A weekend in favorites

The best thing anyone said to me this weekend was: You look like Elizabeth Taylor, only more wholesome.

The best thing I ate this weekend was something I have never before tasted: It was breaded shrimp in this sweet mayo-like sauce with candied pecans. Oh, and the bowl of flawless huge berries atop chewy granola and Tahitian vanilla yogurt wasn't bad either!

The funniest thing I saw this weekend was a huge missile aimed at the sky on the side of Route 66. Perched on top was, wait for it....Snoopy.

My favorite thing I wore was a new pair of cork wedged heels with silver flecks in the corky part. I buckled them too tightly though, and almost required amputation after dinner.

My favorite person I met was a man who has worked in 32 different countries. He was like Indiana Jones and held me captive as he regaled me with the tale of his 500 mile trip down the Nile river with a bunch of refugees aboard.

My favorite fuzzy moment was waking up with my sweetheart in a pillowy king sized bed and watching The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross. They were happy little trees indeed.

My favorite thing I wanted to buy but didn't was a can of bandaids that looked like strips of bacon.

My favorite traveling song for this weekend was Hurt. The NIN song that Johnny Cash so expertly covered.

Scottsdale, if you weren't an even hotter armpit than Vegas, I'd almost move there.

A Sunday

Oh...my little blog, I still love you. I know it's been a while.

I was strangely reflective today. Like a monk. A really happy monk. I even got teary a few times. I gave out random hugs to people I don't ever hug. It was weird.

I was sitting in church. My observation super powers were working overtime. A 10 month old baby behind me wore the facial expressions of a poised 25 year old pearl -wearing lady. She was a lady- baby and she kept looking at me. Adorable. Her dad directed the choir in a song that made my heart do a Grinchy swelling thing. I watched a plain woman in a simple black dress sing with meaning and joy. It made her so beautiful.

I noticed the soft ringlets curled into a little girl's hair. Her dress and headband so fancy. Her mom - careful and quiet.

I looked around at many faces I knew. People with problems. People I've had problems with. But all of them together in this place. All of us hoping to soak in a little strength. Add some oil to our lamps. Show our God we love him. I felt it, that we all are the same to Him and it made me love those faces.

Then at home some family gathered around my table. We laughed and remembered the time (he who shall remain unnamed) put soap in the fancy Country Club fountains and the suds grew to 8 feet tall and out into the street. We ate bacon wrapped chilis and deviled eggs and drank grape Kool-aid and Dr. Pepper on ice. Little ones who don't want to be little anymore laughed at jokes they didn't quite get. A kid ran through the living room missing his pants and Dad had to go on a turd hunt. Grown -up girls told harmless secrets while grown -up boys did what they do which happened to be giving a test drive to a random dude in a car we weren't selling. Boys.

Then everyone left and I looked at my table. It was sticky with used up fudgescicle sticks, and littered with mostly empty plates. Someone wanted the chili, but not the bacon. I could hear the noise we had just been making and I wanted to call them all back to spend some more time around the table with me.

I feel blessed to be around all of my peeps. All of 'em.

Don't Wanna

In the days of the Cosby Show and Madonna, McDonald's served the most delectable apple pies. Not the dry crumbly wannabe pies of today. The old ones were deep fried, boiling hot with crispy, oily skin covered in crunchy golden bubbles. They trumped hot fudge sundaes if that tells you anything. I loved them like Gollum loves his precious.

One day, while eating at McDonald's, my dad saw me looking a little glum.

"What's wrong Angie?" ( I was about 5 btw)

"I'm depressed."

"Why?"

"Because this is my last bite of apple pie."

All good things come to an end. Now Christmas is over and I feel like I just ate my last bite of apple pie. My Christmas manicure has chipped off. I poured the eggnog down the drain. It glubbed out thick and yellow and coated the sink. I haven't had the heart to plug in the outdoor lights for three days. Okay, that was dramatic...I just forgot to actually. But still. I wouldn't have forgotten if it were still Christmas!

But the worst - Trashing the gingerbread houses. The trash was full and I pressed them down in the bag with a flat palm, crumbling them into sweet smelling victims of Hurricane Angie. Christmas is over and all evidences of it must die. Okay. That also was melodramatic.

Sigh.

You know what, though? I'm leaving my cards up. I'm leaving them up well into February!

The tree's getting the boot on Monday.

At least I have the extra 10 pounds I'm sure I've gained to keep me warm through the rest of the winter.

Gag.

I See You

He was asleep in my lap. I was up too late. I'm always up too late. If he had his way, our bedtime would be 7:45 pm and we'd wake up by 5:00. If I had my way, the human body wouldn't need sleep at all, hummus would have no calories and he'd quit razzing me about watching Tivoed Oprahs.

I'd been going all day and hadn't really noticed I had him around. I knew his body was around. I heard him close cupboard doors and thump down the stairs. I'd put a plate of dinner in front of him and asked him about his day. But I hadn't noticed him yet. I ran out of Oprahs. Then I noticed him.

His hand was warm, dead weight as I lifted it to my face. I covered my eye with his palm and felt the heat press through my skin. I kissed his knuckles one by one. I could smell the citrus oil on his fingers from the Clementine orange he'd eaten earlier. I should have done this when he was awake.

What if I were alone? There would be no flannel clad spooning at night. No one to take a heavy purse from my arm and shamelessly carry it through the mall. No kiss after prayer. No soft white t-shirt to bury my face into. No armpit to lay in. Do you know how much I love the smell of his deodorant?

I love my Nicolas.

Kicking and Screaming

It's not my fault I've been raised to be a hermit. Growing up at the end of a 5 mile dirt road in the shadow of a mountain does not lend itself to being all that neighborly. When we'd see more than one puff of car dust come of the road per day, the same routine would inevitably ensue. Someone would go the drawer and get the binoculars. That someone would then attempt to identify the vehicle. If the car wasn't familiar, there'd be more squinting through binoculars accompanied by disgusted comments about the over abundance of traffic that day. Like I said, my nature is not my fault.

So today when we got home from church and our neighbors of two months poked their faces over the wall asked us over for some pinata beating, I sort of squeezed my butt muscles and looked at Nic like a creepy man just offered me a fuzzy lollipop. Nic, the consummate Mr. Friendly warmly accepted.

We walked exactly ten steps from our front door to theirs. Franklin was from Dominican Republic and his wife, from Mexico. We were given Capri Suns and plates piled with fresh crab salad, halves of avocados and a salsa so hot I had to secretly keep wiping my water hose nose on my sleeve. It was food from heaven.

They explained to us that though the party was to start at 6:00, Latin people are late so we might be hanging out for a while. In the back yard I sat next to a young girl who escaped from Cuba with her family and who was glad to be rid of government issued food rations of 5lbs of rice and six eggs per person per month. More people trickled in bringing more food: chilies stuffed with cheese and wrapped in bacon (I'm so biting my knuckle right now), BBQ ed chicken thighs, pans of rice and more salsas....oh the salsas.

A tiny and perfectly manicured man came in with a plaid cap, pink polo, and shiny brown boots. He turned on the irresistible beat of salsa and mirenge music. People got up from their chairs and danced with glasses of wine still in hand. I'm pretty sure I've mastered salsa dancing. It goes a little somthin' like this: Chicken wings out, fists to chest, hips all Shakira style and use your toes to squash, squash, squash the bug MINI KICK! Repeat.

At one point Nic looked over and said, "So do you feel like a total dork shunning our neighbors this whole time?" I said, "Yes." Then I ate another bacon wrapped chili.

Eventually I had to be the wet blanket and tell the kids that 19 Tootsie rolls was the limit and it was an hour past bedtime. I did my best to get them home, scrub the layers of sucker slime from their faces and get them to bed. Then I went in my room and put on the purple muu-muu Nic hates and spied out my window into the neighbor's back yard (sans binoculars). They were still dancing and I was oh so glad Nic made me be friendly.

Gasp

(Just so you know, I do not enjoy this flared nostril, hurry up and take the picture so I can find a bush to barf in look.)

I started running because my runner sister -in -law Apryl is so skinny and fit it breaks your heart. That's the truth of it. It was purely vanity.

I thought that if in some universe I could run for miles than there would be no possible way I could remain fat. Apparently even fat people can run for miles. My mistake.

Last Saturday I ran a 5k. I had on spandex and a crinkly paper number pinned to my belly. This was quite a change from my norm. The whole experience was a mixture of elation/humiliation. I was elated to be part of something. There was music, there were teams, there was a balloon arch starting line and I got to run by and grab a cup of water and toss it during the race. (I've always wanted to do that haven't you?) There was my husband hooting and my kids pogo sticking up and down at the finish line. A friend snapped a photo and a random fireman leaned over and clapped me through my last 50 feet. It was heartwarming to have the support.

I was also served the fattest slice of humble pie I've ever choked down! Oh. It hurts me. I expected to have the majority of the runners pass me in the first few minutes. I did NOT expect said runners to be literally (I lie not) 80 years old and wearing a very visible diaper under their running shorts, or 100 lbs heavier than me. Pushing a double stroller. Nor did I expect to look behind me mid race and see not ONE person running. All of them were walking. I sort of wanted to run right off of the course and go into someones yard and hide under a trampoline.

Okay, so I'm not as awesome as I thought I was. Okay, so I haven't lost one single pound. (Whoever said runners can eat whatever they want - dirty lie.) Okay, so I'm sort of nursing a throbbing black eye from reality punching me in the face. I haven't run once since the race. I'm in a kind of "what now?" funk.

The truth of it is that I can't compare myself. I have to appreciate how far I've come. I remember wringing my hands and waking up all night the night before I was to conquer a huge hurdle on my beginning runner's program. The task: Run four minutes. I was POSITIVE I couldn't do it. Then, I did it and I cried like a little baby on the side of the road. That is something my friend. That IS something.

Now I can run for 45 minutes. I can't run fast. I don't look good in my spandex, that's for sure. But I stuck with something for once. I ran for 6 months straight and I'm not giving up. I dread these cold dark winter mornings coming up, but hey. It can be done. I get what I want and I want to be a runner.

I Hope You Know

It was after she had poured a bowl of tomato soup on her head and after I had cleaned it off with a questionably smelling dish rag that I lifted her up to help stir the cake batter. Evan was up on the chair too and he marveled at how robotically fast I could whir the batter around into a whirlpool with nothing more than a whisk and my mom muscles. Evan and Jemma took turns back and forth stirring, and I devised a little song to let them know how long their turn was - hoping one would not claw off the other's face in impatience.

"Oh yes we're stirring,
stirring,
stirring up the cake" (repeated 3x's)

There was a moment when my hand was over Jemma's helping her to stir while I was singing that she looked at me with complete amusement and joy. Time stopped. My heart squeezed. It was a perfect mom moment that you pray happen more often. (As opposed to those mom moments you cringe over and cry in the closet about.) It got me to thinking. She likely won't remember anything about this day.

She won't know that she has some special anus radar that causes her to poop at the exact moment I'm late to leave for somewhere important. She won't know how tired I am of reading that blasted ladybug book over and over, but I do it anyway because she loves it so much. She'll never know that when she is sick I check for fever against her forehead with my lips because it seems like the most temperature sensitive thing to do. She won't remember every tiny fingernail I clipped or song I've sung while she clings to wakefulness against my chest.

But someday, she'll be a happy grown woman. It will be the drops of my love in the bucket of her being that make her so.

When I die and am in heaven, I want certain things to happen. I want to know who killed JFK. I want my husband to know what 3 months of pregnancy nausea really does to you. (I fantasize about the day he falls at my knees and thanks me for the combined 9 months of misery I went through to give him babies.) And I want my children to magically comprehend how ridiculously I loved them.

If Evan turns out to be some sweaty, wife-beater wearing butt scratcher, I swear I'll stick my head in the garbage disposal and flip the switch myself. Motherhood is too much work to have it blow up in my face. My biggest hope for them honestly, is that they have the opportunity to love a little child the way that I get to love them. That will tweak their souls in the way I think God wants them tweaked. Making people. Caring for them. It is one crazy ride. Can I get an amen?