Confessions of a Snorer's Wife

Dear Diary,

My first 20-or-so years of marriage have been blissfully absent of snoring, the cause of so many spousal spats and fitful nights for other couples.  But in recent years, my husband -- God bless him-- has developed some upper respiratory problems which affect his nighttime breathing.

Now, my evening's repose includes sounds ranging from a purring Chewbacca, to an angry sow, to a monotone dolphin, whistling through its blowhole. It is an unwelcome cacophony as I try to get my well-deserved rest at the end of my day.

Being the genteel person that I am, I do not do what I envision some wives may, which is to straddle their husband, take him by the neck, and shake him awake while yelling, "Stop making all that racket!" 

But that scenario is purely speculation on my part.

No, no.  I take a much more passive aggressive approach. Subtle. Innocuous. That's me.

The goal is to startle my husband enough to change his sleeping position and/or interrupt his sleep cycle so that his breathing/snoring changes. Even the methodic sound of Darth Vader's asthmatic breathing beside me would be a balm to my ears at 1 a.m. 

Here are some of my coping mechanisms.

• The cough.  Utter a well-timed quick, loud sound, such as a cough or yelp, to startle the snorer.
• The position change.  This entails shifting my body in such a way as to create a large bounce or jiggle in the mattress, allowing physics to carry the energy to his side, thus giving him a cushioned jolt. This also can be accompanied by a cough and an exhuberant fluffing of the pillow.  Well, really more like a punching of the pillow..... 
  Note: Having changed to a Sleep Number bed, this technique is not as effective.  You know, wine glass... bowling ball....
• Bodily contact.  This includes a quick jab of the elbow or kick with the toes.  It is not meant to be prolonged, but enough to startle the snorer without making him aware that his spouse just performed an act of aggression on him.  Sometimes the act can be accompanied by an innocent sounding "Sorry, honey."
• The earplugs.  This is my last resort before changing bedrooms.  It is a last resort because I don't like them. 
  First, it goes against all my motherly instincts.  I have three children and a dog.  What if they need me in the night and I can't hear their terrified pleas for help, their inconsolable cries for mama? OK. I may be exaggerating.
  Next, once inserted, said earplugs allow me to hear, well, nothing, except for my own breathing and swallowing.  Magnified.  Kinda weird. 
  Last, the earplugs serve as a nice quiet backdrop for my tinnitus to come screaming into my consciousness. 
  Bottom line, it takes a lot of effort for me to relax with earplugs in.

Which leaves me with the last resort: The guest bed.  This is effective only if the bed is made up.

Which reminds me, it's time to take the sheets out of the dryer,
LJ

What's in a Name?

Dear Diary,

This is not a big deal.  But then I guess most of my posts aren't a big deal. 

I consider myself the female blogging counterpart to Jerry Seinfeld's "TV show about nothing." 
I do like to find the lesson or humor in otherwise ordinary things. (Though I think Jerry's focus was only on the humor.)

In the past year I have come across two names that have never left me.  My impression was not necessarily for the person behind the name (because I don't know them), but for the name itself.  I just thought they were the coolest names ever.

First, the girl's name:

Tessa

 

How does this seem both old fashioned and so modern at the same time?  I came across it while reading a post she wrote as a guest on a blog I read often. In commenting on her post, I had to throw in my admiration for it.  Had I come across this name several years ago, I could be mothering a child of the same alias.

 

OK, now the boy's name.  It is what I believe to be the ultimate in masculinity.  Maybe it's because it takes an already macho name like "Dave" and couches it inside testosterone-filled prefixes and suffixes. 

 

Jadeveon

[Juh-DAY-vee-un]

 

I had heard this name on the radio, in reference to an up-and-coming football player at USC.  When I heard this name I was struck by two things.  The creative first name, and the way it acts as an antidote for this guy's really, uh, joke-of-a-last name. 

 

Because the name Jadeveon Clowney is an oxymoron, agreed?

 

Of course most of us have stories of why we are named the way we are.  Mine came about because my dad was a teacher and he wanted a name that didn't remind him of any of his students. 
I know, so nostalgic, right?

 

Sometimes I get fancy with my name and spell it out, rather than using just two initials.

 

That said, I remain always,

El Jay

PS Go ahead and comment on cool names you like!

What Were They Thinking?

Dear Diary,

It is mid-summer.  The heat has kicked in. 
Even the dog abbreviates his beloved pastime of barking at the lawn mower to find quiet rest in the shade.

It is time to look forward to my vacation, the timing of which will mark summer's end and the beginning of a new school and work year.

In the midst of planning this getaway, I envision sweet time spent with the family:  no homework, no practices, no distractions, no work.
Period. 
The hardest job on this trip will be to decide where to eat our next meal.

That said, last week, I heard the most appalling, shocking, and yet so laughable, advertisement on the radio.  Really.  I thought it was a farce at first.

It was a dialogue between a husband and a wife who were on vacation, promoting an IT (information technology) networking product which "keeps you connected to your work wherever you go."  [It is unfortunate I can't find a link to the ad itself.]

The advertisers decided that using a vacation setting with the wife and kids was a great way to promote this technology.

The jovial wife is so happy her hard-working husband can stay connected to his work, even while blowing up the kids' water toys, and during their additional day-cruise.

I realize that, here in the 21st century, the Internet has created a "smaller" world, and is creating workaholics nationwide. But----

Who markets their products to disrupt perhaps the most sacred of family traditions? 
The time when wives most nag their husbands to get off their phones and off their laptops!  (And so as not to be sexist, here, perhaps husbands do some nagging too?  Nah.)

I have a husband who needs to be connected to his work, who travels worldwide, and needs to be reachable at all hours of the day.  So I understand a product like this can be useful. But NOT during vacation. 
No way.
Nuh-uh.

As I get reservations made and itineraries set up for my little family trip, I find this ad quite laughable. 

Yet somehow I'm not laughing,
LJ

Candy Jars and Florida Rooms

Dear Diary,
I'll be forthright.  This post is mostly for my own indulgence. 

I had quite the trip down memory lane the other day -- no, literally, I was driving, so I was on a literal trip that took a figurative turn down memory lane.

I drove past a home that triggered my earliest childhood memories of visiting grandma and grandpa's house when I was still in the single-digit age.

In my early childhood, I actually had the benefit of having both sets of grandparents in the same 'hood.  So if we visited one, we usually got to see the other too. (And we got to walk down the block to church, where my granddad was the pastor!  So novel!)

Seeing this house immersed me into a daydream about my grandparents' homes and what I remembered, tangibly, about each one....

Climbing the backyard fruit trees and playing outside in the concrete window well.

The room the adults oddly called the Florida Room, but my young mind was confused at this label since we were in the middle of the Midwest!  I can still smell the vinyl from the indoor/outdoor furniture in that room, and remember listening to the ocean from a conch on an end table.  (Yes, the room does seem obviously named, but you aren't seven years old, either.)

I remember a special stool in the kitchen we cousins would sit on, and loved the icy-cold feeling of an aluminum cup in my mouth, which offered up water or lemonade on a hot summer day.

My other grandparent's home had the water bed.  A jiggly, gurgly, rockin' and rollin' kind of bed from the '70s, which really could make a kid nauseous trying to sleep on it. Even reaching to scratch an itch could cause a tidal wave effect for the surfers sleepers.

I remember drinking Pepsi at this house. We were Coke and Tab kind of people so Pepsi was such a fizzy, sweet treat!  My grandparents had a fridge where ice and water came out of the door!  That was a novelty to me. 

I also remember the green glass candy jar with chewy, sugar coated jellies in it.  The fragile nature of the jar ensured I had to ask an adult for candy, rather than sneaking one myself.  I am the lucky owner of that jar now.

I also remember a naked lady lamp.  Well, maybe in my maturity I would now call it tabletop Greco Roman light-up art.  A Grecian style female was the centerpiece, surrounded by 360 degrees of wire pillars, which dripped beads of oil so it looked like water was constantly raining down around her.  I remember it glowed a soft yellow and I couldn't resist touching a drop of oil occasionally. 

I am not the owner of that piece of memorabilia.  (Maybe my brother nabbed it?)

I was so lost in thought on my trip down memory lane that I emerged from my past only when I found myself pulling into my present day driveway. Ever wonder how you got from Point A to Point B sometimes?

For folks blessed enough to grow up with visits to grandma's house, I hope this instigates candy jar and Florida Room memories of your own!

And if you still are reading this,
thank you for indulging me.

LJ

His Story - My Story

Dear Diary,

Recently I read an article about the deeds of a tattoo artist.

I never thought it would put a tear in my eye.

The reasons for my emotions are two-fold. 
     #1-- His story is a cool one. 
     #2 --I want to have a story like that.

His Story
You wouldn't know it by looking at him but tattoo artist Chris Baker, a well-inked, tough-looking dude ya wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, actually has a heart for the less fortunate.

A year ago he had an idea: to cover or remove the branding tattoos of former gang members and sex trafficking victims at no charge.  A year since, his idea was so well-received he was invited to attend the US State Department's international meeting on Trafficking Persons.  His idea, coming from a talent he already has, and from a heart that reflects his love of God, has grown bigger than anything he thought possible, and has resulted in his founding of a ministry called Ink 180.

My Story
Chris and I share a love for Jesus and a desire to help the less fortunate.  But that is where the similarities end.  He and I don't share the same talent.  It has taken me decades to figure out what mine are, and I still only have general ideas.  I feel like a "jack of all trades but master of none." 

When I read a success story like this one, my emotions are at play because Chris embodies (tats and all) an ideal I want to live up to:
An everyday gal using her resources and talents she already owns, to share her blessings and somehow provide a better life to others in the name of Jesus.

Don't get me wrong.  I am not going around searching for the meaning of life. 
I like what I do, and I know it is worthwhile. 
And my ministry to my family is foremost and has been full of successes and blessings indeed.
But reading stories like Chris's gives me an itch.  A desire that there is more I could or should be doing.

I believe the most golden ideas are simple ones; ones that use the resources and talents already at hand, like Chris did. 

It is a special person, indeed, that must move mountains to get the job done.  That person I will never become.

Which is why I love reading about the everyday guy or gal who whispers an idea in his basement, only for it to grow into a voluminous shout to the persons who matter.

Idealistically yours,
LJ

My Scary Shoes

Dear Diary,
Today I have a visual aid.

This is typical shoe "cacophony" just outside my mudroom.  Notice the nice shoe cubbies in the background my hubby made.  (Should have made twice as many!)  A family of five generates a lot of shoe litter!

But I digress.

There is something in this picture that gives me sweaty palms and tightens my throat with fear.

See those white-ish, softly worn tennis shoes in the foreground?

They scare me.

I was cleaning out the shoe cubbies several weeks ago and uncovered them.

I'd never seen them before.  Where did they come from?
Based on the coat of dirt on them and worn look, they had been worn plenty. 

I set about locating their owner, but alas, like Cinderella's step-sisters, the shoe didn't fit any family members. I was the Cinderella!

I tried to make an excuse for their existence in my house, like, maybe a friend left them here by mistake.  Yeah, and absentmindedly went home in stocking feet?  Don't think so.

Panic began to well up in my chest.  I investigated further.
They are a brand sold by Walmart.  Well, I could have possibly purchased them since I am not above buying shoes at Walmart.

Yet I don't recall ever buying them, much less ever wearing them.
That is why they scare me.

They have since been reluctantly adopted by me as outside shoes.  I wear them when I do manual labor, like mowing, gardening, etc.  They are sturdy and dirty -- great for digging holes!

But I shudder every time I slide each foot into its gaping mouth and tie the laces.
Because they are a reminder that I think I am slowly
losing
my
mind.

Unwittingly yours,
LJ

P.S.  If anyone is missing a pair of size 8.5 shoes with the likeness above, give me a call!

Life in the Twilight Zone

Dear Diary,

The last two times I turned on the TV, something oddly coincidental happened.  Odd, because they were unexpected and unusual events, and coincidental, because they happened while I was watching a show that directly reflected, or foreshadowed, the incident.  Let me explain.

The first coincidence happened yesterday while hangin' with my two teens and a friend who brought over her collection of Alfred Hitchcock.  We adults decided it was time to introduce the girls to this classic, suspenseful director.  Rather than start with his widely known film, "Psycho," we decided to ease into the genre with "The Birds." 

About half way through the feature, there was a knock at my front door.  It was a late matinee so it was still daylight.  I opened the door to my neighbor, who asked, "Are you missing a white parakeet?" 

"Can I borrow your wheelbarrow?" is really the question I would have expected. 
Or "Can I have my power sprayer back?" 

But never, "Are you missing a white parakeet?"

So we paused the movie, with its murderous, pecking flocks of seagulls and crows, in order for me to investigate my neighbor's parakeet find, sitting atop his roof.  It was pretty-- white with blue breast -- but it wasn't going to be caught.  It flew to a nearby tree, looking down on us with suspicion and curiosity (Yes, truly! I have been a parakeet owner for eight years, I know their looks!) 

I shared with our neighbor the irony of watching "Birds" at that moment. 
It was kinda creepy, actually.

Fast forward to this morning.  I had the luxury of few hours to myself. This was ME time!  But I chose to do something real exciting like cleaning and picking up the weekend debris.  So I treated myself to a little TV time while I worked; you know, to instill some entertaining drivel into my dreary chores.

I turned on "Let's Make a Deal," the show where Wayne Brady tells a lucky contestant he can have what is in The Box....or behind Curtain Number 1! 

While washing the dishes and watching the negotiations for the cash-in-hand or the envelope marked "Volcano," I got a phone call. 

It was from my current employer.
Telling me my past position was no longer available.
Telling me I could take this other job she proceeded to describe.

Or I could turn it down.
And take all the risks associated with turning down the only job offer I have.

The cash in hand.
Or the curtain.
That is my choice.

That is irony.

So while I believe that TV reflects life, I have to look at these back-to-back, coincidental "life-reflecting-TV" moments as anomalies.  And I will be praying that it will become clear which curtain to choose.

But at the risk of sounding superstitious, I will be really careful of the TV program I choose to watch next. 

Any suggestions?

LJ

Too Much!

Dear Diary,

I'll just come right out with it:  I have too much stuff. 
And by I, I mean we - my family.

Even with the best intentions, I cannot satisfactorily weed out enough stuff.  I hang on to things "just in case." 

Just in case I shrink two sizes.
Just in case I need a box that size.
Just in case I paint the walls again and it fits into the new-old color scheme.
Just in case my husband can fix the little doohickey that's broken.

While staring at my piles, I started obsessing over the phrase too much.
It can turn seemingly normal activities into ugly scenarios.

Drinking (too much)
Eating (too much)
Talking (too much)
Sleeping (too much)
Working (too much)

Ok, so what if I use positive words/actions? Will that make too much any better?  Let's try:

Playing (too much)
Laughing (too much)
Singing (too much)
Partying (too much)
Kissing (too much)

Nope.  Too much is negative verbiage even with wonderful words.

What if I use too much with a good thing?

Nope again. 
Too much of a good thing is still too much.

So, despite my inner desire to justify having too much stuff, I haven't been successful in proving that too much is not a bad thing.

But I'll keep trying.
Because I want to keep my stuff.
Just in case.

LJ

Dressing Room Moments

Dear Diary,

Today let's get beyond the magnifying mirror suctioned to my vanity (read A Beauty-filled Season), and go straight for the full length version, multiplied by three for multi-angled viewing!  (Have you ever seen that mirror room in "What Not to Wear?"  Ooh, gives me the willies!)

I'm talking about dressing rooms.  Rooms which, up until this year, I didn't have too much of a problem being in.  Where trying on cute dresses and tops and crops really was a fun experience.  Until I grew a size bigger. 

Recently I shopped the racks for at least half an hour, and with optimism and excitment at my finds, brought several summery outfits into the dressing room, only to take off every piece in discouragement. 
Why was nothing fitting right? 
Oh, gee, could it be I was shopping last year's size? 
This is a new year and a new size, sistah!
In fact, not to brag, but I am the heaviest I have ever been outside of pregnancy.
IMG!

Returning to the rack to browse a larger dress size had deflated any sense of fun this spree had brought me.
It was a tight-throated, purse-lipped experience. 
Go ahead, purse your lips right now. 
Brings on the tight throat and bleak outlook doesn't it? 
That is when shopping -- and the dressing room -- became a thing no longer desirable.

Call it middle-age spread, or slower metabolism, or just plain weight gain, it all means the same thing.  No matter the person, to "graduate" into the next size up is not an accomplishment to be relished.

These days, though my left brain is telling me, Don't eat another cookie! or Get up and get some exercise!, my right brain is trying to find a less "painful" way to make try-ons a more positive experience.  And I think I have it figured out. 

The next time I take a trip to that dreaded room dressing room, I will have on some emotional
(under)armor to protect me from that image in the three-way mirror.

It's called Spanx.

See you at the next foundation sale!
LJ

P.S.  Here are some other random dressing room moments.

• One of my girls lost her first tooth in a Target dressing room. I think I was trying on shorts.
• During one of my more recent and discouraging dressing room experiences (trying on several pairs of black shorts with my pasty white thighs decorated with squiggly purple lines is not a day brightener), I got a text from my daughter that our pet parakeet, Jayda, had finally chirped his last. I've mentioned my brave, feathered 'keet in Lessons from a Bird Brain. Little did I know in September that the cause of his initial lameness was a tumor growing in his abdomen. It caused many problems at the end. Now we are all at peace. And I am managing to get through the early summer season without any black shorts.

IMG!

Dear Diary,

I know it's been awhile since I've written, but that "IMG" is not a typo. 

Sure, we are all familiar with the texting shortcut OMG, which I only use as a form of "OMGosh" due to its breaking the third commandment, and by the time I write that all out it's really not making anything short for me anyway.... 

OK, back to topic:
IMG is my new slang acronym meaning Inward Mental Groan.

IMG describes those times you internally exclaim your displeasure at a situation without letting anyone around you in on your secret.  Perhaps you even have a smile on your face during an IMG (otherwise known as IMGWS - inward mental groan with a smile).  Here are some examples of times an IMG may pop up.

• Driving my car in slow traffic-- lets say, approaching a stoplight during rush hour.  Then ending up stopped in the path of an exit, perhaps a gas station, with three cars waiting to get out into the lane I am occupying.  IMG!  (Well, if it's me you are trying to get in front of, people, maybe I'll smilingly let one car out! IMGWS!)
• Discovering I am missing an ingredient in a recipe after I started making it.  IMG! No, wait, I actually whine and complain noisily on that one!
• Watching a friend's toddler walk through (literally) my screen door that was just re-screened....not that that really happened. At least not recently.  IMGWS!
• Waiting until payday to buy those cute shoes only to find out they are now at regular price and no longer at last week's bargain price. (Or leaving all my shopping coupons at home on the counter.) IMG!
• Reading a great book only to find a cliffhanger at the end. IMG!  And then having to go on a waiting list to get the next in the series.  Double IMG!
• Repeating a song ending fourteen times during church.  IMGWS!  (For the record, that would never happen at my church!)
• Suck ups.  IMG!

I think that conveys the idea.  I know there are more.  Anyone want to share their IMG moments?

Happy to be writing again!
LJ

Post Mother's Day Post

Dear Diary,

It is the Monday after Mother's Day.

The day when -- after a blessed day off -- mothers everywhere get back to
loading dishwashers,
making dinner,
changing diapers,
folding laundry,
and eating breakfast at the kitchen counter (or over the sink) instead of in bed.

In church yesterday (btw, I like having Mother's Day on Sunday.  Church is a good place to be on this day.) I confirmed something that I had only suspected was true.  I just needed to know I wasn't the only one who does this.  Now I know.

The two pews in front of me were occupied by mostly women of childbearing age and beyond, along with a baby or two thrown in.  A generous new mommy was "baby sharing" and allowing her little one to be passed into the eager hands of the women around her.
And then, half-way through the service, I saw it. 
One woman in the bunch, who wasn't holding a baby at the time, was doing something she didn't even know she was doing. 

The phantom baby sway.

That natural movement females adapt when within the vicinity of a child under two years of age.  Not actually holding a child, mind you.  Just standing alone, swaying those hips as if to lull the phantom child on them to complacency.
I think it is a pheromone thing. I don't know.

I have caught myself doing it. 
In the middle of a prayer I suddenly become self aware. Why am I swaying?  I peek through my reverently closed lids.  Oh, there is an infant two pews up that has been detected by my mommy radar.  Say no more.

(OK, stop judging me for thinking this during prayer time.  It happens.)

At the time I didn't know if this baby swaying behavior with no baby on board was normal behavior.  I sure stopped as soon as I caught myself.  Am I the only one who does this? I must look silly!

So I felt validated yesterday, when I spotted this woman doing the baby sway with no baby at hand.  Aha!  I am not the only one!   It's natural!  God must have just built that little quirk into our extremely complicated female physiology.

I am not advocating peeking around church during prayer or confession time.  But the next time I see a woman doing the phantom baby sway, I will thank God for giving us people who have a knack for mothering.

And for goodness sake, I will tell her to stop swaying.  She looks silly.

Happy belated Mother's Day!
LJ

1-2-3's of Parenting; A Lesson in Bravery

Dear Diary,
I recently read a post, written by a wonderful friend, on the topic of Bravery.  Her topic got me thinking about how brave acts aren't just those extreme antics in which I rarely participate (does my Extreme Vacation count?), but they can also be found in daily occurrences.

Scheduling the dreaded mammogram,  talking with your child's teacher about problems at school, sticking up for a friend or coworker, sending out job applications, riding in the car with a 15-year-old at the wheel, and disciplining your children, are just a few of these daily acts of bravery. 

Over the years I have been asked about (and/or complimented on) my childrens' behavior.  Educators, family and friends, church acquaintances, and even strangers at restaurants would say, "My, your girls are well behaved.  My kids would be all over the place."

I don't like to preach, but today I am stepping out in bravery to do so.  (Or perhaps this could be viewed as a little motherly advice, which so often unwittingly sounds like preaching, doesn't it?) 

My kids are older now, with my youngest at age 10.  These things were more relevant in my household when they were little: toddler through early primary grades, the "formative years." 

So if you are in a place where you could use my parenting advice, be brave and continue reading. Otherwise, skip to the Wrap Up!

There are two things that were key to my well-behaved children.

First, when a child was exhibiting inappropriate behavior, I expected them to respond to my command the first time I asked. 

"Daughter, stop jumping on the couch." 

If the child continued, I might ask a second time (with a middle name thrown in for emphasis), but no more. 

I set high expectations for my girls:  good grades, respect for others, obedience.  It takes a special kid to be motivated to behave above and beyond any low expectations that was set for him/her.  That's why my expectations are high.

I have a little confession.  The use of what I call the "1-2-3 Method" drives me a teensy bit crazy.  You know what I mean by the 1-2-3 Method -- where an adult gives a child time to decide whether or not to obey by counting to three (or five or ten).

If a parent resorts to cajoling a disobedient child, and then ends up using the 1-2-3 Method, who is really in control? I am no Lehman or Freud, but it doesn't take an appearance on Dr. Oz to figure out the answer.

I have two premises to this advice.  I assume the child can 1) hear me and 2) understand the language I am speaking. 

Repeating oneself, coaxing, and giving them time, is well, giving the child control.  I have even worked with hard of hearing children and even they can understand a command (in their language) the first time! 

It takes bravery to follow through on the consequences when a child doesn't listen the first time.  I will leave that aspect up to you. But as was the case in our home, it has payoff.  Big time.  To the point where even strangers notice.

There may be parents who say, well that may have worked for you but that won't work for us. To them I say, feel free to share what is working for you!  I'm sure there are parents out there who find the 1-2-3 Method "works" for them. I am not writing to change your ways.  Just stating what worked for me.

The second key is an easier one.
Transitions can be hard for kids.  To go from one activity to the next with no warning might make a child rebel (tantrum, whine, argue).  Many parents transition their kids, and I am all about that.  Give a child a warning that in  ___  minutes we will (be going to the store, finishing with TV, going to bed) or whatever.  Then stick to it and don't let them sucker you into "just a few more minutes," at least not regularly!

Wrap Up
It takes bravery to be a good parent.

But brave acts of any kind can result in appreciating life on a whole new level.

What are your everyday acts of bravery?

Courageously yours,
LJ

The Thing's the Thing

Dear Diary,
I am wondering what is happening to the brain cells of my family members.  Are they vanishing because we are nearing the end of the school year, the finish line looming before us, waiting to be crossed at break-neck speed -- except we checked our brains out at the last mile marker?

For example, I recently overheard a statement from daughter #2 the other day that went something like this:  "You need to get the thingy-thing and put it over there on the thing."  (To which daughter #3 would say, "I know, right?")

OK, that's cute the first time.
But saying "the thingy" or "the thingy-thing" is becoming the thing in her normal conversation.

A couple of asides:
1.  I actually understand what she means most of the time, and
2.  Hearing it several times a week has inspired me to change my "What?" to "Whaty-what?"  At least that's what the voice in my head wants to say.

I will use the phrase "totes adorbs" just to give my girls a reason to roll their eyes at me, but otherwise I try to use my middle-age brain cells to form a cohesive sentence most of the time.

However, some of the phonetic faux pas stories I have told my daughters over the years are coming back to bite me.  Recently, when sitting down to dinner, daughter #1 reminded me of one such story from when I was her age.  Her three-word statement was a dig at my story of mistaking the word ravishing for ravenous, which, at the time, made for quite the brouhaha when I announced exuberantly to the family at the dinner table, "I'm sooo ravishing!"

These are the things our families don't let us live down.  Even, apparently, after you have started your own.

OK, so I've migrated a little off topic, but just know that as the days get warmer and the count to the final day of school gets smaller, the brain cells in our household become neglected, which, I guess, is our way of preparing our minds and bodies for the lazy days of summer.

When all nouns get replaced by a creative form of the word "thing."

Linguistically yours,
LJ

Pie Charts and Tally Marks

Dear Diary,

It's all I can do to not raise my hand.

The second grade teacher asks a question about the picture chart.  "How many more pepperoni pizzas were made than cheese?"  The kids aren't getting it.  They raise their hands to answer but just can't quite figure it out. 

Ooooh. Pick me! Pick me! I know the answer! I think to myself. 

I love this math. It is so much fun!  I would love to be able to show the class how smart I am.

But this is not a flashback to my childhood.
This is now.
I am an adult.
An aide, sitting in a second grade classroom, watching a lesson about charts and graphs unfold on the overhead screen in front of me and 25+ eight-year-olds. 

And I want to raise my hand.

Silly, I know.

Thanks to my employment, I now spend a lot of time in first and second grade.

We are
counting coins
charting and tallying
telling time
watching plants grow from seeds
spelling homonyms
reading stories
subtracting three digit numbers
learning not to cut in line. 

Through all this activity I am realizing:

All I ever really need to know I learned by second grade. 

Have I ever used sine and cosine in my "real" life?  Nope.  But three digit subtraction sure comes in handy with my checkbook (and so does counting coins).  And it is always good to know which witch to write, right?

So, just in case the teacher gets tired of hearing wrong answers, and one day I hear,
"Mrs. LJ, what is the noun in that sentence?"

I'll be ready.
'Cuz I've already been through second grade, and I'll know.

Precociously yours,
LJ

WWJLT? What Would Jesus Listen To?

Dear Diary,

As I was driving to work this morning, totally disappointed with the talk radio choices I had, I flipped to my preferred FM station; the one I turn to before choosing any other: K-LOVE.

As I started be-bopping to the tune -- an unfamiliar one -- I wondered....

Does God have a musical preference?

We earth-beings have made music since the drum was invented.  We earth-beings have MANY different musical tastes, each refined through our cultural and generational differences.

I think all Christian music is an offering to God, a form of worshipping The Creator.  With this in mind, I had to chuckle to myself in the car this morning.  I wondered what musical offering God likes the best.  What gets his toes tappin' and puts a smile on his face?

(Some would argue hymns sung in German and accompanied by an organ.)

Most would say the best music for God is whatever their own preference is.

So I chuckled in my car this morning 'cuz I imagined Jesus doin' the Saturday Night Live head-bob-thing to this song by Citizen Way.  Or sitting behind a drum kit, sticks poised, ready to tap out the beat.  I can only imagine he enjoys the songs K-LOVE has to offer just as much as he enjoys the Red Hymnal of a Lutheran church service.

He never tells us in any Gospel what music to listen to. (Blessed are the classical music makers?)
Nor is the Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt listen to Elvis. To Elvis alone, thou shalt listen.

So he must not have a preference. 

As long as it is from my heart to his, I am assured "Nothing ever can separate us!" 
Not even my taste in music.

Always tasteful,
~LJ

Missing the Prize

Dear Diary,

Flashback to childhood in the '70s, where joys came from simple and next-to-free activities:

Coloring books
and
roller skates
and
macrame belts
and
listening to grooved, black, vinyl discs on a turntable while studying the album cover and reading every word on the jacket.

And ranking near the absolute joy of
                                Saturday morning cartoons
                                                     came

the prize in the cereal box. 

I was suddenly reminded of these trinkets this morning while eating my cereal.  The box I used had a picture of those rubber wrist bracelets -- the kind Armstrong made popular.  Except these said BREAKFAST ROCKS or something.

I thought, wow, it's been a long time since I've had to dig for a prize out of a cereal box.  On closer inspection I discovered these bracelets weren't in the box, they were a mail-in promotion:  collect a couple of labels with codes, go to the website and register, and then you are eligible to receive this latex-free bangle (probably after you send in your $4.99 for shipping and handling).

When did cereal prize retrieval get so complicated?
Why did it get so complicated?

I had only one sibling, and yet I gained some valuable life skills negotiating or sneaking my way to that one prize in the box!  And there was no post office nor allowance money involved.

The same goes for Cracker Jacks.  At least it still has a prize, even if it is just a joke about a banana or an elephant.  Or my favorite: a tattoo of a flower or some random object.

So, just as I mourn my kids' lack of Saturday morning Warner Bros. knowledge (and Schoolhouse Rock Jingles), I also silently bereave their lack of useless prizes from a box of Sugar Pops.

Perhaps I shouldn't get so upset. 
They are bagel eaters anyway.

Nostalgically yours,
LJ

Excuse Me, Do I Know You...?

Dear Diary,

It can be disappointing to have such a common face.

In the grocery checkout line I hear, "Excuse me, but you look familiar to me. Is your name Angel?"

or at the library, "Do I know you from somewhere?"

or even at church, "Hey, how is the realty business these days?" 
("Uh, nope. That's not me, that's so-and-so.")

I feel like I get this more than the average person.  I look like this person's sister or a PTL member from some other kid's grade school.  I even had a look-alike back in college.  And though I would never have thought I could be confused with someone named Angel, it's cool that someone else actually did!

At least the strangers who approach with the "haven't we met before?" query are mostly women, much to my husband's relief.

At this stage of life, I am fine with my face.  (In other words, I have finally come to accept it!) And I guess I should take comfort knowing that I'm not alone -- that there are others out there endowed with a similar visage.

So why am I feeling disappointed by the constant countenance confusion?
Perhaps because it creates a mini identity crisis every time it happens.  It gives me the impression that I am not as unique as I was brought up to believe.  I mean, didn't God break the mold after he created me?  That's a rhetorical question.

Or perhaps it's because I never run into anyone from my past who actually is from my past! 

I never run into the "Hey, weren't our girls in ballet class together ten years ago?" person. 
Or the "didn't we live on the same block in grade school?" childhood playmate. 

Oh well.
Contrary to what my older brother has always told me,

I always knew it wasn't easy being me. 

Uniquely yours,
LJ

Bring It On!

Dear Diary,

This time of Holy Week has got me thinking.  Christians have two celebrations that are biggies: 

Christmas

and

Easter.

In my own little warped way, similar to a Would You Rather game, I asked myself if I had to choose between the two, which celebration could I not live without? (If you have trouble with double negatives like I do, I am asking, essentially, which do I like the best?)

Of course I am glad I can celebrate BOTH!  But for me and many others, Easter is the grand
poohbah of Christian celebrations.  The creme de la creme.  The piece de resistance.  The observance to end all other observances.

I don't think I am going out on a limb to say that the world probably would choose the other.  I'm thinking the jolly, round man wins the popularity contest over the hairy rodent, cute as he is.

("Tommy, the Easter Bunny is watching you!" doesn't have the same ring to it.  And "Egg on a Shelf" would just roll off and make a mess.)

True, Christmas is a wonderfully happy time.  It is full of awe factor and awww factor (as in "awww, what a cute baby!").

But Easter doesn't just make me happy.  In fact, in the days preceding it I can -- and should -- feel sad.  But that is what makes the joy so much sweeter! 

My joy at Easter is deeper than Christmas joy.  It is spiritual. It is physical.  I can feel it fluttering inside my chest, quickening my heart rate, bringing tears to my eyes, simultaneously lifting my spirit and the corners of my mouth.

I can feel the perfect LOVE of God, demonstrated on the cross by a Savior who is Resurrected! 
My mourning turns to dancing on Easter!

So while I enjoyed Christmas, bring on Easter!
Bring on the JOY!

He is Risen, He is Risen indeed!

Joyfully,
LJ

Apparently I Have a Problem

Dear Diary,

I'm feeling a little like a guilty youngster right now. 

I had a recent routine physical, and had to fill out that wonderful form prior to seeing the doctor.  You know the one.  It has multiple columns describing multiple symptoms from multiple areas of the body.  Aside from the fact that I felt fine when I walked into the doctors office but now, suddenly, am overwhelmed with an onslaught of symptoms that any hypochondriac would rival, I now also need to reveal: 
a) if I am a smoker (no)
b) do I drink alcohol (yes)
and c) if yes, how much?  (1x week).

One time a week.  That was my most truthful, ballpark guess-timate.  Who is really counting, right?  Well, the doctor, I guess.  She actually called me on it:  "Oh, you have a drink once a week?  Wine?" 

"Uhhhh, yeah.  Or a beer if I'm hankerin' for it.  But mostly it's wine, I guess."

This conversation was on Monday, the morning after having been entertained with dinner and wine at a friend's home.  Weekly wine allotment: check.

Back at the doctor, I am told I will have a fasting blood draw in two days.  Fine.  It's an easy 10-hour fast the night prior.

Except that was the night I decided to have a GNO with a coupl'a margaritas, Downton Abbey on Netflix, and a soul sister.  All well-before the fast began, but, still, wondering if the alcohol and the guacamole were going to affect my cholesterol levels the next morning (and the doctor would somehow "see" I was drinking neither wine nor beer on a Tuesday night!!).  Mucho agua went through this body before la sangre went out.

Now it's over. 
The blood has been drawn. 
I've had wine and margaritas....
 
Tonight was taco night. 
My generous husband offered me a beer. 
Why sure, I respond.  What a nice compliment to my taco! 

Whoa!  Three drinks and the week is barely half-finished? 
I would not be keeping a mental tally had it not been for that moment with the doctor.

Now you know why I am feeling like a guilty youngster. 
Not because of the three drinks so far this week.

Because I don't know how to count.

Cheers!
LJ

My Top Five

Dear Diary,
Recently I came across this saying, which expresses my feelings rather well -- especially in light of the prolonged winter weather we, in the Midwest, are currently experiencing.

I do try to look at the world with rose colored glasses. So rather than pining about my current inability to live in warmer climes, I have decided to try to find five reasons to be glad I live here, in the Midwest.  Here goes:

5

Perhaps Baby Jesus didn't have a snow-covered manger (and the neon-lit palm tree probably captures the aura of his birthplace better than a tinseled evergreen), but I just think Christmas yard decor looks better with a layer of snow under it.

4

Easter eggs are less prone to spoiling in a 30-degree-wind-chill egg hunt.

3

I only have to hear people complain about the heat/humidity two months out of the year.

2

I am boosting the economy in my quest for the most healing lotions, moisturizers, saline sprays and drops.

And the #1 reason I am glad I live in the Midwest: 

Hurricane season is not one of our four.

Feelin' rosy,
LJ