Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Why isn't shopping considered a sport?

I don't think shopping gets the respect it deserves. Instead of being considered an errand or chore, I think it should be considered a sport. It sounds more appropriate to say you are going to an iron man cart-a-thon, than to say you are going grocery shopping. Or, for those who are exercise enthusiasts, maybe they would prefer to say they are going to acquisition calisthenics?


Just as football, basketball, soccer, and many other sports activities are very physically demanding, shopping requires the shopper to not only be a quick decision maker and agile, but strong as well. I know, you're probably rolling your eyes and scoffing in disdain at the mere thought of grouping something as simple as shopping in with world class athletes, but hear me out.

Have you ever tried to lift the last 35 pack of 16.9 oz bottles of water from the back of the grocery store rack, without bouncing your head off the store's steel racking, while trying to place the giant case pack on the bottom of a grocery store shopping cart?  This is weight lifting and wrestling combined.

The really hard part of this task is trying to set the case pack on the shopping cart, without either dropping it on your foot, or having the cart scoot away from you. It's as though the water has some kind of reverse magnetic field which pushes the cart a few inches away from you every time you get close enough to load it onto the shopping cart.

Ever encountered an elderly person when they are on an electric ride around shopping cart? As soon as an attendant unplugs the cart from the charging station, the elderly person takes off at full throttle. Watching them traverse store aisles loaded with patrons is much like watching the running of the bulls in Spain as the patrons flee in panic or try to climb to higher ground.

How about Black Friday shopping in the electronics department? You had better be able to block as well as a Super Bowl defensive lineman if you want to get your hands on an electronic item at a rock bottom price.


Have you ever been to a 50% off women's shoe sale at one of the nice department stores? If you haven't, you might should consider donning a helmet and shoulder pads. Shopping at one of these sales is like being in a Roller Derby match, complete with body slams and take downs for that pair of killer designer pumps.

The threat of ice or snow in the South sends people in droves to the grocery store to quickly stock up on milk, bread, and batteries. When the stores' supplies start to run low, customers channel their inner Rocky Balboa and will box 12 rounds for a loaf of Mrs. Baird's bread.

Once the shopping trip is complete and all of the shopping bags have been loaded into the car, the sport of shopping doesn't end. It's now time to drive home. Shoppers revving their car engines in the parking lot sound akin to NASCAR drivers preparing to speed off at the first wave of the starting flags. And, if you've ever been in a parking lot crosswalk when one of these speed racers is bent on breaking their best land-speed time, you probably agree they are ready for their race car driving debut.

Hopefully you can now see shopping isn't for the faint of heart. It requires the shopper to be physically and mentally prepared for any obstacle they may incur. It also requires them to have a game plan, so their victory can be celebrated when the shopping list is complete.

The difference between sports and shopping is in the awards ceremony. In sports, a metal trophy symbolizing the sport is awarded to the top finisher. In shopping, a glass of wine in a crystal goblet and a few bites of chocolate are the coveted award. Both the shopper and the athlete are able to celebrate their victory.

So, can we now agree that shopping is indeed a sport?

Monday, February 6, 2017

When my search for perfection hindered growth

This past weekend my husband griped at me for not writing on the blog lately, or anywhere else for that matter. I slinked down in the couch where I was sitting when he gave me the "you're being lazy and not using the gifts you've been given" speech. I haven't really looked at writing as a "gift" so much as a release of the build up of stuff that runs through my head. I definitely would not say I'm "gifted" with the written word in any way, shape, or form. I just like to talk...... a lot.


www.TheRedheadSez.com

I have always believed writing is something people with talent do. People like Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, Jane Austen, and Maya Angelou are writers. Not me. Writers are people who know grammar and have a gift for making words become movies in our heads. I wish I had that gift, and because I realized I didn't have that gift, I let that stop me from writing.

My perspective towards my writing has been that I just spew whatever is in my head onto the computer, cross my fingers, and hope it makes sense to people who read it. When looking at writing from this perspective, all I could do was fail, so why continue? 
It wasn't until I was talking to my Dad about some other hobbies I enjoy, and that I thoroughly stink at, that I realized lots of people do things for fun with no expectation of perfection. Can you believe people just do stuff for fun and however it turns out, is how it turns out? It was pretty heavy stuff realizing people are happy with their efforts because it was their outlet and they enjoyed their journey toward reaching completion, no matter the finished product.

It was then I realized: writing is my release. Some people play golf, work on cars, garden, participate in marathons, and lots of other things. For me, I write. Not eloquently, or even with proper grammar, but it is something I do which I can actually complete.

When the internet started exploding in 2000, writing emails to family and friends gave me a way to "talk" to them from another state, without incurring an exorbitant phone bill (that was back when telephone companies charged for long-distance phone calls by the minute). Writing emails gave me a way of relating my day-to-day experiences in a new state with all of the differences in culture.

On Sunday after I still had my fanny firmly planted on the sofa, my husband set his foot down and told me to get in my office to start writing or there would be no Super Bowl snacks for me. And he meant it. What?! No layered bean dip for me?! Well, that threat finally got me up off the sofa!

There I sat at my computer, wondering: Why bother? Is anyone really going to read this? 

It was then that it dawned on me: Why does it matter if anyone reads it or not? This is my release, my outlet. If I write for other people, I will never please anyone - least of all myself. I also realized if I don't write for me, I will continue to be firmly entrenched on the sofa, feeling overwhelmed and unfulfilled.

So, 2017 will be the year which will see me making a few changes within myself. I've spent the past 2 years taking care of major medical issues with my family, which I gladly did, however, it is time for me to take care of myself as well. You can't give to, or care for, others if you're using everything up within you, and not nourishing and replenishing your soul. Writing is my soul food and it is time to nourish me.

Happy 2017! The redhead is back! It may be a wild and bumpy ride with a few sharp curves, but it's time. As a matter of fact, it's beyond time. Let's do this! 

PS - I started the new me by changing up the color of the blog. I like blue. It's calming and peaceful. What do you think?

Christie Bielss

Monday, July 4, 2016

The Fish That Got Away

When I was growing up, my parents and grandparents spun many a yarn about their lives. One of my all-time favorites was from a time when my maternal grandparents went deep sea fishing. Living near the coast, they would go fishing as often as they could.

fisherman, fishing, fish
My maternal grandparents

One day back in the 1950's, they decided to make their fishing trip a little more interesting by turning it into a friendly competition. The competition rules were: whoever "boated" the biggest fish that day, won. To "boat" the fish meant neither could help the other reel in, or bring on board, their catch. They had to do it all by themselves.

My grandfather stood about 6'1" tall, while my grandmother was a petite 5'4" tall. My grandfather's size gave him a bit of confidence with his ability to cast further, and reel fish in faster, than my grandmother.

The prize for this competition? Bragging rights. 

Little did they know how far, or for how many years, the bragging rights from this friendly competition would continue.

The fishing competition commenced with each of them using a cane fishing pole to catch bait fish. A cane pole is a piece of bamboo which was fashioned into a fishing pole. Once they caught a small fish on the cane pole, they would transfer that fish to their "good" fishing poles, in hopes of catching bigger fish.

All was going well when my grandmother's cane pole began to dance around. Thrilled she had caught a bait fish, my grandmother quickly grabbed the cane pole and began to bring it in.

The harder she pulled on that cane pole, the harder the fish fought back. Within minutes, she realized she had something larger than just a bait fish and started hollering for my grandfather.

"Help! Help me!" she cried.

When my grandfather turned toward my grandmother, he was greeted with a view of just her elbows and fanny, and both wiggling around frantically. The rest of her body was bent over the side of boat fighting against whatever was on the other end of her fishing pole.

A second later, she stood upright, causing her cane pole to bend nearly in half. The weight and fight of the fish on the other end of the pole pulled my grandmother so she was bent over the side of the boat. 

Back and forth she went as she fought to gain the upper-hand. Just as she would stand upright, the fish would fight back and cause her to be bent in half again.

Again she cried out "Help! Help me!".

Being that this was a friendly fishing competition between the two, and my grandmother was holding her own in this battle of fish vs. human, my grandfather took a moment and asked "Is this fish going to count?". 

"Yes!", she exclaimed.

He chuckled as he replied "Well, then no ma'am I won't help. You have to boat that fish yourself, if you want it to count.".

Her reply was lost as she was, yet again, bent in half when the big fish fought against being a trophy. My grandmother may have been petite, but she came from a lineage of strong women and was every bit as feisty as the ancestors before her. She dug in her heels and pulled, and tugged, and pulled some more. 

Back and forth she went with this fish for a good bit of time. Finally gaining the advantage, she pulled the fish in close to the boat and yelled for my grandfather to grab the fishing net to lift her prize into the boat.

Eagerly, my grandfather moved close to my grandmother as she brought the fish to the surface, ready to see what size fish had caused such an epic battle. Just as he leaned down, the fish surfaced, only it wasn't just any old fish. 


shark, fishing
Photo Courtesy of Wikipedia Public Commons

It was a shark! 

Ok, so it wasn't the 20 foot great white shark pictured above, but when you're the one hanging over the side of a boat with their hands in the path of a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, it probably looked like Jaws. It was, however, a good four to five foot very displeased shark, to be more exact.

My grandfather shrieked and jumped back. After making sure all of his digits were still intact, he declared my grandmother the winner of their contest and made the wise decision she did not need to boat her catch. Grabbing a tool from his tackle box, he carefully cut the fishing line and set the shark free.

You may wonder what happened to the cane pole that stood strong throughout this competition. It was permanently bent in an arc from that legendary battle of wills and would be brought out of the storage closet whenever anyone asked to hear the story of how my grandmother caught a shark.

My grandparents had planned on keeping that fishing pole indefinitely, unfortunately, their home was burglarized a number of years later and the burglars made off with all of their fishing equipment, including the bent cane pole.

So, if you ever come across someone with a bent cane pole from ca. 1950's, it could very well be from an epic battle where my grandmother caught a fish "this big"......... but it got away.

Written by Christie Bielss

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

The Winningest Loser

As the clock strikes midnight at the start of a new year, I usually make a list of things I want to accomplish in the new year. Rarely does anything from that list come to fruition because I either: a) lose interest; b) am not committed enough; or c) I am too chicken.

This year I made a pact with myself that I was going to do at least one thing outside of my comfort zone. One thing which would not only make me cringe at the mere thought of doing it, but quite possibly make shake in my boots too.

Just after I made that pact, the gurus who select what you see on Facebook plopped an advertisement for a writing contest into my newsfeed. I clicked on the link and began reading the entry requirements....... and the butterflies started fluttering around in my tummy and the self-doubts crept in. 

The competition was for the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. The doubts of "who am I to be writing anything for a competition named after one of the greatest humor writers of all time" and "Ha! You don't even know the difference between an adjective and a participle!".

With some encouragement from family and friends, I stuck to my plan and wrote an essay for the contest....... and even submitted it. Knowing that I never win anything, my expectations to win were pretty much non-existent, but, by having submitted the essay, I had already won. I had conquered one battle over my fear.

The results were announced a couple of weeks ago and, as usual, I won no awards or accolades for my essay; however, I feel like I won an Academy Award for having the gumption to have actually submitted it.

As part of the rest of that pact I made with myself, I am posting the essay I wrote. So here it is in all of its "must be less than 450 words" winningest loser glory: 

The Lawn Mower Man

It begins with a few wispy clouds scattered across a beautiful blue sky.  Within minutes, the sky is covered in dark, ominous storm clouds.  The bright flash of lightning and sharp crack of thunder permeate the stillness of the afternoon.

The sound of an approaching storm causes normal people to seek shelter, but my husband is not like “normal people”.  When thunder starts rolling, he steps outside, sniffing the wind like any good bloodhound trying to catch the scent of its target.  At the first whiff of dust settling in the air, he transforms into a superhero. His work clothes go sailing through the air as he dons his superhero costume. With a wife-beater tank top, cut-off shorts, and a towel as his cape, he becomes “The Lawnmower Man”!

Faster than a speeding bullet, he runs and grabs the weedeater out of the garage.  As the storm gets closer and the thunder grows louder, he deftly edges around the yard and levels the grass next to the flowerbed.  With lightning flying around like fireworks on Independence Day, The Lawnmower Man realizes the time is perfect to unleash “The Turfinator”.

The roar of the lawn mower challenges the god of thunder for supremacy.  Zeus hurls lightning bolts while our superhero raises his fist in defiance.  Other men may duck and run for cover, but The Lawnmower Man just snorts and continues to mow as though he’s on a leisurely stroll through a botanic garden.  Lightning blinds the average man, but The Lawnmower Man is able guide his mower through the blazing brightness in perfectly straight lines within his predetermined directional mowing plan.

As rain begins to fall, he summons the next weapon in his arsenal, the fertilizer spreader.  Sprinting back and forth across the yard faster than an Olympic gold medalist, he rushes to get the grass fed in the rain.  In a torrential downpour, The Lawnmower Man will wrap the top opening of the spreader with kitchen plastic wrap, like a prized Thanksgiving dinner leftover, to prevent the fertilizer from dissolving before he is able to spread it across the lawn.

If he finishes spreading the fertilizer before the thunderstorm ends, he steps up on the porch as though it were an Olympic platform, to receive the gold medal before an imagined stadium packed with cheering fans.  If the thunderstorm dies off before he finishes, he hangs his head and repeats the defeated athlete’s pledge to be in better shape and better prepared for the next match-up. As the storm clouds clear, The Lawnmower Man realizes the neighbors are watching closely, wondering if they should record his heroism ………or dial 911.

Monday, February 29, 2016

The Escalator Escapade

One day while shopping at the mall, I observed a very attractive and well dressed woman step onto the grooved platform of the store escalator. She carried herself with a regalness rarely seen outside of Buckingham Palace. As I made my store purchase, I watched as the escalator carried her up to the next floor.



She stood on the conveyor step and surveyed the harried shoppers much as a queen looks down upon the peasants in her kingdom.  As she neared the crest of the escalator mountain, she prepared to disembark. In the process of shifting her position on the steps, one of her expensive high heeled pumps became lodged in the grooves of the people moving contraption. This well coiffed and fashionably dressed woman tried, to no avail, to daintily wiggle her foot in order to dislodge the stuck shoe. 

She was lifted ever closer to the peak when the sound of the stair steps collapsing into the metallic jaws of death caused the fashionista to panic.  Abandoning all sense of propriety, she grabbed her shoe with both hands in an effort to pry it loose from the vise-like grip the escalator had on it.

My jaw fell open as I watched the drama unfold. The words in my mind must have spilled out of my mouth, causing the sales associate I was working with to turn and view the spectacle. Before the sales associate could react, a young male sales associate jumped into action. He quickly pressed a button, stopping the escalator's movement while rushing to assist her.

When the escalator finally stopped, the heel of the costly shoe was wedged into the metal teeth of the landing platform. The young man wiggled the shoe back and forth as he tried to free the stiletto heel. Putting a little more muscle into his efforts, the shoe finally popped free........... minus the stiletto heel. Horrified, he reached down and plucked the heel from between the step's grooves. 

As the young man handed the mangled shoe and heel to the beautiful woman, she looked sadly upon the damage which had been wrought and began to laugh. She thanked the associate profusely for his chivalry. After plopping the detached heel into her handbag, she put the mauled shoe upon her foot and attempted to walk away.

The three inch height disparity between the two shoes made walking with any semblance of dignity utterly impossible. With unmatched confidence and majesty, she kicked off both shoes, flung them over her shoulder like a pair of flip flops, and walked through the store barefoot, as though she were a queen walking on a private beach.

As the sales associate and I watched the woman disappear into the racks of clothing, the sales associate leaned over and said "I would much rather walk up ten flights of stairs than trust my good shoes to a contraption that is similar to what the recycling plant uses to crush beer cans.". And with that comment, I realized all of the grace and majesty had left the building and just us commoners remained.


Saturday, January 2, 2016

Renewed Hope for the New Year

Every year on New Year's Eve people expect to experience magic at the stroke of midnight. New Year's Eve has friends throwing parties, families enjoying and celebrating each other's company, and old movie buffs watching "An Affair to Remember" with a box of tissues close at hand.


The new year is a blank slate and we get to craft and design how we hope it will develop. We make lists of goals, wants, and desires. We start organizing our lives, families, homes, rooms, and living spaces in hopes of giving ourselves the best opportunity to be productive and successful. 

Sometimes our plans for the year go just as we envisioned, and sometimes everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. It really is a crapshoot as to which direction the year will take.

Right out of the gate, 2015 detoured from the path we had carefully crafted and lined out for our family. As the year progressed and 2015 was showing itself to be a year filled with change and stress, I started wishing for 2015 to hurry up and just be over and done with. I was ready to experience the magic of a new year, preferably a year that went according to the plans we had laid out.

As the holidays came upon us, friends would ask how things were going. Instead of wanting to go through the litany of issues we were dealing with, I began responding with "is it 2016 yet?". The thought of being able to kiss 2015's challenges away at the stroke of midnight was, quite simply, glorious.

While navigating our way through the food coma known in America as Thanksgiving Day, there was a little whisper in my heart to look back over the whole year before it came to a close. The pessimist in me started going through a litany of the extremely difficult days we had experienced. It was quite the laundry list of challenges.

After Thanksgiving, we began decorating our home for Christmas. With the unpacking of Christmas lights and ornaments, our children's excitement for the holidays began to build, causing us to put a little extra love and effort into decorating.

As we all got into the Christmas spirit and looked for more ways to "Christmas-up" our home, that little voice inside me, the same little rascal who told me at Thanksgiving to look back on the year, was now telling me to look harder and to dig deeper. It pushed for me to open the eyes of my heart and look at all of the good we experienced in the midst of the hell we had walked through. 

While my husband and kids were outside creating a light display to rival Clark Griswold's spectacle in Christmas Vacation, I sat down and closed my eyes. In those quiet moments I saw how my family was never alone. Not even once. In every single moment of difficulty and trial, there was a physical presence with us, holding our hands, calming our fears, and whispering in our hearts that He was (and continues to be) with us.

From that point on, as each day edged us ever closer to the new year, my opinion of 2015 changed. Yes, 2015 was a very difficult and trying year, but it was also a year where we experienced unprecedented strength, faith, and hope.

As we move into 2016, I know we will have continued challenges and obstacles to overcome, but this year I am carrying with me a strength and determination which could have only come from the fire we walked through in 2015. 


Just as the Psalmist says, He refined us and made us stronger. 2015 wasn't the prettiest of years but it will be one of our most memorable and, at some point in the future, there will be things we will look back on and find humor.

Here's to hoping and praying that life is able to stay on the path this crazy redhead has laid out for 2016. Thanks for hanging in there with me. Happy New Year to each and every one of you! Now enough of the deep stuff, let's get back to finding the humor in all of life's craziness.

Christie Bielss

Monday, August 17, 2015

What Parent Type Are You?

When I was growing up, there were only 2 parenting styles: strict and lenient.  It did not matter whether you were that parent's own child or someone else's. If you got into trouble or did something wrong, you received an immediate correction by whoever's parent was closest to the center of activity.


Growing up, my brothers and I learned the hard way never to misbehave in the car. We were sure that during childbirth, God gave our mother a second set of eyes which were located in the back of her head. When she napped, we would pick at her hair trying to find those eyes.

We knew they had to be hidden behind somewhere in that giant 1970's beehive of a hairdo, but we never could find them. No person, without a set of eyes in the back of their head, could see the way she could.  She always knew which child was instigating trouble. She could drive the car perfectly while backhanding any misbehaving kids in the backseat faster than Superman could change clothes in a phone booth.

Between our mother and the other mothers in the neighborhood, all the kids in the neighborhood were watched to see what we were doing. This scrutiny meant we learned right from wrong at a very early age.

Things have changed dramatically since I grew up.  One of the biggest changes has been the creation of so many different parenting labels. There are so many different labels used to describe how a mother chooses to rear her child(ren), it could confuse Dr. Spock.

Tiger, Helicopter, Free-Range, Elephant, Little-Emperor, and Lighthouse Moms are just to name a few. The labels all seem to have a defining characteristic: you are either an animal or a machine.

Personally, I don't want to be known as an Elephant Mom. The older I get, the more I battle ankle wrinkles. I've also heard as you age, your ears and nose never stop growing. Put these issues together and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus may send me an invitation to join the circus.

While I may be a redhead with a fiery temper, calling me a Tiger Mom might get you a close-up view of my retractable claws.

Since I grew up believing I was a princess, raising my child like a Little-Emperor would totally be a conflict of interest. I'm really not prepared to share my tiara.

When I hear people discussing the Free-Range label, I don't imagine kids playing outside on their own and growing through self-exploration. I see a bunch of hens pecking for feed around a chicken coup. It takes me back to the 1970's Saturday morning television shows featuring the Looney Tunes cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, who is always playing pranks on the Barnyard Dawg, and is usually on the losing end of his own prank.

If parenting labels had more flair, I might be more inclined to associate my style with them.  There could be the Audrey Hepburn Mom - one who not only teaches their children to have a classic personal style and speak 5 different languages, but to be gracious and give of themselves to help others. I could definitely get into wearing chic sunglasses and big hats, but am thinking the mismatched hodgepodge clothing style of my son may exclude us from this label.

There is also the June Cleaver Mom. She not only keeps her house perfectly clean with two sons tracking heavens knows what into it, she would shoo her boys out of the house daily for exercise and sunshine.  Dinner was served promptly in the dining room where no electronic devices interrupted the dinner conversation, and she always wore pearls.

The children's homework would always be complete ahead of the due date and their rooms would be clean.  They may even get their children to shower daily without begging and pleading. Considering my children's penchant for waiting until the last minute to do 3 weeks worth of homework projects the night before they are due, and that the only way my kids' rooms will be clean is if the empty snack pouches are carried away by the Godzilla size dust bunnies, I'm thinking our admission application for this parenting label will be denied.

In reality, I probably fall into the Slacker Mom label. I don't create a schedule for my children's projects because I require them to do it. I am not very creative or inventive and never made sandwiches into animals or pancakes shaped like Disney characters. I slapped food on a paper plate, said "Mmmm.... Yum! Eat up!", and they ate....... usually.

My children aren't overscheduled. I sign them up for one sport at a time and I'm doing good to remember what days/times to get them to their activity. If I'm really on the ball, my kids will have finished eating dinner before we are in the car on the way to their sporting event.

I would love to be the mom who is ultra-organized and has everyone's schedule entered into the calendar on her phone, which is synced to her computer, laptop, and tablet. I admire the woman who sorts her children's daily school paperwork and immediately addresses each item, versus letting it pile up until it becomes a fire hazard.

When it comes down to it though, does it really matter what kind of parenting style you have, so long as you are actually involved and parenting your children? Do we really need one more label in this world?

Christie Bielss