nicholas and i are planning on being independently wealthy in our lives. not because we have any brilliant business ideas or corporate connections or a zest for summer sales or rich relatives with terminal diseases, so no, we haven't quite figured out how yet. small road bump. we just know we want to be independently wealthy, and we like to discuss it on a regular basis. i've realized, however, that most people don't understand our love for the thought of being independently wealthy. no, it is not because i want a lexus or a big house or fancy clothes. i love our 1984 volvo, and i know for fact if someone took nick to a car dealership and said "you can have any car you want," nick would pick the volvo. and so would i. we dont like stuff. mostly we hate it. so our hope to one day be swimming in the green stems from ideas like this that we would love to execute:
1. buy super nice couches/bikes/snowboards/baby chairs/whatever and list them as free on craiglist.
2. randomly drop 100 dollar bills in locations only really nice, charitable, unselfish human beings could find them. such as: the back kitchens of homeless shelters, church hallways, etc.
3.pay neighborhood kids a lot of money to pet sit. (one time someone paid me 100 buckaroonis to watch their dog for a week and you would have thought i won the lottery.)
4. give super huge tips at restaurants. in cash money, because who doesn't love cash money. and the waiter/waitress would keel over in suprise, because nick and i look like we are homeless most of the time. dont you love surprises? SURPRISE! we are independently wealthy!
5. adopt a lot of neglected children and a lot of neglected pets.
6. travel the world, bestowing benjamins upon whomever we meet and like.
7. go to the drivethru and pay for everyone's order inside. free cinni-sticks and bean burritos all around!
8. pay neighborhood children to do all of our bidding: lawn-mowing, furniture-moving, garage-organizing, cartoon-viewing, whatever. then compensate them in candy and money.
9. tuck 100 dollar bills in strollers.
10. take every kid from your kid's school to chuck e cheese and give them each 500 tokens.
11. buy millions of cups of lemonade from lemonade stands. literally, millions.
12. continue to look homeless and drive cars older than I am, because who doesn't love a good surprise.
*disclaimer: nick would like the blogging world to know he would never pay anyone to mow his lawn.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
prayer to poor logic.
nick and i's new favorite discussion topic is: which state do you hate the most and/or which state would you least like to live in? we also like to rank states/locations we would prefer to live in, and which states we would be okay living in for a short period of time and then hasta la vista-ing one to two years later (a la mississippi, cause it would be cool to live in the south, but only for enough time to say "we lived in the south" before we died of humidity overdose). though this may sound like an entirely pointless discussion topic, it is actually quite necessary as we determine the route our lives take. it has also cued me into the fact that i have absolutely no ground for most of my opinions on states, or probably no ground for my opinions on life in general, except for chance encounters as a child, things people have said that have stuck in my brain, and anything associated with throwing up. please do not be offended by my opinions, they are based on nothing legitimate and are entirely worthless, and jut reflect poorly on me.
nicks least favorite state to live in:
idaho
my least favorite state to live in:
nevada
why? you ask. nicks reasons include: too many potatoes, people go cow tipping for fun, and i think nothing else. as you can see, we never buy into stereotypes. my reasons for choosing nevada include: hot, and one time when i was seven a man on the vegas strip corner passed me a paper with pornography on it. traumatizing. also, one time we stopped at jack in the box there and got oreo shakes, and i woke up a while later with sandpaper tongue and the realization that i was going to die if i did not receive water in the next 1/2 hour, but we were millions of desert miles from any civilization and i did die. not really. but it felt like it. and once you feel like you have died in a state, you never want to return.
as you can see, very legitimate reasons to look elsewhere for a place to spend our lives together.
some other of our choices lower on the list:
kansas (nick once got lost in the state and drove 100 miles the wrong way, and i have a deep fear of tornadoes embedded in me from the classic book/movie Wizard of Oz)
rhode island (I am fine with Rhode Island because it is the setting of my all-time favorite book series ever, the babysitter's club. Nick doesn't believe in rhode island because it is "just too small. who wants to know every single person in the state?")
iowa (no legitimate reasons except for it sounds like idaho, which is at the bottom of nick's list.)
utah (too many mormons. we are mormon, but don't worry, logic is not our strong point, and im not obsessed with being an individual or anything.)
vermont (once again, nick says its too cold. i heard once from an employee at macy's that this state is the home of the burton factory, so i think im ok with it. although it is cold. i may have to ponder that one.)
arizona (threw up once in the car driving through this state. nick loves arizona because it is home of his beloved suns. but i just associate it with throw up.)
i hope this has not offended anyone or the state in which they reside. as you can see, this post simply showcases the poor logic which my husband and i exercise to make important life decisions. but really, can i be expected to live in a state in which my only experience with it involves an inordinate amount of throw up? really?
which states do you hate? love? why? please, do tell.
nicks least favorite state to live in:
idaho
my least favorite state to live in:
nevada
why? you ask. nicks reasons include: too many potatoes, people go cow tipping for fun, and i think nothing else. as you can see, we never buy into stereotypes. my reasons for choosing nevada include: hot, and one time when i was seven a man on the vegas strip corner passed me a paper with pornography on it. traumatizing. also, one time we stopped at jack in the box there and got oreo shakes, and i woke up a while later with sandpaper tongue and the realization that i was going to die if i did not receive water in the next 1/2 hour, but we were millions of desert miles from any civilization and i did die. not really. but it felt like it. and once you feel like you have died in a state, you never want to return.
as you can see, very legitimate reasons to look elsewhere for a place to spend our lives together.
some other of our choices lower on the list:
kansas (nick once got lost in the state and drove 100 miles the wrong way, and i have a deep fear of tornadoes embedded in me from the classic book/movie Wizard of Oz)
rhode island (I am fine with Rhode Island because it is the setting of my all-time favorite book series ever, the babysitter's club. Nick doesn't believe in rhode island because it is "just too small. who wants to know every single person in the state?")
iowa (no legitimate reasons except for it sounds like idaho, which is at the bottom of nick's list.)
utah (too many mormons. we are mormon, but don't worry, logic is not our strong point, and im not obsessed with being an individual or anything.)
vermont (once again, nick says its too cold. i heard once from an employee at macy's that this state is the home of the burton factory, so i think im ok with it. although it is cold. i may have to ponder that one.)
arizona (threw up once in the car driving through this state. nick loves arizona because it is home of his beloved suns. but i just associate it with throw up.)
i hope this has not offended anyone or the state in which they reside. as you can see, this post simply showcases the poor logic which my husband and i exercise to make important life decisions. but really, can i be expected to live in a state in which my only experience with it involves an inordinate amount of throw up? really?
which states do you hate? love? why? please, do tell.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
prayer to kindergartners.
today at school i sat in a chair during storytime and the children gathered at my feet. i felt content. i felt needed. i felt like mama bear reading to her bear cubs. i felt loving adoration oozing from the children. i was the queen of the pack tenderly watching out for the small ones that treasured and revered me.
then hanson, an exchange student from china, dropped the bomb. "it smell like wet sock."
interesting. i kept reading, enchanted with my ability to read the book upside down so all the children could see the pictures and my animated voices. then mason chimed in. "it smells like old sock."
nicole followed suit. "ewwwww old socks. old socks. we can't read anymore. it smells like old socks and im going to die."
that was it. my magical world was gone, destroyed by old socks. instead of listening to the soothing sound of my teacherly voice, they all were now enraptured with the old sock smell.
"wet sock wet sock wet sock wet sock wet sock wet sock!" hanson screamed, hitting himself in the head. "smell like wet sock bad bad bad bad!"
meanwhile, klayson had taken to sniffing everyone's socks one by one, in a twisted version of duck, duck, goose. "new sockkk, newwww sockkkk, new sockkkk........OLD SOCK! OLD SOCK! EVERYONE RUN!"
gwen began to cry, stuffing her fingers into her noise, while gavin lay face down on the carpet. apparently the smell had knocked him dead.
"GO TO YOUR SEATS!" I yelled. "There are no old socks!"
I was mad. it was like a terrorist attack was going on at the school. i investigated the scene of the crime, sniffing around, concluding there was no old sock smell and the entire thing was a stunt to get out of storytime.
fast forward seven hours. i came home, pulled my shoes off after a long day at work, and cuddled next to my husband. five minutes later he plugged his nose and explained, "It smells like old sock."
then hanson, an exchange student from china, dropped the bomb. "it smell like wet sock."
interesting. i kept reading, enchanted with my ability to read the book upside down so all the children could see the pictures and my animated voices. then mason chimed in. "it smells like old sock."
nicole followed suit. "ewwwww old socks. old socks. we can't read anymore. it smells like old socks and im going to die."
that was it. my magical world was gone, destroyed by old socks. instead of listening to the soothing sound of my teacherly voice, they all were now enraptured with the old sock smell.
"wet sock wet sock wet sock wet sock wet sock wet sock!" hanson screamed, hitting himself in the head. "smell like wet sock bad bad bad bad!"
meanwhile, klayson had taken to sniffing everyone's socks one by one, in a twisted version of duck, duck, goose. "new sockkk, newwww sockkkk, new sockkkk........OLD SOCK! OLD SOCK! EVERYONE RUN!"
gwen began to cry, stuffing her fingers into her noise, while gavin lay face down on the carpet. apparently the smell had knocked him dead.
"GO TO YOUR SEATS!" I yelled. "There are no old socks!"
I was mad. it was like a terrorist attack was going on at the school. i investigated the scene of the crime, sniffing around, concluding there was no old sock smell and the entire thing was a stunt to get out of storytime.
fast forward seven hours. i came home, pulled my shoes off after a long day at work, and cuddled next to my husband. five minutes later he plugged his nose and explained, "It smells like old sock."
Thursday, March 5, 2009
ive been away my loves. but i am back, and this is a prayer to you.
i currently work at an elementary school and i see lots of cute little kids every day do cute little things that make me believe the universe is a cute little place. sometimes it makes my heart ache because i see little kids cry and i see little kids not have friends and i see little kids eat their lunches alone and just not fit in too well. sometimes i am reminded of being a cute little kid and sometimes my heart feels sad for little kid me trying to make it in a big bad world and especially for the time in fourth grade when someone told me "it ain't over till the fat lady sings, so sing shannon," and i took my 110 pound body home and cried till i could cry no more, and then ate a doughnut. life is hard on the playground.
today i was watching the kids at recess and i was reminded of little kid shannon again. a little girl asked me to watch her do the monkey bars, and as she proceeded to twist her stick thin body into pretzels all over those things, i felt a little twinge of sadness for my days on the playground. i was a beefy kid and though i wanted to be prom queen of the playground, the girl that did cartwheels and splits and one handed monkey bars, i was the opposite. i would attempt the monkey bars only when i was all by myself, painstakingly trying over and over to no avail. i had no upper body strength, and i had had one too many fruit snacks in my days. but i knew, somehow, someway, i had to do those monkey bars to gain my title as playground prom queen. so i practiced and practiced.
finally, one day i attempted those monkey bars, in front of everyone, right in the middle of recess. my heart was pounding, my knees were shaking, but all i wanted was to get across, to waltz across gracefully, to swing from bar to bar like the 50 pound girls with perfect headbands that never finished their lunches because they were too full and competed in gymnastics after school. i crossed five bars before i fell, straight on my face. everyone saw. i was humilated. my face had broken my fall. i cried. it was at that moment, right there on the playground, 17 years ago, i realized i would never be prom queen of the playground. i would probably never be prom queen of anything. and no matter how hard i tried or how much i practiced or how many less doughnuts i ate, i would never be the stick-thin one-handed monkey bar girl.
come to find out, 17 years later, my arms are actually abnormally short, about 2 inches shorter on each arm than they should be. my eternal boyfriend nicholas calls me t-rex. i never realized until just today that probably part of my monkey bar woes were due in part to my t-rex status (especially combined with the fact i hit the 100 pound mark in second grade). but that, my dear friends, is not the point. it doesnt matter why i couldnt do them, it doesnt matter that it was my life dream to be playground prom queen, it doesnt matter that i took one gymnastics class, realized i was the only person in the class who couldnt do a cartwheel, and never came back. it doesnt matter that i would watch the olympics and dream about wearing little leotards and pray every night to God that he would change my body type and flexibility level and make me popular. it doesnt matter because 17 years later, watching little leslie swing her stick legs all over the monkey-bars and do all the things i ever dreamed about doing, i realized i am glad i am me. and i realized the monkey bars are really not that important, even though they seemed life or death 17 years ago.
i have lots of flaws. i cannot do monkey bars. i never match. i cant organize to save my life. i complain. i lose things. i never have my cell phone. i can be mean. i can be selfish. i get jealous. even now, 17 years later, i get jealous of the perfect headbanded one-armed monkey bar-doing stick thin girls all grown up. sometimes they still seem perfect. but as i passed through elementary school and middle school and high school and college, i started to learn no one is perfect. people are just people. some people are good at the monkey bars. some people are good at pokemon. some people are good at giving hugs. some peopel are good at school. some people are good at laughing. some people are good at exposing their personal insecurities about monkey bars on the internet.
so, my lovely blog readers, i want you to know i like myself, and i like you. i am not good at the monkey bars, but i am good at lots of other things. there are lots of things i need to work on. but i have accepted who i am and im glad for it. im glad for the day i cried on the playground, and learned how to brush myself off and get up and keep on living and be okay with never being playground prom queen, because i am lucky to just be me. you are lucky to just be you. i want you all to know that whether i know you or not, i know you are good at things too. maybe you are a prom queen, a whiz at the monkey bars who manages to do it while keeping every perfect hair in place. most likely you are just like the rest of us masses, undercover prom queens that are good at things like conversations or dropping baked goods off for people or loving with your whole heart or making perfect popcorn, things that will never get us to the olympics or make us the most popular person on the playground, but thats okay. im glad for me. im glad for you. im glad we are all different sizes and shapes and have different lengths of arms and talents, and we are all good at different things. and since this post is a prayer to you, anyone out there in the internet universe, i am giving us all the challenge of spending one week loving ourselves the way we are. loving ourselves for what we are good at, and loving others for what they are good at. not being jealous, just being happy that we all have something great to offer the world, something to offer by just being me or you. i will be happy for all of you that can do the monkey bars, and you try not to be jealous of my t-rex arms.
thats all. good luck on the playground of life. im sure glad youre you.
ps i will never go a month ago without another prayer. promise.
today i was watching the kids at recess and i was reminded of little kid shannon again. a little girl asked me to watch her do the monkey bars, and as she proceeded to twist her stick thin body into pretzels all over those things, i felt a little twinge of sadness for my days on the playground. i was a beefy kid and though i wanted to be prom queen of the playground, the girl that did cartwheels and splits and one handed monkey bars, i was the opposite. i would attempt the monkey bars only when i was all by myself, painstakingly trying over and over to no avail. i had no upper body strength, and i had had one too many fruit snacks in my days. but i knew, somehow, someway, i had to do those monkey bars to gain my title as playground prom queen. so i practiced and practiced.
finally, one day i attempted those monkey bars, in front of everyone, right in the middle of recess. my heart was pounding, my knees were shaking, but all i wanted was to get across, to waltz across gracefully, to swing from bar to bar like the 50 pound girls with perfect headbands that never finished their lunches because they were too full and competed in gymnastics after school. i crossed five bars before i fell, straight on my face. everyone saw. i was humilated. my face had broken my fall. i cried. it was at that moment, right there on the playground, 17 years ago, i realized i would never be prom queen of the playground. i would probably never be prom queen of anything. and no matter how hard i tried or how much i practiced or how many less doughnuts i ate, i would never be the stick-thin one-handed monkey bar girl.
come to find out, 17 years later, my arms are actually abnormally short, about 2 inches shorter on each arm than they should be. my eternal boyfriend nicholas calls me t-rex. i never realized until just today that probably part of my monkey bar woes were due in part to my t-rex status (especially combined with the fact i hit the 100 pound mark in second grade). but that, my dear friends, is not the point. it doesnt matter why i couldnt do them, it doesnt matter that it was my life dream to be playground prom queen, it doesnt matter that i took one gymnastics class, realized i was the only person in the class who couldnt do a cartwheel, and never came back. it doesnt matter that i would watch the olympics and dream about wearing little leotards and pray every night to God that he would change my body type and flexibility level and make me popular. it doesnt matter because 17 years later, watching little leslie swing her stick legs all over the monkey-bars and do all the things i ever dreamed about doing, i realized i am glad i am me. and i realized the monkey bars are really not that important, even though they seemed life or death 17 years ago.
i have lots of flaws. i cannot do monkey bars. i never match. i cant organize to save my life. i complain. i lose things. i never have my cell phone. i can be mean. i can be selfish. i get jealous. even now, 17 years later, i get jealous of the perfect headbanded one-armed monkey bar-doing stick thin girls all grown up. sometimes they still seem perfect. but as i passed through elementary school and middle school and high school and college, i started to learn no one is perfect. people are just people. some people are good at the monkey bars. some people are good at pokemon. some people are good at giving hugs. some peopel are good at school. some people are good at laughing. some people are good at exposing their personal insecurities about monkey bars on the internet.
so, my lovely blog readers, i want you to know i like myself, and i like you. i am not good at the monkey bars, but i am good at lots of other things. there are lots of things i need to work on. but i have accepted who i am and im glad for it. im glad for the day i cried on the playground, and learned how to brush myself off and get up and keep on living and be okay with never being playground prom queen, because i am lucky to just be me. you are lucky to just be you. i want you all to know that whether i know you or not, i know you are good at things too. maybe you are a prom queen, a whiz at the monkey bars who manages to do it while keeping every perfect hair in place. most likely you are just like the rest of us masses, undercover prom queens that are good at things like conversations or dropping baked goods off for people or loving with your whole heart or making perfect popcorn, things that will never get us to the olympics or make us the most popular person on the playground, but thats okay. im glad for me. im glad for you. im glad we are all different sizes and shapes and have different lengths of arms and talents, and we are all good at different things. and since this post is a prayer to you, anyone out there in the internet universe, i am giving us all the challenge of spending one week loving ourselves the way we are. loving ourselves for what we are good at, and loving others for what they are good at. not being jealous, just being happy that we all have something great to offer the world, something to offer by just being me or you. i will be happy for all of you that can do the monkey bars, and you try not to be jealous of my t-rex arms.
thats all. good luck on the playground of life. im sure glad youre you.
ps i will never go a month ago without another prayer. promise.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
prayer to pedaling. love eggs are fragile.
im so glad i have his love eggs.
whilst single, i invented a theory that has been well received by the general public entitled "pedaling." the theory behind pedaling is that instead of investing all of your love eggs into one crush basket, you get to know lots of people before making decisions like that. if that sounds like chinese to you, the point of the theory is that you should not invest in someone until they invest in you, and prematurely fall in love. instead you should pedal los of men and get to know them all better, until someone pedals back in your direction, and that is when you slowly start putting your love eggs one by one in their basket.
pedaling also means you are taking action, control of your life, instead of waiting around for some doinkhead boy to look in your direction. instead of waiting for a man to ask you out or falling more madly in love with that cute boy in your class every day even though he has never done anything for you and you have no reason to like him or think he would treat your love eggs kindly, you decide that you are in control of your life and you pedal, pedal, pedal. this means you flirt, you attend social gatherings by the dozens, you text many men, you get to to know lots of people, you have an open mind. it may sound like you are treating peoples emotions callously. this is not true. pedaling just allows you to see all the fishes in the sea, and not get treated badly by people who wont be careful with your tender heart. it is a screening process. it helps you get to know and get along with lots of different types of people. it helps you protect your love eggs until you know someone is not going to make an omelet out of them.
i would like to cite a success story from pedaling: my own. yes, it is true. i pedal pedal pedaled my way into nicholas cottrells heart, and yes, i asked him out first. i had just broken up with a bad bad boyfriend that i usually refer to as voldemort and was feeling low on self esteem and life. it was during this time that i created my POA, my plan of action. i had woken up a few days in a row feeling like life looked like a huge cloud of grey nothingness, so i decided instead of letting life and crazy ex-boyfriends control me, i was going to control my life. i decided i would do certain things everyday to love myself, like positive self talk, pray, force myself to go out when i really just felt like soaking my pillow with tears, and other things, and then i signed it with blood. ok, not with blood, just with red pen, but i was fully committed to my POA. pedaling was born in response to the POA, as i realized part of my past mistakes in dating came from my early emotional commitment before fully checking into if the boy i was dating was a crazy lunatic or not. i decided i needed to get to know several men and not emotionally commit to just one so early on, and wait until i found someone that knew the fragility of love eggs. i decided in order to do this i had to learn how to pedal. so i did. i tried not to give out my tender heart too fast. i tried to pedal in many directions. i tried to get to know people and not give out my love eggs to people that would just throw them around. i decided to love myself.
as part of pedaling i asked out nicholas cottrell. such a bold faced move you say. it was bold. but since i had not already emotionally committed, i didnt really care if he said no or thought i was in l.o.v.e. with him, because i was just seeing what was out there, and i didnt care what he thought. (he did, by the way think i loved him). (but i dont care). thank you pedaling, because nicholas cottrell is not the sort of boy i would normally date, and if i had not decided to open my eyes and broaden my horizon and just get to know people, i would have never given nicholas a real chance in my heart. he was not my type: he was not emotionally crazy, extremely weird and/or quirky, and a societal misfit. in fact, he was very very normal. but i pedaled toward him, loving myself along the way and remembering i was great so i didnt care if he didnt like me.
the rest is a long story that doesnt need to be published on the internet. it culminated in november 29,2008, when i officially stopped pedaling for time and all eternity. now normal nicholas and i live in the same house, play speed scrabble, take pictures of ourselves on my macbook to see who can get the most double chins, decide which celebrities are indie and which are bros, cry together whilst watching blood diamond, pledge to be real grownups and then eat spaghetti noodles with butter for dinner, read 4th grade civil war novels out loud in bed, and protect each other's love eggs with everything we have.
the point of my story is this: i dont think love is just something that happens magically one day. i dont think it happens magically any day. in my case, i had to take control of my life and do something. instead of sitting around and waiting, i went out and acted. it made me feel like i was in charge. the boss of my own life. this is applicable to all things i think, and i try to apply it a lot in life. victims dont get what they want. pedalers do. i had to stop giving my tender heart to creeps. i had to learn to love and respect myself, and i had to learn that it is okay to wait a bit before you give someone your love eggs. you have to make sure they deserve them. i learned that love is not when your heart skips a bit because the hott boy in your anthropology class sits next to you, or even when a boy write you a bomb.com poem that melts your heart. real love, at least in my experience, is when someone treats your love eggs with reverence and awe, cupping them in gentle hands, protecting them with everything they have because they know how fragile and beautiful those love eggs really are.
so if you are still out there and single and tend to date people that are l.o.s.e.r.s. like i did, i recommend pedaling. just try it. pedal pedal pedal your brains out. get to know people you wouldnt. dont invest love eggs just yet. be open minded. protect your heart until you know someone will handle yours gently, and give theirs back. love yourself a whole lot, because i think if you do that first, you will have a healthier and better relationship, and find someone that will treat you the way you deserve. take control. control feels so good. my mom used to tell me the only person who's actions you can control are your own, and its true. so control your own actions. be bold. ask someone out, but dont care if they say no, because who cares. youre great, and you will eventually find someone who thinks so too. ask lots of people out. tell yourself you are the bomb. never, ever date someone that does not handle your love eggs with extreme care. please dont, because i did, and you are better than that. your love eggs deserve the best. wait for that, even when its hard. and then one day after pedaling around you will put your love eggs into someones crush basket, and they will start giving you their love eggs back, and it will feel good and right. and maybe one day you will end up in a nest together, playing speed scrabble, and so so happy you married someone named normal nicholas that treasures your love eggs a whole lot.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
prayer to a diamond that reminds me diamonds arent forever.
when my mom and dad got married, my dad couldnt afford a toaster let alone a diamond ring. so he bought his sisters diamond earrings and made them into a wedding ring. by made them into a wedding ring i mean he stuck them next to each other on a band. they looked like two eyeballs looking out at you. i was scared of it when i was young because i thought it was watching me. my mom loved the ring, because my dad gave it to her.
my mom had that ring until she went into surgery for her cancer the first time, and they had to take it off her finger with vaseline. my dad stuck it in a napkin and put in his pocket and then promptly threw it away. if you know the mehner family, that is not that surprising.
my dad decided to replace the thrown away ring with a beautiful, enormous diamond ring, the ring fantasies are made of. my mom usually wore it turned around so you could just see the band. she was very understated. she just liked being herself. but she loved the ring, not because it was beautiful and people were envious of it and because it glittered a lot in the sun and in artificial lighting in buildings, but because my dad gave it to her. she did not love it more or less than her first ring, just the same.
she died with that wedding ring on her finger. that beautiful, enormous, expensive diamond. and after she died i remember my little sister didi looking at her hand and looking at me and saying "she didnt take anything with her, not even her wedding ring."
it seems pretty obvious, but maybe its not, because we still run around all day trying to have the bigger diamond, a fancier car, a nicer ipod. we work lots and lots of hours so we can afford that new blender or house or whatever it is that we are hoping for. maybe its because most of us will not die today or tomorrow or even the next day. but my mom was 47, not very old at all, and she died. and she probably took memories and love and knowledge and all those good things that cannot be touched, but she most definitely did not take her wedding ring, because i saw it, still there on her finger when she closed her eyes for the last time.
when i got married, i inherited that wedding ring. i have a beautiful, big, expensive diamond on my finger. when people ask to see my ring they look over at my husband like "wow, you must really love her." we feel uncomfortable a lot. usually i get very nervous and blurt out "it was my moms ring!" so they dont think i am 23 and high maintenance. maybe some people would love it beacuse it is big and expensive and beautiful and probably what a lot of girls dream about. i love it, but hopefully not for those reasons.
i love it because it was my moms ring. i love it beacuse when i look at it i think about her turning it around so you cant see the diamond, cause she was embarrassed. i love it because when i look at it i remember that i may have a chunk of change on my wedding finger, but i cant take it with me. she didnt take it with her. and everytime i look at it, i remember that life is short. fleeting. and we can waste a whole lot of time chasing the wrong things, like big wedding rings and fancy cars and whatever it is that messes with our head everyday, but in a second it can all be over, and all that stuff will be left here.
someday i will die, and the wedding ring will be left on my finger, just like it was left on my moms. until then, it will serve as a reminder to me that life is short and beautiful and delicate, and you cant take it with you.
my mom had that ring until she went into surgery for her cancer the first time, and they had to take it off her finger with vaseline. my dad stuck it in a napkin and put in his pocket and then promptly threw it away. if you know the mehner family, that is not that surprising.
my dad decided to replace the thrown away ring with a beautiful, enormous diamond ring, the ring fantasies are made of. my mom usually wore it turned around so you could just see the band. she was very understated. she just liked being herself. but she loved the ring, not because it was beautiful and people were envious of it and because it glittered a lot in the sun and in artificial lighting in buildings, but because my dad gave it to her. she did not love it more or less than her first ring, just the same.
she died with that wedding ring on her finger. that beautiful, enormous, expensive diamond. and after she died i remember my little sister didi looking at her hand and looking at me and saying "she didnt take anything with her, not even her wedding ring."
it seems pretty obvious, but maybe its not, because we still run around all day trying to have the bigger diamond, a fancier car, a nicer ipod. we work lots and lots of hours so we can afford that new blender or house or whatever it is that we are hoping for. maybe its because most of us will not die today or tomorrow or even the next day. but my mom was 47, not very old at all, and she died. and she probably took memories and love and knowledge and all those good things that cannot be touched, but she most definitely did not take her wedding ring, because i saw it, still there on her finger when she closed her eyes for the last time.
when i got married, i inherited that wedding ring. i have a beautiful, big, expensive diamond on my finger. when people ask to see my ring they look over at my husband like "wow, you must really love her." we feel uncomfortable a lot. usually i get very nervous and blurt out "it was my moms ring!" so they dont think i am 23 and high maintenance. maybe some people would love it beacuse it is big and expensive and beautiful and probably what a lot of girls dream about. i love it, but hopefully not for those reasons.
i love it because it was my moms ring. i love it beacuse when i look at it i think about her turning it around so you cant see the diamond, cause she was embarrassed. i love it because when i look at it i remember that i may have a chunk of change on my wedding finger, but i cant take it with me. she didnt take it with her. and everytime i look at it, i remember that life is short. fleeting. and we can waste a whole lot of time chasing the wrong things, like big wedding rings and fancy cars and whatever it is that messes with our head everyday, but in a second it can all be over, and all that stuff will be left here.
someday i will die, and the wedding ring will be left on my finger, just like it was left on my moms. until then, it will serve as a reminder to me that life is short and beautiful and delicate, and you cant take it with you.
Monday, November 17, 2008
prayer to together, and i said: what if we get fat and old and boring. and he said: i am just so excited to read books together.
so i have not blogged a blog in a moon or two for several reasons, one being: i have nine siblings and one computer at home meaning someone is always ALWAYS playing on disney.com, another being: i am getting nuptialed and i think only about nicholas floyd cottrell and how excited i am to lay face down in the sands of hawaii and giggle and giggle and sleep and then have adventures together forever and eat spaghetti with butter because we both think the kitchen is just another place to chit chat and have never owned our own utensils, another being, i am turning into one of those annoying fianceed people that only want to talk about how bomb.com their fiancee is and how beautiful life is and how good the sun looks in the morning and how even though things are rough and tumble and dreary that there is always happiness and wisdom and love and good feelings in the world and that sometimes it all just makes my heart so full its going to explode. so im sorry, these are the things weighing most heavily on my mind currently and i have nothing of interest to say to you, except that i just love love and i know im just an annoying giddy little girl, but i think secretly inside we all are and im glad of that. and i guess today i just want to tell you: i love that when i have panic attacks about becoming a real person and doing hard things and making big commitments, nicholas tells me: shannon, im just excited to read books together. because for whatever reason, that is just the right answer to everything and calms my anxiety ridden heart.
so i guess this post is a prayer to all those men and women out there that are part of a together, or hope to one day be together, or have been part of a together, or have seen a together that is so so beautiful, or are who they are because their parents were a together or their grandparents or whoever. its a prayer to togetherness. reading books together. walks together. bike rides together. crying together. laughing together. eating together. eating spaghetti with butter together. eating grilled cheese together. failing together. succeeding together. being mad together, and then making up together. the beautiful beautiful thing that is together.
a while ago my mom died, and the light in my dads eyes went away for a while. he is one tough little cookie that kicks a whole lot of a in the world and someone im proud to call papa bear, but he was just plain sad. half of him was gone. all of a sudden he laughed alone. ate alone. failed alone. succeeded alone. he had his kids and his church and his friends and so many people loving him and rooting for him, but he didnt have his teammate. his together person. his heart had a big hole. and then tiffany came along whos husband had died of a heart attack, and he had a together. the hole didnt go away, but they shared their holes together. they laughed together. cried together. fought together. grieved together. played together. and their togetherness was just so happy. his eyes lit up again. i dont know how to explain it. he was just part of a together, a team. and even though that pain will always be there for both of them and the agony of losing a spouse will always be a great big wound, an enormous gaping ugly scar that will never go away, they share the pain together. its one big scar now. and i think more than anything, that is the best part of together. struggling together. pain together. letting someone else hold a bit of the load. crying together, and hurting together, but always knowing that when you feel sadness, you have your together to share it with you.
this thanksgiving i create my together. what a thing to give thanks for. and though i am thankful for everything about nuptials and nicholas and my upcoming life, right now, thinking about my dad and tiffany and the wounds they carry together, i am grateful that when i cry, i do it with someone else. i am grateful for together. i am grateful for all the togethers that have come before, for my mom and dad, for my dad and tiffany, for my grammy and grandpa who have been married for 57 years of together and have seen wars, death and more than you can imagine, together. i give thanks for a boy that wipes my tears and sheds his own, tears that are no longer his or mine, but ours. so i know its mushy and i know im an annoying in love person, but i just am grateful for together, and this is a hallelujah to togethers around the world through the centuries and to come.
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