Habits are funny things

Kara recently announced that life is too short to drink cheap wine. Now, while I am inclined to agree with the ideology of that statement, the particulars are less than what I can embrace.
If I open a good bottle of wine, I feel compelled to steadily work on it until it's gone. That doesn't necessarily mean that I drink it all in one evening, although that has been known to happen. If one paces oneself, one can begin while setting the dinner table, and finish after the late evening news without ever compromising one's sobriety.
One's liver, however, now that's a different story.
I always figured that as long as I was not drinking like a fraternity brother, I was good. If I was not drowning my faculties, I figured I was not drowning my liver either. Apparently my liver disagreed.
I told my doctor, when he asked, that I drink like a European. We have wine with dinner, of course; Red or White paired with our entrees. My doctor kindly explained that some raging alcoholics can down a fifth of vodka daily for 50 years with no liver damage, while some more sober types can't handle a daily glass of red. I fall into the latter category.
Who knew?
I needed to drink less.
Tea does not excite me, and I dislike soda.
Beer is nasty, and also a potential threat to my liver.
Diet coke is fine, but it keeps me up if I drink it in the evenings.
Perrier is gross.
Juices have too many calories.
Crystal Light is too sweet.
What do people drink in the evening when they don't have wine?

I allow myself to have something lovely just a couple times a week. But not too much at a time.

So I've taken to drinking cheap wine.

I can't justify opening a bottle, when all I want is a glass, so I buy those cute little tiny 4-packs. That way I can open one teeny tiny bottle, and nothing goes to waste. Now I drink once or twice a week, rather than once or twice per day.

And I need a good non-alcoholic beverage for the other evenings. Any suggestions?

A dignified piercing

I finally darkened the door of a tattoo parlor. Shocking at my age. Although, in my defense, I chose one in Eagle (an upscale neighborhood) rather than an establishment on the seedier side of town.

I've talked about getting a tattoo for years, but was never willing to commit. Ink under one's skin seems so permanent; and the artistic submission requires such absolute trust. I'm not really comfortable giving that kind of submission under the best of circumstances. Bestowing it upon some pierced and tattooed stranger is a bit of a reach.
But I went.
The purpose of this particular visit was to acquire a tastefully subtle piercing. Jewelry makes me happy.
Although,
I know a woman who voluntarily pierced twin peaks (shall we say?) of decidedly feminine and extraordinarily sensitive tissue. I confess to a certain fascinated horror at the contemplation of that particular procedure. I've seen the handiwork, though, and it does lend an exotic flair.
For myself, I was after something....else.
I chose a navel piercing. A delicate diamond gracing my waistline...just there...to draw the eye inward, and contribute to the illusion of a tiny waist.

My sister, Amanda, took me, and promised to hold my hand.

The proprietress greeted me with a look of disdain reminiscent of a teenager rolling her eyes. After hearing my intention, she explained that this kind of thing hurts, and often results in "some pretty gnarly infections" that may take up to a year to heal. Then she turned her back to me and went about her noble and valuable tasks. If she expected to throw me off with this kind of rude and appalling behavior, she nearly succeeded. My inner rebel took over, though, and I decided that a snot-nosed-brat was not going to keep me from my goal. She was, however, going to wield the piercing tool.
This sort of piercing is not to be undertaken lightly. Nor ought it to be undertaken without a round of antibiotics.
There is a clamping tool employed on the flesh prior to the actual impalement. This I was not prepared for. I averted my eyes, grimaced in agony, and squeezed the fragile bones in my little sister's hand.
"Kelly, she hasn't really started yet," Amanda whispered.
Which was strictly true. The clamp was uncomfortable in the way that childbirth is uncomfortable. They pull all this flesh way out from the body and snugly secure it with clamps for the purpose of aligning the piercing implement.
Then she drove the stake through my skin. It didn't break through without resistance. Indeed, my valiant flesh put up quite a fight, before the little nail was gained passage. That was unpleasant.
"You gonna faint?" the tattooed woman thoughtfully inquired.
I was actually closer to punching her in the nose, but that hardly seemed fair.

Amanda paid for my fun, as my 40th birthday present.
It was quite a little adventure. I'm glad I did it.
I have had repeated "gnarly" infections.
And I will never,
ever,
in a million years,
get a tattoo.

Check me for ticks

Tim is a really classy guy. He dresses well, prefers the finer things in life, and accessorizes his clothing. He also has discovered an appreciation for Country Western music. This tickles my funny bone. I grew up in Idaho, and Tim's a California boy. I grew up going to rodeos, and he grew up a fashion model. I'm very glad he's straight. When he puts on tight jeans and Cowboy boots, I just think he's sexy.
Last night we went to see Brad Paisley in concert with about 12,000 people in Wranglers.
It was a great concert.
Brad Paisley just seems like a super nice guy, and a heck of a guitar player.
Darius Rucker was one of the opening acts. Do you know who he is? He was the lead singer for Hootie and the Blowfish. I have loved his music for years. He sang old songs and new ones....and then he sang Prince's "Purple Rain." Another thing about Tim is that he is Prince's Biggest Fan. Ever. Tim has seen Prince in concert 8 times. I am not even making that up. So, when Darius Rucker launched into that classic hit, I thought he was going to lose Tim right there. However, I think he maybe did the song better than Prince. Don't tell Tim I said that. Seriously, though, it was amazing.
The whole evening out was fun. We took Michael out with us. Michael is getting to be almost like a real person. Who knew a 15-year-old was going to be such a delight? Having both Michael and Tim with me was like having two dates.
Before the concert, we went out to dinner, where we had an interesting experience. If you call being flipped-off and cussed-out "interesting." Which I do. There were two women at the table adjacent to ours. We were paying them no mind whatsoever. Suddenly, they arose, without ordering, and made their way to the door. We would still not have noticed them, had they not begun to stare at us with daggers in their eyes, and mouth vile words at us, while gesturing enthusiastically with their middle fingers. It was quite a display. There was pointing and glaring, and general unladylike display which left us in no doubt as to their sentiments. We were baffled as to their cause. Then they stormed out of the restaurant. That was it.
Maybe they didn't like Californians. Or women with two dates.

I am Gulliver, and tied down by little people

I think I'll take up fishing.
One thing I've learned about myself, since being married, is that I really really need alone time. I am never alone. Sometimes I go into the little toilet closet thing and close the door and turn on the fan, just so that no one will bother me. Sometimes I go sit on a pool lounge behind the hot tub after dark so no one can find me. I get annoyed because people come looking for me anyway. Fishing sounds like a very solitary endeavor. I could learn to like that.
Yesterday Kara and I hung out for a couple hours over a plate of salt-encrusted french fries. Today I am swelled up with water retention. Kara's a good friend. One of the first things she said to me was, "You're Gorgeous!" Good friends say things like that. I never want to be alone when Kara is telling me I'm gorgeous.
I never want to be alone when I'm with Tim, either. Although, Tim's lots of fun to be alone with.
It's those dang kids. They are everywhere.
How can I love them so very much
and also want to have an hour
uninterrupted
and silent
with no one but Tim in my personal space?

I love being a mom. My kids are so fantastic. Really. I wouldn't have thought I'd be the type who needs alone time, on account of being a super-extrovert. But, geez, I get grumpy.
Tim takes his fishing pole and a cold drink, and heads for the river, a couple afternoons every week. He stands on the bank and watches the water go by. I could do that. Except, the moment I decided to go, all the kids would want to come too. It always works that way.
Maybe skydiving....

In which I get in trouble for my renegade theological viewpoints. Again.

This morning, in church, I had a sort of out-of-body experience. Now, I don't know if that's a sin, but it's sure a tad New Age for the environment. I'd never really had an out-of-body experience before, so maybe that's not quite what I mean. What happened was that I heard the pastor say something I've heard a gazillion times before, but I heard it as though for the first time.
It sounded weird.
He was introducing that Holy Sacrament of Communion, and he was talking about the scrap of cracker, and thimble of cheap juice, as the "Lord's Supper." I thought that if that was all Jesus had for dinner, it's no wonder he was so thin.

I don't mean any disrespect, and I am not the least bit flippant about this. In truth, I do think that the whole process is a ceremonial remembrance that has terrific meaning. It just struck me that someone who had never seen this before would be baffled.

I've always been grateful that the tiny bit of juice is so small, frankly. It tastes gross. It is to remind me of the blood that Jesus shed on the cross. The cracker-thing has no flavor, yet it is representative of the broken body of my Lord and Savior. Jesus didn't institute "The Lord's Supper" this way. He apparently ate a hearty meal with good wine, good bread, and good friends. It was that, He said, which was to remind us of what He did next.
The bible tells the story of His crucifixion from several perspectives.
History concurred.
There's this violent death which makes my skin crawl....but there's more even than that.
There is this story I read somewhere years ago about a monk walking in a field. He came across a hill of ants, busy as they are wont to be. The monk was well aware of the farmer, plowing the field, who was soon to destroy the hill of ants. The monk looked this way and that, in a vain attempt to find some way of warning the creatures of their impending doom. His voice did not attract even the smallest pause from the tiny ants, as they were too small to recognize that the thundering sound he made was coherent speech. The only way he could save them was if he could become one of them and warn them in a voice they could understand!
And.
Then.
He realized in a moment: that must have been what God did by becoming flesh and blood.
It is this remembrance that Jesus called us to.
I wondered, in church today, if we've forgotten the important parts.
If I sat with people I love, eating really fantastic whole-grain sourdough, and drinking a Petite Syrah....ah....that sounds divine! What if the focus of such a meal were to remind me of that God Who Became Flesh? Of my own need for help to be what I'm designed to be. What if EVERY meal was to remind me of that? Jesus actually says, "As often as you eat this bread and drink this cup," you tell His story.
I can't help but realize that I am fond of carbohydrates and also of the fruit-of-the-vine.
If I approach each meal as an opportunity for gratitude, and solemn remembrance, and also as an act of worship....would I be a drag at parties? I don't really think so. Jesus wasn't. He caught a lot of flack from the religious leaders of the day for looking like a party animal. The bible says they accused Him of being a glutton and a drunkard.
My point, albeit a wandering one, is that I think communion is something we do three times a day. Only, perhaps not with wine at every meal. Or if you are Kara, who eats only at gunpoint. What if Christians were less tasteless-cracker-and-gross-juice, and more linger-at-the-table-with-good-wine-and-friends? What if they were less uptight, and more like Jesus? I'd like Christians more.

It also occurred to me that perhaps where the bible says (1 Cor 11) that taking communion wrong makes you ill, refers to eating habits, as much as to hypocrites. Just a thought.

Anyway...I'm starving. I'm going to see what my man is cooking for me for dinner, and I'm going to think on this while I eat. Just in case that's the real communion, and what we did in church was God's way of getting me thinking.

Gravity is a man

There was a middle aged woman in my mirror this morning. That was unsettling.
I attained my 40th birthday this Summer with a sense of accomplishment and optimism. Tim smuggly informed me that "the wheels come off at 40," which I took to be an amusing colloquialism, and not a resounding gong of certain forboding. Alas. Who knew the reality would begin immediately?

So, there I stood, confronting that middle aged reflection.
It needed makeup, badly. But not too much makeup, because makeup gets caked in the creases.
And, it needed support. 40 means that there is a redistribution of available self to puzzling, and sometimes alarming, areas. Take, for instance, back fat. This phenomeonon has nothing to do with over-weight, and everything to do with over-40. It is, in my opinion, unkind.
So far, my neck has stayed smooth, though I expect that will change. And my upper arms don't yet waggle. But there's a drooping atop the knees that brings to mind an elephant. There's other droopings, too. I honestly think that Gravity is a man because it's persistant, reckless, and its had its hands all over every woman I know.

I read somewhere, years ago, that older women are more sexy and confident. I think this is true. It may be self-delusional because our eyesight is going. Maybe it's the lack of a memory. Perhaps it's that everyone around is also aging, and I no longer compare myself to fasion models and celebreties.
I think it's got a lot to do with a better knowing of one's self. I'm a lot more comfortable in my own skin, and I'm much easier in my expectations of what I ought to be. Heck, if my jeans fit without a muffin-top, I'm having a good day.

If you look closely at the teenagers and the covers of your magazines, you see hungry girls who aren't ever sure if they're pretty enough. You see tiny waists, and smaller minds. You see a future that will take their bodies just where mine's a-goin.'
The defining factors, though, are those things you can't see. A pretty face certianly doesn't make a woman kind, and I suspect great legs won't make her sexy.

My momma's 60, and she's dang hot. It's mostly because she's a good woman, with a kind heart, and also great hair. Maybe great hair is the secret.

Whatever the secret, I think I'm middle aged now. I'll keep you abreast (if I can keep one at all) of the changes as they manifest. I know you're just dying to hear.

Boise State

Boise is a small town, that thinks it's cosmopolitan. Not unlike a lapdog with a guard dog self image.

In Boise, we take football very seriously. You may have seen the recent hoopla all over ESPN and Sports Illustrated. We love our college team. It's something of an obsession, truth-be-told. Everyone puts flags on their cars on game day, like they did with red/white/blue after 9/11. It's a show of support that makes the entire town seem like family. I painted my toenails blue.

Monday evening was the big game between BSU and Virginia Tech.
The best part of the game, was watching Kara.
At our house, we had a party. The men all sat on the back patio with the TV and the cigars.
We women sat upstairs and watched Kara scream at the TV. She has two phrases to yell. If the team did something poorly, she would say, "that's ok," (clap, clap), "that's ok."
If they did something good, she would shout, "That's what I'm talkin about!"
If they did something really great, she would stand up and scream, "That's what I'm FRICKIN talkin' about!!!"
She was fascinating.
By the thrid quarter, we were begging her to find a new phrase. Something. Anything. We were making helpful suggestions, being inventive. She just couldn't manage creativity when the moment was right. It was like some instinctive muscle memory, or something. She just kept screaming that same phrase over and over again.
But it worked, I guess. Our team won.

Boise is crazy about BSU football. Especially Kara. But you know that now, because...that's what I'm talkin about.

How funny am I?

I was reading old posts, because I crack myself up. You have got to go read this right away. Then tell me I'm not just as funny as can be. I dare ya.

On what I did this Summer....

Every September, when I was a kid, teachers everywhere forced a dreadful writing assignment upon the youth of America. "What I did last Summer."
It was always my opinion that the only thing worse than Math was writing that one was forced to do. I could never think of what to write. Not unlike blogging, come to mention it.
I used to blog every morning, first thing, with coffee. I used to evaluate my daily happenings in terms of their blogworthiness. Is that a word? And I'm so far out of the habit. The upside of not writing for a year or so is that no one is likely to be reading. That way, I have no pressure.

We did a lot this Summer. How come I never had Summers like this when I was a kid? I could have written great papers with this kind of material.

Michael ran off to Denver, first. We sent him on a road trip with a car full of teenage guys. Don't judge me too harshly...the alternative was to go ourselves, and that just sounded like too much smelly-lacrosse-players too be any kind of fun. They were supervised by a very vigilant mom, so we didn't lose any sleep. He had the time of his life.

We went to Maui in July. It was a marvelous trip with a brief visit to California on either end. That's because we drove to California, and flew from there to Maui. We flew back into CA, and drove home again. We have lots of family in California, see, and we wanted to see just how much love we could spread around in a very short window of opportunity. Time with family should always be reprieved by a stint in the tropics; don't you agree? It makes one far more congenial than one might otherwise be.

After our return from Maui, we stayed with my grandparents. This is one place in the world that always feels like home to me. They were delightful. Everyone was, really. We have fantastic family. I think we would be far better houseguests if we uncluttered our next trip.

The problem was all the house-hopping we did. Which, surprisingly, reminds me of an unrelated story.
My Aunt and Uncle were missionaries for many years. They were financially supported in this endeavor by the people in churches all over the Northwest. Every four years they would venture back to the States for a Summertime visit with everyone who supported them. This meant a transient lifestyle for several months to a year. It meant sleeping in other people's homes, and eating other people's food, and being nice to strangers all the time. Can you imagine how hard that would be? I mention this only because visiting several different families on the bookends of our Hawaiian vacation gave me no little appreciation for their former plight. We had our four kids, my one sister, and quite a bit of luggage. We tried to be kind of quiet, to not make a mess, and to sleep in strange surroundings. It was taxing.
The people we got to see were great, though. I like them a lot. I sure wish they'd come visit us here. Where I can sleep in my own bed.
Anyway.
Maui wasn't a bit difficult to enjoy.


In fact,the only thing there that I didn't like at all was the snorkeling. Snorkeling totally freaked me out. I'm normally kind of a daredevil. That little mask-thingy suffocating my nose, while strange fish dive about under my feet, which are trapped in things I can't walk in, all while being suspended in waves which were entirely unpredictable.....? No thank you. I vastly preferred acquiring tan-lines and sand in my suit. These activities were supplemented by vigorous shopping, and not a few margaritas.

Clearly, I wasted no time in styling my hair. This was a trend which seems to have become well rooted in my daily regimen. Alas.

You would think that all this excitement would be sufficient for one Summer, and you may well be correct. We sallied forth, however, into an additional time of family bonding. Always the overachievers....we ventured forth to explore Yellowstone National Park.


Tim fished a lot.

The kids evaluated potential threat from an ermine living near our cabin.

Tim found this branch, which amused him no end. If he turned the branch one way, he could be an elk. The other way, he was a bison. That man's a keeper, I tell ya.

Michael's shore fishing was thwarted by the canoe full of his siblings. He was mostly pretty good-natured about it.

..........Sheesh! That was a lot of Summer. Now we're home, and back to school, and I'm tired of writing. Pity, since there's more to tell.
Perhaps I'll blog again soon.
Perhaps not.