$20

Seems like a small price to pay to get rid of a yucky neighbor, I suppose.

About four weeks ago, Jim and I were working on cutting down some extraneous foilage around the front fence when I heard this voice. "Sir? Sir?" he called from the side of the front yard. "I'm really sorry to bother you."

And the story went. His name is John, he lives behind me, but he had walked around to the side of my front yard to call to us. He works at the garage perpendicular to my street. John weaved an elaborate story about how he was out of gas just down the road and he couldn't get hold of his boss to get any help. He even faked a cell phone call in the middle of the explanation. "See?" he pleaded. Could he just borrow $10 for 20 minutes. "I'll bring it right back."

As a test, Jim brought him a container of gas from the garage.

"Uh, I don't think that's going to do it. It's a really big truck." Okay, big fat liar. Would you like my paycheck, too? Because I'm just here to give away my hard earned money.


Still, I wondered if this might be the ultimate gesture, the be-all end-all opportunity to do a 'right thing.' The gesture which either proved that there is still some good in humanity or the gesture that cemented the word "awkward" between us henceforth. He and I have already had some, er, "quality time" regarding some of his backyard behavior. And, so I handed him $20 in cash. Just gave it to him.

My Dad taught me early to never loan someone money. I either give it to them or I don't, but I never expect it back. I clearly thought this guy was a liar, and so I didn't expect to get the money back.

That was on Sunday. On the following Tuesday I came home to the following note on my front door: I'll be by at 6 P.M to return the money. $20. I'm sorry it has taken a few days longer to get it back to you. Please call me at (insert fake number here.) John

At 5:50 PM on Wednesday, John revved up his truck and pulled out. I haven't seen him since. That was four weeks ago.

My friend Patty says the best way to get rid of somebody is to loan them money. Seems like it is working.

-b

Freaks and Weirdos Welcome, but Blogged About

I haven't been to a public pool in the summer aside from the ones at the beach hotels in years. I'd guess I was in the 3rd or 4th grade the last time. You can imagine my apprehension over my recent visit. Granted the pool was part of a member's only type place, but still.

As I sat uncomfortably in my white plastic chair peering over the top of my Kindle, I categorized my fellow pool goers as one of four groups.

First, we had the Normals. These are the people who came quietly, snagged a chair, and lost themselves in a great summer read. They may have gotten up and taken a quick dip in the cool water, but they mostly stayed in their chosen seats. These people felt no need to leave a big impression. I guess you could say they were my kind of people.

Next, we had the Paraders. My, my, my. Some of these people should just grab a baton and get on with it. Oh, for just a thimble of the self-confidence Flower-Trunk-Guy possessed. I heard a lady a few chairs down from me heckle to another particularly proud middle-aged man, "We get it already. Now sit down!"

Then you had the Lappers. Why use the mostly vacant indoor pool to swim your laps at 2 o'clock in the afternoon on the weekend when you can go outdoors and make everybody move so you can have one whole length of the pool to yourself? And, then, go ahead and yell at the innocent ladies who dared to float into your path. Because you're every bit the Michael Phelps you think you are, Coach.

The final category, and I suppose my most favorite, was the SCUBA diver. Granted there was only one participant in this group, he made the biggest impression by far. By far. With a heat index of 104 degrees, Dude walked out to the crowded pool with a full wetsuit (long pants and long sleeves), full head cover, goggles, flippers and oxygen tank. Little kids actually ran screaming to their mothers. He walked to the pool steps, lowered himself into the 3 foot water, and disappeared.

Makes you think, doesn't it?

-b

Dear Heidi and Spencer:

I actually don't know what show you come from. Some reality show, I gather. I do recall David Letterman ripping you to shreds, Spencer, some time ago on his show. It was vintage David, actually. So funny that I saw it replayed on the little TV in the NYC taxi I was riding in probably a week later.

Anyway, I digress. Now, aren't the two of you the ones who went on some other reality show and you went to the jungle or something and decided to come to Jesus? I think there was a baptism in the water or something. Was that you?

Anyway, what I'm finding with your public personas isn't the kind of disdain I have for the whole Gosslein 'celebrity' circus. It's a new kind of feeling that I haven't been able to put a word on. It's nothing short of yuck, but that's not quite it.

I think it is tragic that a beautiful young girl has such a low self esteem that she had ten plastic surgeries in one day. That she is at the legal limit for plastic surgeries in CALIFORNIA? Really? I think it is criminal that the guy who says he loves her actually encouraged this. I saw a clip of Heidi's mother saying, "Enough." She was so, so right.

And so I sit here wondering, yet again, how we will explain you two to the next generations. When they ask, "Now why were these people on TV?" we will have no good explanation.

Maybe you should've stuck with Jesus.

-b

Wrong Place at the Right Time

You know how sometimes you're just sitting around minding your own business, reading and such, and then a blind person walks by and whacks you in the shin as hard as she can with her walking stick?

Wait...

You don't?

So, it's just me, eh?

Right.

-b

Beautiful, Even on Tuesdays in the Sam's Parking Lot

I feel like everyone knows this about me already. I forget that I don't really offer it up and just assume that you figured it out. And, frankly, doing a blog post about it is as weird and freeing as the day I put on a skirt that hit above my knee (for the first time) and made myself walk from one end of New York City to the next. Let the stares come. Let my knee shoot pain through my body. Come hell or high water, I was finishing that one.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I chose a pink skirt and sensible black shoes, because that's the only kind I can wear. I would walk through the busiest city I frequented and reveal my physical weirdness and see how it went. If I could make it through NYC, then I could soooo make it through Nashville, because everybody knows if NYC thinks you're weird, then you really are. If not, then you're good.

Before I was born, while I was in the womb, I caught what they later termed a "temporary virus." I was born in Chicago and the Chicago Children's Clinic had no explanation and certainly nothing to which my case could compare. When I was born, my Mom describes these places all over my body that looked like cigarette burns. They were red, roundish and some were deeper than others. I still have the faded scars today in some places.

On the back of my left leg, one was particularly deep, even now. Whatever it was, it damaged the nervous system in my left foot. Most of my foot is paralyzed and I have no motor ability in the foot at all. I can't move it, I can't feel it, and it really doesn't do much else except give me a place on which to land. It is just there.

I remember moving to Nashville and thinking I needed another operation, and so I thought I would visit the head of orthopaedic surgery at Vanderbilt University. He took one look at the X-ray and said, "Amputation is your only option." I never saw him again because I don't respect surgeons who aren't creative. Then, I flew to Cleveland Clinic and saw the head of foot and ankle orthopaedics there. He said, "There's not much we can do, and we could try, but I can't make any promises." Regarding surgery he said, "Your foot is in amazing condition. I'm stunned. But, you'll know when it is time. Here's a friend of mine's number in Nashville. Go see him."

And, so, I visited Baptist in Nashville and had the routine X-ray. The surgeon said, and I quote, "What a mess." I laughed. Finally, some honesty. Then he said, "I'll do the surgery, but you probably only have one surgery left based the number you've had, and I just don't know. I won't fight for your foot, though, because you would get along so much better with a prosthetic." More honesty. I didn't like it, but I respected it. That was ten years ago. I'm still not interested in a prosthetic.

When I was little, I wore a metal brace from the knee down. My ankle leaned and it took what they called a t-strap (get it?) to hold it up in place. The brace attached to one pair of brown leather shoes, because that was all we could afford. One pair. I wore the same pair of shoes every day until I outgrew them, and then I would go and be fitted for another pair. Every few years I'd get saddle shoes, but mostly I chose the brown leather ones. All I ever wanted, though, was to wear a pair of tennis shoes. Really.

Finally, as I was entering my freshman year in high school, Dr. Jack Pushkin (RIP) did a little creative surgery and fused my ankle. It has been fused in that walking position ever since. I wore my first pair of tennis shoes, which were fashionably Keds, in the 9th grade. They were followed with Reeboks. (Randomly, I remember Donell Henthorne smiling and holding the door open for me my first week of high school while I was still on crutches. She was a God-send in that Annex building that moment. I never thanked her for that.)

And life goes on. Imagine having no feeling in your left foot and it is fused in walking position, and that's life as I know it. I cannot wear heels nor will I ever be able to. I cannot run, which is FINE by me. I have ongoing knee issues, but whatever. I just don't know any different. This is all I've ever known and so it is just not a big deal to me. I will say that I am very adept at compensating. I'm a master at covering it up. People I cherish even now are probably surprised at this. "I knew she limped sometimes, but I had no idea it wasn't from a sprained ankle." I love that.

I love that the people in my life, those who hold that title for more than a few weeks, are looking inside. Those are the people who are just not so concerned with what society tells them is most important, the way you look on the outside. You, my friends reading this, are the ones who didn't even think to judge me for the matter in which I had no choice.

Thank. You.

In case you were wondering, New York City didn't give me a second glance, either. I mean, not one person looked down and got 'the look.' It was amazing. Even in Times Square. Nobody. Seven years ago, New York City gave me a gift I can never repay. NYC reminded me that we are all a lot more concerned about ourselves than anybody else is. Such a hard lesson to take to heart.

We were talking yesterday in my writing session about songs that we felt were more Divine than anything. Those songs that were in the room, that we got to put our names on, and those songs that we really didn't have too much to do with. They were already there waiting to be written and all we had to do was not mess them up. Here's the lyric to the one that came to my mind first. It was my privilege to write it with Tony Wood.

Beautiful

There's a feeling deep inside me
Like I never measure up
When I look at those around me
I'm just not good enough
But there's a truth that cuts through all my doubts
and insecurites
it's like a song from Heaven
my Creator sings to me

All your scars and imperfections
All the things you hide
All the hurts and broken pieces
All the things you've locked inside
You don't have to be afraid
to open up and let Me see
I'm the One who made you.
You're beautiful to Me.

Just as He has formed you
and you're wonderfully made
the same hand is still working
in the story of your days
And in those hands your failures
somehow become a part
of what goes into making
the masterpiece you are

All your scars and imperfections
All the things you hide
All the hurts and broken pieces
All the things you've locked inside
You don't have to be afraid
to open up and let Him see
He says, I'm the one who made you
You're beautiful to me

When at last we see Him
Oh, how we'll understand
When we bow before our Saviour
Touch His feet
Take His hands

All our scars and imperfections
All the things we hide
All the hurts and broken pieces
All the things we've locked inside
We don't have to to be afraid
to open up and let Him see
He says, "I'm the One who made you.
You're beautiful to me."

Facebook: Deletion Day and Other Principles

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. I mostly hate it until I connect with someone interesting or re-connect with someone I miss, and then I love it. It really has helped me stay in touch, even minimally, with people I deeply enjoy but don’t get to see often.

I can’t help but wonder, though, is it just me or do you all have to purge some “friends” periodically? For me, I find that I purge about every three months. Usually someone will post some comment that makes me no longer want to be associated with them, for either personal or professional reasons, and I’ll end the cyber relationship. One deletion always leads to a few more—“Oh, that’s the person who posted THAT nasty comment that one night I was too sleepy to figure out how to delete them”—and away they go, too. Granted a few innocent bystanders, or alphabetically close names, have accidentally gone in my haste, but overall, my general purging schedule seems to get the job done.

Today, we’ve come upon another deletion day. I don’t want hate comments or hate language on my news feed, bottom line. There’s enough negativity in my daily life that I will not allow a cyber acquaintance to perpetuate even more.

Oh, but that’s not the point of this post.

This is probably just me, but if you’re going to use Facebook as the ultra-marketing tool for your business, then sending me daily “become a fan of” emails is a good way to make me hate your business. Why? Because I don’t want to have to clear out your stupid email every day. So, I’m going to delete you from the entire friend list instead of becoming a fan of your business. It is a matter of principle.

-b

20 Things About the Cable Guy

I've been dealing with a lot of service people during this move. I must seem friendly. Here are just a few things I learned about the cable guy while he was at my house installing my lines (and he did a good job, I'll add.)

1. He moved here from Orlando a year ago.
2. He has been married twice.
3. He has a thirteen year old son.
4. His thirteen year old son sees ghosts.
5. The lady who lives across the street from him spies on him.
6. He threw away a couch.
7. He threw away an old green chair.
8. He moved to Nashville to sing.
9. He used to be roof installer and roof cleaner.
10. His first wife gives his son back some, but not through the courts, and so he is still liable for child support during those times.
11. His second wife was from Denmark.
12. He speaks a little Danish.
13. He lives 20 miles out of town in a condo.
14. He would like me to fix him up with one of my hot friends--any of them will do.
15. He makes $20 for installing three lines in my house. The cable company gets the rest.
16. He works 60 hours per week.
17. He has no time for a social life.
18. He would like to make a demo of himself singing.
19. He is afraid it is too late for him to get into the music business.
20. He gives his Mom money.