Girl Scouts = Vendors of Death

I've decided that really the grim reaper doesn't wear a black cape and carry that sycthe thing. Instead, she (yes, turns out 'ole death is really a female) comes knocking on the door dressed in green. Perhaps she is camouflaged in street clothes, but no doubt there is at least a green vest or sash present. And perhaps this vest or sash is covered in badges which only serve to even more lull you into a sense of safety and comfort. ("Hey, I got my CPR badge. Surely I'm not here to hasten your death with artery clogging goodness.") To make matters worse, she is commonly under 4' tall and has a smile filled with cherubic innocence. And, good God, she might even have pigtails.

As for that sycthe, well you know what it actually is: a cookie order form. Tagalongs. Samoas. Thin Mints. Do-Si-Dos. You pick, sir. There all so delicious, mam, are you sure you don't want one more box. There's no trans-fats. (You know the look on that little face when she says this, don't you. If you don't, call your favorite third grader and get her bend the truth for you. Then you'll know.)

You know, I can deal with an organization dedicated to teaching girls how to sew or even change a flat tire. But, sending these little ones out with the equivilent of cookie crack is just wrong! There are so many things wrong with this seemingly innocent enterprise. First, these cookies are offered once a year. We're Americans, for God's sake. We're known for hoarding on a good day. (Seriously, where else could the Red Cross have sold disaster kits with duct tape in them. You know, just in case. And, um, have you been in a Costco lately?) Throw in the fact that an item is a limited commodity and we're screwed. It goes against our nature as Americans to buy a mere one box and to slowly enjoy it. No! There must be several (50+) boxes bought and they must all be inhaled in one sitting. This leads me to problem number two: these cookies are addictive. The problem, linked to the above, is our fear that they will disappear. Because, in fact, they do. Buy now or your screwed until next year. And if we know they disappear annually, who's to say they won't vanish from our pantries RIGHT NOW!?!?!?!? Thus, the binging.

And, this, my friends, is where the agents of death come in. So, you have just put a box of Samoas down your hatch, right? Well the inevitable comes next. You are suddenly aware of your stomach and the fact that it is not, in fact, made of elastic. And then, for some of us, you become aware of the baby growing near your stomach, a baby that has further reduced the stomach's pliability. And then you realize that girl scouts are devils. (And this is true without even discussing the fact that while your stomach is reeling, your arteries are becoming the biological equivialent of granite. Like brand new granite. Not wussy, old granite that has been worn down with the passing of age. Nope, this is some seriously hard stuff.)

I'm quite sure this isn't what Juliette Gordon Low had in mind all those years ago in Savannah, GA.

Dead Rabbits Don't Go In the Refrigerator

I just finished reading my dad's most recent blog post which was about spending a couple of year's of his early childhood with a dead wildcat in his family's freezer. He has some bizarre stories (kind of a bizarre guy, truth be told) and you should check them out. Just click on this link to A Middle Aged Southerner... (and you should know in advance that he is giving himself some grace by calling himself middle aged): http://middleagedsoutherner.blogspot.com/.

Anyway, the story of the wildcat made me think about the summer I lived in Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. I had just completed my first year of seminary and, as most of us do, I was doing my supervised ministry internship. I was really fortunate in that I had a great supervisor and had a really fun summer. I also lucked out by where I had the opportunity to live. Perhaps you have heard of the PGA tour that takes place at Sawgrass? Well, I lived in a condo in the Sawgrass community that a fellow seminarian owned and was not using for the summer. It was a great location: yards from the beach, great shopping, cool animals to observe. Just a generally neat place.

However, there were some oddities to the home also. There are two I remember in particular: First, the whole place smelled like moth balls. And I don't mean in the sense where when you first take out your winter coat in November or December and you think, "Oooh, this is a little stinky." No, it was more like, "What in the name of God happened here? Are the neighbors unruly moths that have to be stopped at no cost?" I am quite sure that moth genocide took place in that condo.

The second incident occured shortly after I had moved in. I had just returned from the grocery store with my first "load" of groceries in my new home. I moved the few things that had been left in there (which, first of all, uggh to that!) to make room for my sparkling new groceries. I was opening the crisper drawer and was suprised to find a cache of batteries in there. No biggie, not so unusual. I picked them up to move to a more remote corner of the fridge, when I noticed a strange grocery bag underneath the batteries. It was closed up really tightly-perhaps that should have been my clue to stay out of it. But, nooooooooo. I had to investigate. And much to my great, GREAT dismay, there was a F#*@#*G rabbit pelt in the bag. I mean, what the hell? Why would any minister-to-be need to be cooling a dadgum rabbit fur? It freaked my shit out, for sure. I seriously thought maybe I should invest in a little beer fridge so as to avoid any other unsavory encounters with the recently dead. I mean, come on, a dead rabbit next to your cold cuts...

But then my dad came to visit and I showed it to him. His response? "Hey, I went eye to eye with a wildcat every time I opened the freezer for two years of my life."

I guess everything is relative.

Sorry to Disappoint

Well, bad news, blog readers (aka: Mom, Dad, and Andy). We have been iced in (winter wonderland, my ass) and, thus, there will be no maternity undies shopping. I know the hope of hearing a report back on that experience kept you all up last night. In efforts to not let you down completely, here is a brief description of how I'm sure it would have gone: Upon entering, everyone in the store froze, turned to look at me, and looks of pure awe and admiration spread throughout. "Who is this beauty before us and why has she not been advertising for us?" was clearly the question on the mind of all the salespeople. Being the modest person I am, I told them all to carry on with their bra shopping/selling and I set about my business. However, once the sales person got me down to my skivvies she fell to her knees and praised God for creating such a majestic piece of work. She insisted that I have whatever items in the store that I wanted as long as I was willing to let the store use my image in their ad campaigns. "Free drawers!", I thought to myself. "Hells yeah!" So, I gave the girls my contact info, loaded up up the undies and such, and hit the road leaving a mass of depressed women feeling even more inadequate. (I can't help it...it happens everywhere I go.)

Now, I don't know for sure that that's how it woulda gone, but I'm pretty sure.

Sugar, Aah, Honey Honey You are my Candy Girl

Well, it’s been a while since I last blogged. I don’t know that I really have anything worth writing about, but I felt as if I should make an attempt to let the millions of readers of my blog know that I am still in business. I have a friend who made a resolution to write a post once a week. Maybe I should do that. However, he has a much more exciting life than I do. Hell, I don’t even leave the house (and by house I mean absurdly expensive apartment) some days. Perhaps I can make up a more interesting life for myself…hmmm, what would that look like? It would definitely involve Orlando Bloom, tequila, and a hot tub. You know, I'm thinking that maybe the imaginary life is better saved for another time...a time that comes with a parental warning label.

Now that I think about it, it is at least a little bit lame that I am 25 weeks pregnant and I think I don’t have anything to write about. Perhaps my abdomen o’ baby can give me a focus. Let’s try that:

I got good news today. I found out that I don’t have gestational diabetes. My initial test, which was last week, indicated that my blood sugar was crazy high. The second test, which 30-second measurement of my blood sugar by a One Touch diabetes instrument (you know, like B.B. King and Patti LaBelle advertise for), indicated that all was well. This, of course, led to a third test. It was super fun. After fasting for 12-hours I got to spend three hours in the Quest Diagnostics lab. The test began with having my blood drawn to measure fasting glucose levels measured. Then, I had the royal privilege of drinking the equivalent of flat Sunkist with extra sugar added (yummy!). Following the drink from Wonkaland, I had my blood drawn on the hour every three hours on the hour. In the mean time, I wasn’t allowed to have food or drink, including water…yet, in typical pregnant lady fashion, I still had to pee quite frequently. It was a morning so full of excitement I'm not sure I would be able to handle another one like it. The doctor called with the results this afternoon, which really was good news. Thus, I promptly went out and bought some ice cream. Screw you, diabetes, I’m eating all the sugar I can get my hands on! (Well, not really, but I will splurge a little tonight.)

Well, I think this is long enough to assuage my guilt about not writing, as well as comfort my fans. Tomorrow I am going to this fancy bra shop to get some good maternity undergarments…I know you can’t wait to hear how that goes. Maybe there’ll be pictures.