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Nancy Holte

Encouraging women to grab hold of God's plan for their lives

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Funny

Too Much Junk!

September 16, 2019

There are books and more books about organizing and tidying. There are people you can hire to come to your house and help you organize, sort, tidy, etc. Clearly, I’m not the only one in America with too much stuff! But, I’ve tried all those methods of sorting and organizing, well maybe not ALL of them, but a lot of them, and it hasn’t really worked out for me. I secretly believe that those books about organizing are for people who already lean that direction anyway.

I’ve determined that the real issue is not that I’m so disorganized, it’s that I have too much junk. How did this happen? I mean, I’m not a hoarder, though I do sometimes look at something I haven’t used in 10 years and think, “Well, I might need it someday.” I’m fairly certain there’s a pair of bright pink polyester pants (that are two sizes too big) on the top shelf of my closet that I’ve saved for at least 15 years in case I ever need them for painting. But here’s the thing, I haven’t picked up a paintbrush for at least 10 years so why do I continue to keep those pants? Plus, painting with one hand while I use the other to hold my pants on is probably not going to work.

WHAT TO DO?

Obviously, I need a solution—one that will work long term.  If I’m going to be totally honest here, I no longer have the energy level of a 30-year-old, thus spending many hours a day organizing just isn’t going to happen. So, I’ve determined that I’m simply going to get rid of one thing every single day. Sometimes I end up ditching more than one item because junk tends to live together in little groups, but I shoot for at least one thing a day. At the end of the year, I will have 365 less items in my house. It might not be noticeable, but then again, maybe it’ll help. It can’t hurt.

This past week when I was going through some sewing stuff to get rid of, I came upon a box of—wait for it—RECIPES! Seriously! An entire 9″ by 13” plastic container with recipes: some cut out of newspapers and magazines, and others that I’ve been given by friends dating back to when I first got married. Why were these in my sewing room, you ask? Because a couple years ago, when I was rearranging the kitchen cupboard, I grabbed the box and stuck it under the sewing table until I had time to deal with it. Are you starting to see the problem?

THERE’S AN ENTERTAINMENT VALUE IN JUNK

Finding this box slowed down my daily ditch considerably because I had to stop and look through the box, should there happen to be any recipes in it I still need. Well, obviously I don’t need them if I’ve gotten along for two years without them! But still, there’s some entertainment value in a box of old recipes. For instance, I found three cookie recipes written on the back of computer cards. I don’t even remember what they used these cards for, but I’m 99% certain it had something to do with computers.

There are some recipes that you know who they’re from the minute you look at them. My friend, Angie used to collect cows so the minute I saw this recipe I thought of Angie.

There were also recipes from people I can’t remember, like the Honey Graham Special from Miriam. I can’t recall ever knowing anyone named Miriam, but the recipe looked interesting.

And then there is my puppy chow recipe that had gone rogue. It’s not the kind of puppy chow you feed to your dog but the yummy, fattening kind made with Crispix. It has been missing for, well, obviously at least two years! I was excited to find it, but as you can see the measurements for some of the ingredients are missing from this very well used, spilled on card. I’m fairly certain it’s 1 cup of each of the top three ingredients should you want to try it.

The Moral of the Story

If you’re at all like me, and you decide to start purging, you may very well run across some funny finds of your own. My advice: enjoy the laugh and then GET RID OF THAT JUNK!

Cover photo by tamara garcevic on Unsplash

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

March 2, 2015

John and I have been talking lately about moving our treadmill from an upstairs bedroom to a room in the basement with a better view. But the treadmill weighs about a thousand pounds. All right, maybe not quite a thousand but it’s really heavy and not exactly pliable. My thought was to just hire a couple of strong men to come and move it but why do that when you have grown children, right?

Since our son, Paul and his family were coming down for dinner on Sunday night, John decided this would be the perfect time to move the beast. He spent the better part of the day devising a plan. It started like this:

John: “I’m thinking that what we could do is put the treadmill on the toboggan and pull it around the house to the backyard.”

Of course! Why do a project in the spring when you can take advantage of the snow in the winter?

Me: (looking at him like he is crazy) “I think that might break the toboggan.”

John: “No, it won’t break the toboggan, I’m going to set it up on end.”

Me: (after I stop laughing hysterically) “You’ve been watching too much of the Red Green Show!” If you haven’t seen Red Green, suffice it to say the guy comes up with some pretty cockamamie ideas.

But my laughter did nothing to dissuade my husband. His afternoon consisted of getting the toboggan out (obviously), finding a wooden box to put on top of the toboggan (see the picture), taking the bedroom door off it’s hinges, and airing up the tire on his dolly. Plus, he spent a fair amount of time just walking around figuring out the best route.

I was busy getting dinner ready so I just watched his antics from afar and occasionally shook my head in wonderment.

Poor Paul, the only warning we gave him regarding “the move” was a phone message saying, “bring your boots.” He was barely inside the door when the project got underway. Before I knew it the treadmill was out of the bedroom, down the hall, and sitting in the kitchen. By the time I grabbed my camera it was outside on the sidewalk awaiting it’s sleigh ride.

moving the treadmill
Awaiting the Sleigh Ride

John was still thinking the best plan would be to put the base of the treadmill on top of the box, leaving the bulk of it standing upright but Paul, who claims he’s not a weights and balances expert, convinced him that spreading the weight out along the length of the toboggan might help things go more smoothly.

moving the treadmill
Balancing the Treadmill

As they were moving it onto the toboggan my daughter-in-law, Erin, who was watching from inside, facetiously commented, “Nothing bad can happen.” In the meantime, I had visions of the treadmill motor landing in the snowy yard never to run again.

moving the treadmill
Whee!

moving the treadmill
Making the Turn

Amazingly enough the toboggan, the box, AND the treadmill all stayed together on their trip down the hill, around the house, and into the backyard.

moving the treadmill
At the basement door ready to move in!

Shortly thereafter, with one slight adjustment in location, the treadmill was up and ready to use. Red Green would have been proud, despite the fact that no duct tape was required.

Fireworks Gone Wild

June 30, 2014

Every family seems to have their own 4th of July traditions. I remember when I was a kid there was lots of excitement present in our household. A day or two before the holiday, my dad, accompanied by whoever wanted to go, would drive to a city abutting ours in southern California to buy a box of fireworks. (This is important information for later in the story.)

To be honest, I only remember two actual events from our annual July 4th celebration: putting the American flag out in the morning and the “Fireworks Party” with the Castle family in the evening. The Castles would come up for a barbecue dinner on the patio and then the kids would ever-so-impatiently wait until it was dark for the fireworks box to appear.

There was a method to our fireworks show. It was always in the backyard, the kids and moms sat on the patio and the dads lit the goods. BUT FIRST, there were the sparklers. Well, actually, first there were the “snakes”; those somewhat cool but kind of boring black things that you lit and watched as they just sort of unfurled and looked like a snake slithering along the sidewalk. That’s what we played with while we waited for it to get dark. Once the dark came, though, it always started with the sparklers. I LOVED the sparklers and I remember how each kid (there were five of us altogether) would get our lit sparkler and run aimlessly around the backyard. I was the only girl so I really didn’t pay attention to what the boys were doing but I would take my sparkler and write words in the sky as I danced around the yard. Ah, the memories of those carefree moments.

One year, however, the sparkler joy turned into a nightmare (for me, at least) when one of the boys, with his sparkler held far out to his side, ran right past the box of fireworks waiting to be set off. You remember that old song, “It only takes a spark, to get a fire going?” Well, it’s true. One tiny little spark made its way to the fireworks box, and before we knew what had happened, the entire box started going off. What I specifically remember is the huge fire that ensued but my dad recalls the twirlers going one way and the fountains spraying another. I probably don’t recall where the fireworks were shooting because by then I was in the house crying hysterically and yelling, “We need to call the fire department!”

My dad got the hose out, turned it on and had it ready to spray at a moment’s notice. For some reason I’m still at a loss to understand, he wanted to wait until the fireworks were done exploding before putting the fire out. Maybe he was thinking that we didn’t want to miss the “show” that his hard-earned money had purchased, I don’t know. And really, I’m sure the fire itself was relatively small but I’d been trained that if you see a fire, you call the fire department. I just couldn’t figure out why no one was rushing to the phone. In fact, I believe my mom even stopped me from making the call. Remember at the beginning of this story when I mentioned that we drove to the neighboring city to buy our fireworks? Here’s why: They weren’t legal in our city. (Hey, don’t judge me, I was just a kid, remember?) So, you see, alerting the authorities that there was a fire would probably not have gone well for my parents.

Soon enough the explosions stopped and my dad put out the remaining fire with the hose. My crying turned to gentle recovery sobs and we put a tie on the very eventful 4th of July – one we’ll never forget.

Within a year or two, fireworks were legalized in our city so we moved our show to the front yard and the other neighbors joined us. But you know what? The 4th of July was never the same after we moved it out front. It wasn’t the fire that diminished my joy, it was the lack of coziness with just my family and close friends that I missed. Or maybe I just had to share the sparklers with more people. I did love those sparklers.

Rejected!

June 23, 2014

Today’s story actually started back in my college days. As I’m sure is still the cases on college campuses around the country, there were frequent Red Cross blood drives. I was always WAY too much of a chicken to donate blood, but my roommate she was a brave one. EVERY time she had the opportunity to give blood, she’d sign up. And then, she’d come back to the room looking like she was going to die right in my presence. Every. Single. Time. You’d think she would have figured out that her body wasn’t designed to have a pint of blood leached out every couple of months but apparently her desire to help save lives overrode her fear of the impending illness.

As you might imagine this whole scenario replaying itself several times throughout my freshman year of college only served to convince me NOT to give blood – ever! Obviously my fear WAY overpowered any sense of duty I might have been able to muster up.

Eventually however, I had kids, and once you’ve been poked, prodded and otherwise humbled, the idea of donating blood seems like a walk in the park. It was during my first pregnancy when I found out my blood type was “0 positive” which makes me a “universal donor.” I like to think of it as my blood being particularly valuable. I decided that it really would be wrong to keep all this liquid gold to myself when I could help save hundreds of lives. So, it only seemed right to show up the next time the Red Cross Bloodmobile came to town.

When I arrived I had to fill out a questionnaire and then have a small amount of blood drawn to determine my hemoglobin level. The nurse explained that they’d found that the least painful way to get a drop of blood from a person was to poke their earlobe and draw it from there. Or maybe it was the easiest way for her because I assure you it’s not the least painful.

After she did her poking, and got the required amount of blood, she covered my earlobe with a small bandage and told me to leave it there for about 15 minutes. Without even glancing in a mirror I was certain that having a bandage on my ear was NOT the “look” I was going for but at least I’d be able to take it off before leaving the building. However, my time in the building was cut short because there was an insufficient amount of protein in my red blood cells with which to save the world. I was a Red Cross reject!

rejected-865417-m

Now, I had to go back out through the crowd of wanna-be life-givers filling out their forms and those gracious donors who were already having the cookies and juice given to those with better blood. My plan was just to get to my car and go home but, as is often the case in our small town, I saw a friend and sat down to talk with her while she regained her strength with sugar. (Why not protein, I wonder?)

Already humiliated enough (I took the rejection very hard) my vanity took over and I quickly took off the bandage on my ear. As we talked I reached up to check my ear with my hand noticing that it was still bleeding. No big deal, I just grabbed a Kleenex and applied a little pressure because, as you can imagine, that’s way more attractive than having a bandage on your ear lobe. My friend and I talked for a while and I was unconcerned about the bleeding that just didn’t seem to want to stop. The next thing I know one of the volunteers noticed that I was bleeding and said, “I’m going to get one of the nurses.” And then she started RINGING A BELL! This was apparently the “call” system because immediately not one but TWO nurses come running out to see what poor soul has collapsed on the ground. But there was no poor soul on the ground – just me – the rejected bleeder – with all eyes in the room on my ear!

Of course, one of those nurses was the one who’d put the unsightly bandage on my ear in the first place. She scolded, “I thought I told you to leave that bandage on for 15 minutes.” Then she applied a second bandage and I left – tail between my legs.

It was years before I got over the humiliation and decided to try again. Before I even arrived at the Bloodmobile I learned that I was disqualified due to some of my travel destinations. Universal donor or not – I guess I wasn’t destined to save the world with my blood.

And really, only Jesus can do that anyway.

Am I a Liar?

April 7, 2014

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while you probably know that at this current moment my husband is in the middle of a stem cell transplant. Actually, as I write this we’re in the midst of the hardest days (or so we’re told.) To be honest, it’s not been nearly as horrible as it could be, but it hasn’t been a cakewalk either. (Does anyone even know what a cakewalk is anymore?)

The other day, though, I posted something on Facebook that a friend commented on and her comment made me feel a little bit like a liar. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it was a somewhat humorous remark about something that was happening at the moment. Basically, it was a “glass half-full” kind of comment in the midst of a “glass half-empty” kind of day. My friend commented on how she appreciated the fact that I always seem to find the positive in everything. My response to her was, “That’s because I don’t post anything when I’m in the midst of a breakdown.” And, if I remember correctly, a breakdown had just occurred moments before I wrote my response. In fact, the breakdown had happened right in front of John’s doctor (a beaming moment to be sure).

So here’s the deal. We all go through hard times, but we get to choose how we live them out publicly and privately. The truth is I have cried a bucket load of tears this week. This is hard, it’s scary, and I want nothing more than to live in my own house while we’re walking through this journey. But, that isn’t an option. So, I can sit and wallow in self-pity or I can choose to look for the positive, and yes, the humorous in every situation that presents itself. Does it make me a liar then, if I only post the positive stuff on Facebook? Maybe. But I’d rather make it a point to find the funny than be a negative Nellie. Because the funny is what Jesus gives us to get us through the valleys. Proverbs 17:12 says, “A merry heart does good like medicine. But a broken spirit dries up the bones.” We’ve already got one person in this family with bone issues we don’t need two! So today, I choose that which does me the most good – all the funny I can absorb. I seek it out.

God isn’t opposed to our tears. Even Jesus wept. But, a pity party is no place to camp out. The Israelites did that and they ended up spending 40 years wandering around in the wilderness. And personally, I’m not so fond of wilderness experiences. And maybe you haven’t noticed but there’s no mention of chocolate in the wilderness either. Nasty spot the wilderness.

There is so much to be grateful for today. John is doing as well or better than expected, we’ve had an abundance of delicious food delivered to us, God is incredibly faithful, and there’s plenty of chocolate around. And really, there is some hysterical stuff going on around here. If only there was a bona fide cakewalk.

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