The Green, Green Grass at Home

I went to a friend's house today and fell in lust with her beautiful, open floor plan. I was ready to go home and stick a sale sign in my yard and sell the whole house- contents and all- and buy hers.

Not only was the floor plan fantabulous, it was about 1,000 square feet larger than ours. I had visions of the children being able to spread out, and Keith having a room bigger than a coat closet. She has four bathrooms. I don't even know how to tell you how excited I would be to have that many bathrooms available at any given time. Granted, we have three. But four? That's beyond awesome!

Her kitchen had an island in the middle. The stove top was flat so no little crumbs or pasta or sauce of some kind go under the burners where they turn into stinky, charred ash. And they had a three car garage- a three car garage!!!! We could actually park our cars in our own garage AND have storage room, instead of having to choose one over the other.

I got misty-eyed thinking of it all. Especially when I considered her hard wood floors and the new carpet in the front family room (not to be confused with the family room off the kitchen or the den upstairs). I was in love.

Then, my Achilles' Heel reared his ugly head... cleaning.

I am not a cleaner by nature. It's not that I don't like things to be clean. As a matter of fact, I enjoy organizing and putting things into a neat, clean, orderly fashion. 

My beef is with the fact that cleaning is a routine- an endless, mind-numbing, time-sucking, repetitive, thankless routine. No sooner is the laundry done, folded and put away than there's another load waiting to be washed. When opening the dishwasher reveals a cavernous, empty square, dirty dishes are sure to be piled in the sink awaiting their transfer. It never, ever ends.

As I looked at my friend's home with fresh eyes, I winced. All of those bathrooms would have to be scrubbed. That extra toilet, bathtub, floor and sink would require extra elbow grease. The island would be sure to be turned into a storage facility for everything that didn't already have a home- and even some stuff that did have a home, but that people were just too lazy to find.

Three family rooms? Really? Isn't that really just two extra places to have to vacuum, dust and pick up. And a three car garage... Meh... Just another place to store hubby's over-priced, professional-grade sports equipment he never uses. 

By the time I was done looking around, I was ready to put up a sign in my front yard all right. But I wanted to down-size just so I wouldn't have to clean as much!

Honestly, we could get by with one and a half bathrooms, don't you think? And really, can't the girls share a room? Keith is lucky. He only has enough room to keep the stuff he really needs. So he doesn't get bogged down by a bunch of unnecessary clutter.

After I had a chance to drive home (and start yet another load of laundry), I had come back to center: that place where I am incredibly grateful for exactly what I have. 

There will always be greener grass in the pasture on the other side of the fence. Fortunately, life has taught me that many times that beautiful, lush, green, carpet-like grass I'm eyeing is concealing a nasty smelling septic tank.

So I will keep my beautiful home in which I currently reside. We have lovely memories here. And its size, floor plan and location fit our life. Besides that, I have already priced out maids for this location. And someday, I'll be able to afford to pay one to come clean for me!

Gone to the Dogs

My dog's groomer charges $38 to get her looking (and smelling) beautiful. I just bought some professional-grade trimmers to help Keith keep his hair buzzed for football, and I thought, "What the heck? I could save some money in this area of my life, too."

So, I (foolishly) fired up the trimmers and tried valiantly to groom Dixie (my 6 lb maltese/shih tzu mix).

An hour and a half later, I decided my groomer was not asking nearly enough. I was covered from head to toe with her soft, fine hair, itching like a camel with chiggers. I didn't even get to giving the little beastie a bath. Nor had I come anywhere close to doing whatever they say they do to the doggies' "glands". (Don't ask.)

However, I did get my "Jane Fonda" work out. My timid little puppy became a wriggling, yipping, fur-flying, mess of a greased pig, while I tried to calm her by saying, "Good puppy," over and over again in a soothing voice.

Oh, yeah, my groomer needs to charge a million dollars a dog.

The kids kept telling me I was being mean to Dixie, and that she was mad at me. They tried to rescue her. But once I was half way through the cut, I couldn't very well let her be six inches in the front and three inches in the back. Besides, I wasn't hurting her. She was just being difficult and grouchy. I know I wasn't hurting her because I kept accidentally running the trimmers over my fingers/hands/arms/legs, and it didn't hurt; it just made a lot of noise.

I think (as my professional position as family Dog Whisperer) she was embarrassed that I was exposing her tummy, and she is ticklish on her underarms. And I think she didn't like having to sit still while I kept running the trimmers over and over the same place, going different directions so that all the fur was the same length.

Either way, she's as groomed as she's going to get by me. She may get a bath tomorrow. I'm not touching her "glands."

Maybe next time it will be easier... Or maybe I'll just fork out the $38 and call it a day...

When You Grow Up

If a person could grow by pure will, Keith would be six feet tall. You've never seen a person focus with such precision and intensity on something they have absolutely no control over.

It's funny how we equate certain things with happiness and/or success. With Keith, it's his physical height. With someone else, it may be whether or not they have a certain professional position or a certain status in a group. With many people it's about money.

There are some things over which we do have control. How we behave at work or in a group can determine our success. How we perform can effect how much money we earn.

But there are some things we can't control at all. For example, someone who wants to be an international singer, has to have some natural talent. We have no control over what kind of talent we're born with. We can try to hone our skill. But ultimately, we can only work with what we've been given.

If I could, I would stretch Keith out to make him tall, and then some. But unfortunately, all I can do is try to help him accept who he is, and love who he can become.

I guess that's the way it is with all of us. We all have our limitations. I'll never be Mrs. America, with the figure of a barbie doll. I'll never be Stephenie Meyer, with her mega multi-media hit series, "Twilight." I'll never lead bible studies for millions and millions of people, like Beth Moore.

But I am the mom of children whose very breath makes my heart beat with love. And I am the wife of my best friend. And I get to write in various forums, such as this blog. And I get to share my theological beliefs with some great kids in our church's confirmation class.

Keith may never be six feet in height. But he will always be huge in character. And he is and will continue to be a great role model to younger kids. I hope and pray he will see that, too- no matter how tall he ever stands.

Happy (Burp) Holiday

I am stuffed. I have eaten non-stop since Friday morning on the last day of school. We celebrated the end of the school year.

Then Saturday we kicked off celebrating the holiday weekend with a cookout. We had burgers and all the sides you could imagine. I know I munched enough chips to sink a ship.

Today we continued the celebration with BBQ sandwiches and every starchy side imaginable at a family get-together.

Tomorrow we'll round out the weekend with more hamburgers and too much party food.

It's like Thanksgiving for four days straight. It's the American way.

But, why?

Why do family & friend get-togethers require a gross display of way too much food? Even if we go out to eat, the appetizers, main course and desserts are big enough to make you have to unbutton your pants.

I guess it doesn't sound very much fun to invite friends over for a fasting holiday. But is it necessary to have enough food to support an entire village in Haiti for a year at one family gathering?

I know traditionally Americans have used big feasts to celebrate holidays and special occasions. But that was in a time when we ate 85% less in general. A big feast was in order.

Today, our culture has made every meal have special foods available for our consumption. You can buy a wedding cake on a Thursday just because you want some. In times past, cakes of any kind were something eaten only several times a year. Tomorrow you could go to a restaurant and have any kind of cultural cuisine used previously on special high festival occasions. Originally, these delicacies were reserved only for for the occasion.

Nothing today is "special." We are continuously looking to "treat" ourselves. We've been told over and over again we "deserve" it. We are "entitled" to it.

I propose we start a new trend: 4th of July is the next big holiday. Why don't we all vow to serve less, eat less & visit with each other more. We don't need five kinds of chips. What's up with potato salad, pasta salad, green salad, green beans and deviled eggs? How about just two sides? If there are only going to be ten people, we probably don't need to cook 35 hotdogs. And after eating all that food, maybe popsicles would suffice, instead of pie, cake, cupcakes and ice cream.

Let's make desserts be occasional and small. Let's have simpler, smaller meals as a rule, and have feasts be special. Let's make our feasts be reasonable, and not so indulgent and over-the-top.

We are Americans: Home of the Free. But freedom doesn't mean gluttony. Freedom comes with the responsibility to be good stewards of our goods so that we can continue on. And it means helping others by sharing our resources.

This weekend, even as we have our cook outs, let's be especially appreciative of our food. And of our service men and women who fight for us to be free.

There is a Traitor in Our Midst

When I was in my twenties, I couldn't understand why people would spend so much money and time using all sorts of funky products trying to look young. My mother has beautiful salt and pepper colored hair, which is now more salt than pepper. My grandmothers both aged gracefully. I believed I would embrace my aging process as a beautiful part of my life.

When I was in my thirties, my pepper colored hair began to sprout some salt. My gray hair was not only an unattractive yellow-gray, but it was course and curly- in complete opposition to my otherwise dark straight hair. All my friends who had any gray readily jumped into a Miss Clairol box and made it go away. I finally conceded to peer pressure and darkened my gray hair.

Now, in my forties, my body has completely revolted. I am seriously considering putting it on trial for high treason. My hair has "salted" up considerably. Gravity has done a pretty serious number on everything. My muscle tone has turned to something resembling old mashed potatoes. My forehead has really deep lines running east to west across it. And crow's feet have sprouted at the corners of my eyes.

Those people whose judgement I questioned in my twenties are now on my speed dial for consultation on how to rid my body of these evil encroachments on my youth. A friend was telling me about her botox injections. My interest piqued. How bad was it? How much did it cost? Most importantly: did it work? (She looked a tiny bit offended that I asked that, since technically, I suppose I should have been able to tell. But cosmetic changes are delicate, much like weight. If you tell someone they've lost a ton of weight, or look so much better, it's sort of backhanded compliment. You've told them they look so great now, because they looked so bad before...)

Now, would I actually go through anything more drastic than hair coloring? Twenty years ago I would have said "NO WAY." Today, I say, "probably not." But I'm not ruling it out. By the time I hit my fifties, I may be looking for part time jobs to fund my cosmetic procedures. I would hope I would welcome some of my aging, as I had originally planned. But there's no denying that watching your body change and age in front of your eyes is at the very least terribly unsettling.

As I watched my next door neighbor's sixteen year old daughter walk around the pool in her cute little bikini this evening, I mourned the metabolism of my youth. I wished desperately for my flat belly and my curves that were where they were supposed to be, instead of sliding down my body. And I yearned for my young skin that smoothed across my face, instead of scrunching and wrinkling.

But I looked at her mother, who is about my age and faces some of the challenges everyone my age faces. It occurred to me that my three children also had been a product of my aging. And, I may not embrace my body's aging, but I do embrace my age. I am happy where I am and with who I am, even if I'm not happy with my treasonous body.

So, bring on the hair dye, and whatever else help with the body's appearance. But keep the memories, the experiences and the love!