What's UP . . . Besides the Sky

I'll interrupt all the reminiscing and silly stories to bring you an actual current blog post, partially because I haven't done one in awhile, and partially because I couldn't think of another story right away. Rex and I thought of several the other night, but I didn't write them down and now I can't remember what they were. Story of my (forgetful) life.

So, I have been eBaying these last couple of weeks like CRAZY. I went to the VF Factory Outlet in Mineral Wells a couple of weeks ago and bought a ton of backpacks to sell--over $1000.00 worth. That's the most I've ever bought at one time. I scared myself a little. Rex was all proud of me because he's always trying to get me to buy more stuff. His theory is that the more I buy, the more I sell. That is true, and the main basis for my large purchase this time. However, I hate to have a garage full of backpacks that I can't get rid of, and that's my biggest fear when it comes to buying stuff. I can take what I don't sell back to the store, but I hate to have to take an entire carload of things and return them. And don't you know they would hate to see me coming. But hopefully, I'll sell every one of them and not have to worry about returning anything. I sold 20 packs last week, and I've already sold 2 this week. The closer we get to the start of school, the more I should sell, and the higher the prices will be (hopefully). That's how it's been in the past, anyway.

I also found some strollers at Big Lots that I've sold before and made some good money on. I bought 5 of them and have listed them this week also, along with a few odds and ends that I had in my inventory. I spent all day yesterday working--shopping, packaging items, shipping them, and listing more. I have 44 items listed right now, and many of those are multiples, so I'm looking forward to having a good profit week. I may return to the outlet mall on the weekend to exchange some of the packs that aren't selling for styles that are. I'll just have to see how things are going at that time.

I found a precious few items in my LTD catalog that I may try to buy and sell. In the past, they have always had a ton of really great Christmas items that I have bought and made some good money on. Last year, pickin's were slimmer, but this year is the worst I've seen. They didn't have that much Christmas stuff at all, and nothing much I felt I could use. There are some other things that I'm hoping will do well. One thing about catalog orders--you can't really return those items unless you have a good reason and then you have to pay the return shipping, which isn't worth it. So, I'm very hesitant about the things I order from them. There have been a few times when I've gotten stuck with some things, and I hate that.

Well, at this point I'm really procrastinating because I don't want to go in and fix dinner. I'm not sure what we're even having yet, which is not a good thing considering it's already 4:45pm. I have several new recipes I've been wanting to try, and some great old standbys too, but I just don't know what I'm in the mood to make or eat. I sure wish I enjoyed cooking. It would make that part of things so much nicer. Instead, I endure it. Oh well, at least I do cook. Lots of women who hate to cook just don't ever do it. I need to remind my husband of that.

The Proposal

Here's a quick little story.

Rex and I met at Oklahoma Baptist University where we both went to college. The fall after I graduated, we went back up to OBU for Homecoming (seems like I had a Handbell reunion or something) and Rex chose that weekend to "pop the question." He thought it would be neat to be back at the place where we first met for that momentus occasion.

So, one evening we were strolling across campus and came to a set of park benches. It was there that he got down on one knee, pulled out the beautiful engagement ring that he had picked out himself, and asked me to marry him. I said yes, of course, and after he placed the ring on my finger, we stood up and embraced. As Rex hugged me, he looked over my shoulder in time to see a small black and white animal coming toward us. Suddenly he yelled, "SKUNK!!!!" Not, "Hey, there's a skunk." or "I think we should get out of here because we might get sprayed by that skunk right there." It was "SKUNK!!!!" at the top of his lungs.

Now, of course an exclamation like that sent me into orbit. I nearly mowed Rex down in my attempt to get away as fast as possible because, according to all the yelling, that skunk was rabid AND was carrying bubonic plague . . . along with some very stinky perfume. I think I could have outrun Michael Johnson, gold shoes and all. Rex recovered quickly from eating my dust, and caught up to me as we reached the car. We checked to see if the skunk had stayed on our tails, but saw no sign of him, so we felt like it was safe to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

Needless to say, our romantic moment was superceded by something quite unexpected and quite unforgettable!

Sent From Heaven

It was Choir Tour 1988. We went to California that year, with a few stops and singing engagements along the way, and we were on the return trip, again with more engagements along the way. We were traveling I-40 east to Flagstaff where we were to do a concert at a nursing home, and we were running late. I'm not sure if they just misjudged the time or how it happened, but we were in a big rush to get there.

We usually took enough people on our Choir Tours that it was necessary to charter a bus and also take our church van along. Our Music Associate devised a rotation schedule that allowed for various chaperones to take turns driving the van, and a different group of choir members would ride each time as well. For this particular leg of the journey, I happened to be riding the van with 3 of my girlfriends. Dr. Bruce Leafblad who was the distinguished professor of Music and Worship at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, happened to be our driver that afternoon, with his lovely wife riding shotgun. Now, Dr. Leafblad is one of the most highly esteemed, respected (and respectable) and godly men I have ever known. Little did we know until we took that trip with him, that he is also crazy as a loon! The van and bus were both equipped with CB radios for communicating between them, and Dr. Leafblad humorously gave himself the CB handle, "Loose Bruce and the 5 Fems." We had a hilarious time with the Leafblads on the van that day.

Sometime into the long drive, I started feeling potty pangs. Now, I have a small bladder (if you don't know that by now, you really don't know me very well), but fortunately for me, I do have what I call "bladder walls of steel." However, even steel will give when subjected to undue amounts of pressure. As the minutes wore on and the psi inside my bladder began to increase dramatically, I began to feel a sense of desperation, but I remained calm as I asked "Loose Bruce" for an ETA. When I heard, "About an hour and a half," calm and collected went right out the van window and I began sweating profusely. My friend Malinda was also beginning to feel a serious urge to go, and pretty soon we were both in a state of distress.

I don't know if any of you have ever traveled 1-40 in that part of Arizona, but there are long stretches (the one we were on being one of them) where there is absolutely NOTHING out there, unless you count the tumbleweeds. There are no towns, no gas stations, no rest stops, no bushes, no nothing. In fact, you can see for miles and miles out there because there is literally nothing to block your view. Mrs. Leafblad combed the map for any sign of life, but came up short. I suggested the idea of stacking a few tumbleweeds together and going behind them, but everyone discouraged me from doing that. At this point, I was lying down to reduce the pressure on my bladder, and my friends were furiously searching underneath all the seats for a Coke can, a water bottle, or even an empty Ziploc bag that I might be able to use (yes, I was that desperate), but everyone had done much too good a job of keeping the van spic and span (darn them!) and thus left me in a serious lurch.

So I started praying HARD for some relief, and everyone else kept their eyes peeled in hopes a decent-size bush might pop up from the desert floor. My eyeballs were just beginning to turn yellow, when suddenly something materialized on the horizon. It was still a ways off, but you could see it, outlined against the Arizona sky. It was some kind of structure, and it was like the heavens above were peeled back and the sun's rays were shining on it such that it glowed. Dr. Leafblad floored the gas so that we could zoom ahead of the lagging bus. As we got closer, we could see that there were two porta-potties (one for me and one for Malinda), just stuck right out there on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere--relief was literally in sight!! I could hear a chorus of angels (with some mighty good sopranos) singing over us as we drew nearer and nearer.

Now, would you believe that these were the CLEANEST porta-potties I have ever seen in my whole life?? I'm not sure they had ever been used. They didn't stink, and they had plenty of toilet paper! Of course, I don't think I would have cared one way or the other. I have never felt more relief than I did when I sat my rear down on that porta-potty seat and let my bladder loose.

You can believe what you wish, but my story is that I prayed for an end to my misery, and God answered by sending those porta-potties, straight from heaven. I seriously believe that he opened up the sky and WHAMMO--there were those two porta-potties, brand spanking new, ready for me and Malinda. How else do you explain two spotlessly clean porta-potties smack dab in the middle of nowhere Arizona just where we needed them? Even more so, how else do you explain the choir of angels singing in that very spot? Hey, miracles happen, people.

Wake Up, Little Susie!

I was reminded last night of a funny incident that happened not too long after Rex and I got married.

We share a king-sized bed, which is wonderful because it's big enough that we can pretty much have our own sleeping space without having to touch each other. I am all about that because even though I like to snuggle when I'm awake, I need my space when I'm sleeping (unless I'm freezing in the middle of winter, but that's a different story).

One night, I was sleeping rather soundly, when suddenly I felt this very warm and fuzzy thing on my neck and throat. Now I was asleep, mind you, so rational thought was not the first thing going for me. All I could think of was that there must have been a furry animal in my bed, crawling on my neck!!! YIKES!!! I immediately freaked out and began whacking the animal repeatedly to remove it from my body, and if possible, my bed. Instantly, my husband yelled, "Hey! What are you doing??" At that moment, I woke up enough to realize that I was not in fact whacking a furry animal, but instead I was pommeling my husband's head. Don't ask me how, but evidently Rex had traveled over to my side of the bed and gotten the back of his head on my neck.

I apologized profusely for the mistake and for the pommeling, and then we had a good laugh out of it. It's still a really funny memory we share. Thankfully, Rex has kept his hairy head to himself ever since then, and I haven't had to worry about any more incidents like that.

Hammock Amok

Youth Camp was always a fun time. I had a really great and creative youth minister who designed and orchestrated our own youth camps. They were really awesome, and very spiritually refreshing. They were also full of crazy and memorable moments.

One year someone brought a couple of hammocks to camp. There were some trees near the cabins that were just perfect for setting up these hammocks, and there were many of us who took full advantage of the fact that they were there. I, for one, love hammocks and could quite possibly live in one. So I spent my share of time (or perhaps more than my share) hammocking that week.

One afternoon during free time, my friends and I were hanging out (where else) by the hammocks. Because there were only two, we were taking turns getting lost in the reverie of hammock-laying. When it came my turn, my friends got this outrageous notion that it would be hilarious fun to swing me in the hammock. That sounded pretty downright exciting, and I was all for it. I decided to flip over on my stomach and enjoy the ride face-down. The hammock was made of a green mesh and I threaded my fingers through the holes in the netting for a firmer hold in case things got a little wild. It was pretty stinking exhilirating to be in that position, watching the ground come and go, and feeling the wind in my hair as the girls swung me higher, higher, higher. I was having an absolute ball until . . .

. . . until one of the ties came undone from the tree to which it had been attached.

Now, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about when I say that at that point, everything began to run in slow motion. For a moment I was airborne and it was like I was in suspended animation. While I hung there in midair, all I could think about was Wile E. Coyote and then a little tune came trickling through my head as if from far away, "She flies through the air with the greatest of ease . . ." Then UUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRCH!!!!! The other end of the hammock which was securely tied to the opposite tree pulled me back down to earth (and the dirt and rocks below) with a great thud. From my perspective, it was as though the ground came up and smacked me in the face.

Even though it hurt like the dickens, all I could think about was how funny that must have looked, and I lay in a heap on the ground amongst the green mesh just laughing hysterically. My friends saw me shaking and feared that I had been badly injured, but when they realized I was only laughing, they all joined in because, well, it DID look very funny. When I got control of myself enough to survey the damage, I realized that I had scraped most of the skin off the upper part of one of my arms, and a big section of skin was also missing from my hip. The top button had popped off my shirt, and one of my earrings had come out--I think I actually found the button, but the earring must have gone rogue. We never did uncover it. I got a bandage for my hip and some antiseptic spray for my arm--oh, and I changed shirts--and I was good as new. The next day, I noticed that there were bruises on my fingers where they were threaded through the netting on the hammock. Yet another "war wound" from my crazy ride! My friends and I have laughed about this incident for years. Some of us are still laughing. It hasn't deterred me from loving hammocks, but I haven't let anyone swing me in one since. I do think the moral of this story is not that one should avoid swinging in a hammock. It's all about double-checking the ties.

Ah, Memories

I thought it might be fun to share some stories from the past. I'm thinking of writing a book of my memoirs someday, and this might give me a start--who knows? I used to get requests for my stories when we were on handbell tour, and perhaps they still might serve to entertain someone.

I was thinking the other day about college days, particularly the evil and dreaded "Civ" class that all sophomores were required to take. "Western Civilization," as uncool collegiates called it (everyone else called it "Civ"), was a combination of history and literature, the idea being that you would study the literature of the time period in history that you were also studying at the same time. The class periods for Civ were extra long, almost like two in one, and they were team taught by a history and a literature professor together. And they were extremely PAINFUL. Everyone hated Civ.

When it came time for me to sign up for Civ, my friends and I were told that we should try to get Crouch and Mullins because they were the best professors. They, we were led to believe, were the ones that would make Civ more interesting and more bearable. My roommate Alicia and I decided to take the class together, and we were determined to get Crouch and Mullins no matter what. At registration time, wouldn't you know, the only time Crouch and Mullins were teaching Civ was at 8:00am in the morning. We fully believed we were doing the right thing by voluntarily signing up for Civ at the earliest hour because, well, it was going to be worth it. What kind of idiots were we?? The worst kind. Once classes started, we soon began to discover that someone had fed us a load of poppycock. And it tasted BAD. I think Crouch and Mullins were just the opposite of what we had been told. They were the dryest of the dry. The dullest of the dull. The awfullest of the awful. They were two of the . . . no, maybe THE two biggest reasons why every sophomore at OBU dreaded Civ like the plague. Yes, it was THAT bad.

The chairs in our Civ class were fixed in a horseshoe pattern, and they were sort of stadium style. There were only two chairs in the each of the two top rear corners, and with the stadium seating, they were higher than all the rest. Those were the two chairs Alicia and I chose for our long semester of Civ. Now, to get to those chairs, we had to basically scoot by and climb over all the rest of the people in the class. This was particularly unfortunate because we were late to class EVERY DAY. I was always a very punctual kind of gal, but Alicia . . . well, she was not. I won't go into all the reasons why I waited for her every day, but suffice it to say, I feel very sure that everyone in the class hated us.

As if signing up for an 8:00am Civ class wasn't already crazy enough, I showed even greater idiocy by never getting enough sleep. I was the typical college stupid, I mean student, staying up late every night often just for the heck of it. Granted, some of those nights I was up studying, but I remember once just staying up all night for fun and arriving at the local donut shop when it opened. Not the brightest light on the strand. Now, when you're as sleep-deprived as I was, a loud rock and roll concert or even the fire alarm can lull you into dreamland. But Crouch and Mullins at 8:00am? I might as well have taken a bottle of Valium and a swig of Jack Daniels.

So, this was the deal. Alicia hated to take notes. I on the other hand was the note-taker extraordinaire. Alicia had no trouble staying awake, even though she was as sleep-deprived as I was (don't ask me how). I on the other hand could fall asleep inside of a jet engine. So my job was to take notes for the two of us, and Alicia's job was to keep me awake so I could do so. I can't tell you how many times I woke up to the sound of Alicia's voice in my ear saying, "Where are you going??" which was her way of rousing me when I started drifting off.

Alicia devised many ways to pass her time in Civ class. She always figured that was an hour and a half to accomplish something productive since I was taking notes for the both of us. Once she brought a stack of magazines, some construction paper and scissors and crafted several homemade greeting cards. Another time she brought an entire loaf of bread, an economy-size tub of margarine and a butter knife and ate her breakfast. By the way, she didn't eat the whole loaf. But I was incredulous that she wagged all that stuff to class with her and sat up there on display and buttered her bread like she owned the place.

Now, this arrangement worked pretty well until one time when we were studying for a big test and we started going over my notes. To my horror, a bunch of them didn't make sense. Things were incoherent and much of it wasn't even legible. There were several places where sentences literally trailed off the bottom of the page. Apparently, Alicia hadn't been totally successful at her job (maybe she had been too busy with her bread and butter) and I had ended up sleeping through several lectures after all. Fortunately, I had read enough and caught enough that I did fine on the test. I don't remember how well Alicia did. We got a pretty good laugh out of it, but I do think I tried to get more sleep after that.

We survived Civ, and lived to tell about it. I think I pulled out a "B" for the semester in spite of the botched note-taking. The next semester I chose a different teaching team and a later hour for the second half of the torture, and it wasn't quite as bad. And I took the class alone. I probably did better in the class overall, but it just wasn't the same.

Next time maybe I'll write about the time I went flying in a hammock. Good times.

Taggies: In the Flesh

With my whole introduction to the "Taggies" market (they make baby toys and blankets and such that have lots of little "tags" all over them--babies LOVE them), I got to thinking about how I have gotten some of my own tags. Skin tags, that is. While Nathan loves his taggies, I'm not too fond of mine.

Pregnancy and motherhood bring about all sorts of bizarre and potentially irritating anomalies. I'm not sure why it is, but skin tags are some of those. If you've ever been pregnant, perhaps you understand what I'm saying. My sister-in-law shared that she had one that would come up on her tummy every time she was pregnant, but then it would always go away afterward. She is lucky that it didn't stick around like most of mine did. I think I might have had one tiny little tag before I got pregnant, but since then, it's like someone planted a bucket of seeds and they just sprouted right up with a vengeance. And they keep coming up!!! My neck, for example, has become a veritable field 'o plenty with the nasty buggers cropping up all the time. Several of them have come and gone from my armpits. Gone, that is, because I would inevitably nick them with my razor while shaving. If you think that sounds painful, well IT IS. I would have pain like none other for a couple of days, but then the thing would shrivel up and fall off and I would be rid of it for good . . . until another one decided to rear its ugly head. That was the only advantage to shaving one.

So several weeks ago I had another one come up on my neck. This thing was really annoying and fairly painful. Sometimes my necklaces would catch it, or if I turned a certain way in the car, the seatbelt would rub it and I'd nearly come unglued. I often would just catch it with my fingernail. My mother often just cuts hers off with scissors, and I debated that--Rex said he would do it for me--but the thing was already so painful I just couldn't bear the thought of CUTTING it. EEEEEEEEEK! Anyway, I was standing in the kitchen at my in-law's house the weekend before last, and I noticed that the skin tag was GONE! It was bleeding like a sieve, but it was just gone! I guess it had fallen off somewhere. I didn't try to look for it. All I could think of was how glad I was to be rid of that thing. I wish the other 674 of them would just fall off my neck like that! Oh, to have smooth skin again! But at least they aren't bothering me like that one was.

One of these days, maybe I'll get up the nerve to just shave my neck and be rid of all those little suckers for good. Until then, I guess I'll just let Nathan play with my taggies and be thankful they are small.

Underwear: A Soliloquy

I have a love-hate relationship with underwear. On the one hand, I could never go without it--YUCK!! I don't know how those nudists do it (can you imagine bicycling or horseback riding with no underwear?? GROSS!) One time, I actually ran out of underwear (due to a miscalculation in the amount of days since the last laundry), and I ended up having to wear some of Rex's boxers. Not a pleasant experience, but definitely better in my mind than going commando. On the other hand, my whole life I have struggled to find the perfect pair of underwear: the one that stays put, doesn't ride up, and doesn't scratch or annoy. I have a hyperactive nervous system, so every little thing bugs me, even more so than most people. When I was little, my grandmother used to buy me the cutesie, frilly panties that are so fun for little girls. Guess who ended up wearing all of those? My sister. The lace and bows and frills were always way too irritating for me, but didn't seem to bother her. Must be nice. I always had the plain-jane cotton type because that's all I could tolerate.

So, I found some underwear at WalMart several years ago that became my standard brand, and they were OK--not great, but the best I'd found up to that point, anyway. Unfortunately, when I went to buy some new ones last year, I found that they had changed them significantly and they didn't fit the same anymore--story of my life. They were pretty awful, actually. I was totally bummed, and started looking for a new brand. I absolutely HATE shopping for underwear because you can't really try them on and you don't know how they are going to feel until after you've worn them and can't take them back. I can't tell you how many pairs of uncomfortable underwear I've gotten stuck with over the years.

Then a few months ago, I stumbled upon a brand of underwear that I hadn't seen before. It's called "The Best Fitting Intimates in the World." Being the skeptic that I am, and having gone through too many pairs of underwear with similar claims, my first thought was, "Yeah, right." But, they promised a full refund if I didn't agree with their statement, so I thought "What the heck" and bought a pair. Now, the world is a very large place, and I haven't tried EVERY pair of underwear that's out there. So, I can't really say without reservation that they are the BEST underwear in the whole world. They aren't perfect, but they are definitely the best fitting ones I personally have found to date. I was ECSTATIC to have found them!! I bought several pair and recently went back to WalMart to get another, and guess what??? THEY WERE GONE!!!!!!! What the heck?? I don't understand why this kind of thing always happens to me! I have yet to check at other WalMart stores to see if they still carry them there, but I may cry if I can't find them anymore.

So, needless to say, I will be keeping my eyes peeled for "The Best Fitting Intimates in the World." I think it's only fitting to end this with a little underwear song. Wouldn't you agree?

I have lost my underwear,
I don't care, I'll go bare.
Bye bye, longjohns.
They were very dear to me
Tickled me, tee hee hee!
Bye bye, longjohns.
How I miss that little trap door behind me.
If you see them you know where to find me.
I have lost my underwear,
I don't care, I'll go bare.
Bye bye, longjohns!

Woo Hoo for Egg Nog in July!!

I am an egg nog FREAK, and I am particularly partial to Braum's Egg Nog. I love it so much that I usually go through several half gallons every holiday season. It's a wonder I'm not big as a barn. Braum's makes an amazing egg nog shake too during the holidays--they use egg nog ice cream and real egg nog to make it. It's absolutely sinful, but totally delicious! We usually try to stop every year either on the way up or back from Oklahoma and get a shake at Braum's during the holidays. Rex goes for the pumpkin malt, but I'm egg nog all the way, Baby!

It's probably rather fortunate (for my waistline, particularly) that egg nog is only sold during the holidays, even though that makes me very sad. But, a couple of years ago I got this brilliant idea and I bought a couple of extra half gallons to put in the freezer so that I could have egg nog in the summertime! As luck would have it, they even put it on SALE that year because they had ordered too much of it. I was ecstatic.

Well, long story short, I got pregnant that year and was lactose intolerant during my pregnancy, and then had gestational diabetes, so I didn't get to have egg nog during the summertime. We ended up getting the egg nog out of the freezer at just about holiday time, so it wasn't quite as exciting as I had hoped. Then, that Christmas, Rex and I had the stomach flu and were stuck in Oklahoma for several extra days. When we got back, all the egg nog was sold out, and we couldn't get any to freeze for last summer. I was totally bummed.

So, this past holiday season, I made sure to buy two extra half gallons of yumminess, and I froze them. We decided just the other day that we would thaw one and enjoy it! It has been so much fun to drink egg nog in the middle of the summer when no one else can!!! We love egg nog french toast (one of my specialties--it's amazing!) and so we've had that twice already. There is just a little left in the jug, so we'll probably split that tonight and savor the last drops together. But, there's still one more left in the freezer and we'll be getting it out later in the summer. I know all you egg nog people are jealous! As for me, it's total happiness!! Thank you, Lord, for egg nog!