Tag: cute stories

Popcorn

We are going to be visiting with relatives in England later this summer, when we go to visit with our daughter, who will be studying there. I asked if there was anything that we should bring from America that they would like for us to bring. My aunt wanted some “4th of July” napkins (these, obviously, won’t be easily found over there), and her grandchildren wanted some specific American candy. My aunt said, “They want some ‘Jolly Ranchers’, but I guess they mean ‘Jolly Rogers?!?’,” she said in her email.

“No, they were right, it is ‘Jolly Ranchers’ and we can accomodate,” I said with a smile on my face, tasting an imaginary tart red cherry Jolly Rancher on my tongue, as I replied to her. Interestingly, her one little grandchild wanted a big bag of buttered popcorn. At first this puzzled me. I thought to myself, “I’ll have to purchase that when we get there,” but then it occurred to me that corn isn’t as common in Europe as it is here. Popcorn was first found in Peru, and the Aztecs are said to have eaten quite a bit of it in ancient Mexico. Popcorn is clearly much more of an “Americas” thing. The Europeans have “banged grains” as it is often called in the UK, but it isn’t nearly as plentiful and available in so many varieties as we have here in the United States.

No doubt, I will find some room in my luggage for the biggest, most delicious bag of popcorn I can find, (and probably a few microwave versions, to boot.) It will be cushioned between big bags of Jolly Ranchers. In my mind, this will be the most priceless stuff in my luggage, and I can’t wait to be a kid again with kids who know just how great and fulfilling an American snack of salty, buttered popcorn and Jolly Ranchers can make! It’s the “little things.” This I know.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Here is the question of the day from 3000 Questions About Me:

1430. What profession do you respect? (I was going to write something snarky, but I am working on my “emotional reacting, versus healthfully responding” skills.)

Wednesday’s Whimsies

+ The medical term for buttcrack is “gluteal cleft.” That actually sounds fancy and sophisticated. It’s nice that we can put a pretty spin on anything with words.

+ I’ve been writing this blog practically every single day for about five years now, so I realize that I am at the risk of repeating my stories. Luckily, there is a search feature on my website, at least at my end, where I can make sure that I haven’t already relayed a story, much like we so often have the habit of repeating our favorite stories to people, in our daily lives. There should be a special word for the action of our loved ones kindly listening with supposed engagement and interest, again and again, to our same favorite stories. It’s a significant word needed that recognizes how important our stories are to us, and yet also encapsulates the patient love from our listeners who recognize our own need for repetition. Our stories make us. Our loved ones understand this, even if they can also repeat our own stories for us, word for word. Any ideas for a word that captures this kind of love?

+And on that note, before I wrote this bullet point, I searched up “Stanley” on my blog listings to make sure that I haven’t repeated this story. This is Stanley:

I was at Nordstrom Rack one evening, and Stanley’s cute little face was staring at me, from a shelf, just like above. He was all by himself, sitting among some decorative candles and fancy toothbrush holders. Stanley is a piggy bank, and piggy banks are almost sacred in my family. Or should I say, lucky pennies are sacred in my family. For generations, my family has saved “lucky pennies” which we have serendipitously found throughout the years, and then we keep them in jars and in piggy banks, in our homes. I have never received a gift of a purse, or a wallet, without a lucky penny stuffed in it, by any of my female relatives. My husband knows that finding me a “lucky penny” on the ground, on any given day, is sure to make him a lucky man. (wink wink) All in all, piggy banks serve as beautiful visual reminders of all of the luck and the abundance which we already have in our lives from the get-go.

The truth is, I didn’t really need Stanley. We already have an austere looking, serious silver-plated rabbit “piggy bank” (who unfortunately, has no name) on our bedroom bureau, and this rabbit wasn’t completely full of lucky pennies at that time (although pretty close). And also sticking with the truth, Stanley was kind of expensive, especially for The Rack. But I had to have Stanley. When I went to pay for him, the cashier was thrilled. I think that she would have excitedly rung a bell, if there had been one, sitting by the register.

“Oh my goodness, someone is finally buying Stanley!” she said with glee, and that is the moment when I realized that Stanley already had a name. “Wilbur” was no longer an option. “Every day, we employees have checked to see if Stanley is still here. He’s almost become a store mascot. I’m not sure what I am feeling right now!”

I promised her that I would take good care of Stanley. And I do. I have already fed Stanley quite a few lucky pennies, as has my husband. (I find myself working harder to scour for lucky pennies, now that Stanley rests next to his buddy – the currently full of pennies, and “full of himself”, rigid rabbit.) I also gave Stanley his decorative headpiece, inspired by a documentary I watched about India’s painted and dazzled elephants. (don’t ask – it makes sense to me) And that is the story of Stanley. Please forgive me, if you have already heard or read this story. Please be patient with me, if I repeat it again. Thank you for witnessing me and my story. Stanley is proudly part of my story. . . . Did I ever tell you about Stanley? . . . .

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

A Little Romantic Story

I am an eavesdropper. My regular readers know this. I understand that I shouldn’t do it, but certain stories are too compelling to shut my ears. And honestly, I got the sense that these people wanted their story to be told. Their story sounded like a Nicholas Sparks book-and-then-movie, in the making.

As we were leaving our flight, I overheard a spritely, older couple talking to the flight attendant. The couple had flown to a mountainous area to go back to a spot which had been enticingly romantic to them, when they were first dating many, many years ago. The couple (now in their early seventies) felt that if they had waited any longer to do this trip, they might not have the physical fortitude to achieve this special journey.

When the couple were young and newly in love, they carved their initials into a beautiful little rock, and then they buried this particular rock in a certain spot, high up in the mountains. The couple had taken this specific journey, just this past weekend, far, far away from home, to see if their precious rock, which they had buried a long time ago, still existed. And yes!!! Miraculously, this adorable couple were able to find the exact spot (remember that they buried this rock years before GPS technology existed), and they unearthed their lovely, little rock that had marked the beginning of the foundation of their shared lives. The rock was just as they had left it, with their shared initials still clearly marked in the stone. The couple decided to bring the rock back home with them, but they told the flight attendant that they were very careful to get the coordinates of the spot where they had buried the rock, because they wanted their children to put their ashes, at that same exact spot, when they die. Then they laughed mischievously, saying that their kids would probably be in their seventies, themselves, and having to make that same difficult hike which the couple had just completed, by the time it was time to put their parents’ ashes to rest, in the spot in the mountains where the enduring story of this couple’s shared love, and the life of their family, all began.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

A Little Bit Psycho

Surround yourself with people who pray for you behind your back .. those are your people, those are your tribe

Butterfly
@TammyAIDip, Twitter

I feel your prayers, my friends. Thank you. Working through the trauma that comes with my youngest son’s epilepsy is a process, but the process feels lighter with the loving and kind energy of prayer and well wishes, moving through it. Again, thank you. I treasure you, my tribe.

“I always like for other kids to know that my kids’ mom is a little bit psycho.” – @emily_tweets, Twitter

I love this tweet. All of my children and their friends know that I have my quirks, and that I usually proudly own my quirks. I think that it is my middle son (the matter-of-factual medical school student) who would most deeply relate to this tweet shown above.

My middle son is reserved. His teachers used to love to accuse him of being shy, but that’s not honestly the case. There is a big difference. My middle son is confident, he just doesn’t care for spectacles. My middle son has a stealth self-containment. In the midst of chaos, he isn’t chaotic, but it turns out that he is often that sneaky instigator of the tumultuous happenings all around him. You know the type.

When my middle son was in elementary school, parents took turns organizing surprise “Fun Friday” activities for his kindergarten class. Now my regular readers know that I love Fridays. Fridays put me in almost a holiday kind of spirit. I get giddy, sometimes even ecstatic, on Fridays. And my closest friends and my family know that, unlike my middle son, I’m not particularly reserved. So on my turn of heading up a Fun Friday for my son’s class, I decided to go all out.

My middle son is an automobile enthusiast. He’s going to be that guy whose garage will always be more pristine, and probably larger than his house. He has loved cars since he could steadily hold one or two brightly colored Matchbox race cars, in his precious little chubby baby fist. He can name the make and model (and probably even the year) of any car he sees, like he is a walking Blue Book. So it was inevitable. I decided that I would go all out with “the car theme” for Fun Friday.

We were living in Charlotte, NC, at the time, and we had friends who worked at NASCAR, so I asked to borrow a racer’s suit. I also borrowed another friend’s motorcycle helmet. That Fun Friday, I proudly promenaded down the hall of the elementary school, donning my race gear, like I was a model on a catwalk. I had bags full of activities and stuff, all related to cars, that we were going to enjoy in his kindergarten class’ Fun Friday. And I, on that particular Friday, wasn’t just wearing a race car suit . . . . I was a race car driver, and a good one. On that day, me and Jesus, had the wheel.

I confidently opened the door of his classroom, where the children were sitting on the floor with each other working on a math activity. I stood in the doorway, hands on my hips, and then I whipped off my heavy helmet with panache. I smiled broadly (and probably in my son’s mind, a tad fanatically), as I eyed him, wondering, with glee, what he thought of my surprise entrance.

My middle son looked at me, eyes widened, and he gasped in horror. He turned to his friend sitting next to him, and in a loud whisper aimed towards his friend’s ear (and anyone else in close proximity), my son firmly pronounced, “Yeah, don’t mind her. She’s a little kooky!”

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.