Peace in a Massage Chair

OK, I haven't written anything in a while, but do I have some dreamy ideas of things to write. You know, things that have been piling up in my head. Right now, though I am getting ready for the new school year, as I sure many people are. This year is different though, because on top of home-schooling my own cherubs, I'll be teaching at their home-school school twice a week. I'll be teaching second grade, which I think is pretty safe, since generally second graders still like adults: Also, I've known very few to carry knives, belong to gangs, or run over their teachers in the darkness of a dimly lit parking lot.

I have to be honest, I'm a little scared to teach at this school, even though it does appear to be a gang-free campus. The school abides by the Classical Educational approach, and they specifically teach per the Greek Trivium and Quadrivium. Have I lost you yet? Well, let me just say that there are three schools within the school: The School of Grammar, The School of Logic, and the School of Rhetoric. There is no School of Hard Knocks, like the one I made my thirteen year old son put on his Facebook profile, just in case a stalker tried to find him in his real circle of activity.

All I know is that the kids will be taking Latin, and when I mentioned that I was fluent in, and had nearly thirty years conversational experience in Pig Latin, the young gentleman who had just finished a tour of Rome after his graduate studies in Latin at Stanford appeared stymied, and asked me what Pig Latin was. Given his illustrious resume, I was perplexed how that never came up in a graduate course.

Anyhoo, I suspect this year will bring many learning experiences for me, as well as my fellow faculty members. I can hardly wait! I don't really have any stories or anecdotes about my new adventure, though I'm sure they'll come. I do enjoy everyone there, and they are unbelievably nice, generous, and helpful, so it should be more fun than I can even imagine. I look forward to those anticipated blessings.

In regards to anticipated blessings, I am reminded of a recent unanticipated blessing with the kiddies. It was one Saturday, I think, that Tracey, our neighbor, unexpectedly took all three of the kids to the mall. Let me say this, when we get that kind of a break from the kids, it is as though we have boarded a luxury cruiser set sail for the Bahamas. The sun shines more brightly. The birds sing just a little more clearly, and when I gaze at Rick, I am not wondering why he isn't folding clothes along with me, or vacuuming the hallway, I just see a twenty-two year old boy I fell in love with.

Let me be clear, it's not like we anguish to spend time with our kids. Heck, I even like spending time with their friends, but just like a dear friend who sits between you and your honey at the movie theater, there are times when three is a crowd. So, though we love and adore our children, we are so seldom apart from them, and a little break is like a dream vacation wherein I am not bound to the servitude of anyone. I don't make any food. I don't fold a towel, or any clothing items, and I forget completely how to clean. I suddenly become inexplicably sleepy, lazy, and remiss in doing one single thing for anyone, much like when I was in high school.

So, as the kids prepared to leave I slipped Sophie -- of all people -- twenty dollars. She was to keep it tucked inside the zipper compartment of her little purple butterfly purse. The money was in case they stopped to get something to eat, as I believe that Tracey's generosity should never be taken for granted. They were to offer to pay for themselves, even if she insisted on paying. "That," I told them, "was the right thing to do," though Austin tried to convince me that getting a new XBox game was the better thing to do.

Hours later when they returned, Rick and I listened as they told us about their time at the mall, their meal with Tracey, her husband, Tracy, and their son, Tyler (yes, Tracey's husband's name is Tracy. I did not make a mistake). They told us about their blizzard, super-sized ice-creams, and all the things they wanted at the mall. Then, I asked the question that begged to be asked, "Do I have any change?" Knowing Tracey well enough to know she would never allow the kids to pay for themselves, I fully expected Sophie to plop down on the desk in front of me the same crisp twenty dollar bill I'd given her hours earlier, but instead she handed me one crinkled dollar bill and some change.

Then, as if someone had shaken a can of soda that was ready to explode, Sophie said, "And, we got you something. We got you a gift."

"What?" I asked. "You bought me a gift? Really?" The dollar and change was suddenly clear. They had used my money to buy me a gift. I would have pointed out the irony of it all, but they were all three so excited.

"Yep," Austin chimed in. "We got you something you will really like..."

"Really, really like," Chloe emphasized, and Austin handed me a card with "Mom" written on the envelop in cursive.

I looked up at their excited faces, and poked my finger in the crease of the envelop to rip it open. "Wow, that's so nice," I said. I pulled from the white envelop a white card with a colorful orange and yellow flower. Inside the card each one had written their own thank-you messages, thanking me for being their mom and doing everything for them to make their lives special. If that wasn't enough, there was a gift certificate for a fifteen minute chair massage at a massage shop in the mall. "Wow, you guys are so thoughtful. How sweet of you." I pulled each one into my lap and gave them a kiss and a tight squeeze. "Thank you so much for thinking of me."

Now, with the busyness of the coming days I eventually poked that card with its sweet words, and gift behind some things on our office desk. I had really forgotten all about it, as days passed until one day I was saying to Chloe that I was tired, and she turned to me and said, "Well, we are trying you know."

"Trying what?" I asked.

"Trying to give you a break, but you won't take it. We got you that massage and you haven't even used it." In typical Chloe form, she threw her arms up in dramatic alarm and frustration, but enough for me to get her point. She was right. With that, I knew that just like planning anything important, I would have to plan to take that break they had offered me. Sometimes I guess it's just like that when you become far more comfortable in busyness and hectic circumstances. Just like Job, I had gotten used to the tone of my thoughts, which were, "I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil" (Job 3:26).

With the coming Saturday, we planned on my fifteen minute chair massage. The kids were thrilled. Walking through the mall, we found the "So Relaxed" massage shop. I still don't know if the lady understood English, but with sufficient hand signals, and my waving the pink gift certificate around, she seemed to finally understand and motioned me to an ergonomic back massage chair right in front of the storefront window.

Sophie, our six year old, was particularly giddy. She told the lady that she had bought me the gift certificate, and as I leaned over in the chair, Sophie hunched down under my face to make sure I was, indeed, relaxed. "You relaxed?" she asked. I smiled, my face taut through the little whole in the chair and tried to nod my obvious relaxation. She darted off into the mall to Rick and Austin sitting on a nearby bench. "She's relaxed." I heard her exclaim - mission accomplished!

Eventually the massage began, though it became fairly obvious soon after its initiation that the "masseuse" was either opposed to gaining proper knowledge about the art of massage, or she hated me. I'll assume that since she smiled a lot and did not appear to spit on my head during the scalp massage portion, she was simply inadequately trained.

At one point, the massage left the back region altogether, and she began hitting the sides of my thighs. At one point, I felt sorry for the woman. Perhaps she'd always wondered if women with big thighs could just beat them into submission and she was just now, testing out that ill-conceived theory. 'No, if you hit them, they will not shrink. I know, I've tried that since I was ten years old and they are still there!' Eventually, as though giving up, she stopped. 'Thank you, God. I mean, we know those babies aren't going anywhere, and now she does too, right?'

I hoped she'd make her way to my shoulders, but this back massage was now moving due north to my head. The unfortunate thing about that was that I had let my hair air dry. It was in curly mode with the help of some curling mousse, and if she kept squeezing and floundering around up there, my hair would be in a blond Afro that would make getting back to the car excruciating. If Rick even looked at me sideways, I would freak out, since oftentimes when my hair goes into a life of its own, he will say, "Do not touch your hair. Just slowly move toward the mirror and check out how huge your hair is. Really, it's amazing!"

Sophie flitted in again, and hunched down under my face, "Still relaxed?" I smiled and she went back to Rick and Austin to give another report. "She's still relaxed!" How long will this last? Fifteen minutes is a long time to be plucked at. I heard some women assessing my massage through the storefront window. "Looks good," said one. 'Wow, OK, well it doesn't look like the mess that it is. That's good.'

I knew the massage was nearly over when the woman started grasping my appendages and schwooping down them quickly, letting out a quick little breath. I'd seen this method used on our free tree when the tree-hugger finally said goodbye. It is a method to get rid of bad energy - trust me. I live in California. I know. With a few quick schwoops we were done, and because I'm really lame and afraid of people hating me, I tipped her bad massage.

I stuffed a few dollar bills into a glass jar, patted down my over-sized white girl fro and found Rick and the kids sitting on a nearby wooden bench in the mall. I must have looked relaxed, like I'd just woken up with my over-sized puffy hair, because the kids were thrilled by my appearance. They came quickly to me with big wide smiles, and warm sweet hugs. "Oh, you guys are so great," I said. They each seemed to nod, as though they knew. "Thank you for thinking of me."

Really, life is more often like that than we realize: How often does God really offer me a rest or reprieve, only to hear me say I don't have time, or complain about how that short reprieve from my normal busyness will be more bothersome than it's worth? And, though I did not get rest in the traditional sense of the word from my little fifteen minute massage, I know that I rest and find peace in my children's love for me, just as I know I can rest and find peace in an Almighty and awesome God.

Matthew 11:28 "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Neighborly Blessings

There were a few things I thought of, looking back at some blogs. First of all, let me say that this summer was the most surreal summer on record for the Smith's to date. We have never had such a strange summer, though not entirely bad. For instance, not all our interaction with our neighbors was bad: We have two neighbors, specifically, that made our summer wonderful and memorable.

I don't want to mention any names, but one neighbor has been such a Godsend. She and her husband were prayed for and prayed for upon the completion of their home. The little 980 square foot home that had sat on their lot was demolished to make the most gorgeous home, and when it went up for sale, we just prayed and prayed that someone more kind than the contractor would move in. See, the contractor had been a bully who I caught one day with a chainsaw at the ready to cut down our lemon tree, and an old crooked oak in our backyard. He had torn down the fence while we were out, and concluded that those two trees were encroaching on his newly built home. Fortunately, those two trees are protected by some tree-hugging California laws, and were saved.

Can I just say this, as a brief aside? One time we had a free tree planted in our front yard by a city program called, "Our City Forest." The woman who came out to plant that tree did, indeed, hug it and whisper sweet nothin's to that tree before she finally let go and drove away. In fact, at one point, it got so bizarre and intimate (if you know what I mean), I pulled the kids away to give she and the tree some alone time together. Then, before budget cuts hindered her from proceeding, she mailed us update requests continually for 18 months that mandated a written response back to her, lest she come and remove the tree. We had to name that tree, give mandated updates as to its progress, and it was suggested that we talk to it as often as possible. Let me say this, when you show me the ears on a tree that's when I'll start talking to it: Otherwise, I stay pretty mum around the foliage.

The other thing that was spared when the contractor-neighbor decided to sell the house, rather than live in it, was my sanity. So, being a diligent prayer warrior, I prayed for someone kind to move in, preferably someone like-minded and easy to get along with, that had no penchant for cutting down our trees. Just a few months later, our lovely new neighbors moved in with their sweet, and sometimes precocious two dogs - more like children than dogs, really, aside from the fact that Sadie barks at planes and Sophie is obsessed with chasing squirrels.

Being nosy, our Sophie dragged an old wooden ladder across the yard and propped it up on the fence separating our yards. Tracey laughed that her "Wilson" would visit her over the fence every day, asking questions and revealing much, always wondering if Tracey could play. That is how a friendship started. That was the beginning of many blessings.

And, what a blessing and answer to prayer it has been. OK, I cannot help it, I have to say her name....Tracey became such an angel to our children. She has them over, bakes with them, plays games with them, and takes them places. She made a beautiful Creative Memories album with them for Christmas last year! She is incessantly generous with her time and thoughtfulness. I mean, who does that? And, she is a constant source of sweet encouragement to me. Really, an answer to prayer, though she may never know how much.

Then, just as we were are about to wear Tracey out, the Zyuzin's came back from Russia. I could make up their names too, but it's so much mental power that I'm not sure I could muster it. Playing professional hockey in Russia for most of the year, we only get the Zyuzin experience 4 months out of the year.

This year, the kids all seemed to be at a level that finally had them playing together, which made it easier to get to know the whole family. So nice. I think just one story adequately exemplifies the Zyuzin experience: Just two days before they left to go back to Russia this year, Teresa invited us to go with them to dinner. "A small gathering, just to say good-bye." Sounded fun, and we were definitely going to miss the excitement they had brought with them, so of course we went. While waiting for our table, the host walked up and said, "Teresa, party of 40." That was the small gathering! Forty people! With effortless aplomb, Teresa generously hosted that, and several other gatherings, without any air of complexity or bother, just kindness and warmth.

I can't deny it, our summer has also been filled with some definite weirdness: Swingers, nudists, swarms of birds that would rival anything Alfred Hitchcock imagined, and a probable home of squirrel torture.

We found a fallen baby crow in the front yard one day. With the kids in tow, nothing is left alone to die a natural death. When we find injured animals we never walk away. Instead, we look for the first spare shoe box, and an old stained towel. At some point, I will think that neither of those items will have purposeful use in my home, but for now, they sustain (for a short time) any precariously injured animal found within a two block radius of our home.

We scooped that disgusting bird into a box, as its parents dive-bombed me the entire way to the backyard. At one point, as they squawked and cawed, I had Austin get a broom to protect us, and sent the girls and the dog into the house. Almost without notice, it seemed instantly that 30 - 50 more birds appeared, cawing loudly and swooping in on us. At the moment we were trying to make the ugly little bird a safe place away from possible predators, I looked over my shoulder to the west and saw no less than 100 black crows coming in toward our home. They were in large V-shaped flocks, several. Frankly, I didn't even know that crows collected in flocks. There are some things you don't learn in Avian Sciences. Austin was using that broom like a propeller to keep the birds from making contact with our heads.

Finally, we got the ugly little bird into a blue, plastic wading pool on top of the dog run. As I was lifting it up over my head, I recalled how Jane was offered to King Kong as a sacrifice, and hoped that the birds would be pleased with our efforts to save their ugly baby. What I've learned is that crows are difficult to please. Mandy, our twelve year old dog, has also learned that it is difficult to do a number of things in the vicinity of angry crows.

That same day, Andrei, the professional hockey player across the street found a wayward hummingbird in his garage. What made us all think that Andrei could GENTLY scoot the fragile little bird out of the garage with a broom is beyond me. With one good hit to its little body, it dropped like a rock onto the roof of his car: A good shot for a puck, a dismal shot for a tender feathered creature, weighing no more than a few ounces. Fortunately, there was an empty shoebox and old towel to accommodate the seemingly dead bird. Smiling, Andrei handed it to Austin, as I gave him a look of, "I'll get you for this," and Austin skipped away toward our home, delighted to have another injured animal in our shoebox hospital ward. At that, we mused, "Isn't it dead, anyway?" Well, sometimes dead things make the best pets. Remember pet rocks? Maybe Austin wouldn't notice for a few days, I thought.

Persistently, the kids kept poking at that little hummingbird, feeding it every half hour, if not more. With the crow, we gave it water and dog food. The crows seem to like dog food, so why not start this one young? Besides, I was not going to grub around for worms or any other unsavory bug. Remember, picking around in the dry baked ground conclusively accounts for a bad day, and I don't go looking for bad days.

Just two days in our care, one bird lived and began to thrive, and the other died, feet up to the sky, flies swarming around its ugly black carcass. Eventually, Tracey and I took the hummingbird to a bird sanctuary where there is surprisingly, one designated hummingbird expert, waiting for hummingbird drop-offs, so she can enthusiastically drive the little birds to her personal home and aid them back to health. Just something about that girl...she was not some crazy looking bird lady. She was beautiful and fit, like she had devoted her life to just two things: Being beautiful and fit, and taking care of hummingbirds. I wondered to Tracey aloud, "Do you think she just runs marathons every day and cares for birds? How else does one get so blooming fit and tan?"

Well, in both cases - fitness and bird care - she seemed to be doing a stellar job. Weeks after our drop off, the kids called to get a physical assessment of "Bird," the hummingbird, and they found that she was healing quite well, and would be released back into nature within the month. Frankly, Bird is still bait for hungry hawks, but at least she got a chance to live with super model bird lady for a while.

I don't know and I don't care how the ugly crow was disposed of. I had to send Rick to do that dirty job. I mean, there were flies hovering around it! Gross! Eventually, the mother and father crows stopped dive-bombing us, but it took days for them to give up. It was kind of sad. Maybe just instincts told them to hang on, but isn't that just the deal? Those crows did what they are instinctively instructed to do - care for their young.

Our neighbors have put more thought into their treatment of us than just crow instinct, but it is as if God has gifted them with amazing hospitality skills: Opening their hearts to us through kindness, warmth, sensitivity, generosity, and thoughtfulness. Just being themselves has brought such great blessings to us, and in lieu of everything else that has gone on this summer, it is a thing I like to meditate on most.

Philippians 4:8 "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things."

Milpitians, Chia-pits and Samaritans

We girls just got home from running some errands. It's getting harder and harder to get Austin to join us on these errand runs. I can see why, though I don't know how to change it. For instance, this little confession will explain much: I hurt my neck groovin' to the awesome funk of MC Hammer's "Too Legit To Quit," while driving. I consider MC Hammer semi, quasi Christian music, since oftentimes, if you really listen to the lyrics, which I have, he mentions his Christian faith. Also, he's from the East Bay, as am I, and there is just something so ghetto about that that no one else can understand, maybe not even my own children or husband.

I did not live in a ghetto, by any stretch. My home was lovely, if I do say so myself. I loved my house. I loved my neighborhood and neighbors, and we never had any swinging going on. And, we would have known all about it, because back then, you knew all your neighbor's business.

We played flashlight hide and seek with every kid within a two block stretch, and trusted everyone. I had a pretty idyllic neighborhood in actuality; however, as I got older and moved around in other circles, other people's perceptions of my neighborhood and hometown were less than idyllic.

In fact, when I was in high school there was a time, after some violent bully from our high school beat and killed his girlfriend, hid her in the foothills, and took a group of other high school kids to see her abandoned and beaten body, that the mere mention of my hometown struck terror into just about every other school in Silicon Valley. When we would play another school, particularly Palo Alto High School, we would use our sordid reputation to intimidate them. Hey, if you're going to make lewd comments about Milpitas High, as so many were apt to do, we're going to fight back, and it might not be pretty.

However, the reality of it was that everyone was shocked about that killing. Everyone was scared. Being from Milpitas did not immunize us to fear, by any means. A killing in our small community was a rarity, not commonplace in anyone's life. I mean, I'll guess that when something like happens in a small community, it affects everyone for a time, as though you're all wearing the same scarlet letter.

I think I had hoped that my letter would eventually fall off, but it hasn't. In my forties now, my letter is still prominently stuck to my chest, no matter what I'm wearing or where I am. Not too long ago, I was in a carload of hockey revelers on our way to a hockey game. The most arrogant, prideful woman in the group started; "I was over in Milpitas today. What a hole!"

Now, this is uncomfortable at best, but at worst, it's just plain ol' mean, because this woman knew I grew up in Milpitas. She had even been to my parent's house, wherein she had kept her purse tightly clasped to her chest the entire time she sat in their living room, doing her best to pretend she was a normal human-being. Maybe it was the way my seventy year old grandmother eyed her shoes.

She continued: "Yeah, I mean really, what a hole!" 'Yeah, we heard you,' I thought, but she was clearly waiting for someone to bite. Fortunately I was in the third row of a Suburban, so maybe we could all just avoid her luring tactics, but no: "Yeah," said someone sitting beside me. "I hate even driving over there." 'I mean, good grief people! No one's bashing in windows and stealing babies from cars! What's the big deal?'

Suddenly, it was that old feeling: I was seventeen again. We were playing "Paly" and they were nowhere near as friendly as their nickname suggested -- they were not my paly's" 'Ugh, here we go,' I thought. 'I've got what? Three minutes? Five minutes at best before we get to the dreaded, "Where did you go to high school?" question.' Maybe a freak flock of geese would fly into the windshield, and we would never have that conversation, but no.

I was in a blurred state, as the question came from someone's stupid mouth: "Michelle, where did you go to high school?" I cleared my throat, hoping to become invisible, but God has never come through on that yet, so I had to continue speaking: "I, uh, well, I went to Milpitas High." Dead silence. There were no inquiries, just silence. One of THEM had been in their midst the entire time, and they hadn't even known it. Those insidious Milpitians! What will they think of next, trying to mingle with normal folk? For goodness sake, there was a Saratogan sitting next to the Milpitian! Throw the peasant off the Titanic! I think he clasped his pocket to insure that his wallet was still there.

Rick was a row ahead of me, and whenever this situation comes up I am furious at him for not moving us out of this area, so that no one in my immediate surroundings have these ill-conceived thoughts of me and my upbringing. I glared at him, as only a Milpitian can do, I suppose. I mean, if I lived in Bohunk, Missouri and I told someone that I had gone to Milpitas High School, they wouldn't know what they heck I was talking about. If I told them that "Milpitas" meant "little cornfield," and had a proud Native-American heritage, they would buy it.

I could infer anything; "Oh, yes, back in Milpitas we used to run the ponies out back on Grandpapa's farm. Oh, and when the fish would run, it was heaven on earth -- sheer heaven. Oh, and I will never forget the way we used to gather round old man Scooter Barns, and he would tell us about his boyhood in Nantucket on his granddaddy's farm." Then, my eyes would glaze over, as though I were going to cry, and say in an almost inaudible whisper, "I miss it." I would let everyone guess that my childhood was more Norman Rockwell than anything Norman could have conjured up.

But no, I was living down people's inference that Milpitas should be pronounced into the most detestable word in reference to male anatomy, and the fact that some guy I never met, and never would did despicable things to his girlfriend!

Which brings me to Smuckers. How did I take such a leap? Well, let me say this, when there is a leap to be made, I will take it. Let me begin by telling you about Smuckers like this... It was a sunny morning in San Jose, where I live now. Just a stone's throw away from where I used to live, but without such erroneous stigmas, and I looked out my window to see the most adorable puppy I have ever seen. She was pouncing over long stems of grass, and digging her little nose into the wet dewy lawn. Quietly, I sneaked out the front door, and coming upon her I picked her up and she snuggled cozily into my arms. She was delightful!

I tiptoed into the kids' rooms and introduced my new-found friend as a potential blessing, dropped in our front yard by God's own hands! I know, I'm an idiot, but really the puppy was so cute. Then, after calling Rick at work and begging to keep the puppy, and having him agree that we could, the construction workers next door said that the "stray" was theirs. They must have seen the way our faces dropped when they told us this, because upon saying that she was theirs, they said we could have her, free. Free!

Well, when you are holding the cutest puppy in the world in your arms, you hold on even more tightly when you are told that you can keep her free of charge. With the news of our new addition - Mandy's new best friend - came the change of her name from Chiquita to Smuckers. She never seemed to know either name, so it didn't really matter.

We had all always believed that Mandy needed and longed for companionship. I think we should have instituted that prior to her being eleven years old, but that only became abundantly obvious later. At first, Mandy and Smuckers seemed to love each other. They romped and played. Growled and giggled, so it seemed.

It was the first time I looked at Smuckers though, that something that had first gone undetected caught my eye: Maybe it was the way in which she nipped, and clung to Mandy's neck while Mandy trotted along that seemed barbarically reminiscent of news headlines. Not that I had ever thought Chiquita-Smuckers was a pedigree, but really, what was she? What was her esteemed, or ill-esteemed lineage? I picked her up in my arms and inspected her, and it was then I realized that her miniature "Little-Rascal-Petey" look was very reminiscent of something I'd seen before on a pit-bull. In fact, wasn't Petey from the "Little Rascals" a pit-bull? Good sense came flooding back to me, as I remembered hearing that. Smuckers was a pit-bull, and we'd just begun our own Michael Vick breeding ground in the suburbs of San Jose.

I went back to the construction site, holding Smuckers in my arms. "Hey, how's it going?" A couple guys met me at the chain-link fence. "You know," I held Smuckers up to get a better look at her face, "I'm just wondering, what do you think she is? I mean, is she a pit-bull, because we have kids and we don't want to die. I think being mauled in our sleep would be a bummer." I laughed.

"Oh, yes, yes, she is a pit-bull, but only half. She is chihuahua too." The man smiled a big, wide smile.

Horrified, I brought Smuckers back tightly into my arms, as though protecting her from the truth of her sordid beginnings. "A pit-bull chihuahua? Seriously? I mean, how does THAT happen?" And then I shook my head, "Never mind. I don't want to know." I looked at Smuckers wondering what brutality brought forth the relationship between her parents, and decided that some things were best left unknown. Poor Smuckers.

I did what any new puppy parent does, I went into the house and googled "Chihuahua pit-bull" until I realized that these mixes were called, "Chia-pits," but nowhere could I find their expected temperaments. I suppose some things are just left to common sense. If you've ever heard the tenacious yaps of a Chihuahua, and been mauled by a vicious pit-bull then you knew full well what Mandy was in for. In all her eleven years, Mandy could not have known that such a creature existed.

For a while, we pretended that they were playing. We pretended that Mandy was probably more comfortable without all that blasted fur around her neck that Smuckers had pulled out. And, we pretended that Mandy was happier with her new friend than without. Eventually, as Mandy collapsed at our feet, and yelped in pain from Smuckers' incessant attacks, it was more difficult to pretend that things were okay. With Mandy's pain on display before us on a daily basis, we became resolved that Smuckers would have to find a new home.

Sitting at the Craigslist portal, readying to list Smuckers on their online marketplace, I was at a loss for words. How does one part with something so darling? I'll tell you how. You're husband pushes you aside, types in recklessly, "Free - Cutest Dog Ever," attaches four photos of the dog, and pushes a few buttons, and you begin to receive the most alarming responses ever.

For the guy who sounded hungry, we said no. For the woman who said she'd love to add Smuckers to her other seventeen dogs who sleep in her bed with her, we said no. To the woman who said her aggressive dog needed a "play friend," we said no. With over 100 responses to our Craigslist add, and after we were shutdown for trying to give away a pet, which is a violation of Craigslist rules, we found just the right family.

A woman and her three children e-mailed me. They had just lost their dog who had run away. Her children were heartbroken. They could not afford to buy a new dog, because they had had to pay to mend the fence in their backyard in case they could find their old dog. She had always wanted a pit-bull, but they lived in a smaller home, and could not have a large dog. Smuckers would never get larger than twelve pounds. When these people came to visit Smuckers, the woman cried. She agreed that she was the cutest dog ever, and asked if they could have her, even though we had other people interested: It made sense. This family needed Smuckers, and because she was killing Mandy, Smuckers needed this family. It was a match made in heaven.

What's the point? Well, I think I have a lot in common with Smuckers who, by the way, was renamed Mandy, since it was the only name she would answer to. Smuckers was loved and cared for her whole young life. If there was something wrong, she certainly did not know it. And, really, there was nothing wrong with Smuckers. She was too puppy-young for Mandy, but she wasn't really vicious, just playful.

I think the world is as apt to judge people for their pedigrees and human AKA lineage, as they are dogs. When people ask what you do, or where you come from, sometimes it is with less interest about the answer than how they stack up against what you do, or where you come from - not always, but often. Jesus knew this too. Walking through Samaria, not around it as most Jews were apt to do in his day, he sat at the Samaritan well in the midday heat.

He knew that any person coming to the well at that time of day would be an outcast, someone not readily acceptable to society. When he asked the woman at the well for a drink, she even thought he was taunting her. "You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?" (For Jews do not associate with Samaritans) John 4:9. But, Jesus knew differently. He knew that his Father in Heaven had created each human-being with purpose, intent, and love.

Just as he did not turn away from the woman at the well, he does not turn away from anyone because of where they come from - Milpitian, Chia-pit, or Samaritan.

American Pipe Blue and Parking Lot Cleaners

Yesterday was wonderful. We are easily pleased lately, but still, it was a great day. Usually, I say it was a great day based on the simply stated fact that I didn't have to pick around in the overbaked, dry earth to find some shrivelly, black bug to eat. I mean, you can see how the act of doing that bug eating thing would make for a bad day, so not doing it clearly makes for a good day, right?

Well, yesterday just provided the non-existence of anything weird, bad, and devastating, and that my friends, makes for a stellar day in this household. In a way, I'm secretly hoping that I'm not just being naive. You know, setting myself up for some screwball turn of events that I could have seen coming, had I not been too busy whistling the "Whistle Why You Work" song: I mean, with that said, I could be any one of the seven dwarfs, and I do not want to end up being Dopey!

It reminds me of a story about my Aunt Beth. She worked in the Safeway deli. She had gone to work in her typical lighthearted spirit. Saw all her co-workers, met some regulars to the deli department around lunch time, and even met some new people that day. Continually throughout the day, she noticed how people kept staring at her chest. It was not just a little passing glance, it was a stare, maybe even a bold glare with the inability to turn away and sometimes, a little snickering. She joked to alleviate the strangeness, brushed away anything that could have managed to fall onto her shirt, and kept working. It wasn't until she got home later that day that she found a black sock had gotten stuck to the inside of her white shirt. No one had bothered to tell her of the long black sock boldly stretched out across the inside of her white shirt, across her chest. They just let her naively putter around her day with that sock stuck there, an ill-suited flag announcing the mighty power of static cling.

Sometimes you naively run into something like that, completely without your doing or knowledge, and then sometimes it is completely and utterly your own doing that gets you into a bind, though you might not have foreseen the outcome. My grandfather, oftentimes got himself into those type of binds. Heading for a cliff headlong and full speed, while singing "Whistle Why You Work" was pretty much his typical mode of operation. I mentioned my Grandpa Willard a couple blogs ago. He was truly one-of-a-kind. Very few people have schemed their ways into so much trouble, or maybe it's just that no one else would so readily admit it.

Grandpa worked for American Pipe, and maybe it was the fumes from the metal work, or from the paint that tweaked him just enough for him to conclude one day that American Pipe blue was not only the color he wanted for his home, but the exact paint he wanted for his home AND car. Little by little, my grandfather stole enough American Pipe blue paint to paint both! He'd drizzle that light dusty blue paint into an empty coffee tin, and then tuck it quickly away in his lunch pail, snapping the latches on the dark gray box, so that no one would see.

Finally, he had enough paint to paint his entire house, and what was leftover, he had his daughters roll over the mottled finish of his old Buick with paintbrushes. He achieved the goal, but by achieving the goal, he had created some definitive problems. For instance, when my grandfather came up for a promotion, his boss suggested that it would be a good time to have my grandfather invite him over for dinner. Having his entire house and car slathered richly in stolen paint was in no way a testimony of good judgment, and regardless of how much the supervisor pressed and prodded, my grandfather could not, would not invite his manager over for dinner. Who knows how this hindered my grandfather from getting promoted?

Then, there was the time, having not learned his lesson from the paint scenario, that my grandpa decided he needed a big, water hose he found at work. Convincing himself that no one would miss the loss, he bound and wound this large, heavy hose around his body, and then put his coveralls over the roller-coaster of hose for concealment. By the time my grandpa got out to his car, parked far enough away so no one would see its paint-brushed American Pipe blue color, the hose had wrapped and constricted around his legs, arms, chest, and neck so that he could barely breathe. Falling onto the car, letting his body weight give into the cool, blue metal, he tugged tightly at the hose wrapped around his body, trying to get air. Fumbling with the door, he finally laid over in the front seat of that car, unzipped his coveralls, and unwrapped the hose, so that he could finally breathe.

As much as I'd like to say that I never get myself into my own messes that deeply, I'm not going to lie. I have said often enough, that I don't need help screwing things up, because I'm quite adept at doing it myself. I may not steal paint, or wrap hoses up to steal under my clothing, but be assured, I do enough. Sometimes, I simply find myself wondering what everyone's staring at, just to find the proverbial black sock stuck proudly to my rump.

I've also mentioned before that the Holy Spirit works overtime on me, keeping me from untold disasters. I always wonder if we get to see that Unrestrained Option B when we get to heaven: You know, the way things would have worked out had we always gotten our own way? I expect if we do, my Unrestrained Option B will have me ending up in some under the bridge scenario, fighting for the last scrap in some styro-foam container with other unrestrained idiots. Be assured, I will be a scrapper in that scenario, completely remiss of all good judgment.

As Paul says in the Bible, "Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial." With that, I also recall the time I longed and became obsessed with becoming a parking lot cleaner. I know it sounds like I'm making this up, but if you asked my old high school friend Carrie, before she hung up on you for even mentioning it, she would confess that I had, for a short time, become completely preoccupied with that "profession."

In high school I could not fathom anything more fun than being in possession of a leave-blower pack, and little suction truck, those kinds that rumble through parking lots late at night, sucking up all the parking lot debris. How can something so good be wrong? In some ways, I still don't understand how that entrepreneurial concept was wrong, but I learned that when Carrie said she would scream at the mere mention of it, she was not kidding. If I even began to bring it up, she would scream...loudly. I thought I could convince her by committing to allow her the easy job of cruising around in the truck, while I did all the leaf-blowing, but no, she was not moved. "What if we played fun music really, really loud while we did it?" "What if I made up fun dances to make her laugh with the big leaf-blower pack on my back?" Didn't matter what I said, or how I tried, she was not going to be a part of my dream, or even acknowledge that it was a good idea.

In hindsight, maybe she was right. I suppose something bad could have happened. Maybe my grades would have fallen had I gone that route. Maybe I would have never been able to go to college. In the worst case scenario, she could have gotten distracted while watching me dance around with the leaf-blower pack on, and run over me. I always suppose on thinking about it that God saved me from myself in some way, and that though I cannot see Unrestrained Option B right now, I imagine that this option, Option A, the one I'm living out right now, is the one He has intended for me all along - disappointments, blessings, and all.

Jeremiah 29:11 "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Avian Science and Killers

"He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world." That was the first thought I had this morning when I woke up. Sometimes I need God to gently remind me of that, especially when it doesn't seem true. Really, for whatever reason satan has really found Rick and me especially fun to torment the last few years.

One time, I think it was after having Chloe at Good Samaritan Hospital, we were driving away, and saw a big, mean Scrub Jay picking on this little mouse hiding under a newspaper rack outside the hospital door. We actually stopped the car to watch. This big, mean bird kept picking up the little mouse by the tail and dropping it, over and over. The little mouse would scurry back under the newspaper stand, and the bird would grab its tail again and do it all over again. Really, probably the first time I ever felt sorry for a mouse. I even had a pet mouse named Frodo, and never felt the least bit sorry for it, since nothing that odoriferous should elicit sympathy.

And, when I gave Frodo to my little cousins, and it went "missing," and my aunt would not cross her heart to my questions of whether or not Tuffy the cat had really eaten Frodo, still I was not overly wraught with sympathy for that smelly rodent. I mean, you had to smell the stench to understand; however, when I saw that mouse trying to escape torture by the big blue bird, I asked Rick if I should jump out and scare the bird away. Rick, being the sensible one, said no. That was a smart answer, because when I took Avian Sciences in college, I learned that Scrub Jays will dive bomb people too. They are fierce birds, meaner than other jays, by far.

Didn't know I was such a wealth of useless knowledge, did you? Can I also tell you this, there was a Scrub Jay on the UC, Davis campus that befriended a student and the bird eventually got its own student ID card, and went to classes with that kid. Look, you CAN'T make up stuff like that, and let me also say this, that bird studies people are quite unlike any other people I've ever met, and I very much expect we'll see more violent acts done to humanity in the defense of birds any day. Because, all I know is that when some guy who apparently had not been listening to the overly zealous bird lover professor in my Avian Science class lecture, raised his hand and admitted that he was a hunter, that professor went three shades of red, and into a tirade against all hunters, fishermen, bird haters and fowl eaters all over the world! It was so completely amusing. I personally live for that sort of thing.

And, when we went on a field trip to go "birding," a sport I've not quite perfected yet, it was like God himself put that crazy fishing line in that big ol' tree and had that bird flutter around in it pathetically, as our big orange Suburbans pulled right up to the birding site. I mean, who could plan such a thing? The birdish looking professor leapt out of the first Suburban, grew red from the top of his head to the tip of his beakish nose and yelled, "Who here likes to fish?" Consider it a rhetorical question, friends: But no, someone - some guy who apparently had been daydreaming all semester long - raised his stupid hand. "Der, umm, I do." WRONG ANSWER!

Having learned to fly through his intense studies of birds for the last forty years, that professor flew into the face of the fisherman and screamed, "You are a killer of birds! You kill!" Now, frankly, this kind of field trip is right up my alley. Suddenly, birding seemed like a fun sport, one that I could grow to like. "Killer!" He screamed again and stomped the ground, stirring up dust. Then, the angry professor made a scared, compliant student climb on the top of the Suburban and unwind the bird from the fishing line, and it flew away.

What is my point? My point is that even though I feel picked on, and am exhausted by it, sometimes the reason for feeling picked on is a lot less about the one who picks on me, and more about my answers to things. I'll assume there were other hunters and fishermen in my Avian Science class, but only a couple heard the question, and answered it truthfully. Sometimes fear keeps us quiet about what we really think. If you know me, you know I may be scared, but I'm stupidly honest. At my fortieth birthday my BFF gave a little toast and said, "If you ever want the truth about anything, ask Michelle. If you don't, then don't ask."

Sometimes being under attack is nothing more than offending the status quo. Yesterday a friend wrote me this regarding my blog: "If you're not offending someone you're not doing the right thing! Jesus offended alot of people too! keep it up!" Thanks, Jim! Appreciate the encouragement.

I've been the compliant, scared student climbing on the top of a Suburban to untangle a stupid bird at the irate instructions of a agitated bird-lover. I found that even in my best compliance, I seldom pleased the critic: They were just emboldened, empowered, and evermore critical. I won't lie. I've done this as far as my relationship with Christ too, much to my shame - not a lot, but often enough. Christ is pretty clear about this; "So, because you are lukewarm -- neither hot nor cold -- I am about to spit you out of my mouth."

My feelings of being tortured and toyed with like a mouse under a newspaper rack perhaps wouldn't be happening if I'd stayed in my hole, but I am not a hole-dweller. I like, no love people. I love meeting people, being friendly to people, and getting to know people. I love people who are like me, and who are unlike me. I think the grocery line is a waste of time if I don't get to meet one other person in line, and the cashier. I love my swinger neighbors, and what makes that so painful are the countless times we spent getting to know them to have it all come to such a mess. All those Easter and Christmas baked goods we gave them to have them say to us everytime, "We're Jewish," until finally, it was just a joke between us and them.

Simply put, I think life just seems like torture when you're ready to stand up and give the wrong answer.

Sorry If I Sound Bitter, Mean, or Crazy

Every day I awaken to a new challenge. Today it was a friend's reprimand on my blogs, saying I was too bitter. Wow, that was an eye-opener. If I've come off too bitter, I have to say that has not been my intent. I mean for a couple of things by blogging: First, to express myself the way I always have by writing. There are a no less than a dozen pink and purple diaries with some flimsy brass lock, and all my juvenile thoughts and feelings scribbled on pink hued pages in some Milpitas land-fill as a testimony to that: I have always written my thoughts down, and especially in times of difficulty. It's what I do, and it's why I had to ditch business degree aspirations for writing. I could no more wrap my brain around business than I could around astrophysics.

Then, secondly, my blogging is my way of dealing with a situation that is overwhelming for me. In my family, we use humor to sort out the hard stuff. That's why when my grandfather had his leg amputated, my mother and aunts brought individually wrapped socks to him as a gift, and HE thought it was funny. When he recounted that act of humor to others, he called my mother and aunts "his angels," because for my family the ability to make each other laugh is, indeed, a heavenly thing.

In fact, my grandfather could not have handled his difficulty any other way, and neither could we. My Grandpa McNiel taught me how to laugh at the unlaughable things. He had a difficult life, and yet, always had a big, if not sometimes, confused smile on his face. How else can a man whose name is Willard Raymond, have his twin, Lillard Naymond die at birth, and survive to find joy in hardship?

Do you know what song my grandfather wanted played at his funeral? "Why me, Lord?" Initially, it seemed silly, a jokesters response to death, but the words are anything but silly: "Why me Lord? What have I ever done, to deserve even one, of the pleasures I've known. Tell me Lord, what did I ever do, that was worth loving you, for the kindness you've shown? Lord help me Jesus, I've wasted it so help me Jesus, I know what I am, but now that I know that I needed you so, help me Jesus. My souls in your hands."

If my family has given me anything, it is the legacy of laughter - some people should be so lucky. Offensive and not somber enough to some people, yet I don't know how else to be. If you find my blogs offensive, as I find harshness to those already lying in a heap, than please don't read anymore. I already find life difficult enough right now - not always, but I assure you even now, we find laughter, joy, and love in our home every single day, and probably much more than most.

We pray for Mim and Cat. We pray for our neighbors. We pray for our enemies, because to do anything else would be ridiculous and contrary to who I am.

Cronies and Ms. Thang

Tally-ho, friends! Well, it's Monday, and it's Monday, if you know what I mean. "I love a parade!" I don't even know what made me blurt that out inside my head, but I blurted it out in my head, so I blurt those sort of nonsensical things down in writing when that happens - lucky you.

So, first, I just want to say thank you to anyone nice whose been nice enough to extend niceness to us. We like nice. We could get used to nice, though we've gotten so accustomed to mean. Today's been strange. For instance, there's fire outside and you know how that makes for a blurry, reddish hue to the sunset? Well, that's how it looks outside, and then there's that smoky smell to the air, as though someone got carried away with a controlled burn: That's how the day has been - a little blurry and unexpected.

Had a long-time supplier cancel us today, the same supplier that signed an ambiguous, cautious statement supporting Mim's version of things - the statement they surprised the judge last week in mediation. In fact, they signed that statement on the same date our cancellation notice was written. Coincidental, huh?

The supplier and Mim are long-time friends. They worked at some previous job together and have known each other for twenty plus years. We've found that there's a lot of cronyism in the world. Never even really knew what that word meant until recently. Apparently, it means that like-minded, unethical people stick together, thick as thieves. Sometimes literally.

I tell you this has been a season of learning about stuff like that. For instance, there was one week I was in a Christian setting, for which a lady said to me, "Don't you know who I am?" I knew that everyone tip-toed around her with a strange and eerie reverence, but little else. Seriously, I don't know who many people are, so that statement was lost on me. I admitted that I didn't know her. That was the wrong answer. When someone asks you a question like that, be sure and learn from my mistake. I'm not encouraging you to lie, but maybe smidge the truth a bit, by saying something like, "Maybe," or "I think so," because you may have heard of them and just forgotten.

Then, that same week in a non-Christian setting someone asked me if I knew of their quasi celebrity friend, and this time (God forgive me) I lied. "Oh," I said, trying to sound very impressed. "Yes, I think I do know them." Then, I immediately googled that person as soon as I got home. And, no, I didn't know them, but was relieved to find them well-described on wikipedia.

Experienced this crony thing somewhere the kids had gone for tutoring in addition to our home schooling. There was a girl there just barely out of high school herself, teaching because her relatives were in charge of the center. Never mind that that girl was a toxic young thing who appeared to hate children, knew nothing of the subject she was teaching, and ridiculed me when I asked to help her out, because she was teaching writing and that's specifically what my degree pertains to. She even told me that her eye-rolling was her way of processing what I was saying. Seemed weird, but everyone processes differently I thought.

Can I just spell that scenario out for you, because it is rich I tell you, rich. She was holding a grande Starbucks, peering over the lid at me. As usual, I blabbered on, because frankly her caustic nineteen year old intimidation tactics took me right back to high school wherein I felt scared by mean girls like her. As I tried to convince her to give me a shot at this writing thing, she said, "Give me what you have. I'll look over it, and see if I approve." "Yes, Ms. Thang, I'll give you that right a way, right away!" I turned and tripped over my own club foot and headed back to the car to reconsider why I'd never be popular.

To top that off, no one even thought it was bad taste when Ms. Thang posted a scantily-clothed picture of herself in fish-net stockings and a corsetty thing, and gave a bunch of kids directions to her site. Prude, I'm not, but c'mon! We unpopular girls hate when all the popular girls do things like that. Afterall, my favorite Halloween costume I ever owned was Betsy Ross. There is nothing the least bit slutty about Betsy Ross, and it's my guess that Ms. Thang doesn't even know who Betsy Ross is!

Soooo, (heavy sigh) I'm just saying that the old crony thing is alive and well. I am being rolled by it every day. For some strange reason, it knocks me off my geeky seat every time I experience it. You can expect people to do the right thing, because it's the right thing, but more often than not, I think people do the thing that garners them the most in the long run: Not everyone, but lots.

Exodus 23:3
"...and do not show favoritism to a poor man in his lawuit."

I know what you're thinking and no! I did not make that up! I really think the next one's a dandy too:

Leviticus 19:15 "Do not pervert justice; do not show partiality to the poor or favoritism to the great, but judge your neighbor fairly."

It's almost spooky, don't you think? It's like God knew what our natural inclination would be.

Bring on Your Bad Taste!

Oh, Sundays! I love Sundays. Sundays are good for a couple of reasons: First, we get to go to church, and by Sunday I need it badly. Then, there is the long nap on Sunday afternoon. Sunday afternoon is the only day of the week I can nap. I know this, because I've tried napping on other days, and it just doesn't work.

What I realized today after taking a short, brief inventory of the week was that there were a few things in the previous posts I wish I had mentioned, but didn't: Things that seem pertinent in some odd way.

About our most recent court mediation on Friday, I neglected to mention that the judge seems partial. Now, our attorneys vehemently defend the judge, but the judge is personal friends with Mim and Cat's attorney, so it seems logical that she would be somewhat partial. She said they golf together, go places together, make sand castles on the beach together, and do each other's toenails at sleepovers -- OK, the last two things I made up, but I imagined all that during our courtroom drama. Let's just say this, if my friend was in a mediation against some lackluster, impoverished unknown, I'd be completely partial. In fact, I'd try and institute the electric chair, which brings me to my next point about our most recent mediation.

I had joked earlier in the morning that the logical punishment from the judge against us would be boiling oil over our naked bodies in the St. James Park (the park for homeless people across from the San Jose courthouse). Hey, maybe our swinger neighbors will show up. Wherever there is nakedness, they party like it's 1999. Anyway, I had joked about this with Rick, saying that then Mim and Cat could enslave the kids for the rest of their natural lives, since they did say at some point in this process that they wanted to ruin the kids' lives too.

That was all a joke though, a morbid joke. Then, the diminutive judge said something to the effect that Mim and Cat would like to go through our building and take an assessment of our assets. Say what? It felt like boiling oil. I could feel it dripping slowly down my head, onto my neck. "Yes," she continued, "they would like to see what you have as far as assets." I imagined the eventuality of Mim and Cat rifling through my underwear drawer, and was repulsed. I think I started to cry.

With those devastating words barely out of her small mouth, the judge continued, "And, maybe Rick you could never work in this industry again..." I don't know. I think I lost consciousness. My head was spinning at the vision of a couple of evil senior citizens perusing through my pantie drawer, and Rick greeting visitors as Walmart. There are moments in life when it's all too much to comprehend and this was one of those moments.

Nooooo, the judge isn't partial, she's just sadistic. Mind you, we were reminded when I regained consciousness that these were just "suggestions." You know, like I suggest you go jump off a cliff, or I suggest you go play on a busy freeway, or I suggest that you lie down for a little nappy nap on some train track. You know, just "suggestions." Harmless, silly, laughable, lets have a beer over it "suggestions." Never mind that they're suggesting we annihilate our lives at the maniacal whim of some crazy man and his nutty wife!

You'll wonder what we did to these people, and let me just say this, we bought a business from Mim and Cat and then, Mim did some unsavory things to an employee, for which we had to employ legal action. After that, I'm afraid he was bent and determined to ruin us, and said so. Oh, and the other thing, before the "unsavory thing," he actually fradulently misrepresented the business to us, not letting us know that he was cancelled by the main supplier before he sold us the business. Nice, huh? Well, our pushing back on their fraud and other breaches of contract has really angered them. They are furious, in fact. They are determined to spend the last days of their lives ruining us. Determined!

Anyhoo, they are super rich, because a lot of mean people are. At least that's what I'm finding. The other day a friend of mine said the simplest thing, but it made so much sense. She said, "Money is stupid." Really, isn't it? I mean, you need it as badly as air to survive, and yet, no matter how hard you work, or how deeply you breathe in, you cannot always get it. Money is, indeed, stupid.

So, now we are done with our court mediations, because court mediations are for settlement, but the Breager's don't want to settle. They want to destroy. They want to come in our building, bought with our own money, and not even owned by the company, and tour it for whatever they might be able to get from us.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Probably not, because you're probably nicer than I am. I tell you, this has made me dig deeper to the depths in my soul I did not know existed. See? I painted the pictures in that blasted building -- my first foray into modern art. (See my facebook album). Those paintings are mine, since I painted those out of love for my honey-bun, not money.

And, out of all the munutia I heard from attorneys and judges on Friday, I heard this: "Don't worry Michelle, when they visit, you can essentially "stage" the office. It's just like staging." Now, you get me? What should evil people see in their grasp at my stuff? Well, butterflies, puppies, Star Wars posters, and Carebears, of course! Maybe some pink shag toilet seat covers in the bathrooms? I think it would be so homey for them. Maybe a lava lamp. The choices are endless. I'm thinking about a dreamcatcher for the waiting area, or in the front door, but only if it's ladened with more than average feathers. I don't want some cheap thing. I mean, anyone can pick up a featherless dreamcather, but if I can find some feather laden things, and shag stuff, I think I will be sending just the right message.

If anyone reading has something especially "special," send it on! This is the time to showcase your best things for the Breagers: Let's see what we get and I'll take pictures and post. They might be able to fight us with their money, but I will fight back with bad taste, and there's nothing they can do about it. Oh, to have "Velvis" back, that velvet Elvis painting my mother had for all of those years. I long for that kind of artwork.

I'll be taking a field trip to Goodwill soon. I hope I can find some stellar things to showcase, and send the right message. Really, what is the message I'm sending? I'm sending the message that though I haven't found the right stone to defeat my giant yet, I know I'll find it eventually, because I'm small and weak comparatively to the Breagers, but there's still some fight left in me. I won't give up until God clearly tells me it's over. The giant is taunting me, but my God is greater and bigger than the man who taunts me. And, there are days I'm broken, but my God won't let me be destroyed.

Josh 1:9 - "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."

Swingers and The Holy Spirit

Just yesterday I wrote a letter to God, and you may be surprised to know He is already answering me. I woke up a couple of hours before I could conjure up the energy to get out of bed. That is just how it is lately, with the big black cloud over our home: First, we have stupid Mim and Cat Breager, and the lawsuit that won't go away. Then, we have swinger neighbors.

I'll assume if you don't live in California, you cannot even comprehend such a predicament -- people that re-did their entire backyard to accommodate every swinger in a 100 mile radius. No, they didn't put in a trampoline for the kiddies, or a pool to entertain friends, or a fire-pit to relax with a glass of Merlot after a long day. They made Swinger Haven. A petri dish for every venereal disease known, and those not yet discovered. The very thought makes me shiver and want to go suck my thumb in a corner, curled up in the fetal position.

I think most of the swingers are local, though sometimes they travel farther to come and swing, because Rick watched one guy one time who was lurking around the neighborhood at 10:30 at night who had flown in from a far off place, and was in a rental car trying to find this swinger destination. That is kind of the way it goes. You see, we have finally figured out that they put their swinger ads on some random network, hook up with fellow pervs, and then the pervs call a secret telephone number. I'll assume they have to answer some pertinent swinger questions, and upon approval, they get directions to the exciting swinger destination. Kind of like answering the right questions on a radio contest to win a trip to Hawaii without the legitimacy and the FCC's approval.

Thank goodness for my 6'3" husband who, though especially kind, can pose an intimidating figure when needed, since he was able to run off aforementioned pervy swinger with just a few abrupt words. I, on the other hand, am not as intimidating even though I swear I am quadruply crazier than anything Rick could even imagine. I mean, when I strolled down the street to find an obese man, chomping on cake, leaning his big plump elbow on the top of his car, and staring at my sweet son like a hawk stares at a white, unblemished bunny, while Austin mowed our lawn. It took every thing within me to refrain from leaping over that obese man's car and clobbering him the way my grandma used to threaten to clobber salesmen who uninvitedly came knocking at her door. Let me say this, my grandma had a .22 caliber rifle behind her door. I used to think that was a little overkill, but now, I see her sage rational.

Instead of relying on a firearm, I turned to that rotund man and said, "Can I help you, cause I live here you perv, and I think you need to leave right now." Now see, I don't think calling a pervert a "perv" can really be offensive, because it's like calling me a "white girl." I know I'm white. I'm not denying it. If you called me "blondy," still no offense taken. I'm not really sure he was offended by my choice of words, or my posture. Anyway, he left.

That day and many days since, the Holy Spirit has worked over-time, in asserting self-control within me. Poor Holy Spirit. He probably didn't know how hard it was going to be with this one, but really, I didn't know that pervy swingers would be my neighbors. Regardless of how the Holy Spirit feels about me, I love him for keeping me out of prison and off crime blotters.

Then, there was the day that we were barbecuing at the neighbors house directly next to the swinger house. Rick got an unfortunate peek at another obese naked man in the buffet line at the swinger house. He looked greenish after seeing that, and a little ill. Chloe, only eleven at the time, saw a naked man while riding her bike down the street. I felt certain that God was saying that I had permission to hurt people, but couldn't find it anywhere in the Bible. I hate when that happens!

Then, just a day after I had written a scathing letter to the swingers saying things like, "We KNOW what you're doing and it's not AQUA THERAPY like you said it was!" and "We don't like the perverts you invite into the neighborhood glaring at our children." I had Rick read it, since while I value pat honesty, he is sometimes -- OK, oftentimes, my good sense, and he calls me in off the perverbial ledge. He finally convinced me that I should hold off on giving them that letter until I simmered down a bit.

Well, the very next day in the third shift of swingers (there'd already been shift one that started at 8:30 a.m., and the second shift that came around 12:30 p.m. in the afternoon), a woman ran into Rick's car. Rick had to go get her in the swinger backyard. He did, and fortunately she was the only clothed woman. See how God's goodness works out? She came across the street, and instantly denied any fault. Then, orchestrated by God in heaven, the woman said, almost in slow motion like a scene in a movie where you cannot believe what you're about to hear, the woman said, "I did not hit your car, and I wouldn't lie about it, because I'm a...(slow motion time) C-h-r-i-s-t-i-a-n." Oh, no she didn't. Hand in the air, like I was doing a exorcism in some canjun witch doctor hut, "In the name of Jesus Almighty, get behind me satan!" Rick's face dropped. Didn't he tell me to go in the house? Well, this mightily disobedient wife stood firm on my lawn calling up verses for every crazy New Age "your a reflection of me and I'm reflecting love back onto you, while we reflect onto each other in our one united reflection of love" defense. Say what? I think they had the heat turned up too high on their swinger sauna, because this lady was rambling the craziest stuff I ever heard, and I'm from California -- I've heard my share of crazy ramblings!

Pretty soon the swinger hosts came marching across the street to defend their "friend," though the lady readily admitted she had never met the hosts before. The volcano had been spewing, heating up, and bubbling under the fragile surface, and now, it was about to blow. All said, there were heated words exchanged back and forth: Really, nothing too ridiculous, except that they said we were probably paranoid about the possible risk their lives posed to our children. They said that their daughters were not harmed by such things, though I thought that the results of one of their daughters being a stripper, and the other being a self-mutilator spoke well enough for themselves. I didn't say anything, but I hoped that they might eventually see it for themselves.

Well, a couple of weeks have gone by. They're still swinging, but much more subtly. The swinger guests park farther away. I tried googling their address to find exactly what they were doing, and eventually found in my detective work that there are hundreds of swinger sites. One site proudly announced that my area alone had over 7,000 swingers online at 1:30 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon.

It has been sobering to know that regardless of what I think is going on, or what should go on the sin of man elicits him to do whatever he allows himself to give into, which is sometimes so contrary to God's will. I'm no different. In fact, if I contradicted the overworked Holy Spirit in me, I'd be no different in my bouts with anger against these people.

How has God answered me today? Well, I woke up and got to scare Austin while he played Xbox, smooch on Chloe while she awoke, and snuggle Sophie. While I was snuggling Sophie, kissing her sweet cheeks she said, "You can kiss me and it won't make a difference." Seeing that as an invitation to keep on kissing her, she eventually said, "OK, I guess it does make a difference, because I know you love me." That is how God has been with me. That is how He's answered me. He may not make a difference in my life today, ending a painful lawsuit, or getting me away from Swinger Haven, but He takes care of me in other ways, so that I know He loves me.

Lawsuit With The Devil - Dear God

Dear God,

It's Michelle. I don't know if you saw us today. We, Rick and me, had another court mediation with the devil and his wife, otherwise known as Mim and Cat (I've changed their names to hide their identities, though you know who they are). I see you are doing great things for them. They pulled up in their 2009, shiny silver Cadillac. I thought you might take it away from them when they came into court, lied to the judge that they were poor and needed our money for their dismal retirement, but nope! They appeared to drive away in it when the mediation was over. I'll guess they drove right back up to their 2 1/2 acres in Los Altos Hills, but only you know for sure.

I know it seems like I might be bitter, given how the last 3 years have gone, but I really wanted to tell you that I've moved on from that. Bitterness seems so last year, if you know what I mean. I'm down to reminding Rick just once a day that he should have listened to me, which is down from the 152 times a day I had gotten up to in May. I think I'm doing real well with that.

Also, I've really tried hard to curb my use of profanity, since I felt sure that you were holding back blessings when I imbibed too profusely. I know, and I passionately apologize for using it so creatively last Friday upon the closure our first mediation. I know you don't like excuses, since I've read all about the Israelites in the desert, but first of all Rick should have listened to me, and secondly, that ice-skating coach who tried to keep me from my little girl, Chloe should have read the crazy in my eyes to know better than stand between a mama bear and her cub.

I had hoped the things I said to her were wrapped up in so much furor that the actual profanity itself wouldn't be as offensive, as was my overall demeanor. Unfortunately, I hear that's not how it went down: After dropping my head back and saying one last profane thing to the sky, or the ceiling of the ice-skating locker room, I guess Chloe started crying. I feel really bad about that, since it wasn't my intent to make Chloe cry, but Coach Manna-litza. I mean, Lord God, you know a woman with a name like that is not reasonable! I don't even know her last name, but I bet it only confounds the prissiness, and the ability to deal with her reasonably.

Now, onto the other stuff. Yes, I drank an entire bottle of wine...well, almost. I couldn't really stay awake for the entire bottle. It made me so sleepy. I think I got a little offensive too. In fact, yes, I'm sure I did. I think I may have breached my one reminder a day rule with Rick. I think I breached it real bad. Right before losing count, I'm pretty sure I was up to 86 times in an hour for reminding him that he should have listened to me, though when slurred, could conceivably account for less, since most of those sentences and words ran right into each other. Maybe he won't remember?

So, I'm sorry about that too. I have really screwed up lately. What I've come to realize is that it is far easier to be perfect, look perfect, say the perfect things, act the perfect way, ecetera when you are not pressed to the bottom of the frying pan with the heat turned on high, and the weight of that spatula pressing all the juices out of you. Some days I don't feel like getting up at all, but since Mim and Cat keep on attacking us, I guess I have to keep getting up and fighting, even if it's weak, stupid looking, and pitiful. That Fight or Flight rule is true, but there's no where to run, and I've realized that my ability to fight isn't as street and ghetto as I'd hoped it would be.

Just like Vanillia Ice, I don't have street cred. I grew up in a blue collar working community. There were gangs somewhere nearby, but I mean really, they would have never let me in unless I did something crazy like cut off my fingers to permanently configure a gang sign, and God, you know how I hate pain. Remember that time I broke my finger catching a softball?

What I'm saying God, is that I need help. I have tried to be good. I have prayed until the words are just memorized repititions of years of words. I have memorized and owned Jeremiah 29:11, Josh 1:9, and Lamentations 3:20 -22. I love you Lord with all my heart, but this train headed dismally for the cliff is the most painful ride I've ever been on. Please help me get off this crazy train, and while the entire idea makes for an amusing metal song, it doesn't make for a good life.

Please help me, Oh God. Help me get out of this lawsuit with the devil, and if I can't get out then, let me quote that sage philosopher Nacho Libre when I say, "I wanna weeeeen!"

Love Forever and Ever,
Michelle

(***Just a note to all concerned: Please don't be too concerned, because in our house the word "crap" is a no-no and considered profanity. Also, 2 glasses of White Zinfandel is really what put me over the edge, so really, very Vanilla Ice - no real street cred, just pathetic).