Wife Blog

It seriously took one google search of "wife blog" to find this. One.

"When Michael comes home from work I like to have dinner ready for him. Something he likes. I'll take a few extra minutes to pull my hair up into a bouncy ponytail, and put on one of my prettiest aprons. If I'm so inclined, I might put on a bit of makeup--nothing much, maybe a touch of mascara, a little blush, and some lip gloss."

And this one.

"Earlier this evening my husband and I hosted our Bible study group. By the time our company arrived at 7pm the house was clean, the tea was hot, and the brownies were cut into squares."

If this was you today, consider this my standing ovation to you. I am standing on my couch at this very moment leading my imaginary audience in a unanimous slow clap.

Why?

Because this would be my blog entry for the day.

"When Justin comes home from work, I like to say, 'Um, the crock pot thing I was making is completely black. And one of your beloved $6 blocks of Velveeta is in it.' I'll take a few extra minutes to have a complete mental breakdown because the dog ate my $75 Vibram athletic shoes. I will go to my room and throw things around like an irrational lunatic and come out with my mascara running, my hair in a sad, low ponytail and I will insist that we go to Pizza Inn."

I wish I could say this was the worst of it. But it's not. Before he got home, I dramatically fell to the floor, picking up the remains of my shoes (like the 3rd pair this week). I forgot to put them up in my attempt to make an "easy" crock pot dish before leaving for work. But back to the floor. I cried. Like a lot. I sat in a puddle of exploded lotion (Fiona had a chew 2 things, get one for free deal going on) and finally let my exhaustion catch up with me.

My gaze went back and forth between the shoe remains and the crock pot remains. I'm not sure which looked more pathetic. They both looked like the cast of "Bones" could have dissected them for homicide clues.

But it was in that rather embarrassing moment that I realized that I just can't get my brownie squares in a row sometimes.

Luckily I serve a God who continues to fight Satan's lies about womanhood that have found a place to reside in my heart. Luckily I love a husband who could care less if my ponytail is bouncy or not.

Am I proud to admit that I had a breakdown in the middle of a Jergen's pond? That would be a no.

Am I proud to admit that sometimes I question what I can even bring to the marriage table at the end of the day? Yeah, I'm going to go with a negative on that, too.

But I will admit that I find comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. And you're not either. Somewhere, someone else is walking around in your mauled shoes.

Almost no one is foolish enough to imagine that he automatically deserves great success in any field of activity; yet almost everyone believes that he automatically deserves success in marriage.

One of Job's Friends

Whenever the preacher brought up the topic of suffering, any church-going kid knew what was coming up next: the story of Job.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t always immediately think 1) Why is his name spelled like job? And 2) I bet Dad is going to lead “Trust and Obey” after this.

Maybe it’s because I had never touched the surface of pain. Maybe it’s because discomfort to me was sitting through a piano recital. Maybe it’s because the only time I felt lost was when I wandered off in the mall.

I wish I could say that I truly grasp the book now; but in reality, I’m still that kid doodling on the weekly bulletin.

And I have a feeling there are many others in my shoes; people whose disconnect is solely related to the life experience they’ve been handed.

Just because, like me, you can’t relate to Job doesn’t mean you can’t gather anything from the story. There are a few other characters we don’t really talk about a whole lot; characters that sadly mirror me more than Job most of the time.

The friends.

Eliphaz. Bildad. Zophar. Not a collection of rebellious boy band members, but three people who traveled from three different countries to keep Job company and comfort him.

The friends kind of get a bad rap in this story. And rightfully so.

Those of us who haven’t been at the center of tragedy ourselves are often left to fill these roles. We often feel compelled to rationalize another’s heartache and appoint ourselves God’s personal will translators.

These are real advice excerpts from the three amigos. See if they sound eerily familiar to what we hear today.

“It’s plain that your children have sinned against you—otherwise, why would God have punished them?”

“If you’re as innocent and upright as you say, it’s not too late—he’ll come running; he’ll set everything right again and reestablish your fortunes.”

“Do you think it’s because he cares about your purity that he’s disciplining you, putting you on the spot? Hardly! It’s because there’s no end to your sins.”

“Look at you! You trivialize religion and turn spiritual conversation into empty gossip.”

I don’t know about you. But I’m going to put a big ‘ol Ouch on that.

I feel like I’ve had to write too many responses to tragic events this year. I feel like I couldn’t possibly say anything that hasn’t already been said.

But today, my heart was brought to Job and his friends.

Because God has equipped us to give the right kind of advice and reflect his love. It's our duty to stop politicizing. To end the search to find something or someone to blame.

Only then will those in the midst of suffering ever find a lasting peace.

Experience.

“There may be noise and things going on all around you. Acknowledge these things, but don’t do anything about it,” said the soothing, soft-like-butter voice of my meditation instructor.

Ok, so I don’t have an actual meditation instructor. I have a 99 cent app from iTunes and a lady whose voice was recorded in some studio somewhere. But still. I needed to hear that. I sat there, sprawled out on an unfolded pile of laundry, and I basked in this permission to ignore the clamor in my life. It was harder to do when my dog busted into the bedroom, but still I pressed on.

I figure this app is significantly cheaper than a real therapist and I’m a sucker for anything that can play ocean sounds in the background.

All kidding aside, it’s taken a few breakdowns to get me to the point where I’ve realized I can no longer ignore my naturally wound-up disposition. That living in a constant state of anxiousness is not normal. That being one wrong turn away from getting all Mt. Vesuvius on everybody is not ideal.

I’ve read numerous blogs that address the poisonous effect of blogs, Pinterest, and perfect Instagram photos. How the portrayal of other people’s flawlessness makes our own lives somehow appear mundane and unworthy. While I don’t disagree with their assessment, I have come to some conclusions of my own.

What if our dissatisfaction and anxiety comes not from the lowering effect of comparison, but rather the way we have elevated the human experience? How we feel that every emotion and frustration we experience is a direct adversary to how things are supposed to feel.

I have the right to be happy. I have the right to have my dream job. I’ve earned it. I am married so I’m supposed to feel whole. Motherhood is God’s greatest blessing and I will feel its warmth every second of the day. Anxiety and depression only affect people with real problems.

It’s these lies that suck the life out of us—not a sepia tone picture of your co-worker at the beach.

When will we realize that these “rights” are nothing more than pedestals we fall off of unnecessarily?

Besides taking a few moments each day to just “be,” I am also trying to reprogram how I view the human experience.

I dumped Diet Coke on myself today in the car. I took a deep breath and thought to myself, “You are not the only person who has done this today.” Because you know what? I’m not. This wasn’t some lightning bolt from God or karma. It’s real. It’s life.

And I don’t have to adhere to this myth that because others have it worse than I do that I shouldn’t be entitled to my feelings, to my vulnerability.

God doesn’t have this cookie cutter ideal experience he wants us to aspire to; this unattainable goal that will make us pull our hair out in the process. He wants you to bring your experience to him; he wants to replace your hard-earned rights with a deep contentment in the present.

This isn’t some overnight process for me. Believe me. It’s going to take a lot more than a blog post to unwind this sweater.

But if I have been relatable, if I have been that person on the other side of your experience, then I am on my way to a transparency that will change my life.

Puppy Love

I just read an article about a man who is pleading with the U.S. Treasury to replace the $500 that his Golden Retriever ate as an afternoon snack.

After the incident, apparently, the guy did just about everything but grab a bowl of popcorn and watch his dog pop a squat for several days.

They eventually made their exit and were washed profusely, pieced together and laid out to dry. Banks who refused to exchange them sent him to the U.S. Treasury, where his case will be reviewed.

I’ve had several shoes bite the dust in the wake of being a pet parent and Justin has chew marks on just about every hat he wears in public. I can’t, however, imagine the desperation that would ensue if my pooch ate $500. I would like to say that I wouldn’t go poop diving, but I can’t promise anything.

Being a pet parent for the first time has been quite the little adventure. As previously discussed, I’m not a natural animal lover. Even though I love Fiona, I wouldn’t say that my status has changed other than that I have learned to love my dog—and that’s enough for me.

Here’s what I have found:

1. Your underwear will look like it’s from Cupid’s, but not for the right reasons. Let’s just say the tattered effect and secret trap doors were not present upon purchase. You usually won’t realize your new style until they’ve been washed and packed in an overnight suitcase.

2. You will smell urine 24/7. Justin and I’s post-work banter has changed from, “Hey babe, did you have a good day?” to “Do you smell pee? I smell pee.” I’m so paranoid now that I think I smell it even when it doesn’t exist.

3. You will guard your rugs with your life. I didn’t realize that I loved my floral rug so much until the other night. Fiona, who likes to eat grass and throw up for fun, began her preemptive dry-heaving. I held her out like Rafiki holding Simba and ran to the tile, gagging the whole way. “Not. The. Rug. Not. The. Rug.” was my soothing mantra the whole way. I’m pretty sure if worse came to worst; I would have sprawled upon those fine fibers and let her blow chunks on me.

4.You will soon possess 2,136 pictures of your dog sleeping. And you will think within each of them is a more unique, endearing quality than the last.

5.You will suddenly attract more attention to yourself. I learned this after our first road trip ala dog. No longer did I disappear behind large, baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt covered in Ranch Corn Nuts that had lost their way to my mouth. I was now at a press conference at a rest stop in Texas, displayed in all my grimy glory. “Yes, she’s a weenie dog.” “She’s about 5 months old.” “Oh, you had a weenie dog too?” “Your dog just died? I’m sorry.” “Yes, your child can terrorize her for 5 minutes.”

6.You will start to relate when parents complain about no bathroom privacy. My dog has learned to barrel through our bathroom door and lick my feet and legs when I get out of the shower. Who needs a towel? If you don’t give her a front row seat while you’re using the John, she will sit outside the door and cry like the ticket booth closed early.

7.You will start accidentally talking to everyone else in your dog voice. Justin got up from the couch the other night and announced in a higher tone than usual that he was going, “potty.” We both laughed. Then I clapped for him and gave him a treat.

8. You will worry about how others perceive your dog. FiFi was invited to play with our friends’ little girl. They have THE best carpet I have ever seen. They had no more than shown us their new carpet cleaner and what it could do when Fiona decided to drop a deuce. My heart sank, a look of utter mortification hit my face and the carpet cleaner made its way out of the closet once again. Now I know why my mom sweated bullets when she took us anywhere. Please. Don’t. Break. ANYTHING.

I think the greatest surprise of all for me, though, is that I have found the ability to love unconditionally. I have learned that writing RIP on a shoe box isn’t the end of the world. And that having a puppy sense your sadness means the world.

There’s good days. There’s bad days. There’s days where I miss the only scent in my house being a Vanilla Scentsy burner.

But I have been changed for the better.

And I’d place 500 mutilated dollars on that.

Tough.

"Indeed, the world today is in a better, more enlightened place, where it's not nice to call people obscene or homophobic names. Where slapping people upside the head, beaning them with a basketball or giving them a swift kick in the rear is not considered the best motivational tactic. But the sports nation has not quite caught up with the rest of this kinder, gentler world. Frankly, I don't think it should -- not completely anyway."

This is a quote by the founding editor of ESPN The Magazine in response to the firing of Rutgers' coach Mike Rice for his offensive actions and slurs. She seems to me, throughout her opinion piece, to take a "boys will be boys" attitude when it comes to coaching and sports in general.

Let me be clear: I love sports. I played basketball and volleyball in high school and enjoyed intramural sports in college. It's definitely been a very important part of my life.

While I'm fortunate that I never had to experience a Mike Rice coach, I have seen enough to know exactly where I stand on the issue of bully coaching.

When, my friends, will "toughening up" stop being equated with constant ridicule, embarrassment and terrible language?

When will we stop jumping Algebra teachers for scolding our children's poor performance while we allow their coaches to degrade them to their very core?

Don't you dare spank your child, but please, by all means, stick them in a gym with a profanity-spitting tyrant. That's totally OK. Character building actually.

Highly controversial events like the Steubenville, Ohio case have negatively put young athletes in the public eye. Many would say that athletes, especially in small towns, live life like they are untouchable. Like the rules don't apply to them. Like they rule the town.

Kind of like... their coaches?

You think kids don't realize that their English teacher can't cuss them out but their coach can throw a clipboard at their head?

You think kids don't realize that a homophobic slur will land them in ISS while one shouted at them after a missed lay-up will go unnoticed?

You want to know why they think playing a sport makes them so gloriously almighty?

Because that's what you tell them. That's what I tell them. That's what we all tell them when we don't bat an eyelash at horrific behaviors because they involve a ball.

Society has made it very clear what we're cool with. And that's winning. Lots and lots of winning. We're all about booting out bad eggs until we start losing. We're all about abolishing bullying unless it happens on a court or football field.

The author of the quote above ends her thought with an open invitation: "Brutes will always have a seat at the sports table."

I won't be eating at that table. And I hope you won't either.

Old.

We had a substitute instructor in Iron Pump last night. She was a bright-eyed, energetic college girl pursuing a degree in health and wellness. She plugged in her tunes—a compilation of the latest hits transformed into techno—and off we went.

This slow, fairly calm class where the cubical rats go after running the maze all day was now suddenly “We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit how ‘bout you?” land.

Some (and only some) of the enthusiasm left her face as she soon realized we weren’t your typical workout crew.

We don’t come here because it’s the cool thing to do. We don’t come here because we particularly care about endorphins. In fact, when you say this to us, we usually just picture dolphins. And that sort of sends positive signals to the brain.

We are here because sometimes—sometimes—we have enough gumption by the end of the day to make ourselves do it. We leave the office, don our ratty oversized t-shirts and half Capri/half shorts and just hope we drive into the gym parking lot instead of Burger King’s.

I kind of felt for the girl. I did. I used to be her. While I didn’t explain the scary progression of getting older to her, I did tell her we enjoyed the class but that most of us were just thinking about work while we arm curl and were deciding what’s for dinner while we scissor our chubby, short legs in the air.

What I didn’t tell her is that I was her 10 years ago. But then life happened. Work happened. Tired happened.

1. I used to scoff when people said, “If you need to modify this exercise.” Why in the world would anyone not be able to hold up their own body weight for 7 minutes straight? Now I find myself silently praying that there is one more option following, “Go down to your knees if you need to.” Surely there’s a 4th modification in which I can just lie on my stomach like a grumpy walrus. That’s got to burn some calories, right?

2. My biggest athletic nemesis used to be the thin, blonde girl on the elliptical. Now I am currently giving envious death glares to women who could be my mother. It’s no longer about what people can do—it’s about what they shouldn’t be able to do. One particular lady makes me look like I should be in a Boniva commercial with Sally Field.

3. I used to actually think you could “draw in your bellybutton” “relax your spine,” “contract your core,” and all that other yoga-schmoga stuff. Then my body decided that its concentration was better suited for, “Don’t let one fly while your leg is up and aimed at the person behind you,” “Let’s see if we can go one class without having to go pee,” and “Ignore the bellowing stomach growls that remind you that you could be eating right now.”

4. I used to never make excuses. I felt this deep void whenever I missed a workout. Presently, starting at 4:30 p.m., I begin to contract every disease known to man. Or I come up with all these imaginary errands that need to be accomplished. Her birthday is like 4 months away—I’d hate to forget her present.

5. I used to love jumping jacks and other cardio exercises. A late puberty and several pounds later, the last thing I want to do is leave the cold, hard ground. What is one step for mankind, is one giant leap for the sisters, the caboose and the cracking knees.