Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

No, today's entry is not about the wonderful CCR song "Have you Ever Seen the Rain?" Even though I like it a lot. It instead poses the very important question: "Have you Ever Seen Someone Ridiculously Walk in the Rain?"

I say this because today I was walking out of Wal-Mart--to my not so ideal parking place--and it started raining pretty heavily. My once tall stature became that of Quasimodo [see below] as I began to avoid the rain's fury by remaining lower to the ground. Makes perfect sense right?



I held the grocery sacks close to my chest and clung to them like children I was protecting. Heaven forbid a water droplet touch my very important items. I walked in front of a car. Because it's raining. And that's a right of way all in itself. Plus, getting hit by a Yukon is far better than getting wet.

I look up for just a second and see an older lady stick an empty grocery sack on her hair. Always save the hair first. Always.

I got to thinking: We are funny people. Rain is just gushing over us and we pretend like we're doing all this heroic stuff to save ourselves. Because holding our umbrella until it hits our car door frame is so worth it. Regardless of what you do, you are soaked somewhere on your body. In my case, it is usually parts that umbrellas aren't big enough to handle. I'll let you decide what that is. Just don't let me become the butt of any jokes.

I was just as wet when I got to my car as I would have been had I held my head up high and marched slowly to my destination. But instead I chose to look like I had aged 50 years, mumbling to myself as I half-jog hunchbacked it to my Camry. When I was safe and sound, I uttered this wise gem: "It always rains when I don't need it to." And then I thought a minute: Is the rain for you, Ashton? Does God choose to nourish the Earth because you didn't feel like going to get eggs, milk and a 5-pack of underwear that day?

Lesson in this? For me, it's that we do everything in our power to avoid hurt, embarrassment and bad experiences. Rather than take the chance of that happening, we hunch over, stick our butts out, cling to our grocery sacks and pretend like we're making a difference. Hurt is inevitable. Disappointment often falls like precipitation in the middle of a parking lot. Some pray for rain while others beg it away. It's a part of life and happens to us all.

So take chances. Stand up tall. And fight to maintain your dignity through it all.

For your enjoyment, the CCR song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gu2pVPWGYMQ

My Lazy Song

When it's almost time for a hiatus from work or a vacation, we're all guilty of saying the lie above all lies: "Well, I just don't know what I'm going to do with all this free time."

And if you're anything like me-- you walk out those doors with all kinds of plans. And you spend the next 5 days doing absolutely nothing, which entitles you to at least three naps a day to recover.

Justin called and asked if I was "sleeping again." He laughed as this actually escaped my half-unconscious lips: "Well, I watered the flowers and then I got really hot and tired."

This is from the girl who used to work 10 hours a day. And I've now suddenly lost the ability to do normal tasks without extreme fatigue. Here are some signs that you, like me, need to snap out of a coma.

1. Your only criteria for a Netflix instant streaming show is that it have 272 episodes or more. That should last ya about a week.

2. Suddenly making macaroni and cheese is a culinary masterpiece that takes too long. I actually put back a box today because I didn't have the desire to work that hard.

3. You get mad at yourself when you have to get up and go to the bathroom. Where is a Port-o-Potty when you need it? Note to self: Run to Affordable Medical Supplies whenever you decide to drive somewhere.

4. Your couch now has an indentation of your body. I got up to go to the bathroom and my cushions were sunken in and deformed. If a couch could take a deep breath, I'm pretty sure mine hyperventilated for two whole minutes.

5. The last 5 outfits you put on had an elastic waist band. You contemplate why in the world jeans are even considered casual. They are like belly prison.

6. Body spray is the new shower. Oh yeah, two squirts of Cucumber Melon will freshen you right up, Stinky McStinkster.

7. You make the last 10 minutes count. I have timed it out to when Justin comes home. I straighten up my surroundings, dash on some eyeliner and throw my hair up in a messy bun. A swipe of lipgloss and I am greeting him at the door, hoping my Whoops-I-didn't-mean-to-be-naturally-cute-look comes out just right. I usually miss a few popcorn kernels that have taken residence on my shirt.

I'm going to stop at 7 because things could get really ugly.

Sometimes it is just so nice to take a leave of absence from our busy lives--even if it means looking pretty pathetic in order to do so. It's just important not to stay there.

I think I'm going to cut it down to 1 nap tomorrow...

Matthew 11:28
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

Do you 'Like' Me?

I apologize for my short absence from writing. Because this blog has laughter in the title, I try to stray away from woe-is-me entries as much as humanly possible. And, let's face it, we all have those times in our lives. Times when we're the lion and times when we're the the oblivious antelope who's about to get its leg gnawed off. I would say this past week I was definitely the antelope. So I hung out (on my good leg) eating some grass until I started to feel my lion prowess begin to return.

I am sad to admit this. But what aided my return?

Facebook likes. And comments. And blog comments saying, "I've missed your blog."

Online media has created such a fickle community, me included. It's like one minute you're lying in bed thinking everyone hates your guts. And then two people like the picture of last night's dinner plate and you're golden. You begin to open your windows and sing a new tune because someone affirmed your choice of cuisine.

Why is the first part of my morning routine pulling up Facebook on my phone to see how many notifications I have acquired whilst I slumbered? Someone needs to invent an alarm clock app that already has Facebook included. I guarantee more people would wake up. "Time to get up! Time to get up! 10 people also agreed that Fantasia shouldn't have performed in a tight jumpsuit last night."

If no number shows up above that little world symbol, I feel like I should just stay in my pajamas, eat Cocoa Krispies and try harder. Be funny. Fall down. Do something-- but get that notification!

And when you thought that someone liking your status couldn't get any better, they invented the ability for someone to like what you said on someone else's status. So now you try to be the funniest friend. "How could they like what he said and not mine? Mine was totally hilarious. And he can't spell to save his life."

It got me thinking. What if we interacted this way in real life?

I'm in the grocery store deciding what brand of toilet paper to buy when suddenly 14 people gather around me with their thumbs up. Is this going to make me buy Quilted Northern?

My boyfriend dumps me and 6 people arrive saying, "I like this." "I like this." "I like this." "I like this." "I like this." "I like this."

Two girls gather by the bathroom mirror to make duck faces just for the heck of it. See below:



You're walking down the street and someone says, "Hey, I came upon some really cool tennis shoes the other day. Do you want me to share it 500 times with you?"



"Yeah, man. As long as you'll loan me some stuff in FarmVille."

Girls introduce their boyfriends as their boyfrannnns.

Guys walk up to each other and share headphones, "Listen to what I'm listening to."

Newly pregnant mothers take their pregnancy test stick to church and show everyone.

Ok, I digress. I am simply pointing out that we often look in the wrong places for affirmation and encouragement. I know I do. And sometimes we are quick to "like" someone's status but slow to tell them in person how much we appreciate them.

So go "like" someone.

1 Thessalonians 5:14 ESV

And we urge you, brothers, admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with them all.

This One's for the Girls

I walked past a glass door today and noticed some pretty horrendous panty lines going on with my dress pants. In all honesty, I knew I should have put on some Spanx, but I just couldn’t bring myself to endure the torture. I’m just so over that.

I realize back in the old days women had to experience the wrath of girdles and other such female misery, but they also got to sip tea and eat crumpets and play piano for their friends (Yes, I have watched my share of Jane Austen-based movies). We have to walk around in an Arkansas pit of fire, sit through 8+ hours of work and be social, all while feeling like our thigh has been folded and stuffed into a jack-in-the-box. When work is over and the music is turned on, pop goes the weasel. My body resembles a gelatin mold that has finally been placed on the table. “Thank you,” it cries as it jiggles until it finds its stable, comfortable place of rest. Now I have reserved Spanx for special occasions and job interviews. When the interviewer asks me why I think I have what it takes, I’m tempted to say, “Because I’m sitting here with half my torso stuffed in a 5-inch square of stretchy fabric. Withstanding that should be proof of my resilience.”

I must admit that, on my break, I undid the button on my pants and just sat in my car in utter peacefulness. I swear dress pants were designed by men out to get us for the feminist movement: "Let's make them have to button 3 times, put an extra difficult one on the inside and then end it with two silver clasps. That'll show her!" I sat there and saw one of my male co-worker superiors. I prayed, "God, please don't let him see. Or walk over here and say something to me." I didn't want to make any sudden buttoning movements as to attract his attention. So I sat there like a shameless, bloated James Bond. Luckily, the coast was clear and I learned my lesson. Wear Spanx or tough it out like a big girl. 

And you can stick as many feathery wings on your models as you want, Victoria’s Secret, but a bra is a bra is a bra. Whether it’s $10 or $70, it has been causing bathroom adjustment trips since its creation. You know you’ve done it, ladies. The side-side, front-front, pat, pat, push up, go. Or those times that someone at work is talking to you and you can’t help but think, “How can I discreetly surpass this underwire and take care of that itch?" It's awful. And when the day is done and there's no one left to impress, you don't want anyone coming to that front door until you grab your robe. 

I once read "There is no such thing as ugly women; only lazy ones." And it makes me laugh. Because, sadly, it's kind of true. If I woke up at dawn, ironed my shirt, painted my Spanx on, and did a number of other things, I could probably be a knock out. But I just can't do it. I probably wouldn't have grooved with Victorian times either. "Ashton, where are your stockings and bonnet? And did you even put on your corset?" 

Um no. Pass the tea.

 

 

 

What's in a Name?

I’ve got a few insignificant pet peeves; annoyances that don’t send me over the edge, but cause me to inwardly say, “Seriously?”

One of them has got to be people who have and/or have kids with super weird names, yet act considerably offended if you mispronounce it a tad or *gasp* misspell it. I am so sorry that I didn’t realize that Emily was prefaced by five letter E’s for dramatic effect. Or that George was your daughter. This is very trendy among celebrities. Blue Ivy? Really, Beyonce? Did you dump out a Crayola box and pick one? I’m all about unique names, but I’m also all about thinking about your kid’s future. Jessica Simpson, Maxwell could have the potential for being kind of cute when your daughter is a darling child.

But when she is 65, people will assume she is an old, wealthy man with a pipe and pinstriped vest (You know you’re picturing him right now). Give the girl a break.

I say this because I was pretentiously corrected today after botching one of the strangest names I have ever come across. It’s just kind of hard when your child, for some reason, has 5 consonants in a row. Vowels are cool. And you're not German. So use them.

Also remember that just because your child goes by a fairly normal 2^nd middle name, it doesn’t mean they are spared from constant humiliation. First day of school every year: “Is Wolfgang Constantine Bryan here?” Sinking down in his chair, you hear a timid squeak, “It’s…it’s Bryan.”

And then there’s those people who take a very common name and butcher the spelling on purpose. You might as well spell her name, “Brittany” because that is how it’s going to be written on every nametag she receives her entire life. Our apologies, Brittneeighye.

Don’t forget the alliteration family. Why hello there, Brad, Brooke, Brady, Brinkley and Brian. I solemnly swear to not get your name confused with your sister’s. They’re so very different— I don’t know how I could do such a thing.

On the flip side, I have noticed that it is the people with common names that feel the need to expand: “Hey, this is John Smith. J-o-h-n S-m-i-t-h. I would like to be seen by the doctor today.” Thanks sir. I was this close to going with Smethe. They are usually followed up by a man who says, “Vladimir Czerkowski” and just stoically stands there, daring you to get it right.

The point of this friendly rant is not to demand that you name your child something incredibly boring and easy for my sake—OK, so it kind of is. But more importantly, it is to enlighten people. If you so choose to give your child a weird name, spell it goofy or have 5 kids with the same opening consonant sound, don’t get all up in arms when others can’t quite hang. With quirkiness comes great responsibility—and lots of verbal spelling.

 

Tote bags and Hamsters

Today I sent Justin one of the most bizarre texts he’s probably ever received from me.

I asked, “Can I please order a monogrammed tote bag with a lot of compartments in it for my birthday? You won’t even have to get anything.”

You see, a friend was having a “31” catalogue party at work. “31,” I have learned this year, is the cure for women like me; women who lug in 3 Wal-Mart sacks, a gigantic purse you can’t find anything in and a handful of keys everywhere they go. It’s a soccer mom’s dream come true. And they’re going to write my name on it? Took me back to the day when Mom ordered me a pink L.L. Bean lunchbox with my name proudly printed across it. I’ll never forget the tears that ensued when my poodle Ramsey chewed it up. From that moment on, my lunchboxes were scribbled on with Sharpie.

But back to his response: “I can get you something fun for your birthday if you want.”

Here’s the sad part: That is a fun gift to me now. What happened to the girl that wanted a new Coach bag? Oh wait, I still want one of those. I just get an extra thrill out of a bag boasting 5 pouches and a mesh compartment I can put my water bottle in (Scratch that. Diet Dr. Pepper. Who am I kidding?)

I think this wonderful creation of a bag will solve a disease that I have acquired—a disease I didn’t know I had until I got married.

One night, when I got home from work, Justin said, “I cleaned the house today and I have realized something.”

“What’s that?”

“You are just like a hamster.”

I’ve been compared to a number of things, but this was my first reference to a small, rat-like creature.

When I asked him why, he began to point all around the house. Suddenly, the storm clouds cleared and I began to see myself for who I really was.

Little grocery sacks, all tied up, were spread throughout the house. Work clothes in one from when I went to the gym 2 weeks ago, several spaghetti-stained Tupperware containers in another, workout clothes from when I promised myself I would go and didn’t. Another housed make-up and hair accessories for those days I was late for work.

It was like I had my furry little paws going a mile a minute, collecting piles of wood shavings all over my cage. It was embarrassing.

You never realize how weird you are until you live with another person. I’ve probably gone my whole life with my grocery bag hoarding, but it took being called a hamster to really get me some help.

I also have this thing with completely tuning people out. It’s not even on purpose. I am just in my own little world. Sometimes he will finally get to decibel bazillion and I will say, “You don’t have to yell at me.” It is then that he will inform me that he had been saying the same sentence for 5 minutes. Oops. My bad.

But then I realize-- you know what? He licks his plate. I dare the extra ranch and ketchup to escape fast enough.

But this is coming from the girl who gets excited watching a show or sports event and involuntarily flails her arms out in front of her, claps suddenly and then lets them drop to her side. It’s quite disturbing.

And the girl who has to alternate between chocolate and gummy worms while watching a movie. And the girl who can't wear a matching pajama set. I have to break it up. The girl who turns into Roseanne Barr when she's hungry.

So he definitely got the stranger end of the deal. I just can’t help myself.

So I guess I give all of this unnecessary self-disclosure to say I am hoping that having a cute tote bag that costs way too much for a tote bag will take care of my issues. We'll see.

The bags are going in the closet and this hamster is getting back on the wheel.

The Jersey

Every girl secretly longed to be them. Sitting there with your $15 half-price college bookstore shirt, you would see them carefully adjusting their boyfriend’s oversized football jersey. In the event that it was dirty, they would replace it with a handmade T-shirt, bedazzled to death with their significant other’s name and number. The football girls had it all. They would flood the field after the game for a picture extravaganza. Their petite bodies were dwarfed in the presence of their personal Jolly Green Giants. At the photographer’s count of 1-2-3 they simultaneously turned to the side, propped out their right leg and placed their right hand on their hip. That pose never had quite the same effect on me. See picture below as reference.



I write this to set the stage for last night: Justin’s church league softball game. As I walked up, they threw a jersey to me. I flipped it over and it said, “Ray #25” on the back. I stared at it for a moment.

“Aren’t you going to put it on?” he asked.

I slipped it on and donned my new persona as a sports figure’s wife. Ok, so it’s church softball. But I got a jersey. And I get to cheer on someone who is with me. It didn’t really match the pants I was wearing all too well, but it was still kind of exciting to finally fulfill this dream. My leg began to mysteriously make its way out from my body and my hips began to turn to the side. That was just made up for comedic effect. My apologies.

But I began to wonder: What do I do from here?

Do I create a nickname and scream at him when he is up to bat?

Do I confront the umpire and do the head, point-a-finger thing when he makes a call against my man?

Do I bring the team Gatorade and hand-woven sweat towels?

That’s the thing that’s great about being a wife. You get to be whatever kind of wife you want to be. I am a silent supporter. I show up, I clap, I cheer in my normal voice, I enter a full embrace when he’s soaked in sweat and dirt. I listen to why they lost, I rejoice when they win. And it works.

Other men light up when their wives shriek, “That’s my baby! Go Pookie!” That’s their style. Go with it.

Some wives juggle rambunctious children and miss the whole thing. But their presence means the world.

So in the end it doesn’t matter if you are blinged out in team gear, hollering nicknames, making monogrammed team bags, or sitting silently. Your love, your support and your being there makes you a #1 fan. And that’s something worth cheering about.

Any fool can have a trophy wife.
It takes a real man to have a trophy marriage.

Diane Sollee

Dear Graduates

I was in Searcy this weekend. The smell of graduation was floating in the air. It's the season of the graduation card. For the first time not being a graduate, I browsed the section a few weeks ago. I have come to the conclusion that they are by far the cheesiest of all the greeting cards. Why? Because when do we ever in real life tell someone to "shoot for the moon" or that the "sky's the limit"? I propose uttering either of these phrases in person. Do it.

In all honesty, they don't make greeting cards that tell the truth. Because sometimes the truth isn't what we want to hear. I sure didn't. But I'm here, college graduates, to tell you what may become your truth-- and it's nothing to be ashamed of. And you're going to persevere and be just fine. The sky is the limit, but sometimes you have to take the long route.

No one tells you that after you put on your cap and gown and smile for a bunch of pictures that you are going to be totally lost. Sometimes you find yourself back on the beanbag in your parents' house asking if Mom can pick up some more Doritos on the next grocery run. Doritos may or may not be traded for proof of job application.

You don't take a shower for days as you endlessly search the world wide web for potential jobs. You will type in "accountant" and 1,000,000,000 search results will appear, none of them even remotely close to being an accountant position. Oh yes, Career Builder, I see exactly why pet groomer could fall into my category. Thanks. So glad I filled out your 80-page survey to be a part of your elite club of job finding specialists.

You will put on a JCPenney suit and tell someone you want to make $50,000 a year. Several closed doors later and you will be ecstatic about 20 grand and free donuts in the conference room.

People are no longer going to constantly praise you for mundane things. So you chugged a gallon of milk faster than your roommate. Big whoop. Show me your Microsoft Excel skills, son. You are constantly having to prove your worth, but in really boring ways. "Why would you be an asset to this company?" Unfortunately, you can't quote basketball season statistics or every honor society you have ever been in. Sorority involvements seem null and void as well. Instead, something like this comes out of your mouth: "I am a critical thinker who analyzes problems until I find the most efficient, fitting solution." You bet you do.

Facebook will make you cry. You will read statuses about people moving to exciting places, getting their dream jobs and finding the loves of their lives. But I promise you-- for every person that is posting this, 10 more paid thousands of dollars to say, "Caf or de-caf?"

You will have night terrors where you wake up and think, "I just got the wrong degree. I know I did. Why did I do that?"

It is suddenly totally acceptable for everyone and their brother to ask you very personal questions about your future. You're always safe with, "I'm just playing out all my options right now." They don't have to know that your options at that very moment are selling your old Beanie Babies and Pokemon cards for fast cash. Keep 'em guessing.

I'm not writing this to be everyone's favorite Debbie Downer. I'm writing it because I feel like it needs to be said. Because I flew out of college thinking I was hot, hot stuff and the fall from greatness was twice as long.

Just know that you aren't a failure and that a diploma isn't a one-way ticket to immediate life success. It takes time. It takes humility. It takes eating Ramen noodles every day for months. It takes tearful calls to Mom at midnight saying, "I'm sorry you paid for me to be unemployed." It takes her saying that she's proud of you no matter what.

I'm not going to end with that incredibly overused "If you shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you will land among the stars" quote. Oh wait. I just did. Darn.

Dream big, but start small. Search for a job, but find yourself as well.

The Next Food Network Star

You’re looking at the girl who simultaneously boiled noodles, made a cheesy tomato sauce and baked bread in the oven last night. Just Maybelline my face and put me on Food Network. No, but really. This may not seem very significant to the average cooking person, but for me, it was quite a feat. Multi-tasking KILLS me in the kitchen. When you are making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the peanut butter can’t burn while the jelly is being applied and the jelly can’t spill over when you get a phone call. Thus making it my go-to cuisine.

But I’m sitting there watching the newest episode of Law and Order: SVU. I am getting frustrated because without Detective Stabler, this season absolutely stinks. It’s like they don’t even try anymore. So I’m sitting there watching this horrible plot about a vigilante who takes the law into his own hands while wearing a full-on Batman-ish costume and I think, “I would rather cook dinner before Justin gets home than insult my intelligence in this way.”

If the people at NBC knew my dislike for being in the kitchen, they would realize how far from my graces they have fallen.

So I get out my computer and I type in, “I have tomato sauce, cheese, milk and pasta. What can I make?”

Up pops this recipe that “all kids will love.” This was an indication that it was easy. Justin watches cartoons sometimes. And I like to doodle on notebook paper. So I figured this could work for us and our adolescent taste buds.

I began to slightly panic when I realize I am going to have to have two burners going at once. Talk about a circus act. I got both to a manageable level and then I got a little proud. ‘You know what?’ I said to myself. ‘We’re going to throw in all our chips here and put in some buttered bread.’

Feeling even riskier, I decided I wanted to add some spices from my newly received spice rack. I read the labels: “Oregano—that sounds Italian-y,” I said to myself as I grabbed it and sprinkled some in. I’m pretty sure basil would be good on a pile of garbage so I put some of that in there too. Justin called during part of this and I said, “I’m cooking dinner. I need to go concentrate.” He probably checked his calendar to make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day.

The bread came out a buttered golden brown, the sauce thickened into a cheesy, blissful state and the noodles were done. It all came together quite nicely I have to say. I quickly disposed of the evidence of my adventure (i.e. spilled basil, tomato soup cans, shredded cheese on the floor and in my hair, etc). By the time he got home, I looked like I had things under control. That’s why I have to cook in complete solidarity so that people see the finished product and not what it took to get there.

Cooking is a graceful art—and we all know how I measure up in the grace and art department. But the good thing is that art comes in many forms. They stick toilets in art museums. They splash paint on a canvas and call it a masterpiece. People see deeper meaning while looking at a bent piece of metal.

Luckily, Justin does most of the cooking so I get to be the guest artist who tries her hand at a moment’s notice. And if I mess up, I just play it off as the most beautiful toilet you’ve ever seen.

Inner Blogger

I think within every person there is a blogger waiting to come out. I can’t tell you how many people I have fooled into thinking I lead a humorous, exciting existence. I answered the phone at work and the loud fax noise that resembles a fighting mob of screeching owls overtook the receiver. That was thrill #1. Then I began to notice that the potted plant on my desk was being overcome by gnats. That was thrill #2. I found out we were having corndogs. That was thrill #3. The key to being a blogger is viewing the world in a different light. It doesn’t come naturally or all at once. It is a tweak in how we are wired to think. We aren’t inherently designed to enjoy awkward conversations, spills, falls and other various embarrassing situations. But that’s where we come in. We take everyday scenarios and emotions that everyone feels and put them into writing—because everyone knows it’s official if it’s in written form. It somehow validates others when they read that someone else wants to throw their Slim Fast against the wall and dunk their head in cheese fries.

People suddenly become all the more interesting because they are characters in the movies that are consistently running through your head. I’ve even had people say, “You’re not going to blog about that are you?”

Maybe I am the home planet for crazy happenings and unbelievable interactions, but I don’t really think that is the case. I think that I just have my antennas up at all times for material I can use. It takes all that is within me not to clap after taking part in a strange exchange with someone. Just walking into Wal-Mart alone qualifies you to be a humorist.

Just be warned, however, that putting on blogging goggles intensifies every encounter you have. You suddenly begin to notice every detail so you can describe it just right; you fall down and get a concussion and before you worry about your health, you try to properly form what happened into an understandable paragraph. Someone gives you terrible advice and you begin to realize, “Oh, this could be a list. What are nine other things I don’t want people to tell me about going off to college?”

It’s a disease.

Writing may not be your thing—and that’s totally fine—but anyone can see life as a series of interesting anecdotes rather than a long trail of monotony.

You may not be able to change politics, religion or society, but you can voice your opinions and, in turn, change the way one person sees the issue. That in itself is a triumph in my book.

So put on your goggles and enjoy the show.