Welcome to the Funny Farm

by Karen Scalf Linamen

  After all, what other experience gives you the opportunity to sweat, bicker, whine, battle boredom, and bond with loved ones all in the space of one week?

  I’m talking, of course, about the family road trip.

  The recipe for a road trip is simple. You begin with a handful of kids and one or two well-intentioned adults. Put them into a space the size of the average coat closet. Jostle, mix, and toss for five to ten days. Season with any combination of the following: PMS, road maps that appear to have been written by the Three Stooges, pent-up testosterone, fast-food wrappers, engine trouble, a half-eaten bag of pork rinds, “NO VACANCY” signs viewed through bloodshot eyes at midnight, surly teenagers, and preschoolers with bladders the size of peanuts.

  When the car limps back to its driveway-of-origin, fling open the doors.

  All that jostling and seasoning in close quarters will have fostered a certain fermenting/marinating kind of process. Sort of like Amish friendship bread.

  Or composting.

  In any case, what tumbles out of the car—in addition to sweaty, cranky family members—is something not quite as tangible (and definitely not as aromatic), but just as real nevertheless.

  I’m talking, of course, about warm family memories.

  Sure, some of that warmth gets generated from heated arguments, busted radiators, and the kind of emotional spontaneous combustion that can occur when normally civilized folks spend too much time confined together in close quarters.

  But even memories of chaos and crises, in retrospect, can take on a certain charm of their own. In fact, in hindsight, some vacation foibles can become downright hilarious. After all, lots of folks believe that comedy is merely tragedy plus time, and they may be on to something.

  Other warm family memories, however, come from genuine Kodak moments. Intimate connections that wouldn’t have occurred back home in the rush of daily living. Sweet moments of bonding (and I’m not referring to the time the Tootsie Roll melts in the backseat and glues the two-year-old to the upholstery).

  So that’s the kind of thing I get to look forward to. Our trip begins in one week, which gives me a limited amount of time to compile all the little necessities we’re going to need for our journey. On the list are car toys, snacks, an ice chest, Larry’s Windham Hill CDs, my collection of Shania Twain tapes, sunglasses, road maps, and a prescription of Valium.

  I thought about bringing Walter, but decided that spending five days confined in a car with a German shepherd was on par with a bad case of hemorrhoids: The experience wouldn’t kill us, but we’d be so miserable we’d wish it had.

  So Walter will stay home. And we’ll hit the road. And when it’s all said and done, we’ll spend twenty bucks getting film processed at Wal-Mart, two days unloading the car, and the next couple dozen years reliving the laughter and the memories.

  Truth is, I’m looking forward to the trip. It’s going to be an adventure. I know everything won’t go as planned and that there will be surprises (some good, some not so good) along the way, but I figure if everything went EXACTLY as planned, I’d wake up to find I’d been dreaming, which would mean, among other things, that none of my pictures would turn out.

  Unplanned chaos, ruts, and bumps. I sort of expect them when I’m on a road trip.

  They’re a little harder to accept in other parts of my life.

  When it comes to my marriage, parenting, finances, career, health, and friendships, I’d just as soon go by the map, thankyouverymuch. No surprises. No detours, disasters, or delays.

  Unfortunately, that’s not how it works.

  Which is one of the reasons I love Psalm 139. It’s one of my favorite passages in the Bible. I love it because it’s chock-full of comfort, whether I’m talking about an excursion on the road or a season of my life.

  The whole Psalm, from top to bottom, is magnificent. Do me a favor and read it (or reread it) for yourself this week. But in the meantime, let me quote one of my favorite phrases, penned by King David to God:

  “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? . . . If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast” (vv. 7–10).

  What a comforting thought for road-weary folk like me! And it only gets better. I love the part where David says to the Lord, “You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me” (v. 5).

  What a great image! Whenever I read this verse, I get this picture: I’m traveling down the road of life, and there’s God. He’s got me surrounded. He’s in front of me. He’s behind me. He’s even above me, with his hand on my head. This is better than Mapsco, folks. Better than AAA. Even better than having a car with one of those fancy satellite links that slaps street directions on a computer screen on your dashboard.

  Feeling a little road-weary? Had your share of bumps and detours? Feeling lost and in need of some directions?

  Yeah, me too.

  What a great time to remember that we belong to Someone who doesn’t need a compass for directions. He doesn’t look to the stars because he’s the One who hung the moon. Best yet, if we let him, he’s ready to lead us in the way everlasting.

  Not even AAA comes close.

  34

  Open Mouth, Insert Foot?

  PEOPLE SAY THINGS TO ME ALL THE TIME that I’d just as soon not hear. One day a woman came up to me in a store. I’d never met her before in my life. She just approached me to pay me a compliment.

  At least I think it was a compliment.

  She said, “I just love your hair color! It looks so natural. What brand do you use?”

  I guess it didn’t look as natural as I’d hoped.

  But I shouldn’t feel too bad. My husband has had worse experiences. A college professor at the time, my husband had just finished teaching a class when a student approached him and, nodding at my husband’s suit, said, “I used to have a jacket that exact same color. I made it into a pillow for my dog.”

  Sometimes the table is turned. Sometimes I’m the one who would love to make a comment or give a piece of advice, but I hesitate because I’m not sure how well my words would be received.

  In fact, recently I was sitting in an airport when I thought of something I wanted to say to the woman sitting three seats away from me.

  I wanted to say, “You don’t have to yell. I don’t know who you’re talking to, but my guess is that whoever it is, they would be able to hear you even without the cell phone.”

  Of course, people who yell into their cell phones aren’t the only folks I’d love to set straight.

  There are other things I’d love to say—but never manage to get up the courage to do so. Here’s the short list:

  “I’d love to know the name of the store where you buy your clothes. That way I won’t ever shop there by mistake.”

  “Your kids could be bottled and marketed as a form of birth control.”

  “You don’t have to suffer with unsightly facial hair. Help is available. We have the technology.”

  “Booger alert.”

  I don’t say these things because I’m afraid the person I’m saying them to will be upset or offended. Of course, if I REALLY wanted to get these sorts of things off my chest, I could always have them silkscreened on a T-shirt or bumper sticker. This is because people will communicate all sorts of things on their chests or bumpers that they would never say in real life. Remember the bumper sticker that said “Mother-in-law in trunk”?

  Sometimes getting something off your chest isn’t such a bad thing. Sometimes people are wise to take a chance and just spit it out. They’re right to just walk up and say what’s on their minds even though they’re not certain how their words will be received.

  Some of my best friends have done this with me. I remember the time my sister Michelle took a risk with me and said, “You know, Karen, you seem angry all the time.” Her words got me thinking . . . and into Christian counseling.

  I
t took courage for her to speak up. She took a risk, and it paid off.

  Maybe I should follow her example. Jump in. Take a risk now and then. Maybe not with total strangers talking too loudly into their cell phones but with folks I know and love.

  Telling a friend who is angry or depressed, “I love you and I’m concerned about you,” is one example.

  I can think of another example of something I should be willing to say more often. Oh, I think about saying it a lot, but too often I hesitate to spit it out. I’m afraid my words might not be well received, so I just think about what I’d like to say, roll it around in my head now and then, never letting the marble drop down to my mouth and out my lips.

  I’m talking about the phrase, “You need Jesus in your life.”

  I’m not saying I’m not willing to talk AROUND the topic. If I’m with a friend who doesn’t know Jesus, I might talk about church or God or spirituality in sort of general terms. But when it comes to the bottom line, I’m chicken. I hesitate to get the words out of my mouth: “You need Jesus in your life. Not church. Not a belief in some nebulous big guy upstairs. Not angels or good karma or some book by the latest spiritual guru featured on Oprah . . . but Jesus.”

  Sure, there’s a chance that my friend will scoff or disagree or get defensive.

  But there’s also the chance that she’ll say, “I’m not sure what I need, but I know I need something. Maybe it’s Jesus, after all. Tell me more . . .”

  Some phrases are simply worth the risk. In fact, some phrases have such eternal significance that NOT blurting them out can have tragic results.

  “You need Jesus” falls into that category.

  “Booger alert” does not.

  35

  Chocolate Lovers, Unite!

  I HAVE A WEAKNESS FOR CHOCOLATE.

  And apparently I’m not alone! When my book came out entitled Just Hand Over the Chocolate and No One Will Get Hurt, I found out just how much women love chocolate.

  I was signing books one day when a woman came through the line. As I was signing her book, she drew near, peered into my eyes, and said conspiratorially: “Never, never, NEVER eat chocolate with nuts in it.”

  I blinked. “Um, okay. Sure. Why not?”

  She said with conviction, “The nuts take up valuable space.”

  The other reason I know how much women love chocolate is because of their e-mail addresses. I get e-mails all the time from readers, and more women than you might imagine have e-mail addresses such as “MsChocolate,” “M&Mlady,” and “Hersheyluvr.”

  Even the content of their e-mails speaks to their love affair with chocolate. I’ve received more than one note that says something along the lines of the following: “As soon as I saw your book I knew I had to buy it! I had no idea what the book was about. I had never read any of your other books. In fact, I had never even heard of you. But I bought your book because I love chocolate!”

  So that’s my new marketing approach. It doesn’t matter what topic I’m writing on—sex, water heater repair, rules for chat room etiquette, new trends in facial hair removal technology for post-menopausal women—whatever the topic, I’m putting the word “chocolate” in the title.

  Sure, it’s incongruent, but who cares? After all, who would have predicted the success of the best-selling book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig?

  Just think what he could have done if he’d used the word chocolate in the title.

  Fact is, there’s not much the world can dish out to us that a two-pound bag of M&M’s can’t solve.

  One day scientists will confirm what women have known for years: Chocolate really IS one of the four major food groups.

  So chocolate is a well-loved comfort food.

  What other foods do I turn to when I’m stressed or blue?

  I love to make microwave s’mores. I put a graham cracker on a napkin, sprinkle some chocolate chips on the cracker, then top with a large marshmallow. I microwave til the marshmallow puffs up twice its original size, then pull the whole thing out of the microwave and top it all with another graham cracker.

  These are messy treats but worth the effort. I’ve nibbled them while watching TV. I’ve gobbled them while standing in front of the microwave, all stressed out with no one to choke. I’ve savored them with girlfriends at my kitchen table. I tried eating one while working at my computer once, but my fingers kept sticking to the keyboard. Other than that, they’re a great all-around snack and comfort food.

  Of course, the downside to comfort foods is that they increase my waistline and make my bathroom scale cranky. I know my scale’s cranky when it keeps spitting larger and larger numbers at me.

  I’ve seen talking scales in stores. Yeah, right. Like that’s what I need first thing in the morning: some computerized voice announcing my weight for the world to hear. Don’t scale manufacturers realize that there are some things better left unsaid? Besides, if I really wanted to know how much I weigh, I wouldn’t go to the effort of weighing myself before I put in my contacts each morning.

  Sometimes I wish I could find comfort in rituals with a lower calorie content. Maybe I could acquire a taste for comfort carrots. Or take up comfort jogging. Or develop the habit of comfort flossing.

  Weigh-Down Workshop founder Gwen Shamblin has an interesting slant on comfort foods. She tells the story of feeling stressed and upset and craving an ice-cream sundae. This wasn’t just any sundae—she was craving the mother of all sundaes, complete with bananas and chocolate and nuts and whipped cream and a few Pepperidge Farm cookies tossed in on the side for good measure.

  But before she went to the kitchen, she went to Jesus. I don’t remember the exact words of her prayer. But the content was powerful, and her message stuck with me. Paraphrased, here’s what she prayed:

  “Lord, you know I REALLY want that ice cream. And I’m going to head into the kitchen in a few minutes to get it. But first I wanted to come to you. Can you do better than that sundae, Lord? Can you comfort me better than all that sugar and calories and goop? Because if you can, here’s your chance. I’m coming to you first.”

  She never made it to the kitchen. Instead, she was ushered into a precious time of praise and worship with her Lord, an experience that turned out to be far sweeter than Häagen Dazs and less fattening to boot!

  You think it won’t work for you? How can you be so sure? Look, if you’re willing to give it a try, I will too. Next time we’ve got a death grip on the chocolate, let’s take a breather and ask Jesus to comfort us instead.

  Just take a few minutes to pray and see what happens. Maybe even read a chapter from the Bible and see if the Holy Spirit has something wonderful to say to us through those inspired words. After all, there’s power in the Word of God, which certainly explains why the Bible is the best-selling book of all time.

  Even if it doesn’t have the word “chocolate” in the title.

  36

  Recycling Mom

  A COUPLE DAYS AGO MY HUSBAND CAME HOME from work and went upstairs to change out of his suit. After changing, he joined me in the kitchen. We chatted for a few minutes before he said, “Oh, something interesting happened at work today.”

  I said, “Yeah?”

  He said, “As usual, I was in and out of meetings all day. Met with the president a couple times. Staff meetings. Normal stuff. Had my jacket off most of the day, and kept noticing this splotch of red ink on my sleeve. I wondered if I’d dragged my arm through something on my desk. Couldn’t figure it out.”

  I was getting a bad feeling about this.

  He said, “It wasn’t until everyone had gone home for the day that I was sitting at my desk and looked down and noticed something else.”

  I winced.

  He said, “I noticed a big splotch of white on the front of my shirt. It was white on white, so I hadn’t seen it earlier. Then I saw the blue streaks on the back of my sleeve, and the green flecks on my collar, and it dawned on me what had happened—I’d worn one of t
he girls’ painting smocks to work.”

  Now, I’m not very dedicated about recycling. But every now and then I come up with an idea or two of which I’m pretty proud.

  Recycling my husband’s old dress shirts into painting smocks for the kids was one of them.

  I just never figured they’d get recycled back into work-wear.

  Tie-dye, move over. The Linamens are starting a new trend.

  Despite the painting-smock debacle, I probably should try to recycle more often. Plastic containers, cardboard, old newspapers, glass jugs—they’re all acceptable candidates for the plastic recycling bin the city was kind enough to leave on my curb. I think the idea is that I’m supposed to put these things in the bin, the city hauls them away, and the next time I see them they’ll be in the shape of sunglasses or cereal boxes or even a toilet paper tube.

  I think I would use the recycling bin more if it were bigger. I mean, it’s just the right size for milk jugs and applesauce jars. But it’s way too small for the stuff I’d really like to put in there.

  For example, my five-year-old is a tight squeeze, and the fourteen-year-old won’t fit at all. And I could NEVER get my husband in the bin, at least not all in one piece.

  Now, on most days I wouldn’t dream of recycling my family. But there are always a few days each month when I’d be willing to trade them all in on a new kitchen appliance or two.

  Funny thing though, it’s always the same couple days each month. Luckily the feeling usually goes away before I can call Sears and negotiate a deal. It’s probably a good thing the P in PMS doesn’t stand for the word “Permanent.” If it did, I’d have a new toaster oven by now.

  On second thought, maybe the person who needs to spend time in the recycling bin is the woman who stares back at me from the bathroom mirror each morning.

  Maybe the city could haul HER away and bring back someone nicer. More spiritual. Immune to PMS and mood swings. Better at housekeeping. (And as long as they’re making improvements, a size 9 body wouldn’t hurt!)