Tag: humor

Murder by Muzak

The Bangles

The first incident was in Garden Ridge. There I was, perusing picture frames. Bouncing along to The Bangles. Pushing my cart and singing in the aisle with the Muzak. If you want to find all the cops, they’re hanging out in the donut shop…

Then it hit me: I’m in the target demographic for Garden Ridge.

How did this happen? Just yesterday I was catwalking through the juniors department of Belk with my mom, window shopping those crazy Swatch watches, and jamming to that wild new song Walk Like an Egyptian, circa 1986.

The Best of Sade cover

Next thing I know, I’m 40 years old standing in line at the deli counter. I catch myself humming a familiar diddy as it plays over the grocery store intercom, Sade’s The Sweetest Taboo. I’m sorry, but that is not a supermarket song.

Imagine my shock during another grocery run to hear The Sundays singing in the cereal aisle among the Froot Loops and Frosted Mini-Wheats. The Sundays. Band of choice for the coolest collegians I knew. Here’s Where the Story Ends. I’ll say.

Kurt Cobain

This week a DJ found it necessary to announce Nirvana’s Nevermind was released, gulp, 20 years ago. The day I hear Kurt Cobain’s angry, mournful voice crying out to me across the 50 pound bags of flour and rice at Sam’s Club, I’ll know the end is near.

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous. Here we are now. Entertain us. Poor Kurt. No video link for this one. Rest in peace, man. What a loss.

My youngest cousin inadvertently aided the conspiracy to bury me in the oldies. His response to a Billy Joel song in my post American Beauty was a definitive blech. The Piano Man is ancient. Old as his dad. Old as Moses.

Billy Joel Greatest Hits cover

That’s okay. It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me, even if BJ does look a little Jersey Shore.

Last year St. Louis lost our beloved classical music station, but gained a solid contemporary Christian station in its place. My six-year-old likes listening to JOY FM. So do I. Most of the time.

But when I need a pick-me-up from the past, our Gen X station serves up the likes of REM. Depeche Mode. Sheryl Crow. Salt-n-Pepa. Boyz II Men. Erasure. Big Country. Pearl Jam.

This is an indulgence best enjoyed alone because my child immediately requests I change it back to JOY FM. Somehow he knows mine is the devil’s music. Listen too long, and it’ll kill ya.

“Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.
Remind me that my days are numbered—
how fleeting my life is.
You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand.
My entire lifetime is just a moment to You;
at best, each of us is but a breath.” Psalm 39:4-5 NLT

The Fugees, The Score cover

You saw it coming.
Killing Me Softly by The Fugees.

Posted on by Aimee 6

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

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

I Know I’m in Love When I Buy Whole Milk

thank yous unwritten

Except for when we have a showing, my house is upside down these days.

My kindergartner had to remind me to roll down my window when we pulled up to the drive thru at our new Chick-Fil-A.

I’m late delivering copy I promised weeks ago. Even later writing thank you notes from spring break. (If I saw you during spring break, thank you for your hospitality. A proper note will be forthcoming someday.)

I forgot to pay a few bills. Wore the same outfit three times in one week.

Cut my recreational shopping so severely, it no longer qualifies as recreational. It’s now combat. In. Out. Mission accomplished.

Took snapshots of H&M’s naked mannequin and Cabela’s taxidermied bears.

Bought body wash for my son when my shopping list specifically read shampoo. Twice. We have enough to keep him sparkling through third grade.

And I carried whole milk home from the grocery store. Shopping with my eyes closed that time.

This from the woman who made a crusade of cutting calories and fat from our family diet. Who painstakingly racheted us down from whole to two percent and finally to one percent over the course of several months.

the red milk

What a surprise one morning at breakfast when my son said, “Mom, you bought the red milk.” Whole milk is labeled red at our grocery store.

“No, I didn’t,” I said.

“Yes, it’s red.”

“What? Oh, my. It is the red milk!”

We drank the red milk. Then I paid more attention and bought the purple milk on my next mission.

What can I say? I’m in love.

Something has captured my attention. Occupies my mind. Changes the way I see things. Gets me up in the middle of the night.

hearts in a row

It’s a jealous lover. Expects all my time. Truth be told I would really like to let the world go and just swim in it.

And why not? My husband tells me it’s all right to want to spend my time with this. To want to be alive. To enjoy my work again.

Where will this affair will lead?

Right now it doesn’t matter. I’m reveling in the obsession. Hope you are too.

Even so, I have noticed one thing, at least, that is good. It is good for people to eat, drink, and enjoy their work under the sun during the short life God has given them, and to accept their lot in life. Ecclesiastes 5:18 NLT

Diamond Rio, you put it so well in What a Beautiful Mess. Hey, wait a minute. That’s my car…

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

The Trouble with Volunteering

Volunteering is admirable. Close to godliness.

For moms, volunteering earns you a higher level of sainthood. We present a ready-made workforce to power non-profits. What else have we got to do in all our spare time?

chick on the shelf

I’ve heard volunteering is fulfilling. Like having a baby who sleeps through the night before five months, which I’ve also heard is nice.

The trouble with volunteering is you often get slapped with all the grief and politics of an employee, only you don’t get paid for it.

I thought non-profits were intrinsically kind, especially to coveted volunteers. Double helpings of nice for moms logging countless hours for the cause.

Not so. Religious, secular, doesn’t matter. I’ve labored in both types. And both can be as bad as any corporate environment going.

I know, I know. Not all non-profits are like that. Not all my volunteering experiences have been like that. Most have been positive. Even in those that were less than positive, I was surrounded by many generous and kind people.

However, women wiser than I am bear witness.

It’s like this everywhere, they say in hushed voices. Volunteering can be cut throat. And women are the worst.

The trick, one wise woman told me, is to work in helper roles rather than leadership. Helpers would give their right arm for you. They want everyone to be happy. Salt of the earth.

Come to think of it, the most fulfilling, least contentious volunteer experiences for me have been as a helper. My work was valued, but contained.

I didn’t break any unspoken rules. Didn’t threaten anyone’s hidden agenda. Absolutely didn’t present any new ideas, the kiss of death for a volunteer. Simply did my job, helped my people, smiled a lot, and never took work home.

Problem is I have been known to have a good idea or two or twelve.

I can be enthusiastic, energetic, organized, creative. A bit high strung at times, but willing to work hard. And for free.

How sad the causes that captured my heart didn’t want that. They ordered Chocolate Fudge Brownie, but wanted status quo vanilla.

Such tours of duty have forever marred my pristine mommy-volunteer career. Sigh. Ain’t nobody ever gonna ask me to the dance again.

From now on, I am an at-will employee. They can fire me. I can leave. But I will earn something besides imaginary halos for my time and trouble.

You know how this ends.

No sooner do I make that vow than I do get asked again and the desire to contribute meaningfully rears its pious and persistent head.

Maybe that’s the real trouble with volunteering. Like Chocolate Fudge Brownie, online shopping and staying up past a reasonable bedtime, I want to do it even though I know it’s probably not good for me.

Remember: A stingy planter gets a stingy crop; a lavish planter gets a lavish crop. I want each of you to take plenty of time to think it over, and make up your own mind what you will give. That will protect you against sob stories and arm-twisting. God loves it when the giver delights in the giving.

2 Corinthians 9:6-7 The Message

The unforgettable Natalie Cole tells it like it is in I Can’t Say No.

Posted on by Aimee 6