Katdish.net

By “social media guru” standards, I suppose I don’t have many followers on the twitter – 954 at last count. But that’s certainly more than I could ever really keep up with. But the great thing about tweetdeck is that you can create a “favorites” column to keep up with your favorite tweeters. Bridget Chumbley certainly falls into that category. Always kind, always encouraging. And did I mention she’s a very good writer? Also? She quoted me – which has nothing to do with the fact that she’s guest posting. (It’s just nice to hear someone else quote me besides my kids, because they use my words against me.)

Here’s Bridget with some thoughts on Regret:

I’ve found myself spending a lot of time recently dwelling on regrets. Some regrets are for things I’ve said or done that caused hurt and pain, some revolve around situations that were completely out of my control, while others resulted from a lack of comprehension, simply because I was young and immature…

Growing up, I used to get really angry and frustrated with my mom. She’s struggled with health issues and chronic pain for as long as I can remember, but as a child I tended to be selfish and focused on how it would affect me…not how hard it was on her (physically as well as emotionally). There were times we’d be driving to Disneyland (or somewhere else I REALLY wanted to go), and half-way there we’d have to turn around and go home, because she’d be sick or hurting.

1Corinthians 13:11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

I’m not sure how you dealt with disappointment when you were young, but I got pretty upset. I’d sit in the car with steam coming out my ears, insensitive to the fact my mom was obviously feeling guilty enough without my ‘tantrum’ in the backseat. Now that I’m older (and I hope wiser), I understand what she was dealing with, and what a constant struggle it was for her to plan those family outings, never knowing what each day would have in store for her body.

Another regret is of a time I was being babysat while my parents were at work. The babysitter decided we’d take a ride on her bike up to our local store. This was NOT something we were supposed to do while she watched me, and to top it off she put me on the handlebars! Sadly, she hit the curb with the front tire, and subsequently I hit the gravel driveway (face-first). I ended up in the emergency room, with much of my face left behind on the road.

I don’t remember most of what happened (being unconscious can do this), but I’ve been told that when I was able to talk, I blamed my babysitter for the ‘accident’. I was upset and scared, and said a lot of things I didn’t mean!

Most of us have had moments like this, we’re hurt or afraid and we speak before thinking…then when we’ve come to our senses, we apologize and hopefully we’re forgiven and we move on. Well, not long after this ‘incident’, before I realized how stupid and childish I was being, my babysitter was killed in a tragic school bus accident. When I read her name off the list of deceased students in the newspaper, I remember being shocked and full of regret…why didn’t I just say I was sorry?

Many years later, during the summer of my freshman year of high school, I spent a few weeks with some relatives in Connecticut. It was a great trip (my first one without parents along), but about 2 weeks into the trip, I received news that my dear friend Brian (we’d had a crush on each other for years) had been killed in a horrible car accident, along with his dad.

Needless to say I was devastated. Not only didn’t I get a chance to say good bye to Brian, I also missed the funeral by the time they were able to reach me. I went to the cemetery as soon as I got back home, but it wasn’t the same. I still have a deep regret for things left unsaid and unresolved…

Now I’m an adult (at least according to my age), and I’ve had plenty of lessons taught to me (some harder than others)… life is short, take nothing for granted…take opportunities as they arise, because there might not be others…

Ephesians 4:32 Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

Why then is it still so hard to do what we know to be right? There are situations I need to put in the past… words left unspoken… people I need to forgive (starting with myself)… but it’s a constant struggle! I know better than to procrastinate, yet here I sit with a heavy heart and a stubborn head!

“Forgiving others is a gift we give ourselves” ~ katdish

It’s never too late to show compassion, and Jesus Christ gave us the ultimate example of forgiveness! Should we continue living with regrets and heartache, or are we ready to give ourselves that priceless gift and finally let go?

***

To read more from Bridget Chumbley, visit her at One Word at a Time and follow her on the twitter at @bridgetchumbley.

“Every time you don’t follow your inner guidance, you feel a loss of energy, loss of power, and sense of spiritual deadness.” -Shakti Gawain

“If you do not ask yourself what it is you know, you will go on listening to others and change will not come because you will not hear your own truth.” -Saint Bartholomew

“I believe, first of all, in God, and next to all in Mary McLeod Bethune.” -Mary McLeod Bethune

Having spent a large portion of my life allowing other people’s opinions shape who I thought I was, at some point I had an epiphany. I realized that some of those opinions were without merit and simply wrong. This one in particular:

If I believed in such things, I would say I simply stumbled upon the things I was good at quite by accident. But I have come to believe that everything happens for a reason — even if God never reveals said reasons to us. I also believe we all know on some level what our gifts are and that we should not allow ourselves the luxury or the burden of being deeply affected by either high praise or profound criticism.

We trust God first and foremost, and we trust ourselves. Because the Master Creator of the heavens and earth reveals in His Word this assurance:

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139: 14-16

For most stories about Trust, visit the blog carnival going on at One Word at a Time.

I am of the opinion that people have a right to their own privacy, whether in deed or in word. “Mind your own business” is what my mother always told me, often with a wagging finger in my face for effect. The lesson was taught both early and often— Jesus doesn’t like eavesdropping.

Which is why I don’t eavesdrop, I research. Jesus doesn’t mind research.

I spent the better part of a recent morning in a coffee shop researching Tori, Laura, and Heather, the three twenty-something women at the next table. Very bright, very opinionated, and very vocal. In the twenty minutes I listened to them, they touched upon everything from politics to the environment to who’s doing what to whom on their favorite television show.

I was about to turn my attention to the newspaper in front of me when Laura mentioned the fact that the most recent episode wasn’t very realistic. It seemed as though one of the main characters was in a delicate position involving an unwanted pregnancy.

“Seriously,” she said, “why doesn’t she just have an abortion? No one would blame her.”

Heather took a sip of her coffee and nodded, then flicked a crumb onto the floor. “I gotta say I would,” she answered. “I really don’t see another way out for her.”

Tori, I noticed, remained silent through the recap. Her shoulders had closed in and her hands were folded around her coffee cup, as if she were trying to shrink herself enough to be forgotten.

Unfortunately and as is often the case, trying to go unnoticed was exactly what made her stand out.

“What do you think, Tori?” Laura asked.

Tori’s grip tightened around the sleeve on her cup, and she ran her other hand up and down the leg of her jeans to smooth away a wrinkle that wasn’t there.

It was pretty obvious what her opinion of the situation was; agreement with her friends wouldn’t have given her cause to be so anxious. No, I decided that Tori held the opposite view. The question was whether she would play along or be honest.

She chose honest.

“I’d keep it,” she said. “I’d find a way.”

“Seriously?” asked Heather. “You would seriously keep that baby?”

“Yes.”

Laura let out a snort. “Please tell me you’re joking,” she said.

“I’d keep it,” said Tori.

The three sat in silence, unsure how to proceed. Changing the subject would be good. Ignoring the comment would be better. Heather glanced at her watch, hoping she would remember somewhere else she had to be.

But then Tori found her courage.

“I don’t think she should kill that baby.”

Uh-oh.

“She’s not killing anything, Tori,” said Laura. “There’s nothing there to kill.”

Heather nodded. “She’s just a few weeks pregnant, Tor,” she said.

Tori shrugged an I-don’t-care. “I don’t think it’s right.”

Laura shook her head. “You know Tor, if there’s anyone at this table who should be pro-choice, it’s you.”

“You got that right,” echoed Heather.

I wasn’t sure what was meant by that. Evidently Tori shared my sentiment.

“Why would you say that?” she asked them.

Heather and Laura exchanged an uncomfortable look between them, as if what they had to say was both obvious and awkward.

“Hello?” asked Tori.

“You’re black,” Laura said.

My eyes widened. How could a conversation about a television show turn into a discussion about abortion and race?

“So?” Tori asked.

“If there’s anyone who should appreciate freedom, it’s you,” said Heather. “Your ancestors were robbed of their rights, but you have them all. I think you’d be protective of them.”

“But it’s a baby,” Tori said. “You can’t kill a baby.”

“It’s not a baby,” stated Laura. “It’s not even considered a person.”
Tori took a long sip of coffee and stared at her friends. “Maybe that’s why I don’t think she should have an abortion,” she said. “Maybe that’s why I think it’s wrong.”

“I don’t get it,” Heather said. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

“You say if anyone should be pro-choice, it’s me? I don’t think so. I think if anyone should be pro-life, it’s me. Someone has to say that baby is a person. Someone has to stand up for him, just like someone stood up for my ancestors.”

“What are you saying, Tori?” asked Laura.

“I’m saying that you can’t sit there and say that baby isn’t a person, because two hundred years ago people would say I wasn’t a person, either.”

***

To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at at his new website and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.

Back on September 22, I posted a short series of haikus entitled Platypus Rainbow in honor of having outpatient surgery that day. (Just smile and nod like you understand.) I also invited everyone to post their own haikus.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the HLAC Comments Section:

Dory said:

May I start by submitting an old one I did on my blog when I was bragging that I knew so much about wrestling that I could write a haiku about a half nelson?

Hand under the arm
free arm under the other
lock together wrists

Helen said:

The supermarket
is the perfect place to dance
for those named Helen

Nick the Geek said:

This week is busy
Oh boy I am very tired
Please pass the Monster

Marni said:

Here’s a haiku about my experience in the elementary school drop off line this morning…

Can’t take turns in line.
Why be mean fourth grade parents?
God saw that, white jeep!

Steph at the Red Clay Diaries said:

Oh Katdish wake up
Your audience awaits you.
Tweet some crazy sh*t

Steph at the Red Clay Diaries said:

I almost forgot
About the haiku challenge.
Thank you for the Tweet

Annie K said:

Steph said a bad word
But Katdish won’t give a rip
She’s looped on pain meds

BridgetChumbley said:

Katdish is my twitter idol
Her tweets make everyone smile
Fried pie is amazing

BridgetChumbley said:

I had an inspiration for another so here goes:

The twitter is lonely today
It just doesn’t feel the same
That’s what she said

David said…

My nose is dripping.
Katdish advice, Why’d I listen?
Silly Neti Pot.

Hope you feel better soon.

Jason said:

Once upon a time
Little fairies drove steamboats
Don’t shake a baby

Marni said:

Email from Sherri
What kind of meat do you like?
Ha! TWSS.

Glynn said:

Katdish surgerized;
Asleep, cracking herself up.
Time for a rant soon.

Helen said:

Twitter ho’s unite
to comfort our wounded friend
surround her with love

Beth said:

Dude! Jason, I’m not even on pain killers and that CRACKED ME UP. Why? I have no idea…

Strange sense of humor
I embrace you like the night
Lemming tortilla

Sarah Salter said:

I like to call this one “Frog”:

It is still raining
I have mud between my toes
Oh no! A Truck! Splat.

Shark Bait said:

Once I had a life.
It was full and rewarding.
Now I have a blog.

Annie K said:

Oh our dear Katdish
We are having so much fun
At your expense. Dang.

Sarah Salter said:

And now, “Cricket”:

Shiny black cricket
A tasty treat for the cat
Chirp! Crunch. Then, silence.

(I think Haiku brings out my dark side…)

Vanities of Vanities said:

Must obey Father
Despite your persecution
Here, still not a Twit

Doug Spurling said:

What is a haiku
a poem of some kind
or Chuck Norris

A VERY brief twitter update this week. Sorry, I’m pretty stoked about some other news, which I will get to in a minute. For now, here’s the shortest twitter update ever:

@peterpollock: The slave driver has put me to work again!…. just sayin’

@katdish: @PeterPollock Mush! Mush!

***

@katdish: @billycoffey Thanks. Staying busy?

@billycoffey: @katdish Sigh…yes. And cold and wet.

@katdish: @billycoffey Oh, don’t fret. I have a feeling your week will end on a high note.

@BridgetChumbly: @katdish All this ‘code’ talk between you and @billycoffey is driving me crazy! Will we get to hear this news on Friday, or no???

@billycoffey: @BridgetChumbly Hmmm….

@katdish: @BridgetChumbley Stay tuned….

***

@katdish: RT @PeterPollock: I’m scared this morning. I was woken up by orders given through twitter DM’s… I’m just obeying, it’s safest //Mwha ha ha

***

So what’s the big news? Well, hang on…I tell you in just a minute. But first…

Billy has done some really great interviews. I’ve enjoyed each and every one of them. But no one does an interview quite like my pal Matt at the Church of No People. Here’s a brief excerpt from Billy Coffey’s latest interview with Matt:

Your writing has a signature style. It’s been said by readers such as myself that it can be calming like a butterfly, fierce and poignant like a tiger, or ironic like a three-legged dog. What do you say?

I would say my style resembles a three-legged dog who gets so distracted by chasing a butterfly that he doesn’t see the tiger that comes along and eats him.

Now as a test of writing dexterity, I’m thinking of three random things: a hula-hoop, a pudding cup, and that three-legged dog from the previous question. Can you write an inspiring story using all three?

To read how Billy answers this and other questions, hop on over to Matt’s blog,
The Church of No People. I’ll wait right here….

Are you back so soon? Did you go read the interview? Good, huh?

Okay. Here’s the big news: I’m not going to tell you. You have to go HERE. to read about it. Okay…bye!

I would venture to guess that the vast majority of those reading this post have already read the following excerpt by Robert Fulghum at least once. Having said that, I sometimes need a reminder of the simple truths found within this book, and I hope you don’t mind me sharing them here.

All I Ever Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

– by Robert Fulghum

Most of what I really need to know about how to live, and what to do, and how to be, I learned in Kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the sandbox at nursery school.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.
Play fair.
Don’t hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don’t take things that aren’t yours.
Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life.
Learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work some every day.

Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out into the world, watch for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.
Be aware of wonder.
Remember the little seed in the plastic cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the plastic cup – they all die. So do we.

And then remember the book about Dick and Jane and the first word you learned, the biggest word of all: LOOK . Everything you need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation, ecology and politics and sane living.

Think of what a better world it would be if we all – the whole world – had cookies and milk about 3 o’clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankets for a nap. Or if we had a basic policy in our nation and other nations to always put things back where we found them and clean up our own messes. And it is still true, no matter how old you are, when you go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together.

EDITOR’S NOTE: I am currently working on a revised version of this list where I will contrast and compare Mr. Fulghum’s wisdom with that of one of my favorite television shows. It will be delightful, I’m sure. Stay tuned…

I asked Steph of the Red Clay Diaries to guest post for me roughly six months ago.

Then I asked her again.

Then I said, “Steph, seriously – just give me SOMETHING!”

So she says, “Like what?”, and I say, “Voodoo Doberman.” So she says, “Oh, okay.”

(insert sound of crickets chirping here)

Then I say, “You’re going to have to email it to me, because I’m can’t do EVERYTHING!” Then she called me pushy or something like that and says, “You’re not the boss of me!”

(That might not be our conversation verbatim, but pretty darned close.)

Without further adieu, Here’s Steph of the Red Clay Diaries:

Based on the blog name, you might think that as an outsider, I am making fun of the rural South. But here’s the truth:

I grew up in California, but in the part that nobody knows about: central California. During my teen years, my family lived in a single-wide mobile home – with the wheels still on – on one dusty acre behind my parents’ junk store.

Yes. Junk store.

Surrounded by cotton fields and dairies, our household consisted of four people, five dogs, one horse, and anywhere from five to twenty chickens.

One of our dogs was named Buffalo, and he had issues with cats. He hated them. When we moved to the country, he quickly transferred this animosity to the chickens. In fact, Buffalo made it his mission to purge our property of poultry.

I heart alliteration.

My dad built a Buffalo-proof pen, so the dog spent most of the day glaring through the wire at his feathered enemies. He was biding his time, because he had learned that my little sister wasn’t consistent at latching the chicken gate. She forgot about once every three months.

Chickens being, well, chickens, an open gate drew them out into the yard. And to their demise. It never happened when we were home, so here’s what we gathered from forensic evidence:

Buffalo waited until all the chickens left the pen. Then he systematically killed them. And stacked them in a neat pile against the fence. Obsessive-compulsive? We never knew for sure.

My parents tried every solution, but Buffalo could not be broken of his chicken habit. As a last resort my dad tried something that the old-timers swore by: letting the animal live with the consequences of his actions – literally.

So, after the next killing spree, my dad chose a dead chicken – our biggest rooster, as it happened – and tied the carcass to Buffalo’s collar. The idea was to leave it there until your dog grew to hate chickens, and then he’d never go near them again.

So hanging from our Doberman’s neck, tied by the feet and dragging on the ground, was a chicken pendant. A chicken necklace. A chicken choker.

This training method did not have the desired effect. Buffalo soon adjusted to the weight and awkwardness of his new accessory. And apparently the smell. In fact, I think he kind of forgot it was there.

Days passed, and the rooster rotted in the 100-degree heat. We girls spent our time dodging a 90-pound dog as he dragged around what looked like a large feather duster. A large smelly feather duster that kept shedding body parts all over the yard.

Even my dad questioned his plan when he realized that he’d lost his junk store dog. He couldn’t really lock Buffalo and a dead chicken in the store every night.

So eventually Dad decided to remove the carcass, and there was much rejoicing in the land. But when Buffalo greeted us that morning, something was missing. At first it looked like the chicken had finally disintegrated.

But then we saw it: Buffalo had removed the chicken himself, by chewing it off at the feet.

The only thing hanging from his collar now, like the necklace of a voodoo queen, was a pair of large bright-yellow chicken feet.

See? Rednecks = my people. The soil may be red here instead of brown, but it feels like home to me.

In your FACE, Jeff Foxworthy!

***

To read more from Stephanie Wetzel, visit her at The Red Clay Diaries and follow her on the twitter at @redclaydiaries.

Last week, quite suddenly and inexplicably, my neck started hurting. It started out as a nagging, muscular thing. By Sunday morning it was downright debilitating. I made it to church, even made it through the worship set. But as soon as we got home I put on my jammies, took some extra strength Excedrin and spent most of the day lying on a heating pad. As I write this post, I am still in pain. I have an appointment with a chiropractor, but until then, all I can do is manage the pain as best I can.

Sometimes that’s all we can do, isn’t it? Manage the pain. We know (or at least we think we know) how to alleviate it, but sometimes all the other stuff in our lives takes precedent over immediate relief. So we endure and try to compensate.

Here’s what I learned over the past few days about compensating — too often we overcompensate. The pain that began at the base of the right side of my neck soon found a new home at the base of my skull, then radiated up the back of my head and behind my right eye. I didn’t stop the pain, I simply chased it to another location. I’m guessing I will continue to chase the pain from one place to another until I can get some relief. Because I’ve got to feel like I’m doing something other than simply enduring. Right?

Maybe not. Perhaps we’re meant to endure some things. Because without enduring the pain we can never truly appreciate the healing.

My observation, anyway.

I usually don’t introduce Billy Coffey’s posts here, because let’s face it — no one comes here on Monday to read what I have to say. But hey — this is my blog after all, and I couldn’t be prouder to present Billy’s first ranting post. Not incessantly ranting, but still…

***

My daughter is perched on my lap in front of the television. Her blond hair pokes me in the eyes and tickles my lips, but she’s almost asleep and I dare not move. Besides, I like her here. Every little girl belongs on her father’s lap.

The show we’ve been watching goes to a commercial, where I see three boys prancing around a stage surrounded by thousands of screaming prepubescent girls. The noise is enough to stir the little blondie on my knee.

“Yuck,” she says.

“What’s yuck?”

“Them.”

“I thought all girls loved them,” I say.

“I don’t,” she answers. “I love you.”

She rests her head back onto my shoulder and I smile. There are a lot of things I’m still not doing right when it comes to raising a daughter to be a woman, but I’m doing okay with this one.

From what I understand, the three boys on our TV are the types of males women seem attracted to nowadays. The guys who know more about hand cream than their mothers. The ones who exfoliate, wear pink shirts, and like to talk about their feelings.

This is what most women call men nowadays. My father has another word for them—pansies.

The Oprahfication of our society is such that we’ve been told the male of old is outdated and barbaric. That we’re mean and nasty and dirty. There’s no place for Neanderthals in the modern age. We must evolve into kinder, more nurturing people.

Somehow along the way kindness was remade into softness and “nurture” was turned into “neuter.”

I still blame men for this. Yes, my own kind is at fault here. More than anyone, guys are to blame for allowing themselves to buckle under the whims of convention.

I’ve heard faint grumblings lately that men are making a comeback. Manly men. And for that I am exceedingly grateful. If there was ever a time when the world needed more real men, it’s now.

The problem is we’ve gone so long since the manly man was common that no one knows how to spot the real ones from the fakes. Wearing flannel shirts, lifting weights, and cussing a lot doesn’t make you a manly man. There’s a little more to it.

So for the uninitiated and the confused, I offer this little primer on what it means to be a manly man.

A manly man does not draw attention to himself. He blends in rather than stands out, does much more than he says, and his eyes will say much more than his words ever could.

He knows the realities of this world, that despair and conflict are the norm rather than the exception. But even as he sees the way things are, he will work toward what should be.

A manly man knows the unimportant moments are just as meaningful as the important ones. No matter how alone he is, Someone is always watching.

He is eager to open his hand to help the helpless, and willing to close it to defend the defenseless.

A manly man is at ease regardless of his surroundings. He is a man of the world and yet untouched by it.

A manly man is by nature kind and compassionate, but those traits have their limits. He is not a doormat and will refuse to be stepped on.

He knows it is better to die with courage than to live without a spine.

A manly man knows that there is no equality of the sexes. Women are a step above men and should always be treated as such. To make a woman a man’s equal is to make her less than she is.

A manly man knows that this world is not his home and keeps his end in mind. He is ready to die, whether it be on a battlefield ten thousand miles away or a bed in the next room. And he knows that it isn’t the manner of death that defines him, but how that death is faced.

And maybe most of all, a manly man knows he will not always act like one. He knows that he is fallible and fallen, beaten and scarred. His mistakes and faults are many, and yet he owns them. He sees the darkness in his heart and yet chooses daily to stand in the light.

That is a manly man. Someone worthy of one day taking the hand of the blondie snoozing on my knee. I hope she finds him. And I hope that once she does she hangs on to him tight.

Because there are far too many kittens out there and far too few lions.

***

To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at What I Learned Today and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.