Happy Birthday Dad

Happy Birthday to the man who drives a messerschmitt . . .

. . . to the man who can fix anything . . .

. . . to the man who likes his trains . . .

. . . to the man who has been married to his wife for over 38 years . . .

. . . to the man who likes his gadgets . . .

. . . to the man who didn't think about the fact that he gets severely motion sick when he decided to take the plunge out of an airplane . . .

. . . and to the man who fainted when I was brought into the world.

Happy Birthday, Dad! I love you!

Totes

Since Seth is working late and isn't around and since the deer have neither the inclination nor the ability, I'm patting myself on the back for remembering to bring my six totes into Kroger tonight. By my count, I saved a grand total of 12 baby turtles from getting caught in plastic bags by this simple act. (Not, of course, that I've figured out how the plastic bags that I use end up suffocating turtles in the ocean, which is thousands of miles away in any direction.)

Now I just need to figure out how to get the bagger to put the refrigerated foods in the insulated bag, which is insulated for the purpose of keeping cold foods cold and warm foods warm, instead of using it for the canned goods. Ah, the trials and tribulations of saving turtles.

Dorkdom

You may be relieved to know that in recent times it's hit me that I might be a dork . . . . or at least have dorkish tendencies. "Aha! " you think. "She's finally realized what I've known all along!"

I was saying something to someone the other day, and when I actually listened to myself, the thought struck me, "Man, I'm a dork." My latent dorkineth was altho onth theen when I carried on an entire email converthathion with Thephanie in lithp. Dorkth.

When I asked Seth for his thoughts on the situation, he readily assured me (a bit too quickly, perhaps) that I do, in fact, sometimes behave like a dork. His example was my dancing. Not, of course, that I dance all that often, but sometimes a certain song on the radio causes me to want to get jiggy with it (dork) and I'll do a little dance. The catch-22 is that, in this type of situation, I am purposely being dorky because I realize that I can't dance and if I danced like I really thought I could dance, then I would, in fact, be a dork. Really, I'm dorked if I do and dorked if I don't.

Of course, the next obvious step is deciding how to handle this newfound knowledge. Do I completely dispense with any remaining semblance of togetherness and embrace my inner dork? Or do I attempt to repress it, hoping that the world will never discover my secret? Although, obviously, it's not such a secret if Seth could come up with an example in two seconds!

I can't say that I'm completely ashamed of what I've discovered. Rather, I view it as a coming-of-age realization that "oh, that's how I've been all along." However, while I contemplate modifying my new (or not-so-new) lifestyle, I'll beg your indulgence with any dorkiness that may exhibit itself in the meantime.

Superphone Goes to the Chiropractor

Superphone is still alive . . . for now. Its blob has recently undergone a metamorphosis, although after mentioning that to Seth, he warned me: Do not overanalyze the blob. So I didn't. I just tried to read the number of the call that we missed last night on our way to pick up Ethan, who was carpooling with us to the laser tag place. After much squinting, I finally figured out that it was, in fact, Ethan who had rung. We had a great time laser tagging. Believe it or not, I consistently beat both McKeever men in all three games. It was lovely. Of course, as he is wont to do when his wife outpaces him, Seth made excuses on the way home: there were too many people, the building was too small, people kept snipering me. I'm surprised he didn't blame Superphone for his wife's triumph.

Today, Seth went to the chiropractor. Sadly, he forgot to take Superphone out of his front jeans pocket, and Superphone suffered yet another indignity when it was slammed into Seth's hip during the chiropractor's manipulation.

The Massage Table

I love a good massage. It's so relaxing. One time at work, they brought in some people to give complimentary chair massages to the employees. Best 15 minutes of my life. I slept at my desk the rest of the day. And when we were Christmas shopping, I took advantage of the chair massages being given in the middle of the mall, while Seth deftly slipped away into Sears. Best 12 bucks I've ever spent.

I was insanely jealous of my SIL Bethany when her husband (Seth's elder brother Kevin) bought her gift certificates for massages at a local salon for her Christmas present one year. And every time I see an ad on tv for a warm stone massage at some spa, I start to drool.

Now I'm insanely jealous of my friend Marcia, whose husband bought her a massage table for Christmas so that he could give her massages whenever she needs/wants one. The picture is of me trying out their massage table and getting worked over by their 4yo daughter Hannah.

For some reason, my continual not-so-subtle hints (Did you see Bethany's Christmas present? Wasn't that the best ever? Man, that Kevin really knows how to give his wife a gift. . . . I really enjoyed that chair massage in the middle of the mall tonight--it was incredible. I sure wish I could get one of those every night. . . . I had the best time tonight--I tried out a new massage table. Boy, it sure would be nice if we could get one of those) have fallen on deaf ears. And, based on the conversation I had with my dear husband just the other night, it doesn't look like I'll be getting what I want any time soon.

One of my other hints was a book on massage that I bought several years ago and placed in various strategic places around the house. Seth never picked it up. Recently, I asked him if he wanted to read it before I passed it on to Dan (since he's actually interested enough in massage to buy his wife a massage table). His reply: I don't need no stinking book. I can shiitake like no other.

Me: You mean shiatsu? Shiitake is a mushroom.

Seth: Shiatsu is a dog.

Me: No, shiatsu is the type of massage. Shih tzu is the dog.

From there the conversation went downhill quickly.

Seth: I once successfully bred a bull dog and a shih tzu, and we ended up with a . . . .

Sigh. I'm adding "personal masseuse" to my "What I Want" list.

Questions, Questions

A while ago, I was in a bookclub with some friends. It has since disbanded because it got too big and unwieldy. However, one of the books that we read was First Impressions, about the disconnect between the way you perceive yourself and the way others perceive you. It was a fascinating and revealing read.

Although there was the usual bit of psychobabble, it was mostly practical advice. From it, I learned that I ask too many questions when first introduced to someone new and come across as the Gestapo, rather than showing kind interest, as I thought I was doing. To those of you who were scared off by my seeming interrogation when we first met, I offer my sincerest apologies. You may be interested to know that I've reformed my ways and now limit any introduction to "Hi, I'm Stacia. I'm not the Gestapo."

In recent times, I've realized this innate curiosity I have to find out more about people (some may call it nosiness--I prefer to call it "interest in others") transcends first-time handshakes--it's a part of the very fabric of my being. The other day, Seth and I were shopping at the mall when we ran into a coworker of Seth's. Although Seth nodded and said hey, it didn't go beyond that, mainly because, as Seth whispered to me, he forgot the guy's name. After arriving home from work the next day, he informed me: "His name is Vincent."

Me: What?

Seth: That guy from the mall last night--his name is Vincent. He's from some foreign country.

Me: Oh. Which one?

Seth: I don't know. I couldn't tell from his accent.

Me: You didn't ask him?

Seth: No.

Me: Oh. What's his wife's name?

Seth: She's his girlfriend. They're not married.

Me: Oh. What's her name?

Seth: I don't know. I didn't ask.

And then it began. I could feel it coming . . . a form of verbal diarrhea that I couldn't control. A barrage of questions that I couldn't prevent from flowing out of my mouth:

What does he do? When is she due [she was obviously pregnant]? Is this their first child? Do they know what they're having? Are they planning on getting married? Do they have any names picked out? Where do they live? Do you think he's from Australia? or England? or Puerto Rico? or Brazil? How long has he been in the country? Is he legal? How long as he been working with you? Where does she work? What were they doing at the mall? Does he live near there?

After awhile I realized I was the only one talking. When I paused and looked at Seth for answers, he let out a long sigh and said, "All I wanted was to let you know that I found out his name and have a nice conversation with you, and suddenly I'm faced with this."

Seriously, though, how does one find out things if one doesn't ask questions?

The Fate of the Gingerbread Houses

Over Thanksgiving, we took my parents and sister (who were visiting from Florida) to the Nights Before Christmas in Madison, Indiana. One of the displays featured gingerbread houses made by local elementary school students. My mom, an elementary teacher herself, was inspired by the creations and decided to attempt the same project with the students in her class. Once home, her plan kicked into overdrive and by the week before Christmas break, she was ready to put her plan into action. The supplies were assembled, the royal icing was made, and the kids were ready for Christmas. She strung the project out over several days, but by the end, all the kids had made gingerbread houses like no other.

This is Nathan, the future civil engineer. He wanted five minutes before beginning the gingerbread assembly so that he could plan his layout. He figured everyone else needed some time, too. Nate's also a Christian, and his "house" turned into a carefully planned creche scence, with a masterfully attached star in the corner.

With all the work involved (counting out the candy pieces so that each child got the same amount, making the royal icing for building the houses, planning the house layout, and finally assembling them), my mom eagerly anticipated proud children showing off their creations to impressed parents.

Sadly, some never made it out of the classroom: the houses fell off the desks and were dashed to pieces. Others made it as far as the bus stop, and then smashed into pieces. Still others made it onto the bus but were crushed in the backpack. A fortunate few houses arrived safely at home.

Madison's carefully landscaped and snow-covered scene ended up on the table: "We have a dog, so Mom put the gingerbread house up on the table so the dog couldn't get it."

Madison's was one of the only houses that actually arrived intact and stayed that way. The fate of other gingerbread houses was anybody's game.

Asia also has a dog: "My mother told me to put the gingerbread house into the closet. But the dog found it and ate it!"

Having spread icing over everything to finish it up and being admonished not to eat it, Josh took his home. The next day he informed my mom that his project made it all the way home. He showed it to his mother and then promptly ate it all. Of course, my mom was surprised and asked the next logical question on any teacher's mind, "Did you get sick?" Josh's reply: "I'm here, aren't I?"

Of course, as my mom always says -- it's not really about the finished project; the fun is in the doing.

Road Trippin'

Since we spent Christmas with Seth's family in Ohio, New Year's was spent with my family in Florida. And since Seth doesn't enjoy flying, we drove the 14+ hours to the Gulf Coast. Of course, this allows multitudinous experiences, such as the one at the McDonald's in Tennessee.

We ordered our food inside and took it out to the car to eat so that we could be on our way. As I took out my cheeseburger, I jokingly asked "where's the beef?" since it seemed to be very thin. However, the joke turned into real life when I peeked inside the buns to find it was sans meat. So, I took it back inside the fast food joint and showed them my meatless burger, asking for another one--this time, with meat. Somehow the guy behind the counter misunderstood me and ordered the cooks to make a cheeseburger with no meat, pausing to ask me, "Did you still want cheese with that?" Um, no -- just the two pieces of bread, with ketchup, mustard, and pickles, please. Evetually I got my cheeseburger--with meat and cheese--and we were on our way.

When we crossed the boarder into Florida, we passed a sign that advertised "Theme Parks." Seth asked, "If you could own a theme park, what would the theme be?" Oh good, I thought to myself, it's one of those let-me-get-to-know-your-psyche-better questions. So, I contemplated the theme of my park for a while, carefully weighing my options. Finally, I settled on and announced my theme: butterflies. I would lay the park out in the shape of a butterfly and offer various habitats for a variety of different butterflies, with feeding stations and viewing areas, and maybe a few rides. After my explanation, Seth promptly replied, "And my theme park would be toads, and my toads would eat your butterflies."

So much for bonding.

Happy New Year

As I've mentioned before, I generally don't like making lists--including lists of the new year's resolution kind. I find them to be a tedious waste of my time since I never end up accomplishing the items on my list. Last year, after Stephanie's continual prodding on the joys of journal-keeping, I decided to start a journal to record my deepest secrets and thoughts and activities of life. By the next evening, I'd promptly forgotten about my new journal. When I remembered again, I did well through about August and then promptly forgot about it again.

Every day -- never mind every year -- I vow to eat better and exercise more. And every day, I talk myself into having just one more cookie and laying on the sofa while watching tv just one more minute.

I've also promised to turn over a new leaf and become an early bird, rather than a scoot-in-by-the-seat-of-my-pants slacker. However, you'll notice that I'm posting this on January 2, rather than the first. Scratch that one off the list. I've really got the whole procrastination thing down to a science--why change now?

I've also determined to develop a closer walk with the Lord countless times, but I continually fall short of my goals and aspirations. Thankfully, the Lord is faithful when I'm not.

So, no new year's resolutions for me, just the day-by-day "mercies are new every morning" life that I've been living for the past 32 years. Although I'm happy for those who actually do make -- and keep -- their resolutions. To you I raise a glass of wassail. Happy New Year and all that jazz.