20/20 Rear Vision

I give. Snow is everywhere. The fine folks 'round these parts have a bit of a learning curve when it comes to navigating ones automobile in it. I understand.

I understand you're in a hurry... need to get to work... need to hurry up so you can spare those few last minutes you tried to give yourself so as not to rush over the black ice.

But if you are going to brave the roads, and take the time to scrape your windshield and warm up your car please PLEASE do me this favor... there is a weapon atop your vehicle. It is flat and hardened and has a mind of its own when withstanding winds of 35 mph or greater.

It sends projectile missiles without warning. Sprays of unavoidable precipitation skew the visibility of others. At the very least, it startles and frightens the NPR listeners and classical music enthusiasts who are making a stride towards their own personal zen before a busy work day.

There is a special agenda for the SUV's and trucks who participate in their own 2ft or greater "mile high club". As if the momentum of going 5 over the posted speed limit isn't enough, the added height and gravity given to this potential frosty weapon of destruction is particularly disconcerting. Chunks of white debris fly at random toward the innocent folks in its wake.

If you would like to pay it forward, or simply look out for your neighbor, arguing about health care reform will do little when chucking 50 mph snow drifts at granny or little Susie.

So please, cease and desist. Dismantle the miniature frozen tundra atop your car/truck/SUV. Practice a little bit of the golden rule. Practice consideration.

Do this, and everyone's vision will be clear.

My Latest Love Affair

My stomach betrays me on a daily basis it seems. I think it has some sort of covert agreement-slash-understanding with the mass of cells and blood vessels that reside in my skull. I don't know which comes first... the thought, suggestion... or the antagonizing growl of my gut.

As of late, however, this powerful partnership of belly and brain have seduced me; taken me to some foreign land of human existence in which humanity does not suffer at the hands of obesity and over eating. This is a land that hosts beautiful flowing rivers of chocolate, mountains of garlic mashed potatoes and festively adorned chips and salsa.

In the colder climates you can experience the ice cream tundras.

Further to the south, where the sun dances closer to the surface (at approximately 350 degrees give or take), there are neighborhoods of delicious casseroles, chicken drenched in bbq sauces and savory baked confections.

Amidst the more lukewarm regions my senses steal me away to vast parks of individually wrapped hostess cakes, peanut butter by the heap-fulls, and the occasional whatever dipped in ranch dressing.

The cruelest portion on my proverbial plate, however, is the changing image of the person in the mirror. The brain-slash-belly love affair slaps me in the face with a "you're not included!" attached. Apparently my hips, thighs and upper arms are not allowed quite the same access to this consequence-free dream world.

I recall the days of freedom from this food oppression. I remember when I was able to look saturated fat right in the eye and denounce it. Ahhh... the belly betrays me daily. It lies.

And my hips are declaring war.

A Preacher's Wife

Ole' Granny, the usual hostess with the mostess... in finally starting to unravel. With all of her 75+ years' worth of belongings in a one bedroom apartment, the boxes slowly being unpacked seem to correllate with her brain and sensibilities.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not picking on my elder here. We openly discuss her apparent lunacy.

You see, in Granny's world, church directories from 1982 are still relevant. Stuffed animals and ceramic clowns are ideal decor for the kitchen cabinets. A full china cabinet, formal dining table and upright piano are necessary for a one bedroom apartment.

What? Torn up area rugs? Keep 'em! They are perfect scratching pads for the calico kitties.

And surely if it's made in 2009, the Honda Civic does not need to be cranked in order to drive it. Just put in gear and go... oh wait, it won't go into gear. Hmmm. Curious.

Lastly, it is not only wise but a matter of safety to use colored straws with your beverage of choice. And whatever the case may be, certainly do this with your water lest your troubled eyes misjudge it's placement and you find yourself kissing the air in hopes of wetting the parched lips. After all, a clear straw is "the same color as the water."

I Got In A Fight

With a vacuum.

Now before you curl up your lip or immediately go into accusatory mode, you try vacuuming YOUR vehicle with a $1.25 vacuum that lasts 2 minutes. YOU try to fight with the blasted hose that wants so badly to be curled back up and returned to its post. YOU try to run to the other side of your car while throwing the hose across your seat as precious time is a-wastin'.

I threatened it, cursed it, and even tried to put it in a head lock. It wouldn't listen. But I got all the dirt sucked up.

So there. Nevermind the bruised shin from leaping across the back seat to get that one last bit of grass, or the twisted ankle I got from jumping the curb to get to the other side. It didn't do much to eleviate the anxiety of knowing the vacuum would cut off at ANY GIVEN SECOND.

I'm not so sure that $1.25 is worth the mental stress.

One Year Down

For those of you who wonder what I do.

See for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1GiR0WSYcE

Toilet Paper and Ministry

I turned 29 over a month ago. My memory must already be slipping with my increasing age. For I browsed through the pictures on my phone and found this...

The youth group loves me.

Pool Daze

So yesterday I went to the pool. Applied a little sun screen and lotion, and proceeded to listen to the giggles and laughter of small ones in the pool.

Two little girls, once told by mom it was time to go, proceeded to say in their little whiney way "Noooooooooo... five more minutes?"

I remember going to the pool as an ankle biter, and could always sense when it was time to go. Mom would get up from her lawn chair and make her way to the pool's edge. But I outsmarted her everytime with my childhood wit and smarts.

See, you can't hear much when you're under the water. So as soon as she would open her mouth, under the water I would go. Diving, jumping, swimming... even just sitting at the bottom. Didn't matter. I can't hear you. I can't hear you.

THAT's all that mattered.

Until finally I would catch a smidgen of her anger in between splashes.

I got out of the pool.

But I wanted to go up to these kids and tell them my secret.

"No, don't argue and whine with your mom. Just ignore her. Completely. Until she feels tempted to beat you. At that point. go ahead and get out."

And then I wonder if teaching them how to be brats is really what a responsible adult should do.

And then I remembered that I'm an adult brat.