Night Of The Living Dead: Also Known As A Trip To The DMV

I have to admit that I dread any trip to the Division of Motor Vehicles, but I particularly dread the trip where I have to get my new license photo taken. By some miraculous act of God, my last license picture was Department of Motor VehiclesGOOD. I ACTUALLY LIKED IT. I am not photogenic, at least this is what I tell myself. It could just be that my photos are realistic and I don’t like them because I am actually not that good looking. As Twain says, “Homely truth is unpalatable.” At any rate, it was time to go in for the dreaded license photo. By some other miraculous act of God the DMV was empty. I walked right in and was waited on right away. This should have been a sign to me that something was definitely awry.

Every other DMV visit I had been able to read War and Peace. In retrospect the DMV was empty because all the real workers had been replaced by zombies. I walked up to the lady. She was dressed in black, wore glasses and at no time emanated any signs of life. She stared out at me blankly and said in a monotone almost automated voice, “What is your name?” Then she proceeds to ask me a number of questions all in this same monotone voice. I want to ask her if she would like me to get the resuscitation paddles, but I think better of it as this IS the woman who will be taking the dreaded license photo.

I am instructed to place my forehead against this machine which in turns lights up a screen. I make a note to myself to try and purchase one of these for home use. The kiddos would like it. Then I am instructed to read the letters aloud, just like at the eye doctors office. Curiously the letters spelled out R-U-N-F-O-R-Y-O-U-R-L-I-F-E. I found this odd, but didn’t have time to dwell on it as we moved to the next test. This test is a “sign” test. This is to see if you understand and can recognize the street signs you see everyday. I feel greatly worried that two of these signs are a traffic light and a stop sign. Do people really need a review of THESE? If they do, I am going to start riding the Metro. The only sign I miss is the “Dead End” sign. It is a red sign with a white box in the middle, minus the letters of course. “Dead End” seems to be some sort of metaphor for this whole experience I am enduring.

Finally it is time for the dreaded photo. The only thing worse than getting ones picture taken for ones license is that you also have to tell your weight. Out loud. Don’t they know that this is anathema to every American woman? Heck to every woman on the planet? You want me to tell you my REAL weight OUT LOUD? This is the equivalent of having the dressing room door ripped open by some kid when you are in the middle of trying on swim suits. You finally got up the courage to try on that bikini and BAM that renegade kid exposes you. It’s THAT traumatizing. The weight question always puts me in a moral dilemma. There is a strong urge to lie, but then I am afraid that my nose will look longer in the picture. Do I go with the long nose or the short nose? Do I dare speak aloud the real weight or go with the false weight? These questions seem too daunting.

I want to protest that these are the kinds of questions that take eons of philosophical debate to answer. I am given seconds. I make my decision. I am also asked a very serious question of whether I want to be an organ donor. I decide I am going to consider donating my brain to science. Certainly that particular DMV worker is on some sort of waiting list somewhere to receive a new brain. She asks me in her droning voice to take a seat. I am wondering if she has any experience at all with cameras. After all this IS a very important photo. The light has to be just right. I can’t be smiling too broadly, or too wanly. Does my hair look okay? Do I look fat in this shirt? Does she think the color I am wearing will become me? She doesn’t care. The woman who knows the two greatest secrets of my life, my age and my weight, doesn’t give a rip. The flash is blinding and then the dastardly deed is over. As was expected, I didn’t like it. I wanted to ask for a retake, but mummies don’t give retakes. So I am stuck with my homely truth, my genuine weight, and my short nose. I guess it could be worse. I could be a mummy who works at the DMV.

Photo credit: defndaines / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Feature Box Photo Credit: Scott Ableman via Compfight cc

Boudoir Photo Shoot and Groupon

Every day in my e-mail in box I receive the Groupon of the day. This is a discount coupon you can purchase for a service, or restaurant, or item. I read today’s Groupon and immediately started laughing, because I was reminded of an incident that happened in my past.

My husband I were looking to move, so we went out and looked at different houses every week. A woman in my Bible study group happened to mention that she was selling her house and that I should go look at it. So we did. Her realtor let us in and we began to look around the house. It was a nice house and everything was going well, until we got to her bedroom. When we walked in her bedroom in a rather large frame above her bed was what could only be described as a “Budoir Photo.” Here on the wall in a glossy 20 x 24 was my Bible study friend posed very seductively in black lingerie. I just about fell over. Now I wasn’t appalled at the photo, it was tasteful enough and if you want to do that for your husband, so be it. But for the love of mercy take it down when a realtor is showing your house. After that I could not take the rest of the house seriously. All I could do was wander aimlessly from room to room laughing my behind off. What was I going to say to my friend next Wednesday at Bible study? “Hey, nice house. And look Trixie, your dorky realtor should have told you to take down your version of Mount Rushmore you got goin’ there in the bedroom. It’s a nice monument to self, but come on. Should it really be on display during an Open House? What is this, the Playboy Mansion? Is your realtor named Hefner? This is not exactly what I envision when I am told a house has “curb appeal.” Apparently her house had “curve appeal.”

So today I am reminded of said event when I received a Groupon in my e-mail for 77% off a Budoir Photo Shoot. Now this coupon was very appealing to me for many reasons, but specifically because of that extra two percent they gave me over 75%. Now what idiot set that percentage? I have a feeling it was a former realtor. I haven’t yet decided if I will sit for my Budoir photo shoot, but if I do, you can know for sure that baby goes with me to the grave.

My Epitaph:

Here Lies Stacey
and her Budoir Photo Shoot
It was rather racy
Worth a grave to Loot.

 

Photo Credit: Tim Everett (De Firenze Photography) via Compfight cc

Sunday School Girl vs Entropy Man

Have you ever taken a class and felt like what you learned was completely useless? That it would not help you a whit in everyday life? It is knowledge, but it is not functional knowledge to you? Physics however, is functional knowledge. I have been amazed at how much physics plays a part of my everyday life. For example, gravity is a law you can count on. I have found from experience when you walk off a building, you die. It’s really true. Every time. If it weren’t for that Chesnut mare I would have been a goner. Fortunately I fell off the building, and in full Clint Eastwood style, onto my saddled horse and rode off into the sunset. Or maybe it was to the Seven Eleven to get a Slurpee. I can’t quite recall now.

However I have found that some physics laws actually come to life. For example, every Sunday I face my formidable foe “Entropy Man.” Entropy, in case you forgot physics 101, states that everything is moving from a state or order to disorder. Now nothing proves this principle faster than children. They are constantly moving from a state of order to disorder faster than the parental hand can move. Every Sunday I begin the process of trying to get ready for Sunday school. So you could call me “Sunday school girl.” Now for those of you who have children, and those of you who don’t, let me say that trying to get out the door for church on Sunday morning with children is like trying to run a race with sand bags tied to each leg. For each child you have it is an additional sand bag. So every week, with three twenty pound sand bags tied to each leg, I begin the attempt of trying to show up for church. First I go through the arduous process of cleaning up little Johnny and little Jimmy. I comb their hair. I tie their shoes. I tuck in their shirts. I give them a final spit shine. Then I sit them on a bench. I look them square in the eye and say something like this, “Now listen Jimmy and Johnny, mommy just has to change the baby and then we can go. So you two just sit there. Don’t speak, don’t breath and whatever you do, do not move. If you move, you die. Are we clear?” With rather large eyes they nod at me affirmatively. I turn back to the baby, who gives me her most beautiful smile. I talk to her sweetly as she coos at me as I change her diaper. This is the calm before the storm. I am so pleased. We are finally ready to go. Then I turn back to Jimmy and Johnny. In the six point three nano seconds it has taken me to change the baby, Johnny’s shoes are untied, his shirt is untucked and his hair is disheveled. Jimmy on the other hand has a new stain on the front of his white shirt, his shoes are completely missing, and there is gum in a place no gum should ever be. It is at this moment that I know my silent enemy Entropy Man has been here. I have never seen him. He works stealthily and silently. Sometimes I think I have caught a glimpse of the edge of his cape, but only a glimpse. I have only to admire his work. He is my great nemesis. I now turn back to the baby who has just pooped in her fresh diaper. She looks up at me and laughs. I sigh. It is 8:30 and we haven’t even tackled Captain Mini Van yet.

Photo credit: Kevin Conor Keller / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

 

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and The Liquid, the Perishable and the Hazardous

There are certain signs one has reached the holiday season.

First, they are playing the eternally sappy song with the lines: “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

Second, you have been inundated with catalogs in your mailbox.

Third, it is time to make the inevitable trip to the post office to mail your Christmas cards and packages.

Upon entering the post office you immediately notice that everyone is haggard and disgruntled. You drag yourself to the number box, and pull your sentence slip from the wall. It says “47.” They are on number “32.” You sigh.

You try to make things interesting by noticing all the customers, by counting and recounting your cards, and by whistling. This does while away some of the time.

Finally, the momentous moment has arrived and it is your turn. The postal worker looks a bit droopy as she rattles off the familiar words: “Are you mailing anything liquid, perishable or potentially hazardous?”

Since this was my third trip there of the month, I just had to ask. I looked the lady square in the eye and said, “Does anyone ever say ‘yes’ to that question?”  She laughed.

“No,” she admitted, “They never do but we have to ask.” “You know,” I remarked, “the bad guys aren’t exactly going to fess up to what they have in the package. Honesty is really not their strong suit.” We had a good chuckle.

I think I brightened her day because she was still smiling as I left and she wished me a happy holiday.

In my mind I envisioned my next trip to the post office. When they asked me the inevitable question I decided I was going to reply: “Is it liquid, perishable and potentially hazardous? Why yes, It’s all three!”  I can’t wait to see their dumbfounded face as I am escorted out in handcuffs.

The JC Penney Applicant Test Designed By Homer Simpson

Recently I decided it would be advantageous for me to get a part-time job.

Since J.C. Penney is one of my favorite places to shop, I thought it would be enjoyable to work there. I only wanted some seasonal employment to bring in some extra income for the holidays. I am currently a stay-at-home mom and am not ready to re-enter the work force on some grand scale. I went in to the store and inquired if they were hiring.

The sales lady was very friendly and helpful. She said, “Oh yes, they are hiring for the holidays. In fact I just applied not to long ago and they called me right away! She instructed me to go to the computer, or what is otherwise known as the “career kiosk.” No sweat I thought. This should be a piece of cake. I will have me a part-time job in no time.

So the next week I brought in my resume and sat down at the “career kiosk” to apply. I was applying for a customer service job essentially. So I sat down and began the process of applying.

After filling in my basic information I got to part-three. It consisted of fifty questions concerning customer service scenarios one might face, questions about JC Penney and questions assessing your personality. At the end of this fifty question “test” I was told by the computer that “I did not match the qualifications they were looking for and that I could reapply in 180 days.” That was rather a slap in the face let me tell you.

I can say from first hand experience now, that there is nothing more demoralizing than being told you do not qualify to be a JC Penney customer service representative.

The only thing I can think of that might be worse is being told that you don’t qualify to be a Walmart greeter.

I had to wonder at that point just exactly what idiot designed this “test” that screened out applicants. Judging from the quality of his assessment I feel sure he has a beer belly, eats lots of doughnuts and works for someone named Mr. Burns.

Homer Simpson and the JC Penney Application Test
I believe he is responsible for creating these tests!

I had a notion to write the colleges where I received my bachelors and my masters degree and ask for a refund. I wanted to tell them that I am confused as to why they conferred these degrees upon me since I am apparently not qualified to run a cash register at JC Penney.

First off I want to say that I think these tests are designed to assume that you are lying, so that when you actually tell the truth, they think you are lying.

For example, they asked me where I preferred to shop. J.C. Penney was an option. If I select this option they will think I am lying and just saying that to be a brown noser. If I don’t choose it they will say I am not brand loyal. That is a classic double bind. Who wrote this freakin’ test?

Then there was the awesome question about the guy selecting mattresses. The question stated, “Suppose some guy comes in wearing a ratty t-shirt and shorts and goes over and is looking at the most expensive mattresses. Do you:

A. Smile and tell him he has good taste
B. Call security
C. Ask your co-workers to keep an eye on him
D. Ask him to please stay off the mattresses

I think there might have been one more option but I can’t recall it now. Let’s just look at the stellar selections we have.

First off I want to say that half of America dresses in ratty t-shirts and shorts. So if I go over and insult him (option D), then Bill Gate’s nephew is going to go home and tell his Uncle and their goes the J.C. Penney scholarship fund Bill had planned to set up (in addition to the lost mattress sale). Secondly, why should I choose b or c? If the guy attempts to steal a mattress I think we’ve got the heads up on him. So that leaves option A. It’s not great, but it’s the best we’ve got given the ridiculous options.

Another great question was: If you know that one of your co-workers is stealing from the company what would you do? Honestly, I can’t say what the ‘average’ person would do, but I would turn them in. Again, they probably figure the ‘average’ person would not turn them in, so if you say you would, you must be a liar.

But all of this is beside the point really. The real question is why am I being screened by a computer for a customer service job? Customer service is all about people skills, and though I sound a little like a cynical Alanis Morisette in my remarks about this test, it really is rather asinine to have a computer judge a human being. After all, I thought “It Is All Inside?”

I was in at JC Penney once, late at night, right as the store was getting ready to close. I was looking around in the shoe department. There was a couple at the register with a lot of clothes. That was unusual. People don’t usually pay for clothes in the shoe department, especially a lot of them. I got the feeling they knew the sales clerk and that he was going to let them walk out without paying for any of the items. Yet that can’t be true, because he apparently “passed the test” and we know that statistically this test has been proven to screen out 99% of sociopaths, mass murderers, liars and lunatics. (I guess you will have to judge in which category I fall).

After suffering Post Traumatic JC Penney Associate Rejection Syndrome and much therapy, I have moved on. I have applied for a job at a nuclear power plant. I hear the beer and doughnuts are pretty good. I also hear they don’t require any tests, because apparently the reactors are easier to operate than cash registers.

A Walk On The Wild Side: Reflections On Getting A Tattoo

I must admit that I have a fascination with tattoos. I wonder why people get them. I wonder why they choose the particular image they do. I wonder what it says about them. Is it a statement? If so, what does it say? Certainly it does catch the attention.

This past weekend I attended a “Renaissance Fair” with a good friend. She is rather a free spirit. So when she suggested that we get a henna tattoo, I was all for it. This could partly reflect that I am losing my mind. Or this could partly reflect that I never sowed any wild oats in my youth. Or this could partly reflect a mid-life crisis. You choose. Whatever the case, we went for it. I once read that if you are thinking about getting a real tattoo, you should try getting a henna tattoo first. So I found myself going through the simulated experience of what it would be like to get a real tattoo. My free spirited friend was not the least bit worried. She had them free-hand a vine-flower bracelet around her wrist. Me on the other hand was scouring the books of designs trying to figure out what the heck I wanted to brand myself with. When it came down to it, what symbol really defines me? I looked at flowers, hearts, butterflies, initials, geometric shapes, animals, birds, sayings. I looked at every book. I couldn’t make up my mind. I am a person who can’t decide what to eat for breakfast. How can I decide on something that is going to remain on my body for the next six weeks? Not only do you have to decide on an image you have to decide where to place it. That’s a whole other dilemma. Do you want it to show? Do you not? If it doesn’t show what is the point? What if you place a tiger face on your belly and then you gain weight making it look less like a tiger face and more like Jabba the Hut? These things have to be carefully thought through.

Finally it was my turn and I was sweating bullets. Though I really wanted to engage my wild side, when it got down to it I was a big fraidy cat. The young girl in front of me was getting a huge flower design which covered half of the side of her abdomen. She was squealing delightedly. Then comes me. With sober face I sit in the chair and immediately ask, “How small can you make it?” My thoughts are if this thing goes south and I am stuck with it forever, I don’t want to have to explain a large scorpion for the rest of my life. The tattoo artist smiled at me amusingly. She explained assuredly that a henna tattoo meant good luck. I wanted to explain to her that my experience with good luck was very limited. Just recently a grandfatherly figure at my kids school came up to me and gave me a picture he took of a four leaf clover. “Here you take this for good luck.” he said. “Use it as a bookmark.” I took it home. Promptly my dog got a hold of the photo and chewed it. It is now wrinkled with teeth marks. This is somehow a metaphor of my life and my experience with luck. But how do I explain all this to a woman dressed in Renaissance garb holding some sort of medieval instrument who is about to give me my first tattoo? (Other than the adhesive one I put on my hand of Yoda). Instead I sat there and prayed for it to look decent.

henna butterfly tattoo

Fast forward to the evening. Now I am sitting at a Jazz Bistro with my same friend, celebrating her birthday. She has her henna bracelet and I have my minute butterfly on my right hand. They are now invisible because the henna flakes off and then your skin absorbs it. My friend is delightedly telling our other friend how her and I got henna tattoos at the festival today. Our other friend immediately frowns her disapproval. After all GOOD Christian women do NOT get TATTOOS. Then she tells us of a show she saw recently where this person got a henna tattoo and it would not wear off. My heart fell to my stomach. I wanted to run to the bathroom and immediately start scrubbing. My cohort in crime looked at me withering in my chair and said with a smile “Don’t you dare wash that off!”

I must say the whole experience has given me a real appreciation of people who do get tattoos. I admire that they have the guts to do it and the ability to make decisions. Now obviously many people do get tattoos impetuously and without thought. But I think some people do put thought into it. I don’t think I could get a tattoo unless I thought about it for a long time very carefully, but that’s just me. I don’t judge people by externals, though I know many people do. What God cares about is the inner condition of our heart. I know many people who look squeaky clean on the outside, but inside their heart is so black it is rotting. For now I think I am just going to admire other people’s tattoos. Next up for me? Belly dancing.

My Secret Admirer

Okay. I confess. I have a secret admirer. It’s true. His name is Jason. For many months Jason repeatedly called my cell phone. He would leave lovely messages for me. He would always mumble, “Hey Susie, this is Jason. I’m just calling to say hi. You know I love ya. Please call me. I miss ya. I want to hear from ya. I love ya.” I found the messages greatly amusing and quite endearing. He loves me! It made my whole day. If only my name was Susie. Poor Jason. He always kept waiting for Susie to call him back, and I am sure she never did since she didn’t get any of his messages. I can hear the argument now. “But I left you three messages!” Jason implores. “No you didn’t!” she yells. “I never got any calls from you.” “I am not lying I called you!” Jason pleads. She picks up his phone. “AHA!” she says. “You have been calling Stacey! Now who the heck is STACEY, huh?” Poor befuddled Jason hangs his head. “Women,” he mutters. “I’ll never understand them.” Jason is a victim of love in a technological age. Here’s the moral of the story guys: Make sure you are dialing the correct cell phone number when you leave your messages of love. Then you will get a kiss instead of a fist in the smacker. However, if you want to call me to just tell me you love me, I won’t mind. Not a bit.

Loud Braying Reveals An Ass

donkeyOkay let’s get real honest here. We all hate a blowhard, and truth be told we have all been one ourselves at one time or another. To brag about yourself shows immediately that you are in fact a fool and you have just pronounced it for all the world to hear. Some people are so accomplished at it that you feel like asking them if they have a star on the walk of fame next to John Wayne. In addition to making you a supremely boring person, bragging is immensely irritating to the listener. My realtor once proclaimed, “I make the best brownies in the world.” I guess I should have eaten one because she was unable to sell my house.

I too have bragged on myself at some point, I am sure. Now I know myself too well to be singing any praises about myself. But some people sing all four parts and have formed it into a one man opera. I want to tell them it is nice of them to finish Mozart’s Requiem since he didn’t get to do it himself, for surely this is what it is since they are boring me to death. I would tell them that too if I could get a word in edgewise. Instead I sigh, and wish longingly that I was standing in line at the DMV to get my dreaded license picture taken. It’s amazing the reaches the brain will go to to escape boredom.

Truly fascinating and gracious people are always those who are interested in others. One of the most gracious people I have ever known never wanted to talk about herself and was always helping others. Ask other people questions about themselves. You will be amazed at how fascinating they think you are. By all means leave the ass at home. That donkey needs to stay in the stable.

“Let another person praise you and not your own mouth; someone else and not your own lips.”

Proverbs 27:2

How Not To Marry A Pig

If there is anything we love it is a little marital advice. So listen up boys, because I am going to give you some. This little charmer doesn’t come from me however. It comes from the wisest man who ever lived (being exceeded only by Christ). I am speaking of King Solomon of course. In 1 Kings 4:29 it says that “God gave Solomon wisdom and very great discernment; the breadth of his understanding was as infinite as the sand on the shore.” What an incredible statement of the vast blessing God poured out on Solomon. Yet, if Solomon was known for anything else, it was also women. He had 700 royal wives and 300 concubines. His wives were known to have a powerful influence over him. Despite his vast wisdom, his many wives led him astray. That in itself is a warning. Choose your life partner carefully.

Solomon wrote most of the book of Proverbs and therein contains nuggets of wisdom concerning all of life. I want to focus on one: Proverbs 11:22. It says “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman who lacks discretion.” To be discreet means to “show discernment and good judgment in conduct and especially in speech; capable of preserving prudent silence.” If there ever was a litmus test for women it would be speech. The way a woman conducts herself in speech tells you volumes about her character. The woman may be very beautiful, but if you see she can’t keep a secret, gossips, and tears others down with her tongue then send that girl packing. The idea is no matter how beautiful she looks externally, internally she’s a pig and will always be one. You can dress a pig up, and even put a gold ring in it’s snout, but at the end of the day it is still a gross, stinky, disgusting pig.

I knew a woman like this. She was petite and attractive. She dressed well. She was multi-talented. Yet her tongue made her the ugliest woman I have ever met. If I could vomit up every interaction I ever had with her I would. Take it from me gentleman: run from that pig, run.

Washing Other People’s Pigs

Let me ask you. Have you ever had someone come over and help you wash your pig? Believe me you would remember if you did because it is supremely annoying. This is the person who comes over and sticks their nose in your business and offers unsolicited help and advice about how to solve a problem you and someone else are having. Ah, now you know what I mean. We all have the pigs and to the rescue comes the pig washer.

Mine came with her sleeves all rolled up prepared to do God’s will. She slung her hands down in the soapy water and went right to work on the sow. First she explained how she had once had a similar problem (and therefore my problem must be exactly the same). Whap! That pig kicked up some mud with it’s hoof and it landed smack in the middle of her forehead. I never said a word. Then she picked up a sponge and soaked it with water and began to really scrub that baby. She explained my offenses in detail and actually proceeded to embellish them by adding a major sin to the list. I don’t recall her asking my side of the story nor listening to what I had to say. At this point the pig sat down in it’s own poop then promptly rolled around in her lap. I wondered how much bleach it was going to take to get the stain out. She proceeded on undeterred to her conclusion explaining to me what I needed to do to rectify the situation in the only gracious Christian manner possible. At this point the pig stood up buried its snout in the grubs then turned and kissed her on the lips. She smiled triumphantly and stood up very proud that she had served God and scrubbed my pig shining clean. I escorted her to the door and had to physically restrain myself from kicking her behind on the way out. I watched her walk away covered in mud, poop and grubs. Then I turned and smiled at the pig who looked as dirty as ever and we both fell on the ground and rolled in laughter. I sure hope she has a lot of bleach.

“Meddlers are sure to hurt their own characters; if you scrub other people’s pigs you will soon need scrubbing yourself.”

Charles Spurgeon

John Ploughman’s Talk

There is a Sucker Born Every Minute and It’s Usually Me

Our culture is obsessed with beauty and yet ironically we have absolutely no idea what beauty is. Every woman in America finds herself faced with impossible standards put forth by photos in magazines and images on T.V. We have reduced beauty to mere outer appearance and in doing so we have become a very shallow culture indeed. Have you ever met someone who is drop dead gorgeous on the outside, but inside is as vapid as mud? We spend hours working on the outside appearance and virtually none working on our character. Every truly beautiful person I know has worked on transforming the heart.

I find myself face to face with the idiocy when I go to look at all the moisturizing creams that promise to turn back the clock for me and keep me eternally youthful. As I stand there trying to decide which one to buy only one thought runs through my head: “There is a sucker born every minute and right now it’s you.” The claims these products make are downright laughable. “Age defying!” they proclaim. They are defying alright, but mostly to the health of my wallet. One ounce of eye cream costs something like $60. To be honest I think a really great kiss on the lips would do me more good and I know it would make me happier because I like kissing. So put your money in your wallet and go home and kiss the hubby. No one can call you a sucker for that.

“Let your beauty not be external – the braiding of the hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes – but the inner person of the heart, the lasting beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit which is precious in God’s sight.”

1 Peter 3:3-4

“Wisdom walks often in patched clothes, and then folks do not admire her; but I say never mind the coat, give me the man: shells are nothing, the kernel is everything.”

Charles Spurgeon

Me and Rodney Dangerfield

It’s the story of my life, and Rodney’s too. We never get any respect. Respect means to regard with esteem and honor. I am the person whose voice always gets silenced by the more powerful. My thoughts don’t matter. My feelings don’t matter. I don’t matter. When you are the youngest in your family, you can never outgrow the position. Since you are the “baby” you are always treated as one. You are never taken seriously. At school I was the bullied, the teased, the put down. At home I was the “not quite good enough.” Despite bringing home every award in the book, the approval carrot was always out of reach.

In high school I hung with the geeky, brainy kids. The ones who despite their awkwardness were going to go somewhere. There I found some level of belonging. I thought life was good when I dated the future valedictorian. I was crazy about him. He gave me every compliment in the book. I memorized them all. He then proceeded to use, abuse and discard me.

I am definitely the underdog. I am always the one who gets mistreated, disrespected, underestimated, misunderstood. After a while you stop trying to explain because you know no one is going to hear you anyway. Someday I know I am going to be “discovered.” Someone is going to get to know me and go “WOW! What a fantastic person is hidden in there!” Someday that ship of respect will come in. I am standing on the shore awaiting it.