So why, even as we speak, are my closets being held hostage by legions of hostile wire hangers?
I have this theory. I have a theory that while my house looks, on the outside, like a perfectly normal single-family dwelling, there are, in reality, sinister forces at work here. I have reason to believe that my house has been hexed and, as a result, any family who lives within these walls will be forced to contend with the Curse of the Copulating Clutter.
I know this sounds far-fetched, but I don’t know quite how else to explain the fact that every morning I wake to twice as much clutter as the night before. The stuff breeds during the midnight hours, I’m certain of it.
What clutter-management techniques have I acquired? Well, sometimes, I try to recycle. Over the holidays, for example, I enlisted the artistic talents of friend Gavin Jones to craft a wire metal hanger into a hat from which a sprig of mistletoe could be hung four inches above the head of the wearer.
But we were lucky. Not every unwanted household item can be recycled into something quite so useful.
Which gives me an idea. I’ve always had a crush on Richard Dean Anderson in his role as MacGyver. I’m thinking they should produce a reunion show, and tape it at my house. Think of all the useful things MacGyver could invent from the clutter in my home. Why, put him in one room alone, and he could build a space shuttle. Or a minivan. Or best yet, something I could REALLY put to good use, like Rosie, the robotic maid from the Jetsons.
But the tangible clutter in my home isn’t the worst of it. Old magazines, mugs featuring pictures of state capitals, a tray of bobbins belonging to the sewing machine I gave to Goodwill seven years ago—these things may be annoying, but they’re manageable.
It’s the other clutter in my life that I can’t quite get a handle on, the stuff even MacGyver can’t touch. Stuff like bad habits and old hurts and painful memories, not to mention lingering lusts and dusty grudges and broken dreams.
Stuff I should have gotten rid of a long time ago.
Maybe I should forget Anderson’s Hollywood agents and put in a call to Someone who can REALLY help. There is, after all, a Master Recycler, someone who promises that he can take ALL things in my life and make them work out—somehow, if I let him—for good. His awesome lemons-into-lemonade abilities even prompted one Bible hero, Joseph, to look into the eyes of the brothers who betrayed him and admit, “What you meant for evil, God meant for good.”
God doesn’t recycle overnight. Sometimes he takes years. But I’m realizing that he can’t even get started on my clutter until I unclench my fists and hand it over.
What he’ll make of it all is up to him.
I know it’s not very spiritual, but I’ll go ahead and say it anyway:
I’m hoping for at least one Rosie out of the whole mess.
15
Say Good-bye to Good Intentions
I FINALLY DID IT.
I thumbed through the phone book, found the number, dialed it, and made an appointment for two weeks from today.
I’m going to see an electrologist.
I’ve been meaning to make an appointment for months. Lots of months. Actually, dozens of them. But can you blame me for procrastinating?
You’ve heard of electrolysis, right? It’s a way of getting rid of unwanted hair on your face and body. The way I understand it, I’m paying about a dollar a minute to have a certified technician stick a miniature cattle prod into my hair follicles, then turn to a hunchbacked assistant and shout the words, “Throw the switch!”
I think it also has to be a stormy night.
It’s a drastic measure, I know. But you’ll have to trust me when I say that I’m not taking this step lightly. I can either submit to these Mary-Shelleyesque electrical treatments, or I can continue resembling Wolfman Jack. It’s come down to this.
Actually, I’ve been battling these two dozen annoying chin hairs for several years now. The final straw occurred this past weekend. We had friends coming over Sunday afternoon to watch a Cowboys game on TV, and I was in the bathroom getting ready, and . . . well . . . I nicked myself shaving.
Not my leg, mind you. My face.
I stemmed the bleeding with a twist of toilet paper and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought, this is what happens to fourteen-year-old boys who borrow their dad’s razor for the first time. They look just like this, with toilet paper spit wads on their chins. Of course, fourteen-year-old boys don’t wear Caffe Latte lipstick by Estee Lauder, but other than that, the similarities were striking.
It was time to take permanent action.
Even though I haven’t had my appointment yet, it feels good to have made the call. There’s something about finally getting around to a long-intended project that feels really great.
In fact, I’m so inspired by how good I feel right now that I’m wondering what other loose-end projects I can tackle. What else have I been putting off that I could get out of the way?
Oh. I just remembered one. Okay, I’ll admit this one’s no fun. In fact, having my follicles electrocuted by a mad scientist ranks higher on my list of favorite activities than this next project.
You probably know what I’m thinking about. In fact, my guess is that you’re overdue as well.
I’m thinking about The Dreaded Well-Woman Exam.
Who came up with this process, anyway? I mean, a total stranger tells me to wear nothing but a paper towel, plant my feet in metal stirrups that feel like they’ve been stored in the freezer, and then I’m supposed to relax and chitchat while he maneuvers a Buick around in there? I don’t THINK so.
Sigh.
But it’s a necessary evil. I’m going to stop procrastinating and make the call. You should too.
Let’s see. What else have I been intending to do? I’m going to make it something fun this time. Oh, I know! Have lunch with Jeffie Burns. She’s the Children’s Ministry Director at my church, and she’s got a wit sharper than an electrolysis needle. Time spent with Jeffie always gets me laughing and leaves me uplifted. We’ve been promising to “do lunch” for months. I think I’ll nail something down.
January seems to be the month for grandiose new schemes and resolutions. But you know what? I’d love to spend it just catching up on old plans and good intentions.
Something else I’ve always intended to do has been to read through the Bible in a year. In fact, one of the Bibles I have is already divided into 365 readings. I’ve just never cracked the cover. I’d have to do a little catch-up here at the beginning, but I know it would be an enjoyable journey.
You know, good intentions and a buck’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Maybe it’s time to turn some of those good intentions into reality.
Wanna join me? Call your OB-GYN. Have lunch with a friend. Dust off your Bible.
And if you’ve been battling unwanted hairs, take heart. I hear Dr. Frankenstein’s available for evening and weekend appointments as well.
16
Crash Diet at Freeway Speeds
I’VE BEEN OFF MY DIET FOR WEEKS.
This morning my breakfast consisted of cookies and potato chips. The good news is the chips were of the low-fat variety. The bad news is that I ate half a bag.
Wait. It gets worse.
Then, a couple hours ago I found myself in the drive-through lane at McDonald’s. But it TOTALLY wasn’t my fault. After forgetting to pack a lunch for my teenager, I promised to deliver a sandwich to her school office. When I realized I didn’t have any bread in the house, I found myself forced to drive through McDonald’s and purchase a cheeseburger and fries for her. And, as you can well imagine, the only way to keep myself from eating her french fries while I drove was to buy a second burger and fries of my very own.
The next thing I know I’m driving down the highway and smelling french fries and salivating at the thought of chasing down my breakfast of cookies and chips with a nice, greasy burger when suddenly I think to myself:
LINAMEN, GET A GRIP!
Sure, I started a diet on January
1 just like you did. But here I am, already two weeks strong into a hearty binge.
Say it ain’t so.
You know, starting a diet is one thing. Starting it for the eighty-seventh time gets a little tedious.
Anyway, I was thinking about all this while driving down the freeway when suddenly I got the strong urge to take charge of my life and climb back on the rabbit food wagon, forsaking greasy pleasures for celery and salads. I almost chucked my cheeseburger out the window until I realized that the only thing worse than starting a diet for the eighty-seventh time would be starting a diet for the eighty-seventh time AND having to pay a $200 littering fine to boot.
A few minutes later I walked into Kaitlyn’s school office carrying two sacks. I dropped one sack on Mrs. Crumpton’s desk and waved the other. “Does anyone want a burger and fries?”
Mrs. Stracener said, “Did they give you an extra one?”
“Nope. It’s mine.” And then I blurted the whole ugly story, about the chips and the cookies and the two-week binge and realizing I needed to GET A GRIP and feeling desperate and nearly getting fined for littering—
About that time Mrs. Crumpton grabbed my hands, looked solidly into my eyes, and said reassuringly, “We can help you, dear.”
“Thank you!” I gushed. “Just don’t let me eat the fries . . . whatever you do, DON’T LET ME EAT THE FRIES!”
So now I’m back on my diet, and there are two women in Texas who think what I really should be on is medication.
I hate starting over. It doesn’t matter if the thing I’m starting over is a diet or a page of prose that I should have had saved when my dog tripped over the electrical cord to my computer.
The other thing I hate to do is start over when I stumble in my walk with Jesus. Somehow, I’d love to deal with a sin or doubt or fear or struggle once and never have to deal with it again. I’d love to announce—when the topic of gossip or lust or envy comes up—“Been there, done that!”
I’d love to say, “Anger? Oh sure. I got angry back in 1974, but the Lord delivered me, and I’ve been gracious ever since.”
“Depression? Did that in ’87. Never struggled since.”
“Lack of faith? Lord and I put that one to bed back in ’93.”
The good news is that even when I’m feeling defeated from having to muster a brand-new attack on a not-so-new enemy, there’s Someone standing by with fresh resources to see me through. Indeed, the Bible promises us that God’s mercies and compassion never fail. In fact, they are new every morning, and his faithfulness is great!
Even when I’m weak, he is strong.
Which is reassuring. Especially since I only ate half the bag of chips this morning. I think the other half is still waiting for me in the kitchen.
17
Battle Strategies for Lovers
WE’VE ALL HEARD THE SAYING “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR.”
This is absurd. If you want my opinion, I say, “Why choose? Do both!”
After all, fighting is an unavoidable aspect of marriage. I mean, you can’t share a bathroom sink or a checkbook with someone without coming close to blows from time to time.
So I figure the best marriage has to include room for making love AND war. You just have to know how to get from point A to point B, from all that blaming and fuming to a little passion and foreplay.
And if you happen to know how to do that, please e-mail me and let me know, because I haven’t got a clue.
Actually, I’ve tried various approaches through the years, and I’ll be happy to tell you what doesn’t work.
Sugar cookies, for example, don’t work.
I know this because Larry and I had a fight last week. As we were arguing, I walked into the kitchen, removed a tub of cookie dough from the freezer, and dropped a dozen chunks of dough onto a baking stone without letting my side of the debate lag for even a moment.
Twelve minutes later I grabbed a spatula, slid the perfectly browned cookies onto a plate, then poured one glass of milk.
About that time Larry commented on my Betty Crocker response to marital discord. He said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to eat this entire plate of cookies.”
“Don’t I get some?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
We didn’t end up in bed. Hard to believe, isn’t it?
So bingeing on sugar cookies isn’t the answer. Especially if you’re not willing to share.
The other thing that fails to move a hostile couple from griping to groping would be acts of violence against helpless household appliances. I learned this one evening when I threw Larry’s alarm clock out of a second-story window. Trust me when I say this did not prompt him to stop waving the credit card bill in the air and take me in his arms.
Go figure.
I did feel bad about that one, though. I decided to apologize by giving him a new alarm clock along with a note that said, “I guess having fun isn’t the only way to make time fly!”
Unfortunately, I never got to write the funny note. Larry was able to repair his old clock, so I had to settle on apologizing in a run-of-the-mill fashion unenhanced by my sparkling wit.
And then we kissed and made up.
Darn. You know what that means, don’t you?
It means I just stumbled upon one way to get from point A to point B—from being rivals to being lovers—and it has to do with mastering the knack of apologizing.
Which is a bummer, because I’d much rather eat sugar cookies than my words.
But there it is, a hard-to-swallow fact of life: An apology works wonders at restoring harmony and romance in a marriage.
Actually, knowing how to apologize when we’ve made a mistake not only keeps our marriages vibrant but keeps our relationship with God healthy as well. Read Mathew 5:23 and 24. Now, I’m not a Bible scholar, but here’s what I get from those verses: The next time I’m in church making an offering to God of anything—my time, dollars, or praise—and I suddenly remember that I’ve wronged someone, I should leave the building, get in my car, drive to that person’s house, patch things up, and then get back to church and finish my business with God. Unless, of course, the person is standing next to me. In that case I suppose I could skip the driving part. But you get the idea.
And if I’m the person who was wronged and stayed miffed, the Bible’s just as clear. Mark 11:25 tells me that the next time I’m praying, if I’m holding a grudge against anyone, I’d better ’fess up and forgive or else all that unforgiveness in me will hinder God from being able to forgive all the stuff I’ve done wrong.
Tough stuff. Easier said than done.
But maybe, in the end, keeping our relationships—with each other and with God—free and clear of the debris of grudges is actually the easier way to live. It’s certainly more fun.
And if the person with whom you need to degrudgulate happens to be your husband, well, it’s possible that all that kissing and making up just might work up an appetite. If so, you could always end up in the kitchen for a little post-reconciliatory snack.
Sugar cookies always work for me.
18
Read My Lips
I SAW THIS GREAT BUMPER STICKER YESTERDAY.
It said, “Oh, Evolve.”
I saw another bumper sticker a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t nearly as subtle. It said, “Men Are Idiots And I Married Their King.”
What was particularly funny is that the King was driving the car.
We love to make statements, don’t we? On our bumpers, our T-shirts . . .
And speaking of clothing statements, the one I’ve never quite understood is the whole deal with B.U.M. Equipment. Why a man would wear a shirt announcing that to the entire world is beyond me.
And don’t even get me started on jewelry. I know that kids these days are trying to make a statement with the whole body piercing thing. I’ve seen some of the places people are getting pierced, though, and the only thing they seem to be saying is, “I never should have had that last
drink.”
The truth is, personal statements fascinate me, whether we’re talking about someone using their car, clothing, or their web site to say, “This is who I am, and here’s what I think about this or that.”
And what about statements of faith? I don’t know about your household, but there are more WWJD bracelets floating around mine than wrists to wear them. And plenty of T-shirts sporting Bible verses or faith-inspired phrases.
Here’s the thing with wearing your faith on your sleeve, so to speak. It helps if you put your actions where your mouth is. It’s like the time about ten years ago I was driving down the road and pulled in behind a sedan sporting the bumper sticker that said, “Honk If You Love Jesus!” (Remember those?) So I honked. Now, it’s possible the man driving the sedan thought I was trying to hurry him along. In any case, he indicated his displeasure by twisting around in his seat and flashing me a lone finger (and it wasn’t the “One Way” sign either!).
I’m all for catchy slogans. “Honk if you love Jesus” was catchy. “Smile, Jesus loves you” was catchy. Even WWJD was catchy.
I’ve got one that’s not so catchy, but I’d love to see it catch on nonetheless. But, as illustrated by our finger-waving friend in the sedan, it’s got to be accompanied by the right actions to carry any punch.
It goes like this:
HCILJLYTM?
Now, THERE’S a great statement. I realize it’s about as pronounceable as the name of The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, but it’s a great statement nonetheless. In fact, I’d love to launch a national campaign with this statement. I’d love to print it on billboards and bumper stickers and T-shirts. (Okay, so they’d have to be size XL to handle all the letters, but still . . . )
HCILJLYTM?
It could revolutionize your world.
The meaning? Simple: How Can I Let Jesus Love You Through Me?
Okay, so I don’t have the shirts printed yet, the bumper stickers are still in the art department, and we had to go back to the drawing board with the earrings (too heavy; potential spinal column compression).
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