Christmas is Coming, The Goose is Getting . . . Flat?

Thoughts of Christmas dinner probably call to mind traditional foods: a stuffed, roasted turkey with all the trimmings; a pineapple glazed ham, studded with cloves; a festive crown roast of pork wreathed in a string of fresh cranberries. Few people, I imagine, picture themselves either serving or eating Christmas road kill.

Several years ago the beloved Swede and I lived near a friend whose husband traveled frequently for work. It seemed she often found herself in the most unlikely predicaments when he was out of town, leaving her alone with the kids. Once she called, asking my husband to come over and rescue her dog which had gotten trapped under the porch, behind a snow bank. Another time her kids were pretending to be horses, jumping over hurdles they had built in the living room, when her son fell and broke his arm causing it to dangle at unnatural angles. She asked if I would come over and stay with her other kids while she took him to the emergency room.

So it came as little surprise when our friend called one day, near Christmas, to say her husband was out of town and she needed some help. She had accidentally run over one of her pet geese in the driveway with her minivan.

My friend lived on a lovely, country horse property with a small, idyllic pond in front of the house. She’d purchased several geese from friends who raised them for food, thinking their presence would add a touch of charm to the little pond. Each time she pulled in the driveway toward her house, however, the geese would charge toward her van, attempting to bite the tires. One day, one of the geese made a fatal miscalculation when charging toward the van and my friend found herself with a freshly killed goose in her driveway.

Not knowing the proper way to dispose of a dead goose, my friend thought about putting it in the freezer so her husband could take care of it when he got home. Instead she called my husband, the mighty hunter, and asked what he would do. Realizing the goose had been freshly killed, and bred for food in the first place, the Swede said, “We’ll take it.”

He brought it home, plucked that bird, and put it in the freezer. And on Christmas day we enjoyed roast goose with apricot and cornbread stuffing. It was delicious.

Years later, our friends introduced us to several of their acquaintances. It didn’t take long for them to make the connection, “Oh! You’re the ones who ate the pet goose for Christmas!”

“Yes,” we responded. “Yes. We are those hillbillies.”

Our story of the road-kill Christmas goose has been told and re-told, and we continue to meet folks who have heard it second-hand. And I’m convinced that, one day, the husband found himself on a business trip, seated on a plane next to a writer who worked our story into an episode of The Office. Watch the clip, decide for yourself, and then tell me, “Do you think our little story was the inspiration for Dwight Schrute?”

So, what will you be serving for Christmas dinner this year?

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year To Be Lucy and Ethel

Mama always says, "Don't wear your bedroom slippers to the shopping mall."

But Mama's wisdom doesn't necessarily apply during Christmas. Especially when you've got some brand new jingling elf slippers:

And you're on your way with Ethel to get your annual Santa picture taken:

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we had to have lunch and exchange gifts. And nothing quite sets the tone for a Christmas gift exchange like a retro diner which serves 26-inch hotdogs:

Over the years, Ethel and I have adorned ourselves for our photos with some fairly ridiculous accessories: reindeer antlers, elf hats, feather boas. This year, after reading an ebook about practicing Advent, we decided to deck ourselves in purple. Yep, all day I was a long, cool, walking Advent pillar, and so was Ethel (although she's not nearly as long). All day we engaged in our own little secret Advent conspiracy.

Because writer Anne Lamott said, "You don't always have to chop with the sword of truth. Sometimes you can point with it, too."

So we walked around all day bearing witness to the Source of ridiculous joy. And the amazing thing we discovered was: Once you know what you're looking for, you start seeing evidence of it everywhere:

Ethel gave me the most fantastically amazing handmade gift of love:

She saw a picture in a catalog of a sweater beaded in peacock feather patterns and thought to herself, "I can do that." And so she did. God has gifted my friend with amazing creativity and mad art skills.

I gave Ethel ice cube molds in the shape of false teeth. Because I'm classy like that. And because I know that someday, when we live next door to one another in a nursing home, she's the kind who's always going to be stealing my teeth. And I look forward to growing old and ever more ridiculous with my friend.

Then she opened the elf slippers. And we were on our way:

We like to believe we add a little joy to Santa's life, making the season more merry and bright for everyone:

For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Happy Advent and Merry Christmas from Lucy and Ethel!

Linking our Advent playdate with Laura @ The Wellspring:

And, even though this may not have been what she had in mind, with Charity @ Wide Open Spaces who is hosting an Advent community writing project for The High Calling:

Chesterton, Lucy, Ethel, and Santa: The story of how our tradition began

Discovering Advent: E-book by Mark D. Roberts

This is What a Bosom Friend Looks Like

Yes, I've been on the road forever, and no I haven't written a single sentence in that time. Today I just need to point you over to my friend Jodi @ Curious Acorn. You'll understand.

Heading home to the beloved Swede. Grace and peace to you all.

Old Friends Who've Just Met

Just a little something extra for my friends who attended The High Calling writing retreat. I think others might enjoy it too.

I know. I swore I was done writing about the retreat. Technically I'm not writing about it today; I'm posting a video. Not that I'm a legalist or anything.

Anyway. As I was standing around in the parking lot, waiting for my shuttle to the airport, I had a brief conversation with speaker Jeff Overstreet about his (and Kermit's) rendition of The Rainbow Connection. It was a moving performance about which the delightful Kelly Sauer wrote a thoughtful piece over at her place. During the conversation, Jeff mentioned an even more powerful song from The Muppet Movie. I'm just glad he didn't sing this one at the end of the retreat:


(On the road for a few days, leaving the beloved Swede to guard the castle. Digging into the archives and scheduling some posts my husband refers to as "filler." But you enjoy them anyway, right?)

Chili Madness (Or, How to Get a New England Presbyterian To Shout, "Yee-Haw!")

You want us to do what?

My church had begun partnering with a ministry at the nearby university, and the campus minister was looking for someone to organize a lunch to welcome students at the beginning of the school year. My family and I had traveled out West not long before, and had visited a church on the Sunday of their annual Chili Cook-Off. The event was more fun than any church potluck we’d ever attended. My husband and I knew we needed to introduce to this little slice of Wild West fun to our congregation back home so, when it came time to organize the welcome back event, I pitched the idea.

As I began describing the concept to folks in my church I was met, almost universally, with quizzical looks and blank stares. Without a single word, the expressions on my fellow church members’ faces betrayed unspoken heartfelt objections:

“We’re New Englanders. We eat clam chowder.”

“And we’re Presbyterians. Why would we do that?”

“Trust me,” I told them. “It’ll be fun.”

And I don’t even like chili.

One of the moms said she didn’t think the idea would work because her family didn’t like chili. She asked if she could bring a crockpot full of macaroni and cheese instead. I said, “Sure. As long as you give it some kind of chili name, you can bring anything you want.”

She called her entry, Meatless, Beanless, Cheesy, Noodle Chili.

One of the perks of being the instigator for events at my church is that I get to make up rules as I go. And, of all the events I’ve ever organized for the church, Chili Cook-Off is by far the easiest. (Just don’t tell them that. They think I work really hard at it.) I buy a whole bunch of cornbread from the bakery at the local supermarket, some really big bags of salad and some dressing; and sour cream, cheddar cheese, chips, and salsa. I ask folks from the congregation to sign up to bring salad ingredients (whatever vegetables are threatening to overrun their gardens) and twelve packs of soda, juice, or water. I either order a cake for dessert or have someone pick up ingredients to make ice cream sundaes.

Chili, obviously, is the main dish on the menu. Each year I get roughly two dozen people to enter, competing for top honors in the categories, of hottest, most unusual, and best overall chili. I ask folks to bring their chili in crockpots which are then placed on tables lining the walls in the fellowship hall. The first year we tried this event, I was a little afraid that plugging them all in at the same time might cause the power grid on the eastern seaboard to shut down.

For some reason, the men in my church always seem to be the first to sign up for Chili Cook-Off. Perhaps it’s because competition is hard-wired into their DNA, or maybe it’s because they think playing with hot, spicy chili peppers is manly, the men seem eager to show off their culinary chops. Those who attend Chili Cook-Off have the opportunity to sample a wide variety of offerings. There are spicy chilies and mild ones; vegetarian and venison and wild turkey chilies; ones made with beans, and ones made without. We’ve had Texas-style, Cincinnati-style, and sweet, southern chili. One year we even had a gumbo-style oyster chili.

Naming one’s chili seems to have turned into its own form of competition. Recent titles have included: Cry Twice Chili, Dragon’s Breath, The Heat of the Moment, Poultry Gone Wild, Deacon Harmon’s Hellfire and Brimstone Chili, and Jazzy Giraffe Chili. I was assured no giraffes were harmed in the making of that last one. This year, I awarded a special judge’s discretion honor to our church’s new campus minister for his entry, The Reflux Capacitor.

Because we are a congregation of Presbyterians we like to do things decently and in order, except on Chili Cook-Off Sunday. Although the names of the chili makers are kept confidential, quite a bit of lobbying, bribery, and arm-twisting takes place during the event. Some folks decorate their chili display areas, trying to entice people to sample their chili.

I hear tales of ballot-stuffing, toward which I turn a blind eye. The award for best overall chili always seems to go to the chili maker having the largest family in the congregation. The past couple of years, however, I decided to exercise sovereign rule over the contest, awarding “The Clean Spoon” recognition to the chili maker whose crockpot was cleaned out first. The objective, as I remind everyone, is to have fun and feed as many college students and fellow church members as simply as possible.

We have been doing Chili Cook-Off for five years now and, unless I decide to hightail it to the Wild West hill country, I may be organizing this event for years yet to come. Folks have started dressing up in Stetsons, bandanas, and cowboy boots. I wander around in and my flashing chili pepper necklace making sure folks are getting enough to eat, introducing themselves to the students, and periodically shouting, “Yee-Haw!” We listen to cheesy cowboy music, give away prizes like bottles of sarsaparilla and rolls of antacids, and laugh ourselves silly.  This past year, I made the elders wear sheriff badges so the students would be able to identify those in church leadership. Actually I asked them and they agreed, because I’m sort of big and scary, and they’ve pretty much given up on getting me to run off and join the Methodists.

And while I may make jokes about being a Presbyterian, and do ridiculous things like making the elders wear sheriff badges, I'm quite serious about my love for my church. There my soul has been nourished throughout my adult life by the thoughtful and careful exposition of God’s word. The men behind those silly badges are serious ones who love Christ and His church, and who are committed to her peace and purity. It is my privilege to introduce college students to this body of fellow believers, whether I like chili or not.

Can somebody out there give me a “Yee-Haw"?

(Chili banner and cheesy cowboy music, provided by my two-headed brother Chaz)

Joining Laura at The Wellspring:

The Amazement Park

(Update: Congratulations to Happy Girl @ Being Happy for winning my Un-birthday Kiva Giveaway, and to Lauri @ Living to Die Well for being first runner-up! Details to follow)

There are reasons I never took my kids to an amusement park.

After leaving for my freshman year of college, I never really went home. I spent three out of the four summers during my college years working at an amusement park located on Lake Erie in Ohio. One summer I stayed near campus and worked at a McDonald’s. It was McDonald’s, and my experience there was exactly identical to that of anyone else who ever worked at any other McDonald’s, just as the burgers sold at one restaurant were exactly identical to every other one sold nationwide. The only notable memory of that experience was being introduced to a new menu item being added that summer—the chicken nugget. I thought they were disgusting and figured they would never catch on. My experience of working at McDonald’s was merely something to be endured and not worthy of its own blog post.

The amusement park recruited heavily for its seasonal jobs among college students in Ohio, Michigan, and Pennsylvania. Working there seemed an ideal arrangement. The park offered on-site housing, beach access, uniforms, a paycheck, and unlimited admission to the Midwest’s finest amusements

 I was hired to work in the traffic department, which meant I stood for eight hours a day in a blistering hot parking lot, or pouring rain, trying desperately not to get hit by a car. Other duties included parking, and inhaling fumes of, tour buses; collecting parking tolls and driving the tram which traveled between the parking lot and the park’s main entrance. If I tried hard enough I could probably recite word-for-word the tram spiel I was required to give while shuttling customers through the parking lot. But nobody wanted to hear it back then so I’m sure nobody reading this does either.

Most days I worked a split shift which meant I directed traffic for four hours in the mornings as enthusiastic customers arrived for a fun-filled day of adventure, and I returned for four hours in the evening to direct cars exiting the lots. Daily my co-workers and I yelled, “Watch your doors!” as enthusiastic customers flung theirs open into oncoming cars. Daily I saw customers limp back to the parking lot, sunburnt and exhausted, having spent too many hours standing in long lines and too much money on greasy food and cheesy amusements. At the end of each day, customers seemed considerably less enthusiastic.

Those of us in the traffic department wore orange and yellow jumpsuits, orange visors, white gloves, and brown sneakers with ankle-cut socks. We looked a little like ducks. Because of the many hours spent standing in the sun I always had a great tan at the end of my amusement park summers, except for the abnormal-looking white hands and feet which were covered by the socks and gloves. After baking my skin for four hours during each morning’s shift, I naturally went to the beach to bake my skin some more. I’m beginning to suspect that the damage I did to my skin those summers could keep Mary Kay’s skin-care line in business for years to come.

Each of us was issued a whistle and flashlight for directing traffic at night. On paper, I’m sure it sounded like a good idea to stick a bunch of college students in a parking lot at minimum wage to manage traffic for the park. Few of us really knew what we were doing. I know for sure I caused at least one accident when a driver couldn’t interpret my flashlight movement and hand gestures. And, more often than one might suspect, customers who had enjoyed a few too many beers in the park seemed to think it would be great sport to try to plow down a college kid who was dressed like a duck and standing in a parking lot.

Traffic was light on days when there were thunderstorms in the forecast. Many of the rides had to be shut down when there was danger of lightning strikes. With little traffic to direct, many times I got pulled out of the parking lot after a storm to test-ride the roller coasters. I’m guessing the insurance liability was greater if brakes failed while paying customers were riding a coaster than if a load of employees plummeted to their deaths. When I first started working at the park, I was terrified of riding what was then billed as “the world’s largest racing coaster.” After riding it a few times, not knowing whether or not the brakes would work, the experience became a huge yawn.

Most of the glitter and appeal of the amusements wore off quickly. I flashed my employee badge at the park’s entrance merely to walk through on my way to the parking lot, blocking out most of the sights and sounds of the attractions. The one sense I couldn’t block was that of smell. To this day, when I think about amusement parks, I immediately think of the smell of rotting garbage.

I earned very little during my summers at the amusement park. Housing expenses were deducted from my paycheck, and I also had to pay for food. I think I survived on Tab, apples, yogurt, cereal, and fruit roll-ups. In addition to being very tan, I was also very thin each year when I returned to school. I was, however, able to save some money toward my college expenses. Each week I mailed my paycheck home to my parents to deposit into my bank account, back in the day before online banking existed.

After my first summer at the park, I swore I would never return. I thought the work was brutal, and that I was poorly used and severely underpaid. The truth was, I missed being home for the summer, imagining my friends had all returned from college to resume the childhoods we had once enjoyed together. In reality, going home was never quite the same. The work I did in each of my summer jobs was hard, and quirky, and strange sometimes.  I shake my head thinking about some of my experiences, but they provided some great stories. And all the while I thought I was earning money toward paying for college, I realize I was learning about how the world works and how to manage life in it.

All of it was education.

I will be posting the name of the winner to my Unbirthday Kiva giveaway this afternoon, This is the final post in my series about summer jobs. Links to other posts:

• Summertime--And the Living is Brutal
• A Hot, Hairy Mess
• Start Spreading the News

A Most Eccentric Un-birthday Giveaway!

This is the big one:



Next week, I celebrate the big one--Nancy 5-0. On August 11, 2011, I become officially eccentric.

Go ahead, smirk to yourselves; I'll wait. I know what you're thinking:

And, until now, just what exactly HAVE you been?

Practicing. I've merely been practicing. And now I get to own it,utterly and completely. I'll be a middle-aged, gray-haired, eccentric woman who says and does the most outrageous things. In public. Without apology.

And how does one celebrate such an occasion appropriately? Well, one doesn't. But Ethel and Rock star-diva girlfriend have some big plans for me. There will be shenanigans.

I also want to invite you to join in celebrating with me. How? By giving stuff away, of course! Because if you have never learned anything from the marvelous writings of  Lewis Carroll, learn this: Although you celebrate your birthday only one day a year, there are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents. And, as Humpty Dumpty says to Alice, "There's glory for you!"

So here's my plan: I'm going to spend my birthday celebrating un-birthdays by giving things away. Throughout the day I'm going to give gifts to random people while wishing each a happy un-birthday. At the end of the day, I imagine I will have stories to tell. 

And I'm inviting you to join me. Between today and my birthday (August 11), help me celebrate by giving something away to someone--anyone. You may wish someone a happy un-birthday if you like, or simply say you're giving stuff away because some crazy old gray-haired lady on the internet asked you to. If you have the opportunity to say that the gospel is a free gift of God's grace, by all means, go for it.

Be creative. Pick up the tab for someone's Starbucks. Hand a bottle of cold water to a stranger. Pass along an heirloom you know would be meaningful to someone in your family. Share an old family story. Visit someone who needs the gift of time. Send a donation to a charity you've been meaning to support. Dig into your re-gifting closet, wrap something up, and hand it to someone completely at random. (Don't even think about rolling your eyes at me about the whole re-gifting thing. You know you do it).

Then come back here, leave a comment, and tell me what happened. Or, if it's a really great story, write a blog post and link it to my Facebook page. On August 12, I will be selecting one winner from among all who leave comments, and then guess what?

I'll be giving away another un-birthday present!

I'll send the winner a gift card from Kiva, an organization that absolutely rocks my socks. Kiva works with microfinance partners around the world, making loans to entrepreneurs in an effort toward alleviating poverty. That means I'll be giving away something which, if you win it, will enable you to give even more away. How much fun is that?

Through Kiva, loans are repaid by the small business owners who receive them. The current repayment rate is 98.79%. If you make a loan through Kiva, you will receive that money back. You can then either re-invest your money, helping another entrepreneur through Kiva, or use it to to download I-Tunes. Buy more farm animals for your Facebook game. Whatever you want.

I might pick a winner at random by pulling a winner out of a hat. I might spend a few hours on Google trying to figure out how a random number generator works. I might just choose the person whose story makes me laugh so hard that coffee squirts out my nose. I might be more likely to choose you if you click the box on the right and become a follower of this blog, follow me on Twitter, or Like me on Facebook (or leave me a comment saying you already do).

I make no promises. That's the thing with eccentric people--you never know what they'll do. Or why.

I may I wish you all a very, merry, happy, un-birthday! (Unless of course it's your birthday also then, never mind)

(In case anyone is wondering--I receive no compensation whatsoever for promoting Kiva. I'm just doing this because I like the organization, and doing this makes me outrageously happy! )

A Hot, Hairy Mess

(Writing, on occasional Fridays, stories about summer jobs I had when I was a teen)

Maybe it would have been a good idea to ask my friend why she was giving up her job cleaning a local beauty shop. I was, perhaps, thirteen or fourteen when she asked if I wanted to take over for her. It sounded simple enough. I would get paid to sweep up hair, wipe off hairspray, mop down floors, and throw towels into the laundry. I pedaled my Schwinn across town, met up with my friend, and learned my new job. The hardest part, she told me, was remembering to point the spray nozzle down into the sink before turning on the water. I may have forgotten to do that a few times.

The job wasn’t difficult, and I enjoyed earning some extra spending money. I learned, however, that there are few surfaces to which hair and hairspray won’t stick. On occasion, my boss asked me to wipe down the steering wheel and interior of her car because it, too, was coated in hairspray. She complained that, after I said I had cleaned it, the steering wheel still felt sticky. I doubted there was a cleaning product known to man strong enough to cut through the build-up of hair product on the inside of that car. Perhaps a chisel might have been more effective. I picture that car, disintegrating in a landfill somewhere, layers of lacquer still clinging to the steering wheel.

One of my jobs was to look through hairstyle magazines, find pictures to cut out, and add them to a collage which covered a storage cabinet in the salon.  I guess I wasn’t very style-savvy because my boss usually pulled down the pictures I added to the display. I suppose it was important to have photos of attractive hairstyles on display, because I’m not sure my boss was her own best advertisement. She wore her hair cropped short and bleached straw-like, as though she had experimented on herself with a few too many chemicals.

One day when I arrived at work, my boss said she needed to go shopping for beauty supplies and asked if I wanted to go with her. I thought we would be going to an upscale beauty supply store. Instead, we drove to a discount warehouse where my boss stocked up on fruity green apple, strawberry, and tangerine shampoos. Her plan was to refill the expensive salon-quality bottles in her shop with these cheaper brands because, as she said, her customers wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

On our way home, my boss said she wanted to drive past her boyfriend’s house, where he lived with his wife. Having grown up in a fairly sheltered, conservative community I knew, theoretically, that married people sometimes had affairs. This was my first experience finding myself smack-dab in the middle of one, as an accessory to my boss’s tawdry love triangle.

We drove past the boyfriend’s house; my boss blasted the horn, and sped away. She drove around the block, and then did it again. I felt as though I were looking down on myself, trapped inside some weird soap opera or television movie. I just wanted to get home without being arrested.

I didn’t learn much about the beauty business that summer, but I did learn a few valuable life lessons. I learned that business owners don’t always act with integrity, and that adults don’t always behave like adults.

I told my boss I wasn’t going to be able to continue working once school started in the fall. She found someone to replace me and I trained her, showing her how to point the spray nozzle down into the sink before turning on the water. As for the rest of her responsibilities, I figured she wouldn’t believe me if I told her.

Summertime--And the Living is...Brutal!

Hope you’re keeping cool in here, I said as the teen girl handed my dry cleaning over the counter.

Not really, she said. They won’t let us turn on the air conditioning anymore.

My first inclination was to think of her boss as sadistic, brutal, and mean. Then I remembered the new taxes which had just kicked in, causing business owners statewide to turn off air conditioning and trim costs wherever they could.

I also started thinking back to some of the summer jobs I had when I was the same age as that young lady.

I remember my dad coming home one evening and telling me there was a Help Wanted sign downtown in a local pizza shop.

You should apply, he said.

I knew next to nothing about filling out job applications and even less about making pizza. Still he was my dad and he told me to go downtown and apply for a job, so I did.

The pizza shop was run by a Greek family, some of whom spoke no English. It took me weeks to figure out who was married to whom and how each was related to the other. The owner sat in the dining area and chain smoked. He said little, but often stared at me with his dark, scary, Greek eyes as I was trying to figure out how to do my job.

I was trained by a college student whose boyfriend delivered takeout orders to the nearby campus. She taught me how many slices of pepperoni to place on each pizza and the correct number of meat slices to fill a grinder. My trainer seemed to find perverse pleasure in pointing out everything I got wrong, grabbing orders from my hands, huffing and saying, How many times have I shown you how to do this? I overheard her asking the owner how she was doing in training me, assuring him she was being especially mean to make sure I got it right. Several weeks later, she and her boyfriend were fired when the owner realized they were skimming money off delivery sales.

Although air-conditioned, the heat in the pizza shop was brutal. With my back turned toward industrial-sized pizza ovens, the air conditioning provided little relief. Usually only one oven was fired up at a time, unless there was a special event in town or on campus and we knew demand would be heavy. The town’s local street fair was one such event, and it usually fell during the hottest week of the summer. I remember emptying one of the ovens, filled with searing hot pans full of pizza, just as a crazed, knife-wielding street fair patron chased a woman into the shop, past the ovens, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

I did all of these things for less than minimum wage, paid in cash.

Being Greek, the shops owners celebrated a number of Orthodox Christian holidays. I worked alone the weekend of Orthodox Easter as the family observed the holiday. Running low on pepperoni, I went down to the basement freezer to get more. As I opened the freezer door, I found the two blue eyes of a goat’s head staring directly back at me.

I guess goat is a traditional Eastern Orthodox holiday entrée.

Gradually, I got to know the owner and his wife. I worked hard, and they became friendly. The wife and I usually split a pizza during each of my shifts. She joked with me about my high school boyfriend being one of their best customers during that summer, referring to him as “Mr. Pizza.”

I trained another teen girl to take my place before I left for college in the fall, trying very hard not to frighten her. I knew the owner’s dark stare would be intimidating enough. When I came home from school on break, I always stopped by and ordered a pizza or ham grinder for old times’ sake. My pizza shop served the best pizza in town.

The shop has been gone for a number of years now; it burned down when the hot dog shop next door caught fire which spread.

My son has a job this summer, mowing a hayfield in the blazing heat. I think about him and I think about the young woman working without air conditioning at the dry cleaner’s. I smile and give thanks that I’m not a teenager anymore.

But every time I make a pizza, I count the pieces of pepperoni as I place them.

Next week: Cleaning the beauty salon

(Just for fun, I’ve decided to spend a couple of summer Fridays reflecting on jobs I had as a teenager. How about you? Any fun summer job stories you’d like to share? Any you’d like to forget?)

Gleanings

Not enough each for a blog post each, but too fun to keep to myself:

One night last week, I went for a walk after dinner and saw a little girl standing on her front porch eating a sandwich. She was looking at a fenced-in area of her front yard which held probably a dozen black Labrador puppies. I could see the momma lab superintending from inside the front door. I stopped and said, “You have a lot of puppies,” and the little girl smiled big. There are few things sweeter in life than a little girl with a sandwich and a yard full of Labrador puppies.

I have a friend who got a pair of zebra finches for his birthday. He named them The Winklevi (after the obnoxious twins from The Social Network). That made me smile.

While floating together in the pool last week, Ethel said, “We’re quickly reaching that point where we’re going to start stealing each others' false teeth.”

Last week, Ethel taught me the correct way to make pinwheels. Turns out I’ve been doing it wrong all my life. If you insert beads on each end of the pin, they act like bearings and the pinwheel will actually spin. Who knew? I think it’s some sort of science thing.

Ethel also hosted a Mary Kay party this week—it was a good Ethel week. We exfoliated and moisturized, and afterward our skin felt luminous. Maybe the products really are nothing but snake oil, but I have profound respect for the bravery of a woman doing what she needs to in order to support her family, and I was happy to offer her my gleanings. Afterward, I had a lot of fun thinking about the words exfoliate and luminous.

I came home and asked the beloved Swede if my skin looked luminous. He said, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond when you ask me if you look voluminous.” That man is just so lucky I love him.

Happy 4th of July weekend. Let's all celebrate independence together!

Further Adventures of Lucy and Ethel

When God gives you a friend like Ethel, you're going to want to celebrate her birthday.

You'll probably want rock-star diva girlfriend to join you in getting your toenails painted all fancy.

 There may need to be mimosa which, as everyone knows, always taste better when served in plastic Christmas glasses.

If Ethel's birthday falls on the one day of the week it isn't raining, you'll probably want to take her and her fancy toenails to the beach. Along the way, you might see a sign like this:

And then you'll have no choice but to stop and eat hot, buttered lobster rolls.

 When you've had enough sun, you might want to walk through the nearby gardens. There, you might find children pretending to be Eustace and Jill because they think they're in Narnia.

And if you take Ethel to the beach on her birthday, you're probably going to want to give her a kite.

And if you give Ethel a kite, she's going to want to run with it.

And if you take Ethel and her fancy painted toenails to the beach on her birthday and give her a kite and she runs with it, she's probably going to let out all the string.

Because that's just the kind of friend Ethel is.

A friend is a solace in grief and in joy a merry companion. -- John Lyly

Linking with Laura on Monday. Click the button below to find others enjoying playdates:

Redeeming Social Media

One of my very first friends in blog world was JoAnn at Ostriches Look Funny.  She was one of the few brave souls who read my early posts and took time to leave kind comments for me. She’s also very, very funny so I started stalking her following her blog. Because I considered her a blogging diva, I soon began bothering her with technical questions like, “What is a McWidget Linky Thingy? Where do I get one, and How does it work?” JoAnn has always been patient and helpful. Not once has she said to me, “Good grief woman! Don’t you know how to Google anything?”

                                                            

(Truth is, I know how to Google.  It’s just easier and a lot more fun asking JoAnn.)

JoAnn got me started on the Twitter (@nancyfranson). When I questioned the value of yet another social networking tool (#whining), one seemingly intended solely for self-promotion, JoAnn said, “It's not about self-promotion, it’s about the Great Commission.” JoAnn uses social media—Twitter, Facebook, her blog, to tell funny stories and post goofy pictures of her kids, but she also uses them to bear witness to the love of Christ. She tweeted me this:

My Bible study leader always says that if you are going to use FB, that you are called to redeem Facebook.

Last week I received a phone call from my sister asking me to round up my prayer warriors; her daughter was at the hospital and in need of an emergency C-section. I prayed and then sent out prayer requests via text, Facebook, and Twitter. My phone started buzzing immediately. I had messages from friends, family, and folks I’ve never met saying, “Praying.” “I’m on it.” “Joining with you.”  One friend (who has done this for me on several occasions) texted to share with me the words she was offering in prayer.

If that’s not a picture of redeeming social media, I’m not sure what is. But maybe that's a question I should Google.

Using social media to count blessings (and saying nice things about JoAnn on the internet because she just had a baby and can't stop me. Congratulations, friend!):

951. My sweet baby niece, all grown up and becoming a mama!

952. Answered prayer and a healthy baby girl. Welcome to the world Carly Nicole!

953. My big sister becoming a grandma.

954. My mom becoming a great-grandma.

955. Becoming a great aunt.

956. Seeing pictures online within hours.

957. God uses all things to glorify Himself. Even Twitter.

958. Friends who join in prayer, even via text.

959. Heavy, deep, and real conversations in the pool.

960. Daughter’s friends who stop by, grab a raft, and float with me.

961. Hard, physical work and the satisfaction it brings.

962. Opportunity to interview a friend.
963. Feeling brave enough to take some risks.

964. Memories that spark more memories.

965. Another year, another graduation, another celebration of God’s faithfulness in the lives of some quality young men and women.

966. Daughter and husband blessing my mom by spending their Saturday with her at the local Strawberry Festival.

UBP11: What Part of Party Don't You Understand?

When I saw UBP 2011 in the title of a friend’s blog post, I had flashbacks to high school chemistry class and nearly developed a rash.  The combination of letters and numbers reminded me of something from that periodic table of the elements that never made sense to me and made my head hurt.  In reality, UBP 2011 is a whole lot more fun—It’s The Ultimate Blog Party hosted by Janice and Susan at 5 Minutes for Mom.

Welcome to those of you visiting here for the first time.  Come on in and make yourselves comfortable; I’ll show you around.  You might want to throw on a fancy hat.  Or maybe your feather boa.

Here in my little corner of the blog universe, I like to tell stories.  I tell family stories and stories about fascinating people I’ve met.  Of course, I tend to think most people are fascinating, and I think everybody’s story matters.  I also think that all of our stories are all part of one great big story that ends well.

Here at Out of My Alleged Mind I talk about faith, about what it means to be a follower of Jesus.  I grew up going to church and Sunday school, won awards for memorizing Bible verses, and I have known about Jesus all my life.  I love me a good, heavy, deep, and real theological debate.  These days, however, my writing tends toward what it looks like to take all those things I know in my head and live like I believe them out here in a world that is messy, broken, and ugly.  I believe that life is hard, but God is good and God is great.

The beloved Swede is the love of my life.  He often drags me up and down hiking trails, through mountain passes, and across streams--though he swears he isn’t really trying to kill me.  We are adoptive parents of two amazing kids—one domestic, one import.  I homeschooled for many years but didn’t always love it.  I am still recovering.

I cried for nearly two years when my daughter left for college.  Now that my children are grown and I am almost an empty-nester, I am trying to figure out what else God has left me on this earth to do.  My baby girl got married this past year, and my son (who has mad, crazy piano skills) offered his gift of music for her wedding.  (I totally rocked that mother-of-the-bride thing).

I have a rock-star diva girlfriend who kicked cancer’s butt.  She is my hero.

On my blog, I often tell stories about my friend Ethel.  When we are out finding trouble to get into enjoying moments of sweet fellowship together, I play the role of Lucy.  She and I get our pictures taken with Santa every year which, we believe, is the highlight of the season for him.  I think about Christmas all year long.

Despite having a head full of gray hair and being a Jesus-loving, former homeschooling mom, I am a huge fan of quirkiness, shenanigans, hoopla, jingle bells, polka dots, feather boas, laughter, merriment, mirth, and the movie Mamma Mia!  I like to crank up the music in my car and sing at the top of my lungs-- even to songs by Pink, which have no redeeming value whatsoever.  In a few months, on my next birthday, I will officially become eccentric—something I’ve been practicing for all my life.

I am Nancy at Out of My Alleged Mind.  Nice to meet you.  Thanks for stopping by.

Joining the party:

My Leaf Blower Hates Me And Twitter Scares Me

The beloved Swede, patient man that he is, has tried and tried and tried to teach me how to use our leaf blower.  First he pumps some little button that primes something.  Then he grabs the starter cord thing and rips it out with all his manly-man strength.  Next he moves some lever thingy, positioning it somewhere between the settings where there is a picture of a turtle toward where there is a picture of a rabbit.  And it starts up for him.  Every single time.

                                                                

Then it’s mine turn.  And every single time I follow every single instruction he’s given me, nothing happens.  Then I have to use my angry words and threaten to kick the thing down the driveway.

I just don’t get it.

Year after year, I listen patiently as my man tries one more time to explain things like engine cycles and flooding the choke which, I guess, is a bad thing.  It seems to me I need to have three hands to press the prime button and pull the cord thingy and move the lever wherever it’s supposed to be between the turtle and the rabbit.  My eyes glaze over and I ask, “In a day and age when we have smart phones and email and Facebook and Twitter, why can’t someone just invent a leaf blower that starts with the push of a button?”

Which leads me to Twitter.

This girl talked me into coming over to the dark side and taking up residence in the universe of Twitter.  Which makes almost as much sense to me as does my leaf blower.

I mean, I’m pretty techno-savvy.  I can text.  I’m on Facebook.  I blog.  I can cut and paste HTML code.  I just don’t get this Twitter thing.

I type phrases like, “How does Twitter work?” into Google and up pop articles like How to Explain Twitter to Your Grandma which, if you’ve taken a good look at my profile picture, seems to be just about my speed.  I read the words, but my eyes glaze over as if I’m trying to comprehend a two-cycle engine.   I’m still left with all sorts of questions like:

Why?

What value does Twitter add to my texting, Facebooking, blogging presence?

Who really wants to hear from me that often?

What is a tiny URL thingy and do I need one?

Is there a Twitter code of etiquette?  If so, what do I do if I Tweet inappropriately?

Is it really a good thing that I have one more venue for broadcasting all the ridiculous things that run through my head?

And, now that I’ve got all sorts of accounts linked together here in internet world, I’m starting to feel just the tiniest bit vulnerable--like the universe could start reading my thoughts, or something.

Maybe I should start wearing a tin-foil helmet while I’m at my computer?

All of which is to say, this gray-haired old lady is now on the Twitter, and so I invite you to follow me.  Or Tweet me.  Or send me your best pieces of advice for getting started.  Or just send champagne.

Then maybe, just maybe, I won’t feel like kicking my computer down the driveway.