Welcome to the Funny Farm (16 page)

Sure, there's a chance that my friend will scoff or disagree or get defensive.

But there's also the chance that she'll say, “I'm not sure what I need, but I know I need something. Maybe it's Jesus, after all. Tell me more . . .”

Some phrases are simply worth the risk. In fact, some phrases have such eternal significance that NOT blurting them out can have tragic results.

“You need Jesus” falls into that category.

“Booger alert” does not.

35

Chocolate Lovers, Unite!

I
HAVE A WEAKNESS FOR CHOCOLATE.

And apparently I'm not alone! When my book came out entitled
Just Hand Over the Chocolate and No One Will Get Hurt,
I found out just how much women love chocolate.

I was signing books one day when a woman came through the line. As I was signing her book, she drew near, peered into my eyes, and said conspiratorially: “Never, never, NEVER eat chocolate with nuts in it.”

I blinked. “Um, okay. Sure. Why not?”

She said with conviction, “The nuts take up valuable space.”

The other reason I know how much women love chocolate is because of their e-mail addresses. I get e-mails all the time from readers, and more women than you might imagine have e-mail addresses such as “MsChocolate,” “M&Mlady,” and “Hersheyluvr.”

Even the content of their e-mails speaks to their love affair with chocolate. I've received more than one note that says something along the lines of the following: “As soon as I saw your book I knew I had to buy it! I had no idea what the book was about. I had never read any of your other books. In fact, I had never even heard of you. But I bought your book because I love chocolate!”

So that's my new marketing approach. It doesn't matter what topic I'm writing on—sex, water heater repair, rules for chat room etiquette, new trends in facial hair removal technology for post-menopausal women—whatever the topic, I'm putting the word “chocolate” in the title.

Sure, it's incongruent, but who cares? After all, who would have predicted the success of the best-selling book
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
by Robert Pirsig?

Just think what he could have done if he'd used the word chocolate in the title.

Fact is, there's not much the world can dish out to us that a two-pound bag of M&M's can't solve.

One day scientists will confirm what women have known for years: Chocolate really IS one of the four major food groups.

So chocolate is a well-loved comfort food.

What other foods do I turn to when I'm stressed or blue?

I love to make microwave s'mores. I put a graham cracker on a napkin, sprinkle some chocolate chips on the cracker, then top with a large marshmallow. I microwave til the marshmallow puffs up twice its original size, then pull the whole thing out of the microwave and top it all with another graham cracker.

These are messy treats but worth the effort. I've nibbled them while watching TV. I've gobbled them while standing in front of the microwave, all stressed out with no one to choke. I've savored them with girlfriends at my kitchen table. I tried eating one while working at my computer once, but my fingers kept sticking to the keyboard. Other than that, they're a great all-around snack and comfort food.

Of course, the downside to comfort foods is that they increase my waistline and make my bathroom scale cranky. I know my scale's cranky when it keeps spitting larger and larger numbers at me.

I've seen talking scales in stores. Yeah, right. Like that's what I need first thing in the morning: some computerized voice announcing my weight for the world to hear. Don't scale manufacturers realize that there are some things better left unsaid? Besides, if I really wanted to know how much I weigh, I wouldn't go to the effort of weighing myself before I put in my contacts each morning.

Sometimes I wish I could find comfort in rituals with a lower calorie content. Maybe I could acquire a taste for comfort carrots. Or take up comfort jogging. Or develop the habit of comfort flossing.

Weigh-Down Workshop founder Gwen Shamblin has an interesting slant on comfort foods. She tells the story of feeling stressed and upset and craving an ice-cream sundae. This wasn't just any sundae—she was craving the mother of all sundaes, complete with bananas and chocolate and nuts and whipped cream and a few Pepperidge Farm cookies tossed in on the side for good measure.

But before she went to the kitchen, she went to Jesus. I don't remember the exact words of her prayer. But the content was powerful, and her message stuck with me. Paraphrased, here's what she prayed:

“Lord, you know I REALLY want that ice cream. And I'm going to head into the kitchen in a few minutes to get it. But first I wanted to come to you. Can you do better than that sundae, Lord? Can you comfort me better than all that sugar and calories and goop? Because if you can, here's your chance. I'm coming to you first.”

She never made it to the kitchen. Instead, she was ushered into a precious time of praise and worship with her Lord, an experience that turned out to be far sweeter than Häagen Dazs and less fattening to boot!

You think it won't work for you? How can you be so sure? Look, if you're willing to give it a try, I will too. Next time we've got a death grip on the chocolate, let's take a breather and ask Jesus to comfort us instead.

Just take a few minutes to pray and see what happens. Maybe even read a chapter from the Bible and see if the Holy Spirit has something wonderful to say to us through those inspired words. After all, there's power in the Word of God, which certainly explains why the Bible is the best-selling book of all time.

Even if it doesn't have the word “chocolate” in the title.

36

Recycling Mom

A
COUPLE DAYS AGO MY HUSBAND CAME HOME
from work and went upstairs to change out of his suit. After changing, he joined me in the kitchen. We chatted for a few minutes before he said, “Oh, something interesting happened at work today.”

I said, “Yeah?”

He said, “As usual, I was in and out of meetings all day. Met with the president a couple times. Staff meetings. Normal stuff. Had my jacket off most of the day, and kept noticing this splotch of red ink on my sleeve. I wondered if I'd dragged my arm through something on my desk. Couldn't figure it out.”

I was getting a bad feeling about this.

He said, “It wasn't until everyone had gone home for the day that I was sitting at my desk and looked down and noticed something else.”

I winced.

He said, “I noticed a big splotch of white on the front of my shirt. It was white on white, so I hadn't seen it earlier. Then I saw the blue streaks on the back of my sleeve, and the green flecks on my collar, and it dawned on me what had happened—I'd worn one of the girls' painting smocks to work.”

Now, I'm not very dedicated about recycling. But every now and then I come up with an idea or two of which I'm pretty proud.

Recycling my husband's old dress shirts into painting smocks for the kids was one of them.

I just never figured they'd get recycled back into work-wear.

Tie-dye, move over. The Linamens are starting a new trend.

Despite the painting-smock debacle, I probably should try to recycle more often. Plastic containers, cardboard, old newspapers, glass jugs—they're all acceptable candidates for the plastic recycling bin the city was kind enough to leave on my curb. I think the idea is that I'm supposed to put these things in the bin, the city hauls them away, and the next time I see them they'll be in the shape of sunglasses or cereal boxes or even a toilet paper tube.

I think I would use the recycling bin more if it were bigger. I mean, it's just the right size for milk jugs and applesauce jars. But it's way too small for the stuff I'd really like to put in there.

For example, my five-year-old is a tight squeeze, and the fourteen-year-old won't fit at all. And I could NEVER get my husband in the bin, at least not all in one piece.

Now, on most days I wouldn't dream of recycling my family. But there are always a few days each month when I'd be willing to trade them all in on a new kitchen appliance or two.

Funny thing though, it's always the same couple days each month. Luckily the feeling usually goes away before I can call Sears and negotiate a deal. It's probably a good thing the P in PMS doesn't stand for the word “Permanent.” If it did, I'd have a new toaster oven by now.

On second thought, maybe the person who needs to spend time in the recycling bin is the woman who stares back at me from the bathroom mirror each morning.

Maybe the city could haul HER away and bring back someone nicer. More spiritual. Immune to PMS and mood swings. Better at housekeeping. (And as long as they're making improvements, a size 9 body wouldn't hurt!)

Do you ever look at yourself and think, “Wow. So many flaws, so little time!”

I do.

There are days I'd love to be recycled into something else.

In fact, if I could pick one thing for God to change about me—one thing for him to recycle into something better—the thing I'd ask for is a really nice helping of faith.

I'd love to be able to trust him more.

I'd love to stop second-guessing all the stuff he allows into my life.

I'd love to stop asking, “But why, Lord?” and start asking, “What?” and “How?” as in, “Okay, so what do you want me to learn from this?” or “How can you use this in my life and in the lives of folks around me?”

I think that's what I'd want. I mean, if I could be recycled and all.

But listen to me. I'm talking like getting “recycled” is a fictional concept, when really it's something the Lord does really, really well.

Why else would the Christian faith use words like “born again” to describe what happens when someone like you or me decides to follow Jesus?

Why else would the Bible call us “new creations,” and say that, through our relationship with Jesus, “old things have passed away and all things become new”?

Truth is, the Bible brims with promises of new beginnings and second chances.

Over and over again, it tells the stories of folks like you and me getting to live new and improved lives because a relationship with Jesus is transforming us into something we could never be on our own.

And, to make it happen, all I need to do is say, “Okay, Lord, I'm all yours. Change me.”

I'll admit these aren't always the easiest words to say (I wonder if plastic milk jugs want to be recycled into Saran Wrap, or if they complain a little now and then?).

But it's a prayer that God loves to hear, a prayer he's always ready to answer in a way that is best for me, after all.

Which, when you think about it, is a whole lot better than anything my city has to offer, and with no curbside waiting at that.

37

Don't Believe Everything You Hear

I
HEAR PHRASES ALL THE TIME
that I have a hard time believing.