Here’s how PinkGirl’s volcano science project turned out yesterday:
If you’ve been around for a while, you might remember FavoriteSon’s volcano project. Here’s an excerpt from that blog post:
We end up at Michael’s craft store with four packages of quick drying clay, a terra cotta pot and . . . a rocket engine. Yes. Michael’s sells rocket engines. FirstHusband is smiling and FavoriteSon is explaining how there really IS a type of volcano that explodes like that . . . The boys spend all morning Saturday wiring and soldering. Then they go into the backyard to test it before they make a terra cotta pot LOOK like a volcano. It works. It explodes. I look at FavoriteSon and say, “When you get sent to the office on Monday, give them your dad’s work number so he can explain how that’s perfectly safe.” . . . Then it’s tested again, this time adding sand to the top of the volcano so it shoots dirt up into the air and looks even more realistic . . . either FavoriteSon will be suspended or he will get an “A” on this project. (postscript: he got an “A”)
So. This time, explosives are NOT an option. PinkGirl has the same science teacher FavoriteSon did. No playing the “I had no idea” card. But PinkGirl wanted “a BIG explosion.” How to do that without ignition? FirstHusband wanted to buy a portable compressor, but his attempt to justify the expense by coming up with other things to do with it after making a volcano explode?
So my father (SuperPappy) suggested the shop vac reversed. The lampshade idea came to me during a severe allergic reaction to crafting after my husband said the words “paper mache” to me. We picked out a dirty, torn lampshade and got a 25% discount. Final Sale. No returns.
No problem. Crafting avoided.
As you can see, the explosion was a HIT. The ash went higher than the fence.
Here’s the written report PinkGirl wrote to accompany the volcano shown in the video:
“Volcanoes are amazing things of nature and only God can create them. Still for my project I tried my best and I also had fun while doing it. From deciding what type of volcano mine is or what type of eruption it will have it was a fun learning experience that I would love to tell you about.
The First thing I did was paint the lampshade (which is my volcano). It was actually a lot harder than I thought it was going to be because I had to mix paint to find the right color. The second thing I did was cut a hole in the box big enough for the pipe. Then I cut the top of the lampshade out with bolt cutter. (It was awesome!) After that I measured and cut the pipe to the right size with a hack saw. (My dad helped a little for this part but I did cut with a hack saw.) Next I glued the pipe to the adapter and cut the small pipe to the right size and glued it to the adapter and the elbow of the other pipe. Then I put another hole in the side of the box and put the side pipe in it. Next is my favorite part. I put coal in a bag and crushed it with a hammer. After that I poured the ash and coal in and covered it with saran wrap. Then I painted the box green and put the “Snow” on the volcano. The last step was decorating it with little touches to make it look better.
During the process of building my volcano I learned all about Composite volcanoes and plinian eruptions. Composite volcanoes are made out of ash, tephra, and lava. Plinian eruptions are violent and have lots of ash and poisonous gasses. Mt. Saint Helens was a composite volcano and had a plinian eruption.
I always thought a volcano just meant lava and smoke but I now understand that volcanoes are much more complicated than that. God must have had fun designing and creating volcanoes. He is a very creative God who has an amazing imagination. Volcanoes are dangerous magnificent things that create new land, give us dazzling treasures, and really open our eyes to show us how marvelous our world really is. I can only imagine what other planets are like.
Shoulder Devil: “It’s late. You did the HIIT training. Skip the rest.”
Shoulder Angel: “There’s still an hour and a half left in the day. Don’t listen to him. If it wasn’t for me, your body fat percentage would still be 51%”
Shoulder Devil:: “hhhhhh. okay, fine. then just do the plank. Skip the strength training. You’re tired. You can do strength training tomorrow.”
Shoulder Angel:: “He’s right.”
Shoulder Devil:: “I am?”
Shoulder Angel:: You should do strength training tomorrow. You should do tomorrow’s strength training tomorrow. Do today’s strength training today.”
Shoulder Devil:: “no, that’s not what I meant…”
Shoulder Devil:: “Don’t listen to him, he’s a fanatic. He’s talking about 10 Minutes. What’s the big deal about 10 lousy minutes?”
Shoulder Angel:: “EXACTLY my point.”
Shoulder Devil:: “NO! That’s not what I meant…”
Shoulder Angel:: “HEY! remember that FIRM 5 Day Ab workout from the 90s? Do that! Day one is only 6 minutes!”
And that’s how I ended up with this video in the DVD player tonight.
(and you’re welcome. this video clip is so blurry you can’t see that the shorts on the guys in this video are WAY too short. T. M. I. and ewww. and again. ewww. and who says “supine? My whole life I’ve never said the word “supine.”)
(a short excerpt from the book I’m writing – and WILL eventually finish)
Why is it that when faced with a problem, my first inclination is to do something? To take action? Why is it that my knee jerk reaction is to throw myself into problem solving mode? Then, when I’ve expended every effort, when I’ve explored every possible option, only then do I pray? Why is it so counter-intuitive to pray first? Why is it that I, more often than I’d like to admit, see prayer as a last resort in a time of crisis instead of a first line of defense?
This is not something I’m proud of, nor is it something I can rationalize or dismiss. What I want to do when faced with a challenge or crisis, is immediately, intuitively go to God for help, but instead, time and time again, I find myself at the end of my own abilities, begging God for direction and ideas – and supernatural intervention.
Prayer is seriously underrated. We tend to keep it in a nice, neat little box, taking it out only when we need it. In the words of Robin Williams as the Genie in Disney’s Aladdin:
“Phenomenal cosmic power! itty bitty living space.”
I’ve found that when I’m actively committed to consistently spending time with God, the tendency to handle things on my own is automatically diminished. When I’ve already spent time with God on a given day, reaching out to Him as a first response when something happens later in the day is much more intuitive. I’m also less easily discouraged because when I talk to God first, my approach to a problem is much clearer and calmer. I’m not saying that every time I bring a problem to God I come away with a crystal clear approach to successful and immediate problem solving.
But in the great debate of whether prayer changes God’s mind or our hearts, chalk this one up to a changed heart.
My daughter was lounging around the house in a circa 1970s McDonalds uniform last night. The neon green version.
Attractive, I know.
She’s got a decade project due this week, so we’ve been in the attic. And now she wants to wear this to school. Her brother wore the SAME uniform to school for 70′s Day during spirit week in middle school (and won first place for that day.)
Some kids have no fear. so. much. polyester.
This was the job I got at 16 to make the $53 a month car payment on my 1971 Mustang. I did everything: counter, drive thru, grill, hostess, opening, closing, birthday parties, I even started manager training before I came to my senses and decided to finish college. I worked there from 1980 to 1983, back when the employees made double cheeseburgers before they were on the menu. These uniforms had been worn for years before.
Wasn’t I lucky to work at the “green” McDonalds? (And green has a totally different meaning in this context than it does today.) I wanted the deep blue. Or at least the baby blue. But the green was SOOO much better than the brown/maroon.
Anybody else remember the 7 steps for taking a customer order at McDonalds “back in the day?”
1. Smile and Greet the Customer
2. Take the Order/Repeat the Order
3. Suggestive Sell
4. Assemble the Order
5. Accept the payment
6. Present the Order
7. Thank them and ask them to Come Again.
What’d I tell you? Foundation of my work ethic.
In my previous post, entitled “I’m not your “fun” friend.” I said the reason I prefer “real” conversation over “surface” conversation is because I have “issues” and that you either get used to me or you avoid me.
(CLICK HERE to read that post – it’s short.)
I’ve been thinking about why I’m so intense about everything. Why do I prefer the deeper conversations? Why am I addicted to learning? What is this freakish obsession I have with setting and moving toward goals? Why does the word “can’t” challenge me to defy it? Why is good enough NOT good enough? Why am I so competitive, even with myself? Why am I so passionate about encouraging other people figure out what they want and GO AFTER IT? Why am I so relentless about being actively engaged in an intimate relationship with God – and inspiring others to do the same?
Why am I so intense about LIFE?
I’ve always been overly aware of the passing of time. Of missed opportunity. Lost opportunity.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about why and I immediately came up with four reasons:
1. Saturday mornings
2. TV Overdose
4. Preparation meets opportunity
Saturday mornings were the first thing to come to mind.
I grew up with a mom who loved to sleep.
When I was little, every Saturday was the same. I would wake up early, because, well, I was a little kid. I would crack open my bedroom door and slowly, as quietly as I possibly could, sneak into the kitchen for some cereal. It was slow progress, because the goal was to be completely, totally silent.
The goal was to NOT wake up my mother.
My dad usually worked on Saturday, and he was out of the house early. My mom’s bedroom door was between my room and the kitchen. The kitchen and her bedroom were connected by a wall. Another bedroom wall – the wall with her bedroom door on it – connected to the living room. Where the TV was.
All I wanted to do was get some cereal and watch Saturday morning cartoons. Simple. Kid simple.
Sometimes, I pulled it off. Slowly and silently opening the normally squeaky metal bifold door of the pantry, getting the cereal box down, silently opening the cabinet for a bowl. Silently opening the fridge for the milk by prying the rubber seal open with my fingers instead of pulling the door handle which would have resulted in the sound of the vacuum being broken. Pouring the cereal was the tough part. There’s nothing silent about Lucky Charms hitting melmac. Sometimes, that would be my undoing. Other days, I got lucky and made it through.
Then came the most difficult part. I’d take my cereal bowl into the living room and sit crisscross applesauce, arm’s length from the TV. Volume controls were manual dials back then, so I could turn the volume all the way down before I even turned on the TV. Then came another tense moment. Pulling the TV power knob on made a click noise. Then the electronic hum that followed as the TV warmed up. Sometimes that was as far as I got.
Other days, I made it through. Then came the channel. The good news was that there were only three to choose from: 2, 6 and 9, so I stood a 33% chance that the channel was already tuned to the show I wanted to watch. Other days, I was paralyzed by the dilemma. Do I watch something I didn’t want to or risk turning the knob? Eventually, I got very good at stealth channel changing: a tight, full-handed grip with a s-l-o-w turn. The worst days were when the channel was on 2. Channel 6 to 9 and 9 to 6 were a breeze. But switch between channels 2 and 9? I’d just watch Heckle and Jeckle.
Once I made it to the channel I wanted, there was no sense of relief. The volume was still all the way down.
This part was something I couldn’t really control, but I still tried. I would sit, still arm’s length from the TV, and slowly turn up the volume until I could hear it. Watching a show required constant monitoring. Turn the volume up for dialog, down for music and effects. When I did get caught, it was music and effects that got me every time.
Sometimes, I got lucky. There was only a voice, calling my name. I would turn the volume all the way down and wait. Silently. Other times, I would turn the TV off and slink to the kitchen with my cereal bowl and silently – always silently – put it in the sink. Or even better, slip back into my bedroom with the bowl and shut the door. That way, if she actually got up and opened her bedroom door to look in the living room, there would be no evidence I was ever there. Unless she walked over and touched the top of the TV. If it was warm, I was discovered. More often than not, she would just look out and then go back to bed. I would wait for a while and start again.
For as many times as I made it, there were just as many times as I got caught. The consequences? Get into my mom’s bed with her and stay there until she woke up. Which – on Saturdays, never ever happened before noon.
The sun would be streaming through the window and my mom would be asleep next to me. Notice I didn’t say “sound” asleep. The slightest movement on my part would be immediately met with “be still.” In an effort to keep me safe and protected while she slept, she would reach one arm over and gently place her hand on my arm or my leg. The slightest movement on my part would wake her. I literally watched minutes tick by on a clock. Way, way, way too many minutes.
How has this manifested itself in me?
I hate sleep.
Literally. I just don’t like it. When I sleep, I feel like I’m missing stuff. Opportunities. Experiences. Life. Sometimes, I think that the only reason I can sleep at night is because there’s nothing else to do. Everybody else is sleeping, so I might as well get it over with. I don’t often nap. I have to be non-functionally exhausted or sick to intentionally take a nap.
I think this sense of missing out on life is one reason I’m so focused on “real” conversation with people. Why I can’t take too much “surface” talk before I start asking people questions about themselves. Why I crave conversations that make me think, that open my mind to perspectives other than my own.
It’s why I don’t “do nothing” well. I’ve done enough “nothing” to last me the rest of my life.
Driving on a long straight road, more than a few miles faster than the highest posted speed limit. All the windows had to be down, the sunroof open. I would consciously make the decision NOT to tie up my hair even though I knew the result would be too many tangles to brush out. Washing and conditioner would be the only remedy.
No radio. It had to be my own choice of music – no commercials. no talking.
The music had to be LOUD. And I had to know all the words, because I needed to sing. At the top of my lungs, like nobody was listening.
Today, logic and finances and a lack of a sunroof or movable windows in my minivan, dictate no fast and aimless night drives.
But I have the house to myself during the day. The music is so loud I can’t hear the doorbell or the phone. And the cats paw at the sliding door because they want to escape to the back porch, where the sound is only minutely softer.
And that mini-van isn’t soundproof either.
I really need to clear my head. It’s a mess in there.
“Maybe it’s just my quest for creativity and difference. I’m not sure. But God is shaking me. God is stirring me.
Why? To place me in a new situation so that I have to trust Him fully. When I have my comfortable caged life, I know the parameters. I know my life. I know what will happen and what won’t. I can insulate myself from interacting with others. I can play it entirely safe. I can trust in me, not God.”
“Here’s what you do,” said Elisha. “Go up and down the street and borrow jugs and bowls from all your neighbors. And not just a few—all you can get. Then come home and lock the door behind you, you and your sons. Pour oil into each container; when each is full, set it aside.” She did what he said. She locked the door behind her and her sons; as they brought the containers to her, she filled them. When all the jugs and bowls were full, she said to one of her sons, “Another jug, please.” He said, “That’s it. There are no more jugs.” Then the oil stopped.
2 Kings 4:3-6 (The Message)
When I was a little girl, I used to pray for an unextraordinary life.
I thought that blessings were limited and were balanced with tragedy – things I feared. There was this imaginary teeter-totter in my head. All the blessings were piled on one seat while challenges and troubles were precariously stacked on the other. One blessing too much would tip the balance and God would have to step in and even things up.
I figured, if nothing really great happened to me, then nothing really bad would happen to me. So I prayed for a balanced teeter-totter.
It was safe.
Kid theology at it’s finest.
I rarely asked for blessings in my life, because in my mind, a blessing would always come with some sort of down side. And the down side wouldn’t always be in my life. If I experienced a blessing, I was always looking for where God would even it up. Who would get the trial? Would it be me? One of my parents? My siblings? Friends?
And there were degrees of blessings and trials. If I got to go to Disney World, some kid out there didn’t – because they came down with strep throat. If my family won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweeptakes? Someone. might. die.
The blessings I already experienced weren’t often recognized. “Normal” life was taken for granted. I viewed blessings like prizes. Extraordinary.
Like I said. Kid theology at its finest.
It was a long time coming, but these days, I understand that God’s grace – and his blessings – are unlimited (and that teeter-totters are only good for broken tailbones or a chin full of stitches). When I’ve experienced trials in my life, sure God might have sent them, but it’s just as likely He allowed them. Either way, He’s promised that He will work it all for good. Even when, from my own perspective, it didn’t seem like it was for my good.
Looking back at my life, I can see blessings in what I once thought were just trials. Of course, I don’t see a blessing in every trial, but I still believe God worked it for good. Maybe someone else was blessed as a result of some trial God sent or allowed in my life. That doesn’t mean they got a blessing and God evened up the teeter-totter with me.
I’m acutely aware of the truth behind the idea that we are who we are because of everything we’ve been through. Today, I’m praying that God will use the challenges I’ve lived through – and learned through – to bless someone else. I’m praying that – the relentless and exasperating optimist I am – I can be a source of hope and encouragement to someone who might need it.
Today, I’m not afraid to ask God to bless me in an extraordinary way. I don’t need an abundance of jars so God’s blessing will continue to flow. I need one life, continuously open for Him to fill with blessings. Even if the blessings are sometimes disguised as trials.
“It is our faith that fails, not his promise. He gives above what we ask: were there more vessels, there is enough in God to fill them—enough for all, enough for each. Was not this pot of oil exhausted as long as there were any vessels to be filled from it?”
As I watched someone pour Welches grape juice into a goblet, it occurred to me – not for the first time – that I don’t get it.
What am I missing?
When the sacrament of Holy Communion begins during a church service, I begin praying. I intentionally focus my heart and mind completely on God and the examination of my life, the confession of my sins, repentance, genuine and profound thanks for the sacrifice and redeeming blood of Christ. Then an usher steps next to my pew and my focus on intimate prayer is broken. I’m supposed to get up, walk to the front of the church and eat a piece of bread and drink grape juice out of a tiny plastic cup or dip the bread into a goblet. Like an Oreo in milk.
That may sound disrespectful, but if I’m honest, that’s what I think of when I do it. God already knows that’s in my head whether I type it out loud or not.
So here’s the question: Why does the sacrament of Holy Communion feel like an interruption to that intimate prayer instead of the culmination of it?
I don’t know.
I’ve been thinking about it and this is where my mind went:
When I was in junior high (these days they call it middle school), I went through two years of confirmation classes in the Lutheran church before I was allowed to take communion for the first time. My memory tells me we went through the same curriculum twice but I’m sure I’m wrong. It just felt like it.
The best part were the snacks. Those little flower shaped butter cookies with the hole in the middle that you could stick your fingers through so you could eat your way around them in circles.
But I digress.
I remember dreading confirmation class. They used words I never understood and they didn’t explain, like “Gospel of Jesus” and sacrament and catechism and sanctification and absolution.
Okay, to be fair, it’s likely they explained some of it, but they did a poor job, because I was not the only one going through the motions waiting for snack time. Most classes, there was lecture and then they told us what words to write in the fill-in-the-blank questions in our confirmation workbooks.
Then came the day the senior pastor visited our class. He told us a detailed and moving story about twins who were born prematurely. When he got to the part about one of them dying, we were all mesmerized. He was a great storyteller. This was so much more interesting than the lectures and workbook exercises.
The pastor said that a nurse came to the parents and told them that she was able to baptize the baby before he died. The parents were so relieved. Their baby was in heaven.
I had always been cheeky, but the senior pastor had always intimidated me. So formal. Robes, suits, perfect, immovable hair, manicured fingernails. All that, combined with the fact that so many people sat in complete silence to listen to him talk every Sunday morning and waited in line to shake his hand afterward. To top it all off? His name was Pastor Abram. That was just two letters away from Abraham. He was the ultimate authority on God at that time in my young life.
Until that moment.
At that moment, he lost his credibility with me. I realized this authority figure in my life was wrong.
Out came cheeky.
I may not remember the details of 2 years of confirmation classes, but I will remember for the rest of my life what I asked him that afternoon:
“Are you saying that if the nurse hadn’t sprinkled water on the baby’s head before he died and said ‘I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost’ that the baby would have gone to Hell?”
He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Yes.”
And I said, “Well, that’s stupid.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Every eye was on him.
He handled it with grace and evasiveness. He reminded me that I was young and explained that I didn’t understand. What he didn’t explain was how it wasn’t stupid. He didn’t refer me to a single Bible verse. Bibles weren’t necessary in confirmation class, just workbooks.
What was I too young to understand?
That Jesus’ death and resurrection weren’t enough to save a premature baby . . . but a nurse with tap water and the time to speak the words “in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost” ensured the baby would spend eternity in heaven?”
I’m older now and I DO understand. If what Pastor Abram said was true, all I needed was a nurse with a glass of water who had the ability to speak out loud, not Jesus Christ.
I didn’t learn much in confirmation class, but I learned that the ritual of baptism was meaningless compared to what Jesus did.
How does all this relate to Holy Communion?
Not sure yet. I’m still thinking about it.
That nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.
I just caught her reading in bed. 10 years old. 10:43pm on a school night. She’s just started reading The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 5) and she BEGGED me not to make her stop till she gets past “the good part.”
Oh, I remember that. Except I used to hide under the blanket with a flashlight. She has a reading light clipped to a shelf next to her bed.
I understand. And while part of me is upset with her for still being awake, part of me is over the top THRILLED that she loves to read this much. She’s going to love reading her whole life.
Call me a bad mom. I don’t care. I said: “You may NOT be mean to me in the morning and you WILL get up EXACTLY when I ask you to. Get to a stopping point fast.”
11:02pm. I just heard the reading light being turned off.
I’ve been known to emulate Robin’s plethora of “HOLY” outbursts. The most recent one one? A status update on Wednesday:
“At Appliance Direct. Holy rows of broken and ugly, Batman. Is this a scratch n dent store?”
Here’s a few more…
If you’ve got time to hang out for a few minutes, check out what else makes me laugh: Pragmatic Compendium’s “laugh!” category.
1. Whoever told PinkGirl about Steve Urkel – that was totally uncalled for. Very uncool.
oh. it must have been a Full House ratings crossover week. We watch DVR’d Full House (but fast forward through the DeGrassi promo commercials).
2. It seems that my freakish, overachiever, perfectionism has worked against me once again. I tried a little too hard to read the charts at the eye doctor, resulting in the doctor thinking I could see better than I really can, causing him to give me a lower than acceptable power for my contact lens readers. I can see to read on the computer and books and while I can see entree names on menus, the descriptions are blurry, along with the text on my phone, food nutrition labels and price tags. Reading newspaper print? Not happening. BUT – it is LIBERATING to read without being tethered to reading glasses, which I have been for the last 5 years.
I’ve watched FavoriteSon put in and take out his contact lenses so much over the last few years, the adjustment to contact lenses actually been no problem for me! I’ve tried my first pair for a week and I’m going back Monday, at which time I will tell the truth about the ease with which I can see stuff the doctor asks me to read. Hopefully, my second trial pair will be the perfect strength.
3. I’m kicking the crud out of our debt, one dollar at a time. Our church is offering a multi-week Dave Ramsey course called Financial Peace University, but amazingly, I got the entire course on 13 audio CDs for FREE on paperbackswap.com! Somebody listed it as a book and it only cost me TWO credits!!! Already listened to the first two CDs. Saved myself the course registration fee and all the time I would have spent driving to and from church for the classes. Not to mention the fact that I can get through the material faster than one lesson per week and I can listen anytime I want!
4. We’ve been asking God to bless our efforts to save money and pay off debt and we paid so much extra on our debt this month that our checking account was running dangerously low. I was worried about overdraft protection kicking in – which is kinda COUNTERproductive the whole debt reduction goal.
Then we found nearly $200 we forgot about from the used school uniform sale in May, FirstHusband found $20 on his nightstand and received a forgotten and unexpected travel reimbursement for $75!
In addition to all that, out of the blue, one of my clients had a nearly firm-wide, major network printer meltdown on Tuesday and I’ve spent the last three days on client site. Unexpected compensated work!
Thank you GOD!
5. Which do I like the least? Network printer work vs. dental work? hmmm. I’m not sure. But, it appears (knock on a printer) that the problem is solved, the solution is set up and tested and ready for firm-wide roll-out next week.
And it’s always tremendously affirming when, after I get stuck on a problem and the heavy tech hitting IT guys are called in, they get stuck in the same place I do. It’s also affirming when, after the IT guys are called in, they still want my help.
The firm administrator described my approach to problem solving and research as “tenacious.” Some might call it “annoying” or “exasperating.” It’s that freakish, overachiever, perfectionism thing again.
6. I finally lost my personal trainer. I knew it was coming. She’s been a law student and she finally graduated, took the bar and is now moving on to the next exciting stage in her life – sans me, I’m sad to say. (But EXTREMELY happy for her.) It’s an adjustment, working out with no accountability and I’m not entirely sure I won’t be hiring an new trainer, but for now, I’m doing . . . okay. I was up to three hours per week of strength training with her. Since we stopped meeting, the strength training has been inconsistent. I actually worked out MORE during the week of our cruise than I did any other week since she left me. I’ll really be able to tell after school starts and I get my routine back.
I worked out yesterday morning and this morning and while I really don’t like working out first thing in the morning, I can honestly say that every. single. minute. of the rest of these two days, I was SO glad my workout was already behind me.
7. PinkGirl is auditioning for a local production of Seussical the Musical tomorrow and parts will be announced on August 16 – NINE painfully long days later. If I were to receive a penny for every time I hear the questions “Mom, do you think I got in?” and “What part do you think I got?” during these next nine days, I would become a millionaire in less than one of them.
She wants every singe part. Kind of a problem.
PinkGirl watched Mary Poppins tonight. She’s been a fan for years – even BEFORE she met Miss Practically Perfect herself.
She’s We’ve watched it enough to have memorized large chunks of dialog. These days, PinkGirl is actually able to watch it without pausing the DVD for multiple costume changes.
One of my favorite parts is the laughing song. LOVE Ed Wynn as Uncle Albert. And Dick Van Dyke is just plain GENIUS. Betcha can’t watch him laugh without smiling.
If you’ve got time to hang out for a few minutes, check out what else makes me laugh: Pragmatic Compendium’s “laugh!” category.
I’ve been flashing back to the 80′s with my TSMSS posts recently, but this week, I’m not going back quite that far. Actually, “So Far: The Best Of Susan Ashton, happens to be in my van’s CD player right now. This song is set on repeat because I’m learning it for performance.
LOVE this message. And WHERE IS SHE NOW?!
In memory of Theodor Seuss Geisel (March 2, 1904 – September 24, 1991).
The multiple bloopers from this scene are shown in nearly every other clip on this blooper reel. Poor guy.
If you’ve got time to hang out for a few minutes, check out what else makes me laugh: Pragmatic Compendium’s “laugh!” category.
Continuing in my trip down musical memory lane, here’s another artist I listened to. I tried to find “Strength of My Life” which is the song I used to perform way back in the day, but I only found a live concert performance (the second youtube clip below). I loved this song because I would sign it while I sang. The sign language for it is beautiful.
This first song is contagious.
Larry Norman (April 8, 1947 – February 24, 2008)
A few weeks ago, when I posted a Petra song for Then Sings My Soul Saturday, I got a hankerin to search youtube for other Christian groups and songs I listened to “back in the day.” Eventually, I got around to Larry Norman, who some call the father of Christian rock music. None of my friends were that into him, but I went right out and bought the cassette “Only Visiting This Planet. My favorites were:
“Why Don’t You Look Into Jesus”
“I Wish We’d All Been Ready”
“I Am Six O’clock News”
“Why Should The Devil Have All The Good Music”
In my reading, I learned that one of my FAVORITE all time Selah recordings, “Sweet, Sweet Song Of Salvation” was written by none other than Larry Norman. I had no idea.
The song, “I Wish We’d All Been Ready” was one of the solos I sang in high school – when kids were still allowed to sing Christian music in public school.
This is a compilation of Larry Norman song clips:
For more Saturday music, check out Then Sings My Soul Saturday every Saturday hosted by Amy at Signs, Miracles and Wonders.
I listened to Christian music before it was cool. I listened to Christian music in high school. And in college. In 1986, a group called Petra came out with an “album” (long play record, cassette) entitled “More Power To Ya”
I remember BLASTING this song in my car. Singing at the top of my lungs. Onlookers be ignored.
I’m sorry the sound level of this youtube video is so limited. This is so much better when it is so loud you can’t hear ANYTHING else. My recommendation? Download this song. BLAST it in the car, sans kids. Bond with me.
I took a second look at my hair after Stephanie’s comment about the red and I’ve got to say – I think it’s the flash. FirstHusband says he sees a little red when I’m in the sun, so it has to be the lighting. It’s really more of a light brown. I do color my gray (yes, I said it.), but I stay close to my natural color because I’m cheap. I just can’t afford frequent root touch ups. (I know, I’m even pragmatically VAIN.)
Way back, about 15 years ago, I colored my own hair. Once. I picked an auburn color and both FirstHusband and I HATED it on me. His only request since then is “please – no red hair.” The name of my current color is “chocolate” (I love that!) but it seems like I must have some underlying redness in there somewhere. It’s not intentional. I was blond as a child – EXACTLY like PinkGirl. I get highlights in the summer. Because I spend so much time outside, color just bleaches out anyway. It tends to get a little darker in the winter, I guess because I spend more time inside?
. . . I have a client that says I tend to “ramble on.” I don’t see it.
ANYWAY, after the requests for a photo of me with “big” hair, I’ve been looking through old pictures and it sent me on a nostalgic hair trip. I’ve changed my hair a lot over the years. I had the same stylist for 19 years and whenever she got bored (or when I got bored), I let her try something new. The only time I didn’t like one of her ideas was when she cut it short. NO versatility. The exact same hair every single day until it grew out. Never doing short hair again. So for the most part, as long as it was long enough to put up, I didn’t care what she wanted to try.
Then, after 19 years together, she changed her career. Left me flat. (I’m actually happy for her.) I spent almost two years going to another lady in her old shop and EVERY time I went, she wanted me to TELL her what to do. I just didn’t know. And she had no suggestions. So I HATED my hair during that time.
Apparently, I wasn’t alone.
Picture it: I’m at a client site, in the break room having lunch with some women I’ve known for YEARS. We’re all talking about hair. (I wonder now, if it was a setup.) During the conversation, I said, “I HATE my hair.”
And there was silence.
Now, what do women normally do when someone says that? You know. They immediately come back with stuff like, “No, I like it!” or “What’s wrong with it?” and other reassuring comments intended to firmly dismiss the possibility of bad hair.
So I said, “It appears . . . I need a referral.”
I got a double. Two of the women went to the same stylist.
It was a GREAT referral. I walked in, gave Lisa just a few criteria and let her have at it. Loved it after the first visit! She’s GREAT. Fearless and full of ideas. She’s already figured out what my hair will and won’t do. AND she’s reasonably priced. Double the fun! It’s coming up on two years of LOVING my hair. For the first time in a LOOOONG time! Since “big hair” went out. (I miss big hair.)
So what’s my “criteria?” Here’s what I’ve learned about my hair over the years:
Cut – Lots of layers because my hair has a natural wave that only comes through if it isn’t weighed down. When my hair is all one length, it just hangs there. Thin and straight and stringy. (Which was the case at the time of the “silent agreement” incident in the break room.) With layers, I can choose to blow my hair out straight if I want, but I still have the option of wave or curls.
Length – Just long enough to put up in a knot without falling down. That’s just below shoulder length for me. Too short and it falls down or sticks out when I put it up. Too long and, again, it just hangs there like string. Ugly string.
Color – I like my hair color to look natural – like I don’t color it at all – so EVERY hair can NOT be the exact same color. (That’s what happened when I colored my own hair.) And most importantly, I CAN’T afford a root touch-up every hair cut, so the base color has to be as close to my natural color as possible. Lisa has convinced me that I need highlights all the time, not just in the summer, but not too much, or I look like a blond. With dark roots. (Which was also the case at the time of the “silent agreement.”)
Other than that, I let Lisa have at it. I figure hair will grow out and color can be fixed. Every “bad” haircut is a learning experience. That’s how I figured out my hair criteria. It’s like the rest of my life. Most of the time, I figure out what works after finding out what doesn’t.
And I see Lisa on WEDNESDAY!
So thanks for all the positive comments about my hair! It takes away some more of the sting from the “silent agreement” incident. Friends tell each other the truth. Eventually. But true friends tell each other the truth much more quickly and don’t let them go two years with bad hair.
Want to see some more hair? After the big reveal and all the comments about how I don’t look like people thought, I wondered about my own preconceived ideas about how some of YOU look. I admit, I’m always on the look out for blog owner photos, so I know what some of you look like already:
I remembered a tiny little photo of Elle earlier this year. It was a pretty quick find and a nice review of her writing along the way.
Kristin at “The Goat” has a photo on her “about” page – the link is waayyyy at the bottom of her page.
JanMary – I had some time yesterday, so I perused some older pages and found a photo!
I’ve not seen a photo of Lisa at Domestic Accident, but she refers to her daughter as “mini-me” so I just visualize her as a tall version of her daughter.
Lisa Writes has been brave for a while now. Her photo is also in her “about” page.
I’ve always pictured Memarie Lane with long, un-layered dark brown hair. Then she posted photos of herself immediately after . . . CHILDBIRTH. Now THAT’s brave.
Mocha with Linda buried a photo of herself in a post back in July, but I remembered it. You can zoom in!
Sandy has lots of family photos in her sidebar – my favorite is “crazy hair.”
Stephanie has short purple hair. Well, sometimes.
Tina ‘s got a family photo in her sidebar. The photo is small, but I can see curly, brown hair. Her face is way too tiny to make out, so I’m thinking I would never be able to recognize her on the street.
Did I miss you? Comment and link up to your photo! No photo of yourself on the internet?
One year ago today, I posted on Compendium for the very first time – two posts, actually. In honor of that day, I offer the inaugural posts for your perusal:
just journal, even if it’s just one sentence. (What journaling does for me.)
be consistent. (One of my first lessons as a parent.)
I stumbled upon this a few weeks ago when I posted Lucy and Ethel trying to keep up with the conveyor belt of chocolate.