YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE

LASDI ©

It’s a celebration, a love song, a lament, a lullaby, a singalong, a weeping, a rejoicing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking all at the same time. It is a song written in the 1930s long before I was born and has been timeless ever since, and much like its name, it continues to shine.

I first heard it when I was a child and my grandfather would strum his guitar and sing it to me, smiling. He was so handsome; his skin was soft, his hair white and slicked into a pompadour, and he smelled like Old Spice. When he sang that song to me, I truly felt like I WAS his sunshine.

In elementary school, it was the first time I experienced singing in a choir. The auditorium we practiced in allowed my small class to sound as though we were a thousand voices and also created a much tighter harmony in my ears somehow.

As I grew up, I heard it in movies. Most of those flicks were the kind set in the 30s or 40s in the back woods of some southern town with a pretty, barefoot, and scraggly-haired girl walking away down a dirt road toward a woven overhang of oak trees in the distance. Her cream-colored dress would be sprayed with little yellow daisies, blowing in the warm breeze and emphasizing that they didn’t wear slips back then. There would be a film that had a pie cooling on the windowsill of an old farmhouse, or one with a group of sisters sitting on the front porch swing and cascading down the porch steps as the sun was setting, sounding like an ensemble of songbirds as they crooned the song together to the sound of an old banjo.

Many times during my childhood - and up to this very day - I loved to sit outside on a sunny day, hearing the trees rustle and perhaps the sound of a droning airplane far into the sky, looking at the clouds and hearing that very tune ring in my mind. There is something about it that brings an intrinsic peace and internal joy, but also a melancholy feel and grave consciousness; a juxtaposition much like the song itself.

To impress The Hubster with my gifts and talents and prove I was a songstress, I would sing it from time to time when we were courting. It wasn’t often, but it was during specific times of camping or at the lake, or maybe just a forlorn, rainy day that I would impress upon him that he was, indeed, My Sunshine and that he made me extremely happy; especially when skies were grey.

When my children were babies, I would rock them in my arms and quietly sing it to them, professing my maternal love verse after verse, chorus after chorus, until their eyelids would slowly blink, and they closed in slumber. I would still lightly hum it as I transferred them from my arms to their crib so as not to wake them. I would hum it as I tiptoed backward out of the room, making my voice do the old-fashioned fade out, shutting off the light with a soft smile.

As The DAUGHTS grew and we realized she had the gift of song, we would often harmonize it at family events, with everyone gathered around to hear us sing to-and-with each other. As we reached the end they would burst into applause as my heart burst with delight.

It was the song I sang in agony the day The Middle Little was curled on his side in a hospital bed, his back to me and his knees lifted to his tummy as the needle went into his spine over and over again for the lumbar puncture. I stroked his curls and sang with intention so he wouldn’t hear in my voice the tears that were flowing down my cheeks.

The Kid would hear it when he was watching me cook. He would ask questions about what meal I was creating, tell me I was such a “good cooker”, and ask me to sing that song about the sun shining. I was impressed at his request nearly every time and would love to watch him lay his arms from his elbows to his hands on the counter, intertwine his fingers and rest his head on them, close his eyes, and rock his head back and forth as I sang. It made me feel somewhat nostalgic and sorrowful, even in those moments of happiness, knowing he was the baby of the bunch, and we were watching them all grow into adults so quickly it made our hearts spin.

Now The Grittles hear the song all the time. Not only from me but from their Momma, who remembers HER Momma singing it when she was a child. The song makes them feel a bit of wonderment, listening to the rich sound of her serenading them and then sharing the memories of how SheShe would sing it to her, and with her when she was their age.

It’s a warming sound of lyrics set to a sweet melody that is imaginable and akin to life itself: it’s a celebration, a love song, a lament, a lullaby, a singalong, a weeping, a rejoicing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking all at the same time. It is a song written in my heart and kept in the vault of my existence. It’s a part of my legacy that has been timeless in my life, and much like its name…

…it continues to shine.

DON'T BE SCARED

LASDI©

Love is a many splendid thing, some say.  But love can also be a very scary thing.  Allow me to tell you a story about splendid love…and facing fear.

Once upon a time, there was a knight that came to a damsel in order for them to rescue one another.  He was tall, dark, and handsome, such as the fairy tales go. 

Let me start again.  A guy walks into a bar, and the girl ordering a drink says, “Why the cute face?”

No, no.  That’s not right. 

There once was a guy from Lake Jackson, who met a girl that gave his heart a reaction.

Uh, no.  This story is not a fairy tale, or a joke, or even a limerick.  This story is about crossing your fears to get to the other side.  Well, that part may sound like a play on the chicken-and-the-road thing but read on and you’ll understand.

As a small child, I didn’t have many examples of real love, but I faced fear in a sweet way.  “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.”  Those lyrics from one of the songs from the movie The Sound of Music were a repeated refrain for me.  I lived in poor and meager conditions, so “raindrops on roses” or “whiskers on kittens’” was not the typical go-to for me.

The song, though, helped to remind me to think of things that I liked during scary times, like Frankenstein-foot ice cream pops with a grape gumball on his big toe; or like dancing in front of the television when it was turned off so that I could see my bouncing reflection and dream of becoming a big star someday. 

When I was a teenager, true love was something I read about in books, so I ditched the song for a more rapid and practical approach to face my fears:  I would simply tell myself to not  be afraid.  Whether I was verbose about it, making it my mantra, or it was an internalized dialogue that couldn’t be heard by others, that was my way of alleviating and facing my fears.

For the majority of my adulthood, I have had my faith to lean on when it comes to facing things that scare me. I know my God loves me, goes before me, behind me, and beside me, even though there are things in this crazy world that tend to build fear and anxiety in all of us.  But faith hasn’t always been the way as a ‘grown up’. There were the times I turned to the things of this world to distract me from my fear. But as I grew in my faith, “don’t be afraid” or “don’t be frightened” just took on a different and deeper meaning.

I was at an early point in that part of my journey when I met him.  We had a mutual friend who had set up after-work billiards and cocktails.  Well, not exactly.  For the sake of the heart, allow me to stay transparent.  We were at a pool hall / bar / grill, with the least of the three being a grill.  The group was supposed to be the mutual friend, a guy he had grown up with, and a friend of mine.  My friend ended up sick and in bed, so it wound up being three of us headed to Rowdy’s Pool Hall Bar & Grill.  As I sat in the hard, wooden chair near the pool tables, the front door of the grill (um, bar) door opened.

Picture this: “Let’s Get It On” or even “I’m Too Sexy” playing in the background, intense wind in the air briskly blowing through his hair, and him with a slow-motion walk that would stop a clock.  Of course in reality, there was clanking and clattering of pool balls, drinks being clinked, and Hank Williams, Jr. playing too loudly on the jukebox.  Also in real life, I had no idea he was there as part of the group because I had never met him before.  But I sure saw him.  Everyone saw him.  He was stunning.  He was gorgeous.  He was HAWT.   HE WAS HEADED MY WAY!

Very suddenly, there was a strange voice coming from inside my spirit.  “Meet your husband.”  NO THANK YOU, Voice.  As I heard it again, he strolled right up to the table.  The mutual friend introduced us and as Prince Charming’s hand was extended in a greeting, I found myself thinking, “Oh, no.  This guy gets all the girls.  Let’s not be foolish.”  And my wrist went limp in the air as I offered the sort of hand that a Queen does when she expects to be curtsied to; like in a kiss-my-ring kind of way.  There was a bevy of butterflies in my tummy as his hand touched mine.

As he sat down, I heard the voice again. “This is your husband.”    Memories started to smoke within me.  I had such a sordid history of toxic relationships within all categories of people in my life.  I had already decided no more.  I had also vowed that not one more person would be able to penetrate the guarded walls I had so solidly built.  Certainly not this guy, who probably had a multitude of paramours to pull from whenever he wanted!  And the apprehension began.

We played a few games of pool, to which I put the smack-down upon him - though to this day he smirks and insists he “let me win” - and I continued to hear that confounded voice telling me I had met the man I would marry.  The louder the voice became, the more the fear factor intensified.

It grew late and the mutual friend decided to leave.  “Stay here with your future husband” I heard from deep within.  I started the inner conciliation of olde, telling myself there was nothing to be afraid of, but it wasn’t working.  I even began singing the great song of yore internally to remember my favorite things!  But he was already my favorite thing.

As the night wore on, I grew fonder of this stunning cavalier.  His inward charms were working, and his outward beauty didn’t hurt, either.  We decided to leave the bar, grab a snack of tortillas chips, ranch, and salsa at my suggestion, and find a spot for a nighttime tailgate picnic. And as the night expanded, we spent hours talking, getting to know one another, into the wee hours of the early morn.

Now Folks, this next part may sound like I’m right back to the fairy tale makeover, but I promise it’s all true: the moon was full and round in a black, clear-of-clouds sky, the air was thick with the steamy humidity only a Texas night in June can bring, but still, there was a warm, mild breeze blowing, and there was some soft music playing from the radio inside the cab of his truck.  As we sat on the tailgate with all of those stars aligning, I found his angel face staring at me. 

I knew it.  I could feel what he was feeling.  He wanted to kiss me!  As we gazed into each other’s eyes, my heart began to pound.  I could hear it in my ears.  Did I look all right in the moonlight?  Was I giving too many encouraging vibes??  DID I HAVE SALSA IN MY TEETH???

And then I said it.  I said it all right.  Out loud.  I said the words that still ring loudly to me to this day.  I said it with a wry little smile on my face.  I SAID IT.  Those three…little…words.

“DON’T BE SCARED.”

Looking back, I think I may have been talking to myself, actually.  Knowing what I felt in my soul, knowing what lay ahead, especially after what I had put behind me.  And for whatever was happening in that moment that made me afraid, I would feel a little better if I just SAID IT. 

And he smiled.  And he leaned in.  And he put his husband-to-be lips on mine.  And I thought I would cry.  Effectively, he did not try to be the guy who thought this would lead to anything more than a gentle touch of our lips together.  He was reverent and considerate of my dignity.  And as swiftly as he had leaned in, he pulled away with such ease, stared directly into my eyes, and smiled a smile that he has beamed at me every day that we’ve been together since. 

I loved him.  Immediately.  And he loved me, too.  Though it would be months of friendship and a few months more of dating before either of us would say so.  But it wasn’t because we were “scared”, as it were.  It was because we wanted to be wise; for this to be right.  We had both been through the wringer and wanted to make certain we understood the mutual respect we deserved, had earned, and wanted to continue to forge together.  We wanted to make better decisions…without fear.

He repeats those words I spoke to him that night as he tells The Kiddos and The Grittles the story.  And he tells it all the time.  We raise our glasses any time we hear the phrase spoken out loud whether stranger, relative, or friend alike, and we always kind of giggle about it together.  The Kiddos tease me about it, often saying, “Mom, don’t be scared!” to remind me playfully of that precious-but-powerful statement.  I tend to turn a little red in the face and hot behind the ears in surprising embarrassment, but it still brings a grin to my face and joy to my heart.  Mostly because I’m NOT scared.  There is nothing to be afraid of.

Do you sometimes feel fear creeping up no matter the stage of life you’re in?  Do you hear thoughts of fearful possibilities that polarize you?  Have you been in situations that have the potential to bring love and joy, but your fears drown them like quicksand? 

You could sing a little song, or say a little mantra.  You can try to shield the fearful thoughts by reminding yourself of things you like.  You could turn to the things of this world that will only distract you.  Or you could know YOU ARE LOVED.  Whether it’s your partner, your children, your siblings, your friends, or God Himself.  YOU ARE LOVED. 

Make the decision to learn from the history your past has brought you.  Allow it to make you stronger, wiser; BETTER.  Know you deserve and have earned respect, so long as you give it mutually.  Forge on with a solemn vow to make healthy decisions without fear.  In fact, you must cross your fears to get to the other side.

The story of your life will never be a fairy tale, nor is it a joke or a limerick.  It’s the culmination of the joy you choose, decisions you make, and the legacy you create.  We have this one life we’ve been given.  Pursue things that will create a peaceful mind, body, and spirit for the sake of It.

Don’t be scared.

THE BEACH AND THE PIT

Photo by Adrian Garcia.  This image is subject to LASDI© by Life As She Does It. Please do not reuse without linking credit.

Every year somewhere around the 4th of July, The Hubster and I go camping on our Annual Beach Date Trip.  It's only one night, but it has become a tradition I look forward to so much, that when we are leaving the beach from one trip, I am already talking about the next one to come the following year.

I am a girl who thrives on tradition; the history of things excites me.  I can't explain it.  I'm the one who buys a beat-up torn-down table because it is that way.  I've had someone ask me as I made a purchase like that how I was going to refurbish it, to which I replied, "I'm not.  I absolutely love the cracks and weathered appeal.  It tells me all about it's character."  The person looked at me like I was mad, and it made me smile.

Building traditions is like that for me.  I believe it creates the legacy we live in the present and the one we leave behind.  I don't think anyone is going to remember things I said or did in 100 years, but perhaps I can build traditions in our family that continue to be passed along from generation to generation and that may make a difference both now and long after I'm gone.

It is crucial to part of that legacy that The Kiddos and Grittles (GRAND Littles) see The Hubster and I make time for one another; that we still date each other.  It is vital to the lifeline of their own marriages and relationships.  Hence, the Annual Beach Camping Date Trip!

It's pretty simple, really.  We take our tent, which we set up in the back of the truck instead of on the sandy beach.  There has to be a thermos of wine and two plastic wine glasses.  We take along hot dogs and tortillas to wrap them in - and don't forget the skewers to hold them over the fire!  

Ah, the fire.  It's essential to a successful night, and I mean ESSENTIAL.  We go around the beach collecting wood and shells to create a pit for the fire.  We roast those wieners, sip our wine, look up at the stars, and listen to the roar of the ocean waves (and maybe a little Enya).

We play verbal games that remind us of how rich beyond riches we are.  We play "What's the Top-Five Most-Beautiful Places We've Ever Been" game, and "Top Three Favorite Restaurants", or "Best Family Vacay Memories".  We talk about our wedding, which by no coincidence, took place on the beach.  We never let any sad or unhappy memories interfere with our date - we have enough of those during our regular-life days together!  #Reality

One of our favorite games is something we actually do on our regular days together, but this time with a twist.  On normal days at dinner together, whether we are by ourselves, with The Fam, or with friends, we play "The Pit and the Peak".  This game is where everyone goes around saying the worst part of their day first (The Pit), and then to end on a good note they must say the best part of their day (The Peak).  

Since no worst part of any day is allowed to be discussed on this date, we call it "The Beach and the Pit".  This is where we sit around that fire pit we built in the sand, and talk about all of the best parts of our marriage - the things one has said or done for the other in order to edify them; the times that stand out to us in a great and fond way.  Now sometimes things are repeated from the same game the year before, and that is more than okay.   And there are the new moments from the time we left the beach the year before to the present that we talk about.

It is so easy for we, as mere humans, to cling to the bad.  It is, in fact, easier to place any good on a forgotten shelf if something bad occurs.  We all do it, really.  But life is too short to allow that to happen, so I will fiercely fight for the memories of the happy things - the good parts - even if it means I fight fire with fire by sitting around one and forcing those memories to the surface.  It is the best medicine for those regular days that bring reality back into play.

Do you have beat-up torn-down memories in your own history that tend to make you feel like you need a refurbished life?  Do you allow them to make you feel cracked and weathered or know that it builds character in you and can create a good-and-long-remembered legacy you can leave behind?  Does it make you look back and feel like a mad person or make you smile?

Real life is not always beachy and full of fun and games - trust me, I know.  But it is definitely what you make of it and what you allow it to make of you.  Don't put all the good on a forgotten shelf.  And mark out those times to remember the peaks - even if it means you must fiercely fight to do so.  And in order to see you are rich beyond riches, let the fondest pit be the fire.

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

LASDI©

Christmas is coming!  I love the Christmas season.  I don’t really have a standout favorite thing about it.  Well, that’s not true.  I LIVE for Countdown to Christmas on The Hallmark Channel.  But rather than have to decide what I like best about the holiday, I choose to like all of it equally: the decorations, the Christmas music, the lights; ALL of it!  But there are certain branches of Christmas that kindle special memories and spark a few flames in the heart.

We are definitely a family that stands united and that stands on tradition.  For us, Christmas starts the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  Every year we go pick out the perfect-not-perfect tree. When The Kiddos were Smalls, we went together as a family and it would take us hours to find the right tree.  Even though they all liked something different, we wouldn’t leave until we all agreed on one.  The Hubster and I would nearly always agree on the tree we liked, and of course, each Kiddo would choose a different one.  At that point, it was time for all of us to go to each tree everyone liked and “sell” the others as to why that would be the Christmas tree for the house. 

But no matter which one we ended up deciding upon, we knew what awaited us when we got home.  Christmas-tree-decorating-day meant The Hubster climbed into the attic and brought all the packed-up Christmas boxes down for us to deck the halls, and it also meant cinnamon popcorn and homemade eggnog.  We turned on Christmas music (the classic kind, of course) and away we would go.

Now that The Kiddos are Talls, they still hold that day as the day for putting up the tree and getting their ornaments up in their own homes.  And so, still, do we.  Now each year, The Hubster and I go and pick out our own tree knowing it’s a reminder of times gone by.  For the last few years the tradition has been for Aunt Lu to come with us and help us choose.  The three of us still do the walk-and-find.  My choice is not always what most people would want, though. 

When I go a-tree huntin’, the big winner is always one that stands up straight, because I believe we stand up straight when we’re confident about life.  We shake the tree, and if the needles fall off right away, it doesn’t get picked.  That means it’s not healthy enough to last, and I intentionally choose health for The Fam so that we can last and be together as long as we can.  To pull a tree out and see if it’s rounded all the way around or flat on one side, and that the trunk is large enough to be grounded into a tree stand, is a big deal.  My goal for my family and myself is to be sure we are grounded, and well-rounded in everything we do.  I especially like the ones that are a little imperfect; the ones that maybe have some sort of gaping hole or seem to have some branches that jut out further than the others.  I like the ones that are blemished in ways that show the flaw, though it may be a little hard to see.  Isn’t that how we are as mere humans?  We try so hard to look a certain way or stand out, knowing each one of us is imperfect on the inside, though it may just barely be enough for anyone to see.

Once we find the precise tree, we place vintage ornaments on it with the greatest care.  Each one gets unwrapped and hung in just the right place.  Now I know some of you have that ornament OCD The DAUGHTS talked about in her blog, The Untidy Tribe, but as for The Hubster and I, we just put them on the tree where we really believe they belong.  If that means a couple hang close to one another, then so be it.  Even with that, there is a parallel to what we feel for our family and community not just at Christmas, but every day – we want to hang close to one another, believing we are in the exact right place with the right timing for each season.

Christmas is coming!  How have you stood united with those you love?  What traditions have you kept or created to give a sense of who you are and the legacy you build to tell your story?  Do you embrace your imperfections, no matter how you decorate the outside?  How do YOU choose YOUR Christmas tree? 

“Oh, Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches.”

BEAUTIFUL GUTS

As All Hallow’s Eve draws nigh, it seems that ghouls, goblins, and grossy guts are everywhere.  I get it.  I get that we have this one day for us to gather in unity to celebrate and glamorize our fears and dark sides.  But for the last few years, I think of Halloween much differently.

To start, I think of a young, gangly girl walking into my home for a midnight premier party I threw for The Hunger Games.  I think of her skinny legs on the highest heels I’ve ever seen – and they were paired up with a mini-skirt and croppy toppy.  Our eldest son had invited her as his date, so she was on the arm of someone I love very dearly, and it put me on the defense instantaneously.  Now I’m a fairly reasonable woman, but when said defense kicks in, I tend to go all “Sheila From The Block” - and that can be quite scary to a youngster like the one I’m describing.  It takes real guts to get through a night like that.

I think of a little sprite who came to a Thanksgiving evening without warning, and started asking for a “sliver” of this and a “sliver” of that, and licking her chops at all the food fare without care.  She was a tiny little thing, and I couldn’t believe the amount of food she ingested.  It reminded me a bit of Gollum referring to his “precious” when anyone came within the vicinity of her eating arena.  It was alarming and charming all at the same time, as she filled her guts with the glorious food feast.

Thoughts take me back to a more mature young lady, filled with quiet countenance as my family embarked upon our Annual Family Festivus at Christmas.  Family picture time came about, and she willingly became the photographer instead of assuming she was to be in the photo itself.  She was content to have been asked to be part of Family Night at all, it seemed, and wrapped arms with me and slid her hand into mine as we crossed the street for dinner.  She then quietly and authentically whispered, “Thank you for having me” in my ear.  And my guts did a butterfly flip.

I think of a quirky young woman, daring enough to be different and wear knee-high socks with the character Jack Skellington from the movie ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’  on them all year long (to go with her Jack Skellington earrings and hair bow, of course), no matter what holiday it is.  Now that takes guts!

I think of someone with so much talent it baffles people.  I see in my mind’s eye all the colorful and creative ways she paints, draws, and pieces things together to make the most incredible art.  I think of the upright work ethic in her gift of artistry, and really anything she does for that matter, and I know how very rare a quality that is.  I see her work her guts out.

I think of a strong female, coming into a family of strong females, somehow knowing just how to graciously fall right in line with them without having to gnarl her teeth in order to prove something.  Gutsy move.

When I think of Halloween, I even think of a hot, breezy day in August near the beach.  I know that one does not necessarily coincide with the other for most people, but for me the two are harmonious.    That was the day a beautiful and blushing bride who looked like an angelic woodland fairy got married.  To my son.  And with all her guts pledged her undying and forever love to him.

Why do I think of Halloween when I think of all of these things?  Because my whimsical and wonderful Daughts-In-Law, Kiren, was born on that day, and we celebrate the holiday much differently from most people.  We don’t celebrate our fears or dark sides.  But we do celebrate in unity.  We celebrate how beautiful she is.  We celebrate how unique and exceptional she is.  We celebrate her ferocious-yet-gentle love for her husband.  We celebrate her fierce loyalty to a family she fits so perfectly into.  We celebrate her beautiful guts.

IN A PINCH

SHE2016©

There are bad pinches and there are good pinches.  It is much like salt.  Too much of it can ruin a dish.  But I happen to know that just a pinch of salt can make the flavor of something pop.

A pinch doesn’t always make one feel warm and fuzzy, though.  

As a little girl, there were two different kinds of pinches I remember: the kind that was wonderful, like the kind my grandfather would gently give me right on the tip of my nose after he would kiss me hello.  And then there was the one that would leave a sting on the back of my arm or hi-nee from my parent when I would misbehave in public.

Some pinches can hit ya right in the feels.  Like the moments that pinch your heart.  

I can remember the very second each of my children were born.  I can remember how my heart felt like it would explode because I was overwhelmed with joy as they took their first breath of life (and screamed their bloody heads off).  I could literally feel a lovely wrench in my chest.  It is the kind of pinch I will never forget and always hold with me.

Then there was the moment someone I loved passed away.  The pinch I felt in my heart was there, but much different from that of the joy I knew from life being given.  I distinctly remember standing where I was for what seemed like forever, thinking how much I was going to miss them; how I thought the terrible, achy pinch in my heart would never go away.  And I must say, though it has eased up some, the scar from that particular pinch is still there.

I’ve been in many a precarious position in my life.  Sometimes I put myself there, and sometimes it was merely the circumstances.  But either way, I wound up in a pinch.  

When I was a teenager, I made the conscious decision to go into a store with someone I knew was going to shoplift.  I didn’t take anything.  Well actually, I was GOING TO.  But at the last second I chickened out.  I was questioned when she got caught because I was with her.  Luckily the cameras showed I had not taken anything but simply because I was with her I found myself in quite a pinch!  (For the benefit of the reader needing an ending to that particular story, I did NOT end up in the slammer.)

Back when I was a young, single mom of two small children, my tire blew out on the highway. I had never changed a tire before, let alone on a busy road.  (I sure did learn FAST!!)  Even though that was something out of my control, I was most DEFINITELY in a pinch!  (No worries, Folks.  As you can see that one turned out all right, for I am writing this many years later.)

I used to always wonder what a pinch-hitter was when I heard the term used in baseball, until someone explained to me it was a substitute batter – someone to replace the batter when the team is in a pinch.  

I married my Pinch Hitter.  He is definitely my substitute batter when I find myself in a pinch.  Example:  the other day I had a catering gig that called for – wait for it……SIX-HUNDRED cake ball truffles.  Now these beauts cannot be stacked on top of one another or their gorgeous candy coatings and lovely decorations will crack and break.  I was going to have to make several trips back and forth in order to get the beloved cake ball truffles to their destination with no harm to befall them!  But my Pinch Hitter got me out of the pinch in the coolest way possible.

It’s too hard for my non-engineer-way-of-thinking brain to explain, but essentially, he took some cardboard and wine bottles we use for projects (not the hardest part of my job, emptying those bottles......wink!) from the garage, and did this:

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Hence, it took one trip, and all the truffles were unscathed.

Think about the pinches – the bad ones and the good ones.  Some of them hurt and can leave a sting or even a scar.  Some of them are wonderful and make you remember the joy life can bring.  Think of the pinch hitters in your life that have helped you make it through something unscathed.  Or perhaps you were that pinch hitter a time or two.  Either way, with every pinch comes growth in our lives – like the pinch of salt that can make the flavor of something pop.  

JIVE TURKEY

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To me: How do you make him do it??  What kind of bribery do you use?  Did you strike some sort of bargain?? 

To The Hubster: How did She manage to make you do it??  Did She bribe you?  You must hate your life.

These are questions and comments we get every time we dress in costume (which, by the way, is more often than any other adults - and MAYBE even kids - I’ve ever known). 

It could be a theme night.  We’ve done French (berets and tiny moustaches are just fun), Winter Wonderland (we were the Snow King & Queen, of course), UK (that was fun because I got to see Adrian in a kilt – hubba, hubba), or even Japanese (because Geisha makeup is a MUST).  It could be the ever-regular-reason, Halloween.  We’ve been Peace & Quiet, Gomez and Morticia Addams, Sick & Tired, and Mummy & Deaddy.  It could be for a party.  We’ve been mega-trends from every era from the 20s to the 90s, and literally everything in between.  We’ve been Wonder Woman and Captain America (both circa 1940s and circa 1980s), and we’ve been Janis Joplin and Jimmy Hendrix.  We’ve even been Thomas Jefferson and his wife, Martha.  I’m telling you:  the list goes on and ON.

Just a sidebar:  He especially loves keeping the costume boxes (yes, PLURAL) very organized.  He recently catalogued our wigs.  Yep.  Now we have a wig library. 

I’m telling you, WE COSTUME UP.  But therein lay the key word: “we”.  I’m never alone in it.  Adrian suits up no matter what, and never complains and never declines. 

The Hubster knows life is fleeting and very short.  He knows we are partners.  He knows it is not threatening to his manhood, but rather a fun way to be present and in-the-moment.  And he knows me.  And he loves life.  And he loves life with me.  And he loves me.

We jive.

This particular costume (yes, that’s him in the picture), I simply said, “Turkey Costume”.   And he donned it as though he were a proud peacock instead of a turkey.  He danced around with kids, and he pretended to peck at people’s heads.  And, as most rock-star turkeys do, he wore sunglasses and drank trendy coffee.

I’m not saying costumes are for everyone.  But I am saying all the things that make The Hubster jive with me and with life ARE.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I want to be sure you know life is fleeting and very short.  I want to make sure you are present and in-the-moment.  Do you love life?  Even when it is not going perfectly?  PS -  it never will (go perfectly, that it is).  If you don't already, learn to love it and give thanks for it.  Embrace the costume moments.  And I promise you – it WILL jive.

I AM FLAWED. NOW PASS THE BUTTER.

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I am flawed.  On the inside and on-the-out.  And not just for me - but for women everywhere since the dawn of time - weight loss has been one of those flaws.  Well, I'm not sure weight LOSS is the struggle so much as weight GAIN. And loss.  And gain.

This is something I have struggled with my entire life.  Even when I was in high school and built like a brick poop-house and had the tiniest little waist, I had those thunder thighs.  And believe me, I know I did because those 'helpful peers' in school would tell me so.  "Hey, Thunder Thighs!  Where'd ya get those thunder thighs??"  Clever.  Very clever.

When I got pregnant with Chelsea, the time bomb kept ticking.  I gained 120 pounds.  I literally gained an entire person in nine months.  And I don't mean the 7-pound little person I was carrying.  And I had 'those' family members that liked to have fun at my expense and thought nothing of bestowing upon me my new nickname, Eclipse.  Nine months later, I got pregnant with Cameron and the weight gain continued, as did the new (and oh-so-funny) nicknames.

And let us not forget the people that dubbed me the Butter Body.  What's that, you ask?  Well you've heard of a butter face?  Where they say everything looks good on her but-her-face?  I was the opposite.  The people (I know you meant well, Y'all) who said, "You have such a pretty FACE!"  Which meant everything else was either not note-worthy, or it would be a shame to mention.  But-her-body.  Get it?

I am in the present.  I have since lost the weight, and it took hard work.  And it continues to be a struggle on a daily basis.  But so much of it (besides the eating right and exercise, obviously!) is about the heart of the story.  It is about living healthy in mind, body, and spirit. Those people that called me names, whether it was all in good fun, out of mean-ness, or their own insecurities; those people had no idea that no one is exempt from allowing that to define a person, and it indeed worked on me and made me unhealthy - on the inside and on-the-out - for a very long time.

I am in my 40s.  And I LOVE IT.  There is abundant power in the age that allows you to feel your sexiest, even though your body is not the same; or feel your best, even though you're so much older.  But it is not all about the age of wisdom and experience that has helped me learn to love and respect who I was, who I am and who I have become.  

I am a woman of faith.  There is a quiet and serene humbling that happens as you grow and develop in the life of having the Creator lead you that allows you to understand all are created, and a very large respect happens for all bodies that house the souls that are people - no matter what they look like.  You have more of a respect for the wrinkles and lines in a person's face that are proof that none of us are immune to life-and-death.  You have more of a respect for scars on a person that are proof of the battles they have fought.  You have more of a respect for every body-type that are proof that we are all different, yet created equal.  But it is not all about the strong foundation of faith I have that has helped me to learn to love and respect who I was, who I am,  and who I have become.

I have a husband.  He is also my friend.  And he is also at that age of wisdom and experience, and is also a person of faith, and continues to grow and develop in that.  And he loves me.  For who I've been, who I am, and who I have YET to become.  On the inside and on-the-out.

Example:  I am washing dishes.  The Hubster comes up behind me and grabs me around my mid-section playfully.  I, being coy (and a bit embarrassed about my mid-section, if we're being honest), say, "Hey!  Don't grab my rolls!"  And his retort?  He closes his eyes like he is picturing a smooth whiskey with a nice cigar, or a juicy steak wrapped in bacon, and says, "Mmmmmm.  Get me some BUTTER for dem rolls!"  I guess that makes me a Butter Body FOR REAL. 

I am grateful.  I am blessed to have that kind of love and friendship, and I allow it to have power over me and give me confidence.  He calls me beautiful every day, whether I've got my eyebrows and lips on, or if my hair is in a knot and I'm bra-less and in my loungy pants for the second day in a row.  And he knows I'm flawed on the inside and on-the-out.  And he doesn't care.  He loves me.  He lifts me up, edifies me, and encourages me.  He celebrates me.  

So who are you surrounding yourself with and what kind of power do you allow them to have over you?  Who do you allow to be relevant in your life?  Are you judging people for their outsides, yet never wanting to be judged for your own outsides?  Or do you allow yourself to see people as beautiful; flaws and all?  

Lift up, edify, and encourage people.  Celebrate them.  Celebrate you.  On the inside and on-the-out.  Do your best to live healthy in mind, body, and spirit - and pass that around.

And do me a favor:  PASS THE BUTTER.