Health Food Nut

As my 50th birthday approaches, a silent panic sets in by the demand for a heart healthy lifestyle.  I'm keenly aware that a midnight movie binge with buttered popcorn and liters of soda don't fit into the image of the 50 year old me that I have in mind, but the joy in those midnight treats still calls to me.  In an effort to tame the snack monster that rides around on my shoulder whispering sweet nothings, I purged my kitchen of all treats tasty and wondrous. As the Doritos, trans fats and hydrogenated oil products disappeared into the trash, I knew I must be on the brink of something wonderful and healthy that my family would embrace.

I would like to point out that health eating is expensive eating as indicated by my $250 grocery bill.  I stocked my pantry with nuts, grains, fruits and seeds - all whole foods promising energy and wellness.  A 24 pack of assorted chips used to last two weeks.  A $9 can of pistachios lasted two hours.  I watched in dismay as hungry children gobbled up banana chips, sunflower seeds and pecans.  It took half a bag of oranges to get enough juice for a few good drinks and I wondered what the true cost of all of this would be. My worry set in and I sought out a Reese's cup and Coca Cola, but none were to be found. I downed a few sunflower seeds and pieces of beef jerky.  While tasty, they didn't give me that sugar rush I wanted from chocolate and soda.

After a day of healthy eating and drinking lots of water, I settled in for a good night's sleep, proud that I was making healthy choices for my family.  It was about 2:00 a.m. when I woke to the feeling of being run over by a truck.  I thought these healthy foods were supposed to make me feel better!  There wasn't a joint in my body that didn't hurt.  Perhaps it was withdrawal from the buttery goodness that once filled my cabinets and possibly the spaces between my joints. I sought comfort in a jar of natural peanut butter and a bottle of Motrin,  my new midnight friends.

Out with the old and in with the new.  Fifty may be screaming at me from the horizon, but I plan to greet it in a pair of running shoes with a bottle of Fiji Water in hand.  After all, this is just the beginning of the next fifty and I want them to be grand!

Yogurt Mountain

  Essay for  Real Simple Life Lessons Contest 2014

  While millions of dollars have been spent on personality inventories to help people understand themselves better, I've discovered a much better tool for identifying personality types at a local hot spot called Yogurt Mountain.  I had this epiphany one afternoon as I was enjoying some frozen yogurt with my children.  The end product that we each created from the wide variety of choices perfectly described the personality of each maker.

  My daughter is always first to jump in.  Her eyes open wide as she sees the new flavors and she races to fill her tester cup with Mango Delight and Triple Chocolate Monkey Crunch. I'll scan the choices several times as I don't want to waste my two chances to use my tester cups and get a free taste of the wrong thing.  My son stands back and checks his watch, sends a text message to a few friends, and simply disconnects from his mother and sister who are riding the roller coaster of choices up and down Yogurt Mountain.  

  We each branch off in our own direction, traveling further into the unknown as we move past tester cups and begin creating the final yogurt choice that we will have to live with.  Without fail, I always retreat to the classic flavors of vanilla and chocolate, filling my cup with equal amounts of yogurty goodness.  I'll toss in a blackberry or two for good health and call it complete.  My daughter will load her cup with an assortment of flavors that may actually glow in the dark and then finish it off with a topping of sour candies and gummie worms that hang over the side of the cup.  It is at this exact moment that I begin to make bad decisions and return to inventory the choices once again.  A small dollop of Watermelon freeze or Red Raspberry yogurt couldn't hurt and I'll add a little to my cup... an impromptu decision I will regret once I join my family at the table. 

  My son has been moving quietly in the background the entire time and will arrive to the cash register with some concoction that must have been crafted in the Southern Living test kitchens.  A small amount of vanilla yogurt has been perfectly dusted with graham cracker crumbs, walnuts and a spoonful of fresh strawberries.   It is apparent to everyone in the restaurant that these are flavors that naturally go well together and scream of summertime goodness.   They might as well just hand him a blue ribbon to go with his spoon.

  As we sit at the table to enjoy our treats, I'll wish for a cup of yogurt like my son's.  My daughter will enjoy her cup of frozen candy and smile with blue lips at the choice she made. I'll dig around in my cup of frozen yogurt and push the bad decision out of the way and mine for the goodness that is buried there somewhere underneath the blackberries and artificial raspberry goo, knowing that I should not have ventured from that which I know to be good.  

  It takes no personality inventory to see the extrovert who loves life, the thinker who maps out a plan and carefully executes it and the woman who second guessed her good choices that were perfectly fine without the need for anything new.  

  Myers Briggs has nothing on Yogurt Mountain!  

The Sound of Home

The sounds of home are one of life's greatest blessings and I want my children to remember these things.  From the creak of the back door to the clinking of a tiny metal "A" that hangs on my daughter's door handle and rattles every time her door opens in the middle of the night, these sounds are part of our world.  There is a comfort to be found in the gentle sloshing song of the dishwasher late in the evening and the soft, stretchy yawn of an old dog who sleeps inside now because it is late in life and the outdoors is simply too great of a beast for an old pup.    

In the mornings, there is timing to the symphony of sounds that softly wakes each person. There is a rush of water through the pipes in the walls as the first person to shower is greeted with the hottest water of the morning.  The hum of a hair dryer mixed with the scent of cologne is like a soft alarm clock telling us we are late and should have been out of bed before now.   The clinking of the door knob ornament tells us that Allie is up and getting ready.  My son's door will open later and brush against the tuft of the carpet letting us know he is awake and starting his day.  

Nighttime is full of wonderful sounds, too. One of the greatest that I am blessed to enjoy is the sound of string instruments as my son and nephew strum their guitars or ukuleles.  I never knew a uke' could produce such pleasing sounds, but the right hands can make magic with it.  Whether it is background sounds of someone writing songs in the den or a full concert of instruments in my living room, the laughter of children and the music in our home is nothing short of magical.    

With an extensive collection of songs and greatest hits from the decades' greatest artists, I would trade them all for one simple recording of the gentle sounds of home.  Time will come and these sounds will make homes elsewhere.  It is then, when I can't hear them anymore, that I hope I can close my eyes and recall them all with vivid detail.  As children return home, I will delight in the sounds they bring back with them.  While the creak of the back door signals coming and going, it always gives hope that familiar faces have found their way home. 

 

The Pencil Salesman

  They say we entertain angels while unaware and because of this I want my children to know they have a duty to help when called upon.  In sixth grade, I failed to remember this and it took me twenty years to right my bad choice.

  It was at McNew's Pharmacy, a small drugstore and soda fountain tucked in the north Georgia mountains where students gathered after school for a snack and some fun with friends.  We could cram ten kids in a booth designed for four.  There was no shortage of laughter and fun. Peer pressure, however, is a powerful force, and to a young twelve year old girl who happened to be the new kid in town, it was important not to be different from the others.

  It was while we were dining on french fries and milkshakes, that a man walked in with a small box of pencils and handed our group a sign he had made.  The words on the sign seemed foreign to us as we read that this man could not speak or hear.  Mind you, this was the 70's and children in the south were not mainstreamed, so we really didn't know how to act around a person who seemed so very different from what we were used to.  He was selling his pencils to earn a few dollars that probably would have bought him dinner that night.  A small act of kindness could have gone so far.

  A group of kids, with plenty of change in their pockets and plenty to eat, pushed the pencils away and laughed.  I don't really remember if we were laughing at the man or laughing out of nervousness, not knowing what to do with this stranger who stood in front of us.   The man quietly took his pencils and his sign and departed.  The group of friends, who had no need for pencils, returned to their fun and laughter.

  That night, my heart broke, not so much for this man, as for the fact that I had not helped when given the opportunity.  It was that perfect cocktail of guilt, compassion and regret that placed me before my mother to tell her of my wrong doing.  She led me to her car and we drove all over the small mountain town looking for this stranger so that we could give him money in exchange for the pencils he was selling.  Sadly, the man was gone and I did not get a second chance to help this stranger.  My actions were something I would have to live with.

  God moves in mysterious ways though.....  move the clock ahead twenty plus years.  I was a young mom with a young son and an infant.  My son, now grown, still talks about the night the doorbell rang and his mother lit up with joy to find an old man standing at the door with a box of pencils in hand and sign around his neck indicating that he was deaf and mute.  I did not see the same thing my children saw.  My joy sprang from the fact that I saw my second chance. While it couldn't have been the same man from the mountains, I knew I wouldn't make the wrong decision twice.

  I'm sure the man wondered why a woman with two small children needed so many pencils, but he seemed just as delighted as I bought every one.  My son asked why pencils made me so happy and I told him the story.  After the man left, I ran back to the door to see if there was anything else I could do and he was nowhere to be found.  I looked up and down the street, but he was gone. Perhaps this was an angel.  Maybe it was the same man.  I'll never really know, but my child remembers quite clearly, how the act of giving brought me so much happiness.  I know without a doubt, that when an angel or a stranger appears before my children, in whatever form, they will do the right thing and any laughter will be born out of joy, not out of ridicule of that which we don't understand.

Treasure Hunting

While it's no secret that I've always wanted to be a pirate, it's no wonder that treasure hunting comes naturally to me.  Unfortunately, I've discovered that I'm not very good at it.  We've been through several metal detectors and they all broke long before I ever got the chance to dig for buried treasure.  My $400 investment turned up a bottle cap and a snake that was sleeping under a pile of leaves.  When my youngest child reached down to pick up the silvery object, screams ensued and the detector was thrown to the ground.  That was the beginning and the end of looking for hidden treasure in the back yard.

With the introduction of the digital age, I turned to Internet auction sites to mine for goods. There's no fear of reaching down and grabbing a snake, although I have discovered that snakes do exist online, offering their counterfeit wares and freshly printed certificates of authenticity.  My parents' words ring in my head, "If it's too good to be true, it probably is."  I use this as a guide as I sit on the couch surfing for treasure.

It took only $10 to realize that close-up photos don't actually reflect the true size of an item.  In pirate fashion, I bought three silver bars that looked to be quite large.  When my package of silver arrived, my concern was raised by the size of the tiny envelope.  I had to shake the package to get the contents and discovered three tiny pieces of precious metal almost too small to see.  My silver dreams went up in smoke and I hid my new found treasure at the back of the "End of Days" Cabinet.  I'm sure that one day they will be confused as dust and will be swept away along with some dried up seeds and a guide to canning.

I turned my sights to jewelry, as what female pirate doesn't love gold and jewels.  There are obviously many other treasure hunters out there as anything with any value is terribly expensive and caught up in bidding wars. Tiny words like "design" or "replica" are tucked in the fine print separating the junk jewelry from the real treasures.  I enjoy looking at the vintage pieces with messages of love inscribed on them and wonder what happened to the people who once treasured the item in their possession.   There are hundreds of platinum wedding rings and engagement rings from the 1800s and it's sad to me that they weren't passed on to children who wanted them.

I had to wonder what treasure I would pass on to my children and I realized that I have no message of love inscribed in my jewelry and my silver drawer is basically empty.   And then I realized, they will have my stories of their childhood.  They can't be bought or sold on an Internet auction and no sleeping snake will hide them from reach.  They are here for the taking and I hope that one day my future pirate children will be mining for good things and find their treasure here.

Finish What You Start

  I've never really been a collector as I find there is enough clutter to be found with lone socks, paperwork piles and laundry that waits to be folded.  The last thing I need is a collection of small bears or steins that will never hold a beverage.  I do have a failed attempt at a collection of "Grow Up" porcelain dolls I purchased for my daughter so that she would receive one each birthday.  Currently, according to these tiny dolls, she stopped aging at her twelfth year and, apparently, was nine, twice.  Not really knowing what to do with an extra nine year old doll, I can't seem to toss it out.

  Last year, while remodeling my daughter's room for the umpteenth time, everything was moved from her room to mine.  Three days later, everything was moved back to her room except for the apparently unwanted and unfinished collection of "Grow Up" dolls.  They remained, staring at me, to remind me that not only did I fail to finish what I started, but I was obviously overzealous about the collection around the ninth year.  I moved them to a shelf in my bathroom where they now sit with a small collection of seashells and other treasures from the seashore.  An unwanted collection of birthdays took refuge in the corner of my bathroom.

  I, too, have been known to take refuge here and have found that when the world is overwhelming, there is no better place than the depths of a hot tub of bubbles.  One day while relaxing there, I looked up to see the nine year old twins staring down at me from behind a Starfish.  I sunk back under the bubbles to avoid thinking about my failed good intentions.  

  I realized that I've never done well with dolls.  I wanted my child to love dolls, but she loved purses and shoes and belts. She had no use for dolls.  I thought back to the shrinking doll of my own youth, a tall 1970's doll with long hair that magically shrunk while left unattended in a toybox for a year.  While no one believed me, for obvious reasons, I know to this day that the doll was once very tall and then was suddenly very small  - a tiny body left with the original head and mysterious tattoo leaching up from the plastic bi-products my doll was made of. Much like the twins, I can't seem to throw her out either. She continues to shrink in the back of a drawer somewhere, holding the mystery of her transfiguration and my childhood belief in her former self.

  Collecting should come naturally to me as my grandmother was a collector of fine things. Oddly, amongst her groupings of treasures, she had a rather large collection of small spoons from the various tourist spots she visited as she traveled the fifty states.  The last thing I ever wanted was a bunch of spoons hanging on my wall, but as luck would have it, I inherited the collection.  Much to my surprise, I discovered the spoons were silver and they were placed in my "End of Days" cabinet, along with dried beans, ammunition, and junk silver that may one day be needed to barter for food.  Such a cabinet does exist and it is no surprise, when you are married to a man who spends his days watching conspiracy theory shows and Sasquatch hunting on the Discovery Channel.  Little does he know, a real unexplained phenomenon exists at the back of drawer in his own house.   My spoon collection could prove its use in days to come, as it had no place on my walls.

  While I have no desire to collect dolls, steins, spoons or other items of interest to so many, I will continue to place items in the "Prepper" cabinet in the interest of emergency preparedness. This mystery cabinet holds the only collection I plan to maintain.  While I doubt I ever have to trade the Pike's Peak spoon for a sack of flour or bag of beans, I like knowing I can.  I should toss the dolls in the cabinet, too.  You never know when you might need the magical powers of a shrinking doll or a good reminder to finish what you started.  Should my children's children one day find that they, too, lack a collector's spirit, there will be a host of items ready at their disposal to aid them in any time of need.  From a bag of silver to porcelain beauties, the items will wait for a time they are truly treasured once again. And then they can say, "Wow - She was a great collector!"

Color Me Happy

  Standing between racks of clothes in the Juniors section of a clothing store, my child pulled out a fabulous sweater and announced with great excitement that this was her third favorite ugly color.  I was immediately struck with curiosity about how this color rating scale worked as I don't even know my own third favorite color, let alone favorite ugly color. I had to ask why one would have such a list of obviously unwanted hues.  Allie explained that yellow is ugly, but it was still a good color and it deserved to be at the top of her list, even if it was the ugly list. While I thought I had a good understanding of basic, secondary and even tertiary color wheels, my mind began to spin.

  My child explained that pink is the all time best color, but sometimes you need an ugly color as everything can't be pink.  Seizing any opportunity to have yet another bedroom make-over, she cautioned me that should I ask what color her bedroom should be, she would have to say pink, even though she thought it might look good in an ugly color like yellow.  I looked down at my red shirt and began to worry that I might be wearing a second favorite ugly color.  

  The mechanics of this rating scale were interesting to me and I wondered if it might have practical application across life.  I thought about the many third favorites I never really knew I had.  For example, my third favorite meal I would never eat would have to be pork chops as I find them disgusting, but they would fall behind anything full of bones or a raw fish.   Of course, if the raw fish was a bony fish like trout, then the scale falls apart because the trout would be equally disgusting as pork chops and be full of bones, so all I've really gained from this list is that one should never serve me raw pork chops, especially those with bone in! 

  While still in the ugly sweater section, I discovered that the rating scale truly falls apart when rating banks.  My favorite bank I've never used is the Fifth Third Bank, which actually exists and is not an Internet scam as I suspected when they emailed me out of the blue, ironically, my recently discovered third favorite color.  Because of this rating scale, it is the first bank on my list, thus making the first bank the Fifth Third.   At that point, all other banks simply fall off the list because who can keep up with the order. 

  By the time I had processed all of these thoughts, my child had picked out two more shirts in black and brown.  I had to wonder why these weren't her favorite colors, ugly or not, as she had not selected anything in yellow or pink.  The sweater did have a bit of orange in it and while I should have seen it coming, I learned that orange is the first favorite ugly color. Who knew!