Anniversary Pictures

See the little blonde angel next to my little angel about 13 years ago? (The're 17 and 18 now). Her name is Laura, and she is all grown up and has a photography business called "Snaphappy."



We have known Laura all her life, even before she was born (on a Mother's Day, along with a twin brother), so what an honor and joy it was to have Miss Snaphappy take 25th anniversary pics of Jorge and me last Sunday.



Here are a few of the many shots she took. I hope you like the photos; we sure do! Thanks, Laura!

Weekend Recap

Friday: Jorge drove to IL to be in a wedding, yes IN a wedding, even at the ripe old age of 47. The kicker: Groom is 27. All groomsmen well over 6 feet tall; Jorge is 5'7". Should be an interesting photo.

Friday night: I ate at Subway by myself. Enjoyed the new orchard chicken salad sandwich. Bought something to wear on my anniversary vacation that is quickly approaching.

Saturday: Cleaned my house and cooked all day. Saturday morning early, did my weekly "longer" run, only to be thwarted by a barking, growling dog run amuck and a motorcyclist who mildly harassed me. You are reading one mean lady at that point.

I posted about my frustration on Facebook and received about 40 comments of people trying to help me arm myself for protection while running.

Saturday night: Jorge returns. I am a grouch.

Sunday morning: Church, Subway with family, where I enjoyed the orchard chicken salad sandwich because overkill is how I roll.

Sunday afternoon: Anniversary pics taken outside until the sky broke open and we were forced inside. As soon as I can share, I will. It was fun. Except that part where we tried to do a dip-kiss like dancers do and I'm lucky to have a skull that is not cracked.

Sunday evening: Life group (or small group, or cell group, whatever your preferred terminology is). Cindy from Girls Group brought me a special surprise to protect me when I run:





A 357 Magnum is impressive but probably too "fumbly" to carry. So I think I'll stick with pepper spray, also given to me by Cindy!

I had never touched a gun before this, and did not know how to hold it. Then the group made me go outside and pose with it. Someone snuck a video. We live exciting lives here in Muncie.

How was your weekend?

DELICIAS!!

Recently I mentioned my love for the coconut on here. And also on Facebook:

I was sitting on the deck eating my coconut ice cream bar when I realized I have coconut shampoo, body lotion, room freshener plug-in, sunscreen, M&Ms and dog freshener spray. What is left? I think I need one of those coconut car freshener thingies.

Someone suggested a coconut bra, but I'm ignoring that.

Tonight I was enjoying my Nestle DELICIAS! Coconut Bar when I had an epiphany of culinary delight: "Drizzle chocolate shell over. Die happy."

I did, and now I can. Die happy, that is. Mmmm, the goodness! It's DELICIAS!

Flashback Friday, Home Edition

This week, Linda at Mocha with Linda asks:

Where did you live when you were growing up?

From 1962, the year I was born, until 1985, the year I got married, I lived in my parents' home in an addition called "Indian Village" on the outskirts of our city, which was dubbed by one prominent sociological study "America's Hometown." It's a small to medium-sized city with a university on the northwest side of town.

I grew up on the southeast end of town, diametrically opposed literally and figuratively to the university setting in many ways.

Each street in Indian Village had an Indian name: Chippewa Lane, Opechee Drive, Apache Pass, Maumee, Seminole Court, and my street, Cherokee Road.

My parents had this home built on a GI Bill, since my dad was a WWII veteran. It was a small house, only about 1100 sq. feet, but owning a brand new home was a dream come true for them, as both had grown up in socio-economically deprived families.

I had three older brothers but only remember living with the last one, who was eight years older than I. Because space was at a premium, and because neither of my parents could stand "messes," I was allowed to bring out one toy at a time to play in our living room. There was no family room. We lived in the living room. Anyway, if I wanted another toy, the first one had to go back. It's how my mom kept her sanity, by keeping a tidy house.

When I was very young, my room was painted Robin's egg blue and held white French Provencal furniture, but when I got a little older, it was lavender with a purple multi-shaded shag run. Wowzers.

Most of my growing up years, earth tones were in vogue, so everything in Mom's house was Harvest Gold, Avocado Green, and Rust. Even our camper had those colors in it. It wasn't until the 1980s that mauves and blues became all the rage, and to this day, my mom's house is mainly pink. She has always loved pink, and although you probably can't imagine it, she has pink carpet in her living room, hall, and dining room.

I mentioned that my mother was fastidious, but that is like saying Richard Simmons is "energetic." Every week--let me repeat that--every week--my mother would pull the furniture out from the walls and sweep around the baseboards. She dusted Venetian blinds weekly. She rearranged our furniture. She washed and waxed linoleum floors on her hands and knees until they gleamed. Everything in our house shined, from the stovetop to my white patent-leather church shoes. Mom was all about bling before bling was cool--house bling, that is, since she didn't wear jewelry. Her jewels were in her home.

Finally, I would say that in spite of what sounds like stringent rules and frenetic cleanliness, our home was comfortable to the point of putting visitors into sleep-inducing trances. I'm totally serious--people get sleepy in my mom's house. This has always been the case, from my brothers' friends who would visit to my friends who would come over in high school and say, "There's something about this house that makes me sleepy." More than once, my best friend Kris took naps at my house, and more than one boyfriend fell asleep while visiting me. (Wait a second--a second look at this phenomenon could also support an argument that it was I who produced a sleep-inducing trance of BOREDOM!)

And while you could claim it was cleaning product fumes that lulled people to sleep, I honestly think that crushed velvet sofas in a home filled with love did the trick. And just last Sunday when I went to visit, I wasn't there long before I started yawning and knew I'd better go put my shoes back on ("Leave them at the door, please")and head out to my home across town, where the only thing which shines regularly is my forehead, and the prominent aroma is from a 5-lb Yorkie and the baking of a frozen pizza.

Proof that you can fall asleep anywhere in my mom's house.

My Hair Won't Do the Bump. Maybe I Should Call Margaret.

I have no idea what this picture is about, but it fits this post so well I had to lead off with it. I did not add "Lid" to this pic. It's destiny, that's all.

When I was a little girl, around 1969, 1970 or so, every Friday my mom would take me to her hairdresser's who had a little shop added to her home just on the outskirts of our town.

Bored out of my mind for a solid hour, I paid intermittent attention to the exchanges between Margaret the hairdresser and my mother and little more attention to Margaret's pretty white dog in her back yard and a few "baby toys" in her shop.

I tried to entertain myself in a room void of anything remotely interesting except the comb and brush sanitizer machine which promised to magically clean those instruments by bathing them in an eerie light on a rotating shelf that reminded me of the rotisseries in the grocery store. Let me remind you that I had never seen a microwave yet.

Part of what Margaret did to my mom each week included a "back-combing" of the hair on the crown of my mom's head, an activity otherwise known as "teasing" or "ratting," two terms my mother did not prefer. She called it "backcombing," but I saw it as the most painful-looking beauty treatment I could imagine. After all, I don't think anyone even thought of waxing anything in 60s. Well, at least good Nazarene women didn't.

I remember Margaret throwing her whole upper body into backcombing while standing on the balls of her feet for extra force. Her upper arms would reverberate with every attack of the narrow toothed comb which had a long pointy end for lifting the teased hair.

The routine: Lift, tease, tease, tease ... gently comb the poof down ... lift, tease, tease, tease ...

Margaret: Paused to talk with comb slanted in the air, head cocked to one side the same angle as the comb.

Mom: Tuft of hair sticking straight up, patiently listening, watching Margaret in the mirror.

Then: Lift, tease, tease, tease ....

All through my teen years, even though Mom went through a couple of hairdressers, she kept the same basic style.

And I was mortified.

Remember the late 60s early 70s? Long, straight hair was in style, the flatter the better.

And here was my mom, poofed to the hilt. I could not understand why women made their hair do something so unnatural. How did that style ever become popular? "Old people" were so ... slow to change, so out of touch with anything current, so "dumb."

I AM "old people" now. I'm pretty sure my kids have those moments concerning me, too, and you know what? I don't care so much. Chalk that up to "old people don't care about anything important." But that's another post.

The point is, I'm old enough now that I have seen styles come and go for years. Biggest case in point: flared jeans versus skinny jeans. I wonder how many times I'll see these styles revolve in my lifetime?

Anyway, for a couple of years now, girls have been bringing back the teased crown look. I was surprised when I first saw it, wondered if they knew it was a "retro" look or thought someone at Style World Headquarters recently made it up.

Seriously? "Bumped" hair? What was next ... teenagers wearing girdles again?

Fast forward a few months to this week, and I confess that I have made my first-ever serious attempt at The Bump. A couple of my contemporaries wear it well. I'm feeling the retro vibe. I like both Samantha Stevens' AND Duffy's hair bumps.










But not Gladys Kravitz' Cotton Candy Bump. Gladys's bump definitely looks like the handiwork of Margaret.



And not 80s big hair. There is a big difference in big hair.







I bought a doohickey to stick under the hair to make it bump up, but alas, it did not work for me or my lovely daughters. I guess I'll have to stick with Margaret's tried and true technique, upper arms flailing and all.

Whaddya think? Mom's hair and my Go-Go boots, and my current attempt at The Bump. How about you, bloggers. Do you bump?

We Don't Need More Cowbell; We Need More Poppyseed!

Thoughts on the poppy seed:


1. My daughters are making fun of me because I had 4 bottles of Brianna's poppy seed dressing in the fridge, all in various stages of emptiness. They are claiming I have an opiate addiction. Not true. Sometimes I just forget to check before I buy another bottle, that's all. I am, however, addicted to the apple salad on which I pour the dressing,which necessitates a LOT of poppy seed in my fridge. Unfortunate side effect not usually associated with drug use: seeds in teeth. Floss is my new best friend.

Salad:

Whatever greens you prefer, add chopped green onion, chopped Gala apple, feta cheese, pecans or walnuts and THE SEED.

2. I joined the "Brianna's Poppy Seed" Group on Facebook. That means I'm not the only one who REALLY likes it. Kinda scary.

3. The seed, in fact, CAN cause you to fail a drug test, otherwise known as a "wiz quiz." I just hope that my employer, a youth ministry, does not start drug testing soon because I'll be in big trouble.

Maybe it's time for an intervention ... after this next bowl of salad.

What are YOU into these days?

PS: Poppyseed or poppy seed--who can say? It's all over the place spelled every which way--another sign of language debasement in our moderne world. Tsk.

Rainy Day Fun

I took a day of vacation today to have my 25th wedding anniversary photos with Jorge taken, but rain has pretty much washed out that possibility.

I ended up playing with a digital scrapbooking program I bought from Creative Memories. Here is my first page. I'm going to use this program to create Kristin's senior scrapbook which we will display at her graduation open house next spring.

The best part: no cutting, no paper scraps, no running out of tape/glue. This may not be perfect, but it is still attractive (in my opinion) and oh so practical. I think my life just got a whole lot easier, folks.

Hump Day of SERVE

I'm in the middle of a busy, busy week, a community service blitz called "SERVE" that my employer/church does every year. Stats: 36 agencies such as the local mission, shelters for women, food banks, etc. + cleaning up blighted neighborhoods, helping the elderly with yard and reconstruction work, visiting nursing homes, etc. = SERVE. One hundred thirty-five youth grades 6-12, who spend the night all week long + many younger children + some "Wee Servers," + all of the adult leaders = ONE GIANT operation.

People are exhausted, but it's a good kind of tired. Trying to show love in a tangible way in our community.

So here are some pics.

I had a great pic inserted here of the young puppet team preparing to share at a nursing home, but then I remembered privacy issues and took them out of this post, dog gone it! So cute!

This is Command Central, where the 13 youth teams come get their work gloves, water, car washing supplies, etc. for the day. This is my main responsibility this year.



This is Kristin and me with two of Kristin's closest friends. One is on the media team; one is on her team which is doing hard manual labor.



Here I am with two co-workers, Hope (youth associate pastor) and Christy (Children's Pastor). Both are on the planing committee for this behemoth of a project which takes months to organize.




Here is one pic from an annual Wednesday night hog roast we do, where kids play and relax and rest, if they want. There is great food, of course, and lots of Indiana land to run and slide on a giant slip-n-slide, or dance the Cha Cha Slide or play Frisbee golf, volleyball, etc. Then they worship and share thoughts/feelings about the week so far.



Here is my girl, the one with the legs across the divide, catching about a 10-15 minute nap with teammates yesterday around 2pm in a busy building just across from Command Central. I told you they were exhausted!

Hair Update

FACEBOOK UPDATE: For you who advised on the hair yesterday: I got a trim-cut, layers that I can squish up & leave wavy. This useless update truly reminds me of the AT&T Backflip commercial: "This just in on FB and Twttr, local bachelor age 41 has just enrolled in ka-rah-te" : "Local secretary receives cheap haircut conducive to 80s videos/humid summer days." What do you do with your hair in the Dog Days of Summer?

Happy 25th Anniversary, Jorge!

June 14, 1985-June 14, 2010 ~ 25 Years!

Yes, today is my 25th wedding anniversary. I married my high school friend, my college sweetheart. He was a wonderful young man who grew into someone even more wonderful over the years. We have weathered a lot together. We look forward to a future together and talk about that almost daily.

I smile when I look back on this date, how 25 years later we would not only still be together but be parents of two adults and one almost-adult child. Of course, they will always be "children" to us, but my goodness, how Time and Life have marched swiftly from then until now. Unbelievable.

Thank you, Jorge, for putting up with me, all of my illnesses, selfishness, narcissism, immature faith and annoying habits, like clearing my throat. I'm sorry for all the times I've failed you. Thank you for loving me anyway. Thank you for always encouraging me. I do not deserve you.

And you're still hot, by the way. Prettiest green eyes in the world, best sense of humor, smartest person I know, best male body of our graduating class, best male body of anybody I know now. You make me so happy. I love you!














This is a newspaper column published in 1997. I'd like to share it again, with an updated title.

Happy 25th, George!

On June 15, 1985, I was a college graduate of three weeks and a bride of 24 hours. I remember languishing poolside in Floridian bliss, humming along to Tears for Fears' Everybody Wants to Rule the World, while sipping a cold drink and exchanging smiles with my bridegroom. I didn't want to rule the world exactly, but I did have big plans for my new married life.

When I hear the song now, I smile at the irony of the first line: "Welcome to your life; there's no turning back ... ." At 22, what did I know about a commitment to care forever -- no turning back?

Occasionally, I wish I could return to June 14, 1985, and meet myself as a young bride at the back of the church. I'd whisper candidly to the young me about my expectations versus the reality of the years ahead. If you had asked me then if I understood the scope and weight of my vows, I would have said yes, but I didn't really.

Being in love didn't prepare me for those first grocery shopping ventures, when I plopped favorites into the cart and he promptly removed them. I didn't know that without due warning he would change my radio stations. Who knew we'd spend 25 years disagreeing about how to mow the lawn? And how could I have known that he had a sleeping disorder? Or (and this still puts a chill up my spine) that we would have kids with sleeping disorders?

I didn't understand that he couldn't be "everything" for me. After all, he was the love of my life, with emphasis on "my."

And that poor bridegroom -- he didn't know the half of his bride's self-centered capacities. He didn't know his fun-loving girlfriend would be so uptight about clothes on the floor and dust on ceiling fans. How could an affectionate girlfriend neglect to meet her husband when he walked through the door after work each night? And how did she manage to break so many things weekly? Imagine his confusion about a wife who six months into marriage began daily afternoon naps that merged into nights. Had he married a narcoleptic?

No, the power naps were due to the hormonal changes of pregnancy, and he would be a dad in only his second year of marriage.

Who knew?

God did. He knew we would go through seasons of joy alternated with frustration, depression, family deaths, disappointment in each other and in ourselves. But by the grace of God who remained faithful to us when our commitment lagged, and through the support of church family and friends, we stand together 25 years later.

Ecclesiastes 4:12 says, "Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not easily broken"(NIV).

Three strands: God, my husband, and me.

At times, the cord frayed, but it didn't break, because ultimately, we love God and value who we are as a couple and a family more than we love our individual selves-- not because we're noble or martyrs, but because God's spirit in us "grew" this counter-human commitment to something bigger than ourselves as individuals.

Based on statistics, it's a safe bet that without positioning our marriage and family on his principles and grace, we wouldn't be together today.

A line in the aforementioned songs says, "There's a room where the light won't find you/holding hands while the walls come tumbling down/When they do I'll be right behind you..." In the tropical sun of 1985, I wouldn't have believed that darkness could ever threaten us. But by banding together when darkness came and walls fell, we defended each other when one was weaker. And when we were both tired, our anchor strand was strong enough to get us through.

I am not as naive about life and expectations anymore. I do know that when my husband is pushed, I'll be right behind him, supporting him. When walls tumble, I'll be right beside him, holding his hand.

And even if I could time travel and enlighten myself about the triumphs and trials to come, I'd trust in the outstretched hand of my bridegroom at the altar, squish my puffy dress through the vestibule, and confidently meet him there -- no turning back.



Copyright Linda Crow. Previously published in the Muncie Star Press, June 16, 2007.

Cousins

I have cousins on both sides of my family whom I dearly love.

One is my Pam, who was one of my first "friends" in life. Some of our best memories include camping together when we were little. Pam is 3 years older than I am, and miles and miles sweeter. I was a mean, ornery little thing, and sometimes I'm embarrassed by how good she was and how bad I was. As a matter of fact, sometimes I'm embarrassed for that same reason right now. Here is a pic of us camping. We liked to color, pretend to be Indians (Native Americans, sorry) and melt crayons in the campfire. If you don't believe me about the orneriness, look at her face, then look at mine. {Blushes. "oy."}



On my mom's side, I have three female cousins whom I love dearly, as well. One is a little younger, named Sonia, a sweet little blonde who resembles me physically, but unlike me and like Pam, does not have a mean bone in her body. I inherited all the mean bones. No pics of Soni, or maybe my mom has them. Note to self: steal pics of Sonia at next visit.

I have a set of cousins on Mom's side who grew up in Anaheim. Beckie and Kathy are about 5 or 6 six years older than I am. Although I only saw them every 3 or 4 years when I was little, I wrote to them all the time, and because they were so kind to me, I worshiped the So Cal ground they walked on and wanted to be just like them. Or BE THEM, which would have been way better. They were gorgeous teenagers, like Malibu Barbies. I wish I had older pics to share. Like I said, I keep robbing my mom of pics every time I visit her, so I have to do it slowly and surreptitiously or she will catch on. See? Still ornery after all these years.



Thanks, Co-Lid, for the memory-jarring!

Shoes

*EDIT* It appears they were purchased at Kohls. Oh well. "JC" still stands for the same thing. I love their shoes!

Something has happened inside me: the fire in my soul which always burns [I may not be talking about it, but it's always smoldering] with love for shoes has been fed and bolstered somehow, some way, not sure what happened ... but I have been buying a "few" pairs for this summer -- "few" enough that I can't even remember where I bought these. I think they are J.C. Penney shoes. ("J.C." of course, standing for "joyously cute.")

They represent the color of this summer for me: hot pink. Shoes, toenails, dresses, lipstick ... the list goes on. I'm so ready for vacation in a tropical zone that I can hardly stand it. So until then, I put on the hot pink, and I'm almost there!

What are you favorite summer shoes, and YES, flip flops count--but what do they look like?

It's a Bad Word, I Know. But Our President Said It ....

On June 7, President Obama told Matt Lauer he's talking to experts to figure out whose *ss to kick over the BP debacle. Wowzers! That is some tough Presidential talk. Made me think of a little video I discovered recently. Maybe President O. should watch this video so he doesn't lose his hunger for justice.

Boyz Will Be Boyz

Yesterday, it was my son and the mustard. Today, it is my husband and mud. Boys will be be boys, and men will be big boys.

Mom Moment

Mostly my kids dont need me anymore. But sometimes, like when my 21 yr old son squirts mustard on his shirt at lunch, I jump into Mom Mode circa 1994, rip the shirt off and vanquish the yellow monster in the mud sink while everyone else finishes the meal. I still got it.