90% of Unused Brain

(Pre-script: This song should be read as the song, " Carry on, Wayward Son," by Kansas, plays in the background, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I think that maybe human beings are not supposed to know a whole lot about Heaven, and how great it is. I think we are supposed to know a little bit, but not a lot. I think the 90% of our brains that go unused is space preserved for the knowledge of Heavenly things too wonderful to ever be contained upon this one planet, Earth.

I think if human beings could conceptualize more of Heaven in this lifetime, it would be such a distraction from what we are supposed to be doing on this Earth while we are still alive in a physical human body. I think that in order to do my job well every day, I need to be fully aware and present in this life, in this place, on this soil, in this physical body, in this head, in this heart. Most people I talk to like the idea of going to Heaven but are not generally really thrilled to get there soon, because it's unknown and scary, and how can you imagine something that's different than anything you've ever known? But I think that's how it's supposed to be. Better to be unaware of what I'm missing now and be amazingly surprised when I get there, than to have a taste of it now and have to live out the rest of my physical life a useless puddle of longing. I think I'd just be depressed to be stuck here, and that would not encourage very many people around me. Besides, I am already depressed often enough as it is. There are some things I am not meant to know just yet. Y'all, come close and let me tell you what I think, are you ready? No, you aren't how could you be? But here it is, anyway:

I think that the 90% of brain that I am not using is reserved for the knowledge of Heavenly things that would cause me to explode if I knew even the beginning of them now.

yes, that's right, I said that.

Nothing in my body or this earth could ever contain "it," whatever "it" is... I will know "it" in Heaven someday. For now, there is 10% of my brain awake to this lifetime, 10% of earthy logic and creativity, which says to me that the Heavenly stuff must be humongous, blinding to these human eyeballs, and very, very good.

I picked two lemons off of the lemon tree in our front yard this afternoon. They were ripe and huge, and I held them to my nose and inhaled deeply. I held them there for a long moment, and then I had to put the lemons down so that I could pick up my children. I smell my children's heads often. Sometimes they push me away, but I can't resist smelling them. They smell like fresh bread.
-XOXO,

All team members report to clerical for this evening's huddle

(Pre-script: To get the most of this post, please read it as the song,"Ants Marching," by Dave Matthews Band (On my playlist, the band is listed as DMB) plays in the background...go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I was in Target at 5:45pm ish this evening when I heard over the loadspeaker, "All team members report to clerical for this evening's huddle. All team member's report to clerical for this evening's huddle."
I think the girl making the announcement said it about 4 more times before she was satisfied that she had made her point. Each time she said it, I cringed a little bit harder. It's the terminology that I can't stand. The employees of Target are not "Employee's," they are "Team Members," and they are not going to "Have A Meeting," they are going to "Huddle." I wanted to shout back to the loudspeaker voice, "Hey, this isn't the locker room of the San Francisco 49ers or the Miami Dolphins, This is Target. Everyone here wears khaki pants and red shirts and never any padding or head gear."
Blink once.
Blink twice really fast.
Y'all, let me be clear: That's just stupid talk.
It reminded me too much of when I was 17 and worked at Chuck E. Cheese. They had a whole code of phrases and words for us, too; things that we were supposed to say that anyone feels stupid saying. For instance, if there was a spill on the floor, and you walked by, you were not supposed to "Bend Over And Wipe It Up With The Towel That You Were Always Required To Wear On Your Bright Red Polyester Apron," you were supposed to stop whatever you were doing and "Magic Clean" the spill. Which, being interpreted, means that you bend over and wipe it up with the towel that you were always required to wear on your bright red polyester apron.
If something needed to be done and you were busy doing something else that needed to be done, you were supposed to, I forget the term now, but I think it was "Make Magic Time," or something. In other words, you were supposed to "Make Something Happen That Is Impossible To Make Happen Because You Are Already Doing Something Else."

And Heaven help you if you ever slipped up and called a customer a "Customer." You always, ALWAYS called them "Guests." These were our "Guests" who were spilling all of their soda everywhere, bringing in birthday cakes from outside and never sharing with us, and demanding more tokens. But Chuck E Cheese was not my home. I know this because when I am home, I never, for instance, clean the bathroom every 15 minutes, (yes, you read that correctly) or dress in ugly polyester shorts, a polo shirt with a picture of a mouse on it, aforementioned bright red apron, red visor (indoors), all of which always smell like pizza and garlic, no matter how often you launder them. At home, I never run to the front of the room and do a choreographed dance everytime I hear the song "Mony Mony" start playing over the loadspeakers...a dance that anyone with half of a brain would feel completely moronic doing in his or her own bedroom alone in front of a mirror, let alone in front of a room full of paying customers. I mean "GUESTS."*
Y'all, have any of you actually ever been offended by the word "Customer?" I'll go first and share that I, at least, actually prefer to be called a customer. I just want to get my thing that I am trying to pay for and leave the establishment. While I am in the place of business, I do not want any of the employees sidling up to me and pretending that I am his or her new best friend, best guest EVER, and he or she is going to personally show me his or her CD collection. Um, pass. I choose my own friends, thank you. Just let me buy a freakin' lawn chair or blouse or Pringles or whatever happens to be on my list, or randomly catch my fancy. Take my money when I walk up to the register, whether it's cash, credit or ATM. Give me my stuff in bags. Let me leave. Call me "Customer." I, for one, have never been offended by that word. I already said that, but somethings are worth repeating. In fact, I feel weird when I hear the employees start talking to each other in "teammate" talk in front of me. Sometimes they get into it, and I think, "man, that guy is probably just lonely, and needs somewhere to belong, with an "inside language/code" that he, and only a select few, are able to understand and properly utilize. He and the few who are also the only ones who are allowed to walk BEHIND the checkstand and stand in that little cubby. Lucky dog. Let me buy my knock off Lucky Charms in peace, and no, I probably don't want to save 10% today by applying for the card, either, thankyoueversomuch.

-XOXO,

*In fact, it makes me uncomfortable when employees are forced to do any kind of singing or dancing at what should simply be their after school job. The last time I was at Coldstones, I told the nice employee, "I will tip you, but please don't sing."

Meats and their Men

(Pre-script: To get the high dollar value of this post, which you have invested deeply in, it must be read as the song, " Carry on, Wayward Son," by Kansas, plays. So go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I enjoy watching 4 year old Ethan eat a hot dog. It's a whole process whereby he first bites little rat holes throughout the bun, then when he has decimated it enough, he takes the hot dog out and starts biting little rat holes throughout it, too, from the middle first.

I say, "Wow, that's interesting."

He says, "I'm eating meat!" (exclamation point included, because exclamation points are included in every sentence that child says)

then, "Dad, can we eat meat again tonight?"

There is meat in our freezer, and Ethan knows this. Ethan's father (AKA "Derek") brought home a huge box of meat last week. Yes, you read that correctly, I said a huge box of meat, and Ethan helped sort and unload it all into the freezer. Some people keep an extra freezer in the garage for such things as extra meat. We do not. Our one kitchen freezer is now completely full, on the bottom half with enough steak to feed a hungry village, and on the top half with enough ice cream to feed a hungry village, or me, for a week. (Don't judge me, don't you judge me...) It is no great feat of intellectual prowess to figure out which half of the freezer belongs to which half of the marriage.

Derek bought the meat cheap from a meat vendor who sells to a catering company that is located near his cabinetry business. Folks, if I didn't make my point, let me say it this way: It's a lot of meat, enough meat to feed an Alaskan family the duration of the winter. And I know about meat in Alaska in winter, because my friend Brian told me, "When I lived in a commune in Alaska one winter, when you got hungry, you would go outside and cut a steak out of the Caribou that the guys in charge of hunting would leave hanging there, and you would take it in the house and cook it. Tastes kind of like steak"

That was last Friday. On Saturday, Ethan said, "Is today the day we are going to eat meat?!"

He kept asking after the meat all day long.

He said, "I'm a vegetarian, but tonight, I'm eating steak."

Way to stick to your convictions, kid. I am very proud.

-XOXO,

Soap nub

(Pre-script: This post pairs beautifully with the song "The Power of Love," by Huey Lewis and the News, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait.) (...still waiting.)

This morning there was a little soap nub sitting on top of the shower drain. I saw it and started to pick it up. Then I realised it was just the nubby, it had served it's purpose as a big bar of soap and been worn down to almost nothing, and now it was about to desolve down the drain. So I left it there, I did not pick it up. Some things should never be picked up again. By the time my shower was over, the nubby had already disappeared. That's the power of hot water and common sense.

-XOXO,

Get 'er done

(Pre-script: To get the most out of this post, first click on the song, "Single Ladies," on the playlist at the bottom of the page, then come back here and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

It occurred to me on the way home from the gym yesterday that I have increased my running time. I can now go a farther distance in a shorter amount of time...if you can trust treadmill distances and times...and I do. I would never have known that I had increased my time, if I had not been paying attention. By paying attention, I mean bragging. "Hey, guess what? I ran such and such miles at so and so pace today!" high fives all around! But the change has been slow, endurance does not happen overnight, so I could have just as easily missed it if I wasn't paying attention. But I was paying attention, for bragging rights, and look what it got me. Bragging rights...and a t-shirt.

At the gym where I owe the majority to my sanity, there is a wall of t-shirts. You log in your personal I.D. number when you get there, and you earn points when you work out, a certain number per weight machine, a certain number based on minutes of cardio time. At first, you get a t-shirt when you reach 15,000 points. This can take anywhere from a couple months to 5 years. Usually somewhere in between. I joined this gym when I was 6 months pregnant with my 4th and final spawn; I have no idea why, because no matter how often I...walked slowly on the treadmill, slowly as to keep any contractions to a minimum, (this WAS a fourth baby, you will recall) I only continued to increase in size. Of course, eating 4x more than the baby needs will do this to you; the baby will not get fat from it, but the mother will. They don't tell you this in pregnancy nutrition class. Okay, maybe they do, but I was too busy planning what I was going to eat within the next 30 minutes to ever pay attention to such things as pregnancy nutrition, at least not past the part where I started to feel convicted. That usually took all of about 5 seconds of scanning any manual, "What to eat while you're expecting" and all of that. I did remember the big things, though, like take your prenatal vitamins every day, and FOLIC ACID FOLIC ACID FOLIC ACID. Got that. And then I still had room for all the other stuff, too. Like warm brownies.

So there I was, increasing in stature and wisdom every day, just like the child version of Christ. Well, the stature part, anyway. The wisdom part, well, here's the truth, peeps. Come close. Snuggle up good and tight to the screen; it's okay, we're all friends here. I knew the whole time that whatever I ate during this pregnancy would come back to bite me later. And bite it did. Bit me right on the hiney...and the...arms, and the...thighs. Bit like a pit bull with a clenched jaw, and would not let go. Even the baby eventually gave up and decided that she had to get out of my body, had to let go and find somewhere else to breath and grow. But the weight, man, the weight was heartless, as I knew it would be. Let's not forget that this WAS a 4th pregnancy, so it's not like I didn't know that I wasn't one of those people who pop out a kid, and then, whala, 2 weeks later, she is back in her sassy skinny jeans. Just the thought of those people* made me bang my head against a wall repeatedly, at least in my head. But I digress. The baby was out, the weight was on, but there is something else that happened to me every time I had a baby. For as much as I didn't care how much I stuffed my face and lazed about during the baby growing in my belly phase, once the baby was out, I became this inside out version of who I was during pregnancy, which, being interpreted, means that I became a turbo force exercise queen, shunning sugar and white flour at all costs. Oh, I had to chow somewhat, I was breastfeeding the little darling after all, Which also helped the jumbo jaws of death to loosen their grip somewhat- but man, when you want to be in one place, and you are in another place...well, it's' easy to lose sight of how far you have come, that you actually HAVE come someplace. But you have. I have. I just wasn't always paying attention. You plug away and plug away at the thing, you chip, chisel, sweat, and you get up and do it again the next day. And then one day you wake up and you are there, instead of over there, when you used to be over there, but now you are here, and you are still moving forward, you can run 13.5 miles in the same amount of time you used to only be able to run 10. You have no idea how you got there. But there you are. Here I am.
I'm up to the 300,000 point t-shirt...It's pink with black letters. I'm going strong for the 400,000 point shirt; I think that one's silver or golden, or some such color that will wash me out or make me look jaundiced, that I will never ever wear. I never wear those t-shirts, but at least they show me where I am.

Slowly, I am getting faster.

-XOXO,

*When I was almost 9 months pregnant with precious darling #2, I asked my skinny friend Rennise to tell me what she had done to lose the baby weight, and how long it took her to lose it. She just very peacefully said "you know, it's funny, I had the second baby, and after 2 weeks, all the weight I had gained was just...gone." Um, yeah. In my postnatal dreams.

Spin Doctor

(Pre-script: This post pairs best with the songs, "Best of Me," by Daniel Powter, or " The Story," by Brandi Carlile. Go down to the playlist, click on those songs, then come back and resume reading.I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

Often I feel that I am not being taken seriously. I think that maybe, maybe people are really just laughing at me behind their hands, where they also whisper and stare condescendingly as I walk past.

I tell jokes for the same reasons that you do; because I want to be heard, and appreciated, and most of all because I want to be taken seriously. I tell jokes because they are the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine go down. Sometimes I am funniest when I am the saddest, and when the world is crashing down around me the fastest. I'm lonely sometimes, unsure at others.
Sometimes when I'm used to spinning in circles, to the feel and appearance of everything spinning around me, my heart pounding bright redness into my cheeks, the rush, the rush, the push to go again, faster this time. Harder this time...YES! and at first stopping, everything is still spinning, but then eventually it just...stops. And then I feel cold again. So I start the spin cycle again, things are blurry and nothing is quite clear; what am I reaching for? Doesn't matter.
And then I tell jokes, I tell jokes for the same reason that anyone jokes. because I want to be heard, because I want to be noticed, and appreciated, but the main reason is because I really, really just want to be taken seriously.
-XOXO,

Take the healing where it comes

In small packages or in large packages;
sitting in the feeling
sitting and waiting,
i don't want to feel abandoned again
to jargon
abandoned again to words
that sound like the words that should be the right words
correct in their pronunciation
that sound like the words I
should cling to but
have you ever tried clinging to a word?
they are weightless,
they don't even weigh the breath it takes
to say them out loud.
I don't want to be abandoned to your rhetoric,
platitudes,
pointed fingers, pointing at me and wagging
in scolding,
abandoned just after
you layer on the shame blame guilt and list
of how I did it wrong
how to do it right
Who writes these things, any way,
and was He ever
human?

3/22/09
-M.L.B.