Jesus called people names, too!

So last week, Wednesday to be exact, I was on my way to get my hair trimmed when my blissful afternoon was RUDELY interrupted by a fender bender! More accurately, her fender and my passenger-side front quarter panel. The daughter of my across the street neighbors, Dick and Carolyn Sturm (no names have been changed to "protect the innocent") is the perp. She's a GROWN woman in her thirties I'm guessing. She was visiting from Round Rock and was on her way to the grocery store when her trip was interrupted by my truck being right behind her. My truck, which was already finished backing up and just starting to drive forward-parallel to the curb. Funny, but I thought that automatically gave me the right-of-way. Not according to the driver manual of Kelli Reeves.

We both were the only witnesses and the only ones in our respective vehicles. She ran into her mom's house while I was still trying to figure out what happened and how bad the damage was. I thought she ran in for her phone, but apparently she "went to tell her mommy on me" for the way my neighbor reacted to me. Oooh, the glares and stares! AND her granddaughter (Kelli's kid), too! Looking at ME like I was covered in dog poo and smelled just that bad! BEG YOUR PARDON...YOU backed into ME! By the look of my car, it was OBVIOUS to anybody. Anybody, that is, except them. They are the exception. Heaven FORBID they be at fault. (They can probably walk on water, too!)

I am trying to remain calm. At this point, I am determined to take the high road. That feeling subsides later, just you wait...

Kelli and I exchange insurance info and make our apologies with no admission of guilt on either side. Just a mutual admission to us both needing to be more careful. Apparently that is code for "my insurance will take care of mine and yours will do yours." I went on about my way and she hers. When I got home, one hour later, I called my insurance co. to see if she had reported the accident. I asked my agent for advice and she said it was up to me. Then I called Bobby. He said, "Heck yeah, call her insurance agent! It was her fault." So that's what I did. I went about the rest of the afternoon feeling fairly settled. I was unaware of the storm that was brewing.

At nine that night, as we pulled into the driveway from our Wednesday night activities, I was pounced upon by Kelli's mommy and daddy. Her dad brought over a flashlight to look at the damage. He then proceeds to light into me with "why wasn't the police called?" (yes, his grammar is THAT bad) and "the insurance agent called us to say that you said it was Kelli's fault." I did describe what happened without using those exact words, but let's call a spade a spade. What a huge JERK!! ( more like a word that rhymes with bass) Her PARENTS got involved? Seriously? They weren't there! NOW I'm PISSED! What she told them about what happened evidently made me look like the Wicked Witch of the West. So, being the helicopters that they are, they swooped in to make sure their little Kelli Welli wasn't going to be messed with. I guess they still see her as their wittle sweet sixteen year old who is so naive and innocent. How dare the big bad world scare her! Do they really think they are doing her a favor by stepping in and fighting her battles? What happens now that she's back in Round Rock? Is her daddy going to give the big bad bullies a tongue lashing over the phone?

LONG story short, we are taking it up the tailpipe regarding the repairs. The nasty-a'd Sturms are just going along like they haven't been inconvenienced at all. They are convinced it was my fault! Those old, blind, half-wits! Those crazy, co-dependent helicopters! I am trying to keep this G-rated. But it's hard, believe me!

What I want to do is egg their house, key their cars and let Emma poop all over their yard without cleaning it up! Stuff so juvenile it would look like local teenagers out for a vandalism joyride. But I don't. (She said begrudgingly!) What I DO is call them names under my breath and give them "the nostril flare of total rejection!" (5 points if you know where that came from) In my conversations with God I am honest about not wanting to forgive them, not wanting to turn the other cheek. Fine, I'll forgive but I won't forget...yada yada yada!

Hey, even Jesus called the Pharisees "vipers"! I figure I'm in good company! He'll sit by me even when I can't say anything nice!

BTW...

As an aside, I'd like to also mention that on the day before my birthday, I was at the doctor's office for a follow-up about my torn plantar fascia. Here's the equation: still sore + cortisone shot + Blanca holding my hand because I was nervous = Immediate relief!! Look out, Chrisinator! Stephanie's back!!

Aging gracefully?

Turning pages. Turn circles. Milk turns. Meat turns. Turn, turn, turn. I turned 40 one week ago. (Write "turn" enough times and the word itself turns weird) Anyway, the big 4-0! Great milestone in anyone's life. It seemed REALLY faraway when I was 20! Where did 20 years go so fast?!? It seems to me that age is a strange and wonderous creature. We can't wait for some ages and really don't look forward to others. Remember turning 16? How about 18 or 21? (My husband is old enough to remember being "legal" twice: when he turned 18 he could drink, back in the day. Then the legal drinking age was raised to 21 when he turned 21. Coincidence?)

When Bobby surprised me for my 30th with sneaking my family in from Dallas and having a fabulous dinner at a now-defunct Chinese restaurant, I didn't "feel" 30. Whatever that means. I still felt the same as I did in high school, except that now I had a career to keep up with and not just math homework. We didn't have children when I was 30. Telling, don't you think? Was I waiting for maturity or merely procrastinating? God blessed us with Evan after celebrating my 33rd.

What's funny to me is, I've been told numerous times that I don't "look" my age. Cool. (I know I don't act my age--haha.) I'm a shoe-in for those "Guess Your Age" games at carnivals. They NEVER guess it right! "Score 1 for the lady and a pick of any of the small stuffed animals." When the big day was looming closer, Bobby surprised me AGAIN, this time recruiting 2 of my very best girlfriends to help. He knew I didn't want a big party (Sweet 16 being the fiasco that it was). Instead he helped them plan a trip. HE ROCKS!! He got my sister and mom in on it, too!

I was told to pack for the weekend and be ready by noon on the 24th. Dinner that night was at Joe T. Garcia's in Ft. Worth. My mom & sis were already seated so when I walked in? Cue squealing, laughing and a few happy tears. Saturday we went to the horseraces followed by shopping. Sunday was an easy-does-it approach back to the "real world." THE BEST 40th EVER!!

I can hardly wait until it dawns on the Pope side that this year was the 11th anniversary of my 29th bday! Dave & Carol NEVER remember when my birthday is much less how old I am even after 20 years of knowing them. Mary will probably make a show of pouting/"why didn't you tell me?" whiny-ness. (Because telling only works when you're 6. NOT 40.) Muah-ah-ah-ah !! Cue the mad scientist laughter with organ music!

p.s. I've already started planning the friends' 40th! Woo Hoo! Won't they be surprised?

How ironic!

Perhaps he read my last post/rant. Who knows? But, I actually warranted a "Hey, working hard!" greeting last Friday from one of the "Sweaty Brothers!" Angela was putting her hand weights away and I was standing alone, waiting for her to rejoin me for the next set of exercises. I heard him, didn't realize he was talking to me, then after that panicked spinning of my head to see who else was around, I said, "Yeah! You too!" Wow. Actual "gym banter!" Perhaps I was too hasty in my emotional estimation last week...

Now you see me...or do you?

So I commented on my facebook page the other day that I felt invisible. Let's put this into context. It was Friday of last week. Feeling a bit hormonal, I still went to my session with the Chrisinator when what I really wanted to do was stay home, curled up in my cozy blanket with a cup of tea & a book. But I am intrepid (and a glutton for punishment). This is my story.

Me--dressed ready to sweat in whatever was clean at the time or what was clean the night before that I slept in knowing I would streamline my morning routine. Nine times out of ten, not wearing makeup. Why waste the makeup and the effort? It's going to be washed away within the first ten minutes anyway. Always sporting deo for the b.o. And perfume. "Happy" by Clinique because I love it. Hair? Usually in a tossed up up-do held in place by a clip or hairband. This is normal, whether we are dealing with hormones or not.

My Workout Friend--dressed ready to sweat in a cute and perfectly matched workout ensemble, complete with a beautifully combed ponytail and just the right amount of makeup. Waterproof, apparently, since it stays put. (Seriously, if Angela reads this, I aspire to this! I tease because I'm jealous!) This is normal and unrelated to any hormonal influence.

The other characters in our little vignette are two nameless gentlemen who work out (coincidentally?) close to the same time we do. Allow me another digression to say that I realize this anecdote will smack of sarcasm and bitterness. It's all part of getting this off my chest. Plus, Angela and I already talked about it during the cardio portion of our workout on Friday. Back to the story, I would love to know what these two men do for a living that they can workout mid-morning, three times a week for longer than one hour at a time. Independently wealthy? Business owners who can set their own hours? Bookies? Drug Dealers? (Okay, Steph, rein it in!)
EVERY time we see them, they greet Angela with a smile and a "How's it going?" Small talk ensues. I thought they were friends of hers. Turns out, nope. Me? I get nothing. Just a passing glance; not even really passing but more of a looking through. "Mrs. Cellophane...."

Friday was the last straw. That's when I really felt it. It's the same kind of feeling you got in school when you were ALWAYS the last one picked for the team in gym class. On a non-pms-ing kind of day I could care less, really. I mean, I'm certainly not looking for a pickup artist or whatever. I'm happily married, for Heaven's sake!! I'm just saying, be polite and acknowledge a fellow human with a kind "hello" or a "how's it going?" It's not a come on. It's not a relationship. It's a greeting; a "her husband is a lucky man" kind of thing. That's what I want.

I think I'll do a little experiment on my weight loss journey. I'll make a chart that somehow graphs how much small talk happens the more pounds I lose. Because, honestly? Those of us who carry more bod around and take up more space are WAY less visible to the naked eye than the most petite person you can think of. It happened to me in high school: fat and ignored, thin and recognized. It happened in college: beginning of the slow re-gain=begin to disappear from society and being treated like a poltergeist who bumps into people. But, begin to re-lose and suddenly, attention. (Usually from the nerds and socially inept because all the hotties are: taken, gay or too into themselves)

It's like, if Angela and I were single, I'd be the one that the "wingman" would have to distract while the other one makes his move. Sometimes a girl gets fed up with being second prize. Even if she is happily married and loves her husband and her life.

Just keep knitting; just keep knitting...

I LOVE KNITTING!! Just wanted to share the passion. Just wanted to open a window into the amazingly wonderful world that is knitting. For starters, knitting comforts a whole lot better than food. I've come to embrace this! (My trainer is very pleased! Not to mention I did knit him a very cool hat) I would put it on par or better even than chocolate. Wait, did I just say that?!? Let's rephrase. Definitely on par with but not better than. Whew, what a braincramp.

Seriously, though, just the feel of the yarn in my hands makes all the "baddies" go away. "Saddies" too. I can fill an afternoon of just blissfully "organizing" my stash. That entails sitting on the floor surrrounded by the overflowing bins of fabulousity. The colors are hypnotic. The textures: soft and softer. I can squeeze the skeins and hanks with all the gusto of Mr. Whipple and his Charmin. And while my senses are dazzled, my mind twirls with the possibilities like a ballroom dancer expertly performing the perfect waltz. "This would be soooo great as a scarf. No, socks. SCORE!! Enough for socks AND a scarf. Or a scarf AND a hat..." When my sensory binge needs a moment to settle before the second, third or fourth courses I peruse my pattern books. I turn each page with care, drinking in the details of the photos. I'm impresses by the brainwork it took to design such amazing things. What a gift from God to be able to design an Aran sweater or a lacy shawl!! Such creativity!! Such masterpieces!!

F.Y.I. Knitting is biblical. It's true. God knits. He knit us together in our mother's wombs (see Psalm 139). He knits hearts together: marriages, friendships, families. Scarlet wool is included in the offerings listed in
Numbers 19. (I learned that at Bible Study Fellowship.)

Now, if you'll excuse me. I've gotta go....KNIT!!

Veloci-what?!?

If you try to find the definition for "velocitization" in Webster's Dictionary, you won't. But, look in Urban Dictionary and you will. Velocitization is becoming desensitized to high speed. You know that feeling you get when you've been driving 70 mph and suddenly need to slow down through a small town? You hit the brakes to bring your speed down to, say, 35 mph. Y-o-u
f-e-e-l l-i-k-e y-o-u-r-e i-n ssssssss-----lllllll------ooooooooo---------wwwww mmmmmmm----ooooooo---ttttttttt-------iiiiiiiii-----ooooooooo-------nnnnnnnnnn. Like crawling through quick dry concrete as it hardens around you. Like thick molasses being poured outside in freezing weather. You get the idea. I am experiencing velocitization. Not behind the wheel of my car at the moment. Behind the "wheel" of my life. You don't realize how fast life travels until YOU can't travel at the "normal" pace. My torn plantar fascia has opened my eyes to my "life velocitization syndrome."

Suddenly, I can't walk at my usual pace. I can't move with my normal gait. The one that I use when I walk through the house, or to the car, or from the car to the store/school/church/etc. The one that says, "I have a purpose. I have a place to be, three seconds AGO." This FRUSTRATES me!! I prefer fast. I have to admit it. I am a "fast-aholic." I walk fast. I talk fast. I want to get things done fast so I can move on to the next thing, whatever it is, but make it FAST. My gimpy foot is unable to keep up with my fastness. It rebels when I try to hurry it up. It shoots pain up my leg, through my knee and hip, to my brain. Brain translates the message, "Slow down, Stephanie McSpeedypants!!!! That HURTS!!" So while I sit with ice on my inflamed fascia, I am forced to face my situation. It occurred to me that it is no accident that this happened to me when it did. Sure, there's never a "convenient" time for an injury with a
3 to 6 week sentence (I mean recovery). But when I really think about it (NOT a fast process), I can see Providence at work. I'm not saying God made me hurt my foot. I am saying that by looking at this from a godly perspective, I can see that He wants me to slow down. He wants me to take my time: to pray, to read His word, to listen to my husband and son in an un-Stephanie kind of speed, to listen to friends...really listen. So with grateful tears, my prayer has changed from "God, please heal my foot superFAST" to "God, please help me slow down, see opportunities, and catch up on the things of life that I sped through."

You know what? God answers prayer! Always. Even when we move too fast to see it. AND especially when we ask Him to help us slow down and then deal with the slowed down-ness. That's just how God rolls!