Lisa Smartt's Blog, page 4

The Smartt View…Hope for Middle School Girls

Some things never change. I was sitting in front of our local middle school recently and observed clusters of kids in every size and description. Some looked confident. Others looked scared. One young girl stands out in my mind…because she looked like me. I wanted to run up to this young lady and hug her and never let go. I wanted to tell her to hang in there and not give up. I wanted to remind her that this is just middle school. That’s all it is. Nothing more.

As I observed this young lady, it was 1976 all over again and I was in 8th grade. We had just moved from a small Kentucky town to a large school in Texas. I was a tall, strangely disproportioned, insecure 13-year-old. That’s the nice way of saying it. Just thinking about being 13 makes me want to see a therapist and eat a doughnut. For all you teenage girls out there, I’m sending you a hug…and a message.

The only thing that saved my life in eighth grade was joining the Jr. High Speech Club. Mrs. Harpool single-handedly saved my disproportioned and dysfunctional life that year. Mrs. Harpool didn’t see a tall, insecure, strange-looking eighth grader. She saw someone else entirely.

She pulled me aside one day before a speech competition and said, “Lisa, stand tall. You have a gift. You have presence. You can do this.” Just writing that makes me want to cry. You see, the other eighth graders saw someone completely different. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

When I look back on eighth grade, there’s a strange realization that hits me. I was succeeding in speech and drama competitions and doing well in academics. But it wasn’t enough. I would have GLADLY traded all of it…just to be beautiful for one day. I didn’t want to be a success in speech or academics. I wanted to be beautiful and popular. I wanted to be liked by boys and respected by the other girls. I wanted to be a trendsetter and a “somebody.” Everyone said that middle school trauma was “character building.” I didn’t want character. I wanted a boyfriend.

I never succeeded in the “middle school world.” It wasn’t my destiny. I never went to a dance. No boys ever called. The girls managed to set their own trends, without my input. I know there are girls out there who are having the same experience in middle school right now. Lean in close…and listen carefully. Take my hand. Someday it won’t matter. At all. I promise.

This column wouldn’t be complete without a word to those who are on the middle school “inside track.” If you’ve managed to steer clear of the “ugly stage” and people consider you a “trend setter,” you have an opportunity to do something really valuable today. You see, there’s a girl, probably in one of your classes or in your neighborhood. You need to pay attention. This girl has something valuable to contribute to your life. She can teach you things and bring a ray of diversity to your life. If you ignore her, middle school won’t be a time of “character building” for you…and you’ll have to go through “character building” later on in life…when I PROMISE it will be more painful. If you alienate people or treat them poorly, you’ll go through an “ugly stage” that is far more destructive and harder to shed.

As for the tall and insecure girl who was an 8th grader in 1976, everything turned out remarkably well. She dated very little…and married a prince. She was never in the spotlight…and learned to love people who leaned against the wall. The world never considered her beautiful…and she learned the precious art of conversation. She was never a trendsetter…and she learned to look at eternity. If she had to go back to eighth grade, it might be tempting to try to change the way history unfolded. But looking back, she wouldn’t change a thing.

Are You Eating Dinosaurs?

One day I posted something on Facebook about my renewed desire to drop a few pounds. Oh my word. The response made me think I had embarked on a mission to cure cancer.

Food advice came pouring through the computer screen with religious zeal. I didn’t even understand some of the questions: “Lisa, are you eating ‘paleo’ now?” Uh, am I eating what? Am I eating dinosaurs? No. I’m not eating dinosaurs. Or unicorns. I’m still eating regular food and an occasional Pop-tart (even though I know Pop-tarts aren’t real food). So, no. I don’t think I’m eating “paleo.”

I’m sure some of you who tend to eat potatoes and green beans and cornbread want to know what it means to eat “paleo.” According to the premier “paleo” advocate it means: the world’s healthiest diet – based upon eating wholesome, contemporary foods from the food groups that our hunter-gatherer ancestors would have thrived on during the Paleolithic era, or Stone Age. So, that means no Pop-tarts or Ritz crackers, people. Berries and dinosaur meat for everyone.

Another frequent question: “Are you eating Mediterranean?” Am I eating the entire Mediterranean area of the world? Sadly, some days it feels like it. But gosh, I hope not. If you’re asking if I love olive oil, I do. Chicken fried in olive oil sounds great. But I don’t think that’s what most people mean by a Mediterranean diet.

One friend asked if I had read that book about what Jesus ate. I didn’t. I know what Jesus ate. Jesus ate fish and figs and olives. Jesus ate fish and figs and olives because that’s what the people in that region ate. If Jesus had lived in Georgia, he would have eaten grits. Jesus didn’t make such a big deal about his food and maybe we shouldn’t either.

I know. Some people (myself included) really do feel better when we eat more whole foods. I’m for it. Fruit, veggies, and meat are the staples of a good diet. It’s probably wise to avoid items that have a shelf life of over 20 years. But in the midst of all our “good” eating, we need to remember the vast number of people all over the world who are just trying to find something to eat.

So skip buying that dinosaur meat online, friend. Join me in a less complicated method. Eat a little less. Think of others a little more.

All Hat and No Cattle

When I was in college, I traveled with a friend to visit her family in Alabama. We both got ready for church on Sunday morning. But when my friend walked down the stairs, her very sophisticated beautiful mother said with a pure Alabama drawl, “Dahlin’, that dress is as wrinkled as a dog’s behind.” I had never heard that saying. I laughed out loud but not too loud. I didn’t want her mama to say, “Your friend is louder than a cicada at bedtime.”

I’ve been known to use my own unusual phrases when it comes to children. “Give me a hug, you little cheesy biscuit.” “Come on over here, you little cocoa bean.” “I could just pour you on a pancake and eat you for breakfast.” I know. I know. There’s a definite food theme at work in my personal life. Can we just choose not to over-analyze that right now? Yeah, thanks. I don’t want to be as depressed as a turkey the day before Thanksgiving.

I’ve always been fascinated with southern sayings or western wisdom. I recently heard for the first time a phrase that I absolutely love. All hat and no cattle. A brilliant picture in a few simple words. Because I’ve spent most of my life in the great state of Texas, I can assure you that a big expensive cowboy hat doesn’t always indicate a ranch full of cattle. Sometimes the biggest hats are worn by suburban residents who eat scones, drink cappuccino, and never get their hands dirty. And sometimes those with the most cattle wear old unimpressive hats which mark them as a commoner not a cattle baron.

But of course we all know that the term “All hat and no cattle” is not about hats or about cattle. It’s about something far deeper. When speaking to young people, I often exhort them, “The more time you spend telling people how awesome you are, the less likely they are to believe it.” The more you work on your outward impression, the less time you’re able to devote to your inward character. When someone who is deeply in debt drives a big expensive car it’s an example of all hat and no cattle. When a person brags about his high-paying job it always sounds like all hat and no cattle. Why? Because people with high-paying jobs don’t tend to talk like that. When someone constantly explains the sheer brilliance of their child in comparison to all the “regular” children out there, it’s an example of all hat and no cattle. Insecurity tends to produce that kind of jargon.

As a true Texan, I can tell you that a well-crafted cowboy hat is a beautiful thing. Impressive. The problem? You can’t eat a cowboy hat. Someone somewhere has to own a field of cattle. But I’m not worried. God owns the cattle on a thousand hills. And that thought makes me happy. Happier than a pig in slop. (Again, don’t over-analyze that please.)

The Habits of Love

I know. You didn’t ask for my advice. And yes, I know this isn’t an advice column. But sometimes I feel an overwhelming desire to dispense a little free counsel. Just think of me like your Aunt Gladys, the one who corners you in the hallway every holiday to tell you what to do with your life, your career, and your fond affection for carbs. Let’s go to the hallway and talk about marriage.

Marriage is about habits. I know. Doesn’t sound very romantic, does it? When’s the last time you saw a Hallmark movie called, “The Habit of Being Nice to You”? Or what about a romance book called, “Habitual Respect and Admiration”? I doubt the Oscar-winning romantic/comedy this year will be called, “I Took Out the Trash in Love.” Yeah. Not much heat to those titles, huh? I beg to differ. Habits actually produce a lot of heat and passion. Over time. The kind of heat and passion that fuels a lifetime of love.

When we counsel young married couples, our advice is pretty simple.

1. Stop thinking about yourself. Do you get your feelings hurt too easily? There’s a pretty simple solution to that. Stop thinking about your feelings so much. Think about the other person’s feelings instead. It’s revolutionary. Get in the habit of waking up in the morning and thinking about your partner instead of yourself. It saves a lot of marital conflict. Your life will be a lot more joyful too. This counsel goes against the grain of our 2014 narcissistic thinking. Make note. Narcissism is death to love.

2. Use kind words. Do you scream at your best friend or your grandma? Do you call them rude names? I hope not. Your spouse should receive way more respect and kindness than your best friend or even your grandma. Oh, and guess what? You can have a thought without that thought coming out your mouth. It’s called respect. And maturity. And restraint. It’s called love.

3. Get physical. A lot. Hug. Smooch. Put your arms around each other several times a day. Sit close to each other. Hold hands. I get that some people are not as physically affectionate as others. But again, welcome to the world of “Life is not about you.” Or about me. When it comes to a healthy marriage, life is about US. Oh, and if you want a great marriage, physical “intimacy” is very important. Very very important. Did I use the word “very” ‘cause if I didn’t, I really meant to.

I get that marriage is harder for some people than others. I do. I get that. But whether you and your spouse have a natural and easy affection for each other, or whether it’s a daily struggle, habits can still make or break you. So, if you’re in a bad place right now, decide to start over. Decide to invest. Ask forgiveness. Speak kindly. Get physical. Get in the habit. The habit of choosing love.

I Like Teenagers

Babies are cute and cuddly. They inspire us to make goo-goo sounds and say things like, “Precious, just precious!” But we all know those little bundles of joy do nothing but lie around all day. We act like babies are so smart that they invented duct tape or something. But they didn’t. A person who can’t go pee pee in the potty could never invent duct tape. But, despite that, most of us think babies are pretty remarkable.

Do you remember having a 4-year-old son or daughter? Everywhere you went people said things like, “Well, look at this little cutie pie! Aren’t you just oh so smart and adorable. I could just eat you with a spoon!” Evidently there’s something about cute 4-year-olds that makes us want to eat them with spoons. I think it’s best we not over-analyze that.

When we lived in Texas, we invited a new couple to our home for dinner. When one of our boys sneezed at the table, he said, “Mom, when I sneezed, rice came flying out my nose and into the green beans!” Yeah. Everybody thought it was adorable…because he was four. Every 4-year-old is a comedian with a lisp. Maybe that’s why people want to consume 4-year-olds with blunt eating utensils.

But then come the teen years. No one ever stops your pimply-faced 13-year-old in the grocery store aisle to say, “Goo-goo. Goo-goo. Aren’t you just precious?” And no one wants to eat your 15-year-old with a spoon either. Nope. It seems by the time your kids are teenagers, most people have completely lost their appetites.

Oh, and if your child is old enough to have facial hair, the whole “I sneezed rice into the green beans” bit will go over like a lead balloon. Let’s face it. Teenagers are a lot of things. But they’re not cute and cuddly. They’re not comedians with lisps. They’re…well, teenagers.

I don’t know about you but I’d rather be dragged through an ant bed covered in extra thick Aunt Jemima syrup than to be a teenager again. Just the thought puts chills up my spine (and not the good kind).

Both of our boys are teenagers. And I’ve made a remarkable discovery. I like them. They can get a little mouthy or moody. They’re not cuddly. They definitely don’t smell like baby powder. They smell like, well, like a combination of tortilla chips, stale locker room, and Axe deodorant. They make mistakes. They’re not over-achievers. But I like them. A lot.

A mom recently asked me the secret to getting along so well with teenage children. I guess my boys weren’t being too mouthy that day so I felt the freedom to answer. Say “yes” every time you can. Try to keep your voice down. Apologize when you don’t keep your voice down. Keep things in perspective. A bad grade is not the same thing as a DUI. So don’t treat it as such. Take a deep breath and count your blessings. At the end of the day, remind them that the world may try to hurt them or bring them down or discourage them, but not you. You’re on their team. You believe in them.

I no longer have a baby to cuddle. But that’s OK. I’m awesomely blessed. I have teenagers.

Let’s Redefine “Normal”

I have a mission for the summer of 2014. I want to help people redefine “normal.”

I’m 50 years old. During my growing up years my parents were teachers and we lived a very all-American middle-class lifestyle. Like most young girls, I had posters of Donny Osmond and Davy Jones hanging in my room, knowing I would eventually marry one of them. I loved Donny fiercely but was partial to Davy’s British accent. I mean, what country girl didn’t want to marry a British pop star and have children with a British accent? Some things never change.

But a lot of things have changed since that era. Growing up, I didn’t know one person who had ever been on a cruise. Not one. Cruises were for movie stars and I didn’t know any movie stars. When “The Love Boat” came on TV, we gathered around to observe the lives of the rich and famous. I never remember feeling cheated because we couldn’t sail the open seas.

I didn’t know one woman who had ever had a professional manicure. We didn’t even know what the word pedicure meant. I would have assumed it had to do with cross breeding hunting dogs.

I knew we were rich because we went to the dentist once a year. Most kids didn’t. I knew very few kids who had braces. If you did have braces it meant your parents had so much money that they could afford to care about your teeth being perfectly straight.

A huge house was one that had two bathrooms. One bathroom was considered normal. Eating out was for special occasions. I remember hearing my granny say, “Nowadays, people go into town and eat. They pay a lot of money for it too. Why in the world would they do that?” She figured they must have more money than sense.

Let me be clear, friend. I have no objection to a cruise or a mani/pedi. Eating out is wonderful and I suggest you support all our fine local eating establishments. But do yourself a favor. Don’t go in debt to do it. And let’s not pretend these extreme blessings are “normal.” They’re not.

Oh, and here’s the thing that will probably get me in the most trouble of all. Braces? If your kids’ teeth are horribly crooked or bucked to the point of being a distraction or health concern, absolutely. But do all loving parents have to plunge thousands of dollars into debt because perfectly straight teeth are the new “normal” in America? No. Feel free to buck the system (pardon the pun).

Marketers have even created terminology to support our inflated sense of “normal.” I mean, when did we start calling perfectly fine houses “starter homes?” When did we start convincing newlyweds that their modest home is fine as long as they don’t finish there? Guess what? My grandparents actually finished life in their “starter home.” They never even realized they should have been miserable.

I love the readers of this column enough to tell the truth. Don’t spend money you don’t have trying to be “normal.” Create your own “normal.” Be more like my grandparents. Live free.

Six Flags over CRAZY

There is only one reason Americans like me flock to amusement parks every summer. The reason? We completely forgot what it was like the last time we went to an amusement park in the summer.

For me, the conversation always goes something like this, “Lisa, would you and the boys like to go to Six Flags for a few days with me and my kids in July?”

“Absolutely! We’d love to go! Can’t wait! Count us in!” Magical loss of memory at work, friends. If you’ve never gone to an amusement park in the summer, it’s my responsibility as a newspaper columnist to inform and educate.

In July an amusement park is a concrete jungle heated up to 140 degrees. When the park staff can fry eggs on the asphalt, that’s the signal to open the floodgates and let in the masses. After handing them a significant portion of our kids’ college fund, I was already in a full sweat. But don’t worry. $10 worth of frozen lemonade will numb the brain and you’ll never know what hit you.

If you bring preschoolers (which is a sign of marginal intelligence), you may be wondering if there’s anything available in the amusement park for them to eat. Yes, yes. A thousand times yes. Once their little heads are dripping with sweat and they’re crying out to ride the merry-go-round for the fifth time, buy a huge cotton candy twice as big as their head. You’ll soon have a happy sweaty sticky kid pumped up on sugar who can’t nap in the stroller because it’s now 150 degrees. But don’t worry. The cotton candy only cost as much as a nice meal in your favorite restaurant (a restaurant that has air conditioning).

I don’t ride the rides. I consider myself a designated non-rider. The way I see it, someone in your party needs to be able to maintain a clear head and keep their corn dog down. That’s my job. It’s also my job to hold cell phones, baseball caps, and giant turkey legs. Actually, I draw the line at turkey legs. Poultry is never a good pre-cursor to a ride on the Scrambler.

Once your kids are nauseous from the rides and covered in sweat, a good upstanding amusement park will provide plenty of stores. Stores where your children can see all kinds of stuff they need. Silly hats. Expensive t-shirts. Stuff to put in their rooms so they can never forget the day they got heat exhaustion. Stuff for you to hold the next time they ride the Scrambler.

If you find yourself rather miserable in the late afternoon, look around and you’ll see that your misery is shared. At that point, the only real amusement is watching the pregnant woman with three kids trying to get cotton candy out of the baby’s hair with a wet wipe.

I don’t want to discourage any of you from a trip to an amusement park this summer. Who am I to discourage you from this chunk of Americana? Just be prepared. Know your limits.

What’s that? Are some people too old to enjoy a day at an amusement park in the summer? Yes. There is definitely an age limit. According to my personal research, the age limit is 50 years and 10 months. Don’t question me. My research is flawless.

Family Reunions…Oh My!

One of my goals in life is to be skinny at a family reunion. I don’t know. I’ve just always thought it would be cool to walk into a family reunion and have Cousin Betsy ask Uncle Harold, “Who’s that tastefully-dressed, tall, skinny, blonde woman carrying quiche in a designer pie plate?” It hasn’t happened yet. They always seem to recognize the loud, tall, chubby, blonde woman wearing cheap Capri pants and carrying a bag full of chicken fingers. Go figure.

Family reunions are a graphic reminder that God has a sense of humor. Eighteen years ago, when my husband and I were preparing to adopt a baby, a concerned friend said in a quiet voice, “Lisa, you guys should be careful. With adoption, you never know what kind of kid you’re gonna get.”

After a hearty laugh, I said, “Are you kidding? You should come to our family reunions. No place to go but up, Sister. No place to go but up.”   Of course, I wasn’t making fun of our wonderful extended families. I was making the point that none of us are as genetically superior as we might like to think. When we look at our wonderful teenage sons (both adopted as babies) we hold to our original declaration, “Adoption: smarter, better lookin’ kids.”

Every family I know has a wonderful conglomerate of personalities and physical characteristics and we should be proud of the rich diversity. There’s almost always at least one super-smart though socially awkward person. He or she tends to provide a monologue about the latest space discoveries or a detailed description of how fireworks are made. Then there are the fun though slightly irresponsible members of the family. They’re the ones who can tell a joke better than anyone but they forgot to bring food for the dinner and they may need a little gas money for the trip home. Thankfully, there are always the quiet and super-responsible folks who brought enough food for an army and put a few $10 bills in their pockets just in case someone’s tank was on empty.

No family would be complete without the “family informer.” This is the person who keeps up with the news about every person in the family, those present and those we haven’t seen for years. “Uncle George finally sold that bass boat and is planning to take a vacation to Arizona even though it’s godlessly hot out there.” “Cousin Louise is feeling under the weather…probably because she ate that questionable potato salad at the church picnic last Sunday.” “Aunt Tillie is feeling so poorly that she didn’t put out any squash or okra this year. She’ll likely be dead before Christmas.” No one is critical of the family informer. We have to believe her intentions are noble. If they’re not noble, well, bless her heart anyway.

Phil and I are blessed with precious extended families. We all have different political views, different occupations, different personalities and priorities.   And no, not all of us are connected by blood. We’re connected by something far greater. Love. Commitment. Understanding. A willingness to forgive. These are gifts from the hand of God. Gifts that are often delivered in a simple way by a simple group of people called…family.

I’m the Color of School Glue!

I’m the color of school glue. I was born the color of school glue. I come from a long line of large European people who have skin which is the color of school glue. But it’s summer and Americans seem dead set on transforming their skin color. It’s the time of year when I have to provide my own therapeutic “self talk” in order to prepare for my pasty white summer.

Years ago I decided to embrace the color God gave me at birth. I don’t go to tanning salons. I don’t bake myself in the sun. I don’t think it’s wise for a middle-aged woman who was born the color of school glue to pour oil all over her body and bake herself in the front yard like a rotisserie chicken. That just doesn’t seem like a natural or healthy pursuit.

In order to combat the culture on this issue, I have to frequently remind myself that the whole idea of tanning goes in and out of style. There was a day in America when women wore bonnets and long sleeves seeking to protect their skin from the damaging effects of the sun. But one day an anonymous influential American convinced us all that we needed to cook ourselves. Hence, the rotisserie chicken era began.

When it comes to men and tanning, I feel compelled to share my honest observations. It’s one thing to have a tan because you’re a farmer. It’s one thing to have a tan because you’re a construction worker. But men, if you have a tan because you soaked your skin in expensive suntan oil and laid on a chaise lounge in your backyard, you might want to re-evaluate your masculine priorities. Truthfully, you might as well go ahead and shave your legs and chest hair at this point. Grab a People magazine and don’t forget to drop by the cosmetics counter for your moisturizing facial products.

For all you non-tanning men, if someone makes fun of your white legs or chest when you go to the pool or beach, just remind them that you’re a grown-up. You have a job and a life which don’t allow time for backyard tanning sessions. I know. You feel better already.

When I question the wisdom of various tanning procedures, the tanning crowd cries out loudly in defense, “Are you kidding? The sun gives you a healthy glow.” I want a healthy glow as much as the next gal. But I think there are ways to achieve a healthy glow without subjecting myself to increased skin cancer risks.

I’ve decided to attempt the following: Laugh a lot (laugh lines are the sign of a life well-lived). Be kind (not always easy). Hold my tongue (this will be my biggest challenge). I hold out hope that all of the above could provide a “glowing” result.

Here’s the bottom line. If God gave you beautiful black or brown skin, be happy. If He gave you lovely tan or olive skin, be happy. And even if your skin color reminds you of that first bottle of glue you were assigned in Kindergarten, don’t fret. God made people in many different colors. You are a work of art.

Here’s to the Late Bloomers…

 

It’s high school graduation season!  This time of year always brings back memories of my own high school graduation 32 years ago. Remember all those cords, sashes, and honors paraphernalia that you wore over your graduation gown? Yeah…me neither.

 

I didn’t graduate with honors. I wasn’t in Beta Club or any other “smart kid” club. Lots of my friends proudly wore the cords and sashes which, of course, made me look even worse in the graduation pictures. I’m sure they look at the pictures now and say, “Wait a second. Who’s that big blonde girl and why would we let that non-sash-wearing underachiever in our graduation picture?” I was fun, people. I was fun. Remember?

 

I didn’t get athletic scholarships either. I was 6 ft. tall with no hand/eye coordination. I know. It’s a bummer. My basketball coach thought so too. So much height. So little talent.

 

Music scholarship? Not quite. I played piano for two years though I think the word “played” might be a little generous. I did put my fingers on the keys but sadly, music was not the final result. Don’t even bring up the year I played the violin. The screeching sound scared the neighborhood children and killed the rose bush outside my bedroom window.

 

Of course, there was the French Club. But I didn’t speak French so that was out. The Spanish Club always served food at their meetings. But an intense desire to eat tortilla chips and salsa didn’t seem like a noble reason to join a club.

 

I was never voted “Most Likely to Succeed” or even “Class Clown.” If I had been assigned a designation in high school, it would have been “Most likely to hang out with the band kids even though she can’t play an instrument.” Most of my 500 classmates probably don’t even remember my name.

 

Guess what? It doesn’t matter. At all. Thankfully, my destiny in adulthood wasn’t carved out by an insecure teenage girl 32 years ago. High school didn’t define me. And if you’re a teenager, good or bad, it doesn’t define you either.

 

Even if you’re the president of every club, the best athlete, the Valedictorian, you’re still a teenager. You have a long way to go, friend.  You have a lot to learn. Listen to adults. Pay attention to people who get up early every morning and go to work day after day year after year. They have more wisdom than you can possibly imagine.

 

Become a student of kindness. Obtain social skills by asking questions and listening carefully when others talk.  Learn what it means to keep working even when you’re tired. Show respect for people who are often treated disrespectfully.  Be nice to waitresses and check-out clerks. Oh, and stop whining.  Seriously.  Whiners don’t prosper…personally or professionally.

 

If you’re a teenager who hasn’t been much of a “stand out” yet, worry not. Real life is just beginning. There’s plenty of time to discover your passions and abilities. And if you happen to be a funny, awkward, underachieving teenage girl with no hand/eye coordination, be not discouraged.  Learn to love others.  Start writing and speaking.  The world is waiting.