Father's Day (and Belated Mother's Day)

I think this is going to be more of a Parent's Day post--because I didn't make a Mother's Day one.

So here it is: an ode to my parents!

I pretty much had the greatest childhood ever. As long as I can remember back, days would start with Niki and I waking up and going to the brown couch in the living room to see what mom had laid out for us to wear. Niki would usually get there first, and trade our outfits. I never noticed, or minded. Then, we'd get in the car and dad would take us to Ms. Gladys' (the babysitter's) house. We'd always stop by The Looney Baker and drive through the drive-thru. If Sue was working, my dad would just have to say "It's Jeff and the girls" and Sue would be ready with my dad's medium coffee--little cream and 2 sugars; my glazed doughnut, and niki's apple doughnut.

My mom doesn't like this story, but it's one of my favorite memories. I think it shows how my parents really encouraged us to be independent, and most importantly: not complain!

My very first day of kindergarten, my mom packed my lunch in my red Duck Tales lunch box and when it was time to eat it I bit into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was a little over-jellied. That afternoon when I came home from school, I told my mom that she put too much jelly on my sandwich. I don't remember much of the dialogue that followed (I mean, sheesh! I was only 5!) but I do remember that from the 2nd day of kindergarten until I graduated high school, I (along with all my siblings) made my own lunch.

I will say, I'm super-glad that I wasn't one of those middle schoolers whose mom packed her lunch every day.

My dad really likes airplanes, I guess. I only recently pieced this together when he made a comment one time about how planes are so heavy and made of metal, but they still can fly so high. When we were little, my dad used to pile us kids in the van and we'd drive down to the airport. He'd park outside the fence, and the planes would take off and land right over our heads. It was always so cool, because they were so loud and so big!

My mom is the master of french braids. And when I say master, I mean MASTER! With three very fine-haired little girls, you have to be a master! My mom would braid our hair in anywhere from 8 to 10 french braids at night time, and we'd sleep on the braids so when we woke up in the morning, our hair would be all crimpy. [Note: in hindsight, this probably wasn't the best decision we could have ever made in our lives. . .but at the time it was AWESOME!]

Both of my parents raised us with a healthy appreciation (well. . .at least exposure) of working hard. We'd be out in the yard every fall, raking tarpload after tarpload of leaves out to the road. We always had to help dad stain whatever project he was building (decks, swingset, shed, etc.). My mom made sure that each weekend each of us kids had a main room, bathroom, and our own bedroom to clean, dust, and vacuum. We learned to appreciate how nice a clean house was, and that sometimes things that suck (like cleaning) are necessary.

My mom's family would have a campout every year. From early age, I loved being outside and covered in bug spray and sunblock, swimming in dirty lake water, eating campfire food and washing the dishes in fire-heated water.

I'm glad my parents made us ride the bus--even though the bus stop was 1/4 mile away. I'm glad they let us play with our neighbors outside, going on walks, riding our bikes all over town, hiking through the woods, and other things that some parents cringe away from fearing their children will get hurt or stolen. I know my parents never wanted us to get stolen or anything, but they still gave us that autonomy.

We got into trouble, and had curfews, and had phone and internet time limits. We had bedtimes, weren't allowed to watch rated R movies, couldn't take 2 snacks in our lunches, got in trouble for not minding, and all those things that parents get lots of greif for.

I love that by first grade I knew how to look things up in the encyclopedia. And by 2nd grade I did my own hair every day. And by 3rd grade, I could use the stove, oven, and my mom would let us bake cookies or pancakes or mac and cheese if we wanted to. I love that my dad would let me wear his t-shirts and tube socks to bed. And that he taught me how to play hard and smart at sports. And I love that my mom was able to crank out 3 dresses in one night for us girls to wear for any given holiday. And she always seemed to make even the ugliest fabric look awesome in dress form. I can't explain it.

I pretty much had the most perfect childhood ever. Because I had the best parents.

Happy Father's day, dad!

And Happy Belated Mother's day, mom!

You're the BEST!

Here Comes the Bride!

As a girl, I--like most girls--am planning my future wedding.

I mean, that's how it works, really. The girl plans out all of the details, and the future groom (whoever he may be) is just the final piece of the puzzle.

I just wanted to share my ideas with my few close friends and blog-readers.

Here's the plan: Christmas Wedding!

I'm really excited about it, because winter is my favorite season in the whole year. However, Christmas is not my favorite holiday.

To anyone else, this would create a dilema, but to me, it won't. My wedding will incorporate both winter, AND my favorite holiday.

Here are the bridesmaids' dresses:

And the Groom's Men, appropriately will wear: Those hats are super dumb, though. And VERY. . .over the top. So the boys (groom included) will wear these:

Speaking of the boys, here is my handsome groom's tuxedo!

And finally, the part you've all been eagerly waiting for: MY DRESS!!!!!

Every Rose Has its Thorn

There is a saying that goes something like, "well if that isn't a thorn in my side. . ."
And from the context in which it (and similar phrases) are used, you can tell it's talking about something that probably sucks. You know, because thorns hurt. And if one is in your side, that would probably hurt really badly.

I guess what I was thinking about earlier this weekend was why a random thorn would be in someone's side. Wouldn't it be more powerful or descriptive to talk about like, say, a shovel in one's side? Or a knife? Pitchfork? Or are we assuming that the thorn is people-sized?

The obvious question: what comes to mind when you hear this phrase?
I don't know about you, but I immediately think of a rose.

Sooooooo

Think about roses, then. They've got thorns. All over them. Lots of people cut the thorns off. It's like the thorn is the enemy. Thorns hurt. We don't want one in our side. They're sharp, pointy--almost considered the downside of a bouquet of roses.

But why?

The rose doesn't feel the thorn.
In fact, the thorn protects the rose. It doesn't hurt it--not in the least. Without the thorn, maybe roses would all be eaten or something.

Why do we so often think of the thorn the antagonist and the rose the protagonist, rather than seeing them as a team?
Without the thorn, the rose would be weak.
And without the rose, a thorn is just a bother.

Alright now, here it comes:

Think about the thorns in your side.
The things that annoy you,
the people who drive you NUTS.

If they're not part of your team,
you're probably not the rose.

Math in the "Real World"

Here's some math for you:

Bruno is trying to put tile on his floor. He has a $250 budget, and his room is 10x12 feet. At the store, there are tiles that are 8x8 inches and the tiles are $0.75 each. How many tiles will he need? Does he have enough money to tile his floor?

This is a very typical math problem that nearly any 7th grader will be able to work out. I should know, I teach them day after day the process by which to calculate it.

So here's one way to do it:

First of all, we're dealing with square feet and square inches. We've got to either turn everything into square inches, or square feet.
For the sake of simplicity, I choose inches. Therefore, I have a room that is 120x144 inches (or 17,280 square inches. I've got to figure out how many times an 8x8 tile will fit into that space. That's easy--we divide 17,280 square inches by 64 square inches (the size of the tile) to find out how many tiles it will take to fill the room. A little division problem will tell you that you need 270 tiles. (You can check this by multiplying 270 tiles by 8x8 and coming up with your original room area).
So the answer to the first part of the question is that it will take 270 tiles to cover the floor.
But, the tiles are $0.75 each. Is $250 enough money? Let's multiply .75 by 270 (dollars by number of tiles) to get our total price.
And the grand total?
$202.50
Do you have enough money? Yes!

Okay, so these types of problems are VERY typical in a math class. I'm sure you've all done them. These are the problems we throw into homework assignments and tests and tell students, "This is where you'll see math in every day life!" And we draw pictures, do examples, use unit tiles and desktops to help kids understand how real-world the concept of area is.
I have no arguments against this. It all seems very logical, and simple. It reinforces multiplication concepts, problem solving, and most importantly: working with decimals.

Well. . .today I went to a tile store.

I went to a tile store because I want to tile my room. And I went into a tile store knowing about how much money I wanted to spend, and had a rough idea of how big my room was. I found a tile I liked, it was 20x20 inches and I wanted to know how much it would cost me to buy a tile. This way I, much like Bruno, could calculate how many tiles could fit into my room and if I would have enough money to get the job done.
Seems logical, right?

Wrong.

So, when I get there and ask how much a tile was, I was met with a baffled expression and a price per square foot. That wasn't what I asked! I wanted to know the price of the tile (which clearly was not 144 square inches). That's the only way I can solve this problem! There was nothing in my math probem that told me to convert to square feet and then calculate the price!
I was assured that my way was not the logical way to approach the problem--nor was it how tile is sold in the real world.
WHAT!? They don't sell tile by the TILE!?

So here's what's on my mind.

Why do we tell kids that they will use these things in real life without actually checking how real life uses math? Are my future math students going to one day walk into a tile shop and feel like fools?
This is the same conundrum that I ran into while I was in college. I was so tired of being taught how to teach. . .I just wanted to go out and teach. Because I am pretty sure that college couldn't teach me how to be a teacher.

So, teaching kids all these "real world" ways to use math. . .are we actually preparing them for using math in the real world?

Parents of the Year

As I venture down this new path in my life: adulthood, I find I am daily pondering things that would have never previously crossed my mind.
Things like. . .
"What should I make for dinner? . . .Can't be anything that requires measuring, a mixer, baking, a sharp knife, or peeling. At least not for another couple paychecks. . ."
or
"I sure hope this toilet doesn't clog. . .I don't really want to go buy a plunger right now."
and the occasional
"I made these front door keys, darn it! I'm going to use them, even if I like parking in the garage."

But lately, the dream in my little grown-up head is to become a member of the club. The most exclusive club out there. . .the club that requires a small fee for you to enter the clubhouse and revel in the glory that is Sam. Yes, that's right. I'm talking about Sam's Club.
As I think of all of the glorious and unnecessary frozen pizza treats, containers of pretzels and animal crackers that would satisfy Paul Bunyan, and of course the CARTONS of gum I get more and more excited for the time (around July) when I will actually start making more than I am spending (ie. braces are paid for!) so I, too, can join the club!

I have wonderful memories of shopping at Sam's Club with my parents.
And this brings me to my story:

As long as I can remember, my dad's work has hosted a golf outing every year. At this outing, his work provides goodie bags with tees, hats, towels, balls, and best of all: goodie bags of CANDY!
Well, it was always my dad's job to assemble the goodie bags--which thinking back on it now I am pretty sure that was because he had 4 sets of little hands working diligently to bag all of the candy (knowing very well that leftovers were the paycheck).
In order to get these bags ready to be assembled, the Herron family would pile into the van and drive to Sam's club and pick out no less than ten different types of candy to fill the baggies. And I'm talking enough for anywhere from 70 to 150 baggies.

So picture this:
You're standing in the check-out line at Sams, and a family of 6 (a mom, dad, and 3 little porkers, and then skinny Niki) pulls into line with a shopping cart filled with nothing but candy. Hundreds and hundreds of pieces of candy. All shapes, all flavors, and the smiling faces of 4 kids.

That, my friends, is the picture of the Parents of the Year.
:)

Spring Break, Two-Thousand-Great!

Well, as I said in my last post, Jennifer and I were going to salvage our Northern-less spring break with giggling, packing, cleaning gyms, and going camping!
And as I also said in my last post, there will be pictures.

Here are are some of them from our camping trip. This is as close as I thought I would ever get to a buffalo! And in the safety of a car, it is pretty exciting!

That was before we had to ride our bikes past these big guys! It was WAY more scary!

Here is our tent that turned out a little bit special because it was broken and missing pieces when we went to put it up.

The fact that Oklahoma actually has a little bit of terrain has moved it a little up the scale from the armpit to being a pretty solid "OK."

Pre-Christmas Letter

Hello, friends, family, random readers, and anonymous stalkers alike!
After a creative dry-spell (or really just lack of Internet connection conveniently coinciding with a lack of clever things to say), I have returned.

Now, that being said--I don't actually have anything specific to say.
Oh well. I guess this is just the general update. :)

I have signed the papers for my very first house. Kali, Jennifer and I get to move in VERY shortly. So shortly, in fact, that I can't even handle that it's not immediately! Don't worry, there will be plenty of pictures!
Now, to clear up something right here: buying a house does NOT mean I have set Oklahoma up as my permanent residence. It simply means I'm tired of messiness; tired of paying rent that doesn't have any return; and also that my food will not mysteriously be opened for me, or consumed by someone other than me.
Buying a house means that I won't feel like a post college student who doesn't actually have a home. It means that I don't have to feel like I'm living out of my bedroom. It means I can have a lawn to be proud of. And neighbors who don't grow their own weed.

I'm also growing my hair out (again). This time I'm keeping it my normal color. That will be an adventure. A really loooong, drawn out adventure that requires dedication, focus, and self-control.

Yesterday, Kali and I were driving and we came to an important conclusion.
It is better to be the girl who poops her pants, than to be the friend of the girl who poops her pants. Let me explain:
If you are the girl who poops her pants, you still have a friend. You just have poop in your pants. But you still have a friend.
If you are the friend of the girl who poops her pants, that means you are so pathetic, the only friend you have is a pants pooper.

What else can I update on?

This week is spring break. A slightly disappointing spring break, because Jennifer and I have been planning to go to Toronto for over a year now. However, last minute (literally, like last week) we both decided that it would be best right now if we saved the money and stayed home. As sad as I am that I won't be able to make a Michigan stop-through, I think it will still be a fun break.
Here's our plan:
Sunday: earn $100 by cleaning a gym
Monday: sand/strip table and chairs
Tuesday-Saturday: pack, re-finish table and chairs, overnight camping/hiking trip, sleep, giggle, possibly go on some sort of adventure (we have no actual set "plans" other than that we are FOR SURE going camping. No idea which days yet, though).
Sunday: earn another $100 by cleaning gym again :)

It's pretty much going to be amazing. Spring break has the potential to be totally boss.

I guess that's all I really have to update you all on. Maybe there will be a photo chronicling of the break? Who knows? Stay tuned. I promise it won't be another 2 months until you hear from me again!

Of a Rather Pressing Note.

I want to spend a little bit of time talking about toilet paper.
The reason I'm going to talk about toilet paper is that I went to use some toilet paper to blow my nose today, and I might as well have reached for a plastic bag. Or maybe some sandpaper? Or perhaps a non-absorbent bag made out of sandpaper?

I'm going to name-call here and pick on Scott toilet tissue.
Yes, Scott--you need to just give it a rest and stop trying to make bathroom products. First of all, your one-ply excuse for toilet paper is not only insulting, but in extreme cases--painful.
"But you get so many sheets!" loyal (underpaid) customers will implore. "It's more sheets than any other toilet paper!"

Well, I ask you, my friends: Does a couple extra dimes saved make it easier to sit down, then lay down, and fall asleep at night?

Anybody who has been schooled in the proper use of toilet paper by either me, my dad, or my dad's dad, will know that there is nothing you can wipe with 10 sheets of toilet paper that you can't wipe with 4 (neatly folded) squares. If it takes you more than 4, you clearly need to do a double wipe--which you would have to do with your un-economical 10 anyway.
This is, of course, assuming that you have good, absorbant two-ply tissue.

If your toilet paper is only one ply--the absorbancy of the 4 sheets is drastically reduced. This means to get the equivalent quality of the wipe, you'd need 8 sheets. And that's for those who are schooled in proper paper usage. The average person will use 10 (which now is 20); and the crazy people who "wrap" the toilet paper around their hands, will use twice as much as the crazy amount of 20-30 sheets per wipe.
Not to mention, this wipe will not even be comparably as soft as a normal toilet paper wipe. So you're using twice as many sheets (of your "so many more sheets") and you're punishing your poor butt trying to wipe it clean!

Weigh the options, my friends. Spend 25 more cents for a happy hiney and a longer-lasting roll? Or go the cheap route for 200 extra sheets of one-ply plastic baggie?

You be the judge.

On Death and Birth

Hello all. All 4 of you?

Since I have last written, much has happened. Mixed emotions due to two events on completely opposite ends of the spectrum have led me to, once again, opt for dancing over mourning. I don't mind it so much--but I sure do wish there was a balance.

Sunday December 23rd, KC Randolph died at about 5am. Many of the teachers at school talked about how it was almost a blessing that everything really happened in under a week--because she never had time to stop being KC. She didn't have time to really sit around and go through the "why me's?" or "what will happen next's?" of cancer. Right now, everyone is praying hard that her husband steps up to the role that he hadn't quite found his fit with prior to her death. Her 9 year old son is alright, from what I understand--not really understanding the magnitude of mommy being gone forever.

It is sad sometimes when God decides to work like this, but sometimes it just seems so easy to get over.

Maybe it's easy for me to get over, because while KC was dying and my school and fellow teachers were mourning, visiting, and attending her memorial service; I was in Tulsa with my family celebrating Christmas and new life. We had family Christmas December 22nd, shared a lot of laugheter and fun times. It snowed! And then the following Wednesday morning, Niki went into Labor and Baby Tyler Cash Erwin blessed us all with his perfect and beautiful presence. There simply couldn't have been a better way to celebrate Christmas!

I'm glad that God has things planned out already.

And part of me hates that I don't know what his plan is.

But a bigger part of me loves knowing that whatever plans I could have possibly made--to fix things, or control things, or to make everybody happy--God's perfect plan is a million times better and infinitely more perfect than I could ever dream.

Christmas Miracles?

There's something about this perticular holiday season that isn't sitting quite right with me. It's come too quickly. It's been 50 and 60 degree weather. I can't seem to focus on anything. It's just been a little off.

Two days ago, we found out that one of the teachers at our school was diagnosed with lung cancer, and that she would be in the hospital for treatment over the holiday. She had been sick with pneumonia since before thanksgiving, and just wasn't getting better. When we heard the news, there was sortof an inaudible gasp, and lots of "that just plain sucks."
I left that faculty meeting, feeling nothing any different than I've felt that entire day but, "man. What crummy news."

The very next day, we find out that her cancer is very terminal and not only have they moved her to the hospice wing of the hospital, but they don't anticipate her making it past the holiday. And again, for the past three days I am made of tin. I feel nothing. I'm sad, sure, but nothing really interferes with my daily thoughts or (lack of) emotions. I just have no reaction.

I wasn't too worried about this--I don't really react to things emotionally very often or well. I was more wondering *when* it would hit me. And if it would be too late when it did.


I came home from school today, and I called my mom to see if she and dad were in Tulsa yet. They're coming down this Christmas so we can all be together when Niki and Matt have their baby. My mom says that she and dad haven't been having the best day. Apparently when they woke up this morning and went to the hotel parking lot to thier car, someone had smashed out a window and taken everything out of it. My dad's golf clubs. My mom's medicines. All of the christmas presents they were bringing down. It's all gone.

My first reaction to this is total and complete anger. My parents are two of the kindest and most generous people I know (especially at Christmas) and somebody stole it all away from them while they were sleeping. My second reaction was sadness, because I know my parents, and they are going to try to fix it when they don't need to.
But my reactions were borderlining hysterics (for my empty tin chest, that is), and it really bugged me that I was reacting so much to "stuff" that can be replaced. I already know that it's all just "stuff."

So now, of course, I'm a horrible person for crying about vandalism and theft and not even batting an eye at cancer. But I think that my reaction to the break-in was the culmination of everything else finally spilling out. I'm learning more about myself every day, and I think as far as my emotions go I can only give all or nothing. And unless I have something (or several somethings) that pushes me to the point of overflowing, there's no sign of life.

All that being said,Miracles are miracles--whether they happen at Christmas or not. And I really don't think God times them to make our holidays happier. So pray for KC Randolph, her 9 year old boy, and the rest of her family. And praise God that you get to be with yours.

Mr. Orkin--the Man of My Dreams

One of my students today in classed asked me about my "special someone."
I told him that my only "special someones" were my family and my students. He promptly responded to this with a confident, "Ms. Herron, we need to find you a good man. Kyle, John, and I will get right on that."

My students have always been particularly curious about my personal life--information of which I never divulge to them. Last year I had a giant ORKIN poster on the front wall and the kids asked me where I got it. I replied that I got it from the Orkin Man, and one of the kids asked, "you know the Orkin man!?" Before I could even answer, another student says, "yeah! he's her boyfriend!"
Of course, I couldn't resist. "Yes, actually we've been dating for quite some time. He's the real reason I moved down to Oklahoma." Most of the kids definitely knew I was joking. And the ones who didn't, I assured I was serious, queuing the former to interject that we were getting pretty serious and actually probably would be getting married soon. And I just stood back and enjoyed this life outside of school that my students had created for me. Eventually, one student asks if he can call me Mrs. O. I just laughed, and so it began. Kids I didn't even have in my classroom would see me in the hall and say, "hey Ms. O!"

It's a lot of fun to let my kids be the authors of my imaginary life. They come up with the funniest things.
I tell that story because today the kids asked about Mr. Orkin. They asked me in the hall if Mr. O and I were still dating, and if they could come to the wedding. I told them absolutely! I said, "when I get married, you are all invited! It will be in Michigan--but you'll all be driving by then, so you can just carpool up!"
"Ms. Herron!" Came the reply, "that's so long from now! Why can't you just get married next year? You should tell Mr. O to work on that, and he'll get you a ring next year and then you two can get married."
Well, Mr. O--wherever you are--you get on that. My kids are waiting!

If You're Happy and You Know it :)

when the moon lights my path; laying in bed and watchin tv with my mom; jennifer's laugh; when drew times his farts; getting monthly decorative pedicures; running in 50 degree weather; the color red; great danes; classical guitars; fishing; giving high fives; gullible students; vanilla ice cream; holding hands; learning all the words to my favorite songs; going on really long drives; Michigan; birdie putts; Michelle's incredible analogies; my childhood; my sister is having a baby; my dad's saggy pants; camping; dressing like twins; swimming in lakes; seeing the stars; the antennae farm in OKC; whistling; fart noises; finding out ways man reflects the image of God; giving back scratches; Rasheed Wallace; making the first footprints in freshly fallen snow; scraping ice off my windshield; walking, running, or golfing in pouring rain; blowing dandelions around; Frogner Park in Oslo; thunderstorms or any other type of severe weather; logic puzzles; giving the perfect gift; being hugged-down; kisses from little kids; christmas lights; really really large American flags blowing in the wind; flip flop tan lines; roller coasters; knowing i am loved; cornbread with butter; planning my future with my best friend (even if we know it's just pretend)

In-Laws vs. Out-Laws: The results

It was a close match, full of trash talk and amazing birdie (and eagle) putts.

Team In-Law finished about 45 minutes before team Out-Law.

But, they must not have taken their time.

Grandpa Norm sank the birdie put on 18, leaving team Out-Law with a final score of 10 under.

Team In-Law stood around the green, watching in anticipation as the put fell straight into the cup with a solid click.

"Where did that put you?" Stevie asked me.

"Ten under," I replied.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" came the wails from team In-Law. They had missed the exact same birdie putt only 45 minutes before leaving them with a score of 9 under.

Numbers are numbers.

And almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

But in Herron Family Golf, team Out-Law carries on the founding tradition of kicking the In-Law's butts.

Stay tuned for next year! :)

team In-Laws

team Out-Laws :-D

Sometimes You Can't Break Tradition. No Matter What the Weather.

Sometimes tradition completely overrules common sense. And sometimes it totally should.
Case and point:

Today is my family's annual Thanksgiving tradition:
The In-Laws versus the Out-Laws in the Herron Family Post Thanksgiving Golf Scramble.
The Out-Laws are anyone who bears the last name "Herron."
My Grandpa, me, Drew, the "real" Uncle Steve, and my dad.
The In-Laws are the ones who are blessed enough to be part of the Herron family, but not actually Herrons.
Uncle Gene, Charlie, the "fake" Uncle Steve, Stevie and Chance.

This is a huge competition every year, and the Out-Laws are undefeated. This year looks like it's going to be tough, though, because we've got Stevie (Suzio) from Livonia joining the In-Law team and he's got quite a little game there. Gene is fresh off a practice round at Southern Hills (you know, where Tiger Woods won the PGA here in Tulsa.) and there's not proof yet that his "secret" personal trainer wasn't a certain "Ill-Phay Ickelson-May." Charlie might not have much of a golf game, but he's got a gun and badge, and a perfect Mickey Mouse impression that is enough to throw anyone off kilter.
The In-Laws also have the weather in their favor--because Jeff Herron is definitely not a cold-weather man. And today the temperature rings true at a whopping 38 degrees.

It's going to be a tough match, but my grandpa bought a trophy, so we're sure this will amp the drive to succeed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Time for Some Witty Banter

Some days I am just so taken by the versatility of Cream Cheese.

I mean, first of all, it is kindof like spoiled milk. It's sour, and smells a little off. Is it cheese? Is it pudding? Is it a spread? Is it something you eat with a fork? Can you slice it?
It comes in a tub--or a block. That's the first clue you have something beyond our realm of comprehension!

I've had cream cheese on a bagel.
I've had cream cheese in a taco dip.
I've had cream cheese in a fruit dip.
When will it end!?

Not anytime soon, I can assure you. Because this very coming holiday where we celebrate the birth of our relationship with corn (and Native America--we've had our ups and downs), I am going to be concocting my very favorite cream cheese application of all time: pumpkin dip.

Chew on that, my friends. Tacos, to fruit, to pumpkins spread out on a little graham cracker (preferably gingerbread flavored).

Cream Cheese: the new hero of culinary art.
I see an Iron Chef coming!

There's a Hole in the Bucket

They always leave.
They always leave and it's happened so many times it almost stopped hurting.
There is so much risk and responsibility in building relationships. And I used to be much more at ease with just sitting and listening. I would know my friends inside and out, amd they would know me.
And then high school ended and we all split up.
Correction:
And then high school ended and they all stayed friends and I went to a different college.
I pushed and pushed to keep those bonds but I grew apart from them and it took a really long time to be okay with that.
I made a few very close friends in college. Friends that you start talking, and 5 hours later you realize it's time for curfew. Who could come home with me for a weekend on a whim. Slowly, one by one, they all disappeared too. First Jenni. Than Caleb. Than Tim, and Jason, and Kara.
The unrealistic thing about college is that growing up creates different paths. And different paths create distance. And distance creates so many independent memories that you can't share and the only way to make it not hurt is to just harden.
I hardened somewhere between Tim and Jason. I got so sick of knowing people and then having them leave. I got so tired of sharing, then then to lose a friend to Ohio. Or to a wife. Or to Australia.
For a while it's still okay. There's phones. And e-mails. And the occasional special occasion. But anyone who tries to tell you that everything stays the same is blowing sunshine up your shorts.
After college, it took me a long time before I would take anything beyond the acquaintance level. I had two very very close friends back home in Livonia with whom I was able to share and in return listen and know.
And then I left. By the time I left I was already pretty calloused. And I stayed hard for a long time here in Oklahoma.
And slowly but surely I formed some thick relationships. Only to lose one to Texas. One to Kansas. And one to Ohio. Lost one to a girl, and devastatingly, one to the heartbreaking truth that she just can't stay here anymore.
And things will never be the same again.
Who wants me next? To take with you when you leave?

Clocking in on Wednesdays

It is Halloween.
It is Wednesday.
Where is everyone in Oklahoma? At church.
Since when does going to church on a Wednesday become something that is completely un-miss able? When your options are trick-or-treat, or go to church--that's when.
Apparently it is not okay to miss church on Wednesday night for this tradition once a year. And I'm not okay with that.
I'm not okay with being measured to the plumbline of picking Halloween over God. I'm not okay with the fact that if I chose to stay home and hand out candy to the pagans (gasp!) I'm judged by it.
I'm not okay with the expectation of showing up to church on Wednesday nights for appearances sake. So people don't think I'm "falling away" or something dreadful because I chose to dress up like Batman and enjoy myself. On a Wednesday. Not at church.
I remember many occasions in my youth where the announcement would be made that church would be on Thursday this week instead of Wednesday. Sometimes because of things like Halloween.
Welcome to the Bible belt, Kari.
Nobody is any holier here, but they sure do pretend to be.

New Year's Resolutions

Why is it that whenever we want to change something in our lives, we wait until the new year?
Or next week?
Or even "tomorrow morning"?
What is it in our nature that makes us feel like a new day brings a new chance? Is it just because they both have the word "new"?

I do this a lot. I do something (or don't do something) I wish I hadn't (or should have) done, and I say "it's okay. . .tomorrow is a new day." I'll do it tomorrow, and I won't mess it up next time.
It's always next time.
Next time it will be better.

And tonight, I was contemplating what I am going to do tomorrow (that I should have done today), and I realized that just because the sun is down, it doesn't mean I have to wait until it has to come back up. Why not NOW?
Anything I can't stop to do NOW, I'm pretty sure isn't important enough to wake up early to do tomorrow.

What am I waiting for? How much more fresh would a start be 8 hours premature!? Who needs a new day for a new resolution? Who needs a new YEAR? Do it NOW. Don't wait. Because the longer you wait, the longer the enemy has to delay your further. And we all know, if you didn't do it today; you're not going to do it tomorrow. Or next week.

I wonder how many times God told his people to not delay. . .and how many times it landed them in trouble when they didn't listen. . .

My Hero

I think I have a somewhat unhealthy preoccupation with heroes. I think about them all the time. Every story I've ever written has something to do with a hero--and I don't just mean a protagonist. I mean an actual hero. A character who saves the day.

I started writing a novel my senior year in high school. It was going to be amazing, but I never finished it. There were two main characters: Blue, and Rocket. Blue was a girl who was graduating high school and very ordinary. Everything about her was ordinary, and she did nothing special. She didn't like her family. Her sister was deaf, so she couldn't really understand her. Her house was un-homey, and her life was ordinary. Her best friend was herself, and always felt like something was missing. Someone was missing. And every day she would wait, because something earth shattering was going to happen.
Rocket, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of Blue. He was a hero. He flew around on eagles and watched the world from above and fixed things. He flew in and out of peoples' lives and solved their problems. He was fast-paced, and kind hearted. He gave all of himself to everyone he met and their lives were never the same when he left. Rocket was born a hero, and didn't know how to be anything else.
In my story, it is very obvious that Blue needs Rocket to fix her brokenness. And they almost cross paths like every other page. But they never do. Rocket is the only person who could help Blue, and he can't seem to get to her. She knows there's a hero out there, and she waits for him every day. . .but he never comes.
In the book, we see a lot of Rocket's heroism; and we see a lot of Blue's emptiness. But how it comes to be is that Blue isn't even real. She is an ongoing dream that Rocket has created, and her brokenness represents the parts of himself that he can't fix--even though it's his daily job to fix lives. He can't get to her because she is part of himself. He can't fix her because heroes aren't about self, they are self-sacrificing. Should Rocket ever turn his attention from the world and to himself, to heal his wounds, he would stop being a hero.

Heroes are heroes for two reasons: they are born, or they are made.
If a man is born to be a hero, it is his duty to save. It's his sole purpose for being, and he saves whether he particularly wants to or not. He does it out of obligation. He does it because it's his job. These heroes include Superman, firemen, arguably even Mario.
If a man is made to be a hero, it is other men who have lifted him up to be such. He is a hero because he loves, and makes those around him feel safe. These heroes include dads, martyrs, and like cancer victims.

I am more fascinated by the first type of hero--the one who can't escape his fate. The type of hero who probably does like the intrinsic benefits of saving, but must save anyway. No, but will save anyway, even if the save is not merrited. Even if all common sense and consequence says to let the victims suffer. The real heroes drink the bitter cup, climb up into the tree, and save the world.

Twilight Zone. . .

The strangest thing just happened:

I was on Pistons.com looking at the new roster, and the new number 3 is named Rodney Stuckey. Meanwhile, I am watching Lifetime, and the TV show I was watching had just ended, and a movie has just begun. Jason Alexander is schmoozing some rich people and introduces himself as Philip Stuckey. I don't recognize the movie, so I watch for another minute--because the name Stuckey sounded very familiar --but I realize that it's because I was just reading about Rodney Stuckey 2 seconds prior.

And the movie is Pretty Woman, I realized about 2 seconds later when I saw all the shoulder pads on the women. . .and confirmed 2 more seconds later when I saw Richard Gere.

What are the odds of encountering the name Stuckey twice in the course of 30 seconds?
I'd like some mathematical computation on that sucker. . .