Champagne taste verses Budweiser braggin'

This is a tangible expression of my feelings about Christmas shopping this year. I'm so over it! It began a few days ago when I decided to venture to Wal-Mart. I went in the afternoon, thinking it would be slightly less crowded. I was delirious and such was my state of being for several days. Anyway, it was wall to wall people and every banshee child acting like a flaming tantrum on wheels was in appearance. All of us adults were just wandering around aimlessly, looking like a poor doe with her vacant stare into the headlights of an oncoming car. Two and a half hours later, a cart full of who-knows-what, and the overwhelming desire to run my car off a cliff, I managed to escape.

That same evening my "friend with great benefits" and I agreed that we would go Christmas shopping together the following night. So here's my thinking. We'll hit the mall, I'll get something for my Mom and one of the kids. This would also provide me the chance to get a better idea of what to get "the man who has everything." By the way, this is the greatest mystery I've been faced with in quite some time. Back to the story. While I had goals in mind, I thought this would be a leisurely kind of thing. He explained to me who he had yet to buy gifts for and so I figured we'd also knock those out one by one. After the fact, I concede to the fact that this was a hallucination. We never made it past Macy's. I suggested heading to Nordstrom to find a gift for his Mom. It was explained to me that I have champagne taste and he loves Budweiser. After an hour and the purchase of one gift on my part, we headed home. Later we get to talking and he announces "So, you know how much I care about you?" "Uh, yeah..." "Let's agree to NEVER go shopping together again!" "You're kidding right? What's wrong with how I shop?" Recap of the beer vs. champagne thing and...."You're just really bossy." The thump that ensued was me fainting over such an allegation! Me, bossy? Was he delirious? How could my simple suggestions be perceived as bossy? How could my comment of "get up off the couch, we're not finished yet" be construed as officious? That's just good leadership on my part!!! He also mentions at this point that my understated manipulations for things I want are about as subtle as a freight train. Here, all this time I thought I was being coy while putting my toe over the line. Cleverness, I thought, was my greatest adversary. Humph. Have you ever had a moment when you've been figured out, discovered, called on the carpet? You know the other person is right and all you can do is sit there with a poo-eating grin? Insert my face here with such a grin. All this time, I thought I had him in my back pocket. He's smarter than I thought!

I'm off now to Toys-R-Us. Later this evening you might hear something come from my Scarlett O'Hara alter-ego..."Darlin', I have suffered so. Oh, the madness of it all and yet I pressed on. Fix me a drink and hand me a Nembutal..." So, the drink would be eggnog and the Nembutal a diuretic to cure this ever worsening water-weight gain...but that's another story!

Happy shopping to all!

The best part of being a reindeer...

The week's events and other mindful things from the mouth of a six year old little boy...

• "The best thing about being a reindeer is watching Santa fall off the roof."
  
• In reference to a man pinned down to the ground at the mall (he was being arrested for shoplifting - lots of cops and the whole nine yards), our nightly prayers heard this: "For that bad guy on the ground, I pray that he goes to jail and when he gets out, he promises to be a nice guy."
  
• Nana says to Garrett "You're being a grumpy butt." Garrett replies "Nana, you know that butt is a bad word." Nana, "You're right. You're a grumpy bottom." Garrett, "Please Nana, say nice words. Bottom isn't nice." Nana, "Indeed. You're a grumpy tush." Garrett: laughing so hard he nearly pees.
  
• Garrett, "Hey Mom, I wanna be a professional wrestler." Mom, "Aim high kid. You better start training." Garrett, "Where's the tissue paper?"
  
• Mom's had a bad day, she's a little tearful during prayers. My son is preciously sensitive. He farts and says "Did that cheer you up Mom?" Not necessarily, but the choking while trying to gasp for breath sure took my mind off things.
• "I love you crackerjack." "I love you too, homeslice."

In His Grip

It's been several days since my last post. Life has been busy and I've been sick.

I was on my way to a meeting last night, thinking about some of the circumstances in my life and how I feel about them. I went back in my mind to how I used to deal with some of these things, and well, it wasn't a pretty thought. God has done such a tremendous work in my life and brought me so far over the past nine months. I've learned that even when I'm not holding onto God, He continues to hold onto me. The meeting topic last night was change. I think it's safe to say that I've changed a lot recently, some very easy and graceful changes, others quite difficult and obtuse. All for the better, I believe. It's been my experience that change breeds insight and not the other way around. I generally don't have "aha" moments and change my life from that point on. It seems that I am in the midst of change when the "aha" occurs. What I do know for certain, is that in the quiet moments of my life, when I lift my hands to the heavens, I open myself up to God's will for my life. I've carried around so much shame for so long. Shame is not what the Lord wishes from me, and it certainly is not something He cast upon me. When I lift up my hands, sometimes in utter despair and frustration, I make myself available to have that shame lifted.

I heard a song on the radio last night that nearly brought me to tears. To ask God how far the east is from the west, He simply says it's the distance between one nail scarred hand to the other. And so it is with His love for me, His desire to go further still among the lessons of life. My grip on the Savior is a little tighter today, but I rest in peace knowing that his grip never lessens.

Little boys, bodily noises, and a future rap star!

Garrett is home sick today, so we're busy hanging out. We've had a cheerios war, played cars, watched cartoons, had a bath and hugged an awful lot. For those of you who don't know, Garrett has cerebral palsy and is not able to walk independently. When people find out about his disability, I usually get the "Ohh. I'm so sorry." This is generally spoken in a whisper, as if saying out loud that Garrett has a disability might make it worse. For whatever reason, this just cracks me up. I keep thinking if I whisper about weight gain, it might not make it true, or at least slow the process down. That's the funny thing about truth, at least absolute truth. 2 plus 2 is always 4. Once you've had 2 babies, nursed them both, followed by a complete hysterectomy, generally a lap-sack/fanny addendum makes it's truth known. I live with this absolute truth everyday. Sometimes my denial rises up above reality, Ben and Jerry come over. Somehow one bite turns into two, ten and so on. I seem to believe I can defy the laws of physics and that expansion doesn't occur while consuming Half Baked. My awakening to the reality of caloric intake minus physical activity is another story. One that often concludes with some curse words and wriggling my way back into either my fat pants or something with an elastic waste. Have I mentioned my love affair with elastic? Elastic makes everything right in the world. So does Ben and Jerry's.

Anyway, I was talking about Garrett. He was in the tub having a grand time and I was working away on the computer. From the bathroom I hear "Hey homeslice, I want to teach you a new song. Come up here." Yes, homeslice is a term of endearment in my house. I trudge upstairs to find my naked six year old, bright eyed and ready to burst at the seam. I'm thinking (in the 15 seconds it takes me to get upstairs) that perhaps he's going to teach me some cool song he learned in music class, like "America the Beautiful" or "Father Abraham" - yeah, notsomuch. Instead, I hear a song he and his friend Michael "made up." It goes something like this: Yo-Yo, do you wanna bam-chicka-wow-wow? Think of the bass line in the Seinfeld theme song mixed with a little adult-entertainment music (and NO, I don't watch that garbage - don't ask me how I know that type of music). Bam-chicka-wow-wow. Bam-chicka-wow-wow. I doubt that our little angel Michael came up with that on his own. I begin to laugh, which of course tickles Garrett to no end. Now, he wants to call everyone in our family so they can hear his song. I can hear my father muttering that he's heard that song before somewhere. So then, King Nakedness then moves into the bedroom, shivering and making the bam-chicka sound like a wayward soprano with a vibrato that has it's own zip code. I'm hysterical at this point. We agree that we should come up with some more words to the song. Another absolute truth...it's hard to formulate words when you're on the verge of peeing your pants because your naked six year old thinks he's Eminem. Garrett is either destined to be a Grammy winner or will eeek out a living singing jingles for infomercials.

He gets off the bed and begins to scootch his way down the stairs, stilling singing a mixture of songs and laughing. As I write this, he's in the other room teaching his red convertible corvette and Optimus Prime to duet to something along the lines of "Yo Mama..."

I just asked him what the funniest thing he knows is. In true boy fashion, take a wild guess what his response is? Farting is the funniest thing he knows and does. He tells me that he especially likes pizza farts. Ooop, now he's going to give me an example. Gasping for air. Must keep breathing. Another absolute truth: boys love anything to do with farts. This fascination doesn't end until the day they cross over into the next life. I have a number of men in my life, all of them obsessed with out-doing each other in this particular area. I have one question (this could be deemed irreverent, but I swear it's not meant that way...): God made man in his likeness, so do you think God gets a little gassy if he eats too much Mexican food?

To the truth of little boys singing, farting, and the lost art of Bam-chicka-wow-wow talents...

Homegirl from the Hood Alter Ego

I have a few alter-egos that have made their debut over the past number of years. When I scrapbook, Martha Stewart on steroids shows up. While cooking, you're likely to see Rachel Ray on speed and when wanting to feel loved and chosen, I often look like Donald Rumsfeld who stood before the Defense Budget Committee. Last night and again this morning, my favorite schitzo-side made an appearance...Homegirl from the Hood. Ahhh, yes. This is when I forget that I'm a white woman with two left feet and somehow am transformed to a Broadway Chorus Line dancer with an ability to breakdance. Close your mouth from the horror of this thought. And try not to laugh to hard the next time you see me.

Last night while at choir rehearsal, during this particular soulful song, we (as in 300 white folk with little rhythmic abilities) have to do this step-touch thing. Mind you, one must step-touch to a beat, sing the right words and pray to the dear Lord that you remember what part you sing. I'm sure some of you must be asking, how hard can that be? Trust me, it's more complicated than it seems. So, in good Lisa fashion, I call upon my days as a bright six year old who thought she was destined to be a ballerina for the next Nutcracker performance. Another fine example of where my best thinking takes me. Anyway, so let me set the scene. This grooving song plays on, 300 people must step and touch all in unison and keep from tossing our cookies from the shaking of the risers. The director gives his post, the drums and piano set the beat...and the blonde white girl transforms herself to Homegirl from the Hood. I'm sure looking onto the stage from the audience, one might think I was having body convulsions just like Elaine did on Seinfeld. I'm oblivious to my actual state. As I continue onward, ever thinking that we've pulled it off (especially me), the wave of nausea begins to rise. Dear me. I must hold my nose while covering my mouth to keep back the tide. This is hard to do when your arms are flailing about, continuing to hit the lovely man standing next to me in the butt (sorry Gale, more than likely, this will repeat itself through our final performance). I endure. Step-touching away, and eventually all is well. Homegirl retired for the evening - only to rise again this morning.

I arrived at the library this morning to do a few things. I forget that Wednesday mornings is children's story time and activity hour. I poke my head in and the volunteer lurches at me like a cat in heat. He must have seen Homegirl, or was just terribly pressed to find a matronly figure to help out during the activity. An aha moment for me: I have transformed into "matronly." cornered at this point with nowhere to run, I oblige. Then he tells me that the kids will be dancing to a Paula Abdul video with a few minutes at the end for their own "interpretive dance." Still recovering from last night's motion sickness, I begin practicing holding my nose shut to keep the spew from, well, spewwing out. Mr. Tom announces that a new helper has arrived and I wave like a politician staring at a beauty queen. As the VHS is pushed in, Paula Abdul bounces onto the screen. Tom whispers to me that there is one little darling who must be watched closely. Last month, her interpretive dance to Amy Grant's Rocking Around the Christmas Tree, went from innocent to a cartoonishly lewd striptease very quickly. I think to myself "I've danced in my skivs plenty of times to that...what's so wrong with jamming to Amy?" Another example of fine thinking. With my eyes perched to this little girl, along with the other kids, some of whom look like placid little cadavers slinking from their little tyke chairs, I begin the step touch movement. Paula busts out a little James Brown and suddenly we're all little Soul Train divas and soul-gods. I've decided by the way, that wiggling is good for the soul. All of us seem to shine when we wiggle a little. I was a flood lamp at this point if shining is what happens when dancing. So, the break dancing begins and this little girl with Down Syndrome asks me if I'd do a cartwheel with her. Marylou Renton I am not, but to her I must look like a human pretzel. Suddenly, panic sets in. It's the same kind of panic I have when I can't fit into my pants and I get on the scale to see the damage. The 3/10's of a pound I've gained must be stuffed back down with a brownie. I must press on, I must give this child her dream of me doing a cartwheel (can you sense my Scarlet O'Hara alter-go coming out?). Now mind you, my version of a cartwheel resembles a duck with it's butt in the air, head in the water hoping for a little krill to come along. This coupled with a rocking motion and my hands firmly planted on the ground. Duck butt and all, I give it my best shot. I hear only a few snickers coming from the others. I'm the only adult in the center of the room attempting to refine her gymnatic skills.

I look around the room and see kids of all different shapes and sizes. Some are cute, others more homely. A few can actually dance, while the rest of us lurch and fall, jump and crash, and gyrate our hips in a very Brittaney Spears way. It occurs to me that the human desire to be something other than ordinary sets in at a young age. Somewhere along the way, we lose sight of laughter. Suddenly, being silly is transported from innocent to ghastly. Like Donald Rumsfeld, we just want to be loved and chosen. A great truth in life hits me: all of us are loved and chosen, even Dick Cheney and Osama Bin Laden. Oh, that God loves us all, simply because God loves.

Mr. Tom decides to do a lesson on the Electric Slide. Do you remember this little dance, often found at bars - where generally the participants have to be gorked out of their heads to do it. Been there. Got the T-shirt. Little ensembles of children dive right in. They all seem to master the elusive and ever complicated pivot. I nearly tear my ACL. Children are more limber, right? After instruction on where to put your foot and how to turn, I cheat and just turn. My childhood races before me again - trying and striking out at basketball, ballet, geometry, and square dancing. Homegirl has a bruised ego that toddlers look better doing the Electric Slide. Finally, we all fall to the floor laughing. I'm in good company when I see the four-year old boy next to me laughing so hard he's holding his goods to keep from peeing everywhere. Another been there. Didn't get the T-shirt, just an overwhelming desire to invest in big-girl diapers. The kids are magnificent in their joy, their clumsiness, and their acceptance of a 30 year old homegirl-wannabe. The girl with Down Syndrome says that she liked the helper. "She does cartwheels and laughs a lot." The very essence of how I wish to be remembered in life is uttered. Will my obituary someday read "Lisa tried to help. She danced even when she looked silly and did cartwheels through life."

Homegirl, may you rave forever.

Advent

I love this time of year as each day my excitement for Christmas grows. As a child, my grandmother gave me an Advent Calendar. It began the first day of December and each day had a very special surprise attached to it. The gifts went from candy to ornaments to small toys. Every morning I would run into the kitchen to see what treasure I would find. This is one of the happiest memories from my childhood. As I recall, my Advent Calendar continued until I graduated high school. Now that I am an adult, the meaning of advent has evolved. Our church has a special advent program this year that I have found incredible. The word advent refers to the "coming arrival." It is a season filled with great anticipation. The advent is the four weeks leading up to December 24. Each week, a candle is lit, representing light spreading out into the darkness. The church has created a gift envelope to open each week. The envelope contains a scripture reading, an activity, a theme and a chance to write out a prayer surrounding that week's theme. Last week, I lit a candle for hope. This week, we light the candle for truth. A dear friend of mine and I agreed to open our envelope and light our candles at the same time each week.

One of the questions about hope asked if I have ever had to wait for something. Oh yes, yes, I have. Waiting is hard for me as it often symbolizes unknown and quietness. I am now in a season of waiting. I have found it increasingly frustrating and difficult. Countless times I've raised my hands toward the heavens, asking God to reveal the next step for me. His revelations have been faithful, but I have been upset that they aren't what I was hoping for! Last night as I prayed and opened this week's envelope, I was reminded that God is in the waiting. Surely, as He is the beginning and the end, he must certainly be all of the in between. The space between my ears has been a symphony of chaos to say the least. My hope today is that I can be quiet enough to know the presence of something greater than myself, to sense the needs of those I love, and to wait...patiently or otherwise, on the faithful leading of one who has only the best for me.

My advent calendar now is even greater than when I was small...the gifts in store must be beyond all my imagination.

Let the blogging begin...

I've finally succumbed to the newest rage of blogging! A good friend of mine recently undertook this little project and I've found myself on almost a daily basis reading her posts. It's proved to be a great way to keep up with what's going on in her life. My "keep in touch" skills have been seriously lacking, especially amongst my friends who live in other states. So, here I am, blogging away with the hope that this might bridge the gap in communication between some of us. I've lost my blogging virginity. Hmm, never thought I'd say that.

So, what's happening in my life? Boring doesn't seem to be in my vocabulary. Readers Digest version: I have a job that I love but isn't paying. Looking for a new one that will propel me into financial ease, which essentially means I could be looking for a long time. The kids are great. Garrett is making his way in first grade (much to my chagrin, he's a celebrity in our little suburban school). He is as precious and hilarious as ever. God blessed him with an incredible sense of humor. Madilynn is as smart and pretty as a whippet. It's actually a bit frightening. She's so articulate and focused. Little Miss Indepdendent. Can't imagine where she gets it. I've recently renewed my commitments at church. I took time off this past year as I had to deal with some very major issues. It's good to be back in Choir - worship is a great passion of mine. This weekend is Christmas At The Ranch. We attract several thousands of people over the period of three days. It's a fantastic venue and a strong message. Go to http://www.chcc.org/ to find more information.

I've been involved in a 12-step fellowship since March 2007. I think that God has been shaping my testimony to be one of redemption and unending grace. For those of you unaware, following my illness in 2004, I became addicted to prescription pain medication. As I continue to blog, I'll share more about that. Anyway, God saw fit to keep me alive and give me a second chance at this thing called life. My journey these past nine months has been an absolute miracle - a true story of redemption and restoration. I am passionate about my personal recovery, and as of late, a growing ember has burned for other addicts still suffering. I am so blessed to have a number of strong relationships in my life that have been born out of recovery. The women who continue to mentor me and guide me through the everyday business of living, are an ever remarkable example of God's purpose in my life. My gratitude speaks...

You are welcome to keep tabs on my journey as I share the current happenings and growth taking place in my life.