Tag: humor

American Beauty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have a new machine,” said Suzanne.

That was foreshadowing, in case you missed it.

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

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

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

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

“It’s less painful,” said Suzanne.

“Who did you survey?!” I said. “Ow!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain’t nothing wrong with looking good.

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on by Aimee 7

Men and Women and the Curse of the Want

During spring break we stayed a night with dear friends. Their eldest Eliza, nearly four, was thrilled to have our Theo, age six, as a play date.

mighty engine

Theo was thrilled to have Eliza’s massive wooden train set and open family room where he, my husband and Eliza’s dad could build the mother of all tracks.

Eliza played trains too, for about three minutes. Then the wooing began.

“Feo,” she said. Most preschoolers cannot yet pronounce the th sound, so they replace it with the f sound.

“Feo, let’s play veterinarian.”

Feo did not answer. He was busy fashioning a railroad crossing.

Eliza was undeterred. She stood near the stuffed animals calling. “Feo. Feo? Play veterinarian with me.”

Still no answer. She tried another approach.

Lodging herself in her younger sibling’s walker, she pretended to be stuck.

“Feo, help! Feo, help me get out! Feo! FEO!” Ah, the damsel in distress.

Feo, now engrossed in bridge building, could not be bothered.

Eliza’s mom chimed in. “Eliza,” she said. “You can get yourself out.”

“Feo, help me!” said Eliza.

“Theo, Eliza needs you,” I said. “Will you help her get out of the walker, please?”

My little prince obeyed his queen mum, dutifully leaving his venture to assist. Once Eliza was freed from peril, he marched back to resume construction.

Eliza did not give up. “Feo,” she said. “Feo, let’s play dolls now. Feo?”

Silence down the line, except for the muffled clinking of wooden tracks fitted together over carpet on the trek to the other side of the family room.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Eliza grabbed none other than Cinderella. She shoved the doll right between Theo’s eyes and said, “Feo! Cinderella needs to tell you something!”

Her mother and I shook our heads, both understanding all too clearly the plight of this little princess.

“She’s sooo relational,” said her mother. Aren’t we all, ladies?

In Genesis God lays out the consequences for Adam and Eve’s willful disobedience. The overarching consequence is death, but there is other fallout.

For example, right after God tells Eve she will have pain in childbirth, He says she will want for her husband and he will rule over her. The usual interpretation I’ve heard umpteen times in church is that women will want to dominate men, while God requires men to lead.

I get that. But I wonder. Maybe the woman’s want for the man is really a want for the man. Not to lord over him, but to relate to him.

It’s my gorgeous friend describing how she undressed and danced in front of the TV, unsuccessful in her attempt to tear her husband away from the football game.

It’s Scarlett realizing her love for Rhett in Gone With the Wind when he slams the door in her face. (Correction: Rhett walks out the open door and disappears into the foggy night. It’s a slam all the same.)

It’s Eliza’s unrelenting calls to Feo.

Men, pay attention. This one’s free. Throw your woman a bone of interaction and you’ll chip away at the curse in your house.

Give her your undivided attention as you would a dearly loved treasure, and watch the curse shatter like glass on the tracks of a mighty engine.

Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you. Genesis 3:16 NIV

Sanctus Real’s powerful song Lead Me is not to be missed. Click here to listen.

Posted on 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.

lol

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

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 by Aimee 4

Almost Famous

Feeling lucky?

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.

Welcome to my lair.

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.

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 by Aimee 6

Keep on Truckin’

my ride

I’m driving a truck through the recession that seems to have no end.

A 2001 Ford F-150 Laredo Super Crew. Complete with a bed extender, a paint scrape on the rear wheel thingy, and until recently a cracked windshield.

Still has less than 100,000 miles, and we bought it new as my husband’s first baby. The next year we bought a puppy as my first baby, but that’s another post.

When the lease was up on our spiffy little SUV just more than a year ago, my husband and I decided not to renew or buy, but to share.

Such a nice word, share. We shared a car before. When we lived in Chicago where there is ample public transportation and absolutely no free parking.

We shared a car when we first moved to St. Louis. Of course we lived within walking distance of work then and had no children.

Sharing seemed like a great idea to save money. Only temporary until we get our house sold and our budget balanced, right?

Our environmentally-concerned friends applauded. Their eyes glazed over calculating the waves of greenhouse gases stymied by our one-vehicle family conversion.

I have nothing against the truck. We bought it. We own it. But driving it is another thing. It is a full body experience for me. And oh, the looks I get.

Look. I can parallel park it too. Pretty!

Like the time I drove it to Goodwill to deliver some items we’d outgrown. The manager handling donations that day had the physique of a professional football player.

He watched me pull in, slowly bank a wide left around the lot and finally dock. I could see the wheels turning in his head as all five feet four inches,125 pounds of me dismounted to unload my cargo.

“What’s a little woman like you doing with a big truck like that?” he said.

“It’s my husband’s truck,” I said.

“He must have the city car today,” he said.

“Actually, we’re sharing,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, rendered speechless.

My kindergartner expressed it best one day in the carpool line. After the arduous climb up, he buckled himself in and said, “Why? Why are we still driving this vehicle?”

Driving the truck is not an earth-friendly choice. It is not a symptom of my bout with mid-life crisis. It is not an attempt to show how tough I am, how Southern I am, or how syrupy sweet we-share-everything with my spouse I am.

the recession that has no end

Bottom line, it is a financial decision.

Best I can figure, the truck is a generous provision from God to meet our needs.

Best I can hope, our days as a one-truck family will only last until my country and I can get back to business as usual.

And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:19 NIV

Keep on Truckin’ by Nev Nicholls. This is a classic, folks.

Posted on by Aimee 6

Scrabbled: How to Beat the Queen

loser queen

This year, for the first time in 15 years of marriage, my husband beat me in Scrabble. Twice.

You must understand, I am the Scrabble Queen. Trained from childhood to vanquish challengers, I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. A spelling bee.

Alas, I’ve been dethroned in my own castle by a mere mortal. A man who only learned to play Scrabble because it’s my favorite game.

How, you ask? How did this injustice happen?

My husband has discovered a secret weapon. An Achilles heel.

He invites our six-year-old son to play Scrabble with us.

“MYFILT,” says the child. “I have myfilt. M-Y-F-I-L-T.”

“Honey, that’s not a word,” I say. “You have to make a word.”

“FLIMTY,” he says. “How about flimty?”

“No, that’s not a word either.”

My husband remains silent, part of his diabolical strategy.

“Mom, how about MILE? That’s a word!” he says, “I can put down mile.”

He reaches across the board. Only it isn’t his turn. And there is no place to put mile.

tile pile

“Baby, it has to fit in with the other words on the board. Like a crossword puzzle. And you have to wait your turn,” I say. “It’s mommy’s turn now.”

I look at my slate. I look at the board. All I can see are tiny, no point words. AND, BUT, OR. It’s Conjunction Junction in my head.

“Can it go diagonal?” the child says. “I could put it right here diagonal.” Letters slide askew across the table.

“Let me help you put this back together,” I say. “And I’m sorry but you can’t put a word on the board diagonally.”

Not a peep from my husband. He is deep in stealth concentration, planning his next move.

“T-Y-L-I-F. TYLIF. Tylif, tylif, tylif!”

“Honey, let momma see what you have,” I say. “We’ll come up with something.”

At this point, I get up from my seat, leave my slate, go around to where my child is sitting, and analyze the letters on his slate. We form words. Wonderful words like tile, file, lime, time, elf, my…

Hey, wait a minute. It’s my turn.

An hour later, my husband breaks 200 points, my son breaks 100 and I’m stuck around 59. Stunned, I leave the table reeling with defeat. What happened?

the cub

My husband knows the one thing the queen cannot resist.

Want to distract her? Throw her off game? Beat her at Scrabble?

Bring in her cub. Works every time.

He tends His flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young. Isaiah 40:11 NIV

To see School House Rock’s Conjunction Junction on YouTube click here.

Posted on by Aimee 6

Movin’ On Up

Dear Blogger,

What good times we’ve had.

Writing stories. Downloading photos. Recklessly hotlinking movie poster images and music videos. Ah, life in the fast lane.

How could I not love you?

You introduced me to blogging. I am enthralled. Enraptured. Engaged in life again.

But we have a problem. You won’t let my friends get a word in edgewise.

Only certain people can comment. Only certain people can subscribe.

Oh, I know you say they’re just doing it wrong. But I wonder. Maybe you’re doing this on purpose so they have to join your clique.

Last night I heard you mutter it doesn’t matter if anyone reads my blog because I’m doing it for the love of writing.

Theoretically that’s true, but let’s get something straight. I’m not writing so only you and I can read it. We already know what it says.

If someone, anyone, wants to read it, comment on it, subscribe to it, share it on Facebook, email it to their Aunt Cleo, their cousin Irving, their daughter Macie at college, their son Jake who works in New York, their fourth grade teacher Ms. Vanpelt, their neighbor Winston Rutherford Waterman or any one else on earth, I say have at it.

As much fun as we’ve had together, I’m leaving you for another platform.

I’m moving to WordPress today. There readers can comment, subscribe, and get updates via email. They can even click like if they want.

You can’t change my mind. Everything is in place.

I have my own domain at everydayepistle.com, along with new headshots from photographer friend Kristin Scully. And I’m taking my quirky title, my snippets of pop culture and my itty-bitty blog with me.

Come up and see me sometime.

Virtually yours,

Aimee

PS: All the original posts from Blogger are featured at everydayepistle.com too.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go. Joshua 1:9 NIV

To watch the 1975 opening of the sitcom The Jeffersons with its jubilant song Movin’ On Up, click here. You will be transported to TVLand.

Posted on by Aimee 2

Bad Boys, Bad Boys, Whatcha Gonna Do?

badge on blue

2:37 a.m. I awaken to the hum of a lone engine. Car doors slam. Multiple voices break the silence.

Downstairs the dog wakes and goes ballistic, barking her head off. My husband’s in Chicago on business, making me the designated adult. The most interesting things happen when he’s not here.

Springing from the warm cocoon of my bed, I whisper-yell to shush the dog. She keeps barking as the voices keep talking. I peek out the window.

A strange, non-descript car is parked on the side street. No people in sight.

Leaving the lights off and my child asleep, I run down the stairs sans glasses, socks or robe. I strain to peer out the first floor windows into blackness.

Where are they? Front yard? Backyard? Alley? Breaking into my car? Approaching my house?

I dial the non-emergency number. A familiar voice answers.

My former neighbor and dear friend is as a dispatcher and just so happens to be on midnights. She stays on the line as two police cars rush to the scene.

Their giant spotlights shine across the fronts of houses, making eerie shadows on the snow. In moments, the officers march four ominous figures back to the car on the side street.

Burglars? Drug dealers? Terrorists?

Then I see one of the guys is carrying something large, flat and plastic. It’s a sled.

We’ve had a few car break-ins recently in the neighborhood, but not this time. On this pitch black morning, so early most of us consider it the middle of the night, four guys decided it would be fun to go sledding in the park across the street from my house.

fearless ferocious

I thank my friend. Praise the dog for her bravery. Trudge back upstairs and to bed. A cacophony of thoughts join me.

I remember skipping down the residential section of Cameron Avenue in Chapel Hill late one night, arm in arm with my best friends, singing I Will Survive at the top of our lungs on our way to a mixer. Some good police officer should have marched us back to the sorority house to study.

I imagine how frightened families must feel in war zones and places of unrest or danger. Listening to voices outside, wondering if at any moment they might burst in.

I think about how it is no coincidence my friend was working at the station that night.  How God never sleeps. How youth is wasted on the young.

How the Beverly Hills Cop theme The Heat is On playing in my head is a terrific song and Axel F is genius. Gradually, gratefully, eventually, I go back to sleep in peace.

I will lie down and sleep in peace, for You alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety. Psalm 4:8 NIV

Hats off to Bob Marley, Gloria Gaynor, Eddie Murphy, Glen Frey and Harold Faltermeyer for the cultural references. Thanks for the memories, guys.

To listen to Harold Faltermeyer’s Axel F on YouTube, click here.

This post was first published on February 25, 2011, here.

Posted on by Aimee

Dangerous Liaisons: A Girl Enters the Blogosphere

A friend alerted me that my blog’s security settings won’t let her post a comment. Oh, the heartbreak of it all.

I write words, not code. This leaves me in the awkward position of being dazed and confused by social media, while madly in love with it too.

Library called. They want their books back now.

Blogger, my current platform, says they have enabled automatic spam detection. Translation: ain’t nothing getting through.

So I thought I would simply adjust my Blogger settings down to make it easier for you to come to the dance. Yeah, right.

I logged in to Blogger Dashboard. That’s IT lingo for site-that-makes-you-think-you-have-some-control-over-your-stuff. I clicked on Comments to change the settings.

Imagine my surprise to discover there is no loosen-up-so-people-can-comment-and-subscribe-without-turning-backflips option. It appears my settings are as loose as they get.

This is only my third post and already I’m considering moving the entire operation to WordPress. Several of my blogging babe heros successfully reside there. See their beautiful sites at Here’s the Diehl and Traveling with the Jones. (Since the time this was first posted, I’ve identified more friends who are blogging babe heros on WordPress like Kellogues,  Minivans Are Hot, and Quiet Gardens, Raging Seas.)

I am enamoured with Blogger’s simplicity. But truth be told, WordPress was my first choice to launch everyday epistle. Even have the name reserved.

So why didn’t I? The WordPress Dashboard looks like spaghetti.

If you can relate to this soap opera, never fear. There’s safety in numbers. We’ll overcome it together.

If on the other hand, you are a social media master, please chime in. Throw out the lifeline before the rest of us drown in RSS feeds and plug-ins.

Stay tuned. If everyday epistle moves to another platform, I hope you will come along. But for now, I’ll keep writing the words that fuel the fire.

be mine

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-3 NIV

Apologies if you have tried unsuccessfully to comment or subscribe. Thanks for staying on. At the risk of breaking blog taboo, my email address is still working last I checked. It’s not interactively ideal, but I’ll get your message. Contact me at everyday epistle dot att dot net.

This post was first published on February 16, 2011, here.

Posted on by Aimee

Ice Ice Baby

fun ice

Unless I can skate on it, put it in a Coke, or wear it in a ring, ice is not my friend.

A little background. Recently several inches of ice fell in St. Louis followed by several inches of snow followed by single digit temps.

Of course it’s all melting now when I want to post this story. Not so a couple days ago when I decided to take the dog for a walk in the neighborhood.

The sun is shining. The sky is blue. We avoid the icy places by hopping between plowed pavement and stretches of snow where our feet can still get some traction.

We’ve walked about a quarter mile from the house. This weather’s not stopping us. We’re going the distance.

Then my dog spots another dog in an electronically fenced yard across the street. Instinctively she is drawn to this irresistible creature.

A little more background. My dog is only 15 pounds or so of cairn terrier. But as Brian Kilcommons and Sarah Wilson write in Paws to Consider: Choosing the Right Dog for You and Your Family, you don’t own a terrier. You live with them.

The leash tightens, I step out, hit the icy sidewalk and boom. Down like dominoes. I land on my behind, my back, my shoulders, and finally crack my head against the hard, frozen ground.

“Ow!” I sit up. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” I say as if anyone else is on the tundra.

Loop ice

Visions of Natasha Richardson come to mind. I’m quite sure I’m going to die. My head aches as I stand. Must get home, must get home.

The dog has other ideas. She digs in her little heels, if dogs even have heels. She insists we go to see the canine w-a-y over there.

“Oh, all right. I guess if I’m going to die today and this is our last walk together, we might as well go where you want.” Yes, I talk to my dog.

“That’s it. We are so moving South. It is craziness to live in this weather. People are not made for this. What were those pioneers thinking?”

We visit the barking mess across the street, the only other witness to my potentially fatal accident. Then we start the walk home in the middle of the cleared road.

“Sure we have some ice in North Carolina, but no one goes out in it. And do you know why? Because they might fall and die, that’s why!”

The dog begins to pull toward a tree.

safety ice

“You’re as spoiled as a child, you know that?”

An eternity later, we make it home. I Google head injuries and call my husband who is in warm Orlando on business, bless his heart. The most interesting things happen when he’s not here.

Once we’ve determined I will probably survive, I hang up and record this episode to share with you.

Then I take a Tylenol and the rest of the day off. Who knows? It could be my last.

Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. James 4:14 NIV

No dogs, children or rappers were harmed in the making of this post. And yes, those are bike helmets.

To see Vanilla Ice’s video Ice Ice Baby on YouTube, click here.

This post was first published on February 14, 2011, here.

Posted on by Aimee 2