Neighborly Ways

Every once in a while when our neighbor’s music reaches one decibel above brain shattering, I contemplate desperate solutions like:

a) Remodeling our apartment to accommodate a padded cell.
b) Remodeling our neighbor’s stereo to accommodate a shotgun slug.
c) Remodeling our neighbor’s face to accommodate a sledge hammer.

Recently after a neighborly three day music-fest I told my boy, “This is it. Either we buy a house or you visit me in prison.”

Silly me. I thought he would pick the house. (Don’t worry, Mom… that was a joke.)

It was about that time when I saw it: an adorable one-story historic home within our price range.

That should have been the first sign – it was within our price range.

“Historic”, it turns out, was Japanese for “Condemned”.

The floor was dry-rotted. The ceiling was caved. The ceiling tiles were moldy. The kitchen cabinets were ripped out. And to top it off – the house was built in an era when chamber pots were the solution to all bodily functions.

After the grand tour of the home, which I kid you not – took one hour for exactly 800 square feet (the homeowner didn’t want to miss any of the fantastic selling points) – the man offered to sell us this “great fixer-upper” for "just $90,000.00".

I am not lying when I say I actually had to think about this offer. It was either take the house or go home to Woodstock 2009.

In the end, I knew what I had to do. Wal-Mart sells everything except houses, so I bought the next best thing: surround sound. For the past three days I’ve blasted the neighbor with my own music – The Phantom of the Opera.

Wait a minute. There’s a knock on my door. It’s my neighbor… and he’s holding a sledge hammer.

Maybe I'd better reconsider this home-ownership thing.

****
B.J. Hamrick is a local writer who can be reached at writebrained@gmail.com, www.bjhamrick.com, or www.twitter.com/bjhamrick -- unless she’s hiding under the couch.

I'm A Sorry Woman

"I'm sorry." The words popped out of my mouth, but I wasn't prepared for the tongue lashing my client was about to give.

"Don't say 'I'm sorry'," she said. "Say 'I apologize.' Because you are not a sorry woman."

Sometimes it's hard not to laugh at things clients say. But it's especially important not to laugh at them when they're giving you money.

So in the spirit of the tongue lashing from my client, I apologize.

I apologize that this blog has been neglected this week. It has been for a good cause, though. There are lots of exciting things happening at Real Teen Faith, including a completely revamped website by our friend, Levi Lansing.

Stop by and see the new look if you get a chance.

Annie Blogs

Hey Guys! Annie Blogs. Did ya know that? She blogs about cool stuff. And because I'm cool, today she blogged about me.

(OK. Just had to get my conceited moment in for the day. Moment over.)

If you haven't checked out her blog yet, she's really cool. Because cool people blog about cool stuff. Like me.

Find her here.

Pseudo-Mom

My sister has common sense about a lot of things – but who she leaves her kids with is not one of them.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” she asked as I buckled her children into my car.

Could I handle it? Did my own sister seriously just ask if I could handle it?

“Hello,” I said, “My name is B.J. It’s been biologically possible for me to have a child for 15 years now.”

“But two of them…”

“Seriously. How hard can 24 hours be?”

I should have known better than to ask that question. Now I had to prove it. Somehow, some way – I had to show that I was just as capable as my sister. Sure, I’d never watched a two and a four-year-old before. But mentally you could say I was on the same level. I know what kids want:

Food.

The next 24 hours consisted of McDonald’s, Krispy Kreme, Chuck E. Cheese, Dairy Queen, and any restaurant that said children under age five ate free.

When their mother arrived home, the kids and I were sprawled on the couch like belly-up jellyfish.

“Did you miss me?” my sister asked.

Groan.

“Did you have fun with Auntie BJ?”

Groan.

“Did you want to get dinner?”

“Noooooo…”

I blamed it on a stomach bug. You understand. The whole I’m A Good Pseudo-Mom image to keep up. I’m pretty sure my sister fell for it.

Now if I could just figure out how to hide this column from her…

****
B.J. Hamrick is a local writer who can be reached at writebrained@gmail.com, www.bjhamrick.com, or www.twitter.com/bjhamrick -- unless she’s burning every newspaper
within a five-mile radius of her sister’s house.

The Lord of the Ringlets

I’ll admit – it isn’t easy being married to a curly-haired boy. In the words of one redheaded girl, “Everybody hates people with naturally curly hair”.

If I was the redheaded girl, I would have rephrased it. I would have said, “Everybody hates the girl who’s married to the boy with the naturally curly hair”.

I don’t know what it is, but curly hair causes insanity in women. The moment they see ringlets they lose their minds. I know this from experience.

I also know this from observation.

Every time I go out with my boy I have to flash my wedding band at women. I hope they’ll pick up on small social cues like the fact that my husband is making out with me.

Yesterday even those small social cues failed. It was my own fault. I let my guard down.

McDonald’s felt like a safe place. The woman was pushing a walker. I was pretty sure she was the type of lady I’d like to adopt as a great-grandmother.

Until she started hitting on my husband.

“You don’t like him any, do you?” she asked – as if she really wanted to know. (Who were the police going to believe in this cat fight? Something tells me they’d side with the woman with the walker.)

I had no choice but to let her continue. When she finally finished her string of come-ons, she patted me on the butt and walked away.

Yes, me. On the butt. Miss Personal-Space. Miss Don’t-Touch-Me-Unless-You’re-My-Husband. Or should I say Mrs. Married-To-The-Guy-You-Just-Hit-On?

Come to think of it, maybe I have something to be grateful for: She did not pat him on the butt.

Good thing for her, or I would have had use my superpowers to overcome the dark, dark evil.

Walker or no walker – you shouldn’t mess with the Lord of the Ringlets.

New Facebook Group

Be the first to get contest information, status updates, and teen2teen interaction by joining our new Real Teen Faith Facebook group.

Teens Host Video Contest

ASSIST News Service (ANS) - PO Box 609, Lake Forest, CA 92609-0609 USA

Visit our web site at: www.assistnews.net -- E-mail: assistnews@aol.com

By B.J. Hamrick
Special to ASSIST News Service

Teens from across the United States are banding together to host a video competition for their peers.

“How do you text it?” is the theme for the contest, created by REAL TEEN FAITH (www.realteenfaith.com) staff writer Sarah Rupp.

“Admit it,” Rupp said in a press release. “You’re obsessed with texting. You can text anywhere – especially places you’re not supposed to – like through your book bag in algebra class when you think the teacher isn’t looking.”

This made Rupp wonder – why not turn crazy texting into a competition with a $30 I-Tune gift card prize? Her peers could videotape themselves texting while doing absurd things – excluding driving or other dangerous activities.

“Basically, don’t do anything stupid while texting,” Rupp said. “This includes but is not limited to driving any kind of motorized vehicle or jumping off a cliff. We want to be able to say no humans were harmed in the making of this video.”

About Rupp

Rupp was selected by author T. Suzanne Eller to be a teen staff member of REAL TEEN FAITH (www.realteenfaith.com), a Christian magazine for teens. Rupp’s contributions to the publication include monthly articles, poetry, and concept development.

Her excitement for the “How do you text it?” concept is obvious. “Surprise us,” Rupp said. “Doing awesome things we never thought of is what will help us determine our winner.”

The video deadline will be Thanksgiving Day, November 26, 2009. The films will be judged by a teen panel, and a winner will be chosen based on originality of the movie. For more information and complete contest rules, visit www.realteenfaith.com.

****
** You may republish this story with proper attribution.

My Husband, My Hero

Yesterday after a brief weekend break-up, I decided it was time to make up with my diet plan for insulin resistance.

As I looked up menu plans for the week, there was a knock on the door.

Yes, my neighbor is in league with Satan.

He brought cake.

This was My Boy's solution:

My husband, my hero. He slays all my foes.

Why Teens?

Every once in a while people ask me, "Why TEENS? Are you INSANE?"

Probably.

Actually -- the truth is -- I feel incredibly blessed to hang out with my teen friends. And if they let me talk for long enough, I eventually tell them this story.

You know -- the one where they find out how I reached this level of insanity....

Snapshots

The carpet is littered with photos. My fingers are raw... but I cannot stop thumbing.

Is that really us? You smile through the gaps in your teeth. I smile back despite the clear accident I've had with the 1990's. Why didn't you tell me crimpers were from Satan?

I'm six and you're ten. It's obvious I've chased you down the hall again, screaming, "Flu bug! Flu bug!" I know this because my mouth is shaped upward and your hair is shaped outward... both clear signs that our socks and the linoleum have 0nce again met.

It's nothing new, this chasing. I've done it since the moment I could put one foot in front of the other. The urge comes over me every time you turn sarcastic. I fly at your head and scream, "Tina! Tina!"

I am the pro-wrestler. You are the hunted.

Until you've had enough.

I pretend to hate the spinning. I hold on tight as you whirl me around and around. I yell and writhe and sock you hard on the back. I want you to know how torturous this is for me.

The truth is, I have always wanted to be in your arms.

You are my brother, and I will follow you anywhere.

I follow you to the first day of school. The first Nintendo. The first soccer game. The first spelling-bee. The first date. The first car. The first graduation.

There you stand in your cap and gown. The chase should be over.

But you are my brother, and I will follow you anywhere.

I harass you with late night instant messages. Early morning prayers. Christmas-break movies.

I watch you through your first job. First grad school. And now... your first, and last, true love.

My heart knows from the look in your eyes...she is special.

For the first time ever, I step back.

I cease the chase.

I allow the tears to flow.

I allow the smile to form.

Because today my heart is happy. It sings as you stand beside her, hand in hand. Her eyes glisten as you promise to love her faithfully, deeply, and loyally.

And I know you will. Because you are my brother, and you will follow her anywhere.

In a moment it is gone. The vows are said, the hands are grasped, the kiss is placed. The camera clicks and I hope against hope the moment is captured.

Some day, twenty years from now, I will thumb through these photos until my fingers are raw. I will laugh. I will smile. I will cry. And I will thank God for the precious memories we have shared.

Because you are my brother -- she is my sister -- and I will follow both of you anywhere.

The Boy

We interrupt our usually scheduled sarcasm for this brief announcement: Three years ago this week, my life was forever altered by someone I didn’t know. Someone I thought didn’t exist. Someone I swore had died at birth.

Until I met him.

“Mom,” I announced .2 seconds after I laid eyes on the boy, “I’ve found the man I am going to marry.”

If this seems fast to you, imagine how my mother felt. In one brief second I went from spouting math equations like, “Singleness = happiness and marriage = bondage”, to asking, “Where’s the church and the white dress?”

I had no idea this story actually began nine years earlier.

He told me about it that day, on our first date. The air was chilly and crisp, the smell of fall hung thick in the sky.

“I met you once before,” he said as we walked. “Nine years ago.”

Then he said something that made me reel: “I had a crush on you.”

Wait a second. Nine years ago. Was he kidding? That would make me… 14 years old. Do you know what I looked like when I was 14?

Skinny. Scrawny. Sick. Relentless seizures. Mind-numbing medications. Barely able to put a sentence together.

He had a crush on that?

It sealed the deal in my mind.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

Not really. Not out loud, anyway. But my heart was in awe. This boy looked beyond my skinny. My scrawny. My sick.

And he loved me. Just the way I was.

It's been three years, and I love him more every day.

Sometimes I have to pinch myself. Is it true? Is this is the man I didn’t know? The man who didn’t exist? The man I once claimed had died at birth?

I guess you can see how happy I am to be a fan of the new math. It goes something like this: Singleness = sadness and marriedness = happiness.

But only when you've found the person who loves you from the inside out. Happy meeting-day anniversary, Babe. I love you.

Where Are We Going, Anyway?

Sometimes I wonder how it will feel to get in the car and drive with no destination in mind.

I wonder if my skin will tingle as the wind brushes against it. I wonder if my eyes will sting as I catch a glimpse of my blindingly white teeth in the rearview mirror.

Wait a second. Reality check.

Fuel is expensive. And my teeth are not blindingly white. Both good reasons to stay home. Or worse yet… plan my destination.
[Continue reading at Scribble Chicks...]

Admit it. You missed me.

OK. So I've been absent lately. The truth is, I've been working on some new chapters for the current book project. Just to make you worry about me, it's all about vampires:

Letting Go/The Vampire

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I’m a vampire. I’m not sure how it happened, but I think it was mostly about the money. My parents said, “You need to stop mooching and pay for your own cell phone”, and I said, “What better way to make some money than to suck blood?”

Not exactly what the parents had in mind.

After a few classes at the local community college, I signed a piece of paper that said I wouldn’t draw anyone’s blood unnecessarily. Also that I would donate both my lungs to the hospital if I caused any lawsuits. Then a doctor handed me a needle and told me to get to work. (Seriously – that’s about all that’s required. A few classes and a needle. It’s kind of frightening.)

About a week into the whole vampire thing I realized: no one loves the woman with the needle. No one wants to see her. No one cares that the doctor sent her for an important reason.

Despite the general disrespect, I was shocked when one of my patients chose to completely ignore me. You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. I know I’m not the world’s favorite person, but to act like I don’t exist?

I banged on the patient’s door. Hospital policy – I had to let her know I was there. A soft rap, a loud thump, then little screams of, “Hello Mrs. Campbell! I’m here to draw your blood!”

Eventually I gave up the verbal warning and flung open the door. I’d given Mrs. Campbell her

chance at privacy...

To continue, you may purchase the book at your convenience. When it becomes available, that is...

Comfort

In the stillness of the quiet
You whisper in my ear
And everything surrounding me
Begins to disappear...

[Continue reading my thoughts on Comfort at Real Teen Faith today...]

Over the Edge

So here I am in the library -- staring at the blank screen -- asking myself, Self, how do I start this piece about conflict?

Be careful what you ask yourself.

Suddenly I hear an angry voice from the other side of the room. An old man has listened to 2 teens talk loudly for the past 5 minutes. He is no longer hunched over his newspaper, bearing it.

He has had enough.

[Continue this post, based on a true story over at Scribble Chicks...]