sunset at moms

sunset at moms

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Talking Doritos

    Welcome to midnight and Andie's homemade psychology. I've never read any kind of outright psychology books, but I watched a lot of Dr Phil and Oprah growing up, so you know, I'm legit.

    Minutes ago I was laying in bed, rehashing my day. I went to a Plexus shindig (Yes, I've fallen victim to an MLM, and I'm loving it) tonight and was talking with a fellow ambassador about how we both felt, eh,  I don't know if ashamed is the correct word, but basically like we're not doing so well promoting a product called Slim...when we aren't so slim. We've both had other victories with the products, but slimming down is not one of them. 
    So, sponsored by a late afternoon cup of coffee, I lay in bed, frustrated with myself. I have, once again, flopped to the fat side of the scale, a slow but steady climb since last August. From February to August  I got into/was in the absolute best shape of my life thanks to THM and Les Mills COMBAT and was flying high...and then I got tired. I got tired of saying no and sweating buckets and hitting plateaus. I was repulsed by my stretched, sagging, crepe paper skin and the fact that even though I got down to a size 6, I still had so far to go. And so the weight crept back on.
    I don't consider myself a binge eater. I always pictured bingers as puking when they're done, and why on earth would I waste good food? I'm certainly a serial over-eater though. It doesn't have to be an absurd amount of food consumption to count as over-eating. It's as simple as an extra glop of ranch, an unnecessary handful of grapes, anything over what you know you actually need.
    I know from all my Oprah/Dr Phil watching that people eat to hide emotions. Over the years I've stuffed my face so I didn't have to talk about my issues; it's rude to talk with food in your mouth, after all. So these last couple of days I've start to wonder what it is I'm not saying. I'm on these wonderful Plexus products that I know work splendidly for me, and my appetite is decreased, yet I'm still forcing myself to eat the same amount, when half of what I put on my plate would satisfy me just fine.
    Thus, in my homemade psych session, I asked myself what phrase I think when going back for seconds. Thus, I answered.

    "I didn't get enough."

     Lightbulb.

     Food is the way I make sure I'm rewarded. I get justice for myself when I eat past full. I'm thanked and appreciated as elaborately as I think I should when I don't turn down dessert. In my heart I hold a grudge against God for the things I think He didn't give me enough of: time with Grandpa, opportunities, supportive people, friends, etc. The times I felt He dealt me an unkind hand, I record and spite Him with my portions. "You didn't give me enough, so I'll make sure I get enough!"
    Who knew a handful of Doritos could say so much.

    So I will confess my sin. My unbelief. My self-righteousness. I'll allow myself to let Enough be stuck in my head, though I tend to despise modern worship music and its floofiness. And I will start all over again.
   
    I've had enough.



Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Cream Cheese & Crackers: Longing for Egypt

There was a time early on in our marriage when Will and I wuz po. We're not talking tight fund-age but still an emergency fund under the bed, we're talking po. I remember I was pregnant with Rory and taking Bradley birth method classes. One of our assignments was recording everything we ate to monitor our nutrition. I remember the dread of studying that categorized nutritional need list, and choosing not to record that I'd just eaten cream cheese and crackers that day. Not out of pregnancy cravings, but because that's all we had. Some days it was popcorn and black beans. But I am serious when I say we had no money. $6 to next Friday when it was only Tuesday was not an uncommon thing for us. I listened to Dave Ramsey on the radio everyday and had talked about him so much his name was a dirty word to Will. He was a stubborn butt, I was a bullheaded nag. We wuz po, and we sucked at budgeting.
Fast forward a few years an-
Wait, a few years? Have I actually been married to this man for almost FIVE years?!?!!?
Focus, Andie, focus.
4 moves and 2 babies in 4-5ish years later, we were debt free and saving. Dave Ramsey was smiling at us. We both wanted a house, but were content in our wee apartment we were renting, not willing to rush hastily into a home we couldn't afford. We loved our downstairs neighbors, and I'd joked since the get-go that when Shawn and Karly moved, we were gone too (the neighborhood was loud, the yard wasn't fenced in and the stairs leading to our apartment scared everyone who wobbled up them).
Well, in February, after praying that God would allow a cheap house to come on the market, one did. Shawn and Karly were fed up with Honey Boo Boo across the street and moved and we also had a final 'no' to a ministry opportunity we'd been waiting on. It seemed more than obvious that this was God's answer to prayer. So into our first home we moved. We did not have a 10% down payment (sorry, Dave) and we've had more surprise problems than we expected. We also had a stupid expensive car repair and my wisdom teeth were yanked a week into the move. I have found myself at times feeling like an Israelite, trudging across the desert. They wanted freedom, and when God answered their prayers, they whined about how in Egypt they had everything and now they're just going to croak in the sand. I've always thought the Israelites were miserable swine whenever I've read Exodus. How could you want to go back when God has answered your prayers and is even providing you quail and manna? Put some ketchup on your meat and shaddup.
I've realized I'm just as big of a miserable swine. With each repair bill I've completely questioned our decision to buy this place. With each job added to the To Do list I've sighed. Was this really the right thing to do? Why couldn't we have just sucked it up and done it the Dave Ramsey way? Was the apartment really that bad? Sure, we couldn't have more than two people over and the kitchen was minuscule and I couldn't relax and the kids RARELY got to go outside and the Honey Boo Boo neighbors screamed profanity at each other and the stairs were death...but we had money in the bank and could buy Feta cheese and maybe that rotten smell that would stink up the whole bathroom after I drained the kitchen sink wasn't so bad...
Then I look at the kitchen we can now seat company in. I see the kids running around the yard like the happy little hooligans they should be. I watch Will's garden -his pride and joy- grow bigger and greener everyday. And I remember how much we wanted this. The Casa de Dole is not big, and it's definitely not fancy. But it is an answer to 5 years of praying. And while there is a list of things we still have to do to bring it up to speed, it's ours. My kids' first real home.
So while we might be back in a cream cheese & crackers time of life, we are thankful. Thankful for a happy yellow less-than-1000-square-foot-house, thankful for a little bunny named Hamburger that stays close to our yard, and thankful that I know how to cook now, so four bucks that would have gone to processed cheese and gluten can be spent on dirt cheap, mostly-vegetarian meals that taste great.

Here's to Indian food and painted walls!

Saturday, March 19, 2016

My Narnian Dog

    I keep a picture of my dog, Ray, above my desk. My first and -so far- only dog, he was mercy shot by one of my husband's friends in an effort to ensure he wasn't just injured by some angry farmers.
    Ray was my best friend.
    I always wanted a dog growing up. I begged and begged and still no dice. Ray, née Knightley, came into my life shortly after I moved out to Idaho. Will's parents brought him home, and I was instantly in love with the copper colored puppy. Ray then became ours after we got married.

    He was a dopey dog, but he was faithful. Life with Ray was usually a bipolar seesaw of extreme annoyance and quiet familial trust. His color embodied Idaho: jumping around the field he looked like a mix between a white tail deer and a coyote. I'm now forever biased to copper dogs.
    In the spring when everything was thawing out, or after a particularly heavy rain, the ditches beside the road would overfill. The frogs would appear out of seemingly nowhere and would swim around the temporary stream. One of my favorite things to do as a kid was sit and throw rocks in the puddles on our driveway, so naturally I did it in Idaho too. Ray and I would go plop down on the gravel and huck rocks in the ditch. The galoot would end up in my lap, covering my one pair of jeans in mud and dog hair. It was our favorite thing to do.

    At the end of the Chronicles of Narnia series, heaven is described. It's the same Narnia, just perfected. Everything is right and true. All the faithful Narnians are there. It's all familiar, yet exciting and new.
    I keep a picture of my dog above my desk. Over 3 years later, and it doesn't take much to get me choked up about him. But I keep it there because it reminds me of heaven. It reminds me of Uncle Gail, and Grandpa, and the countless others I will say goodbye-for-a while to, permitted I live to an old age. It reminds me of the Life after this life.
    So hopefully, just maybe, up there somewhere is my Beautiful Copper Boy, with tail wagging, by a giant puddle. There's a big ol' pile of rocks beside it, and he's waiting. For me.

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Of Politics and Animals

    First, a moment of silence for Marco Rubio's suspended campaign. Sigh. I give up. I'd been asked by a friend when I was going to board the Cruz Ship. Begrudgingly, I do so now, though merely as stowaway. My only hope with him is he'll put Carly in his cabinet.
    Carrying on...
    I've written lots of conservative flavored blogs before, but never anything on war or the military. The last debate got me thinking quite a bit though, so here I sit.

    It doesn't take a lot to figure out I am not a Trump fan. So much so that I refuse to vote for him. No, I'm not voting for Hillary or Bernie, but I cannot in good conscience vote for the man, therefore I'll write Carly in if he's it.
    But Andie, you'll be helping the democrats if you don't vote! 
    No, Trump being the nominee helps the democrats. I want no association with him.
    ANYWAY
    During the last debate, water boarding was brought up. Let's watch the clip, aye.


    Let me start off by saying I watched the video of the Jordanian pilot being burned alive in a metal cage. I've watched the videos of Christians renouncing Christ only to be told they're false converts and to have their head yanked back by a masked man who then saws their throat with a knife until their body falls away. It's gut wrenching. It's terrifying. It's demonic.
    I often wonder how hard a person must be to pull that off. What has to happen to a person to make that acceptable? What training must someone endure to be able to do that to another human being and not blow their own head off at the end of the day?
    I understand it seems like justice to be able to torture the "bad dudes", as Mr Trump likes to refer to them. I know the meme that likes to float around come 9/11 of the man plummeting headlong out a window of the Trade Center, condoning the torture of the people who forced the man to choose the jump. But do we really think of what that would entail? Do we ever stop to think of our sons and daughters being taught to inflict that sort of suffering? (I feel I should state that I am pro-military, maybe more in line with Rand Paul, but I am certainly for our service men and women. The horrors of war are real and unavoidable, but I am strictly talking about torture) To not feel? Do we think of the deadening of their hearts, the warm blood of others covering them, and the nightmares they will deal with after it's over? PTSD is real, and there aren't enough people to help veterans deal with it as there is. You don't think torturing another human being, evil as they are, is going to cause psychological damage? What happens when it's time to come home? You then have thousands of people trained to torture others, most likely with PTSD, and with the VA like it is now, they aren't getting help. What happens then? They're just expected to go get a job at the bank or Wal-Mart and carry on like life is normal?
    When a vile person makes a vile decision, it makes sense: Bad trees bear bad fruit. When a good person makes a vile decision because the vile man did it first, it is folly. We uphold the law despite others' lawlessness, not throw the thing out the window and do whatever the flip we want. Our codes of conduct cannot be defined by our enemies actions.
     Another thought is the golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. If we go after terrorists' families, as Donald suggests, we are openly inviting them to do the same. Not that anything is stopping them anyway, but if we stoop to their level they have to think of new ways to horrify us. Terrorism isn't terrorism unless it makes our gut drop and our blood run cold. Why would we normalize this? Why do we want this to become standard practice for our children? If we keep digging, we may just find that hell is a place we can reach before we die.

    ISIS, radical Islam, terrorists; their actions are reprehensible. They're all animals...but they're still human beings.  And in that judgment, we must remain set apart. No, we will not answer you accordingly. We will not kill ourselves in an effort to kill you. A dead terrorist doesn't matter when the vet who got him commits suicide because he can't escape his demons. We must keep to the high road for our dignity, our humanity, and for America.

    My name is Andie Dole, and I approve this message.

Monday, February 29, 2016

Life

Good job on keeping your blog updated, Andie!

Eh, shut up.

Anyway, yes, it's been semi-eons again. Between Facebook detoxing, a bout with anxiety that left me on my butt and a death in the family, I wasn't too keen on writing. Or I was, but couldn't keep my thoughts straight and would junk the whole post. So here's a wee update.

Facebook free life = the good life. If you've ever considered giving it up, just take the plunge and do it. Life is seriously so much better when you're not ghost hovering around everyone else's. If I want to know something about someone now, I ask them in person. I find I hate people considerably less. Before I gave up Facebook I had a hard time concentrating on real pages because they weren't constantly scrolling or lit up, so I just didn't bother. Now that I'm going into month 3, I can read like I normally did back in the day and it's wonderful. 

Politics: ...sigh. Let's have a moment of silence to commemorate Carly Fiorina's campaign. Or let's openly weep.
Call me Mara...

I finally did start a YouTube channel, though not for the original purpose I proposed. I've started a series called FattyPantsFriday, and you can follow the blog here. After watching my friends' results on the Plexus products, I decided to jump in with both feet and go straight for Ambassador level. Since you can't get a custom URL on YouTube until you hit 100 subscribers, I'll just post the videos on that blog. So far I'm wildly impressed. But you'll have to read 'bout dat over dere, won'tcha?

Other than that, nothing super major has gone on. 

I'll write when I can formulate something worthwhile!

Monday, December 14, 2015

'Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?'
'Of course I have,' you said. 'But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon,' you said.
'But if you don't,' said Pooh, 'I shall have to let go, and that would spoil me.'



When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired.
'Ow!' said Pooh.
'Did I miss you?' you asked.
'You didn't exactly miss,' said Pooh, 'but you missed the balloon.'


Excerpt from Winnie-The-Pooh and Some Bees, by A.A. Milne.


Someone once said that if you wouldn't read a book written for children yourself, you shouldn't read it to your kids. Maybe CS Lewis said it, that seems very him. Regardless, this is probably my favorite interaction in a children's book of all time, and I thoroughly look forward to the day my children think it's as funny as I do.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

A Prayer for the Postman


Rory is becoming quite the little pray-er. She usually just recites a prayer she learned from a book she received for her birthday- Thank you, Lord, for giving me blessings everywhere. In Jesus' name, amen.
Today it was a little different.

Thank you for BoBo and for my mommy. Thank you for my daddy who works. I pray you keep him safe and from dogs. Thank you for good good food. In Jesus' name, amen.