“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.” ― Marilyn Monroe
Maybe not the best role-model, but there's something worth pondering here. I guess her quote really sums up the definition of "Diva"--in its own way. And there's a little bit of the "Diva" in every one of us women--whether we like to admit it or not.
I've just been introduced to Tim Hawkins--a Christian comedian. I didn't expect to laugh as much as I did, when I watched this video. He starts out a bit slow, but once he gets into the routine, it's a hoot!
"...the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us."
Well, it finally happened. I knew when I got a dog, I couldn't avoid it forever. Yes, we reenacted the infamous scene from A Christmas Story: the dog ate our dinner. Much like the turkey that the Bumpass hounds consumed, we were having a little rotisserie chicken. Don't know what scene I'm talking about? Well, here ya go.
Warning: language may include such technical non-dictionary terminology as 'sonsabiches.'
It was actually tomorrow's dinner, since, to be completely accurate, the dog ate tonight's dinner leftovers. We had already eaten our meal, which included part of the aforementioned chicken, and I was planning to pack the second half back into the fridge for tomorrow. No such luck. By the time I got to it, there was just a lot of chicken strewn about the floor, and a guilty-as-sin dog trying to wolf as much down as he could.
Look at this guilty culprit. Guess who spent the rest of the evening in the back yard?
Honestly, though, I think I can recover from this. Because after gathering up the scraps, there was at least 1/4 of the bird left on the floor. Not enough for an entire meal, BUT....I think tomorrow's dinner is gonna be OK after all. We all like chicken soup. And what the kids don't know, can't hurt them ;-)
Because goodness knows, there's no money for Chinese food.
It's no secret at this point that it doesn't look like my marriage is going to make it. I say that because my spouse and I have been separated for 7 months, and things haven't gotten any better. By the time we finally separated, things were already bad enough. Unfortunately, in most ways they've only deteriorated more. But I don't take this whole separation/divorce lightly. Divorce is nonexistent in my family of origin. You get married; you stay married. God is bigger than our problems, and He can redeem anything. Right? So for me, separation was an absolute last-resort, when I no longer felt safe--for many reasons. I put it off for as long as I could, and did everything I could to save the marriage.
One of the things I did was go to marriage counseling. A lot of marriage counseling. And marriage courses. And seminars. And retreats. And anything I could get myself or "us" enrolled in that I hoped would save "us." My spouse was usually more than game. We were both pretty miserable, and looking for a "magic bullet."
But in retrospect, I can see one of the reasons why counseling (and most of the other stuff) didn't work for us. Every singledoggone counselor we ever saw wanted to start off by working on "communication." At the outset, that seems very reasonable. But the problem is, honestly, none of them ever seemed to get beyond that. And the fact that (looking back) I have an objection to that is really ironic, because I was a Communications major in college. I love the topic of communication--the psychology, the history, the rhetoric, the everything of communication. But for some reason, the more my spouse and I worked on our communication (painstakingly following multi-step models to guide us, writing things down and reading them out loud, using "key phrases," and every trick in the book) the worse things got for us.
The question is, why?
I believe that the answer is that communication wasn't the real problem. There were underlying issues that were so bad, that there was no good way to communicate about them. Those issues were an elephant in the middle of the room--that we tried to "talk nicely" around. It didn't work. In fact, honing our communication skills just made us better at fighting about the elephant. Better communication didn't make us more peaceful--it made us more articulate fighters!
And none of the counselors we ever saw seemed able to tackle that elephant. And, frankly, that doesn't really leave me with much confidence in the counseling profession; because there are a lot of pretty damn good books out there on communication, but what we needed was someone who was willing to go beyond that.
Have you ever been in marriage counseling? Did the counselor fixate on communication, but without a seeming ability to address underlying issues that fueled the communication?
Today I jogged past a Southern Magnolia tree just starting to bloom. The fragrance was IN. SANE. I wish I could send you a waft of it, because it was intoxicating.
I'm highly competitive by nature. This has always mocked me in the world of athletics, because I'm terrible at sports. And when I say terrible, I really mean it. I have gross gross motor skills, nonexistent reflexes, and I'm a painfully slow runner. Did I also mention that I'm barely five feet tall? So, I've spent most of my life as a frustrated loser, when it comes to athletic ventures.
On Mother's Day, each year, our kids' track team (coached by men, of course) plays what I consider to be a hilarious practical joke by running a "Mother's Race." This joke is only made funny by the fact that all the (male) coaches think it's "fun" for the Moms, and coordinating this race is their "gift" to us. Hmmmm...let's see...can I think of a worse way to spend Mother's Day, than to squeeze myself into some spandex and get out on a track with a handful of Type-A moms who actually run marathons in their spare time? (I'm not making this up.) Uh.....what happened to bringing Mom breakfast in bed, and giving her flowers and chocolate?
Anyway, a year ago, they kicked the event off by dividing the women up by age. Adding insult to injury, they announced your age to the several-hundred people smart enough to keep their rears in the bleachers. So they all got to find out how old you were before you made a fool of yourself. Awesome. In the interest of time, the only "Mother's Race" was a 100 Metre sprint--not my forte, unless it involves chasing an errant toddler. My valiant efforts that day resulted in nothing more than a pulled muscle and a dismal last-place finish.
Later that same night, my (then) 8-year-old son decided to solve a mystery for us all-- one that we didn't even know existed. "Mom," he said with solemnity, "I know why you lost the race today." [insert awkward silence] "It's because you're so....well....you know...." and then he held up his arms in a circumferential gesture, as if his body had become a blimp. But not with his arms out to the sides. Oh, no: with his arms out in front, mimicking huge, imaginary boobs. And he didn't stop there. He continued, "Because you're so big. Everywhere. And that's why everything jiggles so much and and......everything....while you run," still feigning huge, imaginary boobs--which he was now 'jiggling.' "That's why you lost."
Well, thank you. Thank you for that verdict and visual depiction.
Each time I tried to forget the incident, I couldn't, because that injured quadriceps haunted me for over a month. And each day since then, I vowed never again.
This year's race was yesterday. This year I had only two main goals:
Goal #1--Don't hurt myself. Really.
Goal #2--Try not to come in dead last, trailing far, far behind every other runner. But only if it didn't mean compromising Goal #1.
But then I found out this year they decided to change things up a bit, and instead of only offering the 100 Metre sprint, they were offering a Coed 1-Mile run as well. I've been running as part of a fitness program for several months now, and I'm up to about 3-4 miles. And although I'm still slow, I've got pretty good stamina. And the key word was Coed; that meant my kids' father would run it. Ka-CHING: I had a third goal.
Goal #3--Beat my children's father.
I won't lie. It wasn't going to be easy. The man towers a foot over me, his legs are twice as long as mine, and he has beaucoup spare time to work out at the gym every week. But to make a long story short, against all odds, and certain that I'd never be able to do it, I had my shining moment of glory. I kept a nice, steady pace the whole race, feeling pretty good. Then when I saw my chance, I made my move, and overtook him in the home stretch. At 8m 10s, I beat him by just a few eternal seconds. And for once in my life, the die-hard competitor in me was triumphant.
Yeah. I went all Eric Liddell on his Harold Abrams a**.
Oh, I laughed, and smiled, and said it was "All in the Name of Fun."
Sure. Whatever. 'Cuz if you believe that, then you just keep believing that breakfast in bed, with flowers and chocolate is overrated anyway.
Between 18 & 22, a woman is like Africa, half dicovered, half wild, fertile & naturally beautiful.
Between 23 & 30, a woman is like Europe, well developed and open to trade, especially for someone with cash.
Between 31 & 35, a woman is like Spain, very hot, relaxed and convinced of her own beauty.
Between 36 & 40, a woman is like Greece, gently aging but still a warm and desirable place to visit.
Between 41 & 50, a woman is like Great Britain, with a glorious and all conquering past.
Between 51 & 60, a woman is like Israel, has been through the war and doesn't make the same mistakes twice, takes care of business.
Between 61 & 70, a woman is like Canada, self-preserving, but open to meeting new people.
After 70, she becomes Tibet: wildly beautiful, with a mysterious past and the wisdom of the ages. Only those with an adventurous spirit and a thirst for spiritual knowledge visit there.
THE GEOGRAPHY OF A MAN:
Between 1 and 70, a man is like Iran, Ruled by Nuts.
