Category: humor

humor

The Fear of Summer: Romancing the Routine

mom, I spy your routine!

Summer evokes a mild case of panic in me.

Oh, sure, there’s the good stuff. Long, sunny days. Outdoor swimming pools. Vacation plans. Quality time with the kiddo. But if I learned anything in all my years of schooling, it’s that summer is synonymous with the loss of routine.

I was one of those strange children who didn’t like weekends. More at home with the rhythm and clear expectations of the classroom, I skidded toward summer break on a downward spiral. And I know I’m not alone.

We Type As like our routines. Changes in THE PLAN are exciting, but they can be frightening at the same time.

Maybe you’re not Type A. But maybe you’re a parent. Maybe—I’m guessing here, you and your children thrive on some semblance of structure.

Come on, moms and dads. Back me up on this. Doesn’t the thought of filling all those unstructured hours of your child’s summer vacation strike a wee bit o’ fear in even the bravest of super parent hearts?

Ridiculous, I know. Yet the fear of summer lingers. It nabbed me yesterday morning in yoga class. I like my yoga instructors Grace and Boomer. I’m comfortable in this routine, this respite from the stress of relocation, motherhood, and what to cook for dinner. I don’t want to give it up.

But how will I continue to do yoga when my son’s out of school for the summer? What will I do with him during class? Turn him loose to run wild through the YMCA? Sit him in front of the Wii for an hour? What if he wanders out to the pool alone? What if (insert catastrophe)?

runs with shovel

And how will I blog this summer? When will there be time? Who will read it? What about the other projects I want to pursue? What if I miss all the opportunities? What if I wake up in September and they’re ALL GONE? What if the world ends tomorrow? What if (insert catastrophe)?

The only way to roll with the changes is one step at a time. One season at a time. That’s why they usually don’t happen all at once. Thank You, Lord.

I’ll take a cue from yoga. Follow my breath. Put my shoulders back and down. Let myself feel grounded. Take a moment to be thankful for another day.

Then I’ll put on my sunscreen and forward march into summer.

The day is Yours, and Yours also the night;
You established the sun and moon.
It was You who set all the boundaries of the earth;
You made both summer and winter. Psalm 74:16-17 NIV

Dear Routine,
Though we’ve got to say good-bye for the summer, darling, I promise you this: I’ll send you all my love every day in a letter Sealed with a Kiss.

How do you roll with the changes in your routine?

Posted on by Aimee 17

How I Almost Became a Troll

i am not a troll

I didn’t know what a troll was until one came to my site.

His strong negative reaction to a post was a dead give away. He implied I should be arrested. Wonderful.

To me, trolls were strange, little garden statues. Wait, that’s gnomes. Told you I didn’t know what they were.

Let’s try that again.

To me, Trolls was a bar in the basement of a building across the parking lot from my sorority house in college. Smelled like beer. Had foosball tables and booths. Became the second living room of the sisterhood. The one where alcohol and boys were allowed.

That was Trolls, until Mr. Meanie came a calling on my blog. I was crushed. I feared he would key Cranberry Mary. Stick pins in a voodoo doll of me. Or worse.

My husband, the calming force in our home, told me it would be okay. The comment wasn’t that bad.

You know, he’s right. I’m small change on the blogosphere. I have it easy. Upon further research, I discovered there are entire sites devoted to dissing other people’s sites. Meanies, every one.

i am not a troll

Who has time for this? I can barely keep the wheels on my own blog, much less create another one to ridicule, criticize, or spew at people.

Then last week, a twist. I’d been following this Blogger who shall remain nameless. That’s Blogger with a capital B.

Blogger enjoys an enormous following. I like Blogger, but Blogger writes things with which I disagree about topics that matter to me.

I first read Blogger when a friend sent me a link a few weeks ago. In response, I submitted my comment of respectful disagreement.

The next week, I visited Blogger’s site to be rankled by another post. I submitted my comment of respectful disagreement.

Then last week, I read a post by Blogger on a popular website. Blogger was once again wrong (surprise). I submitted my comment of respectful disagreement.

This time something went horribly awry. The captcha bit me. The queue malfunctioned. My comment appeared multiple times. Like a broken record. On a major site. In response to Blogger with a capital B.

Immediately, I contacted the site to correct the mistake. Prayed no one noticed the fumble from small change on the blogosphere.

That’s when it hit me. Each time I read Blogger’s work, I get upset enough to lodge a complaint. No matter how respectful I am, my response is still negative.

i am not a troll

This may be Blogger’s modus operandi. Stir the pot. Salt the wounds. Elicit a response. Spike the stats. Who knows? Doesn’t let me off the hook. I was becoming a troll.

If you come here to my itty bitty blog, and what you read repeatedly upsets you, gets your panties in a wad, sends your blood pressure soaring—well, against all blogging wisdom about building an audience, I would probably suggest you not come back.

Lively discussion in the comments is welcome. But I bristle at my blog being a source of upset for readers. Challenge, maybe. Upset, not so much.

Don’t know if I’ll continue to read Blogger. Sure Blogger has impressive stats. But Blogger brings out the troll in me. That’s not acceptable. Trolls in my life will best remain a memory of a bar in the basement of a building across the parking lot from my sorority house in college.

If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to Him, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness. 1 John 1:8-9 NLT

Choke me in the shallow water before I get too deep. What I Am by Edie Brickell & New Bohemians.

Posted on by Aimee 25

The Songs of Our Discontent

on air at The Ryman, Nashville, TN

So I’m minding my own business, browsing in my favorite home furnishings store, when it comes on the sound system. The saddest song ever recorded.

I’m not going to link to it because it’s so sad. I might not even tell you what it is.

Cat’s in the Cradle by Harry Chapin. Circa 1974.

decor

My sugar plum thoughts of needlepoint pillows and coffee table tchotchkes came to a sudden halt. My mind flooded with the festering waves of parental guilt.

What if my child grows up and never comes to see me because he has to go shopping instead?

“Yes, I’m gonna be like you, Mom. You know I’m gonna be like you.”

I sprinted past the dinette sets. Wriggled around étagères. Leaped over ottomans. Until I landed in living rooms where my son sat on a fine leather sofa with my husband, vanquishing a game of Penguin Wings.

Yes, Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon were in the store with me. And no, we still don’t have a cat.

“Mommy loves you!” I said with watery eyes.

“I have 145 penguin coins,” said my son and shooed me away from the iPhone.

“Why are they playing this song?” I said to my husband.

“What song?” he said.

And then there’s Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg. Oh, Dan, Dan, Dan.

It runs a close second for the saddest song ever recorded. Heard that one while ice skating recently. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Imagine kneeling and weeping on the cold, cold ice.

pac man fever

Did you know it was based on a true story? Fogelberg crooned the tearjerkers Leader of the Band and Run for the Roses with it on the same 1981 album entitled The Innocent Age. Good grief.

Fogelberg dominates the sad songs category for the 80s. Maybe for all time.

Sister Christian by Night Ranger in 1984 was sort of sad, and yet oddly comforting at the same time.

“You’ll be all right tonight.”

In 1989, Don Henley managed to sneak New York Minute in under the wire and into the decade on his album End of the Innocence. Nice bookend, Don.

November Rain by Guns N’ Roses didn’t come out until 1992. Axl Rose had been working on it since 1983. That explains a lot.

I won’t try to escape if those songs come on like I do with Chapin and Fogelberg. But I will cover my ears if the anguish fest of 100 Years by John Ondrasik (aka Five for Fighting) does. It’s from a 2003 album called The Battle for Everything.

Could someone please just wake me up before you go-go?

Sorrow is better than laughter,
for sadness has a refining influence on us. Ecclesiastes 7:2 NLT

because clearly I do not spend enough time with my child

Wham! was destined to make an appearance here sooner or later. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, Jitterbug. Gotta get in line for one of those t-shirts.

Have a great weekend, y’all!
Be a peach and leave a comment about a sad or not-so-sad song on your way out the door, will ya?

Thank you, William Shakespeare and John Steinbeck, for inspiring the title.

Posted on by Aimee 28

Many Happy Returns

Returns. The ability to take things back. Don’t know how I would shop otherwise.

Sperry cute

The crazy town that is Macy’s during a shoe sale is no place to make a decision. It’s grab and go. Four pairs snagged at the pre-sale this past Saturday should be on their way to me from Kansas City as you read this.

Will I keep all four? Probably not. I don’t need them all. But I couldn’t decide in the store.

They all fit. All comfortable. All on sale. All gorgeous. If I left them in Macy’s unspoken for, I risked losing them to another suitor.

Remember The Limited’s old return policy? No sale is ever final. Those were the days.

Now you have to watch and make sure you don’t overstay the time limit. Sixty days are standard for generous stores and online orders. Thirty at the trendsetters. And always, always, keep your receipts.

put me in, Coach

My method is three-pronged. Try on once I get home. Make a decision as soon as possible. Return upon deciding. Not a moment to lose. While there is still time for the credit to hit my charge card’s current billing cycle.

From the pages of their books and blogs, wardrobe consultants urge me to go in with a list. Shop the list. Buy only what’s on the list.

I had a list this past Saturday. Silver sandals, black sandals, other comfortable shoes.

Macy’s, however, did not get a copy of my list when they sent their buyers a-purchasing for spring 2012. Maybe it’s too early in the season for sandals. Maybe comfort is out this year.

Nothing was a perfect fit for my list. Nothing except for the four pairs that fell into the catch-all category other comfortable shoes.

Sam Edelman stripes done right

Buying and returning is not an efficient way to shop. Yet I think the wardrobe consultants would side against efficiency in this case.

They consistently tell me dressing stylishly and within your means takes an effort. It takes time. And it’s worth the investment.

As image consultant Brenda Kinsel writes in Brenda’s Bible: Escape Fashion Hell and Experience Heaven Every Time You Get Dressed, “You’re allowed to change your mind. It’s one of the redemptions you have in life… (p. 42)”

Redemption in shopping and returns.

Sold to the lady wearing the gorgeous shoes.

I have swept away your offenses like a cloud,
your sins like the morning mist.
Return to Me,
for I have redeemed you. Isaiah 44:22 NIV

Nu Shooz? I Can’t Wait.

6 days left

Enter Our Book Giveaway!

We’re giving away a copy of The Action Bible. To enter the drawing, simply comment on yesterday’s post Action Attraction by Tuesday, April 3rd.

Posted on by Aimee 7

Intuition Visits the Nail Salon

The first time I visited Chicago I was in my early 20s. A lovely, drunk Chicagoan took it upon herself to counsel me in a bar.

choose your color

“You’re cute,” she said. “But your nails just ruin it! You must get a manicure.”

Nothing like one woman’s criticism to motivate another woman to action.

I don’t get manicures every week. I get them when I can. When I must.

And I throw in a pedicure. Need it to exercise. How can I be expected to do yoga with unpolished toenails?

As you know, we recently relocated. Had some free time one Friday. So I’m thinking, I’m in Wichita, the largest city in Kansas. I’ll just pop in somewhere and have my nails done. No problem.

No appointment, no service was more like it.

“We’re booked until 4:30 p.m.,” said the first shop.

tools of the trade

“How about next week?” said the second.

“We don’t have time to do both,” said the third. “Manicure or pedicure?”

I have to choose? But I’ll be unbalanced. (Please hold all comments until the end.)

My free time was evaporating. Desperate, I tried one last shop.

“How long for a manicure-pedicure?”

The row of women paused their filling and filing to stare like I was from Mars.

“No, wait!” said one woman as I turned to leave. Must have been the owner.

“She can take you now.” The owner pointed across the room to a beautiful, young woman reading a magazine.

The young woman looked up and rolled her eyes. Red flag number one.

“No. No. No,” said the little voice inside me.

pedicure station

I sat down in the pedicure chair anyway. I needed to have my nails done.

As the young one began removing my old polish, I smiled and said, “I’m so glad you could take me today.”

She looked up and snarled. “You’re lucky you got in,” she said. “We usually only take appointments.”

The little voice inside me whipped around and wagged a finger. “No, you’re lucky I’m sitting in your chair, sister!”

In real life I was stunned silent. My feet literally in hot water. Better not to speak lest I lose a toe.

Forty-five minutes later, I had ravishing, plum toenails. They were shaped kind of weird, but they were all still there.

We moved to the manicurist station where the young one placed my hands in little dishes of water. Then she disappeared into the break room. For 10 minutes.

The skin on my fingers pruned and the little voice shrieked, “GET OUT!”

candy dish

Back in St. Louis at Ladue Nails I would have been done with all this in less than an hour. No coffee breaks allowed if you have a customer in the house.

Should I call her out of the break room? Pay the owner for the pedi and leave? Run screaming from the building?

Finally she reappeared, all smug and caffeinated.

“You know what?” I said. “I have to pick up my son from school. Let me pay for the pedicure and go.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she said.

“You’ll listen to me next time?” said the little voice as we drove away.

Count on it.

Discretion will protect you,
and understanding will guard you. Proverbs 2:11 NIV

Intuition by Jewel.

me and Nini

Epilogue

Despite this experience, there are many fabulous salons in Wichita. For example, I found a terrific manicurist at a friendly salon that boasts of the best candy dish in town.

Nini, at Nails and Spa on Central near 127th, advises me to be on the safe side and always make an appointment.

Posted on by Aimee 5

Vikings and Temple Dancers

A good week finds me at the Y two mornings for yoga and two for pilates.

I have four different instructors affectionately nicknamed to protect their identities: the Boomer, the Ballerina, the Brit, and Grace whom you may remember from Namaste.

buffalo as seen on Manchester

The Boomer is my intelligent, sandwich generation yoga instructor. In true Boomer fashion, she delivers a hefty dose of unsolicited, often humorous, expert advice every week.

Tells us how we should put our handbags in our grocery carts when shopping to preserve our shoulders. How we must strengthen our quads so we don’t end up in nursing homes, unable to take care of our own bathroom duties.

It’s a fun class. Really.

One morning, she said, “There are two kinds of people in the world: Vikings and temple dancers.”

We giggled. “Vikings are the people we hear above us in the weight room grunting and dropping dumbbells on the floor,” she said. “They like the taste of adrenaline. They want to lift, sweat, and pump iron.”

“Then there are those of us who are temple dancers,” she said. “We like to bend, stretch, and feel the gentle flood of endorphins.”

“It would be good for the Vikings to dance and the temple dancers to lift weights,” she said. “But we have our preferences. We start with our strengths.”

what a feeling as seen at Sears

My Y-appointed trainer wants me to go to the Body Blitz class. Add the Muscle Pump hour. Do something called CORE in all caps.

Says it will help me “burn” faster. Speed up my metabolism. Thinks yoga is all cardio and no resistance. I’m avoiding her for the time being.

I pine for chiseled arms like Linda Hamilton’s in Terminator, so I may add weights. Vanity, oh vanity. But my metabolism is fast enough already.

And there’s a lot of resistance in yoga and pilates. It’s nuanced. You push against your own body rather than a free weight or machine.

It’s like a dance with yourself. A temple dance of bending, stretching, and wonderful, glorious endorphins.

You did it: You changed wild lament
into whirling dance;
You ripped off my black mourning band
and decked me with wildflowers.
I’m about to burst with song;
I can’t keep quiet about You.
God, my God,
I can’t thank you enough. Psalm 30:11-12 The Message

Dancing with Myself by Nouvelle Vague. If you’re used to the Billy Idol version of this song, you’re in for a treat with Nouvelle Vague’s cover. Fantastique!

Disclaimer: In case it isn’t blatantly obvious to you, I’m not an authority in health or fitness. I write of my own experiences and impressions. Nothing here should be construed as health, fitness, or medical advice.

Posted on by Aimee 7

One Spicy Mamacita

on the border

Met some great people blogging. I may not know them in “real” life, but they’re amigos nonetheless.

For example, Amy of Using Our Words who kindly introduced me to Amy of trembling ovaries. Both wildly talented writers. And if you are named Amy, or some derivative like Aimee, we might let you be in our club.

Recently Amy of Using Our Words blogged about the travails of grocery shopping with children. The corporate groan arose from parents.

She invited us to share our stories in the comments. I got a little carried away (hard to believe, I know), and wrote nearly a post about my best-worst grocery store excursion with my son. It’s one of my favorite early motherhood memories.

Why pass up the opportunity to post a perfectly good story? That would be like throwing away a perfectly good cereal box when my son can make a turtle house out of it. In the spirit of reduce, reuse, recycle, I’ll share it again here with you.

shell game

The story takes place in the Mexican food aisle of our local grocery store where I looking for a certain brand of taco shells or something, which of course I couldn’t find. My son was still very little. I’m not even sure he could walk yet, but boy, could he move.

He didn’t want to sit in the cart. He didn’t want me to hold him like a normal baby. He wanted to climb up as high as he could on Mt. Momma and cliff jump off my head.

Where are those cotton-picking taco shells?! Must get out of this store…

My son’s gymnastics were commonplace to me. Without thinking, I hoisted him up over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I held him firmly by his leg as he dangled down my back cooing with glee.

Finally I could study the shelves of processed Tex-Mex in peace. Ah, there were the shells I needed.

Then I felt it. The pressure of the heavy gaze of judgment.

I turned to see two older women frozen stiff, staring at me in horror. How could I hold my dear, sweet child in such peril?

My blood pressure spiked like a jalapeño’s heat. Without skipping a beat, I pulled my little one back from the brink of imaginary disaster and thrust him out toward the gawkers.

“Would you like to hold him?” I said. “Didn’t think so.” We grabbed our shells and away we went.

Adiós, señoras. Things aren’t always as they appear.

chip on my shoulder

The LORD doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart. 1 Samuel 16:7 NLT

La Cucaracha. What did you expect?

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Posted on by Aimee 14

The Curse of the Pantyhose

dark sheer

After an epic struggle, guest blogger Kristen Anderson Short has reached a decision. A decision women across this country and around the world face.

Pantyhose. The worst invention ever for women. I only wear them out of necessity in really cold weather.

Recently, I noticed a run in my hose. Had a board meeting that day, so at lunch I ran out to get a new pair of name brands in my size.

Back at the office, I tugged and tugged to pull them on. No matter how hard I pulled, I could not get the blasted things all the way up. Had I grown to five feet six inches, the height of my dreams?

Unfortunately, no. The new pantyhose were too short.

light sheer

My board meeting loomed. I had no choice but to go with it. Women, you know how uncomfortable that is. Men, you can guess.

Made it through the day and met some friends after work. But even two glasses of wine didn’t make the pantyhose feel any better.

I was ready to trash them when I had a change of heart. Why not save them as my emergency backup pair?

A few days later when another pair of hose ran, I reached for the emergency backup pair. Sure, they were too short, but I could fix them.

I stepped on their feet. I pulled and pulled and PULLED, stretching them as far as I could. It was a miracle. They went on and up no problem!

patterned & footless

Then I moved, and they ran faster than Flo Jo in the 1988 Olympics.

I’m not talking about a tiny run. My hose looked like I’d been dragged down the street behind a Harley. Like I’d been out all night partying with the band and forgot to go home before work to change.

With no other pair of hose, no tights, and no clean pants, I made the walk of shame into my office. The minute I got the chance, I hightailed it to the store to buy yet another pair of pantyhose.

(This is the fourth pair in the story in case you’ve lost count.)

Gingerly, I pulled them on. They ran before I made it out of the bathroom.

Once bitten, twice shy, I converted to tights that day and never looked back.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away. Ecclesiastes 3:1 & 6 NIV

Clear the stage for the bad boy hair band that looks remarkably tame by today’s standards. Great White, Once Bitten, Twice Shy.

guest blogger Kristen Anderson Short

The lovely Kristen Anderson Short and I went to high school together.

Kristen works as a housing and foreclosure counselor for a local government agency.

A single mom of two teenagers, she enjoys reading, talking politics, and finding the humor in everyday life—sans hose.

Posted on by Aimee 17

Pamplemousse

Texas Rio Star

February is the height of the season for grapefruit. Not just any grapefruit. Texas Rio Star grapefruit.

Rio Star was the one food I craved when I was pregnant with my son. Bought and consumed bags of it.

My child was born with a taste for it. Our dear pediatrician said she’d never before seen a baby who preferred grapefruit of all things.

Round, sweet, softballs of juicy flesh. Fresh, pungent perfection sectioned with a snow showering of cane sugar.

Sunlit yellow skin and blushing spots on the outside. And inside, that sparkling, succulent, glistening, glorious pink. Like the pink of a Tropicana tea rose. Or a cluster of coral-tinged rubies.

Naturalist and author Reverend Griffith Hughes is attributed with first documenting grapefruit in 1750. Dubbed it “The Forbidden Fruit” of Barbados.

Dr. Richard Hensz of Texas A&M labored for years to produce the reddest grapefruit possible. Texas Star Ruby was released in 1970, the year I was born. Then in 1984, Texas Rio Red was released, trademarked Rio Star.

This forbidden fruit. This Rio Star. The French call it pamplemousse.

The word must roll off their tender lips like the names of royalty. Geneviève. Marguerite. Antoinette. Pamplemousse.

Behold the pamplemousse. Crowned winter gem.

Partake before its glittering reign ends for the year, gently ushered out by the promise of strawberries, peaches, blackberries, plums.

Does not wisdom call out?
Does not understanding raise her voice?
“My fruit is better than fine gold;
what I yield surpasses choice silver.” Proverbs 8:1 & 19 NIV

The stars at night are big and bright…

countertop constellation of Rio Stars

Disclaimer: I’m not being compensated to promote Rio Star. I write simply for the love of the grapefruit.

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Posted on by Aimee 8

Happy Silly Super Pop

Today a band of masked avengers from the Lollipop Guild has joined forces with everyday epistle to wish you a super Valentine’s Day.

Found this idea on Pinterest. Followed it back to Zakka Life for the how-to.

Not a crafter by choice, this was a simple, family project. And you have to admit these super heroes are super sweet.

My husband got creative with the masks.

So did my son.

One by one, we transformed the Tootsies into caped crusaders. Their metamorphosis from ordinary suckers to super heroes at last complete.

Faster than a Jolly Rancher. Stronger than a Hershey’s Kiss. Able to leap Sour Patch Kids in a single bound.

Look out, bad guys. These wonder pops are on point to turn frowns upside down.

Mission accomplished.

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.” Jeremiah 31:3 NIV

Sunrise by Norah Jones. Because it also makes me smile.

Meet Zakka Life

Zakka Life Jessica Okui creates original craft projects and tutorials every week on Zakka Life. She also shares about recipes, entertaining and tips.

Click on over to Zakka Life and check it out!

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Posted on by Aimee 10

Poolside with the MOB (Mothers of Boys)

pool ladder

My seven-year-old son loves the water. Swim club seemed like the perfect extracurricular activity.

It was all good until his lesson was over and it was time to change into dry clothes.

He doesn’t want to go into the women’s locker room. He refuses to change in the bleachers while I hold up a towel.

No. He insists on going into the men’s locker room. Alone.

As every ounce of Momma Bear in me protests, I let him go all by himself.

“I’ll wait for you here by the door,” I say. He disappears into the abyss.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Another pair of MOBs are standing nearby watching their sons’ swimming lessons. They look at me and nod.

“Mine doesn’t even have to change his clothes,” says the first. “He only has to put on his sweatpants over his swimsuit. And it still takes him a half an hour!”

“Well, mine came out telling me about all the friends he made in the locker room,”  said the other. “I told him we don’t make friends in the locker room. That was the end of that. Now he changes in the bleachers.”

Friends in the locker room? Oh, dear.

four feet deep

“Honey,” I crack open the door. “You okay in there?”

I wait. No answer. Dare I go in?

Then I hear it. The unmistakable sound of two dozen slippery sea lions smacking the pavement. The high school boys’ swim team has finished their laps, and they’re headed my way.

The rushing stream of soaking wet, teenage boys flows through the locker room door. Panic ensues.

I imagine shouting, “Cover yourselves! Mom on the floor! I’m coming in!”

The thought of seeing a bunch of naked teenage boys is as appealing to me at 41 as it was at 16. I stop short of my raid.

I pace around outside the locker room, scanning the club for a responsible adult male to help. Where are the instructors when I need them?

A clean-cut boy who looks to be about 15 emerges from the locker room wrapped in a towel. Boldly, I approach.

“Excuse me,” I say. He looks at me. Deer in headlights.

my cub

“My little boy’s in the locker room. Yeah, and he’s been in there a long time. Could you go in and check on him? I’d go in myself, but that might be awkward.”

“Okay,” he says.

Towel boy scampers into the locker room. I wait. And wait. And wait.

The door opens and out bounces my cub. Unaided. Unharmed. Happy as a clam. And barefoot.

Where, oh where, are his shoes?

Yep.

“Cover yourselves! Mom on the floor! I’m coming in!”

Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart.
The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away;
may the name of the LORD be praised. Job 1:21 NIV

Bruce Springsteen, Cover Me.

Enjoy your weekend, everybody.
See you here next week!

Posted on by Aimee 23

Supersonic

on the Kennedy

The state of North Carolina may have been the first to grant me a license, but I learned to drive in Chicago.

There you better get up and go or you’re going to be run over. They drive at breakneck speeds. Play chicken turning left at intersections. Dodge thousands of pedestrians and maniacal taxis.

Had to take it down a notch when we moved to St. Louis. Some folks there drive fast, only that’s not the real issue. The daredevil maneuver of drivers in the Lou is gunning it through red lights.

See yellow? In St. Louis, that means speed up. Like a bull rushing the matador in anticipation of red.

For the most part, Wichita drivers are safe drivers. They seem to take it easy. Five or ten miles below the speed limit easy.

A new friend I’ve made here is another big city transplant. Like me, she’s adjusting to the Wichita crawl. Her explanation for the slow driving is that it only takes 15 minutes to get anywhere in Wichita, so why hurry?

One morning I pulled out of the carpool line to see my friend’s SUV a few cars up on the road. The light turned green and we bolted through.

My Chicagoan stirred. “C’mon. You can take her!”

20 mph

Chrissie Hynde belted out Middle of the Road on Sirius XM 80s on 8. I knew my friend was listening to the same station in her starship. We built this city on rock and roll.

“Let’s see what you got,” I said under my breath. Me and Cranberry Mary versus her and Silver Fox.

We zoomed around the curve at Hawker Beechcraft. Ducked into the tunnel beside the airfield and whoosh! Out like rockets.

Cruised the four-lane drag down Central. Into the great, wide open. Cranberry and Silver, streaks across suburbia.

It all came to an end when I turned off north toward my house. “Until next time, Silver Fox,” I said as she disappeared into a cloud of cosmic dust.

starship

Two corporate wives. Multiple relocations. Baptized in the guerrilla warfare of city driving in concrete jungles. Set free to roam in slick SUVs on flat stretches of Kansas highway. Wind them up and watch them go.

Truth be told, we were probably clocking 45 in a 40 tops. With everyone else driving 30, we may as well been flying supersonic jets.

We weren’t behaving recklessly or irresponsibly. We were coming home from carpool for goodness sakes.

And we weren’t knowingly racing either. At least she wasn’t.

My days are swifter than a runner;
they flee away; they see no good. Job 9:25 ESV

Fasten your seat belts and coast on into the weekend with J.J. Fad and Supersonic. The S is for super and the U is for unique!

Posted on by Aimee 13