Never Can Have Too Many Shoes

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I admit it. I am a shoe junky.

I first began to suspect my fascination with shoes when I was a senior in high school. There was a store called The Wild Pair in the mall where I worked. I frequently visited the store but never bought. My mother would have had a heart attack had I worn some of those shoes home. That, and I always thought I was too fat to wear stilettos. I mean seriously, the whole point of stilettos is to make your leg appear long and lean. When your legs are fat, round and calves blend into ankles resulting in Cankels, no stiletto in the world will slim that mess down. Besides, balancing a large body on such a tiny stem is just plain dangerous.

There are certain shoes that a 16 year old girl should not wear regardless of how fat she is. Thigh-high patent leather boots and/or pumps with ankle straps are women who can at least gain access to establishments where that kind of footwear is accepted.

Now that I am older and slimmer (it's still a major issue for me) I can wear "those" shoes. Over this past summer, while in England, I bought a pair of thigh-high patent leather boots. I took a risque picture and sent it to my husband. He liked it and that was worth the price of admission. I even managed an excuse to wear them on one other occasion; Halloween. (see previous photo) Granted, thigh-high leather boots are not going to the movies shoes, but I'd love to try it. Of course, I'd need the super short skirt to go with them. Now my concern is that I am too old to pull off that look. Matronly women don't do micro-mini skirts and thigh-high boots.

My fascination with shoes has grown into an addiction over the past two years. There is a shoe store here in Germany called Deichman's. It is the Mecca of shoes. Whenever I enter that store, I hear harps and a choir sing. I also love that it's a self-serve place. No need to have an employee run back and forth to the store room. I can shop like a crazy woman. The very first thing I do is take off my shoes. I don't want to waste time putting on and taking off my shoes. Too many precious gems to try on.

They have ankle bootlets, pumps, strappy pumps, ankle strap pumps, mid-calf boots, knee-high boots, hitching boots, comfortable boots, fashionable boots, sandals, rhinestone encrusted party shoes, stilettos, shoes with buckles, shoes with steel heels, slippers and even the matching bag for most of the shoes. Being that I'm in Europe, the shoes are about 6 months to a year ahead of stateside fashion. Those "bowling" shoes were here long before they became popular in the states.

Deichman has a fabulous selection and the prices are affordable. That probably has been the single most factor to my addiction. With each new pair of shoes, there are 5 more just waiting to come home with me. I'd feel guilty buying 3 or 4 or 5 or 6 pair at a time, so I generally stick to just one pair about once a month. Just because I'm not buying all the shoes I'd like, doesn't mean I'm not trying on every single pair in the store. The store clerks have rolled their eyes at me more than once. I guess it's a good thing that my German isn't very good, else I'd be able to understand them when they comment on the crazy American woman acting like she's never seen a pair of shoes before. --Oh Great Shoe PooBah, I am your humble servant.--

As the Christmas shopping season is over and it's now time to rejoice and celebrate in the after Christmas clearance sales, my co-worker suggested I go to the Victoria's Secret website and check out the shoe sales. Oh my. That's like dangling a popsicle in front of a 5-year old on a hot summer day. There were three strappy stilettos that caught my attention. But which one to get? I have to limit myself to just one. Which one? Which One? Which ONE?

Just then a soldier walks into the office. Who better to ask for an opinion than a man? A female- companion starved soldier who's been in Iraq for the last 10 months to boot.


When asked, he said he needed a closer look to be able to tell if the shoes were good.

What did he mean? A closer look?

"If you look at them and say, 'they're okay' those aren't good. If you look at them and say, 'Yeah Buddy!' or 'Hellllllooooo' then they're a good pair."

He agreed, but needed to check out the buckle situation.

Guess which pair he picked.........Pair #2. He said with a grin.

And that's all she needed to make a decision.

As he left the office, he said, "Looks like somebody lucky is going to be enjoying those shoes."

He's right. My most wonderful, amazing husband. He'll get to enjoy all of the shoes that have found a new home in my closet while he's been gone.

SANTA CLAUS: An Engineer's Perspective

Alas, as I have a degree in Sociology, I can't guarantee the engineering accuracy of the following calculations. But as a sociologist, I can say that science leaves no accounting for Christmas Magic. Come on people. Those who BELIEVE, RECEIVE.

There are approximately two billion children (persons under 18) in the World. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist religions, this reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the Population Reference Bureau). At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per house hold, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming that there is at least one good child in each. Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second--- 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can run (at best) 15 miles per hour. The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized Lego set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" reindeer could pull ten times the normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them --- Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the monarch). 600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second crates enormous air resistance --- this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft re-entering the earths atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 m.p.s. in 001 seconds, would be subjected to centrifugal forces of 17,500 g's. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.

I recently watched a nature program about the naturally growing mushroom in Lapland. Turns out the reindeer crave them and seem to enjoy the "far-out" effects. The indigenous people have also taken to snacking on the mind-altering mushroom for the hallucinogenic visions; particularly the ones were everything appears to be floating. It's easy to understand where the idea of "flying" reindeer came from.

Not only is my husband the greatest man of all time, he is also sooooo handsome.

Do Men Make Passes at Women Who Wear Glasses?

When I was 15 years old, I developed a love/hate relationship with my glasses. I loved being able to see, but hated how I looked in glasses.

Go back through your old yearbooks and fashion magazines to the early 80's and check out those jumbo, owl-eye glasses. Yuck. My glasses, which I thought were the best looking I could find, had maroon plastic frames. Remember Sally Jesse Raphael and her signature jumbo red frames?

Even thinking they were tolerable, I hated my glasses. I suffered the personal degradation until I was nearly 18 years old. My mother, thankfully, worked at an optometrist's office and got a good price on contacts. I was in like Flynn.

Contacts were wonderful. I could see and didn't have to have hideous glasses sitting on my face, however, they came with their own problems. They had to be cleaned. These were the kind that had to be removed every night, washed and allowed to soak in the sterilizing wash. Well, I quickly fell into the bad habit of not doing what I was supposed to do. I'd wear my lenses for days before taking them out for a sterilizing bath. Then, I committed the biggest NO NO of contacts wearing rules. I wore them to Chem Lab. Yep. Wouldn't you know we would be working with 6 molar hydrochloric acid that day. Can you say corneal acid burns? As a result, I returned to wearing glasses (granted I had progressed to more stylish wire frames by then) for two weeks while my eyes healed. At least I didn't blind myself.

Technology improved over the years and lenses could now be safely worn for longer periods of time. Not long after Extended Wear lenses, I was introduced to the newest sensation in contacts. I embraced Disposable lenses with glee. I did not, however, embrace the cost of maintaining disposable lenses. By this time, I was a poor, poor college grad living in a mouse infested apartment with no furniture. I could barely make my rent even with having three jobs. Dropping a couple hundred bucks on a month's worth of disposable lenses was not in my thrifty spender manual. So, the pair of lenses that should have been tossed into the garbage after a week, two weeks at the maximum, lasted me nearly three months. But hey, I did take them out once a week to clean them.

Eventually, I landed a good job and could not only afford my rent, I could also afford groceries, a car payment, an insurance payment, a phone, cable television AND contacts. Life was good.

I should have left well enough alone. But noooooooo. Not me. I have to keep on picking and picking.

Seduced by the dark side, I inquired into Lasik Eye Surgery. I had heard all the wonderful "It's amazing!" stories. My id whispered "do it. do it. do it. do it." "Luke, I am your father. Come join me. It is your... destiny."

I admit, I jumped on that band wagon with a flourish. I was looking forward to being able to see anytime of the day or night, whether or not I had contacts in. No more eye drops, no more cleaners, no more month purchases of new lenses, no more eye checkups and no more glasses. I would save lots of money in the long run. This was going to be GREAT.

NOT!

If you are considering eye surgery, keep on considering it. I am the poster child for DO NOT DO IT! LASIK IS BAD.

I listened to folks tell me the procedure is painless. Let me tell you...THEY LIE. The procedure does hurt in spite of the eye numbing drops.

Imagine a science fiction film where the hero, abducted by aliens, is strapped to a surgical table. The hideous looking probe descends from above. Our hero's eye has been forced open by some sort of steel contraption and is helpless against the slowly advancing probe. The probe gives birth to a two foot needle as it inches closer and closer to the hero's eye. A droplet of sweet dribbles down the hero's cheek. His mind screams in terror.

That's what it's like.

I was all strapped in, ready to go, my eye securely held open by some sort of forceps device. The doctor tells me to look up. A tiny metal claw slowly advances toward my eye. All I want to do is close my eye and turn my head away. A metal claw is going to touch my eyeball for goodness sake. Wait! Wait! Wait! Is it too late to reconsider?

Then the claw sets down right smack on top of my cornea and retracts; it's job complete. It has marked my cornea with pie wedge markings allowing for easier to lining up of the flap after the laser cuts chunks out of my cornea.

A ring descends onto my eyeball and the doctor says "You might feel some pressure." Yeah, RIGHT. Some pressure. A more accurate warning would have been, "Okay, you might feel as if your eyeball is being crushed and will burst at any moment. The intense pressure you experience will momentarily cause your vision to cease to function. That's right, you are going to go completely blind."

The next thing the doctor says is "Now your are going to hear a buzzing sound. That's the blade cutting the flap." He should have said. "Now that you are completely panicked about being blind, let me fire up this chainsaw and stick it in your eye."

Once the flap is cut, the torturous ring o' incredible pressure is removed. The next eye assault device is a stainless steel hook. "When the flap is pulled back, your vision will go blurry and you'll see splashes of colored light." This should be okay, except that my vision was already blurry. I can, however, clearly see the hook poking my eyeball. I would have really liked to have closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the flap of epithelial cells slide across my eyeball. Sure enough, there was a crazy kaleidoscope of colors swirling and twirling around. That's when I'm told to look into the little red light. What little red light? I don't see any red light. I see splashes of purples and blues churning around bursts of white and yellow sparkles. There is no little red light.

"Keep your eye still. Focus on the little red light. You will now hear the laser." THERE IS NO LITTLE RED LIGHT! Wait, wait, wait. Is it too late to reconsider?

"Okay, that's all done. Now for the next eye."

When it was all said and done and I was bandaged and given really ugly sunglasses, I was sent on my way. I was told I would see a noticeable difference by the next morning. Again, they lie.

My vision was just as blurry the next morning. I had just spent $3000 to see and I couldn't. I should have bought bigger boobs instead.

Eventually, my eyes adjusted, well one eye adjusted. The other (the left) never did adjust. Apparently, some alterations were needed. So, back to the laser. Luckily, my flap hadn't affixed itself completely so there was no need for the torturous ring o' incredible pressure. More looking into the nonexistent little red light and presto!

I still can't see. Perhaps there is a slight wrinkle in the flap itself. Perhaps a tiny air bubble.

Perhaps I find a different doctor.

The next doctor did his best to fix the problem. I even ended up with six teeny tiny stitches in my eye to secure the flap in place. After all of that, I still can't see properly out of that eye. But now, my vision isn't correctable with contacts or glasses. I see a ghost image and there's nothing that can be done about it. Oh, yeah, and I have serious halo effect at night, a loss of depth perception especially at night and I still have to use eye drops because of the chronic dryness. I used to be able to shoot a mean game of pool, but not anymore.

It's been three years since the fiasco and my right eye, my good eye is now going bad. Working in front of a computer has forced my eyes to work harder than they should. My good eye is now farsighted and my left eye is still bad; 20/300 bad. The good news, according to my most recent eye exam (a week ago) is that the ghost is correctable. I just have to have special lenses made to compensate for the significant warping on my cornea. The combined correction between my warped nearsighted left eye and my farsighted right eye is to such a degree that the effect would make me nauseous. It's been suggested to correct one or the other at this time and wait a while before correcting the other.

I'm still going to end up wearing glasses. I should have stayed with them in the first place and spent the three grand on something else, like bigger boobs. At least those would serve a function in the dark.

Let the Consequences Begin

Looking through my mail last night, I discovered an envelope with a German stamp. Either it would be a bill, a notice or solicitation from the phone company or... I'll take what's behind door #3......notice of a traffic violation.

The notice, naturally, is 100% in German, but I know what it says. Although it was addressed to my husband, I know it was for me. Basically, it translates like this:

Dear Registered Owner,

On such and such date, the vehicle registered to you was observed proceeding through such and such intersection against the light. If the driver of the vehicle was you or someone you know, respond to this summons.

Sincerely,
The German Authorities.

I have no excuse. I did it. So, I take my notice of law violation to the Provost Marshal's Office and speak with my colleague. I was prepared for the big fat fine and the 30 day suspension of operator's license. But, lucky me. I crossed the white line at exactly (and I mean EXACTLY) the same time the light turned red. Had I crossed even a tiny fraction of a second later, I would be facing a BIG FAT fine and a operator's license suspension. Had I been traveling the speed limit, I wouldn't have been as lucky. Good thing I was speeding through the intersection when I did. I only will have to pay a big fine. Not even a big fat fine and certainly not a BIG FAT fine.

My colleague, the German liaison for the Provost Marshal, handles traffic violations all the time. He asked if I would like to have the photograph of me crossing the line and the secondary confirming photograph taken a split second later. It's not really necessary. I know I ran the red light. The second photograph might be something funny to see. My son pointed directly at the camera as it flashed the second time. My colleague said he wanted to see that picture so he would hold onto my admission paperwork until the photo arrives. I suspect it will ultimately end up on the Wall of Shame eventually.

If you are interested...the minor fine for this violation is 50 euro + 20 euro administration fee. Over all, the 70 euro ($100) is a sweet price to pay considering what I had been facing.

My feelings exactly

When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where.

More stress.

Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.

So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor.

He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw end of the broom.

Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.

The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?"

And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas
tree.

Military Wives

The good Lord was creating a model for military wives and was into his sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared. She said, "Lord, you seem to be having a lot of trouble with this one. What's wrong with the standard model?"

The Lord replied, "Have you seen the spec on this order? She has to be completely independent, possess the qualities of both father and mother, be a perfect hostess to four or forty with an hour's notice, run on black coffee, handle every emergency imaginable without a manual, be able to carry on cheerfully, even if she is pregnant and has the flu. She must be willing to move to a new location ten times in seventeen years. And oh, yes, she must have six pairs of hands."

The angel shook her head, "Six pairs of hands? No way."

The Lord continued, "Don't worry, we will make other military wives to help her. And we will give her an unusually strong heart so it can swell with pride in her husband's achievements, sustain the pain of separations, beat soundly when it is overworked and tired, and be large enough to say "I understand" when she doesn't, and say "I love you" regardless.

"Lord," said the angel, touching his arm gently, "Go to bed and get some rest. You can finish tomorrow."

"I can't stop now," the Lord said, "I am so close to creating something unique. Already this model heals herself when she is sick, can put up six unexpected guests for the weekend, wave goodbye to her husband from a pier, a runway, or a depot, and understand why it's important that he leave."

The angel circled the model of the military wife, looked at it closely and sighed. "It looks fine, but it's so soft."

"She might look soft," replied the Lord, "but she has the strength of a lion. You would not believe what she can endure."

Finally, the angel bent over and ran her fingers across the cheek of the Lord's creation. "There's a leak," She announced. "Something is wrong with the construction. I am not surprised that it has cracked. You are trying to put too much into this model."

The Lord appeared offended at the angel's lack of confidence. "What you see is not a leak," he said. "It's a tear."

"A tear? What is it there for?" asked the angel.

The Lord replied, "It's for joy, sadness, pain, disappointment, loneliness, pride, and dedication to all the values that she and her husband hold dear."

"You are a genius!" exclaimed the angel. The Lord looked puzzled and replied. "I didn't put it there."

Hanging out with my pups and Kat.

Idle Hands

As a permanent temporary employee, I split my work schedule between two offices. One office is in the Provost Marshal's Office and the other is near the ID card section. The ID card office is not very busy, at least not now. When the soldiers of 1st Infantry Division return from Iraq, that will be a different story. We are expecting nearly 5000 soldiers to return within a four week period. Anyway, in the meantime, there is a bunch of down time.

I had anticipated filling in for just under four weeks while a co-worker took medical leave. I was pleased with the prospect mostly because the paycheck would be nice. But, that four weeks expanded. Surprise! Her husband came home on R&R. I got an additional two weeks. Pretty sweet deal all around. I get two more weeks of pay and she gets to see her husband for a brief time.

So, I'm into my fifth week and I have to admit, full-time work sucks. I love that paycheck, but I really miss my free time. My house and social calendar have suffered tremendously. So has my waistline. Instead of spending two hours every morning in the gym, I've been at work. Yes, I could go after work, and I have made the effort to go, but it just isn't the same. I'd rather get out of bed, put on work-out clothes, go to the gym, then come home, shower and get ready for the day. That's my routine. Work has made everything backwards. Now I get up, shower, get ready for the day then go to the gym, work-out, go home and shower again. Not only is my routine our of wack, but after working in an office all day, dealing with people, I would much rather go home and veg out.

The bad part about working is working. The good part about working is the paycheck. That paycheck goes directly into the savings account. When my husband, the most wonderful man in the whole wide world, returns from being all he can be, we are planning to go on safari. This will be a dream come true for me. On my list of things to do before I die I have seeing the wildebeast in Africa (Afrika, as Europeans spell it). I've been saving for this trip for over two years now. I had reached my goal, but then I went to Rhodes, Greece for a week followed by a week in London, England. Those trips dipped into the travel money. So, back to work. I had reached my goal again, but turns out it's not enough. The dollar to euro exchange rate is terrible. I have to keep on working for a few more months. Luckily, the re-integration of the nearly 5000 soldiers, means there'll be extra work available and I plan on taking advantage of it.

But, right now, there is lots of free time. Idle hands....There's only so much one can do in an office that would be too small to park a car in. Okay, a MINI could fit, barely. I've already re-arranged it. I hope the woman who normally works in here won't mind the redecorating. I've read every single magazine in the waiting room and a book or two. I've done some internet browsing and played many hours worth of this game. I've also become a blog junkie. With some help from Ari, my sidebar has grown. Between customers, I visit my blogger friends. Whatever will I do when I get to go back to the life of leisure?

Looking For Love?

You may be able to find it here.

Sayings That Should be on Buttons

1) Make yourself at home. Clean my kitchen.
2) Don't bother me. I'm living happily ever after.
3) If I throw a stick, will you leave?
4) Thereapy is expensive, poppin' bubble wrap is cheap! You choose.
5) Bottomless pit of needs & wants.
6) And your crybaby, whiny opinion would be...?
7) A cubicle is a just a padded cell without a door.
8) Here I am! Now, what are your other two wished.
9) Don't worry. I forgot your name, too.
10) I just want revenge. Is that so wrong?
11) Not all men are annoying. Some are dead.
12) Chaos, panic and disorder--my work here is done.
13) Macho Law forbids me from admitting I'm wrong.
14) I thought I wanted a career, turns out I just wanted paychecks.
15) How do I set the laser printer to stun?
16) I'm not tense, just terribly, terribly alert.
17) I refuse to star in your psychodrama.
18) Is it time for your medication or mine?
19) Meandering to a different drummer.
20) I majored in liberal arts. Will that be for here or to go?
21) If I wanted to hear the pitter patter of little feet, I'll put shoes on my cat.
22) Let me show you how the guards used to do it.
23) I pretend to work. They pretend to pay me.
24) This isn't an office. It's Hell with fluorescent lighting.
25) I work 40 hours a week to be this poor.
26) Too many freaks, not enough circuses.

What Goes Around...

Teenagers make it possible to understand why some animals eat their young. This is the apotheosis of true statements.

The day I became a mother, I was given an 11 year old girl and a 14 year old boy. I missed out on the diaper changing and the teething and the hourly feedings associated with infants and toddlers. I missed out on the bed wetting and crayon pictures on the walls. I missed out on finger painting and beginning math. I didn't have to read bedtime stories or help my kids practice forming their letters. Nope. Instead, I got HORMONES.

I got the "I'm going to sneak out of the house at night while the parents aren't home." I got the "It's so not fair." I got the "God. That's so gay." The stomping feet and of course, the infamous eye rolling were the bonus free gifts.

As I've previously mentioned, my kids are pretty good kids as far as kids go. Neither one uses drugs. Neither have been arrested and so far neither are sexually active. Well, at least not my girl, I hope. She's now 15.

My three dogs are incredibly spoiled. They are demanding and expect to get their evening walk. They do not tolerate being ignored and insist on their space in the bed with me. Whenever I make something in the kitchen, they know they will get some, if not all, of whatever I'm cooking. See, I cook for my dogs. Not for my children.

Here's why. My dogs appreciate my efforts.

One morning about 6 months after I married an instant family, I decided to make a sit-down breakfast. I scramble eggs, fried up bacon, made orange juice and even made biscuits. All was neatly prepared and put on the table with flair. There was ketchup, jelly, butter, salt & pepper, salsa and hot sauce. It looked and smelled great. The only reaction I received was, "Eewww. I don't like biscuits. I want bagels." And a thank you very much to you, too.

Evening meals weren't any better. I tried to get my family to sit at the table and eat a meal as a family. Let's just say, that was WAY more trouble than it was worth. The complaining, the poking, and the spitting out was too much to deal with. Each meal was an exercise. I was exhausted by the time it was finished.

One time, my son, he was 15 at the time, had a friend spend the night. The next morning, I got up and made a hot breakfast for myself; French Toast (my husband wasn't ready to eat yet. I would make him his standard breakfast, oatmeal and coffee later). I thought I would be generous and make the boys breakfast too.

"Hey, I'm making breakfast. Do you want some?"

"What are you making?"

"French Toast."

"Weelllllll, I guess." I noticed the nose curl/eye roll combination.

"What's the problem?"

"I don't really like French Toast."

"Fine. Have cold cereal then."

So, I made French Toast for myself and scrambled up the left over eggs for my dogs. My dogs eagerly awaited their breakfast and the second the paper plates hit the floor, they chowed down. They licked the flavor off paper plates and Annabelle even ate a bit of the plate itself. When I finally took the demolished plates away from them, they looked at me with those big brown eyes. Tongues hanging out, tails wagging and smiles on their faces. That's the reaction I like. It's much nicer than an Eewwww or nose curl.

Since then with my husband deployed, I have baked cookies for my dogs, made dog treats for my dogs, fried bacon for my dogs, scrambled eggs and chopped deli meat for my dogs. My children, well, they have learned how to fend for themselves. Good thing there are frozen meals available. My son, although he usually makes a sandwich, has learned how to make macaroni and cheese. My daughter makes the best hashbrowns. She's good with potato salad, mashed potatoes and makes very good red beans and rice. My kids won't starve.

On the rare occasion that I do decide to cook a meal and make enough for them too, I require their participation. Unfortunately, that participation comes with complaining and "Do I have to?" I keep reminding them of the story of Little Red Hen. Although they know the story and know the moral of the story, they don't see how it relates to them in their daily lives.

Before my husband deployed, he suggested I try explaining the reasons behind the rules and requests put on the children. Okay. As my children had to take a sack lunch to school once a week, I made sure there was plenty of assorted lunch items available for them. They were encouraged to make their lunches the night before so they wouldn't have to rush in the mornings. Because I didn't want them taking a coke for lunch, I made sure there were single serving sized Sunny Delight orange drink for them. I also had the large gallon size container in the refrigerator. Even though I explained to them the single serving size bottles were for their school lunches and the gallon container was for consumption at home, I would find empty single size bottles discarded around the house. This irritated me for two reasons; 1) they were specifically told not to use the small bottles and they were provided with the reasons behind the instruction and 2) they didn't pick up after themselves.

The whole explaining thing doesn't work, at least not on the boy. The girl, for the most part, has it figured out.

I have explained to my 17 year old son that when he vacuums the rugs, he needs to pull them back and get the bits of dirt and sand that have worked through the pile. I went a step further to explain that the grit is the rug's enemy because as people walk on it, the grit grinds at the fibers causing damage. Ultimately, the dirt in and under the rug will shorten it's lifespan. I thought I had made it clear. Did he comply? No. After a few weeks of vacuuming, I inquired as to whether or not he had been pulling the rugs back. Turns out, he hadn't been. When I pulled back the rugs, I was appalled at the amount of dirt/grit build up. His reason for not doing a thorough job, he "forgot."

So, when I discovered my son had spray painted some stencils on the tile floor in the basement, I asked him not to spray paint down there anymore. There is little circulation and the fumes build up and permeate through the house. Also, he seems to "forget" to pick up after himself and I'm tired of cleaning up after him. The biggest reason he was asked to not spray paint in the house is that he didn't protect the tile floor from the paint. When I picked up his mess, I was stunned to see a perfect outline in black spray paint on the tiles. So, last night, when he came up from the basement carrying stencils I asked if he'd been spray painting.

"Yes."

"Remember that conversation we had not too long ago about how you are not allowed to spray paint in the basement?"

"Yeah, but I only sprayed a little bit."

Yep, and I'm going a little bit insane, but I'll drink a little bit of this bottle of wine and maybe I'm have a little bit of self-control and kill you just a little bit.

And what would you spend for an experience like this? Wait, there's more.

My children have been told repeatedly over the many years of their young lives that they are not to have any friends in the house when parents aren't home. NO FRIENDS IN THE HOUSE. It's a mantra. Over the past couple of years a caveat has been added. For the son, NO GIRLS IN YOUR ROOM, EVER. For the daughter, NO BOYS IN YOUR ROOM, EVER. It has been said over and over and over.

I had to work the day after Thanksgiving. My children were home from school. You'd think I could go to work and leave my 15 year old daughter and 17 year old son at home alone for 9 hours. After all, my daughter is a bonafide babysitter and moms up and down our street entrust the lives and wellbeing of their elementary school age children with her. Surely, it would be okay for me to go to work and not worry about my house burning down or my kids doing something silly and against house rules.

Because the building were I was working that day was locked, people needing their identification cards entered into the database wouldn't be able to get to the office. Eventually, higher management cut me loose. I went home five hours earlier than expected.

Imagine my surprise when I found a car parked in my driveway. Imagine my surprise when I entered my home and was greeted with a teenage girl (not my daughter) in my home. Imagine my surprise when that teenager girl exited my son's bedroom.

After the girl was removed from my home, I questioned my son about his inability to follow house rules. Naturally, he "didn't know" why he'd broken the rules. He said he didn't think about it. Of course not. Teenagers don't think about anyone other than themselves. They are completely self motivated and certainly do not consider consequences of their actions. They live for the immediate, the here and now. What happens 20 minutes later or even the next day doesn't even cross there minds.

Now, how much would you pay? But wait, there's still more.

We live in a small military community. Community rules and regulations are overseen by the BSB Commander. Everything that has to do with housing and community operations is approved or disapproved by the Commander. When we moved to Germany, the BSB Commander at the first post had no objections to us having three dogs in military quarters. We had to have our dogs examined by the military vet and the dogs' temperaments had to be determined non-aggressive. My pups are the most friendly, loving pups and their temperaments were not a problem. We received permission to live in quarters with our three dogs although the housing regulations allow for a maximum of only two pets.

When we relocated to Schweinfurt, we advised the housing office of our dog situation. The housing office didn't have a problem probably because the Heidelberg BSB Commander didn't have a problem. Turns out, the Schweinfurt BSB Commander did have a problem with it. We didn't find this out until after we had taken possession of the quarters and all of our household goods had been delivered and unpacked. We were looking at two options; 1) move out and find suitable housing on the economy or 2) get rid of one of the dogs. Neither option sounded very good to us. The petitioning began. Letters of apology and special requests for waiver of policy were written. My neighbors were asked if they had objections to my dogs. It took a few weeks of begging, but eventually we received permission to remain in quarters with our three dogs. There were conditions to the waiver. At anytime our dogs were deemed a nuisance or dangerous, they would be removed. Additionally, all rules and regulations concerning the dogs were to be followed to the letter. Violations would result in the removal of the dogs.

Imagine my horror when I was informed last week that while my son walked the dogs one evening, he was observed failing to pick up poop. To make matters worse, the woman who witnessed my dog poop and my son casually ignore it and walk away yelled at him to pick it up. Instead of doing so, my son kept walking.

Everybody in this community knows whose dogs they are. There is only one family who has three dogs; one schnauzer, one westie and one scottie. There was no doubt whose dogs they were and my son let one poop and didn't pick it up. Nice.

Even though he's been told a hundred times to pick up poop, even though he's been told to make sure the dogs behave especially because the BSB Commander has the authority to remove the dogs, he pulls a stupid stunt like that. He reasoning behind his foolish decision, 1) he admits he was being lazy and 2) he "forgot."

These are just the recent challenges. Previous stunts include a night when he stayed out all night under the ruse of spending the night at a friends, but instead he went bar hopping (drinking age in Germany is 16) and spent the night in a photo booth at the train station. There was a night when instead of spending the night at an approved friends house, he participated in a co-ed slumber party with alcohol where the parent who not only approved of the event, but also wasn't home to monitor. Prior to that, there have been phone calls from parents reporting that my son encouraged a younger child to throw rocks at smaller children. There have even been reports of my son and a buddy venturing into the wooded area less than 100 yards from our row of quarters to light bonfires.

I can understand why a person would have one child. It would be a stretch, but I could even understand a second child. But when people have three, four and more children, I can't see a reason for that. I know why older folks encourage their adult children to have babies. It's revenge. It all boils down to misery loves company. Grandparents are laughing at their children. Pay back.

What in the States?

Think you know your homeland (USA) geography? Try this.

You Decide

A young woman was about to finish her first year of college. Like so many others her age she considered herself to be a very liberal Democrat and was for redistribution of all wealth. She felt deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch Republican, which she expressed openly.

One day she was challenging her father on his beliefs and his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and more welfare programs. In the middle of her heart-felt diatribe based upon the lectures she had from her far left professors at her school, he stopped her and asked her point blank how she was doing in school.

She answered rather haughtily that she had a 4.0 GPA and let him know that it was tough to maintain. That she had to study all the time, never had time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn't even have time for a boyfriend and didn't really have many college friends because of spending all her time studying and that she was taking a more difficult curriculum.

Her father listened and then asked, "How is your friend, Mary."

She replied, "Mary is barely getting by." She continued, "She barely has a 2.0 GPA and all she takes are easy classes. She never studies." To explain further, she continued emotionally, "But Mary is so very popular on campus. College for her is a blast. She goes to all the parties all the time and very often doesn't even show up for classes because she is too hung over."

Her father then asked his daughter, "Why don't you go to the Dean's office and ask him to deduct a 1.0 off your 4.0 GPA and give it to your friend who only has a 2.0." He continued, "That way you will both have a 3.0 GPA and certainly that would be a fair and equal distribution of GPA."

The daughter, visibly shocked by the father's suggestion, angrily fired back, "That wouldn't be fair! I worked really hard for mine. I did without and Mary has done little or nothing. She played while I worked real hard!"

The father slowly smiled and said, "Welcome to the Republican Party."

Bed Football

A little old couple prepares to go to bed. They no sooner hit the pillows when the old man farts and says, "Seven Points."
His wife rolls over and says, "What in the world was that?"
The old man replied, "It's fart football."
A few minutes later his wife lets one go and says, "Touchdown, tie score. "
After about five minutes the old man lets another one go and says, "Aha. I'm ahead 14 to 7." Not to be outdone, the wife rips out another one and says,"Touchdown, tie score." Five seconds go by and she lets out a little squeaker and says, "Field goal, I lead 17 to 14."
Now the pressure is on the old man. He refuses to get beat by a woman, so he strains real hard, but to no avail. Realizing a defeat is unacceptable, he gives it everything he's got, and he accidentally shits in the bed.
The wife says, "What the hell was that?"
The old man says, "Half time, switch sides."

Who's Your Buddy? Who's Your Pal?

I think anyone who has an email account has received a forward of a forward of a forward. Some are cute and some are serious. Some remind us to have a good day. Some remind us that we are loved. Some remind us to pray for those less fortunate. Some remind us to praise God. And some are just for laughs.

I received this one a couple of days ago and it really got me thinking.

TO THE WONDERFUL WOMEN IN MY CIRCLE

When I was little, I used to believe in the concept of one best friend, and then I started to become a woman. And I found out that if you allow your heart to open up, God would show you the best in many friends.

One friend's best is needed when you're going through things with your children. Another friend's best is needed when you're going through things with your mother. Another when you want to shop, share, heal, hurt, joke or just be. One friend will say let's pray together, another let's cry together, another let's fight together, another let's walk away together.

One friend will meet your spiritual need, another your shoe fetish, another your love for movies, another will be with you in your season of confusion, another will be your clarifier, another the wind beneath your wings.

But whatever their assignment in your life, on whatever the occasion, on whatever the day, or whether you need them to meet you with their gym shoes on and hair pulled back, or to hold you back from making a complete fool of yourself... those are your friends.

It may all be wrapped up in one woman, but for many it's wrapped up in several... one from 7th grade, several from high school, several from the college years, a couple from old jobs, several from church; on some days your mother, on others your sisters; and on some days it's the one that you needed just for that day or week that you needed someone with a fresh perspective, or the one who didn't know all your baggage, or the one who would just listen without judging... those are good best friends.

I thank my girlfriends, those who honor intimacy, those who hold trust, and those who hold me up when life is just too heavy! The special bond we share is unique. Thanks for the words we've shared. The prayers sent up. The laughs, the tears, the phone calls, the emails, the shopping, the movies, the lunches, the dinners, the talking, talking, talking and the listening, listening, listening....

It just so happens the friend who sent this relfection on friends to me is a friend I have experienced many adventures with. When I have some particularly out of the usual activity to do, she's the first person I think of.

So, when I finally had lost enough weight and thought I was looking pretty good, I decided to do something very special for my husband, the most amazing man in the world. I wanted to have a calendar made for him. Of course, I was to be the subject. I wanted tasteful, artistic, black and white boudoir photographs made. Well, being that I was going to end up naked infront of a stranger in a strange setting, I didn't want to go by myself. And since I was doing this as a gift for my husband, I couldn't very well likely ask him to come with me. So, I asked myself, "Who's your buddy? Who's your pal?" My friend, let's just call her "Samantha", was the only person I could think of who I would feel comfortable having there and who (and this is important) I thought would be willing to be there.

How does one ask a friend to go on a nudie picture adventure? Turns out, it was pretty easy. My friend, as I discovered, had already gone down that avenue. Well, GOLLY, GEE. Can I pick 'em or what?

Living in Germany lends itself to all kinds of sights and sounds. Let me just say that Europeans are far less selfconscious about their bodies than Americans. At public water parks, it's nothing to see folks change into their swimsuits right on the pool deck. Usually though, some spas and water parks have one or two days where patrons can enjoy the experience in their birthday suits. My friends and I refer to those days as "naked days." And naked days are co-ed. There is co-ed naked sauna, co-ed naked swimming, and co-ed changing rooms. Folks of all ages, shapes and sizes have no problem getting naked. As they say, when in Rome...

I wouldn't describe myself as a prude, but I usually don't get naked with a large group of people (It was a different story way back when I was in college and drinking heavily, but I've grown up since then) that I don't know. So, I prefer attending spas on regular days and not naked days. Even though regular days involve swimming attire, saunas are always naked, usually co-ed. You might think this sounds pretty cool. Let me tell you, it's NOT. Ever wonder what a 70 year old overweigh man looks like naked? How about an 87 year old grandmother? Come to a spa on naked day and you'll never wonder again. Even on regular days, you can see some of the most amazing things. Keep in mind, European men, even the particularly large and saggy men, love their speedos. On time I saw a 50+ year old man sporting a thong speedo. I very much wanted to take a picture of that. You would never see that in the United States. Who would have believed such a thing?

But, I digress. There is a spa that is approximately 30 minutes from where I live. It is also the largest spa in Germany and the prices are wonderful. They offer all kinds of skin treatments, massages, pools, water fitness, and assorted holistic treatments. One skin treatment in particular is called Moor.

Now, my friend, the one I'll call "Samantha", had been to the spa on a prior occasion and inquired about Moor. Most of the employees at the spa speak only German and my friend, the one I'm still referring to as "Samantha", speaks little German. Luckily another patron who spoke English was standing near by. He explained that the Moor is spread all over the body. It absorbs all the impurities and revitalized the skin. But what is Moor, my friend asks. The kind gentlemen replies, "It is.....how you say mud from the swamp?" My friend, who's from Arkansas, says, "We call that Swamp Mud." Alas, time was short and Samantha was with the "wrong" friend and didn't try the Moor. She saved that for another time and another friend.

A few days pass and I get a phone call. My friend,"Samanta", invites me to KissSalis, that's the largest spa in Germany. Of course I accept. A day of spa-ing for around $20 is a great thing.

On our way there, she starts telling me all about Moor a.k.a. Swamp Mud. Now, I have seen pictures of women covered in mud. It looks kinda cool and since I'm always up for a new and improved adventure and I'm with the "right" friend for the task, I agree. Little did I know...

Once there, we go up to the Moor Raum (the Swamp Mud Room). The attendant tells us we have to remove all jewelry and our swimsuits. Yes, the mud experience will be a naked thing. We are directed to a serving bar. It's similar to a salad bar minus the sneeze shield. In the bar, there are two large stainless steel pots. Removing the lid, reveals thick black mud. "Samantha" reaches in a grabs a handful of the Moor and begins rubbing it on her arms as if nothing is amiss. How she got past the initial waft of stink, I'll never know. As soon as I removed the lid from my stainless steel pot, my eyes started stinging and my sinuses immediately cleared out. Folks from a rural farming community will have a better understanding of the degree of stench. It didn't smell like just swamp mud. It smelled like a farm field immediately after turning over the soil and mixing in tons of barnyard fresh manure.

But we're being watched by the attendant and "Samantha" hasn't yet noticed it, so I reach in a grab a big ol' handful of the goo and start smearing it all over my body. I had expected the Moor to be more like a rich clay, but it was nowhere close to clay. This stuff was like dirt and black soil mixed with swamp sludge. By now, I'm squeezing my eyes shut and giggling. It's so horrible, all I can do it laugh. "Samantha" finally registers the smell. Her nostrils flare and her forehead curls.

"Dang. You smell that?"

"OH MY GOD, YES!!"

Now we are both laughing and crying at the same time, but we continue with the Moor experience. Who's your buddy? Who's your pal? One who can smear stinky swamp mud in your hard-to-reach places, that's who.

When our bodies are, quite literally, completely covered neck to toe in mud, we are directed to a stone, form-fitting bench. We lay back in a reclined position and are told to remain there for 15 minutes. That's when the attendant turns on the heat lamps.

We thought the smell was bad before. I just looked over at "Samantha" and started laughing.

"You stink."

"Ah, no. You stink. Hey, what's this?" she asks pointing at a hunk of some black substance clinging to her leg.

"Who knows? It could be some sort of muted worm. I don't even WANT to know. What's this?" I poked at a bit of something sticking to my stomach. I half expected it to move, but it didn't. I was too afraid to pick it off. I figured it might have popped and oozed its internal organs.

"Just leave it alone."

Her nose was curled up, as was mine. We both frowned as we continued to breath in the stinky swamp mud fumes.

Normally, the body will become climatized, accustomed to a smell after a few minutes. I read somewhere that within three minutes, smell receptors become overwhelmed with a particular smell and are no longer able to register it. Well, I can proffer that after 15 whole minutes, caked with Moor, under heat lamps, my smell receptors were still receiving and registering.

When the timer dinged and the heat lamps shut off, we were quick to hop up and dash to the showers. Even standing under a full-blast stream of water, that cooked on mud was not releasing its grip. The attendant provided a scrub brush. I'm not talking a delicate scrubby that one can pick up in the bath and shower department. I'm talking a scrub brush from the hardware store, one that you would use to scrub the patio or carport.

I would venture to say it's not the Moor that makes your skin feel revitalized. It's the scouring with the heavy duty scrub brush. After 10-15 minutes of scrubbing, most of the mud was finally off, but a brown, slimy film lingered. Scrubbing didn't really remove it. It just encouraged it to migrate to a different place on your body. Who's your buddy? Who's your pal? The one who'll take a pressure washer and a brillo pad to your hard-to-reach areas.

It took longer to get the gunk off than it did to smear it on and sit for 15 minutes. All of that for an additional three euro ($3.75). I'm glad I did it for the experience and for the well-earned right to say I did it. But, I can't recommend it and nor will I do it again.

There are many kinds of friends. There is the friend who'll encourage you to talk to the cute fellow, the friend who'll go shopping for hours with you while you try on hundreds of pairs of shoes, the friend who can call you at 3:00 in the morning, the friend who you'll bail out of jail and there's the friend you'd get arrested with. In my case, I have a friend who'll go take nudie pictures with me and one who'll go with me to cover our naked bodies with stinky swamp mud and sit under heat lamps.....wait...that's the same one!

Life is good. Get out and live a little.

To the Victor Goes the Spoils

Growing up with an older sister and a younger brother, trips in the car resulted in a battle for the front seat. My mother (the driver) usually settled the "Shotgun" arguments by claiming the eldest child receives the privilege of the front seat. Of course, when my older sister wasn't around, mom's rule was reneged and the new rule was the youngest kid gets the front seat. Being the middle kid, I was forever in the back seat. I ultimately won out because my siblings eventual moved away. I did too, but I moved back (on three different occasions, but those are stories for another time) and had the front seat all the time.

Now that I have two teenagers, the battle continues. Having played "Shotgun" for way too many years, I let my kids fight it out. When the looser starts in with "Hey, that's not fair." I reply with, "You snooze, you loose." I show no pity and no mercy. Although, I have implemented the rule that both competitors must be outside of the house/building to call "shotgun". I didn't realized there was a more elaborate rule system in place. Then, I visited this guy. I have previously mention Dead Serious - A Healthy Fear of Botulism when I commented on athletes with too much money. He linked to ShotgunGuide-Official Rules for Calling Shotgun. I have to say, I'm impressed and will definitely have to read up on the official rules. Personally, I'm partial to the Survival of the Fittest Rules (a.k.a. The Bastard Rules). I coulda been riding in the front seat all along.

Know What's Really Important

I took some time out of my day to share this meaningful message. I hope it does some good.

Pa never had such compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.

It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures.

But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.

Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens.

Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load.

Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.

After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood---the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"

You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said, "Why?" "I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt."

That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it.

Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand.

"What's in the little sack?" I asked. "Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."

We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards.

Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy?

Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern.

We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?" "Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"

Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.

"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children---sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last.

I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up."

I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak.

My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before, filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference.

I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time.

She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."

In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true.

I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.

Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.

Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes. Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave.

Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.

At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven.

It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away. Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, "'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."

Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold.

When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said,"Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that.

But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do.

Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."

I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it.

Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities.

Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.

For the rest of my life, Whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night.

Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my
life.


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Sometimes I Need to Remember

Since I got married, I've been introduced to the world of the unemployed. It's been a nice experience once I got past the whole financial dependence issue. I enjoyed having my own money and not having to consult on major purchases. It was a difficult transition, but I've adjusted well. Now, I work for something to do and for the extra pocket money. Actually, the pocket money is diverted to a saving account that one day will be enough to afford a two-week safari in Africa.

As of late, I've been working full time. One of the ladies at the Provost Marshal's Office took four weeks of leave. That's a pretty good paycheck for me. Kenya just got a little bit closer. But there is a down side to working full-time. Kids.

My children are 17 and 15 years old. And like most teenagers, they are blind to dirt. My house has suffered tremendously in my absence. Dust has caked on every surface, fingerprints have multiplied, dirty dog footprints tracked on the hardwood floors and the dust bunnies have unionized. I'm lucky to get my children to take out the trash and vacuum every other day. Anything more than that is a blessing.

After work, I have to get to the gym for at least an hour, else I'll balloon up. Wouldn't my husband be surprised when returning from Iraq and discovering his wife has mutated into Jabba the Hut? I certainly don't want that to happen. After the gym, I come home and try to take care of the mail and all the necessary paperwork that comes with running a household. Just sorting my mail, from his mail, deciding what he'll need, what I can take care of, and putting the bills in due date order, takes time. Then, I have to figure out which bills have to be paid in euros and which ones in dollars, do the conversion and balance the checkbook.

Add on top of that monitoring the children's behaviors and determining what rules they fractured during the day, feeding and watering three dogs, picking up general stuff, getting stuff put where it belongs and making sure there is bread and milk available sucks up most of my time. I save the bigger housecleaning tasks for the weekend. Wait....weekend....that gets filled toting my kids back and forth to all the places they need to be. My son, although he's 17, he doesn't have a driver's license because we live in Germany.

Single parents have a rough situation. I eagerly await my husband's return. I really need his help with rearing the children. I struggle to make the time to keep up to date with what's going on in their lives. It's difficult to do. Ultimately, something suffers in a single parent household. Be it the house, be it the parent's health, be it the children. There just isn't enough hours in the day to allow for everyone's needs to be met. It's an unfortunate situation.

Although I complain about my children being selfish and not contributing to the household as well as they should, they are pretty good kids. My son keeps reminding me that he isn't selling drugs, hasn't been arrested and hasn't gotten some girl pregnant. My daughter has straight A's in school and isn't pregnant. I am thankful for that. I know other parents out there who struggle with the day to day things and have children who are robbing people and breaking into homes. I can't imagine piling on court fines, restitution, court dates, probation officer appointment dates, meetings with school principals, phone calls from police, pregnancy and substance abuse on top of everything else. My children don't self-mutilate nor are they destructive. I don't have holes punched in the walls of my home and my children do come home at night.

I have to remember that my situation could be worse. I don't have it that bad.

Ever Wonder Why?

I read this several years ago and it stuck with me. It certainly is something to think about.

The US standard railroad gauge (width between the two rails) is 4 feet, 8.5 inches wide. That is an exceedingly odd number. Why was that gauge used? Because that's the way they built them in England, and the US railroads were built by English expatriates.

Why did the English build them like that? Because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used.

Why did "they" use that gauge? Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons which used that wheel spacing.

Whey did the wagon have that particular odd wheel spacing? If they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads in England because that's the spacing of the wheel ruts.

Who built those old rutted roads? The first long distance roads in Europe and England were built by Imperial Rome for their legions. The roads have been used ever since.

And the ruts in the roads? Roman war chariots first formed the initial ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagon wheels. Since the chariots were made for or by Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.

The United States railroad gauge of 4 feet, 8.5 inches derives from the original specification for an Imperial Roman war chariot. Specifications and bureaucracies live forever. So the next time you are handed a specification and wonder what horse's ass came up with it, you may be exactly right because the Imperial Roman war chariots were made just wide enough to accommodate the back end of two war horses.

But there's more...

When we see a Space Shuttle sitting on its launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at their factory in Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs might have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site. The railroad line from the factory had to run through a tunnel in the mountains. The SRBs had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than the railroad tracks and the railroad track is about as wide a two horses' behinds.

So, the major design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was determined over two thousand years ago by the width of a horse's ass.

And you wonder why it's so hard to get ahead in this world.....

Only 22 Shopping Days Left

Now that Thanksgiving has past, the next big holiday is rapidly approaching. What to do about Christmas?

Being that I live in a military community where currently there is serious testosterone depletion, I participate with the FRG. That's the Family Readiness Group. Basically, the spouses of the soldiers form a cohesive group to bond together, especially during deployments. It's a great way to make sure everyone is kept up to date with accurate information as to what the soldiers are doing and planning. Additionally, the FRG keeps families active and involved with the community to help prevent isolation and the resulting depression. Both of which are an easy trap living in a foreign country where the language barrier just adds stress.

The FRG also recognizes the need to maintain a happy and joyous holiday atmosphere to ensure the children a "normal" Christmas under the circumstances. Thus, the 1-77 Armor Battalion FRG is planning a Christmas party. A few nights ago, at a planning meeting, an idea was tossed onto the table. "Let's just ignore the whole holiday."

This wasn't the first time I heard a spouse make a comment about preferring to forget the whole thing. Christmas, well holidays in general, a difficult when a parent is gone. When small children ask why, they have to be reminded that Daddy is away. He'll be home soon. Older children watch the news and know that Daddy is in a dangerous place. The whole situation isn't joyous. Mothers and some fathers too, not all soldiers downrange are men, are faced with "faking it" for the benefit of the children.

What about those spouses without children or adult children? Think they are in the Christmas mood? Germany is incredibly romantic during the holidays. There are Christmas Markets in just about every town. Lights and hot, spiced wine, roasting chestnuts, candied almonds, horse-drawn carriages, couples bundled-up holding hands as they stroll along the sidewalks. Venturing out by yourself while your husband is in the desert dodging bullets and praying the next exploding IED won't kill him just doesn't seem right.

There will be presents under my Christmas tree (the only reason I'll even put one up this year is because my children are forcing me to) for my husband. Those packages will remain wrapped and waiting for his return home. Our REAL Christmas will be when he comes home. We'll listen to Christmas carols and have a Christmas feast hopefully sometime in early spring. That's when my heart will be full of love and Christmas magic.

Please keep our soldiers and their families in your thoughts and prayers.

Dirty Joke

Two nuns were riding their bikes along a back street in Rome.
One nuns says, "I'm never come this way before."
The other nun whispers, "It's the cobblestones."

The most wonderful man in the whole wide world speaking at the CIB-CMB Ceremony in Iraq. He is so handsome. He makes me swoon like a little school girl.

Sydney and Jake are eagerly waiting a special treat. Jake is already licking his chops.

When the most wonderful man in the whole wide world came home, he was greeted by this sign.

Spud taking a break from playing with his tennis ball.

Bad Boy Babies and Playground Squabbles

I heard about another sports brawl instigated by a fan and finished by everyone else. Bench-clearing battles are in my opinion ridiculous. And this guy seems to agree. Seriously, if you make a billion dollars playing a game, then buck up and accept that some folks are going to call you names and call your abilities into question. I'll trade places, or moreover, my bank account, with a pro-athlete anytime. I'd even wear a sign on my back saying "I suck" and "I can't score on the court of off" as long as my boss continues to sign that paycheck. When it's no big deal to be fined $50,000 or even $100,000, then YOU MAKE TOO MUCH MONEY. Get over yourself.

And then, the special guest commentator played the race card. Oh, come on. Apparently black athletes feel oppressed that whitey is kept entertained like an emperor watching Christians meet a bloody death at the claws and fangs of starving lions. That's crap. How about Joe Schmoe spending a good chunk of his weekly take-home salary to watch multi-millionaires play a game and earn more money in an hour than Joe earns in a couple of months. If an athlete can't handle being called a looser or having someone shout out that their Granny plays better with one hand tied behind her back, then get off the damn court and get a real job. How about laying asphalt, or sorting tomatoes, or changing diapers, or spreading roof tar, or separating inmates trying to kill one another? Prison guards, okay Correction Officers have human feces and urine tossed at them (far more foul and insulting than a plastic cup or even a folding chair). They are called all kinds of vicious names and have their families threatened every day. And their reward for getting up and going to work, an annual salary less than what P. Diddy spends on a two-hour bar tab.

Let's just get real and put things into perspective.

The Spudinator

In September of this year, I embarked on an 18 day adventure in pup-sitting. Spud, a Boston Terrier, stayed with me while his mom when on vacation. As Spud can be a little grumpy, we made arrangements for him to meet and greet my three pups on neutral ground. There were no problems. Actually, my Miniature Schnauzer, Sydney, was thrilled with her special prize that was just for her. She's just assumes that all new things are for her.

Spud's mom does not have any children of her own and showers him with maternal love. Naturally, Spud appreciates all of the affection and has become so accustomed to it, he not only expects it, but also demands it. And the bed is his. He simply allows you to sleep in the bed with him. His mom explained to me that Spud will paw at your face until you pull back the covers to allow His Majesty to crawl under them. I had no problem with that. Sydney is the same way. She's a spoiled brat because her mom made her that way and will continue to allow her to be that way. Why should Spud be any different? It's all good.

I was also warned that Spud does not like to be picked up nor does he like to be bothered while sleeping.

At night, I sleep with all my windows open. It does tend to get a bit chilly and my Westie, Jake, will sometimes jump on the bed during the night to snuggle. Little Miss Annabelle, the sweet pup that she is with her nubby Scottie legs, isn't a good jumper and is perfectly satisfied curling up on her humongous dog pillow in the corner next to the bed. Her pillow is big enough for a Great Dane.

So, there I was, sharing my bed with three dogs; Sydney, Her Royal Highness, snuggled in all of the pillows at the head of the bed, Spud, His Majesty, under the covers stretched out taking up over half of available space, and Jake, The Prince, curled up in the crook of my knees. I have no trouble keeping warm even on the coldest nights. I have extra fuzzy bodies providing ample heat.

Spuuuuuuud, Spuddie, The Spudinator, The Spudster enjoys his sleep and is most definitely NOT a morning dog. One morning, as my alarm went off, there was an audible protest from his side of the bed. Even after I finished with my shower and getting dressed, Spud remained snuggled deep under the covers that he had bunched into a big pile. When I suggested that it was time to get up, he looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "You've GOT to be kidding. No way am I about to get up and expose my royal belly to the frigid elements." With much persuading and cajoling, I convinced Spud to go outside and do his business. Quick to finish and return to the comfort of the house, he immediately jumped onto the cushy chair. He was too tired to even eat a treat. And don't think I didn't cater to him. I did. I got him a blanky and tucked him in. It didn't take long before he was snoozing.

Remember the warning, Spud doesn't like to be bothered when he's sleeping? Well, let me tell you. Spud loves to snuggle as he's dozing. While under the covers, he would press his body next to mine and nudge my arm over him. No problem. It's like sleeping with a warm teddy bear, except as soon as he falls asleep, he remembers you're touching him. Then he freaks out.

He snorts and snarls and makes an attempt to bite the offending hand. His bites are more of fleshy nips because his lips are so thick, his teeth don't come anywhere near making contact. Then when he realizes he is not being attacked, he snuggles back down. Of course, when he falls asleep, he goes bizzerk. It's difficult to fall asleep when every few minutes the horrific, vicious sounds and the lip chomping jerk you awake. One night in particular, Spuddy freaked out three or four times before I had had enough. "Okay, psycho dog, you have to move." He didn't go willingly, but he did move out of the body contact zone.

The next morning, he knew I was less than pleased about his nighttime antics. He eased over to me, sat down and looked up at me with those big brown eyes. It was obvious he wanted to make up and win forgiveness. How could I possibly resist? I invited him into my lap. Kisses and pets for everyone and all was better.

Want to Know How Stupid You Are? Ask a Teenager.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you are lacking information, as a teenager. They know everything about everything. It's a wonder that a teenager isn't the President of the United States. It's a wonder a teenager isn't the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court especially since they know everything about fairness and justice. It's a wonder that the principal of every school isn't a teenager. Afterall, who knows better how to mold and guide children that a teenager?

Did you know that a teenager knows everything about operating a motor vehicle even though they don't have a driver's license? Yep, they sure do. And the younger the teenager, the more they know on the subject.

It is simply amazing. I really didn't need to complete high school or complete a college education. All I had to do to ensure my survival in our society was to have children. I just can't imagine how I managed all those years without a teenager in my life to tell me everything I ever need to know.

They know how to speak foreign languages.

They know where everything is in every foreign city and know the best way to travel to any desired location. Sometimes, just for fun, a teenager will read a map and navigate the longest possible route to a destination simply because that's the best way to go.

They know every ingredient in every meal prepared in every restaurant. They especially know the taste and texture of every food ever prepared in any way.

Teenagers also have magical powers. Did you know that they can simply generate money whenever they desire? Heaven knows why adults go to work. Naturally because money just appears at a whim, teenagers don't need a job.

All basic luxuries afforded in a household are provided because going without would generate an annoying situation. All vehicles always have a full tank of gasoline. All refrigerators are always stocked with only the most delicious foods that do not require any preparation. All cookie jars are always full with only the most favorite of all cookies even though the favorite changes practically on a daily basis. All electronic devices always work and there is always electricity. The caveat to that is the electric company has no need to receive payment for providing that electricity. That is just something they do simply because teenagers must have electricity. All trash cans magically empty. All cars are always clean. All toilet bowls are always sparkling clean. All floors are always free of dust bunnies and rugs never need to be vacuumed. It's a wonder how Hoover stays in business.

Best of all....When teenagers have their own children, they will never be required to do any chores around the house. They will always be treated fairly and get to do what they want.

Gee, I never knew I was such an oppressive slave-driver with the IQ of a gnat. Thank goodness I have TWO teenagers to help me get through my day. I couldn't possibly manage without them.

Quarters, Melting Lightbulbs and no Beauty Sleep

Before I got married, I had a full-time job. Okay a few. Consecutively. Although even further back in history, I did have several part-time jobs concurrently. But that is beside the point. When I married my husband, I married the Army and that meant frequent relocations to exotic parts of the world, like Kansas. Frequent moves require frequent job changes and so my career in the criminal justice world came to a screeching halt. Government positions require a lengthy application process and sometimes the delays can reach up to 6 months and that's being selected the first time out. So, our first duty assignment in Kansas, was to last a mere 12 months. Certainly not long enough to even attempt to land a government position. It sure would have been nice though. Leavenworth, Kansas is like Mecca to folks who make a living in punishment and corrections. Prisons as far as the eye can see. Federal, state, private, juvenile, female, work camps....it's all there.

Alas, it was just not to be. I ended up becoming a substitute teacher. It wasn't so bad. I even got to the point where I enjoyed being called to work. I mostly worked in the town of Easton. It's a small rural community where everyone knows everyone. It didn't take long to learn all the children in the area from kindergarten all the way through the Senior class. Had our assignment been longer than 12 months, I might have even considered switching gears from corrections to education.

Those 12 months zipped by and we received orders to head across the pond to Germany. My husband's initial job in a three year tour was 1 year in Heidelberg. Civilian jobs are difficult to come by in a military community and overseas compounds the problem. Local nationals fill a significant portion of available positions. I could easily have obtained employment with AAFES (the military's department store) or the commissary. Neither one of those places appealed to me. I've done my fair share of retail and besides, I wanted to have free time for traveling and shopping. So, back to being a substitute. The system required a separation application per school. As the high school was across the street from where we lived, I opted to only work there.

Those 12 months didn't zip by as fast as the previous 12 months. The whole deployment to Iraq and being left behind with two teenagers made every day feel like an eternity. But, time passed and we moved to Schweinfurt. We were to be there for the remaining 2 years of our tour. The schools in that area require a substitute work in only one school. So, the elementary school being a brisk 7 minute walk away, I chose to work there. Plus, I took a second job, also part-time, filling in at the Provost Marshal's Office generating installation passes to local nationals, visiting family members and soldiers. The pay schedule is the same for both positions and between the two, I can work frequently. I am the Super Substitute.

As of late, I am working full-time filling in with the installation pass position. One of the employees took extended leave. That means a great paycheck for me. It also means the end of my leisure time for a few weeks.

Back in the day when I was a career woman, I went to bed early. I do not function well on less than 8 full hours of sleep. I prefer 9. As a result of my sleeping patterns, I rarely was awake after 9:00 p.m. Now that I am a mom of two teenagers, getting to bed before 10:00 p.m. is no longer an option. It's a good thing they are old enough to take on some of the household responsibilities while I'm working. It's nice to come home and find that the trash has been taken out and the carpets have been vacuumed and the poop in the yard has been picked up. That means I only have a million things to do instead of the million and three. It does take off some of the pressure.

I woke up this morning extremely tired. I hit the snooze button 3 times and still had to fight to pull back the covers and force myself out of the bed. I just needed two more hours of sleepy-time. Even my dogs didn't want to get up. When I did finally drag my half-comatose, sleep-deprived body out of the warm, snuggly bed, I said to myself, "I don't know how single-parents do it." Holding down a full-time job, taking care of the household and all the responsibilities that come with it, plus rearing children. Phew! It's exhausting work.

Luckily, the physical maintenance of my home is aided by the military. We live in government quarters. That means when the washing machine breaks, I call in a work order and a fix-it man comes out. If the foundation leaks when it rains, I call in a work order and a fix-it man comes out. If the trees get too overgrown, I call in a work order and a fix-it man comes out. Same with clogged rain gutters, running toilets, malfunctioning stove/oven, and leaky faucet. There are perks to living in quarters.

I had planned on getting to bed early last night, by 9 p.m. at the latest. I had bathed and was in my pajamas relaxing watching tv when the electrical malfunction happened. At 8:45 p.m., a movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned to see what it was just in time to see a lightbulb hit the floor. Simultaneously, the other bulbs in the fixture went out. Hmmm. That's not something you see everyday. My investigation revealed a melted lightbulb. The metal screw part of the bulb was still securely fastened in the socket. The bulb itself had melted off.

As all the other bulbs (six total) went out, I figured the fuse blew. I checked the circuit breaker and discovered no flipped switches. Hmmmm. The light switch on the wall showed the overhead light to be in the on position and the circuit breaker showed that there was power to the light switch, but there was no light. Hmmmm. I start to think fire hazard. So, at 9:00 p.m. when I should have been crawling into bed, I was on the phone calling in a work order.

The housing office was closed, naturally, and the phone was answered by the fire department. After hours calls are forwarded to them. I explained my situation. The emergency service technician agreed this was a potential hazard and it could not wait until the next day to be called in for a 24 hour wait.

By 9:15 p.m. I had an electrician in my dining room dismantling my light fixture. He, too, was concerned that the circuit breaker had not triggered. After 20 minutes and two searches for a dropped screw, a tiny screw, the problem was solved. German light switches have a fuse inside the switch. That fuse blew. A simple replacement of the fuse and all was better. As for the melting bulb. Apparently, that's fairly common. The electrician was not at all concerned about that and told me that does happen. In all of my life, I've never known a lightbulb to melt out of the socket, but I could be wrong.

So, off to bed by 10:00 p.m. and of course, I'm too wound up to sleep. It took another 45 minutes before my eyelids couldn't take it anymore. No beauty sleep for me. And now, I'm just too pooped to pop.

Hey check out The Subway Chronicles. http://www.thesubwaychronicles.com

Do Not Read Beauty Magazines, They Only Make You Feel Ugly

Remember the article that was morphed into a commencement speech and then into a song, Wear Sunscreen? Of all the fabulous advice mentioned therein, a profound statement was Do Not Read Beauty Magazines, They Will Only Make You Feel Ugly. It is so true.

While working out at the gym, I do read magazines while suffering on the exer-bike. I find it to be a must as it takes my mind off of the agony. I will admit the magazine selection in my gym is a bit behind the times, but not nearly as bad as most doctors' and dentists' waiting rooms. But that is beside the point. The one I read recently (okay yesterday) really got under my skin. So much so, that as one who doesn't write to newspaper editors and/or magazine editors, I was compelled to voice my opinion to not only the editor and all the readers of that particular magazine, but also to the internet.

The particular magazine which motivated me to express my disapproval just so happens to be my favorite beauty magazine, GLAMOUR. Okay, the issue (May 2003) focused on the importance of loving oneself, regardless of age, weight or quality of skin. Page after page was dedicated to women without killer supermodel bodies and how real men love real women's bumps, lumps and curves. One page proclaimed it was time to worship the female form, complete with a picture of Rubens' The Three Graces immortalizing the voluptuous shape of his wife. A 2002 Serena Williams "This Body Rocks", the pin-up girl of 1942, Betty Grable "The hottest shape of the day" and a 2002 Kate Winslett "Great at any weight" appeared on this page.
A four-page spread highlighting curvacious women like Jennifer Lopez, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Queen Latifa, Beyonce and Catherine Zeta-Jones celebrated healthy women with ample feminine shape. Immediately following that more-woman-to-love, body-confidence feature, six pages of freckled-face girls reminded readers that beauty isn't defined by perfect monotone, porcelain, china-white skin.

Now anyone who has read my blog knows I am extremely body-image conscious, borderline obsessed with my appearance. It would be perfectly reasonable for me to delight and rejoice in this real-women-have-hips-and-breats issue of my favorite beauty magazine. Unfortunately, it was the intermitent fashion spread of ultra-thin, Ethiopianesque, flawless skin women showing of "Body-Proud" beach bodies in teeny-weeny bikinis that wouldn't even cover my butt crack much less one of Queen Latifa's breasts, that riled me so. Right after the four pages of beautiful plump women and the six pages of freckles, one could read all about "Suits You Fine!" complete with six pages of eight photographs of a woman so skinny that she gives new meaning to rail-thin. What kind of message is that?

The Message from the Editor asked, "Are we loving our bodies yet?" How can we when Polo Jeans Co. features a beautiful fat-roll free brunette with blemish-free skin? The Botox Cosmetic advertisement encourages dramatically reducing those age lines that are wonderously admired by a husband in his article "33 years of Loving my Wife's Body". Throw in Loreal, Revlon, CoverGirl, Jockey, Redken, Dior, Paul Mitchel, Proactiv, Citizen, Matrix, Kenneth Cole, Elizabeth Arden, Ralph Lauren, and of course Victoria's Secret and it's not difficult to see why women are so mixed up about what's considered beautiful.

If the women portrayed in the advertisements are the definition of beauty, then there is simply no way I will ever be considered beautiful. I guess it's a good thing I went to college and received an education. I certainly would never be able to make it on my "good" looks.

I do have to mention the advertisers peddling their wares using "real" people. GAP showed women of color and full cheeks enjoying summer tunics. Dockers Eyewear featured red hair and freckles, full cheeks and dark skin behind sunglasses. Biore came close. Their advertisement, although using a model without zits or blackheads to sell their cleanser, did distort her image to illustrate a "real" search for clogged pores. It's a shame that I can only physically relate to those women running fresh and free on the beach after using Midol. In addition to Midol, I can be comfortable inside my own skin while using Playtex Gentle Glide tampons.

If only I could learn from other peoples' experiences. I would never experience a sun burn, argue with my siblings, or read beauty magazines. Perhaps, reading biographies about charismatic people would be a more inspiring and empowering exer-bike read. That way I would be ensured to come home feeling energized and confident instead of fat and ugly.