Sweet Slice

sweet slice

“Half pound of Sweet Slice ham sliced thin, please.”

Our local grocery chain carries Boar’s Head lunch meats in some of their stores. We’re big fans.

It’s all good, but our favorite is the Sweet Slice. Tastes like Easter.

The clerk prepared my order and handed it to me, wrapped in butcher paper.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I looked at the label: Maple Glazed.

“Uh, this isn’t Sweet Slice. I ordered Sweet Slice ham.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to do it over?”

“No,” I said. “This is okay.” Hated to make her cut it again and waste the deliciousness of Maple Glazed. Like I said, it’s all good.

Life went on as usual. Packed the child’s lunch the next morning. Sent him out into the world. Picked him up at carpool.

Later safe at home, I popped open the lunchbox to discover a nearly untouched ham sandwich. There was evidence of a nibble.

“You didn’t eat your sandwich,” I said.

“Why didn’t you eat your sandwich?” said my husband.

“It’s the ham,” said the child. “I don’t like that kind.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s Boar’s Head ham. It’s Maple Glazed not Sweet Slice, but…”

“It’s not the same,” he said. “Don’t want it.” And off he trotted to shuffle his Pokémon deck.

“How can he tell the difference between Sweet Slice and Maple Glazed?” I said.

“We’ve created a food snob,” said my husband, “with lunch meat.”

No more Maple Glazed, Black Forest, or Virginia ham. I won’t make the mistake of buying anything but Sweet Slice again. Unless I want to eat it by myself.

Have we created a food snob? An inflexible, entitled consumer? I don’t think so. He’s adaptable in other ways. Rolls with the punches and changes of life well.

Perhaps he simply likes his Sweet Slice ham. He’s tasted the good stuff. Met his muse. There’s no settling for less.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. This is just lunch meat. One day it will be weightier things.

He’ll be faced with what to study, what hobbies to pursue, where to work, who to befriend, who to unfriend, who to date (or marry!), who to worship.

Kathy's kitchen (Hi, Brad!)

There’s a lot we don’t get to choose. A lot of areas where we’re responsible to others. We have to compromise or sacrifice. Do what we’d rather not do.

But in the places we do get to choose, how extraordinary to choose the good stuff and pursue it wholeheartedly.

To pursue the good stuff, you have to recognize it. To recognize it, you have to know how it tastes.

And when it comes time to choose, you have to summon the courage to say no to the others, pick the Sweet Slice, and eat your fill.

Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see—
how good God is.
Blessed are you who run to Him. Psalm 34:8 The Message

Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

Disclaimer: I’m not being paid to promote Boar’s Head products. But I’m telling you, it’s some of the best lunch meat ever.

We’ve Been Freshly Pressed!

Hello, subscribers, RSS feed readers, FB friends, and others who are scrolling through. A quick and happy note to share some exciting news.

big red super star

WordPress, my blogging platform, picked up last Friday’s post I Like My Bike for their Freshly Pressed lineup today. Click Freshly Pressed to see for yourself.

I Like My Bike won’t be on the front page for long. If it’s gone when you get there, scroll down and hit the Earlier button. Look for the shiny, purple bike.

Thank you for your readership, comments and encouragement. You’re the best!

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17 NIV

What better song than one of my favorites If I Stand by the brilliant Rich Mullins.

I Like My Bike

Cindy II (not to be confused with my homegirl, the unflappable Cyndi Tew)

This post was featured by WordPress Freshly Pressed on August 31, 2011.

My friend Corey turned 40 this year and announced he would now be living as if he were half his age. I promptly decided to adopt this philosophy.

Of course there are many things I can’t do now that I could do when I was 20.

Well, I may still be able to do them. But just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.

Staying up past a reasonable bedtime? No longer a good idea. Drinking more than an occasional glass of wine? Not good either. Eating half a five-dollar pizza all by myself? No.

There are other things though. Things I haven’t done for many years that are good for me. Enter Cindy.

Cindy was my first bike, complete with a banana seat and streamers on the handle bars. A horse was not in the cards, but I could name a bike just as well.

I received Cindy way before I was 20. Probably around age five or six. I’ll never forget learning to ride that bike. How wonderful it felt to be free and go fast.

Somewhere in the murky years of high school, I gave up bike riding. And skating. And swimming. Fun things I once enjoyed. Why do we do that?

fun on ice…

Then a couple years ago, I decided to take my little boy skating at Steinberg Ice Rink in Forest Park. It was a perfect December day. He was too young to be on the ice for very long. I, however, had a ball.

We went skating again this past winter. He got the hang of balancing and moving at the same time. But all he really wanted to do was spin around in circles and fall and laugh.

We go swimming too. Although momma doesn’t always let her hair get wet, the water is like a long-lost friend.

…and in water

When my husband received a reward certificate with an option to redeem for a bike, I lobbied. I had my eye on a sleek, expensive model at Big Shark Bicycle Company in the Loop. But a free bike? We had nothing to lose.

My son was as excited as I was when the bike arrived in a big box last week. We unpacked it, all shiny and purple.

He helped my husband put it together. Insists I wear my helmet as we ride around the neighborhood.

When I’m with him, we go slowly. He’s still learning. When I’m alone, I fly.

Someday I hope he’ll fly beside me and know what I remember. How wonderful it feels to be free and go fast.

good night, sweetheart!

So, I’m all for just going ahead and having a good time—the best possible. The only earthly good men and women can look forward to is to eat and drink well and have a good time—compensation for the struggle for survival these few years God gives us on earth. Ecclesiastes 8:15 The Message

Be free, go fast, and meet me back here next week!

How could I forget to mention the bicycle is a good invention?

Birds on a Ledge

Stroll through the city with me. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.

Down along the river. Across the bridge then back again. It’s early evening and quiet here. Silent compared to the bustling day.

Look up to the top ledge of a building. Under the signage, still unlit as the sun begins its descent. What are those dots against the concrete? Is that dentil molding? Decorative relief?

One dot moves near the middle. Then a flutter far right, a quiver to the left. They’re birds. Hundreds of them perched in a row across the building. Lined up one by one on the ledge.

image by wili_hybrid via flickr under creative commons license

In comes another, furiously flapping.

“Make room! Make room!” beat his wings.

And they do make room. Comfortably he is enveloped in the rest as if he’d always had a place.

Another lands. And another. One leaves, diving off the edge and lifting up. More come. Some go. Most stay.

The evening sky reaches above the building and the ledge and the ones resting. It’s filled with dots. Thousands more birds in endless, circling flight.

There are plenty of high buildings here, plenty of ledges to make for safe rows. Room enough to keep them all.

Come settle, little flying ones. Break from your wandering journeys, your weary circling and dipping and floating away. Come. Land. Many find rest. And still there is room.

“The servant reported back, ‘Master, I did what you commanded—and there’s still room.'” Luke 14:22 The Message, from a parable of Jesus

Landed by North Carolinian Ben Folds. If the piano alone doesn’t move you, please check your pulse.

This post is in fond memory of Dr. George Worrell.

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

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.

Perestroika at 35,000 Feet

my new friend

“It’s hard living between airplanes,” said the stranger sitting next to me.

I had the window seat. He had the middle. No one had the end seat, but he didn’t move. He reached out with conversation.

“Do you live in Charlotte?” he said.

“No, I used to live in North Carolina. I’m just visiting this trip.”

“Do you know the university in North Carolina?” he said.

“UNC-Charlotte?” I said.

“I don’t know what it’s called,” he said. “I can go there for my graduate degree.”

“There are a lot of good schools in North Carolina,” I said. “What will you study?”

The stranger introduced himself. Said he was studying recreational therapy in Illinois. Hoped to do graduate work so he could train other therapists in Saudi Arabia. Recreational therapists are in demand there, even more so instructors to train them.

Before school, he’d organized conferences to educate Saudi companies about the internet. Showed me pictures of the events on his iPhone. Seemed impressed I have a blog. The flight attendant gave us dirty looks.

Showed me pictures of his two little boys and his beautiful wife. Said her name means scent of flowers.

He’d left them in Saudi Arabia to come to the United States to study. Left his former work to pursue American degrees that would give him job security as an instructor in his own country. He missed his family and would travel more than 20 hours on four flights to see them.

blind freedom

“Dubai is not just a city,” he said as we looked at his vacation pictures.

“Forgive me, but are those Christmas trees in the hotel lobby?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Isn’t Dubai in a Muslim country?” I said. “They have Christmas trees?”

“You have your beliefs. We have ours. No reason to fight about them,” he said. “The vacationers come for Christmas holiday.”

My new friend may be Saudi, but that sure sounded American.

He showed me apps to get free phone calls, text messaging, and voice reminders. Then more free apps to book flights or turn my iPhone into a flashlight or a piano. The refreshment cart passed us by.

He’s learning English. The writing comes hard. His iPhone is full of SAT and GRE vocab apps. We played them with abandon. Well, I played.

“You are so fast at these word games!” he said.

“I’ve been learning English all my life,” I said. “You’ll get it.”

“You know Mubarak?” he said. “The guy in Egypt?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Obama’s advisors called Mubarak because he’s won so many ‘elections’ in Egypt. They wanted him to help with the next election here.”

“Okay,” I said now hooked.

“Mubarak agreed to let his advisors work on the election here,” he said. “After it was over, Obama called Mubarak and cursed him. Mubarak asked Obama what was wrong. Obama cursed him more. So Mubarak told Obama to put Mubarak’s advisors on the phone.”

“And?” I said.

“Mubarak’s advisors were so happy. They said to Mubarak, ‘We won! We won! Congratulations, Mr. President!'”

Cheers to my new friend, wherever you are.

For the Lord is high above the nations;
His glory is higher than the heavens. Psalm 113:4 NLT

long may she wave

Perestroika is Russian for restructuring.

Dear sweet 1984, we didn’t know the Cold War years were the good old days. Thanks for leaving us 99 Luftballoons by Nena.

Saudis in America

While writing this post I watched Saudis in America, a short documentary by Saudi filmmaker Fahmi F. Farahat (2007).

There are no easy answers. Although I disagreed with some opinions expressed in the film, it makes good food for thought. Catch the interview with Farahat on the extras.

In Defense of Flip-Flops

image from amazon.com

Two of my favorite FashionMisters, Tim Gunn and Clinton Kelly, have this thing about flip-flops. Both admit to wearing them, just not out.

Gunn discusses “the flip-flop phenomenon” in “Tim Gunn: A Guide to Quality, Taste & Style: “Where is this taking our society and culture other than into a long and winding fashion decline (2007, p. 26)?”

In his book “Oh No She Didn’t,” Kelly shows a pile of flip-flops burning the way books burned in Fahrenheit 451.

When it comes to comfort clothing, Gunn explains, “The key is not being dressy. The key is being appropriate (“Gunn’s Golden Rules,” 2010, p. 116).”

image from amazon.com

Makes sense. Gunn and Kelly spend a lot of time in New York where flip-flops are not appropriate.

Who knows when you might run into Sarah Jessica Parker or The Donald or a dead rat. Those three are different how, you ask? I jest about the similarities between them, but when we lived in Chicago, the latter nearly happened to me.

As soon as my husband and I arrived, I set forth scouring the Windy City for an apartment to rent. It was freezing. When they say cooler by the lake, they don’t mean Bartles & Jaymes. Had to wear my winter coat. In June.

But Chicago weather is almost as unpredictable as St. Louis weather. Soon the temperature tables turned, the sun came out, and my coat was sidelined.

Warm and happy, I went apartment hunting one morning in a little dress, sunglasses and flip-flops. Adept at walking while reading a map, I was in Streeterville when I became particularly distraught. I’d gone to see an apartment only to get the leasing agent’s cold shoulder. May have been the flip-flops.

as seen at Old Navy

I stumbled onto Ohio Street, got my bearings, put my map in front of my face, and by golly, I marched on. Trudge, trudge, trudge in the sunshine. Look ahead, look at the map. Look right, look and the map. Look left…

On the other side of the street, five burly construction workers were lined up on the sidewalk smiling at me. Not in a hound dog way. More in a ready to bust a seam way.

Being Southern, I smiled back and looked down to make sure all was in order. My gaze landed on the pavement just in time.

There on the sidewalk in front of me was the largest, bloodiest, deadest rat I’d ever seen. It had been run over once, and I was about to barrel over it again in my flip-flops.

This may be the real reason why Gunn and Kelly do not wear their flip-flops out. In which case, they should amend their books.

Admit it, guys. There are plenty of places where flip-flops are perfectly appropriate. It’s in places like New York and Chicago that you must closet the flip-flops, keep your chin up, and always, always watch your step.

“…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

Recently discovered The Kinks’ Dedicated Follower of Fashion playing in my favorite store. J Crew, you complete me

image from www.flippincute.blogspot.com

Flip-flops are my friend Erika’s business.

Her company flippin’ cute! infinitely customizes them with your choice of colors, monograms and teams. Imagine them in school or sorority colors. Or itty bitty for little girls. Brides have even worn them in weddings. (Can you hear Clinton and Tim screaming?)

Priced from $15-$25, they’re an affordable luxury. See more at www.flippincute.blogspot.com.

I’m Looking Over

A four-leaf clover.

Spotted it yesterday in an overgrown field in the middle of nowhere. Was wondering to myself, “Huh. In all these clovers, there must be one with four leaves.”

Looked down, and there it was.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I thought.

Nope. This is no joke. This is what I found. And now you’ve found it too.

Thanks for reading. Let this be your lucky day.

We may throw the dice,
but the Lord determines how they fall. Proverbs 16:33 NLT

I’ve linked to this before; it’s such a great song. Enjoy Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat again.

Going to Ground

at attention

The park is quiet. Only me and the dog in the early morning dew.

My dog is a lowrider. Stands about a foot high. Doesn’t know it and wouldn’t believe it if I told her.

A squirrel climbs the overgrown honeysuckle hedge. My dog doesn’t notice much above eye level. She’s focused on the game about to begin.

I palm a tennis ball, neon green. She crouches, leans back and springs, breaking into full speed before I have thrown the ball.

Whizz! She runs past me, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

My arm swings back, then forward and release! Straight and low as if bowling. The ball flies silently, lands out in front of her, bounces and rolls.

She catches up. Overtakes it. Talks trash. Growling and complaining. Attacking. The bloodless prey is caught. It fills her mouth. She claspes it between her teeth, smiling.

No fetch with this dog. No jumping for the frisbee or turning flips in the air. No herding sheep or children. No crazed obsession with water.

Her line is European, bred to hunt vermin in the rock pile cairns of Scotland. Rabbits, weasels, moles and voles, rats and field mice. Go to ground. Corner them in their burrows. Fight to the death. It’s what she’s born to do.

We aren’t in Scotland. We’re in St. Louis. There are no cairns to climb here. No ancient Grendel-like rodents to pick off as bagpipes hum and drums beat sharp. Only a park with an open field of grass, clover and dandelions.

It’s illegal for her to be off lead. But we hunt this high country alone. Our crime goes unwitnessed by human eyes.

Victorious she drops the dead ball. Runs full bore past me again. I pull back and bowl another ball out in front of her, neon pink this pitch.

unlikely carrion

Again and again we repeat the jig until she collapses and sprawls in the wet grass. She pants and licks the blades, selectively chewing the sweetest ones.

I jog out to retrieve the unlikely carrion. I hold them as gingerly as a collection of arrowheads, a cache of unpublished posts.

Soon she pricks her ears. Makes eye contact. “Throw it, mama. Throw it!”

It’s exercise. Good to keep her spry. More than that though, the hunt is on.

Soon we’ll take the hill and head back up to the house, our short legs muddied with earth. We’ll trot across the yard, through the gate, unlock the back door. We’ll drink long laps of water from a stainless steel bowl. Lie on our sides on the cool floor. Now still and able to settle.

frog on guard

God arms me with strength, and He makes my way perfect. Psalm 18:32 NLT 

Bold hearts and nodding plumes
Wave o’er their bloody tombs.
Deep-eyed in gore is the green tartan’s wave.
Shivering are the ranks of steel,
Dire is the horseman’s wheel,
Victorious in battlefield, Scotland the Brave!

Special thanks for help finding the song goes to Laura H., a most remarkable woman who also happens to play the bagpipes.

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…

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.