Some people paint, some play an instrument, some sing and those amongst us who are really fortunate dance. Everybody has a “thing”. My thing is words. I love words. I love to read words and I love to write words. Hence this blog. In an attempt to improve both my writing skills and my blogging skills, I listen to the experts. Darn those experts! They say I should write myself into my work, get up close and personal. This means exposing myself. Well, today’s the day. Let’s just get it out there once and for all.
Everything (and more) you ever wanted to know about me:
- I have an enormous bump on the top, right hand side of my forehead, just below the hairline. It’s the size of Kilimanjaro. (About a quarter inch wide and slightly protruding). My doctor says it’s just a bony growth and nothing to be concerned about. Seriously? All I see when I look in the mirror is this mountain growing out of my head. So, I went online to get a second opinion. One person said she had something similar and hit herself on the head with a heavy book to get rid of it. I don’t go online for second opinions anymore. My hairdresser, who couldn’t find the bump at first, received strict instructions from me to cut bangs to cover it up but I hate bangs. So now the thing just sits there … in the middle of my head … to remind me and everybody else that I’m not perfect.
- I am allergic to dust mites. Really-off-the-charts allergic. Without a daily dose of antihistamines I sneeze horrible stuff all over anybody within a five-mile radius. I ran out of my South African medication a few days ago and have been suffering all week. Today I decided to try a US brand, which I took about an hour ago. Mmm … I wonder if these flowers floating around my office are supposed to be here. Disclaimer: If I admit to robbing a bank in this post, I can’t be sure, but I don’t think it really happened.
- I’m going to be an Ouma/Gogo soon. For non-South Africans that means I’m going to be a grandma. I have had sleepless nights trying to figure out whether I want to be called Ouma (Afrikaans) or Gogo (Zulu) or Gramma (American) or Granny (English). Whatever I choose it’s bound to be better than what my husband says he’ll be called – “the Colonel”. I’ve taken to calling him Fried Chicken. At the end of this post you can give me your opinion… about what my grandkids should call me, not about whether or not I should be calling my husband Fried Chicken.
- I am totally needy. I need my husband and rely on him for almost everything. He is my best friend. ♪♬ He is the wind beneath my wings. ♪♫ (Drat! That was the medication taking over for a bit. Sorry.) I need my children and love them far too much. Really, just ask them. They have to beat me off with a stick. I need my friends. I need the people who work with me. I need people. What can I say? I’m needy.
- I like American country music. Always have, always will. I know. I know. Go ahead, you may mock me.
- I like doing things ‘properly’. I set the table with a table cloth for most meals, I pull all the bedding off and make my bed from scratch every morning, I regularly go all the way down onto my knees to pray, I buy movie house snacks rather than sneak outside stuff in, I respect my elders and obey the rules of the road. Okay, okay, sometimes I don’t.
- I love ponchos. You have to read this to find out more.
- I am terribly flawed. I cry too easily, I take long to get angry but once there, stay angry too long, I judge people – especially those who strut or who are unkind or who know it all, I am willing to give but reluctant to receive which means I am filled with pride, I love myself more than I love my neighbor. I am broken and in need of a savior.
- I lean heavily on Jesus to restore my soul.
One thing I am sure of is that Jesus knows me. The real me. And the real you. And still he loves us. Totally and completely.
O LORD, you have searched me, and known me. You know my downsitting and my uprising, you understand my thought afar off. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. – Psalm 139:1-3