Surprise at the Supercenter

So, you'll never guess what just happened to me at the Walmart Supercenter. 

I ran into a fellow blogger!

source

Yep.

I was tooling down the aisle, minding my own business

 when suddenly,

I ran smack dab into one of my favorite bloggers

Lynn @Blue Skies 

I was so excited.

I gave her a most enthusiastic  hello

and one of my signature dopey grins. 

She gave me a slightly less enthusiastic hello right back. 

All in the two and half seconds it took me to remember
 that Lynn @ Blue Skies  lives...
 in California.

And this is Georgia. 

Well, oops.

So glad I didn't go in for the hug. 

Instead, I skedaddled right on by,

leaving the poor, befuddled doppelganger to wonder 

why she just couldn't place the gregarious blonde with the dopey grin

at the Walmart Supercenter. 

She probably wondered about it all the way home.  

Or maybe she did recognize me. 

Maybe she reads my blog. 

In which case, she probably noticed how much thinner I look in person.

Let that be a lesson to you. 

When you start greeting bi-coastal blogger apparitions in the local supercenter,

You might be spending too much time in Blog Land. 

Just a little fun for a Saturday afternoon.
Does that kind of thing ever happen to you?

Please say yes. 

The Frocky Horror Picture Show

So now that the fat cat's out of the bag,

 I have some yakking to do.

I kind of want to yak about that picture, you know the one... the one of the repentant drama queen in the blue frock. The one that had me so horrified that I actually considered closing down the blog rather than put it on here.

Seriously.

So why was I so horrified? I mean, I'm not a vampire or anything. We do have mirrors in our house, and I've actually seen my reflection a time or two. How could I be so ignorant?

Because I don't like to step on one of these.

source

It's true. Decades ago, I heard someone, probably Oprah, yakking all about breaking free from the tyranny of the scale... how we shouldn't be slaves to some silly old number...   how it's all about how your clothes fit... how you feel about yourself...  The scale? Well, that's just an archaic invention of man to terrorize woman.

I'm pretty sure she followed it with a segment on buying clothes to flatter your frame.  

Therefore, that's exactly what I do.  I buy clothes to flatter my frame, and I judge how bad the weight gain is by how well those clothes fit.

But there's a catch.  Clothes can stretch.
And s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

The cheaper they are, the better they stretch, and when you are a perpetual dieter and a cheapskate to boot, you generally buy the cheaper ones. I buy Kim Rogers slacks from my local Belk store. For $29.99, Kim will flatter my frame. Even better, she will stretch to accommodate future growth.

Kim is very gracious that way.

And so they stretch quite well over my rumpus. When they stop stretching? Well, that's due to dryer shrinkage of course. The fact that I line dry my Kims is irrelevant. If they shrink, they shrink. Who am I to argue?  And anyway, any pants that can't endure a little heat now and then must not have been very good to begin with. They need to be replaced.

And that's when I have the crisis.

Aside from an unfortunate Kodak incident, most of my meltdown moments happen in the dressing room. New clothes, you see, are not gracious at all. They are mockers. You reach for the size that you're supposed to be wearing, and they magically shrivel, right before your very eyes.

I don't know what you do when this happens, but I generally console myself with a smoothie. Then, after a salad supper, I wake up the next morning, strip down to the birthday suit, close one eye, and step on the scale.

And then, I turn into Jane Fonda (minus all that communist stuff).

Wouldn't it be easier, and certainly healthier,  just to gut up to it and step on that scale on a regular basis? Oh sure, the news won't always be pleasant, but it will always be true. 

The scale doesn't lie. It doesn't give empty flattery or grant absolution when none is warranted. Its numbers are never out of style. 130 is 130 yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

(True, it's a lot more yesterday than today, but I'm believing for tomorrow.)

But here's the thing.

This post isn't actually about the weight problem at all.

I just lured you in for the sermon. I'm sneaky like that.

It's about a delusion of another sort, and one that is so much more important than the Michelin around our middles.  It's the delusion of the spirit. 

You see, God has a scale too. He has, as he says in Amos, a plumb line, and it's His Word.

The Word of God is the only true measure of our spiritual fitness, and we don't need some Oprahfied spirituality to tell us any differently.

Don't be a slave to the tyranny of the Word, they will say.

Oh, they won't phrase it exactly like that, but that's exactly what they mean.

That's what they mean when they give you any alternate measure. That's what they mean when they tell you to weigh yourself in the balance of feelings, that the Word of God is just an archaic invention of man.

And the people eat it right up. They have since the beginning.  There are folks out there who try on church after church and faith after faith just to find the one that best flatters their frame. 

They have no intention of changing said frame. It's their frame, after all.  It's who they are and who they want to be, right down to the very bone.

I'll give you this one for free:  Anyone who tells you to step away from God's Scale and flatter your frame doesn't really love you. They're the fat friend who wants you to be fat too. Misery, as they say,  loves company.

God isn't in the business of flattering our frames and stretching elastic truth over our ever-expanding flesh. He's in the business of transforming us into His image. He whittles away our flesh, inch by inch and pound by  pound until we are his very likeness. Isn't that infinitely more beautiful?

Yeah, I think so too.

So go ahead. Step on God's scale. Oh sure, the news won't always be pleasant, but it will always be true.

As for me, I'll be back to yak all about that other exercise equipment later in the week. Right now, I have some celery sticks to gnaw and sit ups to do.

When The Fat Lady Sings

So I'm a bit late in updating on the Misadventure of the Drama Queen. There's a reason for that, too. It's just not a good one. I'm blaming all those Nosey Nellies who requested photograhic evidence. You know who you are...  It's not all that easy to make a spectacle of oneself while juggling a shiny red Kodak, you know. I had to trust others to share photos with me. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a problem.

Some fat lady kept showing up in all the pictures.
What's worse? She was wearing an exact replica of my historical costume.
How rude.

Of course, according to Miss Kathy at The Writer's Reverie, I wasn't wearing historical costume. No... what I was wearing,  according to the experts, is period attire. 

I stand corrected and bear witness to the truth of it.  I was, indeed, wearing a tire.  

Sighing...

Since I didn't have one of those whale bone corset thingies, I headed out to find something to camouflage the aforementioned road wear.

And behold...

A miracle

So I looked over my left shoulder...
And then I looked over my right shoulder...
And then I sort of skulked into the dressing room to try it on...

And do you know what happened?
Not a thing.

Apparently, I not only suffer from growing girth syndrome, I suffer from a lack of belief as well.  

He could perform no miracle that day... 

I personally think they should be charged with false advertising and renamed Pants on Fire. For one thing,  it took way more than 10 seconds to get all that extra firm control fastened around my Michelin.  For another, it didn't work any better than a trusty pair of control top pantyhose. I was looking for something to flatten the tire. There's nothing whatsoever miraculous about transforming it into a steel belted radial one.

And then there was the whole breathing thing. It's kind of hard to speak without it, and this was not historical mime.

Therefore, I opted out of the $44.00 miracle and decided to try the control tops instead.  I was looking for something like this:

google image

I thought it might suck in the area where my cheekbones used to be and reinvent the jaw line.   Unfortunately, no one even pretends to have created control tops like that. We clearly need more math and science in the public schools...

In the end, I just appeared in all my puffed out, faded glory.  It wasn't supposed to be about me anyway. It was about my hometown and the tour they were giving some visiting folks from across the state of Georgia.  So I sucked it up as best I could and did  my part.

 I actually can't remember a thing about it since I tend to suffer from Post Dramatic Stress Amnesia. They say that it went well. In my head, I looked like this:

But in reality...

I'm not exactly sure what dramatic moment is being captured there with the hand on the bosom and the pitiful face... 

So anyway, that's my tale for today, and as usual I tried to share it with some levity. If you've read here long, you probably know that laughter is my default mechanism.

But in truth, it's no laughing matter. In truth, I was horrified at the stranger in the photo. I mean, the tire I knew about, but who is the old woman with the fat face?  I almost wrote my Sunday post about it, in fact.    

Instead, I got off my blogger butt and tried out some new exercise equipment. It didn't cost me a dime either, but that will have to be a post for another day.

Misadventure of a Repentant Drama Queen

Why oh why oh why did I do it again?

I let this motor mouth of mine override whatever common sense I have.

I'll be busy for the next few days because of a promise I made, and I have no one to blame for it but my own self.

You see, about a month ago, someone from my hometown called and asked me do a little favor. What I thought she wanted me to do was give a tour of my favorite historical home and tell the story of the Curse of Lorenzo Dow.   

I yakked all about that HERE.

That's what I thought she was asking...

And so I said yes. She didn't even have to talk me into it. For one thing, I'm kind of remedial with that whole "just say no" thing. For another, it's a pretty easy fit for me, and it sounded fun. I love the story; I love the house, and apparently I love the sound of my own voice yakking about it.

Vanity thy name is Debbie.

And then, the other shoe dropped. It wasn't a tour, you see. It's more of a performance.  It wasn't to be done safely sequestered behind the walls of the old house, either.  Oh noooo... I will be making a fool of myself smack dab in the middle of town.

Right in front of God and everybody...

In historical costume no less...
Just not enough costume so as to render me incognito.

The Farm Sister has been making said costume since she's a better seamstress. Plus, she laughed at me and is trying to get back in my good graces. I told her she didn't have to make a bustle or hoop since I have those things built right in. I'm convenient like that.

Does anyone know if they still make those whale bone corsets?

Pull, Sister, Pull!

So anyway, if you don't see my flower cart until later in the week, just know that I'm very busy and very stressed out. Not only do I have to finish writing my dramatic little monologue, but I also have to memorize it.

And practice it.

And lose 50 pounds, one of my chins,  and the built- in bustle.

And of course, fit in time to highlight my hair. 'Cause you know how those historical women loved their  blond highlights... 

Good grief.

Can anyone relate? 

Has your vanity ever gotten in the way your common sense?

An Unsinkable Celebration!

On April 15th, 1912, the news across the world was the sinking of the luxury liner The Titanic on her maiden voyage across the Atlantic. It was big news...

But in a little town in Alabama, it wasn't the biggest news.  The biggest news of the day was the birth of identical twin daughters to a southern belle affectionately known as Katie Belle.

They were named after their grandmothers, Mary and Anne. 

Here they are again celebrating their 80th birthday. Best friends for more than 95 years, we had hoped that they would celebrate their centennial together.

But only one of them did.  

The one named Mary. 

The one  I call 

The Unsinkable Old Lady

She's the one on the right... 

or maybe it's the left...

 I never could tell them apart. 

You may remember The Unsinkable Old Lady  from previous posts on here. She's been a frequent star of my Simple Pleasures posts.

She's the antique belle who has a standing date

 with Sir Lotsa Hair every Sunday morning. 

And the grand old lady who strolled hand in hand with me 

through my favorite historical home.

And the spunky cowgirl who sat not in the back seat

 but on it in a local parade.

 Of course, she was younger then.

 I think she was 98.

 I cherish my friendship with this woman. 

Aside from my own family members, 

The Unsinkable Old Lady is the person I admire the most in this world. 

I admire her steadfast faith

and the fact that she's the perfect example of a lady.

I admire her incredible  intellect. 

She graduated at the top of her high school class and with honors from college. 

With a degree in chemistry no less...

I admire her because no matter how gifted she was in the classroom, 

she still thought her most important job was staying home to raise her family.

And yes... that was work. 

I admire her for her decades of service to the community. 

Oh, there's so much more, 

but do you want to know my favorite thing about

The Unsinkable Old Lady?

After 100 years,
She still twinkles. 

That's the face with which she greets me every time I see her.

And folks, do you know what happens when you are on the receiving end
of a beautiful antique twinkle?


It makes you want to give a vintage twinkle right back.

So that's exactly what I do.

And suddenly, my whole world seems just a little bit brighter.

All because of an Unsinkable Old Lady.


So Happy 100th Birthday
 to my  favorite antique belle.

And thank you, my friend, for the twinkle.

The Easter Blues

In case you didn't notice, I've been on recess from Blog Land for over a week. There wasn't one good reason for it, either.

There were two good reasons.

One very Practical, and the other Whimsical. 

Yessiree folks, I had not one but two daughters home for the long holiday weekend. In anticipation, I took the week before Easter to get everything practically perfect in every way.   Then I took two days after Easter to recover from the aforementioned over-achievement.

Now, originally, I had planned a pink Easter,  I'd even purchased a pastel plaid tablecloth as my inspiration piece. As I was going through my dishes, however, I found these little dessert plates.  

I bought them at TJMaxx for Easter last year, and honestly...

 I had nearly forgotten that I had them.

Don't you think they match those eggs I decoupaged 

on my eggcellent adventure?

Yeah, me too.

So I took them off my mantel and  decided to call this one The Easter Blues instead. 

We set not one but two Easter tables 

with the same place setting.

The blue plaid salad plates came from Good Will about a year ago. They are one of the few decent things I've ever found at ours. The dinner plate is Italian Countryside, 

and the charger is one that I painted for my Yellow Year theme.

Told  ya I would get a lot of use out of those yellow chargers...

For Friday night's dinner,

 I used a plain blue cotton table cloth and yellow cotton napkins.

The stemware was Aurora Blue by Denby,
from the Great Wedding Adventure of '84.

In full disclosure, we actually just used one stem.

 I added the others for  blog bling. 

Then, on Saturday night,

I changed the blue tablecloth with (my favorite) vintage yellow and white one.

Have I mentioned how much I love vintage linens?

Probably. 

The tablecloth has matching napkins. 

I layered  them with plain white linen ones for extra poof. 

Plus, we can use the plain ones and save wear and tear on the vintage ones. 

Yes, that's a decoupaged napkin ring to go with the table.

 I had purchased some ceramic rings for a dollar a bunch at a recent thrift sale, but I wasn't all that fond of their pattern. I primed and painted them and did the same technique on them that I did on the eggs.

I love them. 

Aside from the linens, everything pretty much stayed the same.  

Same old Act I by Oneida. I really need to get out of that rut, don't I? 

Same Stemware

Same flowers, but I wrapped this vase in a yellow checked napkin for a little color.

And there you have it. Our Easter Blues table
done two different ways.

The second one is my favorite.
How about you?

As of today, that table still resides in the dining room where I reset it for pictures, eggs and all. The daughters, however, have returned to college and career.  The Practical One landed in DC a few minutes ago. When we'll all be together again, I really don't know.

Which makes me a kinda like my Easter table. You know... trying to find the yellow, but still just a little bit  blue. 

*****

I'm Dishing with Cuisine Kathleen this evening. I want to thank Kathleen again for  the Target gift card I won at her St. Patrick's Day Blog Crawl. I'll be dishing on my purchase as soon as I make it!


I'll also be on The Porch tomorrow.

Lessons From The Piney Stick Forest

The other morning I was wheeling across the 30 country mile commute minding my own business and doing what I usually do… 


Sipping some coffee, singing some songs, and talking with God.


Sometimes, I sip in silence and try to listen, but mostly, I monopolize the conversation. That particular morning, I was doing a lot of yakking. And it was that type of God yakking that is really more of a pity party lamentation. I was overcome by the state of the world. 

As I rounded the curve, this guy pulled out in front of me.

Ugh.

Now, one encounter that I dread more than most along that country commute is the encounter with the log truck. Not only does it slow my pace and mess with my groove, it also plays into my phobias.


 I hate the way the logs bounce up and down in their precarious perch. I imagine one slipping from its chains and hurling like a torpedo through the windshield of my car and decapitating me. 


That’s just the way I think. 


In addition to the torpedo phobia, I hate that the loose pine bark sails through the air and pings the car windows, especially when the truck is newly loaded as this one was. 


So I slowed Ebenezer and slid to the shoulder to put some distance between me and the offending logger. And since the shiny red Kodak was in my purse anyway, I whipped her out and took that picture. 


Just in case I wanted to blog a complaint… 


And folks,  it was at that moment that God used his piney stick forest to yak back.


Appearances, God reminded me, can be very deceiving. You see, when I first glanced over my shoulder, this is was I saw.  

A dark and confusing mass of trunks and limbs, obscured by a twisted thicket. I’m pretty certain there were snakes in there, too. Pretty much the way I see the world these days...

But then I remembered the log truck.

This is south Georgia, you see. 
It's pulp wood country,  

The Land of the Planted Pines.   

And this was a planted piney stick forest.

So I took two steps to my left...

And two steps more...

Until that same forest looked like this.

Not so dark and scary now, is it?  

All just a matter of perspective. The planter had a perfect plan, and it's all lined up for the harvest. For some oddball reason, it was very comforting to me.    

Our Sunday School lesson this week is about Palm Sunday. I love the fact that the beloved disciple had fewer words to say about the drama than the other three gospel writers even though he was an eye witness. I guess he figured that his verbose buddies had the details covered. But there was one thing that John alone added that caught my eye.

At first his disciples did not understand this. Only after Jesus was glorified did they realize that these things had been written about him and that they had done these things to him.

John 12:16

Huh. Imagine that. Even they didn’t quite get it right away. It took some time and perspective to see that what looked a bit crazy and confusing was all part of the perfectly planted plan of God.

It always is.

I guess they needed to have their own piney stick forest moment.

Have a happy Palm Sunday.

And, Hosanna!

*****

(Originally posted on Palm Sunday, 2010)

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