Lisa Smartt's Blog, page 5

When Mother’s Day Brings Pain

 

You’ve seen the commercial. A beautiful model opens her Mother’s Day gifts while surrounded by her three cherub children and her adoring and sensitive husband who looks like he walked off the cover of GQ magazine. Happy Mother’s Day, America. For some people, this may be Sunday’s scenario. For a lot of you, it won’t even come close.

Some of you are hurting. Mother’s Day brings with it a special sadness for a large segment of the population. The world promises it’s a day of celebration. For a lot of you, it will be a day of mourning. It’s time we acknowledge that pain.

I think of my friend in Texas who hates shopping for Mother’s Day cards. She said, “All the cards say things like, ‘You were always there for me, Mom. You were my inspiration.’ My mom wasn’t there for me. She never inspired me. She treated me poorly. Eventually she walked out on me.   Where is the card that says, ‘I wish things had been different’? I guess they don’t make that card. I always just buy a card that says, ‘I love you, Mom.’ And I cry when I mail it.” Her words still pierce my heart.

I think of the moms who’ve lost children. My sweet neighbor lost her son this year. A dear friend in Texas experienced the tragic death of her six-year-old a few years ago. Many of you have walked this path of pain. Mother’s Day becomes an annual reminder of the child you would so love to hug…just one more time. When standing with my friend at her little girl’s casket, she tearfully said, “Look, Lisa, there’s still some finger paint under her fingernails. We painted together on Saturday. I would give anything to finger paint with her…just one more time.” There are no words to share with those of you who have walked this path. To you I offer a prayer for God’s comfort and a terribly inadequate, “I’m sorry.”

I think of the birthmoms in the world who have placed babies for adoption. These are the courageous women who experienced the pain of personal loss believing it would be gain for others. I especially think of the two precious and wonderful birthmoms who gave birth to our boys. I think about what one of these women said years ago, “When I remember him, sometimes I get sad. Then I look at his picture and the life that he has and I say, “God is good.” To all birthmoms out there, I’m sending you a hug on behalf of every couple like us who are miraculously celebrating Mother’s Day this year. The words “thank you” are painfully inadequate.

Some of you have experienced the death of your mother. Perhaps your mom was the one person who understood you and your dreams.   When life was hard, she was the one who always whispered in your ear, “You can do it. Hang in there.” On Mother’s Day, you remember what it’s like to live without the one person who knew what you were thinking. Even surrounded by friends and family, there is a special loneliness. She left a void that you know will never be filled by another. So you relish in her influence and you smile at the fond memories. But you wish you could sit on the front porch with her…just one more time.

Some of you feel the crushing blow of regret this Mother’s Day. Your kids are grown but there’ll be no special honors on Sunday. No cards. No phone calls. No words of praise. You wonder if you failed as a mom. Maybe you were selfish, or chemically dependent, or mentally unstable when your children were little. And now you sometimes daydream that you can go back and start all over again. You wake up and realize it cannot happen. Life is as it is. Rather than going back, you’re left with asking adult children for forgiveness. You’re not sure how to do it. For you, I pray for courage. There is hope.

Some of you were great moms who did everything you could to love and cherish the sweet little ones God gave you…but those little ones grew up and rebelled. You had big dreams for your children. They settled for far less. And the world doesn’t seem to know your pain…or your shame. You wonder if anyone understands.

Many women across the world will be shedding the tears I shed for seven Mother’s Days in a row, until that wonderful year I finally became a mom. These are the tears of unplanned childlessness. Many of you have dreamed of being a mom since your childhood days of playing with dolls. Having babies seemed so easy for the vast majority of people. You had no idea it could be so complicated. You dream of swing sets and messy baby food and funny Christmas pictures. But when you wake up, you feel the pain of reality. No one calls you “Mommy.” I know. I remember.

Corsages will soon emerge and special dinners will be prepared. But many of you will take a few moments to find a box of tissue and a quiet place. You’ll shed tears of sorrow at what is or was or could have been. Happy Mother’s Day. You are not alone.

Thanksgiving Dinner Dilemmas

When it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, there are two kinds of people. I’m sure you’ll be able to recognize your own relatives in this “fictional” tale of family relationships.

First, there’s Uncle Bud. Uncle Bud doesn’t understand some people’s constant need for variety. When it comes to Thanksgiving, Uncle Bud thinks we should do what we’ve always done while eating what we’ve always eaten. He thinks we should sit where we’ve always sat and play the games we’ve always played.

Uncle Bud likes his canned sweet potatoes coated in brown sugar and marshmallows. He finds comfort in hearing that “squishing” sound as the ever-familiar canned cranberry sauce makes its glorious entrance into the world. Green bean casserole. Mashed potatoes with gravy. Whole kernel corn. Sweet tea. Pumpkin pie. He still hasn’t forgiven Aunt Marge for cooking pork tenderloin one year instead of turkey.  Uncle Bud has everything all figured out. He doesn’t like change.

Cousin Carla has a different take on life. Everyone still whispers about the year Cousin Carla hosted Thanksgiving. Oysters in the dressing. Figs diced up in the sweet potatoes. Real cranberries pureed with orange peel and put in a mold shaped like the Eiffel tower. Steamed artichoke hearts. And the meat? Cousin Carla decided to serve Orange-Cilantro Salmon for Thanksgiving dinner.  She also made place cards and wrote family members’ names with a fancy gold pen she ordered from the Martha Stewart magazine.

When Aunt Bess spotted the place cards, she said, “Carla Michelle, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. No one has ever told me where to sit, and I’ve never missed a meal.” Uncle Bud just nodded and sat at Cousin Larry’s place at the end of the table. The salmon and the figgy sweet potatoes were one thing, but when Carla brought out flaming crème brule for dessert, Uncle Bud grabbed the fire extinguisher and started spraying.

In tears, Carla ran to the bedroom and declared she wouldn’t even attempt the “get to know each other” game she’d cut out of the new Good Housekeeping magazine. Somehow that declaration brought a sense of relief.  An uncomfortable silence hovered over the living room until Uncle Bud asked if anyone brought a pumpkin pie.  That’s when Aunt Myrtle saved the day by retrieving a pumpkin pie from the trunk of the Crown Vic.

Holiday time.  The idealistic commercials show harmonious families sitting at meals, playing games, and warming themselves by the fire. The commercials don’t show Uncle Bud spraying Cousin Carla’s flaming crème brule with a fire extinguisher.  They don’t show chubby Aunt Bess declaring her distaste for place cards.  I guess there are some things families would rather forget.

This Thanksgiving, if you’re sitting at a table with friends or relatives, count your blessings.  Enjoy the variety of personalities placed in each extended family. Be glad you’re not all alike.

Show Uncle Bud some respect by cooking a traditional turkey.  Try Cousin Carla’s figgy sweet potatoes.  If the dinner host makes place cards, smile graciously, and sit where you’re assigned.  At our house, we’re blessed to be with extended family members this year. We’ll all hold hands and thank God for His incredible love. And if Aunt Louise brings a flaming dessert?  Not to worry. I’ve hidden the fire extinguisher.

Exercise Confessions

I exercised for a few months. I quit exercising for a few months. I exercised again for a few months. I quit exercising again for a few months. I’m wildly enthusiastic about exercise. I’m wildly apathetic about exercise. Well, I guess apathy by its very nature is not wild. It’s lazy. I would try to explain why I behave this way regarding something as important as exercise, but there’s no logical explanation.

It reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend recently. She said, “When I walk three miles a day I feel fantastic. It’s life changing, Lisa. Really.”

I replied, “I didn’t know you walked three miles a day. That’s wonderful!”

“Oh, I don’t. I used to though…and trust me, it was fantastic.”

I get that. When I eat a salad and three pieces of fruit every day I feel better. Much better. But today I ate a waffle, tortilla chips, taco salad with sour cream, and cheese tortillas. Yeah. Go figure. When I drink lots of water every day, I experience more energy and a boost in mood. Today I drank coffee and sweet tea most of the day. In a few minutes I may even bust out for some bedtime hot cocoa with marshmallows. Thank goodness there are no Oreos or Fig Newtons in the house.

There are apples on the dining room table but everyone knows that hot cocoa and Gala apples don’t mix. Exercise and hot cocoa don’t mix either. When’s the last time a friend invited you to come over for hot cocoa and aerobics? Yeah. Not gonna happen. The only post-cocoa event that is remotely acceptable is reading a good book or watching a movie (and the movie doesn’t even have to be that good as long as you’ve got plenty of hot cocoa).

Speaking of apples, here’s a bit of fruit trivia I’ve been pondering. Why are human beings rarely tempted to eat too much fruit? When’s the last time a friend said, “I ate way too much last night. I shouldn’t have had that second bowl of fruit salad. The mangos and fresh strawberries did me in.” I don’t think I’ve ever had a problem with excessive fruit eating. There’s just something about a bowl of fruit that speaks moderation into the human heart. There’s just something about a plate of brownies that speaks from a different direction.

The sad truth of the matter is that certain things in my life tend to go together, for better or worse. When I exercise, I drink water. When I drink water, I eat apples. When I eat apples, I make the bed every day. When I make the bed every day, I read good books at night. When I read good books at night, I feel better.

When I don’t exercise, I drink sweet tea. When I drink sweet tea, I eat tortilla chips. When I eat tortilla chips, I don’t make the bed. When I don’t make the bed, I watch poorly-written chick flicks at night, throw my dirty clothes on the floor, and fall asleep in my recliner.

The moral to the story is clear. If you don’t want to throw your dirty clothes on the floor, join me in my renewed attempt at exercising. If you like falling asleep in your recliner, make a pan of brownies.

 

Jell-O is Weird

Have you ever read a newspaper column that changed your life?  Yeah, so have I.  But this is not that column.  This is a column about Jell-O.  So all of you who wanted to be inspired or have a good cry or ponder the meaning of life, well, you’re gonna have to go elsewhere this week.  Jell-O is a lot of things but it has never helped anyone discover the meaning of life.  And we can’t expect it to start now.

 

I’ve been fascinated with Jell-O since childhood.  In 4th grade, Christy Miller told me that powdered Jell-O was made from ground up fingernails.  But don’t believe her.  Christy Miller lied about a lot of things.  She told me we could pass notes in math class and not get caught.  She told me her baby brother washed up on shore on the coast of Florida and they just found him lying there, helpless and in need of a family.  We didn’t need a drama class in elementary school.  Christy Miller brought drama every day of the week.  You don’t even wanna know her take on tater tots.

 

You might be wondering what really is in the mysterious substance we call Jell-O.  You can always read the ingredients but you won’t understand them.  Take my word for it.  They’re not shooting straight with us.  No regular consumer knows what’s in Jell-O.  It’s a mystery product.

Sugar, dye, gelatin, sure.  But there are other things, things they don’t list on the box.  Magic things.  One thing I do know is that members of my family have done a lot of weird things with Jell-O over the years.  Really weird things.

I don’t know what kind of family you grew up in, but I come from a family who likes to call something a salad even if it isn’t one.   If someone asked Aunt Margaret what she wanted to bring to Uncle Jim’s birthday party, she would likely say, “Jell-O salad.”  Aunt Margaret, I love you enough to tell you the truth. Pouring two cans of fruit cocktail into a red sugary substance made of heaven knows what, may be a lot of things but it is not a salad.

 

Did any of you have a mom who liked to get creative with Jell-O?  I grew up in the 70’s and my mom, along with all the other hip small-town moms, had a vast array of Jell-O creations up her sleeve.  In one recipe, she added mini-marshmallows, cottage cheese, and nuts to green Jell-O.  Yeah, I’m not sure why either.

 

A friend’s mom even grated a head of cabbage to put in green Jell-O.  This was just wrong on so many levels.  She must have felt bad about Aunt Margaret’s “false salad” claim and was trying to make good on it.

But I have some good memories of Jell-O too.  When my brother or I would get sick, Mom would always make us several flavors of Jell-O.  It seems Jell-O was deemed by all to have some kind of healing property.

 

And that just proves my point.  We don’t have to know what’s in it.  We don’t have to over-analyze it.  Kids everywhere like to eat it and maybe that’s good enough.  Jell-O, you’re not just an old friend.  You’re an American institution.

Hate to Read?

Some people hate to read.  I understand that now.  Are you a reading hater?  That’s okay.  I am friend, not foe.  Please don’t stop reading this column.

I always thought I was smart.  Teachers told me I was smart.  My grades told me I was smart.  Every year, after achievement testing, the public school told my parents I was smart.  The problem?  It wasn’t reality.  While I’m extremely gifted in some areas, I’m sadly lacking in others.  Bottom line?   I love words.  I always have.  I can read well and write well-formed paragraphs.  I don’t remember learning to read.  When someone showed me those beautiful letters and the way they could be pieced together to build ideas, I was hooked.  I was home.  I can now use those 26 letters to make people laugh and cry.  But I cannot build a bridge.  I cannot understand calculus.  I cannot put a puzzle together or even understand the importance of quantum physics.  The irony?  The ONE thing I CAN do is the one thing that made me look so smart in school. But all is not as it seems. This is my story.  Our story.

Our youngest son was introduced to letters at an early age.  But they were never his friends.  When he looked at the letters, he couldn’t clearly see how those letters made words.  He couldn’t read the words well or spell the words.  No one could explain it.  After our own research, we now know that he probably has dyslexia.  Dyslexia has gotten a lot of national attention and many school districts now have specialists who have been trained to help dyslexic students unlock the complicated wiring differences which can lead to reading success.  Unfortunately, our district does not currently address this issue.

Some of you may have dyslexia.  If statistics are correct, a lot of you have it. Maybe you always hated writing, spelling, and even reading.  Maybe you felt stupid.  It didn’t matter that you had a gift for science. Science class was all about reading Chapter 7 and writing a well-organized paragraph about photosynthesis.  You hated the thought of spelling “photosynthesis” much less writing a paragraph about it.  Despite your love for the plant world, your hatred for letters made even the study of plants miserable.  Some thought you weren’t very bright.  Unmotivated.  Lazy.  But the ability to put 26 letters together is not intelligence.  It never has been.  And if no one ever told you that, let me be the first.  I made an A on the photosynthesis report.  I couldn’t tell you one thing about it.

Our son can do lots of things I can’t begin to do.  He can take a box of Legos and build a bridge.  He can look at the puzzle pieces and see them fit together.  He can see movie scenes that were not engineered correctly, saying things like, “You would never build a space ship like that.  The solar sail would never fold backwards.  It wouldn’t work.”  He’s creative and imaginative.  The problem?  There’s not an academic place for 12-year-olds who can barely read but can understand about solar sails.  Are we discouraged?  No.

Thankfully, our son’s current life with all the paper, pencils, and endless work sheets is not the real world.  It doesn’t define his academic future.  Adulthood can be a place of great success for critical thinkers and those who learn to overcome obstacles.  If your story is our story, don’t be discouraged.   It’s not too late. Your gifts just didn’t fit the mold.  Oh, and if you still can’t spell “photosynthesis”, worry not.  A good computer program can spell.  But thinking?  No.  Only a sharp human mind can do that.

Got a Picky Eater?

I can’t help you with algebra.  I can’t analyze your 401K or explain why your geraniums mysteriously died last year.  But if you have a baby or a toddler, I might be able to save you a lot of trouble in the future.

There’s a weird thing happening in America with more and more kids who won’t eat this or won’t eat that.   We have a lot of company so, over the years, I’ve heard it all.  “He only eats this kind of cheese.”  “She won’t eat meat or bread or vegetables or fruit.  She mostly eats cereal or peanut butter.”  “Junior doesn’t eat cornbread.  Do you have any Wonder bread?”

I love you enough to tell you what nobody else is willing to tell you, friend.  Being a picky eater is, well, kind of rude and annoying.  So, if you’re a new parent, you definitely want to avoid pickiness with your own children.  I’m not saying the method I propose is fool-proof.  But neither of our boys have ever been picky eaters and they eat a wide variety of all kinds of foods, including beans and cornbread, salads, quiche, and casseroles. If you invite them to your house for dinner, they will eat what you cook, unless you’re cooking road kill.  On second thought, they’re teenagers and would probably eat road kill just so they could tell all their friends they did.

Here’s my advice.  First of all, you need to commit to not complaining about food. Ever.   Picky parents naturally raise picky kids.  Don’t constantly discuss things you like or don’t like.  Be thankful for what you have.  Be thankful you’re not going hungry.  Pickiness displays a lack of gratitude…in both children and adults.

As soon as your child graduates from baby food, you can joyfully expect them to eat what you eat at mealtimes.  I can’t emphasize this enough.  Are you having beans and cornbread?  So are they.  Are you having ham and potato casserole and boiled carrots?  So are they.  You don’t need to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for a toddler, hoping they might “learn” to eat real food later.  No.  This is the time to learn.

With that said, I would recommend you never make a child eat.  Ever.  Don’t make food a “power issue” in your home.  Food is an enjoyable way to sustain life.  It’s not the opportunity for a power grab.  Mealtimes should be as pleasant as possible.  If a child isn’t hungry, that’s fine.  Healthy children will not starve themselves.  They will eat when they’re hungry.  But every family member must sit at the table with the rest of us.  And we’re not going to fix an alternate meal later.  Don’t let children snack several hours before supper and they tend to come to the table hungry and ready to eat what you have prepared.

I know that pickiness regarding food is not the biggest issue American families face right now.  But I do think it’s a sign that prosperity has gotten the best of us.  We’re spoiled.  We whine.  But we can do better.  We can learn to be thankful.  And we can pass that thankfulness down to our children.  It will be a gift to them and their future.

Diary of a Time Waster

I come from a long line of industrious people.  Counselors say that humans tend to emulate the behavior of the same-sex parent.  Oh, how I wish that were true.  My mom is one of those women who is always busy.   She never brags about her industriousness, but I find ways to get it out of her.

“Mom, what did you do yesterday?”

“Oh, this and that.”

“What kind of ‘this and that’?”

“Well, Doris came at 9:00 for her English lesson. Daddy mowed the yard and planted flowers.   I went to the gym to work out at 10:00, tutored Jacob in reading at 11:00.  Daddy and I had BLT’s for lunch.  He worked on building the back porch while I cooked for some missionaries who are in town.  They have six boys and we all had a great time at dinner.  Ate watermelon out on the picnic table.  Daddy’s porch is really looking good.  Of course, he did magic tricks for the kids.  After they went home, we cleaned everything up, put in a load of laundry, and then just sat down in the recliners to be lazy for a while.”

“Lazy for a while?  Mom, it was 10:00 p.m. by then, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I guess so.”

“Mom, I hate to break it to ya, but sitting in a recliner at 10:00 p.m. is not laziness.  Take it from someone who knows.  Laziness is filling the dishwasher half way and then sitting down to read Woman’s Day before the task is finished.  Laziness is hiding things under the bed.”

For the benefit of the highly industrious, I’d like to submit some excerpts from something I like to call  “Diary of a Time Waster”:

8:00 Just made my “to do” list.  This will help keep me on track.

9:00 Need to start checking things off the “to do” list in order to count it as successful.

9:30 3rd cup of coffee, can’t find the “to do” list.  I think it was written on the back of a yellow furniture ad that came in the newspaper.

10:00 Watched another hour of TODAY show.  Kathie Lee Gifford sometimes cackles like a chicken.  Wish I could be on the TODAY show sometime.  Need to put that on my “Long Term To Do” list.

11:00 Put in a load of laundry even though I wasn’t sure if it was on the “to do” list.  Need to write a speech for next week.  Can’t think of anything funny or insightful.  Staring at blank page.  Craving Honey Nut Cheerios.

12:00 Made sandwiches for the boys and me.  Something funny must happen within 24 hours or I will be forced to quit the speaking business for the rest of my life.

1:00   I’ll never be funny again nor will I ever be able to think of another newspaper column idea.   Might as well watch “Sleepless in Seattle” on TNT.  Wow, Tom Hanks looks young in this movie.  What would I have to do to be on the TODAY show….other than something criminal?

2:00 Felt guilty and turned off “Sleepless in Seattle.”  Decided to have barbecue chicken for dinner and clean the back bathroom.  Played cards with the boys.  I asked them if they felt like doing something wildly funny in order to provide me with a newspaper column or speech illustration.  Blank stares.  Must stop putting unreasonable expectations on the boys.

4:30 Put chicken in the oven.  Sat down at computer to write newspaper column.  Nothing.

6:30 Dinner cleaned up.  Sat down to write newspaper column.  Wrote one boring sentence.  Played with kittens on front porch instead.

9:00 Reading National Geographic and learning about the fascinating history of Iceland.  Feel extremely motivated by Icelandic people.  Found furniture ad in newspaper and started brand new “to do” list.  Going to bed.  High hopes for tomorrow.

Cleaning out the Fridge

I have mixed feelings about this column.  Maybe there should be a parental disclaimer attached to it.  Something like:  The information contained in this column may not be fit for children, overly sensitive lap dogs, or older people with gastro intestinal problems.  Be warned.

 

It’s time to talk refrigerator cleaning.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  Go ahead and admit it.  Every normal person in America has let the refrigerator get “out of hand” at one point or another.  Notice I said every “normal” person.  Yes, there are people who have NEVER let the refrigerator get “out of hand.”  But these people are NOT normal.  They are the ones who alphabetize the pantry items, organize the condiment jars according to height, and clean out the oven on a regular basis with oven cleaner and Brillo pads.  I also get the sneaking suspicion that these are the same people who use vacuum cleaner attachments.  I’ve always wondered why attachments came with the vacuum cleaner.  I think the person with the alphabetized pantry knows why.  No.  I don’t want to know.

 

For the rest of you, I feel the need to put your mind at ease.  You’re not alone.  All of us have been there.  We get busy and overwhelmed.  We keep shoving stuff into the refrigerator.  All  items naturally “drift” to the back.  It’s a disaster waiting to happen.  Yes, things turn blue and green.   Stop crying, friend.  It’s not too late.  I have a plan.

 

Step #1 involves removing every item from the refrigerator and placing it on the kitchen counter.  Get it all.  Yes, even the mustard jar that’s been stuck on the second shelf of the refrigerator door for three years and has to be pried out with a crow bar.  Now.  Everything is out.  The temptation will be to scrub and scrub and even sand blast all the hardened particles until the refrigerator looks brand new.  Don’t do it.  Perfection is not the goal, friend.  A hot soapy rag over every surface.  Done.

 

Now, you’re faced with a crucial decision.  Perhaps it’s the most crucial decision of all.   The light green Tupperware container your aunt gave you for high school graduation contains baked beans from the Christmas church potluck of ‘09.  It’s May of 2010.  You don’t wanna look.  You beg your kids to look.  They scream and vow that they would rather be eaten by wolves than remove that airtight lid.  Is it worth it?  Hard to say.  You desperately want to just throw it in the trash.  But that seems wasteful. No.  I won’t decide for you.  Let your conscience be your guide. 

 

In regard to some other items, let me make myself clear.  Throw the salad dressing away.  Yes, all of it. That bag of half-eaten salad needs to go too.  I know.  You didn’t know a big bag of red grapes got trapped behind the cabbage head a few months ago.  Unless you own a winery, throw the grapes out.  Blue/green tortilla?  Out.  Fuzzy strawberries?  Stop sayin’, “What a waste.  What a waste.”  Just throw it out, friend.  Show some courage, would you?

 

When you get the refrigerator completely clean, you will do what we always do.  You will say, “Never again.  We will forever live clean.”  Yeah.  Good luck with that.  Might wanna cut out this column and throw it in the junk drawer “just in case.”

Confidence is Like Chocolate Milk

Confidence is a lot like chocolate milk.  A little bit is wonderful, but too much can make you sick.  I remember that time in fourth grade when several friends gave me their chocolate milk.  I thought their generosity was a great blessing.   It was a banner day.   But after math class, things turned sour.  For me and for the janitor.  Confidence is a lot like that.  A little bit makes for a sweet life.  But too much confidence can bring utter ruin.

I’m writing this column from the Dallas Airport.  I’ve learned a lot of things about life from watching people at the airport.  For example, this 20-something guy sitting next to me is trying to impress the girl in the pink shoes who is sitting across from us.   But it’s not working.  He’s going down in flames.  Is he good looking?  Yes.  But the girl has an expression on her face that looks gravely familiar.  Yeah, it’s almost identical to the expression on my face when I told Mrs. Smith I was feeling a little queasy after math class.

Why does the girl look so sad and unimpressed?  It’s simple.  The guy next to me is a little too confident.  He’s selling himself like a used hot tub on E-Bay.  He just told her he plays guitar in this band and they’re on their way to Houston to play at a big club there.  He believes the place will be packed out all weekend.  They cut an album this year and it’s available on I-tunes.  Oh, and he’s also been on TV before.

But the girl in the pink shoes is just staring at him.  She’s not saying a word.  In fact, she’s eating her Subway sandwich in a way that makes us all believe that she doesn’t even care if she gets mustard on her face.  And I think all of us at Gate 18 suspect that his TV debut had nothing to do with his band.  I have a feeling he appeared on a local news broadcast because he witnessed a chubby guy steal a DVD player from Target.

I know for certain I could help the poor guy but I fear he wouldn’t take counsel from a middle-aged stranger.  Plus, he hasn’t stopped talking long enough for me to tell him that the plane is on fire and he should have bailed out ten minutes ago.

This young man needs to learn an age-old concept which would change his life.  He needs to learn the art of the question.  He’s so busy selling himself that he hasn’t really communicated with the girl in the pink shoes.  He hasn’t asked whether she’s traveling for business or fun.  He hasn’t asked what she studied in college or whether she’s from the south originally.  He’s been busy telling her about himself.  His self-confidence isn’t just brimming.  It’s overflowing onto the floor and making a big mess.  And no one at Gate 18 has a big enough mop.

Spending some quality time with this young man has taught me that we all need to do a confidence check now and then to make sure our perspective hasn’t soured.  Here’s a question to ponder truthfully.  Do you think you’re better than most people?   If you do, well, it’s a sure sign you’re not.

Death by Hand Sanitizer

In a few years, when most members of society are living in individual plastic bubbles, my family and I will still be roaming free out here in the country.  Yep!  We’ll still be out here in the filthy, dusty, germ-infested, chicken-inhabited, cat-fur-flying-through-the-air country.   But don’t worry.  I’ll come to visit you, friend.  I’ll even bring those little disinfectant wipes you’ve grown to know and love.  You can wipe down the inside of your plastic bubble daily with disinfectant wipes.  Don’t forget to spray a little Lysol on the oxygen supply hose and you’ll feel right at home.

Some of you sanitation enthusiasts may find this bewildering but I don’t use hand sanitizer at all.  I don’t keep it in my purse.  I don’t carry a cute little bottle of it on a key chain and I don’t have it hanging from the mirror in my car in case of a “sanitizing emergency.”  In fact, I’m not sure I’d even recognize a “sanitizing emergency” if I had one.  I mean, I don’t remember the last time a raw chicken jumped up and slapped me in the face while driving down the road.  And that’s the only thing I can think of that would merit a complete sanitary scrub down.

My entire family is daily exposed to the rest of society and we’re perfectly alright with it.  You can hug us.  You can shake our hands.  You can even pat us on the back without us running into another room to change shirts.  We even frequent stores where members of the general public are allowed to roam free and unmonitored.  Yes, we use the carts they used.  We squeeze the bread they squeezed.  We even pick up books or magazines that have been touched by “heaven knows who else.”  And when we come out of the store?  It’s simple really.  We just get in the car, drive home, do our homework, and move on with our lives.  No sanitation procedures required.  None.

I know.  Some of you have had to do a full-body Lysol spray after just reading the above description of our life on the edge.  Of course, we do believe in hand-washing at our house.  Before we come to the supper table each night, we wash our hands with soap and water.  After our younger son tends to the chickens and brings in the eggs, he washes his hands with soap and water.  But that’s about it.  We keep a moderately-clean home.  We take showers.  We’re rarely ill and we think we live a pretty decent life.

I realize that some people have special immunity problems and they must live a life of caution and extreme cleanliness.  I’m sensitive to that fact.  But as for the rest of you, stop and think.  Your body builds immunity through moderate and normal exposure to the germs that surround us.  Perhaps it’s not the germs you’re afraid of, but the people themselves.  If so, that’s a different column for a different day.  What’s that?  Do we spray the doorknobs with Lysol after you visit our home for the evening?  What do you think?  We don’t even own a can of Lysol.   After you leave our home, the four of us observe a long-held American ritual.  We polish off the rest of the chocolate cake.