I have heard the grumblings of the masses- Valentine’s Day was created by candy and card companies so they can make a buck and force lovers into uneasy proclamations. Yep, it is time to send that card, the chocolate, the diamond or something wrapped in red to show your love. I just ask this: is it wrong to look forward to Valentine’s Day? Maybe it is the one day a year that some couples make any gesture, boundaried or not, to say they love the one their with. Out in the big cities across this nation, young lovers and old will fight for parking spaces at the hot-spot restaurants, and splurge on champagne and dessert, some getting lucky with the party continuing at home.
Why complain? What is up with that?
Personally I L O V E Valentine’s Day! Even when I not a part of a couple, it is so nice to watch others show their love. It is sort of contagious! Why feel sorry for oneself if single on that day- get out and spectate (without being creepy) and bask in that loving energy? Lucky for me I have two daughters and I get to send some love their way.
I was taught in elementary school that EVERYONE gets a card! I remember sitting for what felt like hours at my dining room table with my box of cards and working diligently to give just the right card to each person in my class. We had made boxes earlier, and they were waiting to be filled with cards- opened at the party that day complete with red cupcakes and red punch. The 1960′s rocked! Yep- I studied my Flintstones cards and gave the ones that said “Be My Valentine” to the deserving kids..the ambiguous ones, the “Happy Valentine’s Day!” or “Love Rocks” to the kids I really didn’t know. The “I love You” card…well, it went out when there was a special boy who had circled yes when I asked him if he loved me in a note given to him by my best friend. In every box of cards there was a teacher card- it was so cool to give a card to the teacher every year; you know I think they enjoyed reading those messy signatures as much as we enjoyed writing them!
I like getting recognition on V-Day from my significant other- I will not lie. If he decided it was not his thing to bow to societal pressure just because it is February 14th, he isn’t the boy for me!! The same guy who begrudges V-Day will do the same with birthday’s, anniversaries…Christmas- a real whirlpool of nothing. Boring in my opinion.
I do not insist on receiving jewels, though if it was affordable and would not take away from the grocery money- jewels would be cool! I do not insist on chocolate. One year Charlie went to the mall and splurged on a big box of Godiva chocolates. I am a sweet-aholic and ended up consuming almost half of the box in a 24 hour period. That means I ate half of every chocolate he picked for the box. Each one was different, and he personally pointed to them to be placed in the pillowed heart-shaped box. Funny- I became pillow-like within a few days after receiving the gift! I would rather not get a box of chocolates- UNLESS it is a repeat of that year. I kept the Godiva box in hopes of a refill…someday maybe. Charlie told me there was a discount if you brought in the box- I have it! It is ready!
What I really like doing for V-Day is to change up our routine and get away if we can and just enjoy each other the way we did when we first met. I like landing in a place where the only thing we need to fill our time with is each other. The magic of the early days..can we ever really feel that way again without splitting up and finding someone new who makes us not want to eat and lose 10 pounds just because we are so damned happy? Nah- what we end up with if we are lucky is a mature love, a sustainable relationship where we continue to make the correct moral choices to edify the relationship.
I say the correct moral decision on Valentine’s Day is some sort of special recognition to your lover that they indeed still are the one that deserves the special card from the box!
Blogging is hazardous if it isn’t about food, fashion or prairie life. I have had my share of comments from my writing; most of them are good. The rest, usually from someone close to me in either proximity or storyline, get riled up over what I write, which is my revelations in life. My truths. My perceptions. I am pretty clear in my message, I want to figure this thing out…this life with all of the stuff that came in my Barbie Box when I was placed in the family as the fourth child of four to a mother and father whose struggles twisted my world, disfiguring the road that could have been mine, making me work like hell to get to my destination in the form and glory that should be.
And my life really wasn’t that bad. I think most people have some ego dents to a lesser or fuller degree because no mom and dad is perfect, and no mom and dad really knows who their child, in their last days, will be. Where are the guide books anyway? See, I think that is where God comes in…through spirit we connect to what is our perfection, and that Perfect Being can place us where we are suppose to be.
If we put forth the effort to listen.
So, I write to share the luminosity in some things I learned or am learning. From where I sit I see my book shelf, full of so many books and so many are those intended to help me be a better me. I have revisited some of my friends on occasion and find that the writing in them is not much different in message than my blog. I guess what gets me knee-deep in nasty sometimes is that I tell my truth: truth doesn’t just set us free; it can really piss other people off!
I must say goodbye. Our relationship is not healthy- at least not for me. Though you are there whenever I want, I began to wonder why I needed you and wanted you so much. I couldn’t walk past you; I found myself staring at you whenever you were in the room. How can I focus on myself when you are constantly on my mind.
You say it is my problem? You are right. It is me. I need to work on me and work on becoming all I can be. Unfortunatley, due to my addiction to you, and yes, it is an addiction, all contact between us must stop. I know that when you are I are together I savor each second- but like any additction, I chase those seconds and want more and more of you. When it is over, I feel so bad about myself. Where is my restraint? Why do you have to be so delicious?
I cannot see you at all for a while. If you are in the same room, know I will be looking the other way, I must ignore you and gain the strength to keep you out of my reach. You see, you haven’t given me anything worthwhile other than those few, fleeting flavorful moments. My inFATuation is out of control…you have left me with wider hips and bigger belly. I gave you the best years of my life. Damn you chocolate! Snickers, ReesesPeanut Butter Cups, Godiva, with your free truffle once a month I drive 30 miles in order to have you, Lindt and your creamy filling, the one American chocolate bar I crave…Symphony, honey specked Toblerone, and all of you dark chocolate bars with weird names I see at Wholefoods…you aren’t good for me even if you are in WHOLEFOODS!!
I hear you are good for me if taken dark and in very small amounts; but I have no resolve. An ounce of you is never enough…never.
Will we meet again? Yes, but in the future once I gain control of this love I have for you. You have no loyalty to me- the world is yours. If there is anyway you can be good for me in large quantities, give me a fudgy nudgy. In the meantime- it is goodbye.
I am seeing carob now, and though carob is not YOU, carob will do.
My mother always carried a purse and every purse looked the same: Basic black, small handle and big enough to hold anything she may have to produce at any given moment. I used to kid her and tell her she could go on Let’s Make a Deal, and win if she added a boiled egg. Monty always seemed to ask for those. I believe a snapshot into mom’s purse was a snapshot into her mind: or, better said; “what was she thinking carrying that in her purse…for twenty years?”
Mary Poppins and my mother had similar purses. When Mary pulled out a lamp from her purse I was not as impressed as a child should be. My mother had been pulling anything I ever needed from her purse; she was my own Mother Poppins. Even the spoonful of sugar idea was used in every cough drop she produced from the black bag whenever I coughed. She always had tissues, too, but they were always in a crumbled up mess. I never did trust mom’s tissues. I should mention that in my next therapy session.
The purse was an elusive beast. She could never find it. All of her children knew The Call. “Where’s my purse? Has anyone seen my purse? Where’s my purse?” With that cry, all of us HAD to stop what we were doing, even if it was in the bathroom, and join the search for her purse. Easter eggs were a pleasure to find- her purse was a heavy burden. No one could rest until we heard the next cry that she ‘found it’ and how weird that it was just ‘right there,’ and how she didn’t remember putting it there. Hello? Captain Obvious?
What I remember most about the purse was the green stamps. She would stuff mounds of stamps into the purse and at some random moment we would be called to the dining room table and put the green stamps into the green stamp booklets. Each session would last hours, with green stamps left unlicked, and incomplete books placed willy nilly in the stack of completed books. It just didn’t matter because after years of collecting and licking stamps our family had nothing to show for the effort. Mom never did redeem those stamps; the hundreds of books cluttered the hutch. Now I wonder if she was collecting them for the big prize… maybe a new life in Aruba.
Mom’s purse was never stylish and never cost more than a few dollars. I was raised by a woman whose only criteria for a purse was that it was black, big and would clasp shut. It was usually a clasp issue that sent her looking for a new bag. Whenever she transferred the contents from the old purse to the new one, I pulled up a front row seat and watched. It was indeed a spectacle, an unveiling of all the contents in the old purse by dumping them on a table. It was always astonishing how big the pile was compared to the compartment in which it has been housed. It takes talent to stuff a purse and still find the keys to the house! Only during purse transfers did she sort the contents and throw two to three items away. Tissues were always in the trash pile. (Oprah, I just had an Ah Ha moment!) The new purse would then be stuffed with the old items and with transfer complete, the purse would be promptly placed somewhere..and be lost until we all helped to find it.
The cycle of the purse.
I marvel at the many styles of purses and admit I have no idea why any woman would HAVE to HAVE a certain purse. I carry a purse Chas bought me as a Christmas gift three years ago. It is an old bag now, but since I don’t comprehend what is in style or not in style, I can only guess the look is fine. The magnet clasp is giving me trouble- the sign a new purse is needed. I have tried to open my mind to the artistic beauty of the expensive bags. I have watched a style show on purses and still, I just don’t get it. Why would ANY woman, even the Real Housewives, pay thousands of dollars for a purse? Is it the designer name that brings the bucks or the design? I am guessing bags are like modern art: The beauty is in the eyes of the people one runs with.
Luckily, my circle of friends are not into thousand dollar purses. If they were, I still wouldn’t care. When I look for a bag I am a lot like my mom; basic color that will go with anything and big enough to hold the stuff I want with me at all times. I probably wouldn’t win anything on Let’s Make a Deal, and of course there aren’t any loose green stamps bottom feeding on dust particles…oh, and, MY tissues are in a plastic wrapper.
I was told he was praying for me everyday. In the past, he told me himself, “I light a candle for you everyday.” Until I melded my life with a Catholic, I wasn’t sure what the whole candle lighting thing was- now I have a better idea, and a candle constantly flickering in my home; when it burns out another is lit. Every morning and night we say a prayer, it is a nice reminder, and a small fire hazard; but I am hopeful that the Saint of All Lost Causes keeps us safe.
I am not flattered by the daily prayer vigil on my behalf. What would tickle my soul literally is if this person were to show he cared. On the other end of that prayer I can veraciously proclaim- it means nothing; absolutely zero. Faith without works is dead, and the candle lit on that daily basis burns only for the ego that lit it.
Isn’t this the way of most prayers? “I am praying for you” is our easy out. It helps to send the good vibes in this Age of Aquarius, but that next step of SHOWING one cares is when the prayer takes off. While living in Germany in the 1980′s, we had a great car we had purchased for two hundred dollars; in retrospect, the neighbor gave us his car to help our fledgling family. It had heat, which made me very happy. All US citizens had to have a USA sticker on the vehicle, which made us a target during what I call “the planes over Libya” uneasiness. Someone stuck a rod into our fuel tank leaving us without a vehicle for 2 months.
During that time, I learned a lot about good intentions, and what they really mean. “If you need anything, let us know. A ride to the commissary, the clinic, just anything; call any of us,” was the promise from the president of the Protestant Women of the Chapel. I was the public relations officer and very active with the ‘women.’ I was grateful; and being a long-term survivalist, I utilized the offer. “Hi, I was wondering if I could get a ride to the commissary? No, oh- you just got back, well okay, next time you go could you call me and maybe I could hitch a ride then?” Not once was anyone there for me when I asked. Not once. I used the bus, the cab and the trains; which was fine for me, and I made a vow, I would never lie about what I was willing to do in the name of Jesus.
I saw a Volkswagen van for sale on post and wrote down the number. We didn’t have any cash, and the 1300 dollars was like a million- so I tucked the number away and prayed that some how we could get that van. It was during that time we got the call my mother was dying and we left Germany for a month to see her and visit others in the states. Upon our arrival back in Germany, a friend and fellow soldier, Jeff Cooper, offered us a thousand dollars to buy something to get us back on the road. We knew him from the Hospitality House, a Christian ministry for soldiers and their families. Every week we gathered for Bible Studies, dinners and fun. Jeff was one of those people we felt was a part of our family, and like a good brother he offered some help.
I pulled the number out of the drawer for the van and the couple selling it were preparing to ship it back to the states; in two days they were having to drive to Bremerhaven, an eight hour drive, to get it on the slow boat to America. “We will drive out to let you see it, but we are solid on the 13 hundred dollar price,” the van owner told me. I knew all we had was the thousand, a deal was still going to be made- I felt the van was ours the moment it was revealed it hadn’t sold in the last month. We drove it, checked the engine and offered the thousand. The couple balked and said no. I told them “sixteen hours on the road tomorrow is worth 300 dollars. We have cash,” I pulled out the money and put it in his hand. He looked at his wife, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay.”
The first thing we did after we thanked Jeff and set up a payment plan was to pray. We offered our van to anyone who would need the help. You see, I was so totally hurt that none of my fellow Women of the Chapel were available for a ride to the commissary, that I vowed not to get mad, but to get even by putting our van where our prayers were. We vowed if anyone needed our van- we would help them. At midnight we had a knock on the door. We had the van for one day and our prayer was being ‘answered.’ “Seven of my men are in a small bit of trouble in Munich- they are drunk and being held by the Politzi; can I use your van to get them?” We lived in the same building as this sergeant, never spoke much to him, and didn’t even know his first name. The keys were in his hand before he finished his story; the boys were brought home safe.
In the next month we let our van go to pick up furniture, take a baby to the clinic and brought extra groceries from the commissary for someone who, like me a month before, had no ‘ride.’ “I was praying and God told me…” This is another fun phrase I heard a lot during my Protestant Women of the Chapel days. I had to address poor Deidra, a woman being forced by God to help me; “Hey, if God is telling you do to something for me, and you really are adverse to the whole thing- let it go. See, I think helping someone shouldn’t be a test, something you really don’t want to do, but you yield in order to be a good Christian. Deidra you are off the hook. I will tell God to leave you alone.”
Poor Deidra, she had God telling her to give me her children’s hand-me-downs, take me to Shannon’s pediatric appointment, (post van purchase) and God was insisting she call me. “God put it on my heart to call you…God put it in my heart to take you to the clinic…” It was evident that if God wasn’t so insisting, she would have nothing to do with me. After I told her to please not feel forced by God to help and I was fine,she never offered anything other than her perfectly pious advice. My husband was an E-3, hers was a Captain; she must have felt some guilt over that- who knows.
Is there a verse about good works with a heavy sigh? I am guilty of saying “I will pray for you” then not doing anything else to help. I sometimes tend toward the excuse of staying out of the other’s way- that someone else will help. I note this: that if I have a heavy sigh along with surrender to what I think God would want from me- it cancels the latter out. Aren’t the people who do stuff for others with a big smile and a pureness cool?
Do I want the man who lights a candle for me to stop? I have no affinity one way or the other. I would rather he put into works what he prays for and show he cares by being there for me as one human can be for the other. For me there is no light between us, it flickers daily in vain.
One if the joys of being on the other side of middle age is clarity of mind… at least SOMEtimes. I am certain there are many people who live with more clarity, but I take what I figure out one light bulb at a time. I know a few things for sure:
I know to kiss my next grandchild more kisses before they turn two. After that, it just isn’t what they want even though it is all I can do to keep from grabbing that boy and just hug him and squeeze him and call his name George. (Looney Tune allusion). When my girls were babies I would grit my teeth to keep from hugging too hard. Momma lions have more attributes than attacking those who attack their young!
I know my children are a source of real joy, and any time I get with them and their families is a gift, and seeing them in person is better than looking at their pictures, but I know I need to keep snapping them as time continues, because, I know we are never as young as we are today.
What I know for sure is that our society is a direct reflection of how we raise our children and behave within the family unit. Period. I know too many children are being hurt because of their parents selfishness and stupidity. All parents make mistakes and no family is perfect, but kids need a chance to understand at least some level of moral and ethical behavior and be audience to parents trying to improve themselves in life. After watching yet another news story about a punk robbing his 80 year-old grandmother, I am convinced our country is worse today than even a decade before, and it isn’t the availability of information or number of people, it is the decline of the family and overall lack of teaching respect and honor regardless of circumstance.
I know that every human being has the right to be all they can be, but most of us struggle with the image of where we are and who we are in the now. I know when a person revels that they are truthful and speak their mind, they are just mean-spirited in their own brokenness. It is easier to judge others than ourselves, and in life it is better to focus on being a better person than chisel away at another person’s imperfect facade.
I know: If I eat butter like Paula Deen, I get sick.
When I set a goal I usually achieve it.
Working out makes me feel better.
Being kind to another person is the way. Didn’t Jesus stress that above all we know, to love our neighbor? If we do that, maybe life would be a smoother ride.
I could never forgive a person who hurts children. I also accept that about myself.
I love my dog, and believe animals have a spirit.
If a creative person has no outlet, they will shrivel up and die, maybe even literally.
No matter who is president of our country, it is being run by the needs of a few, who already have money and means and they aren’t making choices based on creating a better society.
I am old because even my daughters are too old for George Clooney.
I still turn heads, but the men are usually over 65. I will take it.
One story of why I am in the education field, in spite of our government and testing:
He walked into my classroom on the first day of his senior year laughing, and 10 months later, the laughter never stopped. At 6 foot 5 inches, he towered over most of his classmates. And he was big- not fat, big. Everything about him was BIG…his laugh was loud and contagious. His voice was distinct with a slight Hispanic accent and it sort of had a melody. He carried his last word a little longer like he was sad his sentence was ending and he wanted to keep talking as long as he could.
I was immediately concerned about him. I have learned after 10 years of teaching that one should not presume- it is a wait and see situation. First day of school behavior does not reflect who the kid is- it takes time. I wondered if this kid was going to challenge me and want to take over (it wouldn’t happen, I just wondered if he would try.) I wondered if he was intelligent, if he would do his work- Would the big kid be a big pain or not?
I called him “Big Fun.” That is just who he was- BIG FUN. Everyone loved him. He loved them back. I didn’t know his name for about a month into school because “Big Fun” became his name. The kids in class started calling him that and so it was set, Big Fun was ..well, Big Fun! I waited and watched and this wonderful young man was respectful, kind, courteous and turned in all of his work on time. He was a high ‘B’ student. He told me he was okay with English, but it wasn’t his thing. He didn’t put much effort into his writing, but it was always adequate, and he tested well. I encouraged him to go to college (regularly for our ten months together) and he assured me he was “Gooo-ing!”
Every senior had to create a scrapbook as a final project. The scrapbook contained writing, pictures and memorabilia. Big Fun did not enjoy the scrapbook project at all. He lost his smile when I asked him how it was going. One day I asked him and he said he didn’t want to do it but he was working on it. A fellow classmate, of course one of my amazing young ladies in the same class, offered to help him- the smile came back. Remember, Big Fun was a smart guy!!
The last two weeks of school are crazy for seniors and their teachers. The end of an era- steps toward a new beginning. I always cry- overwhelmed with joy for thes kids who have this awareness that their life like a pool, is ready to have them jump in and swim, in whatever direction they choose. Splash, splash, splash. Watch out world here come some more high energy 18 year olds with many not really knowing how to keep their heads above water.
Scrapbooks are due 3 weeks before school is out, but most come in a week late. Big Fun had his in on time as usual. I opened this book and saw a fair reflection of the work he had turned in all year. The writing was complete, but mechanical. On one of the pages he placed a picture of his mother and father. On the next page he wrote about how he missed them and that they had died in a car accident in October two years prior. Nothing else, just that he missed them and to RIP.
Every year I cry.
I taught a young lady one summer who lost her mother and father in a car accident in October. She was angry. She wanted the world to know that just because her mom and dad were dead, she wasn’t going to get pregnant and start taking drugs. She was clear in her direction- she wanted to make sure the lawyers who were watching all her moves knew she had it together, and that her mom and dad had raised a good person. She wowed me, and I did not know until I read his scrapbook that Big Fun was her Big Baby Brother!
I had a student in the same class as Big Fun that was a “poor pity me” kind of guy. He was 19, almost 20 and still in high school. He refused to do a scrapbook because he said he was having a bad week. If he did not do the scrapbook and two other papers, he would fail senior English AGAIN, so I made him a deal and offered to work with him every day after school. He refused the offer, and when he did, I refused to let him in the class the last week. He had to report to another class I secured. He chose failure. He chose to fail an entire year of English for 3 items of work. He was all about the “Poor, pity me.”
Both of these guys sat across from each other, everyday. Big Fun, Poor me…their choice of how they each viewed life defined them.
When Big Fun came to class the day after I had read his scrapbook I met him in the hall and asked him to wait with me there while the others got to their seats. As a teacher, I always add, “No, you are not in trouble, I just wanted to tell you something, all is good!”
I looked up at him and couldn’t help but cry. I said, “I read your scrapbook.I didn’t know you lost your mom and dad. I taught your sister.”
“I know you did,” he said.
“If you ever wonder if your mom and dad are proud of you, don’t, because I know they are. You are a good man. They did a good job- Big Fun, they are proud. I am proud to have had you as my student.”
He hugged me, said thanks and went to his seat. I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes and went to my desk. I looked at him, he was already laughing, and singing some words to his fellow classmates.
Big Fun is going to make a real big splash, and his head is already above the water.
Against my father’s wishes, I have, over the years, paid attention to Jane Fonda. Last week she was on Oprah. I watched her and listened to her even though in the back of my mind my father’s words echoed. I admit I became a bit angry with Jane when I found out she was a bulimic and those abdominal workouts were only half the regimen she was following.
Jane said something that hit me in my heart…she said she would always be open to learning new things, that she was curious, and that is her driving life force which won’t stop until her last breath.
I am a dreamer. I have held lofty ideas and sought even loftier goals. Like my stint as a high jumper, I have walked away from the foam pit that caught me when I jumped, cushioning my fall. I walked away with bruises because many times I brought the bar down with me. I never could get high enough off the ground, but it was such a rush to try. Every turn I have taken in this life has been a leap. I leapt into marriage and motherhood. I leapt into college and my heart embraced Shakespeare and Byron and Keats. Because of them, I teach English. I leapt into comedy, radio and anything show business offered me. It is the dreamer that keeps me going back to the bar, and this will be with me until my last breath.
I felt relief when I heard Jane’s words. At 50 years old, I was beginning to feel there was no place for the dreams and no strength left to bear the bruises. My ego is pretty scarred up, but the thought of setting aside my dreams has caused me to sink deeper into my couch, and to have a tighter grip on the remote control. To stop dreaming and leaping will ensure a death- my death of who I am and whatever it is I am suppose to dream next.
I am in a new season…Grandparent season. My dreams include Owen as he has become an anchor to where I need to be located.He entered the world with a beautiful head of blond hair, blue eyes and already with a strong hold on my heart. In fall we put on warmer clothes and thicker shoes. In grandparent season we wait and watch on the sidelines, for our time in the game. A little play time on the fifty yard line. In order to be called on for the next play, I need to be near by, visible with the ‘put me in coach’ look I perfected during my time as a basketball player in high school. I remember looking down the bleachers and making eye contact with coach- he would nod his head and I would run onto the court. “Here, can you hold Owen while I get his dinner ready?” I can hear the whistle blow as I step up and take the boy into my arms. Game on! Grandparent season. When the house clears of children we find ourselves with the empty nest- we sometimes fly our own coop. Then the grandchildren come, and we return to the nest and fluff it up a bit.
I have a dream of living by the mountains, or ocean or both. There is Hawaii- I would love a nice house on the island- but…I need to be close by my family. In the end, the love that we take is equal to the love we make. Most of mine comes from my small circle, my daughters and now a grandson.
One grandmother told me that grandkids love you when they are young then just like any teen, won’t really be too interested in you, then once they marry you get to sit in the Grandmother section of the church, maybe receive a rose for living long enough to have that dance. My father promised to live long enough to dance at Kristi’s wedding. He missed it by ten years. I sat in the hall that night and asked my father if he was there, and if he made it onto the dance floor. Sometimes the hope of that dance keeps a grandparent alive…it is marker, like Christmas, and Thanksgiving.
So many dreams. So many twists in my life. I once married a music man, a guitar man, with a voice that made people stop and listen. Second cannon ball splash into the world of matrimony. In my mind I compared him to Harry Chapin or Jim Croce, groovy guitar men. It is always a treat to sit and listen to guitar men and women, especially when they are singing the songs that have been born from within their own souls. Story tellers in tune. I have this belief that people who nurture their gift of music, create and play for others year after year live some sweet moments. I know when listening to song I sometimes feel connected to everything- music is a ministry. No wonder parents of every generation try to protect their children from the wrong ‘preachers’ who, in their opinion hit the wrong notes with the wrong message. But the moral to this story is that the music man I married lives his dream. Isn’t a blessing to make a living doing what it is you were meant to do?
My father spent many years on the couch as did my mother. Not in therapy, in a TV trance. I often wonder where I get all of my lofty ideas. I am wondering now. I know I am in trouble when the couch becomes my closest relationship. 50 years old and still dreaming. I will write a book, speak about something I feel fervently about, get my fitness trainers license, open a counseling office, get my PhD, get back into comedy and not let all those things that bruised me up keep me from taking another jump.
Like Jane Fonda, I will be this dreamer until the day I die. I was more worried about not following my dreams than being wrinkled and old. The outside is aging, but not my soul. It is alive and well and pointing at my life’s map telling me to get back on the road. It is time for my next move in this new season.
If you pray for more patience, you just may get the opportunity to exercise and build up some patience muscle. You may have to work-out for the entire next day- or week, or year to gain some sweet serenity. There are few communion caveats; however, praying for patience is at the top of that list. I love the verse where we are implored to ask, seek and knock- it is all good. I have been asking, seeking and knocking since I was 21 and found out God had an open door policy.
I have had principals who have had open-door policies, and I used it. It is not scary to knock on the boss’s door- for me anyway. My technique it to peek my head in the door and say, “Hi, do you have a minute?” Not once have I been turned away. My boss is not God, but I have had the pleasure of being fired twice by the same company. The hand that taketh away is mighty; so, like a good employee, and real believer I ask nice for audience before the King.
I have never been real comfortable praying out loud. Some people, I have noted, are religious ramblers; “Oh Father God, thank you Father God, I am so amazing Father God.” Can’t do it, I will not do it; because in my real life prayers I am not that person. If God has every hair on my head numbered, He definitely has got my ‘number’ as well. No need for theatrics, or searching for the perfect boxed words- I think I can pretty much just grunt and the message would be the same.
I have sent the money grunt out to God A LOT. I repeat the birds and flowers of the field verse. They are taken care of, with great digs: Mother Earth. I was trying to keep my piece of earth my house. I had no money to pay my house taxes, this was before I had escrow, and was worried. I sent the message, I think it was “HELP.” In the past I worked three jobs and didn’t have a day off for a year. I would wake up at 5 am and make tacos to sell to the teachers in the teacher’s lounge. I taught during the day, taught defensive driving at night, waited tables on Saturday nights at the comedy club AND sold Herbalife. I believe it was during that time in my life I stopped cooking. One day I was tired and feeling sorry for myself. I went to the cafeteria to get my lunch and I saw one of our custodians leaning on her broom. I asked her if she was okay. She looked at me with told me when she left the school, she had to clean two other places. She did this everyday. When I walked away from her I vowed to never complain again about being tired. I had the luxury of using my voice and mind for a living; my cohort in keeping Southwest the great school it was did not have that luxury.
I was blessed.
The hail was bigger than soft balls. Some people in Hondo swore they saw ice the size of bowling balls striking out windows in every car in town. Homes were pummeled; mobile homes were dented beyond repair. Three tornadoes struck that day, maybe more. I do know that a line through my backyard was drawn. I lost a tree, and three others had branches torn right out from the middle of their trunks. I had roof damage, water damage, and a lot to clean up.
Once the roof was fixed and I did the rest of the damage control myself, I had exactly what I needed to pay my taxes.
I met Fred, Wilma, Betty and Barney at a Halloween party a few years back. We hung out because I really liked their costumes and thought they were probably a fun group. I was dressed as the angry date that was suppose to be dancing but ended up at the gambling party; all I needed was a frown. Check! I learned they lost their homes in that storm. I apologized. “You see, ” I told them, “I needed to pay my taxes, so God sent the storm.” We all laughed, I don’t believe the storm was an answer to prayer, but that line drawn by straight line winds was!
I am not careful about what I ask for. I pray with reckless abandon. I have recently prayed to win the lottery, sell my house, and get my kitchen finished. A few years ago I had a conversation about how I love to watch the Biggest Loser but am not big enough to ever be on the show. “All I need is one month with the trainers… one month! I would give anything,” I told her. “I would pay to be on The Biggest Loser!”
That night I saw that they have a resort. For five thousand dollars, I could have my month on the Biggest Loser Ranch. Prayerfully I picked up the phone, made the reservation and trusted the money would somehow become accessible. I watched the news for a storm, but even I know God doesn’t have to play a re-run.
During the next six months I received money from an account I didn’t know I had with a past school district, a overpayment check from my home insurance company and a great tax return.
I called it my trilogy! I spent a month at The Biggest Loser Resort in Utah that year, and two weeks the next. I worked hard, learned a lot and made many friends who share the crazy idea that working out eight hours a day is the best vacation ever!
Scott called me into the comedy club’s office. I was nervous because Scott calling anyone into the office could mean something good, or something bad. Bad is, “Your not funny. Stop coming here.” Good is, “You are funny and we want you to host some shows.”
My news was good. I had set several goals when I started performing stand-up, one being I would start hosting in one year, and that I would be a feature act in 3 years. I also planned on being a major star in 10 years. Two out of three: not too bad. I have had to re-set the last goal a few times now. Scott told me what I needed to hear; all the hard work I was putting in was paying off. I struggled on so many levels, one was being likable on stage. I look back now and realize I won the war the first Saturday night I worked with Louis Ramey. He told me that women comics had it harder then men (tell me something I didn’t know!) When a woman walks out onstage, she has to win over the women in the audience which frees up the men to laugh and like her as well. Oh, I get it, I am the new girl being sized up by all the other girls in the first 10 seconds on stage.
Exactly.
Good thing I survived Bitch Boot Camp in junior high. If there were merit awards, I would have had a few. But all women come out scarred from junior high, not realizing how deep mine went, I became a stand-up comic, still trying to make the kids laugh in order to fit in. I had to apologize at my 20th high school reunion for making fun of so many of my classmates. When the tenth or fifteenth person came up to me and said, “Do you remember how you used to make fun of me by….??” I got on the microphone in the DJ booth and called the gathering to attention, “If I made fun of you, ridiculed you and hurt your feelings, I am sorry. We are 20 years older, I have changed. If you need to deal with this on a deeper level, call Oprah, I have been trying to get on her show for years.” I received applause, and I hope, forgiveness.
Women want to like women comics. I know I do. What makes a comedienne likable? Rosanne, Ellen and Whoopi are all very different women who made it- I want to just hug each of them and thank them for being such amazing performers, for OUR team. A few years ago, during my first run on KZEP, we had Brett Butler on the show. She was in San Antonio for 3 nights. I was so happy to meet her, and I asked her if I could perform a guest spot so she could watch me, it is a common practice in the business.
Brett said no. She told me she would never share her stage with another woman because all women comics (other than her) were dirty. LADIES! We need to help each other! Take Carlos Mencia’s behavior; he ALWAYS brought up and coming comics with him on his tours. He shared his stage and launched them on their own when they were ready.
After Scott gave me the dates I would be working, he told me, “You know Kim, people who perform stand-up, they are all a bit crazy, you included.” I looked at him, feigned a shocked visage and said, “No, not me, I have been in therapy, once.” Therapy may not be a good idea for a comic; they may get better and lose the edge. Whatever it is that gets us out on stage to tell jokes and stories, or do impressions was born in us sometime in our lives when we found that the power of laughter heals a moment’s pain.
If indeed, I fall into the crazy category, I accept the classification. Crazy seduces me to perform which is better than any drug or therapy session, and the pay is pretty good. I ask friends to my shows now, and when they come it is the same comments; “Wow, you’re good! I laughed!” Once my fiance’ invited his business partner and his wife, she told me after the show that she was nervous for me and afraid I was going to be bad and ended up being happy she didn’t have to fake any compliments. How awkward of me to put her through that trauma! (I figured she was VERY popular in junior high, but so was I.)
Lewis Black, known for his acuity, has to be at a peak level of performance to put out the energy he does. I asked him how he did it after two Saturday night shows, he looked at me and said, “I am crazy.” Crazy is as crazy does. If we are all a bit, ahem, off, and our way of coping in the world entails humor and hearing roars of laughter, then that is okay with me and falls into the “I am alright” category. Every comic I have met has said that as well. I fall into the company- not good company, just the company. I am part of the army of clowns, and it is a good place for me.