I Can Love Jesus and Not Hold Your Hand

As I age (and grow a fuller, more luscious beard each week), my aversion to people touching me keeps increasing. There are a few exceptions. I can sometimes tolerate a pat on the shoulder or a squeeze of one of my tight, curly hair ringlets. My kids can hug me, wrestle with me, or sit on my lap. I know they need that type of interaction from their dear old mom and I enjoy it. My husband would love the occasional hug, but I think the “laser beam of love” (my index finger touching his shoulder) is enough. I think of it as a super concentrated version of love shooting out of my finger. He does not necessarily agree. I hug my mom, but she’s put up with so much crap from my sisters and I- she deserves a hug. When we are driving her nuts, I will even go so far as to help her up off the floor from the sitting position where she’s  been rocking back and forth with her head on her knees.

There are many more instances when you do not need to be touching me. Last year I attended a Christian women’s conference for the first (and most likely last) time. I heard some good messages and saw a great Christian comic (who was not quite dirty enough for my liking). I cannot say that I was refreshed or felt anew, but all in all it was a good conference. Except. Except for all the forced hand holding. I do not know what it is about Christian women and hippies, but they love a good hand holding.  During the first two sessions, I spent many uncomfortable minutes grasping strangers’ hands. By the third session, I decided to break Christian Chick Conference tradition because I realized that I could love Jesus and not hold hands. Gripping the germy palm of some other gal did not bring me closer to God. It was, in fact, not helping me with my walk with Jesus. Instead of focusing on the message/song at hand, I was fixated on the sweaty, squeezing-me-too- tightly mitt of Gertrude Myrtle standing next to me. When the next lady tried to grab me I gently declared that I did not hold hands because I had a “thing about germs.” She was a little taken aback, but I stood my ground. I’m sure she and the other ladies from the Third Baptist Church of Mineral Wells had a good ol’ gossip about it back at the hotel. As the conference continued, it got easier to refuse the grasp of Christian love.

My husband and two children do martial arts together. That art has no appeal to me and one big reason is because of all the touching. In his class, I watch my husband get dripping wet with sweat and then roll around on mats as he learns to fall and do cartwheels. The next person then has their face shoved into the moist mat. Some of the martial arts moves require you to shove your butt near the other person’s crotch so that you can flip them. No thank you. I do not want your secretions on me and I certainly do not want your drippy butt or crotch sweat on me. No way, no how.

If you feel the need to hug me, here are some appropriate times. If a friend, family member, or pet dies- you may hug me. It must be within 45 days of said death and cannot last more than three seconds in duration. The maxi hug is not necessary in my bereavement period or in any other period in my life (thank you very much). My current pet is a fish and I do not forsee the need for comfort when he dies. Please take that into account if you hear that my pet has passed. If I see you two years after a death, I do not need a hug. My time of need will be long gone. If I go on a dangerous mission trip, almost die from dysentery, have to spend six months in the care of a tribal doctor, and live in a hut with no running water- when I get back, you can hug me. If I am on fire, you are welcome to knock me to ground and smother the flames with your body. Some may not consider that a hug, but if we were vertical it would definitely look like one.

Hugging and touching is good for some, but I am ok without it. Instead, give me a kind word, give me some chocolate, mow my grass, or paint a room in my house. Maybe I will change some day, but for now- keep your hands off of me.

Clean with Envy

My husband is a clean car snob. He is a stickler for cleaning the truck every time he gets out. If its natural habitat is not a vehicular ecosystem, then it's removed. When we travel in his truck, I always have plenty of room to spread out my magazines, books, pillows, and phone around me in my seat.  Now my car.....completely different story. My husband calls it the "Stank Wagon." Does it stank? Well, sometimes. It depends on how many banana peels the kids have composting in the back. I don't know how he would really even know what it smells like. There is so much crap in the passenger seat, piled up to the dash and into the floorboard, he rarely gets to ride. I guess it might smell like trail mix. Not because we left a bag of trail mix in there, but because of all the raisins, nuts, and Cheerios dropped at different times over the past year. A wisk broom could gather a nice lil' pile of trail mix that would fill one of the many Ziploc bags that have been shoved under the seats. While my husband's truck is always spotless, my car needs a complete interior overhaul. For years we've been talking about getting it detailed, but I have never gotten it cleaned out enough that the seats and carpets are accessible. I am not proud of the condition in which my car constantly resides, but cleaning it out is apparently not a priority. At this point in my life, I can blame the kids and how busy we are with them. Nine years ago, before kids, I guess my excuse for the messy car was laziness. As I drive here and there every day, I see the same year model SUV that I have- same color and everything. However, as I look closer, I notice a few things. Their back seats are raised and there are people sitting in them. You can see the back of the seats because they are not obscured by piled up objects, giant clothes baskets, or reusable shopping bags. A human is actually sitting in the front seat and they seem comfortable. They don't seem to be leaning to one side to sit on one butt cheek. Their legs appear to be fully outstretched, not drawn up to their chests because the floor is filled with junk. My shame grows as I glance around my car and pray that those Cleanies driving next to me don't look into my Crap Wagon. I hate those people because they remind me of my shortcomings. They cruise around with their gleaming consoles. Their carpets are the color that God intended, not dyed with some spilled drink or caked mud from last year's rainstorm. Their side windows are clear, not splattered with milkshake that was spread when a kid slammed the door when the shake was in the door's cup holder. I have, what I have deemed, Clean Car Envy. If only the Envy would spur some action. But it has not. And probably will not. So, at the last minute, don't ever ask me to drive you anywhere. Because it will take me at least 30 minutes to clean it out just enough let you in.

Patience. wisdom, and screwdrivers.

So remember yesterday’s “you suckers” blog where I had nothing to talk about because my brain was empty? And how the soul suckers were pulling all the funny out of me? Well, the blog information bucket started getting filled back up today. It’s almost like praying to God for patience. You NEVER want to do that, because He will give you something that forces you to learn patience. He may not let you win the lottery, but you can bet that He’s got a butt load of things waiting in the wings to help build your patience. Ask for wisdom instead. Look how well wisdom worked for Solomon.

Six A.M. today, my eyes pop open and I ask my husband, who is taking his sweet time getting dressed for work, “Was today the day I needed to take the kids to school?” “Oh crap,” he says, “yes,” and he kicks it into high gear and leaves for a seven o’clock staff meeting. I switch from, “La, la, la, I’m going to work” to “gotta get dem babies ready fer skewl.” And for those of you who don’t know my daughter, she is in a completely different universe, with a totally different time continuum. She has no sense of urgency for anything. Ever. “Tanner Tot, if you hurry I will give you $1000.” Nothing. “Tanner Squanner, if you hurry, you can have 7 books at bedtime.” Nothing. I was fully prepared for her to drag it on as usual, but my son, the smart boy he is, pulled out the donut card. “Mom, if we hurry can we get donuts?” Well, that worked for her today. She got dressed quickly and brushed her teeth on her own in record speed. We were out the door at 20 till seven. As we pulled up to Shipleys, I remembered that part of my duty as dropping-the-kids-off-at-school-parent was to pack lunches and snacks. Dang, in the rush, Momma done forgot dat. My wonderful husband of 15 and half years usually has morning duty while I get to work and bring home half the bacon. The man cannot put double pony tails in my daughter’s hair to save his life, but he can pack a mean lunch for our son, Picky McPickiealot.

My plan was to drop the kids off, run to HEB, come back to school, drop off the goods and be on my way to work. I would be only about 20 minutes behind. In the drop off line at school, Tanner had to take extra long to go through her air hugs and kisses routine, which I then had to reciprocate. Heaven forbid, I did not do it exactly right the first time and had to redo the love ritual. Does it count if there was some angry inside my heart as I redid it? I finally made it to HEB and got the individual servings of applesauce that cost twice as much as the giant jar. Oh, it pained me to buy it. The Lunchable pained me even more. Lunchables make me feel like a bad parent. I did get the turkey and crackers, so did that make it better? Just pretend there is not 300% of the RDA for sodium in it. And since Austin does not have plastic bags anymore, my son got a twenty cent reusable shopping for his lunch box. Bam.

I got back to school and dropped everything off. As I was leaving, the Pledge of Allegiance started, so I felt as a good American I should stop to do it. I was lost during the Texas Pledge and the school pledge. I did know the school song, which ends with a nice coyote howl and coyote hand gesture. As I was leaving, my son’s teacher said, “I’m really glad that you signed up for the field trip next week. You are the only parent that did.” Hmm, I’m starting to second guess that decision. As I left the school, I realized I had to pee. Now that it was already 7:25 A.M., I knew that Austin traffic would be terrible on my way to work. I did not want to pee in my pants in the car, again. I decided to run home and take care of business as I was not in the mood for dirty gas station toilet. As I drove across the bridge next to my house, I felt that familiar thump thump when your tire is going flat. I parked on the street next to my house, knowing that it would be easier to change a tire there rather than on my hilled driveway. I emerged from the car, could hear the air hissing out of the tire, and I could see a screwdriver sticking straight out of the tire. Awesomely awesome. I called my boss to let her know I would be late, but she had not left for work yet and would “be there in 25 minutes.” During the 40 minutes that I waited, I rearranged the 100 pounds of newly placed mulch that had been shifted by the torrential rainfall yesterday. I was able to cover some of the bare spots and I wondered if the other 50 pounds of washed away mulch would be easily accessible if I lifted up the manhole cover next to the drainage slit thingy on the side of the street.  The boss finally showed, and forty minutes later, we made it to work.

Hey, but at least I have my health. Did I just say that? Really? How about I just ask for patience while I am at it. That’ll teach me not to just go ahead and pee in my pants. Serves me right.

You suckers.

I really felt compelled to write today, but as I contemplated the topic, my brain was void of the usual funny. My writings usually consist of something that has happened to my husband and I build upon the scaffolding of his expereince. But, our lives have been pretty Boring lately. I think the problem stems from the soul suckers that we encounter. They are the people drift through life like poisonous clouds, seeping into your space, and melting their drama all over you. Like the Death Eaters in Harry Potter, their influence is hard to resist. As they slink up next to me, I can just feeeeeeeel my insides being sucked out. That's where the funny has gone. Thanks soul suckers.

Drivin' Drama

Over the past 6 weeks, there have been many different vehicles parked in my driveway. In my neighborhood I've become that much hated person that parks across the sidewalk as we've played musical cars and had up to 3 vehicles parked out front. This is a major deal as we have some Olympic speed walkers and mommies with jogging strollers strolling at all hours of the day and night. My house looks like we have at least 3 families living here. This all started when my stepdad died and we started the negotiations with my mom to purchase her truck. Before that could happen, we had to get the truck in her name, sell Ray's 4Runner, and save up some cash so she'd have a nice lil' down payment on a new car for herself. We knew we'd have a delay as the title got switched to her name and all the lawyery stuff was completed. In the middle of all of this, Ray's dad became unable to drive his 5 speed, stick shift, candy apple red Ford F150. Ray offered to help sell the truck in Austin so that Roy could buy something that he could drive. In an offhand comment, Ray mentioned that he would be selling the 4Runner and Roy said he might be interested. While all this was going on, somehow we ended up with my stepdad's Dodge truck in our driveway, too. Don't even remember the reason we took it! Man, did I ever feel like a bad ass driving that loud, growly, dog hair infested rumbler. So, we now had my awesome Pilot, Ray's 4Runner, and the Dodge in the driveway. One Sunday, Ray decided to take the kids over to visit his dad in Marble Falls. When Ray pulled up, Roy was excited because he thought Ray was there to switch cars. That day. Well, that wasn't the plan, but Ray wanted his dad to be able to get around. Therefore, the 4Runner was left in Ol' Marble Falls and the Red Rocket was on its way to our driveway to sleep next to the Hair Wagon. Ray drove the Rocket for about a week, performing his duty of dropping the kids off at school in the morning. One evening, with his eyes closed and right hand across his forehead, Ray told me that he just could not do it anymore. "What, honey? What is it my sweet cheesecake, punkin' head?", I said. "Darlin', I just can't drop the kids off in the Red Rocket. They are trapped in the back since the front door must be opened for them to open their tiny little half door. Without power locks, I get a cramp in my shoulder bending across the passenger seat to open the door so our little prisoners can get out. Without power switches, I can't roll the passenger windows. That means Tanner cannot go through her goodby routine that happens once she gets out of the car. My sweet Amanda, how many more times must I hold up the drop off line as I stop to keep Tanner from chasing me down the sidewalk. The stress of it all! I can't do it anymore!!" Of course, being the caring wife that I am, I offered to give up my comfy Mom Wagon so that he could drop our children off without stress. I thought it would be no big deal. I can drive the truck for a while. Well, that all changed within a few days. First, it's hard to drink a Coke, talk on the phone, change the radio, and eat popcorn when you have to shift through 5 gears. You mean I have to pay attention while I'm driving? What? And 5 o'clock rush hour traffic on I35 on Friday, on a holiday weekend? So.....much.....concentration...... And pulling into the garage at work. The gate I go into is on a hill and you people GOTS ta STOP pulling right up behind me on a hill! I will roll into your Prius. On accident. One day a doctor friend of mine asked me if I was zooming into the garage. No, Dr. I was burning up that clutch trying to get up the hill and not ram into the mini van behind me. The reason, Doc, that it sounded like a zoom is because it's a loud truck that makes the noise of a mad bumble bee. And that sound it makes like four high pitched cowbells in a metal bucket? No idea what that is all about. The echos it produces in our garage is not the type of attention I want to attract. So, the Red Rocket is also the Cow Bell Beemobile. The next week after I acquired the Rocket Bee Cow, it rained. I was excited about it, UNTIL, I turned my first corner, going a normal speed. Red Cow began sliding sideways into the next lane. Hmm, that was scary. I became even less excited as I spun my tires at every stoplight. Somehow, I made it home from downtown where I had to pick up a kid and turn around and drive back up North to a doctor's appointment. Because I feared for my life in the Bee Rocket, I jumped into the Hair Wagon. Even though I had spent 2 hours vacuuming it weeks before, somehow, more dog hair had found it's way to the seats. I was ok with it. Yes, it flew up my nose and stuck to my eyebrows, but I knew it was safer. Yes, it was like a canine fur tornado as I drove, but I was grateful for the forceful, cold AC. I drove to the school and parked in the pick up line. Feeling awesome and bad again in the loud diesel, I almost forgot about the one and a half foot wide hole in the dash. Yea, that year model is known for that. Whatever. Tanner and I rumbled on down the road. After having Hair Rumbler for a few weeks, we finally had time to return it to my mom. Whew. Back down to two vehicles. This week, it rained again. I was that person driving 20 mph down Mopac all the way from downtown. I stayed in second gear all the way home. On the freeway. When I could have been driving 65, No way was I gonna slide into all the other cars. Sorry people. I made it home safe. I've got to keep that pickup intact until the lawyer gets all her stuff done so I can sell that Little Red Wagon and buy my mom's truck (AKA "The Limo Truck"). So, the drama will continue until all the legal battles are won. I just want my Pilot back. I miss you.

Death is not Funny.....or is it?

So my stepdad died. It's tough to call him a "stepdad" because I consider him my father as he was more of dad to me than my biological one was. I'll give you a moment to cock your head to one side, squint your eyes a bit, and say "ohhhhh, I am so sorry." Yep, it is hard and it sure does suck. I've done my fair share of crying, but I hold it together most days. Cry time generally happens while driving home from work as I listen to Chicago and Air Supply on the mix tape made for me in eighth grade by Jimmy Jo Billy Bob. I keep my  double cassette boom box in tip top shape and buckled into the backseat of my Stank Wagon. That boom box is still going strong, just like the day I bought it from Bill's Dollar Store in 1986. I'm sure I'm as sad as I am supposed to be. I'm sure most grieving daughters bawl on Interstate 35 during rush hour. I'm sure most mourners cry over lost deer jerky. Even through all the sadness, my family and I have had lots of laughs. We aren't sure how appropriate it all is, but when have we ever been appropriate? That would be never. Laugh number 1: the day after he died, my youngest sister typed a really nice tribute to him on Facebook. My mom was reading it and on the verge of tears when she got to the last sentence. My sister had typed "I love Jim." My stepdad's name was Walter. Autocorrect had changed "him" to "Jim." Damn you, autocorrect. Laugh number 2: Weeks before his death, I had bought my nephew a Skippy Jon Jones toy from Kohl's. Skippy is a character in a children's book. You should totally read it. Funniest kid's book ever. E-ver. So that my 16 year niece would not feel left out, I bought her a toy from another character in the book. It was a giant, fat, stuffed bumblebee. I presented the toys to my niece and nephew when they got to my mom's house the day my stepdad died. I thought the toys might bring them some comfort in the tough times ahead. I thought the toys might help them sleep at night. I felt really great about being thoughtful Aunt Amanda until, days later, my sister called me in tears- from laughter. She and my niece had been reflecting on the previous days and how they just could not believe what had happened. In the middle of the conversation, my niece said, "And then Aunt 'Manda gave me that STUPID stuffed bee." What I did not tell you in the beginning of this was that my stepdad had died from the sting of an insect, most likely at yellow jacket. The whole time my niece was with us, she  and the bee slept in bed with my mom. My niece, who was extremely close to my stepdad, and my mom were forced to sleep with a stuffed stinging, potentially deadly insect! I just imagine my mom waking at 2:42 am into her life which was like a bad dream, and that bee just staring at her. Mocking her. Boy did I feel like an insensitive witch for not recognizing how inappropriate my gift was. Laugh number 3: At the funeral, programs were handed out. It said my last name was Goring, not Boring. I guess that's an improvement? Or is it? Laugh number 4: CNN picked up an interview I did for a local TV station. Because I did not mention my stepdad's last name in the interview, CNN took the liberty of giving him my last name. Yea? No. Laugh number 5: I'm not sure if larger market newspapers do this, but in small towns, when someone dies, you put a thank you note in to show appreciation for all the thoughts and prayers. I put one in our hometown newspaper, where we all grew up. My middle sister put one in her small town newspaper. When her's came out the next week, we were surprised to see that my husband, Ray, had been listed as Ray Ray. I know many Southern folks have a hankerin' for the double first name. I mean, in my hometown we had Billy Bob, a couple of Jim Bobs, a couple of Joe Bobs, Jim Bill, Billy Mac, Anna Beth, Jimmy Tom- it's just way things were and continue to be. But, I will tell you, I would never marry someone with two of the SAME first names. Nope. No way. Now, 99% of my sister's town thinks I married a Ray Ray. Lots of laughs on that one. The mistakes that happened were public and 1000's of people saw them. Granted, only about 20 people will think all of these things are funny. Yet, I'm still publishing it.

I saw this on the Today show today. Not yesterday. Quinoa is quite the sexy, little food and packed with protein. I love chocolate. Chocolate makes me hungry. Quinoa is loaded with protein and protein keeps me from gettin' hungry. Perfect combination, don't you think?

Recipe: Chocolate chip quinoa cookies
Peggy Kotsopoulos Ingredients

1 cup cooked quinoa1 cup uncooked quinoa flakes (or oatmeal flakes)
1 cup unsweetened, shredded coconut (sweeetened is all I had)
2 tablespoons almond butter (I used natural peanut butter)
4 large VERY RIPE bananas (tons in my freezer)
1/2 cup coconut sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup chocolate chips
Pinch sea salt (regular ol' kind worked just fine for me)

Preparation
These cookies are SOOO GOOD! The are jam-packed with protein, fiber, stress-busting B-vitamins, energizing goodness and deliciousness! They're also gluten-free and will kick your cravings to the curb.

To prepare the cookies:

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, mash bananas in bowl with a fork and add vanilla, almond butter and coconut sugar. Add quinoa, oatmeal, coconut and pinch of salt. Mix until well combined. Stir in chocolate chips. Line baking sheet with parchment paper and drop batter on to cooking sheet. Bake for 25-30 minutes (watch them. at 25 minutes, the bottoms of mine got too done). Remove from oven and let cool.

Serving Size
Makes about 25 cookies that look more like muffin-tops and are chewy.