And so another year is about to begin...

Barbara came to speak to a group of ladies on a Tuesday evening in the quaint living room of a mutual friend of hers and of ours who lived in Alexandria (my favorite town in Virginia). For me to actually have gone to this particular event; however, was nothing short of a miracle for a few reasons.

First: I don't trust some/many women (Did I just say that? I'm afraid so). Some women, especially in the Washington, D.C. area, tend to be perpetually catty, vain, jealous, mean-spirited, neurotic and even superficial. Shock. I made it a point to boycott most 'girlie events' in D.C. unless I felt so compelled, obligated or was bribed to attend.

Second: By the time I was done with a work day, which usually included fighting my way through hours of traffic, I was tired. Typically, on a week night, I simply wanted to eat, get some exercise and then read for a few hours or talk with one of my rockstar roommates before going to bed (An eventful life, I know. But afterall, I was a nerd then just the same as I am now).

Nonetheless, I felt compelled to attend this particular event after my friend, the hostess, told me, 'Listen Kimmy, you have to come hear this woman's story. She's pretty incredible. I promise it won't be a waste of your time. AND I'll have some expensive cheese and crackers.' I'm a sucker for expensive cheeses and crackers, you see (I am partial to Brie and Irish Cheddar best). She knew this. So I went – for the cheese and crackers, of course.

I loaded up on crackers and Brie before settling in on my friend's cozy couch to have a listen that Tuesday night.

Barbara, who was a strikingly beautiful forty-something, held her head down and began her narrative by stating something like, 'Forgive me girls. I'm just getting over one of my flare up episodes and I'm still too weak to hold my head up in order to make eye contact with you tonight. So please be patient with me, and I hope I can share something that might encourage you or be of some use.'

Not ten minutes into Barbara's story and (surprise, surprise) my tears were falling, making an awful mess of my Brie on my plate below. This striking woman shared on the topic of thankfulness and making the most of each day, as it was right before Thanksgiving. She spoke of her early twenties – when life for her was about getting as much attention as possible from men and her flirtatiously flicking her hair and smoking her fancy cigarettes and having the world at her fingertips to eventually getting married to 'Wonderful Spencer' and having four delightful children. Then on the flip of a dime, in her mid-thirties, Barbara's world stopped and you could have heard a pin drop, she said.

Barbara was diagnosed with a rare form of multiple sclerosis that shortly after she was diagnosed, would leave her crippled for weeks or even months at a time where the best she could do was to curl herself into a ball and lay in bed. In fact, Barbara's form of MS was so sensitive that the slightest gust of wind via a door opening would send her body into intense hours of painful needle-pokinglike sensations.

She didn't share the story looking for pity. And it wasn't necessarily Barbara's story that had me in tears (though, her story was moving as well). Instead, it was this gracious aura Barbara had about herself that sort of filled up the room. She was striking, like I said, but more importantly, Barbara's inner beauty and strength and humility and character is what filled up that room.
I don't think there was a dry eye in attendance that evening.

After quickly sharing her story, Barbara spoke on all the things she found in her situation that she had come to be thankful for (like Spencer faithfully taking care of her for better or for worse) and how every moment was precious and how she was learning to make the most of her days, even when curled into a ball and laying on her bed for months at a time. She talked of change, and how we should all challenge ourselves to continue growing in all aspects of our lives – that we should be able to look back a year ago and see growth in ourselves (which looks different for us all).

Barbara and I quickly became friends that Tuesday night, as I approached her and asked if I could make her and her family dinner (Barbara is the kind of person I would have been an ignoramus not to seek some wisdom from).

In the few months we first befriended each other via email and face-to-face conversations (when she was well enough), Barbara taught me a whole lot about Carpe Diem – seizing the day – because we never know what the future holds, just as Barbara never anticipated being diagnosed with MS.

She taught me about thankfulness.

She taught me to challenge myself and to make some changes for the better.

Spencer taught me, in my one encounter with him, that love is commitment and that saying vows means something afterall. The way Spencer served Barbara was one of the most beautiful things I've ever witnessed.

And so another year begins this Thursday, Barbara. I have my suspicions as to what you're reflecting on over this past year. I sure hope I can look back over my last year and have similar reflections. I hope I can see beyond some of my dastardly days (I admit, I am human) and be able to see growth. I hope we all can, because as Barbara told me in a conversation once, 'Kim, the day we stop growing or learning, should be the day we die.'

Carpe Diem and Happy New Year.

Red feet and all...

Just a few weeks ago, one of my nieces came up to me with something in the palm of her hand and jokingly scolded me for what I had done. 'Kim, look what you did (her mother had told her)?' I looked down and saw the Nativity set baby Jesus figurine that has been in our family ever since I was little. My niece pointed to baby Jesus' feet. They were red. She smiled. I explained myself.

Believe it or not, Mom reiterated the story about that baby Jesus' feet just a few weeks before she died. As I recall, the conversation went something like, 'Hey Ma, did I just drive you bonkers growing up? We are just so different. Did I make you crazy?'

She smiled and said, 'No. (pause) But you were my only kid who rolled out of the car when I was driving into the parking lot of White Drug (I wasn't listening and kept fidgeting with the door handle. Shock.), and you were my only kid that decided to take red fingernail polish to baby Jesus' feet on my new Nativity set. You were two.' Of course, we had a good chuckle.

I was too little to remember painting baby Jesus' feet red, but I tell you, I can remember being little and being fascinated with Mom's Nativity set and making up my own version of the Christmas story as I played with its figurines, even taking down the angels and having them fly as far as my bedroom for a night before placing them in their designated place again. (Mom must have had the patience of Job because that Nativity set was a source of pride and joy for her, and I was always messing with it.) I can remember being fascinated with the story of baby Jesus.

Christmas was always one of my favorite times of the year, naturally.

As a bribe, I remember Mom letting us open a few gifts a little early on Christmas Eve in exchange for us girls cleaning the house like we'd never cleaned before, which included wiping down cupboards (my least favorite).

I remember the Christmas I got the pajamas I was hoping for. I remember the Christmas I couldn't make myself wait and so opened a few of my gifts several weeks beforehand, peeking at them, rewrapping them and placing them back under the tree (I also remember faking a surprised look when reopening the gifts on Christmas eve so Mom wouldn't know and thinking, 'I will never do this again. How boring.')

I remember our miserable Christmas spent in Arizona while we lived there and getting the duck pajamas I had not been wishing for as well as the 'Bozo the Clown' glasses I had just recently acquired with Mom's recommendation. (These eyeglasses were the size of stop signs and interestingly enough, they were the same shape. They were 'special' in that if the light hit them at a certain angle, they would turn from clear to blue. Ya, real cool. I despised them, but Mother loved them and I trusted her judgement. I remember not liking that Christmas so well.)

I remember feeding my dog overcooked hot dogs one Christmas morning and her throwing up and me getting into trouble. I was wearing the duck pajamas.

I remember the Christmas Mom had very few gifts for me under the tree when I came home from my last semester of college because one of my gifts was a wallet with money in it. The wallet also had a note attached that said, 'What's in here is between you and me. I hope this helps in making some of your dreams come true.' I cried because I knew Mom couldn't afford it. I was getting ready to make the move to Washington, D.C. and though a family was willing to host me for a few months until I could get on my feet, I was pretty poor.

And of course there are all the family traditions – besides beholding Mom's lovely Nativity set each year. My mother's 7 siblings and their spouses and their children and now their children's children getting together every Christmas Eve to open gifts and eat like pigs (let's face it) with Grandma and Grandpa. My family tends to adopt anybody into our festivities who doesn't have a place to go for Christmas as well. There is usually at least one corny gift where somebody meant well but missed the boat entirely on what the recipient of his/her gift would actually enjoy having (Anybody like reptile wind chimes? Mom would get after me for cackling out loud.) There is usually a baby to cuddle and hold and pass around. There are the Christmas light drives. And so on and so on.

And all of these memories and traditions and the gift giving and the eating like a pig and peering at Christmas lights, well, all of these things are a few of my favorite things during this time of year. They are delightful – simply delightful.

But I'm sure glad my niece pointed out those little red feet a few weeks ago, because I had just finished being stressed about a few particular gifts and was annoyed because I had fought long lines in the grocery store to get some baking goods (not to mention someone ramming his cart into my heel).

I was wrapped up in the busyness of it all and the reminder not only brought back warm fuzzy feelings and a few good memories (and a real longing for Mom), but it made me pause and think again about the Christmas story and the wonder of it all.

I kind of felt like a wide-eyed kid again, kneeling in front of that Nativity set and stealing away its angels to snuggle with for the night. And of course (because no one was watching for the moment), I couldn’t help but whisper to baby Jesus as I placed him back into his manger (like I used to whisper things while ‘tucking him’ in as a kid), 'Who would have thought that you, a little baby – red feet and all – would change everything?' Everything.

Merry Christmas.

Christmas gene: The final surrender

I've surrendered: I was not given the 'Christmas gene.'

Similar to the way I cannot (I repeat, CANNOT) make myself sit at a table and scrapbook or quilt for more than maybe two hours tops, I cannot make myself put forth the time and effort required to make a home feel like Christmas. I lack the Christmas gene or maybe just the discipline to make myself decorate. And I don't know why, because I admit that I love going into a home where its owner has put forth the effort to create a kind of Winter Wonderland.

My older sister – now she knows how to do Christmas, friends. I walk into her home and have to remind myself immediately that A) 'Kim, you are not an elf and this is not the North Pole, little girl. Don't even think about putting on those striped tights and singing 'Baby It's Cold Outside.' B) 'Kim, the tree with the candy ornaments is not for you to touch (tsk, tsk). Besides, those ornaments are not the real deal. Haven't you learned?' and C) 'Don't let your sister see the non-organic hot cocoa you've managed to slip through the front door without her smelling it (she has the olfactory senses like that of a hungry tiger on the prowl).' Oh and let's not forget the most important reminder: D) 'Careful, careful! Don't slap yourself in the face again with one of those stupid branches from that enormous, cumbersome artificial tree in your sister's living room. If ever there was a tree, this tree happens to be the 'Mother' of all artificial trees, let me assure you.

The face slap happened last year when my sister played a sick trick on me. She assured me it was not on purpose, but nonetheless, it seemed like a terrible little 'trick' for someone like me – without the Christmas gene – to have been faced with. Boo. I'm still recovering from a nervous tick.

She agreed to give me twenty bucks if I'd be her 'little buddy' and help put up that Mother tree. What can I say, money talks. (Really, I wasn't actually going to take the money, but as I recall, I did take the money after the ordeal.)

Long story short, the tree my sister thought was the Mother tree in the particular Rubbermaid container she retrieved for me to assemble turned out to be the wrong tree (one of her many supersized artificial trees). Surprise! The directions for this particular tree that were stuffed in the Rubbermaid container were actually the wrong ones, too. Awesome!

So there I was – listening to 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' album a friend had recently given me to try to put myself in the mood to decorate and do a good deed for someone I care about. Wrong choice, because that album has got to be the most depressing Christmas music of all time, my friends. By song two, you need a self-help pill because poor bald kid sounds like someone punched him in the face and then stole his last package of non-organic hot cocoa. But it's all I had to listen to at the moment, so I kept the headphones on. But that ridiculous tree.

An hour into it, and the tree was still a mess. For instance, there were too many branches to start with. And because the directions didn't match the color indicators on the branches, I decided to take the bull by the horns and guess where the branches should be inserted instead. (The directions referred to an A, B, C kind of method. The tree I was trying to assemble used a color-coated method. This should have been my first clue. But no.) At the end of the hour, I had a tree, by golly, but it was severely deformed – with branches way too long up top and ones too short in the middle and even tiny branches at the base of the tree. Naturally, I was ready for that self-help pill as soon as I stood back to admire my handiwork. Disgusted, I went back to the task and started taking out my frustration on the tree branches. As I began twisting the deformed branches into shape (I decided there was no other option), I actually began scolding them like misbehaved children: 'I will make you fit. I will. You are naughty!' It was while I was trying to manipulate and jerk a branch up at the top of the tree to the left in order to fill an enormous, branchless cavity my guessing game had created, that the branch popped out and slapped me in the face. Did you know it's actually possible to get tree branch burn? Ouch. And for a moment, I thought the branch had actually lacerated my left eye. Thank goodness it didn't.

My sister called shortly after I calmed down and had finished manipulating the last few branches. She was surprised at how 'quickly' putting up the tree had taken me. Of course, she came home and couldn't contain herself when she saw the tree and heard about the snafu. Then (as I think I recall), I rightfully took the twenty dollars. Of course I did. (You would too if you almost got your eye poked out.)

This year, I'm surrendering to the fact that I don't have the Christmas gene and have stopped comparing myself to others who do. When I see men dangling from high rooftops in order to put up Christmas lights I think, 'Right on, little fellas. Right on. I do hope you have decent health insurance.' When I see other women making their homes darling and welcoming with Christmas cheer I think, 'Good for you. Where would the world be without women and their concern for such detail?' So this is a tribute to all of you who make this town and your homes so delightful to look at during this time of year! I love taking a stroll or a ride and looking at your lights and peeking in your windows to see your beautiful trees and other decorations. You know your gifts and you share/display them well. Without you, my Christmas just wouldn't be the same. And to my sister, nobody does Christmas like you do, seriously! (P.S. I love you, but I'll never put up another tree for you so long as I live unless you are crippled or publically get on your knees and beg. The face slap was the final surrender. You got Mom's Christmas gene. I did not.)

Humility

It might be high time to have THE talk.

This talk is one of those 'birds and bees talk' every parent should have with his or her child because by having this talk, he/she could prevent the child from a lifetime of RAB (really annoying behavior). 'Junior, it's high time for us to have a little talk on a little something called humility...'

For fear of coming across like a know-it-all, I've stayed away from the topic of humility in my column (it would kind of defeat the purpose, don't you think?). So let me preface this by stating that growing up and maybe sometimes still, I have been the chief know-it-all on occasion (sometimes more than other times), but hopefully by age almost 29, I've matured some and realized (brace yourself here): Life is not all about me. Whoa. Also, the older I get, the less and less and less I really know (which serves as ample cause for me to shut my mouth about how much I think I may know in live conversations)!

A great man is always willing to be little (Ralph Waldo Emerson). One of my favorite quotes.
The truth about humility seems so simple, and not rocket science. It's certainly at least one thing I've noticed wherever I wander: A person can be pleasantly attractive on the outside (keeping in mind, that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder), but if that person comes across like a know-it-all or as arrogant (the opposite of humble), that person is automatically less attractive. On the flip side, I've encountered people on my journey that maybe were not the most pleasantly attractive on the outside, but because they did not come across like a know-it-all or as arrogant, they automatically became more attractive. Note to self.

So then, if this truth appears so simple (which frankly, it does to me), can somebody tell me why it appears as if several of my fellow Homo sapiens don't get it?

We've probably all been there: A holiday party/dinner. All dressed up. Looking forward to a little relaxing and socializing. Some good food. Maybe some great wine. Maybe meet some new people you might share something in common with. So you randomly choose a seat at a table, along with the innocent guest you brought along. And it sure doesn't take long. A few minutes in, and everybody at your table and any table within earshot realizes that you are having the privilege of sitting with one of 'God's gifts to the universe' because this person is so loud about proclaiming how absolutely fantastic he/she is and how he/she knows just about everything about anything from mad cow disease to how to rope the moon to the best strategy for winning the 'too sexy for this shirt' prize in a random office vote.

OK, I'm sarcastic. I can't help it. I say things that get me into trouble. I lack tact at times. In situations like this, I get squirmy. I've actually thought about making flashcards for situations just like this to tuck away in my purse (along with my sliced fruit) that would resemble a 'Here's your sign' kind of humor on them because I actually feel bad for the person talking. I would hold the card up quickly and try to be subtle enough so only the person talking and coming across like an unattractive know-it-all would see.

For instance, a perfect flashcard for the above scenario would be, 'Do you see my eyes glazing over? Your endless talking is making me tired, friend.' or 'Pick me, pick me! Try asking one of us a question. We might know something about mad cow disease too.' or 'In case you are unaware, you're really unattractive right now. Silence is golden.'

I won't belabor the point, because again, I think its simple to understand. One of the most attractive qualities any of us can possess is having humility which ultimately means putting others first.

Having humility may look different for all of us. For some of us, it may mean going out of our way to do something for someone else instead of concentrating on ourselves all the time. For others of us, it may mean talking less about what we think we may know and instead, asking others a few questions in the course of a conversation (surprise, but we may actually learn something from someone else). And for others of us, it may mean we allow somebody with two items the chance to check out before us (with the overloaded cart) in the painfully long Christmas Walmart check out line.

Christmas is just around the corner, reminding us that it is the season to give to others. Therefore, I'm reminding myself of the ‘humility talk’ Mom once gave me as 'junior'. Obviously, Mom's talk with me was simply a few, to-the-point words instead of a long and drawn out conversation, but her words happened to be packed full of wisdom (though I didn’t understand this as junior). But I get it just a little more now: 'Get your eyes off yourself, Kim, and try doing something for someone else for a change.' Indeed, Ma. Indeed.

Pennies, nickels and a fistful of glitter

Pennies in a well. Nickels in the fountains of hotels.

When I was a child, I believed in this stuff. I wished once with all my might before tossing my penny that I might have friends from far away places and lots of them – ones who would just walk through life with me. To some, I'm sure I may as well have tossed a handful of glitter in the air, but I was a dreamer. Always a dreamer with a fistful of glitter.

My father always warned me about who I called 'friend' and that I was one lucky little girl if I could count my true friends on one hand at the end of life. Well 'cranberry sauce and call me lucky,' because maybe there was something to all that wishin' and tossin'. Now I admit, I've lost some I thought were 'friends' along the way (and maybe some to come). I've learned some lessons about who to really call friend the hard way – the very hard way in some cases. But still, when I look at my life and my friendships, in Dad's words, 'I'm one lucky little girl.'

This particular circle of friends – the four of us – are a unique bunch, let me assure you. And one friend within the circle is getting married in January. This means it's reunion time for the four of us of course. I can see it now. We'll get together and hash old times and talk everything from foreign policy to the President elect to whether or not we prefer relish on polish sausage dogs. And so this is my own attempt at a tribute to three of my best friends because I feel like giving a group hug and being mushy, though summing up friendship in what is supposed to be a short column is impossible to do. Nonetheless...

Negative Dave is the one getting married – though in talking to him now, I no longer have the right to call him this. I met Dave in college. We had some political science classes together and it didn't take me long to figure out that Dave was super smart and was a keeper, even though his negativity made me want to kick him in his scrawny shins every now and again. Instead, I'd annoy him and try to hush his negativity by stating things like, 'Dave, close your eyes and tell yourself the world is happy place. Aaauuummmmm....'

Dave also crashed on my couch – living off of bologna sandwiches and hot dogs no less – for a few months in Washington D.C. until he could 'get on his feet' while doing an internship at the National Defense University.

Long story short, Dave never got on his feet in D.C. (life has a funny way) and he ended up moving back to Arkansas where he finally got accepted into the military, earned his masters degree and is about to marry the love of his life. (I say finally, because Dave contracted malaria when he was a child in New Guinea. Dave was also scrawny, and the military had doubts about both I presume). Let's just say Dave grew up pretty humbly and has had to work very hard and eat a lot of protein shakes to get where he's gotten in life today. He is like the brother I never had, and his hard life experiences have made him wise beyond his years and given him a heart of gold for others going through tough situations. I'm quite proud of him and have always been able to talk to Dave about anything. Anything. He is also pretty protective of me – like a brother I guess.

Then there is Ryan, who I call 'Master' for choice reasons.

Ryan had the most intriguing 'Bozo the Clown' look in college with his thick, incredibly curly hair that went every which way. I had one class with him where I sat in the back and had the itch to get to know this boy just so I could touch his hair. I never got the chance. He left college shortly thereafter to attain his business degree from a better college with a reputable business program. But lucky me. I got to meet him (and touch his hair) for the first time at LeEtta's wedding a few years later (the third friend in this circle of friends who was also friends with Negative Dave from college), for they were good friends in college.

It only took meeting and talking to him once, and Ryan and I will be friends for life I have no doubt. I even convinced him to take a chance, put his money down and move to D.C. (I was way too pushy back then). He still works at the Pentagon. He is one of the sharpest men I know and is a 'master' of money among other things. He is also one of the most genuine, giving souls I've encountered in life. When I needed him in Colorado for a hard situation I was facing, he flew out. When I needed my butt kicked about getting serious about becoming debt free, Ryan was there (even if some of his comments were annoying). He always wants to hear me sing (preferably old church hymns), and has put up with Kimber (his nickname for me) during my most high strung moments in D.C. Trust me, only a real friend would have put up with me and continued hanging around me. I was wound tighter than a spool of thread, and Ryan would just smile his very own Ryan smile that said, 'I like you anyway. I really like you anyway.'

LeEtta (AKA Lettuce or L) has earned her very own master bedroom in my heart. Her sense of humor usually has me buckling in laughter. LeEtta was the one I knew I could call the morning (3 a.m.) after my mother died because I wanted to punch a wall. I knew she would answer, and she listened to me cry myself into a state of stupor before asking if I needed her to catch a flight and come out. She speaks her mind (boy does she speak her mind), and sometimes the fact that we are both pretty direct clashes, but we get over it because secretly, the fact that she is so direct is the thing I love about her the most because I always know where she stands. I love it when she writes me and says she's enjoying a cigar and thinking about life. We can sip peach wine together in our bare feet or watch Anne of Green Gables where we cry (boy do we cry) and laugh and cry and snort and then talk about our faith. L will also tell me if I'm out of line (like a true friend will do).

She is always thinking of others, and she doesn't get wrapped up in superficial agendas or facades. I love her with all my heart. And I know she will always love me.

I once asked her if I could ever do anything that would make her lose all respect or love for me, and she wrote me, 'You are a gift--truly a gift from God and I cherish that more than you will ever know or more than I probably will ever be able to express. But to be honest, you may disappoint me at times, but I have likewise have done the same to you, already. ...I hope that, when you do disappoint me and when I disappoint you that God will teach us how to show grace to one another so that our mistakes will sharpen us and deepen our friendship. I want to be old and gray and still calling you up to chat or hopping a plane to wherever you are just so I can laugh my (butt) off when your nose ring hole has enlarged because of old age and sagginess!' That's my L. Always my L.

So I think when I make the way overpriced trip to Arkansas in January (love ya, Dave), instead of packing along some hillbilly teeth as originally planned (love ya, Arkansas), I'm going to take along some pennies, some nickels and some glitter. But this time, my wishes and tosses will be more like offering up my own kind of thanks, because I have some of the best friends a little girl with a fistful of glitter could wish for.