Hips Don't Lie!

In my quest to be in fantastic physical condition by the time I turn fifty, I am experimenting with various forms of exercise. Fortunately, our new gym membership includes many options, one of which is Zumba dancing.

Having promised myself I'd try almost anything once (at least in regard to physical fitness) I attended my first Zumba dance class this evening.

Well!

I'm not sure why I get myself into such things. I can't dance and never could, even before I experienced nerve damage in my left leg which left me with a slight foot drop on that side.

And we won't even talk about my nearly inflexible lower back.

(Did I mention that being able to move one's hips and legs are vital to the art of dancing Zumba style?)

Yet, somehow I thought I just might turn out to be quite marvelous at it, so I went.

Thank God, no one in the class seemed to be taking themselves all that seriously. Frankly, I probably got as much good from the class aerobically speaking, from laughing at the middle aged woman in the mirror who kept stumbling over her own feet and seemed unable to swivel her hips in the least, as I got from the movements themselves.

(That middle aged woman was me, of course)

Everyone else laughed a lot too, and I promised myself they were laughing at their own reflections in the mirror and not mine.

That would have left my feelings hurting a lot worse than my lower back and hips were at the end of the class.

Overall, I don't think I did too badly. Since there's very little likelihood I'll ever be invited to appear on "Dancing With the Stars", I figure the act of moving in general was more important than trying to get the moves exactly right.

And, I kept right up with the others during the warming up and cooling down exercises. Surely I get points for that!

The instructor said I did a terrific job. I'm almost certain she never says that to any of the other first time Zumba dancing grandmas. Neither was her evaluation likely swayed whatsoever by fact that she was so high on cold medication, she forgot a few of the moves herself.

Whether I ever become accomplished at Zumba dancing or not remains to be determined. As the song says, "hips don't lie" and mine were screaming "we're way too old to move this way" by the time I left the gym.

Even still, I came out feeling rejuvenated and fairly proud of myself for at least trying. So yeah, I'll be going back later this week for another attempt.

What are the possibilities? I guess I could break a hip while trying to pivot on one leg ... or I could end up being an awesome Zumba dancer just like the ladies in the attached video.

Either way, it would make a great story to tell the grandchildren.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2PN_xCstcQ

(Video is from similar a Zumba class in Hickory NC. We danced to the same song last night ... only maybe not quite as effectively. lol)

Becky J. Taylor
Dec. 1, 2009
http://www.boldnewday.com

The Big 5-Oh No!!!

A couple months back I decided I want to be in the best physical condition of my life by the time I turn fifty. The big event will arrive a little less than nine months from now, so I've got to get to work.

Never mind that I also vowed to be in the best physical condition of my life by the time I was thirty, then forty. That doesn't matter anymore. This time I mean it!

With that goal in mind, Walt signed our whole family up for a gym membership this week. We went together for the first time yesterday evening. It took me about two minutes to realize this is going to be harder than I'd previously imagined.

To begin with, someone failed to tell me I needed to make an appointment with the trainer before my first visit, so she could help me come up with a routine and show me how to use the equipment. While Walt jumped right into his exercises, I ended up browsing around inspecting the various torture devices, and feeling rather overwhelmed.

Finally, I climbed onto one of the elliptical machines and chose the "fat burner" mode, entered all my vital information, and set the timer for ten minutes.

Now, I know I'm not a supermodel. Nor do I aspire to enter any body building contests in the near (or distant) future, but I don't think I'm in particularly terrible shape for a woman my age either. For that reason, I was shocked at how quickly I felt done with the workout. After only a few steps on the machine, my heart rate began to rise dramatically.

That was a little scary. I'll admit I was concerned about the possibility of passing out and embarrassing myself in front of the much younger, healthier people who seemed to be treading along effortlessly all around me, more so than I was worried about the possible implications of my speeding pulse.

To make matters worse, my fifteen year old son who was on the treadmill next to me kept reading the information from my machine's digital display out loud for everyone to hear.

"MOM! You're not doing it fast enough! It keeps pausing! You've got to keep walking!"

I didn't want to tell him I was intentionally allowing the thing to pause every few seconds in an effort to save my life.

I glanced at the timer and was happy to see it at four minutes, forty seconds. Whew! I was over half way finished.

My happy little bubble busted almost instantly when I noticed the timer was going up, not down. I didn't have four minutes left ... four minutes was how long I'd been on the stupid thing!

Determined to stay the course yet not be carried out of the gym on a stretcher, I kept plodding along until I reached the ten minute mark.

All's well that ends well, I suppose. I did survive, after all.

After re-evaluating the situation I'm asking myself if it's really necessary that I be in the best physical condition of my life by age fifty? Maybe not. At least for now, I'm going to re-write my script to read I want to be able to last ten minutes on the elliptical machine without giving myself a heart attack.

From here on, I'll take it one step at a time. I may not reach "perfection" over the course of the next nine months, but I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday knowing I did the best I could.

I'm also promising myself that, if by my fifty-first birthday, my hard work has not rewarded me with a firm, healthy body, I'm treating myself to some liposuction!

Becky Taylor
http://www.boldnewday.com
11/19/09

Un-Bearded Lady

Since I had thirty minutes to spare between my late lunch with Mr. Taylor and time to pick the boy up from school today, I decided to treat myself to an eyebrow waxing.

My eyebrows aren't exactly wild or anything. Quite to the contrary, I rarely have to do anything to them at all. Once in a while I'll notice a stray hair or two and go have them tended to. "Once in a while" meaning about three times a year .. maybe.

The last couple times I've gone to the salon, I've allowed the technician to wax my upper lip too, mainly because they always seem disappointed if I tell them "no" when they ask.

So as I lowered myself onto the table today I decided to be generous. I told the young woman with the wax to do my eyebrows and upper lip. She smiled and nodded, then proceeded to begin the process of torturing me to just short of the point of tears.

Rip ... Rip... RIP.... She methodically applied the boiling hot wax, then the cloth and yanked it away, surely pulling each tiny hair out by the roots as she worked.

Just when I thought she was finished, she pointed to my chin, indicating I needed some work there as well.

I protested briefly but before the words, "No, I don't ... think ..." could escape my lips, she was already slapping on the wax. As God is my witness, she smeared the thick bubbly concoction all the way under my chin and down part of my neck.

Do you have any idea how tender the area between the chin and the neck is? I didn't ...until today.

R-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-P!!!

OUCH!

The technician giggled as she continued to the other side of the table and slapped the sticky lava like substance on the side of my face. Yes ... my FACE!

RIIIIIIIIIP!

As much as I would have liked, I couldn't stop her then. God forbid I leave there hairy on one side and not the other.

And thus she proceeded until she was content that my face and neck were as smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. Feeling that any protest would have been in vain, I allowed her to go on. She was, after all, the one with the hot wax at her disposal.

Then, to my horror, I realized she was aiming next for my forehead!

Now, I suppose it's possible that I had a few microscopic hairs on my chin, but on the sides of my face and my forehead? I think not!

"No, thank you!" I said, and sat upright so she would no longer have the postural advantage over me.

The terror in my eyes must have been convincing, because she willingly put down her weapons and allow me to leave the table.

Looking in the mirror she so graciously handed me, I noticed looked like I'd fallen face first into a fire ant colony at dinner time. "Just a little red ..." She assured me with a deceptively sweet smile.

"Just a little red?" Surely if I'd really had facial hair everywhere there were now bright red splotches, someone would have mentioned it to me. Or, should I feel embarrassed to realize I've been walking around all this time unknowingly looking like a circus freak?

I don't want to know. I'll chalk the experience up to lessons learned and move on. In this case, ignorance could very well be a beautiful thing.

Becky Taylor
11-3-09

Intervention

My oldest daughter has informed me that she is planning to get the family together for an "Intervention" on my behalf.

Apparently my frequent presence online is causing her some concern. She seems to be tired of hearing "news" from me through what she considers the indirect channel of my facebook friends. The latest example being the case of my prodigal cat, Skippyjon. Last week, when he went missing I headed straight to my computer and shared my heartache with my 700+ closest friends. I was immediately comforted by the show of support they offered.


Likewise, when the rascal returned three days later, I couldn't wait to share the happy news. To my delight, my online friends joined me in a celebratory "cyber-party". It was great!

I love the internet. I love the way it makes it easy to stay in touch with people I'd otherwise only have contact with on an infrequent basis (if at all). I love how it helps me keep up with the daily goings-on of the people I see regularly. I also love the way it has made me many new friends who never would have crossed my path without the benefit of my computer screen.

These things are important to me. I need my cyber-connections!

The internet, in general has made the world we live in a very small place. In an age when life is so busy and time goes by at warp speed, it's refreshing to be able to reconnect with all my friends and family with a few simple clicks of the mouse.

Who can complain about such luxury?

I could go on (and I will). The internet has enriched my life in many ways. I found my sweet Shetland Sheepdog while surfing the web one morning at 3:00 a.m. I've met many new friends, renewed several old friendships ... and was even introduced to my husband via the magic of the internet world.


Say what you will, the internet has been very good to me.

So give it up? I don't think so!


I'll admit to a certain level of "dependence" on my access to the internet. I do spend much of my free time staring at the computer screen in attempt to quench my insatiable thirst for more information than any human could possibly really need. It could be a lot worse! I'm certainly not hurting anyone with my "addiction"


Go ahead! Bring on your "Intervention" if you must! I warn you, your efforts will be to no avail.



I can quit anytime I want ... but right now I am obliviously happy with the internet monkey firmly attached to my back.

The Eye Of The Beholder

Among my most prized earthly possessions is an antique "Hoosier" cabinet that once belonged to my grandmother. I spent hours playing with it when I was a child, so much that Grandma decided I should have it for my own when I grew up.

When the cabinet came into my home about 15 years ago, I immediately found a spot for it in the breakfast nook. Perfect! I marveled at old cabinet and gently placed my own hands over the areas where my grandmother's hands had worn away the paint over many years of pie-making on it's surface.

For a few minutes, I was a five year old girl again, tirelessly spinning the handle that use to sift the flour for Grandma's delicious baked goods. The original yellow stoneware bowl, now cracked with age, had my name scrawled across the bottom with a marker. B-e-c-k-y. I thought about the day my grandmother had written it there to insure the cabinet would land in the proper hands after she was gone.

Needless to say, that old cabinet is worth a million dollars to me. I truly don't know that I could part with it for all the money in the world! It's sentimental value is much higher than any monetary gain it might bring. I love that old cabinet! Just looking at it makes me feel warm and safe, much like I use to feel in my grandmother's arms.

Today the cabinet sits in the breakfast nook of our new home. Instead of housing baking supplies, it has become bit of a "catch all" for our family's odds and ends that have no where else to go. Art supplies for my own grandkids, a few books, table cloths, and our camera to name a few. Though it's function has changed, it remains a vital member of our family.

My six year old grand-daughter, Esther was here for a few days this past week. She pulled the box of art supplies out of the cabinet, then stepped back and looked at it for a brief moment.

"Mamaw", she stated "You really should buy a new cabinet. This one's old and it doesn't look too good."

What? How could that child possibly say such a horrible thing about my grandmother's cabinet?

Ahh, but it is true. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.

Esther didn't know my grand-mother (or even my mother for that matter). When she looks at the cabinet, she sees an old piece of furniture, it's surface dulled by time and paint worn through around the handles. There's no way she can understand that to me, those worn places symbolize the spots where my grandmothers petite, flour covered hands once touched. It is there, I find indescribable beauty in the old Hoosier cabinet.

In fact, our home is filled with beautiful things, but that cabinet is probably the only piece of furniture I would actually risk my life to save if ever there were a flood or fire.

I started to explain the importance of the cabinet to Esther, but decided on a brief summary instead. I told her I loved the cabinet because it was my grandma's and I use to play with it when I was her age. She seemed to be content with my story and went on her way with her art supplies.

I hope that in the future, Esther will remember the cabinet as fondly as I do now. Nothing would make me happier than to think it might sit in her own home as a most treasured possession someday. Just imagining her trying to explain it's value to her grandchildren (my great grandchildren) makes my heart smile.

"My grandma use to keep my art supplies in that cabinet when I was a little girl" She will tell them. And then she will run her fingers across the marks around the handles where the paint is worn thin ... and she will smile and add, "I wouldn't take a million dollars for this old thing"

Get Real!

I enjoy reality t.v. as much as anyone, but come on! I can't believe the things they will base a television show on these days. It seems to me the '09 season has stooped to a new low.

Surely the "peeping tom" has become extinct, since at any given time of the day, all one has to do in order to satisfy their voyeuristic cravings is turn on the television and start flipping channels. Soon enough, you are bound to stumble upon a show about something that, not too many years ago would have been considered mundane details of another family's life.

Haven't thrown anything in your house away for 15 years and, are therefore unable to invite company over because you can't find the sofa? (Yet for some reason you're willing to have a camera crew come in and video the mess so it can be broadcast to the world?)

Perfect! Let's make a t.v. show about it!

By any chance, do you give birth to your babies in litters? I'm sure everyone in America would love to watch you change diapers assembly line style for the next two years. (It definitely tops my list of things I want to see!)

Looking for a wife (or husband) and want some panel of strangers to narrow down your choices to a dozen or so, so you can date them all, then decide which one to humiliate nationwide each week, until you figure out which girl/guy is "the one"?

Oh brother!

Or I know ... dress your six year old daughter up like a hooker and parade her around in hopes of winning prizes that don't even add up to the cost of the dress she's wearing to the pageant!

That's a real winner right there.

Here's one ladies! Get all the housewives in your neighborhood together and video yourselves having coffee, gossiping or taking the kids to school ... throw in some "cat-fights" for good measure! That idea also seems to be selling big these days.

The list goes on and on and on, to the point of ridiculous.

Addictions?

Fetishes?

Unusual diseases?

I saw an advertisement the other day about a show that will air this fall titled, "Your Kid Swallowed WHAT?"

What in the world possessed someone to spend money on a series about kids who have been taken to the Emergency Room because they swallowed a matchbox car, or some equally indigestible object!

I will admit, I've fallen prey once or twice to a couple of the very shows I've critically mentioned above. Some of them do have a way of sucking a person right in, in a manner that can only be compared to the sick state of astonishment one might derive from witnessing a bad auto accident.

Maybe I should volunteer for a new reality show about people who sit around and actually watch the silly stuff they put on t.v. these days.

Shoot! Come to think of it, with a little creative editing, my own family might qualify for our own reality show! Over the last year, we've certainly done our part toward proving that truth indeed is, "stranger than fiction".

I just don't know that it could be considered interesting or relative to anyone outside our little family circle.

I suppose that is where I'm missing the point. For all I know, I might be allowing logic and reasoning to stand between us and infamy!

No thank you.

Our home life will likely never merit a spot in the limelight, but it's a pretty cool life none-the-less. We are normal people and we like it that way. Let everyone else air their dirty laundry on t.v. in return for a few dollars in the bank. We'll just sit back and watch, and thank God that no one is making a video of us while we're doing it!

Becky Taylor
09/09/09

Victoriana Makes Me Happy

A lot has happened during the many moons that have passed since I last blogged. The biggest event would be that I turned forty nine years old, which means I am now officially on the downhill side of pushing fifty. Does it also imply that I am gaining momentum and therefore the year will go by faster? I've heard that's how it works .. the older you get the faster time goes by. I can only pray that isn't the case.

But enough of that. I wanted to write about something different today, simply because I cannot recall ever bringing up the subject of how much I like Victorian things.

It's true! "Victoriana" makes me happy.

(I apologize if by chance I have already told you about the aforementioned subject! Blame it on my age. You know how prone to forgetting (or repeating) things, us old people can be.)

Anyway, I use to love to decorate and was constantly moving things around my home. I would be lounging around on the sofa doing nothing in particular when an object across the room would catch my attention, and suddenly I'd realize it belonged somewhere else. Knowing from previous experience that I'd be unable to find peace until it was in it's proper place, I would get up and move it to another location.

Oddly enough, I've been less likely to succumb to such behavior since I moved to Georgia and stopped living in Victorian houses. I have to wonder if the fact I use to be surrounded by Victorian things made some kind of difference.

When I left Ohio, I also left most of my old stuff behind. To try and turn the first house I lived in, here in Georgia, into anything remotely Victorian would have undoubtedly been futile anyway. That, added to the fact that I was beginning a new era of my life made it easy enough for me to walk away and not look back.

Until the last couple weeks, when suddenly I've become unhappy with the appearance of our entry hall and main living room. Something just isn't right about those areas and I've once again felt that familiar urge to fix the problem.

Unlike the first house I lived in here, our new home has more of a Victorian lean to it. The dining room has always been Victorian. (I like the dining room, it makes me happy) The entry hall and main living room, however appear more rustic and masculine. Those rooms are decorated primarily in an African theme, with all our African masks, photographs and statues. It's nice enough but still ...

The other day I was browsing through a candle shop, when lo and behold, I found a beautiful Victorian oil warmer on sale. It didn't matter that in reality it's more of a Christmas item. I knew in an instant I had to have it! I carried it carefully to the checkout counter and had the sales lady ring it up for me.

After arriving home with it I realized ... as much as I loved the oil warmer, I couldn't figure out where it should "live" in my house. Unable to bear the thought of stashing it away somewhere, I parked it on the sofa table in the main living room and waited for it to tell me where it wanted to sit.

And yesterday, it finally spoke up! As of today the new Victorian/Christmas oil warmer is perched on the table just inside the front door. I pulled a candelabra out of the dining room and placed it to one side of the oil warmer, beneath the somewhat Victorian looking mirror that's been hanging there all along. Backing off and assessing my new table arrangement, I thought it still seemed to be lacking something, but what?

Color! It needed more color! It needed some RED!

Quickly, I went to the china cabinet drawer and pulled out a red table cloth to place under the candelabra and oil warmer, bunching it up around the objects to make it look more plush and well .. Victorian.

I've since added a decorative box I've always been fond of, to the mix but I'm not sure it's going to stay there permanently. It is more primitive than Victorian and I'm not sure the items can live harmoniously together. Time will tell. Sooner or later one of them will call out to me, begging me to rearrange them once more.

But for now, it shall remain. I like it. I smile when I look at it.

"Victoriana" makes me happy!

I Miss My Little Boy

My "baby" Adam turned fifteen years old yesterday. It's so hard to believe he's in his mid-teens already. This birthday was one of only a couple we've spent apart. He's visiting his Dad in Ohio for a couple weeks, so there was no real celebration here at home for him. Just a simple phone call to tell him Happy Birthday!

I miss him.

Not because he happens to be more than five-hundred miles away, but because over the last six months or so, he's become a person I barely recognize.

I want the "old" Adam back.

I don't have a problem with my baby growing up. It would be unhealthy for both of us if I expected to keep him a little boy forever.

What I'm having a problem with is his behavior. His poor choices. His sudden desire to go against everything we've tried to teach him over the last fifteen years. This time last year he declared to us he wanted to be a minister. Now, he's acting as anything but!

Adam has AD/HD and OCD. I know that plays a role in his behavior, but it doesn't give him an excuse to act the way he's been acting.

This is hard. I just want my son back. The one I had before everything started falling apart. The sweet Adam. The one who was so tender hearted and compassionate. The boy who treasured his relationship with God and family above all else.

I know this will pass. In the meantime, I pray God will protect him and bring him back safely. I dedicated Adam to the Lord immediately upon learning I was pregnant. I did it again, formally, at the church when he was a few weeks old. It wasn't something I took lightly.

For that reason, I have to trust that he is God's child, and God will take care of him accordingly.

And because I too, am God's child, I'm trusting that He will take care of me as well.

He will bring me through this ordeal. I will be o.k.

But tonight, I sure do miss my "little boy".

Superman!

At 90 years old, he stands 5'8" tall and weighs in at a whopping 130 lbs. Granted, at first glance, he doesn't exactly look like Superman, but rest assured, once you get to know a little more about him, you'll have to agree ... my Dad could very well be the real deal!

One story my father use to tell was of the time he had German measles as a young child. The old timers kept children who were stricken with the measles in a dark room, believing that exposure to the light would cause them to go blind. It so happened, while Dad was sick, the family's cow got out of the pasture and Grandma had to go catch it. As she walked out the door, she told her ailing son, "Willy! Don't you leave this house while I'm gone! If you do, you will die!"

Her warning only sparked my Dad's curiosity. Waiting until she was safely out of sight, he went outside anyway, just so he could find out whether or not she was telling him the truth.

Suffice to say, he didn't die from his walk outside. It's also safe to say Grandma never learned of his "experiment" or she would most likely have whipped him within an inch of death, therefore making his death a real possibility.

Even at that tender young age, my father was definitely one of a kind!

At sixteen, Dad lost his sight. I have to wonder if his blindness had anything to do with him going outside while suffering with German measles as a youngster ... whatever the cause, his vision was so bad he could only tell the difference between light and dark.

It didn't seem to slow him down much. After several months of living in darkness, he went to a church service during which he was miraculously healed while simply sitting in the pew.

Three years later during WWII, Dad joined the Army. My grandfather told him he'd never pass the physical because of his prior blindness. To Grandpa's surprise, Dad aced the physical with 20/20 vision. To this day he wears glasses only to read.

I suppose anyone who lives 90 years has probably had one or two close calls with death, but Dad seems to have had more than one human being's share.

And yet he keeps on going.

The "real" Superman may have been able to out run a locomotive, but my Dad was once hit by a locomotive ... and walked away relatively unharmed. That was many years before I was born. He was a young man, probably in his late twenties. I don't suppose he felt he had time for such a pesky thing as succumbing to death by freight train.

When I was in third grade, my father was driving his red VW beetle on his way to visit his sister when he was run off the road by an oncoming vehicle. His car rolled several times, ejecting him from inside. He landed unconscious, many feet away on the embankment. He woke up moments later and decided he needed to go check on his car. Attempting to stand, he discovered it was impossible, and fell back to the ground.

His pelvis was broken. The doctors said he might not walk again without the aid of a walker. Dad was in his early 50's at the time. He was determined not to let the Dr's tell him what he would or would not be able to do.

Six months later, Dad tossed the walker to the curb and hasn't used one again since!

Most of the men in Dad's family died of heart problems in their seventies. So, when Dad was 73 and I received a call telling me he'd had a heart attack and may or may not still be alive, I accepted that my worst fears had come to pass. Strangely enough, I arrived at the hospital to find my father sitting up in his bed in the emergency room joking with the medical staff. He served his time in ICU and was discharged a week later.

(He still insists he never had a heart attack at all!)

But wait, there's more ...

In his early-eighties, Dad was hit by a car while riding his bicycle around town. A witness to the accident said Dad was thrown fifteen feet into the air before landing on the pavement. Again, I rushed to the hospital to find him, although looking a little worse for the wear, sitting up in his bed, his hair (what was left of it) tousled and the side of his face badly bruised. The x-rays showed no serious injuries and he was discharged the next day.

He still enjoys riding his bicycle around town and does it quite often when the weather is nice.

Dad's 90th birthday is coming up on July 10th. Our family has been planning a big party to celebrate.

Last Thursday, however, it seemed we might not be having the party after all. Dad was attempting to walk down the basement stairs to check on one of his beloved cats, and fell. He sustained two broken ribs, a punctured lung which collapsed, and a bad cut on his hand. Somehow he managed to get back upstairs, where my niece later found him lying unconscious in the kitchen floor.

The doctor was concerned about the collapsed lung, but didn't want to insert a chest tube to re-inflate it, for fear it might be more than Dad's body could handle. They decided to wait until the next day and see if it improved on it's own.

During the night, his blood pressure dropped dangerously low. (It was 50/20!)He was losing blood from what they thought was a ruptured spleen. If that were the case, he would require surgery to remove it.

Things looked grim. We were informed the likelihood of him making it through an operation was very low.

Once again, I braced myself for the worst and packed a suitcase for an impromptu trip to Ohio. How sad. We'd planned a big celebration of his 90th birthday. It looked as if we'd be holding a funeral instead.

Two hours into my trip, I received a call. I hesitated to answer. I wasn't sure what news might be waiting on the other end.

In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised. The news was that Dad was doing much better. His blood pressure was up! He was awake and alert. He did not have a ruptured spleen ... and his lung was successfully re-inflating on it's own. It was too soon to say he was "out of the woods" but he was rapidly headed in the right direction. The improvement continued as the days went by.

Dad was released from the hospital this evening. Not to a nursing home or rehabilitation facility, but home! The doctor's say he needs to use a walker, since he's fallen a few times recently. I can't imagine my Dad complying with that suggestion, but we'll see!

Best of all, we'll be celebrating his 90th birthday with him this weekend as scheduled! According to my father, we can expect to keep having birthday parties for him for years to come.

He insists he's going to live to be 100.

If he were like most people, the possibility of that would be unlikely ... but obviously my Dad is not like "most" people.

I knew it when I was a little girl, and I am even more convinced today ... my Dad is Superman!

Lazy, Hazy, CRAZY Days ... Summer '09

Perhaps it's because I was born in August and therefore a "summer baby", that I love this season so much. Growing up in Ohio, I learned to savor the long hot summer days , knowing even longer cold winter months would follow all to quickly on my favorite season's heels.

As a child, I felt sorry for kids who had winter birthdays. What fun could that have been? The possibility of celebrating my birthday at (gasp!) school was unthinkable. The chance of being cooped up inside the house, or having my celebration postponed due to waist deep snow and impassable roads, unfathomable!

No! I very much enjoyed the fact that my birthday always landed in the midst of summer break. Better still, our family often traveled over my birthday, so I frequently enjoyed celebrating the day in style, somewhere far away from home ... usually in the mountains, because by August, my parents would always be ready to retreat from the southern Ohio heat and humidity.

After 48 summers, heat and humidity still doesn't bother me a lot. I still very much prefer it to winter's frigid bite, and seek out the sun whenever possible. It's during the bleak winter months that I especially long for a climate where beaches abound and the temperatures never drop below 70 degrees!

I love summer. I miss it when it isn't here.

This summer has been different, and not in a very good way. It's almost July and not only have we not taken a real vacation in nearly a year, (that's a record!) but we've only been on the lake twice this season. To make matters worse, the schools here in the southern states resume the first week of August, which means that in a little over a month any possibility of taking a vacation will be at the mercy of the school system.

Unless something changes quickly, the summer of '09 will go down in my personal history book as more crazy than lazy or hazy.

I don't like that idea at all. I must do something to change it before it's too late!

As my father always said, "Where there's a will, there's a way."

I ... must ... find ... summer, while there is still time.

Later today, as soon as Mr. Taylor gets home from his Harley ride through the North Georgia Mountains, we will sit down and devise a plan with which we will escape for a few days. I hear Hawaii is nice, and neither of us have ever been there.

Not only is Hawaii nice, but it's also far, far away. Far, far away sounds very appealing to me right now.

Summer '09 will not be a lost cause.

Ready or not, here I come! If summer cannot come to me, I will go to it!

Gremlin Years

My husband and I are not materialistic people. We are fortunate enough to have nice things and very much appreciate that fact, but as I said, we are anything but materialistic!

Nothing's ever really been handed to me in life, I've worked hard for all my nice stuff. Of course, that makes me appreciate it all the more. There was a time when I didn't have so many cool things and I've definitely not forgotten. Some people might even try to say those were the "good old days" or claim that things were so much simpler back then.

I beg to differ.

While I am not materialistic in nature, I do not believe my life would be better or simpler if I still drove a car that I could never be sure was going to get me (along with one toddler and one infant daughter) from point A to point B! Likewise, although I did appreciate and actually liked "government cheese", I am quite thankful I am no longer reliant on that sort of things to feed my family.

So, call them the good old days if you like, I will argue that these days are "gooder"

I wasn't much more than a baby myself when I had my first two children, beautiful daughters who rode around with me in an ugly old red AMC Gremlin that sometimes ran and sometimes didn't. I remember driving home through the back roads of southern Ohio late one night when I hit a bump and my headlights went out. It was also common for the radio to turn itself off and on, dependent on whatever terrain I happened to be traveling.

Yeah ... good times! Yikes!

Given the fact that cell phones had not yet been invented, "scary times" might be a better way to describe them.

At any rate, I thank God the "Gremlin years" are over and we've moved on to bigger, better things.

Could I "survive" if I had to go back to driving a junker? (In reality, "surviving" while attempting to maneuver a junker through Atlanta traffic would actually be unlikely ... but you know what I mean) Aside from that, the answer is "Of course I could!" I am a strong woman! My worth is not determined by the car I drive, or how much I pay for my mac n' cheese!

My husband and I proved this point last weekend when we took two of our grand kids out on the lake for the day. Our boat is very, very old. We bought it used three summers ago just because we wanted something ... anything with an operating motor that would get us onto the water! The real catch was, we were determined to purchase it with what cash we had on hand. Hence, the very old, very unattractive boat that despite it's appearance has served us well.

Well, last weekend we docked our old boat for the day in a cove that was full of very NICE boats. I'm talking about boats that would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. A couple of them were likely worth well over a million bucks. Never the less, we pulled our little boat right in between them all and unloaded our gear.

I'm pretty sure we had every bit as much fun that day as the people in the big fancy boats. I will admit that sitting on the beach looking at the contrast between our boat and those that surrounded it did make me feel just the slightest bit like I did back in the Gremlin years ...even though I've moved on to the stage of my life where I am riding in an ugly old boat, not because I have to but because that's what I choose.

It's the choice that makes the difference!

I'm glad the Gremlin years have passed, but all the same, I cannot say I regret living them for a season. They served their purpose and I learned a lot for having endured.

My son, who was born several years post-Gremlin, has never ridden in a junker car. He's always been taxied around in style and doesn't have a clue about how his sisters were transported when they were younger. He'll turn fifteen next summer and I've already started looking around at cars for him. I hope to find something safe ... but possibly a bit humbling for him to drive. I figure we all need a few Gremlin years in order to appreciate the nicer things in life when they finally appear.

A few years down the road when he is a successful business man driving a fancy little sports car, he'll thank me for first allowing him a taste of the Gremlin experience!

What Should Have Been ...

Today is a difficult day. It should have been baby Luke's birthday. Instead of celebrating his birth, we are mourning our loss. He arrived too soon and was taken away only two weeks later.

The very unique circumstances surrounding Luke from his conception to the day he went away, made him all the more special to everyone who was fortunate enough to get to know and love him.

It almost seems like a bad dream ... a cruel joke. We were all blindsided by Luke's premature birth and death. Even when he arrived so incredibly small, he was very spirited and obviously a fighter. We never entertained the possibility that he would not survive. We refused to believe he would suffer any long term effects from his prematurity. He was a miracle. God had a wonderful plan and purpose for his life. We were prepared to sit back and watch that miracle unfold.

We did not get our miracle. We got a heartache, and an empty place deep within our souls that will never be filled.

Until a few months ago, we all expected that today would be Luke's birthday, but God knew differently all along. I suppose I could make myself crazy wondering ... asking "why"? and still never know the answer.

I ventured out this morning, driving in the rain and thinking about how both my daughters were born on rainy days. Luke should have been born this rainy day. Instead of making a simple trip to the grocery, I should have been making a trip to the gift shop to buy flowers and balloons and big "It's A BOY!" buttons for Luke's mommy and daddy to wear.

The run for groceries was otherwise uneventful, at least until time to check out and the cashier asked if I wanted to donate a dollar to the the Children's Hospital Fund. Without looking up, I said "No".

But then it occurred to me ...

"Yes ... yes, I would" I told the cashier. "Now that I think about it, I would."

He smiled and handed me a brightly colored air-balloon shaped piece of cardboard.

"We'll put these on display in the window." he informed me as he pointed at a blank spot near the bottom, "Sign it right there."

I took the pen from his hand and wrote LUKE! in big block letters, then drew a heart after his name.

Not exactly the kind of balloon I'd planned on buying for baby Luke today. I feel like he deserves so much more.

Hopefully the dollar I spent on that little piece of cardboard will go toward helping someone else's "Luke" story have a happier ending. That would be a good "should have been" birthday present, I think.

Unfortunately, it is little consolation for those of us who instead of celebrating, are mourning today and thinking about what should have been, but never really was to be.

Bye-Bye Belly Dancing! Forget Forensics!

I've decided not to pursue my degree in forensics after all. That dream has gone the way of belly dancing lessons and a few other aspirations I've laid to rest in recent years.

So what if I'll never be a belly dancing forensic scientist / grandmother of five? Everyone will just have to deal with that fact and move on. I ask myself, "Does the world really need one of those anyway?"

My honest answer is, "I seriously doubt it!"

So, what does the world need?

Well, most people need money, myself included. I've been on a mission to find ways to earn more money for a little over a year now. Basically, all I've accomplished so far is adding money to other people's pockets while emptying my own.

Something's got to change!

And I'm convinced that it is changing. I just need it to happen a little more quickly than I am experiencing at the moment.

I have three goals in mind. 1)Succeed in fulfilling my purpose in life, 2) Help others do the same, and 3)Make some money while I'm doing it.

Sounds simple enough.

I've made a decision. I'm going to go open my "inbox" and clear out a bunch of stuff today ... get off some mailing lists and cancel some subscriptions. It's gotten so junked up in there, I'm pretty sure I am getting duplicate mail from all the pop up boxes I've filled out, not realizing I've already received the vital information they're dangling in front of my face. Information I supposedly could never succeed without, yet it's only resulted in me running in circles and accomplishing pretty much nothing!

It's time to regain focus.

Oh, I do hesitate to say good bye to some of those old dreams. Part of me still thinks there is a belly dancer lurking beneath this quickly expanding waistline of mine. Another part believes the brilliant mad scientist I've longed to unleash truly lives in the dark recesses of my brain.

But most of me knows I need to buckle down and just bring in some cold hard cash with the knowledge and abilities I already possess.

Bye-bye bellydancing! Forget forensics!

It's time to get back to reality.

Mental Pause

My wonderful husband, Walter and I were having dinner a couple weeks ago when our conversation turned to the subject of sleep. I mentioned how relieved I was that I'd been sleeping like a baby since we'd returned from Savannah several days before. This was a much welcomed development, since I hadn't slept through the night for a number of months preceding.

After listening to me for a few seconds, Walt shrugged his shoulders and said quite innocently, "You must be going through menopause."

What?

The atmosphere suddenly became a little less than romantic.

I couldn't help but wonder where in the world Walt had been for the last few months.

In the time that has passed since shortly after last Thanksgiving I have:

1.Been forbidden to have any part in the lives of three of my precious grandchildren.
2.Watched my youngest daughter nearly die of pregnancy related complications.
3.Suffered through my fourteen year old son's emotional breakdown (to the point I had to remove him from school and put him in therapy)
4.Experienced an 80% loss in our electrical contracting business (and subsequent income).
5.Sat by the same daughter's bedside as the surgeon forcefully removed her pre-mature baby at 24 weeks 4 days gestation (that's a 5 month pregnancy if you do the math). Knowing it was the only possible chance for saving both of their lives was little consolation.
6.Helplessly stood by as the pre-mature baby died two weeks thereafter.
7.Grieved accordingly.

Need I go on?

Because those are just some of the reasons my brain had been too full to sleep!

Suffice to say I was a bit taken back by my husband's rather pat answer to the issue.

If I'd truly been "hormonal" I would have sprang across the table and strangled him on the spot. Don't tell ME about hormonal!

Within a New York minute of Walt's comment (and without the aid of strangulation) I believe I'd effectively set him straight on the matter. Never-the-less, the question remains ...why do men always seem to think that every negative emotional reaction we women experience is somehow related to our hormones?

Any one of the aforementioned situations would have merited a few sleepless nights, with or without hormonal interference. And yet Walt saw none of those things as significant in their own right?

Noooooooo .... the source of my insomniatic state had to be narrowed down to that one thing, and that one thing alone.

Hormones.

It's an age old question and I have no reason to believe that I will be the one to come up with an answer.

Maybe he was right. Maybe what I was experiencing was not a "natural" reaction to the truckload of unusually stressful situations that hit me without warning. If only I'd realized that possibility! Had it not been for my hormonal state of being, I probably would have been able to skip obliviously and happily through the entire ordeal!

Perhaps there is no such thing as "stress" aside from hormonal influence after all! Wow! What a revelation!

Of course, it would have to be a MAN who would come up with such a simple answer. We women are way too hormonal to ever think of such a thing.

Ladies, I think you will agree ... sometimes we just have to wonder what men are thinking and why they happen to be thinking it! My best guess is that their minds are over-saturated with testosterone thus rendering them incapable of grasping a true-er and more complex explanation.

I've come to this conclusion. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!

Just blame it on the hormones!

A Man and His Garage

I believe I speak for both of us when I say my husband, Walt and I love our home. It's everything we could ask for, really. We love pretty much everything about it, including the neighbors who live in the houses nearby.

We do have a difference of opinion about one thing. You see, my husband seems particularly fond of "his" garage, even to the point of leaving the garage doors up most of the time during daylight hours if he can get by with it. Because of the approach to the house (one of the few things I would change about the house if I could) that means that people who drive up see right into the garage first thing.

I, on the other hand have a "thing" about first impressions and the first thing people see about my home is no exception. Walt likes to laugh at me because I insist that the garage doors be closed, and all our visitors be brought into the house through the front door. He thinks it would make more sense to walk them through the garage and into the house via the door that enters the hallway between the kitchen and the utility room.

Frankly, I don't see his point! The walk around the front of the house, past the flower beds and fountain is so much more pleasing to the eye! Not to mention the appearance of the entry hall vs. the boring wooden steps and kitchen trash can which welcomes visitors from the garage area.

Our garage is nice, as far as garages go. I'd even say it's the nicest garage I've ever owned, but a garage is not part of the living area of a home ... any home. It's a place to park the cars (or in our case, a car, a motorcycle and a truck.) Period! Our (or perhaps it would be better said Walt's) garage is different. The man actually has framed Harley Davidson photos hung on the walls!

Yeah.

I once went so far, as to insinuate that I had partial ownership in the garage by buying a sign to hang on the side where I park my car. I thought I was going to have to call the paramedics for my husband when he read the words written on my purchase ...

"Queen Parking Only ... you're not worthy!"

I thought it was pretty funny, but Walt came this close to losing consciousness when he learned I was serious about hanging it.

Needless to say, I won that battle and still snicker at my sign every time I pull my car into it's spot just below the metallic blue sign with it's blazing white letters. Most of my female friends also see the humor in it and laugh accordingly.

The men, well. They seem to sympathize with Walter. What else would you expect?

I suppose many men have a thing for their garages. It's probably deeply rooted in their DNA somewhere. It would be an act of futility to attempt to understand, much less fix it. For that reason, I've chosen to compromise on the matter. Walt can have the whole garage as his own, with the exception of spot supporting my "Queen Parking Only" sign.

Fair is fair, after all.

Unless of course, he decides to bring one of his Harley Davidson photos into my foyer.

Different is a very GOOD thing!

I may (or may not) have mentioned some time back that my fourteen year old son, Adam has been diagnosed with ADHD. It astounds me that even though he's grown up in a generation where it seems that everyone else's kid was being handed medication for hyperactivity by the time they were in second grade, my son sailed right on through, his "issue" un-noticed until his freshman year of high school.

After a couple months of absolute nightmares with different counselors, doctors, psychiatrists and the insurance company, I do believe we are finally well on the way to finding out exactly what it's going to take to help Adam deal with the matter.

While Adam has always been a bit different in comparison to other kids his age (probably due to the fact that all the others were already medicated) , I never considered him to be hyperactive. Oh sure, he's had his share of sugar rushes and sudden bursts of energy at some rather inconvenient times, but ADHD? No, I've not thought so.

What I have thought is that my son is a lot like his Grandpa (my father). A "character" of sorts, but also very sweet and sentimental. Not crazy about being in crowded places or "staying put" for long periods of time. Love's animals, tender hearted and protective of his family.

Beautifully unique.

Adam's behavior is absolutely normal in the sense that I am so familiar with it, I've only contributed his differences to the fact that he has a lot in common with my Dad. (I consider that to be a very good thing!)

Well, today my five year old grand-daughter, Esther was diagnosed with ADHD too.

Like Adam, Esther is also a character ... a wonderful one at that. She's beautiful, smart, talented, bossy, and maybe just the slightest bit on the impulsive side. Esther does seem to get frustrated easily and that has concerned me at times. She has a twin brother who loves to learn and can entertain himself for hours with books and other things that require concentration. Esther doesn't seem to care all that much for reading and writing. I've wondered if her frustrations might be due to the comparisons that are sometimes made between her and her twin.

Other than that, Esther's lack of interest in learning is no big deal, at least not in my opinion. She's only five, so there's plenty of time for that in the years to come. Right?

Esther just always has something more fun to do, that's all. She'd much rather chase the cat or construct elaborate tents in the family room, take the remote control apart and examine it or sort through my jewelry box when I'm not looking.

I like that about Esther!

My daughter told me today that the doctor said he could tell Esther had ADHD just by observing her in the examination room for a few minutes. I asked Emily what Esther had been doing to make him say that. Her reply was "Oh, she was lying on her back kicking her feet up in the air, then she turned over on her stomach and hung her head over the edge while banging on the side of the exam table with her hands, then sat up and swung her legs back and forth for a while ..."

What? You mean that isn't normal?

Honestly, I thought that all five year old kids acted that way. Esther is obedient and polite (most of the time). She's also lot of fun. As a matter of fact, I adore her spit-fire attitude. It's a rather endearing trait. Esther will go far in life. I've known that since the day I first laid eyes on her!

I would much rather call my son and grand-daughter gifted, rather than hand them a "label" such as ADHD. However, I'm not at all opposed to giving them medications to help them focus. That's actually a relief, since I've seen my son struggle so much in school all the while knowing (and being told by his teachers) that he is brilliant! For that reason, I am glad Esther's ADHD was discovered so early on. Perhaps she won't have to struggle so much and feel frustrated.

My hope is that the medications will help Adam and Esther focus, without changing who they are. They are both such incredibly interesting people! It would be a shame to lose that.

ADHD, or whatever the medical professionals decide to call it, I love my son and grand-daughter ... rambunctious spirits and all! I don't see any abnormalities when I look at them (or listen to them talk only slightly under the speed of light) I see traces of my father in them, and my father is a wonderful man! Wonderful, and "different"

And that is a very GOOD thing!

Lab Rat at Heart

I've been thinking of returning to the laboratory environment to work. The lab was my first love, and it's been calling my name again in recent weeks. This morning I decided to send away for information on degrees in the field of forensics. I am hoping to find a university that will accept the credits from my current degree in science. If so, it shouldn't take long at all to earn my BS in criminology.

With a little luck, I'll be able to complete a great deal of it online.

"Luck" however, doesn't seem to be much on my side lately, so it could be interesting!

I don't plan to give up my Life Coaching career, rather I hope I can work in forensics as a day job and do my coaching practice as more of a ministry.

I've often caught myself wondering why, despite the fact I have a science degree and all my experience in the medical field, I've not felt any urgency to put my knowledge and education in those areas to use for all these years. All the while, my fascination with the darker side of science has been eating away at me and I can't help but wonder, "Did I somehow miss my true calling in life?"

I suppose we will find out soon enough! It could be that I'll hear back from the schools I sent to for information and decide I'm really not interested after all. Then, I'll go back to getting my "morbidity fix" by watching Forensic Files and reading creepy crime stories whenever I can get my hands on one.

At the very least, it would make for an interesting story. Perhaps it might provide research for a children's book titled .. "Grandma Goes to College". It could be filled with photos of a middle aged woman seated in a classroom filled with late teens and twenty-somethings ... all young enough to be my own children.

Hmm ... no. I'll stick to the online schooling idea, thank you! My self esteem has been beaten down enough as it is.

I'll be taking the process one step at a time. If I find an online school that suits me, I'll then need to pursue financial aid of some kind ... and so on and so forth. Hopefully I would be able to pay off my student loans sometime before I retire.

So much for this analytical mind to ponder, so few years in which to follow through!

That's Not Funny!

It's been a while since I've blogged. Wow! Time goes by quickly, doesn't it?

I've had a good reason. I like to keep this particular blog light hearted and humorous. It doesn't seem there's been a lot to laugh about lately. I was waiting until this season passed to write again, but at this point I have no idea when that's going to happen.

So I just thought I'd stop by and say "hello" and let everyone know I didn't drop off the planet (although there have been times over the last few weeks when I would have enjoyed that.)

I pray everyone is well and prosperous!

I'll be back when I start having funny thoughts again. :0)

Peace!

In The Dark

Help!

Mr. Taylor is out of town and I don't know how to operate the majority of our house lights.

You think I'm kidding? Well, I'm not.

Such occurrences are common in the Taylor household. My wonderful husband, having a tangent for all things electrical, likes to periodically re-program the automated lighting system in our home.

Apparently he grew bored with the way things were working sometime between the last time he went out of town without me, and yesterday when he left again.

I discovered that fact in the early evening when I realized it was growing dark outside and neither the lights in the keeping room or living room had turned themselves on yet.

For a good ten minutes I plundered around in the twilight looking for the magic box that dictates such matters. The last time I was in this position, both sets could be controlled by a gadget that sits on our bedside stand. Obviously that has changed and no one bothered to send me a memo.

I finally met with success when I recalled seeing a new magic box sitting on the end table in the keeping room. Feeling my way back through the house, I located it and repeatedly pressed buttons until Voila'!

There was light!

After that, all was well in my little corner of the world until 11:00 p.m. which happens to be the designated hour for "lights out". At that time I was sitting on the bed watching videos on my laptop computer when I heard the tell-tale click that accompanies the night-time darkness through out the house.

Except for the glow of my computer screen, I found myself once again sitting unwittingly alone in the dark.

Thank goodness the magic box that sits beside our bed still works for our master bedroom lights! Otherwise I would have been forced to go right to sleep.

Which probably would have been a good idea given the fact that at promptly 6:30 a.m. 365 days a year, our room lights up as bright as the noon day sun! There are no pesky, noise making alarm clocks for us! Instead it's wakey wakey, rise and shine via a bright light in my face ... whether I need it or not.

While, in time I usually manage to figure out how to work the rest of the lighting mechanisms, I've never mastered the "alarm lights" that faithfully announce the break of dawn. Because I was clueless as to how to turn the darn thing off, I use to unplug the clock before I went to bed if I didn't otherwise have to wake up at the 6:30 the next morning.

Eventually I succumbed to the powers that be and learned to deal with it.

Oddly enough I am not technically challenged. I do have a degree in science. Back in the days of working in the hospital lab, my job required a decent knowledge of instrumentation. I could dis-assemble a number of extravagantly expensive pieces of medical equipment, put them back together and calibrate them without blinking an eye.

And yet I am challenged by a matter so simple as turning my own house lights off and on.

I have to wonder if keeping me in the dark is my husband's way of making himself feel needed. With that in mind, I suppose it really is a small price to pay.

My Nervous Breakdown

Do you remember back in the old days when people sometimes experienced things they referred to as "nervous breakdowns"?

It's been a while since I've heard anyone use that term but I've been thinking about it lately and wondering if nervous breakdowns still exist. If so, what exactly do they consist of?

You see, I am fairly certain that I am due a nervous breakdown of my own, I just don't know how to go about pulling one off.

First of all, I need to know what symptoms I should exhibit. Do I unexpectedly collapse, sobbing in a heap on the floor? Do I shake uncontrollably? Do I scream and pull a knife on anyone who comes close to me?

Start talking back to the voices in my head, maybe?

If at all possible, I would prefer not to have to make a "scene" in the process of having my personal nervous breakdown. I prefer to maintain some level of dignity. I wonder if I couldn't simply make a list of the symptoms I feel like displaying and give them to the doctor. Surely he'd take my word for it and treat me accordingly!

Will my nervous breakdown necessarily involve the use of a straight jacket? If so, I don't think I'd like that very much. I hate to have my hands restrained. As my father always said, I can't talk without using my hands, so that wouldn't work at all.

How about drugs? I'm pretty sure that people who have nervous breakdowns get good drugs. That would be nice. "Take a trip and never leave the farm", so to speak. What kind of drugs do people who have nervous breakdowns get?

Will they lock me away in a rubber room somewhere? Take my shoelaces away and feed me only soft foods like green jello and oatmeal?

I don't eat green jello but do indulge in a good bowl of oatmeal now and then. So, other than the green jello part, the rubber room might be enjoyable, especially if I get good drugs to go along with it. A certain amount of solitude mixed with sweet oatmeal and some pretty hallucinations might be fun.

How long does a nervous breakdown take? I don't have a lot of time to spare and I'm not sure when I could work one into my schedule. It would definitely work out better for me if I could have my nervous breakdown over a long weekend.

I have so many questions and so few real answers.

I remember one of my college professors saying that nervous breakdowns aren't real because technically, nerves can't "break down". I'm not so sure about that. My nerves definitely feel as if they are about to crack lately. Just because we can't see them doesn't mean it's not happening!

So don't tell me I can't have a nervous breakdown! Doggone it, I've EARNED one! I swear I will wear "google" out until I find the answers I need.

And then, I will have the perfect breakdown! Just you wait and see!

Heck! If you come visit me at the funny farm I may even knit you a nice pot holder or make a pretty finger painting for you.

Stay tuned!

Just Becky

Bill, Juanita, Becky Jean, and Connie Jo Sheets. circa 1971

My name is Becky.

Not Rebecca or even Becka.

Just Becky.

To make matters worse, my maiden last name was no more exciting my given first name, so I went through my entire school career bearing a very mundane, boring identity. It didn't help that absolutely every class I ever sat in contained at least one other "Becky" (although to them it was almost always a "nickname") Because of that, I inevitably ended up being referred to as "Becky #2"

Talk about adding insult to injury!

As fate would have it, I married a man with what turns out to be one of the ten most common surnames in America. That came as a surprise to me, because I didn't know many "Taylors" in southern Ohio where I grew up. To the contrary, here in Georgia, I've noticed that there seems to be more "Taylors" than there are "people"!

So, that's my name. Becky Taylor (yawn). There isn't much chance you'll ever see that one up on the silver screen!

Neither does it carry much of an initial impact in the business world. "Becky Taylor" doesn't exactly scream, "powerful", "strong","bold", or "successful". I've attempted to remedy that fact by adding my middle initial to the mix, however, "Becky J. Taylor" sounds only slightly more grown up and serious.

The truth is my name is very "girl next door". A status that, over time, tends to become diluted to "What ever happened to whats-her-face?"

At best, when my name is spoken it's likely to be followed with the question, "Which Becky?"

I'm not sure what my parents were thinking when they named me, except there's no possible way they looked at their little bundle of joy and saw anything past an eight or nine year old girl with pigtails and freckles. They certainly had no foresight concerning the adult their newborn daughter might someday grown up to be.

So, they chose a name accordingly.

Just Becky.

How precious! (Grrrr!)

Sometimes I think it would be a good idea if parents waited until their children are old enough to have a say in the matter and let them choose their own names.

If that were the case, I wonder what I would have picked. Of course that would be dependent largely upon the age at which I was able to choose. I shiver a little to imagine what I might have ended up with had I been handed a baby name book and told to name myself in, oh say, third grade. Yikes! You'd likely be addressing me with something very tomboyish, like "Jamie".

Now that I think about it, "Jamie" is very much like "Becky" just not as "girly".

In Junior High School, I undoubtedly would have chosen something adventurous, probably from the Native American culture. I thought American Indian names were very cool and spent a lot of time daydreaming about being a Native American Princess.

I can imagine hearing my mother's voice calling now. "Come on in to dinner, Tenskwatawah!"

Hmm, "Tenskwatawah Taylor"?

It never would have worked out.

At an adult, I've most often thought "Sophia" might be a nice name to have. It's definitely not a common moniker. I can only think of one or two people I've ever met in real life named "Sophia". If only my parents had thought to give that name to me! I definitely never would have been referred to as "Sophia #2".

Neither can I imagine hearing anyone use the words, "Just" and "Sophia" together as a phrase.

The name "Sophia" has a way of drawing attention. Unlike "Becky", it requires a second glance.
It's surely no accident that the name "Sophia" and the word "sophisticated" have so much in common. For the life of me, I cannot picture "Sophia" doing anything as mundane as washing dishes or changing the kitty litter.

No, people like "Sophia" hire people named "Becky" to do that sort of thing for them.

It's no wonder I never became famous!

Oh, I'm only joking.

In reality, being "Just Becky" hasn't been all that bad. I dare say it actually has it perks and challenges.

My first name, when combined with my middle (yet equally non-dramatic) name can have a rather melodic sound if pronounced correctly. For instance, when one throws a heavy southern accent, such as my grandmother had, into the equation.

Grandma lovingly called me "Beckajean", allowing the syllables to roll very slowly and deliberately off her tongue. Sweet and thick like molasses, it came out ... "Beck-AHhh-jean"

That was actually kind of nice.

My Dad, cousins, and Aunts back home still call me "Becky Jean" only their pronunciation has a short clippy northern "bite" to it. That too, has a comforting feel, because it reminds me of "home". To the people who know me best and love me most "Becky Jean" is "who" I am.

None of them ever has to ask "Which Becky Jean?"

I suppose a name, like anything else, is what you make it. For instance, having a name like "Becky" allows an element of surprise. People hear my name and expect the "girl next door". What they don't realize is that "Sophia" lurks just beneath the surface. Unlike "Becky", "Sophia" is a force to be reckoned with!

Just ask my husband and he'll confirm that fact (or he will if he knows what's good for him!)

Being "Becky", I've had the fortune of never having anyone mis-pronounce my name when they speak to me. Neither have I ever, before meeting someone face to face, been mistakenly thought to be a male because of having a name that was unusual or non gender specific.

Now that I live in the south, I am often referred to as "Miss Becky" by the youngsters. Surprisingly enough, I must admit that I find "Miss Becky" to have a certain charm. "Miss Becky" is certainly a respected grown up here in the Georgia.

Those are all good things about being "Just Becky".

So, I'll resist any mid-life urges to run out and assign another name to myself. I was born "Becky" and "Becky" I shall remain.

"Becky".

The girl next door.

Approachable.

Sensible.

Down to earth.

Thoughtful and kind.

All American girl.

There's certainly nothing wrong with any of those traits!

Maybe Mom and Dad knew what they were doing when they decide to call me that after all. I only hope, when my time ends on earth, it will be said of me that I did the name justice and made my parents proud.

Go ahead, just call me "Becky". I like the sound of that!

Good Medicine!

My two youngest offspring ... they make me laugh!

I've been needing a break lately, so much so that I have contemplated running away for a day or two. The problem with that, however, would be the cost involved. It's one of those so called "catch 22'" dilemmas. A large part of my reason for needing a break is the financial stress we've been experiencing over the last several months, and of course it's a bit difficult to run away (at least with any degree of comfort) without the finances to support it

Suffice to say, I'm "stuck" where I am for now.

Last night as I lay in my bed fighting the nagging thoughts of discouragement that raced through my head and kept me tossing and turning, I decided I really had no choice but to come up with a feasible alternative remedy for my current state of disgruntlement.

Yes, it was most definitely time for "Plan B"!

"Think on those things which are GOOD ..." I reminded myself in a conscious attempt to re-direct my thoughts back to a more pleasant frame of mind. One by one, I methodically sorted through my data base of happy memories, eventually constructing a conglomeration of only the best on which to concentrate.

Before long, a sweet flood of wonderful thoughts began rushing through what had only moments before been the parched and thirsty riverbed of my spirit. Like a grainy old 8mm film, the scenes were displayed one after another before my minds eye.

There were the hot summer evenings spent picnicking a the lake when I was a little girl, followed by memories of my children when they were small, lot's of thoughts involving my crazy friends ... and on to those of my silly little grandchildren who've most recently given me reason to smile.

And smile, I did, as I lay there in the dark recalling nearly forty-eight years worth of unforgettable events which have left permanent impressions on my heart. Oh to capture those things and keep them alive forever! It would be the perfect cure for what ails me now.

In the process, it occurred to me that my very best memories share one common factor. I realized what exactly, has been the missing piece of my life's puzzle in recent weeks.

Laughter!

I love to laugh. It's a gift I inherited from my father's side of the family. I dare say, they made it an art form. I've never met anyone who could laugh quite like Dad and his four sisters. A healthy dose of humor could be found in just about any situation (or no situation at all) if they were involved. Once they got together at our family functions, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before uncontrollable laughter would break out and take us all hostage.

It was a literally breath taking and wonderful experience.

Man! What I wouldn't give for some of that now!

It isn't that I've not laughed lately. Seldom does a day go by that I don't find something worthy of a chuckle or two. Just yesterday I got tickled at my son when the doctor asked him what kind of green vegetables he liked and he responded, "Green Skittles".

But that's not the kind of laugh I need! I need a big ol' belly laugh! One that makes me snort and double over, holding my sides while tears roll from my eyes.

I need to laugh like we all laughed forty years ago when my aunt Leora ran to rescue her grand daughter who'd fallen on the patio, only to slip in the same puddle of water she'd fallen prey to and topple right on top of her.

I need to cackle and cry like my daughter Emily and I did when my then five year old son, Adam David, after discovering the significance of his name, subsequently choreographed his own personal "underwear dance" and proudly performed it for us, stripped down to his little white briefs while singing, "I'm dancin' in my underwear! I'm dancin' in my underwear!"

(If you don't "get it", read the story of King David in the Bible)

The performance got such rave reviews that he continued encore appearances for anyone who visited our house over the next couple of years, each time evoking the same wonderful response from his audience ... he never stopped until the tears of laughter flowed! (My aunts would definitely be proud!)

I could even go for a good dose of the painful hilarity that erupted when my friend Debby and I were goofing off at her house two years back, and I stumbled backward and landed flat in her living room floor. It turned out that laughter wasn't the only thing that broke out that evening, as I almost immediately realized I'd also fractured my arm in the process!

I'll never forget sitting there in the floor cradling my incredibly painful forearm against my chest, never-the-less laughing so hard I could barely enunciate the words, "I think I'm gonna need some ice!"

And yet, the memory of the experience is indescribably funny even today. (ok, so maybe you really had to be there to fully appreciate the humor surrounding the situation.)

It's true. Laughter is "good medicine". Just thinking about laughing is a refreshing thing! I proved that to myself once again last night.

Wouldn't it be great if we could all laugh today? (uhh.. while the situation I described above was extremely funny at the time, I would not recommend that you break any appendages in your attempt to accomplish this task)

My personal assignment for this weekend is to have a good belly laugh. What an amazing way to forget about my current predicament and retreat for a while!

Best of all, (barring the unfortunate occurrence of fractured limbs) it won't cost a dime!

Sick Day

I took a "sick day" today, although I'm not sure it qualifies as a "sick day" when I didn't have anything on the schedule anyway... at least not until this evening.

That sounds even more pathetic now that I think about it, given the fact that it is Friday.

I use to look forward to Friday evenings. That was the night my friends and I would all go out to dinner together after work, and then hit our local (brace yourself now) "Wal-Mart". (Did you really think I might say local "bar"??)

During the last few years Friday's haven't been quite as exciting as they were even less than a decade ago. Now days Friday evenings normally consist of driving the boy to the movies and dropping him off, then either waiting on him by hanging out at the outlet mall for two hours (which ultimately ends up costing me more money than I have to spend) or driving back home and twiddling my thumbs for an hour and a half before turning around and going back to retrieve my son.

Yes, it's true. My fourteen year old offspring has a more exciting life than I. That's just wrong!

For once, Adam didn't have plans for his Friday evening this week and I did! Our church is holding it's annual "girls night out" tonight ... pizza, popcorn and chick flicks at the church. I was really looking forward to it. Just me and 300 of my closest girl-friends hanging out for a few hours. What fun! No men, no kids, no curfew! (Well, technically the evening is scheduled to end at 10:00 p.m. but I could stop somewhere else on my way home if I wanted to!)

When I woke up with a severe headache this morning, it never occurred to me that I would actually be missing my "girls night out" because of it. Silly me! I believed I could sleep it off and go about my merry way. With a little luck, the extra couple hours of rest would enable me to actually stay awake until the movie ended.

By around 4:00 this afternoon I was beginning to accept the sad reality. Tonight was going to be like most other Friday nights, minus the trip to the theater to drop my son off.

No, even worse. It was going to be a regular Friday evening, minus the trip to the theater PLUS a horrible, sickening headache!

And so I accepted my fate, called the girl who was planning to ride with me to the event and canceled, then snuggled down under my blanket on the family room sofa. I figure by now, the girls down at the church have polished off the pizza and are lining up for popcorn and a soft drink, giggling as they find seats in the auditorium and wait for the movie to start rolling.

I, on the other hand, am sitting here with the t.v. blaring and the boy fussing away because we have no white bread in the house and he is starving! Mr. Taylor changed into his pajamas and retreated to the media room nearly an hour ago. Our three cats and one dog have all nestled in nearby enjoying the heat of the fireplace.

What has my life come to? A trip to "Wal-Mart" is sounding pretty exciting to me right now.

Or at least it would be if I felt halfway like getting dressed and driving all the way there ... which of course I don't, since that is the reason I am home tonight in the first place!

I do hope my 300 closest friends are having fun.

I'm also hoping they're missing me half as much as I'm missing all of them right now. I know, I know ... fat chance that that's really happening, but it's Friday night after all. I figure I at least deserve to dream a little!

Amazing Grace and Haters

This post will be a bit of a personal rant, so I apologize in advance.

That said, I shall now continue!

Our family attends what we consider to be the most wonderful church on earth (that's how it should be, right?) We are part of a large congregation thus earning a spot in the "mega church" category (if you must categorize) Never the less, it doesn't "feel" like a mega church. People there, as a whole, are friendly and easy to get to know. I like to refer to it as a "big church with a store front atmosphere."

Oddly enough, I don't care much for crowds and avoid them in most situations. By the grace of God, we normally sit up front which makes it possible for me to remain fairly oblivious to the activity of the masses behind me.

On occasion though, we are bumped to seats further back in the crowd. The last three times this has happened have proven to be disturbing and eye opening experiences.

Let me back up a little. Before each service I actually pray about our seats before we enter the sanctuary. I believe that even something as trivial as where we sit is important. Nothing happens by coincidence! In the past I have met some wonderful people who have become close friends simply because we ended up sitting next to each other during church. Those sorts of "God-incidences" are wonderful!

Now, back to the disturbing, eye opening stuff!

A couple months ago on a Sunday morning, my family was seated in a different area, still close to the front but to the right of where we normally sit. I smiled and nodded as I lowered myself into the seat beside a middle aged lady and two other females who appeared to be her daughter and grand-daughter. All three of them, including the grand-daughter who looked to be about eight years old, returned my smile with icy stares.

"O.K.! This should be interesting." I thought and reminded myself that nothing happens by accident.

We had a few minutes before service started, so I introduced myself to the middle aged lady. She obliged my offer of a handshake with all the enthusiasm of a stone statue.

I felt like I was sitting by three big blocks of ice!

My intuition often picks up on the emotions of others. I think that's part of the reason I don't like to be in crowds. I feel bombarded and overwhelmed by it sometimes. That morning was definitely no exception.

Sometimes people come to church with a lot on their minds. Maybe they've just lost a loved one, or have gotten bad news about their health. They may be carrying a burden that seems too heavy to bear, and that causes them to appear withdrawn or cold toward others. People who are in those kinds of situations rarely realize they are giving that impression and will usually respond favorably when approached in a friendly manner.

The longer I sat by that woman, the clearer it got that she was not one of them. She (and the other two) obviously had some kind of "hate" issue going on and that issue was potentially affecting everyone around her.

I ended up praying for them, especially the grand-daughter throughout the remainder of the service.

Two weeks later, we ended up sitting behind the same trio. Again, they were all cold and hateful acting. A lady I know was seated to the left of the ice people. As the service ended, I tapped my acquaintance on the shoulder and asked her to retrieve something from under the seat for me. She happily leaned over to get it but as she did so, "ice lady's" daughter interjected and barked at me for asking.

I was shocked. I'll admit I almost "lost my religion" at that moment. I'd done nothing to evoke such a response from the woman. I wasn't even talking to her! I decided instead, to take the "high road" and ignored her comment. Meanwhile, the lady I knew (who happened to look as shocked as I felt) handed me the article I'd asked for along with an apologetic smile.

Now, fast forward to last night's service. It was one of our "renewal" services celebrating the approaching end of our annual fast. We had "special" seating, which ironically meant we had to sit further back in the auditorium than usual. Go figure!

The crowd was bustling around, as is usual for a week night service. People tend to come in later because most work during the day and have to rush to get there.

Walt and I stood in the aisle by our assigned seats and visited with several of our friends while we waited for service to start. Two women I've never met before sat down in the seats beside ours.

The five minute countdown appeared on the screen, indicating it was time for everyone to settle in. As the lights lowered and the praise band struck up their first chords, a young lady I recognized appeared at the end of our row with her four year old daughter perched on her hip. She scanned the row searching for two empty seats and decided to settle for a single seat instead, since that was all that was available. Her little girl would have to sit on her lap.

Like I said, I recognized the young woman, but I don't really know her. I've watched her since she started coming to the church and have to say I admire her dedication. She is faithful and enthusiastic, and never misses a service. I've noticed that she shows up on Wednesday nights in a uniform, obviously having rushed straight to service from work. This has been going on for nearly five years now. Even though we've never really even talked, she has been a blessing to me.

The empty seat she'd spotted was directly on the other side of the two women seated by me. As she entered our row and attempted to pass the women, they made no attempt to move out of the way for her. This meant she was stopped between me and the seat in front of me ... and quite literally standing on the toes of my left foot!

"I am so sorry!" She apologized, then leaned over and asked the woman next to me if she could please let her through to the one available seat.

I was totally shocked when I heard the woman respond to her with a harsh scolding! She said, "Well that's why you're supposed to get here ON TIME, honey!"

And she refused to budge, forcing the girl to crawl across both her and her companion in order to be seated.

At that point I wanted to apply the "five fold ministry" to the stubborn woman's face (if you know what I mean) ! I don't know if that woman was a visitor or a regular and I guess it doesn't really matter. My question was, how could she treat one of God's children like that and still call herself a Christian?

Visitor or church member, she had no regard whatsoever for whatever circumstances precluded the young woman's late arrival. She was instead, only concerned about the horrid inconvenience the girl had caused her by asking politely to be let past.

On one hand, I feel a bit guilty for allowing myself to be ruffled by such incidents, but on the other I believe there is such a thing as "righteous indignation". Didn't Jesus Himself say, "Suffer the little children and forbid them not to come unto me .." when his "followers" tried to snub the little ones? Didn't he become angry when unacceptable things were happening in the temple?

I know our Heavenly Father loves us all, "haters" included, but I'm also pretty certain He does not approve of the haters actions ... especially when the haters are supposedly Christians and should be representing HIM to the rest of the world.

If we can't be nice to each other while we're sitting in the church, how are we going to behave ourselves while we're out in the community?

Ah! But back to the whole "All things happen for a reason" theory. I understand there must be some purpose for even these experiences, and I've learned that it's likely I'll continue to be exposed to similar things until I figure out just what He wants me to do about it.

So far so good ... so help me Lord! I've come to understand that I shouldn't follow my first impulse which is to smack the hater or give them a piece of my mind. To be honest I am praying now against any possibility of becoming a "hater" of the "haters" myself. That would be just plain wrong.

No, love must ... and WILL prevail! As one of my former pastor use to say, "Hurt people" hurt people." So maybe the haters I've come in contact with recently have been hurt at some point and need a good old fashioned healing.

Or a good old fashioned "come to Jesus" talk!

Either way, I am praying God reveals the answer to me soon, so I can act accordingly and pass this test ... and get back to the "happy" Christians who sit in our usual section of the sanctuary.