Mayday

shivermetimbersswordsml — 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!”

dontgiveuptheship2sml — 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 May 31, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 6

The Great Clinique Heist of 2011

crime doesn't pay — 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?

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 May 27, 2011October 22, 2012 by Aimee 9

An Unexpected Post

Today’s post was supposed to be funny. It’s all finished and ready to go. You’ll see it next week, I promise. But something’s happened that takes precedence now.

Late Wednesday afternoon, I got word that the mother of one of my son’s schoolmates died Tuesday evening.

She was the picture of health, yet her body failed her. Unexpectedly. Tragically. And less than three weeks before her only child graduates from our little pre-kindergarten through sixth grade school.

Her son was the reason we considered the school in the first place. I’m not sure she knew that. When my son was two, we saw her son and his friends at a neighborhood playground.

My son was and still is fearless, climbing and running underfoot of the big kids. Before I could get to him to protect him that day, this woman’s son shielded him. He was only in second grade himself.

While other children ran wild and oblivious, he and his friends gently steered my precocious cub out of harm’s way. My heart melted as I heard him tenderly speak to my baby, “Be careful, little guy.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Where do you go to school?”

I tucked his answer away. That’s what I want for my son, I thought. That’s what I want him to be.

School may have a lot to do with it. Family has more. His family is noble, kind, gentle, handsome, generous. You could see it in this woman and her husband. You can see it in their son.

Now is a time for stillness. A time to hold my own husband and son.

Now is a time to be shaken. To be reminded we were not made for death.

It’s a time to watch clouds and notice peonies. See a friend. Eat dessert. Walk the dog. Go to church. Open the Bible. Wrestle with God and be held by Him.

A time to pray for courage for this family, for this husband and son. Courage for them to carry on, and then for the rest of us as well.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4 NIV

God is not silent, apathetic or cruel, but in situations like this it can seem so. Face the feeling that God Says Nothing Back and bring it to Him.

Posted on May 20, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 10

Nice is the New Mean

Be Nice of Leave pillow from Alexandra Ferguson — image with permission from alexandraferguson.com

My writing makes some people uncomfortable.

I imagine them thinking: There she goes again, writing about bitter pants. Why can’t she write something nice? Just show us some innocuous pictures of your sweet husband, your cute child, and your little dog too, my pretty!

My husband is sweet. My child is cute. My dog is little. There are days I am pretty. I’ll throw in a few pictures, but in case you missed it, I turned 40 this year.

With the fourth decade comes several startling revelations. Among them this: Nice is the new mean.

Clarification: Nice is nice when it’s kind. Nice is mean when it’s superficial.

There are no scientific studies I know of to back this up, but here’s an anecdotal theory. It seems as women age they lose their edit function. No more worrying about what the nice thing to say would be. Not enough time for that nonsense.

In the words of my cousin’s beautiful wife Sue, the can of worms is already open. Might as well let ’em fly.

Some of the flying worms are nice, some are not. The un-nice worms aren’t rude. But they’re not sugar-coated in shallow diplomacy, political correctness or Christianese either. They are direct little boogers because remember, we’re not getting any younger.

I’m not advocating bad manners or speaking the truth without love or sniping at folks with petty, evil comments. However, I spent years going out of my way to keep my opinions and the truth to myself so no one would be offended.

And I wasted a lot of energy in self-reproach because, another fourth decade gem, I can’t please everyone. Neither can you. Surprise!

nice picture of my pretty and her little dog too

With these conclusions, a sad observation. Some people would very much like me to be someone else. It would make them more comfortable.

You may know them too. They sound like this: Keep your emotions to yourself. You need to do God’s work. What’s with you and the truth? Just be content. Write something nice.

Is this the example I want to set for my child? It’s best to go along and get along? We should be nice at all costs even if the greatest cost is to one’s integrity?

No way, José. My life is imperfect, a work in progress. But I hope what’s important to me shines through now and then.

Be honest. Be kind. Address what’s wrong.

Be who God created you to be even if it is different than the people around you. Even if it makes some of them uncomfortable.

And by the way, when you belong to God, it’s all His work.

Godspeed, son. Let ’em fly.

An honest answer is like a kiss of friendship. Proverbs 24:26 NLT

King of Anything by Sara Bareilles makes a fitting song. Perhaps we’re related.

image with permission from alexandraferguson.com

Alexandra Ferguson

Alexandra Ferguson started a “sassy little pillow company” on Etsy in 2009. Her pillows, featured in this post, are “American-made manufacturing from recycled materials that any side of the aisle can be excited about.” Check out more of her fun and gutsy designs at www.alexandraferguson.com, like this one with a super hero’s silhouette. Love it!

Disclaimer: I’m not being compensated to promote Alexandra Ferguson.

Posted on May 18, 2011August 5, 2012 by Aimee 23

Bitter Pants

Just put my bitter pants on. Hmm. Looks like they still fit.

So read my friend’s Facebook status. Splendid term, bitter pants. I promptly commented: What are you doing with my pants?

I wondered. Did she steal my pants last time she visited my house? Thought they were hidden away where no one could find them. Deep in my closet, behind my collection of silent, toothy skeletons.

See them there? Hanging next to my pink pity party panties and my emerald encrusted envy glasses. Pink and green. A preppy girl at heart. Where did I put those Tretorns?

My yellow slicker o’ slander hangs there too. Covers me well when the rains of gossip fall in fluid torrents.

There’s my angry red wool scarf and my grudgeful orange leather jacket. One poor, beautiful Guernsey died to make that jacket.

But the bitter pants? Those are silk. Thousands of white mulberry worms sacrificed themselves in Shanghai. Boiled or baked in drying ovens for their spun cocoons, for filaments twisted into strong, continuous threads.

Wine-soaked artisans in the alleys of Paris caressed and worked the silk, dyeing it a glowing chartreuse. It radiates the ghosts of the caterpillars and Parisians. A matte luster of fogged up windows and lipgloss on glass rims.

The silk was whisked away to the house of Versace or Givenchy, I can’t remember which, and fashioned into the bitter pants. Haute couture, not because of their rarity but for their expense.

Oh, how they fit! No matter when I put them on, they are snug as a bug in a proverbial rug.

Lots of women have them, tucked away like mine for special occasions, or flown daily like a flag. A crisp shock of citron popping in the wind.

Men have them too, though they are harder to spot–usually look sullen or vengeful on men. On women you can see them a mile away. Cool. Sharp. Lean and mean. These girls wear the pants as much as the pants wear them.

I’ve thrown mine out several times. Somehow they keep finding their way home. Magic, homing, bitter pants. Destined to climb back into my closet of tricks. So for now I still own them should I choose to wear them again.

They’ll suffocate me if I do. Squeeze my life like a boa constrictor squeezes prey. Devour me, bury me, render me a useless, angry, forlorn frame of a woman.

I plead with God for protection, for the will to take off my pride and find something else to wear. Hand me my linen robe. Bring me my coat of arms.

The bitter pants. Magnificent zombie of my sin. Scary but lifeless. Dead with the old woman. Condemned to burn in a hot blue flame and boil in a river of fire. Then I will dance, finally completely free of them.

Look after each other so that none of you fails to receive the grace of God. Watch out that no poisonous root of bitterness grows up to trouble you, corrupting many. Hebrews 12:15 NLT

The music of Paul Simon is an American treasure. Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes. Wish I’d though of that.

Posted on May 16, 2011August 5, 2012 by Aimee 9

Orchids and Stars for Mother’s Day

On Mother’s Day when I was a teenager, my mom insisted the whole family wear corsages. My dad, brother, sister, and I went to church looking like we were going to the prom.

I have no idea why she wanted this. Yes, there is a Mother’s Day tradition to wear a red carnation if your mother is alive and a white carnation if she has died.

But my mom was very much alive when she issued her decree. My grandmothers were both alive in those years too. There were no white carnations within 10 miles of our house.

No red carnations for us either. My mom was a mild nonconformist. She bought us flowers to match our outfits. Usually orchids.

It was the 80s, so we had lovely shades of ivory, mauve and violet orchids. Like I said, we might as well have been going to the prom. A Taiwanese garden prom.

I vaguely remember a wrist coursage one year when there was nowhere to pin a flower on my sundress. Still trying to repress that.

Why not Easter corsages? Why not Christmas? Why not carnations or roses or freesia, for goodness sake? Why, oh, why orchids?

I can only guess what was going through her mind. Maybe to her orchids were an expensive luxury reserved for the royal family. And there was no better occasion to display us than Mother’s Day.

She was beyond my best friend. After she died, I discovered she was my brother’s and sister’s best friend as well. She made each of us feel like we were the single star in her sky. Three stars circling one sun. She loved us each best.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking she can’t be gone. Thinking I’ll just pick up the phone and call her.

So what will I wear this year on Mother’s Day? A blinding white orchid on my head? A flashback wrist corsage?

I’ll wear a sweet little size six seersucker suit with hand-me-down brown bucks.

I’ll don a wide grin of baby teeth that are still hanging on, but will be long gone by this time next year.

And I’ll pin on a bright yellow star he made for me last Mother’s Day in Sunday School.

No orchids for me. One single star in my sky fits just fine.

Children are a gift from the Lord;
they are a reward from him. Psalm 127:3 NLT

Grab the tissues. A New Day Has Come. Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.

Posted on May 6, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 14

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 April 27, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 12

Just the Facts, Ma’am

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I was a sophomore journalism student at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, home of stratospherically good basketball and the country’s finest j-school.

My newswriting class was taught by legendary newspaperman Professor James H. Shumaker. He was the inspiration for the comic strip Shoe, created by his former student Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial cartoonist Jeff MacNelly.

I remember one assignment. For me, a lesson in objective writing.

In hindsight also a watershed moment. If I had been paying closer attention, the truth gleaned from that episode might have spared me years of angst.

I would have walked—no, I would have fled to Greenlaw Hall and sought asylum in the English department. Or at least declared a double major.

The assignment was to use a police report to write a news blurb about a fatal car accident. I completed the task quickly with masterful use of the language:

Two died in a tragic and fiery crash as their car careened over a treacherous mountain pass, plummeting the unsuspecting passengers to their grisly deaths. The horrific accident occurred in the dark of night around 11 p.m., Tuesday, on a dangerous stretch of route 10, just north of Waterton. Police are not releasing the names of the unfortunate victims until their bewildered families can be notified.

Proudly I carried my paper, we still used paper back then, to the front of the class and presented it to Professor Shumaker.

He read it and with a blank face said, “This is not objective. Do it again.”

“Not objective?” I said.

“Just tell what happened without the flourishes,” he said. “You don’t need ‘tragic,’ ‘fiery,’ and all that. Just report what happened.”

“But that would be… boring!” I said as I dragged back to my seat, tears welling. “And it was tragic.”

Yes, it was.

I can’t be sure, but I think Shu rolled his eyes in a polite Southern gentlemanly sort of way and said nothing more to me. For the rest of the semester.

I’m not a news reporter, but I believe a more objective story would have gone something like this:

Two people died in a car accident around 11 p.m., Tuesday. Their car left the road on route 10 north of Waterton, went over the mountain pass and caught fire. Police are notifying relatives before releasing names.

Period. End of story. Just the facts, ma’am.

Now class, mine was a simplistic example. Real life is not always so clear.

Next time you’re ingesting the news du jour, where are the facts? Are they dripping with dazzle? Sizzling with sensationalism? Muddied with interpretation? Then that news is not completely objective, is it?

Nothing against flourishes or interpretation. As long as you recognize it for what it is and don’t call it objective.

Call it creative nonfiction or opinion editorial or commentary and analysis or talk radio or personal blogging or something.

Professor Shumaker, God rest your soul. Now I understand why you wanted just the facts in the news. So do I, sir. So do I.

Getting wisdom is the wisest thing you can do! And whatever else you do, develop good judgment. Proverbs 4:7 NLT

The most fundamental change is that more of the responsibility for knowing what is true and what is not now rests with each of us as individuals. The notion that a network of social gatekeepers will tell us that things have been established or proven is breaking down. Citizens have more voice, but those who would manipulate the public for political gain or profit—be it corporations or the government—have more direct access to the public as well. (“Blur: How to Know What’s True in the Age of Information Overload,” Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel, 2010, p. 7)

Posted on April 25, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 2

House Arrest: Selling in a Buyer’s Market

Got a call one Friday. An agent wanted to show our house at noon on Saturday.

So Saturday morning we parked our child in front of a DVD and my husband and I cleaned like the dickens. We’ve been doing this for the nearly two years the house has been on the market. Have it down to a science.

We can clean 4,100 square feet top to bottom in less than three hours. That includes three floors, six bedrooms, and three and a half baths of restored 1918 colonial revival perfection.

All this can be yours if, say it with me now, the price is right.

Concerned friends ask have we lowered the price, marketed sufficiently, prayed? A resounding yes to all.

We’ve dropped the price, then dropped it again. Had so many open houses, our son declared when he grows up there will be “no open houses allowed.”

We estimate more than 500 people have come through. Been featured in local society pages, magazines and online.

God knows we’ve prayed. But the For Sale sign has taken root in our yard. Its thin stakes wrap around the iron water lines far below the ground.

We bought this house in 2008 because we needed another bathroom. Our house at the time, a darling 1926 model with a gambrel roof, had three bedrooms and only one and a half bathrooms.

Discussions ensued about adding on to the current structure. Then I perused the market to see what was available.

And there I found this house, a disheveled wreck of stale wallpaper, broken fixtures, and the evidence of cats. The former owner liked cats. A lot.

But ah, what good bones! Stone pediment, marble bathrooms, carved oak panels in the living room, sunrooms facing south and east. We were taken.

Little did we know what would have been a wise investment five years ago would be a quagmire today.

We bought the house then proceeded to spend more than anticipated restoring it. After a year of tussling with contractors and painting until our arms nearly fell off, we sat down and figured it out.

Our margins were running thin physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, and with each other. Our little family was lost in this house. The situation was unsustainable. We would sell.

In 2008 our agent sold our previous house in 10 days. This is a different market.

The economy is weak and uncertain. Buyers are scarce, empowered and picky.

Our agent is steadfast. It’s a beautiful house, she says. It only takes one buyer.

There is nothing more we can do.

So that Friday with trepidation I said to our agent, “I don’t mean to sound cliché, but this really is in God’s hands.”

God has been faithful to provide all we need. Why should it scare me to be in His hands when it’s the safest place?

Ultimately we are safe, but this is still a battle, baby. It’s messy. There are casualties. And only God knows how it will all go down.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. Hebrews 11:1 NIV

Faith to Be Strong and singer-songwriter Andrew Peterson are favorites for life. Listen and take heart.

Posted on April 12, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 3

Mortality Math and Neon Numbers

“Your mom lived a long time,” said my six-year-old over Cheerios at breakfast, “and then she died.”

“Yes, she lived a long time and then she died,” I said. “She lived until she was…”

Uh, oh. I didn’t want to go there. “Until she was old,” I said.

“How old was she?” he said.

Little kids are so smart. I was caught and had to answer him.

“She died when she was 45.”

“She was young when she died,” he said. Smart, and can do the math.

“Yes,” I said. “She was young. But your great-grandmother lived to be 83.”

This launched a series of fish stories, my husband and I recounting all our relatives who died in their 80s, 90s, virtually any age older than 45.

My son knows I’m 40. He announced it to anyone who would listen the night of my birthday at The Cheesecake Factory. And he knows 40 is only five less than 45. Like I said he can do the math.

I can do the math too. Given those numbers, I have less than five years to go.

My math is more advanced than my son’s. What he doesn’t know is my maternal grandfather died at 50. Looking at this pattern of 50 then 45, what comes next?

I used to figure 40, but so far I’m still alive. My new guess is 42 1/2. Time is running out.

My husband thinks I’m mad when I start this. He was there when my mother was diagnosed with cancer, when she died 10 months later, when we buried her. He gets my grief. The death wish however throws him for a loop.

“I do not want to die in Missouri,” I said upon returning from spring break. Missouri is pronounced misery when I’m particularly homesick.

“I want to die in North Carolina. We can stay here for now, but as soon as I am diagnosed with a terminal illness, I am moving with or without you.”

Or how about this one? “If something were to happen to me, I want you to print out my blog posts and save them for when our son is older.”

My husband stares at me perplexed, troubled, gently shaking his head. We’ve been down this road before.

“You’re not your mother,” he says. “You’re not going to die when you’re 45.”

“How do you know?” I might be 42 1/2. “You don’t understand.”

Hope Edelman understands. She was only 17 when her mom died.

In her book “Motherless Daughters: The Legacy of Loss,” Edelman calls it Mortality Math 101. It’s the calculation “in which a mother’s age at death is a fixed value, and the only distance worth measuring is the one between here and there (1994, p. 222).”

I don’t want to die at 45 or anytime between now and then or for many years after. But I don’t know. None of us do.

My mom’s death strips me of the illusion that it can’t happen. Leaves me exposed as I slowly inch toward the “neon number,” a phrase from Edelman’s 2007 book “Motherless Mothers: How Mother Loss Shapes the Parents We Become.”

45-45-45. It blinks and stutters, glaring up ahead in the dark.

I can ignore it. Pretend I don’t see it. Lie and tell my son 45 is really quite old.

Or I can set my face like flint toward it, look it in the eye, and pray to live.

When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.”

“Where, O death, is your victory?

Where, O death, is your sting?” 1 Corinthians 15:54-55 NIV

Diamond Rio, One More Day.

Posted on April 6, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 14

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Blog

I have a confession. I am not funny.

Oops. There goes half my readership. Those of you remaining are thinking yeah, lady, we know you’re not funny. Make with the real confession already.

Serious, sensitive, intense. The most common words teachers and guidance counselors used to describe me from second grade through high school graduation. Oh, and emotional. A regular barrel of laughs.

Give me a break. I had a lot on my mind.

Faculty also described me as enthusiastic, creative and smart. And I was smart enough to befriend fun people. Surrounded by them, I looked like I knew how to have a good time.

I’m still surrounded by many friends who are hilarious. At least one needs to do stand up comedy. She’s that good.

I’ve told her this repeatedly over the years. She’s in denial, but one day I expect to be sitting in her audience crying from laughing so hard. (You know who you are. It’s a gift, woman. Use it.)

I also married a funny guy and we have a quick-witted child who is funnier than both of us combined. Good-Time Charlie, my husband calls him.

Like a talent scout for humor, I can’t do it myself, but I can recognize it. And I can write about it.

Take for example, Scrabbled. It’s funny, but not because I’m funny. It’s because of all these funny people and the funny things that happen.

My blogging for public consumption is just 12 posts fresh. Already I have ascertained everyone responds best to humor. Write more, they plead.

I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything. Remember who you’re reading here. Serious, sensitive, intense.

Quieter feedback has revealed the not-as-funny posts speak to people too.

Life is, after all, bittersweet.

But there’s purpose in it. There are smiles to be had. And on a very good day there are lots and lots of laughs.

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace. Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 NIV

Tpickinggrapehyacinthsml — spring harvest

To hear Bittersweet by Big Head Todd and the Monsters, one of the best songs ever, click here for the Vimeo link. Laugh, cry, be mellow and moved.

You Baby Boomers out there expected me to link to Turn! Turn! Turn! from Pete Seeger’s album The Bitter and the Sweet made famous as a 1965 cover by The Byrds, didn’t you? Well, I’m Gen-X. But just for you, click here for the Byrds’ rendition on YouTube. You can thank me later.

Posted on March 22, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 4

Almost Famous

Ordinary Saturday, stuck at the dealership while the truck’s being serviced.

One final shuffle through the magazines brings me face to face with an old issue of Fast Company. The guy on the cover looks vaguely familiar.

Then it hits me. A classmate from undergrad has made the cover.

Now I haven’t seen him since graduation. We were friends, but we didn’t date or even talk to each other that much. I may have invited him to a social at my sorority once.

Okay. I did do that. He declined because he had a girlfriend. He’s a good guy, handsome to this day. No wonder he made the cover.

Anyway, he was in my program. We competed in class. Often I won.

But not today. After I picked myself up off the floor, I read the article.

If my eyes were green they would have turned three shades deeper and glowed.

I might have sprouted horns and a tail too. Imagine an X-Men transformation right there in the Ford waiting room.

Thankfully, my eyes are brown so only God and I knew what was happening.

Ivy League MBA, internet commerce, gazillion dollars, CEO. Somebody stop me.

Still in shock later that evening, I recounted the event to my husband.

“He was on the cover!” I said. “Of Fast Company! He is the CEO of @#$%!”

That wasn’t a curse word. I chose to use symbols instead of the company’s name for fear of embarrassing us both.

“He sat next to me in our advertising campaigns class. He’s not all that!”

Well apparently neither am I.

This brush with fame stalks me. Let me brag on my friends for a moment. One of my best friends from college advises presidents of the United States and not as an intern.

JennyRobinMike — I told you she knows Robin Williams.

Another has a brother-in-law who is arguably the greatest athlete of our generation. She hobknobs with Robin Williams.

Then there’s my friend who’s a regular on Squawk Box. My several friends who are published authors, esteemed professors, powerful attorneys, brilliant surgeons.

My husband the optimist, who incidentally has logged a nice set of accomplishments in his industry, says I’m using the wrong standards to measure success.

When I keep my eyes fixed on doing the best I can with what I’ve been given, this stuff doesn’t faze me. When I compare myself, I’m in trouble.

God help me, I will live another day to slay the green-eyed dragon.

So what if my dashing classmate enjoys well-deserved success? I can be happy for him. There’s plenty to go around.

Turning his head, Peter noticed the disciple Jesus loved following right behind. When Peter noticed him, he asked Jesus, “Master, what’s going to happen to him?”

Jesus said, “If I want him to live until I come again, what’s that to you? You—follow me.” John 21:20-22 The Message

To watch Hey Jealousy by Gin Blossoms on YouTube click here. I had to include this video because 1) the title and 2) it’s the only music video I know that includes rolling a tree (giggle).

Special thanks to Cameron Crowe for Almost Famous.

Posted on March 17, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 6

everyday epistle

there's a story at every turn