Tag Archives: Mesta Park

Monday, Monday

27 Monday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Mesta Park

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“Monday Monday, can’t trust that day

Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be…”

-The Mamas & the Papas

 

I use to pack so much life into my day that I always had leftovers.  But I’m a new woman these days.  My goal each and every day is to live a ‘just right’ life – not too skinny and not to fat.  But today should have been Fat Tuesday, because by supper time, my hair looked as harried as I felt.

 

Who knew zippers would be busting all day from the stress of fullness?  I woke up Monday morning relishing the fact that I would be having a lovely relaxing pedicure and then maybe a fun lunch and a movie with Kara.  Oh sure, I knew I was dropping the dogs off for their monthly grooming, but I didn’t anticipate that this would create any problems.  And who knew that the upholstery man would want to deliver my reupholstered couch right before class tonight?  And that I would be eating supper on the run at 4:30 in the afternoon, because it was the only open slot until after 8:00 this evening?

 

When I dropped off the dogs at their new groomer, they were surprised to learn that the poodles were standards and that I hadn’t brought in their immunization records.  And I was surprised that they were surprised.  And I confess, I don’t deal well with surprises – the stress just put too much pressure on my lip zipper.  So out came words of frustration pouring from my mouth.  And once spoken, always regretted.

  

Getting the surprises pushed back into the box where they belonged caused me to leave late for my relaxing pedicure appointment.  But traffic was moving smoothly.  It looked like I would only be ten minutes late.  Stopping at a traffic light gave me a minute to kill, so I dug through my purse to find some lip gloss.  When I picked up my cosmetic bag, the zipper surprised me by breaking, and since I had the bag upside down, all the contents scattered into the bottom of my big purse.  Was this a metaphor for my day?  No time to ponder.  The light changed green and I left the mess and the metaphor for later. The pedicure was lovely, interrupted by one follow-up call from the groomer.

 

I dashed straight from my pedicure to eat lunch with Kara.  Then we spent most of the afternoon together, beginning with independent shopping carts up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart to parking ourselves on Kara’s sofa to watch a few episodes of “Sex and the City”.  During this time, I had two more follow-up calls from the groomer.  Much to the groomer’s surprise, the dogs were taking longer than anticipated.  I was surprised at neither the groomer’s surprise or the fact that the dogs were taking a long time.  

 

But what did surprise me was that I picked up poodles who have never looked better.  It had been worth the wait and the early surprises and the three follow-up phone calls and the two phone calls to former vets to have shot records faxed over.  And even though I knew I was packing in way more than I should, I couldn’t help myself.  I just had to reward Max and Maddie with a short poodle walk.

 

But who could have anticipated that this would be the day that a perfect stranger would zoom out of nowhere to quickly park and hop out of her pickup truck to strike up a friendly conversation about everything poodle, just as we were doing a mad dash around Mesta Park.  And of course, I was not the least bit surprised when she asked me for the name of their groomer. It was the perfect refrain for my own little “Monday, Monday can’t trust that day…” 

 

But now that’s its Tuesday, I’m wondering if the three follow-up calls weren’t in response to my upzipped lips of Monday morning.  Were the groomers simply trying to manage expectations to avoid unpleasant surprises and the possiblility that their day would end as it began?  Because their Monday morning gave them a “warning of what was to be…..”   

 

Why does it take the morning after to discover the truth that humbles and silences me in a way that nothing else does. Oh, “Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way…”

Driving Miss Drivel

24 Friday Apr 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, Life at Home

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This morning I took my husband to the airport.  This afternoon I took Kyle to Penn Square Mall.  And after that, I took the dogs for their walk.  But to be perfectly honest, I did very little of the actual ‘taking’ on any of these trips, unless you count the return trip from the airport when I took myself home.  If left to my own drive, none of these trips would have made it out of ‘park’.        

 

I have very little horsepower right now, probably because I’m weighed down by sadness.  It’s hard to believe that this five-week Beijing trip that I’ve dreaded for so long has officially begun.  Thirty-four days before I see my husband’s smiling face again.  I know that soon the dogs and I will settle into our routine.  But for now, I feel lopsided, like I’m hobbling along without my better half.

 

I just want to stay home and mope.  I’ve had little desire to write or to do anything the least bit productive.  So until Kyle called, I just sat in a chair and read, another one of those Tudor historical fiction books that I’m so enamored with of late, that allows me to escape to a place where wife’s heads are loped off for no good reason.  A trip to Henry’s court always has a way of putting my own woes into perspective. 

 

No woes from Kyle today.  For whatever reason, he was in a great mood, but he certainly noticed I was cranky.  He called me on my moodiness pretty quick, which may have worked to dissipate my edginess.  He was so appreciative that I stopped moping long enough to help him select some new dress clothes for tonight’s BSU Banquet.  New clothes have a way of making a person feel as though their putting their best foot forward. 

 

And I guess I put my own best feet forward when I grabbed a couple of dog leashes for a daily walk around the park that I could no longer postpone.  The poodles rewarded me with many displays of appreciation–including circus pirouettes from Maddie and a big lick on my neck from Max who was standing almost eyeball to eyeball with me, two hind legs planted on the floor and both front paws planted on my chest.  The poodles didn’t seem to notice my crankiness or the fact that I was slowing down their poodle parade with my dead weight.  Instead, I received a lot of poodle smiles that seemed to say, “Atta Girl.”  “Good Poodle Mommy.”  Even at my best, I am dragged up and down Mesta Park sidewalks full speed ahead, two poodle top knots fast.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll make myself get up and go again.  But today, I’m having my own little pity party.   What sounds good is a warm lazy river and an inner tube; or perhaps a margarita on the rocks while floating in the tube, if the river were shallow enough.  No place to go and all day to get there.  But instead, I’m writing.  Because Kyle told me I should.  And without any drive, I know its pure drivel.   But who cares?  Tomorrow, I can always hit ‘delete.’

End of the Road

09 Thursday Apr 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, Mesta Park, Prayer, Soul Care

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Yesterday I slipped away from everyday life to retreat at St. Francis of the Woods, just a few neighborhood streets and a forty mile stretch of ever narrowing roads. The six lane divided highway soon slimmed to four, which later reduced to two lanes to succumb to a narrow gravel road as I arrived at my destination.  By the time I had parked my car, I had run out of road.   

 

St. Francis of the Woods was formed by a Greek Orthodox priest and his wife, who like me, was raised Baptist and joined a Methodist Church in her college years.  My grandfather was raised Greek Orthodox, though he attended church sparingly, usually once a year on Easter, whether or not he needed it.  As I got out of my car, I felt an immediate kinship with this place, in large part due to our common mix of religious heritages, but then later, from learning that my host had grown up in Mesta Park before it was called that, just down the street from the house I now call home.        

 

Just as my host Tim was turning to leave, I remembered a jar of jam I had in my car for Chris, the center’s director.  Before leaving home, my eye had fallen on some jars of blackberry jam I’d canned last July and without analyzing why, I grabbed a jar to give to Chris.  When I asked Tim if he would give it to Chris for me, he looked a little puzzled.  Then, as if clearing up a mystery, he said, “Oh, you must know how much Chris loves blackberries.”  No.  I hadn’t known this—and then I explained the happenstance way my blackberry jam came to be in his hand.  Still coming to terms with the gift, Tim told me how Chris had just purchased two blackberry bushes that week and how pleased he was going to be to receive this gift.  Thanking me over and again, he hurried away with jam in hand, and I suspect his next stop was wherever Chris was working, so they could ponder and enjoy this perfect and mysterious gift of blackberry jam together.

 

He left me to ponder mysterious and perfect gifts as well, though mine was not as easy as a jar of blackberry jam.  I had come to reflect on the stories surrounding Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion.  I spent six hours at St. Francis – the same amount of time it took Jesus to die on the cross – and I’m not sure what gifts I carried home with me.  I’m still coming to terms with this – and it may take a lot more sorting out.  But I know I was chilled to the bone as I prayed these Scriptures.  And I know that the crucifixion of Jesus was not understood as some mysterious and perfect gift at the time it happened.  But similar to my own road that morning, the road for Jesus grew narrower and less civilized the closer he came to his final destination.  And when, he reached the cross, he had run out of road.