Eeeee.

Two words: house hunting.

Don't kid yourself. It's not as fun as it sounds. Unlike other types of hunting you don't get to shoot at anything...

[ Keep reading or commenting here at S.C. blog... ]

The Daughter...

If you haven't noticed, I've been hanging out a lot with the guys over at Real Teen Faith lately. One particular post really blew me away this week -- stop by and see what teen writer Sarah Rupp had to say about being a daughter.

iMistake: What's in A Name?

Americans were visibly shaken last week when Steve Jobs made his (first ever) marketing error – naming Apple’s new product after a feminine hygiene item.

Jokes spread faster than bacteria in the seventh grade boys’ locker room– “Does the iPad come with wings?”

[Keep reading and commenting at Scribble Chicks...]

Manic Monday: Rodney Dangerfield

"I remember the time I was kidnapped and they sent a piece of my finger to my father. He said he wanted more proof."

- Rodney Dangerfield

The Recliner

I grew up watching Disney cartoons where beach chairs collapsed on Goofy. I thought this was funny… until last Saturday.

All I wanted was a recliner. Plain. Simple. Italian leather. $100. (I wasn’t asking for much.) The man online told me he had exactly what I needed. The photo he posted showed me he did. (Because we all know the Internet never lies.)

So with great excitement my boy and I ventured on the one hour drive to pick up my beautiful new chair.

Hello. Reality check. No one told us we were going to need a handgun.

I’m going to be honest here. I would have felt safer hiking the North Korean border.

To quote Dougray Scott, “Stay aloft, madam – there are gangs afoot!”

When we miraculously made it safely inside the house, I saw it – the recliner. My heart skipped a beat. Or two. Or maybe three. OK, I’m pretty sure I passed out for five minutes.

It was beautiful. Just like the photo. Except for the fact that the arm was falling off. The Italian leather was plastic. And the realization of why the man called it a “recliner” – the chair did not know how to do anything else.

My boy, full of tact, wandered around and politely said, “I’m not quite sure this is what we were looking for.”

I, also full of tact, took one look and said, “You’re a dirty liar Mr. Internet Man.”

At which point DLMIM said, “Make me an offer. I need $100.” As if we were going to offer more than the original asking price.

What ensued was one very awkward moment followed by a mad dash to the car and a narrow escape with our lives.

Which I guess, when it comes down to it, is better than Goofy’s fate with the chair…

****

BJ Hamrick is a local writer who can be reached at writebrained@gmail.com, www.bjhamrick.com, or www.facebook.com/bjhamrick -- unless she's looking for recliners online.

Q and A

…If you or anyone has any advice for me related to how to get started in Christian non-fiction writing (publisher suggestions, writing suggestions, anything...), please share! I feel like now is the time to step out in faith and get started, somehow…

Haelie

(I responded to this question at Scribble Chicks today...)

This week...

We've been busy at Real Teen Faith this week, talking about how to handle change, share your faith, and take bold moves. I love working with these guys. Stop by and join the conversation!

On Dieting and Writing

With the assistance of my doctor (aka The Nazi), I’ve been on a health kick recently. Natural foods. Whole grains. High protein. Basically – if it tastes like dirt I’m allowed to eat it.

I'm In Denial

Three million little strep bugs are jumping around happily in my throat right now. As usual, I am completely unaware of it because as my husband says, I regularly swim in the river of Denial.

It was 11:00 a.m. when he told me to go to the doctor. "Honey," I said, "I don't feel that bad. Just a little earache." Did I mention that it felt like Mount Saint Helens was trying to erupt in there?

Let me explain something. My husband is the son of two medical doctors. With his health intuition (or is it the fact that I woke up screaming and holding my ear that clued him in?) I figure he should receive an honorary doctorate in medicine.

"Babe," he said, "there is something wrong."

How did he know? OK, there was the whole lying on the couch and moaning thing. The whole liquid draining from my left ear thing. And the whole forehead support of global warming thing.

But go to the doctor? No. I'm not really into that.

I get it honest. The Denial thing.

My dad once put off open heart surgery for months, claiming he had a little acid reflux. My sister once put off getting her rotting tonsils removed for 25 years, claiming -- oh wait -- she still hasn't gotten them out, has she (nag nag nag)? And my mom once put off -- well --nothing, because she's the one who keeps the rest of us out of the river of Denial. (And my claiming that my mother puts nothing off will keep me out of the river of no-inheritance and no free babysitting.)

My husband? He's never been in the river of Denial. It was no shock, though, when he finally talked me into going to the doctor yesterday that I had strep throat. And it was no shock that when my dad went to the doctor today he had strep throat. And it was no shock that when my
sister went to the doctor today she had strep throat. And it will be no shock tomorrow when my mom goes to the doctor and she will have strep throat.

It was a shock, however, when my husband went to the doctor today and he had strep throat.

I couldn't help it. I had to know. "Baby," I asked him, "Didn't you feel sick? Didn't your throat or your ears hurt?"

"Maybe a little..." he said.

It's a family thing. This denial. And the only thing that can result is a Strepidemic.

****

This column first ran in January of 2008. Stay tuned for this week's *new* column, coming soon to a screen near you.

Zoo sells $20,884 in reindeer dropping ornaments

I don't care what you call it, I'm not putting it around my neck.

"My mom was a ventriloquist and was always throwing her voice. For ten years I thought the dog was telling me to kill my father."

- Wendy Leibman

The Dog Ate My Blog

Dear People,

I know it looks like the dog ate my blog. But no -- in reality, I just forgot to show you where the dog LEFT my blog. Or pieces of it. Also known as fragments of where I have been sharing my thoughts instead of here...

So... this week I shared a letter to my old friend, Fear, my thoughts about The Redemptive Power of Cold Turkey, and the people I'm not allowed to write about.

Now I'm off to reprimand the dog...

My Dear Online Journal,

In two days you will celebrate your 2nd birthday. I have to admit, you were ugly when you were first born. All those yellow jaundiced-looking backgrounds. But it wasn't your fault.

You were my illegitimate child. My little secret. My spawn I told only one of my friends about. But as scandalous secrets seldom keep to themselves, the word spread quickly about you.

Soon all of my friends came to take a gander at you. Kindly and sympathetically, they made comments about how lovely you were. They were, of course, lying through their teeth.

Then the dreadful day came when my family found out about you. I was (I am ashamed to admit) embarrassed about you. But they warmed up to you quickly. Now you're their favorite. Shoot -- hardly anyone wants to hang out with me in person anymore. It's all about you, Web
Journal.

I love you for that. You're so -- unassuming. Honest. Child-like. There were some late nights when you kept me up with your crying and begging to be fed with the only food you know -- words.

And there were times, like a naughty child, when you acted up and got
me in trouble. Times people doubted my sanity for feeding you things I
really shouldn't be feeding you -- words I should have kept to myself.
Words about depression, or spray-on tans, or tripping over my feet.
Embarassing things.

You tell all my secrets. Sometimes I have to slap my hand over your mouth.

All in all, you've grown a lot over the past 2 years. You're better-looking than you were... your jaundice is gone and that's a relief. You've grown from a dependent infant into a romping toddler,
who needs to be hugged often and spanked occasionally.

And so it is with great pride, Web Journal, that I wish you a happy 2nd birthday... and pray with all my heart that you will you will skip the stage of "terrible-twos".

Love,

Your Mother

****

This column first ran in September of 2006. Stay tuned for this week's *new* column, coming soon to a screen near you.

The Shopper

Warning: There’s a spoiler in this column. If you’re under the age of five, please stop reading right now. OK, now that we’ve cleared out all the folks from MENSA…

The sad fact is, most kids are disappointed to discover there is no Santa. It’s devastating. No Santa Claus? No big jolly fat guy? I’ve been lied to all these years?

I remember being disappointed, too… but it wasn’t by the fact that there was no weirdo singing Ho Ho Ho on my rooftop. It was because if there was no Santa, I was going to have to start buying presents for other people.

I feigned belief in the big red guy until last year, when I accidentally slipped and thanked my husband for a gift. At this point I realized… the 25 year reprieve on gift-buying was over.

This Christmas was my first year shopping. And you know what I discovered? I love it just about as much as I love regular shopping. Which means there’s only one other thing that takes precedence over my love for this chore: getting my tonsils taken out without anesthetic.

I love the crowds. I love the smells. I love the frantic screaming of employees when they finally lose their minds over one more sale gone bad.

But before you call me a Grinch and accuse me of stealing your Christmas, you should know I do love the actual holiday of Christmas. No sarcasm here. I love the end result of all the effort. I love the fact that when the family’s all together… snuggled up… by the fire… opening gifts… it’s all worth the effort.

It really, really is. But next year I’m asking for some anesthetic.

****
B.J. Hamrick is a local writer who can be reached at writebrained@gmail.com, www.bjhamrick.com, or www.facebook.com/bjhamrick -- unless she’s snuggled up for a long winter’s nap.

Spontaneous Combustion Limited to the Ear Canal Region of my Body

We’ve all heard the advice – never, ever, ever stick anything smaller than your elbow down your ear canal. The only problem is, last time I tried to clean out my ear with my elbow I ended up in physical therapy for six months. (Also other types of therapy, but I won’t mention those here.)

The obvious solution, then, for the problem my Ear, Nose, Throat doctor dubbed “more wax than the entire population of Russia needs for a lifetime supply of candles” – was a Q-Tip. After all, that is why they make Q-Tips… right?

Apparently not. Apparently Q-Tips really ARE for cleaning babies’ faces like the box describes… because we all know cleaning a baby’s face with a Q-Tip takes about as much time as scrubbing the deck of a yacht with a tooth brush.

Speaking of yachts, I went into the doctor’s office trying to decide – would it be a yacht of a lie to say that my eardrum exploded on its own? Was there any other explanation for the gaping hole and the leaking fluid I caused with a baby-face-cleaner? You know – spontaneous combustion has happened before. Maybe it was spontaneous combustion limited only to the ear drum region of my body.

In the end I had to tell the truth. Because it was Christmastime. And Santa Claus is coming to town. So even though it was painful, and embarrassing, and I wanted to crawl under the examination table to get away from it all, I did not.

I told the truth.

“It’s not a perforation,” the doctor said. “You just scraped your ear-canal.”

Which would explain the whole bleeding thing. Which means I wasted a yacht of a truth.

At least I know it wasn’t a TOTAL waste. At least I know Santa’s going to remember my truthfulness. At least I know I can request any present I want.

Do you think asking for a box of Q-Tips would be out of line? My husband threw mine out when he got the doctor's bill.

****
B.J. Hamrick is a local writer who can be reached at writebrained@gmail.com, or www.facebook.com/bjamrick -- unless she’s writing a letter to Santa.