Location, location, location: It's not just for real estate.

When Mark and I were dating, he got me a card for some holiday (Valentine’s Day? Birthday? I can’t remember.) that compared real estate to kisses. As in, the key is location, location, location.

Looking back, I’m not sure that was actually appropriate, considering I was in high school and all.

But it’s true (both about kisses and real estate). It’s also true about workplaces, although I don’t think you’ll find a greeting card with that sentiment.

Can you imagine? Congratulations on your new job! I hear it’s a lateral move, but at least you’re within walking distance of that grocery store with the good salad bar!

No, I don’t think Hallmark will be breaking into this category anytime soon. But it doesn’t change the fact that where you work is sometimes just as important as, well, where you work.

I didn’t realize this at first. My first “real” job after college was in a suburb, and I took it for granted that my office building was just a few blocks from two grocery stores, a gas station, a library, a post office and several fast food restaurants.

When I moved to an office downtown, I realized how spoiled I’d been. It wasn’t that those things couldn’t be found in the downtown area, but driving to and parking at any of those places was a pain in the neck! And at that time (our downtown area has been developed and revitalized since then), the pickings for food, gas and stamps were actually pretty slim.

I worked downtown for a few years and then found myself working in an office building within a mile of that first suburban workspace. This time, my window faced the brand-new Target parking lot.

Score!

That’s right. Since I’d been gone, the area had welcomed a Target and a Panera. (Even better? That Panera has a drive-thru!)

More than once, my co-worker John in the next office (also facing Target) would holler, “Hey, Mary, did you see that dog in the parking lot?” or “What is that guy doing over there?”

Yes, we did know how to have a good time.

Unfortunately, that perfectly located job was the same job I lost when I was seven months pregnant. After a four-month maternity leave/job hunt, I found myself in a completely new (to me) job location.

This time I was close to home and within minutes of a (dying) mall, Super Walmart, post office, Target, two libraries, two grocery stores and tons of restaurants. And did I mention the 12-minute commute?

But, I realized quickly, I was so far from all my working friends. Meeting for lunch wasn’t nearly as easy as it was when I worked in the city or even south of it. There’s just something intimidating or time-consuming or something about crossing the river. And so lunch dates became increasingly rare.

Buying my non-cold groceries or mailing the bills, though? Piece of cake to get that done in an hour!

I think my favorite job location would be the ones “down south.” They were further away, but at the time, I didn’t mind the 20-30 minute drive at all. Thanks to an alternate route, I rarely faced heavy traffic, and it gave me time to think. Or, let’s be honest, wind-dry my hair when I was running late. And other than a Walmart, pretty much any type of store or restaurant I could want was close by.

Downtown offices come in a close second, though, just because I think it’s fun (or cool) to work downtown. Except in a blizzard. In that case, it’s terrible.

[For the record: If you find yourself working downtown when a blizzard hits, don’t drink a bottle of water on your way home. Because even though it normally takes just 20 minutes to get home, it quite possibly could take more than two hours. And that’s a long time to hold it. Hypothetically speaking, of course.]

The best part of my current job’s location (and, okay, I’ll admit it: sometimes the best part of my current job, period) is that it’s close to home. When Mark was working evenings, that meant I could go home for lunch and spend 35 minutes with him and Annalyn. Now that he’s working nights, it means I can pick up Annalyn from daycare and be home to spend the evening with my family by 5:00.

Do you think the location of a job is important? What’s the best place – location-wise – you’ve worked? Or the worst?

These are not my cubicles. Photos by DDFic, The Lost Dutchman, GraceFamily and Sailor Coruscant.

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Top Ten Tuesday - 4th of July

Is it hard to get back in the swing of things after a long weekend or what? I could definitely go for another day or two to hang out and eat and nap. Anyone else?

Since that’s not going to happen, I’m going to hold on to that holiday feeling with a look back at my most memorable 4th of Julys. (4ths of July? I don’t know about this one…)

1. The one where the corn field caught on fire. We visited my parents’ friends in Wichita and sat in their backyard watching their neighbors shoot of fireworks. I remember that we got to play with sparklers and snakes (the fireworks kind, not the reptile). And I remember that somehow, their neighbors set the field behind their house on fire.
2. The one where my granddad died. It’s interesting to me (although, I’m pretty sure, not technically ironic) that my granddad, who instilled such a fierce patriotism in our family, died just before the 4th of July. I remember, the night after his visitation, standing out on my grandparents’ driveway and watching a fireworks display in the distance.
3. The one where my cousin got married. I was a personal attendant, not a bridesmaid, which would have bummed me out if I hadn’t gotten to hang out with my cousin and her friends the whole weekend. Despite taking place outside in the middle of the summer, the wedding was beautiful. (And not even that hot!) My favorite memories are from the reception, though, from my aunt shaking it to Brick House to swing dancing with my cousin Craig.
4. The one where we missed the fireworks. The first summer after we were married, my parents came up to visit for the 4th. In typical fashion, we arrived at the town’s event super early, endured a painful performance by a local musician and then, just before the fireworks were finally going to start, we headed home. Because my parents were tired of us getting eaten up by bugs and decided it wasn’t worth it to stay. Not my favorite 4th of July.
5. The one where Mark didn’t shoot his hands off. The summer after I graduated from college, I worked for the Chamber of Commerce. It was our job that year to put on the town’s Independence Day event, including the fireworks display. The guy in charge of the large – and dangerous! – fireworks needed help, and of course my accident-prone husband volunteered. He managed to not get hurt, have a lot of fun and come home with several hundred dollars worth of fireworks. Which he and a friend proceeded to shoot off in our apartment complex parking lot, narrowly missing both our car and the wives!
   

6. The one where we made a flag cake. Though we’d moved back to Kansas City, we hadn’t made many friends yet. So the summer after the summer I graduated, we headed back to Kirksville to visit our friends. And we were so proud of the berries and whipped cream flag cake we made! (And thankful the boys didn’t have nearly as many fireworks to play with this year!)
7. The one where the boys almost blew up a 6-year-old. A couple years in a row, we celebrated the 4th of July with our Sunday school class, where unfortunately, crazy firework-shooting behavior was encouraged. And you know what they say: It’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye. Well, nobody lost an eye, but I recall some firm words being spoken after an errant bottle rocket flew much too close to the kids!
8. The one where my feet swelled up like balloons. The summer I was pregnant, I took an extra day off around the 4th. I spent my time off registering at Babies R Us and nesting like a madwoman (in other words, organizing every cabinet in the house). By the end of the weekend, my ankles were as big around as my calves. It was quite attractive, and thought I didn’t know it at the time, a sign of things to come.
9. The one where my friend got married – again. After being betrayed and abandoned by her first husband, my friend married a great guy in Hawaii – and then again here. She was sweet enough to ask me to photograph her “home wedding,” and it was so much fun. But more importantly than capturing every moment with my camera, I loved finally seeing her happy again.
10. The one where we saw the ocean. Last summer, we took a family vacation to Florida and Georgia. We didn’t actually watch any fireworks on the 4th (thanks to a cranky toddler, of course), but we did get to watch that not-yet-cranky toddler sit in the ocean for the first time.

And of course, this year, the one where Annalyn saw fireworks for the first time. I was worried that she'd be scared, but she loved it!

For more lists of fun stuff, visit OhAmanda’s Top Ten Tuesday.

How was YOUR 4th of July? And what’s been your most memorable one?


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More Than Defined: The Patriotic Version

And no, I wasn’t just looking for any excuse to post this cute picture of Annalyn. Nope. Not me.

When my friend Triple’s husband was deployed to Iraq with the Army Reserves, I made the mistake of reading a Karen Kingsbury book about a soldier. I can still see myself, laying on the couch with that paperback and sobbing my eyes out.

Another time, I sat in my car, parked in the garage, crying the ugly cry to Trace Adkin’s song, Arlington. (You’d better believe I never let that one play on my radio again!)

A little part of me didn’t breathe the whole time he was gone.

Maybe that’s why Ashleigh’s posts (here and here) describing her husband’s deployment to Afghanistan bring me to my knees.

Or maybe I’m a patriotic sap.

In the sixth grade {I think it was sixth grade. Smitty, is that right?}, our class had a patriotic concert. I don’t remember exactly why we were celebrating America that year over any other. But celebrate we did, with matching t-shirts and everything.

We sang all the usual patriotic songs (Battle Hymn of the Republic, America the Beautiful, America by Neil Diamond. I’m kidding. We didn’t sing Neil Diamond.), but what I remember most is rehearsing and performing Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA.

Every time we practiced that song, some of the more annoying boys (and let’s face it: in middle school, they’re all annoying) would literally stand up when we sang, “And I’d gladly stand up, next to you, and defend her still today.” Every single time.

And, okay, sometimes the [completely mature and not at all annoying] girls did it, too. So now, when I hear that song, I have this crazy urge to stand up. Which could be disastrous, considering that I most often hear it in the car.

Once I stop giggling at my junior high ridiculousness, I always find myself singing along. Singing along – and crying.

Because patriotism and this country and soldiers and Lee Greenwood get me all sorts of emotional.

I’m not sure why. A lot of it probably comes from my family’s military heritage. My granddad was an Army man, and that really influenced my family. As in jump when I say jump and quarters better bounce off that bed made with hospital corners. But also as in respect and honor this country and the men and women who protect and serve it.

Some of my patriotism also comes from my years in Camp Fire Girls. I learned how to fold a flag, and I know the words to Taps – although I won’t sing it for you, because that’s another one that never fails to make me cry. Since it was played at my granddad’s funeral, I don’t really need an explanation for that one.

I think my love of country is a good thing that doesn’t need analysis. But it’s possible that it gets a little out of control sometimes. In addition to the crazy tears over fictional soldiers and a commitment to watching Every Single Episode of JAG and NCIS, I recently found myself playing the Flag Watchdog at work.

More than once, I’ve questioned whether the flag should be flying at half-mast. Once I was right and they pulled it up. The other time…also known as yesterday…it turns out a senator died and the President had made a proclamation. I just hadn’t gotten the memo.

Oops.

So, welcome to another installment of Meet My Crazy. I’m patriotic and a big bawl baby who cries over anything involving flags or camouflage. How about you?

How will you celebrate our country this weekend? And have you ever told your company’s CFO that he needs to hoist the flag to the top of the pole??

For more More Than Defined, read about why I consider myself Generation X and Southern.

Affiliate links were used in this post. Feel free to click away and help me earn a couple pennies!

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Keep smiling. Keep shining.

When I was in second grade, we sang “That’s What Friends Are For” in our music program. To this day, I still know all the words – and remember to pronounce “for sure” the way our teacher drilled into us: “for shoe-er.”

Anyway. I’ve been a little out of sorts this week.

On Friday, Smitty and I had a, well, I don’t know what to call it. It wasn’t a fight or even a disagreement. But we had a thing. And while we're not mad or anything, it left me feeling weird.

Then, on Saturday, I had dinner with friends of ours. Mark stayed home, because he had some flu or cold or something he didn’t want to pass on, so it was just the three of us and our kids. And for some reason, we didn’t have much to say to each other.

Normally, we talk each other’s ears off, trying to cram in all the latest from the weeks between visits. This time, though, it was awkward. And quiet.

And then there’s the fact that my friend Kevin really did go and move to stinking California. (Not that I actually think the Golden State smells bad. I’m just annoyed that it’s half a country away from here.)

Maybe all that is why I was so deeply touched when I read about 4tunate $4 Friends. [Okay, or maybe it's because I'm a big ol' sap. Whatev. I think it's great.] A group of my favorite bloggy girls have circled around Jen, also known as Quatro Mama, whose family has been going through some seriously hard times.

Jen is an amazing woman who is always giving to others. She recently raised more than $2,500 and gave away a laptop out of her own pocket to help support a March of Dimes campaign. I don’t know her personally, but it’s clear even to me that she is a sweet, funny, giving lady!

Recently, Jen’s family has had to deal with a lot of illness. Honestly, I can’t imagine taking care of quadruplets on a good day, much less on a less-good one.

Until midnight (tonight), Jen’s friends are collecting donations ($4 each. Get it? $4 Friends?) to fill her freezer, refrigerator and cupboards with food. ALL proceeds raised will go to that goal.

If you’d like to help out, you can donate through PayPal. Whether you can donate $4 or not, I hope you’ll join me in praying for Jen and her family.

And now I want to hear from you. When’s the last time a friend did something nice, something unexpected for you? OR, if you can’t think of something (yikes!), what’s your favorite way to help out or show your friends you care during a hard time?

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Who cares what it’s called as long as it tastes good?

Image by Joefoodie. I think his ronza stromboli has spinach in it.

In the town where I went to college, a pizza place on the downtown square served these things called ronzas. I’d never heard of a ronza before then . . . and I haven’t heard of one since then.

Apparently, in the outside world, they’re called calzones. Or stromboli. Or runzas. But a ronza? No. Nobody’s ever heard of that.

When I tried to find evidence of this long-remembered snack from my college days, I came up pretty empty. However, I did find a review of the restaurant (Pagliai’s, and that’s pronounced “polly-eyes,” just so you know.) on Yelp.com.

I had to laugh when I read it and realized it was actually written by my friend, Tim! He said, among other things: “In my opinion, [pizza’s] not the reason to go to Pagliai's – it’s the Ronza. That's right. A capital R because it deserves it.”

And that’s why even now, a few years later, Mark and I still crave the pizza snack every once in a while.

Because I’m a nerd (Go ahead. Try and debate that.), I looked up the terms with my favorite research tool. And according to Wikipedia, stromboli is a type of turnover filled with various cheeses, Italian meats or vegetables. The dough is Italian bread dough, and it originated near Philadelphia.

Calzones, on the other hand, are turnovers that originate from Italy and are basically described as a pizza turned inside out. And a runza is completely different: a yeast dough bread pocket with a filling consisting of beef, pork, cabbage or sauerkraut (yuck!) and onions, baked in various shapes.

And then there’s the Hot Pocket, of course:

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Jim Gaffigan - Hot Pocket!
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Futurama New Episodes Ugly Americans Funny TV Comedy Blog

Anyway. While I don’t actually mind a Hot Pocket now and then, sometimes only an actual ronza will do. But since Pagliai’s is about a three-hour drive away, we’ve had to figure out how to make them ourselves.

Last week, I mentioned to Mark that I wanted to make one and said I’d probably do it the following night. But the next night, I forgot about that and said I was going to make tacos, and he said, “But…but…I thought you were going to make a ronza!”

Once I brought it up, he couldn’t wait to have one. So…he made it! And while I would have done things a little differently, it was still really good, so I thought I’d share the recipe.

Mark’s Ronza

1 lb. hamburger, browned
1 cup barbecue sauce
1-2 cups shredded mozzarella
4 slices bacon, fried and crumbled
1 can refrigerated pizza dough

Mix the barbecue sauce with the browned (and drained) hamburger and bacon. Unroll pizza dough on baking sheet sprayed with baking spray (or, as I say, on a cookie sheet sprayed with Pam). Spread meat mixture and then sprinkle cheese on top. Fold over dough and press edges closed.

Now, I would have sprayed the whole outside of the ronza (or brushed with olive oil, if I was real fayncee) and then seasoned with garlic and maybe a little basil.

But Mark just put a little extra cheese on the outside. To each his own, I suppose. (And believe me, it didn’t stop me from eating it!)

Cook according to pizza dough instructions. Slice and serve.

Mmmm....!

What do you call this type of food? And do you have any favorite foods from somewhere you lived before?

This post will be linked to Mouthwatering Monday, Tasty Tuesday, Tuesdays at the Table, Tempt My Tummy Tuesday, What's Cooking Wednesday, Friday Food, Foodie Friday and Food on Fridays.

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How do you take your tea?

One summer my cousins babysat my brother and me while we were out of school. I don’t remember the details, like if it was every day, where my parents were working at the time or even how old we were. And actually, the memories I have associated with that time may, in fact, be from summers stretched across a few years.

What I do remember are walks uptown to the drugstore, climbing the fence in the backyard to walk to the drive-in, listening to the great music of the 80s – and cooking disasters.

There for a while, the family had a grand old time laughing at our mistakes in the kitchen. I remember a broken garbage disposal, something baked without sugar, monster cookies (which most certainly were NOT a mistake – mmmm!) and a loaf of bread catching on fire in the microwave.

Now that I think about it, though, I’m pretty sure my brother and I were on our own when the microwave burst into flames. My mom never asked about the burnt spot in the door. And we never brought it up.

The cooking story from those summers that still cracks me up is about the time we made tea.

First of all, you need to know that my family is from the South. If you know nothing else about tea, I’m just sure you know that tea is – according to Miss Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias – the house wine of the South. And my Granny (and my cousins’ Granny) made the best sweet tea you’ve ever had. The tea at our house wasn’t quite so sweet, but it was still our drink of choice. (Still is, although my mom has gotten fancy with some sort of raspberry flavoring.)

One day, my mom told my cousin to make a gallon of tea while she was watching us. And while she told her to put ¾ cup sugar in the tea, my cousin thought she said three or four cups of sugar.

Well, I won’t lie. I thought that tea was just perfect. After all, to me it tasted just like Granny’s tea! My mom was not so impressed. And to this day, we laugh about making tea with three or four cups of sugar.

I ran across a calendar of random holidays a couple weeks ago, and it turns out that today is National Iced Tea Day. And because I’m a dork (or, as Smitty put it recently, I “like researching everything under the sun”), I decided to look into the issue of tea.

According to Wikipedia (and who would know better), “the oldest printed recipes for iced tea date back to the 1870s. It is not unusual to read that iced tea was popularized, perhaps even created, at the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis by Richard Blechynden, but this appears to be an urban legend.”

So don’t go perpetuating that World’s Fair myth, because Wikipedia says it’s just not true.

I’m not sure it really matters when iced tea was invented, because, as John Egerton said, “Iced tea is too pure and natural a creation not to have been invented as soon as tea, ice, and hot weather crossed paths.”

When it comes to sweet tea (or, I suppose we can say iced tea in general, but really, who needs dirty water, as my friend Hillary calls it?), some people really do go crazy.

There’s Kristen with We Are THAT Family, who blogged, Tweeted and vlogged herself into a cow costume for free sweet tea at Chick-fil-A.

And there’s my husband, who has recently gone on a city-wide search for Lipton PureLeaf Iced Tea. You can get the individual bottles of the magical stuff (Seriously, it’s good. It does not taste like bottled or pre-made tea at all.) at the gas station, but we really need a gallon of the stuff for that man. He is, after all, the one my mom makes an extra gallon of tea for at family dinners – setting the carafe (yes, we’re fayncee) next to his plate so she doesn’t have to get up and refill his glass half a dozen times while we eat.

And then there’s this: Anita Renfroe, singing an ode to sweet tea.



If you can’t view the embedded video, click here to watch Big Ol’ Sweet Ice Tea.

As C.S. Lewis said himself, “You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” [And yes, I am going to let myself believe he’s talking about sweet iced tea, not that nasty hot stuff in the tiny porcelain cups.]

So, tell me, how do you take your iced tea? Sweet? Southern sweet? In a Mason jar? In a wine glass? Do you make sun tea on the back porch? Do you nuke your tea bags in the microwave? Do you add fruit like my mom, or drink it straight up (don’t even get my husband started on how much he detests lemon in his tea)?

Image by House of Sims

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Sweet souvenirs

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about my upcoming wedding anniversary. I had a couple good ideas, but every time I sat down to write, I got stuck.

It shouldn’t be hard to think of ways to describe how much I love my husband . . . right? I shouldn’t struggle to write 11 ways our marriage has improved over the past 11 years or a list of the many times I’ve fallen in love with my husband over the years.

But some things are hard to put into words.

So when I read Brad Ruggles’ blog post, What’s In Your Shoebox? I was relieved. Finally, I had the perfect way to commemorate my 11th anniversary. I’d just find 11 keepsakes that symbolize my relationship with Mark.

Easier said than done. Apparently I’m not the Level 1 hoarder (random Bones reference, if you’re wondering) I thought I was.

I rallied, though, and found 11 things (even if they’re not technically “keepsakes”) that, when put together, form a picture of a decade-plus of marriage.

Embroidered Teddy Bear Vest
Don’t tell me you don’t have one of these in the back of your closet, too. What? You don’t? Oh, right. Me either.

I actually keep this in my cedar chest. Not because it’s so cute or might someday be in style. I keep this vest because Mark gave it to me for Christmas just a couple months after we started dating.

It wasn’t cool in 1994, either. His mom picked it out for him. How cute is that?
 

Movie tickets
I can’t even focus on why I kept these tickets. All I can see is how darned cheap movies used to be! Seriously! When was the last time it cost just $3.75 to see a movie?

When we were engaged, I compiled a bunch of photos and ephemera from our dating days. (Yes, I said “ephemera.” Ever since I learned what that word meant, I’ve been dying to use it. Sure, I could have said “souvenirs” or something like that. But where’s the fun in that?)

Anyway, I stuck all that stuff, along with some cheesy quotes and clip art, into a scrapbook. And even though that was more than 11 years ago (and my scrapbooking has, ahem, changed a LOT), I still get the urge to keep my movie stubs after going to a movie with Mark.

Martina McBride CD
I’ve already told you the story about this one. On Valentine’s Day 1998, I was expecting Mark to propose. Instead, he gave me a very disappointing thoughtful gift, this CD.

Engagement ring
I can’t wear my engagement ring right now. Yes, I know I could get it stretched, but I am still (STILL!) holding out hope that I will – someday soon, preferably – lose enough weight to wear my ring.

I miss wearing my pretty little diamond ring, but – for those of you who are worried I’m walking around with a naked ring finger – I do wear a wedding band.

Note
Every once in a while, Mark will write me a nice note, and I’ve kept this one long enough that I’ve moved it from one planner to another, sticking it in a place of honor with a paper clip.

Shot glasses
What started as a way for Mark to be as “cool” as his best friend who collected shot glasses has become a way for us to commemorate our travels as a family.

In other words, aside from a magnet or pencil, a shot glass is the cheapest souvenir you can find in gift shops around the world, so we buy one on every vacation.

It’s silly, but it’s ours. Seeing those little glass cups on top of Mark’s dresser reminds me of the trips we’ve taken together. And reminds me that I really should dust more often.

Crutches
Awwww . . . so sweet, right? Okay, maybe not. But if there’s an item in our house (or in the garage, as the case may be) that illustrates part of our history, it’s a pair of crutches.

Mark’s crutches, just to be clear. That man has been injured more times than I can count! (I’m kidding. There will be a Top Ten Tuesday post about it in my future.)

But seriously, dealing with an accident-prone husband has taught me more patience than I ever thought I had.

Cups
I don’t know exactly why I love plastic cups so much. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that glasses never seem to get clean in my dishwasher. Tacky as it may be, Mark has indulged this quirk for years.

And by “indulged,” I mean he has picked up – and sanitized – plastic cups from ridiculous places, just to fill up my cabinet with cheap, logoed cups.

And I love him for it.

Annalyn’s dress
In the days after Annalyn was born, I spent a lot of time sleeping and recovering. Mark, on the other hand, spent a lot of time bored and frustrated. Bored, because he was used to being on the go constantly – not sitting at his wife’s bedside, holding her hand and speaking softly. And frustrated, because that’s exactly what I wanted him to do.

I barely even tolerated him visiting Annalyn in the NICU. What can I say? I was extremely crazy hormonal.

But one night, after I finally fell asleep (thanks to a dose of Benadryl, my version of anti-anxiety medication), he snuck out for some fresh air. And came back with a gift for our tiny baby girl: the cutest little dress I’d ever seen.

Bible study books
Throughout our marriage, Mark and I have been part of several different small groups. Each one has played a part in our faiths and our relationship, forcing us to grow in ways we never expected when we first decided to start a couples’ Bible study at the BSU.

Scrapbook pages
As I said before, my scrapbooking style has changed quite a bit since the days of our engagement. But I never get tired of documenting our life together – even if it means stepping out from behind the camera and getting in the picture for once.

I know these keepsakes, these things are silly. And oh my goodness, this post could not possibly be any longer. But to me, these 11 items draw a beautiful picture of the man I married 11 years ago: sweet, fun, giving, thoughtful, patient and faithful. And that is one picture I will keep forever.

Happy anniversary, Mark.

What keepsakes tell the story of your relationships?

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The Problem with Romance Novels

I’m not sure what the book was doing in the elementary school library in the first place. With a main character who was 13 years old, it seems more appropriate for the middle school.

At least, it does now.

When I was in second or third grade and allowed to check out books from the fourth grade shelves because of my advanced reading skills, a book called “I Was a 98-Pound Duckling” seemed completely appropriate to me.

My mom did not agree.

The book’s description – according to openlibrary.org, not my memory – explains why: A 13-year-old who suffers from several "beauty problems" improves her self-image after a brief summer romance.

Not exactly the best choice for an 8-year-old.

Little did my mom know that was not the last time I would read an age-inappropriate book. From hiding Harlequin novels in my desk throughout middle school to discovering Danielle Steele at my first job (at a library – are you surprised?) in high school, I was hooked on romance and I indulged early and often.

Since I’ve mentioned more than once my love of chick flicks, a.k.a. romantic comedies, you have probably assumed that this romance addiction didn’t end with adolescence.

If so, you would be right.

Even throughout the early – and, okay, not so early – years of my marriage, I often lost myself in a paperback book that I’d be embarrassed to be seen reading.

You wouldn’t believe how excited I was when our library started allowing patrons to check out their own books with the automatic scanner. Now I could read all the trashy romances I wanted – and nobody would know!

I read all sorts of romance novels. Sure, I read the trashy ones, the ones I lay face down on my coffee table. But I also read tons of Christian romances (anyone else remember the Palisades Pure Romance books?).

Smutty or wholesome – it didn’t matter. Whether the main characters parted with a chaste kiss on the front porch or tumbled straight into bed, the premise of each book was the same.

The love – the romance – shared by the main characters of each story was breathtaking. The kind that sweeps you off your feet. That happens at first sight. That conquers all and lasts forever and solves mysteries and makes babies and cures cancer and wins wars.

And it happened to characters that, no matter if they were cowboys or prostitutes or knights or duchesses or veterinarians or florists or lawyers, the reader can easily identify with.

Unfortunately, I consumed those books, that premise, those characters the same way I consume Doritos or Oreos: in mass quantity without thinking.

The whole time I was gulping down those books, I was building – and reinforcing – a belief system. I was learning about love, about men and women, about relationships. And I was creating a whole lot of expectations.

Am I stupid? Or gullible? No. I knew, full and well, that those books were works of fiction. I knew that they were no more real than the Disney movies I watched with my little brother.

But even though I knew those stories weren’t real, after a while, I started believing them anyway. After you’ve read dozens, possibly hundreds, of books about strong, brave, sensitive and romantic men, you start to think that maybe that’s the norm. After you’ve read so many stories about love that can move mountains and turn back time and inspire poetry, you start to think that maybe that’s the way love is supposed to be.

Maybe those men do exist. Maybe that kind of love is possible. Maybe that’s what I deserve.

And that is where the trouble starts.

Stay tuned until next week for more on The Problem with Romance Novels.

Do you read romance novels?

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Science lab, mysteries and a book review

Eighth grade was the first year we had science lab. Not being particularly inclined toward the sciences (do not even get me started on College Chemistry), I only remember two things.

One, our teacher had pigs – in a jar. And two, I was paired up with Trevor. And I did not like Trevor. I don’t remember where those feelings came from, but I remember feeling them. Strongly.

However, while I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what pickled pigs have to do with, well, anything, I can tell you what I learned from Trevor.

One day in science lab, I noticed that Trevor had a book. That still strikes me as odd, but whatever. I thought it looked interesting, and he said it was. Then he actually loaned it to me. From the moment I opened up Sue Grafton’s H is for Homicide, I was hooked.

I’d always been an avid reader and a huge fan of series, but until then I’d stuck with young adult books. Important fiction like those epic novels written by R.L. Stine. But after reading the gritty, complicated mystery by Grafton, those simplistic books didn’t do it for me anymore.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could end this random story by telling you that Trevor and I became the best of friends after that? Well, we didn’t. But I don’t remember carrying my torch of hatred onto high school, so maybe sharing that book did bridge somehow bridge a gap. Whatever that gap was in the first place.

Today I still love reading mysteries. My favorites are political thrillers, although I eat up the cop/detective stories, like James Patterson’s Women’s Murder Club series (yes, another series).

But sometimes the gore and worldliness gets to me. Jonathan Kellerman used to be one of my favorite authors, harking back to my days as a psychology major. But in the past few years, I haven’t been able to enjoy – or in the case of his last book, finish – his books because the situations and people he describes are just too awful.

That’s where good Christian mysteries come in. However, that phrase, “good Christian mysteries,” is more often an oxymoron than not. Which is why I was so excited to discover Diann Mills’ Call of Duty series.

[Yes, another series. I also buy multiples in different colors when I find a pair of shoes or pants I like.]

This series, like the O’Malley books from Dee Henderson – which I LOVED, features characters with real flaws and real problems. The dialogue is authentic, the mysteries can’t be solved in the fourth chapter, and the Christian part of the book doesn’t hit you over the head with preachiness. In short, Mills writes good Christian mysteries.

Here’s the summary for Sworn to Protect (Call of Duty Series, Book 2):

Border Patrol Agent Danika Morales has sworn to protect the southern borders of our nation, but that oath has cost her. Two years ago, her husband, Toby, was killed trying to help the very immigrants Danika was responsible for sending back to Mexico. His murder was never solved. But now, a recent string of attacks and arrests leads her to believe that someone in McAllen is profiting from sneaking undocumented immigrants into the country . . . and it may somehow be tied to Toby's death.

If you like mysteries but appreciate a smart, moving story more than CSI details of human horror, I highly recommend this book and this series.

Do you like mysteries? And what about [here comes the “whammy” question] Christian fiction? What are you reading right now?

Disclosure: This book was provided for review by the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance, and this post includes Amazon affiliate links.

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Granny's gold couch

Remember when I asked you to choose which couch I would write about? No? It’s been too long? Well, then, this will be new and exciting for you.

Or not. I am writing about a couch.

After tallying up the votes, it has become clear. You all are dying to know about my grandparents’ brown, gold and orange flowered couch.

[You all have weird taste. Kidding. But seriously? Orange flowers?]

Are you wondering why it’s taken me so long to get around to writing this post? Part of it is only that I’m a mess, always behind and doing things last-minute. This, I’m sure, comes as no surprise. But the other part is that I have so many random, seemingly unconnected thoughts and memories with that couch. It’s actually been hard to figure out how to write about it.

So I decided to make a list. Then I decided to do it on Tuesday. And that is how I came up with this Top Ten Tuesday list.

The Top 10 Things I Love About Granny’s Gold Couch:

1. It was retro before retro was cool.
2. As kids, we never had to worry about spilling. Those hideous flowers really hid stains well.
3. I have so many pictures of my cousins and me sitting on that couch, all bunched up together and laughing. Or posing. Or all looking in different directions. (above) You know, we didn’t have digital cameras back then.
4. It really was comfortable!
5. I know this well, because Mark moved into his first apartment around the same time Granny moved into assisted living. She sold that couch – and a matching chair, side tables and two orange lamps – to Mark for just $100.
6. If it hadn’t been for that couch, we probably wouldn’t have had anywhere for visitors to sit in our first apartment after getting married. With it, we had ample seating for our couples’ Bible study, various “dinner parties” (a.k.a. Little Caesar’s pizza for all or a taco bar on a card table), and just hanging out with our friends.
7. Owning and living with that couch in all its gold and orange flowered glory really made me appreciate the first couch we bought. Blue and green plaid, if you’re wondering, for quite a bit more than $100 (and, sadly, quite a bit more than we could really afford).
8. Back to the fact that I grew up sitting on this couch at my grandparents’ house . . . just thinking about it has taken me on a rabbit trail down memory lane, bringing to mind the sounds of Channel 5 news and Hee Haw, the taste of pudding cups and Pop Tarts (okay, that one isn’t a stretch), the sight of a wooden calendar and green coveralls, and the simple pleasures of feeding the birds, eating a brisket and going to the beauty parlor.
9. The couch’s matching chair made a great spot for the birthday girl to open – or, at least, pose with – her presents (below).
10. And apparently, the couch was so great that they bought it twice! Look at those pictures. The two chairs? Not the same. Both are gold, brown and orange. Both have flowers and fake wood. But they are different chairs. That, my friends, is priceless.

So, what about you? Are any of your memories connected to furniture?

ALSO - if you haven't taken my blog survey yet, would you please? It really won’t take more than a few minutes, and I really want to know what you all think about what goes on around here. Thank you!

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What says "college" to you?

Futons.

Funky downtown shops.

Micro-fridges.

Tostitos cheese dip.

T-shirts with Greek letters.

The smell of a cafeteria.

Dave Matthew Band, Blues Traveler, Jars of Clay, The Cranberries, and ska music. (Remember that?)

Tickle Me Elmo, Japanese anime, Home for the Holidays.

And this sight:

W

What says "college" to you?

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The most perfect Valentine's Day ever . . . almost.

When I was a freshman in college, I decided that it was time for Mark and me to get engaged. After all, we’d already planned to get married after my sophomore year, so we needed to get the ball rolling. Wedding planning takes time, you know?

So I told Mark about this. Don’t be alarmed. He started asking me to marry him when I was just 16, so this was only good news for him.

Shortly after that conversation, we flipped the calendar to February. Which, as you know if you’ve ever been in any sort of relationship, means expectations and plans and all that good stuff.

Chocolate may even get involved.

I assumed, because my experience with romance novels and chick flicks told me it would happen this way, that Mark would propose on Valentine’s Day. And so, I planned accordingly.

A few weeks before the big weekend, I made lasagna at home. It was no Pioneer Woman dish at that point, but it was (and still is) Mark’s favorite thing I make. I froze two servings and took them back to school.

I like planning events, and this Valentine’s Day was to be quite the event. I had a white sheet to use as a tablecloth, and I draped it over a coffee table from the dorm lounge. I [illegally] lit candles and had a bag salad ready to dump into a bowl. My friend Nicole picked up breadsticks from Fazoli’s, and I had an elaborate plan to get Mark out of my room while I threw it all together.

Except . . . my plan didn’t work out quite right. I asked Mark to return a couple movies I’d rented, but when he got to his car, he realized he needed directions. So he came back up to my room and knocked on the door.

Because I thought it was Nicole, delivering the breadsticks, I opened the door without a thought. And Mark saw me with scissors in my hands and rose petals scattered behind me.

He thought I was mad at him and destroying the flowers he’d brought me!

I was actually cutting open the bag of shredded cheese for the salad, and the rose petals were to decorate our makeshift table. From a rose I’d bought myself.

We laughed when he came back and told me what he'd thought, but I was so sad that he’d been worried. (And I was worried that he thought I was such a crazy woman that I’d cut up his beautiful flowers!)

Then to top it all off, the poor guy did not, in fact, propose. He gave me a Martina McBride CD with the song Valentine on it. The song that I’d sung at our spring concert the year before. The song that I’d really been singing to him from that stage in our high school gym.

I’m ashamed to tell you that my first reaction was not, “Awwwww! That’s so sweet!”

No, I behaved sort of like the kind of crazy woman who might cut up a bouquet of roses. I wasn’t angry or too ugly about it. But I wasn’t gracious and kind, that’s for darned sure.

We still had a great weekend together, and I am still proud of the way I pulled together that little romantic dorm dinner. (And I still love that song, by the way.)

But we would have had a much better start if I’d been giving up on perfect holidays back then!

I don’t think we’re doing anything at all for Valentine’s Day this weekend. We’ll probably rent a movie and order a $10 pizza. And I’m tossing around the idea of starting potty training. So, it’s going to be exciting.

Do you like Valentine’s Day? How will you celebrate – or boycott – the holiday this weekend?

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Happy Christmas: I wrapped it up and sent it.

I used to work at an ad agency. It was very glamorous. We promoted dog food.

Okay, so it wasn’t that glamorous. But we did have a ping pong table. And shiny concrete floors. And a movie theater downstairs with a lobby full of couches and the lingering aroma of buttery popcorn.

I also learned a whole heck of a lot while I worked there. And had the privilege of working with some amazingly talented folks. But you know what I remember most?

The parties.

While you shouldn’t believe everything you hear/read/see about advertising being a glamorous career, the stories about the cavorting and carousing aren’t quite as exaggerated. At least in my experience.

I’m not saying I remember fondly the time my co-worker puked in a champagne bucket as we celebrated finishing a long campaign. Or that I cherish the memory of standing beside a co-worker’s desk to ensure he stayed on task and met our deadline instead of falling back into his drunken rant about holiday movies. And I certainly don’t long for happy hours that go well into the night, leaving a sober me to face down a drunk VP who did not care for the fact that I did not care for his sacrilegious jokes.

But the part that came before that mess? The hanging out with the people on my team, the getting to know them on a personal level, the having fun with those I spent most of my time with? That was a good time.

I don’t really hang out with my current co-workers. Really, I haven’t spent much out-of-the-office time with any co-workers since the ad agency. I meet my agency friends for lunch now and then, and I catch up with my friends and former co-workers at the non-profit whenever I can. But these days, work stays at work.

And that’s okay. But this time of year, when Bing Crosby and Harry Connick, Jr. are blaring from every speaker in the world, I can’t help but reminisce a bit . . .

[Insert blurry vision and twinkling music here, as we flash back to 2005.]

My favorite ad agency party memory – and seriously, there are more than a few – is my friend Brent’s rendition of Wham’s Last Christmas, courtesy of a karaoke machine and more than a few bottles of something. Brent sang his heart out to that silly song, and every time I hear it, I can’t help cracking up.

Even now, four years later. Even if I’m at Target. Doesn't matter. I still laugh. Every single time.

It turns out my friend Brent isn’t the only big fan of Wham’s biggest hit. (Really? You thought it would be Careless Whisper or Wake Me Up Before You Go Go?)

According to Pop Candy, USA Today’s pop culture blog, 2009 marks the 25th anniversary of the song. I don’t know that this calls for any real celebration, but there is a site dedicated to the almost 400 covers of Last Christmas. You really should go there and, at the least, check out the header image. In the words of Napoleon, it’s pretty sweet.

I usually prefer the original myself (No offense, Taylor.), but the GLEE version might just be my new favorite. Even better? If you buy it on iTunes, a portion of the proceeds will benefit the Grammy Foundation’s music education programs.

As for me, I just don’t know that I’ll ever hear, “Once bitten and twice shy, I keep my distance but you still catch my eye. Tell me, baby, do you recognize me? Well, it's been a year; it doesn't surprise me.” without snickering and thinking back to those crazy days of ad agency life yore.

Have you ever mixed karaoke and Christmas carols? Do you hang out with co-workers outside the office? What would happen if you added Christmas karaoke to your office holiday party?

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