FMHEO

The Victoria’s Secret fashion show was on television last week.  As much as I’m into fashion, I opted not to watch this year.  I really wasn’t interested in being reminded how short my legs are and I definitely don’t need to see how beautifully and miraculously Miranda Kerr’s belly bounced right back to perfect after she just had a baby.  Unlike mine.  Three and a half years later.  Anyway.  I also didn’t want to influence my husband to watch it.

Talking with a friend later that night about how insecure this fashion show in particular probably makes most girls feel, I suddenly thought, FMHEO.

For My Husband’s Eyes Only.

Certain things that we as women do should be for our husbands’ eyes only.  For example, appearing in lingerie.  Those models – while extremely beautiful, while technically working, while technically selling a product – should really only reveal their lingerie-clad bodies to their husbands.  Notice I did not say boyfriends or fiancés.

Unless their name is Jayson Emerian, no one should be seeing me in lingerie.  That includes bra straps dangling outside a shirt or tank top, or the top of my underwear peeking out when I bend over.  Nor should Jayson be seeing any other woman’s bra straps or underwear or any other part of their FMHEO body parts.

If you’re not married yet, think FMFHEO instead – For My Future Husband’s Eyes Only.  If you’re a guy, think FMWEO – For My Wife’s Eyes Only.  And so on.

We are made in God’s image.  We each have the body God designed for us.  And He loves us just as we are.  But our bodies are not for flaunting, begging desperately for any attention a man will throw at us.  God gave us brains to recognize that and prioritize what should be most important to us and act accordingly.  He gave us a personality to draw others to us.  He gave us a smile to catch peoples’ attention.  He gave us a laugh to bring joy to others.  He gave us a heart to care, and hands and feet to put that care into action.

You want attention?  Walk with confidence.  Chin up, eyes forward, shoulders back, long stride… and fully clothed.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Grateful for...

1.      Sipping peppermint hot cocoa on a gray, sprinkly day. 

2.      Airplanes to connect me to a family far away.

3.      Silas-isms and James-isms that make me shake my head and laugh.

4.      Facebook. Don't judge me.

5.      My husband's work ethic.

6.      Friends who pray for me.

7.      Birthday cards in the mail.

8.      Reconnecting with friends I haven't seen in 20 years.

9.      Fancy shoes.

10.  The self-esteem my parents instilled in me from the very beginning.

11.  Feeling passion for my work.

12.  Baking blueberry muffins with my boys.

13.  Fleece bed sheets.

14.  “Baby, It's Cold Outside.”

15.  Stacy and Clinton.

16.  The feel of a book in my hands.

17.  My healthy body.

18.  God's protection over my boys every single day.

19.  The typing class I took in 10th grade.

20.  Pretty Bergdorf Goodman display windows, and my NYC friends who post pictures of them on Facebook and tag me.

21.  In-laws who sacrifice for us.  Time and again.

22.  Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

23.  My niece, Sarine, even though she’s far away.

24.  Extra-long, scalding hot showers.

25.  Fuzzy socks.

26.  Full moons.

27.  Camping with friends.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Get Out Of My Way

Driving home from Costco today, a car flagrantly ran a stop sign in front of me.  The car ahead of me slammed on his brakes, and so did I.  Then, instinctively, the palm of my hand lay into the horn for a solid 11, 12 seconds.

It. Felt. So. Good.

For some reason, people in Fresno don’t honk their horns.  I don’t know if they’re too polite, too mellow, or just too slow.  But I miss it.  I miss honking the horn for every little thing:

HONK!  Put the makeup away, girlfriend – the light’s green!

HONK!  Get out of my way, Grandma!

HONK!  I don’t care if your car broke down!  Call a tow truck and move out of my lane!

When I visited New York City last year, I slept near an open window listening to the charming sounds of the city, horns honking and all.  It reminded me of home – I miss the frequent horn honking in Boston.  There’s such a sweet satisfaction to it.

I’ve become much less aggressive since moving here, and have learned to honk less.  But I’m not gonna lie, it felt great to honk today, and to keep honking for maybe a few seconds longer than actually necessary.  It’s there to be used and I used it.  And I’m not even sorry.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

My mother-in-law often says, “Garbage in, garbage out.”  I’ve found this to be quite true, and I realized recently how much garbage I’ve been taking in.

Confession #1:  I listen to “secular” music.

As a Christian, I’d love to be able to say that I only listen to Christian music.  Especially living in Central California, where there is an abundance of Christian radio.  However, I love music of all kinds (except hard core rap and country - shudder).

Music affects me in such a profound, visceral way.  Maybe because my father is a singer, and I grew up hearing his deep, beautiful voice singing traditional Armenian songs.  Music moves my soul and evokes so much emotion in me that life would be unpalatable and bleak without it.

We bought a new car a few months ago (a minivan – aren’t you jealous?) and it came with three months of satellite radio.  Jayson and I have been enjoying this immensely (Jay = channel 23/Grateful Dead; Me = channel 19/Elvis).

And so, although I have a terrible singing voice, I sing all the time, usually along with whatever I’m listening to on the radio in the car.  Adele, Pitbull, Hot Chelle Rae, Foster the People, Maroon 5, Alexandra Stan, and, of course, (don’t judge me) Britney Spears.

I’m singing along, “I-I-I wanna go-o-o all the way-ay-ay something something the night… I-I-I wanna show-ow-ow all the something something something through my mind…”

What words am I missing?  I looked them up.  These are the lyrics:

I wanna go all the way

Taking out my freak tonight

I wanna show all the dirt

I got running through my mind

Hmmm.  Wonder what she’s talking about?  And I’m actually singing these words?  Garbage in, garbage out.  Oh, right, I didn’t really THINK about it – I’m just innocently (and ignorantly) singing along.  Right?

No excuses from me.  Although the only dirt I got running through my mind is the dirt in my house I need to clean, the dirt on my car I need to wash, and the dirt on James’s face that seems to be perpetually there.

Confession #2:  I will probably continue to listen to “secular” music.

I have to be honest.  I like some of it.  I don’t want to cut it out completely.  Do I have to?  If it’s not FOR God, then it’s necessarily AGAINST God because it doesn’t PRAISE Him.  I guess I know that ultimately I should apply this principle to everything in my life, but I’m either too lazy or too undisciplined or too spiritually immature or too weak to do this.

I will try to avoid Britney’s song, at the very least.  Actually, I also cut off Foster the People’s “Pumped Up Kicks,” as those lyrics are disturbing (All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you’d better run, better run, outrun my gun.  All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you’d better run, better run, faster than my bullet.)  These are words I would never say, nor do I want my children to hear them coming from my mouth.

Time to be a little more aware of what I take in, and what I put out.  Sorry, Brit!

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Overflowing is Right...

I was a late bloomer, physically speaking.  I was always short and skinny, small, and looking younger than I actually was.  Being obsessed with Madonna didn’t help, as there was no way I ever thought I would be able to fill out a bustier the way she did.  I even stuffed my bra once.

Be careful what you wish for.

I developed much later than my friends, toward the end of high school and even into college.  With my 20^th high school reunion coming up in a couple of months, I’m nervous that my former classmates may think I’ve had some, shall we say, enhancements.  (I’m happy to note, for the record, that I have not.  If I did, my height would be the only thing about me I’d want to change.  But, alas, that’s not yet possible – without stilettos, anyway.)

Suffice it to say there was a bit of an awkward transition in my early 20s trying to get used to my “new” body.  Some embarrassing and inappropriate outfits ensued, but I learned.  I know now what works and what doesn’t, and I’m still somewhat self-conscious about it (as evidenced by the sequined pink top noted in my last post).

This afternoon I was on the Internet and came across photos of the New York City red carpet premiere of Sarah Jessica Parker’s new movie, “I Don’t Know How She Does It.”  The article focused on actress Christina Hendricks, who also stars in the movie.  She was wearing a pink satin Vivienne Westwood dress, and the title – in large, bold, capital letters – was, “CHRISTINA HENDRICKS SHOWS OFF MASSIVE CLEAVAGE ON RED CARPET.”

I sat mortified, staring at the computer, utterly dumbfounded.

I’ve spent years trying to cover up, figure out, work around, minimize, and detract from what other women are splashing across the red carpet for the world to see.  I know there’s nothing new under the sun.  But I couldn’t stop thinking about that headline.  Who – I mean, WHO – on earth would want that headline splashed about them?  If it was my name instead of hers, I would DIE of shame.

I need to find a turtleneck immediately.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Full to Overflowing

I can’t tell you how many times I have heard Christians say that they don’t need to go to church.  That going to church doesn’t make you a Christian.  I believe that corporate worship is crucial and necessary to spiritual growth.  But this post is not going to debate that topic.  I just want to share my experience at my church this morning.

I woke up with a heavy heart, this being the 10^th anniversary of 9/11.  I made a deliberate decision not to be sad today, because we are a country of fighters.  So I searched for the brightest, cheeriest item of clothing in my closet to wear to church – a pink sequined top.  Maybe the pink disco ball look is not 100% appropriate for church, but it made me happy.

We went first to Sunday School, where I was filling in for the preschool teacher who was out of town.  The morning started with worship, and just singing those three or four songs really stirred my heart.  We sang a song that I hadn’t sung or heard in a long time – Step by Step by Rich Mullins.  This is a personal favorite of mine, and it was on the cd we gave out as favors at our wedding almost ten years ago.  It brought back happy memories.  I walked out of the room feeling filled with the Holy Spirit, ready to pour it out to the students in my class.

I had three students in my Sunday School class – all boys, ages three or four.  We read the story of how the angel Gabriel appeared to Zacharias to bring him news from God that his and Elizabeth’s prayers for a baby would be answered, and they would have a son (John).  The boys loved when I made a “shoop” sound and zipped my lips to show that Gabriel took away Zacharias’s speech when he didn’t believe the angel’s message.  When we reviewed the story the boys were able to repeat to me most of the important facts, and their excitement filled my heart.

Church began with more worship – our Praise Band plays twice a month during the main worship service.  The songs were meaningful, and the instruments so effective at conveying the power of the lyrics.  There was a short electric guitar solo that stung my heart; the piano was beautiful in its simplicity; the shimmer of the cymbals pretty and effective; and the violin – my favorite instrument of all – pulled at my heartstrings.

Our pastor preached on 2 Corinthians 1:1-11, about being comforted in our sufferings.  About our church reaching out to show mercy and compassion to our community.  About being confident in the comfort of a God who raises the dead.  It was powerful, passionate, convicting.

And so I left church full.  Full of worship.  Full of God’s Word.  Full of the Spirit who will remind me this week of the conviction I felt today.  Who will prompt me to rethink my lack of mercy on others.  Who will comfort me in my day-to-day afflictions.

The ironic thing, though, is that I walked out of church full.  I don’t go to church to take.  I go to church to give – to worship, to praise, to honor, to thank, to adore – I should walk out empty.  But that’s how good our God is, and that’s how much He loves us, that He doesn’t leave us empty.  And that reminds me of today’s Children’s Message.  When Jesus is in our hearts, our hearts cannot be empty ever again.  That hole gets forever sealed.

Full to overflowing.  Thank you, Jesus.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

I Stand Corrected

My friend was having a theological debate with someone I don’t know on his facebook page.  I like to read these debates – the differing ideas, opinions, feelings, their articulation, arguments and examples.  But I usually refrain from commenting, due to my lack of knowledge about the specifics of their arguments.

Tonight I couldn’t resist contributing an observation.  I probably should not have stepped in, but I couldn’t resist.  Unfortunately, the person my friend was debating reared his ugly head on me and unleashed some verbal fury in my direction.

Normally I would have started to feel a rumble roaring in my body, working its way up and out through my mouth.  I would have gotten angry, emotional and combative.  I’d like to think I’ve matured just a bit since those days.  But I surprised myself.

Surprised because often I still feel those feelings inside – I’ve just learned and trained myself to not let them out.  Learned how to breathe, unclench my fists, and bite my tongue.  Learned to let my outside reflect my faith while still burning on the inside.

Surprised even more because I only burned up just a little bit tonight.  I read the words of someone who doesn’t know me as they personally attacked me, and all I could do was smile!  I smiled because the words didn’t hurt.  They were bullets that bounced right off me, fell to the floor, and rolled away.

Why?

Because I know whose opinions matter.

Because I know where my worth lies.

Because I know WHO I am.

Because I know WHOSE I am.

And while I know that age should bring wisdom, restraint and self-control, I also know that it doesn’t always happen as planned and as desired.  So I’m grateful that I was able to keep an honest smile on my face throughout the conversation and stand my ground.

Oh, and to show that miracles sometimes do happen, his last words to me were, “I stand corrected.”

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Pass the Tissues

I was thinking today about my “work” persona.  When I work, I focus on work.  I’m there to get the job done for which I’m being paid.  I’m not there to socialize, make friends, take 17 breaks, or waste time.  I’m there to do an excellent job, quickly and efficiently.  I want to get an A+, not be voted most popular.

I believe in boundaries, especially at work.  Not every person in the office needs to know my personal story, what I did over the weekend, or what I’m having for breakfast.  I’m not an open book, and my personal life is personal.  There’s no place for it at the office.  I don’t share my private life with my coworkers, and I don’t really want them to share theirs with me.  We’re there to get the job done.

What I’ve disliked most is having to share a cubicle or an office with “touchy-feely” coworkers.  Women who have wanted to chat incessantly, tell me everything about their entire life, share personal stories I’m not comfortable hearing, tell me about their marital woes, and cry on my shoulder.  And I’ve had to tell them that I’m neither their friend, nor their confidante, nor their psychiatrist.

Harsh.  Mean.  Rigid.  Cold.  Scary.

Yeah, I’ve been called all of these things.  But I got the job done and I did it well, so I didn’t care, really.  I checked in, got it done, and checked out.  I had a life outside of work.  I had friends outside of work.  I didn’t rely on my coworkers or my job to be my life.

However, I realized with time that it was okay to soften those boundaries (just a bit – let’s not go crazy).  After about two years at my last job, I began to let my guard down and started letting a select few people in.  I realized it was okay to chat for a few minutes in the hallway, to talk about my weekend plans, to lessen my glare.

The office became a friendlier place.  I built some wonderful friendships.  And I still got my job done.

But please, for the love of all things, don’t cry to me in the office.  I’ll pass you the tissues and get back to my work.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Intimidation Factor

Tonight I watched one of those wedding shows about bridal parties shopping for bridesmaid dresses.  In every group there was one bridesmaid who was out for herself, looking to please her own desires instead of those of the bride.  The selfishness these girls displayed was shocking and disgusting.

What saddened me more was that no one really stood up to them.  No one put them in their place.  No one said, “This day is not about YOU, so shut your mouth and do what will make the bride happy on her special day.”  I wanted to reach through the tv and punch them in the mouth.

I’m sure it’s easy for me to express my outrage while I’m on the outside.  That sabotaging bridesmaid is not my sister or best friend or childhood buddy.  But seriously - to sit there and take that crap would push me over the edge.

It made me think about why I’m not so easily intimidated by people.  By situations and circumstances, maybe.  But not by people.  Why would I be?  They’re just people.

What I AM intimidated by are some peoples’ accomplishments.  For example, advanced martial artists or Olympians, or those in the military.  Their level of dedication and discipline just blows me away.  Even someone like Oprah Winfrey, whom I do not particularly like for many reasons, is someone whose accomplishments are impressive to me.  Especially considering where she came from, she had to work extremely hard and make a lot of sacrifices to achieve everything she has today.

I’m impressed by those who overcome adversity.  Who work their tails off to make something of their lives.  Who give selflessly and sacrificially to others.  I’m intimidated by peoples’ altruism, creativity, self-discipline – traits I don’t always possess.

But that bridesmaid who insulted the bride to her face and acted like a brat on national television?  Not so much.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Down the Cape

I remember going down the Cape every summer when I was young.

Cape Cod was only about an hour and a half away from where we lived (without traffic), and it was our summer vacation destination for many years.  Specifically Hyannis, where the John F. Kennedy Memorial is located.

For many years we rented a cottage for the week, enjoying the calm of the beach.  Although it’s been 30 years, I remember specifically the view from the cottages, the wooded area where we would barbecue, the walk across the parking lot to the beach, the feel of the sand on my feet, and the cool ocean water.  I remember the slimy seaweed, the salty taste of the ocean, the buoys marking the outer limits.  I remember my sister crying because her beach ball blew away, past those buoys.

I remember visiting the JFK Memorial and walking through the circular park.  I remember taking pictures in front of it, with my sister and me taking turns photographing each other with our parents.

I remember walking down Main Street in downtown Hyannis.  Eating ice cream.  Getting an airbrushed t-shirt (I think it was a unicorn in a heart, but I could be mistaken).  Getting my first and only bee sting, and my mom running into a grocery store for garlic to lessen the sting.

Summers down the Cape were different from our daily life, exciting to a child who got to sleep in a different bed and run into the ocean on a whim.  It was our beach, our home away from home, our special family spot.

I haven’t been to Hyannis in a long, long time.  I’d like to take my boys there one day.  I wonder if it looks the same, smells the same.  I wonder if it will still feel like it’s my beach.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Baba, Papa, Daddy-O

I’ve always been close with my dad.  When my sister and I were young, he was very affectionate, very loving, very encouraging.  He worked hard for us, and would come home smelling of car grease and cigarettes.  I remember his dark blue mechanic’s uniform and the black grease under his fingernails.

But fixing cars was never his passion.  My father is a singer, a performer at heart.  He was a stage actor, he would tell jokes, and he loved to recite poetry.  Though only completing a sixth grade education, he loved to read and continued to educate himself, especially in the arts.  I loved watching him perform in plays, and remember him complaining to my mom while reading lines that he always got the most lines in the script to memorize.

Everywhere we went, my dad would be asked to sing.  Banquets, luncheons, baptisms, even just visiting people’s homes.  At first I would shy away, rolling my eyes, embarrassed that dad was singing yet again.  But as I got older and learned to appreciate his talent, I couldn’t help but feel proud.

One time, when I was a senior in high school, my dad and I got into a fight.  Well, we never really fought, but I disappointed and upset him.  I was out with my friends and stayed past my curfew.  He came where I was and picked me up… in front of all my friends.  I was mortified.  Things were tense for a weekend, and then we made up.  I never wanted to disappoint him again.

My father filled me with confidence, independence, poise and self-assurance.  He had faith in me to become anything I wanted to be.  He always encouraged me to be hardworking, assertive and classy.  The most important lesson he taught me was “marmeeneet arjekuh keedtzeer” – know the value of your body.  He knew I was worthy and valuable, and he taught me to always see myself that way.

He also gave me the gift of a healthy marriage to emulate.  He loved and honored my mother, and he showed it.  I think in all of my life I only heard them argue one time.  He would have died for her; instead he had to watch her die.

* * * * *

My father-in-law is one of the godliest men I have ever known.  His life is faith in action.  He loves the Lord, his wife, and his children – in that order.  He is humble and generous, openhanded with his time, attention, support and efforts.  He has a heart for the Lord that is insatiable in its seeking.  He hungers for ways to know Him more, whether through studying or serving.

My father-in-law is relaxed and fun to be around.  He has a biting sense of humor, and puts everyone at ease.  We love spending time with him, and our kids love their Papa.

* * * * *

Speaking of kids, mine have the best daddy around.  Jayson is loving yet firm, not afraid to discipline.  Our boys are drawn to him like magnets, always wanting to be near him.  He is so affectionate with them, and they reciprocate by constantly needing to touch him when they are next to him – Silas will stretch his leg over Jayson, while James leans into his arm.  They cannot be near him without somehow physically touching him.

Jayson’s spiritual headship is the best lesson to our boys in raising them to be godly men.  He is teaching by his example that we follow God’s Word, and that is our way of life.  He also reinforces that they must respect women, work hard, and treat people with compassion.

* * * * *

I am so blessed to have these three men in my life.  Happy Father’s Day Daddy, Jerry and Jayson, and to all fathers past, present and future.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Have you ever?

Jayson and I went camping with some friends years ago, and once it got dark we sat around the camp fire playing “I have never…”  Here are some things I have never done.

I have never…

¨      Been drunk

¨      Sang karaoke

¨      Smoked a cigarette

¨      Been on a jet ski

¨      Gone on a “spring break” trip with friends

¨      Been on a cruise

¨      Cooked chicken

¨      Lived on my own

¨      Been fired from a job

¨      Jumped out of a plane

¨      Ridden a horse

¨      Had blond hair

¨      Had plastic surgery

¨      Had any surgery

¨      Been on a blind date

¨      Done a split

¨      Tried on stilts

¨      Seen Mt. Rushmore

So there you have it.  OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Ponies and Butterflies

I can’t stop smiling.

Jayson is out of town on business and was supposed to come home tomorrow.  But he called a little while ago to say he’s on his way back – tonight!  I squealed like a little girl who just got a glitter-dipped pony for her birthday.

After 9-1/2 years of marriage, I still get excited at the thought of my husband coming home.  Maybe it was those years of long-distance dating, when all we had were phone conversations and bimonthly visits – no facebook, no Skype, just a lot of loneliness and sad goodbyes.  I don’t like missing Jayson, and I don’t need a “break” from him.

We’re very different and we definitely have our own interests.  But things are always better with him than without him.  He’s my home.  And he’s coming home.

The butterflies are still there.  Still smiling.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Long Before Carrie Bradshaw, There Was Silva

Silas graduated from Kindergarten today.  I don’t remember my Kindergarten graduation; I just remember going on to first grade.  But when I graduated from sixth grade, it was a much bigger deal.  We had a graduation ceremony and I received a very special gift from my parents.

A nameplate necklace.

My aunt Hasmig designed my name, using the Armenian alphabet, in very simple but beautiful lettering.  My uncle Souren, a jeweler, created it.  Gold.  Uncomplicated.  Stunning.

It was 1985.  I was 11 years old.  It was the most valuable and beautiful thing I owned.  I wore it often.  I still do.  In fact, I wore it this past Sunday.

It’s just a thing.  A piece of jewelry.  I’m not even a jewelry person; most days I just wear my wedding ring.  But every time I look at it, I am instantly taken back to AGBU Elementary School.  To Mrs. Ripley’s sixth grade glass.  To feeling so special opening that gift from my parents.  To answering strangers’ questions about what the necklace spells out.  Silva.  Armenian.  Valuable.

The object?  Definitely not as valuable as the message.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

The Lightness of Being

This morning I drove behind a guy on a motorcycle.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a motorcycle.  I couldn’t help but envy the guy, freely flying through the breeze.  He was wearing boots, a neon green jacket (on a motorcycle safety trumps fashion, but come on, there has to be something more stylish out there), and a helmet.  Nothing else.

Nothing else?

I started to think about the stuff we carry around.  Why do guys need so little?  They barely need one pocket, while ladies carry around a small valise for even the quickest jaunt.  I instantly felt weighted down.

To follow are the contents of my purse:

1.            cell phone

2.            ear piece

3.            wallet

4.            two Pull Ups

5.            case of wipes

6.            Michael’s coupon

7.            lip gloss

8.            compact

9.            small mesh bag of crayons

10.        two granola bars and four packets of gummy snacks

11.        Nivea skin crème

12.        mints

13.        mini-notebook

14.        4 pens

15.        tube of kids’ sunscreen

16.        two Table Toppers

17.        nail file

18.        antibacterial gel

19.        business cards in a case

20.        antibiotic ointment

21.        band aids

22.        hair elastic

23.        water bottle

24.        two thermoses (water for the boys)

25.        keys

To follow are my husband’s carry-items:

1.            wallet

2.            cell phone

3.            keys

Seriously?  Maybe I do carry more than just the bare necessities.  Maybe I do subscribe to the “just in case” lifestyle.  Maybe I wouldn’t need the majority of these items if I didn’t have kids.  Or maybe I just like my valise.

I’ll have to hold on to it extra-tight next time I’m on a motorcycle.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.