Published Articles
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November 2010 Things haven’t always been this way at our house. I can remember when I was the one bringing home the bacon – and the eggs, and the other miscellaneous groceries. But that was before Dad became the proud new recipient of a Sam’s Club card and began turning the bulk of our shopping into, well, shopping-in-bulk. To be sure, Paul’s discussion of a healthy balance at mealtime isn’t necessarily in reference to the four food groups these days. More than likely it’s his way of reminding me it’s time to have the family tires rotated again – at Sam’s, of course. Overnight, he’s given the phrase “picking up a few things on the way home” a whole new meaning: as in picking up a few rolls of duct tape, or a few canisters of vegetable lard, with possibly a few chainsaws thrown in for good measure.
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May 2010 Something is strangely amiss when a grown woman old enough to have grandchildren resorts to hiding out in the Cliff Notes section of her local bookstore simply in order to remain a member in good standing of her ladies’ literary club. I should know. It all started last year when several of my friends got the bright and bushy idea to form such a club. Don't get me wrong. I like a good book with lots of words and pictures as well as the next guy, but there's something about hearing the word "assignment" and "book" in the same sentence that conjures up too many loathsome 8th grade English memories. It was the worst of times. Besides, with so many classics now turned into TNT movies, wouldn’t it be simpler and more practical to start a movie club? To read or not to read, that was the question. Yet I slowly warmed to the idea. Hearing words thrown around such as, “enrichment,” “fulfilling,” and “cheese and wine,” I decided I could at least do my part. And so, throwing caution to the wind I boldly entered a brave new world.
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January 2010 This year, no matter what it takes – and this time I really mean it – I’m determined to start smoking! And not only that, but hopefully lay off exercising altogether and gain a few pounds in the process. Okay, not really. It’s just that I’ve grown weary of professing the same old resolutions year after year. Seems almost hypnotic the way I insist on chanting my tired mantra: exercise more (way more), eat less (lots less), save money (save way more money). And why? Just so I can start the whole process over again in 12 months! It’s all become so predictable and generic that I can’t help but long for something fresh, something new, something…revolutionary! Could it be that a little reverse psychology is in order here? Since I tend to become an over-achiever in the opposite thing I set out to do, maybe I should be aiming for the less lofty goals with hidden hopes of scaling the esteemed “Mount Everest” ones by default. With that in mind (not that I’m a smoker, but in keeping with this logic all the more reason to strive for it, right?), here’s the rest of my 2010 New Year’s ReVolutions: *Look for the complete article in Rita's new book "Only Simple Steps" soon to be released.
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October 2008 My father lay in a hospital bed diagnosed with lung cancer, a thousand miles away on the other side of the Mississippi, when the Lord first nudged me to sit down and write him a letter. “I want you to remind him of My great love for him,” I sensed God say. “But first begin with all the happy memories you have of him while you were growing up.” Are you serious? I questioned aloud, slapping both hands to my side, my mouth fully agape toward the ceiling. Wait a minute, Lord! Are you sure you have the right girl? While my childhood was graciously laced with happy memories, none were with my dad. Not a single one, or so I thought.
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December 2007 For some reason my husband questions whether I really understand the official terms and rules of football. I can’t imagine why, after all we’ve been married now for over 27 seasons, and, in fact, very recently celebrated our Silver Super Bowl. So why he should get suspicious this late in the game is beyond me. The whole thing started last Sunday, when all I did was to ask one measly little question during the intermission. “So why doesn’t the big, hairy guy just send in his best goalie, kick a homerun, and strike all those other boys out?” He muted the commercial, turned and starred. “Goalie? Homerun? Are you serious?” he snickered. “Yeah, you know,” I snapped. “That way we could steal a few yard lines, possibly rebound, and eventually run it in for a touchdown.” That’s when he burst out laughing, which was par for the course. “Honestly! You really don’t know the first thing about this do you?” “Sure I do,” I said defensively, like a good tackle. “Go ahead, ask me something. Ask me anything.” By this time our three sons had gathered ‘round, grinning like Cheshire cats, all waiting for a pile on. “Okay, then what’s a…” He paused, trying to make it difficult. “What’s a blitz?” *Look for the complete article in Rita's new book "Only Simple Steps," soon to be released.
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October 2007 Over the years I’ve accumulated little quirks and nuances belonging to my husband that tend to confirm in my mind something I’ve deeply suspected all along, and it is this: Men are not women. Though happily married for over 25 years, I’ve had plenty of time to see a pattern here, and regrettably it suggests we are very…well, different. One thing serving as a constant reminder of this is that every time he needs to give his name to anyone, for any reason, he always insists on spelling it. Not sometimes, not half the time – always. “The name is Paul,” he says. “Paul Morrow. That’s spelled P-a-u-l.” Honestly, I’ve heard this repeated more times now than I can count and each time I always have to bite my knuckles, turn my face to the wall, roll my eyes like I’m having a seizure, and silently scream, “Of course you spell it P-a-u-l! How else could you spell it? Imagine: That’s Paul, spelled T-Z-W-A-K-R, Paul.” Then, of course, there are the annual birthdays we must contend with – I mean, celebrate. Each year, the day before my birthday, without fail, he looks me tenderly in the eye and says, “Geez. Another birthday? So what d’ya want?” And each year, without fail, I smile and reply, “I’d love some nice perfume.” I’m the type that simply won’t splurge on myself very often. In a home with three growing boys, I’m aware there’re too many other things our household is constantly in need of – little things like, oh, food and clothes, for instance. And so each December I petition the higher powers that be for perfume. Which is why he, of course, always buys me...cake. *Look for the complete article in Rita's new book "Only Simple Steps," soon to be released.
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September 2007 Somehow I thought the third child would just get it all by osmosis. You know - the little things - like their habits, their education, their coveted spot in the family photo album. I thought it would all just happen, effortlessly. After all I’ve been down this road not once but twice already, right? Surely there’s a little leverage meant to come into play. Yes, it’s the condition I’ve come to refer to as the Third Child Syndrome, or TCS. For most parents raising three or more kids it needs no explanation. But for others, what is this syndrome? TCS is (in my own words, since I’m the one making this up) the fastest growing frightful epidemic in our country wherein the third child, and every child born thereafter, witnesses Mom and Dad completely drop the ball on everything they did so splendidly for their first two children. Take, for instance, potty training. By the time the third child comes along, TCS parents tend to think, Wait a minute, haven’t we done this already? Surely, two well-trained potty kids is enough to make any family proud. Daniel’s our third and I’m the first to admit he had a difficult time with his first attempt at potty training me. Content to wait until I’ve pushed my ladened grocery cart to the very back of the Wal-Mart Super Center, at least 54 miles away from the store’s nearest restroom, Precious suddenly decides to scream to the top of his lungs, “POTTY, NOW!” It was at that precise moment that my first encounter with TC Syndrome kicked in... *Look for the complete article in Rita's new book "Only Simple Steps," soon to be released.
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July 2007 I should have known I was in for an experience when the coffee shop guy at the drive-up window said, “Good morning. Will this order be for here or to go?” Umm . . . I’m sitting at a drive-up at 7:46 a.m. on a Monday. There’s a whole string of cars behind me stretched out as far as the eye can see, each with an impatient driver anxious to get their morning fix, and he wants to know if this is for here or to go. Umm. That’s a tough one. So for just a second the spunky side of me actually considered shifting the car into park, turning off the engine, reclining slightly and saying, “That’ll be for here,” just in order to witness the fall-out. But no, I let it pass, resisted the urge, and responded like a good girl. “To go, please. I’d like a cup of your coffee of the day with a little half and half.” “Yes, Ma’am. That’s one venti size, half-caf coming right up,” he said as he went to close the window. “Whoa! Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “What’s a half-a-calf?” Turning back towards me and grinning at my greenness he said, “Not half-of-a-calf. A half-caf. That’s half regular and half decaf.” I wasn’t so easily convinced. “But I don’t want a half-a-calf,” I said bewildered. “I pretty much want the whole-calf with some added half and half. And as for the size, I only want the short cup. Isn’t the venti your tall?” He hesitated, cocked his head to the side and answered, “Well, yes, and no.” Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought. *Look for the complete article in Rita's new book "Only Simple Steps," soon to be released.
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Fall Issue 2007 I grew up in a small country church in Mississippi, so one of the things I've come to love since making TFC my home church is the never-ending opportunities to meet new people and develop new friendships. No matter what season of life I find myself in, it's always a delight to look up and find a fresh face to greet. However, that wonderful opportunity also has a downside, one we've all experienced at one time or another. Extend a hand to acknowledge that new acquaintance, then tun to introduce this person to others when suddenly you realize you've forgotten an important detail: your new friend's name. Your mouth is open but there's no retrieval. Your brain mocks you, saying, "Does not compute. No such name exists in database for said friend." All that to say, when I finally do know a person's name, I'm determined to make the most of it... *Look for the complete article in Rita's new book "Only Simple Steps," soon to be released. |
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