Weekend Update

I hate to even admit it. I mean, it’s summer, and summer is supposed to be fun and full of activity. Right? Well, shhhhh, don’t tell anyone, but last week was . . . boring. We didn’t have much to do. Friends were out of town. Nobody had camps to attend. The weather was too crummy to go to the pool. And, yep, by the end of the week we were all kind of glaring at each other in frustration.

Now, sure, I could have planned something for us to do, but I’m working on a project that is keeping me busy in the mornings, so I didn’t plan anything. Plus, I don’t think it’s all that bad for kids to be bored once in a while. In fact, it might be a good thing because starting next week things are really going to heat up around here. We’ll be sending all three girls off on different trips, people will be coming and going for the rest of the summer, and I’m heading to a conference that I’ll tell you about next week.

But in the meantime, boredom has set in.

Like I said, by Friday of last week we were just kind of sitting around looking at each other cross-eyed, so our weekend was a blessed relief. Turns out, all three girls had activities scheduled for Friday night. Maggie went to a pool party with some friends, and Kate and Abby spent the evening playing a game with the youth group. Well, “game” might be a bit of a stretch. It’s an activity (?) that involves cars and dropping people off in undisclosed locations and searching for people all over town. Basically, it’s high school craziness that I’m sure will land them all in jail someday, but, hey, I’m permissive that way.

I was just glad to have a night alone with my husband. We ended up walking downtown to a newer restaurant where the food and atmosphere were great, but we somehow managed to get seated at a table being served by the World’s Worst Waiter. Granted, we were sitting outside—it was a gorgeous evening—but did WWW really have to sweat in our food? Poor guy was dripping, his glasses practically hanging off the end of his nose. And he was distracted. He either didn’t feel well or was tripping on something or both because he did not have his head in the game. And on a Friday night at a lovely restaurant, with live music and an outdoor patio, you have to have your head in the game.

Trust me on this one. I’ve waited tables enough in my life to know that if you don’t feel well during your shift you might as well hang it up. And WWW should definitely hang it up—he’s really in the wrong line of work.

Thankfully we didn’t let WWW completely ruin our evening. Since he never offered us coffee or dessert, we hightailed it out of there and walked to one of the three ice cream places our downtown offers. (Just one of the many reasons I love our town!) We ate our dessert as we slowly walked home.

It was nice, and one of those summer evenings you just don’t want to end because you know that very soon you’ll have to go pick up your youngest daughter and two of her friends from the pool party and you’ll get to listen to them chatter all the way home and then you’ll have to wait up for the other two to come home and then you’ll end up talking and watching Conan with the teenagers until 11.

Yes, the boredom beast had disappeared by Friday night.

Earlier in the week, B had decided that Saturday would be family night, so he ordered tickets for our local minor league baseball team because, hey, not only could we have fun at the old ballpark for cheap, but there would also be fireworks. Who could pass it up?

Saturday night turned out to be another beautiful evening, so even if some of us don’t love baseball all that much (I’m not naming names), it was fun to just sit together eating hot dogs and watching the crowd. Plus, the between-innings shenanigans are always hilariously stupid. See?





And then there was the girl in front of us who WOULD NOT SHUT UP through the entire game. Yack yack yack yack yack. All four of the women in our family can talk, yes we can (just ask Mattwholivedwithus), but this girl beat us in the talking game entirely. Might have been the beer samples she was chasing.



That’s right. Beer samples. Goose Island Brewing Company was giving away free samples. And, no, I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. What’s next? Crack samples? Weird.

Anyway, the fireworks were great. Again. Because we all know how much I like fireworks.



But the best part of the evening, for me, was the view in front of us. Turns out, going to the ballpark can be a spiritual experience.



And a learning experience too. Because Maggie fiddled with my camera and figured out how to crop. Right there on the camera! So just in case you couldn’t read the guy’s neck who was sitting in front of us, here it is again, courtesy of Maggie who showed me how to crop on my camera.



Oh, you can’t beat fun at the old ballpark!

Here's a Friday Funny for You!

Have I mentioned that it's summer? Which means that not only am I watching more Food Network than I do during the school year, I've also been perusing blogs. Catching up, if you will.

There's a blog I've been reading (I've mentioned it here before) called "Stuff Christians Like" that I happen to really . . . well . . . like. Hmmmm. Is there a correlation here?

Today I was looking back at his full list of 500-plus entries--500 things that Christians like--and found this one that just made me laugh out loud. It's called "Not Knowing How to Baptize Tall People."

The reason this post made me laugh is because it made me harken back to a couple of years ago, three to be exact, to when Kate got baptized. We were just talking about this the other day and having a good family chuckle, so I thought I'd share it with you.

Kate is 6' 1" now, at age 17, but even at the age of 14, she was pretty tall. So when she got baptized she was a little worried about how she was going to fit in the baptistry thing in the front of the church. Plus, the pastor who baptized her wasn't even quite as tall as she was then, so it was awkward to say the least.

But the moment came for Kate to be dunked, and I'm not quite sure what happened, but somehow she lost her footing or forgot to bend her knees or something and, you guessed it, he just about dropped her. Thankfully she caught herself and came back up without too much embarrassment, but it was a bit of a scene.

Of course, it wouldn't be a Wildman family event if there wasn't a scene involved.

Anyway, go read Jon's post about baptizing tall people. I think you'll get a laugh out of it.

And have a great weekend!

What Rhymes With Garlic?

It's summer. Which means that I'm watching an inordinate amount of Food Network lately. I know, I shouldn't be, and the guilt is killing me, but I figure since my family benefits from some additional Food Network viewing, I shouldn't feel too guilty about it. Right?

Like tonight. Boy, did they benefit. See, I watched Tyler Florence make Shrimp Scampi the other day and I thought to myself, "Gee, that looks easy. And boy does my family love shrimp. I'm going to try that one!"

So tonight I tried it, and my family loved it. You should try it too because it really is so easy.

First, assemble your ingredients. (Normally I don't assemble ahead of time, but this recipe comes together so quickly you'll want to do this.)

Cook about a pound of linguini (I don't have to spell that one out for you, do I?).



Melt two tablespoons of butter with two tablespoons of olive oil.

Add shallots, garlic, and a pinch of red pepper flakes (unless you're Kate and you add several pinches because good golly nothing could be hot enough for that girl).

Now, I have to just stop here and say this is the one and only time I modified Tyler's recipe. He puts five . . . yes, FIVE . . . cloves of garlic in his recipe. I know, I know, it is shrimp scampi after all, but seriously . . . five?? I love my family, so I cut back on the garlic just a bit.



After a couple of minutes, add the shrimp and cook it for about three minutes until it's pink.



Remove the shrimp from the pan, but return the pan to the heat. Add some wine and lemon juice and bring that to a boil.



Add some more butter and olive oil (I told you it was good, right?!).



Return the shrimp to the pan and cook for another minute or so, just to let all that deliciousness come together.



Add to the linguini, sprinkle with parsley, and voila! Instant yummy supper!



And just because I had some leftover tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, and just because I happen to grow basil on my patio every summer, I threw together a nice caprese salad to go with it. Oh my it was good!



Tyler Florence's Shrimp Scampi with Linguini

1 pound linguini
4 T. butter
4 T extra virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1 large shallot, finely dices
5 (?) cloves garlic, sliced
pinch red pepper flakes, optional
20 large shrimp, about 1 pound, peeled and deveined, tail on
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/2 C. dry white wine
1 lemon, juiced
1/4 C. finely chopped parsley leaves

For the pasta, put a large pot of water on the stove to boil. When it has come to the boil, add a couple of tablespoons of salt and the linguini. After the water returns to a boil, cook for about 6-8 minutes or until the pasta is not quite done. Drain the pasta, reserving 1 C. of water.

Meanwhile, in a large skillet, melt 2 T. butter in 2 T olive oil over medium-high heat. Saute the shallots, garlic, and red pepper flakes until the shallots are translucent, about 3 to 4 minutes. Season the shrimp with salt and pepper; add them to the pan and cook until they have turned pink, about 2-3 minutes. Remove the shrimp from the pan; set aside and keep warm. Add wine and lemon juice and bring to a boil. Add 2 T. butter and 2 T. oil. When the butter has melted, return the shrimp to the pan along with the parsley and cooked pasta and reserved pasta water. Stir well and season with salt and pepper. Drizzle over a bit more olive oil and serve immediately.

I hate having to take my own advice

A couple of years ago my good friend, M, called me with panic in her voice.

"Daughter Number 1 wants to have her cartilage pierced! What should I do?"

After I stopped laughing, I explained to her that if she was looking for someone to give her ammunition against her daughter's cartilage piercing, she was probably asking the wrong person. (I actually think cartilage piercing is kind of cute.)

But I did my best to try to help her think it through.

"Look, M," I said. "Is this a moral issue?"

No.

"Is it a sinful thing to do?"

No.

"Is your daughter doing this out of rebellion?"

Obviously not, since she had asked her mother's permission.

"Does she realize the consequences of her piercing? I mean, she'll have a huge hole in the top of her ear for the rest of her life. Is she O.K. with that?"

Yes.

"Well, then, in my opinion, I think you should let her do it. . . . With the understanding that there will be NO MORE PIERCINGS. Of any kind. Ever."

It's all about setting boundaries with those teenagers, right?

I don't think that was the answer my friend was looking for, but she must have taken my advice to heart because a couple of days later she was driving her daughter to Claire's to have her cartilage pierced.

Well, today my parenting advice came back to haunt me as my two teenagers begged me to let them do something I never thought they'd want to do. . . .



AARRGGHH!!!!

Fireworks

The weather was “iffy” last night, and cool, so we decided that rather than watching the fireworks from blankets on the rain-soaked ground, we’d just head to the Target parking lot and watch from the back of the car. We’ve watched the fireworks there before, and we knew we’d be able to see enough—just not the low-to-the-ground displays.

Of course, we forgot to bring chairs of any sort, and all five of us couldn’t fit in the back of the van, so it took us a little while to figure out exactly where each of us would sit. Once the fireworks started and we could see that we couldn’t see, we headed over toward a grassy area where other people were gathered.

I’ve always had a fascination with fireworks. How someone could pack the sounds and sparkles and colors and happiness of a million little specks of light into one cylinder is beyond my comprehension. It seems dangerous and dark, yet thrilling all at once. Every year I tell myself, “You’ve seen it before, don’t get excited.” And yet, every year I feel like a kid again as the sparkling and the twinkling and the crashing begins.

I can “ooh” and “aah” with the best of them. Just ask my kids.

My favorites are the ones that look like willow trees—they come spraying out all golden and then end up with millions of tiny diamonds that twinkle their way down to the ground. It’s just magical to me, and I sometimes wonder if I headed back to the fairgrounds the next day to take a look around if I’d find even one of those sparkly diamonds waiting for me in the grass.

As we stood and watched the fireworks, I began to notice the people around me. Little kids, no older than five, were running everywhere—everywhere!—at full speed, and I turned to B and said, “Remember that feeling when you were a kid and you could run as fast as you could forever?”

We both agreed that we’d love to feel like that again, even for a few minutes.

The grassy field near us was filling up with fast-running little kids twirling neon glow sticks, their parents sitting in portable lawn chairs next to the curb. Teenagers on dates sat on blankets nearby. And my little clan huddled together, enjoying the moment, even if it was for the sake of tradition.

Next to me sat an old man with whom I presume was his daughter. She was in her late-50s or early-60s, and he looked to be well into his 80s. They both sat quietly, side by side, not talking much but occasionally glancing at one another, smiling.

I took a good long look at this man, his hands gnarled and spotted, his knuckles swollen with age. He wore black pants, a black checked dress shirt underneath a gray cardigan that was so old it was pilled all over. On top of his head he wore an old-fashioned hat, the kind that comes together at the bill—is it a driving cap or an ivy cap? He wore white Converse tennis shoes and white athletic socks. All-in-all he was dressed quite well for a fireworks display.

Partway through the fireworks, I noticed that the man was struggling with something in his hand. It was a miniature Kit Kat bar that he was having a little trouble opening. After a couple of minutes, though, he had success, and I watched him as he enjoyed his little treat for the evening, a slight smile creeping to the edge of his mouth.

I wondered about this man and his daughter. What made them head to the Target parking lot together to watch fireworks with the younger families? Did she do it as a special treat for him? Did they have some sort of tradition of watching fireworks together, just the two of them? Did they somehow, in some unspoken way, know that this could possibly be the last fireworks display that the old man would ever get to see?

As I pondered them, I found myself getting choked up. Tears came to my eyes as I wondered how many fireworks displays this man had seen in his life and how many he would have yet to see.

I looked at my little brood sitting all around me, happy with the effort we had made to get to the fireworks, and thought, “I hope they all have the opportunity to sit with their own sons or daughters when they are 85 and watch fireworks together.” What a blessing that would be.

And I hope that when I’m 85, should God give me that many years, I’ll be sitting in the Target parking lot or wherever I am, still enjoying the childlike thrill of watching diamonds fall from the sky.

Happy 4th of July!

So, I'm in the grocery store yesterday, buying things for our 4th of July party, standing in the checkout line minding my own business. And my great, goofy, super-fun friend from church shouts across the entire front of the store, "Hey, Shelly, what's with the blog? I've been reading about that Greek wedding for days now. When are you going to put up a new post?"

"Soon!" I promise her. "Check back later today. I'll have something for you later."

That was yesterday. It's now late on the 4th of July, and I still can't come up with much of anything to say.

Not that I haven't tried. I've started probably five blog posts since yesterday. You could have read about

- my 4th of July party.

- our town's parade.

- the "frat house" down the street.

- how to make Blue Cheese Potato Salad.

- my latest Priceline win.

But instead of all that, I'm just going to wish you all a Happy 4th of July and call it a blog post.

And now I'm leaving to take Maggie to see fireworks because, as she's reminded me about twenty times this week, she hasn't seen fireworks in two years because she was at camp last summer. Poor baby.

Check back on Monday, dear grocery store friend and closet reader. I promise I'll have more to say by then (because you know I can't keep quiet for long).

I Still Wanna Be Greek

When last I left you, B and I were headed to McDonald's to get a Coke after the wedding. My blood sugar had dropped significantly from all that standing up and from the the very little sitting down. I was parched and getting a headache.

Aren't I a fun date?

Besides, we had a little time, so we acted like our parents and drove around a little bit, stopping for that much-needed Coke. Diet for him; regular for me. Ahhhh, nothing like a cold McDonald's Coke over ice to make a girl feel better. And I did, by the time we got to . . .

The Reception

While standing in the receiving line, we overheard the groom telling someone to make sure we were at the reception right when it started because there would be a big surprise. Curious, we did just what he said. (Never mind the fact that we are always early to EVERYTHING.)

When the doors to the reception room were opened, this is what we saw.





Sorry about the blurry pictures--I'm not professional--but hopefully you can get a sense of the sweets table. This table was over 15 feet long and laden, LADEN I TELL YOU!, with Greek pastries of every possible kind. I have never in my life seen anything like it, and for a girl with a sweet tooth like I have, I was in hog heaven. (Is that a proper term for a wedding? I don't know.)

I was ready to skip the dinner portion altogether and just get to the sweets table.

But, of course, we didn't skip dinner. Who would? What with the Greek soup (oh my yum!) and the salad (I can always take or leave a salad--just not my thing) and the fillet Mignon with grilled prawns and the flaming cherries jubilee! Yes, they even had a separate dessert before we got to the sweets table.

Whew!! My head was spinning after all that food wonderfulness.



(This is just a random picture of our table, but I thought it was cool that each table was strewn with rose petals. Sweet, huh?)

It took about an hour and a half to get through dinner because between each course two people would stand up to give speeches. Let me tell you, these speeches were delightful. We learned all sorts of interesting things about the bride and groom, none of which shall be revealed here since I don't even know these people. At all.

But let's just say that the speeches were sweet. I think my favorite speeches were from the groom and the bride. Both of them started out by saying that they wanted to thank God first for bringing them together. Like I mentioned in yesterday's post, there was such a sense that this was, first and foremost, a spiritual union. A God-ordained marriage. And that sense carried through to the reception. I loved that.

Well, after much speech-giving, hugging, kissing (lots and lots of kissing--and I'm not talking about the bride and groom. Those Greeks just love to kiss!), eating, and drinking, we finally got to the sweets table. Let me just tell you that it did not disappoint. B and I loaded our plates because it all looked so good and we figured that we didn't know anybody there (well, at least I didn't) so who cared?! It was insanely decadent, but so, so good.

As I was standing there contemplating whether I should take a second plate, I saw an older gentleman walking around the table with a styrofoam "to-go" container. I nearly stabbed a woman to death with my fork as I ran to ask him where he got that. His Greek accent was so thick I could barely understand him, but I think he told me to ask the waiter.

I practically sprinted back to my table to ask our waiter for a "to-go" container. My girls just HAD to see some of these amazing sweets which, by the way, were all--each and every one of them--homemade. Yes, friends, all of the Greek thias and ya yas were busy the week of the wedding baking their particular specialty for the bride and groom. Each piece of baklava was baked to perfection. The little powdered sugar-covered cookies melted in my mouth. And the peanut butter balls were decorated to perfection.

It was an amazing sight. I SO wanted to be Greek when I saw that table.

I know, I know, enough about the sweets table. Next came, what else?, the dancing. This was not your Brittany Spears/Justin Timberlake/Michael Jackson dance mix spun by a Rock 'n Roll D.J. Oh no. This was GREEK MUSIC. And, oh, was it fun.

The only song that was what you might call "modern" song was the first dance of the bride and groom. They danced to "Lucky" by Jason Mraz and Cobie Caillat which is such a sweet song. It was a perfect first dance.

But other than that little contemporary interlude, we were livin' in Greek town. The music was fun, the dancing was lively. And nobody cared if we didn't know how to do whatever it was they were doing because everybody was just having fun.



At one point I saw someone throw a fistful of rose petals onto the bride, and I thought, "Oh, how sweet. They're throwing blessings on her." I knew what the rose petals meant by then. No pulling one over on me now.

But later, when things got going a little bit, I noticed that people were throwing something else.



Yes, I once again witnessed something I've never seen at a wedding before. Dollar bills. People were throwing wads of cash at the bride and groom! I'm guessing that signifies prosperity, but clear me up if I'm wrong about that. I never asked anyone what it meant for sure.

So all-in-all, I'd have to say that was the most fun I've ever had at a wedding. Hands down. Those Greeks not only know how to party, they know how to eat and how to kiss and how to make even us non-Greeks feel most welcome in their setting. It was a true celebration--the kind that every parent would want to send their child off with. This reception was full of fun, but also full of symbolism and most definitely full of love.

I so want to be Greek.




P.S. (O.K., just because I promised you yesterday . . . here you go!)

I Wanna Be Greek

Opa!

You know how one of the "themes" of my blog is that "Everyday is an adventure"? Well, B and I sure had one super-duper adventure on Sunday. We attended our very first big, fat, Greek wedding.

I sure hope it wasn't our last, 'cause boy, was that fun! I now officially want to be Greek.

It's hard to know where to begin with describing this event, so I guess I'll just start at the beginning.

The ceremony.

We were invited to this wedding by the groom who works with B. He was actually quite surprised when he learned that we were planning to attend the ceremony. I guess he thought we'd just show up for the party afterward.

But this was going to be the real-deal, and we wanted to experience it all. I'm so glad we did. We entered this beautiful Greek Orthodox church shortly before the ceremony and took in a deep breath at the elaborate mosaics (or were they painted?) all around the church from the front of the church to the ceiling. All of the apostles were represented--twice!--and a huge painting of Jesus adorned the top of the domed ceiling, like He was looking down on us.

The ceremony was performed mostly in Greek. Yep, that's right. We didn't understand a word of this ceremony (except for the couple of parts that were actually spoken in English, but even then the priest had such a thick Greek accent that I could barely tell he was speaking English). Thankfully there was a program with a description of each section of the ceremony.

Most people might think the ceremony was long--it was about an hour long--and especially grueling because we stood for most of it. (They did let us sit down three times for about five minutes each time, but otherwise we were standing.) I was so intrigued by the symbolism of each part of the ceremony, however, that I found the time went very quickly.

All I can say is that the Greek Orthodox wedding ceremony is beautiful. The symbolism is rich and meaningful. The sung/spoken liturgy was mesmerising. And even though I didn't understand much of it, I found I stayed with it the entire time.

Here are a couple of quotes from the program that I found especially interesting:

"Since this union of J and A is a special measure of grace granted by the Holy Spirit, they will not bestow spoken vows to each other." At first I thought this was kind of strange--I've never been to a wedding that didn't include vows. But as I sat through this ceremony, I got a real sense that this was a sacred event. That it was God who brought this couple together and only God who could separate them. And for some reason, it seemed like vows, human vows, didn't seem necessary.

One section of the service is called "The Joining of the Right Hands." During this rite, the right hands of the couple are joined together while the priest reads a prayer. Their hands are linked throughout the rest of the service "to symbolize the oneness of the couple." They took communion while still holding hands. And they walked around the main table three times, still holding hands. Their hands were only divided at the very end of the ceremony when the priest brought the Bible down between them, symbolizing that only God could break their bond.

I loved what the program said about the rite of the common cup. "The drinking of wine from the common cup serves to impress upon the couple that from that moment on they will share everything in life, joys as well as sorrows, and that they are to 'bear one another's burdens.' Their joys will be doubled and their sorrows halved because they will be shared." Isn't that beautiful? All that just from sharing a communion cup.

After the ceremony, we greeted the bride and groom and were handed a fistful of rose petals. B and I, being ignorant Xenos, just thought that was what they had chosen to throw, rather than rice or bird seed, but as we were waiting for the couple to come outside a woman came up to me, handed me her rose petals, and asked me if I would throw her blessings on the couple for her since she had to leave. I'm so glad she did that or otherwise we wouldn't have known the significance of the rose petals.

Everything about the ceremony had meaning, and I thought that was pretty special.

Since this post is getting about as long as the wedding ceremony I've just described, I think I'll hold off on describing the reception until tomorrow. You'll definitely want to come back because you just might get to see a picture of yours truly dancing Greek-like.

You wouldn't want to miss that now, would you?

Molly Grace Photography Session--Toto, I Don't Think We're in Sears Anymore!

I lied. I know I told you that I wouldn't report in until Monday, but I couldn't resist sharing this with you.

Last Wednesday, Kate had her senior pictures taken. How, I ask you, did I actually come to have a child who is a senior? I KNOW, right?!

It seems like just yesterday that we were heading to the Sears Photo Studio at the Oak Brook Mall to have her photographed. She'd wiggle and squirm and usually cry and after about 45 minutes of struggle we'd give up, figuring we'd gotten the best pictures we possibly could, and then we'd head to the Nordstrom Cafe for lunch.

Gee, I wonder what ever happened to those pictures?

Anyway, did I mention that Kate had her SENIOR PICTURE taken last week? And do you know what that means to me? It means college applications are just around the corner. And then lots of waiting. And hand wringing. And waiting some more. And then decisions. And stress.

But last week was stress-free as Kate went into her photo shoot. Molly Grace is a photographer extraordinaire. She's as nice as she is talented.

We had arranged to meet her make-up artist, Anna, at Molly's studio in Naperville. Kate had a great time getting all gussied up, and I enjoyed visiting with Anna who is a treasure. And a really good mom, too.

Anna finished up her artistry and sent us off to meet Molly Grace at Danada House in Wheaton. Danada House is a Forest Preserve property which is basically a huge horse farm and a beautiful old house which is often used for weddings and special events. It's a lovely setting.

We had such a great time with Molly. The poor girl had been shooting photos all afternoon in nearly-100 degree weather, but she was still smiling, cheerful, and encouraging. We were her third shoot of the day, and it was quickly becoming twilight--absolutely gorgeous light that day.

The only thing I could possibly "complain" about would have to be the bugs. Oh my, were they swarming that evening! Kate and I laughed that Molly was going to have to Photoshop out all the bugs that were in Kate's mouth, nose, and eyes.

I think we spent about an hour and a half with Molly, and the time just flew. We had fun getting to know her, and were surprised to find out that she attended the same high school that Kate does AND that she also worked on the yearbook--just like Kate does.

And I know--I KNOW!--the photos are going to be wonderful. You know how I know? Molly gave us a preview on her blog. You can check out Kate's photos here. We have a viewing session next week, and I can't wait to see everything.

So, if you're in the Chicago area and need a great photographer, check out Molly Grace's website. She's a pro with a really, really good eye.

Seven Quick Takes Friday

Friday? Already? The summer weeks fly, which is why I’m wimping out today and joining Jen’s Seven Quick Takes.

Actually, that’s not wimping out at all because I have to come up with seven interesting things about my week. This is going to be a challenge.

1
I finally went to the pool yesterday. June 25, and it was my first day at the pool. When my girls were younger I’d be at the pool every day, but now I imagine I’ll get there maybe once a week. If that.

There are a couple of reasons for my pool absence. First, the weather around here has been terrible. First it was cold—really cold—for a long time. Then, this week, it popped into the upper 90s. Ridiculous. B told me that I’m getting what I wished for, but I argued that I wasn’t wishing for it to be 100. Somehow God forgot about the 80’s.

Anyway, the second reason I haven’t been at the pool much is because I just don’t need to be there anymore. The older two don’t go to the pool, and Maggie is eleven and doesn’t need me to be there with her. Yesterday I went because I promised her I’d go, and, believe me, that girl will hold you to a promise like Crazy Glue sticks to your fingers. So I ended up at the pool.

And you know what I noticed? The moms have gotten younger. And skinnier. It’s gross. I’m not sure I’ll go back.

(Just kidding about that last part. I’ll go back . . . because I like a little tan in the summer and right now I look like I’ve jumped into a flour barrel.)

2
I checked my Sitemeter yesterday and noticed that several of you checked back a few times to see if I’d written anything. How sweet of you. I do love my readers.

Do you know there’s a super-easy way for you to know if I’ve written anything or not? It’s called Google Reader and it’s easy to use. You can set it up with all your favorite blogs, it will automatically bring up my blog for you every time there’s an update. Check it out and put me in there! Please? Or, if you already have a blog, follow me. I love stalkers. Of the bloggy kind anyway.

3


So did you hear the news yesterday? Farah Fawcett died. I’ll be honest, I was never a huge fan of hers, but I felt kind of sad that she suffered so long and that Ryan O’Neil never had a chance to make good on his promise earlier this week to marry her.

I wonder if her hair style will make a comeback now. It’s already pretty popular with the blond chicks on Fox News.



Oh yeah, and Michael Jackson died too.

4
Have I mentioned my workout group? Have I mentioned that I’m sore? It’s the good sore, but still, every day I’m sore. I think underneath that sweet exterior, our trainer has an inner beast who wants to torment middle-aged women into getting into shape. But it’s fun, and it’s wonderful to have some accountability on those mornings that you just don’t want to get out of bed. Like this morning.

How about you? Do you have a group that holds you accountable? Do you like that or does it seem like an unnecessary burden?

5
O.K. Jon and Kate. I just have to say something. Because their show used to be a favorite around here and there are more than a couple of hearts that are sad because of what they are going through. But I won’t take an entire blog post to talk about them–that’s been done ad nauseum. All I will say is that their situation has given us many teachable moments with our kids lately, and one such moment came on Monday night as we, along with about 10.6 million other people, watched the sorry state of affairs come to a devastating conclusion.

We listened throughout the show as time after time both parents said things like, “I’m there for my kids” or “We love our kids and want what’s best for them.” Sure, they love their kids, and sure they want what's best for them--we all do--but as they were going on and on about the kids, it became obvious that something had gotten very topsy-turvy in their world. B looked at our own girls and said, “They put their kids ahead of their marriage. Girls, I want you to know that my relationship with your mom is more important to me than you are.”

Wow. If that isn’t enough to make your head turn.

But he’s right. I know he is. And I want my children to know that they don’t own the relationship hierarchy around here. If you’ll grant me a soapbox for a moment . . . Kids feel secure when Mom and Dad love each other. Period. And Mom and Dad can’t love each other best when they put the kids first.

Done.

6
There’s a blog I read sometimes that I enjoy immensely every time I go there. It’s called Stuff Christians Like and it’s kind of a tongue in cheek look at the evangelical world. The writer, Prodigal Jon, makes some very funny, but also very poignant insights into Christianity.

Last week he wrote a post that just made me laugh out loud. Since I have high schoolers, and since I was once a high schooler myself, I could totally relate to his list of The 11 People Every Youth Group Needs. Check it out. It’s funny.

7
I just feel like I have bloggy issues. It’s probably the weather, but for some reason I’ve had a headache for a couple of days that just will not go away. And writer’s block. Ugh.

Can you help a girl out? What would you like to read about?

Happy Weekend, everyone! We'll be busy this weekend, so you won't hear from me until Monday. But be sure to check back then because B and I are going to a real, live Big Fat Greek Wedding this weekend, and I'm sure I'll have a lot to report.

Fancy That

Hey, this is cool. Remember that essay contest I entered a few days ago? Well, this morning, Michelle a.k.a. Scribbit announced the winners. While I didn't win, I did receive an honorable mention.

Thanks very much to Michelle Fabio at Bleeding Espresso who served as judge for this month's contest.

I am flabergasted. And honored.

Do I look like I have "Sucker" written across my forehead?

. . . I must, because yesterday was "a day." Yes, it was one of "those days." (Do you feel a story coming on? I do!)

I confess, I'm terrible about making phone calls. Really terrible. I mean, they could take my phone away, and I would be one very happy camper. I have a laptop, and that's all I need.

But those pesky phone calls had been piling up for a while, so last Friday I took the dreaded phone in my hand and started dialing. I called the glass shop in town because I have a couple of windows with cracks in them. I called the vet to make an appointment for the Wonder Dog because she's two months--yes, TWO MONTHS--overdue for her check-up. That's how much I hate making phone calls.

And I made a call to an appliance repairman because I have three appliances that have "issues." I have phone issues. My appliances have other issues.

Like being loud and obnoxious. That issue belongs to my dishwasher.

And not heating up properly. That one goes to my upper oven.

And not dispensing. You can probably guess this one. My refrigerator has the I'm-not-going-to-dispense-water-or-ice-until-you're-nice-to-me issue.

So, being as cheap as I am, I figure I'd wait until just one more thing in my kitchen broke because then I could have the repairman out once and cover all my issues at the same time. But, alas, it's been about six months since the refrigerator decided not to dispense, and nothing else has broken, so I figured it was time.

Besides, I had the phone in my hand.

So I took the leap and called the guy. He came out yesterday.

Funny thing is, he doesn't think my appliances have issues. He thinks I have issues. Seriously? Me? He doesn't even know me.

Take the dishwasher for instance. We started it up as soon as he got here and it worked like a charm. No loud noises. No grinding sound. Of course. Late in its cycle it started making the noise and my friend, Phil . . . that was his name, Phil . . . said, "Is that the sound you mean?"

Yeah, Phil. That's the one.

"Oh, that's just a vibration. You could try pushing up against the dishwasher, but chances are it will just go back to making the same noise a couple days later."

Great.

So how about my upper oven? This one's even more broken. It won't heat up properly. See, the oven has a sensor that tells me when the oven is pre-heated, but it seems like when that sensor goes off the oven isn't hot.

So Phil points to his head and says, "Sometimes when we think there's a problem here, there's no way anybody can tell us there's not really a problem there." He points to the oven.

Huh? Are you saying it's all in my head? What about those cookies that wouldn't bake?

So Phil gets out an electric thermometer, after giving me a long lecture about the terrible inaccuracies of the oven thermometer I had bought at the grocery store. First he calls me crazy, then he calls me stupid. What next?!

We started the oven, and after a few minutes it beeped to tell us it was pre-heated, but the thermometer said it was only about 300 degrees in there. See, Phil? I'm not crazy!

But Phil proceeds to tell me that those pre-heat sensors aren't always reliable and you just have to wait a little longer for the oven to heat up. After about 10-15 minutes, he said, the oven should be just fine.

Again, he does the head-pointing thing. Like I'm making this stuff up!

So we move on to the refrigerator which is the biggest issue for my family, let me tell you. No crushed ice for their drinks! Horrors!

First Phil messes with the filter, thinking it's just clogged. Nope, all is well. Then he pulls out the fridge from its space. I think he just did that to humiliate me. I quickly grabbed a broom while he fiddled around in the back.

Finally, Phil assesses the problem. A sensor in the control panel has gone bad.

See? I'm not crazy! There really IS a problem in this kitchen. But, turns out, the real problem was Phil. Because he couldn't fix the problem. He said I have to call GE.

Great, Phil. Just great.

After 30 minutes in my kitchen, telling me I'm nuts and that my appliances really don't have issues, he handed me a bill.

$99.

Are you kidding me?! Ninety-nine dollars to insult me and to not fix a doggone thing?

But I'm a sucker, so I paid the man and sent him on his merry way.

But I did get something out of the deal. A real nifty letter opener with his business card in it.



So I guess it was worth it.

Hey y'all! I hope you'll scroll down to read the next post--a reflection from my childhood. It's an entry for a writing contest that's hosted by Scribbit each month. Check it out here. And be sure to check her blog on Tuesday when she announces the winner.

My Favorite Day of the Year

The day dawned hot and humid, as most July days on the Illinois prairie do. It seemed like the cornfields just trapped the heated air, making the plains a natural oven and each day hotter than the next. But as a kid, the heat didn’t bother me; I simply got up, threw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and headed outside.

This particular day was the day I looked forward to all summer—the day that was the most work, and yet the most fun day of the year. It was the day every kid in my family anticipated because we all knew the reward.

It was corn day.

Now, my dad’s normal crop was field corn—the stuff used for cattle feed and oil and other products—and he and my uncle grew acres and acres of that. But my friends from town just thought of corn as corn on the cob—the stuff they'd eat at picnics. I used to laugh at their ignorance behind their backs, not even bothering to try to set them straight on the differences.

Anyway, every year, my dad and uncle would set aside a few rows around the edge of one field to plant sweet corn—my favorite food in my whole childhood world. I’d watch the stalks begin to grow, and then the tassels start to form, and then the ears begin to take shape. Day after day I’d think about the day we’d finally be able to pick that sweet, delicious goodness.

Finally, on what seemed like the hottest day of the year, we’d get up early, throw on our oldest, cruddiest clothes, and head to the fields. The dads and the boys would take a pickup truck out to the patch of sweet corn and pick the corn, loading it into the back until it was nearly overflowing.

Meanwhile, the moms and the girls were setting huge pots of water on the stove to boil and preparing everything we’d need for freezing our bounty. We’d set out knives and cutting boards and special tools that only came out on corn day, including an old board with a blade attached to it which allowed you to quickly scrape the kernels of corn from the cob. When I was very young, we’d use old fashioned Tupperware to freeze the corn once it was cooked and cut off the cob, but once Ziploc bags were invented, we used those because they took up less room in the freezer.

Once the corn was picked, every child in our family was set to the task of peeling the corn. There was no way to count how many ears you’d peel on that day—it was surely in the hundreds. But heaven forbid you’d leave any silks on the ear! Silks were not allowed; the corn had to be clean.

So the day was hot and the work was hard, but I hardly noticed because (and here’s the reward) on corn day I could eat as much sweet corn as my stomach could hold. Mom would set out some butter and salt and we could eat to our heart’s content. No plates necessary—we’d just hold onto the cob and slurp away. I was literally in hog heaven!

It took the whole day to finish our job, and by bedtime I was tired. But I was filled with sweet, sticky goodness and happy memories of family times. As a child, there was nothing better.

Opinions? Please?

Well now. I learned something today. I learned that my readers are not a very opinionated group of people.

Either that or they don't think I even have a one best blog post.

Anyway, I promised I'd tell you which post I picked, and I am a woman who keeps her promises, so here you go. My favorite blog post, the one I chose to share at Robin's, was this one.

Of course, I also like this one and this one and this one. So I'm probably just as unopinionated as my readers.

I'm Curious . . .

Robin, over at Pensieve, is having a little blog party. She's asked everyone to post their one all-time favorite post and to link up with others who have done the same.

I chose one, but before I tell you which one I chose (of course, you could head over to Robin's to find out), I'm curious . . . which post of mine would YOU choose?

Something funny? Something serious? Something that made you cry or even think a little bit?

Since I've been doing this for a year now, there are quite a lot of blog posts to choose from. Would you be so kind as to leave me a comment telling me which post YOU'D choose to share with Robin? And if you've never left a comment before, shame on you! Now is the time to start.

I'll let you know later on today which one I actually used.

I Changed My Mind

If you were around here about an hour ago, you may have seen a post that's not there anymore. Don't freak out--I removed it.

No, I didn't write anything naughty or earth-shattering or critical. It was just a sweet little story about one of my kids and something cute she had said to me. I just love it when my kids say cute things to me--I have this glaring need to share their insights with the world. Hence, the blog.

But one of my kids doesn't like it AT ALL when I write about her. It's beyond her sense of boundaries, and that is perfectly fine. Some people are private. Some people, like me, feel this need to spill all their "stuff" for all the world to see. I think I'm insecure that way because I need affirmation--someone to say, "I get you" or "I feel that way too."

Anyway, I wrote this little story, but as I thought about it, I realized that my kid would be so mad at me if I shared it. So I took down the post.

I'm learning a lot through this blog, and respecting boundaries is one of the biggest lessons I'm learning. Sure, I have stuff I would never tell you, stuff that regularly gets left out about my personal life. Believe me, I'm not as shallow as this blog would have you believe. But I have felt O.K. about sharing everything I've shared so far.

Until today.

Because my post would have violated someone else's privacy and it probably would have hurt her sense of trust in me. I've messed that up enough over the years with my big mouth. I don't need to dig a deeper hole.

My goal with this blog has been to share everything I share in the most positive light. Some days it would be easy to just complain about some stuff I see around me, to harp at politicians, or to rant about the state of our roads. But then I sit for a minute and think, "How can I make this into a positive thing? How can I show the people in my life in as positive a light as possible?" Plus, it doesn't hurt to try to be entertaining. And then the post morphs into something completely different than what I had set out to do.

I think that's a good thing.

So, when my gut tells me a post was not a good idea, I guess I will have to learn to listen to that gut and take it down. Hurting someone for the sake of my writing is never a good idea.

Those Waskally Wabbits!

I'm no master gardener. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Every year when our little school hosts its annual plant sale, I buy a few flats of flowers. And some herbs (which actually do pretty well, probably because they know how much I need them). And usually one tomato plant which produces exactly one tomato all summer.

You get the idea. My thumb is pretty much brown.

So I buy the flats of annuals, bring them home, and then I let them sit on my patio for a few weeks while it tries to warm up around here. No, they don't go in the ground right away--I really do let them sit for a while. I think they need to get acclimated to the new atmosphere.

Or I need to get my brain around the back aching work it will be to actually put them into the ground.

Anyway, last year I bought some dahlias that I thought looked pretty.



And they were beautiful, but the blooms never seemed to last for more than a day. I couldn't figure it out.

Until one Saturday as B and I were walking through our local French Market (oh, another post idea for another day!) and we saw a woman selling a product called "Bunny Buster."

It was like a light bulb went off in both of our heads at the same time. We looked at each other and said, "Bunnies!" Of course! That's what was eating our lovely dahlias.

So we shelled out $12 for some Bunny Buster and sprayed all our flowers. It worked. It really worked, and we had some beautiful blooms for most of the rest of the summer. But twelve bucks? Seriously?

Fast forward to this summer, and I think I had a brain cramp because once again I bought a flat of dahlias from our little school's plant sale. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't thinking.

Anyway, once again my dahlias are growing, but not producing blooms.

I think those bunnies are getting fat off of our garden again.

So I come before you today, dear loyal readers, and ask for your help. Can anyone tell me how to keep those bunnies off of my flowers?? They don't seem to like any other flower in my yard except the dahlias.

Does anyone know of a homemade remedy like Bunny Buster that could keep them out of my garden?

Otherwise it's back to the French Market to buy some more Bunny Buster. Looks like the kids will be eating mac & cheese for the next couple weeks.

Twenty Questions

See this shirt?

Wanna know why it's hanging over my shower?
Because it's soaking wet.

And why there is a number pinned on it?
Because this morning, for the very first time in my 40-something-year-old life, I ran in a race!

Can you tell I'm proud of myself?
*smile*

So, why is it wet?
Because it rained this morning. The entire time I was out there. Buckets and buckets of rain.

And how did you do in this very wet race?
Well, now, let's see. I ran a little bit. I walked most of it. But I came in under 40 minutes.

Is that a good time for someone of your age and stature?
I have no idea.

So who else ran?
Everyone in my family ran. Even Maggie--it was her first 5K too.

And how did they all do?
They all beat me.

Even Maggie?
Yes, even Maggie who did an amazing job of sticking with her dad. He said she didn't complain once.

Where was this race held?
This is one of the reasons I wanted to do this race, because it wove through my neighborhood, starting and ending at our church.

How many people ran?
I'm not sure, but over 400 people, since, as you can tell from the picture above, I was "runner" (and I use that term VEEERRYY loosely) 399.

Did you see anything interesting along the race route?
Just a lot of umbrellas. And my daughter's history teacher (which really kind of embarrassed me as I strolled past him since he's the high school cross country coach).

Was this some kind of fundraiser?
Yes, it was.

And what did the funds go to?
I'm so glad I asked! The money that was made off of this race goes to a wonderful ministry within our church called the STARS ministry.

What is the STARS ministry?
It's a ministry to disabled people. It's so great because they provide all kinds of programs for mentally and physically handicapped people and their families. They even provide a summer camp experience for many of the STARS participants.

That's cool. Why do you like supporting that particular ministry?
Because every time I see one of our STARS worshipping at church, singing songs, and clapping their hands with a huge smile on their face, I think that I get just a glimpse of Heaven. I just know that Heaven will be filled with all these beautiful people who know God, understand their own need for salvation, and believe in Jesus. It's a beautiful thing.

Really? You think they can know Jesus?
Absolutely. I've seen it. I've heard their testimony with my own ears. They know God's love and forgiveness just as much as I do.

What about church? Don't they ever interrupt the service?
Oh, sometimes it gets a little crazy or loud, but it's something we've all come to expect and to appreciate. You just never know what's going to happen. Wouldn't the world just be boring if everyone were "normal"?

Oops! I guess that was question number 20. A rhetorical one, but a good one, I think.

All I have to say about this morning is that even though it rained, even though I didn't run even half of the race, and even though I froze my sweet patooty off being drenched from head to toe, it was worth every minute to see the smiles on the faces of the STARS participants. They were so excited to hand out medals to the winners and to high five anyone who would high five them back.

The sun didn't shine outside this morning, but it sure shone in the faces of the STARS.

Joe

We got a new car last week. Yes, even in “this economy” people are buying new cars.

Of course, the car I was driving was breaking down on a regular basis and didn’t have air conditioning and the tires were bald and in order for us to take the road trip we’re planning for later this summer we’d have to RENT a car to get there and there’s NO WAY I’d sell it to anybody I knew. But, hey, we could have made it work for another year or so.

Anyway, I just have to say that buying a car is one of those truly distasteful little “chores” that I honestly hate to do. Good thing we don’t do it very often. I mean, it’s stressful, expensive, and just a little bit tawdry what with all the paper-sliding-across-the-desk and “let-me-go-talk-to-my-manager” stuff that goes on. It’s just icky. In my opinion.

But it had to be done, so B and I headed for the car dealer a couple of weeks ago to take a test drive. Now, mind you, the work had already been done and the deal was just about sealed before we even set foot on the lot thanks to the internet and my husband. So when we arrived we met a salesman who handed us a key and off we went.

The car was fine. The salesman wasn’t. All he did was say, “Turn here” or complain about his other customers while texting someone from the back seat. Truthfully, he was kind of annoying. Not engaging. Just basically there for the ride.

B and I talked about our salesman, Joe, on the way home. About how he never showed us any features of the car. How he never really probed to see if we were interested in buying. How he never SOLD us the car.

We were kind of annoyed that he would get the commission for selling the car that we already knew we’d be buying.

So the day came last week for us to take delivery on our new car (that’s car dealer lingo—don’t you like it?). I took Kate with me because I just didn’t want to deal with Joe by myself. Plus, I like taking Kate with me—she’s a great conversationalist.

I had warned her about Joe as we were driving there. I told her that I found him to be kind of abrupt. Basically, I didn’t have very much nice to say about him.

Joe met us at the door and showed us our car with the newly installed roof rack. Then he led us inside to start with the paperwork. He quickly rambled on about the sale, the numbers, and the warranty. I didn’t hear much of what he said because he was talking so fast. He flipped through leaflets and brochures and handed them to me with such speed that I just piled them up and thought, “I’ll just have B look at them later.”

At one point Joe had to leave us to go check on something. I looked at Kate, rolled my eyes, and said, “See what I mean?”

She looked straight at me and said, “He hates his job.”

“What?” I said, kind of startled at her abruptness. “You think?”

“Yeah, Mom. I mean, wouldn’t you hate this job too? It’s obvious . . . he hates his job.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean he has to be a jerk about it.”

“You’re right, but I bet if you got to know him he’s probably not so bad,” Kate said. “Give the guy a chance.”

So we agreed that if we had the chance, we’d try to get to know Joe a little better. When he finally came back he explained that it might be a little while because a customer ahead of us was buying two cars for his business. There must have been only one paperwork person because we had to wait while they processed those two cars first.

Finally, Joe asked if we had any questions about the car.

Um, yeah, like how does it work? What are the features I should know about? Anything cool I should know how to do?

We walked outside and looked at the car. Joe showed us where our I-pod plugged in, that was cool. And how the back windows roll down, also cool because my previous mini-van didn’t have that feature. Other stuff like that.

After that, we went back inside to wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

So, I dove into the deep end and asked, “So, Joe, how long have you worked here?”

And thus began a conversation that humbled me to my core. Because my daughter was sitting beside me proving to me what a jerk I had been.

Over the course of a mere 20 minutes we learned that Joe had worked at this dealership for four years, and that he’d been selling cars for two years. We learned that he grew up downstate and headed straight for the Marines after high school because his cousin, whom he idolized, had gone to the U.S. Naval Academy.

Unfortunately, during the first couple of years in the Marines, Joe was in a car accident that caused a broken leg in three places, had a Titanium rod placed in his leg, and also received a fake knee. Joe’s naval career had ended with that accident.

We then learned that Joe had dreams of becoming a lawyer, but that those dreams were temporarily on hold because the woman to whom he had been married and for whom he had put his education on hold so that she could get her Master’s degree had left him as soon as she finished school. Joe hadn’t even finished his Bachelor’s degree. He’d like to, though, and then go to law school. The selling cars thing was just helping him save some money so he could go back to school.

In that short time we also learned that Joe plays the cello—he’s been playing for 16 years. He’s going to play in the wedding of one of his buddies in September—Pachelbel Canon in D.

Joe also has a dog. A bulldog named Nimitz. We got to see pictures of the dog on his Blackberry.

So, you see, in just 20 short minutes (O.K., it was probably longer because we had to wait a LONG time for the paperwork guy) we got to know Joe. We learned that Joe probably does hate his job. That he’d for sure like to be anywhere but where he is right now, selling cars. We learned that Joe has a painful past and is carrying around a load of hurt but he’s trying his best to get it together.

When I was younger, my dad always told me that in order to win people over, you have to get them talking about themselves. Just by asking a few questions, you’ll get the other person talking about their life and they will think you are just about the best person EVER.

My dad also said that a successful conversation is one in which you never reveal anything about yourself, not because you want to keep things private, but because you got the other person talking about himself so much.

That’s kind of how it was with Joe. Sure, we told him a few things about us and our family. Kate told him about her finals last week and her college search process. But mostly, I think the conversation was a success because we got Joe to talk about himself. I would guess that most of the time his customers talk about themselves, seeing him as important as the paper on the wall.

As we drove away in our new car, Kate and I weren’t looking at the gadgets and gizmos sitting in front of us. Instead we drove away with a bit of heavy-heartedness for our new friend, Joe. We talked about his pain and how a life without Jesus is always messed up in some way.

I admitted to Kate that she was right about Joe. I should have given him a chance. I should have seen that there was a story behind his behavior.

But my selfish self got in the way again. That ugly part of me just wants to think the worst of people and not see them as broken, which most likely they are.

I am so glad that Kate took the time to teach me a different way of seeing people like Joe. My daughter, who is wise beyond her years, reminded me of something I should have already known—that people everywhere, no matter who they are, have a story that’s just waiting to be told.

Yes, I am a teller of stories. This blog proves that. But I hope that I will also be a better listener to other people’s stories. That will make me a better writer and a better person.