pants. revisited.

Last Friday, I made it my mission to cure the pants problem in my wardrobe.  I was unsuccessful.  (although I did find quite a few cute tops, even some that would look great with...gasp...jeans).

Apparently, the skirts that exist in my head do not exist in malls.  Of course, this is usually the case.  It happened already once in the last six months in the case of the red sundress, which, despite my best intentions, inevitably turned into a sewing mishap resulting in the production of a sundress suitable for only those persons possessing tyrannosaurus rex arms.  I have yet to fix it.  But I digress.

The trip to the mall.  My AB and I combed, I swear, every store in that place.  No skirts that I both loved and could afford.  And so I came home relatively empty handed and Monday, I donned the dreaded pair of pants.  again.  blah.

Then yesterday as I was reading through the musings of some absolutely fabulous gals, I came across an immediate solution using the stuff I already own!  Both Melissa at I Pick Pretty and Holly at Running in Stilettos layered a top over a maxi dress, repurposing the dress into a skirt.  How clever!

So today, I paired a turquoise sundress under a basic black t-shirt and finished it off with a little black ribbon.  So cute and I even got a few compliments too!  Woohoo!

It felt so good to be rocking a dress today, honestly, I could not help but smile a little brighter than I usually do when I'm wearing, ugh, pants.

remission

Two days ago I contacted a potential suitor after a brief, hmmm, hiatus, shall we say.  I don't know why I did it; and even though I'm glad I did, I don't really know how I feel about breaking my leave-the-boy-alone rule either.  But I did it.  And I learned something about myself in the process.  

So,  you should know first that I have a history of being ditched by potential suitors.  In hind sight, most of them were doing me a favor.  I'd like to think that they are all just intimidated by my awesomeness, but let's be real.  My crazy probably drove them away.  Not to worry though, y'all, my crazy is in rehab.  I'm certain after my little relapse that all is well in the anti-crazy kingdom.  

At any rate, this PS did the ceremonial disappearing act after a fantastic conversation where he complimented my beautiful smile, made tentative plans for a future date, and called me sugar.  Swoon for real.  It is so hard to remember the rules of crazy rehab when a boy is telling me such sweet things, ugh!    However, upon constantly reanalyzing reflection of the situation, I have determined that my crazy was well in check during our entire, however brief, get-to-know-each-other period.  

And so he disappeared.  No explanation, ok, well sort of, but determining when an explanation is just that and when it's an excuse is a whole other discussion.  The not-so-gradual fade-away.  We're well acquainted.  This is where the first piece of proof that crazy boot camp is working: I didn't text or call or anything.  No twitter.  Nothing.  Just this deserves me a trophy!

But then the relapse.  

It was just a little text.  I was actually surprised that he responded, truth be told.  At first, I caught myself having fantasy sequences about how he missed me so much and how he was going to realize my amazingness.  He simply responded, acted like it hadn't even been three weeks, and didn't even make an apology.  Abort fantasy sequence.  But this post isn't about how he should have acted or what he should have said, hell, it's not even about him.  It's about me and my journey and about how this little incident marked all new territory for me.  Because the remarkable part of this whole interaction was that, despite the pitter-patter that he made my heart go during that conversation before the fade-away,  I was able to see him for who he was, hear what he was really saying, and deduce that regardless of his choices, I AM FINE!  HA!  

Who knows what will happen with this guy, maybe he'll prove to be someone different than he has recently come across and maybe not.  What I do know is that whatever he decides, I have entries to write, miles to run, an iPad cover to decorate, and other PS's to date :)

Pretty soon, I'll be able to say that my crazy is in remission. 

true life is better than fiction

I read once that real writing, the stuff worth reading, is the stuff that scares its author.  I'm processing through one of those pieces right now, but in the mean while, I thought I'd leave you with two books whose authors', I'm sure, were terrified to write.

A powerful story of forgiveness.  It got a little bit preachy at the end, but WOW! is all I can say about this woman's story.

sent. shivers. down. my. spine. repeatedly.  This book took me zero time to read, is well written, and has been in my head since I finished it.

Have any of you read either of these?  What did you think?

Happy reading, y'all :)

i don't wanna wear pants

When I was a kid, my mom consistently fought with me over two pieces of clothing.  Turtlenecks and dresses.  Eventually, she gave up both fights.

Flash forward thirty odd years.

I've been back at work now for a whole nine days, and I've determined that I'm over pants.  I'm sure they have their place and that I'll love them again someday.  But even my good 'ol worn-in jeans are just not doing it for me right now, it doesn't even seem to matter how high the heels or how cute the shirt.  The world just seems better in a skirt.

Currently these are the reasons why I hate pants:

Wearing pants means going back to work.

Going to work means that my leisurely mornings and morning runs have been deduced to being haphazardly fit in.

It's so hard to feel fun and flirty in a pair of pants.  At least it is for me currently.

Driving my car is not nearly as much fun in pants.  I don't know why, I know this is an odd one, but there's something powerful about wearing a cutie sun dress while driving a muscle car with windows down, hair up, and the music loud.   I'm also aware that this makes me a boarder-line train-wreck.  I'm not at all bothered by this.  possibly proud.  

It is still hot outside and I really do sweat more in those things.  eew.

I'm pretty sure that I am not as sweet or patient in pants.  This is a big deal.  I need all the help that I can get.

My mom thinks this is hilarious, by the way.  I'm glad she does.  Really.  Really, I am.  As I drive my car to work in the morning, constricted at the waist, all business like (I know that's what I'm supposed to look like, ugh, I know) and ish.  She's laughing.  

Tomorrow, I'm going to Macy's.  Toodles.

the things that stick

My mom's mom is 94 years old.  She is the daughter of immigrants.  Stout and hardheaded, she is demanding and opinionated.  She is more likely to scorn you than hug you.  And, even when she is proud of you, she'll shame push you to do better the next time.  In short, picking out a mother's day card for her is a real chore; she is the polar opposite of my other grandma.

Grandma told me once, in a conversation I vividly remember, that the most important thing to remember is to always put on a happy face in public.  I was in the fifth grade and had already begun to suffer from a constant nagging of dark emotions.  I was already starting to learn how to hide the sudden urges of tears that would randomly appear behind my eyes.  I was increasingly concerned that once people got to know me that they would find me high-maintnace and annoying.  I had already begun learning in my own world to put on a happy face, and the Grandma confirmed that it was the best thing I could do.

For much of my life, I've gone back to this advice and questioned whether it was the best advice to have given me, or if it were, in fact, true.  Today on the back porch of my aunt's house, I watched my Grandma carefully.  She's here visiting for the weekend.  Although, apparently, she doesn't really know she's here, but that revelation came later in the evening.  At the moment I was most carefully watching her, I was thinking about how we never leave certain things behind.

She was talking to one of my cousins, I could see the lady in my grandma, the one reserved specifically for public appearances, come out.  She has forgotten so many things, like how many grandkids she has, what she ate for breakfast, that the lens fell out of her glasses...  She probably wasn't even completely sure with whom she was talking, but she smiled and nodded and asked clarifying questions and that was enough for a pleasant conversation to have taken place.

It was this unfailing appearance that I was thinking about while I studied her.  She is a woman with whom I have had many disagreements.  She will argue about almost everything and does not back down.  ever.  She often asks questions that she doesn't care to hear anyone's answer to, especially when she is trying to feed a guest.  She loves in her own way and she sets the bar high, probably too high.  She isn't able to follow conversations like she used to and it's more likely than not to look over at her and find a blank empty look in her eyes; but as she sat there, on the back porch, attempting to be engaged in conversation, she still smiled.

Currently, my grandma exists as a tragic shell of the person she once was.  Her memory is fading, she can barely hear, and she seems to be able to do little else than fight back against the people who care for her the most.  But, after all of that she still remembers to smile and nod, goes to church, and takes care not to look a mess in public.

when i grow up

Sometime earlier in the year, I came to the conclusion that I was ready to move on to adventures that don't involve teaching.  I thought I might like to try my hand at entrepreneurship, and in a way I still do, but I have inevitably, and possibly begrudgingly, returned to my old classroom digs.  And now, because of some rearrangements in the department, I am teaching a job skills class where the first order of business is to lead students to explore what they want to do with their lives.  Really?!

I guess I've asked for all of these lessons.

While I was looking for different articles for my students to read, I found this.  We're reading it together as a class because I secretly need to learn this stuff too.  Basically, it all boils down to the idea that when we do what we love, the time we spend doing it seems more like a gift than a chore.  We recieve the benefits, rather than earn them.  We go to bed at night, in awe,  thinking, "I can't believe I get to live this life!"

Here's the epiphany.  Isn't everything like this?   Friendship, romance, what we do, where we live?  If we recieve everything as a gift, how much would that change our lives?  I think significanly.  If we cherrish the things and people in our lives like rare gifts, we are less likely to take them for granted, rush them, or hoard them.  Maybe we wouldn't be so afraid of not having enough, of not being enough.

I guess this is where my quest for patience really comes full circle.  Please excuse my vagueness here, as I skirt delicately around the specifics.  I truly feel that I know what it is I want to be when I grow up, and I feel pretty confident that I know where I'm gonna be it.  I just don't know how to get there.  It takes patience to welcome and learn from obsticales, it takes trust and courage to abandon common logic in pursuit of a dream, and it takes humility to undertand that all the hard work in the world isn't going to get the job done without a little divine intervention.  And that, my friends, is a gift in itself.

It's funny the paths that God leads us down, some of them make sense to us and others, no matter how hard we try, never will.  We just have to be willing to trust that whichever road He leads us is going to get us where we need to be, when we need to be there.  I guess what I really want to be when I grow up is not a title but a state of mind.

Wordless Wednesday: Home

Here's a little something different.  A picture of home.  A place I've been missing like crazy.  Enjoy :)

hi, um, i'm crazy

In honor of the fact that I have had Miranda Lambert's "Only Prettier" stuck in my head all day, I was going to write a bit today about the necessity of putting one's self in a pretty package, but then I got to thinking a little about how a chapter in the book I'm reading cautioned me this morning about being too judgmental, now I'm thinking about how one of my AB's is a recovering crazy and how much I love her despite, actually mostly because of, her crazy.

Then it dawned on me.  We have a lot in common, my crazy AB and I.  Which means that I might be a crazy, too.  Of course this makes me laugh, because I believe that crazy people always think they are sane.  I, of course, pride myself on my level head and ability to stay completely cool and confident in all scenarios. Ohhhhhhh, the irony.

I think crazy is kind of like having cankles.  First, you should know that I've been secretly self-conscious about my ankles since I was in the fifth grade when a super cute, older boy told me that girls with fat ankles were ugly.  He then pointed out that mine were "a little on the thick side."  Boom.  Actually, that's probably when the crazy started, too.

At any rate, I noticed that my cankles showed up a little today.  It's back to school time, which means my summer of healthier-than-normal eating etc. is over and I've already caved in to my ceremonial 10 am bag of Chex-Mix and can of Mountain Dew.  Trust me, it does lovely things for water retention.  Since we've already established that God likes to make good and clear those delicate little lessons I'm supposed to be learning, there is probably no coincidence that as I was strapping on my running shoes and thinking about the sad state of my lower legs, that I heard the sounds of Miss Miranda over the radio waves.

You catch more flies with the sweet, pretty taste of honey, y'all and neither sodium-induced cankles nor act-like-you-lost-your-mind crazy are all that pretty.  That's for sure, but we all have a little bit of both in us.  And let's be honest, pretty isn't all that easy, neither is overcoming water retention or maintaining sanity.  It takes time and patience to do things for ourselves that make us feel pretty and I guess that's where this whole post comes full circle: there's a little bit of sanity in being able to laugh at your crazy and those of us who choose to act "prettier" will be prettier.

Having confidence is just like being you, only prettier.   You know what you had to do to earn it and believe you're worth the work to keep yourself that way.  Oh.  Wait.  Isn't that kind of like sanity?

the long way is, in fact, longer

One of my favorite quotes from the movie Big Fish says something to the effect that the long way may be easier, but that it sure is longer.  Ironic, right?

Once for several weeks during a summer in college, I worked at a business owned by a family friend in north-eastern Indiana, two hours away from where I lived at the time. I would drive up on Monday morning and stay until Thursday, then drive home.  The first time I went, I refused to get directions from a person insisting instead that I would just get them off of the internet.  I've always been a sucker for new technology, and at the time, MapQuest was NEW technology.  Oh, I got the directions, alright.  And despite following those directions meticulously, I ended up in Ohio.  Ohio.  Yup.  Ohio.  Talk about taking the long way.  I learned a little bit about pride, humility, and patience from that trip. And because of my good humor about the whole ordeal, I managed to land a couple dates with a cute mechanic, but that's a topic for another day.

Of course, that was not the first, nor will it be the last time, that I stubbornly refused to accept help and managed to embark on a longer journey than necessary.  There are benefits to the long way around though.  I've gotten to see some beautiful country and learned a lot about my strength and really refined my beliefs in God.  In fact, taking the long way around is often a hidden blessing.  It's only when we lose faith and patience that it seems to hinder us.  It's a chance to stop and smell the flowers and see the world from outside of our comfort zone.  If, that is, we take the opportunity.  

happiness is an adirondack chair... or I used to be funny

Yesterday's post both depressed and freed me.  Sorry if it depressed you, but hurray if it made you think even just a tiny bit as much it did me. Here's the thing: I used to be friggin' hilarious y'all.  For reals.  I'm not completely sure that I am anymore and this makes me sad.

Ok.  I think the funny is still underneath all the ridiculous that has clouded over me in the last couple of years.  I thought about it while I was cleaning out of my classroom.  Well, actually, I think about it and how to get it back a lot, and I've been getting little clues, especially lately.  What do they say, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear?  Truth, I believe.

Anyway, every morning that I run, I make sure to run past my favorite buildings, they relax me and make me happy.  That's what it's all about anyway, right?  One of my favorite houses sits on corner in a big, inviting yard and on the porch, that seems like it would the perfect place to watch the sunset, bright yellow adirondack chairs are situated, contrasting beautifully against the bluish gray of the house.  There is something magically charming about this house, but I decided this morning that without the chairs, this house would hardly stand out.

And so, it occurred to me, that while the classic picture of white adirondack chairs on the beach is similarly and absolutely a picture of relaxation and peace, it is the chairs themselves that make the dream almost tangible.

The thing is that the chairs are simple, vibrant, relaxed, and sturdy.  In a word, they are confident.  Those yellow chairs on the porch or white ones on the beach aren't afraid that the sun won't always shine and they know that they will always find proper footing no matter how unleveled the ground is beneath them.  They do not advertise for people to join them, but their welcoming nature makes doing so easy and enjoyable.

Ok, so the chairs are not funny.  But they are authentic.  And authentic can be, at the very least, humorous if it is, in fact, authentic.

God already knows that I'm a little bit of a big-headed type-A chica who would rather be in control of, oh I don't know, everything.  I'm sure that it has been no coincidence that everything I've encountered today, from my daily Bible verse to my Aquarian horoscope, have focused on the concepts of simplicity and patience; two words that, when authentic, scream confidence.  I guess the lesson here is that in order for me to get my funny back, I need to regain my confidence.  In order to regain my confidence, the true confidence that God's got a perfect plan for me, I have to be patient with that plan and quit trying to complicate things by forcing square pegs into round holes.  In short,  I need to relax, let my big head chill out in one of those phenomenal adirondack chairs, and watch God's plan unfold.

photo credit: Rosa Say via photo pin cc

fireflies

I thought about fireflies today.  

When I was a kid, I wanted so desperately for them to light up my room at night.  Just once, I longed to turn out the lights at bed time and have the jar shine like stars.  A tiny piece of summer heaven to lull me to sleep.

Countless nights throughout so many summers, I collected fireflies and carefully placed them in the discarded baby food jars that my dad and I had meticulously prepared for them.  We would use a nail and hammer to make the proper sized breathing holes in the lid and I filled the jars with fresh grass and leaves.  Try as I might to provide a welcoming home, those little bugs simply could not survive in those jars.  Even if they could have, I don't think that they would have brought me the joy that I imagined.  

There is something magical about how fireflies illuminate a warm night.  Something illusive and serene, like stars twinkling within our reach, a place to rest our hopes and dreams.  But just like the fireflies, the magic dies in jars.  

It's what so many of us do in love.  We want to be collectors more than participants, we want for our darkness to be interrupted.  We do our best to provide comfortable amenities in hopes that we can be persuasive and enticing.  The truth is that the only way that anyone, firefly or man, can really thrive is when he feels free to do so by choice.  Force and guilt ruin the simplest joy.  

And fear.  

Because without fear, there is no force or duty or persuasion or enticement.  All is secure.  Even when it's not, because we have faith that it is enough.

wealth

Last May, I quit my second job in effort to save my sanity.  It's been quite an adjustment these last couple of months, I do not have a lot of money now.  At.  All.  I mean, it's a little dire y'all.  But you know what?  I'm so rich.

I will dedicate today's post to a list of the things that have increased my wealth now that I have only one job and zero extra dollars:

I can turn up the music and have a dance party across the hardwood floor, which I am absolutely, whole-heartedly, and completely adore, in my living room.

I have read more books this summer than I have read in the last two years.

I have been able to spend so much more quality time with so many of my ABs that I'd lost touch with.

My Goddaughter and Godsons know who I am.

I have, on more than one occasion this summer, played in the sprinkler both with and without a kid to join me.  

I have been able to spend more time writing again.

I have time to actually taste the food I eat.

I have to cook on the cheap, which means lots of creative concoctions involving eggs, spices, veggies, and tortillas.  Oh, and grilled eggplant.  Uh, YUM!

I have run more miles more consistently than possibly ever in my life.

I have had the opportunity to strengthen my faith and am gaining such an amazing sense of peace and balance.

Money may be tight, but I have not once regretted my choice!  What simple things bless your lives?

evidence of hoarding

In May, I packed up my classroom, locked the important things up in my desk and in my closet, and headed off to three months of summer bliss, oh, ok, only really one and a half because of summer school.  But, still.

On the 13th, I will dutifully pull up into the school parking lot and begin my meetings and embark into my tenth year as a teacher.  But my classroom will already be set up.

Nope, no one will do it for me.  Nope, I didn't leave myself that organized.

Even better.

I will have purged more paper, worksheets, and supplemental materials than a small library and compacted my teaching career into a single four-drawer filing cabinet.

Nope, I really wasn't that motivated.  Especially, not in my last.  week.  of.  summer.

Remember that closet that I, so diligently, locked my belongings in?  Yup, the one that no longer exists,  the one whose contents are currently scattered about my classroom?  It's housing an air conditioner now.

Thanks for the heads up, oh rulers of the HVAC kingdom!

I could complain.  And previously I would have.  But, really, it was kind of funny to see how creatively my carefully hoarded artifacts were stationed throughout the room.  Textbooks moved across the room. Papers stacked on my chair.  One of my large floor plants stationed atop a bookshelf.

And, I am grateful, really, because I don't need all of that stuff. So this week, instead of sleeping until noon and leisurely going about my business in lament of my last grasp of summer, I will be simplifying my life and taking a trip down memory lane one manilla folder at a time.

prayer run

I used to think that I didn't know how to pray, I knew I wanted to, but I just didn't know how.  Then it occurred to me one day, while I was sitting and drinking my coffee enjoying the silence of the new day, that God, like an old friend, and I were really talking over coffee--that I'd been praying all along.  Over time, my relationship with God has grown and I pray in the morning over coffee and at night on my knees. An AB and their situation is heavy on my heart today.   Today, I felt that I would continue my prayers into my run.  What better way to get closer to God than by using His body to explore the world He created.

For four miles, I concentrated and prayed.  I prayed for peace.  I prayed for guidance.  I prayed for strength.  I prayed for my AB.  My mama always says that God doesn't give us more than we can handle.  And it occurred to me as I came to the hill that never ends that I earlier this summer, I couldn't run that hill at all.

But what are the hills for?  Who cares if I'm stronger than yesterday?  Sure it makes a pretty picture to stare at in the mirror and can earn lots of shiny medals; but really, a strong body comes from a strong faith that you are doing what is best for your body, a trust that you can push yourself further than you ever thought possible and still live to tell about the journey, the strength to keep pushing when everything seems to be crumbling around you.  And sometimes all of this faith and trust and strength isn't for our own benefit; sometimes its for the benefit of the people whose lives God has brought us into.  Sometimes all of our work provides the calm in the middle of someone else's storm.

God never intended our lives to be easy, I think that's the misconception.  God gave us hills, sometimes so steep and big and arduous, that we think we will never reach the top.  But we do.  God gives us plateaus and valleys too, so that we can appreciate the lessons and catch our breath.  There are times during a run that I concentrate on putting one foot down in front of the other, but really, my body just works.  In fact, it is when I let go of the push and let my body do it's job that I run best, even up those hills.  Isn't that what the Bible tells us to do, let go of the idea that we have any real control and give it to God?  What a beautiful and extraordinarily difficult lesson to remember, let alone apply.  Especially because what I really want is to DO something for my AB, I want to BE there, I want FIX it.  And.  I can't for so many reasons that are beyond my control.  Well.  I can pray.  

visiting

It was a family story that we've told over and over again now for a couple of years.  Of course, it hasn't been passed down from generation to generation, and maybe it never will because, really, the story isn't all that funny if you've never met her.  If you've never seen her bright eyes twinkle when one of her grandkids walk in the room or heard her begin her speech about cutting back on Christmas as early as August, just one breath after asking us grandkids eagerly what we'd like for her to get us.  

One Christmas, I don't remember the hoopla but I'm told there was quite a stir, Grandma waited in line and bought all of the grandkids, there were three girls and one boy at the time, a Cabbage Patch Kid.  I've been told they were quite the rage that year, I was the oldest and I don't remember knowing I was supposed to want one, but I did love that doll.  Every year for the next three, we each got a new one.

But that's not the real story.  The real story has to do with the fact that Grandma was a busy body.  She knew everyone and everyone's business.  I can't recall how many times in my life I would catch myself wondering in awe who all of the kids, neatly framed and arranged on her entertainment center, end tables, and various other spots around her house, belonged to.  Oh, that's so and so's granddaughter from over there, and that's what's her name's daughter's son's niece and nephew, she would explain.  And of course she knew every one of those kids' names, where they lived and the names of their mamas, daddys, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  She loved them all, too.  

Grandma loved being at the center of the action, rarely was she the actual center of attention, she just always knew what was going on.  She thrived on it.  But she was not a gossip, not really.  In fact, I don't remember, except once, hearing her real opinion of anything.  Mostly she expressed sympathy.  "Isn't it just horrible," she would lament.  Maybe and maybe not.  I think that Grandma just genuinely cared.  

Grandma died after complications from several strokes.  She didn't want to be kept alive and we honored her wishes.  In hospice, where everyone did their best to keep her comfortable while she waited to pass into her next life, she twitched her feet to let us know she was still with us.  There was no real medical way that she was really able to move her feet, but she did it.  SHE did it.  We knew it.  She finally let go and went to be with Grandpa, who had passed long before I was ever born and had, therefore, never formally met any of his grandchildren, actually even his youngest daughter's husband.  Of course, that's not the story either.

Grandma died right at the beginning of November, the beginning of her favorite time of year.  The Thanksgiving after she died might have been the last time that all of us, her three kids, their spouses and us grandchildren, were all together and we knew Grandma's eyes must have been twinkling to see us there together,  talking about her, still a little emotionally raw.  It was a nuscience at first, that little fruit fly that wouldn't go away.  We swatted at it and it eluded our efforts only to rejoin the party from another angle.  And then, as sure as turkey  and a healthy dose of football will bring on the naps, that darn fruit fly was gone as soon as the dinner excitement was settled.  

That is, until the next time.  When that little fruit fly, maybe the same one, maybe not, sure did come out of no where and join her two youngest grandsons and all of their friends.  That little fruit fly put on the same show for them and disappeared when the action settled.  Of course this wasn't the last time a single fruit fly made an appearance at a family gathering, in fact, we've grown to expect it.

No one ever plans to come back to this earth as a fruit fly, but we all figure it suits Grandma best.  It allows her to hear all of the conversations going on at once and taste the food that she loved so much.  We don't even second guess it when we see a fruit fly now, because we know it's her, just making sure all is well.  That's the story, so short and seemingly insignificant, like a fruit fly I guess.  But I'll tell you what, I don't think it was an accident that a lone fruit fly landed on my arm today in church right in the middle of the part of the sermon that I knew I had really needed to hear.  She knew it and I knew it.  Then she was gone.