Shake that thang....

When I look back at an old year, I imagine an Etch A Sketch full of lines and designs. Some of them are beautiful images that I cherish. Some of them are messy lines left by others that I'd rather forget.

By nature, I'm not a huge fan of change. But this year especially, God had ways of helping me transition into new phases of life. Unfortunately, those ways included miserable and sometimes humiliating circumstances that subsequently led me to actually crave the very change I once was dreading.

For instance....the night before I turned 40 began with a giant argument between my husband and son that led to a long drive with our dogs that included a stop at a friend's house, whom I hadn't seen in many years, who innocently brought her dog outside with her to greet us which ended with me standing outside her house trying to hold a normal conversation while our mini-van rocked back and forth with the sounds of our dogs ferociously attacking the windows while our daughters screamed and my husband periodically yelled "KNOCK IT OFF!"

As if that weren't bad enough, I arrived home to find red Kool-Aid dribbled across our beige colored Rec Room carpet and as I hauled out our carpet cleaning machine, my husband half-heartedly said, "I'll do it" but then remained in the bed under the covers watching football. Thanks for the offer.

I got the carpet cleaned and loudly announced that I was crawling into bed with my library book for the remainder of my 39th year of life on this earth and that I wasn't getting up until I turned 40. Ten minutes later, C puked on our sheets. I had to get up. I was still 39. Don't ever tell me that God doesn't have a sense of humor.

Needless to say, I welcomed 40 with open arms.

Remember that "To Do" list I mentioned in my previous post? Well, God gave me my next assignment. At first it didn't seem that hard, but as usual, Satan got involved and stirred up crap that ultimately led to a huge fight with my husband on New Years Eve.

Goodbye 2011. You screwed with me so.

But the beautiful thing about an Etch A Sketch is the ability to shake it clean! Do over! Fresh start! Clean slate! Blank canvas! A new beginning to create new amazing images and lasting memories.

But in order to do that, you've gotta shake off the old. Forgive yourself. Forgive everyone around you. File away the awesome memories you created last year. Leave behind the craziness you'd rather forget. Take note of any negative situations and make the necessary adjustments in an effort to create peace for yourself and your family. And by all means, make a conscious effort to protect your Etch A Sketch.

So welcome to 2012! Now go ahead and shake that thang!!!!

Forty....and other 'F' Words.

I'm forty.

Yep, I said it. And so far, the earth hasn't stopped rotating, people aren't gasping and none of my body parts are hanging any lower than they were the last day I was 39.....so far.

You may remember, the approach to my birthday last year was riddled with self-imposed misery that culminated into a pity party of colossal proportions. Good times.

With that in mind, I was nervous as to how I would handle the transition into the digits beginning with the big 'F.'

As with any birthday, there's a natural tendency to look back and ponder. I do that every year, but especially whenever I cross over into a whole new decade. It was during those retrospective thoughts recently that it occurred to me that Forty isn't the only F-word used to describe my journey.

My 20's:
Frantic: excessively agitated marked by uncontrolled excitement or emotion

I married Chuckles when I was 21. Z was born when I was 22. A was born when I was 24. K was born two months premature when I was 27 and I suffered a post-vasectomy miscarriage when I was 28. Toss in a boat load of insecurity, self doubt and a young mom of 3 young kids who was trying to hold it all together or at least appear that she was, and you've got a hot mess on your hands.....Frantic.

My 30's:
Forge: to move ahead slowly and steadily

I entered my 30's weighing 250 pounds....254 if you want to be exact. I'll never forget the day my Mamaw Putter said to me, "You're too young to be that fat." (May she rest in peace.) I remember thinking, "I'm not fat. I just have giant bone structures." It wasn't until I dragged myself into a Ladies Fitness Center and stepped onto the scale that my eyes were finally opened to what had gradually been happening. That was when I Forged into my journey of exercise and a healthier lifestyle that ultimately led me to go back to school to become a Massage Therapist a year later. Halfway through this Forging adventure, my husband had his vasectomy reversed and we welcomed C into our family when I was 35.

Then God revealed the next thing on my To-Do List. And when God reveals something to you, He doesn't leave a doubt in your mind, and the 2nd half of my 30's was spent doing studies by Beth Moore that required me to come face to face with some hard core identity issues in my life. Tough stuff but I survived.

I turned 39 thinking that my To-Do list was under control. BIG mistake, because out of the blue, God allowed the next one to slap me upside the head....My approach to relationships. I had a pattern in my life that I kept repeating without even realizing it and it became clear that I needed to break the vicious cycle. It was time to stop trying to please people because where in the heck does that end?!? Somebody is always going to be mad at you. It's reality. You may as well accept it.

Beth Moore gives an awesome visual to how to approach people. Picture the Cross between you and each person in your life. The horizontal line represents the connection between you and the vertical line represents boundaries. That's where I always screwed up. I would walk on eggshells with their boundaries but in my desperate need for the connection, I would always forget to put up my own. Then when I would try later, it would come as a shock, people would get offended and the vicious cycle repeats. Can you say insanity?!?

So my 39th year was spent instilling some crosses. The installation of crosses always begins with forgiveness. I had to forgive myself. I had to forgive others. And I had to move forward with the new changes and the determination to ignore hostile repercussions that always accompany things that people don't understand. These were my mistakes that I had to take full responsibility for and with that comes the responsibility to clean it up and stop the cycle in it's tracks. Some people stay. Some people don't.

Good riddance 39!

Six days into my 40's:
Free: Not under the control or in the power of another

I turned 40 weighing exactly 100 pounds less than I did at 30.
Food does not control me.

I am the child of my Heavenly Father. I am in the Royal bloodline. My identity lies in Him. Therefore, I throw all of my insecurities and doubts about my self-worth into the pit with the enemy where they belong, because that's who they're coming from.
My thoughts do not control me.

My life is full of amazing people who know me well and choose to be a part of my life anyway. A solid cross stands between each of us. They are not responsible for my happiness, nor are they to blame for my unhappiness. Just as I am not responsible or to blame for theirs.
My fear of relationships does not control me.

Now I prepare myself for God to reveal the next thing on my list. I'm holding my breath here, because I know it's coming sooner or later. Joyce Meyer says, "If God hasn't told you what He wants you to do next, just keep doing the last thing He told you until He does." So I will.

You might notice, none of the things on my list can be checked off and considered accomplished. They're a daily battle filled with choices.

In the meantime, I'm passing these lessons onto my kids so that maybe one day when they look back at their 20's and beyond, their 'F' word can be 'Free' and save themselves some of the pain that comes with the 'Frantic Forge.'

The People's Court-ers

My husband doesn't choose too many battles and as far as I can tell, there's no rhyme or reason to his method of choosing. Sometimes they're obviously justifiable. Then there are times I raise my eyebrows and wonder what the heck just happened.

The latest battle he chose landed us in court. This time, he took on the local hospital. More specifically, the surgical center. And eventually, even more specifically, the anesthesiologists.

The problem? A bill for a surgery I had last year. The remainder of the bill, not covered by insurance, was a sum of $600. According to the itemized statement, that total came from 3 separate recovery room charges for roughly $200 each. They were broken down like this: "Recovery Phase I, 30 minutes. Recovery Phase II, 30 minutes. Recovery Phase III, 15 minutes."

It was "Recovery Phase III" that sent him over the edge and suddenly we were going to battle over the injustice of duplicate billing.

When he gets like this, I've learned to just go along for the ride.

So last month when I woke up to a voice mail telling me to meet him at the courthouse and instructing me to show cleavage, I thought "Here we go."

My hope was that it would be quickly decided one way or another that day and we could move on with our lives. And I think we stood a chance of that happening, until my husband got a little carried away in his closing argument and may or may not have accused the hospital of telling the anesthesiologist to put me into a deeper sleep so that I would need an extra 15 minutes of recovery time as part of a master plan to make an extra buck.

Holy crap, he did not just say that.

And on that note, our trial was set for December 8th.

So yesterday, we sat in the courtroom waiting to begin. I was shaking with nerves while my husband sat there repeatedly making the sounds from the opening of "The People's Court".....du nu du.

"The Plaintiffs" arrived. aka; the sleezy collections lawyer and the spokespeople he was ordered to bring from the hospital. I was a little surprised at the appearance of the spokespeople. I was expecting men in suits. So I was taken aback to see 2 elderly women dressed in slacks and festive holiday sweaters.

My husband leaned over and loudly whispered "I bet he asked his grandmas to come pretend to work at the hospital."

Let's keep that little accusation to ourselves, okay Chuckles?

The lawyer approached us and asked if we wanted to talk.
Me: "About what?"
Him: "Your reaction."
Me: "My reaction to what?"
Him: "You became extremely ill after your surgery and started profusely vomiting."
Me: "I did?"
Him: "Yes."
Me: "Well, this conversation is over. Now I want to ask the judge why neither of us were informed that I became so violently ill after surgery."
My husband: "Maybe it was because she was given too much anesthesia."

Quiet, Chuckles.

The trial itself was uneventful. One of the grandmas took the stand and the lawyer questioned her. I was proud of my husband when he leaned over and whispered, "Leading the witness" rather than dramatically standing up shouting while pointing his finger and he never once yelled "OBJECTION" and pounded the table with his fist as he'd planned in the van on the way.

The court was very patient with him. When we were shown "Exhibit A", my signed consent form, he sat there reading every word and then dramatically asked me if that was my signature. (Sigh) When it was his turn to swear to tell the truth and was told to raise his right hand, he abruptly raised his left and sat there staring at the judge until the judge finally had to tell him to please raise his other hand.

Grandma explained that the 3rd Recovery Room charge was because I became nauseous after the surgery and needed some medication. Turns out there was no profuse vomiting. Shocker.

When it was my turn to speak, I began to tell the judge what happened with the lawyer before the trial. The lawyer interrupted with an objection and claimed it was irrelevant. The judge overruled him and allowed me to speak and then scolded the lawyer for his inappropriate behavior while I sat there fighting the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

When it was all said and done, we wrote out a check for $600 plus court costs.

Lesson learned: In the court of law, Grandma always trumps Cleavage.

Turkey Trot

You may or may not know that I have a natural aversion to running. My husband and I spend good weather days walking our 5-mile block.

This past August, he asked me if I wanted to try jogging it. Feeling up to the dare, I took off, made it 4 minutes and doubled over with a pain in my side and sudden urge to vomit. BUT, I made it 4 minutes longer than I thought I would.

The following day, my competitive streak kicked in and I decided to slow down my pace and make it further than the day before. That progressed day by day until I could make it around our entire block. Not that I'm fast, mind you, as evidenced by the day the 20 Buzzards circled my head just waiting for me to keel over. (Okay, I get it. I'm slow and you're hungry. You don't have to be so rude about it.) Not to mention my almost 40 year old bladder that requires a bathroom break or 2 along the way. Thank goodness for cornfields.

Fast forward to September when I heard about a local 5K for charity being held on Thanksgiving Day. I signed us both up and he began "training" me around our block. Methods that included heckling with the occasional cat call, butt slap and inappropriate suggestion. He's quite effective.

When the weather got too cold to run our block, we went our separate "training" ways. He worked out at the gym and I stuck with my very old but very dependable treadmill at home. He came home with impressive progress reports. His speed, his distance and calories burned. Since the console on "old dependable" went out long ago, I had nothing to report except that I could run through 2 Joyce Meyer sermons without diving off the side and/or throwing up. His philosophy: "Knowledge is Power." My philosophy: "Ignorance is Bliss."

I tried to sound confident, but deep inside I was paranoid that I was going to fail. Then he really freaked me out when he asked me if I had my IPod loaded for the race. I said, "But how will I hear you talk to me?" He said, "Oh, you want me to stay back with you?" (Nice, Chuckles.)

That brings us to Thanksgiving morning. The weather was perfect. Clear, sunny and cool. We stood amidst the hundreds of people waiting to start. Some were dressed like turkeys and one man was dressed from head-to-toe in camouflage. Note to self: Stay behind the creepy hunter.

My husband stood there confidently stretching while I stood praying for a cornfield to relieve myself. The race began. The pack, including my husband, crushed around me and quickly passed.

When it seemed everyone had found their niche, I surveyed my position. I looked behind me to realize that I was the leader of the group of 60 year old walkers. And when I looked in front of me, I was right behind the stay-at-home-mom-power-walking-duo, complete with Lycra jump suits and super cool arm bands that held their IPods. If you followed the chord to my IPod, it would lead you through the neck of my over sized sweatshirt and straight into my sports bra.

And out of nowhere, I heard a little kid say, "Excuse me" and I turned around to see a boy on a scooter trying to pass me....and I started wishing I'd thought to bring a scooter.

I had a choice. I could either panic and give up or just do what I knew I could do and forget everyone else. I didn't have Joyce Meyer, but I had the next best thing: My IPod full of motivating songs like Sexy Back, Ridin Dirty and I'm Sexy and I Know It. Songs that make me forget I'm an almost 40 year old mom and songs that give me hope that I too could wear a Lycra jump suit and even pole dance if given the chance. I found my comfort zone and took off, slowing down only for Bohemian Rhapsody. (I have a killer air-guitar solo in the middle.)

At the halfway point, I caught up to my husband, who said between gasps of breath, "Hey! There you are. I've been waiting for you." (Nice try Chuckles.) I patted his butt and moved on past him. Shortly after that, I passed the kid walking while his dad carried his scooter. (Not so tough without your scooter, huh?) On the final stretch, when I was ready for it to end, the perfectly timed song, My Chick Bad started in my ears. That's the song that makes me wonder if I might look good doing cool choreography on a dance floor.

Anyhoo, it had the desired effect and I sprinted over the finish line....9 minutes before my husband. But this was for charity, people, so let's not make it about who beat who. (I was 9 minutes faster. I was 9 minutes faster. I was 9 minutes faster.)

And for the record, next year, the speed-walking-housewives are going down.

You can't make this stuff up, people.

DISCLAIMER: The Amish driver and his horse both survived. (If that doesn't get your attention, nothing will.)

Regular readers of my blog and Facebook are well aware that I have a bit of a, shall we say, tumultuous relationship with our Amish neighbors. Maybe tumultuous isn't the right word. Bizarre would probably be more accurate.

Most of my encounters with the Amish involve their ill-timed trips past our house to find me cursing our weedwacker while wearing various outfits, all of which would be considered inappropriate by Amish standard.

Lately, on more than one occasion, I've come face to face with a particular horse and driver in an odd game of "Chicken" as I'm jogging along the road and he's in my path heading my way. Either he recognizes me and I scare him or he's extremely polite, because each time, he kindly takes a wide path around me. We say hello to each other as I pray he doesn't recognize me without my weedwacker....or in my husband's boxer shorts.

Fast forward to this morning. In a rare occurrence, I was fully clothed and standing at my front door waiting for my Massage Client. Along came my new Amish friend and I was inwardly congratulating myself for not causing him alarm or inconvenience as he passed by our house.

But then out of the blue, a car sped past our house and the Amish wagon literally disintegrated before my eyes and the driver flew into the air and barely missed landing on the car that hit him. That was followed by a semi coming up behind, slamming on his brakes and screeching to a stop behind what used to be the Amish wagon, and a car behind the semi slammed to a stop having no idea what just happened in front of her.

I burst into tears and ran outside scared to death of what I was going to see when I rounded the semi. But before I made it, the Amish horse came tearing around the back of the semi dragging a wheel and other pieces of it's wagon behind him and he was being chased by the Amish driver. Thankful that he was ok, I yelled for the girl in the car to call 911 and joined the Amish man in pursuit of his horse around our front yard.

So when my client pulled into the driveway, that's exactly what she was witnessing. Welcome to our home. We call this "Wednesday" around here.

He caught his horse and tied him to the tree in our front yard and we struck up a conversation. I said, "Are you ok?" And he said, "Are you the woman who runs?" (I was so thankful that my weedwacker wasn't mentioned. I think we just bonded.)

He said he was fine but predicted he'd be sore in the morning. I refrained from offering up my services as a Licensed Massage Therapist, fearing I might do some damage to our blossoming friendship if I invited him to come to my house and let me rub his back free of charge. He was freaked out enough already.

With a horse tied to my tree, pieces of buggy scattered everywhere and the sound of sirens heading our way, I excused myself to greet my client and explained to my new friend that I'd be inside if anyone needed to talk to me. I walked inside amazed at how miraculous it is that he and his horse are both fine and I'm so thankful.

Just before I began her massage, I texted Z about what just happened, then turned off my phone.

Little did I know, that at that exact time, Z was at school in a Texting & Driving Simulator to teach the kids firsthand how little it takes to get distracted. He was instructed to text while he drove.

So when my text came through, he went ahead and read it.....and then he jerked the simulator wheel, hit a simulated guy on a bike and skidded into a simulated telephone pole and yelled "Holy Crap!!"

Lesson learned. Don't text and drive. Glad I could help.

I cheer, therefore I am.

Is 39 too young for a midlife crisis? Well, technically, I'm on the slippery slope to 40 and sliding faster every day.

The midlife crisis thought first crossed my mind last month, when I willingly paid extra money at an amusement park for the opportunity to allow 2 strangers to strap my husband and me into a giant ball attached to bungee chords and then proceeded to allow them to fling us 300 ft into the air together.

That spontaneous lack of judgement prompted us to update our Will.

Shortly after that, I took up jogging. And very shortly after that, I ended up in Urgent Care with a pulled ligament in my foot.

Then last week, I received an email informing me that my High School was in search of alumni cheerleaders who were interested in dancing at the Homecoming Game this past Friday. I bolted to my closet. The desk chair was still swiveling when I returned with my old uniform. I was thrilled when the skirt zipped up the back and the sweater fit too. Not exactly as it used to fit, mind you. Once you factor in that I've birthed 4 children and my boobs used to sit about a foot higher than they do now, you understand the odd way the sweater hangs these days. What once was up, will come down. It's a fact of life.

When Zac came home from school, he found me cleaning the house in my Cheerleading uniform. He stopped. Stared. Said, "Oh gosh." And walked away without asking.

Only my daughters seemed completely enthralled with my sudden obsession with high kicks and even higher pony tails. They followed me around the house asking lots of questions and comparing jumps. Then we sat around and talked about boys and used the words "Like" "Totally" and "Awesome." And then I taught them to combine them...."Like totally awesome." (My girls and I are pretty tight.)

Zac kept quiet on the topic of my Cheerleading AND he refused to spot me on a round-off-back-handspring, doubting my ability to do it without paralyzing myself. Dude, It's probably like riding a bike. What could go wrong?

Ron, on the other hand, spent last week with the look on his face seen on kids in a candy store. Enough said.

Thursday night I had Cheerleading practice. (I can't even type that without twirling my hair and craving a piece of bubble gum to pop and smack.) There were about 10 "real" cheerleaders and 5 of those suffering from sudden identity crisis. I was one of the 10.

We reviewed 2 routines. The first was The Fight Song. No problem. Our High School fight song is the same tune as Ohio States. Therefore, I've spent every Saturday for the past 21 years dancing that routine every time the Buckeyes score. My husband can attest to that.

The second routine was to a song called Chief Mac. I remembered bits and pieces. (More bits than pieces.) But I was too embarrassed to speak up and figured YouTube would come to my rescue. No such luck.

I spent all day Friday imagining the horror that was about to happen that night in front of hundreds of people. I was gonna go out on that field and totally rock The Fight Song, only to turn around and look like a stroke victim during Chief Mac as I lay on the field in the fetal position crying in a puddle of my own drool. (You've entered The Drama Zone.)

To top it off, on the way to the game my husband broke some big news to me. "It's The Game of the Week! Channel 2 News is gonna be there!" That was followed by him stopping me from diving out of the side of our moving vehicle while the kids screamed.

But we got there early and I spent some quality one on one Chief Mac tutoring time with a cheerleader....whose eyes were coated in the most beautiful gold glitter eye shadow I've ever seen and I spent half the time wishing I'd known that existed. But I digress.

We took the field, in the cold pelting rain, and I was at home. The band started playing, I closed my eyes and I danced. And I couldn't stop grinning.

And in case you all are wondering if I was wearing my uniform, the answer is no. Despite the fact that I kept it in pristine condition and that it still fit, once the tiny detail that I no longer own the tights that cover my underwear emerged, that became a deal breaker. Picky picky.

I'm currently on the hunt for a black warm-up suit with gold lettering. Because next year, I'm gonna match the Cheerleaders. Complete with a thick coat of glittery gold eye shadow.

In the meantime, I'll move on to my next midlife crisis activity.
I signed my husband and I up to run a 5k on Thanksgiving Day.

Would anyone like to break that news to him for me?

Homecoming Round II

In case you've forgotten Homecoming Round I, our daughter was voted to be the Homecoming Court's Freshman Attendant last year and big drama ensued with "The Queen Mother" over my daughter's dress and the ridiculous tradition that the Queen holds the power to not only choose the court's dresses, but apparently should also get to choose exactly where the dress is purchased and how much the parents pay. I cried bullcrap, found the exact same dress on Amazon, paid $66 rather than $200, apparently "broke tradition" and may or may not have ruined Homecoming 2010 by doing so.

But let's move on before I get mad.

Our son is a Senior this year. A few weeks ago, I asked him if there was any chance he could be voted Homecoming King. He said there was no way, because in the history of this school, tradition indicates that it always goes to a football player. Tradition also states that the King chooses the guy escorts. Therefore, as tradition goes, the Homecoming Court consists solely of football players. My son played golf. Not football.

But as you know, traditions are made to be broken.

My son was voted Homecoming King. That probably happened because he's a great kid, he's funny, entertaining, nice to everyone, has amazing school spirit and a level of confidence that encourages acts of individuality, not to mention his dark black eyes, long eyelashes and a smile that lights up a room....but hey, I'm his Momma.

Oooooorrrrrr, it might have had something to do with saying "Balls" in his Vice President election speech at the County wide National Honor Society banquet last Spring, causing a scandal like no other that rocked the school, led to threats of a dismissal hearing and subsequently ended with a Facebook fan page, media coverage, his NHS probation, 2 NHS advisers quitting, his new found fame, legendary status and nickname...."Balls."

Drama seems to find us wherever we go.

Whichever the case may be, he was voted King. So he picked his court. The Golf Team and a band member. And drama ensued. Whatever.

In the midst of the drama, I came to a realization. "I'm The King Mother!" And I felt the warm glow of power take over.

So last Wednesday, when the Principal called me into his office to discuss my son bringing his yo yo to school, I had to fight the urge to remind him that my son is The King and I'm The King Mother, therefore, we don't have time to be bothered with yo yo nonsense.....

But instead, I apologized and promised him that Z wouldn't bring his yo yo to school anymore. Choose your battles, people.

To top off this amazing experience for our family, this year's (beautiful & amazing) Queen (and her awesome family) chose our 4 year old daughter to be the Homecoming Princess and it still completely melts my heart.

Homecoming Round II was a huge success. The kids in that school had the courage to step out from under "tradition" and vote for who they wanted to be King, regardless of what sport he played.

My son had the courage to pave a new path by choosing a court of kids who may not have gotten the opportunity otherwise, proving that if you don't like a tradition, it's up to you to change it!

As for me, I'm still enjoying my reign as King Mother.
Complete with tiara.

Don't worry. The power hasn't gone to my head at all. (Buahahahahahahaha!)