The Stick

Don't panic-this isn't my stick! I received this picture on my phone in the middle of watching 27 Dresses by a VIP in my life. She looks like me, but thinner and has cute dimples and less moles. She's younger than me and a little more serious about things, but has a great sense of humor. And now she's having a baby. We've decided we will refer to this fetus as our niecephew until we know the sex. This is great news and great excitement and is their first and I'm finally not the only making babies in the family! Did I mention we're excited? It's bittersweet (in a different way than saying goodbye to an old purse), but kind of the same. It's the loss of childhood, for both of us and the beginning of a new part of womanhood. It's me having the privilege to have a different role, one of aunt, in addition to the always enjoyable one of sister. It's sisterhood in the deepest of terms and any of you mommies would agree with me, life will never be the same! So, lift your glass (or your kids sippy cup) and join me in offering a toast to me being an aunty and let's hope someone gets a redhead out of the bunch! Cheers Sis and Congratulations!

The New Purse

I have been looking for a new purse for 3 months now. This quest included putting it on my Santa list and causing my husband to have a mini-nervous breakdown at the hand of an over eager Nordstrom sales girl over the amount of choices she provided him. I can't do it at Nordstrom though. I can NOT commit nor justify a purchase with 2 zeros at the end for something that will have gum stuck to it and pen marks in unsightly places by the following Tuesday, if I'm lucky! With that said, Santa did not bring a new purse. He apologized. The Mrs. Claus in me went on a search for the perfect handbag that would put any shopoholic to shame. I went everywhere. Macy's, JcPenney, TJ Maxx, Ross, Target, Wal-Mart, back to Nordstrom, Dillard's-nothing was right, nothing said buy me, nothing said "I go with black and brown!". I was discouraged, disgruntled, and disappointed in my lack of fortitude in this mission. I went to important sales meetings with my good old faithful, cracking Target special for this whole time, hoping that no one would see the stitching jumping off the seams. I was losing my womanhood. My edge. Handbags define us. They shouldn't, but there's something special about finding that just right bag. I didn't give up. Thankfully, I know the Ross schedule for new item deliveries and yesterday I browsed through and picked up 5 bags that would be ok, not spectacular, but they were at least new-they'd do, but they didn't meet the requirements. Those are-must zip, must not make me look like I sell myself on the corner, must have outside of purse cell phone pocket, must go with any color (including that bright green I douse myself with) on a whim, must not be so big that I am now carrying a suitcase. As I strutted through Ross, looking at how big or small the bag made my butt look, I sighed. I dropped them all (I will be writing an I'm sorry card to the employee who had to re-shelve them) and walked out of the store once again with my head hung low. I walked 2 doors down to Target, focused on the paper towel purchase needed, and I thought, let me just check. I walked up and down the purses, not once, not twice, you know the drill. Then, as if a light hit the shelf in just the right angle, I swear I heard a choir, I found it. It fit all the prerequisites and only had two digits in it's price. I FOUND IT!!!! Like Indiana Jones finding lost treasure, I had found my purse! This ending is always bittersweet. The transfer of the crap from one bag to another. I found myself examining my old faithful, thanking it for not blowing out in an inopportune time, and for hiding my feminine products successfully. As I threw it's fake leather straps into the garbage, I bid it farewell and good luck and remembered all the good times we had. The new one is stuffed and in waiting, looking like a soldier ready for war. I'll try to be gentle and grateful I am for a new purse I've secured!

The Doctor's Office

Why is it that most drs offices look the same? They all strike that same panicky feeling inside me, even when it's not my appointment. I have been to our drs office 4 times this week and when I wasn't there, I've been on the phone with them. It's been one of those weeks. I like to watch people when I'm in the waiting room and guess what 3rd world country sickness they'll be diagnosed with by their stethoscope wielding man with the degrees from the University of Utah. Is it odd of me to wonder if the pharmaceutical sales rep that just walked in with arms overflowing with Valentine's goodies for all the nurses, if her smile is as real as her fur coat? Her shiny shoes peeking out from under Nordstrom labeled wide leg dress pants? Laughing incoherently as she nervously makes her way in to see the dr. I wonder if she walks into offices, looks around, and makes guesses as to the qualm of the individuals temporarily residing in the soft, cushy seats. I like to also play a game called which one is sick. Today, for example, there were 2 little girls, a mom, and a dad. The goal is to guess which person's name will be called by the nurse before she does it. This is a fun party game if you can easily turn your living room into a waiting room, complete with elevator music, and money making pharmaceutical reps! If I was a doctor, I'd serve latte's (hot chocolate in Utah) and promote this type of game playing among those of us waiting. I think waiting room coordinator is an excellent title that should be added to the payroll of all quality offices. I may need to patent this idea before someone else promotes it. Business idea 573-Waiting Room Coordinator, job description: ridiculous game player to keep mind off impending weigh in and blood pressure cuff.

These are my colors Esse

Our family is having a laundry crisis. I remember having these types of catastrophes in my own childhood, when panic would strike me because my purple shirt that I wanted to wear with my new jeans was at the bottom of some dirty clothes pile. As an adult, the state of crisis has changed. Panic does not occur over shirts, there seems to be a plethora to choose from, but 2 mornings ago when my husband got in the shower, I hear this Suuuuussssssaaaaaannnnn sound similar to George of the Jungle calling for his Jane. Have you seen any of my clean underwear? He says with a naked smile. I turned and pointed to the overflowing dirty clothes basket, and said, define clean. Unable to take that risk, I grabbed a pair of bright red thick cotton boxers that say "It's gonna be one of those daze" on the crotch zone. It's the emergency, last ditch effort, and a HUGE signal that someone needs do get some laundry done around here!
The next morning, there was finally a clean load (still in the dryer) and as I walked out in a pre-coffee sleep haze, I see my husband with his green Fruit of the Looms hanging on the outside of his jammy pants. I look at him, he looks at me and says, "These are my colors Esse". I burst into a nonfat vanilla creamer filled laughter and said, "Yeah, that's how you roll!".
This, I realize, is why I'm still married. My Esse makes me giggle and even though I am still the one who got those colors clean, that's ok, maybe I'll get a ride in his low ride er.

Expectations

Webster's defines this word as "the degree of probability that something will occur"-I define it as a major roadblock. I think we all grow up having degrees of probability placed on us. Mine were, you will go to church, you will clean your plate, you will ONLY use 3 squares of toilet paper at a time (1979 toilet overflow by yours truly), you will get good grades, you will show me respect, you will not fight with your sister, you will be quiet around adults, you will not interrupt, and of course you will go to college (even though we have no money to put you through it, but you will go). So, when I did work 2 and 3 jobs to get myself into a premed program, I began to put similar expectations on those around me. My roommate-you will be kind to me even though you don't know me, my parents-you will keep my room available for weekends even though you want to turn it into an office, my boyfriend-you will marry me. This cycle seems never ending to me and yet, up until today, I thought that I was on the wagon of "NO EXPECTATIONS", the candle was passed to me and I said, Hello, my name is Susan and I have no expectations. Today I fell off that wagon. I guess a part of me is not surprised, old wounds resurface with an unintentional laugh or look, and all of a sudden I've put on the same old wrinkled skin that I thought I had shed. I think part of it is I have been in and out of states of transition for the last 2 years and because I want to know people, really know them, I feel like I am constantly opening myself up to criticism, rejection, and sarcasm. Up until now, I have been able to join in on the laughter at my own expense. I am tired of that. I am tired of living up to what I think are other people's expectations of me and then when I truly try to get to know them, I'm rejected (possibly unintentionally) or don't come packaged in a way that works for them, so I can't be a part of their circle. What I know is that God knows my heart. He knows I am crying inside (and sometimes on the outside) when people hurt me; that I have a passion for my community, those placed in my life, and I am screaming to be HEARD and included!!!! I am guessing this is not my time to have a posse and that it is forcing me to look up and be grateful for those around me, that do hear and do care. I realize I'm whining at this point and I really don't have a good conclusion, but that's what everyone expects, right?

Hannah Montana is really Miley Cyrus?

For those of us who couldn't get or didn't want to put a second mortgage on our home for Hannah Montana tickets, the fine Disney folks designed a concert/movie that they charged $15 for in Utah, that my 6 year old begged we go to. I'm assuming the rationale in the stiff price was because it was in 3D and even though the effects didn't warrant it, what my daughter learned from it was a hard reality. When they showed the cute blonde from the hit tv show, Hannah Montana go back stage, take off her wig, and change into a brown curly wig, my daughter was in shock! The big where's waldo 3D glasses didn't help but to emphasize the disgust, realization, the deer in headlights, wally-eyed, oh my goodness type of life changing look she gave me when she saw this magical transformation on screen. This realization that one girl plays 2 girls is what I am taking as a prequel to Santa Claus coming out of the closet. She turned to me and shouted at the top of her lungs, "Hannah Montana is really Miley Cyrus???"!!!! I shooshed her and nodded yes, she shook her head no, it can't be. "Mom, but Hannah Montana's on tv and so is Miley Cyrus, how can they be the same?". It's the magic and beauty of great marketing and Hollywood, some things aren't what they seem was the gist of my reply. She thought about it, resumed eating her popcorn, and wiped the butter on my shirt as she lay back to enjoy the rest of the show. I began to think of how often things aren't what they seem in my own life and how day by day my baby is learning that not all things can be trusted, that sometimes people aren't who they say they are and I began to pray. Pray that I am who I say I am to her, that other people are placed in her life-good friends-who are for her, who are who they say they are, and then I came to the realization that we will all have a Miley Cyrus in our shadows and the only one who is always the same, is the great I Am, and that is who the focus should be on, even at age 6, but especially at 33. Hannah Montana beware, we know who you really are....btw, we enjoyed the show!