The Trinity of all Christian Women’s Retreats–Rain, Bedbugs, and Rap Music

I attended an overnight women’s retreat this past weekend. Forty-some women of all ages and seasons of life converged upon a small camp in southern Minnesota for an annual church activity. We spent time talking, laughing, and learning about one another, seeking our Hope in the Lord, and our refreshment in gummy bears and licorice.

There were many chances to make new friends, catch up with old ones, or sit in the corner and be a wallflower (whatever that is). Some of us even did a bit of heart cardio, just so we could later stuff our faces with junk food and feel justified.

I went walking with a friend and we were both soaked to the skin in a sudden downpour. But despite frozen goosebumps and a sodden appearance, we had a good time talking and listening to the wildlife around us. Well…there was an old farm dog that barked when we neared his territory—and I think we may have seen the proverbial eagle fly by with a fish in its mouth.

The camp director, named Spike (I don’t know how he got that name. He didn’t even have spiky hair), made mention of this legendary creature and soon after everyone was spotting it, like people seeing the shape of Virgin Mary in their morning pancakes or on the side of a graffiti-covered train car. I believe it may represent “flying on Eagle’s wings and being a fisher of men” or something. But that's just a guess.

At the camp, we were given cabin arrangements by virtue of our sleep habits. If you preferred to be asleep before the dawn’s early lights, you got the Owl cabin. Lights must be out by midnight and all talking must cease and desist. If you break these rules, others in the cabin are allowed to duct tape your mouth, tie you to the center pole and flog you with pillows. If you thought staying up later than Leno or Dave’s limo driver was a good idea, you got the Bear cabin. You could party all night long with your bag of chocolate kisses and not even brush your teeth if you wanted to. If you thought staying at a Christian Camp was a safe and healthy entertainment, and you were a trusting individual with an abhorrence of all things crawly, and you really wanted to buy a new duffel bag, sleeping bag, and clothes…you got the Bedbug cabin. (No, not really. There wasn’t a cabin called Bedbug. It was called, Wolf. The bedbugs were an added bonus)

At the end of the day, we all got to drive home in our vehicles, itching and scratching. The local Laundromats made a bit of extra money that night though. So, out of the midst of our suffering we did help boost the economy. I’m not saying we’re saints—but we are Baptists being sanctified, one bad camp experience at a time.

In spite of the tiny crawly things, a good time was had by all. Even the bugs:)

I'm Bleeding From The Ears!

The evolution of music seems to be going backwards. I know every generation supposedly has its own sound and form of expression. Although with the advent of American Idol and UTube, there’s a lot of strange expression going on. I’m not saying that many of these kids don’t have talent, but so do a million others.

In the past, the great ones stood out from the crowd. They had to actually have singing ability, not just an abundance of risqué tattoos or brightly dyed hair. The one-hit-wonders soon disappeared off the face of the earth. Today, so many young people seem to get record deals with little or no talent. It must be who you know. “Your mother was on season three of The Amazing Race? Then by all means, you must know how to sing.”

In the late fifties, Elvis Presley began his reign as King of Rock and Roll. In the sixties, the Beatles took us down Penny Lane for a ride on the Yellow submarine. I was just a baby then, so I don’t recall much of that trip. In the seventies and eighties, Michael Jackson’s pants kept getting shorter and shorter and he lost one of his pretty sequined gloves, but he could thrill us like no other with his moonbeam walking and crotch grabbing flare. Then his nose fell off and he started wearing that strange Johnny Depp hairdo from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and things definitely spiraled from there. The only music I remember from the nineties is country. Shania Twain and others like her turned the old twang on its ear and started a country revolution.

Now it’s a new century and instead of greater musicians being discovered, we have children barely out of diapers, cute little tots with big eyes and terrible acting abilities (perfect specimens for the Disney channel), given lucrative opportunities they have certainly not earned, and subsequently turned into bratty, little, overnight millionaires.

What really bugs me is when you have to hear a kid—who has yet to hit puberty—sing about a broken heart and relationship. That’s just creepy. Twelve-year-olds are too young to have “relationships.” They’re too young to have experienced much of anything besides collecting Happy Meal toys and getting into amusement parks for a reduced price because of their short stature. I don’t want to hear them sing about things they’re too young to understand.

Justin Bieber is a prime example of this absurdity. I heard he was sixteen, but I don’t believe it. He doesn’t look a day over ten. Who listens to his music?? Second graders? He’s too young to have zits yet, and his voice isn’t even close to changing. He has cute little bangs that hang over his eyes—sort of a miniature Davy Jones from the Monkees. His picture is plastered all over magazines in grocery stores like a little pet up for adoption. Maybe they’re hoping some harried housewife is shopping for a fifth child.

Then there is Miley Cyrus, a girl without acting or singing ability, but with a daddy who obviously knows how to grease palms. She started out on a silly Disney channel program and became every ten-year-old girl’s fantasy – Hannah Montana. Now she seems to be moving toward becoming every teenage boy’s fantasy by slowly morphing into another ex-disney-girl clone. If you don’t have talent, just fake it, dress trashy, and party till the cows drop dead.

They say middle-aged folks have all the money, but they promote these underage entertainers as though grade school children and twenty-something deadbeats control the purse strings. And I guess in some respects, they do. They don’t earn it, but they definitely get what they want.

Sometimes I feel like we’re living in the Disney Magic Kingdom where no one ever ages. The names change, but the faces all look about the same. Just keep spinning around and around and around in that giant teacup, singing, It’s a small, small world. The g-forces will wipe away all your cares and wrinkles in no time.

Are we there yet? (X marks the Rest Stop)

It’s that time of year again. Vacation planning. The pull of warm weather, kids getting out of school, or just the need to travel after being confined during the winter, makes us dream of places we’ve never been.

For my husband and I, April the 15th is the spur that makes us think of getting away. Tax season is officially over today and now it’s time to chart a vacation. I say officially because it’s never really over, not for tax accountants, and it takes my husband about a week of doing absolutely nothing before he stops thinking about all the extensions he has to do when he gets back. A week is usually the entire length of our vacation, so unwinding is basically a futile endeavor.

Since flying is often so expensive and now you can’t even bring a carryon without getting charged exorbitant fees, we tend to drive wherever we go. Driving is all well and good for hubby. He likes to drive long distances and see how far he can go before my bladder bursts. He actually thinks it’s relaxing to listen to talk radio and eat beef jerky while barreling along at eighty miles per hour. (I totally meant to say seventy miles per hour. We all know eighty is illegal, and my husband, wound tighter than Al Gore’s corset, should never drive that fast when he’s still pressurized.)

I’m thinking about getting my husband a GPS unit for the car though—cause I really hate reading maps. Every time we go on a trip he sticks a stack of maps in the car under the seat. Then about twenty miles down the road, he asks me to pull out a particular map and tell him how far it is to Albuquerque, or what the highway marker number is on the east side of Chicago, or which is the most scenic route to Boston, or what the name of a lake is that we’re passing. I have no idea why he needs to know these things and I hate reading maps! It’s supposed to be a vacation, for heaven’s sake! Not Geography 101!

I want to sit back and enjoy my book, not squint at some stupid paper you have to unfold twenty-four times, that never folds back up the way it started.

Maps were made for men. They have tiny little letters and numbers and symbols that mean absolutely nothing to me. If I wanted to study Greek, I would have gone to Seminary. Ever since Pirates put an X on a treasure map, men have been obsessed with following little squiggly lines across a piece of paper. The only problem is—they also want to lead the way, steer the ship or drive the car. They look across at us and think we’re not doing anything important. Therefore we are issued the status of navigator—whether we want it or not.

As navigator I think that I’m entitled to a few perks. Like deciding to stop and shop when I see an Outlet Mall. Or choosing whether or not to take the scenic route (Definition: the long way there). At least I should be able to direct him to pull into the next rest stop without getting the third degree about how much Pepsi I've consumed!

I have this strange idea, and I don’t think I’m alone in this—that men should mark the route out ahead of time, so they know where they’re going. Cause we all know they won’t stop to ask, and with us as navigators, they now have someone to blame.

Enslaved by a Lie

I couldn't help attaching this video of Pierce. At least he's not modeling the bra.


When I was a kid, the way they advertised bras in TV commercials was very tame compared to now. A woman stood next to a mannequin and pointed at the undergarment, showing the features that provided ultimate comfort and support. This apparently convinced women of their need to own and wear a Playtex bra, or some other brand.

Now we have to watch underwear models strut around, doing their best come-hither, hooker pout, in tiny, sheer panties and bras not strong enough to support two chicken eggs, much less a woman’s chest. Watching anorexic women endowed with breast implants prance across my television screen does not in any way make me want to run out and purchase a certain brand of undies. I have a sneaking suspicion these companies aren’t even trying to sell real women underwear, but once again blatantly marketing sex to men. Perhaps this is where all the cross-dressers come from. Confusion in advertising.

From shampoo to cars, and toothpaste to dust mops, everything is advertised as a tool of overt sexuality to attract men. After all the years of women believing they were fighting for equal rights, taking back their power, or just getting out into the workforce to shed the old restraints of family for the new restraints of a career, this is the equality that has been gained. In the eyes of much of the world, women are still considered objects to be bought and sold. White slavery is the overt method, but I think using women as sex objects to sell products keeps them in bondage just as well. American women think they are above such practices, that they are in control of their own bodies, even while continuing to purchase certain products because they buy into the lie that their worth is in their packaging.

I’m not saying we can’t wear lacy underwear or makeup as a means to feel and look or best (although lace is really scratchy and uncomfortable and definitely does not feel best to me).

Do real women float around on clouds in nothing but lacy bras and panties, with wings on their backs? I don’t think so. While men ogle the nearly naked models, women must imagine some kind of fantasy romance in it all, with themselves as angels with perfect bodies. But it takes more than a pushup bra and thong to find true love and happiness. Those same models that sashay into your living rooms via the TV, live with broken relationships, eating disorders, and insecurities the same as anyone else. Their “perfect” bodies can’t bring them perfect lives, any more than Tiger Wood's wife found happiness by marrying one of the richest men in the world. Just saying…

Twilight Sucks!

Vampires are hot right now. Which is actually physically impossible, cause they are the undead. But despite that, they continue to gain momentum, especially with young girls. I think they may have bypassed teddy bears and puppies.

With the overwhelming popularity of the Twilight saga, girls everywhere think that Vampires are angst-filled, sparkly, teenage boys who live in the woods of Washington State. They spend their undead lives worrying that they may hurt someone or accidentally suck them dry, causing other happy humans to become angst-filled with notably pallid complexions.

Apparently, this new Americanized version of Vampires is not going over well in Great Britain. At least, not among the true connoisseurs of Vampire fiction. At the University of Hertfordshire, they’re having a special conference to talk about the undead and how important it is to put the British vampire back on the map. It’s called, “Open Graves, Open Minds: Vampires and the Undead in Modern Culture.” Very educational I’m sure. In fact, English lecturer, Sam George, actually launched a Master of Arts degree in vampire fiction at the University. If only they’d had such an awesome degree when I was going to school. I think I may have finished.

This new breed of vampires is certainly not scary or monstrous. In fact, they tend to bring out my scornful side. I’m normally anti-sarcastic, but Edward made me want to vent. I just wanted to tell him to “suck it up” and get on with his life. (Oh yeah, he’s dead, and sucking is a no no.) Well, anyway, he could at least quit acting sorry for himself. After all, he has talents. He’s very strong, he can run really fast, and climb trees like a monkey. There must be a job out there for him—even in this economy. He doesn’t have to keep going to high school for the rest of his undead life. He ought to know all the answers by now.

I liked the old version of vampires far better. I liked that they were evil, that they sucked the life out of people, that they only came out at night, and that they slept in a coffin. These traits were common among the undead. They were something you could depend on. You didn’t worry that you might stab a “good” vampire in the heart with your stake—cause there were no good vampires!

The novel, Dracula, is about good versus evil. There was no in between. No vampires that only sucked goat blood. All the vampires were fiends, bad to the bone. They went out each night and killed their victims, without a qualm or second thought. Dracula was a demon, a baby killer.

The vampire hunters were the good guys. They carried crosses and wooden stakes. They ate a lot of garlic, which kept demons and pretty girls away. They were too busy tracking Dracula down to worry about falling in love anyway.

America needs to bring the monster back into the vampire. I’m tired of soft-hearted criminals, love-struck villains, and now sparkly, angst-ridden vampires. What happened to black or white, good or bad? Shades of grey are boring. Give me a four-hundred year old man with razer sharp teeth and a Transylvania accent, that can only be killed by putting a wooden stake through his heart while he’s sleeping in his coffin under a castle guarded by wolves. That’s an awesome bad guy.

Advocacy for Retirement

Back when advocacy groups were attacking Camel Cigarettes for using cartoon images of a camel for their advertisements, implying that it was a tool to manipulate young people to smoke, I sort of understood. (Although, it seems they make more “adult” cartoons than children’s these days. So I guess we can assume the producers of these cartoon programs are actually targeting children because they have an agenda to warp their innocent minds with filth.) But teenagers do not start smoking because they see cool characters on packaging and can’t resist. Teens smoke because they want to defy authority, look cool, or they just cave to peer pressure. This type of ad might attract children under ten years of age with cute little characters, but I’m pretty sure they would find it rather hard to purchase cigarettes even while wearing platform shoes and carrying fake I. D.
The newest scapegoat in America is of course “fast food.” It is accused of being the cause of every overweight child in the country—perhaps in the world. There have been documentaries made, government edicts for change, and multiple lawsuits brought against fast food chains for various reasons. Now they are going after Ronald McDonald.
The McDonald’s clown icon has been around for as long as I can remember. Personally, I think he’s kind of scary, but that’s just me. Kids seem to like him, and that’s apparently the problem. The newest advocacy group, “Retire Ronald,” is going after the McDonalds ambassador with guns blazing. They accuse this innocent, fun-loving, clown of atrocities far worse than any war criminal in recent history. They are quoted as saying, “The clown marketed fatty burgers and fries directly to kids without repercussion, and seemed to have a ball doing it.”
Retire Ronald released their own poll that confirmed everything they spout. Obviously, they know what they’re talking about. Although 65% of Americans had a favourable view of Ronald, 52% thought that corporations should not be using cartoons or characters to sell harmful products to children.
I’m thinking that perhaps those 65% who liked Ronald, didn’t know he was selling “harmful” products to children. In fact, rarely do children go into a restaurant and pay for anything on their own. Parents buy food for children. Parents are not cartoon characters, but some act like it. Parents are responsible for what their children eat and they alone should be able to make that decision with or without a clown to influence them.
McDonalds and Ronald were also accused of being the “face of the epidemic, and the engine behind it.” I’m assuming the group was referring to obesity. The engine behind obesity is personal choice—not a restaurant, and certainly not a clown. Like the old variety show where Flip Wilson would do something naughty and say, “the devil made me do it,” these groups are accusing a clown of forcing people to eat fast food against their will.
Now the clown in Stephen King’s novel “It” might very well scare children into binge eating. But Ronald McDonald does not have that power or persuasiveness. He is just a simple clown trying to keep his Happy meal from being stolen by the Hamburglar. So, lay off the clown, people! Go after the individuals who are really destroying our lives. Producers of reality TV!

Book Review: "Hand of Fate" by Lis Wiehl & April Henry

The second in a series, Hand of Fate delivers a fast-paced mystery that keeps you guessing until the end. Allison, a federal prosecutor, Nicole, an FBI special agent, and Cassidy, a local crime reporter, are friends that call themselves the Triple Threat Club.

When Jim Fate, a national radio host, is murdered, the question is not “who would want him dead?” but rather, “who wouldn’t want him dead?” With so many suspects running around, pinning down the real killer takes all three ladies to decipher the truth. Along with solving the mystery, the personal lives of the three women are slowly revealed as their friendship deepens into a lasting bond.

The storyline was realistic, and at times, even thought provoking. The main characters were multi-faceted and appealing, with intriguing back story. I wished that I’d already read the first book in the series so that I had that connection with the characters at the beginning, but it was easy to play catchup, to get in their heads and relate to what they were going through, personally and professionally.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Thomas Nelson Publishers as part of their BookSneeze.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

A Fool's Dream

I was hoping I would wake up today and everything I didn’t like about the past year would be a dream. Remember the end of season nine of Dallas, when Pamela Ewing wakes up and finds her husband Bobby (dead since the end of season eight) in the shower, alive and well. She realizes she’d dreamt it all, and we realize the writers ran out of plausible cliffhangers. And it wasn’t even April Fool’s Day!

If April Fool’s Day could be used for good and not evil, it could be a conduit through which we filter the bad circumstances of our lives and begin again on April 2nd with a rosier available future. Like a portal through time or back to the future rewind, we could change things for the better.
Perhaps the last election. I personally would like Tom Selleck to be president. I know he would never allow our gun rights to be revoked. He might even make it a requirement to carry a weapon at all times. Wouldn’t it be cool to see the President of the United States holding a long rifle in his arms like Quigley Down Under. You never know when a wild dingo will come out of nowhere and attack. Tom would also look really good behind the presidential podium. He’d flash that Magnum smile, dimples and all, and he’d have those reporters at hello. He looks really good in a suit, but he also looks really good in a cowboy hat and buckskins. Obama would just look silly in a cowboy hat.

Another thing I’d like to change is the weight I’ve gained. Without exercise, dieting, or pills, I’d prefer to wake up and the rolls be gone—magically. Lose weight while you sleep. Remember that commercial? I always thought it was the best way. It’s so time consuming to workout. I could be doing important stuff—like writing more blog posts.

I’d like to be punctual, organized, and better at deadlines too. (Now I’m sounding like a New Year’s resolution) But I’m not far off, cause apparently before the western world started using the new Gregorian calendar back in the 1500’s, the New Year fell on April 1st. After the change, those who could be tricked into believing the New Year was still celebrated on the first day of April were considered “fools.” It seems like a very tame sort of joke and not very funny. I mean—who really cares if someone gets the date mixed up these days? Since I no longer go to school and write the date on the left-hand corner of my papers, I seldom remember what day it is, unless I look it up on the right-hand corner of my monitor, which is mightily convenient.

April Fool’s has come with sunshine and warm temperatures today. That should be enough of a gift for every Minnesota resident. We woke from a dream of winter cold to find spring fully sprung and tulips shooting upward toward blue sky. It does seem like a trick, but we aren’t fools for enjoying it while it lasts. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Happy April Fool’s!