Fiddledeedee

Last week I had some important paperwork that required my undivided attention. Seldom is my attention ever undivided. But this job involved the use of math skills. And general level headedness. In other words, I couldn’t just put myself on autopilot, as usual. I had to think.

Autopilot is the reason I find my reading glasses in the vegetable bin of the refrigerator.

So, I needed to get rid of the children.

I asked the girls to keep Jensen occupied back in their rooms until I could finish. “Sure Mom!” And they all trotted happily down the hall, turned the corner, and were out of sight.

I grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat quietly for a moment, enjoying a moment of dread. You know, that minute just prior to digging into a task you really don’t want to do. And then I got to work.

As I was figuring, scribbling, and muttering, I could hear intermittent giggling from all three children, back in their rooms.

No cause for alarm.

Total silence is a reason to panic. Or blood curdling screams, followed by “I’M ON FIRE,” might give me pause. But, not intermittent giggling.

A few minutes later, the snickering drew closer. I looked up to see Jensen shuffling down the hall wearing his sister’s black lace pumps, clutching his Blues Clues blanket. Following him at close proximity were his personal designers, Mutt & Jeff.

My eyes went from the pumps northward. He was decked out in a blue floral, floor length sleeveless cotton dress. With a brown v-neck crop top. He sported silver hoop clip-on earrings, and other assorted gaudy jewelry. In his brown hair were two beaded barrettes and a lavender headband completed the ensemble.

His smile was radiant. He knew he was pretty. Of course I grabbed my camera and snapped a couple of pictures.  You know, for his baby scrapbook.  Or whatever.

And then, suddenly, I watched reality set in. The testosterone, of which he has an abundance, took over. He looked down in horror, and began clawing at his clothes. “DRESS OFF. DRESS OFF.”

I chastised the girls, while stifling a giggle. And got Jensen stripped down to his Elmo diaper. His usual favorite attire. And he ran down the hall squealing with glee. Still wearing the forgotten headband.

The pictures mysteriously disappeared from my camera after telling Fiddledaddy of the incident. So, there is no evidence.

Save for this post.

Which I will show him when he is a teenager. And I will then allow him a free pass to play the revenge card on two older sisters who may or may not be of dating age.

And I will lean back, in my barcalounger, sipping my Metamucil, and enjoy the show.

Yes, I think I’m going to enjoy them when they are teenagers.

I’m up from my deathbed. Thank you for all your prayers and well wishes. I think it had something to do with a yeast cleanse I just subjected myself to. But that’s another post for another day. Thank you to everyone who is participating in this carnival. I’m sorry I’m late.

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Prequel: This is week #2 of The Busy Mom’s Club. Not coincidentally, this week Lisa Bergren is talking about new beginnings. Albeit a New Year, new morning, a new life. What I like to call “do-overs.”

Tears were flowing freely as I waved goodbye to the neighbors in the apartment complex in Dallas, where I had called “home” for last 4 years. These neighbors had all become surrogate family to me. Friends I would miss dearly.

The decision to move to Los Angeles was an easy one. The actual driving away, was harder than I ever imagined. My mother, knowing how difficult the move would be for me, flew in to accompany me across the country.

My dependable Honda Civic CRX hatchback was loaded down with priceless possessions, an angry cat, one sandbox, perched precariously atop the 13 inch color television, and my mother riding shotgun.

The year was 1988.

I felt secure about the move because I already had friends out there, that I knew would watch out for me. And feed me if I were starving. My best friend, Kathy, was already there. I had called her a few days before leaving, beginning the conversation with, “Watcha doin’?”

She floored me with her answer. “I’m getting ready to go to Bible Study.” I’d known her for years already, and we had never discussed faith. Except to say that we were both raised Catholic, but had bolted the minute we were out of our parent’s houses. And we were both still more than a little afraid of rulers.

While Catholicism instilled a great sense of faith in me growing up, I did not have any kind of relationship with Jesus. I had never opened the Bible, and the only praying I did were nightly rote prayers at the dinner table. Oh. And the occasional, “Please Lord, don’t let my parents find out about that.” All right. God heard that one more than occasionally.

The only exposure I had to anyone with a strong relationship with Jesus, was my Grandfather. Who prayed loud and often. And sang praise songs to anyone within earshot. He went to one of those “Pentecostal” churches. You know. Where the people raised their hands, spoke in tongues, and Lord knows what other weirdness.

That scared me. He often would ask me to go to church with him. My answer was always the same. “Um, no. I’ve got to, um, wash my hair.”

But he and my grandmother prayed for me. Especially when they learned that I wanted to be an actress. In Hollywood. A land filled with sinners. And earthquakes.

And on that day, when my best friend said that she was attending a women’s Bible Study, something unexpected happened to me. As if someone whispered into my ear, and I was powerless to do anything but repeat it.

“I need that.”

After I had settled in Los Angeles, my Kathy invited me to attend this Saturday morning study with her. I loved these women. There was no judgment. No condemnation. They were very real with one another. About their struggles, their battles, their pasts. The group was lead by a woman named Gail. She didn’t mince words. She talked to us about how Jesus wants us to live our lives.

And I, for one, didn’t want to hear it. I was a lost soul. Lonely. With a God shaped hole in me, that I was trying to fill with everything BUT God.

And yet, I continued to attend that study, because I loved these women so much. All the while, looking for loopholes so that I could continue to live my life any way I wanted.

The harder I looked, the more it became apparent that there weren’t any loopholes. Which was unfortunate. For a time.

I’m skipping to the chase when I tell you that one weekend, we all went away on a retreat. It was there that I gave my life to Christ. I made a promise to turn from a life where I made up the rules as I went along.

I was loved into the Kingdom of God. And it took years.

If those women had harangued and pointed bony fingers at me, all the while thumping their Bibles, I would have run in the opposite direction. I think that’s a huge mistake that some Christians make. The finger pointing and Bible thumping, that is.

It should come as no surprise that I ended up getting baptized in one of those “Pentecostal” churches. You know, the ones where people raise their hands and speak in tongues. My grandparents never got to see the fruit of all their many prayers. But, somehow, I’m sure they knew. And they had a really good chuckle.

This is the part where I’d love to tell you that becoming a Christian, was like signing on for a cruise. With perks. And that all of my non-Christian friends and family embraced my new lifestyle with open arms.

But that would be a big fat lie.

Now frowned upon.

I had an especially difficult time with friends and family. Including my poker buddies. I continued to play, but I ceased all the drinking and cursing.

And btw, when I talk about my cuss jar now, I’m filling it with loose change mostly because of the cursing that still goes on in my head. Because thoughts count. I say mostly. Because, that’s an area where God is still refining me. And I’m usually good. Unless I fall over a baby gate. Or my husband scares me.

But over time, years even, my friends embraced the change in me and what a positive it was in my life. And yes, I witnessed to anyone who would listen.

In love.

Not condemnation. Because who am I to judge anyone. I still make mistakes. Colossal ones. But, I have a very clear direction in my life. And a good set of rules to live my life by. And I’m never alone. I feel God’s presence with me, especially in the difficult days.

After a time, I left the acting profession. I told my agents that I didn’t want to audition for anything that my future children couldn’t watch. Not all believers are called to make such a drastic change. But I was. Doors were closed. Wonderful windows were opened.

I met my husband in a Christian acting company. I made lifelong friends, there in Los Angeles. And you’ll be comforted to know, that there are many many praying people in the city of angels. Striving to make a difference in the type of entertainment that comes out of that place. Patricia Heaton was one of those women in that first Bible Study. And she still is making a huge difference in what gets produced. I heart her.

Yesterday, Emme asked me if I had any friends who were not Christians. I said that yes, indeed I do. She asked me if I have ever told them about Jesus. I said “yes, I have.” “But Mom, they still don’t believe in Jesus?” she asked incredulously.

“Sometimes, no. But the seeds are planted. You never know what will happen once those seeds are planted.” She was okay with that.

That’s the hard part, sometimes. Letting go, and letting God do the rest.

My grandfather planted seeds in me, that he never got to see grow. And I’m so grateful that he didn’t give up on me.

I’ll close this with one of my favorite Bible quotes.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8

Jesus has always loved me. Even when I was as far from Him as I could possibly be. And he loves you too. Whether you are near or far.

God bless you my friends.

I must have 40 chicken recipes stashed away in my recipe book. A better term might be “recipe binder.” In fact, “BIG HUGE HEAVY RECIPE NOVEL” is most appropriate. If I were to ever, say, drop it on my foot, I would miss the mobility I now enjoy.

Because I would never be able to walk again.

I kid you not. When I cook from said notebook, I have to remove the recipe page and stick only the page in my Plexiglas standup recipe holder. I tried once to open my Recipe Binder and place it in the holder, and the whole thing toppled to the floor. Taking me with it.

Where was I? Oh. Chicken recipes. As an aside, I couldn’t go near poultry when I was pregnant. Unless it was the drive-thru at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Just something about seeing it in its raw state sent me running for my Pepto.

I must be healed because I now cook chicken often. However, I have to use disposable gloves. To protect my delicate skin from dead chicken germs.

Tasty.

Now, that I’ve whetted your appetite, I’d like to share a chicken recipe that I served up to my little family last week. Plates were licked clean. To save me the back strain that accompanies loading the dishwasher, I simply put them back in the cupboard.

I am so kidding.

This is another wonderful recipe from Dana Carpender’s “500 More Low Carb Recipes.”

Chicken With Creamy Mushroom Sauce

3 T. Margarine
4 Boneless, Skinless Chicken Breasts
1 Lb. Sliced Mushrooms
1 C. Heavy Cream (sometimes I use 1/2, to cut fat)
1/4-1/2 t. Xanthan (or use your shaker) *
Salt & Pepper

Optional:
Garlic Salt
2 T. Fat Free Sour Cream

*Xanthan is a thickener, that you can find in the health food store.

Melt 1 T. margarine over medium heat, in a skillet that will fit all 4 breasts. Brown the chicken until just cooked. Sprinkle both sides with garlic salt, if desired. Remove chicken from the pan and keep warm.

Melt the remaining 2 T. margarine, add the sliced mushrooms, and stir until just colored. Add the cream, stir; if using sour cream, add and stir until mixed. When the cream starts to simmer, sprinkle in the xanthan and stir like mad. Allow to thicken, and salt and pepper to taste.

Return the chicken and any juices to the pan, turn to coat both sides with the sauce.

Bon appetite. If you have a recipe to post, see Mr. Linky below. If you’re new and need instructions, go here. And welcome!

Have a great weekend everyone!

I fully intended to craft a post last night while watching “Lost.” However, I found it difficult to type while gnawing on what use to be fingernails, and are now bloody appendages.

The body count y’all. It was almost too much to bear. I say almost, because Ben is still alive. In our area, “Lost” has been moved to 10:00. An unfortunate change. At episodes end, as I attempt sleep, I lay in the dark, eyes wide open beneath my black zorro mask muttering, “What just happened?”

Not conducive to blog posting. Or sleeping. And add in getting up at 4:30 am, well, WOOHOO, bring on the caffeine.

Don’t forget, I’m hosting a “Stand Up and Testify” carnival to go along with the devotional we’re going through in the Busy Mom’s Club on Modays. (Or B.M. Club) One commenter asked me, “Um, are you sure about B.M. Club? Really really sure?”

I say, no, just kidding, but really, whenever I get together with other moms in the trenches, the conversation inevitable disintegrates into talk of poop. Why is that?

So, join me Monday, April 28th, when I’ll be posting my testimony. Why I believe what I believe. I’ve never done anything like that before here at It Coulda’ Been Worse. But, because of a series of events, through comments, and in light of all the false teaching associated with a certain media giant who has the initials O.W., I’m inspired to do this. BTW, Lysa is posting about this very subject all this week, and is doing quite an eloquent job.

I’ll put up Mr. Linky, so you can join me, if you feel led. And I hope you do join me, because I’m really really nervous about the whole thing. My blog has never been known for heavy spiritual content.

Have a wonderful Friday, and I’ll see you tomorrow for Saturday Stirrings.

Some of you (okay, two) have been asking if I still get up at 4:30 in the dark of the morning to exercise. That is, sweating, on purpose.

Which completely goes against my nature.

The answer is a very tired, yes.

Up until a few months ago, I ran only when being chased. The weights I lifted were my industrial sized son, who can and does wrestle me to the ground. And my idea of a stretch was trying to pass off the extra weight as premenstrual bloating.

I’m still meeting my SIL, Trish, 3 to 4 mornings a week. And we’re often joined by two other sisters. Which is comforting. Because we know each other very very well. And it’s perfectly okay that we don’t look or smell good that early.

It has gotten a little easier since Jensen seems to have turned a corner and is sleeping through the night more often than not. As soon as that leveled off, though, Emme began sleep walking.

Bleary eyed I would whine, THEY ARE TAKING TURNS TRYING TO DRIVE ME INSANE? IT’S LIKE TAG TEAM. PEOPLE HAVE DIED FROM SLEEP DEPRIVATION, YOU KNOW.

But thankfully, the nocturnal wandering seems to have abated. Or at least she’s not coming into our room and flipping the light on.

Jarring.

I’ve gotten it all down to a science. I preset my mini Mr. Coffee pot with the pre-workout dose of caffeine. I pull out my mug the night before and measure the required amount of sugar. I set a spoon and saucer out as well for stirring. And most importantly, a stick of gum sits beside the pot, so that I don’t offend anyone I might happen upon in the dark of the night as I exit my house.

I’ve noticed, however, the stick of gum has been missing the last few mornings, and the silver wrapper sits atop the garbage as evidence.

Fiddledaddy has denied any wrongdoing. He is trying to focus blame on the resident sleep walker. I’m not buying it.

As a bonus, the plague of frogs (for which I dedicated an entire blog category) that had greeted me in weeks past as I attempt to exit my house quietly have all but disappeared.

Or perhaps they are just biding their time, lulling me into a sense of false security.

Here’s the part where I’d love to tell you that I’m svelte and muscular, and can slither into white hip huggers.

Are hip huggers even in style anymore? Were they ever?

I’d love to tell you those things, but I would be lying. Which is frowned upon in most Christian circles. I will tell you what has happened because of a regular exercise regiment.

•My endurance has increased. I no longer fall to the floor after 10 minutes on the treadmill. In fact, I’ve increased my cardio to 25 minutes. And I could go longer. If you double dog dared me.

•I’ve increased the weight of the dumbbells (a term I find offensive) that I use during the workout DVD. And yes, we’re still using the P90X Beachbody workout. I have some definition in my arms, and the turkey waddle that plagued my upper arms is gone.

Good riddance.

When I started, the 3 pound weights made me cry like a little girl. Now I heave the 12 pound weights like matchsticks, and may even step it up to 15 pounds next week. If you triple dog dare me.

•I can wear a pair of shorts without people pointing and laughing at my legs. Any pointing and laughing that happens, has nothing to do with my legs. Of that, I’m certain.

•Most importantly, my depression is much MUCH more manageable. My doctor told me last year that I absolutely had to start exercising, if I ever wanted to get better. The next step would have been medication. Which can cause weight gain. And excessive body hair.

That put things into a better perspective for me.

Yes. I’d rather be sleeping in. But, I’m proud of myself that I’ve stuck with something that is actually good for me.

I’ll leave you with my favorite exercise quote. It sums it up rather well for me.

“I have to exercise in the morning before my brain figures out what I’m doing.”

~Marsha Doble