It just makes me wonder...

By and large the media informs and gives us perspective on the world events and local color that shapes our daily life.

Sometimes, the people delivering the news become the news themselves. I don't know that I like that trend, where the person giving me THEIR slant on what happened drives off the road of objectivity and right into the town of Personal Opinion.

Everyone has an opinion and we will never see every issue the same way. It's part of the endearing quality of being human that makes the journey appealing.

But celebrity news or as I like to call it SENSATIONALIST PROSTITUTION...

Well, that is another realm entirely.

The 'news' about celebrities isn't news in the traditional sense. It is, to be precise, tattle tale material offered up to the salacious and greedy who seek to have a front row view of the rise and fall of someone who doesn't do business at Mae's Quick Mart and Charm School.

Celebrities are only famous because they are rich, do something that the rest of us can't or won't or have been arrested doing something that even they know is wrong, but from which they will seek public absolution because they are playing the 'famous' card.

They are people who burp, pass gas and have armpit stains on their clothing.

They wake up with morning breath or in many cases, morning AFTER breath.

They have crusty eyes, matted hair and a small wad of dried spit on the left corner of their mouth.

They have to go to the bathroom exactly the same way the rest of us do and have to call out to someone to bring them more toilet paper when they sit down and take care of business only to discover that the roll is empty.

They parallel park like baboons.

They cheat on the Times crossword because they only speak erudite words and clever phrases that are written for them.

Chances are, they have paid more for uplifts, updo's, redo's and dental whitening that we pay for our mortgage.

The fact is, they need a team of people to turn them out fabulously and we, the great unwashed, are left to our own devices each day. If we forget mascara on one eye, there isn't a specialist on hand to patch us up before we are seen again in public.

So, it just makes me wonder, why are we fascinated with THEM?

The burden of our daily lives would stagger a celebrity.

They don't have to juggle the appointment with the cable installer, the orthodontist and the vet which are all inexplicably at exactly the same time even though you distinctly remember making them for different days and times.

They seldom have to decide which pair of sweats has few enough holes to still be usable for the trip to the hardware store for a new doorstop after the dog chewed the other one off.

Celebrities don't have the burden of anonymity. To be absent while present and ignored though you are the only one in the store.

The problem is that they mixed up a pitcher of special Kool-Aid and we all took a big old whacking drink of it because they said to.

Now, we hang onto their lives as if they don't have smelly feet or eat the last of the lunch meat and put the empty bag back into the bin for you to find when you are running late and have no cash to spare for lunch out.

We gasp at their happenings as if their world of spin is true. It is nothing like finding a library book in a box of yard sale holdings and making the sickening discovery that it was NOT bought at the library sale that day, but that you had checked it out that day and just mixed it into the pile of 5 cent specials.

I doubt that they would gasp at owing $11.47 in overdue fines. Their accountant would be dispatched to 'deal with it' and a photo op would be arranged of the celebrity reading to children from a closed book that was upside down and backward.

Celebrity news is indeed a respite from our own boring lives, but a dose of perspective is in order.

While we goo and gah over the happenings in the tabloids, we forget that our own lives are awe inspiring from time to time.

Like the day we got the kids to church both on time and still fully dressed! Let's see Paris Hilton try that with 5 kids under the age of 12 and no help because hubby had to be there early for a priesthood meeting.

Or the time that the dinner was so good that everyone was actually sad that there wouldn't be any leftovers for lunch the next day.

Then there is the thrilling moment of finding money we didn't know we had! It's a perpetual feeling of cheer!

Celebrities can't feel these things because they have chose to focus everything in their lives through the brilliant view of themselves.

Even those with families are willing to throw them under the bus for time in the news, be it positive or negative.

We in the ranks of the underwhelmed are not able or willing to throw our loved ones under the bus because we need them and they need us. And frankly, even if we did do that, it would just come back to bite us in the butt because they wouldn't be wearing clean underwear and everyone knows what that means!

I guess the main reason I wonder about celebrity information is to gauge some personal behaviors. If I have remembered to take both my car keys and my undies when I leave the house, then my day will be reasonably successful.

If I have remembered the hugs and kisses which I love to give and most certainly owe to those who help me through life, then I will be missed when I am gone and joyously greeted upon my return but BOTH the family and our slavishly spitty canine who washes us down with her tongue.

We need to see that we are worthy of the front page - not because of our sins and omissions but because of our kindness and fun.

We should be featured in the paper because we remembered the cookies for the party and took them into the classroom in the nick of time.

There should be a tickertape parade because there is clean, fragrant laundry and a bubbling pot of beef stew waiting for tired, hungry and cold family members.

It makes me wonder where our priorities have been.

News and newsmakers should be more in harmony with the 'flyover' portions of America instead of the wacky people who inhabit the coasts of Hollyweird and Broadway.

Take time today to plan to do New Year's a little differently - try this one:

We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives... not looking for flaws, but for potential. ~ Ellen Goodman ~


Happy New Year! And remember to wonder about the famous less and think about the every day moments of wonder a whole lot more...

Unequal measures

Sucks lemons doesn't begin to cover it.

How can I toil on the treadmill and exercise bike, lift weights and do ab exercises and still weigh the same as my deep freeze?

There is some perverted math going on here where every molecule of food ingested equals the equivalent caloric count required to launch the space shuttle - I'm sure of it - I just can't prove it to people who don't have to sweat off any pounds or struggle with body image issues while hoping that a piece of celery makes up for something somewhere at some time.

Underneath my flab, my abs are tight. Of this I am convinced. But the Michelin inner tube surrounding my gut looking oh so much like a deployed airbag is hiding my fabulous physique.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it!

Oh, shut up! Your laughter is unbecoming!

The reality is that work, by the very nature of it, is indeed a FOUR LETTER WORD! Yes, I find joy in the work that keeps me one step from the operating table for a triple bypass... the fact that I am not dead is a good thing, right?

But the time factor is the struggle for me.

Those scientists who are trying to make green beans that glow in the dark would be better served to figure out how to take the essence of who we have become and go back in time to pick up the bodies we left behind that still functioned at optimal speed and health.

We waste millions to research ways to kill roaches (HELLOOOOOO - we will ALWAYS have them!) and the money could be much better applied in real time experimentation in how to wide-beam our flab into deep space.

SPLAT! Take that alien hoards!

Can you imagine the lack of interest if they thought our only export was flab? How less likely they would be to desire our planet... unless they have some sci-fi special effects way to put it into a renewable resource to power the world!

Then we who carry a few (thousand) more pounds than we need would be in demand for our resources! We could band together in coops and bargain away our precious resources to 'help all mankind'!

But I digress.

After I ride the bike, I truly feel like everyone needs to lay down and take a nap. However, I have been told that this maneuver is actually counterproductive. Fun suckers!

Over the past few days with holiday and Holy Day food choices upon me, I confess to not having made many very wise decisions. No one shoved that spoonful of dressing and gravy INTO my mouth, but by the same token, I wasn't exactly shoving it AWAY from me either.

So now the work phase begins and the under construction signs come out to announce to me and the world that the soul's temple is taking in serious renovations and reconstruction.

No knives will be employed, but instead, sweat pants, tennis shoes, running shorts (although running is out of the question now with the damage my ankle has endured), and a new pair of those cushion footed sox that have the colored heels and toes. Call it a weakness...

With the advent of the school semester, I'll have more training time out of doors since Jared will be safely in the care of his wonderful classroom teachers and aides. So that means my days will return to outdoor assassination schedules with the resident furbag. She will be so happy.

I hope I will be. She has missed our outdoor exertions and getting her onto the treadmill lately has been an exercise in futility and sweat as we wrestle for time and position.

Does futile sweat count in the weight loss process? Again, I digress...

In a way, I'm looking forward to it, because it means that I am working toward a goal that I CAN achieve. In another way, I am not looking forward to it because I know it means that once again, I am starting from ground zero after having rehabbed my ankle from the latest battleground casualty.

If anyone can figure out the exact equation to apply to the process so that results come faster, please let me know. In the meantime, I'll be the sweaty gal in the mismatched exercise clothing trying to find the fountain of youth for a drink.

Pinecones and Holly Berries... Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

Christmas has become a secular holiday instead of a religious and deeply felt HOLY DAY.

And the fault lies within ourselves.

We are seduced by the twinkling of lights and sparkling of metallic papers and our gaze has dropped to things terrestrial instead of finding the wonder of the Christ in that star so bright that heralded His Birth.

The shepherds received a startling message. They, among some of the most humble professions on the planet, sat out in the dark and watched over the helpless sheep with their very lives. How fitting that they were the recipients of the most powerful revealed truth which came to the world that night!

The good news - the gospel - the angelic messenger brought an announcement that has rippled through time and will continue to spread forever - Jesus Christ is come to the earth!

They dropped what they were doing, important as it was, and came with all due haste to the humble manger - a place of animal habitation where the lowly and the Almighty met in the most meager of circumstance. There, before their very eyes was Salvation come!

We do not know the rest of their story, as each shepherd took and spread that news. They published it abroad in the land, but we have no idea if others of their lowly station came also to see THEIR King. I hope so.

We know that angel choirs sang exulting the joy and happiness of the birth of the Messiah, who would be born in a manger, but grow to The Son of Man who would pay the terrible but necessary price in His precious blood for us to all be redeemed, if we will but choose to follow Him.

Later, Wise Men came from the East to bring the gifts that are synonymous with wealth - gold, frankincense and myrrh. They traveled far with the brilliant star to guide them to the place where the young child now lived. No journey from so far and so possibly frought with peril would happen in a short time. These Wise Men traveled from distant lands to seek audience and consultation with another king of mortal fame.

Being warned by the Holy Spirit that evil was in this mortal man so steeped in sin, the Wise Men did not return to him after presenting their life-saving gifts to the King of Kings. Instead, they returned to their own countries in other ways leaving the ruler of a tiny kingdom to fail in his misguided attempt to assasinate the Son of God.

Our celebrations of the birth of the Savior are a good beginning. But without the rest of His life and His selfless Atonement performed for each of us out of Love Divine, all we have is a baby being born in a rude stable on a crowded highway during the Roman Census.

How much of what we celebrate is man-made joy and how much comes from God above? Is my own heart filled with gratitude for all that I have been granted or am I merely content to take it all and hold out my greedy hands for more?

Would I have been as willing to leave my own personal flocks and come into the city at the invitation of the angelic messenger? Do I hear him even now as he beckons me to drop the world in favor of the Kingdom of the Most High? Or is the bleating noise of the world, the glitter of a falling kingdom and the false promises of that which cannot save grating in my ears preventing me from hearing about the Good News that even now can save, redeem and exalt?

Would I be wise enough to travel any distance and perform any service necessary to make myself able to give my gifts - indeed, my ALL - at the feet of Him who has come to save me, if only I will come unto him with the gifts He seeks the most: a broken heart and a contrite spirit?

I hope and pray that this time around, my ears will be far more in tune, that my heart may be more tender and that my soul will be attuned to those angelic strains that still reach out to each of us to bring us from the manger to the foot of the cross and to the very Throne of God.

Merry CHRISTmas. For without Christ and His continuing ministry to rescue the lost and wayward sheep of HIS fold, there is nothing to be merry about at all.

There must be some invisible rule...

Warmed over death isn't even close to how I am feeling today. That's a couple of steps up on the evolutionary scale.

Having said that, let's get down to brass tacks. My head feels like a balloon and my sinuses are the powerful force behind what will be accomplished today. Anyone who has to deal with sinus headaches knows what I mean because you are basically bowing down and begging to the all-powerful sinuses to be able to breathe let alone function.

Yet, fully knowing that I am sub-par today does not stop my other half from going back to bed while household chores need to be done.

Is there some invisible rule that says women don't get sick.

We can die, because that leaves a tragic figure of a man to be mourned with and grieved upon while people fix him casseroles and sandwich trays.

But let a woman be sick! NEVER!

That is against all rational movement in the universe. Why, any man in his right mind knows that if the hampers are full and the bathrooms need cleaning, then the little woman must be healthy enough to tackle those menial tasks! She doesn't even have to get out of her pj's for that!

And if there is mopping, she can do that while she chats on the phone. Multitasking. See - men can show you how to be efficient. Don't we all feel better now??

That would be a "NO", chuckles.

That I am doing these chores is more a testament to the fact that if I DIDN'T DO THEM, hell just might freeze over before they realized there was no clean underwear in their dresser drawers.

Yeah.

So, in ink only visible to male eyes is the rule "WOMEN CAN'T EVER GET SICK BECAUSE IT INCONVENIENCES MEN!"

I wonder how many loads of laundry I can burn before anyone catches on...

Why?

Paragon of virtue I am not.

Being a mortal being with a WHOLE lot left to learn is hard on me and the people who must wade through mortality with me in their lives.

However, having said that, I have an important question to ask.

What is with the rush of celebrities, sports figures and other notables revealing the seedy side of their lives with reckless abandon?

I don't want to know about their foibles! Dealing with my own is taxing enough.

While we look up to other mortals in a somewhat unrealistic fashion, most of our hero worship is rather harmless. When harm comes is believing even for an instant that those very fallible heroes are perfect and not subject to the rules the rest of us out of the spotlight must endure.

I don't want to know that some celebrity has failed at keeping their marriage vows nor do I want to know who has decided to come out about his/her/its homosexuality.

I have no desire to know every tick on the clock of their lives. My own clock ticks loudly and chimes like Big Ben frequently enough to keep me busy.

I long for the days when people had manners and when it was still considered gauche to discuss private matters in public. I miss the news being the news instead of a moving version of the gossip rags that adorn grocery store display racks by the check stand.

While the idea of knowing about a celebrity seems appealing, it only SEEMS that way.

They have problems in their lives that money can't fix, sponsorship can't erase and for which consequences show up just like it does for the rest of us in the great unwashed category.

I deeply want to believe my fellow man and woman to be people of character and decency until proven otherwise by cold hard facts, not tabloid innuendo.

Years ago the Soviets proclaimed that they could take over America without firing a shot because our morality was slipping and we would, in time, undo our own national fabric and let the influence of the immoral take over.

That remark didn't make sense to me when I was an innocent and naive child. I simply assumed that our greatness came from God and that we would collectively and individually always be grateful to Him for His Divine Hand of Providence.

Now I know there are people who thumb their noses at God, ignore him and still expect to be favored and blessed.

Now I know that our world is slipping into a sort of debauchery that took Rome down. The same sort of creeping sickness that destroys all great societies in due time - it's the disease of ease.

We have too much leisure and not enough responsibility for our actions. We have been too busy making things "better" for our children, that we have forgotten the lessons that remain when things are worse.

Far too many people have taken the opportunity to grab 15-minutes of fame by sharing dirty laundry in the public forum as if it was so worthy of time that everyone should share in its filth. And that makes more than the laundry dirty.

Momma used to say "Sweep around your own doorstep first before telling someone else how dirty their house is!"

The message is pretty clear to me now that I am older. It wasn't so much about the use of a good old-fashioned broom as it was the application of a clear conscience.

We have allowed things forbidden to become tantalizing and exciting by a repeated pronouncement of how 'open' we are becoming.

It's past time to post a 'closed' sign on private business.

That which degrades cheapens everyone, no matter how skillfully it is written up and spewed out. Filth is filth even if the reporter delivers the news sincerely. Regardless of presentation, there is nothing you can do to a pile of manure to turn it into anything but what it is... plain old poop.

But we have forgotten that and are eager as a society to lay hold upon it because someone somewhere said we needed to know and we are entitled to the information.

Maybe it's now important to say 'no thanks'.

If we don't buy the party lie delivered in a slick package, then that is one less dollar they earn from the gullible soul who thinks everyone else should be forthcoming... unless that truth is demanded in the same measure from themselves.

It's like the story about the kids who wanted their Dad to sanction their choice to see movies which were inappropriate - not just for kids, but for ANYONE.

The Dad had said no so many times that he was running out of inflections and emphasis.

Finally, he baked a special batch of brownies. Just like a tabloid rag, he extolled the ingredients that made the brownies worth their time and interest. And just like the tabloid rag, he left out a certain element of truth in the recipe until he was certain they were hooked.

The special ingredient was poop. It was just a little poop and hardly even worth mentioning.
His kids didn't want the brownies now. In fact, they recoiled from the horror that was now before them. How dare he defile the tasty brownies with something that rendered them disgusting!!

But that is what the point really is.

People are not perfect. They make mistakes. But public vilification and public pronouncements of personal sins doesn't make us stronger. It takes us further away from a moral center and closer to a society that only seeks for the next morsel of sensational crap.

The danger is there, but the excitement in revealing the shameful secrets and passions of another trumps decency.

Think about the poop filled brownies the next time a story is run that is meant to destroy personal morality. They are easy to spot because they are all sensation and no substance.

And just say no.

Shopping and other thrilling moments

Online shopping is a form of escapism. No crowds jostling my elbow for the cardigan I am trying to size, no irritated people expressing their desire to be home, and most definitely no store hours to accommodate.

I like the immediacy of online shopping. If it's in stock, there is a little indicator to tell how many of whatever is in stock in their warehouse in Dubuque.

This allows me to sit idly sipping peppermint tea and shopping in my pajamas and sox while the rest of the civilized and not so civil world pounds the putty out of someone for a three dollar candle that is on sale for a nickle. Never mind that the scent is liver and bacon and you never would have considered it before, but because it's marked down to a nickle SOMEONE will be getting this delightful gem all wrapped up and tied with a bow.

IT WAS ON SALE!!

Yeah!

Several someones will receive gifts that make no sense because they were on sale. Not because any thought went into the purchase of said gift. Nope. Nosiree Bob! It was a matter of box-checking, money saving, penny pinching perfection. Without another thought at all.

Aunt Mildred will be receiving that delightful hand knit dog fur sweater that was only a buck twenty-five on sale!! It doesn't matter that she is so allergic that her hives break out in hives. IT WAS ON SALE!!!!

Don't you people understand? A sale price is only good if the item being sold is worth anything to begin with...

Spare me your Christmas Eve I shopped for you at eleven-thirty naked lady mudflaps that you thought were oh so wonderful. First of all, I have no semi to which to attach them and secondly, the van looks bad enough without adding mudflaps to it, and a big final thirdly, if I wanted mudflaps at all, I'm more into Yosemite Sam or Bugs Bunny. I do have standards, you know!

Now, while I was preparing to brave both the icy cold and the rabid shoppers, an odd thing happened. The plan was to go out and bring home the supply of food and sundry goods to keep us from having a mutiny. Reaching into the recesses of my closet, I pulled out and
slipped on a coat I haven't worn in over a year. Feeling something odd in the left jacket pocket, I unzipped it to discover that there was MONEY in the pocket! WOO HOO! MONEY!!

To be on the safe side, I checked the other pockets of coats hanging in my closet just to make sure no money goes unspent during the peak shopping season before the Holy time of Christmas is actually upon us.

I didn't find any other money. Serendipity is like that. You get a blush of excitement and a happy surprise, but it can't be longer lasting. If it hung around, you'd never appreciate it.

Sort of like learning to appreciate the benefits of shopping without the agony of fisticuffs over an item that no one truly wants but is motivated by adrenalin to purchase. It is why I like shopping online. I can take my time looking, instead of being lemming-like forced into purchases that I can't ever justify. The rushing frenzy makes me buy stupid things when I am in a crowded store!

As an example - no one truly wants that disgusting farting Santa or a three pack of festive holiday undies with a matching bow tie (Just what is THAT combo supposed to suggest? I'm sure I don't want to know why you'd need a ratio of THREE pair of undies to the ONE tie!).

People who receive this type of holiday splendor smile and act happy, but it's just because they want to be more polite to you than you were to them when you paraded out the revolting desperation gift that says everything but how much class you have.

Another trifle... don't go shopping with someone who has no taste. I mean that seriously.
Everyone has someone in their circle of friends and acquaintances who simply has no taste, no couth and precious little understanding of why you don't just wildly spend money to buy a gift that has nothing to do with either the person or their likes and interests. I just hope I am NOT that kind of friend to someone else... the one everyone knows is a social pariah, but no one speaks up because they are too kind.

It may be one reason gift cards are popular. It's a way to give something to someone without either fighting the maddening crowds or exposing one's own lack of culture and refinement. It's a kind of gifting anonymity. Oddly soothing, and a shield of protection from your own bad taste.

I don't mind gift cards. They are far easier to use and explain than the naked lady mudflaps.

Thanksgiving Eve

The day is almost upon us.

For a majority of the world, it's just another day.

A day in which they will have no cranberry sauce or stuffed turkey.

One in which they will not gather to share giblet gravy or hot rolls.

We, who have been blessed with the bounty of heaven, have to be thankful. We have to be.

Because to be ignorant consumers of all that is good in our lives is to be most ungrateful indeed.

Those who are poor are not all derelict. Those who suffer don't always bring it upon themselves. And those who hunger are not always fed by the kindness of strangers.

We take much for granted.

Take this forum. I can post virtually anything I want here - it's my space.

From the daily comedy and tragedy that is my life, I get to choose how to share it.

Somewhere, there is someone else with great thoughts, profound insight and no way to share a word about the struggle that makes their own story worth living.

I am richly blessed by being born into a family of faith in Jesus Christ. Not just a token attendance to the words, but a vibrant, living fountain of pure water that flows in and through them and refreshes me when I languish.

Between my parents and siblings, I am surrounded by people who persevere and just keep putting one foot in front of the other despite their personal challenges.

My life is enriched by the amazing gift of my husband of nearly 25 years. Though each of us has changed since we exchanged rings and pledged our hearts, our lives and our love to one another, there is no greater blessing than having an unconditional heart beating in my husband who makes up for my multitudinous shortcomings by his generosity of spirit in my behalf.

Through our union of choice and desire, we have two amazing sons that brighten my life each and every day. They are brilliant and gifted, funny and kind. They brought a tenderness of spirit with them when they entered mortality and the joy that accompanied each arrival has never dimmed with the passing of the years.

Though no longer babies, they will always be our babies and deserving of our care and love just because they are themselves. They are a blessing that goes on into the next generation beyond my own.

I have a roof over my head, a closet and dresser filled with clothes that fit according to my level and diligence at attempting to get more active and in shape, a car to drive me anywhere I want to go in all of the connected parts of North and South America, and the safety and security of living in a land where others volunteer to protect me while I sleep.

We are blessed to have food to eat and an abundance of the good things of life.

And I am personally blessed by the friends I hold in my heart as examples of goodness, generosity and kindness in action. That they tolerate my presence at all is an amazing gift in and of itself.

Today, I have a special blessing to be thankful for - I was able to go to the temple, the very House of the Lord, and just soak in the quiet and peaceful setting. To separate myself from the world's demands and feel the living presence of God. And I am thankful that I could feel the influence of the Holy Spirit washing over me and filling the empty places with a love and joy that defies complete description.

I am richly blessed.

And I am thankful to a loving Heavenly Father who has granted me so much.

My job now is to find a way to use the blessings poured on me to share what I have with those who lack. No judgement about circumstance. Just sharing.

Happy Thanksgiving. I want it to be thanksgiving every day. In my heart I feel it. I want to learn how to act it in everything I do.

We are all beggars... but some abuse the privilege

To some, it seems we have a conundrum on our hands. To others, the passages seem both straightforward and crystal clear.

From the Book of Mormon in Mosiah 4:16 - 27, we read:

16 And also, ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.

17 Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself his misery; therefore I will stay my hand, and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just—

18 But I say unto you, O man, whosoever doeth this the same hath great cause to repent; and except he repenteth of that which he hath done he perisheth forever, and hath no interest in the kingdom of God.

19 For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind?

20 And behold, even at this time, ye have been calling on his name, and begging for a remission of your sins. And has he suffered that ye have begged in vain? Nay; he has poured out his Spirit upon you, and has caused that your hearts should be filled with joy, and has caused that your mouths should be stopped that ye could not find utterance, so exceedingly great was your joy.

21 And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another.

22 And if ye judge the man who putteth up his petition to you for your substance that he perish not, and condemn him, how much more just will be your condemnation for withholding your substance, which doth not belong to you but to God, to whom also your life belongeth; and yet ye put up no petition, nor repent of the thing which thou hast done.

23 I say unto you, wo be unto that man, for his substance shall perish with him; and now, I say these things unto those who are rich as pertaining to the things of this world.

24 And again, I say unto the poor, ye who have not and yet have sufficient, that ye remain from day to day; I mean all you who deny the beggar, because ye have not; I would that ye say in your hearts that: I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give.

25 And now, if ye say this in your hearts ye remain guiltless, otherwise ye are condemned; and your condemnation is just for ye covet that which ye have not received.

26 And now, for the sake of these things which I have spoken unto you—that is, for the sake of retaining a remission of your sins from day to day, that ye may walk guiltless before God—I would that ye should impart of your substance to the poor, every man according to that which he hath, such as feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and administering to their relief, both spiritually and temporally, according to their wants.

27 And see that all these things are done in wisdom and order; for it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength. And again, it is expedient that he should be diligent, that thereby he might win the prize; therefore, all things must be done in order.

Sounds pretty good, right?

Then there is this verse from the Doctrine and Covenants Section 42:42 -
42 Thou shalt not be idle; for he that is idle shall not eat the bread nor wear the garments of the laborer.

How about this passage from the Old Testament in Proverbs 12:27 - The slothful man roasteth not that which he took in hunting: but the substance of a diligent man is precious.


Or this one from Timothy 5:8 in the New Testament: But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.

Then there is the parable of the talents which can be interpreted in a few different ways. In Matthew 25, we read about a steward/Lord who gives a responsibility to three different men. They are given 1, 2, and 5 talents to manage in his absence in the hopes that they would live up to their potential and increase that which had been entrusted to them.

What am I driving at with all of this?

I find myself thankful at the blessings that have been granted to me and my family and friends and most frustrated as well.

Our government, whom we elected and keep the jackasses in office, has institutionally created an entire culture dependent upon others for everything they need to survive mortality. While there are notable circumstances in which our legitimate needs must be met by outside sources, there seems to be a movement to provide the livelihood for those who are simply UNWILLING to do what they COULD do for themselves.

Instead, we should be insisting that they bear SOME responsibility for themselves and for those who depend upon them - if for nothing else than an example of how to live. Laziness and sloth ARE catching...

Wanting to help those who are downtrodden is a laudable thing. In my heart, I hope my attitude is right - I try to do all I can when I am able, and physically, I try to do all I can with supplies and materials when it is mortally possible. But I can't take on their mortal salvation from financial ruin, more especially so when they do nothing to help themselves!!

I can't judge the circumstances that people have in their lives in any adequate measure. The job of the Common Judge in Israel is already spoken for and the job of the Judge of us all is in God's bailiwick. And for that I am sure we are ALL thankful. God alone is able to temper His mercy and His justice.

He sees the circumstances that I do not.

My struggle isn't so much with those on the outside of my skin and with the one within who judges, condemns and offers harsh reality about 'how it should be' without one thought for what might really be going on beneath the surface which I can neither see nor comprehend.

In an attempt to keep my own personal pride out of the equation, I wrestle with the concepts of whom to help and how. And, I admit that I become frustrated with those people, who, when offered a REASONABLE choice to improve their circumstances and lot in life (in my judgement) make NO EFFORT to take on work, responsibility or a budget that just might cut back on their idea of what they are 'entitled' to.

I've been told all of my life that the idler will not eat the bread nor wear the garments of the worker, yet I see efforts within our nation to FORCE just that. Those who work should be somehow compelled to support those who don't, can't and won't.

Let it be said here that I am not discussing the legitimate needs of the disabled, the widow and the fatherless.

But I am concerned about the people who have generationally received some form of government assistance every month for as long as they have drawn a breath and everyone else in their family lives the same way without making a single contribution to the work-force simply because they feel it's beneath them to do so when they can get all these benefits without hitting a lick at a snake.

Where do we draw the line?

Today, an acquaintance stopped by begging. This person basically asked for us, or someone we know, to sign on and be responsible for their bills and payments with the promise that it's only to last "until I get caught up".

HORSEFEATHERS!!

I politely and firmly told this person "no".

I felt guilty about it for a little while. Not because I was in a position to give and refused (I wasn't in any position to help), but rather, the guilty feeling came from wondering if any of my previous help had seemed like I was a "soft touch" who could be played.

Then I felt guilty for feeling guilty!

For Pete's sake, if the party involved felt even one round of the guilt I was feeling, he'd drag his sorry ass out and get a JOB (there are companies hiring ALL OVER TOWN!) - and then, having obtained said job, he would sacrifice his 'personal time' (which has presumably been employed in scratching his indecisive ass), and do what it takes to get up, be on time, be diligent and be responsible!

But now, we come to the crux of the matter - that nasty word which should be a four-letter word: RESPONSIBILITY.

We have an entire microcosm of society that believes fervently that the world owes them a living just because they showed up with their hand out.

How do we convince them that the world was here FIRST, to borrow a thought from Mark Twain?

My highest ambition in life had nothing to do with cleaning up the dive and prep area and flipping Big Macs all day, but I damn well worked at McDonald's to pay my bills when I was in college! And I mopped floors, cleaned toilets, washed windows and painted walls to at least make a contribution to my own upkeep.

I am sick to death of able bodies sitting around as if they are 'too good' for a job! Holy Hannah! Work is ennobling and truly builds a type of character that the lazy and slothful will NEVER comprehend.

We have all, at one time or another, been recipients of the 'kindness of strangers' or the loving bounty of friends. And I hope in my own case, I have showered them with my thanks and gratitude for what has been offered to me.

Needs are one thing. We all have them.

But this constant drip, drip, drip of pity for self is making me a bit crazy.

There isn't enough in the world to help those who do nothing to help themselves because for them, there is never enough to satisfy their eyes of greed.

But for the needs of the world, there is enough and to spare. We have an abundance, if people will exercise some restraint and employ a healthy dose of personal responsibility.

Life doesn't always work out the way we planned. The unforeseen CAN AND DOES HAPPEN. It isn't that it happens that is the issue. It's how we HANDLE it when it does.

We are all beggars in this life. We are dependent in various stages and times in our lives and we are also sometimes those who are depended upon to meet the needs of others.

We vacillate between being the helpful temporal savior of another soul in need and being the capsized sailor tempest tossed just hoping to see a rescue line shoot out of the darkness to save us from our misery. But when do we see the true job description we were sent here to learn?

Our mortal experience isn't meant to be a free ride on the backs of our brothers and sisters who toil in our behalf without a word of thanks escaping our lips. Nor were we meant to sit in opulence and look down upon the workers who make possible our wealth and privilege.

There is a middle ground!

When we forget how to work, we lose an essential part of self that keeps us able to hold up our head and look any man in the eye as an equal in this world. When the only lazy motion we make with our slothful hand is to reach for the next hand-out, we have lost our ability to feel the needs of those who truly have no choices but to sit immovable on the sidelines of life.

We need to work in order to be useful, not only to ourselves, but to our fellowmen.

We need to help those less fortunate, lest by choice and inclination we become as unfortunate and unwelcome as the leper who had to cry out as 'unclean' before the world.

There aren't any clear cut guidelines printed on the foreheads of the fellow travellers who share our world. And while we don't get to judge every motive and intent, I do believe that there are some circumstances in which we have to say "NO" to the people who are holding out for a free lunch.

When pride prevents someone who COULD do from even making an effort to drag themselves out of bed to even make an attempt at doing better for themselves, it's pretty hard to feel comfortable assisting them to do nothing at all.

I think the word for that is ENABLING.

And that's a concept I'm not comfortable with at all.

Bertolt Brecht said it well, "None will improve your lot if you yourself do not."

Rejoicing Interrupted

In the Book of Mormon, there is a telling passage that means a great deal to me right now.

Alma 30:22 speaks of an anti-Christ coming among the people of God who are worshipping Jesus Christ and who has begun preaching false doctrine among them 'to interrupt their rejoicings'.

Lately, I have felt several times as if my emotional instability and hypersensitivities have stepped in to 'interrupt' my rejoicing.

I can't lay this at the feet of other people and their actions because regardless of what ANYONE else does, I am the ultimate arbiter of how I choose to take it . . . indeed, I can refuse to take it at all.

But I do.

Then I let my emotions boil and fester and ruin my OWN day.

WHO CARES what someone else says or does?

I do.

And I am frustrated by my own lack of control when it comes to caring what other people think, say or do in my presence.

It shouldn't matter.

I should be more duck-like and let it all roll off of my back like so many drops of water. Except that I haven't learned how yet.

The word "yet" is employed simply because there is a tiny spark of hope that seeks to become the brilliant light of experience that will turn "yet" into understanding and knowledge. So far, that hasn't showed up.

I desperately want to become the kind of person who isn't troubled by life and the people who inhabit this world, but I know that isn't possible.

If any syllogism is true, then it follows that I annoy the hell out of a ton of people because a ton of people annoy the hell out of me.

It's only fair I guess.

But lately, my emotional maturity guage is sorely lacking in actual on the road maturity and instead has been replaced with the petulance and thumbsucking of a toddler who can't understand why "everyone doesn't love me".

Thankfully, I KNOW who loves me and the truth is, I am not only thankful for their love, I am blessed by their very presence in the chaos that passes for my adult life.

Some are related to me and have no choice in that particular matter, but that they choose to love me despite the reality of my imperfections is a blessing that is greater than I can adequately describe.

Then, there are the people who have become family through circumstance and personal choice.

Because you make choices to love someone besides yourself, there is a very real possibility that one day, you will let them down, forget to live up to your God-given potential or in other ways just plain screw up.

But they love me anyway and for that I am deeply humbled.

They could have made the choice to walk away.

Though I wallow in a pleasant pool of marinated pity, I truly know that what I struggle with won't last long unless I allow it.

Some days are just plain harder than others.

And those hard days just suck.

It's like discovering that you forgot to choose happiness and indeed the self-inflicted misery IS your own fault.

Which is sort of how I am feeling right now.

I want to be brave like Martha Washington and declare to the world the understanding that it's disposition and not circumstances that makes the difference in attitude.

But there are days that I have allowed too many dings in my personal armor, whether externally or internally applied, and I am struggling to remember that I can overcome all of this through Christ and come out the victor over self and personal ego.

And isn't that just an UGLY word?

EGO.

Someone once said 'ego means EDGING GOD OUT'.

I believe that. Because when I am having a day like this, it's because the rejoicing in God and His Christ have been interrupted for whatever reason and I just never got back into tune with their frequency again.

I so desperatly want to cry out to the heavens to be saved from this misery! I have done so many times today as part of my emotional baggage and fasting and prayer.

While it is true we can't always choose our particular trials, it is equally true that I can choose how I'd like to deal with the hand I'm dealt.

I can't and won't fold, for to do so would be to lose out on the greater opportunity that comes when new cards and new options are allowed.

But some days I'll admit to wanting a pass.

It's an issue of perspective and the allegedly mature part of me knows that. But the thumbsucking toddler is almighty tired of having my good time squashed by some well-meaning person, whether my adult self or someone outside my skin.

Is there hope for me?

Christ said there is. And right now, I am hanging on to that hope with all I have.

I only hope the music that will surround me soon will bring back that feeling of rejoicing.

Because right now I'm running on spiritual fumes that are fading fast.

And you want me to pay MORE for this?

Although I am not in college myself, I do have a son who will be registering for classes in the blink of an eye.

Several of my friends and kids of friends who are currently enrolled are bemoaning the frustrations they are feeling as they deal with computer generated assignments, return work and messages that allegedly substitute for actual face time in the teacher's presence and butt time in a classroom seat.

While I believe technology can broaden our reach in helping elevate educational opportunity, it can also be stretched to the breaking point by making what should help ease educational burdens become heavier to bear.

If you have trouble with the subject matter, it takes email, Blackboard, cellphone apps and a zillion other ways to beg, borrow and steal the time to acquire understanding that is no longer available in a brick and mortar classroom setting.

Some teachers conduct entire classes via the Internet. Okay.

But what if a student struggles?

They don't know their cyber buddies well enough to know who can help them get access to the materials to pass the class.

Is this just another technological upgrade that is turning into a boondoggle?

Now, the delightful people who are large and in charge in campuses across the nation are saying they need more money for the tuition and fees for classes that never actually meet.

Do what???

Call me stupid, but if you can't even get the teacher's attention IN a regular crowded classroom, how, pray tell, can you get it over a cable modem? If I wave real big here at my desk will my teacher miles away FEEL the vibration in the air?

I worry that we have become so addicted to our technology that we have lost our humanity and the blessing of looking someone right in the eyes. How do I know if they are teaching relevant information or just some crap from Wikipedia if I never see 'the whites of their eyes', as Daddy is fond of saying...?

Gasoline is expensive, but dang it, so is tuition!!

If my son is attending a class through cyberspace, can I be assured that his work is really being approved because it's correct or simply because he took the time to email it in?

I'd hate to think a doctor was about to cut into me who took all of his human anatomy courses via the Internet and had never actually touched a body that wasn't a drunken coed at the frat house bash.

All I'm saying is that there should be a disclaimer in every course that reads something like this: "I'm a tenured professor who can't be fired even if I set the room off in an explosion that makes the Bikini Atoll look like a backyard fireworks display. So I don't do classroom teaching any more. All correspondence will go through my secretary who just happens to be my tech savvy 11-year old daughter. She will determine which random emails I will actually answer. I give credit for all assignments turned in and only occasionally test on the material I told you to study. Good luck and pray for a solid "C" in my class."

That would at least make me feel like there was some truth in advertising.

It won't alleviate the frustration, but at least you'd know the source of what you will soon be experiencing at the get go.

Meanwhile, think of all the time you will be saving by not having to sharpen any #2 pencils for your coursework.

'Lief Society

yeah.

Relief Society homemaking (or whatever we are calling it now) and it's raining cats, dogs, goats and cucumbers.

Rain, arthritis and casts don't go well together but I was game. Beth came to take me to the festivities and get me out of the house so I don't go more looney than I already am.

I admit it, I was sort ot looking forward to just leaving the confines of the house.

It was 'share your talents' night. We were encouraged to bring out our hidden talents and share them.

Everyone knows I play musical instruments and sing, so that stayed home. Everyone knows I am a sports nut, so the sweat sox and ball bag didn't make the trip.

Instead, I brought some of my scribblings from an almighty disturbed mind and took the time to enjoy the company of my best friend and assorted gals at our table.

We laughed, we snorted, we hooted with glee.

Then we got told to hush.

Whatever.

Don't be hatin' on us because you are sitting at the old people's table!! Nobody made you be all crotchety and humorless but yourself!

I'm glad I went.

Even the table had fall leaves on it.

It was a good night.

And it gave me yet another reason to be thankful that I surround myself with people who love to laugh and enjoy the gospel light without the word "prune" being involved.

God bless us, everyone. Especially those who checked their sense of humor at the door.

Fantasy

Always having loved music, I find from time to time my mind drifts into the world of fantasy and wishful thinking.

I was listening to a lovely combo piece by Craig Russo called 'Arrival'.

Just hearing it sends me to another place and another time.

Whether playing the soothing heartbeat of the sweetened Latin Jazz or simply dancing to the music and its soft-footed shuffle, I love this kind of music.

Back in my younger days, I had the opportunity to dance with a Latin man named Julio. He was from South America, Peru I think, but this man had swivel hips and a come hither smile that was accompanied by a slow burn in a jazz combo. Exuding charm, grace and lithe movement, he made every woman he danced with look like a star beneath the decorations in the gym.

Sure in each flowing line and capable of leading in a 'come, follow me' approach, he taught me to move in ways I had never done before, nor most assuredly, since.

When we danced, the music was the path and Julio was the guide. My husband Rick is a wonderful man, but dancer he is not. I didn't fall in love with him because he could dance. Being both a romantic and a realist, I knew we couldn't live long on the samba and hoped for more than a man who could just dance.

But every once in a while when I hear this kind of music, I wish that I could feel that Latin heartbeat again.

I used to tell people that with my love of Latin food and music that I had been stolen from a Latin family and raised by a bunch of Anglos. Of course, with my blonde hair and blue-green eyes, no one believes me anyhow. But in my heart, the rhythm is gonna get me... to borrow a phrase from Gloria Estefan.

I confess envy for those who samba, salsa and shake their maracas to the siren song from south of the border. And I wish I would have the opportunity to pull together a nice, tight combo so that I could play the percussive pattern that changes music from mundane to moving.

Lacking that opportunity, I'll just have to content myself with the reality that I can hear that syncopated beat in my soul.

I may not have been stolen from a Latin family, but I have been adopted into it by the rhythm of the combo.

This can't possibly be good for me!

Resolutions suck.

They are made specifically to be broken, so I don't do them.

But lifestyle changes... well, let's just say I'm learning to adjust.

So help me, I am! I swear with one hand on the offending granola wrapper...

I was hungry.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking. With the layer of whale blubber I am carrying around as my personal one year food storage supply, THAT should never be an issue. But sometimes it is.

I wanted a little something to take the edge off, but not so much that I would get overloaded.

Yogurt didn't sound quite right. Everyone in their right mind knows that crunchy yogurt isn't good for you. Once it turns crunchy, it's decidedly time to toss the cup out with the trash.

I reflected over the shopping trip I had taken on the first of the month. YES!!! And it's a score!! I had bought honey-oat-healthy-for-you-good-on-the-inside-and-outside-without-even-a-streak-of-chocolate granola bars.

You know the ones. Plain Jane wrapper. Low cal, virtually no fat, something your health and hygiene teacher recommended.

I got a bit of skim milk to wash it down and settled back in my recliner with my swollen foot propped up and began to snack.

Until the killer granola had other ideas.

Who knew oats and honey had a violent streak???

As I got to the last few little pieces and crumbs, I carefully pinched them up in my fingers like some kind of healthy Skoal and then the attack began.

The tiny foil wrapper whipped up on one end flinging giblety pieces of granola straight into my unprotected left eye. Holy flaming cat snot on a tissue!!!

Did you know granola crumbs could be used by the U.S. Department of Defense as a counter-terrorism measure?

The enormous and most assuredly offending debris made my eyes water and pain waves circulated through my body like an electric current. I finally understood the words to the hymn "Truth Reflects Upon Our Senses" where it talks about motes and beams in the eye! Honestly, a shot of Texas Pete's Red Hot Sauce would have been more accommodating to my assaulted mucous membranes!

Did you know that chunks of granola won't just be wiped out? OOOOOH NOOOOOOOOOOO!
They become oatmeal concrete when exposed to the tears. Yes, indeedy, happy campers, without the assistance of a half a bottle of eye drops and my tissues, I could well be sharing this from the cage of a freak show somewhere in Nebraska.

I can hear the corn-fed beauty from the Miss Creamed Potatoes Pageant saying "Well, ain't that just the most gawdawful thing you have ever seen, Petunia?"

Maybe not the MOST but almighty close.

Finally, the largest of the crumbs was expelled and the minor pieces worked their way out and order was restored. I think...

You know, my vision has been a bit blurry today and my left eye smells faintly like oatmeal.

Oh well. Just another example of the lies they tell you about healthy choices. They tell you to make healthy choices, they don't tell you about the excess calories you will expend defending yourself FROM the healthy choice.

Opposition in All Things

I feel reasonably sure that the great composers of beautiful music were suffering under some level of duress to produce the lofty compositions that lift our heart, inspire our mind and enlarge our soul will the swelling joy of God's singularly most lovely gift.

I say that because tonight's choir rehearsal was an exercise in both music and pain.
Unless you have been in a choir that seeks to truly be more than just a bunch of people who can cover the parts, you don't know what I mean. Our choir director's version of warming up is enough to make you break a sweat. And most people don't think of choir as being an athletic event - foolish mortals!

The Stake Choir is comprised of over 60 participants for vocals, two accompanists for keyboards, two conductors and an orchestra of various strings, winds and horns along with a percussion section.

This ain't for sissies.

Once we survive the warm up period, the real fun begins. We get into the various pieces of music with "let's go through this section" and "can we try that once again" and the inevitably following phrase of "one more time with feeling". Oddly enough, every piece we worked through tonight began the toil at the letter "C" marked on the score. Why the letter "C" is a mystery that only the directors know for sure. Perhaps all of the music is destined to lapse into pitiful rigour at that juncture.

Add to it the reality of me sitting by the chapel's pews watching the directives and cuing from the BACK of each of our directors. I can't see the various expressions on their face, I'm guessing at which cue in close means what and I have NO idea if I'm blending in with my section since I'm sitting at a distance beside the second row of pews and everyone else is far, far away on Judea's plains up in the choir seats.

I'm sitting up as tall as the saggy bottomed wheelchair will allow (and hey, no nasty remarks about MY saggy bottom will be tolerated!). I'm trying to sit straight, use my diaphragm to tuck in, push up, control the flow and use my air properly to support the notes and bridge the phrases.

I feel like I am literally pushing up from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. My toes are turning into plump little sausages from the effort. The cast is awkward and I'm not steady enough on crutches anymore to hop stairs like I used to do. Ah, the halcyon days of youth when the fear of rolling down a flight of stairs didn't exist. Now the fear of falling down two measly steps is sufficient to keep me by the pews instead of sitting in my now accustomed corner pocket where sound goes to die.

I've occupied that particular corner for a few years now, mostly because I rehearse like a mad woman to learn my music and because I try with God's most powerful help and aid to not 'lean' on other singers to know my part. So I sit where the hearing is limited and hope that I'm doing my best to offer up my widow's mite of music in the way the Father intends.

But for now, my seat sits empty and I sit in the wheelchair by the pews until I get my cast off in a couple of weeks. I hope...

Just today I had offers from people to have my toes pinched, my cast kicked and a blatant disregard for the fact that a wheelchair doesn't exactly set land speed records getting out of aisles and doorways.

My foot was trampled by a child who was too impatient to let me get out of her way, and an adult indicated that my presence was really inconvenient to those wishing to get out of the room.

Well alrighty then!

No one was tacky at choir. Mostly because by the time we got done, we were all pretty whipped. Music can do that. It can carry you to dizzying heights of joy and then wear you out into a beaten and whipped scrap of your former self.

I have to admit I was thankful for the respite of snarky comments and rude behavior.

Lord knows I didn't set out to break my ankle in two places at age 47. That just isn't cool. Casts are NOT fun at any age. But because opposition exists, I am getting to learn how to be patient and wait on help from others.

While I don't wish anything bad on others, I have to wonder how gracious they would be if someone was constantly offering to hurt their casted limb.

I told the man today who made the "kind" offer to kick my casted ankle "DO IT AND DIE!"

People around us were going "OOOoooOOOoooH!"

I'm sure I'll get into trouble later on for 'offending him' by saying what I did, but that is just not funny to me when my leg is hurting, swollen and sore. Quite frankly, that offer of his isn't funny at any time, but the opposition thing comes into play.

In order to truly appreciate decent manners, you have to endure a few people who lack any semblance of decent manners.

Well, God bless and I hope that dude never breaks a bone.

But he will be comforted in the knowledge that should he happen to ever break anything, I'll be there handy with a pillow and a kind word. It may be the only softness he's had in his life and, based on his idea of humor, it's likely all he's ever gonna get...

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends...

There they were all assembled Sunday night. My FAMILY... FA - MI - LY. Those people who say they love me and would do anything for me in my fiberglass encrusted position. Or not...

Apparently I have made the sickening and somewhat sudden discovery of a soundproofing heretofore unrecognized in our home which prevented them from coming to help me at all.

I was taking care of business in the bathroom when a big ol' whacking wasp was flying around me. It was huge, evil and menacing with its nastiest venom waiting to be inserted into my freshly punctured skin. It was eyeing my tender posterior as a likely and decent sized target. I was trying to figure out how to run at sprinters speed on one leg.

Since we have two other functional bathrooms, I figure they would have found my lifeless body about Saturday night when Jared needs his next bath in the barrier-free shower.

By that time, I would have been unable to be molded into shape to fit in a traditional coffin and flashes of a redneck Hefty-bag funeral straight to the county dump began to flicker into view.

I was in a panic as the threat of doom swirled ever closer and I could feel my lungs collapsing, my heartbeat fading away all the while I am calling out for help and no one comes...not even the dog! I am sensitive to stings of almost every kind in that slight way that requires some kind of intervention and the horror is that the only thing I had between me and almost certain and semi-clad humiliating death was a pair of crutches.

Left to my own devices, I did what any self-respecting mighty woman would do.

I smacked the ever loving fire out of the wasp in midair and began to pound the snot out of him as he lay on the tile wiggling and squirming in a vain attempt to rise again and seize the day.

There is a certain berserker quality that takes over when bug killing is required. The viking in my blood rises to the occasion and I believe giblets of thorax and wing sections were liberally splattered across the floor, the wall and the appliances near me.

Thankfully none of the giblets hit me or we would have been back to running on one leg in the vain hope that I wouldn't trip on the pants around my ankles.

Incensed at what I was certain was a blatant attempt to cash in on my life insurance policy, I completed the task at hand, got myself back together and hobbled out on the gut infested crutches to my chair. I asked them why they didn't come rescue me.

Looking as blankly and innocently as possible, they said "We didn't hear anything..."

Sure.

Screaming people are always covered up by a brisk game of Wii Tennis and besides, we would all enjoy a pool table.

Oh wait.

I won't enjoy it.

I'll be DEAD long before any of you cretins come to save me!

Now I understand that statement that I heard years ago, "You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family."

Perhaps the halcyon glow of my value when dead has made them feel a wasp killing was good enough to bring them the cash while preventing the finger of blame going in their direction.

Sadly, I killed their minion, so the wasp can't talk for himself... or buzz or whatever it is they do. And does anyone reliably translate from Wasp to English for court proceedings?

Either way, I'd be dead and cluttering up the floor and possibly blocking the dog door which would greatly inconvenience the family and resident canine.

'kay, y'all. I'll make sure the next time I'm trying to go potty that I send one of YOU in first to take the hit for me.

Then I'd get to decide how YOUR insurance money gets spent.

Love ya bunches...unless a wasp is involved. Then you are on your own.

It's Hunter Orange...

We have always tried to plan things in advance. Partially because I am somewhat OCD about knowing what's coming and being all 'Scout prepared' and part is because I can't stand to be so free-flow that everything is a surprise to me.

Well, the train not only had a rough patch on the tracks, it jumped the rails and rolled around in the meadow giving Tootle a run for his money.

The idea is that we exercise to improve our conditions and make our bodies stronger. The reality is that the kind people who pave the streets don't care that the collar of asphalt they create around sewer lock out's, manhole covers, etc., are a danger to cars, trucks... and 5k participants. As a result, I now have a broken ankle.

The toes went into the drop-off and the ankle followed with a nasty crack. I knew it was broken before I staggered to a stop.

I didn't cry until I got the x-ray results that said for sure and certain my ankle was indeed broken. Yeah. Broken. And all of this happened THREE DAYS before Thomas flew into Huntsville from his mission.

I can't imagine doing anything normally because thus far in my life, it hasn't happened.

The cast is hunter orange. They were out of camoflauge (the idea behind that being that no one can SEE the cast...), they didn't have enough lime to do my leg, they only had bright red and no Alabama Crimson, and they were out of blue. So, that left me with woefully inadequate choices of day-glo orange or plain white.

Go big or go home... I saw it on a shirt several years ago and liked the idea behind it, so I decided to go big.

I have a hunter orange cast. I figure if I'm gonna be in this thing for 4 weeks, I might as well have a good time with it. It's not like you can really hide a 10-ton cast anyway.

The funny part of this, okay the ironic part of this, is that when Thomas got off his plane and saw us there - Jared was in his wheelchair, Sister Scanlon was in a wheelchair, I was in a wheelchair and Beth was on crutches.

He said, "Did you wait until I was gone to fall apart?"

Going on a mission $10k.

Parking in the airport garage $2.00.

Seeing family and friends all gimped up . . . Priceless.

4 weeks... only 4 weeks....

Then maybe I can resume a normal life. Or at least as close to normal as I usually get.

Dear Denise,

While I do not normally spend slavish amounts of time generating fan mail or letters filled with weeping devotion to celebrities, there are times I'd really like to pop a letter in the mail to Denise Austin.

Dear Denise,

Your smiling, sweatless countenance is enough to try the patience of a saint. You are killing me. Although I confess you are toning up places in my body I didn't know existed, I'd really feel like we were in this together if you had to mop up your own puddle of sweat from the floor when we got done.

But no.

You remain high and dry and willfully smiling at my sagging body and keep cheerfully encouraging me to 'move a little more each day'.

I never envied nuns before, but they can sure hide some serious body flaws beneath those habits they don. And I can't imagine them taking time from their prayer routine to do a few rounds with the smiling face of the lovely Denise on DVD for pleasure. I think that would come under the heading of 'penance'.

Rest assured, however, that I continue to dutifully walk, ride my bike, lift the barbells and sweat like a horse pulling a conestoga uphill.

I thank you for the DVD's.

But could you please break a sweat just once for me?

Sincerely,

Shelley

P.S. My best friend Beth said she agrees. You nearly killed her yesterday. I think there is a law in Alabama about attempted murder...

Bathing your Possum

Now and then, I come across a phrase that just absolutely turns my giggle box plumb over. I can't help myself.

"I know you are probably busy, you know, giving your possum a bath..." It was from a TV show (Jonas Brothers - and no I don't even have cable. My sister called to tell me this gem!)

The very thought of someone giving a possum a bath was just too ridiculous to me especially considering how repulsive an actual possum really is. Rat-like tail, odd chunky body and a feral face with evil looking sharp teeth, I can't imagine anyone getting close enough to sponge off any part of one.

Then there is the one about getting the clothes washed. "The laundry is done - the ashes are in the fireplace!" There is just something cheerful about it. Wash a load, burn a load and the laundry is done in no time at all. Of course, you have to be a little selective as to just who will be without clean undies this week (certainly not YOU!), but it's a small price to pay to get the washing done quicker.

"Never hire a color-blind bomb technician." You know the drill, you are sweating bullets as the clock on the bomb counts down to detonation. The technician has a set of wire cutters poised over the wires - yellow, gray, green, blue, white and black. Now the conundrum.

If you can't tell one color from another life gets a bit hard. Momma used to know a man who was colorblind. He saw EVERYTHING in a shade of brown. Imagine the confab over the walkie-talkie over that possibility... Which wire to cut? The brown one, the light brown one, the dark brown one, the medium brown one... CLIP! BOOM! Oops...

Sometimes, my family and friends have words and phrases come out of their mouth that defy all description. It's one of the rare joys to hear one of the malaprops or an intended jab that is just hilarious in the imagery which it brings to mind.

I remember when I was in school, one of my friends got a sharp retort in on a kid who was all about being first at everything. His favorite statement was "The early bird gets the worm."

MMMMM. Tasty.

Here was a true gem of laughter. She said, "Oh yeah? Well, the early bird may get the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese..." I smile everytime I think about that one.

I just like the parade and spectacle of language. It's nice to know that we can see and hear funny things around us.

And I like to laugh. No matter what our life's load is, I believe laughter can make it a bit lighter to bear.

When was the last time you saw a depressed hyena...?

September One

It's officially "fall" in my book. We have started the month of September.

Back in the dark ages, school didn't start until sometime in September. Now schools all over the place are in some sort of academic rat race to see who can start first or stay longest through the summer.

I am not a fan. Not at all. It's hot and sticky on the bus and in the classroom and rivulets of sweat gather and drip, roll and pour from the faces of bedraggled youngsters rousted from their beds and hurried on to school.

It's not right. Summer is for swimming and fishing and planting a garden of favorite vegetables. Nowhere does there seem to be room for books and homework, but there it is.

September's cooler weather just seems to tell me all about Dutch ovens filled with yummy dinners and campfire nights with guitar music under the stars. Quiet nights with a good book or rowdy nights at the football game shouting until you are hoarse for the home team to win. Days filled with blue skies so brilliant they hurt your eyes to take them all in, nights of inky, dark blue skies dotted with the shimmering light of a million stars - all just out of reach - and a smiling moon that brings on the song of my childhood sung by my Daddy...

I see the moon
And the moon sees me
Over the mountains
Over the seas
Please let the light
That shines on me
Shine on the one
I love

Best of all, fall is a time to see the kaleidoscope of God's making as the leaves change from the brilliant shades of greens in His paintbox to the rainbow hued foliage of autumnal splendor.

The leaves fall in the breezes as the fall chill continues to touch them with the almost magical change that tells the leaves that winter will be coming sooner than we think. Drifting leaves are few at first, but then, joined by their companions from the tree, the lawn is carpeted in the multicolored offering of God.

Gradually, the glorious brilliance of the jewel-toned leaves changes into the velvety brown that begins to decay only to become the means for next years' leaves to grow and spring forth healthy and green once again.

But for now, the trees are still bearing a coat of verdant green and vibrant sheen as the leaves are not quite ready to signal the all clear for the change.

I know what is coming for I have seen it before. Yet the change in the leaves and in me happens subtly until one day, I wake to see that life is now a dazzling spectacle of colors new and old.

I love the fall.

Though each season is a reminder that God is in every detail, fall just seems to do so in a showy and theatrical production. All we need is the orchestra...

B.C.G.'s

The first time I heard Beth use the acronym B.C.G.'s, I said "what?".

Now I know. Birth Control Glasses. Glasses guaranteed to reduce your attractiveness to the opposite sex and hence, reduce your chances for an encounter of any meaningful nature.

The U.S. Military issue glasses aren't known for their stylish attributes. You have to pay extra to look good - vanity costs. What the military issues to its service men and women are simply inexpensive and "practical".

The word practical harks up all kinds of visions that aren't lovely. Not lovely at all.

Birth Control Glasses. What a concept! What do you see in your mind's eye?

The geek who sat behind you in Physical Science who always wore the high water pants, a calculator holder fastened securely to his belt from which he deployed a Texas Instruments multifunctional graphic scientific calculator that he really didn't need because "he knows the math", a pocket protector from some plumbing contractor which he inherited from dear old Dad, and a watch that displayed digital time, which was ALSO a calculator just as a backup.

You know the guy. He is a hard worker. And probably saved your butt in class a zillion times by patiently re-explaining something until you got it right.

But those glasses really took the edge off of any relationship other than 'just a friend from class'.

Try those same glasses out on a gal... shudder!

Let's just say they conjure up an image of some dowdy, frumpy, frazzled and socially clueless chick who doesn't know one end of a shrimp fork from another without consulting the fold-out chart in Emily Post.

She is wearing a dress that reminds you of something from a rummage sale that no one else wanted and which she purchased because "she felt sorry for it".

It has a lacy fake collar which detaches and attaches to other similar shapeless dresses that do a really credible job of hiding who she really is.

The glasses do their job in an utterly ruthless manner. They are so unattractive as to instantly render the wearer a social pariah just by slipping them on.

Generally the lenses are clad in black frames and sometimes these glasses also bear a little metal accent on the top of the outside edge of each eye frame, or maybe a little faux jewel or two to add that really un-hot full-on librarian look. And if the girl is especially behind the times, she will add a little 'jeweled' chain to keep the glasses from running away.

Guys employ a 'sports band' to keep their B.C.G.'s in place, although everyone knows they are only athletic if we count chess and Math Team. They can't catch or throw a ball to save their life, be they male or female.

Truth be told, they are brilliant. They can see past the hormones and acne and trauma of teenage years and young adult awkwardness and into a life with an actual job, benefits and a future.

Girls don't like guys in B.C.G.'s... until they want to get married and settle down. Until then, they want the Harley-straddling, leather wearing, tough acting bad boy who will only hurt them and ride off into the setting sun leaving her with only a bitter memory and a lesson that will take years to get over. Bad boys don't settle down. They take off.

Guys don't like girls in B.C.G's... until they want to talk about something more substantial than what was in Cosmo this month and spend endless hours discussing which black shoes, out of the thousands of pairs the campus kitten has in her closet, should be worn with a black dress to a dinner party for which they are already an hour late. Sure, the other guys will be jealous, but she is only there because she wanted to go to a party with an escort and get a free meal while she chit chats for HOURS in the ladies room with the other campus kittens...

The ideal combination is someone who is a hybrid. Part B.C.G.'s and part fantasy. How do we get this kind of blend? Is some form of laboratory experimentation part of the equation?

Shades of Frankenstein come into your mind as you think about combining the brains of the B.C.G. wearing genius with the body of the bad boy or sorority girl.

How to do it without winding up with the worst of both possible worlds - a B.C.G. wearing giggling idiot? That isn't attractive in ANY scenario.

Time is the answer.

While growing older happens to everyone even in this age of Botox and silicon, the time-tested maturity comes only to those who want and are willing to work to become more than they were in high school. It makes them open to the possibilities that there truly is someone out there who can love them for their body... AND love them for their fabulous brains.

Most of the time, you find out that what is behind the glasses was worth growing up to get after all. They haven't wasted who they really are on the people who would just use that 'specialness' for their own purposes. And they generally aren't jaded by an endless parade of cheap relationships that have soured them on life. People in B.C.G.'s are long term people, by and large.

I speak in general terms, but I know that for every general term there is always an exception. There will always be those folks wear B.C.G.'s who DESERVE to wear them because doing so keeps their DNA out of the genetic pool. And the rest of us are thankful. That's mean, but there you go.

Then again, there are some who are already in the genetic swim who should be ISSUED some B.C.G.'s as a matter of general principal.

Enjoy the rest of the day. Have some lemonade. Wave at your neighbor. Pet a friendly hound dog. Then, open your nightstand drawer and smile down at those B.C.G.'s that are lying atop the Agatha Christie novel you are reading just at bedtime.

Most of us over the age of 40 have some... military issue or not. Put them on, take them off, either way, be who you really are - fabulous, brilliant and sexy.

Ebay Auctions and stupid people

After her fifth or sixth try, a woman from Arkansas has failed in her attempt to auction off naming rights for her child on Ebay.

Dumbbell!!

The child isn't the responsibility of the buyers and sellers on Ebay, nor should the right and privilege of naming the child be that of the winner of a tawdry auction.

Would she have really named her child Frisket Persnickety if that was the "winning" bidders' choice?

How about Poopy von Poopy?

I have seen names foisted upon innocent children that are abominations. Then I ask myself "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING??? ANYTHING??"

I can understand selling old boat motor parts and the back sissy bar to an old Honda motorcycle. Those are commodities for sale.

But the name that a child must bear through life and by which they will be called can be a source of pride OR ridicule.

No one makes it through childhood completely unscathed. Bullies are part of the price we pay for learning to stand up for ourselves, and sometimes for others.

But the deliberate attempt to garner money to pay for what I believe to be a sacred right to name your own offspring smacks of more than crass commercialism and greed.

It is a sickening example of how children are not precious anymore, but simply a way to get what an adult wants until the child is no longer of use to them. What happens when this deluded woman decides she needs more money to pay for things in her life?

Will she stop at naming rights, or simply auction off the children themselves?

It may sound extreme, but there are nations in the world where that DOES happen. A child is sold off to provide convenience or comfort for adults who are just plain stupid.

I can't blame the Ebay people for having an auction site. But I do blame them for allowing the idiotic woman past the front door on her feeble attempt to gain monetarily not once or twice but up to SIX TIMES by auctioning the naming rights.

This isn't a ball field or a convention center! This is a child we are talking about!!

While she may have thought this was a cute or funny thing to do, I wonder how this child will be feeling in a few years to discover that she didn't think enough of him/her to carefully, lovingly and prayerfully select a name that spoke of love, of family or of tradition.

I do hope that someone will help this mother to understand the sacred nature of the obligation of parenting that is more than just the procreation part of the equation.

And I hope and pray that people in our world will have better sense than to even bid on these kinds of horrible auctions. When the media stops publishing the information and when others refuse to pander to that lowest element in order to satiate their poor choices, I believe there will be much less of these kinds of displays of stupidity in our world.

And while the baby may not get a name that is universally appealing, at least he/she will get the satisfaction of knowing that the name that was given was done so through a feeling of love and excitement rather than through the highest bidder and the flight of fancy heaped upon them because of it.

One bit of advice for the mother to be, online baby name sites are available for free. Sure, it won't pay your bills to name your child in a conventional way, but it will at least be one less thing for the kid to discuss with his therapist.

I'm sure there will be lots of other topics to discuss anyway.

Local Radio and I.Q. Point Falloffs

Life in a small, rural Southern town has a charm all its own.

You cannot seriously compare it to any other place in the entire world.

When I was just a child, we had a couple of AM radio stations that broadcast country, bluegrass and local news and happenings with all the gravitas of national news. It had to be important because it occurred in Limestone County.

There was a distinct local flavor that came from these programs and the advertisers who helped support the local culture and society events that kept a poor community one cohesive unit.

"Sick call" was a broadcast dedicated completely to the announcements of the death and funerals and the roll call list of patients in the Athens-Limestone Hospital decades before HIPAA Privacy Acts prevented the indiscriminate revelation of what got herniated and who had a baby and the funeral details for the service that was being held at Beulah Baptist on Saturday.

The program is still being broadcast today, thought the station upon which it was aired has changed.

There are radio listeners who won't make a move without starting their day with the "Sick Call" program nor will they turn their radio off without listening to the "Swap-n-Shop" program, which now bears the title "WKAC Classifieds".

For those uninitiated in Limestone Lure and Lore... the "Swap-n-Shop" program of bygone days was a way for the folks all over the county on party lines and private phones to buy, sell and trade items with other Limestone Countians who likewise had their ear glued to the radio each morning.

You can call in and advertise goats you want to sell, chicken eggs that are from your flock of free range birds, old clothes that you no longer need and the yard sale you are holding the last Friday of the month.

The funny thing is, after you listen to the programs for a while, you can slip into a laconic state of slack-jawed country fried complacence that comes upon you as you hear the voices and their varying accents that are the unmistakable mark of being raised in certain sections of the county where dialect is a matter of a few miles along a country road.

While not perfect, I can mimic several of these dialects and have employed them from time to time.

Sometimes, they are used in my yard sales to boost revenues. Sometimes, I have used them to share the special flavor that is Limestone County to someone who wasn't born here, but got here as fast as they could.

I must admit though, when people hear their own voice on the radio since it IS a live call-in program, they suddenly sound stupid. I know, because I've had it happen myself. The odd way your voice sounds to your own ears through the radio prompts the host to remind the callers to 'cut off your radio until after your call'.

I.Q. points dribble right out of your ears as you hear the hick talking and then realize that hick is YOU. Quasi-horrified to hear just how 'country' you sound, you stumble and stutter over the announcement of whatever you need to advertise on this one free source of shared information left in a day of corporate greed.

Thanks to the sponsors of the program, namely drug stores, funeral homes and grocery stores, we are also reminded of the varieties of life. We are born, we eat, we drink, we sicken and we die. It's the circle of life played out to a mournful strain of Wurlitzer organ music while Kay Hudson tells us who has passed on.

Cory Hudson tells us about the swapping and shopping that goes on and tactfully reminds listeners that you can't advertise a permanent business for free on their show.

Then, the phone calls begin and the truth of who we are behind our mask of supposed sophistication falls away like autumn leaves. We ARE country folk and we want to make do the best we can and resent the changes that are rushing us ever closer to the brink of liberal, hippie-style living where no one cares about their neighbor and wouldn't feed their cows for them on a bet.

I admit I listen to the programs from time to time. Not so much because I am a 'faithful listener' but usually when I want to get rid of something I no longer need. During those times, I find myself thankful that my parents chose to live in a pedestrian world filled with farmers and whittlers, tobacco spitting, overall wearing, plain cotton house dressed and wrinkled, calloused handed men and women who make a pretty rich palatte of colors in my hometown.

You just can't get radio programming like this in the big city. They are more interested in 'causes' than in people. But here, we still have a low watt local station that believes local radio should be about local people.

Tune in.

1080 AM call sign WKAC.

It's worth the listen and the laugh.

Who knows how much longer it will be around before some damnYankee comes and takes it over with talk radio and liberal causes?

Holy Flaming Cats!

Let's just get down to brass tacks here...

I hate makeup simply because it makes my face itch.

While I wear it on Sundays and special occasions, I do so more because it's considered a female thing to do than out of some sense of cosmetic devotion.

I like my face with or without the stuff.

However, over the last couple of years, I have been using a 'liquid age defying' potion that allegedly reduces the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles.

Whatever.

I mostly use it so my face doesn't take on the consistency of the dirt in the Sonora desert. I haven't exactly seen age receding from my face by decades like the advertisement claims, but at least my skin is more moist than the leathery penny loafers I wear.

But no story would be complete without tragedy and triumph.


With all the construction and pounding that has been going on in our house, I had put all of the contents of the medicine chest into a small hard side luggage piece and set it alternately on the side of the sink and the lid of the toilet, depending strictly upon what was being used at the moment.

The aforementioned "youth in a bottle" cost about $20 bucks. Anyone who knows me for longer than 5 minutes knows that I don't toss out that kind of coin on makeup or female preparations of ANY kind, much less 'age defying formulas'.

But I did.

Now, my sorrow runneth over due to a crappy shelf in my medicine chest. I was carefully replacing my items since Rick said it was now declared safe to do so. The shelf upon which I put the GLASS bottle of rejuvenation and restoration collapsed. Yep. Right out of the cabinet.

And the stupid bottle not only broke, it shattered.

A million pieces doesn't begin the countdown of giblets and shards that littered the sink, the counter top, the side of the toilet, the wall and the floor. I nearly cried.

Not just because I watched the $20 winging out the window, but because I was barefooted.

I never wear shoes if I can help it, and last night was no exception. But being caught in the delicate predicament of having glass everywhere and goo coating various locations like sap droplets from some exploded tree, I had to call for help.

Rick came on the double and brought my sandals and I cleaned up the remnants of my one vanity beauty treatment and attempted to hold back the stream of expletives that hovered near my lips.

Careful examination said that the bathroom finally was good to go, so I tossed the last dribbly, gooey, glass encrusted tissues into the trash.

That was last night.

This morning... well, let's just say it was a different story entirely.

I had somehow "conveniently" missed a shard of surgically sharpened glass in the night but by dawn's early light I discovered that pesky shard ... with my foot.

Holy flaming cats... that age serum stings like pure alcohol on an open wound with fire attached!!! I think the nerve ending that got fried was connected from my foot directly to my eyeballs and on to my brain.

The tears began to flow. I sat down on the toilet lid and began to pick at the glass Clovis point puncturing my delicate and tender foot. I hate the sight of my own blood and this was no exception. Prying the offending projectile from the pad of my foot, I got a bit woozy just thinking about the continuing wave of pain and red stuff that roared through the seeping hole.

The more I blotted at the blood, the more 'age defying serum' got rubbed directly into the hole. I thought at one point that I was going to have to die to feel better, which would have been kind of embarrassing since I was standing there in my drawers.

It's truly sad to think of that lovely money going right into the trash since nothing was saved of the serum. It's even sadder to think of the vanity induced semi-self- inflicted wound that made my foot feel like a participant in some tribal ritual of purity and fire. The worst part was that I couldn't keep the naughty words from springing forth like dandelions on a summer lawn.

But the good news is, my foot has never looked younger. It appears that the serum has rolled the clock back for the sole of my foot.

I may be wrinkled, lined and flabby everywhere else, but my foot is ageless, timeless and beautiful - at least it is until the serum wears off or I wash my foot...whichever comes first.

I wonder how long I can stand on one foot while I bathe...

What HAVEN'T you done?

It is assumed that once you are past about 18 years old, that you begin to accumulate 'life experiences' through education, vocational training, military or other worthy pursuits.

There have been times over the course of my life that I have listened to the "life list" of experiences of others and been frankly overwhelmed with the pages long events that have filled their days and nights.

I feel like a cardboard cut out.

From a distance, everything seems okay, but up close upon further inspection, there just isn't much there filling the gaps between the birthdays.

I know how other people fill their time. They read, they go to school, they volunteer - they live.

Has my existence become a narrowed sliver? An imitation of life? Worse yet, an imitation of what I think is life but it really isn't living at all?

What defines the 'life list'?

And, when we see the time of our life becoming less at the end zone and more statistics of our past half or three quarters, what comes next? A bludgeoning, bruising, hard won goal line stand to prove that we still have something in us after all or simply a list to be checked off until we die?

There are people who refer to this as 'a bucket list', as in "things to do before I kick the bucket".

Hmm.

I don't want to wait until the end and rush to cram living into the last little bit just to say "SEE!! I checked these things off my list!! I lived!! I mattered!"

I'd like to believe that while my list may not be the same over the course of my life as the next gal's list, that the things that fill the slots are worth the space. And if they are not, there isn't anything I can do to change what might have been into useful material now.

People who are driven to succeed in their lives just seem to accumulate more lines on their lists. But I'm thoroughly convinced that just doing something doesn't mean you are GOOD at doing that something.

Can I claim it honestly if it isn't something I do well? I can play lots of musical instruments. Equally poorly. But in my own defense, I play a few of them pretty well. Well enough to have earned A's in music in high school and college for my skill. Sure, there's always going to be someone who can go and best me in their musical ability. That used to bother me until I realized that may be the only thing they have going for them in their entire lives.

I think that all of our experiences, whether they 'measure up' to what someone else can claim or not, are valuable to making us more than the cooing, gurgling mass of raw material we all arrived as when we drew our first breath on this planet.

We didn't get there on our own and our life experiences, including any personal bucket list we have on a running tab, make us who we are - warts and all.

There's lots of things I haven't done. There's lots of things I want to do. I hope there is time left in the sands trickling out of my personal hour glass to accomplish some of them. My imagination of what I'd like to do far outstrips reality, so I'm willing to give a point or two in favor of dealing with the day to day minus the daydreaming haze.

I'll admit to a pang or two of jealousy when I hear the exploits and adventures of people I know who don't realize just how amazing their life journey is. They can't see the wonder and miracle of all they have accomplished because they have made the conscious choice to see life as 'no big deal'.

I can't live that way.

Even in marginal circumstance, life is too big a deal to ascribe to the 'later' box on the desk.

There isn't any way to know when or if tomorrow will ever come for any of us. We hope it will come, and we pray and plan, but there are no guarantees for us.

I don't believe that should become a justification for living life so far out on the edge that you are dangling over thin air. But sometimes, our cardio workout needs just that extra thrill to move us from complacency to action.

What haven't you done? What do you want to do, or be or become?

When was the last time it mattered to you?