Office, schmoffice.

So, every day I check out my blog stats to track how many visitors, where are they from, etc. I'm pretty sure if I didn't have proof that people actually READ this blog (before my blog stats, the only way for me to know people read it, is if they leave a comment. I get virtually no comments. Just sayin'....) anyway, if I didn't have proof that people read this thing, I probably wouldn't keep updating it.

But, I have quite a following -- or so I've found out. I have people over in England (Hi Ashley!) and in Wichita, KS (Hi Jennifer!), someone in Fort Worth, Texas, Mountain View, California, Georgia, Indiana and Kentucky. I have readers from my old company, Mead, and some photographer friends I've just met. My best friend's mom in Florida reads it nearly every day and Aunt Leah will read it as long as I promise not to make her cry. My clients follow my blog and so do my friends and family.

In fact, if it were up to my friends and family, they'd make me write a book. I'm not so sure what I have to say is that important but it could definitely fall under the "entertaining" section. For sure. I mean what else would you call shooting out car windows with BB guns or getting peas stuck up your nose?

So imagine my surprise when I checked my log this morning and found this:

Executive Office Of The President. AYKM? And it wasn't just an "oops, how did I get here?" stumble, it's a repeat visitor! I KNOW what I have to say isn't THAT important or that amusing for that matter. Not in the slightest.

But I will admit that, for a small millisecond, it did make me feel pretty good. Short-lived, but it was there.

And while I'm at it, a big "Thank You" to everyone that stopped in check out what I had to say over the course of 2010. It's ok to leave a comment, too, while you're here....say hi, tell me I spelled something wrong, or what you had for lunch! I don't care. I just love hearing from you.

Oops

I still get giddy when it comes to Christmas. Giddy, like a four-year-old, laying in front of the Christmas tree, staring at the gifts as if I would be able to tell what was inside of them with my supertoddler x-ray vision.

I love the excitement of wondering what is inside of each box, delicately wrapped and lovingly tagged "To: Mom". When Taylor was able to start reading, I would tag some of the gifts from funny people. "From: Dora". "From: Scooby Doo". "From: Drake and Josh"......Spongebob......Your Crazy Mom. It's even carried over to Chris and the boys now. "From: Old Lady", ChickenHead (that's what Bryce used to call me all the time), Beyonce, The Cook, The Maid...and on and on and on. It's so funny to watch their faces when they see who it's from. And they must've caught on...I have one under the tree this year from "BooBoo".

And since we've been together, Chris and I have been pretty lax with each other's gifts. There are quite a few gifts that we know about from the other. But, there are a few that we like to keep secret until Christmas morning. You know how it goes -- you're out shopping together and see something that you like, and they respond with the "Ok, get it. But you'll have to wait until Christmas to have it." deal. That's how it was with my luggage set this year, and Chris' digital tape measure.

And kinda what happened with my coffee mug.

I say "kinda" because it was more like an accident than an intentional thing.

He was working away up in his office. I was working away down in mine. He yelled down to me "Did you order anything for $36??"

"No", I said. "Nothing."

"You didn't order anything for $36 from Photojojo?? Are you sure? Come up here and look," he hollered.

When it hit me.

I had sent him a link a few weeks prior for a coffee mug that I had put on my Christmas list. It had to be that.

By the time I had gotten to the top of the stairs and rounded the corner to his office, I had a huge smile plastered across my face. I looked at him, grinned, and he looked back at me all clueless-like.

"The coffee mug I had on my Christmas list was from Photojojo," I said. His clueless look was quickly replaced with a "aw-man-you-weren't-supposed-to-know" look.

"Oops," he said, followed by a smirking "Merry Christmas, babe".

A few days later, a box came in the mail with my "oops" Christmas gift. Since I already knew what it was, Chris let me open it. But, then I had to wrap it and "can't have it until Christmas".

The lady at the supermarket

I was in a hurry.

I had just enough time to get in and out of the store with the necessities written on the post-it pad in my mind.

a book for Harley's exchange at school
bread crumbs
cheese
chicken

I grabbed a cart and barreled towards the book aisle in the back of the store. My quick pace had me dodging in and out of aisles, nearly running over a wandering three-year-old by the jewelry counter.

I hurriedly picked out a book and went on my way. As I tore around the corner, standing there in front of the cough syrup, I saw her.

Her scarf caught my eye. It was a square of red and blue paisley with fringe around the edges. She had folded it in half to form a triangle, wrapped it around her head, and delicately tied it underneath her chin. Her long, dirty, white hair hung from under it as if it were mocking the fringe.

Over her layers of sweaters and sweatshirts, she wore a brown coat. From the obvious cracks and peeling on the outside, you could tell it was made of something other than genuine leather. Her sweatshirt hood peeked out from the collar and her soiled, cream colored, cable-knit sweater hung from the bottom. She had black sweat pants on -- at least two sizes too small an a hole in one knee -- no socks and grey sneakers. Her shoes were so worn that the soles were an inch thicker on the outside of her shoe than inside by the arch.

She was pushing her own two-wheeled cart. You could see paper bags arranged neatly under the clear plastic wrapped around it and her two bungee cords kept everything from shifting around.

Her face was round and her skin was aged. Her face attired wrinkles and a kind, content smile. She glanced at me, with her tender eyes, as if I broke her concentration, flashed a smile, and quickly went back to her task at hand.

There was a stack of coupons in her gloved hand. If I had to guess there were probably 50 of them in her stack. One by one, she'd take them off the top, find the medicine pictured on it, and place the coupon behind the price tag on the shelf. She was close to me at the end of the aisle and when she moved to the opposite end, to find the Advil Liquigels, I could see the mass amounts of coupons tucked down the shelves. There had to have been at least 3o, maybe 40, coupons sticking up like tiny white flags.

I watched her for a few more seconds, as she wrapped up the medicine aisle, carefully placing the coupon where the next lucky shopper could spot it. And as she walked away, I noticed her feet peeking out of the soles of her shoes.

And in those 20 seconds it took her to walk out of my sight, I felt it wave over me like a broken dam.

Here is this sweet, little, old lady putting coupons on products that she couldn't afford and had no intentions of buying. Just so someone else could reap the benefits. People she didn't know. People who would never know it was her that put them there. She probably didn't have a family to go home to. Or kids that cared that she wasn't wearing socks in her hole-soled shoes in the middle of winter. Instead of worrying about what she was going to fix for dinner, she was probably worried about where she was going to FIND dinner.

I continued on through the store with a heavy heart. I felt bad for her.

She looked absolutely content with what she was doing, and the simple pleasure of exchanging hellos with the passersby in the store. So why did I feel so bad for her? Was it because she hadn't had a warm shower? Or company while she was shopping? Was it because she was helping someone else -- people she didn't even know -- save a $1 on Nyquil?

I get so wrapped up in thinking that I have it so bad. Wishing personal relationships with people were different than what the are, having to deal with bad behavior from a 9 year old, burning the chicken casserole or backing into my husband's parked truck in the driveway. When, really, it isn't that bad at all. I could easily have it so much worse.

I don't know the sorrow of burying my husband of 53 years, or to be bedside next to my dying child with cancer. I don't know the emptiness of having a loved one fighting in a war.

I'm sure it's only human to lose sight of what you do have only to focus on what you don't have or how bad it might be from time-to-time. I'm sure I'm not alone in this either. You get so busy with day-to-day life...work, school, kids, schedules, bills, laundry and on and on....that before long you find yourself in a place that has no roses to stop and smell. Even if you are a positive person, you find yourself blanketed in negativity. Everything has become so convenient for us with our iPhone apps, take-out dinners, and DVR that we take so much for granted. In a way, we just expect it to be there and be perfect. And then when it's not, we act as though the world has fallen out from under our feet.

Our feet with hole-less shoes and clean socks.

So thank you, lady in the supermarket, for reminding me to count my blessings today and actually being grateful for them.

O Christmas Tree

I can remember decorating the Christmas tree when I was a kid. My sister and I would spend hours and hours putting multi-colored bulbs on the lower half and then fight over who had more of the silver, stringy, icicle stuff. Then, when we thought it looked too bare, we'd make paper ornaments and hang them on the tree with twist ties we recycled from loaves of bread.

It was always put in the same spot. Year after year it'd go in the front family room (or as my parents called it, the "good" living room -- good for what? is the queen coming over???). Anyway....our house was kind of an open floor plan on one side. The "good" living room opened up to the dining room and that opened up to the regular family room. (Would've been AWESOME for a bowling alley!) Mom liked the tree in the front room so you could see it from the outside....and so you could admire it from the inside at night.

My parents always insisted on a real tree....although my dad would probably beg to differ on that since he was the one that always got stuck on the clean-up crew. But the smell was so worth it. Even now, if I pass a real tree and close my eyes, I can see myself with those silver icicles in my hand. Of course, I can also still feel the prick in the arch of my foot come February when you're scuffing your feet on the carpet to shock your sister.

Now that I think about it, I don't even know where the real tree came from. I don't remember going out to the country tree farm all Griswald-like, trekking miles in the freezing snow, chopping it down and then lugging it back to the car. And I don't remember going to some Mom-and-Pop stop where they were in aisles, lined up like some evergreen tent. Yet, year after year, there it stood, proudly boasting in our "good" living room.

Not much has changed, really, from when I was younger. I still love putting up the tree. I'm finally able to put all of the bulbs evenly on the tree -- not just at the bottom. I just don't have anyone to fight over the icicles with.

It has to look perfect. Like, staight-out-of-Martha-Stewart-Living-magazine-perfect. I traded in the multi-colored lights for only red and white ones. Red and silver bulbs (placed perfectly thankyouverymuch), silver and red ribbon, candy canes, garland and a big white star at the tip top. Perfect.

Since none of the kids were here to help me decorate this year, I dediced to do something a wee bit different. Last year I took one still picture of the final outcome of the tree -- at night, all lit up. But this year, I decided to do a graduation from start to finish.

Any of my friends -- and especially my husband and children -- will tell you what a big, fat dork I am. It's ok. Really. I know this and I wear it proudly.

You'll see.