Ugly Dog

Tuesday, a friend and I were talking about her upcoming Pampered Chef show. In the middle of the conversation, she randomly asked “Do you want a Boston Terrier?” Huh? She has two, and I was confused as to why she was parting with one. Turns out a neighbor found one roaming the neighborhood and, assuming it was one of Tiffany's, placed it in her yard. After a week of searching, she gave up hope of finding “Charlotte”'s owner (so called because of her resemblance to a spider).

I never considered Boston's as a pet. In truth, I think they are just plain ugly. But after joking with Terry about it (and discovering that he sort of liked the idea) I began reading online. Apparently, they are really awesome pets. They are consistently listed in the top ten most trainable breeds, as they are highly intelligent. And, according to several sites, they are great with kids.

I had to make a stop at Tiffany's house yesterday to deliver some catalogs. Let me just tell you, other Boston's would look at this dog and think “dang! She's ugly.” Aside from being spindly, small-headed, and oddly colored, she has a snaggle tooth: one little bottom tooth that sticks up over her top lip. Definitely NOT breed standard.

Anyhow, I decided that, despite her hideous appearance, I would borrow her for a couple of hours to see how she did with three small boys.

When I first got home, Xander was the only one awake. Charlotte was very, well, leary of him. If he would walk close to her, she'd walk to the other side of the room. Didn't seem to be a really big deal, though. As soon as the older two woke up, though, it was a different story. I explained to them that she was scared, so they shouldn't really get to close.

They were really good about not encroaching. Quinten did pick her up once. She shook violently. The boys sat on the floor watching her. She shook violently. Xander cried. She shook violently. After about 15 minutes she hid under my desk. She only came out long enough to see if I'd hold her... then back under. She stayed there for 2 hours.

It became clear that she was not the dog for us. Or, rather, we were not the family for her. Sadly, I returned the ugly dog to Tiffany. She would have been a great pet for me, but not a great pet for our boys. And if we're going to pay $25 extra rent a month, we're getting a pet for the whole family.

Commenting on Comments

An interesting scenario has developed over the last 24 hours. An anonymous commenter has taken it upon themselves to chastise me for events they were not involved in. They have accused me of lying, saying hurtful untruths, and presuming to know my heart. I am furious. If this person thinks they are so all knowing as to have facts about my life that differ from the ones I know to be true, why would they be so spineless as to hide behind an “anonymous” tag?

The following rambling is for Mr./Ms. Omniscient, and not really for anyone else. I would have done this in private (which would be the appropriate setting) but they have not given me the chance to do so.


I'm not sure what your referring to when you say “better get your facts right before you go accusing people of things you know nothing about”, so I'll pick apart my article and assume each general category could be the “untruth” in question....

This the entire first half (or more) of the essay is devoted to my personal feelings and conversations, I would hope that you aren't talking about these items. If you are, then you are even more pompous than I first thought.

The point of the conversations with RB had little to do with my not being allowed to be involved, except that he specifically told me that he would continue to allow me to be involved. Do you see the problem there? It was easy for him to say that he knew I'd repented (which, btw, I had.. and you had no right no assume otherwise) and that he'd welcome me with open arms until he actually had to.

I was flat out told that I would never be allowed to perform at SGT again.
Joseph was caught in an obscene act with another man (the details of which I know, but will not share with the general public), and even Alan Zufall committed adultery (something I know first hand from his own mouth.. after seeing him with his “mistress” a couple of times in public). Both were allowed to return to the theatre.

Joseph, however, finally gave up on it, as well. He and I had a lengthy discussion about how screwy things were there. Oddly enough, that included my banishment. He said that he couldn't fathom why RB would excommunicate me for something no worse than what others had done, when I had confessed to him, sought forgiveness from him, and had been assured it was given.

When Stephanie returned from a break to audition again, she was even put on the spot for remaining my friend. If that's not judgment, I don't know what is.

As for my signing a code of ethics: I never denied that what I did was wrong. That would be foolish and wrong, At no point did I say anything like “I have no idea why anyone would be upset about this”. The point of the article was that I was lied to, used, and held to a double standard. That is not justified by my actions. As Godly men and women we are expected to act in love in all situations. There was no love in that mess.

I have to revisit this: “You were not trying to repent, just be accepted “. Unless you were there you have no idea the extent of the conversation I had with the cast that night. I said “I'm sorry” about a hundred times. To the cast members I had failed, to my director, to my assistant director, to RB, even to Bobby... eventually (not that he cared at all). I was sorry. If I wasn't sorry I could have kept the information to myself for the rest of the run (I wasn't anywhere near showing) and moved on with my life afterwards. I felt those people, who had trusted me with their spiritual lives, deserved to know. And the least they deserved was my repentant heart. You have some gall to assume otherwise.

In another comment you said “Do you ever feel sorry for the hurtful things you have said about people that you know nothing about?” And the answer is 'no', since I didn't say anything hurtful about people I know nothing about. I was closer to those people than anyone else but family. I didn't say anything at all about them with a hurtful spirit. I told the truth. Just because you've “been there”, doesn't mean that you know anything about those involved. If you can't accept that these people you've put on a pedestal could possibly have been so unloving, then I'm sorry for you.

And whether or not I'm where I should be with the Lord is, frankly, none of your business. If you were truly concerned about me, you would have kept your nastiness to yourself and attempted to communicate with me.

Violin Lessons

In November, our denomination had our state-wide women's convention. It has become the highlight of my year. We stay at a lavish resort, fellowship until side splitting laughter radiates through the entire building, attend educational workshops, make connections with women from other churches, and praise until we have no breath (or tears) left to do so. Add to that the fact that the boys stay home with Daddy and you have my idea of a perfect vacation.

This year, God told me to do something strange. Ok, I take that back... He “asked” me to do something strange (in that sorta commanding way that only He can do, that says “this is what I want you to do... but it's your choice, of course”). I chose to obey.

So I bought a violin.

You see, the Lord, in all His omniscience, has decided that His master plan for the universe is not complete unless I learn to play the violin. Don't worry, you're not the only one scratching your head.

But let me back up....

Friday night during worship I heard that still small voice. That stirring in my heart that you can only understand if you've experienced it. “What Lord? You want me to do what?” Surely, I thought, I was just a little too sleep deprived.

Saturday morning worship rolled aroun,d and while I was significantly more sleep deprived that Friday (remember that “fellowship” I mentioned?), the voice was louder and more clear. Still thinking I just needed a nap, I ignored it.

Saturday evening God decided I needed a loudspeaker in my face... literally. So I'm listening to the words of knowledge and I'm wondering, “am I really crazy, or does God want me to play the violin?” And it hits me. That ton of bricks that lands on your head when the light bulb goes on and you suddenly understand a little more of the mysteries God has ordained for your life. And then the real questions begin.

“We're broke, Lord, and violins are expensive.” Without warning, the words of the vessel of prophecy standing in front of me come clear. “Your worry is not yours to own. God has ordained it, He will make a way.” “But Lord, lessons are expensive.” “That's not your problem,” she says, “it's the Father's.” The only question that remained was how to tell my friends and family without them thinking I was crazy.

Sunday night, I went on Ebay, and bought a violin. I even got a good deal. Seemed logical, right? Except that God told me it was his problem. About two days before it came in the mail, one of my husband's coworkers asked him if our boys might be interested in playing a violin. He had one for sale... for ½ the price of what I paid. I felt a little like Abraham must have when he chose to speed up God's process by taking Hagar. Granted, the fate of an entire future nation wasn't hanging in the balance, but I still felt crummy.

So now I have my violin, and the Lord has been providing a little extra money here and there for lessons. I've had two so far. Then we took three weeks off for the Holidays. I go back today.

But the real meat and potatoes of my story starts here. You see, last night, as I was practicing, I was getting quite frustrated. I'm a perfectionist by nature and the perfect wasn't coming. I've been laboring over my violin for more than two hours some days. When you realize that I'm not much past “Twinkle Twinkle”, this seems almost silly. But gosh darnit! If God told me He wants me to play it, I'm going to do it right!

This morning I was reading in the Psalms. Now there was a musician! Do you know the last Psalm? Psalm 150? It says:

“Praise the Lord. Praise God in His sanctuary; Praise Him in His mighty Heavens. Praise Him for His acts of power; Praise Him for His surpassing greatness. Praise Him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise Him with the harp and lyre, praise Him with Tambourine and dancing, praise Him with the strings and flute, praise Him with the clash of cymbals, praise Him with the resounding cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.”

That's the point, isn't it? The real point. My obedience in and of itself is an act of worship, but my follow through has not been. I've been more concerned with doing it “right” that I haven't been doing it right. My actions were in the right place, but my head and heart were not.

I can't be certain that the Father's plan doesn't involve my debut at Carnegie Hall, but I can say it's doubtful. With this in mind, it really matters precious little how well I actually play, only that I do it with a song in my heart. I will be faithful to the process. I will practice each day... a reasonable amount of time. I will attempt to do my best and have to accept that my best may not be perfect. Then again, He never asked it to be.

Their own devises

If your small child was about to unknowingly run out onto a busy freeway, would you stay silent? I mean, maybe they'll realize before it's too late and if they don't, it's their life. Why should you meddle in it?

Sounds ridiculous, right?

Sadly many fellow Christians are now taking this attitude. I'm encountering more and more Christian friends who will not take their children to church, allow them to go to Christian preschools, share the gospel message at home, or otherwise risk “indoctrinating” them.

These people say things like “I want them to come to their own conclusions” or “who am I to dictate what they believe?”.

Now, whether or not you're a Christian, I think the strangeness of this idea is clear. These very same people will, in a heart beat, state in no uncertain terms that Christ is really the only way to Heaven. So would someone please tell me why they would be so opposed to sharing that knowledge with their children? That's like saying, “I have the cure for my child's illness but unless they a) realize they are sick and b) look long and hard for a cure, I am not going to offer it, nor am I going to let anyone else meddle in their lesson in self-discovery”

I want my children to come to their own conclusions about God. After all, my faith alone will not do them any good in the afterlife. But I also will not hide my faith from them. I want them to know what I believe in hopes that they, too, will make the decisions I made.

But what if I never say much about my faith? What if they grow up searching, but never figure out where to look? What if they assume that my faith obviously is not the answer since I don't feel it's important enough to share with them?

So, instead, my poor subjugated children will have to grow up in Church, hearing the Gospel Message at every turn at home, and endure faith-based schooling. I want them to spend eternity with me and if I believe Christ is the only way to accomplish that, then I will do everything in my power to ensure they know all they can know of Christ. Maybe they'll resent me for it, but more likely they'll thank me for it. After all, even the scriptures say “train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

The muppets - manamana

Manly Men

It seems in our culture today, being a man means being expected to fill one of two roles; the “might as well be a woman” man or the “big, dumb, goof” man... Neither, in my opinion, is acceptable or right. Too many sitcoms portray American men as the subservient jester designed to provide comic relief in the family comprised of a highly intelligent “could have done better” wife and the “we're so much smarter than dad” kids. The men who are portrayed as winners are basically women in men's clothing. Often times gay characters, these men wouldn't know a power tool from a flower tool. What ever happened to the “manly man”?

I believe our society has d emasculated our men to such a degree that a serious gender identity crisis is occurring. Many men live miserable confused lives unable to fit either role in which the culture wishes to cast them.

As a woman (and wife, and mother of three future men), I feel inclined to start a grass roots campaign to stand up and salute men who dare to hold on to some outdated notions about who they should be.

(By “manly man”, I in no way mean the chauvinist. Pigs of this sort have no use in any society. I also don't mean to imply that every man should fit the description laid out below. My husband doesn't possess all of these traits, but he is still a manly man. Some of it is a matter of preference.)


Here's to you Mister Manly Man! Here's to the man who still respects a women enough to open the car door for her, not to encourage her to rely on him, but to show gratitude for her role in his life.

Here's to the man who loads the dish washer during the half time show, knowing that the dishes will still be there later, but watching the big game with his buddies is better than all the cigars in Cuba.
Here's to you, mister ________ the tool man _______. For your extensive collection of tools, for your vast knowledge of horsepower, and your undying fondness for anything that could be described by how many cylinders it has.

I tip my hat to you, Manly Fix-it Guy. When the toilet overflows, you have the willpower to overcome the ankle deep moat guarding the bowl in order to exemplify your amazing ability to battle the plumbing and live to tell about it. All the while shouting, “Don't worry honey, everything is under control” and really meaning it.

And let's not forget Mister Wrestle-with-the-boys. His job is one of the most important of all the manly men: Teaching his sons to rough house, play swords, the physics of baseball, and the vocabulary of the garage, all the while wearing the pink tutu his daughter made for him in Home Ec class.

A real manly man prays for his wife and children, leads them in the blessing at dinner, and passes on the moral code of chivalry. He is a knight in shining armor. He rescues the house from the dangerous weed monster, hauls the garbage dragon to the street by it's tail, and lops the limbs from the mad Oak medusa that threatens the very life of the sacred tree house. And when his adventuring is over, he showers, puts on his finest doublet and takes his queen out for a candle lit meal. And while there, he's not afraid to order a beer. After all, he deserves it!

I applaud you, Mister Manly Man, for not being whimpy and femme, and for not being crass and idiotic. Most of all, I thank you, for being the kind of man God created you to be, calloused hands and all.

The beach boys 

Why Bother?

Upon reading the essay “Why Don't We Complain?” by William F. Buckley, I was struck with a mix of thoughts. On one hand, I see those around me succumb to the chilly silence of acceptance. I am intrigued by this silence, as I, on the other hand, frequently speak my mind regardless of the opinions of those around me. I was raised this way; I was taught how to do so with tact and respect, while making my point clear. My mother is a letter writer (the “what are you people thinking” kind of letters), and the first to point out an incorrect price at the super market even if it is only $.03 off. Perhaps this is residual influence of her days as a teenager in the 60's. Though the essay was written before such notable protesting days, I believe those days may have contributed to why other people are so complacent now.

Buckley assumes the helpless attitudes of his countrymen are a result of the ability to merely pick up a phone to fix a pipe. Lack of personal responsibility on such issues, he concludes, has taught us to forget how to fend for ourselves, so to speak. I disagree.

Buckley himself sites several occasions when he did speak up, only to be met with little or no return for his effort. I assert that this has happened to many people, many times. The Vietnam War protesters are a good case in point. As a result, our society has adopted an attitude of “learned helplessness.”

Learned helplessness, as defined by Stedman's Medical Dictionary, occurs when “...exposure to a series of unforeseen adverse situations gives rise to a sense of helplessness or an inability to cope with or devise ways to escape such situations, even when escape is possible.” In this case, people have learned that complaining does no earthly good... even when it might.

Those who do bother to complain are often youth who lack the effective or, at least, non-vulgar vocabulary to adequately garner the respect in reaction that they seek. Therefore, service related workers are accustomed to immediately needing a wall of defense between them and anyone who starts a sentence with “Excuse me, Miss, but it seems there may be a problem here”. The rest of us (those who have manners, that is) are also subjected to the wall of defense and therefore are left holding the bag of unaddressed issues that Buckley writes about. As a result, many are inclined to think that if we stay silent then we will not confirm the suspicion that our complaints will only fall on deaf ears. A reality that only adds to the overall frustration level brought on by the original complaint.

Another source of this learned helplessness probably stems from a general lack of common sense on the part of such service workers. On a recent trip to McDonald's, the price that displayed on the drive-thru screen for my apple pie was $.10 higher than the price listed on the large print menu before me. Not so much caring about the dime, but being my mother's daughter, I felt the need to bring up the discrepancy to the young girl at window #1. Her immediate response floored me. “Oh, well, like, that's probably the price with tax and stuff”.

What? For starters, I informed her, the tax is calculated at the bottom of the screen on the total amount of the order, not on the item by item list. Secondly, tax in Missouri is not such that an $.89 pie would give the state $.10 in revenue. She was lost and only restated her original hypothesis (a word I'm sure she couldn't spell if paid to do so). Realizing all hope was lost at window #1, I made my case to “food passer outer” at window #2. After pondering the situation for a moment, she, too, came up with the same erroneous explanation.

When I called the manager after returning home with my over-paid-for apple pies, I am quite certain I heard him bang his head on the wall. [The mistake was an honest one as the price had indeed gone up, but due to construction, the sign had not been changed.] One can only be met with such ignorance so many times before one opts to take the silent road and maintain whatever level of personal sanity that may yet be afforded him/her.

Another look into this theory of learned helplessness shows that historically, when a person has the nerve to speak up (usually on matters of import far exceeding that of a train car temperature), the result attained is often not the result desired. No example makes this point as clear as that of Martin Luther. This great revolutionary, the father of Protestantism, had no desire to create a new religion or branch thereof. This is evidenced in the 1518 letter Luther wrote to Pope Leo X. himself. He continues to defer to the pontiff's supreme, God given authority. He merely sought change within the Roman Catholic Church, and such seeking found him excommunicated, unemployed, and the reluctant leader of a brand new denomination.

Some might ask, “Why should people's lack of willingness to complain be a big deal?”. Many Americans hold their tongue so hard for so long that when it is loosed, the full temper and fury of the previously mild mannered individual is bared for all to see. Buckley himself admits to being guilty of this 'crime'. When this happens, rational, mature adults are often reduced to the attitudes and vocabulary of the aforementioned youths who make successful complaining difficult for the rest of us.

I personally plan to actively teach my children how to question authority under the correct guidelines, just as my mother taught me. They will not always win the battle, but they will also be taught a certain level of perseverance. Perhaps if enough parents saw this issue as relevant and important to our culture's collective emotional health, we could raise a new generation of productive complainers.