Kimchi Soup

All the "How to Make Your Blog Better" tips said I should post often. Remember me saying that on my Blog for a Dummi post? And, also, remember me saying I didn't have that much to say? That still stands true. So, I decided to post a recipe. If I don't have anything to say that will warm your heart or make you laugh, I can at least help you warm your belly. This recipe will do that. And, set your mouth on fire if you want.

I love kimchi. It's a Korean dish of fermented cabbage which I know sounds grody but it's great. Crunchy, spicy, garlicky...fantastic. And, super good for you. It's packed with vitamins, probiotics, has anti-aging and anti cancer properties. Look the stuff up. It's awesome. A WORD OF WARNING: It packs a punch. If you don't handle spicy foods well, go easy on the stuff. And, wash your hands after handling it. You can find it in the refrigerated section of grocery stores, usually around tofu. 

Ok, here's a recipe I've made and love. It's the lazy woman's version. No need to cook down pork yadda yadda. Just grab a box of chicken broth. If you want it vegetarian/vegan, I don't know what to tell ya. If you've had for real kimchi soup, this will pale in comparison BUT it ain't a bad fix and it's cheap!

Kimchi Soup

5 cups (32 oz) chicken broth

16 oz jar kimchi - liquid too (Remember, wash your hands after handling and if you have a sensitive tummy, start with half a jar or less.)

1 tsp minced ginger

2 tsp fish sauce

8 oz firm tofu - drained cut into small cubes

Glass noodles aka bean thread or whatever noodle you want. - cook per directions. I don't like egg noodles or regular semolina noodles in the soup. But, that's just me. To each his own. 

Put broth, kimchi, tofu (yes, I boil the tofu if it's firm tofu), ginger and fish sauce in a pot. Bring to boil. Don't let it boil too long. The steam can bother your eyes.  Turn off heat. Cook noodles per directions, throw how ever many you want in your bowl and put soup on top. Salt to taste. That's it. Done. Yum. Enjoy. You're welcome. Change it up all you want.

I'll admit, it looks like what's left at the bottom of a
sink after washing a ton of dishes. A lot of Koren food
does. But, I love it. My husband and I used to get
take out from this one place so much (Virginia) that
the ladies that worked there were some of the first to
know I was pregnant. Parents, siblings, Korean ladies,
then the rest of the world knew. I didn't even tell
them by the way. I just walked in to pick up the order and
they said, "Oh, look at you! You 'preganate!'" 

He Looks Just Like His Father

The contractions gripped Mary. She had seen babies born, heard the wailing of the mothers. But she never imagined she would be the one making the deep, guttural noises. Not this way. No midwife. No mother or sister to guide her. She was terrified. And, her fiancé there seeing her like this. He had seen no more of her than her face, hands and feet. Along with the agony of birth, she ached from embarrassment. 

With each painful wave, the angels grabbed one another by the arm. They stamped their feet, waiting for it to pass. When it did, they exhaled and looked up at the throne to see The King doing the same thing. The Creator was beside Himself, wringing His omnipotent hands. He knew all, but He had never been born. Even if He had chosen to go through the experience, it wasn’t Him going through it now. It was something far more precious. It was His Son, a piece of Him and all of Him. 

The Spirit reached out and touched the King’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be long now. Yes, God nodded, no much longer. Yet so long. He wanted so badly to stop the pain and the relentless contractions gripping His Boy like a great fist. If He struggled to restrain Himself now, how would He be able to withstand the end? He would simply have to turn away. It would be too much. 

A final push and the Prince of Peace was born into the cold world of mortality. Heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug the proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at those curls,” the angels marveled. “Hello little Messiah. You are a jewel.” “Look at those fat cheeks.” “He looks just like His Father.” “Quiet everyone, He needs to sleep.”

A tear glossed God’s cheek. Was He so proud, so relieved, so blissfully in love with His precious Baby that all He could do was smile and cry. He wanted to reach out, to put His hand on Joseph’s shoulder. The man was so scared, so afraid he hadn’t done enough. He had apologized to God for the stable. Mary deserved better. The little Miracle deserved the best.

The messenger angels stood at the door bouncing foot to foot, shaking their hands, ready to burst forth from heaven like holy fire. They had been practicing, they were ready. But most of all, they were excited to be just a little closer to Him. They had missed Him so.

That night, as Mary slept, Joseph stared in wonder at his boy. A boy! His first born was a boy. A son! But, no. Could he even call Jesus, son? Was that allowed? What did YWHW want? I want you, Joseph. I trust you. 

Jesus stirred. Joseph carefully picked Him up and laid the Savior of mankind against his human shoulder. He smelled the Baby’s silky hair and smiled. He’s yours to raise Joseph. Love him as your own. It’s ok. I want it this way. Joseph smiled. The little One did feel like his own and he would raise Him as if He were. Oh, the things he would teach Him. They would build things together, play games, hunt, fish. And one day, Jesus would make him a grandpa. The house would run wild with little ones. 

That’s how it would happen, right? That’s how life was supposed to go. Joseph walked back and forth, bouncing the baby. Yes, men had children, grew old and died peacefully, surrounded by their grandchildren and great grandchildren. Of course, life hadn’t gone as it was supposed to go thus far. Since that precious little Miracle had entered their lives, nothing had gone right. Here they were in a cave, more or less, surrounded by animals. What kind of father was he letting it happen this way? He apologized to the LORD again.

A knock at the entrance. Shepherds stood quietly, still a little pale and shocked from the  celestial chorus. They had been told they would find exactly what they found. Why them, they had wondered as they made their way to the stable. The dregs of society: bug bites on their ankles, the smell of filth and the weariness of work on their clothes and skin. Why had they been chosen for this? They looked at the baby then one another. Their souls leaped in their chests and they stood dumbstruck, lowly shepherds in the presence of the greatest Shepherd. 

Time passed quickly. Mary grew heavy with another child. She and Joseph knew Jesus was the Son of God. But, did they? He didn’t seem divine. To them, He was their just little man, toddling everywhere, grabbing everything. “Jesus, no, no! Joseph, grab that nail from Him.” “Oh, come now Mary. Just a nail. We are carpenters, strong men. Show mommy Your muscle, Jesus. Yes, there it is. Growl for her. Grrrr. He’s a Samson, He is. A little nail in the hand couldn’t hurt You, could it? No, never.”

The Magi arrived at the door and the reality of Who was pulling at their robes came back to Joseph and Mary. Such strange gifts for a baby: gold, frankincense, myrrh. A gift for a king, an anointment for a sacrifice and a spice to embalm a corpse. The proud parents gave each other side-ways looks and smiled. Perhaps that was the custom from the Magi’s distant lands. Surely it didn’t mean something. Did it?

Children filled the house. The Son of Man became a big brother. His beloved father Joseph died. “Father, let me save Him.” “No, Son. He’s here with me and happy to stay.” 

The time came. Jesus began teaching. His family was shamed, embarrassed. He was the talk of gatherings. Mary stayed quiet. She had always stayed quiet. If she kept much more in her heart, it would explode. James understood. Finally. Or, at least he tried. It was a lot to take in. His big Brother was his Heavenly Father. The prophesied Messiah. Why had it taken him so long to see it? He and his mother exchanged looks as the aunts, uncles, distant kin and the whole of the city gossiped about the One they loved, lived with and were now living for.

And then, the trial. How had this happened? What had gone wrong? Mary wretched bile, her body devouring its own self with grief. Her baby. So fat, so happy. What had she done wrong? What could she do? Could she climb the cross, pull out the nails and take them herself? “Please. Please, YWHW, let me die instead. Not my baby boy.”

God turned away. He knew He would have to. It would be too much. The angels were beside themselves. “Great King, send us! We’ll kill them all! Our swords are ready! Please, King, Our Savior is screaming!” The earth shook with rage. 

The Spirit held up His hand. The earth stilled. Heaven was silent. Except for the laughter of one. The one who thought he had won. 

Christ returned home. The angels rushed to Him, to comfort Him, feed Him, tend to Him. He thanked them but refused. He only wanted to see His Abba. And there He was, The Holy One, The Creator, His Abba, His Daddy, running from the throne to hug His Boy. His Son. The missing piece of His heart.

And then, the third day. Once again, the Savior found Himself in a cave, in the dark, born into the cold world of mortality. But this time, He would walk out on His own. Not only as a man, but a Lion. Death devoured. The laughter silenced as heaven shook with cheers. The hosts lined up to hug His proud Abba and the enraptured Spirit. And then, silence, wonder, complete awe as the Prince looked up at them through unseen realms. “Oh, look at Him,” the angels marveled. “He looks just like His Father.”  

Blog by a Dummi

Blogging For by a Dummies


My blog is doing ok. Especially considering how little I know about the whole thing (yes still) and how anti-social I am. It’s not that I don’t like people, they just make me uncomfortable. Yes, really. So strange they are, what with all their body hair and opposable thumbs. 

But, again, the blog is doing ok despite me and by that I mean I’m averaging about…oh, I don’t know like around a dozen folks a day. I think. (Pretty sure it would be better for business if I lied and said my daily numbers rival Candy Crush but I’m not a liar unless it makes a post funnier in which case it is justified. Here  it’s just not. Also, I know my # of readers isn’t impressive compared to other blogs. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned by still shopping in the kids department, it’s not to compare myself to others.) I’ve a little following outside the blessed motherland - and I don’t mean Texas. I mean internationally. Good to know my tyrannical rants, ill conceived notions and social awkwardness translate.

The blog is its own animal at this point is what I’m getting at. It lives beyond my laboratory and I figured I should make it better. Slap a little lipstick on it. So, I looked up what makes a great blog. Here’s what I found and I wish I’d never seen. Some are from, in fact, Blogging for Dummies.

Suggestion 1:
Update Often! Every two or three days!


Say what? Every two or three days? What could I possibly say every two or three days that anyone would want to hear except, congratulations, you’re a winner. Apparently though, it doesn’t matter how mundane. People like their blogs like their BMs: regular. Which, mine pretty much are thank you very much. Thank you, kale. But, again, what would I say? My sister told me about a blog where this woman just said what she does everyday and folks are clambering for it. Dear heavens, I don’t like knowing what I’ve done in the course of a day! In case you’re wondering though, drank coffee, went to see a man about dog (that's Southern for restroom break), wrote a post, not this one, oh, wait - before that I got husband off to work at 5:30AM - on a Saturday!!!! My son was already up watching TV. I went back to bed and couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about my book I’m still not finished writing. Finally got up at 8:15 because I wasn’t in the mood to lie in my own urine. 

See, what I’m saying? Who cares about that junk? OH! I made my kids a space ship with cardboard boxes and duct tape. Which, btw, is duct tape’s achilles heel: cardboard. It don’t do cardboard. Unfortunately ground control here was out of packing tape. No biggie. Wasn’t like Major Tom was coming home anyway. Who cares if the duct tape gave up in the stratosphere? I will post a pic of the mess.

How I imagined it.

How it turned out...

Now, I ask you, does this look like the work of a person that should blog more often? 

Oh well, we'll see how it goes. Stay tuned for another installment...soonish... 

Turning 42 aka My Flying Squirrel Neck.

You'll understand. Keep reading.

       Two years ago I wrote an article regarding turning 40. I was against it, stomping my foot at it and giving it the whole Gandalf-you-shall-not-pass treatment. But, after looking at my over forty pals, as well as my inability to find a time-machine with Amazon Prime shipping convenience, I let it happen. And, as I was assured by others, I found it to be true that turning forty is a whole lot harder than being forty. Or, as I am now, 42.

There’s something quite liberating about the fourth decade. It’s the one when the organ responsible for caring what others think starts to decay. Not to say you become rude to others, you just become kinder to yourself. You don’t worry about what folks expect of you so much. You embrace what you do well and don’t kvetch over what you don’t. Trivial drama becomes more tiresome and you find yourself drawing closer to folks that feel the same. And, for the most part, every expenditure of your energy is considered, no matter how small, and, whenever possible, more reasonably appropriated to activities and thoughts that fill you up rather than suck you dry. 

I’m not saying that life becomes easier after forty. In some ways, it’s tougher. Your parents and children begin reaching an age that requires more of your attention and your wallet. Retirement looms in the distance and job security becomes important in a way that it wasn't before. However, the blessings of age will help you handle those tough situations better. You’ll see things clearer, have more perspective and wisdom. You’ll be the you you couldn’t be until now and that's pretty great. Sure, sometimes gray roots will shine from your head like light is trying to escape from your skull. And, sometimes you’ll have hot flashes and pimples at the same time. And, sometimes, you’ll forget that Western Day is tomorrow and send your kid to school in full get-up today. Also, if you ever have the misfortune of looking down into a mirror, you will see your entire face slide forward. Don’t even get me started on what your neck does.

You know what, I will get started. What the heck, neck! You’re like a tube sock worn past its prime. One false move and I fear you’ll fall down into a fleshy pile on my collar bones like one of those infinity scarves from Coldwater Creek. Yes, I said Coldwater Creek. And, I regret it. It’s a great store but the demographic of shoppers is, well, let’s just say the last time I walked in there, I was the only one who couldn’t say where she was when Kennedy was shot. I wish I had said something younger and hipper like The Gap. But, I didn’t. So, thanks, neck. Not only have you starting giving up, you’ve pushed me out of the Coldwater Creek closet. 

By the way, don’t even try saying you are still firm, neck. Yeah, you haven’t fallen completely, you’re not horrible when I look at you straight on. But, I see what you’re doing. I see it. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of you in the mirror. Your miserable effort to hang onto the bottom of my chin looks like that flap of skin on the side of a flying squirrel (See attached image but take away cuteness). Well, I’m not a flying squirrel, neck. Ok? I have no plans to glide from the top of my stairs to the bottom. Although, that would be super cool, I’ll admit. If I could do that, I’d do it all the time. But, I would still resent you for it. And, if by chance you are just sitting up there giggling, thinking you are off my radar, jowls, you’re not. Ok? I’m onto you too. I see your subtle slip into hound dog mode. 

But, I digress. (hot flash) Flying rodents and hunting dogs aside, don’t fear the fourth decade. It’s worth every year it took to get you there. Own it. Don’t desperately cling to your youth. It will just keep you from from being able to reach for something else and waste energy you could be using to do, well, anything else. You’ll still be young, younger in a way you haven’t been yet because you’ll have a greater appreciation of youth. Just trust me on that one. And, when the challenging moments hit, the ones when everyone seems younger than you (you’ll probably be trying on jeans at Old Navy when it happens) just remember: when the zombies come, none of those whipper snappers will survive because they’ll all be trying to text while they run. Have you seen this? So help me, anyone born after ’82 is forever on their phone. Even while walking and running. Well, that’s gonna bite them in their pert backsides. Literally. Then, they’ll be zombies. Meanwhile, the rest of us will gracefully glide away, the wind catching us under our flying squirrel chin flaps, and we shall take refuge with all the other survivors and thrive in comfortable clothing…at Coldwater Creek. 

Haikus for 42

Perimenopause                             
Anti-aging creams, acne 
Hot flashes, sneeze-pee                             

Walk into a room,                           
Forget why I ever went.                               
What was I saying?                    

Neck, what has happened?                
Has your elastic worn out?              
How dare you give up!                    

  (Haiku for Jiujitsu at 42)

See me on the floor,                         

Old enough to be your mom                    

I will choke you out.                         

Oh give me a home,
Where Botox fairies do roam,
And all clothes are Spanx.

Embrace the crows feet.

Make peace with your muffin top.

At least you're not dead.

I'm stronger, braver,
Wiser, happier, kinder.
'Cause I eat fiber.

Wish to be younger?

Smoother, perkier, no grays?

Nah, I'm good right here.

Call Me Ick Fish

I was going to include a pic of myself
but the sight of me would leave you
washing your hands the rest of the day.

I’m sick. I’m not exactly sure what I have, but I’d say it’s the human equivalent of Ick. You know that thing that fish get, and that little cloud of affliction that attaches to them? They just swim around and drag it along. Other fish swim toward them slowly as if maybe they are going to talk to them, “oh, hey, Steve, how are you…what the?” Then they dart around them at the last second, their one eye following the pariah as they go. And when the Ick fish is at a safe distance, the healthy fish turn around. They gather up in a little school, stand around the coolest one's locker and watch poor Ick fish swim away, dragging its little filth plume. Poor Ick fish.

I am Ick fish. Except I can’t get my family to avoid me. I wish they would. They continually ask me for stuff and when I say, “I am sorry, I cannot, for I am sick,” they kindly allow me more time to do whatever it was they wanted. Meanwhile, they act like dogs who have escaped their kennel and have free reign of an empty house. The house isn’t empty of course, they see me. They just know I’m too icky to complain. They strow clothes, toys, rocks (yes, rocks) all over. There are crumbs on the kitchen table and a few action figures that were included in the kid’s meal bag. That’s what they eat I don’t cook. My family has a whole Speed mentality toward the stove as if Dennis Hopper has rigged it to explode if it’s turned on. 

Mind you, in the midst of my sickness, my daughter has vomited. It was 4:00AM. I was sleeping upstairs in the guest bedroom, wrapped in my cocoon of Ick and she woke me up. I’m not sure what she said. But, later I got up to go get something to eat and heard her crying. Her tummy wasn’t well. I sat with her for a while and she said she needed to vomit. I ran downstairs to get a bowl. We aren’t toilet pukers. That’s on me. If I’m sick, the last thing I want to do is stare down into the belly of the porcelain beast. I’ve never understood why people do that. Sure, it’s an easy clean up but, come on. Your excrement goes there. That’s disgusting. If I’m already constitutionally compromised and things are about to erupt, I’m not going to add insult to injury by sticking my face into a dung receptacle. I don’t care how many scrubbing bubbles have happily surfed around in there. Anyway, I got a bowl in time. She let fly like a fireman’s hose. Poor thing. Pretty sure it was something she ate. She felt better immediately.

Whenever I am sick, somebody else ALWAYS gets sick. I hate that. And whomever it is gets to hole up in their bed like a squirrel while I continue about. Me and my Ick cloud, whom I shall call Sir Crudmore of Grossenstein. Now, I will say that unlike most sane people, I don’t stay in bed when I am sick. I hate lying in bed. So, part of the onus is on me. But, I shouldn’t have to walk about the house shouting, “unclean, unclean,” to be given a break. AND, if I do go to bed and stay there, things will just fall into greater disrepair. If I stayed there all day, the house would never recover. There’d be no coming back. We’d just have to torch the place and start over.  

At some point, we will shower, Sir Crudmore and I, then haul ourselves to the Minute Clinic. (I wonder how the CVS would react if I came in yelling, “unclean, unclean!”) I will get whatever rx required to abate this vile blight and grab a few packs of EmergenC while I’m at it. On that note, have you tried that stuff? It’s awful. The taste gives you a convulsive response. Of course you feel better after drinking it! You feel completely stricken while trying to choke it down. Finishing the glass is a relief not unlike when you finish throwing up. So, why am I taking it? Well, anything that tastes that bad has to be killing something off. That’s how I see it.

For now however, it’s Sunday morning, 9:30, we aren’t at church and I’m in yesterday’s pajamas. One side of my nose is a fount of viscous slime, the other is filled with adobe and my stomach is making sounds I’ve only ever heard before from a large drain. I would venture to guess I smell like I look. I reckon I’ll eat some soup - that I made for myself yesterday - and go back to bed. I wish I had a baboon to stand sentinel at the door but locking it is the best I can do. Which will only make the little ones knock and my husband call me on my cell phone. (BTW, if you are feeling bad for my little one that threw up, don’t. She’s completely fine and has been laying in bed watching Netflix since 4:15AM. And, since she did throw up, she’ll most likely be spoiled the rest of the day. It doesn’t hurt her case that she’s ridiculously cute walking around in one of her daddy's tshirts that goes past her knees and her bed head. She knows what she's doing. Well played little padawan. The force is strong with you.)

Farewell good land of health. I will now, with Sir Crudmore, my trusty cloud of repulsiveness, bid you adieu, achoo, and ew. I need to get a nap before noon at which point my family will probably stand over me and stare at me until I feed them. Hopefully I will be able to to keep the stove driving at 55 mph so it won't blow up.

What You Are About to See Is Real.

    All of the items you are about to see, are real. You can buy them. And, not just in Colorado or the other states where pot is legal. Some are pics of the actual items. Some are "artist" renderings as a photo of the actual thing is maybe more than the human eye can handle.

    What is this? Seriously!  What. Is. This? And furthermore,

I saw this in the Sunday newspaper and took a pic of it. There
was another devoted to a college team my husband said
I am not allowed to mention because they are having a hard enough
time right now. But rest assured, the baby's face is the same and
the team is from Texas. I'm sorry.

 who is buying it? ‘Cause somebody is! The company got the money to make this ad from somewhere. Who looks at this and thinks, yes, this is a thing I must own. It would unconstipate my feng shui. My earth element and creepy element have really had a disconnect. But, this, this crotch grabbing, obese baby, it will be a bridge between them. My home will then be in harmony. Get the credit card, Ethel...

     There are so, so many things wrong with this, whatever this is. But, first things first. Why is this little pervert grabbing its, whatever it’s got going on down there? I don’t know to what extent the company has gone to make this physically accurate. They sure seemed to have taken great care with the fat rolls. Look at the wrists on this corpulent little fella. Good grief, the whole arm looks like the under side of a croissant. 

    And a crease in the middle of the chest? How much rice cereal does a baby have to eat to get a fat roll there? Even the bottom of its feet are chubby. That’s why it’s sitting up, it sure couldn’t supports its weight on those little fat feet and if it laid down, it would suffocate under its own weight. Like an elephant. 

    (By the way, when does this much fat become unacceptable? Why can’t I, a grown woman, flaunt my leg cheese and have somebody say, “oh, look at those chubby little legs! So cute! Who’s a precious girl? You are! You’re a precious girl.”)

    Also, the message of this whole…display…seems to be that the baby is eager for Sunday so that it may watch not just football, but the Texans. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I would like to submit that its forlorn expression is not anticipatory of watching the Texans play, but in fact because it has actually seen the Texans play. I have seen this same look on my husband. (Ironically, he also watches the game while sitting on a red blanket half naked. Don’t judge.)

      Now, I know what you’re thinking. I would never buy this. But, I would buy something creepier.  Like, oh, I don’t know, a baby orangutan wearing human pajamas. Well, my eccentric friend, this is your lucky day. Behold:

Screen shot. NOT a real ape
baby that I keep in my home.

       Yes, this too is available for purchase for the low, low price of $139. And, if one disturbingly realistic, juvenile ape in a onesie just isn’t enough for you. Don’t fret...

I wonder if the folks who buy these
remember how strong apes are. These
guys could literally pull your arms off
and then beat you to death with them.

      In case you're wondering, the chest comes with it which is invaluable for night time, when you’d need to lock them up. From the looks of these little twin tricksters, they are just waiting for somebody to fall asleep so that can set their face on fire. Then they’d laugh and laugh.

The Duke indeed.

        If that bothers you, I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you are ok with killer baby orangutans. If you aren’t though, might I suggest you place this picture of The Duke over your bed. It is sure to give those pesky killer apes something to think about. And, yes, they will see it at night, ‘cause guess what! It lights up. That sucker glows like a gun slinging seraphim! 

But, let's say you're a tough customer. Let's say that doesn’t give you a real sense of security. In that case, there’s always this:

    Now, lest ye think this is a political commentary in any way, it’s not. I’ve just never loved any president so much that I just had to see his face on the arm pit of an eagle. 

    But, you know, maybe I’m jaded. Perhaps I need to something to breathe fresh life into me, inspire me. Remind me that the world is full of beauty, joy and oh, here it is…

Nothing like a boyfriend who can hand you
a bouquet then gently stroke your
cheek with his toes.

Honorable mention.

I Heart Zombies to Death

Ok, now I realize that this post seems a bit of a contradiction to last week’s wherein I made it very clear I didn’t want to rub elbows with the undead at the grocery store. And, I still stand by that assertion as well as the fact that I don’t like to be frightened. HOWEVER, I do love zombie stories, movies and shows. I can’t help myself. And yes, I know the season premier of The Walking Dead comes on this Sunday. Rest assured I will watch it. On Monday. During the day. Doors locked. Cross bow on the couch next to me on one side and on the other, a friend I can outrun.

I couldn't bring myself to put in an actual
zombie picture. I love 'em. But I don't want
to look at 'em!

The thing about zombie stories though, the thing that keeps me and millions others wandering back to them like, well zombies, isn’t the undead. It’s the living. The people trying to live life on the run while furiously holding onto everything that was anything in their previous life, that’s what we’re tuning in to see. Because, in an apocalyptic event, all that matters in life is all that ever really mattered in life. Well, and big trucks. And shovels. And cross bows. Basically any weapon that doesn’t require you to get less than an arm’s length away. And a can opener. Those seem to matter a lot too. However, the trappings of modern society: money, fame, being up-to-date with your Botox, won’t add up to a hill of beans. (Hills of beans are also useful btw.)

I have to admit though, as well as the stories of those fighting the zombies, there are some things I especially like about the moldy suckers themselves. As emissaries of doom they are far superior to vampires (sparkly and non alike), werewolves, aliens…you name it. Here’s why:

1.  They aren’t conflicted.  You won’t see a zombie questioning the curse of his state or the eternal consequences of it.  They are simple creatures and need no support group to help them flesh out their feelings. Pun intended. 

2.  You don’t have to worry about a zombie putting gel in his hair, sporting a tight t-shirt and dating your daughter.  Won’t happen.  And, you don’t have to worry about your kid wanting to be one either.  There are actual clinical disorders where people believe they are vampires and werewolves. But not zombies.

3.  They are not smarter than you. In fact, they are down right stupid.  They do not consort with a pack or coven to plot against you and don’t have any strategy at all beyond moving faster.

4.  Speaking of moving, you got to respect that kind of cardio out of creatures that basically do nothing but shuffle around all day. 

5. As a former sprint coach (I really was), I find the speed of zombies down right impressive. Even with half a leg, no shoe on their one foot and poor running form, they can really go. However, if you have a bike of any kind, you are good. Simple as that. The same cannot be said about werewolves and vampires. If you got one of them on your tail, your souped up road bike will do nothing but make you a meal that delivers itself.

6.  And on conveyance, if zombies take over, you can officially quit feeling guilty for buying a huge, all terrain, gas guzzler. And, minivans will no longer be tokens of middle class shame. That’s right, raise your fists with me mommas of the world. When the walkers come, we’ll be like Han Solo in the Millennium Falcon and, while escaping the decay of living death, our passengers can watch a BlueRay! Who’ll be laughing then, huh? You will not, I repeat, will not make it through a zombie mob in a smart car. It will end up like the parsley sprig on a fancy dinner. They'll toss it away and eat the meat!

7.  Zombies are really persistent and I admire that in anybody. Vampires and werewolves give in when the sun’s out. Not zombies. Yes, I realize that is a bit of a negative as well but, it’s not like you have to wonder what they will do next.  Zombies will do what they have been doing.  Period. (See #3) 

8.  They aren’t complicated. They don’t shape shift, require special bullets, herbs or the ilk. You don’t have to call in a specialist to get rid of them. Unless you just want to and, if you do, call Daryl. 

9. Daryl. He is something I love about zombies. Not because he’s hot or full of big city learnin’. Darryl, like zombies, is a simple creature. He’s the hammer in the tool box. (I’ll write on that theory soon.)

10.  And finally, in comparison to zombies, I am gorgeous. Seriously. Even zombie Sofia Vergera couldn’t begin to compete. Her curves wouldn’t be attracting men like flies, they would literally be attracting flies. My diminutive, understated, non blow-fly bloated physique would be superior. And if Ryan Gosling and I are the only non-zombies left, I give him a month of seeing decaying supermodels before he feels the same. 

So, if you have spurned zombies in the past, I urge you to give them a chance. (Their feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t though.) Watch the people living in the ever-present  echo of their shuffling gate. Consider the options of survivors, what they deem important (faith, family, weaponry) and look at your life. Consider what’s important to you and how much of it would stand the test of an undead apocalypse. And, the next time you find yourself in a quandary, ask yourself if whatever it is would matter as much when the zombies come. (They will.) You’ll be surprised how often it gives you perspective and helps you make the right decision. And, if not, if it doesn’t help at all, you can at least find comfort in the fact that you aren’t having to make that decision under threat of zombie attack. 

For now…

I Don't Want to Buy Cheese from a Zombie

My writer/editor pal Ben made that arm!
Pretty stinkin' cool!

I’m not a big fan of Halloween. I do love how my neighborhood comes alive with kids dressed as fairies, firemen, anyone from Star Wars or, in the case of my kids this year, batgirl and a banana. Yes, a banana. (I just went with it. He was an orange last year. Whatever.) I also love any opportunity to pull out the curling iron, Aqua Net, leg warmers and rock the 80s look again. I love pumpkins and pumpkin flavored things. And, who doesn’t love the Reese’s pumpkins? Are you kidding me? They’re awesome. They have more sugar than regular Reese’s cups. True story. I saw it on the Food Channel.  

I truly will take any opportunity to dress in 80s
regalia. My hair was a thing of wonder. People
could look upon it and be healed!

HOWEVER, I startle easy. I always have. I’m, as they say in the South, wound tight. I like to think of it as cat-like reflexes but, I will go with wound tight. I’m not easily scared by challenges and very rarely, very, very rarely intimidated by people. So, it’s not a matter of having a timid spirit. There’s just a few things for which I have a low tolerance, overt evil for one and clowns for another. Here are a few other things that really bug me…

1. I hate walking into my local drugstore and having something on a string fly at my face. Why do they do that? It’s hooked up to the door in some way and when you walk in, screech, screech, there it is! I’m in a drugstore, ok? Nobody goes to the drugstore because of their great selection of one type of toilet paper or low prices on nothing. No. If I’m in a drugstore I’m picking up medicine because somebody is sick or because I don’t have the energy to go to the grocery store. The last thing I need at 9:30PM when I’m just praying I can get that bottle of pepto before hell is unleashed in my pants, is a critter on a string flying at me! Ok?
2. On that line of thought, I also don’t care for statues reaching out at me, turning toward me and/or screaming at me. This is a craft store standard and it is just wrong. And you know it’s going to happen. You see the statue thingy there but the stupid popsicle sticks you need for your kid’s school project are right beside it. So you take a breath, reach for the popsicle sticks and the motion sensor magic thing in the statue go off and it lunges for you. During what other holiday is this acceptable??? Sure at Christmas, a Santa may sing. But it doesn’t make a move for you and laugh sadistically afterward. And, tell me this, how do you think it would go over if these craft stores put Jesus statues out at Easter that when you walked past, they reached out and yelled, “I’m back from the dead!” Are you kidding me? People would pitch a fit saying their civil rights were violated. Oh yeah? Well so are mine when a hand reaches up out of a candy bowl at me. I have a right to get a Reese’s pumpkin without fear of retaliation from the bowl!
3. Please explain to me how is it ok for people to throw severed body parts around their yard during Halloween? There are folks in my neighborhood that have smoking cauldrens/altars with bloody leg stumps hanging out. I tell you, in October, if you really are a serial killer, you can just let it all hang out, throw your issues out in the street, literally, and nobody will say a word. (Except, you might get a Creepiest House award from the HOA.) I have a right to go to the mailbox without stepping over a severed finger or tolerating a Chucky doll staring at me from somebody’s upstairs window. If I sat in my upstairs window and made a face like that and ogled folks as they walked to the mailbox, my HOA would send a letter posthaste and I would be butchered on the neighborhood FB page by the very people that have a Chucky doll looking out their upstairs window and severed heads on their porch! 
4. Also, I should be able to watch Jimmy Fallon without having to close my eyes during the commercials. Look, I like shows like The Walking Dead, but I know what I’m about to see and I watch that show like normal people: during the day, with the shades up, the house alarm on and with a cross bow beside me. But, before I have a chance to fast forward through commercials on late night shows, a clown rushes up at the screen at me. A CLOWN! Are you kidding me? You shouldn’t be able to put something like that on TV unless the TV can also dispense anti anxiety medication during said commercial. A….CLOWN!!!!!! 
5. Speaking of Walking Dead, don’t show up at my door with an ax in your head. Period. And, I don’t want to see your 2 year old as a zombie either. The Walking Dead won’t even show zombie babies. That should tell you something. And, while I’m on the subject, I also don’t want to see them at the express check out at Kroger and certainly not behind the deli counter. You do realize that if (when!) a zombie apocalypse happens, lots of people are going to be killed not in the street, not on a bus or other public place difficult to escape, but while buying baby swiss or for the simple fact they only needed to buy fewer than 12 items.

  There’s no tidy ending to this post, no nice recap. I’m too creeped out by the clown thing to continue…  

Rolling for Dirt

My jiu-jitsu belt is getting dirty. And, the more I roll (practice) the dirtier it will get. Doesn’t matter how clean a gym is, and mine is very clean, the belt will get dingy, worn and frayed. And that is awesome. 
The worse your belt looks, the better. You avoid washing it all costs because that dirt, it’s not just sweat and dust, it’s your history. It’s the good days and bad, the wins, the losses. It’s all the times you barely made it to class and all the classes you didn’t want to leave. It’s the learning and all the lessons you learned put into action or, in my case, that someone put into action upon me. 

A new black belt and the black belt of my
coach at Ground Dwellers,
Professor Eddie Avelar. 

I’m a white belt and I’ll be one for a while. There’s only five belts in jiu-jitsu and to get to black takes a minimum of seven years. Your one goal as a white belt is survival. Little by little you will learn to attack but by and large, you just avoid being submitted (beaten). So, all that dirt on my belt, it’s me fending people off, me making mistakes. It’s never me having the upper hand. It’s basically all the dirt I’m kicking up in my own grave! Really. But, I wouldn’t wash it. Not for anything. My work is in that dirt. If my belt were pristine it would be because I hadn’t put my knowledge to use and what good is knowing anything if I do nothing with it? 
But, you know what? I’m human and it’s tempting to look at the dirt on my belt and get down on myself, focus on my defeats rather than victories and think of all the mistakes I made that day, and yesterday. Basically every single day. But, mistakes are invaluable teachers. They show me my weaknesses and highlight my strengths. Mistakes take me back to what I missed the first go around and let me decide wether or not I want to miss it again.
Mistakes also make us decide who we are. Am I the one who stays down or gets back up?  When I get back up, what then? Do I get back on the mat or hang up my belt for fear of getting it dirtier and more tattered? Do I choose to see the wear and tear for what it is? Proof that I’m still at it, still brave enough to get back in there and mess up again? And I will mess up again if I choose to jump back on the mat. My belt will get more worn from defeat but at some point, one day, some of that wear and tear will be from triumphs: triumphs I earned because I learned from defeat.  That’s why all the dirt and wear on my belt looks the same. The losses don’t look different than the wins because that fact is, the former leads to later. 

My pal Kelli and I. We're not so much
much leaning in as leaning on
each other. I have mascara down
my face and we are both soaked in sweat.
I'd also like to point out we are both
over 40. That's right, folks, the tough
chicks at this gym are actually
hens!

Regardless, I have to always remember that the dirt on my jiu-jitsu belt is where I have been, not where I am. Will I make some of the same mistakes again? Yep. But they will be the mistakes of now not mistakes anew. I will deal with them in the moment rather than rehashing the past. I will see them for what they are and learn from them. Today, when my professor attempted to choke me with his kimono, (yes, his) it wasn’t the first time I had gotten myself into that spot. But, this time was different. This time I said, “oh no!” (I really did) and guarded my neck. Now, I still made the same mistake that got me in that position, I still dug myself a hole. But I was smart enough to not get completely stuck in it. And that was a victory. Good dirt. But, I won’t focus on that victory dirt any more than the defeat dirt. Because, if I’m busy looking at my belt, what just happened, where I have been, I will miss what’s coming next. And I don’t want to miss what’s coming next. I have a hard enough time when I know good and well what’s coming at me!
The next time you mess up and you will - if you don’t, I pity you -  see it for what it is: dirt on your belt. Your history, your lessons, proof that you were on the mat battling it out, proof of a lesson learned and knowledge earned and, in that respect, all victorious grime because you still have on the belt. You’re still fighting. Wear that dirt with a heart that’s grateful for having lived long enough to make a mistake and having been given the opportunity to learn from it. 
We are human and humans mess up, we all have dirty belts. The only human that never had dirt on His belt was only half human. And the only reason He didn’t have dirt on it was because He chose to get it bloody instead. For you. For me. He did that you so no matter how filthy we get in defeat, we can still be clean. What greater triumph is there than that?  
Embrace your dirty, worn out, tattered belt. It’s your history, evidence of your time on the mat, a testimony of the times you messed up and got back at it. It’s your wins, your tap outs and the wins you got because you learned from having to tap out. And, in that, every bit of that dirt, wear and tear, is more evidence of victory than loss.

Just West of the Nipple

My family just returned from a road trip and I am blessed to say, we all survived. We came home with as many as we left with, limbs large and small in tact. There were a few “incidents.” (I’m making quote fingers there.) We got rear ended (we weren’t injured by the grace of God), my daughter got a cold sore and my son was pecked on the chest by a chicken. Where on the chest you ask? In his words, “just west of the nipple.” It’s become a household motto, “just west of the nipple,” not only to tell where a thing is but describe when something kinda misses the mark. 
“Hey, where’s the toothpaste?”
“Just west of the nipple.”
“Ugh. These gluten free rolls are a little west of the nipple.”

 My daughter’s cold sore plagued my husband and I mentally through the trip. Neither of us have ever had one so we were kind of stumped as to how to deal with it. We put medicine on it and stressed about it needlessly, much to the delight of my daughter. Every time she caught us looking at it, she made her lip pulsate with her tongue and mimicked the sound of a heart beat.  

Anywho, we went to New Braunfels, Texas and visited Natural Bridge Caverns. I’ll leave those details for a little later on ‘cause that’s when I’ll get all reflective and thoughtful and stuff. We also visited a snake farm. Actually, Snake Farm. No frivolous catchy names for them. It was the one featured on Dirty Jobs, a show we all love. 

 

There were snakes of every nature, as the name of the place would suggest. But, they were in these tiny enclosures. Seriously, if you slid open the glass I think they would’ve popped out like those snakes-in-a-can joke things. I’m not sure how much room snakes actually need. Heaven knows the ones we saw weren’t doing anything but laying around being snakey. Except one. This one corn snake was doing its darnedest to get out of there. He looked like the shoppers outside Best Buy the day after Thanksgiving: weaving back and forth, tapping on the glass, a dazed look in his eyes.

We also saw newly hatched turtles, which have belly buttons by the way. How precious is that? There was also a little zoo there with all sorts of mammals and I tell ya, there was none of this namby pamby security glass. Oh no. Nuh uh. Not Texas, not at Snake Farm. It was just a chest high chain link fence, a secondary tall chain link fence about a yard away and from there it was all blood thirsty animals. Mountain lions, alligators, fanged macaques, wolves, tigers, buffaloes, wart hogs (whose testicles needed their own chain link fence) and a dog. I don’t know what that was about. It was just a dog, with a tag and collar. It belonged to somebody. It wasn’t some rogue, wild Texas beast. I don’t know how many shoes a dog has to chew up to be shamed a double fence at a zoo.  

There were also less deadly beasts i.e. prairie dogs, beavers, a porcupine, goats, pigs and chickens such as the one that pecked my son just west of his nipple. In the chicken’s defense, my son was trying to pick up its baby. All and all, it wasn’t a bad place although, again, I was disturbed at the small habitats of every creature. Except the dog. He must have really done something.

The Snake Farm visit was really secondary, an after thought. Natural Bridge Caverns is why we went and it was nothing short of amazing. I can’t begin to describe it. Well, yeah I can. It looks like the world around you is melting, like stone has turned to frosting. It was mind boggling. I found myself looking up all along, wondering if we were under the gift shop and if the people meandering about had any idea what was below their feet. Even if they saw pictures, I knew they would be surprised by what they saw. Some things just don’t translate on film. I also figured they’d be a bit taken aback by how warm it was down in there. Most caverns are chilly and as such I had every member of my family carry a jacket - which every one complained about. But, again, this is Texas. Ain’t nothing normal.

After touring the cavern we went sluicing. That’s where you pan for stuff in water. I bought a big ole’ bag of mud thinking that’s about what we’d sluice out: mud, which I was ok with. But, we got all kinds of stones. Even a few emeralds. We also got to see somebody crack a geode before we left. (We’re total gem/rock nerds if you haven’t guessed.) A geode looks like a hunk of cement. But, crack it open and there’s all these amazing crystal formations. It’s like a geological Easter egg.

In all four of those instances, Snake Farm, the cavern, sluicing, the geode, the looks were deceiving. (Well, not Snake Farm. I mean, the name kind of says it but I had no idea the other animals would be there. Especially the dog.) I misjudged every single one. That’s what we do as humans and it’s natural to make a snap judgement on appearance. It kept our ancestors alive, keeps us alive. (I know it’s kept me from eating tons of stuff and kissing more than one date!) 

But, there’s a difference in making a judgement call and passing judgement. It’s the latter that gets us. Most of the time I think our assumptions are not quite on target, just west of the nipple, so to speak. And based on that, we form a complete storyline in our head that is only true in our head. We need to give things and folks a chance to dazzle us and just as important, we need to be willing to be dazzled. We need to be willing to crack a geode and expect amazing things because sometimes a hunk of rock holds treasure.

On that same token, not all that glitters is gold. Not everything that looks wonderful is. Sometimes the person making everyone laugh is crying out inside. Sometimes the person in the Mercedes is flat broke. And, sometimes, a cage labeled wombat houses a very forlorn dog. You just don’t know because in truth, you only know the things you seek to understand and you can only see what you make an effort to look for. And, even in those cases, more likely than not, we will only know in part. In truth, our assumptions say more about us than the thing about which we are making a deduction. 

Make wise decisions, but don’t declare judgement. Give people, caverns, bags of mud, hunks of rock and side-of-the-road zoos a chance. After all, Jesus sure gave us one long before we even had a chance to make total boobs of ourselves. We’re fallible and completely west of the nipple. But, He loves us anyway, gives us the benefit of the doubt and although He is the only one who can truly judge us, He offers grace rather than judgement. He loves us and forgives us for chewing up shoes rather than throwing us behind a double chain link fence. And, He’s even merciful enough to free us when we imprison ourselves.

The good Lord knows all, nothing is hidden from His sight.  Hebrews 4:13 (I’m looking at you, Snake Farm dog.)