Same God, Fresh Perspectives

So there I was, parked outside of this house decorated for Christmas with about 45 different colored lights blinking at a rapid pace, as a (I think?) animated Santa Claus held a candle and waved from the upper right window. I wasn't the only car there. Several people had stopped to take in the sight, but I was the only one hanging out the window with a camera, publicly ridiculing the house as the worst-decorated home I had ever seen. I say "publicly" because I came home and uploaded the video to my blog. This blog.

I have driven by that house more times than I can count this holiday season, and I have never driven by when there were not cars parked out front. I'm guessing they were cars with little kids in them. It reminded me of when I was a child, and my dad and I would always pick one night during Christmas to go out and drive around to find the most decked-out houses. Sometimes we went into Lancaster City. The mansions down near President Avenue never failed to delight.

God took those precious memories and showed me something unpleasant about myself: I am negative and cynical.

I don't know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way I began speaking sarcasm as my first language. A little sarcasm fits perfectly sometimes; other times, sarcasm hurts. It may not hurt any human being, but sometimes it hurts God. I realized that I was out ridiculing the houses with the most Christmas spirit, not people who need professional decorating help. I was being a jerk about the same thing that used to thrill me as a kid. When I was little, the more lights there were, the happier I was! When did I become the grumpy old cat lady who complains about everyone and everything?

Maybe it sounds like a small revelation, but it was big for me. I have to acknowledge I have not always been a shining example of the fruits of the spirit. So I made a very deliberate decision that I was going to let God change my heart, and it has been amazing how quickly He has been doing so.

The way I joke around has changed; I'm not constantly judging people and situations; I have more patience. Most of all, I have real joy. I never realized how uptight I was about so much of life until I let go and decided to let God unravel me. You don't always see God's handiwork immediately, but in this instance, I can't STOP seeing it. On Saturday I was out Christmas shopping for my baby nephew when another checkout line opened up. The cashier called over to my husband and I and as we made our way to her line, another woman RAN past us and got in line ahead of us. I almost didn't know what to do with myself when I realized it wasn't even bothering me. Not that I pick fist fights with people at the Hobby Lobby, because I don't, but in the past I would have made a handful of snide remarks under my breath, at least. It was almost this sense of... wait... MY TONGUE ISN'T MOVING!! Here I was just cut off by a woman buying a bunch of crosses in a Christian store, and I had nothing to say about it. It was...weird.

All my life, I have wanted to be gentle and soft-spoken, but I've always been the exact opposite. There was always a little chunk of my childhood getting in the way, giving off the message, "If you mess with me, prepare to kiss the pavement." I was always on the defensive, always coming across harsh and cold for the sake of protecting myself. I was always scared of vulnerability. So imagine my shock when vulnerability turned out to be so joyful and peaceful!

Last week one of my neighbors put an inflatable yard thingie beside our apartment building. It's a couple of penguins, I think. (I admit, I haven't really stared at it for very long.) When I first saw it, I got angry. Yes, I'm serious - I got angry. My husband commented in the parking lot that I was the only person he had ever met who got mad at Christmas decorations. It made me think. And think. And think.

It made me ask God for a purer heart and a fresh perspective. I think God must have injected me with turbo grace because my line of vision is vastly different from what it was this time last Monday.

I've been celebrating a little something I like to call "emotional sobriety." I haven't been waging war against depression lately, or cycling out of control as I have in the past. I guess this joy thing started long before the blinky Christmas house of the inflatable yard thingies, but it TOOK those things to make me realize how different I was. I'm handling things better. I'm trusting God more and flipping out a lot less. I can thank new antidepressants for that, partly, but I'm pointing more towards God. There are some things even a pill can't do.

A few months ago, I made another deliberate decision - I decided I was going to stop comparing myself to other Christian women. It's an issue that is more widespread than you might think, but I had a pretty severe case of it. I was never good enough - never blond enough, pretty enough, perky enough, spiritual enough, etc. I had even stopped enjoying church because I felt like I didn't measure up and that everyone could see right through me to what a fraud I was. A good friend of mine told me a long time ago that I was a frequent participant in "reverse judgment." Instead of thinking I was better than everybody else, I had decided everybody was better than me. She was right, and I thought about what she said for a long time, until I finally decided I was being ridiculous. It wasn't easy; it took a lot of effort on my part. I had to, as the Bible says, 'take every thought captive' and tear it down. I had to stop myself from thinking the things I was thinking, but the more I practiced it, the easier it became. When I went to a church greeters meeting in November and was finally able to look at the other women around me and feel like we were on an even playing field, I knew my efforts were successful.

We try so hard to be certain things, when all God really wants us to do is knock it off and let Him do His thing. We have to be willing. That's all God asked of me, and it took me this long to figure it out and open my heart. This doesn't mean I'm going to run out and put an inflatable nativity in the yard, or put 10,000 blinky lights on my deck. But I can appreciate someone else's expression of joy and not hold any judgment against it.

I've made life out to be a lot harder than it needed to be. Believe it or not, that's a really nice Christmas revelation to me. Pin It

The Gift of Hope for Healing

God kicked my butt in church recently.
The pastor was preaching about hope and healing, and how we should never stop praying for healing, or hoping that God will answer in full. It wasn't like I had never heard that message before. All of Christianity is based on hope, isn't it? Maybe God was sick of my stubbornness or maybe I was just more willing to hear the truth, I don't know; all I know is that God took that particular sermon and smacked me with it.

I realized that I had come to an awful place of acceptance in my life. Not the kind of acceptance that a terminally ill person finds in the last few moments of their lives, but the kind of acceptance that says, "OK, this is just my lot in life. Forever. Amen." I not only accepted that my husband was chronically ill, and that I had a mental illness and diabetes, but that it was permanent. That's just... the way it is. Get used to it. That's life.

I wasn't bitter or angry about any of those things, really. I didn't blame God or wonder whether or not I was being punished. I had just accepted it. It was as much a normal part of my life as, say, running the dishwasher every afternoon. I took my pills and injected my insulin and that was that. In fact, I used to get angry at people who said they were praying for our healing. What was up with that?!? Didn't they know I had already prayed, like, at least 10 times? And when someone professed healing from depression in Jesus' name, that really set me off, too. My response was to always fold my arms and mutter, "Then you never had REAL depression."

You could say that my God was a God of maintenance, not transformation. Yes, God works through doctors and medications, but God also works through... God. He doesn't NEED a pill. He can command the waters to be still, and they will obey. Pill or no pill! The more comfortable I was with my life, the less power I attributed to Him. God heals people through medicine, but God still heals people outright, with nothing but His own sheer will.

I had been dismissing the omnipotence, power, and mystery of God. I had also all but abandoned any real communication with Him about the issues my husband and I face daily.

I could go on about how Jesus' birth was a gift to all mankind, but that has been done before. I know a lot more about how Jesus has been a gift to me. He has given me the fresh gift of hope, and wide-eyed wonderment at all that He is capable of. Many years ago, when I was a baby Christian who didn't know how to pray, a friend of mine told me to pull out a chair and pretend Jesus was sitting in it. That works fine if you're a teenager, but it gets stuffy when you grow up. Jesus is as close as a brother, and yet I don't understand Him completely, nor do I want to. I want a Savior who has more power than I do, and more knowledge than all of us combined. Buddy Jesus is great, as long as I don't forget about Sunday School Jesus - big, mighty, awe-inspiring.

That's the Jesus who was born to a virgin, healed the sick, saved the world, rose from the dead, ascended into Heaven, and allows the Holy Spirit to dwell in the hearts of everyone who calls Him "Lord." And that's the Jesus  who changes my perspective, perfects my imperfect heart, and gives me hope that with the slightest touch of His hand, or a whisper of His voice, I can be healed.

Pill, or no pill.

Pin It

The Tackiest Lights in Town and "Creeper Claus"

Remember that terrible house I told you about with all the blinking lights? I finally caught some video on my way home last night from babysitting. Unfortunately, they didn't have it set to "tremble" like they did the first time I saw it, but it's still pretty bad. And what's worse is that there is a Santa Claus in one of their upstairs windows holding a candle and waving to passers-by. We couldn't figure out if it was animated or real, but I'm assuming it was animated. I hope, anyway, otherwise somebody has nothing better to do than dress up like Santa Claus at 10 o'clock at night and wave to people on the street. (Cars were pulling over to stare at the holiday train wreck.) Either way, it's creepy. It looks more like a ghost taunting the neighbors than a jolly old elf trying to please little children.

The first video is of the lights. The second one - though poor quality - is of Creepy Claus in the window.

 

Epileptics, beware!

Pin It

The Naivete of Rachel Ray

"Oh, this is so fun and easy to make! First we'll harvest the wheat for the roll and grind it up! Then we'll pick the perfect heifer, slaughter it, and slow roast it over an open flame just like the settlers did! Now let's go over here to our organic onion patch and pick out the onions we're going to saute! And when THAT'S done, we'll go back to my family farm and pick 16 vegetables that we can throw in the food processor to make our steak sauce. YAY! ISN'T THS FUN?!?"

If you love to cook, this probably won't appeal to you; but if you would rather order out than cook a meal any day of the week, you will most likely understand where I'm coming from in this post.

So there I was on the treadmill at the rec center yesterday, flipping through the channels on my personal little television set. There is not much on TV during the early afternoon, unless you're into soap operas or "People's Court," so I settled on Rachel Ray. She is helping a girl lose a lot of weight - I want to say 50 lbs. but I didn't pay much attention that part - by the time her senior prom rolls around. A commendable enough task, no doubt. The girl complained that she didn't know how to cook healthy meals and that she was living on a steady diet of boring turkey burgers. Rachel Ray swooped in to save the day and show her how to cook more interesting healthy meals.I thought I might be able to learn something, so I turned up the volume.

The goal of this particular cooking lesson was to trick this girl's mind into believing she was eating something fattening and delicious. I smirked a bit as Rachel informed her that spaghetti squash got its name from being so similar to that carbo-charged devil, spaghetti. She said once you cook it and hack it apart with a fork, it looks and "feels" like pasta. I noted that she said "feels" instead of "tastes." It may look like yellow vermicelli, but it doesn't taste like spaghetti. I know because I make squash pretty often.

Rachel then taught her how to make her very own nutrient-rich marinara sauce using garlic, eggplant, a can of whole tomatoes, and a whole red pepper. You slice the eggplant and pepper in half, drizzle them with olive oil, and broil them for 45 minutes. As for the garlic, you chop off the bottom stem part and broil the whole bulb also for 45 minutes. When the eggplant is done, you scoop the middle part into a blender. You remove the seeds from the pepper and throw that into the blender, too. Then you squeeze out the guts of the garlic bulb into the blender, add the can of tomatoes, and voila, your very own healthy marinara sauce.

I watched as Rachel Ray hacked up the squash and poured the sauce over it right in the shell. They oohed, aahed, and yummed it up. So healthy! So delicious! So...so...

See, here's the thing. That's an awful lot of veggies to buy for one meal. Not cheap, either. I'm not even sure I could fit it all in my oven at the same time. I think the girl was thinking the same thing. You could read it all over her face. Actually, you could read a couple of things all over her face.
-Won't all these vegetables give me diarrhea?
-Why does Rachel Ray keep saying she loves me when she doesn't even know me? Is that an Italian thing?
-I don't care what you say, Rachel. Spaghetti squash is not as delicious as real spaghetti.
-You know I'm just going to go out and buy a jar of sauce, right?

When it was all over, Rachel asked her, in her best cheerleader voice, "Wasn't that FUN?!?" That poor girl gave her the most bewildered smile. I know that smile. It's the same smile I gave my dad after a 3-hour algebra tutoring session in which I got 3 out of 50 example problems correct and at the end he said, "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

I'm lazy, so the thought of cooking a bunch of veggies for 45 minutes, waiting for them to cool, and then blending them is too much. Too, too much! I'm going to have to wash at least 2 cookie sheets and then clean out my blender... and it's a Rachel Ray blender, no less! Why would I do all that when all I gotta do is buy a jar of sauce and sprinkle a bunch of garlic powder in it? Maybe throw a carrot in my much smaller, much easier to clean electric chopper. Yes, my dishwasher is finally in good working order, but it's still easier without the extra cookie sheets and the dang blender to wash. I have better things I could be doing with my time, like spending quality time with Jesus, praying for the persecuted church, or watching my  new favorite show, "Psych."

Sure, taking charge of your health requires a little work. If that weren't the case, I wouldn't have been watching Rachel Ray on a treadmill. Exercise can best be defined as "necessary work." But broiling and liquefying a bunch of veggies are a waste of time. If Ragu can do it for me, I refuse to do it for myself. And how about some protein there, Rachel Ray? You've got the fiber down, but where's the protein? I am half the size of that girl on your show, and I'm outrageously diabetic. Type 2, the kind you get from eating too much real spaghetti. I'm guessing that girl is either diabetic or on her way there. SHE NEEDS PROTEIN!


I am weary of Rachel Ray after she duped me 3 years ago. I had cable then, and I was watching her show one day when she started blabbing about the amazing new Rachel Ray blender that had just hit the market. My eyes glazed over as I watched her process veggies, fruits, made bread crumbs, even turned a baby squirrel into a delicious high-protein smoothie. (My memory might be a bit fuzzy on that last part.) I envisioned myself making breakfast smoothies every morning before work (back when I had a lousy office job) and the next thing I knew, my husband gifted me with one of her blenders. I had never owned a blender/processor before. I was excited until I realized what a pain in the butt it is to clean one. I made about 5 smoothies and it now sits covered in an inch of dust in the corner of my kitchen.


Rachel Ray makes it look easy, but anything looks easy when it has been pre-cooked before the show. It's not that easy, people. It's not that quick. It requires effort. I think we can all agree that any meal that requires unnecessary effort is not a meal worth cooking. Of course, when I say "we" I mean, you know, those of us who couldn't give a rip about creating kitchen art and just want to get to the eating part.

Open that bottle and heat it up. You can work it off later while you channel surf on the treadmill.

Pin It

Ho Ho Ho, Ha Ha Ha, and a Couple of OMGs

The other night I saw this awesomely bad house in the town I used to live in. It was so terrible and wonderful all at the same time that I nearly peed my pants. Terrible Christmas decorations excite me to no end. I try to crawl into the minds of the people who do the decorating. I can see that sparkle in their eyes as they inflate their Santa-on-a-Harley; I sense the way they smile when they throw that single strand of 100 twinkle lights over an enormous oak tree with as much accuracy as someone throwing a beer can into a dumpster. But what I saw that night, driving by the Christmas House of Horrors, was the end-all of terrible Christmas decorations. How can I describe it... It was like Kris Kringle threw up and then had an epileptic seizure in the middle of his own yack. Think Trans-Siberian Orchestra...and all of the musicians are on crack. Imagine a large, modern house with a great big front yard with lots of trees and shrubs... and they're all covered with every conceivable colored light in the world. Now add some faux LED light trees. Now make them blink rapidly in all different colors. Now make them... what's the word?... TREMBLE... yes, tremble AND blink. Epileptics beware: if you drive anywhere near this house, you're going to steer the old 4-wheel drive sleigh directly into a tree.

I had it in my head this morning that I was going to pass that house on my way home from running errands tonight. I even wrote myself a note on the dry-erase board on my fridge. I was going to go out there and take a video of it and post it here so that we could all revel in the patheticism... but I forgot my camera. What am I good for, anyway? I kicked myself all the way home because not only did I miss out on the Christmas House of Horrors, I also missed out on a good number of other sad displays of misguided holiday cheer, including the aforementioned Santa-on-a-Harley.

I have major issues with Santa Claus driving a Harley. It doesn't make sense. I may hate seeing an inflatable Santa on the front lawn, or a plastic Santa and his 8 tiny reindeer on the roof, but at least it's traditional. And not only that, but how would Santa REALLY be able to arrive undetected on a Harley? I've never seen a reindeer fly, but I'm pretty sure they're agile, swift, QUIET. If a deer can fly, I'm sure it can land softly. I've never seen a quiet motorcycle.
"Now, Jimmy, if you listen carefully, you can hear Santa off in the distance!
"BBBBRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPRRRRRRNAHNAHNAHBRRRR...

I also came across some beautifully decorated homes and I want to get some pictures of them, too. I saw quite a few that made me smile, made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and made me hate living in an apartment complex. They deserve as much recognition as poorly decorated houses deserve ridicule. Consider me the Christmas Equal-Opportunity Blogger.

I spent a few hours at the home of a friend who has the most killer house. Seriously, I"m not just fluffing her up. A cozy, well-decorated place with a lovely fireplace, free of neighbors having loud sex, rap music, or potholes the size of the Hoover Damn in the parking lot. I sat there, sipping my coffee, as her kitten tore my right hand to shreds, imagining how I would decorate a house like hers.

A chill rippled through my body as I realized that somewhere out there, at that very moment, someone was sitting in an equally beautiful home, gathering thumbtacks so they could tack a 15-foot plastic Grinch on top of the garage, and then erect life-size wooden carolers on the front porch..What's worse? Then they would stand back, smile, and pat themselves on the back.

What a cold, cruel world. Pin It

Nativity Kitsch

I shall begin this blog post with an apology to my friends, Mark and Jen.

Several years ago, when I was really into Sculpey polymer clay, I made them the most God-awful Nativity set the world has ever scene. I thought it was adorable, of course, or I wouldn't have given it to them. It took me forever to make it, and in my defense it was a heartfelt gift. But now when I think about it, I realize it was also horrible, horrible, horrible.

Which brings me to this blog post. Tomorrow I am hitting the streets with my camera in the hopes of catching something awesomely terrible, but until then you will have to settle for a post about Nativity kitsch. There are some downright frightening Nativities out there and I have collected a few for the Christmas Hall of Shame. Let me just say that I love cats, but I will never - NEV-AH - purchase a cat Nativity.

Sometimes words cannot do something justice, so I'll just post the pictures. See for yourself... and weep bitterly.

This site has a great selection of Nativity kitsch. Glad to know I'm not the only one out there with an eye for the distasteful.

You have to admit, this took talent.

What do the letters S-A-N-T-A spell? SANTA! And also SATAN if you mix 'em up. Coincidence?

Hopefully nobody needs to explain to you why this is so wrong.

I can't even figure out what this is exactly...

Pin It

Holidays Are All About Survival

Happy Black Friday, everyone. Did you survive Thanksgiving? I did. In fact, I got the world's best night sleep last night. I don't think I've slept like that since I was in diapers. If they could put turkey into pill form, I'd swap it out with my Seroquel.

It was an interesting holiday, but aren't they all? This year was particularly interesting because my mother injured herself recently and needed extra help hosting the holiday. She called me sometime around Halloween and said, "I want to have Thanksgiving here this year. How would you like to come and cook it?" Usually, my contribution to Thanksgiving is a delicious sweet potato casserole that nobody eats. Every year I swear I'm never making it again, but of course I do. I haven't always had the best relationship with my mom in the past and it has been going so well I just couldn't say no. But I said yes without fully grasping what I was agreeing to.

"Cooking" Thanksgiving, as it turned out, also meant cleaning my parents' home from top to bottom. This would not have been such an overwhelming task if they did not own a vacuum cleaner that weighs approximately 4,000 pounds. I could have pushed a donkey around the house with greater ease. It's one of those vacuums that sucks up the stuff and you can see it spinning around in the plastic canister. What nobody realizes is, when the vacuum sucks things up and spins them around at warp speed, things get destroyed...things like stink bugs, for example. I sucked up only one in the apartment but it was pulverized by the vacuumed and smelled so terrible that my mother and I both had stinging eyes for about an hour after the fact. Pennies, as it turns out, are harmless, but sucking one up into the vacuum sounds like shelling along the Afghanistan border.

I have been on my own for 10 years, and I have owned my own vacuum for just as long. Despite this, my mother does not have a great deal of confidence in my vacuuming skills. For the most part, I vacuumed while she followed along behind me, telling me I was doing it wrong. First I vacuumed too fast, then I didn't vacuum at the right angle. Then I was down on the floor with a paper towel snagging spider webs from the corners of the floor. Even though all of my parents' dining room chairs are identical, I was told that I didn't put the "right ones" in the "right spots" when I returned them after vacuuming around the table.

When I mopped the kitchen floor, my mother stood in the dining room and instructed me not to make puddles. She told me I needed to ring out the mop before actually mopping. At this point, I stopped what I was doing specifically so I could put my hands on my hips and give her a look that said, "Really, Mother. I do have a normal IQ." She stopped herself and had to laugh. She realized she was being ridiculous. But after I mopped the floor, she handed me a paper towel and told me to mop of my non-existent puddles.

By the time we got to vacuuming the bedrooms, I was exhausted from dragging the donkey vacuum around and she was tired of being the gestapo. "Do you want me to move this and vacuum under it?" I'd ask, and she'd shake her head and say, "Just vacuum around it. Screw it."

On Wednesday, she offered me lunch. Liverwurst. On my way to her place on Thanksgiving day, I stopped at Sheetz for a hotdog.

When I arrived at my parents' place on Thursday, the turkey was already in the oven. I was a bit perturbed at first because I really wanted to learn how to cook a turkey. On the other hand, my mother was right - it was just easier for her to do it. I'm not sure how you can stuff a turkey wrong, but I'm sure I would have figured out a way to do it. I made a few things and mashed a cheese ball together and put appetizers in the living room in an effort to keep all unnecessary personnel out of the kitchen (it worked) and thought things were going fine. They were, actually, going great. It's just that everyone in my family has the patience and overall calm of a squirrel, and so my mother officially started freaking out about two hours before the other guests arrived. This was when my parents started bickering at each other, a la Frank and Marie Barone from "Everybody Loves Raymond."

I have learned that following my mother around saying, "Calm down, Mom!" doesn't help. It anything, it just lights her fuse. Pointing out that everything was ready and that the turkey just had to come out of the oven only made her chain smoke. I tried a shoulder rub but she told me to get off of her because she was sweaty. All I could do was sip my cup of my father's famous old coffee (he drinks the same pot for 3 days in a row) and listen to my mother tell my father that if he didn't go shave, she was going to lose it.

With nothing to do in our spare time but sit and listen to my mother stress over whether or not her turkey was going to turn out dry, my father  recruited me to help him fix his computer. My parents' computer was built somewhere around 1950 and runs on Windows 98. They still use dial-up internet. To be honest, I didn't think dial-up internet service still existed. My parents have regular computer problems because my father tinkers around with it and doesn't really know what he's doing. Oh, and also because it was built in 1950 and runs on Windows 98. Did I mention that? My parents are not techies by any stretch. My brother and his wife got them a cell phone a few years ago for Christmas and I think my brother was a little peeved at me because when my parents opened it, I immediately erupted into uncontrollable laughter. Nobody likes someone to tell them that they wasted their money, but I had to speak the truth. To date, the phone has been used about 5 times... by me, trying to show my folks how to use it. It now sits atop my dad's stereo, collecting dust. He has no idea where the charger is.

It took his computer about 30 minutes to load when I turned it on. Upon discovering that he had old AOL software slowing down his system, I attempted to open the control panel, which took an additional 30 minutes to load. After waiting nearly an hour to open the application to uninstall software, I declared it a lost cause and gave up. My brother - the same one who gave them the cell phone - said he'd stop by tonight to help him. Again, I dissolved into uproarious laughter. My mother pulled me aside and whispered, "You do know your father has no clue what he's doing, don't you?" I assured her that, yes, it was apparent. She rolled her eyes and cursed at her messy kitchen.

Dinner itself went well... apart from a niece who refuses to eat anything that isn't a goldfish cracker or dessert, and my mother nearly tripping over her own chair and killing herself. Like little sardines stuffed into a can, we sat elbow-to-elbow at the table, all 11 of us, pigging out as my mother's blood pressure slowly returned to a normal level. The turkey was perfect - neither raw nor dry, as my mother always fears it will be every year. Every year I slave over that stupid sweet potato casserole that nobody touches, but this year I just mashed them with brown sugar and put some marshmallows on top and there was barely a drop left after dinner. Note to self.

And now it's officially Christmas. I didn't shop today. I have never shopped on Black Friday and I never will. My husband was going to brave the crowds but opted to sleep in instead. My tree-in-a-box has been successfully assembled and my oldest niece is on her way to help me decorate it. This is the part of the holiday season I enjoy the most. Nearly every ornament has a story behind it and I get a little misty when I hang them on the tree. Maybe not this year, though - my niece will never let me live it down if she catches me crying over a Christmas ball.

Let the season take wing! Here's a clip from "Everybody Loves Raymond." This is par for the course in my family.

Pin It

We Interrupt This Job for an Unnecessary Blog Post

What is WRONG with me?
Those of you who write for a living might know what I'm talking about. You know what you want to say, but it won't come out the way you want it to. It's like getting a Pez stuck in the little dispenser. I always tell people I'm much better at writing a story than I am at telling it off-the-cuff because I always forget important tidbits and have to say "let me reverse" and go back the parts I missed that are necessary to understanding what I'm trying to say. I very rarely have this problem when I'm writing, but I'm having that problem today.

I'm still 99.9% sure I have ADD. Nobody could be this distracted all the time and not have a chemical imbalance. I used to go to coffee shops to work, but I'd wind up spending the day people-watching or re-reading the menu 800 times. Now I write from home but I'm just as distracted. The cat needs to be fed, laundry needs to be done, the dishwasher needs to be unloaded, dinner needs to be figured out. Even taking a shower annoys me. Sometimes I walk by my art supplies and have to fight the urge to drop everything and paint.

I never did homework when I was a kid. Like, ever. I think I got into college because God knew my parents needed an extended break. It's not any easier for me now, except that if I don't do my work now, I don't eat, have clothes, or have a home. Twenty years ago, my only consequence was having to deal with my furious mother. Now, the consequences include homelessness and starvation. Homelessness and starvation are pretty good motivators, but they don't kill distractions.

I am getting better, however. I've learned that all necessary housework MUST BE DONE before I try to write. If not, they are little open windows in my brain that refuse to close until I take care of them. (Read Shaunti Feldhahn's book For Women Only for more on this concept.) If I know the kitchen looks like a war zone, nothing can be truly accomplished until I have cleaned it.

I have also learned that dry-erase boards are a wonderful thing. I have one on my fridge and that's where I write down my deadlines. Day planners are nice, but I usually lose mine or forget to look at it. I go to the fridge, however, on a daily basis.

And now I have run out of things to say and I know I need to get back to work. I have about 90 minutes left of quiet isolation and I need to make the most of it. Books don't write themselves... though that would be super awesome.

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Pin It

Inflatable Hell

Pin It

Class vs. Trash: Holiday Music

Christmas music and Christmas decorations have one major theme in common: they can either be really cool, or be really terrible. I always knew this to be true but never fully grasped the concept until the first Christmas my husband and I were married. When I think of Christmases past, I think of carols being sung by choirs, candlelight, and a lit Christmas tree. When my husband thinks of Christmases past, he thinks about working at Record Town and The Wall and all of the awful music they played over their speaker system. He grew to love this music; I try to find a hiding spot for said music every year.

Old Christmas music seems to be the best. When people try to write new classics, they usually either make me laugh or they nauseate me. Let's discuss laughable Christmas music first.

Much to my chagrin, husband is especially fond of the "Very Special Christmas" collections.

Not everything on these albums are crap, but most of it is, including Hootie & the Blowfish's 1997 version of "The Christmas Song" on volume 3. Either it's SUPPOSED to be off-key, or the producer fell asleep at the console while this was being recorded. It serves as a reminder to me that you don't really need tons of talent to get a record deal. You can preview the slaughter here.

It also includes Sheryl Crow singing a terrible version of "Blue Christmas," which is a song I never liked to begin with. This song made me briefly feel ashamed of being a Sheryl Crow fan.

Volume 1 includes the extremely popular Madonna tune "Santa Baby." I can stand the music, but I can't stand Madonna's baby voice, nor do I want the image of Madonna seducing Santa Claus to replace the visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. In defense of Madonna, this song came out in 1987, so she was already in the midst of her I-Want-To-Sleep-With-Everything-That-Moves phase. Hopefully she has matured and would now opt to give Santa cookies and milk instead of her body.

HO HO HO! Literally...

Stevie Nicks croons "Silent Night" on volume 1, as well. I love Stevie Nicks... when it comes to pop/rock music. Christmas music, though? Not so much. Her voice reminds me of a drunken wino singing flat Christmas carols through the alleys of the Bronx.

Volume 5's insult to Christmas is Tom Petty singing "Little Red Rooster." Apparently, dude has a little red rooster that wakes him up every Christmas morning. C'mon, that's not very realistic. Like the rooster knows when it's Christmas? That's ridiculous. We can sing about a fat guy in a red suit traveling by airborne sleigh who stuffs his great big butt down our chimneys and leaves us presents under our Christmas trees, but a red rooster that knows when it's Christmas? That's just baloney.

On volume 7 (released in '09), Miley Cyrus stops by to sing an extremely bubble-gum version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" that is sure to please anyone who is under the age of 12, or deaf.  Sean Kingston sings "Little Drummer Boy" in a fashion that probably not only annoys me, but annoys the baby Jesus. If the Little Drummer Boy had ever tried to sing this to our Lord and Savior, I'm pretty sure He would have learned to walk then and there and would have booked it out of Bethlehem. Lastly, Carrie Underwood sings "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" on this album, and while I LOVE Carrie Underwood's voice, I have major issues with country Christmas music. (Read: I hate country Christmas music!)

Here are a few of my other least favorites:

Paul McCartney - "Wonderful Christmastime" MAN I can't stand this song! I know it's a classic that is literally as old as I am, but I still hate it. The synthesizers, the weirdness... It's too trippy. It's like listening to Pink Floyd, in a way. If you're sober it's just nonsense, but I'll bet if you listen to it while you're on drugs, it's really DEEP, man.

George Michael - "Last Christmas" Anything by George Michael should be considered an abomination to mankind. This year, to save him from tears, he'll give his love to someone special? Really? And by "special" does he mean some random dude in a public bathroom stall? 

Amy Grant - "Mister Santa" I'm sorry, Amy. You know I love you, girl, but it had to be done. If you look up "cheese" in the dictionary, you will see the name of this song right next to it. Amy set the Christmas bar pretty high with her 1992 release, "Home For Christmas." It was the ultimate in class and all others fall short. Unfortunately, that includes this album. But you're still my favorite, AG.

The holiday season without Amy Grant is like Christmas morning without a little, red, mind-reading rooster.

Pin It

When is it *OK* to Inflate Your Yard?

If I weren't such a nice person, I'd say "NEVER" and leave it at that, but I've gotten a few comments on my last post from people insisting their children want inflatable yard thingies in the yard this Christmas. How do I respond? First, I would like to ask you, simply:

Do you want your child to grow up to be this?

 

Or do you want your child to grow up to be this?

The choice is yours. Would you put moonshine in your kids' sippy cups? Of course not. Don't settle!

There are some cases in which inflatable yard thingies might be considered acceptable. I don't expect people in wheelchairs to climb their roof with lights. Midgets with a fear of heights might also get a free pass. If you live in the middle of nowhere, go for it; we won't see it anyway. Living in a trailer park is no excuse. I've seen lots of nice trailer parks. Set an example for the rest of the park dwellers and skip baby balloon Jesus. Elderly people, also, might be exempt. Even in these situations, I would say skip the air pump and hang a wreath.

I hope this sheds some light on the DOs and DON'Ts of inflatable Christmas yard thingies. Now get out there and start stapling 25,000 imported Italian twinkle lights to your roof! Pin It

Christmas is Coming! (Everybody Hide!)

A few years ago, while driving down a major Pennsylvania route, I encountered the Christmas insult to end all Christmas insults. There was a large green house on the corner of one of the intersection - overgrown brush, trees in need of trimming, and paint chipping off every inch of the home. Even more disturbing than the landscape were the 6 inflatable yard decorations nailed into the lawn. Take away the ornaments and you would immediately assume this was a poor family trying to cover up their shack; however, I did a little research online and I found that inflatable yard thingies are actually quite expensive. That was when I knew these people were not poor, they were just lazy.

It's funny how my idea of "lazy" has changed over the years. I used to think people who took a single string of lights and haphazardly threw it on a tree were lazy (eh hem, Dad...) but inflatable yard thingies have taken laziness to a whole new low. Just plug in, inflate, and voila! And if there is a wind storm, it looks like your yard thingy is having an epileptic seizure, so I guess that's kind of cool. But still lazy.

Anyway, getting back to the green house of laziness...
As I sat there in my car, making fun of of the green house of laziness and its occupants, I realized I needed to get out there with my digital camera and start ridiculing people publicly. I never got around to it last year, but this year I'm determined to hide in the shrubs and snap pictures of people inflating Homer Simpson dressed as Santa Claus on their roof. It has to be done. This injustice to all things Christmas must be brought out of the darkness. People who inflate nativity scenes...God help you. I hope God has a sense of humor and a little bit of redneck in Him because I'd hate to hear my Lord ask me on judgment day, "Why did you nail my only Son to your yard and inflate him like a Wal-Mart basketball?" An inflatable nativity scene in a wind storm has got to be 20 times more offensive than Homer Simpson Claus or even one of those awful inflatable carousels that not only inflate, but spin, light up, and play music. It's just wrong to think that I could be driving past your house in a storm when the baby Jesus decides to deflate and detach from the rest of the nativity. Picture it - inflated baby Jesus flies off, lands on my windshield, and I crash into a tree.

It's wrong. It's unholy. If nothing else, it's more hillbilly than Larry the Cable Guy.

All this isn't to say I haven't seen worse decorations, because I have.
At our last apartment, new neighbors moved into the house next-door. We were a little stunned when they uprooted their lawn, paved it, and proceeded to park no less than 10 vehicles on it, but the "shock and awe" phase came when the holiday season rolled around and they put what must have been a 15-foot, faded, plastic Santa Claus on top of a lawn chair on their front porch. That was when we realized we weren't in Kansas anymore. How I wish I'd had a digital camera back then. It would probably be my profile picture on Facebook right now.

If you're feeling lazy, just don't decorate, OK? Inflatable yard thingies may be expensive but they don't say "class" they say... "GIT-R-DOOOOOOONE!" And, no, I don't mean that in a nice way.

So Merry Christmas. Enjoy the holiday season.
I'll be watching you.

I know God is bigger than we could ever imagine, but c'mon...

Pin It

Perfect Christian Women

I don't know if you've noticed this or not, but a lot of female Christian authors are blond, thin, and pretty.
Every now and then, life throws you a curve ball and you see a brunette wearing a size 12. Let's face it, though... blond and perky is the norm.

I took note of this many years ago, so when my book was published in 2005, I dyed my hair blond and went on a diet. I also decided my hair wasn't stylish enough by simply being blond, so I got it cut super short. I was trying to be retro, but I ended up with what my friends now jokingly refer to as "the lesbian haircut."

I also decided that female Christian writers - well, Christian women in general - should never use sarcasm or quick wit. After all, we know from watching "Jesus of Nazareth" that Jesus was never jovial. Also, he never blinked.

I also found that many of the "church ladies" I knew said things like "thank you, Jesus" and "oh, my heavens" on a regular basis, so I tried to incorporate this into my own vernacular. I never got the timing quite right. My inability to be somber 24 hours a day really messed with this concept. I'd be driving down the highway and some wonderful gentleman who was created in the image of God would cut me off, and I'd find myself saying stuff like, "THANKS A LOT, JERK! I mean, um... oh, my heavens! Perhaps you should drive more carefully, sir. Amen! Praise Jesus!" I tried not to blink but I ended up spending a lot on eye drops, so I gave that up.

There were a few things I could not remedy, no matter how hard I tried. I didn't have 2 kids, a house with a white picket fence, or a dog. We could have adopted a baby from China, but what if the book failed? Adoption agencies don't have return policies and you can't put kids on layaway.

Fearing that I wasn't good enough to hold the title of Christian Author, I concluded that writing my book in my own voice would not suffice. Instead of writing like Julie Fidler, I tried to write like Beth Moore, Shaunti Feldhahn (my mentor of 8 years, no less), and a combination of several other authors I liked better than myself. It all backfired like a '75 Chevy on cinder blocks in front of a beat-up trailer.

Five years have past since that book came out and I've been struggling to write another one ever since. All of my experiences with the first one only showed me that I couldn't play in the big leagues. Until recently, that is.

As it turns out, I've not been comparing myself only with other authors, but with other Christian women in general. I have spent many Sundays sitting in a pew at my church, watching the other women around me, convincing myself that they have it all together and I don't. Worse yet, I thought they could see right through me and just KNOW that I was 'messed up.' If imperfection could be worn like a tattoo, mine would be scrawled on my forehead.

Maybe it's age, maybe it's life experience, maybe it's just growth in the Lord, but...I have decided this is craziness and I'm not going to allow it to creep into my life any longer. I say let's see each other for what we really are - messed up people who need God's grace every day so we don't have to be messed up anymore. I have a tattoo and so do you - "SINNER SAVED BY GRACE." I used to think I was the only woman in the world who felt this way, but as I shared my own struggles and doubts, I found out that a lot of us, if not most of us, either struggle with it now or have struggled with it in the past.

All this to say, we're so busy studying our cuts and scrapes, we forget to look at the holes in the hands of the One who can wash all of that away.

If our idea of perfection is the woman sitting two rows down from us on Sunday morning, we are going to be so totally disappointed. We'll never reach the mark, and if we did, it wouldn't be a mark worth reaching. If I try to write a book like one of the 'perfect' authors I've admired for so many years, I would be overlooking the very real truth that those books were written based on difficult life lessons that the authors learned, walls they climbed, and demons they conquered.

I'd rather compare myself to the man on the cross up at the altar. My imperfections will be made perfect. My sin has already been washed away. If we crawl deep into the hearts, minds, and lives of the people we look up to, we will always find sin and corruption, but not if we crawl deep into who Jesus is. There is the mark. Let me reach that one.

To steal a line from a great Switchfoot song, "We are crooked souls trying to stay up straight."
So I vote we cling to the only One who really holds us up. Anything less is gonna drag us down. Pin It

So You Want to be Pentecostal

Note: This is an attempt at satire. Don't take me seriously. I do love God's people.

Church life got you down, huh? Tired of music that reminds you of somber Civil War encampments? Sick of trying to keep your kids quiet during a rousing off-key rendition of "How Great Thou Art"? Maybe you've decided to become Pentecostal... or you're thinking about it. I say good for you! I became one myself about 3 years ago and I haven't looked back since. I feel it would be irresponsible of me not to give you a taste of what you are in for, since Pentecostals are very different from Lutherans, Presbyterians, Baptists... and pretty much everyone else you can think of. We all share a love for God, and that's what really counts, but I think any denomination deserves at least a brief orientation. Here is Julie Anne Fidler's guide to all things Pentecostal. May it serve you well.


#1.Appropriate Pentecostal Attire
Most Pentecostals will tell you that it doesn't matter what you wear because Jesus isn't interested in outer beauty. This is in stark contrast to many other churches, who teach you that you have to dress up, though they don't really tell you why. Maybe your parents, like my own, told you that it's "just the right thing to do." Well, most Pentecostals I know find a nice middle ground. This isn't Yoga class (remember: Yoga is evil!), so it's probably not a good idea to come dressed like you're ready to hit the treadmill. On the other hand, God was nice enough to create a pretty earth for all of us, so the least we can do is show up for God in something business-casual. Keep in mind, ladies, that short skirts run the risk of making men lust after you even as they hold their cup of Welch's communion grape juice, plus you're going to need plenty of room to dance, flop down on the carpet, and kneel.

#2.Raising Your Hands Makes Your Praise Reach Jesus Faster
You have probably already noted that Pentecostals sing with their hands raised in the air. This is because Heaven is really high up in the sky (some say it's even beyond our solar system), therefore reaching up towards the ceiling will make whatever song you are singing shoot up through your fingertips and reach Jesus faster. Not EVERYONE does this, and that's OK. It just means they're lazy and they don't really care, and since God gives us all free will, this should be accepted. They'll grow up someday.

There are various levels of raising your hands, and these mean different things. Raising your hands as far as they can go means you REALLY love Jesus and you want your praise to get there faster than anybody else's. Some people raise their hands only part-way, and this is called the Half-Staff Method. It means, "I love Jesus, but I haven't quite accepted that HE loves ME. I'm kind of scared He'll throw it back." Some people merely open their hands in front of them, palms showing. This is sort of like when people hold aluminum foil under their chin when they are sunbathing. It's more about catching the rays than sharing it.

It should also be noted that there is not ALWAYS a spiritual element to people who sun-bathe worship, keep their arms at their sides, or employ the Half-Staff Method. It could simply mean they sweat excessively and/or forgot to shave their arm pits that day.

#3.Crying Shows You "Really Mean It"
I like people who cry in church. I do it myself sometimes. It can mean any number of things, mostly obviously that you love God so much that you're willing to walk out the door looking like Joan Rivers after she has taken the bandages off from another face lift. Women, use caution: never wear mascara to a Pentecostal church. Don't waste your money. It will only disintegrate and drip off your face. Save it for less emotional affairs, like funerals and weddings.

Some people cry because they have been hit with the reality that they really are scum in need of a perfect Savior. Some people cry because Jesus saved them from a crack addiction, alcoholism, depression, or an evil mother-in-law. Sometimes the music is very emotional and that alone makes you weep. You can expect to cry during acoustic sets, congregational a capella singing, and heavy drum solos. A few people cry because they think they should, plain and simple. Why you do it is up to you, but don't think you can escape it. A true Pentecostal knows when let loose like Lindsay Lohan being sentenced for another DUI.


#4.Pentecostals Like to Sing the Same Verse Repeatedly for at Least 20 Minutes
Forget fast-moving songs that jump from one emotion to another. Pentecostals must be willing to delve into worship for the LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG haul. If the congregation seems bored/disinterested, oftentimes the worship leader will pick a particularly meaningful song verse and sing it until everyone catches on and realizes: If we don't get up and act interested, this song is going to go on forever. Sometimes this means changing the tempo of the song, or adding an electric guitar. If the worship leader starts jumping up and down and commanding everyone to clap/sing/jump/cry/fall on their faces, you know you are being too subdued.  Other times, if the Holy Spirit seems to be working and people are really "into it" the worship leader will thereby assume that the chorus must be repeated until the kids in the toddler room have grown up and moved into junior high youth group. It is not appropriate to take a nap or chat with your friends during this time... but I do it anyway. Sometimes you can only say "Jesus" so many times before you start counting the dots on the ceiling. Do your thing for God... and then feel free to take a bathroom break.

#5.Pentecostals Don't Know Many Hymns
My friend, Gary Chapman is a legendary Christian music artist and songwriter. He has a website called A Hymn A Week and it's dedicated to reviving the hymns of yesteryear. Many young people don't know a thing about hymns. Neither do many Pentecostals, myself included. Hymns have stood the test of time and often say things about God that simple, quick, modern praise music can't. My theory is that Pentecostalism is so bent on being emotional and "feeling" the Spirit, they need new, simple, basic worship songs on a weekly basis. Often, worship leaders will throw an electric guitar and a drum solo into an old hymn and we'll all be fooled into thinking it's the Newsboys' latest hit.

 #6.Pentecostals Love Caffeine
I've found that just about every denomination has their own views on alcohol. Some say it's wrong just because it has the potential to be addictive (growing up in a Mormon family, I heard about this often... even though everyone in my family drank.) Some say it's OK to drink as long as you don't get drunk. I don't actually know the official Pentecostal stance on alcohol, but from what I've seen and experienced, if you DO drink, you don't tell anyone. And if you SMOKE, Heaven help you, you hide it. I had a friend who used to smoke on her roof out of fear that a a fellow Christian might spot her. All of these things can be considered harmful to your body, which is, of course, the temple of the Holy Spirit.

Caffeine, however, is fine. This is interesting, considering it only takes 250 mg (read: 2-1/2 cups of coffee) for caffeine intoxication to set in. So, let's think this through. My church hands out coffee for a donation, it could be $5 or a piece of gum, just as long as you put something in the little box. In addition, they also sell specialty coffee drinks. Let's say you have a cup of coffee when you first get to church. Then, you have a cup of coffee during the break when all the kids go to childrens church. Then, you order a mocha cappuccino with a shot of espresso when you leave. One must ask themselves... do I feel the Holy Spirit, or is my heart just racing? We are God's people, walking around church stoned off of our rear ends, but it's OK because all the money from the coffee shop goes to feed orphans in Haiti. Drink up!

#7.The Point-And-Hope Method of Bible Reading
It should come as no surprise that a group of Christians who believe that God can zap you right in your pew and make you flop like a fish out of water would also believe that God can and frequently does speak to us simply by picking up a Bible.

Now, for the record, the vast majority of Pentecostals I know study and meditate on the Word fervently and seek to have a rich prayer life; however, Pentecostals are big on warm, fuzzy Jesus feelings, too. Many of us wake up in the morning seeking "a word" from God. (Translation: we want God to talk to us somehow.) So rather than choosing a book, chapter, or topic from the Bible, we have been known to flip it open to a random spot, close our eyes, and point somewhere on the page in the hopes that it will reveal something wonderful about the coming day. Sometimes you land on something wonderful, but sometimes you land on... other stuff. And that other stuff should not be taken entirely seriously when it comes to how you should go about your morning. Blindly picking Bible verses can really backfire on you. Here are a few examples.

Genesis 25:30

He said to Jacob, "Let me eat some of that red stuff, because I'm exhausted."

This does not mean you should grab a fork and try that red gelatinous blob that has been in the back of your fridge for 6 months.

Job 19:17

My breath is offensive to my wife; I am loathsome to my own brothers.

OK, actually you might want to take this one to heart. Toothpaste is cheap, you know.

Psalm 137:9

Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

Don't go there. Just find a babysitter.

Deuteronomy 23:1

No one whose testicles are crushed or whose male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly of the Lord.

Yes, you can still bring your husband to church if he has had a vasectomy.

Ezekiel 23:19-20

Yet she increased her prostitution, remembering the days of her youth when she engaged in prostitution in the land of Egypt. She lusted after their genitals as large as those of donkeys, and their seminal emission was as strong as that of stallions.

 Whatever you do, don't take this as an invitation to a mid-life crisis.

I hope this guide to Pentecostalism has helped you. There is more that I should probably add, but I think this is enough to get you started on your journey to holiness. Pin It

How Would You Vote for a Klondike Bar?

Nothing strange happened to me at the polls yesterday. Nothing strange has EVER happened to me at the polls, other than getting half of my shirt tucked into my jeans on my way out of the bathroom. This was not the case for everyone yesterday.

My mother told me that at her polling place there was a smorgasbord of sweet goodies laid out for voters - cookies, brownies, cake, drinks, you name it. Some lady in line was throwing a fit, wanting to know who paid for all of it. I don't know about you, but when someone offers me free brownies, I eat first and ask questions later. I guess this woman thought it was some political party's way of swaying voters.

I find this ridiculous because I have way more confidence in the American people. I like to think Americans know better than to switch their political affiliation because someone offered them a double-fudge chocolate chip brownie. And what nut would switch their vote for a cookie? Come on, now. We're better than that, aren't we? You want me to vote Democrat in exchange for baked goods? No way! It's going to take more than that - a gift certificate to Red Robin or something, at least. Maybe a gift card to Target. But certainly not a miserly, stinking whoopie pie.

Outlawing baked goods in the polling place? Unnecessary.
Outlawing the exchange of viable bodily organs for a straight ticket vote? OK, maybe that's a little different.

No, we're a better people than that. Brownies won't make us change our votes. Now an egg roll... that's another story. Pin It

Writing Samples

"What You Say" - Insider - LifeWay teen girls devotional


"A Day in My Life" - Insider - LifeWay teen girls devotional


"Power Couple" - Fine Living Lancaster magazine

"Masterful Premarital Counseling" - Relevant Leader magazine

"Stepping Back into the Jungle" - Living With Teenagers magazine

"A Welcome Home" - Living With Teenagers magazine


"Social Security" - Living With Teenagers magazine Pin It

Mental Illness and Santa Claus

For the past few days, I have stupidly engaged myself in a conversation about mental illness with a group of individuals who don't believe it exists. Favorite conversation so far: "There are very few mental illnesses I believe in." I thought this was 2010, but apparently we are still stuck in Nazi Germany and sending schizophrenics (if you believe in schizophrenia) to the gas chambers.

Grow up, world. Open your eyes.

It actually began as a conversation about the marketing of antidepressants. No doubt, they are as foolish as any other drugs ads on TV. Remember the ED ad (it was either for Viagra or Cialis)where the couple was in separate bathtubs holding hands on the beach? Come on. Who does that? How about tampon ads that show menstruating women doing yoga with their legs up over their heads? Stupid. Drugs designed to treat MI aren't much better. When I started taking meds for my Bipolar Disorder, I didn't take up ballroom dancing, either. It's called ADVERTISING. It's meant to be over-the-top and memorable. It may be wrong, but it is what it is.

I'm sure you've heard the notion that the most homophobic people are trying to hide the fact that they are gay deep down. That may or may not be true, but I'm starting to think the same applies to people who deny that mental illness exists. I wonder if they know something is wrong and they just don't have the internal fortitude to admit they might HAVE a mental illness.

But really, my money is on pure ignorance.

Over the past few days, I have heard many people say that mental illness is not real and that all symptoms of MI have a cause. We should be treating the cause. This could not be more true, as it applies to anything. If you have Type II Diabetes, you have to lay off the sugar and carbs. If you have clogged arteries, you have to lay off the cholesterol. Does that mean you reject medication or other treatment from your doctor? Of course not. That would be foolish, right? But that doesn't mean your sweet tooth hasn't caused your pancreas to malfunction. That doesn't mean your blocked arteries aren't taxing your heart. YOU STILL TREAT THOSE THINGS.

So if my brain's wiring is screwed up and somebody can help me... why wouldn't I want them to?!? If drinking is making your depression worse, you stop drinking. If ingesting fake sugars is blocking your serotonin, you back off of those, too. BUT YOU STILL TREAT THE BRAIN.

Mental illness deniers floor me. You really can't convince them of anything and if you suggest they might be wrong, they treat you like you're an uneducated bumpkin who just fell off the turnip truck yesterday. Some people can be enlightened but some people are destined to wallow in their own ignorance and suffer needlessly because they can't make peace with something inside of them.

I just hope their doctor decides to believe in the flu the next time they come down with it. Pin It

I Was Bullied

Hello. My name is Julie Fidler, and I am a victim of bullying.
Or, I should say, I used to be.

Like some of you, I spent my childhood being harassed, picking gum out of my hair, and crying to mommy about the scrapes and bruises inflicted upon me by other children. Namely, a girl named Nicki who lived down the street until the 6th grade. She was Satan in a midget's body. I can't say she was popular, though at the time I thought she was. I now realize everyone was afraid of her. She made 'friends' by force.

When the neighborhood gathered for a game of Hide & Seek, Nicki always excluded me. Nobody asked questions or defended me. I was chubby and sensitive, a perfect target for such a hateful being. She called me everything but a Child Of God. When she moved, I thought life would get better. Ah, but it only got worse.

Jenny, the girl across the street, quickly took her place with the help of her trusted sidekick, whose name I now forget. And because Jenny's family hated my family for reasons no one ever explained to me, they also bullied me. I once parked my bicycle in their driveway when I came over to play with Jenny. Her mother wasn't home at the time, but when she arrived, she found me in the basement and told me that she wanted to hit my "mother-effing" bike (she used the real words), but she knew I'd go home to daddy and she didn't want to listen to him "bitch." Just one example of how kind that family was to me.

Sometimes, some of the other girls up the street picked on me, too. Hell, everyone in my neighborhood picked on me at some point. I didn't have a backbone or any self-esteem. I had been sexually abused by a family friend and there were problems in my family. I just wanted to survive. Little kids are absolutely horrid to each other and everyone seemed to work together to make sure I was miserable. They were successful.

As I got older, I countered all of this by becoming hard as nails. So much so, I barely had any friends because I took the attitude that if anybody looked at me the wrong way, I would smash them to a bloody pulp. I developed a sick sense of humor and a foul mouth to back me up. I went from bullied to invisible... unless somebody messed with me. I wanted to kill myself. You bet your life I did. Either that, or I wanted a Mack truck to hit everyone at the bus stop on one of the mornings I stayed home from school.

Now I'm 31 and I don't hate those kids anymore. People change. I've changed, thank God. Do I still struggle? Yes, I do. I have been a churchgoing Christian since I was 13 and I still wrestle with the belief that other "church ladies" are better than me... or at least, they think they are. I don't like thinking about my childhood because it makes me very sad and as far as I am concerned, I never really HAD a childhood. But I have a good husband, a good life, an amazing God, and all in all, I think I've turned out OK.

What about the kids who never make it this far? What about the kids who take their own lives or go on a shooting spree at school? Who speaks for them?

Bullying used to be a rite of passage. You just...dealt with it. It was a part of growing up. Now we're all starting to realize that isn't the case, nor should it be. Bullying is serious and damages people for life. A talking-to by a teacher won't solve the problem. So what do we do? How do you take bullying seriously - and punish it seriously - while remaining age-appropriate? We can't throw kindergartners in jail for calling people fat, but we can't ignore it, either.

If nothing else, these kids need to be called out and held accountable. They should have to somehow atone for what they've done. And, because there is obviously a reason why kids act out in the first place, they should be given appropriate psychological help. I'm sorry, Nicki, but the way you acted back then wasn't normal. You needed a therapist. Desperately. We've all said something not nice, but you made it a way of life.

Those are the kids... that need to be dealt with.
The question is... how? Pin It

Safety Drains the Art Out of Living

Turns out, I'm a creative person. Who knew? Certainly not me! I never considered myself "artsy" even though I'm a writer because, to me, writing non-fiction is like writing a book report. You get the facts, you jot them down. I'm not a novelist or a playwright, though I've tried to be. I admire people who can lay out a fictional story and bring it to life. I long to be that way! By page ten, I'm ripping my hair out.

Back in August, I was given the opportunity to design some t-shirt designs for Amy Grant to sell on tour. If you don't know by now, I am a HUGE Amy Grant fan and have been for 20+ years. It all started when I painted the song lyrics to "Better Than A Hallelujah" and sent them off to my friend, who also happens to be Amy's manager. The next thing I knew, I was a shirt designer.

I enjoyed it so much I started painting other stuff. I have fallen in love with painting and over the past 2 months, I have done far more painting than writing. As wonderful as this is, it has made me realize that my love of writing has withered a bit. I used to write constantly but now I find it hard sometimes to really let go with words. This may sound odd, but I blame it on Facebook and the fact that I have virtually no anonymity anymore. Most writers would consider that a good thing. The more readership, the happier we are, right? Instead, I find myself a little put off by the fact that most of my family is on Facebook and a lot of them read and comment on what I write.

Friends and complete strangers applaud your honesty, whereas family cringes and begs you to keep things to yourself. I used to be very open and blunt about my life, but you don't see that too much anymore on this blog. Oh, have I mentioned no one in my immediate family has ever read my book or even owns a copy of it? So you see why I'm a little timid about opening the floodgates on Blogger.

I miss it, though. It was therapeutic. Writing about fluff and avoiding the deeper stuff takes some of the joy out of writing for me. I'm trying to regrow my coconuts so I can try and do that a little more.

When I paint, it's pretty cut-and-dry. Either you think I paint pretty stuff or you think I stink. Nobody looks at my paintings and calls my mother to ask her what's wrong with me. Nobody emails me to warn me to stop being so personal. Most of the time, what I write winds up in a drawer anyway. I could paint a picture of puppies eating a baby and none of you would ever know.

I've chosen painting over writing because it's safer. I've never liked playing it safe. It takes the art out of living.

Hopefully, I will be able to return to this blog a bigger, better loudmouth than ever before. Pin It

Mornings: What Are They Good For?

I got up this morning around 7 to make my husband breakfast and pack him a lunch. I'm nice like that. I woke up in pain, as usual. My arms, legs, and neck ache constantly. It has become a normal thing. You just want to spend the day on the couch when you feel like crap, but I forced myself to get up and go to the rec center. I had a good swim, though it was somewhat leisurely. It helped the pain quite a bit, I'm happy to say.

Getting there was a challenge.
The neighbor's Golden Retriever - the one that never shuts up - got loose and I saw him run across the street in my rear view mirror as I was making a right-hand turn. I love animals, especially when they are not splattered across the side of the road, so I parked my car at the post office and got out. He was on another neighbor's porch so I called to him and he ran over to me. He's a friendly little guy... typically. Not so much, though, when you have him by the collar and are trying to lead him home. For about 5 minutes, this is how it went: I would grab his collar, he would snarl and snap and try to jump at me. Then, I'd let go and pet him and talk sweetly to him and he'd be friendly again. Then I'd grab his collar and he'd try to rip my throat out again. The little kids who live with the dog were standing in the driveway watching all of this happen. At no point did the munchkins go and get mommy.

So I gave up. I love dogs, but I have no desire to be mauled by one. Fortunately, another neighbor came out - a much bigger, stronger male - and he dragged Pup back to his home, snarling all the way. When I got in the car, I realized my shirt was covered in mud from the dog jumping at me. Rather than go home and risk sudden laziness, I decided to go to the gym looking like I had been dragged around a construction site by a dump truck.

When I got to the gym, none of the treadmills with built-in TVs were available. I didn't want to watch one of the universal TVs mounted to the wall because my choices were limited to ESPN, some financial channel, and cartoons. If I'm going to sweat it out on the treadmill, I'm gonna do it watching a sitcom or, at the very least, "Intervention." I gave up and went to the pool.

The pool was infiltrated by every elderly person in Central Pennsylvania. That's cool - it's refreshing to see old people taking good care of themselves, but I had to sit in the stands and wait for a lane to open up. Finally one did, and I had a nice, relaxing swim as Josh Groban crooned from the pool speakers.

I have gotten used to locker room nakedness. I used to be incredibly shy, but now I don't care. I've seen a little bit of everything in that locker room and it made me realize I have nothing to be ashamed of. It is still very disconcerting to see women in their late 50's or early 60's who have better bodies than I do, but I'm getting over it. I think my new boobs help sweeten the pot for me. Now I'm just an overweight person trying to lose weight - I'm no longer the really tall lady with the frightening/appalling breasts that scare little children.

Once I reached the locker room, the music selection changed. First, it was Eminem. Then, it was "I Wanna Sex You Up." I don't personally care, but I'm wondering how a family-friendly rec center could get away with playing sex music. There was a little girl and her mother in there changing. I think moms just want to take their kids to the pool to keep them entertained and to drain some of their excess energy. I doubt they want to have to answer awkward questions and explain the facts of life.

CHILD: "Mommy, what does 'sex you up' mean?"
MOTHER: "Oh, Suzy. That just means they want to borrow your kick board."

So now I am home and the runaway dog is barking his head off, and the neighbor baby is screaming. She screams about as much as the dog barks.

I did a lot this morning, and I'm happy about that. It makes me feel productive.
But it blows my mind just how many weird things can happen to you in a few short hours. Pin It

C'MON, MAN!!

Dear Landlord,
I really like you. You are a great guy. I could not have asked for a better landlord. I mean that, man. My last two landlords were low lives and I was starting to think that all landlords were filthy slumlords before I met you. You gave me hope. You gave me a home. You gave me appliances.

The problem is, see, my dishwasher hasn't worked in 7 or 8 months now. I know you know this because every time I call/see you, I say, "Hey, don't forget my dishwasher!" Then you tell me you'll fix it, but I should probably remind you in case you forget. So I keep reminding you... and reminding you. The last time we spoke, you said "the guy" would be over to fix it "the next time he comes through town." When will that be, exactly? That could be tomorrow, that could be the day after Christmas. I need a little more than that to go on.

It's not like I can't live without a dishwasher. This is the first apartment I ever had that came equipped with one. If the place had been infested with cockroaches, I might have still considered living here based on the presence of a dishwasher alone. I hate doing dishes. It's not my fault, really. I was born with what my brother calls the Smart Laziness Gene. Smart is my maiden name, you see, and I believe it refers more to my family's ability to get out of hard work more than our book smarts. I used to think the Smart Laziness Gene was a joke, until the evidence started to stack up. We don't keep files, we keep piles. We don't search for the best service, we search for the easiest. If there is coffee left in the pot from the day before, I will reheat it and drink it just to get out of trying to separate the paper coffee filters to make a fresh one.

So, you must understand, my dislike of and inability to do dishes is really my parents' fault. Aren't our parents responsible for everything?

I am polluting the earth, but I blame that on you. Why wash a plate when you can buy styrofoam ones for $.79 at Sharp Shopper? I want to be "green", sir, but your unwillingness to fix the dishwasher has turned my husband and I into the planet's worst enemy. You know that glacier that broke off and split in two a week ago? Just think - you could have prevented that by simply telling "the guy" to come fix my dishwasher at a certain time, on a certain date. I pray you find a way to live with your guilt. After all, it's not like you went out there with an ice pic or anything that sinister.

I suppose I should thank you for one thing, though. You are the reason I have an abundant and adorable collection of coffee mugs. I don't normally wash them until I am left with no other choice but to a) drink my coffee directly from the pot, or b) buy a new mug. When I open my cupboard, I am assaulted by falling ceramic mugs, but I am quite fond of my collection, and I really must give you all the credit.

In closing, I hope that you will understand how important this matter is. It is not life or death, but doing copious amounts of dishes prevents me from what I normally do, which is avoiding real work. We can't have that, now, can we? I have been a good tenant. I have helped you rid your complex of unwanted tenants - like the ones who used to get drunk and pee in the parking lot. I have kept you apprised of certain situations - like cigarette butts littering the gardens out front, and the guy to my left shooting at bottles in the middle of the night in the backyard. I ignored the fact that, once a week, your teenage son used to mow the lawn around the tree-sized pot plant growing in the middle of it. I never stole any; I never smoked any; I never gave any to anyone... no matter how many times they asked me to.

Please, sir. Fix the dishwasher. The earth's future rides on your immediate action.

Sincerely,
Julie A. Fidler Pin It