How to Change a Tire

First... a joke:

It has been raining for a week.  The creek is running high and is over flowing its banks. Jan, who's house is located on a flood plain in imminent danger of being swept away in a flood. An OPP officer in a Jeep knocks on her door and tells Jan to evacuate; she refuses to leave, saying "God will save me." A few hours later the water is running through Jan's first floor, and the local conservation officer pulls up to her second story window in a motor boat, but she sends him away, saying "God will save me." A little later, Jan is on her roof, with flood waters ravaging her house. A helicopter flies over and dangles a ladder, but she waves it off. Jan is swept away and drowns, and when she gets to heaven, she angrily confronts God with "why didn't you do anything to save me." God says " Are you kidding me? I didn't do anything ? I sent a Jeep, a motor boat and a helicopter!"

Old joke, but the punch line is very relevant to today's post. I learned something quite valuable on Friday evening.  I learned how to change a tire.

It all started on Friday afternoon, when I stopped by one of my favourite clothing stores for a quick browse of the end of season sales. Much to my delight, I discovered that all of the summer stock was on sale, for 50% of the lowest ticketed price. So, I delved into the racks, hoping to find some cheap deals. Nothing much for tops or bottoms, so I checked out the lingerie department, and discovered that there were bras on sale for $6.97 a piece!  (If you are male and reading this blog, you might question the need for me to even mention this, but any woman will tell you that finding a bra on sale is always news worthy.  Finding a bra for $6.97, is something that you shout out to the entire world.) Sadly, there were none in my usual size.  While lamenting this fact, the clerk came by and reminded me that the bras are also 50% off the lowest ticketed price, which means the price is actually $3.47.

Guys, just as you have the famous "Bro Code", we girls have a code too. It is a very long and complicated code, and includes hundreds (possibly thousands) of clauses on retail purchasing alone. In the section entitled "Retail Purchasing: Sales -  End of Season Sales: Lingerie Items - Brassiere's:  No brassiere that is on sale for 50% off the lowest ticketed price shall be left behind. So in obedience to this code, I must buy a bra.

I decided to go one size up (I am a realist after all) and buy a $3.47 bra. Out to the car I go, holding up my sacred (just kidding God) purchase high over my head as though it was the Holy Grail (again, just kidding God).  I swear I heard the hallelujah chorus from  a choir of angels (no doubt girl angels). I raced down the highway, screeched into my driveway, run up the stairs, stripping off my top with one hand and tearing open the new bra box with my teeth.  Off goes the old bra, on goes the new one... AND IT FITS!!!!! 

Oh the joy! The ecstasy! This is truly a once in a lifetime find. A moment to savour and record (hence this blog - except the blog is actually about how to change a tire...). Ladies, I'm not kidding when I tell you that I thanked God for this bra.  Yes, I am wonderfully made, but for some reason, He designed me with a bra size and shoe size that are always somewhere in between industry sizing standards . I am not sure exactly why; however, my guess is that He does not want me to fall prey to worshipping shoes and bras.  

I'm not ashamed to say that I did some serious voguing in front of the mirror, admiring my "maiden form" (to get that reference you have to be female and over 40). Then it occurred to me... maybe there's more $3.47 bra's in that size.  And sure enough, when I called the store,  the sales lady confirmed that there were THREE more. We strike an agreement that they will pull everything off the shelf and hold it for me, but only if I return to the store before day's end to pick them up. Very reasonable, considering the circumstances.

Now there was a dilemma.  It was about 5:00 p.m., and my tired, hungry husband was expected home any minute.  I was so excited, I couldn't concentrate on cooking dinner.  So, I paced around the kitchen until he arrived and greeted him at the door.  The poor man was barely in the house when I lifted up my shirt, exposing my bra; (this is definitely NOT standard operating procedure in our home. ) "Guess how much this bra cost?" I squeal, my face beaming with joy and delight.

Eric is no fool; he's been down this road before.  When I show him something and ask him to guess the price, he knows that he is to play along, but NOT guess the price. "10 bucks?", he guesses. "Lower!" I shout.  "Lower? Um... 5 bucks?" he suggests, anxiously knowing that he doesn't have much room to work with.  "LOWER!" I giggle, barely able to contain myself. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, as he ponders his options.  Hesitantly he suggests "Ummmmmm... $2.50?" And even though he had under cut my deal by almost a dollar, I managed a strong comeback with "No, it cost $3.47, and I can get 3 more of them if we go back to town right now. So, what do you say... dinner out, bra's and then home in time to watch Murdoch Mysteries... let's do it!"  A wise man knows better than to get in between his wife and a good sale, so off we went.

1 hour, 3 bras and a steak dinner later, we were ready to take the short drive back home.  As we were backing out of the parking spot, there was a strange sound: fumpa, fumpa, fumpa. "Darn, the tire is flat... I hate changing tires." says Eric. I'm thinking "Just my luck, I buy 4 bra's for just over 15 bucks and now we have a flat tire???  What a buzz kill!" 

Out we get; open the truck to retrieve the spare tire and jack. Of course, in order to get to that, we have to unload the entire contents of our truck which includes two 20K bags of salt, numerous items of clothing, books, winter boots, and other miscellaneous crap. Then we have to empty out the glove box in order to get to the owner's manual in order to figure out how to use the jack. Always the optimist, Eric says "This is a good opportunity for you to learn how to change a tire." (Does that sound a little passive aggressive to you? I think so too.)

I won't bore you with the ordeal, except to say, that I now know where the spare is, how the jack works, that you must not be parked on a hill when changing a tire, that you always loosen the nuts before jacking up the car, etc., etc.  But here is the point of my blog today...

As "we" were labouring over the tire, a nice couple came along and offered to help. Being the stubborn and prideful person that I am, I said "No thanks, we're good." and off they went.  20 minutes later, I'm sweating, filthy, breaking nails, dropping the wrench thingy repeatedly, and getting quite frustrated.  Another couple came by and again extend an offer of help.  This time, I accept, and a nice guy named Chris finished the job in about 5 minutes. Finally, we're back in the car, heading home and that's when we remember that we have OnStar, and a CAA membership.  All we ever had to do was reach out for help and everything would have been taken care of.

Here cometh the lesson.  Ask For Help!

The Good Lord has blessed me with many things.  A husband willing to make an emergency bra run on a Friday evening; a car that contains a spare tire, jack, owner's manual and OnStar; as well as, a mostly able body to change a tire.  Everything I own comes from our Almighty God.  He is gracious and merciful; always there with a solution to the challenges that I face.  He even blesses me with the kindness of strangers, with sincere offers of help.  So, why do I insist on trying to fix everything myself? The truth is, I am too proud to admit it when I need help.

Proverbs 16:18 says: First pride, then the crash - the bigger the ego, the harder the fall. (~ Message). I don't ask for help because of ego.  Ego is that part of me that wants me to believe that I am greater than God.  It is an acronym for Edging God Out. As challenges present themselves on a daily basis, I instinctively turn to ego for the quick fix but seldom, if ever, do I find the easy answer.  Instead, I find self recrimination, panic, worry, and blame. While I'm wallowing in that quagmire, God is patiently waiting for me to turn around and face Him with the problem. A simple admission of "God, I can't do this, please help me out!" is all He needs.  He cares that my heart is broken. He forgives when I have trespassed against others. He offers me travel mercies when I'm driving in stormy weather. He supernaturally saved Eric when the doctors could not revive him after his 3rd heart attack. He saved me form a car wreck that I’m told should have been fatal, and yes, He sends help when I have a flat tire.

How do you change a flat tire? First pray for God's help.  Then, pray for the strength to loosen the nuts on the wheel and to jack up that car.  And if He sends a stranger to help, praise Him and accept the offer.  If it is midnight out in the country on a stormy night, thank Him for OnStar (or your cell phone) and call for help.

Thank you God, for sending help to fix that tire. Thank you also,  that I now know how to change a tire, because someday that is going to come in handy. Thanks  for pouring Your love, grace and mercy into my life and giving me such great joy. Oh, and thanks for the blessing of the $3.47 bra's.

Amen

It's me, Jan

Ya know...slowly but surely, I am in the know.

The Guide

Where am I Lord? Which way now?

My head and my heart can’t seem to agree on who is in charge.

Just when I think I know, I find out that I don’t know enough to know; you know?

What’s the next step Lord? What choices should I make?

Do I run ahead, scout things out and see what I can do on my own?

Do I sit here and stew over all the possibilities, or go with my gut?

My head and my heart and my gut won’t cooperate.

If I use my head then my gut aches. 

If I go with my heart, my head goes crazy with worry.

If I go with my gut, my heart sinks and the voices in my head scream, “Stop! You are insane girl!”

This load is too heavy Lord! I can’t lift it, drag it, or carry it any further.

I can’t sweep it under the rug nor bury it in the back of my mind,

It is just too dang big.  I’m tired 

Lord. Are you there?

Child, I’m here; stronger and bigger than you can possibly imagine.

I see what you are seeing, but I can see beyond your limited vision.

I know what you know, but I know everything there is to know.

So I really do know; you know?

Let me show you, change you, and fill you with My Spirit.

Give your head, heart and gut a rest.

Open up your soul, and trust Me as I light the way ahead.

I’ll get you there, and even further;

I can do anything you know, far more than you can ever imagine,
Or request in your wildest dreams.
I do this not by pushing you around, or leading you by the nose;
but by working within you, My Spirit deeply and gently within you.

Put the load right on me, child; quit trying to carry it alone.

Take a break, lean your back my cross;

Inhale, exhale, and just be quiet for a while.

In silent contemplation you will find Me waiting;

Waiting for you to just say “Yes Lord.”

Understand that right in the middle of your grief and sorrow

Is a blessing for which you can be grateful.

Where there is pain, there is healing.

Where there is sorrow, there is joy.

Where there mourning, there is celebration.

You are my beloved daughter; with you I am well pleased.

Oh Hello Aunt Flo...

Before we begin, I want any "boyz" who are reading this particular blog to know in advance that today I am talking about "girl stuff", more specifically, "old woman stuff".  Feel free to read along if you want, but I'm not holding back.  Read the title and consider yourself forewarned.

My Aunt Flo is here.  She's an old family friend who has been coming to visit me almost every month for the last 42 years.  Quite often, Flo shows up unannounced, demanding that I indulge her every whim. Typically, she kicks in the front door, hands me her bags, goes straight to the pantry for a bag of Cheetos and then hits the couch. From there she proceeds to point out all of my short comings.

"You're looking a tad bloated my dear.  Why don't you go put on a nice comfy pair of sweat pants.", she'll say, as she crams Cheetos into her mouth.  There's no pleasing this woman! If I put on the grey sweats, she'll raise her left eyebrow and suggest that "maybe somebody needs to hit the gym?"  If I put on the larger blue velour pair, she'll roll her eyes and tell me I look like a pregnant smurfette.

Flo's got an attitude.  In her never to be humble opinion, the house is never clean enough, my cooking is "pretentious", my husband is too good for me, and the neighbours all think I hate dogs because I don't have one. [Update:  I got one now, Mookie and she's wonderful]. She insists on going everywhere with me, flipping off drivers who have the nerve to come within 10 feet of the car.  It takes twice as long to get anywhere because she needs to stop and pee every 15 minutes, and she insists that it is just plain rude to use a gas station bathroom without making a purchase so I end up buying her chocolate bars and potato chips. (She never eats Cheetos outside of the house, cause the orange fingers are "unladylike".)  Yet, she'll pass gas with abandon in just about any public place, so long as she can pin the blame on somebody else.)

In the past few years, Aunt Flo has begun to show her age. She's cut back to visiting every 3 months or so, and usually only hangs around for a few days. Quite often, she is accompanied by the menopause twins, Hor and Moan a cranky couple who bicker and complain about getting old. And, they're nuts!  Hor cries, Moan laughs hysterically, usually both at the same time, then they demand ice cream. Aunt Flo has taken the notion that she is now the Human Torch with the superhuman ability to burst into flame. Always the comedian, she gets a huge kick out of waiting for the most inconvenient moment before turning up the heat and then FA-WHOOSH and I've turned into a towering inferno. Not funny, Aunt Flo.

Most of you, who have been reading my blog, are probably waiting for the part where I turn my story into a metaphor for my Spiritual walk with Jesus Christ.  Something pithy such as a stage of transition - towards a higher purpose... a graduation of sorts.  Perhaps I could say that I have earned a Master's degree in Women's Studies. Maybe, I'm now entitled to be a wise guru(ette) who sits atop of  a mountain  dispelling great wisdom and knowledge to younger women seeking enlightenment. Surely, I must glow with beams of serenity and joy now that I have put the years of fertility and child rearing behind me. I have come full circle, from infant, to child, to woman, to mother, to grandmother and now death a time of joyful respite, well earned.

Ya... sure... let's go with that.

It's me,

Jan (saggy boobs, mood swings and all)

P.S. Aunt Flo sends her regards

[Aunt Flo passed away in 2012; she is not missed.  Sadly, Hor and Moan moved in with me right after her death and refuse to leave. I'm trying to evict them but apparently, at least according to Mother Nature,  they have "legal rights" and get to stay until further notice.]

Hey there... it's me, Jan: A Public Apology

Hey there... it's me, Jan: A Public Apology: Ahem... To every Language Arts teacher who ever had the misfortune to try and teach me the range of skills needed to become proficient in ...

A Public Apology

Ahem...

To every Language Arts teacher who ever had the misfortune to try and teach me the range of skills needed to become proficient in using the English language, especially the mechanics of writing:

To Mr. White who stood on his desk and read Shakespeare in an effort to make us Grade Nine nincompoops listen.  To Mr. Reid who read my first attempts at short stories and encouraged me to keep writing. (Naturally, being too cool for school, I didn't.) To Jim Pehura, my grade 11 and 12 L.A. teacher and later my friend, thanks for telling me I was copping out when I tried to down grade from university level to general English courses. And to Ms. Nobel, Mrs. Hewlit,  Mrs. Mackintosh, Mrs. Fullerton, and Mrs. Dewar, (and the rest of my primary school teachers whose names I have conveniently erased from memory), who laboured to drill grammar, spelling and neat penmanship into my fuzzy, daydreamin' little head, I am really, really, sorry!

Sorry for not paying attention in class (although the pictures that I doodled were mighty pretty.) Sorry for not doing my home work.  Sorry my never-ending whispering, humming, giggling and other lapses in good judgement.  Sorry for day dreaming instead of learning about verbs, nouns, articles, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, dangling and misplaced modifiers, interrupting modifiers, verb tenses, subject-verb agreement, pronoun agreement, relative clauses and relative pronouns, comparative and superlative forms, modal auxiliary verbs (huh?), idiomatic construction (what?), commas, periods, question marks, apostrophes, quotation marks, colons and semicolons, and exclamation marks!  Oh - and run-on sentences.

You see, at the time I had other career goals in mind.  Ballerinas dance their dances, not write about them. Doctor's remove tonsils, not dangling participles. And I am sure that my heroine diva Diana Ross hired someone else to write all those songs. What did I need to know about writing for?

Well, at it turns out, I needed to learn  this stuff because now that I've finally grown up, I have discovered that I am a writer. Actually, at present, I am a scribe for all the voices in my head, and for some reason, they insist that I write down every dang thing they say.

And Mr. Ligowski, who referred to me as "Hey you, with the glasses" in grade 8. In spite of your predictions, as it turns out, I didn't end up living in a van down by the river... at least not yet.

Lastly, a shout out to Mr. Greene, my Grade 11 Math teacher who valiantly tried to teach me geometry and algebra.  You gave me an exemption for the final math exam as long as I promised not to ever study math again as long as you were alive.  I kept that promise and as a result, I have am now a writer and not a Quantum Physicist. Thanks dude!

In summary, I am really, really, sorry.  I'll try to do better. And for my beta reader and editor (not going to name her until my book is published) I am absolutely, totally, completely, and awfully sorry; and eternally grateful.

It's me, Jan!

Don't Poke the Bear

There once was an old man with only one arm, who lived in an rickety log cabin on the edge of the woods, beside a well-travelled path.  He had a pet bear which was tamed to the point that although it was free to wander in the forest, preferred to sit quietly by the man's side.  In front of this odd pairing was a dusty crumpled old hat and a hand-painted sign which said: Best advice you'll ever get!  Please put a donation into the hat.

Every day, a small crowd of passer-by's would gather in front of the old man and his bear.  They would toss coins and bills into the hat and wait for the show to begin.  The old man just sat there saying nothing.  The bear sat beside its master, doing nothing.  Eventually, the crowd would grow restless, shuffling their feet and mumbling among themselves that this man was a con artist.  Only when the crowd reached a fever pitch would the old man stand up and raise his only hand for silence. Staring out over the crowd, in a quiet but stern voice he would say: "Don't poke the bear." With that, he would offer everyone their money back, and gesture towards the bear which was now sitting on the hat, snoozing.  

Everyone agreed that the old man's advice was truly the best they had ever heard, and happily went on their way.  The old man would then sit down and wait.  He sometimes waited for hours for the bear to wake up and wander in to the forest for some food.  The old man had learned the hard way to never poke the bear.

I offer this parable as context to what is in my heart and frizzy little head today.  Why do I insist on learning things the hard way? 

My journey of self discovery includes both re-examination of self beliefs that I hold fast as the truth, as well as discovery of new truths about myself.  One thing that I have come to realize, is that I, Jan Christianson, like to poke bears.  No, scratch that... I LOVE to poke bears!  

Bears come in all forms, shapes and sizes.  Some are people, others take on the form of past events and still others are events that are yet to happen.  There's nothing I like better than to summon up a crotchety old she bear (memory) and poke it with an accusing finger until it rears up on it's back legs and bites me square on the butt. (I am tempted to say A** for dramatic effect, but I've sworn off swearing so work with me here.)

The old bear grabs me by my "derriere" so I can't  turn around to defend myself; shakes me up before tossing me to one side and stalking off into the past where she lives and prefers not to be disturbed.  And you would think that after multiple episodes of this self-inflicted abuse, I might get a clue and stop poking that bear.  But I don't.  

Some bears walk upright on two legs and disguise themselves as people. People I know, used to know and even people I've never met.  If any of these bears dare to offend my sensibilities, I will poke 'em right in the eye!  Maybe not to their face, but the minute their back is turned, boy do I like to poke at 'em.  Negative comments, gossipping, mumbling to myself and others about how these people bears have (or are going to) done me wrong.  However, my bear poking days are coming to an end.

Self discovery leads to epiphany and I have come to learn that the only bear I've been poking at all my life is me!  I have become a walking, talking poke in the eye, and  it has to stop. No more kneeling at the alter of past mistakes and trespasses. I have handed these over to Jesus Christ and He has wiped these files clean. And, (news flash) Jan Christianson does not know everything, and therefore she's sometimes wrong! Really, really wrong!  But that's o.k., as long as I continue to take a moment to moment inventory, and promptly admit when I've grabbed the wrong end of the stick. (That is a weak metaphor where I am in fact the bear being poked by the stick instead being the poker.)

So, in conclusion; (and believe me, I am as glad as you probably are that I'm wrapping this one up) DON'T POKE THE BEAR! 

How to Write a Book

Announcement:

I, Jan Christianson, am going to write a book.  TA DA!

There, I said it.  It's official.  Once begun, half done.  ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXZ.  hmmmmmmm......This may take a bit longer than I thought.

As you, my faithful followers, know (if you don't know, take a day off and read my blog from beginning to now - it's kind of a whole journey of discovery thing and dang funny I might add.) So I say again, as you, my faithful followers know, I have been busy figuring out what I need to figure out so I can figure out what I am going to be when I grow up.  Apparently, I am going to be a writer, motivational speaker, and on a part-time basis, a jewelry designer. That is somewhat of a change from my earliest career goals of being a doctor, a ballerina and Dianna Ross of the Supremes. 

The doctor thing didn't pan out because I am too easily nauseated by blood and stuff, and I managed to pull only a solid C- in science throughout junior and senior high school. If that was not enough, vomiting all over my lab partner and the frog we were dissecting confirmed my suspicions that Dr. Jan was never meant to be. However, I do make a damn fine hypochondriac. 

 A distinct lack of rhythm put a quick and merciful end to my dancing career.  I have two left feet, a lead bottom and get horribly dizzy after only one pirouette.  Plus, my mother put me in a tap dancing class when I was 5 years old with a scary loud dance teacher named Mrs. Block unt Tackle (or something like that). There I was, a unwieldy plump frizzy haired kid (not much has changed) cowering in the back row as she screamed "unt von, unt two, unt tree and ball, step, chain... ball, step, chain... and me desperately trying to keep up.  The lessons promptly ended when my mother was informed that although her money was welcomed, the aggravation of trying to drill one simple dance step into me head was too much of a cross to bear.  (I was consequently sent to piano lessons with much the same result.)

Now, I am glad to report that I can sing!  Well, carry a respectable tune anyway.  I've had the lead a few times in a Cabaret, with roles such as Mama Morten of Chicago fame.  Thanks to my inner drama queen, I can belt out a tune and give a convincing performance. But Diana Ross I ain't.  So, it's a writing and motivational speaking career for me. Hence, I am going to write a book.  

But where to start?  It is one thing to make the decision and entirely another to sit down and whip up something amazing. Somewhere between "I'm gonna write a book" and my eulogy where people expound on the sad loss of the 21st century's most prolific author lies my first book. Better get to work.

If you haven't already figured it out, today's blog is strictly meant  to be a procrastination tactic. But I'm going to write that book!  Seriously! Just as soon as I clean the house, do the laundry, walk the neighbour's dogs, mow the lawn, weed the garden...

It's me, Jan