Clueless

The lips of fools bring them strife, and their mouths invite a beating. Proverbs 18:6

 I cannot tell you how excited I was to discover this verse. I was even more excited when I heard author/speaker Steve Arterburn give his interpretation. He says it means if someone says something stupid to you, you get to hit them. I gave him a standing ovation.

Humans. We’re a funny bunch. And by funny I mean what Steve said – stupid. But we’re not allowed to say that word at my house. So I’ve come up with another one. Clueless. It sounds more polite, but it’s actually not. To be completely and utterly without a social clue. That’s not pretty. It comes in many forms, this clueless thing. A rude comment. A slap in the face disguised as a joke. Sometimes I think we just repeat things we heard someone else say, having no idea how truly thoughtless we're being. But how do we get that way? How is it that some of us manage to go through daily life without someone grabbing our little faces and saying, “Excuse me, you’ve just put your cluelessness on display for all the world to see, but don't worry. I’m here to help.  It's a 12 step program, but first we need to know where it all started for you. So who do we call?  Who is responsible for your having no idea how to communicate like a grown-up? Your mother? Is it her fault you have no tact? Did she ever tell you that it’s OK to have an unexpressed thought?”

And don’t get me wrong, I’ve had moments of my own. Many, many moments when someone should’ve grabbed my face and said, “Stop talking. Stop talking now.” But they didn’t, and I ended up making a clueless fool of myself.  I have no doubt people have gotten into their cars at the end of an evening with me and said things like, “Can you believe her? Did I hear her right?” I’ve said some really dumb things. But I like to think I’ve learned from those awful memories. It’s the ones who never seem to learn anything and yet continue to be allowed to roam free that amaze and astound me.

“You OK?” they asked.

“Me? Yes, I’m fine! Why?”

“You look sick.”

Um…what? Now if I had been feeling under the weather, I would have welcomed the sympathy. But I was dandy. I’d stood in front of the mirror for an hour and a half applying full make-up and perfecting my hair. (You thought I was gonna say duct taping myself, didn’t you?) I’d even remembered all my vitamins and taken in plenty of fluids that day. I’m not sure why this person felt compelled to ask. Maybe despite my best efforts, I looked horrible. But still, why risk it? I mean, unless I’ve indicated that I’m under the weather, or I’m bleeding from the nose or mouth and seem to need assistance standing erect, why in the world would you tell someone they don’t look well?

Too benign? OK how about this. I was a blonde once. Here’s what went down when a 'friend' saw me for the first time.

“You’re blonde!!”

“Yea!”

.....uncomfortable pause...."You don’t really have the coloring for that.”

After I came to, having passed out from sheer mortification, I thought of all the things I should have said. If only I’d known about that verse…

And it gets worse than just insulting my appearance. Someone once told me I wasn’t parenting correctly. No, they didn’t come right out and use those words, but isn’t the inference behind “You should not home school your kids” that I’m doing it wrong? No question as to why I’d made that choice. Just a bold statement that it wasn’t the right one. For my children. Whom I birthed. Long and laboriously and without their assistance, thank you very much.

And speaking of birth, how about that heartfelt question people ask when they hear of a baby on the way to a household that all ready has a few.  “Again?” or “What number is this?” And I’m not talking about the well-meaning folks who truly want to know. I mean we really can lose count with some people, can’t we? I have a friend of a friend up north and because we’re not consistently in touch, I missed a baby or two and I had to ask what number the last one was!  It happens. But I’m referring to those nurturing folks who are asking because they think that particular number of existing children is just too many. Never mind that God says children are a gift and a blessing from the Lord. We do have a carbon footprint to consider, after all, and don't they know how much this is going to cost them and their planet? Don't they know what causes that? Well, yes. Yes, they do, and apparently they're pretty good at it. I have an idea. How about you ask God all your 'I'm more enlightened than you' questions? Ask Him why He keeps blessing those people. Tell Him how absurd and expensive it is. Go ahead. I’ll wait here.

I don’t remember what I said most of the times I’ve encountered the clueless. But I have to warn you, I don’t intend to be caught off guard anymore. No more fainting in humiliation. I’ve been rehearsing several scenarios. I don't have anything for hair color yet, and I don't think I'll need it anytime soon because I happen to enjoy being a brunette. (I wonder why?) But here’s one in particular for all future unsolicited parental instruction:

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. How could I have been so blind? All these years my husband and I have been praying for wisdom in raising our children. Asking God for discernment so we would know what is best for them as individuals. And now, suddenly, in this very moment, I realize I should not have been asking their Creator. I should’ve been asking YOU!! Thank you! Thank you for setting me straight. I get it now, and I’ll be calling you for all future life decisions. Like when she should be allowed to drive. Or when she thinks she’s found ‘the one.’ We’ll want to make sure we get those right, so I’m putting’ you on speed dial. Number one. Right now.”

And if that doesn’t work, I’m invoking Proverbs 18:6 and saying Steve and God said it was OK.

Not Enough Duct Tape

There will be days when I'm feeling particularly deep and spiritual and will want to share it. This will not be one of them.

I bought the duct tape for a secret project I was going to tackle while my husband was out of town last week, but I never got around to it. This is actually a very good thing.

First, a little background. I have a one track mind. By this I mean that when I get an idea, I can't think about anything else. The idea is the fox and I'm the bloodhound. That's background fact #1. Background fact #2 is that lately, and by lately I mean starting in 1996, I've become obsessed with my weight. I lost almost 30 lbs last summer. During Christmas, I gained 10 of them back. By March I'd lost them again. Now here we are in June and those pesky 10 have picked up 2 more. I have never gotten the hang of eating properly. I like to say that it's because until age 26, I didn't have to. I don't think God plays fair. He lets you eat fast food for the first half of your life without consequence, and then suddenly you land a man and that cute little size 4 red plaid dress you were wearing the first time your husband noticed you won't go past your hips. What's that about? And don't get me started on gravity. But I digress. That's another day.

Another background fact is that I'm an instant gratification kinda gal. I started cutting my own hair years ago when I couldn't get in to see my fabulous Las Colinas stylist on the same day my bangs went rogue. I have no patience.

Which brings us to last week. I'd stood in front of the mirror a thousand times too many and imagined what it would look like if I could take a knife and whack off the parts I didn't like. Enough was enough. If liposuction isn't in my future, then there has to be a Plan B. And it has to happen now. So off to the hardware store I went.

I heard the rattle of the bag from the other room. "Mom, what are you gonna do with this?" I couldn't tell them the truth, so it was time to make that decision. You know the one: do I lie to my children or tell them the truth and reveal that their mother is a crazy bloodhound? I went for the former. Mother of the Year would have to wait.

By the time I had gotten around to putting my plan into action, it was Sunday morning and my husband was home. But he was still asleep, so I thought I was good. I'm always the first one up on Sundays. I got my stool and put it in front of the bathroom mirror, got my scissors and my new shiny roll of duct tape, and off I went. I started at the afore-mentioned hip area. Three times around should do it. I started to put on my skirt when I heard him. You see, I hadn't realized how much noise I was making. Not only is duct tape loud, but it makes an unmistakable sound. Especially to the ears of a handy man like mine. "What are you doing?" I ignored it. I was finished anyway. He'll go back to sleep. I got my skirt on. From the front, perfection. I had done it. I had lobbed off my upper thighs without a knife. I stepped off the stool and got my shoes. I went out into the bedroom and he looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I'm leaving. See you soon." I whispered.

At this point, for reasons unknown except that God actually does love me, I casually ran my hands across the back of my skirt.  I can't really describe what I felt except to say it was some sort of new development. Like a growth. A big roll where there had never, ever been one before. I went back into the bathroom and got back on the stool.  I turned  to check the rear view when I saw it. There was this....shelf. I hadn't realized it, but all that stuff I was binding had to go somewhere, and it went up, in a terribly unattractive place. My rear. Not a problem. I dropped my skirt (which fell off effortlessly, what with me having just lost 3 inches and all) and grabbed the tape again. I started at the problem area and went around a few times when I heard it again. "What are you doing?" I checked the clock and kept going. Sound check was fast approaching and I did not have time to answer these ridiculous questions at 7:40 in the morning. Can't a woman get ready for church without interruptions? I put my skirt back on. This time I didn't have to turn around. The shelf had moved to my waist. And only on one side. I looked like a hunchback who couldn't even get that right. I inched my way around on the stool to check the back to see what was going on. This was not good. While the mid-rear shelf was gone, other things had gone south. I grabbed the tape and started again. This was getting complicated. The lower I had to go, the harder it was going to be to walk. I don't have time for this! Glancing at the clock again I was in full panic mode. I was wrapping faster than an elf on Christmas Eve, tossing the tape from one hand to the other. I'd developed quite a rhythm. After more than a few times around at this super pace, I had the lower problem solved. Awesome. I'll have to take really small steps but I can do this. I'll just make sure no one's behind me when we're walking up the steps to get on stage. No big deal. I continued upward to address the issue on the side. 'I wonder if it will hurt to take this off? Not now, Tamara. Beauty is pain. And at least you're not working up a sweat putting on your Spanx.' This was a wonderful thought.  I wasn't going to need another shower after putting on an undergarment. Fueled by this enthusiasm I went faster. His voice was getting louder now but I couldn't be bothered with explanations. I kept going. And going. My entire mid and lower sections were bound.  Good thing my shirt was black. But what was up with my knees? All that stuff had been smushed down to my legs! But my skirt was long enough. I just won't be able to cross my legs. I can still make this work. OK time to assess. Let's see what we've got. I tossed the roll on the counter and went for the skirt. That's when I realized the flaw in my plan. I had managed to bind all my unwanted parts quite successfully, but I hadn't factored in actually being able to get down from the stool. Or breathing. I couldn't do either. Dang it, if I could just get the skirt on - it will hang so cute, I just know it! (Remember the one track mind thing?) But there was no way. I was literally stuck, 12 inches off the ground, in front of my mirror, looking at this ridiculous image of myself covered in grey. And then it happened. "TAMARA! What are you DOING?!" He wasn't going to be ignored anymore. And the terrible cursed fact was, I needed him.

As I was calling for him I started to try to get it off. This is when I discovered that duct tape is not only loud, but terribly sticky. In fact, terribly doesn't cut it. And neither do scissors when it's attached to your underwear.

"HELP!" I yelled. "I can't get out!" He came through the bathroom door. He didn't stop to ask. He didn't even look surprised. Because he wasn't. He had known all along what I was doing. The man lived with me. It didn't take a genius.

He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and started to cut me out of my duct tape tomb. I was clawing at the front. "Strings??!! It's -- there's all these -- it turns into strings?? I can't -- it didn't work!!" He was just nodding and smiling. "I know babe. I know."

Miraculously and sweetly, he freed me. He even spared the Victoria's Secret underwear from a single clip. And me & my hips made it to sound check on time.

I noticed a little piece of tape on the stage that morning and had to chuckle. OK, I didn't chuckle. I threw up in my mouth a little, and then I tried not to cry.

But today, with about 96 hours between me and my statue, I think I've actually learned something. I know it won't work. I no longer have to be obsessed and preoccupied. There is no instant gratification when it comes to hippage. Starving myself last summer did absolutely no good because I couldn't keep it up. Having 28 less pounds of me was wonderful while it lasted, but the obsessive way I got there was not maintainable. And when I was finished, there was still a McDonald's on every corner and a Snickers at every Target checkout. I still say God doesn't play fair, but that belief hasn't gotten me very far in this particular area. So now I can move on to reasonable things like eating salad for dinner and spending more quality time with Eva The Elliptical and Tony the P90X man. Go figure.

It's Not My Fault

When I was in high school I was told I needed to do 2 things. One was work for Hallmark Greeting Cards. The other was become an English teacher. I was also voted most likely to have a top 40 hit somewhere in the future. Let's tackle that one right off the bat. I do love to sing and I was brought up doing it. And in my small Arizona town consisting of a McDonald's and one movie theater, the collective idea that I could be famous someday based on my rendition of 'Open Arms' seemed completely reasonable. After all, my only competition on 1985-ish radio were Cyndi Lauper, George Michael and that lead singer for the Bangles. Of course there was Whitney, but since she has no equal you can't really factor her in. Thus I figured I could handle George and the nasal girls. But then in the early 90's I moved back to my Texas roots, and what they say is true. Everything here is bigger, and the talent is no exception.

That brings us to option one above, teacher. While I am known as the Grammar Queen amongst my family, (and it's a title I wear proudly) and I do pay entirely too much attention to how people misuse their apostrophes, I can think of plenty of other things I'd rather do besides diagram a sentence, and the fact that this sentence hasn't ended yet tells you that I'll employ poetic license over that run-on rule every time.

Onward to the greeting cards. This was suggested by all my BFF's because I wrote poems every time there was a life-altering event in any of our lives.  In high school, that usually meant 2 poems every day. Before lunch.

So while you'll probably never hear Ryan Seacrest say my name, and you won't see my cheesy poems on any cards, and the only people to whom I'll be teaching English will be my children (and my husband who has a language all his own), you will, should you choose to glance at it, see this blog. My blog. My outlet for all those pent up feelings I've apparently felt the need to write about for most of my life. Before the Internet, my sister told me I needed to write a newspaper column. Well, they never called either, so here we are. My column. I titled this first one in honor of said sister, who grew up hearing me say those words probably as often as I wrote poems. "It's not my fault." You see, she and all those BFFs and teachers in high school made me think I was some kind of writer. It only took me a couple of decades to think they might be on to something, and now that I do, we can all blame them.

I all ready have the title for my next entry. I won't give it all away, but I will tell you it involves duct tape. And not in a good way.