Speaking of Neighbors that Don't Understand Grace or Christians that Sometimes Lose Their Tempers and Say Friggin

So I'm out walking the baby when my neighbor hails me and the offspring with, "Can he have a Popsicle?"

I'm not sure if they buy Popsicles for the kids or if the kids have just figured out that if they smile nice they sometimes get them...but as the greedy little tykes weren't with me, I have to assume the former.

So he hustles to get the squirt a 'sicle and delivers it, "Complements of Obama."

To which I couldn't resist the faithful, "You're really gonna vote for that guy?"

And the ensuing political conversation takes place wherein he spouts his party line and I spout mine. Something like this: That Sarah Palin has no experience. What if McCain has a heart attack. Do you really want her as president. What and she has less experience than Obama? Biden. Biden? The Veep doesn't do anything unless the pres. dies. Are you hoping Obama dies?

Yeah, I know, you're either on one side or the other...half of that made sense to all of you. But here's where the conversation got interesting:

Well, she's one of those, whaddaya call 'em...evangelicals.

Uh, yeah....your point is?

You know...those....hmmm. Evangelicals. (gestures) Crazy. (remember he's telling me this...me...who asked him when he's gonna cave to the dark side become one of US (cackle) evangelicals. He avoided me for months.)

(Wide eyes, pretending I have no idea what he's talking about (I think the word he was looking for was "pentacostals" but I'm not about to help him out here.)) Huh.

Yeah. (knowing look) She's not much like you.

Huh.

Well. Tell the kids the popsicles are on Obama.

Um yeah, I'll do that.

(walking off, whips around, snaps fingers) You won't vote for Obama because he's black.

That's it. You got me there, Tuck. (I certainly hope he was kidding. No, no. I want MY son to be the first black president. It is unacceptable for anyone else to be.)

So, I'm wondering what exactly he thinks I am. I am obviously far too normal to be (whadda we call it?) Charasmatic, aren't I? Snort.

He says it like it's a bad thing.

Friggin!

It isn't just me!

Oh, my. Laughed until I cried.

(Gentle readers, or neighbors that don't think Christians should say "Friggin," may not want to click through.)

The Road of Lost Innocence

Do you sometimes have subjects that come up again and again in all sorts of conversations and reading and surveys and on TV and on blogs and at playgroup and...you get the idea. The latest one for me is human trafficking. Something I'd never given a second thought to is suddenly everywhere. Last year there were arrests just a couple miles from me and several women rescued (I hope!) out of slavery. IN MY OWN CITY! And we don't exactly live in an area that you'd expect to see that. I hope. Ahem.

So I got this book in the mail on Friday that I wanted to share with you. So that I can join the echo that will hopefully get loud enough that something can be done for the victims of this nasty endeavor. Here 'tis.

Born in Cambodia and orphaned at an early age, Somaly Mam, a Buddhist sex trade survivor, grew up never knowing her real name or birthday.

As a teenager, Somaly Mam was sold into prostitution and spent years in the brothels of Cambodia where she witnessed and experienced the full-blown horrors of the human sex trade – rape, torture, and nearly unfathomable abuse. After her eventual escape, she could not forget the young girls (some as young as 5) left behind in the brothels, and so she returned to serve them. Her new book, "The Road of Lost Innocence," is her newest means of advocacy. It tells her personal story, ultimately inviting people of conscious, such as our Christian community, to become involved (or to continue involvement) in this war against an epic evil, a modern battle for "the least of these." Truly, not only is this book worth reading, it's worth sharing.

Sweet September by Tricia Goyer

Sheesh, it's prolific writers month here at the land of Chaos. (I only say sheesh because I WISH I could write and much and as well as these wonderful ladies!)

Tricia Goyer, author of WWII and Spansish Civil War novels as well as Gen X lifestyle books tries her hand at contemporary fiction and does marvelously. Sweet September is part of the Home to Heather Creek series put out by Guideposts. Each individual book is written by different authors so I can't vouch for the series as a whole (though I'm sure they are all wonderful books). I CAN tell you that you can read this book without reading the others (because I did it and survived...even enjoyed myself in the process). I love the contemporary farm aspect of this book and the small town feel. It takes me back to high school. Which, though frought with anxiety, were peaceful times overall. And, if you know Tricia, you know she'll fit some history into even her contemporary books. Gotta love that.

I also hear that Tricia is currently working on book 7 of the series, so there is that to look forward to. And maybe inspire you to invest in the whole series.

Here's a bit about the book and series:

Harvest time at Heather Creek Farm is an exciting time, but the kids don't seem to be getting into the spirit. One day while he's wandering through the fields, Christopher stumbles across an old piece of metal buried in the ground. He doesn't know what it is, but he hides it in the shed.

That night, the garden by the house is uprooted. Who could have done such a thing? Charlotte is determined to find out, but is distracted when she gets news that Sam is failing school. The sullen teen is indifferent and won't study. He starts spending a lot of time with Pete. Though she loves her son dearly, Pete never finished high school, and Charlotte is afraid he'll encourage Sam to do the same. How can she help him get back on track?

A gripping story that examines the Stevenson family's history as well as its shaky future, Sweet September will bring you deeper into the loving community of Bedford and the deep ties of love that bind this broken family together. As they forge new connections, you'll be entertained, inspired, and reminded that God's grace can make all things new.

About Guideposts' Home To Heather Creek series!

Charlotte Stevenson's world is turned upside down when her daughter, Denise, dies in a tragic car accident. She ran away at eighteen and Charlotte has never forgiven herself. Now, Denise's children, abandoned by their father, are coming from California to live on Heather Creek Farm in Bedford, Nebraska.

video

Because I'm an idiot and can't post these type of things to my blog, I MUST send you here. Besides, she's artistic and you'll like it over there.

What a Gift!

Today, while teaching 5th and 6th grade science, in the middle of a sentence, I chipped two teeth.

I wasn't yelling.

I wasn't grinding my teeth in irritation. (I may have been rolling my eyes, but that's for another post.)

I wasn't eating Gobstoppers.

I was just talking. And by some freak of nature, two of my teeth caught on each other. There was a very loud crack and then chunks of enamel floating around in my mouth.

And then I got to hear about all the broken teeth my students have endured in their short lives.

Hubs says, "It sucks to get old."

Thanks, Hon.

If this is what it means to be 33, I'll think I'll sit this one out.

Happy birthday to me.

Ah, Now I Remember

The following photo is very distressing. For the faint of heart (namely my mother-in-law), I advise you to quickly navigate away from this page.

It's like a car accident. You can't look away, can you?

The following is the reason that I rarely go for the self-pampering. WHILE I'm participating, I enjoy myself and think, "Well, golly, I should get out more." And then I come home to this:

And the reality is much uglier than the photo.

The problem with taking a night off, it that you still have to face it in the morning.

My toes are pretty, though.

Just in Case You Need a Giggle

Thanks to Jenni for sending me to this mindless diversion.

I don't know what I expected, but it just got goofier and goofier and totally cracked me up.

He loves me. He really loves me!

Maybe because I'm voluptuous...

Rrroooowl!

My Virgin Toes

My toes have been deflowered. Or decalused. Whatever.

I have now officially had a pedicure.

Now if I could only get my hair cut, I would be a new woman.

A Week in Pictures

My week.


His week.

My week.

His week.

My week.
His week.

Any questions?

Birthmothers and Birthdays

She labored all day eight years ago, so that I could be a mother.
She handed over the very best birthday gift I've ever received, and she didn't even know me.
She gave him life, even when she didn't have to.
She stepped back and let me step in.
She doesn't demand.
She doesn't ask.
She doesn't expect.
She gave.
Willingly.
She is my hero.
And she is heavy on my heart today.
What does she think?
Does she cry?
Does she remember?
Does it sneak up on her?
Does she dread this day for weeks?
Does she wonder?
Does she regret?
Because of her, I have him.
Most days he's just mine.
One of the crowd.
But today he's ours.
She's peaking over my shoulder.
Reminding me of the blessing I have.
The blessing she delivered to me.

Almost On Topic

Eldest steadfastly refuses to eat toast with "spread" on it. He likes his butter.

I thought that he was just a creature of habit. Melting butter for his toast because that's what we did for the first seven years of his life. So I snuck (which sounds so much better than sneaked) spread on his toast when he wasn't looking. He took one bite and refused to eat the toast because it was "gross."

And my MIL thought I was the only one who could believe it wasn't butter.

So, even though he only wants to eat pizza and Mac&cheese, I have cultured those picky taste buds.

There is hope for my gourmet cooking, yet.

That's It, I'm Buying Lean Cusine.

When Hubs and I first married, I fancied myself a good cook. And I suppose in comparison to my friends living in the dorms and the Chi Omega house, I was. I mean, if I decided to cook a "real" meal I could follow a recipe as well as anyone. And that I chose to eat cereal most meals had little to do with my cooking prowess. Shoot, I was an engineering student widow. The only time I saw the man was when I took food to the engineering lab and then I had to bring enough for everyone there. Which meant Five Soup Casserole was the norm and was also considered fine dining by those pasty skinned creatures that blinked at the sky once or twice a week when they ventured forth for those nasty general ed credits.

No wonder my cooking ego was inflated.

Any-hoo, Hubs survived and I burnt out on cereal and cold cuts. When I started grad school and he got a job, well, I still fancied myself a cook. But mostly I existed on Slim Fast shakes and Cup-a-Soup. The Slim Fast because it was actually cheaper than Carnation Instant Breakfast and kept me fuller longer. The Cup-a-soup because coffee mugs were relatively easy to wash in the lab sink with all the mouse blood monoclonal antibody paraphernalia.

I still cooked on the weekend when I didn't have a Rasmole project staring me in to suicidal tendencies. (I did NOT just admit that on a public blog. Actually I would call it less suicidal and more nervous breakdown tendencies. YOU try to figure Rasmole out on deadline.)

And when I dropped out of grad school and moved to this godforsaken wasteland of suburbia where people's ideas of "cooking" include the deli at Hen House and adding saute'd chicken tenderloin to Lipton Noodles and Sauce, let's just say I KNEW myself to be a gourmet chef.

Never mind that on lunch break I subsisted on Marie Calendar's Chicken Pot Pies. Which, I might mention, microwave beautifully. Because, let's face it, I could still whip out a tasty Verenikke or Chicken Cordon Bleu when the occasion called for it.

And then I had kids.

Hubs worked from home and I cooked THREE MEALS A DAY for several years. And my taste buds developed the ability to discern between "meals" and MEALS. And "meals" just didn't stack up.

I love cooking with wines. And sauces. And special vinegars. And spices. And fresh herbs. And free range eggs. And BUTTER. Oh, my stars. I love food. Good food.

My children have absolutely NO appreciation for what I can do with a chicken.

And my husband started going to the office.

And now even the kids are gone at lunch.

Who spends that much time cooking succulent food with no one around to appreciate it?

And I find myself subsisting on the Chex Mix Turtle bars. And Lo, though they are "made with whole grains" and are a little slice of store bought heaven...aren't food. And I find that I have been basically fasting until there is someone here to appreciate my cooking. And as Hubs has been galavanting around New York City for a week, I've basically eaten a handful of BBQ chips, a few candy corn, a glass of milk here and there, a Pepsi, a stick cheese, um, the random apple slice as I prepare school lunches, I'm catching on that good food, it ain't happening around these parts much.

I think it's time to stock up on Lean Cusine.

Get Cozy, Josey!

It's that time again, about bi-monthly, when I tell you that another Susan May Warren book has hit the shelves. Let's see...the last one was a suspense about the sex trade set in Taiwan. Before that it was hottie Rafe in a romance set in the back woods of nowhere (Montana?) so it must be time for....JOSEY! Who is moving, not only to Russia, but again to the backwoods of nowhere...SIBERIA! (I'm seeing a theme here, Susie.) Can Josey survive the cold, the suspicion and the constant separation from her husband? As always, I love me some Susan May Warren. Here's a bit about the book:

How do you get cozy when your new "home" is a frozen tundra? Josey's dreams of small-town Minnesota bliss melt away when her hubby's relocated to a Siberian village. No indoor plumbing...or junk food! But this feisty former missionary knows how to multitask: juggling toddler twins, empowering local housewives, spreading God's word - no worries, Josey. It's finding time alone with the man of her dreams that will take some real work!

You can read the first chapter here.

About Susan: Susan May Warren is the award-winning author of seventeen novels and novellas with Tyndale, Steeple Hill and Barbour Publishing. Her first book, Happily Ever After won the American Fiction Christian Writers Book of the Year in 2003, and was a 2003 Christy Award finalist. In Sheep’s Clothing, a thriller set in Russia, was a 2006 Christy Award finalist and won the 2006 Inspirational Reader’s Choice award. A former missionary to Russia, Susan May Warren now writes Suspense/Romance and Chick Lit full time from her home in northern Minnesota.

Contest! The “Get Cozy” Contest!

Head over to Susan’s blog tour post and leave a comment on that post for your chance to win a Get Cozy gift basket! The basket will be loaded with Godiva chocolate, Starbucks coffee, Harry and David Moose Crunch, gourmet hot cocoa, and a fab pair of snuvvy PJs!

In your comment tell Susan your favorite winter time activity or winter memory!

Thanks for stopping by, gang. I've had one heck of an evening and I'm going to go collapse in my bed now. Maybe shed a few tears, maybe pick up a light read. That is, after I smash that huge-mondo wolf spider crawling up my wall. Eek! ( I can NOT even IMAGINE a life in Siberia. Do spiders live well there?)

Saturday's With Stella by Allison Pittman

Oh, my goodness, this is a great book! Hubs and I don't consider ourselves to be dog people. Of course we also don't consider ourselves to be cat people, fish people, reptile people, or anything needy besides our children people, so that isn't saying much. I honestly wanted to read this book because it seemed awfully close to my book idea (export dog, import children) and I wondered how she would do it and whether me taking the other angle would be a re-do.

Man, she pulled it off well. My dear Hubs glanced over the cover and the cover copy and deemed the book "cheesy" and was quite surprised when I told him how very excellent the book was. (I'm rather glad he didn't tell me what he thought until I'd already read most of the book. He can poison my opinion, I'm ashamed to say.) But this book REALLY works. Despite the cover and copy (if that looks cheesy to you. If not, say, if you are a dog person, or even just a pet person which I think is what Hubs is missing, ignore this part.).

I LOVED it. I LOVED how perfectly she expressed dog personalities. I know dogs just like each of those in the story. And I LOVED how dog-like we people should be in relation to our Master. And maybe this book just hit me at the right time of my life, but it hit me square between the eyes. And I highly recommend it.Even if you aren't a dog person.

And here's the cover copy for your enjoyment. Weigh in: do you think it is cheesy? I think he's being a bit harsh.

Sometimes your best four-legged friend is also your best teacher

When you bring a new dog into your home, a wash of great joy can become a trial of perseverance as your furry pal chews, digs, yaps, and yes, piddles her way through every room in the house. Allison Pittman learned this all too well when she adopted a “tiny, shiny puppy of indefinable breed(s).” Stella wasted no time in turning her home upside-down as only a pup can.

As could be expected, six weeks of obedience school covered the much needed basics–sit, stay, come, and down. What Allison didn’t expect was the spiritual benefit she would receive as each Saturday lesson revealed a fascinating metaphor. In this heart-warming, thoughtful, and often hilarious tribute to her beloved Stella, Allison Pittman shares how she came to understand what it means to follow the ultimate Master, including how to:

Sit!–at the feet of Jesus and listen for His voice
Drop It!–and let go of personal agendas
Come!–when it’s time to run in the right direction
Stay!–in God’s presence

In Saturdays with Stella, a slightly neurotic yet curiously adorable canine will not only capture your heart–she’ll show you how captivating you are to God.

What Was I Doing At 1 AM?

Why, thank you for asking. I was listening to the water company JACKHAMMER my neighbor's driveway. Yes, I did say AM.

Insanely, my children slept through the jackhammering. I know not how.

Forty-five minutes later, as the jackhammering was winding down and I began to hope for the sleep that I still shamelessly desired, THEN my Charming decided it was time to wake. Big kids kept sleeping.

I brought Charming to my bed and did as I do when I'm desperate for sleep. I positioned myself on my side and prepared to be the human pacifier. But Charming is not content to nurse. No. He also has to snuggle. And he's not content to nurse on whatever side I choose to give him. No. It must be my right side (As a side note, I pumped into bottles the other day and discovered my right side is about half cream and my left is skim. How bizarre is that?). And he wants to have his cold little feet shoved into the space between my legs (not my crotch, you dirty thinkers) but there isn't as much space as you can well imagine and I don't feel good about cutting off the blood flow to his feet so I have to position my legs Just So as well. Along with holding a pillow over my head to drown out the incessant BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! of whatever monstrous vehicle is now loading the chunks of cement into the empty dump truck and the WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! of the driveway hitting the dump truck.

I failed to mention that Charming has sucked a BLISTER on aforementioned right mammary gland.

I gritted my teeth and hoped he would soon return to slumber. Which takes much longer considering he isn't sleeping through the noise any better than his mother and I won't let him have a pillow over his head.

Charming finally drops off to sleep and I try to wiggle into a more comfortable position. He notices that there is one square inch of his body that isn't against mine and wakes. I try unsuccessfully to give his the other side as a pacifier. That is unacceptable.

It is now 3 AM.

I lift charming onto my chest where he is not nursing, just sleeping. The noise is now a dull rumble and I again have hope. I doze off.

And then the ringing begins. I tell you a PHONE IS RINGING. Loudly. Except it isn't MY phone. It isn't MY cell. It isn't a PHONE at all. It is...

I have no idea. I wouldn't know because there is a baby sleeping on my chest and I dare not move to look. It seems like every time some truck, or lift, or digger, or loader goes into reverse this phone rings. AND IT GOES INTO REVERSE ALMOST AS REGULARLY AS A PHONE RINGS.

And as soon as it stops, I try to maneuver out of Charming's snuggles. I love them, but my back aches and I sleep best in any position besides my back. I maintained contact on 98% of the contact points, but I dared slip him onto his side beside me.

And I would have pulled it off, too, except THE BLAMIN' PHONE STARTED RINGING AGAIN!

Now I have a phone ringing truck in reverse, a screaming baby, a blistered boob (excuse me, mammary gland) and little to no sleep. I begin thinking about guns. Big guns. And whether waving them would get me in jail. And whether it would be quieter there so I could get some sleep.

And then it all stops. Blissfully stops. Just like that.

AND THEN THE THUNDERSTROM ROLLED IN.

I kid you not.

Now the big kids that slept through the jackhammering and the dump truck dumping, and the BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!ing and the phone ringing, did NOT sleep through the thunderstrom.

It is now 4:30.

I can sleep through thunderstroms. I did. And dreamed of the water company guys doing all sorts of things to my house including but not limited to painting and subsequesntly scraping my windows with a razor at which time I did go onto my porch and ask them WHAT IN GOD'S NAME DID THEY THINK THEY WERE DOING TO MY HOUSE AT 4:30 IN THE FREAKING MORNING? (My neighbor, Tuck, would ask me about now if Christians should say freaking. And I would have to shamefully admit that I shouldn't say Freaking nor In God's Name, but it is my dream and I'm being honest here.)

I'll have you know that the water company moved six houses down and started the process all over again. But I can do dull roar. Besides, it is now 5 AM and practically morning. And I have a sleeping baby back on my chest. And can't move to go tell my bloggies all my misery anyway. And I haven't slept, not really, for many long hours. So I go to sleep.

At 7 AM a second thunderstrom begins in earnest and Eldest, bless his pea-pickin' heart, decides that now is the time to get up and practice playing drums on his stand in drum set (read: six books set up in a semi drum set formation and a couple hangers for sticks). And as angry as I am with him for waking me from the only sleep I feel I got for the night, I know we have to move! move! move! to get out the door.

For it is Monday.

Coffee, where are you?

Things I Will Never Understand

Children that leave their cleats and water bottle home when they go to practice, even though besides their bodies, that is their only thing to take.

Husbands that pack for long trips ten minutes before they leave which happens to correspond to getting the children out the door for school.

Children that forget to eat breakfast even when they've been told to "go eat breakfast" seven times.

Babies that eat food out of the trash can that they turned their noses up at when it was on the dinner table.

The party line of an unidentified national party which shall go unnamed.

The transparency of journalists when covering either party line.

Why I talk about politics when I promised myself I wouldn't get into it.

Why spell check suddenly doesn't recognize contractions as legitimate words.

Facebook.

How dishes magically wash themselves for everyone in my family except me.

How you can be having a conversation with your toddler about where poop goes and he will pee all over you.

Why toddlers have to fight over the same dumb piece of plastic if one of them picks it up. Even if the other big brute of a bully who shall also remain nameless, but we'll call him The Frog that Hasn't Yet Been Kissed, hasn't played with the piece of plastic since the last time his friend was over.

Where Things Stand

I still am not sleeping well. It isn't that I don't sleep. It is that when I wake I am wide awake. And I wake a lot.

I still feel like I could burst into tears at any moment.

I still don't really know why.

When you make a song, a popular song, your heart's cry, and you sing it all day, God answers that cry. And it hurts. Even if it is for your good.

I'd itemize the financial damage that we've endured this last 6 weeks, but that is pathetic. Suffice it to say, we are bumping at the edge of $10K. Over and above the normal budget expenditures.

Thank God, and I mean that literally, that Hubs has this "second job." And even if it does seem like we are spinning our wheels, we are staying afloat. Albeit barely.

I offered to go to work as a barrista or something. Hubs nixed it.

As Hubs keeps saying, "At least it's just financial."

Beach Dreams by Trish Perry

I thought of something nice I could say that has absolutely nothing to do with my personal life which...nope, not going there.

Soooooooo.........

Read any good books lately?

I have.

I loved Trish Perry's Beach Dreams. Finally we get to read the story of Tiff and Jeremy. Though I don't think it is being sold as a sequel to The Guy I'm Not Dating and Too Good to Be True, you get a little flavor of those anyway. Actually, I think it is being sold as part of the Beach House Series (?) of which I've only read this one. So obviously don't need to read the first two of THAT series either.

Anyway, couldn't put it down. Plan to freely pass it around. You should check it out, too.

Not that I encourage anyone to go to the beach today. At least the Atlantic or Gulf coast.

Sheesh.

In the Words of Thumper

"If you can't say anything niiiiiiiice.....

(deep sigh)

don't say nuthin' at alllllllll."