What Happens to Frozen Pizza in the Back Seat of a Black Truck, in August, During a Heatwave in Pennsylvania

Grocery shopping can be an ordeal. I spend much time fighting the temptation to cater to every child's slightest whim, or working crowd control -- prohibiting folks from demonstrating their latest dance move in the open aisles of the store, or curtailing everything from batting practice with baguettes to wind surfing from the nether regions of the grocery cart. Solution: I make out my list when the weekly circulars arrive on Thursday, and shop Friday after work -- alone!

This week I grabbed a few frozen pizzas for the moments when everyone succumbs to the munchies, about fifteen minute into "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" on Saturday night. Unfortunately, discerning critics that they are, my family only likes one brand of pizza, and on Friday morning, that brand was stocked with multiple variations on the "meat pizza," but no "plain cheese" whatsoever. I pondered, selected, reconsidered and compromised, finally leaving with, I thought, three pizzas despite my desire to "stock up." As I was leaving the market parking lot, I encountered one of those nice folks who like to cut across rows of parking at break-neck speed to grab the spot closest the front door, thereby eliminating the need for physical exercise or shoe repair. I "locked 'em up," as they say, and heard my groceries slide past me. Well, not quite, but I was certain I'd be picking slices of bread from the air conditioning vents. When I got home, Christine helped me unload the car and stow my plunder. Something told me I should check for any stray cottage cheese that might have made its way under the seat during my abrupt stop, but I let it go.

Saturday night, after several days of 90-or-more degree temperatures, we decided to take a ride to Georgio's, a local ice cream/ water ice institution, to get a little relief. As we were climbing in to the car -- six people, one dog (Belle had been a bad girl when getting ready to leave, and had to stay home) and visions of sublime confections dancing in our heads -- someone barked at Olivia to "Move Over!" "I can't!" she responded, "There's a pizza here!" There was no surprise in her voice -- nothing unusual about a pizza in the car. Her oppressor's reply was, of course, "Well, move it!" Once again, no surprise, no disbelief. It was a very simple problem, and a very simple solution.

After I replayed Friday morning's events and decided on an answer to the question "Why is there a pizza in my car?" I considered going back inside the house with the wilted saucer of botulism. OK, turn off the ignition, shutting down the A/C, take the house keys, open the front door, turn off the alarm, take off my shoes, run to the kitchen trash - no, better make it straight out back to the garbage cans -- so carry my shoes with me to slip back on before I head out the back door... Plan B: toss it in the first dumpster we pass.
As Scott was lobbing eight dollars into the trash can at Burger King, I began to think about some of the speed bumps or even road blocks of life, that we encounter from time to time. Children only begin to ask "why?" as they age or are taught to ask such questions. When they are young they have an "It-Is-What-It-Is" attitude, and respond with a "Just-Do-It" solution. Sometimes that can be most frustrating for a parent who is trying to teach their child to think, ask questions about their environment, and make wise choices. But sometimes, we need a little more of that in all of us.

When faced with someone who has treated us unfairly, we gossip and rage. When "the impossible" is put upon us by spouses or bosses, we whine and worry what "the other guy" is doing. Our government is great at appointing special committees to decide "why" before we make any adjustments to "what," thereby delaying the approval of medications and burying bills that provide a succinct solution to what is wrong. And, me? I am great for developing, at least, a ten-step program to tackling my spiritual blight. By the time I get to step three, I've given up and decided to "cook some breakfast first."

So, today I am going to work on "getting the pizza out of the car" and worry less about how it got there. Chances are, I really don't need to think too long to know how it got there in the first place, I just didn't try too hard to prevent it.

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It

Two posts in one day? She must be down with the flu or suffering from some sort muscular atrophy in her lower extremities, you decide.

No, just one of those days when it seems to be coming at me from all directions -- when it's not a matter of what to write, but which to write. Some days I want to write until I am exhausted, so I do, but I am wise to not have you suffer through it; I journal a bit, save some for a rainy day, and post some for you to read. Interestingly enough, today I am compelled to post about posting.
Many artists have their muses -- some living and breathing, some merely places in time which inspire and impel. I have many sources of insight -- not that they are all up and running collectively, but I can usually find some groundwork for creativity. However, I recently asked the question "Just how far I would be willing to go?"

Some sports legends have refused to change their socks. I'll be honest, I can be as lazy and uncouth as any frat boy. I can eat like I've never seen pizza before; I can stay in my pajamas and forego shaving for days. Refusing to change my socks, though? Hmmm, what else ya got?

My mind goes to the Brady Bunch episode in which a consultant of some sort advises the family to engage in a ridiculous exaggeration of "method acting," in order to deliver some award-winning performance in a detergent commercial. Alice has time to go to the salon for an elaborate "updo" now that the detergent has done such a fabulous job on the laundry and freed her up for extracurriculars. So, should I don a clerical collar for divine inspiration, or slip into some winged tulle, rife with sparkles, for a little children's literature. I try to envision Eric Carle sitting at his desk, putting thought to paper while garbed in the fuzzy green vesture of his fictional ravenous caterpillar. Just not working for me...

Meditation? Well, if meditation involves sitting on a mat, coiling my legs into a half windsor, chanting some meaningless drivel or "auming" until I lull myself to sleep, uh -- no. But praying for God to direct me, make my words His words, and lead me according to His Will -- absolutely. Yep, that works for me!

A Thankless Job

"She looks a little frustrated. It looks like Marybeth is having trouble following our rules. Let's go give her a hand..." Stacey and Clinton dash to her aid, rushing in to pick the perfect wardrobe and save the day.
A favorite "guilty pleasure" of mine is TLC's "What Not to Wear". Truthfully, I have no idea what channel TLC is, or what time the show airs; I just know that from time to time, I catch it when someone is channel surfing, and it can, like any other addiction, lead to hours wasted and a desire for more. But, comfort comes in knowing I am not alone; Christine will watch it, Scott will watch it.

There is universal appeal in watching the transformation of a Plain Jane in PJ's to a fierce femme fatale, ready to conquer the world of business or intimidate the other moms at the school bus stop. It's an alluring concept that goes far beyond "what not to wear." It is the story of rescue. Stacey and Clinton ride in to town, single out some unsuspecting waif in need, and rescue her from the perils of mom jeans and mane clips. They hand over a credit card worth $5,000, stipulate the terms of her expenditures, and set her loose in New York to indulge her wildest dreams. After a "recoiffe" and some gentle reproach over eyeliner, the lesson is complete. At the end of the show, our damsel in distress faces her family and peers, some of whom could spend a thousand or two themselves, to "show off her new look." Rave reviews and a modeling-type photo shoot fade to black as we are left to imagine how much better her life is now that she has been pulled from the mire.

From time to time, I am not the cheery, optimistic little sprite that I appear to be. Even then, Stacey and Clinton smile their way into my doldrums and brighten my day or, and this is so much better -- become the objects of my odiousness. I disparage their every effort, and criminate their suggestions. I encourage Marybeth to "be comfortable -- wear sweats." Indignantly I cry, "Who died and put them in charge of skivvies? Who are they to tell anyone how to dress? Do they even know what life is like outside their Designer Row bubble" I scoff at the likelihood their Cinderella will abide by their rules for more than a week or two. "Oh, sure, she looks like that now, but when she goes back home to BillyBob who comes home from work smelling like something between auto paint and raw sewage, and she's been nuking chicken nuggets for the crumb snatchers all day, she'll slip right back into flip-flops and hair scrunchies. Nobody can look like that all the time! What happens at six in the morning when she stumbles to the kitchen in her cut-offs and robe for a quiet cup of coffee and a moment of escapism, only to find she's out of half & half? You really think she's going to don her Jimmy Choos and curl her lashes before she heads out to the Swiss Farm? Please, it's a drive-thru! You'll be lucky if she brushes her teeth!" And, "What about the morning after pizza night, when her size ten body feels like a fully-expanded size fourteen water balloon? You think she's going to put on dress slacks and 'the perfect blazer' to pack bagged lunches and clerk at the Walmart?"

Despite all this, Stacey and Clinton forge ahead, lurking behind racks of clothing and "tsk,tsking" at their pitiable, recalcitrant trainees who flounder in a sea of empire-waist blouses and embellished necklines. Conclusion: they are certifiable, altruistic, or making a fortune. I'd like to think they live with the belief that, if they can help just one person, it will have been worth all the effort. (Isn't that what philanthropists say when they are discouraged by public apathy?) Unfortunately, today I am feeling a bit "unsprite-like," and I am willing to bet they are renegotiating their contracts with every muffin-top they eradicate. Then again, bringing fashion to a population of wannabe strippers in belly-hugging spandex or moms who wear knee socks with granny skirts and Birkenstocks? There's not enough money in the world.

What Does My Dog Have Against Martha Stewart?

Yesterday the family went out to do some errands -- silly little things like exchanging or returning, dropping items off for repair, things I usually try to get to through the week. With fuel prices steadily rising once again though, I had saved up a few stops for a more distant part of the county; now it was time to care of those things.

Scott had gone out a little earlier in the morning, stepping back through the front door with his usual, "Every nut in PA is out on the road today!" (He grew up in Jersey, and has little tolerance for Pennsylvania drivers -- IMAGINE THAT?!) Knowing his flair for the dramatic, I responded with prodigious interest, "uh-huh." I was to find, later, it was true. I cannot count the number of "unsignaled" spontaneous lane changes, illegal u-turns, and brake riders. Aloud, we wondered where these people got their licenses and why they thought their actions were of no consequence to the hoards of drivers sharing the road with them.

When we reached our first stop, I watched as a woman took her empty shopping cart and placed it ever so carefully between two parked cars, and drove away. Now perhaps, this was this middle-aged woman's first try at the shopping cart thing; maybe she's never watched as a cart has savagely taken out the side panel of a new vehicle once its gained untold momentum through the "salt flats" of overflow parking. Maybe she's new here -- her alien ship spent the entire night hovering over some remote part of the county, dropping shoppers. No doubt a part of the worldwide economy stimulus program -- an exchange with some distant planet for the "compassionate" judge who released the Lockerbie bomber.

At another store, a "helpful sales associate" barked at Scott and Joe that the purchase Joe was making was going to "destroy his game system in six months". A moment later he scoffed at Maddy and I for "looking for the Burger King having dinner in McDonald's" -- we were looking for a DS game in a bin that was, apparently, full of Playstation Games. (Will the madness ever stop?!) I chalked it up to the fact that this 30-something works 34 hours a week for minimum wage at a video gaming store, and lives with his mother and her dead husband's "apparition."

Our final stop began easily, scooting into a spot in the farthest reaches of the parking lot, leisurely strolling toward the store, our group staying safely and innocuously together, giggling and talking. A woman walked just seven or eight feet ahead of us, turning around only once to see who was behind her. As we approached the entrance, I reached out to grab the door from her only to find she had let it go; it silently fell flush before my grasp. Door #2 -- same scenario. I wanted to declare, "No, it's OK! I got it!" but I know this is why God gave me children -- to keep my big mouth and sometimes antisocial attitude in check. Once I'd just about raised my "first set" and my disposition hadn't improved, He gave me the second set as insurance I'd watch my p's and q's. (At this rate, I'm going to be parenting children well into my nineties).

This morning I was letting the dogs out after breakfast. Tinkerbell did her usual constitutional in the middle of the yard; Bishop, however, went straight to the barbecue grill and lifted his leg on the gray canvas cover -- a Martha Stewart exclusive. Aside from the fact that this dog keeps relieving himself on my patio, requiring me to scrub with bleach and a broom in ninety-two degree heat with the eighty-six percent humidity that is vaporizing our part of the country right now -- I wonder, "What does he have against Martha Stewart?" We have a tree, we have potted plants, we have two vehicles with eight stock-still, amenable wheels just begging for a good soaking, but Martha? Why her? What did she ever do to warrant such tactless consideration?
Oddly enough I thought back to yesterday and "all those nuts." We've all been wronged, we've all wronged others. Sometimes there are deep-seated motives, sometimes we are self-absorbed, sometimes there is intent. And sometimes, like Bishop and Martha, there is no excuse except there is no excuse. We just do it -- whether out of habit or lack of focus, or maybe from sheer ignorance. Now, that's not to say Martha must continue to suffer such indignity, and Bishop is permitted to persist in such disgusting behavior, but none of us is above doing the wrong thing. None of us can say we are better than a door slammer, or cart abandoner, or no-signaler, and sometimes the anger we feel when we are the victims of such outrage, stems from thinking that we are. We are sinful, imperfect, mortal beings (Romans 3:23) who desperately need God's forgiveness (I John 1:9) and the forgiveness of one another (Col. 3:13). We all engage in behavior that is not only displeasing to God, but may strongly affect those around us. Today's society seems to capitalize on victimization, and fix itself on ensuring our "persecuted" remain trophies for our crusade, no matter how ungodly the cause. We turn every infraction or oversight into some deliberate attack on our faith, our politics, our ethnicity, even our choice of vehicle. We have become a pampered, self-righteous, defensive people.
II Chronicles 7:14 is God's clear, concise plan for action. It starts within each of us -- humility, repentance -- and culminates in the forgiveness of our sins and the restoration of our land. Imagine a world where smiling people consider others before themselves, where buggies are carefully stored in the cart corral and "helpful sales associates" are so sure you will return their courtesy that they are truly unapologetically helpful. Imagine, if you dare, a world where a simple pitbull and a homemaking icon can get along...