Smart Woman / Stupid Moments

I am a smart gal. I've even got test scores from high school to prove it. I certainly am no Einstein, and there will be probably not be anything named after me when I am dead, but I like to think I can hold my own in the realm of ideas. Even after having had three children (which does, let's be honest, tend to diminish capacity just a tiny bit, at least in the eyes of your teenagers), I still get at least 60% of the questions right when I watch re-runs of Jeopardy on TV, and can generally fill in ten to fifteen words in the Sunday crossword puzzle before I get bored, distracted, or need to clean up a spill. I guess you could say that I've got it goin' on in the brain department.

This is why I am all the more amused and confused when I get bemused. (See - only a smart person could string those words together, right?) My problem is that I am kind of book smart, and not always real-world smart. My friend laughs at me for being so capable of deconstructing the obscure literature of unknown writers, but unable to order a sandwich at the drive-thru without practically breaking into tears. I am the woman ahead of you at the grocery store, holding up the line, because I have forgotten to push the 'do you want cash back' button on the credit card machine. (Seriously - I just want to pay for my groceries, not have a relationship. Why does it ask so many questions!?)

Vending machines cause me a bit of anxiety. The main reason I never started drinking coffee was my profound fear of ordering at Starbucks. Seriously... people who can do that without quaking in fear (or because of the caffeine overload) deserve Noble prizes.  In short, I am a smart woman who has trouble with the simple things, which has led to many, many stupid moments. Typically, I try to keep these to myself (you know - to preserve the whole 'smart woman' reputation I'm trying to cultivate). However, my last trip to Oklahoma brought several of these to the surface, and I thought that it would be cathartic to confess my stupidity, rather than holding it in any longer. (That, and since I experienced them with several people around, I can no longer be assured that they will be kept secret without having to pay off or kill some folks.) Perhaps admitting to my problem it will help me overcome it. At the very least, I hope it will provide a bit of comfort if you've had similar moments, or a bit of mirth if you have not.

So, I present to you, my top five 'Duh' moments (that I can remember and am willing to admit to)...

1.) As we drove into Oklahoma, I started seeing lots of signs for Indian smoke shops. I was very excited, since I really like smoked meat. My imagination started to run away with me, as I envisioned wizened native Americans offering smoked buffalo, venison, perhaps even something exotic like rattlesnake or turtle. It was at the point that I was actually trying to figure out how much room we would have in the cargo area of the van that I realized that Indian smoke shops sell smokes. You know - cigarettes. Cuz they can. Without as many taxes attached. Cuz it's Oklahoma. Duh.

2.) Last year we went to the International Cattle Dog trials. You know - where people train fuzzy, black-and-white collies to go and fetch the cows. (Why has no one thought to train dogs to do the same for children in parking lots and grocery stores? Hmm....) Anyway, there were only about 100 people there total, including the trainers and audience. After the sixth white cane that I saw, I started to wonder what it was about this sport that drew so many blind people. I mean, surely it couldn't that interesting to just listen to the whistles and moos, could it? What kind of a spectator sport would this be for someone who couldn't see? Yep - that's right. I actually thought that for a few minutes, before it dawned on me that the cattle dog owners use the white canes to point out instructions and directions to the dogs. Does make you wonder, though - how much more challenging would it be if you had to blindfold the owners. Or the dogs... Just sayin'. Duh.

3.) (You might need to be from the south to understand this one.) On our way down to Oklahoma, I mentioned that I didn't know the names of the Duke boys from the popular TV show from the 80's called The Dukes of Hazard. (This, for you Yankees, is akin to not knowing how to wipe your own nose or spell your own name. In the south, the latter two are optional, but knowing about the Dukes is not.) I said something about hearing the names Crockett and Tubbs on a movie, and thinking, "Oh - that must be the names of the Dukes boys." (Even as I type this, I am filled with shame.) See - that was my mistake. I thought I had been dumb for not knowing something, and smart once I finally figured it out. Although (and, you've probably already noticed this by now, especially if you've ever lived south of the Mason-Dixon line) Crockett and Tubbs are not the Dukes brothers. They, apparently, are from the equally-popular 1980's television show called Miami Vice. For the record, the Dukes boys are named Bo and Luke. If you ever get confused about that yourself (which I doubt you would), you can simply call anyone - literally, anyone - in a southern area code and ask. They'll be able to tell you. Even a five-year old, though I cannot be trusted when it comes to these things. Duh.

4.) We had just finished with a lovely meal, and I was clearing the table. Noting that there was a lot of liquid wax in the candle, I wondered what I should do with it. (Note - the right answer is JUST LEAVE IT! Trust me on this one.) I decided - because I am brilliant - that I should dump it down the drain. Now, lest you think that I am a total idiot, I want to point out that I was smart enough to know that wax does cool. So, to counteract the cooling effect, I ran hot water down the drain with the wax. (Yes, I was trying to mitigate my own stupid, but sometimes effort does not replace intelligence.) As I'm sure you can imagine, the wax hardened in the trap, and clogged the sink. You'd think - as many times as I had put my finger into liquid wax (and felt the burn), and watched that wax harden on my finger - that I would be able to foresee the hazards of my dumb decision. But, I did not. That's what we call a stupid moment. Duh.

5.) And, finally - the piece de resistance. (See - I AM smart. I know some fancy French words!) I wish I could say that the last stupid moment ended there, but it did not. (I guess you could call this a whole stupid evening.)

After clogging the sink, I called to my dear, saintly husband (who rescues me in such situations), and told him what had happened. After looking at me and shaking his head ruefully, he put a pan under the sink and began loosening the plumbing. Once he got the trap off, the water from the sink drained into the pan, and quickly filled it up. He hollered for me to hand him a big bowl, which I did, and asked me to dump the pan. I grabbed it and (oh yes I did - you can see it coming) promptly dumped it back down the drain. (He told me to empty it. That's where you empty stuff, right!?)  Duh.

Have I mentioned that my husband is a saint? Sputtering (both from the water that had cascaded down on him from above and the utter stupidity that his very smart wife had just exhibited) he thanked me and said he would handle plumbing situations by himself in the future. That is probably the smartest decision he has ever made. But, then again - he doesn't suffer from stupid moments like I do, so his decisions are almost always smart.

Note: He did get his revenge (which resulted in another 'Duh' moment for me.) Several months later I was watching TV at my parents' house. They have Dish Network. This, also, confuses me. I wanted to see what shows were going to be on a particular channel much later that afternoon, so I kept hitting the right arrow button. The screen would blink momentarily before revealing the next two hours of programming. I had done this three or four times when my dear, sweet husband (have I mentioned that he's not always a saint?) casually said, "You know it costs your parents a quarter every time you do that, don't you?" I froze - desperately trying to calculate how much cost I had incurred - a task made all the more difficult because I'm not so hot at math or remembering details like how many times I had hit a button. He finally couldn't contain himself, and grinned. Duh!

Don't worry - I'll get back at him, though. I'm pretty sure there's a drip in the bathroom sink, and I'll just offer to help him fix it. Stay tuned for more stupid moments to come...

Going Home...

I just got back from a whirlwind trip back to my home state. My best friend and I went together, along with our five little girls. Yes - that's right. There were seven females confined to one small space for ten hours straight. Twice. Giggles ensued.

The whole way down my friend and I solved the world's problems - discussing politics, religion, finances, healthcare, and (especially) parenting. I don't know why the UN can't seem to get it together. We pretty much had everything figured out before we even got to Kansas City, even while having to hand back kleenex and snacks at regular intervals. Maybe that's it - someone needs to bus up all the delegates and make them ride across country until they get to that mellow, silly stage that occurs about three hours in.

I don't know what it is about road trips that makes people so goofy. It's a bit like being drunk, I think, but with less risk for hangover. It helped, for us, that we shared common memories from way back then, and still have much in common today. Every mile we drove away from our homes took us a mile closer to home, so to speak. The drive there may have only taken ten hours, but we arrived twenty-five years younger and in a whole different world. It was, truly, a trip down memory lane.

Lee Ann and I are Okies from Muskogee. Merle Haggard crooned about being proud to come from a place with such inherent tradition, simplicity, and changelessness back in 1969, and I get it. Muskogee, Oklahoma wasn't buying into the gyrations that the rest of the United States was going through then, and it isn't today either. The store fronts may have changed, but the heart hasn't. Somehow time really does stand still in that small southern town, and even more so forty-miles to the south, in the even sleepier hamlet of Eufaula - our home town.

I've always found it strange that when I tell people I grew up in the South, they reply, "Oh, Oklahoma isn't really the south." Seriously? It's really hot, and people talk funny. Doesn't that qualify?  Granted, Oklahoma was Indian Territory during the Civil War (another common indicator of whether or not people consider a state 'southern' or not), but I went to Dixie Elementary, and our high school was called Jefferson Davis. See - southern to the core. Plus, anyone who's ever been there from here can attest - it is different. It's the South.

When I first got there, I was greedy for all the sights, and sounds, and memories this little town held for me. I saw places that I thought I had only dreamed, but now they stood before me in the thin, fall sunshine in all of their solid glory. They really were real! The experience was at once unnerving and comforting - a bit like finding your keys right where you just got done looking. You're glad to have them, but still somehow a bit perplexed. Each twist in the road and blooming flower triggered a new sensory overload. My brain was like a pinball machine - lighting up in dusty, forgotten corners. Experiences and memories welled to the surface, clawed their way to the front of the crowd, burst into the room - each singing and hollering excitedly at being validated and proven true. But, the best part was hearing the voices of my home town again.

 My cousin (whom I used to live next door to, and haven't seen in a quarter of a century) sat across the table from me and related a story about being surprised by something, and said she, "... 'bout fell out on the floor." My friend's dad greeted us with a grin as we pulled up in his driveway and apologized for not being able to "hug us around the neck" because he had "greazy hands". I got called darlin' and honey and sugar more times than I can count, and each one was like a lovely embrace. It felt good to hear 'fixin to' and 'ya'll' in regular conversation, and I could have spread those deep, smoothy, buttery accents  on a piece of homemade bread and eaten it for breakfast. I may have been only six when we left Oklahoma, but a southern drawl will always be a favorite lullaby to me.

But, all things must come to an end. Even in the midst of being comfortably enveloped by my own childhood, and even with as much as things really had stayed the same, I realized they were different. Or, more accurately, I was. Iowa is not Oklahoma. The North is not the South. There is a distinct difference - culturally, economically, socially. I treasure my memories from there and the way that it colored my personality. I love to tell the stories, hear the accents, hug the people, eat the food. I appreciate more than words can express that there is a place where I can go and step right back into my perfectly-preserved past, but I was also very glad to get back into the van and make the ten hour drive back to my future.

Having already solved the world's problems on the way down, Lee Ann and I let our exhausted brains have free-reign on the drive back, and got really silly. Somehow every road sign was comment-worthy, and every billboard was hilarious. Desperate to document the entirety of our trip, I took photos of the inside of the van, the tollbooth at the turnpike, and even of the girls doing jumping jacks at a rest area. (I told you we got silly.) Scattered amongst our giggles and snorts we processed our time in Oklahoma together. What had been good.  What had been surprising. What had been difficult. At one point, after hours of talking, a moment of silence settled over the vehicle, and we summed up our shared history and trip the same way  - we're glad we came from there.

We pulled into home just after suppertime and smiled as a gaggle of children poured out of the van to hug the two waiting daddies. The sights, sounds, and smells around me didn't arouse the same electric thrill of rediscovery as the ones in Oklahoma had, but familiarity sure feels good too. I hugged my husband, rushed my tired children into our waiting car, and waved goodbye to my friend - who was already engaged in doing all the same things herself. Going back to our shared childhood home together had been a wonderful trip, but coming back home was the best thing of all.

The Making of a Strong Heart

My husband is an awesome man, and we have a wonderful marriage. Since we are two distinct and separate people, our endeavor to walk the same path together often includes disagreement, and even the occasional argument. After over a decade of marriage, I've discovered that the act and actions of disagreement itself is often what leads couples to argue, and not necessarily the different opinions that started the discussion in the first place.

When my husband and I argue, it is usually because I have withdrawn to lick my wounds about how I feel about what he said. That's, invariably, what escalates a discussion into an argument at our house. It's typically got nothing to do with the honest, constructive things that he has said, and everything to do with my reactions to them. Specifically, when my husband shares his needs, thoughts, and desires with me, it highlights all that I have not been, done, or accomplished for him or our family. When that happens, I find myself sinking under the feeling that I am not the wife that he deserves. I know there are different nuances and finer points in each situation. And, I have only written about my role in our arguments. He faces his own thoughts and fears, and has his own culpability, but the main thread under all of our arguments is one thing - insecurity.

When we argue, I cover my feelings of guilt by saying that he's been brusque, or not gentle enough, or harsh in the words and tone of voice that he has chosen to use. In reality, though, I am simply trying to re-focus the spotlight onto him in order to not drag my shame and shortfalls out into the open. That's a lot of theatrics to impose on someone just because I don't want to face up to the places where I've lacked - especially since he's always had grace for me when I have been honest with him. The bottom line is that it is not the words he chose or the way he chose to say them that I'm upset about. I'm upset about me.

Mark is a man. He does not think or talk like I do. But, that doesn't mean that I don't have the ability or responsibility to understand what he's saying, even if he doesn't use the words my delicate, feminine nature wishes he would. I can make the choice to circumvent his heart-felt and honest words because I don't like the way they're delivered, or I can be realistic about our differences so that I can understand his needs and desires, and make the changes necessary to bring us closer.  It is the same with the Lord.

The scriptures talk often about the fact that God's church is his bride. I know that to be true corporately, but our relationship individually with the Lord is much the same. I myself am his bride, and I can easily get confused about what I should do or how I should go about doing things in life. Instead of looking to Him and listening to his direction and instruction, I often shy away from his leading because it comes in a way that is not palatable to me - not how I want to hear it. So, I harden my heart. The reality is that I could make things a lot more simple and successful with my earthly husband, and my heavenly one as well, if I would choose to strengthen my feminine heart, instead of hardening it - and there's a big difference.

The process of hardening something - like metal, for example - usually leads it to be impenetrable. Once changed, it is difficult (if not impossible) to re-soften it in order for other elements to be mixed in. To harden steel, you heat it quickly, and cool it quickly - much like our hearts are quick to burn with anger, and quick to turn to icy resentment. While having an impenetrable, hard substance (or heart), may seem like a good idea, it most often turns brittle, and can shatter when not handled with care.

When you strengthen something, however, the process is very different. To strengthen metal, you must first refine it, and rid it of all impurities. What is left, then, can be relied upon to be consistent and stable, no matter what trials you put it through. To that pure substance, then, other elements are added - elements that are tested and proven to be beneficial. To make strong metal, workers add carbon, which changes its very structure on a cellular level. It makes the metal pliable, and easier to mold and work with. To make a strong heart, the Lord gives us the Holy Spirit, which changes our very nature, as well, and produces the same characteristics in us that carbon produces in steel - the ability to be turned into something useful and flexible. The final act of strengthening has to do with a repeated heating and cooling process - very precise, very slow, very painstaking. This is not a process that the human flesh finds comfortable, but it is one which produces proven, lasting, life-changing results - a strong heart.

The end product with either substance - be it heated metal, or a tested heart - is going to be the same, depending on how the process is carried out. You will either find yourself with hardness that encases impurities, does not allow for the acceptance of new things, and will ultimately end up shattered and broken. Or, you will end up having strength, durability, usefulness, and timelessness. I know which one I want for my heart, and am going to have to make the choice - moment by moment - to embrace the process of achieving it.

So, I am challenging myself to listen to the true words of instruction that I receive - no matter how they may come, or how much they may shed light on my insecurities and shortfalls. Choosing to cover them over will never rid me of them, but exposing them to the clear light of a refining flame will. And, I am determined to give thanks for the ones wielding the refining fire in my life; focusing on the good their work is doing, instead of the challenge it presents to me personally. A strong heart - that can be of daily use and comfort to my husband and my Lord - is well worth it.

I invite you (especially the wives out there) to join me in this challenge, and start looking for the ways that you withdraw from the refining process. Would you really choose a hardened heart, when strength can be your portion? Would you really choose to protect what you already have, even if means never being able to let anything else in? Is what you have (and who you are) right now really what you want to have and be forever, anyway? I didn't think so. So, ladies - let's face the refining fire together, and be grateful for people who are willing to wield the flame. (And, let's not fool ourselves into thinking their job is a piece of cake, either.)

Want to be encouraged as you walk through this process? Check out these two really awesome blogs, which inspire me to keep my heart close to the refiners in my life, even when it hurts. The first is a dear friend of mine who got married just a few months ago, and who is honestly sharing her daily insights as a young wife. The other is a dear friend who got married years ago, and who clarifies the role of a wife so well as she shares her insights as a seasoned wife. I hope they'll encourage you, just as they have for me. Until next time - may we all embrace the process of building strong hearts.

Great Blogs You Should Follow:

The Neesby Lookbook - by Nicole Neesby

The Respect Dare - by Nina Roesner

Hair!

If I never hear the word hair again, it will be too soon. You see - I have three daughters. And, they all have hair. And that hair - it has to be brushed. I know - none of those things are startling revelations in and of themselves, but there is a deeper meaning behind each one that has led me to consider encouraging them to enter a Buddhist monastery, but only for the haircut and to save on laundry expenses. Let me explain.

First off - I have three daughters. You know - girls. That means they have feelings. Lots of them, and they like to express those feelings. All the time. Out loud. I usually don't have conversations, per se. Instead, I'm often on the receiving end of a rapid-fire, three-fold conversational assault. The pre-teen fires, and I volley back, simultaneously returning a query from my seven-year-old. We continue this parlay for whole minutes at a time, while I dodge the constant tommy-gun prattle that my four-year-old deftly aims my direction. To put it lightly, they like to talk about what they're thinking, feeling, and experiencing. They are each very strong, but none is what you might call the silent type. That's because they're daughters.

The next deeply unnerving truth in my life - my daughters all have hair. Yes, I'm glad they have hair, especially in light of the fact that the oldest was nearly bald until she was 2 1/2. But, those days are gone. Now, they're all fully-tressed, each with lustrous, healthy, gorgeous heads of hair. One has highlights that would make even the most skilled hairdresser weep with jealousy. One has hair so benevolent and compliant that it can practically curl, shine, or French-Roll on command. The other has such perfect, uniform, ringlet curls that we literally have to schedule an extra fifteen minutes into our errand-running days, just so we aren't made late by all the people who stop to compliment her. In short, these girls have got it going on in the hair department. Why, you ask, does that make me want to weep copiously and head for the hills? Simple - with great hair, comes great responsibility, which leads me to point number three.


Hair must be brushed. Seems simple enough, doesn't it? But - let me assure you - when you combine point number one (girls who love to talk about what they're feeling) and point number two (girls with tons of hair of varying temperaments), it makes you really start to reconsider the full ramifications of point number three (that hair must be brushed). Sure, the act of hair brushing itself is simple enough. But, so is changing a flat tire, unless it's 32 degrees, raining cats and dogs, and the cars are honking and speeding by your head, mere inches away. This, in a nutshell, is how I've come to view our daily grooming ritual. I feel like I've got post-traumatic stress disorder from my previous run-ins with tangles, tender heads, and tantrums. It's gotten so bad lately that I've begun contemplating alternatives to the dreaded morning ritual. Perhaps they don't really need their hair brushed every day after all... I'm sure they would look very good in hats... How long does it take to do cornrows?... Hmmm...

In the interest of full disclosure (and, mostly, to make sure you don't think ill of me or my wonderful children), I should note that we have tried every tangle spray and different brush type in the universe, but to no avail. And, though I do sincerely (ardently, feverishly, fully, and earnestly) hope that my children will grow out of their tenderheadedness, I don't look for that to happen any time in the near future, since I still suffer from the dreaded disorder myself. We generally run a pretty tight ship around here when it comes to behavior, but I don't blame the girls for their vociferous reluctance to get their hair brushed. I, on occasion, still let a mild utterance or shriek fly when encountering my own tangles, after all.

So, there's nothing left to do but restrain myself from drastic measures, and keep enduring the screaming, struggling, fighting, flailing, ouching, oohing, ahhing trio, until their tresses are tamed, or baldness becomes the new style for little girls. After all - I have three daughters. They all have hair, and hair must be brushed. And so, we soldier on together.

Ready, Set, WRITE!

I like to blog. I like to send emails. I like to do Facebook updates. I even like to compose letters in my head that I would send to famous people about great injustices that I think have been committed, and how they could (and should) be made right. (Mostly, these are in the form of scathing rebuttals to my congressman about the trite and pandering general communiques he sends out. Sometimes they are also letters to food companies about their insistence on including calories in their otherwise-perfect desserts.) In short, I love to write.

I know most people do not feel the same way, and that's ok. Except, well... it isn't. I'm an English teacher. It is our goal in life (there are whole fraternities and international organizations devoted to it) is to encourage people to communicate, and to communicate well. Yes, I admit that I sometimes get hung up on being an eagle-eyed punctuation Nazi, but what I most love about reading and responding to people's writing is getting a chance to know what and how they think. That, ultimately, is the goal of writing. It is an act akin to opening up your brain and letting people probe about its inner reaches. 'Cause, here's the thing - there is a story inside each of us. No one experiences the world exactly like you do. No one has the same history as you, input as you, understanding as you, or insight as you. Who you are, what you know, and how you live your life is spectacularly unique! Kudos to you.

Now - share it with the world! Today is the perfect day to start translating that magnificent life inside your head, outside your head - so that everyone can enjoy it. Go on - spit it out, already! If you love art, do art. If you love music, do music. If you love dance, do dance. Don't know what you love? Well - maybe you should give writing a try. Really - it's not hard to do. You don't have to start well, or follow a format, or punctuate and spell correctly. Just sit down and see what comes out of you. I bet you'll be pleasantly surprised, and that will encourage you to continue. At the very least, you will be putting to use the skills some dedicated English teacher taught you, thereby making him/her very happy. Come on - if you don't want to tell your story for my sake, or your own sake, do it for the English teachers!

Ok - maybe that didn't do it for you, and you need more of a buy-in to get you started. How about this - I challenge you to join me (and hundreds-of-thousands of others) who are participating in National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo is a chance to spew forth the stories within you with reckless abandon. The ultimate goal is the completion of a 50,000 word novel by 11:59:59 on 11/30. There are no winners or losers. No one gets a prize at the end. The rules are whatever you make them. No one has to read your novel but you. You are only competing with yourself, and your own desire to share your story with the world. It's free, easy, and good for your brain. Best of all, there isn't a single calorie involved!

What are you waiting for!?  I'm already 740 words into my novel - Duckworth For Congress. It's all about intrigue, mystery, romance, politics, and space invaders. At least, it might be. I haven't decided yet. Guess we'll see where the next 29 days and 49,260 words takes me. It would really do this English teacher's heart some good to know that she had inspired someone to pursue the act of artful communication. So, check it out - and be sure to leave me a comment about how you are choosing to share your story with the world. Ready, set - WRITE!

http://www.nanowrimo.org/