Year: 2009

  • She’s shattering the glass ceiling or window or whatever

    Last Friday, Gulley and I were talking on the phone. Her youngest son, Will, asked if she was talking to Mel. She told him yes and he said, “Tell her I need to get with her about a time she can pick me up from school”.

    Okay, Mr. Trump. Let’s see when we can get that on the calendar.

    I told Gulley to put him on the phone so we could work out the details of our impending date. As it turned out, Tuesday was a good day for both of us. Our calendars were wide open, which isn’t easy when you’re dealing with a four-year-old who has a social schedule jam-packed with time spent eating fruit snacks and remembering to go potty.

    Seriously, I love both of Gulley’s boys like they are my own, but there is something about Will that just does me in. He is a little bit of a rebel with charm to spare. Apparently, my taste in men hasn’t really changed over the years.

    This is Will giving me what he refers to as his “sweetest smile”.

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    I’m powerless to resist him.

    The thing about Will is that he reminds me so much of Caroline. Gulley and I often marvel at how similar their little personalities are. They both have a flair for the dramatic, can hold a grudge for days, and will make you laugh out loud about twenty times a day. And when you get the two of them together they are like fire and ice.

    At Will’s birthday party this year, Gulley was talking to P and said, “We better hope Will and Caroline never decide to date each other because there would be way too much drama. They’re either loving or fighting”.

    P replied, “Sounds like a perfect marriage to me”.

    I have no comment.

    Anyway, Caroline and I picked Will up after school yesterday so he could spend the afternoon with us and then go to Caroline’s t-ball game where Gulley would pick him up. I took the kids straight to a nearby candy store because the Easter Rodent only brought about three pounds of candy and that would never get us through an afternoon.

    We secured our bags full of gummy butterflies, rattlesnakes, and one SugarDaddy sucker that proved to be an unfortunate decision, and headed back to our house to play. I don’t know why I was caught by surprise that they were so wound up considering that I’d let them eat massive amounts of sugar and they both tend to be overenthusiasts even without the high fructose corn syrup, but they hit the house like a pair of Tasmanian devils.

    Caroline suggested they roll a ball back and forth to each other across the kitchen, which seemed harmless enough until I realized that by “roll” she meant “hurl across the kitchen with force”. Fortunately, the picture frame and toaster managed to survive intact, if not a little battered and bruised.

    I sent them to the backyard in the hopes they would run enough to sweat some of the sugar out of their bloodstream. They immediately began to chase each other around, climb trees and make an attempt to pull Bruiser around in our red wagon. It was turning out to be a wonderful afternoon unless, of course, you were Bruiser.

    After checking to make sure they were okay, I called Gulley to finalize our plans for the t-ball game. We were in the middle of our conversation when I heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

    The word that came out of my mouth when I heard it was not a word I learned in Sunday School.

    I hung up on Gulley and ran outside to see what had happened. Caroline was standing by her t-ball tee and crying hysterically. Will was standing a few feet away from her with a look of shock and awe on his face.

    Our bedroom window was completely busted.

    There is no doubt that I am a true South Texas girl because my first thought was “How on earth am I going to make sure that my room doesn’t lose too much air-conditioning tonight?” High maintenance much?

    I attempted to calm Caroline down while I did what I always do in situations that require some type of solution and organized thought process, I called P.

    “Hello?”

    “CarolinewaspracticinghittingtheballandbrokeourwindowandwhatamIsupposedtodo? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR OUR AIR-CONDITIONED ROOM?”

    “You need to settle down. It’s no big deal.”

    “Really?”

    “Yes. Tell her it’s no big deal. Accidents happen. See if you can clean up the glass and I’ll be home in a little while.”

    “Oh. Okay.”

    He has no sense of drama.

    The kids danced around me while I picked up the shards of glass. It helped the situation some, but there was still a big gaping hole in our bedroom window.

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    In the meantime, Caroline began to feel a sense of pride over her accomplishment and told me she’d like to call Bops to let him know how hard she hit the ball. She and Bops have really been working on her swing and, judging from the window, their work has really paid off.

    I’m so proud.

    And also probably a few hundred dollars poorer.

    My knight in shining armor pulled into the driveway and immediately pulled out the duct tape. He taped what he could, but it was obvious we needed something to cover the window for the night. Because did I mention the need for maximum air-conditioning?

    He disappeared behind the garage and came back with a solution.

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    At least it’s good for something.

  • And now we’re back to where I left off a week ago

    As I briefly mentioned, before I took my blogging sabbatical, I’d spent the weekend in New Orleans. And by weekend, I mean I was there for about twenty-four hours. Six of which were spent in the Louis Armstrong Airport.

    Sophie and I were there to blog for Allaccess and after the first part of the Living Proof Live event ended on Friday night, we felt like we needed something to eat in spite of the fact that I’d eaten a crawfish po-boy that was bigger than my head only a few hours earlier.

    So we did what most people do when they’re in a city that’s world renowned for its cuisine; we went to Domino’s Pizza.

    We originally debated just ordering room service, but $26.00 seemed a little pricey for a cheese plate, even if it did promise homemade pecan bread and various cheeses from around the world. Instead, we ventured outside the hotel but were too exhausted to find a real restaurant. Our choices boiled down to a Quik Mart that offered four-day-old fried chicken kept warm by a thirty-watt lightbulb or Domino’s.

    Several people were already waiting for their orders in the Domino’s waiting area and I immediately sensed they’d been waiting for their pizzas for a long time. I have an intuition about these types of things or maybe it was the fact that one customer had curled up and fallen asleep on the bench. I’m not sure.

    The girl behind the counter was on the phone when we walked up to the order window and she looked up long enough to ROLL her eyes at the very nerve of us interrupting her personal conversation to order a pizza. What did we think this was? A pizza place?

    She put the receiver to her chest, adjusted her Domino’s visor, and said, “Mmhe melo hou?”

    “Um. Sorry to bother you. Can you tell us how long it would take to get a pizza?”

    “Shnme melm.”

    “Beg your pardon?”

    Big eye roll.

    She put down the phone, glanced back towards the kitchen that contained no indication that anyone was actually making pizzas, and said what I believed to be “Fifteen minutes”.

    “Okay. Then we’d like the four for $4.00 special with pepperoni!”

    Hooray for optimism.

    We paid for our pizza and I could tell as we faced the waiting room crowd that we’d made a huge mistake. Why didn’t anyone tell us that it was too late for them but we should save ourselves? It was as if they were all bound by some unwritten code of Domino’s Pizza silence.

    For the next hour we watched people give up on their cheesy breadsticks and Philly Cheesesteak pizzas and go back from whence they came. But not us.

    Oh no ma’am, we were prepared to die on that Domino mountain or uncomfortable bench or whatever. We’d shelled out $16.00 for our pizzas, we’d invested the time, and we were going to get us a pepperoni pizza if it killed us. There was no going back to the comfort and safety of the hotel and settling for a $28.00 plate of global cheese.

    The Domino’s patrons were looking sketchier by the minute and that’s when I began to wonder if I was going to meet my demise in an establishment that serves mediocre pizza at best.

    About that time, one of the other customers decided to impress those of us still waiting for any semblance of food. He got on his cell phone and proceeded to call everyone he knew to tell them about the party he’d just left and the party he was headed to after he got his pizza. And how awesome all the parties were and how he didn’t put up with anything from anyone.

    Well, except for maybe the folks at Domino’s who had kept him waiting for over an hour for his pizza.

    It was fascinating.

    At some point during his fifth cell phone call, he realized all his party plans were failing to draw us in. I hated to tell him that he was dealing with two mamas in their late 30’s. The only party we’re looking for at this point in our lives is a comfortable couch and some sort of reality show marathon on Bravo, preferably involving Rachel Zoe.

    So he got off the phone and began to tell us his Domino’s Pizza conspiracy theory. According to him, they purposely make you wait so you’ll leave without your food and they’ll keep your money. Apparently it’s how they make a profit. I don’t really give that theory any credit because it doesn’t make any sense and, also, because I heard it from a drunk guy in New Orleans.

    After spending an hour watching the girl at the counter repeatedly gaze into the kitchen and tell prospective customers that it would be “about fifteen minutes”, we finally heard her call out, “Joikobnse”. I wasn’t totally sure it was us, but it looked close enough. We grabbed it and ran back to the hotel.

    It was one of the best pepperoni pizzas I’ve had in at least a week.

    In fact, I’d like to say it was worth the wait.

    But that would be a lie.

    However, you have to believe that it was better than four-day-old chicken.

  • I know it’s long but I have A LOT to say

    I have to say that I was amazed at all the free time I had last week when I took my little blog vacation. I had time to organize my recipes, alphabetize my spice rack, learn how to crochet and paint the doorway of our master bathroom that’s needed to be painted since we moved back in our house after the renovation five years ago. Not that I actually did any of those things, but I could have.

    Instead I spent my time watching old episodes of “Friday Night Lights” and deciding what color I should paint my toenails for Easter. Oh, and I was also witness to a miracle that I’ll have to tell you about later this week. It wasn’t anything akin to the parting of the Red Sea or a pair of jeans that fit great for less than $39.99, but it was a miracle nonetheless.

    This is the problem with not blogging for a week, I don’t know where to begin. My life has become a series of Post-it notes with random scribblings of things I would normally write about, but instead had to remember for another week. Now I’m looking at them five days later and they say things like “Nightcream? MaMaw?” and “Water bottles-cheap”, and I have no idea what my original thought process entailed.

    I also found a page torn out of my journal that read, “Milk, whipped cream, butter, half & half, bacon, one pound cheese” and was relieved when I realized it was just a grocery list and not the idea for a post entitled “How to Make Sure Your Cardiologist is Your New Best Friend”.

    So since I don’t know where to start, I’m going to start with Easter. Everything else can wait a few days but if I wait a week to talk about Easter, then it kind of becomes pointless.

    Much like this entire post so far.

    This has been one of those weekends that I hate to see end. As Caroline looked through her Easter basket this morning, I got big tears in my eyes when I realized we probably don’t have too many Easters left where she thinks a bunny sneaks into our house in the middle of the night to eat carrots and leave a basketful of cheap gifts.

    She asked me yesterday how the Easter bunny gets in and I mumbled some lame answer about magic, while P interrupted me to tell her that a rabbit is like a mouse or a rat and can make itself small enough to squeeze through any kind of hole to get in the house. Except I believe he actually said, “The Easter bunny is like a rodent…”

    That’s exactly the type of tender childhood memory I’m always looking to instill.

    Anyway, we had a busy weekend. Caroline spent the night with Mimi and Bops on Friday night, so P and I opted for an exciting night at home complete with pizza delivery. After we ate our pizza, he went out to the backhouse to admire all his weaponry and I watched “Friday Night Lights”. Twice.

    It’s hard to sustain this level of glamour and glitz, but we manage somehow.

    On Saturday, we helped our church get set up for the Easter service and then spent the rest of the afternoon engaged in various egg trivia and relays with relatives. Relatives that we actually had to introduce ourselves to using our first and last name.

    Did you know there was such a thing as egg trivia? Neither did I.

    When we were on the way home from the egg trivia, Caroline piped up from the backseat and said, “Mama, I’m carsick.”

    “What? You’re carsick?! Are you going to throw up?!”

    I was totally prepared to tell P to pull the car over or to use the Easter basket as a receptacle. Desperate times.

    “No, I’m just sick of being in the car. Carsick.”

    We need to work on our semantics.

    Here’s the snack Caroline left out for the rodent who was going to crawl through a small hole to get in our house.

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    Please note the perfect formation of the carrots. She informed me that it was a “tally formation”. I do believe we have gotten our money’s worth out of Kindergarten.

    Normally I only let her have one chocolate candy bar for breakfast, but yesterday she stuffed about three Reeses eggs in her mouth before I knew what happened.

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    And, in what may have been the highlight of my day, check out the pigtails and bows.

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    She totally shot down any mention of wearing white sandals, but those bows were my Everest.

    After a great church service, we came back to the house for Easter brunch with my family. The highlight, other than my baked french toast casserole, was a plastic wind-up chicken that poops Hubba Bubba bubblegum. Because we are a sophisticated group of people.

    Speaking of sophisticated and refined, P spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out the backhouse while Caroline claimed any item that was headed for the giveaway/trash bin.

    Here she is with a sweet new hat, a nasty old mop, a chalkboard, a rusty rainbow chair and assorted cardboard boxes.

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    At some point I couldn’t bear to watch so I went inside to make deviled eggs out of all the superfluous hard-boiled eggs we had on hand. When I looked outside about thirty minutes later, this is what I saw.

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    She made this all by herself and put the whole thing together with Scotch tape.

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    With this type of skill she may be well on her way to becoming an architect. Or perhaps a shrimp boat away from being completely equipped to live on a beach along the Texas coast.

    I’m not sure which.

    Let’s go with architect.

  • Big Boo Cast: Episode 15

    Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

    I’m afraid if I start writing I won’t be able to stop. I have had some serious blog withdrawal this week and have had to confront what are apparently highly narcissistic tendencies considering how much I feel the need to share every moment of my day with the internet.

    The upside is I have never had so much free time. In fact, Sophie and I found time to record a podcast this afternoon, even though it meant I had to stop watching last week’s episode of “Friday Night Lights” for the third time.

    In my defense, I was just trying to prepare for the season finale.

    Also, I just finished watching the season finale and will probably watch it another twenty-six times between now and Monday. With a box of Kleenex nearby. Coach Taylor gets me every time and, seriously, don’t get me started on Tim Riggins.

    Anyway, none of that has anything to do with the material contained in the podcast. We basically discuss food, our dislike of coconut, the origin of the water chestnut and if it is, in fact, a nut, and my quest for a maxi dress.

    In other words, the usual nonsense.

    You can click here to listen.

    Can’t wait to be back to regular posting on Monday. I HAVE A LOT TO SAY.

  • Name

    A couple of weeks ago, I watched Steven Curtis Chapman and his family being interviewed on “Good Morning America” and “Larry King Live”.

    Honestly, part of me didn’t want to watch because the whole story has just broken my heart. The tragic death of a five-year-old girl hits really close to home when you’re the mother of a five-year-old girl.

    But I watched anyway.

    One thing that came up in both interviews that brought tears to my eyes each time I heard it was when Steven Curtis Chapman said someone later told him that as he was being driven away in the car to get to the hospital where his daughter had just been Life-flighted he rolled down the window and yelled to his devastated son, “Will Franklin! Your father loves you!”

    I cried because it is such an incredible picture of how much a parent loves a child. That even in the midst of all that tragedy, he made sure his son knew that he was loved.

    But even more than that, I cried because, for the first time, I realized that is how God loves me. How many times have I been crushed by my fears, my failures, my disappointments? How many times have I doubted, questioned, and wondered why things aren’t working out the way I want them to?

    He whispered to my heart and let me know that in all those times, when I have been at my lowest points and at my highest points, He has looked at me and said, “Melanie! Your father loves you!”

    This shouldn’t be a new revelation to me. But it was.

    When I think back to my childhood, I don’t remember hearing much about God’s grace. I’m not saying it wasn’t being taught, it just never really sunk in. Maybe I heard one too many flannel-board Sunday school stories about Sodom and Gomorrah.

    Whatever the case, I have struggled with grasping God’s mercy and grace. I struggle with how He can love me so much when I so often feel like I’ve failed. And at the heart of that is a trust issue. Do I trust that His love is stronger than my failures? Can His grace cover my flaws? Do I trust that He wants to pour out blessings on me that I don’t deserve, but He gives them anyway because that’s how much He loves me?

    Two days after I watched the Chapman interview, I went in Borders to buy a new book for our beach trip. I looked around and had a couple of different choices in my hand, but then I saw “The Shack” on a display shelf. I knew it was the book I was supposed to buy.

    I’d heard great things about it, but had purposely not read it because I knew the story begins with a tragedy involving a young girl. I just didn’t know if I could stand to read it.

    I mean, I am the same person who spent the first six months of her daughter’s life watching only two things, “I Love the 70’s” on Vh-1 and “Little Women”. It was all my raw heart could bear.

    So I put down my copy of “Such a Pretty Fat” by Jen Lancaster (which I still really want to read by the way) and bought “The Shack”.

    It was the right choice. I couldn’t put it down.

    At one point early on in the book, the main character experiences his first real encounter with God. And at that moment God picks him up, spins him around like a little child while shouting his name “Mackenzie Allen Phillips!”.

    Tears.

    After I read it I couldn’t get the image out of my head that God sees me that way, that He feels that way about me. That I am His child and He longs to hold me close the same way I long to hold Caroline close and cherish every single ounce of her, but even more so.

    I’ve read Psalm 139 countless times. I know He knows my thoughts, I know He knows my words before they are on my tongue, I know He knows the numbers of hairs on my head (not as high a number as it used to be), and I know His thoughts of me outnumber the grains of sand.

    I know it because I’ve heard it all my life. But I felt like in the days following the Chapman interview and reading “The Shack”, He began to really reveal to me the depths of His love for me. Not for all mankind, not for every creation, but, specifically, for me.

    At church the following Sunday, I was standing during praise and worship and I felt God say to me, “I know your name. I know everything about you and I adore you. No matter what.” It’s like I could hear Him saying my name. My full name, over and over again.

    Just as I was feeling that in my heart, our pastor began to speak. Guess what he said? “God knows your name. He knows everything about you.” And as he spoke those words, the worship team began to lead us in a song I’d never heard before

    He knows my name
    He knows my every thought
    He sees each tear that falls
    And hears me when I call

    Is it just me or do you think God is trying to tell me something? His love for the world isn’t general. It’s not an all-encompassing “I love my creation” thing. It’s specific.

    Specifically for me. Specifically for you.

    In spite of who we are, in spite of how we fail, in spite of all our weaknesses.

    Because, here’s the thing. He made us. He knows us. None of our shortcomings and moral failures surprise Him. God doesn’t sit in heaven saying, “Wow. I did not see that coming.”

    He sits in heaven, with a deep longing to take us in His arms, spin us around and say “Melanie! Your Father loves you!”

    Except He would call you by your name, not mine. Because He’s God.

    And He knows your name.

    “See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” Isaiah 49:16

    This post was originally published in August of 2008.

  • Interaccessory Prayer

    This is word-for-word the bedtime prayer offered by Caroline last night. I feel certain it is destined to become a classic along the lines of “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep”.

    “Dear Jesus,

    Thank you for this day and all this stuff you give us.

    Please send a beautiful rainbow for us to see some time when it rains.

    Thank you for my mama. We love each other so much.

    (reaches up to touch my ear)

    Please Jesus, don’t let her wear these earrings anymore.

    Amen.”

    This post was originally published in February 2008.