When it starts getting hot, I like to bring out my annual “joke” where I say, “If this were the 1800s, I would be dead already.” Because without my precious air conditioning, how could I survive? Then I think I’m real funny and cute for saying something like that. Sure, I love running up a $400+ electric bill, but the truth is I would thrive in the 1800s. How might I know this given that I was born in 1984?
Look at me. You know I don’t belong in modern society. People always ask me if I’m some Eastern European and I never knew what that meant. It means I look like an old villager.
What confirmed my suspicions was reading Davy Crockett’s autobiography. I realized after reading story after story about all his hardships that I would enjoy his old timey hardship, too. For example, I would much rather be laid up in a forest with some sickness and have an Indian come up and offer me some ripe melon, than have to go to Kaiser Permanente and sit on a bed made-up with wax paper like I’m some human dough. Another example: eating was simplified out on the frontier. You get to choose between some gray stringy meat, a gizzard (I looked it up and I think it’s part of a bird’s rear end), or you just starve. Maybe if you’re lucky you can get your hands on a hatful of corn. Doesn’t that sound nice? You don’t have to plan for a pasta night or a Mexican night. Your kids want to try being picky and you can honestly say, “Okay, you’re fixin’ to die then.” Then you leather them a bit. Once in your lifetime, someone might give you an orange and you’d probably eat the peel, too. Remember during the lockdowns, people were freaking out about how the shelves were bare and yet there was still a ton of food? These clowns would literally post a photo of shelves that were 50% stocked and still write, “They cleared out all the food!” No, it just wasn’t the food you wanted. Oh no, they don’t have the Tabasco-flavored Cheezits, guess you’ll have to die.
One of the great motivators in life is not dying. Some of us forget that we’re going to die and we just surf our phones all day like we have a thousand years ahead of us, but in the 1800s, they didn’t have that luxury. Some bloodied soldier could just wander into your cabin and you’d have to listen to him die for two weeks. Not wanting to die is such a great motivator that it leads people to kill other people. You think you’d never murder someone and then some lunatic tries to kill you or your kinfolk (that’s 1800s speak) and suddenly you’re on a 911 call explaining why you “had to do it.” I almost snuffed out someone’s life, but we’ll save that story for another post.
Anyway, if that was my purpose in life, not dying, I would do it until I was 110. Imagine being off the hook when it comes to self-actualization and feeling good. Or feeling anything. Who needs dreams and goals when you have to feed them hogs in order to live through the winter? Not only are you free from your own ambitions, but you won’t have to give a dadgum rip about other people living their best life or making a name for themselves. Someone wants to talk about their dreams of being ”somebody” and you are well within your rights to get your rifle off the mantel and tell them they got to the count of 10 to get off your property.
I would be one of those 1800s women that lived into the 1900s. No muscle mass or soft tissue left, meaning no where for cancer to grow or viruses to cling to. Whatever keeps McDonald’s French fries from rotting is what you’d find in my cells. My skin would look like I was stitched together with old Ralph’s bags—specifically the reusable bags you won’t bring to the store because you don’t want the bagger to see all the sand and crud at the bottom from your shameful lifestyle. None of my family would want to bring their friends around me because I might say something racist. People would wish I would die already because I was just hard to look at. An alive ghost, you might say. Any time you try to talk to me, I would just go, “eh?” You ever ask an old person a question and you think they didn’t hear you, so you just leave it alone and then they answer the question five minutes later? That would be me. You know that magic hat that brings Frosty the Snowman alive? Well, imagine if they put that hat on a pile of dried tree branches and that’s what I would look like.
Yes, it’s too bad no one will get to witness this side of me. Instead, you get soft Carolyn who just got a letter in the mail from Weight Watchers congratulating me on 5 lbs lost. It’s a tragedy.
But there’s still hope. I came up with a scenario that would allow you to see me in my survivalist prime. Picture this: nuclear war or some equally devastating, worldwide disaster. Just sit and think about it with me. Yes, most people would be dead and life as we know it would be turned upside down, but in that world, I will be so worn out, sunburned, and ugly, people will call me beautiful. I know it sounds like I’m tooting my own horn, but I’m really writing this to help you guys survive as well. In fact, I should probably use the end of this paragraph to transition this into the advice column it was meant* to be.
* There was no initial purpose behind this blog.
Advice 1: Expose Yourself to The Gross
Some might say I’m a gross person living in a sanitary world. They’re wrong. I’m not gross, I’m gross-friendly and you should be, too. Let me use an analogy: some people are Oscar the Grouches. Dirty, gross, anti-social, etc. I would never ask you to be an Oscar. Here’s what I am and what you should be, too: that big orange guy that carries Oscar around. You don’t see him often, but every now and then, he gets to work and carries nasty Oscar down to the other side of Sesame Street, probably to urinate in Big Bird’s nest. Orange Guy’s got his face inches from that filth, he’s frowning, but he knows he’s got a job to do. The state pays him since Oscar is collecting social security disability. Anyway, if you don’t expose yourself to gross stuff every now and then (and not be a big baby about it), you’re gonna panic when the going gets tough. Who’s going to cauterize your friend’s leg nubs after they’ve been blasted off by an enemy drone? Not you. You were too busy saying, “ew.”
This is a great shot, because it captures a rare look of shame on Oscar’s face.
Advice 2: Let The Gross Inside
Look, I’m gonna say something that might scare you. If some worldwide tragedy happens and the going got tough (like real tough, not toilet paper running out tough), there’s a specific population of you that are guaranteed to die even if you survive the initial blasts.
Hear me out: if you strictly eat clean or are on any special sort of diet*, you will die.
How do I know? As soon as you have to eat something like an old can of Kroger’s Cream of Mushroom Soup or a toad, you’re gonna get the runs and die. It’s that simple. You will not last being off your diet. If I pour you a bowl of Cheerios and slide it across the table and you act like I just slid a bomb in your direction, you aren’t gonna last.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. Let me help you. Friend, as soon as there’s a threat of nuclear war, here’s the first thing you need to do: go to Jack n the Box, get an order or two of tiny tacos, and put them in your refrigerator. Every day for a week, you will take one taco out, heat it up, and eat it. Then you’ll reduce it to every other day, then eventually one a week until nuclear war breaks out. A stomach that is acclimated to Jack n the Box tiny tacos can survive off rats, roaches, and your dog that we will eventually eat.
I told you I was gonna be real.
*Not Weight Watchers.
Don’t let it happen to you.
Advice 3: Show Honor, Like Me
Some of you don’t believe me. That’s fine. I’ll still take the high road and bury you. I’ll pull you out of whatever crawlspace you’re in and drag your body however far I need to go to get you in the ground. When your crispy head falls off, I will bend down and pick it up, and reattach it. But first I’ll jokingly make it say, “Capri Suns are poison, I’d never let my kids have one” in your voice. At this point, it really doesn’t matter if your head is attached or half a mile away, but I reattach it to show you honor. That’s the difference between us.
After I toss you into the mass grave my faction and I spent 16 hours digging (wasting precious ground squirrel calories), I will say a prayer for you even though I know it’s too late. I’ll do it because I like to pretend I’m being filmed for a movie and I’m smiling a bit because I know it’s ridiculous. This is what keeps me sane—little chuckles here and there. Just then, an empty Capri Sun wrapper floats by, its silver packaging glistening in the moonlight, and lands on your body. I climb down into the grave and put your hand on the Capri Sun wrapper. The Egyptians believe that whatever you’re buried with, you get to take into the next life, so even though I know that’s bunk, I chuckle at the image of you walking into the next life and you’ve got a Capri Sun in your hand.
Advice 4: Choose Your Clans Wisely
Some of you are villains or are easily susceptible to joining villain-led clans. I’m good at sniffing out villains before they show their full hand. My husband can vouch for my reputation. “Yeah, yeah… you’re good at it” he’d say while raising his hands just above his shoulders and waving them in a very sarcastic cheer. I saved you, bro.
This is meant to be terminator vision.
The short answer for spotting covert villains is to look for people who don’t make sense. Look for the people you’re always making excuses for, learn their weaknesses, because you’ll have to fight them and possibly raid their stash. If you’re still confused, just join whatever clan I join.
An Illustration of How This Is Going to Work
While I have my strengths for surviving in the wasteland, I’m not a leader nor do I want to be. Leaders have to schmooze people in order to get the dummy-crowd from doing low-IQ things. I found a Dale Carnegie book in the little library by my house that teaches you all these tips on how to get people to like you and do whatever you want. Half the tips, I hate when people do them. “Say the person’s name a lot.” You say my name a lot and I know you’re up to something. But a goof hears his name several times and he’s willing to kill for you.
No, I’m not a leader in that sense, but I recognize the talent (evil) in those who are willing to say another man’s name over and over again just to get him to light an enemy’s encampment on fire. I’m the person the leader glances at after he says, “The key to the armory is somewhere in its bowels.”
The leader doesn’t have to say my name—in the wasteland, I have no name—nor does he have to charm me by speaking to my potential and my principles. He already knows I deeply hate the enemy Kai and his clan of brother-men, and when something needs to get done, like swimming through a dead whale’s bowels to get the key to the dead general’s armory in order that we may be equipped to drive Kai’s clan out of the valley, I’M GOING TO DO IT.
I am at a crossroads in my life. Just before Halloween, I took my kids to a neighborhood fair and the old man running the pony rides pointed to my son and asked if I was, “mom or grandma.” I asked him to repeat himself then he fumbled over his words and asked if *that* was my daughter. Again, he was pointing at my son, who is undoubtably a boy. I live for moments like this.
Sometimes I wonder if I should just let myself corrode like an old pear on the kitchen counter. Or should I try a little harder to maintain this old flesh bag. This is probably hard to believe, but I’ve never been known for my great beauty. However, I have made efforts to fix my skeletal structure. I started correcting my posture because I don’t want to look like a vulture. That’s a personal preference. When you attempt to correct your posture, you’re basically signing up for at least a month of new pain. What I do is jam a tennis ball into my baby hunchback and roll it around. I was surprised that my once tender hump is now bony to the touch. Progress is sweet. My neck makes crunching sounds now.
I’ve put on weight since 2020. This is my number one source of physical shame. The stench I give off is second. The excuse I have for putting it on is repressed rage. I wanted to smack so many people during the oh-so-scary pandemic. Any time someone complained about toilet paper *smack.* Mankind has gone thousands of years without Charmin. You’re fine. Anyone who threw fits about masks *smack.* Even people who were on my side, but were bad spokespeople *smack.* Stop making us look bad. Anyway, instead of smacking people, I smacked hamburgers and that is a sin. You’re not supposed to smack or pig out. Lesson learned. People always say things like, “Go easy on yourself. It took you such-and-such time to put it on, it’ll take such-and-such time to take it off.” Pigging out and starving yourself are way different experiences. One is super fun and the other is not fun at all. Also, I have always been able to lose weight relatively easily and this time, not so much. Old.
So I’m debating if I want to do what the kids call a glow-up or just be a grandma. There are pros and cons for both paths. I have an appointment in two weeks to go to the doctor for my knee. There’s no way I can live another 40 years with this old rickety, swollen joint. That’s one downside to grandma-life: pain. I hate going to the doctor. Glow-ups require medical attention if you’re not ready to embrace soreness. That’s one un-womanly thing about me. Seems like most women enjoy going to the doctor and want to go for everything even if their kid is merely coughing. I associate going to the doctor with shame. Excuse the language, but they always want to get their hands on your dishonorable parts. I’d rather just die. However, my knee is getting worse and there are some physical things I’m struggling to do, like defend myself against my husband. He tries to use his ancient karate on me and my only defense has been to use my legs as extra arms. Can’t now. If I don’t get my knee looked at, I’ll just end up getting fatter and weaker. But at least fat-hugs are cozier hugs. If I gave you a squishy hug and called you “sweetheart” and smelled like nummies, you wouldn’t complain.
Popular.
I was thinking about having knee surgery and then thought about how people post hospital photos of their loved ones, literally dying. Sometimes they post a photo of their hand holding the sick person’s hand. If I’m on my deathbed and my grandkids whip out their phones and want to “low key” get a photo of them holding my wrinkly hand, I’m going to sinfully give the finger. Just let me die. I don’t want to end up on the Dark Web.
Okay, I think I’ll just meet halfway and be a “spry” old person. Physically capable, but withered.
We all got sick (nothing bad), but if you know anything about families getting sick, it’s that you don’t write blogs during sick week. You do the bare minimum. Nothing fancy happens during sick week. But now that we’re healthy, I can go back to being fancy.
I had a nightmare the other night that someone (don’t know who) asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. Dream starts with me in a bridesmaid dress and I’m standing off to the side, ready to make my entrance down the aisle. As I step out there, an announcer says, “This is Carolyn. She is the wife of L. Ron Hubbard.” I’m like, “Pardon?” It was a joke that everyone played on me. I found it funny (in real life and in the dream), but as I was standing at the altar, I thought, ‘Why him?’ I have not thought about L. Ron Hubbard in years, so why does such a nasty man enter my dream? The mind is a strange thing.
Not my type. At all.
What else?
Oh, I leveled up as a woman. I watched a disturbing amount of Pride and Prejudice (the 90s BBC series) over the Christmas break, then throughout January, etc, etc. No matter what version you watch (or perhaps you’ve read the book—smart), then you know about the conversation regarding what constitutes an “accomplished woman.” My goal for 2022 is to become an “accomplished woman.” SO accomplished that I would be on Mr. Darcy’s half-a-dozen shortlist. One of the ways I’m working towards this grand status is I sewed some towels. The stitching on the hems of three towels were going out and ruining the fine aesthetic going on in our bathrooms. Dangly thread action. I said to myself, “Now I can just throw those into the garage and use them as towels-of-shame then spend $30 on new ones OR I can take 8 minutes to sew these hems.” What do accomplished women do?
There’s your answer.
Here’s something tragic that happened. There was a giant daddy long legged spider in our bathroom (they love it there). He was crawling on the ground instead of suspended above the shower drain like usual (it’s called the waterfall of death in ancient spider lore). Very odd. I’m not a spider sympathizer. Not to sound like a broken record, but I kill way more flies than any spider I know so I see no use for keeping them around. But my daughter loves them and stopped me from stomping it. I’m also not a “collect the spider and release it” person, so I just let the thing go on its journey. But I KNEW, I KNEW something was up. Why was that big honker just strolling along the floor?
Anyway, sometime that night, I dropped my too-firm pillow onto the ground. When I woke up in the morning, I looked over the edge of the bed and saw the big whopper on my pillow with a leg busted off. It was him… the traveler… and he came to see me in the night. But why?
“What.”
So, what happened? He was ON the pillow, not under. Did we share that pillow in the night? If so, that makes me angry. Did I punch or head butt his leg off? Here’s what I really want to know: was there any point in the night that my cheek rested on it?
Back in September, I ended up experiencing the Great Sickness with the rest of my family. My symptoms were pretty standard for a flu (fever, chills, light cough), but I also had an incredible headache as well as the loss of smell and taste. As with most other seasonal illnesses that sweep through our house over the years, the Great Sickness was annoying and then it was gone. To be serious, I can look back on past illnesses and see how God has matured us so that we aren’t wallowing in pity and asking, “Why us?” Years ago, we got hit with three different sicknesses within six weeks: colds, Norovirus, then the flu. I remember my husband asking me in the midst of it, “Why can’t we just die?”
Maybe my husband hasn’t matured much. He did ask me last week why he can’t just be left to wander the Appalachian trail if he gets some sort of terminal illness or dementia. I told him it’s not fair to the person who ends up discovering his half-eaten skull. “They’ll remember that image for the rest of their lives,” I warned him. He told me animals don’t eat skulls. I told him, “They gnaw on them.”
Never the same.
So, God has matured me at least.
Back to the Great Sickness. There was one symptom that had a sunny side to it. Brain Fog.
Having brain fog, aka being an idiot, is unfortunate when you miss your freeway exit twice on the same journey and scare your kids as you apologize again for not knowing where you’re going. Meals were forgotten in the oven. When I finally made it back to church, I could hardly focus. Being an idiot has its limitations as some of you know.
When your brain fails you.
It was probably three days into being sick that my son was telling me about the various tornados featured in a kit on Roblox Studio. If you don’t know about Roblox, keep your mind pure and stay ignorant. My son is into disasters and anything that can kill lots of people in terrifying ways (tornados, hurricanes, black holes, sink holes, blood moons, etc) and so he designs levels in Roblox Studio that feature various disasters. And he talks about it, A LOT. I’ll admit there are times when he has shown me way too much and I tell him, “Look, this is your thing.”
So, he was rattling off the latest tornados, no concern for the fact that I’m half-dead, when I asked him a question that was both stupid and genius.
As soon as “beef-nado” left my lips, I couldn’t breathe. This was the funniest thing I had heard in months. And such a perfect delivery. “What about a beef-nado?” So dry, so dead behind the eyes. I couldn’t stand. I leaned against the couch, crossing my legs, and wailing with tears in my eyes. What a feeling to laugh so hard it sounds like you’re in pain.
Sickness Euphoria
Although the beef-nado was the funniest and any mention of it could send me into fits of laughter, I was laughing at just about anything (except actual funny things). Say something in a dopey voice: hilarious. Make your hand talk like a puppet: wow. What a thrill. It reminded me of being a kid again, back when my bar for good jokes was much much lower. I remember in first grade I had a friend come over and my younger sister told us this joke: Knock-knock (who’s there?), Poo poo (poo poo who?), Poo poo’s gonna poo poo on you. I nearly died. Now, if someone told me that joke… actually I’d probably still find it funny, but only because it’s so stupid. Imagine Joe Biden telling you that joke. Wouldn’t you laugh your way into the Appalachians? I could see Joe Biden telling that joke and then winking after.
But like all funny things, beef-nado was to be forgotten. My brain started working again and I was back to my jaded self. In early December I recall mentioning it and hoping to feel the spark again. Nothing.
This week, I made meatballs for dinner and there was just enough meat in the bowl for 1.5 meatballs. Do I make one big meatball or two small? Two will cook faster, one will take longer… such dilemmas. My husband asked, “Can I make a beef-nado?” It’s funny how things come full circle. I don’t even know what full circle means…
Isn’t that so disgusting looking? And it looks like it has a single corn in it, even though there’s no corn in the recipe.
“Hurry, put it on his tray.”
My son saw it on his tray and said, “Dude, I am not eating that thing.” He picked it up and looked at it with the disgust it deserves. Then he ate it. Full disclosure: it was ground turkey.
This leads to a dream I have… I have a lot of things I want to do that bring only pleasure to myself. I want to make an All Recipes account with stupid recipes. Cake for the blind. German salad (but it’s really a Chinese dish). Beef-nados and vegan beef-nados. I’ll have to add it to my long list of dreams. I just imagined inviting people over for dinner and serving beef-nados with no explanation.
Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven.
Matthew 6:1 ESV
I’ve read this scripture over and over again, wondering if what I’m about to share will forfeit my reward in heaven. In some sense, I feel rewarded already knowing that no lives have been lost. This is my way of rationalizing the heroic story I’m about to share and why, if you run into me, you should put your hand on my shoulder and say, “I see you.”
Three weeks ago, I went into the bathroom at church and was met with a moral dilemma involving a toilet. I should back up a bit. Our church currently rents space from an event center, which often hosts parties that are apparently attended by people who have trouble aiming. I’m not judging these people. There is evidence, loads of it, that several people have trouble aiming (the amount of jokes I’m suppressing right now is causing pains in my chest). These people also leave footprints on toilets. I’m not judging. These are just facts needed in order to paint a picture.
This toilet displeases me. I’ll just say that. But I noticed something else about it. The seat was hanging on by a porcelain thread. This was a broken jaw toilet, the kind that slides and knocks around when you’re on it. Normally, I would think, “Someone’s in for a ride,” and walk away. But my ever-working imagination conjured up an image so horrible, so humiliating that I couldn’t just walk away.
It’s twenty-minutes into the sermon and Bifford has to use the bathroom…
Disclaimer: This is not a real man. He is simply a representation of men who do not carefully lower themselves onto a toilet.
DOOOOSH!
Imagine the anguish I went through. I could either let this man die or touch the shadowy areas of a toilet.
Toilet related injuries are also surprisingly common, with some estimates ranging up to 40,000 injuries in the US every year.
“Make that 39,999 injuries,” I told myself (not really) as I bent down, reached around, and tightened the toilet seat lid. If you’ve never tightened a toilet seat lid, let me explain something to you: you tighten blind. You touch things you cannot see. You touch things on a public toilet that you cannot see. It’s like reaching into the drain to feel for what’s clanging in the garbage disposal, but worse.
I’m not going to lie. Once I got the seat tightened, I wanted to honk. Honking is a short scream I do when I just got done doing something annoying or nasty. It’s like a sound Michael Jackson or Prince would make. I often do it when I get off the phone. AOH!
So, Do You See Me?
Do me a favor, will ya? Next time you sit on a sturdy toilet seat, I want you to think of me. Think of my face two inches from the toilet bowl, holding my breath. You hear the bolts squeaking as they tighten. Then I wink at you. That’s all I ask that you think of this. Oh yeah, and the hand on the shoulder thing. Those are the two things I ask.
And it’s because I can’t handle digital socializing. A few weeks ago, I had nearly 30 messages I had to reply or react to (and I’m not even getting paid). Because of the stuff I post, I end up getting private messages, which is fine, but also sometimes not fine. There are times I want to reply, “Neither of us are going to get anything out of this, so let’s pretend this never happened.” So, it’s my fault in a sense for inviting conversation and therefore, I’m going to make it much much harder for anyone to contact me. If you have a problem with anything on this site, you’ll have to talk to me in person and look into my beady little eyes.
My phone is giant.
Anyway, I admit the defect is mine. The part of my brain that is supposed to come up with chatty online small talk is like a dented, rotted potato covered with gnats. Other people have vibrant, healthy social gourds in their heads. Wet gourds filled with little sayings. So, if you ask them how they’re doing, they have a trademark saying they can pop-off with. “Just dandy!” and you know they’re lying but as a society, we all know we’re just saying this to be saying stuff and none of it matters. But if someone asks me how I’m doing, my brain has everything divided up into little compartments: eternally, doing great; health-wise, eh; kids, good; knees, bad, etc. So I just say, “Good” because we’re all just saying stuff and none of it matters. But a little part of me feels like I’m betraying myself by playing along. I’d much rather say, “I have a sharp pain in my bowels, but my house is nice and tidy. Would you care to know more? Or are you just saying this to be saying stuff and none of it matters?”
Brain Potato
Point: me bad at type-y to people. Me hates it.
I’m going to post whatever I want, by the way. There’s no “theme” to this site. It’s not going to be all thoughtful reflections, for example. If that were the case, there’d be like two posts a year. I’m going to post whatever comes into my head and if you don’t get it or think it’s weird, please just leave it alone. Don’t ask me about it. I’ve had several people come up to me and ask about something I posted and, I’m not exaggerating, 90% of the time I have no idea what they’re talking about. Maybe I should see a doctor, take some ginkgo.
Anyone know what that yellowish thing is around Kermit’s neck? Can it bleed?
I guess the conclusion or point to all this is, I like to make stuff. Lots of stuff. I like to write and draw and take bad photos. I also like to share these things and I hope they make people happy (I’m like Kermit the Frog). But I don’t want to hear about it. I mean, I like to hear about it once in awhile, like twice a month maybe. How’s that sound? Twice a month, two people can say something? You guys can get together and work that out. I can guarantee you that my mind potato can handle two remarks.
Anywho, no more social media. Only media. Putting the “me” back into media.
Proboscis Monkey Valentine Cards are a gift from me to the world. If you’re not familiar with Proboscis Monkeys, they’re incredibly ugly, but desperate for love (something I think most of us can relate to). No matter the size of your nose, I think we can all use a bit more proboscis monkey in our lives. I have no idea what to write here. I’m literally just rambling to meet the 300 word count so my SEO score goes up.
I have worked tirelessly for just over an hour on these Proboscis Monkey Valentine Cards™. These will make a face light up. They will melt a heart. Eyes will have tears. Proboscis Monkeys are the symbol of love in 2021 and beyond. Are you convinced yet or are you still thinking about wasting $3.99 on a Hallmark card? Most of those just sound sarcastic anyway.
An uncensored version of the “disgusting displays” card is also available behind a pay wall. Just Venmo me $1 and it’s yours (I don’t have Venmo). I should warn you that if you google image search “Proboscis Monkeys,” many of the pictures will disturb you. Even with safe search on.
As far as I know, you can’t see a Proboscis Monkey in captivity (at least not in the US). You have to go to Borneo, which is not even on my top 20 list of places to go. It’s a bummer because I really wanted to see them and be both amazed and disgusted at the same time. By the way, I did not hit the 300 word mark and now the stupid thing says I use “passive voice” too much. Wait, the passive voice thing went away. I’m only 20 words away. Now it says I don’t use transition words enough AND that stinks!
My pastor recently preached a sermon on Luke 8, title “Ears to Hear,” that helped me “refine” my thinking about worship in the context of Proverbs 31. But first, I want to address the “others” that show up in Proverbs 31 and that is the husband and children. In verses 28-31, the woman in Proverbs 31 receives affirmation and praise from her family. This is pretty much out of our control. The reality for some is that we may not hear such praise from our families. I finished up a book on affirmation called, “Practicing Affirmation” by Sam Crabtree. The main point of the book is that affirming the work of God in someone’s life (even through common grace in unbelievers) is a good thing. We should do it.“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver” (Proverbs 25:11).
Affirmation can nurture and refresh us during our sanctification process, but it should not be a source of motivation or something we demand to have. The plain truth is that if I do what is described in Proverbs 31 and my heart is set on receiving praise or the approval of man, that is vain worship. We are warned throughout scripture not to fear man (Prov. 29:25) and not to seek the praises of men for our works (Matt. 6:2). As Paul writes to the church in Galatia, “If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ.” And in 1 Thessalonians 2:4-6, Paul talks about his ministry and draws a contrast between speaking, “not to please man, but to please God” versus “words of flattery” and seeking “glory from people.” In my pastor’s sermon on Sunday, he made two points I’m going to steal: (1) You will never outgrow the cross. (2) Worship is gratitude expressed (gratitude is the engine behind our worship). I drew a little flow chart of how I visualize the process of calling to mind who Christ is and what He’s done for me and how that leads to gratitude, which then leads to worship and obedience (I get that you’re not going to find this illustration in a systematic theology textbook, so please don’t take it as anything more than a rough illustration—I wish I could’ve crammed more into it, but you know how it is).
At the top, we start with the first point I took from the sermon: You will never outgrow the cross. We have to make a habit of remembering what happened on the cross and why it needed to happen (our sin). Throughout the Old and New Testament, we see God telling His people to “remember,” “remind yourself,” “think on these things,” etc. (Deut. 5:15; 1 Chron. 16:12; Psalm 77:12; Phil. 4:8). It’s probably important to do that, right?
If I saved you from a burning house and my scalp burned off in the process, you’d probably have me over for dinner a few times. And you’d probably setup a gofundme for wigs. For some time, your mind would probably be fixed on pleasing me in order to show gratitude for my sacrifice. Christ dying for our sake is the most significant sacrifice BY FAR that you or anyone will ever experience. Significant enough that our daily, hourly lives ought to be affected by this reality (also, if you read Revelation, worship is what we do in heaven for all eternity, so (1) He’s worthy of it (2) It’s an indicator that that’s what we ought to be doing). Recalling what He’s done motivates us to obey His will (with gratitude towards Him). Here’s an idea to ponder: God’s will is that wives respect their husbands and, as Proverbs 31 puts it, do our husbands “good, and not harm, all the days of [our] life.” If we do God’s will because we are thankful for what He’s done and express this gratitude in the act of respecting our husbands, it is pleasing to God. Yes, people will say, “He needs to earn respect” or “He better be thankful.” That’s not why we do it and that’s not what the Word says. Obeying God’s will as gratitude fueled worship will give you peace when you face opposition or tough circumstances.But imagine if I buy into that lie and go into the act of respecting my husband expecting praise from him in return. “He better be thankful for this… Respect.” Now imagine he doesn’t say anything and just stares at me. You think I’m going to be happy? How’s my endurance looking? Most importantly, how does God see this? Is God going to bless my efforts? I tried to see if there were any verses of God blessing vain worship and there are NONE.
“Do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” (Col. 3:17)
Final takeaway, I think it’s a good thing that families make a habit of affirming one another and building each other up to good works. If I were going to counsel someone going through a drought of kind words, my encouragement would be (1) continue faithfully serving God with a heart of worship (2) give the desire for affirmation to God in prayer (3) build others up (4) have peace knowing that you are walking in a manner pleasing to God—whether or not you receive affirmation from your family, you can be content (see Phil. 4:11-13). (5) “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). (6) You are promised an inheritance as a reward for working heartily for the Lord and not for men (Col. 3:23-24).
If you haven’t heard, my book A Pretty True Story About a Wishing Well is up on Amazon. I’m officially on the first page of the humor section so that’s cool, I guess. It’s only the first five chapters, which means there’s really no celebration until the whole thing is up. So I posted it and then felt tormented for 48 hours. Now I’m down to feeling mild dread. I just re-read the first few paragraphs of the second chapter and thought, “Why am I the worst?”
If you want to do me a favor, “thumbs up” my chapters so I can feel something. If you pay to unlock a chapter, Amazon should give you a “faves” crown to give out once a week. Please give me a fave.
‘Heeeh?!’
I have no idea how that works, to be honest, but it’ll help get me on the “Featured” section. Also, I looked at some other peoples’ work and they charge way less per chapter. I just did the default that Amazon suggested. It’s the difference between like 20 cents and a 10 cents. Sorry, but I’m keeping it. I know if you just stroll two blocks, you’ll find the extra change in a gutter. Or we can just blame Joe Biden.
The plan is to get my entire book up, Lord willing, by the start of summer. Then I’m going to prepare it for release on Kindle and print hard copies. I’ll probably tighten it up a bit before then and hire an editor. Okay, enough book drama.
In other news, my son’s toenail fell off.
Censored for the sake of the squeamish.
My husband had the idea that we should tell him to leave it under his pillow so that the Toenail Goblin can retrieve it and leave him some treasure. I thought we should buy a $17 short sword or a dagger on Amazon and leave it with a note from TNG saying that it was a fine toenail, worthy of an ancient goblin relic. But since it was my husband’s idea, he got to choose.
Tools from IKEA?
Feel free to use this Honeychurch family tradition if one of your children loses a toenail.
Finally, I am free. Last July, my son received sea monkeys for his birthday, which I have kept alive up until last week. There were two remaining and while I made attempts to keep their water aerated, I think I threw off their ecosystem by dumping some of their ooze-water and replacing it with my own concoction of salt water. “Oh darn,” I said as I found their two darkened bodies floating along the bottom of the tank. You don’t want to worry about sea monkeys.
Back in December, I read a Theodore Roosevelt biography, which I enjoyed. I love eccentric people. Not eccentric in a useless sort of way as most weird people are. I remember there was a girl in school who would wear a cape. Someone asked her why she was wearing a cape and her reply was, “Because I can.” Unacceptable. I don’t like that kind of stuff. Roosevelt is “good” weird because he’s useful. He decided he was going to be a cowboy so he rode with cowboys, through storms and stampedes, acquiring severe injuries and chasing down crooks. A lot different than wearing a cape to class “because I can.” If you’re going to wear a cape, maybe save a life.
He said this to his sister in a letter. Weird, right?
I chose Roosevelt as my inspiration this year, because of a quote he said after the death of his first wife. He didn’t believe in second marriages (a romantic) and was determined not to marry again after his young wife passed away. The guy was still in his 20s; it’s not like he was 60 or 70. Anyway, he was tormented because ol’ Edith kept coming around, who is not only “cultured, but scholarly,” and tempting him. He was heard saying, “I have no constancy. I wish I could be constant.” Which is a fancy way of saying, “faithful.” I love it. As we know, he married Edith and they named one of their kids Kermit (this was before ‘the frog’—I know, not everyone’s a history buff).
We should all strive to be a little more constant in our lives.
If I had to be in love with a president, it would be Theodore Roosevelt. Who wouldn’t want to be called “baby wife?” Way more romantic than “babe” or “baby.” I love a good nickname. My husband used to be anti-nickname and thought it would be mean to call our kids nicknames. Guess who calls our kids nicknames 99% of the time? I should’ve known he’d give in when I heard him call his grandma “Grandma Tree.” I’m sure she loves sounding like some ancient, mystical being in a forest (her name’s Theresa).
I love writing letters. Roosevelt is my letter writing hero. I read through several of his letters to his kids and they are SO good (and less gooey than the ones to his wives). He’s so witty and smart and also weird, but useful weird.
Almost.
Never read about him cheating on his wife like the other Roosevelt. Hiding women and hiding wheelchairs…
He was actually referring to subjects he liked to read when he mentioned his “queer taste.”
Oh and here’s a printable sheet of cards that does not match any sheet of paper made in the US and also has no lines for cutting. That’s what happens when things are free.
I have no interest in jumping on the police brutality bandwagon. That’s because I know where the real danger lies. The biggest dispensers of violence aren’t wearing a badge and blue uniforms. No, they’re dressed in jeans and Looney Tunes t-shirts. They walk our nations schools, attacking children. And I’m the only one willing to fight them. You ever heard of the Iron Whistle? Sand Pigs? The Wo-Man? The Buzz Kut? How about this familiar term: yard duties? Yeah, you heard of them. I bet the hair on your arms is standing straight up.
Do you know why they’re called “yard duties”? It’s not what you think. Fifty years ago, a boy named Spencer Kipshaw overheard his irate father yell, “I just stepped in a pile of dog ****!” Spencer’s mom gasped, “Walter, we call it ‘yard doodie’ in front of the children!” The next day at school, one of Spencer Kipshaw’s friends brought a Luger his father “found” in France during WWII (“spoils of war” if you know what I mean). During recess, a group of boys stealthily made their way behind an oak tree to check out the blood-crusted pistol. Along the way, Spencer whispered, “Fellas, watch your step. We have to avoid that recess monitor like a yard doodie.” The phrase, which garnered a good five minutes of laughter, caught on and traveled through the school district, around the state, and then nationally. This was all on wikipedia… until “they” forced the website to take it down.
Who did it?
On a side note, Spencer Kipshaw was murdered in 1976; his body was found hanging from a tetherball pole. Soon after his death, yard duties managed to successfully switch the spelling from doodie to duty using a propaganda campaign with the help of a militarized teachers’ union.
I Speak Out Because I Am a Victim
I’m not just a witness. When I was in the first grade, there were two yard duties: Theresa and Mrs. Luna (aka Lunatic). Like many villainous pairs in movies, one was big and beefy, while the other was scrappy and small. However, unlike most villainous pairs, neither one was “the brains” of the operation. Both were “the muscle” even though one was skin and bones and the other one was pure fat. You could say things like this in the 90s.
Mission: To Find and Execute Your Child aka Charlie
The biggest adrenaline rush yard duties get is when the recess bell rings. At our school, when the bell rang, every child was supposed to freeze until the second bell rang, then you would line up and wait for your teacher to escort you back to class. I heard this was for safety reasons, because we all know kids stampede over one another to get back to class. In reality, going back to class always resembled a funeral procession. I personally think this rule was invented to give kids a place to easily fail so that they may be punished. I’m sure there’s a fancy psych-word for it.
Anyway, once the bell rang, Theresa and Mrs. Luna were like sentry guns. If you moved, you got shot down. Didn’t matter why you moved. Let’s say you were swinging on the monkey bars, the bell rings, you drop to the ground, but just as you hit the ground, you fall forward. You moved. You’re dead. Or, let’s say, you’re sprinting for the ball just as the bell rings. There’s inertia, gravity, and a bunch of other physics stuff at play and you can’t stop without serious injury. You’re still moving.You’re dead. I watched a boy hurl himself from the top of the jungle gym onto the ground just because he’d rather risk a broken neck than be caught moving after the bell rang.
There were kids all over the playground, frozen in the dumbest poses because they knew if they simply lowered their arm, they would be punished.
If you moved, you ended up with one of three punishments (a) sit on the bench during your next recess (b) citation (this was for repeat offenders) (c) stand in the “bad kid” line and go back to class after everyone else. That may not seem so bad, but that’s only because you’re reading this with hardened adult eyes.
I never got in trouble for moving, but my eldest sister did. This is her tale: she was playing with my cousin and some of his friends. The bell rang, everyone froze, but one kid. ONE kid. Jeremy Goodrich, who was later appropriately renamed Jeremy Badpoor. Theresa decided she was in the mood for collective punishment and made my sister, cousin, and his friends line up with Jeremy in the bad kid line. I think yard duties have a daily abuse quota they have to reach. My sister cried. What kind of person punishes an entire group of children just because one refuses to obey?
This kind of person:
Cafeteria Doodie
Yard duties are not limited to the playground. Their jurisdiction also includes the cafeteria. Theresa always eyeballed our sandwiches, chips, and cookies. She would utter, “That looks good” and you would always feel ashamed. Mrs. Luna, on the other hand, ate infrequently, much like a reptile.
PPpppCchhhuugghhhhhssshhh!
At the end of every lunch, Theresa would lumber up to the stage, grab the microphone, and blow into it. You could tell this was Theresa’s way of “flexin.” She sauntered up there like it was her grand throne and we were some diseased peasants, unworthy of her presence. I wish I knew what was going through her head the day she decided a blast of white noise would be the best way to get a room full of chattering kids’ attention. When Theresa blew her mighty horn, we were supposed to hold up our peace signs to acknowledge that she got our attention. If you didn’t hear this blast of white noise… then you just found yourself cradled in the enemy’s hands.
“Who wants a Luger?”
I Didn’t Hear…
It was lunch time. My classmate Brett and I were talking about Doritos. I did not hear Theresa’s gale of silence because I typically relied on seeing her walk up on stage (she wasn’t hard to miss). So Brett and I kept talking. Let me explain something to you about myself and Brett. We were not bad kids (while at school). We weren’t the sort to get in trouble. In fact, I would say we were the more sensitive, scared-to-get-in-trouble types. Basically, cowards.
As Brett and I were talking, I felt something hitting my lunch box and turned to see Mrs. Luna’s beef jerky skeleton face glaring at me from the end of the table. Let me paint this picture for you: I was close to one end of the table, she was on the opposite end, shoving my classmates’ lunch boxes so that each one collided into the next until they hit mine.
Once she got my attention, she pointed at me and Brett and screeched, “You and you, BENCH!” It was surreal. I never got in a trouble at school. If I could just get my teacher here, she could be a character witness and testify that I was a good little girl. It was all a misunderstanding! Sitting on the bench was a harsh punishment for a first time offender. I was going to be propped up in front of the entire school for a whole 25 minutes. And I knew I would cry.
Lord Theresa began to excuse each table to go to recess. My classmate sitting on the opposite side of me said that Mrs. Luna had actually been shoving their lunch boxes into mine for quite some time. No, don’t use words to get my attention. Why use words when you can blow into a microphone and shove lunch boxes? If I could go back in time, I would pick Mrs. Luna up and slide her across the table, head first, but only after I put a garbage can at the end for her to slide into.
Just as our table got excused, I made a fateful decision: I was going to run. There was no way I could handle recess on the bench. The bench was shameful. Sitting on the bench meant I was guilty of something. I didn’t deserve to sit on the bench. I always put up my peace sign. I just didn’t hear Theresa this time. Give me a warning, at least. This was injustice and I wasn’t going to take it.
A Life on the Run
I followed my classmates out to the playground then made a dash for the shadows where I would spend twenty-five minutes as a fugitive. The playground was located on the backside of the school behind the last row of classrooms. There was no way I could hide on the playground without being caught and I definitely couldn’t wander the school without a teacher getting suspicious, so I hid behind the last row of classrooms. It wasn’t that uncommon to see a kid walking through there, so if someone saw me, I could play it cool and act like I was on my way to the bathroom. Plus, I could keep an eye on the playground from there.
The benches/cells were located in the middle of the playground between the asphalt and the grass. It gave you a nice 360 view of what you were missing out on, plus everyone could look at you and whisper about how you were on the bench. There was a certain type of kid that was commonly found on the bench (Jeremy Badpoor) and to be associated with these kinds of kids was bad for your reputation and ego. From the shadows, I saw Brett on the bench. He was tainted.
At one point, I looked through the gaps between the buildings and saw Mrs. Luna frantically looking around. For once, I am not exaggerating when I use the word “frantically.” I knew she was looking for me. Let me tell you, when someone is looking for you with a bloodthirsty glow in their eyes, you stay hidden.
Treated worse than a school shooter.
For twenty-five minutes, I hid behind the classrooms as she paced the asphalt looking for me. She never found me–that’s why I’m still with you today. I kept my head down and ducked behind my classmates when it was time to line up after the second bell. By the time the teacher’s appeared, Mrs. Luna’s rage was restrained by the presence of sane adults. Even after I was safely in the classroom, I was afraid the Lunatic would come after me during the next recess when I was back on her turf.
Nothing happened. I guess if there’s a lesson in all this–for all you kids out there–it’s that if you don’t want to be punished by a yard duty, just take off and hide. Maybe you’ll get away with it, but still be haunted by the incident 30 years later. If someone even mentions “yard duties” or I hear what sounds like someone blowing into a microphone, I get real anxious and run to the nearest shadows where I cower for exactly 25 minutes. Where’s my payout?
Bury Your Heads in the Sand
Even though I’m telling you all this, I bet none of you will do anything to stop yard duties. It doesn’t fit your “narrative.” Regardless of your apathy, I’ll be staging a bench-in next weekend at the capitol. There I will blow into a cordless microphone and hand out citations to government employees. I will do this until there is systematic reform, charges brought to guilty parties, payouts to those affected… or until a publisher offers me a six-figure advance to write a book about it. Sometimes it only takes one person.
And, for the record, I’m not depressed nor do I want to hurt myself.
Why am I suddenly working on a library comic when I should be finishing my novel? Here’s why: in my mid-20s, I got a job at the city library. I thought it was going to be an awesome, chill job where I could just sit on my butt and read books. Nope. Turns out, a lot of weirdos go to the library. Most of them don’t even go there for the books. They like to sleep, clog toilets, cuss at you, steal DVDs, accuse you of trying to rape them, etc.
Anyway, I decided not to let my stories of working at the library go to waste and that’s why I am working on a library comic. I guess that doesn’t explain why I’m not working on my novel. Truthfully, I’m in a novel-writing-rut and need something else to do in the meantime.
I’m going to “go there.” Forgive me. I’ve seen a lot of clogged toilets in my day. I’ve walked in countless stalls and seen the result of slobs who can’t simply raise their foot up and flush. Here is why this clogged toilet is seared into my mind: when a toilet is clogged, the water rises, but doesn’t go down. The addition of water from the tank should dilute the contents of the toilet. In other words, the poop to water ratio shifts from 1 part poop /6 parts water to 1 part poop/12 parts water. There was no dilution with this clog. It honestly looked like six people (specifically 400 lb men) took turns on the toilet without flushing. I think this library comic is going to come back to haunt me.
If you’re curious how this story ended, I got the custodian/maintenance guy and let him lose five years off his life. I think the patron who informed me of the clog expected me to do something right that minute. If I tried flushing that toilet, I had no doubt it would explode in my face and give me Hep-B.
I’m not in great shape, but if I were, this tip would be the reason for it. You will not find this life changing advice anywhere else on the internet. The government has been trying to hide this secret from the masses since the Taft years; they want us to get fat and die young. I am risking my life sharing this information with you, but here I go:
Don’t wear deodorant.
How did I discover this life changing secret? The other day I was on the treadmill and I forgot to put an extra swipe of deodorant on. I was hoping the swipe from the day before would cover the stench that was to come. Four minutes into the run, I began to sweat and with each drop was the foul smell of BO. My social conditioning tried to shame me, but I still couldn’t ignore the fact that with every whiff of stank, I ran faster and with more gusto than before. In fact, we should change the name from BO to gusto.
Gardenias and lavendar never made me feel this way.
Perspiration Is Inspiration
“Aw yeah, gusto.”
According to my studies, smelling your own BO while working out will extend your workout by 20 minutes.
That’s 250 lbs! A new record for that guy.
Still don’t believe me? Look at the math:
I crunched the numbers so you can get back to crunching them abs.
STILL don’t believe me? Try it yourself, since you’re so smart. Go to the gym during their busiest hours (this way you’ll have a bigger audience when you reach your maximum potential). Make sure you have zero deodorant on. Take a baby wipe and wipe your armpits if you need to. Then get pumping. You should probably use Instagram or Facebook live to broadcast your workout for the rest of us to see what happens.
Just a warning: People get scared of other people’s gusto because it’s intimidating. They don’t want to see you succeed, so if they try to fight you, just know that it’s because they see you climbing the fitness ladder and they’re jealous. They could also be government spies sent to take you out.
When my husband and I first moved to San Diego, a relative of ours broke the depressing news that it takes men three marriages to find the right woman. Forgive me if you did not already know this. It was a shock to me, too. I went to bed that night wishing someone had told me sooner. Imagine me, Carolyn, the first of three brides. How long did I have before number two came along? Five years? Twenty? Did my husband already know this? Did he sense it? Was he already looking for number two? She’d be a real beast of a woman, no doubt. I would have to teach my kids to hate her.
She’s always telling me she ain’t playing for real.
But after her comes the third wife; by the time she comes along (probably when I’m in my late 50s), my bitterness will probably have subsided. I’d still judge this woman though. Not so much in a hateful way, but with great pity. “Oh, she must be so insecure and pathetic. The poor thing.”
She’s boring, but she’ll be a great relief after the last one. Also, I just realized, she’s wearing my sweater.
Anyway, today is our nine year anniversary and our marriage has gotten better over the years, which only means that it will be even more tragic when the end comes. What could possibly cause my husband to lose his mind and leave a charming creature such as myself?
Middle-age is going to be rough. He has two divorces to go through and I have to find a man that’s already been divorced twice–this way I’m guaranteed to be “the right one.” I bet I could find a young one in prison. I’ll have to check the minimum security prisons since I’d rather be with a white collar criminal.
Always scheming. I’ll have to keep my own checking account.
I don’t know how I’m going to handle step kids. I haven’t even met them and I already can’t stand them. Spoiled and always looking at me wrong. Their moms will try to start fights with me because they’re still in love with MY husband. Plus, they’ll be jealous that my kids are cuter. Wait’ll the courts see all the voicemails and texts I saved.
Or I can just stay single and spend my free time matching missing persons reports with unidentified remains across the country.
Oh, and since this is an anniversary post, I’m supposed to write something like, “We’ve had our ups and downs” then you guys can start thinking, “Ooo, I wonder what she means by that!”
