Remember that book I told you about in my last post? Well, I've picked it up a few times in the past few days. Read some snippets and put it back down. It sits on my dresser next to my bed. I get up in the morning and look at it, maybe glare at it, like a petulant teenager with assigned reading from their English teacher.
Well, this morning I get up and I'm sitting on the edge of the bed and glance over to where the book is. I was shocked. It was open to the foreward page that I had never read. Not only was it open to that page, the book was held open by a piece of clothing that I had laid on my dresser the night before.
I knew that someone, something, wanted me to read the foreward. So I did. I get it now.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Angels
A million years ago, I said this to a friend, "I don't think I belong here." We were at work and I wasn't talking about work. I was referring to life on this earth. I don't remember exactly the reason for my saying that, except that I must have seen or heard of yet another injustice done to a person or animal that had upset me. I am a highly sensitive person.
Flash forward. About five years ago I dreamed that I was in the shower and the glass enclosure was fogged up. I looked at the door of the shower and there was the name Alexis written on it. As if someone had written it with their finger in the fog. Then I heard a voice say, "I am your guardian angel." I've kept that dream tucked away.
After that dream, I started ever so slowly reading about angels and how they communicate to us. Number sequences is a specific way of theirs. I hadn't paid too much attention to it until one day I started seeing 11:11 when glancing at my clock. It didn't happen every day, just occasionally.
About two years later, Mr. QVC and my son were driving to the beach. I had planned on driving the entire trip, a long one, but on the last leg of it, my son offered to drive. I reluctantly gave up control. We were getting close to the last town before the beach, driving on a street named appropriately Church Street. This street is lined with churches, one right after another. I was looking out the window as we were passing a church named Ariel Baptist. I looked back at the clock to see how much longer we had until we reached our destination and it said, 11:11. Was an angel named Ariel communicating with me? I have a point, I promise.
After that, number sequences started appearing to me. Specifically, 333, 444 and the ever present 1111. I decided to buy a book on signs from angels. I was a little disappointed with the book as it chronicled a couple's encounters instead of the teaching material I was hoping for. Anyway, it did have a section that named the 72 angels that are traditionally studied. Ariel is one of them.
So began my spiritual journey. I have had several readings with a medium, which was quite enlightening. One in particular sent me reeling, as when I walked in the room she said, you've got a lot going on right now. I thought she was talking about my job. She went on to tell me that there were angels all around me and that I was given a gift to help others, that I could possibly become a guide. To this day, I'm not convinced of that, but is that why I'm here on this earth?
I'm beginning to find feathers. Little white feathers in my home. Mr. QVC threw away the first three I found. I had them laying on the coffee table, but the next two, I've kept from him, tucked away safely.
Flash forward. About five years ago I dreamed that I was in the shower and the glass enclosure was fogged up. I looked at the door of the shower and there was the name Alexis written on it. As if someone had written it with their finger in the fog. Then I heard a voice say, "I am your guardian angel." I've kept that dream tucked away.
After that dream, I started ever so slowly reading about angels and how they communicate to us. Number sequences is a specific way of theirs. I hadn't paid too much attention to it until one day I started seeing 11:11 when glancing at my clock. It didn't happen every day, just occasionally.
About two years later, Mr. QVC and my son were driving to the beach. I had planned on driving the entire trip, a long one, but on the last leg of it, my son offered to drive. I reluctantly gave up control. We were getting close to the last town before the beach, driving on a street named appropriately Church Street. This street is lined with churches, one right after another. I was looking out the window as we were passing a church named Ariel Baptist. I looked back at the clock to see how much longer we had until we reached our destination and it said, 11:11. Was an angel named Ariel communicating with me? I have a point, I promise.
After that, number sequences started appearing to me. Specifically, 333, 444 and the ever present 1111. I decided to buy a book on signs from angels. I was a little disappointed with the book as it chronicled a couple's encounters instead of the teaching material I was hoping for. Anyway, it did have a section that named the 72 angels that are traditionally studied. Ariel is one of them.
So began my spiritual journey. I have had several readings with a medium, which was quite enlightening. One in particular sent me reeling, as when I walked in the room she said, you've got a lot going on right now. I thought she was talking about my job. She went on to tell me that there were angels all around me and that I was given a gift to help others, that I could possibly become a guide. To this day, I'm not convinced of that, but is that why I'm here on this earth?
I'm beginning to find feathers. Little white feathers in my home. Mr. QVC threw away the first three I found. I had them laying on the coffee table, but the next two, I've kept from him, tucked away safely.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Biogtry
A few days ago, my beautiful daughter in law was verbally harassed when getting into her car after work. A man started walking towards her screaming "Go back to China." I can't imagine her fear, as she was alone. When I heard about this, the anger in me was fierce. I've always been like a mother lion when it comes to my children.
I am a Christian. Probably not a good one by other's standards, but I believe. My favorite thing that Jesus said is, "Love one another as I have loved you."
If only.
I am a Christian. Probably not a good one by other's standards, but I believe. My favorite thing that Jesus said is, "Love one another as I have loved you."
If only.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
I'm Flawed
Is mercury or mars in retrograde? Is there a permanent full moon? Why hasn't someone told me it was Mean Girls Month? Year?
These past few weeks have been hard on this empath. I've witnessed and been the victim of what I refer to as herd mentality. It's shaken my faith.
On FB I have posted over and over about being kind, and having integrity, but I guess the people who need to see it, read it, don't. I'm sad to feel that we live in a narcissistic society and it's all about them.
Mr. QVC says that I'm too nice. When did that become a character flaw?
I'm over it.
These past few weeks have been hard on this empath. I've witnessed and been the victim of what I refer to as herd mentality. It's shaken my faith.
On FB I have posted over and over about being kind, and having integrity, but I guess the people who need to see it, read it, don't. I'm sad to feel that we live in a narcissistic society and it's all about them.
Mr. QVC says that I'm too nice. When did that become a character flaw?
I'm over it.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
The Sink
As far back as I can remember the women in my family have washed their hair in the kitchen sink. I know. Get the comet out, scrub the sink and wash your hair. There is a reason for this.
For my grandmother, it was because she didn't have a shower in her house and Henry. She had this beautiful claw foot tub, but no shower. She had a huge porcelain sink in her kitchen, with a built in drain board. I can still smell that clean sweet water coming out of the faucet on a warm summer evening.
Moving forward, to homes with tubs and showers, my mother, my sister and even myself would wash our hair in the bathroom sink. I can still see my mother bent over the sink with a handful of this pink cream shampoo called Lustre Cream that came in a huge jar, and a bottle of vinegar to rinse it out. OMG. The smell.
So, why? No one wanted to get water in their face or eyes. Why? Because Henry, our cousin drowned sometime in the 1930s and everyone knows if you get in water, you're going to drown. Therefore, no one in our family was allowed to go swimming or learn to swim, or wash your hair in THE SHOWER.
I was a renegade, in so many ways during my teen years. Uncontrollable I was because I started washing my hair in the shower. Until the other day, when I got up one Saturday, took a shower, put my make up on and told Mr. QVC that he was going to highlight my hair like he did in the old days. WHAT? He said, "You'll have to get back in the shower to wash it all out." "No" I said. I'm going to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Since we remodeled our 1995 kitchen, I have put in a larger, deeper sink, that I can drown in, along with a nice spray nozzle on the faucet.
After my hair went through shades of orange and gold, it finally got to the lemon yellow I was looking for. I took the plastic bag off of my head and I went for it. I about lost my Episcopalianess, when the water started to rush down my face, into my eyes, down my neck, up my nose and in my ears. What fresh hell was this I was experiencing?
I finally got it all washed out, toned, conditioned and dried. I then reapplied my Saturday makeup and revealed to Mr. QVC his awesomeness that saved me $300. A $10 kit from Walmart and it looks fabulous.
But, I will never again wash my hair in the kitchen sink unless for some reason my shower is broken.
For my grandmother, it was because she didn't have a shower in her house and Henry. She had this beautiful claw foot tub, but no shower. She had a huge porcelain sink in her kitchen, with a built in drain board. I can still smell that clean sweet water coming out of the faucet on a warm summer evening.
Moving forward, to homes with tubs and showers, my mother, my sister and even myself would wash our hair in the bathroom sink. I can still see my mother bent over the sink with a handful of this pink cream shampoo called Lustre Cream that came in a huge jar, and a bottle of vinegar to rinse it out. OMG. The smell.
So, why? No one wanted to get water in their face or eyes. Why? Because Henry, our cousin drowned sometime in the 1930s and everyone knows if you get in water, you're going to drown. Therefore, no one in our family was allowed to go swimming or learn to swim, or wash your hair in THE SHOWER.
I was a renegade, in so many ways during my teen years. Uncontrollable I was because I started washing my hair in the shower. Until the other day, when I got up one Saturday, took a shower, put my make up on and told Mr. QVC that he was going to highlight my hair like he did in the old days. WHAT? He said, "You'll have to get back in the shower to wash it all out." "No" I said. I'm going to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Since we remodeled our 1995 kitchen, I have put in a larger, deeper sink, that I can drown in, along with a nice spray nozzle on the faucet.
After my hair went through shades of orange and gold, it finally got to the lemon yellow I was looking for. I took the plastic bag off of my head and I went for it. I about lost my Episcopalianess, when the water started to rush down my face, into my eyes, down my neck, up my nose and in my ears. What fresh hell was this I was experiencing?
I finally got it all washed out, toned, conditioned and dried. I then reapplied my Saturday makeup and revealed to Mr. QVC his awesomeness that saved me $300. A $10 kit from Walmart and it looks fabulous.
But, I will never again wash my hair in the kitchen sink unless for some reason my shower is broken.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
The Outcome
No, this blog isn't about a woman with little or no scruples. It is a chronicle of the past and present of what my life was and is. I will however tell you about Lucille and the bane of my existence, my hair.
As I sit here on the edge of my bed with a plastic bag over my head, praying that my hair doesn't turn orange, I think of Lucille. She was a hairdresser of sorts and I say sorts because I'm just not sure how much training she had. She was an imposing woman to me at the age of four, she wore all white like a nurse, even wore nurses shoes. I don't remember much except for the outcome, but I think her "salon" was in her home and the waiting room was in a side porch.
One thing about Lucille was that she liked her bourbon just a little too much. Therefore, the outcome. The outcome happened because my grandmother was taking me to JC Penney's for a picture and she thought I needed my hair "trimmed" up. I had the little pink dress, with the white jacket and black patent leather shoes. Not sure why we were so concerned about the color I was wearing because the picture was black and white. I digress.
I got in the chair and Lucille who smelled of something sweet took the scissors and went to work. The whole time chatting with my grandmother. When it was all over and done with, she whipped off the cape and whirled my chair around and I got my first look at "Lucille Bangs." It was almost as if she had laid the scissors right down to my hair line and whacked them off. It's true, I have a picture to prove it. Little girls with high foreheads and chubby cheeks need long bangs and these were anything but long.
So now, each time I go to get my hair cut, when the subject of the bangs comes up and I see a flash of stainless steel out of the corner of my eye, I freak. I haven't had a repeat episode of "the outcome" as I am always poised to grab my hairdresser's wrist at the first memory of Lucille.
Now I want my bangs long to cover up what I should be using botox for. But that will be an upcoming adventure to my husband's dismay.
As I sit here on the edge of my bed with a plastic bag over my head, praying that my hair doesn't turn orange, I think of Lucille. She was a hairdresser of sorts and I say sorts because I'm just not sure how much training she had. She was an imposing woman to me at the age of four, she wore all white like a nurse, even wore nurses shoes. I don't remember much except for the outcome, but I think her "salon" was in her home and the waiting room was in a side porch.
One thing about Lucille was that she liked her bourbon just a little too much. Therefore, the outcome. The outcome happened because my grandmother was taking me to JC Penney's for a picture and she thought I needed my hair "trimmed" up. I had the little pink dress, with the white jacket and black patent leather shoes. Not sure why we were so concerned about the color I was wearing because the picture was black and white. I digress.
I got in the chair and Lucille who smelled of something sweet took the scissors and went to work. The whole time chatting with my grandmother. When it was all over and done with, she whipped off the cape and whirled my chair around and I got my first look at "Lucille Bangs." It was almost as if she had laid the scissors right down to my hair line and whacked them off. It's true, I have a picture to prove it. Little girls with high foreheads and chubby cheeks need long bangs and these were anything but long.
So now, each time I go to get my hair cut, when the subject of the bangs comes up and I see a flash of stainless steel out of the corner of my eye, I freak. I haven't had a repeat episode of "the outcome" as I am always poised to grab my hairdresser's wrist at the first memory of Lucille.
Now I want my bangs long to cover up what I should be using botox for. But that will be an upcoming adventure to my husband's dismay.
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