I've packed my bags and moved...

to www.iwantasquarepiece.com.
Enjoy!

Holy XOXO's,
Suzy**

Liners vs. squatters.

This past weekend I had the pleasure of spending the day in Martinsburg, WV.  My grandmother had just had a medical scare and it was about time that I visited them.  I never, however, make a trip to Martinsburg without giving my friend, Katie, a call.

Katie and I met and became BFF’s when I was nine years old.  Through every grade, every relationship, every journey – she is the friend in whom I confided every step of the way.  Katie knows every single member of my family as if they are her family.  She and I have rotated hundreds of articles of clothing through each other’s closets; and she and I have exchanged hundreds of encouraging Bible verses through each other’s lives.  Thanks to regular sleepovers, together we are probably guilty of a minimum of 261 of her mother’s sleepless nights.  Katie was the one who taught me what the word ‘cleavage’ meant, nailed me in the eye with a baseball and danced with me on her coffee table to the song “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles)” at the end of “Benny and Joon.”

Imagine my surprise on Sunday when Katie – who knows me best - made a false assumption about me! 

My grandparents, Brian and I arrived at Katie’s house and helped her bring in her groceries.  One item was toilet paper.

Katie, “Chris is going to kill me for getting the generic brand.”

Me, “Can you get rid of the packaging?  Maybe he won’t know.”

Katie, “Oh, he’ll know.”

Ma (that’s Grandma), “Is it two ply?  If it’s two ply, I don’t think it’ll make a difference.”

And then we discussed our toilet paper preferences.  Mind you, I haven’t seen Katie in months and we had plenty to catch up on; but this is how we roll.

Me, “I was just at a class in NY and had to evaluate it.  At the end of the evaluation I just had to mention how thin their toilet paper was.  ‘You do realize that while you think you’re saving money with this cheap toilet paper, I’m just going to use four times as much, right?’”

Katie, “I think the worst is when a public restroom has the toilet paper so low that it’s hard to reach because it’s lower than the seat.”

Me, “I think it’s the worst when you see that they’ve had toilet seat liners, but have never refilled them.  Like, are you trying to impress me that you used to care?”

(I would like to emphasize here that next year we will have been friends for 20 years.)

Katie, “Really?  You use liners?  I pictured you as a squatter.”

You… pictured me… as a squatter?  Me?  A toilet seat lining fanatic be a squatter?  How could our friendship have missed this?  And what exactly fits the profile of a squatter anyhow?  Let this be a lesson, men, that women are so mysterious and so complex that it really does take a lifetime to figure out even just one of us.

*You can now enjoy more Square Piece at www.IWantASquarePiece.com*

I want a square piece!

A while back Brian and I visited the fam.  Much to my pleasure, when we arrived my mom announced that she had found an old home video.   If you don’t know, I have a frustrating and terrible memory.  When it comes to my childhood, it’s like a giant, black shadow has descended and permanently veiled most of the details.  Scrapbooks, albums, videos – I cherish them all and hold my breath in anticipation with every viewing.  Most people my age can think back and remember the toys that they used to play with, some of the teachers that they had, some of the clothes that they wore, their friends, their pets… I’ve got nothing. 

A video?!  How exciting!  I wonder what I was like at five years old!

Well, this video captured a family gathering, a celebration.  Friends and relatives had come over and were milling around, chit chatting.  My dad was in the background, quite animated, telling a football story (this was common at our house and I do believe I picked up on his storytelling enthusiasm).  Someone decided that it was time to cut the cake and I was hovering to be the first in line.  With my nose directly at the edge of table and my eyes fixed on the dessert, I declared, “I want a squuuuuaaaare piece.”  Someone must have motioned to accommodate me.  I persisted, “Not that one.”

Brian’s eyes darted at me in widened wonder and fascination (and perhaps a smidge bit of horror).  I knew exactly what he was thinking (because my eyes did the same thing).

My husband, “You have not changed at all!”

It’s true.  I want a square piece, darn it.  I want it because it’s the best one. 

I don’t remember that day, but I can take a guess at my reasoning.  I’ll betcha I figured that since the cake was round, the square pieces on the inside would be larger than the pieces cut from the outer rim.  (And what kid doesn’t want the biggest piece?)  Additionally, the inside pieces have less icing.  In my opinion, that is the best piece of cake.

Since that day, Brian has called me Square Piece and teased me mercilessly.  He, of all people, is most entitled to poke fun at me being that he, of all people, has vowed to love and put up with the square piece in me, till death do we part.

Me, “Brian?  Could I some water… with a straw… no ice… in the football shaped glass?”

Brian, imitating a five year old’s whine, “Sure.  Do you want a square piece?”

But here’s my justification: the square piece isn’t any harder to accommodate than the regular piece.  Consider the number of steps in the average glass of water: 1) get the glass, 2) grab some ice, 3) fill the glass.  Now consider the square piece way: 1) get the football glass, 2) fill the glass, 3) grab a straw.  You see!  Being a square piece doesn’t make you unreasonable and demanding!  It just makes you specific.  Which is what my bumper sticker says: I’m not picky; I’m just specific.  (One of these days I’ll actually take it out of the kitchen drawer and put it on my bumper so that everyone can judge me with enlightened awareness.)

In my humble opinion, wanting a square piece has benefitted me in that it’s enabled me to hone in on the specifics in life.  The treasure here is that with the square piece personality comes the finer enjoyment of telling stories.  Stories are boring without specifics, first of all.  Second of all, there’d be a lot less to tell.  For instance, if I wasn’t such a square piece nerd in trying to determine what is the best way to make a mojito, we never would have had The Mint Incident.  (You should know that the world would be a sad, dull place without The Mint Incident.)  And if I didn’t want a square piece, if I was forever indifferent, I might miss the amusing irony that life has to offer.  If you’ve read The Thankful GamePart 1-3, I hope you know by now that this personality doesn’t make me HIGH maintenance.  On the contrary, it just makes me specific maintenance.

Do you want a square piece?

*You can now enjoy more Square Piece at www.IWantASquarePiece.com*

The Settlers of Catan incident.

Yesterday morning I awoke still a 28 year old woman.  Last night I went to bed as a three year old.  (The only plus side to this was that it was an odd number; but I was too indignant to notice.)

Before going to bed last night, Brian and I decided to play a quick game of Settlers of Catan.  If you don’t know how to play this game, I’m convinced that this story will nonetheless make sense because it's not about the objective of the game; it's about hating to lose.  You should know that Brian almost always beats me at this game.  The board was set up; he selected and placed his blue pieces and I selected and placed my red pieces.

Paying attention is quite critical for Settlers of Catan.  If you don’t keep a careful eye on the board, you might miss an opportunity to advance yourself by collecting resources.  And such was the case for Brian.  He rolled the dice and got a 3.  Brian had two 3’s from which he was benefitting; but he wasn’t paying attention and during that turn only collected resources from one 3.  (He claims that it’s hard to pay attention because I take “SoOoOoOo long” that he gets bored and loses focus.  Well, I just call that excellent strategy.)

After he finished his turn, I rolled the dice and set my turn in motion.  Once having done that, however, I noticed that he had missed a 3 and pointed it out.  I thought that it was fair to go ahead and allow him to benefit by giving him the resource; but he’d have to wait until his next turn to use it.  Brian disagreed and was adamant that I should back peddle my turn and allow him to finish his as if he had noticed them both.

Me, “No!  I’ve already set things in motion!  This will teach you to pay more attention!”

Brian, “I would totally do that for you!  I don’t understand why you wouldn’t treat me the way that I treat you.”

Me, “Because it’s a game.  And this is how you play a game.”

Brian, “I can’t believe you won’t let me finish my turn.  I’m so mad.  …I don’t even want to play anymore.”

Me, “What?!  I never quit when you’re beating me.  The ONE time that I’m beating you…  You’re acting like an _______ (you can fill in the blank)…”

Brian, “You’re right.  I’m sorry.  Will you forgive me?”

Me, “Yeah.”

We both were about as charming as two cookie-face-smeared, belligerent toddlers butting heads and locking horns.  We finished the game in near silence.  I won.

Brian, “You know that one turn would have changed everything.  You shouldn’t have won.”

I have few words to express just how that statement gets under my skin.

Me, “I  ‘Shouldn’t.  Have.  Won’?!  I was nice enough to let you have the resource!  Isn’t that enough?”

Brian, “If you weren’t going to give me my turn you shouldn’t have even pointed the 3 out.  It just made me mad.  I just don’t understand why you don’t treat me the way I would treat you.  It's not fair.”

Me, “Because it’s a GAME!  And life's not fair.  You said you were sorry!  You’re not sorry!  You’re acting just the same!”

Brian, “What about grace?  What about mercy?”

Me, “This is NOT the Holy Bible!  This is Settlers of Catan.  This is not God’s redemptive plan of salvation!  This is Settlers of Catan.  …And I hope all this anger keeps you warm tonight.”

Brian, “You’re not coming to bed?”

Me, “NOPE.”  I scooped up my 47lb. basset hound and hauled her to the guest bed.  (The dogs know that that is the one bed on which we can all sleep and snuggle together on occasion.)

“Do not let the sun go down in your anger”?  Well… technically the sun was already down.  But when it rose this morning all had been forgiven and forgotten; and all four of us - both dogs, both humans - woke up on the guest bed. 

Brian has approved this post and just sweetly handed me my morning cup of coffee.  Phew.  That was a close one.

*You can now enjoy more Square Piece at www.IWantASquarePiece.com

Becoming a grown up.

Today marks the beginning of a new era for me.  No.  More.  Overtime.

Last week I was able to bounce my frustrations off of my chipped mug friend, Sherri.

Me, “I just can’t say ‘no’ to something if I don’t have a good excuse.  I’ll feel guilty if I don’t have an excuse.  I need something outside of me to blame so that I don’t feel like I’m personally disappointing someone.  I hate disappointing people.  Do you have any advice on the matter?”  Then I plopped another piece of sushi in my mouth. 

No, she did not have advice on the matter.  Apparently we have similar strengths and weaknesses; and this people-satisfying, self-suffocating tendency runs in both of our veins.  However her listening ear sufficed because I was able to hear myself say things like, “When will I be able to make a grown up decision just because it’s a good decision?  Why do I always have to wait until I'm backed into a decision and I snap?”

Did I mention that I have a wonderful boss?

After praying about my decision, mentally rehearsing our conversation and then getting jitters all over again, last week I finally explained to my boss my need to pull back my hours from the insane craziness to the regular craziness.  Do you know that she was so understanding?  In addition to that, do you know that my clients have been so understanding?  (I have wonderful clients… even the wobbily bobbily ones.)

Today is the first Tuesday in probably four or five months that I worked a normal eight hours instead of 11 or 12.  So what did I do with my free evening?  Well, this time I visited Sherri and sat on the listening end of her life.  I didn’t have much advice.  Sometimes it helps to just hear yourself talk.

The Chinny Chin Chin.

Having a bad day?  Have I got a cure for you!  I call it “Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.” 

Have a seat.  Now let my basset hound rest her chin on you.  *Poof.*  All your troubles are gone.

At least, that’s how I feel in the morning, in the evening and pretty much all the time.

Politicians having trouble getting along?  Solution: Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.

Feeling insecure?  Solution: Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.

Car won’t start?  Solution: Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin.

If only we could drop Chinny Chin Chin bombs all over the place.  I imagine that if we could, human beings would float around with dopey smiles on their faces all the time.  We’d probably never exercise enough and we’d be late everywhere we go.  Because, you see, once Esther’s chin is resting on you, you’re now on Esther time.  Under no circumstances will you want to get up to cook dinner, drive to the store or even wiggle your big toe.  No, no.  You stay because the CHIN stays.  And when the chin leaves, then you may also leave.  You have to savor the Chinny Chin Chin moment for all its worth because sweet, complicated Esther is not generous with her chin.  Quite the contrary.  The Chinny Chin Chin plays hard to get, making it all the more satisfying once you’ve got it.

It’s such a soft, little chin.  If I could put a price on sharing Esther’s Chinny Chin Chin, I’d probably charge $317 an hour.  (However, if you’re a Square Peace follower, I might cut you a deal.)  That’s a pretty small price to pay for total peace. 

Suzanna Luzy Silly Louise Testicles-Spears.

What’s in a name?

When I was born my parents named me Suzanna Louise Testa.  As a young child being raised in West Virginia, I was insecure that perhaps Suzanna Louise sounded a wee bit hillbilly.  In my mind I pictured a woman with rollers in her hair and an apron on her body screaming from a mountain top, “Suzanna Louise!  Dinner is ready!”

So when I was in middle school I decided to change my name to Lily.  It’s not that random.  Suzanna means lily.  My mom wasn’t really on board, but I campaigned hard at school.  I spent about a month correcting my teachers and peers.  “Hey, Suzy…”  “It’s Lily.”  Just as it was becoming second nature for them to call me Lily, I had an exasperating change of heart and switched back to Suzy.  “Hey, Lily…”  “It’s Suzy.”  This prompted a short period of deserved teasing where both of the names were lumped together and I was called either Luzy or Silly. 

These were the same years that I also realized that the hillbilly ring was the least of my worries.  First of all, my initials – S.L.T. – sounded out the word slut.  That fact was minor compared to the more obvious connection between my last name and all the things that we were learning in health class.  Between the ages of 11-18, for all intensive purposes my name Suzy Testa might as well have been Suzy Testicles.  I dreamed of the day when I’d get married and could take on my husband’s less embarrassing last name.  Except, as one of my clients lovingly pointed out to me this week, I “didn’t win that lottery.”

Okay, so now my last name is Spears.  And for the longest time I thought I was out of the woods and in the clear.  Sure, it easily relates back to Britney.  But I’ll take that over male genitalia, right?  Except I hadn’t foreseen one little snafu. 

This past Thursday I mentioned my blog to my personal trainer.  I was referencing my posting Restoring dignity at the gym because – once again! – I found myself in a position where I had to tuck my pant legs into my socks.  (So elegant.)  My friend is building a website for me so that I can get out from under Google and run my own page. 

CJ, “What are you going to call it… suzannaspears.com?”

Me, laughing, “NO.”

CJ, chuckling, “It has a nice ring to it.”

Now, I knew why I was laughing.  I was laughing because of course I’d reference Square Piece in the address.  But I didn’t know why he was laughing.  And then it hit me.  You see, six years ago I joined my current salon and my coworkers googled me, the new girl.  That's when I found out...

Me, “Are you laughing because Susana Spears is a porn star?”

Big smile, still chuckling, CJ says, “Yeah.”

Me, “I’ve just lost a little respect for you.”

CJ, “No!  It’s just… I’ve heard that she’s a porn star.”

Me, “Oh, you’ve HEARD?” 

*sigh*

Right.  Because that’s how men know about porn stars.  They hear about them.  This is just great.

The Thankful Game, Part 3.

I’m thankful for the use of all my fingers.

And I’m thankful for soap.

And I’m thankful for mosquito repellant.

And I’m thankful for the instant relief you feel after a sneeze.

And I’m thankful for dairy products.

And I’m thankful for the ability to hop on a plane and travel a great distance.

And I’m thankful for Dan Smith.

And I’m thankful for the color green.

And I’m thankful for umbrellas.

And I’m thankful for the times when Brian rubs my feet.

And I’m thankful for Christmas trees.  (Oh, how I’m thankful for that!)

And I’m thankful for parties with themes.

And I’m thankful for silence.

And I’m thankful for the violin.

And I’m thankful for my cosmetology license.

And I’m thankful for deep breaths.

And I’m thankful for what fun it is to put your ear to someone’s stomach and hear all the gurgling.

And I’m thankful for Photoside Café, both the music and the people.

And I’m thankful for denim.  Very!

And I’m thankful for the variety of ways there are to make eggs.

And I’m thankful for coffee.

And I’m thankful for pillows.

And I’m thankful for Ezekiel 16.

And I’m thankful for dry heat.

And I’m thankful for inspiration and interpretation.

The Thankful Game, Part 2.

In the summer of ’97, I took my first solo mission trip.  But when you’re 13 years old and being raised by a single mom, you don’t just go on a mission trip.  First, you have to raise support to afford the mission trip.  You’ve got two options: ask people for money or earn it.  We couldn’t afford to do without either; so we drafted a support letter and sent it to anyone and everyone that we knew.  (This concept of asking people for money has always been a little uncomfortable for me.  Have you ever had to do it?  It just makes my stomach twist and turn.)  The more appealing option was to earn my support.  I’d babysit, clean and take on any odd job put in my path.  Not only were we trying to afford the trip here, but we had all my supplies to consider, too.  The last of the support barely made it in the nick of time, which was a very nerve wracking and faith building experience.

The organization that I went with was clever in that they always had about two weeks of boot camp training to survive before skipping overseas.  In these two weeks on Merritt Island, there were construction courses to take, camping skills to learn and a daily obstacle course to conquer.  The boot camp was designed to develop survival skills that would cater to the needs of the team with the most primitive destination.  Our destination was Ireland, but we were trained to survive in the Amazon.  This place was NO. JOKE.  By 6:00am every morning, they had me scaling walls, jumping through tires and swinging from ropes.  For two weeks I was covered in a layer of sweat, a layer of dust and a layer of swamp.  What I wouldn’t have given for a shower!  Instead, we pumped water (which smelled of sulphur) into our buckets and gave ourselves bucket baths (all the while swatting mosquitoes and avoiding lizards).  The bucket was essential that summer; not only was it my portable bath tub, it was my personal washing machine as well.

The concept of team building was brilliant; because once we got to our destination, we had bonded into a strong unit and were a much more effective force.  America, you’re welcome.  We were the most well behaved, respectful gaggle of teens who has ever represented you.  While we were working at two youth camp facilities, we weren’t the ones actually running the youth camps.  We were the teens in the background fulfilling construction duties and improving the grounds.  And so, one day I was handed a shovel and directed to move a pile of dirt about five feet to the left.  Five.  Feet.

Hold it, I thought.  You mean to tell me that I did all of this asking for money, all of this babysitting, all of  this house cleaning, all of this bucket bathing, all of this rope swinging, Atlantic crossing, tent residing… just so that I could move a pile of dirt in Ireland five feet to the left?  My pride was suffocating me and I’m pretty sure my brain lost a little oxygen that day.  And so like a good, Christian, 13 year old girl, I spiraled into a pitiful, woe-is-me tizzy.  With every shovel full of dirt that I moved, I declared exactly one thing in the world that I hated.

Scoop.

And I hate these purple hard hats.

Scoop.

And I hate these awful construction boots.

Scoop.

And I hate sweat.

Scoop.

And I hate spiders that jump.

Scoop.

And I hate…

Except the problem with my pitiful game was that I actually don’t hate that many things.  These shenanigans couldn’t have lasted more than a half hour before I ran out of juice.  I noticed my mood progressively worsening and decided that this attitude was going to make for a very long day.  With a big sigh and a quiet, “I’m sorry, Lord,” I turned my pity party around.  This time with every shovel full of dirt, I stated one thing for which I was thankful.

Scoop.

And I’m thankful for pretty postage stamps.

Scoop.

And I’m thankful for tweezers.

Scoop.

And I’m thankful for my family.

Scoop.

And I’m thankful…

Do you know that not only for the rest of the day, but for the rest of the summer, I never ran out of things for which I was thankful?  The Thankful Game was contagious.  Our team played it back and forth with each other for weeks during our projects.  Then it spread into the lives of my friends and my family once I got back home.  I’ve been playing The Thankful Game for 14 years now.  It’s great on a road trip and it’s great on a hard day.  It is with tears of wonder and tears of joy that I can admit that I have never run out of things to be thankful for.

(Okay,I know ending a sentence with a preposition is frowned upon, but - darn it! - that’s how I’d say it, so that’s how I’m leaving it!)

The Thankful Game, Part 1.

Peer.  Technically I know how to define that.  In actuality though, I have a hard time telling who the peers should be in my life.  The problem is that I think everyone is just like me, and that they think just like me.  From their age to their taste in music to their income… doesn’t matter!  I assume every client in my chair from the 21 year old to the 65 year old is my peer.  The credit belongs to my mom.  She raised us in such a way that though we had much less, we believed that the lifestyle we had was pretty regular.

What would you think if I told you that I grew up in a trailer park?  (“Trailer trash.”  I despise the term.  Use that term in my presence and good luck getting me to tune in for the next 20 seconds.  Not possible.  I’m too busy trying to swallow spit and loathing.)  What would you think if I told you that when we moved out of the trailer park, we moved into an apartment complex where drug busts happened next door and guns were shot in the laundry room? 

The amazing thing about my mother is that she never let on.  She never let on that we had anything less than anyone else.  I didn’t know what ‘subsidized housing’ meant.  I remember loving being on the third floor of that apartment.  Looking down from the window made me feel like a princess in a castle’s tower, for one.  And for two, I was so impressed with my little legs once I got the hang of racing up the steps two at a time (that’s the staircase equivalent to taking off your training wheels!). 

I supposed everyone used food stamps and coupons.  (That’s just good sense, right?)  It wasn’t uncommon to be donated food here and there.  And all the bags of second hand clothing that were handed to us by church members?  Shoot!  How could I possibly think we had less when I was diving through a jumbo sized trash bag of clothes?

I’ll spare you too many details.  Suffice it to say, my mom not only raised three of us on her own, but she did it with excellence.  She didn’t shelter us in order to keep the bad out.  How could she?  We were right smack dab in the middle of ‘the bad’!  No, she sheltered us in a way that even when pain and poverty were looming, our sights were set on greater riches (not the kind that come with dollars).

What’s so impressive to me is that she never believed that having less excused us from extending ourselves to others in any way that we could.  On one Easter Sunday I perceived that one of our neighbor kids might not have an Easter basket.  I collected and gathered from my own stash and quietly left my Easter basket at his door.  (This was at a time in my life when nobody had explained people’s aversion to unpackaged candy.  I don’t know if my mom noticed the loose jelly beans rolling around the basket.  If she did, it wasn’t worth mentioning… not when I was busy learning what is was to practice thinking more of others and less of myself.) 

Not only did Momma frequently chime, “Suzanna, stop feeling sorry for yourself.  You have a lot to be thankful for,” she made sure that we knew just how rich we were.  We worked odd jobs – babysitting, house cleaning, etc – so that we could raise enough money to participate in volunteer mission work overseas. 

Boy, that will make you feel rich.  Try feeling sorry for yourself when you’re working at a youth camp or at an orphanage or in the middle of the Amazon rainforest. 

No, seriously.  Try it.  I did.  It didn’t work.  Feeling sorry for myself backfired and I ended up with a little something that I like to call “The Thankful Game.”  (And don’t forget that I love to win.)

To be continued…

A three-way mirror and a pep talk.

Last night I finally scheduled a hair appointment with myself.  It’s not easy to get myself on my book!  Don’t misunderstand.  It’s not that I don’t believe that my coworkers are gifted and talented.  They are.  In fact, they’re so gifted and talented that I know they deserve a break.  Therefore, rather than asking them to stay a few more hours to work on my hair, I usually just do it myself. 

And how?  Consider how you know your way home.  The streets and turns are so routine that if there were no traffic, your hands would steer you home, even if your eyes were closed.  Sometimes it’s so second-nature that once you arrive home, you don’t even remember how you got there!  And so it is with my hands.  My hands know the feeling of a hair process so well, that even when my arms are lifted up over my head and I’m maneuvering with a three-way mirror, my fingers still execute the proper techniques out of sheer muscle memory.

Not so with the lip wax.  That’s another story all together.  The ease and timing with which I work on my clients suddenly becomes very tense and awkward when directed toward myself.  Yeah, I can wax my own lip.  It takes a little longer though, what with the disconnect between my brain and my hands. 

There I am with muslin stuck over each side of my upper lip.

Okay.  Pull them off in 3.  One, two, three…

Nothing.

Okay.  Exhale.  Then pull them off in three.  One, two, three…

Nothing.

Okay…

There’s tons of pep talk involved.  It’s ridiculous.  I’m not sure whether it’s the fact that I’m stubborn, the fact that I’m brave or the fact that I’m vain that ultimately overrides the anxiety of what’s to come.  Perhaps it’s a cocktail of the three.  Either way, my lip is smooth again.

Lip waxing, by the way, always needs to be done on a night when I know I’m going straight home.  Because when I’m done, my fair, half Irish skin leaves me looking like I’ve got a third lip.  And that’s only a vision that Brian should behold.  He’s a lucky guy.

I can hear her now.

Have you ever spoken only to realize that you sound just like your mother?  Or maybe your father?  Brian has confirmed that I take after my mother on several occasions.  “All right, Donna,” he’ll chuckle at me.  I’ve especially adopted an exact phrase from Momma that got impressed on me throughout my childhood.  Let’s see if you can guess what it is.

Me, “People are saying that I should go to college.  I don’t know if I should; or if I did, could we afford it?”

Her, “Did you pray about it?”

Me, “Should I take French or Spanish?”

Her, “Did you pray about it?”

Me, “Have you seen my red shoes?  I can’t find them.”

Her, “Did you pray about it?”

I think I could ask her if it’s possible for me to swim to Antarctica and she’d question whether or not I’ve prayed about it.  While there were times that I believed she was just getting me out of her hair, her intentions were for me to get in the habit of approaching my heavenly Father for day to day decisions, to cultivate an intimate and trusting relationship with Him.  (This might seem far out to you, but I didn’t have a very invested or available earthly father growing up.)  She wanted me to be sure that the God who created me loved me very much and that nothing was too big or too small to set before Him.  And I didn’t have much of a problem going to Him for the big stuff.  It was the little stuff that I always wanted to fix myself.

For instance, my senior year of high school I took a job at a little restaurant called Pizza Oven.  I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I burned myself there EVERY.  SINGLE.  DAY.  One day it was the grill.  The next it was the oven.  Then it was hot grease.  Then it was hot plates.  Sometimes the burns were severe and often they were minor.  But they were always assured to happen one way or another.  This infuriated me.  Did I pray about it?  Of course not.  Why pray about something when clearly you just need to me more careful?  Or so I thought.  No matter how careful I was, I simply could not avoid certain burning.

So finally, at my wits end, having lost all hope in my own control over the matter, I prayed.  I begged that God would help me to be as careful as I needed to be.  I begged that He’d keep me from burning myself.  And, like any frazzled person who’s desperate, I bargained and negotiated (not that I necessarily needed to), “I promise that if You keep me from burning myself, I will talk about You every day.”

Do you know that I never burned myself again? 

Sometimes I wasn’t even careful.  Sometimes my arm would still bump the oven or hot grease would crackle, pop and land on my skin.  Didn’t matter.  The oven didn’t burn me and the grease rolled right off.  I kicked myself for not having thought to pray sooner!  I could have avoided a lot of trips to the first aid box!  And yes, I did keep up my end of the bargain, too…  Quite gratefully, in fact.

Yesterday marked the ELEVENTH day that I was without my car keys.  I was using a spare; but the spare didn’t also have my gym pass and salon key on it.  I heard my mom’s voice in my head, “Did you pray about it?”  So I prayed.

I found the keys exactly 30 seconds later.

Restoring dignity at the gym.

It was only a matter of time before the square piece in me came out at the gym.

I think I’m training my personal trainer.

You see, I don't believe that most men understand women’s clothing choices at the gym.  Maybe it’s just me, but we avoid certain types of clothing depending on the activities in which we plan to participate.  This careful avoidance of certain articles helps us to maintain our dignity in a place where we look worse and smell worse than we'd ever care to admit.  So, for instance, consider a regular T-shirt.  We all know that scrubby T’s are welcome wear at the gym.  I would, however, avoid wearing one if I knew I’d be standing on my head that day.  Because if I wore T-shirt and stood on my head, my shirt would come up to my chest and my belly would be exposed.  That's a no-no.  Another example: loose sweat shorts.  Fine.  No big deal wearing those to the gym when you’re a woman.  Unless, that is, you plan on sitting on the weight machines instead of running on the treadmill.  We all know that once you’re sitting in those baggy shorts, anyone can see straight up to your britches.

Well, last Monday I wore snug, cropped exercise pants.  They’re tight all the way to just below the knee, where they stop.  My personal trainer, CJ, had me doing these seated leg presses.  My back was straight, I was seated.  The objective is to scrunch your knees to your chest and then to extend your legs, pushing the weight that’s under your heels away from you.

Like this:

Fine.

On Thursday, however, I was wearing loose exercise pants to my ankles.  Considering the variety of machines I used on Monday, I assumed this was safe.  I was wrong.  CJ situated me in pretty much the exact same machine that had the exact same purpose, except this one had me laying on my back with my legs extended straight up in the air. 

Like this:

You know what this means.  Of course.  My pants wanted to slouch to my knees.

Men, can I just ‘splain something to you?  (That’s explain, if you’ve never watched 'I Love Lucy.')  It is about 89% fact that if you see a woman wearing pants, not shorts, but pants at the gym, her legs are not shaved.

So there I was attempting, after every other leg press, to get my pants back to my ankles.  (The 80’s peg –leg fold didn’t work.)  Finally I surrendered my dignity for the day and just tucked my pants into my socks.  Under no circumstances did this look respectable, I assure you.  I explained to CJ, “On Monday, I was wearing short, tight pants.  They would’ve been great for this machine.  But these roll to my knees.  Pay attention.  Next time I wear these pants, we’re doing the other machine.”  And then, to enhance his morning with extra wisdom, I explained the whole shaved legs thing.

CJ, “But it’s just me.”

Me, “Yeah.  Well, it’s just ME.”

So today he took note of which pants I was wearing and selected my equipment accordingly.  I feel a little sorry for him having to manage me.

Little sibs in the 'hood.

This evening I am entertained by the sounds of my loved ones playing Settlers of Catan.  Brian, Donovan (bro, 14 yrs.) and Olivia (sis, 12 yrs.) are all camped out in a circle on the living room floor.  Dinner is served.  Dogs have circled.

For the first time since I’ve started Square Piece, my siblings have finally gotten to hear some of the stories.  They’re so lucky to have a live reading!  And I’m so lucky that after they giggle and snort and throw themselves over in stitches, that they then applaud me with the snapping of their fingers.

In addition to Settlers of Catan, we’ve taught them a few other things this weekend:

·         How to play Egyptian Ratscrew

·         What the word ‘hood’ means in the context of ‘from the hood’

·         How to engage people with broad questions (instead of the kind of questions that belong in an interrogation scene on a crime investigation show)

·         How an iRobot Rumba works

·         That vigorous exercise after a pancake breakfast is a bad idea

·         That lime juice enhances tuna salad (in addition to a few other ingredients)

·         What Tourette Syndrome is

·         How to walk dogs with authority

·         That dogs are mentioned in the Bible (this made Olivia happy)

·         How to make ‘h’ sounds with worlds that start with ‘w.’  For instance, World Peace Salad is Hwhirrled Peace Salad

·         What it means to banter

Do you know that I have the sweetest little brother and sister in the world? 

Donovan would never want to inconvenience anyone; therefore he absolutely never insists on his own way.  So selfless.

Olivia is so sweet with our animals and with the way she loves to be a little helper.

And did I mention that my other little bro, Joey, almost 24 years old, called me today and gave me some advice regarding an internal dilemma that I had?  For a while there I really felt like his little sister.  Kinda wished I could have reached through the phone and hugged him.  (When will they come out with that technology?)

Card game brutality.

One of my goals every week is to make sure that I have social plans on Saturday night.  Being that I work Tuesday through Saturday, my Saturday is like everyone else's average Friday.  So for me, it's TGIS, not TGIF.  If I succeed in not being a homebody, my reward is that the entire weekend feels twice as long.

I definitely consider tonight a success. 

It's not often that my littlest brother and sister get to come spend the night at our house.  Brian picked them up while I got dinner started (turkey kielbasa and spinach tortellini - it's always a hit).  Not only was I blessed by the company of my siblings, but my chipped mug friend, Sherri, and her guy joined us, too!  And if that wasn't enough fun, our summer neighbor, Dave, joined in on the fun. 

And by fun, I mean brutality.

Have you ever played Egyptian Ratscrew?  I have NO idea where the name came from.  (And I need to go to bed, so it's not worth googling right now.)  This is an aggressive, tense and hilarious card game (given the right company).  As you may know, I'm competitive.  Unfortunately so was everyone else playing the game. 

Exhibit A)

Exhibit B)

I wish I could say that these are my winning battle scars.  Alas, I'm only a half-winner tonight.  But nobody needed to add salt or pepper to my dinner, so I kind of feel like a 3/4 winner.

But wait. My World Peace Salad (totally blog-worthy story) was enjoyed by all.   ...So maybe I'm a 98% winner.

Oh, and my mom sent the kids up when some pretty rocking birthday gifts.  Yep. I'm a winner.  100%.

*Clink clink* in the shower.

Have you ever stepped into your shower and then heard a *clink clink*?

This happens to me sometimes.  And nothing is wrong with the shower.  There are certain factors that have to align perfectly in order for the *clink clink* to happen.

These factors align for us on a regular basis.

1)      You need to sleep naked.

2)      Your partner needs to sleep clothed, specifically in the clothes they were wearing that day.  Because if they stuffed their pockets with all the loose change they received in a day, then all of that change would have the opportunity to fall out of those same pockets at night.

My body must be some sort of magnet for loose change.  Dimes, nickels... They suction to me at night, yet I am ever too bleary in the morning to attend to this.  So every now and then when I step foot into the shower and hear a *clink clink*, I look down and see a quarter in the tub.  No, it’s not that my body is producing and ejecting quarters.  It’s that I’ve been walking around that morning - completely unaware - with one stuck to my rear end. 

I sort of feel like the opposite of a gum ball machine.

The jeans incident.

One of the ways that Brian knows how to communicate love to me is to help me around the house.  I’ve always been the sort of person who thinks, “Don’t tell me that you love me; show me by doing the dishes.”  I’m not sure if this is my genetic makeup or if I am imitating my mother.  Regardless, a couple years ago I came home from work one day and found Brian cleaning.  There’s no telling at this point what he was specifically cleaning, but whatever it was had him squatted down and leaning over the bathtub.  I walked by and took note. 

Me, “Brian!  Those jeans look really nice on you!  They make your butt look so sexy!”

Brian, “Oh… Really?  Thanks!”

I was impressed that he owned them considering that his pants were usually terribly baggy and looked kinda skater-boy-ish.  I continued on my way thinking, “It’s about time he wear pants that fit.” 

About an hour later we crossed paths in the kitchen.  Again, I began to admire his physique.  Then my eyes went to the fashionable bleach spots sprinkled here and there… And I thought, “Wait… that’s familiar…”  While I was still trying to remember why I recognized these jeans, he turned and a glint of sparkly thread caught my eye.

I gasped, “Brian!  Those are MY jeans!”

Brian, “They are?  No wonder the pockets felt so small.”

Me, laughing too hard to make any sense.

Brian, “Man…  And I went to the store in these.  I’ve been wearing these jeans all day!”

God love him.  This is another difference between a man and a woman.  (If you're wondering what the first difference is, read my post ,The Mint Incident.)  Unless it’s so dark that we can’t tell when we’ve paired a blue sock to a black sock, women usually know exactly what we’re wearing on any given day.  Now, Brian and I might be an exceptional couple in that we're both sized to fit each other's clothes.  But I have a feeling that if that were more common, this would be a more familiar experience in many marriages.

Yet I can't poke too much fun at him because I don't know which is worse: the fact that he was wearing my jeans, or that fact that I went out of my way to tell him how good he looked in them.

Here are the jeans.

My burfffday.

Well, I’ve officially been on this earth for 28 years.  I should have woken up with birthday anticipation yesterday morning, but instead I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  In addition to a vague and disturbing dream looming in my mind, Brian and I successfully collided our heads in sleepy stupors.  I’m just thankful that I don’t have a noticeable bruise on my forehead.

I gave my morning another chance by having a slice of homemade birthday coffee cake (Olivia, my little sister, made the cake just for me!) and a cup of coffee in my favorite mug. 

Did you see that it says 'Hot Hairstylist' on it? 

At my salon each employee is responsible for a different coworker’s birthday.  We like to get silly with various birthday themes.  Upon arriving I discovered that my birthday theme this year pertained to my ability to accessorize.  Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, scarves, gloves, shoes…  My station was just dripping in accessories.  I was dubbed the “Accessory Guru.” 

Every year that our salon celebrates my birthday, I get to catch a glimpse of the overall impression that I’m leaving on my coworkers.  Sure, everyone likes to be admired for their ability to coordinate ensembles with sassy details.  I just hope that all my accessorizing isn’t distracting from developing and reflecting more beautiful character.

That evening Brian and I were attempting to go to a poetry open mic night in Washington D.C.  As it turns out, the event was sold out so we ended up dining at an establishment that specialized in Caribbean foods.  While my jerk chicken sandwich was delicious, I was also mentally chewing on a variety of music videos that were streaming by our table.  The channel was set to hip hop and rap.  I actually don’t mind either of those two genres.  But having just returned from Cornerstone Music Festival, I was freshly surprised by what it takes to sell mainsteam music these days.  I live a lot of my life like an ostrich with my head in the ground, intentionally maintaining an ignorance to celebrity culture.  As it turns out, you don’t need to be a musician to make music anymore.  Nope.  You need to know several women who either own thongs or bikini’s.  Wardrobe is set.  Then you need someone to either let you borrow their yatch, personal jet or bar.  Setting is set.  Then you need to keep your chin up and your eyes low.  Mood is set.  Then you need to accessorize the video with a variety of alcoholic beverages.  (See, I’m the accessory guru; so trust me.)  And last, but not least, you need to avoid content that might suggest that you’re not the most important being on the planet.  Bam.  You’re a star.  Excuse me if I’m simplifying something that means a lot to you.  But I’ll take the humility of a lesser known artist any day over the likes of those whose faces reflect an entitlement to my praises.