Typing Type

Did you know you might have a typing style? Neither did I.

During a highly scientific research project I didn't know was taking place, my husband and daughter informed me I type in very different ways. They made this announcement public yesterday at an informal press conference. It was all news to me. No one listens when I talk but they pay attention to my typing? Why aren't I writing them letters? Loudly?

Apparently, I sometimes type 700 miles an hour (or Mach 1) pounding out each word so hard and fast I can be heard as far away as Paris. Frankly, I am incredulous. If I yell my loudest that the dishes have not been done yet, absolutely no one in the whole house, in any location, can hear me at all.

At other times, I am told, my typing is tentative, quiet....a staccato ritardando (I am not swayed by this fancy-schmancy vernacular - anything with the word "retard" in it is an insult).

Well, I can explain these two phenomenons easily and there was no research necessary.

First of all, if I get an idea I have to type really really really really fast before it leaves my head because then I would.............I would..........I would.........I'll get back to this.

The quiet parts are me editing the loud parts. Or searching the data banks for something fresh. Do you ever feel like you only have a 100 word vocabulary and you just keep recycling them in different ways? Okay, you're right. 100 words is hyperbole. I'm stuck at 50. (Koko the gorilla knows 1000 sign language words. Where is she when I need her?)

But there you have it. If you're a writer, a blogger, an emailer, or someone with an extremely boring life, listen to yourself type next time. Or have someone else listen. When you're done, look over and ask them what they perceived. They will most likely be in a coma. Take this opportunity to vigorously and loudly recount to them all the chores you want done. They won't hear this either.

Copyright 2009

Jason McElwain - Gotta Love This

This has been around for a couple of years but a sweet friend of mine posted it on Facebook today and I thought it deserved a look if you've never seen it.

I want to make it a priority in my life to believe in people, to encourage the best, and to never let the naysayers get me down (even though I KNOW they will, which is okay, because I always need material and they're wonderful to write about!). But this kid, THIS kid trumps life's tough cards with a royal flush. Thought you might need a "feel good" moment today as well. A little love from me to you.

Observational Twitter 9

Idiom:

"People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." Proverb of unknown origins

Axiom:

"People who live in glass houses should shower at the gym." Robynn Reilly



Copyright 2009

A Riotous Good Time

If you do nothing else for yourself today, please do this one thing: Go to Stopped By the Police .

This is located at the site of "Ladybird World Mother" and you are in for a rollicking good time. She is brilliantly funny and you have to promise to come back here and tell me if you laughed as loud and uproariously as I did - okay, I won't MAKE you but I'll probably whine and discuss it at dinner if you don't. (Laughs are always more fun when they're shared.)

Read the comments, too, especially the one about the father who took his girls to "The Sewerage" for a day of fun. Ladybird hails from the United Kingdom and you will hear a different turn of phrase that is also refreshing and entertaining.

Now go, have fun!

P.S. I added a World Map, Visitor Counter, and Location Tracker on Sunday so I can see the places people come in from (do not end sentences with prepositions unless you're completely lazy, like me). It's made it lots of fun to check on the blog (like it wasn't before and I'm not unabashedly addicted to reading every word that drips from your lips, or brain, as it were). Look for yourself if you'd like. Here's a big HELLOOOO! to all of you coming in from everywhere and a THANK YOU! as well. Who knew I had friends in so many places? (And parenthetical thoughts and the use of parenthesis should be severly limited in any well written work.) But I'm not a well writer.

False Teeth and Pastors

My pastor has been on my mind and heart lately because he has been through so much in recent days. He is an incredible man with a true heart for God and for people and, when that's who you are, you go through a lot. He lives his faith. He's the real deal.

So naturally, this has led me to think of false teeth. Not that he has any, false teeth I mean, he has actual teeth (though I haven't tried to remove them so I'll do that and get back to you). But I had another pastor I dearly loved when I was four years old and he had enormous false teeth. This one fact can highly recommend you to four-year-olds, especially if you take the teeth out on demand. You must then extrude them from your mouth just far enough to resemble a scene from "Aliens." At this point you should snap and clack them a few times, and then suck them back in. What is not to love here?

I constantly demanded that this fabulous talent be demonstrated and he never let me down. In addition, from my diminutive perspective, he was at least thirteen feet tall. I would ask to be lifted up and he would perch me on his shoulders. This afforded me a view of the surrounding countryside as well as a direct look into his snapping jaws. I could bend over, twist my head around, and watch from two inches away with abject horror and complete fascination.

I had no idea this man was my pastor. His name was Brother Whitaker but every single man in our little backwater Southern Baptist church was Brother Something-Or-Other. Nothing about the title caused me any sort of appropriate awe or reverence. I presumed he had been created for my entertainment. Apparently, I paid no attention in church or I might have noticed him in the pulpit. I was too busy flirting with Ronnie Miller.

Ronnie Miller was about 18 years old and as handsome as a movie star. And he sported his own teeth. My mother always sat towards the front but Ronnie was in the back. Every time I would sashay by, and I made frequent excuses because I needed to take a good, long look at him in all his glory, he would talk to me. He would never fail to tell me he was going to marry me when I grew up. I believed him without doubt. On Sundays, I would smooth out my crinoline and shine my patent leather shoes to be sure I looked like marriage material. And he would not fail to remind me that we were an item.

One Saturday, he two-timed me and married a girl named Sharon. He walked her right up the aisle I had walked down a hundred times just to stare at him. She had nothing on me as far as I could tell and it made absolutely no sense. My heart was a shambles and I never loved again until I was eight. Even now I run into him at get-togethers and always remind him that he left me at the altar, sort of. That's how un-petty I am.

I soothed my little soul with dental entertainment. Brother Whitaker and his choppers were good medicine. Food helped, too. One time he took my brother to church camp and let me ride along up to Hume Lake. Those were the good old days when kids could stand in the front seat and launch through the windshield when you had to stop fast. Along the way he bought me a whole pack of Oreo cookies and a carton of milk. These were rare treats in my life. By the time we had traveled up and back and spent nearly a day, my milk was sour. I took a big drink, spit it across the room, and howled. In typical good-guy fashion he took me to the store and bought more milk. Some guys know how to treat a lady.

I will always wonder what became of Brother Whitaker and his teeth. He and his wife left our church not long after those days. I doubt he ever found a more appreciative audience for his special talent but he certainly laid down a fondness in my heart for pastors who are willing to go above and beyond.

And now, having come full circle, I appreciate a pastor who tends to my soul and does not feel the least compelled to share his dental work with me. So, maybe I won't check his teeth. He has been a gift from God and you should never look a gift pastor in the mouth, unless you're four.

Copyright 2009

Saying Goodbye

On Saturday we say a temporary goodbye to an incredible man: our friend Norm. He and his wife and daughters have walked through the journey of ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease, for the last two years with grace and patience. I sit on the sidelines and know, without doubt, I could never have had the strength Norman has exhibited. It is in that strength he has decided to let go of the machines that keep him alive and embrace the new, robust life waiting for him in heaven...in God's presence....whole and restored and rejoicing to see the Savior he has loved so dearly and served so well.

I won't even try to speak to the private moments and the long paths that led to this decision because I don't know them and I have no place there. I have merely been a spectator to an exquisite love story between Norman, Debra, and their girls, and my words could add absolutely nothing.

But what I would like to say is this:

Norm, the first time I saw you I didn't see you at all: I heard you - laughing. You always laughed, a big hearty light-up-your face laugh, and you made me, and everyone else, bust up right along with you. Even last night when we came to see you and try, somehow, to say good-bye, you made us belly laugh. How is that possible? Weren't we supposed to be somber and reflective? But, in typical form, you cracked a joke and we were off to the races. With only your eyes to affirm chosen letters and with your precious wife, Debra, to translate, you worked us.

When the girls called to say one of your dogs, Remi, was sick (and we all went through a laundry list of what he could have eaten), you spelled, "Maybe..Remi..ate..Nugget's..poop." (Nugget being another one of your dogs.) We laughed over that but Debra said she didn't think that was the problem. We could all tell she was worried, especially where your young daughters were concerned, about anything happening to their baby dog and causing them more sadness, so you lightened the mood even more. You indicated to Debra you had something else to add. "Maybe," you said, "Remi.....ate......Nugget." And then you lifted your eyebrows and rolled your eyes in that way that makes a person crack up even if you hadn't made a wisecrack. Debra repeated your words with a mock-scathing tone of incredulity and complete adoration, while Jamie and the kids and I burst out laughing. We couldn't help it and you didn't want us to.

It was plain to see, Norm, that you weren't filled with dread. You wanted to share joy with us, and hope, and even genuine merriment because that's how you lived and you eagerly anticipated where you were headed. You wanted us to see God's grace and, as always, to point us to Him. How could we see anything else when we considered who you were and how you lived your life?

It's not enough but I want to say thank you. I want to pay tribute in some small way to how you touched us. I'll miss you. We'll miss you. It's so very hard to say goodbye. However, we know without doubt, truly, we will all be together again. And knowing you and I, we'll be fighting for airspace on who can make 'em laugh the longest. You're gettin' a headstart and, with your delivery? I don't stand a chance.

See you there, Norm.

With Love,

Robynn

Observational Twitter 8

Adage:

"Walk softly and carry a big stick." Theodore Roosevelt quoting a West African proverb.

Epigram:

"Walk hard and carry a gun." Robynn Reilly

(Disclaimer: My personal views may be modestly impacted by having played fire hydrant tonight to a two-legged pittbull who simply chews up shoes and sticks. Ah committees.....Someone once said, "A moose is a horse made by a committee" to which I would add "I'm ridin' Bullwinkle off into the sunset." Goodnight saddle pals!)

Copyright 2009