the book Finding God In The Shack came up for review I thought it MUST be time for me to explore a bit more.
I have to say, that Mr. Rauser has tipped the scales and I am now officially intrigued. He gives a lot of scriptural references and thought into his book and I'm ready to tackle The Shack, with my reference at the ready.
I'm not saying for sure what my final decision on The Shack will be. That has yet to be determined. But if you are feeling as conflicted as I was regarding it, you might want to read this one first.
Guest Blogger Sr. Citizen aka My Dad (who, incidentally, loves Wal-Mart unlike his daughter)
Now I remember: Wal-Mart
The wobble when I walk, the pain in my hip, all those sleepless nights, a dozen or more doctor visits, not knowing what happened to my hip ! It happened, it sure did, and it has been in a painful mist just out of reach in my memory. Wal Mart?? Could it have been Wal Mart??
Memory repression, regression or something like that. But last night it came back to me in a dreadful dream. Real, perhaps - perhaps not, but most likely true when I look in the mirror at that radiant sun rising on my hairless head. Yes, definitely is was Wal Mart. For Sure it was Wal Mart and the little elderly lady with coke bottle glasses walking toward me in the sporting isle with her walker - creaky yes. Deadly - Definitely!
Thinking I heard her speak to me, and being the gentleman I am, I took off my hat before speaking to her, then it happened! When she saw the sun
rising on my head, she thought I was mooning her - Yes Mooning her. Hormones or pure hate - what motivated her. Doesn't matter really.
Before I could contain my startle reflex, that walker was whamming me from every direction and I was laid out down in the isle screaming for mercy, and trying to grow an emergence head of hair - all to no avail.
The next split second she had a baseball bat off the rack and was walloping my hip. Yes my hip - over and over and over. As the security forces pulled her off of me I mercifully went dark - very dark. But I did hear them saying I would be bared from Wal Mart for LIFE _ or perhaps longer. They didn't need sunbeams insulting their clientele.
Needless to say, I have not been the same ever since. Mercifully, I can't remember when since was, I only know my hip hurts. Plus, I'm grateful she didn't see the golf putters with those long grips. She might be mostly blind, but I'm guessing she would have found a place to put the putter. O Lord, it's getting dark again.
The wobble when I walk, the pain in my hip, all those sleepless nights, a dozen or more doctor visits, not knowing what happened to my hip ! It happened, it sure did, and it has been in a painful mist just out of reach in my memory. Wal Mart?? Could it have been Wal Mart??
Memory repression, regression or something like that. But last night it came back to me in a dreadful dream. Real, perhaps - perhaps not, but most likely true when I look in the mirror at that radiant sun rising on my hairless head. Yes, definitely is was Wal Mart. For Sure it was Wal Mart and the little elderly lady with coke bottle glasses walking toward me in the sporting isle with her walker - creaky yes. Deadly - Definitely!
Thinking I heard her speak to me, and being the gentleman I am, I took off my hat before speaking to her, then it happened! When she saw the sun
rising on my head, she thought I was mooning her - Yes Mooning her. Hormones or pure hate - what motivated her. Doesn't matter really.
Before I could contain my startle reflex, that walker was whamming me from every direction and I was laid out down in the isle screaming for mercy, and trying to grow an emergence head of hair - all to no avail.
The next split second she had a baseball bat off the rack and was walloping my hip. Yes my hip - over and over and over. As the security forces pulled her off of me I mercifully went dark - very dark. But I did hear them saying I would be bared from Wal Mart for LIFE _ or perhaps longer. They didn't need sunbeams insulting their clientele.
Needless to say, I have not been the same ever since. Mercifully, I can't remember when since was, I only know my hip hurts. Plus, I'm grateful she didn't see the golf putters with those long grips. She might be mostly blind, but I'm guessing she would have found a place to put the putter. O Lord, it's getting dark again.
Dreamin' the Big Time
You know you live in a distorted reality when you have a dream about another blogger whom you've never met and it makes perfect sense--in dreamland.
There I was, overnighting in an airport for some unknown reason, finding myself going to an unknown church and who is up on the stage but Mrs. Lemon leading worship. We both figured it out at the same time and she stops worship to introduce me. And then later totally doesn't understand why I would want a photo of the two of us to post on my blog.
Bizarre.
Almost makes me feel like a crazy stalker. And I might, if I'd been to ANY blogs in the last week.
Spring Break's a doozy.
There I was, overnighting in an airport for some unknown reason, finding myself going to an unknown church and who is up on the stage but Mrs. Lemon leading worship. We both figured it out at the same time and she stops worship to introduce me. And then later totally doesn't understand why I would want a photo of the two of us to post on my blog.
Bizarre.
Almost makes me feel like a crazy stalker. And I might, if I'd been to ANY blogs in the last week.
Spring Break's a doozy.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Forrest Gump
The mail box is like a box of chocolates--you never know what you're gonna get.
A bill.
A check.
A wedding invitation...or two.
Junk.
Or BOOKS from two of your favorite authors!
Mercy, I will get nothing done this weekend.
A bill.
A check.
A wedding invitation...or two.
Junk.
Or BOOKS from two of your favorite authors!
Mercy, I will get nothing done this weekend.
I Know this Sounds a Little Transparent
I am convinced that my back hurts primarily when I do dishes and laundry.
I know, I know, I hate doing dishes and it sounds like I'm making excuses, but no, really, it hurts me. If I do them, I'm on the couch for the next hour.
I think I'm too tall for the sink and I have to shlump to do a proper job.
If only Hubs read my blog.
Sigh.
I think, though, that he would tell me that he makes more money doing other things than the dishes than the chiropractor costs.
I know, I know, I hate doing dishes and it sounds like I'm making excuses, but no, really, it hurts me. If I do them, I'm on the couch for the next hour.
I think I'm too tall for the sink and I have to shlump to do a proper job.
If only Hubs read my blog.
Sigh.
I think, though, that he would tell me that he makes more money doing other things than the dishes than the chiropractor costs.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Did You Know?
The juice of 18 pounds of oranges fill approximately three quarters of a gallon pitcher.
No wonder OJ has gotten so expensive.
No wonder OJ has gotten so expensive.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
An Ode to Backs
There are certain things one associates with backs.
Lifting.
Swinging a bat.
Moving furniture.
Exercising.
Moles.
They are obvious. They are natural. You expect to have trouble with these when you "throw out" your back. Well, not the moles, they are trouble all the time.
What I have noticed is that the poor ole back is underrated. Think about the things you never have associated with your back.
Doing the dishes.
Using the facilities.
Pulling up your pants.
Sneezing.
Holding a child on your lap.
Typing.
Blowing your nose.
Driving.
Wiping the table after dinner.
Getting the mail
Sorting the mail
answering the mail
paying the bills
laundry
rolling over in bed
sitting up in bed
pulling the blankets over oneself in bed
sleeping
standing
laying a child down in his crib
putting a child on the potty when he is screaming "dee!"
changing a diaper
carrying a glass of ice water while walking across a room
cutting the plastic off your fifth frozen pizza in a week
opening the oven door
looking at the piles of crap all over your floor that you can't pick up and put away
getting up off the floor
sitting in a folding chair
standing to sing a song in church
pews
climbing stairs
descending stairs
tying shoes
holding a book to read
pouring milk on cereal
making coffee
holding a baby
cuddling a child
hugging a spouse
Backs are sorely (no pun intended) underrated.
Please, back, please, return to me.
I've got things to do.
Lifting.
Swinging a bat.
Moving furniture.
Exercising.
Moles.
They are obvious. They are natural. You expect to have trouble with these when you "throw out" your back. Well, not the moles, they are trouble all the time.
What I have noticed is that the poor ole back is underrated. Think about the things you never have associated with your back.
Doing the dishes.
Using the facilities.
Pulling up your pants.
Sneezing.
Holding a child on your lap.
Typing.
Blowing your nose.
Driving.
Wiping the table after dinner.
Getting the mail
Sorting the mail
answering the mail
paying the bills
laundry
rolling over in bed
sitting up in bed
pulling the blankets over oneself in bed
sleeping
standing
laying a child down in his crib
putting a child on the potty when he is screaming "dee!"
changing a diaper
carrying a glass of ice water while walking across a room
cutting the plastic off your fifth frozen pizza in a week
opening the oven door
looking at the piles of crap all over your floor that you can't pick up and put away
getting up off the floor
sitting in a folding chair
standing to sing a song in church
pews
climbing stairs
descending stairs
tying shoes
holding a book to read
pouring milk on cereal
making coffee
holding a baby
cuddling a child
hugging a spouse
Backs are sorely (no pun intended) underrated.
Please, back, please, return to me.
I've got things to do.
Frodo on Crab Cakes
(great inhalation of breath through puckered lips)
"These are hotter than 448 Flamin' Hot Cheetos!"
There's your new packaging sell line crab cake makers.
"These are hotter than 448 Flamin' Hot Cheetos!"
There's your new packaging sell line crab cake makers.
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