A blonde pulls up to a railroad crossing...

I just did an insanely idiotic thing. And instead of pretending it didn't happen, I’m going to blog about it. Because who among us has not been a bonehead at least once in their life?

I just dropped the kids off at school. As you come around a curve there are railroad tracks. As I approached the tracks I noticed the lights were flashing.

So I stopped. Immediately.

Why is this stupid? Well, let me share! The lights had *just* started to flash which means I had time to just go through. There was a car right behind me that expected me to keep going right on through since that is what a normal non-moron would do. She, of course, had to slam on her brakes. She didn't hit me (thank goodness!) but I can imagine after what I was about to do next she certainly wanted to. Since I stopped just short of the actual tracks (not even behind the “safety zone” for Pete’s sake!!) she was stuck under where the arms were coming down. I noticed this unfortunate fact as I watched this all happen in my rear view mirror. So, panicking, I frantically searched for the train which I knew was approaching quickly since I heard his whistle. I saw the light (about a quarter of a mile away) so I went for it.

Yes. I know. You’re not calling me anything I haven’t already called myself.

(Please remember, thank the Good Lord Almighty, that my children were not in the car to witness their mother being a complete and total ass hat.)

So, what did I do after crossing the tracks? I sped home like a coward, trying to become invisible, and turned onto my street on two wheels. I pulled into my garage, closed the door, and sat there congratulating myself on being such an enormous imbecile.

The icing on the cake? I totally know the woman whom I did this to. We’re not facebook friends so she won’t read this…however…some of you know her, as well, and will most likely hear about how I nearly killed myself and created my very own blonde joke in the process.

Why write this all down? Because I’m thoroughly embarrassed and want to own what I did and make you all feel better the next time you find yourself on this end of stupid. Human is as human does, right?

**I also want to say, in my defense, that the arms at this particular crossing are fairly new. Like, less than a year old. My brain misfired for a second. Also I was not anywhere near my phone and the radio was not on. I was simply a dork-a-saurus.

Thank You.

Welcome 2014!

Happy New Year’s Eve!

I hope 2013 was good to you and yours. But if it wasn’t, I wish you a wonderful 2014.

If you've made resolutions, I applaud you and pray you are able to stay focused and follow through with the decisions you've made. Go get ‘em!

I like to make resolutions. I think they’re healthy as long as they’re kept in perspective. Any time you make a commitment to improve yourself should be cause for celebration! I feel, however, that the word resolution can be extremely intimidating to some and should be replaced with a better word like goal, target, or ambition. It’s just my opinion, but those words seem a bit more personal than the clichéd “resolution.” Again, just my opinion.

Anyway! Let’s talk brand new year! I put together a little visual. I hope you can relate.

If you're anything like me, your year can go something like this...

A brand new, squeaky clean sheet of paper. Isn't it pretty? All pristine and lovely. No marks or smudges or anything to make it appear less than perfect. Aww…

                                                           

By March or April, my paper has some life to it. A crumple here, a smudge there. Nothing too major but, hey, it’s still early, right?

                                                                         

By June, I’m not feeling very proud of my paper. A thoughtless word, a disappointing choice, one too many trips to the Hershey Kiss bag and it starts to feel like my good intentions are slipping away. BUT!! I have made the conscious choice to keep my paper from any more harm.

Oh my. Look at October. Look what I've done to my paper!! Yikes! Is there any hope to finish out the year with my head held high??? I've really tried! Really! *sigh*

Well, here we are at December 31^st. My paper has really taken some hits. I've broken promises (to myself and others), I’m not eating the way I should, my jeans fit the same (or maybe a little tighter) than they did last December, I've said things I shouldn't have, I've judged, I've pouted, I've been jealous, I've yelled, I've let others down, I've let myself down. Gee whiz! Look at that!..

I’ve been human.

Whether we want to admit it or not, every one of us has a paper that looks like this at the end of the year. And if we’re going to be really honest, for many of us, our papers look like this at the end of the day. We don’t need a whole year to make a garbage dump of our paper.

Can I just say?....thank goodness for forgiveness!! From our Savior, from our family and friends, FOR those that we have to forgive. If there weren't forgiveness, we’d all be walking around with a torn, stained, crumpled, sopping wet sheet of paper in our pockets all day every day. Yuck!

So this year, whether you need a new sheet of paper every day or every month, strive to keep your paper as clean as you can, but if you screw up, keep trying. We’re human. That’s what we do. We screw up.

Ask for forgiveness.

Forgive someone else.

We’re all in 2014 together. Let’s make it great.

Oh, Christmas Tree

Well, the Christmas season is off to an interesting start this year! But then again, we’re us, so this is pretty much normal.

We started our day by heading off to cut down the annual “VanDyken Family Christmas Tree.” We like to get a real tree because it’s “green” (no landfill here!), it smells good, and it’s been our tradition for 10 years. So, off we go into the cold winter air with our coats, boots, hats, ..and saw. After 45 minutes of winding through acres of possible winners, we come upon a pretty little spruce tree, all happy and fluffy and ready to stand in our living room as a beacon of peace, joy, hope, and all that represents Christmas. My husband asks me repeatedly, “Is this the tree you want? Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure that you want this tree in our living room for a month?” I answer with a confident “yes!” (Yeesh. Of course. You’d think by the way he asked a hundred times that I’m the kind that changes her mind all the time, or something.)

Anyway, he starts to saw, the tree falls over…..and I see it. And I immediately realize that I have made a horrible mistake. Her undercarriage (for lack of a better word) is all dead, brown and full of leaves. I also notice that she has just shrunk about a foot and a half. I stare at her hoping that it’s just a bad angle. I take in a big breath and Matt looks at me (with the look of a husband that knew this was coming) and says, “What?”
“Nothing”, I say with a forced smile. My perfect, pretty little tree has just turned to a giant crap pile. That’s all.

So we go and wait for the tree people to shake her silly and wrap her in string. As we wait in line I look around at all the families with their *pretty* trees. Perfectly spaced branches, nice stiff needles, straight trunks. I look back at our tree and notice she has now shrunk another foot, her branches are droopy, we’ve left a trail of brown needles in our wake, and…wait…did that lady just smirk??!? Seriously. I’ll cut you. I’m not in the mood, Woman.

The man puts our 3 foot tree in the shaker and I can’t watch…nor can I look away. I feel sick. He puts her in the string machine and ties her up all tight. She looks like a splintered baseball bat. As I watch all these families take their stately, elegant trees away (one person at one end and another person at the other), Matt throws our tree under his arm, bungees it to the hitch hauler on the back of the SUV, and we drive home in silence.

     We get home and I get out of the car and give our baseball bat, I mean “tree”, a dirty look. She lied!!! She pretended to be something she wasn't! I was misled! Disgusted, I went inside to figure out how to rearrange the living room in order to hide our shame.

     Matt hauls her scrawny carcass into the house and gets her all situated in the stand. He has the audacity to smile sweetly at me and say, “There! Perfect!” I’m pretty sure I was bleeding out of my ears. You know what would have been “perfect?” Tree-topper Matt. That’s what would have been perfect. As our tree leans precariously at a 45 degree angle I am ordering my husband to hack off her bottom branches because they’re dragging on the carpet. Omigod, I hate this tree. Because he’s a decent human, he doesn't bat an eye, knowing I’m at “stage: lunatic” (we've been married a long time) and gingerly starts trimming her ridiculous branches. I can’t take it anymore. “I’ll just do it.” He gives me the trimmers and I start angrily lopping off limbs in an attempt to make her behave. I decide to take a deep breath before I completely blow an o-ring. I give Matt his trimmers back and stand back and size her up. Yep! Hate her.

     I went to the basement to get the decorations. Maybe, just maybe, if we put enough crap on her she can somehow redeem herself. I grab the lights, bring them upstairs, pull out a strand and plug them in. Nothing. I stared. I grabbed another strand and plugged those in. Nothing. “Sonofa#@$%^!!!!!!!!!!!” I grabbed my keys and went to buy more lights.

     I came back, tore the lights out of the box and stuffed them into the tree. Her stupid, floppy branches bent under the weight of the strand of lights. I was in full-fledged temper tantrum mode now, folks. Not my proudest moment. It’s around this time that Matt is getting the heck out of there. He left to go hunting. I can’t say I blamed him.

     My son had excused himself to play the Wii. Can’t say I blamed him, either. His mother was acting like an angry honey badger. My daughter, bless her, said to me, “Mommy? When I don’t like a Christmas tree, you know what I do? I pretend it isn't there.” It was then that I snapped out of my demon possession and stepped back into reality. There was no way I was going to ruin Christmas for my family because our tree was a non-conformist. I gave her a hug, went downstairs to get the rest of the ornaments, called Nathan into the living room and we threw every ornament in the house on our heinous tree. And something strange happened. I started to look at our tree differently. I still thought she was an ass but she didn't seem to be ruining Christmas anymore. I actually kind of could tolerate her. And to top her off, we even put our Christmas train around her. Sweet, stupid, droopy, floppy, kind of okay tree.
                                                                   

    Oh! But we’re not done at the VanDyken house yet! Our kids each have a little (artificial) tree that they decorate however they like for their bedrooms. This year, Anna wanted to string popcorn around hers. So we popped some, ate half of it and then I found a blunt-tipped needle and some thread and she got to work. After a few minutes I heard a scream and I came tearing into the living room. “Charlie ate my popcorn!!!!” I look over at the dog, who’s licking his chops and sniffing the carpet for more. That sounds about right. So, I get her more thread and she starts over again and ends up with a lovely little garland for her own little tree. It’s around this time that Nathan informs me that the train is running too slowly and needs new batteries. We need four “C” batteries. We have two. Of course! So we head to Walgreen’s, buy batteries and come back home. To make a long story short, I’m in Anna’s room later and notice that her little tree is on the floor…and the popcorn is missing. “Charlie!!??! Did you eat the popcorn???” He answered by making his face about 4 times longer than normal (if you own a dog, you know exactly the look I’m talking about.) I panicked a little when I realized that he not only ate the popcorn but the thread that held it together and the beads we put on each end to keep the popcorn in place. That’s great, Charlie. Just to let you know, you’re in for a rough day tomorrow, Buddy.*

                                                                           

Wishing you all a wonderful holiday season. Hopefully, my embarrassing temper tantrum was enough to remind you to “not sweat the small stuff” and to enjoy every blessing that is thrown your way.

*Disclaimer:

Charlie is a Labrador Retriever. Intestines of steel. We love this dog as if he were a person. He is a member of our family. We will make sure he’s well taken care of.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!...(if you have the right frame of mind.)

Well, school just started a few short months ago, Halloween just passed, Thanksgiving isn’t even here yet so it seems the perfect time to start talking about Christmas. I mean, why not? Right? Walgreens and Hobby Lobby have had their Christmas trees out since July. I guess, by their standards, I’m way behind!

                                                                                

                                                     

     While the commercialism and pushing it up earlier and earlier to make a profit irritates me, the general overall feeling and meaning of the holidays makes me very nostalgic. I love thinking back to when I was a little girl and my grandma would make thousands of different Christmas cookies and deliver them all over town to the people and businesses that took care of her all year; the grocer, the bank, the mailman, the salon, etc. It was something I loved to do with her and it was a tradition I always looked forward to. Her house was, and still is, a place of warmth, faith, family, and friendship. Every Christmas Eve, there would be a gathering at her house of family, friends, and neighbors. I loved it. There would be candles lit and, in addition to the big tree in the living room,  she had a small artificial tree with little lights that would sit on her buffet table in the dining room. She also had a gold candle holder that held four tiny candles and when you lit them it would make the little angels go around in a circle above the candles. They’d make a very delicate ring as their tiny golden sticks struck the little golden loops they passed. If the angels got moving fast enough, it sounded like little wind chimes. It sat at her dining room table and would watch it for what could have been hours. She had the “Mitch Miller Holiday Sing Along” album (yes, album) and I’d sit on the landing on her staircase with the album cover in my lap and listen to the songs over and over again. To this day, I still remember all of it, even when I visit during the rest of the year, like it was yesterday. Grandma’s house is still my favorite place on this Earth.

    One of the best things grandma and I used to do in the winter was cross-country ski. She bought me my first pair of skis when I was about 8. We’d go skiing through the neighborhood (she lives near the woods) and we’d go back into the woods and she’d snip pine boughs off the trees and place them over her windows when we got back. Then she’d make hot chocolate and we’d have cookies. It was our own little Currier & Ives painting.

                                                                                

     Now, with my own family, I love to tell my kids stories about my good fortune to have an amazing grandmother and tell them about all our old traditions. But honestly, I’m finding it a little challenging to come up with our own. Of course, every year, my husband and myself bundle up the kiddos and we head out to get our Christmas tree. That is definitely something we have enjoyed for the past decade. But doggone Pinterest has gone and made me feel like I should be doing a thousand other things in order to give my children fond memories of their childhood. Well, I‘m sorry but I hate clowns and that stupid Elf on the Shelf is *not* ever making its way into our home. To me it’s too clown-like. A clown cousin, if you will. I won’t have it pooping Raisinettes all over my counter nor will it be pouring sugar all over my kitchen floor or scrubbing its butt with my toothbrush.

                                                                             

                                                        Honestly. There are no words.

     We read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” on Christmas Eve and we always read the Christmas story from the Bible and watch classic Christmas movies like “Christmas Vacation,” “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown,” “It’s a Wonderful Life,” etc… so why am I being made to feel like a failure if we don’t roast chestnuts like the pioneers and hold hands around the hearth as we sing “O Tannenbaum?” I don’t have a hearth!! I’m not going to make an advent calendar by folding impossibly tiny pockets of paper with even smaller bows and put a homemade “goody” inside each pocket.

                                   

                  (Do any of these, by any chance, contain expired gray chocolate?)

 I’m not going to do this. But you know what??? I’m still a good mom. My kids will have a wonderful Christmas with memories of parents who weren't so stressed out by trying to do everything “right” that they ended up making everyone around them miserable. We’ll laugh, we’ll have fun, we’ll celebrate our Lord and Savior’s birth, we’ll eat ridiculous amounts of sugar, and we’ll gain 50 pounds. Just like a normal family. Guilt free. And I wish the same for your family.

                                                                                

                                                               

     

You know what's awkward?...the word "awkward."

Today, let’s talk about awkward stuff.

There are all kinds of awkward situations that we find ourselves in throughout each day. There’s the kind of awkward were you notice your friend’s zipper is down. There’s the kind of awkward where Dora stares at you for 5 minutes after asking you if you see the big red ball. And then there’s what we’re going to talk about today…

I was going for a walk the other day and I saw my neighbor about 50 yards away coming toward me. She  saw me, too. Now, we’re not close friends but we’re also not unfriendly so there will obviously be a friendly greeting as we pass. My question is: How far away do you have to be from each other to say “hello?” Because if you say it too soon you’ll have to take another, say, 10 steps before you have passed each other leaving a very awkward spot where you both feel the need to look away because you really have nothing more to say than “hi.” However, if you wait too long you’ll be stuck pretending you don’t see each other for 20 feet (awkward) and then saying “hi” at the last minute and then looking away again. Is there etiquette for this? At least when you’re running you have an out. You can be really focused on your awesome run and have to stare at the sidewalk so you can’t make eye contact. OR you can get away with a quick, breathless “hi!” and split-second eye contact because you need to get back to staring at the sidewalk.

Another situation I find extremely awkward is when you’re in your car and sitting next to someone you know at a red light. Do you wave? What if they don’t see you? Are you supposed to keep looking over there until they do see you? Then you’ll look like a weirdo because they’ll think “Has she been staring at me this whole time?” Do you ignore them? Then you’ll look like a jerk. What if you both saw each other, smiled and waved, and then the light drags on forever? Do you just stare straight ahead? Do you pretend to look for something in your purse? What about when the light changes? Do you wave again? What if they don’t? Then you look like an over-hyper puppy. It’s all just too much! That’s why I like sunglasses.

Happy Friday!

How to ruin a perfectly good Friday

Few things in life can ruin a girl’s day faster than an hour and a half of shopping for a bathing suit. So why I thought I’d still continue on with my Friday good mood after subjecting myself to this business is beyond my rational thought.

Now, here’s the thing. I’m not over weight. However, I’m also not built like a 12 year old boy. I am average. I have curves. I have wobbly bits. I do not wish to devote endless hours at the gym nor do I starve myself. But for some reason, every year, I expect a miracle in the dressing room. I wave my wand and hope that when I open my eyes, Kate Upton’s thighs will have magically attached themselves to my body. This spell has yet to work.

So today, here were my choices: Strings…or muumuus. Neither of these are acceptable. I’m a 38 year old mother of two. I don’t feel comfortable in the same bathing suit I wore when I was 20. That being said, I’m not exactly ready to shop at Acme Tent & Awning for beach attire, either.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, this one just jumped right in. What the heck, right? You've got to start somewhere! I grabbed a few bottoms, a few tops and headed for the dressing room. (Yes, two pieces. I like to have a tan tummy.)

Let me just start by saying that trying on bathing suits with your underpants on is h-o-t. I understand it’s necessary because you just don’t know where people have been but I didn't plan ahead and wore a pair that, once stuffed inside a bathing suit, reminded me of a big bag of popcorn. It wasn't my best look. But I powered through and tried to envision what I would look like basking in the Florida sun sans bunchy underpants. I turned this way. And that way. And then made the poor decision of bending over to pretend I was getting something out of my beach bag. OH MY WORD!!! *Note to self: Don’t ever do that again! 

I guess I’ll just hold everything way up high.

Enough of this nonsense. Let’s try on tops instead.

Now, I would like to know who has decided that my breasts should be way up by my neck. I don’t want them there. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s unnatural. I mean, my husband knows that’s not where they go so am I really expected to walk out onto the beach wearing "the girls" 6 inches higher than where they normally are and try to keep a straight face? Please! No one’s going to buy that….especially, not after I bend over to get something out of my beach bag. We can all agree that my body is a firm believer in gravity. And I'm okay with that.

Something else that got my attention like an air horn is the fact that in mid-February my skin is whiter than my front yard. Except for the red dry patches! It would seem my melanin went to Florida without me. A girlfriend once said, “Tan fat looks so much better than white fat.” She speaks the truth. I also have the added benefit of my hair bleaching out in the sun to the point of being able to signal planes. The combination of bright white hair and brown skin makes me resemble a photo negative. The strangeness of this effect should most certainly take away from any jiggly body parts that may try to destroy any self-confidence that I have left after today's shopping experience.

In the end, I did decide on an acceptable bathing suit bottom. I do, however, have to go out and repeat the process to find a suitable top half. Hopefully, I can find something that neither makes me look like I've had surgery nor makes it obvious that I've nursed two children.

We’ll see. Wish me luck…

How Barbie Stole Christmas

Is anyone else nursing wounds from Christmas?

No, I’m not talking about emotional wounds from passive-aggressive relatives. I’m talking about actual physical wounds from opening your kids’ toys on Christmas morning.

I look like I tried to give myself a manicure with the hand mixer. I have three broken nails and four cardboard cuts (way worse than paper cuts) from trying to pry Barbie from her box. Those of you with girls know exactly what I’m talking about.

                                                          

Doesn't Barbie look pretty all dressed in her little clothes with her tiny dog, microscopic shoes, and impossibly small hair brush? Let’s open it up and start the fun! I find the scissors and get down to business while Anna looks on in wide-eyed anticipation bouncing on the sofa next to me. Did you ever try to use a pair of scissors while a child (all hopped up on Christmas) is using the couch as a trampoline? I don’t recommend it.

So I make the first cut to open the top of the box. I’m in! I pull the front and back of the package apart. Success! Now I realize that Barbie is attached to the back of the package. Fair enough. You don’t want anyone to be able to break into a package that easily in a store. I get it. On closer inspection, I find that she’s not attached to the back of the box. The box is attached to the back of the box! Okay. So I pull. Then I pull harder. What the $%^??? I look between the layers and see that they’re attached with those little plastic things (for lack of a better term) that secure price tags to clothes…only these are insanely tiny and freakishly strong! I give a good yank popping the outer back off of the inner back and giving myself my first cardboard cut of the day.

I’m exhausted, injured, pissed, and not even halfway through the task.

Anna’s still bouncing.

I look over and poor Matt is having the same experience only he’s trying to extricate a delicate-looking helicopter from its maximum security prison of a box.

Barbie is still securely fastened to the inner part of the back of her box so I give a slight pull to see just what booby traps have been set for me in this phase of “Are You Smarter than a Barbie Package.” Rope? Do I see tiny rope??? Rope that is somehow woven through the cardboard and not only twisty tied through an intricate web of plastic but also secured with packaging tape over the twisty tie to the underside of the box? I sigh and roll my eyes. I didn't pay $10.99 to endure this kind of frustration on Christmas morning. This is a doll, right? Do the people that work at the Barbie factory have some kind of contest to see how many aneurysms they can trigger?

Well, this mom isn't going to play their little game! I decide to bypass this ridiculousness and go right for the throat. Literally. This tiny rope is wound around Barbie’s neck and through the box so I (very carefully) try to wiggle the tips of my scissors into the small space in between. I. Am. Victorious! She’s free! I've won! I've…wait. What?!?

She’s not free. Her hands and feet (and brush and dog and shoes) are bound with what looks like a teeny tiny hair elastic…and it’s clear!!! OH FOR THE LOVE!!!!!!!

I grab Barbie by the waist and yank and I hear a sickening pop as elastic bands are violently broken and fly, with abandon, all over the living room carpet.

I have managed to rip everything free from Barbie bondage except her head? How, in the name of everything that is good and holy, is her freakin’ head still attached to this hateful demon of a box? And I also notice that I’m bleeding again.

Upon further inspection, I see what the problem is. Two plastic things (remember those from earlier?) are slipped through her head and attached to the other side of the #$%^…I mean box. Now, we wouldn't want to muss Barbie’s coif. So, again with the scissors (Anna’s still bouncing) I make teensie weensie snips to release her from this nightmare. HOW IS SHE STILL SMILING????? Because I’m certainly not!

Barbie has officially been freed but now is sporting two plastic protrusions from the back of her head. Cutting them is out of the question. I could cut hair. I’d never hear the end of it. So I pull. They don’t budge. Then I push. Hey! It worked!! They’re pushed safely into Barbie’s skull without anyone being the wiser. Barbie is still smiling so I’m assuming it doesn't bother her, either.

I smile a self-satisfied smile. I have won. Then I realize that Anna isn't bouncing anymore. She’s not even on the sofa anymore. She’s on the floor playing with her crayons and coloring books. You know, the toys that took absolutely no effort to open. Bless her.

But not to worry! Barbie has had her fair share of playtime so my severed finger and bandage wrapped thumb can happily look the other way.

In the grand scheme of things, we had a wonderful month celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ, we ate a ridiculous amount of fabulous food, we spent time with family and friends, and we can head into the new year with full hearts and gratitude for all the blessings that 2012 brought us. And after all, isn't that what it’s all about?