Fifty Shades of Greige

Painting has become a kind of compulsion for me. I’ve painted our house a ridiculous amount of times. Since we built our home 15 years ago, most of the rooms have been painted at least three times; Paige’s old room five.  Maybe I’m spending too much time at home looking at the walls, because I’m thinking about painting again.

The family room downstairs started out white, then was changed to a color I can’t quite describe—it matched the couch I bought off Craigslist.  I got rid of the couch and the rest of the furniture and repainted the downstairs before Paige and Matt moved in with us. They ended up staying three weeks and then Matt was offered a new job and they moved to Madison. Fortunately, the taupe we chose for the family room matched the new furniture we bought to replace what we had cleared out.   

I wasn’t able to live with the seafoam green though in what was going to be the nursery. The color made me feel nauseous when I started using the room as my workout room.  I repainted the walls gray which turned out looking decidedly purple. The next color I chose was cream. I figured it would be a safe color, but two coats couldn’t cover the four layers of color underneath. That room really should be done again. 

Amber and Paul helped me repaint the kitchen in 2011, a shade of green Amber chose that looks good with the oak cabinets. I’m thinking now about changing it when we replace our damaged laminate countertop.

A few years ago I repainted the living room the same golden tan trending at the time we built the house. It now looks dated. I want to freshen things up.

Gray is the new neutral. I actually love gray, but it doesn’t go with the warm colors in our carpet, furniture and oak trim.

If only I could paint the trim and kitchen cabinets white, I could pick any wall color I wanted. But there’s no way Dave’s going to let me paint perfectly good solidly built oak cabinets. That and it would cost a small fortune not to mention be a ton of work (once I got started I’d have to do the whole house of course).

I’ve been told greige is the ticket. It’s a warm gray with beige, considered a neutral that’s supposed to go with anything. Turns out there are at least 50 shades of greige, each having its own sneaky undertones. I’ve spent hours the last few weeks researching and scouring Pinterest for the perfect one. I want to get it right.

After several trips to Benjamin Moore gathering paint chips, I bought sample pints of the top two contenders--Abalone and Revere Pewter. I did what the experts tell you to do. I painted poster board and taped them to the wall. I’m glad I did. The Abalone definitely looks lavender and the Revere Pewter looks like yesterday’s oatmeal or a dried-up mud puddle.

People ask if I like painting because I do so much of it. I actually kind of abhor painting, but after so much practice I’m pretty good at it. I swear this is the last time I’m painting the house.  Maybe I’ll have one of those online interior designers suggest one color and hire a professional to paint the entire house with it.

Or, maybe I should just quit looking at the walls and get out more. I have Pinterest paralysis.

Learning New Tricks

Recently, our department implemented a new computer system. It was a fairly major shift from what we had been using. Employees spent weeks in classes learning the new program.  Those under 40 caught on quickly. The 50-plus crowd were intimidated. Those pushing 60 talked about early retirement.

I didn't think I was that stupid, but I had to ask more questions than the younger coworkers in my class. It was irritating when one of the 20-year-olds laughed at me when I asked how to print out a screenshot. Well sorreeeey, I didn't grow up using computers. Serves me right though. I remember years ago making fun of an older lady in my work unit for how she had to stop and look over her cheaters to see the computer screen.  

Well, the system is now up and running. It turned out that it wasn't that painful. No one even turned in their retirement papers. 

So it's possible to master new things when you're no longer a young pup. I tried to think of what I've learned since being in my 50s. It was a stretch, but I did come up with a couple of things. For one, I discovered and started using the tabs at the end of the aluminum foil roll. Why doesn't anyone know about these? They're there to hold the roll in place so when you go to pull out a sheet of tin foil or plastic wrap the whole roll doesn't get yanked out and you end up with three feet of crumpled mess. How annoying is that? If you've never used these little guys before, go to your kitchen right now and pull out the tin foil. See those tabs. Push them in. Your life is going to be infinitely better from here on in, trust me.

I've also earned how to properly fold a fitted sheet. It took practicing using a YouTube video, but I finally mastered it. 

My last post was about how I was learning how to draw again. Other than doodling the backs of people's heads on the bulletin during church, I hadn't drawn since college. My daughter encouraged me to start up with my art again. I was intimidated. I didn't think I'd be very good and wouldn't stick with it. My first sketches were pretty rudimentary. I began drawing using photographs of people in magazines for reference. That way it wouldn't matter if the drawing looked like the person or not. But when I drew Morgan Freeman and it actually looked like him and not Bill Cosby, I was pleased. I set out to continue to get better.

From YouTube I've learned about using grids. Before I start a new picture, I painstakingly pencil out a grid on my paper and place another one over the photo. It's time consuming and tedious, but it's made a world of difference in getting proportion right, essential in drawing realistic faces. I somehow feel like a fraud because I don't draw fluidly and effortlessly, but I found out that most of the great masters used grids. You better believe that when Michelangelo painted The Creation of Adam on the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, he used a grid. Leonardo da Vinci regularly used grids and mathematical solutions in his drawings. So I guess if Michelangelo and da Vinci used a ruler, I can too.

Several have told me they wished they had my artistic ability. Ha! Truth is, drawing is like anything else. It takes years of practice to become skilled at anything (becoming good at playing piano, singing, writing or whatever). It's not necessarily raw talent.  It takes instruction, time and practice.  A lot of time. My drawings take at least six to eight hours, and I do much erasing and starting over.  Even though I love the process and it is immeasurably rewarding, it's still work.

I think I am a better artist now at this age than when I was younger.  I have the advantage of a lifetime of gaining perspective.  I can see things that I didn't see before. With the help of my cheaters, of course.

Hobbies and House-Husbands

Dave's been retired for three weeks, and so far it's been divine. For me anyway. Working isn't so bad if you have a house-husband. When I step through the door at night, my work is done. 

Dave's taken over almost all of the household duties. I was always the cook in the family, but now Dave starts dinner if I leave him step-by-step instructions. If there's so much as one dirty sock in the laundry basket, it will be washed, dried, matched up with its partner and put away by the time I get home. It's like magic.

He pretty much does all the grocery shopping too. He won't admit it, but I think he secretly loves shopping. He makes regular trips to Rochester when we're low on anything. I mean, anything. Like water softener salt, beef jerky or Twizzlers. Since a trip to Rochester is 50 miles round trip, the Twizzlers have become an expensive item. But I gotta give the guy a break. It's his only vice. That and watching Fox News, but that's another story. Don't get me started.

His joy though is being with the grandbabies. He'll never turn down an opportunity to be grandpa-nanny. 

So far, his retirement hasn't been a bad gig for him or for me. People ask him if he gets bored. He says no and so far hasn't been looking to start a new hobby. 

I, however, have a lot more time on my hands. After binge watching My 600 Pound Life and Intervention for Dave's first two weeks of retirement, I decided I needed the hobby.  

I used to draw. In college I majored in journalism and minored in graphic arts. By my junior year, I had a good start on developing my art portfolio. After spring semester that year, I left for California with the intent to return to Indiana in the fall. I put my things in storage at the school, all except for my art portfolio. I asked a friend to keep the art for me until I returned. Not that the art was so great, but I had put my heart and soul into it. It meant a lot to me. She promised me she'd guard it with her life.

When the summer was up, I decided to stay in California. I flew home to Minnesota, and my mom and I made the drive to Indiana to retrieve my things. The stuff I had put in storage in the basement of Martin Hall was still there. The friend with whom I left my art portfolio was not. Rumor had it that she joined a cult over the summer. I never saw her or my art work again.

The circumstances of my leaving college were painful. For a long time I had this melancholy feeling every fall when colleges started back up. I felt like I should be there. I had intended to finish college in California, but life took over. I started working, got married, had children, and put school and art on the back burner. 

After a number of years, the desire to go back to school left. I had a job I liked and didn't know what I'd rather be doing. I don't regret not having a degree but I have always had a profound sadness about losing my art work.  

Knowing this, Amber encouraged me to start painting again. She asked me to do a painting for her to hang up in their house. The idea of painting is intimidating. It's been so long, I literally don't remember how. I need to learn to draw again before I attempt a painting.

After a 34-year hiatus, I'm drawing again. I'm rusty. So far I've just been doing simple pencil sketches. My first attempts haven't been great, but that's okay. To become good at anything takes time and practice. I've got the time.

Meanwhile, I've been trying to track down the chick who took off with my art work. She probably threw it away, but you never know. Maybe it's stowed away in an attic somewhere. If I ever find her though, I'm going to throttle her.

Kicking Debt to the Curb

Last year Dave and I finally kicked debt to the curb. No more car loans, credit cards, or outstanding medical bills. We celebrated by screaming at the top of our lungs, "We're debt free!!!!" Then we sat down and ate ice cream.

We had been working on getting out of debt for a number of years. We didn't owe a ton and our payments were manageable, but we wanted to be completely out of debt by the time Dave retired. Progress was slow. It was like we were on a treadmill. One loan would get paid off and then another would inevitably take its place.

The game changer was when our daughter and her husband introduced us to Dave Ramsey. If you haven't heard of Dave Ramsey, he's kind of all over the place. Author, motivational speaker and talk show host, he educates and counsels hurting folks on how to get out of debt and gain financial freedom.

Amber and Paul were doing Dave Ramsey's debt snowball plan to pay off their college loans. Newly married and fresh out of college, they weren't making much and were living in Boston, a city with frightfully high living expenses. When their college loans first came due, reality hit hard. The combined loans would equal a monthly mortgage payment for the next 10 years, if not more. 

Amber and Paul heard about Dave Ramsey from friends who had been successful in paying off their school debt using his plan. They bought one of his books and started working the plan to attack their loans, smallest to largest. 

We kept up with their progress and cheered every time they called to say they had paid off another loan. In less than two years, they had knocked out their last payment. Their excitement was contagious. Paige and Matt went all in too and became debt free within six months.

Ours isn't nearly as impressive as the journey our kids made to become debt free. It took us longer than it should have, but we finally said enough already and got 'er done.

Dave Ramsey's just a guy. He admits that he hasn't invented anything new in the area of money. On his radio show, he often says that he gives the same financial advice your grandmother would. None of his concepts were new to me. But he's made the process simple and doable.

The best thing is you don't have to pay one cent to follow his advice. Just check out his book The Money Makeover from the library (or borrow the book I never returned to Amber). You can also watch his podcasts online or catch his radio show. Dave and I stayed motivated by listening to his show on IHeart Radio every night on the way home from work.
We're now working on Step 6 of Dave Ramsey's 7 Baby Steps.

Next week Dave's retiring on his 62nd birthday. We're not going to be rolling in the dough, but we're very happy to be out of debt and have a savings. 

New Year Resolutions

Another year passes--each one flying by a little faster than the year before.

Our New Year's day is usually spent just recovering from Christmas. Kind of like taking a day off after vacation to recover from vacation.

I do like making a few goals for the year. I don't call them New Year's resolutions though. That would mean I'd have to be resolute in keeping them. That I'm not.

I began making New Year's resolutions in high school.  My list consistently included a variation of the typical ones people make. 1) Lose weight (by so many pounds in so many months), 2) exercise more, and 3) read through the Bible in a year. 

My success rate wasn't high. On my weight, I gained an average of a pound each year, every decade adding 10 more pounds to my weigh loss goal. My goals to exercise were too lofty. The year I resolved to run a half marathon I ended up with killer plantar fasciitis, putting a halt to even thinking about walking around the block. 

I ditched my Bible reading plan around February when I was slogging my way through Deuteronomy.

I've gotten wiser and more realistic with age. My goals now are quite attainable. Like replace the torn lampshade in the living room. Or, vacuum out the Asian beetles from the light fixtures. 

Two years ago my goal was simply to watch more television. It was a worthy goal, I thought. Dave and I didn't spend enough quality time together. He watches television. I hole up with a book. When we switched to cable and bought a new comfy couch for the family room, I decided to turn over a new leaf and join him. Didn't take too long to become an HGTV junkie.

I'm not a complete slug though. Twice I've managed to read straight through the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. Both times it took me closer to two years, with the first year and a half spent in the Old Testament. I felt parched but overjoyed when I made it to Matthew.  

Now I read the Bible without a particular plan. The point is that I read it. Sometimes I spend weeks in one chapter. Other times I read a verse for the day. Currently, I'm memorizing the book of James with my friend, Millie, who lives in the nursing home. Maybe I'll finish by the end of the year. I'm not in a hurry. I'm refreshed just to be soaking in the Word and to spend time with Millie.

In 2010 I successfully lost the 40 pounds I had gained over 40 years. I simply resolved to eat real food, just less of it, and break a sweat each day. I didn't have a timeline. I was in it for a lifestyle change. The strategy worked. I kept most of it off for the first seven years. Recently though, I've been on the upswing. Something needs to be done.

I am setting a weight goal. From every year hereon in, my goal is to weigh my age plus 100. This year that's 155. 

I came up with the idea after watching a segment on 60 Minutes on research done on the lifestyles of those who lived to 90 and beyond. https://www.cbsnews.com/news/want-to-live-to-90/

They found that those who remained active lived longer and had less chance of developing dementia--not surprising. Taking vitamins didn't make much difference. Surprisingly, those who had a few drinks a day tended to live longer than those who didn't drink alcohol.

The real kicker, and what I found encouraging, is that at a certain age weight gain can be a good thing. Those who were average weight or moderately overweight outlived those who were underweight. Bottom line, it's not good to be skinny when you're old. 

I jumped on this idea. I decided that if I weigh my age plus 100, I can gain a pound every year and remain in exceptional health. Next year, it's 156. At 75 years of age, I hope to be at 175. If I'm still living at a 100 and weigh 200, that's fantastic. It's a beautiful plan. Of course, for all this to work out I'll first need to get back down to 155.

So there you have it. Older, wiser, and keeping it simple. 

Have a wonderful new year, my friends. May it be one that is joyful, peaceful, and surrounded by those you love.

Jacci

P.S. On one very happy note, last year on January 3 we finally crossed off a goal we had on our list for years. We did THE DEBT FREE SCREAM! Finally, we were able to kick our debts to the curb. I'll have to do a blog post on that one. Next time.

Hitting 55

Sharing birthdays with Evie

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday with our first grandchild. Evie was due on my birthday and came on my birthday. Pretty special. Evie turned three. I've hit the speed limit.

I am good with being fifty-five. For me, the sevens have always been the hard birthdays. Twenty-seven. Thirty-seven. Forty-seven. All gave me a certain kind of dread. I don't know why exactly.  Maybe because I was closer to the next decade than I was to the last.  

Forty-seven though was the worst. My plumbing was unpredictable. I was becoming increasingly forgetful.  I also weighed more than I did when I was nine-months pregnant with my last child. At my physical that year, my doctor said I had all the signs of perimenopause, the precursor to the last hurrah. Yay. Well, at least there was a reason I was going haywire mentally and physically.  

I asked her about the weight gain.  She said, oh yeah, that's part of it.  Once a woman turns 50 and hits menopause, the default is to continue to gain weight.  A woman would need to both exercise an hour more a day and decrease calories just to maintain her weight, never mind lose weight. Well, if all I could hope for after 50 was just to maintain my weight, I decided I would go into it the skinniest I possibly could.

For the next months I cut calories and worked out like a fiend. After 40 pounds lost, I recognized my face again. It felt good. I tossed out all my old clothes and bought new ones in sizes I hadn't seen since high school.

And, then, I promptly went into a full-blown midlife crisis. This was the best it was going to get before I got truly old. I grew depressed thinking of the day I'd be wearing comfortable orthopedic shoes and plucking hairs off my chin.

It took me until I turned 50 to get over the midlife crisis. Since then I've come to realize there are advantages of growing older.

For one, I have greater perspective. When my kids call to share their hardships, I tell them that things are going to turn out okay. And, I know they will. I've seen it in my own life. Sometimes it takes time--a long time, years even--but God can turn crummy things into blessings.

Yes, my memory is shot.  But there's an upside to losing your memory.  I can now read a book twice. I'm into the third chapter before the story line seems even vaguely familiar and I realize that I've probably read it before.  Doesn't matter. I don't remember how it ends, so I keep reading.

I've become more comfortable in saying what I mean and meaning what I say.  I certainly try to be gracious, but I don't have the energy or time to beat around the bush. I guess that's what it means to lose your filter. 

I'm okay with the way I look. I look my age, I think. It's silly to try to be some kind of hot grandma.  I'm just going for well groomed.

I think intercession is a special gifting that God gives to older people. After our last child left for college, I was sobered by the thought that the time of influence with our children was over. Had we done it right? We made so many mistakes as parents. Our sphere of influence is now in our prayers.  Dave and I have an urgency to pray for young people like never before. Daily we pray for the young people in our lives, each of them by name. Our adult children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, and the children and grandchildren of our friends.  

The relationship with your children changes as you and they grow older. You become more of a mentor and cheerleader as they move into their adult lives and become parents themselves. You are honored when they come to you seeking wisdom. (That I have any wisdom to give is always a surprise to me.)

But the creme de la creme is getting grandbabies out of the deal. In the last three years, Dave and I have been blessed with three beautiful granddaughters, Evie, Hazel, and Ashton. My birthson also has two little guys: Moser and Daniel. Someone once told me that having grandchildren is like falling in love. It's true. When you think of your grandchildren, you get this soft, warm expansive feeling. You can't get enough of them and can't wait for the next time you see them. Pure joy.

But here's something else.  The older I get, the less of a hold I have on this life. This life is full of joys and blessings but more than enough heartache and sorrow to go around too. We live in a broken world. All you need to do is turn on the television and listen to the news. But this life is just a dot on the line of eternity. The older I get, I think of heaven more. I long to be in the Lord's presence forever. 

But until that day comes, I'm going to live my life gratefully.

Life at 55 is good.

Laughing Gas

For the last couple of days I've had a zinger of a toothache.  After a long night counting my pulse through the number of times my tooth throbbed, I called to get into the dentist right away in the morning. A few X-rays and a shot of cold air to tooth #15 and Dr. Peters confirmed I needed a root canal. She gravely informed me the tooth was dying.

So far this year we've paid the dentist the equivalent of what we could have spent buying a small-sized sedan.  I asked how much for the root canal.  $1,500.  I asked how much to have it pulled. $200 to $300, depending.  "Pull it." 

Dr. Peters looked pained. As a dentist she said she always tries to save teeth. The tooth was still good. It already had a crown on it. I could understand this. Rescuing teeth is her job. 

I asked if I could get along without the tooth, and she admitted that if there was any tooth you could live without it would be a back top tooth. I said I was ready to say goodbye to the problem child. I had spent enough money on this tooth over the years.

The receptionist set me up with an oral surgeon in the afternoon. She broke down the price and asked if I wanted to have nitrous oxide--laughing gas. It was an extra $86. 

I'd never had the particular pleasure of receiving laughing gas, but I heard it was a blast. I'd always just braved it out with Novocain, even when I had my wisdom teeth removed years ago. 

Our dentist in California was a man from India named Dr. Belur. I had assumed when I went to Dr. Belur to get my wisdom teeth pulled, I'd be put under or be offered laughing gas. I was wrong. When I asked when I was going to be put to sleep, Dr. Belur said in his genteel Indian accent, "Oh, no, in New Delhi I take out 300 teeth a day. Not even Novocain. I just pull." He said I should have gone to an oral surgeon if I had wanted sedation.

I felt a sense of alarm, but he said no worries. He'd use Novocain with me. He gave me my first shot, and there was no turning back. 

What came next was akin to two hours of labor and delivery with forceps. Dr. Belur was pulling so hard to get my first impacted tooth out that my butt kept lifting up off the chair. As my body dangled from the single grip of a pair of dental pliers, Dr. Belur told me I should have gone to an oral surgeon and gotten put under. 

He had managed to cut two of the teeth out by the time his office closed at five o'clock. I was sent home with two tea bags to put in my injured mouth and told to return in the morning to have the other two removed. I came back the next morning for more of the same, and finally the deed was done.

So with the memory of my experience with Dr. Belur in mind, I readily said yes please when the oral surgeon offered a little bit of the N20.

The laughing gas wasn't quite the hoot I expected, but it did make the whole experience of getting a tooth yanked out of your jaw an almost pleasant one. After the dental assistant strapped the mask over my nose, I had a moment of claustrophobia. I asked if I could get it removed if I started to panic.  The assistant said just to breathe through my mouth if I got uncomfortable.

They started up the mist. I waited. Nothing. Took a few deep breaths.  Still nothing.  But then my hands started to tingle and my lips felt like they were getting shot up with Botox. Not that I have ever gotten Botox. Finally, I started to feel a mildly pleasant sensation. The creative juices began to flow.  Man, this would make for a good blog. I tried to hang onto the pleasant thoughts drifting in my brain. 

I thought of my oldest daughter who had delivered our latest granddaughter at a birthing center. The midwives used laughing gas for pain relief. God bless Amber, I thought. She went through childbirth just with laughing gas. Gosh, I love that girl. Then I thought of our other two children. And our grandbabies. Well, just bless them all.

I heard the crunch of the tooth as it cracked, sort of like what you hear when you break apart the bones of the chicken.

Seemed like less than a minute and they were done. I remained in the chair as I was given instructions for after care. 

As I made my way to my car, I rehearsed the happy thoughts I had while I was under the stream of laughing gas. I was going to write the blog as soon as I got home.

First though I needed to get ice cream. Ice cream was supposed to be good for recovery. I pulled up at the drive through at Flapdoodles and ordered a pint of vanilla and a pint of white chocolate raspberry. 

At home, I replaced the gauze, took two Advil and started on the blog.  That was over four hours ago. I still haven't been able to recover the breezy thoughts I had while I was in laughing gas la-la land.

Oh, well. Getting the tooth pulled was a piece of cake. And I'm eating Flapdoodles ice cream.  All in all, a good day. 

Minimizing. The 30-Day Challenge

My daughter and son-in-law are embracing minimalism.  Vaguely, I remembered hearing about the concept. It's a quest to live with less and not go down the path of major consumerism. The Minimalist web site defines minimalism as a tool to rid yourself of life’s excess in favor of focusing on what’s important—so you can find happiness, fulfillment, and freedom.

I know it can be taken to the extreme--like owning and living with 100 items or less. Good for those who do that, but that sounds like a mere survivalist existence. Not a lifestyle I wish to embrace. I don't want to choose between owning a camp stove or wearing makeup.  

For Matt and Paige, though, it's just about simplifying their lives. Having a two-bedroom home and two small children, they were feeling overwhelmed with the amount of stuff they had.  I completely understand. Until our oldest was in her teens, we raised our three children in a small one- and a half-story. Keeping a small house clean with kids is like shoveling while it's still snowing. I kept a relatively tidy house when my kids were growing up (except for the girls' room for which they were responsible and I avoided entering). It wasn't easy keeping the house from getting trashed. I was crabby much of the time as I was constantly picking up or telling my kids to put their toys away.  

A solution is to simply have less stuff. Paige and Matt are making great progress in purging their house of anything that, as Matt says, "doesn't bring them joy." Daily they send me a photo of something else they are tossing overboard.

They gave me the 30-Day Minimalism challenge to do with them. The challenge is to get rid of excess stuff for a month. The first day you get rid of one thing.  The second day, two things. Three items on the third and so on. By the end of 30 days, you'll have gotten rid of something like 930 items. You can donate, sell, or trash, but each possession has to be out of the house and your life by midnight. 

At first, I didn't think I needed to do the challenge.  Except for my buying high-end lattes (a habit I have been recently curbing), I don't feel like I'm into mass consumerism. If you walk into my house, it's usually fairly uncluttered.  I don't have many clothes, other than my work scrubs or what I get free at Gap with my reward points. I'm pretty good about making regular trips to Savers or throwing things we no longer use.

But then I realized there was a lot I could purge.  It's the junk that's been traveling with me every move I've made since college and after Dave and I were first married. Basically, stuff that is out of sight and out of mind, but feels somehow sacrilegious to get rid of. Semi-sentimental stuff I haven't wanted to tackle. Photos Dave took when he was doing weddings years ago. College textbooks. Music CDs and VHS tapes which we no longer have a way of playing. Binders of material from retreats and conferences we've attended. Duplicate photos of the kids. The pair of pants I wore in 1988 and said I'd keep until the day I could fit into them again. 

Recently Mom and Warren moved to an apartment in Lake City. I and my siblings helped her box up the things for the move. We had three piles. Toss, give away, or keep. When Mom was distracted, we stealthily put things in the toss pile. Much of it, she and Warren spied and pulled out and put in the keep pile. Their new apartment and small storage area are crammed full. 

I thought of what it will be like for our kids one day when they move us to assisted living. I joined the challenge.

June 1, I tossed the entire contents of the top left drawer of my dresser. I considered the drawer as one thing. It was full of mostly slips, negligees, and camis given to me at my bridal shower 31 years ago. Somehow, it seemed wrong to throw them. Why, I don't know. I haven't fit into them since our second year of marriage. And, good grief, does any one even wear slips anymore? 

Yesterday, I got rid of an old TV that doesn't get sound and a coffee thermos cup that leaks.

It might take me towards the end of the challenge before I hit the Rubbermaid tub holding the pants I haven't worn since 1988. Pretty sure I won't be able to get them up beyond my knees.

Join us if you like.  Let me know how it goes. The 30-Day Minimalist Challenge 

A Cup of Joe

Sigh.  I'm only on Day One of titrating down on caffeine and my head is feeling soggy.

I love coffee. I really, truly love coffee. The problem is it's become all or nothing for me.  I've gone beyond drinking coffee in moderation to becoming all out dependent.  At home I drink three to four seizure-inducing cups every day.  With how thick I make my brew, this probably translates to seven cups to the average coffee-drinking Joe.

I could live with just being addicted to coffee.  It's not the worst vice, and it makes me happy.  But it's how much money I'm spending on finely crafted lattes outside of home that's the problem.

Dave and I do the Everydollar budget (it's simple, it's free, and it's gotten us out of debt--yay, Dave Ramsey!).  Every month I blow my coffee budget, usually within the first week.  I'm not going to tell you how much I spend.  It's embarrassing. Suffice it to say, if I quit buying Starbucks, I could get a new outfit every month.  Pretty sad, because my monthly budget for clothing is zero.  I could use a new pair of jeans.

At work, I get Starbucks.  Every morning I tell myself I'm not going to spend money on a cup of coffee that costs more than a gallon of milk. But then I always find a reason that I need a coffee treat.  (I'm feeling blue. I didn't sleep well last night. It's only Tuesday. It's Friday and time to celebrate. And on and on and on.)

I've tried finding cheaper alternatives.  But lesser substitutes won't do. Our work's break room has a Keurig.  To me K-Cup coffee tastes like not very good instant coffee. I've also tried bringing in freshly ground coffee and filling the reusable kind of cups.  The result is a not so awesome cup of slightly gritty swill.

I've brought coffee in a thermos. Tastes metallic. I've made iced coffee, which at home is pretty good, but halfway through the day is an anemic watery drink.

So, if I can't be satisfied unless I'm spending my future retirement on foo-foo drinks, it might be I just need to quit.  Or, at least stop until coffee once again becomes the occasional treat and not the life-or-death-gotta-have-it addiction that it is now.

I'm bracing myself for ice-pick headaches. My strategy is to regularly dose with Ibuprofin.  So far, my head just feels soggy.

The Church Visitor

Last Sunday I visited a church on my way home from Madison.  I had spent the weekend with my daughter's family. Paige had just had her baby--our second granddaughter, Hazel Rose (who of course is beautiful in every way).  I was delighted to spend time with the new baby and Evie, our other adorable granddaughter.

I really wanted to go to church before I headed back home. Paige and Matt were staying home from church that Sunday. It was just a little bit too soon to go out with their newborn. After doing some research on the internet, I found one that I thought would be good. It was right on my way back home.

Visiting the church that morning was an uncomfortable experience. I don't mean to malign this church. The people seemed sincere. The worship was uplifting and the message Bible-based and challenging. However, I felt unwelcome being there.

It was partly my mistake. I should have waited for the church service. Instead I came in during the coffee fellowship, the half hour between Sunday school and the church service. When I got to the door, a man who I assumed was the assigned greeter that morning handed me a bulletin. No one else seemed to notice me. After standing around awkwardly for a few minutes, I made a beeline for the single-person restroom. It was just to the right of the coffee table. Someone was ahead of me. A person came out and the man went in. I waited for him to finish. (What do you do outside a bathroom door other than just stand there and feel weird.)

The foyer began to fill as people spilled out of the sanctuary. It wasn't a big church. A lot of people were older with gray hair like me, which told me they probably had been attending the church for a number of years.  I would have thought it easy to pick me out as a visitor. No one looked my way though or said hello. People stood in huddles chatting among themselves.

The guy wasn't coming out of the bathroom. It had been a few minutes. It felt like forever. I got a cup of coffee. He still didn't come out. Good grief. I decided my best bet was to wait in the sanctuary and try later.

I sat in an empty pew. I hoped someone would come and sit by me. Feeling conspicuous, I moved to the end of the pew next to the wall. I figured the pew would eventually fill up from the aisle.

Finally, a white-haired lady came over and shook my hand. I told her I was visiting after seeing my new granddaughter.  She smiled vaguely and nodded her head. As is my nature when I'm nervous, I started to blab. I shared that visiting a church was kind of scary.  She looked surprised. "Oh, really?" She then went up to join the worship team that was assembling up front.

I killed a few minutes by reading the bulletin. I got out my phone and texted my daughters about the situation.  They sympathized with me.  Both have had the same agonizing experience of trying out new churches. It's the worst, one texted back.

Finally--mercifully--the service started. Pretty routine. Announcements, then singing.  The songs were familiar, and I settled into worship.  Only thing I was a little emotional by this time--probably from being tired after sleeping on a couch for the last couple of nights and having a two-year-old wake me up to play at 4:30 in the morning. The main factor though was I was feeling bereft and lonely.

My eyes started to water as tears began to form.  Pretty soon the tears steadily riveted down my cheeks. Great. I was without a Kleenex.  I had unfortunately just tossed the one that had been wadded up in my coat pocket. Worse, I was trapped along the wall and couldn't get out unless I crawled over a row of people. I felt the eyes of the ladies next to me. The music ended, and the pastor instructed us to turn and greet our neighbor. I mumbled a greeting and then hastily scrambled out of the pew in search of Kleenex.

There was none to be found in the foyer. Toilet paper would suffice. The restroom was still being occupied. Yeesh, what was that guy doing in there?  Finally, I spied a stack of cocktail-sized napkins underneath the coffee table.  I grabbed a handful and tried to pull myself together. I was tempted to leave right then and there, but I had left my coat and purse on the pew. The preaching had already started when I climbed back over the row of people to get to my spot along the wall.

The rest of the service went by without incident. The sermon was good--on the subject of hell, never an easy topic to tackle. But the preacher spoke truth, and it gave me something to think about on the way home. Embarrassingly, I still couldn't stopping crying. At the end of the sermon, the pastor said there would be people up front who would pray for those in need. I was in need. It had been an exhausting hour.

Church was dismissed.  Going against the stream of traffic in the aisle, I elbowed a few people as I made my way to the two ladies who were standing at the front of the stage. So they wouldn't get the idea I was there to say the sinner's prayer, I quickly told them I was a believer. They asked how they could pray for me. I sobbed as I unloaded my heart. They pulled me into their ample bosoms and enveloped me with heart-felt prayers.

They were very kind and sincere. But I began to feel really hot. I was wearing my winter coat, and with being held in a tight embrace by two rather large ladies, I felt like I was going to pass out. If I did pass out, maybe people would just think I had been slain in the spirit.

The kind women finished praying for me. I gave them each a hug and thanked them. I then elbowed my way back up the aisle. I fell out of the church into fresh air. Other than still not using the restroom, I felt tremendous relief.

As I got on the highway to head home, I reflected on what it's like to be a church visitor. With a few exceptions, I have found it not easy to visit churches for the first time.

I have been a Christian for years and have been attending church since I was born. If I am uncomfortable being a church visitor, I realize how vulnerable it is for the unbeliever to cross the threshold of a church building. It's unfamiliar territory. If people aren't made to feel welcome, they may just never enter a church again.

There is one church visit that stands out as incredibly positive. When my daughter was in college she had to visit a Spanish-speaking church as an assignment for her language class. I visited one with her in Rochester. Even though I couldn't understand people's words, I have never felt so loved and welcome. People came up to us with big smiles, giving us warm greetings and hugs. They seemed sincerely happy we were there. During the service, a gentleman moved next to me and translated the sermon word for word. After the service, people thanked us for coming and told us to come again. These dear people who spoke broken English exuded the love of Christ. It was a powerful experience.

I pray that people who try our church for the first time might feel that same love.