Posted on

Punching Puppies

I normally write about churchy stuff, funny things, or sex (which I take a lot of heat for) but today I can’t get past what God is laying on my heart.  And I’m sorry to say it’s not the usual satire that makes you fall off your chair in convulsions at the office.  This might make you cry and maybe that’s funny, or maybe it’s not –so here is my apology up front.

I had a tough day yesterday –an out of the ordinary overwhelming day.  Usually, I’m a pretty chipper bird but this weekend was a doozy emotionally.  We have been trying to get pregnant.  And it looked like this month was a go, until it wasn’t.  Not to go into details, but it didn’t work out –an early miscarriage, a few days of whacked out hormones that took me to the edge, and then the disappointment set in like a dense fog. 

I wanted to punch puppies.  Curl up in a ball and hide under the covers until the pain subsided.  I couldn’t look at my husband without crying.  He was baffled and we battled all morning until I could find the words to communicate that I just needed him to be with me, to be my friend and listen. And even though he’s a man and I’m a woman, he figured out how to love me in the moment and to simply be present. 

We took a walk.  We got a cup of coffee.  We watched our toddler chase birds.  And at some point we prayed. 

And it was a prayer of surrender.  I needed help to believe.  I needed strength in my faith and the ability to trust when I can’t understand. 

I am fortunate.  I have three beautiful children.  But I’ve also had numerous miscarriages –one painfully far into my second trimester.  I wish I could say it gets easier to deal with disappointment but it doesn’t.  They all suck. 

If you are pregnant for a day or pregnant for six months –something happens to your spirit and bonds you with life.  It’s what women are uniquely designed for.  We have a gift to connect with the unseen –with the very breath of creation.

But life isn’t easy.  God’s Kingdom is here and still yet to come and we live in this awkward middle ground of beauty juxtaposed with sin, of pain and heartbreak and love and laughter. 

I’m better today.  By the end of the day I pulled out of my funk.  I took Faith on a special Taco Bell run.  I played Just Dance with my son.  I relished in a frothy lavender bubble bath with Kolby.  And I snuggled deep into my husband’s arms, burrowing in like a scared bunny rabbit. 

And eventually hope floated to the surface.

I don’t understand God.  But I surrender.  I trust his plan is better than mine even though the cup might be bitter to swallow.  And ultimately I believe one day he will lift me up in His time.

And I wait for that day with anticipation.

Posted on

Champagne Taste on a Beer Budget

Five hands reached out to the center of the table and piled one on top of the other.  Kolby’s little arm had to stretch really far, but she got the tips of her fingers in as our family made our New Year’s pact.

“One, two, three…Yo Gabba Gabba,” we yelled out to seal our commitment. 

The crowd at CPK (California Pizza Kitchen) looked at our table in open curiosity.  Our family isn’t exactly a quiet bunch and tonight we were celebrating Kolby’s second birthday.

First, we went around the table and affirmed our little girl.  Kolby beamed over her mac-n-cheese and pizza.  Then we picked one New Year’s goal each and shared it with the table.  We finished up by picking one crucial action item we could each do in the next few months to turn our goal into a reality. 

Our conversation was sincere, tender and full of cheers and encouragement.

The family next to us glanced over at us occasionally.  Their boys were dressed in the height of surfer cool and the mom and dad had the “OC well groomed look” (i.e. hours at the mall, salon, dermatologist and gym).  Each child got their own meal and soda.  It was obvious their entertainment budget had more wiggle room than ours.

Our family was out to eat on a gift certificate received from a congregant as a Christmas present.  Each of us split a meal and we made our kids drink water.  I dressed baby Kolby in a birthday girl t-shirt, just to make sure the restaurant didn’t forget to give us our free ice cream sundae.

Just as they delivered Kolby’s monstrous sundae (amidst a loud and lusty rendition of “happy birthday”) and the five of us dug in –snarfing like wild dogs on the baby’s treat, I noticed the other family getting served individual desserts the size of Texas. 

I looked at my husband and chuckled, “You know you’re the financially strapped pastor’s family when…”

  • The waiter hates you because the bill is always couponed, meals are split, and they have to ID your kids to make sure they are twelve and under for the kids menu (the hair on my son’s lip and almost six-foot status might indicate an older teen-ok he’s thirteen)
  • The baby yells out “Amen” when the food arrives because she is hungry and doesn’t want to wait for prayers.
  •  The homeless guy in the parking lot is wearing an outfit you have in your closet because the same rich family in town gave you both their hand me downs.
  • You get excited when your kid loses a tooth with a cavity in it. What a saver!
  • You re-gift nice gifts you actually want.
  • You consider washing the birthday girl t-shirt and wearing it the next time you go out to get another free dessert.  (The two-year old won’t catch on for a while)

You also really know you’re the pastor’s family when the rich kids next to you look longingly over at your table and wish they could abandon their big sundae’s and fancy clothes to come and hang out with the big, noisy family where the mom has just spilled ice-cream all over the son’s pants as they try to share bites and snort hysterically.

And even though I don’t love always struggling and pinching pennies, I also know there are some things money simply can’t buy.

 

 

Posted on

Confessions of a Bad “Player”

 

Some people simply know how to play better than other people.  My husband is one of them.  Tim’s middle name is “epic” fun.   He is energetic, spontaneous, and always up for an adventure on the fly.  He is also the kind of guy who get’s on his knees and plays blocks with the baby, dukes out Madden with our boy untill the wee hours of the morning and delights in Scrabble with our daughter.

I, on the other hand, was not blessed with the “gaming” gene.  I’ve got the bookworm gene, and the cuddling/nurturing/smart-ass gene…but games, not so much.

And while I am no expert in birth-order traits, I think “us” more structured “type A” personalities can blame growing up as an only child or as a much older first-born.  It’s hard to play games (other than Solitaire) when you are the only kid around.  (I guess my imaginary friends don’t count as companions either?)

Anyway, it was no skin off my teeth as a little kid, because I thought I was a grown-up.  By the age of four, I read the newspaper with my Lucky Charms and coffee, scavenged for antiques with my parents, and conversed with adults effortlessly.  Basically, I wasn’t ever a childlike kid, I was an adultified kid.

It’s not a bad trait –this grown-up kid mentality, but when it comes to child raising it makes a big difference in  attachment and children feeling connected and cared for by their parents(according to my Yoda-like counselor).

So, to sum up my counselor’s theory, my kids don’t really care how many books I complete this year, or about my husband’s heavy workload…they just want us to play blocks and chase and Barbie.  That’s so un-adultlike of them. 

My lackluster game skills have never really been an issue before now.  My oldest teen son is pretty mature (AKA another adultified child) and the baby has my husband to play with, but my middle girl child has become rather demanding.  And now it’s come to a crux, because it’s partly my fault. 

Apparently “play” is Faith’s love language and that’s just awesome, because I stink at it.  And, though I excel at sophisticated grown-up play –Vegas and cocktails, wit and politics, this kiddy frolic stuff sails right past me.

Vegas anyone?

So, I can continue to justify my lack of folly and claim my parents didn’t play little kid games all that much with me either (which is fine, I mean they had jobs to do and they did lots of cool stuff with me it’s just they weren’t five-year-old companions) or I can choose to own it and figure out how to be more silly in a childlike way. 

Ummmm….painful!  But do I really have a choice if I am to move towards my girl with love?

And so I am now entering a challenging season of being more intentional with my darling middle munchkins (and just for the heck of it, I’m throwing in some pre-school hijinks for the baby too). 

For the last few days, I have played Matchbox cars, painted ceramic magnets, used crayons, tried not to punch Mr. Potato Head after I put his arms back in for the forty-fourth time, cut-out paper icicles, decorated sugar cookies, and watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse over and over and over.  I also played in the Jacuzzi with the baby, chased Faith and Kolby around a fountain until Kolby barfed (all over my shoes) and have read an endless stack of baby books.  I have listened to toddler music until my head hurts and made Barbie do the splits about a hundred times.

I wish I could say it was easy.  Sometimes I actually find myself hoping someone (anyone) will walk in and see me on the floor playing so I can get props and hear, “well now aren’t you the loving mama!”

And I’ll be so demure and bat my eyelashes…”You know, I am really into crafts and being an organic mother.  I even make my own baby food.”  I’ll say this as I pull my fourth baby out of his sling as I simultaneously play puzzles with my toddler and make macrame necklaces with my tween.

And then my nose will grow like Pinocchio because I am a big fat liar.

I envy the earth mothers.  It is so hard for me to just sit and play.  It’s like someone is taking away my efficient identity and things that need to get done are falling through the cracks.  We already have one playful person in the family -epic funmeister Tim, so somebody has to keep us track, right?

But I’m learning (very slowly and awkwardly) that being present with my children is not about checking tasks off a list –it’s about getting rid of the list.

Nothing enormous has happened since I began my big “PLAY” effort last week.  My daughters and my teen didn’t fall on their knees and thank me for my efforts.  But, what I have found is that I feel closer to my kids.  Faith smiles more.  Kolby loves having a new playmate and I feel better knowing that I am making an effort to engage my kids in a way that speaks to them and in a language they can discern.

And sometimes love means ripping out our selfishness and cutting it off at the knees…and somewhere in all this pruning, reconnecting with our lost inner child. 

Game on ♥

Do you have a hard time being present with your kids?  Do you know your kid’s love languages?  What can you do today to see the world from your children’s perspective?

Posted on

Waffle Irons and Black Friday Ninja Skills

“That’s my mama,” says Kolby, pointing to me as I drive while talking to her sister.  My toddler’s burgeoning vocabulary makes me chuckle and I glance at them in the rearview mirror.

Faith smiles at Kolby.  “Yes, that is Kolby’s mama,” she agrees.  “But its Faith’s mama too.”

Kolby narrows her gaze into a territorial sneer, “No Faith.  That’s Kolby’s mama.  Not Faith’s mama.”

And so Faith volleys back and the next thing I know the car is filled with the wails of an almost two year old and her ten year-old sibling bickering over who has claims to me.

“Mine.”

“Ours.”

“No Faith, mine mama.”

It was funny at first –this cuteness of a toddler ensconced in a world where everything belongs to her; where sharing is optional and highly overrated (in Kolby’s opinion). 

But as we move into the holiday season and I reflect on our culture, I don’t know if the world operates much differently than an entitled baby fighting over her mama.

Last week’s Black Friday headlines have left me scratching my head and wondering what the hell is wrong with our country?

And even though I love Target and Wal-Mart, (as much as the next women out there who can pick up power tools and Goldfish all in one store) I have to wonder what kind of ideology I am buying into when the Target add on TV depicts a woman training for the super athletic event of shopping. 

After this year, maybe next year’s ad could show the woman training with weapons, like the lady in Walmart who pepper sprayed a group of shoppers to get to an X-Box? 

Or they could show her at the gun range learning how to protect her loot, maybe jousting with a waffle iron, or learning ninja smart phone skills to take down those pesky people who get their grubby hands on your goods.

Mine. Mine. Mine,

How about practicing the art of the trample?  There’s a nice pastime to usher in the Christmas spirit (and yes this is pure sarcasm because I know I will get a comment or another blogger posting Samantha Keller advocates trampling.  I do not nor have I ever trampled…just to be clear!)

But I am appalled at the greed and inhumanity Black Friday reveals about the state of our hearts.  Clearly, some Americans feel so entitled to a get a good holiday deal they will even kill for it. Really? 

We now have two holidays that have mutated. What are we going to lose next?

Halloween –dress like a slut day and Black Friday –act like an animal at the mall day.  (Use violence if necessary)

I’m taking a stand and reclaiming this Christmas. 

It’s not about Santa or the “Christmas Spirit”, the lights (though they are fun), the presents (which are grand) or the food (even though I sure love pie). 

Christmas is about a baby, born in a manger and a big God who made himself small to be with us.

And this Jesus is mine. And yours. And ours. 

Buy less stuff!  Instead of “Go Big or Go Home,” how about “Go Small and Go Home (and be with your loved ones.)

 

Posted on

Parked Cars, Flying Pilgrim Hats and Perspective

I heard the crunch of metal before it registered to my thick skull that I had just hit a parked truck.  As if on cue –the waterworks turned on and then I had to navigate un-sticking my car from the truck I was now glued to.  Blinded through tears, I inched my car forward as metal screeched against metal. 

“Oh nooooo, let’s try backward,” I whispered to baby Kolby as she whimpered and looked around eyes wide with uncertainty.

I swiveled the wheel and backed up, heard a loud pop and then watched in awe as a piece of my bumper flew high into the air.  Thankfully my car released from the truck and I pulled forward and parked.  I took the baby out of her car seat, calmed her down and walked back to assess the damage. 

In one careless second, I had successfully scraped and dented the chrome bumper of a random stranger’s truck. 

So I did what I always do in these scenarios.  I called my husband/hero and choked out my predicament between wails.  He promised to come quickly to my rescue.

Meekly, I walked up to the door of Kolby’s pre-school “Maggie’s House” and Mr. Mark, the owner of the school, opened the door with a smile and a spirit of laid back ease.  “Hey Mark. Do you know whose truck that is?” I painfully inquired.

“Yep, it’s mine.  Why?”

This was the moment of terrible. The tears started raining again like the synchronized fountain at the Bellagio. “I’m so sorry, I was rushing and the wheel slipped and I’m so sorry and I hit your (sob, sob, hiccup) truck.”

A concerned look crossed his face. “Sam, it’s ok, it’s just a truck.  Let’s go check it out.”

His niceness only made me feel worse.  I didn’t know what to do with his grace.  I honestly think I expected to be yelled at or have pre-school pilgrim hats thrown at me.  This care for my heart and the safety of baby Kolby was relatively foreign in a world of angry litigious people who scream and sue you for neck injuries in a parked empty car.

My husband pulled up just about then and the three of us walked out to the street.  Tim picked up the rubber bumper pad off the ground, the one that flew through the air, and went back around and snapped it in.  The damage wasn’t too bad, but there was some. Both cars were scraped and dented.

Mark gently smiled and shook his head.  “Please don’t worry about it.  You don’t have to pay for it.  It’s a truck and trucks get dinged up.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  I pleaded with him to call our insurance, make us pay, anything to give him restitution. But he wouldn’t hear of it.

I left my husband to talk with him and I drove off to work, now late, in a self-condemning fog. 

I wanted Tim to make Mark understand that I deserved to pay the penalty.  I was careless in my haste to get to work on time and I screwed up.  

As I headed up the hill to the toll road, I sensed God nudging me to stop berating myself and draw close.  So, I confessed my frustration and pleaded with God to help me feel content and thankful, even in this difficult moment.

Just then, I glanced over to my right and saw a family –a mom, dad and three children with shovels, flowers and a cross by the side of the road.  I could only assume that a car accident had taken the life of their loved one.

And I felt God’s grace wash over me –this lavish and unrelenting love for a silly rushing mother. 

His protection.  His mercy.  His Favor.

And so I cried even more.

But these tears were for a hurting family on the side of the road.

In light of God’s perspective my screw-ups didn’t seem so big anymore. 

(Of course my son wasn’t too thrilled, because this is the car he gets in a few years to drive.  I told him I was breaking it in for him)

 

 

Posted on

Out of Gas

I ran out of gas this morning. I figured it was sign that maybe God wanted to chat about something. I’m guessing it’s the “hey girl, you might want to slow down and take some time to refuel conversation.” (You know the one all I want to do is avoid)

I sat on the side of the road, with the baby in the back yelling, “mama, car broke,” and sighed.

“Ok God,” I thought, “you’ve got my attention.”

And this is what I sensed him saying.

Make the call. Ask for help. Let me love you.

It’s been a repeated theme ringing in my ears for the last few weeks after my husband and I got in an argument and he suggested that though I give love well I am woefully lacking in my “love receiver.”

To which I replied “maybe you’re a suck giver” (OK… I didn’t actually say that even though I wanted to)

But if I’m honest, Tim’s probably on to something.

I hate to ask for help. I struggle to accept gifts and I feel like I have to prove my worth (by working, writing, cleaning, ministry, etc…) before I am allowed anything good-like time with a friend, or a margarita, or a nap.

I run around all week like a chicken with my head cut off yelling (difficult to yell with no chicken head-but play along with me here) “have I earned my keep?”

I guess what I’m really asking is… “Am I valuable? Do I have worth beyond what I do?”

And when I stop (for more than a minute) God whispers “yes.”

So I made the call. I asked for help. I leaned in.

My husband showed up like a knight in preppy armor and rescued his damsel and baby damsel in distress. By the large goofy smile on his face, I realized, he was born for this “hero” job.

Sometimes I think God allows these break-downs so I will be forced to scream “uncle.”

And recognize that my greatest need is to allow Him (and my husband) to simply love me.

 

 

Posted on

Duck Hunting-Scrappy Sam

I just love Duck Chili mommy!

I’m a single mom this week to my three kiddos.  It’s been challenging to say the least. So far, we’ve only had one ‘girl” melt-down, one mommy melt-down (I was out of coffee-nuff said) and the boy and the baby have fared pretty well in the last thirty-six hours.

My husband Tim is out doing manly Wild at Heart shenanigans-namely shooting fowl in the wild of North Dakota. I can just picture him traipsing through the tick infested brush, spotting a flock of ducks, lifting his big rifle into the air and pulling the trigger on a poor defenseless duck. (Quack. Bang. Plop)

Sounds awesome!

And while he is out making sure I will have no room in my freezer for the foreseeable future, I am left to hold down the troops. (At least we get to eat whatever we want until he returns, because then it’s all downhill)

Kid-“What’s for dinner mom?” 

Me-“Duckloaf”

Kid-“Again?”

Me-“What’s wrong with duckloaf? You should be grateful we put food in your mouth and give you duck sandwiches to eat. There are a bazillion kids starving in the world”

Kid-“I wish I was one of them.”

Me-“Just wait until daddy goes venison hunting?”

Kid-“What’s a venison?”

Me-“I think it’s a type of big cat?”

Kid-“I love duckloaf!”

Me-“I thought so!”

Tomatoes are good in duckloaf, right mom?

So until Friday I will attempt to navigate pre-school drop-off (with a toy to share), middle school drama, and elementary school cliques. 

I will make sure all homework is done through subtle mind games and a few threats. I’ll change diapers, sing lullabies, and juggle football practice, cheerleading, high school open house, Willy Wonka rehearsals, and writing deadlines-all with a pained smile.

I will go to work, commute an hour each way, sing hymns, and somehow hopefully find the time to shower (probably not going to happen), buy more coffee or maybe steal pods from the office? (Just kidding) and write about the church bathing suit (an article I am dying to tackle).

I’m sure I’ll also fit in a quiet time and some scripture memorization. (Yeah right)

I’m pretty sure Jesus is in the trenches of motherhood. (This just has to be a spiritual test, right?)

And I will dream of my duck man and the day we are reunited (so that he can deal with all this kid nonsense for at least thirty minutes and I can take a very long bath).

How do you survive motherhood?

Posted on

Blessed

I’m in a wistful mood. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

I lost a loved one today. It makes me want to hold onto my babies a little tighter, linger over beauty a bit longer, and enjoy the blessings I have been entrusted with.

A lovely tableau

Like antiqueing with my husband in Carlsbad on a surprise getaway.

Or snapping this shot of my friend Keri in her Halloween costume. (Seriously, she got this at Target and I am in awe.  She looks like a regal princess)

Like finding just the right pumpkin.

Kyle's blowing out his birthday candles

And celebrating the best thirteen years of my life with my cherished boy.

Like stopping on the side of a busy road to smell the flowers and look at a bug.

Or watching a beautiful bride float down the aisle toward her beloved.

And then taking a picture with her so I can remember how much it moved me.

Like my first-baby girl turning into a young-woman, despite me wanting to keep her locked in a castle far away from all the ogres, and dragons and eager suitors.

And I’m not even ready to acknowledge how fast the baby is growing up. (Amazing block skills for a 1 yr old, right?)

And then there is romance. 

Like my husband who still courts me, despite the busyness of life.

And my Father in heaven who pursues me with His relentless love.

Today I am wistful. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

And most of all Blessed.

Posted on

My super-power is…

A woman came up to me last week at my son’s football game and said all in a rush, “I just discovered your blog and I’m like totally addicted and I had no idea you were so hysterical because in real life, you’re just, you know, the pastor’s wife. And, I’m not saying you’re dull or anything, but you’re not like all-out there in your face funny. And I really love your writing. I really do.”

“Uhhh, thanks,” I replied sheepishly.

I stood there with a dumb smile on my face not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted. And while I appreciate that she thinks I’m a funny writer, there’s this part of me, some striving little girl in legwarmers from the 1980’s that wants to be funny in public too (even though I’m most decidedly not).

I’m the girl who’s a bit socially awkward. I can fake twinkly gaiety and confidence around crowds for a set period of time, but I’m generally exhausted afterward (unlike my extroverted husband who’s like the energizer bunny).

I’d rather get to know a few people well at social occasions. I like deep probing discourse and intellectual stimulation. Smalltalk is death to me and what’s with the church hug? (I never know what’s appropriate) Either go in for the bear hug or go home-just don’t go in halfway and awkwardly hit my boob.

I am deeply envious of those quick witted folks who are stand-up comics on the fly. My friend-pastor Jeff Maguire is like that.  His body language alone makes me snort and blow corn out of my nose. I can laugh just thinking about him.

One time at a wedding, Jeff was out on the dance floor showing off his Rico Suave moves, when this little old lady inquired about him. “Is that young man a professional dancer or a comedienne?”

“Actually,” I replied. “He’s a pastor.”

Which has to be the least funny job of all time, right? It’s like we lay down our right to be a sarcastic on the altar of religion.

I love it when people find out I’m the pastor’s wife and this look of horror comes over their face. “Oh no, I just had a beer in front of you (or said a bad word, or talked about sex).”

Once the cat’s out of the bag, people stand up straighter, tell me how they should go to church more often, and then tell me how they are more spiritual than religious. It’s like we have to get the confessions out of the way and I have to make the sign of the cross over them before we can really get to know each other.

I met a unique young woman at a blogging conference recently who struggles with bi-polar tendencies. She was transparent and funny and I found her irresistible. She named her blog “Crazy is my super-power.”  I love it when people take their weakness and turn it around (with God’s grace) to be a force of strength and encouragement.

So I guess I’m a bit like Clark Kent-really, and my alter-ego is cooler than my regular gal aura.

And might I suggest that my super-power is funny and maybe that’s good enough. (Because even though Superman is awesome, Clark Kent isn’t cool, but we love him anyway)

But if I make you laugh hard enough to pee or snort corn, please let me know…comments make me deleriously happy.

What’s your Super-Power?

Posted on

Scum of the Scum

I waved to my wailing baby, winked at daddy and dashed into an overcrowded Starbucks to grab a quick cup of Joe to get me through the afternoon.  The line was snaked around the corner and I tapped my foot anxiously as precious minutes slipped by. I glanced outside at the car which was now shaking with toddler angst and daddy’s frustration.

I should have walked out of the store then and there and been the kind and loving wife I long to be, but my head was throbbing from caffeine withdrawal and I justified that a happy mommy is much better than a cranky mommy and “gosh, gee, golly” I was really doing my family a favor. 

Besides, my teeth were already starting to hurt and once the teeth hurt a migraine must be lurking around the corner.

Finally it was my turn and I stepped up to the counter, ordered a triple Americano, gave them my name, paid and waited in the mosh-pit of caffeine addicted souls such as myself. After a few minutes, I saw what looked like my triple Americano in the hand of the barista.

Strangely enough the barista paused, looked a little baffled and then stared at the cup far too long.  I started to walk toward the pickup counter, now curious, when he called out the name on the cup, “Scum, your Americano is ready, Oh Scum, please pick up your drink.”

The noisy, jubilant over-caffeinated crowd quieted down to a whisper. I heard the plop-plop of the percolator and the swishing steamer heating cappuccino froth and the individual thump-thump of my own heart.

Here was my make it or break it moment. Do I walk out to the car empty-handed, wasting not only my family’s time and patience but my money as well, or do I suck it up and take the walk of shame to the counter and admit that I’m the scum?

When I think of “scum” images of lewd women brawling on trashy TV shows pop into my head; I see Casey Anthony at her trial and Sandra Bullock’s sad face after Jessie James humiliated her. Entitled, selfish, and crummy people leaving the world worse for the wear are scummy to me.

But if I’m honest, I have scummy moments too. Like now for instance-feeding my helpless husband to toddler mayhem to soothe my coffee addiction and stubbornly justifying this behavior as acceptable.

I’m often selfish, full of pride, slightly rebellious, sometimes defiant, and generally envious of expensive purses. I’ve hurt people and should be the last one to be throwing stones at anyone.  Without God, I am at best-the mutinous gelatinous scum on the scum of scum.

So, after a long painful pause, I made up my mind and decided to take the walk of shame. I strutted up to the counter and choked out, “Uhhh, yeah, hi!  So, I’m the Scum, thank you very much.”

And Starbucks erupted into laughter and even few claps.

Because, the truth is we all have scum in our hearts, it’s just tougher for some of us to own it.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...