Here's Your Sign

Ever have someone tell you, “Here’s your sign,”? Coined by comedian Bill Engvall, this is not a term of endearment. On the contrary, it’s used to point out an individual’s stupidity - or in the most gentle of cases, to point out an obvious or dumb remark.

I paint my kitchen lime green and display it proudly. A visitor asks me if I like that color. Um, no, I chose a color I hated so I could cringe on a daily basis. Of course I like it - that's why I chose it. "Here's your sign."

Let your mind wander. I’m sure you can think of plenty of instances where you could have used that phrase on someone else. Or...maybe you deserved to be given your own sign. I think we all probably need our own stash of signs to keep on hand for those rare moments when our brain and mouth fail to communicate properly.

Then there’s the types of “signs” that aren’t so literal. The types of signals we look for every day to help us determine actions or choices. Often times we ask God for these signs as we hunt for answers in a very muddled and mixed-up world. And sometimes...we wait too long. We are so intent on finding that one particular sign that we fail to move. We sit and ponder and watch and wait, when maybe we just need to get off our duff and do something. Obviously, this doesn’t apply to every situation. There are times we need to sit and wait until a certain path is made clear. But there are also times when we just need to make a decision and move. There are times when certain decisions may not make or break our futures, let alone affect the universe as a whole. Therefore...

As long as you don’t think it’s going to send the universe as we know it into upheaval, and as long as you’re confident you’re not destroying your future or someone else’s future as a whole, it may be time to get off your duff and move. Only you know if the time is right. But just in case all you needed was a sign, there it is.


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I Love All Her Faces

It’s time again for me to bring up one of my critter children. Not because I’m a crazy cat lady (yet) but my one cat seems to have a way of teaching me life lessons when I least expect it.

Ever since she was a tiny kitten, she’s lived up to her name, Nitro.

Whether she presents herself as a Christmas gift,

steals my heat,

or takes over my television remote control,

she’s my best bud. I’ve often said that I believe God gave me Nitro just to make sure I smile every day. She likes to grab moving blankets,

hang upside down,

attempt the impossible,

sit at the dinner table,

ship herself to exotic destinations,

and take up residence in my bathroom sink.

No matter what, even if she destroys any attempts on my part to get some work done,

(and no matter how innocent she tries to look)

I love her.

One thing that has been impossible for me to capture in a picture is how Nitro acts when she wants something (whether food or just attention), especially when I get home from work or when I get up in the mornings. Somewhere along the way, she developed a habit of jumping up into my arms (from the floor or nearby furniture). At first, I was surprised by her behavior, but it was cute, and even though half the time it just meant she was hungry, it felt like she loved me and wanted a hug – and her purring just added to my own pleasure.

What I soon observed was most special though, was how she was jumping on me. I realized that not only was she aiming at my chest (rather than the ledge of my shoulder), but she was not extending her claws either. She was aiming herself at me, fully expecting me to catch her. Once caught, the purring would start, and she’d give my hairline a wet grooming, whether it needed it or not. She had complete faith that every time she jumped, I’d catch her and hold her.

Eventually, I stopped and thought about Nitro’s behavior and how it compares to how I should be with God. It’s hard to trust someone I can’t see – I admit it. I love God with all my heart and I follow Him and have faith in Him. But it’s not always easy. Sometimes I want to do things my way. Or I don’t really have enough trust that He knows what He’s doing with my life. I extend my claws to hang on – just in case He really does let go of me. Or maybe I don’t jump at all, scared He won’t catch me.

But the truth of the matter is, if there is only One I can ever trust, it’s Him. I fully believe He will never let me down. And as such, I should always feel brave enough to leap into His arms, fully trusting that He will not only catch me, but He’ll never drop me. That’s just the way He is.

As quirky as Nitro can be, (she’s playing in a couple cardboard boxes as I type this, and doing a good job of making me laugh) she also, unknowingly, teaches me about life…if I’m willing to stop and take a closer look.


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Heaven-Sent Chocolate

Yesterday I received a sign. And it was a glorious one at that. Who wouldn't want proof that chocolate is indeed a helpful instrument during one's workday?

I'd decided to give myself a treat. It was one of those days. You know the kind. All I wanted was to stuff that glorious peanut butter cup in my mouth and savor every delectable moment. I was already fighting to keep from drooling.

As I tore into the foolproof orange package that resisted every gentle attempt at separating the edges glued with cement, my impatience overcame me. I felt a Hulk-ish rage inside of me as I growled and threw all of my arm muscles into the task.

Unfortunately, it was just a tiny bit too much force.

The Reeses cup flew out of that package like lemur who'd just sat on a thumbtack. Only later did I realize that perhaps the candy knew all along what it was doing, and that perhaps it was not by my might at all that it had slingshot itself from its airtight confines.

When the cup landed, it chose a very specific spot on my computer's keyboard (yes, I eat at my desk). The "help" button. And it landed at such an angle with such precise force that it pushed the button, opening up my current application's help screen.

It was during that very moment of hearing a choir of angels somewhere in the distance, I realized this hunk of chocolate, peanut butter and 8,954 calories truly was sent to help me in conquering my day.

I refuse to think my energy after devouring my treat was due to the amount of sugar I'd just consumed. Instead, I choose to believe my heaven-sent candy miraculously gave me a mental and physical boost to propel me through what continued to be quite a day.

In the end, I was victorious. All because I'd chosen a Reeses peanut butter cup as my snack.

I've never had an apple land on my keyboard's "help" button. Just saying.

A Leaning Tower of Paper

It wouldn't have been so bad, had there not been a bump. But had there been no bump, there would have been no reason for laughter, either.

It was a dark and stormy night... well, actually, it was mid-morning, the sun was shining brightly, and the inside of my workplace was lit very well also. We do a lot of printing where I work. And when lots of printing is happening, lots of paper is happening, too. When when lots of paper is happening, lots of cutting very large stacks of paper is happening as well.

Thankfully, I'm not the one who does most of said cutting. My office buddy takes care of much of that - at least in this morning's case. When a print job requires more paper - you cut more paper. That's just the way it is. And when a table-height cart is available to haul the paper, that is the obvious mode of transportation.

Imagine, if you will, the cart, which, though a comfortable height, has a surface of only 16"x20" or thereabouts. Not large enough to contain two stacks of 12"x18" paper. So what should one do? Make a single, incredibly tall stack of paper, of course. I believe my office buddy, after creating the stack, used the adjective "Dr. Seuss-like" to describe the leaning, weaving, precarious-to-say-the-least, enormous pile of thick, glossy paper.

I watched. Yes, I chose to watch, not drive the cart. My eyes never left the cart. Or my office buddy's one hand that sat atop the paper tower above her eye-level, while her other hand drove. As any assistant would do, I walked alongside her, ready to lend aid, but surely in a case like this, no help would be necessary.

But see...there's this little slope in the floor where two concrete slabs meet. Call it a bump if you will. It's not enough to stop a wheeled object short, but it's enough to at least give a vehicle a jolt.

Yeah, you know where I'm going with this, don't you?

The cart, in all its splendor, hit the bump full-force. Now, the paper was so heavy because the tower was so tall, which created too much momentum for the cart to stop. So instead of all the paper sliding off the front of the cart, it slid backwards - towards my office buddy.

My ninja-like reflexes kicked in and I lunged for that crumbling mountain of coated, 12"x18" stock. My arm wedged itself between the razor-sharp edges of the paper and my office buddy, whom I was trying to save. In the meantime, both her hands became busy, also trying to stop the mountain's momentum and keep a disaster from happening. The result? The both of us hanging onto the paper, chasing the cart as it continued to move forward on its own - towards a nearby shelf.

A vision flashed before my eyes of us hitting the shelf head-on, then watching in horror as the shelf toppled over into our beloved digital press, crushing it under its weight. Thankfully, my vision did not come true, however, we did run into the shelf. The corner of it, to be precise. Did you know the corner of a metal shelf will cut into a stack of paper and leave a triangle-shaped notch? Neither did I. But, I do now.

So here we are, both still clutching the now almost-horizontal tower, defying all odds along with the law of gravity. We would not allow one paper to touch the floor. No sir! Why? Because we're just that way.

Granted, it was a close call. Because even though we had paper digging into our arms, and muscles that were straining to hold it all together, we were laughing uncontrollably. (Did I mention there were no witnesses? How sad.)

Somehow, I managed to pull my trapped arm out of the mangled mess and begin relieving my office buddy by lifting off the paper, small stacks at a time, and placing them on a nearby table. And yes - we actually did succeed in not allowing one single sheet of paper to touch the floor. And the shelf was fine. And the cart was fine. And we were fine (although we did have a few paper cuts, and our sides were sore from laughing).

So I guess, when you see a bump, you can slow down and ease over. Or you can ram it head-on and bask in the laughter-infused aftermath.

The Scented Aisle

You know the scented aisle? The one with all the scented candles and wax aroma-filled cubes? Yeah, sometimes I venture down there. I just have to be prepared to not smell anything else for at least three hours afterward…since I have to smell each and every scent. Well…maybe not ALL of them, but pretty close.

Personally, I like the citrus scents, no matter the time of year. There’s just something about orange, lemon or lime that pleases my senses. Even now, I took a deep breath, just imagining my favorite fruity scent. Get past those and into grapefruit though, and I move on.

One thing that’s always perplexed me though, is when someone, somewhere, has the nerve to think they can capture the scent of some season or type of outdoor air, or even scenery. Like a beach. Beaches smell like sunburned sand and fish. And sunscreen. Maybe some seaweed. Not like a mix of exotic flowers, unidentifiable perfume and the cleaner you keep under the bathroom sink.

I mentioned a season. Let’s take autumn. Autumn Leaves. Autumn Air. Essence of Autumn. Do you know what autumn really smells like? Go outside and take a whiff. Damp earth (aka: wet dirt). Piles of leaves (aka: decomposing tree parts). Nature at its best (aka: almost-sun-dried earthworms, that emit a scent akin to dying fish). Throw in a little car exhaust and the neighbor’s last barbeque of the year, and there you have it. Autumn.

So where do all these warm spices come in? Oh, sure, you’ve got your Pumpkin Pie Surprise, your Grandma’s Apple Fritters, and Thanksgiving Delights. I understand the connection – some foods are generally made around falltime. So when someone smells them, they automatically think: fall. I get the marketing strategy here. And I don’t mind so much when they name it what it is. Pumpkin. Spice. Cinnamon. But Autumn? Maybe it ought to be Autumn Memories. Or Flavors of Autumn Foods. Or Foods Only Made at Thanksgiving by Great Grandma. That would be a winner, I’m sure.

Of course, I still have to smell them all, hoping that one of these days, I’ll sniff something that actually does smell like garden mulch with a hint of car exhaust. Not that I’d buy it. I can go outside and smell that. But at least they would have gotten it right.

Until then, though, I think I’ll stick with the no-nonsense scents. Like Lemon. Or Mixed Berries. (Did I mention all those linen scents never smell anything like my own fresh laundry?) But as I leave the scented aisle, I’m sure the one thing that will never change is the lavender and some foreign spice semi-permanently adhering to my nostril hairs.

If you’re in Walmart and you hear a sneeze…it’s probably me. But it’s not contagious. Unless you brave the scented aisle as well.

Caught Unawares

I didn’t want to die. I mean Heaven is a lovely thought - I just didn’t feel I really wanted to leave Earth at that particular moment…in that particular position. You know how sometimes it only takes a split second to envision what the future might look like? Yeah, that’s kind of how this was.

Storms were moving through the area – the kind that come bearing tornado watches, the threat of hail and ear-splitting thunder. Don’t get me wrong – I love thunderstorms. I’ve developed a keen appreciation for pouring rain and long rolls of thunder. This particular evening though, things were just a bit too eerie. The clouds looked downright evil, and my cell phone kept warning me of flash flooding. Thankfully, I was inside my apartment, dry and cozy as could be.

Until I needed to use the restroom.

I usually keep the window cracked open in my bathroom as a source of fresh air since my entire apartment gets stuffy. So as I sat and…pondered…many things, I enjoyed the sound of rain outside. Soon though, I realized the wind was starting to pick up. A lot. A whole lot. I could hear the trees crashing around outside, and I started to feel my apartment shake just a bit.

Where’s my cell phone? I need to check radar. Shoot, I must have left it in the living room. I don’t hear any tornado sirens, but that wind is starting to rumble something awful. Surely this is just some short-lived high wind – nothing to worry about…right?

And as my pulse quickened with just a tad bit of anxiousness (I’d hate to say “fear”), I realized the worst part of my situation. At this point, I really wasn’t even concerned that I didn’t have a basement to go to. I had a closet that also served as a miniature storm shelter, so there was no real problem there. What I realized was the state in which I…sat. And then I saw it. The future.

The vision which entered my mind was one of rubble. My apartment had been demolished by an EF-5 tornado. Debris was everywhere. My cats had been transported to OZ. And me…they found me buried under the rubble…on the commode.

Really now! Who would want to die like that?! I’m sure there have been similar instances throughout history of people being caught unprepared, but not me! I couldn’t die like that. Ninja’s died honorable deaths in grand battles, not deaths brought on while sitting on the potty!

I’m glad to say there was a happy ending. I managed to complete my…task…and exit the chamber of untimely death before anything too drastic happened. Of course, after any panic had subsided, so did the wind. It had knocked a few small branches off the tree outside, but that was about it. No demolished apartment. No rubble. And no headlines in the newspaper about how a poor girl had been caught unawares. (I’ll refrain from any puns at this point.)

The moral of the story?

Yeah, I’m not really sure there is one. Other than check the weather before you answer the call of nature. ‘Cause nature apparently has a sense of humor.



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Thursday Nonsense - The Dreaded Foot Covering

Socks and I have never gotten along. I remember, as a child, refusing to don my socks and shoes to go outdoors. I literally threw fits. I would sass my parents, sit and pout, cry and refuse to put on socks. I didn’t particularly like shoes either, but it really was the socks part that bothered me most. Any kind of socks. Thin ones, thick ones, short ones, long ones or fuzzy ones. It didn’t matter if they were dull white ones, or ones bright with color. I hated all of them. If I would have had my way, I would have spent my life barefoot. Of course, I couldn’t. It wasn’t realistic, and my parents kept working with me until I outgrew the temper tantrums. What I didn’t outgrow, however, was my abhorrence of socks.

I still detest them. I’ve just learned to adapt, and someone my age throwing a fit over something as silly as socks would be…well, awkward. I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s better to have warm toes, or toes that don’t rub raw inside my shoes. And I’ve also learned that the part of socks I hate most are the seams. (Apparently I’m just very sensitive to touch. I hate wearing elastic or scratchy clothing – always have. Loose clothes are the best, and stiff belts or tight shoes are the worst. Don’t ever put a piece of lint in my shoe – I’ll go nuts.)

I now actually wear my socks inside-out. Yep. At any given time, inside my shoes are feet covered in inside-out socks. It doesn’t matter what kind of socks they are. As long as I can have the seam not touching my skin, it’s better. Not great, but better. Now, all of my socks are thin. I can barely stand to have thick socks on, because the seams are thicker. And when I put my shoes on every morning, it sometimes takes several tries before my feet can stand the position of the sock’s seam around my toes.

While my quirk can be frustrating, at least it provides a bit of entertainment. Even I have to admit it’s rather amusing. Maybe one day I’ll be able to wear socks like they’re supposed to be worn. But until then, I’ll just add it to my collection of oddities.

Surely I’m not the only one with a weird clothing quirk.

Some Days...

On Facebook yesterday, I said that some days are like trying to put on a shirt elbow-first. And to be completely honest, yes, I was speaking from experience. Both the experience of an awkward day, and the experience of literally stuffing my elbow through my t-shirt sleeve, only to find my arm stuck in that awkward position and threatening to cramp. It's a good thing I've got short arms, otherwise I may have needed the assistance of someone else, and would have had to show myself in public (looking like a flailing chicken in need of a medical squad).

Thankfully, I was able to pull my arm back through and stick my hand into the sleeve first, the second time around. No one knew how close I'd come to death by contortionism. Or embarrassment. The coroner probably wouldn't have been able to tell.

I've come to accept the fact (though I still get frustrated) that every so often, a day is going to end up just like the literal t-shirt experience. I get up in the morning, everything looks good, then something happens. Everything comes to a screeching halt, and I can't accomplish what I wanted (or at least not as quickly as I wanted). Eventually, something gives. Either I take a step back, reevaluate and go at it from a different angle, I tear through the obstacle like a flailing chicken (and either accomplish the task or simply ruin the virtual shirt), or I risk the shame of my uncomfortable position and ask for help.

In the end, how I react is up to me, and the consequences of my approach should be weighed. Do I really want to ruin the virtual shirt? Maybe there's a reason the obstacle is there. Asking for help really isn't shameful. Simply slowing down and rethinking might solve things. Getting frustrated and flustered only makes things worse - virtually or literally.

The answer on how to get around, through, or over obstacles vary, but if we'd slow down and take time to actually look at any situation, we'd probably be surprised at the possibilities presented. And...the lives of some t-shirts (or flailing chickens) might be saved. I've never seen anyone harmed by slowing down and taking a deep breath before going on.

Have a blessed weekend. And if you get your elbow stuck in your shirt sleeve, please manage a selfie before straightening it out.


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Nitro's Mornings

Today’s kitty antics are brought to you by Nitro, my critter child. From her own mind’s perspective, this is her typical morning…

I hear the covers rustling. She must be awake. Is she? Creeping closer. Closer. Her eyes are closed. Is she even alive? Sniffing her face just to make sure. Whoa! She’s got a wicked backhand. Good thing I’ve got “cat-like” reflexes. Baha! Well humph, she wasn’t really awake. I’m hungry. Should I try to get her up? After all, her alarm is going to ring in about fifteen minutes. She shouldn’t mind getting up that much earlier. I think I’ll pounce on her feet.

Oof! Glad I landed on my own feet. She’s got a mean kick, too. Still not awake? Surely she must be almost dead. I’ve gotta get back up there and check again. Watch the whiskers, watch the whiskers…  Whew! She’s still breathing and I managed not to tickle her. Hey look! The covers are moving again! There must be some kind of squirmy creature under there! I shall pounce, grab, scrape and bite, so she’ll be proud of me for saving her life. Wee!

Oh.

That was her hand. Well, at least she opened her eyes. Wait, why is she putting a pillow over her head? Nooo! I want my breakfast! Yelling loudly in her ear won’t even work now. I suppose if she’s going to be that way, I’ll just go knock some things off the kitchen counter. That usually gets her up.

Did you know napkins in the garbage are one of my favorite toys? If I work hard enough, the paper multiplies…all over the carpet! Yippee!

What? What’s that? I finally hear her alarm! Yay! I’ll go greet her, for surely she’s…wait… what’s this? She shut it off, but is going back to sleep. I can’t let her do that! She’ll be late for work. Jumping on her head. Kneading her leg. Hollering directly into her ears, one at a time. Licking her nose (one of my favorites). Pawing (gently) at her face. Running across the bed in an unexplainable zigzag pattern. Get up, get up, get up!

Whoa! Her alarm again! Whoopsies…she was planning to get up all along. Smiling. Smiling. Looking cute. Widening my pupils so she’ll see my adorable eyes. I’ll kiss her on the cheek this time.

Ahhh…the bliss of her hand running up and down my back. She must like to hear me purr. And…and…she’s getting out of bed! Wahoo! Breakfast! Waiting at my bowl…waiting, waiting…and…she’s gone to take a shower. Seriously? After all that work, she takes her shower before feeding me?! I’ll go knock on the shower door to speed things up…

Sheesh, I guess she’s planning to do everything else before going to work, but is obviously forgetting to feed me, even though I’ve been complaining to her for the last half hour. She’s even got her shoes on and is ready to walk out the door! You can’t leave! I’m starving here!

Hooray! Food! Yes! Finally!!!

Was that the door closing? Oh, I guess she’s gone for the day. I was crunching too loudly to notice. And I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I’ll be sure to jump in her arms when she gets home tonight as an apology. She always likes that.

Huh…now that breakfast is over, I’ve gotta find something to occupy myself. Hey look… I think my human left her bedroom door open. Play time! 

Think she'll notice I got in the pantry?

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It's Gotta Get Worse

My mother: "Go clean your room."
Me: "Okay."
[an hour later]
My mother: "What have you been doing?! It looks worse in here than when you started!"

Yeah, true story...on multiple occasions. Actually, the same scenario has happened even more times, in a variety of atmospheres. My office... my apartment... my car. I may have outgrown my mother telling me to clean my room, but what hasn't changed is the fact that often a bigger mess is created before any progress is seen. (I was going to post a picture of one of my messes but...I decided to keep you from that unnecessary horror.)

Of course, cleaning is often times made more difficult by my critter children. That neatly stacked paper? Prime target for a kitty dive bomb off the table. That garbage sack waiting to be filled? A perfect hiding spot! (Until it moves unexpectedly, then becomes the chamber of terror from which said critter must escape by means of frantically tearing through the bottom. So much for using that bag.)

While I want to blame my cats for making my messes even worse, the responsibility really falls on me. But...in my defense (and in finding the ultimate excuse), I've found it quite necessary to create a bigger mess before I can really clean. Necessary, as in I can't clean until the chaos is dragged out into the open and I can sort through it. What are floors for? Sorting piles of paper, books, lone socks, dust bunnies and a few unidentifiable objects. Sometimes a stray potato chip even appears from under a couch cushion (aka: spoiled food vending machine).

Thankfully, I have the wherewithal to keep cleaning past the point of chaos so I can actually accomplish my task...eventually. Interestingly enough, I've also realized there's something to be said for cleaning out the crud in my life. In order to do so, the nastiness has to be dragged to the surface and dealt with before I can overcome it and get rid of it. And while I may not have virtual critter children running around my mind and making it more difficult, my own pride does a pretty good job.

If I really want to be honest, I hate cleaning. I love the end results, and sometimes I get to the point where a particular mess is driving me crazy enough that I have to clean it...but the act of cleaning really isn't my favorite pastime. Neither is soul-cleansing my favorite activity. But both are necessary...unless one wants to be a slob inside and out for their entire life.

So go embrace the mess. And if anybody asks, just tell them you're cleaning. For without a worse, there would be no better.

Friday's Funny - WWJD

https://www.facebook.com/Christianfunnypictures

Should tempers flare, insults fly, rudeness occur, or patience expire, just remember that flipping over tables and using a whip may not always be the appropriate answer... even if imagining it does cause you to smile.

Have a joy-filled, stress-free weekend, everyone.

Peace in the Mortification

Lately I've heard myself saying things like, "When I was a kid," or "Years ago..." I suppose now I'm old enough to use those phrases without it seeming ridiculous to those even older than me. Of course, it also makes me feel old, but I suppose that's not going to change any time soon.

Another thing that probably won't change is feeling utterly ridiculous about certain past decisions or behaviors. Everybody looks back on at least one instance in their younger life, smacks themselves upside the head and would prefer never to be reminded of the incident. Now, I gotta say, I don't have too many instances about which I feel too stupid, but there are some. The good news is I've discovered I don't have to keep beating myself up over the past. Why? Because I've learned from it. I realize that not all people have the skill of learning from the past, but I can say with confidence that I'm at least getting better at it. And as I get better, there is peace.

A little back story... Yesterday, my office buddy and I were discussing the fact that my perceptions have changed over the last few years, and I'm able to see situations and people much differently than before. It was an area in which she knew I struggled, but she just had to sit back and wait for me to grow and learn things for myself. Thankfully, she was patient enough to wait.

Realizing how I'd perceived things several years ago, and realizing how it would appall me if I would react to situations now like I did then, I was mortified. And I even said so. My buddy's response? "But there's peace in the mortification." It sounded so funny that we laughed, and I even posted it on Twitter/Facebook, but if you look past the humor, it really is a very profound statement.

Being mortified by past actions means I've matured. I've come to the point where those things actually do mortify me. And that only proves I've grown. Knowing that brings peace of mind. It's a peace knowing that I'm still growing and learning and moving forward. We all do stupid things - it's only when we ignore them and choose not to learn from them that makes it sad.

So I guess I'm proud to say I'm mortified. Which...really sounds weird, but thankfully you've read this post and understand what I mean...I hope.

Here's to being mortified. May we all find peace in mortification, but be less mortified in the future.

Smashed Fingers, Paper Jams and Wet Pants

My day didn't start out well. Actually, I was fine until I was attacked by a door. Being a ninja, you'd think I would have seen it coming, but in my defense, it was dark. There didn't seem to be a need to flip on the light when I was only going to be in there a few seconds. But that was before I was viciously attacked. Apparently the door didn't want to be closed. Oh, but I got it closed, alright. I may have sacrificed my finger, but that door is closed!

Not long after that, this was my view:

This is an angle of the production-line copy machine where I work...from the floor...where I got to spend a lot of time while removing paper jams from all sorts of nooks and crannies. (We don't call it Beelzebub for nothing.) Torn papers, toner all over my hands, and phantom pages. In between that was a bout of forgetfulness, trying to beat the clock and basically feeling like a chicken with its head cut off - although less painful, I'm sure.

I wish that eraser really would fix all the problems. Erase the bad. Wipe the slate clean. Start over. Get those little pink shavings all over the floor. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, I don't think jamming the eraser into the copy machine will actually fix anything. Bummer.

Amidst it all though, I found myself laughing along with my office buddy. It was either that or be depressed, and being depressed is never fun. Of course, it helped when humor lent itself without effort. Like a door on the copy machine opening itself whenever it pleased - really. Or being so befuddled that speech became a real gibberish hazard - albeit hilarious.

Here's the best part of the day though...
I'm very blessed to work in a place where I'm allowed to use the laundry appliances, since I have none of my own. Today was one of those days when I brought a load of dirty laundry to wash. But I don't like putting my workout pants through the dryer, so I usually separate them and put them in my office to air-dry. Sometimes I drape them over the back of my chair. I didn't know my office buddy was going to need my computer this morning.

Imagine me standing in my office doorway as she looked up from my desk (where she'd been sitting for several minutes already...on my clean pants...) with an expression of shock on her face. "Your pants are wet!" Thankfully, I realized she meant the pants I'd taken from the wash, not the pants I was actually wearing. I probably blinked. There may have been a moment of shocked silence. All I'm really sure about is when she realized the implications of her words, our laughter was probably heard all the way at the other end of the building.

After everything the morning threw my way, I'm glad I can still smile, still laugh, and still praise the Lord for another day to be alive...wet pants and all.

Ahh...Tuesdays. Sometimes they beat Mondays. This one did a good job. I think tomorrow I'll bring a flashlight for the naughty door, a sledgehammer to threaten the copy machine, and a caution sign for my laundry room/office.

An Oxymoron at Its Best

The world I live in is a room full of rounded corners, windows too far out of reach, and an oxymoronish atmosphere that twists my feeble mind…and my sense of humor. At some point, I made a conscious decision to ignore reality and pretend to live in a world made up of whatever I wanted. Thrill. Love. Forever summer days, and of course, happy endings. 

But when I set my pen down, or close my laptop, I’m back in the real world again, breathing in the same oxymoronish air that makes me laugh when I’m expected to cry, or fight when I’m expected to fly.

Even aside from all my quirks and lapses from reality, my lot in life itself is considered unusual by most of those around me, since I’m still single. Makes things kind of awkward sometimes. I’ll admit, I’m headed for that crazy old cat lady phase, but hey, there are some very positive aspects to not having yet wed. Besides, if it weren’t for single people, nobody would ever get married.

I’ve had over thirty years of experience being single, and I’ve compiled quite a mental list of positive aspects. These are my favorite pros:

1) Time itself is yours and yours alone.

2) Bad morning breath and messy hair don’t really matter.

3) If you spend hours on the phone or computer, you’re neglecting no one.

4) That never-ending battle with the toilet seat being left up or down? It doesn’t exist.

5) Nobody sees how much chocolate you have for dessert.

6) Your toothpaste tube can be squished anywhere you want.

7) The bed’s entire surface is all yours to sprawl on (unless you have cats, then you’re left with a mere 20%).

8) The color of paint for the living room must please only you.

9) When you wonder if a piece of clothing makes you look fat, there’s no one to tell you yes.

10) No one else has to like what you fix for supper.

11) Quiet time is available ANY time.

12) There are no arguments about what to watch on tv or which movie to rent.

13) If you fall asleep on the couch, it’s not because you’re in trouble.

14) And my ultimate favorite: When you buy a tub of ice cream…it’s ALL yours!

Of course, even in my not-so-average world, there are cons to being single, as well. I can’t deny that. So I came up with a list of those, too.

Actually, instead of wasting space, just read back through the above list again, and that will suffice.

If you’re married, I’m sorry. And I envy you. And if you’re single, I hope you enjoy it and hate it as much as I do. I’m not the only one in a world of round corners and windows out of reach. But sometimes I imagine the panes lowering just a little, giving me slight glimpses of a different world on the other side. I think there’s sunshine there, too. And I hope there are happy endings. But if not, I’ll make up my own just like I always do.

Fun is Hard Work

Here's the thing... Sometimes to have fun, you gotta make fun. Fun doesn't create itself. Joy doesn't just pop out of nowhere and surprise you, and laughter isn't made from thin air (unless the air is helium, which can result in humor).

Lots of folks can hardly believe how I talk about my job, because a lot of what I share is the fun stuff. The pranks my office buddy and I pull. The bubble wrap mania. The war on boxes. The backwards clock we hung on the wall for the sole purpose of confusing people. We play music (loud music) in our part of the building. We dance across the floor. While waiting for our machine to finish a print job, it's no surprise to find us practicing our Taekwondo moves, or pretending to be ninjas. Sometimes alone. Sometimes we attack each other. Weapons? We use poster tubes or rulers. Do we look ridiculous? Absolutely! And people love hearing about all our antics.

Everything we do, though, takes effort. Our jobs aren't really all that fun. Our days aren't full of free time to goof off. We have very stressful projects with tight schedules. We deal with people waiting on us every day, and sometimes have to go to Taekwondo or Krav Maga classes just to blow off steam. We kick boxes not only because it's fun, but because sometimes we just need that stress release. My office buddy and I have great jobs, don't get me wrong. Working in ministry has fantastic rewards. We work with godly people and will never be told we can't pray or can't open our Bibles at work. We're touching lives worldwide with our work. But despite all the fun everybody hears about...yes, our jobs can be very stressful at times.

That's where the effort to make it fun comes in.

Fun isn't just born. It must be made. Why do we prank our coworkers? Because it produces laughter and lightens moods. Why do we act like ninjas? Because if we don't, we might really go mad. Why do we stand at the digital printer and laugh when there's paper strewn from end to end? Because if we don't, we might cry.

We make laughter. Our jobs really aren't all that fun. We create the fun to survive. We work hard at having good attitudes, and we rely on each other to help maintain the light atmosphere at our end of the building. And in reality...anybody can do it.

Not everybody can behave like we can at their jobs. I get that. But everybody can make the best of their situations and can have joy within themselves no matter their daily tasks. Having fun doesn't require pranks, ninjas or even bubble wrap. But it does require effort of the heart. It's attitude. It's mindset. Enjoying one's day is a choice.

So yeah, I've got a great job. But the laughter? That's a byproduct of daily effort.

Friday's Funny - Crazy Time

If you own a cat, you'll be able to relate. If you don't own a cat, I imagine you'll still find this cartoon rather funny. The most humorous part about the whole thing is that it's so true! My cats constantly make me laugh. Yeah, they get into mischief, but I truly believe God gave them to me for the company, and for something to make me smile every day.

Here's another video of "Simon's Cat."

 Go a little crazy this weekend...but not too crazy. :-)


"You have turned my sorrow into joyful dancing." Psalm 30:11a


  

The Plight of a Midget T-Rex

"Hey, can you grab this for me?" "Um…can you reach this?" "Wait, you need what from on top of where?" "Help! I'm stuck up here!"

These are phrases that have inundated my vocabulary. Not because I like the way they sound rolling off my tongue, but rather, out of necessity. Why? Because I'm vertically challenged. Actually, no, I'm just plain short. I might as well say it like it is. I'm proud to say I'm a tall 5' 3" if I stick my chin slightly in the air and make sure my heels barely touch the ground. Unfortunately, my height is only amplified by the fact that I also have short arms. Double whammy.

Now, my cousin claims the short arms scenario is due to our Norwegian ancestors who (he says) rowed in longboats and could only move their arms a certain length to avoid hiding the rower sitting directly in front of them. As generations evolved, the length of their arms remained short. Granted, this theory is humorous, but I doubt it holds much merit.

No matter the cause of my dilemma though, I am reminded daily that my legs and arms are shorter than average. I'm reminded at work when I have to ask my office buddy for help reaching something (it's sickening the way she doesn't even have to stretch, and she's not even unusually tall). I'm reminded after I take my car in for an oil change and I have to move the seat forward again before driving away. I'm reminded in my martial arts classes when doing just about any technique, but especially sparring. I'm reminded at home by the frequency of needing my step stool.

At first, I resented it. Not because of the teasing though. (Actually, I don't mind the teasing a bit because, first off, my shortness really is funny, and second, I feel loved.) No, I resented my shortness simply because I didn't like being short. I didn't like needing to ask others for help. Jumping up and down trying to reach something. Swinging my legs while sitting in someone else's chair. Trying to keep up with other people's walking strides. Needing the "junior" sword in my martial arts class (which became quite funny after a while, and is still a joke).

Then it hit me. If I wasn't short, I'd never have the endearing nicknames, like Short Sword (my favorite). I wouldn't have such a short distance to go when performing pushups or toe-touches. I wouldn't think picturing a T-Rex trying to make a bed to be nearly as funny as I do, since, well, I can relate. (Have you seen the cartoon of two T-Rexes trying to hug? Priceless.) And really, what's not fun about being able to tell your office buddy what to do? So what if I can't reach what's on the top shelf? I get to tell her to do it for me. Score!

All in all, I really have a frightening body shape. I'm surprised I haven't broken any of my mirrors yet. But I have found some advantages to my short height and short arms, mostly which is humor. And maybe that's the whole point. Without a bit of humor, life would be dreadfully dull. If it takes short jokes or T-Rex quips to lighten the mood, I'm glad I can provide the right ingredients.

"T-Rex trying to hit the snooze button..."

Picture from: https://www.facebook.com/Trextryingart

 

Friday's Funny - Comic Strip Humor

I smiled as I thought of my cats and how I love them...even on days they're a pain...

Click picture to enlarge

Calvin and Hobbes Comic Strip, June 08, 2014 on GoComics.com  ©Universal Uclick - All Rights Reserved. 

Have a great weekend!

 

"Shout to the Lord, all the earth; break out in praise and sing for joy!" Psalm 98:4

Friday's Funny - It's the little things

It could be worse...

 

(Found at Christian Funny Pictures)

Have a great spider-free weekend!


"Be thankful in all circumstances..." 1 Thessalonians 5:18a

Fancy Footwork of a Prideful Ninja

Never before have I been taught a lesson so literally. I was learning something new at my job that involved strapping mail trays to ensure the mail would not fall out during transit. I was also quite proud of myself for picking it up so easily and quickly. I felt so smart. I’d only seen my coworker do it once, and I was able to pull it off all by myself. Indeed, I was made for the job.

My mistake was actually verbalizing my pride. I actually told my office buddy how proud of myself I was, and that I thought it was rather impressive I was able to apply what I’d seen without any help at all. She (graciously) agreed I was “awesome.”

At that same moment, I turned and stepped toward a shelving unit. And tripped. Over the very coil of strapping I’d been working with – you know, the one I was so proud of using.

Now, please know that I didn’t fall on my face. I very gracefully skipped forward (the kind of maneuver that’s evidence of trying to cover up the fact that I just suddenly realized I’d lost all ability to walk correctly) and I didn’t even drop the tray of mail I was carrying. (I’m sure it was my ninja skills that saved me.)

I refrained from being too proud that I’d at least landed with half my dignity still in tact (the rest was lying on the floor in pieces, each one laughing at me). And, I will say that my fancy footwork did provide plenty of giggles. But really…I couldn’t believe how not only did “pride cometh before a fall” apply, but I literally acted out that very warning.

Thankfully, that all happened near the end of the workday, so I didn’t have to anticipate anymore embarrassing antics before heading home. Tomorrow though…I’ll be sure to keep my pride in check.