Fashion nonsense

Any of you that know me very well know that I am by no means a fashion expert. I wear sweat pants and converse tennis shoes way too often. I don't like to get my hair cut so I often look shaggier than I should. I don't color my hair so I have that dishwater blonde that no one would ever request and most wouldn't tolerate. My nails are jagged and natural, yeah, let’s say they are natural. And truth be known, I celebrate 'no shave November' two months longer than most Bass Pro shoppers. Maybe you've noticed.
Regardless I have a few opinions on the subject. I can handle a man in a leotard if he's a dancer or a gymnast or aspiring to be but I don't know what to do with the man in the hotel hobby in a black leotard and a sports bra. He doesn't fit into any of the categories that society has taught me to acknowledge. Maybe I am condescending, judgmental, or a backwoods redneck hick; I can own that. Forgive me, but then tell me what does it mean if a grown man is wearing a sports bra in public (or elsewhere)?
In my travels I see many things that I just don't understand. Most recently I have noted more and more entire families with colored hair. Mom has blue streaks, Dad has purple, one kids has green, the other has orange. My boys are probably glad we didn't do the family hair dyeing trend because I would have made them having matching or at the very least coordinating colors like their Easter outfits or our Christmas pajamas. I wonder if it was the mom's idea. Did she beg the dad to participate? Did they lose a bet? Did they fight over who got which color?
Speaking of pajamas when did it become acceptable to wear your sleeping clothes out in public? It's been allowed for some time to drag through Wal-Mart in nighties you would never wear anywhere else but the airports are crawling with grown women in footy pajamas and no bra! I have a simple rule: if you're schedule is so tight that you don't have time to put on under garments you should skip something else from your morning routine. Or better yet if you know you are going to have get up early to be at the airport by 10:00 o'clock maybe just sleep in your sports bra.
People are full of fashion rules about what color shoes should be worn after Labor Day, walking in heels the correct way, and chipped and flaking toe nail polish with sandals. I have one more rule specifically for the heavy girl and then I will put on my tie dye T-shirt and walk away. Just because it comes in your size doesn't mean you should wear it. I tip the scales that way too so I understand. If you want to wear a bathing suit on the beach you run a definite risk of being referred to as a beached whale and that’s ok. It happens to the best of us but please don't parade around the mall in a tube top and booty shorts. It kills my fashion appetite.

the pumpkin tattoo

Several months ago I sat in a meeting with my team, my coworkers and people I am developing strong and lasting friendships with. We were asked to introduce ourselves and to share a personal fun fact. Directly across the room from me sat a sales coworker just a little older than me. She dresses stylish yet conservative. Her hair is short, her nails long; both attended to nicely. She has grown children, two grandchildren, a husband and a soft spot for her forelegged friend of the canine variety. She is very normal, middle America, mom next door, PTA president, Mac and cheese making lady. In her job she's successful and admired. Her fun fact was that she has a rose tattoo on her shoulder. I wasn't shocked at all but immediately I started envisioning how she came to have a rose tattoo on her body. Was she drunk? Maybe a dare? Is that the only tattoo she has? Did she go at night to the ink shop or after brunch with the PTA ladies? Was it a sketchy neighborhood or maybe she had a friend in the business? What other designs did she consider? Unfortunately, we where not encouraged to linger on any one fun fact during the introductions. Still why the rose? Maybe that's her middle name our her mothers name (it's my mothers name but I never thought of getting it on my body) . She didn't say what color it is or the type of rose? Is it opened or a bud? I wonder if it has thorns. Strangely the meaning of all these different characteristics is available online for your googling enjoyment. I haven't yet seen the coworkers rose ut given what I know about her I expect it is a traditional red rose representing true love. I bet it has a couple of leaves showing and it is a partially opened bloom. The number of pedals can also contain symbolism. Curiosity plays a big role in fueling my imagination. So yesterday whilst in Memphis we toured the Sun Studio. We had a fabulous tour guide! She was energetic and engaging in a surprising and welcoming manner. However, as I listened to her I couldn't help but notice the large tattoos across her chest and down the outside of her right arm. The neck line of shirt left most of the lettering on her chest visible and it appeared to read 'honkytonk angel'. At the top of her right arm she had a rocket with a cowgirl lassoing into space. Just above that concerned me. No, it wasn't vulger or inappropriate. It was Jack O'latternO'lattern. I didn't Google the meaning of the pumpkin tat because all II could think of was how drunk must you get at Octoberfest to get a pumpkin tattoo? I don't have any tattoos but it's not because I haven't thought about it from time to time. It's because I could never decide on an image that would represent me for the rest of my life. I have many friends that sport many artful designs across their bodies. My oldest son has some tattoos that only his mother loves as much as he does. But as I said, I am curious. Why did you, blog reader, friend, family, get the tattoo that you did? What does it symbolize to you? Are you happy with it? Does it make you smile in your heart when you look at it and think about the time when it was new? Please share.

while in Memphis...

It's been a great week in Memphis, TN. I'm exhausted but I have enjoyed myself and I have learned a few things. I've never been what some would call an Elvis Presley fan. I like some of his music, some not so much. I think he was very attractive in some of his younger pictures but I would not claim to be attracted to him. But I did learn a few things about Elvis this week. Like: 1. he had a toe fetish...I won't explain. You can google it. 2. There were rumors that he was 'funny' 3. Lisa Marie was born nine months to the day after Elvis and Priscilla were married.

Shoot low, Sheriff

In my very simple southern life talking to God was often, expected, and typically understood. We went to bed with a prayer; we ate with a prayer; we started events and parted ways with a prayer; we prayed with all emotions, in celebration and sadness, in fellowship and funeral. We prayed out loud, silently, and in unison. We prayed as children and as adults and were taught that prayer without ceasing means not only constantly but as long as you are alive. I am no stranger to talking to God.
In addition I believe with all my being that God hears my prayers. He hears the prayers that I have no right to whisper. He hears the silent prayers and the prayers I sing as I travel the highways and byways. He hears the tear soaked prayers and the shouts of joy. He hears me when I say, 'God, I'm not ready to talk about it yet.' Sometimes as I lay my head down at night I say, 'God, do you mind if I just talk to you until I fall asleep?' And I know he hears me.
I remember as a children being taught prayers to say and memorizing the Lord’s Prayer. My daddy used to jokingly say, 'praise the Lord and the holy ghost, who eats the fastest gets the most!' It seemed so rogue to me as a child that I would only say it to myself quietly and never as a replacement for 'turning thanks'.
Listening to God, on the other hand is not as easy. Don't get me wrong, I believe God communicates with us. I don't necessarily believe he uses an audible voice but I do believe that in many ways he can get our attention, convey his instructions, show his approval or disapproval in some cases, and grant our requests if he so chooses. He has his ways and they are not our ways.
Thinking about God, the father, and how he communicates with me makes me think about the way my earthly father talked to me, what he said, what he meant. Those that knew my daddy knew that he had a very colorful way of speaking and a very colorful way of saying nothing. He was funny and jovial and descriptive in a manner somewhat like I am. Among his favorite sayings, “horse mess and gun smoke!", “He don't even suspect nothin" and my personal favorite, "shoot low, sheriff. He's riding a Shetland."
I spend a lot of time in the car by myself between radio stations and somewhere down one of those long highways I began to ponder the thought, if God, my heavenly father said, “shoot low, sheriff, he's riding a Shetland" what would it mean?
I guess I would interpret it this way: He referred to me as sheriff so I must have some authority and probably a large amount of responsibility. I would imagine that this is a position of respect and likely conflict or controversy. It's also a job and a title, not my name, so I would expect that he was going to address something to do with work. He’s telling me to shoot, destroy, disenable, render un-operational someone and he's telling me to do it in a logical manner. If he's riding a short horse I need to aim low. If the enemy is walking on stilts shooting low might not be the best option. If alcoholism is my battle I should probably stay out of bars and away from places where drinking is prominent. If I have difficulty staying out of gossip sessions I should stay away from the social settings that enable that type of behavior.
Knowing my enemies, taking the path of logic, with the instruction of God…I think I could draw a few more points out of this but instead I will ask you to leave your comments. Use your imagination, what can you see in this?

I know how I got here.

"Well, hell. My third wife was that way."
That was the phrase that initially caught my attention. Two men sitting in a booth across from each other; the kind of booth that you used to see in the old Dairy Queens; orange Formica. One of the men was sucking the bottom out of a sweet tea, twisting his wedding ring on his finger while the other one talked around his cigarette and sipped black coffee. Neither man appeared to have shaven in the last few days. Their hands were calloused; rough like a rusty pair of pliers. I wondered how many wives he had parted ways with and if he had one waiting at home for him now.
Between their Formica booth and mine sat two women; one was in her twenties and the other old enough to be her mother though had they not been in my line of sight their conversation would not have indicated any difference in age. Their voices were low and they spoke in abbreviated sentence structure masking the content, fueling my interest, and frustrating my efforts to booth hustle on their conversation to know how they concluded.
The waitress was kind. She called me sweetie in a manner that seemed acceptable and flattering. I watched her motor swiftly through the diner like an obstacle course that she had mastered many years ago. Her hair was cheap blonde and her fingers appeared to have stains from a lifetime of shelling purple hull peas. Her smile was sincere and her eyes were honest.
She poured me a cup of coffee and asked for my order efficiently and friendly. I could smell that she had recently had a cigarette. She fit a profile that said 'I've had a hard but genuine life.' I couldn't help but speculate on how she got here. Broken home? Failed marriage or marriages? She speaks intelligently but still I wonder if she finished high school. I decide she lives in a small trailer house; one from the era of being called trailer houses. It's probably aged and stained with nicotine from many heartfelt girlfriend coffee drinking conversations around the kitchen table and an ashtray. I expect that she has a box of family treasures slid under her bed. A box that includes a handkerchief her granddaddy carried in the bib of his overalls. She might have a piece of silk from a christening gown or wedding dress wrapped around a silver jewelry box containing a few wheat pennies and a buckeye. She likely has a souvenir from a family devastation; a board or piece of wallpaper from the family home that was destroyed by a tornado in the early summer of the mid 50's; a quilt that swaddled a child. I decide that she is a traditionalist, maybe even typical of her generation but she is someone's best friend and good neighbor. She may be someone's idea of a failure.
I think her name is Ruby. She's independent and loyal. She probably doesn't go to church as often as she was raised to but knows her soul is secure and her God is still on the throne.
While my imagination is running wild I decide she has a relaxed and easy relationship with a man that she has known her whole life. She loves him but she's not interested in marrying him or even living with him. They have a lot of freedom in a relationship designed to combat loneliness and the pressure to date. They have a different expectation of happiness than any generation since.
All of these conclusions I have made and I haven't even received my ham and cheese omelet yet.
The mother daughter booth continued with questions like, 'do you think she will?' And vague answers like,' you know what she did last time.' The content was disguised but I determined it was the actions and habits of a mutual friend that they met here to hash through. My imagination could have shredded this down to a harlequin novel or tabloid trash. They did not possess the same qualities and genuineness of Ruby.
I now have my omelet in front of me and feel confident in my appraisal of their characters. After a half of a cup of strong coffee and a bite of cheesy omelet I can deduce that these ladies would never be friends of Ruby; she surely won't call them sweetie. That is a name only for me and the guy with the cigarette.
Half way through my plate of late night breakfast I decided we all arrived at Debbi's Highway Diner the same way. We didn't set out to be here but it wasn't by accident either.
Myself, I was headed back from working in Kansas a few days. I had too much windshield time, been in the hotels in for days, met with customers that were not satisfied with workflow. I was physically, emotionally, and intellectually drained but I had many miles and many hours left to travel before I could fall face first into home.
The skies began to darken just beyond the hills of Southeast Oklahoma. The blue became chalky gray and I began to see the rickrack of lightening decorate the horizon. It wasn't long before I saw the storm in my rearview mirrors, my left and my right and dead ahead. That's how I ended up at the highway diner in Okmulgee, Oklahoma that night.
Perhaps it was a storm of life that landed Ruby here too. Maybe a detour from a rough week or she was tried and just needed to slow down for a bit.

When is it OK?

If I'm a little fuzzy or confused in judging right from wrong I refer to these simple checks: is it scripturally right or wrong? What would my mother say? And lastly, how would I react if my children did it?
Now I am a grown woman and my mother did a fair job of teaching me (and many others) right from wrong. I don't recall a time growing up when I was left in a fog without clarification on how to follow a moral compass. I don't remember a specific event that created a need for my mother to tell me that stealing was wrong but I did indeed know that to take something that didn't belong to me was a 'no-no'. I can't say that I ever had to be told not to hit others with a baseball bat, I don't think she ever had to remind me not to spit on the floor or not to use a broom handle on the neighbor’s cat; perhaps she taught by example as those are things she would never do. I do remember being told it was not nice to trap John and Alva Lynn in the junk house even though at the time Becky, David and I felt positive they deserved it. I somewhat remember being scolded about my smart mouth and about cleaning the bathroom, and making grades in school. I even remember the worst whipping I ever got from my daddy was for laughing from behind the couch because Becky was getting a whipping. It was crystal clear from that point on that making a joke out of someone else's grief was unacceptable behavior.
I remember as a teen that my mother hated the word 'turd' and we were not to use it. My daddy took offense to ever being called stupid therefore we were strongly discouraged from referring to someone that way. We were, however, allowed to point out their ignorance and occasionally we labeled some as idiots. It was unacceptable to refer to someone as a liar even if they were, simply because if they truly were lying they knew it. If they didn't know then it was likely they were only mistaken and not lying at all.
However, it wasn't until my own children used these words and terms that I heard them as truly offensive. To hear one child scream 'stupid' at another is like hearing a chandelier fall from the ballroom ceiling and shatter onto a grand piano. The reverberations echo painfully in your head. It's almost paralyzing and energizing simultaneously to hear your own flesh and blood referred to as 'liar' by their sibling. In one smooth motion, like a spinning superhero or a graceful ballerina your lungs expand and your heart drops like the chandelier.
Thirdly, but certainly not least, is scripture. I would say that the perfect, complete and inspired word of God would be an excellent place to challenge the opinions and principles of social acceptability. If we took our thoughts and opinions to the mirror of certainty for a selfie we might find the truth to be unarguably reflective. We might say it resembles the second or third chin that we deny having but the camera always finds just below our smile; I can't see it with my own eyes but I can certainly see it in the mirror or the photograph.
When I first began this post I had the question before me: when is it okay to hate? I have never been a fan of the word or the attitude of hate. Many times I have told my kids, please don't hate. Find a different way to express strong dislike or dissatisfaction with someone or something, but please don't hate. Remove yourself from the situation or stomp your foot but please don't hate. Choose to be different and learn from the situation but please don't hate. I also realized as I put together my little how to on reading the moral compass that this little recipe is worthy of the abbreviated title 'when is it ok?' Period.
When is it ok to tell a little white lie?
When is it ok to cheat on my homework or test?
When is it ok to not correct a billing issue in my favor at a restaurant?
When is it ok to speed through a school zone, run a red light, or park in a handicap spot?
If you are confused on these we can talk off line but what about the tough ones...socially?
When is it ok to take liberties with my taxes?
When is it okay to talk about the happenings in my neighborhood, church, family?
When is it ok to balk at authority?
When is it ok to disrespect my spouse, my boss, my child’s teacher?
Whatever my entanglement is, I should look at it objectively, open-mindedly, honestly; assume and be willing to admit that I am wrong and change my behavior. Mentally, ask my mother for her permission. Visually see my child in the circumstance and give them advice. Literally search the unshakable Word for the final answer and proceed with confidence.