Phantom Reality

My coworker has issues.

We aren’t talking the “Oh-my-goodness-aren’t-you-funny-you-have-issues” issues. We’re talking some hardcore, psychologically scarring, “Holy crap should we even be friends” kind of issues.

Case in point.

She’s 19 years old and talks on a daily basis about how she wants to have babies and get married. Not necessarily in that order. The only person I’ve ever known to be more obsessive on this point would be my 2 year old little sister, the day she cried uncontrollably from her car seat that she “JUST NEEDED DAD TO FIND HER A HUUUUUUUSBAAAAND!!!!!” (Mind you, this is the same sister who is now collecting older boys’ phone numbers and email addresses…she’s 9. Heaven help us.)

Two days ago, my coworker started up on a whole new level.

“Man,” she whined. “I’m having awful back pains.”

“ And I’m hungry ALL the time! What can I eat?!”

“Gosh I don’t feel good. Getting sick to my stomach.”

“I want food but I just don’t feel like I’ll hold it down.”

Such exclamations of pain and panic continued throughout the work afternoon. I mean, we’re talking she was so bad, *I* started having sympathy pains and stomach aches FOR her! “Good heavens!” I finally exclaimed, “You sound like a pregnant woman! Would you stop it already?!”

And then the forgetfulness set in. Names of siblings. Basic work functions. Where she’d left her keys. It was so bad, I half expected her face to start glowing with expectant motherly pride.

Trying to get her mind of her phantom pregnancy, I took her window shopping for furniture (so I’m a couple months ahead of the curve, but never mind that). We scouted out the downtown furniture places after ordering Sonic cheeseburgers…that she could only eat half of due to impending nausea. Then, bummed at the thought that I had no money to spend, I decided we should walk around the mall…look at clothes we couldn’t afford…and finally, perusing the bookshelves of Barnes and Noble.  Which, might I insert here, is a slice of heaven on earth. JUST saying….

We weren’t in the bookstore 10 minutes before she came crawling back to where Kristen and I were scouting out Christmas presents. Her face was ashen, she was doubled over like she’d been sucker punched in the stomach. “I bent down to look at the books on the bottom shelf,” she breathed painfully, “And the nausea hit like a ton of bricks. I’m going outside for fresh air.” And she hunkered her way outdoors.

Kristen and I just looked at each other and groaned. Seriously. What were all these pregnancy symptoms about ANYway?!

This morning, I picked her up for an early morning workout, hoping, praying, that she had gotten over her symptoms. No such luck. After 15 minutes of disorientation via text, I got this message, “Blast it. These socks make my ankles look fat.”

Good grief. Now the phantom swollen ankles.

What would be next?! Dare I even ask?

Imagination - The Best Accessory Money Can't Buy

I feel sorry for modern day kids.

They live a life inundated with media…X-box, Wii, video games, movies, tv…a life where the need for creativity has been robbed from them in exchange for mind-numbing lethargic entertainment.

I don’t often have opinions about how I’m going to raise my kids, if I ever have them (I’ve learned that it won’t matter anyway, after watching my parents raise 10 very different children who all interpret life in a unique way), but in this one instance, I think I know how I will do it.

My kids won’t be given movies and video games carte blanc.

They won’t be raised on Dora the explorer, Spongebob, High School Musical and Hannah Montana. And it’s not because I’m going to be one of those super conservative parents that doesn’t believe in tv and computers. It’s not cause I don’t want them tainted by “the world.”

It’s cause I want to give them something better.

A trip down nostalgia lane the other day reminded me of all the crazy adventures my brothers and I used to play. They were amazing games, brimming with creativity and imagination.

My parents couldn’t buy us dress up clothes as kids, but by a stroke of luck, when I was about 6 years old, we “inherited” a wardrobe full of my great-grandmother’s atrocious 100% polyester XXL dress/jacket sets. These quickly became our costumes for many Israelite battles. One dress was a lovely burgundy color and, if accessorized with the jumbo lego bucket draped in the matching jacket (which fit perfectly over our heads), was the get up for anything from Queen Esther to King Solomon. Throw away the bucket and just drape the jacket tied with a necktie, and you were shepherd boy David or Gideon or Jael.

There were always battles.

Swing sets became pirate ships. So was the gigantic slash pile in Papa’s back yard that had paths worn into it that created “perfect” upper and lower ship decks.

The dining room chairs made perfect walls to create living room size blanket forts. We agreed early on that it was unacceptable to be a REAL family…blech…who wanted to be a mother and father?! Instead, we were orphans, living off the land. Usually we were pioneers in wagon trains or Indians in teepees. And Ben (blast him for being MORE creative) was always the pet bear or tiger or some other species of animal that was annoying and impossible to control and made raucous noises at random.

We would play with Hot Wheels on the plaid couch that had perfect little squares you could turn into parking spaces and streets.

Our wooden toy box made the perfect time machine, which we used to travel anywhere from medieval castles to exotic European hide-aways to Bible times to…the future!

The 10 foot long “hill” in the backyard was an awesome sledding hill and we ran barefoot outside from March to October. The woods provided the perfect set for us to build teepees out of downed trees and play like we were explorers and mountain men.

Once, my brothers thought it would be a good idea to run into the woods and play mountain men for real. They packed backpacks and set off on their adventure…making it 50 yards into the dense underbrush. As they prepared to cross a dried up creek bed, an old cat skeleton frightened the bravery out of their 5 and 7 year old brains and they came rushing back, sure that a wolf had devoured the creature and would come after them next, if they dared to stay out after dark.

There was no limit to where our imaginations could take us.

I watch my younger siblings, who were slowly slipped into the media-rich world of modern day child-rearing and I can’t help but think they are being robbed. Robbed of the best years of their lives...and the millions of memories they COULD be making, if they had nothing but each other and their imaginations to satisfy their boredom.

My kids won’t be robbed of that chance. Not if I can help it.

Flashbacks...

Has a song ever brought back vivid memories from the past for you?

This happens to me all the time. Usually it is a specific song that associates itself with a specific person in my life. Sometimes it’s because it was their favorite song when I knew them well. Sometimes there’s just something in the words that reminds me of them.

But yesterday…yesterday was different.

Around midnight, this song came on the radio. I was driving home, feeling very empty. Not really sure why, because I had just been to a movie with a handful of friends. But while I was walking out of the theatre, I saw the majority of the "young adult" group from my church…and I realized that somehow, in a year of living here, I’ve managed to maintain a safe distance from everyone I come into contact with.

I think I’m afraid of rejection.

And yet somehow, while the outside me puts on an act like it’s okay that I’m an afterthought to the party planning and plays off being ignored – "It’s okay…I had better things to do anyway…" – the inside me screams for fellowship. The kind of friends that want you to be part of their life any chance they get. The kind of friends you make memories with to tell your kids about some day. The kind of friends you can be yourself with and not have to worry what they’re really thinking of you.

These were the thoughts going through my head, when the song grabbed for my attention.

It was a Hawk Nelson song. I’ve never particularly cared for their music, but I owned one of their CD’s a few years ago and it played in my car for a couple months before I finally changed it out for some Lifehouse. A much better trade, if you ask me.

Immediately my mind flashed to the first few months I had lived in Oklahoma.

Prior to Oklahoma life, I might have been able to say I had one friend. It started the year all the young girls in our church decided to pitch in for "best friends" necklaces for everyone since we were "all best friends." When it was all said and done, all the girls had a "best friend" necklace…except me. I was the odd number out AND the short stick.

There was always "one friend" during my growing up years…but never the kind of friend that lasted. Every couple of years, the other girl would either find someone else they liked better or in rare instances, we would find we just didn’t get along as well as we thought. By the time I was 16 and graduating high school, I had decided best friends were a myth.

I spent a few lonely years finding friendship in handwritten letters to penpals all around the country or deep in the pages of some Christian classic literature or penning journal entries. Had you asked me, I would’ve said I had hundreds of friends. But the truth is, very few of them knew me as more than the image I created for them through written word.

Fast forward to the year I moved to Oklahoma.

Immediately, I had friends. Ryan was the "best friend" who I could always count on if I was in a bind. Amanda was the lovable, fun-having, forward thinking roommate who stretched my point of views on religion and politics. Chris was the quirky, trustworthy, you-can-tell-him-anything friend who always made me laugh and always planned the outings. Brad was the thinker who challenged my faith and could be sought after for solid advice. Keith was the fellow musician (for some reason I actually stood in awe of him at first). There were others too, who were added to the friend circle…my pastor and his wife, Jenson, Kim, Andrew, Jason…

Last night, as I heard this song playing, it reminded me.

Once, not so long ago, I was somebody. I was a respected, innocent, likable person. People wanted me in their inner circle. Ryan thought I was awesome. Amanda engaged me in discussions. Brad would ask me questions about theology and the latest book he’d read. Keith would invite me to all his friends’ parties. Friends would confide in me their problems and concerns because they knew I would listen.

As I thought on this, I wanted to go back.

But that’s impossible…it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing can be the same because I’ve left a catastrophic path of destroyed relationships in my wake.

It sickens me. When asked recently why they think it is I have so few friends, I was told it’s possibly because I come across as a fake. Another person told me I’m a bad mentor and influence in general. I get "propositioned" at least once a week…sometimes by guys I don’t know at all. Sometimes by guys I thought were honest friends.

And I stop to wonder…how have I become this person? When did I change to become the girl it was OKAY to talk to in a suggestive way? How have I come to portray an image that makes parents not want their kids around me? Why do my youth group girls not trust me with their struggles, but instead hide who they are from me in fear? When did I become the girl that friends have to grit their teeth to tolerate my company? And why do I appear shallow?

That song, when it played, reminded me of who I used to be. That positive image people saw 3 years ago -- the shy, sensitive, pure, deep thinking girl.

I want to go back.

Not to a particular time and place, but to an ideal. I don’t care that I’ve grown "so much" these past three years, because at the end of the growth is intolerable pain…painful regrets, painful destruction, painful memories.

No, I want to go back to what I had before. Back to when I could respect myself. Back to when others respected me. Back to innocence.

I've got a bone to pick....

I never suspected that a dog could be vindictive.

This week, I was schooled in the art of treachery by two Labradors. They had it in for me from the outset. I’m not sure why. I never did anything to provoke such atrocities as they committed against me over the span of the last 7 days.

“I’m a pushover,” I warned the owner, as he showed me the ropes. “Dogs and children. They walk all over me. I’m serious!”

“Don’t worry,” he assured me, “They are very well behaved. Just don’t let Dakota try to sleep on the bed with you…I’ll KNOW if you let him.”

Thinking this would be the worst of my problems, I blindly walked into a trap.

At first, they acted innocent enough. They would come when I called, sit when I ordered, eat on command, stay off the bed. I would let them out in the morning and come back in the evening to let them in the house with me. Day 2 I found a nasty note on the front porch.

“Your dogs are disrupting our very way of life,” a neighbor complained. “I can’t even watch tv or enjoy the beautiful weather without being harassed.”

I panicked. “Don’t worry about it,” the owner assured me. “Just kennel the dogs during the day and I’ll get batteries for their bark collars when I get back. She only does this to dog sitters and not to me personally.”

Well crap. Now I had to wake up an hour earlier to feed the dogs so they could have plenty of bathroom time before being locked away for 10 hours of the day. Now I had to skip working out after leaving the office to get home and let the poor caged boys out of their tiny little kennels. Resentment towards the neighbor lady began to seep in.

Apparently the dogs resented it too.

Their first act of defiance was a generous helping of “Hunter” magazine. I don’t even know where they got them, but it’s a real tragedy. There are always good Pat McManus stories in the back of that one…the least they could’ve done is brought the magazines to me first so I could read them.

A few days passed and I couldn’t take the pathetic puppy dog eyes I got every time I locked the kennel doors. “PLEASE can someone go get batteries for those collars?!” I pleaded with the owner. “They just don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

Batteries were installed and the dogs were let out into their natural habitat the next day.

Wouldn’t you know it, a new note was left on my front porch when I got home that evening. “The dogs barked nonstop for 4 ½ hours today,” it complained. “My poor, poor nerves just can’t handle this abuse any longer. I will be forced to call the police and file a disturbance complaint if you can’t control your vicious animals.”

Evil thoughts flared through my mind…maybe I could put a cap in her and dispose of the body. Nah. Too messy. Throw a rock through her window or burn something in her front yard. Grr. Too obvious. *light bulb!* I could write her a note! “Dear annoying, invalid neighbor,” I could write, “Your nerves are wreaking havoc on my personal life and sleep habits. Your incessant complaints are enough to make me want to shoot myself. I have round filed both your notes. I hope you die. And if you make even a peep from your side of MY fence, I’m calling any one of my 6 cop friends/relatives and filing a harassment complaint against you. Sincerely, The angry dog sitter.”

Yes. That would make me feel SO much better. I was absent-mindedly pouring food into dog dishes while mentally writing my hate note when vicious fighting broke loose. Apparently dogs don’t like eating with bark collars choking them. Who knew.

I kenneled the dogs with spite the next morning…spite at the neighbor for forcing my hand, spite at the dogs for fighting on my watch.

I guess they knew my level of disgust. They mock fought at every chance they got. I had to open one kennel at a time, let the alpha dog outside and then let the second one out of his kennel…open the house door to the backyard and duck behind it waiting for them to fight it out. Every.single.time.

Thinking maybe they were just reacting to being cooped up all day long, the first night I left for a couple hours, I let them wander between yard and house via the doggie door.

Big mistake.

These canine mischief makers decided they needed to culture themselves on some hardbound classics, a Far Side comic book and Bon Jovi. Probably a $100 dollars worth of culturing to be exact.

Jerks. Preying on my nice-ness.

You’d think I would learn, but the next day I needed to run a quick errand and was gone less than 20 minutes. I came home to discover these same pals had picked up a volume on goose cooking.

At that point, I was counting down the MINUTES until the owner came home. “Seriously,” I told him via text, “By the time you get back, I’m going to be paying YOU for having this job.”

Needless to say, I’ve decided that I am NOT an animal lover.

Redneck Debate

Finding words to adequately describe a day like today would be nearly impossible. Not many offices can boast such oddities as an entire conversational theme devoted to the discussion of rednecks. All day. And by all day, I honestly mean the entire 8 hour working day has drawn on the theme that began in the first hour.

If you were to ask any of us how the conversation started, we couldn’t tell you. Bethany claims it began something like this…

Amy: “I hate rednecks.”

Ron aka Dad: “You shouldn’t be so hateful.”

Amy: “I say screw you. I still hate rednecks.”

And etc…

I claim it began on at least something of a more tasteful note.

The first question I remember asking was whether the term “P.C.” in a sentence such as, “That really wasn’t PC” means “Personal Computer” or “Politically Correct” in my coworkers’ vocabularies. (Now might be a good time for me to take a poll…what say you?)

The origins of the redneck conversation are unimportant. All I can say is I spent an hour trying to defend why I despise rednecks and then trying to define what I meant by “redneck.” It was determined that I am a close-minded snob who doesn’t appreciate my own roots. I say my roots better not include white trashiness or else I’ll shoot myself. I mean, I tend to describe “redneck” in terms of how much class or lack of class a person has. For instance, my brother lifting his leg to pass gas? Yeah, not classy. The same said brother melting the ice out of a frozen water pipe with a hair dryer across the dining room chairs in his living room? Pretty high on the Redneck-o-meter. Guys who lift their Ford pickups 8 inches and have bumper stickers about hunting and guns and a set of deer antlers to hold their rifles in the back seat of the truck? Pretty much pegs the meter.

My dad said I was just bigoted. At one point, Bethany was even encouraging his rebuttals and I exclaimed at her, “Who’s side are you on anyway?!”

She laughed. “I’m not partial. Whichever side needs the fire fueled. I’m just a pyro. I don’t care whose fire it is as long as it’s a big one.”

There was a couple hour lull in the stormy definition battle as I gathered ammunition on my facebook status. “YES!” I finally exclaimed at one point as a friend defined redneck as, “Anyone who will use duct tape on their vehicle or clothing.”

“Guess that makes you redneck,” Lanette piped in. “I distinctly recall helping you duct tape a torn knee on a pair of jeans a couple months ago.”

Growl.

Defeated again.

The conversation took an interesting twist around noon when a client came in for an auto quote. He and dad had been high school buddies and cohorts in crime. To listen to them reminisce, you would think ghetto-mobiles and 1970’s country kid style was cool.

I say it’s the perfect example of redneck when your car as a teenager required a screwdriver to pop it out of 2^nd gear. Or it backfired 30 seconds after you shut it off and walked away.

In the end I have to defend myself. It’s not that I think the snobby blue-blood superficiality is any degree better than the dirty laz-about in his wife beater, beer can in hand and barefoot wife and snotty-nosed kids in tow.

I have no problem with the average blue collar worker with roughed up hands from a long day at work anymore than I would be the business suit clad professional.  

It’s the extreme’s at both ends of society that annoy me.

And that was the entire point, before it was sidetracked by a dad who is proud of farting in public and dreams of the old 1970’s Rambler he used to drive. Seriously.

Is it too much to ask for people to meet in the middle?