Tag Archives: hectic life

I Got Screwed! Seduced into Humming Complacency

25 Feb

Recently, my wonderful husband noticed that my tires needed air. I don’t mean that metaphorically, although the idea would certainly blog, but the tires we’re talking about are on my Subaru.

Why don’t I notice these sorts of things? I can tell when someone spilled milk on the kitchen floor, even after they attempt to clean it up. I notice when the smallest of our neighborhood’s 10-or-so feral cats fails to show up at the back door of the home behind us for the evening meal—I have no desire to take the cat in, mind you, but I’m rooting for him to make it through the winter. I even noticed that our toilet paper no longer fits snugly in the holder, but is now a “new and improved?” half-inch more narrow. (There’s another rant that will blog—and I know you’re thinking about going to check your own roll right now…trust me, it’s smaller.)

But for some reason, I can’t pick up on the fact that my tires are so low they pour more than ride along the road, or that I could practically hear the rubber folding as the wheels turned. However, I DID pick up on that look I received from Hubby when he noticed—incredulous annoyance, I believe it’s called.

Interestingly, the moment Hubby filled those tires I could tell the difference. They actually hummed against the pavement, and I felt as if I were riding higher than usual. Of course, I may have imagined that, but considering the flopping sound of the pre-aired tires, Subi must have been at least six inches taller.

Over the next few days, the humming tone improved. Remember that rich, satisfying growl you could create by flying down the hill on your bike with a baseball card flapping against the spokes? It was like that. The noise was most noticeable when I entered a wide curve. So of course, I drove into every curve as if it were Turn One at the Bristol Motor Speedway.

“Listen to that! Doesn’t it just sound like a race car?”

My son agreed, once I made him remove his headphones.

Hubby frowned. “It doesn’t sound natural, but I don’t think it’s the engine.” He tipped his head like a doctor. “Sounds like it’s coming from the back.”

“Well, I like it.” I gunned Subi through a sharp left (is there any other direction?) and said “Crank it up!”

NOTE: For the NASCAR-impaired, “Crank it up!” is an auspicious moment during every race when the announcer closes his mouth for a full minute. Simultaneously, every motorhead across the country turns the television volume to its highest setting, and settles back to listen to and appreciate the sweet, melodious rumbling of 42 LOUD, but perfectly tuned engines as the drivers soar past the camera. Then, once Joe Nemechek putters past, they turn the volume back down. I’ve often wondered if their collective din can be heard across the nation, but I’ve never pulled myself away from our own cranked up TV to check.

Anyway, I enjoyed my NASCAR growl for nearly three weeks. Then I noticed the screw in a rear tire.

Blast!

Screw in tire

Screwed.

It didn’t help that Hubby was there when I found it. I’m always amazed at how much dialogue he can put into a single raised eyebrow. Indirectly, I blame him; a floppy tire would have just poured over something like that.

So there I am, one replaced tire and $120 later (“It might not have been so damaged if you’d brought it in right away, Ma’am.”), driving my ordinary, quiet car home, and marveling that at my age I still can’t always tell the good from the bad. It makes no sense. When something’s wrong with the car, it should sound like I’m dragging 15 running chainsaws under the car, not like one of my favorite childhood memories.

But life is like that. Inside, we’re determined to stick to a budget, eat right, remain faithful, accomplish our goals, but we all too often give them up for temporary satisfaction because something just looks GOOD. More often than not, it’s just something bad wrapped up in beautiful, shiny, delightful packaging.  Then we ignore the voice that says, “I don’t know, it doesn’t sound natural” and listen to voices we shouldn’t even be entertaining (our own included).

  • “Go ahead, you deserve those shoes.”
  • “Pot-luck desserts have no calories.”
  • “But he treats you so much better than your husband does.”
  • “One week without exercise isn’t going to hurt you.”
  • “But I want it now.”

Bottom line is, I knew better. I know what my car sounds like when all is well, and I should keep her in good condition so that any time she sounds differently I’ll notice immediately and raise an eyebrow. I also know what my life looks like when all is well. I have the benefit of excellent counsel when I choose to seek it, and I have no excuse for not inquiring about the pretty packages and distractions that come into my life. If they’re good for me, He will let me know.

“See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ.” — Colossians 2:8

I yam where I swam

12 Aug

I’ve taken on too much. Again.

It’s a regular thing for me.

A wife, a mother, a friend, a writer, a housekeeper, a supervisor, a wreck.

plates for spinning

How many plates can you spin?

Does my story sound familiar to you? I race everywhere, arrive five minutes late, and spend my time there thinking about where I’m heading next. I have a bag that is brimming with receipts, notes, and forms I accumulated this week that I keep promising myself I’ll sort as soon as I get a free minute. And, as you’ve no doubt noticed, my weekly blog post is two days late. My life has become a circus plate-spinning act. How hectic does life have to get before I start saying no?

So naturally, when the opportunity to learn Hebrew in a free, fast-paced, fire-hose of a daily commitment arose, I jumped at it. Feet first; no floaties.

That’s why today I’m wallowing in a pool of self pity, trying to remember that what sounds like “he” is the Hebrew word for “she” and what sounds like “who” is really “he.”

Me is who.

Dog is Fish.

And a yam is something we swim in.

Whose idea was this? Yes, of course. It was mine.

As such, I come to that all-too familiar scene, again, wherein I must create a list of obligations and responsibilities. Then I scrutinize, categorize, and prioritize the list, asking about each item, “Is THIS the most important thing?”

It’s a rather long list, but when finally sorted and cut back to the priorities, it looks, oh, so familiar: God, then family, then writing. Well, sometimes it’s writing and then family, but don’t let that out, ok?

Out of the blue, I’m reminded of a story I wrote a few months ago about this very topic, intending to post it on my Portrait Page, but instead I lost it in the yam of business that is my life (NOTE: that’s not irony; it’s a pathetic coincidence).

So today the story goes on my page, as a promise to myself that I will start again, focus on what’s important, and, if need be, do the same thing next week.

Its actual title is My Main Event, but perhaps I should post it as “Portrait of a Woman Who does too much.”

I won’t ask you to go read it today. (NOTE: that wouldn’t be irony; it would be pathetic hypocrisy). But, when you get some free time, or when you want to learn the secret to prioritizing, it’ll be there, waiting for you.

Shalom.