It's going to be one of those days. I can SMELL it already.
When people talk about the best laid plans of mice and men, they totally discount the best laid plans of women who hate mice and the mess they leave behind or this average woman's total lack of mechanical skill.
It isn't like I am stupid.
Right? Right . . . ?
I decided that since we have ordered ourselves a new cordless, battery-powered mower, that I would go out and reclaim the gasoline from the old mower before I forgot about it yet again. After all, a penny saved is a penny earned. Old Ben said that and Old Ben wouldn't lie about a thing like that.
Back in a minute or two, okay?
Well, that didn’t work out according to Hoyle. This is where the part about mice and men and gasoline comes into the equation and I was never that great in math. Fact is, when I add that combination up, I have visions of an Aquanet fired potato gun launching the mice into a field for distance. But that is another journal entry entirely.
Logically thinking to myself that the little tank on the mower was on one side and that if somehow I could tip the mower over onto that side that I could get the gasoline to gravity flow out and into some sort of vessel (no, not the kind with a mast and a sail, silly!), that I could just easily put it into the gas guzzling van that is my transportation. That sounds like a plan to me.
Digging through the junk in our storage shed, I came up with a moment of brilliance and what I believed to be a brilliant solution (Look, if you are going to be sticky about the definition of brilliance, then we are gonna tangle!). I wound up successfully turning the mower on its side, and then dumping the mower’s tank into a hospital bedpan (no kidding - doesn't everyone have one of these in their storage building?) and, in what I believe to be a second flash of brilliance brought on by the query of "how do I get this into the tank now", I used an improvised funnel that I fashioned from cutting the bottom off of one of those funnel necked STP bottles to get it from the bedpan cum gasoline receptacle into the tank.
Then, the tragedy unfolded as surely as a paper hat in a gale. As the gasoline from the bedpan dribbled down my hands and sort of into the funnel (STOP LAUGHING!!), I realized that there was an issue I had failed to take into account. Okay, more than one issue.
The little improvised funnel just wasn't going to stay still in the tank's neck or hole or door or opening or whatever the manly men call that doohickey where pump jockeys stick in the nozzle* to fill up my car while I fiddle with the radio (*See, I know a technical gasoliney sounding word!).
Given the choice between holding the little funnel in place and/or continuing the baptism of octane washing over my hand or allowing the precious elixir of power to go into the grass, I held onto the little funnel and remembered that years ago gasoline used to be 35 cents a gallon and this would never have happened. We would have sold the broken mower with its 'free tank of gas'. I finally got the rest of the gasoline from the mower’s refill tank poured in safely.
Now my hands smell like 87 octane.
Aren’t you jealous? Despite my having washed my hands thoroughly, I still smell like gasoline. I will continue to wash them as some vision of Lady Macbeth of the petroleum era flashes before my eyes. Maybe by next week they will smell like something else. But at the price of gasoline right now, dang it, this OUGHT to be a turn on. To somebody besides the crusty old man at the Wavaho who ALWAYS smells like gasoline and isn't a turn on in a dark room with desperation in the air along with the diesel. This stuff costs almost as much as that fancy perfume folks go bankrupt to buy!
Oh well.
I will console myself by looking at the online brochure on the new mower. I will not, however, ‘lick my wounds’, because then I would have gasoline on my tongue. And that would just be wrong . . . and nasty.
April 10, 2008
April 6, 2008
Just Wondering . . .
After enjoying the conference sessions today and then watching some of the other programming the internet linkage to BYU TV offered, I sort of vegetated while waiting for the smoked beef roast to get done.
I wonder sometimes how we mere mortals manage to make such a big deal of ourselves that we forget just how much we need each other to survive.
While reading a book the other day, I came across a phrase that had me quite confused. Then, oddly enough, I heard it repeated in the lyrics of a song from several years ago "Stuck In The Middle With You".
The line is "proud that he's a self-made man".
What an odd concept. How can any man or woman seriously believe they are 'self-made'?
It dawns on me that if I started to make a list beginning from the moment that the doctor slapped my butt to get the crying started, that I couldn't possibly name everyone who had a hand in making me what I am today. For better or worse, the events, people and places that go through the steps and stages of our lives are the very things and people that make up who we are now and, indeed, who we are to become in the future.
The last time I checked, we don't live in a bubble that is isolated from the contact of every other person in the world.
By virtue of my bubble touching your bubble as we pass through life, there is an impact of some sort that leaves an impression.
From the smile on the face of the bucktoothed and friendly man at the gas station, to the nice lady at the library who is always so kind, to the old lady I see walking around the block from time to time and to the man who stopped when my car's engine was on fire years ago - all of them have made some kind of impression that directs how my life goes.
I remember sitting for long hours in the Children's Hospital years ago waiting to see if my child was going to live or die. Thankfully, he is alive and well and a smiling, handsome young man. But, during the time that this outcome wasn't on the horizon, I had a lot of time to think and to see how people around me reacted to the horrors that are part and parcel to being in a critical care unit in the hospital.
There were people who chose to make mountains of molehills and add stress to an already hard circumstance. The nurses couldn't ever make them happy because they weren't quick enough to suit them. I felt so sorry for these women and men who were trying to care for the children the best way they could under whatever restrictions that the doctor had imposed.
Some of the nurses wore frown lines and sour expressions that could have been off-putting to a saint. But others radiated a light and happiness that let me know that they had been influenced to be not self-made, but God-made.
While we are all most certainly God-made, there are so many people who don't know that little gem of information that would maybe change their life - if they let it.
All I know is that most of the breast-beating, preening and strutting people screaming about being self made seem to be awfully unhappy. I t hink it's because they have fashioned their image after the wrong creator.
Setting our aim too low is a sure way to find disappointment and disillusionment in our lives.
When we look up to Him who made us, we can become so much more than self-made. We can reach into the unknown and grasp the Hand of Him who is the Master Creator of all. He can show us a vision of who HE sees that we can become. And what he reveals to us is infinitely more important and valuable than what we make of ourselves alone.
It all reminds me of the book I read called "Acres of Diamonds" years ago.
We are all too willing to go look for 'the gold in them thar hills' while ignoring the diamonds that are close at hand. We are missing the mark and overshooting the target because the lesson of just who we really are is pushed to the back burner or off the stove entirely.
Because we don't like the interposition of the Creator in our lives, after all - our ego tells us we should know best how to do everything, the beauty of becoming God-made people is a slow process.
For some of us (okay for ME), the innate stubborness that some people confuse with an indepenedent spirit is as much a burden and handicap as it could be a blessing if it were turned over to God and used in His way.
Everytime I try to be self-made, I create problems and sadness for me and everyone around me.
But I have noticed that in those times when I willingly place my hand into the Hand of God and allow Him to make and fashion me in the way that He knows is best for me, miracles can and do occur.
So why is it that the pull of mortality and the myth of being self-made is so very strong?
Just wondering . . .
I wonder sometimes how we mere mortals manage to make such a big deal of ourselves that we forget just how much we need each other to survive.
While reading a book the other day, I came across a phrase that had me quite confused. Then, oddly enough, I heard it repeated in the lyrics of a song from several years ago "Stuck In The Middle With You".
The line is "proud that he's a self-made man".
What an odd concept. How can any man or woman seriously believe they are 'self-made'?
It dawns on me that if I started to make a list beginning from the moment that the doctor slapped my butt to get the crying started, that I couldn't possibly name everyone who had a hand in making me what I am today. For better or worse, the events, people and places that go through the steps and stages of our lives are the very things and people that make up who we are now and, indeed, who we are to become in the future.
The last time I checked, we don't live in a bubble that is isolated from the contact of every other person in the world.
By virtue of my bubble touching your bubble as we pass through life, there is an impact of some sort that leaves an impression.
From the smile on the face of the bucktoothed and friendly man at the gas station, to the nice lady at the library who is always so kind, to the old lady I see walking around the block from time to time and to the man who stopped when my car's engine was on fire years ago - all of them have made some kind of impression that directs how my life goes.
I remember sitting for long hours in the Children's Hospital years ago waiting to see if my child was going to live or die. Thankfully, he is alive and well and a smiling, handsome young man. But, during the time that this outcome wasn't on the horizon, I had a lot of time to think and to see how people around me reacted to the horrors that are part and parcel to being in a critical care unit in the hospital.
There were people who chose to make mountains of molehills and add stress to an already hard circumstance. The nurses couldn't ever make them happy because they weren't quick enough to suit them. I felt so sorry for these women and men who were trying to care for the children the best way they could under whatever restrictions that the doctor had imposed.
Some of the nurses wore frown lines and sour expressions that could have been off-putting to a saint. But others radiated a light and happiness that let me know that they had been influenced to be not self-made, but God-made.
While we are all most certainly God-made, there are so many people who don't know that little gem of information that would maybe change their life - if they let it.
All I know is that most of the breast-beating, preening and strutting people screaming about being self made seem to be awfully unhappy. I t hink it's because they have fashioned their image after the wrong creator.
Setting our aim too low is a sure way to find disappointment and disillusionment in our lives.
When we look up to Him who made us, we can become so much more than self-made. We can reach into the unknown and grasp the Hand of Him who is the Master Creator of all. He can show us a vision of who HE sees that we can become. And what he reveals to us is infinitely more important and valuable than what we make of ourselves alone.
It all reminds me of the book I read called "Acres of Diamonds" years ago.
We are all too willing to go look for 'the gold in them thar hills' while ignoring the diamonds that are close at hand. We are missing the mark and overshooting the target because the lesson of just who we really are is pushed to the back burner or off the stove entirely.
Because we don't like the interposition of the Creator in our lives, after all - our ego tells us we should know best how to do everything, the beauty of becoming God-made people is a slow process.
For some of us (okay for ME), the innate stubborness that some people confuse with an indepenedent spirit is as much a burden and handicap as it could be a blessing if it were turned over to God and used in His way.
Everytime I try to be self-made, I create problems and sadness for me and everyone around me.
But I have noticed that in those times when I willingly place my hand into the Hand of God and allow Him to make and fashion me in the way that He knows is best for me, miracles can and do occur.
So why is it that the pull of mortality and the myth of being self-made is so very strong?
Just wondering . . .
April 5, 2008
Saturday is a Special Day . . .
Finding out that hubby got to go to work today was a bit of a blow.
I had a significant 'honey do' list I was prepared to whip into action when I knew he had an off day to do all that highwire work that I shun when home alone because I am a total weenie when it comes to ladders.
I can go off the side of a cliff clinging to a small rope but I hate ladders. Go figure.
So, rather than cracking the whip today, I am going to Plan B.
Since my broom has gone AWOL, seriously, it is missing and I have the feeling it is taking an unscheduled ride in the back of hubby's pickup, I am left to improvise on floor maintenance. Did you know that the vaccuum isn't just for carpet. That little gem sucks up the pet hair and cobwebs and strange bits of clutter that gather in my house like this is some sort of primordial mating ground for messes.
Employing its noisy self to do what is generally a thankless task, I get the floors ready to mop.
Let's not kid ourselves here. Whomever thought about women and their special needs so much as to invent a mop that you can THROW AWAY when you are done with the floors should be canonized, knighted, given the Nobel Peace Prize and elected to some high office of Homeland Cleaning.
The very idea of putting a nasty string mop into a bucket to 'rinse' before trying it out again in a dubious 'cleaning' of the floor is just . . . well. . . NASTY. They always seem to smell faintly musty or have that soured smell that reminds me of an old ladies' house who has been on her own a week or two too long.
And the sponge mops on a tiled floor leave little wet giblets of themselves behind in a secret molting process that defies complete removal. I have found tiny blue sponge pieces stuffed into the uneven seams of the floor MONTHS later. Zero fun. Especially when this discovery occurs either when I am trying to have a nice dinner party or when my MIL is visiting and must honestly believe I never clean my home between their once a decade visits.
To be fair, I do like having a clean home. I am just not fanatical about it. My fantasy is to win free maid service forever. Hey! You have your dreams . . . I have mine!
I finished "Swiffering" my floors and they are lovely. For now.
Any woman who is so deluded as to believe that the work she does in her home will be a permanent change needs a vacation - and fast.
But the fact that I can do the wash and leave a row of crisply hot shirts for the next week of work for hubby, or that the dishes are done and acutally put away instead of resting calmly in the dish drainer for the next meal makes me feel like I have done something of value.
It actually doesn't really bother me that it will need doing all over again. It isn't a bad thing to be needed. There is something almost comforting in knowing that the socks and undies swirling in the hot dryer are for MY family and that they will be able to function because we have a reasonably clean and orderly home with clean clothes in the closets and drawers.
I must confess that there is still the secret wish that it would be done by fairy elves on the days I am booked from dawn to dusk with outside activities and appointments.
It reminds me of the story I heard of the woman who had come home from a full day and was seeing herself coming and going as she went through the house to clean it. Her husband, who sat reading the paper, remarked, "Why are you doing all of this stuff? Isn't tomorrow the day the maid comes?"
To which the woman replies "Yes! But I can't have her come here and see this mess!"
Well, the dryer called and needs attention on the clothes that I will have to iron if I don't get them out right now. And speed is of the essence. The shirt that isn't removed from the dryer and put on the hanger right this moment will otherwise require ironing . . .
I had a significant 'honey do' list I was prepared to whip into action when I knew he had an off day to do all that highwire work that I shun when home alone because I am a total weenie when it comes to ladders.
I can go off the side of a cliff clinging to a small rope but I hate ladders. Go figure.
So, rather than cracking the whip today, I am going to Plan B.
Since my broom has gone AWOL, seriously, it is missing and I have the feeling it is taking an unscheduled ride in the back of hubby's pickup, I am left to improvise on floor maintenance. Did you know that the vaccuum isn't just for carpet. That little gem sucks up the pet hair and cobwebs and strange bits of clutter that gather in my house like this is some sort of primordial mating ground for messes.
Employing its noisy self to do what is generally a thankless task, I get the floors ready to mop.
Let's not kid ourselves here. Whomever thought about women and their special needs so much as to invent a mop that you can THROW AWAY when you are done with the floors should be canonized, knighted, given the Nobel Peace Prize and elected to some high office of Homeland Cleaning.
The very idea of putting a nasty string mop into a bucket to 'rinse' before trying it out again in a dubious 'cleaning' of the floor is just . . . well. . . NASTY. They always seem to smell faintly musty or have that soured smell that reminds me of an old ladies' house who has been on her own a week or two too long.
And the sponge mops on a tiled floor leave little wet giblets of themselves behind in a secret molting process that defies complete removal. I have found tiny blue sponge pieces stuffed into the uneven seams of the floor MONTHS later. Zero fun. Especially when this discovery occurs either when I am trying to have a nice dinner party or when my MIL is visiting and must honestly believe I never clean my home between their once a decade visits.
To be fair, I do like having a clean home. I am just not fanatical about it. My fantasy is to win free maid service forever. Hey! You have your dreams . . . I have mine!
I finished "Swiffering" my floors and they are lovely. For now.
Any woman who is so deluded as to believe that the work she does in her home will be a permanent change needs a vacation - and fast.
But the fact that I can do the wash and leave a row of crisply hot shirts for the next week of work for hubby, or that the dishes are done and acutally put away instead of resting calmly in the dish drainer for the next meal makes me feel like I have done something of value.
It actually doesn't really bother me that it will need doing all over again. It isn't a bad thing to be needed. There is something almost comforting in knowing that the socks and undies swirling in the hot dryer are for MY family and that they will be able to function because we have a reasonably clean and orderly home with clean clothes in the closets and drawers.
I must confess that there is still the secret wish that it would be done by fairy elves on the days I am booked from dawn to dusk with outside activities and appointments.
It reminds me of the story I heard of the woman who had come home from a full day and was seeing herself coming and going as she went through the house to clean it. Her husband, who sat reading the paper, remarked, "Why are you doing all of this stuff? Isn't tomorrow the day the maid comes?"
To which the woman replies "Yes! But I can't have her come here and see this mess!"
Well, the dryer called and needs attention on the clothes that I will have to iron if I don't get them out right now. And speed is of the essence. The shirt that isn't removed from the dryer and put on the hanger right this moment will otherwise require ironing . . .
April 4, 2008
The Catwalk
While I can claim with reliable photographic evidence in abundance that I once was smaller than a bread truck, I have never fit the ideal of a catwalk model.
And frankly, I cannot imagine what the attraction could possibly be for a skeletally thin, bony and angular woman.
Then, add to that visual the disturbingly uncomfortable 'sexy underwear' that is alleged to be some sort of catnip to the male of the species and you have a truly strange vision.
Though I am not a prude, I also am not a regular subscriber to the Victoria's Secret mailers.
They just don't sell things in 'bread truck with extra bumpers' sizes and if they did, I am quite certain that diaphanous and flowing would be replaced with dumpy and fluffy. Most certainly not the spark a romantic flame might need for ignition. I am thinking more on the lines of total darkness here.
Just who decided what body type is 'THE ONE' for everyone?
Who got the authority to be able to grant women a pass if they shop in the toddler aisle and a fail if their hips are bigger than a breadbox.
Oddly enough, when it comes to breast size, the same people who fail the gals with ample hips are the same dolts who decide that a women who must employ flying buttresses to support cleavage that was enhanced by something from Dow Chemical is some sort of goddess due their full attention. It's a definite pass to the head of the class if you have a bra size that figures more in the hardware department rather than in fabrics.
Having studied my fair share of psychology and human sexuality during my college days both in and out of the classroom. Nothing like college students to provide the 'laboratory portion' of the classroom experience on a night at the drive in - I dang near dropped my root beer when I saw it.
I have decided that we need to be more realistic in what is expected of a WOMAN. Since God didn't see fit to use some sort of casting process to vet which one body type was all that he would allow on this Earth, I'm figuring that somewhere in the great beyond is the angel of the zaftig who has so many glorious gifts that size is never even thought of much less mentioned.
Since we in our relative physical imperfections as we see them are all God's children, how can the body he gave us be a mistake?
Everyone wasn't meant to be able to walk the catwalk or be catlike in grace and movement. Some of us were meant to be something entirely different.
All we need to do is become more like our Father and realize that different doesn't mean wrong when it comes to our shapes and sizes. Sometimes, we are too hard on what we see in the mirror without any thought at all as to what beats inside the heart of that woman who, for whatever reason, doesn't fit any mold or type.
God must have liked wondrous variety indeed just as the line from the movie Robin Hood suggested. If it were not so, there would have been only one kind of man for one kind of woman. That being the case, the rest of us could have just sat on the edge of a cloud, used our Cliff Notes and waited for the exams to pass our Earthly knowledge portion of life.
Here's hoping that one day the catwalk will be filled with women and men who are not models in magazines but models in their everyday conduct of how to fulfil the measure of their creation as our brothers and sisters and family of God.
And frankly, I cannot imagine what the attraction could possibly be for a skeletally thin, bony and angular woman.
Then, add to that visual the disturbingly uncomfortable 'sexy underwear' that is alleged to be some sort of catnip to the male of the species and you have a truly strange vision.
Though I am not a prude, I also am not a regular subscriber to the Victoria's Secret mailers.
They just don't sell things in 'bread truck with extra bumpers' sizes and if they did, I am quite certain that diaphanous and flowing would be replaced with dumpy and fluffy. Most certainly not the spark a romantic flame might need for ignition. I am thinking more on the lines of total darkness here.
Just who decided what body type is 'THE ONE' for everyone?
Who got the authority to be able to grant women a pass if they shop in the toddler aisle and a fail if their hips are bigger than a breadbox.
Oddly enough, when it comes to breast size, the same people who fail the gals with ample hips are the same dolts who decide that a women who must employ flying buttresses to support cleavage that was enhanced by something from Dow Chemical is some sort of goddess due their full attention. It's a definite pass to the head of the class if you have a bra size that figures more in the hardware department rather than in fabrics.
Having studied my fair share of psychology and human sexuality during my college days both in and out of the classroom. Nothing like college students to provide the 'laboratory portion' of the classroom experience on a night at the drive in - I dang near dropped my root beer when I saw it.
I have decided that we need to be more realistic in what is expected of a WOMAN. Since God didn't see fit to use some sort of casting process to vet which one body type was all that he would allow on this Earth, I'm figuring that somewhere in the great beyond is the angel of the zaftig who has so many glorious gifts that size is never even thought of much less mentioned.
Since we in our relative physical imperfections as we see them are all God's children, how can the body he gave us be a mistake?
Everyone wasn't meant to be able to walk the catwalk or be catlike in grace and movement. Some of us were meant to be something entirely different.
All we need to do is become more like our Father and realize that different doesn't mean wrong when it comes to our shapes and sizes. Sometimes, we are too hard on what we see in the mirror without any thought at all as to what beats inside the heart of that woman who, for whatever reason, doesn't fit any mold or type.
God must have liked wondrous variety indeed just as the line from the movie Robin Hood suggested. If it were not so, there would have been only one kind of man for one kind of woman. That being the case, the rest of us could have just sat on the edge of a cloud, used our Cliff Notes and waited for the exams to pass our Earthly knowledge portion of life.
Here's hoping that one day the catwalk will be filled with women and men who are not models in magazines but models in their everyday conduct of how to fulfil the measure of their creation as our brothers and sisters and family of God.
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