tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59615851802869115892024-03-05T09:52:39.066-06:00On Maxine's MindON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-28015485569776644062013-10-16T11:30:00.000-05:002013-10-16T12:31:22.232-05:0010 Ways Marrying a Pastor Will Change Your Life…<br />
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I recently read a blog entitled, <a href="http://jldphotographblog.com/2013/10/07/10-ways-marrying-a-farmer-will-change-your-life/">“10
Ways Marrying a Farmer Will Change Your Life…”</a> and as the daughter of a
farmer, it certainly gave me greater appreciation for my parents!<br />
<br />
But I also got to
thinking that being married to a pastor (which I am, otherwise this blog post would
be kinda pointless) will change your life, too. Just mulling it over one evening
as I did the dishes while my pastor-husband was away at a church board meeting,
I thought of several ways my life has been shaped by who I married. So just for
the fun of it, here’s my own list:</div>
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<b><u>10 Ways Marrying a Pastor Will Change Your Life…</u></b></div>
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10. You will probably be the only person in church who reads
the bulletin religiously because if you don’t take initiative to find out what
is going on, you won’t have a clue because your husband won’t remember to tell
you. He spends all day talking about it at work that he will assume he’s
mentioned it to you. </div>
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9. On that note, you must always be ready to fill in for the
volunteer that doesn’t show up. I have filled many a last-minute role to cover
everything from the nursery to the coffee counter.</div>
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8. You can plan for him to be home for dinner, but don’t be
surprised when he’s not. He may call and say, “I’m walking out of my office
right now,” only to take an hour to make the normally three-minute trip home
because someone caught him before he could walk out of the building. </div>
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7. Get used to Satan showing up at your house on Sunday
mornings just about the time your husband leaves for work - typically before the rest of the family even wakes. He loves to make sure your kids turn into complete hooligans so that
you lose your cool and are screaming at them the entire trip to church. You’ll
spend the first 15 minutes of church begging God for forgiveness for your
impatience and anger. I can almost guarantee it.</div>
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6. You will receive random gifts of appreciation in the form
of food. Bread, zucchini, hot dishes – one church even offered to supplement
his meager salary with a side of beef. But you will learn to be grateful for even
small acts of kindness because of #5.</div>
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5. You will develop a thick skin. There will no doubt be
times when you will fight the urge to punch a critical parishioner in the teeth
in defense of your man. While you know he’s far from perfect, you also know he
works hard, loves what he does, and does not take the job lightly – he has a
calling. You will struggle with people who do not honor that.</div>
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4. You will get used to living in a fishbowl. You will know
that eyes are always on you, and sometimes you will act like it and other times
you just won’t care – like when your child is throwing a tantrum in the church
foyer and you drag him away, kicking and screaming.</div>
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3. At that point, you will find it very handy that your
husband has an office at the church. My children may or may not have spent some
time-outs in it. While most families may skip church completely if the morning has gone sour, you will power through it because you never miss a Sunday.</div>
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2. If he’s out until 2:00am, it isn’t because he’s living it
up with his buddies. It’s more likely he’s consoling a grieving family who just
lost a loved one. My husband was even pulled away from Thanksgiving dinner once
to rush to someone’s bed side. But even though <i>you will <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want </span>him home</i>, you will understand that<i> God <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needs </span>him there</i>.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>You will never understand how someone can go
through life without a relationship with Jesus because you’re reminded daily
of how desperately people need grace and peace.We love our church family and community, and we hurt when they hurt. But in all things, God really is good.<br />
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While I was told before saying “I do” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that marrying a pastor wouldn’t come without some
sacrifices, 20 years later I can say with confidence that I had no idea what I was
walking into – but I am glad I’ve made the journey with this man. We’ve plodded
through the valleys, but also rejoiced at the mountaintops together. While the
road hasn’t always been smooth, we’ve held on tight to our commitment to each
other because of our commitment to the One who brought us together.</div>
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It may have been by chance that I married a pastor. But it
was no accident that I married <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this </i>pastor.
I love him and will have his place set at the table tonight…just in case he
makes it home on time.</div>
<br />ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-5499975373258478732013-07-14T17:42:00.001-05:002013-07-14T17:52:59.981-05:00Forty, and Falling Apart?I turned 40 today!! E! Gads!<br />
<br />
As the youngest of eight children, I do know I'm still considered about age three to many of my siblings, so that helps soften the blow.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, the clock is ticking. It's no secret that the human body weakens or just plain deteriorates with age, and mine is no exception. Earlier this week my kids and I spent a gorgeous day at the river. The college-age population was well represented, however, so I had the <strike>misfortune</strike> reminder of what "used to be" with young women in bikinis and their I've-had-no-babies-so-my-tummy-is-still-taut-and-I-don't-eat-since-that-guy-is-so-cute-I-can't-possibly-let-him-see-me-put-food-in-my-mouth bodies.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the squishy-ness of my own body has reached disturbing proportions. But then again, I'm not afraid to eat. I don't care how cute ya are.<br />
<br />
What's bumming me out the most is that as I join the 40s club (there <i>is</i> a club, right? I'm expecting some membership perks, so there better be a club.) is that I'm already heading to a doctor because I'm falling apart. <br />
<br />
Here's the deal: I've been coughing since the beginning of March. I caught a cold. I got over the cold. But Mr. Cough didn't care to leave me. He's like a leach.<br />
<br />
So I broke down and finally went to the doctor this week. He gave me some medicine and then told me if I wasn't better by Monday, to get an appointment with a lung specialist.<br />
<br />
Just what I want to hear as I hit a milestone birthday. I knew my body would sag and the knees would creak, but I didn't expect to have vital organs falling apart. I like my lungs. I'm sorta attached. I'd hate to have something bad happen to them.<br />
<br />
So I ring in the ol' 4-0 spewing birthday cake from my mouth as I am coughing. But I'm pretty sure when you're old you get away with a lot of stuff.<br />
<br />
<br />
And least that's what I'm banking on.<br />
<br />
So here's to the big 4-0, and crumbs in your eye! Cheers!ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-75179119221452822202013-04-09T22:02:00.002-05:002013-04-09T22:02:51.635-05:00Just One Tiny Shoe.Oh how I <i>wish</i> it was <u>just one</u> child who lived in poverty, or was addicted to drugs, or couldn't bear to go home to an abusive parent.<br />
<br />
But sadly, our society - my own community - is filled with them.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I was privileged to join a local agency's special event to serve families in great need by providing free hygiene products, clothes, and social services-type assistance all under one roof. I brought my daughter along and we had a fun time fitting children with shoes and clothes. We did discover the joy that comes from helping people, but we also got a glimpse of a truly different world.<br />
<br />
<br />
As I had been doing all day, I approached a child to slip off her shoe in order to find out her size (more often than not, the parents had no idea what size shoe their child wore). I held back a gasp as I turned to my daughter and told her to grab shoes off the rack that were a whole two sizes bigger. This little girl's feet were being squeezed into shoes much too small for her. I rubbed her squished little toes as we strapped on an adorable pair of white sandals. You would have thought I'd handed her a tiara the way she lit up. We also found some sneakers in her size and I told her to wear them home. <i>I struggled to avoid taking the tiny shoes and hide them so they would never be forced on her feet again!</i><br />
<br />
Shoes that fit. It's a simple thing. But a rarity amidst kids who are not even sure where they'll find their next meal.<br />
<br />
So I went back today to this agency because I want to do more. I showed up for a prayer meeting where the director gave us her "top 10 list" of requests. Each story worse than the one before.<br />
<br />
A teen desperate for acceptance, only to be dragged down by despicable insults and lies on social media.<br />
<br />
A 14-year-old girl gone missing, possibly out on the streets or shacked up with a much older man.<br />
<br />
A drug addict finding ways to abuse even as she's in a treatment center...and pushing her "secret" on others fighting to stay sober.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two kids under age 10 missing since their mother was taken away by the authorities a few days ago.<br />
<br />
These kids are fighting for survival while mine fight for the last bowl of sugary cereal. The contrast is gut-wrenching. <br />
<br />
I was told a story of a young girl who came to a club meeting, and while stringing colored beads onto a string, she said, "Black, blue, black, blue...that's the color of my Mommy." ...and then blushed as she realized what she just admitted out loud for all to hear.<br />
<br />
I cannot meet these people or hear these stories and just hope they get their lives on track someday. Sure, I could plop back into life as usual and just be thankful for what I have. But that's like walking away from the scene of a tragic accident hoping everybody gets out okay.<br />
<br />
It's absurd.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to dive in again later this week and do what I can to give kids the chance to...<br />
<br />
...know love.<br />
<br />
...know safety.<br />
<br />
...and know hope.<br />
<br />
Because<i> every </i>child should know these things.<br />
<br />
It shouldn't have taken a tiny shoe to remind me of it<i>.</i>ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-79608152496630259312013-04-04T18:13:00.000-05:002013-04-04T18:14:05.747-05:00How I discovered my kids don't need me after all.News flash: I'm not nearly as needed as I thought I was.<br />
<br />
Well, some in this house may debate me on that, but I discovered my children truly can survive on their own when necessary.<br />
<br />
Like when I am nearly comatose in bed for an entire day from influenza. <br />
<br />
A couple weeks ago, I crawled into bed on a Saturday night not convinced I would be a functioning human being by morning. Turns out, I was right.<br />
<br />
Since my husband was working and wouldn't be home until roughly 6pm, it meant I was still responsible for three young children. That whole, "Moms aren't allowed to be sick" thing is painfully true.<br />
<br />
But I was. There was no picking myself up and powering through. I was down for the count. Body aches, fever, throbbing headache, coughing, congestion, sniffling, sore throat...yes, I sound like a cold medicine commercial. I really had every imaginable symptom. I didn't think it was possible.<br />
<br />
And the EXHAUSTION. As if I had been manually plowing fields all night long. I was throwing up the white flag but the universe was merciless.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I can decipher enough information coming from downstairs to realize my children are watching television in mass quantities with bowls of cereal to match. Around 2pm, I muster up enough energy to get up and stumble downstairs to check on the state of the place.<br />
<br />
It isn't pretty.<br />
<br />
The children have polished off two boxes of cereal, leaving a trail of crumbs and chunks from the kitchen to the family room. This includes much of it crushed and mashed into all couch crevices and cushions. The milk jug has been abandoned on the counter and something wet was splashed across the kitchen floor. I look up to see my three cherubs glued to their sixth hour of television.<br />
<br />
Annoyed and disappointed, I ask, "Would you ever turn that thing off if I didn't tell you to?" They all turn around to face me and immediately begin to complain that there is nothing else to do...I should get out of bed and feed them...they had to take care of themselves and it's so unfair...and on and on.<br />
<br />
As I put the now-disgusting-room-temperature milk back in the refrigerator, I motion to them to get the vacuum and start cleaning up. I also insist the television be turned off. Indefinitely.<br />
<br />
Once the place looks a little less like Red Cross could show up at any moment, I send them to the playroom to actually be children - you know, the little people that have imaginations and actually <i>enjoy</i> a room full of toys? They gripe and complain as I mosey back up to my bed. At this point, my body obviously can only maintain an upright position for 6 minutes.<br />
<br />
I vow to only arise for a catastrophe. <br />
<br />
It's not long - or at least it doesn't seem long because I'm in and out of consciousness - when the first catastrophe presents itself. My 5-year-old hurries up the stairs in a bit of a panic.<br />
<br />
"Mom. MOM. You have to wake up and help me. This is bad. This is <i>real </i>bad."<br />
<br />
I open one eye.<br />
<br />
"I have gum in my hair," he says.<br />
<br />
I close my eye and mutter, "Lord, have mercy."<br />
<br />
I manage to get up and locate the Goo Gone under the kitchen sink. Within seconds, the gum is out and my little boy is convinced I'm a genius. He runs off to play.<br />
<br />
Or, rather, join the fray.<br />
<br />
Apparently 'play' is going to mean 'torture and torment siblings' today. I no sooner get the covers pulled over my body when my screaming, fighting children have brought their wild animal antics into my room.<br />
<br />
I am dangerously indifferent, so I call their father. He asks me to put our oldest on the phone and shortly thereafter, with much whining and complaining mind you, all three are headed outside to run off their energy - Dad's orders.<br />
<br />
As soon as the last grumbling child is out the door, my muscles relax again and I drift into the sleep I desperately crave.<br />
<br />
But I'm abruptly awakened to clomping booted feet on my bedroom floor.<br />
<br />
Again, the little one has come to disturb the beast.<br />
<br />
I only make out about every third word. Something about "Bad." "Caleb." "Roof." "Fell."<br />
<br />
I shake myself awake to get more detail.<br />
<br />
"Caleb used a chair to reach an icicle off the garage roof and he slipped and fell on his butt," he informs me. "He's crying and he needs you."<br />
<br />
I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that the key word in that statement to me was "butt" because I quit trying to shimmy out of bed and instead asked, "You said he fell on his butt?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Good. He'll be fine. That's padded." <i>(I realize this puts me no longer in the running for mother-of-the-year, but since I feel near death, I'm not convinced I would be alive to accept the award anyway.)</i><br />
<br />
I then sent the little reporter back outside and my head hit the pillow.<br />
<br />
I'll admit at that moment I was so weak I was searching for any reason to avoid having to throw on a coat and boots to head outdoors. Had he fallen on an arm or leg, perhaps I would have experienced greater alarm, but I figured a bump on the hind end wouldn't kill him.<br />
<br />
I was right because he apparently recovered just fine. I never heard another word about it. In fact, I can't even be sure it wasn't all a hallucination. The illness was clearly taking over.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, my husband eventually came home. And fed them. And let me sleep in peace. Hal. le. lu. jah.<br />
<br />
The next morning I awoke to numerous hand-written Get Well notes from my children. I suppose they truly did feel bad that I was sick, but they also fully expected me to bounce back like a cartoon character and serve them breakfast.<br />
<br />
What they didn't realize was that NOW I knew what they were capable of! So by the time I was finally able to resume most of my duties in the household, I determined that I do waaaaaay too much for my kids. They somehow found sustenance while I was out of commission, so they will now step. it. up.<br />
<br />
Case in point: when my 10-year-old asked for a glass of milk a few mornings later, I handed her a glass and pushed the milk jug toward her.<br />
<br />
She got my point. And we all learned a valuable lesson from my brush with death. <i>(Yeah, I'm gonna be dramatic here. I am not rational when sick.) </i><br />
<br />
There are capable hands in this house, and they don't just belong to Mom.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-27057264398322719712013-03-04T20:49:00.001-06:002013-03-04T20:49:30.790-06:00Just One. (Entry 1)I'm naming this blog series Just One. Why? It takes <u>just one</u> person to make a difference sometimes. Or <u>just one</u> smile can brighten someone's day. Or <u>just one</u> act of kindness, <u>just one</u> effort, <u>just one</u> thought can change everything.<br />
<br />
So, on that note, I will share another one of my 'good intentions.' One evening last week I met up with some other well-meaning friends at the library. Since this is a popular hang-out in town for the homeless, we decided to approach some of these people and get to know them.<br />
<br />
<i>On a side note, I had no idea the library had such an extensive selection of magazines. Seriously, forget about subscribing to anything! Unless, of course, you're one of those people that must rip out the coupons or draw mustaches on celebrities. Then, by all means, buy a subscription and have at it. </i><br />
<br />
As I scoped out my options, I noticed several gentlemen in a seating area toward the back of the library (by all those amazing magazines!). Two guys were plugged into their electronics, so I ruled them out after a bit of contemplation. I eyed an older guy who looked to be losing consciousness.<br />
<br />
I sat down next to him and asked him how he was doing. Though a little confused to be approached by a stranger, he perked up quickly.<br />
<br />
He wondered if I was a college student doing research at the library. When I told him I was nearly 40 and a mother of three, he was shocked and figured I was merely in my 20s.<br />
<br />
I love this man.<br />
<br />
Which also begs the question - do college students even go to the library for research anymore? Isn't everything you ever wanted to know online now? Eh, I digress.<br />
<br />
Soon he was diving into a variety of topics. He wasn't homeless, he was just waiting for his wife to finish her garden club downstairs.<br />
<br />
<i>(Personally, I think when you'll drive your wife somewhere so she can spend time with her girlfriends and be willing to sit in boredom for two hours waiting for her, you're a gem. Did I mention I love him?)</i><br />
<br />
Turns out my new friend Duane is nearly the same age as my Dad, with a similar take on life. He wasted no time sharing his political and religious beliefs. Even making me a bit uncomfortable speaking about the oil boom bringing in a lot of "undesirables" while two or three of those so-called "undesirables" sat in chairs within earshot.<br />
<br />
I steered him off that stereotype faster than a parent snatches a falling pacifier.<br />
<br />
I let him do most of the talking though. He seemed to prefer that. I learned he's been ranching for years and he's obviously proud of his son but not his son-in-law. (The term <i>deadbeat</i> may have come up.) He is no fan of Obama and little old widows are the most generous givers in church.<br />
<br />
Yeah, we covered a lot of topics.<br />
<br />
By the time I needed to get up to leave, he seemed genuinely disappointed that I had to go. At least I cut his boredom in half.<br />
<br />
Truth is, I think Duane was thrilled to have someone take an interest in an old guy nodding off at the library.<br />
<br />
And I realize I don't thrill people nearly enough.<br />
<br />
I need to change that, because it's really quite fun.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-28514799094713389142013-02-24T17:02:00.001-06:002013-02-24T17:07:15.221-06:00The Start of Something<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Good intentions. That's my defense.<br />
<br />
With the influx of people into my community in recent years (thank you, oil
boom) comes an increase in our homeless population. Not a great reality, but a
reality nonetheless.<br />
<br />
So I've been trying to become more aware of who these people are and, if
nothing else, offer a smile and a 'hi' to assure them they are at least noticed
and recognized as another human being. I have observed enough human behavior
that indicates we are either annoyed or downright fearful of someone with a
duffle bag containing every meager possession thrown over their back. (Truth be
told, they're probably more afraid of us than we are of them. For good reason.)<br />
<br />
At any rate, I was headed to the public library shortly after noon
today to retrieve some books to ward off my daughter's boredom. (She's
currently grounded from play dates, so her weekends are burdened with the
self-inflicted torture she calls "nothing to do.") Arriving at 12:30,
I discovered doors do not open until 1pm.<br />
<br />
Hmph.<br />
<br />
At this point my stomach tumultuously reminded me of the time of day. Since
I didn't down my usual doughnut at church this morning (score one for
self-control! woo hoo!), the piece of toast I ate around 8am was obviously long
forgotten so my noisy belly was getting downright hostile with me for
neglecting it so. <br />
<br />
But then I noticed a few men outside the doors, waiting to be let in out of
the cold. Though I had no 'real' proof, I suspected they were homeless based on
the bags strapped to their backs and the quantity of layers they were
wearing.<br />
<br />
I couldn't help but wonder if their stomachs were in a rage of their own. I
was slapped with the conviction that I can go home and choose from a
refrigerator full of choices, but these men may not know when their next meal
will come.<br />
<br />
My immediate thought was to go get some restaurant gift cards to hand out,
but I only had $10 in my purse and it doesn't take a mathematician to realize
that's not enough to give decent gift cards to three people. I had a half an
hour to kill until the library opened, surely I could just go grab some value
menu items to feed them.<br />
<br />
Off I go to the closest burger joint. As I walk into the restaurant, there
are three people who appear to be making a day of it. They also fit that 'I'm
carrying everything I own' description. I greet them, and they're all
smiles. I catch almost a hint of surprise that someone paused to say 'hi' to
them.<br />
<br />
I proceed to the counter and order some food and three bags to separate the
items into individual meals. As I'm walking out the door, a woman from this
homeless trio I greeted a short time ago says, "Boy, that sure took a long
time to get your order!" I shrugged it off as no biggie and said something
like, "It must have taken a little longer to cook, I suppose."<br />
<br />
I bid her farewell, and brave the cool wind to my car. I arrive at the
library and offer lunch to these men only to find out they're not hungry -
they've all eaten. Seems the gas station got their patronage on this chilly
Sunday afternoon.<br />
<br />
<i>While I realize fast food offers questionable ingredients as well, I
can't help but cringe a little at the thought of gas station food providing
sustenance to these fellas.</i><br />
<br />
Okay, I'm glad they're not hungry, but I'm a bit disappointed that I have
food to give away and no takers. So I start tooling around downtown looking for
anyone who might appreciate a meal. I stop and ask four others, and get the
same 'I'm okay, thanks' response. <i>(I have to admit, everyone was quite
appreciative that I even offered, so at least I felt that maybe I wasn't
completely off my rocker.)</i><br />
<br />
Feeling a bit defeated in my attempt to help my fellow man, I headed for
home. While not the intended recipients, I've got three kids who will be
thrilled to chomp into a chicken sandwich and some fries.<br />
<br />
I couldn't help but wonder if I got it all wrong. I had such a
prompting to get those men some food, but I can't help but shake the thought
that maybe I was just supposed to sit down and visit with that woman at the
restaurant. She seemed to want to strike up a conversation. Was she lonely and
seeing a smiling face gave her hope for more?<br />
<br />
Maybe I messed it all up. Maybe God just wanted to get me to that restaurant
- not for three bags of food, but to notice <i>her. </i><br />
<br />
I’m a slow learner when it comes to life lessons, let me just state that
right here, right now. And I’m naïve. There. I said it. I must accept the fact
that I'm not going to grasp the needs of my community within an hour or two.<br />
<br />
So I'm launching an idea - a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">project </i>of
sorts - to open my mind, my heart and my resources to the needs around me.<br />
<br />
I want to do more than just take up space on this earth.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to strive to become a better citizen, a better reflection of
the One who gives me purpose. Maybe – <i>gasp</i> – attempt to be worthy of the
calling<sup>1</sup>. <i>(Sure, I'm a little slow on this - 39 years into it and
I'm just grasping the fact that there's more purpose to my life than just
keeping three offspring alive.)</i><br />
<br />
So follow along on my journey if you're so inclined. I will document my
progress <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(let’s hope it’s progress)</i>
right here on my blog. <br />
<br />
++++++++++++++++++++++ <br />
<br />
<br />
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<sup>1 </sup>Ephesians 4:1-6: "...<span class="text">live as people
worthy of the call you received from God.</span> <span id="en-CEB-29251"><span class="text">Conduct yourselves with all humility, gentleness, and patience.
Accept each other with love,</span></span> <span id="en-CEB-29252"><span class="text">and make an effort to preserve the unity of the Spirit with the
peace that ties you together.</span></span> <span id="en-CEB-29253"><span class="text">You are one body and one spirit, just as God also called you in one
hope.</span></span> <span id="en-CEB-29254"><span class="text">There is one Lord,
one faith, one baptism,</span></span> <span id="en-CEB-29255"><span class="text">and
one God and Father of all, who is over all, through all, and in all.</span>”</span> </div>
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<![endif]-->ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-48858926944535009582013-02-09T09:41:00.000-06:002013-02-24T14:33:27.515-06:00More Than a Trophy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Maybe I’m getting too sentimental in my “old”
age, but this year’s Super Bowl turned into a bit of a “Cry Bowl” for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
The announcer begins with an
introduction of Sandy Hook’s elementary chorus. The camera pans the group as
they sing a few bars, and naturally, the tears well up in my eyes. That wound is still so
fresh. The sight of those children – excited and smiling – well it was a
poignant example of our country’s resilience.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
It was enough to make this Super
Bowl partier cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
As the game moved ahead, the media
did their part to accentuate the competitive dual between brothers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
The fact
that the head coach of each team grew up together with Mom probably frequently scolding, “Don’t
throw that ball in the house!” made it a little tough to root against either
one of them. When a videographer zooms into Mom and Dad seated in the arena a rush
of emotions overwhelms me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">These
are</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boys!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I’ve got boys. I know the competitiveness that
can rip them apart and the unshakeable love that brings them back together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Both teams can’t win. One of their
boys will be undeniably crushed after that game. As I stared at Mom Harbaugh, I
couldn’t help but think of all the times I’ve had to console a child who,
despite all their hard work, didn’t achieve their goal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
In a Huffington Post article about
the parents’ role in their sons’ pinnacle game, Dad Harbaugh admitted they got
a taste after a Niners loss at Baltimore on Thanksgiving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Here’s an excerpt from that article
describing the parents’ post-game experience:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<i>After leaving an office in the stadium where they watched the game — in
private and emotionless — the first locker room they walked past was that of
the Ravens.</i><br />
<br />
<i>
</i><i>"We've all experienced that excitement of victory-guys jumping up and
down, the smile on John's face. They were just ecstatic. ... Then you realize
that you're not needed here," Jack said. "You walk across the hall,
and you went into the 49ers locker room and you walked and you saw the players
walking about — that look in their eyes, that look of not being successful and
coming up short. We opened up a couple doors and finally saw Jim all by himself
in this room, just a table and a chair. He was still in his coaching outfit.
His head down in his hands and you looked into his eyes and you realized that
this where you're needed as a parent.”</i><br />
<br />
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
"Where you're needed." Ugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
It was enough to make this Mom cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
If the game itself wasn’t turning me
into a blubbering pool of tears, a few well-placed commercials certainly would.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Enter a two-minute Jeep ad honoring
returning servicemen and women. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Come on, now. Pass me the tissues...AGAIN.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Family meals… a dog waiting to be
walked… a lonely wife. And suddenly a framed portrait of a soldier comes into
focus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“You’ve been missed,” Oprah says. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Throw in some heart-wrenching music and you
know what you get.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
It was enough to make this American
cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Surely this would be the end of all
my gushing. I was running low on tissues, for heaven’s sake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
But nope. The big daddy of them all
was still on the horizon, unbeknownst to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
The late Paul Harvey’s hypnotic
voice grabs me. “And on the 8<sup>th</sup> day…” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Gulp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God
said, "I need somebody strong enough to clear trees, heave bails and yet
gentle enough to yean lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink combed
pullets...and who will stop his mower for an hour to mend the broken leg of a
meadow lark. So, God made a farmer!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
It had to be somebody who'd plow deep and straight...and not cut corners.
Somebody to seed and weed, feed and breed...and rake and disc and plow and
plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk. Somebody to replenish the self-feeder
and then finish a hard days’ work with a five mile drive to church. Somebody
who'd bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who'd laugh
and then sigh...and then respond with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants
to spend his life "doing what dad does". So, God made a farmer!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
It was enough to make this Farm Girl
cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
So I’d just like to offer my
congratulations to the people who made this year’s Super Bowl a memorable one.
Honestly, not even a week later and I don’t recall the score of the game. I don’t
remember which call was unjustified and which player took the hardest hit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
What I vividly remember is how the
world saw those few hours as an opportunity to grab my heartstrings and tug. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
But when you’re simultaneously
reminded of what it means to be a caring citizen, a comforting Mom, a proud
American, and the humble daughter of a farmer – that’s worth far more celebration
than a tall, shiny trophy any day.</div>
ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-17115633024014631942012-11-05T20:42:00.003-06:002012-11-05T20:48:16.280-06:00Tape your ID to your head. Please. Just do it.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">Seriously, America. Grow up and be responsible.<br /><br />Tomorrow is Election Day. But apparently that is just a suggestion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';"><br />Because a bunch of us are getting a free pass to take our sweet time to get our vote counted.<br /><br />Here's what I read in a recent article about waiting for election results:<br />"Virginia typically has been fairly fast at counting ballots. But there's a new voter ID law in the state that could complicate things this year. Voters who don't bring identification to the polls still can have their ballots counted if they produce ID by Friday. If the race in Virginia is super tight, it could come down to those provisional ballots. On Election Night, no one will even know how many of them are out there."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">To that I say, "WHAT?!?!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">Let me get this straight. So Virginia-ites can go trotting to the polls, vote, and then slap their heads as they say, "Oh! I forgot my ID! I'm sure I can get it to you by Friday. That's good, right?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">Last time I checked, when a person wants to leave the country they have to have a passport. The DAY they leave. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">There is no, "Oh, you forgot your passport? Just be a dear and get it to us sometime when you get back, 'kay?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">Nope. Guess what? No passport? No leave-y the country.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">But for an event that people have anticipated for FOUR YEARS and been reminded of CONSTANTLY for months through television ads, direct mail and yard signs galore...nope, that could possibly still not ring a bell that it is election day and they need to <em>remember</em> their ID.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">You gotta be kidding me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">Now maybe the race in Virginia will be a landslide and those amnesia-stricken voters won't matter anyway, but I still don't think they should be allowed to have three extra days to show ID. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">You have to be an adult to vote. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">So if you're not adult enough to remember the most basic thing possible when you head to the polls, then someone should pull your "adult" status. Go back to Kindergarten and learn that "Everything I needed to know I learned in Kindergarten" list. I'm pretty sure, "Know your name and be able to prove it" is on that list somewhere.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">I already suspect this election will come down to a handful of votes and there will probably be recount after recount to slow down the actual declaration of a winner, but it really shouldn't be because the American people are forgetful.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';"></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">So, do me a favor, Virginia-onians. Go pick out your clothes for tomorrow and put your ID in the pocket. Right now. Go do it. Because I don't want to be waiting for results on Friday evening because you just didn't get around to showing that ID on time.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">It's nearly as ridiculous as hanging chads. And nobody wants to go there.</span></div>
ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-73729912045951162952012-09-02T16:56:00.001-05:002012-09-02T16:56:59.684-05:00The Alien at My GymOne thing I love about the time of day I go to my gym is that it is primarily full of other stay-at-home moms or dads, and a few sprinklings of the senior citizen sort. You don't generally see the women scantily clad with flawless make up and hair due to emptying a can of hair spray prior to stepping onto a stairmaster, or the guys who survey the room for said hair-sprayed woman.<br />
<br />
Honestly, when someone actually walks in that doesn't look like they had to peel their preschooler off their leg or is following doctor's orders to build some bone mass to ward off osteoporosis, they stick out like a sore thumb.<br />
<br />
That's why I have a real issue with a certain someone now invading my work out time.<br />
<br />
I don't know where she came from. I don't know if she ever eats (pretty sure she doesn't). And if I'm being brutally honest, I wouldn't mind knowing the name of her surgeon.<br />
<br />
Frankly, her body is flawless. Abs of steel. Cut arms. Firm derriere. Thin, toned legs. And of course, the, um, well, you know.<br />
<br />
Now I don't have any real issue with her looking that good other than the fact that I'm just incredibly jealous, but naturally I'm telling myself she likely has not given birth so we're not on even playing ground anyway.<br />
<br />
My real issue is that she shows up out of no where. <br />
<br />
Now had she been coming to the gym for years and started out as a pudgy gal and worked her tail off to get in the kind of shape she's in, I would be cheering her on and obviously inspired.<br />
<br />
But no.<br />
<br />
She just shows up one day this summer and looks amazing. <br />
<br />
I NEED some before and after pictures, sweetie.<br />
<br />
No one should just <em>appear</em> out of thin air looking like that. We want to see the blood, sweat and tears it took to get that way. <br />
<br />
Otherwise it just appears completely unattainable. Like she was plopped down to earth just to taunt the rest of us with our jiggly tummies and cellulite-dotted thighs. <br />
<br />
I meet women at the gym all the time that are working really hard to stay in shape, have more energy to keep up with their kids, and hopefully look at least "pretty good" in that new top they just bought.<br />
<br />
If you're going to crash our workout party looking like a spandex model, have the common courtesy to give a little back story. Tell us you used to weigh more than your car, but then you hit the gym and watched the fat disappear.<br />
<br />
<em>Something</em> to give us hope.<br />
<br />
<em>Something </em>to make us believe that maybe, just maybe, we could at least get <em>close</em> to what you have attained because you're really not that different from us.<br />
<br />
Right now I have no reason to believe you are anything more than an alien - sent here to torment us.<br />
<br />
Have some mercy and call the mother ship. <em>But do leave the name of that surgeon before you go...</em>ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-64797879517419165652012-07-19T16:32:00.000-05:002012-07-19T16:32:03.789-05:00McDonald's Day SpaI've been suckered.<br />
<br />
Suckered into empty calories, weight gain and not even any fun doing it.<br />
<br />
Yesterday my children had their regular dental checkup. Since I have to tell them at least six times to brush their teeth before they actually do it every morning and night, I am always <strike>dumbfounded</strike> elated when they actually slide off the dentist chair with a "no cavities" report.<br />
<br />
This appointment was no exception. Only thing is I forgot that in the past when they got a clean bill of health, I rewarded them (truly it is to celebrate my own ability to escape a brush with financial death via outlandish dental rates for fillings).<br />
<br />
I was at a loss as to what the reward should be - but my daughter rattled off things I'd done for them in the past and I had little to no recollection of these fine rewards. But they probably happened. There's only so much available space in my brain for memory nowadays, so some information doesn't make the cut.<br />
<br />
Since it was Wednesday, the obvious choice was "Waffle Cone Wednesday" at TCBY. Okay, so we waffle cone it. <br />
<br />
Then upon returning home I discover there is a YMCA Family Picnic in the evening - complete with hotdogs, drinks, bouncy playsets, games and prizes.<br />
<br />
I tell my kids about it and my son says, "Oh! That could have been our reward!"<br />
<br />
Rats. <br />
<br />
Really wish I had reviewed my calendar earlier.<br />
<br />
Then after seeing the forecast for today, I was trying to rack my brain for activities we could do that would not involve having to be outdoors in 105 degree heat, but also avoid the fighting and screaming that naturally occurs between my children when they must stay home and (heaven-forbid) share space.<br />
<br />
When a friend made mention of going to McDonald's playland this afternoon, I thought that was genius. An indoor playground seemed perfect.<br />
<br />
Of course you don't get in without buying something first, so I caved to ice cream cones. <br />
<br />
Only to open the door of the play area and gasp.<br />
<br />
Guess what? McDonald's play area is NOT climate-controlled.<br />
<br />
That's right. McDonald's now offers a sauna experience. <br />
<br />
Seriously thought I may pass out.<br />
<br />
All I could think of was how I'd been SUCKERED again.<br />
<br />
There I am: ice cream running down my hands, shoes sticking to the floor, and aghast at the temperature in that room.<br />
<br />
So we wolfed down our ice <strike>cream</strike> milk and the kids started to play. <br />
<br />
Within five minutes my oldest son looked like he just came from running 40 minutes on the treadmill. Sweat drenched his shirt and hair.<br />
<br />
Disgusting.<br />
<br />
We didn't stay long for two reasons:<br />
<br />
1) I left an air conditioned home for this? Foolishness.<br />
2) My children were more interested in watching the large television screen than playing. <br />
<br />
Guess what? We have a TV at home, too. And it's not in a sauna.<br />
<br />
We pile back into the van and head home.<br />
<br />
So while my kids watch television, I mope at the annoyance of ingesting high-calorie treats TWO DAYS IN A ROW all in the name of summer.<br />
<br />
I know, I know - you're thinking, "Geez, Max. No one was holding a gun to your head to order <em>yourself</em> those treats."<br />
<br />
I understand that. I take full responsibility - well, almost - for my gluttony.<br />
<br />
I really need to work on that.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I'll go back to my policy of avoiding McDonald's at all costs, and scheduling dentist appointments on days when we're doing something fun anyway. <br />
<br />
And maybe my waistline will find its way back to where it belongs.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-75021816591078980042012-07-09T23:05:00.000-05:002012-07-09T23:05:37.457-05:00Job SatisfactionI just returned from a week-long trip to Orlando, Florida. While the trip was a welcomed retreat from the daily grind, it also made me appreciate the roles I play as mother and writer.<br />
<br />
Because there are a lot of rotten jobs out there.<br />
<br />
It could be argued that I am simply not wired to be employed by the service industry, but here is a list of a few jobs I witnessed this week that I am incredibly grateful never made it on my resume:<br />
<br />
1. The security guard on the airport tram. While the work is probably incredibly easy and was probably even kind of fun the first 30 times the tram scooted along the track, by the end of the day I would be so sick and tired of going back and forth on a little train car that I would very likely come home and burn my copy of "The Little Engine That Could."<br />
<br />
2. The golf-cart driver at the hotel. In the same vein as #1, this job would be excruciatingly monotonous. He or she drives a golf car back and forth between the hotel and the parking garage. Tips are probably minimal and the urge to for once take a new route - maybe barreling through the picturesque bushes in front of the hotel - would probably overcome me. I'd be fired so fast.<br />
<br />
3. A concierge. I think the boredom alone would kill me. As I walked by and saw the woman behind the counter leaning against the wall, twirling her hair with her head cocked to the side, her nonverbals screamed, "I am so bored I may crawl onto this counter and fall asleep." Any job that leaves me staring at the clock waiting for my shift to end does not appeal to me in the least.<br />
<br />
4. Vendor at a major league baseball game. I commend the ones who at least try to make it fun and develop a little whistle or chant to sell their goods, but at the same time they have to haul this heavy tub packed with ice and glass bottles up and down, up and down, up and down, collecting crumpled, dirty bills from a variety of - shall we say 'colorful' - customers while annoying everyone else with their loud shouts of "BEER HERE!" My back ached just watching them traipse all over those stadium stairs. If I had that job, I'd pray for a line drive to strike me in the head and knock me out of my misery.<br />
<br />
5. Security guy at a major league baseball game. If that isn't the dopiest-looking job I've ever witnessed. Sure, I suppose it gets interesting if anyone starts a scuffle or attempts to run onto the field. But there was nothing of the sort happening and so the extent of their job was to sit on the edges during game play and at the change of innings, walk out onto the field to stand boldly as if they were just waiting to take someone out. Personally, I thought they looked silly walking out the field. I didn't get the point of that. It almost appeared as if they wanted recognition for being there at all. Just stay by the wall, dudes. We know you're there.<br />
<br />
6. The guy who picks up garbage off the beach. To be honest, I am a little envious of his handy-dandy pick-up tool. I wouldn't mind one of those myself. And there's something to be said for having a job on the beach, but since beach go-ers are apparently synonymous with litterbugs, the job is intense. The beach is a mess. That's right, beach bums: you ARE bums for trashing the place. Find a trash can for crying out loud. I felt particularly sorry for the guy since the night before there must have been a fireworks party so he had a considerable amount of additional debris to pick up. That would make for a long, hot day.<br />
<br />
7. Virtually any restaurant server in a tourist trap like Orlando, Florida. That's customers from around the world - speaking every language known to man - plopping down in your section and you're hoping against hope that you don't interpret something wrong and mess up the order beyond repair. And contrary to what one would think, vacationers are not always relaxed and easy-going. Nope. Not the job for me.<br />
<br />
8. The cabana staff. In theory, this sounds great. Poolside. Probably good tips. Relatively simple - just deliver foods, drinks and towels, right? But when the heat index is 102 and you're wearing a thick polo shirt and khakis, it loses its appeal quickly. How they resist the urge to go dive in the sparkling pool waters is beyond me. I don't know how I would handle that temptation when sweat is dripping steadily off my body. Not well, I suspect.<br />
<br />
Now there were a couple jobs I observed that I would deem quite a privilege. For instance, the elevator voice lady. I want that job. I might mix it up a bit, though. Instead of the general, "Going up" - I might put it in the form of a question: "Going up?" Maybe make them think a little - that maybe, just maybe, they'll feel they need to respond or they may end up going down. <br />
<br />
Also, I wish I could say I designed an airport. Not that I want to put in those kinds of endless hours, but to have a brain that could actually make sense of that kind of complex information would be pretty awesome.<br />
<br />
But hey. It's good to be home. Because my "work" gave me three huge hugs when I walked through the door. <br />
<br />
Now that's job satisfaction.<br />
<br />
<br />ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-1012303635669437482012-05-13T18:18:00.001-05:002012-05-13T18:18:21.571-05:00You just don't know.It's Mother's Day. But you knew that. Hallmark, Dairy Queen and every department store in the mall told you. <br />
<br />
Repeatedly.<br />
<br />
Moms have a tough job. It comes with no job description and yet you're responsible for at least one other human life. <br />
<br />And while many of us would not be where we are, or who we are, without the influence of our mothers, I caution those who jump to the conclusion that children are the way they are because of those mothers.<br />
<br />
Not every child who is successful in life had an encouraging mother who taught a strong work ethic.<br />
<br />
Nor did every child who is a mess have a mother who refused to discipline or didn't try to raise her child well.<br />
<br />
I was bothered by some comments made by a mother about a fellow mother this morning. A young child - not more than three or four, probably - acted defiantly. The woman asked him to pick up some crayons that dropped on the floor to which he replied with an emphatic "No! I don't have to!"<br />
<br />
The woman was appalled, and immediately determined this child was not disciplined by his parents and was likely the result of a parent who puts her child in daycare and then feels too much guilt at the end of the day to properly discipline and correct the child's behavior.<br />
<br />
Uh. Say what?!<br />
<br />
Important to note is that this woman is the mother of three very mild-mannered children. Are they that way because she disciplines so well herself, or is it merely their personality and she's never had to deal with a strong-willed child in her home? I suspect it's a bit of both. This woman's children are respectful and show tremendous character. I commend the parents for raising them toward that goal.<br />
<br />
But I don't commend her for passing judgment on one of our own...we're moms, and ladies, we've GOT to stick together.<br />
<br />
I mean, don't we all try our best to raise our children to be helpful, kind, honest and respectful? <br />
<br />
But can't we all agree that this work is a lot easier with some children than others?<br />
<br />
I don't know the circumstances of that little boy who refused to pick up his crayons, but I would guess virtually <em>everyone</em> has watched a child of that age test authority in a manner such as this.<br />
<br />
Frankly, she could have been talking about my child. Typically, he is pretty good about following instructions like that, but he also likes to throw a 'tude on occasion, and I'd be pretty heartbroken to think someone automatically labeled him as "undisciplined" because of it.<br />
<br />
All this to say, I struggle tremendously when people pass judgment on moms. Early on in motherhood, I had a dear friend who taught me a fantastic mantra when witnessing what we may deem as an unfit mother. <br />
<br />
<em>You</em> <em>just don't know.</em><br />
<br />
You just don't know what other moms are dealing with in the midst of trying to raise those kids. <br />
<br />
Yes, I mean the 4-year-old who still has a baby bottle in her mouth.<br />
<br />
Because what you don't know is the little girl battles sensory issues something terrible and that bottle is the <em>one</em> thing that mom can use to calm her sweet soul.<br />
<br />
Or the child who is climbing the walls and refuses to sit still.<br />
<br />
Did you know his Dad was laid off and had to take a job where he's on the road 6 days a week? His mom is doing all she can to keep the home together, and her child has his own way of coping the loss of Daddy.<br />
<br />
Certainly there are cases where a little more effective parenting could make a difference, but I refuse to be the one to be judge and jury in it.<br />
<br />
<em>Because you just don't know.</em><br />
<br />
We moms have the hardest job on the planet. Some days we deserve a pat on the back and others a slap in the face, for sure.<br />
<br />
We're not perfect.<br />
<br />
Our children are not perfect.<br />
<br />
So the second you think yours are superior to mine, or I think mine are superior to yours, that's when we've failed our children most of all.<br />
<br />
So today, I join in the chorus of "Happy Mother's Day, Mom." Here's to the next year - a year I hope is full of encouragement and love from other moms. Because while we <em>just don't know</em> all of your circumstances, we <em>do know</em> the sacrifice, joy, heartaches, frustrations and total satisfaction that comes from turning a tiny baby into a functioning adult, with hopefully enough sense to clean up what they dropped.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-5005496912011584542012-05-04T23:22:00.000-05:002012-05-04T23:22:00.966-05:00I'm no Generic brand.<br />
I need to update my resume.<br />
<br />
In the last 24 hours, I discovered skills I didn't know I had.<br />
<br />
First of all, I laced up my rollerblades. Yes, you read that correctly. Me. On rollerblades. It was bold, I know. But that's how I roll.<br />
<br />
Okay, sorry. I couldn't avoid that perfect pun.<br />
<br />
My kids are perfecting their own blading skills, and pleaded for me to join them. Since the last time I recall zipping around in my rollerblades was prior to motherhood, let's just say it isn't like riding a bike.<br />
<br />
There's a reason moms don't typically do this activity. Mainly, because we don't want to die. We know our kids need us, so we avoid these high-risk endeavors. That and we prefer boo-boos to be remedied with a simple Sponge Bob band-aid. Rolling into oncoming traffic because the single, worthless brake will only catapult me backwards as I skid to my doom...that's beyond Sponge Bob's capability.<br />
<br />
But after a couple "refresher courses," I'm making significant improvement. I'm even venturing a little closer to the end of the driveway. But not much. It slopes <em>down</em> there, ya' know. I prefer not to flirt with danger.<br />
<br />
Since I'm resembling more Tonya Harding than Nancy Kerrigan (And yes, I realize I dated myself with that reference), I set the wheels aside to take on my next assignment.<br />
<br />
Fashion designer.<br />
<br />
Hey, quit laughing. I realize my typical jeans and fleece pull-over attire don't exactly scream "fashion model" but that just shows how little you know. I'm pretty sure if I was filthy rich I'd be dressed to impress. See, the only thing between me and a perfect closet is a whole lotta green. At least that's what I'm telling myself.<br />
<br />
But when someone invites me to forget the price tags and put something together, apparently I do okay. I've volunteered to model outfits from a local clothing store for an event next week. Today I stopped at the store to select my wardrobe.<br />
<br />
Of course in my head, this looks a lot like the scene in Pretty Woman when the manager and all the salespeople and are doting on me, having me try on hundreds of clothes as they feed me chocolate. <br />
<br />
In reality, I walked in and the woman that was supposed to help me disappeared to the back room for an uncomfortably long time. When she reappeared, she said, "How about black and white?"<br />
<br />
Now, if you know me, you know I like color. Reds, oranges, pinks and blues - I'll wear it all, sometimes at the same time. I don't particularly enjoy dressing like a generic cereal box, but I didn't think I had a lot of say in the matter.<br />
<br />
Little did I know how little they'd know. Yep. They showed me some racks, and I was on my own. I started putting things together, adding punches of color with a scarf or a belt. And they LOVED it. I got rave reviews.<br />
<br />
Who knew I missed my calling? I'll be auditioning for "Fashion Star" tomorrow.<br />
<br />
But that's not all. Not only am I a budding fashionista, I am a dancing marvel.<br />
<br />
Well, kind of. At least dances good enough for a 3rd grader.<br />
<br />
My daughter is performing in her class talent show in a couple of weeks. She and a friend want to cut a rug to a little Bella Thorne-Zendaya mix. But they need choreography.<br />
<br />
Her friend came over after school today to practice their moves. They've been practicing at recess all week. But once they run through it once in my house, they determine their moves are hideous. They want to start from scratch.<br />
<br />
"Mom! You have to help us!" <br />
<br />
My "You've got to be kidding me" facial expression was promptly ignored. <br />
<br />
Before I knew it, I was choreographing three minutes of the hippest, hoppiest (I lost all credibility with that lame dance terminology, didn't I?) of my life.<br />
<br />
Who knew watching my friends practice for dance team tryouts in high school would come in handy 20 years later?<br />
<br />
And yes, my daughter is going to sport some moves direct from that 20-year-old routine. Don't judge me! I was forced into this job against my will and had to shoot from the hip.<br />
<br />
Ooh, wait a second. That might make a good dance move. Let me write that down.<br />
<br />
Considering most days are classifed a success if the dishes get done and the computer doesn't crash, this was a pretty productive day!ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-45909385594537369712012-03-02T14:30:00.002-06:002012-03-02T14:30:34.871-06:00Homemade Girl Scout Cookies: A lesson in futility.Some things simply need to be left to the professionals.<br />
<br />
In my case, those professionals are the Girl Scouts. <br />
<br />
I had a hair-brained idea this week to try my hand at making homemade Girl Scout cookies. Yes, I saw the recipes on Pinterest so I foolishly thought they were do-able.<br />
<br />
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.<br />
<br />
But I <em>love</em> Thin Mints and Samoas and the thought of being able to make them myself seemed too good to be true.<br />
<br />
And it was.<br />
<br />
Oh. My. Goodness.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, my first mistake was trying to assemble and bake two kinds of cookies at the same time. Thinking I'd be saving time by having ingredients and the mixer all out at once only proved to frustrate me more trying to coordinate the cooking, cooling and baking times. <br />
<br />
I started with the Samoas dough. Easy enough. Basic shortbread, really. But I didn't have a cookie cutter shaped like a donut, so I had to improvise with a small glass and the opposite end of a frosting piping tip. But I kept getting dough stuck in that tip so had to fish it out with a fork every time. It got rather obnoxious.<br />
<br />
Once those were in the oven, I started the Thin Mints dough. The recipe tells me to "knead the dough slightly to help keep it together." What a joke.<br />
<br />
The stuff just crumbled. Worse yet - the recipe indicated to put it in the freezer for 15 minutes prior to rolling it out. <br />
<br />
So it doesn't take a rocket scientist - or even an amateur chef - to surmise this dough was going to break apart when you tried to cut cookies from it. Cold, hardened, crumbly. Oh yeah. That just <em>screams</em> success in the kitchen. <br />
<br />
Again, I didn't have a small round cookie cutter, but the recipe advised using a bottle cap - like from a small orange juice - to cut the cookies.<br />
<br />
I had no orange juice. I had Powerade. Close enough.<br />
<br />
But it was impossible to pull the dough out from the cap without it falling apart, so soon I was hacking away at that plastic cap with my kitchen shears to put a big enough hole on top to push my finger through and loosen the cookie from the top.<br />
<br />
Although then I just managed to poke a hole in the center of every cookie. Aargh!<br />
<br />
So with my kitchen shears in hand, I chopped and wrestled that cap some more. Orange plastic shards flying everywhere. <br />
<br />
What a mess. But that's hardly the worst of it. I scan my kitchen.<br />
<br />
Dough bits are EVERYWHERE.<br />
<br />
My kitchen counters have a thorough dusting of powdered sugar and cocoa powder, the floors are littered with crumbs and since I'm darting to and fro, I've managed to smoosh chocolate bits with my feet into the floor. <br />
<br />
<em>Really glad I didn't get a chance to clean the floors yet this week. I try not to get down on myself about the mess, vowing to make mopping top priority tomorrow.</em><br />
<br />
I eventually get the hang of the Thin Mints cookie cutting, when I realize I have to put things on hold and go coach my son's 2nd Grade basketball team at the Y.<em> </em><br />
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<em>I can't even begin to believe it is nearly 4:00 and I'm still putting these cookies together!</em><br />
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Hubby is away at a conference all week, so I have to pinch-hit for him as coach. <em>You're probably asking yourself, "Why would she choose </em>today<em> to take on this baking project?" Good question. But I really did not expect this to be an 8-hour project! That, and I think I must thrive under pressure so I unwittingly put myself in these situations.</em><br />
<br />
It's the first practice of the season, I've never coached anything, <em>ever,</em> and I've got 11 highly energetic 7 & 8 year old boys to corral and teach the fundamentals. And I'm pretty sure I have chocolate streaks on my shirtsleeves and cocoa in my hair.<br />
<br />
I welcome the diversion from my disaster in the kitchen, but I cringe at the work I have left to do when I return home. <br />
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Practice comes to a close - it went pretty well, I think. But I'm more than happy to relinquish the reins to my husband next week!<br />
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After filling the bathtub for my boys and sending my daughter to shower, it's back into the kitchen I go. I finish all the baking and move onto the toppings and assembly.<br />
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This is when deep regret enters my brain.<br />
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Nothing is more irritating when I'm cooking then to have a faulty recipe. The ratio of coconut to caramel for the Samoas is completely off. I have way too little caramel, yet enough coconut to feed Skipper for a week. Well, maybe not Skipper. That scrawny Gilligan, for sure, though.<br />
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Not only does this grave detail make mixing the two futile, but I don't have nearly enough caramel to spread on each cookie in order to make the topping actually<em> stick </em>to the cookies. Not to mention that the assembly is so tedious that I have to repeatedly reheat the caramel to spreading consistency.<br />
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But guess what happens when you continually heat caramel? <br />
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It turns hard as a rock, that's what.<br />
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So not helpful.<br />
<br />
I'm at a loss so I walk away from this train wreck and move on to the Thin Mints.<br />
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They are ready for dipping in chocolate. Again, faulty recipe translates to more frustration. I did not make <em>nearly</em> enough chocolate to coat all the cookies. <br />
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<em>Maybe the recipe author knew how impossible cutting cookies from that dough is and figured I'd give up half-way through and chuck the remaining dough. Little did she know I have stamina and would fight that dough to the death! The only chance of that chocolate coating sufficiently covering each cookie is if I had, indeed, only made half of the cookies! </em><br />
<br />I grumble and give in to melting more chocolate. It still isn't enough - I'm about 7 cookies short - but by this time I'm so thoroughly exhausted I opt to toss the un-coated cookies into a ziplock and put them in the freezer. Maybe I'll feel the urge for a Thin Mint in July. I'll melt more chocolate then.<br />
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My attention now goes back to those horrific Samoas. Bottom line: I need more caramel.<br />
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As the only adult in the house with three children in bed, a trip to the grocery store is not an option. Then it dawns on me that I can make caramel from brown sugar!<br />
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I scan the internet for a how-to and soon I'm making my own caramel. I think I'm a genius until this also fails miserably. It's just a runny mess that has no adhesiveness to it whatsoever, so again I'm left with clumps of rock-hard coconut and caramel that refuse to stick to my cookies. Meanwhile, this runny caramel is turning my shortbread cookies into soggy, crumbly circles of goo.<br />
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I'm near tears, but am committed to finishing. I do the best I can with what I have to work with and just hope the final step of chocolate dipping and drizzling will somehow remedy the situation.<br />
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All hope is lost when I discover the amount of chocolate sauce the recipe produces only gets me through about 3/4 of the cookies. <br />
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I refuse to care. <br />
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I leave it all on wax paper to set, loosely cover it with plastic wrap and admit defeat. I'd deal with it in the morning.<br />
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It takes me nearly as long to clean up my counters and load the dishwasher as it did to make those dreadful cookies! It doesn't help that I have bowls and kettles caked with hardened caramel and chocolate sauces. For a split second, I consider tossing everything in the garbage and buying new in the morning. <br />
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I quickly realize it's insanity - brought on by impossible girl Scout cookies reproduction - talking and I snap back into the real world. I'll just let them soak. For a long time. A <em>reeeeally</em> long time. Like until my husband comes home and he can clean them. <em>(insert devilish laugh here)</em><br />
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By morning the verdict is in. I have pretty decent Thin Mints, but certainly not quite Girl Scout Thin Mint caliber. And <em>definitely</em> not worth the effort when I could have just given the girl at my door earlier in the week four bucks and saved myself the trouble.<br />
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The Somoas? A complete and utter disaster. Soggy shortbread. Teeth-breaking coconut and caramel. And even odd-tasting chocolate...that never really set very well. But I have two storage containers full of the little mishaps. <em>At this point, I'd have to pay someone four bucks to eat them.</em><br />
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So do yourself a favor. Learn from my mistakes.<br />
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Support your neighborhood Girl Scout and buy her cookies. No messy kitchen. No frustration. No entire-day-sucking prep. At $4 a box, it's truly a steal. At some point - maybe when I realized my caramel was overcooked - I would have paid 70x that for someone to put me out of my misery.<br />
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Although I probably could have just thrown one of those Samoas at my head for the same effect.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-20030491591700687152012-02-26T18:19:00.000-06:002012-02-26T18:19:28.482-06:00Please THINK before it's in INK.We, as a human race, are just plain odd. We do weird stuff. And worse yet, we publish it.<br />
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Every Sunday, we open the newspaper and flip through the local "Celebrate" section - a place for people to send in announcements and congratulatory sentiments. As is typical in our house, we're searching for people we may know.<br />
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This week's edition doesn't disappoint. We see the son of some people we know has tied the knot - albeit, a year ago. Okay, so they procrastinated that wedding announcement a tad. No biggie. <br />
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But then eyes shift across the page to the engagement announcement of a lovely young couple. It doesn't take long for the names to sink in and make us laugh. In this case, it's highly unlikely the blushing bride will take her husband's name. If she did, her name would become Lindsey Lindsey. That's right. Lindsey is marrying a young man who has a last name that matches her first.<br />
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Awkward.<br />
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Okay, we move on. To a sweet 16-year-old who probably won't forgive her parents. EVER.<br />
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The line below her picture? "Look who's old enough to date!"<br />
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<em>Groan.</em><br />
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I'm sure she's THRILLED that her parents announced that particular piece of information to the world. Way to go, Mom and Dad. Nothing says "Happy Birthday, I love you" like a little public humiliation.<br />
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And finally, we turn to the last page and set our eyes on a "If found, please call..." announcement. It seems innocent enough. A picture of a dog - the beloved family pet. And we assume old Fido ran off and needs to be found.<br />
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Uh, nope. After we read the text, we look a little closer at that photo.<br />
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That ain't Fido. <br />
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That's a "replica" - a <em>statue, </em>people! - of Fido. <br />
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Yes. That's right. This family wants the statue of their dog, or maybe it's the stuffed version of their dog - I don't know, I'm just repulsed by the creature/figurine/thingy - to be returned. <br />
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If that thing was in my house, I would find a way to make it "lost," too. Yikes! <br />
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Oh well. At least these kinds of announcements make you forget about the typical frightening picture of someone's Uncle Louie dressed like one of the Village People holding a cake iced with, "Lordy, Lordy, Looks Who's 40?" <br />
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Louie, at least you're not dead and stuffed. After all, we might lose ya.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-91598207813801677082012-02-06T16:35:00.000-06:002012-02-06T16:36:25.673-06:00A Tour of My Pinterest Treasures!By now you know my love for Pinterest. Just to prove I'm not just a bystander, I do actually make stuff I find on Pinterest. This blog is a small gallery of what I've created...some of it is not bad, some is a slightly worse representation of what I actually found on Pinterest, but I'm generally happy with it anyway.<br />
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First up, I had a NEED to get organized. On Pinterest, I found a Kitchen Command Center that began with a kitchen desk that resembled my own, so the wheels started turning. Our kitchen desk becomes the victim of crap abuse like no other. It's where mail is dumped, school papers are <strike>lost</strike> stacked, and everything from tape measures and stray screws get tossed.<br />
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So I grabbed some essentials from the dollar store and the big discount <strike>traps</strike> stores and decided to build my own Kitchen Command Center. I found inspiration from this site: <a href="http://delightfulorder.blogspot.com/2011/03/kitchen-command-center.html">http://delightfulorder.blogspot.com/2011/03/kitchen-command-center.html</a><br />
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I also bought another roll of labels for my labelmaker that has been collecting dust because I ran out of tape for it years ago. Unfortunately I probably could have bought an entirely new labelmaker for what that tape cartridge set me back. Good grief. Anyway, here we go...<br />
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<a href="http://media-cdn.pinterest.com/upload/255579347572926608_ifW6b05O_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-5T9DxchuIVPAJAheMb-PHSi_F0FaQDxWN2pNNWYag7DtXZAT7fhDazwbj2oMP0eLss45D9zFlwdMYygbCuGknz6t2AtHdeRTTK4780lJcI0zrBGEtnFFA7oOGpZn_qTb6TJRn7cKsg/s1600/DSCN9417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-5T9DxchuIVPAJAheMb-PHSi_F0FaQDxWN2pNNWYag7DtXZAT7fhDazwbj2oMP0eLss45D9zFlwdMYygbCuGknz6t2AtHdeRTTK4780lJcI0zrBGEtnFFA7oOGpZn_qTb6TJRn7cKsg/s320/DSCN9417.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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The blue thingy on the bottom is full of markers, glue sticks and crayons so my kids can just haul out the whole thing when they need to get creative. It keeps it all contained and everyone's happy. Particularly Mom. And we like to keep Mom happy, right? Above that is a bin with markers that are used less often (aka, NOT washable - those scented ones and some other messy kind my preschooler brought home from somewhere). It also houses colored pencils and extra crayons. (We have way too many crayons. But I've seen plenty of Pinterest ideas on how to use crayons to make stuff, so I have big plans...) And the top shelf is for flashlights. It was full when I finished this project, and then my husband immediately took out the three he likes and put them elsewhere, so I was left with a big bin for a few small flashlights the kids use from time to time if they're building a fort, or have a sleepover. Oh well, at least we know where to find them. My husband will probably be asking me someday where his went...</div>
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Finally, on the cabinet door I attached the Honey-Do list and random keys. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKUnG-LtjOlj2aaC8kheYL571OjRMQl_nxil2EMo4ZWCMf3mwmxFqtTxrcFg18P7IzJi6IFPmkPS8WykaWYd8KqPr8fRtQTdP5CCgpU9QG_FiJc6uyqRN0MSUTYXgUeqWpYNyBFzusdI/s1600/DSCN9416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKUnG-LtjOlj2aaC8kheYL571OjRMQl_nxil2EMo4ZWCMf3mwmxFqtTxrcFg18P7IzJi6IFPmkPS8WykaWYd8KqPr8fRtQTdP5CCgpU9QG_FiJc6uyqRN0MSUTYXgUeqWpYNyBFzusdI/s320/DSCN9416.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
I covered an old bulletin board in fabric that matched my kitchen color scheme, and covered file folders with coordinating scrapbook papers for the kids spelling lists, class newsletters, etc. The cabinet above all that houses more stuff in bins - glue, tape, permanenet markers, that sort of thing. The red box thingy on the door is just a Wheat Chex box covered in scrapbook paper and then stuck to the door with command strips (LOVE those things) - below is the Pinterest example I <strike>stole</strike> copied.<br />
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<img alt="Pinned Image" border="0" id="pinCloseupImage" src="http://media-cdn.pinterest.com/upload/255579347572926608_ifW6b05O_c.jpg" /><br />
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I also found this cute little caddy doo-dad at Target for pencils and you see that little drawer under the post-its? It's my favorite part. It is the catch-all for random earring backs, thumbtacks, safety pins or any other odd tiny thing that I just don't feel like taking to its proper home at the moment. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN6RYBU9u7w2vQdgJenSW4yHN6acxw8H_3tTGE6Uxkipxef2LHKzSQ5a2CL3LeWk4IpcobHAoFKjXVUJBt_v67zEofoSq76t0Nuich4BXAboyhgdD6c2kdTZJqFYk3x6uk-sOhqp_FCVM/s1600/DSCN9425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN6RYBU9u7w2vQdgJenSW4yHN6acxw8H_3tTGE6Uxkipxef2LHKzSQ5a2CL3LeWk4IpcobHAoFKjXVUJBt_v67zEofoSq76t0Nuich4BXAboyhgdD6c2kdTZJqFYk3x6uk-sOhqp_FCVM/s320/DSCN9425.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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These next two photos represent an idea that wasn't entirely from Pinterest. Covering cardboard in scrapbook paper and hooking it to the inside of my cabinet certainly was, but the breakfast idea actually came from a friend who is a genius parent. She has four kids so she has to have some order or there is no civility. I got really, REALLY tired of my kids choosing their own breakfasts every morning, whining about not knowing what to eat, turning me into a short-order cook scrambling to get them off to school on time. I'm proud to say, this breakfast-picking is no longer an issue. Each child is assigned a day and they get to pick the breakfast. I have several options for them, as you can see in the photo. They choose what they want, I know what to pull together in the morning, and they are responsible for setting the table and getting the items they are capable of retreiving to the table. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvHl1RMjFBJdQKRjqO3tJGQ1TtxnV90li91pkaCQRp3cx6xktF7gfBJMzybuxlS2lNRplEjR9XJEOOrQLksUwCCwzM4PDHMSA3nH3V9WJ_ds9dVaEe0bd9kiLek88nokPx2RGO_oGmrI/s1600/DSCN9418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvHl1RMjFBJdQKRjqO3tJGQ1TtxnV90li91pkaCQRp3cx6xktF7gfBJMzybuxlS2lNRplEjR9XJEOOrQLksUwCCwzM4PDHMSA3nH3V9WJ_ds9dVaEe0bd9kiLek88nokPx2RGO_oGmrI/s320/DSCN9418.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
It's been a big help, and although occasionally we hear the whine of, "I don't want this" - they are quickly told their turn is only a day or two away, so the whining subsides. For the most part, they haven't gone to school starving.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yZJ0uPbZqAiqlDdZt6hTzkijcZ1MprVhtEpnIA3NvKq_MsOV7Qhr0VB49Qn5gGDWaiK_ENElpMK1izF18uY493oEw_UgSvH9hDEfMPq9w_A9FhBrjYojQbBhhclrx3itQ1xidVT3Wuw/s1600/DSCN9419.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yZJ0uPbZqAiqlDdZt6hTzkijcZ1MprVhtEpnIA3NvKq_MsOV7Qhr0VB49Qn5gGDWaiK_ENElpMK1izF18uY493oEw_UgSvH9hDEfMPq9w_A9FhBrjYojQbBhhclrx3itQ1xidVT3Wuw/s320/DSCN9419.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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My kitchen window has never been much of a focal point - just some miniblinds that I never even lower. Then I saw the tutorial for how to make Roman Shades with miniblinds and I was smitten. Tutorial here: <a href="http://www.domestically-speaking.com/2011/04/mini-blind-makeover.html">http://www.domestically-speaking.com/2011/04/mini-blind-makeover.html</a> </div>
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Here are my new shades partly closed:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hwMmRG9JiBLBXC3LTzzpeMkoSuMsZ_g1gI6G5aKhJsieE32gTjIA3YSd1YBQPBvnTMhj5E6UMRDCfIKw3pMcaEO0aVjuzBNCKd09G47qfzLZqTvN3Q6E8xugqauxhbLyrg_FU7t3A5o/s1600/DSCN9421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hwMmRG9JiBLBXC3LTzzpeMkoSuMsZ_g1gI6G5aKhJsieE32gTjIA3YSd1YBQPBvnTMhj5E6UMRDCfIKw3pMcaEO0aVjuzBNCKd09G47qfzLZqTvN3Q6E8xugqauxhbLyrg_FU7t3A5o/s320/DSCN9421.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
This is the bottom edge of the fabric, some pretty silver trim but you don't see it unless the shade is lowered completely. Bummer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozBMnElmcg072HOU74SScShOZG2LjPQsnXLLXTq7CNqGfc3nJbKQneiG7okNtPfE2jur-n-w4lkWTNolnJ7-SbXwUIhpWzL4Ov3TeQmwJjmMhrGbarqw16RAr7JoaQ-eSETAH_ume3eU/s1600/DSCN9422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozBMnElmcg072HOU74SScShOZG2LjPQsnXLLXTq7CNqGfc3nJbKQneiG7okNtPfE2jur-n-w4lkWTNolnJ7-SbXwUIhpWzL4Ov3TeQmwJjmMhrGbarqw16RAr7JoaQ-eSETAH_ume3eU/s320/DSCN9422.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
This is how it typically looks because I never really need to lower this shade.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jCiejqnB0suLai-CxbtCvnztTotbaTgR0aEAuLr2wSYBngTZODUVjT61uTarDGVflyFapXRNJJwn0RqtUdmiDcl_armqvThcI6onKT2_5WsB6GDoclap_MlLw3T_GnZvow93PSo3-gM/s1600/DSCN9423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jCiejqnB0suLai-CxbtCvnztTotbaTgR0aEAuLr2wSYBngTZODUVjT61uTarDGVflyFapXRNJJwn0RqtUdmiDcl_armqvThcI6onKT2_5WsB6GDoclap_MlLw3T_GnZvow93PSo3-gM/s320/DSCN9423.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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But not bad, eh?</div>
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This next project is one of my favs. Partly because it was so crazy cheap, but also because it looks so good! I happened upon some clearanced 38 cent tiles at Lowes and decided to implement another Pinterest idea. I printed the letters on a basic laser printer, cut them out and modge podged those babies to the tiles and voila! Instant decor! (just a side note - those black candleholders to the left of my creation were a thrift store find - beat up and an ugly color, but a little black spray paint later and they look brand new! The candles themselves were Target clearance items. SCORE!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieY4KBYU0cMpe_OLNkMiKR8_fvIgsMUTZQSEAvvaUQO-s7qOIaGyw6Dsf4YeprEcIfXaphdRwVEiOdKr-QmAT1DxBDko9RWGPDhmnGMdE5-IPm8D91PAJZhNyOe73PYfzLqRn5vxwPryA/s1600/DSCN9410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieY4KBYU0cMpe_OLNkMiKR8_fvIgsMUTZQSEAvvaUQO-s7qOIaGyw6Dsf4YeprEcIfXaphdRwVEiOdKr-QmAT1DxBDko9RWGPDhmnGMdE5-IPm8D91PAJZhNyOe73PYfzLqRn5vxwPryA/s320/DSCN9410.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQslofpraoQG00JQNVj6_OwQ4lFjWFxsvIHHOSzbm2d_eMH8C094hg0T_Vc-blilr6CgRzTKDA7_Vqhz8k2DuwlngRa6woTD55xvTOUZYUB1kD-30i_vjv-qGCAU51iyoso21sNSU2pU4/s1600/DSCN9414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQslofpraoQG00JQNVj6_OwQ4lFjWFxsvIHHOSzbm2d_eMH8C094hg0T_Vc-blilr6CgRzTKDA7_Vqhz8k2DuwlngRa6woTD55xvTOUZYUB1kD-30i_vjv-qGCAU51iyoso21sNSU2pU4/s320/DSCN9414.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Of course Pinterest is a life-saver for holiday ideas. These adorable pencils - made from rolos and candy kisses - will go to my kids' teachers for Valentine's Day. I just love 'em. (The pencils <em>and</em> the teachers.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgleA_lL70NqcUf7x6DzD6OhOs-ROnk4TVB3EtJL2W5CwPEqe46vdalM-djf9CV7ykGhNCTUCGM5WYzSFE7SUBa0mqKRcG7O9nr6E84WhWKprR91DSzxv3GsRYyI9DmFJaTV-toDNuCQTI/s1600/DSCN9424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgleA_lL70NqcUf7x6DzD6OhOs-ROnk4TVB3EtJL2W5CwPEqe46vdalM-djf9CV7ykGhNCTUCGM5WYzSFE7SUBa0mqKRcG7O9nr6E84WhWKprR91DSzxv3GsRYyI9DmFJaTV-toDNuCQTI/s320/DSCN9424.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This next photo is a quick little project I did with a big can of pears. Once I cleaned out the can, I modge podged scrapbook paper to it - it's a texured paper, too so it is pretty cool. I have a bunch of old denim I've been using for projects, and one of the pantlegs worked well to line this little bucket and make a fun catch-all. Currently it is home to some stuff I need to get to some friends, so I guess it's my "OUT" basket for now. It may have a new purpose later.</div>
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Finally, I will share a fun idea I found that I thought would make a nifty gift idea for a young boy. Turns out my nephew was turning 8 the weekend after I found this on Pinterest so it became his gift! Here is the link where I snatched up the idea: <a href="http://megandandymade.blogspot.com/2011/05/super-hero-fort-kit.html">http://megandandymade.blogspot.com/2011/05/super-hero-fort-kit.html</a></div>
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A tiny bit of sewing, gluing and a trip to Walmart & the dollar store later - I had a Super Hero Fort Kit. My kids love taking every blanket in the house and attaching them to TV trays, cushions and curtains with clothes pins, so I thought all the components of this kit were pure genius. Apparently my nephew's older brother thought the kit was more fab than he did, but I think he was hoping for Legos. Oh, well. Maybe he'll eventually decide putting together his Legos inside a fort could be even more fun???</div>
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So that's my gallery of projects for the most part. I have a few other odd items here and there, but I'm tired of uploading pics, to be quite honest. Besides, I have a vintage suitcase I rescued from the curb, a diaper box to transform into a fabric-covered storage box, and some curtain rods to work my magic on. I need to get to work! </div>
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And I think I saw a tutorial for 101 ways to create amazing decor with shoebox lids. It just keeps getting better...</div>ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-43178666888182638502012-01-22T20:50:00.000-06:002012-01-22T20:55:10.242-06:00Waste not. Want not.In a recent post, I told you how I had found a new love - that of Pinterest. I can officially say I'm an addict. <br />
<br />
My daughter now cringes whenever I pick up an empty cereal box. She quickly catches the dreamy look in my eye as I scan those once-seemingly worthless items.<br />
<br />
"Mom, you're going to make it all pretty and do something from Pinterest again, aren't you?" she says with disdain.<br />
<br />
"Maaaaybe." I coyly reply. Truth is, you can BET I am going to do something crafty with it. <br />
<br />
In just the past two weeks alone, I have set up a "command center" in my kitchen, developed a breakfast system for the kids, improved the libary book storage situation in our home, and created a variety of storage containers from metal cans, cardboard boxes, scrapbook paper and Modge Podge.<br />
<br />
Holy moly, I love Modge Podge. It's the stuff miracles are made of, really. My latest project was spelling out "Family" on some 38 cent clearanced tiles at Lowe's with a simple black and white printer and some of that glorious Modge Podge. <br />
<br />
Is it a sickness? Perhaps. But I feel like a thrifty genius.<br />
<br />
I did gain some much-needed perspective the other day, though. I found a great tutorial on how to make an adorable fabric storage bin from a diaper box. I even pictured the perfect place for it to rest in my home. So off to the fabric store I went, only to do a little math and realize even the CLEARANCED fabric was going to cost me more than if I just went to the shelf and bought an already-assembled fabric storage bin. It was like someone slapped me across the face.<br />
<br />
"Hey Max! Duh, wake up, girl. You're going to spend at least one frustrating hour making this thing, which may or may not turn out like you imagine and it's gonna cost you at least 25-30% more for the materials. Don't be a fool."<br />
<br />
Okay, I'll tuck the diaper box away and wait until I find a screamin' clearanced deal on the right kind of fabric. Can't be hasty in my efforts to not be wasty. :)<br />
<br />
It's funny though how I view all the items that come into my home now. It's as if I was injected with a recycling serum. For example, tonight my kids finished off the mandarin oranges we bought this week. I picked up the container to pitch it, and the weight of it caught my attention. After I peeled off the paper and plastic I discovered it was actually a pretty cool little wooden crate.<br />
<br />
Hmmmm...the wheels started turning.<br />
<br />
My daughter rolled her eyes at me. <br />
<br />
But I reminded her that she never knows when something I find may become a piece of furniture for her American Girl doll...and wouldn't you know it - her disposition did a 180. <br />
<br />
"Reeally, Mom?" she said excitedly.<br />
<br />
Shoot, I've only been on Pinterest for a month or so. Imagine what great joys lie ahead as new projects come to me in future weeks, months and years. <br />
<br />
She won't be so quick to judge when she gets her license someday and she's zipping around town in her sweeeet sports car that I crafted from pallets, her old booster seat and some thrift store finds! <br />
<br />
Go ahead, somebody. Pin that one. I'll be waiting.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-48639876208872793082011-12-29T16:28:00.000-06:002011-12-29T16:53:51.911-06:00Friday. Humph! Who needs it.Got a birthday tomorrow? If you're from Samoa, let me be the first to say, "I'm sorry." <br />
<br />
Yep, those crazy cats down in Samoa have decided to just get rid of Saturday, December 30, 2011. When December 29 turns to midnight, their calendar will jump to December 31. <br />
<br />
A whole day just wiped away. <br />
<br />
Personally, I think losing a perfectly good Friday is nuts. I'd kick a Monday out long before a Friday, but that's just me.<br />
<br />
In case you hadn't heard, Samoa has decided to move itself. Well, actually the island won't budge an inch, but somewhere in imagination station they are moving to the other side of the International Date Line.<br />
<br />
They're tired of doing business a day late with Australia and New Zealand. Apparently those Samoans nearly spit their communion on Sundays knowing their neighboring Aussies are doing business. <br />
<br />
Of course the move hasn't come without its fair share of criticism. Particularly from the tourism industry. Since Samoa was the last place in the world to see the sun set, it was quite the destination for the world's romantics. (The tourist folks aren't finding the distinction of being the 'first place to see the dawn' quite as lucrative.)<br />
<br />
But romance can be salvaged - because you can celebrate an anniversary, wedding, or birthday in Samoa and then jump on a plane for a quick 1-hour trip to American Samoa and celebrate the glorious event twice.<br />
<br />
There is one definite perk for employees in Samoa. Employers are expected to pay their staff for the work day that never happened. <br />
<br />
Cha-ching. Now that's what you call makin' an easy buck.<br />
<br />
I gotta hand it to those Samoans, though. When you can make a day simply disappear, you've got some power. It didn't take much to get buy-in though. The business sector has been waiting for this day much like a young child waits for Christmas.<br />
<br />
Frankly, they're tired of coming in on Sundays to do "urgent Monday" business with a New Zealander. If they waited until Monday, then it was really Tuesday for their consumer. <br />
<br />
Hey, I get it. I have a tough time waiting the 3 minutes it takes for my popcorn to pop. I suspect waiting a day or two to get some service could get annoying.<br />
<br />
Those Samoans must be pretty easy-going people, though. (I suppose living on a beach all the time would keep you mellow.) Turns out they are accustomed to wild changes.<br />
<br />
Just a couple years ago their government decided to change traffic and move motorists to the other side of the road. Yep. Try driving on the right side of the road all your life and then suddenly moving to the left. <br />
<br />
I would think it would be a lot tougher to adapt to <em>that</em> than just skipping a day on the calendar.<br />
<br />
Why did they shift those cars? Pretty much for the same reason: other countries nearby were doing it and they didn't want to feel left out.<br />
<br />
So it makes you wonder if those Samoans are really about progressing business deals or if they simply can't handle peer pressure.<br />
<br />
The truth is, those Samoans aren't losing anything, really. 2012 is a leap year.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-57072167067633850702011-12-22T11:08:00.001-06:002011-12-22T11:08:41.215-06:00It has nothing to do with wrestling or a 1950s fraternity badge. But I'm a sucker for pinning.I have a new love. <br />
<br />
It's name is Pinterest.<br />
<br />
If you don't know of what I speak, then I first must gasp. <br />
<br />
**GASP**<br />
<br />
And then tell you life is better with Pinterest in it. You must discover my joy.<br />
<br />
It isn't just a website.<br />
<br />
It isn't just a time swallower (which, indeed it is).<br />
<br />
In a word, it's BRILLIANT.<br />
<br />
To take the definition from the site, "Pinterest lets you organize and share all the beautiful things you find on the web... Best of all, you can browse pinboards created by other people. Browsing pinboards is a fun way to discover new things and get inspiration from people who share your interests."<br />
<br />
<br />
Since I get a huge thrill out of creativity and usefulness (and I can't muster up either on my own), Pinterest is the brain I wish I had.<br />
<br />
Because I get to go inside the brain of tons of outrageously creative and smart people in a matter of minutes.<br />
<br />
And then steal any portions of that brain that I want.<br />
<br />
It is inspiring, helpful, practical and genius. And I love it. Frankly, I've found it impossible to live without it. <br />
<br />
Particularly as I prepare for the Christmas season - decor, treats and such - I just scope out ideas on Pinterest and -<br />
<br />
BAM!<br />
<br />
the ideas are endless. <br />
<br />
Then there are the inspirational or funny quotes that fill you with hope and laughter. It's like living in a continual Wonderland!<br />
<br />
Pinterest makes you look good. It makes your house look good. It makes your dinner table look good. It makes your kids, your wedding, your dog and even that old suitcase collecting dust in your closet look good. (Did you know it could become an accent CHAIR?!?)<br />
<br />
I'm not even kidding.<br />
<br />
On ONE page, you can find 100th birthday party ideas, a Phineas and Ferb DIY sandwich, a Starbucks bottle recycled into a snowman decoration, and mad photography skills. <br />
<br />I think I hear Martha Stewart crying.<br />
<br />
It's eliminated the need to buy magazines. Or watch HGTV. In fact, even Googling decorating ideas seems slow and tedious now. <br />
<br />
Because I. have. Pinterest.<br />
<br />
I only wish I had thought of it. But that would have taken creativity. Which means I would've needed Pinterest...<br />
<br />
to develop Pinterest.<br />
<br />
Excuse me, but I must go. I have streamers calling me to roll and twist them into a flower centerpiece for my Christmas table. Oh, and I'll be making miniature mugs out of marshmallows and candy canes later.<br />
<br />
You should really come over.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-62834646377585707982011-12-12T14:08:00.003-06:002011-12-13T14:16:33.440-06:00Falling for ChristmasYou know those TV shows where someone is falling to their death from an 18-story building and their "whole life flashes before their eyes"? I think Christmas is a lot like that.<br />
<br />
Okay, not the death part. The last part. Where your life flashes before you.<br />
<br />
Last night I was sitting in our family room looking at our Christmas tree. I carefully eyed every ornament - each one precious in its own right.<br />
<br />
The ones that depict something significant for each year of our children's lives. The ones those same children worked tirelessly on in school, leaving their classroom floors dotted with glue and glitter - and my tree shimmering.<br />
<br />
The ones from friends old and new. The silly ones, the sentimental ones, and even some shiny, store-bought ones that have no attached meaning at all other than at some point I wanted my tree to be made up of more than just popsicle sticks and construction paper.<br />
<br />
But soon my gaze catches one particular ornament - a framed picture of my two oldest children as mere babies, donning their adorable Christmas duds.<br />
<br />
And it begins.<br />
<br />
That "life flashing" stuff. Because it has gone <em>fa la la la la faaaast.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Go ahead, let the dreamy, taking-you-back-in-time music from sitcoms play in your head...</em><br />
<br />
I'm in my childhood home, racing from room to room because my older sisters are convincing me Santa and his reindeer were flying around just outside our house - if I could just get to the right window fast enough I would see them. UGH! The speedy crew eluded me constantly!<br />
<br />
The year I begged incessantly for a good 10 months for a Ziggy doll. <em>(I did get it!)</em><br />
<br />
The Christmas treats that my mother spread through the kitchen in red, white and green ceramic dishes pulled out for only this occasion. <br />
<br />
Of course, there's the traditional park-it-in-front-of-the-TV-every-Friday-night to watch Rudolph, Frosty or It's a Wonderful Life. <em>It's fun to watch those with my own kids now, and how funny it is to see how far technology and cinematography have come over the years!</em><br />
<br />
Fast forward to the traditions I've made with my own family:<br />
<br />
Gingerbread houses, adding a new Christmas book to our annual collection, ornaments, baking, and snapping photos to capture a slice of time. <br />
<br />
But no matter how much I miss those chubby cheeks and that wispy baby hair, the photo ornament on my tree is still just a reminder of one Christmas in the midst of many.<br />
<br />
And not the most important one.<br />
<br />
Remember the first Christmas. That was no slice of time. That was the start of eternity.<br />
<br />
A young woman, her husband and a tiny baby. <em>In a barn</em>, mind you.<br />
<br />
But in that stinky barn was the best news ever. The news of Christmas. <br />
<br />
<br />
Because from childhood to adulthood to parenthood and beyond, Christmas - at its very core - is very simple.<br />
<br />
Now you're probably thinking, "SIMPLE!? Then you haven't seen my neighbor's light display! Or the flurry of activity down at the mall!"<br />
<br />
For just a moment, forget about the doorbuster deals, how you'll avoid your drunk boss at the office party, and that you just ran out of scotch tape.<br />
<br />
Step into your family room and look at your tree.<br />
<br />
Go ahead, find it.<br />
<br />
Find that one ornament.<br />
<br />
That sends you...<br />
<br />
...falling, too.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-40324985612282499922011-12-03T21:58:00.001-06:002011-12-03T22:45:44.558-06:00Say WHAT?I'll admit it. I love local television news.<br />
<br />
Frankly, it cracks me up. Because sometimes it simply makes no sense.<br />
<br />
Virtually every time I watch, there is something that makes me have to hit the rewind button because I can hardly believe my eyes/ears.<br />
<br />
Now I'm not talking about getting a second look at a guy on-the-run from the police or even hearing a cute sound byte from an elementary kid. <br />
<br />
I mean the did-I-just-see-what-I-think-I-saw-because-that-doesn't-fit aspect of a story.<br />
<br />
For instance, the other night there was a story about day care centers specializing in care for special needs children. Very nice story concept, but the video they showed as the reporter spoke included shots of the young children playing...with a very large plastic bag. <br />
<br />
<em>"Keep out of reach of children. Suffocation hazard." comes to mind.</em><br />
<br />
Somehow I don't think video like that conveys the message you want to send when attempting to advertise that you're willing to take in special needs kids.<br />
<br />
I'm also a bit surprised at a story that ran tonight about some underprivileged kids who were able to go on a $50 shopping spree in Walmart, courtesy of our local police department.<br />
<br />
Again, wonderful concept. Great warm and fuzzy story about our dear public servants giving back to the community.<br />
<br />
But these are "underprivileged kids" according to the story.<br />
<br />
And one child starts rattling off what she was able to get with her $50.<br />
<br />
In the midst of her list, she says, "A DS game..." <br />
<br />
Now, wouldn't that imply that the child has a DS at home? <br />
<br />
I didn't realize underprivileged kids owned $150 electronic toys. <br />
<br />
Maybe she got it to give as a gift? I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt.<br />
<br />
Otherwise, someone's definition of "underprivileged" is a bit off from mine. Which could very well be the case. <br />
<br />
And finally, I'll end on probably the most mind-boggling news event that ever occurs in this great state of mine.<br />
<br />
It's when - in this upper Midwestern community where we are no strangers to snow, wind chills and ice - the weather guy alerts us with a "Winter Weather Advisory."<br />
<br />
Really? You have to advise me, on a December day, that I will be experiencing winter weather?<br />
<br />
It goes without saying, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
Uh, it's gonna be cold and likely it will snow. <br />
<br />
Yes. That's pretty much the definition of winter here.<br />
<br />
I love that they waste 4 minutes on it. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, I've already re-wound a few stories back because I couldn't believe the little kid was actually running through the living room with a plastic bag...and that means I can fast-forward a bit.<br />
<br />
Winter Weather Advisory only gets 30 seconds of my time.<br />
<br />
But now we're in a commercial break.<br />
<br />
And don't even get me started on some of those painful-to-watch local commercials.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-89544480713377900022011-09-18T15:59:00.000-05:002011-09-18T15:59:04.937-05:00A whole lot of crazy just might be fun.Nothing like a marathon to bring out the 'crazy' in all of us.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I participated in my first marathon experience. Before you get all, "Wow, that's impressive, Maxine..." I was only in the marathon relay. I had a 6-mile leg. And a good chunk of it was downhill.<br />
<br />
I know, I know. You just slumped a bit in your chair. You're thinking I accomplished very little. <br />
<br />
But for me, it's something.<br />
<br />
I was never a long-distance runner. Ask my old high school track coach. Heck, I whined about going farther than two miles in practice. "I'm a sprinter. Why do I have to be dropped off on some gravel road and forced to run my way back into town? I should be on the track perfecting my starts," I would spout.<br />
<br />
But I'm certainly not running any sprints now. Attempting a sprint just makes me frighteningly aware of how old and slow I am. And when did my back end get so heavy?<br />
<br />
So I'm left like many other near middle-age adults trying to grasp some motivation to keep ourselves in shape. <br />
<br />
The result: I started training for this marathon stuff.<br />
<br />
A few years ago a friend almost had me signed up for a half marathon. But within a few weeks of training, my knees informed me (well, the MRI helped) that I wasn't going to do any running for awhile. <br />
<br />
But after getting back into running, I was invited to join a marathon relay team. After all, it was only six miles...that didn't scare me too much.<br />
<br />
But fixing my eyes on some of the runners at this marathon event sure did. <br />
<br />
Particularly the old guy in the pink leotard, complete with a tutu and magic wand. I can only speculate, but he's either crazy or one drunken night in February...a conversation went something like this:<br />
<br />
Buddy 1: I know you think your Steelers are unbeatable, so how about a little bet on the game?<br />
<br />
Buddy 2: You're on. Loser has to run a marathon. Oh! And you have to wear all pink when you run.<br />
<br />
Buddy 1: Not just pink...you have to wear a pink leotard with a pink tutu.<br />
<br />
Buddy 2: And carry a sparkly wand the whole race!<br />
<br />
Buddy 1: You're on!<br />
<br />
Fast forward seven months later, and a tall bald man is running through the streets looking like a preschooler on Halloween.<br />
<br />
It just isn't right.<br />
<br />
More crazy: the fact that we're all up before daybreak, ON A SATURDAY, MIND YOU, to start running a race in cold, windy, wet weather. Brrr. Oh, and there's a BIG hill involved. Let's not forget that critical detail.<br />
<br />
Add to that craziness: the guys only dressed in light-weight running shorts. But then again, I suppose I'd run fast too if I was half naked.<br />
<br />
That half-naked bit sure worked for the champion. He broke the marathon's record - and his closest competition was over a half hour behind him.<br />
<br />
Now THAT'S crazy.<br />
<br />
Crazy fast, that is.<br />
<br />
Over the past several months as I've been running to get in shape for this event, I've had the privilege to watch and run with others who have also been prepping their muscles and lungs for a relay, or a half or full marathon.<br />
<br />
And what baffles me most?<br />
<br />
The amount of <em>time</em> we have to commit to this training.<br />
<br />
It's excessive, really.<br />
<br />
Those marathoners really have no life. If they're not at work then they better be running somewhere. It's hours and hours of pounding the pavement.<br />
<br />
So my hat - yes, even the cheap one they made in bulk and stuffed into our registration bag - is off to you 13.1 and 26.2-mile crazy people.<br />
<br />
Because it takes a whole lot of crazy to do what you do.<br />
<br />
And to do it with a smile, without the need for a paramedic, is incredibly honorable.<br />
<br />
Now...since this sprinter's quads are revolting from my 6-mile run, will one of you superhuman marathoners please help me get up? ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-30389606643814519972011-08-20T21:14:00.000-05:002011-08-20T21:14:15.428-05:00The "Deal of the Week" for one-footed patronsI'm all for being resourceful in efforts to bring in some extra cash. I really am.<br />
<br />
Selling a few pieces of furniture online. Setting up a lemonade stand. Hosting a garage sale.<br />
<br />
Really, all good things.<br />
<br />
But can we draw a line with the merchandise? <br />
<br />
I went to a garage sale today that brought me to tears...from laughter.<br />
<br />
For sale, at the bargain price of 50 cents each...<br />
<br />
Large, stretched-out, STAINED, men's white briefs.<br />
<br />
I'm not even kidding.<br />
<br />
But oh, I wish I was.<br />
<br />
I don't care who ya are - I firmly believe you should NEVER buy used underwear.<br />
<br />
And most certainly not from this particular merchant. <br />
<br />
But to have it laid out, displayed like it was fine china - with all the world to see the years of wear and well, other stuff.<br />
<br />
Ew.<br />
<br />
That's just wrong. In fact, there should be a law forbidding it. But I'm not sure how one would even write up a bill like that. You'd think common sense could prevail.<br />
<br />
But as I'm making my way out of this establishment - fearing for my life, really - I catch a glimpse of a price tag on one incredibly hideous ceramic cat cookie jar. <br />
<br />
$85. <br />
<br />
That's right. A cookie jar. <br />
<br />
Of a cat. <br />
<br />
An ugly cat. <br />
<br />
$85.<br />
<br />
I couldn't hold it in any longer. I practically sprinted to my car in order to avoid laughing in front of these people.<br />
<br />
MAYBE that cat is a collector's item. I'm not sure. I'm no cookie jar connoisseur, by any means.<br />
<br />
But very few things at a garage sale should be priced at $85.<br />
<br />
A large appliance.<br />
<br />
A small snowblower, perhaps.<br />
<br />
But a cookie jar? Of an ugly cat? Again...seems to go against all common sense.<br />
<br />
My personal favorite today was walking into a garage to find a very large box - we're talking the size of a small refrigerator - stuffed full of children's shoes. I just assumed they didn't have time to get them all displayed. There was already a large lineup of shoes on the driveway, after all.<br />
<br />
I see one shoe on the top of the pile that looks cute, so I shuffle a couple other shoes in search for the mate.<br />
<br />
The homeowner gets my attention and says, "Oh, those are all mis-matched. You won't find the other one like it."<br />
<br />
I was dumbfounded. I was aghast. I looked at her with astonishment and said, "Really? This WHOLE box is full of shoes missing their match?!"<br />
<br />
She smiles and shrugs as she looks at her children gathered around her. "Yeah," she sighs. Then a bit embarrassed, she replies, "I know."<br />
<br />
It was tragic, really. Dozens of adorable shoes - some in excellent condition - with no match. How does this happen?? <br />
<br />
I can understand a lost shoe here and there - but an entire box full of them? That's nearly miraculous. <br />
<br />
My mind began to race with all the possibilities of where those shoes could be. <br />
<br />
I picture the shoe hanging from an electrical line (evidence a bully came by or a teenager pulled a prank).<br />
<br />
Or on the street. (perhaps it fell out during a Chinese fire drill?)<br />
<br />
Or ferociously chewed to bits by the family dog. (naughty Fido)<br />
<br />
Whatever the reason, I was puzzled as to why they would even be offered up for sale.<br />
<br />
You're expecting a lot if you think a one-footed customer could happen to - well - hop in.<br />
<br />
I suppose it could be helpful for that kid who ended up in a cast and doesn't want to wear out one shoe while they wait for their foot, ankle or leg to heal. This is a perfect solution in that case.<br />
<br />
But even a cast is only on for about 6 weeks. A couple shoes should suffice.<br />
<br />
Personally, I would have just pitched them. <br />
<br />
They would have fit nicely in the garbage truck next to those nasty tightie-whities.ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-91106787564693308702011-08-12T08:00:00.002-05:002011-08-12T08:00:13.829-05:00The stars may shine a little brighter tonight...His eyes said everything.<br />
<br />
Today a small, rural church will fill with people to honor a man and celebrate a life full of its share of ups and downs.<br />
<br />
He knew tragedy.<br />
<br />
He knew joy.<br />
<br />
He knew hard work.<br />
<br />
He knew gentleness.<br />
<br />
Most of all, he knew love.<br />
<br />
And you saw it in his eyes.<br />
<br />
Those sparkling eyes...<br />
<br />
Even on his death bed, amidst pain and discomfort...a yearning for it all to come to an end...the sparkle was there. <br />
<br />
It may have dimmed a bit, but as it accompanied a wink - as it usually did if a grandchild caught his eye - it was one thing the cancer couldn't take.<br />
<br />
As I sift through family photographs, it's a privilege to consider the life of this man. <br />
<br />
A simple school boy.<br />
A young farmer.<br />
A mourning son.<br />
A grinning groom.<br />
A self-less soldier.<br />
A proud father.<br />
A compassionate grandfather.<br />
<br />
Like most farmers, he knew the value of hard work. His strength was undeniable. <br />
<br />
In fact, at the point of beginning cancer treatments when he seemed incredibly weak (his family wasn't convinced he could endure it), his doctor believed he would persevere. <br />
<br />
Due to sheer strength.<br />
<br />
But eventually the battle became too much to fight. The opponent too great.<br />
<br />
On his final day, his young granddaughter refused to leave his side. His eyes met hers.<br />
<br />
And he winked.<br />
<br />
He barely had the strength to take a breath. He could no longer sit up. Attempts to eat or drink were futile.<br />
<br />
And yet he winked...and did his best to curve his mouth into a smile for her.<br />
<br />
His eyes would want to close, but he'd force them back open. <br />
<br />
And then a tear would sneak out of the corner of his eye.<br />
<br />
His eyes dimmed. And he was gone.<br />
<br />
As the family gathers and remembers this man that meant so much...we grieve a loss.<br />
<br />
But cheer for victory over death. Heaven is his new home. <br />
<br />
And his eyes shine brighter than ever.<br />
<br />
---------<br />
<br />
<em>"I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believes in Me, even though he dies, he will live." (John 11:25)</em>ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5961585180286911589.post-44968418584883265852011-08-01T17:51:00.001-05:002011-08-01T17:53:11.525-05:00Good times. Good memories. Good grief, we’re old.Webster defines a reunion as “A social gathering attended by members of a certain group of people who have not seen each other for some time.” <br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, it’s not as if I really thought you didn’t know what “reunion” meant, but I looked it up just to see what ol’ Webster had to say. (It’s good to ask Webster a thing or two. After all, he’s just sitting out there waiting for some attention.) <br />
<br />
But let’s break this apart.<br />
<br />
<strong>A social gathering</strong><br />
In light of my recent class reunion, that’s putting it mildly. Social – uh, yeah. <br />
<br />
We are talkers. <br />
<br />
What we are NOT is: dancers or loud music-listeners. The days of heavy metal pounding through the speakers or tearing apart a dance floor are over for us. No, we wanted the music turned down so we could carry on a conversation without screaming. <br />
<br />
All that hollering just gives us a headache and sore throat. We don’t need that. <br />
<br />
We’ve got kids to go home to and may have to report to work in the morning. Plus we’re genuinely interested in what the other person is saying so it would be helpful if we could hear it. Frankly, having to yell, “What’s that?” four or five times just makes us feel even older. <br />
<br />
Especially when it’s shouted during a Van Halen song. <br />
<br />
<strong>Members of a certain group of people</strong><br />
Oh, yes. Definitely a “certain” group of people. We’re the Class of 1991. A group of about 55 men and women wondering where in the world the time went. Honestly. 20 years? How did that happen so fast? <br />
<br />
Nonetheless, there we stood. <br />
<br />
Hoping we didn’t look too fat, too gray or too sleepy (no one likes to admit that they can’t recall the last time they were up past 11pm if it was due to anything other than heartburn). <br />
<br />
And guess what? As one reunion-goer put it, “I think we all look (slight, thoughtful pause) pretty good.” <br />
<br />
Not completely convincing, but we’ll take it. <br />
<br />
Reunions are funny that way. First and foremost, let’s face it. We’re checking appearances. <br />
<br />
Mainly for easing our own curiosity about whether we’re the only one who put on a few pounds or added some laugh lines. <br />
<br />
Then we’re hopeful everyone is living happy, healthy lives. We hold out hope that our classmate who marginally escaped death in the past year looks well. He does, and we’re relieved because it’s not just external. Latest medical report says he really is doing well. Whew! <br />
<br />
<strong>Who have not seen each other for some time</strong><br />
I love that. For “some time.” Like it could be a week or 100 years. In many cases it’s literally been 20 years since I’ve seen these people. <br />
<br />
While 20 years seems to have flown by, a lot happens in two decades. Weddings, births, graduations, deaths, job changes, surgeries, moves, divorces, remarriages, and plenty of other significant life events along the way.<br />
<br />
And yet, for a few hours this weekend, time stood still. <br />
<br />
We were carried back to a time when a well-timed Bryan Adams or Bon Jovi song could soothe our sorrow. Life seemed simpler back then. Of course we believed once we threw that grad cap in the air, we would take flight ourselves…into a future of possibilities and exciting unknowns. <br />
<br />
Now that ‘future of possibility’ is full of potty-training, enduring adolescence, and fretting the first day of college all over again – seeing it all from a whole new set of eyes. <br />
<br />
Or maybe it’s job success or failure. Family dysfunction. Saying goodbye to those we love. <br />
<br />
Sure, there’s likely plenty of regrets. But with nearly 40 years of life behind us, we’re smart enough to not dwell on them. Instead, we’re grateful for the little things, because we know the big things are out of our control.<br />
<br />
I certainly enjoyed my class reunion. Spending time with these men and women void of the teenage awkwardness, cliques and desperate need to impress was refreshingly fun. We could reminisce about days gone by, but also congratulate each other on how far we’ve come.<br />
<br />
While rarely do we take the time to walk through our past, when we do, it illuminates some pretty sweet memories.<br />
<br />
Who would have thought that cheesy class motto would actually hold true? “The moment is only temporary, but the memory is forever.”<br />
<br />
Now let's not wait 20 years before we dust off the cobwebs again, okay?<br />
<br />
<em>Hey classmates - in case you're looking for more tidbits from the reunion, check out our Class of 1991 page on Facebook for my "The Best of the Class" note.</em>ON MAXINE'S MINDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05306371603858497851noreply@blogger.com0