One of those days

I'm happy to report that I'm sitting on the downhill side of a Manic Monday.  If we're being totally honest, I'm actually sitting on the couch at home, but allow me some liberties with the truth in the name of poetic license.  After a long (but great!) day yesterday, I kind of ran around like crazy today at work, all willie nillie like.  Again with the honesty, I didn't actually run anywhere. 

The lies!  The lies! 

Part way through the day, my work e-mail went kaput, so I started using my personal e-mail address in order to send a couple of "important" and "timely" messages.  One such message was regarding the upcoming ski trip with the youth group.  A few moments ago, I happened to re-read the message I sent my friend Ron at the ski place.  I bet he thinks I'm a real idiot.  The opening sentence reads:

"Hi Ron, My work e-mail is acting up, so I'm sending this from my personal e-mail because work is acting funny."


Ouch. 

If that doesn't sound like a breathless 7th grade girl who is nervously asking the quarterback of the football team to the Sadie Hawkins dance, I don't know what does.  Que nervous laughter, shifting feet, and sweaty palms.  Also, staring awkwardly up and slightly to the left. 

Uhhhh...heh, heh.  Heh, heh, heh. 

A kid can dream, I guess

Earlier today, I was eating lunch with a table of 1st - 4th graders (I'll pause for a moment to allow your jealousy to pass) when the subject of magic tricks came up. 

"I know I magic trick," I told the kids, immediately capturing their attention.  I proceeded to do the only magic trick I know...the one where I give the illusion that I've pulled my thumb off.  It's as awesome as it is totally lame.  The kids were delighted. 

A few minutes later, one of the kids asked me if I knew any other magic tricks. 

"Yes, I know another one," I said. 

It was then, with all the awe and hope he could muster, that a little boy asked, "Is it the one where you disappear?" 

The End. 

A case of semantics, really

Last Sunday at church was Youth Sunday.  It happens once a year, and it's always a bit of a stressful time for me, being that I'm "in charge" of them (yeah, right).  This year Youth Sunday fell close to Veterans Day, so the young folks decided they wanted to honor the congregation's veterans, which really was a lovely idea (it wasn't my idea.  I swear.  No, it wasn't.).

As part of the recognition, the youth set about the process of interviewing each veteran and creating a profile page which was displayed in the sanctuary lobby for all to see.  Some of the veterans are young - fresh from serving in various branches of the armed forces.  But most are older men who can be...well...a tinge on the intimidating side.  Especially to a teenager.  I give the kids a lot of credit, for these interviews required many of them to leap outside their comfort zones.  In the end, I like to think they got something out of it. 

ANYWAY. 

After the second service last Sunday, I noticed a gathering of people in the lobby.  They were laughing.  Hard.  Never one to shy away from a good laugh, I approached the group to see what all the giggles were about.  Upon seeing me, a woman named Joan beckoned me over and, between hearty laughs, let me in on the joke.  

It seems Joan's husband, Bob, noticed a bit of an error on his profile page.  Bob served in the Army for many years and was a battalion commander during his service.  One of the questions on his profile page read, "What did you enjoy most about serving in the military." 

His answer, as translated by the teenager who conducted his interview, read:

"I enjoyed being an Italian Commander." 

The End.     

The cupcakes never had a chance

Do you sometimes let yourself feel gloomy about the state of the world?  It happens to me from time to time.  There is such pain and sorrow, injustice and abuse.  If it's bad news you're looking for, you don't really have to look very far, do you?

It happens to me from time to time, this pity-for-the-world party.  But I've learned a trick that, for me, ends the pity party every single time:

Kids.

Kids like these: 

These nieces and nephews of mine (and Jeremy's)...to me, they are hope.  That's my secret. 

Kids help me feel better about the state of the world. 

Kids dance.  And they don't really care if you're watching or not. 

They create.  They imagine.  Or in this case, they plan their attack on the cupcakes. 

In many ways, kids embody the best parts of what it means to be human.

Thanks to Uncle John for these wonderful pictures. 

If they made you smile even a little, perhaps my trick works for you, too. 

One of the (rare) times I'll ask for your opinion

I'm freaking out over here.  It's been a slow build to full on freak out, and it started the day after Jeremy and I returned home from our honeymoon.  We woke up that Saturday morning and began opening gifts.  It was so fun.  So, so, so fun, until we came to THE GIFT. 

A lovely, thoughtful, generous gift. One that arrived to our house with no name attached to it.  No card.  No enclosure, no clue as to who the giver was.  Four goblets, purchased at Bed, Bath, and Beyond and delivered to the gift table at our reception.  That's all I know. 

Well, actually, that's not ALL I know.  I also know I'll never forget the look on Jeremy's face when we realized the gift didn't have a name attached.  He quickly withdrew his hand from the box and said, 'I don't want to do this (open gifts) anymore.'  He was traumatized, anticipating the freak out that he knew would eventually occur.  We looked through the trash, inspected the wrapping paper, and checked the box carefully, but no luck. 

We have no clue who to thank for this generous gift.  What do we do? 

Somewhere, someone is waiting with baited breath by the mailbox (trust me.  They are.), eagerly anticipating a well-written, correctly spelled thank you note from the new Connells (or Con-mans, if you're nasty), and unless you, my faithful blog readers, have a great suggestion as to how we get to the bottom of who gave the gift, the giver will be forever waiting for that note.  And after several months of note-less-ness, they will start to think bad thoughts about me.  About how I'm ungrateful, or entitled, or unappreciative.  And I'll still be sitting here, fretting and freaking out. 

What do we do?  I already checked at Bed, Bath, and Beyond and they do not store purchaser information unless the gift is shipped, and this one was not. 

What.  Do.  We.  Do?????????

I'll surely be mistaken for a fighter pilot

Since the day Jeremy and I announced our engagement to them, my teenage friends at church have been focused on one thing: They spend a lot of time wondering what they should call me.  When I first arrived on the scene in 2008, they called me Miss Elizabeth.  That flew for about .42 seconds before I set about the task of breaking them of their good manners.  Much to their parents' chagrin, I systematically broke them of the habit of calling me "Miss."  Some of them dropped it right away, and there are others, the die-hard respectfuls, who I still have to remind (very gently, always.  I promise), that I much prefer they drop the "Miss." 

Parents love me. 

Many of my teenage friends settled on calling me "Skogman," my maiden name.  Or "Skogster", or "Skooooog", or various other things behind my back which we will not explore at the current time.  Ahem.

So, the news of my impending marriage quickly translated in their teenage minds to one simple question: How does your life-altering, huge, serious, solemn, holy, BIG decision to marry...affect me? 

That's how it goes with teenagers.  How does this (whatever the current this is) effect me? 

That's how this has affected them.  They're being forced, AGAIN, to remember to call me something different.  First, no Miss.  Now, no Skogman?  Inconceivable! 

Since the wedding, the more creative twerps in the group often sit around at church and try to think of ways that a person can combine "Skogman" and "Connell" to make a new name which they can bellow in a variety of public places to cause me to bestow upon them my undivided attention.  They have uncovered some catchy combinations, the most promising of which was, until this evening, "Skonnell." 

This evening, however, a more amusing combo was uncovered.  One I'm sure will absolutely stick and which I'll be forced to answer to at places like Six Flags, the gas station, and the line at Subway:  

"Con-man."

It's hopeless to protest, really, because the only way to make CERTAIN it sticks would be to let on that I HATE that name. 

So "Con-man" it is, I guess.  At least until the next "this" comes along...

I remembered one...

...a Peeve, that is.  I remembered a Peeve today. 

For those of you who may be new around here, when this blog first got fired up a couple of years ago, I used to ring in each new week with a fresh installment of "Pet Peeve Monday."  It took me a solid year of Pet Peeve Mondays before I got most of my Peeves out on "paper" (on screen?  not sure), but every now and then, I'm reminded of a Peeve that I forgot to write about.

Such a Peeve presented itself to me today as I exited the grocery store and began walking to my car.  I shall share it with you now:

Dear Unnecessarily Aggressive Driver,
Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Elizabeth, and at the current moment, I am a pedestrian.  At other times, I am many other things...a wife, daughter, friend, sister, aunt (like, the best one), and singer-in-the-shower, but at the current moment, I am a pedestrian.  You can tell because I'm walking between these nifty lines that have been painted on the ground.  Some people call that a crosswalk.  Please note that I am not wandering, sauntering, loitering, lolly-gagging, or lingering in the crosswalk.  I am walking with a purpose.  I have places to be, people to see, and ice cream to eat freeze before it melts.  So please, Unnecessarily Aggressive Driver, do not wait until I am barely a half-step past the front fender of your car to rev your engine and burn past me as if my mere presence in front of your car has caused an unfathomable inconvenience to precious day.  I am tending to business, and you need to cool your jets.  There is no need to stomp down on your gas peddle to speed past me, narrowly missing the heel of my left shoe as I struggle to get it out of your way.  I get it.  I'm hurrying. 


Do not lose sight, Unnecessarily Aggressive Driver, of the fact that sometime very, very soon, you too will be a pedestrian, attempting to navigate the perilous territory of the crosswalk on your way to restock your supply of olives and cheese doodles.  And if I time my exit from the parking lot just right, it might just be MY fender that looms before YOU. 


Choose your peddle pressure wisely, young grasshopper. 


That is all.