A woman's gotta do...

Classic Ma:

After a long evening shopping 3 stores, none of which had the Barbie she sought, Ma stopped at BigLots. They had large aluminum pans which Ma decided would be perfect for our upcoming Thanksgiving. Ma puts it in her cart and continues shopping. It rattles around...and rattles around...and rattles around. Ma's nerves are shot. She grabs the pan, throws it in the floor and stomps it to smithereens.. When she presents it to the cashier to ring up, the cashier looks at the pan and then at Ma with a questioning look. Ma explained that they did not have disposable cookies sheets, so she made one

Love is a many splintered thing

We once had this dog named Mandy. She was a sweet, good-natured dog, some sort of golden lab mix. She could catch a bird better than any cat. I once saw her jump and grab one in mid-air. Mandy also had a reputation. You know how they say that every group of girl-friends has one tramp, and if you don’t know which of your girl-friends it is, IT’S YOU. Well, in her group of doggie friends, Mandy didn’t know.

Several times a year Mandy would bless us with a large litter of puppies. There would be so many she couldn’t adequately feed all of them, so me and Ma would make oatmeal to supplement. You have not lived until you clean oatmeal off of 12 squirming puppies. Yep, I said 12—which was the smallest liter she ever had. Then you had the job of finding these dogs good homes. No easy task considering Mandy had so many “dates” that she had some really mixed up looking pups.

And speaking of dates, Mandy was very determined to um, go out, as it were. I have seen her climb fences, chew ropes, and go threw electric wire howling her head off. Finally, although I deplore chaining a dog, we had no choice but to chain her during her time of need.

There was one dog in particular who loved to use Mandy to carry on his family line. He was a large Collie/Sheppard looking mix. You could always count on one in the liter looking like him. Late one night, I looked out the kitchen window, and who do you think was whispering sweet nothings in Mandy ear. Yep, it was the neighborhood Canine Casanova. Somehow he had gotten in our fence. I was not going to stand idly by while he created more oatmeal munching mongrels. I was to through! OF COURSE YOU KNOW THIS MEANS WAR and my weapon of choice…flatware.

I yell to Ma, “he’s out there, let’s get him” As I started out the back door, I realized I had no weapon, so I grabbed the large wooden spoon Ma kept hanging on the wall. Right on my heels was Ma, who decided that seemed a good idea, and she grabbed the fork. Casanova looks up as I go screaming madly in his direction waving my spoon in the air. He takes off, and I am in hot pursuit. I get close enough to give him a good whack across his back with my spoon. I landed such a blow that I broke my spoon. Ma is coming around the other end of the house to head him off, so I yelled, “Ma, I got him but I broke the spoon”. She sees Casanova coming in her direction and yells back, “that’s OK baby, I’ll get him with the fork”. And get him she did. As he made the leap for the hole he had dug under the fence, it slowed him down enough that Ma gave him a severe beating with that fork. The fork was obviously much better made than the spoon, because she was able to land a good 20 blows before it broke.

I can honestly tell you that we never saw Casanova again, and finally, that hideous spoon and fork were no more.

Have I ever mentioned that our neighbors never spoke to us much?

I asked you nicely

I was talking with Aunt Boba, Ma’s older sister, the other night. I thought I knew all my Mom’s “incidents”…turns out I was wrong. Ma has been arrested and appeared in court for Assault & Battery.


As she was leaving the grocery one day, Ma witnessed a man being mean to his dog. She asked him not to do that. Being the total BUTT that anyone who is mean to animals is, he continued his mistreatment. Ma said nothing else, but went quietly to her car for a weapon (Ma is serious about animals). As she is looking around her trunk for the tire tool—she suddenly has an epiphany. Turkeys are not considered deadly weapons. She grabs up her turkey as begins swinging it to get up momentum as she walks back over to the man. He looks up just in time to get knocked out. Yep, that’s right, cold as a cucumber in the parking lot with frozen poultry.

The police arrive, the typical crowd gathers, the guy wakes up and shouts, “She shot me”. Ma tells him “Oh, I did not shoot you; I hit you with a turkey for heaven’s sake”. “Where is my dog?” he demands. Ma says, “The minute you let go of the leash he ran away”. Now everyone in that crowd saw Ma take the dog to her car when she knocked him out, but no one says a word. In fact, a guy had taken it upon himself, Mr. Dogood, to stay at her car with the dog and keep him quite so the police wouldn’t notice. Reluctantly, the police haul Ma away. Mr. Dogood slips her his number and says, “I’ll take care of the stuff in your car. Call me when you get this straightened out”. The police, bless them, were really good to Ma. They cuffed her real loose so it would not hurt and they did not put her in a cell. The let her sit at one of their desks until Daddy got there with bail.

As God watches over crazy people and animals, the case was dismissed. The judge was an animal lover, and when the man’s wife testified that “I had to hold his head in my lap for a week” (it’s my belief this made the judge sick to his stomach), he dismissed the case.

Ma went to Mr. Dogood’s house and retrieved the dog. I believe she must be part of some kind of underground animal protection program. She will only say the dog lives a much pampered life in an undisclosed location. Although aware of many rescues, she normally used cover of darkness or ploys of distraction. This was the first incident involving brute force.

Daddy, well let’s just say he found NO HUMOR in this at all and became furious every time it was brought up. Ma says that is probably why I didn’t know. She could never bring it up. Daddy is gone now, so we may speak of it.

I am so proud just thinking about the DNA I have flowing through my body.

Barbie Must Not Go Commando

Bailey was talking with Ma about what outfits she should make for Barbie.

"Now Meme, she needs some panties, and those things---HEY MOMMY, WHAT DO YOU CALL THOSE THINGS YOU PUT YOUR BOOBBIES IN?..."

I do wish she would make sure I don't have drink in my mouth before she says these things. 

Synonyms

Coming home from church the other night, Bailey was in the back talking to herself. Apparently, the newest topic of conversation at kindergarten is "butt" and "poots". I have been listening to this for several days waiting for it to go away on it's own. Yeah, not happening. In my best annoyed Mommy tone, I said "Bailey, I do NOT want to hear anything else about butts and poots unless you need to explain a medical condition to me!". The back seat fell quite. In a few minutes, Bailey asked, "Mommy, is it OK to say my tail has gas living in it". Thankfully, my laughter was hidden by cover of darkness.

The Mommy formerly known as "BanjoKittie"

During a supper of my hamburger casserole, Bailey looked at her daddy and said "This is my favorite. We sure do love that Homemade Mommy! I love it, and I am going to keep it. Thanks Pookie; finally, a nickname that makes me proud.

X-rated Laundry

I used our recent snow day to catch up on all the laundry, and thus, there were "fine washables" hanging all over the house. I had all my nice clean bras on hangers and hung them on the kitchen curtain rod to dry.

Later in the evening, Bailey was taking her bath and pretending with all her toys. You know how you only partly listen. Well, all I caught of the conversation was, "...and Mommy hangs her boobies in the window".

I will patiently await my call from DSS...

Politician...definitely

I had Children's Church on Sunday. To put it mildly, it was a horrible experience for Bailey and I both. She does not do well with Mom as a teacher, and I don't do well with children I can't spank. As we were leaving, Bailey and I are both in very foul moods. Bailey shouts, "I want to ride with my Daddy". I shout, "Sounds like a grand idea to me". We both spun on our heels and walked away (she had her Daddy's hand).

Apparently, she had some time to think things over in the car and decided maybe everything was not totally my fault, and some sort of apology might be in order. I had beat Bailey and Eric home. When they arrive, Bailey came running through the door, threw her arms around me and said, "Mommy, I love you so much, and you look like you have lost weight".

Somehow, I did something right

I was asking Bailey if she wanted to learn dance or martial arts. She looked at me and said, "I don't want to learn anything, I just want to be myself". You know what Pooks, that's what I want too!

Spin Doctor in the making

Bailey has always been one to "spin" tales. Two of the latest are:

• Upon being told to look under the couch for her socks, she replied, "I can't, I have little eyeballs and that jelly stuff might fall out".
• She wanted to wear her red dress instead of her black one, "black really does not look good on me and it causes blisters all over my back".

I have to give her an A in creativity.

Turn to the left

I was visiting my Mom, which always involves an “event” of some sort. On this hot, humid August morning in Lumberton, it would be a doosy.

I offered to take Jolie, my Ma’s little yippy, piece of a dog, outside to potty. I stepped out under the carport, put Jolie down in the yard, and began to take a long stretch. As I stretched, I looked to my right and saw it. A dead cat beside the road. I didn’t panic; I could immediately tell it was not one of Ma’s. However, I did tell myself that this cat was going to have a major impact on my day. I can just feel these things.

I stuck my head inside the door and told Ma she needed to come ID the body, but not to panic, I knew it was not hers. She only got half way out the drive and announced, that’s Bandit, Lynn’s cat (Lynn rents a house from Ma). Ma turns to me and says she will go tell her.

It does not take long until Lynn comes across the yard with her bathrobe flopping in the wind and crying. I take her by the arm to escort her to the body. She looks down at the now STIFF body and says, “Well, I am not sure that is him. Can you hold him up?” Knowing from personal experience how painful this can be, I sort of sat him up for viewing. Now please keep in mind, this cat is STIFF. I mean grave-yard -dead STIFF. As I hold him, she looks at him and says, “I’m not sure, you know dead cats look different than live cats”. I somehow managed to hold my composure. “I really don’t think that is him”. I decide to find the owner and Lynn heads home, where she goes inside, gets a bag of cat food, and walks around the back yard yelling “BANDIT” and shaking the bag of food.

I start making my way up the street to find and inform the next of kin. As I am stranding on the porch of house #2 of my search, I see Lynn headed my way, crying, still in bathrobe, and now holding a bag of Meowmix. I leave the porch and meet her half-way. “I think that maybe that is him, can you pick him up for me again”. What the heck. I again sit-up Mr. Stiffy for identification. Did I mention he died with his eyes open? Yeah, well anyway, she looks him over and says, “Can you turn him to the left”. Oh good grief! I must reiterate that the cat is STIFF. So here I am, standing on the side of one of the busiest roads in Lumberton, Snake Road, positioning a dead, STIFF cat in various mug shot type poses. Out of nowhere, “OH NO—THAT IS BANDIT!!”, followed by much crying, flailing of hands, and running. I takes me a minute to grasp everything that is happening and follow. She runs into Ma’s house, where Ma consoles her with kind words and nicotine. After a while, she says she needs to bury him. Being an animal lover and having suffered the loss of a pet, I tell her I will bury him for her. She says she appreciates it. Ma looks at me and tells me I will need to bury him 6 feet. After a moment of stunned silence in I said OK, but in my mind I really answered, “Yeah right”.

Ma gets me a white garbage bag and tells me what a great person I am. At this point, I think “stupid” would be better adjective. With bag and shovel under arm, I head back out to the deceased. I only have one thing to say about this part of the task at hand. It is not easy to put a rigor mortis ridden cat into a garbage bag. Doable, but not easy.

Thank goodness, Lumberton is made up of very sandy, soft, rich soil. Great farm land, so digging was not as hard as it could have been. However, let’s not forget that it is 900 friggin degrees outside with 100% humidity. I dig…and dig…and dig. Finally I have what I feel is a proper grave. I gently place Bandit into his final resting place. It’s deep enough, about 3 feet, but not nearly wide enough. I intend to do no more digging, so—now how do I put this…using the shovel, I sort of “broke-up” Bandit, if you will. Now don’t get all freaked out, I was about to have a heat stroke, and it ain’t like anyone is gonna need a dead cat fully intact. About that time, I hear Lynn coming out her front door yelling she is coming to help. OH CRAP! I don’t want her to see what has become of Bandit’s remains! I start shoveling dirt with force and speed unmatched by grave diggers everywhere. Shew-I made it. All atrocities were completely covered by the time she made it to graveside. She helps fill the last foot or so of the grave with dirt. We also decided to put a few cinder blocks over the hole for a few months to make sure Ma’s dogs, Winston-the boxer and Izzy-the shepherd mix, don’t disturb the grave. She thanks me and I head to the house.

It is 10am on a Saturday morning, I am sweating, thirsty, and suffering from mild dehydration. As I am standing at the sink drinking water and trying to recover, Ma bounces into the kitchen to tell me how sweet I am and how proud she is of me. I look at her in total disbelief and shouted, “6 FEET ?” Her answer, as is she, was priceless. “Now Lisa, I don’t want to look out this window and see Winston and Izzy playing tug-of-war with a dead cat”.

Christmas Tree

Bailey decorated the Christmas Tree all by herself (hey, it's what she wanted).

Bailey's Halloween Costume

I have not decided how I feel about the look on her face.

Pardon Me?

More on feral chickens

Eric and I could not figure out why our dogs continued to gain weight despite being fed less. I discovered the answer.

As previously stated, Mexican chickens are more evolved. Apparently, this causes suicidal tendencies, as they fling themselves over the fence and into the watering mouths of my dogs. Upon investigation, I have concluded that approximately five to seven chickens a week are overcome by stress and decide to end it all. It has to be suicide, why else would they NOT fly back over the fence when the dogs come after them. Furthermore, I believe if I observed my friends being eaten alive by large canines on the other side of the fence, I would do everything in my power to avoid this fate. This could be simply accomplished by staying on my side of the fence.

Of course, maybe some are just really bad at the game of "chicken".

In this, my 40th year, I have been giving a lot of thought to "what I want to be when I grow up" and have come up with nothing. I have been on a quest to find my passion, so I decided to take the Myers-Briggs Personality test. I am an ISTP (as is Clint Eastwood-I knew we where soul mates). In researching the ISTP, I came across this and decided to share:

ISTP: The Psycho Vigilante

ISTPs are quiet, unassuming people, who tend to be mechanically gifted but withdrawn and reserved. ISTPs often need a great deal of personal space and "alone time," which may give others the impression that they are aloof; in reality, this time is necessary to hide their secret identities.

The typical ISTP leads a dual life; his outward reserve and quiet masks an inward seething rage at the injustice of life--often, the death of a loved one at the hands of a criminal. In this secret life, the ISTP uses his mechanical gifts to create a terrifying arsenal of bizarre weapons with which to strike fear into the heart of evil. Sometimes, ISTPs may become evil themselves, either slowly over a long period of time or in response to a perceived rejection from the very people they are trying to save.

RECREATION: ISTPs are happiest when they are building and constructing--either new weapons to smite their enemies, or new plots to destroy those who oppose them. They have a very industrial sense of aesthetics, and can spend hours absorbed in the appreciation of works of art such as a 1969 Hemi Cuda retrofitted with missile launchers and ejection seats.

COMPATIBILITY: ISTPs don't often get along well with their extroverted cousins, Evil Overlords and Mad Scientists. Instead, they prefer the company of INTPs, or perhaps their pets. Romantic relationships with ISTPs tend to be drawn-out, tragic affairs, filled with bitterness, longing, and teenage angst. The sex is usually pretty good, however.

Famous ISTPs include Spider-Man and Q.

First Mammogram

Well, a turning point in my life came Friday. The baseline mammogram. I had thought about all the funny things I could write about this experience--that is, until I spoke to the technician. Apparently, there is a huge population out there who has been scared to death by horror stories of mammograms. One lady even commented that she would rather have cancer than have a mammogram. WHAT?? Obviously, this lady has never watched a loved one die of that wretched disease. So I have decided to take a stand on this issue.

To all my female loved ones out there and any woman reading this. There is no reason what so ever NOT to get your mammogram. Yes, it is uncomfortable, but honestly, here is a list of things that hurt a lot more: my last massage, giving birth, heel spurs, migraines, running into the corner of desk, getting stung by a bee, and grabbing a hot pan out the oven without a pot holder. Ladies, we bear all sorts of pain all the time, so why on earth would we choose to skip a test that only last seconds and could save our lives just because you are scared of pain.

Megan--guess where I am taking you for your 40th birthday.....

Overheard

Yesterday, I was cleaning the kitchen, Eric was playing the Banjo, and Bailey and Marybeth had been playing in Bailey's room. The kids came into the living room and Bailey told Eric that there was a bad smell in her bedroom. He began to ask what kind of smell, did you leave a snack in your room, and so on. Bailey, ever so seriously said, "well actually, I pooted".

Yes, I said feral chickens

I have lived next door to Ray for 28 years. I have made him my uncle of sorts. He is rugged man who has worked hard as a carpenter all his life. I would consider him a man's man; big, strong, and possessing no fear of man nor beast. Although he has never even raised his voice to me, I would never dream of saying or doing anything disrespectful toward him. Number one, I love him, and number two, I feel quite sure he would wallop me good! However, there is one thing about Ray I only recently found out. He has a soft spot of chickens. I have caught him making sure the eggs are safe, throwing out feed in the winter, and such things. Let me make one thing clear, they are not HIS chickens.

We have a growing number of Mexicans in our neighborhood. Mexicans like chickens, but much like their American brethren, they let their pet population get out of control. Admittedly, I have never heard of a spay/neuter clinic for chickens, but it's only 2008. Another interesting observation is that American chickens and Mexican chickens act different (which reminds me, cats in Peurto Rico don't answer to "kitty, kitty"-I was shocked. Guess I figured all cats spoke Kitty). Mexican chickens seem to be more evolved. The roosters peacefully coexist, they can fly, and perch in trees. No joke, I see if every day-and they don't seem the least bit interested in assimilating. But I digress.

Last Monday, Ray displayed his chicken affection in an act of valor I shall not soon forget. As I walked out to get in my car, I noticed that Zeus, Ray's grandson's, Lil Russel (I need to stop calling him that as he is 23), Pit Bull Terrier was loose. No biggie, he was just sniffing around acting all dogie like. About that time, Ray stepped around the side of the house, and that's when all H-E-double hockey sticks broke out. As Ray stepped around the side of the house, Zeus spotted the chickens and takes off after them. So Ray takes off after Zeus. Get a VISUAL here. Ray is chasing Zeus, Zeus is chasing chickens, and about 45 chickens in various stages of life, are clucking in panic, running, flying into trees, flying into my fence, jumping, doing circles in some apparent ploy to confuse Zeus. This does not just end in a few seconds--nope, this convoy made several trips around the house. As a matter of fact, as I pulled out of my drive, one of the lead chickens had this ridiculous looking conga line headed out back.

I have to be honest...I was rooting for Zeus.

Happy

This is not a happy dog

but this is a happy child








And this makes me the happiest person in the world!

The newest reason not to go to bed

Bailey is in the "I don't want to go to bed" phase of her life. She has a multitude of excuses as to why she can't go to bed. Last night was, "I am scared in here by myself", which is a complete falsehood. I explained to her that Jesus was always with her, and she had nothing to fear. I kissed her and shut the door.

Half an hour later, her door opens. As I hear her coming down the hall, I asked, "Bailey, why are you out of bed?". She looked me square in the eye, hands on hips, and in a very matter of fact tone stated, "Mommy, Jesus went home".

Bailey Shea Sayne

What did she say...

A few day ago, Bailey and I where at the store. Seeing her reflection in the window, she commented, "I am so fat". I was totally stunned. She is all of 35 pounds, and she is FOUR! She has been in a "public" daycare for all of 2 weeks, and she is already concerned about how she looks. Don't misunderstand, I am not blaming daycare, just pointing out that her exposure to the other little girls and boys had been very limited up to this time. And although I don't believe they actually comprehend what they are talking about, it disturbs me none the less. Which of course brings me to my guilt (which I have found is the mainstay emotion for moms).

What have I been teaching her. I have always told her very positive things about herself. So why the guilt? Well, we all know children learn from what they see and hear, not what you tell them. So what has she seen and heard...me. Me and my negative self talk about my own body. I am fat, I am flat chested, my pores are too big, my butt is to big, my toes are ugly. Me trying every fad diet that makes it's way into a magazine or news show. Me always on the search for the latest in wrinkle reduction creams. She has never seen or heard me be happy and satisfied with my outward appearance.

If I, the same sex parent, am modeling damaging body image behaviors, then I should expect no less from my child. I want her to be healthy and active. I want her to be more concerned with who she is and what she contributes to the world than how she looks; and actually, I would like the same for myself.

Say a prayer for me, I have a lot to unlearn before I can properly teach.

Things I learned in my 4 years of motherhood

With Mother's Day approaching, I find myself looking back at some of the things I have learned; such as...

• If you have a child with digestion problems, the sight of "poop" will make your heart sing.
• It is a lot of fun to dress your baby in nothing but a diaper, funny shoes, and goofy hats.
• Also, arranging a diaper on their head using different angles can by hysterical. Always use a clean diaper.
• It is amazing what will not make you puke as long as it is spewing from your offspring.
• People who refer to pets as their children have never had children. Understand, I was once one of those people.
• You really can control your temper in traffic if your child, who tells your Mom everything you say and do, is strapped in behind you.
• If you are really tired, it is OK to let the dirt "float off" in the bathtub.
• Stay caught up with your child's laundry. Unlike my own dirty clothes, Bailey's are normally stained, and therefore a quick tumble in the dryer will not refresh them.
• When you child sings their favorite song at the top of their lungs in the grocery store, sing along. Other customers are already mad at ya anyhow.
• In a pinch, cold coffee and a stale biscuit feeds a child quite nicely.

There goes our Mother of the Year Award

My friend, Hallel, and I were having a lovely time eating the ice cream the kids didn't want, sitting in the living room and talking while our girls played in the playroom. Donnie comes home says hi and goes back to talk to the girls. He comes back in the living room very amused and says, "yall have not been paying any attention to the girls have you?" We sheepishly asked why. We followed him to their bedroom where our two precious girls sat BUTT NAKED AND PAINTING THEIR TOENAILS. Their reactions when busted. Lydia simply held up her feet and announced she was very pretty and Bailey held up a bottle of nail polish and asked if she could have some for Christmas.

"Bailey, why did you take off your clothes", now there's a sentence that strikes terror into the hearts of moms everywhere. I have yet to receive an answer to this question.

Hallel said it best, "if I can just keep her off the pole...".

Ice cream with strawberry topping, girl talk, naked nail painting...who said christians are boring.

Family Picture Time

Minutes before this was taken, Eric and I frantically cleaned Bailey's white shirt. She had managed to get cupcake frosting under the BIB I had put on her, which came in handy as a nice towel to clean her shirt. Gotta love those Tide pens.

This picture was taken at 8:00pm on a Wednesday night for those wondering why we don't look so great.

The good lookin' banjo player is mine...

Click picture for a full view.

What was I thinking...

During a busy day of major house cleaning, I discovered I was out of my favorite cleanser. I grabbed my keys and headed off to the store. On my way into the store, I ran into a old acquaintance from middle school. We exchanged pleasantaries. I noticed she kept look at my body. I was feeling bad enough about my weight and this was killing me. Granted, it is rude to stare, but it was also hurtful. We said good-bye and off I went to the cleaning aisle. The things that were going through my head about myself and the acquaintance were not nice.

By the time I checked out, I had worked myself into a STATE let me tell you. As I left the store, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window and began laughing out loud. Let me describe what I wearing: An old pair of dark blue sweatpants so old they had several holes on both legs and bleach spots throughout. A shirt with faded screen printing of Aerosmith from a long ago concert-- with it's own set of holes and bleach spots. Did I mention the sweatpants were to short and only came down slightly below the knee--yeah, and I had not had time to shave that week. My hair was pulled back Aunt Jamima style in a red bandanna and my shoes resembled low top brogans. NOW I know what she was staring at. Heck, I would have been staring to. When I finally regained my composure, I went to the car.

When I got home, I called my mom told her about my outfit and asked her, "What is it in my genetic makeup that made me think this was acceptable attire, and further more, why do I own an outfit like this". Her response, "well sweetie, all I know to tell you is that I have the same outfit".

I am, proudly, my Mother's Daughter.

Recipe Friends Request Most

Santa Fe Beans and Rice

8 servings
45 min 10 min prep

2 cups cooked white rice
1 (15 ounce) can black beans, rinsed and drained
1 cup frozen corn
1 (10 ounce) can of diced Mexican-style tomatoes (like Rotel)
1 cup salsa
1 cup low-fat sour cream
2 cups shredded reduced-fat Mexican cheese blend, divided
1 small red onion, chopped
1 (2 1/4 ounce) can sliced ripe olives, drained

Preheat oven to 350.
In a large bowl, combine beans, corn, tomatoes, salsa, sour cream, 1 cup cheese and cooked rice.

Season with salt and pepper.

Transfer to a greased 2 quart baking dish and top with onions and olives.

Bake uncovered for 30 minutes.

Sprinkle with remaining 1 cup cheese and bake 5-10 minutes longer until cheese is melted.

Taming the Tongue

· Listen to what you say. When you say something ugly, negative, discouraging, ask yourself why you felt the need to say it.
· Don’t interrupt
· LISTEN. Don’t talk, LISTEN
· Memorize Luke 6:45

The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his hears. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks.

· Address (make amends for) sloppy and/or hurtful speech.
· Take seriously the things God takes seriously
· PRAY

Odd Question

Last night someone asked me, "how do you get the kind of faith that heals". I honestly had no answer for this question. I believe that God heals if it is his will. I don't believe that if you are not healed of sickness that it means that your faith was weak. I think we can't understand the true extent our life has on the lives of those around us. I also believe we are responsible for a lot of our own problems, including health. I am overweight and it causes various health issues in my life. I believe I can be healed, but I don't think God is going to make me skinny and fit overnight with no effort on my part. Just like any good parent, he wants me to learn.

When it became apparent that my Daddy was going to lose his battle with cancer, he was asked about his faith. His answer was one of wisdom and personal responsibility. He answered, "I have lived for God 5 years, I lived for myself 72. I don't figure God owes me".

Bottom line for me. I don't believe God is obliged to heal or explain his reasoning. He's God. I believe that good or bad, we reap what we sow, and I believe we owe God, not the other way around.

Body Image

I have been overweight and miserable for the past 4 years. In thinking about this the other night, I had an epiphany of sorts. I have never been pleased with my body. Even when I was 110 pounds, I hated my body. I have always been unhappy with some part of my body. When Eric and I got married I weighed 140 and was OK with my body, but not happy.

What does this to us and how can I NOT pass this misery on to my precious little girl. How do I make her understand it what she is about and not how she looks that is important. How can I teach her to look in the mirror without analyzing everything she sees?

I once had a male manger tell me that it was "a crying shame you don't have the boobs to go with that a**". Ok, he was a jerk, but that was 18 years ago and it still haunts me. WHY do I care? Why was the opinion of a total jerk important to me?

Why........

First Post

So here I am, doing something I thought I would never do. Of course, I also never thought I would be married three times, weigh 194 pounds, or begin a conversation with the sentence, "I regret the night at Waffle House". Go figure.

About me. I am 40. I used to dream of having a "40 and Fabulous" birthday party. Since "40 and Flabby" didn't have the same ring, I skipped the party. I have a sarcastic 3 year old, a bluegrass musician husband, 3 dogs (one of which is Dooley, my Black Dog), and 2 cats. And last, but not least, MOM. When I have time I will tell you more about her. She is a book all by herself.

I am, by the grace of Almighty God, Southern. I love the South and everything about it. I have no desire to ever live anywhere else. Nobody has to explain things to me here-I get it. I am a Southern Baptist, Conservative, Republican (however, I am starting to rethink the Republican part). I work full-time as a commercial property manager. I enjoy reading and cooking. Being a Mom and wife are the things I enjoy the most.



This will be my place to vent and tell stories. Also a place where family in other parts of the country can keep up with me and mine.