Christmas, the Way I See It

There's nothing I love more than Christmas. I do. I always have. I delight in Christmas lights. I adore Christmas music, both the secular variety as well as the traditional hymns. And I love, love LOVE watching my kids' sleepy faces as they throw open their presents with delight at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning.

Those are the things I love.

But, of course, all good memories in my cynical mind must come to an abrupt, screeching halt, and I eventually must wake up in the midst of the chaos our society has created for us as we celebrate the birth of our Savior.

1) Black Friday. GOOD GOD. Why in the world we let toy and electronic companies decide what we buy is totally beyond my realm of thinking. These manufacturers undoubtedly have to pay to get their products in the now infamous Thanksgiving Day circulars and for some crazy reason we all fall into their bottomless marketing ploys and buy what they tell us is a good deal. Ridiculous.

2) Salvation Army kettles. I know, I know. I might be sealing my spiritual fate for this one, but SERIOUSLY people. If you ring that bell in my face with your "Have a Merry Christmas" sad face one more time I swear I just might take you down. I LOVE the Salvation Army; I shop at your thrift stores all the time, but until you start taking debit cards at all of your
134, 247 Wal-Mart stores and Supercenters across the state of Arkansas, please don't mess with me anymore.

3) You, your best friend, and your first cousin's girlfriend ...in my stores. One of the biggest perks to being a SAHM is the endless ability to shop in the middle of the day, but it really complicates things when you're there with me. So, please, I beg you, go back to work and leave the shopping to me and my retired friends. I can take them any day of the week.

4) My Family. I love you guys...I really, really do, but when we get together it's like me multiplied by 1,000. 'Nough said.

5) Endless gift exchanges. We're really just exchanging same dollar amount gift cards at this point. Let's just forget it and move on.

6) Christmas dinner at my in-laws. Let's just say I'll never buy my mother-in-law engraved rocks with each of her eight grand kids names on them EVER again.

7) My Beloved Target. You know I love you, Target. But why do you hide all your good deals from me each year when Christmas rolls around? I'm guessing that reason #3, as indicated above, has something to do with it.

8) Christmas Birthdays. That just sucks all the way around for you people. The birth of Jesus is just more important than yours. Sorry 'bout that.

9) Pet stockings. It's a dog. It's a cat. No, they don't realize what Christmas is, and no, they don't feel left out. THEY ARE ANIMALS, so please don't send me another Christmas card with your cats wearing Santa hats. It's almost unbearable for me.

10) Keeping up with the Joneses. Yes, Robert, down the street this one's for you: I can see your 25 blow-up Santas, reindeer, and snowmen from my front porch. AND I can hear that giant Christmas tree that is somehow engineered and synchronized to flash Christmas lights and play Christmas carols all at the same time. Yes. Your yard is kicking my yard's ass. That is clear.

And somehow I still managed to avert yet another Christmas season without a panic attack. Go figure.

I Gotta Have it My Way or No Way At All

News Flash, people. I'm an adult.

A real grown-up who is able to do or not do and say or not say whatever I want. Growing up, it seemed I would never get to this point, and now all of the sudden, I've been there for more than 16 years. And somewhere along the way God has entrusted me with two children, and now somehow I'm responsible for their lives as well. How scary is that?

While I like being an independent, decision-making, responsible person, there are so many things that kids get by with simply because they are kids and we as adults let them. So, I've decided to reinstate some of those acceptable kid behaviors and start living my life with a bit more simplicity.

For starters I'm gonna start showing people exactly how I feel the very moment I feel it. That's right. I'm reviving the good, old-fashioned, full blown screaming, kickin', arm flailing, rolling in the floor hissy fit. Yep, that's what I'm going to do. If you happen to witness one of my new temper tantrums, just step over me and ignore it. It'll pass within a couple of minutes, or maybe longer, depending of the severity of the alleged trauma.

What a freeing feeling it will be. I'll be so much less stressed, and everyone will know exactly where they stand with me. It'll take all the guess-work out of being my friend. If you happen to irritate or disagree with me, you'll know immediately. I'll throw my little fit, and I'll feel better. We all do it inside anyway, so why not just get it all out in the open and see how much better we feel?

I've toyed with the idea of including slaps, kicks, and occasional "you're not my friend anymore" statements, but those might be for the more advanced users. I'll save those until I perfect my tantrums.

Good gosh this is gonna be a ton of fun. Who's with me?

You Win, Michelle Duggar

I once heard Michelle Duggar say that having too many children is like having too many flowers...you can just never have too many. With all do respect, Michelle, I beg to differ.

While I'm a HUGE fan of using colorful analogies in everyday conversation, I think she's way off base of this one. Last time I checked, flowers don't have to be birthed, bathed, fed, educated, nurtured, occasionally tricked, disciplined, guided, chaperoned, entertained, interrogated, OR bribed to go to the Razorback game instead of going trick-or-treating on Halloween night. It's all just a wee bit different in my mind.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd rather have my two amazing babies than a field full of fragrant wildflowers any day, but COME ON. Seriously.

Let's face it, if I had 18 kids and I was pregnant again, I certainly wouldn't be bouncing around and comparing my minor dependants to flowering plants and the like. My house would be a disaster area, my home-schooled kids would be fairly uneducated, and I would be continuously strung out on anti-depressants, coffee, and whatever else I could buy on the black market or trick the old man across the street into giving me.

God didn't make me to have a Partridge Family, A Brady Bunch, or even a Cosby Show for that matter. I just don't have an overabundance of patience or more importantly, a plethora of stylish maternity clothes to make that all happen.

And Anna Duggar...good lord, girl. We need to talk. We could so be great friends. And honey, I don't care what they tell you, but you CAN use birth control. You CAN and you SHOULD. We can get you a prescription for some amazing birth control pills, and we'll hide them in my garage or something. Hell, I'll even buy them for you if you need me to.

I'm not trying to be super sneaky or anything...well...okay maybe I am, but you are entitled to change your mind about this baby thing. No pressure...just an offer.

BTW, if you girls need me to make a cameo performance on your TLC television show, I'm free between the hours of 8:30-2:00 on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays. How much fun would that be? We can have a jam session afterwards and all sing together with all the violins and the piano. I would LOVE to. So, get ready. I know a lot of songs, girls. This is gonna be so much fun :)

Dear Old Man who Lives Across the Street from Me, Part 2

Dear Old Man who Lives Across the Street from Me,

I always thought you hated me, and in your defense, I really don't blame you. Maybe I annoy you when I sing at the top of my lungs with my windows open or maybe you can't stand it when I go out in the front yard and yell, "Levi...get your little butt in this house right now." Hard to say, really, but we've made some real progress recently.

A couple of weeks ago when you were out mowing and I was out running, I saw that brief but very meaningful eye contact you gave me. Don't worry, though. I didn't tell anyone. No one will ever know that you actually looked at me. It's our secret, but I saw...I know.

And I can't be 100% positive, but I think you were actually waved at me last week as I was leaving the neighborhood. I quickly glanced in my rear view mirror to see if you were waving to the car behind me, but no one else was there. It was just me.

But I was shocked, to say the least, when you rang my doorbell yesterday morning. I thought surely Oliver, our free roaming cat, must have bitten you and you were seeking proof of her annual shots or some form of medical compensation. Or maybe, just maybe, you were coming over to accuse my kids of climbing your trees or picking your flowers or something. But no. Oh, no, no, no. It was something much more personal.

I would like to admit, however, that it's sometimes hard to recognize you without that fisherman hat on. But I know it was you; and you were talking to me. Me. Heather. Me. Deep breath.

"I have some mirrors I want to give you," he said.
Me? Why me? Do you know who I am? You actually came over here to ask ME if I wanted something? I felt like throwing myself on you for a momentous hug, but thought you might have gone all kung-fu on me or something.

So, I told a couple of people where I was going, just in case I went missing. I mean, I don't know this guy. Sure, he lives across the street from me, but he could bury dead bodies in a trap door in his garage floor. Dang that 48 hours Mystery show for making me so freakin' crazy.

So, after school, the kids, the cat, and I made our way over to the single cleanest garage I've even seen in my life to retrieve my gifts. I mean, seriously. Where are the leaves on the floor, the cobwebs in your windows, or the dead bugs gathered in the corner. Where are they? Do you clean this thing every single day or what.

Anyway, I graciously accepted two mirrors and a paper shredder of all things. Not that I actually needed these things, but I just couldn't say no. I didn't care if he gave me a cow skull, I had already decided I was going to take whatever he offered.

We've made some real progress in the last month. It only took me 4 3/4 years, but we're gettin' there. You'll be coming over for coffee and watching Regis and Kelly before we know it.

Hugs and kisses,

Heather

If You Can't Beat 'Em...

You know the old adage...the one that currently sums up my life.

Here's the deal. I live with 3 men. I fully realize that 2 of them are not fully grown as of yet, but they are men, nonetheless. I have tried, tried, TRIED, to get my point across and have them be decent, clean, respectable men, but let's face it. I'm failing miserably. I've deducted that it just can't be done. It's something in their DNA that causes them to be the way they are. Can't be my fault because God knows I've tried until I'm blue in the face.

So, as of today, I've decided to end the constant nagging and make a few simple changes in my life.

It will no longer be necessary to flush any toilet in this house. What's the point anyway? We'll just let the aroma brew up for a few days and see how amazing our house smells. Besides, it's "all natural." And just think of all the water we'll be saving.

Speaking of which, we might as well just talk about all of our bodily functions on a daily basis. No place will be off limits, especially the dinner table. We'll talk freely about everything that comes out of our bodies, and then just for fun, we'll practice some of the "gassier" things while sitting in the car with the windows rolled up and locked. Ah, at last, family togetherness will be so much more meaningful.

Then we'll all help Benj with his ABC's by each belching the entire alphabet in one quick breath. I can't think of a more appropriate way to teach preschool skills in a way that each family member will understand. Maybe we could make a video and put in on youtube, just for an added creative bonus. Everyone will be so jealous of us.

And stock in Kleenex will most certainly go down, as we will no longer be needing any sort of tissues. That's what God gave us fingers for.

We'll eat fried chicken EVERYDAY until our arteries harden or we break a limb from slipping on the multi-layers of grease on the floor. There will no longer be a need for vegetables. We'll just take multi-vitamins, if we happen to remember and if they magically appear in the cabinet.

And, finally, just think of all the free time we'll have because we will no longer have to clean ANYTHING EVER for any reason. It'll give us a lot more time for Wii playing, LEGO building, and, of course, Razorback football watching.

It's gonna be such a great life :)

It Goes Something Like This...

I've said before that I live my life in a constant state of live, musical theatre. I spend about 3/4 of every day singing or humming, and sometimes I get really fancy and throw in some random whistling just so I don't get bored. So, recently, in the middle of one of my musical numbers, I suddenly realized just one more thing that we Americans take for granted...song lyrics.

When you really think about it, just about anything that ever needs to be said can be done with nothing other than song lyrics. So, if you're really creative, quick on your feet, and happen to know a lot of songs (which I do, YEAH) you may never have to have an original thought ever again.

Give these a try...

Conversations with Siblings:

Joe Jones came out with this in the 60s, and it couldn't more more appropriate for my sisters. I, of course, mean this with the best of humor, so please don't call and tell me that I talk WAY more than you do. It's a blog, for crying out loud, and I'll say what I want to say.

You talk too much you worry me to death, You talk too much, you even worry my pet. You just talk, talk too much. You talk about people that you don't know. You talk about people wherever you go. You just talk, talk too much.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMoDwz9BW0I



Parenting Advice:

Chill out, What you yelling for?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qr5PZuE_vaU

A big thanks to Avril Lavigne for that one. It's one of my favs.

Conversations with Ken at work:

Just hit the eastside of the LBC on a mission trying to find Mr. Warren G. Seen a car full of girls ain't no need to tweak. All you skirts know what's up with 213.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXNvHNOD-ZY

Ah, some Warren G and Regulate. This of course makes no sense at all, but does fit into one of my favorite hobbies of calling Ken at work and singing him random songs. He totally loves it ;) but occasionally does try to hang up on me. He's so lucky to have me to occupy his day. Don't you think?

Pep Talk to Myself

Cause I'm a redneck woman And I ain't no high class broad I'm just a product of my raisin' And I say "hey y'all" and "Yee Haw" And I keep my Christmas lights on, on my front porch all year long And I know all the words to every Charlie Daniels song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8ECto9wdRw

Gretchen Wilson read my mind with this one. It's my self-appointed theme song, if you will. It's such a fun song to sing at the top of my lungs while I'm doing the dishes.

I could go on and on but you get my drift :)

Hello, breast...meet my 9 pound, 15 ounce son.

The. Breast. Center. Maybe it's just me, but simply hearing the three words together makes it a bit difficult to understand exactly what this establishment is. Should I go there to get some enhancing in my obviously lacking cleavage area, or should I expect Bambi to show up next to my bar stool with a Cosmo in hand?

And poor Ken can't speak the three words together without chuckling out loud a bit. (Good thing he didn't see the paperwork.) I had no earthly idea what to expect, but I knew it was something that I needed to do sooner rather than later.

So, today, at the ripe 'ole age of 33-and-three-quarters, was my appointment for my first ever mammogram. Yikes. Ouch. I was scared stiff. And when I found out that I couldn't wear deodorant, I wanted to scream out over the phone, "It's LATE JULY, people!" Whatever. Surely it wouldn't kill me.

Whoever said that a mammogram was painful has obviously never delivered and breastfed a 9 lb., 15 oz. newborn baby. Breastfeeding is much more painful than a mammogram, hands down. Today I saw no needles, no blood, and no hands in holes they shouldn't be in. Nothing. I've had blood pressure cuffs be more painful that this.

I am, however, feeling a hint of discrimination. So, on behalf of all small to average breasted women out there, I must ask...is there a reason the platform has to be so large? I mean really? I took up maybe one-sixteenth of the allotted square. Really? Are there women out there that take up the entire thing? Holy crap.

And I'm not really sure why the examiner feels the need to carry on a conversation with me while I'm half naked. Pardon my rudeness, but I CANNOT talk with you while I'm wearing a sideways-turned, polka-dotted smock and exposing everything God gave me. Sorry. I can't. It's weird, and I'm not going to do it. But I am thrilled for you that you have two children and three amazing grandchildren. Really I am. Couldn't be happier, but shouldn't you be clicking something over there on your computer?

BTW, to all of you with computer speakers, I just couldn't resist this song. I'm not apologizing for it. Gotta have some fun with all of this.

"Beat It" Mandy M.

The following is a true story. While the events you are about to read about are in fact true, last names have been abbreviated to provide anonymity.

You've undoubtedly heard by now that, of course, Michael Jackson has officially died. Dead. Deceased. Gone from this Earth. And unless you live in a shack in the middle of the woods with "Dueling Banjos" playing in the background, you've heard at least one MJ classic song on the radio or T.V. since his untimely death.

I get it. He was the "King of Pop," his album "Thriller" is still the top selling album of all time, and he changed the way we view and hear music even today. Really, I get it. But, I still a little bitter. It all goes back to 1983 for me...

I was in the 3rd grade in Mrs. Dixon's class at McRae Elementary. One of my classmates, RaeLynn, always brought things to school to sell. At the time, that didn't seem all that unusual, but now looking back, I wonder who exactly lets an eight-year-old girl peddle items to her peers? And an even better question is why the school let it go on. Anything from homemade, teddy bear shaped lollipops to my all-time favorite, the coveted, amazing, one-of-a-kind Michael Jackson purse.

It was such a cute little carryall. I can still picture it now. It was solid black with a shoulder strap that could have doubled as a black shoestring and right there on the front was a picture of MJ himself in white. I was in love. The price? $5.00.

Seems like a deal in 2009, but in 1983, things were really tight for us. I begged and pleaded with my mom for five bucks, but my constant nagging, as I had assumed, went unrewarded. No purse for me. I would have to settle for looking at Mandy M's latest MJ accessory. She was so cool.

And it didn't help matters that she walked around taunting me with it. She'd carry it different ways just to annoy me..."normally" as one would expect to carry such a kickass handbag, casually without the shoestring strap, or my absolute favorite diagonally across her body. Any way she carried it spelled trouble for me and my now overwhelming envy.

And what did she carry in there anyway? We didn't wear make-up, and we didn't need feminine products just yet (thank God). Maybe she just carried around to see what else she could buy from RaeLynn and shove in there.

I have no idea whatever happened to RaeLynn or Mandy ***insert sarcasm here*** but just in case either one of them is reading this, I would like to tell you something. Something I've been meaning to say for years now...

"Beat It" Mandy. I've moved on. I now carry a purse that my little sister bought me from the Sarah Jessica Parker collection at Steve & Barry's. And yes, it cost $9.99, so if my math is correct, that's exactly double what your purse costs. It's big enough to carry around my wallet, gum, crayons, and even my cell phone (assuming it's charged and I know where it is).

There. Deep cleansing breath, and I'm done.

The Rise and Fall of Jon & Kate: An Insider's Look into the Genre of Reality Television

Okay, so I'm not an insider by any means of the Jon and Kate phenomenon, but I do watch more than my fair share of reality television, so I do have some insight into our recent "development." So, here we go...

Dear Kate:

I've watched your show for years now.

I really loved the fact that your husband went off to work and you stayed home with eight, count them EIGHT, little ones. I was exhausted with my mere two, and here you sit with six more than me. Either I'm a complete loser or you're nothing short of a modern day Mary Magdalene. I applaud you, I really do.

I loved the fact that you fit all eight of your litter in one, rather compact home. They were always fighting over the same toy, constantly throwing temper tantrums and fits, and always peeing (or worse) on the floor. It was great television for stay-at-home and working moms alike across our cable T.V. viewing country. So, I was thrilled, maybe even a little jealous, when you got the tummy tuck.

I mean, shut-up girl. You spent months on bed rest IN a hospital with a severely overstretched stomach centered with a belly button that was just screaming for someone to draw large, black circles around it thus making it a moving dartboard . You deserve to do something nice for yourself. Go for it.

I didn't even care when Jon had his hair transplant. I mean, yes, he was losing his hair, but it didn't seem that overwhelming to me. Nonetheless, I say take it. If it's being offered free of charge and your kind brother and his pretty redheaded wife are willing to take care of all of the kids, I say heck yeah, bring on the follicle support.

It was fun that you went to various places around your hometown with the kids. I enjoyed seeing your church, where you bought groceries, and the little kids' preschool. Very cool. I wasn't even that put-off when you went skiing in Utah or to Disney World, even though I had never been to either place.

But, I think we crossed the line when we took the entire family on an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii for a wedding rededication ceremony. Really? Was that entirely necessary? Yes, yes, I know Jon's family lives in Hawaii, but you didn't seem all that interested in getting to know them. You seemed more into your designer wedding gown and complimentary spa treatments than into meeting your in-laws. And now, all of the sudden, it seems you've gotten too big for your britches, as my dad would say. That one episode alone was enough for me to re-examine my TIVO lineup and delete my season pass.

You more than double your filming from the first season, get complete body makeovers, and move into a multi-million dollar house and now all of the sudden your "documentary" has turned into a paparazzi chasing, media frenzy. The viewers suddenly turned on you, and we now hold you somewhere between Amy Fisher and Michael Jackson.

Now it seems that all the crap you've dealt out to your husband has come back to bite you. No more "it's a crazy life, but it's our life" and "we're in this together" intro into your show. Should have thought about that before treating your husband like he was just another one of your many disposable diapers.

So, what's a thirty-something, mother of eight to do? Go on with the popular reality show where you get paid to go to the zoo, create pottery, and make cupcakes or get a regular 9-5 job and keep your family together. Hmmm. Guess you'll have to think about that one for a while.

My advice? Get out while you can. Try to scrap together any shred of sanity you have left and move to Zimbabwe. Give your sweet kids a break before we see them on an episode of "Reality Show Kids of the Past" and they're talking about their tormented childhoods.

P.S. I like the white, wide-rimmed sunglasses. Do you mind telling me where you got those?

A concerned ex-fan,

Heather

On behalf of dogs everywhere...

I'm not a dog fan. There I said it. I'm not. Not even close.

I just can't wrap my little brain around the idea of actually paying for a four-legged-pet, papers or not, and then taking care of them as if they were a child. I mean come on...you've got the feeding, the watering, the papering, the grooming, the walking with the poopy clean-up along the way, the obedience classes, and who could forget the ever-so-popular "doggie day care." It's enough to make my head spin and my wallet shrivel up and die.

Maybe I'm just way too lazy, but I can't imagine cleaning up after one more living creature. If I wanted to do that, I'd just ***swallowing loudly*** have another baby. At least that way we'd get a tax credit, right honey?

I know it's an unpopular opinion, maybe even an un-American one, but I don't care. Somebody needs to stand up for these guys, and I have self-appointed that somebody as ME.

I recently watched the movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua and...okay let me stop myself right there. I should have said I grudgingly sat down and tried to watch this flick that my 4-year-old begged me to watch with him. How bad could it be? It's a cute kid movie.

I got about five minutes into this "movie" before I realized what I had succumb to. I'm watching a movie about dogs...not just any dogs but talking dogs for that matter...dogs that wear SHOES and HATS and LEATHER COATS and get PEDICURES.

Seriously? Why are we doing this to poor, innocent canines across our country? So, on behalf of dogs everywhere, let me just say that they HATE, with a capital H, wearing any type of clothing. Just to be clear, this would include any kind of shirt in any material, jewelry, shoes (yes, boots too), raincoats, hats (even with the appropriately sized openings for their ears), and please don't get me started on Halloween costumes.

Dogs are dogs. They sniff each others privates and drink out of toilets. They don't require countless trips to the groomer and the nail salon. Give them food, a bale of hay, some rain water, and maybe a flea collar, and they're good to go. That's all they need. Period.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for equal rights for all of God's creatures, but where I'm from, dogs were lucky to get FED. They sure as hell didn't wear CLOTHES. And don't tell Bob Barker, but we never had them spayed or neutered. That's what a water hose was for.

Perhaps I'm just a wee bit cynical, but deep down you all secretly agree with me. I'm all for vet visits, rabies shots, flea control, and maybe even an occasional bow or scarf in the fur. That's it. Just let it go. ***CHANTING (and holding my picket sign)***No more clothes...No more clothes...No more clothes!

I feel better already.

What I'm STILL Learning...

As my friend Ginny would say, "This is a serious blog. Sit down, shut up, and listen."

Yesterday was probably one of the hardest days of my life as we were faced with the funeral of our sweet friend, Ginny. About six years ago, way before she was ever faced with cancer, she asked me to sing a certain song at her funeral. I believe the words I said to her were, "Would you stop it and stop talking about your funeral. Who does that?" Well, she did apparently, and I remembered it.

That was all she said, and she never brought the song up again - until she was diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. On what was apparently a particularly hard day, she asked me in front of "witnesses" as she called them, to sing at her service again. I just shook my head and started crying. Now all of the sudden it seemed all too real to me, and I was literally terrified.

So, when she passed last week, I knew it was coming. Her husband, David, called me on Saturday and asked me to do just that. I knew I had to do it for my friend, but I was completely mortified of singing at a funeral, especially one of someone that had made such an impact on my life. But I knew what I had to do.

Those of you who have been to funerals with me know what I'm referring to. I'm a contagious cryer. I can sob at a service of someone I've never even met. I actually did that once when my mom forced me to go to a funeral of one of my great aunts when I was in high school. It was bad...really, really bad. I think she got some comic relief out of it because she was too busy laughing at me rather than paying attention to the service. BTW, thanks for that, Mom.

Anyway...back to my friend. I've known the song selection for years, so I didn't have to learn anything. I just had to get geared up for it...put my game face on and get to work.

I was nothing short of an emotional wreck. I mean a sobbing, tissue grabbing, eye-swollen mess. So many people, myself included, didn't think I was going to be able to pull this off for anyone, much less for Ginny. As Carl and I were practicing the day before, the funeral home pulled up. Now I know these guys do this for a living, but they just wheeled her in and flipped open the lid. WAIT A SECOND. HOLD THE PHONE. I wasn't ready for that. But I think it turned out for the best. I was able to have my own private viewing, sort of speak. I cried, talked to the kids (who were of course with me) about death and heaven, and I then knew I could do it.

The day of the service comes, and I'm still an absolute wreck. My heart is beating out of my chest, it's hard to breathe, and I think I could very easily vomit. I think I'm having a panic attack. But in the back of my mind, I keep hearing Ginny's voice saying to me, "Would you stop being such a baby and shut up and just SING THE SONG! It's just me for crying out loud!" Then I suddenly felt a peace about the whole thing. And she was right.

I had considered, depending on my emotional state, saying a few words before I sang. I had this elaborate speech all prepared in my head, but when I got up to start talking about her, I really didn't say any of it. I just said what came out, what I felt. To me, singing is always the easy part. It's the talking that always gets me. My voice was shaky, but I was able to somehow keep it together.

The song went very well, better than I ever expected. I owe a lot of thanks to Carl for playing guitar for me and for talking me down from the rafters when I called him crying and telling him I couldn't do it. Also a big thanks to everyone who encouraged me along the way, and to Denni for the emotional support she showed to me after I lost it when I finally sat back down.

My point is this: I learned something about myself today. I didn't think I had the confidence to do this, but Ginny knew I could. She wouldn't have asked me otherwise. She's still teaching me things, and I think that says a lot to the testament of her character and her influence on my life.

So, I'm grateful for friends both on earth and in heaven. I'm grateful that I am in a position to bolt off to the emergency room at a moment's notice to be able to tell my friend how much I love her and to say goodbye. I'm grateful that I'm not totally wrapped up in a job, activities for the kids, or other things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of life. I'm grateful for the things she taught me and for the things I'm still finding out along the way.

I'm grateful that Ken and I got to ride to the cemetery with an past pastor from Foundery and get our own little private counseling session along the way. John Humphries is one of the greatest people I've ever met; he makes me want to be a better person. Ginny loved him, and I know she was happy that he spoke about her amazing life.

In fact, she would have loved every minute of the service. She would have loved that a lot of people from our old church were there and that we all sat around and laughed, exchanged pics of the kids, and talked about old times. She would have loved that and would have been right there in the middle of it all. In fact, I think she was.

What I've Learned from my Friend

There she was. She was the skinny, short-haired, glasses wearing lady sitting on the ottoman. She was older than me, maybe old enough to be my mom, but it was hard to tell exactly. She seemed nice enough. I guess I was going to have to like her. Then she opened her mouth and out it came.

It was the first time in my then 22-year-old self that I'd ever heard someone curse in church. I just knew that God himself was going to appear in the room with a cloud of smoke and fire and strike her down for such an abominable act. But He didn't.

He didn't. Interesting. Okay, so I was naive, but I'd never met anyone like her before. She seemed to say what was on her mind and somehow get away with it. She didn't sugar coat her words; she just told it like it was, pretty or not. But I probably learned the most from her by what she did rather than what she said.

She was an amazing mentor to me. She taught me to be ME - never to pretend to be someone I'm not. She taught me to be more confident in myself. She taught me to be accepting of others - judging was a waste of her time. She taught me to love. She taught me to never give up.

I know she's up in heaven giving 'em heck. I can just hear her now..."Pearly gates? Streets of gold? Crystal seas? You know you can't write those things off on your taxes so don't even try that crap with me."

I know she'll be there waiting on me, with some sort of sarcastic comment that she's probably already brewing up. She'll be ready to introduce me to all the people she's met since she got there and fill me in on all their info. And maybe then we'll understand all those New Testament parables that went over our heads in Disciple II. Or maybe we won't care at all.

My friend, Ginny Cheek, died on Friday night after a more than 2 year kick-ass fight with lung cancer. She meant the world to me, and I can't wait to see her again.

Me and My Big Mouth

For as long as I can remember, I've been a talker. As a 3rd grader, my lifelong ambition was to someday, somehow open up my yellow, tri-fold report card with my name printed ever so neatly on the front, and not see the words I had grown so accustomed to seeing. And every single time, there it was staring back on me in that bright, red, unforgiving ink: talks too much.

I can still remember weighing the options in my 8-year-old mind. "Okay, let's see," I would contemplate. "Can I really spend nine whole weeks keeping to myself without talking to the lucky kids sitting next to me?" Maybe, just maybe, I could pull it off. Then I could be "Citizen of the Month" and get that awesome Polaroid picture posted in the hallway by the cafeteria for everyone to admire. I could do it. I could.

I considered this shift in behavior many times throughout my elementary school career, but every time I would end up right back where I started. What's one more check mark in the grand scheme of life? So, I talk too much. Big deal.

My friend, Julie, had the opposite problem. She was always sitting quietly, her nose in a book, and didn't speak to anyone. I'm still not quite sure why she ever became friends with me; we were so different. She was Citizen of the Month every year from kindergarten through fourth grade, and I was completely jealous. If only I could get my picture in that dang hallway...

These days, though, my lack of early focused self-control seems to be more evident every day. Now I talk to so many people, I find myself forgetting who I tell what and end up repeating the same stories to the same people. Guess I need to either gather some new friends or start taking notes on the ones I already have.

My new life goal is to do more listening that talking. Seriously. I'm trying it. Something happened to my self-editor these last few months, and I now find myself saying things I shouldn't much more often than I should. So that's it. Welcome to my new listening phase. I can do it. I can. No more check marks for me :)

Sing, Sing a Song

I live my life in a constant state of live, musical theatre. I'm talking a full-on Broadway musical right here between my double oven and my dishwasher. This daily production is complete with constant singing, repetitive and sometimes intricate dance steps, and even an occasional, quick wardrobe change. It might be reason #273 why my neighbors hate me.

Maybe I just drink way too much coffee, but I am constantly either belting out a song with my microphone (okay, a wooden spoon) or tapping out a syncopated rhythm like I'm a member of the percussion line in a competing drum corps. My family is downright lucky that I don't own a pair of tap shoes. I could really bust a move with those babies buckled on.

Several years ago, I actually tried to involve cheerleading jumps into my dance routine. That lasted only a few days until my high-kicking aerobesk went terribly, terribly wrong. So, I was forced to hang up my pom-poms forever and stick with what I knew…bring on the music.

And when American Idol comes on, you might as well get out of my way because my game is ON. I sing all of the contestants' songs immediately after they perform them, usually during the judges' comments. Then, because no one else is around or even remotely cares what I'm doing, I critique myself on my performance. I think I've grown a lot as an "artist" since I started a few months ago.

I'd like to think this erratic behavior is from my many years of band or choir throughout my schooling, but in actuality it's probably just me and my undiagnosed ADHD tendencies. I've been trying for years now to involve my family in my musical escapades, but my accountant husband doesn't seem to want to participate. I'll sing a bar of a song I know he knows, hand over the "microphone" and say, "take it away, honey!" He just stares at me, shakes his head, and slowly walks away, wondering how in the world he entered into Holy Matrimony with a loud, singing lunatic such as me. I'm not discouraged, though; I have full confidence that one of these days he'll come around and join one of my many musical numbers.

My 8-year-old, on the other hand, can carry on an entire conversation with me by only quoting lyrics from a 1988 classic by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. "Mommy," he'll say, "that's why I Hate Myself for Loving You." Can't say I didn't see that one coming, but at least he's on board. At least he isn't quoting Aerosmith or AC/DC back to me. See, it could be much worse.

And I'm pretty sure my 4-year-old is the only child who can sing Survivor's Eye of the Tiger. He may not have the most intelligible speech, but that boy can downright hum the bass guitar line.

I really need to switch to decaf before it's too late.

My Column

Recently, via facebook, I met up with or "friended" Holly, a friend from high school. She recently started a weekly publication in White County and asked me if I would be interested in writing a column. I thought it would be a fun thing to do, so here is my first column for her publication. I hope to write every other week or so. Hope you enjoy!

http://www.news-etc.com/issue4.pdf

Reality Show Reject
by Heather Wyatt McCreary

I love watching television, and I have as long as I can remember. My three siblings and I would wake up early every Saturday morning and stare intently at the multi-colored, vertical lined T.V. screen until scheduled programming began for the day. As soon as we saw that larger than life American flag soaring and our melodic national anthem playing in the background, we would erupt into ear-piercing squeals of delight and non-stop applause. The day had officially begun.

Our T.V. would remain on until the end of the day when we heard PBS play “Arkansas, You Run Deep in Me,” one of our state songs. I hadn’t thought about that song in years, but I can miraculously still sing all of the lyrics by heart. And now, thanks to that little trip down memory lane, I’ll be singing it for the rest of the day or, to the dismay of my family, even longer than that.

Cartoon day or “Saturday” as my mom always called it, was by far the best day of the week. It was finally time to turn the dial of our console T.V. over to Super Friends and instantaneously transform into one of the “wonder twins” with my older sister Shelly. It was my absolute favorite show, and I could “activate” into the best gosh darn “bucket of water” of anyone I knew.
At that time in the early to mid 80’s, my lifelong ambition was to someday convince Shelly to let me turn into the wonder twin who took the form of the animal, an eagle for example. She never let me…not even once. So, I eventually settled in to the idea of always metamorphosing into some form of water, whether it be an icicle, a puddle of water on the floor, or even the occasional blizzard or typhoon. Life was still good.

Now fast forward to 2009. I still love watching all different types of shows, but my heart really lies in the world of reality television. Strangers from all different walks of life are hand-picked by a production staff and thrown into various situations and observed around the clock. It’s such a novel concept. But for a Generation X’er like me, this popular genre is a bit discriminating.

Let’s face it; I’ve missed the mark for most of these shows. I’m a smidge too old and not quite talented enough for American Idol, a lot too lazy for The Amazing Race, a bit too married and child-toting for The Bachelor, and way too abdominally challenged and pale-skinned for America’s Next Top Model. So, what’s a gal to do? Just sit back and wait for a new reality show opportunity to fall into my lap?

I obviously have no other choice, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. If anyone sees any new reality show casting calls for a thirty-something, Stay-at-Home Mom with a couple of kids and quite a bit of emotional baggage in tow, please let me know. Until then, I’ll be perfecting my off-screen “wonder twin powers” in hopes of one day becoming the greatest superhero impersonator alive. It’ll help fill the void until my real break comes along. Look out world…reality television here I come.

Heather Wyatt McCreary is a freelance writer and a Searcy native now residing in Northwest Arkansas. You can contact her at heatherwyattmccreary@yahoo.com.

Dear Old Man who Lives across the Street from me...

I'm not that bad; I swear I'm not. We could be great friends if you'll just give me a chance.

There's really no reason you have to ignore me when you pass me on the street. I know that you know what my car looks like. You know I'm the one with the super cool minivan with the crazy kids running beside the car or hanging out the windows or sunroof. I mean, would a simple wave kill you? I'll even settle for a slight head nod. I'm not picky.

Come on...let's not pretend anymore.

And when we're both out walking or running, I do notice when you cross the street just so you don't have to acknowledge me. I can see you doing that, and I can't say it doesn't hurt a little.

What about when Ken invited you over when your electricity was off for 5 days longer than ours was. Don't lie and say you'll come over and hang with us and then not come. How do you think that makes us feel when you would rather sit alone in your frigid house with no power than to walk over here and get to know us a little better?

And, whatever you do, PLEASE don't come over here when I'm having my next garage sale and introduce yourself while looking at my friend as if she is the one that lives here instead of me. That was just plain embarrassing.

Just look at all the things we have in common:

• We both stay home during the day
• We both live on the same street
• We...ummm...

Okay, so maybe we don't have all that much in common, but I could make us a pot of coffee and you could come over and change all that. I've lived here 4 years now. I may not know your name, but here's what I do know:

• Your wife died around Thanksgiving 2007, but I didn't find out until well into 2008. I still feel kinda bad about that. I would have at least made a casserole or something.
• You never have any visitors, so you must be lonely. Let's just say...pot of coffee...you...me...Tuesday morning.
• You mow your yard every Monday morning in the spring and summer. I could bring you some lemonade if you want during the really hot months. That's just what friends do.

Didn't you ever watch Mr. Rogers Neighborhood? That will be us...minus the zippered sweater and the light tossing of the shoes. We don't even have to feed a fish or sing songs (unless you just want to.) We can sit at my kitchen table and make arts and crafts, and then the mailman will personally deliver our mail. Wouldn't that be dandy?

So, if you just give me a chance, we could make this a happier street. I think then you'll see that I'm a really great neighbor. Let's start with a wave or something, and we'll move on from there.

P.S. Thanks for driving slow when my kids are playing the street. That's always a good thing.

Sincerely,

Heather :)

Little House on the (McCreary) Prairie

Get it...Little House on the Prairie...McCreary...they...rhyme. Okay, it's not as clever sounding when I have to explain it. Wow, what a crazy week, but we survived...and we didn't freeze to death in the process.

I've lived in Arkansas my entire life, so I wasn't all that worried when the predicted ice storm hit our area. I knew that everyone would totally freak out, all the schools would be closed, and there would be TV reporters from every local station standing on the sides of major roads in their winter garb telling us, "if you don't have to get out on this stuff...don't. Just stay in and stay warm"

Well, that all happened. Everything was fitting perfectly into my previous icy memories until early Tuesday evening when my TIVO went dark. No power. No big deal. Our power went out like once a week when I was a kid. Besides, we now had "city water" as my parents always called it when I was a kid, so we could still do SOME of the basics. I was sitting pretty with my cheap candles in my saved coffee tins, so bring on the darkness...I DARE you.

It was like a big camp out. We made sandwiches, played board games by candlelight, and I sang songs...such a "Kum Ba Yah" moment, if you will. All the while, it was starting to get awfully cold in here.

The next morning, we arose from our multi-layered blanket cocoons, and tried to begin the day. Ken, of course, went to work and the kids were playing Legos in the living room. I even busted out some pancakes on my cast iron skillet IN my fireplace. Next, I decided to get out the washboard and do a load of laundry. I boiled some water in the fireplace and took my washtub outside and began to get to work.

Okay, that last part about the washboard is totally made-up, but overall I was very impressed with my survival skills. Until, of course, later that morning, when I somehow managed to lock us all outside in the 16 degree weather. I mean who would have thought that the garage door can look from the inside when you slam it shut? Good grief.

Afraid he would have to chip us out of the ice when he returned home, Ken insisted we go up to Tyson with him that afternoon to soak in their heat for as long as we could. Our 4-hour appearance there apparently struck some of Ken's co-workers with a tremendous amount of guilt, pity, or both, as we ended up eating supper with one and spending the night with another. I was very appreciative and WARM.

It was a crazy 50 hours, complete with my own emotional breakdowns and moments of helplessness. But just as I was contemplating holding up the closest Medipak pharmacy for some unprescribed anti-anxiety meds, our power came back on. This entire process forced two of my biggest issues to suddenly slam into each other...I hate not being in control AND I hate accepting help from other people. I had to face both of those at the same time, and I just about lost it.



It's over. We (okay Ken) started cleanup on Saturday morning as the ice was thawing. We've been fortunate enough to have help from a couple of neighbors and our friend, Kirk. I'm sure it will take a while, but we'll get there.

Confessions of a 33-year-old SAHM

Disclaimer: We love our church and our pastor. The following story is just another classic example of how crazy things happen to us no matter what we do or where we go...

I have to confess...something very serious. I can't believe I'm actually admitting this, but I have now seen something on the Internet that I thought I would never see. Something so degrading to "women" that I could barely stand it.

Oddly enough, I learned about it CHURCH. What kind of church is this, you ask? Let me tell you...

It was an ordinary service. Levi was fidgety, trying to escape the sanctuary by any means whatsoever. When all the sudden, a Lego scene depicting the memory verse was flashed on the screen. Levi gasped with excitement. "What's this," I thought to myself. "Lego people illustrating Bible stories. What better way to get Levi to learn about different Bible stories. This is AWESOME."

I quickly made note of the website, and Levi logged on as soon as he entered our house. I couldn't have been happier. He was clicking through all kinds of Bible stories from both the Old and New Testaments...everything from Noah to Jesus' birth.

As Levi was expanding his Biblical knowledge, I was on the phone with my friend, Amanda. I was so excited to tell her about the cool, new website that we had just discovered only hours earlier. I was apparently way behind, as she already knew all about the site. "Get him off of there right now," she says, interrupting me mid-sentence. I couldn't imagine what she was referring to. After all, these are Bible stories for crying out loud. Calm down...relax...it's Legos. Legos...building blocks...kids toys...Legos.

After some minor navigating through the site, I saw it with my own eyes. There is was, right there staring at me. It was Lego porn.

Yup, I said Lego porn. I never guessed I could view Legos in such a way. I can't say I ever thought about it before, but now I can't get it out of my mind. I can just see me explaining why the Legos were doing that to each other. Just yesterday Levi asked me how Oliver the cat (who is a girl) could have babies if she wasn't married. And now, I just about had to explain the birds and the bees using Legos characters in compromising positions as examples.

To make matters worse, Ken wouldn't stop looking at it. He would click on a story, laugh, and call me to look. Seriously? STOP LOOKING AT THE LEGOS! Good gracious alive.

Ken quickly called Carl, our pastor, and told him what we had discovered. I think he was as surprised as we were...or at least I hope he was :)

So, we made it through the day without any major causalities. Lego porn. NOW I've seen everything.

My Latest Obsession

I was thinking the other day that I'm pretty sure I have an addictive personality. Seems like I find a new hobby, start a new exercise, or even find a new snack food and I can't get enough of it. Maybe it's persistence or maybe I'm just the crazy stalker woman who called the Springdale Hobby Lobby for like a week asking when their Christmas stuff would be 80% off (which finally happened last Saturday, BTW). It's a darn good thing I don't smoke or drink all that much. How scary would that be?

Then my friend, Amanda, introduced me to facebook.com, and my life has never been the same. I'm OBSESSED with it. For the 2 or 3 remaining souls who aren't on facebook yet, DON'T DO IT. I resisted for months and then finally bit the bullet and joined. Now I'm posting pictures, giving status updates, and stalking poor, innocent people that happened to know me along my route through life.

People watching has always been one of my hobbies, but this takes it to a whole new level for me. Now I get to see what different "friends" have done with their lives, see pictures of their spouses and children, and probably the most curiosity-sparking for me, to see what they do for a living. Most of the professions I could have guessed, but some totally catch me by surprise.

Interesting, yes, but I must admit that it sometimes makes me a bit sad, maybe even regretful that I didn't work a little longer than I did before my Levi was born. I really can't imagine not being here to take Benj to therapy or to pick up Levi from the bus stop, but sometimes I'm stuck with the what if of it all..

So, I find myself mentally (and sometimes verbally) editing every written document I see. Anything from letters from the school to signs along the road, I do it ALL of the time. I know I can go back to work at any time, but it's been so long now (8 1/2 years) that I feel a bit rusty. I can just see my first interview now.

Interviewer: Okay, let's see some of the pieces you've written.

Me: Well, like I haven't actually published anything per se, but I do this really cool online blog and it's totally fun, pointless, and pretty much meaningless. Whatcha think?

Call me crazy, but somehow I don't think that's going to cut it. Several years ago I tried my hand at freelance writing without much luck. Okay, "much" is a bit exaggerated, let's so NO luck. Maybe it's time to re-examine that again. That's a good New Year's Resolution for me.

Until then, though, you're stuck with reading my random thoughts about everyday situations that I encounter along the way.

Speaking of which, it's time to call Hobby Lobby again. That 90% off sale is bound to happen any day now :)