Commencement Address

Last night was our oldest daughter's FFA awards banquet. As I sat at the table, picking at the plastic tablecloth, engaging in a game of "surreptitiously throw the FFA-themed confetti" at my husband and Abby's friend across the table, (Yo, Antonio. Whassup.) I listened to the keynote speaker, a fellow Okie who gratiously accepted the request to speak when the original speaker fell through. He was engaging and told stories of his three daughters, especially the middle child named Addison whom he declared was a terrorist. The audienced laughed at his stories of his daughters' shenanigans and how little Addison's sweet prayer included thanking God for the day, the world and polka dots. Of course, I egotistically thought, "Hmh. I could totally do what he's doing right now. I can motivate people." Then I remembered that sometimes my motivation methods border on drill sergeant. (Our youth group is babysitting for donations next weekend and one of the girls asked what they would do if some of the kids just wouldn't behave. They were worried there would be discipline problems. I looked at her and said, "They might not be afraid of you, but sweetie, do you think they're going to have a problem listening to me?" She shook her head and said, "Okay, no problems there then. We're good to go.")

But still, I continued to think, "If I were asked to address a group of students or - dare I dream? - a graduating class, what would I tell them?"

So without further ado, I present to you my

Address to the Graduating Class of 2012

Hey ya'll! Thank you for asking me to come here tonight and impart upon you my words of wisdom. I am not famous or a millionaire. I can't brag to you about how I was a finalist on American Idol or how I got kicked off of The Biggest Loser for being a big loser and not being a big loser. I'll let that one sink in a minute. I have never climbed a mountain or swam an ocean, I didn't save a litter of puppies from a burning building nor have a video of me pathetically playing "Just Dance" go viral on YouTube. However, I have accomplished a thing or two in my 39 years here on this earth. If you'll indulge me, I promise I won't take too much of your time and then we'll get to the real reason we're all here -- to see the fruits of the labor of 13 or 14 years of education (15 or 16 for some of you, bless your hearts) pay off and walk across that stage, flip that tassel to the other side and smile pretty for the camera.

The first and most important piece of wisdom I can give you tonight is to keep God first. Always. Of course, you are going to make mistakes. That's a total given. Some of you will make more than others, some of you will make bigger ones than others and some of you are just flat-out gonna hit rock bottom. But if you will keep your eyes and your heart on God, the lessons seem easier to learn and the bounce-back time is infinitely quicker. If you'll let Him, He's a really awesome navigator. Pray. The Bible says to do it "without ceasing". Take that to heart. Pray with your boyfriend, girlfriend, parents, friends, siblings, spouse, your children and your pastor. God loves to hear from you. He never gets tired of hearing your heart.

Secondly, wear sunscreen. A few years after I graduated Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich wrote a list of things she wanted all of us to know as we grew older. Wearing sunscreen was the first thing on the list. I wholeheartedly agree. That tan that looks so hawt (with an "aw" not an "o") now will only age you. And quickly. And trust me, when you get to the ripe ol' age of 39 you do not need help with that. If you just have to look sun-baked, spray it on. I personally find nothing wrong with the marshmallow look. They say tan fat looks better than white fat, but folks, fat is fat. It's alllllll fat. It might as well be cancer-free fat. I mean, if you have the choice. And you kinda do.

That boyfriend? That girlfriend? The one you look all googly-eyed at right now? The one you cut your hair for or didn't cut your hair for? The one who kept you from going to Prom with a friend because she was jealous? The one who said it's okay for you to give him your virginity because he's "pretty sure" he's going to marry you? Yeah, that one? Statistically....you won't marry him or her. I'm not here to bust your bubble and make you doubt your relationship. I'm really not. And yes, there are high school sweethearts all over the place. Those are wonderful, time-tested relationships and I love hearing those stories. But don't be so quick to give it all up, change yourself and compromise because of a "promise" made at 17. I hope it all works out for you googly-eyed love-stricken weirdos. But if it doesn't, I don't want you to have regrets. If you do go on and get married, there is plenty of time to compromise and grow with that person. Just don't do it all too soon, right now, while you can't even vote or buy alcohol.

Be an individual. Some of you have cornered the market on individuality already. I applaud you. It takes true guts to stand out. The crowd says do one thing, the majority wants to rule you and you, with the blue-streaked hair, the all black clothing, the t-shirts that only make sense to other scientifically-minded folks like yourself *cough cough nerds*, the comic book afficionado, the one who simply says "No." when peer pressure closes in, you are the leaders of tomorrow. Yes, you will likely be labeled weird, maybe your already have been. Yes, you will be given some strange looks, you may already. No, you may not have been student body president, the most popular girl in school, the jock who has girls melting at his feet, but you already have this amazing potential to swim upstream, to think outside the box and to get it done in your own way. Please don't conform. Yes, you eventually have to get responsible and get a job and be all mature and stuff, but find ways to stay an individual without becoming a minion.

Hug your mom. Kiss your dad. I mean it. You are really not that cool anyway, so go ahead and just love on them. When you reach middle adulthood and suddenly look at your parents - I mean, really look at your parents - and yank your head out of your own daily battle with your own gray hairs, you realize that they lost that battle and have suddenly aged beyond your realizations, you will suddenly understand that hugs and kisses lost can never be regained. Video and audio record them talking. Please trust me on this. Right now you love them, I know y'all do, but maybe you feel like they harsh your ever-present mellow, suck the fun from every cool thing you want to experience and expect too much out of you - I totally remember feeling that way. But now I have been magically transformed into a parent myself and woah, it's heavy stuff. I find myself a mellow-harsher on a daily basis. It's a parent's job. Cut them some slack. Remember this commencement address because trust me, in a few years you'll be a gray-headed fun-sucker like the rest of us.

If you discover you have a talent or a knack for something, do it. Whether it's writing, painting, clog dancing, basket weaving, mime, baking or gluing googly eyes on rocks and selling them out of the trunk of your car, do it with all that you have in you. One of my very favorite quotes is from Erma Bombeck. She said, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me." Use everything you are given and make it fabulous.

Your siblings are priceless. I used to slap the ever-lovin' snot out of my little sister on a regular basis. She used to annoy the ever-lovin' snot right outta me with even more regularity than the whoopings I gave her. Then suddenly, magically, nearly overnight, we became best friends. Our mother used to cry, wondering what she had done to make us hate each other so much, thinking she had done something wrong while she was pregnant with us, maybe scrubbing the kitchen floor with straight bleach had warped something in our fetal brains that killed all desire to love our sibling in the future. I can't tell you why we fought. I can't tell you why your little brother sticks his plastic rat in your makeup case or why your little sister hacks into your Facebook page to write embarrassing status updates. All I know is that someday you will appreciate them. You might as well start now.

Learn how to use commas correctly. If this is something you didn't master here in High School, please pay extra attention to your Freshman Comp teacher in college.

Please stay active. I'm not saying you have to become marathon runners. I still hold to my strict rule that I do not run unless there are zombies chasing me. However, I'm finding that the first 10 pounds I used to be able to lose by simply cutting back are infinitely more stubborn as I age. And we won't even discuss the other pounds that have taken up what appears to be permanent residence. Walk. Do Zumba. Play "Just Dance" with your kids. Heck, a good game of Duck, Duck, Goose will suffice when your kids are on preschool playdates. Not all of us are cut out to be Victoria's Secret models, but even if you're one of the chunky who will never be as thin as society would like, at least be a healthy chunky. You have one heart. I mean, literally ONE beating heart. They don't just sell those on street corners. Well, I guess they might, but you never know where those have been.

And finally, look around at the classmates sitting here in these seats close to you. Please know that those around you right here today, here in your present, might not be part of your future. And that's okay. They are here now because they are supposed to be. They may not be later -- because they aren't supposed to. Being popular isn't as important at 35 as it is at 18. There were nine of us that ran together our Senior year, a mixture of five guys, four girls. We thought we owned those halls and no one was allowed on "our" front steps of the school. We were big, bad and ooooh so popular. I rarely speak to any of them now 21 years later. However, I can tell you that I have three friends who spent many a night at my house and I at theirs in elementary school and Junior High. We forged indelible friendships that have literally stood the test of time. I look back at the pictures of us in our Brownie uniforms and the silly ones of us dressing up at slumber parties and compare them to the ones of the "cool kids" I ran with as we got older and I can say that these girls - these women - are indeed true friends. I only regret ditching them for a brief run at the popularity I so desired, abandoning my innate desire to be an individual. So I guess what I'm saying is keep the ones who want to be kept. Let the others go. Don't lose sleep over it or wonder if you did something wrong. You didn't. You're going to change as you get older. Strangely enough, they will, too.

Congratulations, graduates. You've got a life ahead of you, each and every one of you. Some will be easy lives. Some will be hard. Some will be nothing but happy. Some will be laced with sorrow and hardship. Some will be a roller coaster ride of infinite proportions. Some will simply be leisurely Sunday drives down back country roads. But here's the thing, yours is yours. You do with it as you please. Don't let anyone live it for you and in turn, don't try to live someone else's. Be you. Be amazing. Be true. Be fabulous.

I wish you nothing but the best. God bless.

Limitless?

Bug: Mom, I don't get the saying "The sky's the limit". I mean, what if I want to go higher than the sky???

Me: Well, the sky doesn't really have an ending. It just goes on forever, like into space and then further. So the sky doesn't have a limit and neither do you! You can just go as high as you want!

Bug: Well, until you die.

Me: Huh?

Bug: Well, after you leave Earth's atmosphere you can't breathe and eventually you'll die. So the sky does have a limit. A limited supply of oxygen.

End Of Days

I'm chilling in the recliner on this gloriously cloudy morning and got this crazy, itinerant urge to write. However, I am way too comfy (read: lazy) to get up and get the laptop, so writing in the iPad it is. Which means this will be a short post because typing on this thing makes me a wee bit stabby sometimes.

(By the way, honey, for Mother's Day I would really like a keyboard for the iPad.)

(And some Poppy Flower perfume by Coach.)

(I'll be happy with just the keyboard - I don't want you to have to get a second job just to buy the perfume.)

The kids are down to their last two weeks of school and I am down to my last two weeks of babysitting. I have mixed feelings about all of it.

This is the end of Abby's Freshman year, Sam's 7th grade year and Bug's 4th grade year. This is also their last year of public school. Yes, we are going to be homeschoolers next year -- a thought that both exhilarates, excites and scares the poop right outta me all all the same time. More than anything, the excitement is what reigns supreme - which is good, since having the poop scared out of oneself on a regular basis isn't desirable. For most of us. Who are normal.

About two years ago Paul and I both felt like homeschooling was in our future, but we didn't feel like we were ready to take the plunge. The desire was there, the commitment and confidence were not. We both felt like God wanted us to pray about it, but not act on it. There is currently another issue we feel urged to pray over, but not act in yet as well. Is God looking for obedience? Is He just prepping us? Making the way ready? I have no idea. We felt that way about homeschooling as well -- like that maybe it would never pan out, but yet we prayed. That is hard for me - to feel led one way, but to be told to wait. I'm a bit of a control freak. (Those who know me best are nodding right now.)

And then, what had been obstacles during these past two years of praying were just removed one at a time this year. When one would be taken care of my prayers would ask "Now?" Like a child who wants out of the car on a long road trip, I'd ask, "Are we there yet?" and the answer was still.....wait.

So we did. Then suddenly, there it was.......go.

And we did.

There remains one more "obstacle", which in the grand scheme of things is very minor, and God has given us peace about it - and permission to move ahead. So we are.

This week I will write and deliver the withdrawal letters to both principals and will probably cry when I hand over the one to the elementary principal. (The woman is amazing and worthy of admiration for her relationships with the kids and her constant work in making the elementary succeed.) This is the end of a 10 year relationship with Fairland Public School and of course, there's some sadness. Yet I can't help but get 27 kinds of excited at the same time.

And now that stabby feeling is coming over me because of typing on this minuscule on-screen keyboard and Conner just asked me to play Littlest Pet Shop with him. And since he's only mine for a few more weeks....I'm more than happy to.

Lucky?

Since right now all three kids are on antibiotics -- one for a sinus infection, one for strep and one for an upper respiratory infection -- and one of those kids is also on Tamiflu for....well, the flu, Kady decided we needed one or 26 of these:

Woof

Back in the Spring our pup Little Joe met with an early demise via school bus. It was a horrific experience seeing as how our two youngest kids witnessed the whole tragic ordeal. After that awful business we solemnly and vehemently declared we would never have another dog again, or at least not have one we liked so much. And trust me, we have had our share of unlikeable dogs around here, so we figured the chances of getting another miscreant mutt was highly likely.

And then Paul's brother called one night and said his female German Shepherd was on the nest and offered us pick of the litter. He said they'd be born around the end of June and we could come get ours six weeks later. While I've always thought German Shepherds are beautiful dogs, I didn't have high hopes for liking one or welcoming it into our family. I figured it would be just another dog, something to feed and then leave us gigantic dinner-plate-sized piles of poo in the yard. I was less than excited.

But the kids were thrilled and not a week went by through the spring they didn't inquire about the puppies. We received a call when they were born which only served to up the anticipation level by oh....about six hundred and thirty seven gazillion. Then lo and behold the blessed day came when the brother-in-law called and said, "Come get your dadgum (okay, he didn't say "dadgum", but you can probably insert any expletive and it would be close to correct) dog. There are a bunch of 'em and they won't stay in the pen anymore." Squeals from three kids promptly ensued. Paul probably squealed inside. I was less than excited.

My brother-in-law's dogs are vicious animals. The male, so large and so mean, he has to be kept on a logging chain. Yes, I said logging chain. A mere dog chain will not hold the beast. The female is mean, but less so. The puppies had to be carefully procured by my brother-in-law and brought to us, two at a time, to cuddle and partake of their cuddly, fluffy, skunk-breathed puppy-ness. The kids narrowed it down to four. Then three. Then two. And two is where we stayed. So with a sigh I said, "Okay, fine....take them both," while thinking Lovely. More elephant-sized piles of poo to keep Conner from stepping in. We labored over names for days and eventually settled on Boo for the female (after Boo in Monsters Inc)  and Bolt (from well, Bolt). Yes, we Disneyed our dogs.

Bolt didn't come off the porch for four days. He cowered in the corner by the front door and wouldn't eat, would barely drink, it was awful. Boo, however, would nearly mow you over with skunky kisses and whines all while piddling at your feet. Finally, Bolt came around and while he's still the more calm and collected of the two, his sister still remains highly neurotic and extremely rambunctious. She has literally sat on her brother's head to keep me from petting him and has on more than one occasion nipped just a little harder than I'm sure she intended in a fit of jealousness. She has, fortunately, stopped piddling at our feet. That's a blessing.

I'm afraid we've become the pet owners who will defiantly and adamantly defend the honor of the breed of their choice. Pit Bull owners say it's not the breed, it's the owner and the care. Rotweillers will say the same. Chihuahua owners will say the same, too, but folks, we all know those dogs are just a half a bubble off plumb and there is no fixing those overgrown mice. (I kid, I kid. Please don't send me hate mail. I've known one really cool Chihuahua. He wears an elf outfit around Christmas time. Any dog that can pull that off has my admiration.) But yes, we defend our Shepherds and their precious demeanors. Yes, their parents are nasty and mean, but heck, there are a lot of people I know who have nasty parents and we don't keep those folks on a logging chain just because their parents need a swift kick to the tail end. We have never hit our dogs and their faithfulness and loyalty reflects that. Well, we're still trying to convince them that pooping that close to the front door doesn't make friends with their human counterparts.

I guess what I'm trying to say with this whole post is this: We have fallen head over stinkin' heels in love with those dadgum dogs. There. I said it. We love them. *sigh*

Wednesday we took them to the vet to be fixed. Paul had to build a giant dog box for the back of the truck because they are the size of small Tyrannosaurus Rex. This dog box looks like we should just strap ol' Granny Clampet to the top and take off for Bev-er-ly. Hills, that is. I told him it might have been a bit much considering if he had built it in town we'd have needed a zoning permit for it. His justification was that now they have one seriously cool dog house for the back yard. Kady asked if she could have it for a playhouse. It's that big. We looked ridiculous driving to the vet and I was just glad we brought them after general business hours and no one we knew saw us.

They cried when we left them. We cried, too. Well, at least Kady and I did because we adhere to Truvy's strict policy of "No one cries alone in my presence" and we apply it to dogs as well. I called Paul for something on Thursday and in the conversation asked if he was having a good day. He sighed and said, "Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about Boo and Bolt. Do you think they're okay?" We're all so dang smitten it's ridiculous.

Thursday they came home, minus a few gonads and happy to see their people. Bolt immediately attacked a cat and announced his presence on the place by peeing on every tree and blade of grass with 100 yards. Boo, who had a hernia repair on top of it all, was a little less than rambunctious. She's still hobbling around today and the vet said she'll take awhile longer to heal. I did, however, lure her out of her barrel with a slice of pepperoni pizza yesterday, so I have no doubt she'll be back to normal in no time, terrorizing cats and sitting on her brother's head to keep us from possibly loving him more than her. Note to self: Call vet about puppy Prozac.

Kady, Bolt, Abby, Sam and Boo

November 2011

A Very Scary Valentine

Okay, so we just survived yet another Valentine's Day once again. In the past, I have spent the few weeks prior to this not-so-momentous day in a funk of epic proportions, grumbling about love and romance and resisting the urge to shoot arrows (and not the cute kind that cherubims are often depicted as carrying around to lob at big pink puffy hearts, but real live broadhead, deer killing arrows) at real hearts (the organs, not the symbol), but for some reason this year I didn't. 

This year I was almost nice. Maybe even radiated with happy. It was kind of disgusting. 

I have never, ever, EVER liked Valentine's Day. As a kid, it was merely another day to have a school party and eat more chocolate and junk, as evidenced by my prepubescent pictures in which I was a bit on the chunky side. I loved me some cupcakes back then. Oh, who am I kidding, I love me some cupcakes now. As evidenced by my adult pictures.

I guess I was a cynic early on. As a child it never excited me to spend Valentine's Day getting little slips of paper from kids who taunted me and called me names on the school bus and on the playground, yet their pre-printed messages of love insisted they'd "Choo-choo-choooooose me" and that they'd "Love me owl-ways." Sorry, buddy. I ain't buyin' what you're sellin'. Your momma made you write that out and I know that to be the truth because I was forced by my momma to write one out to you, too, big guy. As I got older and infinitely more boy crazy, yet still painfully dorky, I only ended up with my hopes dashed catastrophically every stinkin' year. I had a propensity to crush on guys so far out of my league there was no realistic hope, even though my heart told me we would overcome all odds. It didn't matter to my silly 13-year-old heart that it would have been highly illegal for my 7th grade math teacher, Mr. Spencer, to leave his young wife, steal me away in the middle of the night so we could run away together and be magically, mystically in love and probably even French kiss. I just got my hopes dashed when he didn't steal me away -- and gave me a C on the test we'd taken just days before.

As a 16 year old, having a boyfriend was going to for sure make things better, I just knew it. Having a solid, steady boyfriend to regularly hold hands with and kiss and whisper mushy, gushy things in my ear, write me notes, spend hours and hours with on the phone and write our names together over and over on every piece of paper I came in contact with was going to make Valentine's Day a total turnaround for me. The groundwork was laid already. He knew my likes, dislikes, phobias and dreams. He knew what my ideal Valentine's Day would be (well, minus the statutory rape charges involved in that 7th grade math teacher fantasy) and he was surely going to deliver. I was a bit on the emo side back then, wearing lots of black and writing dark poetry even on my happiest of days. I didn't want anything traditional. I wanted weird and odd and possibly a little macabre. I envisioned black roses and maybe a new black eyeliner pencil.

He gave me a box of chocolates. And a red rose.

I hate roses. And boxed chocolates were offensive to my desire to buck the norm. The embodied everything I abhorred about romance and love and ugh...Valentine's Day.

I cried that year, too. Probably harder than I had in any previous year.

From then on I loudly and defiantly declared that soul mates didn't exist, true love was a fantasy and romance was a farce. Oh, we didn't break up and I still really liked him -- I just hardened myself to any more heart ache via a trumped-up commercialized "holiday" that was no more a holiday than I was a bikini model.

And then I got married. Our first Valentine's Day we were broke. As in, we had no money. We were madly in love, young and stupid, only recently employed after an unexpected lay-off and very new to the whole marriage thing. We had been married all of 45 days on our first Valentine's Day. That morning I woke him up as usual at 4am, fixed his lunch, kissed his adorable little face and sent him on his way. I spent the day cleaning house and doing laundry and basking in the glow of our new love. I knew that there would be no flowers or chocolates or jewelry and I was okay with that. I set about making as romantic a dinner as I could with a pound of ground beef, commodity cheese and a loaf of Wonder bought off the bargain rack at the bread store. 

He hopped out of his truck that evening, lunch bucket in hand, a smile on his face. He must've really missed me! I opened the back door for him and he kissed me like he meant it. Then he said, "Here, baby. I got you something!" as he fumbled around with his lunch bucket. He excitedly pulled out a jewelry box and I immediately began with the protests. "But we don't have any money!" I exclaimed and he said, "You're right! We really don't -- I spent my whole check on this for you because I want you to be my Valentine." He was barely 30 years old, looked barely 20, and he was so excited for me to open that little felted box. Standing there in the entryway of our living room, I opened up the most beautiful heart necklace ever made. I immediately began bawling like a baby.

The tears were partially because he had just announced that he had spent every penny of our money for that week on a necklace for me and I had no idea how we were going to pay the bills due that week. But the tears were mainly because he had done that for me. Me! The one he loved. The one he had abandoned a life of confirmed bachelor-hood for. The one he had given up Crest toothpaste for when I told him I would never brush my teeth with that nasty blue stuff and would only use Colgate. The one he stayed up late playing Super Mario Brothers with until 4am on more than one occasion even though the game made him cuss and throw the controller. The one he had said "I do" to a month and a half before.

I still have that necklace and the girls wear it every now and then on special occasions. I'm not much of a necklace wearer these days. I got out of the habit when our little family of two began growing to three, then four, then -- surprise! -- five. I got tired of being choked by curious little fingers wrapped in gold chain. Since that first Valentine's Day back in 1993 he has given me a  few more pieces of jewelry, three amazing kids and a few minivans. He bought me a house, has become a better husband (I'd like to think I'm a better wife), an incredible daddy and a true man of God. He puts up with my moodiness, my obsessive-compulsive need to alphabetize the canned goods in our pantry, he taught me how to make gravy (because my first attempts were pretty bad) and lets me put my cold feet on his legs even though it makes him jump at first. We've weathered great loss, experienced great joy, found our version of comfortable romance, passion and enduring love, nearly called it quits and found our way back.

This year, as in many many years past, there weren't any mushy gushy cards or boxes of chocolates exchanged at Diva Ranch. I made a pan of Slutty Brownies, we kind of snacked around for dinner and spent the evening huddled on the couch watching recorded episodes of "American Horror Story." We don't get too excited over this not-holiday around our place and I don't see that changing. We'll forego a romantic comedy any day for a good old fashioned ghost story. Because that's just how we are. We aren't fancy and we like it like that. While Abby and Sam each have a “love interest” (and Abby's gainfully employed boyfriend gave her some mushy gushy roses and a giant stuffed dog I'm pretty sure we'll have to claim on our taxes next year because it's as tall as a preschooler and she takes it everywhere with her), we're trying really hard to keep our kids from buying into ridiculous notions of store-bought romance by just being together, doing what we like and scaring the poop out of ourselves while eating some of the most amazing brownies on the planet.  

Some may call that boring. Some may call us jaded. Some may call it weird.

We just call it love.

Sleep Credit

Several years ago my mom sent my sister and me to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. While it's normally attended by married couples who want to drastically change the way they utilize money in their household, thus changing their lives, neither of our husbands were up to the challenge at the time, so we two sisters went as a couple. I was doubtful I could impact our finances, seeing as how he wasn't attending the life-changing course with me and frankly, wasn't a supportive spouse in much of anything at that time, (I don't think he minds me saying that, either - he is fully aware of what a jackwagon he used to be.) but I went and I went hopefully.

It's a nine week course. By week four I had paid such close attention to what Dave had to say about the horrible decisions we had made and were making at the time that I had managed to spark a fire under Paul and we elminated $11,000 in debt by week five. We were selling things right and left - two boats (one big, one small, neither used anymore), furniture, knick knacks, clothes, several large pieces of junk and the kids were completely convinced they were next. We got all up in the "envelope system" and I proudly cut up five credit cards in front of the class during week five. My sister cut up 11.

After one serious mess-up two years later where I got a credit card unbeknownst to my husband and quickly ran up a large chunk of totally unacceptable debt, I 'fessed up to Paul, asked for forgiveness and he forgave. Whew. I got a part-time job to start paying off my mistake and within that year we were once again sans credit cards. The following winter we paid off my van and officially became debt-free.

DEBT. FREE. As in NO DEBT.

I felt good. I mean good. So good that the thought of a van payment now makes me nauseous. Had we been paying ourselves first (as Dave Ramsey advises) these past few years, buying a new van this spring wouldn't be a nauseating event and we'd be able to throw some cash around at the dealership and walk out with a new-to-us van and still no debt. However, we haven't exactly been paying ourselves. Heck, we've had a hard enough time paying the electric bill and phone bill this past year, so yeah, we just slacked. We will likely have a van payment in the next month or two, much to my chagrin.

I'm a born and raised Baptist. Tithing could easily be in any infant Baptist's early vocabulary, - right after "mama" and "dada" comes "tithe". It's usually preached from the pulpit and preached HARD. The Bible tells us to give 10%. Most people limit that to money, but I've since learned we're also required to give 10% of our time and talents as well. Yes, really. Not only should we give that 10% right off the top of the ol' paycheck, we should also be giving 2.4 hours of a 24 hour day to God. Along with 10% of our talents. Most of us don't. We may get the money thing down and forget the time and talents altogether. Or maybe it's easier for you to volunteer and pitch in rather than write that check. Regardless of where you fall, none of us do it like we should. I get the money one down well and time gets about half-billing. Talents? I fail.

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NOTE: I am not preaching nor judging, let me just say that outright, right here and now. This is my blog and I'm saying it how I feel. I'm not belittling or chiding, rebuking or scolding anyone. Hey, after my prolonged absences, you might wanna take what you're getting. :) I am merely writing today what God has put on my heart to write. Read it, maybe ponder it and either digest or spit out. Your choice.
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Before we moved out here to Diva Ranch we bought a new bedroom suite. Bed, dresser, chest, nightstands and new mattress/box springs combo. We crammed all that gigantic furniture into our itty bitty bedroom in our 800 square foot house in town and we were happy. We moved out here to a bigger house where our bedroom furniture fit better and we were happy. Then I got pregnant. We both gained weight. We both started getting older. Suddenly our mattress seemed to have one goal in mind - to kill us in our sleep by way of our spines. One quick mention of the demon mattress and a friend offered to give us one that was just sitting in storage. We took it with many thanks and it was a fine mattress. It's still a fine mattress. It's a Serta and is in great shape, but it is just not the mattress for us. Have I mentioned we're old and fat?

We started researching mattresses and were intrigued by the Sleep Number beds, but seeing as how we are snugglers and sleep side-by-side, touching, all night long, one of us would be sleeping on that hump in the middle and we aren't anxious to give up the snuggling, even for a good night's sleep. And, just a hunch here, but I'm pretty sure I would end up being the one on the demilitarized zone hump while Paul snoozed away in his sleep number-y paradise. And I might end up bitter. And grumpy. And no one wants me any grumpier than I already am.

So then we looked into the Tempur Pedic beds, but started hearing that they sleep hot and seeing as how I'm on that slippery slope to menopause and hot flashes and night sweats are some of my closest companions these days, I wasn't anxious to sleep on a bed I knew was going to raise my body temp by 452*. We decided to try a memory foam topper, around 4" deep, to see if we liked the foam. We figured even if we had to spend $100 or so, it was better than dropping a few thousand then discovering I was at a dangerously high risk of nocturnal sponataneous combustion. None of the Walmarts we visited had Queen sized toppers and on a whim we wheeled into the furniture store next to Walmart that had a gigantic banner plastered to the outside of the buildling advertising their Tempur Pedics. The salesperson immediately told us the horrors of foam toppers (and that they didn't carry them anyway, which he said with obvious disdain and disgust) and convinced us to try a full memory foam mattress. Lying on those Serta memory foam mattresses was just a gateway rest that led straight to the real Tempur Pedic mattresses. We should have known.

We laid on all three Tempur Pedics and the middle-of-the-road in firmness and price was the one we loved. He quoted us a price and offered us interest-free financing through 2013. We conferred and decided to finance it and pay it off with our income tax return. That wasn't necessarily a Dave Ramsey-esque line of thinking, but it worked in our minds. The salesman said he could give us a yes or no on financing in 7 minutes, so we filled out the necessary forms and then we waited. I prayed while we waited. I prayed that if this was something we really weren't supposed to do - go into debt, albeit temporarily - that it wouldn't go through.

And sure enough, we were denied. Paul was embarrassed. Especially after the salesman dismissed us rather rudely. Apparently, credit approval is how he bases the worthiness of humankind. I wasn't upset. I was disappointed, because that bed felt sooooooo good, but I also knew that God had a plan. Paul fumed all the way home from Joplin. He fussed over our dismissal and wondered at the reason we were denied. The next day I checked our credit. I couldn't get our score without paying, but I did check our credit and saw all the good and bad and ugly on the report. The credit cards were mostly good. Discover Card was bad. Bad bad bad bad BAD. But I knew that. Discover did some bad things for us and we to them. It got ugly. All of the vehicle loan accounts were reported good with no delinquencies.

When the letter came in the mail telling us why we were denied, we also got our credit score (for FREE  - so there's how to avoid that $14.95 fee to get it online. Just apply for credit and get denied!) and it's really pretty good. So why were we denied credit on that heavenly mattress?

Because we have had no recent accounts opened or closed.

Yessssssss. Success! We have successfully lived debt-free long enough to NOT HAVE ENOUGH CREDIT! We've had people tell us we're shooting ourselves in the foot by not having credit because then what if we need credit and can't get it? Well, we're counting on God to take care of us there. And we know He will. So there are no worries on our part regarding our credit - or lack thereof. Dave Ramsey has a credit score of zero. Ours will start going down and keep at it, this we know. We obeyed when God told us to live debt-free and now we are tithing and being blessed, we are saving up for the things we want and paying cash for them rather than using credit, we are trying very hard to truly have financial peace.

And a mere week after the denial letter came in the mail we got a phone call from a friend asking us if we'd like a memory foam mattress. For free. It's not a Tempur Pedic, but it's delightful and will hold us over until the time comes we have the cash to wheel and deal ourselves into a debt-free Tempur Pedic. And then? Man, are we gonna sleep easy.

Good-bye and .... Hello Again

I've been blogging since June 4, 2004, a fact I find hard to believe at times. I can't believe I've been blogging seven-and-a-half years. I look back at those early posts and I cringe. I was young and my kids were so little! My marriage was shaky at best and life was so much different that it is now. Now I'll soon be celebrating the last birthday of my 30's. I have two teenagers, my youngest is in her next-to-the-last year of elementary and my marriage is stronger than it has ever been.

My mom used to shake her head at the blog. She worried. Her early-morning television viewing showcased too many stories of women who had met someone on the internet and were then found months later, chopped into pieces and stuffed into 55-gallon drums, buried in some crazy's backyard. I guess she thought I had a bigger audience than I really did. Back in the beginning I shared a lot of personal information that, looking back, I should not have. I had a foul mouth and it spilled over into my writing. I trash-talked my husband and griped about everything. I wasn't a very positive person.

Fortunately, around 2008 I experienced a change in my life. While God has been a part of my life since birth and I have been a born-again Christian since I was seven, I certainly didn't act like He was a part of anything I did. In 2008 I rededicated my life and began an earnest attempt at living better, living right and doing everything for the glory of God. I undertook the painstaking process of removing all the f-bombs, s-words and other un-pretty words from the blog so as not to be a stumbling block to my children, the people who read my blog and mainly because I felt like I should.

A few years ago MySpace came on the scene and I got one. I spent a stupid amount of time changing my background, answering polls and searching for people I went to high school with. Then I heard about this Facebook thing and I wasn't intrigued in the least. I heard it was pretty utilitarian and you couldn't customize your page like you could with MySpace. For some reason, I liked the bling that went with having a page of "social media".  Then one day I caved and decided to check out Facebook.

That's when my blogging went to pot.

It's a time suck. It's a distraction in the worst way. It's addicting. And I'm finding....it's rarely used for good. I can sit here and say with a red face that I have literally wasted entire days doing nothing more than hanging around on Facebook. My kids were not paid attention to, my husband was ignored, my house was a wreck, we ate a lot of cereal for dinner and I became an observer to all of my 300+ friends' lives. For what?

Seriously. For what?

I have "friends" on my list who have literally made eye contact with me in Walmart and not spoken to me, turned the other way like I was invisible. It happened to me twice in one shopping trip. I have "friends" on my facebook who have started rumors about me. There are "friends" on Facebook who have trashed their "friends" while all their "friends" played judge and jury. Marriages have been ruined because of Zuckerberg's brain child. Lifelong friendships have been tossed aside because a "friend" smarted off on someone's wall and someone else got involved, whether invited or not. Lies are spread. Information is misconstrued. Jobs have literally been lost because of Facebook behavior. Facebook posts hold up in court, people. They hold up and they hold up bigtime.

We have become a society of passive-aggressive social idiots. We are losing the ability to communicate with one another face-to-face. The telephone took some of it away years ago. Email took more. Facebook is destroying it completely.

I've been threatening since Spring that I was going to delete my Facebook page. I decided to leave it until after my class reunion because, honestly, it was incredibly helpful in finding and communicating with classmates and putting together the reunion was made much easier. Then the reunion came and went and I kept my page. I have become increasingly more and more convicted about my use of Facebook lately and it weighs very heavily on me. I find myself more and more these days picking up my phone and calling people, even when Facebooking them would be easier. I also find myself loathing text messaging more and more every day, too.

We hide behind our devices. We avoid person-to-person contact. It's easier to be mean while typing than it is when we're standing in front of a person. We get involved in arguments and situations we should stay out of - and we would stay out of if we weren't sticking our noses in everyone's Facebook page.

I am a youth leader in my church. The kids in our youth group, save four, have Facebook pages. Sure, it's very easy to communicate with them through the site, but it's not worth it. I have their phone numbers. I know where they live. I don't need Facebook.

So I still have my account active for right now. I set up a page for our church awhile back and post things to it, but I'm thinking the pastor is internet-savvy enough he can do those updates as needed. The clock is ticking and soon.... I will be Facebook-free.

And I will not miss it.

I have, however, missed my blog. I've missed writing in general. I've missed out on a lot. I might miss out on some information, I might miss out on some news, but I will also miss out on the drama. That seems incredibly refreshing at this point.

I will miss my Farmville, though. I'll miss my imaginary cows and my imaginary crops and my imaginary pink tractor, but seriously? I have three kids and a husband who have been missing me more. They are real. They are mine. They are important. It's time to give up the thing keeping me from being as real as I need to be.

And who needs an imaginary farm when you have this?

And here it is....November

Back in May we left the church we had been attending for just over a year. We made a smooth transition to another church with nary a Sunday off. The church we attend now is the first church I ever attended as a toddler. It's a small country church and always has been small, even at its biggest. Some years have been better, some not so great, but the doors of the church never closed - even when just over a year ago, there were 10 people attending and five of those were the pastor and his family. Now we average 80-something in Sunday School and Wednesday night Bible study sees 65-70 people as a general rule.

I have always had a heart for youth and at every other church we have attended, was never used in that capacity (or any capacity for that matter, but I'm not bitter). I began to doubt the desire I felt God had put in me, began to think I had misinterpreted what I felt so deeply in my soul. All five of us were discouraged that we had left yet another church and felt like we were wandering aimlessly.

Enter Hudson Creek Baptist Church.

We started attending there mid-May and the third week of June I was packed up and headed for my first week of camp as a sponsor (that week was Children's Camp, grades 4-6). By the second week (Youth Camp, grades 7-12), the pastor was already talking about Paul and I taking over the youth group some time in the future. About three weeks after that, while standing in the LifeWay store with the pastor and his wife, waiting to pay for our purchases, the pastor looked at Paul and I and said, "Oh and by the way, you're going to start teaching the Youth Sunday School class, right?" It really wasn't a question, more of a statement, and Brother Jerry said it so assumingly that either the statement itself or the look on my face amused the clerk so much he laughed out loud.

And so it was decided - Paul and I had officially become the Youth leaders.

When the new church year started, we split the Youth kids out of the Older Children Sunday School class and moved into our teeny tiny room just off the church office with bright red (hideous) carpet, two cinder block and two paneled walls and an abandoned church pew from the old sanctuary. We had about 11 kids that first Sunday. We average about six now. But Wednesday and Sunday nights our Youth come crawling out the woodwork to see what crazy stuff we've cooked up for them to do, witness or be subjected to. We've since painted the room so it's less dismal and have added some posters, a bulletin board and a white board which is the focal point of the room and usually covered in grafitti, names, hearts, stars and declarations of God's love, written by these kids who can smell a dry erase marker a mile away and are inexplicably drawn to them.

We average 11 kids on Wednesday nights and have had as many as 17. We've thrown rubber ducks at each other in a game meant to illustrate focus. We've snorted at each other in an attempt to make our peers laugh. We've played some very violent games of Red Rover and Cat & Mouse tag. We've wandered a corn maze with 23 kids. Paul and I spent an hour one night paintstakingly emptying a can of Sprite of its contents without breaking the seal on the pop tab then refilling the can with Coke as an illustration on judging things and people from the outside. I also sucked the insides out of a Twinkie and refilled it with ketchup and mayonnaise for the same illustration. We discovered that, unlike my youth group when I was a teen, this particular group of teens does not enjoy a rousing game of "King Frog", which leaves us scratching our head and wondering WHY? because, dudes, that game rocks. We've played many a "Minute to Win It" game. We've stayed up all night at a lock-in and plan on doing it again on New Year's Eve. We've answered texts asking for prayer after Midnight. We've listened to kids cry, gripe, whine, complain and argue. We've had our hearts broken by their disrespectfulness. We've laughed until our stomachs hurt. We've taught the unfailing, inerrant Word of God and learned many things in the process. We've opened our home to any number of them on any given weekend. We've been invited into their lives, something we've learned is an act of highest honor to a teen. We've taken the "Sword Drills" of old and turned them into Bible Trivia Smack Challenge: Extreme Church Edition. We've watched more football games this year than we have in all of our years of marriage because with a couple football players, three band members, a couple of cheerleaders and some on the dance team, we show up to see "our" kids do their thing. We've gone the cafeteria to eat lunch with them a few times, reliving our days of cafeteria corn dogs, cold tater tots and cartons of milk. We've been frustrated beyond measure, cried many tears, laughed at their antics, gotten more hugs and "thank you's" than we ever dreamed and even though yes, we have had times of doubt still that maybe we'd misinterpreted the calling, God quickly shows us that we are right where we are supposed to be.

It's exhausting. It's time-consuming. It's frustrating. It's difficult. It's fun. It's hilarious. It's rewarding. It's .....

It's one of the best things God has ever allowed us to do.

So when I break the cardinal rule of blogging and give excuse for my lack of posting and frequent absences, just know I think of you often, Constant Reader, and know that you're still out there somewhere. Hopefully your patience hasn't worn too thin. I am doing my best to find a balance for everything in my life right now - Christian, wife, mother, Youth Leader, Independent Sales Consultant for Thirty-One, babysitter extraordinaire and anything else my kids and husband throw my way. We're gearing up for our display at the Park of Lights (after a year off). We're trying to schedule our many family holiday gatherings and dinners. And somewhere in there I have to sleep. Some nights that works better than others.

I write a lot of blog posts in my head as I'm shuffling laundry from one machine to the other, while I'm scrubbing the soap scum from the shower walls and driving from one end of the county to the other, but when I finally get a moment to sit down....writing them with my actual fingers slips away as does my consciousness.....

.....but I'm working on it.

Mobile Blogging

Really, this is just a test post from my iPod because I got the Blogger app and want to see if it works.

This.....yes, *this* is how exciting my life really is

Be jealous.