The Big House

So this year, my son started a new school, a private school that I love. Seems that during the first week of school, he and a kid, C, in his class hit it off. He invited my son to his birthday party, which was a deep-sea fishing trip. His dad is the founder and CEO of a successful business. And his mom is a stay-at-home-mom who dabbles in fashion and interior designing.

After the fishing trip, hubby came home to tell me that C's parents had actually split a few months earlier. Nothing shocking these days. They do the every-other-weekend thing and everything that goes along with it.

So, today, I dropped off my son at C's mom's house for the first time. We drove into the neighborhood and my daughter squealed at the sizes of the homes. (On a side note, I've been frustrated with my own housing situation. After being a home-owner twice, we are now renting and wanting to build. But the time and the money hasn't been right.)

"Can we live in a big house like this one day?" (I mean, we're talking mansions, okay?)

"I hope so," I said. "We do need the room."

When we got to C's house, his mother greeted me at the door and invited me in. She was perfectly pulled together. Lipstick, outfit, manicure. I was in tank top, jeans and flip flops. She's older than I am by about 20 years. She has a thick Russian accent and when she speaks, I have to lean in and watch her speak or else I get lost in the words. It's almost work to have a conversation with her, but not in a bad way.

She's actually refreshingly different. Her home is filled with huge colorful paintings and big vases stuffed with freshly picked flowers. Seems she's dabbled in gardening as well. She planted every plant in her vast, colorful garden, she said, pointing out of a window that ran the entire length of the living room.

"Have a seat," she said and pulled out a chair. From where I sat, I could see the sparkling clean pool. So serene. "Your house is beautiful," I said.

She had designed it, and lived there for 15 years along with her husband and child, who I had been told was adopted. My daughter and 3-year-old had come along for the ride, but they had run off into a play room in the back.

She gave me the short of it. She and her (soon-to-be-ex) husband had married overseas, adopted a child and moved to the states to start their business. (He is American.) And then she stopped in mid-sentence and looked down at her hands as if studying her perfectly polished fingernails.

"You know, C has been having a very hard time and I am so glad he and your son are friends," she said.

I smiled and nodded. She paused. I saw her eyes well up with tears and finally, she said "My husband left me for other woman. I got the papers on my 50th birthday you know."

Our eyes were already locked, and I just said to her "I'm so sorry."

She told me about the month, the day, her world fell apart. Sometime back in May. "C did not know he was adopted until Mr. B (she calls him refers to her ex as 'Mr.', almost as if out of spite) told him last month. That was right after I got the papers."

So what she had just told me was that C found out his parents were divorcing and that he was adopted all in the same month. All in May. Poor baby.

She left the table briefly and returned with five multi-colored photo albums. She showed me the happy days of her life--the day she and her husband opened their business (there she was, about 10 years younger, at the ribbon-cutting ceremony) and the day they brought C home from overseas. His first birthday (the theme was balloons and bears) and his first Christmas; he was almost lost beneath the pile of colorfully wrapped gifts.

Such happy memories, but here she was, falling apart.

The kids ran back into the room and anounced that "E peed on the floor."

Oh, what timing. Leave it to Mr. E. He had wet his pants and it ended up all over the marble floor. C's mother quickly dried her eyes and closed the final album I had in front of me. "It's OK," she said. "Your children so beautiful. All same ages. All growing up with mom and dad together."

Before I left, I told her that I hoped we could sit and chat again. She looked hopeful. "I have no family here," she told me. "That would be so nice."

As we drove out of that neighborhood, the mansions looked a little smaller, and a little less inviting. I wanted my blue-collar husband and our blue-collar house more than ever. (One day, we'll get the big house and I know it's right around the corner."

But like I told hubby "I don't want a big house without you."

Anyway, I hope to see C's mom again. Maybe for coffee one day.

The fruit cup that saved my butt (and my $1,000)

Tuesday morning was rough.

It began with a fairly innocent phone call. "Don't forget to pay Ricky the rent," hubby said. "The money's in your purse."

I was sitting at my desk around 8 when I called Ricky, our landlord, who is a trip. When we hung up, the plan was that he would swing by the job and get the cash. Yes, there was this envelope that had many, many hundred-dollar bills rolled up in it. And it had his name on it.

After I hung up the phone, I searched my purse for the envelope. It wasn't there. So I called hubby, who insisted that the money was in my purse; our pleasant conversation quickly turned into panic.

And then, we both recalled the previous night--ugh.

"You threw it away," he said, as if the revelation hit him like a bag of bricks, his voice trembling. "Whaaaaaa?" I said. I wasn't even standing, but my knees were weak. And in my mind, I could see the previous night.

It was a simple, stupid argument over the stranger with the rash. (I know, it's crazy.)

So, this guy leaves me this voice mail that goes like this: "Hey, I'm not coming into work until, you know, I get this, uh, rash checked out. I got to go see the doctor. So, uh, I'll let you know how it turns out."

I thought it was hilarious. But, I was offended when hubby didn't see the humor, feel the humor with me. And so I rolled my eyes and then he rolled his eyes. And then I snapped at him because he reacted to me and I reacted to him reacting to me. You get it, right?

I wanted to find my lip gloss in my purse at just that moment, but he had crammed all of this mail into my purse earlier in the day. So, I took out all of the clutter and threw it into his lap. "Get your crap out of my purse," I said.

"Oh really? I don't think so," he said. "You can pick it up, too. 'Cause I'm not going to."

"Oh really?" I replied. "Well, you can pick it up out of the trash can if you really want it!"

Yup, it was one of those really stupid fights. And I remembered the moment I put that wad of papers in the trash can. And I also remembered how, later that night, he had taken all of the trash to the dumpster.

Gulp. It was gone.

It was only 8:30 and I was on my way to that dumpster. When I got there, I opened the stinky, dirty top and it was completely empty. There was not one bag of trash in it.

I sat right by the curb and, in defeat, realized that my emotions had just cost me more than a $1,000. I got into my car, and the tears streamed down. I was so mad at myself. No, I was mad at hubby. No, I was mad at Rash Guy for leaving me that message.

I was just mad. And then I was mad that this could bring our family to our knees. You know, hubby is not on salary until next month. I am holding things together. Family of six on one income, and it made me mad. (I want so much more.)

I just couldn't go back to work. I needed to cry this one out and maybe wash my hands with really, really hot water. When I walked in the door, I prayed for a miracle, but I kind of knew it was too late. It was trash day all over Gainesville.

I looked in one last place, though. The garbage can in the kitchen. It was empty. Except for ... a sloppy fruit cup. (Oh, the dreaded fruit cup that Mr. E, the 3-year-old, begged me for that dreaded night.) The sticky juice had seeped out of the cup and it sort of stuck to the bottom.

And you know what else stuck? Beneath the sticky juice cup? A wad of papers. And beneath that wad of papers, a sticky envelope filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills, covered in fruit-cup juice.

Did the dreaded fruit cup just save me more than $1,000? "I love this fruit cup! I love it. Oh, thank you, God!"

I guess hubby dumped out the trash bag instead of just taking it out entirely. Oh, I love hubby! And I even love Rash Guy! On the way back to work, not even 9:30 am, my feelings of anger had transformed, and I had love for everyone. Love for hubby, love for the trash men, love for even Rash Guy. But, especially love for the fruit cup.

I will never look at another fruit cup quite the same. Ever.

Rainy days are for romance -- and car problems

So, I worked from home today. It was a blur. I checked in every few minutes to check my email and respond to clients. My head hurt. My body hurt. And, at the last minute, I got lucky. Hubby stayed home with me.

Everything is so much better with him by my side. Everything. Even feeling like crap is better when he is there to help me through it. I got plenty of rest and worked lightly. My job is filled with stress, but I was thanking God for it today as I sat in a quiet home, tapping away lightly on my keyboard. (I was so glad I have the option to be sick and still work.)

I started feeling better later in the day when hubby and I headed to pick up dinner from Publix. I was feeling the need to get out into some open air and a quick trip to Publix in the mom van always does a mom's soul some good.

But, the rain had other plans for me.

I was driving in the pouring-down rain when they stopped. They just stopped. The wipers no longer felt the need to clear my windshield for me. "Oh, oh ... they ... stopped. I can't see. Anything!"

"Just watch the white lines, slow down and pull over."

I pulled over, and hubby quickly figured out that the wipers had probably died somewhere along Newberry Road. After a quick and wet inspection, he hopped back in the van, soaking wet.

We creeped along slowly until we pulled up to a little automotive shop that was rather impressive. Its yellow walls were filled with little reminders of the little wonderful town we live in--Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were the first to catch my eye.

"I really love the place," I told the guy standing behind the front counter. He was the owner and he kind of glowed when I recognized all of the detail that had been poured into the place. (I bet not too many guys have said that to him before.)

So, we were stuck while they inspected the windshield wipers. But, it was so perfect. After being sick for the entire weekend that was filled with noisy children, we were forced to have a quiet moment, a quiet meal.

We walked the few feet over to a restaurant next door. We couldn't have planned it better--you know, besides the windshield wipers dying and all. But, it was rather romantic. He, sitting there soaking wet. And me just coming out of a foggy haze laced with tylenol-pm. Outside, the rain was pouring down.

Yes. It was so romantic.

Until we walked back over to that cute little shop and got a cute little (oh, but not so little) bill.

Back from New Orleans

What can I say? I am inspired.

My work trip to New Orleans ended up being a trip of inspiration. But, that didn't come until the flight home.

So, I went as an assistant editor of the magazine we print for this association. I was really there to cover events and to write about them every night. It was draining. And I was there by myself. You know, without my hubby, who is my rock. I love doing things with him by my side.

But, he was in Gainesville with the kids, which meant I would have to be a big girl and get to work. My very last event to cover was about finding your passion in life and using your gifts. I was ready to go to that one, since it is a topic that's been heavily on my heart lately.

But I found out that I'd be leaving the hotel at 11, which gave me no time to cover and write about the event. So, someone else did it and I was on my way to the airport.

I got to the Louis Armstrong airport and had a few hours before my flight to Atlanta. And so I asked if I could get on the early flight. As it turned out, I could. And I did. Once in Atlanta (where they lost! my luggage), I barely made it to the connecting flight. It was also an early flight.

I had a stand-by seat, which meant that they would put me there--only if there was room. I literally ran through the entire airport to make it to the flight. And when I got there they were just beginning to check people in. "Whew, I made it on time." Not really even knowing if I'd get a seat.

"Cirulli," I hear the attendant say.

(Hey, I know that name. That is the guy who owns the gym where I work out.)

Rewind about three weeks and said gym owner was having a speech about how he basically became a multi-millionaire. When I finally called to get in on the speech, it was full. And so I missed it.

But, here we were, in the same airport. And so I figured I'd at least get to meet him. "Is your name Joe?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I am a member of your gym," I said.

We began chatting and ended up being checked in at the same time. Meanwhile, I was telling him about the speech that I had missed and how his story really inspired me.

(When he was 23, he lived in a car. At one point, he didn't have enough change in his pocket to buy a Coke from McDonald's. But, he changes all of it. How? Well, that's what I wanted to know.)

As we boarded out little flight back to Gainesville, I knew we were about to part ways. He'd go to one seat, and I'd go to another. And so, I told him I was glad to have met him and that I'd be at the next speech, if he had one.

At that point, I looked at my ticket. "7D" I said. And he looked at his. "Well, what do you know? I'm 7C"

We were sitting right beside each other. How. How could that be a simple coincidence? And so, for the next hour, I got something so much better than his original session. I got the one-on-one. I asked him question after question.

In my life, I want so much more. So much more. Which is the result of a lot of frustration. He told me how to alleviate the frustration with a list of books he said had changes his life.

I scrawled the list on a few receipts I had in my purse and by the time we walked away from the flight, about 1 1/2 hour later, I was inspired. Turns out, he had taken an early flight back to Gainesville at the last minute as well. I knew it had to be God orchestrating this meeting.

I knew that God needed to get this list of books to me. I just knew it. I just know it. God works like that and I refuse to doubt. Within a few days, my husband bought me the first book. And so, now I'm off to begin the fourth chapter of "The Power of a Positive Mind."

God is cool like that.