R.emembering I.cons P.assed

It’s funny how certain individual people become time capsules for the rest of us.  Seeing their picture, hearing their songs snaps us back to a period of our own lives instantly.  I’ve had lots of conversations in the last couple of days since one of the biggest symbols from the seventies and THE personification of the eighties died within hours of each other Thursday.

These people help us communicate our place generationally in an instant.  I was speaking to an older lady at work who described how she went to a beauty shop and asked for anything besides the Farrah Fawcett since that’s all anyone was wearing.  I laughed and told her I had gone and asked for the “Rachel from Friends,” before I realized I was part of a whole wave of twenty-somethings doing the same thing.

Now I’m sitting here happily in the midst of an all-day Michael Jackson video fest with my little girls.  It’s really nice to share him with them.  I was in the third grade in 1983 and I don’t know anyone who wore the vinyl as thin on “Thriller” as I did.  And I was going to marry him.

It’s difficult, but you have to ignore twenty years of baffling and tragic images to be able to truly embrace how amazing he was.  I liked his music through Bad, but I had to stop watching the videos long before.  He was the personification of cool.  From the sparkly socks to the lighter than air moves.

The three of us were remarking on how great his dancing was.

“He was the best,” I say.  “There was never anyone who danced like him.”

“Well, Miley Cyrus.  She’s the best dancer,” offers Jesse.

I cough to cover my snort and disagree gently.

“And Pink,” Logan presses.  “She’s a really good dancer.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

That horrifying mug shot was released three days after my girls were born.  But now that his tragedy no longer confronts us, we can all be that girl in the Thriller video, rubbing our eyes as if from a nightmare.  We can ignore all of the evidence that pointed otherwise and just focus on the fresh faced, talented twenty-something oozing cool and pretend there were never any monsters in the room.

For The Husbands

Fellas, what would happen if your wives were “in the mood” as often as you were “in the mood” to cook?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

It’s called Hamburger Helper.  Aisle 7.  Think how proud you’ll be when you “help her make a great meal.”  It’s the four fingered hand you can always count on.

And we’ll leave it up to you.  Once a week, once a month.  It’s really fine either way.

Labels, Formulas and Freedom

When my children tell me how well they do things lately, I have been letting them know that accolades mean a heck of a lot more coming from someone other than oneself.  You didn’t see John Wayne or Clint Eastwood announcing themselves as bad asses.  They didn’t have to.

I have been thinking about that a lot in relation to how uncomfortable I have been announcing myself as a follower of Christ.

In the past, I would announce my salvation with my initial feverish rush, make some clumsy, uncomfortable evangelizing moves, fail to act in a Christian manner often and immediately after, and then kind of throw up my hands until the next cycle started.

I think I’ll just try to be a Christian and see if maybe people won’t eventually be able to tell for themselves.  By doing so, I think I’ll even be following Jesus’ example.  Not only did He not waste time with pronouncements, He didn’t even always answer when directly questioned.  He let His actions do the talking.

Besides, why start a relationship with a dividing line like that?  “I’m ‘this’ (and you should be too, we can talk about that after we get this relationship formed…)”

Another thing I’ve been thinking on (bear with me, I realize this is all quite basic), is that the more I let Christ live in me, the more I can trust “my own” impulses and judgment and not search out some kind of formula.  I had also been looking for a formula for “letting Christ live in me,” but they have only left me frustrated in the past (read x number of pages per day, it doesn’t count unless it’s the first thing you do, pray for x minutes x times per day…).

Every day is different.  Not every day can accommodate “the formula.”  Every person is different.  And quite intentionally so.  We’re only asked to “seek.”  We’re not even told how we have to do that.

What if freedom is something more than a word we recite or hymn lyrics we sing?

To Church, Or Not To Church

I’m over a year into my church hiatus.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for when I left.  I  just knew something was repelling me from the organizational side of religion.  At the time I was as in touch with God as I had ever been–but there was no mistaking that my time in the pew was, for the moment, at an end.

It was the right thing to do.  But I still drift a little.  Without a little help from my friends (thanks, Beatles), I sometimes drift all the way out of intentional God-focus and submerge completely into American, pop-culture hell.

I want to ponder a piece of random blog comment.  It’s not holy scripture, but it amplifies it, I think:

…He doesn’t tell us how to live. He Is Life…Alive in Him is what we Are, not what we Do…

Question of the Day

Jesse:  Do aliens like dogs?

Me:  Well, I don’t know, because aliens aren’t real.

Jesse:  Okay, but do they?

Question of the Day

Jesse:  Mommy, I don’t know if you will know this answer or not, but…do snails like worms?

He Really Is The Man For Me

Headline: Obama To Be Prayer Day No-Show; President to Sign Proclamation, Observe Privately…

Me: You know, part of me respects the fact that he is at least not the enormous hypocrite Clinton was…becoming the most pious man in America for Prayer Day, then enjoying adulterous hummers the next–

My Husband: –Maybe that’s what he was praying for.

The Most Irrestistable Phrase in Sales

I’m in sales.

At its most generous (and most common) form, it is me offering my services with a desire to benefit both customer and myself.

At its worst, it is manipulation.

I don’t manipulate in the sense you might think.  I believe I have a good product, but if I don’t beat a comparable one on price, I walk away.  Probably not what you would want to hear if you were my sales manager, but a lot of my clients (and would-be clients)  appreciate it.

I manipulate on Friday afternoons when I don’t really want to work anymore.

I have a catch phrase that always gets me what I want.  What I do is make the call I’m supposed to make, so I don’t have to feel guilty.  But I ask the question this way:

“I was wondering if you had some time for us to nail down details on X, or if you’d rather I stopped by ‘first of the week.’”

“First of the week” is irresistable, particularly on Friday afternoons.  What holds more promise than “fist of the week?”  “First of the week” is when unforeseen duties do not screw up your schedule and energy is always high.  It is a better time for everything, really.

In fact, that’s when I’ll finish all my laundry.  Weekends aren’t really the best time for all of that work, now are they?

Before I Forget

To my girls:

I signed you up for Kindergarten today.  I have been joking to everyone that it won’t be hard, because it is going to save me so much money.

It was hard.

And now it’s hard to not cry now when I think about it.  I am glad you two are blooming and learning and becoming more precious than I could have imagined.  But just now I’m selfishly grieving the stage in my life where I was a “young mom.”  With a nine-year-old and two five-year-olds, I’ve stretched that label out for a year or two now, already.

You two are my babies.  You’re the babies it appeared I would never get to have.  I had a big, old long talk with God about the fact that I really wanted to be a mom to at least another child, but in time, I handed Him my pain and said, “Okay.  Your way, not mine.”

Being not all that spiritually mature, I have rarely given God a sacrifice that cut half as deeply.  And in return, He had already answered my prayer (times two), even as I tearfully gave it up.  I just didn’t know it yet.  When I take the time to think about whether God is worth my trust and faith, that is the moment where I inevitably land.

This spring you guys are sprouting freckles.  Jesse, you’re getting them right on your nose, and Logan, yours have started below your left eye.

This week you walked on the balance beam for the first time.  It looked an awfully long way from the ground to me, but you guys didn’t seem scared.

You both learned to tie your shoes this week.  Logan, you asked a teacher to show you after Grandma Polzin promised a surprise for learning.  I think it was good for your confidence–to do something first.  Jesse, I had the privilege of showing you just tonight.  I loved the way your face lit up.

Your favorite place to play right now is behind the garage, under the overhang.  You call it your “clubhouse.”

You have a small obsession with flip flops.  You’ve been trying to wear them practically daily since mid-February.

When you guys tell on each other right now, it is usually to say that the other said she is no longer your “best friend.”

You still call me “Momma.”

I just gave you guys a “favorites” quiz to serve as a sort of time capsule.  Jesse, here are your current favorites:  color, red; animal, dog; food, corndog; song, “Shut Up and Let Me Go;” restaurant, Ponderosa; friend, Emma; activity, walking; show, “iCarly.” 

Logan’s:  pink, sheep, pudding, “Hey, Hey I Don’t Like Your Girlfriend,” Mr. Gatti’s, Tylie, swimming and “The Wizard of Oz” (but you just call it “Dorothy”).

You guys aren’t all the way grown, yet, as fast as it does seem to be happening.  Jesse, you still talk about Aunt Blair living in “Emilynapolis.”  After we got registered today, you asked me if I would tell your preschool teacher that we “celebrated for Kindergarten today.”  Logan, last week you wanted to work at Wendy’s.  This week, you have decided to be a rock star, because you love to dance.

Just keep dancing, girls.  I’ll always be watching–hopefully with dry eyes at some point in my more mature future.

Freakin’ Audited

I got my commission check today so I paid nearly the whole month’s bills up front online.  I’ve been very proud of getting financially organized and nearly ahead of the game.  Paying debt down is my new hobby.  Since I was seeing some light at the end of what has been a very long tunnel with last year’s gas prices, I treated the kids to lunch, our first IMAX movie, popcorn, candy, etc.  It was a great day.

Then I got home.

I owe the IRS $1,058–due in 3 weeks.   That would be a week shy of my next commission check in case any of you are keeping score at home.

I don’t really know what the problem is–which is not surprising, since I paid an accountant quite a bit of money to understand it all for me in the first place.

Doesn’t the freakin’ mob give you a full 30 days before breaking your knuckles?

Also, I cannot tell you how much joy it gives me to send my interest and penalties straight to Mr. Geithner.  No hypocrisy there.  None at all.  Talk about giving with a joyful heart…