Would You Rather...?

Do you ever play the game Would You Rather...?  Not the board game, just the good ol' creative noggin kind.   Our family played a few nights ago while roasting marshmallows outside. Here's what we came up with.  Play along!

Would you rather...

...get your finger slammed in a door or have a staple shot in your thumb with a staple gun?
Ouch and gross. This game is so ridiculous.  I hate both options.  But since I'm required to answer based on the Hall Family Rules of Would You Rather...?  I'll go with the finger slam.  Both of these happened to Steve and he said based on his experience he would choose the finger slam too.

...get a 1.5" long buckthorn jammed in and cut off in your calf or have your bathing suit ripped off by a giant wave on a Hawaiian beach?
The first happened to Steve a month ago and the second to me about 12 years ago.  I'd go with exposing my nakedness to beachcombers.  Most likely, nobody will know me.  Then I would just lay down in the sand on my face and adjust my suit (like I did the last time) and then another giant wave would pummel me and drag me along the shore and repeat the pummel and drag about 12 times until the bathing suit is back on.  I go home only with a stomach full of sand instead of a leg full of buckthorn, fearing infection and amputation.

...submerge your hands in a bucket of urine or a bucket of poop?
This one is just too easy.  Hello?  I'd totally take a dip in poop because urine is just plain disgusting.

...get lost or be paid one million dollars?
Um...this one was my six-year old's. He doesn't completely understand the game yet.

...have to lead a prayer in a new bible study where every person except you is a pastor or model underwear?
There's no way I'm modeling underwear, for my sake and everyone else's.  So the pastors will have to listen to me muddle through my “justs” and “uh's”...God, I just want to thank you, and uh...uh...just for gathering us here today, and uh...

...have head lice or Scabies?
Another easy one. I've had both. Hands-down, Scabies. Scabies took one application to get rid of. Head lice took like 52 applications, ripping through my hair with an Ace comb, and then finally getting all my hair chopped off in a “pixie-cut” and being teased about looking like a stupid boy. I'll take Scabies and it's stigma any day.

Who's that boy?  Oh, that's me post-head lice.

...get a toothpick jammed in your eye or be sprayed by a skunk?
Gotta go with the skunk. The baking soda/peroxide scrub might actually feel nice.

...eat a bucket of wasabi or be attacked by a Cheetah?
Depends on how big the Cheetah is. If it's a kitten, Attack!  But, if it's a giant face-mauling, fish-hook clawing Cheetah, gimme a spoon and some Pepto-Bismol.

...bungie jump off a bridge or parachute out of plane?
I can't even think about things like this.  I know neither is not an option, so I'll go with parachute.  Because when you see videos of parachuters they look like they're not falling, like they're just hanging in the air.  I'm convincing myself this is true in order to give an answer.

...have an earwig in your ear or a worm up your butt?
Okay, who's the wacko that came up with this one? That would be my husband, Steve. I'd have to go with the worm. All I can think about is an earwig chowing down on my brain like a 600-pound man at Old Country Buffet.  But gosh, the worm is gross too.  This game sucks.

What are your answers?  Are there any you disagree with? Let me know in the comments.  Got any of your own? I'd love to hear them!

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Have You Ever Signed Up To Serve God, But Hated the Person You Served With?

One evening, a while back, we took the boys to Feed My Starving Children, an organization that sends specially-formulated food packets to malnourished children around the world.

www.fmsc.org

We signed up through our homeschool group. I thought maybe we'd make some friends while serving together. Our “team” was comprised of our family (before adopting Autumn) and another homeschool mom and her two sons. I use the word “team” because a “friendly” competition broke out among the stations to see who could make the most packets. Each station was set up with three bins containing different ingredients, a scale, and a packet sealer. The other mom worked the sealer (Sealer Chick), while one of her sons packed the bags into boxes and the other was stationed at the bins with Steve and Josiah. Sheehan and I were left with scale duty. We had to make sure the total packet weight was in a specified range and we would add or subtract rice (the filler) as needed.

We put on our sanitary shower caps - we looked like a little family of mushrooms – and then someone screamed, “go!” The scoopers dumped ingredients into the bag, making sure the food didn't fall on the table because then it would be considered unsanitary and couldn't be used. The first bag came to us and we put it on the scale. It was too light, so Sheehan added rice. Then too heavy. Ugh. We did this for three more bags. Then I noticed that bags were piling up next to our scale. Sealer Chick noticed too because she let out a big sigh and, I think, an eye roll. I ignored her...who am I kidding. I didn't ignore her, I was ticked off and did the most passive-aggressive thing I could. I pushed Sheehan to weigh faster while I punched her in the stomach inside my head. Then I passed the bag to her and put the next on the scale.

Sealer Chick was whisper-screaming, “Come on, come on! They're flying through their bags!” No pressure. Now six bags were leaning next to our scale. I felt like Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate assembly line. I considered shoving some food packets down my shirt or just saying, screw the weight range and throwing them at Sealer Chick.

We put another bag on the scale and it was low again! Can't the scoopers (Steve, Josiah, and Sealer Chick's stinking son) get the weight right?? Sheehan scooped more rice into the bag, but half of it fell out onto the table which meant the sloppy people at the scale were negligent and just wasted money that could have been feeding starving children all over the world. Sealer Chick noticed the spilled rice and the six bags piled next to our scale and, as she looked to the competition on her left and right, said in a sing-songy voice, “if he wasn't so slow with the rice we could get more done”.

Oh no she di'int. Did Christian Homeschooling Sealer Chick just call my son slow! I looked down at my scale and sincerely prayed, Lord, help me to love this Friend of Satan because right now I hate her. And Lord, please give me self-control so I don't kick my foot through her teeth.

Once 10 packets were piled up next to our scale I suggested Sheehan and I switch to scooping so we could win the freaking food packing game and to ease the pressure Sealer Chick was putting on me, and I was therefore putting on Sheehan. We switched and Sealer Chick took the scale. We filled a record number of bags. I hated her more.

After an hour someone yelled for us to stop! and clean up. We took off our shower caps and sat in front of a TV that showed a video of people who have benefited from the packets. Seeing the starving children and the gratitude they had for the food packets melted the stone rattling around in my chest. Then God reminded me of a time when I served at a homeless shelter with the youth group and was barking at the kids to speed up because they weren't moving fast enough. We weren't even “competing,” I was just pushing efficiency more than the spirit of service. I saw myself in Sealer Chick. I saw how sometimes we can so easily forget the reason we're serving: to help others and glorify God.

Click on the button below to learn more about Feed My Starving Children. They have permanent locations in the Twin Cities, MN, Chicago, and Tempe, AZ, and have mobile packing sites all over the country. Kids are enjoying the packing so much they're even bringing their friends and having their birthday parties at the sites. Minimum age to volunteer is five years old. It's a great opportunity for the whole family to serve together...and to learn self-control.

And, No, our "team" did not win for most packets packed.

Have you ever served at Feed My Starving Children? Have you ever hated someone you were serving God with?

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What Do You Mean, "Middle Aged"?

www.freedigitalphotos.com

When I hit age 34, I remember thinking, “Crap. I'm older than Jesus."  That was when reality set in that I was never going to get or look any younger than I do right now.  At 40, I'm living in the land of skin tags and aching backs.  Singers I rocked out to are dying or look like they should be dead.  I see people sometimes and think, Oh, they look about my age, but then I find out they're 10 years younger than me. So, I'm either in complete denial or just haven't looked in the mirror in the last decade.

My denial reminds me of a time when I was a teenager. I saw a man at the mall who had a mole on his chin with a bunch of hairs growing out of it. He wore those hairs like a trophy cup with a bunch of flowers popping out. I thought, Gosh, can't he cut that? Or mow it? I had to turn away before I threw up.


Fast forward 25 years. I looked in the mirror last month and to my surprise, found a barbed wire growing out of a mole on the side of my neck. But unlike that man at the mall, I didn't see a trophy, I saw Frankenstein. I wanted to throw up.  As I bent over to heave, I found, on my arm, two more barbed wires and a thick black forest surrounding a rather large freckle.  I am Frankenstein! When did I go from perky, bouncy, Barbie to saggy, achey Saskwatch?!


I examined the freckle more closely and thought, I've got cancer.  I know I've got cancer.  Doesn't everybody get it?  Aren't the stats something like one out of every one person gets it?  So I made an appointment with my dermatologist.  He told me that the "freckle" on my arm was just a sign of aging.  "You're getting old." He said.  Thanks. Well, at least it's not cancer.  Then he said he could take it right off with a little liquid nitrogen.  "Because if you left it there it could eventually turn into cancer.  But it's the 'good cancer', so you can just leave it if you want".  

I said, "Take it off!  Get it off my arm!  Diiiie suckerrrr!"  

He left to get the nitrogen and I picked up People magazine.  There was a picture of George Clooney in it.  Instead of admiring his good looks, I wanted to punch him in the face.  The doctor came back and dipped a long cotton swab into a cloud-emitting amber bottle and then dabbed it on my "freckle". I swear that man started a small fire on my arm.  I saw flames and smoke!  The result was a blister the size of a pencil eraser reminding me of and old witches' wart.  It was disgusting.  But, I decided instead of lancing the hideous snow globe right away, I would save it for the kids to see...because we homeschool like that. 


www.freedigitalphotos.net

The doctor also zapped some oil glands off my face while I gazed at a Botox poster.  I contemplated how easy it would be to get Botox.  Everybody's doing it, right?  How can it be considered vain when it's so easy?  It's like whitening your teeth.  Soon they'll sell Botox in at-home kits.  I can't wait.  I hope it's before I turn 50.


Yesterday, my friend, Ted, referred to himself as middle aged.  He's a month younger than me.  I said, you can't say that.  He said, "I couldn't be more OK with the middle aged moniker."  You know why he said that...because men age like fine wine, while women age like lettuce.  We start out crisp and fresh, then slowly begin to wilt, droop, and become saggy and eventually rot. And the next thing you know rats are nibbling on our toes.

After all that I need to remind myself that getting older and wilting is inevitable.  I need to be ok with that.  There's some comfort in seeing my friend Ted, who I've known since college, being okay with the middle aged status and knowing he's in the same boat as me.  Actually, we're all in the same boat.  We're all getting older.  I'll just try to focus on the body that God has waiting for me in Heaven.  I can't wait to rock Heaven with my new bod.

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My Friend's in China Waiting for Her Daughter

My friend, Lisa, and her husband, John, and son, Gus, are in China right now waiting to adopt their little girl Milli.  They meet her tomorrow (tonight our time).  Lisa and I have been on this journey together for the past year.  Almost every Sunday morning we stand together in the atrium after church talking adoption, while our kids run around, chasing each other, dropping donuts all over the floor and our husbands try to control them and hold back their can-we-go-now sighs.  I can't even express how excited I am for them!  Okay, I can.  I told Lisa that I'm like a new untrained puppy and I may just piddle in my pants because I'm so excited.  You can visit her blog at: http://hintermeister.blogspot.com/.  Please pray for them and for Milli.

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What Am I Doing With My Writing???

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So, I joined an on-line writers critique group called Scribophile.  The way it works is that you earn "karma" points by critiquing other's work which you can then "spend" on posting your own work to be critiqued.  I submitted my first piece a few weeks ago.  I chose "I'm Going to Write a Book".

First off, I was amazed at the range of feedback from my first four critiques.  All the way from "I can see it being used by Jay Leno...it reads like a stand-up act" to "the pace was a little slow for me...for something focused on humor, it didn't make me laugh enough." Jerk.

Second, I've learned a lot about myself as a writer (did I just call myself a writer?):

- I stink at grammar (like I needed to tell you this).  I throw around commas, like, giving, out, candy, on, Halloween.  I don't even know how to use a semi-colon other than for a winking smiley face and I try not to do that too often because I don't want people to think I'm strange or flirting with them. ;-)

- Male college students are not my audience.  Apparently they need story pace to be on par with a 4G network to keep their attention.  See jerk above.

- I'm critical.  Okay, I already knew that.  It didn't take joining Scribophile to teach me that, just to remind me of the fact.  I guess in a critique, you're not supposed to say, "you call this garbage a novel?” Well, maybe if they gave me some instructions the “novelist” wouldn't be in tears right now, sending me death threats. Okay, so there were some instructions, but heck, I thought, how hard can it be to critique?  Apparently harder than I thought because now I've gotta go and apologize or risk losing my karma.

- I can't write humor when I'm in a bad, sour, cranky mood.  Because everything comes across sounding bad, sour, and cranky and like I have a chip on my shoulder the size of Attila the Hun on our last flight home from China.

- I don't know what I'm doing.  Since I've earned karma, I have nothing to share.  I imagine all the other writers in the group racing through their critiques so they can share chapter after chapter of their beloved novel.  I'm submitting old blog posts.  I started out, eight months ago, writing a novel but I lost interest in it, 10,000 words in, because I thought it stunk (did I mention I'm critical?).  So, I shifted my focus to my blog since we were going to China.

Almost daily, my opinion of my writing swings on a pendulum, from thinking I could write a best-selling book to thinking I'm like one of those really bad singers on American Idol that someone in their past, probably their mom, told them they had a great singing voice and then when they sing their heart out in front of Simon (or whoever) he brings them back to the reality that any gift or talent they thought they had was a complete sham.

I'm participating in a writer's conference this week with Cheryl Moeller.  I've never taken any kind of class on writing since English 101 in college, so I'm bound to learn something.  I've read a number of books on writing, not to mention scores of blogs.  I think my writing has improved.  (My sister told me so.)  I did notice that anything I wrote before 2011 is crap.  So don't read anything on this blog before that.  I mean it!  Unless you're adopting and want to know about Xi'an or Zhengzhou and promise to ignore my writing sulkiness.


Anybody want to join me at the conference?  It's free.  She accepts a donation for their marriage ministry in lieu of payment.

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Farmer's Market Surprise

We've been going to the farmer's market a lot this summer.  Well twice, but that's about equal to the number of times I've been in my whole life.  The other day, we bought some honey, green beans, blueberries, peaches, eggs, two tomatoes, a bell pepper, and some corn.  I think we spent something like $482.00.  But it's fresh.

As I was picking out my ears of corn (the biggest = best, right?), there was a woman standing next to me inspecting each ear of her corn like she was scanning for lice in a first grader's head.  She was peeling the entire husk off.  Really?  Is that necessary.  Do you have to take off the entire husk to make sure your corn is fresh?  She looked like a tree-hugger, so I figured she must know what she was doing.  So I did the same thing, because even though I'm an ignorant corn purchaser who just assumes the farmer is selling good quality corn when really it might be crap, I didn't want to look like one.  So I peeled back two ears a little, then turned my back, so she couldn't see, and stuffed two more, completely unpeeled, in my bag and went to pay.

I've never really had a clue what a fresh ear of corn looks like.  What is everyone looking for?  I mean, pretty much every ear has a few bad kernels, right?  Corn is corn.  Plump and yellow.

Well, I found out what people are looking for.  I saw it, screamed, threw the corn down on the floor and jumped back, almost knocking the refrigerator over.  Any of you that are regulars at the farmers' market or eating organic will probably not be surprised at what I found?

Say hello to my new pet, Herb.  He's cute isn't he?

Not.  I get a gag reflex just looking at his picture!  Steve tried to comfort me by telling me about how he brought bagels home once from the bulk section of the grocery store and the next morning there was an earwig running around inside.  That did not comfort me.

From now on I will be like the tree-hugger, peeling back every single leaf of that corn until it's completely peeled.

What's the grossest thing you've ever found in your food?

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"Working Out" at the Gym

Free Digital Photos.net

Do you ever get all the way to the gym and realize you forgot your Ipod, your book, your water bottle and then look down to find that you're still wearing flip-flops?   You've got the kids with you, so you're not going back home.  Besides, you only came for the free babysitting.  It's not like you're working out; two miles per hour on the treadmill won't even break a sweat.  

You drop the kids off at "Kid's Club" for an hour and fifteen minutes of Tom & Jerry and you grab People magazine (which you would never actually buy because it's complete celebrity trash, but you secretly pour over it with a fine-toothed comb every time you visit the dentist's office or find yourself without your book at the gym). 

You decide to hit the bench press.  Mr. Buff-guy-who-spends-way-too-much-time-in-the-gym-looking-at-himself-in-the-celing-to-floor-mirrors comes over and says he needs it.  

You say, "Hey!  I pay my dues here too, Beefy!  I have as much right to this bench press as anyone else."

Beefy replies, "Lady, you're laying on it reading a magazine!"

Free Digital Photos.net

This doesn't happen to you?  Hmm.

I put the magazine back and head toward the ab machine thinking maybe I'll do a crunch.  After adjusting the weights, I look up and see a woman on the stair master wearing a shirt that says "STAND BACK AT LEAST 500 FEET".   I don't even want to think about what she had for lunch that would cause her to wear a shirt with a warning like that.  I quickly move out of her line of fire.  I'll do my crunch another day.

Then I see middle-aged woman wearing a pair of sweatpants that reads "JUICY" across her butt.  What is it with women having words written across their rear-ends? I could think of better words I'd rather have on my rear.  She may as well just write "Diarrhea!" across her butt.

I realize that working out is futile, but there's no way I'm picking up the kids one minute sooner than my one hour and fifteen minutes time allotment.  I figure I'll try the treadmill anyway.  The good thing about not having my book is that I can't lose my book mark inside the treadmill like I did last time.  The manager spent 30 minutes taking it apart to retrieve it.  I was trying to exercise and he was tearing apart the treadmill at my feet.  I don't like sweating that close to people.  Good thing I was only going two miles per hour.  The book mark had our family photo on it, otherwise I wouldn't have cared.

Then the vacuum guy comes around.   It's the same bored teenager that always vacuums, and you know he's never done that at home.  I swear he vacuums only when I'm there.  I'm his alarm.  Oh, Kate's here, let me get the vacuum out.  Vroooooooooooom!  Vroom!  Vrooooooooooooom! How am I supposed to relax and enjoy my hour and fifteen minutes with that thing screaming down my neck?

I see they're going to begin a class.  I consider taking it or just sitting down and watching.  I hope it's mat work, like Pilates, then I can just lay on my mat and finish People magazine.  I took a Pilates class at the Y once.  Once.  Every muscle in my body shook like a volcano building up to erupt.  And then I got the giggles.  Uncontrollable-but-still-trying-to-control-them-giggles.  You know what happens when you combine shaky, tensed muscles with restrained laughter. Let's just say I needed to get me one of those "STAND BACK AT LEAST 500 FEET" shirts.  Fast.

Image: Free Digital Photos.net

I hear they're doing some aerobic kick-boxing stuff.  So I go to the bathroom.  I close my stall door and have a seat.  I hang out.  I still have 45 minutes.  I look at the ceiling...the floor.  Yuck.  I look at the toilet paper dispenser.  I remember how there used to be (maybe they still exist) a toilet paper company called Katrin.  I always thought it was really close to my name (Katherine) and every time I would find myself in a bathroom with a Katrin toilet paper dispenser I felt special.  Like whoever put it their was sending me a message that said, "you're special."  

When time is finally up, I go get the kids.  The boys are entranced by the violent humor of Tom & Jerry and Autumn is licking a plastic chicken leg.  I pry the kids from the tv and toss the chicken leg on the floor.  The grossness of it doesn't even make me flinch.  (If you've read the Top 10 Grossest Things I've Caught My Kids Doing then you know why).  We leave "Kid's Club" and Autumn bolts around the corner while I'm trying to gather the diaper bag.  I follow behind to find, in the middle of the gym, that Josiah has tackled her to the floor and Autumn is screaming.  Everyone is giving me that "Gosh, can't you control your kids?" look and I'm thinking No.  No, I cannot control them.  It doesn't matter because I just walk past the kids pretending like their not mine giving them the "Gosh, where is the lazy mother of these kids, who obviously can't control them? look.

We exit the gym and head to the car and to my surprise there is a man unloading boxes at the adjacent store with the word "KATRIN" on the side.  And I suddenly feel special.

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Anybody Else's Pool Look Like This?

Note the chairs holding up the sagging sides.

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Christmas at the Post Office

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The week before Christmas I found myself in line with my two sons and 20 other procrastinators on the post office's busiest day of the year - the last day to ensure cards and gifts would arrive at loved one's mailboxes prior to Christmas.

While we waited my five year old, Josiah, began singing The Little Drummer Boy. Typically, whenever Josiah sings he crescendos into a sound that one might consider similar to the screech of a dial-up modem.  I was torn between feeling a little self-conscious and not wanting to disturb those around us, with enjoying his zeal for the Christmas season and letting that shine through in his singing.

As his singing became more audible, I could see the smiles on the faces of those around us. It was almost like he too could sense their smiles upon him as his voice began to rise. At that point I leaned down and kindly told him to pipe down and not be so loud. The mistake I made was that being a little self-conscious and aware that everyone was looking at us, I giggled as I corrected him. So Josiah sang louder. Raising my eyebrows and pointing my finger at him, trying to hide the smirk on my face, I asked him to please quiet down. He smiled and sang louder.

I suddenly heard a barking noise behind me and turned to see that it was the Grinch-like postal worker calling us over to the counter.  Apparently she was annoyed that I wasn't paying better attention when there were 2000 people in line behind us (Did I say 20 earlier?  I meant 2000.  And maybe, just maybe, if they put more people on staff on the busiest day of the postal year so there were more than, say, two lines open at any given time, she wouldn't be so grinchy).

I dragged the boys and our Santa bag of gifts over to Grinchy as Josiah continued singing at a, thankfully, lower level.  A lady in line behind us shook her head with a smile, and pehaps, a tear in her eye, and said so that all could hear, “his singing is the best thing we can hear in this place.”  You could have turned off all the lights in the post office at that point and worked by the light of the mother's pride emitted from every pore of my body.  As I was reaching to pat myself on the back, Josiah began to hum the words to The Little Drummer Boy again.  My heart melted as I gazed upon my sweet child.

Then my seven year old, Sheehan, began to say loudly, “Josiah, STOP singing! I don't like your singing.  It's STINKY!” and tried to hit him. My eyes grew big. I bent down to Sheehan and asked him to be quiet and kind to his brother and to please, just let him sing. With a scowl on his face, he replied, “But his singing is stinky!”  I thought, well, at least one of my kids is still a saint.

In spite of Sheehan's protests, Josiah continued singing merrily and came to the rum-pum-pum-pum part of the song.  But instead of singing rum-pum-pum-pum, he sang, “I-crap-in-my-pants!”  I didn't even turn around to see what that woman's expression was. I paid Grinchy and dragged the boys and the empty Santa bag out the door with my proud mommy tail dragging between my legs.

I can always count on my kids to keep my pride in check.  I think that's their God-given job.  Wouldn't you agree?

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