I remember holding the little stick in my hands, watching in shock as a faint pink line bled across the window.

I remember staring at it.  Shaking it.  Waiting for it to clear.  So sure that it would.

I remember throwing it in the trash, only to go back to it over and over again.  Confirming.

I remember the fog that wouldn’t lift.  The whistle of an approaching locomotive as it raced through my head.  The steady vibrations coming closer, picking up speed right along with the beat of my heart and the pace of my breath.

I remember one more test.

and then another.

and another.

Until it sank in.  Caught up.  Wrapped around.  Consumed every last thought during both waking and sleeping states of mind.

I was a sixteen-year-old junior in high school.  A cheerleader.  If I’d made it to my senior year I would probably have been voted “Least Likely to Get Knocked Up”.  Assuming, of course, the yearbook teacher would have condoned such a superlative.

What they didn’t know about me was that I was head over heels in love (to the extent a sixteen-year-old is capable, anyway).  And that everysingleone of my friends had serious boyfriends with whom they were engaging in serious acts.  And that finally–finally!–I’d joined the ranks of them.  No longer was I left sitting silent in the corner while the rest of them whispered the juicy details of their wheres and whens and ohmygod no you guys did not do it while your parents were sleeping in the next room!

At long last, I had my own stories.  But unlike my friends, I did not have my own egg-shaped pack of tiny pills spaced evenly around a 28 day dial.

I did, however, have access to a ginormous box of, ahem, barrier method contraceptives.  And they were correctly used.  Almost 100% of the time.

Almost.

The rest is history.

When I worked as a mentor for pregnant and parenting teens the question was always the same:  what can we do to keep girls from getting pregnant?

At the time, I was shortsighted.  I gave long speeches urging high schoolers not to do what I did because they’d miss out on things like prom and sober grad night and general freedom.  I thoughtfully engaged in Q&A’s around a table, admitting that the one thing that had made me feel like everybody else, eventually would set me further apart than I’d ever been.  And though my perspective is changed a bit, if presented with that question all these years later my answer would remain the same: don’t do what I did because you’ll really miss out.  On far more than prom.

Since they were was the teensiest girls, I’ve worked very hard to create open lines of communication with my daughters.  Always striving for straight-forward, age-appropriate answers to totally squirm-worthy questions.  Words like menstruation and sex and sperm have flowed freely in the hopes that they’d never become taboo.  In the hopes that my girls will never be afraid to use them with me.

It’s the finest, tightest line I’ve ever walked–compelling them to come to me if and when they need to, while still instilling in them the knowledge that I do not condone sexual activity.  A fine line, indeed.

I don’t know yet if my girls will get safely through their teen years unscathed by pregnancy.  I most certainly hope so.  Here are the things I do to that end:

1. Above all, communicate.  I ask personal questions and pose hypothetical scenarios and just generally check in on what’s up.
2. I state–in no uncertain terms–that my God-given responsibility is to see them safely through to adulthood.  And I’m willing to take whatever means necessary to do just that.
3.  I randomly confiscate cell phones to peruse text messages.  My girls know that the next random spot check could be just around the corner.
4. We go to church as a family and my girls go to small group in the middle of the week.  I hope that those activities, together with the values we keep at home, will instill in them a deeply rooted self worth and the knowledge that they are indeed precious in His sight.
5. I am open and honest when it comes to my mistakes.  My admitted regrets serve as building blocks to a life less broken.
6.  I give them something to work for.  We sacrifice in order to set aside money for college so that my girls know that all they have to do is stay focused on their goals and opportunity is theirs for the taking.
7.  I frequently ask about their goals.  What they want to do.  Where they want their lives to go.  How they intend to get there.
8.  When my oldest started high school, I wrote up a “Behavioral Contract”, detailing my expectations with regard to drugs, alcohol, sex, etc.  The power of choice lies with her, but this way, she can’t ever use the excuse, “well, I didn’t know.”
9.  We come together each night at dinner and talk.  About our respective days.  About Disney.  About whatever comes up.  Just another way to stay connected.
10.  I pray for them regularly, that they might make wise decisions to include respecting their bodies, their hearts, and their purity.

I hope that–all together–it’ll be enough.

This is the second in a series of Teen Mom Tuesday posts I’m writing.  The first one is HERE.  I welcome input on any teen mom related topics you’d like for me to touch on. I am an expert on the subject, after all. ;)

We are a family of peculiar eating habits.  And by peculiar I mean that we {I} go to great lengths to ensure that we’re not ingesting a bunch of pesticides and chemicals and “food products” with ingredients that are more fit to be found under the kitchen sink than inside our bodies.  My children are not always fond of aforementioned eating habits.  They long to be like their friends, ordering nachos with extra gloppy cheese or “smoothies” laden with sugar from the snack bar line of their respective schools.  Schools which pride themselves on a lackluster “wellness policy” that–honestly–is laughable.  I’m hoping that the healthy eating habits I’m instilling in them now will see my kids through long, healthy lives.  And maybe when they’re old and suspiciously sprite, they’ll look back and thank me.

Maybe not.

Either way, our eating habits are not something I intend to change anytime soon.

It recently came to my attention that–based solely on my blog posts–we appear to be a health-nut kind of family.  And I suppose that is partially true, given that I exercise daily and stock our fridge with organic produce and our pantry with wholesome staples.  BUT.  It’s not as though we’re drinking raw egg spinach smoothies for breakfast.  We eat well, but so, too, do we eat fairly normal foods.  I thought I’d break it down here, because a) I’m trying to post every single day this month so, hey why not? and b) in case you’re looking to take baby steps towards a healthier lifestyle and I can be of some assistance.

Here are five food guidelines we live by:

1. If it’s on the dirty dozen list, ONLY buy organic. The general rule of thumb is that if something is naturally sweet, farmers have to use loads of cancer-causing pesticides to keep the bugs away, so, if it’s sweet, buy organic.  This includes: apples, celery, strawberries, peaches, spinach, nectarines, imported grapes, sweet bell peppers, potatoes, domestic blueberries, lettuce, kale and collard greens.  The good news is that there are also plenty of produce picks that are perfectly safe when conventionally grown.  A general rule of thumb to keep in mind here is that if you have to peel it to eat it, you probably don’t need organic.  Here are the items on the clean 15 list: onions, sweet corn, pineapple, avocado, asparagus, sweet peas, mango, eggplant, cantaloupe, kiwi, cabbage, watermelon, sweet potatoes and grapefruit.

2. Drink organic whole milk and eat meats raised without antibiotics. I don’t eat or cook red meat so I can’t speak to grass-fed beef.  I can tell you that my family eats only organic chicken breast and natural turkey (raised without antibiotics).  Access to a local farmer is ideal, but since we don’t have that we opt for organic dairy (including eggs) and meats as the next best thing.  Reason being that buying organic is the only way to ensure we’re not ingesting chemicals and loads of hormones and antibiotics in our food.

3.  Eat minimal canned foods.  Most canned foods contain various amounts of BPA. In order to avoid exposing my family to that toxic chemical,  I use canned foods very conservatively.  I have completely stopped using canned tomatoes in any form.  On rare occasions we do use canned beans, but only as a last minute alternative when soaking dry beans is not an option.

4. Steer clear of processed foods.  My pantry contains mainly staples like (whole wheat) flour, (organic) sugar and (sea) salt.  Because we live in the middle of nowhere we also stockpile items like crushed tomatoes in glass jars, peanut butter, and Trader Joe’s amazingly versatile salsa verde.  We make our own whole wheat bread and hamburger buns (keep your eyes peeled for the recipe on the blog soon!).  We don’t eat cereal other than our own homemade granola.  And my talented husband treats us to from-scratch wheat pancakes every weekend (with frequent add-ins like organic blueberries or hand-picked peaches).  With very few exceptions we DO NOT buy foods that don’t grow.  Every once in awhile you’ll find things like Oreos or marshmellows in my grocery store cart, which brings me to number five.

5.  Everything in moderation. We eat dessert.  Every single night (provided you’ve finished your dinner, that is).  97% of the time it’s something homemade.  If it’s not homemade, it’s probably a handful of Costco’s chocolate covered almonds.  Otherwise, it’s homemade ice cream.  Or homemade cookies or cobbler or cupcakes or cheesecake.  The marshmallows and Oreos are bought from time to time for S’mores or a recipe that calls for crushed Oreos.  What you won’t find in our pantry are “fruit snacks”, Doritos (much to Torri’s chagrin), or any other manufactured sweets.

So, knowing what you know now about our eating habits I’m curious: would you consider us health nuts?  Or are our dietary habits more in line with the average?

There’s this thing I do.  I’m having a hard time finding a word for it because the one word that springs to mind isn’t quite right.  Combative. Not quite right because by definition it means: ready or inclined to fight.  That I am not.  I am, however, one who is ready and willing to call you out if you cross me.

I’m a person who honks the horn if you cut me off.

I’m a person who speaks an audible “you’re welcome” when I’ve held a door for someone who walks through expectantly and neglects to say thank you.

I’m a person who will tell you how much I’d appreciate you keeping your child from bumping into me or stepping on my toes (over and over and over again) while we’re standing in line for a ride at Disney World.

I realize how crotchety this makes me sound.  And if you choose to describe my tendencies as crotchety I’m okay with that.  I prefer to think of myself as a champion for respect.  I respect your space.  You reciprocate.  Peace and harmony prevail.  But when you have a general disregard for common courtesy, you best be prepared to be called on it.

Like I said, though, I don’t want to come to blows with you.  Rather, I’d like to call your attention to the matter in the hopes that doing so might open your eyes.  To that end, I’ve discovered a new–rather effective–technique that I thought I’d share.

I take pictures.

People do not like having their picture taken by a stranger.  I’d guess they fear it will end up somewhere unflattering.

Case in point?

A few months ago I was at the grocery store.  I pulled into a parking spot alongside a 40-something, fit woman who had just finished her shopping and was loading the last of her bags into the trunk of her car.  As soon as she was done she pushed her cart to the front’ish of her car and left it there.  She did not bother to corral it or even put the front wheels over a curb to keep the cart from rolling into (and causing damage to) someone’s parked car.  As she backed out of the spot I motioned for her to roll her window down.

Me: How would you feel if I left my cart right beside your car and you came out to find a sizable dent because my hastily discarded cart rolled into your car?  Would you like that?

Careless shopper: Well, no.  I wouldn’t.

Me: Can I ask, then, why you didn’t bother returning your cart to a spot where it wouldn’t cause damage to other vehicles in the parking lot?

Careless shopper: {looking around in disbelief} Everybody else does it.

Me: {Gesturing to Kennedy, who was sitting sheepishly in the passenger seat} Wow.  Are those the kinds of lessons we should be teaching our children?  Two wrongs suddenly make a right?

I had sincerely hoped that the careless shopper lady would then get out of her car and–at the very least–”park” her cart over the curb of a nearby planter.  No such luck though.  So I pulled out my phone, walked to the rear of her vehicle and started taking pictures of her license plate.  What did I intend to do with the pictures?  Absolutely nothing.  I mean, besides stir up feelings of anxiety on the part of the careless shopper.

It worked.

She yelled out her window, “why are you taking pictures?”

I ignored her.  I walked up to the driver’s side of her car and proceeded to click away at close range.

She really did not care for me taking pictures of her face.  She ducked for cover behind her hands, the sun visor, pretty much anything she could find.

Did she ever remedy the cart situation?  Unfortunately, no.  But I’d be willing to bet that the next time she’s ready to discard her used shopping cart she does so appropriately.

At least, I’d like to think so.

In which case my vigilante photography skills will have made a bit of difference to a defenseless bumper in a parking lot somewhere.

Don’t mind me.  Just doing my part.

I am from glowing candles on a Van de Kamps cake, from Ford and rollie pollies.
I am from the mint green duplex on the corner… 415…the cracked stucco, the stoop with no rail.
I am from the lilac bush hollowed out like a fort, the purple petals raining down like wishes falling from the sky.
I am from Christmas Eve with olive fingers and rides in the wheelbarrow,
from Averys and Ezells and Coopers and Millers.
I am from writhing tempers and status-quo keepers.  From never back down.  Explosive.
From shhh, Daddy’s sleeping! and if you step on a crack you’ll break your mother’s back.
I am from hymnals and creeds.  Hear the pennies dropping.  Listen as they fall.  All of them for Jesus, he shall have them all.

dropping…

dropping…

dropping…

dropping…

listen as they fall.  From sermons at the pulpit and cookies in the parish hall.  From Sunday school mornings: a crayola Moses in Joseph’s borrowed coat.  From wafers and red wine communion.

I’m from the pass of the Oaks.   Hills crawling with vineyards.  Almond blossoms and ocean air.

Grilled steak tasters.  Homemade vanilla ice cream licked off the paddle.

From grunion runs I could never stay awake for.  The campfire sing-alongs when I always wish I knew the words to Last Kiss.

I am from the barn’s second story.  The dust and the moths.  The boxes of old nothings.

I am from oak collage frames on the wall, faces staring out dotted with Mickey ear hats.   And heads poking out of sand graves with seaweed drapings.

From a tangle of love and anger.  From braided rainbow rugs and the plastic ride-on horse.

From innocence seeping through drafty windows, out from under the cracks.  From pigtails that gave way to Aqua Net that gave way to a baby bump way too soon.

I’m from where you came from is never as important as where you’ve come to.

You know how some people look back at old pictures of themselves and lament flashing a cheesy smile or a goofy grin?  Me?  Not so much.  As I flipped through yesteryear’s photos I quickly noticed a common thread.  I mean, besides the atrocious fashion choices and unfortunate hairstyles.  I noticed a grimace.  Looking at these pictures one might assume I was a neglected child.  Or beaten.  Or starved.  Locked away in a utility closet and only occasionally paraded out to dispel suspicion.

I can assure you that none of the above were true.  I really can’t justify that perma-scowl other than to say that clearly I disliked the camera.  And not just for a brief period of years, either.  As is witnessed in these photos it is clear that my disdain spanned the majority of my childhood.  I do recall one especially heinous occasion in which my mom insisted I have my photo taken with Santa.  This particular photo opportunity was set up on a crowded street at a time in my life in which I felt I was far too mature for such foolishness.  I think I was around thirteen (correct me on this, Mom, if I’m mistaken).  I distinctly remember throwing the mother of all tizzies.  I don’t remember if they actually forced me to go through with the photo or not, though if they did, that would–no doubt–be worthy of a place amongst the following showcase.

Seriously.  I’m riding a horse.  Most kids would be grinning ear-to-ear.  Not me.  Scowl.

Here I am in that super-fly first day of school outfit again.  Rocking the dirty look this time.

This?  There’s absolutely no excuse for this.  Not only did I forgo the Mickey ears (hello, what was I thinking?!), but I’m at Disneyland.  The indisputable happiest place on Earth!!  Could I not manage even the hint of a smirk?  Sheesh.

Check this one out.  I’ve even got the eyebrows involved here.  And, if you look close, you can see a pout on my lips, too.

This one (as well as the one above it) was an Easter morning shot.  At least in this one I have the phantom of an excuse.  Clearly I was cold.  Yeah.  That’s it.  I was cold.

See what I mean by spanning the ages?  I’m in high school here.  But still as grumpy as ever.

High school in this one, too.  I declare it the hands-down winner as judged by the frown-o-meter.  Wouldn’t you agree?

I don’t think I actually was grouchy all the time.  Despite what these photos would lead you to believe.  I mean, I distinctly remember some home videos in which I was laughably silly.  Creative.  Fun-loving, even.  So what’s with the Miss Grumpy Pants pictures?  Your guess is as good as mine.

I keep a Rubbermaid drawer full of mementos and newspaper clippings and notes from the past tucked away in the rear of my closet.  It’s stuffed to the gills.  So much so that I can barely even open it anymore without a plastic ear from my special embroidered “Mom” Mickey hat popping out.  But because my book is done and I have some extra time on my hands–what with the kids away at Dad camp–I thought I’d clean it out.  I haven’t decided yet whether having done so is a blessing or a curse.

A blessing because I came across some ridiculously adorable mommy gifts from when my babies where much, much smaller.

A curse because I also came across some ridiculous photos of myself.  So ridiculous, in fact, that when I look at them I can’t think of anything but: “Oh my.  That’s really unfortunate.  Really, really unfortunate.”

Jayce would agree, it seems.  He took one look at some of the pictures and said, “Mommy, why do you look like a boy?  Your mom didn’t do your hair very good when you were little.”

I tend to agree.

No offense, Mom.

But, for no other reason than entertainment value, I thought I’d share some of the photos from my unfortunate period here on the ol’ blog.

Who says I can’t poke fun of myself?  Enjoy.

I thought I’d ease you in.  This one isn’t so bad, really.  That is, if you’re Laura Ingalls, or otherwise homestead-inclined.  In my mom’s defense, I do believe she made that outfit.  Either her or my grams.  And no, it wasn’t Halloween.

Here’s another prize outfit.  It’s tough to tell from this photo but those are floral jeans.  Capris or just highwaters, you be the judge.

Wow.  And then there’s this.  Wrong on so many levels I don’t even know where to begin.

Clearly, I was fashion forward.  This is one of my birthday parties.  You’ll notice that my friends in attendance were dressed in subtle hues while I rocked the geometrical neon.  Totally rad.

Next up, my bff Krissy (would LOVE to know where she is nowadays) and me at a Lutheran school track meet.  You’ll notice our matching mullet-esque hairstyles (though, admittedly, hers was worse than mine).  You might also notice the overbite I’ve got going on.  It really wasn’t a medical condition, just a phase I went through, I’m guessing, based on the photos above and below.  Maybe one of my elders can weigh in here and tell me what was up with that?!

Now there’s a looker alright.  Somebody get that kid a haircut.  Oh, and a corrective dental device, please.  Sheesh.

I’m especially proud of this one.  In spite of the fact that it appears to have been taken mid-sneeze.  Or wait.  Maybe I was throwing gang signs.  West-side holmes.

I saved the best for last, obviously.  That was quite a head of hair I had there; it’s as big as my face!  Oh, and those socks.  I was all over that trend.  This was a couple of years before it became much cooler to transpose the socks on the other foot so that one was yellow-blue while the other was blue-yellow.  Oh yeah.  Fashion. powerhouse.

As I was looking through the old photos of me I noticed a common thread in many of them.  It was less about my hair and clothes, and more about a particular demeanor.  I’ll be back to share that with you tomorrow.

It’s me, Jeff–everyone’s favorite Guest Blogger!  I’m trying to rebound from my last guest spot in which I shared a questionable photo.  I’m hoping that today’s post is closer to my original magic, but I’ll leave that to you to decide.  Without further ado, here it goes:

As for Darcie, she’s still alive. I promise. She’s not being held hostage against her will. She’s hasn’t come down with a horrible case of arthritis that doesn’t allow her to even touch the computer. She’s writing, just not here. Lately, all of her creative efforts have been focused on a single source: her book (actually, her second book  – I like to boast for her.) But good news for those of you who rely on this blog to help get you through each day, she’s almost done. Really truly. Nine more week days and her second novel is history! I promise it will be worth the wait. I’ve been hanging on every word that she’s written. In fact, today at the grocery store I could have sworn that I saw one of her characters. It was only after a bit that I realized that was impossible because her characters aren’t real.  Oops. In the meantime, you are all stuck with me. And in this meantime, I’m going to take advantage of my opportunity to let you all in on a deep dark secret of mine. Listen close, because I seldom let in on my secrets.

Since I’ve learned a thing or two from Darcie writing this novel, I’m going to let the drama build and begin with some background. We love reality TV. The Amazing Race, Survivor, The Bachelor/Bachelorette, etc. This is honestly all that is stored on our DVR with the exception of some Phineas and Ferb or Jake and the Neverland Pirates. We love reality TV so much that Darcie even had a dream last night that I was a ‘Brother Husband’ with Brad Womack (of Bachelor fame). That’s ridiculous, right?! Yea, I thought so too. On the bright side, it didn’t include her additional loves – Kris Allen, John Mayer’s voice, and wine personified. OK, so rather than venture down that road…let’s get to my secret. Here it is: I have a Man-Crush. Now, I’m sure that there are many guys out there that have man-crushes…whether it is on Tom Brady (NE Patriots QB, since my audience is mostly female) or even Bear Grylls (Man Vs Wild). Mine is not on a popular object of man-crush affection. You might even call me a sissy, a weirdo, or worse. My man-crush is on Rob Mariano.

Surely you know Boston Rob. Boston Rob is truly the best player of Survivor to ever play the game. I like to think of him as me, if I had been selected for Survivor (which, by the way, I totally broadcasted my bare a$$ for in a video application and still did not get selected?!). It isn’t that I think he’s hot, although, if I were a girl, I’d probably be down with him – it is more that he embodies the things that I think are great. He’s brilliant and funny and strategic and more – he is totally an HQP. I could go on and on. In typical crush fashion, I find myself laughing too hard at his on-screen jokes, batting my eyelashes, and imagining that he and I are sharing an inside joke that no one else gets. OK, maybe not quite that far but you catch my drift. He’s great because, to me, he’s all the things that a man should be. He loves his wife and kids to pieces and is never afraid to say so, no matter how large the audience. He goes so far as to wear a shirt with Amber’s picture on it every day (on the island).  He is appropriately distant from other girls (even in the close-quarters of Survivor: Redemption Island.) And finally, he has no qualms about the fact that he is superior to his competition.  As I type this, I realize that this is probably the most endearing quality about him – and possibly a telling statement from me.

In my lifetime, I’ve met a lot of people, each of them talented and unique in their own right; however, each are lacking something. I’m not talking about intelligence, common sense, bravery, people skills, or whatever. What I’m talking about is a quality that seems to have been bred almost totally out of the average American these days…it is self awareness. I have no idea where this quality went – I feel like one day I woke up and—poof—the whole world was delusional. Rob, on the other hand, does not suffer from this failing. Boston Rob understands how others see him. He knows what they are thinking, he knows what they talk about, and he knows how they feel deep down about him.  He probably even knows about my man-crush.

Amongst our multitude of other talents (boastful?  Who, me?), Darcie and I are also self-aware.  For those of you rolling your eyes out there – don’t worry, we know how you feel about us. We know how we come off to people and realize that we smell bad to more people than we smell good to.  Honestly, we are not easy to love. We accept this because we believe that we are doing the right things in our lives and, while we might not be completely proud of our cockiness confidence, we accept it and are at peace with it. Before I ramble too much more and make this a post about my extreme modesty, suffice to say that I feel like Rob feels the same way as I do and that we could reach common ground and develop a deep friendship based on this single factor alone. In fact, when I consider future places to live, I consider wherever Rob & Amber (his wife) live to be acceptable places. Moreover, I have a dream (I’d have used the word ‘fantasy’ if it didn’t sound so gay) of being Rob’s neighbors and meeting up with him while we both mow our lawns and hand him a beer from across the yard. We would briefly talk and realize that we share a vision of the world through self-aware eyes and would introduce our wives with hopes that they would also get along and we could enjoy some male-bonding while playing it off as ‘family time.’ I’m not 100% sure how that dream ends, as that’s as far as I’ve gotten with it, but hopefully some day it comes to fruition – shoot, perhaps Rob will read this post and, rather than think I’m a creeper, he’ll think I’m cool and we can have some beers next time we are in the same locale. (psst…Rob, Call Me!) In the meantime, I’ll stick with following him on Twitter.  I also follow Jeff Probst, because he clearly shares my man-crush on Boston Rob.

So that’s my story.  I hope I kept your attention and took your mind off of missing my lovely wife for another day.  Bear with her.

It should come as no surprise to you that I run with a crowd of Disneyphiles. Which is really quite cool because there are a select few groups in which I can let my mouse card hang out without being shunned.

That said, I have a confession to make. One that it appears as though I’m willing to make quite publicly. Oops. There goes that brutally honest thing again. Here goes nothing.

The vast majority of my Facebook friends are Disney-related. Which means that there are a whole lotta birthday wishes constantly being posted to the random walls of virtual strangers.

As of late, I’ve become thoroughly annoyed by the spreading of pixie dust. Really annoyed.

Mutual friends are always sending along “extra pixie dust” as some sort of sugar coating for the standard Happy Birthday wish. Worse is when there is a tragedy and they send well-intentioned (though severely misguided) pixie dust sprinklings in some sort of attempt to comfort. Drives. Me. Nuts. I get the “spirit” with which such wishes are being sent, but the truth is that pixie dust is not a substitute for prayers. Shoot, it’s not even a real substance, people! I’m all about seeing the world through pixie dusted glasses. But I just can’t get jiggy with hiding behind fairy tales in times of true need for something deeper.

It doesn’t end with the pixie dusters, though. So, too, do I see lots of Facebookers sending “positive thoughts”. Which, of course, begs the question: how does one send positive thoughts? Air mail? Positive thoughts–clearly–are separate from prayers because otherwise people would just say I’m praying for you. So, these positive thoughts…if they’re not being transmitted through God, how do they get from point A to point B? Is it some zen-like chi thing that I’m not hip enough to get?

Apparently.

It may just be me, but here’s the thing: if ever I suffer a tragedy of insurmountable proportions, do me a favor and pray for me. If you’re not a praying person, I’m totally cool with that. I’d hope that in that case, you’d just send along a little note (or wall post as the case may be) saying that you love me. And maybe telling me to hang in there, that it will get easier. Tell me that you’d hug me and bring me a frozen casserole if the miles didn’t separate us. Any of the above would be better than haywire positive thoughts or a virtual scattering of pixie dust.

Phew. It feels so much better to get that off my chest.

I have a thing.  It’s a rather unbecoming trait, actually.

It’s not that I’m abrasive.  Or that I lack self-awareness.  Or that I’m rude.

Rather, I project.

I’m not a psychologist, so I can’t say with 100% certainty that “projecting” is an accurate description of that thing I do.  But it’s the best explanation I can come up with.  Maybe “association” would be a better

Here’s an illustration:

I know some peeps.  These peeps are {relationally} very close, though close is not a word that I would use to describe them.  They have a hobby–an obsession really.  It’s an affinity for a certain innocent third party, namely a particular NFL team.  Over a matter of years, these relationally close peeps have repeatedly done hurtful things to me and those I hold most dear.  And, on some of those occasions, the innocent third party has played a minute role.

Do you see where I’m heading with this?

No?  Okay.  Let me spell it out for you.

I. HATE. the Steelers.  Hate them.

I hate black and yellow.  I hate Rothlisburger.  Or whatever the heck his stupid name is.  I hate the terrible towel.  I hate that guy whose hair hangs out from his helmet.  I hate Pittsburgh.  I hate hate hate it.  All of it.  I even hate Heinz.  On principal.

I hate all of it so much so that, a couple of years ago, I developed an affinity for a team of my own: The Cardinals.  I chose them for obvious reasons but came to love them all the more as the season went on.  This was back when Curt Warner was still playing.  In addition to loving the team, I came to love Curt Warner because: a) he married a single mother of a child with special needs b) he’s a strong Christian and c) he led the team all the way to the Super Bowl.

If you were to peek through my house these days you’d find a Cardinals beer coozie.  And a Cardinals hat.  Just today I was tempted to buy a clearanced artificial Christmas tree with Cardinal ornaments, but I resisted because, um, while I’m a fan, I’d like to keep my fandom healthy.  Not obsessive.

This projection thing of mine?  It gets in the way of my life.  It’s one of the few things on which my friend, Heather, and I cannot see eye to eye.  Most recently, it caused my stomach to tighten and lurch every single time I had to hear about the stupid Steelers and their quest for another Lombardi trophy.

It’s unhealthy, this projection issue of mine.  So, too, is it illogical.  I admit this.  I accept it.  I desire to heal from it.  The Steelers (blech!) have done nothing to me.  In fact, they are completely innocent in all this.  But I relate them to the hurt.  I relate them to the betrayal.  I relate them to the relationally close peeps of mine who’ve alienated and shunned and denied me.  Time and time and time and time again.

And, therefore, I dislike them.  Greatly.

They say the first step to recovery is admission.

So I’m admitting.  And declaring, publicly, my desire to get over it.  To move on with my life already.

Any suggestions?

Tell me.  Do you project?  On what?  Why?

When I was little my family used to go camping every Memorial Day weekend.

We’d drive 70 miles up the coast until we reached our favorite spot of all: Plaskett Creek.  The sites there are grassy–some nestled right up against the woods.  Just across the highway is Sand Dollar beach.  Every year we’d pick up the tide table and every year I’d swear up and down that this year–this year!–I’m going to do the grunion run.

I never did.

I wanted to.  I wanted to see such a sight with my own two eyes: the iridescent fish littering the shore after midnight–setting the beach aglow.  Mirroring the starry sky.

But first there was dinner cooked over an open fire.  Uncle Monte’s ghost stories.  And S’mores.

In the end, I could never stay awake.  The grunion?  They run way past my bedtime.

The road–Highway 1–to the campground was windy and long.  It creeps along the steep coastline, where you’re but one wrong turn and flimsy guardrail away from careening off the rocky cliffs into an angry ocean hundreds of feet below.  The road winds and cuts deep into the cliff-side, each turn blinding you to what lies in wait ahead.  Until you round the bend and see that–in fact–it opens up again for a stretch.

Those cliffs have been on my mind.

Some days I feel like I’m trudging those hills–enduring those blind turns–anticipating the destination but wondering, all the same, how I’ll ever get there.

Other days I feel like I’m standing atop the highest point and I can so clearly see the entire road snaking along beneath me.  I can see the drivers faithfully navigating the path–blind to what lies ahead.  I want to shout to them: be careful.  Slow down.  You don’t know what’s up there.  I do.  I can see it from here.

There’s a middle place if life.  The time when you recognize that you’ve both been, and not been.  Seen but haven’t seen.  Know but wonder if you’ll ever, really understand.

Still trying for that grunion run.

Still swearing up and down that this–this!–will be my year.

I’m going to make it.  One of these days.