worst trade ever

Well, my cold is nearly gone, which is awesome.

I was happy until 11:30pm when my stomach turned. What? Oh wait. Maybe the 10 trips to the bathroom today weren't because of too many cough drops.

Pepto chugged? Check.
Toilet and bathroom wiped down? Check.
New towel placed on the floor in front of toilet? Check.

Now I am sitting on the couch and waiting to see if I am going to spend the entire night on my knees...in a bad way. Actually, the alternative way to spend the night on my knees is equally bad. Not a fan.

ANYWAY, if this turns into a stomach virus, I am going to start re-evaluating my life. God is punishing me for something.


You benefit from my queasy stomach. This is the least gross, cutest toilet picture I could find.

walking petri dish

You know those sci-fi movies where one person is sick, and walks all around town spreading their toxic liquids around the world all the while looking nastier by the moment? That was me this week. Correction, that is STILL me.

I am now on day 5 of a nasty cold that came just in time for the chaos of Holy Week. Normally when I get sick (which hasn't been often this year), it is because I stayed up all night with teenagers or quit eating anything healthy for a few weeks or something of that nature. I can point to an event or decision and say "damn, I deserve this."

This cold is different. It hit me out of the blue in a stretch of time when I was sleeping well, eating well, and even working in the yard (as opposed to sitting on the couch with my dog). There is not a cold epidemic in my town...it is just me.

Miserable, feverish, dark green snot, coughing, sore throat, infected ears and everything. It is still a common cold. The doctor can't do anything for you.

I am happy to report that 3 days of complete silence (sorry friends for not answering the phone or being coherent enough to text to say that I am not answering the phone) and countless cups of hot tea allowed me to preserve my voice for early Easter morning preaching. After the sermon, I quit drinking all of the damned tea and actually spoke to people from a safe distance. Now my voice is going, going, gone. Who cares now?

Okay, I'm done whining! Here is the cool-to-me experience from having a cold:

I blew my nose into a tissue and threw it in the toilet without flushing it. Who wastes water on just tissue? Not this earth-day woman! The next morning, the germs from one tissue somehow multiplied and grew an actual ring around my toilet. OVERNIGHT. That is nasty and awesome at the same time!

Happy Easter, world! This preacher is now going to bed with her most recent lovers: cough drops, tissues, nyquil, and vicks vapo-rub.

life altering moment

Today my understanding of myself in the world changed forever. It all started when I put on a cute outfit to go to work...and realized that I didn't want to sweat in it tonight while outside with 30 wild teenagers.

I went home and made a hasty change. Jeans, converse, and an old shirt. On my way back to work, I realized that the old shirt looks horrible on me. That is why it was still hanging in the closet. The only obvious solution was to run to the store and buy a cheap replacement shirt (under the guise of running errands for work).

That is a great thing about being 32. I allow myself those awkward moments when I feel like I must change clothes or spend hours tortured with self-loathing. It doesn't happen often.

These events all led to a foolish decision. I bought a belt. A BELT. That you put on your BODY. What???? Fat girls don't wear belts, especially if their fat sits above the waist like a tire around your torso. Belts are the enemy.

Still, I gave the store $20 and went home with a cute shirt and a belt. 4 hours later, I've just tried on half of my wardrobe with...a belt.

How has the world shifted? I. Look. Better. In. A. Belt. The key is to put it on top of a shirt/shirtdress around the fattest part of my stomach. Above or below the tube obviously makes it look worse. Until today, it never occured to me to put a thick band of black elastic around the fattest part of my body.

A strange thing happened. I looked smaller. And younger. All of my outfits are fancier. It doesn't work with everything, but this is a belt! On my plus-sized stomach! It is not a miracle cure for fat. I still look like a fat girl in a belt, but I look like a slightly less fat girl who is much cooler and younger in a belt.

Tomorrow I will wear a belt all day. If it pops off my body or settles into an undiscovered roll of fat in an unflattering way, all will be right with the world. If I look cute all day, I have to accept that everything I know about myself is false.

My Night With Sinbad

Tonight I spent the evening with Sinbad, the charming and family-friendly comedian from 1993. At the same time an old school friend was with Sinbad....2000 miles away.

My night with Sinbad came via the movie "First Kid," which was showing on my 2nd tier cable movie channel. It was awesome! Aside from a few painfully ugly pairs of pants, the movie was as funny and pleasant as I remembered it being when I was little. Sinbad is still damned funny.

I didn't plan on watching "First Kid." Sinbad hasn't graced my TV screen in years. The irony didn't hit me until halfway through the movie.



You see, at the same time that I was hunkered down in a granny nightgown watching cheap cable with my one-eyed dog on a Saturday night, my friend was playing host to the real Sinbad. In Hollywood. At some celebrity auction fundraiser or something.

I was in the granny nightgown. She was in a designer dress making friends with the star of the movie on my TV.

I went to undergrad and graduate school with this woman, but our lives couldn't be more different.

I live in a small town with wholesome family-oriented friends who all go home from the pot-luck dinner at 9pm because it has "been a long week" and "we have a soccer game in the morning."

She is a gorgeous blonde who has cocktails with other gorgeous people in designer clothes at exclusive clubs.

My Facebook posts are about lock-ins, yard work, and church announcements.

Her Facebook posts include movie-quality pictures to illustrate her movie-quality stories...photo shoots, new bar openings, weekends in wine country, and other shit like that.

Here is the shocking thing about my evening: I am not jealous. At all.

Yes, I had a crisis moment. It came when I realized that I am truly happy watching TV on a Saturday night with my dog. The thought of putting on high heels and making small talk with important people while trying to be beautiful and charming sounds...exhausting.

The highlight of my Saturday occured when I walked around my yard and realized that I have red roses, yellow roses, purple pansies, and pink tulips blooming at the same time. At my house! That I own!

It seems that I've become the kind of woman that I feared becoming 10 years ago. My old school friend is living the life that I wanted- not because of celebrities and Hollywood, but because every week brings a new, grand adventure. I am happy for her, but not at all jealous.

A full day off work. Plants that I haven't yet killed in my yard. A good dog and a comfortable nightgown. If you add some fried chicken and a beer, I'd be living in a country music song. This is the life!*

*Being 32 means that I have the right to change my feelings in a week. The same things that bring me joy today may be suffocating tomorrow. Oh well. I'll never wish to spend my night in high heels with the real Sinbad.

The Boogie Man

Something happened this last week that has left me too afraid to sleep. I feel like I am 9 years old again, having seen a scary movie that takes over my thoughts even in the daytime.

Unfortunately, there are not people under the stairs or a man with a chainsaw. My grown-up monster stays just beyond the next corner, threatening to jump out and take away everything.

You see, this week a friend ended up in the news. This friend is a 75 year-old man who also pastors a neighboring church. He is sweet, caring, and very naive. Ministry is his life. His identity.

He was charged with sexual misconduct with a nursing home patient. A nurse turned him in when she saw him receiving sexual attention from a mentally impaired patient. We were shocked. I am a ridiculously loyal person, so I assumed that a nurse who hates pastors turned him in for giving someone a hug.

Tuesday we find out that he admitted everything to the police. This old pastor and the patient had been kissing and fondling for months now. He sat in the police station and described everything, not asking for a lawyer because he didn't know how much this would blow up. Or where he was. Or what was going on. Or that it was wrong.

The charge? Four accounts of sexual misdeamenor.

He is the new villian in the news. Before they even knew the details, both the TV and newspapers had his distraught mug shot and name posted everywhere. What a great selling story! Another sick sexual predator taking advantage of innocent old ladies under the name of God!

My friend is guilty. It leaves us all speechless as we figure out how to love and support someone who is in their own created hell.

Although I gag at the thought of him touching old lady boobs or someone even KNOWING that he has sexual organs, my friend is not the Boogie Man that I fear. My nightmares come from the police and the news.

You see, his name and his family's name were ruined before anyone even knew details. Any one of us could be accused of sexual misconduct. If one person testifies against us, the police will come to our work, put us in handcuffs, and haul us to an interrogation room for countless hours. They will yell at us, toy with our emotions, and treat us as if we've actually done the horrible crime at hand. Police don't care about emotional damage or our reputations. They are paid to get a confession.

The local news put out a story within hours with my friend's picture on the television. Their first report had all the details wrong, telling a much more violent story. They corrected their details with time, but no one has a huge news story saying "we were wrong." When we read or see about someone "suspected" of a crime, no one remembers the follow-up story clearing their name. It is buried in the 3rd page next to an ad for a car dealership. That could happen to any of us. My face could be on TV with "sexual assault" plastered under it simply because someone accused me.

The police didn't care that this man was in such a diminished mental state himself that he couldn't remember anyone's phone numbers or names. They took advantage of the obvious dementia to get him to talk without a lawyer. We don't know what is wrong with him, but a system of police and news have ripped everything away before his wife can make sense of him kissing another woman.



Now the Boogie Man is back in my imagination, haunting my quiet thoughts. I couldn't sleep last night. Instead, I lay in bed and thought out scenerios. What would happen to me if a church member accused me of a sexual crime? I rarely give kids a hug. Guys get a pat on the shoulder and girls get an arm around their shoulders. I am rarely alone with kids. If so, I keep a distance of at least 5 feet. I do these things without thinking because you cannot be a community leader without living in fear.

What about that college kid who is a pathological liar? We talk about a lot of sexual stuff because she is in her first lesbian relationship! What about the girls who were sexually molested as children? The angry guy who will lie to get revenge over something as small as a ultimate frisbee game? The old lady with dementia?

What about the parents who believe everything that their child says? If a mother believes I told her 14 year-old daughter that she can have an at home abortion by taking 5 birth control pills*....she will definately believe a crime accusation.

Teachers, doctors, counselors, and ministers....we have a Boogie Man. He can come unexpected in the night and take away everything. We are completely defenseless to do anything about it. I just pray as I try to sleep that he is not waiting in the closet now.

*I have never used the word "abortion" around teenagers and never talked about birth control pills with that child. This is a true story and her mother truly believed her.