Seasons and Stories
March 31, 2022
What I Need....
February 22, 2022
Old dogs, new tricks
College didn't work out for me. Is it terrible to say that I didn't like school? Don't get me wrong - I was all about making 3:00am Cool Ranch Dorito runs and wearing pajamas to music theory first thing in the morning. I was very into my friends, hot guys and stupid shenanigans, but the school part - meh. Not so much. It's not that I don't like learning - I simply prefer to learn in more non-traditional ways. While I may have my Masters in Life degree from The School of Hard Knocks, pursuing education after my attempt at going to college was never on my list of things to do.
About a year after I left college, I worked as a Sonic carhop. This was back in the glory days when we made regular minimum wage and everyone tipped the carhops, and when we could literally eat or drink anything we wanted while on shift. My lunch every single day consisted of two chicken strips on a hamburger bun with cheese and ranch dressing and a small side of tater tots that I dipped in their barbecue sauce. I have quite the sophisticated palate.
I worked there until I had enough cash saved up to buy my first on-my-own car which was a teal green 1994 Chevy Beretta that I affectionately named Buttercup after the green PowerPuff girl who was known for being a little mean and feisty. My first real grown up job was as a secretary for the sweetest old man named Ron. My dad knew him from the HVAC business and knew he had a need for someone in his office to answer phones and do administrative work. I'll never forget how important and adult I felt the first day I drove up to my very first office job in my black slacks and silky work blouse holding my to-go mug of coffee. I was bright eyed, bushy tailed and 20 years old when I entered the work force.
His office is where I got my start in bookkeeping. While I started out as a secretary, I ended up teaching myself how to use Quickbooks and eventually started taking things off of the bookkeeper's plate. When she had to leave, I was primed and ready to take the position and managed the whole tiny office all by myself. Over the years, I've worked for different companies, primarily small businesses, in mostly full charge bookkeeping positions. I've mostly enjoyed my work which seems strange to say. While I have this very outgoing and bubbly personality, I like to stay busy and keep my head down at work and I love that as a bookkeeper, I do the same thing every month over and over again. It might sound boring to some, but I've appreciated the predictability of my job as everything outside of my job is anything but predictable. I've been doing this for twenty years now which is a pretty damn long time.
At the end of 2021, which was in all actuality one hundred and ten times more horrible than 2020, I decided that it was time for a change. I want to do something more fulfilling with my work. Now, I love my current job and my boss and co-workers. The place I work now is the best, but I'm also burnt out and I want to do something new. Since December, I've been researching and reading about different writing opportunities on the internet: copy writing, content writing, ghost writing, articles and blog posts. After talking with a couple of professional writers and checking out dozens of hilarious and amazing copy writers on the internet, I decided this is something I could see myself doing and being good at.
It seems a bit foolish to try something new at my age though. Isn't it true what they say? "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." Pursuing an entirely different career in this current world climate and economy - I've had my own doubts, especially with my lack of fancy degrees, about my ability to do this. And at the same time, I feel like I'm right where I belong and I would be more foolish not to try.
I have a plan, a brightly colored website, a supportive boss (because I'll be writing for him too) and a pocket full of small business owners I'm slowly reaching out to. I've been setting things in motion for weeks now and honestly, it's kind of weird to have a goal and then doing things to achieve this goal. I've never been one to dream lofty dreams and it's only been since my late 30's that I was able to start imagining a different life for myself. With 41 quickly approaching, I decided it was time to follow my greatest passion and I've been doing just that. I sent off my first application, portfolio and cover letter this morning to work with an organization that other companies use for all of their writing needs. Now, I'm fully prepared for a full on rejection, because who the heck am I to land anything on the first try? But, I felt pretty damn accomplished when I sent off an application for something I've been dreaming of and working on.
Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? I'm about to show the world that you absolutely can.
February 21, 2022
Splits: Church and Marriage
February 8, 2022
Faith, church and nonsense
I grew up in the church - actually and literally grew up there. My Grandfather was the Pastor of the church I went to as a girl so we would be there on Sunday mornings for church service, Wednesday nights for prayer and Friday nights for Bible study. My dad was a deacon and led worship with his guitar with music from those old 80's Maranatha praise song books. My very own aunt and uncle were real-life missionaries and I always thought I was especially Christian cool because not many other kids I knew had actual missionaries in their families. My mom sang "special music" almost every Sunday, her voice as powerful as the great Sandi Patti. My Sunday school teacher Alice taught Bible stories with paper figures on felt boards. We always had to memorize a verse every week and recite them first thing Sunday morning for a gold star. My daddy read me a story every night out of The Big Storybook Picture Bible and Grammy made all of my Sunday dresses in precious patterned fabrics where there was always a white collar and a bow.
When I was in middle school, my Grandfather took a Pastoral position in a rural country town and we found a new non-denominational church to attend. The church building was made of white stone and nestled in dozens of huge oak trees that created a canopy to walk under with dark green ivy peeking over all of the sidewalks between the different buildings on campus. I grew up with Christian friends and my closest friends were always from youth group and Sunday school. To this very day, I am still friends with a guy I've known since the 7th grade and somehow we've always stayed friends because "Friends are Friends Forever." (If you know, you know.) I sported my WWJD bracelet and Christian tees that were supposed to communicate to the world, I'm a really good Christian. I have several friends on social media that I went to church with in middle and high school, with memories of playing Barbarian Women at youth group, moshing to Jesus Freak by DC Talk, scavenger hunts, car washes and spaghetti fundraisers where we served meals and hoped people would donate money to go on a "service" beach trip which was actually a beach trip where on a Saturday afternoon, we washed cars for free in parking lot except for a couple of the bad kids who snuck off to make out and buy sno-cones. Youth group was a whole thing that looked like teenagers learning about God, but in reality it was all about who was crushing on who and who was wearing what, strange, hilarious games, Christian rock music and junk food. Tell me I'm not wrong.
Everything made sense then. Even God. Rules felt clear. Doctrine was black and white. A woman's "place" in the church was understood and rarely challenged. There was always a tasteful balance of hymns and modern worship songs to satisfy the old folks steeped in tradition. Kids obeyed their parents and families all lived in clean suburban neighborhoods where they hosted barbecues and Bible studies and Fellowship Feasts and pre-marital counseling. You didn't associate much with anyone you didn't see outside of Sunday mornings. Those people were politely and nicely looked down on because they obviously weren't serious about their faith. That was never spoken out loud, but it was clearly seen and understood, even by my adolescent self.
I always got excited when I met another girl who didn't fit the churchy box in the neat and tidy ways that were acceptable. I felt more connected to someone who also liked things that weren't necessarily approved of in Christian circles like Beverly Hills 90210, secular music and collecting Troll dolls because they were cute (not because they represented some kind of evil or witchcraft and yes I was told this). Once I made a friend named Molly who was the coolest chick I'd ever known. She loved the Beatles and had all of these random things plastered to her bedroom wall - magazine clippsings, art, movie stubs, restaurant napkins, deflated mylar balloons. I ended up modeling my own bedroom just like her because I wanted to be Molly-awesome. She was the coolest and she also said shit sometimes and I loved how she seemed to not care that I heard and she didn't act embarassed that she had used foul language in front of me. She had opinions and vocalized them. And sometimes, SHE TALKED BACK to her dad. In front of me. The girl was an enigma.
At nearly every retreat, camp and conference I attended, I would "recommit" my life to God. I was mostly good and good at making all of the goodly good choices. I learned I had to cover up my boobs, not wear anything too short that highlighted my butt, and keep my purity intact until my wedding night. Pornography was presented as a man's struggle and was greatly frowned upon, however, "girls didn't have to worry about that, because porn is a guy thing." Women were expected to submit to their husbands no matter what and I always wondered how that was okay, when one boy always came to church with bruises and black eyes because his father physically abused him. I checked my boxes and knew all of the phrases, Scriptures to quote and all of the perfect spiritual answers to give at Bible Study.
Problems were always and only solved with prayer. We would lay hands on someone sick or hurting, and for major illnesses, church pastorswould anoint others with oil. Anyone who went through any kind of trial and hardship were told things like - God has a plan! God won't give you more than you can handle! Stay strong in the Lord and you will get through this! There was always a Scripture to quote that was supposed to uplift and encourage one another and I often wondered why things felt the opposite of what they were saying. God has a plan - but literally, what the hell? I definitely feel like I have more than I can handle on my plate right now. If I don't stay strong in the Lord, will He leave me and I'll be left to figure this out on my own? Is He even here helping me? Others words of encouragement ended up making me feel like faith was so much work because I had to remember to read my Bible and pray every day, not to be anxious or worry about anything, go to church every time there was anything to be there for, maintain my purity, dress appropriately and always be as good as possible.
A specific and well defined worldview was expected of all Christians. All of us were supposed to be conservative republicans, vote pro-life and view all non-heterosexuals as an abomination. We could go to church and fellowship with people of other races, but we white Christian folks better only marry other white Christian folks. (I found this out in my early 20's when I had shown interest in an african-american man). You were supposed to always tithe 10% of your income to the church and it was rather embarassing if you had nothing to put in the plate that was passed around. The Bible said to care for the poor, the widow and the orphan - and churches did that, as long as it was with the right organization that had bylaws and mission statements that aligned with theirs. It had to fit neatly into the church budget and didn't cost them too much of course.
Everything was understandable and if you didn't understand it, you simply needed to study your Bible more. There was an underlying theology that while we have been saved by grace and salvation is a free gift from God, we absolutely had to maintain said salvation so we always appeared as the good, holy and fruit-bearing Christians we said we were. I lived most of my life believing that what I was doing wasn't enough and maybe I sinned so much because I wasn't ever really saved like I thought I was. I asked God to save me a thousand different times just in case it didn't take the last time I asked.
All of this was etched into my DNA from the moment I came into this world. I didn't question any of it because it all made sense and everything I heard was from my Grandfather-Pastor, Christian parents, church members, Sunday school teachers and Bible study leaders and obviously they were right about everything.
All of this worked for me though.
Until it didn't.
(To be continued...)
February 1, 2022
around the table
January 26, 2022
First Kiss
Below is a small excerpt from my memoirs (not published - yet). The boy's name has been changed to protect his identity because I feel like this story is equally embarassing for the both of us. To this day he is still my Facebook friend and we occasionally comment about our children and reminisce about the good ol' days of the 1990's.
~~~~~~~
In the 7th grade I had a huge crush on a boy named Brandon who went to church youth group with me. He was a "bad boy" and I was drawn to the rebellious edge he had going on. He had spent weeks leading me on, talking to me on the phone, telling me I was pretty, and I was full of all the pre-teen hope that he would ask me to be his girlfriend. One spring night at youth group, I pulled him outside and asked if I could tell him my birthday wish. I confessed that the only thing I wanted for my 13th birthday was for him to kiss me. I had never been kissed and I wanted him to be the one. Somewhere in my adolescent brain, I believed that 13 years old was the time I should start my kissing journey because that's simply what teenagers did at that age according to Party of Five and 90210. Even D.J. Tanner was kissed at her 13th birthday party.
“Well, I have like potato chip stuff in my mouth, so I dunno.” This was his thoughtful 13 year old reply to my kissing request.
“Not right now. Just soon, sometime. My birthday is next week and I want to be kissed.” He smiled and said okay and I went home that night and wrote everywhere in my journal “I love Brandon” and how excited I was that he was going to kiss me.
Now, it's important to note here that I practiced tongue kissing. A lot.
I usually practiced on my hand in bed at night when I was dreaming for some amazing boy to fall for me like Steve from Full House. I gave up practicing on my pillow because it just got wet and that was absolutely disgusting. The bathroom mirror was my favorite place because then I could practice as if another person was getting close to my face. Essentially I was kissing my own reflection and I've never brought this up in therapy about what that could possibly mean but I'm wondering now if it's worth delving into. *face palm*
Mirror kissing was working out well until my mom noticed a giant open mouth print on the mirror and asked me what the hell I was doing. I tried to pin it on my brother at first, but she quickly realized he wouldn’t have been able to reach that spot on the mirror. Once she figured out I was attempting to practice french kissing, she laughed (and boy, did she laugh) and told me to at least clean the mirror after I was done. Of course I never did that again because how embarrassing for your mother to comment on your giant open mouth print on the bathroom mirror. My kissing practice after that was restricted exclusively to the outside of my hand and sometimes a wall where no mouth print could be detected. Bless my heart.
Exactly one week later was the night of my big first kiss. My birthday was in three days and the youth pastor’s wife had made cupcakes for me. I was styled to perfection in my tapered hunter green jeans, a white button down blouse and these cute floral tennis shoes I got at the Payless. My mother had started allowing me to wear lip gloss AND mascara when I started school that year, so I was all the 13-year version of hot I could be.
With butterflies in my stomach, I attempted to be nonchalant all night, borderline ignoring him. But then, it finally happened. A group of us had been outside and everyone was starting to head in. He was hanging back waiting for me and I knew that this was finally my time. I was about to know what being kissed actually felt like.
He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me close to him. For some reason I was looking down which was probably because I was 13 years old and was slightly terrified of losing my kissing virginity. He put his hand on my chin and brought my face up to his and we kissed, just like I had wished for him to. It was all kinds of wonderful, except for the fact that he did this really weird thing with his tongue and it didn’t feel anything like I thought it would or how I had practiced it on my hand every night. He moved his tongue around in this rapid, quick motion and it was weird. I only wished that it had felt slower and lasted much, much longer like in Little Women when Laurie kissed Jo. Before I knew it, the kiss was over and sadly, so was his interest in me. Perhaps I was an awful kisser because Brandon didn’t acknowledge me much after that until he was a senior in high school. By then, I completely ignored his interests in me as I was now 16 and had my eyes set on the youth group's golden boy Derek, who was crushed on by EVERY other girl at church.
Somewhere in a box in my garage is a cassette tape of my 13 year old self reading all the letters I wrote to Brandon about how much I loved him and wished he was mine. I wrote dozens of letters that I never gave him which are nothing short of mortifying to read today. The tape is also accompanied by several mementos I collected during my Brandon obsessed era: a soda tab, a silly picture of him, a gum wrapper from a piece he gave me and a conversation heart from 1994 that reads "KISS ME." It was probably for the best that he lost interest in me and moved on because I was the boy-craziest crazy that ever crazied.
As my life would turn out, I wouldn't kiss another guy until I was 18 and in college. And that kiss, was life-changing.
January 25, 2022
Does this thing still fit?
Many, many seasons and stories have come and gone since I last visited this space. I almost feel like I don't belong here, as the woman who wrote here so regularly before isn't the same woman writing today. I'm still figuring out exactly where I belong on the interwebs and I suppose this blog is like a pair of old jeans I havent' worn in a while. I'm trying "Seasons and Stories" back on to see if it still fits. Will I need to make some adjusments or go shopping for something brand new altogether? If this blog is anything like my ever changing waistline, I'll probably be going shopping for something new soon.
Looking back at old posts, I remember my old life and nothing is the same accept for my struggles with anxiety, weight and having to wake up early in the morning. I used to have so many friends and write about sunshine on a regular basis and take pictures of table settings for whatever I was hosting. After recently moving into a new house, I threw away placemats and napkin rings because they seemed silly as my current life has no need for such things. In the past few years, I've also gotten over my need to impress people or want them to like me, and my napkin rings were a reminder of the old me that wanted to be accepted.
My boys are older and bigger. Praise the Lord we survived the little years! Jacob grew out of his need to scream about everything and only does that on special occasions now. His fashion sense and personal style is ever-evolving as he's very into having longer hair, leather bracelets and plaid flannel shirts to wear over EVERYTHING. Tommy is an inch taller than me now and my once joy-filled boy is now a mess of hilarious joke-telling, complicated feelings and crazy hormones as he is about to head into teenager land in a few months. He recently earned third chair in All Region band for middle school as a SEVENTH grader and I am still so stinking proud, you would have thought I was the trombone player.
I got divorced. It was very awful and sad.
I married (after I swore off marriage) a man named Travis who is the cheese to my macaroni. He's a big bearded man who curses like a sailor and has a heart of gold. We haven't stopped going on adventures, we both love the beach and recently we've become passionate about going to bed at 9:30 every night. He likes to talk. I like to talk. He's funny. I'm hilarious. He's a romantic and I like to swoon. We're both very into sex. It's working out pretty well so far.
I have two more bonus kids with my husband now and entering into the role of step-mom has been overwhelming. Only recently have I felt like I'm finding a groove of step-momming. One of my bonus kids is a bonus DAUGHTER, so clothes shopping for kids has become infinitely more exciting. Except she's getting to the age where she doesn't like anything I pick out and she is only 10. Lawd help.
I've become a dog person and have my very own dog named Chester - and if you would have told the woman who wrote here six and eight years ago that she would have Pit-Lab mix that she slept with every night and fork-fed salmon to, I would have laughed in your adorable face. He is the best dog in the history of dogs and I love him like he's my child.
Most of my friendships were a casualty of the divorce including those that I thought would be in my life forever. I have no "best friend" other than my husband Travis. I miss female friendship and it's also weird because I am not lonely - not one bit.
I stopped doing so many of the things that I loved because my heart was utterly wrecked and everything I thought I knew about faith, God, family, and friendships flew out the window after the divorce. I'm back at the beginning of something new which makes me tired if I'm being honest. Picking myself up after going through all that I did has been the hardest I've had to work for anything in my life. But, here I am doing it.
It's 2022 and I turn 41 in March. I have zero things figured out, and my ducks have long wandered off, but I'm grateful to be living and breathing and present here.
Some things are better. Some things are harder. Some things are just entirely different. And it's time to write about all of it.