Friday, November 30, 2007


I don't mean to be fastidious or to compare myself to others -- the Bible says not to do that. But have you ever watched those makeover shows on tv? There's this show called 10 Years Younger and I was watching it the other day in my nonexistent free time when it hit me. These people don't really need a makeover.

Think about it.

They choose someone who is already relatively thin, has a few wrinkles here and there, needs an updated look because they haven't looked in the mirror since the mid-80s. Then they proceed to transform the person, man or woman, into a glam girl or guy with microdermabrasion, hair color, makeup (no, not the guys), and a new outfit.

Well, who wouldn't look better if they could afford to do all that!? But the average person can't pay for those things!

I always partake in the sin of covetousness after watching a show like that. I have acne scars on my face, an extraordinarily large Jewish nose (a little gift from my father -- how nice), and a size quadruple AAAA bust. I try to make up for these things with my sparkling personality, amazing wit, fashion sense -- I used to work for a fashion magazine, and passion for life. Sometimes these things don't work. Sometimes they do (see phat knees post below).

I challenge you "makeover show" people who only make over people who don't need making over, to take me on. Fix this nose, implant large fake body parts in all the proper places, scrape my face until the scars are gone, and while you're at it, buy ME expensive outfits and makeup and hairstyles.

The photo above was taken 10 years ago. So now everyone can see what I looked like when I was 10 years younger. There's actually an interesting story behind that photo. I did a glamour shots photo session, and when I got the proofs Steve didn't like any of them. He didn't like the hat I chose or the poses they put me in. So I went back and this time Mr. Television Producer went in with me. He chose the outfit, the poses, and basically produced the whole photo shoot. Then I went out while he was still talking to the photographer about f-stops or somesuch thing.

I opened the curtain and there before me were ten pairs of angry eyes. It was 8:45 pm and they had taken so long with me that ten people behind me who were all made up with hair done had to be sent home with rain checks for future makeover/photo sessions. The icy glares haunted me every time I looked at that photo for at least two years. It was terrible!!

And Steve just laughed about it!

There was only one other time I was tempted to strangle my husband and that was when I was in labor, waiting for the Petocin to kick in and he decided to go grab a snack down at the snack machines two floors down with the anesthesiologist. Hear me now. WITH THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!

The medicine kicked in, and I had seven of the worst contractions of my life. By the time the nurse got the anesthesiologist back upstairs, snacks in hand and my husband in tow, it was too late. I can still see in slow motion the nurse leaving the room saying, "I'm sorry, it's tooooo laaaaaate!!!" and flying down the hall to get the doctor to come in and catch this baby that was popping out of me. I had a total of 13 contractions. Twenty minutes of labor. It felt like twenty hours. It hurt. I could have killed both Steve AND the anesthesiologist. Aren't they supposed to stay nearby? Isn't that what "on call" means?

I guess I don't care if I look 10 years younger. I just want to look like I got enough sleep last night -- which I didn't because every night for the past ten and a half years there has been a little boy in my bed. Yes, the same little boy who popped out so suddenly while his mother's burning flesh seared, her agony evident only to the discerning eye as witnessed by the redness of her face and the expression of seething anger toward two men who will never know what it's like to poop out a baby au naturelle.

Pardon the segue (that's "seg-way" for my non-collegiate friends who always tell me I use words they don't understand and for my daughter's friends who tell her the same thing. Don't get me started on public education...)

But why can't this boy sleep in his own bed for more than half the night? I remember doing the same thing when I was young. But he's a boy. What is it about a mother's cuddles that wakes him up in the middle of the night and draws him to my side? I'm not knocking it -- he's my youngest and one day he'll be ashamed that he even did this at all -- but why?

I am groggy all day, can't string two sentences together until massive amounts of caffeine have pried my eyelids open halfway, and all because of that little bugger lying next to me. Last night, he decided there wasn't enough room (well, yeah, he's TEN!) and crawled to the foot of the bed. By morning, he was totally upside down and I had feet in my face. Nice.

I guess I'll keep him, though. He's kinda cute.

So talk to me. You have to click on this little bitty button beside where it says how many comments there are at the end of this post to leave me a message. It's really sort of hard to find the little button. I think it is, anyway. Maybe I just need more sleep!

Yours,

Megan Elizabeth,
alias "The Princess" of The Princess and the Pea
or to my husband, his precious Jewish American Princess
(What is this preoccupation with royalty I've suddenly developed?)

Wednesday, November 28, 2007




Okay, you have to go to Jody's blog  and read about the contest I won to understand what this photo means to Jody... I am upping the challenge. Jody said she was so sure I did not already have this insane object that she bought at Goodwill for a prize for winning the contest that she would run naked through the mall or something like that. You have to read her blog to get the full story. Well, guess what? The prize was a carved coconut head. AND I ALREADY HAD ONE! I thought it was a lot different and smaller than Jody's prize, but my daughter found it the other day and... well... I find the two items rather similar. You decide! 

Donna got me thinking about Christmas traditions... What are yours?

I'd like to say we roast chestnuts, perform at nursing homes, and do all the right things at Christmastime, but we tend to get a little strange in December. For one thing, we don't just celebrate Christmas, we also celebrate Hanukkah. This keeps us hopping. We have eight nights of partying with dreidel games, cookies, listening to NPR's fantastic Hanukkah storytellers and music, and, of course, praying to Almighty G*d, the Creator of the Universe, the unspeakable, all powerful One. Everything blue and white goes up at our house, then comes back down eight days later and is replaced by red and green. It's really tricky! But loads of fun. Chocolate gelt for everyone!!!

These are the special moments -- the times we carve out for only our family. I know we should be reaching out to others during this season, but instead we always seem to pull in. And I can't wait to do it again...

We always bake the proverbial cutout cookies along with a special treat my mother calls a "puff." It's like a gigantic cream puff with yummy vanilla glaze on top. It's rich with egg yolks and out of this world. I'll post the recipe for it as it gets closer to Christmas. I also started making dishes and desserts out of The Frugal Gourmet's Christmas recipe cookbook. He has food for the magi, the shepherds, etc. We have so much fun with this! Well, I do, anyway. So every year, I make date pudding with whiskey sauce. It's intoxicating in more ways than one. And I don't even like those fruitcake sorts of desserts. But with finely ground walnuts and dates chopped very small, this one is out of this world rich and decadent. We sometimes make plum pudding and figgy pudding, but date pudding is my favorite. I'll post the recipe for that, too.

The evening before Christmas Eve day, we always go caroling around the neighborhood. Just our family. We take along a candle or two in brass candleholders that we only use for this occasion, and we take a plate of cookies to each neighbor. We can't do this any earlier or the neighbors will try to return the gift. If you go close to Christmas, they won't have time and you will have blessed them without getting anything in return which is, of course, ideal.

We like to read Dickens' A Christmas Carol every year, too. And we always read through a few stories in Tasha Tudor's Take Joy. This must be done beside a roaring fire with Wassail in hand or the spell will be broken. It's magical, I tell you!

About the Wassail. It is a Hoyt MUST! From Thanksgiving to Christmas, there is always a pot of steaming Wassail on the stove. The aroma of Wassail and evergreens means Christmas to us. To make our special Wassail, you must use a gallon jug of Apple Cider, a half gallon jug of pure Cranberry Juice -- not cocktail and no added sugar. Then you add a cup of brown sugar, about five cinnamon sticks broken in half, and top with ten slices of orange with cloves tucked into them (This keeps the cloves out of the drink but still adds their flavor). Sometimes we add apple slices, too. It's a simple recipe with fabulous results. And after the kiddies go to bed, you can add a little red wine for a lovely chill-out time with the adults in your life.

Every Christmas Eve, we act out the Christmas story. And Steve always plays the donkey. Now that the kids have gotten a little older, he begs for mercy! Each girl gets a chance to play Mary, so this can take a while. I am always the angel. Funny to some of you, I'll bet. This is a great way to help the kids memorize the story from Luke. At first, I recited it while they play acted. Now, I'm pretty sure we can all recite it word for word. I had to memorize the story in third grade for a Christmas play, and I have never forgotten it. Memory work is good for children. And this is one I would definitely recommend.

Also on Christmas Eve, we all snuggle up and watch White Christmas. It's a tradition for us because Steve and I watched it on our first date. We were the only ones in our group of friends who did not go home for Christmas when we were in graduate school. So we hung out together, did some Christmas shopping, went to Steve's work Christmas party together. And on Christmas Eve, it happened. No, not THAT it. We fell in love. So every year, without fail and no matter how tired we are from all the festivities adding up to Christmas Eve, we watch White Christmas. Then Steve and I stay up most of the night trying to bake, cook, and get everything else wrapped and set up for Christmas morning. 

Christmas morning. We always have breakfast before anything else. Crazy of us to make the kids wait, right? But with full tummies, there is less negative emotion. That doesn't matter so much now that they're older, but when they were young, wooooo! 

We open presents one at a time, taking turns. It's an obsession of my husband's. He's a television producer and he always wanted to make sure he got everything recorded on video. So we must TAKE TURNS! I am convinced my kids will be in therapy when they grow up. And they'll blame all their repressed emotions on the fact that their dad made them open presents one at a time! But again, now that they're older, they savor the time together, watching each person open a gift and rejoicing with each person as they see what they got.

We don't do Santa. We never have. I have taught the kids the story of St. Nicholas from a young age, and they understand the whole concept and don't spoil it for anyone else. But we prefer to focus on the Christ child, the meaning of it all, the Alpha and Omega, beginning and end. The reason for the season is Jesus and the salvation he bought for us all on the cross. I don't think Jesus would have celebrated a nativity. That was a pagan type thing to do. But since He is the promised Messiah, I hope he understands why we do.

God bless us, every one!

Megan Elizabeth -- with a little tiny Tim thrown in


Sunday, November 25, 2007

Vaguely curious?

I was reading this article about "Knowing God" when it hit me. I have been vaguely curious about God lately rather than aggressively pursuing a relationship with him. The busyness of each day prohibits me from carving out the time I should to pray, to sit in solitude and wait, to worship the Creator of the universe. Does he deserve to be worshipped? After all, look at the natural world around us. We see deer in our yard almost every day now. They are beautiful creatures -- fragile and fleeting. I want to cradle them in my arms and love on them. Their beauty is stunning, their gentleness overwhelming. I think it's like that with God sometimes. We want to put a collar around his neck and make him stay near us, to be petted and to inspire love and gentleness within our hearts. Instead, He darts to and fro -- brings His love close, then flits away again. We want -- even crave -- the security that comes from knowing He is always at our beck and call. But He's not. That's scary. But it's the truth. 

I have digressed, but I wanted to share this article with you. It's by Dick Keyes, a friend of a friend of mine and someone we hope to bring to a ChildLight USA conference soon.



Friday, November 23, 2007

This you will not believe...

I was shopping at the Salvation Army thrift store the other day, and I guess I was dressed fairly fashionably for a 44-year-old mama of four. I had on boots and a skirt and a leather jacket. Well, this man who worked there kept joking with me about how a "pretty girl like me needs this item or that item or this chair or book or sofa or dress." I was getting a little bit irritated, but just as I was about to say something about it to the manager, he finally gave up and walked away. 

Then, another man who looked like he was about 30 -- an African-American gentleman (I have to tell you that for this to make sense -- I am in no way trying to poke fun at this culture or that culture. Just identifying the perpetrator in this hilarious scenario).

So this guy walks up to me and starts talking about my knees. I mean, he's going on and on about how fat my knees are and how much he loves fat knees! I do not know what to make of this situation because, frankly, I have never thought much about my knees being fat or thin or pretty or ugly or anything at all other than the joints by which my legs are still able to bend, thank the good Lord.

I finally got tired of this man pestering me, so I held up my left hand and pointed to the wedding ring on my finger. He says, "Oh now, baby, that's just too bad." I wish I could pass along the accent -- it was very hip. And the man wasn't bad-looking either. But why was he so interested in my fat knees?

I went home, and later on at the dinner table, I started talking to my family about the incident. To tell you the truth, I was befuddled and confused by the whole thing. Then, one by one, my teenaged girls and husband all started snickering and giggling. 

"Meg, you just don't know the modern lingo," my husband said, still laughing. "He was trying to tell you he thinks your knees are sexy or good-looking. The word for that is 'phat! P-H-A-T!' "

Okay, well, what do I know about "phat?" So I looked it up at answers.com and it says: "Excellent, first rate; phat fashion; a phat rapper; sexy (said of a woman).

Ohhhh Baby!!!!

I guess I've still got it...

Yours -- with phat knees!

Megan

P.S. As I was leaving the store, I heard that same employee say, "A pretty girl like you should have this sofa." I looked over and saw that he was talking to a plump, elderly lady of about 80!

Monday, November 19, 2007

Life is funny that way...

Just when you think you have things figured out -- when you think your life is cruising along nicely, everything in place, everyone present and accounted for -- something punches you hard in the stomach and you find out you were never in control at all.

We visited a new church on Sunday. At the end of the service, the pastor called for people to gather around a young woman named Kate and pray for her. Three and a half months pregnant, she just found out she has Leukemia for the second time. It's aggressive. And she is not willing to abort her baby in order to undergo the treatment to fight it. 

I don't know Kate personally. But she looks like she is about 25 years old to me. Her countenance radiates the presence of God, so it's sort of hard to tell exactly how old she is. She is in a different place, on a different plane, perhaps, from where I am standing. Overwhelmed and premenopausal, surrounded by children, carpools, pets, and laundry, I think I can safely say that I have lost sight of the really important things in life. Things like integrity, devotion, and sacrifice. I daresay, most Americans have lost sight of these things. We're stumbling along, blind and depressed, hoping there is more to life than the mundane daily grind we're all experiencing. I think Kate knows about the "more." She's living each day totally dependent on the power of God to give her life, breath, and strength to grow a baby for the next six months. She doesn't even know if she will be able to hold out for that long. Her sacrifice may be all for nothing. Think about it. She is laying down her life for the sake of her child. We all say we would do that. But would we? Really? Even before we have a chance to know that child?

I am humbled.

Yours -- with every breath I breathe,

Megan

Friday, November 16, 2007

Gee, I left all sorts of people out of my "friends" list...

It's always dangerous to blog thoughtlessly like this. I left out so many good friends from that last post! Jody, you always comment on my blogs and I didn't even include you. And you gave me a cocoanut head, too! What was I thinking leaving you out like that? It's not every day that one receives a cocoanut head from a friend. 

Without Kathi, I would not have gotten my house packed up to move over the summer.

Without Joe D., Kathy P. and Steve E., I would not have been able to jumpstart my career a few years ago.

And Cecilia. She's a "through thick and thin" friend, too. What would I do without her? Who would I sing old Simon and Garfunkel songs to?!?!?

The list goes on...

Yours -- when procrastinating even though three articles are due on Monday,

Megan Elizabeth

Thursday, November 15, 2007

What does a good friend look like?

I have the best friends in the world.

Let's start with Bebe in Australia. We've been friends since 4th grade. I write her an email, detailing all my complaints -- even the ones that are my own fault -- and she always comes back with a "there, there, you couldn't have possibly known this would happen. Pour yourself a cup of tea, hop into a steamy bubble bath and pamper yourself. Life is hard. You deserve a break!" Bebe has not had an easy life herself. She's faced divorce with strength, courage, and dignity. And infertility with the same. She and her husband now have two adopted boys who are the joy of their lives. One of them has a little too much joy -- ADHD issues make life difficult for him. But Bebe faithfully cares for him -- and me!

Donna is lively and fun. She's full of great advice and tall tales. All true, of course. She keeps me young and happy.

I have some friends through work that are so supportive I sometimes think they're being sarcastic. Then I do a doubletake and say, "No, they really ARE that nice!" I get encouraging emails from them at just the right times. They even talk to one another behind my back and conspire to be encouraging to me! I'm tearing up just thinking about it.  Thanks, John and Wendy -- and Valerie and Kathy and Karen and Carole and Jay and Chris and... and... Wow, the list is quite lengthy!

I was a lousy friend to Laura. I was her maid of honor, then promptly moved to another state and forgot about her. She kept calling and occasionally visited me, but I was preoccupied with my own life -- having babies and raising them. Years later, I discovered her husband had been brutally abusing her. Those calls and visits were pleas for help, but I didn't recognize them. I am ashamed that I took Laura's friendship for granted. She's now coping with her ex-husband's lack of consistency when it comes to child support and raising their two children alone as a working mom. And still, she calls to check on me and make sure I'm doing all right. 

Jean, Jean, and Jeanne...

Where do I begin? The Lord has blessed me with three remarkable friends named Jean. Jean R. is my homeschool guru and a dear friend who always listens with a sympathetic ear. I'll never forget the time I griped and complained to her about what a terrible day I was having, ending with "And how are you?" to which she promptly replied, "I broke my foot." We both burst out laughing. I said, "Why didn't you stop me sooner?!" Then we laughed again. Jean R. keeps me sane. I just love her.

Jean from my writing group is like a mother to me. Seriously. She tells me to stop running around so much and to take care of myself so I'll be able to take care of my family. She reminds me not to sweat the small stuff. Jean's son was killed suddenly. Her husband is blind. She has not had an easy time of it, but she still calls to check on me if she hasn't heard from me in a while. I love Jean.

Jeanne... What can I say about this precious woman? My deepest spiritual issues are always safe within her trusted bosom of secrecy. And her advice is the best. She prays for me, listens for answers, then shares from her heart. I love Jeanne, too!

There are others. Some whose lives I emulate from afar like Elaine Cooper and Ranald Macaulay. They are heroes as well as friends. Jack, Bobby, Carroll, Lisa, and Amber all hold a special place in my heart. We are co-laborers on behalf of a better education for children across the world.

Stacy, Michelle, Lori, Barbara... All my church friends from Virginia... You are the best. Especially Stacy. I can say that because she was also my labor and delivery nurse for two of my four children. Stacy has seen more of me than I'd like to admit! I hope she counts me as one of her close friends, too!

My dearest friend, though, is my husband. I put that man through so much emotionally it is not even repeatable here. It would take up too much space to explain anyway! But Steven is my biggest fan, my most devoted, passionate love, and my closest, intimate friend. I don't  deserve his love. I am sensitive, irritable, outrageous when I should be quiet, and I crumble to mush when someone hurts my feelings. But he is always there to pick up the pieces and put me back together -- even when he is already stressed himself. I recently had the opportunity to look at our relationship more closely while he was away on a business trip. That's when it hit me. Steven loves me the way God does. I am loved -- not because I'm pretty or smart or talented or successful or a good mother or a good housekeeper or a gourmet chef or a fantastic lover -- Steven loves me rather in spite of myself. When I am Lucy Ricardo, he forgives me. When I am Dharma Finkelstein Montgomery (which is OFTEN!) he is amused. When I am Audrey Hepburn as Holly go Lightly, he is compassionate. When I am Emma Peel from The Avengers, he is thrilled. When I am Ann Wilson from Heart, he laughs uproariously. When I am Mother Teresa, he weeps alongside me. He is my dearest friend. 

Yours -- with sugar and spice and everything nice,

Megan Elizabeth




Tuesday, November 13, 2007

My son...

Last night, as we were snuggling and talking before bed, my son leaned over and said, "Queen is from England, I think." Lest you assume my son is three years old and has just figured out that the UK still has a queen, let me assure you that is not the case. He's ten. And he's talking about Freddie Mercury and the gang.

Has this boy been googling behind my back?

And if he has, why is he googling my favorite old rock groups? And why is this what he is thinking about at the end of the day? A hero of mine once said a child should have something to love, something to do, and something to think about each day. I know Jesse loves his family. He loves to read, to do science experiments, to cook, to mess around outside making up new games and sports to play with his brother. He loves to play in the woods, to build things. Some of these things branch out into the something to do category. But what about something to think about? 

I can easily sit around sipping tea and discussing world issues with my teenaged daughters for hours on end. But what am I giving my ten-year-old to think about? I don't know what I'm going to change, but I know I must do something to help him so that we don't end up talking about '70s rock groups at night before we go to bed!

Yours -- with snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails,

Megan Elizabeth

Honk if you are reading my blog!

I have only heard from two people so far and I already knew they would read my blog. Thank you, Jody and Jean!!!

Where is everyone else? Come on, now, talk to me! Leave comments. Browse the archives. Argue with me. Enlighten me.

Megan

Friday, November 9, 2007

How awful of me...

I just reread all of my blogging thus far and realized that nowhere in this vast amount of gobblety gook do I even mention God.

You see, I am a Christian.

Some people might be surprised to hear that after how I scourged them for breaking my heart 20 some odd years ago. (That was part of the lost loves post I have yet to gather the nerve to write!) 

But it's true. I believe in God. I love God. And I believe He loves me. 

I believe that He, with the vast knowledge that He has and that I DON'T have, decided the best way to handle our shortcomings, sin, and ruined thinking and acting -- the result of a fall from grace that occurred way before my time but that I would nonetheless have experienced had I been alive then -- was to offer his son as a sacrifice that would cover our sins, known and unknown, making us appear pure and holy before Him. You know, if I'm right about this whole "Jesus being real" thing and I believe I am, we will all one day come face to face with the Creator of the Universe. Do you want to do that as a pure, holy, blameless person or as the scum you really are? Yeah, I mean you! We ALL are, after all. Look how angry I got at Miss Colombia yesterday. Me! Holy, righteous Megan Elizabeth, God's little princess. I slammed this woman on the phone. Who did she think she was?

A child of God.

Oh.

Oops.

We all have sinned and fallen short. I for one am happy to believe that there is a solution. That I don't have to go around carrying all this shame. I'm not perfect -- I am walking this thing out with great difficulty and I have questions. LOTS OF QUESTIONS! Why are people being slaughtered, raped, brutalized? Why do young girls get sold as sex slaves? Why did my dear friend Wanda's precious nine-year-old daughter die of cancer? Why was my cousin murdered? And if he had to be murdered, why didn't You arrange it so someone found him? Why did the neighbor in the next apartment have to call the apartment manager because of the smell? My nephew has a heart defect, a brain defect, and mental retardation. Why does he also have to have scoliosis and acne? Why did my true love leave me without a word when I was 21? Why did I let him? Why does it still bother me? 

I don't have all the answers. I don't even have a few. But what I do have is a relationship -- a friendship. No, it's more than that. 

I love God. And He loves me.

Yours -- affectionately and "sheep"ishly,

Megan Elizabeth

P.S. For all my Jewish friends and relatives, check this out... http://www.inspiration.net/thinkitthru/ or just click on the link in this blog.

Okay, no. THIS post should have been entited "Have a heart."

My daughter Hannah walked out of class at the local community college without realizing her phone had slipped out of her purse and onto the floor. She noticed immediately and within five minutes retraced her steps. When she got back to the classroom, the phone was gone.

About a week later, I received a text message on my phone. I never get text messages, so I did not realize it was there right away. But that is beside the point. I got this text message that said, "I have your daughter's phone. How do I get it back to you."

I called, texted the woman back, and called again -- about 10 times over the next month and a half. This woman was determined to hold my daughter's phone for ransom!

Finally, I decided to blitz her. I called her. An hour later, my husband called her. I called her again at dinnertime, then text messaged her at 11 pm. 

She called.

In broken English, she told us when we didn't call her back she gave the phone to her friend Humberto who went back to his country. "What country is that?" I asked. "Colombia. And he can't be reached." "Could you please at least TRY to find him? I'll send him money for postage to send us back the phone." "No."

At this point, I'm seeing dollar signs because, as we all know, if you're in the middle of the contract period, you get no discount whatsoever when replacing a phone. Replacing Hannah's phone was going to cost me $330 -- and this woman just gave it away!

She said repeatedly, "Is not my fault. I sorry. But is not my fault." Okay, first of all, why apologize for something if it's not your fault? And second, if it wasn't your fault, whose fault was it?

So, I ask you, is this theft? Or a misunderstanding? Or a cultural mistake?

And in any case, why must we pay for her mistake? Now if it was stolen, snatched, or whatever, we would just file a police report, then go buy a new phone. The thief would try to use the phone or sell it, find out it's not activate-able because it's listed as stolen, then toss it in the trash. Bad for me, but oh well. In this case, I don't quite know what to do. Meanwhile, my daughter wanders a college campus alone with NO PHONE!

The Security Officer at the college told me (and I quote) "Your daughter should have kept her personal belongings with her at all times." 

Ya think? 

Hmmm. Well, thank you for that little bit of advice. Now go find this woman and get me back my phone!!!

Yours -- with high levels of aggravation and maybe a little radiation,

Megan Elizabeth


Thursday, November 8, 2007

Have a heart...

I am finding solace these days in an old rock favorite -- Heart. Find the near rhyme if you must, my dearest writing buddies, but listen for the passion. Nice visual elements, too!

My love is the evenin' breeze touchin' your skin,
The gentle, sweet singin' of leaves in the wind,
The whisper that calls after you in the night,
And kisses your ear in the early moonlight.

I was a willow last night in a dream,
I bent down over a clear running stream,
I sang you a song that I heard up above,
And you kept me alive with your sweet, flowing love.

Yours -- with Hootenanny from Heart and Hoopin' and Hollerin' from the Texas girl!

Megan Elizabeth


Wednesday, November 7, 2007

This is not fun...

If I were to create a list of things I do not ever want to do again for as long as I live, two things would be right up there at the top: childbirth and remodeling a house.

Childbirth I can live without doing again -- I have four children already. And believe me, that's enough. But this neverending remodeling project is no picnic, I assure you. It's like labor all over again, complete with screaming and groaning and pleas for drugs!

So you know about this whole mortgage crisis, right? All those subprime mortgages that were doled out over the past several years and then all those poor families who lost their homes when the interest rates on their ARMS went up? WE ARE NOT ONE OF THEM! Can you all please say it again -- this time with feeling? THE HOYTS REALLY, HONESTLY DO QUALIFY FOR THIS RENOVATION LOAN!

So here's what happened. The mortgage lender told us our credit score needed to come up 22 points in order to get the loan amount we wanted. This is all because I'm a freelance writer and have no documented proof of income to provide. If I did, there would be no problem. As it stands, though, we have to be extra credit-worthy to squeeze into the loan. So he uses this automated software program from the Credit Bureaus (Don't even get me started on them. I used to work for Equifax, and oh, the tales I could tell!). It tells him we need to pay down a bill by $2000. So we do it. Then he repulls the credit and instead of pulling up our score 22 points it goes up 3. 

Huh?

So he tells us we have to use a different software program to manipulate this credit score. Okay. What does this software program tell us to do? Pay down several different credit cards at a total cost of $2000. I'm sensing deja vu at this point and looking for the hidden camera. Is this some sort of joke?

Do I look like I have another $2000 laying around?

Maybe it's hidden under the mattress. I'll go check... Nope.

Maybe it's buried in the backyard... Found a dog bone (I hope it's a dog bone), but no cash.

I know -- Steve has a secret stash down at the office... Ahem. Absolutely out of the question.

Maybe... Maybe...

I hate to admit it, but I went crying home to mother. And she gave me the $2000. Now that mortgage lender better be telling us the truth about this magical manipulation. We need to finish remodeling this house!!!

End of rant.

Almost.

I do want to give credit where credit is due... 

So where the heck is my good credit?

Yours -- with sighs and sadness, whimpers and wails,

Megan Elizabeth

Friday, November 2, 2007

Breathing in peace and joy

I had been listening to a lecture by Susan Schaeffer Macaulay while shuttling my kids from here to there and back again in the car when it happened. I pulled into the driveway, kept the car running while I listened to the very end of the tape, then shut off the radio and turned off the car.

 And there beside my driver's side door were three deer.

They looked at me through the glass, then pranced past the car and into my neighbor's back yard, pausing to graze for a while before taking off into the woods beyond.

I marveled at the wonders of God's creation for a few minutes after which I lost a fight (and a photo) with my cell phone camera and hustled and bustled back into the house with my groceries.

I forgot about this precious moment and later in the day left again to take yet another child to yet another function, class, play rehearsal, or what-have-you. When we pulled back into the driveway...

An owl swooped down in front of us and landed on a tree branch in our back yard.

Okay, by now, I have gotten the message from above that I am way too busy to stop and smell the roses, much less enjoy the life that is bursting with glory all around me. 

I am changing this!

From now on, I am going to take nature breaks. Walks in the woods while reading Thoreau, picnics among the flowers while reading Wordsworth, breaths of fresh air when I only have a minute to spare.

When you think about how God created this world for our pleasure and that "He gives us all things richly to enjoy," it seems a shame not to enjoy it!!!!!

Yours -- with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
with wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings,
with cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels,
with snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,
with silver white winters that melt into springs,
These are a few of my favorite things!

Okay, maybe these are a few of Maria von Trapp's favorite things. I'll tell you about mine later.

What are your favorite things?

Megan Elizabeth

Procrastination...

This blogging thing is so addictive. I keep meaning to work on my novel for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month -- November), but I always end up fiddling around here. Someone slap some sense into me!

Yours -- early in the morning


Thursday, November 1, 2007

The juicy bits...

Okay, I have a link to our children's films at youtube. Go ahead and take a peek if you'd like. The link is over to the right.

And now...

The long-awaited juicy bits!

Turning 40 is for some people a momentous event chock full of black balloons, cocktail parties, and lengthy stops in front of the bathroom mirror to check for gray hair, facial hair, heavy hips, and wrinkles. But not me! I chose to ignore the obvious and instead delve deep into my psyche for a spiraling dumpster dive into the past -- complete with lost loves, followed by late night rendezvous (I give up -- how do you pluralize rendezvous?) and midnight encounters in my own back yard. 

I'm not in the mood to discuss lost loves at the moment, because, let's face it. If you really want to feel alive, you don't dumpster dive! (Words of wisdom from someone who KNOWS.)

On to the late night rendezvous -- Guaranteed to ignite the fires within. Ooh, la, la!!!

You take a picnic basket, fill it with candles, matches, homemade seafood crepes fresh from the oven, silverware, cloth napkins, two tiny bottles of champagne, flute glasses for the champagne, strawberries to plop into each glass, and a rich store-bought dessert -- chocolate mousse, preferably. You spread the picnic items on a blanket in a surprising place, like, say, the roof of a church in the densely-populated downtown area of a rather large city. Yep. The roof. You bring along an extension cord and a boombox with cds of the most romantic music around -- I believe Tuck and Patti rule all in this category. Sweet jazz. Smooth as silky satin on a brand new baby's bottom. But I digress. So you set all this up ahead of time. Then you take your honey bunny, blindfold him, drag him into the building, up the elevator, and onto the balcony. You remove the blindfold, walk him out onto the roof, and dine in moonlight (and candlelight) splendor, with rooftop views of the cityscape and a little smoochie-smoochie, hoochie-coochie after the crepes are gone and the fizzy lifting drinks have done their duty. Oh, yeah!!!

The midnight encounters in my own back yard will have to wait till next time... 

Yours -- with sugar and spice and everything nice,

M.E.G.  

Did you know my initials used to spell my name before I got married? Tiny trivia that may come in handy one day when you are locked out of my castle and don't have the password to get in...

Princess Megan Elizabeth, of Hoyt Castle in yonder Fair Valley

Oh, and a final P. S. Is anyone doing NaNoWriMo this year? Or are you all procrastinating like me by blogging instead?


Okay, what do I know about uploading videos to Youtube or putting links to them on my blog... Not a gosh-darned thing, evidently!

Go to youtube.com and search for "Hey Bobby It's Reginald" to view the spectacular creation of two young gents with too much time on their hands and not enough school work to do!

Er...

Wait a minute. Don't try that...

I just did a search for the video at Youtube and came up with "Breasts, Beasts, and Bullets."

Ahem.

Yours -- with sugar and cream and a dash of cayenne,

Megan Elizabeth, Welsh Princess and Faerie Queen 
(A girl can still daydream once she's all grown up, right?)

Halloween has come and gone (Yippee! The gone part, I mean...)

It's tough. I mean, we went to the Children's Theatre of Charlotte costume sale and bought about $100 worth of costumes and wigs just for grins. So Halloween comes around, and my kids would kinda like to wear said costumes and go somewhere. And candy is involved. There's always the dreaded pull of sweets. So we had a little talk -- and the kids read my blog -- and we all decided to do the "Walk for Darfur" at Myers Park High School and that next year we just might go door to door asking if our credit scores and costumes might warrant an extra large serving of candy. But that trick or treat business? Still makes no sense to me. 

I am planning on having another series of parties this year if I can just get this house remodeled. We like to celebrate Johann Strauss, Jr.'s birthday by dressing up in period costumes, waltzing, sipping Martinelli's, and acting all dignified. And we usually celebrate Mozart's birthday, too. And Hans Christian Anderson's. We'll come up with pretty much any excuse to have a party -- except Halloween!

Yours -- till death do us part "Muahaha!!!" (Okay, that's about as Halloween-y as I get...)

Megan

P.S. Be on the lookout for Drew and Jesse's latest movie. It will be posted to Youtube momentarily after which time I will post a link here.