Maybe Mrs. Tuggle was right...

Help me out here people. How can folks run in -44 below temperatures? I could, I guess, if I were running towards say, a warm, inviting Taco Bell....or perhaps just running to my car to get out of the cold.

How do they do it? It boggles my mind. I can come up with 465,093,123 reasons not to do that. Not to run in this weather.

Who am I kidding? I don't run. Ever.

You see, I've never been very interested in exercise.

Yeah, I can hear you gasping in surprise. Take it easy on the sarcasm, okay? Knock it off.

Even as a baby, I didn't really exert myself. Wasn't one of those amazing kids that you see walking around at 3 1/2 months. Nope. I preferred to take it easy. Maybe drag myself along if I had no other option. Used my baby cuteness to get myself picked up and carried around. Did that until I was twelve. Yeah. Seriously.

There's the reason my name is what it is. I am supposed to be carried!

Sure, C. Whatever helps you to get to sleep at night. Aren't you a little big to be carried now? You know, if you would do a little exercise...like maybe, oh I don't know....run?

Seriously, I said knock it off.

Anyways, like I mentioned, exercise and me...we don't get along. The exercises that I actually do somewhat enjoy (like swimming) aren't possible right now due to money mostly. I just don't have the cash available to join the Y or whatever. And yeah, I know that sounds a lot like an excuse. But I don't care. And you know what? Chalupas are cheaper...

But...thanks to dictionary.com, I now know why I don't get along with physical exertion.

It's training. It's putting forth strength. It's effort. It's practice. It's...

It's sweaty, y'all. And tiring. And requires a good deal of discipline to be really effective in the long term.

Discipline. Oooooh. There's a word for you! I looked up "discipline" in my Webster's Dictionary and found this:

Discipline - (noun) PUNISHMENT.

Ah...dictionary.com must be written by someone who exercises...because it lists 'punishment' as the number 3 definition!

PUNISHMENT.

Not a good word. Look it up and you find "Suffering, pain, penalty, p.e. class".

Okay. So I lied. You won't find "p.e. class" there. But you will find a picture of Mrs. Tuggle, my jr. high gym teacher.

It's not pretty.

Punishment, I mean. Not Mrs. Tuggle. Although I have to admit that the woman was not the cutest banana in the bunch.

See, my problem is...I don't like pain. I don't enjoy suffering. I'm not that into p.e. class. In fact, p.e. class felt kinda like being on a chain gang.

And who wants to do that? Who volunteers for the chain gang?

No one.

But here's the kicker. I need discipline. I need training. I need to do push ups because that which doesn't kill me...makes me stronger, right?

Push ups kill me. Even the thought of push ups makes me light-headed and a bit freaked out.

I think one of my problems with this is perfectionism. I think I have to be just like that gal who's been running for 40 years and has a negative body mass index number. The gal that's running in -40 below temps. And smiling.

I blame an absence of oxygen for the grin. I do. Unless she's running say, to a Taco Bell...

So what does discipline take?

Small, little, wee steps. Baby steps. And it takes time. You have to do it every day. Every day. Small steps every day. For 40 years.

It seems a little daunting.

Daunting, by the way, is defined as dismay.

And...unfortunately, that's what I feel when I think of exercise. Not anticipation. Not enthusiasm.

Dismay.

Like I'm missing out on something better by taking the time to exercise.

Do you ever feel that way about something that disciplines you? Like budgeting, or smaller food portions...or waiting to purchase that big screen t.v.?

We don't like to wait. We don't want to hear that things take time. I mean, my perfectionism tells me that I should be able to have that body type NOW. With little effort or time.

Seriously?

I know. It's dumb, isn't it? But I know I'm not the only one that struggles with those sorts of thoughts.

We get overwhelmed by the task ahead, don't we? So we choose to not do it...or put it off. Thinking what? That somehow, down the road, the Chalupas we ate at Taco Bell will just melt off on their own?

My friends, I encourage you to take one small step towards a discipline today. I will. And you know what?

I will try not to focus on the sweat too much...sheesh...where's Mrs. Tuggle when you need her??

Death of a Toaster

It's a new year. A new month. There is a glorious, wonderful expectant feeling in the air.

THIS YEAR...THINGS ARE GOING TO BE DIFFERENT!

And boy howdy...that, my friends...is true. I'm not pyschic...but I know that I can say that sentence above with confidence. You, regardless of age, race, religion, gender, education, experience, dog person, cat person...

Your year, my friend...THIS YEAR...THINGS ARE GOING TO BE DIFFERENT.

Write it on your calendar. Stencil it on your wall in your kitchen. Make it a scrolling marquee on your computer screen saver. Scrapbook it. Whatever.

It's a fact.

The question is not...will this year be different? The question is: How will I handle the changes?

It was October, 1986. I was a freshman in college at Millikin that fall. Talk about change! I had a 'new home' in a dorm room, a 'new roommate' from the Chicago area that I was still trying to get to know, new classes, new teachers (oh, wait...they're PROFESSORS now!), new friends were being made. That fall EVERYTHING was new! Everything was different. It was a little overwhelming...but I was really trying to see the positive side of things.

And then my Grandma Sybil died. Suddenly.

Something different. Something new. Something unexpected.

I went home for the funeral. I thought I was handling things pretty well. I mean, as well as one handles the death of a grandparent. I read her last letter to me several times. I remembered the wonderful times we'd had at her house as kids. All 'typical' or 'classic' mourning stuff.

Then my Dad called to tell me that they were cleaning out Grandma's apartment and was there anything I wanted furniture wise?

Yes! Yes there was! Two things. A round table(George Washington style, I think...is what Antiques Roadshow calls it) and her toaster.

Her magic toaster.

As a child, staying overnight at Grandma Sybil's was just about the best thing in the world. She made us milkshakes...and played Pollyanna with us...and Seven Up...and made us watch Lawrence Welk.

It was a blast! And mornings were amazing! Because of the magic toaster!

This toaster was different from every other toaster I'd seen in my seven years of life. This toaster DIDN'T HAVE A BUTTON! There was no button to push down! You set a piece of bread into the slot...and it sank gracefully, noiselessly down...out of sight...and then, as you waited in anticipation...toast would slowly appear...rising out of the heat of the machine silently. No dinging sound...no jumpy toast. Just....magic toast.

Excellent with some Skippy peanut butter and a glass of milk.

So I got that table and toaster. And for 22 wonderful years...I've been watching toast rise out of that machine...and I have to say:

I still think of it as a magic toaster! It, to this day, still causes me to behave in a somewhat childlike fashion. I'll actually stand there and watch the bread sink down...and wait....and watch toast rise up!

Well, I did. Until Christmas Eve. That's when I...killed the toaster.

I guess, looking back, I should be glad that it wasn't a bigger fire and all. I lit a pastry thing on fire in the toaster...and now it doesn't work anymore.

I know. It's a stinkin' toaster, Carrie. GET OVER IT!

Here's the thing: the past couple of weeks, I've been really down about it. And I think it's because of a couple of things. One, I'm struggling with the fact that I'm missing my toaster...and two: part of me has felt that by having the toaster work...having it 'be alive' so to speak...that Grandma was still 'alive'. I mean, I know she's not...perhaps I'm not explaining that well.

So what have I learned? I am grieving all over again. Mourning. Because it's different in my kitchen now. I have a different toaster. And while I fully appreciate it for what it is...it isn't magic. Something's missing.

Acceptance is hard. And just yesterday, I talked to someone who thinks that maybe...they can fix the old toaster.

But you know what? Part of me doesn't want that. Part of me thinks that it's TIME for a change. That I need to have a new toaster now. I'm old enough to handle it.

I am keeping the Magic Toaster. It's on top of my kitchen cabinet with some other antiques. It is...a part of me. Even if it is a simple kitchen appliance.

I'm sure most of us have things like my toaster around us.

Change is hard. Different isn't always a good thing.

But attitude, my friends...attitude is everything. I know, for a fact, that Magic Toaster or not...I am still the same goofy gal I've been.

Wait, maybe I'm not. Maybe I AM different! In fact, by losing my toaster...I understand loss better. So my loss might help me to understand your loss.

If the things in our lives didn't experience change...we wouldn't grow.

That's what makes toasters amazing in the first place! They change bread, right??!!

Time to eat some breakfast. Let me know what's different in your 2009...

That's why it's called a PRESENT!

I want to talk this morning about your holiday spending.

Not your money. In fact, if your money sitch is anything at all like mine, you probably don't have much to spend.

I want to talk about a different kind of spending...the 24/7 kind.

Yeah, that's right. The hours in your day. Your.Time.

Why?

Cuz it's about time!...(guffaws and slaps knee)

Okay...(sighs), here's the deal. At Christmastime, I go into countdown mode. Now, I'm not sure if it comes from the Peppermint Candy Advent Calendars that I ate candy from daily as a child or if it's the day limits on sales (Thurs, Fri., and Sat at Kohl's!), or simply because it's the last month of the year...but I'm very aware in December of how little/much time I have.

See, I have time problems. I can hyper-focus on one thing and spend hours messing with it (like computer time...or rearranging my record albums as a teen, or reading an entire book in a day)...or I can become easily distracted by other projects as I try to focus on one....so that nothing really gets accomplished.

To help keep me 'in the here and now' I use a timer. The timer comes in handy. If I get easily distracted and want to 'move on' to something else, I have to wait until the timer goes off. If, on the other hand, I am deeply engrossed in something...the timer goes off and reminds me to move on to the next thing now.

My focus is improving. I'm finding myself staying in the moment. Which is good, because I also have a problem with procrastination.

But we're not gonna deal with that problem right this minute. :)

There's another timing issue that I also deal with on a regular basis. I float easily from the past to the future to the past again and suddenly the whole day is gone!

I thought I was the only one, but as I watched A Christmas Carol the other night, I realized (like Scrooge did), how important it is for us to spend our time mostly in the present.

We cannot change the past. What happened has happened. And regardless of whether you're focusing on good times or bad; you cannot spend too much of your precious time in the past.

Scrooge also got an eye-opener of a future. But it was only one possibility. And so often we too can 'stare' at one possibility of the future and fret and worry and lament about it when it's not even happened! Again, you should consider the possibilities of how your future might be...set goals, etc., but you cannot spend all your time there either!

In the book, after the last Spirit (of Christmas Future) has gone, Scrooge says this:

"I don't know what day of the month it is," said Scrooge. "I don't know how long I have been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care..."


Scrooge found out how much time he'd 'wasted', and also how much time he had left! He found out that he didn't know much about time at all.

Most importantly, he found out that it was the day he'd been given that had all the opportunity in it! He could 'fix' the past by dealing with the present day...and he could 'change' the future the same way!! How? By making choices on Christmas Day.

You really only have this day. How are you going to spend the next 24 hours?

Set your timer and change your past and your future today! Perhaps you need to apologize to someone, and you've been putting it off. Perhaps there's a habit you need to stop...because it could hurt your future.

Christmas is the time of year when it seems we can easily overload ourselves with projects and get togethers and suddenly our schedules are all messed up with Christmas breaks and snow days and shopping sprees and parties and...well, you get the picture. We can find ourselves whining, "I don't have time for that!"

But here's the funny part: we all have the same amount of time in the day...

We didn't start the fire

Rankin: circa 1977.

I thought I smelled something 'unusual' that fateful day. Something like roasting hot dogs. Or leaves burning...

But...I didn't think too much about it at that time. After all, I was like, 9 years old. My sister and I had other things to do that day. So we continued with our playing...and I forgot about the smell.

Until later that night...

BUM BUM BUMMMMMMMM!

More about that in a minute.

Flash forward to present day: You wanna know something? My husband is quite the firestarter. He fancies himself after Charles Ingalls, I think. He could probably win on Survivor, I swear! Because when he builds a fire...it's big. It's hot. And it will not go out.

Unlike the namby-pamby fires I'm liable to try and build in the fireplace. I just don't seem to have the knack for it. I have to constantly feed my fire. Move the logs around. Keep the flame glowing. Sometimes I get really frustrated. In fact, I am so lousy at building a fire, that once I just threw in the towel.

AND BOY HOWDY!!! THAT THING BURNED FOR THREE DAYS!

(well...it WAS a beach towel, after all.)

Back to Rankin.

I was in bed. And awakened to the sound of banging on our front door. There were some guys driving past our house in the country who noticed something a 'little unusual'. So they stopped to tell us about it.

It was our barn. Our huge ol' barn where Dad kept a bunch of his farming equipment and boat and other items...was on fire!


It was amazing! It was (actually!) a blazing! We had fire departments from all sorts of towns and surrounding counties working on putting that inferno out. And while no one was seriously injured...one fireman was actually blown out of his boots when the gas tank exploded.

And that...that was quite a sight to see...

They're still not exactly sure what started the fire. Some speculation was on the old hay in the hay mow. That it oxidized or spontaneously combusted or something.

I didn't care. What I knew was that our barn was gone. Our boat was gone. And things on the farm would never look or be quite the same...

Flash forward back to present day: Steve brought home three truckloads of wood the other day. You see, they're building a Walgreen's in Mahomet, and cleared out a bunch of brush and trees...and let Steve take as much of the wood as he wanted. Nice.

We use our fireplace quite a bit in the winter. We are trying to save some energy money that way. Our furnace is not the most economical item in our home, we know...plus, we like the looks of the crackling fire in the fireplace on a chilly evening.

And the smell of S'mores. Yummmmmm.

Our fireplace helps keep us warm and cozy. It's a good fire to have around.


The barn fire, on the other hand, only destroyed. It didn't seem to care about us or our things.

Fire....is dangerous.

(well there's a completely Captain Obvious moment for you! Go ahead, I'll say it with you: DUH, C!!)

Fire is dangerous because it causes change.

A boat that was there, in the barn one day...became, in a matter of minutes...nothing but a chunk of metal. And a small chunk at that.

A fireplace fire warmed cold feet, dried out damp gloves...and gave us a roasted marshmallow to eat.

Fires can feed us...or feed upon us.

What's your fire look like, my friends? Are you on fire for something? Is there a passionate flame burning inside you for a purpose?

"A light shines in the darkness...but the darkness has not understood it..."

My obsession confession

I can become obsessed and single-minded at times...focused on one thing...and I occasionally have to fight this overpowering urge of focus...of obsession...this need...this incredible desire.

It's difficult for me to control...and I haven't really found a support group that can help me out. I've dealt with this problem since I was little...I mean, really young...

it's...it's hard for me to think about...but I can assure you that I don't ever intend to quit!

Still, I feel I need to talk to you...if for no other reason than to perhaps understand myself better.

My obsession is this:

jigsaw puzzles

Yeah, you read that right. Jigsaw puzzles. Just typing those two words makes me a little giddy...a little light-headed...whoa.


I.love.jigsaw.puzzles.

I do. I began putting the pieces into place at an early age and the staying power it has for mezmerizing me is astounding. I love easy ones...3D ones...I'll do a puzzle with someone or by myself. I love them.

Had a Yogi Bear puzzle as a kid. A hamburger puzzle as a teen. I just completed a rooster puzzle at Mom's the other day. And I know there are more jigsaws in my future.

There has to be!

Here's the deal: I can't NOT attempt to put pieces in place if there's a puzzle anywhere about. The Cancer Center where Mom has a doc that she sees once in a while has a table set up with a jigsaw. Just the other day we were there...and as soon as the nurse led Mom back for her appt., I was planted in a chair at that table, eagerly picking up pieces and figuring out where they go.

I love puzzles. I love how the pieces feel in my hand. I relish the satisfying 'snick' when a piece is put into it's proper place. I enjoy sorting the outside pieces from the inside pieces.

I can sit at a table, doing a puzzle, and lose track of time. Easily. I'm not kidding. I literally lost track of time in 1979 because I was working on a puzzle of Rip Van Winkle. Began it on Monday the 20th and when I finished it, the newspaper told me it was 1984.

You see, when I get really involved with a puzzle...nothing else matters. It's me...and the pieces...and the big picture of the finished puzzle. And this overpowering urge to complete it...

Oh, sometimes it's not all fun. Sometimes my brow furrows...when I think I've got a piece in the right place...but the fit isn't right. No worries, though. The challenge continues. And the challenge helps make it fun.

When I was about 11 years old, I had a Shaun Cassidy jigsaw puzzle. And I would put that thing together and take it apart and put it together and take it apart...and I got to this place in my mind where I began timing myself...to see how long it took me to complete that picture. To finish the puzzle.


I think my fastest time was like, 7 minutes. I wrote a letter to Shaun telling him of my victory and he wrote a song about it.

Well, he should've written a song. Because I felt it was quite an accomplishment.

Jigsaw puzzles, for me, are about a variety of things. They're about creativity, and concentration, and control. Eye candy...especially the really tough ones that use similiar colors and items like flowers or cars or water...to make your mind work even harder.

They satisfy the Monk in me by giving me a false sense of control. Of giving me the ability to sort...and categorize...and determine what happens next. Do I complete the sky? Or do I work on the log cabin? Ah Ha Ha....I rub my hands together and feel a little like Frankenstein's creator...striving to finish my creation.

Told you I had a problem with puzzles. :)

Here's my pondering for today:

Sometimes I think we're all pieces in this big ol' jigsaw puzzle. And Someone is placing us in our proper place. To complete this beautiful picture.

Here's the other thing about jigsaw puzzles. There is nothing more depressing...or maddening...or disappointing...than realizing that there is a piece that's missing.


You, my friend, are a very important piece of the puzzle. You're just as necessary as a corner piece...or the cat's eye...or the wheel on the wagon. The big picture needs you.

I need you. As puzzling as that may seem...

Tell me more...tell me more!!

I started reading at a very early age.

In fact, by the time I was in the first grade, I was such a good reader that my teacher sent me to the second grade for reading class...because the first grade curriculum just wasn't 'challenging enough'.

But I'm not here to brag about my early learning experiences. That's just part of it...heehee...

If you had asked me, I would've told you the plain and simple truth. It didn't involve brains or intellect. It wasn't that I was some sort of "Super Student". It was...simply...this:

I love a good story!

I can't help it! There's something about starting with "Once upon a time..." and getting to the "happily ever after" that I think we all enjoy. Oh, not every good story ends or begins with those exact words...but I believe we all want to hear someone tell us about their life. So we can compare it to ours....or find out what we have in common...or find out about a certain place...or just to laugh. Or cry. We love a good story.

Maybe that's why reality television is so popular?

But I'm not here to talk about Survivor...or the Biggest Loser. I'm here to talk about a boy named Tommy.

This boy had the most exciting life! I mean...he was almost killed by my uncle Rick several times over...he survived (just barely!) a family vacation that involved a terrorizing group of raccoons in the garbage cans....and he was constantly riding around either on this pony or in a go-cart. The kid was something else!

At least to hear my Grandma tell it.

My love of Story began with Dr. Seuss' "And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street"...but it was my Grandma who cinched my love of Story by telling me and my sister about my Dad's childhood. Those family vacations...and incidents with raccoons...and go carts...and historic fights that he and our uncle Rick had together! Those stories were better than TV! My sister and I found out over the years that Dad was cool! This COULD NOT be the same person we lived with!

My Grandma may not have known exactly what kind of 'monster' she was helping to create, though. I fell in love with Story and it's consumed me...this love affair...and it's continued throughout my life.

From high school diaries that tell 'my' story...to learning the art of acting and being able to tell the stories of others on stage...to becoming a grown up and telling stories every so often around a family campfire. I realize the power Story has in my life.

So much power, in fact, that I've been paid for telling stories to elementary school students. So much power that I've spent close to 900 kaprillion dollars on scrapbooking supplies just for the opportunity to journal about a birthday party. To record a special event. To tell the Story.

Yesterday, the power of Story came up again. I found myself with a captive audience wanting to hear more. "Tell us more about Hannah growing up!" I heard. So I did.

And I thought of my Grandma right then. Did she understand the POWER of Story?

Do we? Really?

Do you, my friend, understand how important it is that you share some of yourself with others? You have incredible influence in people's lives...and you may not realize it...but someone is listening to you. What are you telling them?

You are a main character in a very good story. And someone wants to hear more...I encourage you today to share a piece with someone. And I also encourage you to listen. Who knows? You may find yourself falling in love with Story...

and living happily ever after. The End.

The Best Medicine...

You know who doesn't have a very good sense of humor?

Cats.

Cats do not have a good sense of humor. I think that's what makes them so funny.

They cannot laugh at themselves.


Growing up, we had cats. And on more than one occasion, one of our cats would do something goofy that would crack me up.

I don't believe any of those times was ever intentional. The cat never tried to make me laugh.

But I laughed just the same.

Because I love a good joke.

Those of you who know me...know I'm speaking the truth. Heck, I even tolerate bad jokes.

I can't help myself. I get all excited and tingly when someone says, "Hey...did you hear the one about...?"

I love jokes so much that I will frequently go into JCM with people (JCM stands for Joke Courtesy Mode-the state of listening to a previously heard joke with the same excitement/anticipation as the first time of hearing it). Everyone needs some JCM. I mean, nothing's as disappointing as having someone burst your bubble by saying, "That's no sandwich! That's my wife!" right before you get to say it.

My son is in jr. high. He comes home with jokes on a daily basis. And a lot of them require severely high dosages of JCM. And a lot of them are pretty sad.
But I listen to every one. Because I know how good it is to laugh.

And lately, I have been taking advantage of every opportunity I can to laugh. Because I haven't felt very good.

Physically, emotionally, mentally. All areas that are ailing. All areas that have greatly benefited from a big ol' belly laugh.

It's therapeutic, I'm told. And I believe it.

Take the other night, for instance...

Steve, my husband (who normally ISN'T very humorous!), did this funny voice thing and made me crack up.

The laughter felt good. Steve was pleased with himself and continued to do the voice. I laughed harder.

And the fact that he made me laugh so hard made me laugh even harder.

I went into a giggling fit. It got so bad that he became annoyed with me.

Kinda reminded me of a cat. Which was pretty humorous itself. Picturing my hubby as a kitty cat....heeheehee.

Picture this: here's me on the bed, laughing. Steve smiles at my laughter for a second...then, as he realizes I'm not 'slowing down'...begins to frown a little.

"It wasn't that funny!" he claims, indignantly. Which...snicker...just made me laugh harder!

"C'mon. Knock it off." he says. I can see he's baffled by my laughter and I want to stop. Honestly! I do!

But I can't. Have you ever been there? Do you know what that's like? To want to STOP laughing?

I'm trying to get myself under control. And Steve? He totally looks like a ticked off cat now!

Finally, in true 'ticked off cat' fashion...he got up and left. In a huff.

I laughed and laughed.

And felt better!

My friends, find something to laugh at today. However, I wouldn't recommend Steve. I don't think he'll get it...