Category: humor

humor

Privacy Schmivacy

private property

“I have bad news for you,” said my pastor one Sunday morning from the pulpit. “In a hundred years, no one will remember us.”

I love this guy.

He’s also said things like the opposite of longing is not contentment, but apathy. And if your life feels unbalanced, identify the busy peripheral activity, shoot it in the leg, and allow it to go off and die by itself in the corner. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

As you’ve read here before, I only joined Facebook six months ago. This is hard for you to believe given how technologically savvy I am. Not.

Now that I’m participating, I’m quite taken by social media. Why then was I such a late adopter? One word: privacy.

What if someone from my past friends me? Or rejects me? What if they make fun of my pictures? What if they email me?

What if a serial killer selects me out of the billions of people on earth because of a Facebook comment about how much I miss Ronald Reagan? It could happen. That’s not an invitation, by the way.

violators will be prosecuted

Furthermore people do not need to be in my bidness, the trash talk pronunciation of business. They don’t need to be in that either.

As you’ve also read here before, I’m not sure how much longer I will live. Neither are you. I know. It’s sad. On the bright side, mortality adds perspective.

Privacy is a luxury. Think I’m wrong? Give birth or be hospitalized. Apply for life insurance. Be a victim of crime or get caught commiting one. Run for public office. Face financial ruin. Get divorced. Zip! There goes privacy right out the window with modesty, dignity and safety.

A Bible teacher of mine once told a story about President Theodore Roosevelt. The President took guests to one of his estates, let’s say Sagamore Hill on Long Island, New York. At night, they would walk with him under the dark, vast sky near the bay, silently taking in thousands of bright stars.

Then Roosevelt would say to them and to himself, “Feel insignificant yet?”

If you’re a private person, that’s fine. Continue to be private. It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.

But if you’ve got something to say, somewhere to go, something to do, there’s no time like the present. Mind you, don’t hurt yourself or anyone else intentionally. Do live fearlessly now. What do you have to lose?

no trespassing

Think I share too much? Think you know everything that goes on in my mind and in my household? This is the tip of the iceberg. There are stories I’ll never tell.

Besides, one hundred years from now none of us will be here to remember and no one who is here will care.

I hope to be in a better place with no more death or mourning or crying or pain. So for the here and now, I’ll live the bravest life I can.

Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account. Hebrews 4:13 NIV

So long status quo. I think I just let go. You make me want to be Brave…

Posted on by Aimee 4

Best Money Ever Wasted

image from amazon.com

Finally grew up and bought more life insurance. Our agent said we need enough to provide for survivors if something were to happen, but not enough to be motivating. Said he hoped it was the best money we ever wasted. Yeah, us too.

Not only did we have to expose our personal finances—our agent was gentle with us, we also had to share our medical histories with a physician turned health examiner.

Judd came to our house at 7:30 a.m., dressed in scrubs. With a name like Judd, it has to be good, I thought—harkening back to The Breakfast Club and Smucker’s commercials.

He took our vitals, completed our questionnaires, made small talk. Told us he was a physician but couldn’t practice the way he would like and still make a living. Had to see a gazillion patients to make money as a doctor. He liked to spend time with folks.

Had an easy way about him, Judd did. Somewhere between contact information and blood samples, he told us a little story.

Well, first he said he liked our dog. Who doesn’t? She’s the cutest dog in the world. Judd has Tibetan terriers, so small dogs appeal to him the way a good story appeals to us.

Tibetan terrier, image from wikipedia.org under creative commons license

Said one night he’d let the dogs out in the backyard for their final bathroom break around 10 p.m. Looked out to see one of them playing with something, flipping it up in the air.

Judd went out to investigate and found the dog had killed a possum. The poor, wretched animal was lying stiff with his eyes closed and tongue hanging out.

“Kind of felt sorry for it,” said Judd. “But it was UG-LY! I didn’t want to mess with it. Figured I’d call the dogs in and take care of it in the morning.”

But no. After he secured the dogs inside the house and started his ascent upstairs, his wife insisted he go back out and dispose of the dead animal.

“It was 10 p.m.!” he said. “I didn’t want to touch it, so I got a big black garbage bag to cover my hands. Then I went out.”

My husband, son and I sat captivated.

“I go to pick it up,” he said, “and all of a sudden it stands to its feet and walks away! I screamed so loud, I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police!”

image from wikipedia.org under creative commons license, attributed to Piccolo Namek

We howled. “Haven’t you ever heard of playing possum?” I said through laughing tears.

“Yes, but I didn’t know it would do that!” he said. “It looked dead!”

Judd finished his work and left our house. We upped our life insurance for a pretty penny. When the bill comes, I’ll think of Judd’s story. How the extra insurance covers us in case. How we hope to find we didn’t really need it after all.

He has saved me from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling.
And so I walk in the Lord’s presence
as I live here on earth! Psalm 116:8-9 NLT

I cannot with clear conscience mention The Breakfast Club without linking to Don’t You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds. Someone who calls himself “Sheo” set the song to scenes from the movie and put it on YouTube. The video quality of his finished product could be better, but hey, it’s The Breakfast Club for crying out loud.

Here’s a link to the movie trailer too, if you insist.

Posted on by Aimee 1

Ahab and the Unfairness Doctrine

The Waltons, image used with permission from sitcomsonline.com

Much as I hate to admit it, we don’t have daily family devotions. We don’t live on Walton Mountain either. Great if you do. I confess we don’t.

But we do love God and the Bible at our house. We’ve shared Bible stories with our son since he was itty-bitty.

Noah’s ark was his favorite for a long time. I told him how God brought two of every animal to the ark, a mommy and a daddy. He wasn’t satisfied.

“And the babies,” he said in his tiny three-year-old voice. “The mommies and the daddies and the babies.”

“Well, the Bible says a mommy and a daddy of each animal,” I said.

“And the babies,” he said. I dropped it, granting him liberty. No sense arguing with a three-year-old. Certainly there were babies when they departed the ark.

He’s six now. The Bible stories he likes are the bloody, gory, fighting ones.

We were running early one morning, so at breakfast I said, “I’ll read you a Bible story. You pick!”

“Read about when Queen Jezebel died,” he said.

I turned to 1 Kings 21, the story of Naboth’s vineyard. How King Ahab wanted it for a vegetable garden, but Naboth wouldn’t sell it to him. How King Ahab pouted and refused to eat.

My son’s favorite phrase these days is It’s not fair! No matter what it is, if he doesn’t like it, we hear the refrain It’s not fair! My husband and I are about to pull our hair out over It’s not fair! No sense arguing with a six-year-old.

So that morning I read the story my son had picked: His wife Jezebel came in and asked him, “Why are you so sullen? Why won’t you eat?”

As my child listened and munched cereal, I smelled a teachable moment.

In the whiniest Ahab voice I could muster, I said: “Because I said to Naboth the Jezreelite, ‘Sell me your vineyard: or if you prefer, I will give you another vineyard in its place.’ But he said, ‘I will not give you my vineyard.'”

Then—God, forgive me and grant me liberty, I said: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son’s head pop up from his bowl.

I continued reading: Jezebel his wife said, “Is this how you act as king over Israel? Get up and eat! Cheer up. I’ll get you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite.”

As it goes, Jezebel had Naboth killed, Ahab took his vineyard, and Elijah caught the king and queen red-handed. Elijah spelled out God’s judgment against them saying dogs would eat Jezebel’s body. Told you it was gory.

We turned to 2 Kings 9 where the prophesy came true: But when they went out to bury her, they found nothing except her skull, her feet and her hands.

My son was quiet.

“It came true,” I said, “because God does everything He says He will do.”

The Whetstines

Then I dropped it. No sense arguing with that either.

As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My Word that goes out from My mouth:
It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:10-11 NIV

Proudly presenting The Waltons Theme Song by Jerry Goldsmith. Loved that show. What a week and what a way to end it!

Posted on by Aimee

Death of a Television: Six Months Without the Tube

One afternoon our television quit working.

It was alive and chattering the day before. But that afternoon it wouldn’t click on. Wouldn’t speak to the satellite or dance with the DVD player. It had expired during the night, never to be heard from again.

remotes at rest

That TV was a monolithic dinosaur of technology and size. Ancient at only five years old. As rigor mortis set in, it became apparent a proper burial would not be easy.

Time of death occurred when my husband was out of town on business. The most interesting things happen when he’s not here. No way was I hauling that carcass to the dumpster alone.

So guess what happened when he came home? Ladies, you know the answer to this one. The TV remained exactly where it died for the next six months.

I have to explain. As you know, our house is for sale. The TV made for good staging. Prospective buyers didn’t know it was dead. They just thought it was off.

The perils of the housing market left us unsure we could afford another TV. Turns out, replacing it immediately was one of the best things we didn’t do.

The first few weeks were tough. Withdrawal and separation anxiety raged.

hobby in waiting

We pouted when we couldn’t watch Dinosaur Train or the new Ken Burns special or Top Chef. I agonized how I would occupy my child for the entire two hours after school and before dinner.

Gradually, incomprehensibly, we stopped missing it. I’d like to say we started some fantastic hobby like oil painting or guitar. Those are still on the list of things we’d like to do someday.

What we did when the TV died was simply live. We survived to tell the tale. It is possible to live in America today without a television.

Don’t get me wrong. I was raised on TV. It was always on in our house, a constant whirring of background noise. We do enjoy a good movie or show. And when we absolutely have to get something done child-free, our son’s favorite DVD comes in handy.

the new slim shady

So after six months of watching movies on a 13-inch laptop screen, we decided it was safe to replace the television.

The new TV is smaller and slimmer than its predecessor. Light enough to pick up and throw out the window if it misbehaves.

We watch our selected shows or movies and turn it off. We have mastered it, at least for now.

Don’t you know that when you offer yourselves to someone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one you obey—whether you are slaves to sin, which leads to death, or to obedience, which leads to righteousness? Romans 6:16 NIV

Enjoy the very first video played on MTV, Video Killed the Radio Star by The Buggles. Still campy and still a blast.

Posted on by Aimee 6

Perfectionist? Your Secret’s Safe with Me

mr. and mrs.

My man is a bit of a messy. Not filthy, rather blissfully cluttered and unaware.

I asked his parents prenuptually, as we searched for an empty spot to sit in his living room, if he’d always been like this.

“Yeah, pretty much,” said my future father-in-law. Then he looked at me, a glint in his eye, and said, “You know he’s not going to change.”

Without hesitation I said, “Neither am I.”

Smug in my neatness, I relayed this story to my husband all these years later.

“Oh, really?” he said. “That’s funny, because around that same time your brother pulled me aside and told me you’re a perfectionist.”

What? My brother knows I’m a perfectionist?

“Yeah, he said, ‘You know she’s going to want everything to be perfect.’ I think he wanted to prepare me and protect you,” said my husband.

A perfectionist? My brother told my fiancé I’m a perfectionist? How did he know? Who told him?

Perfectionism is akin to chicken pox. And messiness. Can’t be hidden really. That’s its main imperfection.

I like to think my perfectionistic tendancies have mellowed with the years.  Same way my husband likes to think his messiness has. I like to imagine my Myers-Briggs Super Feeler personality has no qualms with my Super Thinker husband. My J and his P can live together peacefully.

Seems truer though, our greatest strengths and weaknesses are two sides of the same coin.

The optimism that so attracts me to him drives me to the brink when it runs up against my realism. My emotion that so touches his heart often leaves him flailing alone in his logic.

How do we survive? Somehow we work it out. Temper one another. Genuinely like one another. Struggle and fight to love. Pick up day after day and maintain a disciplined loop, a quiet repeat of what works, a layering of commitment and time as circumstances spiral up and down.

Where I bring organization, he brings spontenaeity. Where I bring order, he brings fullness. Where I am prone to panic, he is even-keeled. Where he is tempted to inaction, I hold ground and press on.

Not sure how it works, messy and imperfect though it may be, but thank God by His grace it does.

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8 NIV

we three

You Take Me the Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson is one of the sweetest songs ever. Some people don’t like the video. Must be the clowns. Normally I don’t like clowns, but I do like this video. Reminds me of a certain married couple I know.

I’m also including a link to You Take Me the Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson with a little Vanilla Ice on the front end. What a hoot! Keep watching until Michaelson sings. Her voice is très bien. And you know we’re rather fond of Ice Ice Baby around here.

Pin It

Posted on by Aimee 12

Mayday

shiver me timbers

One would expect to fork out money in December. The holidays, gifts, the holidays, taxes, the holidays, winter coats. It adds up. But you too, May?

First there were new shoes for my son. He’s outgrown his old ones by nearly two sizes and can no longer wear Stride Rites. Now his shoes cost as much as mine. One of us is going to have to get a paying job.

Then came a dress for me. Bathing suits for the pool. T-shirts for the child like this one that reads Shiver Me Timbers. Too cute and, at less than $6 on clearance at crewcuts, too big a bargain to leave in the store.

Next came fees for summer camp, dues for the pool, Frontline for the dog—the vet tech reminded me flea extermination would cost more—graduation gifts, teacher gifts, hotel deposits for vacation.

Gas and groceries, groceries and gas. Astronomical.

Then our dryer stopped working. A few cool Ben Franklins to replace it. Now that is one fun shopping trip.

And to top it all off, another house refinance. Since we have so far been unable to sell the house, at least we can roll the debt into one abominable snowball.

I was beginning to feel ill. Our budget was tanking.

A reality check with friends on Facebook brought validation and consensus: May spending rivals that of December. The expenses come out of nowhere like mosquitoes, and we all feel it.

For those of you whose budgets are perfectly balanced year round, congratulations. Mine used to be. And it will be again, so help me, God.

The sun will come out tomorrow. Or the next day. Or someday soon, I hope. The monster recession will end. It will be safe to go back in the water.

Take a deep breath with me now. Brave the tempests of Target and the wiles of Walmart. Sail past the sirens stationed on the endcaps to buy the staples—Cheerios, milk, bread.

Traverse the bakery section. Imagine a voice on the intercom, “MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY: Ma’am, step away from the expensive, over-processed baked goods.”

Turn starboard and spot a box of doughnuts on closeout. A rare treat, and $1.50 is such a small price to pay for relief. “MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY: Mom overboard! She’s going down!”

as seen at J Crew

The budget never works on paper. But somehow it all works out in real life.

Keep living. Trust His hand. Full speed ahead.

So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. Matthew 6:31-32 NIV

The search for a song lead to Gwen Stefani’s Rich Girl. I like Stefani and the pirate theme of the video made it a shoo-in for the link. The video may offend some, but get a load of the lyrics: All the riches, baby, won’t mean anything. All the riches, baby, won’t bring what your love can bring…

Posted on by Aimee 6

The Great Clinique Heist of 2011

as seen on a Hallmark card

If you’re just tuning in, we’re trying to sell our house. One evening following our 500th open house event, I went to remove the remains of the day, also known as my makeup.

My routine is simple. Step one, cleanse. Step two, moisturize. That’s it. Every now and then I add exfoliation between steps one and two. We’ll refer to it as step 1.5.

That evening, step one went off without a hitch. I reached for my jumbo size bottle of Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion, the linchpin of the Clinique skincare regimen.

It wasn’t in its place on the shelf. In the rush to prepare for the open house, where did I stash it? Hamper? Drawer? Basket?

Checked the other bathroom. Checked the trash. Looked everywhere, but it was nowhere to be found. Then it dawned on me: someone had stolen my Clinique during the open house!

The scoundrel walked into my bathroom, opened my medicine cabinet, plucked out my jumbo bottle, dropped it into her purse, and slipped out the door making a clean getaway. A smooth criminal with a silky complexion.

My real estate agent was devastated. The princess part of me felt like crying too. That bottle—the jumbo size offered only once a year, set me back $35!

All I could do was laugh. You can smile too, people. This is progress.

“How could you take someone else’s moisturizer?” I said to my BFF. “It’s a personal product. That’s just gross.”

“I’m sure,” she said, “the person who took it was thinking, ‘Oh, what a lovely house. What a clean bathroom. This moisturizer is so well taken care of. How nice it will be for my skin!'”

This is why she’s one of my BFFs. Extreme optimism with delicate peaches and cream skin to boot.

The thief was probably thinking more like, “This rich lady won’t miss a thing. And who cares if she does?”

First of all, we’re not rich. Did I mention we’re trying to unload our house?

liquid gold

Second, I did miss my Clinique and I do care. But I am no longer a princess. I am now the Queen and I will not die on a hill of department store cosmetics. It’s just a bottle of moisturizer. As my good friend Greg’s mother would say, God rest her soul, it’s not fatal.

Assuming a thief will return to the scene of the crime and our villain is a stylista, friends suggested we offer fragrance samples at our next open house. Do skin consultations at the door. Maybe set up a manicurist in the dining room.

We laughed. I bought more moisturizer. All was well with the world.

Until a few days later. As I progressed through my routine, I realized my Clinique 7-Day Scrub was missing too! Exfoliation step 1.5 down the drain.

I stared at myself in the mirror with my freshly washed, squeaky clean face. People are unbelievable, I thought. Just as depraved as I am.

For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23 NIV

Did you like the link to Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal? Then you must see this version by Luka Sulic and Stjepan Hauser. Amazing. And on cellos! Thanks to my friend Jared for the lead to catch these guys.

Posted on by Aimee 9

DWM: Driving While Married

share the road

A smartphone catapults the navigational differences between men and women to a new level.

“Should we use our current location?” I ask my husband as we drive in a strange city on our way to visit friends at their new home for the first time. “Maybe I should use the city we just left as our starting location.”

“We’re on Ronald Reagan Highway,” he says. “Use that.

“That won’t work,” I say. “I’ll use the city we left. I-N-D-I-A-N-A-P-O-”

“Do I take this exit?” he says.

“Just a minute,” I say. “-L-I-S.”

“It’s exit 10 for 75 North,” he says.

“Wait a sec. It’s thinking,” I say.

“I’ll just take the next exit north,” he says. We zoom by exit 10 at 70 mph.

“Stay on this road until we get to the fork,” I say, “then veer left.”

“We’re taking the next exit.”

“At the fork?”

“No, the next exit north,” he says.

“It says, Continue on Ronald Reagan until the fork. Veer left.”

“Does it say north or south?”

“It says, Veer left.”

“North or south?”

“IS THE VEER LEFT AT THE FORK NORTH OR SOUTH?” I say to the iPhone.

My husband grew up on an 850 acre farm where every parcel of land, every watering hole, every homestead, every wayward blade of grass is due east, west, north or south as the crow flies. I grew up in the suburbs where every destination is triangulated in relation to the mall.

“Just pull up a map!” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

“Well?”

“Wait a sec. It’s thinking.” We zoom by exit 11 clocking 80 mph.

“The map’s not coming up,” I say. “Maybe we should stop and ask for directions.”

Exits 12 through 14 disappear in a blur.

“Give me the phone,” he says.

“Not while you’re driving!”

“We’re taking the next exit north,” he says.

Suddenly the speed limit slows to a 45 mph crawl. We enter a residential area.

“Hey, I think that’s the fork!” I say. We veer left-north at about 50 mph.

Soon, by the grace of God, we come to our friends’ subdivision. “What’s their address again?” he says.

“Um, I think it’s 7911 or something,” I say. “Wait a sec and I’ll pull it up. Oh, look, there’s a house for sale! Cheryl didn’t tell me they have a house waiting for us next door to theirs. It’s beautiful. It’s 7909, so I’m sure the one next door must be theirs. Pull in here.”

We pull in the driveway. We smile at each other. Love fills the cab where tension once stifled our patience. We’ve arrived. My husband unlocks the doors with a sweet click. A woman steps out from behind the house.

“That’s not Cheryl!”

My husband revs the engine and engages reverse thrusters. We escape by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins to our friends’ house across the street.

“How could 7911 be on this side of the street?” I say.

“Their address is 7912,” he says.

A minor detail. This time, we really have arrived. Next time, I’m driving.

Love is patient, love is kind… 1 Corinthians 13:4 NIV

two directions

What to say here? What else, but I Drove All Night by the unimitable Cyndi Lauper? While researching this song, I discovered this music video was the first to be closed captioned for the hearing impaired. Warning: it’s a little risqué and Lauper’s sporting Cruella de Vil hair, but oh, that voice…

Posted on by Aimee 8

King Me

Jackson

In the market for a bed? If you have or ever expect to have a spouse, children or mammalian pets, I suggest a king.

When I was engaged, my fiancé-now-husband took me to the furniture store and asked me to pick out a bed. Being the princess bride, I knew exactly what I wanted. The queen.

“Are you sure you don’t want a king?” said my fiancé-now-husband.

“Absolutely not!” I said as Close to You swayed through my lovestruck head.

Fast forward fifteen years. Life at the castle looks different than I imagined that day in the furniture store. Bottom line, everyone ends up in my bed.

My baby has always slept in his own bed until this year.

My dog has always slept in her own bed on the floor beside mine until this year.

My husband has always slept in my bed with me until this year. When his snoring became so loud I couldn’t sleep, he was banished to the guest room.

Ginger

Lonely and in a moment of weakness, I let the dog sleep in my bed once. Guess what happened the next night. She expected to sleep there again. Became a regular fixture.

When work required my husband to be away for a week, my son and I threw a slumber party. What happened next time dad traveled? Yep. Another slumber party.

Seemingly overnight I had gone from sleeping in my bed with my husband to sleeping by myself to sleeping with my dog and my child.

Max

As you read last time in Sleepless in St. Louis, my husband got a sleep machine and his snoring stopped. He returned to my bed, gear in tow. My son wasn’t invited, but he has ways of sneaking in.

“Mom,” he says at 3:30 a.m. as he stands beside my bed. “I had a bad dream.”

“It’s okay, honey,” I say. “Come on in.”

Precious

The dog ran from the bed with the advent of the sleep machine. Won’t even stay in the same room now. But in a thunderstorm she instantly appears, whining to be comforted.

“It’s okay, honey,” I say. “Come on in.”

The dog is trembling and pacing acround the mattress. Thunderstorm or not, she abhors the machine.

My son is kicking and stretching his lethal legs diagonally across my space.

Rusty

And my husband, bless his heart, is fast asleep.

I extricate myself from the entanglement, take my pillow, pick up the dog, and go sleep in the twin bunk.

This Queen needs a good night’s rest.

This Queen needs a king.

I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the LORD sustains me. Psalm 3:5 NIV

Lucky Dogs

E. Brovan with Lucy

My friend Lisa is a foster parent for Senior Dogs 4 Seniors. All the dogs featured in this post are available for adoption through the organization, except for Lucy and Jaspar shown here with their new owners.

Senior Dogs 4 Seniors cares for dogs in the homes of volunteers until they can be placed with loving folks and families.

Lisa has housed as many as eight dogs at once, but recently drew the line at six. And yes, they are allowed to sleep in her bed.

M. Stasiak with Jaspar

Help Lisa and her husband Cordel get a good night’s rest. Go to seniordogs4seniors.com for more info on what you can do.

BTW Senior Dogs 4 Seniors sponsors an adoption event most Saturdays, 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., at the Kirkwood Petco on Lindburgh just north of I-44. Their next event is this Saturday, May 7th.

Posted on by Aimee 15

Southern Comfort

southern comfort

Back in the fall I befriended another Southerner living in St. Louis. Our sons are in the same class at school.

She’s a talented physician, here finishing her second residency. We were sitting on a blanket in the September humidity at a parents’ luncheon or a soccer game. Making small talk as the conversation was about to turn big.

“You’re from The South too,” she said. “I hear the accent.”

“Yes, I grew up in North Carolina,” I said.

“Tennessee for me,” she said.

“How long you been here?” I said.

“Nine years.” she said. “You?”

“We’ve been in the Midwest going on 14 years,” I said. “Two in Chicago and 12 in St. Louis.”

Then we gave each other the look.

The look is difficult to explain. It’s kind of a rolling of the eyes, a nervous laugh, a heavy resigned sigh. More of an understanding than a look.

“We’ve been here all these years,” I said, “but still find it difficult to feel at home. And St. Louis is not The South.”

Her eyes popped open, wide as teacup saucers. “No, it’s not The South,” she said in a loud whisper. “I keep telling my husband that, and he says it’s all the same, but it’s not.”

“No,” I said, my own eyes wide now and my voice reverently low yet liberated. “It’s not.”

Here was a kindred soul. A Southern sister exiled in the Midwest.

Despite my bellowing I’m a Tarheel born and a Tarheel bred three hundred times to the Carolina fight song, I was not born in The South. I moved there when I was seven and stayed for 20 years.

At first I didn’t like it, especially the accents. Mostly because my new friends razzed me for not having one. Now those accents are so precious I nearly cry when I hear one in passing at the airport.

Without my knowledge, The South grew on me as I grew up in it. I only left for the promise of bustling Midwestern river towns. Work, work, always work.

Now 14 years later, I’m awake again and wondering how did I end up here? When’s the next train home?

Of course there are many, many good things about St. Louis and the Midwest. The Zoo, the Art Museum, the Arch, Forest Park, the Balloon Glow, the Cardinals, the Loop, frozen custard, gooey butter cake, Mai Lee.

Endless rows and rows of corn and soybeans stretching out over miles and miles of flat, flat land. Grayed prairies washed green and yellow and blue with a storm. It could grow on you. It could be home.

Life is complicated now. Can’t just pick up and move. How would my child adjust? What about school and church? What about the house? What about work, work, work?

Ran into my Southern soul sister at the Botanical Garden a few weekends ago. She’s in the last days of her medical training and has secured a job.

It’s in Birmingham.

Look homeward, angel. Look home.

All my longings lie open before you, O Lord; my sighing is not hidden from you. Psalm 38:9 NIV

What better way to end than with a country song complete with whiskey, tobacco and lonely. Savor the tender twang of Patty Loveless in A Thousand Times a Day.

A true Tarheel, Thomas Wolfe was born in Asheville, NC. Look Homeward, Angel: A Story of the Buried Life, his first novel, was published in 1929. It is believed to be autobiographical.

Posted on by Aimee 12

Lost in Translation

genuis bar, as seen at the Apple store

Joined the 21st century this past December when I signed up for Facebook (FB). Already the lingo is giving me fits.

I get LOL. I like it. I use it. It’s clever.

But then came BTW, BFF, LMK, ROTF, TTYL, etcetera ad nauseum.

Nearly blew a gasket trying to figure out LMAO.

An acquaintance kept using it in her FB posts. LMAO this, LMAO that. What on earth was she talking about?

I conjectured a translation. Love My Agitated Orange? Lately Missing An Olive? My friends ROTFLOL before clueing me in.

Two friends, the would-be stand up comedian and the soon-to-be company president, have taken to making up their own acronyms. PIMP is their favorite. A relative of LMAO, PIMP stands for Peed In My Pants.

There’s FAIL and WIN, though I think those are still actual words not abbreviations.

There’s HTC, HMU, FML, among a dozen others my friend’s teenage daughter wields like secret code.

There are emoticons. Nice, but I can only stand so many smileys a day. Now if they were gold stars, that would be another story.

I see hash marks popping up everywhere the way Haley Joel Osment saw dead people in The Sixth Sense. There are asterisks and @ symbols behind every tree.

These glyphs gone wild seem to involve Twitter. I’ve asked for translation, though my requests go unanswered. The Twitterati are a sophisticated bunch. They hang with Ashton Kutcher, you know.

Greek to me

Confusion multiplies when acronyms from other parts of language wander haphazardly onto FB like cows wander onto train tracks.

Old school ASAP and RE appear without much fuss. But when I used GSO on FB to describe where I was, a friend promptly messaged, “What does GSO mean?”

Well in real life it’s an airport code for Greensboro. In FB world, I’m not sure what I said.

Another friend posted an ellipsis in response to a lively conversation we were publicly engaged in via FB. I had no idea what the ellipsis meant. Neither did Google. Had he just cursed at me? Called me an idiot?

After stewing a bit, I messaged him. What did this lone punctuation mark mean?

He explained he wasn’t upset. He simply had nothing to say to my last comment. So he chose an ellipsis, the language of superheros. Like what Batman would say to Wonder Woman in a comic book when he’s at a loss for words.

I had fretted over a fictional character’s made-up thought cloud. Go figure.

In her book “A Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting,” author Hara Estroff Marano asserts we adults are digital immigrants while technology is the native tongue of our children (2008, pp. 220-221). The key to survival is adapting well in this brave new world.

Can you teach an old dog new tricks? IDK, but I’m game to find out. RU?

Wise men and women are always learning, always listening for fresh insights. Proverbs 18:15 The Message

still means and?

A Tip from Batman

Got a pocket full of kryptonite? Does your kid want to wear a cape or shoot lasers out of his eyes? Free Comic Book Day is May 7th. This year is the 10th anniversary of what has become an international event. Participants enjoy sketches, artist appearances, and of course free comic books. Check your local shop for details.

Special thanks to Sofia Coppola and her friends ScarJo and BillMu for Lost in Translation, the only movie to give me jet lag.

Posted on by Aimee 6

American Beauty

lasers are no match for Wonder Woman, as seen at MAC Cosmetics

The things we do for beauty. Ladies, it’s insane.

Plucking, tweezing, coloring, waxing, risking life and limb twice a year for the Clinique free gift with purchase. And now laser hair removal.

I won a laser hair removal treatment at a charity function last year. Decided to use it for my underarms. It’s painful, but it works. So I’m hooked.

My nurse Suzanne tried to upsell me. Bikini line, she said. The final frontier.

How nice, I fantasized, not to have to shave there ever again.

So I scheduled my appointment, opened my wallet, took my Tylenol and a deep breath, and went in.

The first bikini line treatment wasn’t so bad. What had I been afraid of? Although I must say I don’t know how you women who get Brazilians do it.

Four or so weeks later I entered the clinic again, so confident I didn’t even take my Tylenol this time.

“We have a new machine,” said Suzanne.

That was foreshadowing, in case you missed it.

“Really?” I said. “Let’s get this party started.” Famous last words.

The new machine was a prototype of medieval torture. A devil-fire stingray, it attached to my thighs and vacuumed my flesh. Hard.

“Ow!” I nearly jumped off the table as Big Shot by Billy Joel played over the intercom. I am not kidding. Not even I could make that up.

“Tell me again, why did you switch to this machine?”

“It’s less painful,” said Suzanne.

“Who did you survey?!” I said. “Ow!”

“Who did we survey. That’s funny,” she said.

At least one of us was laughing. I made it through the treatment. I can’t say the same for the squishy foam stress balls Suzanne gave me I squeeze for pain management.

As I left the clinic, the receptionist asked if I needed an ice pack.

“No,” I said. A psychological evaluation maybe, but an ice pack? No.

Why do we do this? We know it’s a losing battle. Must we hang on to every ounce of attractiveness to the bitter end?

Honest answer to that question? Yes. Notice I’m not chiding you. I’m knee-deep in Oil of Olay with you.

Ain’t nothing wrong with looking good.

We can look fierce on the outside. So how about inside?

The answer to that question is also yes. Beauty on the inside comes through a great deal of pain and suffering too. More than we could ever bear.

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:5 NIV

To hear Beautiful by Mercy Me on YouTube, click here. Kapow!

Special thanks to Sam Mendes, Alan Ball and cast for American Beauty. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Posted on by Aimee 7