I HAVE MOVED

All your sweet comments and some of my lovely posts will have to stay here, but everything else will be at my new place.

Please follow me to…

www.ginnymartyn.com

I hate to do this to you. I realize that change is difficult for some people, but really, it is for the best.

See you on the other side :)

…and now a word from our sponsors

There is something new on this page. I wonder if you can find it…

It isn’t subtle but it IS informative.  The Juice Box Jungle and Amazon have come to The Thoughts I Think!  Juice Box is a fun and zany look at parenting. In fact, their tag line is…KIDS.CHAOS.SURVIVAL. Pretty much sums up parenting doesn’t it?

Also, since I am a lover of the printed word. The little pictures right beneath JuiceBox links to Amazon.com.

Please check out their videos and their fun sites.  Proceeds from your clicks will enable me to feed my Diet Coke habit :)

The Express-Hole

Whoever said God is without a sense of humor will undoubtedly find themselves the victim of Divine-humor in the coming future. It probably won’t be a pie-in-the-face kind of thing but it will be good for a chuckle.

Case in point, God knows I struggle with patience which is why the following event is funny. I recently spent what felt like my entire morning behind an Express-Hole at Wal-Mart.  For those of you that never heard the term it is because you are an Express-Hole and people are calling you one behind your back OR you are ignorant of new slang. If you are the latter the definition is this:

Any person who has more than the amount of items listed for the express lane and jerk-ishly checks out anyway!

If you are the former- may God have mercy on your soul.

I am a mother of a small child; she is two years old so my visits into the outside word of social order and decorum must be limited and free from any stimulus that might send her into a tantrum. When I finished shopping my items were: deodorant, gum and pull-ups and yes, I had used the last of all of these items so I couldn’t just abandon my basket and leave the store.

As I pulled into the express lane the Express-Hole moved in front of me, (being cut off isn’t just an automotive term) I took one look at her basket and gently said,

“Oh, this is the express lane” and pointed casually to the sign that clearly read 15 items or less.

I truly believed she hadn’t seen her error; but I was wrong which is why she was a HUGE Express-Hole.

As I live and breathe the woman actually responded with, “I hope you packed your patience,” and began to unload her products on the belt.

It is a wonderful thing that God gave us the ability to think before we speak because I actually thought something that shouldn’t be repeated.

My second thought was to simply find another line but I noticed that the fifty-seven other registers were all predictably closed and the open ones were just as long as my line if not longer.

At the very least the Express-Hole could have let me and my three items go first, but oh-no, she was in pure Express-Hole form.  Particularly because she tried to use coupons that had expired and asked to speak with the manager about a loaf of bread that was shelved under the wrong price.

After an amount of time that was just shy of me bleeding out my eyes, the Express-Hole finally finished checking out. I restrained myself from following her out to her car and committing vehicular retaliation…but it was difficult, very difficult.

Food Jail

What is it about food that invites comfort? Bad days, stressed days, anxious days can literally send me on a Holy Grail quest for pudding.

If my wedding ring falls in a running disposal then ice cream might help me cope. If my child tells everyone at church that I sing Little Mermaid songs in the shower then chocolate might help me forget to tape her mouth shut. Or, if the IRS shows up to bless me with an audit rather than a check I could arrange for an IV of hot fudge to be administered. In the whirling dervish of life I believe that good food can soothe my emotions better than rainbows and puppies.

For this reason, I get a little crabby when I have to check in to FOOD JAIL.

Nine months from now my oldest brother is getting married to a lovely lady. Even though I am elated they will enjoy His and Her towels for the rest of their lives, I have to say, I am a little less than excited about dieting down for the blessed event.

I know that I shouldn’t call it a diet, but lifestyle change is really just another way of saying I must have a funeral for all the foods that make “Eat, Drink and be Merry”… merry.

According to scripture“…nothing is better for a man under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and be glad.”  Ecclesiastes 8:15

But according to my BMI there is nothing better for me than to get myself to 24 Hour Fitness.

Perhaps, one day, when I shed this mortal coil I will find that Heaven does, in fact, have a buffet line and things like Jazzercise, 10 minute Abs and Olympic Swimming have become special activities reserved for people who enjoy Celine Deion.

Until that blessed eternity comes my love affair with baked goods must remain a long distance relationship.  Perhaps I could send love notes to the people at Hostess and ask if they could send me pictures of Twinkies from time to time.

As I dive into the whole Food Jail thing I could use a little prayer; prayer for strength, prayer for self-control and prayer that I don’t maim the Food Police. After all, the opposite of fat and happy is… umm…skinny and rather grumpy.

Seriously, pray! It is for your own benefit.

All work and no cake might make Ginny a bad blogger.

Ate My Words

It is confession time here at The Thoughts I Think.  The story I am about to reveal to you is tragic. I would really rather not admit it to you but because it might be helful I will expose myself (via printed page of course).

Before I was a parent …now, prepare yourselves…but before I became a mother I had… ideas about parenting** GASP!** I know, I know, it is the number one rule in life to never say never but I did, and unfortunately I did it with frequent censure.

The days before my tiny tot entered the world I used to wonder how a woman could walk into a public place looking like she had just completed a 10K marathon complete with children who looked like they were dressed and styled by chimpanzees.

I used to say, “Wow, I will never look like that in public and I certainly would never allow my children to look that way either.”

Ah, parenthood makes fools of us all; fast forward from those fateful words to yesterday morning. 

I found myself at the grocery store in what appeared to be clothing but was in fact various forms of paper towel; my sweatshirt had been sneezed on, coughed on and the sleeves had been used to mop up medicine that was too disgusting to be swallowed.  I hadn’t slept in two days, hadn’t showered in three, my hair was covered by my husband’s ball cap, my shorts had a lime green stain from the popsicle puddle my child left on the couch and I think I was wearing shoes but I can’t be a hundred percent certain.  The only thing I did know for certain was that I looked like some sort of bridge-dwelling troll out in search for cough suppressant.

Up until that point my daughter had been sick for a week. Unbeknownst to me not all mothers get that super-mom-immunity that is supposed to take place at the time of childbearing, so I had been sick right alongside her.  

When the pharmacist informed me that they didn’t sell cough medicine anymore for children under the age of six, I caught a glimpse of myself on a security mirror, you know, one of those big round ones that they use to spy on shoplifting patrons.  As much as I would like to blame my reflection on the fun-house properties of that mirror I realized that I was looking at the woman I swore I’d never be.

Pitifully, I went home without the medication I had searched so vehemently for and proceeded to eat my words for breakfast, lunch a dinner.

As it turns out irony tastes an awful lot like cough suppressant.

Fashion Does Not Live Here

I’ve always had issues with my clothes because I’ve always had issues with my body.  In all seriousness I have clothes for six different women in my closet; the sizes range from jumbo maternity clothes to a size 4 (my wedding dress proves I was thin…for about five minutes).

However, even if I discount all the sizes there are other issues; of which, you might be able to relate.

Being a Christian causes a problem for any woman buying clothes in today’s world.  It is virtually impossible for me to find clothes without low cut necklines or low cut thong lines.  On a good day I might find clothes that my Grandma would not like to borrow. On a bad day I am stuck with clothes that are so tight that they could be mistaken for sausage casing.  

Then there is the climate in which I live. Hot, hotter and the rim of Hades…as much as I would like to cover up the truth is that I’m sweating like a sinner in church and would prefer to wear a swimming pool if at all possible.

So on any typical day after I’ve cast out everything that doesn’t fit, could be classified as “Streetwalker-esque” or might elicit Brawny-sized paper towel sweats; the only article I’m left with is the sheet off my bed.

So, later when you see me in my toga just smile and wave…

Biggest Loser: my story

(This article can also be found at….http://www.incourage.me/)

When I was a kid I never felt comfortable in my own skin. Courage was something that I struggled with more than the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of OZ and nothing made me feel weaker, smaller and more insignificant than being teased.

Insults found me with more speedy accuracy than heat seeking missiles and the names that landed on me most were stupid, fat and tomboy. These terms were repeated more than Brady Bunch reruns and sadly girls were often the authors behind the most hurtful words.

For a very long time I hated girls.  I thought they were vicious beasts who secretly paraded around like girls during the daytime but turned back into monsters at night. I tried unsuccessfully to escape the beings of “sugar and spice and all things nice” during my adolescence but by high school the damage had been done and my labels stuck closer to me than sweaty underpants.I once gave a class speech on Public Relations. The only problem was that I left out the “L” on my banner-sized visual aid and was promptly laughed out of the classroom. You can only imagine what my peers called me after that.

The biggest obstacles in my youth were my problems in school. I could do little to stop my cemented status as a moron. After all, my intelligence had been a long running joke and my spelling is the stuff of legend.

I also don’t remember a time when I didn’t have body image issues, even as a young girl, and because I sported a set of golf clubs instead of a pair of pom-poms my sexuality was even under scrutiny.

Names can define who we are and my names labeled me as a loser, which is why my call from God was not only terrifying it was completely absurd.

About nine years ago, after I had spent too much time nursing old wounds and distancing myself from women God told me to do something. In no uncertain terms He told me to write for women and I responded with my best Robert De Niro.

“Are you talking to me? 

Did you forget who I am? I am the girl who can’t even string a sentence together without grammatical errors. I am the girl who considers other women to be the enemy. I can’t write for women and more importantly I don’t want to.”

In perfect Job 38 style God humbled me, “Do you know who you are talking to? I am the God who created everything out of nothing; I’m the one that laid the foundations of the Earth, who gave boundaries to the sea and orders to the morning. Did you forget what I could do?”

When I realized that God wasn’t kidding and I wasn’t being divinely punk’d I knew that my calling would require a super-sized serving of courage.

God’s call ripped open old wounds and exposed me to the kryptonite of female censure. All I wanted to do was run to a fortress of solitude, but God came to my rescue.

With rapid fire redundancy God used Romans 4:17 to make me courageous, “…the God who gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were…”. Meaning? It is always opposite day in Heaven, He can cause your life to do a one-eighty if you let Him.

The unbelievable truth is that my story isn’t really about me and my struggles it is more about God and what He can do for people who seek Him. He can save them; He can turn them around and He can make them new.

Are you facing a difficulty that you don’t think you can face?  Are you in desperate need of courage? I have good news. While you might feel like the Biggest Loser there is a Bigger God who can take your greatest weakness and make it your greatest strength.

If he can take a dyslexic female-hater and turn her into a writer with a heart to encourage women then I’m convinced he can change just about anyone.

Do you know who you are talking to? And do you realize what He can do?

He is all the courage you need.