Beauty is Skin Deep, and Deep Skin Isn't Beauty

Today this thought ran through my head as I looked in the mirror:

Perhaps today is the day that starts to show my neglect of moisturizer from the first few years of my twenties.

I know, I know.

Moisturizer is the key to great skin.

And yet, I have pores the size of craters on the moon.

I do not have porcelain smooth skin or an alabaster brow.

This immediately rules me out as being a heroine in a western romance novel or the nemesis in a dime store fashionista book.

I'm okay with that.

**********

With little warning my hubby mentioned that we needed to leave for his appointment in 15 minutes today.

And then this thought ran through my head:

Why, oh why, did I have a luxurious bath last night instead of the practical one where I wash my hair?

No matter. Oily hair can be semi-disguised by a quick ponytail.

I know, I know.

Lather, rinse, REPEAT is what makes shiny hair.

And yet, I do not have silken hair that the sun shines off.

This rules me out of participating in Pantene Pro-V commercials and pointless hair dye magazine ads.

I'm okay with that.

**********

And when my kids were yelling in the back of the car planning the start of WW3, this thought ran through my head:

Lord, give me strength.

Instead of yelling at my kiddos, I gently told them to be quiet and asked questions to seek solution, rather than just arrive at silence 'because I said so!!!'

This may have qualified me for actually living out 1 Peter 3:4: Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight.

And I'm okay with that.

Nursery Rhymes Make Me Question Life

I just realized today that when I play the itsy bitsy spider, it is an accurate spider.

Since thumbs are joined in the middle,

you have four fingers on each hand left over,

therefore eight "legs" in total.

I may have realized this before but it felt brand new today.

I find it really odd that "this little piggie ate roast beef". It disturbs me to think that pigs eat beef.

How big was the spider that frightened Miss Muffet away. I mean, knowing the size will determine whether I think she is a sissy or not.

I bet Van Gogh's mother didn't have to put up with this

Deb, I love the pillow I won from your blog.

In fact, I was going to do a whole post about this amazing pillow that I won, that you made and how it contains the alphabet on it.

Bombshell shocker:

My son has decorated it with red marker.

I'm putting it in the wash. I'll let you know how it fares.

I've been contemplating painting the kids room.

My son likes to colour on the wall.

I've put the whole painting thing on hold.

Markers now reside high up and out of son's reach.

My son has now mastered climbing into forbidden areas where markers are kept out of high reach.

I'm thinking of teaching my son 'no' in 7 different languages. I am hoping this will get the point across.

He's two.

He's on the loose.

And he's an artist.

I'm the parent.

I'm in charge.

But he's too artistic to take me seriously.

Help!

LeTT3rs &Num3r0's to get my point across

Don't you love chatting online with family or friends who you haven't seen in forever?

Invariably, you get close to the end and it's time to sign off.

I find the following funny:

THEM: Hey, gotta get going

ME: Ok, love ya lots. Say hi to the fam for me.

THEM:You bet.

ME: Miss you, too, eh?

THEM: I miss u 2

ME: Thanks. Love you

THEM: Loves x 10

ME: See ya

THEM: Bye, Patch.

ME: I thought we agreed we wouldn't call me that any more

THEM: Verbal agreement. Strictly verbal.

ME: PunK with a capital K

THEM: I thought you said you loved me

ME: I thought you said you had to go?

THEM: True.

ME: uh-huh

THEM: Buh-bye

ME: Bye

THEM: Love you

ME: Love you x 100

THEM:See you

ME: Okay.

THEM: Bye

ME: Bye

THEM: L8r

Okay, at this point I am thinking four things:

*how long can this one word goodbye go on for?

*I thought you had to get going...oh, I see, it was merely a ruse. You don't really have to go, you were just coming bored with me

*Don't go!!!! We haven't talked long enough and I miss you, wish you were here and love you x a million

* Shucks! I forgot to make reference to the WAZZUP commercial from three years ago (true! True!)

Aslan and Table Runners

Every time I listen to “The Back of the North Wind “ with my children, and it reaches the end, I spend about ten minutes crying and telling Jesus I love Him and that His eyes are beautiful to behold.

After I calm down, I also am grateful that that book was written...because if it hadn’t been inspiration for CS Lewis, what would life be like without the Chronicles of Narnia?

--

I broke down and bought one of those fantastic table runners it seems that everyone in blog world has in their homes that they constantly showcase (and brag that they made it all happen for fifteen dollars, spray paint and a few globs of modgepodge.)

My table runner was on sale.

Fifteen dollars.

Thank you, Pier One.

Then my kids ate at the table. After two meals it needed cleaning.

Company was coming over and I pulled it off the table, threw it in the laundry room and didn’t give it another thought.

Until...

I pulled my purple sweater out of the wash yesterday and wondered at all the strange lint that was stuck to it.

Then I pulled out my mangled table runner that said “Spot Clean Only.”

New decisions that have been made from this encounter:

I really need to start reading labels

I really need to stop being trendy like most blog homes I see on the net

There is no point having anything lovely on my table until my kids are past the spilling everything stage

No more going into Pier One and buying table runners

New thoughts that emerged:

Will my kids ever stop spilling things?

How will I get this sweater cleaned?

Am I going to be one of those old ladies who hides all her nice things when the grandkids come to visit and follow them around with a vacuum?

Another time where I should have just said "Fine."

My husband was injured at work last week. And while it was a very dramatic accident, he's come out relatively ok. He is hobbling around with a cane right now and is at home where I can keep him safe.

The other day when my sister said, "How are things with you being at home, Jeep."

He replied, "Not bad at all," .

And so I felt it necessary to add in this little fun fact, "I get to give him sponge baths, so it's not bad, not bad at all."

And that's been a funny joke that I've shared a few times with friends.

It always gets a laugh.

Except for tonight.

My father-in-law called and said, "So how are things?"

And I did my little joke.

Met by silence.

Then my father-in-law speaks up and says, "I'm just here on the phone with your mother-in-law and Nan (my husband's grandma)."

I hear a little voice in the background say, "Hello, dear."

Oh dear.

Grandma heard the sponge bath joke.

That's bad.

That's bad all over.

Tae Kwon Do you know where you are?

My eldest wants to take Tae Kwon Do.

No problem.

Like any good mother would, I call the local Tae Kwon Do place. We live in a small town so I google the number and call the one place that's in town.

"Ma'am, you can come and observe a class any night of the week. Monday to Thursday between 5-6 pm."

Great! I take a quick look at the address off of google: 2212 12 Ave, memorize it and hop in the car with my girl.

And we drive down to 12 ave.

The Industrial section of town. We cruise up and down the street looking for our Tae Kwon Do place. My gut gives me this vibe that the gym ain't in the Industrial Park.

I vaguely remember being at a rummage sale at a church that was holding a Tae Kwon Do class. I head over to the church in hopes that I am just confused.

No one is there.

No activity is happening.

Everything is still and silent.

Back in the car to answer the questions of my bright 8 year old who wants to know why I didn't write down the address.

I ignore the question.

I stop a young man with scraggy hair on the street. My desperate voice asks if he knows where it is.

"Uh, yeah, go to the end of this street, turn right at Queen's Hotel, it's on your left."

Perfect! Finally a youth of the community leads the way for an elder member.

I follow his directions. I drive up and down the street three times.

My upstanding youth has now become a little punk, in my eyes.

It's no where to be seen.

I drive home.

I call the number on my google screen and find out from Courtney, the receptionist, that they are right by the Salvation Army.

I am convinced I'm blind because I drove past the Salvation Army three times and saw nothing.

The next day we head out at the same time because Courtney says, "We'll be there."

I google the address, write it down and head out.

We drive down to the Industrial section. And since there is no Salvation Army at that end of town, I drive down to the other end of town. I drive up and down that street and see nothing.

My brain is truly puzzled...until I think about how our local town and the nearest big city are part of the same Tae Kwon Do club.

And then I remember that the one in the big city is right next to a Salvation Army.

And then I realize I've been an idiot and depended on Google a little too much.

On a whim, I drive over to the church and what do I find?

Yes, that's right.

A Tae Kwon Do class, in session, like it is every Thursday night.

Because I, yes I oh-brilliant-mother-that-I-am had Googled and called the wrong Tae Kwon Do club and drove around trying to locate it in my town.

I think this is a new personal low in the "Oblivious to the Obvious" portion in my life.

Sigh.

I said I wasn't going to lose my head....

I had a really fun morning.

It may have something to do with the fact that I played this song.

Seriously, it just makes me giggle.

Especially Hugh's hair.

And I like to snap my fingers when they snap their fingers and I pretend that my wardrobe changes.

But it doesn't.

I still have my pajamas on.

Sigh.

This Mary Poppins method of getting dressed must be re-thought.

And now a word from the indestructible plastic toy company

You've gotta find a way to get out of your own way, so you can progress in life.

Steve Carlton

The toy lives.

And as it lives, I suffer.

--Not from the knowledge that I intentionally let it fall to a demise by drowning

--Not from turning a blind eye as it bobbed up for air the third time

--Not from the notion that I am a mother who would let a noisy toy be destroyed by what seemed to be "only an accident."

No, I suffer for a different sort of reason.

I suffer because it lives.

It refused to die and now...NOW...talks in a high-pitched fast paced voice that is ten times more annoying then the first.

And that, my friends, is what I call a big drink of Irony.

And the irony is that they wrote better without access to my quotes.

Steve Carlton

Death of a Talking Toy

I've done something I'm not proud of.

And yet, here I am, oh-so-willing to admit it to my readers.

Perhaps this will be a cleansing of the soul-- a redemption of sorts.

My son.

My pure and innocent son.

He owns a toy.

Not just any toy.

A toy that talks.

A toy that makes noise.

A lot of noise.

I saw him playing with this toy in the bath tub water.

And I thought, "I should pull that toy out before it gets wrecked."

And then I thought, "Or maybe not."

Water has destroyed a great many of things...why not make annoying talking toys another one of its casualties?

These things happen.

Or so I will tell myself tonight should I have trouble falling asleep over choosing to do nothing while a toy met it's demise.

Pedals

I've been off the "blogging bicycle" for a few months and it's time to get back on.

You know what they say about riding a bicycle...

you never forget.

However, it may be worth saying that I haven't truly ridden a bike in over ten years.

The last time I did, I fell in front of an old man raking leaves about 100 feet from where I had my precarious start. And it didn't matter if I was a 20 something young woman, there was a visceral urge to stick my tongue out at him and laugh at the pants he had yanked up to just below his arm pits.

Age is not indicative of maturity, my friends.

Carry that in your pocket and use it when the next opportunity arises.

How to entertain 7 kids when you are fresh out of ideas!

Hang out until the end. Every kid will scream with delight!

A sigh from a contented woman

I have a full life.

Seven

I used to be taller than anyone else

Never hid my dreams up on a shelf

Running in circles was always ok

Spinning my wheels was just part of play

I was able to fly high

And so freely laugh

At all of the shadows

The sunshine made pass

Fell down on my knees

Felt no shame to cry

Picked up lost pennies

And chased butterflies

Stared up at the white clouds

That looked like blue whales

Loved when the wind

Filled up tea-towel sails

Singing tunes off-key

Puddle jumping in shoes

Had no trouble asking

just 'what should I do?'

Ran all the way up hill

Just to see if I could

Blew magic bubbles

Coloured my childhood

I used to be brave

and so very strong

Wasn't bothered that I

had no words to my song

Wonder'd up at the moon

Anchored strong in the sky

Listened to crickets

Sing long lullabies

I used to slow right down

watch streams flow right past

Seems they took all my days

And made them rush fast

Now I find myself knee-deep

In old memories

Hands in my pockets

Wishing that I could be:

Strong like the wind

Free like the bird

Pure like the sunshine

With all my words heard

For I used to be brave

I used to be bold

I used to laugh louder

and wish to be old

Because I....

I used to be seven.

It's not just a song from Footloose--it actually applies to today

Guess what I did today?

I went on a date.

With my man.

Without our kids.

It bears repeating: Without our kids!!!!

And naturally we went to see a movie we've wanted to see for a while:

The Karate Kid.

Only, it should be called The Kung Fu Kid because, you know, that's what they learned: Kung Fu.

As in, not karate.

Semantics.

Here's what I hope happens as a result of this film.

I hope young men go and see it.

Then I hope the will put down their video gaming consoles and pursue a sport.

Any sport, really.

Just something that will teach them honor and respect and good ol' competition.

It wouldn't hurt to become a little more buff either.

Why?

Because there are a whole slew of young women in their 20's wishing that young men would get off their gaming butts and become men of honour.

Stop living in the fantasy world where you kick people's butt and are a conqueror, get involved in a sport and learn about pushing yourself beyond your limits!

Did you know that Nintendo's target audience is a 29-year-old North American male?

Yep.

Sad and true.

So, could Kung fu be the answer?

Well, Jesus is the answer always.

Men on their knees in prayer.

Men committed to truth in the face of opposition.

Men, who like King David said, "Is there not a cause?"

Aren't we all holding out for a hero?

It's back!!!!!

I left town for the weekend.

My garden looked fine. Some of the spinach leaves were being eaten by aphids, but for the most part it looked fine.

Oh, you naive Finnish gypsy.

Fine, indeed!

There's a hole in my garden, dear Liza, dear Liza, there's a hole in my garden, dear Liza, a hole.

A hole....over by the brussel sprouts and celery!

Is this the return of the gopher?

Not sure. Too early to tell.

Although things are looking suspiciously similar to the last hole that annihilated my spinach.

That problem seemed to solve itself though...once I left town.

It's obvious what I need to do next, isn't it?

Yes, I agree.

ROAD TRIP!

16

Is it possible that 31 is the new 16?

I've always been a late bloomer.

I didn't get my license until I was nineteen.

My younger sister had a boyfriend before me.

We're not even going to discuss my cleavage development.

Remember 16?

The time of your life where you start to put together your dreams and figure things out and make embarrassing moments because you've rushed into things based on emotion rather than logic...or even prayer?

I think I may have skipped that whole season.

In fact, I'm pretty sure of it.

Most girls used curling irons then.

I bought my first one when I was 25.

Is it possible that you can experience "16"...some 16 years later?

Sometimes it feels like I'm just really beginning to discover who I am or how relationships really work.

Sometimes I over analyze everything to death and take myself way too seriously.

And sometimes I make a drama out of nothing, just like a 16 year old.

But I think I've matured a little in that area.

(Oh please, dear Lord, say 'yes, you have, my daughter')

Sometimes I feel like I'm just now putting on a dress that makes me look grown up. And I'm smiling shyly and feeling awkward but liking the advancement all at the same time.

Thank God I have the cleavage to hold the dress up this time around.

Experience I may be without, but time has rounded out a few things!

How is it possible that I've grown up when I still feel like a girl in so many ways?

I still eat my peanut butter out of jar with a spoon.

I still crank up the tunes, and lip sync to a song, looking in the rearview mirror and imagining I'm in my own music video.

I still get butterflies when he winks at me and fumble with my words when he's staring at me.

Maybe it's not so bad.

Discovering who I am, what I like and what I don't, realizing who God is to me and how I desire to live for Him.

That's what summer is like when you are sixteen.

At least it is this time around.

My life is in a bundle

On the move again.

From glory to glory.

Instead of fighting or resisting the work God does in my heart, I have learned to rest in Him.

He carries me, you know.

You too.

I was reminded of that while reading this book.

Remember when David is angry and he's going to kill Nabal and Nabal's wife Abigail smoothes everything over and tells David that his life is carried by the Lord in a bundle.

In David's era people did not travel with suitcases.

Instead, they put their most precious treasures in a bundle when they moved from one place to another.

Your life is in a bundle.

Mine too.

Thank God.

And lo, there was a great big empty hole

Well, I've returned from my h ometown.

Back into the garden to learn the fate of my spinach.

Dead.

All of it.

Killed and destroyed by the ravages of the yard war between the gopher and the cats.

The gopher?

Dead.

All of it.

Destoryed by the claws of the cats, I suppose.

I don't really know.

I wasn't here.

And the cats?

Dead.

I hope.

Wouldn't that be a great way to end this little saga? Everyone dead and me left standing in the wasteland of it all.

It's the stuff novels are made of.

Novels that are made into movies.

As my aunt said to me the other day, "Hi, my name is Allie and I like to be dramatic."

It follows me everywhere.

Lucky me, no evidence to prove that the cats killed the gophers...therefore I don't need to thank them.

Drama, drama, drama. Real and imagined.

Definitely imagined.

Solitude

Emergency has brought back to my hometown.

An aunt with a potato salad and a plate of veggies brought me here.

To my true home.

The one that never leaves my heart even though my feet takes me miles from its solitude.

In spite of everything, it's good to be back.

The pause before the storm

The clouds are grey and hang heavy.

The wind is blowing fiercely and reminding us that it truly has the power to keep us indoors.

We haven't seen the sun in 6 days.

All is quiet.

No action from the cats.

No action from the gophers.

Not a problem. I am patient like a lion waiting to pounce and devour its prey.

The spinach recover from the shell shock of past battles.

My brave spinach.

The battle is on hold...for now.

I'll keep you posted.

Let the Fur Fly

My garden has become the official battleground where nature has decided to re-enact the Crimean War.

Oh, I know the Crimean War was a long fought saga. But with all this rain and dirt, Crimean works better than relating this to the trenches that housed our soldiers in Dieppe. Although, the trenches may have been infested with the same animals from the rodent Geomyidae family, as well.

It’s a toss up-- Crimean War or WW2 orgin.

The point is my garden has now been seized as a battle zone.

My sidewalk is no man’s land.

And I am an innocent villager being pillaged by the effects of this horrible war.

The ground is no longer mine.

But we still gather to watch what is happening. We are, if nothing else, avid spectators.

Gopher flies through the air. Point for cat.

Cat dodges agilely and is left sticking its paws into a hole, maddeningly empty-handed. Point for gopher.

It goes on like this all day.

It makes for great discussion and lively activity around our little house. You can’t be in the kitchen and not look out the window and wonder what will happen next.

We’re all thinking it: when will the carnage begin?

I’m trying to do a little reconnaissance of my own.

I’m looking to start an underground resistance. Not a literal one because, as we know,the underground is occupied. I’m starting to strategize on how I can kill two birds with one stone.

I’m calling it Operation Fur Fly.

My objective is simple: end the drama of this cat and gopher game and finally plant the rest of my garden.

Sweet pickles that will bring me comfort in the dead of winter are depending on my plan of attack. So is the wanting-to-be-made strawberry jam.

And my spinach desperately needs back up.

My brave spinach.

The battle rages on.

I’ll keep you posted.

And the Plot Thickens...

The cat has got my tongue.

I’m not meaning to be glib, but it has.

I’m not apologizing or taking back what I have said about the cleverly disguised rodents called felines, but I will, hopefully in a few days hence, go so far as to say this:

Thank you, cat.

And that’s a great deal coming from me on this issue.

What has brought me to this point? Not a vision that has knocked me off my high horse, but a reality that is too strong to ignore.

I, once again, have been duped into thinking that the stray cats have had a penchant for my strawberries and spinach which lay in full sun.

If I had used my logic skills and connected the fact that they were here, lying in wait, even on rainy days, I may have deduced the following:

We have gophers.

Go ahead. Laugh it up. Diva needs redeeming once again!

Apparently, we have had a gopher living in our garden....right next to the spinach plants.

There is a neat little tunnel that suggests they are quite adept at excavation just like the nature books describe.

I was blind.

Not blind to the fact that cats are annoying. No, I am well aware of that fact. Some things you can’t paint over in life. This is one of them.

But I was blind to this existence of species descending from the RODENT family that has moved into our garden; as if we were members of a Beatrix Potter book and Peter Rabbit will be coming along any moment for tea.

They live in my garden!

But now, thanks to the cats: they live in terror.

I am willing, for the next few days, leastwise, to let the cats stay and kill and catch the intruders.

I figure it’s a more natural way of dealing with them than the age-old drowning method.

Plus, that particular method requires a bit more work than I am prepared to put forth at this moment in time. One must keep all manner of options available, but still use the course of action that requires others to work harder. (This is not a rule I live by in my life, but just a general observation).

The cats wrestle and try to catch the gopher. When they are successful and if, IF, they do not leave the remnants of the eaten carcass in my garden, then I will say thank you. But until that happens, the words remain on the tip of my tongue.

Out there remains my spinach.

My brave spinach.

The battle rages on.

I will keep you posted.

Shouting Out My Window is Becoming Quite Normal

The carnage continues and my yet my spinach battles on.

I believe they are convinced that they are spears that will eventually stab the underside of their attackers.

One can only hope.

It's a lazy lot of stray cats that I have in my yard.

Unwelcome and unwanted.

If they were writing a story about their lives it would be filled with scavenging, loneliness and a crazy lady who repeatedly opens her windows and shouts loud vernicular at them.

Away with you, dreaded beasts!

When I first wrote of their horrid existence, I shared with you my distaste for all things feline.

And then I wrote about how a new stray came to lay in the sun and lick body parts in a way that was less than modest and leave their evidence behind.

And our next adventure comes in the form of sopping rain, my other enemy to happiness this summer.

It’s shaping up to be a cold summer. The kind of summer where no one comes of age and all diary entries start and end with whining due to the inelegance of continual downpour.

And now we have cats.

Cats and rain. It’s raining cats and cats.

It’s all a vicious circle reminding me that a gardener must battle the elements if there is any hope to be organic.

They may have won the battle but I will win the war.

I need a new strategy.

I will keep you posted.

The Cat Came Back the Very Next Day

A second cat has join the massacre of my spinach.

I looked out my window and, behold, a new cat. It's the other local stray. It is sitting all plucky, like a hen laying eggs, on top of my spinach.

My brave spinach.

Worse, it has left offerings of the most gruesome kind.

Hair balls.

On the ground, the gobs of hair are lying next to my brave green soldiers, who try their best to rise to the sun above.

Blasted beasts.

Is there no end to the torture they inflict on my life?

How to rid them....how I ask, to no one in particular, and especially now since I’ve diasbled comments?

Blast!

Checking online for methods of trapping cats humanely and releasing them into the wild, wild bush far from my house. (I would never really do this. That you think I would shatters my soul. Really.)

There must be alternative methods of removal.

I need to talk to someone wise and all-knowing.

I need to talk to someone in town who knows how to get rid of unwanted animals.

Pest control, perhaps?

I’ll keep you posted.