My Real Life Was Backordered

Be Careful What You Tell the Universe

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 08:23:00 +0000

I'm sitting at the KSL newsdesk in this photo.

It portends nothing.

Well, my life just keeps being weird. This week it included phrases like 'screen test' and 'would you read for this part' and 'we were looking for a dowdy 50-year old and naturally thought of you.'

I gotta tell you, talk like that turns a girl's head.

What the project is and who is involved is not the point. Also, I'm pretty sure I'll be kneecapped if I spill any more beans than that, at least for the time being. And I have no idea if I turned out to be what they were looking for, so we'll all just have to wait and see.

Here's the real point: I discovered this week that I am what might best be described as an 'empathetic steamroller.'

I was asked to read a few lines in front of a camera, lines that were spoken by a middle-aged woman who had pretty much been defeated by life. This gal feels invisible, unseen and unheard by everyone except maybe Edward Cullen, who is -- evidently -- taken.

So I read. And I 'acted.' Oy. Acting. What's that all about?

I realized that I was trying to portray the kind of woman I usually roll right over the top of. I don't mean to do it; it's just that by the time I notice she's there my gigantic personality has already squashed her flat. And no amount of apologizing and attempts to fluff up her self-esteem is going to get me off the hook. From now on, she'll duck into the ladies' room whenever she sees me coming.

So after many numerous takes, the director said, "DeNae, I just don't believe you. I don't believe anything you're saying."

To which I wanted to respond, "Dude! I don't know this woman. I've never been this woman. And I have all the theatrical skills of an ironing board. At this point I could tell you my social security number and I wouldn't expect you to believe me."

So then he said, "You know, just talk. Forget the script. Just be this woman for a couple of minutes, and say whatever comes to mind."

Well, I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to get inside the heart and feelings of a person I normally cast in the role of 'Road Kill Number 742.' But the director was a friend, and I had announced to the universe by way of vlogging that I was going to do new things, and the camera was right there...

...so I cleared my throat and said, "I know..."

And then I began to cry.

Real crying, not 'Vicks VapoRub under the eyes' crying.

And the more I spoke the thoughts of this character, the more I cried. I didn't like knowing how she felt. I didn't enjoy understanding that it was steamrollers like me who often contributed to those tears. Sometimes there isn't an "Oops, my bad" big enough to put the pieces together again.

I honestly don't know how to fix this, because none of it is deliberate so it's hard to deliberately change. But I do know one thing for sure:

I am never vlogging again.

Don' be Callin' me Christian

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 16:26:00 +0000

I found this on the Salt Lake Tribune website,

so that's who I'm giving the photo credit to.

Dear Robert Kirby,

First, I forgive you for ignoring my e-mail invitation to go to lunch. I went by myself, and that pork salad just wasn't the same without you. But I understand your reticence. I am, after all, a beautiful, exotic stranger, full of mystery and intrigue, and it would be reasonable to assume that were we to meet, I would probably smear lipstick on your collar, pass you a manila envelope with a cryptic message and a wad of money -- Monopoly money; I'm trying to sell a house in Las Vegas -- then saunter sexily away just as the table we were sitting at began to smoke and the restaurant erupted in a hail of gunfire and you and your secret mission barely escaped with your lives.

Believe me, that has cost me more lunch dates than I can even count.

But ever since I moved back to Utah and discovered that the laws had changed regarding Church membership and newspaper preferences -- namely, that Mormons could now openly subscribe to the Salt Lake Tribune and still qualify for a temple recommend under the 'don't ask, don't tell, don't bear your testimony of the occasional truthfulness of the Salt Lake Tribune' exemption -- I have really wanted to meet you.

Because dude, you're my kinda Mormon.

It's not that you shoot potato guns inside city limits and then have to go on the lam, escaping to New Mexico and living off road kill 'til the heat's off back home. It's not that you use incendiary devices to entertain your 5-year old granddaughters, or show them how to use a razor blade to peek at unopened Christmas presents. I mean, heck, that describes every single member of my family back to the Mayflower.

No, I became a true believer when I read this column, which was written in response to this editorial, which I presume was written in response to a perceived mandate from Robert Jeffress -- who in turn answers to aliens -- that some God-fearing, true Christian finally draw the line at Mormons' hubris.

I love it when someone tells me that my desire to define my own beliefs and relationship with God is evidence of 'hubris.' Hubris, of course, means 'arrogance before the gods,' and it's the reason it took Odysseus twenty years to get home from the Trojan wars only to find his wife dating every carbon-based life form in Ithaca. Oh, and that part about his entire crew being turned into pigs was kinda sucky, too.

But Odysseus had mouthed off to Poseidon, aggravated Calypso, frosted Athena, and seriously annoyed half a dozen other part-time deities. So yeah, he had to take the long way home.

It happened to George Clooney, too. Poor guy went months without Dapper Dan hair grease.

Anyway, I hope that someday you'll take me up on that offer for lunch. I don't saunter all that sexily, if that makes a difference.

And in the meantime, I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Kirby, for what you said back there in that linked column, before I went all Greeky on you.

When I grow a little more up, and I finally let my mustache go rogue, I want to be you.

Sincerely,
DeNae

Epiphany

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 23:35:00 +0000

UGH! What is it with these dreadful thumbnail renderings? Do you think there's a disgruntled YouTube employee out there whose job it is to choose the still shot from videos that gets posted for the whole universe to see and judge you on? Cuz I'd like to meet that guy and give him a good smack. Or maybe just lobby for a raise. After all, this is the Year of the Relationship.

Here it is! I told you I was going to Vlog! I did this on my iPhone, and it only took 752,000 takes. Essentially, it's all about living bigger, better, happier lives, with at least one less dog in the world if I have anything to say about it.

This was really fun, though! You HAVE to try it some time. And let me know when you do, cuz I'll totally link to it and subscribe to your YouTube channel and everything! (Mine's Way2DeNae, you know, if you want to go over there and like it or thumbs up it or whatever you do on YouTube.)

Let me know what you think!

(Kindly, of course. Like Ralphie's old man's lamp, I must be Italian, on accounta I'm a little bit fra-GEE-lay when it comes to doing something new.)

Coming Soon -- Things and Stuff!

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 20:22:00 +0000

Hello! It's me again! I mean, me-me, and not "Salute to Fudge" me. Wasn't that fun, though? Did you all get as fat as I did? Ahhhh, nothing like the holidays.

My husband is on his 2,037th day of Christmas vacation, on accounta if you work in the same place long enough you get this 'use or lose' thing going on, until you get to the point where you have to hire Superman to fly really fast around the earth and reverse time just to comply with the 'vacation days' rules.

So as soon as he returns to work, I'll be back. And I have so many things to talk to you about. Forget New Year's Resolutions, we're going to have a major Come to Jesus Meetin' on the whole idea of living the biggest, most wonderful life we can live. I don't want to get you too excited, but I may even VLOG!

Watch this space, peeps! And Happy, Happy 2012!

Take Us to Warp 8, Mr. Claus

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 08:28:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 25:

Christmas Day!

Weeks of work, worry, and fudge consumption have finally paid off!

The hours spent listing, shopping, wrapping, taping, re-wrapping because you forgot to wrap the batteries, carefully positioning gifts under the tree, decorating, cooking, scraping wax off your plates -- in short, all the time and energy involved in making this Christmas one to remember can now be savored and enjoyed all day lon---whoops!

It's over.

Well, this year you managed to stretch the celebration to nearly 12 minutes. That's a good four minutes longer than last year. The kids are growing up, I guess.

Pour yourself a nice breakfast Diet Coke, find a good novel and a wrapper-free corner of the house, and pin a "Closed Until December 26" sign to your bathrobe.

Tomorrow, you'll pull out the leaf blower to deal with the detritus, dredge up all 1,500 sales receipts needed to return pretty much everything you've spent the last six weeks searching for, and head out into the post-binge melee.

However, this day is yours. You've survived, everyone's happy, and there's a long winter's nap in your future.

But first, how about a bit of fudge?

Home for the Hollandaise

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 08:24:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 24:

After more than 20 years, you get to celebrate Christmas surrounded by family. Hooray!

Of course, this means TWO Christmas Eve dinners. You'll have one meal at your inlaws' house where you're not allowed to bring any food but are asked the day before to prepare a little musical number, like O Holy Night in 4-part harmony for women's voices.

And then on to your own family party to eat a second meal which includes your mother's rolls -- the bread of choice in the Celestial Kingdom, followed by an attempt to sing some more. After eating enough food at both dinners to put Orson Welles into a carbohydrate induced coma, your husband will have to rent a U-Haul to get you home.

All I can say is, save room for fudge. If nothing else, the Big Elf may want a nibble while he's filling the stockings with Maalox.

Tiny Tim's Stocking Stuffers

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 23:

Today you'll do the annual 'dry run,' where you lock the bedroom door and pull out all the ~~crap~~ wonder and joy you've been acquiring for the last five weeks .

I advise you to take with you all the fudge remaining in the house, as well as the Vesuvius cookies, the stained-glass candy and gingerbread Nutcracker replica, and the 62,000 plates of Rice Krispies treats that have been delivered to your home by your super duper neighborly neighbors.

A case of Diet Coke wouldn't hurt, either. And a pound of Valium.

This is because upon opening all the bags and boxes, and sorting everything into the appropriate 'piles,' you will discover that you bought so many gifts for three of your kids you'll have to build an addition to the house to store them all, and your fourth child has in his pile one package of boxer briefs and a copy of "Ariel's Soggy Sing-Along" on VHS, received as the result of a serious miscommunication with eBay.

Yeah, you're going to have to go back to HellMart. I'm so, so sorry.

Before you go, however, polish off that fudge. And add marshmallows to your shopping list, cuz it ain't over yet.

Does Ronco Make a Taser?

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 22:

You woke up this morning, took one look at your list and all the things still unchecked -- not once, not twice, and don't even think about the naughty/nice conundrum -- and realized that despite a heroic effort on your part, you are going to have to shop at a store ending in 'Mart' today.

Take the fudge with you, in ziplock bag stuffed in your purse.

It's that or a snake bite kit.

I Warned You

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 21:

Shopping.
Messy kitchen.
Wax on the dishes.
Surprised children.
Fudge.

The Vesuvian Bakery

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 20:

The slothful home teacher arrived tonight, bearing cookies. This is the guy who has lived three doors down for a decade, yet insists on calling your son 'Candace.' Still, his visit is exciting, since -- like Santa -- he only shows up once a year.

Unfortunately, he sprung the whole 'goodies for my home teaching families' thing on his wife at the last minute, and to teach him a lesson in time management she presented him with cookies so burnt they look like they were chipped out of an oven in Pompeii.

Store the cookies with the barbecue equipment, in case next summer you run out of briquettes, and bust out the fudge.

Offer a little to your home teacher, just to be charitable. After all, the poor guy's sleeping on the porch tonight as it is.

Carol of the Dumbbells

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 19:

Six days before Christmas, the bishopric member in charge of December meetings notices that the 25th falls on a Sunday this year. "Oh, gosh," he thinks. "I have a vague memory of us doing something kinda special on that day."

Naturally, he calls you, the ward music chairman and de facto choir director, with the suggestion that 'we' put together a 60 minute program, complete with solos, instrumental numbers, and, 'oh, seven or eight choir pieces.' And by 'we' he means, "Sister Handy, I'm reformatting my mental hard drive such that after this meeting it will be as though you and I had never met."

The truly obnoxious thing about all of this is that next week, you will have pulled a fantastic program out of your ... lifetime of experience, which means the only thing this guy will learn from the whole deal is that you can do anything, provided you not sleep for a week and postpone your Christmas shopping until January.

If ever there was a call for fudge, it's now.

Click here to watch my favorite Christmas music video of all time. I've conducted at least 30 choirs that sounded just like this, including the bass on the back row who only came because he heard there were refreshments.

Much Better than Fudge

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

Quite possibly my favorite painting by Rembrandt.

It is of the prophet Isaiah.

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 18:

Tonight you will perform Handel's Messiah for the first time in more than 20 years. Last time you sang this work, it was on the stage at Abravanel Hall, accompanied by the Utah Symphony, and singing with more than 2,000 participants in the biggest sing-in of the year. The music, coming at you from those thousands of voices, was like a wall of pure sound -- exhilarating, almost overwhelming, powerful.

In those days, you were young. Your voice was in prime condition, and you sang like a pro.

Then life happened. You moved away. Raised a family in three different climates and with little opportunity to keep up your skills. After a while, you stopped teaching voice lessons altogether; you couldn't ask your students to do what you no longer could. You traded performing for conducting, picking up a baton and turning your back - literally - to the audience, allowing, encouraging others to take the stage and take the bows that once were yours. Those were good years, but they exacted a price.

Now, 23 years later, you are in rural Utah, singing on a high school stage with a community choir and orchestra. Dozens, not thousands. Willing, dedicated amateurs, but no professionals.

And your virtuoso years are long behind you.

So when you were asked to perform "He Was Despised," you knew you could never sing like that girl at Symphony Hall. You no longer have her voice.

But you do have something she lacked: Twenty years of a different kind of training. Twenty years of studying and teaching from the scriptures, week after week, from one city to another. Twenty years spent developing a deep love and intimate understanding of sacred text, particularly the poignant words of Isaiah which describe the incomprehensible sacrifice freely offered by the Son of God.

Twenty years of being reminded - daily - how deeply we are loved by the Savior, how every good gift comes from Him, and how without Him we would be wholly and eternally lost.

And since you can no longer sing from a place of training and youth, you choose instead to sing from a place of faith.

You're not sure how things will sound to the audience tonight. But you know that your voice -- the voice reserved for silent prayers of gratitude for all that you've received in exchange for the little that was asked of you -- that voice will be heard by the only One who matters.

Who hath believed our report, and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed? For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of dry ground; he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him there is no beauty that we should desire him. He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him...

... and with his stripes, we are healed.

Ham, Funeral Potatoes, Green Jell-O...and Fudge

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 17:

Tonight was the ward Christmas party. Santa came. Parents? Comatose. Kids? Feral.

Waiting for you at home?

Fudge.

The Letter

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 16:

Today, that letter arrived.

Not just any letter. This is that one letter from that one family who is either convinced the rest of the world is blind, deaf, and terminally stupid, or who has rose-colored glasses so thick you could sink ships with them.

The letter says things like, "Our oldest, Chastity Peace Perfectbottom, has found a way to combine her training in French cuisine with her extraordinary gift with the written word."

Of course, you see Chastity Peace every time you take the scouts to IHOP. She's the one responsible for the white board informing customers that "Todays Speshul is Banna Walnut ~~Crape's~~ ~~Krayp's~~ Pancake's Ask About Are Hot Chocklit."

Poor Chastity Peace. She'll never live up to that terrible letter. Drop by IHOP with a tin full of fudge and the required paperwork to become an emancipated minor, or at least to have her name changed to Ashley Blanding.

Deja Vu

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 17:04:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 15:

Another day of insane shopping.
Another day of returning home to find FEMA assessing the damage to your kitchen.
Another day of Fudgy Salvation.

Assault With Intent to Fiddle

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 14:

You attended the Middle School Orchestra Christmas Concert tonight. In this case, it made the most sense to simply jam the fudge directly into your ear canal.

Even if the fudge contained big walnut chunks, it was still more pleasant than actually listening to the performance. Middle School Orchestra Concerts are reportedly being used as interrogation tools in the fight against terrorism.

("Tell us where the nukes are, or we'll play 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' again! Don't think we won't!")

Define "Nuts"

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 13:

Today was your gift exchange with your Visiting Teaching companion.

However, after she presented you with a miniature replica of the Nutcracker Ballet - dancers, giant tree, the works - all made from scratch in gingerbread and that impossible stained glass candy, and bearing a beautiful, hand-crafted card that said, "To my dear companion, for whom I gladly burned off all my fingertips to create this Christmas Masterpiece of Wonder and Joy", YOU handed HER a gift certificate for five free Junior Frostys from Wendy's.

Fudge works magic on guilt.

Keep the Receipt

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 12:

Today was one of those shopping days when you left the house announcing that if those dishes weren't done when you got back, you swear, you'd give all the kids' presents to homeless people, you meant it, that kitchen better SHINE, you'd better be able to EAT off those dishes.

However, upon returning home six exhausted hours later you discovered that the girls had used every dish in the house as a candle holder on because what the house really needed was a little Christmas 'ambiance,' and of course they had to borrow dishes from the neighbors to eat their mac n' cheese off of because all YOUR dishes were -- inexplicably -- covered in wax.

And when you shrieked (mouth full of fudge) that you wanted the kitchen CLEAN, you're pretty sure you made that CLEAR, they said with perfectly straight faces and just a touch of wounded bewilderment, "We didn't know you wanted it done today..."

Better have truckloads of fudge on hand, because this will happen more than once during the season.

Fa La La La Laaa, La La. La. La.

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 11:

Christmas is on Sunday this year, and you like it that way. Christmas EVE on Sunday is something of a pain. But you enjoy spending this special day with good music, reflective thoughts, and folks dressed like live versions of their Christmas trees. The complete trifecta of holiday celebrations!

Next week, it's the Messiah. Big choir. Big orchestra. Big solo for you.

But this week, it's just your three beautiful daughters, who spent an hour over Thanksgiving singing two of your favorite songs for you when they probably would have preferred watching Season 7 of Bones on their Macs.

You have good daughters. And a good daughter-in-law. And all three sing just like angels, even when they are basically sight reading and indulging you, the strong-willed mother who holds their Thanksgiving happiness in the palm of her hand.

You can add a little fudge if you want, but this is plenty sweet.

Enjoy!

Karyn (David's wife), Vanessa (standing), and Corinne (who has her own YouTube channel where she sings and sings and sings - check out www.youtube.com/user/xomisscori).

What Child is This?

And Lullaby. With me at the piano.

Cheers to You, Fudge!

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 07:19:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 10:

Tonight is the office Christmas party at a swanky downtown hotel. This is an annual favorite for a number of reasons: First, it costs a mere $150, which of course everyone can afford at this time of year. And second, it gives you the opportunity to watch people drink themselves stupider than compost, while you are required to sip Diet Coke all night because 1) you're enough of a menace to society stone sober, and 2) you're pretty sure you'll go to hell if you join the chowderheads at the punch bowl.

Of course, you can't call them 'chowderheads' to their faces, mostly because their faces are currently concealed by a tree skirt someone oh, so cleverly snatched from the hotel Christmas display.

Wrap a several slices of fudge in wax paper and smush it into your little black clutch. And keep your iPhone stuffed in *ahem* "Victoria's Pushup Pocket," camera at the ready.

If anyone asks what you're up to, just tell them you're the Designated Blackmailer.

¿Quién es Más Estúpido?

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 07:35:00 +0000

Imagine that there is a picture of someone in traction here.

Believe me, you don't want to see the actual pictures that come up
when you Google "pictures of people in traction."

Don't do it.

I mean it.

You'll be sorry.

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 9:

Early in the season, your husband was perfectly content with strapping reindeer antlers on the dog and calling the house 'trimmed.' However, since your move to the land of All Things Perfect, he feels stirrings of "¿Quién es más macho?" every time he pulls into the cul de sac and sees the neighbors' houses so comprehensively illuminated you could get a tan just by lying in the road for an hour.

Today, you came home to find him on the roof, writing out the entire text of Luke Chapter Two in LED lights. He asks you to keep an eye out for the UPS truck, on accounta he's having live Elves overnighted from Mythical-Creatures-Reverse R-Us so he can show that stuck-up Marty Cranston how real men do a Santa's Workshop Yard Display.

Make sure you have enough fudge for the news crew, the paramedics, and the president of the Homeowners Association.

Marty Cranston thinks he's so great, he can make his own damn fudge.

The Glue Factory

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 8:

Oh.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no...

Your 7th grader came home today with "awesome" news: After just three months of playing trumpet in the middle school band, he has been given the Horse Whinny solo at the end of "Sleigh Ride."

And now, for the first time since school started, he's actually practicing. At home. Where you can hear it.

The SPCA has come by three times, demanding to know who's steamrolling an elephant in your basement.

I wish I could tell you it's going to get better, but I've known professionals who got to the 'whinny' part and choked so badly their bandmates beat them senseless with their own horns. That 'whipcrack' you hear at the end of most Sleigh Ride performances is, likely as not, someone smacking the trumpet soloist upside the head.

However, you'll be amazed at how much better the trumpet sounds when heard through a fudge buzz.

You may also want to switch your kid to tambourine, before it's too late.

We Hardly Knew Ye

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 7:

You get one pound of fudge if you resist driving your SUV over your neighbor's inflatable SpongeBob Santa.

Two pounds if you don't.

Just Eat It

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

OK, we all agree that I need to be more charitable and less self-absorbed. So, in the spirit of leaf-turning-over, we return to my celebrated Salute to Fudge!

What? They're called 'baby steps,' Judge McJudger Heads.

DeNae's Salute to Fudge, Day 6:

You volunteered to decorate a table for the Ladies Auxiliary Christmas Brunch -- not as part of the first wave, known as the "Brilliant Army of the Creative" -- but as part of the second wave, commonly referred to as "The Grossly Untalented Willing."

While everyone else broke out their 42 piece, gold-and-diamond encrusted holiday dinnerware and centerpieces made entirely of frankincense and myrrh, your table is a tribute to Melmac and paper napkins.

Just sit at a table across the room -- preferably at a place with lead crystal goblets -- and bolt when the White Elephant exchange begins. There's a fresh batch of fudge waiting at home on a paper plate, tasting just like ambrosia even without the Fiestaware of the Gods.

No Fudge Today

noreply@blogger.com (DeNae) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 07:13:00 +0000

Day 5:

You spent the weekend whining about how you had essentially grown accustomed to people throwing rose petals at your feet wherever you went, and about how that doesn't happen now because you've moved and people don't know about the rose petal thing.

And at age 47 you somehow still manage to make mountains out of molehills, and call your little tweaks of ego 'pain,' and others' neglect of your pride 'hurtful.'

And then your daughter posts a video of an 8th grade boy on her Facebook. And you remember how much heartache your own son went through during this time in his life. How cruel kids could be. How many times your big little boy lay on your shoulder and sobbed because he had no friends and couldn't figure out why. How he had become the target of neanderthals -- even in places he should have felt safe in and among people he should have felt safe with -- who surely had parents who quite possibly weren't doing the best job of teaching their kids empathy or kindness or even how to connect with their own humanity. His problems weren't those of the boy in the video. But loneliness creates its own culture of commonality, no matter what path brought people there.

And you realize what a selfish, silly, uncharitable woman you've become -- when you know for yourself how much pain is really out there and how your own nonsensical ideas about the way people should treat you are absolutely shameful.

And in your heart you beg your Heavenly Father for forgiveness -- for all of it. For the arrogance and preening self-absorption that blinds you to the loneliness and heartache of the scores of His children that surround you at any given time.

And you thank Him for bringing your child to this place where he finally has friends, where having someone to eat lunch with is cause for family celebration, where he smiles and shares stories and says, "It was awesome" when you ask him about his day.

And you decide that today may not be a fudge day. Today is a day for leaving your comfortable, imaginary world of popularity and 'importance,' and making yourself fully available to any who need whatever you have to share with them.

Tomorrow, we'll feast again.

But today? Today, we feed.