The Land of Less is More—Mile #1—Cleaning out the closet

Today’s gargantuan leap in my journey to the Land of Less is More begins with my closet. 

I think I can.   I think I can.  I think I can.

I needed direction so I found a site with 7 simple steps.  http://www.happyslob.com/closets.html

I got scared off by the first step which says to take everything out of my closet, yes everything, so I developed my own system.

Angel’s Steps to Cleaning out the Closet.

Step 1:  Adopt this motto:  If you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly. 

Step 2:  Put on some music that gets you in the groove.

Step 3:  Sit down and drink a Red Bull and tell yourself you really need to get up and clean the closet.

Step 4:  Get a cardboard box.  Or seven.

Step 5:  Begin in the back where 700 hangers are crammed within an inch of space.  These are the clothes you more than likely haven’t worn in 10 years and are easier to say good-bye to.

Step. 6:  Attempt to try on a pair of size 8 capri pants that you love.

Step 7:  Sink into depression when you cannot get them over your pasty, jiggly thighs.

Step 8:  Relieve depression by eating a pack of Rolos from the case your husband bought you for Christmas.

Step 9:  Repeat steps 6 and 7, ad nauseam.

Step 10:  Regret that you recently cleaned out your email and unsubscribed from Weight Watchers, Losing it with Jillian Michaels, The Firm, and Spanx.

Step 11:  Resolve to lose weight in 2011.

Step 12:  Come to the harsh realization that you will never wear some of your clothes again.  Ever. 

Step 13:  Adopt this rule:  “If you haven’t worn it in a year, say adios to it.”

Step 14:  Get your butt back to work clearing out your clothes.

Step 15:  After 13 minutes, lose momentum and crash from your sugar high.

Step 16:  Waste an hour on facebook

Step 17:  Slap yourself three times and drag yourself back into the bedroom.

Step 18:  Work until you lose momentum…..about 10 minutes.

Step 19:  Take a nap on the couch since your bed is covered in clothes and cheap plastic hangers.

Step 20:  Wake up refreshed. 

Step 21:  Realize your husband needs a place to sleep tonight.  Get up and finish the job.

Step 22:  Take the boxes to a local charity.

Step 23:  Reward yourself with ice cream on the way home.

Step 24:  Step back and look at your clean closet and feel good about your accomplishment, but not your thighs.

Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do (The Twilight Zone Theme Song)

Bizarre happenings are occurring in the Wheeler household.

If you get real still you can hear the Twilight Zone theme song playing in the background.

I’m awaiting the aliens who have kidnapped my husband to return him from the planet XOK and switch out this phony they’ve left here. You do know how the aliens function don’t you? The sneak in and steal an earthling, replacing them with a duplicate, who looks and appears like the original, but some things are quite amiss. They haven’t fooled me.

I’m onto them.

I am basing my alien-invasion beliefs on several unexplained occurrences that I am documenting here.

1. My duplicated husband has turned off the T.V. Not just for an hour or two.
For days now.
For days and days and days.
He has grown tired of the crap. So in place of the constant blah, blah, blah of commercials screaming at us to fit in and buy some dooo-dad or another, we sit in silence.

2. My duplicated husband has ventured to the library and actually checked out books. After a couple of days of silence, he said he needed something good to read.

3. My duplicated husband has completed 2 books. With words.

4. My duplicated husband has declared The Antique Stores as his new favorite stomping grounds. He bought a coal oil lamp, and has been reading by it.

5. My duplicated husband is shaving the old-fashioned way by swirling a shaving brush in a mug with shaving soap. Oh, and he’s buttoning his shirts up all the way to the top. He looks so cute. I just might keep him instead.

But what if I’m being a little irrational? Maybe it’s not an alien invasion. My mantra in life is simplicity. I surround myself with reminders of it.

I long for the good ol’ days. I want to gather chicken eggs and milk goats. Can my own food and learn to knit. Go to bed by 8:30 and get up at 5:00. Jason has always longed for the good ol’ days as well. He hates technology and keeping up with the Jones’ mentality. He thinks facebook is the devil. And the three meals of the day are breakfast, dinner, and supper. Not breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Perhaps our battle cry of SIMPLIFY has finally reverberated our ears and sank deep down into our souls and now like the Kundalini serpent has awakened and is uncoiling itself.

Either way, we are on a mission for simplicity. We are gaining a new lifestyle. We are watering our own little patch of grass under our feet, the world in which we exist.

Jason hasn’t gone so extreme as to cut off electricity and running water……yet.
I’m not going as extreme as growing dreadlocks and only possessing 4 outfits…….yet.

This idea, this concept looks different for both of us. We are searching for a happy medium. For Jason it has begun with something as simple as turning off the T.V.
For me it’s going to start with baby steps too. First things first. I’m going to begin uncluttering my life, beginning with my closets and cabinets. Less is definitely more.
Instead of working harder and earning more to buy more, we are downsizing and living on less.

This may turn out to be a colossal failure. Or it may turn out to be a brand new life-style for us.
Only time will tell, but it’s the perfect time with 2011 inching closer and a move to a smaller, trailer house way less than fancy home in the very near future.

I’m going to blog our journey to the Land of Less is More.

It’s looks scary from here.

There are dragons to slay

We may even be eaten alive by flying monkeys, but if we do survive, I believe it will be worth it.

December 25th

Christmas 2010 is winding down friends.  I hope you enjoyed your day and your time with family.  I’m home alone for now, but soon will pick up my niece and head to some friends house for extended festivities.   I’m honored that they invite us to spend their Christmas day with them.  True friends.

I got blue this Christmas, I sometimes do that.  It’s just a part of my essence.  It’s  something I deal with occasionally.  Especially during those times that are supposed to be joyful.  While others post on facebook how much fun they’re having, I get blue.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s jealousy.  Maybe it’s self-pity. Perhaps it’s hormones.  There’s no telling.   

Sometimes Facebook posts make me feel like a voyeur, standing outside in the dark, peering through the window of somebody’s life.  The lamp and the Christmas tree put off a soft glow.  Families sit around a table, smiling, heads tipped back in laughter, a warm fire burning, popping, and crackling in the corner.   But it’s dark out here where I am and cold.  I wrap my arms around myself, pulling my coat tighter, longing to be a part of what they have.  Is it just me, or do you know what I mean?

But then I think, Really?  If you’re really enjoying your fabulous family, playing monopoly, and baking cookies, you wouldn’t be concerned about posting it on facebook, would you?

The grass ain’t always greener on the other side.  I’ve learned that.  I think the enemy tries to trick us into believing that.  In order to make us unhappy or unsettled with what we have.  When what we have, is exactly what we need.  I have everything I need right here. I am blessed beyond measure.

 Here’s our tree this year.  It’s artificial, for the first time since Jason and I have been married.  We strung popcorn and cranberries like we used to when I was a kid, and strung them up.  This is the first year I haven’t wanted to take it down.  More than likely, this is the last Christmas in this house as we are drawing closer to moving to our little trailer house on the prairie.  I’m going to make it last. 

The phone is ringing and Ashlynn is beckoning for me to come get her, so I must hurry and finish.  I wanted to wish you, my readers, a Merry Christmas.  I know it’s not the easiest time of the year for a lot of people, and can be a reminder of what we’ve lost and what we don’t have, what we may never have.  But remember that this is a day of Good News.  We have a Savior who can meet all our needs, who can sustain us through difficult times, who knows our heartaches and troubles.  Today is a celebration of Him.  Do not allow the enemy to steal your joy during this season. 

For unto you a child is born, unto you a Savior is given.
Unto YOU! 

Merry Christmas with oodles of love,

Angel

The Kitchen Sink

When I was a little girl I was walking on my kitchen countertops.  I was too old to be doing such tom foolery, but my age has never really stopped me in any of my acts of tom foolery.   Our kitchen on Seminole Lane was a U-shaped orange kitchen in every sense of the word.  Orange countertops, orange linoleum, orange canisters, orange, orange, orange.    I had a method of walking on the countertops.  If you imagine an upside down U, I started at the bottom, next to the refrigerator, made the turn at the top of the upside down U, then I’d step on the center of the stovetop, make the turn to the last leg of the U, walk the dangerously narrow ledge in front of the sink, down to the end of the countertop and then reverse it.  Perhaps it would help if I drew you a picture since that was really hard to describe.

While I paraded across the formica, I imagined the floor was a pool of bubbling, gurgling hot lava and I kept my footing sure.  Then the lava morphed into a swamp of murky water with snapping crocodiles leaping at my pinkie toes and I focused on my mission. 

I became a bit over-confident.   Being the expert countertop walker that I was, I needed to up the ante.   Maybe not look down.  Maybe not use the upper cabinets to steady my hand as I traversed the course of the countertops.   I was a tight rope walker, thrilling my fans below as the gasped at my speed.  Then I was a gymnast on the balance beam, leaping, the regaining my balance before my big finish. 

 I was at the very treacherous narrow ledge of the sink.  I was making my way across as I had numerous times before, when suddenly I began to lose my balance.  I couldn’t fall into the mire of snapping crocodiles or fall from the balance beam and disappoint my audience, so I went for it, taking a huge step to clear the sink and grab hold of the cabinets for security, when suddenly I felt my bare foot sink into a mushy, sticky, blackberry cobbler sitting on the counter next to the sink.

I don’t remember the rest.  I’ve tried purposely to forget.

Something to the effect that my sister and dad laughed mercilessly at my misfortune, and like bullies in a school yard they began chanting, “Cobbler foot, cobbler foot, Angel is a cobbler foot”  until I cried like a baby.  Then they continued.

I have never walked the countertops since.  But it hasn’t stopped me from loving cobbler.

So I stand corrected.  I do have a nickname.  Thank goodness, it didn’t stick (no pun intended).

What’s in a Name?

 I remember in upper elementary school and junior high before the teacher took roll on the first day of school, they would say “If there’s something else you’d like to be called, please let me know.”  Students like Johnathan preferred John, or Michael’s to Mike, Nicole’s went to Nicki, and the like.  I recall one girl who said she went by B.J., but the teacher adamantly refused to call her that!  Now in my classroom there are Madison’s that prefer Maddie, and Abigail’s that shorten it to Abby.  I was always just Angel. I secretly wanted to make one up for myself, but I’ve never been good at naming anything.   People would ask me if it was short for Angela, and no, it’s just Angel.

The story behind my name as reported by my mother, goes something like this.  My parents hadn’t picked out a name yet, my mom went into labor in the early morning, the hateful nurse on duty didn’t believe my mom when she warned her she was about to spit out a kid, so she hum-hawed around and didn’t call the doctor, therefore the doctor didn’t arrive in time and I was born with only my mom and the hateful nurse.  My mother states that she said the following beautiful words, “She’s such an angel.  All she needs is wings.”

They left the hospital a couple days later, only to have the hospital call the house informing my mom that a birth certificate needed to be assigned and I hadn’t been given a name yet.  So my mom places the phone on her shoulder and hollers to my dad in the other room that they need to decide on a name.  From there, the story is foggy.  I do know my dad didn’t want me to be called Angel because it wouldn’t look good if I turned out to be a bar maid.  But nonetheless I ended up as Angel, which might reveal something about my parents’ marriage.

The story behind my name as told by me, goes something like this.   I was the fourth child so by this time no one gave a crap, as evidenced by my baby book which only has the first page filled in, minus the hateful nurse’s name. 

I’ve always liked nicknames and I’ve always felt a little bit left out that I’ve never had one. I like an original nickname.  We know of one fellow called Punk and another Button.  I also like nicknames that just don’t fit with given names.

My grandfather on my mother’s side had a nickname for almost everybody.  And not just the kind that you shorten or make cute like Bill to Billy.

Here’s a run-down of some of my family members and their nicknames that Pop christened them with, I think.  There may be a mistake or two or an extra explanation and hopefully someone will pipe in and correct me.

(cousin) David Russell—a.k.a. Rusty
(cousin) Jay Scott—a.k.a.  Charlie
(cousin) Curtis—a.k.a. Theophilis shortened to sophilis
(brother) Stan—a.k.a.  Johnny
(brother) Steve— a.k.a. Stoop supposedly for stupendous, but I know Steve-O and it makes me wonder.

Aunt Frances—-a.k.a. Speedy
Aunt Bert—a.k.a. Shorty
(mom) Anne— a.k.a. Annabelle
(grandmother)Imogene—a.k.a.  Emmer
(great aunt) Mary— a.k.a.  Bummer

He died soon after I was born and he never nicknamed me.  I wonder what he might’ve called me. His nicknaming reminds me of a friend of Jason’s.  His name is Will but friends know him by Wild West Willy.

 He has an art for naming. He’s got a ranch called the Rocking Sombrero and gets ribbed a little by friends that his brand looks a little too much like the Arby’s hat.  He is the one who dubbed Jason J-Dub, his horse is called Pidinker, his dog Itty-Bitty, and his grandson Leroy, although not his given name of course.

The closest I’ve ever gotten to a nickname is auntie.  My niece Ashlynn calls me that, and like mothers and fathers who call each other mom and dad, Jason picked it up, now some friends call me that from time to time. 

What about you?  Are you nicknamed?  Do you love it or hate it? 

The Age

It’s Saturday.  Yesterday’s beautiful snow is lying in dirty spots here and there hidden in shadows from the sun.  Up against fences, in flower beds, in corners of the yards.  The rest has melted away.  Today is the first of a 16 day break from work/school for me and I am ecstatic.  So ecstatic that I awoke before 4 a.m. ready for my vacation. 

I do believe I’ve hit “the age”.  The age where you wake up early even when you don’t want to.  The age where you no longer fly out of bed ready to start the day, but rather step lightly and gingerly to the easy chair to give your joints a bit more time to warm up.  The age where you long for peace and quiet instead of people and noise. 

Last night J-Dub and I went to a little Christmas social then decided to go to the video store and look at magazines and videos.  After perusing a good 20 or 30 minutes, we left empty handed.  Walking out to the truck I said I just wanted to put on my jammies, drink something hot, and read a couple pages in a book before falling asleep.
He agreed. 
It wasn’t quite 9:00. 
So we’ve hit the age. 
Big deal.

Sometimes we reminisce about when we were children and we would eat with our grandparents at Furr’s Cafeteria, which has long since shut down and been replaced with a Mexican Food restaurant.  In our memories, old people lined the hall of the cafeteria, had employees carry their heavy trays while they struggled with their canes and walkers, and blew their noses in the maroon cloth napkins. 

Last weekend we went into the big city and in an attempt to avoid the crowds went shopping at antique stores.  I saw drinking glasses that I used at my aunt’s house, toys I played with as a young child, dishes from my grandmother’s cupboards, Little Golden Books I’ve read, and knick-knacks that sat on my mother’s dresser.  I’ve hit the age where almost all the antiques offer a memory. 

 Afterwards we decided to treat ourselves to Furr’s Cafeteria.  We got our trays and our napkin-wrapped silverware, which is now paper napkin-wrapped, and went through the line.  I tried desperately to veer from my childhood choices.  I was going to try something new and different.  After all, I am an adult now.  But it was as if some force from the past controlled me.  I wanted to order roast beef and green salad.  But it was as if I was a marionette whose puppeteer was manipulating my hand choosing baked fish and tartar sauce, fried okra, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes and gravy, a hot roll, and even when I longed desperately for pie, I was compelled to choose tapioca pudding with the whipped cream and cherry.  All the things from my childhood.  All the dishes I’ve ever eaten in all my outings to Furr’s cafeteria.  It was a delight.  It wasn’t the best food we’ve ever had but it was different from the restaurants we usually eat.  At the booth I had trouble hearing Jason a couple of times and had to ask, “Huh?”  He pointed out that I was “fitting right in” at Furr’s.

That day in Amarillo I relived bits and pieces of my past.  I thought of my grannie who served Saturday morning pancakes in stacks of four cut in triangles on those same Fiesta plates from the antique mall.

I thought of my parent’s red bedroom, with red carpet, and a red crushed velvet headboard when I gazed upon that glass rooster that used to sit on their dresser filled with change and such.

I thought of our kitchen wall with those coca-cola trays with the old fashioned women encouraging us to Enjoy Coke. 

I thought of scary Friday the 13th movies and Jason’s mask when I saw an old barn picture that used to hang in our home.  It always reminded me of a killing spree on Friday the 13th and I was scared of it. hu, hu, hu, ch, ch, ch…..hu, hu, hu, ch, ch, ch……I studied it for a long time.  It was smaller than I remember and so benign-looking 15 years later. 

The past is gone and all that is left are my memories.  Eventually those will pass too.  And some day, this Saturday with the melting snow will be a memory that I will be trying to grasp hold of.  Our lives are like a dream.  The kind where you wake up and you don’t remember it all, just a moment here and there.  You close your eyes and try to return to it because it was pleasant.  But all you have is a snippet here and a fragment there and the pieces don’t come together quite right.  And you long to re-visit, but you can’t.  You just can’t. 

And that’s one reason why I write.   These memories need a place to live.

When Life Gives you Rainclouds……..

My husband sometimes says he feels like life is kicking him where it counts. Those aren’t his words however, he’s much more blunt than I.  And even though I don’t own a set of “where it counts”, I’m finding myself doubled over in pain. 

When my husband’s life gets hard, I imagine a cartoon boy, his hands in his pockets, his head cast down, the sun is shining around him, but he has a dark, stormy rain cloud hanging over his head.  If he walks to the east, the rain cloud hovers above him.  When he turns to go to the west, the rain cloud moves with him.  Even as others sunbathe on the beach or run through meadows of wildflowers, he cannot escape his rain cloud.  He goes through life with a raincloud and no umbrella.  I think I must have seen this cartoon a long time ago and have recently dug it out of the file cabinets of my brain.

The last couple of months, the cartoon boy in my imagination has morphed into a cartoon woman.  A thirty-five year old woman to be precise.  One possibly on the verge of a mid-life crisis.  One with graying hair, a bad memory, and love of pound cake.  Whose name starts with an A and ends with a NGEL. 

My preacher says something like, “If you’re not presently going through a storm of life, you’re either coming out of one, or about to head into one.” 

Tonight, in the midst of my whining and moaning and the poor pitiful me’s of life, I took 2 ibuprofens to kill the pains of existence (I’m a real risk-taker, eh?) and decided to take a hot shower.  I dried off and my towel smelled so fresh and clean.  A simple pleasure.  I put on my night clothes and crawled under my covers at 7:15.  Another simple pleasure.   

I opened my Bible, and even though God didn’t jump off the pages and scream profound revelations directly in my ear, I received peace and a bit of serenity.  Or perhaps the ibuprofens were kicking in. Har Har.

Then I read part of a memoir called “A Three Dog Life”  about a woman’s struggles to make a different life after her husband receives a traumatic brain injury and loses his memory. 

And then I felt ashamed of myself. 

As I sit in my bed, under my covers, comfortable and safe and healthy,  I am reminded no matter how awful and bad I think my life gets, it’s a walk in the park compared to others who have been dealt a far worse hand than I.  

I am reminded that no matter how heavy and dark my rain cloud appears, “He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.” Matthew 5:45 

And I am reminded that rain allows for some beautiful harvests. How am I to grow and change and become a new creation without it?  “Sow for yourselves righteousness; Reap in mercy; Break up your fallow ground, For it is time to seek the Lord, Till He comes and rains righteousness on you.”  Hosea 10:12

And I just wanted to share this with you.

Find your simple pleasures.

May God Bless You,
Angel

Simple pleasures