I am reading this book.  It’s a very popular book and I feel compelled to write a review of it for my blog.  That will come in a few days when I have fully finished and absorbed this book for all the author’s intent.

In the meantime, let me tell you about this lovely cake I have made for you.  One look at it and I am sure you can tell that it is a fabulous cake.  I can assure you that it tastes just as good, if not- better, than it looks.  I have included in this cake all the proper ingredients.  More than just proper, the best.

The eggs are from free range hens that are read bedtime stories to every night to make the eggs extra fluffy and wonderful.

The sugar comes from hand selected sugar cane from fields in Guatemala, where the best sugar cane is grown.

Don’t even get me started on what makes makes the flour so great.  The wheat was actually crushed in a mill owned by a one legged missionary who prays over each grain.

This, friends, is a cake most perfect.    Moist and buttery.  Melt in your mouth.  Perfect.

There’s just one thing I added.  It’s a small thing.  You likely won’t even notice, but I feel it only fair that you know.

Just before I put the cake in the oven , I added the tiniest sprinkle of Anthrax.

Don’t get all up in arms about it.  Remember the eggs?  And the sugar?  This is a perfect cake where no corners were cut in making it as wonderful as possible.  The Anthrax doesn’t take away from how great it tastes.  If you are one to favor sweets over healthy food already, you likely won’t even notice.

So, sit back.  Tuck your napkin under your chin and get ready to open wide for a big bite of my perfect cake.

And I’ll be back real soon with my review of “The Shack”.

My family is funnier and weirder than your family.  Here is proof.

Exhibit A:

Eric: Tell me the truth: Is it wrong to wear boots with shorts?

(no answer)

Eric:  Well?

Eric’s Wife: I’m going to keep quiet on this one because I want the world to get a good laugh if I die before you.

Exhibit B:

Upon returning from a night at my parents’ house, Mackenzie remarked, “Wow, Mom.  It looks like you’ve done a good job keeping the place clean.  Good job.”

Exhibit C:

Random Neighborhood Kid: No girls allowed past this porch.

Ian:  What about my Mom?  She’s not a girl.  She’s a Mom.

Exhibit D:

Charlie, at two in the morning.

Charlie: Heeeeeeey!  Hey! Hey! Hey!  I heard something!  Some person/animal/gust of wind has invaded my very tiny territory!  Hey!  Hey! Hey! Heeeey!

Eric:  Honey?

Me:  Come on, Charlie.  Let’s get your leash and head outside.  Even though it is two o’clock IN THE MORNING.

Charlie:  If it’s no bother to you.  You’re always so kind, Miss Amy.  Can I call you Mom?

Me:  I am not some dog’s mother.  No matter how cute and sweet and talented the dog may be.  You are Charlie and I am your Miss Amy.

Gina tagged me.  She’s my cousin and we’re tight, so I decided to play along.  Also, I still carry guilt for defacing her New Kids On The Block posters when we were 12.  Again, I’m really, deeply sorry.

The Rules:

Link to the person who tagged you (check!), mention the rules (check!), tell six quirky, yet boring & unspectacular things about yourself (check!), tag six other bloggers by linking to them (uhhhhh), and then go to each person’s blog and leave a comment letting them know they’ve been tagged.

1.  It took me twenty minutes to pick out a collar for Charlie.  I think I might turn out to be one of those ladies who dress their dog for the appropriate holiday.

2.  Sometimes I think my cat “allergy” is really just my nose and eyes validating my brain’s dislike of cats for being elitist.

3.  I honestly believe that my dishwasher loading skills are unparralleled.

4.  I take a certain bit of pride as I near the one year anniversary of my clothes dryer’s death.  I have proven to myself that when the times get tough, I get tougher.  Grrrr.

5.  I call all my recipes “a secret recipe” because I like the mystery.  They aren’t really secrets.

6.  I have a method for using the same knife to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich WITHOUT getting streaks of jelly in the jar of peanut butter.  I often marvel at the skill and look over my shoulder to see if there’s a fan also marveling.

Here’s the part where I tag six people.  Only, I happen to have a bit of a summer cold (thankyouverymuch, Ian) and I feel like skipping this step.  I’m a maverick.  That’s how I roll.

Dear Disney,

I sure am glad Walt isn’t around to see what you folks have done with the place.  Shame on you.

Hugs,

Amy

PS  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I can’t help you.  Hannah Montana? For little girls?  Seriously!?

For several weeks now I had plans to hop in the car with my parents and my kids and go on a trip to visit two of my brothers and their families.  On the morning that we were to leave Ian turned out to have a fever.  It was an easy choice to stay home and keep Typhoid Mary away from the newborn babies, but I was really sad to miss out on my chance to rub some crazy Aunt Amy on ‘em.

My parents decided Kenzie could just travel solo and so off the three of them went.  I didn’t think much of it at the time.  It seems so natural to just kiss my daughter good-bye and send her off on an adventure with my parents.  Just as quickly as they were out of sight, though, I almost fell apart.

Six days without Mackenzie!  How will I manage?  She writes the funniest stories and has the craziest pictures that accompany them.  Six whole days without a Kenzie Faye original.  What was I thinking?

I had no idea how many times a day Ian can say, “Hey!  Watch this!” because he usually has a sister right at his shoulder who will watch.  She’s his watcher.  How will Ian ever make it through six whole days of my half-hearted attempts to feign excitement at his twentieth head stand variation?

I didn’t even take into consideration the neighborhood girls.  Those poor things.  They have nobody to direct their play time.  I really should have thought the ramifications through.

Mackenzie Faye, we will muddle along somehow without you.  But please rush home quickly.  We’re missing your color.

Three years ago a young man sat in the cold and final seat of a defendant on sentencing day.  The verdict was unnecessary as he pled guilty, but there was still the sentence to decide.

On his neck he wore a tie, but on his hands he wore the blood of my baby brother.

In the moments after the car crash that would change our lives forever, this young man fumbled and took Nathan’s phone off his (dead? dying?) body and called home and a few other numbers before finally calling the authorities.  In the hours after Nathan’s death, his family held that phone and let it ring while we and Nathan’s fiance tried calling.

Nathan was dead for 14 hours before we were told.

The judge was slow and deliberate as he read the letters that my parents and I wrote on behalf of Kevin C.  Not knowing anything more about him than his apparent callousness and immaturity, we asked for mercy.  We asked that he not be made to sit in prison, but that he be allowed to walk away from this and build for himself a good life.

Truly, these were the hardest letters in the world to write.

Community service and a bit of probation were the light sentence he received.  Not very significant when you consider the isolation of prison he likely deserved.

Some months later Dad called Kevin C.  I think that we all thought that perhaps he would have sent us a note of thanks, or at the very least called us.  Instead, Dad picked up the phone and made the first move.

“Hi, Kevin.  This is Brad Dodd.”

“Who?”

(wince)

“Nathan’s Dad.”

“Oh.  Hey man, what’s up?”

What’s up!?  You killed my son!  You should be rotting in prison, but you were dealt a hand of mercy and you want to know “What’s up?”!?!?

That’s not what my Dad said.  But it’s how he felt.

I wanted so badly to talk this over with God.  I wanted to tell Him just how much this jerk had hurt my family and I wanted God to hear my heart cry for the lost opportunity to make him go to prison.  I wanted to, but I couldn’t.  I didn’t dare.

How could I go to God and tell Him how much this slight hurt when I know full well the things I have done with His Son’s blood on my hands?  How many times have I approached Jesus’ Father and said, “Hey man, what’s up?”.

I think it is easier than it should be for us to forget that we are covered in blood when we speak of being covered in mercy.  Theresa wrote some time ago that she feared we were losing some of the reverence we once had in approaching God.  I tend to agree with her.

This is not a post with much of a wrap up, just a call for self examination.  If you have taken advantage of the mercy you were shown, take this moment to repent.  Return to the higher place and start acting like someone whose very life depends on the mercy of another.  Because it does.

If you live too far north, I doubt you appreciate the honest-to-goodness loveliness that is a well working central air conditioning unit.  If you live in Texas, you know that life cannot be maintained above merely surviving without one.

This post is for all you kind souls who notified me that you were in prayers about my own air conditioner.  My air conditioner, which is original to this apartment built in the year of our LORD, nineteen hundred and eighty six.  It’s all show and no blow.  There’s a lot of noise and effort, and I know he fights like a champ, but he is no match for a second floor, southward-facing apartment with no shade.

Thank you all for your prayers.  Last night he passed away in our sleep.

I woke up this morning feeling like I slept in a sauna.  I could hear the motor of the air conditioner, so I figured I was just having a hot flash as a result of turning 30 and getting that much closer to menopause.  I made a mental note to get some of that yogurt Jamie Lee Curtis is peddling to the AARP and went to get the coffee going.  As a rule, I am generally unfazed by much.  Even menopause.

Just for the entertainment value, I suppose, I looked at the thermostat.  The temperature was 10 degrees higher than what it was set for.  Turns out I am not menopausal.  I was so relieved.  Not that I cared all that much, I just really don’t like yogurt.

I call the apartment manager’s office and get a recording of her telling me what the hours are, what the amenities are, when the rent is due, what holidays they take off, what their lunch break is and FINALLY, if this is a maintenance emergency, push ONE.  It’s an emergency.  I’m starting to sweat glisten.  I push one.

Uninteresting and long story short: today we got a new unit.  I almost hugged the maintenance man.  But then I was afraid it might compromise the new dishwasher he promised me when we were dumpster diving.

The recent months have seen Eric and I with a great bounty of time with each other.  After so long of not seeing him for more than ten minutes a day, I think it is fair to say that we have just about caught up on anything of value to discuss.

As evidenced by recent talk at Taco Bell while Sarah watched our kids for an impromptu date night.

Eric:  Morals aside, I think I would make an awesome super villain.

Me:  I could see that.  Would you grow a mustache that you could tweak?

Eric:  I don’t know.  I think I would first have to figure out what my super villain persona would be.  Like the Joker, but that’s taken.

Me:  So’s penguins, so that can’t be your thing.

Eric:  What about you?  What’s your super villain persona?

Me:  I’d be a ninja.

Eric:  You can’t be a ninja.  Ninjas are very high energy.

Me:  Ouch, dude.  I thought we were fantasizing.  Why you gotta be like that?

Eric:  Let’s be realistic.  We are leaving Taco Bell right now and we are going to be super villains.

Me:  I see.  So we are going at it with what we got?

Eric:  Yes.  I think your power should be some creepy psychological thing where you get in people’s heads and make them crazy.  You’d be really good at that.

Me:  What about money?

Eric:  We steal it.  We’ll never run out.

Me:  So, what if I start out with the creepy psychological thing until I have enough money for ninja lessons?

Eric:  That’d work.  I’m not saying you could never be a ninja, just not right away.

Me:  Good.  Because I don’t want to be a super villain with you if I can’t be a ninja.

Moral of the story: Stay in school.  Have a plan.

Dear 12 Year Old Amy,

It has been a long time since I’ve heard from you.    You seem to think you’ve got me all figured out.  Well, here in grown-up land, we like to get facts straight.  Here’s the facts, 12 year old Amy:

My local bookstore will give me cold hard cash for these very nicely preserved movies.  Fact: Grown-ups make more money dumpster diving than little kids.

I know very well that you are still around as evidenced by your shenanigans when my girl Susan and I purchased tickets to New Kids On The Block.  Fact: Your Mom and Dad didn’t buy you tickets to see NKOTB.  Who’s the Mama now, baby?  That’s right, me.  30 year old Amy.

Every time you remind me of where I got that necklace, I wash it in rubbing alcohol.  Fact: It is no longer silver.

I’d write more, but I am going to go get myself a Dr.Pepper and drink it down.  I can drink the best soda known to man anytime I want because I’m a grown-up and nobody can stop me. Fact: Grown-ups rule.

See you in October for the big concert.  Don’t act like you won’t be going with.

Hugs and kisses

30 year old Amy

P.S.

Your parents are totally winging it.

.

.

Dear 30 Year Old Amy,

Do you remember west Texas weekend afternoons in summer, way back in the day, 30 year old Amy?  Oh, sure you do.  The last of the neighborhood yard sales would have succumbed to the heat and closed up shop.  If it was a “going out of business” sale, there was a safe bet where the loot would land: in the dumpsters.

So, what did you do?  Huh, 30 year old Amy?  What did you do?  You waited patiently until all the old people had retired to their screened porches with their iced teas and you hoisted yourself up, over, and then deep inside the belly of your neighbor’s dumpsters, scrounging for treasure.

What’s the matter, 30 year old Amy?  Didn’t want your little friends to know about your absolutely unhygienic childhood past time?

I’m writing you now to let you know that I saw you yesterday.  You try to pretend I’m not here, but I think you know that deep in your core beats the heart of 12 year old Amy.

I know that when you realized that your husband’s most important papers had been inadvertently thrown in the trash, you felt a sick sense of the hunt come over you at the notion of climbing into the dumpster.  You brought your kind friend the maintenance man along and together you both plowed through three dumpsters.

You didn’t find the papers, but you what did you find?  Two boxes of perfectly good VHS cassette tape movies!  Some with the plastic still on them!  And these aren’t low budget kid cartoons, no sir.  These are real deal, super-awesome, grown-up movies that you actually want to see!

I saw how you and that maintenance man smiled and joked about how you “didn’t have too much shame” to go ahead and reclaim these items from their end of the road sentence.

You acted as though you had never done such a thing before.  As though you never even knew me. As though you don’t still own, among your current jewelry rotation, a silver chain you and I found together back when you still acknowledged me.

For shame, 30 year old Amy.  For shame.  Enjoy your movies, traitor.

Hugs and Kisses

12 year old Amy