Quirky Me

People are nuts. Okay, let's be honest. They are just plain crazy. And while I don't understand why people do what they do, this is exactly why I love them---the uniqueness factor. These quirks, or personality hiccups, if you will, are defined by some bend in their story, something that has left an impression sharp and deep, even if they don't recognize it.

I'm sure people would tell you I have a lot of strange quirks. They pop up frequently in my day. However, the most notable quirk revolves around my refrigerator. I cannot stand to see it empty, or even half empty, or even 98% empty. It must full and colorful and happy ALL THE TIME.

If the food supply begins to dip below the completely full mark, I panic. I rush to grocery store as if my family is starving to "stock up" on what we might need. I go down each aisle in the grocery store (in a giddy, disturbing fashion) and look at all food items I might need to take home. I don't buy them all, of course, but I think about it. When I get home, I line up all the items in my refrigerator in spectacular order, if I do say so myself, then bask in the bright light of the open fridge door. I close it. Then I open it one more time for the last blissful peak. It's beautiful.

This fridge fetish certainly comes from my childhood. Our fridge was never completely empty, but it was never really full either. We were always missing something. When I would call my mom to say I poured the last bowl of cereal and we have not one drip of milk left in the whole darn place, she would get miffed that I called during work for this non-issue. "Just use water," she would snip. "Problem solved."

Water on cereal. Are you kidding me? It was the same for everything I wanted to make. No eggs for cookie dough? It will taste the same without them. No bread for sandwiches? Eat the peanut butter on a spoon. No lunch meat left? Slap on another slice of cheese. It seemed like we were always missing something in that fridge. So, when I got a fridge of my own and paid the grocery bill, I marched firmly to the other end of the spectrum and obsessively filled it. I call it kind of quirky. I'm sure my husband would call it something else entirely.

The whole reason I even started thinking about my fridge obsession was because of poetry. I was trying to find a poem to read out loud at the library when I came across this one by Julia Kasdorf.

When Our Women Go Crazy

When our women go crazy, they're scared there won't be

enough meat in the house. They keep asking

but how will we eat? Who will cook? Will there be enough?

Mother to daughter, it's always the same

questions. The sisters and aunts recognize the symptoms:

she thinks there's no food, same as Mommy

before they sent her away to that place,

and she thinks if she goes, the men will eat

whatever they find right out of the saucepans.

When our women are sane, they can tomatoes

and simmer big pots of soup for the freezer.

They are satisfied arranging spice tins

on cupboard shelves lined with clean paper.

They save all the leftovers under tight lids

and only throw them away when they're rotten.

Their refrigerators are always immaculate and full,

which is also the case when our women are crazy.

After reading this poem, it was like a light bulb came on. I am not alone in my craziness. We all have quirks that make people scratch their heads and wonder. It even makes us wonder. But somehow, I guess, it just feels good to know we are all riding this crazy train together in one bumpy caboose. Of course, I'll be bringing the cooler packed full with food, all color coded and packed perfectly, for the trip. You go ahead and do whatever you need to do, too.

Supper Cake

I love to bake. This obsession with making sweet things started when I was 10 and I discovered I could read all the recipes in my mom's Betty Crocker cookbook. I would bake a recipe until I had it perfected. This may sound super sweet on the surface, but it often became an exhausting endeavor of perfection. I made Mrs. Crocker's russian tea cake recipe over 50 times one summer until every ball was the same size, each coated with the same amount of powdered sugar.

That same summer, my grandma got sick with cancer. The worse I felt about her illness (the surgeries, the hospital rooms, her hair falling out), the more I baked and baked and baked. It felt so good to take also those random ingredients that meant nothing by themselves, and measure and mix them into something that came out amazing. While my mom may have found this new-found hobby somewhat extreme, my grandma loved it. She began sharing every recipe she knew and I absorbed it with eagerness and love.

The one recipe I loved to make more than anything was her supper cake. It was a recipe they made a lot during the Depression because it took very few ingredients and only needed 20 minutes to bake, almost the exact time it took a farm family to finish a meal. You sprinkle the cake with cinnamon and sugar and then eat it warm with gusto. It only took me two tries (with my grandma watching, of course) to make it perfectly. After that, I was in total charge of supper cake.

I still make supper cake for my boys. When I pull out my grandma's recipe, the memories of us in her kitchen are so strong, I can almost feel her standing there as I mix it. It is a memory of joy, but also sadness. She lived only a year more after that summer. While her cake is delicious, it serves as a reminder to me of the importance of passing on the sweet things in life--to our families, our friends and even those who may only sit a few minutes in our kitchen.

Life is short. If we are only given 20 minutes, why not bake something wonderful and think about those we love?

Supper Cake

courtesy of Marie Haller Boehmer

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup shortening

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 cup milk

1 cup sifted flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

Topping: 1 TBS. butter, 3 TBS. sugar, 1 tsp. cinnamon

Combine sugar and shortening, mixing until fluffy. Add egg; beat well. Add vanilla and milk. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt, add to wet mixture, and beat smooth. Bake in greased 9-inch round pan, or 8-inch square pan, at 375 degrees for 20-25 minutes. Remove from oven. Immediately spread butter on top, then sift sugar-cinnamon mixture over top. Serve warm.

Raising Clark Kent

It's official. I will not be getting the mother-of-the-year award this year. I knew I might be out of the running when my first grader failed his vision test with the school nurse last week, but I was still kind of hopeful, you know. All hopes went right out the window when he couldn't identify any of the letters on the screen at the eye doctor. I mean, seriously. What kind of mother doesn't know her child sees a fuzzy world?

Cooper and I picked out some eye glasses that same afternoon. I liked the wire-rimmed glasses, but he had his heart set on the thicker brown ones. He is such a little guy, so almost every pair looked sweet. When I said the brown ones made him look just like Clark Kent right before he turns into Superman, the deal was sealed. Cooper "Clark Kent" Feeler had his first pair of readers on order.

The first seed of doubt started to creep in when I relayed the story to my husband. He could not believe I let our son have the final say on glasses. A bad choice in glasses could be devastating, he said. Then he relayed his own personal tale of picking out blue-tinted lenses for his red-rimmed glasses in elementary school. He never did recover. I started to panic. Forget the guilt of your kid not seeing. The possibility of my kid being picked on raised my anxious mother meter to a whole new level.

Had I, like my husband claimed, been looking at him through warm mother's eyes versus the critical lenses of cruel kids on the playground? Would he be teased for not only wearing glasses, but for our choice of thicker rims that are common in every newsroom around the country? Is there no place for a unique "super hero" in this world?

Cooper wore his glasses for the first time tonight. Holy smokes, he said, everything looks so huge. He was giddy. I just kept staring at him all night because he looks so different. It's the same crooked smile and bright eyes alright, but the glasses change his whole look. I keep wondering what the kids will say tomorrow at school. Will his world dip down because of what he looks like instead of rising up because he can finally see the beauty in the world?

My hope is that his independence in choosing for himself will override the small hurts that will inevitably come his way. Life is not always kind, but it can still be good. I also pray he can survive a mother that is clueless about mothering, but still loves him unabashedly and unconditionally. There's no perfection in this mother. Isn't that right, Clark Kent?

Love Actually

Christmas will be here soon. Okay, not real soon, but close enough that I am about to break out one of my favorite winter flicks--"Love Actually." I'm not a Hugh Grant fan. Let's just be clear on that fact. But there is something mesmerizing about his voice when he says, "Love actually is all around us." I like that. A lot.

When my life gets crazy and hectic (and this is all the time since I became a mom), I forget about all the wonderful things, big and little, around me. Love is to be had right here and right now. I spend so much time trying to dole it out in perfect spoonfuls that I forget to soak it in. I am, quite frankly, missing the freaking love boat.

In honor of Hugh Grant's voice and the warm feelings it evokes, I decided to write down a few things I actually love, or love actually. It's a work in progress, which works out great because guess what? So am I.

Heather's "Love Actually" List

1. Snuggling in bed with my boys (even with unexpected kicks and then giggles)

2. Warm puppy smell

3. Getting to walk a new trail that goes deep into the woods

4. Steamy romance novels

5. Alpaca socks

6. Sniffing permanent magic markers

7. Kneading bread dough

8. Eating homemade chocolate chip cookies

9. Kissing my hubby

10. Reading good writing, or writing some good reading

11. Quality time with those I love

12. Learning someone's story

13. Eliminating clutter

14. Dancing in the car with all the windows down

15. Buying school or office supplies

16. A hot shower

17. Sharing a meal with family and friends

18. Big bear hugs

19. A random act of kindness

20. Sending handwritten letters in the mail

I could on for a long time, I imagine, but I think there is power in just honoring a few things at a time. It would be even better to make a list each day. Different day, different list, but all things that bring happiness to a life. What's on your "Love Actually" list? Well, besides me, of course.

Sharing the Struggle

Work has been particularly grueling lately. I mean, it always moves at a fast pace, which suits me just fine, but in the last few weeks I feel like I'm hanging from the back of a bumper, white knuckled, driving way too fast down the freeway. One minute I'm screaming from sheer excitement. The next, I'm trying to keep the bugs from choking me along the way. It's a multi-tasking world, I know. But it is simply exhausting.

This is why I almost didn't go to a conference today. I was overwhelmed with the work in front of me. Although I really wanted to hear the lunch speaker, who I heard had a great story, it was my friend, Dulce, the conference organizer, that sealed the deal. I made a promise to be her helper during lunch. Did I mention that Dulce is a kind, giving soul, who radiates light and love? It's hard to let someone like that down no matter what kind of stress you're under.

Gracia Burnham, the speaker, had quite the story to tell. She and her pilot husband were Kansas-natives, who had been missionaries in the Philippines, when they were captured in 2001 by an Islamic group. For over a year, a whole year, Gracia and her husband were hostages and forced to witness unspeakable horrors in the jungle. Before being rescued, she was shot in the leg and her husband in the chest during a gun battle. He died in the jungle exactly one year and 11 days from when they were first taken. Gracia returned to her three children in Kansas.

She talked about all the prayers from back home that lifted them up in that year in the jungle. She talked about her captives, many young boys, and where they are today (a few even write her from prison). And Gracia spoke with great wisdom on forgiveness and God's power, but the tears came down in earnest for me when she reflected on why God chooses one path for one person and then quite another for the next.

"The strong one [Martin] died and the weak one [me] got to come home and tell the story, to carry on the mission," she said. Really hard to understand.

I don't understand much about life, but I know I was supposed to be in that room today. I needed to hear her story, her life-changing message. When I was given the job to pass out her book at the book-signing table, so she could stand up and hug people and write a message of hope on the inside page, I felt something shift inside me. It got filled suddenly with something better, though most days, the Lord knows, I feel so unworthy.

"God bless you, Heather," she writes on my page. No words come out, so I just hug her tight. It's not enough, I know, but I make a mental promise to pay it forward. Life is too short and precious to do otherwise.

Praying Mantis Club

I was in St. Louis this weekend for the wedding of my dear friend, Mary. She is one of the five founding members of the PMC, or Praying Mantis Club (pictured left, though Mary is absent because she's greeting her wedding guests). It's a group of girls that would get together every month, once upon a time when we all lived in Kansas City, and try a new adventure each time we gathered. Our only common thread at the beginning? Me.

It was a tentative gathering at first, as we tried to figure out our role in this group as only women do. We picked apples in Weston. We ate at new restaurants. We tried yoga in a room heated to over 100 degrees and, even though Rhonda passed out, the rest of us held our poses perfectly. We drank too much wine. We laughed really loud in public places. No ones asked us to leave, but they probably should have. We did pottery. We perfected our self-defense moves. We even made predictions on where we would end up in five or 10 years.

In the fun of it all, we gave ourselves a name, Praying Mantis Club. This came from our merriment (dark and sinister as it may be) at the role of the male praying mantis in the sex act. In order to even have sex, the female must first bite off his head and then he dies. For sex. Only a male of any species would die for sex, but only a female would bite off his head and then proceed to get it on with a headless male. Relationships are complex. We all agree on that.

All of us made it this weekend to Mary's wedding. It was a reunion of the sweetest, and even bitter sweetest, kind. I really miss my friends. These are unique women that grow stronger every year, but unfortunately it's without me being near. I'm not there for every story, or heartache, or miracle. I'm the faraway friend. Because I love these friends so much, I've even managed to block myself off from some new friendships where I live now. That may be the saddest part of the equation, I think.

Friendship is an amazing and complex thing. It's hard to understand why some groups work and others just fizzle away. Thank you, PMC, for all the memories and love. I was reminded how much I love you this weekend. It's time to move on. I know you'll understand.

Detoxifying Your Life

I heard the other day on the radio that one of the best things you can do for your body is to drink hot water with lemon every morning. It's nature's best detoxifier. Your liver will love you, absolutely love you, after only a few short days of this hot lemonade tonic. Sounds simple, right? Then again, this is me we are talking about.

I agonized for days on whether I should buy fresh lemons or the juice in that plastic yellow lemon bottle. Fresh lemons are best, I know, but they always seem to slide to the back of our fridge and shrivel up. I can't tell you how many 99-cent lemons I've wasted in my lifetime (you might hate me if I even try to give you an estimate). Then when I called my husband in the middle of the day to ask his opinion on the lemon saga, he was kind of rude. To me. About lemons.

I buy the fresh lemons (in a huff!). The radio guy says to drink it first thing in the morning because this is what your liver really likes, so I make a mental note to make this the first step in my day. Get up, stretch, then quietly drink your detoxifier. If I lived in a normal house, this might be doable, but my house is a circus, complete with two baby cubs and a dog that always need my attention. I'm lucky if manage to get a hot cup of coffee before mid-morning.

It's been three weeks. No morning detoxifier. Tonight, however, I am turning things around and trying my first hot water with fresh lemon (well, a three-week old and slightly wrinkled lemon) while I write this. Kids and hubby are in bed and, unfortunately, the dog is licking himself with unrelenting determination next to my chair. It's a sound that drives me crazy. The drink, thank goodness, tastes just fine.

I wonder if we can really detoxify our body and our lives with one single step. Is it as easy as squeezing fresh lemons in hot water and chugging it down? I think our lives are moving at such a warp speed that we will cling to any solution that might claim to help us, or save us, or simplify us. We are willing to let random people on the radio direct our lives in rush hour instead of slowing down to reflect on how our lives got here, hectic and perhaps a little hairy.

Perhaps the true detox comes when we accept our major role in making our lives what they are (because we do, after all, fill it up) and then, miraculously, choosing to embrace it or change it. We each have the power to do both though we often choose to do neither. And for those, like me, who are comfortable with worry and constant fatigue, might I suggest starting slow with some quiet time, or semi-quiet time if you have a dog, to enjoy a nice steaming cup of lemon water. It's a start and your liver will absolutely love you.