In case you’re wondering, I’m still here. Our summer schedule has thrown my time into a tizzy.
Fear not. New material is in the pipeline. Working on a few humdingers.
While you wait, would you be so kind as to likeeveryday epistle on Facebook if you haven’t already? Go over to the right sidebar and click the like button.
You might also subscribe so you don’t miss a thing. You’ll find the email and RSS feed buttons to the right as well.
Apologies to those readers who expect more regularity in posts. Hope you’ll extend a measure of summertime grace to me. As Ferris Bueller said in one of the finest movies ever made, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
He also said, “You realize if we played by the rules right now we’d be in gym?”
Seriously, who makes the rules in blogging anyway?
Stop. Look around. Skip gym, unless that’s your thing. And stay tuned for the summer series of everyday epistle posts coming soon to a blog near you.
You don’t know the first thing about tomorrow. You’re nothing but a wisp of fog, catching a brief bit of sun before disappearing. James 4:14 The Message
Desiree, a salesperson at my go-to store, once said of the J Crew design team, “They don’t disappoint.”
Ella dress in porcelain paisley, jcrew.com
She’s spot-on. I mean, look at this dress.
Yes, I borrowed the photo from the J Crew site without asking permission. It’s fair use since I’m commenting on it. But please, Jenna Lyons, charge me with piracy.
Throw me in J Crew jail where I’ll be forced to wear navy blue and white reverse sailor stripes and work in exotic locales like Tanzania, Bali, and New Zealand.
Sentence me to a lifetime of schoolboy blazers, cotton capris with a hint of stretch, and vintage V-neck tees in Byzantine blue, heather graphite, and the perfect shade of bright plum circa spring 2010.
Now about this dress named Ella. Exquisite. Prettiest thing I’ve seen since last month’s J Crew catalog. Oozes summertime when the living is easy.
If you read this blog, you know my dog’s name is Ella. Perhaps Jenna Lyons has been reading this blog, too, and she’s been inspired.
“See that little dog Ella?” I can hear her telling the crew at the Crew. “Who owns a creature of such intelligence, taste, and style? Feel the epistle. Inhabit the epistle. Express the epistle!”
Ella dog in wheaten fur
Voilà. Out comes the Ella dress in porcelain paisley. Named after my dog. And a steal at only… $298?!
Why do you do this to me, Jenna?
How could you design a dress for me at the end of the traditional spring-summer shopping season when my clothing budget is as dry as the sun-scorched earth of Al Gore’s inconvenient truth?
How could you introduce it in May—the month of Mother’s Day gifts, graduations, and summer camp deposits? How could you name it after my dog then price it oh so high above me?
This is one reason J Crew is successful. Besides quality, design, color, and hipness factor, J Crew appeals to those of us in the masses as attainable and out of reach at the same time.
That, and they steal writers’ dogs’ names for their dresses.
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.
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
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 sador not-so-sad song on your way out the door, will ya?
Thank you, William Shakespeare and John Steinbeck, for inspiring the title.
All I have to show for my 1997 root canal is a crown and a seasonal toothache.
power dental, as seen at Target
Every year I get this pain and I think my teeth are rotting inside my head. I rush to the dentist for x-rays. The dentist tells me everything’s intact, and it’s not my crown that hurts because there are no nerves there. It’s just sinus pressure. Take an antihistamine, grin, and bear it.
So when the first pangs surfaced last Wednesday, I remembered this and saved myself a trip to the dentist. A long trip since my dentist is still in St. Louis. He opted not to relocate with us.
Then Thursday night I woke up to searing, constant pain. Perhaps I’d made a misdiagnosis. Maybe this was more than sinus pressure.
The next day was Good Friday. While my husband gathered Reese’s peanut butter eggs at Walmart for Easter baskets, I frantically loaded up on the OTC.
But the OTC couldn’t kick it. My jaw was on fire. Surely a mutant borer was tunneling through my bicuspids. A microscopic mole was burrowing out a den in the swollen, pink flesh of my gums. My crown would soon explode.
By Friday evening, I was self-medicating with leftover Naproxen I’d found in our medicine cabinet. By Saturday morning, I was in urgent care. Why do these things always happen on holiday weekends?
The doctor prescribed an antibiotic and a pain med. I spent the rest of the weekend floating through pain-free episodes of Easter wonderment and excruciating dips between doses. Simply glad to be alive.
The antibiotic was in full force come Monday morning, so the pain had subsided. Made my husband drive me to see a dentist in our new city anyway. Certainly a sane dentist would sedate me immediately and surgically remove the nuclear warhead lodged in my mouth.
“Your crown is intact, and I think we can save it,” said the dentist. “We used to believe there were only three nerves involved in a root canal. Now that we have better technology, we know there are four nerves.”
Or thirty-seven, I thought.
“You need another root canal to get that fourth nerve,” he said.
a strange beast
The dentist’s colleague who does this type of root canal can’t see me until the end of the month for a consult to schedule the procedure.
Are you kidding? Do it now! No, it’s not hurting at this moment, but I don’t ever, ever want to have that pain again.
Pain is a such strange beast. We hate it, yet we need it. It tells us when something is oh-so wrong. Tells us when we need to move, change, or get help. Fight or flee. Steels us inside so we can endure more than we thought possible. And when we’re in pain, we know without a doubt what’s important and what’s not.
Part of me abhors calling pain a gift. Another part of me marvels that it is.
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
Last night I decided to change to another layout. Then I decided to change back.
Then I decided to add a column. Then I needed a different size masthead.
What once would have cost me hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in web design was reduced to a couple dozen decisive (or indecisive) clicks.
Now I’m contemplating ads. WordPress invited me to try their WordAds Beta.
What on earth would they advertise here? Hair coloring seems logical. Or shoes. Or lipstick. Or dog treats. Or maybe Zoloft.
fresh dress
What if they slap an ad up here for something inappropriate? Like Skout. Or a Joel Osteen book. (Apologies to Joel fans. Jim and Tammy Faye ruined it for me. Alas, that’s another post.)
And how much are they going to pay me for ad space? Pennies per click, I’m guessing.
Oh, the drama of the blog, as if we need more drama in our lives.
Another layout? A coupon for Jamba Juice?
Stay tuned. There’s always something brewing here. And it’s bound to be fresh.
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.
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
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.
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.
Yesterday my first grader explained to me a squabble he was having in school.
school bus
“George (not his real name) says one hundred AND fifty,” he said. “I told him it’s one hundred fifty.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s one hundred fifty.”
“Yeah, but then everyone said, ‘Nu-uh! It’s one hundred AND fifty,'” he said.
I grabbed a piece of paper to illustrate.
“You write it like this: 150,” I said. “Not like this: 100 AND 50. See?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“So you say it that way, too,” I said. “One hundred fifty.”
“Well, George says it’s one hundred AND fifty,” he said. “I’m going to tell him again he’s wrong.”
“Honey,” I said. Deep breath. “You can tell him, but he may not believe you.”
“Yeah,” he said. “He probably needs to hear it from his parents.”
“Unless his parents also think it’s one hundred AND fifty,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. You know what’s right and you told him. Even if the whole class disagrees, it’s still one hundred fifty.”
My son was quiet.
“I’m going to tell them it’s one hundred fifty,” he said. “And then when they say, ‘Nu-uh! No, it’s not!…'”
Pause.
“I’ll just say, ‘Oh, forget it.'”
He has a point.
Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces. Matthew 7:6 NIV
Forget About It by Alison Krauss and Union Station. What unforgettable talent. Enjoy the weekend!
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
