Uhhhmmmmm… who writes this Christian curriculum?

Whether he realizes or not, my brother, Cory (a worship pastor with his kids in a private Christian school), just became my guest blogger. I converted his recent email to me into my newest blog entry:

So, I have a 5 year old who is grown up beyond her years, and I know this, so not much truly shocks me.  But, this week I had the surprise of my life.  She was doing her homework and reading it loud and proud.  It was a study on the letters “d” and “f”.  There would be a picture, and she would have to circle either the d or the f depending on which one the picture started with.  And of course, she would read them all out loud because they were funny to hear.  First there was “deather” “feather”, for the picture of the feather.  Then there was the picture of the dog, and of course loud and proud she reads “dog” “fog” again laughing at the funniness that was ensuing.  Nothing however could have prepared me for what happened next.  Still as loud and proud as before, she looked at the picture of the duck, and being that we had laughed with her at the other funny names, with even more zeal she proudly read “duck” “f***”!
Don’t you know the writer of Abeka’s curriculum is laughing his ass off right now!!!

Jackie Chan vs. the Coke Machine

My mom and I were once again privileged to spend our evening and early morning hours in the presence of doctors, nurses, mechanical hospital beds, oxygen tubes, and portable plastic urinals. Partially filled. Lovely. In the midst of our ER visit last night, despite the ridiculous rants coming across the hall from an 18-year-old rebellious and depressed pimple-head, we found solace in the little room playing hangman on the white board and teaching/learning Italian. I must say she’s a good learner despite her age. That melon isn’t as overly ripe as I thought. Good going, Lady.

Hours passed as is common in the Emergency Room, with little direction or progress (similar to the style of US Government…crap, did I just say that?), and we noticed our blood-sugar levels teetering on cliff’s edge. But some genius, 5 years ago, thought to put vending machines in during the construction of Sky Ridge Hospital, vending machines which skillfully accept credit cards from debt-ridden people. “Suck us dry, insurance companies! Suck us dry, hospital admissions and billing departments! I may bleed all my money-blood for you, but I’ll walk away with my Twix and Coke in hand.” In fact, these little machines give us the air of having the upper hand in this business. Thank you, Mr. Vending-Machine Inventor. Mwah.

We’d charged $1.90 already to her credit card and had a bag of Cheetos and a Snickers to show for it. We moved on to the Coke machine. One dollar and a quarter. Note that we’d scrounged for this change before we knew these machines took plastic and literally threw away some of it in the trash by accident, and desperate for ‘nourishment,’ dove in after it. Weary at such a hideous hour, a bit disheveled by the evening’s events, and with eyes resembling alarmed blowfish, my mom sought the coin slot that’d take her money. I watched in amusement at her desperation and confusion. Finally, she found it. Bummer…I was having fun. Oh but fun was about to come. She put the 5 quarters in and in all her excitement about finally selecting and receiving a Dr. Pepper, she balled her right fist and outright punched the front of the vending machine. NOT the Dr. Pepper button as most would do. She punched the logo displayed on the front of the machine with force enough to bow the plastic inwards. The machine was caught off-guard. Who wouldn’t be?! Some desperate 5′3″ over-stressed lady just attacked you, knocking the air out of your gut. Needless to say, the machine surrendered its goods and the Lady walked away quite content and satisfied at her mid-life strength.

Best Summer Ever: Weekend #11

 

• Got stopped by the lightrail fare collector men and sadly came to the realization that my student pass was expired.
• The pouring rain stopped just short of the game. I put on my $.99 poncho anyway.
• Watched a kid staring up into the night sky, stadium lights in his eyes, tongue out trying to catch the drizzling rain.
• Wished the cheerleaders would put some clothes on. They must’ve left the turtlenecks and baggy sweatpants at home. On accident of course.
• Got one stinking cool Broncos’ trucker hat at the team store.
• 6th row behind the Broncos bench. Oh yeah, the tickets were FREE.
• An awesome time with the Pa, the Bro, and drunk fans yelling all around us.

 

Poppa Dad, pb&shelley, and Brother Bear

the best part are the fans in the background

Fan #1: The Sleeper (or the Passed Out)

Fan #2: The Digger (hard hat area)

three cheers…

…to my athletic trainer and his Aspercreme treatments on sore legs

…to my horse, Trusty, and his pony rides around the house

…to my personal shopper and his great bargains

…to my biggest fan, loudest cheerer, and most frequent complimenter

…to my chef and his pancakes on ski days (minus the crap-nut jelly cakes)

…to my quarterback and catcher (but not my caddy)

…to KittyCow, Doody, and Diddy

…to my masseuse and chiropractor

…to my hiking buddy and shooting range partner

…to my punching bag, wrestling & jiu jitsu dummy, and airsoft gun target

…to the owner of Daddy Garts, for all your sporting equipment needs

…to Mr. Fix-It (fishing lines/lures, guitar strings, wiper fluid, etc., etc., etc.)

…to one determined to live through cancer

…to the most tenderhearted and loving man I know…

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!

Love, F.O.

ages 12 and under

whaddya do when you can’t sleep at 4-flippin-a.m.? blog.

here are some of the first memories that come to my mind when i remember these ages in my life:

3 years old: learning to read with my mother’s help on her bed; taking a nap in my pre-pre-kindergarten class on those colorful mats, balled up and shivering as i didn’t have a blanket (you had to bring your own or pay extra for one), and then feeling so taken care of when the teacher covered me with a blanket as i pretended to sleep; wishing my best friend at the time would move back from mexico, seeing it happen shortly thereafter, and thinking along the lines of ‘i thought this into existence’

4 years old: not being able to pronounce my r’s properly and being so frightened to get up in front of the class to recite my colors (i couldn’t say purple); wearing a dark blue peacoat in the winter, having a runny nose, and wiping all my snot up and down the sleeves till they were streaked; sticking q-tips in my ears to play alien, forgetting they were there, and then jumping head-first onto my parents’ bed, busting my eardrum

kindergarten: some kid tattle-tailing on me that i had my eyes open during class prayer (and not realizing that if he saw me with my eyes open during prayer then the punk had his eyes open, too); my mom teaching me how to calculate 10% of numbers in order to tithe; playing the alien ‘we gotcha’ atari game (joysticks!) with my brothers; my mom’s taco salad

1st grade: sighing really loud as my teacher told us we were learning how to multiply (i already knew how to do this and wanted to make sure everyone in the class knew how much smarter i was and how bored i was with the current subject matter. me=punk); my first competitive track meet and wearing my red school shirt and little white shorts

2nd grade: replicating a guitar with my class chair (the kind with a hole in the back) by using rubber bands as guitar ’strings’ and driving my teacher mad as i got the whole class to follow suit; the book-it club; jimmy potter stealing my pink slap-wrist bracelet; getting shivers up and down my body each time the teacher hit our desks with her yardstick; realizing cabbage patch dolls did not grow in nearby cabbage fields

3rd grade: my first basketball team, tiny hands, and the inability to convert on fast break lay-ups; trying to convince a classmate that the easter bunny was not real; guilt-tripping a girl into giving me the other half of her 2-part best friends necklace

4th grade: dunking a nerf football into the monkey bar openings with my friend, nate; the p.e. teacher that looked like he swallowed a basketball; oregon trail

5th grade: watching my brother’s high school basketball games; impressing my teacher with my perfect cursive; really getting into spanish soap operas i couldn’t understand (our live-in maid slept in the same room as me and stayed up late watching these shows); early mornings, pink and purple running shorts with spandex underneath, 5K road races, trophies, and blue ribbons

stay tuned: middle school, high school, and beyond are still to come

now it is your chance to share some of your most vivid childhood memories…

…too afraid

today i realized the shoebox of regretful moments i have in life are centered about one unfortunate characteristic. People-Pleasing. what would people think of me? these missed opportunities unavoidably cloaked me in the uneasy and awkward sensation that intrudes with Embarrassment. and of course they were always unwelcome and always accompanied by Fear. they may seem simple but they are lightly laced with grief as i sample them again today. 

elementary school. annual fall festival outdoor carnival. cake walks, dunking booth, a jail, duck pond, and face painting. i’d spent my very last ticket on the magnetic fishing game retrieving a plastic toy that’d be stored in my closet for next summer’s garage sale. i can make a nickel or two off of that. that october day, in the front of my mind, i knew the family would be leaving promptly as the Texas sun went to sleep. don’t be late. before i successfully located them, a cool and highly influential Tracy Ellis bounded up to me with her face freshly painted. i was wowed. wowed yet ticketless. generously she offered me a few quarters to get my face entirely done camouflage-style. i wanted it so bad. but more so i wanted to keep my parents happy. my (foolish) reasoning led me to believe i’d be grounded for months after a spanking with that splintered wooden paddle. i sulked, refused her offer, and found my mom, filling her in on the recent events and the good-girl response I had returned to Tracy. “why didn’t you do it?!” my mother asked, confused at my decline. well, because i was too afraid.

middle school. 8th grade volleyball season comes to a close. it was my first year ever playing the sport and as it turned out, i was fairly decent. Shannon and Liz excitedly encouraged my continued career: high school team participation. i mentally scanned the future and surveyed the layout. spandex shorts and large crowds of people in those wooden bleachers? and each person had TWO ogling eyes? on me? not a chance in the world. vulnerability? no way. and so i let a newfound enjoyable delight drain in a matter of a moment’s decision. i would never play the sport competitively again. i was simply too afraid.

high school. a developing passion to sing. i stood in the large church and belted out a tune along with the crowd at rock the nations. little did i know Rachel was listening in. she leaned in and said, “you’ve got a nice voice. you should try out for the school choir.” i contemplated the offer, blushing at the compliment. but i contemplated for four years and never stepped foot in the choir room. tryouts? singing in front of someone? out loud? and so i dismissed the idea over and over until i graduated. i sang on stage in public for the first time august 2005. i was 23. 23 silent years and then i let my voice out of its box. but never did i sing in high school because i was too afraid.

college. freshman walk-on to a division one basketball team. scrawny and short. high school highlight videos lost amid the surrounding standout talent. from the first day i stepped foot on the lacquered university floor until the last day of the season i was purely intimidated by my head coach. all talent and ability walked out of the gym at the same time People-Pleasing walked into my head. i had let the paranoia of failure in front of my coach become reality. as it played out in my head so it played out in my game, my shot, my instinct. my former talents and abilities were locked within a cage i fashioned with my own hands. days after the season ended so did my self-imposed restriction. i let loose and played as if no one watched. i played for myself and not my coach. Tasha and Ty stared in disbelief at a teammate seemingly unrecognizable. one piped up, “where have you been all along? why didn’t you play like that during the season?” you guessed it. an entire year choked and buried. i was too afraid.

a lesson learned: don’t miss out. no matter how simple the situation may be, no matter how little the loss may seem at the time, don’t allow your temporary, short term fears become lifelong regrets.

My Great-Great-Uncle was a Rainbow Trout

I have gills. I really do. The next time you see me, bend a little at your knees and peer up at my nostrils. They’re slits. Growing up, I never took notice of this or at least never put two and two together: I could close my nostrils without pinching them shut with my fingers but merely by breathing deeply; I had a permanent nose whistle in the dead of night that often woke me up with the sound of a steam engine approaching; and my face turned beet red during any physical activity as I had no steady source of oxygen filtering through my body. I really became aware of my Fish-Nose when I was a freshman in college playing on the basketball team. The other 3 freshman teammates had plenty nostril room and often questioned if I could breathe when I played. So I began my nostril comparing.

The other night I was with my mom and we got to comparing our nostrils. Where in the world did mine come from? Was it the milkman that resembled an Atlantic Cod or the postman that took after a freshwater salmon? Dad definitely had ample nostril room. Mom’s nostrils could be the next exhibit at a spelunkers conference. They’re caverns. Caverns. She asked if I had issues breathing and soon we found ourselves creating ways for me to breathe easier. Breathe Rights weren’t quite good enough. We had to come up with another plan. And genius it was.

Slightly dangerous but effective. A drinking straw cut into 6 small portions.

A few moments stare and a bit of squinting and I look like a flounder.

 

It was a moment of bliss. For the first time in my life I had air flowing through me effortlessly. A windsock on a breezy day. So delightful, so invigorating, so life-giving. A handful of time with the straw bits and I was temporarily transformed in spirit and in body.

Not long after, I was unfortunately back to breathing through my gills again as I knew life in nostril heaven couldn’t last forever. Although I wish it could’ve lasted forever, I do not regret partaking in a taste of what is to come for me. One day. One day, I will trade these gills for nostrils. And there will be no more tears. 

The Life of Jillian

My niece left to go back home to Texas today after being in town for a week. She’s 3–almost four–and she’s definitely a character I could sit and observe for hours on end. Our times together were not just a heaping pile of fun for both parties, but a time where she unknowingly taught me many lessons about life. Here’s to Jillian!

Jilli-Bean, PB&Shelley, and the Ma

1. Any time, anywhere, any place holds the perfect opportunity to sing a song at the top of your voice.

2. It’s much more fun to make up the names of countries on a globe than to try and sound them out.

3. When asked if you want to do something, be blunt and say yes or no. No explanations needed.

4. Bath Time is so much more than just a cleaning ritual. It’s the imagination’s playland.

5. The lifelong drive to be a ‘winner’ and not a ‘loser’ shockingly thrives at the age of three.

6. Gummi Bears taste best at 10:30 at night.

7. If someone promises to give you a piece of candy four hours later, remind them every hour on the hour until the promise is fulfilled. Be persistent.

8. “Girls don’t play basketball. They only cheer.” Said by Jillian when watching the women’s NCAA basketball championship with me on Tuesday.

9. Strive to look hotter than your mom. And let her know that daily you are making a strong effort.

10. Let everyone you meet know when your birthday is and that a hula girl party is the only way to go for a 4-year old.

and finally…

11. The best way to cool off is to run around in your britches. Who needs jeans anyway?

Sports Heroes and the Heimlich

I came out of the womb with a basketball in hand, track spikes on, and a sweatband ’round my brow. Kicking the placenta aside, I ran to the nearest court for my first game of H-O-R-S-E. For years the heroes in my life were athletes — Jackie Joyner Kersey, Florence Griffith Joyner, Michael Jordan — and then somehow Whitney Houston slipped her way into the top four or five on my list (that was BEFORE all the crack). I remember watching baseball on TV or at my brother’s little league games and admiring the amount of bubblegum one human being could physically fit in his mouth. Wads. I mean…WADS. And so I began my quest to stretch out my cheeks in order to become a REAL athlete…the kind with a grapefruit-sized wad lodged between her teeth. Daily jaw exercises and inserting pens sideways in my mouth couldn’t have prepared me for the intense cramping I’d experience in my mandible. Pain. Worse than any twisted ankle, muscle cramp, broken bone, or 1-point loss to your rival. This was Bubblegum Pain, folks. And the culprit, Big League Chew and his nasty cousin, Double Bubble.

7 years later: Middle School. “Must…make…a…good…impression. Must…be…cool.” And oh how I was that evening. I stepped out of my mom’s blue Ford Taurus, metallic basketball shorts down to my knobby knees. Insert Double Bubble Piece #1. And what rockin’ cool ankle braces I had. Insert Piece #2. Was that a NIKE wristband I was wearing?? NOT generic?? Insert Piece #3. Did I have the athlete strut down or what? Piece #4 and 5.

I WAS IT. The real deal. The athlete I longed to be ever since I was 5. I popped my sixth and final Double Bubble into my mouth and headed towards the gym for practice. The jaw cramps started quicker than I could run the 50-yard dash. The saliva build up was Niagara-esque. The gagging uncontrollable. The choking unbearable. The spitting all too necessary for such a situation.

 

And the humiliation…overwhelming. I ran to the nearest trashcan, removed the baseball from my mouth, bit a fourth of it off for keeps and sheepishly walked into the gym, head down, eyes misty.

 

I failed them all. Not my teammates on my intramural basketball team. No. I failed Jackie, Florence, Michael…even Whitney. I was the idiot, wanna-be-athlete, fool of the century. I couldn’t chew my grapefruit without requesting backup from First Aid. I was a failure.

 

Never again have I attempted to climb Mt. Double Bubble. It conquered me that day. I stand defeated and humbly tip my ball cap to all the REAL athletes out there with a melon in their mouth. Make us proud, athletes. Make us proud.

Recommended Daily Value

I’ve known this woman for over 25 years now and only recently come to appreciate her self-proclaimed expertise on mineral and vitamin intake. Her knowledge has transformed the way she views life: things are no longer referred to the names used by most English-speaking people. You know…common words in our dictionary. No, she refers to them by their nutrition value. A hamburger is instead a Protein. The warm sun is now a Vitamin-E emitter. The toy your child is playing with is a Lead or Aluminum. And so the enjoyment I once had in eating delicious foods, being outdoors, or just living life is gone and in its place a strange newfound relationship between me and the ever-encroaching world.

Dear mom,

I peeled a bright yellow Potassium this morning for breakfast and a navel Vitamin C to help fight my cold. (do you remember my coach feeding me Potassiums when my legs were cramping in games?) With no time for a hardboiled Protein (lightly Sodiumed), I had to grab and go. However, I did have a Whole Wheat Flax Protein sandwich for lunch today with a glass of cold Vitamin D. D for Delicious. I wish you could’ve accompanied me in my walk at the park at lunchtime. The Vitamin E was uninhibited by clouds…gorgeous day! You would’ve loved it. It helped to exercise before as I had a huge plate of Tuscany Carbohydrate at Olive Garden. Don’t worry…I ate a plateful of fresh Roughage beforehand. It is late–11pm–and I’m heading to bed for a good night’s Replenish Refresh Revive. Talk to you tomorrow.

xoxo,

Your Favorite Child