Deodorant

I had to share this request to a friend I begged to buy deodorant for me. His response: "When I stop gasping for air from laughing, I will see what i can do!" And to this, I said, "I knew you'd find me funny...err...out of my mind!" (But I can't help it, this stuff is worth the trouble!) Oh this is the stuff that makes life funny...

His name, I should have asked you on the phone, but I just realized this morning, that I'm almost out of deodorant. I did know this was coming a month ago and tried to order it online but apparently they have a shortage of staff or some such nonsense (their phone message indicated). I can't get this deodorant here. I've only found it at Vitamin Cottage, but VC won't ship that kind of stuff (I tried this avenue as well). Anyway, I know I'm most annoying, but is there any way you could buy it and ship it to me and I'll send a check in the mail to you? It's the only kind I like, and it's aluminum free (don't roll your eyes). If you can't I'll make the trip to Denver just for it! I know you are very busy, and there is no rush because I'll force myself to use all the others I can buy here until I can get my hands on some. However, I would appreciate it very much if you might find the time to do this for me. You can view what the bottle looks like at the
top of the page of the following link (I know you're laughing by now):

http://www.texasbestunlimited.com/

I prefer the aloe and almond kind, but I'll take what they have. I need 2 of them. I'll even pay you $5 for your trouble!

Let me know. I understand if you can't! Thanks!

Just the bacon talking...

Three topics I spent some time thinking about this past winter were that of stuff, that of American credit card debt and that of boredom.

Now, don’t ask why I reserved this winter to think mostly about these three topics, because there is no specific reason (save the fact that winter in a small town offering little for recreation has a way of, yes, being just a touch boring). And I’ve certainly thought about these topics before this past winter, but I wasn’t able to really put my thoughts to words until a recent discussion with a friend over a BLT sandwich. (By the way, discussions over a BLT help in coming to hearty conclusions about mixed topics in life, in case you didn’t already know this bit of trivia. Must be the bacon.)

Anyway, we discussed how these three topics are kind of related. And yes, in order to write this, Kim may come across like she’s on her soapbox. And she is (but again, this column in just my opinion so consider the source).

I’ve been guilty, you see—spending money on stuff—on stuff that, in looking back, I really didn’t need in the first place. And yes, I’ve been guilty of wanting stuff badly enough (from snake skin high heels and gargantuan pieces of hideous jewelry that I never wear to all kinds of trinkets that now collect dust), that it didn’t bother me to charge that stuff right on to my handy dandy credit card. Stuff, stuff, stuff. But we Americans do love stuff, now don’t we? We tend to be kind of materialistic—consumers of the hungriest kind. We need our toys and our cars and our boats and our brand names and our television sets and our DVD’s and our computer gadgets and a new camera and a better stereo for the car and stuff to doll up the house with and the best shampoo and the new shoes and my shirt just isn’t new enough, I think I need a newer one wrapped in plastic, please. Oh, and let’s not forget I need a few more handbags (because I’m afraid not one out of the 30 I already have in my closet will suffice for this particular event). ‘What’s that? Oh, I’ll be using my Visa charge today. Thank you.’ Goodness.

American credit-card debt has increased by 25 percent in the past 10 years, reaching $963 billion, according to figures released by the White House in January (www.whitehouse.gov). It’s become a way of life in America to use credit cards as a vital source of liquidity. Houston, we seem to have a problem.

Now, I’m not saying the following scenario holds true in every case, but in my own situation, my past credit card debt was due to the fact that I wanted to be instantly gratified with stuff for the moment. My motto at the time (thank goodness it isn’t now)? Well, ‘I want it. I want it now. Forget saving for it. Just charge it. Hey, hey, it’s the American way.’ And we Americans tend to love to be instantly gratified, now don’t we (that hurts a little)? We tend to like to be entertained and not wanting or ever depriving ourselves of the things we think will bring us fun or a better quality of life or the stuff that will bring us satisfaction, even if just temporary. Because if we did these things—if we made ourselves have the discipline to save or to budget instead charge it or to deny ourselves of less stuff or to cut back on some of our entertainment —well gosh, life might be a little more boring. (Oh, even the thought!)

Must have been the bacon talking, but during the course of our conversation, my friend and I came to a particular conclusion. This conclusion was made while she wiped mayonnaise from her finger (this is serious business), and it holds true for both children and adults: that boredom is actually a good thing for us to experience.

She shared about how it’s healthy for her children to be bored and not always entertained or instantly gratified, because it allows her to at least try and guide them towards reading or being creative or taking up exercise (what novel ideas). Get this, she and her husband even collectively decided not to own a television (Even better, she isn’t sheltered or uneducated by choosing to do so. She’s quite aware of what is happening globally, on the home front and in her own back yard. She can carry on a pleasant conversation with most anyone).

*As a side note, my friend also shared about her love for gardening and discussed various reasons why it’s good for her children to garden with her because it teaches them to work towards a goal, patience (not to be instantly gratified), to see the fruit of their labor and that if they are not faithful in watering the garden and tending to the garden, there will be visible consequences. Genius! How true to life.*

Wait! Give me just a minute to step off my soapbox now. There. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not professing that all stuff is bad or that all entertainment is wrong or that having a better way of life isn’t something we shouldn’t aim for or even that it’s not OK to sometimes be instantly gratified (heaven knows, I still make plenty of mistakes in this department). In context, these are all great things. And it might be a hard battle, but I think it might behoove me (and maybe all Americans) to think twice before spending money on stuff (especially if I have to pull out a credit card to do so) and to more than occasionally deny myself instead of being instantly gratified or to think about my rationale behind needing to be perpetually entertained or whatever the case. Maybe a good dose of boredom would motivate me to read more or to volunteer more or to more seriously take up gardening. Maybe a good dose of boredom would inspire me to have more conversations over BLTs instead of using my cell phone to text conversations to actual live people. And then again, maybe the thoughts in this column were just the bacon talking…

Do it. Act like a kid again!

Sometimes I get the undeniable urge. I get the urge to eat ice cream too late at night (two more bowls of it, and I think I will officially have an addiction, people). I get the urge to hug random strangers. I get the urge to do cartwheels in front of skinny people. And, I have to admit, I sometimes get the undeniable urge to act like a kid again.

It wasn’t long after I moved to Colorado in the summer of 2005 when I got the urge to pull off a nifty trick I used to do as a kid. And it wasn’t until I went through my old journal entries that I actually remembered this particular incident. Turns out, making the choice to live and work in the mountains away from people wasn’t one of the more brilliant decisions I’ve made in my lifetime (for more reasons than ten, trust me), mainly because I had very little social interaction and fun.

So, while socially desperate at the mountain grocery store, I decided to get silly one day. My journal entry reads: ‘Without hesitating, I leaned over the cart handle, put one foot on the bottom of the cart, and kicked myself into full speed with my other foot.’ I was going fast—so fast my hair was blowing in the breeze. Undoubtedly, it was going to happen. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop myself in time (there she blew!). I ended up crashing into a mammoth display of protein bars right next to this older gentleman cowboy who stopped, looked over at me and said with a chuckle, ‘Whoa Nellie!’ Thank goodness I didn’t end up crashing into the poor man! Then I heard over the intercom, ‘Clean up in aisle three and four please.’ I was laughing so hard I didn’t bother to stick around and help clean up my mess (shame on me).

I recommend crashing into a display of protein bars if that’s what it takes (only, clean up your mess, will ya?). That’s right, do whatever it takes to act more like a kid again, because life is too short…

I’m compelled to think more like a kid when I spend time with my nieces and nephews. They are brutally honest—not politically correct by any means (how refreshing). The younger ones especially are not self-conscious about what ‘so and so’ thinks of them in a social setting or if their shoes perfectly match the outfit. They get ice cream on their shirt and don’t care. They trust. They do silly things. They laugh at goofy antics. They ask lots of questions because they are curious and willing to learn new things. They are pure. They are innocent (yes, even my nephews). They are bright-eyed and optimistic. They forgive. Their faith is untainted. They dream, they’re passionate about everything from learning about a chrysalis to making sail boats, and so on…

Life has a way of making good people jaded. I’ve seen it over and over. Some of these good people hold on to bitterness. Some never learn to forgive. Some quit on their dreams. Some get suckered into some job they were never meant for in the first place and grow apathetic about everything in life—settling for merely a routine. Some lose faith. Some never share their opinion because they are so self-conscious about being judged. Some are so politically correct they can’t even fathom carrying on a transparent conversation. Some play passive-aggressive games because misery loves company. Some get stuffy. Some get rude. Some have lost every ounce of trust. Some get jealous. Some never give a stranger a chance. Some never let a person forget.

Whatever the case, isn’t it about time we got the undeniable urge? The urge to act more like a kid again? Isn’t it about time we played through the sprinkler or got out the finger paint or said something completely politically INcorrect? Isn’t it about time we called that relative we’ve been bitter at for so many years or did something completely and totally out of the ordinary to shake up our routine? Well, slap my mouth, but I think it’s high time. As for me, I’m going to start by seeking out a group of skinny people to watch me do cartwheels…

The lilacs are coming...

I just so happen to love this particular time of year. It means new beginnings. It means all things are made new. It means hope. This time of year teaches me to breathe because everything that was frozen through has new purpose and new color and compels any bona fide observer to stop and make note of. Spring has sprung. And best part? The lilacs are coming…

I never found it odd that people in Washington, D.C. made much ado over Cherry Blossoms. There were receptions and fancy drinks and speeches given all in honor of a flower—yes, a flower—during the Cherry Blossom Festival held every April. And if you ever have the chance, I highly recommend a visit to the District of Columbia during this festival. This was the one time of year I thoroughly enjoyed my hour commute (15 miles) home, because I drove directly past the Jefferson Memorial where the sight of the surrounding Cherry Blossom trees always made me sigh and smile.

The reason I never found all the fuss over Cherry Blossoms odd is because I have a similar fixation with lilacs. I’d love to see a ‘Lilac Festival’ myself, where receptions and fancy drinks and speeches would be given all in honor of a flower—yes, a flower. And I’d be the first at the podium to share why I have a fixation with lilacs. Lilacs are special to me, you see. Not to be cheesy (although, me being cheesy has previously been established), but there’s simply something about lilacs that makes my soul still. There’s something about lilacs that reminds me of where I come from. I shall have lilacs in my own yard one day because there’s also something about lilacs that will forever remind me of three of my favorite people.

My sweet great grandmother Mable had lilac bushes at her home in Wibaux. I loved visiting Great Grandma with her cats and her knick knacks and her ever accepting smile. I’d occasionally visit her while the lilacs were in bloom and climb to the top of the most remarkable tree (which looked like something out of a story book) in her backyard. After my ascent to the top, I’d catch my breath, then close my eyes, feel the light breeze brush my face and breathe in the smell of those lilacs for as long as I could without getting light headed (the fall from the top of the tree would have been catastrophic). I remember sitting in that tree for whole half hours at a time to do this because the world just sort of stood still. I remember, even at such a young age, thinking ‘I want life to stay like this for always. I love this place.’ (As a side note, one summer during college I took a day trip to Wibaux long after Great Grandma passed away and snuck into what used to be her yard just to take a picture of that tree.)

My beloved grandmother in Glendive still has those lilacs in her backyard. The lilac bushes are directly in the center of where I’d play house or school as a kid and boss some of my cousins (‘No, I’m actually going to be the one to play teacher. Now please sit down.’) When I wasn’t bossing, I enjoyed being alone in Grandma’s backyard where I would slip away to think, purposely when the lilacs were in bloom. Grandma’s house was always my refuge. I could tell Grandma anything (and still can). Grandma would cut lilacs from one of her bushes and place them neatly in a vase on her table or on her countertop. Growing up, I can remember going to Grandma’s house during lilac season for something to eat or just to talk or play cards and how soothing it was to walk into her house to the smell of freshly cut lilacs.

And in a way, the smell of lilacs will always feel like a hug from my momma. Before she died, I believe she had close to 11 lilac bushes in her yard (you see now, why I come by my fixation so naturally). Mom loved flowers and yard work of any kind (I think because she liked quiet and being alone). But boy, I remember her excitement when she talked about her ‘plan’ of having several lilac bushes line the fence along the sidewalk of her house. And as was true to Mom’s style, she didn’t just talk about a plan, she typically followed through. The lilacs are still there along the fence—the bushes reassuring me just the other day when I walked by that this time of year means new beginnings. It means all things are made new. It means hope. And the best part? Well, the lilacs are coming…

The luckiest people in the world

I was a junior in college. Kristy was a sophomore, and she cleaned my dormitory floor. This is when I began to get to know her, because I would pester Kristy while she was trying to work. (I would also pester her while she was trying to work the lobby front desk of our dormitory.) But I couldn’t help myself. Because this girl reminded me of that ‘Rosie the Riveter’ character with that bandana and her sleeves rolled up—all ready to work. Kristy was a hippie type cool and she made me belly laugh. Boy, did we laugh together. And I laughed in her face when she first proposed the idea of us joining a team of others traveling to China that summer to teach English.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but China was not on my list of ‘top places to visit’ when I was a junior in college. I wanted to go sip wine in Italy or visit Spain and lay on a beach, not teach English in China. But, as was Kristy’s way, she was persistent, and eventually, I was persuaded to join her to teach Chinese students and walk the Great Wall (Sucker!).

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade that summer for a bowl of Breyers ice cream, though. No sir. Because that summer, Kristy showed me how much more than OK it is to need people. And without people or someone to experience life with, the stories about our lives and what we experience in them and through them just wouldn’t mean as much. People who need people are really the luckiest people in the world (To quote Barbra in the movie Funny Girl).

From the moment Kristy and I stepped off that plane in Beijing and the smells were unlike anything I had previously sniffed, I realized I was going to need a faithful friend to help me stay the course and keep a good attitude (because I was already homesick and sick to my stomach). A precarious train ride later, and Kristy and I settled into what would be our ‘home’ for the next few weeks: living quarters next to Tianjin Technological Institute in Tianjin.

Day one and I couldn’t get a good cup of coffee to save my life. The smells were still getting to me.

‘Kristy, is this our washer?’
‘Yeah, isn’t it cool?’
‘So basically we are doing our laundry by hand, is that correct?’
‘Kind of. But this machine is kind of neat if you look at it, Kim. Adventure.’
‘Thou almost persuadeth me, Kristy. Almossssst.’
Then we’d laugh, and she’d help me with my laundry.

Day two:
Classes started. Teaching was much harder than I had anticipated. Besides, I wasn’t sleeping because roaches were constantly finding their way across my skin at night. I tried to sleep with the light on, but I found that these kinds of roaches or whatever these bugs were weren’t deterred by the light. Persistent little things, I guess.

Day three:
I knocked on Kristy’s door after classes. I finally decided to put my pride down, as I couldn’t bare the roach issue any longer. Knock, knock. ‘Kristy?’ She opened the door wearing a big smile and a bandana tied around her curly hair. She was also listening to some music (she was smart enough to bring along a small tape player). She was scrubbing her kitchen (surprise, surprise). ‘Kristy, can I come live with you?’ She laughed and asked ‘You OK?’ ‘Well, if you want the truth I’m not sleeping. I figure that if we’re in the same room, at least the roaches won’t only find me at night. Somehow it’s comforting to me that they’re crawling on you at the same time. I need some sleep.’ She laughed, but she let me move in.

And so the story goes. We spent many a night laying in the dark and talking about life and what the future might hold or about the beautiful people of China or about roaches. Kristy and I would even take turns reading to each other sometimes before bed or practice our new Mandarin phrases our students had taught us. We would share about our teaching experiences, and laugh at some of the things we said or did like when Kristy went to flush the floor toilet with her foot and she had to dive after her shoe she’d lost in the process. I heard her walking down the linoleum hallway back to her classroom (squeak, step, squeak, step). Of course, I couldn’t resist asking what had happened that night and we laughed ourselves to sleep about this and other topics.

And my favorite: sometimes, Kristy and I would get up early in the morning to peek out our windows while eating watermelon in order to watch the older Chinese people do calisthenics. They also gave each other stand up back massages. It was precious to watch.

I would put down my pride and ask Kristy questions like, ‘OK, are you battling perpetual indigestion from the food here or is it just wimpy me?’ And sweet Kristy would make me honey bread and give me a slice of watermelon, which she knew my stomach could handle. Kristy discovered what we eventually referred to as the ‘Chinese Walmart’ down the street about a mile and a half, where I bought all the honey and bread I desired. After shopping there, we’d stop off at the market, battle raw meat smells and pile as many watermelons as we could possibly carry into our plastic bags—laughing at each other the entire way home because of how ridiculous we both looked lugging our bags. The Chinese people noticed too, and some would giggle with their hand held to their lips. (I just know they had to be thinking ‘look at those two silly girls again.’)

And let’s not forget the day it rained and after classes, Kristy and I decided to take a walk. We both decided to jump/splash through a huge puddle just because it was so hot and refreshing to finally experience rain (even though the polluted smell that came with the rain made me a tad queasy).

‘Hey Kristy, do you smell that? Like, it’s more than just that pollution smell.’

‘Yeah, gosh, it kind of smells like sewer I guess.’ We both look down and examined the puddle we were standing in a ‘bit more closely. ‘I think we’re walking in sewage, Kim.’

‘Oh golly (gag, gag).’ It was indeed sewage. Needless to say, we headed directly home and soaked our feet and sandals in bleach while laughing (because of course only we would choose the puddle that contained sewage for whatever reason).

There are so many stories from that summer, and I can’t relay them all. But had I not experienced China with Kristy, my experience just wouldn’t mean the same or be nearly as funny to reminisce about. And I can’t help but ask myself if this thought doesn’t carry over into every facet of life, really. What good are my stories if I’ve got no one to tell them to or experience the stories with? We need people—be them family or friends or lovers. And these kinds of people—people who need people—well, they really are the luckiest people in the word.

Random Pictures

Some are of Taya's and my trip we took together last summer. My friend, Bobbi Jo, let us come to her place and learn some about horses. Super fun (Milli is the name of the dog and she is a CUTIE). The others are of Wendy, a dear friend, and her daughter.

Blame it on the chicken...

It took me three hours to get ready that night when it normally took me an hour. In between the fidgeting and pacing (which had my roommate shaking her head at me because I was so nervous), I finally managed to throw together what I thought was the perfect outfit. I really liked this boy, and I was determined to impress him that night—from my posture to my best pair of heels to the way my eyelashes were perfectly separated.

I would let him open the car door for me, I decided, and be quiet and meek, letting him ask all the questions. In other words, I was determined I wouldn’t ask tons of questions (which was/is normal for me) that would scare the poor guy like, ‘How do you adapt military institutions to changing social mores?’ (The guy I was on the date with covered ‘military issues’ for some congressman out East and I so wanted to ask the question, but I decided to keep my mouth shut regarding topics like this for at least first date.) I even tried to be low maintenance and request we go to Chili’s instead of Signatures where he would have spent a fortune for me to enjoy a simple house salad.

The date was going smoothly. Conversation was flowing nicely about superficial things, and he was asking the questions. My posture was impeccable. And then it happened –just after I finished my house salad. I say ‘it’ because inevitably, whenever I try my hardest to ‘be smooth or something I’m not or look like I have it completely together’ (no matter what the situation), I do that something called ‘it’ that is always and absolutely embarrassing. It never fails.

This time—on this date, I happened to choke on a piece of chicken. To make a long story short, the rest of the date was an utter disaster because I choked so hard that I think I may have actually cut my esophagus and I couldn’t talk without feeling the urge to cough. He never asked me out again (for fear he may have to give me the Heimlich maneuver), and as I recall, it was after this date that I made up my mind to try less hard to impress on any first date or any date or any situation in life (for that matter). I’m over it. So I guess we can blame it—my attitude of not trying to impress—on the chicken. That’s right, blame it on the chicken.

Now, I don’t go out of my way to ever be unpleasant with other people, especially during a first encounter. People need people, obviously, and I am not an island (nor do I want to be). I need people, and at some level, all of us need to feel accepted and liked. But I will admit that I am not the life of any party, and I never have been. (Thank you Captain Obvious.) I can be dull, especially on a Friday night after a hard work at week (Anybody up for hot chocolate?). I sometimes think about books I could be reading instead of spending an afternoon with newly introduced acquaintances. I can be moody and cantankerous, and I need my alone/quiet time. I typically don’t drink to get drunk. I’ll always prefer a cup of tea with a friend over a beer. I am usually in bed by 11 p.m. close to every night. I am terrible at telling stories in real life and sounding intelligent (I even stutter at times because of nerves or forgetting what the point of the story was about half way through).

But no matter what my quirks and all the things I lack socially, I’m simply over trying to impress people. What’s the point, anyway? There’s always going to be somebody who will not like me because I’m tall like the Green Giant (How are you doing down there?) or because I am too blunt or because I secretly want freckles.
I even wrote about this in my journal this past week—out of my frustration at recently being labeled a ‘prude’ or in the past, labeled ‘stuck up’ or ‘she thinks she’s so much better than.’ Oh really, now? I could relate story after story about how I’ve tried to impress or be something I’m not or tried to play cool or fit in, and you would hear stories about me falling down stairs, sitting in blue gum while wearing white pants right before a presentation I had dolled myself up for, having spinach stuck between my two front teeth while trying to be impressive in a conversation, etc. I’ve been there, done that, got the T-shirt. No thanks. Because trying to impress people usually tends to backfire on me. It’s one of God’s ways of keeping me a little more humble, I think.

Once in an interview, I was told by my future boss that he had a philosophy of ‘work hard, play hard’ and he wanted to know how that would fare with my social mores should I be hired (He sensed I was a prude, you see). I told him, ‘You do your thing, and I’ll do my thing. I’ll accept you for you, and you accept me for me, and I don’t think they’ll be a problem.’ And there never was. In fact, we got along quite well. (I did learn to lighten up a little through this particular office experience; however, which was a good thing.)

So I guess the point is I’ll keep living by the same standard I shared with this particular boss. A prude? Perhaps. But I guess all I can be is me. All you can be is you. I’m all here. You’re all there. Some of who we are is unique. Some of who we are, we share. And life would be pretty darn boring if we were all the same, you think? Life would also be pretty darn boring if all of us chose to value ‘fitting in’ or ‘impressing people’ instead of simply being ourselves. Eventually, who we really are will surface anyway. Besides, who are we really trying to impress anyway? I know, I know, I’m too blunt. (I know, I know, I’m too tall. And I know, I know, I love people with freckles.) Well, that’s me I’m afraid. I guess we can blame it on the chicken.